Merle and I strolled across the Johnson acreage. My piss yellow '78 Scout had crapped out three, four miles back on Route 57. It was growing dark, and we were about twenty miles yet from town with nothing to keep us company except sage and a trio of the Johnson's horses out to pasture.
"Didn't you grow up on a ranch?" I asked my friend. He nodded his shaven, sun-burnt head. With that red head atop his scrawny neck, he looked more buzzard than man.
"Well, then," I said, "get your bucolic ass over there and rustle us up a horse."
http://www.webster.com/cgi-bin/mwwodarch.pl?Mar.29.2007
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