We were about three hundred miles from El Paso, hadn’t closed our eyes in almost three days, and at last count, we were hunted in three states and eleven towns. Would you believe me, if I said we were not guilty. Well, don’t then. At this stage I can’t blame you. Looking in at this whole situation, it would be trying to expect anyone to believe us.

But listen, not to be short, I got other things on my brain. Sherrie was pretty hurt and I wasn’t in the best shape either. We were almost out of gas, out of places to rest, and I had about twenty eight big ones and some small stuff, and a mean fever. Not to mention my Harley Davidson boots were wearing through at the heel and ankle. I need some new ones quick.

I headed into this local tavern, it seemed like a place we would blend in good, bikes parked around the place like you might imagine in some movie or something. Bulging from the saddle bags of one of the motorcycles was, what I thought could be a pair of Harley Davidson boots. I’d fret about that on the way out, if we made it out.

Queenie, that was what I called Sherrie, needed a doctor quick. I knew a lot of these biker groups had there own doctors, for wounds and such that shouldn’t be treated at the local hospital. It might just be hopeful thinking, but we where desperate. Queenie woke up, just as we headed into the parking lot. How she could keep on the back of my bike, being that wounded and sound asleep was a mystery to me, but she did it like it wasn’t a big deal at all.

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