Many moons ago, I was riding my cow pony north through the cool, brisk Arizona territory. Under the cactus moon that shined like a golden nugget, my pipes heated up like a branding iron as I passed the river's edge. Suddenly I hit a rusty nail. When I pulled to a stop a surly wench wearing a red garter with hair as dark as a bay horse approached me from a hut and asked me for a wooden nickel. Stunned, I was a bashful bandit that knew I could get to her dugout if I only had a c-note.