They found him in a saloon in Texarkana. He thought he was there in pursuit of the next thing, but really it was he who was the prey. Few knew where he had been since his battles in Lawrence, maybe he didn't even know. Alas, one man paid his bill while the others dragged him out. They carried him north on their backs, across dry creekbeds and over craggy summits. For their fields had been dry many years and someone believed this turnip's blood was their only choice, or starve to death. Desperation.
Over the years the rains returned enough to continue on, but every year was nearly a tragedy. So they sent him and "the osos" as they called them, back to Kansas to lay a holy haymaker on an aging nemesis. The young lads' spirits were uplifted as they passed through his old haunts, where the lolitas raised their gowns and blouses and wished them luck, for they hadn't seen real men in a decade. As the woodlands gave way to prairie, their leader spotted his enemy perched atop a quadricorn named Clinebrunloquetmalon, which is Lacota for "four warriors who share a purple heart." Their eyes met, the wind shifted, and lightning streaked across the dark sky. The old man squinted, his lips pursed, and nostrils flaired. The osos were entering a thunderdome and they would not come back.
