John Doggerel, an entirely fictional character, was hiding in a ditch, hoping to stay hidden.

Boycie, alive as you or me, born on the bayou, smoked a cheroot and watched a paddle wheel river boat go by.

On the deck, glass in hand, Whiskey dreamed about spinning wheels, pretty girls and original songs.

Spike on a train, guitar in hand, staring into space, the wide river shining in the sun.

Noon. The mission bell tolled.

John Doggerel stirred, peered out and shook himself from head to toe.