BOO! Spooks once more will haunt the scene for a challenged few hours, then mist away into the unknown where they will hang in their hibernated state until the next eve of escape to dangle their mysteries and taunt the peace of man and woman.
Let's enter the awe-inspiring black cloak of written tales --- if you dare!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



ALIAS APPELBAUM AND PLUMTREE

by Frazer Williamson.

Jones and Brown were a couple of cowhands who wanted to get rich quick and have more money than Mr. Tracy their rancher boss. So they changed their names to Appelbaum and Plumtree and took to a life of crime.
They worked out the details of this shift of occupation in a line shack during winter and reckoned that rustling was out because the Mexican border was too far away and the only people who were likely to buy the steers across any of the Territorial lines belonged to the Cattlemens Association and were all friends of Mr. Tracy whose herd was the only one they could rustle anyway. What they'd do was move out of this Territory, hold up a stage or two, get a good poke and move to yet another Territory and set up a legitimate business in General Goods, and rob stages, trains, and banks in the surrounding Territories.
Come Spring they gave in their notice. Mr. Tracy asked them what they intended to do.
"Head East," said Jones, now Appelbaum.
"We always had this hankerin' to see New York," said Brown, now Plumtree.
"Go with God," Mr. Tracy said, and gave them a small bonus with their wages. They put their plan into action and for a while successfully rode with the Devil.

* * *

Young Tom Tolliver talked himself into a job with the Overland Stage Company riding shotgun because he wanted to marry Cora Simms. He sat up on the box beside the driver, Jeff Curry who hauled back on the reins as the six-horse team came towards Elbow Bend. Jeff was masterful with the brake and the coach rounded the bend at walking pace. Tolliver kept his eyes skinned as they approached the Twin Boulders, one on each side of the road. If the coach with its payroll to the silver mine, was going to be held up, this would be the place. He cocked both hammers and held the shotgun at the ready. The coach passed the boulders and the horses began the steady climb uphill. Tolliver heard the shot that took Jeff Curry down, pitching him forward between the stage and the horses. Tolliver grabbed for the reins and while he struggled with the horses, a masked rider came up and stuck a rifle in his side and yanked away the shotgun.
"Unbuckle that gun belt!"
Tolliver did as he was told. The man flung it into the rocks.
"You folks get out of that coach, now," another voice said and the five passengers got out to be robbed of their possessions. "Throw down that payroll bag," said the man watching Tolliver. When Tolliver threw it down it was too near the man's face and it dragged off his mask.
"Why, Mr. Plumtree," Tolliver said, surprised.
Plumtree shot him. Just before young Toms eyes glazed over, he breathed out his last words, "I'll get you for that."
"Some hope," said Plumtree and put another bullet into him.
"Hell," said Appelbaum.
"They know who I am now," said Plumtree indicating the passengers.
"Maybe they didnt hear."
"You heard."
"Yeah."
"Then they heard."
They made sure all five passengers were dead before riding off.
"How'd he know who you were?"
"He comes to see his girl in our town, and hes been in the store."
"He sure won't be comin in again."

* * *

Young Tolliver had no folks and was buried by the Simms, Coras people, in the cemetery of the town where Appelbaum and Plumtree had their General Store. Both men attended the funeral and added money to the reward that the Overland Stage Company posted for the capture of the killers. It rained on the tears of Cora Simms.

* * *

"I think we got enough now with that last haul," Plumtree said to Appelbaum.
"Then lets go see New York."
"We can sell off the business."
"At a handsome profit."
"I reckon we got as much now as old man Tracy."
"And it took us less than half the time."
"We're Capitalists, Mr. Appelbaum."
"We sure are, Mr. Plumtree."
They took to each other and danced around, then, both, simultaneously, looked down at their feet. Their eyes met with horror, then checked again what they had felt then seen. Bubbling up through the laces of their boots came a red sticky substance, and when they moved they left bloody footprints behind them. Each sat and snatched their boots and socks from their feet. The blood continued to gush through their toes. They put on new socks and new boots, but it made no difference. The blood continued to gush, and in mounting terror they wondered if it was their own blood and how they would stop it. They rushed out and knocked Doc Carey out of his sleep.
"Doc, we can't stop our feet bleedin'."
Doc Carey examined their feet and found them smelly, but unbloodied.
"If this is some kind of joke boys, I sure dont appreciate it at this time of the morning."
When they left Doc Careys their boots filled again and they left bloodied footprints on the ground.
"Hell," said Appelbaum, "what's happenin'?"
That was when they heard the laugh, and saw a dark figure in the shadows. The form laughed again and moved off.
"He knows somethin' we dont," said Plumtree, and they both tried catching up with the figure, but no matter how they tried the distance between them and the dark form never changed.
So intent were they in following that they did not realize where they were being led until they were pulled up short in the cemetery when the form now standing upon a new-dug grave bedecked with wild flowers, turned and smiled at them.
"Mr. Appelbaum and Mr. Plumtree, I bid you goodnight." The figure with a salute, descended inch-by-inch into the grave. The name and dates on the simple wooden cross were those for Tom Tolliver.
Appelbaum and Plumtree sploshed back to their General Store, leaving behind them bloodied footprints.

SCARED STRAIGHT

by G. SAM CARR

DEADWOOD, SOUTH DAKOTA - FALL 2000

Kelmo Bench, a tall, stringy, unkempt drifter, ran his dirty fingernails under the Wilson tennis headband he used to keep his shoulder-length hair in place, scratched for a few seconds, and then said, "Monk, I thinks we were more better off when we was in the hoosegow."
"How you figure that?" asked Monk Lewis, Kelmo's fellow ex-con.
"We had food to eat and a place to sleep. And we had a good job folding sheets in the laundry." Kelmo stretched out his long legs and stared at his black and white high-top basketball shoes with white balls on the ankles. "We ain't got nothin' now."
Monk, the older, heavier, and shorter of the two, shook his head and said, "Only an idiot would say something like that."
Suddenly tears glistened in Kelmo's eyes. "You made the cons stop calling me an idiot. Now you're doing it. I may not be too smart, but I ain't no idiot."
Monk reached over and gave a gentle tug on the dozen or so long chin hairs Kelmo called his beard. "I'm sorry pardner. I shouldn't have said that, but no way do I want to go back to the Montana State Pen." He patted his stomach. "Speaking of food, I'm so hungry I could eat one of those mounted heads hanging inside the saloon. You still got that five spot?"
Kelmo shrunk back as if he was about to be hit and rubbed his palms against his ragged blue jeans. "Ain't been so long since we eat. Maybe we ought to wait a while."
Monk stared at his friend for a second before saying, "Come on Kelmo, what'd you do with the five dollars?"
"Please don't yell at me. I had a hunch I'd hit a jackpot, so I played a slot machine."
"And you lost it?"
Kelmo hung his head contemplating his shoes again. "Ain't you got some money?"

The two men were lounging on a red wooden bench outside the front door of Deadwood's historic Saloon Number Ten. As they spoke, hundreds of people of every age, shape, and size, many clutching plastic containers jingling with coins, hurried up and down both sides of Main Street that once housed every store type typical to a small mining town, but now consisted of nothing but casinos, hotels containing casinos, jewelry stores hawking Black Hills Gold, and tourist traps. Even the Burger King had a room set aside for slot machines.
"I've still got a couple dollars, but nothing to speak of. We have to figure out some way to get our hands on enough loot to last awhile."
Grinning out of the side of his mouth, Kelmo gave Monk a playful punch on the arm. "Whatever you say, Monk. You never let us down. You'll come up with something. But I sure would like to get my money back from that one-armed bandit."
Monk impishly jerked off his Joe Camel baseball cap, used it to slap Kelmo alongside the head, and said, "By golly son, you just gave me the answer to our problem."
Kelmo watched Monk reposition his cap without messing the long hair he had pulled back into a pony tail tied with a leather thong. When sure he had Monk's full attention, he grinned and said, "See, I told you I wasn't no idiot." His beaming expression suddenly turned to one of puzzlement. "What did I say?"
Monk chuckled. "Slot machines. We'll bust open a few and get enough cash to put us on easy street."
"How we goin' do that? The casinos are open twenty-four hours a day."
Monk rubbed his stubble heavy chin for a second. "We'll knock over the Bullock Hotel. They're closed for repairs. I was talking to one of the workers this morning. They won't open again till next week."
"I'll bet they still got guards, and alarms, and stuff," Kelmo said.
Monk nodded. "Maybe a guard. They're putting in a new electrical service so the alarms should be off. Anyway, we'll case the joint tonight and see what we have to do." Monk crossed his legs and took off the scuffed, brown oxford from his right foot. He lifted the liner and took out a ten spot. "Let's go to Burger King, I can't concentrate when my gut thinks my throat's got a cork stuck in it."

Getting inside the Bullock Hotel had been as easy as robbing a poor box. Obviously working on a tight budget, the hotel had only one security guard. And security guards have to eat. The night before, the guard left his post at exactly ten p.m. and didn't return till almost midnight. So tonight they waited tell the guard left and assuming he would follow the same routine, Monk cut a hole in the glass of a back window. Reaching inside, he unlocked the window and Kelmo crawled through and opened the back door.
The hotel was built on the side of a slope so both the front and back of the building were at ground level. The back door opened into the basement. The rooms housing the slot machines and gaming tables were on street level. With Kelmo close behind, Monk felt his way around the basement. When he located the stairs, he whispered to Kelmo, "So far so good. Now just hope that door at the top ain't locked."
With a trembling hand, Kelmo grabbed Monk's shirt. "I think someone's watching us?"
"Don't go soft on me pardner. Ain't nobody here but us."
"But I've got a feeling Monk. I really do."
"Cool it now and follow me."
At the tope of the stairs, Monk was about to grab the knob when the door swung open. He froze in place. Did someone open the door? Naw, he thought. There must be a breeze coming through the broken window. He stepped into the corridor and spotted the slot machines in the front room. "This don't look good Kelmo. Too much light from the street. Anybody walking by can see us." He put his hand on Kelmo's shoulder. "You check out the back room. I'll stay here and watch. If I meow like a cat, you get back here and we'll hightail it down the stairs."
Kelmo took a few steps then stopped and turned around. "I'm a good meower. Remember how I used to drive the cats crazy. Maybe it's more better if you go back there and I'll keep watch."
"Cool it Kelmo. You're wasting time. Get back there and see if there are any more slots. Now that we're in here, we've got to get us some loot."
"Don't get mad, Monk. I'll go."
Thirty seconds after disappearing into the darkness, Kelmo was back. "Monk, Monk! There's someone in there. A big guy with a black cowboy hat and a bushy mustache."
"Did he see you?"
"He was looking right at me. He had to."
"Did he come at you or say anything?"
"No. He just stood there and stared at me."
Convinced that Kelmo's imagination was getting the better of him, Monk said, "Tell you what. You go back in there and if you see him again, give a yell, and I'll come running."
"Do I have to?"
"Quit acting like a baby. I thought you was a tough guy?"
Kelmo puffed out his bony chest. "I am tough, you'll see."
Kelmo had no sooner disappeared into the darkness again, when Monk heard, wham, bang, plunk coming from the other room. He ran inside and saw Kelmo on his belly with his head up against the wall. "Are you all right? Did you trip?" At that same instant he realized the dark room was bathed in a luminous glow. He reached down and helped Kelmo to his feet.
"Monk, we got to get out of here. I saw that guy again. I tried to tackle him to show you how brave I am."
"What happened?"
"Soon as I got my arms around him, he turned into a puff of smoke. I think he be a ghost."
"Come on Kelmo. Did you get hit in the head or something? There ain't no such thing as ghosts."
"Monk, there he is!"
Monk looked in the direction Kelmo was pointing and saw a huge painting of a solemn-faced man that looked exactly the way Kelmo described the guy he'd tried to tackle. He walked over and read the brass plate below the painting. "You know who this is?"
"Yea. It's the ghost."
"I told you there's no such thing as ghosts. This here is Seth Bullock, the guy who owned this hotel. Says here he was the first sheriff of Deadwood. Before he came to Deadwood he served in the Montana Territorial Senate and was sheriff of Lewis and Clark County."
"Hey, that's where we come from. Wonder if his ghost ever goes back for a visit?"
"Kelmo, you're unbelievable."
"Yea, well I believe in ghosts and I don't care if we starve to death, I'm getting out of here and I thinks you should too." He headed for the corridor.
Monk grabbed his arm and said, "You must've seen this picture out of the corner of your eye and thought it was a ghost. Now let's get to work."
Kelmo's face was a chalky white. His body shook. Goose pimples as big as moth balls covered his long arms. "Not me, Monk. I don't care what you think. That guy's ghost is in this room."
Knowing it would be impossible to change Kelmo's mind, Monk said, "Okay, you go out into the hall and keep guard. I'm going to work on one of those one-armed bandits." He pointed to a row of dollar slot machines standing against the wall.
In less than a minute, Kelmo was back. "He's out front now and there's no picture out there. I'm telling you Monk, it's a real ghost."
Monk put aside his screwdriver, sighed and said, "Okay, show him to me."
Soon as they neared the front room, Kelmo grabbed Monk's arm with one hand and pointed with the other. "There he is."
"Where?"
"By that blackjack table."
"Damn it Kelmo. There's no one there. Now I'm going back to work. Don't bother me unless you're sure someone's really out here."
Kelmo clutched at Monk's shirt. In a trembling voice, he said, "He's coming this way."
Monk pulled loose from Kelmo's grip. He'd only taken two steps when he felt something grab his ankles. Falling face down he caught himself with his hands, got back to his feet, turned and shook his fist at Kelmo. "Why'd you trip me?"
Kelmo looked as if he was about to get a beating. "Honest Monk, it was the ghost. His arm stretched out about ten feet and grabbed your foot. He then stepped over you and went into the back room."
Throwing his arms up in disgust, Monk returned to where he had been taking the cover off a slot machine. Now where in the devil did that screwdriver go? He was sure he'd laid it on the top of the machine. But it wasn't there now. Could Kelmo be right?
He shook his head to rid himself of the thought and leaned against the wall. Something was in his back pocket. It was the missing screwdriver. But was it? This one was a slot head. The one he had been using was a Phillips. He glanced up at the picture of Seth Bullock. Was that smile there before? Once again he shrugged and shook his head. He looked at the screwdriver again. Now it was a Phillips. This was too much. "Kelmo, get in here."
Looking scared to death, Kelmo eased his way in and said, "Don't you think I'd better stay out there?"
"No, I don't. Something funny's going on here. You stand right beside me and if you see that fella you call a ghost, let me know."
Monk had just finished taking the back off the machine and was attempting to open the coin box when the glowing light dimmed immersing the room into total darkness. Monk felt Kelmo's shaking hand on his arm. "Let's get out of here, Monk. Maybe I can get a job swamping out a saloon or something."
Monk was about ready to agree when he heard Monk's voice. Who was he talking to? Had he lost his mind? It wasn't much to begin with, but now it sounded as if, in addition to seeing ghosts, he was talking to them.
"But you see Sheriff. Ain't nobody wants to give a couple ex-cons a job. We gotta eat, don't we?"
Monk waited for someone to answer. A second or so later, Kelmo said, "I'll have to talk it over with Monk."
"What have you got to talk over with me? Who on earth are you talking to?"
"Shush, you'll make the sheriff mad. He's a good guy and he says he'll help us with a grub stake if we go straight."
"Yea, sure. If he wants to help us, he can turn the damn lights back on." Before Kelmo could say a word, a glowing light flooded the room. That was strange, Monk thought. Is there really a ghost or just some sort of emergency lighting? He looked up at the picture on the wall. It was smiling again. A shiver ran down his spine.
Kelmo, with his back toward Monk, said, "Thanks Sheriff." He turned toward Monk and said, "The Sheriff wants to know if you're going to take him up on his offer?"
"I'm not falling for this bull. You and I both know there's no ghost in here. I admit strange things are happening, but there's a logical explanation for it. I just don't have time to look for it. I've got to get this coin box open so we can get out of here."
But when he tried to go back to work he found that the back of the slot machine was reattached and every screw he'd removed had been replaced. Thinking he might be looking at the wrong machine, he examined the others in the room. The rear panel on each and every one of them was firmly in place. "Kelmo, ask that guy what kind of grub stake?"
Kelmo stood nodding his head for a second, then went to a closet and came back with two push brooms. "The Sheriff says we have to sweep the floor and we can keep all the money we find."
"Are you nutty? You and that ghost can both take a walk." Suddenly the room went dark again and the floor started vibrating like there was an earthquake.
A few seconds later the glowing light was back and Kelmo was saying, "The Sheriff don't like it when you dis him like that. If you don't want to sweep, I'll do it myself."
"You will not. We're in this together, but if we go into that front room someone is bound to see us through the windows."
"The Sheriff says not to worry. No one will see us."
"I still think you're crazy. Now hand me one of those brooms."
It wasn't a very lucrative sweeping job. Twenty minutes of hard work going over the entire floor and their reward was one silver dollar that Kelmo found on his last sweep of the broom. Looking as if he'd found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, Kelmo held the coin in the air and said, "See Monk, the sheriff kept his word."
"You're getting worse by the minute. You call that a grub stake. We've wasted all this time for a dollar. If we're going to have a place to stay and buy some chow, we still have to empty some slots."
"Don't worry, Monk. Sheriff wants me to drop the dollar into the machine you was working on." He hurried to the slot, inserted the coin, and pulled the handle. The first wheel stopped on an orange. Then the second wheel stopped on an orange. And soon as the third wheel also stopped on an orange, bells went off and silver dollars, three-hundred in all, poured into the coin tray.
Monk's eyes lit up. He took off his Joe Camel baseball cap and started filling it with coins. Then changing his mind, he took a handful of silver dollars and went to another machine, dropped in a dollar and tried to pull the handle. It wouldn't budge. Moving to the next machine, he tried again. The handle went limp in his hands. Strange he thought. On the third machine, a bolt of electricity shot from the handle encasing his hand in bouncing sparks. Monk frantically shook them off as he thought he was getting as nutty as Kelmo. How could this be happening?
Deciding to give it one more try, Monk was about to grasp the handle when it turned into a diamondback rattler with jaws opened wide, venom dripping from its long fangs and a forked tongue darting toward Monk's chubby fingers. Monk jumped back and in a quivering voice said, "Come on Kelmo, let's take our loot and hit one of the other casinos."
"But we promised Sheriff Bullock that we'd go straight."
"So; the slots are legal. And with a little luck we should double or triple this three-hundred in no time." He rubbed his hands together and then smoothed the hair on the sides of his head.
Kelmo listened for a minute, nodded and said, "Sheriff Bullock says he'll make sure we lose every dollar we won."
"Sheriff, smeriff. I'm tired of hearing about that spook of yours. I told you before, there's an explanation for every damn thing that happened here tonight, and it ain't a ghost." He grabbed his hat full of silver dollars and started for the stairs. Almost immediately, the seams of the hat parted sending a shower of coins bouncing in every direction. Then to make matter worse, the lights went out again.
From somewhere in the dark, Kelmo said, "I'll tell him Sheriff, but he don't much listen to me."
"Tell me what?" asked Monk.
"Sheriff says if you promise not to gamble and if we both find us a job, he'll turn the lights back on and help us pick up the money."
No way could that happen. This was his chance to prove, once and for all, that there's no such thing as ghosts. Although he knew he had no intention of keeping his promise, Monk said, "Tell him I won't play the slots anymore and I'll even get me a job."
"Thanks Monk," said Kelmo.
Unexpectedly a bright spotlight shone down from above. Monk looked down at his feet. Before him lay his hat, all seams intact, and filled with thirty rolls of coin, each containing ten silver dollars. The short hairs on his neck stiffened. His palms dampened. His stomach spun into a knot. Goose bumps covered him from head to toe. No way could this be explained. There had to be some kind of spirit behind it.
"Monk, someone's at the door. I think it's the watchman."
Monk bent down and picked up the hat full of money. "Let's get out of here."
In a few seconds they were down the stairs, through the basement and out the door to the back alley. When safely away from the Bullock Hotel, Kelmo said, "I liked Sheriff Bullock. I know he'll be really happy when we get us a job."
Monk looked at Kelmo, squinted and asked, "He didn't come with us, did he?"
"Oh, no, but he said he wouldn't be far away and I could call him anytime. 'Specially if either one of us got the urge to gamble or break the law."
For a second Monk debated whether or not to believe Kelmo. Then remembering the snake, the lights, and the hat filled with money, he divided the rolls of dollars into two stacks. He pushed one stack to Kelmo and said, "You take your half, and I'll take mine."
Kelmo looked as if he was going to cry. "We ain't splitting up are we?"
Monk grinned and patted Kelmo's forearm. "No way, pardner. This just makes them easier to carry. Tomorrow we're going to trade them in for bills and get us bus tickets back to Billings. Must be a ranch or two that needs a couple of good, honest, hard working hands like us."

Read G Sam Carr's article in December issue of WILD WEST magazine:
WARRIORS AND CHIEFS (PAGE 16)

FROM AFRICA TO THE AMERICAN WEST - HALLOWEEN SPECIAL

by Allen L. Lee

Old Gold Rush San Francisco had a house on 1661 Octavia Street called "The House Of Mystery." This house was occupied by African-American power broker, abolitionist, madam, and Black Voodoo Queen Mary Ellen Pleasant. The story you are about to read is true, so if you're the owner of a $1,395,000 house on 1661 Octavia Street in New Orleans, you might want to read something else for a few minutes.

Mary Ellen Pleasant was a child slave from Georgia; she was constantly moved from one place to the other Ohio, New England, New Orleans, eventually as a free woman she came to San Francisco. Pirates and gangs ruled the bay and greed saw even the most decent people seek advantage and power by any means necessary, including Voodoo magic, a resource Mary Ellen Pleasant learned in New Orleans from Marie LaVeau. One of her favorite clients was secret partners Thomas and Theresa Bell, whom she lived with at 1661 Octavia Street until tragedy struck.

One evening, it was said, Thomas Bell drank too much wine and fell to his death from the upstairs banister. Rumors quickly spread that the Voodoo Queen put something extra in the wine to help Thomas Bell on his way out of this world. Mary Ellen Pleasant wasnt a stranger to death, a courageous woman, she witnessed one of her female employees have her throat slashed by an angry lover and vowed not to allow another of the women close to her suffer the same fate. When another man tried to victimize one of her female employees, she gave the frightened woman a gun and instructed her to shoot him dead, which the woman did. Mary Ellen Pleasants most famous brush with death was not in California, but in the east on horseback disguised as a jockey, laying the groundwork and financing for John Browns plans to set up an elaborate new Underground Railroad to Canada for slaves. After her warrior comrade John Brown's defeat at Harpers Ferry and execution, she returned to California.

People were said to have died under unusual circumstances when they were around Mary Ellen Pleasant, thats not to say unusual deaths were all that unusual in Gold Rush San Francisco, though most were attributed to a severe allergic reaction to bullets, but Mary Ellen Pleasant drew extra attention because of the high powered company she kept. The house where she lived on 1661 Octavia Street became well known as San Franciscos favorite haunted house until it was torn down, but who were the ghost? Was it John Brown looking for his old friend? Maybe it was the Scotsman Thomas Bell trying to tell anyone who could hear him how he really died? Perhaps it was Mary herself; after all she was a very rich woman and may have left a sizable cache in that house.

The house at 1661 Octavia Street in San Francisco is long gone, but theres a new one at 1661 Octavia Street in New Orleans. The best the New Orleans homeowners can hope for is that the old ghosts of San Francisco have a good sense of geography and dont rattle the windows of the wrong house.

http://webbie1.sfpl.org/ http://www.matberenson.com/
Thanks for reading, Allen L. Lee

TUESDAYS AT SUNDOWN - COWBOY MUSEUM

OKC WRITERS INC member Jim Etter will speak on Tuesday, Oct. 19, 2004, 6:30 to 8 p.m., at the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum in Oklahoma City. There is no charge to attend if you are a member of the Cowboy Hall. If not, it is only $5 bucks. No reservations are required. Come in the front door and turn left at the End of the Trail statue, go to the boardroom. There will be signs to direct you.

Jim Etter now lives in Las Cruces NM, but plans to be back for the OWFI conference in May. For more info on Tuesdays at Sundown, call the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum at 478-2250, press 210 for an operator.

COPPER LAKE:
Jim Etter will speak Wednesday, Oct. 20, 10 a.m., Copper Lake Village Senior Housing, 1225 Lakeshore Dr., Edmond, OK 73013. For reservations or more info, contact Chris, activities director at Copper Lake, 340-5311.

TIMBERWOOD
Jim Etter will also speak Wednesday, Oct. 20, 2 p.m., at Timberwood Assisted Living, 5020 SE 44th, OKC 73125. This is in the Del City area. For reservations contact Mitzie, activities director at Timberwood, 619-0079.

Carolyn Leonard
Pray for the safety of our troops, and
remember, you have a friend in Oklahoma!

Author: Jim Etter
http://www.anybook4less.com/author/Jim+Etter.html