The Story Club

        We were four mighty watchful men, riding through the Bighorn Basin, and we had already each had our fare share in Indian battles. Cal lead the way, as always, followed by Slim, then myself, with my faithful dog Fang trotting along side, and finally John Shane, bringing up the rear. I was perceptive enough to see the obvious sign: A broken twig, a hoof print in the muddy ground, or the cawing of a startled crow away in the woods. They were trailing us alright, or possibly fixing to dry-gulch us, but we were strung out in a long line, we had our eyes wide, our ears open, and the Sioux should have known by now, that we wouldn’t kill easy. Not with Cal’s place so close, not with safety so near, would we die easy, not at all.     The country was rolling and mild, compared to the Owl Creek and Bridger mountains, or even the Wind River Canyon. A man could run cattle in this country. It was a mite rougher than the plains of Kansas and Dakota, but ...

 We first met Ronda online, but regardless, something about her just seemed right.  One weekend several Januaries ago, we drove up to Denver and located Ronda’s address (with some trepidation, as one always does when Craigslist dealing). But the neighborhood seemed decent as did the perspective seller. We looked her over carefully hoping that the good price didn’t hide a lemon. But with some hurried consultation, we decided that she was the one for us.   After handing over 2,400 in cash, which we had procured in increments of 200 (because that’s all the ATM would deliver), we became the proud owners of a 2002 Honda Civic with Manual Transmission. I do not know if she had a previous name, but soon after she came to us, we christened her Ronda the Honda or just Ronda for short. She was named in part for Ronda Rousey (the professional wrestler) and in part because the name just stuck. Either way she has certainly lived up to it. Because Ronda lived in Colorado, I imagine her...