In my home town, as in a lot of towns in Arizona and California, we had a guy from Arkansas, named Arkie. Seemed like a natural nick-name. Well, this Arkie was a consumate liar. You've heard the old story about someone who would rather climb a tree and lie, than to stand on the ground and tell the truth. One day at the copper mine where we all worked, Arkie was telling some outlandish story about a deer hunting adventure, and when he stopped to catch his breath, my uncle cut him off. My uncle says, "Hell, Arkie that's nothing. Last week-end my nephew was up in the Cherry Creek country, across from Roosevelt Dam, hunting. He climbed up in a tree to get the lay of the land, and while he was up there, a big black tailed buck walked right under the tree. Easy shot, right down out of the tree in the top of the deer's head, but the rifle wouldn't shoot. My nephew hung his rifle on a limb, pulled his skinning knife, dropped down on the deer's back, and tried to cut his throat, but naturally he had taken the wrong knife to the woods, and it was too dull to cut. Well, since the deer had already started to run, my nephew had no choice but to ride the deer, and every time he passed a rock, to whet the knife a stroke or two. He rode most of two miles, stroking that knife blade on every rock he passed til it was sharp enough to cut the deer's throat. After that he just rode it til it bled to death." Arkie was not impressed. He blinked a couple of times, and said, "If you think that's something......?"