In the valley of the Applegate River, it was hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys. They all seemed good to me. And when we were young, the wild ones, the Marlon Brando's of the back woods, lived big lives. They were the stuff of legend, even if only locally. But I wonder what it is about aging outlaws that is somehow pathetic. My question is this: Is a man still an outlaw if he has to remind you how notorious he is?
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