Late one spring evening well before sundown, Willie Goode rode into the small village of San Antonio, New Mexico. Tying his big red mules at the hitch rail in front of the only saloon, he stepped down and stretched his back and stomped his feet getting the circulation flowing again. Walking around the hitch rail, he was hit in the side of the head with a hard fist. He went to his knees, looking up at three men. He shook his head, got up and walked on into the bar without saying a word. The men laughed and untied his mules, running them down the street.