Nation: Black Bart Lives

A different sort of instinct for Americana was evident in the Sierra Nevada where 100 years ago, a poetastering highwayman named Black Bart used to rob stagecoaches and leave behind such doggerel as:

I’ve labored long and hard for bread, For honor and for riches, But on my corns too long you’ve tred, You fine-haired sons of bitches.

One day a fortnight ago in Sacramento, a black-bearded man boarded one of the dozens of Greyhound buses that shuttle gamblers daily from California to the casinos on the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe. Half an hour out of Sacramento, the man shoved a pistol into the ribs of the driver and ordered a passenger to go through the bus collecting wallets and purses. The haul was only $835, but it reflected a savvy knowledge of gambling odds on the part of the robber. He took his loot before the passengers had a chance to lose it to the casinos and make the return trip flat. Greyhound was, understandably, less than amused. Fads spread so virulently that the company fears bus robberies could become as routine as airline hijackings.