COMSTOCK ANNIE. One winter night, we were playing at the Red Dog Saloon. C-street was a sheet of ice and empty. The Dog was full. I’ve no idea where all the people came from. The windows steamed up. I saw this old cowboy dancing with the cute girl. (These days, no one dances until the town closes.) Back in the 50s a poem came out of Virginia City called “Who Shot Annie In The Freckle”, a series of nonsense verses by locals at the Bucket of Blood. Here’s my addition to the saga.