Red-hot New Pistol In Rebel Land

Finally, they were married in Russellville, Ala. at 9 p.m., and since Slick was only 17 and they wanted to keep the big event a secret, the couple hurried—or as Johnny puts it, "scratched off"—home. Slick's father wouldn't let Neumann in the door, so they waited three days and then approached her mother. "We have something to tell you," they said.

"You're on dope," her mother said.

"We're married," they said.

"Sure," her mother said, and continued winding her alarm clock.

It was only later that Mrs. DeViney went into her crying jag and that Mr. DeViney realized what had happened. "What a damn fool thing to do," Mrs. DeViney says today. "I like to stomp them both, still."

"I'd as like to whip up on them myself," says Mr. DeViney. "I was so sick of hearin' the name Neumann when the kid was in high school.... Aw, but I could have done worse. He doesn't smoke or drink or take dope. She could have married a truck driver."

The DeVineys, who drive down to all of Mississippi's home games and appear to have established a unique relationship with the young Neumanns, often regale the youngsters with tales of their classmate at Humes High School, Elvis Presley. "The King wore cranberry shirts to school every day and didn't have any friends," says Geri DeViney. "He'd sit out in the hall at lunch and pick that guitar in a corner. Everybody would laugh at him and, sure enough, he used to say, 'Go 'head. Go 'head and laugh, y'all.' We're sorry now. Dang. The one and only."

"I used to be a boxer," said Mr. DeViney.

"Sure, George," said Neumann, turning to their guest. "Look at his face. Can't you tell? That's a quote. Quote me."

"Least I have an excuse," said Mr. DeViney. "What happened to you, punk?"