Where's the Beef? Tipping his soiled cowboy hat back on his head, propping his battered boots on the porch railing, B.V. (Beeves) Reeves leaned back in his old cowhide-bottomed rocker. He took a sip from his "Beef Is My Bread And Butter" coffee mug. As his scarred and calloused hands lowered his libation, twinkling eyes looked at me through the steam rising off the hot liquid, and a deep and raspy voice drawled, "Well, Ron, I figger if there was a tribe of Levis, that's a pretty good sign t ...