I've heard it's the Sodom of the plains. Deets rested happily by the water trough, now and then glancing at the moon. The silence was heavy. The shoat was a large pig now, but travel had kept him thin.
Burnt, Dillard whispered. That's what I like about you, Bert, Augustus said, as he whittled a mesquite twig into a toothpick. He had grown up with the sun shining, with mesquite and chaparral, armadillos and coyotes, Mexicans and the shallow Rio Grande. Anyway, maybe it's just cowboys and there won't be no fight.
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