Old Custer
“Well, everyone knows Custer died at Little Bighorn. What this book presupposes is…maybe he didn’t.”
The crickets and the rust-beetles scuttled among the nettles of the sage thicket. “Vámonos, amigos,” he whispered, and threw the busted leather flintcraw over the loose weave of the saddlecock. And they rode on in the friscalating dusklight.
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