The Arroyo of the Sombra of Death
The lanky fellow stands upon the makeshift porch which is a plank of plywood supported by two sawhorses at the front entrance of his house trailer. He watches the distant rooster tail of dust from the car which winds slowly up the rough dirt road toward his hilltop.
Mack Cobb wears rumpled onto his frame a red plaid shirt, jeans, and slung around his frame is an engraved leather gun belt with a big shiny revolver. His head is the post for a small cowboy hat which barely shades his sun-engraved face and his feet are bare and brown and discolored with calluses.
Mack Cobb draws on his anisette-flavored cheroot and then he exhales a recollection of passages from Faulkner’s Light in August:
Though the mules plod in a steady and unflagging hypnosis, the vehicle…
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