The storm front towered above them and the wind was cool on their sweating faces. They slumped bleary-eyed in their saddles and looked at one another. Shrouded in the black thunderheads the distant lightning glowed mutely like welding seen through foundry smoke. As if repairs were under way at some flawed place in the iron dark of the world.
Cormac McCarthyTags: cormac-mccarthy john-dunn all-the-pretty-horses
Men believe the cure for war is war as the curandero prescribes the serpent's flesh for its bite.
Cormac McCarthyTags: cormac-mccarthy john-dunn all-the-pretty-horses
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