📔 Blood Meridian

The mother dead these fourteen years did incubate in her own bosom the creature who would carry her off.

The duledge pegs worked loose and dropped behind. Wheels began to break up.

They were drunk on tiswin they'd brewed and there had been shooting in the night two nights running and an incessant clamor for whiskey.

A thin man in a leather weskit […].

The boots had pointed toes like buskins and they had parfleche soles and high tops that were rolled down about the knees and tied.

In the afternoon black Jackson caught them up, his mount surbated and all but blown.

When he came around the end of the bar he laid down the pistol and he was carrying a bungstarter in one hand.

He turned to the man who spoke. He wore long moustaches after the fashion of teamsters and he wore a widebrim hat with a low round crown.

Night of your birth. Thirty-three. The Leonids they were called. God how the stars did fall. I looked for blackness, holes in the heavens. The Dipper stove.

The seep lay high up among the ledges, vadose water dripping down the slick black rock and monkeyflower and deathcamas hanging in a small perilous garden. The water that reached the canyon floor was no more than a trickle and they leaned by turns with pursed lips to the stone like devouts at a shrine.