The Graves At Seven Devils (2011)
The Graves At Seven Devils
“Hans straddled a stout, surly claybank with white, shotgun-patterned spots on its muscular rump. He had his Big Fifty snugged in a saddle boot. The clay and Mean and Ugly eyed each other testily, obviously not liking each other, and Louisa tried to keep her pinto between them as much as possible.
As soon as the stars faded, the sun rose quickly—a giant rose blossoming above the eastern horizon and quickly throwing down a searing heat. Prophet was relieved when the brassy orb had vaulted high enough so that his hat shaded his face.
Ahead along the flour-white, well-used horse trail ribboning through the dusty, lemon-colored chaparral, the seven sandstone spires of the Seven Devils Range—complete with what looked like horns and forked tails—loomed a thousand feet atop bald, boulder-strewn slopes, heat waves giving them a liquid, illusory air.
The only sounds were cicadas, the rustle of jackrabbits or kangaroo rats bounding through the scrub, and the occasional screech of a hunting eagle.
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