Fiction | December 01, 1991

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Three days beyond the fort on the stage, following the line of telegraph poles like a spider slowly clambering its web.  The dry grass prairie is sere and burned looking, like brown skin with a worn ghost of hair on it, the buffalo far to the south at this time of year, Thanksgiven day, but packs of white wolves standing and looking at us curiously.  What can they find to eat? All morning long we look forward to seeing the telegraph relay station, mainly beacuse there is utterly nothing else to see.  That is the place where I will depart from my two fellow passengers and wait for the stage that comes through from the north, and will take me south to my destination.

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