The road to Lightning Flat went through desolate country past a dozen abandoned ranches distributed over the plain at eight- and ten-mile intervals, houses sitting blank-eyed in the weeds, corral fences down.  The mailbox read John C. Twist.  The ranch was a meagre little place, leafy spurge taking over.  The stock was too far distant for him to see their condition, only that they were black baldies.
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