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OUTLAW/Si'/as Zobal WHAT HOOT RAWLEY talked about was the time before we were revisions of ourselves. The late afternoon was unblemished. Heat rose from the heaps of stone beneath us. Wtilows spotted the base of the gully. Hoot held a pair of six-guns; he was sixteen years old, cloaked in dust, run with sweat. Soon, Hoot said, we would smeU of blood. The whine of bullets clove the air. Full-mouthed heifers straggled along a barbed fence. Over a bramble fire, I fried grouse eggs in a sktilet. My dog, Royal, lay in the milkweed as I, with a free hand, picked a tick off his neck. "Peckerwood," Montana White said. "Arsehump." Hoot Rawley hadn't quit talking buti. He was on about what we once were and some such. He spoke of invisible spectrums, unholy numbers and ad infinitums. No one paid him any mind. With the rifle Montana took potshots at prairie dogs and practiced his cursing. He said something aboutjabberjaws and windbags and skinbladdersfull up with piss. Then, turning in Hoot's direction, Montana spat in an arc. He was whip-thin, almond-skinned. His gaze was steady as a rattler's, his hands undersized and womanish and viper-fast. "You seen
The Missouri Review – University of Missouri
Published: Oct 5, 2002
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