The nights on the Moriah farmstead have been long, hot and unbearable. Mr. Moriah pitches cards into his dusty old cowboy hat all night long. The cards click against the wall and fall silently into his worn hat, but when missed, the slightest scrape of the floor echoes throughout the rickety house and sends the night spiraling into a manic sleepless journey. The oil lamp sends the fox's shadow waltzing across the ceiling; the crow's ghost paces back and forth beneath the window, and I fear the spider has followed us. The Black Hills are deep and treacherous mother; we will be leaving for the desert in the morning.
With a nervous pen,