Buck Brady was always whittling. Thin shavings were an obsession with Buck. He would sit for hours, tilted back in a broken chair against the shady side of his little office, knees almost touching his chin, his long, thin face serious over the task of reducing a piece of soft pine to thin shavings. Buck was the sheriff of Mojave Wells, and Mojave Wells was a heat and sand scoured, false fronted town in Road Runner Valley. The town was invisible from a distance, because even the painted signs on the business houses had been sand blasted until they were unreadable.…
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