He peered downhill between slim oak saplings, through the spaced trunks of great pines and junipers and mountain ash to the canyon floor. There the little Ruidoso split a smooth, green level--exactly as if a polished bowie knife lay across a billiard table. “The squeezin’est man!” Bud repeated, aloud, with “Old Ben” Lingo’s still, red face in mind.…
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