Mrs. Been turned to me, “He’s a real cowboy. Horse, lasso, branding iron.” “Not many of us left except you count ones that tells you they’s cowboys. A lot them ones now. I been ridin’ since the war.” “Weren’t you up around Alamogordo when they tested the bomb?” the high-mileage man said. “Think I heard you were.” “Over west to Elephant Butte, up off the Rio Grande. Just a greenhorn, sleepin’ out where we was movin’ cattle. July of ’forty-five. They was a high wind that night and rain, and I didn’t get much sleep. Curled up against a big rock out of the wind. I was still in my bedroll at
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