Every small town had a loner, a mysterious, gruff, elusive, anti-social person who refused to be part of the community. Kit Carson was this town’s ghost. He lived on a large track of wooded land that he had converted into some kind of wolf sanctuary. Occasionally, he would drive into town in his pickup truck, but he wouldn’t make eye-contact or speak to anyone other than to grunt. I heard he was a hulk: six feet seven inches tall and as solid as a brick house, but that he walked with a slight limp and had a scarred face that nobody actually got a good look at.
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