Hell Is Empty (Walt Longmire, #7)

by Craig Johnson

I liked him, as much as you can like a giant sociopath who had killed so often he couldn’t even remember all the lives he’d taken, human and otherwise. “You

I nodded my head. “And the moral of the story is?” He raised an eyebrow, and it was as if the dent in his forehead was looking to dig deeper. “What is it with you white people and morals? Maybe it’s just a story about what happened.” He paused for a moment. “If an Indian points at a tree, you white people are always thinking, What does that mean? What does the tree stand for?

Profound

It was as if the immediate world was like some giant coliseum suddenly on fire.

Not a great metaphor

I couldn’t die—I had too many women who would kill me.

Oof

but the one sound that rustled over the others was the sound of the blackened, leathery wings of wrathful vengeance folding themselves around me.

i like it

Must’ve been my day for it.

Nice

I imagined that he was probably thinking about the same thing I’d be thinking about when my journey ended: about his family, his loved ones—and even the not so loved.

It was his responsibility, but it was my duty. You have haunting to do.

There’s no feeling like the one you have when you realize you are desperately in need of a gun and, in one of the few times in your life, don’t have one. That