by Jack Schaefer
He rode into our valley in the summer of '89, a slim man, dressed in black. ~ "Call me Shane," he said. ~ He never told us more. ~ There was a deadly calm in the valley that summer, a slow, climbing tension that seemed to focus on Shane. ~ "There's something about him," Mother said. "Something...dangerous..." ~ "He's dangerous all right," Father said,...but not to us..." ~ "He's like one of these here slow burning...
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