Tales the Firelight Tells Me

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One of the nicest things about living thirty-odd, ox cart miles from the nearest town, and that ‘town’ only a few adobes and a cattle loading chute astride the railroad, is the quiet that allows me to hear the tales the firelight tells. And being located in North-Central Sonora, Mexico, the peculiar stillness and peace of the high desert adds to the lack of clamor and makes it possible to hear things otherwise inaudible if you will but listen. They are best heard when after a blue norther has burst out of Canada and plastered with snow the eastern slopes of the Rockies from Montana to New Mexico and then petered out over my valley into a soft, steady snow fall that insulates the cabin and the world like a blanket. Then it is that the crackling and popping of the pinion logs becomes a language so readily understandable that it can be jotted down. Footsteps of the Ancient Ones; Son of Sundance; John Ringo, Murder or Suicide?; a Loch Ness Monster of the Sand Hills, Maximilian II, Emperor of the Desert, Mary Todd Lincoln’s trips through Rebel Lines, Sippenhaft and the Silent Seat mate, the JFK Assassination: What happened to the bullets? and others make up this presentation.