The Covenant of the Field
The rattlesnake lay on its side in the dust, its triangular head raised slightly, those ancient eyes fixed on the sky with a kind of patient resignation. The cut across its body was deep—someone had struck it with a hoe, or perhaps a truck, though the road was a mile back and Silas had found it in the wheat field itself. Silas Kowalski was fifty-eight years old, with a face like weathered...
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