It’s a clear-blue day in this small Southwestern township, feeling a dry nip in the 96-degree air as Autumn starts a-settlin’ in on the stables and sun-beaten tin roof of the dilapidated General Store. The Sherriff slowly finishes his watered down malt whiskey, wipes his mouth with his dusty sleeve, and picks up the weekly, “just in” on the last stage: Las Masajistas’ finest publication.
No varmints to keep an eye on today – they moved on to Las Cruces a couple of weeks ago. And no contracts to fill. Looks like a good day to kill some time with his favorite column: the Young Thumbs.