Just don't get nobody who cooks snakes, he warned. He heard gunfire behind him--it was Frog Lip shooting. In his mind's eye he saw her small redheaded figure moving through the chores of the day, now cooking spuds, now wringing milk from the tired teat of their old milk cow. The main herd was six or seven miles east.
When he did, he saw fang marks, just above his knee. Oh, he asked politely, what kind of varmints? Whatever the dogs catch, Maude said. Of course, he only drank because his hand was paining him. In two days he was hers.
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