Imaginary Nevada: March 25, 1920

From time to time, Brady turned back in his saddle to look. Every time, he’d see the coyote following at a distance.

He thought about shooting it as he dropped into one of the many low spots and it cresting the rise behind him. But he decided not too.

That evening, he saw the same coyote as it rested on its haunches watching him intently. By now he knew the animal was an omen, a visitor or perhaps both.

As he fell asleep, he once again heard the nearby singing. And though he recognized the soft, yet jagged melody, he could not distinguish a single word of that peculiar song.

That night, he slept soundly and once he’d risen the following morning, he check outside for his inquisitive visitor. It was gone and he set about fixing breakfast and getting set to go into Beowawe for supplies.

The sun was up less than an hour and a half when he headed towards the stable for his horse. Half way across the open yard, he saw a shadowy movement and in a diving motion, he drew his pistol and aimed.

She’d been dead several years by now. In fact, he’d not been walking long as a toddler, when she had died and the sight of her standing in the clearing between him and his house left him nearly speechless.

Finally, he asked, “Mother?”

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