Excerpt from The Captain of the Gray-Horse Troop: A Novel
Winter in the upper heights of the Bear Tooth Range is a glittering desolation of snow with a flaming blue sky above. Nothing moves, nothing utters a sound, save the cony at the mouth of the spiral shafts which sinks to his deeply buried den in the rocks. The peaks are like marble domes, set high in the pathway of the sun by day and thrust amid the stars by night. The firs seem hopeless under their ever-increasing burdens. The streams are silenced - only the wind is abroad in the waste, the tireless, pitiless wind, fanged like ingratitude, insatiate as fire.
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