- Vol. 04
- Chapter 11
Traces of red cling to twilight and plump peyote cactus fruit. He is motionless, the air under the sarape rojo heavy with sweat and spice trapped with his memories. The ancient vaquero is concealed by his sombrero that once swiped flies, gave shade on breathless days when no cloud smudged the sky. Woven deep into the hat’s straw and the threads of the sarape rojo are the words he whispered every day to his mustang, a red bay, another trace clinging to his twilight.