Blood Meridian: or the Evening Redness in the West - Cormac McCarthy
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For the next two weeks they would ride by night, they would make no fire. They had struck the shoes from their horses and filled the nailholes in with clay and those who still had tobacco used their pouches to spit in and they slept in caves and on bare stone. They rode through the tracks of their dismounting and they buried their stool like cats and they barely spoke at all.
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