Mankiller, Colorado

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“We’re gettin’ too old for this,” Scratch Morton said.

“Amen,” Bo Creel agreed. “But we signed on to do it. We don’t have any choice but to get it done.”

He lifted the posthole digger and brought it down hard against the rocky ground. The blades didn’t penetrate very far into the stubborn dirt. With a sigh, Bo lifted the digger and then slammed it down again. He pulled the handles apart, lifted them, turned to empty a pathetic amount of dirt onto a pile that seemed to be growing with infinite slowness.

Then he threw the digger and said with uncharacteristic anger, “Damn it, I hate digging postholes!”

Scratch stepped forward. “Lemme work on it for a while. You can unload the next roll of wire from the wagon.”

The New Mexico sun beat down mercilessly on the two old friends. They were stripped to the waist, revealing fish-belly-white torsos that had started to thicken with age but were still muscular and powerful.

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