They rode into town at sundown, wild boys on black horses. Sorrow, on a white horse with no saddle, galloped ahead of them. It wasn’t enough that some called her a witch, others dared say that her sons were her lovers too, fathered by the devil all. In the saloon, they drank spirits, sang their songs, while the women locked their daughters up: girls, who stifled, and broken-hearted, stripped off their bodices, undressed. And the men, who took their drink neat and with vigilance, stayed at the bar all night, until Sorrow and her sons rode back east at dawn.
top of page
bottom of page