By Rita Mae Brown
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The graceful curving skeleton of a snake long ago disturbed from its resting place formed an S, straightened out, then broke up, its delicate white head carrying four vertebrae with it. Mags, as she was called, looked down and hoped this wasn’t a portent. Putting her hand palm inward to the left of her left eye, she craned her neck upward. Pieces of debris flew harder now. She watched as one small, crooked slip of sagebrush fastened itself to the P-47 propeller in the middle of the high crossbar forming the entrance to Wings Ranch.
The long red needle dropped back to twenty. Passing ranch driveways through the snow, he glimpsed bundled-up folks firing up tractors or duallys with plow blades. First they’d work their driveway, then they’d help neighbors or folks who had skidded off the road. None of this was formally organized. With cellphones, anyone severely injured had a chance to get help as fast as possible given conditions. The flipped vehicles were the ones to worry about. Lonnie noticed the dipping right turn onto Dry Valley Road.
Bits of light blue metal could still be seen in the nearby snow. Potable water went out in blue pipes. Reclaimed water flowed through purple pipes. An impromptu fountain shot upward from the bottom of the pump, ice already forming at the edges of the water on the ground. A sheet of ice would soon surround the pump. Standing at the edge of the growing puddle, Lonnie looked down. ” Neither man was a demolition expert but each had a basic knowledge of homemade bombs, starting with a Molotov cocktail and working up to more sophisticated devices.