A few more miles of hot sand and gravel and red stone brought us around a low mesa to the Little Colorado River.
I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm in a graveyard with a strange man hunting for vampires on a school night.
Your delusions are Joan of Arcian.
Old pigtailed seamen would tell of horseshoes found in the meat casks; of curious barkings and neighings heard in the slaughter-houses; and of negroes who disappeared near the victualling yards, to be seen no more.
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