5 Things Millennials Need to Know About Insurance

5 Things Millennials Need to Know About Insurance

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The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed. The desert was the
apotheosis of all deserts, huge, standing to the sky for what might have been parsecs in all directions.
White; blinding; waterless; without feature save for the faint, cloudy haze of the mountains which
sketched themselves on the horizon and the devil-grass which brought sweet dreams, nightmares,
death. An occasional tombstone sign pointed the way, for once the drifted track that cut its way
through the thick crust of alkali had been a highway and coaches had followed it. The world had
moved on since then. The world had emptied.

The gunslinger walked stolidly, not hurrying, not loafing. A hide waterbag was slung around his
middle like a bloated sausage. It was almost full. He had progressed through the khef over many
years, and had reached the fifth level. At the seventh or eighth, he would not have been thirsty; he
could have watched own body dehydrate with clinical, detached attention, watering its crevices and
dark inner hollows only when his logic told him it must be done. He was not seventh or eighth. He
was fifth. So he was thirsty, although he had no particular urge to drink. In a vague way, all this
pleased him. It was romantic. Below the waterbag were his guns, finely weighted to his hand. The two
belts crisscrossed above his crotch. The holsters were oiled too deeply for even this Philistine sun to
crack. The stocks of the guns were sandalwood, yellow and finely grained. The holsters were tied
down with rawhide cord, and they swung heavily against his hips. The brass casings of the cartridges
looped into the gun belts twinkled and flashed and heliographed in the sun. The leather made subde
creaking noises. The guns themselves made no noise. They had spilled blood. There was no need to
make noise in the sterility of the desert His clothes were the no-color of rain or dust. His shirt was
open at the throat, with a rawhide thong dangling loosely in hand-punched eyelets. His pants were
seam-stretched dungarees. He breasted a gendy rising dune (although there was no sand here; the
desert was hardpan, and even the harsh winds that blew when dark came raised only an aggravating
harsh dust like scouring powder) and saw the kicked remains of a tiny campfire on the lee side, the
side which the sun would quit earliest. Small signs like this, once more affirming the man in black’s
essential humanity, never failed to please him. His lips stretched in the pitted, flaked remains of his
face. He squatted. He had burned the devil-grass, of course. It was the only thing out here that would
burn. It burned with a greasy, flat light, and it burned slow. Border dwellers had told him that devils
lived even in the flames. They burned it but would not look into the light. They said the devils
hypnotized, beckoned, would eventually draw the one who looked into the fires. And the next man
foolish enough to look into the fire might see you.

The burned grass was crisscrossed in the now-familiar ideographic pattern, and crumbled to gray
senselessness before the gunslinger’s prodding hand. There was nothing in the remains but a charred
scrap

of bacon, which he ate thoughtfully. It had always been this way. The gunslinger had followed the
man in black across the desert for two months now, across the endless, screamingly monotonous
purgatorial wastes, and had yet to find spoor other than the hygienic sterile ideographs of the man in
black’s campfires. He had not found a can, a bottie, or a waterbag (the gunslinger had left four of
those behind, like dead snake-skins).