Ghost Riders

The red earth trembles under the hooves of a few Godless rebels, burning under the Nevada sun, and you can see them at the border, beating a wild fire into a smoking gun, and in the evening, as the gunpowder ground stains black, shadows on horseback riding through long dismantled towns, stop, and smoke a cigarette (in lieu of Wovoka death chant), to bring their bones to peace, ashes to sand, dead memory to life, and ride on again as ghosts.