the smuggler’s bible


Borglum runs his thumb over the bright edge of his chisel and watches a cloudbank surging westward. It casts a shadow a mile long over the dun-colored grass and up the steep granite of the hills.

“Yeah,” he thinks, “that’s the spot.”

He sits in the dust and scratches out a few notes on dynamite tonnage. There is a whisper and the burning smell of ozone. He looks over to find a man standing a few feet away.

“Looks good.”

Borglum smiles. “It sure does.”

“By the way,” Edouard says, “did you know Thomas Jefferson had eyes like a cat?”