A man carrying a hunting rifle squints. He stands on the rim of a bowl-shaped depression, his mustache dripping with sweat. Heat rises from sparse desert scrub, from the splay of dust-splattered pickup trucks belching bloodied flesh.
His boots barely sink into ground as he gingerly makes his way down the canyon side; there is no water, no comfort, nothing to absorb the fury of maggot and sun.
If you currently subscribe or have subscribed in the past to the Las Vegas Optic, then simply find your account number on your mailing label and enter it below.
Click the question mark below to see where your account ID appears on your mailing label.