My little brother and his pals would play Cowboys and Indians for hours at a time. They’d point an imaginary gun at the unfortunate lad who drew the short straw and became the Indian, to be hunted down until he took his last breath. Then they’d gallop off on their trusty steeds. Nothing could have interested me less. But then I discovered Glendon Swarthout, the author of sixteen fine novels, mostly set in Midwest America. Reading his stories, I can …
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