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Stella’s Rifle

Under the shade of the almond trees, smoking his pipe of dry tobacco, staring at the sunset over the lake. His horse and leather saddle not far away – he kicks the dried orange peels from his last meal into evening fire. The sound of the tall, dried grass swaying in gentle breeze is the only sound he hears. As the sun begins to set across the lake.  He wonders will he be the last of his kind - the last of the lonely Gauchos to ride these plains.