There are towns that are born hot from the ferment of hell, towns blasted into being on the edge of a cattle trail, the end of a railroad, or the site of a gold or silver strike. Not often do these towns last. They are like some evil plant startled into quick growth by the sin that spawns it, and dying when the price of the sin can no longer be paid. The West has known man such towns, and many a sun-blasted hillside preserves their foundations and ruined walls.
(from The Rustlers of West Fork, by Louis L'Amour)
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