ABSTRACT
Around summer’s end in 1941, Edwin and I found that our money was running out. In the middle of August, we had house guests. Jack Deasy, a member of the literary group in Washington that put out Foothills magazine, arrived in New Mexico in a beat-up old car which somehow got us to Taos and other places of interest. He was a tall, finely featured fellow with a passion for the outdoors and for writing. At that time, I thought he was the most talented writer among my friends, perhaps destined for the highest reaches of literature.
