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About thirty miles east of the Arizona border, just off Interstate 40, is a heart that beats in time to the ghosts of the west, of the lost, and of the betrayed. A heart that delivers an original, quirky beat all its own. That heart is Nizhoni, New Mexico; a small, dusty town lodged like a spent bullet in the heart of Indian Country. It is a town I know well, for I grew up here, in Nizhoni and it is the place I call home. Fabled for its wide, dry, open spaces, the Southwest truly lives in Nizhoni. Mud-splattered trucks, bull riders and sexy cowboys with their wide-brimmed hats reside among polished local politicians, well-groomed teachers and spotless, luxury SUVs. Here, the ancestors of lore watch over us from the pale, purple plateaus, red mesas, and brown canyons. These ancestors do not always keep us safe.