'An epic in styling and scope, The Creed of Violence is a layered and often brutal account of the ultimate desperation of war for oil.'

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The distance between the train and those scorched and battered remains that formed a breastwork along the rails closed with fiendish speed. Doctor Stallings heard the engineer asking the almighty to remember him in heaven when hell arrived on impact.

Over that barren pan above the rifle fire and the shouting and cries of the wounded was the crushing grate and shrill of steel on steel unlike anything the mind could conjure sending a shock wave down the length of those couplings so that the women in the last car were flung over and atop each other.

Son and father reached the mouth of that canyon and were leading their mounts on foot up a talused ravine that looked down on the tracks. Like some foundried Atlas the Mastodon shouldered the brunt of the wreckage. The huge steamer rocked and shunted and slowed and the wheels locked and lost traction and were skidding uselessly but when the wheels caught and the valves opened and drove the rods forward the savage hull of that coal car got screeched from the tracks and the train was through.

The engineer was pale and shaken and he looked to Doctor Stallings and nodded and Doctor Stallings leaned past him and pulled the train whistle. Across the playa a call of defiance.

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