There are afternoons in Arizona when, as the sun sinks toward the horizon, Marty Robbins finds himself thinking about his “160 acres” — not real land, but a dream. He once said that if the day ever came when he left the stage, he would buy a small piece of land, where the wind would sweep through golden pastures, horses would graze lazily, and a brook would whisper as it wound between the rocks. There would be no noise from the city, only the sound of a guitar drifting beneath the eaves of an ol

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