What a drink will do to ya'?

I just read an interesting story that made me drool to write this well. The author seems to be the queen of the sentence fragment. Sort of grows on you. (See what I mean?)
Anyhow, I was just curious if anyone had read this one or any of the authors others. It's called "The Golden Nineties" by Lisa Mason.
My favorite paragraph follows, and is about one character, an unrepentant alchoholic, who has just run out of drink on the train West when he spies an old cowboy with a bottle. He brags about swilling absinthe (120 proof, dontcha' know) when the cowboy informs him that his bottle contains "puma piss," a concoction of "home brewed rotgut, tobacca juice, an' a dose o' white lightnin'. What some call rat poison."
Here is what occurs after his first swallow:
"And he stares at the golden brown hills of California, curving like the bodies of women. Brown women reclining in the poses of whores, golden breasts and hips and swooping waists. The ill-starred Sioux, perhaps, or the Apache. Or the fabled Celestials, the Chinese. Women harried and driven by brute forces of rape and slavery and murder till they have fled, disguised themselves, mysteriously reincarnated into the landscape itself. He sees them, sees their awful transmogrification, their anger parched and mute save for the testimony of the hills, the golden brown hills in which a man could get lost and die. Hears them screaming now--oh God!--feels them reach for him, reach and lurch. They mean to tear him limb from limb with curved fingers of thorn, they mean to drive him mad with anguish only he can see and hear.
That high rending sound: only the whistle of the train."