The Distant Joke

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2026-08-22 01:06:40 -

The Distant Joke

The left hand was grey. It looked like old parchment, brittle and curled at the knuckles, a map of veins that no longer carried blood but something thicker, darker. I sat on the tailgate of my wagon in the mud of the border town, watching the skin peel back from the nail beds. Forty-two years old. I had been a marshal for twenty of them, breaking up brawls and chasing rustlers, but I had never...

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