The Pale Path
One hundred and forty-two miles of track remained, a ledger of iron and sleep that Arthur Vane counted in his head as he walked the survey line, the weight of the theodolite case pressing a familiar groove into his shoulder. It was November, 1893, and the air in the Blackwood Pass held the specific, heavy chill that precedes the first killing frost, a temperature that bit through wool coats and...
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