The Alpha’s Dead Luna
And nestled amongst a cluster of surprisingly lush green cottonwoods that grew by a small creek, was a weathered, doorless shack.
In the shade of the sagging, overhanging roof, I conducted my business. First, we shook hands. Two swarthy men had brought the goods. The old one was fat and grizzled; the lean young one had a red cast to his skin. Spencer rifles filled the scabbards on their saddles, and six- shooters hung from their hips. The young one had a knife sheathed in his belt, and Fat Joe, I knew, had a blade hidden in his boot as did I.
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