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The Devil was at His elbow


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13 hours ago, Shovelhead said:

Days later, he stood in the cold foggy river crossing to the State of Tahoma, a rifle still warm in his hands. The body of a native lay sprawled in the dirt, lifeless, dark blood sinking into the thirsty ground. The first time Tate had killed a man, something inside him had twisted—guilt, regret, maybe even fear. Not anymore.

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Now, all he saw was money.

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Hood knelt, his knife flashing in the midday sun. He worked fast, precise., teaching the kid the rougher side of their craft. Another scalp to trade, another handful of dollars to line his pockets. That was all it was now—dollars. Survival.

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As Hood wiped the blade clean, Tate didn’t think about the life he had taken, nor the lives that would come hunting for his.

Five dollars a scalp. He only thought about what the money could buy.

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