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These few words—or just the sound of 'em, Jenkins didn't wonder—were enough to turn outlaw Bart Haugh, a man with more sins on his soul than Judas, sheet-white. He turned towards their speaker, slow as river weed current-caught, perhaps unaware he was even doing so; blanched yet further when he saw who stood there, making all the tiny, charm-crinkled lines on his face stand out like scars.
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Read “A Feast for Dust” by Gemma Files, in Issue #132
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