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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Deviant of Circumstance
C.LYNN CHRISTIAN
Medford Dornan crouched behind the boulder high on the ridge, shoulders hunched against the chill of the downdraft from the twin peaks above. Pulling the collar of his Confederate great-coat higher, he peered through the scraggly cedar rooted in a crack in the rock.
Dark eyes a prism of pain, sorrow and desperation, he scanned the draw’s opening a thousand yards away and three hundred feet below for movement, knowing they who sought him would come. Med laid the .44 Henry on the granite surface and shrugged off the backpack old Vanlorn had given him. Given…what a misstatement; the old pirate charged twenty bucks for it, and five for the sandwich his wife made him. Vanlorn of course didn’t know the extent of Med’s problems but guessed he was in trouble.
Hunger clawed his insides like a catamount. Med opened the pack, removing the remains of a sandwich of fried Tenderloin which he had parceled out over several days. The only other items in the backpack were cartridges for the rifle and Smith & Wessen and five thousand dollars, minus what the old skin flint had stolen.
Med looked again down the draw and lit a cigarette, seeing nothing in the waning light save two mule-deer, slowly feeding their way downslope. Suddenly, ears perked, they looked toward the gap, standing a moment frozen in place. Tails flagging alarm, they fled.
A grim half smile spread across the weather and care worn face as he squinted against the distance, deepening the creases in his leathery cheeks and the crow’s feet at his eyes, the result of a hard scrabble existence exposed to cold, wind, rain and blistering heat.
He took a long final draw on the cigarette; hot boxing folks called it; he could see why. The heat drew up the cigarette, burning his lips. Snatching it from his mouth, he crushed it on the rock and reached for the rifle.
Then they appeared, seven mounted men moving in single file and the horses seemed fresh. “Old man Vanlorn must have leant fresh horses to them.” The smile returned. “More like rent. I’d say the old thief charged a pretty penny too!” The smile disappeared. They were 500 yards out and closing. He now recognized the mounts as mules and was beginning to recognize faces. Sheriff Pease was there and the town’s Marshal, Dan Corvin and behind him Patton Neese. That was a disappointment. Pat and Med had grown up together; hunted, fished, drunk and caroused together and served in the late unpleasantness together…then came west together. It was a hard thing, Pat riding against him, despite what Med had done.
Ahead of all, rode a man he didn’t know; a tracker judging by the way he leaned from side to side as though searching the ground for something. The lead rider wore the hat and uniform coat of a cavalryman, with brightly polished brass buttons, reflecting the morning sun. My…I must be a real desperado to warrant both the leading law-dogs in the county…and the Army to boot!
The riders dropped into a dip in the trail and vanished from view. When they came out again, they’d be about two hundred yards away; close enough for the Henry to speak. Stock against his left shoulder, settled in firm, but not too tight, he rested his elbow on the boulder.
The tracker’s feathered hat appeared; then bronze face and chest came into view. He was an Indian, dressed in cavalry clothes. The Henry was dead on at two hundred yards, but one tended to overshoot when firing downhill. Med aimed for where the man’s top button would be and waited for the distance to close.
It can’t be much different than dusting Yankees, he thought. There was a heck of a lot more than seven of them, of course there was a lot in the lines with me too; but there’s none to stand with me now… and ‘aint likely to be! No, he was in the soup alone.
The gleam of bright buttons flashed in Med’s eyes. Dropping the rifle a little he broke away a branch of the cedar for an unobstructed view of the figure. Almost a shame to spoil that fine uniform coat, but he ought to have stayed out of this! Raising the rifle again, he carefully returned aim to the gleam and, adjusting his sight picture upward, squeezed off the shot. The Indian catapulted from the saddle.
The rider-less mule wheeled, charging back down the draw, scattering the others by its flight as the shot racketed from the surrounding hills. Another mount, unbalanced, rolled across its rider. The man rose, then fell again and lay still. The ravine appeared empty now, save the two fallen men.
Med caught a gleam of reflected light from a rifle. Rock splintered in front of him as a bullet careened off, passing his head. Bringing his sights in line, he fired at the gleam, levered, and fired twice more. The gleam disappeared.
He laid the Henry down, shouldering the pack…time to move…they knew his position now. Retrieving the gun he scrambled up-slope, wishing for thick cover, rather than moving exposed over the barren grade. Shoulders drawn together, he expected a bullet but none came and he passed through the gap between ridge tops.
Billy Blaithly approached the log where red-headed Patton Neese sat, picking shards of glass from his cheek. “That was some lucky shot Med got on you…huh Pat?”
Neese looked up at the younger man in disgust. “Luck my hind-end…you ‘ain’t seen Medford Dornan shoot before. I seen him plenty!” He held up the rifle with its ruined Chapman-James telescopic sight, kept by Neese after the war. “I’m the one’s lucky!”
“Why that shot couldn’t have been more’n two hundred fifty yards. I’ve downed deer with a leaf-sight that far lots of times!” Billy boasted.
Neese snorted disbelief. “Med don’t use leaf-sights, his Henry don’t have them. He just uses plain sights!”
Marshal Corvin strode over. “Neese…you know this man better than anybody. What’ll it take to bring him in?”
“A bullet, Marshal…that’s the only thing will stop Med now. He’ll kill and kill till he catches that bullet. I seen it before in the war. Our company was hit by some Indiana boys. Afterwards, several tried to surrender but Med waded into ‘em with his bayonet and killed three before I bashed him in the head. Now he’s going again and can’t stop.”
“You’re his friend. Why are you here?” asked Sheriff Pease.
“Med was my friend…now he’s like a mad dog, driven so by circumstance and I’m gonna’ help put him down…like any sick animal.” Rising, Neese walked away, not wishing to speak more.
Later, on the other side of the pass, Med gnawed on a rabbit he’d snared, face lit by the orange glow of his fire. Lanore would like this.
He saw her as they sat before the hearth, red-golden hair glowing like sun-kissed honey as her head lay on his shoulder, the sea-green of her eyes reflecting the flames as she looked up at him. He kissed the upturned nose with its hint of freckles. She was so vibrant and beautiful; full of the joy of life before sickness took it away. Her form merged with and vanished in the upward spiral of smoke.
Med was originally from Hawkin’s County in East Tennessee, which like most of the mountainous counties of that Southern state was heavily Unionist. Being Secessionists, when the Confederacy started recruiting, he and Patton Neese slipped through the Great Smoky Mountains into North Carolina and volunteered. When open hostilities ceased (though private feuds and revenge killings continued for years) the Army and Reconstruction Government put the loyal Unionists back into power in East Tennessee. Med, Pat many other former Confederates like them were driven out.
The friends came west to the minefields and, while working in the Matchless Mine, Med met and married Lanore.
She was so happy the day he told her they could move from Leadville and the incessant grime of the mines and smelters. No longer would she keep house in a hill-side shack, instead they’d have a house and land of their own for crops and cattle to sell to the miners and room for Medford Jr. to run and play.
Uncle Joe passed and left them the farm; a hundred acres nestled in the mountains above Nyesburg. Forty acres of field and pasture, the rest wooded mountainside. Then cancer came. The doctors said surgery would save her but it cost five thousand dollars for treatment and travel expenses back east. Desperate, with not enough cash money at hand, Med went to Haston the banker in Nyesburg.
“Sure Mr. Dornan, we’ll lend the money. I’m confident you’ll pay; sign right here.” The portly banker held the paper, pointing to the signature line.
Med examined the document, not really understanding it. He noticed some fine print on the last page and looked at Haston questioningly.
“Don’t bother about that Dornan…just lawyer speak…says the same thing over again, it’s okay.” Lanore needed the money so Med signed, though it did no good. She had the surgery and died anyway. Med couldn’t tend his crops properly, so they failed and he couldn’t make the payments. He went back to Haston asking more time but was apologetically rebuffed.
“Sorry Dornan, can’t give you any.” The banker loosened his collar nervously “You’re behind three payments; the penalty clause kicked in. There was a balloon payment due and you didn’t make it. Make full payment or I have no choice but to foreclose. It’s not me you understand; it’s the investors of the bank. They’re forcing my hand!”
Med fought in court but lost. Foreclosure was upheld. He would lose his farm and appurtenances thereof, which the judge explained meant his livestock and plow, his tools and furniture, leaving him nothing. For the second time Med was to be forced from hearth and home.
Later he heard Haston owned the land adjoining his and discovered a vein of silver running through the mountain behind Med’s house. Haston bought Med’s loan and got a hundred acre farm and tens of thousands in silver for five thousand dollars. The investors got nothing.
Med took a temporary job in the mountains cutting wood for charcoal production for use in smelting, leaving Medford Jr. with a widowed acquaintance while he was away. Returning, he found the boy gone. “Sorry Med, the County took him with a court order…I couldn’t do anything,” Emily Jonas explained.
“Where is he, Em?”
“In Leesville orphanage …don’t hold it against me, Med? He’s better off…you know you can’t care for him!” As the grief stricken father turned away, she called after him, “Med…Med.” He gave no answer.
Med couldn’t sleep or eat thinking of his son, searching for a way out. Finding no honorable solution, he chose dishonor. I’ll rob Haston’s bank and get money…get the boy and go to California for a fresh start. Just how he was going to accomplish this he didn’t know, not thinking that far.
Eviction day he arose and after breakfast donned his Confederate great-coat, the only thing he had from the war years, except nightmares. He took the Henry from the rack and the Smith & Wesson from a drawer and strapped on his Bowie. He loaded both guns and took them and ammunition out to his horse.
The horse was a buck-skin mustang, named Two-Bit. He’d bought him from a trader who declared, “He can’t be tamed…he’s not worth two bits!” Care and patience won the little horse over. He was still a scrub, not something Jessie James would choose, but he would do. Besides, Med knew its capabilities. The buck-skin would run his heart out.
In town he hid Two-Bit in the brush on an abandoned and over-grown back lot. The .44 revolver in his waist-band, he made his way to the bank. Bandana over his face, he stepped inside.
“This is a holdup!” Med announced, drawing the gun.
Haston blanched white. “P-P-Please…don’t shoot?” The sweat of fear streamed down his face as he raised his hands. “We won’t resist!”
“Fill it and hurry!” demanded Med, holding a gunny sack.
Haston passed it to the teller, who nervously emptied his drawer. Haston thought, “Where is that guard?”
The old man had to make a toilet run that morning. He explained when he rushed out, “too many canned peaches!”
Panicked at the thought of losing cash, Haston’s gaze went to the side door. “Oh, why didn’t I hire a younger man?” He knew the answer. Most able-bodied men worked the mines, for better pay. The old man worked cheap. The teller handed over the sack.
Med saw it held only a small amount of money. “Where’s the rest?”
“In the safe,” replied the banker.
“Open it!” Med motioned the two to the rear with the gun, following them to the vault. Opening the door, Haston shoveled cash into the sack, fat jowls quivering. Finished, he shoved the bag to Med. It seemed mighty empty still.
“You’re holding out!” Med shoved the .44 under the double chin and lifted the rotund head.
“That’s all there is. We had five thousand at opening, you’ve got it all!” The irony was not lost on Med.
The white haired guard opened the side door. “I’m back--”for a second he froze and then clawed for his pistol.
“N-O-O-O!” yelled Med, firing the .44 mechanically; the killing engine the war had made him. Again and again the Smith thundered; the guard fell. Med’s heart was a stone, fallen into the depths of his soul. Mesmerized, he watched the scarlet pool spread across the floor.
“H-H-H-e’s dead,” stammered the teller.
Med snapped to attention. “I didn’t mean to!” He rushed out the door, straight into the Marshal and Billy Blaithley, a town deputy. All three went sprawling. The forty-four skittered across the boardwalk.
Marshal Corvin fumbled for his Peacemaker as Med rose to his knees. “You’re under arrest!”
“The heck I am!” Med accentuated the reply by a left cross, knocking the marshal sideways. Med scrambled to retrieve his gun and flee again but was grabbed by Billy.
“I’ve got him, Marshal!” Med smashed Blaithley in the nose with the bag still in his right hand. The officer lost his grip and pawed to get another, pulling the bandana from Med’s face.
“Medford Dornan!” the Marshal exclaimed, stunned by what he thought was a solid citizen committing crime.
“Throw your weapons away!” Med pointed with the .44. “I don’t want to kill you, but will if you make me!” The two complied. As armed towns-folk approached, Med turned and sprinted away.
“We’ll get you; you hear me?” Corvin yelled, but Med didn’t hear. He reached Two-Bit and hooked the sack to the saddle horn; mounted and galloped from the lot straight into the horse of Nat Beacher, the other town deputy and bowled it over. Beecher remounted the horse as it regained its feet and gave chase.
Unknown to Med, the County Sheriff was also in town, two deputies in tow. Marshal Corvan sent Billy to Haddon’s eatery to get them. Some of the town’s-folk joined in too and soon Med was speeding along with many pursuers in his rear. He realized to his horror that he was going in the opposite direction of Leesburg and his son. Several times he thought he shook pursuit and tried to double back only to be cut off.
Forced the wrong way again, he raced Two-Bit through a gap in some brush and over the crest of a hill in order to be hidden from view. Starting down the other side, he saw a ravine in front of him. He tried to turn the horse but the slope was loose rock. Two-Bit lost his footing and fell, rolling to the bottom.
Corvin and Sheriff Pease sat in the Marshal’s office. “I don’t know where he got to, Ed!” said the Marshal. “Billy and I were right behind him. We couldn’t see him, but we sure could see the dust he raised…then he dissapeared!”
“He’s gone to ground Dan. We covered every trail.”
“Then where could he be? That’s a whole lot of wide open territory…nothing but some graze and pine and aspen covered slopes!” The marshal rose from his desk and walked over to a map of the county. He indicated the area with a sweep of his hand. “There are thousands of acres to hide in, in there!”
The Sheriff joined Corvin at the map. He stood, studying. “I believe he’s running for the state line.”
“By what route?” asked Corvin.
“He’ll cross the mountains__, there!” The Sheriff’s finger stabbed the map, coming to rest beneath the legend…Rackinstrop Mountain.
“I’m asking the Ute-breed, Hatchet Henry to track for us,” The marshal said.
“All right then. Have him meet at Vanlorn’s. We can borrow some of his mules. Our horses will be played out by then and mules will handle the mountains better.”
Med fought free of the blanket of unconsciousness enshrouding him to find he lay halfway up-slope from his horse. Two-Bit’s neck was broken. Retrieving his weapons and sack, he sat down on a rock to access his situation.
He was on foot with no hope of transportation short of stealing another horse, which would let the law know where to find him. Right now the constabulary didn’t know where he was. He wished to keep it that way.
They would know his son was in the orphanage and would expect him to go there, so for now he must wait. Since Leesburg was east, he must go west to evade capture. Utah was his best bet. If he could get across the line, local law couldn’t reach him.
The most direct route out of the area was on foot through the mountains. “That’s the way I’ll go. They’ll never figure it!” It would be trying and cold, but on the other side of the mountains he could find a horse and a way back to slip his son from the orphanage. “We’ll make it to California yet.”
As the sun set, knowing he was hidden from view; Med crawled under an overhanging slab of rock. Using the sack for a pillow, he laid down to an uncomfortable sleep. Before dawn, he crawled out and began his journey, his stomach an empty void. Deciding to get clear of the area by way of Rackinstrop Mountain, he figured to stop at old Hugh Vanlorn’s place. “Maybe I can get something to eat there. I’ll come up with something to explain my presence.”
Vanlorn might have heard of the robbery; if so that would complicate things, though Med doubted it. The old man went weeks without coming into town and had very few visitors. Vanlorn was a Mormon and disliked by many in Nyesburg because he viewed their enjoyment as vice and constantly reminded them of it.
Approaching Vanlorn’s, Med took money from the sack and stuffed it into his pocket. He was trying to think of a plausible excuse for being there without a horse when the farmer surprised him and provided the excuse for him.
“Well hello, Medford. What are you doing?” Vanlorn was inside the rail fence connected to his open ended barn, toward which he drove a cow with a stick. “Ho Bess, get in there.” He delivered a blow to her hind-quarters and she ran into the barn. He hefted a rail into place blocking the exit. “Got to milk her,” he explained. “Have you been hunting? Did you get thrown?”
Med looked at the rifle in his hand. “Yes sir, I have been,” he lied. “Actually I came out yesterday and stayed too long…got thrown by my horse in the darkness and got lost.” He figured he’d better come up with an explanation for his disheveled appearance. “Mr. Vanlorn…I’m mighty hungry and sure could do with food.”
“Sure,” said Vanlorn, rubbing his graying beard. “Nelly will soon have breakfast done, but it’ll cost you. Come in the barn and talk while I milk, then we’ll go eat.”
At table Vanlorn plied Med with questions about his hunt, suspicious as Med stumbled over answers. Afterwards, Med said, “I’d like to stay out a day or two, but didn’t bring supplies. Would you sell me a few things?”
“Of course,” said Vanlorn. “What do you need?”
A couple of hours later Med began passage over the ridges and through the hollows leading to Rackinstrop. From a vantage point, he looked back toward Vanlorn’s. A dust cloud hung over the road. Through binoculars obtained from Vanlorn, he saw a file of riders. “Confound it! They’ve figured it out.”
Sheriff Pease was red faced as he argued with Vanlorn. “I could just commandeer the mules!”
“You do that Ed, and I’ll go to the newspaper…then what’ll you reckon your chances at re-election will be?”
Marshal Corvin broke in. “Where’s your civic duty?”
“Civic duties don’t buy beans!” retorted the farmer, acidly.
“All right…All right…how much?” asked Pease.
“Two a day per mule and you buy ‘em fair market value if they get killed or injured…and I want it in writing.”
Cursing, the sheriff agreed, provided the town shared the cost. Preparations over; the entourage headed into the hills, Hatchet Henry, the Breed tracker taking point.
“Perdition take this mule!” exclaimed Corvin, adjusting his chafed, ample posterior in the saddle.
“If you’d lay off the pie, you’d fit that saddle,” scoffed the Sheriff. “Wait, Hatchet has something.” The two rode forward. “What is it?” they asked in unison.
The tracker pointed toward the bare twin peaks of a high ridge. “I think he cross there.”
“All right…let’s go!” ordered Corvin, discomfort forgotten. “Let’s get him.”
They rode for three days, sometimes following a plain trail, sometimes waiting as Hatchet searched till he found it again. They would go east through this canyon, west over that hill, then stop and wait again as the tracker climbed a ridge too steep for the mules, to see which way the trail led, only to have it double back, close to where they waited.
“Blast it Ed! “The Marshal said to the Sheriff, “he’s playing us, if we don’t find him soon; we’re liable to get caught up here by snow.”
“Looks like,” agreed Pease, his eyes taking in the steel-gray of the clouds overhead. Hey you…Neese, come here. Patton rode up beside the Sheriff. “You grew up with Dornan, what do you think?”
“Sir…Med’s a hunter and experienced warrior; he’s leading us around wearing us down so we won’t be alert and on our guard. He’ll pick ground of his choosing and lay an ambuscade. If we’re not careful, he’ll catch us in it.”
“Thanks Neese,” The Sheriff kicked his mule into motion as the Breed waved them on. He’d found Dornan’s trail again. The track ran below a ridge parallel to the twin peaks of Rackinstrop, and then turned through a narrow gap into a draw running straight on to the peaks above, the grade climbing steadily.
Neese hesitated, stopping his mule inside the gap. “I don’t like this! Right up there is where I’d be!” With trepidation he followed.
The trail dropped into a defile for a distance. Just as the tracker’s mule climbed out, Neese saw the man’s back explode through the material of his coat. Clutching his rifle, he leaped from his mule, dropping behind a log as pandemonium broke among the cavalcade. Shortly after that he tried his shot with disastrous results. Now the tracker and Beecher lay dead and Neese had nearly been killed, trying his desperate shot. The sun setting, the leadership agreed to camp for the night.
Toward 4:00 AM, Med climbed up Rackinstrop through snow-fall, working his way along the ridge, parallel to the top. Finding a place of concealment, he hunkered down to await the crossing of his pursuers. The only way over, without climbing gear, was the way Med had come__, and on foot. The mules, sure-footed though they were, couldn’t make it.
The posse could ride around but that was miles out of the way. Med was sure that the Marshal and Sheriff wouldn’t risk it. One stood to lose election…the other risked dismissal if their quarry got away. Yes, they would come this way and Med would be waiting.
Shortly after seven, a tall lanky deputy nervously crept through the gap on hands and knees, then slowly stood erect, eyes wide, like a frightened doe. His huge Adam’s apple worked as though trying to swallow his fear. Med let him pass.
“All’s clear Sheriff,” the deputy called, signaling to follow. They filed through and Med let them come. In an ambush you always let the first ones pass, so all would be caught in the trap. Patton came last.
Med took a bead on Sheriff Pease and fired. Pease spun and fell, as the bullet took him through the left shoulder and passed through his pectoral muscle. Immediately Med shifted aim and shot the lanky deputy, now rushing him. Even as the man fell, Med knew he’d just wounded him in the leg.
Chancing it, he stood and levered shots from the Henry as fast as possible, bullets whizzing about him, then was off through the aspen on a game trail that angled down the mountain. As a defile loomed, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Marshal Corvin face down in the snow and Patton Neese taking aim on his back.
Throwing himself sideways he was dealt a terrific blow to his left shoulder. Knocked off balance, he tumbled into the defile. Arm numb from shoulder to fingers, he dropped his rifle. Med came up hard against a huge fallen pine and, fighting to regain his breath, clawed one armed onto the trunk and dropped behind its concealing girth.
“You got him!” exclaimed Billy Blaithly. “I saw him fall!”
“Maybe…”answered Neese as Blaithly came up beside him. Patton kept his rifle raised, ready for another shot as he scanned the area beneath the trees and winter’s dead undergrowth for movement. None presented itself so he relaxed a little. “I’ll believe it when I see his dead body. I’m going in to find out.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Billy.
“You’re not gonna’ leave me and the Sheriff alone are you?” whined the lanky deputy, who hobbled his way to Pease’s side and propped the badly injured man against a tree.
“No we’re not, Tankersly. Billy will stay with you.”
“But Pat…you might need my help,” protested Blaithley.
“Nothing doing, you’ll just get in the way!” The rebuff was harsh, so Pat added, more kindly, “besides the Sheriff and Deputy need your help. Tend to their wounds best you can.” Neese cautiously approached the defile. He paused a moment, then began his descent.
In concealment, Med pulled the .44 and cocked the hammer. He listened as stones rattled into the gorge, marking Neese’s progress as he climbed down. The rattling ceased.
Time dragged as stealth footfalls receded, then passed from earshot. Med strained to hear them return but heard nothing save the wind rattling dead leaves clinging stubbornly to the aspens.
Then he heard the slightest scrape of cloth on bark and looked up to see Pat’s face and the black hole of the rifle barrel. He emptied the Smith as fast as he could pull the trigger as a slug buried itself in the ground by his head. Pat tumbled down beside him. Med kicked the rifle away. He dropped the empty pistol, drew his knife and held it to Pat’s throat.
“No need Med,” Pat said weakly. “You’ve killed me.”
“I didn’t want to Pat. I didn’t want to hurt anybody. I just wanted to get a little of my own back from that snake and I’ve got to get to my boy. Don’t you see?”
“You’re never gonna’ see--” Med waited for Pat to finish, but he was gone.
Med retrieved the .44 and started for the next ridge. On the other side he felt secure, believing that law from home wouldn’t follow here, especially since most were dead or wounded. He found a cave and built a fire to warm himself by. He was soon asleep.
The Sheriff and town deputy waited expectantly for Neese to return after the exchange of gunfire. When he didn’t, Pease spoke. “You’re gonna’ have to go after Dornan alone, Billy.”
“By now he’s over the county line, Sheriff…out of your jurisdiction.”
“That doesn’t matter! He’s killed and hurt several peace officers, including your boss. Where’s your loyalty?” Reluctantly, Billy agreed to go. As he bent to retrieve his rifle, Pease gripped his arm fiercely and hissed his final command. “You finish him!”
Med rose next morning and continued descending the mountain. About noon, he sighted smoke from a chimney and looked down slope to see a clapboarded house all but hidden by the pines. He cupped his hands. “Hello the--” He was struck in the back a hard blow.
His legs rubbery, he sank to his knees, puzzled by the wetness on the front of the great-coat. He brought his hand away, red. With the last of his strength he shrugged off the pack and tossed it down through the trees. It skidded across the snow and thudded against the back of the house. He pitched downhill on his side; eyes pointing upslope. Billy Blaithly walked out of the forest.
The door of the house opened. “I heard something…Ma Look at this!” Med saw Billy drawing closer. “My goodness…it-it’s full of money! The bank won’t get the farm now!”
A grim half smile spread over his weather and care worn face, as he squinted against the pain, deepening the creases in his leathery cheeks and the crow’s feet at his eyes.
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