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Weekly Contest #204
Clayton Connor strode down the boardwalk along West San Francisco Street. Behind him, the church clock by the Plaza struck six. Even at this hour, the streets were busy -– after all, Santa Fe was the territorial capital. A goods wagon racketed past, the horse’s hoofs thudding in the snow and mud slush. He knew people were eyeing him curiously. Unlike most men, he wore no hat or topcoat, so that the falling snow dusted his shoulders and bald pate. He did not feel cold, however. He had not felt the cold fo...
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