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Comet

Comet and the posse ride under a zep shadow for most of the day, keeping cool, until the dry riverbed turns east. It’s warmer now, but at least the sun’s going down.

“Remind me again why we gotta find this feller, boss?” asks Dough Flats, sweating.

“I ain’t no source of exposition,” snaps Comet. Comet’s wise, and bitter for it. “Posses ride. We’re a posse! You put the rest together your own self.”

They follow the dry bed through small towns, two-family towns, the kind of places that are named after the horse that died and made them stop there.

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