Crooked Red fled by way of game trails, hauling bags of Spanish silver. The shabby pony wheezed and stamped, huffing molten breath and marking clumsy steps with bloody hoof prints. The thieves of Corinth would not have them, nor would the starving saints of Scholastica. In haste, Red dared hollow mountains, roving caves of lime that gleamed like Roman coffers. Atop the reach, squinting through gales of whistling sleet, Red met a Hessian in the dark; the embers of his corncob pipe curled in…
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