Blood and Thunder(Rich Puckett) *Chapter One: The Journey South**
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The riverboat hummed along the Mississippi, slicing through its broad waters as Samuel McBride leaned against the railing, letting the cool breeze press against his weathered face. He coughed, a lingering reminder of the pneumonia that had altered their plans. Beside him, his wife, Mary, tightened the shawl around her shoulders, gazing out toward the bustling docks of St. Louis with an unreadable expression.

Their dream had been California. But dreams often bent under the weight of reality.

Their son, Jimmy, stood near the edge of the boat, his fire-red hair whipping in the wind. At ten, he was already taller than most boys his age, his frame sturdy, his quiet nature steadying the family as much as his strong back. He was their only child, their greatest blessing.

They disembarked, and soon, Samuel made a decision. Instead of lingering and waiting for another wagon train west, he took a different course. Rumors of free land deep in Missouri had reached his ears—land nestled between Elsinore and Williamsville, flanked by sawmills where timber rolled onto trains bound for cities far beyond. It wasn’t farming country. It wasn’t cattle country. But it was land, and it was opportunity.

St. Louis was alive with voices, men exchanging gold for goods, whiskey flowing in saloons. It was in one such establishment, amid the crackling of lantern light and the din of conversation, that Samuel secured their future. A hundred acres, thick with woods, purchased with the last of his savings from a man who assured him it was a solid deal. The land had remained unsold simply because it was untamed. But Samuel was no stranger to hard work.

He, his wife, and Jimmy set out—four strong horses pulling their wagon, six prized mules trailing behind. Supplies were packed tightly: saws, axes, wedges, barrels of water lashed to the sides, a sturdy iron bedframe for his wife’s comfort, and the centerpiece of their provisions—a fine wood stove acquired in St. Louis.

The journey south was slow. Mud swallowed the road when it rained, slowing their pace. But they pressed on, their sights set on a new home.

By the time they arrived, the land was just as promised: dense woods stretched in all directions, the property’s cabin weathered but intact. Pine and oak stood tall, waiting to be felled and turned to profit. Samuel wasted no time—his hands had once stocked shelves in a hardware store, but the woods of Maine had taught him how to wield an axe. Now, the woods of Missouri would provide for his family.

Jimmy took to the work quickly. He could swing an axe with remarkable precision, his strength far beyond his years. He hauled wood on mules, while Samuel felled massive oaks, each one as thick as a barrel. They bound logs in bundles, dragging them to town where Joe Price at the sawmill paid good money for timber. They stacked their earnings carefully, buried it deep for safekeeping.

But Missouri was shifting. **War was coming.**

Talk buzzed in Williamsville—disputes in Washington, whispers of secession. Men spoke with certainty that the South would break away, that war would ignite. At first, it was only distant rumblings. But by the time Jimmy turned fifteen, the fire had begun to spread. A fort in the South had been attacked. The war was no longer a rumor—it was reality.

Half of Missouri leaned toward the Union. **Half did not.**

Samuel and Jimmy rode back home in the evening light, the weight of uncertainty thick in the air. The land had been good to them. They had found prosperity. But something in Samuel’s gut told him that the peace they had built would not last.

And Jimmy—strong, sharp-eyed, quick with a gun—was beginning to form his own ideas about the battle ahead.

### **Chapter Two: A Choice of Conscience**
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The war came swiftly, like a storm rolling over the hills. News of the attack in the South spread quickly, and Missouri, already divided, began to fracture further. In the towns of Williamsville and Elsinore, Confederate recruiters set up at the general stores, handing out uniforms and signing up eager young men. But Jimmy McBride wasn’t eager. He couldn’t reconcile the idea of fighting to keep people in chains. It went against everything his mother had taught him about freedom, duty, and faith.

Mary McBride had been a schoolteacher back in Maine, and she’d brought her love of learning to Missouri. Jimmy could read, write, and do arithmetic as well as any high school student of modern times. More importantly, she’d instilled in him a sense of justice. To her, Jesus was a symbol of liberation, not bondage, and she made sure Jimmy understood that.

When Jimmy heard rumors of a Union recruiter in Piedmont, a town north of Williamsville, he knew what he had to do. His mother begged him to stay, her dreams of him becoming a judge or a lawyer still vivid in her heart. But his father, Samuel, understood the weight of Jimmy’s decision. “Follow your heart, son,” he said. “Do what you believe is right. God will guide you.”

Samuel wouldn’t let Jimmy take the old mare. Instead, he insisted his son ride the fine black stallion, its saddle newly crafted and sturdy. He handed Jimmy a new six-shooter, one that fired cartridges instead of powder and ball, along with several boxes of ammunition. “You’ll need this,” Samuel said, his voice steady but his eyes betraying his worry.

The journey to Piedmont was about forty miles, too far to make in a single day without risking the horse. Jimmy rode at a steady pace, stopping halfway at a place called Willow Springs. As he set up camp, two local Indians approached. They were peaceful, and so was Jimmy. Over a shared meal of bacon, potatoes, and rabbit, one of the young men decided to join Jimmy. He spoke English well and shared Jimmy’s belief that no man should be enslaved. Together, they rode on to Piedmont.

Piedmont was bustling, far larger than Williamsville or Elsinore. True to the rumors, recruiters from both sides of the conflict were present. Confederate and Union captains set up on opposite ends of town, their presence turning the streets into a powder keg. Fights broke out whenever their paths crossed, but Jimmy kept his head low, his gun riding high on his hip.

Jimmy and his new companion signed up with the Union captain, who welcomed them without hesitation. They were told to return the next day to be sent to a fort for training. That night, they sought lodging in a saloon called “Dillard’s Dickory, Full of Trickery,” as the sign above the door proclaimed. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and tension.

As they approached the stairs to the rented rooms, a burly man stepped in their path. His face was unshaven, his clothes reeked of sweat and whiskey, and a new six-shooter hung low on his hip. “Ain’t no engine sleeping in the same building as me,” he growled. “You take that engine and head out to the hog pens where you belong.”

Jimmy, calm and composed, tried to step around the man. But the drunk grabbed him, pulling back a fist to swing. Jimmy blocked the punch with ease, and the Indian boy drew his knife, ready to defend his friend. “Ho, ho, don’t do that,” Jimmy said, his voice steady.

The man sneered. “Coward and an engine lover, huh?”

Jimmy smiled faintly. “I ain’t never shot a man,” he said, “but I’ve shot plenty of snakes. And there ain’t much difference between you and a snake.”

The saloon fell silent. Patrons backed away, clearing space for what was clearly about to become a gunfight. Jimmy stepped back toward the bar, his hand hovering near his holster. The drunk staggered toward the fireplace, his hand twitching near his gun.

Without warning, the man went for his weapon. But Jimmy was faster. His pistol seemed to leap into his hand, the shot ringing out before anyone could blink. The bullet struck the man’s shoulder, his gun clattering to the floor as he spun and fell.

Jimmy holstered his weapon and turned to the barkeep. “Reckon you’ll need to find this man a doctor. He’ll live to fight for the South someday, but it’ll be a spell. And he’ll never be a fast gun, that’s for sure.”

The room remained silent as Jimmy and his companion climbed the stairs. No one dared challenge the boy with the cold blue eyes and the lightning-fast draw.

Chapter 3: Baptism by Fire

The morning sun spilled across the open plains as Jimmy and his Indian companion rode alongside the wagons bound for Fort Leonard Wood. It was a long, grueling journey, but the recruits were eager—young men with fresh faces and untested resolve, each clinging to the notion that war would be brief, glorious, and decisive.

From the moment they arrived, their training was relentless. Sergeants barked orders: **"Attention! Left! Right! Forward, march!"** Every movement had to be drilled into muscle memory. Each recruit was assigned a rifle—old muzzle-loaders with percussion caps, relics of warfare that required meticulous care to function properly.

Each night, as the wagons halted and campfires crackled, the men practiced loading their weapons, learning the crucial steps that could mean the difference between life and death. The sergeant warned them of the deadly mistakes made by panicked soldiers—failing to properly prime their weapons, firing a ramrod instead of a bullet, or jamming their rifles with multiple loads.

For Jimmy, the motions were second nature. His natural speed and precision made him a de facto instructor among the recruits. But for his Indian friend, the challenge was real—his skill with a bow and arrow unmatched, yet unfamiliar with the mechanics of a firearm.

As the training intensified, so did the fighting drills. Wrestling, knife combat, and the brutal artistry of survival. Jimmy excelled at it all—quick, strong, nearly unbeatable—until he met his match in his friend. What the Indian lacked in sheer strength, he compensated for with agility. He was small, wiry, impossible to pin down, a ghost slipping through the grip of larger men. He wasn’t just quick with a knife—he was devastating. Seeing his natural skill, the sergeant appointed him the company’s knife-fighting instructor.

By the time they reached Fort Leonard Wood, the men had earned a reputation—they were Missouri Company A3, the best new regiment the Union had seen. Their riflemen were swift, their artillery sharp, their fighters battle-ready.

Jimmy and his Indian companion were promoted swiftly, their skill and leadership undeniable. Soon, they were headed south, through Arkansas, pressing toward Kentucky. The dreams of swift victories soon faded as the realities of war set in—firefights, hand-to-hand combat, friends lost with each battle.

One night, under the glow of embers, his Indian friend murmured, **"I'm glad, my pal, that we learned to fight so well in our youth."**

Weeks bled into months, months into years. The battlefield stretched from Missouri to Arkansas, from Tennessee to North Carolina. Hardships mounted—not just bullets, but starvation, sickness, the kind of suffering no battle glory could erase. Jimmy saw comrades fall, felt the weight of lives taken, and found himself retreating after each fight, seeking solitude, tears stinging his eyes.

Until, one day, his Indian friend set a steady hand on his shoulder. **"You’re forgetting something, Jimmy. We are some mother’s son as well."**

The war hardened them, and survival took precedence over sentiment. Until Jimmy’s luck ran dry—a bullet tore through his leg just below the hip. The field surgeon—a blacksmith in uniform—did what he could. But it was his Indian friend’s herbal poultice that likely saved his life. The wound healed, but the limp remained. Jimmy was sidelined, watching the war move on without him.

Then came new orders—not east, but west. Rumors of an Indian uprising had settlers desperate for aid. Jimmy and his friend were sent to the frontier, stationed at Fort Sutter, the outpost destined to be forever linked to the tragedy of the Donner Party.

But the war did end. Jimmy and his companion returned home—only to find nothing left. Jimmy’s cabin, burned to the ground, his father buried behind its ruins. His friend’s tribe, displaced, his parents gone.

So, with no place to call home, they did what men like them did best. They saddled their horses and rode. Their destination was nothing but the open road, their path leading toward the infamous town of Dodge.

### **Chapter 4: Dodge City**

Dodge was a rough city, known as the final stop for cattle drives pushing stock to market. The streets were lined with saloons, where rough-talking cowboys, gamblers, and drifters shared space with loose women and hardened gunmen. Yet, despite the chaos, Dodge held its share of honorable folk—men and women of faith, hard workers, and believers in the frontier gospel.

Jimmy and his Indian friend, Lightning, were among them. Neither drank, though the temptation was all around. They were churchgoers, but their faith was forged with grit, not softness. Toughness ran in their veins, and it showed.

On the way to Dodge, they crossed paths with a buffalo hunter, a man known as Wild Bill. In a small town, Jimmy bought a Sharps .50-caliber rifle, a powerful tool for dropping bison. Money wasn’t a concern—he had uncovered the cans of gold and cash his father had buried, leaving him with more than enough to roam the land without worry. But idle living wasn’t his nature.

Riding with Wild Bill thrilled him at first. The hunter commanded respect, and there was something grand in the way he brought down the beasts with precise shots. But after three weeks, Jimmy soured on the trade. The mass slaughter of buffalo for their hides alone, leaving meat to rot under the sun, felt wrong. Lightning agreed. Despite Bill’s generous offer to keep them on, they parted ways, drifting toward Dodge with a fresh start in mind.

They arrived in Dodge uncertain of what lay ahead. The city bustled with cowboys, traders, and lawmen. Rooms above a saloon named *Sally’s* gave them a temporary home, though Jimmy paid little mind to the bar girls. He wasn’t ready to settle down—not yet.

Evenings followed a predictable rhythm. The saloon set out thick-cut ham, bread, and cheese. Jimmy and Lightning, drinking only sarsaparilla, made sandwiches at the bar while gamblers tossed dice and soldiers swapped war stories. Mornings brought eggs and coffee at a small café before they spent their days wandering the streets.

People noticed them. Their guns hung low on their hips—a telltale sign of men who knew how to use them. By now, Lightning had taken to wearing a six-gun as well. He wasn’t as fast or deadly with a pistol as Jimmy, but when it came to knives, the Indian moved with frightening speed. That skill had earned him the nickname *Lightning*.

Opportunity came when they crossed paths with an old cattleman seeking workers. He had run his last herd to market and was transitioning into ranching. His spread, just outside Dodge, focused on raising horses, and he needed skilled hands.

Jimmy and Lightning accepted. The ranch, oddly named *Jolly’s*, was run by a cheerful old man who made work bearable. There was a crew of six. Lightning broke horses, Jimmy repaired fences and wrangled cattle. The work was tough, but it was honest.

Every month, the hands rode into Dodge to unwind. The others drank gut-rot whiskey and beer, but Jimmy and Lightning stuck to their sarsaparilla. They indulged in a different vice—cards.

Jimmy wasn’t much for gambling, but he could play, and he was good. Lightning matched him hand for hand. As saloon patrons drank deeper into their cups, frustration simmered. The two men kept winning.

Four months in, one sore loser had had enough. *Slick Willie*, a gambler with a reputation, finally snapped.

“You’re nothing but a yellow-bellied cheat,” he spat. “You and that damn Indian.”

His hand darted for a pistol hidden inside his vest. It never cleared.

Jimmy’s gun was out in a blink. The shot cracked through the air, and Willie hit the ground before the room could react.

Silence swallowed the saloon. Men formed a circle, murmuring about frontier justice. It was a clean fight—Willie had drawn first—but Jimmy was a Union soldier once, and an Indian had stood at his side. There were those who wouldn’t let that slide.

Then, the saloon doors swung wide.

Wyatt Earp strode inside, scanning the scene. The crowd instinctively parted, giving way to the lawman’s presence.

He sized up the situation, then motioned for Jimmy and Lightning to follow him.

In his office, he made a proposition. He needed good deputies—men fast with a gun, steady with a knife. There was a cattle-rustling problem plaguing the town, and his brothers would be arriving soon to help. But until then, he needed men he could count on.

The pay wasn’t much.

Still, ranch life was growing stale.

By the time the meeting ended, badges gleamed on their chests.

Jimmy and Lightning were now **deputy marshals**.

Chapter5: Dodge City’s Reckoning

The life of a deputy marshal wasn’t always the stuff of legends. Jimmy and Lightning spent most nights making rounds, ensuring saloon doors were locked, breaking up fights before they got ugly, and dealing with drunks who thought they had something to prove. Dodge had no shortage of men looking to build reputations, especially fast guns hoping for a showdown with the marshal himself. But he was often too busy—or too smart—to entertain them.

Instead, they turned their attention to Jimmy and Lightning, recognizing their low-slung guns and shadowed brims as markers of men who knew the pull of a trigger. Every young fool thought he was the fastest, and none of them ever imagined they’d die trying to prove it.

Jimmy and Lightning were careful. They’d seen enough killing in the war; they didn’t need to add more to their tally. When a fight came their way, they aimed to wound—not kill. Lightning, ever unpredictable, kept a knife strapped beside his holster. More than once, a man would draw only to find a blade sunk into his wrist before his fingers could tighten around the trigger.

But the day Black Bart rode into town, things changed.

Bart was no young fool looking to make a name. He already had one. Six notches on each of his gun handles testified to the men who had thought they were faster. He stepped down off his horse, eyes locked on Jimmy as he hollered across the street, "You any good with that gun, punk?"

Jimmy ignored him.

Bart’s pride wouldn’t let it stand. He snatched up a stone, hurled it at Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy spun fast, instincts sharp, as Bart went for his gun. He cleared leather—a rare feat—but Jimmy had no choice but to send him to Boot Hill.

That night in the marshal’s office, Jimmy sat with a cup of coffee, Lightning beside him, Doc and the marshal sharing whiskey. Doc coughed between sips, prompting Jimmy to mutter, "That whiskey ain’t doing you any favors, Doc. You ever try coffee?"

Doc just laughed.

But Jimmy had something serious to say. "We were hired to catch rustlers. I didn’t sign on to be a gunfighter."

He laid out his plan. A staged fight in the saloon—a loud, public falling-out. They’d throw down their badges and walk out, making sure word reached the rustlers’ ears. Then they’d ride straight to Brandon’s cave and convince him they were ready to switch sides.

The next day, they did just that.

A heated argument broke out at the biggest saloon in town, chairs scraping, voices rising. With a final shout, Jimmy and Lightning slammed their badges onto the table and stormed out.

By nightfall, they were riding toward Brandon’s hideout.

Brandon was hesitant. A man like Jimmy didn’t flip so easily. But one of his boys had been in town, had seen the whole spectacle, and vouched for its authenticity. Still, Brandon wanted proof.

Jimmy offered a plan: a nighttime cattle raid. A rancher he used to work for had a herd worth stealing—if they could deliver it by morning, Brandon would know they were serious.

What Brandon didn’t know was that the marshal had already visited that rancher, setting up the entire operation.

By dawn, Brandon was sitting back, imagining all the profits he’d make from his newest recruits. The crew was relaxed, Lightning stretched out on a bunk, Jimmy at the coffee pot.

Then, without warning, Jimmy hurled the coffee pot straight at Brandon. Lightning was on his feet in an instant, revolver drawn. Shots rang out, and within moments, six rustlers were tied up, hands bound, horses saddled.

They rode into town, turned the gang over to the marshal, then doubled back to return the stolen cattle.

But they didn’t go back to Dodge.

Their job was done. And the road kept calling.

Arizona was next.

Ch 6
### *The Widow’s House*

Tombstone wasn’t just a town—it was a battlefield dressed up as civilization. The streets stank of whiskey and desperation. The dust clung to sweat-soaked skin, and every bar was thick with men who had long since traded morality for survival. Jimmy had seen rough places before, but this one? It felt like a gamble just breathing its air.

Lightning was worse off in the heat, always wiping his brow, muttering under his breath about feeling sticky and dirty. Jimmy chuckled at his friend’s misery, but the truth was, Tombstone didn’t sit right with him either. The way men eyed their pockets, the way women lingered in doorways with smiles that held no real joy—it was a place built on want, not need.

They hadn’t been in town an hour when a man pulled a gun on Jimmy at a livery stable. Didn’t even hesitate. Jimmy, quicker still, put a bullet in his shoulder before the fool could squeeze his trigger. The graveyard got itself a new occupant that day, and Jimmy got the first real taste of Tombstone’s lawlessness.

But trouble wasn’t what they were looking for. They needed a place to stay, and a hotel didn’t feel right—not with how rowdy the nights got. That’s when they heard about *The Widow.*

She lived just outside town, renting rooms to those passing through. But more importantly, she was known for taking in young women, offering protection from the men who prowled the streets. Some said she had rules tougher than the Marshal himself. Some said her house was the only place untouched by greed.

Jimmy and Lightning rode out to see her, dust trailing behind them. When they arrived, she eyed them from the porch like a woman who had spent years judging character at first glance. She wasn’t young, but she wasn’t fragile either. Her presence was sharp, commanding.

"You two look like trouble," she said, folding her arms.

Jimmy smiled. "Maybe," he admitted. "But not the kind that knocks on a lady’s door uninvited."

She studied them, her gaze lingering on Jimmy’s lean frame, the copper hair darkening into brown over the years, his skin tanned from the sun. Then on Lightning—his smooth complexion, jet-black hair, and the easy way he held himself, tough but good-natured.

She sat down on her rocking chair, considering them, then spoke. "Young women pass through here all the time, heading west to chase dreams. But they attract the wrong kind of attention. The Marshal does what he can, but it ain't always enough."

Jimmy and Lightning listened.

"If you want a place to stay," she continued, "you’ll guard this house. Escort the women when they need supplies. Keep the rough men out. If anyone steps on my land with bad intentions, you’ll make them wish they hadn’t."

Jimmy met her gaze and nodded. "That seems fair."

Lightning followed. "We accept."

She didn’t smile, but there was something approving in the way she exhaled. "Then you don’t share a room. Jimmy, you take the front of the house. Lightning, the back. You’ll eat at my table, but you’ll earn your keep."

The first morning in the Widow’s House was a revelation. The breakfast table stretched long, filled with warm food that reminded them what it meant to eat like men instead of scavengers. Fried eggs, biscuits, thick gravy, slabs of bacon. Coffee black and strong. Jimmy hadn’t bowed his head to pray in a long time, but when the Widow asked for a blessing, he didn’t hesitate.

Life there settled into routine—escort the women, keep watch over the property, and maintain peace. They expected fights, but the reputation of two men who could kill without blinking spread quickly. The troublemakers stayed clear.

Then, one day, a stagecoach pulled up. A woman stepped down.

Black curls framed her face in delicate spirals, catching the light like a halo. She was unlike the women Jimmy had known, carrying herself with a quiet strength, her eyes filled with intelligence and purpose.

She was a teacher. A traveler. A woman chasing a future Jimmy didn’t yet understand, but suddenly wanted to be part of.

She met his gaze, and something passed between them. Something that made Jimmy rethink everything he thought he knew about what he was living for.

Lightning, ever the observer, leaned over. "You’re staring," he muttered.

Jimmy didn’t look away. "I know."

Days passed, and the attraction only deepened. When she confessed she was heading farther west to teach, Jimmy couldn’t imagine a road where she wasn’t by his side. And miraculously, against all odds, she felt the same.

The wedding was simple, held by Parson Jones, the wandering preacher who came through once a month. Lightning stood as Jimmy’s best man, grinning wider than he ever had.

And then it was time to leave. The Widow lost her best guards, but Jimmy had gained something greater—a future.

With a wagon packed full of schoolbooks and belongings, they rode toward Salina, Arizona. Toward the quiet. Toward a place where the gun might finally find a home in a desk drawer.

Toward paradise.

Ch7
### *The Long Ride Home*

The years passed quietly in Salina. Jimmy had long since traded the weight of a gun for the wisdom of the bench, his presence in the courtroom a steadying force in a town that valued fairness as much as faith. Lightning, always the steady hand of justice, kept Salina safe, his name carrying a quiet reverence among those who knew him. Between their duties, families, and land, life settled into a rhythm that neither man had ever imagined in their younger days.

Their children grew, their friendships deepened, and the dusty roads they once traveled with caution became familiar paths of contentment. When Jimmy’s son took a wife—Lightning’s daughter, of all people—it cemented something that had always been true: they were bound not just by years and hardship, but by blood and love.

By sixty, both men had hung up their guns, but not their purpose. Jimmy, now silver-haired, still listened when people came to him with disputes, though his hands rested on law books rather than a revolver. Lightning, strong and steady as ever, spent his days working cattle, teaching his sons the value of hard labor and honest living.

It was on a crisp autumn evening when Jimmy received an unexpected visitor. A stranger rode in, his clothes dusty, his face worn from years on the trail. He was no threat—just another man shaped by the West, looking for answers. The stranger sat opposite Jimmy in his modest home, hat in hand, gaze steady.

“They say you were fast once,” the man said, voice thick with something Jimmy couldn’t quite place. “That you rode through worse places than Tombstone and lived to tell it.”

Jimmy leaned back, the weight of years in his bones. “I was once,” he admitted. “But I traded speed for a long life.”

The man nodded, as if understanding something unspoken. He took in the house, the warmth of the fire, the faint sound of his wife humming in the next room. “I reckon that’s a better trade.”

Jimmy smiled, deep and knowing. “It is.”

The man stayed the night, then rode out at dawn, vanishing into the endless horizon where so many had gone before. Jimmy stood on the porch, watching as the dust settled in the wake of the stranger’s departure.

Lightning walked up beside him, hands tucked into his belt. “You reckon he’ll find what he’s looking for?” he asked.

Jimmy exhaled, glancing toward the land they had come to love, the families they had built, the peace they had earned. “If he’s lucky,” Jimmy said, “he’ll find what we did.”

Lightning chuckled. “Not sure two old cowhands settling down counts as luck.”

Jimmy watched the sunrise crest over the hills, bathing Salina in gold. “Depends on who you ask.”

And just like that, the past stayed behind them, the future resting in the hands of their children, and Jimmy and Lightning found what so many men in their trade never did—the chance to simply grow old, surrounded by the life they built.

No longer feared. No longer hunted.

Just men.

Just home.

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