
You are revisiting a single line from your own 1883 diary — Thompson, Cooper, the Ten-Mile Pines — and turning memory back into a night on the road. Five wool wagons need grass no one will grant them, so the carriers vote to camp on forbidden station ground after dark. A horse-trader you barely trust talks you into swapping your mare for a black horse of uncertain history. As dusk closes in, hoofbeats approach from Runnymede, and no one yet knows whose.
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