The Bounty Hunter’s Return (Preview)


California, 1890

“There will be a new life, somewhere,” Olivia whispered to herself, pressing her face to the window of the stagecoach. They were traveling fast, so quick that dust from the arid earth kicked up around them, marring the view of the distance. At times, Olivia thought she could see rocky stacks and canyons on the horizon, then they would disappear, as if swallowed by a sandstorm, though it was really only the dust that surrounded the coach. 

Smiling a little, Oliva sat back in the coach, resting her head on the cushioned seat behind her. It wouldn’t be long now until she turned up in the next town. Within a few hours, they would be there, and she could wander the streets, as she had done so many times before with other towns, hunting for somewhere to call her new home.

As the coach jolted her from side to side, she reached down to the necklace she wore hidden beneath the high collar of her gown and pulled it free, trailing her fingers down to the ring. It used to rest on her finger, the elaborate golden band etched with a simple engraving, For you, with love. Her late husband’s ring was something she could not part from, even though it had been nearly two years since he passed. 

“I made you a promise, and I intend to keep to it.” She lifted the ring to her lips and kissed the band briefly, half imagining she was kissing him, before she pushed it down beneath the collar of her gown, hiding it from view once again.

When Thomas had laid dying, he had asked her for something which he had deemed simple—for Olivia to live life to the full. At first, she had been too caught up in her grief to even consider following through with such a promise, but time gave strength as well as a little healing. Now, two years on, she intended to fulfill that promise.

“Woah! Ride faster!” a call came from the front of the carriage. It was so sudden and sharp that Olivia leaned forward, straining her ears to listen to what was happening. The attendant was calling to the driver, demanding he go quicker.

“I’m going as fast as I can. They’re gaining on us,” the driver shouted back.

The prospect of just who was gaining on them made Olivia’s stomach knot. Rather than hiding in the belly of the carriage, she returned to the window and pressed her face out, squinting through the dust to see what was happening.

Through the clouds of dust, as if they were ghostly apparitions, men on horses made of shadows were approaching, their forms growing larger as they came nearer.

Leaning out of the window, Olivia craned her neck to the front of the carriage.

“Can you not go faster?” she called, not needing to ask who these men were. If men on horses were chasing them down that quickly, there was only one thing they could have in mind—thievery.

“No!” the driver called. “Get back inside!” 

Yet she didn’t listen. She angled her body around once more, looking out to the shadows of their chasers. The men were getting closer, so near now that she could count them. There were three men on this side. 

When a horse neighed but did not appear to belong to these three men, nor the horses pulling her carriage, she frantically moved across the seat of the carriage, brushing the heavy skirt of her gown out of the way, before launching herself at the other window. On this side, the wind was greater. In danger of getting dust in her eyes, she cupped her hand over her brow, squinting to see what was happening. There were another two riders on this side, approaching fast. One was taller than the other, with such a vast hat on his head, it was a wonder it stayed on in the great wind.

Voices began to bellow in the direction of the carriage. Their words were indistinct from a distance, but the closer the chasers got, it became apparent what they wanted.


“Ride no further, or we shoot.”

“Do not stop,” Oliva called out to the driver.

“We won’t stop,” the attendant swiveled in his seat beside the driver, craning his neck to look at her, “for we fear what they want. With you.” He pointed straight at her, making Olivia lurch so much that she clung to the window frame of the carriage, in danger of falling out.

Swallowing around a sudden lump in her throat, Olivia understood exactly what the attendant meant. The driver and the attendant did not have much money to their names. Yet she was a target, and an obvious one. Crawling back into the carriage, she sat on the bench, curling her fingers around the grand gown she was wearing. At that moment, she could have torn it from her body in her anger at it. At the back of the carriage, her wealth was announced just as much, for there were vast trunks and portmanteaus, showing that whoever rode in here had money to their name.

I cannot let these men be hurt because of me.

Launching herself back to the window, she called for the attendant’s attention another time.

“Can you separate the horses from the carriage?” she called.

“No, ma’am.” The young lad shook his head. She cursed under her breath, her only hope for separating herself from these men now fading. “Get back inside!” the lad bellowed, just before a shot rang out.

Olivia flung herself into the carriage, moving so swiftly that she tripped on the hem of her gown and ended up on her back. She grimaced at the pain and hurried to her knees, listening as shots rang out, one after another. The carriage began to be peppered with their shots. Curling onto the floor, Oliva kept her body close to the floor, not wanting to give her chasers a chance of catching her with any of those bullets.

When a horse whinnied in pain, the carriage began to slow up, and then it jolted to one side.

“He’s been hit!” the driver shouted for Olivia to hear.

More shouts followed, all from the chasers that had now caught up the carriage. The stagecoach slowed so much that the dust began to dissipate from the windows. 

“Stop!” a deep voice boomed. Olivia judged it must have come from one of the chasers. When the carriage still moved on, but at a slow pace, a second shot rang out.

“No!” the attendant roared. “What have you done to him? What have you done?”

A second shot came.

The carriage came to a stop. Horses whinnied, and the sounds of horses’ hooves against the earth grew nearer. 

Slowly, Olivia lifted her head, judging it safe now the shots had stopped. The door before her was flung open, revealing the faces of the gang. Two men stood there, their faces sporting heavy beards and one wearing a bandana over his hair. 

“Get her,” one man said to the other.

Veering backward, Olivia reached for a secret pocket she had sewn into every one of her gowns. Inside, she pulled out a knife, once a gift from Thomas, and held it out in front of her.

“Do you know how to use that, lass?” the man with the bandana asked, reaching toward her. Olivia held tightly to the wooden handle, trying to stop her body from shaking.

“Let’s not find out.” She shook her head. “Step away from the carriage.”

“I don’t think you understand the situation, lass.” He was too quick for her to do much. As he lunged for her, she swiped out with the dagger, but was too slow. He caught her wrist and bent it back, forcing her to drop the dagger. Her other hand tried to grab it from the floor, but he took her other wrist and dragged both together, using them to draw her out of the carriage. 

“No! Let me go,” Olivia pleaded at first, until she fell to the earth outside of the carriage, her knees stinging at the impact. Sounds at the front of the carriage drew her attention.

To her relief, she saw both her attendant and her driver were alive but injured. One of the horses had suffered the most and was on the ground, with a hoof striking out restlessly, clearly having been shot. The attendant was dragging the driver away across the ground, for the driver could not walk. He kept whimpering, clutching to his hip where he had been shot.

“Get going then,” one of the last thieves jumped down from his horse and yelled these words at the retreating men. “Go back where you came and tell them what has happened here. Tell them Mrs. Olivia Whitton has been kidnapped.”

The words made Olivia freeze on the earth, even as the bandana-clad man tried to drag her further away from the stagecoach.

Kidnapped? No, no! This cannot happen.

With sudden energy, she lashed out at the man hauling her away, driving her boot down onto his foot. He yelped in pain and loosened his hold just enough for her to push him off her. Stumbling to her feet, she began to run.

“Get her!” one of the men shouted. Four men began to chase her as she circled the carriage, not thinking ahead to how she was going to get out of this mess. Only one thought coursed through her mind.


As she reached the other side of the carriage, a shot rang out.

Olivia froze, coming face to face with the tall man she had spied before on his horse, wearing his vast hat. Stumbling on her feet, breathing heavily, she felt her body quiver as he turned the gun toward her. His first shot had been into the clouds above them, but his actions alone showed he’d choose a better target next time.

“Make it difficult, hen, and I’ll make it real simple.” The barrel of the gun never turned away from her. He slowly lifted his head, the brim of his hat raising enough to reveal that his face was covered. Olivia chewed her lip, her eyes dancing over the bandana on the man’s face. The material was black, with the occasional fleck of brown in it. Two slits had been made in the cloth for eye holes, but that was it. The rest hung loosely down over his face, so she couldn’t even judge if his features were craggy or smooth. “Put your hands together.” 

Staring at the gun, Olivia didn’t hesitate. She pressed her wrists together as two of the gang approached her on either side, wrapping a rope around her wrists. 

“It’s done,” one of the gang said, stepping back from her and unraveling the other end of the rope, as if she was a dog on a lead.

“Good,” the tall man declared, his voice deep and gravelly. Olivia judged from the way all the gang looked to him that he was their leader. “Take her to the hideout up in the hills. Tomorrow, we send the ransom note.”

“Ransom note?” Olivia muttered. “What ransom? Ah!” A gang member wrapped an arm around her waist and used it to tug her away, dragging her toward the carriage. “You can’t demand a ransom for me. Who do you expect to pay it?” She was frantic, pushing against the man who carried her, though it seemed not to affect him. He tossed her into the carriage, where she fell on her back. She winced at the number of bruises she would now have before moving to her knees. In the kerfuffle, her blonde hair had fallen out of its updo, and it now hung loose around her shoulders, covered in dust from the earth. 

The door closed firmly on her, and the covered face of the leader appeared in the window. She supposed he was staring right at her, though she couldn’t be sure with the vast hat and the bandana over his features.

“A wealthy family like yours? Someone will pay for you.” He stepped back from the carriage, leaving Olivia to sink down to her haunches.

No. I’m the one with the money, not my family…there is no one to pay a ransom.


Chapter One

There was a slow knock at the door.

Robert’s head snapped up from where he had been staring into the fire, his eyes shooting to the door of his ranch house. It was the middle of the night, far too late for any casual caller, or even any intimate friend to drop by. 

When the knock came again, Robert leapt to his feet. He practically pushed over his worn rocking chair and reached for where he hid his guns. The cupboard in which they were placed had the door hanging a little off its hinges. He had to thrust the door open more than once, for it swung back on itself as he grabbed his shotgun and loaded it with cartridges.

No one calling at this time of night can bring anything good.

Robert cast a glance to the staircase, set at the back of the kitchen where he stood. Upstairs were his boys, Mack and Woody. His first thoughts were with them, always. 

When the knock came a third time, more insistent on this occasion, Robert moved to the door, hugging the barrel of his shotgun into his shoulder and approaching the door carefully. In the one mirror they had in the house by the front door, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. His dark hair looked ruffled from sleep, his dark eyes alert, and the gun pressed against his body was almost unnatural these days. There was a time when he carried a gun every day. Now, he only ever took a pistol for the purposes of the ranch. The shotgun was never used.

Reaching for the door, he caught sight of a shadow beyond the glass, masked a little by a lace curtain. With his finger over the trigger, Robert opened the door an inch.

“Please…” a voice begged, husky and deep. “I’m looking for Mr. Robert Goddard.” Then the voice began to slip with weakness.

“Who are you?” Robert opened the door a little more, enough to see the shadowy figure. This stranger had no strength to him. He was leaning against the white wall of Robert’s house, and slowly began to sink down. “What the…” Robert trailed off, watching as the man dropped to his haunches.

With his head darting back and forth, he took a step out onto the porch of his ranch house, searching the area. All was as it should have been. In the bright moonlight, he could see the cattle at the distant edge of the ranch and the barns nearby, all apparently undisturbed. The only sign of other life was a horse that had been abandoned at the bottom of the porch, and the stranger. No one had accompanied him.

“Stand, stranger.” Robert gestured to the man with his shotgun. “Stand and tell me why you would come to this house in the dark.”

“I….” The man breathed heavily, apparently struggling for words. One hand reached for the wall, trying to push himself back up, before he slid down again.

Robert lowered the barrel of his shotgun, just a little. He’d seen enough tricks in his youth to make a man lower his weapon; he was always careful before doing such a thing. Using the barrel of the gun, he brushed aside the man’s jacket. In the moonlight, a shock of red glistened.

“You’re hurt.”

“I know.” The man hissed between his teeth, breathing heavily. “Shot….”

“By blood,” Robert cursed and searched the porch one last time, but there truly was no one else there. Bending down, he searched the injured man, finding a small pistol that wasn’t loaded, but no more. Robert added the pistol to his belt before he pulled back the man’s jacket further, examining his injury. “Don’t pass out on me now, stranger.”

“I need…Mr. Robert Goddard…” the man heaved, leaning back as Robert examined the injury. “Please, I need to talk to him.” His eyes were half-lidded, getting increasingly nearer to passing out. 

“What you need is stitches.” Robert reached down and grabbed the man’s arm. “Time to stand.”

“What? No! I can’t.”

“You can’t bleed out on the porch either, so you will stand.” Robert heaved him to his feet. The move caused a cry to fall from the stranger’s lips.

Damn, it’s a long time since such blood came to my door.

Robert helped the man inside, casting just one more wary glance at the porch before he shut the door behind him and kicked a chair in place, stopping it from opening in case anyone else should be out there.

“Goddard…where is he?” the man was persistent, saying his name repeatedly.

“Think of living first.” Robert lowered him to the nearest chair and peeled back the man’s jacket. As he thrust the jacket on the nearest table, the few candles that were there, lighting the darkness, all shuddered. “You going to tell me what happened to you, stranger?” He pulled at the man’s shirt, lifting it enough to examine the injury.

“Shot. Twice.” The man barely held up two fingers. In the candlelight, Robert was now able to see more of the man’s face. He was young, perhaps in his early twenties, but certainly no older. The light brown hair on his head was speckled with dirt, and there was dried blood on his cheek, possibly from some cut in a fistfight.

“Damn,” Robert muttered, then stepped back from the man, hurrying to the stairs. “Woody! Mack!” He bellowed his son’s names.

“What’s all this shouting?” Mack, the eldest, appeared a few seconds later at the top of the stairs. He had the same dark hair as Robert’s own, though the face was more like his mother’s had been. In his sixteenth year, he was the stronger of the two boys. As he leaned on the banister, it audibly creaked as he stared down at Robert.

“Get your brother.” Robert’s order was solemn enough to make his son’s eyes widen. “We have an injured man here.”

“I’m fine, I will be fine,” the stranger said, holding up his hands as Robert returned to him. Even as he uttered the words, he slipped in the chair, ready to either faint or sleep.

“Yes, and I’m an actor on the stage, not a rancher.” Robert’s humor didn’t seem to help the man, for as he pulled at the man’s shirt, revealing the injury further, he merely grimaced. 

He’s exhausted, and in shock.

The man’s hands kept trembling, and his lips were pressed together in a thin line. His eyes darted around the space as if looking for assailants in dark corners. 

Mack and Woody appeared at the bottom of the stairs moments later. Robert turned to see his sons standing to attention. Both had put on jeans with loose shirts. Mack was wide awake now, but Woody, only twelve, was yawning widely.

“Mack, get some water boiling and find the needle and thread I keep in the top cupboard, up there,” he pointed to a cupboard in the kitchen. “Woody, we’ll need a bed. Make one up, upstairs.” They both nodded and hurried off to do their duties.

The stranger started making sounds, pleading to know where Mr. Robert Goddard was again. Still, Robert didn’t answer him, for his mind was on other matters.

I need to keep this stranger alive.

Dragging the candle closer, when there was enough light, he began to see the injury was not so bad after all. There had indeed been two bullets fired at this man, which was plain to see, for there were two scored marks across his skin, but they were flesh wounds only. One was a graze, and as for the other, the bullet had passed through a fleshy part of the young man’s skin. 

Once the water had boiled, Robert began to clean the wounds. Sitting on a stool before the stranger, he persisted, cleaning them thoroughly, even as the stranger began to thrash in pain.

“Mack, get that scotch I was drinking. Pour it down his throat if it’s needed.” Robert nodded at the bottle by the fire. “It’ll be good for the pain.” Mack collected the bottle, but he didn’t need to do anymore with it. The stranger was very happy to take it and glug it.

“Don’t drink it all. I’ll be coming to you for a new bottle otherwise,” Robert spoke in jest, pleased to see his words relaxed his son’s worry a little, even if not the stranger’s. Robert was hardly going to admit that he would have asked for a bottle in return someday. He was not flush with money and in enough debt as it was, just by keeping this ranch going. The scotch bottle had been a treat, but that treat was disappearing before his eyes, vanishing down the gullet of the injured stranger.

“Now, this is going to hurt,” Robert said slowly, then nodded at Mack. “Sorry, Mack, but you might have to hold the man down.”

“Me?” Mack gestured to his chest. “I’m not strong enough for that.”

“You’re strong.” Robert nodded his head at his son. “You dragged your brother out of a bog the other day, didn’t you?”

“That’s different. He weighs no more than sheep’s wool.”

“Well, here we have an injured man. He’s weakened, but he won’t be much stronger.”

“Oi,” the man said, lifting his head. “I can hear you.”

“Good, then you won’t give us any trouble, will you?” Robert prepared the sutures with the needle and began. “Stay still.” The moment he began to sew up the wound, though, the stranger yelled and flung his head back, his body practically bucking at the pain. Mack jumped forward, holding the man’s shoulders down.

Robert worked as quickly as he could, sewing up the flesh wound and adding a few stitches to the graze, too, stopping the flow of blood.

“How many times have you done this before?” Mack asked as the stranger came close to tears. Robert caught his son’s eye, watching the wide blue eyes that stared back at him. 

“Don’t count my scars, Mack. It might scare you.” His jesting tone lightened the mood a little. There had been a time when Robert had to perform such remedies on the go, even to himself, but he’d left that life behind, long ago. Once the sutures were done, he sat back, discarding the needle and thread nearby, watching as the stranger sat forward with tears on his cheeks. Robert reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, passing it to the stranger.

“You’ll live fine, stranger. Pain will keep you company for a while, but it’s a good job whoever shot you had poor aim.”

The man nodded, hiding his face as he dried his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Don’t mention it.” Robert stood to his feet just as Woody appeared at the bottom of the stairs. 

“The bed’s ready, Pa,” Woody said, gesturing up the stairs.

“Thanks, kid.” Robert smiled at his son. “Out of the way now, I need to take him up the steps.”

“No, no, please. Don’t move me,” the stranger begged.

“You can’t sleep in a chair. You’ll heal slower.” Robert didn’t give him a chance to object again. He reached for the stranger and hauled him to stand from under his arms. When the man yelped in pain, Mack went to aid his other side. Slowly, together, they drew the man up the stairs. When they reached the landing, he began to mutter repeatedly about the man whom he had come to seek.

“I need to find Mr. Goddard. Mr. Robert Goddard. Am I at the right house?” he begged to know. His eyes kept closing, showing the true extent of his exhaustion. No longer conversation could be had now, for the man needed to rest. 

Mack laughed before Robert could offer an answer.

“He’s just sewn you back together, you fool,” Mack said. Robert instantly felt the stranger’s hand grasp his shoulders tightly.

“I must speak to you.”

Robert’s eyes darted to the man’s face, staring at him carefully. The stranger had brown eyes that were a little unusual, flecked on one side. They had a habit of seeming quite intense, then they closed again, showing how close to sleep he was. 

“And you will,” Robert assured, “but you need to rest first.” He pushed the man into the spare room and toward the bed that Woody had made up, urging the man to lie down. 

“It’s important,” he pleaded, just as Mack took off his boots and Robert threw a quilt over him. “It’s about life and death.” The words made both Robert and Mack go still, glancing toward one another.

I turned my back on this sort of danger long ago.

Robert cleared his throat and urged Mack out of the room with a pat on his shoulder.

“Listen, stranger.” Robert moved toward the man. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I do know you’re exhausted, in pain, and in need of rest. Whatever you have to say to me, it can wait until the morning. Yes?” He waited for confirmation. Slowly, the man nodded. “Good. Then rest, and we’ll speak then.”

He moved toward the door, hesitating there for a second.

“You got a name, stranger?”

“Peter,” the man answered, stretching out before grimacing at the pull of his stitches. “Peter Downey.”

The surname caught Robert’s interest. Briefly, he wondered if he’d heard it somewhere before, then dismissed the idea.

“Rest up, Peter. We’ll talk in the morning.” As Robert closed the door, he reasoned that whatever had brought this young man to his door couldn’t be too dangerous, or he would have insisted they talked there and then. Still, there was something to fear.

Someone fired two bullets at that man.

Returning to the kitchen, Robert found his sons both waiting for him. 

“Who is he?” Woody asked restlessly, his brown hair wild from where he had been pulling at it in worry.

“His name’s Peter. He came here for help.”

“Why does he want to speak to you?” Mack asked.

“That I do not know yet.” Robert moved to the front door and kicked the chair away, stepping out to have another look. Still, there was no one there. No stranger or familiar face approaching the house and no shadow at a distance watching them.

Perhaps he evaded the shooter when he came here.

Moving back inside, Robert barricaded the door with two chairs and a table, then he took out two pistols and laid them down by the fireplace, propping the shotgun beside them. If anyone came to his house that night, he would be prepared.

Woody’s eyes moved to the guns, rather nervously, as he sat down opposite Robert by the fire. Mack could not sit. He stood by the fire, warming his hands, his eyes just as much on the weapons. 

“I’ve never seen a bleeding man before,” Woody whispered, his voice rather hollow. Robert could remember that feeling. He’d had it himself, the first time he’d seen a bleeding man.

“You’re in shock. Here. Let us have something to drink. It’ll help calm you.” Robert moved to put some water on the fire, ready to make a pot of coffee. Mack stood very still by the fire, apparently equally stunned.

“Did you see this sort of thing a lot?” Mack asked slowly. “When you were a bounty hunter?”

Robert froze with the pot of water, looking between his sons. He knew they both had a little fascination for what he had done before, an interest he didn’t want to encourage.

“I did.” His voice grew deeper. “But that life is in the past now. No man can do that job forever. It gets to you after a while.”

“The blood? I can see why,” Woody said with a shudder and sat back in his chair. Robert reached for his jacket on a nearby hook and tossed it to his youngest son, so he could stay warm. 

“That part is the easiest thing to get used to. Trust me, sons, being a bounty hunter opens your eyes to worse things,” his voice was wary.

“What things?” Mack asked, full of interest. 

“It doesn’t matter. Tonight is not the night for regaling you with tales of being a bounty hunter, not when we have an injured man upstairs.” He pointed to the ceiling. 

“Who do you reckon he is?” Mack finally sat down in a seat beside his brother, the two of them exchanging troubled glances.

“Downey. Peter Downey.” Robert scratched his chin in thought, feeling the bristles that were growing there. He was certain now he’d heard that surname before, but where, he did not know. 

“Do you reckon he’s a criminal?” Woody asked.

“Pah! No chance of that,” Mack said, laughing at his brother. “He asked for Pa by name, that means he knew who he was. No criminal is going to come to the door of a former bounty hunter, is he?”

“You don’t know that,” Woody argued defensively. “Pa, what do you think?”

Robert reached for the pistol he had taken off the man and examined the handle. It was a fine weapon, one that would have cost a bit of money. 

“Maybe he’s a bounty hunter himself or a gun for hire.” He held up the gun. “Ranch hands don’t usually carry weapons as good as this.” The boys nodded slowly, just as the water began to boil. “Whoever he is, we’ll find out in the morning. That man was in such shock, I doubt what he had to say would have come out making much sense anyway.”

“What if he is a bounty hunter?” Woody asked excitedly.

“I said he could be, not that he was.”

“Why did you become a bounty hunter?” Woody was caught up with the idea now, and was sitting on the edge of his seat, wanting to talk about it. Robert smiled a little as he looked at his son, remembering his wife had been much the same. Whenever Carla had been struck by a fascination for something, she had been unable to sit back and relax either.

“That is a tale for another day.” Robert had no wish to speak of the path that had led him to becoming a bounty hunter. It had all happened long ago, and he had other things to prioritize now—his two sons sat beside him. “No more talk of bounty hunting. Let us drink our tea and go to bed, but be wary of our visitor. Just because he’s injured doesn’t necessarily mean he’s an angel come to our door.”

“The Bounty Hunter’s Return” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Robert has long given up his bounty hunter career to make a peaceful living by his sons’ side. Yet one night, a bleeding gunslinger appears at his doorstep begging Robert to help him find the gang that abducted a rich widow for ransom. After his sons urge him to save the poor woman, Robert must return to his outlaw roots and do what he knows best.

Will he keep his promise to return home safely?

Sheriff Quinn has always sat on the wrong side of the law. His efforts to keep his corrupted businesses hidden will soon fail after his trusted gang kidnaps a rich widow. Robert knows that Quin is not a man of trust and Quin knows that the bounty hunter’s return to look for the victim could forever destroy his name and send him straight to the hangman’s noose. But the game is not over yet…

How far can a dangerous man go to achieve his greedy goal?

As Robert and the young gunslinger search through California to find Olivia, Robert realizes how their quest brings them closer to their real needs. While their mission leads to a violent chacing in dark mines, a personal vendetta will awaken Robert’s past ghosts. Can he stop the Sheriff before it is too late, or will this quest be his swan song as the man who chased justice?

“The Bounty Hunter’s Return” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

Get your copy from Amazon!

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