The year was eighteen seventy-eight
Beneath a ruthless, burning sky
Dry Creek slept, remote and sedate
Where dust danced wild and secrets lie

The air was thick with ghostly tales
Wooden homes and slow-worn feet
A silent sheriff on dusty trails
Where time itself forgot to beat

But fate, unseen with playful hand
Brought to the path a gleaming surprise
A box unmarked, from no known land
...

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