Part 4: Highway To Hell

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"Little gal's faster with a pigsticker."

The stranger seemed to have stepped out of nowhere and was in the gap between a game trail that vanished into the shadowy woods. He was a tall broad-shoulder man but very thin man in a dusty black coat and wide-brimmed black hat. Long white hair hung like strands of spiderweb from under the brim of his hat, and he wore a smile that twitched and writhed on his thin lips like works on a hot griddle.

"My, my, my," said the man softly, his smile never wavering, "ain't we in a pickle?"

Instantly Tom pivoted, slapped the knife away from his throat, spun like a dancer, and swung the blade in a lighting-fast circle that stopped a hairbreadth from the man's nose.

"Let's call it one-all and say the rest of the game was rained out," suggested the stranger. Without waiting to see if Tom and Negan agreed, the man rolled the handle of his knife through his fingers like a magician and slid the ten-inch blade into a sheath that hung from his belt.

"Okay," said Mal, still holding her gun out, "who are you?"

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