[Spinne-developer] ion of the

[Ollig Cecena]

Led instead of crippling him." "He's a bad lot," sighed
the general. "Wing won't fly away from Kennedy, I fancy." "Not if
there's a shot left
in his belt," said Blake. "And Ray is officer-of-the-day. There'll be
no
napping on guard this night." At the
barred aperture
that served for window on the southward front, a dark face peered forth
in malignant hate as the speakers strode by. But it shrank

back, when the sentry once more tossed his carbine to the shoulder, and
briskly trudged beneath the bars. Six Indians shared that
prison room, four of their number destined to exile in the distant
East,--to years, perhaps, within the casemates
of a seaboard fort--the last place on earth for a son of the warlike
Sioux. "They know their fate, I understand," said Blake, as the general
moved on again. "Oh, yes. Their agent and others have been here with
Indian Bureau orders, permitting them to s
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