It hadn’t even been called Kentucky back then when the Shawnee still hunted deer over mossy hills and the smoke from their fires could still inspire terror. “You must tell me the truth, and I will see that no harm comes to you. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. “Damn”. “Damned Rascal!” he said. Give this fellow the slip, if you can, Jack.
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