Chapter 52

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Fleet Runner, a man not yet in his mid-twenties, would have been handsome had it not been for a nose too large for his face. The feature gave him a hawkish look, yet to speak to him was to encounter a pleasant, likable individual. I soon discerned he was na?ve in the way he dealt with the outside world. He readily admitted he was the individual hired by a “white grandfather with glasses on his eyes” to make a mark on a paper. He had been returning home from a visit to a woman of his acquaintance who lived in Fort Ramson when a big man on horseback stopped him on the south bank of Turtle Crick downstream from the farm.