He began shoveling dirt over the bodies. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. Wait, though. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically. A ball from Wild's pistol passed through his heart, and a volley of musketry poured from the guards lodged several balls in the yet breathing body of his leader. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays.
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