Measure's

They only got a rod or so on the way before Pa came running out and caught Measure's horse by the bridle, and Al Junior's, too.

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So the hatchet struck and rang on the stone, and Measure gasped at the sight of it, sure it'd take his fingers clean off; but when the Red picked up the hatchet, there was Measure's hand just like before, not marked a bit, while the hatchet had finger-shaped depressions in the blade, like it was made of cool butter or wet cake-soap.

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It was a simple thing for Al, though, to get inside that thong and stretch it out, stretch it and stretch it, so it was loose around Measure's neck, and long enough that Measure could run pretty much upright.

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It didn't surprise him that Ta-Kumsaw blocked the blow -- but it was kind of a shock that he caught Measure's wrist so easy, twisted it.

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The only sound he heard was his and Measure's footfalls.

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He heard Measure's voice, not ten yards away, shouting out so every man could hear him.

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He was looking at Al, and there was a sick look on Measure's face.

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Dozed off and slept real peaceful, what with the night breeze blowing cool off the river, the blanket and the warmth of Measure's body keeping him warm, the nightsounds of the animals, the cries of a hungry infant from a hut somewhere; all of it was part of the green music flowing through his head.

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They rubbed his slashed-up shirt on his face, and Measure's hacked up clothes, too.

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The Red laid that knife up against Measure's bare chest and tried to cut.

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