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upon bone, for what little soul he had was the soul of an artist. And he planned in the dark of the night, how upon a great, clean bone, the shovel of its own antlers, he would inscribe the moose with the arrow in him, standing arrogantly among the bushes as he bled to death, and leaning unconquered against the tree. Then fear of the night descended upon No Man, and he closed his eyes and slept—twitching, coughing and snarling as the dreams of ancient days possessed him.
