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When I stumbled along the bank of the little stream that marked our rendezvous, I was mud-splashed, torn, and insect-poisoned, and I led a brutish set of ruffians. Yet I heard a muffled cheer roar out as I came into view. The Winnebagoes were in camp and in waiting. I forgot ache and weariness. The Winnebagoes were fifty in all, picked men, and I looked them over and exulted.
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