A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 18
The Weapon and the Hawk
Mum and Da were in the kitchen—Mum bustling about on dinner; Da pouring over some files. He flicked up his eyes and said hello; dropping right back to his spreadsheet. For about three seconds. His eyes coming slowly back up, an eyebrow arching, "Kath, I think our boy has something important to discuss with us…"
Mum took one look at me, set down her half-peeled potato, and quietly moved to a seat at the table. They both looked up at me, their eyes heavy with unasked questions.
I had figured out one thing on the agonizing ride home with Hank: I needed to be firm. No wishy-washy teenage hedging. If I went in there saying I'm thinking about, or maybe I want to, or one possibility would be, Da would tear my argument apart before I even finished my sentence. I needed to lock it down at the very outset.
I took a breath, met my father's arched eyebrow, and took my stand. "I want to be a history teacher. And I want to write—both history books and novels."
I purposefully left out the fact that I hadn't actually decided between the two yet. It was better to lead with both and present a united front; I'd have plenty of time to figure out the specifics later.
Mum and Da both just stared at me, looking even more confused than they had when I walked through the door. The silence stretched out, thick and heavy.
"What were you two thinking?" I let out a nervous, breathless laugh, trying to break the ice. "That I was about to tell you I'm gay?"
Da snorted, and Mum let out a warm grin.
She recovered first. I got the exact same look she'd given me back at Amá Sání's —that soft, bittersweet my-baby's-growing-up look.
"I think that's wonderful, Lachlan. You've always been fascinated with history, the whole genealogy of the family, and you adore reading." She smiled, a look of deep pride washing over her face. "They didn't name you Compassionate Snow Raider for nothing, you know. You have such a deep, natural understanding of people and their stories. You will make a wonderful teacher and a brilliant author."
"I agree," Da added, closing his corporate files completely. "Like I've always said, you need to follow your passions. I think it's wonderful that you've figured this out so early; some people take forever to find their footing." He paused, his sharp eyes narrowing just a fraction. "But I think there's more to this sudden discussion than just a future career choice, isn't there?"
I nodded, my stomach doing a nervous flip. Here it was.
"Hank and I have been looking at our options," I said, keeping my voice steady. "He's set on investment banking, and I'm locked into history and writing. It turns out there are two schools right here in Texas that are world-class for both of us—UT-Austin, right here in town, and Rice, down in Houston. I actually ran the idea past Mr. Schneider this afternoon, and he thought it was incredibly sharp. He's the one who suggested I look into a double major."
There it was. I'd laid down the gauntlet so to speak. I wanted to go to college here in Texas. Not Scotland. Not London.
Mum and Da looked at each other, her hand sliding over his. There was a furious, silent volley passing between them—a thousand unspoken words flying back and forth in a single glance. It was exactly the same wordless language Hank and I used.
Da looked out the kitchen window for a couple of hours...okay, maybe less, but it was at least a full, agonizing minute.
Then he looked back at me, his face unreadable. "Have you applied yet?"
I stared at him like he'd gone completely daft. "What? No. I won't even apply for over a year, in the fall of my senior year."
He nodded slowly, his expression full of a blank, innocent confusion that should have warned me. "Ah...I see. So, a sophomore doesn't apply to college? You're saying this is all a whole year from now?"
"Yes, Da. Exactly."
"Right then," he said, the fake confusion vanishing in an instant as he leaned forward. "You have time to make this decision. No need to rush. Time to think, and see what next year brings…"
This wasn't going the way I wanted at all. The old man had completely baited me into proving his own point. I needed a yes —right now, not next year. " Next year? No, no, no. I already know where I want to go, Da. I know where I want to be."
Da reached across the table and laid his hand over mine, squeezing it lightly. "I know you do, son. But Lachlan, things change. Remember, a year ago, you were absolutely adamant that you would never move to Texas. Yet here we are. Things changed, and now I think you'd wage a whole new campaign if we told you that you had to leave."
Well, he was spot-on about that.
"Exactly!" I said, the desperation starting to leak into my voice as I felt the trap closing in. "I want to be here...with Hank."
Suddenly feeling cornered, I looked over at Mum, my eyes pleading for backup. "I can't just not know for a whole year, Mum. I won't be able to stand it…"
Da didn't let go of my hand; he gave it a reassuring pat. "I get it, I get it. How about we agree to a conditional yes?"
"Conditional?" I echoed. He had technically said the word yes, but conditional sounded like a trap wrapped in a promise.
"Conditional," Da repeated firmly. " If, when the time comes, you still want to go to UT-Austin or Rice, then you have our blessing. You can go. But until then, you keep your options open. Lachlan, you have the luxury of time. You and Hank don't have to commit to anything yet. Who knows? Maybe you both get recruited by Harvard. Maybe you both decide you want to go to King's College. Just keep your options open."
I practically leapt across the table, wrapping my arms around him. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" I buried my face in his neck while he held me.
"We only want the best for you, Lachlan," he said lightly, smiling as he gently pulled back to look at me. "You didn't have to get yourself so worked up over this. After all, we acquiesced to Rhona's transfer to A&M, did you think we wouldn't do the same for you?"
Rhona.
I hadn't even thought about Rhona. If Da stayed on his usual three-year corporate cycle, she'd still be here in Texas for a full year after he and Mum moved back across the Atlantic. I could feel the heat rising instantly in my cheeks.
Da laughed, catching me red-handed. "Forgot you had a sister, did you? She'll be so distraught to hear that. No one here to look after her."
Busted. Instinctively, my brain triggered the evil little brother defense.
"She'll be fine," I countered cheekily, a wicked grin breaking across my face. "She has her new boyfriend, Miller, to look after her."
The videos had been circulating on Instagram for the past two days, but clearly, the family intelligence network was lagging behind. It was time for Mum and Da to play the role of the stunned mullets.
Mum's eyes went wide, her half-peeled potato completely forgotten now. "Boyfriend? Since when? Who on earth is Miller? And how do you know?"
"Cooper Miller. Since our Philips meet. It's all over Instagram," I smirked. Parents—they really are completely oblivious.
I was just about to pull out my phone to show them when Hank's face suddenly banged against the window of the back door. He looked terrified, his eyes wide as he shrugged his shoulders, wordlessly asking WTF?
I waved him in, blurting out the verdict before he could even cross the threshold. "Yes. Conditional. We have to keep our options open until we absolutely have to commit."
Hank froze, his head nodding slowly as his brain processed each data element. Then, the biggest, dumbest grin broke out across his face. "Awesomeness! And yeah, of course we'd keep our options open. That's just obvious. Things change, right?"
Obvious to everyone but me, apparently. I briefly wondered where the bug was in our kitchen, when Mum sharply broke back into my thoughts.
"Focus, Lachlan," she commanded, tapping the table. "Rhona. Miller. Instagram. Now."
Suddenly, I became home-tech support. Da grabbed Hank by the shoulder, drafting him to help finish up the half-peeled potatoes, so Mum could focus on her investigation.
I took her iPhone, pointed out the Instagram app, opened it, and showed her how to pull up Rhona's account. I bypassed her grid and went right to my favorite of her recent videos—the Boot Scootin' Boogie at the A&M Cadet Hoedown. There was our Rhona, looking every bit the Texas cowgirl: pink cowboy hat, sequined boots, and I'm pretty sure her MacKenzie kilt, now showing way more thigh than it ever had before. It was the Jack-kilt theme all over again.
Cooper Miller was right by her side—real cowboy hat, real boots, and faded jeans. Mum was watching Rhona, but I was watching Cooper. He looked awfully good in those jeans. Hank and I had already watched the clip a dozen times, and we both agreed on that front. The two of them were tapping, sliding, spinning, and clearly having a very good time together.
"Duncan!" Mum giggled, her jaw dropping. "You have to see this!"
Da and I switched places, because it was completely obvious my parents weren't getting any dinner on the table tonight. Within seconds, the two of them were huddled over the screen—swiping, laughing, cooing, and typing out a frantic text to my sister:
>> Miller????
I took care of the potatoes—peeling, cubing, and tossing them in olive oil and a heavy layer of shredded Parmigiana.
Hank handled the chicken breasts. He scoured the cabinets, raiding the weird borderland between our Scottish staples and Texas groceries. He emerged triumphant with a bottle of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire, a tin of smoky chipotle powder, a jar of honey, and a rogue container of orange marmalade.
In a bowl, he began aggressively whisking them together, fashioning a sweet, fiery Texas-Navajo glaze. "It's all in the balance," he laughed, catching my skeptical look. "The marmalade cuts the chipotle heat. It's an old family trick."
My parents were still clustered around Mum's iPhone like a pair of Paiges when Hank and I finally put dinner on the table. I actually had to admonish them, knocking on the wood of the table. "No phones during dinner, you two."
They managed to pull themselves away from Rhona-gate, though my sister was quite silent on the text front, so far.
It turned out to be an amazing dinner, and not just because Hank's weird Texas-Navajo glaze actually tasted incredible. Mum and Da started looking back. They talked all about how they started out. High school. University. Their very first meeting, dating, and what it was like trying to build a life together from nothing.
They shared stories I'd never heard before in my entire life. Sitting there with Hank, eating chicken and Parmesan potatoes, I watched my parents laugh at old memories, seeing them not just as Mum and Da, but as a boy and a girl who had been our age once.
Mum even dug an old shoebox out from Da's study. Inside were old pictures—like, actual paper pictures. Mum and Da growing up, some from even before they knew each other. Soon, we had them spread out across the kitchen table, passing them around. Mum and Da got incredibly nostalgic, and every single photo came with a story, some stretching back to our grandmums and granddas.
I loved it, especially the family history. Hank was completely mesmerized. He kept holding up pictures of a teenage Da, looking closely at the image, and then looking back at me. "Lachlan, these look exactly like you. Just in older clothes."
That made me feel all gooey inside. Looking at my parents, I think they felt the same way.
Hank spent the night. Knowing there was nothing standing in the way of us being together in college made it even more special. Once we were in bed, Hank completely took the reins. It was a beautiful repeat of the pool, only this time Hank was the one dictating every movement—his weight over me, his rhythm, his flexing, entirely in control. The only catch was that my parents were right down the hall. We couldn't be wild and loud like we had been out at the pool or at the hogan. It had to be Church-mouse, not Fierce Wolf. It had to be Silent Raider, not Compassionate Snow Raider. Every touch had to be reined in, every gasp muffled against a shoulder, building a quiet pressure that we couldn't fully release.
Not yet.
My birthday, June twentieth, was fast approaching. I was practically busting with curiosity, but Mum and Da had gone completely radio silent—not a single hint slipped out. Hank was even worse. They must have tipped him off, because he was locked down tighter than a vault. Usually, I could string together the random pieces of household gossip and have a pretty good idea of what was coming. But not this time. I could tell they were all up to something, but I couldn't figure out a thing.
Every day followed the same strict routine. Hank and I would hit the gym in the morning, and then I'd head off to driving school for the afternoon. I was absolutely adamant about getting my license on my actual birthday, just like Hank had done. Even better, I was going to secure mine before Magnus or Rhona had even thought about theirs.
I'd be the one with the keys, and they'd be stranded. I was already vividly imagining pulling up in Da's car outside the British Airways terminal at Austin-Bergstrom to pick up my older brother, forcing Magnus to sit in the back. I seriously wondered if I could convince Da to install a soundproof privacy barrier between the seats.
Hank would drop me off at the driving academy, but then he'd completely disappear for the rest of the afternoon. When we'd meet back up later, he'd be totally circumspect, vague, and entirely unhelpful. It was October at Amá Sání's all over again. I'd been to this rodeo before and recognized the signs. I was definitely in known-unknown territory...but I still knew absolutely nothing.
Dirty jeans. What do dirty jeans tell you?
Hank had picked me up at driving school, and we were currently heading over to Westlake Stadium to watch the Austin Sol—our local professional ultimate-frisbee team. They were playing the Dallas Legion, and if you haven't looked at an ultimate-frisbee player lately, you are missing out. We're talking tall, hyper-lean, and sinewy guys with incredibly low body fat percentages. Chiseled abs, cut obliques, and long, corded muscles in their legs and shoulders.
Plus, there isn't much to their uniforms—just thin tank tops and loose, lightweight shorts. You can see their shirts riding all the way up when they go completely horizontal for a layout catch, and I swear to God you can see things flopping around in their shorts when they sprint down the field.
We were both frantically changing into shorts in the seats of the car before heading into the stadium, when I noticed the back of Hank's jeans. They were dirty. Like, a thick black smudge right across the bum. It definitely wasn't regular dirt. Not brown, not gray. Jet black.
My brain immediately started churning through the options and permutations like Turing's Bomba at Bletchley Park trying to break the Nazi's Enigma codes.
Stables. Horse poop. Wrong color, and there wasn't a smell. Car shop. Oil. Grease. Nope, not shiny, and again, no smell. High-end river gear. Charcoal coating from a brand-new aluminum canoe rack. No, that would have wiped right off. It smelled like charcoal though—barbecue? What the hell had Hank been sitting on all afternoon?
Turing was definitely more successful than I was.
The morning of June twentieth arrived, and the smell alone was enough to drag me out of bed.
When Hank and I walked downstairs, the kitchen island was covered in a massive, celebratory feast. Mum had pulled out all the stops, executing a perfect, high-protein collision of our two worlds. There were traditional Scottish tattie scones griddled in butter until they were golden brown, but stacked right next to them was a mountain of thick-cut, hickory-smoked Texas pepper bacon and massive jalapeño-cheddar sausage links. A huge platter of scrambled eggs sat in the center, flanked by a jar of Dundee orange marmalade and a bottle of local wildflower honey.
"Happy sixteenth, birthday boy!" Mum beamed, coming over to give me a tight hug that smelled like coffee and maple syrup.
Da looked up from his iPad at the head of the table, a proud, amused smirk on his face. "Happy birthday, son. Almost officially legal to wreck my car."
"Happy birthday, Lachlan," Hank chimed in right on cue, slipping into the stool next to me and immediately reaching for a tattie scone. He looked completely fresh, entirely innocent—especially for a boy who'd given me a right proper pucker-tonguing in the shower five minutes ago.
I scanned the room while I piled my plate, looking for wrapped boxes, rogue keys, or any kind of clue. Nothing. Just a mountain of food, a family wishing me a happy sixteenth, and an agonizingly blank slate for the rest of the day. The party wasn't until tonight, which meant I had the gym, a driving test to pass, and a whole afternoon of torturous curiosity ahead of me.
Mum and Hank took me to my test, while Da headed into the office. The tester guy was actually super nice. He really liked my Scottish accent, and I really liked his Jamaican accent. Neither of us was very Texan, which made for a brilliant pairing. I passed with flying colors. Between my official lessons, practice hours with Mum and Da, and all that time behind the wheel with Hank, I was completely relaxed but careful. Having the actual plastic license in my hand felt like total freedom. Magnus doesn't have one!
Birthday dinner—with the Allens, of course—was at Jacoby's. Think Texas ranch meets upscale Southern comfort. We'd picked it because it sounded rustic and outdoorsy, like a nod to our Scouting. It was—if you consider five-star glamping rustic.
The restaurant was perched directly on a high cliff, heavily shaded by massive pecan and oak trees that catch a constant, sweeping breeze off the Colorado River. Even in the thick of a Texas June, the moving water down below created a natural microclimate. The second we stepped out onto the wooden deck, the air felt noticeably cooler, fresh, and completely refreshing.
The food was beyond amazing. We all went family-style, trading plates of smoked chicken, prime-cut steaks, smoked beef gnocchi, and BBQ meatloaf. And that's not even mentioning the mountain of appetizers and skillet sides we demolished. By the time they brought out the desserts—strawberry cake, strawberry ice cream, and a pecan pie that officially became my new favorite thing on earth—we were all completely, gloriously stuffed.
Da handed me the ticket for the valet while the 'rents settled up the bill inside. Fortunately, Hank and I managed to find a small patch of shade while we waited—the front of the restaurant was a furnace compared to the breezy deck overlooking the river. Finally, we saw a bright red Jeep swing into the driveway circle, with Da's navy blue Lexus rolling up right behind it. I immediately moved toward the driver's side of the Lexus with all the polished aplomb a day one driver could possibly muster, getting my hand ready to slip the valet a fiver as he tossed me the keys.
Except it wasn't our guy.
"Over here, Sir. Your car," a voice came from behind me. My guy was standing right by the open door of the red Jeep.
I shook my head, pointing toward the SUV behind it. "No, it's not. This is mine—err, my Da's car. The navy Lexus."
The dude just smiled and shook his head. "No, Sir. Ticket three-twenty-seven. This is your car. That car belongs to the gentleman over there."
I looked over. Mum, Da, Mr. and Mrs. Allen—they were all standing by the restaurant doors, wearing identical, massive grins. Still completely confused, I whipped my head around to look at Hank. He was standing right next to me, grinning just as wide. Even the valets were smirking.
Slowly, the weight of the words began to dawn on me. Your car, he'd said.
"No, way," I whispered, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.
"Yes, way," Hank whispered back, his arm brushing against mine.
"Happy Sixteenth, Lachlan," Mum and Da sang out.
The next ten seconds were a total blur. I literally started jumping up and down right there in the driveway, and Hank—without missing a beat—started jumping right along with me. I completely lost my mind. I ran around the circle dispensing aggressive, high-velocity hugs to everyone in sight. Mum, Da, Mr. Allen, Mrs. Allen...and yes, both of the valets. I squeezed them too.
It took me a solid two minutes to finally settle down enough to function like a human being. By that time, a line of luxury cars was starting to back up behind us in the Jacoby's driveway, the drivers staring at the crazy teenager who was currently vibrating with excitement next to a shiny red Jeep.
My hands were actually shaking as I finally took the keys from the dazed valet and jumped into the driver's seat. Hank, of course, slid right into the passenger side next to me. I shifted into drive and swung in right behind my parents and the Allens, forming a proud, three-car convoy all the way home. The entire drive back, Hank was leaning over the console, figuring out all the modern bells and whistles—and this thing had a ton of them.
The second we pulled into our driveway; we jumped out and immediately started showing off every single feature to the parents—as if they hadn't been the ones who literally just bought the thing.
Then I walked around to the back and opened up the rear gate, triggering massive confusion moment number two.
The cargo bay was absolutely packed to the brim. My jaw completely dropped. Right on top of the pile, I saw the distinctive logo of a Marmot Lair bag. I knew exactly what that was; I'd been relentlessly hinting for that specific tent all spring. Tucked in tightly all around it was a host of other brand-new camping and survival gear, completely filling the back of the Jeep.
Suddenly, the brand-new Jeep took a backseat! Hank and I hauled the massive Marmot bag out of the cargo bay and absolutely stormed the backyard. It took us all of fifteen minutes to get the whole thing fully assembled, and honestly, most of that time was just tearing off the factory plastic and packaging—it'll be a five-minute job tops from here on out.
Once the Lair was up, we headed back out front to more seriously scour the rest of the Jeep's cargo bay. We ran a frantic logistics operation: some gear went straight down into the basement, some went out to the Marmot, and then we grabbed some of our old favorite blankets from the basement to bring into the Marmot.
Before heading inside, I carefully locked up the Jeep, testing the door handles at least a half-dozen times until Hank finally grabbed my wrist and assured me that it was well and truly locked. Trying our absolute best not to be ungrateful or rude, we finally joined our parents and the Allens in the living room. We did our level best to appear calm, engaged, and capable of adult conversation. We tried, like I said.
Da eventually saw right through us, laughed, and kicked us loose. We bolted upstairs to my room to change into comfortable gear at warp speed, and then immediately broke for the backyard to claim our Lair.
I crawled in first, and I'd just started to turn around when Hank pushed me down onto the pile of sleeping bags. He crawled right in on top of me, kissing the nape of my neck, the sides, and all along my jawline. Just the heavy weight of him pinning me to the floor felt really, really nice—warm, safe, wanted, and totally loved. I lay there and reveled in the moment. Eventually, I twisted my head to the side, bringing my lips up to meet his.
We kissed. Brushing kisses. Light, teasing kisses. Deep, passionate, breathless tongue kisses. Still linked at the lips, I felt Hank lift himself up slightly—the universal message for me to roll over. He settled right back down into the cradle of my hips, the hard cock I'd just felt against my bum now pressing directly against my equally hard cock. I thrust up hard against him, a low groan catching in my throat.
"Present," he whispered against my mouth.
"You're my present," I countered, wrapping my arms around his shoulders.
He giggled, a warm, vibrating sound against my chest. "I am your second present. First present comes first."
I tried my absolute best pout. I tried stroking his bum. I tried grinding up against him to distract him. Total failure. The boy was completely resolute. He sat back on his heels, breaking the contact and pulling me up with him. I already knew the next move. I scooted back against the nylon wall of the tent, crossed my legs, and tightly closed my eyes.
I heard and felt him moving around in the quiet dark of the tent. He reached out and touched my hands, gently pulling them forward and turning them palms up, his fingers lightly tracing a path across my skin. Then I felt a soft cloth spread out across both of my upturned hands. He hadn't said the word yet, so I kept my eyes tightly closed, my heart hammering in my chest.
Then he placed something on top of the cloth. It felt incredibly solid, heavy at one end, lighter at the other. The fabric kept me from sensing anything else.
I could feel Hank sitting directly across from me, moving in close until his knees were resting against mine. His hands came in under mine, cradling them from underneath to help support the weight of the object.
"I, Hashkeh Mąʼiitsoh … Fierce Wolf, made this for you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. " Nabaahí Yas Joobaʼí …my Compassionate Snow Raider. To our people, yours and mine, this represents both our Warrior and our Gentle Spirits —the Balance. To us, you and me, it represents the strength of our union, our fierce love of each other, our tender embrace."
My breath hitched. The tears were already cascading hot down my cheeks, completely blurring my vision before I could even see it.
"Open," he murmured.
I blinked rapidly, trying to clear the hot moisture from my eyes. It was a tomahawk. Now I knew what Hank had been doing every afternoon. The black smudge on his jeans. The vague answers. He'd been building a monument for us.
It was a piece of art, forged from pure muscle and fire. The head was made of heavy carbon steel, its face dark with the many rippling lines that flowed seamlessly from the base to the front, mimicking a dark, rushing river current. But along the wicked curve of the biting edge, Hank had honed the steel to a blinding, mirror-polished sheen.
"The blade is Damascus," he whispered, his tone so intimate it felt as if we were making love over the blade. "I hammered it at Uncle Raymond's forge. One-hundred and twenty-eight layers." His fingers gently traced the metal current. "This is acid etching. It brings out the definition."
"It's so beautiful, Hank," I choked out, completely overwhelmed.
The handle was a gorgeous piece of dark hickory, wrapped precisely in supple, cross-stitched leather where my hand would grip it. But hanging from a thin leather thong at the very base of the pommel was a single, large Red-tailed Hawk feather. It was perfectly intact, its bold bands of dark chocolate and warm cream catching the faint light, a soft, natural counterweight to the heavy steel above.
And the feather?" I whispered, my thumb brushing the soft, rigid edge of the quill.
He smiled, "The hawk belongs to the wind. It represents lightness. Mindful focus."
He reached down, his thumb smoothing the dark, banded cream of the feather. "And it represents your compassion, Joobaʼí. A weapon without compassion is just a tool for destruction. The hawk only takes what it needs to survive; it carries a quiet reverence for the valley below. The feather is the Gentle Spirit that balances the steel. It's the part of you that heals, the part that loves fiercely, the part that keeps the warrior from turning cold."
I let out a shaky breath, leaning my forehead against his temple as another tear slipped down my cheek. I squeezed his hand; the sheer weight of how deeply this boy understood me pressing into my chest. "Hank..." I whispered, unable to find any other words.
He leaned into me, his dark eyes locking with mine in the shadows. "The steel is our passion, the fire that burns between us. The feather is our peace. You need both to survive out there. The weapon and the prayer."
"My God, Hank, this is so incredible," I choked out. "I can't believe—no, I can believe—that you've captured us so beautifully." I ran my fingers lightly all over the pattern of the blade, the smooth hickory haft, and the soft feather. "I shall cherish this always."
"More than the Jeep?" He giggled, a wicked spark hitting his eyes.
I punched his shoulder. Hard.
He just laughed, catching my wrist and pulling me down with him onto the pile of sleeping bags. We didn't get much sleep that night. We touched, we kissed, we feasted on each other in the dark of the tent. We did everything. Except for mating, the final word we'd chosen for our secret language. Like feasting, it represented the pack—raw, powerful, primitive, loyal, compassionate. We were saving that final boundary for our upcoming trip down the Guadalupe River.
Two weeks away.
We'd be completely alone out there, just two Scouts in the heart of the Texas wilderness. The Fierce Wolf and the Compassionate Snow Raider would finally take each other beneath the open sky, and be as loud and as wild as their passions desired.
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