Cooper v. Coppersmith

At night the Cooper sits sleepless. From the quiet, he hears the sound of gunfire. Four shots in total, two seconds between each shot. They reverberate off the cliff toward the west, echoing between the east and west walls of the great valley. The Cooper waits.

The next morning the Coppersmith walks in from the road. She lets out a cry and rushes to the South Pointing Marmot. It was her work, partially: the bronze panels that lined the square base, beneath the marmot, each of a different creature. When she sees the massive dent in the cuttlefish panel she gasps and touches it softly, as if it was her own wound.

I thought I'd never see this again, she says.

The Cooper remarks on the design, the inventiveness of it.

She waves him off. Oh, she says humbly, these were all copies from older panels. The man that contracted this was specific on what he wanted. I just followed his directions, adding a few things here and there.

Pepple staggers from the forest. His shirt is torn and his torso bloody, his face is scarred, and great scars lacerate his neck and right arm. He's exhausted from blood loss and lack of sleep, holding the Mauser loosely, its stock bloody, midbarrel.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.