Economist v. Editor

After winning the duel, the Economist quietly stands over the burial of the Ecologist, then retires to the base of the oak.

It's there that he sees the dusty leather pouch of the forest dweller, and carefully inspects the inside of the bag. Each of the items he lays out on the table. Of special fascination is the marble bust of the plain-looking woman, dressed in homespun 19th-century garb, and the bullet cartridges.

Removing two of the primed cartridges, he reloads both pistols. He examines the hot, used shells just discarded and sees that they - like the other empty shells in the primitive's satchel - are decorated with light, ornately patterned etching. Similar, he notes, to the patterns of a certain indigenous baskets.

Curious, he finds and opens the small drawer under the circular tabletop. Four cartridges roll clumsily into view. He examines all four. Each show similar markings to the cartridges and empty shells from the satchel.

He calls out to the Grave Digger.

Where was this satchel found?

The Grave Digger thrusts his shovel into the loose earth and walks to the oak. He nods at items on the table.

Found alls that on the body of a nativist. Another one shot him a few days ago. He was threatening, spying.

Even so, voices the Economist softly, I think the death may have lead us to a scarcity.

He look down, watching the cartridges roll in his fleshy palm.

How many have come before me? How many duels have you seen?

The Grave Digger swallows. He looks off. He can't remember the number off hand, he can't remember their faces. It's been a month now, maybe more.

Tens, dozens, hundreds?

Dozens, dozens on dozens.

And where have the bullets come from for each duel? I didn't bring bullets. The caretaker?

No. Never him. Never me either. We never brought none.

Someone did. I have a feeling it was the primitives to the east. They've maintained a pre-industrial cottage industry, a cycle of manufacture. Last night I heard the dog barking into the forest. Why they insist on secrecy, on replenishing the ammunition by night, is a mystery. But it explains why the man who was killed was lurking by the border, and why he had these in his pouch.

I was there, says the Grave Digger fearfully, pinching each word. He points. Up in the woods.

So have I, says the Economist sympathetically.

The Grave Digger walks off.

That night, again, the dog barks at the border of the forest.

The Editor's a thin, severe man with a keen eye and a quick tongue. He wears a sweat-stained blue Oxford tucked into a pair of khaki slacks.

Where is she? he spits. Where's my Correspondent?

The Economist tells him he has no clue to whom the Editor refers.

Called from here, I'm sure of it. Just like she described.

The Editor takes a look around again, then squares up.

Just like she said: right from the movie. Right from Swingo!. Tree, creek, cabin, woods, hill. Right from Swingo!.