Return of the Nativists

A great feast (with kosher option) follows the overdue duel. The Grave Digger’s meager stock of food is depleted. The revelry goes on until midnight.

A few of the more sensitive duelists notice a subtle difference between that night and all previous nights. After waking undisturbed, they realize that Rhetoric slept quietly, without barking once. Mid-morning, during the assembly of the public tribunal, this point is raised. Unfortunately it’s drowned out by the persistent drone of the Entomologist, whose pitch for a group lecture series (beginning with ‘Bugs of the Dueling Ground: Insects We See and Are Bitten By Every Day’) meets at first with indifference, then annoyance, then - if only to reclaim his silence - acceptance.

The Environmental Scientist calls the tribunal to order. As first point of business, two advocates are chosen, one for and one against the accused, with the Environmental Scientist acting as judge and the remaining duelists as jury (excluding his daughter the Employment Officer).

Arguments are made for and against the Grave Digger. The defense (Ergonomist) asks the jury to take into consideration the fact that there were no stockpiles of ammunition in the cabin, and that the .455 caliber of the Webley may in fact be so rare as to be difficult to purchase. The prosecutor (Environmental Lobbyist) lists the failures of the accused, especially in that he almost certainly manufactured the scarcity of the bullets only to prevent his daughter from going through with the duel.

It takes the jury under a minute to proclaim the guilt of the Grave Digger.

The Environmental Scientist takes off his reading glasses. The next step, he says carefully, is to determine a suitable punishment.

Hang the jerk! shouts the Expressman from the rear of the jury. The rest mutter in general agreement.

One consideration we should make, pipes the Ergonomist, is that as a Grave Digger he may be part of a later duel.

Grumbling.

The Ergonomist continues:

A few days ago, he says, as everybody knows, the Etymologist cracked secret to the particular succession of people that come to the grounds. Namely, they come in order of their occupation, arranged alphabetically. With this rule discovered, we could scientifically determine who had been the very last duelist. (Here he points to the Employment Officer.) Which of course gave rise to our outrage at the hidden insiderism and whatnot. What I’m getting at, in a round-about kind of way, is that the Grave Digger may be a duelist whose duel isn’t yet due.

Shuffling.

In which case the question becomes: is it proper for a group of duelists to kill a future duelist outside of a duel?

Everyone is very quiet.

Just hang him already! cries the Expressman.

All in favor of hanging the Grave Digger? asks the Environmental Scientist.

Most of the jury raises their hands.

And the nays?

Only a few.

Good, the Environmental Scientist sighs, happy to be done with the business if nothing else. Should we form a subcommittee to carry out the lynching?

They do, and a long strand of nylon rope is thrown over one of the lower branches of the great oak, noose at one end, now over the head and around the neck of the Grave Digger, who stands wobbling atop the Shaker table. The Evangelist consoles him with passages from the Bible on eternal life, etc.

Grave Digger, announces the subcommittee appointed executioner (Executioner), prepare yourself for death.

You’re all the ones to blame here! shouts the Grave Digger. Ingrates! I stood side to side with the caretaker when he was overcome by the nativists! It was in my right to take his place! Maybe I didn’t do no good, but I tried my damndest! You’re hands are dirty with the blood of an innocent man!

The Executioner kicks away the table. The Grave Digger drops. Deep gurgling as he struggles for breath, writhing with his hands behind his back.

His daughter faints. Suddenly Rhetoric’s ears perk.

As everyone watches the victim in his last throes – the rope breaks, a crack shoots from afar, and the Grace Digger falls to the ground. There’s a cry. The Entertainer points east to the forest. From the dark woods emerges Stetson, rifle across his shoulder, sack in another, dressed in tattered rags. As he walks others emerge – a whole hoard of shaggy nativists, half-naked, sinewy men with paint and tattoos and piercings covering their pale, mud-caked bodies.

As the duelists stand awe-struck in a circle about the half-hanged man, Stetson strides toward them. Just paces away, he throws the sack at the feet of the Environmental Scientist. It tumbles and its contents spill: from inside roll hundreds of fresh .455 caliber cartridges.

Stetson sweeps his eyes across the numerous. He speaks.

Let's resume the duel.