Constable v. Contractor

After the death of the Construction Worker - just as he falls, and the Contractor runs to his body, checking for any sign of life - an unexpected thing happens:

A tiny, semi-official man arrives in a tiny, semi-official car. The man steps from the car - leaving it running - and walks briskly to the dueling ground. He wears an impeccably arranged yet slightly grease-stained brown uniform, circular, wire-framed glasses, a close trimmed beard, and a short-brimmed brown cap at an angle atop his head. By the two men and one corpse, he takes the clipboard from under his arm and, in a tiny, semi-official voice, reads a common name. The Contractor looks up. The Courier, with quick bird-like movements, walks to the Contractor, takes a pen from his shirt pocket, clicks it, turns the clipboard around to face the Contractor, and asks him to sign. The Contractor, stunned by his apprentice's death, signs. At which point the Courier takes back the clipboard, takes back the pen, opens a shoulder satchel, and hands the Contractor a telegram.

Sorry for the delay, he says curtly. You weren't at the address given.

How did you know I was here? asks the Contractor, reading the telegram.

Your wife, he says. Then he bows to both men and the one corpse, turns, and leaves.

My wife, the Contractor echos. Absently, he folds the telegram and pockets it. He looks at the lifeless face of his apprentice, then the witless face of the Constable, then to the cabin, where Pepple stands, and has stood, watching with an expression that hints at wonder -- and sympathy.

A great wind washes over the forest, and the mighty trees rustle like thunder.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Constable v. Construction Worker

The workmen work all day. What's left of the hideous shack are only those materials that could not be applied to the new: absurdly warped planks, rotted wood, rusted chicken wire, rusted metal sheets, and so on. An irregular rhomboid of dead grass outlines the spot where the old shack lay. In the middle of this unnatural clearing stands an incongruous two-foot red rock, once claimed by weeds encroached upon it from the well, but now bare and bright, casting a shadow in the noonday sun.

Nearby the workmen weatherproof the clapboard cabin with moss from the forest to the east.

As their work nears completion, the Constable arrives and, in no easy terms, requests housing. The workmen look to Pepple. Pepple twists his gaze. The Constable looks inside, through a doorway open to the west.

The cabin is ten feet long by ten feet wide, with an arched roof ten feet at its peak. The interior is clean and uncluttered. A single bed sits at one end, made with cloth stitched together from the best of those clothes belonging to previous duelists. Likewise, curtains for the three windows (north, east, and south) have been made from similar reclaimed cloth. A chair and desk sit facing south. The small franklin stove squats in the northeast corner, atop which lies a cast-iron pot. Beside the stove is a small table or cupboard stacked with unlabeled jars. Shelves line the cabin above the desk and above the bed, and the shelves are full with a variety of books, all old and many mouldering.

One workman - after a look from Pepple - pulls the Constable away.

The workmen are two. One is a Construction Worker and one is a Contractor. The Construction Worker is an apprentice to the Contractor. The Construction Worker pulls the Constable from the cabin. He pulls him hard. The Constable stumbles back, trips over a mound, and falls back with a thump on the hard, still-wet ground.

Oh buddy, coughs the Constable, staggering to his feat, that's right where you've gone wrong.

The Constable dusts off his uniform - navy blue shirt, open-collar, navy blue polyester slacks, flashlight, sans weapon - and lunges toward the Construction Worker. The two men scuffle. So close as to prove ineffective, half-punches are thrown, and poor wrestling moves. Finally the Contractor breaks up the fight. With both men apart, the Contractor asks them to reason out their differences. The Contractor, rebuffed and humiliated by the fall the Construction Worker caused him, doesn't listen. As the Contractor talks, he spits in the Construction Worker's eye.

The two have at it again.

Both are separated once more. Both men have a look of inconsolable hatred.

If I didn't have a duel to be at, says the Constable, I'd kill you.

And if I didn't have a duel to be at, says the Construction worker, I'd kill you.

Then they realize that, as luck would have it, the duel is theirs.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Congressman v. Constable

The Congressman stands by the side of the pit, head hung in a show of mourning, as Pepple shovels dirt and dry bone over the body of the Con Artist. After the burial, the Congressman shakes Pepple's hand.

I hope you don't think less of me for killing this man, says the Congressman.

Pepple shakes his head. He wipes the sweat from his forehead. It's a warm, humid day. Storm clouds form in the west. To the north, the workmen throw a weathered plank roof atop a layer of corrugated tin. As Pepple turns to face the clouds, his face in profile, the strangest notion dawns on the Congressman: that he's seen this man before. The circumstance of Pepple's existence bars him from believing this, however. His constituency may be nearby, but at no rally or public meeting has he met a man as paradoxical: a man of ravaged attire, largely unwashed, stinking of sweat and work, hair and beard matted; yet with eyes dark and silent and keen, back upright, stance assured.

Pepple returns to supervise the building of the new cabin, which is coming along at fast and steady pace.

If only I could place him, thinks the Congressman.

As the Congressmen stands pondering by the freshly covered grave, a marmot shuffles through the grass up the oak. At the base of the oak he stops, stands, and looks. When the Congressman turns, he sees the marmot pointing his paw toward the South Pointing Marmot, who points its paw south. The marmot and the Congressman lock eyes. The marmot lowers his paw, blinks, and shuffles back to the bulrushes along the creek to the southeast.

It rains and thunders. The Congressman opens an umbrella left leaning against the oak, and stands beneath it. The bottoms of his khakis wet.

Then it stops raining.

Then the Constable arrives and the Congressman welcomes the Constable. The Constable voted against the Congressman, and he tells him this within minutes of their meeting.

Soft on evil-doers, says the Constable. That's the reason you lost my vote.

The Congressman asks him to explain. The Constable regurgitates the defense of death by drowning which he'd heard from a Pundit, a guest on a television program, whose book Death By Water was widely cited though never read, or very seldom read, and very certainly not read by the Constable, who restates the argument poorly.

That book was satirical, says the Congressman. I don't think anyone would advocate death by drowning for all criminals, petty or otherwise, or the rioters in the cities, or the strikers. Of course the Pundit doesn't mean that.

Of course he means it, and I mean it, too, the Constable says stiffly. Why write a book on it if you don't mean it?

Someone thought the starving Irish should eat their own babies. Do you think he meant that?

Now that's just crazy, says the Constable. (Though secretly he thinks it might not be a bad idea, given the circumstances.)

Suddenly it hits the Congressman. Stetson! he shouts.

Pepple turns.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.