Coppersmith v. Copywriter

Pepple falls just before reaching the field of two-foot high corn. The Coppersmith runs. He's down, but conscious. She sees his wounds, the tears in his clothes, the discoloration of his shirt, his pants by soil and blood and sweat. Regardless, she leans down to touch him gently on the shoulder. He breathes with steady draw. She asks him if he needs help. Second pass. He lifts his arms, rights himself, and sits up. He blinks.

She runs to the creek, rips the bottom of her shirt, soaks it in water, and runs back. Ringing the cloth, she carefully cleans his wounds: the scars on his neck, his sinewy arms, his face. She doesn't speak. They're both silent. He watches her as she runs off to wash the cloth in the creek, watches as she walks back and begins again. She's young, in her late twenties, not unattractive.

A bear? she asks finally.

No. Couldn't say.

She wipes his brow.

Eventually he thanks her. He tells her he has to leave, to sleep. She helps him up, and - surprised to find that he's the owner of the cabin - leads him north, to his door.

The Copywriter's a large, physically awkward man. His face is sweaty, his hair's an undone nest, his glasses droop to the tip of his nose. Oh God, he says, this humidity's killing me. It's worse than a bear attack.

The Coppersmith reaches for a pistol.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

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.