Dietitian v. Diplomat

Odd when Stetson called Pepple arrives at the grounds, politely introduces himself as the caretaker, and asks for the Dietitian's hand. Though still in slight shock from the duel, she relents to the strange request. It strikes her as being very peculiar that the caretaker seems less interested in the gesture of 'taking a woman's hand' than the careful examination of the hand itself.

Whether satisfactory or not, Stetson doesn't say. After close study, he simply bows and walks back north to his cabin. That afternoon he collects dry wood from along the border of the forest.

The Diplomat arrives to the first meeting of her life that cannot be resolved in any way but violence.

Detective v. Dietitian

After downing the Dictator, the Detective sets north again with the clear intention of pistol-whipping a bit more information from Stetson called Pepple. It's at the demarcation between the grounds and the thigh-high corn that the Detective sees it: the Mauser held in Stetson's hands. The Detective spits.

I gotta hunch you wouldn't fire that, shouts the Detective.

Stetson adjusts the makeshift bandage over his broken nose. The Detective walks back to the oak.

Noon comes, and so too comes the Grave Digger. He nearly cries with joy at he nears the Dictator, face hot and pink on the grass of the dueling field, a chest of metals and epaulets shining in the summer sun. The Detective steps from under the oak, watching as the Grave Digger loots the body, first by ripping each metal with a satisfying jerk then testing their worth with a prospector's bite. After each chomp, regardless of the result, he deposits them in his great, oversized trouser pocket.

The Detective coughs. The Grave Digger looks up nervously while at the same time crouching slightly over the corpse, possessive as a wolf over a fresh kill.

Work for the fella in the cabin over there, huh? he asks.

The Grave Digger snorts. He turns back to the body. Supposing I do, he growls.

Pay you well? he asks.

Today I got my worth, the Grave Digger spits.

That right, says the Detective. He laughs. Bet you suppose you'll be able to pawn those metals off. Truth told, all together they're worth oh... a carton of cigarettes, maybe. If you barter well.

The Grave Digger turns around. He screws his eye at the Detective. What do you know about that? he asks.

You work homicide long enough, sighs the Detective, stretching, you meet a Fence or two. You start getting a notion for the price of things. I'll tell ya it's always the same with petty schmucks like this character here: exterior, exterior, exterior. Shiny, flashy, the conspicuous display of wealth. When really it's just - an illusion. You bite down on any gold?

The Grave Digger shrugs.

You didn't. Because these people are cagey. They no dummies. They keep their wealth - their real wealth - hidden. Now in the case of a third-world Dictator jumping from a passing prop plane, I'm guessing that wealth is a form easily transferred. Gold coins. Krugerrands. If I were you I'd check the lining of his jacket.

The Grave Digger, caught up with the logic of the Detective, does what the man says: he unbuttons and flips open the jacket. Inside, on the right, there's a long tear beneath interior pocket. Sitting, baffled, he suddenly hears the heavy jingle of coins. The Grave Digger looks up. The Detective holds a small leather pouch full of gold.

Start talking about how you found this place and we'll split it.

The Grave Digger gives a wry smile.

And if you think you'll wait patient until I go down with a bullet to the chest to collect, adds the Detective, I'm happy to bury it. Before you bury me.

The Grave Digger considers. He looks north to the cabin, hidden at his vantage by the waist-high corn. What do you want to know? he asks quietly.

The Detective tells him to start from the beginning.

Well, starts the Grave Digger, I first seen him in town by the mill. Quiet fella, smelled like death itself, not a clean man. He were buying meal. Later I seen him again by the town with an older lady. Later again I seen him jess watching me from outside the general store. Before I think he might be stalking me like prey, he comes to me and says he's got a proposition and do I need work. I need work, so almost any proposition might do, I says. He tells me about this place. I come out to see it, and well I then saw the legend were true. My days are numbered the minute I seen it, so I stepped in full hearted. Told I'd get a fortune for my daughter if nothing else.

What legends?

There were people here before the town, and then people during it, way back. First the Indians. Then a commune a rich man started. The Indians were bad but stayed to the forest, rarely left - only rare you'd hear of a kidnap. Legends of back-switched trails and a valley. This valley. And, of course, the dueling what goes on.

How does he fit in, the caretaker?

That I don't know. He reads, he bought a radio listener for the radio. Young, quiet, keeps alone.

The Detective purses his lips. He kneels, opens the pouch, and shakes out the Krugerrands. Counts half (seven) and hands these over. The Grave Digger feels the strange weight of the coins in his hand. He pockets them.

Contract says all gold goes to him, the Grave Digger frets.

Give him six, you take one. I won't tell. It's enough to see your daughter well for a month. I'll give you another if I live until tomorrow.

The Grave Digger nods. He takes one coin and tucks it in his boot. He leaves, meeting Pepple to the north.

The next day, when the Dietitian arrives, all coins but one are safely buried beneath a stone to the far west of the third cairn to the west.