Dogcatcher v. Dog Walker

He strides up to Stetson and the Grave Digger, both of whom are talking by the cabin, and states his peace:

I made a vow to that man over there. I said I'd find the dogs. I'm headed into the forest.

The two men blink. Are you sure? asks Stetson.

There's a natural hierarchy. It goes: man, dog. When a dog runs from under man's hand, do you know what happens? They group. Then dog becomes wolf. Then the hierarchy? It flips. Wolf... then man. I'm here to prevent wolves from dominating man. That's the true role of a Dogcatcher. Those dogs out there are already grouped. I have to catch them.

The Grave Digger looks to Stetson. Stetson strokes his mustache, then collects his Mauser from the cabin. We'll go with you, he says.

The Grave Digger hiccups, shocked. But they're tied, he stammers.

Easier to catch, says Stetson.

The Dogcatcher shakes his head. Not necessarily; that's a popular misconception.

It's your corpse, Stetson says plainly. We'll recover it together. You'll get all the loot, gold or otherwise.

The Grave Digger shakes his downcast head, rubbing his hands nervously, miserably.

They set out from the grounds armed only with Stetson's express rifle. (The Dogcatcher was expressly forbidden from bringing the pistols, which Stetson insisted must stay on the table.) Entering the forest at the small game run used earlier by the Correspondent, they set into the dark embrace of the woodland.

The great canopy of virgin wood blocks most light. It's cooler in the forest, but windless and humid. Bramble and dry shrubs catch their trousers as they maneuver over and under fallen branches, trunks. Birds chirp overhead. The three men walk steadily, dry leaves crackling underfoot. The only discordant sound comes from the Grave Digger who, trailing a few feet behind Stetson and the Dogcatcher, curses under his breath every time the Dogcatcher lets a branch slaps across his face.

In short time they come to the way-point. It's empty, but the fire pit is uncovered. Inside, the embers are still smoking. Bits charred debris mingle with the ring of ash. Signs of struggle show: the overhand is damaged, undergrowth is kicked.

They came through here, says the Dogcatcher. He walks behind the great boulder, the glacial erratic, and returns a second later with a blood-spattered collar. He shows it to the others: it's been cut cleanly. He reads from the tag, still attached, listing the dog's name:

7 of 7: Astronomy.

Someone pulled the dead dog from the group, he says. And ate it. The bones are stacked in a heap behind the boulder, with others...

The woman? asks Stetson.

No, not big enough. A buck, I'm guessing.

The Grave Digger wipes his hands. Well, he says, time to get back.

It'll make them faster, says the Dogcatcher. More efficient without the dead weight.

Suddenly Stetson lunges, pushing aside the Grave Digger. An arrow snaps past them, just missing the spot where the Grave Digger stood. It plunges into the trunk of an ash. The Dogcatcher crouches. Stetson kneels, rifle aimed. Behind a blind strand, they hear the soft pads of an expert woodsman - running further east, deeper into the forest.

Run! shouts Stetson.

The two men follow Stetson as he flies through the brush, eventually hitting a second trail - this one wider, obviously used often. At times, when the path straightens occasionally, they can see the back of the pursued: a lithe, shirtless figure, light skinned, hair short and knotted. They follow until the Grave Digger cries out for them to stop, and they stop. The figure runs off ahead.

He wheezes, hands on his knees. Cramp, he says. He mashes his hand against the side of his gut.

The dogs ran along this trail, pants the Dogcatcher. Natural run. And here -

He picks proof from a nearby branch: a tuft of black fur.

After the Grave Digger rests, they continue on. They walk for a very long time. At regular intervals, as if markers, they come across roughly hewn wood idols, some male, some female, of obvious gendered appearance, all with exaggerated genitalia. Beneath these small but conspicuous roadside gods, small offerings of acorns and squirrel bones are laid.

Several hour pass before the path opens wider, wide enough for two men to comfortably walk abreast. It isn't too long after this that they hear the clear sound of water, of a forest creek. Verily, the path meets the creek: ancient erosion setting a gash in the stone of the mountain, the water runs fast and narrow, deep in its mossy gorge. The men follow the path, which follows the gorge, up a steep climb. When the climb ends, it opens to a clearing... and shock:

There, in the center of a great flowering glade, stands a fallen circular temple of white marble - from which the pure creek springs.

Amazing, whispers the Grave Digger.

Stetson shows no sign of this being the first time he's seen the place. In fact, it seems expected.

The Dogcatcher takes a dog whistle from his jeans. He blows. Immediately, wild barking issues from behind the temple. The men walk forward. They round the site to a fallen edge, the side of an old archway now collapsed, and see a gruesome sight: five remaining dogs stand around the battered and half-eaten corpse of their master, all tied to a stone ring against the outer wall of the temple.

There were seven at first, says the Grave Digger. Seventh was shot. But the sixth?

Neither of the other men answer.

The Dogcatcher quiets the dogs and slowly wins their favor. Sated and tired, they acquiesce to his advances. It isn't long before their leads are untied and the dogs are split between the three men: the Dogcatcher holds one, the others two each.

We have just enough time to get back, says Stetson. We have to go quickly.

But just as this is said a great and horrifying flood of wailing rises from the arc of forest before them. The wailing rises in volume in pitch, terrifying to the extreme, the dogs snarling and snapping. The Grave Digger falls, weeping, hands against his ears, to his knees.

Stetson, rifle darting back and forth between dark spots against the screen of trees, has yells back to the Dogcatcher:

Run!

The Dogcatcher flees, dog by his side - turning in time to see an avalanche of masked warriors descend from the forest. Stetson lets off two shots before he and the Grave Digger are engulfed under a sea of twisting violence.

He runs, without stopping, to the grounds....

The Dog Walker stands picking his nose by the oak when the Dogcatcher falls from the forest, scraped and bloody, giant German schnauzer by his side, and in just as shabby condition.

The guns, he calls out, bring the guns to the field.

The Dog Walker, surprised, does so. At the grounds the Dogcatcher, exhausted, falls to one knee and turns up the inner lip of the giant German schnauzer, revealing a series of tattooed numbers.

They're not just schnauzers, he says, they're Hohenzollern Werhhunden. The strongest, most loyal breed ever developed.

He tells the Dog Walker to use the clothes in the cabin to the north for a scent.

If I die in this duel, this dog will take you to the others.

Diver v. Dogcatcher

The lack of foresight on the part of the Dog Breeder - first for bringing her dogs to the dueling ground, and next for tying their leads to her arm while dueling - results in a series of complications.

The German schnauzers, in a frenzy of excitement and worry after their owner falls, begin barking and baying wildly. The Diver tries walking closer to calm them, but he's met with defensive snarls and quick bites from one dog, then three others. He backs away.

Stetson watches from the door of the cabin.

The Grave Digger arrives. He suggests shooting them all. One by one, he says calmly, in the gullet.

This is nixed by the Diver, holding the only free pistol, the other being beneath an increasingly tangled mass of leash and dog.

They watch as some of the squirming dogs begin whining, biting at each other.

Why not, offers the Grave Digger, shoot the dog you like least. Or two, three. The three ugliest dogs.

They all look alike! frets the Digger. I can't tell which is worse.

Oh the one with the limp, he's the worse.

Which one is that?

One being mounted by the ugly cur with dirt in its mouth, next to the one what's fighting with the other to lick the blood from the tit of the woman.

He thinks of shooting - even to the point of raising the pistol - but can't in good conscience bring himself to do it. They're all good dogs, he says dejectedly. I can't shoot any of them.

The Grave Digger looks to Stetson. Stetson shakes his head. The Grave Digger frowns deeply. With no other solution, he goes about an alternate plan.

Woosh, shoo, shah! he cries, arms high in the air, advancing on the dogs. They bark loudly, but - to the Diver's amazement - begin backing away. As they back away, they drag the tangled corpse of their master with them. Gun free, the Grave Digger grabs it. With only slight hesitation he aims and fires. The limping dog falls with a howl. The other dogs, shocked by the report of the pistol, fired so close, take off -- the six carrying both the body of their master and now one of their own.

As the Grave Digger aims to take out the second dog, the Diver dives (fitting), knocking down the Grave Digger, gun and all.

The dogs flee east, running headlong into the forest.

Ah spit! says the Grave Digger.

That night the Diver listens to incessant barking from far off in the forest. It dies off gradually sometime in the early morning.

When the Dogcatcher arrives, the Diver relays the events of the past day. The Dog Catcher identifies himself as such. He's a thin man with a purposeful look about him, the type of look that says to strangers: I'm a man completely invested, for better or worse, in the duties of my profession. And so he is.

I'll get those dogs back, he nods.

The Diver wants to tell him it's a fool's errand; that, either way, whether the dogs are recovered or not, nothing would come of them. But the conviction with which the Dogcatcher vowed their capture takes him aback.