Wake up you sniveling nancy!
The Drayman snaps awake. He'd been dozing in Stetson's chair. He looks up a thick-necked bull of a man, face red with sun and anger. The man tells him to get up. The Drayman stands.
You think you're man enough to stand across from me on the dueling ground? Disgrace. Look at yourself! Go ahead!
The Drayman looks down. What he sees isn't much different than what he's seen before: he's an unfit man in his early 30s, belly hanging like a sack of wet clothes, brown collared shirt untucked, third button missing, jam stain on his left lapel. He reeks of sweat, horse stables and gin. His shorts are unfashionably long, unattractively beige, irrevocably grease-spattered. Wiry black hair sheathes two pale, porcine calves, both devolving to plump feet, unclipped toes straining against the plastic thongs of Hawaiian patterned flip flops. He's neither a prime exhibit of communal success, nor one of independent free will. He's a shlub.
You know who would be a better opponent? That dog right there!
The Drill Sargeant points to the German schnauzer. It stands at perfect attention, legs slightly back, docked tail stiff and upright, ears alert, head in squared and straight, coat glossy.
The Drayman feels a pang of jealousy.
I bet you don't even have a goddamn job!
I do, he swallows. I'm Drayman for a licensed gin concern.
The Drill Sargeant narrows his eyes knowingly. Bullshit! You're a nativist bootlegger!
The Drayman makes to protest, but realizes that he's still wearing the red ribbon around his arm. He looks down.
Pathetic, hisses the Drill Instructor. How do you wake up in the morning?
Usually hung over.
Shut up!
The Drayman folds his hands sheepishly.
Tell me who's in charge around here!
The Drayman mentions the Grave Digger, but says he doubts whether he's in charge of much. He mentions the wounds, and the story of a kidnapping.
Bet they did it hopped up on blood and gin.
I don't know. Studies say it's a mistake to assume that all tribal communities'll fall unconditionally violent when exposed to gin.
The Drill Sargeant, with a fist curled up at his waist, lands a short blow to middle of the Drayman's gut.
Oof!
Now march your dimpled ass over to the oak, pick out your weapon. and try not to rub your idiocy onto this goddamn prince of a dog in passing!
The Drayman stumbles off. The dog watches him from the corner of his eye. After the Drayman's a few yards off, the Drill Sargeant leans over and inspects the schnauzer, from head to anus. He gives the animal two firm pats on the head in appreciation.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Drayman v. Dressmaker
With the Grave Digger convalescing in Stetson's cabin, the Drayman drinks: he pours himself a liberal glass of gin and cold creek water, sits in the chair outisde Stetson's cabin, and falls asleep to the sound of bats whirling unseen above his head. The schnauzer falls asleep beside him.
He wakes, startled, to the sound of toppling furniture, thrown books, the crash of electronics. The dog bolts upright and barks.
Inside the cabin, the Grave Digger searches madly. The Drayman stands and watches from outside. He yawns.
What are you doing?
Looking for something.
Oh.
The Grave Digger continues his rampage.
Mind if I ask what you're looking for?
Yes.
Oh.
The Drayman considers the choices before him. Charactaristically, he takes the path of least resistence: he sits back down in the chair. He leans back, pulls his long billed cap over his eyes, and tries his best to fall back into gin-soaked sleep.
In this he is successful. Such is the genius of the Drayman.
When he wakes the next morning the Grave Digger's gone. The mess he made of the cabin is still there. It's terrible. Whether he found what he was looking for or not is a mystery.
When the Dressmaker arrives the Drayman's on his second glass of creek water and gin of the morning.
The schnauzer yawns.
He wakes, startled, to the sound of toppling furniture, thrown books, the crash of electronics. The dog bolts upright and barks.
Inside the cabin, the Grave Digger searches madly. The Drayman stands and watches from outside. He yawns.
What are you doing?
Looking for something.
Oh.
The Grave Digger continues his rampage.
Mind if I ask what you're looking for?
Yes.
Oh.
The Drayman considers the choices before him. Charactaristically, he takes the path of least resistence: he sits back down in the chair. He leans back, pulls his long billed cap over his eyes, and tries his best to fall back into gin-soaked sleep.
In this he is successful. Such is the genius of the Drayman.
When he wakes the next morning the Grave Digger's gone. The mess he made of the cabin is still there. It's terrible. Whether he found what he was looking for or not is a mystery.
When the Dressmaker arrives the Drayman's on his second glass of creek water and gin of the morning.
The schnauzer yawns.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Dramaturge v. Drayman
Barking's heard late that night. The next morning the Dramaturge finds the dog sniffing at something to the east. He walks over and spots the Grave Digger sprawled unconscious on the grass by the edge of the forest, his shirt ripped, his body bruised and lightly scarred, but otherwise intact. After having a mug of creek water dumped over his head, the Grave Digger wakes with an annoyed start.
This world doesn't need more hobos, says the Dramaturge severely.
The Grave Digger, too sore of mind and body to snarl, smacks his dry lips. He musters enough energy to sit up, pulling his legs into a crossed position, head slung low.
The schnauzer watches expressionless from a few feet away.
Get more water, mouths the Grave Digger.
The Dramaturge thinks of balking, but gets the distressed man his water from the creek. He drinks quickly, then leans back.
I'm no drunk, says the Grave Digger.
The Dramaturge asks what happened. The Grave Digger shakes his head in a disappointed way, as if trying to shaming a student out of recalcitrance.
I don't know what they did with him....
With who?
The Grave Digger pulls on the Dramaturge's sleeve. He looks up, eyes bloodshot. It's all a game of chess! he seethes.
The Dramaturge eventually helps the Grave Digger to his feet. He carries him to the cabin, where he's bedded.
The Drayman arrives the next monrning, greeted by the schnauzer and the Dramaturge, while the Grave Digger sleeps. The Drayman wears a band of red ribbon around his left arm, and smells of gin.
This world doesn't need more hobos, says the Dramaturge severely.
The Grave Digger, too sore of mind and body to snarl, smacks his dry lips. He musters enough energy to sit up, pulling his legs into a crossed position, head slung low.
The schnauzer watches expressionless from a few feet away.
Get more water, mouths the Grave Digger.
The Dramaturge thinks of balking, but gets the distressed man his water from the creek. He drinks quickly, then leans back.
I'm no drunk, says the Grave Digger.
The Dramaturge asks what happened. The Grave Digger shakes his head in a disappointed way, as if trying to shaming a student out of recalcitrance.
I don't know what they did with him....
With who?
The Grave Digger pulls on the Dramaturge's sleeve. He looks up, eyes bloodshot. It's all a game of chess! he seethes.
The Dramaturge eventually helps the Grave Digger to his feet. He carries him to the cabin, where he's bedded.
The Drayman arrives the next monrning, greeted by the schnauzer and the Dramaturge, while the Grave Digger sleeps. The Drayman wears a band of red ribbon around his left arm, and smells of gin.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Draftsman v. Dramaturge
The Draftsman, using pencil and the blank pages of a notepad left on Stetson's desk, sketches the growing bodies of the dead.
He recognizes this as a somewhat morbid activity, but chalks it up as cathartic.
I did just kill a man in an honorable duel, he says sadly. What better way to extend his mortality - if even so feebly - than through art.
Unfortunately, being so habituated to the style of technical draftsmanship, regardless of how many attempts the Draftsman makes to represent the Doorman's grotesque corpse with emotion and nuance, the image looks less like a page from the notebook of Caspar David Friedrich than the preliminary spec for a high-end anamatronic car test dummy.
Sleep on, sweet prince, sighs the Draftsman, regarding his work tearfully.
Next morning:
The Dramaturge's flight from the city is cancelled due to heavy rainstorms. He waits in the airport for close to an eternity. When he arrives to the dueling grounds he's not interested in anything apart from dueling.
He recognizes this as a somewhat morbid activity, but chalks it up as cathartic.
I did just kill a man in an honorable duel, he says sadly. What better way to extend his mortality - if even so feebly - than through art.
Unfortunately, being so habituated to the style of technical draftsmanship, regardless of how many attempts the Draftsman makes to represent the Doorman's grotesque corpse with emotion and nuance, the image looks less like a page from the notebook of Caspar David Friedrich than the preliminary spec for a high-end anamatronic car test dummy.
Sleep on, sweet prince, sighs the Draftsman, regarding his work tearfully.
Next morning:
The Dramaturge's flight from the city is cancelled due to heavy rainstorms. He waits in the airport for close to an eternity. When he arrives to the dueling grounds he's not interested in anything apart from dueling.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Doorman v. Draftsman
The rain continues after the duel. The Doorman walks across the field, past the bean field, through the mud, to the door of Stetson's cabin. He wipes his shoes off as best as possible and walks inside, closing the door after him. The schnauzer scratches at the door, barking loudly for over an hour before the Doorman - until then sitting quietly, looking out the window to the grounds, as his profession would have him do - until he breaks, finds old clothes to dry the dog, and lets him in.
Not much of a reader, he ignores the books on the shelves. He turns his attention to the radio. After finally discovering how to turn it on, he listens for a short while to the cryptic radio station before turning the large dials to the public riot blotter broadcast. He listens to this before eating the remainder of the cold food left by the Dog Walker, then falling asleep.
That night the rain stops.
The next morning he and the Draftsman look west - up the mountain - to a great strands of black smoke drifting like ribbons above the horizon. They issue at different frequencies, at different lengths.
The dog scratches its ear.
I used to have a doorman, says the Draftsman suddenly, when I was a kid.
The Draftsman answers the Doorman's questioning look by pointing to a small union pin on the lapel of Doorman's shirt. The Doorman looks down and laughs.
I forgot I was wearing it! he cries.
The Draftsman asks him to recite the Doormans' Credo. The Doorman, flattered, indulges him.
The Doormans' Credo:
We are the Doormen.
And I am only the least of the Doormen.
From hall to hall there is one Doorman after another,
Each more powerful than the last.
The third Doorman is already so terrible
That even I cannot bear to look at him.
If you are so drawn to it,
Just try to go through the door
despite my veto.
But take note:
I am powerful.
I am the Doormen.
The Draftsman applauds. The Doorman takes a bow.
Not much of a reader, he ignores the books on the shelves. He turns his attention to the radio. After finally discovering how to turn it on, he listens for a short while to the cryptic radio station before turning the large dials to the public riot blotter broadcast. He listens to this before eating the remainder of the cold food left by the Dog Walker, then falling asleep.
That night the rain stops.
The next morning he and the Draftsman look west - up the mountain - to a great strands of black smoke drifting like ribbons above the horizon. They issue at different frequencies, at different lengths.
The dog scratches its ear.
I used to have a doorman, says the Draftsman suddenly, when I was a kid.
The Draftsman answers the Doorman's questioning look by pointing to a small union pin on the lapel of Doorman's shirt. The Doorman looks down and laughs.
I forgot I was wearing it! he cries.
The Draftsman asks him to recite the Doormans' Credo. The Doorman, flattered, indulges him.
The Doormans' Credo:
We are the Doormen.
And I am only the least of the Doormen.
From hall to hall there is one Doorman after another,
Each more powerful than the last.
The third Doorman is already so terrible
That even I cannot bear to look at him.
If you are so drawn to it,
Just try to go through the door
despite my veto.
But take note:
I am powerful.
I am the Doormen.
The Draftsman applauds. The Doorman takes a bow.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Dog Walker v. Doorman
After the duel the air cools. Minutes later a storm breaks.
Seeking shelter, the Dog Walker runs to Stetson's abandoned cabin. Finding the door unlocked, he enters, leading the schnauzer inside.
After lighting the antique franklin stove, he finds dried meat and rice in mason jars on nearby shelves. He cooks a simple dish a pot, using water from a large clay pitcher. After a long search through Stetson's library, he chooses The Republic, sits at the desk before the radio and notepads. He reads the first part of the prologue - Descent to the Piraeus - before nodding off just as Cephalus speaks on death and his vain regrets.
The Dog Walker sleeps atop Stetson's cot, waking occasionally from thunder - and terrible dreams of Socrates, in a fit of madness, banging against the cabin door.
The rain continues throughout the morning.
The schnauzer barks from inside the cabin as the Doorman arrives. The Dog Walker, under an umbrella he finds, walks to greet the man. He and the Doorman shake hands. They know each other, coincidentally enough, in passing. The Doorman stands in the foyer of a great condominium in the city, housing the Newspaper Magnate, whose two poodles are walked by the Dog Walker.
Whose dog is that? asks the Doorman, motioning toward the schnauzer.
The Dog Walker tells him about the events of the previous day, the maniacal man that fell from the forest, the story of a kidnapping, and of other dogs.
Seven in total, he says.
You see all seven?
No, answers the Dog Walker, it's on the dog's tag.
He shows the Doorman. There, on a small metal tag on its collar, is a mark of identification:
2 of 7: "Rhetoric"
Rhetoric?
The dog looks up at the Doorman expectantly. The Doorman pats its head.
The Dog Walker thinks of telling him the other part of the story, the request to search out the other missing dogs, but decides against it. Bad enough they have to duel in the rain, he thinks, let alone brave the forest.
Seeking shelter, the Dog Walker runs to Stetson's abandoned cabin. Finding the door unlocked, he enters, leading the schnauzer inside.
After lighting the antique franklin stove, he finds dried meat and rice in mason jars on nearby shelves. He cooks a simple dish a pot, using water from a large clay pitcher. After a long search through Stetson's library, he chooses The Republic, sits at the desk before the radio and notepads. He reads the first part of the prologue - Descent to the Piraeus - before nodding off just as Cephalus speaks on death and his vain regrets.
The Dog Walker sleeps atop Stetson's cot, waking occasionally from thunder - and terrible dreams of Socrates, in a fit of madness, banging against the cabin door.
The rain continues throughout the morning.
The schnauzer barks from inside the cabin as the Doorman arrives. The Dog Walker, under an umbrella he finds, walks to greet the man. He and the Doorman shake hands. They know each other, coincidentally enough, in passing. The Doorman stands in the foyer of a great condominium in the city, housing the Newspaper Magnate, whose two poodles are walked by the Dog Walker.
Whose dog is that? asks the Doorman, motioning toward the schnauzer.
The Dog Walker tells him about the events of the previous day, the maniacal man that fell from the forest, the story of a kidnapping, and of other dogs.
Seven in total, he says.
You see all seven?
No, answers the Dog Walker, it's on the dog's tag.
He shows the Doorman. There, on a small metal tag on its collar, is a mark of identification:
2 of 7: "Rhetoric"
Rhetoric?
The dog looks up at the Doorman expectantly. The Doorman pats its head.
The Dog Walker thinks of telling him the other part of the story, the request to search out the other missing dogs, but decides against it. Bad enough they have to duel in the rain, he thinks, let alone brave the forest.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
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.
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.
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