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Wrong-Doin's
They ride their low-slung horses over the shallow hills, a slow trail of dust rising behind with each step. The sun burns overhead like a heated copper coin. They peer out from under the brims of their hats, eyes on the ground. They aren't tracking anyone; they're looking at the way the rocks are distributed over the ground. There's been a flood, here, recently; there are some large rocks scattered about, and as they proceed down the gully, the rocks get smaller, washed further along. Suddenly, there it is: a mass of silver, looks like someone took a giant cauldron of the molten metal and poured it out over the land. It's spattered about here and there, but the largest mass reveals a concavity; a hint of ribs and a skull. The metal must have been poured out onto the body and then, when it set, the mass turned over. There is a bullet-hole through the silver, right through the left-hand set of ribs. One of the men turns to the other; their eyes meet, and they nod. |
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