by Joe Stanley

I sat in my study, disgusted with myself and sickened more by what had been requested of me. I understood that, despite my best efforts, there was still a chasm between the villagers and myself. Their ways were not my way, and mine were not theirs. I heard from the floor below the bell than announced a visitor. I put my troubles out of mind and rushed downstairs, fearing yet another might be stricken. There Gertrude, one of my favorite patients greeted me with a tired and bittersweet smile.

I was immediately concerned owing to her advanced age, but the nature of her visit was not one of a professional kind. As soon as she informed of this, I knew what was coming, a plunge back to unthinkable things. Still, I could not refuse her. We sat down in the reception room.

“I know you must be shocked, especially as a man of science.” she said with a voice that quivered from her age. It was soft and sweetly melodic, and invoked a sympathy I could not deny.
“It is a lot to expect you to believe, but I have a story to tell you. My grandmother told it to me when I was a little girl, and it happened when she was young. This must have been a hundred twenty years ago or more.

“It was then that the first one was lost, a young man named George Derringer. He was a popular and well-respected fellow, and I believe my grandmother was rather sweet for him. His death hurt the whole community, and was certainly a terrible blow for his kin, but then no one knew what was happening and what else could they do but say goodbye and carry on?

“A day or so after they committed him to the ground a shepherd by the name of James Driftwood came storming into town with a shotgun in his hand. He was looking for a poacher, he claimed, and said he could find him by the shot he had taken, which had wounded the scoundrel. It took some convincing to dissuade him from vigilante justice, as folk assured him that the law would see justice done. James was enraged by the fact that this villain had merely killed a few of his sheep and left them to rot. But no one had any wounds and they feared bad men hiding somewhere near about.

“Within a few more days, more animals turned up dead. They had all been nearly decapitated, and the carcasses, like James sheep, had simply been left where they fell and wasted. Folks talked all kinds of wild speculations, from wolves, coyotes, mountain lions and bears, but these were dismissed as such creatures would not simply leave their prey without eating first. It seemed almost certain that some criminal madman was about. People were scared and farmers stood guard through the night watching over their own livestock.

“Soon enough, one of the farmers spotted a shadow coming out of the woods and toward the pen where he kept his hogs. As it climbed the fence, he took a shot, and he was reputed as a sharp shooter. The shape was struck and fell, but hopped right up and fled back into the woods. Quickly, having been alarmed by the shot, his sons came running, armed and led by bloodhounds. They said the dogs were reluctant to follow the scent, but with firm prodding, they were soon on the trail.

“They tracked their quarry for miles, until the sun began to rise. Then the dogs just stopped and not the firmest boot would push on. But they had stopped outside the cemetery and there was nowhere a wounded man could hide. It was after then that folks came to suspect that the culprit was not a man, or that it wasn’t a man anymore. This was the cemetery where George Derringer was buried.

“People were divided, having old traditions which suggested a course which you know all too well. But out of respect for the family and for the peace of the dead, there was a stalemate as to what should happen. And although animals were still going missing, nothing else could be done until a drunken man had headed up to the cemetery at night and was found the next morning with his head nearly off.

“A mob formed and they stormed to the grave of George Derringer where they dug his casket from the ground. He looked much as he had in life, but for a wretched stink, one would have thought him still alive. That is but for the shot that peppered him and the rifle hole in his head.

“They did as you have been asked to do. And ever since, when one is lost in that horrible way such measures are taken, not only for the one that has passed, but as a kindness for their kin, and for the good of all.

“I hope, even if you doubt the story, that you will understand that we do not. And as a doctor, you are best suited to undertake or oversee the act. It will be done, you know, with or without you, but with you there the folk will feel much better and they will appreciate it immensely if you would change your mind.”

With this, she left me to my thoughts which were few. Inside an hour, my horse was saddled and I rode through the dusk toward the Montgomery farm.

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