"Well," said Sheriff Black after a long moment. "That's a bad'n."
Doc nodded. "Knife fight would've been cleaner, and there's no shot from a shotgun. Flesh is torn, like something bit or clawed."
The sheriff swallowed. "Any bits missin'?"
Doc shook his head. "Not sure yet. Wanted you t'see it the way I found it, before I moved it t'where I could look."
"That's good of you, Doc." Sheriff Black stepped forward, then stopped. "Y'see that ankle."
Doc turned his head, blanched, and the said. "Yeah. I see it."
The Achilles tendon had been cut -- or bitten through, more like. Not that kind of thing that happened when folks fought with other folks, and they both knew it. "Damn it," said Doc. "Now I'll need Pyre to look it over before I take it back t'the clinic."
The sheriff nodded. "Yeah. And I'll have t'look for strangers in towns, or anyone else as might've gone missing."
"We wait here," Doc said, resigned. "'Least 'til the Gravedigger arrives. Make sure nothing changes, nothing comes back. You've a mold for bullets?"
Sheriff Black grunted. "Don't need it, though. Not for this. Gravedigger brought me a box of silver when I first came to town. Said he hoped I never needed 'em. I'll load up as soon as I go back."
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