"I saw Karl Quintan dug up last night!" Carlos informs his friends.

One of the men in town for a drink shakes his head, "No way in hell. He's long dead, thank God!"

Carlos shakes his head, "I was there, at the funeral. From a distance. It was the same plot, I tell ya." He downs a shot, and motions another, "And the queerest thing? I think it was his own hands doing the digin'! They seemed like they knew what they was doin', and put the coffin in a wagon. Then they left, but not before they filled the grave back in, and stomped it down." He cathces the glances from his friends, then frowns.

"Why the hell they do that, Carlos?"

The man shrugs, "Don't ask me, but I'll put," he looks through his poke, and counts some coin, and some bills, "Six dollars down that he ain't there no more."

A couple men take him up on that, murmuring, "I know someone that works out there. This is easy money."

Just what happened last night?

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