Boot Hill: Pima County

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I've been very busy at work and unable to update with thoughtful posts, but I should be able to update for Corbin, Eugene, and Finally tomorrow as I know what they will learn, it's just a matter of typing it up with the proper ambience. For now, here's what happens with Lars, Juan, and MacRegan on the trail to Tucson:
Several dusty hours northwest of Saguaro, where the so-called road to Tucson turns bumpy and might be better described as overlapping ruts dug deep into mud dried by the blazing hot Arizona sun after a recent monsoon, your confraternity of lawmen, long-time professional and novice, comes upon a broken-down covered wagon, one wheel splintered beyond repair and its two-horse team looking like crowbait. The wagon cover is torn in several places, has obviously been restitched together on more than one occasion, and has seen better days. Kneeling beside the wheelless axle you see a Negro of perhaps sixty summers unsuccessfully attempting to fit a spare while a boy of perhaps fourteen shields him from the sun and heat with a seemingly incongruous frilly lavender parasol. As they hear you approach, the two cease their labor and watch you warily. The boy is rather light-skinned with somewhat Indian features that make you believe he's likely a halfbreed, but he still bears enough resemblance to the old man that they're clearly blood relations, maybe father and son, or more likely grandfather and grandson. You can't see if they have any companions in the wagon. Neither seems prone to ask for assistance; if anything, you get the impression that they're more concerned with what you might do against them.
 
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Lars carefully avoids making eye contact. He has an unpleasant feeling that this is going to lead to him doing work, and he can't see any dignified way of escaping it, but he's at least not going to do anything to invite it.
 
I've been very busy at work and unable to update with thoughtful posts, but I should be able to update for Corbin, Eugene, and Finally tomorrow as I know what they will learn, it's just a matter of typing it up with the proper ambience. For now, here's what happens with Lars, Juan, and MacRegan on the trail to Tucson:
Several dusty hours northwest of Saguaro, where the so-called road to Tucson turns bumpy and might be better described as overlapping ruts dug deep into mud dried by the blazing hot Arizona sun after a recent monsoon, your confraternity of lawmen, long-time professional and novice, comes upon a broken-down covered wagon, one wheel splintered beyond repair and its two-horse team looking like crowbait. The wagon cover is torn in several places, has obviously been restitched together on more than one occasion, and has seen better days. Kneeling beside the wheelless axle you see a Negro of perhaps sixty summers unsuccessfully attempting to fit a spare while a boy of perhaps fourteen shields him from the sun and heat with a seemingly incongruous frilly lavender parasol. As they hear you approach, the two cease their labor and watch you warily. The boy is rather light-skinned with somewhat Indian features that make you believe he's likely a halfbreed, but he still bears enough resemblance to the old man that they're clearly blood relations, maybe father and son, or more likely grandfather and grandson. You can't see if they have any companions in the wagon. Neither seems prone to ask for assistance; if anything, you get the impression that they're more concerned with what you might do against them.
"Howdy " MacRegan says to the old man. "Would you like a hand getting that spare wheel fitted?"
 
Juan looks around them, checking for possible ambush, and lets the others do some talking.
 
"I'll have some tequila alright" Corbin nods and looks around "And I'll have a mix of what they're having" he says gesturing to the peones.

Corbin will head to the group playing dominoes while waiting for his food and drink.

"Mind if I sit in? Used to play this back home" he'll say using his father's accent, a Francophone never fully comfortable with English.
A weathered-looking brown face looks up and asks, "You got money?"

The man next to him coughs and interrupts, "Ay, huevón, no gringo comes here to play with you! No es un apretado." Turning to you he says, "If you want a piruja, come back tonight." Nodding to the waitresses, he adds, "These are honest girls."
 
I believe Tybalt and Eugene still had to talk to Sour Lemmons' Livery Stable concerning what McCord was buying there.
At the livery stable, a young Mexican errand boy leads you round back to the corral, where the proprietor, Sour Lemmon, is shoveling a large mound of horse manure into a wheelbarrow. He's a gaunt-faced older man with skin like worn leather.
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Sour Lemmon
"I ain't got time fer no idle chatter," he says, "so you'd best get t' the point 'less you want t' shovel shit fer me, in which case I'll hop up on thet there corral post an' supervise while you ax me whatever you like. What's it gwine t' be, boys?"
 
"Howdy " MacRegan says to the old man. "Would you like a hand getting that spare wheel fitted?"
Lars groans quietly. He knew it!
Juan looks around them, checking for possible ambush, and lets the others do some talking.
There's no sign of anyone else around. The only sound is a hot breeze blowing up from the desert. The old man squints at you like someone in the audience trying to figure out where the magician hides the rabbit he pulled out of his tophat.

The boy looks down at the ground and answers as if by rote, "We don't want no trouble, mister. We ain't got nothin' worth robbin' and we ain't done nothin' wrong. We just done broken down. We's just passin' through."
 
"We're not robbers. We're hunting them bandidos...but luckily, not right now", Juan said. He hoped the men would be more inclined to talk to him than to one of the gringos.

"Also, we help people when possible, 'cuz we're good Christians", he added, making the sign of the cross. "Y la Virgen sabe bien que we could need an extra good deed when the time for a final count comes... So: would you like some help?"

He chuckled.
"Calm down. I'm pretty sure I know who you're hidin' in there...y personalmente, no me toca! It's your family, not mine."
 
"Keep your eyes peeled boys." MacRegan says as he tosses his reins to Lars, swings down from his horse, taking off his coat as he walks towards the wagon. "Here hold this lad" he says in a neutral voice, handing the boy his garment. Grabbing a hold of the spare wheel he proceeds to manhandle it into place.
 
Juan also hands his reins to Lars and proceeds to help the big gringo.
"Don't exert yourself, big gringo. You got shot recently, let me do more of the work."
 
Lars takes the reins and does his best to look like holding them is a full-time job and he can't possibly be entrusted with anything else right now.
 
Juan also hands his reins to Lars and proceeds to help the big gringo.
"Don't exert yourself, big gringo. You got shot recently, let me do more of the work."
"Tell me something deputy. What in hell is a gringo? I've heard you use that word as freely old Buckskin what's his name over there used his six shooter. I don't speak your language, and would like to be sure I understand what you're saying so there's no misunderstandings. If you catch my drift?" MacRegan says as they're putting the wheel on.
 
Juan got a good look at him. Nah, he was sincere...
"You really from the far Norte, aren't you? OK, look - a gringo is someone whiter than me that que no hable en cretieno...meaning, doesn't speak my language. Lars? Gringo. You? Gringo as well. Me? Definitely not a gringo. Those guys here? Probably not speaking, but not white enough, so still not gringo. Got it?"
He shrugs while still working.
"Some people make much more of the distinction than it's worth, really."
 
"
Juan got a good look at him. Nah, he was sincere...
"You really from the far Norte, aren't you? OK, look - a gringo is someone whiter than me that que no hable en cretieno...meaning, doesn't speak my language. Lars? Gringo. You? Gringo as well. Me? Definitely not a gringo. Those guys here? Probably not speaking, but not white enough, so still not gringo. Got it?"
He shrugs while still working.
"Some people make much more of the distinction than it's worth, really."
" Uh huh. I get it." MacRegan stops work for a second and looks directly at Juan. "I'd much prefer Inspector MacRegan, or even plain Inspector. Shit, if we ride together long enough I might even let you call me chief, but we need to be in a few more battles before that happens. Got it?" MacRegan returns to work, with a determined look in his eye, and looks over at the boy holding the parasol " What do you think lad? Does that sound fair?"
 
"Ah, Mister Lemmons a good day to you" Tybalt says to the shopkeeper. Tybalt draws in close enough to talk but far enough to avoid any splatter.

"I shan't keep you from your daily routine a moment more then to ask a simple question" Tybalt says in a conversational tone. "We are investigating a certain nefarious man going by McCord apparently he had some business in your store, can you recall any details from talking to him?" Tybalt then puts on his most sincere face and says "we fear he and his group might be a plotting something wicked for the townsfolk so any assistance would be helping to bring violent men to justice"
 
A weathered-looking brown face looks up and asks, "You got money?"

The man next to him coughs and interrupts, "Ay, huevón, no gringo comes here to play with you! No es un apretado." Turning to you he says, "If you want a piruja, come back tonight." Nodding to the waitresses, he adds, "These are honest girls."
Corbin ignores the second man.

"I have money" he says to the first man "I imagine that's all that matters"

He takes the closest chair, brings it over and sits down.
 
"
" Uh huh. I get it." MacRegan stops work for a second and looks directly at Juan. "I'd much prefer Inspector MacRegan, or even plain Inspector. Shit, if we ride together long enough I might even let you call me chief, but we need to be in a few more battles before that happens. Got it?" MacRegan returns to work, with a determined look in his eye, and looks over at the boy holding the parasol " What do you think lad? Does that sound fair?"
Juan replies merely by a shrug, because he can't move his hands for something more expressive. He's occupied with the cart, though.
"OK, Inspector. Got it."
He's still going to remain a gringo unless he actually learns Spanish. Then he'd just be a Northerner. But he's also an Inspector, so that's not a worse
Nobody says a Northern gringo can't be a trusted associate, even a friend. It just happens so rarely as to be virtually unheard of...but there are legends!
Juan's favourite legend is the one of El Cid, if anyone asks. But nobody seems interested in the matter.
 
"Ah, Mister Lemmons a good day to you" Tybalt says to the shopkeeper. Tybalt draws in close enough to talk but far enough to avoid any splatter.

"I shan't keep you from your daily routine a moment more then to ask a simple question" Tybalt says in a conversational tone. "We are investigating a certain nefarious man going by McCord apparently he had some business in your store, can you recall any details from talking to him?" Tybalt then puts on his most sincere face and says "we fear he and his group might be a plotting something wicked for the townsfolk so any assistance would be helping to bring violent men to justice"
"Man wanted mules. I tol' him I don't got no mules. Said he'd pay better 'n market price if I could get him a line on some mules. Spoke like he had a claim staked and wanted them mules t' get silver out o' them mountains," says Lemmon as he jerks a thumb in the direction of the Santa Rita Mountains. "I tol' him I'd try 'n track some down an' let him know if I find him some. He said I could reach him at the Western Star Hotel on the first o' August, or else in Arizona City a week after. He made like he'd be goin' down Mexico way in the meantime. You got a line on mules?"
 
Corbin ignores the second man.

"I have money" he says to the first man "I imagine that's all that matters"

He takes the closest chair, brings it over and sits down.
The weathered-faced man juts his chin out to his companion to indicate he should make room for you. "What they call you, señor?" he asks. "Mi nombre es Miguel."
 
"We're not robbers. We're hunting them bandidos...but luckily, not right now", Juan said. He hoped the men would be more inclined to talk to him than to one of the gringos.

"Also, we help people when possible, 'cuz we're good Christians", he added, making the sign of the cross. "Y la Virgen sabe bien que we could need an extra good deed when the time for a final count comes... So: would you like some help?"

He chuckled.
"Calm down. I'm pretty sure I know who you're hidin' in there...y personalmente, no me toca! It's your family, not mine."
"There ain't nobody hidin' in there, mister, but we could use some help. We can't give you nothin', though," replies the boy. "We got to get to Tucson."
"Keep your eyes peeled boys." MacRegan says as he tosses his reins to Lars, swings down from his horse, taking off his coat as he walks towards the wagon. "Here hold this lad" he says in a neutral voice, handing the boy his garment. Grabbing a hold of the spare wheel he proceeds to manhandle it into place.
The boy takes your coat and the older man stands up and blinks in disbelief at a white man changing his wagon wheel.
Juan also hands his reins to Lars and proceeds to help the big gringo.
"Don't exert yourself, big gringo. You got shot recently, let me do more of the work."
Lars takes the reins and does his best to look like holding them is a full-time job and he can't possibly be entrusted with anything else right now.
"Tell me something deputy. What in hell is a gringo? I've heard you use that word as freely old Buckskin what's his name over there used his six shooter. I don't speak your language, and would like to be sure I understand what you're saying so there's no misunderstandings. If you catch my drift?" MacRegan says as they're putting the wheel on.
Juan got a good look at him. Nah, he was sincere...
"You really from the far Norte, aren't you? OK, look - a gringo is someone whiter than me that que no hable en cretieno...meaning, doesn't speak my language. Lars? Gringo. You? Gringo as well. Me? Definitely not a gringo. Those guys here? Probably not speaking, but not white enough, so still not gringo. Got it?"
He shrugs while still working.
"Some people make much more of the distinction than it's worth, really."
"
" Uh huh. I get it." MacRegan stops work for a second and looks directly at Juan. "I'd much prefer Inspector MacRegan, or even plain Inspector. Shit, if we ride together long enough I might even let you call me chief, but we need to be in a few more battles before that happens. Got it?" MacRegan returns to work, with a determined look in his eye, and looks over at the boy holding the parasol " What do you think lad? Does that sound fair?"
"Whatever you say, mister. I kin tell you ain't from these parts."
Juan replies merely by a shrug, because he can't move his hands for something more expressive. He's occupied with the cart, though.
"OK, Inspector. Got it."
He's still going to remain a gringo unless he actually learns Spanish. Then he'd just be a Northerner. But he's also an Inspector, so that's not a worse
Nobody says a Northern gringo can't be a trusted associate, even a friend. It just happens so rarely as to be virtually unheard of...but there are legends!
Juan's favourite legend is the one of El Cid, if anyone asks. But nobody seems interested in the matter.
"Me an' my grampa's good Christian folk, too, mister, an' we'll pray for your souls if you like, but we can't pay you nothin' to help us," the boy says, "leastways not until we gets to Tucson an'--" but due to a sharp look from the old man he doesn't finish his thought.
 
"There ain't nobody hidin' in there, mister, but we could use some help. We can't give you nothin', though," replies the boy. "We got to get to Tucson."

The boy takes your coat and the older man stands up and blinks in disbelief at a white man changing his wagon wheel.





"Whatever you say, mister. I kin tell you ain't from these parts."

"Me an' my grampa's good Christian folk, too, mister, an' we'll pray for your souls if you like, but we can't pay you nothin' to help us," the boy says, "leastways not until we gets to Tucson an'--" but due to a sharp look from the old man he doesn't finish his thought.

As the old man stands up MacRegan looks him square in the eye. "I figured you might need a hand grandad, if that's ok with you?" And to both of them he says "I was raised a Christian as well, and although I've sinned more that I've saved, I try and live as honestly as I can. I reckon I'll have a lot to account for come Judgement Day, and a good deed now and then won't hurt. Don't worry, I wasn't expecting payment, nor was my deputy." Once the wheel is in place and the wagon ready to go, MacRegan takes his coat from the boy and says to the old man. "We're going to Tucson as well and would welcome the company if you'd like to ride with us." Not waiting for a response he swings up into his saddle, takes the reins from Lars and spurs his horse forward at a slow pace, and calls back over his shoulder: "Lars, follow behind grandad. Juan get the wagons moving, I'll ride ahead and make sure no one's waiting for us."
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". You got a line on mules?"

"No, can't say that I have good shop keep. but thank you you were most helpful" Tybalt thanks mister Lemmons for filling in the blanks of McCord's upcoming social calendar. Tybalt leaves the shop and motions Eugene aside to a quiet discussion of what they have learned of McCord.

"Sounds like McCord has set himself up a little land speculation mining project most likely funded for by running pilfered cattle down to Mexico" Tybalt says in a serious tone. "I'd actually be somewhat impressed with an outlaw trying to go legitimate like that, but since he sullied my dear departed brother's name as to conceal his criminal ways there will be a reckoning". Tybalt faces Eugene "Now the question is do we strike before or after he has loaded up his mule train with whatever he has pulled from the Santa Rita Mountains?"
 
"No, can't say that I have good shop keep. but thank you you were most helpful" Tybalt thanks mister Lemmons for filling in the blanks of McCord's upcoming social calendar. Tybalt leaves the shop and motions Eugene aside to a quiet discussion of what they have learned of McCord.

"Sounds like McCord has set himself up a little land speculation mining project most likely funded for by running pilfered cattle down to Mexico" Tybalt says in a serious tone. "I'd actually be somewhat impressed with an outlaw trying to go legitimate like that, but since he sullied my dear departed brother's name as to conceal his criminal ways there will be a reckoning". Tybalt faces Eugene "Now the question is do we strike before or after he has loaded up his mule train with whatever he has pulled from the Santa Rita Mountains?"

"Well, boss," Eugene says to one of the only white men to ever seek his opinion, "way I see it, he ain't gonna be loadin' that Mule train all by hisself. He'll have hired hands. I'd expect, since he was travelin' alone when I saw him, that they'd be exactly that. But a man like that, they might also be hired guns. This McCord fella's dangerous enough on his own, boss. I think it'd be stupid to cross him when he's surrounded by men on his payroll. Better we pay him a visit when he's alone, and better still if he's not expectin' us. I'm not sayin' we oughta bushwhack him, but I do think we need to talk to him on our terms, if you follow." Eugene tries as best he can to conceal the unease he feels. This McCord fella just ain't decent folk.
 
"Well, boss," Eugene says to one of the only white men to ever seek his opinion, "way I see it, he ain't gonna be loadin' that Mule train all by hisself. He'll have hired hands. I'd expect, since he was travelin' alone when I saw him, that they'd be exactly that. But a man like that, they might also be hired guns. This McCord fella's dangerous enough on his own, boss. I think it'd be stupid to cross him when he's surrounded by men on his payroll. Better we pay him a visit when he's alone, and better still if he's not expectin' us. I'm not sayin' we oughta bushwhack him, but I do think we need to talk to him on our terms, if you follow." Eugene tries as best he can to conceal the unease he feels. This McCord fella just ain't decent folk.

"I think I follow, you're saying that my need to redress the wrongs done to my dear brother's name have blinded me to more reasonable courses of action that yield the same result" Tybalt says as he strokes the end of mustache. " If we wait for the posse we can pin down the dastardly McCord en route to his hideout with with little danger to ourselves and then later seize his hideout's riches". "Thank you Eugene for seeing the sensible path when I was too blinded by bloodlust". Tybalt says sincerely.

Tybalt pats Eugene on the shoulder "Your a good man Eugene with a sound head on your shoulders. Now let's go check on how the Armburster Brothers did on that grave digging".
 
"I think I follow, you're saying that my need to redress the wrongs done to my dear brother's name have blinded me to more reasonable courses of action that yield the same result" Tybalt says as he strokes the end of mustache. " If we wait for the posse we can pin down the dastardly McCord en route to his hideout with with little danger to ourselves and then later seize his hideout's riches". "Thank you Eugene for seeing the sensible path when I was too blinded by bloodlust". Tybalt says sincerely.

Tybalt pats Eugene on the shoulder "Your a good man Eugene with a sound head on your shoulders. Now let's go check on how the Armburster Brothers did on that grave digging".

"Yes sir, Mr. Crenshaw", Eugene says, following his friend and employer.
 
Been very busy helping some friends and acquaintances with relatives exposed to the Wuhan virus, plus since I was already working at home I've been showing people the ropes since our company sent everyone home with minimal training and equipment. I should be able to update this thread tomorrow.
 
By the trailside you see the white-and-yellow blooms of the towering saguaro cactus, the yellow-flowering creosote bush, purple-blossoming staghorn cholla, orange-blossoming thorny buckhorn cholla, and the maroon fruit of the prickly pear strain against a backdrop of every shade of green above the tawny earth.
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Hours pass and as you travel northwest, the road becomes wider and the land slowly becomes more fertile and green, but even so you figure the midday air temperature to be between 95 and 100°F as the sweat collects at your hairline and the back of your neck and dampens your collar. You wish for nothing so much as water. As if he read your thoughts, the boy in the covered wagon hollers out to you that they have a barrel of rainwater aboard, collected at the last desert monsoon, and that they are willing to share as payment for your help with their wagon wheel. You estimate travel time to Tucson is about another two hours and expect to arrive around sundown.

If there's nothing any of you want to do and no special approach you want to take, I'll post your arrival in Tucson next.
 
"I think I follow, you're saying that my need to redress the wrongs done to my dear brother's name have blinded me to more reasonable courses of action that yield the same result" Tybalt says as he strokes the end of mustache. " If we wait for the posse we can pin down the dastardly McCord en route to his hideout with with little danger to ourselves and then later seize his hideout's riches". "Thank you Eugene for seeing the sensible path when I was too blinded by bloodlust". Tybalt says sincerely.

Tybalt pats Eugene on the shoulder "Your a good man Eugene with a sound head on your shoulders. Now let's go check on how the Armburster Brothers did on that grave digging".
"Yes sir, Mr. Crenshaw", Eugene says, following his friend and employer.
As you approach the nondenominational potter's field, about a mile northwest of the labor camps outside of Saguaro, you see the Armbruster brothers and the three Mexican cousins--Carlos Jiménez de Zamora, Octavio Jiménez de Texada, and Pablo Jiménez de Cisneros--are all wearing bandanas tied around their foreheads to keep their copious sweat from dripping into their eyes. As they wipe their brows with dirt-covered hands, they unknowingly spreading the dirt across their faces. You see the fresh graves have all been filled in and someone has carved sticks and tied them together to form a makeshift cross for each of the deceased. An itinerant preacher stands to one side, Bible in hand, and your hired men all hold their hats before them as the preacher leads them in a chorus of "Safe in the Arms of Jesus." The Mexican men, likely Catholic and unfamiliar with the song, mostly just move their mouths in an imitation of singing and softly mumble what few words they understand.
Safe.png
 
I don't think Séadna Séadna saw this when it was first posted...
The weathered-faced man juts his chin out to his companion to indicate he should make room for you. "What they call you, señor?" he asks. "Mi nombre es Miguel."
"¡Oye! You got something on your mind, gringo? Why you no talk to Miguel?" he asks. "You no like your tequila? What you Yankees say, 'cat got your tongue'?"
 
The weathered-faced man juts his chin out to his companion to indicate he should make room for you. "What they call you, señor?" he asks. "Mi nombre es Miguel."

"¡Oye! You got something on your mind, gringo? Why you no talk to Miguel?" he asks. "You no like your tequila? What you Yankees say, 'cat got your tongue'?"
"Je m'appelle Corbin, monsieur. Name's Corbin. And I'm no Yankee sir" he says while looking at the domino pieces "Now let's see who's the better dominoes man. I haven't played since I was young always preferred Wara, but I think I'll hold my own well enough"
 
"Je m'appelle Corbin, monsieur. Name's Corbin. And I'm no Yankee sir" he says while looking at the domino pieces "Now let's see who's the better dominoes man. I haven't played since I was young always preferred Wara, but I think I'll hold my own well enough"
Before you roll your Gambler Rating, let me know (1) whether you're cheating (with dominoes this would presumably be how you choose your tiles or possibly deliberately moving a tile out of place, etc.) and (2) whether you're using the subtle method for +5% with no chance of being caught or the more blatant method for +20%. If you choose to cheat with the +20% option, I'll roll versus your Gambler Rating to determine whether Miguel catches you cheating.
 
Lars gratefully helps himself to a swig of water. He can't say he misses the frigid Swedish climate, but sometimes the heat around here gets a bit much.
 
Lars gratefully helps himself to a swig of water. He can't say he misses the frigid Swedish climate, but sometimes the heat around here gets a bit much.
"Mister, where you from?" asks the boy, keeping the wagon within communication distance as you continue on. "I can tell you ain't used to this sun. You're turnin' red as a tomato. Your mean-eyed friend ain't lookin' much better, neither. Only one o' you looks like he can handle it is that Mex fella. Why you out here and where you headed?"

You get the sense that his suspicions of your party have died down and his boyish curiosity has taken hold even as his grandfather shakes his head and shoots him a warning look. "My name's Eustace Coltrane an' I was born free an' one day I'm gonna own me a big ol' house on a big ol' ranch an' men's gonna call me mister and sir when they talk to me."
 
MacRegan takes a swig from his canteen and presses on, admiring the wonderful desert blooms, but also keeping an eye out for potential bushwhackers.
 
"Well, I'm from Sverige, son," Lars says amiably. "It's a country in Europe, way up to the north - kind of like Canada." He tips his hat to try to manufacture some much-needed shade over his face. "We don't get much sun there, so I guess God didn't think we needed to be good at being out in it."

He smiles at the boy's plans.

"Well, I reckon it's good to have ambitions," he says. "That's what's great about America, right? Folks get to make anything they want of themselves over here."
 
Tybalt takes off his hat and tries to look solemn in front of preacher he knows he didn't invite. Tybalt will quietly hum along with the song, less for piety and more as a way to set a good example in front of the men . Tybalt will stay silent until after the preacher has finished his song and said his prayers. Afterwards he will quietly thank the man for his humble but beautiful service and ask him if knew the men being buried.
 
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