Parker pushed his way into the red-tinged dimness of the smithy. "I'm lookin' for a Henry MacDougal," he called.
The blacksmith waved him back. He wielded a massive hammer, pounding heated rivets into an oblong box of cast iron.
"Horse threw a shoe," Parker said, when MacDougal approached, wiping sweat and soot from his face. Parker nodded at the forge. "Odd project."
"Coffin," MacDougal grunted.
"Most folks make 'em of pine wood."
MacDougal shrugged. "Round these parts, there's a need for something a mite stronger."
"Keeps graverobbers out?"
"Robbers out," said MacDougal, blinking his dark eyes, "and other things in."
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