"You've picked this up rather quickly, Stranger. Are you sure you weren't built to garden?"
The Rider couldn't say he wasn't, and not just because he was mute. This all felt so natural to him, so real, more than any of the bloodshed ever had.
Why?
It was just gravel! His sword was made to cut through flesh, not rake stones!
And yet, here he was. Maintaining a zen garden better than anyone the Line had ever met before.
The Jailer was the key, and the Rider wasn't free. He was right there. His guard was down. The Rider could just take his pistol, and-
"Oh, you missed a spot!"
Damn. He'd missed a spot.