The old man circled our encampment numerous times, near-empty canteen hanging from his neck. Luisa wanted to find a deep ditch in which his body could rot. I was tempted, but his orange eyebrows and high-pitched ranting made him too conspicuous. There was just that chance that he'd be missed, even that he was the black sheep of a wealthy family.
No, better to bring him in, somehow. But he wasn't strong. Wasn't good with weapons. Nor should he be allowed within thirty yards of a sterile lab.
In the end, we gave him a broad straw hat and a shiny preacher's suit. We've given him the duties of arbitration and ritual. The wonderful thing is that it doesn't matter if he's any good at it. His presence lets my people know that I care. And that one way or another, I am always watching.