They say when the fire burns low and the fog settles on the ridge, one of the Norfork Outlaws comes calling. Shovel in hand and a bottle at his side, this outlaw doesn’t bury men — just bad beer. Every swing of steel lays another lifeless pint to rest, a raven perched above the crooked stone.

No tavern claims him, no town keeps him. He drifts from campfire to graveyard, oak and barley trailing in his wake. Some folks whisper that if you leave a bottle out by the fire, you’ll hear the scrape of dirt and steel — proof the Grave Digger has passed through, carrying out his unlicensed internment of boring beer.