The "cave" is really a man-made hole breaching into an earthen mound. The man, khakis dirtied by kneeling on the rough earth, has assembled a macabre little pile of skulls to the side.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
"Readying these for sale, friend." He wipes his hands on his pants. "This pile of skulls, clearly claimed from his enemies by an Indian chieftain, would be perfect for any cabinet of curiosities or sideshow attraction.
BUT WHY DIG UP A GRAVE?
"Why, these skulls belong to no one; they're just here, lying under this mound, waiting for an enterprising soul to make something of them. Isn't this what America is all about?"
LOOK DEEPER INTO THE MOUND
Little sunlight reaches that deep in, but you can still see the skeletal remains, their heads carelessly removed, laying neatly in their excavated resting places, each one lovingly surrounded by stone effigies, earthenware, and copper plates in the shape of winged warriors.
LEAVE HIM BE (NINE OF SWORDS)
THREATEN THE MAN
You sigh and walk away. Halfway back to the road, you pass by his truck. It's empty now, but the back will soon be laden with stolen remains.
You pause and consider this small man, greedily arranging someone's remains as though they were a trinket for a mantlepiece.
SMASH IT UP (JUSTICE)
LEAVE IT BE (NINE OF SWORDS)
TELL HIM TO FUCK OFF
MAKE UP A GHOST STORY
Fuck it. You slash the tires, and for good measure, drain the radiator water and deprive the carburetor of its control rod. It's not much, but he won't be getting far any time soon.
You've half a mind to kick him onto his ass. And having made that clear to him, he scurries off like the mole he is: much to your relief. It's the least you can do.
It's crude and ridiculous, but he's a crude and ridiculous man. You have him run off the mound, sworn never to tell of what he's seen, for fears of monsters and ghosts. It's a small thing; but a kindness, you hope.
First Progression: The vigilantes who hunt grave-robbers in the Midwest