I can't print that sort of nonsense! Ghosts and monsters? This is a newspaper, not a dime novel! I have to admit that my voice was just a touch too loud. But it was my office. I can shout if I want to. Right then, I wanted to deafen the idiot who was trying to sell me some blather about what the locals had actually been seeing in recent days.

I want facts, I said. Not fairy tales! What you're saying is utter nonsense. If I can't prove it, I can't publish it. Now get out of my office!

Oh, I'll go, said Martinson. But you mark my words, you'll be chasing me down the street to get my story before too long. And consider this, my price has just gone up, Holister! You're going to pay a very pretty penny for it now! He slammed my door on his way out. Dust fell from the loose boards in the ceiling. I could hear his boots thumping with every angry step, until the sound faded with distance. Henry Martinson was one of the town gossips. A busybody if there ever was one. He was known to drink more than he ought to, and tell a few whoppers, besides. Yet his tall tales weren't the first of that sort I'd heard in the past few months. Some of the Indians who came into town to trade at the General Store had some weird stories to tell, too. I've made several friends among the local tribe, over the years.

My name is David Holister. I run the Diablo Canyon Herald. I call it a newspaper, but it's really more of a weekly broadsheet. Not much in the way of news happens here. Cowboys drinking up their pay packets, then riding through the town whooping and hollering. Occasionally they'd shoot up a few signs, and the Sheriff would have to take an interest. About once a year some card game in a saloon would end in a shooting. Usually some grifter who wandered in and tried to cheat at 3-card Monty or poker. The locals don't take too kindly to cheaters. Took them a while to tolerate me, as it happens. I came here from back east about ten years ago. For my health, as it were. It came down to a choice of either hopping the first train out of Atlanta, or being the guest of honor at a shotgun wedding. Since I'd never done more than smile and nod in passing to the young lady whose Daddy had 'issued' my invitation, I'd opted for the fast train. I don't know who the gentleman was that got that young lady in the family way, but it surely wasn't me. And I figured that if she was willing to lie about me, she sure wouldn't hesitate to step out on me. My Momma didn't raise any fools, may she rest in peace. Daddy told me to beware of loose women, himself. Got many a boy into trouble, he said. Made their lives a misery, he said. Never trust a liar, or tolerate a thief, he said. I got my ears boxed for asking why Robin Hood was such a hero in the old stories. Such is life, I suppose.

Most of my newspaper articles ran to ordinary events in town. Births, deaths, weddings, funerals, the occasional accident at the local silver mine. A few times a year I'd have to devote a couple of column inches to the antics of the visiting cowboys and the local ranch hands. When a fight broke out, or a saloon girl got roughed up, that sort of thing. Once, a gang of outlaws tried to hold up our little bank. Just so happened that the Sheriff and the mine owner were in the bank at the time. The mine owner never went anywhere without a couple of gunslingers he'd hired as bodyguards. It was quite a shootout. The local gravedigger had to hire some extra hands that week. I had to use two sheets of paper to get that edition out. But mostly we're a quiet little townó

The sudden peal of thunder from outdoors gave lie to my thoughts. Not a cloud in the sky, though. We don't get a lot of rain here. When we do, we can see the clouds roll in for half a day before the rain begins. That hadn't happened today. Maybe it was Nitro. The mine sometimes has to blast a new rock face to get to the ore, I thought to myself. Right about then, half a dozen horses stampeded past my window, headed out of town. That was unusual...

What the heck is going on? I asked myself. Grabbing my hat, I dashed outside into the dusty street. I could smell smoke as soon as I opened my door. I saw a big fire burning down by the train station. The railroad warehouse was on fire. I gaped as the building fell, revealing a big metal tower standing amid the flames. That ain't supposed to be there, I said. Then I heard gunfire. People running to the fire started falling down. The metal thing started walking out of the flames. Whoa, Nellie! I said. That can't be real. I ducked into an alley and checked my Coltó it was loaded, with the percussion caps set. Flapping at my coat pockets with my free hand, I was reassured to feel two small pouches of hand-made paper-wrapped gunpowder charges, lead bullets, and percussion caps. That, and the powder and shot in my gun-belt pouches would have to do. Whatever the metal thing was, it was shooting at folks. More work for the undertaker, I whispered to myself, sweating with fear as I peeked around the corner.

A line of fire traced its way down the center of the street. Looking for all the world as if the dirt had been set alight, the sight was followed by more thunder. I leaped back from the building corner, retreating further into the alley as I felt the heat from the burning street on my face. Other buildings in the town were quickly set ablaze. I was knocked to the ground when the church went up in a ball of fire. Must have been Reverend Smith's still, in the church basement. He made the best apple brandy in the territory. Everybody knew he kept a couple of dozen barrels down there, to age a bit before he brought them out to share. Good thing he was out at one of the ranch houses on the outskirts of town today. Old Zeke Taylor was throwing a to-do for his oldest girl. Her newest baby was being Christened, and Zeke was throwing a party in their honor. His son-in-law was a successful cattle rancher who was one of the local boys made goodó So at least Reverend Bob was safely out of the church when it blew up. I got up and dusted myself off a bit. I could feel the ground tremble with each step that tower took. I ain't ashamed to say that I took off running for my office. But I figured I was going to need my Springfield rifle. I'd left it on the rack in my back room, next to my printing press. It took only a few moments to get there. I dashed inside, grabbed my rifle, tossed every box of powder and shot I owned into the pack I carried on hunting trips, then ran for my life out the back door. I could hear more gunfire. I've been around enough to tell the sound of rifles from the lower pitch of the guns on that tower going off. The townspeople were fighting back. I struggled to get my free arm through the other strap on the pack as I ran. Sounds odd, but as I was running I was taking stock of what else I kept in the pack. Some jerky, a big canteen of water, a pint of Reverend Bob's brandy... If I was lucky, the cheese and hardtack biscuits left over from my last weekend hunting trip were still edible. Half a slab of Miss Daisy's cornbread, too. I hoped she was all right. She might be a saloon girl, but she had always been kind of sweet on me. Then I ran slap into that idiot Martinson. Knocked us both on our tails. He started yelling as we picked ourselves up.

I told you, he shouted. Monsters! Ghosts and monsters! They came out of the old mine shafts on the West side of the hills. Just like the miners and the Indians said! That old Medicine Man said so! You wouldn't believe me. Well, now you've got no choice. How does it feel to be so stupid, Mister Newspaperman? Well? No answer?

In mid shout, Martinson's body lit up like he'd been struck by lightning. I swear I could see every bone in his body glow through his skin. He screamed like a scared horse. I could smell flesh burning. His lifeless body fell to the ground, smoking and stinking to High Heaven. He twitched as life fled his ornery carcass.

Rest in peace, I gasped as the heat from yet another burning building struck me. Then I ran again.

Coward? No, just moving to a better tactical position, as it were. I've been shot at a few times in my life. Can't say I enjoyed the experience. Not like old George Washington wrote down in his diaries. But to my credit, I ran towards the gunfire, not away. This was my town. I wasn't going to run away when I was needed. Minutes later I found Sheriff Anderson He had that bloody big antique fowling piece of his loaded up with double-ought, and enough gunpowder to make a half a charge of Nitro look puny. My ears hurt as he torched that thing off, then started reloading.

If noise was stopping power, I shouted at him over the ringing in my ears. That thing would equal a brace of cannons. Leastways you found some good cover.

It does what I need it to do, he said. Leastways, 'til today. I can't make a dent in that thing!

You reload, I said. The ringing in my ears was easing off. I'll see what Springfield's newest pride and joy can do against that thing. Checking my rifle, I took aim at the walking tower, and gently squeezed the trigger. Once again, the .58 Springfield punched back on my shoulder like a mad bull in full charge. I was glad I'd spent my limited budget on the latest and best guns I could buy. I'd aimed at the bottom edge of what looked like a set of windows near the top of the walking tower. I saw the glass shatter as my bullet hit. The tower took a shorter step than usual, then leaned a little. Sheriff Anderson let fly with another charge from his fowling piece, and the tower leaned a little more. By then I'd reloaded and fired dead center into the broken window. I could hear several other rifles and pistols firing all around where the Sheriff and I were positioned. Smoke belched out of the walking tower, and I heard metal groan in protest. I heard more gunfire from the townspeople, then saw a gout of smoke puff out of the broken glass on the tower. Suddenly, I could hear a low-pitched moan, like a big tree breaking off when it's being cut down. The tower leaned further. Something inside blew up, blasting smoke and shards of metal from the belly of the beast. One of its three legs bucked like a drunk staggering out of a saloon on Saturday night. The tower twisted to one side, leaned further, then crashed to the ground.

We've got to get those fires put out, I told the Sheriff.

You're right, Sheriff Anderson replied. But the worst of the damage has already been done. There's bucket brigades fighting every fire, even at Madam Percy's house of ill repute.

Doc Adams is going to have a full office for a few days, I said. From here it looks like there isn't a single family that lives in town who isn't going to be holding a funeral. What was that thing? Where did it come from? Why was it trying to kill us? What the hell is going on?

You're the man who looks for answers, said Anderson. I'll help, of course. But I'm going to have my hands full for a while.

Martinson mentioned the old Medicine Man, before he was killed, I said. Maybe I ought to ride out and talk to Chief George and old Wolf Brother, before anything else can happen. If my horse survived, that is.

That mean old stallion of yours? Sheriff Anderson asked, then laughed. I'd lay money on that monster living through hell-fire itself. Speaking of which, there it is. Your horse came to find you. The Sheriff laughed again. I could hear the sarcasm in his voice, and the jealousy. Then I could hear my horse whicker and laugh. The horse sounded even more sarcastic than the Sheriff. I turned around, and sure enough, there was my horse walking through the smoke and heat. Jezebelís Downfall, his owner had been calling him before I bought him. I called him Firebrand, when I was in a good mood. The other things I called him when he misbehaved, I couldn't print in my paper. He'd bite, kick, or maim anyone but me. Me, he tolerated and allowed to ride him- if I fed him a treat or two before trying to saddle him. Someone had saddled him, I saw. God rest his soul, whoever that had been. There was drying blood on my horse's hooves. There was an apple in my pack, which I retrieved and offered to my demon-blooded horse. After a few moments, I was allowed to mount up without injury, so Firebrand and I set off across the river for the nearby Indian reservation.

Two hours ride, and we'd reached the Indian village. I somehow got Firebrand slowed to a walk as we passed the first buildings. You might think of an Indian camp as a bunch of tents and Teepees. Nothing could be further from the truth. A temporary camp might be all tents, but this was a village. The houses were built exactly the same way as those in town. These people weren't nomads. They were settled down for the long count. I reined in Firebrand when some braves blocked my path, arms raised. No one seemed inclined to shoot at me, so I figured I was still in the tribe's good graces.

There's been trouble in town, I announced in my best formal voice. I need to seek the advice of your Chief and your Medicine Man. Please send my respects, and ask if Chief George and Wolf Brother can spare time to speak with me.

Respect, such a simple thing, but a thing that means more than all the words used to express it. I saw one young lad running off towards the Chief's house. With luck, I'd be granted an audience soon.

I dismounted when the boy came back. He nodded at me, spoke to the brave who seemed to be in charge, and was given something else to do. The boy left again, in a different direction.

Come, said the brave. He wasn't known to me, but then I hadn't had much dealings with anyone but the Elders. The boy has gone to fetch Wolf Brother. The Chief is waiting, not far away.

Thank you, I said. The two of us began walking through the village. Chief George was sitting under a shade that had been set up near the village well. He was cleaning his rifle, an old '41 percussion model that had probably seen some hard duty over the years. He'd decorated it up some, but not too much. I'd seen far gaudier work before.

I hear that half your town burned down, Chief George began, waving me to a seat in the shade. We saw the smoke. Someone went to look. Brought the news back. Caused some excitement. My people are taking stock of our powder and shot.

More like a third instead of half, I said. I don't know yet how many people died. Twenty or more, that's my guess.

Shame about the Preacher's still, the Chief said. Damned good brandy. 'Course I have to water it down a mite. Can't hold my liquor like I used to as a young buck.

Reverend Bob was out of town, I said. I nodded off in the direction of Zeke's ranch. He can rebuild the church, and the still, if we all pitch in together.

What was that walking water tower? Chief George asked. Something the railroad men had in the warehouse?

Well, I replied. It wasn't anything of ours. And I don't expect it was anything of yours, either. What would the railroad men want it for, I wonder? Guns and throwing fire? Sounds like the Army. Or some outlaws. Must have cost a lot to build, though. Lot of money tied up in that sheet metal, and all. Have you heard anything that might explain it?

Maybe, said the Chief. Nothing you'd be inclined to believe. Old stories. Wolf would know more than me. Here he comes now.

Paperboy, said the Medicine Man as he sat down in the chair next to Chief George. That's what the old man had always called me. He meant it as a form of joking respect. Your town seems to have stirred up a mess of trouble, he added. We were afraid something like this might happen when the silver mine reopened. I tried to warn them, but nobody listened to the crazy old Indian.

The love of money has a way of taking people over, I said. Makes it hard to listen so anyone saying no. Chief says you might could tell me something. Something I'll have trouble believing. After today, believing will be easier. I'm listening. Tell me anything you can that'll help me understand what happened in town.

When the Army marched us off our lands, back East, Wolf Brother began- we kept going after they turned back. It took us months, but we finally found this place. Good water here. Not like in other places. Fruit trees, too. Someone had been here before us, long ago. We kept finding signs of them. Old camps, the well and trees here. Way south of here there are stone houses carved into the sides of cliffs. Trails, overgrown, but still usable. Markings carved into rock walls and faded paint on some places we found along the trails. Those showed some kind of danger, but we couldn't read much of it. Not our language. The silver mine was already here, too. The marks we could make out told us it was dangerous. Especially the oldest North shaft. I warned old Slick-Hair when he started up the mine again. But as you say, silver in the hand drives wisdom from the ears. I had to smile when Wolf called the mine owner Slick-hair. Silas Green did use enough pomade on his hair to grease up a wagon axle.

Whoever they were, Wolf Brother continued- they've been gone a long, long time. Some of the other tribes we met had stories of a vanished people that had met up with some deadly danger. We were warned away from the mine several times, by different peoples. Best I could make out from the stories we were told and the markings we found, something dangerous slept there. Something that always woke up in a mean mood. There have always been grandfather stories of monsters and spirits. No tribe is without those. Usually the spirits are helpful to the People. They teach us, they bestow gifts, and they sometimes give warnings of danger. Dangers like monsters in lakes, or that wander the Winter snows looking for people to eat, or even those that change their skins to look like something harmless.

Demons and monsters and fairies, I said, just to show I was paying attention. The Whites have those as well. As you say, old stories from back in the days before the cities and the sailing ships. I was told some of those as a child.

As you say, Chief George said. He began loading his pipe, laying his rifle down on a buckskin beside his chair. All tribes have such stories, the People, and the Whites alike.

Tell me more about this vanished tribe, I said. I'm guessing that they woke up the demon when they started digging the silver mine?

Not at first, said Wolf Brother. The stories said that their tribe came here from afar, but were living here for generations before they awoke the monster. Once awake, the beast made the river run red with blood. Those peoples that weren't killed, must have fled, back to their own homeland. South they went, far, far South. Their villages were abandoned, their cliff cities left empty. The fruit trees grew wild. Dust and tumbleweeds blew through the places they left behind. All they left were their warnings. And some stories others remembered in their place.

That walking tower wasn't much like a demon, I said. That was a made thing, a machine.

Not all spirits are good, but all have powers, Wolf Brother said. Some can even possess the minds and bodies of animals or the People alike. Some make things, then give them a semblance of life. Not real life, like we all share, but a false life. Makes them very hard to kill...

Like a puppet, I said. Not alive, but acting like something alive. I rode out of town before anyone looked inside the tower to see what made it walk. I got in too much of a hurry, it seems. I hope it was men inside that thing. I can shoot an evil man. Monsters and spirits might not feel bullets.

That is wisdom, said the Chief. Wolf nodded in agreement. One of the braves should accompany you back to your town, the Chief added. Stone Knife, or perhaps Red Hawk.

Red Hawk, said the Medicine Man. Yes. He has more in his mind than hunting elk, or courting women. I have been able to teach him some of the old wisdom. And he attended the school in town. Stone Knife is a great hunter, but that is all he cares about. This will take skills beyond bringing meat home for the cook fires.

If my house didn't burn, I said. I have room to spare. If Red Hawk went to the school, then perhaps he won't be insulted that I can't speak your language very well.

Red Hawk speaks English well enough, said Chief George. Some French, a little Spanish. He's been taught the speech of several of the local tribes as well. Grandfather always said that languages were the key to respecting and understanding other peoples. The best way to avoid trouble is to understand what another man is saying. He is the reason I learned your English.

That is wisdom, I replied. I wish more of my people understood such wisdom. There would have been far less troubles between our peoples if that were more widely recognized.

Red Hawk and I rode back into town. We talked a bit along the way. Just trying to get to know one another.

From what the Chief and Wolf Brother said, I began- sounds to me like you have a better education than I do.

I wouldn't claim that, Red Hawk replied. I have a good ear for languages, that's all. Uncle Wolf thinks I have a good eye for plants as well. He's been teaching me tribal languages, herb-lore and the preparations of simple medicines. I enjoyed school in your town, and what little Chemistry and History that Miss Rosemary had books to teach from. French and Spanish language books she had in plenty, but not too much else. Simple math, Bible studies, English spelling and writing in cursive... Not her fault, but any school out here isn't going to be able to offer more than the basics in any subject. One day I'd like to go to a bigger school, back East. Just for a year or two, you understand. Just to learn more than I can here. Although the tribe has many things to teach me, still. I fear my heritage might be a handicap in the pursuit of a higher education, though. He smiled at me. The Elders have spoken of you often. You have a reputation in the village, a good one. You respect the Elders. And rumor has it that the Chief owes you his life, as well.

That was a long time ago, I said. Nothing to it, really. I shot a rattlesnake, that's all. George and I were both a lot younger then. It was a hunting trip. He woke up with a snake in his bedroll. He got out of the way and I shot the snake. He insisted we cook it for breakfast. Tasted like a chicken, but it had a lot more bones in it. I laughed, and Red Hawk laughed with me.

He kept the snake's head, said Red Hawk, once we stopped laughing. He smiled again. It's in anó herb pouch? Medicine pouch? Something Uncle Wolf made for him for his confirmation ceremony.

I don't know the right name for it for your people, but we'd call it a 'good luck charm' if it was a White who carried it. At least in some cultures. I always prefer to call things by whatever name the people involved would know it by. I hate insulting folks with my ignorance.

An admirable desire, said Red Hawk. If I may ask, changing the subject, how did you come by your horse?

One of the ranchers had him, I said. Long gone now, the farm was sold so he could have a grub stake to leave with. Down on his luck, and when I met him he was far the worse for drink. He was beating the horse with a whip. I came near to shooting the man. I gave him my last $40 for the horse and saddle, at gunpoint I'm ashamed to say, and then saw the bugger off on the next train. Firebrand isn't safe for anyone but me to ride. And even I'm not entirely safe from him and his temper. We laughed again. As far as I can tell, he was caught wild, but never fully broken. He tolerates me and allows me to ride, but won't let anyone else near him. He's a good horse, but a danger to anyone but me. There's the river. Let's go see what was inside that walking tower. We crossed the shallow ford above the deeper river, where the steamboats docked near the railway, and entered the town.

We found the Sheriff near the wreckage of the tower, directing men who were searching the buildings damaged by the attack. I gathered that casualties were lighter than we had a right to hope, but still too many had died. Good people, gone, for no reason we could understand.

I need to know what was inside that thing, I said to the Sheriff.

A lot of machinery, said the Sheriff. And aó thing.

What kind of thing? I asked.

As big as a bear, Sheriff Anderson replied. Skin like wet leather. No arms or legs, just ten things like snakes, growing out of itsó body. Just a big head and a tiny body, with snakes growing out of it. Never seen the like in all my born days. What kind of animal... -I just don't know. I really just don't know. And the smell! Whatever it was, it was rotting away, even while we were shooting at it. We put it in a barrel, then filled that with brine. It's over there if you've got stomach enough to look. I've got to keep these men going on the rescue searches. More people lived through the fires than I expected. We're still finding people alive. Can't stop now. Got to keep going.

Sheriff Anderson turned and walked away. I looked at Red Hawk. He shrugged, then spoke. We need to see what we're up against.

Let's go look in that barrel, then. I replied. I could smell it from here. Anderson was right, the thing was rotting away, even despite the brine. It was a big barrel, maybe a hundred, hundred fifty gallons. Five foot tall, at least three, maybe four foot across. A stepladder was resting against it. There wasn't any lid. I climbed up and looked in, shading my eyes from the sun. The thing inside looked like an octopus I saw once in a traveling show. But this one was huge. Even with it under the brine, I could smell the rot as its flesh decayed. I got off the ladder and let Red Hawk take a look. When he stepped down, his face was pale, like he'd seen a ghost. Or a monster.

This can't be the only one, he said. Weewillmekq, that's what the Cheyenne called it in their legends. The Cheyenne live far to the Northwest from here, but I learned what I could of them from Grandfather George and from Uncle Wolf. None of the tales could agree on what the Weewillmekq really looked like. The arms, like snakes. The head and body, like a giant slug. That mouth, like a leech. Take all the stories together, mix them like cornmeal in a bowló this thing might be the monster they feared. Dangerousó Certainly a man-eater. But that head has room for a cunning mind.

That head is as big as a bear, I replied. A small bear, anyway. If it has a mind as good as a man, in a head that big? It'll be smarter than we are. We could be in more trouble than we thought.

We know from the stories that it lives in the mine, said Red Hawk. Down deep, where it can sleep undisturbed. Look at the size of the eyes. It must hate sunlight. Probably, it can see in the dark better than we can in broad daylight. It might even be blinded by sunlight... He turned to me and looked me in the eyes. We need to go look at its machine. I have some suspicions, but I'll have to see more to judge that I'm on the right track.

I want to see the inner workings of that machine myself, I replied. Let's go. Something stinks around here, and it's not just thisó Wee Willie Meek, or however you say it.

Will anyone try and stop us? Red Hawk asked.

Not unless this thing, or the machine, is their handiwork. Come on, I want to see how that machine worked. If men built it, or this thing. Frankly, I hope it was men. If there's a whole tribe of these things in that mine, mankind may be doomed. We left the barrel behind, and went to look at the innards of the machine.

It's like a bloody damn clock inside, I said as Red Hawk and I climbed through the wreckage of the walking tower. There isn't any room for a crew. It's all machinery. Look, thereís the boiler from a steam engine, and over there, that's another. Here's the gear train, the transfer cylinder. Looks like it took two locomotives to provide the parts just to drive these gears.

There have been trains that have gone missing after leaving Diablo Canyon, said Red Hawk. Mister Green and Sheriff Anderson came to the village, thinking that the tribe had turned to robbery. But they found nothing in the village. We're too proud to steal. That didn't set well with Mister Green.

Green would steal candy from a baby, I said. And then try and auction it off on the steps of the church. He's not a very good man, is our Silas Green.

But 'Slick-Hair' isn't brave enough to steal, himself. He'd hire someone for that, Red Hawk replied.

Agreed, I said. A coward, but a dangerous coward, nonetheless. Come on, there isn't enough room in here to swing a cat. I want to see the controls for this machine. If the seat is made for our friend in the barreló

That would be the proof we are looking for, said Red Hawk. Perhaps.

We climbed out of the belly of the beast and walked carefully across the broken ground and metal shards towards the head of the walking tower, where it lay upon the ground. The windows that Sheriff Anderson and I had shot out in the thing's head loomed before us like some shattered wall from an old cathedral. Easing over the windowsill, we finally made our way inside what looked to be the main cabin of the machine. Its control room, as it were.

My friend, said Red Hawk as we stood looking at the pilot's chair of the machine. I fear that this contraption was not meant for men to operate. Look at the seat, and the control levers. No man could use this room. The scale is too large. It would take a giant to sit there and yet reach these levers.

That chair is just the right size for our friend in the barrel, I said. And you're right, it would take those snake-arms to reach these levers and valves. The Wee Willie Meek must have been this thing's driver. But luckily, there was only one of them in this thing. There's no room for another.

We should speak to Sheriff Anderson about salvaging the guns and fire-thrower. The town might need them to defend against another one of these machines.

Agreed, I said. The blacksmith might be able to cut this thing's guns loose and mount them on an old rail car, or something. But- what would the fire-thrower look like? We might know a gun when we find one, but that?

We can but try, said Red Hawk. How would one throw fire to a distance? A tube, a pump, a tank of oil?

Somehow, I said. I doubt that it would be that simple. I saw it in action. It was more like a lens, focusing sunlight. The ground caught fire, but there wasn't any oil splashing around.

We look for a lens, then. The chapter on optics in my schoolbook was very brief. Would it not take a series of lenses? said Red Hawk. Something like a telescope? I gather that the effect was very concentrated.

No doubt, I replied. But what of this creature's family? The ones still in the mine?

They are why I want to find this machine's weapons, said Red Hawk. To survive, we may need to use their own weapons against them.

So we go to the mine to hunt these beasts? I asked.

Better than waiting on them to come to us, Red Hawk replied.

Is it? I asked. We don't know how many there are. We'd never know if we got them all. We can only carry a limited number of torches. We've got no idea how deep in the mine we'd have to go to even find them. Look how many bullets it took to kill just one of these things! And we don't know if it was still alive when the machine fell over and the boilers exploded. No, I think forcing them to come to us is a far better plan.

Good, said Red Hawk.

What? I replied. I thought you wanted to hunt these things down.

No, Red Hawk said. I wanted you to stop and think about just how foolish going into the mine would be. The Sheriff, and others, will want to go in. Most of them would die, I believe. Inside the mine shafts we would have no room to evade an attack. Anyone in there would wind up strung out in a line, waiting to be picked off one at a time. Plus, taking a posse into the mine would leave the rest of the town defenseless. Silas Green will be against any plan that might reduce the wealth he sees coming out of the mine. It is his, after all. So I'm afraid the best plan is going to be difficult to do.

Blowing up the mine and hoping the creatures go back to sleep? I asked.

Exactly, said Red Hawk. With the added provision that the town and my village remain armed and alert for any sleeplessness on the part of the monsters. And consider thisó how did that creature get itself and that machine into the railroad warehouse in the first place?

Good grief! I said. Unless the thing can become invisible, or pass through solid rock like water through a sponge... it must have dug a tunnel from the mine to the town. I never thought of that before.

The explosion and the wreckage, said Red Hawk. It must have caused a cave in of the mouth of any tunnel the beast has dug. Otherwise, it would have been seen by now. The tunnel must be very far underground, as well. Else it would stand out against the surface. Tunneling would have raised a ridge of dirt all along the path, if it were shallow. The beasts have had generations to dig wherever they liked. Why now? Why attack now? And why only one creature? If they can build machines like that tower, they could have overrun the entire country by now. The stories of the beast are ancient. Rarely has one ever been killed. This may well be the first time. Arrows and spears would have been useless against one of them in a similar machine. As you said, look how many bullet holes were in the creature's body. The old tribe abandoned the area to escape the beast. Now that we know the monsters are real, we might not be able to afford that option. This place must be guarded. For the sake of all, we must prepare for the next time one of these things climbs out of the mine. It could be years, it could be tomorrow.

How do the two of us convince the townsfolk to turn themselves into a guard post against these monsters? I asked. If we put it to them that way, most of them will leave this place and never look back. It would take an army-

If we could convince the government that the threat was real, Red Hawk replied, we could have an army. A fort, right here in the canyon, with soldiers on guard generation after generation.

That might not be such a good thing, I said. If we were able to convince the government to establish an outpost here, that the threat was real, and that the beasts could reach anywhere in the country? The Army would want those weapons. The rapid-fire guns, the fire-thrower, the walking tower itself... Remember how badly your people were treated when all the Army had were rifles and pistols.

The very real threat of the beast is worse than the possible threat of the Army, Red Hawk said sadly. Ah, we are no longer alone. I see a shadow approaching.

We turned to look. Silas Green was walking slowly toward us. His face was grim, his mouth compressed to a narrow slit. From his stride, I could tell he was tired.

Gentlemen, Silas said as he reached us. I would like to solicit you help in convincing the Sheriff that leading a posse into the mine is a foolish course of action.

I didn't see that one coming, I said.

Beg you pardon? Green replied.

Nothing meaningful, I said. Go ahead. How did you make up your mind about that?

That thing came out of my mine, Green said slowly. Of that I am convinced. I've had reports from the miners for months of strange noises, rock falls blocking off certain tunnels, and I myself have been in the mine. I smelled the same stench that the monstrosity in that barrel is giving off. That stink was coming from deep inside the oldest sections of the mine shafts. Despite what some people might think of me, I am neither a fool nor a greedy coward. The reason we've had to dig so deep recently is that the vein of silver is almost completely tapped out. I had hoped that we'd strike another vein. The town needs it, even if I don't. My fortunes are secured. I own shares in the railroads, the steamship line, stagecoach lines- I could have left town two years ago, cut my losses, sold out my shares. I could have gone back East, or even West to California. I don't need this silver mine. The town does. I've seen what happens when a mining town goes bust. When the silver runs out. They turn into ghost towns. What few people don't leave, eventually find themselves walking through deserted buildings. Dodging tumbleweeds as they scrabble for another day of existence.

I've done you a disservice, Mister Green, I said. I never thought of you as the altruistic type.

It was before your time, Mister Holister, Green said. But my family helped build this town. My grandfather was one of the original prospectors who found the abandoned mine shafts My father influenced the railroad and the steamship line to come here. He also grub staked most of the businesses here. My father was a sharp businessman. He invested in a large number of things. The family grew wealthy. But we knew one day the mine would close. Father had a plan, against that day.

Oh? I asked. Do tell.

This river, Green replied. There's a spring coming out of the ground that feeds this river. It has never run dry, not even in the harshest years. Father planned to have canals dug, to irrigate the land around the town. He wanted to promote it as a farming community, after the silver ran out. This green swath along the river could stretch out for hundred of acres. If, that is, we could just manage to plan everything right. Far enough ahead of time to have crops growing before the mine closed. I've had engineers working on surveys of the area, planning just where and how deep the canals could be dug. How to keep from drying up the river, too. There's a limit to how much water we could take from it before it died. I have the money. I have the plans. I'd hired a crew to bring steam engines out here and start digging. And then this monster climbs up out of the ground and sets fire to all my dreams.

What do you intend to do? asked Red Hawk.

Sir, I do not intend to allow this creature to win, Green replied. Those steam shovels are already on their way here by rail. Crews have been hired and are coming by rail and by steamship. But we need time. And we need to protect the town from any more of those monsters. So I have decided to pull all my men out of the mine, and blow it up. I have crews setting the charges even as we speak. It will take a few days, but I need to convince the Sheriff to stay out of the mine until I can set off the explosives. The chance that he can kill any more of these creatures is small compared to the chance he might provoke another attack from them. I'll have no more lives lost on my account. Can you help me? Will you help me?

It seems that we have been thinking along similar lines, said Red Hawk. Keeping Sheriff Anderson from throwing lives away needlessly, or awakening more horrors. But I fear that these beasts cannot be kept buried forever. The town, and my village, will need to be on guard for any sign of their coming back.

The ford across the river, I said. It needs a bridge. The village will need more supplies, wagons full, if this plan of your is going to work. The town and the village have to grow together, at the same time. Better schools, more stores and fewer saloons. The list is nearly endless.

I had wanted a canal to the village to be the first, said Green. Or at least one of the first to be dug. My father was against that. Having it be first, I mean. He thought the townspeople would be jealous, that it would lead to bad blood between the town and the tribe. I ordered two digging machines, so that the canals could be dug at the same time. And we will have to share the weapons from that machine.

Sir? I asked.

If more beasts return, or worse, we must be armed. Mister Holister, Green replied. I have heard a number of disturbing rumors from back East. There is increasing friction between the Northern and the Southern States. There is an inequality of wealth between them, as well as a number of other inequalities. There is talk of states seceding from the Union. If that happens, there may well be war on the horizon. Monied interests are choosing sides. Unrest is growing. There is an evil afoot. We may be safe from some far-off war. But we will be affected by it. Perhaps we can provide an example to the rest of the country of how good can come from working together. One people with another. Come, it's growing dark. I'd like to continue this discussion. If you gentlemen would accept my invitation to dinner?

I would suggest, said Red Hawk- that Sheriff Anderson and some other influential townspeople also be invited. We need to talk them around to staying out of the mine, for one thing. And we need to gauge their reactions to your plans to bring the river to the farms.

I've taken the liberty of inviting the Sheriff, and a few others, to dine with us, said Green. Night falls so swiftly here, between the canyon walls. But the sunsets are beautiful, don't you think? Look! A shooting star! Perhaps it is a sign of greater things to come!

We stood and watched the green fireball streak across the sky. Darkness gathered, shadows stretched further into the gloom, then we took our first steps together into the unknown future.

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