Cone of Silence

I'm somewhat surprised, I can say, to see that eight days have gone by since my last post. It doesn't feel that long. I need to keep doing it anyway, though, regardless of who is and who isn't reading it - mostly isn't, considering, probably.

*****

Samuel Morgan was no stranger to the strange, and as he stepped into the cool night air he couldn't help but think about how strange Miss Siobhan Cameron was. Her name was unusual enough, but it was just the pinnacle of what Morgan took to be a very odd character about the woman. He had a few theories as to what the truth of the matter might be, but he didn't dare speak them.

Instead, he filled the time with idle chatter. Doc Parks wasn't much of a talker, though. Morgan only put in enough energy to keep things more intellectual than grunts. Even then, that was asking a lot. People had come to Silverbridge in the hope of finding wealth, not to raise ivory towers. He suspected Miss Cameron hadn't come to Silverbridge for either reason.

Whatever had drawn her there, Morgan wasn't a man to go second-guessing it. His attention was so distant that he couldn't remember the words either he or Parks had said once they'd been said. He couldn't get his thoughts away from the woman, and he saw no reason to change that. She was, in a word, exquisite, and he couldn't forget that he was alone.

After a while the door opened and Miss Cameron stepped out, looking slightly flushed and rumpled. She greeted Morgan and Parks with a wave and wore a somewhat weary-looking smile.

"I've done what I can, gentlemen," she said. "If events are fortunate, then there should be some improvement in the patient's condition shortly. It was a rather difficult situation, if I may say."

"Say all you want, as long as you get results," Parks said. "One of you, at least. I don't know who to figure is working nonsense here and who's actually doing anything worthwhile. No offense to you, Sam."

"Or to Miss Cameron, I trust," Morgan said, narrowing his eyes somewhat at Parks. "It's still just a prototype, after all."

"Save it for once I've looked the kid over," Parks said. "Not that I expect much. You two'd probably be best to go and rest yourselves. Medicine ain't exactly a spectator sport."

"I know what you mean," Morgan said. "Invention's a lonely business. Until later, then, Miss Cameron."

"I'm certain that I will see you around again, Mr. Morgan," Miss Cameron said. "Whether or not I have any choice on when that will be is what's up to question."

"I'll try not to leave you waiting for too long," Morgan said. "Until later, doc."

Parks answered with a gravelly grumble and shut the door to his office and home. The man was probably cranky, Morgan reasoned. Not only had he been unable to improve the kid's condition, but he'd been temporarily evicted by his home by some wandering traveller who claimed to have a healing touch.

Miss Cameron hadn't said that in as many words, at least, but that was the impression Morgan had got. He knew snake oil salesmen and he knew the manners of natural healers. None of the ones he'd ever met had been able to resist telling him all about the panoply of potions, unctions, or natural remedies they stocked. He wrestled with their memories as he walked back to his workshop.

This soft-spoken Irishwoman was nothing like them. She spoke in circles, painted her words with broad streaks, and never allowed herself to be cornered in a conversation. The time they'd spent together in the Blue Castle, however brief, was proof enough of that. There was a slight smugness about her as well, and it had leaked out most noticeably in the doctor's office, like she had known exactly what would happen.

Of course, if it turned out the next day that the kid hadn't improved one whisker, such thoughts would be reduced to paranoid fantasies. Nevertheless, Morgan couldn't help recall a similar circumstance four years before, in that banner year of 1874, when he'd seen another frontier town dying under very different circumstances.

When Sam Morgan shut the door of his workshop behind him, he entered a different world. He'd found that the place he called home, whatever or wherever it might be at the time he called it so, loosened his mind and quickened his thoughts. It was a comfortable place, an efficient place to build a future from the ground up. As the stars came out above Silverbridge, it became a place for Morgan piece together a mystery that he wasn't even sure existed outside his skull.
Whether it existed or not, Morgan would eventually find the truth.

Unzoned Territory

With this scene done, and me having a day off tomorrow, I've come to the conclusion that it would probably be best if I spent my time in further planning of where the story's going from here. I've gone beyond that which I've planned out so far, and the general feeling of unfamiliarity is not fostering the best of writing environments.

Also, Anonymous, thanz for your comment. It certainly made something of mine.

*****

Sam Morgan awoke with the sun. It was, he had decided, the best time in the day to take stock of his progress and make new plans that would rise along with the dawn. Recently, they'd gained something of a therapeutic quality as well, for in those first few moments after the light rushed in from across the horizon, it seemed to him that there might yet be hope for Silverbridge.

The place was a boom town, a ramshackle reflection of the great mining communities that had appeared almost overnight throughout California thirty years before. The problem with boom towns was that they never built up their own inertia, never got into the habit of running themselves as honest towns should be run, and that they would disappear along with their bonanzas.

Some might say that it was Silverbridge's fate to be reclaimed by the desert, but Sam Morgan didn't believe in fate. The only fate he knew was what men made for themselves, and he would not watch Silverbridge fold and disappear without having made the best fate he could manage. The only thing that worried him was whether it would be good enough.

He'd planned to take a brief constitutional in the fresh morning air before he committed himself to the work at hand, but he never got the opportunity. There was a harsh rap on his door quickly followed by two more, hard knuckles against harder wood. He took his revolver in one hand and crept to the door, opening it slowly, making sure that his caller got a good look down the barrel.

"God dammit, Sam, what the hell is wrong with you?" Doctor Aloysius Park asked. "If I've told you once I've told you a dozen times. You don't got any shit in there worth stealing, and nobody cares about you enough to want you dead."

"No such thing as being too careful in these parts, Doc," Morgan said, setting his gun aside and opening the door more fully. "Desperate people don't have as much reason to be neighborly. But what brings you over here this soon in the day?"

"Thought you would want to know that the kid's out of the woods," Park said. His face was still colored by what Morgan took to be a measure of disbelief. "Not that I can goddamn figure out why, or how. I didn't really think that goddamn engine of yours would help him this much."

"What, is he walking around and singing tunes now?" Morgan asked. "Unusually fast turnaround, I'd say. I didn't expect to hear anything major for another few days."

"Not even close, but he's not dying anymore, and that's as big as a goddamn miracle I'd expect," Park said. "He's awake, and he's talking. Didn't make much sense, though, but I figure the sheriff and the mayor'll be interested in hearing what he's got to talk about."

"Depends on how crazy he talks, I guess," Morgan said. "But then Ellicote's never been much of a stranger to crazy."

"Funny that you should bring up the mayor, Sam," Park said. "He wants to see you, directly. Miss Cameron too. I mentioned to him about your healing touch, and he got his interest up."

"Don't tell me that he wants me to lug the machine to City Hall so he can inspect it himself," Morgan said. "It's a sensitive piece of equipment, especially now that I know it works."

"Just present yourself for now, that'll leave him satisfied," Park said. "I'd suggest to you to not keep him waiting long, though. You'd be surprised how much shit gets stacked on his desk in a town like this."

"And here I am without a shovel," Morgan said. "All right, Doc. Thanks for letting me now. Keep me up to date on how the kid's doing, too, won't you?"

"Fair enough," Park said. "It's about time there was something good to talk about in this goddamn town."

Morgan stood at the door for a few moments, watching the doctor disappear into his office across the street, and pondered. There was a storm brewing around his familiar little island in the desert, and water was sure to reshape the land. Then again, the promise of renewed hope was worth a change or two.

He locked the workshop door behind him and made for City Hall, a matter of a few minutes' walk at the most leisurely of paces. The name was hardly worthy of the building it was attached to, and served more as a reminder of what Silverbridge's government was working toward. There was an air of modesty about the place, three rooms barely bigger than a schoolhouse, where the work of running Silverbridge was done.

When it came time to knock on the door and present himself, an icy stab flashed through Morgan's nerves. He'd never been one to deal well with authority. After a few seconds of hesitation, he reckoned that the alternative would be worse, and so his knuckles fell against the wooden door. After a long and quiet moment, the door was opened by an older man in a dark suit. Morgan recognized him as Silverbridge's only government clerk, but couldn't remember his name.

"Good morning, Mr. Morgan," the clerk said. Morgan wasn't surprised that he knew his name, but his back stiffened from recognition nonetheless. "I'm pleased to see you responded promptly to your summons. I'm sure you know that Mayor Ellicote does not like to be kept waiting."

"Just doing my citizen's duty," Morgan said. "Can I come in?"

"Certainly," the man said, stepping to the side. "Mayor Ellicote's office is the door on your left. Please knock four times before you enter. Mayor Ellicote very much prefers that his guests follow the proper protocol."

"Four times, right," Morgan said. It wasn't the first time he'd heard of eccentricity in a politician, and considering some of the stories he'd heard from out East, it wasn't much of an eccentricity. At least Ellicote, like many other men in his position, didn't rely on the bottle.

Morgan knocked four times, slowly and deliberately. He heard a muffled grunt on the other side of the door, then an equally muffled, rather gruff voice telling him to come in. When he opened the door, it felt almost like a machine was performing his actions for him, and he was just an observer in his own head. It wasn't a sensation Morgan particularly enjoyed.

If Morgan only knew David Elias Ellicote by his reputation, he'd expect the man to be built like a bear. The reality of it was that he bore a greater resemblance to the deer that a bear would stalk. He was thin and wiry, almost spindly, and his clothes seemed baggy. There was a fire in his eyes, though, and a quiet ferocity lurking beneath his impassive, mustachioed face.

Miss Cameron was already present, sitting on a chair. She looked calm and contented. Morgan wondered what Ellicote had been speaking to her about in particular. He had a fair idea that he'd get a fair enough idea during the course of his own interview. There was an empty chair next to hers, but he wasn't about to fill it on his own initiative.

Ellicote was seated behind a solid-looking wooden desk that stretched almost from one end of the room to the other. It reminded him of a spartan newspaperman's desk, with only a few sheafs of paper and general office instruments littering its surface. There didn't seem to be any personal mementos at all, not even so much as a clock or a Bible.

"Mr. Morgan, my thanks for coming so promptly," Ellicote said, proffering a hand. Morgan shook it, but he couldn't ignore how cold the mayor's hand was, as if he'd kept it in a bucket of ice.

"Please, sit down. I'm sure you have many questions as to why I've called you here. I've never believed myself to be much of a dictator, so please, ask away."

"All right," Morgan said, licking his lips and taking a moment to put his thoughts in order. "Why've you called me here, sir?"

"A very direct question," Ellicote said. "I like direct men. To put it directly, Mr. Morgan, you're here because of your activities yesterday evening. Doctor Park told me a very interesting story about you and the lady here. It seems you've been busy giving sight to the blind, metaphorically speaking."

"I don't know if I'd call it 'busy,' sir," Morgan said. "It was just the first real test of a prototype, along with whatever tricks Miss Cameron had up her sleeve."

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't refer to my art as 'tricks,' Mr. Morgan," Miss Cameron said. "It's no more trickery than was your device, and besides, trickery would have left that boy just as bad as we'd found him."

"Fair enough," Morgan said. "The fact that the kid's still breathing, and doing more besides, is enough for me."

"You may not think that to be a grand accomplishment, Mr. Morgan, but be assured that I recognize it for what it is," Ellicote said. "No matter. The reason I called you here is because I believe that the two of you have talents that Silverbridge needs if it's to survive. I honestly think that you have the power to save this place from turning into a ghost town."

"Because we kept a boy from dying?" Morgan asked. "Pardon me, Mr. Mayor, but I don't see how the two are related in any real way."

"They're not, at least in the traditional sense," Ellicote said. "It's your potential that I'm interested in, and I'm sure it's a potential that can be put to good use. I've got a job for the two of you, and I'd appreciate it if you'd at least consider it before rejecting it outright."

"What would..." Morgan started to say, before recognizance filled him and his eyes went wide. "Mr. Mayor, are you mad, or are you just desperate?"

"Both," Ellicote said with a chuckle. "I didn't think I was that transparent, but no matter. I'll be blunt with you, Mr. Morgan. The Arizuma Mine is the keystone of Silverbridge. This town isn't big enough yet to stand on its own. If that mine stays closed the way it is, soon enough there won't be any Silverbridge left. I'm sure you've noticed what's happened already."

"I also noticed the only survivor of that posse you dug up ride back into town as a corpse," Morgan said. "Something about an early, painful death in the burning desert doesn't really catch my interest much, you know?"

Morgan's glance shifted sideways to Miss Cameron, who'd remained conspicuously silent throughout most of the meeting. She met his gaze but remained motionless otherwise, wearing only the barest hint of a smile. He took a deep, resigned breath and focused his attention back on the mayor. The man was carrying himself in a manner that reminded Morgan of his old elementary school headmaster.

"Don't think for a second that I'm asking you to do a job that only the cavalry would be cut out for," Ellicote said. He opened one of the desk's drawers, retrieved a fairly substantial envelope, and handed it to Morgan. "Everything's explained in this documentation. I would appreciate it if you gave an honest appraisal of it... and then, if you still think that you don't have what it takes, I'm sure I can find a hero elsewhere."

Morgan didn't have anything to say to that. For a brief moment it felt as if the walls were closing in on him, and sweat began pouring out of him like a water tank riddled with bullets. He looked to Miss Cameron and she gave him a wink, quick but unmistakeable.

"All right, Mr. Mayor," Morgan said. "I'll give it your honest appraisal, and for now, that's all I'm prepared to give it."

"That's all that I ask for, Mr. Morgan," Ellicote. "You're free to go now, if you like. Miss Cameron, too. My apologies for keeping you here longer than you needed to be, my lady."

"Oh, it wasn't a bother at all," Miss Cameron said. "I'm sure that Mr. Morgan and I will have a great deal to talk about, regardless. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Morgan?"

"I won't promise anything," Morgan said. He barely remembered to hold the door open for Miss Cameron on his way out of the absurdly overtitled City Hall. He clutched the envelope tightly, and he dreaded what he might find inside. Part of him wanted to excuse himself from Miss Cameron's presence and stamp it into a pile of dusty scraps. If he hadn't given the Mayor his word, and if it wouldn't have made him look bad to Miss Cameron, he could see himself doing just that.

Samuel Morgan had no interest in avoiding duty, but then, he had even less interest in dying in its execution.

And Furthermore

Okay, so I let things slide for an extra two days. Doesn't seem like it's been a week since my last post, just things have gotten a bit busier for me now. I've got a new Sparrowstrike scene to paste up, and hopefully the act of doing so will start the process of extricating me from the rut I'm in. Almost there.

*****

The boy was in a bad way, that much was certain. Siobhan Cameron felt maternal instincts stir within as she evaluated the dying miner, and she knew the pain that burned just beneath his silent, peaceful facade. Death, she'd learned, had a habit of sneaking in on unremarkable horses. Only someone who'd never seen a man die before would think that the Reaper wore black.

"I might've had a tad more luck if we had anything like a real hospital in this damn town," said Doctor Aloysius Park, a short and rather tubby man who had obviously gone several days without a shave. His casual profanity wasn't anything that Siobhan was unaccustomed to, however much it might have scandalized well-off Eastern ladies. "Whatever he's got it's not anything that I can fix, though. I figure the only thing still keepin' the bastard alive is that he just doesn't want to die."

"Perhaps, but stubbornness will only take a man so far, and then it'll surely enough drop him into the Devil's arms," Siobhan said. "I've saved a few men from death's jaws with the Art. Granted, most of them only had to worry about a bullet or two in them, not some invisible death."

"I'll be honest with you, ma'am, I've never thought any of those folk remedies are worth one damn cent," Park said. "Not that I mean to offend you or anything. I just hate the idea of not being able to do one damn thing to save this kid's life."

"I understand," Siobhan said. She'd run into this sort of hostility to her methods before, but her skill with the Art would soften skeptics to its promises quickly enough. "I've never pretended that my Art wasn't unconventional and unorthodox in the extreme, but I'm far from a doctor, and it seems that your patient has almost exhausted his options."

"Enough so that I have to rely on 'artists' like you and Sam," Park grumbled. "You talk like you've got some fancy education, but you don't act like any bunko artist I've heard of. Sam wouldn't have shown you here if he didn't trust you."

Siobhan spared a glance at Sam Morgan, who'd been busying himself assembling some recondite machine on one of the doctor's worktables. He had hardly said a word since they'd first set foot in the doctor's office, building the device into some greater whole that she hadn't been able to get a clear answer about. Even her four years at Oberlin had left her unprepared to entirely deal with Morgan's technical tongue.

"I've found that I have that sort of effect on people," Siobhan said. "Not to worry, doctor. I don't have any potions, salves, or unctions to sell. I've frequently found it advantageous to travel lightly, in case trouble rears its head."

"So long as you don't look for trouble, Silverbridge'll be fair enough to you," Park said. "Most people are too busy getting the hell out of town to worry about pissing each other off."

"Finished!" Sam Morgan's exultant shout cut through the air like an enchanted blade, and Siobhan couldn't rightly say that it hadn't startled her. "Doc, all your worries are over. You're going to love this, I know you will."

Siobhan didn't have much of an eye for machines, and she couldn't easily tell what its individual components were or what they were meant to do. The device was split into two main parts, one a rather large metal box connected by wires and clips to one of Morgan's electrical batteries, and the other a cloth-bottomed paddle with a handgrip, again connected by wires to what Siobhan supposed was the central component of the machine. For all she knew it could be a miniaturized steam engine.

"I reckon I'd love it even more if I had the whisper of an idea of what the hell it is," Park said. "Sure doesn't look like art to me."

"Then you've got the eyes of a philistine," Morgan said to Park before shifting his gaze to Siobhan. "This is art just as much as it's science. Getting a bunch of parts that have nothing to do with each other to work together and perform some greater function, it's kind of like using a bunch of bristles, a palette, and a canvas to assemble a masterpiece."

"I wonder whether Leonardo or Rembrandt would appreciate being compared to factory workers,' Miss Cameron said. "That reminds me of a phrase I heard some time ago, though, about how progress is first imagining, and then realizing, the possible."

"That's all science is, my lady," Morgan said. He looked inordinately proud of himself. "Granted, it might not do exactly what it's supposed to, since this is a prototype and this is its trial run. I'm confident we'll at least see some improvement out of it, though."

"I don't think you explained what you're trying to do particularly clearly, Mr. Morgan," Siobhan said. "Though, I gather you were understandably excited while we went to retreive the apparatus, whatever its function. Enough so that you never got on to the subject of what its function was."

"I was a bit distracted," Morgan said. "If you want to know, this fine creation is an experimental, prototypical, utterly revolutional electrohealing device. Don't touch it, it took me ages to get it calibrated just so."

"Electrohealing?" Siobhan said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm hardly a scientist, but I can't imagine any reasonable way you could heal someone with electricity. In my experience, it's typically the other way around."

"Maybe so, but this is no portable lightning bolt!" Morgan said. "See, the way it works is the device generates a small electrical current, takes that and converts it into heat. With a bit of finagling it to just the way it needs to be, I'm confident that it'll change the way doctors do business soon enough, and keep our patient here kicking for the bargain."

"It sounds very... impressive," Siobhan said. She didn't know enough about science and engineering to evaluate its merits, but from what's she'd learned about Morgan during their conversations, she felt safe in assuming that his devices were as far from the ordinary as was her own Art. "Very scientific indeed. I can only hope that your confidence isn't misplaced."

"Yes, you're about to get a good look at just what science can do," Morgan said. "What electricity can do! Doc, are we ready?"

"Just go to it," Park said. "Be careful. As much as I hate the idea of you filling that kid's insides with lightning, it's better than sitting by and watching the kid die. Hopefully Miss Cameron won't end up callin' down the wrath of the heavens with her art, whatever the hell it is."

"Doctor, I assure you, you don't need to worry about that at all," Siobhan said with a wide smile. "I hardly ever end up calling down the wrath of the heavens anymore."

Park regarded her with an expression that was, in her experience, usually reserved for people who weren't quite hinged. Siobhan reveled in it. She imagined Morgan garnered similar attentions in the eyes of many who new him. Really, the only difference was that his eccentricity was founded on lines that had been accepted by civilization.

Morgan finished the final checks of the apparatus, presumably making sure it was powered to full and ready to fulfill its function, and a wide smile spread over his face. Siobhan had seen that same smile on many men before, and in the mirror besides. It was a smile of victory, of impending triumph. Whether it was just Morgan's eagerness to make a new breakthrough or something more subtle, Siobhan couldn't tell. She had the Art, but she was far from a mindspeaker.

Carefully, Morgan held the device's element just above the boy's exposed chest, and Siobhan sucked her breath in a bit. She'd had a few bad experiences with heated irons in her time, not to mention the sun's tender mercies. It wasn't hard for her to imagine Morgan underestimating the power of his device and burning a square of the boy's skin to crisp. She didn't imagine that such an injury would much help him recover.

"No way except but to try," Morgan muttered to himself, his words barely audible to Siobhan. He took a deep breath before he powered it on, and the heat began to radiate. For the boy's sake, Siobhan hoped that it would remain as subtle as it was meant to.

Though his focus remained on the device, Morgan took the opportunity to engage in light conversation with Siobhan, and she indulged in the opportunity. For all of his eccentricities, she could feel that Morgan was possessed of a decent soul, and that his acquaintance would make her time in Silverbridge somewhat easier to bear.

After a few moments, though, she began to notice Morgan's tempers shift. The confidence and exuberance he'd exhibited earlier was beginning to evaporate, and she could see the signs of defeat and despair creeping in to replace them. If anything had been made clear to her, it was that Morgan had pinned most of his hopes on his device at least doing a little good for the boy.

It didn't look as if it had done so either way, but then, she'd hardly expected the electricity to restore vitality to the drained and dying boy. Morgan very well might have hoped that precisely that would happen. The moment was opening for an Artist such as herself to seize the opportunity before her.

"If you wouldn't mind letting a woman try her hand, gentlemen, I think my Art can be helpful here," Siobhan said. "It may not be as scientific as either of you would prefer, but I'd like to try and do what I can to lend some aid."

"As I said, Sam thinks you're a solid lady, so I'll let you try your hand," Park said. "There's not really much way you could make him worse, anyway."

"Thank you, Doctor, but before I start I've got something of an odd request for the both of you," Siobhan said. "I'd like it if you could both wait outside, or otherwise give me some privacy. The Art is far from an easy thing at the best of times, and I wouldn't want to be distracted."

Park grumbled about whether it was sensible to leave a dying patient in the hands of a stranger, but Morgan supported her and his arguments eventually convinced the doctor. The men decided that they would wait outside by the door, and at any indication of trouble or distress on the part of Siobhan or the patient, they would return immediately. Siobhan felt a bit relieved at that.

"All right, you've got your privacy," Park said. Though he'd agreed to her request, that didn't mean he'd stopped grumbling about it. Being temporarily forced out of her own office by a stranger, Siobhan thought, would be just as irritating to her. "Just don't let us find a dead body when we get back inside, and things will turn out just fine."

"There's no need to worry, doctor," Siobhan said. "Nobody is going to die today."

With Morgan leading, the two men headed out into the evening, and though she could still faintly hear their voices on the other side of the wall Siobhan took a moment to drink in the serenity of her surroundings. She would certainly need them if she was to live up to the potential of the Art.

With a deep breath and a firm resolve, Siobhan Cameron ordered her thoughts and went to work.

Keeping Up That Five-Day Rhythm

Funnily enough, I didn't even intend to do it this way. I just sort of settled into this pattern without consciously realizing it. Fair enough, though - it's a valid marker of my progress, and once I really get going, it gives me a standard to break. If only my "C" key hadn't decided to start giving me trouble. I seriously hope it's something that will settle down soon - at least C isn't all that commonly-used of a letter.

*****

Sam Morgan was getting tired of failure, and the effort it took to wheel his drained batteries back to town didn't help matters much. Almost an entire day he'd spent following his careful lines in the sand, only to be rewarded with silence and emptiness. He was beginning to think that there wasn't a whisper of silver in those hills. If it hadn't been for the fine-looking lady he'd crossed paths with, it would have been a total waste.

As it was, he hoped that he'd get another chance to see her before she left town. There was something about Miss Siobhan Cameron that excited his curiosity, something he'd never seen in a woman before.

Though he prided himself on his resistance to the desert heat, by the time he arrived at his Silverbridge workshop, Morgan had managed to work up a powerful sweat. Once he'd put his equipment in their proper places, he allowed himself a few moments of rest while he tried to calm the cyclone of disconnected thoughts that raged in his brain. A shadowed corner, beneath an open windowsill with a moistened rag on his forehead was sufficient to recharge his own energies.

His respite lasted far too short for his tastes, as it always did, but Sam Morgan knew that hard work and sweat was the only real way to advance in the world. It was one of the few constants that had endured from the very beginning of mankind to the present, and which would endure to the end of time. Anyone saying otherwise was either deluded or a liar, and Mrs. Morgan had raised an honest man.

The wooden crank was heavy, as was the machinery to which it was connected, but Morgan had become used to that. Once he fell into a comfortable rhythm of spinning the crank, once it had gathered its own inertia, he felt like he could keep going for days. He sometimes wondered if that wasn't just a symptom of a dreadfully overworked mind.

The ritual went slowly, as it always did, with Morgan forced to interrupt his rhythm time and again to exchange depleted batteries with freshly-charged ones. It was hard on the muscles, to be sure, but it was far easier for his soul and his pocketbook alike. By the time he was satisfied with his labors, the sun was casting long, slender shadows.

"Hmm," Morgan said, drawing himself upright as his hands worked a newfound ache out of his lower back. "Well enough for a day... and man doesn't live on work alone, after all."

He spent a moment ensuring that his workshop was in order, slapped his belt to reassure him that his revolver still hung from it, then stepped outside and headed toward the Blue Castle Hotel. His thoughts kept drifting back to Miss Cameron, and he couldn't complain about the direction in which they drifted.

As soon as he set foot inside, Morgan was put at ease by the warm, comfortable atmosphere that had originally drawn him to it almost a year before. He slid into his regular barstool as he put his thoughts in order, and when he finished doing so he realized that Miss Siobhan Cameron was occupying the seat next to him. There was a half-empty glass of whiskey on the bar in front of her, but it was far too clouded for it to be her first.

He locked eyes with the bartender for a moment and nodded before focusing his attention on her. That was all he needed to do, really. After months of keeping to rigid regularity, they both knew precisely what Morgan wanted, and neither wasted words on it.

"Miss Cameron, it's good to see you again," Morgan said, turning toward her. She was hunched over the bar slightly, but didn't seem particularly inebriated otherwise. "I trust you've had a well day."

"Well enough, Mr. Morgan, amid what's to be considered," Miss Cameron said, straightening up and looking straight at him. Her eyes weren't clouded at all. "It's good to see you're well in a place such as this. I didn't expect Silverbridge to be so... fallow."

"Once a man's chosen a place to be his home, he gets a bit devoted to protecting it," Morgan said. The bartender pushed his drink onto the bar, and his hand took hold of it almost automatically. "Irrationally so, sometimes, but I wouldn't want to think about what the world would be like without it."

"True enough," Miss Cameron said, raising her glass. "Would you like to drink with me, Mr. Morgan? To irrationality?"

"Certainly, Miss Cameron," Morgan said, raising his drink in turn. "Though, I would say it should be to shattered expectations and the irrationality of men."

"Hear, hear," Miss Cameron said, and she held her glass in the air for a long moment before draining it in one long gulp. "Water of life, indeed. At this rate I should live to see the middle of the next century."

"Optimism is always the first step toward longevity, as it's been said," Morgan said. "I've never seen a woman drink with such enthusiasm."

"Then you've never seen a real Irishwoman," Miss Cameron said, for a moment speaking like a woman fresh from the Emerald Isle. "Fortitude's in our blood, it is. If you be lookin' at history, you'd see that it could hardly be any other way."

"I've never been much of a man for history, myself," Morgan said. "I can't dwell on the past. As I said before, I am a man of science."

"Then what are you doing in a place like this?" Miss Cameron said. "I don't see any college around here, or any institute that would be even a quarter worthy of the title, for that matter. Seems like hardly a place for a man of science to conduct his work."

Morgan couldn't entirely suppress the sinking feeling that washed across him as she asked the question. It was the central question of his life, and though he grappled with it every day, he had never been able to answer it to his satisfaction.

"Science isn't just the work of men in universities and laboratories, Miss Cameron," Morgan said.
"It's the exploration of the world, holding it upside down and shaking it until all its secrets fall out of its pockets. Frankly, I think out here is the best place to do it... there's nothing to get in the way out here."

"Interesting point of view," Miss Cameron said. "It sounds to me as if there's something waiting back East that you'd rather keep your distance from."

Morgan sighed and stared into his empty glass. Miss Cameron was right, as much as he hated to admit that to himself. The only duties he had in the West were those he made for himself, and he'd come to appreciate the no-nonsense simplicity of the frontier.

"I've found that being out here's got a somewhat, shall we say, liberating effect on the mind," Morgan said. "It frees me to devote time to projects that are sorely needed in these parts."

"What sort of projects might those be?" Miss Cameron said. "Something to do with that device you were carrying around when we first met, perhaps?"

"Something," Morgan said. "I hope you'll understand if I don't particularly want to talk about that device, considering that I've spent the whole of the day with it. Let me tell you, though, it's electricity. The future! It's just not as futuristic as I would like, yet. Still, it's always worthwhile to have a goal to be striving for, wouldn't you say?"

"Absolutely, Mr. Morgan," Miss Cameron said. "Without ambition, without the drive to better the world, where would we be? Certainly not out here in this forsaken desert, I can assure you."

"That's got an equal part of greed in it, but you're right," Morgan said. "Bettering the world..."
Miss Cameron looked at him with a knowing grin. Morgan felt a minor sense of accomplishment in that she seemed to be going straight for his conversational bait. Really, though, he didn't know any better method of getting to know a woman than talking to her, and maneuvering her to ask about himself in the bargain.

"So what particular project is it that has you so electrified now?" Miss Cameron asked. "Might there be a piece of the future hidden away somewhere in this dusty town?"

"Oh, there certainly is," Morgan said, leaning back in his stool. "I'd be happy, real happy, to tell an educated woman like yourself all about it."

Morgan was about to launch into his explanation, his throat lubricated by a healthy application of whiskey, when he heard his name being called from outside. Before he could stand up and address it personally outside the walls of the Blue Castle, the man shouting them jogged in. Doctor Aloysius Park had a fine sprinkling of sweat about every side of his face, but considering the poor state of the town's makeshift hospital, Morgan had become used to it.

"Sam, he's moanin' again," Park said. "Doesn't look like he's gonna get any better than he is, and I reckon he's got a lot worse to go yet. Get your tools and bring 'em to his bedside, and don't slow yourself none on the way."

"Got you, doc," Morgan said. "Well, Miss Cameron, it seems that the future's needed... you wouldn't care to come by and see it light up the world, would you?"

"That is one invitation that I would be remiss to decline, Mr. Morgan," Miss Cameron said, sliding off her stool as perfectly balanced as if she'd only been drinking water. "After all, it isn't often that an opportunity comes along for a woman to watch the future happen."

Miss Cameron left the hotel first, with Morgan holding the shuttered doors open for her. It wasn't really that dignified for a lady to have to push her way through them, but Morgan had more important things to consider than manners and propriety. For the moment, not only did he have the future, but he had Miss Cameron too.

Forward Advance

It's been a while coming, but that's mostly because of things that have been taking place away from the computer, such as the getting of a new job and the like. Nevertheless, the second part of Sparrowstrike is complete in first-draft form, which will likely bear little resemblance to the finished product - but I'm not in the market for prediction just yet.

I'm just in the market for scribbling, mostly.

*****

There was no bridge in Silverbridge. Siobhan wondered if water had ever flowed in this desolate corner of Arizona, a land so parched that she doubted even the Great Deluge would have put it underwater. If it ever had, the last drop was long gone now, leaving only the bleached bones of a land too stubborn to die.

Stubbornness, it seemed, was the only thing that kept Silverbridge alive. Not only was their no bridge in Silverbridge, but she'd quickly discovered that there was no longer any silver, either. The effect was much the same as a farm faced with an empty well. She had passed what seemed like dozens of weathered, boarded-up buildings before she reached the still-vital core of town, focused on the Blue Castle that Morgan had mentioned.

"Quite a forlorn town we got here, Brendan," Siobhan said, leaning down to speak into her horse's ear. It wasn't that she didn't expect the locals to be unfamiliar with the practice, but she didn't want to be thought odd for talking to her horse in any event.

As she hitched up her horse outside the building, Siobhan couldn't help but imagine the last, desperate twitches of a corpse about to go stiff for good. She turned fiery eyes in the direction of the wolf whistles aimed at her and strode into the saloon. The sawdust crunched beneath her boots as she pushed the swinging doors aside.

There was nothing about the place that she hadn't seen in a dozen different saloons in a dozen towns scattered across the vast expanse of the West. Wide, tall windows looked out onto the main street of Silverbridge, but there was hardly a sliver of glass left in them. A ramshackle, dingy chandelier swung lazily from the roof, watching over the typical crowd of unshaven men who reeked of sweat and alcohol. Siobhan suspected that their sort was just as integral to the design of a saloon as were the walls.

Still, there were people here. For whatever it was worth, the Blue Castle was the closest thing she'd yet found to vitality in Silverbridge, such as it was.

She could feel the eyes on her as she made her way to the bar, but she wouldn't let them slow her down. All she was interested in was getting her bearings in an unfamiliar town, and if the locals wanted to escalate matters that was their prerogative. Not that they wouldn't rather rapidly come to regret it.

"Good afternoon, sir," Siobhan said, tipping her hat to the bartender as she slid onto an unoccupied stool. She dug into her pocket and laid a quarter on the bar. "I'd care for a whiskey, if you've got a spare glass."

"Fifty cents for a shot," the bartender said with a grunt. He was a round, stocky man who had obviously found an island of stability and wasn't planning to move any time soon. Siobhan shrugged and produced another coin. The bartender scraped them up and returned with her drink a moment later. It would barely have been worth ten cents anywhere else, but she knocked it back regardless. Siobhan planned to die with plenty of coin in her pockets.

The whiskey went down like liquid fire in one long gulp, and Siobhan slammed the empty glass on the bar in triumph. A couple of the men at the bar turned clouded eyes toward her and grunted in recognition, and Siobhan smiled and gave a nod. She doubted if they were sober enough to realize that she was a woman at all.

"You should be ashamed of yourself."

The voice was calm, clipped, and unmistakably Eastern. Siobhan turned around in her stool and was confronted with the sight of a man who was far too well-dressed for a wreck of a town like Silverbridge. The dark suit and pants he wore were free of dirt and of impeccable stitching, and he held himself in a manner typical of America's blue-blooded capitalist nobility.

"Perhaps you'd like to say that to my face," Siobhan growled. There was no smile on her face. "Conversation is always so much easier that way, don't you agree?"

"You are shameful, absolutely shameful," the man said, leaning down and frowning at her. "A horrid example of womankind. Though I don't suppose I should be too surprised. You're hardly a lady at all in those rags, so why shouldn't you surrender to the demon in the bottle?"

"It's good to meet you as well," Siobhan said. "How nice of you to deal with the pleasantries before descending to common insults."

"I dare say that the level of common insults would be above you," the man said. His vociferousness put Siobhan slightly off her guard, as most of the radical temperance activists she'd clashed with over the years had been fellow women. "Do not think that I'm unaware of how to treat a lady. There are just some members of the fairer sex who qualify in name only."

"You're right, I'm hardly a lady," Siobhan said, sliding off the stool. She couldn't help but smirk when she realized that the man stood a good deal shorter than her. It wasn't an advantage she had often, and she wasn't going to keep from pressing it. "At least, not the way you might imagine a lady to be. For one thing, I happen to be a woman of virtue, unlike a great many others you may find around these parts."

Siobhan half-expected one of the whores to come screeching down the stairs in a fury at that, and she was slightly disappointed when none did. She would have to content herself with the reaction of the man, whose face was curled up as if he'd eaten a lemon whole.

"I'll have no more part in this!" the man said. "If you care at all for your future, I suggest you pray. Regularly. The Lord's patience can only be worn so thin."

"Well, there's one thing the Heavenly Father and I have got in common," Siobhan said. "I'd suggest that a gentleman such as yourself not spend his time in drinking houses like this. It's not good for the humours."

"You will know the error of your ways soon enough," the man said. "To call you a virago would be wasting the word entirely."

"I've been called worse things by better women," Siobhan said. "Try not to let the sunlight blind you on your way out."

The man wasted no effort in putting on an air of superiority as he left the hotel, huffing and chuffing to rival a locomotive. A handful of patrons watched him leave, but they quickly found the bottom of their glasses to be far more captivating. Siobhan could only put her fingers to her temple and sigh, willing the frustration away.

"Who was that unpleasant man?" Siobhan asked the bartender. Though she'd initially taken his fine clothes as an indication that he was just as foreign to Silverbridge as she, after his departure she had considered the possibility that he was prominent figure in the town's government, perhaps even the mayor. If that was the case, she didn't imagine the rest of her stay in Silverbridge would be particularly pleasant.

"That bulldozer in the suit?" the bartender asked. "Name of Baxter Burgoyne Moore, some big bug from the railroad. More of a deadbeat down here than anythin' else."

She didn't bother hiding her sigh of relief. Theoretically, a man from the railroad could hold no shortage of influence over a town's elected government, but that was out of the desert where the iron roads criss-crossed the great expanse. With the railroad still reaching short of Tucson, however, she didn't imagine there was a great chance that a sparkling new track was about to connect Silverbridge to the rest of the world.

"Thank you," Siobhan said, putting another two quarters on the counter. "Another shot, if you please, good sir."

The bartender nodded, and within a moment Siobhan's insides were pleasantly burning again.

Revisions

Every once in a while, I'll take a few days to step back from whatever project I'm working on. Generally this comes as a result of more pressing concerns, such as the recent string of job interviews I've been going on, but it has the effect of distancing me from the project enough to spot problems that I didn't notice during the initial writing.

The first scene of Sparrowstrike got that treatment today. After a busy few days I've come back to it, and there were some issues that I knew I needed to address. Part of that was due to the commentary offered by Adrien - who is hopefully reading this at some point - in which he advised me to write Siobhan as being "more of a redhead." Going beyond the simple stereotype, I think it would make sense for a female wanderer in 1878 to adopt a kind of fiery attitude in order to win respect at all. The nineteenth-century frontier was, after all, not a bastion of high society.

To that end, I've rewritten the first scene of the story, and am posting it below. Hopefully the second draft generally works better than the first.

*****

The man had to be mad. Siobhan Cameron tilted the brim of her hat down, wishing it could keep the sweat as well as the light out of her eyes, and regarded him with a long stare, as if enough attention would make him fade from existence like the mirage that he was.

Whoever the man was, he was persistent, and steadfastly refused to disappear.

"Well, this don't look all that usual at all, Brendan," Siobhan said, one hand stroking her horse's thick brown mane. "How's about we make a stop, see if we can find out what the deal is, and give you a couple minutes of rest as part of the bargain? You'll like that, you will. Go on now, Brendan."

Siobhan urged her horse forward at a slow walk and leaned forward in her saddle, squinting as if she was staring into his soul. The man didn't seem to have noticed her presence yet, or if he had, he wasn't giving any hint of it. His attention was on some device Siobhan didn't recognize, what looked like a solid brick of iron on the end of a metal pole, that was connected by a tangle of wires to his backpack. He moved in a straight, regular pattern in a square of land, never going over his footsteps in the time Siobhan watched him, moving like a horse lashed to a plow.

He was a white man, that much was obvious. For all the savagery of the local tribes, Siobhan knew that none of them would be crazy enough to let themselves roast under an unforgiving sun.

As she approached the man, more details emerged from the bright glare that seemed to make the very air around him glow. He was modestly attired in clothes that gave him the look of a seasoned operator, and his boots were worn and coated with the dust of many miles. His hair was a tousled brown mop and he carried himself firm, without the hint of a slump.

He still hadn't taken notice of her approach. Siobhan said a silent prayer, thankful that she had found him before some vainglorious highwayman. She had learned from hard experience that the desert was not a place to lose touch with one's senses, lest death hide in one's shadow.

"Pardon me, sir," Siobhan said, taking up an oft-practiced respectful tone. "Do you know if Silverbridge is far?"

The man stopped in his tracks and his head spun toward Siobhan at an unnerving speed. Words died in her throat as she looked at the man, who regarded her in the cool and distant manner that a falcon might gaze across a valley from its perch. His face was placid and his chin was shaven, but she could see a quiet determination in his steel-grey eyes.

"Is that a lady's voice I hear?" the man asked. He was a New Englander from the sound of it. "Or is the heat boiling my brain?"

"I am a woman, but I can't speak for the state of your brain," Siobhan said, dismounting her horse with practiced grace. She retreived a water canteen from her saddlebag and offered it to the man, whose face overflowed with rivulets of sweat like miniature Mississippis. "Siobhan Cameron is my name. What might yours be, sir?"

"No need for 'sir' out here, Miss Cameron," the man said, taking the canteen in his free hand. He took a brief swig before handing it back. "Do I look like a duke or a general to you? The name's Morgan, Samuel Morgan, and I can tell you it's a pleasure indeed to meet someone like yourself in this wasteland. I know there aren't that many people who would share their water with a stranger."

"Likewise, Mr. Morgan," Siobhan said. "I could hardly ride by, knowing what the sun does to people under it. I can't help but wonder what it is you're doing out here all alone, though, and with that contraption of yours as well."

"It's simple, really," Morgan said. "I am a man of science, and these are my tools. Speaking of which, you wouldn't happen to be hiding a couple of batteries under your blouse, would you?"

Siobhan gasped and crossed her arms across her chest. Her experience across the coarse-tongued frontier nonwithstanding, such words never became easier to weather. To hear an educated man speak that way only made it even more painful. She would have expected him, at least, to have some politeness in him.

"The only cannon I have is the one that Mr. Colt provided, and as for what's under my blouse, that's not for you to know," Siobhan said as a great deal of her curiosity toward the device evaporated. "Not that I can see what a man of science would need with artillery."

"I mean electrical batteries, not cannons," Morgan said, holding a hand to his temple. "People always... no, it doesn't matter. I need electrical batteries to power my contraption, as you call it, and it drinks them dry like a shootist in a hot saloon."

"I've certainly got none of those," Siobhan said, frowning at him now. "Nor do I appreciate being spoken to in such a manner, Mr. Morgan. This may be an uncivilized land, but I will be damned if I allow myself to be dragged down to its level, or to yours."

Morgan's eyebrows shot up, as if her statement took him by surprise. Siobhan had to take a step back at that. Surely he wasn't so far removed from reality that he hadn't realized how she would react to his words, was he?

For a moment he floundered under her arrow-straight gaze, unspoken justifications or apologies dying as they met open air. She noticed the sweat starting to run down his forehead anew, despite the brief wind that had kicked up around them.

"I didn't mean you any disrespect, Miss Cameron," Morgan said, staring at the ground. That much wasn't a surprise, as she'd dealt with plenty of men who would rather be buried to their neck in the desert than apologize. "It's just, you know, I don't have the opportunity to talk to ladies like yourself, decent ladies, all too often. Not that many of them left in these parts anymore, either."

"Is that an apology?" Siobhan asked, eyebrow upraised. "What a fine work of camouflage. Here I thought you menfolk had all the subtlety of an artillery barrage."

"It... yes, Miss Cameron," Morgan said, still unwilling or unable to look her in the eye. "I... I apologize. It's just that... well, stay out here for long enough, and you'll feel the courtesies of the civilized world start to just fly away."

"That's something I'd prefer to avoid, thank you," Siobhan said. "I accept your apology, Mr. Morgan. Try not to be so uncouth in the future, though... or is it thoughtlessness?"

"Probably some of both," Morgan said. "Look, Miss Cameron, I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot, and I'd hate to lose out on your acquaintance because of one stupid remark. You're headed for Silverbridge, right? It's only a couple of miles down the road."

"I am," Siobhan said. "In a manner of speaking. I go where the road takes me, and if Silverbridge lies along it, so much the better."

"What's left of it," Morgan said, shaking his head. Sadness? Regret? Siobhan couldn't tell from her limited interaction with the man. "All right. There's an inn there called the Blue Castle, and it's a good enough place to get your bearings. Tell the barkeep that I sent you along, and he'll treat you right. Once I get back to town, maybe we can try so start from the beginning again."

"Fair enough, Mr. Morgan," Siobhan said. "You do seem a conscientious sort, after all. As long as you keep from disrespecting me in such a way, I'm sure we'll get on well."

"I'm already looking forward to the opportunity," Morgan said. "I know enough not to waste second chances. Just be careful in Silverbridge... the place isn't exactly enlightened, you know."

"I know all too well," Siobhan said, mounting her horse once more. "Sometimes I wonder if there's any room for enlightenment at all out here."

"Only what you can carve out for yourself," Morgan said. "It's something, but it's hardly ever enough."

"Perhaps, Mr. Morgan, but if there was enough, there'd hardly be any thrill to the challenge, would there?" Siobhan asked, winking at the man. "I'll see you in Silverbridge, then. Good luck with... whatever it is you're doing out here."

"Only the business of necessity, Miss Cameron," Morgan said. "The most important business there is. I've almost got this problem beat, too. Then everything'll be right as a trivet again. Just you see."

"Perhaps I will indeed," Siobhan said. "Till next we meet, Mr. Morgan."

"Same to you, ma'am," Morgan said, tipping his nonexistent hat. "Safe journey."

Siobhan glanced back at Morgan as her horse trotted down the road. He'd already turned his back to her, once more consumed in the pattern of his movements, guiding his contraption over the dirt like a plowman steering a horse.

"That Mr. Morgan seems like an odd duck, doesn't he, Brendan?" Siobhan asked, stroking her horse's mane. "Good enough man, though, considering."

Something did seem unusual about him, though, in a way she'd seen in only a handful of people before. There was something strange about the way he spoke and the way he moved, as if he wasn't entirely tethered in reality. She wondered if it could be that he was one of the few...

No, Siobhan thought. He can't be. I would have been able to tell.

But then, to Siobhan Cameron, used to the orderly farms and bustling cities on the fair side of the Mississippi, the vast expanses of the West had always had the air of the unreal.

Misfires

One of the things I've learned again in again in the course of my writing is that, fairly often, the first version of a scene you write will not be the one you stick with. Frequently, that's come because I set the project aside for a while, and in the time that passed before I returned my mental plan of it changed dramatically, necessitating an overhaul of what had already been written. Other times, a bit of distance and a general feeling of wrongness is enough to clue me in to the fact that I'm not writing on favorable ground.

The latter case is what I realized when I read over what I had of Sparrowstrike, in particular of the scene-in-progress I've been tapping away at for the past couple days. Sure, it's good to look at the story through the eyes of a different character, and so this particular scene is done from Sam Morgan's perspective. The problem, though, is that it doesn't DO anything. We've already had a scene of Siobhan and Sam in the desert, talking. We don't need another one.

So, in the interest of logging my progress for whatever handful of you might be reading this, and for a further view into the creative progress - outtakes and all - here's the scene that won't be finished. Elements of it will likely either be integrated into the previous Siobhan scene or, if important enough, used as load-bearing frames for the next version of Scene Two.

*****

The strangest thing, as far as Samuel Morgan saw it, was that the lady was heading toward Silverbridge. He couldn't think of a good explanation for that outside of sheer ignorance or plain, hardheaded cussedness. He wasn't the sort of man to swim against the current, and he doubted he'd still be in this corner of Arizona if he wasn't already in so deep.

That wasn't to say that the fact that she was a lady wasn't plenty unusual, though, because it was. Samuel had always thought of lady pistoleers as being near-mythological. He knew that there were a very few plying their trade across the endless expanses of the West, but he'd never expected to meet one. It was a decidedly unladylike profession, after all.

Still, despite the dirt, sweat, and gunpowder, Miss Siobhan Cameron managed to carry herself beyond it, and Samuel felt nearly blinded by her radiance. Her dark red hair, powerful frame, and the quiet strength with which she carried herself made her seem like a nineteenth-century Amazon.

"Miss Cameron, I have to say that you have an enchanting name," Samuel said. "It's rare that I hear of someone with it. It's Irish, isn't it?"

"It is," Miss Cameron said. "I've never been there, myself. Born and raised in Chicago. My parents were running from the Great Hunger."

"A terrible tragedy, that was," Samuel said. "I, for one, am glad we'll not have to worry about that sort of disaster here in the green fields of America. Well, not right here, but... you know what I mean."

Miss Cameron smiled and nodded. Samuel realized that it was a bit odd talking about the endless bounty of the soil when he was surrounded by a parched wasteland that could barely feed itself. The railroad couldn't reach Tucson fast enough, not with what he'd heard about the green fields of California.

Her smile, though... her smile looked like it could fertilize the desert by its lonesome.

"The green fields of the endless desert," Miss Cameron said with a chuckle. "Mr. Morgan, you certainly have a particular view of the world."

"Particularly monotonous is what it is," Samuel said. "I haven't seen much besides desert out here, though not from a lack of trying. It's too easy for me to get rooted in a place like Silverbridge, for good or ill."

"I could never live like that," Miss Cameron said. "That's the reason I'm out here. I've got the wanderlust in my bones, and most times I just follow the road and see where it takes me. Silverbridge sounded like a fair enough name for a town, and so here I am."

"These days, the name is just about all Silverbridge has in its favor," Samuel said. "I gather that you weren't aware of that, or you wouldn't have come down this road to begin with."

"Roads lead to all sorts of places, Mr. Morgan, not just the well-to-do burgs," Miss Cameron said. "Not that I reckon there's much room for their sort out here. Would you care to enlighten me as to what's got this town come a cropper?"

"It's the Lord's own simplicity, Miss Cameron, and that's the whole shame of it," Samuel said. "There's no bridge in Silverbridge, but there's plenty of silver. The town's been flush after it for years, everyone's talking about how it's where we're meeting the future. That was enough to get me interested enough to ship over here from New Mexico, at least."

"You've run into a difficulty at the mine, I take it?" Miss Cameron asked.

"Ma'am, if this is a difficulty, then the War Between the States was a disagreement between gentlemen," Samuel said. "Almost a month ago now, a few of the miners dragged themselves back to town, most of them halfway to death already. They were delirious, screaming about monsters and killers and the like. They figured that the Indians raided the place, so Mayor Ellicote put together a posse together to find out what was going on and to root out the red bastards."

Samuel closed his eyes for a moment, trying to hold back the memories. He could feel the blood of that day on his hands, even though he'd never got closer than a second-hand account. No one had, really, at least no one that still walked the world. For her part, Miss Cameron wore a quietly curious face. He hadn't figured her as a neophyte to the brutality of the frontier.

"Six men rode out," Samuel said. "Only one of them returned, after a fashion. His horse came charging into town with his corpse riding it. No one's been to the mine since then... or, at least, no one I know about, and even if they had, they wouldn't be talking much about it."