Endless Western (Timeless Fables)

The wind shrieked through the gaps in the Silver Spur’s siding, a high, thin sound like a whistle on a tea kettle that never boils. Inside, the green glow of the ore sat on the table, a malevolent eye watching them all. Silas Vane felt the heat from it, a dry, itching warmth that seemed to crawl beneath his fingernails. He looked at his hands; they weren't shaking, but he could feel the tremor deep in his marrow. Across the room, the piano sat silent, Clementine watching them with eyes that had seen too many men gamble away their lives. The air in the saloon was thick with the scent of wet wool, stale rye, and the sharp, metallic tang of the 'burning stone.'

'We don't have until morning,' Silas said, his voice cutting through Preacher John's quiet, rhythmic muttering of the Psalms. 'Finch is liquidating. That means he’s packing the last of the Crucible ore and the records. Once that train leaves the junction, Blackwood Gulch is just a hole in the ground filled with ghosts and poison. This ledger is the start, but the contract—the one that proves he knew the ore was lethal—is in that safe.'

Dr. Sterling leaned over the table, his face a mask of clinical horror. He adjusted his glasses, which reflected the sickly emerald light. 'Silas, you don't understand the physics of this. This isn't just lead or arsenic. It’s a rot that gets into the very breath of a man. Every second we sit here with this sample on the table, we are inviting the grave into the room. If Finch has tons of this stuff moving through the North Vein, the water table is already a lost cause. The drainage pipes are carrying it right into the creek.'

'Then we stop the source,' Mabel Reed snapped. She was busy behind the bar, not pouring drinks, but checking the action on her double-barrel. 'I’ve spent fifteen years keeping this town from killing itself with whiskey and lead. I’ll be damned if I let a banker from back east turn it into a glowing cemetery. Jim, you got those charges ready?'

Big Jim nodded his massive head, his hands resting on a heavy sledgehammer and a bundle of blasting caps. 'I can blow the supports in the drainage tunnel. If we collapse the North Vein junction, the water will back up into the mine instead of the town. But someone’s gotta be inside to set ‘em, and the air down there is… it’s thick.'

Suddenly, the heavy front doors of the Spur swung open, hitting the interior walls with a crash. A gust of freezing rain and mud swept in, followed by Sarah Miller. Her hair was matted to her forehead, and her breath came in ragged, sobbing gasps. She clutched a damp shawl around her shoulders, her eyes searching the room until they landed on the doctor.

'Dr. Sterling! Please!' Sarah cried, stumbling toward the bar. 'It’s my father. He’s… he’s coughing up something dark. He can’t catch his breath, and his skin, it’s like it’s burning from the inside out. He told me to stay away, but I can’t just watch him die!'

Sterling’s face softened for a fleeting second before the cynical mask returned. 'It’s the sickness, Sarah. The same thing that took the miners in the lower drifts. I’ve told the Sheriff to stop patrolling the drainage outlets, but he’s too stubborn for his own good.'

'He was trying to find out where the runoff was coming from,' Sarah said, her voice hardening with a sudden, sharp anger. 'He knew Finch was hiding something. He found a crate behind the assay office—it had the hawk insignia on it, the one Mr. Finch’s men wear. They saw him. That’s why he was shot. It wasn’t a robbery, Silas. It was an execution.'

Silas stood up, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He reached out and took the Small Brass Key from the table, tucking it into his vest. 'Then it’s settled. Rat, you know the drainage signals. You’re going to lead Big Jim and Mabel through the back alleys to the North Vein junction. You set those charges and cut the flow of that filth.'

Rat Connors squeaked, his eyes darting to the glowing ore. 'Me? In the tunnels? With the green water? Silas, I’m a man of information, not a man of… of explosions! The pipes are slick with that acid. It’ll eat my boots right off!'

'You’ll do it because if you don't, there won't be a town left for you to hide in,' Silas growled. He turned to the Preacher. 'John, you’ve got a voice that can carry across the canyon. I need a distraction. Get the people to the church. Tell them the truth, tell them a lie, I don’t care—just get them off the main street. If Halloway’s men see us moving toward the office, they’ll cut us down before we hit the boardwalk.'

Preacher John stood tall, his nickel-plated revolver gleaming at his hip. 'I shall give them a sermon they will never forget, Mr. Vane. I shall speak of the locusts and the fire. I shall lead the flock to the sanctuary while you strike at the head of the serpent. But Silas…' The Preacher paused, his voice dropping to a low rumble. 'The Lord demands a reckoning. Do not let Finch leave this valley alive.'

Silas didn't answer. He looked at Sarah. 'Stay here with the doctor. Help him with your father. If we don’t come back, take the Sheriff and get as far from the Gulch as you can. Head for the high ground.'

'No,' Sarah said, her jaw set. She reached behind the bar and grabbed a small derringer Mabel kept in a cigar box. 'My father is dying because of that man’s greed. I’m not hiding in a cellar while you finish his work. I know the back way into the bank through the coal chute. You’ll never get past the front guard without me.'

Mabel looked at the girl, a grim smile touching her lips. 'She’s got the Miller blood in her, Silas. Can’t argue with a mule, and you can’t argue with a Miller.'

Silas sighed, checking the cylinders on his own weapon. The weight of the town's survival was a physical burden now, pressing down on his shoulders like the mountain itself. 'Fine. We move in ten minutes. Sterling, keep that ore covered. If anyone touches it bare-handed, you might as well bury them now.'

As the group began to scatter to gather their gear, Clementine struck a low, mourning chord on the piano. It was a funeral march, slow and steady. Silas looked one last time at the Project Crucible map, memorizing the turns of the drainage pipes. Outside, the lightning flashed, illuminating the silhouette of Finch's office on the hill—a black tower looking down on the people it was slowly consuming. The time for talk had ended. The fire was coming.