The Devil’s Ore
The Silver Spur Saloon felt less like a sanctuary and more like a tomb as the storm rattled the shutters. Silas Vane sat at a corner table, his duster still dripping with the acidic slurry of the tunnels. Beside him, Rat Connors trembled so violently that the ice in his glass sounded like a death rattle. Across from Silas, Mabel Reed leaned over the scarred wood, her double-barreled shotgun resting within easy reach, her eyes like flint. Preacher John stood at the end of the bar, clutching a glass of water as if it were a holy relic, while Dr. Sterling loomed in the shadows, his face pale and drawn.
Silas didn't offer a greeting. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy bundle wrapped in a thick, oil-slicked rag. He set it on the table with a dull, metallic thud that seemed far too heavy for its size. The room went quiet. Even the piano, played softly by a weary Clementine in the corner, trailed off into a dissonant silence. With a slow, deliberate motion, Silas peeled back the cloth. The ore didn't reflect the lamplight; it seemed to consume it, emitting a sickly, pulsating green luminescence that cast long, unnatural shadows across Silas’s weathered face.
'That ain't silver,' Mabel whispered, her voice uncharacteristically small. She reached out a hand, but Dr. Sterling barked a sharp command that stopped her mid-air.
'Don’t touch it, Mabel! If you value the skin on your bones, you’ll stay back,' Sterling warned, stepping into the circle of light. He pulled a pair of heavy leather gloves from his medical bag, his hands shaking. 'I’ve seen this before. In the territories. They call it the burning stone. It doesn't just kill the man who digs it; it rots the world around it. The water, the soil, the very air. Finch isn't just mining a new vein; he's digging a mass grave for Blackwood Gulch.'
Preacher John stepped forward, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and religious fervor. He raised a hand toward the glowing rock, his fingers trembling. 'It is the fire of the pit,' he intoned, his voice booming through the empty saloon. 'A plague brought forth by the greed of men! Mr. Finch has invited the Adversary into our very wells! This is the judgment I spoke of! The sulfur and the brimstone!'
'Stow the sermon, John,' Silas growled, his voice a low rasp. He pushed the heavy ledger toward Mabel. 'It’s worse than judgment. It’s a business plan. Look at the dates. Finch knew the silver was gone six months ago. He’s been paying the miners to dig this—Project Crucible, he calls it. He’s selling it to some buyer back east for a hundred times the price of silver, while the runoff turns your drainage pipes into a chemical furnace. The miners aren't dying of 'lung-fever,' Mabel. They’re being eaten from the inside out.'
Mabel flipped through the ink-stained pages of the ledger, her jaw tightening with every line she read. 'He’s been poisoning my customers. My town. All for a handful of glowing rocks.' She looked up at Silas, the cold fury in her eyes enough to wither a lesser man. 'What do we do, Vane? You didn't come here just to show us how we're dying.'
Silas looked at the Small Brass Key sitting on the table next to the ore. 'Finch has a safe in his office. This ledger mentions a final shipment and a contract. If we can get that contract, we don't just stop the mining—we hang him with his own rope. But the tunnels are flooding, and the back alleys are crawling with Halloway’s men. We’re backed into a corner.'
Big Jim, who had been standing silently by the forge-warmed hearth, stepped forward. His massive frame cast a shadow that eclipsed the Preacher. He didn't speak often, but when he did, the town listened. 'I can bar the doors,' Jim said simply. 'I can make sure no one leaves or enters the Spur until we’re ready to move. But if we do this, Silas, there’s no going back to the way things were. We’re at war with the Company.'
Silas Vane looked at the glowing ore, then at the faces of the desperate people surrounding him. He felt the weight of the key in his hand, a weight far heavier than the metal itself. 'The war started the moment Finch broke ground on that North Vein,' Silas said, his eyes locking onto Mabel’s. 'Now, we’re just the ones deciding how it ends.'
