Quiet snatched a dead man's gun from the ground and ducked behind a tree. A bandit ran past, looking for him. He stepped out, aimed with the new gun in his left hand, and blew the man's hat off. The sights weren't calibrated properly.
The bandit whirled and fired. The bullet slammed into Quiet's chest. His eyes widened when the marshal didn't fall down.
Quiet compensated for his aim and fired again, this time striking true, and the murderer died wondering how he could've missed at that range.
He scooped up that man's pistol too. He tucked it away in his belt. There was no telling when he'd have time to reload.
The mill loomed above him, lit up by oil lamps, despite the electric dynamo feeding off the flowing river. It was powering something, but what?
Next to the mill was a tall wooden platform connected to even more machinery. An enormous fat man ran from the mill and began climbing the stairs to the top.
It was the man from the photograph.
Two people struggled inside the mill. A man and a woman. Quiet brought up his Colt and aimed through the glass windows. The two were too close to take a clear shot. He waited.
Something thudded into the Marshal's left arm, forcing his attention away. Quiet holstered the gun in his right hand and reached over and pulled a knife out of his shoulder.
“Why won't you stay dead!” a man screamed, charging. The terror on his face found ghastly illumination from the lantern he swung wildly at the Marshal.
Glass and metal shattered over Quiet's shoulder, the lamp oil setting his entire left arm ablaze.
The bandit's satisfied smile fled when the marshal silently walked forward. Quiet's left hand closed around the man's throat. The bandit's eyes bulged as his hands flailed helplessly against the burning sleeve of the marshal, as his own clothes caught fire.
Quiet lifted, then hurled him into the wooden supports beneath the mill.
Returning his attention upstairs, Quiet heard a gunshot. Glass exploded in large shards and something landed beside him with a heavy thump. The fire beneath the mill spread rapidly, reaching the floor above.
Jim McCreedy blinked painfully up at the night sky as a man dressed all in black stepped into view, patting out what was left of a coat sleeve that had burned away. Behind him, the burning mill raged.
McCreedy stared at the back lit left arm. Silhouetted by the light, he could see through large parts of it, while cogs and gears whirred and stuck.
“I killed you...” McCreedy whispered as Quiet turned away. The firelight reflecting off the silver marshal's star before the light faded from McCreedy's eyes. “Tinstar,” he gasped and said no more.
#####
Emma Canfield coughed as thick black smoke filled the room. She struggled with the door. Of course Stearns would have to lock it.
McCreedy probably had a key too, but she had no intention of following him through the window.
She pounded on the heavy oaken door and yelled. There was a chance that someone might have heard her.
The smoke grew thicker, and she slid to the ground, coughing fitfully. As the smoke filled her lungs, Emma wondered if this was Stearns' plan all along.
Hinges groaned loudly and with a terrible sound, the door was no longer there.
A strong hand wrapped around her waist and they were moving. She had a sensation of going through dark smoke, then she could breathe again. Someone gently sat her down on a stump.
When her eyes cleared, she saw the mill burning in the background, fire spreading toward the wooden platform. Several bodies lay on the ground, and the motionless shape of Quiet watched her.
She jumped to her feet and threw her good arm around him. “You came back! Its a miracle!”
Slowly, gently, Quiet's right arm returned the hug.
Emma pulled back. “What happened?” she asked.
Quiet's left arm hung limply at his side. The exposed gears that controlled its movement were fused together from the fire and dislodged from the fighting.
“You...you're not a real Marshal, are you?”
Quiet shook his head.
“What...what are you...?” she asked, moving her hand toward his bandanna. He didn't move to resist.
Quiet's face beneath the hat and bandanna was a piece of bronze cast into the shape of a handsome young man with the faint hint of a smile tugging at his non-moving lips. Behind it, gears clicked and whirred as the face tried to turn away from her.
Emma tugged on his chin until he made eye contact with her. Her breath caught in her throat as her brown eyes met two points of light blue glowing deep in his eye sockets.
“I...don't know what you're made of,” Emma said, leaning in close. “But whatever else you are, you're a good man.”
Her lips were warm against his, but whether that was from some internal power or simply the heat of the fire they both escaped, she never knew.
“Stearns is up there,” she said, pointing to the platform. “He's behind all this. My father, some poor engineer, all of this.”
Quiet stiffened in her arms. Stearns.
Emma let go, knowing he was hidebound to go after him.
“And if he tries to surrender, I...I'd rather he get justice now than later.”
Quiet nodded, drew his Colt and reloaded.
“One more thing,” she said, drawing close one more time. She reached into a pocket and drew out a watch. Quiet watched her as she wound it a few times and replaced it.
“Good luck,” she said, patting his good arm with hers.
Quiet took her hand in his and gently squeezed. The blue light of his eyes shone brighter.
#####
Archibald Stearns frantically pulled switches and levers, frequently looking down at Dr. Earp's notes and adjusting accordingly.
The heat was growing in intensity, but desperation pulled him onward. This was his chance. Possibly his only chance to get it to work.
Boots creaked on the wood behind him. No spurs jangled with them.
Stearns threw a lever and straightened up.
“I suppose my hired hands are all dead or fled, then.”
Stearns turned to see a mechanical man standing in ragged black clothes and aiming a Colt revolver at him.
“Now that is curious,” Stearns smiled. “Here I thought Earp's magnum opus was contained in these notes, but now I see his finest work standing in front of me. An artificial man.”
Quiet stepped forward.
“I wonder, can you think and make decisions?”
Quiet raised the revolver higher, blue eyes blazing.
The wind picked up and a distant whine carried through the canyon. Stearns grinned and looked up.
“I suppose those are questions I'll never hear the answers to. Doesn't matter. My transportation will soon be here and I won't have to think about this stupid backwater anymore.”
Stearns looked up to the sky, ecstatic as the flames reached the top level of the platform.
The light above him grew brighter. The wind roared to a crescendo that nearly drowned out the sound of five bullets tearing into Stearns' body.
The big man teetered, then fell. The weakened platform fell with him.
#####
Emma Canfield sat inside an Army camp, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
She was lucky that the Army was performing maneuvers in the area. They heard the explosion and came riding to investigate.
They'd found her delirious in the valley near a freshly burned mill. The captain in command didn't know what to make of her story of mechanical men and lights from the sky. The Army doctor who worked on her arm said she had experienced some kind of trauma, but that she seemed lucid enough to recover. It must have been her mind's way of dealing with the shock, the doctor urged.
Emma took the hint. Going on about what happened that night was a sure way to be locked away in a sanitarium.
Instead she sat in the camp and waited for a coach to take her back to Fort Collins.
A young cavalry lieutenant, tall with a boyish smile, brought her a cup of coffee.
“Did they find anything?”
“Miss?”
“At the mill. Did they find anything belonging to a federal Marshal?”
“No, miss. There were several badly burned bodies. One was odd, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was very tall, and had more ribs than a man ought too. More joints, too.” The lieutenant shuddered.
“Did all of the dead men have spurs on their boots?”
The lieutenant nodded. “Yes miss. We believe they were all members of Jim McCreedy's gang. You're lucky to have escaped.”
Emma sighed. “What about...a pocket watch?”
“No, miss.”
“Thank you,” Emma Canfield nodded and settled back to wait for the stagecoach. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she looked out over the Rocky Mountains.
The End
