The Bolters of Lizard Head Pass
By Joe Doyle-Gibson
June - 1887
By the time Richard Goodman arrived at the logging camp at Lizard Head Pass, just north of the small town of Rico, he had already felled more than two thousand trees. He considered himself a veteran Jack and figured there was no tree too high, nor mountain too steep for him to conquer.
He’d heard about some logging operation up in the mountains of Colorado a few weeks before. They were looking for 40 men to help bring down some groves of Aspen and Pine. Thin work, he figured. Easy pickins. Especially for a guy who’d brought down close to 100 sky-high redwoods with his own two hands.
The camp up in the mountains was bigger than the last one he’d been to, which was nice. Usually that meant the food would be a bit better, and the coffee a little stronger. When you're out in the woods, never feeling a ray of sun on your skin till the entire place is cleared, those sorts of perks mattered.
Besides all that, they were promising $20 at the end of the job. With that kind of money he could catch the train back to Seattle and have enough left over to buy his bride, Molly, a new dress. Richard pondered this for a moment. Why, he thought, she must be swole-up ripe-like by now. Baby only a month or two away. Best thing would be to wait to buy any new dresses till after the birth. ‘fact, wouldn’t know what size of dress to buy anyway.
First thing he had to do at the camp was check-in with the boss. The boss was an older looking guy, probably in his mid-forties, long gray beard, lean, muscular. He sat at the end of a long wooden table, puffing on a pipe.
“Name’s Richard, I’m here ’bout doing some logging.”
“Right. I’m Thomas,” said the boss. “Company put me in charge here. Call me a foreman. You can just call me Thomas, or Tom, if you like.”
“Nice to meet you Thomas,” said Richard. “My mama always said if you ain’t got time to say a person’s full name right, then, dammit, you're living too fast. People who live too fast make mistakes. Last thing you want up here is a feller who makes mistakes.”
“I reckon that’s true.”
Thomas showed Richard around the camp, pointing out the clearing where he could set up a tent. Then he went over the camp rules. “No noise after lights out. Wake at first light. Usually, I ring the bell. Then we eat. Just like we finished doing ’fore you got here. You’ll have to wait for the next meal. After eating, we go to our plots and get to work. You’ll be with Charlie north of the Lizard Head. Charlie’s a youngin, but he know a thing or two ’bout fellen the trees here.”
Thomas introduced Richard to a tall, broad shouldered young man who couldn’t have been more than 18. His shaggy red hair fell into his eyes as he bent forward to shake Richard’s hand. “Good to have you, sir,” said Charlie. “We gonna get piles more logs cut than Marcus’s group. I surely know it.” Charlie continued to shake Richard’s hand enthusiastically as he spoke. Richard smiled, then pulled his hand away.
“I’ll do my best,” said Richard.
Before they left, Thomas took Richard aside and said, “You see anything when you’re out there, you tell it to me first. You hear?”
Richard nodded. “I wouldn’ta thought to do anything else.”
***
They spent more than 10 hours, sawing and wedging the pine and loading up the cart with the cuttings just north of Lizard Head, an imposing peak that shot up like some medieval tower some few hundred feet above the plot. By then, the sweat on Richard’s back had turned cold.
“Jesus Christ,” said Richard, “You’d hardly know it was June up here. I got the Goddamn chills.”
“Prolly need to eat,” said Charlie. “Fact, I think we best go back to camp anyways, ’fore the sun goes down anymore.”
***
It was dark by the time they made it back to the camp. Richard got inline to get his supper. While he was waiting, he eyed Thomas, who sat at the end of one of the long tables, leaning back, puffing on his pipe. The rest of the men were shoveling spoonfuls of dark-brown stew into their mouths.
Thomas stood up and banged his spoon on the table. “A’right, a’right. Listen up, men. I think it better y’all hear from me rather than have this thing get whispered about and made worse than it is.” He paused for a moment to allow the last few murmured voices to stop. “`Nother two of our mens has gone missing.”
Worried looks were exchanged between the men.
“From what I understand,” Thomas continued, “George over here was working with Petey and Bob. When it was time to head back to camp, George said he couldn’t find the others. Said he’d seen them no more than half an hour before.”
George, a stout man with a bronzed, wrinkled face, stood up. “I heard thems talking, and I thought I kept hearing them, but when it was time to go, I figured it was all silent. Strange, I thought. I looked all over the damn place for them.”
“Bolters,” someone said. Richard didn’t see who.
Thomas seemed to ignore the statement. “We’ll look again in the morning. Likely done got lost. Might hear them stumbling back into camp in the middle of the night.”
After finishing his supper, Richard, dog-tired, set up his tent and collapsed onto his pack. He was out, fast asleep, within seconds.
He woke up sometime later. It was still night. He thought maybe the missing men had come back and their movement through the camp had roused him. He sat up and waited.
All was silent.
Richard put his head back on his pack. He was just about to drift off when he felt something. It was faint, but he could have sworn it felt like the ground was rumbling.
***
Within a week of arriving at the Lizard Head camp, Richard—always first to rise, always helping with the cooking and the cleaning, always getting his share of the trees cut, always going that extra mile—had found himself brought into Thomas’s inner circle; a group that until then had included just one member.
One night, after supper, while the two of them were sitting around a small fire outside of Thomas’ tent, Thomas told him about what had happened before Richard had arrived at the camp.
“20 men?” asked Richard.
“20 men,” said Thomas. “All in one day.”
“How’d something like that happen?” asked Richard.
“Can’t make heads or tails out of it myself. I reckon they just got up and left. Tired of the crummy pay we all get, tired of the cold of the mountain air making their knuckles ache so bad. Wouldn’t be surprised to hear most of them are back in California.”
“But ’thout any word?”
“Strange it is. Specially for some of them. Good men I thoughts they was. Like you. Always told me ’bout anything that happened out in the woods. Just doesn’t make sense.”
By that time, Richard had heard others around the camp talk about the missing men. There were whispers that they’d all been killed by something. One word that kept coming up was something called a bolter.
“You don’t think it was…” Richard paused. “I mean, what the hell is a bolter anyway?”
“Ask one of the old-timers. Talk your ear off about it. But I say you’re better off not bothering with that shit. I’d believe it was a crazed grizz ’fore I believe any of that hog-wash.”
“I reckon you’re right,” said Richard.
He went to bed that night with bad feelings. Dreams of something grabbing and killing men out in the woods played over and over again during a restless sleep. The earth seemed to rumble at points and Richard wasn’t sure if he was sleeping or awake.
***
A few days later, after a long and unusually hot day of logging, Richard returned to camp to learn that five more loggers were missing.
“Anyone seen Jeffers?” asked a young man named Simon; he was new to camp. “Jeffers owed me his whiskey ration tonight. I had his word. I’m taking what’s mine. Just so y’alls know it.”
“Not just Jeffers who’s gone,” said Thomas, his voice gravelly and low; the loggers heard him loud and clear. A hush fell on the camp. Keen ears leaned in to listen. “Everyone up on the eastern side of Black Face, they all missing. Every damn one of them.”
The news made Richard feel sick. He hadn’t had a good night’s rest since he’d heard about those damn bolters.
Another 5 men…
Richard took a bite of a stale piece of bread. The chewing kept his head from thinking too much about it. If he thought about it too much then he’d want to get to disappearing himself. But if he did that, he’d get no pay. No pay and no way to get home.
“God damn bolters got’em,” someone said. Richard didn’t know who.
“Let’s not go jumping into fairy tales, now,” cautioned Thomas. “Let’s leave them things to women. Still, it would be careless of us not to look into this. Tomorrow, I’m going east to look for myself. Anyone else who gives a damn is welcome to come along. Fact, as supervisor of this here operation I’m gonna make a demand that five of us go along, including myself”
Thomas gazed out at the camp. “Nicholas, we’ll need you, you was close to Jeffers and the rest. Marcus too. Who else?”
“I’ll go,” said Charlie. “I ain’t scared of nothing.”
“Fine,” said Thomas. “One more. Who’s it going to be?”
Thomas started searching the faces of the men sitting around the camp. Richard could feel Thomas’ eyes as they fell upon him. “Richard,” said Thomas. “You’re my right hand man. Gonna need you too.”
Richard chewed on his bread trying to keep the thoughts at bay.
***
The next morning, the five men set out from camp early, before the rest of the Jacks had risen. They crossed through the cleared woods and up the ridge over to Black Face mountain.
Charlie whistled an old tune. Richard recognized it but didn’t know its name.
“I heard about a grizz over in Oregon country that took out six men all at once,” said Marcus, a skinny man, no more than 25, with thinning blond hair. “Big as a house it was. Took 17 bullets to bring the bastard down.”
“I heard that too,” said Nicholas, a wiry middle aged man with a patchy beard and a scar across his forehead. “I heard it done ate 10 men, and took twice as many to kill it.”
The clearing ended.
“This would have been the place,” said Thomas. He scanned the tree-line that surrounded them. “Look around for anything might belong to them.”
Richard started to walk along the edge of the clearing, kicking at the sawdust and the broken branches that littered the ground. The place seemed as quiet and deserted as the rest of the mountains in these parts.
“If a grizz or a bolter had come through here,” said Charlie, “musta had wings, I don’t see no sign of anything.”
The men looked at eachother, wondering what to do next.
Then they all turned at the sound of a breaking twig off in the darkness of the woods.
“Steady,” said Thomas. He held up his rifle. “Something’s moving.”
“If it’s a grizz,” said Marcus, “Could be just a baby. Just a small one. Didn’t sound heavy on that branch.”
The men walked slowly toward the sound.
“Don’t shoot,” said a voice from the darkness. A man stepped out. He had long gray hair and a long gray beard.
Mountain man, thought Richard.
“You a trapper?” asked Thomas, his rifle still at eye-level. “What’s your name?”
The man stepped forward. He had a deer skin bag full of jars.
“My name is Leshy, Barowit Leshy.”
“Where were you going, Leshy?” asked Thomas.
“To the caves. I have to get to the caves.”
“We had men up here,” said Thomas, “just yesterday. They’s missing now. You know anything about that?”
The man looked back into the darkness of the woods. “Your men would be wise to leave these mountains,” he said at last.
Thomas lowered the gun and started to laugh. “Y’hear that, boys? This trapper thinks he owns the Goddamn mountain. Thinks we the ones who are getting in his way.”
Marcus and Nicholas laughed too. Charlie looked nervous. Richard didn’t move, he couldn’t take his eyes off of the old man.
“You kill our men?” asked Thomas.
“I did not,” said Leshy.
“You seen them?” asked Thomas.
“No,” said Leshy.
“What were you doing in that cave?”
“I was feeding them.”
“Feeding what?”
The man didn’t say a word. He stared back as if the answer was obvious.
“This is private property, you know?” said Thomas. “I don’t know if you’s feeding the bear up here, or trapping them. Either way, we don’t want you on this land. This here is company land. We’re clearing it and we don’t want no trappers getting in the way.”
“You don’t know what you are doing,” said Leshy. “You anger them. You should leave… Leave or else…”
Thomas’ smile faded. He walked over to Leshy and grabbed him by his collar. “That a threat?”
“It’s a warning,” said Leshy.
“Sounded an awful lot like a threat to me.” Thomas released Leshy. “Now you can move along, or we can make you move along.”
Leshy stepped back, his arms raised as if he had no intention of fighting. “I just tell it like it is,” said Leshy. “There’s more of them, all through these parts.”
“What is this crazy old fool talking about?” said Marcus.
“This guy’s off his rocker,” added Nicholas.
Richard felt his gut twist in his belly. He knew the old man was talking about those bolters. The old timer really believed in them.
“You been waking them up,” said Leshy. “I’ll go. But you keep doing what you are doing and you won’t like the outcome. Right now only the little ones are awake. But you wait…”
“Get out of here!” barked Thomas. “I don’t want to see your ugly face in these woods again. I have it on good authority to shoot any trouble makers. Now I don’t like killing just for killing’s sake, but you come back here, you’ll give me no choice.”
Barowit Leshy backed away. When he was back in the shadows of the woods, he turned and ran north.
“You think he had anything to do with it?” asked Charlie. “I reckon our men coulda taken an old feller like that.”
“Nah,” said Thomas. “He’s just a crazy old trapper. Let him go.”
“What did he say about a cave?” said Marcus. “You think we oughta check it out?”
Thomas turned to Richard. “What do you think, right-hand man? You’ve been awfully quiet since we been here.”
“Just thinking is all,” said Richard. “I don’t know what to do, but I guess we oughta check everywhere we can till we find something that tells us one way or another, I suppose.”
“Where you figure them caves are?” said Nicholas.
Thomas shrugged. “I seen some a month or so ago, on the way down from San Bernardo. Might be only a mile or so east of here.”
The men cut north-east through the old growth, stopping periodically to check their course with a rusted old compass.
“Bear cave, I imagine,” said Marcus. “Jesus Christ, hope we don’t make ’em angry.”
“Wait,” said Thomas. He held up his arm and signaled the men to stop. He stepped carefully over to a bent over aspen, trunk broken about a foot up from the ground. “This looks like a clean break.”
“What’s that next to it?” Charlie pointed to something shining in the leaves.
Thomas picked up the metallic object. “Goddamn necklace it is.”
“That there’s Jeffers’s necklace.” Marcus’ face looked white as death. “Showed that to me not more than 4 days past. From his wife back home he said it was. Jesus Christ.” Marcus made the sign of the cross.
Thomas inspected the necklace then tossed it over to Richard. Richard looked at the chain and thought it may have rusted a bit from being out in the elements. No, he thought, his gut twisting even more in his belly. That’s blood.
“So they did come by here,” said Charlie. “And that means something did get ’em.” He crossed himself too, then held his gun a bit closer to his body.
The more they went on, the more trees they found broken like the aspen, all of them split about a foot from the ground.
“Feels like we on a trail,” said Nicholas, his voice noticeably shaky. “Just not sure where the trail done lead to.”
They all stopped in their tracks. They all saw it. The cave.
“Black as bug shit, she is,” said Thomas.
Richard stared in astonishment. Whatever was in there had likely flattened 200 trees over a quarter mile from where they stood. What kind of bear could do that?
Not a bear, he thought. The bolter.
“Smells, doesn’t it?” said Marcus. “Like the back of an abattoir.”
“You figure we have to go in there?” asked Charlie.
Richard noticed something in front of the cave, it looked like a jar. “What’s that?”
“You go check,” said Marcus. “I’ll be fine to stay right here.”
“Chicken shits,” said Thomas. He walked to the cave entrance and bent down to pick up the jar. He opened it, gave it a sniff then stuck two fingers into the golden liquid. “Goddamn honey it is.”
“Honey?” Marcus sounded utterly confused.
“From that old timer,” said Richard. “That Leshy guy said he was feeding them.”
“Feeding what?” asked Nicholas.
Before anyone could answer, the ground started to rumble.
A great groan grew from the darkness of the cave.
The men stepped back.
The groaning noise was joined by a higher pitched sound.
Something was coming.
Richard saw it moving in the darkness. He felt his bladder release, the warmth spreading down his leg.
A face, teeth.
The sound grew into a piercing scream—as if the earth itself were shrieking.
August - 1905
It was early morning.
Arthur Norfolk was on horseback, making the trip down from his post, just north of Lizard Head Pass, to the town of Rico.
The Montezuma and Durango National Forest had only been established a few months before he’d been appointed to his position—by none other than President Roosevelt himself, Arthur liked to add whenever it came up in conversation. He had the document—signed by Roosevelt—framed on the wall of his cabin. His military background and familiarity with the wilderness of the Rocky Mountains made him the obvious choice—but more than that, it had been his willingness to be alone most of the time. Most people had turned down the president’s offer, citing the remoteness and a distaste for the area in general. Too dangerous, they’d say. Isn’t that the place where all those lumberjacks disappeared?
Arthur had heard the stories about the slide-rock bolters for decades. He had a healthy respect for the unknown, but an even healthier respect for what men could do to each other. Having seen his fair share of violence and bloodshed in the Spanish-American war, he knew what kind of horrors men were capable of. There were monsters out there, he was certain of it, but most of them were just men. The bolters, in his mind, were myths created by the lumberjacks, sitting around the campfire after a few too many rations of whiskey. The real culprit for any bloodshed up in the mountains, he figured (when bears and other natural causes could be ruled out) were the Indians. The loggers were infringing on their sacred lands. They didn’t want the white man cutting down trees, so they got violent. It’s what people do. It’s been happening for centuries.
Still happens, thought Arthur.
He got to the general store in Rico and the shop manager, a man named Goldstone, already had his things on the counter. It was the only general store in town. There used to be dozens, but that was before the hard-times. By the early 1900s, Rico was a town in decline. The silver rush of the 1880s was long over. The town was a shadow of itself, its population dwindling from over 5,000 people to only 500 in a matter of twenty years.
“I’ll help you fill the saddle bags,” said Goldstone.
“Thank you, kindly,” said Arthur.
“You know the Mayor been talking ’bout you again.”
“Surprise, surprise,” said Arthur. “What’s he jawing on about now?”
“Says you ain’t taking the bolters serious enough. Especially not after what happened to the reverend's daughters.”
“Must be an election coming up,” said Arthur. “Those girls plain got lost. Either that or someone killed them. Happens more than you think.” Arthur buckled up the flaps on his saddle bags. “Bad things happen without bolters being involved. What does Mayor Wilson expect me to do about it?”
“You can ask him yourself,” said Goldstone. “Son of a bitch’s ears musta been burning.”
Arthur turned around and saw Mayor Wilson walking up the street. He was a tall and lanky man in his late thirties. Arthur figured he spent a pretty penny on the brown suit he was wearing. Had to, to make it long enough to cover those spindly arms—arms of someone who hadn’t done a day's work of labor in their life.
“Ah!” Mayor Wilson shouted. “Ranger Norfolk! Just the man I wanted to speak with.”
Arthur Norfolk patted his horse. “Just a minute Rosy. We’ll get going soon.”
“Ranger, a word please,” said Mayor Wilson.
“What can I do you for?” said Arthur.
“I’m sure you are aware of the town’s little problem,” said Mayor Wilson, his long face angled down, making his frown even more pronounced. “The people are scared, Ranger. They think something’s out there.”
“With all due respect, Mayor Wilson, but did you ever think you been stoking the fires a bit by acknowledging these stories. Best leave them for the kids around the campfire.”
“These are more than just stories, Ranger. These are credible people reporting that something, a wild animal, is threatening the town. This is your responsibility, Ranger.”
“What’ll you have me do?” Arthur went back to his horse and tightened the saddle.
“Investigate. Set some traps.”
“Have you ever been up north of the pass, Mayor?” Arthur eyed the man. The question was more of a challenge.
“Once or twice,” said Mayor Wilson.
Arthur walked back over to the Mayor. He got real close to him so as to make him feel uncomfortable. “You want to seem like a mayor who takes action? Want the people to think they have a real hero on hand? Come up with me—today, right now. Let’s have a look together. Set some traps as you say.”
Mayor Wilson held Arthur Norfolk’s gaze for a moment, then looked away. “Well, I—” He licked his lips. “Fine. I’ll have my assistant prep my horse.”
“Fine,” said Arthur. “Hurry up though. I got to get Rosy back home so I can give her a brushing.”
***
Half an hour later, they were on the trail up to Lizard Head.
Wilson decided it was better to bring his assistant along than to come alone. His assistant was a kid named Michael Robinson. Michael’s horse, an old looking white colt, was weighed down with several packs, making the journey slower than Arthur would have liked.
“Whatcha got in there?” asked Arthur.
“Stuff for a trap,” said Wilson. “You know, Rico still has a bright future ahead of it. The industries that left… They left cause of the bad luck we’ve had. Silver and gold run out. That’s true. But that’s not the only reason people been leaving in numbers and keeping them from coming back. It’s the rumors of the bolters that keep them away for good.”
“Is that so?” said Arthur, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“We get ourselves a dead bolter on the front of the newspaper,” Mayor Wilson said confidently, “and that’s what we call good for business. Not only that, it’s good for tourism too. Make people feel safe about visiting.”
“Where do you suppose we look?” asked Arthur. “I been up here three months and I ain’t seen a damn thing.”
“I know where they are,” said Michael, his voice cracking in the process. “Beg your pardon, sirs. But I heard it around town that they live in the caves.”
“That so?” said Arthur.
“You know where the caves are, Ranger?” asked Mayor Wilson.
“A few,” said Arthur. “There’s hundreds of them though.”
Michael cleared his throat. “Beg your pardon again, sirs, but I might be able to help. Ol’ Gallagher said they’re in the caves over by Coal Creek.”
“Patrol those areas much, Ranger?” asked Mayor Wilson.
“Not much to patrol,” said Arthur. “But let’s take a look. Whatever will satisfy.”
***
An hour later, they were some 200 feet up above coal creek. The mountain shot up beside a well worn deer trail. The rock was dotted with holes.
“There’s your caves,” said Arthur. “Take your pick.”
“Michael?” said Mayor Wilson. “Any more insight?”
“Well,” said Michael. “They says there’s a big one a little farther along. They says you know by the smell.”
“You hear that, Ranger,” said Mayor Wilson. “Just follow your nose.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. The men continued on the trail.
A few minutes later, Mayor Wilson perked up. His head turned from side to side. “How now! You believe it? The smell. By God, do you smell it?”
Michael took a deep breath. “Christ! It smells like a dead deer.”
Arthur had to admit, there was something rank in the air. “Dead things all over the mountains. Usually the scavengers get to them before they have time to rot.”
“There,” said Mayor Wilson. He pointed to a large opening in the rock face. “The cave.” He swung his long thin legs over his saddle then hitched his horse to a tree.
Arthur got down too. He patted Rosy, then whispered in her ear, “Good girl. Just a bit longer, okay? I’ll give you an extra brushing for this.”
After hitching her to the tree he walked over to the cave entrance. Sure enough, the smell was even stronger inside the cave.
Arthur looked back at Michael. Michael was taking some packs of dynamite out of his saddle bags.
“Jesus Christ, this is your plan for a trap?” said Arthur.
“Rumor has it,” said Mayor Wilson, “these things have a taste for white men. The plan is to create a decoy, load it up with the dynamite, then set ‘em off when the beast goes to bite.”
“You gotta be out of your damn mind. You actually believe there’s some monster in these caves, don’t you?” said Arthur. He’d had just about enough of the Mayor’s bullshit. “You’re gonna end up with pieces of grizzly bear all over the damn mountain. Also, there’s no explosives allowed in a place like this. This is a protected forest. It’s my Goddamn job to protect it from this kind of shit.”
“Listen.” Mayor Wilson took Arthur by the arm. “We’re going to do this here trap and we’re gonna kill something, grizz or bolter. Michael here has a camera in his pack and we’re gonna take a damn picture of the mess. I don’t give a damn if it’s a bunch of baby bunnies for God’s sake. It’s gonna be on tomorrow’s paper whether you care or not. So you can either be a town hero, or you can step aside and let us get on with it.”
Arthur was stunned by the Mayor’s candidness. He stepped back and let the two men get to work. They set up a dummy man, clothes stuffed with leaves and grass, then surrounded it with dynamite. Mayor Wilson laid down the line that connected to the detonator and walked it back down the ridge, setting up the plunger next to the creek.
“Gonna have to smoke it out, Michael. There’s another opening just a ways back. Have a look, see if you can smell anything in that one. If it feels like they connect, I want you to light off a few of these here dynamite sticks.”
Michael took the box of dynamite. He looked up at Mayor Wilson with big unbelieving eyes. It was clear the kid was scared shitless.
“Come on,” said Mayor Wilson. “Get to.”
Michael walked into the cave. A few minutes later, there was a muffled boom.
Arthur unhitched Rosy and started to walk farther away from the cave entrance.
“Where you going?” asked Mayor Wilson.
“You guys got enough TNT to make a whole new cave in this mountain. You really know what you are doing? I don’t want to get blasted to dust.”
“Right,” said Mayor Wilson. He seemed to be considering Arthur’s words carefully. “Let’s move down a little ways more.”
Mayor Wilson picked up the detonator and started to pull on the line.
There was another muffled boom from inside the cave.
“Michael? Come out now! That’s enough.” Mayor Wilson pulled on the line to get more slack. He pulled hard again but the line wouldn’t come loose. “Goddamn, think it’s stuck on a rock.”
Mayor Wilson followed the line up from the creek. When he got to the top of the rocky bank before the cave entrance, he started to cough. “Christ, it smells even worse.”
The ground began to rumble.
Rosy whinnied and kicked up her front legs.
“Easy girl,” said Arthur. “Easy!”
The rumbling continued.
“Michael!” Mayor Wilson called for the boy. “Come out now, Michael!”
A sound started to grow inside the cave. It got louder and louder. It sounded like the earth itself was shrieking.
Arthur settled Rosy enough to mount her. He looked back at Wilson. “Let’s get out of here!”
Wilson didn’t seem to hear him. He was gazing into the darkness of the cave.
Then Arthur saw it. The mouth must have been twenty feet wide. Lips and teeth were one and the same—like jagged rocks. It seemed to linger in the darkness for a moment that lasted forever. Then it lunged forward with incredible speed.
Mayor Wilson was swallowed whole.
The rock and dirt in the bolter’s path came forward like a giant wave. Rosy buckled. Arthur was thrown to the ground. The bolter was no more than a hundred feet away. Arthur reached for his gun and began shooting wildly into the bolter’s mouth. One of the bullets must have hit a piece of dynamite in the bolter’s belly.
The blast sent Arthur through the air and slammed him into the creek.
The bolter was in smoldering pieces scattered across the blast zone.
When Arthur woke up, the buzzards were feasting on the gray pieces of flesh.
***
A few weeks after the incident with the bolter, a boiler burst at a factory in Rico. The fire spread to a mining storehouse filled with dynamite. The resulting explosion flattened a whole block of the town, killing a total of nine people.
In the following years, it wasn’t unusual to find Arthur Norfolk in one of the bars around town, drunk from morning till night. He’d tell anyone who would listen about the bolters. “The damn things are real,” he’d say, slurring his words. “Blew one up, Goddamnit. So damn big it leveled the mountainside.”
“I heard about that. Wasn’t there an explosion in town? Must be what you’re talking about.” someone would say.
Arthur would nod. “Yeah, yeah. Damn thing was bigger than a whale. Blew the fucker up.”
“He must mean the factory,” someone would say, laughing to themselves.
Arthur passed away not long after, drinking himself into an early grave. His name was quickly forgotten, but the story of the bolters lived on. People in the area still talk about the Ranger who blew up a bolter and in the process leveled half of Rico. The facts were all twisted, but the kernel of truth was just waiting to blossom once again.
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