August 4th, 1888
— Morning
Another one hundred degree day in Brimstone Creek. The air feels like a wool blanket, thick with red dust and the scent of baked sagebrush. It is not quite six in the morning, but the heat coming off the ground is enough to warp the planks on the porch of the Mercantile.
I woke at sunrise, as always, but did not open up until seven. The bell above the door has been ringing all day long, mostly for things I cannot sell much of, like small cans of peaches or an extra bolt for a rifle. Mr. Henderson, the blacksmith, was first to borrow a few pennies. He promises to repay me on Tuesday. I doubt he will.
— Half past noon
A man I did not recognize, riding a fine black mare came in not 10 minutes ago. He bought four whole sacks of oats and paid in silver dollars, a sound that has become rare around here. He was not talkative, just a quick shake of the hand and a warning to “keep warm”. He did not look worried, just tired. I thought nothing of it. Men on the trail are often tired. He rode off in haste. I wondered if he’s a Bad Man you read about in the Press.
— Evening
I finished tallying the register by five thirty. The day was a wash, but the profit from the horse dealer put me in the black for the week. I locked the massive oak door of Vance's Mercantile and started the short walk back to the small room behind the store, where I sleep.
The town is quiet. Too quiet for a Saturday night, though the heat keeps most folk inside. Tonight, though, there is a distinct coolness that I have not felt in three weeks. It is not relief; it is a sharpness in the air, the kind that hints at a high altitude storm, but it is moving too fast. The scent of ozone is thick.
I looked up. The sky is dark, but not with clouds. It is a deep, bruised purple that swallows the stars. It feels less like weather and more like the shadow of a mountain that is not there.
— Half past seven
I went inside and closed the door. It is probably just a dust storm coming in early. I will wake up tomorrow and everything will be buried in fine red powder, and I will spend the morning sweeping.
I hope I do not dream of Martha or Clara tonight. Sleep is the only place they live anymore.
August 5th, 1888
— Six in the Morning
The quiet was the first thing that bothered me. There were no crickets, no birdsong, just stillness. When I went outside, the porch was slick with moisture, and the air bit at my cheeks. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but there was a thin sheet of white frost coating the porch railing and the dried sagebrush outside. August. Frost. It made no sense. I checked the thermometer I keep nailed to the wall. It read 31 degrees Fahrenheit. An hour before dawn. It should be 75.
— Half past seven
The stove was stoked quickly. I got the Mercantile open. The sun was up and doing its work. By the time old Mr. Hemmings rode in for his coffee beans, the frost had melted to mud and steam. The ground hissed.
— Ten in the morning
Business was steady. A few prospectors needed to resupply before heading back into the higher ground. Agnes Thorne was in, looking for a new tin of baking powder. She spent twenty minutes complaining that the last batch made her biscuits flat. I told her flat biscuits were not a matter of my powder, but perhaps the way she was rolling them. She gave me a look that could curdle milk and left without buying anything. That was the humor for the day, I suppose.
— Afternoon
Dr. Finch came in looking for whiskey, which he claims is for "medicinal poultices." We both know it is for his nerves. He bought two quarts and asked me about the frost. I told him what the thermometer said. He muttered something about a cold air vortex, but he looked worried. He is too smart to accept a simple answer. He has seen enough death to know when nature is out of balance.
— Sunset
I locked up right at closing. The sun is still high, but the light has a strange, yellow cast. The heat that defined yesterday is gone. The temperature is maybe fifty degrees, which is a glorious early fall day, not August. The wind is starting to pick up, and it is carrying a sound with it, a thin, high whistle. It sounds like air moving through a very tight keyhole.
I walked the ten paces to my back room and looked at the sky one last time. That deep purple from yesterday is bigger now. It is swallowing the horizon. It looks like a massive bruise on the face of the world. I have a bad feeling. Not the hollow dread I usually carry, but a new, sharp, and cold fear.
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