eople crowded the platform of a railway station as a train pulled into the booming town of Molson, Washington. On the fringe of Molson a bold cliff with jutting crags that vaguely resembled a giant face cast its shadow on a makeshift tent pitched beside the creek below. A prospector in shin-deep water whittled a wooden figure of himself astride his horse. Wood shavings floated past the drinking mustang. Suddenly the bronco stomped its hooves. The rugged woodsman put away the sculpture and pulled out his gold pan to sift through the shallow stream bed where the spirited stallion pointed. "Shakespeare didn't take kindly to dogs, but mentioned forty-eight times in his plays about a fondness for horses," the man smiled. Unearthing a large gold nugget, the frontiersman told his horse things were going to change for them now that they could settle in this place.
Gun-toting men appeared as a big, open motor carriage drove up the trail along the stream. A distinguished-looking man climbed out of the touring car. He pulled a deed from his pocket proclaiming that he had bought a plat of land including most of the town and the cliff which meant the mountaineer was trespassing. The armed subordinates searched the prospector's vest. The wood carving was tossed into the babbling water where it followed the path of the winding rivulet before wedging between stones. The gold nugget was given to the property owner. The well-dressed man said they were going to blast a mine in the far side of the bluff and the prospector needed to depart this land and stay off. "Welcome to the twentieth century," the wealthy on paper profiteer gestured with the deed to his automobile while he told the pioneer that it was a new age, the tin-panner's way of life was obsolete—he was a ghost.