Large capital letter Puffs of curling steam trailed after a train pulling into the boom town of Molson, in the gold-producing territory of the fledgling state of Washington. The spectral wisps of white vapor dissipated into the atmosphere like the legends filtered through ceremonial pipe smoke from noble Okanagan tribal chiefs for generations of how all living things were made of the same clay, and the sacred earth was the Great Mother which could not be bought or sold.

The Mount Rushmore of Molson, an abrupt cliff with jutting crags vaguely resembled a face in a Rip Van Winkle slumber. The uncanny rock formation threw a shadow on a makeshift tent pitched beside the creek below. A nameless prospector, probably fifty, in shin-deep water whittled a wooden figure of himself astride his horse. Wood shavings swirled downstream past the drinking mustang. Suddenly the strong-limbed 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 whickered.

"Shakespeare didn't take kindly to dogs, but showed a particular affinity for horses forty-eight times in his plays," the fortune-hunter smiled. Unearthing a fat gold nugget, the frontiersman told his faithful companion things were going to change for them now that they could break sod and settle in this territory. "Can't say packing the 'prospector starter kit' will give us much trouble," he added referencing their meager possessions.

Cliff at the edge of Molson, WA

Gun-toting men appeared as a newfangle open-air motorized carriage drove leaving a dust trail that looked like a comet along the banks of the tributary. A distinguished-looking autoist climbed out of the newest rage. He pulled a deed from his pocket proclaiming that he bought a plat of land including most of the townsite and the cliff which meant the mountaineer was trespassing. The armed subordinates searched the bohemian cowboy's faded threadbare vest. The wood carving was tossed into the babbling water where it followed the path of the winding rivulet before wedging between stones.

The alluring gold nugget was given to the property owner. The well-dressed industrialist 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 purse-proud tycoon gestured with the deed at his blistering fifteen miles per hour automobile while he told the pioneer that it was a new age, the tin-panner's way of life was obsolete--the prospector was for all intents and purposes, a ghost.

The stubble-faced outlier shared a look with his four-legged friend and said, "If being a ghost means you are somewhere you don't belong, then I reckon the two of us have been ghosts all our lives."

"Pardner, standing here and just realized I don't care about anything you're saying. Why are you still rumbling like an undigested bit of beef? How about we just not talk," the plain-dealing developer raised an eyebrow slightly to push his point. Speeding off in the electric, instant self-start, silent operation car by the seat of his pants with the accelerator on the floor the landlord loured at his lackeys, "That mine isn't going to blast itself. Shoo!"

The mountain man's blue spotted horse became restive and would not leave. Soon a blast cloud mushroomed behind the ridge. The ground shook sending a surge of stones tumbling down the sheer face of the escarpment. The nameless outsider swung onto the saddle taking the reins to desperately race from the brook, but both were buried in an avalanche of falling rocks.

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