A gristly old man rode his sagging mule into town. He fired his six-shooter into the blue mountain sky until a smoke cloud choked the air. "There's gold in Silver Creek!"

The miner held the one-pound nugget in his gnarled hand for all the world to see or who was left to linger in the old silver mining town after it went bust. A handful of stubborn souls stepped out into the dusty street.

Dirk Blake was the first one to greet the old-timer since he'd bought up the vacant town for two bits on the dollar. He owned nearly every sore and tender building in town, and what he didn't own he took in taxes. He invited his new-found friend into his saloon for a drink.

The old timer clutched his nugget in one hand and a shot glass in the other, as Blake poured him a sample of his best whiskey. Betsy, the one harlot who remained after the town's demise, who had nowhere else to live, laughed it up with the pair and teased the old man with her raven hair until he turned three shades of red.

Dirk Blake hid a wry smile beneath his handlebar moustache. A shrewd businessman, he knew the miner's slack mouth would bring in more money than the nugget itself. That day, it was the man's good fortune he was worth more alive--than dead.



Several days later:

Hosea and his horse Patches found a crest on the mountain where he could scope a sweeping view of Silver Creek and beyond. He breathed a sigh of thin air, sensing his crossroad of purpose was near. Swarms of folks, small as ants scurried about between clapboard buildings. Then he spied the trail of schooners approaching like a frontier parade. Further in the distance he spied a cloud of steam from a train on the prairie.

Hosea stroked the thick white mane of his horse. "This is it Patches. Most of those folks don't know they need a preacher. But give them time after the gold plays out." He'd build a church with a steeple, a sanctuary for broke souls.

He kicked the sides of his horse and parted his long black coat where his right arm raised the Bible like a sword as a man who envisioned going into the field of battle.


As the preacher's horse traversed the winding trail of boulders, he crossed paths with the boarded silver mine and a red painted sign that said keep out. He paused long enough for his horse to rise and neigh. Within was a foreboding inkwell of darkness where the price of death had been paid many times over.

Through a trail of shifting gravel Hosea steadied his horse until he came to a bluff where the mountain air turned into a heavy mist. With strained eyes, he realized he was in a cemetery. It was a place where the graves had once outnumbered the living. A few had names carved in rock for a headstone, but most others had weathered wooden crosses.

The irony of the moment was not lost on Hosea: how the town found a second life with the discovery of gold. His calling would not be for the faint of heart. It called for a man of the cloth who had nothing left to lose and could get close enough to spit on hell if need be.