Micah and the other college boys piled out of the chartered bus. It had been a three hour ride down from Denver, and they were ready for fresh air.
With his wind-tossed brown hair and boyish expression, Micah Fowler conveyed the same adventurous spirit that got him accepted into the program three years before. He marveled at the view west of the Greenhorn Mountains flanked by the White Zion Forest. Still, he felt a twinge of foreboding. He’d always been cautious. Ever since his parents died. Ever since the campus shooting his sophomore year. But he chose to ignore the nagging sense of dread. They were each of them going to make a difference for the town this week. He was sure of it.
“Hey, Micah, dude, take my picture,” Luis called, tossing his phone. Luis and Micah were best friends, having transferred into the program on exactly the same day. Plus, they had been in the same room with the shooter. That created a deep bond between the two.
“Actually,” Professor Neal said as he emerged from the bus, “I want everyone in front of the sign. Let’s mark this occasion properly.”
Professor August Neal managed the civics program at State University. He was exactly the kind of good-looking, charismatic teacher that doesn’t just lead a program — he is the program. He had personally selected the boys from a host of applicants. And, yes, Micah was aware of the rumors, but Professor Neal was never untoward with the boys. He always treated them with a reverence and respect Micah never got from other teachers on campus.
The boys posed around the sign which announced: Colorado City — Population 2134.
Micah looked at the others in the group. There was small-framed Jonathan, in his black glasses, tech savviest of them all. Hard-working Austin and Jake, who had grown closer these last few months. Free-spirited Isaiah, African-American, strongest and funniest of the bunch.
And self-serious Marcus with his bitchy countenance but appealing, albeit wounded, spirit.
Seven future college graduates. Seven students in the same program. Seven dedicated souls about to complete the final project of their college career.
“Say ‘Hello, Colorado City’,’” Neal urged, and they did, and the seven were immortalized forever by cellphone.
A cloud of dust kicked up as two pickups rolled to a stop. A large, affable man, perspiring in a dusty three piece suit, climbed out of a truck and extended his meaty paw to Professor Neal.
“How the hell are you, August?” the man said. They shook hands.
“Boys,” Neal announced, “this is the mayor of Colorado City, Pat Howell.”
“You don’t know how happy we are to see you fellas. Welcome! Welcome!” The mayor pumped hands, got names, and engaged in brief conversations all around.
Jonathan was taking close-up shots of the pickups on his phone. The dried mud-spattered wheel frames. An NRA sticker plastering a bumper. Bull horns hanging from the back of a cab. The sunglasses-wearing driver of one truck. And at the wheel of the other — a young, beefy ranch-hand. Golden tan, open denim shirt, white ribbed tank top beneath, rich dirty blonde hair, tightly wrapped bandana around his neck, smoldering green eyes. Jonathan swallowed. The ranch-hand nodded into the phone and turned-up a sly, sideways grin for the boy. Jonathan went red-faced. He quickly trained his phone somewhere else.
“Pat, this is Micah Fowler,” Neal said, drawing Micah over. “He’ll be the point man this week.”
“Oh, yes,” the mayor smiled. “I can see why. Lots of drive and purpose in this one. This project is going to be a great success, Micah, can you feel it?”
“Yes, sir,” Micah replied, shaking his hand. “Yes, I can.”
The bus driver stacked the luggage, and the door to the charter slid closed and sealed with a “no turning back now” finality. The wheels spun, and the bus disappeared back toward Denver.
“Well,” the mayor said, clasping his thick hands together, “let's get you boys on your way!”
*****
Micah, Jonathan, and Austin rode with their bags in the bed of Mayor Howell’s truck. Luis, Jake, Isaiah, and Marcus kept their bags company in the other.
Marcus raised the top of his shirt to cover his nose.
“I smell cows,” he said with disdain.
“And they smell your bitch-ass cologne,” Isaiah said. “Why you gotta slap-on so much of that shit? Damn!”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “Please.”
Jake looked up from his geology book.
“I saw quartz shards on the road. There’s a chance the mine formations have iron staining.”
“Does that mean gold?” Luis asked, eyes dancing.
“It’s in the realm of possibility. It is Colorado, after all.”
Luis clapped his hands together and shouted.
“There better be gold,” Isaiah exclaimed, “and there better be honeys! I'm sick of hanging with your pansy asses all day.”
Marcus rolled his eyes again. “Please.”
“You can beg all you want, Marcus, you’re not getting none of this,” and he rubbed his hands over his firm young body, laughing.
In the other truck, the mayor had opened the sliding cab window and was talking with Micah.
“Our town historian will meet us later at the mine and answer any questions you have.”
“You had survey crews do the preliminary work?” Micah asked.
The mayor nodded. “We were going out for bids, but Professor Neal convinced us to let you boys be at the center of the project. Town Council thought that was a grand idea.” The Mayor started to get emotional. “Just think if that mine was open again. It would be a huge boost for this town. We can’t wait to get started with you boys.”
“We feel fortunate to have been asked, sir,” Micah said.
Professor Neal gave him a warm smile of pride. Micah smiled, too.
The mayor turned to particulars. “My oldest, Russell, here, will help with transportation.” He motioned to the ranch hand driving. “If you’re looking for a ride, Russell’s your cowboy!”
The mayor laughed. Russell glanced in the rearview mirror and caught Jonathan staring at him again. He smiled slyly. Jonathan buried his head in his phone. Austin scooted close.
“Can you even get a signal out here?”
“What, no, leave me alone,” Jonathan stammered.
“Did Jake seem sad to you this morning?”
Jonathan shrugged. “He just seemed like Jake.”
“I don’t think he wanted to leave the dorm.”
Jonathan looked back at the other pickup. Jake was trying to read along the bumpy ride.
“As long as he has his books, he’s fine,” he said. “Where else is he going to go?”
“Ah ha!” the mayor said, looking ahead. “There it is!”
*****
The pickups rolled slowly into Colorado City — well, into the middle of eight or nine standing buildings that passed for Colorado City. Micah studied the buildings. A hardware store. A feed store. A small grocery. People were beginning to pour out of doors, drawn by the arrival of the pickups — and the strangers in back.
Ancient farmers, wizened wives, forlorn mothers and fathers, sad little kids, humorless shop owners, restless middle school and high school students stared with rapt but vacant attention at the procession. Their faces were full of unease, worried expectation. A sort of — dread. A few of the residents waved. The boys made slight, awkward waves in return.
“This is sooo frickin’ weird,” Luis said under his breath, waving.
“You think?” Marcus added. He crossed his arms and didn’t wave back.
Then the lead pickup suddenly braked. The follow truck almost rear-ended it, jostling the riders.
Micah looked ahead at the reason.
Standing in the middle of main street was an old white haired man, dressed in a long dark coat. His face was weathered, red-blotched from the sun. He carried a cross fashioned out of dead branches. The pupils of his eyes were frosted over. He was blind. He began to moan.
The mayor reached and blared the horn of the truck.
“Get out of the road, Judah!” he yelled. “Let us get by!”
But the old man moaned louder and raised the cross higher. The road was too narrow to go around without running him down.
In that moment, a few townspeople cautiously approached the pickups, handing off food and handmade trinkets to the boys. After bestowing their gifts, they retreated to the sidewalks. Two old hispanic ladies offered wrapped tamales to Luis, whispered reverently to him in Spanish, and fled back with the others.
“What did they say to you?” Marcus pressed.
“They just kept repeating the same thing,” Luis said. “Milagro de los Cuatro.”
“What’s that?” Jake asked.
“Miracle of the Four.”
At the rear of the truck, Isaiah had spotted two very pretty and slinky girls draped against the brick wall of a diner.
“Hey,” he called. “Keep a lonely brother company?”
The girls looked at each other, giggled, then made their way to the truck. They leaned over the tailgate seductively, showing off their best features. Isiah stared, approving.
“Uh huh, uh huh,” he chanted. “Feeling more companionable by the second. You got names?”
Mine's Isaiah. Hello, hello.” He kissed both of their soft hands. Giggles. The older one spoke.
“I‘m Siah. She’s Bri.”
“Bri’s the quiet one, is that it?” Bri shrugged and smiled. “No, no, I like it, I do,” Isaiah flirted.
The mayor leaned across Professor Neal and called out the window to a few of the townspeople.
“Dick, Henry, can you do something about —?” A few stout farmers rushed to the old man and grabbed onto him. He tensed and went quiet at the touch. The cross dropped to the dirt. The farmers drug the man out of the road.
The lead truck lurched forward, shattering the stick cross under its heavy wheels. The other truck followed, and as the girls let go, Isaiah called after them.
“You come find me later, you promise?”
The older girl waved as the truck drove off.
Still elated and grinning from ear to ear, Isaiah settled back against the cargo bay wall. After a moment, Marcus leaned into him.
“Does your thing ever get a rest?” he asked.
“Only when I look at you, Marcus.”
*****
The pickups turned onto Lake Beckwith Road. When they crested the hill, there were collective shouts as the boys saw the lake for the first time. The trucks pulled over, and they jumped out, congregating by a dock, excited by the view of the water. There was an SUV parked near the dock. A man got out and approached.
“Your cabins are on that side of the lake,” the mayor pointed. “Since the season hasn’t started, you get the run of the resort.” Victorious shouts. “We’ll have lunch first, get you a tour of the town, then go over details. But now we should get to —”
“— the reason you’re here in the first place,” the SUV man finished. The boys noticed him for the first time. “I’m Mark Crowley,” he began, then pointed to each college student. “And you’re Austin, Jake…Marcus, Isaiah…Jonathan and Luis. And you...must be Micah.” Crowley sized-up Micah for a brief moment before returning to his overly-pleasant self.
“That’s incredible, Mr. Crowley,” Micah said. “How did you know all that?”
“Professor Neal is a very good teacher,“ he smiled. The two men shook hands warmly. Crowley turned to the boys. “I deal property in the valley, and I also know a thing or two about our mine, so Mayor Howell asked me to stop by. It’s over here.”
They walked a little ways along the bend in the lake.
“Did you notice the cemetery on the way in?” Crowley asked. “That’s pretty much the reason we all still live here. You saw downtown. There’s no industry. We’re here because of family. Because of the past we buried out there. We stay because of this —”
They stood at the crumbling entrance to the mine.
Mining equipment from the 40’s and 50’s rusted along the trail leading to the entrance. Newer equipment — a rock crusher and removal carts and roll-offs — was tucked under the rocky overhang. A solid wooden gate closed off the main entrance, padlocked shut.
“The Beckwith Mine was productive,” Crowley said as he fished a key from his pocket. “They mined ore and gold, once upon a time.” Luis and Micah smiled at each other. Crowley removed the padlock. “Then the family fell on hard times, gave up the business. But there are unexplored tunnels and veins inside. There’s something still down there worth finding.”
Crowley flipped the latch and pushed the heavy door open. The men stepped out of the way.
A rush of dust and wind and dank smell (like rotting eggs) escaped and blew through the boys.
“The Council agreed you get a profit share,” Crowley said. “That means a stake in whatever you find.” Shouts and fist pumps and clapping of shoulder blades among the college guys. Crowley smiled. “You’ll go in, first thing. I can’t wait to see what you discover in there — ”
Suddenly, a high-pitched snarl emitted from the dark cavern. Crowley moved back. The snarling continued, more haggard. Then a form burst from the mine and into the light.
It was a coyote. Or what used to be a coyote.
It dripped with mange, body ravaged by sores. It was old and shriveled, skeletal, caving-in on itself. It quivered on four impossibly thin legs. Hollow-eyed. Desperate. Dangerous.
It snarled again and crept toward the boys.
They scattered apart, leaving Jonathan in the center.
The boy was transfixed at the sight of this horrid, shell of a beast.
“Jonathan! Run! Get out of there!” they called.
The coyote fixed its rage on the boy, bared its broken teeth — and leapt!
A shot rang out.
The coyote’s head exploded out one side.
It folded into a heap and dropped dead.
Jonathan turned toward the direction of the shot. The tall ranch hand, Russell, ejected the spent shell from his shotgun. He glanced to Jonathan. And winked.
Crowley stood over the carcass as the others moved around to look.
“It must’ve fallen in from someplace above and couldn’t find its way out,” Crowley said.
The nervous system of the animal sent a final electric jolt through its body. The hind leg kicked one last time. The boys jumped. The animal was still.
There was a long moment, then Mayor Howell spoke up.
“Who’s ready for bar-b-que?”
or 
...
