* * * * *

Several days later, a troop of state militia cavalry showed up at City Hall.  The troop dismounted in the Public Common, waiting while their Lieutenant filed his report via Western Union.  They’d spent three days riding the length of the missing rails, looking for survivors of the train wrecks.  None had been found.  Isolated farm houses had been destroyed, leaving nothing beyond foundations and fireplaces.

Winston dutifully walked across the Common.  Grandpa had told him to ask if anything had  been seen near the Jameson Ranch.  The troopers, Winston thought, were remarkably lackadaisical.   Their horses were mangy horseflesh.  He counted.

“Are some of your horses someplace else?” he asked.  “There seem to be more of you than horses to ride on.”

“We had three horses die,” the troop’s Sergeant said.  “We brought along plenty of fodder.  Streams were  running clean.  No idea what happened. And when we left, horses were in prime condition, not like this, not at all.”

“I see.” Winston shook his head.  “A shame about the horses.  Sheriff asked if you had seen anything near the Jameson ranch — that was the last foundation before you came back to normal ground.”

“No, sir,” the Sergeant answered, “but by then we were just pushing to get out of the orange sand.  Especially at night, it’s unearthly. It glows.  Strange colors. Frightening.”

“Thank you, then, Sergeant,” Winston tipped his hat.  “I have my work waiting for me.”  He tapped his badge, saluted, stepped away from the cavalrymen, and headed back to the Jail.

Grandfather was waiting for him.  Raised eyebrows sent a clear message.

“No such luck,” Winston said.  “They saw nothing.  But warn people to keep out of the area.  They lost three horses in three days, the other horses look sick, and the men don’t look all that well, either.  Your poison gas guess…there may still be some hanging around.”

“Oh, joy.” Radnor frowned deeply.  “So if we get a strong south wind, it comes here?  That’s not good.  Perhaps that orange stuff is bad for you?  It doesn’t blow around; the grains stick to each other.  You sent some of those pretty rocks and the orange sand off to California to tell us what they are.  Have you heard yet?”

“No, Gramps.  Figure a week to reach the place where Honest Ike told me to send samples, at best another week for them to tell us what’s there, and another week for a letter to get back.  We might know next month.”