Life in the valley had always been fraught with strangeness. With occurrences and happenings beyond explanation. The local folk attributed it to the spirit of the forgotten West and gave it little mind after the fact. They seemed caught up in a decade long since considered part of the past for the rest of the world, and every so often when a stranger from elsewhere in the country would come by in one of his fancy automobiles, all the children would come scurrying out from dark holes in the earth to see. But that happened little enough that there were some adults who had been children when such things were still new, and never laid eyes on one.
Glenn Douglas, for one, had never seen more than a picture of car. The picture alone was something valuable to possess. Photographs were not easy to come by in the valley, or anywhere in that land they called the Forgotten. Sometimes they called it Deep West, too, but the intent was the same. It meant a place so far removed from the world around it as to be left behind. Sensibilities, fashion, art, culture, technology, it rarely reached the people out there. So little was their contact with the outside world that the people were inclined to misbelieve rumors that came trickling in from the lands out east. Cars, for instance, had been something of a joke for the town of York until a man came rumbling down the only real road through town one day.
It was a great black machine rumbling and roaring loudly like a beast in fury. Glenn Douglas had been maybe eight years old at the time and he, along with his brothers Brandon and Paul, and his sister Anna, stood on the porch of their family's home and watched with wide-eyed amazement at the metal contraption with its rubber wheels turning and bouncing along with no sight of a horse to draw it. The windows were clear enough and they could see the man sitting inside the cabin was a stout looking fellow with a great mustache and not so much hair up top. He and his contraption rolled to a stop in front of the general store and when he came out he had a small hat like a bowler cap that he tossed onto his head, to hide his thinning hair, Glenn thought. The store was just across the way from the small closet that served as the town saloon and he eyed the rickety place uneasily, as though he suspected a brigand might come by and try to steal his automobile. Glenn hopped over the porch railing and ran down the street to the man.
"'scuse me, Mister," he said, stumbling just so in his hastiness to stop before running into him. "Iffin' you like, sir, I could keep an eye on this fine machine of yours an' keep any scoundrels from comin' up to mess with it. I may not look like much, but me Paw's the sheriff and ain't no one in York like to mess with me or any of my siblings, so you'd be as safe as if he an' his deputies were watchin' it himself."
He flashed a great big grin at the man who, at that moment, seemed taken aback by this precocious youngster. Glenn's smile was wide and seemed innocent enough, he was missing just a couple of teeth and for all he knew, this heightened the effect. He stood with his hands behind his back and his chin up straight like a man trying to appear taller. The man in the hat guffawed loudly and reached into the pocket of his fine coat and produced a coin which he flicked through the air with his thumb at the boy.
"As you say, young man. Keep an eye on things for me and I shan't be gone more than a moment," the man tipped his hat to Glenn and turned to waddle off into the general store. That's how Glenn decided to see his walking, a waddle. He wasn't hugely overweight but the way his body was distributed was just enough askance to make the man walk like some grounded bird.
Glenn pushed the thought out of his mind and looked back up the street toward his brothers and sister. The three of them were staring wide-eyed and when he motioned them over, they all ran.
"How d'you think it runs?" Paul asked.
"It's just a metal horse," Brandon said. "Oates and water."
"It does not!" Anna retorted.
Glenn watched them all with a smirk and then he wrenched the door open and climbed into the cabin. He stared at the steering wheel and the two levels jutting out from just beneath it to either side in confusion and tried to press one of the pedals in the floor, but his feet couldn't quite right.
"Brandon get up here," he said, leaning out the door. "I can't reach the whatsits."
His brother Brandon climbed up and started inspecting the different levers, pedals, and contraptions that made up the automobile while Glenn rummaged through a storage compartment he found. He found the owner's manual and started to flip through the pages quickly, occasionally tossing a glance toward the general store to see if the man had come out yet.
"We need a key!" he exclaimed. "Shit."
Brandon gave him a look but Glenn just said. "If you tell Paw I'll tell him about you chasin' Miller's dog with a stick."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
His brother scowled at him for a moment and then started to feel around under the seats and other places for a key.
"It's not gonna be in here," Glenn said. "The old git's gonna have it in his pocket, more like."
"Then how do we get it?"
That, Glenn thought, was the question of the day.
"I'll work somethin' out. Go get the Bullock boys. We're gonna need a distraction."
Glenn Douglas, for one, had never seen more than a picture of car. The picture alone was something valuable to possess. Photographs were not easy to come by in the valley, or anywhere in that land they called the Forgotten. Sometimes they called it Deep West, too, but the intent was the same. It meant a place so far removed from the world around it as to be left behind. Sensibilities, fashion, art, culture, technology, it rarely reached the people out there. So little was their contact with the outside world that the people were inclined to misbelieve rumors that came trickling in from the lands out east. Cars, for instance, had been something of a joke for the town of York until a man came rumbling down the only real road through town one day.
It was a great black machine rumbling and roaring loudly like a beast in fury. Glenn Douglas had been maybe eight years old at the time and he, along with his brothers Brandon and Paul, and his sister Anna, stood on the porch of their family's home and watched with wide-eyed amazement at the metal contraption with its rubber wheels turning and bouncing along with no sight of a horse to draw it. The windows were clear enough and they could see the man sitting inside the cabin was a stout looking fellow with a great mustache and not so much hair up top. He and his contraption rolled to a stop in front of the general store and when he came out he had a small hat like a bowler cap that he tossed onto his head, to hide his thinning hair, Glenn thought. The store was just across the way from the small closet that served as the town saloon and he eyed the rickety place uneasily, as though he suspected a brigand might come by and try to steal his automobile. Glenn hopped over the porch railing and ran down the street to the man.
"'scuse me, Mister," he said, stumbling just so in his hastiness to stop before running into him. "Iffin' you like, sir, I could keep an eye on this fine machine of yours an' keep any scoundrels from comin' up to mess with it. I may not look like much, but me Paw's the sheriff and ain't no one in York like to mess with me or any of my siblings, so you'd be as safe as if he an' his deputies were watchin' it himself."
He flashed a great big grin at the man who, at that moment, seemed taken aback by this precocious youngster. Glenn's smile was wide and seemed innocent enough, he was missing just a couple of teeth and for all he knew, this heightened the effect. He stood with his hands behind his back and his chin up straight like a man trying to appear taller. The man in the hat guffawed loudly and reached into the pocket of his fine coat and produced a coin which he flicked through the air with his thumb at the boy.
"As you say, young man. Keep an eye on things for me and I shan't be gone more than a moment," the man tipped his hat to Glenn and turned to waddle off into the general store. That's how Glenn decided to see his walking, a waddle. He wasn't hugely overweight but the way his body was distributed was just enough askance to make the man walk like some grounded bird.
Glenn pushed the thought out of his mind and looked back up the street toward his brothers and sister. The three of them were staring wide-eyed and when he motioned them over, they all ran.
"How d'you think it runs?" Paul asked.
"It's just a metal horse," Brandon said. "Oates and water."
"It does not!" Anna retorted.
Glenn watched them all with a smirk and then he wrenched the door open and climbed into the cabin. He stared at the steering wheel and the two levels jutting out from just beneath it to either side in confusion and tried to press one of the pedals in the floor, but his feet couldn't quite right.
"Brandon get up here," he said, leaning out the door. "I can't reach the whatsits."
His brother Brandon climbed up and started inspecting the different levers, pedals, and contraptions that made up the automobile while Glenn rummaged through a storage compartment he found. He found the owner's manual and started to flip through the pages quickly, occasionally tossing a glance toward the general store to see if the man had come out yet.
"We need a key!" he exclaimed. "Shit."
Brandon gave him a look but Glenn just said. "If you tell Paw I'll tell him about you chasin' Miller's dog with a stick."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
His brother scowled at him for a moment and then started to feel around under the seats and other places for a key.
"It's not gonna be in here," Glenn said. "The old git's gonna have it in his pocket, more like."
"Then how do we get it?"
That, Glenn thought, was the question of the day.
"I'll work somethin' out. Go get the Bullock boys. We're gonna need a distraction."