Wednesday, July 29, 2020


Kenneth Blalock scooped several shovelfuls of the soft, decayed sandstone to one side, listening carefully to the sound of the metal as it ground into the pulverized stone. On his fourth scoop, he heard a tell-tale scraping sound and quickly knelt in the hole he’d dug, brushing the dirt aside with his hands until he saw the familiar, darker shade of fossilized bone. He moved as much dirt with his hands as he dared, and then pulled a soft-bristled brush from his back pocket, cleaning the matrix off his discovery. The outlines of a premaxilla began to emerge from the soft matrix, sharp teeth jutting downward into the harder sandstone below. He gave a whistle of satisfaction as he saw that the teeth were pointed and serrated; clearly, they were from a therapod dinosaur.

      Ken was a successful software engineer by trade, but a paleontologist by passion. He paid a big chunk of money each year to lease the CTH Ranch for the entire month of September to dig for fossils, and he saved all his vacation time and personal days for this annual trip. Over the last decade and a half, he had dug up a Hadrosaur skull, two Triceratops horns, and numerous isolated teeth and claws, but his dream find was a Tyrannosaur skull. He’d learned how to dig out and prep fossils from some of the best experts in the field, and took satisfaction in knowing that all his specimens were handled by no one but himself, from the day they were dug until he placed them in the sealed glass cases where he displayed them. 

     As he carefully probed the decayed sandstone around the bones, he could tell there was more bone extending beneath the dirt he hadn’t yet moved. The teeth were long and serrated, and as he finished exposing them, he knew he had finally found at least part of his dream. But was the rest of the skull there? Only more digging would answer that question. He covered the bone with a sturdy piece of cloth and then got ready to attack the side of his hole with the shovel again, peeling back the overburden in the direction the bone seemed to be angled. 

     Before he could get even halfway down to the right layer, he heard the sound of a Mule four-wheeler approaching. He set the shovel down, wiped his face clean with a handkerchief, and looked down the slope as the owner of the ranch came riding up the hill. 

     “How goes the dig, Ken?” Benjamin McClinton asked him. Ben was a big man, a hair over six foot four, with a sturdy shock of white hair pulled back into a ponytail. He had owned the CTH ranch for forty years, ever since his father had died of a heart attack at the age of forty-two and left him with the hundred-thousand-acre spread. He liked Kenneth; the man paid him faithfully, every year, for the privilege of digging on the ranch, whether he found anything or not. Many ranchers dug and sold fossils themselves these days, but the income was never a sure thing, and hundreds of hours could be spent on a fossil that might not find a buyer, or might turn out to be worth less than anticipated. By leasing the ranch for 30 days at a time during the warm months when digging was possible, Ben had provided himself with a stable, steady income for the last fifteen years. But of the half dozen diggers who leased from him, Ken was his favorite. The engineer had been the first collector to approach him and had always treated him with great respect. The two men had an understanding; Ken would help Ben from time to time with ranch work when an extra pair of hands or eyes were needed, and Ben allowed Ken to use ranch equipment, and also made a standing offer to extend Ken’s dig time in the event of a major find that couldn’t be dug in a single month. Ken was also invited to the ranch house for dinner when he was digging – a privilege only rarely shared by Ben’s other clients. Simply put, the two men had developed a real friendship that went above and beyond their business arrangement. 

     “I think I hit the jackpot!” Ken said. “Looks like the premaxilla from a juvenile Rex, or maybe a Nanotyrannus – either way, it’s my best find here yet!” 

     “That’s awesome!” the big rancher said. “I know that’s your top bucket list item, so I hope the rest of him is there!” 

     “I’d be happy with just the head,” Ken replied. “I’d have to build a new wing onto my house to mount an entire skeleton!” 

     “Well, I hate to pull you away from a hot spot,” Ben told him, “but I could use a bit of help.” “What’s up?” the engineer asked, leaning on the Mule. 

    “Got a call from one of the ranch hands earlier,” Ben answered. “Something’s killed several head of cattle over on the far side of the ranch. Signal was crappy, I couldn’t make out half of what he said, but he sounded scared enough that I want to head on over. Would you come?” 

     “Something killed your cows? What you think, wolves?” Ken asked. 
     “Possibly,” the rancher replied. “Normally they only prey on cattle in the hard winter months – there is an abundance of game this time of year. But a mountain lion would only take one, usually a calf or a sickie, and grizzlies rarely attack cattle. I’m packing a couple of rifles and my .44; I didn’t like the way Jerry sounded in that call.” 

     “Loaded for bear, huh?” Ken said. “Count me in; this will make an interesting story at the office when I get home, anyway.” 
     “City slicker!” his friend laughed. “Let’s roll!” 

     Ken hopped in the passenger side of the Mule and they went bouncing across the ranch towards the dark, looming mountain that stood on the far property line. The ranch was so big, and the fossil strata on the western side of it so rich, that Ken had never explored the eastern half of the property. 

     “What’s that peak called again?” he asked. “Hell Creek Mountain,” Ben said. “It’s an outlier for the Rockies, the highest peak this far west for a hundred miles north or south. Nasty place. Granddad said the Indians hated it and called it cursed, and my Dad got so tore up by cactus when he tried to climb its western slope as a kid that he steered clear of the place for the rest of his life. Never seen cactus that big, or thorns that nasty, anywhere else in the badlands! But there’s some good pasture in the valley below it that stays green late in the year, and my cattle graze there every fall. Never lost more than one or two there in forty years, before this. Something’s not right -unless Jerry is pulling my leg.” 

    Ken knew Jerry Carwell slightly, and frankly thought the big cowboy too dumb to come up with such a prank – not to mention Ben was known to have a short temper when it came to such foolishness. But what could kill multiple cows in a single night? He hadn’t been raised as an outdoorsman but spending every September in Montana had taught him a lot about the local fauna, and he couldn’t think of any predator that could wreak such havoc – except for a pack of wolves. But why would a wolf attack on the herd spark panic in an experienced cow hand? He mulled the possibilities over in his mind as the sturdy Mule bounced across the rough, rocky ranch paths. 

     The grim peak of Hell Creek Mountain loomed larger ahead, the late afternoon sun doing little to illuminate the dark basalt and granite slopes. He could see the lower half of the mountain was covered in thick vegetation, mostly cactus at the lower elevations, giving way to scraggy, stunted firs and junipers higher up. The last thousand feet or so of the peak were bare stone, with a few white flashes of snow near the summit. Some mountains were beautiful, some even inspiring, but Hell Creek Mountain was ominous and forbidding, especially compared to the majestic Rockies that dominated the distant horizon to the east. 

     After about thirty minutes of jouncing along the rocky trail that aspired to be called a proper road someday, the Mule topped a ridge and the two men looked down at a green valley that stretched from the far side of the gully below them to the bottom slope of the mountain, a mile or so away. At the bottom of the gully, about fifty cattle huddled alongside the winding stream, bawling nervously. Across the grass behind them, Ken could see the huddled shapes of dead cows scattered across the field. He began counting, and then paused in disbelief. At least twenty cows lay dead in the rich prairie grass, but there was something gravely wrong. Even at a couple hundred yards’ distance, the carcasses looked smaller than they should have been, and the vultures that should have been feasting on them were nowhere in sight. In the middle of the field, they could see the ranch’s other Mule, but the four-wheeler was on its side, its top caved in, and of Jerry Carwell there was no sign. 

     “What the hell?” Ben said in shock, then gunned the Mule down the slope and across the rocky stream towards the remains of his ravaged herd. As they drew close to the first dead cow, the rancher stopped the ATV and got out. Ken climbed out and looked at the animal in disbelief, for it was not a dead cow they were staring at, but half of a dead cow. The animal’s body had been sliced clean in two just behind its shoulders, and a trail of blood and intestines led away, towards the next body, which was missing its head and one of its front legs. Dazed, the men went from one corpse to the next, finding all of them had been torn – cut – bitten? – sometimes in half, sometimes with just the heads or limbs removed. 

     “I don’t understand,” Ken said. “What could do this?”
      “Nothing I’ve ever heard of,” the rancher said, “and my family’s owned this ranch for a hundred and thirty years now!” 

     Ken looked closer at the last cow they had approached. The animal’s hindquarters were gone, and a sticky green goo covered the ripped skin where they had been removed. The engineer leaned in and smelled a fetid, powerful odor that overpowered the stink of blood and bile from the ruined animal. He dipped one finger in the odd gel and yanked it back quickly. It had blistered his skin at the touch, and he quickly scrubbed it off with his handkerchief. 

     “What is that stuff?” Ben asked him. 
     “Some sort of lubricant, maybe,” the engineer said. “It’s highly acidic, but it doesn’t smell mechanical. I’m going to try and get some of it into a specimen jar – don’t touch it! Stuff burns skin on contact!” 

     He kept a half dozen baby food jars in his utility pack whenever he was digging, to keep small teeth and other microfossils in. He’d left his pack at the site but had one in his vest pocket. He’d stuck a couple of small Dromeosaur teeth in it earlier, but he transferred them to his shirt pocket and used his knife to scoop some of the foul smelling ichor into the jar, careful not to get it on him as he screwed the lid tight. 

     “Where’s Jerry hiding?” the rancher said. 
     “Let’s look at the Mule he wrecked,” Ken replied. “I hope he’s not pinned under it!” 

     They were a hundred yards from their own ATV and perhaps another hundred from the one Jerry had been using, so the two men walked rather than rode. As they got closer, they exchanged a concerned glance. The Mule was not just wrecked, it was destroyed – and like the cattle, it was not complete. From a distance, they thought the aluminum and vinyl top had been caved in, but as they got closer, they saw that most of it was gone – as was one of the front tires and about half the hood. When they got alongside the ruined ATV, they saw the damaged areas were slathered with the same green goo they’d seen on the mutilated cattle. 

     “I don’t like this one bit,” Ben said. “What could do this – rip those cows to pieces and destroy an ATV, too?”

      The sun was westering, and as it shone across the lush green pasture, Ken saw a line of depressions in the field leading from the wreckage back towards Hell Creek Mountain. They were so large his mind denied the obvious conclusion at first, but the longer he looked, the surer he became. 

     “Ben,” he said. “I think, whatever it was, I’m looking at its footprints!” The rancher followed his pointing finger and swore. 

     “Nothing alive has feet that big!” he snapped. 
     Ken walked up to the clearest depression and looked down. It was three feet across and four feet long and looked like no footprint he’d ever seen. Six long, deep slashes extended from a massive round pad, four in front and two in back. 

     “No creature I’m aware of has six toes arranged like this, either,” he said. “Nothing alive on earth . . . and nothing that lived here in the past!” 

     “Looks like Jerry lost his boot,” Ben said, spying a cowboy boot lying a few yards away. Ken walked over to pick it up and was surprised by how heavy it was – until he turned it the other way and realized that the cowboy’s foot and ankle were still inside it. The brisket sandwich he’d eaten for lunch a couple of hours before came rushing up and he vomited into one of the nightmarish footprints. 

     “I think this may be all that’s left of Jerry,” he said, dropping the limb in horror. 
     “No wonder his call cut off so quickly!” Ben said. “Poor man was running for his life!” 

     Ken wandered over to the wrecked Mule and studied it more closely. Something black was jutting out from the engine block, and he pulled a pair of pliers from his pocket and began yanking on it. It took several pulls for him to get it free, but when it came loose, he just stared at if for a moment. The tooth was about five inches long, snapped off cleanly at its base. It was conical, and faint grooves ran down its sides. There was no front and back, no serrations, just a black spike of enamel that glistened in the fading sun. From the broken end, some of the same foul green slime that covered the car was dripping. Ben approached and stared at the tooth as the engineer held it in the pliers. 

     “That looks like it came from one of the critters you been digging up!” he said.  “Well, look pardner, it’s getting dark pretty soon, and I don’t want to be out here when it does. I’m gonna grab our Mule, and we’ll load up poor Jerry’s foot and one of these cattle carcasses. When we get to the ranch house, I’m calling the sheriff and the game warden. Tomorrow we’re going to find whatever did this, and we’re gonna take care of it!” 

     “If it doesn’t take care of us first,” Ken said nervously. The sun was getting uncomfortably close to the horizon, and he was suddenly terrified of the thought of being stranded in the dark with some monstrous predator big enough to bite a thousand-pound bull in half. Ben trotted back to the Mule, moving fast for a man of sixty-five. Ken wiped the tooth off with his now-ruined handkerchief and dropped it in the side pocket of his cargo pants, then retrieved the bloody boot and its sad contents. Moments later, the Mule pulled up and he placed poor Jerry’s limb in the storage compartment. He hopped in and Ben steered them towards one of the smaller carcasses. This cow had been almost entirely consumed, with only its head and front legs left lying in the bloody grass. It still took both of them to hoist the remains onto the back of the ATV, and Ben swore as some of the toxic drool burned his hand. He secured the corpse to the Mule with bungee cords, and as he tightened them up, both men froze at the sound that erupted across the still evening. 

     It was a weird, ululating roar, a sound that was wholly alien, sending the surviving cattle into a panicked stampede – and it was coming from the mountain behind them. Ken grabbed a pair of binoculars that the rancher had left on the dash and swept his gaze across the slopes, trying to see the source. The bottom half of Hell Creek Mountain sprang into focus, and even a mile away he could see that it was covered with the densest growth of cactus he had ever seen. But as the westering sun’s rays hit the thicket, he could see a swath of cactus that were ripped up, mangled, and broken, leading straight up the side of the mountain. He followed the swath of devastation, which appeared to be almost fifty feet wide, up past the cactus and into the sparse forest above it. He could see the trees had also been pushed aside, uprooted, and smashed. Finally, his eyes came to rest in an opening in the side of the mountain. Fresh rubble and scree littered the slope below it, as if the cave’s entrance had been suddenly and forcefully enlarged. The mouth of the cave was black, the sun’s dying rays unable to penetrate its depths. 

     “Whatever it was, I see where it’s hiding,” Ken said, not taking his eyes away from the binoculars. Then, suddenly, something moved. What it was he saw, he could not say, then or later. But it was BIG, and even as his eyes tried to register it, that horrible screech came again, rolling down the mountain towards them, assaulting their ears with its unearthly tones. 

     “Let’s get the hell out of here!” snapped Ben, and the younger man didn’t argue. As the remnants of the herd scattered in terror, he gunned the mule and didn’t let up on the accelerator until they were back at the ranch house, three miles away. Ben lived with his wife Peggy and his oldest boy, Tom, and Tom’s family – three sturdy boys, one young girl, and his wife Regina. There were also three full time ranch hands – two now, Ken sadly corrected himself. Peggy was the family’s cook and had laid out a magnificent spread for supper, but food was the furthest thing from the men’s minds as they pulled the mule into the tractor shed. Ben already had his cell phone out as they emerged from the tin building and began walking towards the ranch house. Ken listened to one side of the conversation as they crossed the front yard. 

     “Look, Jimmy, I don’t care if you believe me or not, I’ve got twenty dead cattle and one dead cowboy on my hands!” Ben snapped. “The cows have been bitten in half, Sheriff! What does that?” He paused for a moment, then spoke again. “I don’t know, either, but whatever it is, it’s big, mean, and hungry! We’re going to need the heaviest weapons you got, and as many men as you can muster, as soon as it’s light.” He fell silent again, and then raised his voice in anger. “No, Jimmy, I have NOT been drinking, dammit! My dino digger was out there with me and he saw the whole thing – dead cows, poor Jerry’s mangled foot, and the tracks! This thing left footprints big as a bathtub!” The sheriff’s voice came of the line again, too faint for Ken to hear, but Ben cut him off. “Just get your lazy butt out here, sheriff! Bring all the deputies you can muster,” the rancher snapped. “You’ll believe me when you see what we brought back to the house!” 

     Ben disconnected and looked over at Kenneth with a rueful grin. “I donated to that moron’s campaign, and he hasn’t been worth two cow flops as sheriff,” he said. “Laziest public servant in the county, but I think I lit a fire under him. Our game warden’s a different story, though – Ronnie’s good people; his family’s been in the badlands longer than mine. Go on in and get cleaned up while I give him a holler.” 

     Ken walked into the dining room and told Peggy that something had happened to Jerry and that Ben was contacting authorities, then he went down the hall to the bathroom and scrubbed his hands and face, studying the blisters that had welled up on two of his fingertips where he’d touched the green slime on the cow’s body. Kenneth was not given to conspiracy theories and had always thought that Bigfoot and Nessie were just wishful thinking and hoopla, but he also was not one to ignore the evidence of his eyes and ears. There was something huge and predatory stalking the ranch, something whose anatomy did not correspond with any known creature living or prehistoric, which apparently had acidic saliva as well as massive fangs. Where did it come from? Why had it never been seen before? And most importantly, what could they do to kill or contain it? He wasn’t sure deer rifles would be enough to do the job. 

     After he got cleaned up, he went out on the front porch and found Ben smoking a cigarette. He knew the rancher had been trying to quit off and on for the last decade, and had largely succeeded, but he wasn’t going to begrudge his friend a smoke under these circumstances. “Got another one of those?” he said. 

     “I thought you quit,” Ben replied.
     “I thought you did, too!” Ken quipped back, and the rancher chuckled and handed him a Marlborough. 
     Ken lit it and took a deep puff, cleared his throat, and looked at his host. “So what happens now?” he asked. 

     “Jimmy and Ronnie are both coming over now – they want to see what we brought back. Then tomorrow morning at first light we take a posse out and find this thing and see if we can figure out how to kill it.” 

     “You know, I love wildlife, and there’s a part of me that doesn’t like the idea of killing a one-of-a-kind creature out of fear,” Ken said. “But seeing what that thing did and imagining what it’s capable of – I think getting rid of it permanently is our only option.” 

     “Ronnie Singleton raised that issue as well, but I think he’ll change his tune when he sees what that thing has done,” Ben said. “Look, I don’t have much appetite after what we just saw, and you may not either, but we’re going to need our strength tomorrow, so let’s go eat. I don’t want to worry Peggy too much, but after I pack her and little Jennie off, I want to gather the menfolk and tell them what we’re up against. We’ll wait for the sheriff and the game warden, so we only have to explain it once. Now let’s get some dinner now while we can!” 

     Ken found his appetite had returned with a vengeance, and the pot roast and potatoes, with pinto beans and cornbread on the side, hit the spot with a vengeance. Peggy was upset about losing Jerry, and curious about what had happened, but the look Ben shot her when she tried to ask convinced her to save her questions for later. Dinner was just about done when Ben saw the headlights of a car turning off the county road down the long drive to the ranch house. The rancher stood, wiped his mouth, and turned to the men at the table. 

     “Fellas, I want y’all to come outside with me and Ken and see what’s happened today. It’s ugly business. Peg, you put Jennie on to bed, and I promise you I’ll explain the whole thing when we’re done outside,” he said. The men at the table pushed their chairs in and headed outside, following Ben towards the tractor shed. Sheriff Carson was the first to arrive, but Ronnie Singleton, the game warden, was only a couple minutes behind him. Ben tossed Kenneth the keys to the Mule and asked him to pull it out under the powerful halogen security light between the house and the tractor shed, since the last glow of twilight was rapidly fading. He then introduced the engineer to the two local officials, and then began to speak. 

     “Sheriff, Warden, I’m sorry to call you all away from your homes at suppertime, but we have a dead serious situation here. This afternoon I got a panicked call from Jerry Carwell, telling me something had killed a bunch of my cows – ‘ripped’em up good’ was how he put it. The signal was so bad I could only make out part of what he said, so I asked Kenneth here to join me and we headed over towards the mountain,” he began. “When we got there, we found twenty cows that had been torn or bitten in two, with parts and blood scattered everywhere.” 

     “Nothing can bite a cow in two, Benjamin,” interrupted Ronnie Singleton. “No American predator has a bite radius anywhere close to big enough!” 
     “You think I don’t know that?” Ben shot back. “Take a look!” Ken pulled away the tarp they had used to cover the carcass they’d brought back, and there was a collective gasp. Singleton overcame his shock first and knelt to study the massive damage. 
     “Don’t touch that green goop!” Kenneth said. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s highly acidic and blisters on contact.” 
     “I can vouch for that,” Ben said, holding up his burned hand. “I saved a sample,” said Ken, pulling the jar out of his pocket. “I think it’s some kind of venom.” 

     “Thanks,” Ronnie said. “I can send it off for analysis.” 
     “You can send this, too,” Kenneth said. “I pulled this out of the engine block of the wrecked Mule – it’s a tooth.” The men all clustered together to see the five-inch enamel dagger he’d pried loose from the Mule’s engine, and they all gasped at its size and sharpness.
      “Kenneth, you’re the fossil guy,” Ronnie said. “Did any prehistoric animals have teeth like this?”           “It doesn’t look like a reptile tooth,” Ken replied. “They tend to have a keel along one or two edges, and are also usually curved. This thing is just a straight up spike – it looks more like some of the large fossil fish teeth we find in the Cretaceous ocean deposits, but it’s larger and more robust than any fish fossil I’ve ever seen. The footprints we saw have no counterpart in the fossil record either – six claws on each foot, three in front and two in back. Whatever this thing is, it doesn’t seem to resemble any earthly life form I’m familiar with.” 

     “Now you need to see what it can do to a human,” Ben said. “This is all we found of poor Jerry.” 
     He lifted the boot with its grisly contents out of the Mule’s storage compartment, and group drew back at the sight. The sheriff, who had been silent so far, finally spoke up. 

     “Ben, I’m sorry I doubted you, but you have to admit your story sounded a lot more farfetched over the phone than it does now, looking at these remains,” he said. “I’ll see how many men I can rustle up by morning, and I’ll talk to Sergeant Wilson at the National Guard armory and see if he will let loose of some weaponry for us. He owes me a favor or two.” 

     “I’ll get the tooth and the venom sample shipped off to a state lab with highest priority,” Singleton said. “It’ll still be a few days before we hear back, but at least we’ll be able to get a better idea of what we are dealing with.” 

     “I’m hoping we’ll have a giant carcass for them to study by sunset tomorrow,” Ben said. “Or it may be some of us that wind up on a slab!” 
     “Or maybe in its gullet,” said Tom, Ben’s son. On that grim note the meeting adjourned. 

     The sheriff took custody of Carwell’s remains, and Ben dumped the cow carcass in a gully behind the ranch house where trash was buried. Ken headed for the ranch hand’s quarters, where he slept during his stays at the ranch, and reflected that fossilized monsters were infinitely preferable to the flesh and blood variety. He slept fitfully that night, visions of mangled cows and dismembered bodies woven into his dreams. 

     He woke at six, as the eastern sky was growing light, and dressed quickly. The smell of bacon, eggs, and biscuits filled the house. Peggy was bustling about the kitchen, her faced pinched with worry despite the smile she greeted him with. 
     “Kenneth, you look after my man out there today, and don’t let him do anything stupid,” she said.           “I’ll do my best, ma’am,” he replied. 

     Tom entered the kitchen with his two boys, Frank and Jesse, trailing behind him. Frank was eighteen and Jesse fifteen; the latter was in the middle of a furious argument with his Dad. 
     “I want to go with you! You’ll need every pair of hands you can get, and every gun, too!” he insisted. 
     “Son, I don’t want to leave the women here without a man to protect them,” Tom replied. “If we fail to stop this thing, there would be nothing between it and our house! I know you’re nearly grown now, and I’m not treating you like a little boy – I’m trusting you to defend our family! So man up and quit arguing, please.” 
     Jesse sighed and sat at the table, where the rest of the family and the two remaining ranch hands joined the group. As they were finishing breakfast, they heard the sound of cars coming up the drive. Ben got up and looked out the window, and then turned to the group and smiled. 

     “Looks like eight or ten cars,” he said. “Sheriff came through for us!” The menfolk – with the exception of a still-surly Jesse – rose from the table, thanked Peggy and her daughter-in-law Sue for the meal, and headed outside to meet the posse. Ben knew just about everyone in the group; Ken had met three or four of the dozen men that gathered in the driveway before, but the only one he really knew was John Purvis, who operated the ranch next to Ben’s and was a frequent visitor to the CTH ranch. Every man had a rifle, and one was actually holding what appeared to be a small rocket launcher. 

     “Sergeant Wilson wanted to come, but he was on duty this morning,” Sheriff Carson. “I did talk him into letting go of a half dozen of these babies, though!” He reached into his pack and pulled out an Army issue hand grenade, generating some admiring comments. “I’m keeping two, giving two to Ronnie, and the other two to Ben,” he said. “They are ONLY to be used if firearms prove ineffective, though, am I clear? We have no idea exactly what we are dealing with, except that it is big, carnivorous, and dangerous. When we see it, light it up with all the firepower we’ve got, and we’ll use the grenades to finish the job if we have to.” 

     There were nods of agreement, and Ben stepped forward to speak. 
     “First of all, thank you guys for coming out to help me defend my property and my family,” he said. “I see most of you came in SUV’s, so you should be able to navigate the ranch roads well enough. We haven’t had any rain yet this fall, so everything is dry. Ken and I will lead the way in the Mule, with Tom and Frank riding flank in Tom’s Land Rover. The rest of you follow behind, and when I stop, you stop. Any questions?” 

     A young rancher named Jerry Tate spoke up. “Who gets to keep the horns, if it has any?” he asked.      “Whoever kills it, of course!’ Ben shot back, and the group laughed. “Now grab your guns and gear and let’s get going!” 

     Within a few minutes, Ken found himself bouncing along in the passenger seat of the Mule, retracing their steps from the afternoon before. He looked over at the rancher and saw that Ben’s mouth was set in a straight line, his jaw clenched, and his eyes glittering with determination. His host glanced over at him, and his face relaxed a bit. 

     “This is a bit more than you bargained for, I know, Kenneth,” he said. “But I am glad to have you by my side today. Are you ready for this?” 
     The engineer nodded slowly. “As ready as a man can be to face the unknown,” he said. “I am curious about so many things! What is this creature, where did it come from, and why has it never been seen before?” 

     “My granddaddy said the Indians cursed that mountain and refused to go near it,” Ben told him. “Maybe they knew something dangerous was sleeping there.” “Perhaps,” said Kenneth. “We’re going to know more than we want to before this day is – oh my GOD!” 

     The Mule had just topped a small crest and was looking down into the bowl of the valley that lay before the one where Ben’s cattle had been slaughtered the previous day. The remaining herd had fled west, across the creek, away from Hell Creek Mountain, as the two men drove back to the ranch the night before. But they had not gone far enough. Scattered across the valley were the destroyed remnants of the rest of the herd – over a hundred cattle lay scattered, torn to pieces, some partly devoured and some simply killed, torn in two, and left where they lay. Not a vulture circled above them, not a bird sang, not a sound echoed across the valley except the engines of the vehicles pulling up alongside them. As the posse saw what they were looking at, the men climbed out of their vehicles, staring in disbelief at the carnage below. Ronnie Singleton surveyed the scene with binoculars and then approached Ben, shaking his head as he drew near. 

     “This isn’t normal predatory behavior,” he said. “Animals, with few exceptions, kill to eat, and eat what they kill. Only half those carcasses look devoured, or partially devoured. The rest were just torn up and left lying. There’s a real malice in this slaughter that is rare in the animal kingdom.” 

     “I agree,” said Ben. “Killing this thing seems like our only option at this point.” “I’m a lifelong conservationist,” the game warden replied, “but this is worse than any invasive species. We need to kill it till it’s completely dead and then kill it again!”

      Ben turned to the group and raised his voice. “All right, men, this thing is ranging further afield than it did yesterday,” he said. “All the other dead cattle were on the other side of that far ridge, in the green valley at the foot of the mountain. Looks like our unknown creature has crossed the creek and moved into this valley now – and if it ranges that far again tonight, it’ll be in my back yard! So here’s my suggestion, sheriff. Let’s drive down to the middle of this valley, park our vehicles, and grab all our weapons. We’ll form a line a hundred yards wide or so, keeping some distance between us, and move towards the creek, then cross over and head towards the mountain until we find this thing.” 

     “Exactly what I had in mind,” said Sheriff Carson. “If you see it, open fire immediately, and everyone join in! I have a feeling it’s going to take every bit of firepower we have to bring this thing down. Saddle up, men, and when we get out of our vehicles, lock and load!” 

     The ten vehicles in the posse came roaring down the hill and spread out in the level valley, and then all of them came to a halt in the middle of the slaughtered herd. One by one, the members got out, armed with everything from deer rifles to elephant guns. Randy Hope, a recently discharged Army vet, shouldered a small rocket launcher. They formed up, spreading out over a hundred yards or so, and began advancing across the meadow. The ground sloped up on the far side of the valley, and below that ridge was the creek that wound between the two pastures. As they advanced, one of the ranchers Ken didn’t know called out from his right, about fifty feet away. 

     “What is this crap?” he asked, pointing in front of them. A massive pile of tarry black goop, about four feet across and two feet high, blocked their progress. Singleton, the game warden, approached it carefully, wrinkling his nose. 
     “I’d say that is the biggest animal dropping I’ve ever seen,” he said. He broke a limb off from a small bush and poked at the steaming pile. Something round was sticking out of the excrement, and when he pulled it clear and scraped the mess off of it, they caught a glint of white. It was a human skull.

      “I’d say that’s what’s left of poor Jerry,” Ben said. Suddenly that weird ululating roar that had boomed across the valley the day before sounded again, shattering the stillness around them. It was so loud that that the ground shook, and Ken’s first thought was that whatever made it was much closer than it had been the day before. That was all he had time to think before the creature suddenly rose into view from beyond the ridge, creek water still streaming from its mouth.

     Ever since seeing the slaughtered cows and the strange footprints the day before, Kenneth had been trying to visualize what sort of creature could cause such mayhem. But nothing he’d visualized came close to the pure horror that came stomping up the ridge towards the terrified posse at that moment. The sheer alien-ness of it was so stunning that every single member of the group froze in their tracks as it advanced towards them, covering ten feet per stride. 

     Its head was dominated by a three-lobed, burning scarlet eye – or was it three eyes clustered together? Above them waved three long, whip-like antennae or tentacles, and below the eyes was a nightmarish mouth filled with row after row of gleaming black teeth. It was roughly bipedal, with two stubby, batlike wings sprouting from its back, and six limbs – two long, multi-jointed arms with razor-sharp claws sprouting from seven digits on each paw; then below the arms, two much longer whiplike tentacles which had mouths on their ends, studded with smaller versions of the black, dagger-like teeth that filled its jaws. Its legs were sturdy and massively muscled, terminating on large, almost round foot pads with massive talons fore and aft. Its skin was a dark green and appeared to be covered with both fur and scales – fur on the lower body giving way to massive scales on its upper limbs, neck, and head. A thick, stubby tail swept from side to side behind it, studded with sharp, four-foot bony spikes all the way round its clublike tip. 

     Suddenly, crazed screams echoed off to the left as two members of the posse broke and ran, their minds shattered by the horror of what they were witnessing. One wandered into town a week later, mumbling and weeping incomprehensibly, while the other seemingly perished in the badlands, never being heard from again. For a moment, the remaining men looked at one another to see who else was going to run. 

     It was the sheriff who broke the spell that gripped them as the alien beast rapidly lumbered forward. “What are you boys waiting for?” he demanded. “Open fire – NOW!” 
     One by one, the rifles began booming, and the creature roared again as bullets thudded into its alien hide. The noise was so loud that the men staggered backwards, and Ken gagged as the choking fetor of the monster’s breath hit them. Randy Hope had shouldered his grenade launcher and was fumbling with the trigger, but unfortunately, he was also closest to the creature, and whether by design or alien intelligence, its triple gaze fixed on him first. The gaping maw opened even wider, and a massive pulsating tube-like appendage emerged. It suddenly contracted, and several gallons of the acidic black fluid Kenneth had seen the day before shot from it, soaking the head and shoulders of the unfortunate Hope. He dropped the launcher and shrieked as the venom ate through his skin and clothes, running in circles for a moment before collapsing.

     The beast was on the move now, maddened by the stinging bullets that brought gobbets of black ichor flying on impact. One of its massive, multi-clawed limbs swept the sheriff up – he was still fumbling for one of his grenades when those awful teeth sheared him in two. The Montana ranchers were a brave lot, however – their numbers cut nearly in two, they redoubled their fire at the monster. 

     Kenneth looked over at Ben and yelled: “Aim for the eye!!!” 
     Both men leveled their rifles and fired at once, and one of the glowing red lobes ruptured in a flood of black fluid. The roar of anger and pain that followed was so loud that Peggy, back at the ranch house, heard it and shuddered. The beast charged into the midst of its tormentors, sweeping its massive tail about and impaling John Purvis through the midsection. The rancher still held onto his rifle and got off one last shot before the monster slammed its tail into the ground, crushing the life out of him. Benjamin McClinton stood calmly in the chaos, firing off the last round in his magazine and reaching into his backpack for one of the two hand grenades he’d been given by the sheriff. Suddenly one of the giant paws swept downward; it struck Ken a glancing blow, sending him flying, and scooped up the rancher, lifting him towards its tooth-studded maw. Just before those massive jaws slammed shut on his friend, Kenneth saw Ben yank the pin from the grenade. The monster’s head exploded in a cloud of black blood, green venom, gobbets of flesh and chunks of bone. Several gouts of ichor landed on Ken’s jacket, and he stripped out of the garment quickly, before they could burn through to his skin. The huge creature slowly swayed back and forth, its tentacles sweeping above its quadruple shoulders across the place where its head had been, and then it slowly toppled over, slamming into the ground with so much force that every man still standing was knocked off his feet. 

     Kenneth sat and stared at the twitching behemoth for what felt like a long time, until the spasming limbs finally ceased all motion. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see the game warden, Ronnie, standing behind him. 

     “You hurt?” he asked. 
     “No,” Kenneth said. “Just in shock, I think.” 

     “I need your help,” the warden said. “Let me organize these men and set them to work retrieving the bodies, and then there is something else we need to do.” 

     “Sure,” Ken said, struggling to his feet. Only five men besides him and Ronnie remained out of the baker’s dozen that had left the house, but he was glad to see that Ben’s son and grandson were among them. 

     “All right, men, let’s start by retrieving the bodies,” he said. “Be mindful of that green goop, it will burn your hands on contact, and its blood may be just as toxic. Tom, bring your Suburban over here and use it to transport the fallen back to the ranch house. If someone has a tarp or old blanket, I think it would be good to cover them. No one needs to see what’s left of our friends unless they have to. When you get them all loaded, I want you to call the number on this card and tell my boss what happened, then call the sheriff’s office and let them know, too.” 

     “What are you going to be doing while we do this?” Tom asked, still shaken by seeing his father’s gory but heroic death. 

     “I’m taking Ken and we are going to back track this beast and see where its lair is,” he said. “Above all, I want to make sure there aren’t more of these things.” 
     “I’m pretty sure it was hiding in that cave about halfway up the side of the mountain,” Ken said. “So we’ll need flashlights, maybe some rope - and are there any grenades left besides your two?” 

     Landon Spalls, the only deputy who had come with the sheriff, searched the half of the lawman’s body that had not been eaten and found the pack lying next to it. 
     “Here you go,” he said. “Sheriff Carson didn’t have time to get his hands on them.” 

     As Ken’s pulse slowed down, he realized the entire battle with the enormous creature had lasted no more than two minutes. He took a swig of water from his canteen and shouldered his rifle. 

     “That cave is nearly a mile away,” he said. “I’d suggest we use the Mule to get as close as we can.” “Good idea,” Ronnie said. “I’d like to be there and back as quick as possible – someone is going to have to explain all of this.” 

     They waited for a few moments, making sure that the men were all doing their assigned duties. Deputy Spalls was coming out of the torpor that had frozen him since the sheriff was killed in front of him, and now took charge of the recovery operation. The stench from the massive carcass was getting fouler by the minute, and as Ken watched, he saw its hide beginning to suppurate and liquify. 

     “It seems to be decaying at an accelerated rate,” he commented. 
     “Its tissue may be so alien to our world that the elements are corroding it,” Singleton said, hopping in the driver’s seat of the Mule. “Let’s get to that cave and see if we can figure out where this thing came from!” 

     There was not even a rough pretense of a road crossing the valley, and the lower slopes of the mountain were covered with rocks, scree, and uprooted cactus, so after a bouncy ride, they parked the Mule a short way up from the valley. As they disembarked and headed up the beast’s trail, Ken looked at either side and was struck by the bizarre desert flora. He had seen cactus and scrub trees before, but these were by far the biggest, thorniest, and most forbidding such growths he’d ever encountered. At the same time, none of them looked healthy. There was an aura of sickness and rot clinging to them, as if their size and huge thorns were a protest against some kind of cancer eating them up from the inside. 
    “I’ve never seen cacti like this,” he said. 
     “Looks like something that would grow near Chernobyl, if Chernobyl were in the badlands,” Singleton said. 

     As they neared the cave, they found themselves climbing over freshly fallen rocks and dirt, and the footing grew treacherous. Looking on either side of the rockslide, Ken saw that the cactus and scrub had assumed a sickly grey color, and the closer they got to the cave, the more stunted and diseased they looked. 

     Finally they arrived at the entrance, and the unmistakable odor of the beast washed over them again. Singleton pulled out two grenades and handed one to Ken, and then they switched on their flashlights and entered the massive opening. It was obvious that the monster had widened the exit to escape, but the further back they went, the more the cave opened up. Rounding a corner, they came into a massive, gallery-like chamber. The stalactites hanging from the ceiling had been knocked down and shattered by the creature’s passing, and there were several more massive piles of its foul excrement in their path. A faint glow seemed to be coming from the back of the chamber, but it wasn’t until they rounded a huge boulder that they saw the source. 

     The entire back of the main chamber was pulsating and admitting a faint, green-tinted light. As they drew closer, they realized that this wall was not stone – it was some sort of membrane, or barrier. Massive shadows flitted across it, but it was opaque enough that they could not see what was casting them. 

     “What on earth?” Singleton said. 
     “That may be the wrong question,” Ken said. “I’m not sure that whatever is on the other side of that is on earth at all!” 

     By now they had approached within a few feet of the strange surface, and they could feel some sort of energy radiating from it. It seemed to pulsate with faint regularity, as if it were alive somehow. Ken slowly reached out his hand and touched it. His fingers slid effortlessly into the barrier, which felt slightly thicker than water. It did not burn or hurt, but at the same time, he felt a bizarre sensation running through his hand, almost like electricity but without the painful shock. He extended his arm a bit further, and felt it punch through the membrane and emerge into a hot, moist, uncomfortable atmosphere on the other side. 

     “Whatever is over there,” he said, leaving his arm sticking into the opaque barrier, “I think that is where that thing came from.” 
     “Does it hurt?” Singleton asked. 
     “Not at all,” Ken said. “It feels hot and muggy, and I can feel some sort of warmth radiating down on me, like sunshine in a swamp.” 
     “I am going to take a look,” the game warden said, and without any further warning closed his eyes and stuck his head and shoulders through the translucent wall even as Ken withdrew his hand. 

     He did not move for a moment, and then suddenly his hands began clenching and unclenching rapidly. Ken tried to pull on him, to bring him back, but Singleton resisted him. Finally, the engineer stuck his own head and shoulders through the barrier and got his arm around Singleton’s neck and yanked them both back through, back into their own world – but not before he got a quick look at what was on the other side, and that glimpse blasted his brain and left him reeling in shock. 

     He lay on the cool floor of the cave, sucking in huge breaths of good, earthly air, trying to expel the foulness that he had inhaled during his seconds on the other side. His ears were ringing painfully, so much so that he put his hands over them, and then realized that the sound was not from inside his head but from the mouth of his companion. Ronnie Singleton was screaming, screaming in a shrill, terrifying tone that spoke of a mind shattered and ruined. As Ken watched, the game warden pulled out his pistol, put it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. 

     The silence that followed was far more disturbing than the screams had been, for Ken fancied he could hear the things on the other side of the membrane echoing that awful cry. He did not remember any of what followed – running to the mouth of the cave, throwing four active grenades into it, one after the other, or scrambling down the slope, bruised and bloodied by the landslide he had triggered. Somehow, he got back to the Mule, half walking, half crawling, and drove it back towards the ranch house as the long day drew to its end, passing the huge rotting carcass of the alien thing they had destroyed. Seeing those hideous remains reminded him of what he had seen on the other side, and he began to scream and laugh maniacally as he continued past the giant corpse to the CTH Ranch house.

      He climbed out of the Mule and stumbled into the arms of a dozen men; deputies, two game wardens, and the survivors of that morning’s posse. They clustered around him, plying him with questions and well-intended expressions of concern, and after a moment he shrieked out the only words he would ever say before the horror of what he had witnessed blasted him to mute insanity for the rest of his life: 

“Three suns . . . trees with teeth . . . flying spiders as big as cars . . . but those things! Those things like the one we killed! We thought we killed a monster, but you haven’t seen monsters yet! Now they are looking for it! Calling it! They’ll break through, see if they don’t! The barrier is too thin, and they will come. They will come looking for their hatchling!!” 

                                                                        THE END

Monday, July 6, 2020


  So the Fourth of July has come and gone in this crazy year of COVID, protests, and Presidential politics here in America.  Our whole country seems to be seething with anger right now - some of it is the usual partisan nonsense that flourishes every election year, but much of it goes deeper than that.  Minorities are taking to the streets to protest a law enforcement system that seems rigged against them, and many middle aged whites are countering with arguments that people won't get in trouble if they just don't break the law, and dragging out various  crime statistics to buttress their point. 

     But for many young people, the problems in America are so pervasive and so deep that they see nothing worth celebrating in our country's history anymore.  Over the last week, I've seen statements on social media like: "Burn it all down!  If you ever owned a slave, you don't get a statue, period!" and "I choose not to celebrate because the premise of equality in the Declaration only applied to straight, white males and no one else."  In short, all of American history is seen as racist, flawed, and unworthy of any honor or celebration because . . . people in the 18th century didn't think like people in the 21st century.  Why is that surprising or shocking?
     I won't address the many social issues that are being debated in America right now, except to say that there are some valid points on every side, and I do believe if we quit yelling and started listening to each other, we might actually come to a better understanding of why so many people are so upset.  We might even (gasp!!) compromise on some things and solve some problems.  But what I do want to address is the subject nearest and dearest to my heart - American history.  It's something I have taught and studied for my entire adult life, and I believe it still has great value, and can teach us many lessons that we seem determined not to learn.

     "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; that to secure these rights, governments are implemented among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed; that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute new government. . ."  Thomas Jefferson wrote those words in 1776, in a document which was primarily intended to justify America's breaking away from the British Empire.  But within that piece of persuasive political propaganda (for that is what the Declaration was), he included this bit of Enlightenment philosophy which would become America's first principle: the rights of equality and self-determination.  Jefferson, as everyone knows today, owned some 300 slaves.  He fathered children with one of them, although the precise details of his relationship with Sally Hemings are shrouded in mystery to this day.  He was a flawed man, but more than anything, he was a product of the time and culture he lived in.  Does that mean that everything he ever wrote, or said, or did, is worthless?  Of course not.

     George Washington was also a Virginia planter.  He, too, was a slaveowner, although he recognized the evils of the institution and grew increasingly uncomfortable with it as he grew older.  But he was also a man who served for eight years without pay as head of the Continental Army, fighting for the independence of this country.  He was at the forefront of every battle; he shared in the dangers and hardships of his soldiers, and ultimately led them to victory against one of the most powerful nations on earth.  He refused the chance to become a King when the Army wanted to disband Congress and offer him a crown.  He presided over the Constitutional Convention, creating the most durable and stable Republic in the history of the modern world, and served for another eight years as its President, guiding the fragile young nation through many dangers, quelling partisan infighting that might have strangled America in the cradle, keeping us out of foreign wars, and establishing an Executive Branch that has endured to this day.  Shall we tear down his monument, too?

    Here is the challenge I would issue to  all the "Cancel Culture" youths who are crying out for the mass erasure of American history. (NOTE: you see I didn't mention Confederate monuments here; that's a separate issue that I have written about here on multiple occasions.)  Simply put, it is this:  Show me, please, where in the world of 1776 there existed a government that allowed women and minorities to vote and hold office, that did not discriminate based on color, religion, or nationality.  Show me an 18th century government that allowed universal suffrage, that did regarded women as full political and social equals of men, that respected all races and religions equally.  Take your time, read some history books, and get back to me.

    Hint: You won't find one.  The political and moral values of the 21st century did not exist in the 1700's.  It is unrealistic and unfair to men who lived 250 years ago to expect them to be as "woke" and enlightened as you are (or as you think you are) today.  They were products of an era far more primitive and patriarchal than the world we live in now, and just as they were incapable of understanding the technological marvels of today, like cellular communications, the internal combustion engine, and space travel, they also could not wrap their heads around the societal values we take for granted.

    That is what makes their achievement all the more remarkable: despite their limitations, despite the culture that produced them, despite what we would scorn as their "barbarity," they created a system of government that allowed our culture to evolve to where it has.  As flawed as their understanding of equality was, they still made it the founding principle of their new Republic.  They didn't perfectly practice the ideas they articulated, but they articulated them anyway, knowing that the sentiments contained in the Declaration and the Bill of Rights were goals worth striving for.  We are still reaching towards their vision, but without them, we would not have the vision to begin with.  They created a Republic, and a Constitution, that carried within itself the mechanisms for constant self-improvement and growth.  Thanks to their wisdom and foresight, we haven't been wracked with constant Revolutions and the blood and misery that they produce.  With the one notable exception of our horrible Civil War, the government they created has set a standard for stability and moral and political progress. 

    We could have done far worse.  France fought a Revolution based on similar ideas to ours just a decade after our own Revolution ended, but instead of a stable democracy, they went from an absolute monarchy to a constitutional monarchy to a republic to a reign of terror to an authoritarian dictatorship to an absolute dictatorship to a restored absolute monarchy, all in the span of 25 years!  And then they continued to change governments with depressing regularity and a great deal of bloodshed and misery for the next century.  America avoided that fate thanks to the foresight and wisdom of the men who created our country.

    So when I see young people posting the obscene "F*** the Fourth" hashtag, I shake my head sadly.  The fact that they even have the freedom to say such things is because a slaveowning Southerner name James Madison penned the First Amendment to the Constitution, that "Congress shall pass no law . . . abridging the Freedom of Speech."  Our Founders were not perfect men, OK?  We get that.  They were not modern in their values, their morals, or their worldview.  But they were truly remarkable men for their time, and they laid a foundation on which we have been able to build a remarkable country.   Because of them, we have the right to "peaceably assemble, and petition the government for a redress of our grievances."  Isn't that what is going on in much of America right now?  You are allowed to march and chant and demand change because a bunch of benighted 18th century farmers and merchants thought it was important for you to have that right.

   Yes, we still have problems in America.  We've come a long way on issues of race and equality, but we still have a long way to go.  It has not been a smooth journey, but it could have been much worse.  Rejecting the lessons of our history, and casting our Founders upon the ash heap because they are not us, is short-sighted and foolish.  They have many lessons to teach us still, and we would be wise to learn them.  The fact that we have the freedom to do so is a tribute to their wisdom and foresight.

Friday, June 26, 2020

ALL NEW SHORT STORY! The Curious Case of the Missing Dinosaur Tooth

      Sherlock Holmes is one of the most iconic figures in literature, and I have loved reading about his exploits since I first encountered them in sixth grade.  They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and so I offer this humble addition to the Holmesian apocrypha in tribute to the genius of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who created this remarkable character.  Enjoy the story!!


                                          John H. Watson, MD

                                                  as told to
                                              Lewis B. Smith


            In the years since I retired from my active medical practice, and since my close friend Mister Sherlock Holmes ended his storied career as the world’s first consulting detective (although he still occasionally investigates what he calls “cases of interest” on occasion), I have finally had the time to sort through my unpublished notes on the many cases in which I assisted Holmes.  Most of these notes concern matters too trivial, or solutions too simple, to merit laying them before the public.  Others involve events so sensitive that even now I may not write or speak of them (although I have been told that when a certain august personage breathes his last I may reveal the case of the vanishing Russian Duchess – assuming I myself am still alive when that time comes). But there are a few cases in my voluminous file that present sufficient points of interest that I feel merited in bringing them forth for belated public consumption, and one such case began on a blistering summer day in the fifty-fifth year of our good Queen Victoria’s reign.


          The glass had just topped ninety degrees at noon, and a pall of nasty haze that no breeze could dispel hung over the city of London.  Laundry hung limp on the lines, a thin sheen of sweat covered every citizen, and the passing of wagons and carriages stirred up a near-constant cloud of dust at street level.  Tempers were short and it seemed every voice rang a bit louder with notes of irritation and conflict.  I was trying to fan myself with one hand while propping up a book on my knee with the other, and Holmes was drawing the bow across the strings of his violin in what seemed to be a deliberate effort to create the tone most obnoxious to the human ear.  Despite my long acquaintance with his eccentricities, I had reached the point that I would have to either vacate the room or fling my book at him in the next few minutes.


          “My dear Watson,” he said, abruptly laying down his bow, “I daresay that General Gordon’s biography would be a terrible choice of projectiles.  The inkwell at the desk next to you would fly much truer, assuming I did not dodge it.”


          “The devil you say, Holmes!” I replied with a chuckle.  “I know you claim such comments are merely deductive reasoning, but I think you must be at least a bit clairvoyant!  There is no other way you could have known what was on my mind at that moment.”


          “You do me too much credit, Watson,” Holmes replied with a sardonic grin. “I’ve watched from the corner of my eye as your color has steadily risen, your fist clenched the book more tightly, and your eye flickered back and forth, measuring the distance between your chair and my forehead several times over.  Fortunately, my violin is now fully tuned, and you can work off your anger by answering the door and allowing our guest to enter.”


          I opened my mouth to retort, but the sound of footsteps ascending the steps to 221B Baker street proved him correct once more, so with a surly glare I got up to admit our latest client.  He was a remarkably tall fellow, six and a half feet at least, but scrawny in build, cadaverously white, with thin, lank hair combed over his balding pate, a pince-nez that was a size to small for his wide-set eyes, and a black suit that looked more apropos for an undertaker’s parlor than the broiling streets of London on a muggy July day. As he entered, he mopped his clammy forehead and fixed his gaze upon me.


          “Are you the famous Mister Holmes?” he said.  “I fear that I am in most desperate need of your assistance!”


          “I am afraid you are mistaken, sir -” I began, but his wail of despair cut me off.


          “Oh, dear!” he said. “I was sure I had copied the address down correctly. How shall I ever find him now?  This is such an awful business, and I fear that only the famous detective can sort it out!”


          “My dear Doctor Snodgrass,” Holmes said, “you are indeed at the right address.  I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and associate, Doctor Watson.  Fear not, sir, I will gladly use all the powers at my disposal to resolve your dilemma and make sure the Museum’s new exhibit opens in time!”


          The scarecrow-like figure recoiled as if Holmes had struck him a physical blow, and grew even paler, if such a thing was possible.  For a moment, I thought he was going to faint on our doorstep, and I quickly helped him into the chair where I had been seated a few moments before, reading of the dreadful siege of Khartoum.  Eliot Snodgrass – for that was indeed his name – removed his pince-nez and polished it nervously with his frayed handkerchief.


          “I cannot believe that our private dilemma is in the papers already!” he said.  “Alas, the Museum Board will have my head when they find out that the information has been leaked to the press!”


          “You may set that worry aside, Doctor,” said Holmes.  “Nothing of your difficulties has yet appeared in the press.”


          “But how, then, could you possibly know who I am or why I came to you this afternoon?” Snodgrass asked breathlessly.


          “Simple use of logic,” Holmes said.  “I saw your picture in Sunday’s Times alongside a lengthy article about the upcoming Mesozoic exhibit, with an account of the flurry of work going on to prepare this new attraction for the public – and what could possibly bring the Natural History wing’s chief curator to Baker Street in such high dudgeon on such a miserable day unless some crisis was about to derail the grand opening, which is scheduled to take place in two days?”


          The tall scholar swallowed hard, and his body relaxed slightly. “Well,” he said, “Here I thought disaster had struck, but when you explain the process, I see that it was a very simple deduction after all!  But, Mister Holmes, I must ask you to come to the Museum with me immediately.  For the life of me, I do not understand why anyone would kill a man over a dinosaur tooth!”


          Holmes and I exchanged glances.  Since resolving the case I later chronicled under the title ‘The Adventure of the Copper Beeches’ a few weeks earlier, we had seen precious few problems that were anything beyond pedestrian – several, in fact, were so commonplace that Holmes referred the plaintiffs to Inspector Lestrade with only a word or two of suggestions on how to conclude them.  But a murder involving a fossil? I could see by the glint in Holmes’ eyes and the twitching of his nostrils that his interest was piqued.

          “Well, then, Doctor,” he said, “why don’t I ring up Mrs. Hudson for a glass of her delightful chilled lemonade and you can tell us all about this tragedy?”


          Snodgrass wiped his brow again.  “Anything chilled would be welcome on this miserable day!” he said.  “Working in the basement of the Museum has ill equipped me to deal with this dreadful heat!”


          I rang up Mrs. Hudson, and in short order she brought up three tall glasses of lemonade, their sides sweating in the excess humidity.  Ice sellers were running short during this heat wave, but her box in the basement had just enough left from the block she’d bought the previous day to keep the pitcher of lemonade delightfully cool.  I handed Holmes and Snodgrass their glasses, then took a long drink of mine, and pressed the cool tumbler to my forehead for a moment, relishing the feel of the cool glass on my skin.


          “Now then,” said Holmes.  “Give me the full story; omit no detail, however trivial.  What is this tooth missing from, and who has been murdered?”


          “Well, let me see, how to begin?” Snodgrass fretted.  “I suppose, sir, that you have heard of the remarkable work of the American paleontologists Owens and Marsh, in excavating and displaying the fossil remains of those marvelous giant lizards, the dinosaurs?” he asked.


          “Only the vaguest recollections of news stories,” Holmes said.  “I try to focus my mind on things related to my craft, although I have glanced at those articles because I used to pick up fossils at the base of the cliffs near our home when I was a boy.  Assume I know nothing on the topic, sir, lest some important detail be overlooked.”


          “Well, Mister Holmes, for the last decade and more, these two Americans have been rivals in unearthing fossils all over the American West and shipping them back east to be displayed in either the Smithsonian or the New York Museum of Natural History.  They are identifying new species at a remarkable rate, and crowds flock in to see the latest specimens that are being restored and mounted for display,” the curator explained.  “Given the public interest in these creatures, it behooved the British Museum to try and acquire specimens of our own.  We hired one of Owens’ former associates, Doctor William H. Jones, to procure dinosaur fossils for us.  Thanks to the efforts of several wealthy donors, he has had a sufficient budget to lease several large ranches in the area of the Wyoming  territory known as the ‘Badlands’, where dinosaur fossils are plentiful and often exposed by erosion.  Jones has been excavating and packing up fossils for three years now.  They were initially taken to New York’s natural history museum to be cleaned and stabilized, then this spring Jones came to London with six of his most pristine specimens to oversee their preparation and mounting here at the British Museum.  You should see the remarkable Stegosaurus skeleton he just finished, sir, it is the most complete one found yet!  But that was not the prize of the collection – that honor belonged to the specimen I’ve come to see you about, a giant predatory therapod known as Allosaurus!  Imagine a huge lizard, sir, walking on its hind legs, towering nearly fifteen feet tall and reaching a length of thirty-two feet!  This giant predator will greet visitors to the new exhibit as soon as they come in, its mouth full of dreadful teeth open wide in menace!  It is the most remarkable fossil ever to be displayed in Europe, sir, and Jones just finished wiring the last of its bones into place yesterday.  He was still fussing and fretting over it when I left the Museum at none o’clock last evening, with his boy Henry holding the ladder for him.  I remember it clearly, because as I left, I looked up at those mighty tooth-studded jaws and thought what a remarkable exhibition this was going to be!”


          “Fascinating,” said Holmes, taking another sip of his lemonade and leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin.  “Please continue.”


          “Well, this morning I arrived at work around seven o’clock – I’ve been coming in early this week to avoid the beastly heat.  Young Henry is in school every day until two o’clock in the afternoon, but his father had gotten there before me this time, for the Paleontology hall was already unlocked.  I looked up to see the Allosaurus’ toothy grin as I entered, and something struck me as wrong right away.  It took me a minute to realize what it was, but when I saw it I was dumbstruck!  Someone had pried out the longest of the animal’s fearsome teeth, right up near the front of its mouth, leaving an empty socket.  The aesthetic effect was horrible; it somehow transformed the ferocious predator’s visage into the face of a gap-toothed reptilian simpleton!  I decided that I would immediately seek out Jones and find out what the devil was going on, but then I looked at the floor and saw the blood and realized that more was amiss than I thought.”


          Holmes leaned forward, his own smooth brow glistening now.  I could tell this puzzle had its hooks into him.  “Fascinating!” he said.  “Tell me exactly what you saw, sir!”


          “The first thing I noticed was the ladder,” he said.  “Jones was a stickler for taking it down and leaning it neatly against the wall whenever he was not working, but it was lying on its side almost directly under the Allosaur’s head.  Just off to its left there was a large puddle of blood, still glistening wet.  It was smooth and more or less oval, with a few stray drops scattered around it, and over two feet across. But there was a set of bloody footprints leading from it, down the corridor to the left, towards Jones’ office.  I hesitated a moment, for the smell of blood has always sickened me.  But then I followed the trail and came upon Jones lying just inside the office we’d assigned him, in the midst of all his field journals and wrapped-up fossil specimens. He’d collapsed after crossing the threshold, and I thought he was gone, considering the volume of blood that had pooled around him.  But he was still conscious, and hearing my steps, he tried vainly to roll over so he could look up at me.  I knelt and assisted him.  He had a deep wound in his chest, just below his sternum, and the blood was still oozing from it.  He pointed at the shelf full of his journals and labored to speak.  He was nearly gone, Mister Holmes, but I was able to make out two words – ‘Howell,’ or perhaps ‘howl’, and ‘green.’ Words failed him at that point, but he raised his hand and pointed at his desk – or perhaps the shelves behind it.  He struggled to say something else, but then his head drooped, and his breath left him.  I knelt there for some time – in fact, I had to go home before I came here and change my trousers, for they were soaked in his blood!    The whole place was still – whoever had done the ghastly deed must have fled before I arrived, for not a sound broke the oppressive silence from the time I found the body until I finally rose and made my way up front.  I staggered out the door and flagged down a passing constable, and before I knew it the Museum was crawling with policemen.  Their leader, a rather obnoxious fellow named LeStrange or something like that, made some rather nasty insinuations, as if I were the chief suspect!  After two hours of his relentless grilling, I protested, and he said in a snide tone ‘Well, if you are so sure you have nothing to do with this, you might as well summon that know-it-all Holmes!’  Begging your pardon, sir, his words, not mine!  But I asked who he was referring to, and a plainclothesman gave me your name and address.  I asked to be excused, and after changing out of my stained garments, I made my way here straightway.”


          Holmes and I had exchanged glances at the latter part of this narrative, having no doubt who ‘LeStrange’ was.  But now that our guest was done, my friend sprang from his chair and laid his violin in its case.


          “Well, Doctor, I want to thank you for bringing this case to my attention,” he said.  “It contains far more points of interest than I thought it might.  I believe I can help unravel this mystery, but we need to visit the scene of the crime first.  I am afraid that London’s finest may have already destroyed the greater part of the evidence, but perhaps I can still deduce a few details before all the clues are erased.  Come, Watson, let us see if we can procure a hansom!”


          It was with reluctance that I donned my outer coat, but even in such extreme heat, in that day no gentleman would venture out of doors in his shirtsleeves.  I donned a light, wide-brimmed hat to keep the hellish glare of the early afternoon sun out of my face, and together the three of us descended the steps onto Baker Street. Fortunately, we spotted a hansom a half block away, moving up the street at a slow trot.  I hailed the driver and we hopped in, and soon were moving at a decent clip along the streets, which were much less crowded than usual for midday.  We arrived at the British Museum some fifteen minutes later, finding a bobby at the door and a few curious patrons milling about outside.  I paid the driver a few extra shillings and told him to get his poor horses some water, and then followed Holmes and Snodgrass into the Museum’s vast atrium.  The air inside was considerably cooler than the sweltering street, and the faint smells of formaldehyde, sawdust, and plaster hung in the air.


          “Mister Holmes!”  Inspector Lestrade greeted us in his usual condescending tone.  “I might have known you and Doctor Watson would pop up.  Can’t resist a puddle of blood and a dead body, even on such a beastly day as this, can you?”


          Holmes gave the policeman a sour glance.  “I suppose your men have trampled most of the evidence into oblivion by now,” he said, “but I would appreciate the opportunity to examine the scene of the crime.”


          “The coroner is on his way to remove the body,” said Lestrade, “so you might want to start with Dr. Jones’ office and work back from there.”


          “A surprisingly practical suggestion,” Holmes said.  “Let us begin, then. Lead the way Lestrade!”


          I followed Holmes to the large, frosted glass doors that separated the Hall of Paleontology from main atrium of the museum, and looked up as I entered to see the fearsome skull of the Allosaurus looming over the room, its fangs glistening in the sunlight that filtered down from the room’s high windows.  This was truly an impressive predator, I thought, as I tried to imagine how those ancient bones would appear if clothed in flesh again.  But the absence of one of the largest teeth did indeed detract from the fearsome appearance of the fossil, lending a slight aura of the ludicrous to what should have been fearsome.


          Looking down, I saw the puddle of blood that Snodgrass had described just to the left of the dinosaur’s skeleton, and a bloody trail of footprints leading from it.  Holmes’ eyes were fixed on the ground, and after a moment he gave Lestrade a sharp look.


          “Inspector,” he said, “please clear this room.  You and Watson may remain, but send these others out into the lobby.”


          “What about me, Mister Holmes?” a voice intruded from the door.  Shouldering his way past Snodgrass was a stout, hirsute man who was perspiring heavily.  I could see that his suit was covered with a thin coat of dust and deduced that he must have arrived just behind us.


          “Sir Gilbert!” Holmes said, and crossed the room to greet the newcomer.  “I thought you might be here ahead of us, but I see you were delayed in traffic.  You are welcome to remain, sir, but please stand there in the doorway until I have concluded my examination.”


          “Quite right, sir!  If you can solve this dreadful crime as easily as you recovered the Borgia rubies for us, the Museum will be very much in your debt,” he said.


          “That was long ago,” Holmes said, “but I am glad my small service is not forgotten.  Reynold Gilbert, this is my associate, Doctor Watson.   Watson, this is Sir Reynold Gilbert, the head of the British Museum’s governing board.”

          “A pleasure, sir,” I said, “although I wish our meeting were under different circumstances!”


          “And in a cooler season,” the heavyset trustee replied.  “My hansom was held up by a fire on Thurston Street, and I thought I would bake before we got moving again!”


          Holmes, meanwhile, had turned his back on us and thrown himself to the floor, whipping out his magnifying glass, and studying the minute scuff marks on the polished marble.  He slowly crawled towards the puddle of blood, skirted its edge, and then paused for a moment.  He produced a pair of tweezers and retrieved something very small from the floor, then crawled a few feet further, muttered under his breath, and retrieved a second object. Both were deposited in an empty snuffbox he carried for such moments, and then he continued following the trail of bloody footprints across the chamber and into a nearby corridor.  I followed behind, being careful to avoid the now-dry blood trail, and then looked over his shoulder at the tragic scene that was laid before us in the small office.


          William Jones had been a robust man of average height, with an iron-grey beard, dark brows, and thinning hair.  Even in death, his skin bore the deep bronze shade of a man who spent much of his life outdoors.  Holmes studied the body very closely, once more producing his tweezers and picking a few flecks of something from the man’s shirt.  Then he stood and looked at the paleontologist’s desk, which was cluttered with fossils and notebooks, two of which lay open, filled with close-packed but neat writing and sketches of bones, giant lizards, cliff faces, and other things I did not recognize.  Holmes studied the office, paying special attention to the notebooks and the specimens that lay on the different shelves.  Finally, he stood and called out for Doctor Snodgrass.  The cadaverous scientist had followed me down the corridor and leaned into the room over my shoulder when he heard his name.


          “You said that Jones pointed at something as he lay dying,” Holmes said. “Can you show me what he was pointing towards?”


          Snodgrass stepped past me and folded his long legs until he was down at floor level.  Gingerly, he lifted the dead man’s hand and extended it, pointing at the top of the desk and the shelf beyond.  Holmes thanked the curator and studied the notebooks on the desktop, picking one up and glancing over it carefully, rapidly flipping through the closely written pages.  He paused at one illustration which even I recognized – it was a sketch of the Allosaurus skull that was now mounted with the rest of the skeleton in the Hall of Paleontology.  Holmes studied the sketch closely, and then snapped the notebook shut and joined us in the hallway.


          “Well, this little puzzle was certainly not devoid of interest,” he said.  “Tell me, Doctor Snodgrass, how large was the missing tooth?”


“Well, the crown of the tooth – the part visible above the jawline – was about an inch and a half,” said the curator.  “But with the full root, it would have been nearly four inches.”


“Excellent!” said Holmes.  “From what I have observed, I’m afraid can tell you that the tooth will never be recovered.  Lestrade, could I trouble you for a pencil?”


          “Don’t tell me you’ve figured it out already!” Lestrade exclaimed.


          “It was most elementary, once I put a few things together,” Holmes said, producing the snuffbox. He led us back into the Hall of Paleontology, where the light was better.  “See here, Doctor Snodgrass, do you recognize this?”


          He pulled out a small piece of plaster, flat, about a quarter inch across.  It was painted a rich, dark brown on one side, but was white and unfinished on the other.


          “It looks like the filler we use to replace missing areas of bone in our dinosaur fossils,” he said. 


          “This was the largest piece I recovered, directly underneath your Allosaurus. There were also a few smaller fragments clinging to Dr. Jones’ jacket.  Now, observe this!”  Holmes said, and he dipped into the snuffbox again with his tweezers.


          This time he produced a small loop of gold, which glistened in the filtered sunlight of the great museum hall.


          “It looks like the clasp off of a golden necklace or bracelet,” I said.


          “Good observation, Watson,” he said.  “That is exactly what it is.  Now we need to recover the piece that it came from!”  He took the pencil Lestrade had given him and ripped a blank page out of the back of the notebook he’d removed from Jones’ desk.  He quickly scrawled a few lines on it, folded it in half, and handed it to the Inspector.


          “Have one of your men send this message via telegram to the curator of the Museum of Natural History in New York City,” he said.  “With any luck, we can have his reply back by tomorrow.”


          About this time, I heard a ruckus coming from the entrance to the Hall of Paleontology, and all of us turned to see the source of the commotion.  A young lad of about ten or twelve was trying to push his way past the patrolman who guarded the entrance.


          “You don’t understand,” he was saying.  “I work here, helping my Pop with the fossils!  The exhibition goes up in two days, and he needs me! You have to let me past!”


          “That’s young Henry Jones!” Snodgrass said.  “Oh, bother, I completely forgot to send anyone to notify him of his father’s demise!  This is awful!”


          “I will not have his last memory of his father be the horror in that office!” Holmes said firmly.  “Come, Watson, you are better at this sort of thing than I am. He needs to be told, but I also need to ask him about something.  Help me.”


          “Constable, let us through to the lad, please,” Holmes said.  “Are you Mister Henry Jones, sir?”


          “I am,” the confused boy replied.  “What is going on, sir?  Why can’t I go help my father?”


          I bent down and looked young Jones in the eye.  “I am Doctor John Watson,” I said.  “I am terribly sorry, Henry, but I am afraid your father has perished.  He was attacked early this morning by an unknown assailant.  Doctor Jones was gone by the time the police arrived.  There was nothing I could do for him when I got here.”


          The young man turned from me and buried his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably for a moment.   But, in a display of maturity that belied his years, he slowly straightened and turned to face me.  His face was still streaked with tears, but his voice was calm.


          “Doctor Watson?” he said.  “Are you the one that helps Sherlock Holmes catch criminals?”


          I nodded and pointed to my companion.  “Yes, that is me, and this is Mister Holmes.  He is here to help the police apprehend your father’s assailant,” I explained.


          “Killer, you mean,” the young man said, with a fierce anger crowding out the sorrow in his eyes.  “How can I help him?”


          Holmes stepped forward and shook the young man’s hand.


          “I am deeply sympathetic for your great loss,” he said.  “I was about your age when my own mother perished, so I can, perhaps, understand the depth of your grief better than most.”  I was astonished at this, for I had never before heard my companion allude to his mother’s demise.  Henry Jones looked up at Holmes, and suddenly embraced him. Holmes was not a man given to gestures of affection, but in that moment, he hugged the young man back with a tenderness that brought a lump to my throat.


          Holmes slowly pulled away, and for a moment I thought that his own eyes were moist, although it may have been a trick of the summer sun.  He clapped the lad on the shoulder and spoke in a businesslike voice that belied the scene we had all just witnessed.


          “Now, Henry, did your father have an assistant that worked with him on this exhibit?” he said.  “A rather scrawny, sallow fellow with a diagonal scar on his chin?


          “Why, yes, sir, Oliver Northcutt is his name,” said young Jones.  “He worked as a doorman for the Museum, but he loved the fossils and was right handy with them, so Pops pulled him off door duty and had him helping us these last few days as we readied the exhibit for the public.  He was so interested in the bones I even caught him thumbing through Pop’s notebooks once or twice!  Dad didn’t like that much, though.  He threatened to fire Northcutt if he caught him at it again.”

          “Do you know how to contact Mister Northcutt?” Holmes asked.


          “He has a flat a few blocks away,” Jones replied.  “I had to deliver a message to him once last week that came in after he’d gone home for the day.”


          “Excellent!” said Holmes.  “Dear lad, I must ask something of you, but you may feel free to say no if it is too much – I am mindful of the great loss you have suffered.  But could you carry another message to Northcutt for me?”


          “Will this help catch my father’s killer?” the boy asked.


          “It most certainly should,” Holmes replied. 


          “Then I’m your man!” said Jones, squaring his shoulders and facing us with a determination that wiped away the grief on his face.


          “Good lad!” said Holmes. “Mister Snodgrass, would you write the following message for me?  It will raise less alarm coming from you than from a policeman, or myself.  Lestrade, let’s get these extra men, and ourselves, out of sight once this note is dispatched.  I don’t want to give this man cause for alarm, because he is quite a dangerous character.”  With that, he leaned into the tall curator and whispered in his ear for a moment. Snodgrass nodded, and wrote a brief message on a sheet of Museum stationary.  He tucked it in an envelope and wrote Northcutt’s name on it, and Henry took it, tucked it in his pocket, and disappeared out the front door.


          “That’s a stout lad,” I commented with admiration.


          “That one has a bright future ahead of him, I’ll warrant,” said Holmes.  “But quick now!  Lestrade, you, me, and Watson need to be out of sight.  Leave the constable by the door – this Northcutt knows a murder has been committed and will be expecting to see the police.  Now, Doctor Snodgrass, I want you to guide Northcutt towards the hallway where Jones’ office was, and, if I may trouble you for a sheet of that stationary, I’ll give you a message to hand to him.  After he has read it, Watson, Lestrade, and I will pop out of your office and apprehend him.”


          In a trice, we were ensconced in Snodgrass’ office, which opened directly into the Hall of Paleontology, and the tall curator was left nervously pacing about in front of the massive Allosaurus skeleton.  Less than five minutes after we had assumed our hiding place, I heard footsteps coming through the atrium, and a short, wiry man with close-cropped red hair and a scar on his chin entered, young Jones following close behind him.  We had left the door open just a crack, and I watched with one eye as the scene unfolded.


          “Good afternoon, Doctor Snodgrass!” he said in a hangdog tone.  “Such awful business! Young Jones here told me about his da!  Do you have any idea who might have done such a thing?”


          “Well, the police seem to think it was a burglary gone wrong, perhaps,” said Snodgrass, leading him past the Allosaurus skeleton and the bloody puddle beneath it.  “But between you and me, they seem to have no idea who might have done it.  But I found this envelope in William’s desk and it had your name on it.  Do you have any idea what it might mean?” 


          With that he turned and handed the envelope to Northcutt, who tore it open and unfolded the sheet of stationery.  He read the single sentence Holmes had written on it and suddenly flinched.


          “Now, Watson!” Holmes cried, and the three of us lunged through the door after our prey.  Northcutt was quick as lightning, though, dropping the letter and pulling an ugly knife from his pocket.  He grabbed the scrawny form of Snodgrass and pushed the point of the dagger into the man’s abdomen until a drop of blood began to show.  The curator wailed as if he’d been butchered, but Northcutt tightened his grip and snapped at him to be silent.


          “Well played, Mister Holmes,” he said. “but I’ll not be swinging for this one!  Me and the doctor here are going to make our way to the exit, very slowly, and then I’m catching a hansom and getting out of here!”


          I cursed myself for having left my service revolver at home, but then I heard a click beside me and saw that Lestrade had his trusty firearm trained on the man’s forehead.


          “I am quite sure my bullet will cover the distance before you can push that knife in more than an inch,” he said.  “You will not be leaving this Museum until you’re handcuffed, you blackguard!”


          Northcutt studied the inspector’s grim face for a moment, and then in a trice he shoved Snodgrass towards us and ran for the doors.  I started after him, but my feet hit the drying puddle of blood and I went down, hard, knocking my wind out. Holmes was trying to disentangle himself from the flailing form of Snodgrass, and Lestrade was trying to get a clear shot at the darting figure of Northcutt, who was almost to the entrance of the Paleontology Hall.  It was at that moment that young Henry Jones stepped up, fast as lighting, and delivered a mighty punch square into the jaw of the fleeing killer, hitting him so hard that Northcutt was upended and landed flat of his back on the floor, the vicious blade flying out of his hand.  It skittered to a stop inches from me, and I scooped it up as I slowly got to my feet, the old wound in my hip suddenly throbbing.


          “Stout lad indeed!” said Lestrade, pulling out his handcuffs and placing them on the dazed Northcutt.  “Well done, Mister Jones!”


          “We lived in a tough neighborhood in Indiana when I was growing up,” the boy said.  “I learned to scrap early on.”


He walked over and looked down at Northcutt who was struggling to rise, and quick as lightning he drew his foot back and fetched him a fierce kick in the ribs, which sent the felon crashing back to the floor.  The boy snarled: “That was for my Pop!” and then began to cry again.


          “I am terribly confused,” Snodgrass said, having finally recovered his voice after the ordeal.


          “I’m a bit shady on some things meself,” Lestrade said.  “But no doubt Mister Holmes here will enlighten us all momentarily.”


          “Gladly,” my companion said, “although first I must apologize.  My flair for the dramatic badly backfired on this occasion.  I had no idea that Northcutt – or, to give him his proper name, Randall Moss – would resort to taking hostages.”


          “Wait – Randall Moss of the Moss brothers? The notorious jewel thieves?” Lestrade asked.


          “One and the same,” Holmes said.  “It was Jones’ dying words that made everything fall into place.  Part of my business, as you know, Lestrade, is keeping track of criminal activity all over the world.  The Howell Turner emerald collection was stolen from the New York Museum of Natural History about two months ago. Police turned the place inside out searching for the gems, which had apparently vanished from the Museum at night when the place was locked up tight as a drum. I knew that Augustus Moss had fled London and traveled to the States, because I was investigating their last theft, here in London.  I nearly captured Randall in January and left him with that little reminder of our encounter on his chin.  I knew he’d gone to earth, but when I read about the theft of the emerald collection in New York, I suspected the brothers might be involved.”


          “Howell . . . green!” Snodgrass said.


          “Exactly,” Holmes said.  “As Watson can tell you, when the brain is dying, the victim’s vocabulary begins to go.  Jones was trying to tell you about the emeralds, but the word eluded his fading consciousness, so he told you their color, and pointed you towards a vital clue.”


          With that he opened the notebook and pointed to the sketch of the Allosaurus skull.  It was rendered in striking detail, resembling the mounted specimen before us to the most precise degree – including, I saw, the missing tooth!


          “The tooth was gone all along!” I said.


          “Precisely!” Holmes replied.  “The reason New York detectives could not figure out how the emeralds got out of the museum was because they had not.  They were carried down the hallway, to the paleontology lab, and there coated with plaster and pasted into the missing parts of the dinosaur fossils that Doctor Jones was bringing to London!” 


With that he approached Moss and rifled the man’s pockets, bringing out a small bracelet with six identical, brilliant green emeralds on a gold chain.  I could see bits of plaster still clinging to the links. The jewel thief snarled but Lestrade had a tight grip on his manacles and kept him pinioned.


“Now, Moss, if you truly don’t want to swing, you’ll tell us exactly where in these fossil bones the remaining pieces of the collection are hidden,” Holmes said. “Otherwise it’s the gallows for you!”


“My brother will have me out of any jail you put me in, long before I face the hangman!” snapped Moss.  “Find them yourself!”


“Very well,” Holmes said.  “Lestrade, if you’ll turn his flat inside out, you may find some of the emeralds there.  Doctor Jones’ notebook should guide us to the rest – we just look for missing pieces of bone that have been filled with plaster, and a simple screwdriver should suffice to pry the missing jewels loose!”


“But Mister Holmes!” Snodgrass said.  “The opening is in two days!  I cannot have you gouging at our prized fossils – there is no time to repair the damage before the hall opens to the public!”


“I can fix them,” said young Henry.  “That’s what my Pop was training me to do these last few weeks.  What’s more, I can show you which plaster patches were here when the fossil arrived, and which ones I added.  Pop told me last night that one of those teeth didn’t look right, and he intended to examine it this morning.  He told me his New York assistant wasn’t as good at molding and painting bones as I was.  Pop wasn’t given to a lot of compliments, but I’ll never forget that one.  May I have my father’s notebooks, Mister Holmes?”


“Of course,” my friend said.  “They are yours by right of inheritance, are they not?”

          “I suppose they are,” the boy said.


By the time the new Mesozoic Gallery opened, all seventy-two emeralds had been recovered, and the dinosaur fossils were fully restored.  Holmes and I stared at the Allosaurus’ fearsome snarl, frozen in stone and plaster, and young Jones joined us.


“Thank you for catching the man who killed my father,” he said.  “Want to know something, though?”


“What’s that, lad?” I asked him.


“I hate paleontology,” he said. “Dinosaurs and those other prehistoric monsters just bore me.  What I really want to do is study archaeology – to recover the treasures of ancient civilizations and share them with the world!  There are so many mysteries I’ve read about that I would like to solve, so many legendary artifacts to be rescued.  That is what I want to do with my life!”


“Well, I hope you do!” I replied.  “Your father would be proud of you for pursuing your dream and adding to the wealth of human knowledge.”


Randall Moss did indeed keep his date with the hangman for the murder of William Jones; his brother Augustus, thanks to Holmes’ telegram, had been arrested as he was boarding a White Star liner in New York, bound for England.  Augustus was sentenced to thirty years at hard labor, but he was knifed to death in a prison yard fight ten years into his sentence.  Henry Jones became a renowned archeologist, most noted for his study of the Knights Templar and his search for the holy relics they had buried all over Europe.  Holmes received an honorary life fellowship from the New York Museum of Natural History for recovering the priceless collection of emeralds.  Best of all, the day of the exhibit’s grand opening, a powerful Atlantic storm blew the miserable heat away from London, the thermometer dropped to sixty degrees, and life at 221B Baker Street became tolerable again, violin practice or no.