Snakebite, Montana Loading his luggage in his Jeep, Greg looked east down the road that ran in front of the hotel. The Montana sky was filling with light. The thin layer of clouds sparkled with color. Quickly taking out his camera from the carrying case, he adjusted the settings and mounted it on the tripod. The pictures of the sunrise could be a nice introduction for his project presentation. Packing the camera and tripod away again, he went back into the hotel room to double check if he left anything. There was always a feeling that he left something whenever he went somewhere. And as always, he did not find anything of his left in the room. All was neatly packed away in his Jeep. "Getting an early start, Mr. Owens?" the front desk clerk asked after he checked out. She was surprised to see someone up at that hour. Apparently, the few people that did stay at the small hotel liked to sleep in. "Yes, I need to get to Snakebite soon," Greg said. "Snakebite? Why would you want to go there? No one has lived there for twenty years." "It's for my photography class project," he replied putting his credit card back in his wallet. "It's for the final." She smiled. "Oh. That sounds nice. If you ever come back this way after you get those pictures developed, I would like to see them. Just try to leave before dark. I've heard it's dangerous up there." "Sure thing. Thanks for the room." "No problem," she said jotting something down in her logs. "Have fun out there in Snakebite. And be careful." "I will. Bye." Greg gave a slight wave and walked out the front door into the morning air that was already starting to warm up. He got in his Jeep and drove off the winding road through the mountains. Snakebite was only about fifty miles from the hotel. It was nice drive in the early morning. Even though it was for a project for his college photography class, he was beginning to enjoy the break from the normal summer school sessions. Arriving to the deserted town, he couldn't believe his eyes. Nested in a large valley, the town looked like an old mining ghost town even though it was abandoned only twenty years ago. From the old newspapers and history he read about the town, the residents maintained the old buildings for tradition and tried to keep the town running as long as they could. Greg would not have minded seeing the town when people lived there, but the way he saw it that day was what he needed for his project. The run-down wooden buildings created perfect shapes and colors. "I should have gotten here earlier to see what it looked like at sunrise," he said to himself looking east through a gap between the saloon and inn. Taking a few pictures of the town from outside, he decided to venture into one of the buildings. They looked sturdy enough. He tested his weight on one of the floorboards on the porch leading into the saloon. They felt sturdy enough, too. Hoping he was right, he walked inside the saloon through the broken doorframe. Dirt and dust swirled in the beams of sunlight coming through the windows and the sparse cracks between the boards. Waving the dirt out of the air in front of his face, he blinked to clear his eyes. When he could see again, he quickly took photos of the scene. The bar had a nice angle to it, and the tables lying on their side added flavor. He moved some discarded clothes behind one of the tables and placed them in a better spot for his picture. Why they were there, he didn't know, but he wanted them in the picture instead of hiding behind the table. While he walked from the saloon to the inn next door, he tried to imagine what it would have been like to see the town in its full glory. The good times happening in the saloon, the quiet nights away from bright city lights, and the sound of the coyotes baying at the moon. It seemed peaceful to him. The inn seemed to welcome him. It seemed very well intact, except for the large gaping hole in the back wall. Even the paintings and antique pictures on the wall were in place. There were pictures of couples standing in front of the inn and a few of the scenery around the town. A painting of buffalo running hung behind the front desk opposite of a painting of a coyote. Greg took some interesting angled shots of the lobby and some in the rooms upstairs. The hallway was the most picturesque to him. All the doors were broken or hanging on their hinges giving a chaotic feel. Going back downstairs, he saw something he didn't see at first in the lobby. Another set of discarded clothes lazily thrown near a chair. These were new, however. They looked like clothes being worn in the last few years. They were ripped and torn in several places. Hoping he didn't walk into a murder site, he quickly left the inn. His instincts told him to leave town at that moment, but he didn't listen. He walked across the street to the sheriff's office where he felt would be another perfect setting for pictures. The doorframe to that building was broken as well. The door itself was lying on the ground a few feet out into the dirt street. Easy access as far as Greg was concerned. If the door had still been in place, it could have been stuck closed. Inside, he took a few pictures of the jail cells with their doors wide open. "At least they let the prisoners out before everyone left town," he said and chuckled. After taking some shots of the sheriff's desk, Greg's curiosity about what the journal lying there contained got the best of him. The paper was weathered, but the writing was still legible. Carefully thumbing through the pages, Greg did not see much information except brief lists of who was in jail for what crime. All except for the last entry. Scratching his head, he wondered what the entry meant. "'They return. I must go.' What does that mean?" he asked himself. Perhaps the sheriff needed to go because the rest of the town was leaving. Perhaps he was protecting himself from some outlaws getting revenge. Perhaps.... Greg stepped backwards still confused as to what the entry was talking about and tripped on a raised floorboard. A few film canisters fell out of his pocket and rolled under the desk. Crawling under the desk to retrieve the canisters, he saw something he didn't want to see. More torn clothes were lying in the dirt under the desk from where the wind apparently blew them. Something glinted from the pile of clothes. Greg crawled closer to see what it was. The sheriff's star badge. Backing out quickly, he got to his feet and ran out the door. He stopped in the middle of the road and tried to regain his composure. Deciding that he had enough pictures of the town for one day, he headed back to his Jeep. After packing his camera and equipment and loading the cases in the back, he more than eagerly hopped into the driver's seat and turn the key. The motor tried and tried, but it did not turn over. Greg turned the ignition off, waited a few seconds, and then tried again. Still nothing. "Just perfect!" he said and hit the dashboard. He slumped in his seat and tried to think of what he could do. He did not have a cell phone. It was just his luck that he canceled the service the month before. Figuring it was the heat of the day that prevented the car from starting, he decided to take some more photographs while he waited for the sun to set. He had already spent most of the day there. One more building should burn the last bit of daylight. He unpacked his camera and took along a few more rolls of film and walked back into town. A two-story house looked interesting as he passed. He entered the broken doorway and scanned the entry room. It must have been a very nice house when it was still in use. Perhaps it was the mayor's house. Finishing taking a few rolls of pictures of the downstairs rooms, he headed upstairs. Each step creaked and echoed in the stairwell. Upstairs, there was a small hallway with a few doors to various rooms. The first door led to a bathroom. At least they had indoor plumbing when they were living there. The next door opened up into a bedroom. It looked like it could have been a guest bedroom. The third room must have been the master bedroom. It was huge compared to the previous bedroom, and the bed had massive posts. Lying on the bed was a body. Greg froze. The person lay motionless on the bed. Getting up the nerve to get closer, Greg saw that it was a skeleton covered in dust. It looked like who ever it was died in their sleep. Perhaps they were left here when everyone else left town. Maybe they died just before. But, then why wouldn't they have been buried? Hopefully, it wasn't the person who owned those newer clothes he found in the inn. That couldn't be who it was since the skeleton was wearing its own clothes. Laying on the nightstand was a book. Perhaps a journal. That could clear up who the skeleton was. Picking the book up, he saw that it wasn't a journal. It was a copy of "Huckleberry Finn." Under the book, however, was a note. It read, "It is all my fault. Everyone is gone because of me! Why should the town people pay for what I did? It's no use now. The damage has been done. Leave while you can." Greg put the note back under the book and quickly left the room. With the other small findings throughout the day, he decided to take the note's advice. Car or not, he is leaving town. Walking outside, the air began to cool off as the sun started to set. Maybe the Jeep will start now. He hoped so as he hurried back to it. A distant rumbling came from the East. Just his luck that a storm would be approaching. He quickened his pace. He packed his camera and film again. The thought of taking any more pictures was far from his mind. He was going to concentrate on getting out of the strange town, and hopefully before the storm hit. He tried starting the Jeep again. It didn't start. He waited and tried again. No luck. Crossing his arms on the steering wheel and resting his head on them, he sighed frustrated. Eventually, he popped the hood and got out to check if there was anything obviously wrong with the engine. He wasn't an expert, but he could at least check the fluid levels and belts. The water was getting kind of low, so he retrieved the spare water from the back and poured it in the overflow tank. The engine was still hot from the sun, so he decided to wait a while before trying to start again. The rumbling was closer by now. Looking to the East, he could barely make out a cloud on the horizon. The setting sun's rays were lighting the top of cloud. If only he didn't pack away his camera. He walked to the back to see if he could get his camera set up in time, but he stopped. The rumbling was constant. Not like thunder. A tornado perhaps? Looking back to the East, he saw it wasn't a storm at all. The cloud was closer, but it wasn't a cloud of water vapor. It was dirt. A dust storm? No. It wasn't windy enough. The cloud drew closer, and Greg saw what it was. A herd of buffalo. But, there wasn't supposed to be any wild buffalo out there any more. The stampede was heading straight toward the town, and Greg was right in its path. Cursing between breaths, he ran back into town to find a safe place from the stampede. But, where? All the buildings were old enough that the amount of buffalo heading his way could at least break through the walls, if not destroy the whole building. He ran down the middle of the dirt road searching left and right for the safest spot. The thundering of the hooves was louder now. He needed to get somewhere quick. Suddenly, he tripped on something. A rock or his own feet, he wasn't sure. Trying to stand back up, he discovered he couldn't. He must have pulled a muscle in the fall. "Get up. Get up!" he yelled at himself. Looking back to see where the herd was, he saw something he did not expect to see. His feet had come out of his shoes. That could explain why he tripped. However, that wasn't the part he didn't expect to see. His feet were not his feet. They were cloven hooves. While he was looking at his feet, he saw the rest of his legs change into buffalo hind legs. At least that was what they looked like to him. It was not painful. It wasn't pleasurable either. It was only numb. A buffalo tail pushed it's way out of his pants as they ripped under the stress of his expanding body. His shirt was soon to follow. Looking forward, he noticed that his arms were furry forelegs. They must have changed while he was looking back at his legs. His head felt heavier. Apparently it was changing as well. That was confirmed when he saw a bovine muzzle push out in front of his eyes. After standing back up, of course it was on all four hooves, he shook his large shaggy head. He was a buffalo as far as he could tell. There wasn't a mirror for him to look in, but from what he could see of the rest of his body, he was a buffalo. The thunder of the herd was upon him. They were charging down the middle of town. Partially to keep from being trampled and partially to satisfy some new instincts, he galloped in the direction the herd was going. When they reached him, he was matching pace with the other buffalo. He had no idea where they were going, but he knew he had to follow the rest of them. The herd ran through the middle of the town and then out into the desert, heading West the whole time. Even though he was new to his buffalo body, Greg was easily keeping up with the best of the other bison. He couldn't figure out why he stayed with the herd, but leaving it seemed wrong. Looking back for an instant, he saw the town behind them about to disappear over the horizon. The glass from the few remaining windows in the buildings twinkled for the last time as the sun set. Greg looked forward again and continued running. Once the town was past the horizon, the herd began to disappear. They vanished as quickly as they appeared. As the dirt settled, the distant sound of rumbling faded into the night not to be heard again until dusk the next day.