Stars Above the Mesa

The man stood silhouetted against the dying sun, his long shadow stretching out across the red earth of the mesa. Clay Ransom was his name, and if the frontier had taught him anything, a man could not turn his back on trouble and expect it to disappear.

He adjusted the brim of his hat and squinted toward the distant ridgeline, where dark shapes moved like ghosts among the scrub. Cattle rustlers, most likely. And if they were the same ones who had hit the Circle-T Ranch three days back, they had left no trail but confusion.

Ransom didn’t like mysteries. The frontier bred men who solved problems with steel and grit, not riddles and shadows.

Yet every trail he had picked up since the Cirle-T raid had ended as if the earth swallowed the thieves whole. Now, his gelding snorted and stamped its hooves against the dirt, uneasy under the weight of Ransom’s rifle and quiet determination.

The sun slipped below the horizon, and a cold wind rose, whispering through the canyons like a chorus of lost souls. Night came fast in the high desert, and with it came the kind of darkness that felt alive.

But Ransom was not easily spooked. He guided his horse down the slope, the clinking of its tack the only sound besides the mournful sigh of the wind.

He reached the spot where he had seen the shapes moving. Sure enough, there were hoofprints in the sand—deep and wide, like those of a steer. Yet the stride was too long for any cow he had ever seen.

He crouched, running his calloused fingers over the impression. It was warm, as though the ground was scorched. Horses of cattle thieves didn’t leave trails like this.

Ransom stood, his gut tightening in a way he hadn’t felt since that gunfight in Virginia City, the one that left a scar jagged as lightning across his ribs. He unslung his Winchester and scanned the horizon, where stars began to blink into existence.

He didn’t trust the stars, not tonight. They were too bright, too cold.

Ahead, a low hum broke the silence, a sound that crawled into his skull like a burr. He nudged his gelding forward, following the sound over the rise. What he saw there froze him in his saddle.

In the valley below was a thing he couldn’t name, a thing no man could name. It was like a wagon, but it hovered above the ground, glowing faintly with a light that shifted from blue to green.

Around it, figures moved—tall, spindly creatures that walked upright but with unnatural grace, as if their joints were not quite in the right places. Their heads were large and round, their eyes black as coal.

The creatures were herding the stolen cattle toward the glowing wagon—or was it a ship? The beasts moved as though in a trance, their usual bellows reduced to low, pitiful moans.

Ransom didn’t believe in ghosts, and he didn’t believe in stories about little men from the stars, either. But he believed what he could see, and what he saw made his blood run cold.

He raised the rifle to his shoulder, lining up a shot on one of the creatures. The rifle cracked, and the sound echoed across the valley, where a figure stumbled, then fell, its long limbs collapsing in a heap.

The others turned as one, their black eyes locking onto Ransom. The hum grew louder, vibrating in his chest. His gelding reared, nearly throwing him, but he held tight to the reins, backing the animal away from the ridge.

The glowing ship began to rise, lifting the cattle into its belly with an unnatural light. Ransom fired again, the bullet ricocheting off the side of the vessel with a metallic clang. The creatures moved quickly now, retreating into the ship.

Before he could line up another shot, the ship shot upward faster than anything Ransom had ever seen. In seconds, it was gone, leaving the night silent once more.

He sat there for a long moment, the rifle still in his hands, his breath coming hard. He didn’t understand what he’d seen, but he knew no one in the territory would believe him. To them, cattle rustlers were men like him, flesh and blood, bound by the laws of gravity and greed. But Ransom had seen the truth. And as he turned his horse back toward the Circle-T, he wondered how a man was supposed to fight thieves who came from the stars.

The wind picked up again, carrying the faint smell of scorched earth. Ransom touched the brim of his hat and muttered a curse under his breath. He was not one to back down from a fight, but this was a fight he didn’t know if he could win.

Still, he would try. Out here on the frontier, a man didn’t have much choice.