The first time I threw myself at the claws of the reaper everyone assumed it was a mistake. Surely, said the reapermaster, she must have stumbled into its track. Though, we’d all been taught since we could walk to avoid the great creatures.
I came to town, as begged by telegraph, as speedily as I could to see about the problem of the women who’d all thrown themselves to death off Rushtown Gulch.
Something crashed through the underbrush, and the insect-like shadows crouched about the fire jerked awake, sensors gleaming in the angry red firelight as they cried out in alarm on frequencies audible and inaudible: “Who goes there?”