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Save Point: The Thunderbird Photograph

Somewhere In Arizona, April 1890

"All I can say is, it's fucking huge, whatever the hell it is," says the old man.

The creature has been arranged in advance, at first by the light of simple torches and so forth, and it was early into the morning and close to dawn when the West Brothers returned, dragging it whole (except for the gunshots) into town between them, one wing tied by the hand-like talons to each of their two horses, the both of them shying at the faintly reptilian smell.

"Thunderbird, that's what it is," mutters the older brother, the Iroquois. He adds a few phrases in his own language, then concludes, "Big one too, and real angry. No-one ever believes us when we tell white folks about 'em."

"They'll believe this," says the old man. "Hell, after this, they won't have a fucking choice."

The wings of the creature are so heavy that an initial attempt to pin them into place against the fading red-painted and peeling walls of the old barn failed, the nails slipping out of the wings or the wings pulling them out of the rotting wood. The guy doing the nailing cursed the thing as its head lolled sideways like some sort of air-borne crocodile, one slitted eye falling open to gaze at him, glazed over in death. Then he stormed off and came back with huge square iron nails like railroad spikes, hammering them in with a huge smiths hammer. "It were good enough for Jesus, it'll damn well be good enough fer you, ya damn devil."

Some of the flying lizards' blood has escaped during the adjustments of its wings, and runs lazily, almost congealed, down the slats of the barn. "It was warm-blooded, you know," says the other brother, who sounds almost concerned. "Not like a snake or a gator or something, like it should be. Hell, that thing was hot-blooded when we finally shot it down."

"Never seen anything eat that many bullets," concludes the Iroquois. "Skin like a shark, man. I swear some of them bounced off."

"We run into more things like this, we're gonna need bigger guns," complains the first brother. "Like Gatling's or something. Or one of them elephant guns that knocks you on your ass."

"Hey, we're supposed to be kicking their ass, not the other way round."

The carpenter, or smith, or whoever the hell he is (any man potentially a jack-of-all-trades this far from the soft and civilized cities of the east) completes final adjustments, rearranges a slack wing outward to emphasize just as much as possible how very huge the creature is, and then grunts significantly as tradesmen are inclined to do in these circumstances. This seems to indicate that his efforts are complete and the creature is ready.

It took a while to round up the photographer at first. He didn't want to waste his time being called out on what was ever so obviously just some sort of ridiculous prank, of a design that was surely inadequate to catch out an educated man. But by then other people had seen it, and they came by, and were calling others, and the carpenter had already set out 'cause his brother had seen them drag it in, and by that point it would've just been silly to say no. He packed up his daguerreotype camera, a spare lens in case of breakage, and as many glass chemical plates as he could round up, which was only about two or three, on account of them having to be ordered in.

By the time everything had been set up and ready to go, it was late morning, which was a good thing because it'd need bright light to take a decent picture that'd do justice to the thing. A few late arrivals had to be shuu'd away to clear the frame - "Look at those wings man, not a feather in sight. Fucking scales, man!" - and then they were good to go. Everyone wanted to be in the photo, but in the end they decided that only the hunting party deserved to be in the picture. The camera owner had the final say - "Any more'n a couple of guys, and no-one'll be able to see it properly."

Eventually the West Brothers, and the old man by virtue of owning the barn, finish arranging themselves in front of the creature in suitable attitudes of triumph. The Iroquois holds his modified shotgun casually over his shoulder, in a jaunty sort of pose. The other brother sits low in front of the flopping lizard head, rifle slung along his crossed legs, muzzle pointing down into the dust, still concerned by the whole affair. The old man, not wanting to miss out on the scene, has been made loan of a clumsy red-dead revolver, the sort of heavy absurd thing no real cowboy would ever use, and brandishes it determinedly, as though the creature might suddenly revive and make a go at it.

The camera is set up, the lens opened. There are several uncomfortable minutes as everyone tries to stand as still as possible, the cold wind rippling loose collars and pants legs slightly, each motion contributing to a slight blur in the final image. The photographer stares intently at a silver pocket-watch with gold trim that ticks off the seconds, and then abruptly snaps the lens closed.

Later, after the plate has been wrapped securely in several layers of brown paper to be taken back for developing, the photographer gets out a pencil and readies to label it.

"What ya gonna call it?" asks the old man, who has hung around the whole time and then some, even after the whole thing was over and he had to return the revolver. "Hunting party after they captured the monster, that's what I reckon."

"Best to keep it simple," says the photographer, who is, after all, an educated man. "Thunderbird Photograph, Arizona, April 1890," he concludes, as he pencils it in with clear block letters.

"I like the sound of that," says the old man. "Hear the name, you get the feeling like you've already seen what it's gonna look like, even if you ain't yet."

"Just you wait," says the photographer. "This is gonna be in all the magazines."