The Gazette: The diner is closed, dark like the theater and other storefronts that once defined a center of commerce for prospectors passing through this southern Colorado countryside. The town of 500 or so sleeps. The main drag is silent.

Silent, until the machine comes alive.

The click-clack of a typewriter. The clunk of cast-iron arms pumping up and down. The clang of brass molds. The rattle of chains and whir of wheels and rollers, the spinning of belts and springing of springs.

The town sleeps, but it seems the man in the window never does.

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