Out on the High Plains, about a mile south of 98th street in Lubbock, there is a mystery. On moonlight nights, across the lonesome cotton fields, the intermittent noise of a blacksmith's hammer pierces the otherwise comfortable silence of the prairie. The hammer punctuates the roar of the giant bellows as it provides oxygen to the hungry forge. The solitary smithy works endlessly, fashioning something from white-hot iron. Everyone knows that nothing ever happens in Lubbock. What on earth could possibly be going on?
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