237 - lone behind

ust hung in the air behind the stagecoach speeding down the path that led to Wilbur's homestead. The clouds remained in the air for what seemed like an especially long time. The horses were moving fast, Wilbur thought, unwilling even in his own mind to concede how dry a season it had been.

He watched from behind the screen door as the brown plume crept nearer and nearer, until the vehicle was about a hundred feet away. He stepped out onto his wooden porch, the floorboards creaking with each step. Wilbur placed his hat back upon his head, waiting for the wheels and beasts to finally come to a halt.

The coach door swung open, and two finely-dressed men emerged. Each carried a small black briefcase in hand. They had a warm, gracious air about them, but Wilbur had seen their kind before. They were only disarming because they saw no need for arms. They could smile gently towards him and mean it. He did not exist in their world as anything more than vermin or an insect. A curiosity at best, easily stomped upon at worst.

The man with the mustache spoke first. "Good afternoon, sir. My name is Donaldson and this is my associate, Varnsen. We've come to you today as representatives of Wellington Railways, and were wondering if we might trouble you for a few minutes of your time."

Wilbur knew these men intended to trouble him, all right. Yet, he was not inexperienced at playing this game, so he flashed a smile himself, showing no hint of his misgivings. "You're welcome to come in and relieve yourselves from the bumpy ride it looks like you fellas have had, but I'm afraid that right now our provisions are running a little low. I wouldn't have much to offer you except for plain ol' water."

The man with a freshly-shaved face, Varnsen, expanded his smile and tapped upon his briefcase. "Don't you worry about that," he said. "We've got it covered."

Wilbur pulled open the screen door again, and led the men inside. They congregated around the dining room table, which appeared to be made from the same splintering boards that had creaked under their feet out on the porch. Wilbur gestured for them to take a seat, and after they had done so, he sat down as well.

True to his word, Varnsen flipped open the clasps securing the lid on his briefcase. From within, he produced a fine bottle of whiskey along with three shot glasses. These Wellington boys came prepared.

Varnsen dutifully poured a shot for each man. Donaldson, Wilbur, and after putting the whiskey bottle down, Varnsen, raised their libations. "To good health," Donaldson said. Out of a sense of obligation, Wilbur joined them in the clinking of glasses.

City folk were always caught up in pointless acts of ceremony, he thought. None of them had a particular cause to toast for good health, but men like Donaldson and Varnsen always had to say something in situations like these.

Wilbur threw the whiskey back in one motion, feeling it burn its way down his throat. At least old man Wellington hadn't skimped on this, he thought. He could certainly afford to buy the very best.

He pounded the shot glass back down upon the table with a small blow. The afternoon sun's yellow rays were pouring in through a nearby window, and in this light he could clearly trace motes of dust that this action had launched into the air. Suspended for a moment at their apogee, they now slowly rained back down towards the table.

Donaldson lifted his briefcase to the table, opening its lid. So, Wilbur thought, they intend to get right to business.