The little bell hanging above the door gave a little jingle. Ethan looked up from the bins of oats he was restocking in back just as the stranger stepped in out of the bright sunlight. He stood for a few seconds, blinking into the gloom. Spotting Ethan, the man flashed him a toothy grin and said “Howdy.” Ethan nodded. The stranger was in his early twenties, a somewhat tall cowboy with a lean build, a handsome face, square jaw, smooth skin tanned from the range, and a soft intelligence in his blue eyes as he continued to look at Ethan.

“Howdy, stranger! What can I get for you?” Mr. Simpson emerged from the back room, reading glasses on the end of his nose and a pencil tucked behind his ear. He was fifty-five, thin and sallow. He had probably been going over the day’s receipts, accounting for every last nickel.

“Well, if it’s not too much trouble I needed to get a few supplies.” The cowboy seemed awfully polite and well mannered. He wasn’t dirty, smelly, rough, rude or rowdy. His shirt wasn’t wrinkled. His chaps and boots were clean. He was clean shaven. When he removed his hat, his hair was neatly cut, straight and blond, the kind of blond that had been bleached out by months in the sun.

“I need a quarter pound of coffee,” he said, “a quarter pound of sugar, uh, five cans of beans. Do you have pickled eggs?”

“Yep.” Mr. Simpson scribbled the order on a sheet of paper, “Anything else?”

“Some beef jerky, uh...canned peaches? Make that two cans, and a loaf of bread if you have it.”

“Sorry, no bread,” said Mr. Simpson. “We have flour and yeast and salt if you want to make your own.”

“No thanks.” He smiled again. “I also need some matches, and I’ll take one of these newspapers here.”

Ethan hefted up the sixty pound sack of oats and started for the storeroom. There were boys half his age who could haul as much or more, but he had been a bookworm for the better part of seventeen years and a general store clerk for the better part of nine months.

“Ethan, come gather up these items.” Mr. Simpson held up the list. Ethan dropped the sack in the corner and timidly crossed to the front counter. The stranger was about his height and made direct eye contact, flashing another smile. Ethan faintly smiled back, took the list from Mr. Simpson and trudged to the back of the store to gather the goods.

“Are you new to town, stranger?” Mr. Simpson asked as he scooped the coffee into a small bag atop a scale.

“I’m just passing through,” the cowboy replied. “I’m really hoping to find work as a ranch hand.”

Ethan returned to the counter with an armload. He lined up the five cans of beans in front of Mr. Simpson. He glanced at the cowboy, who again made brief eye contact, this time with a slighter smile, before turning back to Mr. Simpson.

“You know,” Mr. Simpson stroked his chin, “as it so happens, the Haywood Ranch is getting ready for the big cattle drive to Cheyenne in June.”

“Really!” The cowboy grinned at Ethan as he deposited the canned peaches and pickled eggs on the countertop. “Could you give me directions on where to find this ranch?” The man looked so directly at Ethan that he wasn’t sure if the question was meant for him or Mr. Simpson.

“Well, you go straight up the main street here, sir,” Ethan answered, pointing at the north wall of the store. “And at the end of town you will see a road. Go east on that road and you will pass six homesteads. And you will come to a big spread called the Haywood Ranch. You can’t miss it.” He ducked away and retrieved the remaining supplies, and hovered nearby while the man neatly arranged and packed the merchandise into a burlap sack. Mr. Simpson tallied the sum on the same piece of paper upon which he had made the list, and quoted the total to the cowboy, who plopped down the appropriate coinage and picked up the sack.

The cowboy winked at Ethan and tipped his hat to Mr. Simpson. “I’m much obliged sir.”

“Think nothing of it. What’s your name stranger?”

“I’m Travis Cain. Glad to have met you.” He extended his hand.

“I’m Mr. Simpson, the proprietor of this store. Good luck to you.” They shook hands and Travis gave one last glance at Ethan before the door closed and the bell jingled. Ethan watched through the window as Travis took all the merchandise out of the burlap sack and packed it all carefully into his saddlebags. He mounted a beautiful sorrel mare, clicked his tongue and trotted off toward the Haywood Ranch.

© 2007 by Mark R. Probst