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“What are you looking for, partner?” Your eyes snap from the assortment of herbs to the Indian as he speaks. His words are slow and measured, his pronouncements obviously learned second-hand. “I have your people’s medicine too. Some, at least.” He gestures to an inward built shelf with four glass bottles. The action seems about to tip the entire stall on its side. “I know me some trailcraft, yarrow an’ the like. I’ll take me some ether if ye got it. Other’n that, what do ye recommend for a long, lonely course?” The Indian doesn’t move his body, just his arm, and without looking transfers one of the glass bottles from the shelf to the counter between you. “Yarrow is good. Lavender for headaches, Foxglove for Dropsy, Mint for stomach pain. Got them all, partner. .50 cents a bushel. Where are you off to anyway?”
You pocket the ether and give him a long look, “Goin’ up mountain, on some business.” The Indian leans forward, the stall seeming to lean with him. As he does so you see a series of tattoos on his arms, tusks or fang, about half a dozen in varying length. “You going up to see the People eh? Could give you something to help. Ain’t cheap though.” He reaches down at his feet and brings up what looks like a series of tiny elephant tusks, beaded into a sheaf of about 30, maybe just under three feet in length. “$30, think about it. Could save your life.” Thirty dollars is a sum of money. Granted you know little about the tribes up here other than a few basics, but this is still a wild place, and its isolation causes a severe lift in the price of even basic goods. If the Indian wants thirty it is probably worth twenty, if that. “We’ll see pardner.” You turn to leave with your things when you spot three metal glints hanging in the back of the stall.
“Those back there medicinal as well pardner?” You flick your head to the three jaw traps of varying sizes. “Sure.” He answers, “Cures leg pain, anything below the shin.” He laughs at his own joke, jiggling the wooden frames around him. You give a quick smirk despite yourself and walk on to the saloon across from the Marshals office. A man sits in a chair, spurs on the banister in front of him. He tips his hat as a slight regard. You assume this is the Marshal. You have no trouble with the law but you have no love for it either. You give equivalent respect to the man with a slight incline, then about face and enter the saloon.
