Prequel 1 - Capturing the Moment
By Christmas of 1895, Spencer had been living in the Hood River Oregon vicinity for a little over a month. By day, he worked in the general store run by Mr. Saunders, a man of roughly 45 years who made a decent living selling necessities for the town.
New folks were always wandering in and out of town, so Spencer’s arrival didn’t draw any undue attention. In fact, he had not really had to drum up much of a fictional backstory for anyone yet. Customers were usually in a hurry, and Mr. Saunders spent his words frugally.
In the weeks since his inexplicable travel through time, Spencer had reflected on his situation constantly. He missed a few of his colleagues at work, football games on Sunday, and the internet, but not as much as he would have guessed. In fact, he was relatively certain that the thing that would frustrate him the most about being unceremoniously thrust into the late 1800s was the social situation. The fact that he currently existed in a time period when women could not legally vote, for example, was a startling realization.
Adding to his intriguing conundrum was the fact that he still had no idea why he had arrived in THIS particular time and place. He racked his brain every day for some sort of reason for Oregon or 1895, and came up with nothing. Was he supposed to stop something from happening? Or instigate something himself?
As these endless questions played on a loop in his brain, one thing seemed certain to Spencer. His knowledge of history (or maybe the future was more appropriate?) was his greatest asset. He had a golden opportunity to turn his modest teacher salary and corresponding retirement in the 21st century into substantial wealth in the early 20th.
Spencer had done some rough math by lantern light one evening in the cabin he was squatting in outside of town. If he could save aggressively, he figured there was a good chance he could invest in Sears and Roebuck in time to cash in on its meteoric rise in the early 20th century. He did not have a photographic memory, and worried he might be slightly off in his recollection of the timing of its success. Best to play it safe if he got an opportunity, and invest earlier rather than later. If that didn’t work out, there were a couple of other options. Kodak was another company that Spencer recalled was about to take off.
On a slow chilly winter day in the shop, Spencer found himself day-dreaming, watching the swirls of dust drift through the shafts of light piercing the dim interior of the store. It was a long, narrow building, with a copper tile ceiling and creaky wooden stairs at one end that led up to a small landing. On one side of the landing was the door to the store’s office, and on the other the entrance to the small upstairs apartment that Mr. Saunders occupied with his ginger cat, Cleveland.
There was a large window on the landing, which along with the storefront windows, provided most of the daylight for the store, as it was flanked on either side by other merchants. To the north was a hardware store which loosely competed with Mr. Saunders, and to the south was a photo studio which Spencer kept meaning to drop into. He had always been fascinated by the craft, even if he himself was a mediocre photographer. For lovers of history, small town photo studios were a blessing, capturing images of Americana that would have otherwise been undocumented.
Spencer was a member of his local postcard club, which met every month for members to nerd out, trade and sell their favorite postcards, and talk about local history. He had a modest collection himself, mostly of the real photo variety, depicting long-dead Americans at work, hanging out at home, and enjoying their leisure time. The combination of folk photography and history was irresistible to him.
The bell on the door jingled, drawing Spencer back from his daydream. A man in denim pants and a corduroy shirt shuffled in, grabbed a copy of the local paper and scooped a handful of penny candy from a glass jar on top of the glass display case next to the register. The man plunked the candy down on the counter with one rough, calloused hand. Dirt was wedged under the man’s fingernails so far that Spencer doubted it would come out without a fierce scrub with a wire brush.
“Lemme get some tobaccah too please sir,” said the man with the unsophisticated formality of small town America. Spencer reached under the counter and added a pouch of plug tobacco to the pile of candy.
“Better make it two, please” said the man, spitting a jet of coarse brown liquid into the spittoon on the ground next to the counter. Spencer grimaced and counted out the man’s change. Not only did he find chewing tobacco putrid, he was also responsible for emptying the spittoon every night at closing time. Mr. Saunders had told him he could do it every other day, but the smell of day-old tobacco slurry was enough to turn Spencer’s stomach, and he preferred to do it daily.
As the man left, Spencer returned to day-dreaming, gazing at the shelves lining the store and towering from floor to ceiling. Cereals, dry beans and oatmeal, rough soaps and household cleaners, and a hundred other products lined the shelves, some with brightly colored logos, but most in simple burlap sacks and relatively plain boxes. Advertising and marketing was catching on fast at the turn of the century, but it was still in its infancy.
Outside, folks walked by in dresses with high necks and long skirts, horse-drawn wagons clopped along, splashing mud and muck as they went. The street was strewn with horse dung, dirty puddles and rotting vegetables thrown out by a grocer across the street. Spencer learned fast that sanitation was not a high priority in the late 1800s. He was glad to be vaccinated against most of the diseases most likely to kill him in 1895. He recalled showing his 10th graders pictures of life in American cities in the early 1900s, including a vivid depiction of the squalid streets of New York, where a random dead horse was simply left in the street after its unfortunate demise.
A group of three farmers came in speaking rapidly in Japanese. Spencer couldn’t understand anything they said, the extent of his Japanese knowledge coming from film and television. He knew “arigato” and “sayonara”. Fortunately, these were the main greetings he needed to work as a store clerk. The men grabbed the items they needed and quickly left. Mr. Saunders came in as they were leaving, carrying a pile of mail from the post office.
“Quiet day?” he asked after a couple minutes of listlessly opening and reading letters.
“Yep.” Spencer said, watching Saunders use a silver letter opener with a bald eagle clutching a shield engraved in the end.
“You can head home then, see you tomorrow.” A man of few words indeed.
Spencer grabbed his lunch pail, notebook and pencil, and headed out into the late afternoon sun. He turned and started walking briskly down the wooden planked sidewalk, but then stopped, turning to consider the slightly faded sign over his head. It featured a carved rising sun, painted yellow over a pail blue background. Gold leaf letters underneath read “Sunlight Studio - L. Bradley Photographer”.
A light bell tinkled as Spencer opened the door into the studio. It was a brightly lit space, with a skylight cut into the ceiling. There was a large ornate carpet on the ground and several chairs set up close to the wall. A few different cloth backdrops were draped over one of the chairs, a large ornate oak monstrosity that Spencer supposed was there to invoke a regal quality to the surroundings.
Various portraits were set on stands on small tables around the room. Residents of Hood River past and present gazed at him from the photographs. Most wore their Sunday best, but there was an ambitious cowboy here and there. The clunk of a door closing diverted Spencer’s attention to the back of the room, where a small reedy man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a bowler hat emerged. Mr. Bradley had a wind-swept look about him, but addressed Spencer in a surprisingly booming tone.
“Can I interest you in a photograph sir? I’m about to close up for the day, but I would be happy to fit you in for some portraits. Perhaps the drawing room backdrop?”
Spencer pointed to a plain gray sheet hanging up against the wall. “I’m in a bit of a hurry, can we do one with the sheet that’s already up?”
“Suit yourself!” Bradley busied himself preparing the camera, which was in the corner of the room on a large tripod. Spencer positioned himself on a plain wooden stool. This was clearly not normal practice for Bradley, who likely expected to have to set a mood for his patrons, but he ignored Spencer’s lack of formality. The photographer hesitated before taking the photograph.
“Should we say a dozen prints? Two dollars for the lot.”
“Sounds swell,” said Spencer grinning to himself. He held that smile as the flash lit up the room.
“Well darn it, I think you were smiling. I should have warned you I was going to take the shot,” said Bradley apologetically. “I can take another.”
“No need. I can pick them up Friday?” asked Spencer, almost laughing as he remembered that smiling in photos was not yet commonplace.
“Yes indeed, see you then!” boomed Bradley.
Spencer gathered his things and walked out into the darkening street, breathing in a large lungful of cold, fresh winter air. It was a good day to be alive, he thought. In any year. For the first time he found himself wondering if he even wanted to find a way back to the present.
Prequel 2 - Home Sweet Home
Spencer stepped back to admire his handiwork, sweat dripping down his forehead despite the chill to the early Spring air. Daffodils were bravely pushing through the soil in the gardens he passed every day on his walk to work at the general store, and ferns were unfurling in the shady fringes of the woods.
His big accomplishment was a very simple one room house, with a sloping metal roof. It was basically a glorified lean-to, but it had a door and windows on three sides, which he was proud of. Spencer not being much of an architect, he modeled the dwelling after the shelters he slept in while hiking along the Long Trail and Appalachian Trail as a kid at summer camp in the woods of Vermont. All in all, it was a pretty nice place, and allowed him to move out of the cabin he had been illegally squatting in. Spencer left a short thank-you/apology note in the cabin, along with a handful of silver dollars on the table when he left, mostly to assuage his own guilt.
He sat on the front stairs, what he supposed amounted to a front porch on his modest home, and tried to figure out what was missing. He snapped his fingers, grabbed a shovel, and headed to the grove of trees next to the house. He dug up a few ferns, hauled them back to the house, planted them, and then added some rocks around the edge to form a crude flower bed. As he stood and dusted off his dirty hands on his pants, a little voice carried over the lawn in front of his new house.
“Hi Spencer! Can I help with your house?”
Spencer turned to see little Timmy Clemens galloping across the yard on a wooden hobby horse, clutching the horse in one hand and waving a little American flag with the other. He couldn’t help but smile at this kid, who was a care-free five or six years old.
“You know, I COULD use some help, I was just attaching this very important board to the stairs.” Spencer started the nails, got them most of the way in, and handed the hammer to Timmy who grinned and started aggressively swinging it. Spencer frowned a bit and grinned apologetically at the woman who was approaching at a brisk pace.
“All right, sir, I think that’s enough help for today,” said Clara Clemens, gently but firmly grabbing the hammer from Timmy and handing it to Spencer. “I think there are some hungry chickens in the coop, why don’t you take your horse and head that way.”
“Charrrrrge!” roared Timmy, as he galloped off in the direction of the chicken coop.
“This is looking mighty fine,” said Clara admiringly as she looked appraisingly at Spencer’s completed home.
“All thanks to you,” Spencer said theatrically, and tipped his head to Clara, who laughed. As a teacher, Spencer had a reputation for being entertaining and a bit odd, frequently speaking in accents or singing random lines of his lectures. It was off-putting to some of the less creative students, but most found it at least mildly endearing.
Over the last few months, Spencer had grown close to Clara and her husband Mark, and of course with their son and headstrong daughter Justine. Anxious to save as much money as possible for his upcoming strategic investment plans, Spencer answered a wanted ad he saw in the local paper:
Wanted: Part-time farm hand to help with basic chores, Inquire with Mark Clemens at the first farm on the left on Granby Road - east side of town.
They agreed on a reduced pay rate in exchange for the supplies and land necessary for Spencer to build his own home. Mark agreed to pay a fair price for the house whenever Spencer eventually moved on, which seemed more than generous. In the early mornings before he started work at the general store, Spencer would emerge from his under-construction house and trudge across the lawn to the barn, soaking his boots in dew, and yawning as the Clemens’ rooster incessantly reminded everyone that the sun was coming up.
As he milked and fed the cows, Spencer’s mind wandered to his future and dwelled on his past. He wondered if anyone in his former life and time missed him. He mused about his wife, who had vanished into thin air 5 years earlier, not even bothering to leave him a note about why, or where she was going. It had wounded Spencer deeply, and came seemingly out of nowhere. They had been talking about trying to have kids, planning their futures together, and then she was gone. Spencer supposed he had done the exact same disappearing act, though unintentionally.
“You there?” Spencer was jolted out of his day dream by Clara, who waved her hand in front of his face as if attempting to bring him out of hypnosis.
“So sorry Clara,” Spencer muttered, “I don’t know where my mind goes sometimes.”
“You’re just like Mark, I think he would forget to dress himself some days if I didn’t remind him.” Clara grinned and presented a small package to Spencer, who unwrapped it to find a crocheted house with the words “Home Sweet Home” above it.
“Just a little something to get you started on decorating your mansion,” she said, winking.
“Thank you Clara, really.” Spencer found himself tearing up a bit, and Clara quickly looked away to save his dignity a bit.
“Where are Mark and Justine?” Spencer asked.
“In town, gathering some supplies and going to the grocer and the butcher shop. You might see them on your way.”
Spencer fished his pocket watch out and was startled to see it was indeed time for him to head to work. He bid farewell to Clara, splashed some water on his face and washed his hands. Mr. Saunders was not particular about his attire at the store, but Spencer still wanted to maintain at least some standards.
Later that afternoon, Spencer walked along the road into town, kicking rocks with a dusty boot and whistling to himself. An early spring butterfly floated soundlessly past him and, not for the first time, he was struck by the quiet. With no highways or busy roads, the only sound on rural roads was the occasional clopping of horse hooves as a buggy rode past. This time period reminded him of his commute through rural Indiana during the year he student taught at a community high school. Nearly every day he would have to weave around Amish folks on the rural highway in his beat up Nissan Sentra, waving to the bearded occupants of the horse-drawn buggies, who sometimes waved back, but more often responded with grave looks that seemed to say “I would rather our worlds not collide today.”
He made his way through town, past storefronts sporting advertisements for the circus that was coming to town, or the local high school baseball team’s upcoming game. So much had changed, and yet just as much had not in the last 100 years in America. He peered into the local barber shop on his way by and waved to the elderly barber Mr. Jenkins, who returned his greeting from the dim interior of the shop, its faded wooden barber pole standing silent vigil outside.
“Looks like you need to pay me a visit soon, son!” he called, and gestured to Spencer’s hair, which was indeed getting a bit shaggy.
As he stepped into the general store, he saw that Saunders was standing behind the counter locked in a fierce battle of checkers with a girl of about ten. The girl had very curly hair tied back with a piece of blue ribbon, and was standing on a wooden stool so that she could see the board. The look of consternation on Saunder’s face told Spencer that he was likely on the brink of defeat, and he looked none too pleased.
With one final move of her pieces, Justine Clemens raised her arms in triumph and jumped down off the stool, spinning and cheering like she had just won the lottery. Mr. Saunders looked on grumpily, but begrudgingly handed her a few pieces of penny candy as a reward for her victory.
Spencer spotted Mark Clemens in the back of the store shopping. He was a tall, wiry man, with a pair of thick mutton chops. The late 1800s would be a hipster’s paradise in regards to facial hair, Spencer had decided after his first week in this time period.
Justine ran over and high-fived Spencer. He hoped the ripple effects of introducing this particular greeting almost a century early wouldn’t cause a global calamity, but that ship had probably sailed at this point anyway. Justine had a white sash across her chest that had “Votes for Women” carefully scrawled in a child’s handwriting. As Hood River’s youngest suffragette, she prided herself on wearing it everywhere. It earned her more than a few reproachful looks, especially from the town’s older citizens, but Justine was very proficient at ignoring people she didn’t want to talk to. After all, she was ten.
“Justine, leave Mr. Reed be,” called Mark from the back of the store, struggling with an armload of goods. “No harm done,” said Spencer, winking at Justine and hustling to the back of the store to help Mark wrangle his items.
Spencer smiled to himself as he watched Justine skip out the door, her Votes for Women sash proudly on display. He was so grateful for the warmth and generosity of the Clemens family, and would have been horrified in that moment if he knew the horror that awaited them. WIthin a week, only one member of the family would be left alive.
Prequel 3 - Then It All Went Wrong
A hot wind swirled in the air, sending ash swirling like summer snow. Spencer watched the distant forest fire with a mix of awe and apprehension. It had already consumed many acres of timber and grassland outside of town, but the community banded together to dig trenches and cut a fire line and so no one seemed overly worried about the fire. Spencer, who had watched even 21st century firefighting methods struggle to contain wildfires, was much more nervous.
The Clemens’ farm seemed outside of harm’s way for now, but he looked at his freshly-built house, only a few months old, and couldn’t help but be concerned. The midday sun was an eerie orange dot through the smoky haze, and breathing was slightly more difficult than normal. Despite the fact that it was the middle of the day the smoke filtered light had a twilight feel to it, and the shadows were muted. Spencer grabbed his lunch pail and turned to start his walk into town. Mark Clemens had offered to teach him how to ride a horse so that he could travel around faster, but he declined. He found he really enjoyed walking, something he really hadn’t done much of in his suburban condominium complex back in his “old” life.
Spencer’s mind wandered as he walked, and he arrived in town in no time, admiring the small main street lined with now familiar shops. He knew he would outgrow it soon, and his ambitions led him away from Hood River, but he appreciated the community for what it was. The community was abuzz with discussions about the fire, with speculation about where it would go next. It was south of town and moving steadily eastwards, so most speculated the threat would abate soon.
As he restocked shelves and cleaned up the store, Spencer found himself wondering if there even was much of a firefighting strategy in the late 1800s. He remembered reading about rival private firefighting companies that would arrive at a fire in New York or Baltimore and have street brawls to see who would get the reward of putting out the fire. Meanwhile, the building at risk would often burn to the ground. Sometimes, private firefighting companies would only fight fires in buildings insured by the insurance companies that paid them. He wasn’t sure if towns like Hood River even had a public fire department at this point, or if it was all volunteer, but he certainly could not picture the citizens of this town brawling in the streets over who got to fight a raging inferno.
Spencer remembered seeing forest fires in California and Oregon, burning wildly as planes and helicopters valiantly fought back. What chance, then, did the folks of the late 1880s have against an out of control fire? The Civilian Conservation Corps of the 1930s contained many of the forest fires that sprang up during the devastating drought of that time period, but they also had a tremendous amount of manpower and resources not available to Hood River in the late 19th century.
As he was tidying up a window display in the front of the store there was a commotion outside. The bell attached to the door jingled as he poked his head out into the street to see what was going on. A teenaged boy on horseback was breathlessly talking to a small gathered crowd in the middle of the street and two women in the group had a hand over their mouths.
The boy took off at a gallop down the street and Spencer gave a questioning shrug to one of the men turning away from the crowd. “The fire is shifting and heading towards the edge of town, “ the man said, face drawn and pale. “My grandchildren are helping my son work the farm on the east side…” The man trailed off and wandered aimlessly away down the street. Spencer felt a gust of warm wind behind him, cracking the loose legs of his pants like two flapping flags. He felt his stomach drop as he realized that the boy on horseback was right, the wind had shifted and was blowing almost directly north, straight towards the Clemens’ farm.
He dashed into the store, wildly looking for Mr. Saunders to tell him where he was headed. Unable to locate the store owner, he hastily scrawled a note in pencil on a scrap of paper and slammed the door on his way out, the bell jingling violently in protest. Spencer was no great runner, but months of walking to the store and back had him in decent shape. Adrenaline and fear drove all thoughts of muscle pain out of his mind, and nervous bile was sour in his throat as he ran.
He headed east down the road back towards the farm, and as he got to the outskirts of town, was horrified to see the orange glow of fire to the south, and ahead of him. In front of him.
Spencer quickened his pace, passing two fully engulfed farmhouses on his right as he ran. The Curtis family shopped at the store regularly, and he saw them huddled on their front lawn with their three children, staring in helpless awe as their house and barn burned out of control. The Curtis’ two horses ran wild-eyed through one of the distant fields, crops blackened by the fire that had recently washed over the land. A small haphazard pile of possessions littered the yard. An old rocking chair, a few dolls, and a pile of chinaware were all that had been salvaged before the blaze consumed the rest.
Even before he rounded the curve in the road, Spencer could see plumes of smoke billowing high into the sky from where he knew the Clemens’ farm was. A small stand of trees smoldered to his left, and he pushed aside ruined pine branches as he turned towards home, painting his face with ash.
As he burst from the trees and into the open farmland, he could see a small crowd gathered along a fenceline, watching the Clemens’ farmhouse burn. Spencer felt a mixture of panic and rage. Why were they just standing there? He approached at a run and one of the men along the fence grabbed him around the waist, pleading with him to stop. Spencer did not know or care who it was, and the pleas fell on his deaf ears, roaring with rushing blood dosed in adrenaline.
As he vaulted the fence, he was stunned to note that his small house, lovingly built by hand, and only 100 yards from the Clemens, was untouched by the fire. (Later, to his utter horror, he would learn that the Clemens family had carried buckets of water to douse his home with water before running to try to save their own belongings as the flames bore down.)
Spencer stumbled and fell, feeling something in his ankle snap as he tumbled to the ground, his face pressed to the earth, the fragrance of the soil mixed with the rich smell of wood smoke. As he tried to pull himself up he was dimly aware of many voices now, calling out for him to stop in panicked voices. The heat from the burning house hit him in sheets, like gusts of wind flattening a field of grass. As he got closer, Spencer realized he didn’t even know if the Clemens family was inside the house, didn’t know where in the house they would be, and yet he burst through the door anyway, into a disorienting swirl of smoke and fire.
He pulled a bandana from his pocket and quickly tied it around his face and mouth, then got down low to the ground and tried to orient himself. Above him, timbers creaked and he heard pops as the dry wood planks of the floor split under the intense heat.
Spencer smelled something acrid and realized it was his own hair and eyebrows singing in the heat. Smoke billowed and rolled like waves across the ceiling, and somewhere upstairs he heard a window shatter. He crawled across the floor, now painfully aware of the searing sharp crunching of his injured ankle.
With no sign of anyone on the ground floor, Spencer turned to the stairs, and what he saw when he looked up into the smoky gloom of the stairway made his stomach drop. The Clemens family was huddled together at the top of the stairs, flames surrounding them and half the staircase completely engulfed. Through sheets of fire he heard Mark yell, “We’re sending the children down first Spencer!”
Spencer did not think any amount of pep talk was sufficient for this moment, and so he merely opened his arms in a gesture that he hoped would convey that he was here to help. He knew there was precious little time before the whole house came down. There was daylight showing through the burned out roof behind and above the Clemens family.
Timmy started to go down the stairs, his parents yelling at him to “Go! Go!” He made it a few steps down and then, face contorted with fear and anguish, turned back towards the landing. Justine started down the stairs, making her way down like a crab, legs out in front and hands behind her on the stair above. She looked up at Spencer, and while he saw fear in her face, there was a fierce look in her eyes. Half of the hair on the left side of her head was curled and singed by the fire, and she had a wild and almost savage determination as she reached the middle of the staircase.
Suddenly, three stairs collapsed in a shower of sparks. For a brief moment, Spencer was convinced that Justine would simply vanish into the flaming void, but instead, incredibly, she rose to her feet and dove headfirst. She landed on the last few stairs and tumbled to a stop right in front of Spencer, who gathered her up in his arms and hobbled towards the front door, ankle screaming in protest.
The hot air and smoke burned his lungs, especially now that he was no longer plastered to the floor where the precious remaining oxygen lingered. Spots popped in his vision and the rushing in his ears returned, blocking out all sound. Time seemed to stand still as he made his way towards the open door, now hanging awkwardly on one hinge, the door frame bent under the strain of the collapsing structure.
He felt the heat at his back as he staggered the last few steps to the outline of the front door, dimly lit through the roiling smoke. There was a large crash behind him, and something behind Spencer hit him violently across the shoulders, propelling him forward. He clutched Justine as he fell, not sure if the scream that penetrated the roaring in his ears was hers, or his own. And then everything went black.
Prequel 4 - A Fresh Start
Spencer startled awake, drenched in a cold sweat from yet another nightmare about the fire. Early morning light softly illuminated the room, and silhouetted the burned out remains of the Clemens house. It was overgrown with weeds, and a few small saplings fought for light in what used to be the downstairs of the house.
Though he had maintained the rest of the property as a thriving farm, Spencer just hadn’t had the heart to tear down the burned out husk; it reminded him too much of the family he had grown to love, and then lost. Though he visited Justine from time to time at her grandparents’ house a few hours away, seeing her brought back painful memories. She had escaped the fire relatively unscathed, with a few burns still visible on her arms. Spencer broke his collarbone and arm when a large beam hit him as he escaped the burning house, but those had healed over time.
Though it had been years since the fire, it was still all too real in the dreams he frequently encountered during fitful sleep. Spencer gazed at the small pile of letters on his bedside table and leafed through them as he struggled to decide what to do next with his historically marooned life.
He sifted through the correspondence, and then picked up a few to reread.
Mr. Reed,
Thank you kindly for your recent investment in our company, and also for your suggestions regarding our catalog. We have enjoyed remarkable success recently, and have entertained multiple requests for additional investment from interested parties. Our lawyers will be in touch forthwith to discuss the potential acquisition of your shares. I think you will find they have considerably grown in value.
We hope you will consider our offer.
Kind regards,
Donovan Pierce, Attorney for Messrs. Sears and Roebuck
Mr. Reed,
Thank you for your inquiry about potential land for sale. We have identified a parcel on the Oregon coast with access to the ocean and a river, plentiful timber and ore resources, and multiple sites suitable for dwellings.
The parcel appears ideal for your stated purposes, and is available for a very reasonable price due to some recent disputes in the area with the remaining indigenous population. This should be resolved shortly by local law enforcement, and we trust that the savages will be removed from the land shortly.
Should you wish to come and examine the land for yourself, please respond as soon as is reasonable, as there are other interested parties.
Yours,
Harvey Louderman
Western Land Enterprises
Spencer tossed the pile of letters in the open suitcase lying open on the bed. Hefted snapped it shut, then hefted the bulky case and carried it outside, dumping it unceremoniously into the backseat of the car sitting in the drive. Grasshoppers droned in the hot summer air, and a thick cloud out dust swirled as he drove the car towards town, giving one last look back at the house he had called home for years.
In town, he stopped in front of the post office, letting the engine run for a few minutes as he decided what to do next. He was never great at goodbyes, and today seemed no exception. Spencer grabbed the small pile of notes he had written and carried them inside.
He handed them to the person working the counter, who looked down at the pile questioningly. None of the mail had stamps, and only one had an address written on the front.
Spencer flipped a silver half dollar across the counter and the mail clerk caught it deftly in midair with a startled expression.
“You make sure that those get where they need to go, and you can keep the 49 cents change for the stamp, how’s that?”
The clerk grinned. “I reckon I can make that happen, thanks sir!”
Spencer turned without a word, got in his still running car, and drove off into the Western sun. He didn’t look back; and his mind was on the coast. He had some land to buy.
