One day on the Bluff a newcomer rolled in on a freight wagon. It was inbound from Carson City, the closest railhead where a momentary spurt of normal life could be had, without the characteristic litany of violence, lynching, and knife-fights that broke out because of a sideways glance, and hostile climate that defined the town. The town was Bodie, a bustling town right on top of the Comstock Lode, small but not in the least bit quant. Despite its size (it was built on a Bluff from where you could see Mono Lake and Lee Vining) the town was lively, packed with saloons, a classic mining berg that high society in Europe would pay money to see. It was surrounded by high-sloped hills, dry sagebrush, Joshua trees, and the headstones peaking out from the infertile soil that was more sand than it was dirt. Tumbleweeds blew through the streets as people went on with their daily business. The man was a chemist, schooled in the cyanide process. His name was Mulhern, man not long in town who was passing through for a spell, due to work at the Red Cloud which was the mining colony in the center of town. Mulhern sat with his hand tucked under his chin, bouncing along the washboard roads. He had dust in his eyes and he tried to blink it out to no avail. Every part of him was crusty. His hair was windblown and clogged with sand. He cursed his luck at being sent to some one-horse town, a pit stop along the way to better places. He had a signed letter from the mayor of Carson City clarifying that he indeed who he said he was along with a few papers of identification. They pulled up next to Gordon McGaratee, his King of the Plains tipped on his hair, slicked with shoe polish. He horked out a ball of tobacco and looked at the chemist blankly, chewing a new ball of tobacco from a tin in his breast pocket. He might've been a cow chewing his cud. Mulhern looked the man over with a smirk of disdain kinked into his lip.
"You's the new un?" He asked. His English was rough-cut, barely intelligible. Brown spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke and his lips parted to reveal a rotted, snaggletooth grin.
"Yes, I'm the chemist. I'm here to inspect the Assay Office and perhaps stay in this lovely town to help out at the Red Cloud." The chemist said with a brief hesitation. He was schooled in Paris and his English was sophisticated, his accent had a tinge of European in it, elevating his speech even more.
"Lovely? This here is un hell of a place but it ain't come close to how's you describing it. I was here in the winter of '78, snow drifts ye high." Gordon put his hand him to his shoulder. "Then it warmed up and rained, sopped us all in. Wet icy clay caused plenny of accidents on the Bluff. It all goes to say, Mr. Big City, if the weather ain't killed ya, men will."
"Thanks for the warning."  The chemist got down from his carriage and extended his hand to Gordon. Fred thought it would be better to assert himself more, establish a common ground with these half-bred hill-folk. “Fred Mulhern. Pleasure to meet you."
"Gordon McGaratee." Gordon spat in his hand a mixture of phlegm and tobacco. He extended it to Mulhern who looked at it aghast. "Better leave your highfalutin manners at this here gate, Misser, as long as you treat us as the same, you'll be ace-high in this town. Wouldn't wanna rustle the natives, would ya, Freddy?"
Mulhern extended his hand to Gordon. Fred winced in anticipation, waiting to feel the squelch of the spit. He shuddered, goose bumps popping up on his sallow flesh.
"Uh-uh, Freddy, you gotta spit in your hand too. Tha's country-style, Freddy." Gordon said, he looked at the chemist with a certain smirk, pleased with seeing him squirm in his boots. "Don't want to soil your best bib and tucker, Fred-o?"
Mulhern reluctantly spat in his hand and shook Gordon's hand. He knew this sort of culture clash would occur and he had prepared for it on some level. "Atta-boyo, Fred. You gonna gets a sugar cube and a pat on the head for that Fred-o. Now that's out of the way, let’s go on with the tour."
Gordon walked down the street, beckoning Mulhern along. "Thas the Ranger's place, name of Cain, don't cross his path."