of Shoshone Lake to the first of fifteen tourist coaches, pulls the black silk neckerchief up the bridge of his nose, plants himself in the road and says, Please step out and come this way. Black is so hot. Drop your valuables on the blanket. Maybe the neckerchief isnt necessary. Kindly take a standing seat and witness the convention. A rather elegant man, one woman confessed. Steady and calm, with a lovely sense of humor and a smile that made his watery blue eyes sparkle. The kind of man who might make a good president. Watery blue eyes? Ed wonders, his reflection in the mirror. City councilman or senator but president? Polite, the woman added. An elderly lady dropped her purse, which exploded scattering bills, coins, a comb, and playing card s over the dusty earth. The horses stamped their feet and switched their tails to drive away the flies. Someone coughed. Trafton bent over to gather up the fallen valuables, the last cardjack of hearts. There madam, you keep these, he said. You look as if you need them more than I do.
Gallant, the first woman went on. She laughed
and the air freshened, invisible birds began to sing. As each coin or watch or earring hit the earth, dust rose around the lodgepole and limber pines, covered the water. Seeking clarity, coaches start ten minutes apartOld Faithful to West Thumb, the horseshoe bend where they stop for the view. But they cant see whats to come, coach after coach, the blanket disappearing under the mound of treasure, Mr. Trafton lightly touching each horse to send it on its way. A young woman asked for a photoby the blanket. Other travelers pulled out their Brownies and lined up beside the beguiling highwayman, the click of shutters louder than the cicadas chirring in the dry grass, pine resin rising with the heat, men fanning their faces with hats or the news of the dayAUSTRIA-HUNGARY DECLARES WAR ON SERBIA. Could be a jokehe was so friendly and the water, lapping at the shore, made that chuckling sound that says nothing will change. It cant be real silk, Trafton thinks, tugging at his face, wouldnt be so scratchy, people milling around, the sun rising, the hills falling away, the geysers and mudpots, and Shoshone Lake coated in dust, still blue below the point.