Over their business clothes, they both wore tan trail dusters that hung down to their scuffed bootheels. One wore a stylish but battered bowler hat cocked at a rake above his right eye. The other wore a black wide-brimmed Stetson. Both stood filling out deposit receipts. They looked up at each other as the sound and feel of rumbling hooves began to swell underfoot. “Vot is dis?” questioned a Swedish shopkeeper who turned on his heel at the teller cage, cash in hand, and looked off in the direction of the deep, powerful rumbling. “Goodness gracious! It sounds like a stampede,” said a townswoman in a long black gingham dress, standing behind the shopkeeper. “My poor Albert was in one once—said it was terrible.” “Stampede indeed, Widow Jenson,” said the bank manager, a short, hefty man who unlocked the thick wooden door at the far end of the barred teller counter and hurried around toward the front door.
