Four days out from Thompson Station with his cart of wares. Two since the skuttlekovy killed two of his chanka and depleted his stores of the water. Thirst had taken hold. Delirious, he drove his remaining two chanka forward. He had to get to the next stop on his route. The sun beat down on the dry, cracked ground. The horizon swirled before him. The chanka slowly pulled the cart along the desert road.
He crested a small hill, peppered with scrub brush. A small village stood in the distance, nestled between two buttes. Frantically, he urged his chanka forward. The cart shook as it hurried towards the town.
He approached the main gates, which were open. Above, a not too imaginative sign read “Welcome to Two Buttes”. people leapt and ran out of the way of the racing cart as it careened towards the town center. The townsfolk, mostly miners and ranchers, watched as the stranger threw himself off of his cart and raced towards the well in front of the town office.
He quickly pulled the bucket from the bottom of the well, and threw the water onto his face, drinking as much as he could. Collapsing at the well, he breathed heavily. The townspeople gathered around.
The man slowly lifted himself, brushed off the sand on his jacket and walked back to his cart. He pulled a lever at the back, causing the side to fall forward revealing dozens of small bottles.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Jamison Best. My tonics and tinctures can cure almost any ailment. Come one, come all. If you have an ailment that cannot be allayed, a condition that cannot be cured, give one of my potions a try. I guarantee you will be feeling better within the day. Other tonics may improve, other potions may cure, but none are as effective as mine. If you are looking to improve your health, why should you not go with the Best.”