Two trains in one morning was enough to cause something of a commotion in Onyx Landing. With word of the mine’s closure only beginning to tickle at the minds of those concerned, few as they were, the regularities of the town had likely started to become irritatingly apparent to who remained. With the first stop of the morning a few hours out, an eerie silence should have settled over the dusty valley. Denizens should have trickled, jobless, to whatever watering holes or structure would shield from the intense, midday heat. So, when the loud, mechanical chugging of another engine and four cars in tow began to scream from an inbound valley, more than a few dirty faces and squinted eyes took notice.<br/><br/>The engine grinded to a halt a quarter mile from the station and a large group of dark-dressed men poured from the second car, swarming the junction. Shouted directions leaped from beneath the boastful idle as a thick, putrid smoke acted as tail to the entire calamity. An auxiliary track was engaged and, slowly, the ebon beast lurched forward. Settling after a very long while with a pent-up release of steam.<br/><br/>A big man, though<i>big</i>would never truly begin to convey it, climbed from the second to last car and was quick to begin shouting directions to the idle men. Whomever he was, he stalked with the confidence of a man who’d orchestrated his fair share of arrivals. Dressed in a dark, knee-length coat and matching dungarees, his ghostly, pale flesh off-set an otherwise midnight appearance that truly had no business in the desert heat. With arms crossed over an expansive chest, he surveyed the work, the land and the station from behind mirrored lenses. Occasionally gesturing to where a crate should be unloaded. Or where stacks of lumber were to be arranged. Never giving even glance to the curious eyes that had begun to form cautiously around the scene. Only turning over shoulder when he heard small bootsteps, descending the car he’d exited.<br/><br/>“Still be a while, Miss.” He said gently, knowing he need not bother offering the girl a hand as she clapped down onto the cracked earth.<br/><br/>“Oh, I know. I simply can’t be locked away in there a moment longer though.” Moving to join him, Missy Huntington stretched as she went, seeming rather pleased with the quick work her father’s men were doing. “So,” squinting around at the sparse locale and its gawking, minimal populace, “this is it then?”<br/><br/>It was a fair assumption that the entire group of them -Missy especially- stood out like the proverbial thorn-pricked thumb in the harsh, dusty basin. Dressed in tan riding pants, tall, suede, riding boots -buckled and strapped from ankle to knee- and a calfskin, corseted vest, nothing on the girl wore a layer of grime or filth the way the entire town seemed to. Glossy, preened and reeking of privilege, the blonde tossed a thick, braided length of hair over her shoulder, adjusted her bush hat and began to work at the cuffs of her blouse to roll them above elbows.<br/><br/>“Onyx Landing.” He paused. “Your father wouldn’t – “<br/><br/>“My father isn’t<i>here</i>, Clint, my dear.” She beamed a smarmy grin at him. “Let Daddy worry about Daddy-problems. Besides, what he doesn’t know has never once hurt him, wouldn’t you agree?”<br/><br/>A snort from Clint seemed to suffice as answer. “And how was your story, Miss?”<br/><br/>She scoffed, gesturing lazily toward the train car and the novel she’d thrown from the window some miles back. Clint had seen this, chuckled, and drifted back to sleep. “Dreadful! Tell me, Clint. If another<i>me</i>showed up, another Missy that is, how would you react?”<br/><br/>He didn’t answer.<br/><br/>“Imagine! Another Missy, only one who’s infinitely more charming, intelligent and capable. Showed up at the villa one afternoon, masquerading as me, using<i>my</i>things in<i>my</i>home. Attending<i>my</i>events and," she cringed, "wearing<i>my</i>face."<br/><br/>Clint smiled plainly. “I’m not sure there is another quite like you, Miss. Even in stories.”<br/><br/>She giggled, seeming unperturbed as simply and quickly as she’d even broached the subject. "Good answer! You're worth every penny, I don't care<i>what</i>my father says." She jabbed at him with an index finger before moving away, toward town. "C'mere," snapping her fingers when something occurred to her.<br/><br/>Clint, without making a sound, leaned down to bring the mirrored lenses more in line with the girl. She peered up at herself, standing on tips of toe and tracing the pert shape of a blood-painted lip with a pointed, lacquered nail. Brushing an imaginary bit of dust from her vest, she seemed to satisfy vanity's plea.<br/><br/>"I'm off. Be a dear and fetch Taggert, would you? He does abhor those crates, the poor baby."<br/><br/>"Miss?" Clint called when she had clicked a short distance toward town proper. She turned on heels, large, blue eyes rivaling clear skies. The big man patted his coat, to the left, where she knew a revolver to be.<br/><br/>She waved a dismissive hand at him. "Oh, I'll be fine! You worry too much."