As a detective from London, Basil of Baker Street was used to seedy and deplorable places. From sewer pubs to walk-ups and work holes, the dashing gentle mouse had seen it all. But even this was a stretch for him. Riding in the back of a speeding stage coach as dirt kicked up all around him made for a very long and uncomfortable journey.
It was taking all of his concentration to keep from making a fool of himself to the other mice on board with him. It was unfortunate that his friend and partner, Doctor David Q. Dawson could not do the same. He coughed as loudly and as obnoxiously as he could while doing his best to apologize each time. Only his apologies would be drowned by another coughing fit.
For a mouse who spent time serving the Crown in Afghanistan, the portly mouse sure didn't like the desert. Perhaps that was why he didn't like the desert, Basil mused.
But their destination was a much more dangerous place than Afghanistan could ever be: America. Specifically the American West. He grew up reading about the wild west and the outlaws that inhabit it. All the stories fascinated him to no end, like many boys growing up in his alley. But as a Mouse of the Law, he had to put away that childish wonder of this new world in favor of a cynical outlook of the mice who lived in it.
The cowmice he revered in his youth became criminals and outlaws that needed to be brought to justice. He became the very thing all outlaws dreaded. All he needed was a shiny gold star. Maybe a ten gallon hat and a bunny to ride named Spirit. That would complete the loom. But first, he'd have to learn how to ride. But, once again, Basil was getting off track. He wasn't here for the Wild West experience.
He pulled out a carefully folded letter from his coat pocket and read it once more.
Dear Mr. Basil of Baker Street,
I hope this letter reaches you with all haste. I'm afraid something has happened to me during my exhibition to America. Someone has robbed my coach of all valuables! I have only a single American Dollar to my name! Help me catch this thief and bring them to justice!
I'm sure you want as many details as possible, yet I can only afford to send so much through the wire, so please get here as soon as you can.
I'm staying at the Hotel in Mammoth owned by the lovely Isabelle Stone. Truly a marvelous girl.
Your Friend,
Prof. Harland
The detective studied the note again and again, trying to figure out what he could from the brief and vague message.
"What do you suppose that means?" Basil nearly loses the letter as he bounces in fright. Dawson had somehow managed to sneak up on him and look over his shoulder at the letter. Basil still did not know how a mouse as large as he could possibly sneak up on him.
The good doctor didn't seem to notice Basil's frazzled state as he clarified. "A single dollar to his name?"
Basil was about to berate his friend for the near heart attack he caused when his question clicked. Of course!
That was what was bothering him! Why would a coach robber leave a dollar behind? Surely a thief would want every coin they could get their hands on. Already this case was proving to be most peculiar. Basil may not understand all that goes on in the world across the Atlantic, but a thief was a thief no matter where they steal from.
His musings were interrupted by the carriage's sudden stop. A mouse dressed in typical cowboy clothing appears from the top. This mouse looked far too clean to have been out here long. Basil read all about the American mice that had settled out west. How rugged and filthy they are. Perhaps those stories were as exaggerated as his father claimed they were.
"All off for Mammoth!" Basil and Dawson quickly exited the carriage and grabbed their stuff. Two bags and a single trunk.
The carriage pulled away, revealing the town of Mammoth. Humans and mice walked about the wooden buildings and dirt streets. They were certainly different from the men and mice of London. Where London had fashion for presentation of wealth and status, the clothing worn here served a more functional purpose.
The colors of their clothes were mute, blending into the landscape. Topped with leather to protect their bodies in case they fell from their mounts. The men wore the classic stetson hats that built the image of the West. Along with pistols holstered in their belts.
Unfortunately, this meant that Basil and Dawson would stick out like sore thumbs. Him in his favored deerstalker hat and Inverness coat, and Dawson in his usual Ulster coat and bowler hat was going to draw attention. Perhaps a change in wardrobe would be in order. He could only hope there was a tailor in this town.
"Good heavens!" Dawson exclaimed. "So this is what an American town looks-" Basil's hands grabbed the doctor by his coat and pulled him to the side. Right as he moved, a large horse hoof stomped on the ground where he once stood. Basil watched the horse gallop down the road and disappear into the crowd. Then he dusted off his friend's clothes.
"Perhaps, Doctor, it is in our best interest to mind our surroundings. Wouldn't you agree?" Basil suggested in his sarcastic tone. The one that Dawson had grown accustomed to the past few months of his employment. He looked at the detective's annoyed expression.
Dawson nodded bashfully. "Q-Quite right, sir." Basil couldn't stay annoyed at the good doctor no matter how hard he would try. His face were just too… innocent for him to stay mad. But that doesn't stop him from giving him a stern look.
"Now, let's find this hotel." Basil grabbed his bag while Dawson struggled to lift his trunk along with his own bag. With their things in hand and their heads and ears on a swivel, the London pair made their way into the town of Mammoth.