Prodigal Daughter

It was the first time I had been on a train. Father had always avoided them when possible, preferring a carriage ride or horseback over what he referred to as “that goddamned steel eyesore.” Part of me wonders whether he hated them because of that, the supposed affront they were to aesthetic standards, or perhaps he was, this being the infinitely simpler answer, scared of them. There’s a level of trust needed in life, and it may be that my father had used that trust all up by the time the first train rolled on through Atlanta. I opened my eyes, looking out through the window glass, taking up the uninspired and grim landscapes that the locomotive thundered on by. Dry desert, little vegetation, and famished fauna ruled the land, at least what little land was able to be ruled, or even inhabited. Visually, it told the story that I already knew of: that Texas and the rest of the West was a place where most went to die, and that the few who survived were given indelible scars for their efforts, a reminder of their new home and fate. The rickety noises and aches that the carriage made weren’t exactly reassuring, but at least they provided a level of ambiance to this trip across regions. The bag I placed next to me had begun to slump over, a result of the train’s jostling and jolting around, something I still hadn’t gotten used to 8 hours later. The journey from Macon to New Orleans hadn’t been as tiring as I had expected it to be, but this last leg felt as though it were a deathknell, and that the moment I stepped on to that platform, I would collapse of sheer exhaustion. Whether that exhaustion be of a physical or mental nature, I couldn’t say. Sitting up, I reached over towards my bag, rummaging around for a moment, and pulled out a document, the document that had propelled me on towards this quest. The letter from one Mr. Edward Parry of Little Springs, Texas, addressed to my father, regarding a potential proposal for a business collaboration. Considering the Umbra family’s recent financial losses, and that my father had continued his slide into becoming a house-bound invalid, this was the chance. The lifeline to save our legacy. We were standing at the roulette wheel of life, and chose to bet it all on red. Although, considering the past 60 years we had bet it all on black, my family was less than thrilled to learn that Abraham Lincoln had decided that slaves were worth more than three-fifths previously guaranteed, and that, in fact, they were entitled to the life, liberty, and happiness that John Locke had spoken of. But I didn’t have the time to concern myself with that, not at this moment.

Deciding that I had grown tired of the bland environment that presented itself before me, I closed my eyes, resting them only for a moment. Naturally, of course, the train decided at that particular time to rattle and create a raucous, forcing my eyes to open, and prevent any rest from deliverance. However, turning my eyes out the window revealed a different sight that what had been presented before me mere minutes ago; replacing the starved vegetation were signs of civilization: dirt roads and wood structures began passing by, perhaps a sign of my imminent arrival towards my destination. Surely enough, as the train began to slow, I saw horses, other people even, as the train grinded to a halt, and finally, sure enough, making its stop at the station. Standing up, fueled by a combination of excitement, anticipation, and anxiety, I gathered both my purse and my luggage, and made my way toward the locomotive’s exit, becoming more than a little frustrated at the lackadaisical pace at which other departees moved. However, eventually, by God’s grace, my feet were able to land upon the wooden planks of the station floor, and finally, I was able to take in my gaze upon the town that I, my father, and the rest of the Umbra dynasty placed our hopes in: Little Springs. I had a passing familiarity with the so-called “Wild West” from literature and academic works, but there was a strangeness that this place had, an exotic locale in some ways, yet reminiscent of the townships I had visited throughout the South. It wasn’t a fully-fleshed out town either, hell it hadn’t even been incorporated yet, but it certainly wasn’t some purgatory in the middle of nowhere either. I had begun to walk as I continued to become lost within my thoughts. It was as though this place was a waystation, somewhere in the middle of the development and progression that Manifest Destiny had promised, and this observation seemed even truer as I exited through the station doors, and continued to remark upon the peculiar nature that I had stumbled upon. Dirt roads, sure, but a doctor’s office that was situated upon those very same roads. A pitiful little cabin upon which the word “Sheriff” was written was situated a couple yards away from the other structures, almost implying the perceived importance that such a local authority would possess. In addition, a saloon, which doubled as the inn, a grocery, and a bank rounded out the other noteworthy buildings that I could see, continuing to step down the wooden stairs in front of the train station. Setting down my luggage, I pondered what decision to make next for myself. Looking up towards the sky, lit by the midday sun, I figured that the best course of action would be to head for the saloon, get myself a room with what little money I had with me, and begin inquiring about Mr. Parry and his whereabouts.