From Codename Norsewest Draft 1
It was sunrise, and I was headed west. At that moment the sky was purple and the sand was cool. The early morning in that desert was beautiful deception. As the day began, before the heat could reminded me of where I was, the desolace seemed inviting and, at times, almost beautiful.
By midday temperatures had risen exponentially. The going was slow and arduous, and the monotony of the baking terrain was taking its toll. I was alone, carrying only what I could manage. There were no trains out that far yet, though I had no money to ride them. My feet were my only progress. Progress smelled like steaming sweat on that road west; I could almost tell the time of day by the sunburns on my shoulders and arms. I did my best to use it. The heat was the spurs at my side, gouging and compelling me forward into a place that very clearly did not want me.
I raised my head with considerable effort and felt the leathery skin on my neck crack as I squinted toward the horizon. In the distance the horizon danced and teased, the edges of it fluxing and warping ceaselessly. I remember feeling so small before the sight of it and how insignificant my footsteps felt before a wasteland that never narrows. There was very little wind that morning and the whole earth seemed still. I felt that if I were to stop I would begin to wonder if it was real and if I was getting anywhere at all. I wiped the sweat from my brow and the thought from my mind quickly; thoughts like that will kill you before dehydration does. Morale was all that mattered in those days, and it was all that kept you alive. Morale and water, and the west was taxing on both.
I came from fortune and education from farther north in Rhode Island, but my restlessness bade me spit out the silver spoon I was born with in my mouth. I instead favored the adventurous times I had been born too late to know. In my time, the north was relatively settled, with townships and cities bustling with the beginnings of industry. The land reeked of contentment, as if it had forgotten its own founding. I longed to be of the generation who first sailed to our great shores and explored the land. The stories that came out of those days seemed almost mythological, and the country we knew then was the shadow they had left behind. Back then there was nothing that seemed impossible if one had the spirit of adventure in them. It is this spirit of restlessness that alienated me from those who would rather wallow in constancy than continue the spirit that provided for their comfort. The frontier was the new hope for adventure, a chance to be a part of a new mythology. This, above all else, is why I headed west.
I was one days trek from Midland at the time, the town I had intended to call my home. Three months journey and several hardships down, and now only one day to go. I knew very little of what lay ahead for me. I knew nothing of the area, the town, its commerce, or its people. I knew not what I was going to do when i got there or how i was going to make my living, but what I did know was that it needed settlers, brave land-tamers of the western frontier. It was a man’s frontier, an uncharted waste of a nation fast outgrowing the reach of its own laws. I knew that these scorched days of mine were leading to an adventure that danced arm-in-arm with the horizon I'd chased my entire life, the same adventure I’d seen on the horizon since I had left my home those many months ago. That dream was now one day from my reach and, at the time, I thought that would be enough.
I am writing this now almost one year later from the time of my arrival so that the events that have taken place since will not be forgotten. I will do my best to recount truthfully and in detail the happenings in Midland, Texas from July 1881 to June 1882. It is a tale of hardship and of triumph, of fear and of redemption,famine and fortune, of law and lawlessness. It is a tale of men who tried to etch their names in the inconstant sands of a land determined to forget them. It is a tale of lawmen, of our gods of Midland, who fought for us against the outlaw Giants at inconceivable odds. It is the fight against hopelessness and valor, and of the men who fought for it.
This is the written record of the death of our gods and the birth of the town they saved.
(Yes, I used Midland only until I find a better name. Plus, Midland/Midgard. GET IT?)
By midday temperatures had risen exponentially. The going was slow and arduous, and the monotony of the baking terrain was taking its toll. I was alone, carrying only what I could manage. There were no trains out that far yet, though I had no money to ride them. My feet were my only progress. Progress smelled like steaming sweat on that road west; I could almost tell the time of day by the sunburns on my shoulders and arms. I did my best to use it. The heat was the spurs at my side, gouging and compelling me forward into a place that very clearly did not want me.
I raised my head with considerable effort and felt the leathery skin on my neck crack as I squinted toward the horizon. In the distance the horizon danced and teased, the edges of it fluxing and warping ceaselessly. I remember feeling so small before the sight of it and how insignificant my footsteps felt before a wasteland that never narrows. There was very little wind that morning and the whole earth seemed still. I felt that if I were to stop I would begin to wonder if it was real and if I was getting anywhere at all. I wiped the sweat from my brow and the thought from my mind quickly; thoughts like that will kill you before dehydration does. Morale was all that mattered in those days, and it was all that kept you alive. Morale and water, and the west was taxing on both.
I came from fortune and education from farther north in Rhode Island, but my restlessness bade me spit out the silver spoon I was born with in my mouth. I instead favored the adventurous times I had been born too late to know. In my time, the north was relatively settled, with townships and cities bustling with the beginnings of industry. The land reeked of contentment, as if it had forgotten its own founding. I longed to be of the generation who first sailed to our great shores and explored the land. The stories that came out of those days seemed almost mythological, and the country we knew then was the shadow they had left behind. Back then there was nothing that seemed impossible if one had the spirit of adventure in them. It is this spirit of restlessness that alienated me from those who would rather wallow in constancy than continue the spirit that provided for their comfort. The frontier was the new hope for adventure, a chance to be a part of a new mythology. This, above all else, is why I headed west.
I was one days trek from Midland at the time, the town I had intended to call my home. Three months journey and several hardships down, and now only one day to go. I knew very little of what lay ahead for me. I knew nothing of the area, the town, its commerce, or its people. I knew not what I was going to do when i got there or how i was going to make my living, but what I did know was that it needed settlers, brave land-tamers of the western frontier. It was a man’s frontier, an uncharted waste of a nation fast outgrowing the reach of its own laws. I knew that these scorched days of mine were leading to an adventure that danced arm-in-arm with the horizon I'd chased my entire life, the same adventure I’d seen on the horizon since I had left my home those many months ago. That dream was now one day from my reach and, at the time, I thought that would be enough.
I am writing this now almost one year later from the time of my arrival so that the events that have taken place since will not be forgotten. I will do my best to recount truthfully and in detail the happenings in Midland, Texas from July 1881 to June 1882. It is a tale of hardship and of triumph, of fear and of redemption,famine and fortune, of law and lawlessness. It is a tale of men who tried to etch their names in the inconstant sands of a land determined to forget them. It is a tale of lawmen, of our gods of Midland, who fought for us against the outlaw Giants at inconceivable odds. It is the fight against hopelessness and valor, and of the men who fought for it.
This is the written record of the death of our gods and the birth of the town they saved.
(Yes, I used Midland only until I find a better name. Plus, Midland/Midgard. GET IT?)