Re: Stage Depot/Telegraph Office
Home. The dusty streets of Escondido, but more so the family farm. What was left of the family, at least. Lola sighed and looked out the window of the coach. They were getting close now, she knew where they were. Not that much changes in less than five years, after all. Not like her, she had changed drastically. From a scrawny little chica easily mistaken for a macho. A regular marimacho, she had been. Today, at least in Boston, she was a belleza, something some men was happy to tell her and some women was quick to claim made her into a bad woman. The men could get overbearing and she barely avoided punching them on the nose at times while the women who would insult her openly had, on occasion, been known to experience their first fist-fight, and subsequent loss. Being a proper lady was dreadfully boring, her tomboy years had been so much better.
A lazy grin appeared on her face as she recalled the days that she would spend running around the woods and streets, getting into fisticuffs with the local boys and having what seemed now as fun and endless adventures with her best friend Taron. The smile faded as she remembered him. They had exchanged letters for a while, her mostly complaining about the stupid school and Taron, well, about his father, mostly.
She sighed again and looked down at the oh so feminine dress she was wearing. Modest and proper, just as they liked it at the school. It was warm and itchy, almost impossible to run in and too tight around the waist. She could not wait to get back home and change into trousers and a comfortable blouse and bolero, all of which she had managed to pick up in Boston. It was insane how many stores they had there, and other things.
The gun store was the best one, though. She looked at the handbag where she kept the new Colt revolver. She had fired it a few times, when she had managed to sneak out with her only friend, but she still wanted more practise. Same with the new Winchester on top of the coach. That one was a beauty and handled like one too. The grin returned, this time in force.
The sounds from outside changed and she looked up and out the window, seeing the edge of town approaching. It was still ugly and dusty, but it was her home town. Now that Luchadora was back in town the bad guys had better watch out, she had ideas now, and education. Plus, she had picked up the skill of throwing knives. Good for those moments when silence was preferable. Not that she really could think of any such moment so far in her life, but that is what her friend back at the school insisted upon.
Her hands went up to check her hat and hair before she caught herself doing it.
"Madre de..." She stopped herself and glanced up, crossing herself. "Perdone." Starting out offending God would be bad. It annoyed her, though, that the school has made her so used to putting her hair up in what took ages and wearing stupid little hats. And dresses. And all those unmentionables. What was so unmentionable about those any way? Most people wore them, if perhaps less frilly. Ludicrous city people.
She reached up anew and plucked the hat off her head, pulled out the hair pins and shook her head to loosen the hair. Then, for good measure, she stuck her fingers into it and ruffled it up some more. Finally satisfied she crammed the hat into the handbag, planning to never wear the thing again. Why it had taken her this long to lose it she had no idea. She spotted the Colt in the bag as she jammed down the hairpins and reached down to pull it out. With a well practised move she opened the loading gate. Empty, of course. Closing it up she felt the weight in her hand and nodded.
Once more the sounds from outside changed. They were near the depot now. Father would not be there, he had written. She had not expected him to be. It would be his most trusted ranch hand that he could spare, probably with some old buckboard rather than those fancy two-seated cabs that were popular in Boston. If only he had brought her a horse, but evidently riding in a dress in a normal saddle was a big no-no, she had found out at school.
"Imbecilidad."
The coach started to slow down and she quickly put the gun back in the bag. She would rather holster it, but there was only one place she could put it without a holster and that would not be proper even for her. Plus it would be awkward to draw. She laughed at the mental image it produced in her mind and shook her head as if that could throw it out of there.
Rocking to a halt the coach stopped outside the depot and someone scurried over to open the door. That, she noted, had been a pleasant thing in the big city, all the gentlemen doing things like that, although not all of them remained gentlemen for very long. All that pretence and window dressing annoyed her, she had always preferred to be straightforward. Not necessarily brutally honest, because honesty is all that is required. Brutality merely rubbed people's faces in it and could have the opposite effect. Admittedly, a fist to the nose was pretty brutal, but at least it was not window dressing.
Preoccupied with her own thoughts she ducked to step out of the coach, forgetting one of the essential lessons taught at school.
The hem.
The homecoming turned into an uncontrolled dive and as the ground approached her she had time to think several things that would require at least one extended session in the confession booth. By the time she landed she had felt a hand from the person at the door trying to steady her, but to little avail. She barely had gotten her arms up in front of her to at least cushion the landing, but the wind was knocked out of her nevertheless. A sacred vow was given to at the earliest possible opportunity set the accursed dress aflame. Now if she only could catch her breath in the stupid contraption and pick herself up.
Then she would have to kill anyone laughing. Possibly while making them wear the dress.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:55, Sun 28 July 2013.