1: A telegram brings bad news. A trip from college in Boston, back home to Texas.

[xiphias]

1: A telegram brings bad news. A trip from college in Boston, back home to Texas.

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WESTERN UNION TELEGRAPH COMPANY
To: Miss Sarah Reid
Wellesley College, Wellesley Massachusetts
From: Captain Daniel Reid
Austin, Texas
Received May 30, 1880
Message:
FATHER DYING – DAN

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The telegram required a laconic style, but, even had he written a letter, Dan would have been unlikely to say much more. After all, what more needed to be said, Sarah thought, as she quickly finished packing her belongings. It didn't take long: other than books, Sarah didn't accumulate very many possessions, and those packed quickly into trunks that she was having shipped back home.
It took her less than a day to explain the situation to the faculty, to write a few notes to the people to whom she wanted to say goodbye, and to telegraph her travel arrangements back to her brother, and before noon on the next day, she was on a train heading out of Boston, back to her home. She had completed her schooling.
When her brothers met her at the station, their grim faces told her that, as fast as the train had been, it had not been fast enough.
"You've grown, Sarah," he said, looking at her, eye-to-eye. She was surprised to find that she wasn't looking up at her older brother – they were both nearly six feet tall.
"I should hope so, Dan – it's been four years, and I was only fifteen when I left." She turned to John, her younger brother. "You've grown, too."
"I missed you, Sarah. I'm glad you're home," her brother replied.
When Sarah had left for Boston four years ago, it was the first time the three of them had ever been separated for long. They were close in age, in temperament, and in friendship – Dan was only a year older than her, and John a year younger. Their mother had died when they were young, and, with their father always in the fields, they had been constant companions.
They looked at each other, and suddenly Dan picked her up in a bear hug and swung her around. "I'm with Johnny. I'm glad you're home. It's just the three of us, now."
And then, simultaneously, all three of them broke down in tears.
They rode in the wagon back to the farmhouse they'd grown up in. Their desire to be silent and solemn in mourning for their father traded off with their desire to gossip and catch up with each other's lives. At the moment, gossip was in the lead.
"I suppose there's not much good hunting in Boston, is there?" Dan asked.
"Believe it or not," Sarah replied, "I was a member of a hunt club at Wellesley. Foxhunts. It kept me in practice riding, but no shooting, of course. And they made me ride sidesaddle, if you can imagine that!"
John laughed. "I'd pay good money to see that!"
"I'll make a deal with you: if you get a sidesaddle, I'll let you watch me ride it, if you go ahead and ride it after."
"What else did you do at college, besides forget how to ride correctly?" John asked.
"Oh, I kept busy. I acted in quite a few Shakespeare plays – with my height, I learned how to pitch my voice lower, and played many of the male lead roles. Of course academics took up most of my time, but I still found my way to making some friendships, too. How has your new career treated you?"
"Being in Danny's unit is everything I hoped it would be," John replied.
Dan nodded. "I must say, Johnny is blossoming, Sarah. I'm proud to have him as a Texas Ranger with me, just as proud as I am to have him as a brother."
"And the rest of your unit? They don't complain about nepotism with you recruiting your own brother as your aide-de-camp?" Sarah asked.
Johnny laughed. "In the Rangers, at least in Captain Daniel Reid's unit, being an aide-de-camp isn't much of an extra honor. It simply means that I get to do all the menial tasks. Nobody seems to resent that I get to build up the fire, do most of the mending, and tidy up the barracks when we're not in the field." He thought a minute. "Including me. I mean, I don't resent it, either. I'm the youngest and most junior, and everybody pitches in, anyway. Even though those are all technically my jobs, everybody else usually takes a piece to help out. All for one and one for all, you know."
"How many of you are there?"
"Besides Johnny and me?" Dan asked. "Four others. There are six of us, total. I'm sure you'll meet them soon; they'll all be here for the funeral."
At that, the three of them quieted down again. Mention of the funeral pushed their desire for silence to the forefront.
Sarah broke the silence. "How did Father die? He was perhaps forty-five, and I'd not heard of an illness."
After a few moments, Dan answered. "That's one of the things we need to talk about. Look – Dad wrote a letter for you; he had a few things he wanted to say, including explaining that. He'd hoped to hold out long enough to tell you in person, but, well, 'the best-laid schemes o' mice an' men/Gang aft agley.' It seems, though, that the best way to answer your question is to, well, let Dad answer it. Here."
Sarah took the letter, and opened it. Her father's graceful Spencerian penmanship looked out at her. Even when he was dying, he had written carefully and beautifully.

My dearest daughter Sarah;
I had wanted to be able to see you before I died, to say goodbye, but this letter will have to do. I'm told that I won't last long enough to give you my love in person. Still, I die confident that I've lived a good life, knowing that I have three children of whom I may be proud.
Sooner or later – somewhere – somehow, we must settle with the world and make payment for what we've taken. That time quickly approaches for me, and when I'm asked what I gave back to the world, I will point to you and your brothers. Any one of you would pay my debt in full, with interest. But to have three children such as you? My cup runneth over.
I am so proud of you, Sarah. I have done my best to give you and your brothers a decent education, but only you went on to go to college. And I know that you will use your education and skills for the betterment of humanity. All people are created equal, and all people have within themselves the power to make this a better world. Your brothers have chosen to do this through joining the Texas Rangers, and I'm proud of them for that. But I have a feeling that you are going to use your gifts to do even greater things.
You know I love you, but it nonetheless should be said: I love you, my dearest daughter Sarah. And I am proud of the woman you have become. I wish I could be around to watch how you change the world, but know that, from where-ever I am, I will be watching with joy. I will miss you, of course; nonetheless, it's been fifteen years since I've been with your mother, and I must admit that I'm looking forward to joining her in whatever comes next.
All things change but truth, and truth alone lives forever. Know this truth: I love you and am proud of you.

Sarah noticed that the letter was getting too blurry to read. She stopped, and realized that it wasn't the letter that was blurry, but her eyes. She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, and took a few deep, shuddering breaths. Her brothers remained silent. And Sarah continued reading.

In the larger sense, those are the important things. Yet I must tell you things which are important in the temporal world, too. If I leave out any details, your brothers can fill them in, but it's for me to start the story.
Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 5:
"If thou didst ever thy dear father love
Revenge his most foul and unnatural murder!"
Of course, I am not the ghost of old Hamlet, and I do not wish revenge. Revenge destroys the one who carries it out more thoroughly than it does the one to whom the revenge is directed. But I do want justice. Not only for me, but for the people whose rights I was defending when I was shot.

As Sarah read, her father's words took her back a bit over a week, when a visitor came asking a favor . . .