Bransford in Arcadia : $b or, The little eohippus

A weary wagon crew has finally dropped anchor at the remote Sinks of Lost River, where the night‑guards lie bundled in their tarps and the desert wind murmurs through yucca and mesquite. By a low campfire the men linger, their faces lit by the trembling glow of Rainbow’s End, while the mountains loom like dark sentinels against a moon‑silver sky. The scene is scented with cool, fresh earth, and even the crickets fall silent as the frontier’s quiet grandeur settles over the camp.

Around the fire, colorful characters swap sharp‑tongued jokes and bold what‑ifs about the shape of the nation, turning geography into a playground for imagination. Their banter—filled with references to imagined state borders, curious railroads, and the absurdities of history—reveals a group both seasoned and restless, hungry for more than routine round‑ups. As the night deepens, the conversation hints at an unexpected journey beyond the desert, promising humor, camaraderie, and the kind of adventure that only the wild West can supply.