The Price of a Normal Life, Part I

Bud Rowder grew up in wind-swept Kansas, lived a farming life until the age of nine, when Arapaho raiders charged on in, poor Bud was the only one to survive. He’d hidden behind a large, flat rock, in the rushing stream near his old home, the Indians didn’t see his down there, they took their scalps, and onward roamed. Bud was scared the Indians might return, so he frantically struck a trail east, in the autumn chill of those great plains it is a miracle the boy didn’t freeze. Before he could even find a town, he crossed paths with a drifting soul, a large-framed man of twenty-odd years, who look down on Bud from his colt. He said,”You look lost, and it’s not that wise, to be wandering out here in the grass. But jump on up here and you’an’I will find a place to make a camp fast.” Bud learned the man was Big Blue Hopkins, fresh off from doing a spell of hard time, Bud had never seen a bandit before, but could think of no other way to survive. Later that night Hopkins said, by the fire, “I’’ve got a mind now to let you stay. A small fry like you can creep around good, do it right and you’ll get your cut of pay!” Bud didn’t know what else he could manage, he had no family anywhere to turn to, he nodded his head, and Blue Hopkins laughed: ”Won’t the boys be shocked to meet you!” The ‘boys,’ it seemed, were six rowdy men, drawn from every walk of criminal life, they took Bud as their mascot, their small pet, made him ride along and witness the strife. For seven long years Bud rode with the crew, robbing any fool they thought they could take. Bud became hardened, the boy had too, any weakness and he’d surely break. He saw more murder than any person should, though he never shot a man himself, he was good on a horse, and with a lock pick, learned talents that had served the gang well. As the years passed and young Bud grew up, spending his loot on cheap whiskey and whores, the voices of his parents, so long ago dead, started ringing through his mind, more and more. They had been good folks, the hardworking sort, spoken often of the wages of sin, but Bud had struggled so long to survive that just getting by seemed like everything. Then one summer morn the gang hit a train, but by now word of their evil had spread, Pinkertons onboard opened up on them, all but Bud and Hopkins were shot dead. In the chaos of that big job gone wrong, Bud and Hopkins were forced to separate, each galloping just to try and get clear, abandoning each other to their fates.