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I was hiding out in a tumbledown shack in the Appalachian Mountains, after the botched train job in Amarillo. Joe had spilled the beans to the Marshals, so I thought it wise to lay low for a while, let the heat cool off a bit. But one morning I look out my window and who should I see but old Flanaghan, riding hard up the trail. I give him a dram of whisky, let him catch his breath, and he tells me there's gold to be dug in California. He's heard it from Trey Wallace, who's already on his way westward. It's a race. Everybody's in a rush to get their hands on the biggest nugget they can find, before it's too late. No time to lose, then. I saddle my pony, put on my spurs (which, by the way, I've earned the hard way) and gallop off into a sunset full of promise.
I ride long and hard, on an empty stomach and a dry canteen. I can hear the coyotes howling in the chilly night, from inside my little tent in the prairie. But I'll be damned if I let them get me! Come closer if you dare, you dirty varmint! It's your fangs against my Colt. No? You'd rather give my six-shot and me a wide berth? Wise choice, if I may say so.
So, I can't say how many times I've seen the sun come up and go down, and not a soul in sight, when I finally come across a wagon with a broken wheel. Sat next to it there's the most beautiful gal I've ever laid eyes on. She used to travel around with her man, a card cheat I know by name, cause once he got in a wrangle with Pat Kilkenny over a poker game. One day the little weasel ran into someone a little more determined than Pat to hold on to his dollars, who upped the ante with some hot lead. Since then, the girl had been on her own, making ends meet and trying to stay out of trouble. But then this sheriff sees a new face in town and remembers she used to be with a scumbag who owes money to half of Oklahoma. The rest is pretty easy to figure out: she steals a wagon and makes a lucky escape, with the sheriff, the deputy and a little posse of creditors at her heels. I don't need to ask her why she doesn't just resume her getaway on horseback: there must be something worth A LOT in that wagon. I fix the wheel and we decide to keep company for a while, heading West.
An outlaw's life is rough and lonely, and I don't mind associating with a lady, especially a peach like this one. But it's always like that: you think you can handle yourself 'cause after all you've done the law still can't get a bead on you, and a rope round your neck, and the next thing you know you're head over heels over a damsel in distress. So when we get to the river on a starry night, with the moon reflecting on the surface of the calm water, I ask her to come with me. Let's coast this river, I say, it'll take us West and away from the past. We can live off the fish it's teeming with, and find some shade in the vegetation by its banks. She says she's not sure, and walks off to go and pick a few daisies. Damn, we didn't realize this was Comanche territory! They come down on us from every direction, yowling, firing arrows. She runs to the wagon, I make a beeline for my gun. The savages are raining arrows on me, so I hide behind a rock. We're split. Damn, the Injuns are circling the wagon! I can't shoot them, I could hit the girl. We're stuck here. All we can do is sit tight and pray for the cavalry to come. They always come, don't they?
