Chapter Text
I really hate cattle rustlers. Never mind that daddy used to be one, or that I’m technically one myself. They’re the worst type of people and if I could I’d put a bullet through every one of their heads. Normal stealing is all fine an’ dandy, a fellers got to eat, an’ I’d never begrudge someone with a thirst for gold, but cattle rustlin’? Now that’s just plain criminal. See it ain’t so much that its stealing and robbery to people, nah, it’s the cows that get hurt.
Ya see, on average cows ain’t all smarts and brains, but they get to recognize people an’ start to like the routines they get put on. And once a cow knows its people an’ its routine, well, it right enjoys its life it does. And that’s a lovely thing for a cow, especially one that might end up as some fancy steak for somebody in the city. Ya gotta let ‘em enjoy what life they has. And cattle rustlers? Well, they comes along an’ they steal away the cows an’ bring ‘em to a different place with different people an’ a different routine an’ now that cows in distress. It just ain’t right to confuse an animal that bad.
Now me an’ my daddy we might have been what’s considered cattle rustlers by humans an’ people and all that. But we never did confuse and confound any critter to the point of distress. We had our little routine and it worked like sugar. See, we would join up with a ranch or something an’ start to work with the cows. And soon enough the cows they all knew us. So then we’d start doing little things, like on rainy days we would give ‘em little treats and bits. And every time daddy headed ‘em to the left he’d do a little whistle, an’ every time I herded ‘em to the right I’d do my own whistle. Then one rainy day bright and early, before anyone else was up and about, we’d go out and we’d give ‘em their treats and we’d herd them away before the sun even rose. And those cows, they might’ve been in a different place, but they knew us people an’ they knew the whistle routine, an’ so they never felt the slightest bit of distress. The folks we handed ‘em off to, knew the treats an’ the whistle routine as well, so when the people changed to cows knew it was okay and never did worry themselves.
The rustlers who stole my cows however, didn’t bother themselves with all of that. Nah, they just came in the night an’ stole them away, shot my horse an’ left me for dead in the wilderness. I guess they didn’t want human blood on their hands, or maybe they figured the wild critters would do a better job than they could. Either way they messed up. Because I didn’t die, an’ now? Now I’m mad.
My horse (may she rest in peace) was my last piece of my daddy I had, an’ those cows were the first I had bought fair an’ square. So naturally my only course of action is to hunt down those scoundrels and show ‘em what Dixie Arizona is made out of. (spoiler, it ain’t sugar and spice and all things nice)