20 Dollars for a Dead man
Chapter 1
The sun shines high above the small town of Rockplain, Kansas. The 4 street town is considered a "big city" by the surrounding communities, despite it's population of 800. The bank was right across the dirt road from the Sheriff's office. The Town Hall resided next to the town doctor, who was the only surgeon in the area. The general shop was on the far edge of the town, put there so incoming visitors could spend their money quickly. The school was also located in the center of town, for easy access for all the children in town. In between the Post Office and the barbershop was the skeletal beginnings of a new building. Rockplain was expanding, slowly, into a real city. A group of boys watched the new building as it was hammered on by the workers.
"Whadaya think it is, Jim?"
"I dunno, what 'bout you Greg?"
"Maybe it's one of those li-bare-es we heard about from Ms. Fletcher!"
"The hell it is, no, it's one of those saloons we heard about from Mr.Boyer."
The boys all nodded their heads as they continued to watch it's construction. A laugh from behind them grabbed their attention. The source of the laugh was a young, thin young man dressed like a bandit. He was no more than 22 years old, and had a rusted old pistol in his pocket. He got up and said
"That's Rockplain's first whore house kids. And I'm gonna be it's first customer!"
An angry mother rushed out of the post office and huddled the boys around her arms. "Shut your sinnin' mouth, Wendell! You're corrupting these poor boy's minds!" She spat out of her chubby red face. She lead the boys towards their houses."
Wendell flipped her off and shouted "Don't call me that, you fat hog!"
He tromped off to the other side of town. He had always lived in Rockplain, and always wanted to make a name for himself. He decided that it was now or never. He saw a horse with a bag of food and supplies tied to a post. He looked inside the general store to see the owner buying more. He went back to the horse, untied it, and got on. He took out his rusted old pistol and shot through the window, shattering it and breaking a jar of pickles over the owner's head. He clicked his heels into the horse and rode away, firing his gun in the air. He was going to be famous, and he was going to make a name for himself, that wasn't Wendell.