So why would a bunch of pox-ridden, busted up wrecks be going on one last epic ride across the desert? What could compel a posse of diseased rejects on death’s front porch to strap on pistols and play the hero?
You don’t even know her last name. She was sick, sicker than you all, and she came to Sunny Slope a widow with three kids in tow. She didn’t have anything and you helped her out as best you could. You promised her you’d look after Nelly, Keeton, and Baby Dot. Keep ’em safe. You all swore to it, in front of the widow, God, each other. You watched her die at peace. Those kids are orphans now, and bad as you are, you are all they got.
And then the Death Brothers rode in to Sunny Slope and took ’em. One, two, three. You were sleeping at the time.
So go on, then! Saddle up, you swole-hearted sons of bitches. Rattle your daggs. The Death Brothers’ got a day’s lead, heading for Mexico, and you’re going to get those orphans back if it’s the last thing you do. Which it will be.