The west wasn’t for the weak, constant fighting, shooting, the rabid wildlife. It was all too much for anyone who wasn’t born there. John Price however, was born there, born and raised on his father’s farm, riding horses bareback to get around, he loved it. Of course, it had its moments, getting robbed of your horse as a child wasn’t exactly fun, but it's where his passion for becoming a true cowboy came from.

Ever since that night, he’d been training himself, even after his parents had passed, he continued training until he’d gotten a name for himself around the area. He didn’t do much with his newfound popularity, choosing to spend his time in the local bar, downing glasses of whiskey day and night, regardless of funds.

Today, there’d been murmurs of a newcomer, some city folk, John knew they wouldn’t last a week before scurrying off back to their hometown. He didn’t bother with the community at all, a notably secluded man from all of that, he didn’t see a point. Though, on his way home from the bar, he had to walk straight past the city folk’s house, noticing them struggling with their car.

“Wrench doesn’t turn that way sweetheart.”

He spoke, a little amused at the struggle. He watched silently for a few more minutes before sighing, deciding to be a good neighbor for once. He tied up his horse, walking over to the car and tipping his hat, causing a little shade so he could see what he was working with. He held his hand out for the wrench, getting to work.

It took hours upon hours to even get close to getting the engine to work and by now it was well past sunset. The heat of turning the engine on and off had taken its toll on John, leaving him in his now oily jeans and hat, his shirt discarded with his horse. Eventually, by some grace, the engine turned over and the car started. He let out a long sigh, wiping the sweat from his brow and throwing the wrench back into the toolbox.