You cast a sidelong glance at the boy sitting across from you in the back of your father's wagon. He's wearing dirty clothes, with a yellow poncho perched loosely on his shoulders, a hat you've seen the settlers wear before, and a six shooter on his hip.

He's obviously nervous, fidgeting with his hands.

Your father had found him on the way, and assumed he was just like them, escaping from the west, fleeing to the east.