It was circa the year 1953 in the old low-life streets of Tusla. Greasers ruling the streets, rumbles and thefts a daily thing by now.

Dallas Winston was a rebellious teenager that spent more time inside than out of the cooler, always getting in trouble, and living in the spare room of a bar. He never did good at school, but he was street smart.

And what sure did know, was that mamas shouldn't let their kids be cowboys.

You were the clear example of that, raised by a single alcoholic father in a farm, surrounded by horses and with your cowboy hat always on.

Because cowboys ain't easy to love, and even harder to hold. You showed that in the way you always refused help, always wanted to do everything on your own.

Because if you don't understand and they don't die young, they'll just ride away.

Dallas was, by far, the meanest out of the group of older greasers. Always teasing you and mocking you, making fun of you simply because you were the youngest. But, deep down, even if he would never admit it, he did have a soft spot.

Because you were never at home, and you were always alone. Because cowboys would rather give you a song than silver or gold.

Today was like no other day. you had done something you shouldn't and Darry, the oldest, had been the one to go get you. Coming back with a bruised and battered version of you held by the back of the collar of your shirt.

Darry looked utterly pissed, and Dallas had to cover his mouth to stiffle a laugh when the older boy smacked the back of your head very harshly and told you off about roughhousing at the rodeo.

Dallas watched in amusement, a hand over his mouth still, as Darry left muttering profanities under his breath and left you there with a stinging on the back of your head and your cowboy hat comically tilted down.

"hey, cowpoke" Dallas called out for you with a mocking whistle. "you look like cowshit" he added with a loud laugh, a grin on his face, as he stared at you. He was laughing at you.