I was born in the Wild, Wild West.
My dad owned a small ranch.
My dad and mom managed the ranch
with the help of a couple of cowboys.
Our neighbor was a big rancher,
with a ranch much bigger than ours.
He was a greedy man and wanted to
expand his ranch by buying off the small ranches.
First, he would offer money,
then use force, and he had a
set of gunslingers to back his play.
He bought most of the ranches around us.
My dad was good with a gun,
even though he was not real fast.
When I was five years old,
he bought me a pair of toy guns and a gun belt.
He taught me how to wear the guns,
and draw and shoot with them.
I practiced day after day and
became real fast with my toy guns.
When I turned fifteen, my dad bought me a
proper gun belt and a pair of Colt Peacemakers.
I practiced day after day and
became real fast and accurate with my Peacemakers.
One day, when I was away in town,
our neighbor came to our ranch
and said he wanted to buy it.
But my dad said it was not for sale.
He sent two of his hired gunmen
to our ranch to force my dad to sell it.
When my dad refused, they gunned down
my dad and mom in cold blood.
When I returned from town, I found
the dead bodies of my parents.
I was devastated and angry.
I wanted revenge, and I wanted blood.
I went to the town’s saloon
and challenged the killers.
They were fast, but I was faster.
I killed them both in a fair fight.
Then the wealthy rancher
put the corrupt sheriff after me.
But I left town in a hurry before
the sheriff could catch me and lynch me.
I rode and rode and finally reached
a county far away from my home.
There I saved the life of a rancher,
and he took me in after hearing my story.
I had learned the tasks of a cowhand and
was good at them—my dad had trained me well.
I worked for my new boss and
soon became his Segundo.
I never stopped practicing the draw and the shot.
I became fast, and people said that
I belonged among the real fast guns, one of the magic-handed
group who could draw and shoot in less than half a second.
The white people called me Sudden,
and the Indians called me Magic Hands.
I became famous, and that became a curse.
People wanted to fight me and forced me to draw.
Although I didn’t seek trouble, trouble found me.
I had to kill many men to stay alive.
But I was secure in the ranch and
only went out when it was necessary.
One day, I met a girl and fell in love.
She loved me too, and after a brief
courtship we got married.
Soon we had a son and a daughter.
I taught my son how to handle
a gun as my dad taught me.
I taught him all the tricks and tips I had learned.
I always told him to stay out of trouble, which he did.
My son became fast and accurate—
even faster than me. He was deadly.
When I turned fifty, I decided to retire.
I spent most of my time in the ranch.
One day, I had to go to town, and
there I met a gunman who claimed to be
the son of a gunslinger I had killed.
He made me draw, for he wanted revenge.
I was fast, but age had dulled my reflexes.
I couldn’t match my opponent’s speed, and
he downed me with a shot to my gut,
wanting me to suffer a slow and painful death.
While I lay in the ground slowly dying,
my son came running to me.
He was sad and angry and wanted revenge.
He wouldn’t listen to my pleas not to go down that path.
After burying me, he went looking for my killer.
It was a path I had shielded him from.
But he cannot return to normal life
once people found how fast he really was.
That is a gunman’s curse.
I lived it, and now my son is going the same way.
There is no escape once you start, and
it will not stop until you die.
