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Living conditions in the Wild West were expectedly dreadful. It was the barely-settled west, after all. If you wanted comfortable city living, with posh things like heating and running water, you’d move to the east coast where you could drown in such luxuries. In the west you made due with what you had. If it was a hot day, then you’d just have to dress down, or if it was cold you’d have to bundle up. If water was needed, you’d go to the river. Money was never in excess, either. The majority were equally well-off, which is to say equally poor.
There was a nice sense of brotherhood that one got when living in the west. The shared struggles and long days of work bonded its residents together like heat would cheese to bread. Unfortunately, in every family there is a brother who refuses to do what is expected of him, and this is most certainly true in the west.
Many bandits roamed the great open plains and baked plateaus, avoiding a hard day's work by stealing from those who endured the back-breaking labor. Some worked alone, deciding that they couldn’t trust someone else who was as shady as themself, but most worked in small groups that aided in the acquisition of goods. Strength in numbers, after all.
It was a small bandit group that Juan had first found himself useful, though not skilled. He was tasked with the simplest jobs they could find, mostly carrying and diversion, the latter because they didn’t care much if he got shot. For years he worked his hardest at these chores, but the most advancement he ever made in the band was the gift of a gun.
Within the group he had joined was Eduardo, a bulk man who was more or less in charge of the group, and the one to have dragged a young, starry-eyed Juan into a life of crime. He was loud and firey in a way Juan couldn’t help but admire. Despite his plans’ questionable success rate, he remained confident and reliable in a crisis. He was respected most by those with exceptionally low intelligence, but he acted as if he was worthy of being held in the Queen’s highest regard.
Eduardo had always been the one to deal with Juan, since no one else in the band ever wanted to. Because of the familiarity of working with him, Juan taken on countless exploits with the leader.
It was expected that one of Eduardo’s plans would eventually go farther south than any before it.
Juan had, of course, been taken along for this scheme. Eduardo had been planning to use him as cannon fodder if it proved necessary, but was never given a desirable chance to do so, thanks to a skilled sharpshooter Juan couldn’t recall seeing around before.
Prince Matthew of England, their hostage for Eduardo’s doomed idea, was freed and set to depart from the barren wasteland that the British saw the United States as in mere days, while Juan, Eduardo, and the other poor soul to be involved were locked up to rot.
There was talk of what was to happen to them in the cell. Hanging had been settled on as a likely option, though worse was possible if the Sheriff handed them off to the Queen to do away with. Death was certain either way, on account of kidnapping a prince being such a high offense. Every time the thought of what was to come crossed Juan’s mind, he felt sick.
He wouldn’t even reach the age of 21 before his life would end.
Unable to keep his mind off of the subject, Juan thought of what he could have been if his future hadn’t been snuffed out like a candle that had only just been set alight. Maybe he would have been able to get out of the frontier he had been born in, and move to the city, where people didn’t walk with a gun on their hip and paranoia in their mind.
On an evening Juan had spent pondering such pointless thoughts, someone visited the jail where he and the other bandits were being held.
It was Prince Matthew, who looked unreal juxtapositioned against the filthy, crippled building. He stood tall and confident, clean and polished unlike anyone Juan had ever seen. He radiated charm and reeked of a social standing most could only ever dream of. Even having seen him before Juan couldn’t help but be awed by the man.
It took him several moments of staring for him to ask himself why the prince would be in a jail where the three idiotic bandits who had held him hostage were now being kept. His first instinct was that it was so he could be given the chance to mock them before they were killed for their actions, or perhaps to tell the Sheriff that hanging wasn’t a brutal enough method of execution, and that he ought to find something far more painful for such lowlifes.
Evidently that wasn’t it, and the Sheriff, slow and looking confused himself, opened the cell Juan was lying in. He was grabbed roughly by the drunk, and shoved towards the prince. Juan looked back towards the dirty cell he was in, and between the two men, eyes wide, as if to ask why he was taken out. Was it already his time to die? He thought he’d at least have a little longer. Maybe the prince hated him in particular, and wished to watch his execution before he had to go.
“You’re sure you want to take this one?” The Sheriff asked, clearly having asked it before. He sounded more bewildered than concerned. Prince Matthew nodded in what Juan felt was a regal manner, though he didn’t know how a nod could be an indication of royalty.
“Absolutely, Sheriff. Thank you again for letting me have him.” Prince Matthew replied, a large grin on his face. Whatever he was going to do with him he was clearly pleased about, which did nothing to calm the anxiety that had gripped him. Maybe a government-conducted execution was too impersonal, and the prince wanted to end him himself. Maybe they had things far worse than executions awaiting him in England.
Juan was drawn out of those thoughts momentarily by the impatient wave of royalty, direction him to follow the prince out of the jail. He did so like an obedient puppy with its tail between its legs, eyes trained firmly on the ground just in front of him. He tried to calm himself with more reassuring possibilities, like the chance that the prince just wanted information on the group of bandits, or that he was only in desperate need of a indentured servant. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? He’d be fine, he reasoned as calmly as he felt he could.
“This town is filthy,” Prince Matthew muttered to himself a few meters ahead of Juan. He was looking his shoes, clearly displeased with their dust-covered condition. “I can't return to England fast enough.”
“Where are we going?” Juan inappropriately replied before he could stop himself. He had felt the need to say something, just as much as he felt the need to ask for an explanation, causing the two desires to tumble out of his mouth together. If he was kept in the dark any longer he might just die of worry. Prince Matthew stopped walking, and for a moment Juan was terrified that he had been dreadfully out of line, and that he was going to turn around and slap him.
Instead, the prince turned and smiled. It made a feeling that wasn’t nearly as much anxiety as it was something else erupt through Juan. It wasn’t a feeling he was very opposed to. “England. I can’t stand much longer in this dreadful place.”
“Me too?” he asked, quiet and timid, fearful of having been out of line again. He still had no clue what the proper etiquette of talking to a prince was, but he could take a licking if that’s what getting an answer would take.
“But of course! Someone like you doesn’t belong somewhere like this.” Prince Matthew answered. He wasted no time on elaboration, turning back away from Juan, and continuing to walk.
Juan didn’t resume walking for a time, his mind too stuck on what the prince had meant for his feet to even think about moving. The prince called over his shoulder for Juan to not waste another moment staring at nothing like a lunatic, and he jumped. Quickly he bolted to catch up with him.