Hard years on the prairie. The Dust Bowl had driven Hayden and his buddies from the farm onto the streets of Tulsa, a carpetbag strewn across his shoulder and holding onto his guitar with the left hand. They jumped the freight car just before it reached town, no use in getting caught hitching a ride, walked the rest of the way into town. Mowbrey sprained his ankle jumping off and limped into town; Tully hurt his shoulder, so didn't have to limp. We he'd been a young man, Hayden had ridden the horses, so he knew how to take a fall and didn't hurt himself. Besides which, he was a small guy and rolled easily with the punches. The other ones, they were six feet tall, two hundred pounds each. Mowbrey and Tully lagged ten, maybe fifteen feet behind Hayden.
They passed deserted stores, deserted houses, broken windows, doors off their hinges. They passed broken down Model Ts with missing hoods, torn canvas roofs. Abandoned dogs roamed the streets, cats raced from one hiding place to another. And inside the deserted buildings, Hayden could just smell the rats. But the city held the first promise of hope that Hayden and his buddies had felt in years. Hayden thought, as they reached the center of town and the presence of life began to pick up, they might be able to make it here.
"The Chicken Coop" stood opposite Main Street from them. Hayden could hear the music inside. A country twang of sadness gripped him. Why, he could join the group! He could play with them. Mowbrey and Tully, they didn't play any musical instruments and couldn't sing. But he, Hayden, he could play and sing with the best of them. Had done it all his life, even before horse jockeying. So he crossed the street, but he didn't look and a pickup truck flattened him dead.
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