I am Sun Dance: My historical scene for Project Writeway

​The scene I used for the historical scene in the Project Writeway challenge was taken from a book I've worked on in the past called, Robbers' Rhyme. I revised it to fit the challenge. I enjoyed reading comments on the entries and was surprised that Joan Astley's didn't make it when there were good comments on that entry. Again, a matter of taste. This week's challenge is to write a 400 word scene with middle grade voice. Voting is Thursday and Friday. My entry this week is a completely new piece.

Here's last week's challenge:
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             When we heard talk of Butch Cassidy’s funeral, we rode two days to Price. Momma was determined to track down my missing brother John even if it meant a show down with Butch Cassidy himself, dead or alive. At twelve I was the man of the house with Pa working the mines at Telluride and John following after Butch Cassidy and his Wild Gang. I was not gonna be left behind.
            “Least I can keep an eye on you, Brigham,” Momma’d said when I was waiting ‘bout a mile out of town in the blossoming sagebrush, begging to come along.
            Soon as we got to Price, Momma hitched up the horse and we walked right up to those coffins sitting out for everyone to see. Momma stood there for a good five minutes looking over the body with its bush of light hair until a woman in a frilly dress was weeping so loud, Momma couldn’t stand it any longer.
            Soon as I was satisfied that the other dead outlaw wasn’t John, I watched the people shuffling past. Lots of women were sniffling and weeping. A man with a wagon full of straw drove by and then drove by again. On the third pass, when the straw twitched like a kid was hiding about to pop out, I told Momma.
            We rode out of town to a stand of stubby pine trees with a boulder big enough to hide us and the horse. Momma kept one hand on my shoulder, gripping it like I’d a mind to run away. The other hand she kept on the gun in her apron.
            “What we waitin’ for?” I asked.
            “Hush up or you’ll be cleanin’ out the barn with a fork.”
            Then I saw the wagon, the one with the straw. The man driving the wagon was talking to himself. Whistling came from the wagon, but the driver’s mouth wasn’t puckered in a whistle.
            “Hush there, Butch,” the driver said in a harsh whisper.
            “I’m dead, remember” said a muffled voice.
            “Good riddance,” said the man. “Though I’ve never known a better man or a better thief.”
            “Mighty nice of you,” the voice said. “Shame I had to die. I had so much more livin’ to do.”
            That’s when Momma jumped out from behind the boulder and pointed her gun.