“Don’t mind him,” the bartender said. “The Withdry family’s always been a boil on our collective asses.”

“I beg your parton?” William Withdry said, stumbling from his chair. “Say that again, you toadsucking waterserver!”

“What, the part about your grandfather being hung for stealing horses?” said the bartender. “From the only ranch in the territory? As I recall, they found him from a monogrammed kerchief he left at the scene–why, yes, that’s right, the Withdrys came in all foppish from back east looking to make a fortune and quickly slithered back into the dust.”

“You’re trying my patience, old man,” William said, swaying a bit on his feet.

“Or maybe you meant your pappy, the great filibuster, who got himself down to Mexico to earn himself a fortune to replace the one his pappy shat on,” the bartender roared. “Spent two years in a Mexican jail after his men deserted him, and your mammy had to sell everything you owned to make bail!”

A pistol was in William’s hand. “Them’s fightin’ words,” he growled.

A shotgun was in the bartender’s. “Oh, you hear that from a real poke, Billy? Where’d you be without this place, anyhow? Blind from your momma’s moonshine?”