“Every Hentsett is a low-down, dirty, good-for-nothing son-of-a-bitch. Exceptin’ the ladyfolk, of course, who are daughters-of-a-bastard.”

Keith Hentsett didn’t look up, and took a pull from his glass as if nothing had happened. “I reckon you’re right about that, Mr. DeWitt,” he said. “You seem to be the authority on such matters.”

DeWitt reddened, clearly frustrated that he’d failed to get the expected rise out of his adversary. “I said you came from a house of whores and half-breeds, boy,” he growled. “Your momma’s popped out sixteen bastards with sixteen johns and your pa paid double the going rate after they laughed at his gun.”

“That has a ring of truth about it,” Hentsett said. “Glad to know how it really went down after all these years. Buy you a drink, Mr. DeWitt?”

DeWitt swatted the glass out of Hentsett’s hand. “Dammit, boy, you better jump or you’ll get a bullet in your back.”

Keith sighed. “Very well, have it your own way then.” He reached up, seized the front of DeWitt’s duster, and slammed the man’s head down on the bar. The man could barely grunt before his nose was broken and he toppled to the bar floor, unconscious.

“If any of you cares, I’d move him from that position,” Keith Hentsett said. “Might drown in his own blood otherwise.”