“None of that!” Sam bellowed. “You are here to talk, remember? If you want to wipe each other out, fine and dandy, but you will not do it in my saloon.”
“A truce, remember?” Abe Haslett said.
“A truce, brothers,” Stern stressed for the benefit of his siblings.
Several on both sides echoed, “A truce.”
Sam refilled his glass. He had built his saloon on Crooked Creek instead of in Dodge because he did not like towns and cities with their hustle and bustle. He liked a slow pace of life—the slower the better. He was not all that fond of people, either, Southerners in particular. He had lost an uncle and several cousins in the War between the States, and he had never forgiven the South for fighting a war over something as stupid as states’ rights and slavery, but that was neither here nor there. “Get this talk over with. You are commencing to aggravate me.”
“I don’t like your tone,” Stern Larn said.
“Me neither,” Abe Haslett said.
Sam picked up his revolver. “I don’t give a good damn what you do and do not like. This is my place and I can say and do as I please.”
“Yankees,” Abe spat.
“They are the same everywhere we go,” Stern mentioned.
“Get your talk over with,” Sam repeated. He wished other customers were there. The hicks were less apt to act up if there were other customers.
“Always lookin’ down their noses at us,” Jefferson Haslett said.
“I don’t look down my nose at anyone,” Sam lied. “Haven’t I treated you decent, the times you have been in here?” He was always agreeable, even when he did not want to be. It was good business.
“That you have,” Stern Larn allowed.
“You never insulted the South,” Abe Haslett said.
“There you have it,” Crooked Creek Sam said. “So we’ll have no more talk of Yankees and noses and such. You can’t blame me for wanting you to control your tempers while you are under my roof.”
“I reckon not,” Cordial Larn said. Where the rest of the Larn brothers had hair as black as a raven’s wings, Cordial’s was the same tawny hue as the pelt of a mountain lion. His eyes were different from theirs, too, blue where theirs were brown.
“Good. Now that that’s settled, let me ask you. When do you propose to hold your lead-fest?”
“Our what?” Quince Haslett asked. He had the dubious distinction of having not only a big Adam’s apple, but a big nose as well, so big that his face was more nose than anything else.
“Your lead chucking,” Sam said. “Or are you aiming to fight it out in Coffin Varnish with knives?”
“Knives are too messy,” Abe said. “You get blood all over the place. Plus, you can’t always be sure. You stick a man in the gizzard and expect him to fall, but he keeps on fightin’.”
“I never have put my trust in knives,” Stern Larn said.
“Pistols will suit us.” From Jefferson Haslett. He sported a bushy mane of hair and a jaw like an anvil.
“When?” Crooked Creek Sam said.
“We haven’t gotten around to that yet,” Cordial Larn said. “We have to work out the details.”
Happy Larn laughed. “Our kin back home will be powerful upset they missed the frolic.”
“Are there many in your family?” Sam asked.
“About one hundred and eighty, give or take a few,” Stern Larn said.
“Two hundred and forty on our side,” Abe Haslett revealed, and grinned. “We are better at breedin’ than they are.”
“There have always been more of you Hasletts,” Stern Larn said.
“We are rabbits and you are gophers,” Josephus Haslett boasted. He was the shortest of the brood, which was not saying much since it was only by a few inches.
Happy Larn lost some of his happiness. “I do not like being called a gopher. You will take that back.”
“I will not,” Josephus said.
“You will take that back or else,” Happy said.
Crooked Creek Sam swore. “Here we go again. If you can’t flap your gums without arguing, maybe none of you should talk except for Abe and Stern.”
“I will talk when I please,” Happy informed him.
“Me too,” Josephus said.
That was when Sam made his mistake. It slipped out of his mouth as smoothly as a slick grape and had the same effect as waving a rattler under someone’s nose. “Stupid Southerners. How many times must I tell you before you will listen?”
Silence fell, except for the ticking of the clock on a shelf. No one moved except for Verve Larn, who never could stand still for more than two seconds.
“What did you call us?” Abe Haslett broke the quiet.
“Not a thing,” Sam said. He was aware he had blundered, but he was confident he could soothe any hard feelings.
“Like hell,” Stern Larn said. “I heard you, too, as clear as day. You called us stupid Southerners.”
“Not
“Then who?” Cordial Larn asked.
Sam made his second mistake. He answered without thinking. “I meant Southerners in general.”
Another silence, but shorter than before.
“Anyone born south of the Mason-Dixon Line is naturally stupid, is that how it goes?” Jefferson Haslett asked.
“Don’t be putting words in my mouth,” Crooked Creek Sam said. He was beginning to lose his temper.
“It was your word,” Jefferson said. “Stupid.”
