Clint holstered his gun at his side, ran a leathery hand over his weathered face, squinted into the too-bright desert sun, and shot a black, oozing gob of chewing tobacco at his feet. A single bead of glistening sweat dangled off his sharply-beaked nose, the one attribute he’d inherited from the man who sired him. He was looking down at that man now, a redskin whom he’d never layed eyes upon until he finally hunted him down like the yellow-bellied coward dog he was.
“I guess you ought not to have raped and beaten my momma, then scalped my daddy and left them both for dead when you burnt down the homestead all them years ago,” he said through gritted teeth, tightly clamped on a small hand-rolled cigar. “My momma was strong, full of hate, and she taught me the same. May my daddy now rest in peace.”