“The sober kind, Hogan,” Clint replied mildly.
“That’s not what I want to know, boy. What I want to know is if you’re a deppity what cuts and runs, or a deppity that stands and dies. You gotta be one or t’other!”
“I heard, all right.” Hogan lurched to the wall by the rifle rack and tapped it with a gnarled finger. “They was one or t’other, Deppity — runners or diers. All five. And you know, I got me a notion that you’re too blamed proud and stubborn to run, so that means you’ll die!”
“Go home, Hogan. You’re drunk.”
“I’m a-goin’, boy. Never did care for the stink of dead men.”