Reckon you add up to plain bad luck!
“I told you in Hermosa that the next time you shot off your mouth, I’d more than send you through a window, Brent,” Charron warned.
The miner’s face colored red. With a hint of a swagger, he came down the steps and slapped the butt of the gun on his hip.
Charron folded his muscular arms, giving an appearance of nonchalance, yet he was very alert. He was judging the distance between them, how drunk Brent was, and how badly he needed to let off some of his own pent-up anger.
“Found some courage since the last time we argued, eh?” Charron observed, indicating the weapon. “Well, if you ain’t got the natural kind, I guess you’ve got no choice but to buy it.”
Brent came a step closer, jaw outthrust pugnaciously.
“You stupid ridge-runnin’ leather pounder,” he hissed venomously. “You can’t even tell when you’re in real trouble, can you? Well, I’m gonna get square for that belt in the mouth, and I’m guessin’ she won’t find you so goddamn interestin’ after I alter your face some!”