You got three choices, old-timer!
FIGHT, RUN OR EAT CROW!
“Burned out, you call him!” Jim breathed. “Useless? What the hell did this town call him ten years back when you needed his gun worse than food and drink? You welcomed him, pinned the badge on him and counted yourselves lucky! But it’s a different story now, huh, DeWitt? He’s old and tired — doesn’t fit into the new setup. You’re ashamed of him . . . when you ought to be ashamed of yourselves!”
“McKeegan,” frowned DeWitt, “I’m handing you a piece of advice that you’d better heed if you hope to stay in Bisbee. Keep your opinions to yourself. We know what your father is — a walking whiskey vat, sorry for himself because nowadays any two-bit amateur could outdraw him. When a man loses his nerve . . .”
It boiled over then — all the pent-up rage that had been bedeviling Jim from the moment he stepped outside the law office. Suddenly, erasing that grin from DeWitt’s well-barbered countenance seemed the most vital chore he had ever undertaken. And he performed it well, throwing his bunched right in a hard, jarring punch that sent DeWitt reeling back against his companions. They scattered. DeWitt went down, but scrambled up again, spitting blood and curses.
“Damn you, McKeegan! You’ll pay for that!”