Dagron Max had been stranded only twice in his life. The first time, he returned carrying a gun. The second time, he returned carrying a saddle, as well. In both cases, a horse died, but in the second case that a man died, as well. And not without cause.
“You just don’t mess with a man’s horse,” Dagron said, retelling the story to anyone who would listen. At the moment his audience consisted only of the bartender — and a horsefly on a filthy shot glass a little way down the bar. “A horse is the measure of a man’s status in this world. You fuck with a man’s horse, you fuck with his reputation. That shit don’t fly.”
Dagron tossed back another shot of the firewater the bartender had served up, the flames burning his mouth and throat as they slid down his gullet. He barely noticed. Smoke puffed out his mouth with his next words.
“That’s why I shot the man. Square between the eyes. You don’t put another man’s horse down like that.” He slammed the shot glass down onto the bar.
“You don’t do that kind of shit.”