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He gathered himself and pulled out his pistol. As he leaned out from his hiding spot, a bullet whizzed inches from his ear. After the near miss, the adversary could simply adjust his shot and hit him. Hugg immediately turned back around to crouch behind the rock.

"Consarn it! This stupid backloadin’ pistol piece a dung can’t hold a candle to my Jagg! If only I still had it...” He seemed more shaken up by the affront to his convictions than by risking his hide by a frog’s hair. He huffed and started digging through his pockets, cursing under his breath.

“Finn! Finn, stop rollin’ round in the dust like a cat in heat and get over here!” Despite his loss of equilibrium from the combination of the beating and getting up too quickly, he obeyed, but only to avoid an “encouragement kick” on top of everything else.

"Here. Take this. Should be worth about three thousand bucks. And you better hope he didn’t realize I don’t have a gun. If he did, he’s gonna want it all and will try to take us out to get it. He’ll have to pry it out of my cold dead hands!” His lump of a father shared nothing. Ever. But for some reason when things got hairy, his father had no problem sharing the burden. Always. “Come on, We gotta cut stick now!" He added.