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The watering hole was perfectly framed by the little window on the door of the outhouse; the ideal spot from which Hugg Badfinger could point his rifle without being seen. Hugg never relieved himself without Jagg, his tried and true Jacob Hawken rifle. It wasn’t that strange of a habit to keep. After all, there were plenty of dandies out there who never did their business without a book. Hugg couldn’t read, but his aim sure as heck made up for it.

The sound of the shot drew some attention, but it was his kill and he had no intention of sharing the spoils with anyone. Hugg sent his young son to do the picking while he stayed back and made sure no one got the bright idea to enter his space.

There was no need. Everyone in Little Pit knew that Hugg’s left index finger was as prone to bouts of cold-blooded murder as a baby was prone to bouts of colic. No one was safe from his unpredictable wrath; not even his oldest boy who he gunned down over a petty squabble and his Misses who tried to protect him. God rest their souls.