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Imagine it's the evening of August 17th, 1877, at a bar in the small outpost of Bonita,

Arizona. Atkins, Cantina is a rough place, filled with gritty western characters in search

of liquor, cards, and women. You're a part-time cattle rustler, and you've been working

at a nearby hay farm laying low after escaping from jail. You were arrested for horse theft,

but you're not worried about getting caught at the Cantina. You've always had more

friends than enemies. So you've dressed up in sharp boots, a fancy wide-brimmed Mexican

hat, a bright red sweater, and at your hip, a new set of pearl-handled pistols. You walk

over to a poker game in progress.

Oh, deal me in, boys, I'm feeling lucky.

Well, well, if you think the kid, you turn to the man next to you. It's Frank K. Hill,

and as he smiles at you, you can smell the stench of cheap liquor and bad teeth. Last

time I saw you, I was riveting shackles on your skinny ankles. Guess a run-like use

slipped right out. It's true. K. Hill is the local blacksmith, sometimes employed by

the sheriff. He's also a bully. A hard-drinking, barrel-chested man known for starting trouble

just for kicks. He's tormented you many a time, slapping, pushing, and humiliating you in

public. You're 17, and only 120 pounds soaking wet. But you've got a temper. Listen, K. Hill,

I don't want trouble. I'm here to play cards. Oh, you're that, boys. Kid doesn't want

trouble. Well, is that why you come in here dressed up like a damn pimp? You grit your teeth

and stare hard at K. Hill. You can feel your blood beginning to boil. Oh, looks like

the kid's getting mad. You getting mad, sweetheart? Maybe you need a spanking. Not a hell,

...