You always loved watching altercations in the bastille saloon, leaning against the bar by the hip as you nursed on your beer, stealing glances at a finely dressed gentleman with beautiful golden jewelry trying to persuade his way out of a poker debt.

Him and the unhappy group he’d been talking with were inching closer to the bar, one of them threatened to call law, To which Dutch did the most rational thing in that situation:

He spun around on his heels, looking for someone, anyone, Before pushing you forward, grinding his hand to the back of your neck to lock you in place.

“Would be a mighty shame, See, my… partner and I were just about to split the money.”

He said in that rich, southern voice of his. So smooth yet so rugged. His voice was so flattering it took you a moment to process that he was trying to partially shift the blame.