See The Kid. He is pale & thin, he wears a thin & ragged linen shirt. The mother dead these fourteen years did incubate in her own bosom the creature who would carry her off. The father never speaks her name, The Kid does not know it. He has a sister in this world that he will not see again. He watches, pale & unwashed. He can neither read nor write and in him broods already a taste for mindless violence. All history present in that visage, the child the father of the man.

The Kid, named as such for his age, yet still a seasoned ruthless frontier partisan & outlaw who rides with the infamous Glanton Gang of scalp-hunters & Indian-fighters. He is heavily armed with twin Whitneyville Colt Dragoon revolvers, a large bowie knife, & tomahawk hitched to his belt. Looking you up & down like a mad dog he speaks with Tennessee drawl

"I ain't with you."