Shuck the knives, Clint said simply, throwing a leg over the pommel and slipping from the saddle without turning his back on the man. He unbuckled his gun belt and hung it on the horn, running his own ten-inch knife alongside the Colt's into its holster. Blanchard guffawed at this turn of events. "Why, you skinny runt, I believe I knewed the sorry mama goat what gave you naught but the dry hind tit." Boulders ignored Sancho and squared away with Clint, his hands still at rest on his wide hips. "I hauled her and the rest of her flock from St. Joe to Natchez. I'll give you this, she was the prettiest of the lot, and she bleated a fine song. But she musta forgot to write ... I didn't know we had us a young'n." His friends roared in laughter, slapping their thighs. Clint felt the heat rush to his neck and shrugged off the arm Sancho laid on his shoulder. "Others!" Blanchard said, roaring in laughter and throwing his head back again -- which proved a mistake as Clint stepped in quick and drove a hard right under his upraised chin. The blow cracked like sledge on rock, snapped his head back, and the man windmilled his arms in surprise and landed on his beefy rump in the sand. To Clint's chagrin, as he'd hit him hard enough to rock Clint to his own boots, the man shook his head like a bull poleaxed with a timber,