“Then I’ll tell them,” the rancher said. “It means you’re a horse’s ass. And for that matter, so is your sissy of a son.” Johnny removed his hat, smoothed his hair, and put his hat back on. He didn’t take his eyes from the rancher. “My son is not a sissy.” “The boys around here say so.” “Because he reads. Because he thinks.” “Because he makes paper posies. Because he don’t know a foul ball from a fly.” Foolish of a small man like Johnny to lunge. Foolish of him to say, “You can’t call my son a sissy!” because the rancher could and the rancher did and did and did.
