“Every man for himself,” he’d said. Big guy, tough guy, the kind who must have been used to intimidating his way through life. “What’s mine is mine, and I ain’t sharin’.”
We all agreed. Later, when he got grabbed — and screamed for help — nobody was particularly disposed to move very fast. He was bitten, of course.
“It’s nothing,” he claimed, “leave me alone.” But we knew better. Mr. Carey from the hardware store shot him in the head, and we divvied up his things. I got the cowboy boots and ten .45 caliber rounds. The boots are a little big.