Washington stretched to a standing position. Draker, on one knee, whimpered in front of him. Bloody mucus swinging from his nose dripped on his shirtfront. A growing circular wetness crept across the crotch of his rousers and he made no move to continue fighting. The victor spit a dusty fluid in Washington’s direction, “Don’t you EVER call my grandpa a one-legged coward again. EVER.” And he moved toward the round pen behind the barn.
Peter, with his pet chicken trotting close behind, ran up to his big brother. “Did you whup him Wash?”
“You might say so, Petey. He finally understands grandpa was not a civil war coward. C’mon now, let’s get back to the house. Time to clean up. Ma’ll be putting food on the table pretty soon.”