"He came into the Crossing lugging your rifle," Pete asserted, "and before anybody could stop him he took a shot at Lard Head."
"I didn't take a shot at him," Tad denied. "If I had, I'd of hit him."
Joe said grimly, "Bobby, you go help your mother. Pete will work the bellows for me when we shoe the mare."
The girl left, not looking back, and Joe faced his son. "Get off that horse."
Tad obeyed, but his chin was outthrust and his eyes flashed. Joe flexed his right arm.
"Take down your britches."
Tad's pants slid around his ankles, and Joe grasped him with his left arm and turned his bare buttocks upward. With carefully measured force Joe brought the palm of his right hand down, and the mule turned to look curiously on this strange scene while Pete's horse danced skittishly. Tad's normally pink seat assumed a fiery hue, but he did not cry out. Finished, Joe set the boy gently on his feet.
"If ever, except in your own self-defense, you shoot at another man, be he red, white, yellow, or black, you're going to get this over again and three times as hard."
Tears welled up in Tad's eyes, but his jaw was still outthrust and his shoulders were squared as he walked away. Joe scratched his shaggy head in wonder.
"I'll be doggoned! Can you tie that one?"