Butch Cavendish had never particularly cared for children.
Especially this runt. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a proud lift of his chin that reminded Butch entirely too much of the kid's father. And this whining, constantly asking his mother - who seemed to be at her wits' end, Butch noted, pleased at the thought - if his daddy was dead. The outlaw suppressed a chuckle, shifting his gaze between the snot-nosed child and his weeping mother. She was begging him to put the gun down - the kid had the weapon aimed at the other Reid. Keep it up, Butch thought to himself, curling his rotted lip in a sneer. He's been a pain in my arse since the day I killed his brother.
He had to hand it to Dan Reid's boy; when it came to sheer will and stubbornness, the kid was a force to be reckoned with. Staring at his mother like that, so much hatred in those blue eyes that Butch was almost impressed. He knew what hatred felt like. It had burned inside of him for years, a fire that couldn't be extinguished no matter how much blood was spilled. Butch eyed Cole for a brief moment, watched a small, almost indistinguishable bead of sweat make its way down Latham's scalp. Their lives' work depended on this moment.
Good God, that shrill voice! The kid could probably smash the glass out of windows if he raised it any higher. Butch lifted a brow at the small, trembling hands that held the gun. Shoot him! It was an identical command that was issued from both brothers; by Latham, verbally. The fool even called the runt 'son'. Idiot. Any chance of producing offspring - although why he'd ever wanted a weak, emotional thing constantly on his tail and half a dozen hyperactive midgets chasing after him, Butch could never understand - had been brutally destroyed during the war. And now, watching Reid's son fight back tears and struggle to keep the gun steady, Butch's resolve to never donate his seed to a woman strengthened itself.
Still, there was something about the way the kid refused to release the gun. His grip may have been wavering, his eyes may have been leaking, and the barrel may have been shaking around too much to be sure of a target, but the one thing that stood out to Butch was the sheer defiance the kid displayed. On his own in a battle of wills against four adults, the youngster was holding his own. The glare he directed at each of them in turn - lingering on he himself, Butch noticed with a sneer - was an expression that promised action if he didn't get the answers he wanted. Butch smirked; control over others was an empowering feeling, and obviously, this small creature just realized it, and was taking advantage of that power. It could almost make Butch like him.
Then there were the waterworks. Great, heaving sobs that dampened his mother's skirts as she held him close. Butch rolled his eyes, turning away from the overly emotional display.
He was never much of a family man, anyway.