Re: Sonrisa: Hunter R & Cris M
Cris didn't have any buddies, and he wasn't gonna shoot a dog for doing what dogs are supposed to do when somebody's hurting their owner. He just didn't want her latched onto his pant leg, too close to muscle and skin, as he tried to restrain the kid weighed down by Sam's money. But, maybe it was good the would-be thief thought the Sheriff was some goon, 'cause it meant he stopped struggling—sudden, abrupt—and Cris had to ease up quick. At no point had he crushed windpipe with the barra his arm—it wasn't that kinda hold, but the kid had smashed himself up against forearm, forcing a need to cough upon himself.
The dog stilled at her owner's command and Cris didn't much care that she was growling in warning. He shoulda, but he didn't. He let go of the boy, taking holda onea those smaller wrists hard as he tried to get out from under him, his entire back gritty and soppy.
"Get up—" It was ragged, but not over-winded. And if the kid listened, Cris got to his feet too, never losing his grip. He knew how to twist the boy's arm if he had to, to get him into a come-along hold, elbow used as a jack to pin arm behind back, if need be. Asphalt was black-ground into his palms.—He frowned at the kid, not so much anger as agitation. "What's your name?"