"Take some more," urged Brent, "I've got another quart under the bunk."
"No thanks," refused the other, curtly, "I heard
you was down an' out, but—by God, I wasn't lookin' for this!"
"What's the matter?" asked Brent, flushing beneath his stubby beard, "What do you mean?"
Righteous indignation blazed from Camillo Bill's eyes. "Mean! You know damn well what I mean!" he thundered. "Look around this shack! Look in the lookin' glass up there! You're livin' here worse'n a dog lives! You're worse'n a—a squaw-man!"
Brent rose to his feet, and drew himself proudly erect. Ragged and unshaven as he was, the effect was ludicrous, but Camillo Bill saw nothing of humour as he stared at the wreck of his friend. Brent spoke slowly, measuring his words: "No man—not even you can insult me and get away with it. I'm as good a man as I ever was, and I'll prove it if you'll step outside."
"You couldn't prove nothin' to nobody, noway. Kitty told me you'd gone to hell—but, I didn't know you'd gone on plumb through."
Brent sank weakly into his chair and began to whimper: "I'm as good a man as I ever was," he sniveled.
"Shut up!" Camillo Bill's fist struck the table, "It makes me mad to look at you! You're a hell of a lookin' object. You won't winter through. They'll find you froze some mornin' half ways between here an' some saloon."
"I won't be here when winter comes. I'm