He burst into Homeric laughter. Ben Craig rose slowly, a dangerous man and a known man in the mountain-desert. Even through the mists of “red-eye,” Harry During sobered a little under the crushing pressure of the hand which fell on his shoulder. He pointed, grinning for sympathy.
“Look!” he said. “Ain’t it funny? That’s my shister! That’s Jac!”
Craig turned for an instant’s glance at Jac. She had not changed color. There was a grave but impersonal sympathy in her steady eyes.
She said: “Please don’t hurt the poor fellow—Ben!”
Craig turned back to Harry.
“It’s a disgrace,” he said, “to let a drunk like you wander around insultin’ helpless girls. By God, it’s got to stop.”
“My own shister—” protested Harry weakly.
“On your way!” thundered Craig, for he was conscious that many eyes were upon him.
Two formidable figures appeared on either side of him. They were Maurie Gordon, black of face with wrath, and Dave Carey, his lip lifted from his teeth like a wolf about to snarl. They were three formidable animals, facing the swaying figure of Harry. When men act under the eyes of a woman, the careful veil of civilization is lifted. The lovely Miss Silvestre was nearby. The three became ravening beasts.
“Out with him!” said Dave Carey.