He was drinking from the bottle in big gulps, fanning himself into an ungovernable fury with fiery objurgations. At last he went out, and again swearing he would kill the Halfbreed, he made for another tent, from which a sound of revelry was coming.
Vaguely fearing trouble, the Prodigal and I did not go to bed, but sat talking. Suddenly I saw him listen intently.
"Hist! Did you hear that?"
I seemed to hear a sound like the fierce yelling of a wild animal.
We hurried out. It was Marks running towards us. He was crazy with liquor, and in one hand he flourished a gun. There was foam on his lips and he screamed as he ran. Then we saw him stop before the tent occupied by the Halfbreed, and throw open the flap.
"Come out, you dirty tin-horn, you crook, you Indian bastard; come out and fight."
He rushed in and came out again, dragging the Halfbreed at arm's length. They were tussling together, and we flung ourselves on them and separated them.
I was holding Marks, when suddenly he hurled me off, and flourishing a revolver, fired one chamber, crying:
"Stand back, all of you; stand back! Let me shoot at him. He's my meat."
We stepped back pretty briskly, for Marks had cut loose. In fact, we ducked for shelter, all but the Halfbreed, who stood straight and still.