"Will you drink, redskin-hunter?" bawled the sailor.
"No," said Jonathan in his quiet voice.
"Maybe you mean that against old England?" demanded Case fiercely.
The borderman eyed him steadily, inscrutable as to feeling or intent, and was silent.
"Go out there and I'll see the color of your insides quicker than I'd take a drink," hissed the sailor, with his brick-red face distorted and hideous to look upon. He pointed with a long-bladed knife that no one had seen him draw, to the green sward beyond the porch.
The borderman neither spoke, nor relaxed a muscle.
"Ho! ho! my brave pirate of the plains!" cried Case, and he leered with braggart sneer into the faces of Jonathan and his companions.
It so happened that Sheppard sat nearest to him, and got the full effect of the sailor's hot, rum-soaked breath. He arose with a pale face.
"Colonel, I can't stand this," he said hastily. "Let's get away from that drunken ruffian."
"Who's a drunken ruffian?" yelled Case, more angry than ever. "I'm not drunk; but I'm going to be, and cut some of you white-livered border mates. Here, you old masthead, drink this to my health, damn you!"