He was entirely harmless when sober, and served as the butt of all jokes, but the evil liquor paralyzed the small knot of gray matter over his eyes and set loose his irresponsible lower centers.

He threw his hat on the ground and defied the world in a voice absurdly large and strenuous.
His thin arms swung aimlessly, and his roaring voice had no more heart in it than the blare of a tin horn.

His eyes wandered from face to face in the circle of his grinning companions who egged him on.
His insane, reeling capers vastly amused them.

One or two, almost as drunk as he, occasionally wrestled with him, and they rolled in the dust like dirty bear cubs.

They were helpless so far as physical struggle went, but, unfortunately, shooting was a second nature to them, and their hands were deadly.
As Mose came out to mount his horse the crowd saw him, and one vicious voice called out: "Here, Bill, here's a sheep walker can do you up." The crowd whooped with keen delight, and streaming over, surrounded Mose, who stood at bay not far from his horse in the darkness--a sudden numbness in his limbs.
"What do you want o' me ?" he asked.