Suddenly he raised his head, drew back, and thrust his hand into his bosom with a theatrical gesture.
"What's to keep me from killing Poindexter in his tracks ?" he said wildly.
"Nothin' but HIS shooting first," returned Patterson, with dismal practicality.

"He's mighty quick, like all them army men.

It's about even, I reckon, that he don't get ME first," he added in an ominous voice.
"No!" returned Tucker, grasping his hand again.

"This is not your affair, Patterson; leave him to me when I come back." "If he ever gets the drop on me, I reckon he won't wait," continued Patterson lugubriously.

"He seems to object to my passin' criticism on your wife, as if she was a queen or an angel." The blood came to Spencer's cheek, and he turned uneasily to the window.
"It's dark enough now for a start," he said hurriedly, "and if I could get across the mountain without lying over at the summit, it would be a day gained." Patterson arose without a word, filled a flask of spirit, handed it to his friend, and silently led the way through the slowly falling rain and the now settled darkness.