"Go to !" snarled Hunter, bending half double and beginning to circle about the mighty Porker who now showed signs of fear.
"Put up that knife, you fool! Haven't you sweat the rum out of you yet?" cried Prevost.
With a snarl Hunter ducked forward. Porker turned to run and secure a weapon and sprawled on his face. Hunter was astride of him in a second with the knife raised. Lander felt his stomach revolting at the sight of murder all but committed. Then Prevost fired, and with a yelp of pain and rage Hunter tottered to his feet, clasping his right wrist.
"Go back to St. Louis, you trouble-maker. Go join the A. F. C. We don't want you," coldly advised Prevost as he began reloading his pistol.
"Etienne Prevost, I'll kill you for this," screamed Hunter.
"Mebbe. But go back to St. Louis and wait for your broken wrist to mend. If you will come with me I'll fix it up until you can get treated in town."
"If I step aside with you it'll be fo' to knife you with my left hand," gritted Hunter, tying his handkerchief around his neck for a sling and walking away.
