It was all very like the conventional stage
picture of Western melodrama: the fire lighting up their faces with
patches of alternate red and black; Defago, in slouch hat and moccasins
in the part of the "badlands" villain; Hank, open-faced and hatless,
with that reckless fling of his shoulders, the honest and deceived hero;
and old Punk, eavesdropping in the background, supplying the atmosphere
of mystery. The doctor smiled as he noticed the details; but at the same
time something deep within him--he hardly knew what--shrank a little, as
though an almost imperceptible breath of warning had touched the surface
of his soul and was gone again before he could seize it. Probably it was
traceable to that "scared expression" he had seen in the eyes of Defago;
"probably"--for this hint of fugitive emotion otherwise escaped his
usually so keen analysis. Defago, he was vaguely aware, might cause
trouble somehow ...He was not as steady a guide as Hank, for
instance ... Further than that he could not get ...
He watched the men a moment longer before diving into the stuffy tent
where Simpson already slept soundly. Hank, he saw, was swearing like a
mad African in a New York nigger saloon; but it was the swearing of
"affection." The ridiculous oaths flew freely now that the cause of
their obstruction was asleep. Presently he put his arm almost tenderly
upon his comrade's shoulder, and they moved off together into the
shadows where their tent stood faintly glimmering.
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