Dragons Teeth Crichton 2017 (WWT)

As the hours passed, interest in their banter faded. We were tired from the exertions of the day, and
ready for sleep. On Marsh’s side, his roughneck companions looked equally fatigued. And still Cope
and Marsh talked on into the night, sniping, bickering, trading insults as pleasantries.
Finally, Toad fell asleep, beside the fire. His loud snores were inescapable proof that these two had
lost their audience, and having lost the audience to witness their jibes, they seemed to lose interest in
each other.
The evening had dragged to a seemingly undramatic conclusion—no hollering, no gunfire—and too
much had been drunk on all sides. Marsh and Cope shook hands, but I noticed that the handshake was
extended; one man was holding the other’s hand tightly, not releasing it, as the two men stared hatefully
into each other’s eyes, the light from the fire flickering over both their faces. I could not tell which man
was the aggressor in this instant, but I could plainly see each man silently swearing his undying enmity
toward the other. Then the handshake broke off almost violently and Marsh and his men rode off into
the night.