"Call the orderly," he said quietly.
Dobson, mouth agape, struck a little bell on the desk and the orderly
stepped in from the outer room.
"Orderly, disarm Sergeant MacRae."
Lessard uttered the command evenly, without a jarring note, his tone
almost a duplicate of MacRae's. He was a good judge of men, that
eagle-faced major; he knew that the slightest move with hostile intent
would mean a smoking gun. MacRae would have shot him dead in his tracks
if he'd tried to reach a weapon. But a man who is really game--which no
one who knew him could deny MacRae--won't, _can't_ shoot down another
unless that other shows _fight_; and a knowledge of that gun-fighters'
trait saved Major Lessard's hide from being thoroughly punctured that
day.
The orderly, a rather shaky orderly if the truth be told (I think he
must have listened through the keyhole!) stepped up to Mac.
"Give me your side-arms, sergeant," he said, nervously.
MacRae looked from one to the other, and for a breath I was as nervous
as the trooper. It was touch and go, just then, and if he'd gone the
wrong way it's altogether likely that I'd have felt called upon to back
his play, and there would have been a horrible mix-up in that two by
four room. But he didn't. Just smiled, a sardonic sort of grimace, and
unbuckled his belt and handed it over without a word.
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