Any of us are liable to get it, y'know."
Goodell's tone was full of gentle raillery.
"The high and mighty sent me out to lead a forlorn hope," Mac dryly
responded. "Does that look like a suspended sentence?" He turned his arm
so that we could see the ripped stitching where his sergeant's stripes
had been cut away.
"Tough--but most of us have been there, one time or another," Goodell
observed sympathetically; and with that the subject rested.
Though I was burning to know things, we hadn't the least chance to talk
that evening. Nine lusty-lunged adults in that one room prohibited
confidential speech. Not till next morning, when we rode away from Pend
d' Oreille with our backs to a sun that was lazily clearing the
hill-tops, did MacRae and I have an opportunity to unburden our souls.
When we were fairly under way in the direction of Writing-Stone, Hicks
and Gregory--the breed scout--lagged fifty or sixty yards behind, and
MacRae turned in his saddle and gave me a queer sort of look.
"I wasn't joking last night when I told Goodell that this was something
of a forlorn hope," he said. "Are you ready to take a chance on getting
your throat cut or being shot in the back, Sarge?"
I stared at him a second. It was certainly an astounding question,
coming from that source--more like the language of the villain in a
howling melodrama than a cold-blooded inquiry that called for a serious
answer.
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