Raw Gold - A Novel by Bertrand W. Sinclair
page 50 of 188 (26%)
page 50 of 188 (26%)
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Lessard, if he had been blind till then, saw what was patent to me--that
he had gone a bit too far, that the man he had baited so savagely was primed to kill him if he made a crooked move. MacRae leaned forward, his gray eyes twin coals, the thumb of his right hand hooked suggestively in the cartridge-belt, close by the protruding handle of his six-shooter. They were a well-matched pair; iron-nerved, both of them, the sort of men to face sudden death open-eyed and unafraid. A full minute they glared at each other across the desk corner. Then Lessard, without moving a muscle or altering his steady gaze, spoke to Dobson. "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 |
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