“Sergeant Snow!” he called.
The sergeant hurried forward, stepped out into the light, came up at salute with the alacrity of a man who found pleasure in the service to be demanded of him.
“Bring a detail of six men into this room, disarm Major King, and place him under guard.”
The colonel wheeled again to face Chadron and King.
“I am not under the obligation of explaining my authority to enter this house to any man,” said he, “but for your satisfaction, madam, and in deference to you, Miss Chadron, I will tell you that I was recalled by the department on my way to Washington and sent back to resume command of Fort Shakie.”
Chadron was biting his mustache like an angry horse mouthing the bit. In the background a captain and two lieutenants, who had arrived with Chadron and King, stood doubtful, it seemed, of their part in that last act of the cattleman’s rough melodrama.
Frances had returned to Macdonald’s side, fearful that the excitement might bring on a hemorrhage in his wound. She stood soothing him with low, soft, and unnecessary words, unconscious of their tenderness, perhaps, in the stress of her anxiety. But that they were appreciated was evident in the slow-stealing smile that came over his worn, rugged face like a breaking sun.
Major King surrendered his arms to the sergeant with a petulant, lofty shrug of his shoulders.
“I’m not through with you yet, you old cuss!” said Chadron. “I never started out to git a man but what I got him, and I’ll git you. I’ll—”