“No.”
“What might be yoh regiment?”
The Messenger was looking hard at the beehives. The door of one of the hives, a new one, was shut.
“What regiment did you say, suh?” repeated Deal, showing his teeth in a friendly grin; and suddenly froze rigid as he found himself inspecting the round, smoky muzzle of a six-shooter.
“Turn around,” said the Special Messenger. Her voice was even and passionless.
John Deal turned.
“Cross your hands behind your back. Quickly, please! Now back up to this horse. Closer!”
There was a glimmer, a click; and the man stood handcuffed.
“Sit down on the grass with your back against that tree. Make yourself comfortable.”
Deal squatted awkwardly, settled, and turned a pallid face to the Messenger.