The gaunt men were sitting around in a circle, pow-wow fashion, pretending to work out an answer and all feeling that there wasn't any, when McBride noticed Heinie, the cook, handling his automatic. It wasn't the mere fact that he was handling the weapon that deserved notice. It was the way he was handling it.
Heinie sat with a faraway look in his eye that was now glistening and now lackluster, fondling the gun in a way that suggested something. Black words not spoken, but safety off, a damp brow and moody reflections.
"Heinie," said McBride. "Anything wrong?"
Heinie's eyes came back from that far place with a start. He laughed bitterly. "Anything wrong! Two weeks without a damned thing to eat, and the man wants to know if anything's wrong!"
No respect for rank now. No more tin-soldier discipline. What penalty can you impose upon a man mere days from death?
"You'd better put away the gun, Heinie."
Heinie stared back at McBride with a sort of thoughtful defiance. He didn't put away the gun.
"Then hand it over," McBride said, and started getting up.
"Stay where you are! All of you!"