whenever one of them said anything to anyone, the other always carefully turned his back or happened to be looking another way.
It was not hard to figure out that their coldness had something to do with the pistol. Mast suspected, from the way they’d had their heads together talking all the time for days, that O’Brien may have been in part responsible for the plot as to how to get it away from him. Possibly O’Brien had been going to buy it from Winstock after he got it, or more likely, since O’Brien was reputedly broke, he was to be given it in return for some favor or other. Only now that Winstock had it he was keeping it for himself. It had to be something of this sort.
The guitar session broke up soon, because once it was dark no more smoking was allowed out in the open. It was this that Mast had been waiting for. When Winstock, laughing and talking and with Mast’s pistol jouncing securely on his hip, left the group and went off up the hill toward his own home hole the number five hole, Mast waited a few seconds and then got up and followed him, aware of O’Brien’s pale green eyes, following him. He might not be able to whip O’Brien, but he was sure he could beat up Winstock.
“Winstock!” he called, climbing after him.
Other men were leaving the group too, spreading off toward their home holes or to get their blankets and go wherever it was they slept, some going down and some of them coming up this way through the deepening red dusk. So while Mast and Winstock were out of earshot they still were not strictly alone and out of sight. Mast made a mental note of this. Here would not be the place to fight him, where the court-martial offense could be seen.
“Well! Hello, Mast,” Corporal Winstock said in a friendly way. He was standing a little above Mast, up the hill, on an outcropping. “Ain’t seen you around in quite a spell. Not since they bust up our little detail, in fack.”
Mast simply stood, staring at him unbelievingly. Such lack of guilt seemed impossible.
“Well, what can I do for you, Mast?” Winstock said cheerfully. “Did you want somethin’?”
“What can you do for me? I want my pistol back. That’s what you can do for me.”
“You want what?” Winstock said, his eyebrows going up.
“I said I want my pistol back. And I want it back right now.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Winstock said cheerfully. Through the deepening, almost blood-red dusk that was now nearly full night, he stared at Mast narrowly with his narrow little face.
“You don’t ’hunh?” Mast said grimly. “Do you deny that you took my pistol away from me— on your authority as a corporal— to turn in to the supply room?”
“What?” Winstock said cheerfully. “Oh, that. Sure. Sure I did. I told you I was sorry I had to do it. What more can I say? And why the hell should I deny it?”
“Do you deny that that pistol you’re wearing right now is the same pistol you took away from me?”
“Why, hell yes! Hell yes I deny it!” Winstock said, looking both indignant and surprised. “Oh, I see what’s bothering you. You think this here pistol is the same one I taken off of you, and that I kep’ it instead of turning it in like I said.” He shook his head somberly. “That’s a hell of a thing to accuse a man of, Mast, that’s all.”
“It just happens that I happen to know the serial number of that pistol I had,” Mast said, boring on grimly. “I memorized it. Do you want to let me look at this pistol and check its serial number?”
Shocked indignation flashed over Winstock’s face. “Why, hell no! Who the hell are you? To be checkin’ on me? You got no authority over me. You’ll just have to take my word for it that this ain’t your pistol, Mast.”
“Then where did you get it?” Mast demanded.
“It’s none of your business where I got it,” Winstock said, calm and cheerful once again. “But for your information, I bought it.”
“Bought it!”
It was not hard to figure out that their coldness had something to do with the pistol. Mast suspected, from the way they’d had their heads together talking all the time for days, that O’Brien may have been in part responsible for the plot as to how to get it away from him. Possibly O’Brien had been going to buy it from Winstock after he got it, or more likely, since O’Brien was reputedly broke, he was to be given it in return for some favor or other. Only now that Winstock had it he was keeping it for himself. It had to be something of this sort.
The guitar session broke up soon, because once it was dark no more smoking was allowed out in the open. It was this that Mast had been waiting for. When Winstock, laughing and talking and with Mast’s pistol jouncing securely on his hip, left the group and went off up the hill toward his own home hole the number five hole, Mast waited a few seconds and then got up and followed him, aware of O’Brien’s pale green eyes, following him. He might not be able to whip O’Brien, but he was sure he could beat up Winstock.
“Winstock!” he called, climbing after him.
Other men were leaving the group too, spreading off toward their home holes or to get their blankets and go wherever it was they slept, some going down and some of them coming up this way through the deepening red dusk. So while Mast and Winstock were out of earshot they still were not strictly alone and out of sight. Mast made a mental note of this. Here would not be the place to fight him, where the court-martial offense could be seen.
“Well! Hello, Mast,” Corporal Winstock said in a friendly way. He was standing a little above Mast, up the hill, on an outcropping. “Ain’t seen you around in quite a spell. Not since they bust up our little detail, in fack.”
Mast simply stood, staring at him unbelievingly. Such lack of guilt seemed impossible.
“Well, what can I do for you, Mast?” Winstock said cheerfully. “Did you want somethin’?”
“What can you do for me? I want my pistol back. That’s what you can do for me.”
“You want what?” Winstock said, his eyebrows going up.
“I said I want my pistol back. And I want it back right now.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Winstock said cheerfully. Through the deepening, almost blood-red dusk that was now nearly full night, he stared at Mast narrowly with his narrow little face.
“You don’t ’hunh?” Mast said grimly. “Do you deny that you took my pistol away from me— on your authority as a corporal— to turn in to the supply room?”
“What?” Winstock said cheerfully. “Oh, that. Sure. Sure I did. I told you I was sorry I had to do it. What more can I say? And why the hell should I deny it?”
“Do you deny that that pistol you’re wearing right now is the same pistol you took away from me?”
“Why, hell yes! Hell yes I deny it!” Winstock said, looking both indignant and surprised. “Oh, I see what’s bothering you. You think this here pistol is the same one I taken off of you, and that I kep’ it instead of turning it in like I said.” He shook his head somberly. “That’s a hell of a thing to accuse a man of, Mast, that’s all.”
“It just happens that I happen to know the serial number of that pistol I had,” Mast said, boring on grimly. “I memorized it. Do you want to let me look at this pistol and check its serial number?”
Shocked indignation flashed over Winstock’s face. “Why, hell no! Who the hell are you? To be checkin’ on me? You got no authority over me. You’ll just have to take my word for it that this ain’t your pistol, Mast.”
“Then where did you get it?” Mast demanded.
“It’s none of your business where I got it,” Winstock said, calm and cheerful once again. “But for your information, I bought it.”
“Bought it!”
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