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[Chris instinctively knows that a gun won't do a damn thing to Mal except perhaps call her back into the situation at hand: here is a warden, pointing a gun at her, for a reason. That has to count for something. Slowly, he lowers the weapon, his expression fixed and hard. He wants to scream and rage at her laying hands on Slevin, will even concede that Hannibal deserves all he gets, but at the same time he's remaining conscious of the fact that of the three still living people, someone has to be the sane one today.

He hates drawing the short straws.

Gun lowered, his eyes never leave Mal even as he addresses Slevin behind her]

You heard the lady. C'mon, Slevin, let's go. Leave the gun.