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That gaze flickered for the merest instant to the Colts at the Kentuckian’s belt. "I sure had me a real snootful an’ I guess I was jus’ fightin’ th’ war all over again. No hard feelin’s?" That guileless confession was very convincing on the surface. How did you assess an emotion you did not understand yourself?
Been a long day travelin’—" "Sure thing. An’ from up there you can hear this little old mare, does she need you." The Kentuckian’s pack had been hoisted into the mow, and Callie had even humped up the fragrant hay to mattress his bedroll. A window was open to the night, and as Drew stretched out wearily, he could hear the distant tinkle of a guitar, perhaps from the Four Jacks.
Shiloh tossed his head, looked over his shoulder at Drew, who entered the stall and began quieting the stallion with hands drawn gently over the back and up the arch of the neck. "The mare also?" Don Cazar continued. "Yes." The Kentuckian’s answer sounded curt in his own ears, but he could not help it. "This Eclipse, amigo," Don Lorenzo turned to Rennie for enlightenment—"he was a notable horse?"
Drew sat up on a bunk shell of board holding straw, and rested his head between his hands. He could follow the action which had brought him here, trace it back almost minute by minute over the past three days. How he had come here was plain enough; why was another matter. Lieutenant Spath, back in the mustangers’ camp, might have accepted the Kentuckian’s story.
Drew lunged and then reeled back as Shannon laid the barrel of his Colt alongside the Kentuckian’s head. He was half dazed from the blow but he managed to get out his protest. "You murderin’ butcher!" "Kirby ain’t dead, he’ll just have a sore head tomorrow," Kitchell returned, as the man he called Sergeant Wayne straightened up from the Texan’s crumpled form.
Topham’s voice cut through the other’s thickened slur. "You soak that rot-gut out of you, and mind your tongue while you do it!" "Sure, sure, Reese—" The voice was pitched lower this time, but to Drew the tone was more mocking than conciliatory. Drunk or sober, that stranger did not hold very kindly thoughts of Topham. But that was none of the Kentuckian’s business. "Yore hat, suh."
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