Billy Golightly had stepped down from his horse to tighten the cinch, and in fact had his back toward the voice that now spoke.
“Well, if it ain’t the little soldier boy.”
Billy had the stirrup of his McClellan up on his shoulder while he unbuckled and then tightened the cinch, and now he dropped it, turning to face the man who had spoken.
“Real slow-like.”
Billy stood facing Ching Domino and the man beside him, Elihu Cohoes, the man with the one eye. But his attention was really on Domino, who had spoken to him in the Silver Tip saloon the day of the fight with the cowboys, and who had stared at him the time he’d ridden out to the herd with Lieutenant Kincaid. And again he wondered why he’d been stared at that way, why the man called Domino had asked him in the saloon if he hadn’t seen him somewhere before.
“What you doing here, soldier?” Cohoes said.
“I was figuring to meet up with my platoon. You been up at the fighting?”
“You can see they ain’t here,” Ching Domino said with a sneer.
“They up yonder? You come from the fighting?” Billy asked again.
“They are up there,” Cohoes said, “along with them sheepshitters and screaming Indians.” He swung toward the man beside him. “Domino, we got to get out of here before that hash is settled and someone starts looking for these beeves.”
“See you gents later,” Billy said, moving toward his horse.
“Not so fast, young soldier. Not so fast.”
“What the hell you doing?” Billy found himself staring at the big Navy Colt in Ching Domino’s fist.