"I'm interested, too." The cantina owner's drawl was as slow as ever, but it held a note of a whiplash.
"Them soldiers...." Fowler appeared, the bar-side shotgun across his arm—"they jumped th' boys. I saw it, myself."
"Yeah, told yuh these town buzzards're all th' same. Stick together an' have it in for th' army!"
Drew could not see which of the troopers had burst out with that, but in his present mood all bluecoats were the enemy.
"Dirty Yanks!" Anse's eyes were fully focused now—right on the sergeant. Anse struggled to get up, but Topham's hands on his shoulders held him down. His hand went to his holster, and Drew's fist came down on the Texan's wrist, hard.
"See that thar, Sarge! Th' stinkin' polecat of a Reb was gonna draw on you! Told you, they's all alike. Th' war ain't[pg 094] over; we jus' gotta keep on lickin' 'em. Give us room, an' we'll do it again—now!"
Anse's face was green-white under the weathering, save for the wound on his jaw. He was watching Muller as if the sergeant, rather than his men, was the focal point of any future attack.
"You—Stevens—shut your trap!" Muller's roar brought silence. Drew could actually hear the panting breaths of the men now.
"Mitchell, what happened here?" Muller turned to the man at his far right.
The trooper was younger than the rest, his face still holding something of a boyish roundness. His eyes shifted under the sergeant's steady, boring stare, and he glanced at the rest of his companions, the two disheveled fighters, the lanky man picking up a forage cap and handing it to one of them.