The first farmer had evidently had a couple too many. He raised his voice. "I don't care if they do hear or not," he said thickly. "This is America, isn't it? Isn't it?"
"It used to be. Shut up, Clyde. We'll get in trouble."
Riddell felt his pulse quicken. Here's my opening, he thought.
Downing his beer, he dropped a coin on the bar and turned to confront the two farmers. His hand slipped to his holster.
"Hey there, you two!"
"You mean us?" the meeker of the two farmers said. "We didn't do anything!"
"It isn't what you did," Riddell said loudly. He flicked an eye at the bartender and saw the man staring white-faced at him, livid with hatred. "It's what you said." He gestured with his holstered gun. "Suppose you two come along for questioning, maybe."
One of the soldiers from the back table detached himself and came to the front of the bar. "Any trouble, Corporal?"
Riddell looked at his uniform, saw that the other was a sergeant, and shook his head. "I can handle it, Sergeant. Thanks anyway. Come on, you two."