silhouette in a tan kepi aiming a pistol at him, the moonlight gleaming on the bluing. Colter depressed the Remingtonâs hammer and set the gun down on the bench abutting the shackâs front wall beside him.
âWhatâs this about?â Colter asked.
The man in front of him, whose pale face he could not make out beneath the square bill of a dark blue forage cap but whose voice Colter recognized as belonging to Lieutenant Damian Hobart, one of Lieutenant Beldenâs cronies, said, âThe pleasure of your company has been requested behind the corral.â
Colter curled his upper lip though he had to admit to feeling relieved that it was merely Belden calling and not a passel of greasy bounty hunters ready to take his head back to Sapinero, Colorado, where the mangled Bill Rondo was holed up in a rooming house, his craggy face sporting the same brand as the one heâd given Colter. âBelden wanna dance with me now, too?â
âSomethinâ like that,â said the man behind him, whose voice he thought he recognized as that of Lieutenant A. J. McKnight. The three could often be seen together drinking and playing cards in the saloon off the fort sutlerâs store at night, or heading off to Tucson during weekend furloughs.
Colter stepped down off the gallery steps. As the two men moved to flank him, he began walking toward the corrals ahead and on his left. A breeze came up to churn some dust, straw, and horse manure, and Colter blinked against it. The windmill blades gave a little squeal. Then the breeze died, and Colter walked around the far corral to the back, where he could see a dark figure sitting on the open tailgate of a hay wagon.
The three California broncs didnât move other than to switch their tails, annoyed at being disturbed at this late hour.
Colter rounded the corralâs rear corner and approached the hay wagon. Belden sat on the tailgate with his legs dangling, ankles crossed. He had a bottle cradled in his lap the way a woman would hold a sleeping child, and a long black cheroot smoldered in his right, black-gloved hand.
He looked at Colter, dark blue eyes looking white in the moonlight. He didnât say anything and neither did Colter. Another slight breeze rose, blowing Colterâs long hair out in front of him, brushing it against his cheeks. McKnight and Hobart stood silently behind Colter. He could sense them grinning, and he could smell the alcohol and tobacco smoke on all of them.
âYou know,â Belden said finally, cocking his head to one side and blowing out two smoke plumes through his nostrils, âa kid like you, as scarred up and dumb and ugly as you are, really oughta just stay back here with the horses.â
Colter shrugged. âYour girl just wouldnât have it, I guess.â
Behind Colter, Hobart sighed deeply.
Belden stared at Colter from beneath the brim of his dark blue cavalry kepi with the gold braid encircling the crown. âIs that supposed to be funny?â
âIâm just sayinâ she invited me to the dance,â Colter said, putting some steel into his voice. âI didnât invite her. So I danced with her.â
âYou know why she danced with youâdonât you?â
âI guess she thinks Iâm pretty.â
âNo. She thinks youâre ugly. But, see, sheâs always trying to save stray cats and stray dogs. The uglier the better. Even had her a crippled coyote for a time. Thatâs just what she does. Everybody knows that.â
âThen what are we doinâ here?â
âEverybody knows that, it seems, except you.â
âWhat if I said I know that?â
âKnowing that isnât gonna keep you from starinâ at her all dog-eyed, next time she comes around to watch you bust your broncs. Or keep you from accepting her invitation to the next dance.â Belden set the bottle aside and gained his feet, balling his fists at his sides.