“How long since he left?” I asked the bartender at the public house.

“Who do you mean?” The bartender said, furrowing his brow.

I looked around at the pub, or what was left of it, and held my arms out in the air. There were bullet holes in every wall, blood stains soaked into the plank floor, and the glint of glass shards in the sawdust.

“You know damn well who I mean.” I said, slipping my hand to rest on the machete I wore on my hip. “Talk and quit trying to hustle me out of my hard earned pay.”

“Right, that guy. You should have said so.” He sat down a bottle marked Maker’s Mark that was full of something too pale and too potent. “He was in here about a month ago, part of one them rebel cavalry detachments.”

“I know things, like the way you just know them in a dream. Without evidence or discovery, but just knowing them. I know he was here, I know there was a fight, and I know there’s more to it. So, no bullshit.”

“After someone recognized him, after the fight, they all took off towards Spidertown.”