"Gentlemen," a man said with hands up, "I think you've picked the wrong man. Cassidy Bullock, I presume?"

He looked at the star on the man's chest, "Yes, I came here to get food, supplies, maybe pick up a job." Hammer relaxed on the revolver, and he holstered it. "I'm not here to relive the War." Eyes, blue as the dawn over the desert, drifted away, and listened for dead friends. "Pretty Tommy," he whispered.

"Pardon Mister," the Sheriff looked at him.

"Nothing," he looked at his steak, "just trying to let the dead go."

The Sheriff sat across from the bounty hunter, and the three men left with muttered curses. Mason swore an oath, but below Cassidy's hearing.

"I'm Jesse Barr, local lawman," he stroked a broad mustache, words drifted up into a tin whistle pitch. Cassidy grunted, and started on the steak dinner. "I know you, by reputation, and I have something for a man, such as yourself."

Cassidy took a shot, "I expect pay, when I complete a job." He eyed the bent star on the Sheriff's chest.

Sheriff straightened, "I'll pay to be rid of a problem. I already lost my Deputy, Leon's brother Willard."

"There is a lot of money around here, for such an out of the way town," he said. "There aren't any gold mines near, so how is there so much money around?" He looked at the other tables, where people spent with abandon.

"Oh, it is kind of related," he nodded, "I suppose. There is an old battleground, and it is rumored to be haunted. After they get a little gold, they come here to find more."

He jerked. "Great," he poured a drink, "here are the real spirits." Cassidy saluted, and then drank.

"Of course, but you have people," he pointed at men around the room, "who come looking for Confederate gold. Someone got a copy of the map, and a cipher put it at Widow Creek, where they fought the Battle of Santa Estrella."

"I take it the Confederates won," he looked around the room.

"No, actually both sides lost, they fought hard, but all retreated in the end."

"Confederate gold, how does it factor into this?"

The Sheriff stroked his ridiculous mustache up, "The General Van Lear was trying to get a large shipment of gold back for the war effort. But, some say it was to set him up for after the end."

"He is sitting pretty," Cassidy focused on the steak, "So I've heard."

"Well, he is a Saint around here," Jesse shrugged, "but he never got the gold, and neither did anyone else."

"So, what do you want me to do?" he asked, frowned. "Want me to go hunting for a ghost?"

"The only man, who knew where the gold went, Joseph Morrison was killed in the battle," the Sheriff pressed on, "but looked down, along with his son, Garrett. His widow Jody moved close to the battleground." Jesse saw the bounty hunter face harden, "I need you to put a stop to the ghost, and hopefully, figure out who killed my Deputy."

"Those three men," he nodded at them, "who are they?"

"Franklin Hughes, best friend to Joseph," he pointed at the other two, "Leon Boyd and Mason Bolton served with them. Mason, his family lost their plantation, while he was away at war. A slave burned down the place."

"You hate to hear it," Cassidy's wolfish grin grew wide and stony.

"Keep such talk to yourself," the Sheriff snatched a quick glance around, "or you'll have enough trouble from the locals."

He took another shot to still his tongue, "I could whistle Dixie." The steak diner tasted better than it looked, and he savored it.

The Sheriff looked at him, "I'll need you to go, now." Cassidy sighed. "The ghost only shows at night," Jesse stroked his elaborate mustache, "and my Deputy disappeared without a trace, but I'm sure a man like you can handle yourself." He stood up, with a tip of his hat, and gave the bounty hunter directions to the old battleground. Both maps were slipped in front of him.

With the departure of Jesse, the locals grew restless. Cassidy finished what he could, but took the rest. Idea of throwing away the steak was more than he could bear. With a fresh chorus of Long Live Dixie, the bounty hunter stepped back out into the night.

Marion was built by Widow Creek, which meandered back and forth. Fresh water cooled the air, and followed the road. Cassidy had stowed the liquor, but he ate the steak with a free hand. Still was the night, even wolves had grown silent, yet the gentle waters babbled in sleep notes. After all the food was gone, it still lingered. There was a little he was thankful for, but a good meal was one. Moon lit the way, swollen and bright. Over the road, they rode to the rhythmic clomp of the horse's hooves.

The Morrison house was near the old battleground. Cassidy looked at the ruins around the bridge, where they'd fought the Battle of Santa Estrella. Tightness gripped his chest, and away his eyes drifted, thoughts darkened. Echoes of cannon fire rasped, ringing deafened. Men screamed, cursed or begged. The bounty hunter shook his head, turned towards the residence.

Back to the remnants of the war, his heart began to slow. Cassidy clenched his shirt, which had dried on the road. It was soaked. Dreamily, the bounty hunter wiped the hand on the loose serape. Again, his hand trembled, but stilled under his iron will. Ringing in his ears faded. Eyes rose to the Morrison house, which glowed in the night.

Cassidy approached the house slow. There was no need to frighten the widow, and he expected no answer. He hailed the woman, but only silence answered. Through the door danced the unsteady candlelight. Ghost of a meal seeped out onto the porch. Again, he said her name, yet quiet filled the dark. He opened the door.

Candlelight pirouetted as he stepped inside. Cock of a hammer stopped him, and the barrel of the revolver pressed to Cassidy's head. He held up his hands.