In the town of Marion, no one spoke of the Battle of Santa Estrella. Fervor of the madness, which had seized their hearts, had shaken them, North and South. All were as desperate to kill as they were to survive. Heat and hatred boiled in them. Infectious was their misery, and none could stand another week in the day's inferno and the night's arctic chill. They lost friends. They lost family. All this misery for a chest of gold, which few had seen, but all had bled to obtain. Death was unsatisfactory; the eye of their malignant rage deserved torment, Hell. Unleashed, both sides attacked with a brute fury, gold forgotten. They met, that day, to end the other.

Inside the trenches, Cassidy was upon the Confederate side of the river. Shades, spectral men at arms, were given renewed vigor to attack their foes once more. The bounty hunter was pulled back to the forest, where Pretty Tommy wasn't so pretty anymore. The spirits ignored them, except for horror stricken eyes that followed, bound to the fate of that day. He pulled Franklin away through trenches, around ragged soldiers, for whom the bell had already tolled. Ringing grew, till all groaned in agony. Before them a Gray fired across Widow Creek. As he bellowed hateful curses, a Union soldier's bullet, lucky return shot, struck the man in the eye. Head jerked back, arms reached out. Upon the earth he fell. From inside tattered uniforms, flesh and bone separated. Stripped away, it clawed across the hot earth, as the man's skeleton slid through the dirt.

Franklin whispered the man's name. "Just like that day," he said distant and breathless, "it is just like the battle."

"What happened at Widow Creek?" Cassidy searched for their pursuers, but the ringing grew deeper.

He looked down, "Everyone went crazy. Both sides charged, and even braved the water. No one could take anymore."

"Do you know where Joseph was that day?" Cassidy frowned, intuition pricked. "It seemed that the gold is drenched in blood," he snapped his fingers in front of him, "this madness has to do with it!"

"I wish they'd never pulled it out of that mine," he closed his eyes. "Yes," his eyes opened, "I know where he went. Joe, Leon, Willard, and Mason were to move something. I assumed it was the gold." The one armed man knew he was faultless in the death of Joseph and Garrett, Jody's defilement and torture, but in his heart, all of it was his responsibility.

A click of a revolver drew the bounty hunter's eyes up. One of the living Grays looked down on them. Ringing dug in deep stabs of pain. It mangled Cassidy's head, whose vision blurred. It had covered the man's steps. Chatter of teeth, clank of bone, and the low smell of mud flowed over the air. The bounty hunter pushed Franklin aside, but hands shook, revolver slipped. A void in the moon light gripped the man, no shadow but absence of space. Cassidy tripped forward, as the former Confederate soldier was lifted into the air. He squealed, although quickly silenced. Over him a gigantic, skeletal hand gripped the Rebel's head, and tore it off like a man might uncork a whiskey bottle. Up from the ragged stump, hot blood sprayed, yet was swallowed. They caught the sound of the greedy suckling, like the whirlpool under the bridge. Cassidy's gorge rose, as his mind snatched at any logical reason. Franklin turned away, mind flooded with shreds of memory.

"Did Mason do it, all of it?!" the one armed man rasped. After he'd escaped, when sanity and cool head prevailed, Franklin had pieced together accounts of that day. They'd never found Joseph Morrison, but he'd never stopped searching for Jody. He cursed himself for refusing to see his compatriot's true intentions.

"On your feet," Cassidy commanded, but his hand was brushed away.

He looked at the bounty hunter, "I have to know. I failed everyone, and I'm not walking away from this."

Eyes like dawn over the desert searched the haggard face, "Anywhere is better than here."

Franklin weaved through the trenches, and he felt the missing arm itch. Sometimes, for no reason, it would prickle or ache; the ghost of it would wait till his mind drifted back to that day. His right had always been dominate, which had taken up the slack. Only when visiting the outhouse did he missed it, for the left hand ruled that task. Surrounded by dead friends, he felt it burn, sting, as if it was freshly destroyed. It tingled, now, like the flesh had fallen asleep though arose. Every morning, the missing arm reminded him of that day.

Screams of the dead wove through the terror for the living. Sucking pulled the air, and Cassidy felt his gorge rise. He followed Franklin, who scratched at air, where his arm would have been.

Above Widow Creek, the full moon drowned the night in its silver brilliance. It leered down upon the open graveyard, where country men slew their brother. Hollow reports of gunfire fell dead, before they could pass beyond the battlefield. Cannon shot, which must have been apocalyptic that day, rolled like lifeless thunder. To the impassive heavens, the broken pieces of men screamed away the last moments of their lives. Bones slid over the earth. Flesh, freshly stripped, dragged through the dust and grit. Bitter air stung the nose, chilled the lungs. Tiny needles pricked skin exposed to the sepulchral air, and Cassidy thought of mountain snow: it clung to you, when it fell, and bit with every flake. Out of memories flies buzzed inside the bounty hunter ears. Teeth chattered, bones jangled, and the colossal void swayed through the field of battle.

Franklin stopped. So abrupt was the one armed man, Cassidy nearly collided with him. The former Confederate gazed upon a ghost, eyes sparkled. Joseph Morrison walked a little in front of them, but cast his eyes back, nervous. Only one ghost followed, Willard Boyd, who the bounty hunter recognized as Leon's brother. Ugly ran in family, fools too, and Cassidy would wager all the real gold in the world that the Boyd lineage was full of them. "Only the dead ones," Cassidy remarked, for he could see Joseph gaze at others at his back.