Chapter 13 – Past Acquaintances

August 8th, 1865

Outside Wichita, KS

She was panting, believing that there would be no tomorrow. Those disgusting men had torn at her clothes like coyotes. Their dirty fingers had held her down as everything went dark.

Men like that only have one thing on their mind.

She had waited until the drunken messes went to take their pants off. With their pants around their ankles, all she needed to do was give'em a quick kick in the groin and jab to the face; and she could escape their grasps and flee into the woods.

She had to get away, so she pulled herself through the trees trying not collapse under the sheer weight of hopeless. As the torches got closer and closer behind her, the trees seemed to tangle the path ahead. She could barely slip herself through them. Her boot got caught in the roots.

She looked back, but could not see them and feverishly tried to get her foot out. The poor girl got her leg loose and kept running; too afraid to take the time to wedge-free her boot. She ran into a road, not just a road, but one with five riders on it coming towards her. She looked at all of them. One was a dark brooding man. Next to him was a white brimmed kid, and next to him was a man with the city's shadow on his shoulders. After him, was an old man, and lastly was a face she had long given up on but never forgot. She thought him to be dead, and all the more utterly thankful to see.

"Emma!?" Ira yelled.

He jumped off his horse and caught her tired body in his embrace. Kid Colt rode past them and looked out into the forest. "Someone’s coming."

"They're after me, I-"

"There will be time to explain later," Marshall advised as he got off his horse along with Peyton and Wild Card. Ira dropped back with Emma, covering her torn up and ravaged body with his union coat. She nervously admired the patches on the shoulders, rubbing them, tear-filled with disbelief, as Ira pulled the jacket together. Kid Colt rode his horse up ahead. The men with torches and knives came out of the tree line behind him. There were five bastards in total. Peyton, Marshall, and Wild Card Cass stood before them, their hands above their holsters.

"Give us the girl," one of them demanded.

“Now why would we do something like that?” Wild Card grinned.

Emma quivered behind Ira. One of them went to raise his hand and it was shot clean off. The barrel on Peyton’s charcoal revolver was smoking, suddenly out of its holster. The thief fell to the floor, clutching his wounded hand. The other four pulled their guns.

Marshall shot two in the chest right away and jumped for cover. Peyton put down one that Marshall shot and emptied his revolver into another one. With three bodies on the floor, two of which were dead, Wild Card Cass had his work cut out for him. He fired his gun at the remaining two thieves, back and forth, comfortably pumping them full of lead. They dropped to the ground and Wild Card finished off his rounds into the one-handed survivor as he screamed and begged, "PLEASE HAVE MERCY!"

Kid Colt returned on his horse. "The road is clear," he looked around, "Did I miss something?"

"They took William, Ira" announced Emma.

"Who's William?"

"My brother," answered Ira, "Her husband. This is Emma, my– sister-in-law. Emma this is Marshall, Colt, Peyton, and-"

"Winfield Cass, my dear" introduced Wild Card Cass as he lowered his hat and kissed her hand.

"Take it easy old man," scoffed Peyton.

"Who took him?" Marshall persisted.

"Bunch of Indians, called themselves Black Pawnee."

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Peyton's heart dropped. But it was Marshall who revealed his emotional ties with the aforementioned name. "I was hoping you’d say that. Do you know where they took him?" he maintained.

"Back towards Wichita, right before they threw me to those…dogs…" Emma spat on the gruesome ground.

"Come," Ira put her on his horse, "We can make Wichita before sunset if we hurry."

April 1861

Washington D.C.

Ira

Tensions were mounting all across the country. America was on the brink of self-mutilation. President Lincoln pushed abolition in the north and the southern states were all too ready to secede. Meanwhile, Washington, D.C. had been put on total lock-down. Ira's battalion was called from regular rotation in the army and placed under special ordinance. Their orders were to guard the National Mall. To keep a perimeter around the Capitol building and White House, both still under construction. Specifically, their orders were to keep all rebels and terrorists at bay; to maintain order and peace within the crux of the Union. Ira and his partner Addison Rey were posted at the Southwest vantage point.

Addison Rey was from the West. A small town in Kansas, he told Ira, one he had never heard of. Addison was as good a shot as Ira, but his means were unconventional. He did not like to use the scope on his military issued modified rifle. Right before he shot, Addison would close the eye in which he aimed with. He did not believe in physical ability but would rant on and on about the unknown forces of nature. He would repeatedly refer to himself as just a tool of fate. Ira never worried much over this, for focus was always placed on their stances over slavery and secession. Addison Rey came from a plantation. His family owned many slaves. A truth he did not confide in anyone in the army except for Ira.

"What are you going to do if the South secedes?"

"I don't know, but one thing's for sure...My loyalties do not lie with these suits in Washington."

His trigger finger twitched and there was a man rushing the wooden fences of the White House, "Addison...four o'clock on the fence!"

Addison turned around and pointed his gun at the charging man but did not see an enemy. He saw a gray coat, with confederate stitching. He could not pull the trigger. Addison turned back towards Ira who was already aiming down his scope.

"You can't!"

"We have orders."

"He's unarmed."

"You don't know that."

"Trust me, Ira."

Ira looked at his friend, desperately searching for a way to do his duty while maintaining their relationship. Then he looked down the scope and fired.

“Ira, no!”

The bullet struck the man through his pack, knocking him off his feet. There was no blood splatter. Addison rushed to the mark and Ira chased after him. The shot might’ve been heard, but they subdued the terrorist without disturbing the peace.

He was alive. When they turned him over, he was still unconscious. A marvelous amulet hung from his neck. Besides that, there was nothing else on him but a revolver with one bullet in it. Addison grabbed the revolver and Ira recovered the medallion. They brought the detainee to base. Both Addison and Ira covered up for the mindless confederate drone. Something was off about him; like he was under a spell. They never reported the gun or the amulet. When their superiors asked their reason for detaining, Ira and Addison both answered, "Public Intoxication" in their report.

Being the two best shots in the division, and the only ones to fire a live round in active duty; upon their completion of term, they were awarded with choice of post. Addison opted for the western front, and Ira followed his partner. Just days later Fort Sumter was attacked, and the Civil War would break out in full force. People were choosing sides and killing fellow Americans before the sun would set. Addison never reached their destination in Nevada. Instead, he went home to the plantation and joined his local confederate ranks.

Ira spent over a fortnight waiting at the western frontier base before he realized, Addison would not be joining him. This was no place for a sharpshooter. But before he could meet with his general to request a transfer, the base was attacked by Addison's militia.

Ira and Addison fought their enemies decisively and efficiently, until they crossed paths with each other. Ira saw him across the trail leading up to the gate. They both lifted their rifles. Addison fired, directly followed by Ira, who only hesitated a moment in hopes that his former partner would not fire on him. Addison hit Ira in the chest and Ira hit Addison in the shoulder. Ira was miraculously unharmed by the shot. That’s because the bullet ricocheted off the amulet tucked away under his shirt, and in doing so, activated it. It began to shake and woke Ira up off the floor. Addison clenched his shoulder as he tried to crawl to his rifle.

The medallion pulsated on his chest, making Ira’s ears ring without emitting any noise. Before Addison could get his rifle Ira had caught up with him, stepping on his ankle, and pinning him down. Addison screamed and pulled his revolver, firing the one shot. The bullet curved away from Ira as if repelled by the glowing blue amulet.

Ira lifted up his rifle to kill Addison. But he couldn’t do it. Sentimentality still clutched his heart. He could not kill his friend. As he released his finger from the trigger a stick of dynamite blew up behind him. Ira flinched and accidentally gripped the trigger. He fired a bullet straight into the same wound as the other shot.

Addison's left arm now hung onto his body by a thread. Ira made a run for it. Addison got up, wrapped his shoulder and arm in a tourniquet, slung his rifle over his right shoulder, picked up two bandoleers of revolvers, and like a complete and utter psychopath, ignored his debilitating wound to pursue Ira.