Chapter 2 - Clifton Forge

Virginia, June 1865

There were four other men in the quiet saloon of Clifton Forge when a negro walked in, looking for a drink.

“We don’t serve your kind here, boy.”

He held the paper tightly in his hand before he laid it out on the damp polished wood bar, flattening the crinkles.

“Can you even read that, boy?”

“I ain’t gotta read it to know I’m free, and I ain’t yer boy.”

The man standing next to him laughed and then took his shot of whiskey.

“Don’t matter how free y’are. You need money to pay for a drink at this establishment, not a worthless piece of paper.”

“I’ll pay for the kid’s drink,” said the man standing next to him.

"Just what do you think yer doin'?" the bartender asked the one standing next to the freedman before the bar.

"Well, I came to get my money back. You can pay for his drink with that…" declared Ira Davis, "and…you,” he spoke to the man behind him, “should be warned… I ain't leavin' without my hat."

The man sitting at the table just behind him kicked back his chair and drew his gun. The crack of Ira’s gunfire was already sounding off. The freedman ran out of the bar, afraid for his life.

“Can you believe that?” Ira laughed, “Four years of fighting for their kind and they bolt at the first sign a trouble.”

Ira walked over to the quiet man on the ground and knelt down next to him. He took off the borrowed hat and placed it back on his head, "Look's better on me anyways," he said to the dead. It was a navy blue Stinson with a brown lace around the crown and the Union coat of arms on the front.

As he searched his pockets for the money owed to him, the bartender took a shotgun out from underneath the bar. It seemed to be already cocked as he held it up, ready to fire, and crept up on Ira.

“I’m sure it wasn’t the first time he’s been shot at, probably wasn’t even the first time he’s been shot at today,” answered Marshall Troy, the only other person in the saloon. He sat there silently in the corner up until now, watching this whole ordeal go down. Marshall had unknowingly wandered up here from Appomattox, paralleling Ira's path, trying to pave a road of his own, while staying far enough away from the railroads not attract any unwanted attention. He had gotten himself lost almost immediately.

It felt good not being familiar. His prestige and fame was finally gone. He was on his way to rebuilding his life. Marshall stood up and apprehensively went for his gun. Both the bartender and Ira looked over at Marshall.

The break in tension gave Ira the opportunity to realize the bartender was planning on blasting him away with that shotgun. He reached up, over the bar, grabbed the bartender's head, pulled it down, and slammed it against the wood counter. Ira heard the bartender's body hit the floor as he shook the loose hairs from his hand. He put the coins he pillaged in his pocket and stood up, brushing off his coat sleeves.

"You stealin' that money?" asked Marshall, his gun now drawn.

"You gonna shoot me for it?"

"No."

"I'm claiming what’s rightfully mine."

Ira walked around to the other side of the bar and Marshall approached him, holstering his sidearm. Ira poured two shots of whiskey and left the bottle open right next to them. They both drank. Marshall choked and coughed, “That… negro, you stood up for him…”

“I might talk like a hillbilly but I ain’t one of ‘em. I’m actually from New York.”

“So am- oh, never been myself, but I hear it’s a bustling metropolis only second to London and Paris.”

"Not the city, slick. Upstate. What you doin' out here?" asked Ira.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re too proper to be local. If I were to guess I’d say you’re from the very city you’re so eagerly pretending to never have been to.”

"Is it that noticeable?"

"Smelled it on you when I walked in..."

They both laughed.

Ira poured two more shots and drank both of them back to back before he responded to Marshall’s original inquiry, "Every man deserves a drink. Don’t matter what color yer skin is.”

“…Couldn’t agree with you more.”

“You never answered my question.”

“I don’t believe I’m going to.”

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“Fair enough,” Ira took another shot, “Well, I'm lookin' for a fresh start," he said in an empty breath.

Marshall paused for a second like he was putting something together in his head. He then pulled out the newspaper article he took from his office and tried to flatten it on the bar counter, mimicking the freedman’s attempt at showing off his copy of the Emancipation Proclamation.

"You're goin' to Dodge," Ira said before he even had a chance to read it.

"I thought it's as far west you can go without hittin' California."

"And now that the war's over, where else can you get paid to shoot a man?"

"You must be headed out that way too."

"I was thinkin' about it, before I got caught up in all this..."

"All this?"

"Gamblin'...You see...I never miss my mark... Thought I’d try it out on cards and dice. Turns out my buddies didn’t take kindly to my unique skillset."

"Is that right? What's your name, cowboy?"

"Sergeant Ira Davis, Union Army, Sharpshooter Division."

"That's quite a title."

"And you are?"

Marshall looked around for inspiration to think of an alias. He could not let anyone know his true identity or risk leaving a trail for his father to find. He remembered his hunting knife, strapped to the other side of his belt. "Buck..." he said, "Buck Troy."

"Well Buck, I'll make it easy for you. You can call me Ace."

"...because you never miss."

"Ha. That's right, Slick" laughed Ira.

They both had another shot of whiskey.

"It can be a rough ride from here to Dodge, even if you're an experienced rider," Ira explained, "You're gonna go a couple days at a time without a bed or fresh water."

"I know. I'm ready for it."

"What’d ya say we ride together, Slick. You watch my back, and I'll… show you how to watch it right."

"You said you're from the Sharpshooter Division?"

"For three and a half years."

"I was goin' to leave after this drink."

"Might want to make it a couple more," suggested Ira as he poured two more shots.

"What are we waitin' for?"

Three deputies and the sheriff rode to the saloon and dismounted their horses. "Them..." answered Ira as he took another shot, picked up the bartender's cocked shotgun, and ducked down behind the bar, slowly making his way to the front door.

Marshall pulled out his gun nervously, “But you were defending yourself and that boy’s rights as an American. Nothing you did was illegal.”

“They won’t see it that way,” Ira smiled, always ready for a fight, “You better find some cover.”

Marshall kicked a table over and got behind it. When the first deputy walked in, Ira held his breath. The other two deputies unwittingly followed behind him. Ira rolled out from behind the bar, and barked, "Hey!"

The deputy closest to him turned around and caught the handle of the shotgun to the face. As the deputy's body hit the ground, Marshall stood up and fired his pistol at the other two deputies who were aiming for Ira. The bullet blew off one of their ears, and Ira cocked back the shotgun. He tried to fire it but it was empty.

“Of course it is.”

Marshall fired another shot and missed, but before the last deputy could shoot him, Ira flipped the shotgun back around and swung it into the unsuspecting deputy's face. The other deputy writhed on the floor in pain and cupped his missing ear. The sheriff walked in slowly.

Ira greeted him, “Ya’ll should really train on how to block a rifle-butt.”

The sheriff spat a wad of brown saliva on the floor with a cheek full of tobacco as he got in Ira's face. "You killed these men, wounded 3 of mine…" he said.

Ira let the shotgun slip out of his hands. "We don't want any trouble," Ira tried to explain.

"It's too late for that..." the sheriff said coldly as he tightened the buckle on his holster, "Get out of my town."

Ira and Marshall went to leave but there the sheriff stayed in the doorway, in their way.

"We're not going anywhere, are we?" asked Marshall.

"Don't look like it," said Ira as he drew his revolver.

But it was knocked out of his hand by the sheriff before he could fire it. The sheriff then lunged at Ira but was blown back. The handle of Marshall's buck knife was sticking out of the lawman’s chest as he fell to his knees, and then hit the floor.

Marshall exhaled, but did not move.

“Was that the first person you killed?”

Marshall shook his head incredulously.

“Best not to think about it right now. Here…” Ira pulled out his hunting knife, wiped it off and threw it back to Marshall forcing him to react and catch it. Ira finished off the bottle of whiskey and took another bottle to go.

"We better get out of this town before there's no one left."

Marshall stood frozen, too shocked at his own actions to move, "Back in the city, I would be hung for this."

"We’ll both hang if we stick around any longer. C’mon, let's go..."

The two of them gathered their stuff and exited the saloon. Before Ira left he caught a glimmer of the sheriff's badge. He doubled back, pulled it off the lifeless body, and put it in his pocket. Something inside him made Ira feel like he would need the sheriff badge in the future. He laughed and shook his head and got back up to leave. When he got outside, Marshall was already on his horse. He gave Ira a look and asked, "Do I want to know?"

Ira once again laughed and shook his head.

“Let’s ride, Montana” Marshall said as he kicked his horse.

“Excuse me?”

“I named my horse Montana,” he explained.

“First lesson’s a free bee don’t name your horse. The moment you get attached to it, you sign its death warrant, trust me.” Ira went on, “In fact, don’t even call it a horse. Call it a mount.”

“I can tell already,” Marshall proclaimed facetiously “This is gonna be fun.”

They left Clifton Forge never to return under penalty of certain death. In only a couple of months Ira had gone from a decorated soldier to a gambler and scofflaw. It would be hard to explain to a local jury how he had to kill them all because of cheated wages. Chances were this was a crooked town anyway, and that sheriff they cut down was at the center of it. So, they put this debacle behind them never to think of it again and began their ride to Dodge.

End of Saga One