Two Pilgrims - One South Bound - One West

"Oh, Sir, the boys gossip something awful. Ain't no secrets. Yeah, you a wealthy merchant, say in Charleston or Savannah, making thousands off of this nightmare. You know lots of those sons of bitches did." His face was reddening and he was letting out some of the grief and anger of a man who has been deceived in the worst way possible by something he deeply believed in - a righteous cause.

"Fools, fools . . . . all of us, all the dead, . . .fools . . ." His voice trailed off and he looked out towards the big glass window at the other end of the saloon, its window like a mirror reflecting bright sunshine. He returned to the moment and gulped a deep drink of his now warm root beer. His face the color of some of the bloody creeks he's rode through.

"Solon, I understand what you feel," Joseph began, "but you're too harsh." He paused a minute, letting silence settle, then, "Bitterness will mean the others won both on the field and in our hearts. We fought 'em to hell and back. They beat us, sure, but what a fight we put up. They aren't going to beat my spirit. No, Colonel, never." The 29 year-old nearly emaciated little fighter took on the visage of a Celtic sage, bright focused blue eyes, his beard longer and with traces of gray, his head nearly bald. This beaten but undefeated twenty-nine-year-old messenger ministered to the forty-six-year-old man's spirit. Solon's eyes became moist and then tears came. He smiled through them. "I'll take that as my last order, Sir." He blew out a gust of air towards the smoky saloon. "Yes Sir, I surely will, much obliged . . . .Joseph." Wheeler smiled and pursed his lips, then downed his warm beer.