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Smaller than some of the other saloons and not nearly as exciting as the Starlight Stage and Tavern, the Number Eight functions as a relaxed watering hole for miners and old townies. It is a place where stories are told and cards are friendly played. Serving at the bar is Walter Pace, a civil war sergeant (retired) who's missing an eye and who still wears his union cap.
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The old Union sergeant crossed his arms across his wide barrel chest, they barely reached, "Don't you think you've had enough there Ms. Crawley."
"Done ya Ms. Crawley me, ya sack'a spuds."
Using his one good eye, Walter looked down the bar at a women who could have been his grandmother, even his great grandmother. He wondered for a moment how old the witch really was, certainly no one in Stillriver knew, then he said, "...Claire, you've already had eight shots."
"An unlucky number, nine's better, now pour it before I put a hex on this place and turn all your bourbon ta saspa'rilla." Unclear as to the the true extent of the woman's magic, Walter hastily poured the shot and slid it to her. A veined hand came out of her crumpled coat and caught it. She probably would have caught it as easily, the bartender considered, had he hurled it at her through the air.
"You've got a good soul, Walter?"
"How's that, mam."
Instead of answering the old witch threw back her shot and asked suddenly, "Walter? You were at Petersburg, weren't ya?"
"...Yes, mam, I lost half my regiment there."
"So you remember the Lights."
"I'll never forget them... It was the night right after the first battle, some of the men they thought it twas the Almighty. But a friend of mine, from the 6th Maine, he cued me in."
"Aurora Borealis." By some miracle, Claire managed to pronounce it perfectly despite her drunkeness.
"Yes, that's the word alright, they see it all the time up North but..."
"Your friend was wrong."
"What...?"
"He was wrong. It wasn't the aurora you were seeing, Pace, they was souls."
"Souls..."
"Mmmhm. Them was the souls of all yer dead friends.. and enemies," she twiddled her fingers up through the air, "drifting up through the sky to go, well,...wherever the hell the dead go. Course normally ya don't see it, ya see, one or two souls make no more light than a candle 'cross an ocean, but with as many killed in that day in Petersburg... not even nature herself had forseen such a day as that.... Was beautiful though wasn't it."
Walter stood quietly a moment, his thoughts elsewhere, his left eye as glazed as the fake orb in his right, "...yes...yes it was."
"What jha make of that, Walter."
"Make'a what, mam."
"That so much beauty can be born out of so much suffering and death?"
"I don't know, mam, I guess I feel better. Its like the preachers say, 'God has a plan.'"
"Not me," Claire Crawley grumbled, "makes me want to stick a cigar in the creators eye and give it'a twist." She slowly got up from her stool and began her shamble towards the door. "A'course that's the difference between us, Walter. You see the glass half full and I see it half empty." Her hand gestured to the shot glass and the bartender reluctantly gave it one more pour. "Thankee," said the witch drinking it up and slamming it down. Outside a series of gunshots rose over the regular racket of town, "now if'n you'll excuse me."
"Be careful, Claire."
"Mr. Pace how indeed do you think I got this old?... On second thought," she added before letting the doors swing shut behind her, "don't answer that."
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"Well it may not be good, but it's how it is. Here you go pardner." Walter told the young man as he slid the glass to him. The Stranger caught it with his right hand. The hand was thin and the muscles seemed like the man's frame was wiry. His green eyes almost looked like they pierced into a man's soul faster then a rattler's eyes would.
"Would just like a peaceful hour to drink it in." was all the Stranger said as he started to sip and eventually drink from the cup. Bystanders think that though the man was a stranger to the town they believe that most drifters, unless somehow they were nice decent folk and not as rugged as the Stranger, was bad luck.
The Stranger looked around the Saloon with a sigh, he knew that he probably wouldn't expect a warm welcome even from other ordinary folk. If something bad happened and he got falsely blamed for it, he knew how to run for it.
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He quietly started to observe the inn once more and then there was some form of argument between two people and the words increased till suddenly the burlier bandit-type bully drew his six shooter. But before that gun even went to fire it's bullet another shot rang as the gun was knocked clean off the Burly man's hands.
The Stranger blew on the smoking barrel of his six shooter openly glaring at the bandit and his green eyes were really piercing into the burly one's, nearly scaring the poor vomit into taking a leak in his britches. "Try to shoot again I'll shoot to injure, or shoot to kill. That's your choice. Injury or death, that's your choice."
"Careful there son," Walter tried to warn him, "That there's Gunsmoke Paul, he works for-"
"Do I look like I give a damn?" was the reply that the Stranger gave. "This is why I ask for a peaceful hour to drink in my drink. Come on, you got killer in your eyes Pauly I can see it."
"Your funeral. By the way, what did you say your name was again?" Walter asked with curiosity in his voice.
"Name's Wilson. Damian Wilson." was all that the drifter had to say. He slowly placed his gun into his holster.
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"This town's a heaping wild one. Lots of promiscuous shooting and what not." Walter replied. "You want a refill on that Mr. Wilson?"
"No thanks Sir. Another one of these and I might faint from drinkin a bit too much to make me tipsy." Damian replied as he set his mug down. "Right at the moment I want to hear the sounds of the Saloon. Just the sounds of the saloon." With that he leaned back in his seat and calmly relaxed as he watched and listened to the saloon in it's usual activities. He felt peaceful for the first time in awhile. But if anything happened he wold be angrier then a rattlesnake.
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