Cyrus kept walking until he came to the saloon, getting hemmed up in the doorway by the sudden appearance of a woman who appeared Sioux with some kind of white mix. Cyrus was only hemmed up for a second or two before heading inside. He was not all too familiar with the Sioux Indians, as he was from the south. He had met and made friends with some Seminoles, Chickasaws, Cherokees, Choctaws, and even Creeks. He had yet to see them again, as after the fall of the Confederacy it seemed they were being wiped out and treated unfairly. 

There had never been any doubt in his mind they would have been treated better if the confederacy had won. Many things would have been better off, except for one people group, and that of the African Americans. Cyrus had never really cared much for the institution of slavery, as he had fought because they were being invaded and considered his fight to be equal to that of the 13 colonies. In the words of one man he knew from the war, after the surrender of Johnston in response to a question from a Union officer, [i]We is all fightin' 'cuz y'all came down here and started takin' our raghts and we ain't stan'in' for that horse piss.[/i]

Now it was all over, and all that was left was to live in a world that had defeated them. As some had said before, the south would rise again, but not in the way they might think. Cyrus knew that the cause was lost with the war, and they would never form the confederacy again. It would be painted as an evil federation of states for as long as the United States existed, and men like Cyrus would be spat on in scorn.

Cyrus sighed and opted for standing on the porch and smoking. He stepped back out into the slowly descending evening, and pulled out his pipe. After slipping some fresh leaves of tobacco into his pipe, and with a quick movement, he struck a match and began puffing away at the pipe. He stoked it a little, keeping the open flame inserted into the opening, and then let the match drop to the ground and snuff itself out.

He was enjoying this peaceful moment using his pipe, until it was interrupted by a mob carrying a Sioux Indian. "That's unlucky." He shrugged watching as the event carried on before his eyes, like a festival of ignorance. It was just another group of sheep led by a half a man. An army needed to be led by a real man, and there were no substitutes.

He watched peacefully as the event unfolded before his eyes, taking unexpected but better twists and turns before ending with the crowd dispersing. It appeared that it had not ended without a little heckling from some mystery voice, and a gunshot from the over watch position where the heckling had come from. The voice, clearly a female, was shouting threats down to the man whom appeared to go by the name [i]Johnny[/i].

As the crowd was dispersing, Cyrus assumed it was over, but one man remained, the one called [i]Johnny[/i], looking intent upon killing the Sioux. The man went for his gun but was soon lying dead on the ground, having taken a bullet from an over-watch position. Cyrus scratched his head, a little shocked that a man had just been gunned down in the streets before him, and it wasn't really a fair fight. Then again, it wouldn't have been a fair fight for the Sioux who would have received the bullet.

Cyrus stepped off the porch and strode over to the corpse that was slumped over. Without inspection, he picked up the corpse, and slung it over his shoulders. "Johnny, I hardly knew ye." He muttered, taking one step before pausing. He turned and looked upwards towards the second floor. Seeing a figure in the window with a weapon, one that he assumed was the one that had smote the man, he tipped his hat and gave a charismatic smile. His mustache seemed to make him look happier as the smiled curled along his face. It was almost as if he wasn't holding a dead body on his shoulders, but only going about a regular day's work. 

After giving the simple greeting, he looked to the sheriff and spoke, "Undertaker. Where is the undertaker?"