The rifle was perched on his shoulder tightly, the barrel balanced on the branch of a tree carefully as the man lay his weight against a cross of branches at his back. One eye was shut in a tight squint, the other held steadfast against the rear of a telescopic sight that ran down the length of his gun.

An old gun, well maintained through years of service, that was dated by today's standards but in this man's hands was one of the most dangerous tools a sharpshooter could have; A whitworth rifle. Every few moments a gunshot would erupt from around him, fellow sharpshooters of his unit firing down at the artillerymen of the union forces. After a few moments of this continued fire- which had sent the opposing men into hiding- Adam shifted up and brought the rifle off the branch to peer down at the field.

They were roughly one thousand yards out- a damned hard distance to land a solid shot, but something that his unit was comfortable operating out of. They had the comfort of cover and distance- they could take the time to place their shots.

"They'll rally soon, that general's gonna get 'em fired up and we'll have to scramble out of here. Sound off!"-- someone from off to his right shouted out the directive, and Smith's voice rang out heavily--

"One!"...and the rest of his unit similarly counted off. They were still at full capacity, and had the enemy pinned. Defending the flank of the main force was a simple task for the confederate sharpshooters, especially when they turned tail and ducked behind cover at the first few shots fired.

Smith leveled his rifle against the branch once more and peered through the scope down the field towards the Union soldiers. What he saw made the world stand still; the enemy's general was a well known and easily recognizable figure, even to the confederate forces- they respected the man, he was a damned fine leader and had put up a very hard fight in the war so far.

It was almost dishonorable to take a shot like this- that's how respected the man was.

But Smith's gun didn't waver, and he felt a sick feeling in his gut. He'd killed dozens, if not over a hundred, men in this war so far, but for some reason this moment felt slow. The general had just walked out into the field, yelling at his own man.

He probably doubted a shot could be made at this distance.

When Smith's rifle fired off its first round of the skirmish, the general probably didn't have the time to realize he was wrong before his body hit the ground. As soon as the shot was made Smith knew he had hit his target, and it was almost as if his own heart had stopped beating when the man's body hit the ground. It was a ripple of consciousness throughout the unit- everyone, simultaneously, knew that the general was dead...but nobody knew who had placed the shot.

Smith pulled his rifle up and dropped from the tree, sweating heavily as he pulled back from the front skirmish line.

Later, when it was asked whom had killed General Sedgewick, none stood forth to claim the shot.

----

A confederate sharpshooter, born and raised in Georgia as a first generation American-born Irish man, Adam Smith had nothing but patriotism and fire in his heart at the civil war's start. By it's end, he had expended all that fire in the form of gunfire and drunken gambling. He was a firebrand, passionate about his country and fellow men, but by the end of the war he was a tired and hollow soldier.

One cannot have faith in one's country when you've spent years killing your brothers and countrymen in what amounted to a war of possession. People often claim the south fought for slavery, or fought for money, but by the war's end when half the south was burnt to the ground and her sons were dead or imprisoned... Adam Smith had a hard time putting his faith anywhere but in the barrel of his gun after the war ended.

He spent several months back in the wilderness, where he spent a great deal of his youth. For a time he felt calm, but as the nights wore on nightmares plagued him of the things he'd seen during the war, and of all the dishonorable deaths he'd sent men to- men who would never know the face of the person who pulled the trigger that sent them to heaven. Nightmares that made a man hollow- returned him to the hollowness he'd felt at the end of the war.

A hollowness that makes a man melancholy, makes a man reach for the drink, makes a man search for answers. For Adam, his answers came in the form of a man known as Ulysses Parker.

----

Adam was heavy in his seat. He'd had far too many drinks of the cheap swill he often 'enjoyed' to fill the hole in his gut that the war had taken out of him. It'd only been a few months, and half the south was still in ashes, but he'd tried to make his peace.

Today he was drunk, again, and people had learned to give the drunkard a wide birth. Everyone except newcomers to the town, that is- people who were moving west to seek new fortunes and make new homes in the war's aftermath. Adam originally saw them as cowards fleeing their failure, but soon enough he realized they were survivors making the best in a dead world by going to a wild one.

One such newcomer had come in, had been making too much noise. Adam can't remember what the fellow was saying- just that he was being too handsy, too touchy, with one of the local girls. Adam couldn't remember anything until he was already holding the, far larger, man by the collar of his shirt and sending a wild punch into his face that made the man sprawl down onto the ground with the force of the blow.

Adam was a small man, yes, but he was a soldier- most men these days were either a fighter, soldier, or worker of some kind. War did that to people, and the man Adam had struck was no different than him. He just didn't realize it until after his hangover had worn off the next day.

He woke up in a corner of the bar, the last thing he remembered being the first punch he threw. When he blinked his eyes open for the first time, his head ached and throbbed- and then he was doused in water as a man laughed.

"Get on up, you crazy bastard. You throw one hell of a punch, let me tell you that."

Adam rubbed his face and fought up to his feet, resisting the lethargy brought upon him by both beer and exhaustion. He peered through his fingers at the man who spoke and licked his lips in exasperation- for it was the great bear of a man he had struck the night before.
"Yeah? I'm crazy? I'd rather be crazy than a great arse like ya'self, getting all touchie with the lady just because you're some big strong fella." Adam retorted bitterly, still recoiling from the pain in his head. The large man laughed, the noise like a bass drum. It pounded into Adam's head with a great resounding throb. "The hell do you want- was one fight not enough for ya, you want me to put you on the ground again?"

"No, no. Nothing of the sort. I wanted to tell you 'you throw a mean right hand' but it seems you know that already. Names's Parker, I think you and I are gonna be great friends."....

And that was how Adam Smith met Ulysses Parker.

-----

Following the man's meeting, Adam found himself swept along in Parker's aura of wild energy. Where Adam once had a hollow feeling inside him, Parker's philosophy of strength and power was very appealing- what else did Adam have left to believe in after the war? God? His country? No, he had naught but himself and, now, Parker to follow.

They robbed people, kidnapped, murdered. They even gathered up a posse and organized into harsher crimes- but Adam broke free, he couldn't stay in that life. It required him to perform another great betrayal to break free, but once he was on his feet and had a purpose he realized he was riding with the wrong people- the wrong person.

He was no saint himself- he hadn't been a clean, holy, man since the civil war's inception- but he hadn't realized just how far he'd fallen in his crazed state until he was awoken from his sleep at night by yet another of his ever-recurring nightmares.

He had jerked awake, and looked around with a lucid clarity, and felt, very strongly, that he needed to get away from these people.

So he planned to escape, and simultaneously grant himself a sort of repentance, at the next heist the group had planned...

---

Smith leveled his rifle in the ever-familiar manner that he had grown accustomed to over years of practice and use. He was far from home, on the fringe of the West as it was called. A caravan, two horse carriages protected by a few handy guns, was carrying medical supplies westward and Parker intended to capture this particular caravan and make a killing off of the ensuing stranglehold of medical supplies on the surrounding towns.

Smith, however, had a different plan.

He sucked in a sharp breath and swiveled his rifle away from the oncoming caravan and off to the side of the path, where Ulysses and a few of the other men lay in wait.

A squeeze of the trigger sent Ulysses toppling to the ground, a shot in the center of his chest. Smith's hands were cold and his heart calm as he went through the mechanical process of reloading his rifle.

Surprise and terror afflicted the would-be bandits as their leader fell to the ground, and the gunshot more than warned the caravaneers of the danger that lay in wait.

Smith's next shot incapacitated the lead carriage's horse, meaning that the caravan and bandits would be forced to fight each other- and with Ulysses incapacitated, the rest of the bandits would simply flee or fail to organize fast enough for the caravan's guards.

Smith shouldered his rifle and swiftly climbed atop his horse, driving the speedy beast away from the soon-to-be battle-zone....

Years later, Smith learned that Ulysses had survived, and was actively hunting him down. Smith simply took it in stride however, as his life had changed considerably from that day and vengeful bandits were as normal to him as lawmen kicking down his door.

---

Adam changed throughout his life, as one would expect a man to. He had his passion and his youth, then he had his duty and his honor, and finally he had his grit and his will to survive. Years passed, the war was left far behind him, and in the ever-civilizing lands of The West Adam found himself constantly getting into trouble and, whether he realized it or not, evolving into a near vigilante position within society as he fought to fill the hollowness within himself.