The group had finally found refuge from the downpour they were caught in while tracking the 'demon' (~alien~) that had killed some people in town, albeit being a very large and expensive looking paddlewheel steamboat upsidedown in the middle of the New Mexico desert hundreds and hundreds of miles away from any river big enough to hold it, but they made do with what they could get. preacher Meacham was teaching Doc how to shoot a gun in another room and Jake was somewhere else. Dolarhyde and Nat were sitting across the fire from each other, both of them as silent as if they were all alone. The two men weren't camped out with the rest of Dolarhyde's crew; Dolarhyde sat, him and Nat conversing. Nat took a deep breath. "Maybe we should... notify the army. Get the cavalry involved." Dolarhyde looked up as if he'd been spat on. "We're not turning this over to some West Pointer—" he said, his voice bitter, "wait for 'em to get on the telegraph and ask Washington which hand to wipe with. I waited around at Antietam 10 for 'em tell me what to do.." He looked into the darkness that lay inside the flames, seeing the past that would never die.. nor like his men had died. "Lost four hundred and twenty-eight men. Over a goddamn cornfield." He stared at the fire, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Might sound foolish.." Nat murmured, looking back into his own memories, he smiled. "I always liked it when you used to tell those stories." Dolarhyde blinked and looked at Nat, he frowned slightly. "I don't remember tellin' you those stories." Nat glanced up, looking almost guilty. "I'd listen when you'd tell Percy." Dolarhyde stared at Nat before clenching his jaw and forcing down any emotions he felt. "They weren't for you, they were for my son. Now go check on the horses." Dolarhyde grumbled.

Nat got up without another word and left the fire.