It is a hot Arizona day. There is dust in the air. Wind blowing and tumbleweeds passing. A man rides his horse to the saloon porch. Slides down his saddle. Wraps up the reigns on the post next to the watering basin. The hinges creak as he pushes the door open and the floorboards moan as he walks across them with a chime in his boot spurred step. The saloon smells like smoke and booze. He takes a seat at the bar. Signals the bartender by holding a gold coin in the air. The bartender walks over to him and takes the coin, inspecting it.

“What will it be?”

“Whisky”

The dust is ragged out of his glass first. The cork popped. Drink poured and slid to him.

“You passing through?”

“Lookin’ for a man. He settled here about 6 months ago. Maybe 8. Hard to say what he looks like by now, but had dark hair. Tall. He would talk a little funny, not from there parts. Any idea?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“Well. I will be sticking around for a little while till I see the town.”

“Is this a wanted man?”

“By me. Yes. Warrant? No.”

“Well, Hope the best in finding what you need.”

The bartender puts his rag down and picks up the gold coin. Feels the smooth edges. Thumbs over the face of liberty on the one side and the dollar inscription on the other.

“I do like these new coins. They say they are harder to make a fake too. Something about the way the die strikes the gold.”

The bartender puts the coin back down on the counter and messes goes to some bottles that need putting back.

“ Did you know who looks into fake currency? The secret service. Odd don’t you think?”

He comes back to the bar, kneels down to pull out some more glasses. He unlocks his double barreled shotgun. Cut down for a concealable size and easy maneuverability from behind a bar.

“Our president gets assassinated just four years ago and the day after it happens they make an elite force to protect the new ones and what do they use them for when they are not protecting him? Tracking down fake currency. What a waste.”

He walks back to the man sitting at the bar. Picks back up the gold coin in his left hand and feels the edge again. His right hand is below the bar, holding his short shotgun.

“But you know what I think?”

The man at the bar was getting annoyed at the bartender’s monologue, “I don’t know what you think. Is this going anywhere?”

The man pulls his drink to his lips for a long swallow.

“The secret service is there to catch time travelers.”

He pulls his gun above the counter. Fixed on the man.

He man, drink in hand is frozen, “Uh, I think we have a misunderstanding.”

“The coin you gave me. The edges are smooth. If your historian was any good he would have known it should have had a ridged side. Not smooth.”

The man put the glass down. Squints his eyes. “John?”

“In the flesh. How many are in your team? You. A historian. An engineer. A team leader. Or are you the team leader and someone else is the tactician.”

“No. I’m the tactician. You think a team leader will leave the comfort of his safe house and do ground work?”

“I’m not coming back. I told them to stop trying to come after me.”

“You know we won’t stop. The south was supposed to win. You cheated it. You and you rebels. We will get to you. All of you.”

“Well. you got one thing right. You did get to me. Now you are going to die from me.”

The bartender pulls the trigger. Blasting the man back. After breathing some blood, he was dead.

The bartender stood over the man’s body, “The North will rise again.”