Obviously, he thought he was dead.  As the mechanics of the cannon were so simple, there was no need to speculate, for a misfire was nearly impossible .  Given the worst situation, a portion of the powder within the chamber should still explode and the projectile would still be propelled with a lethal force.  Even if the intended trajectory or secondary explosion was not achieved, the consequence to  all those who stood immediately before it goes without mention.<br/><br/>So this must be some vestibule of the afterlife?  The verdant spread of the forest before his eyes encapsulating this sanctuary of a trading post, how else could he interpret his fate?  If anything, he was suspicious of the comfort of this place.  After all… had he not killed and done many more things in his life that should shame the Savior?  In his time, he had steeled himself to the possibility of damnation even while he listened to the platitude of his company chaplain.<br/><br/>Yet, he could neither convince himself that this was Hell.  The irregularity of this experience to what he'd learned in sermon ultimately called into question whether or not he was actually dead to begin with.  An erroneous line of reason, but it did arrive at the correct answer.<br/><br/>The man stood from the ground with steadying breaths.  While his heart still pounded loudly in his ear, he began to will it to calm.  He watched the entrance of the building and found his eyes cast up to the windows upstairs as if expecting a rifle barrel to stealthily protrude.  The man walked from the entrance however.  He circled the building, which suited his cautiousness, his curiosity, and did plenty to ease his nerves.  Eventually, full circle, he returned to the front of the trading post and strode up the porch.  He had since removed the bayonet from his rifle and tucked that blade into his belt.  His rifle too was slung upon his back.<br/><br/>"Hello?" he said loudly, towards one of the windows at ground level.  This was a public place of business, he told himself, and without calling again he simply opened the door.  What an odd sight he must have been.  And what an odd sight they were to him!  He had seen lithographs of Orientals.  Eve might not conform to those drawings of opium laden concubines, he'd no idea how else to reconcile her primal, exoticness.  In fact, he now wondered if this was a brothel.<br/><br/>There stood Del, blue eyes wide at the trading post entry.  The door was still held open and he did not know which foot to follow - the one that had passed the threshold or the one which hung behind.  While there was a solidness or trimness to his composure him, his clothing and condition were haggard and almost wild.  His beard appeared more a dead animal pasted to his face, dark soot or dirt or blood confused the weathered creases or dark tan in his visage.  He wore in part the regulation uniform with that dark blue sack coat and vaguely sky blue trousers - though they were quite brown with dried mud and speckled in barbed seeds as well as other things.  His sack coat was fastened by a singular button at his belt, otherwise left open for it seemed he'd just come from a very hot place.  Beneath the coat he wore a brownish red, checkered shirt which was also opened at the neck and to mid-chest (a veteran's disregard to dress formality).  Sweat darkened all of his shirt that to sense it was wet was to note how it stuck to his sunburnt skin.  The belt that was buckled above his sackcoat was loaded with satchels; the proud US held in the brass buckle.  His cartridge case was slung over his shoulders like his rifle, though the case's shoulder strap was a thick prominent strip of leather with a conspicuous brass chestplate embossed with the seal of Ohio.  He was without his slouch hat, instead wearing a blue cap to which was stitched a red piece of felt.<br/><br/>"What is this place?" he spoke finally.  Stepping inside he did not close the door behind.  His drawl was not so thick as those in the deep South, and instead shared more likeness to a West Virginian's lip.<br/><br/><br/><br/>