"Garden of Gethsemane? What a load of crocshit!" said Charles to both compatriot and Fellowship loyalist alike. It was night now, and he was playing blackjack with a few of each on the empty pool table inside of the Saloon.

"Hey, you watch your tongue," said a former Confederate soldier.

"We are in an oil-rich land," Ernest calmly explained. "The blood of Christ, it is not, and it is blasphemous to suggest so."

Charles took a swig from his cup. "I don't care if its the piss of Christ."

Ghost Houses

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