Rosa screamed, shocked and startled by Cherry's unanticipated action. Martine gripped her tightly by the arm, equally caught off guard by both the volume of her voice and the sheriff. Neither could have imagined Sheriff Cherry would actually draw on someone, much less an outlaw in (as far as they could tell) the line of duty. Cherry himself wondered if this was the right play, potentially finishing Schim's lingering business and sending him to the great beyond without so much as a 'you're welcome'.

Then again, if it wasn't the right feller, this here was a prime example of Cherry keeping his word without, you know, driving off the shade. Schim couldn't accuse him of not wanting his soul to rest. If he started on that again, how the sheriff was dragging his feet and not trying, Cherry would point to the dead man and say--

"That wasn't very nice, Sheriff," said the outlaw, no worse for wear. If anything, he seemed more amused. "I came here to talk, not to eat lead."

Cherry responded by fanning the hammer and unloading all he had. The grizzled man cackled, his peals of laughter growing more unhinged with each shot.

¡Dios mio!" gasped Rosa as she watched the bullet wounds close moments after forming. "¡Es un monstruo!"

"Not another one!" growled the sheriff, instinctively setting his hand on his healing head. He didn't need a second attempt on his life.

The grizzled man placed his fist to his lips to stifle his outbursts. His clothing sported holes while his overall appearance remained as it had before. "Shootin' me with that ain't gonna work."

"How are you standin'?" cried Martine, huddling close to Rosa. It didn't make sense. "What are you?"

"Angry," said the outlaw coolly. He dropped to this knees. Cherry, expecting the man to dive, scrambled over the settee and hit the floor. His old wounds did him no favors. He shimmed away as Rosa let out another scream.

The tear of cloth violently ripping and a reverberating thud told Cherry the man had cleared the couch. He glanced back, rounding the furniture, expecting a rehash of the church. The grizzled man had changed, certainly, but not in the way Cherry foresaw. A gigantic wolf in the outlaw's rags flung himself at the sheriff, catching him in his jaws and raking sharp teeth down his back as his claws dug into the floorboards. Cherry yelped and Rosa continued her wailing.

The former outlaw released the sheriff only to better his hold. The onslaught of pain coupled with previous injuries kept Cherry from fleeing. As the wolf clamped around his waist, Cherry made a mental note that, when the embrace of death took him, he would not rest until he'd tracked down his deputy and given him an incorporeal piece of his mind. Here he was, doing his damnedest to avenge a death that never should have happened. Hadn't he told Jeff to leave well enough alone? Hadn't he told him that a bank robbery was not worth it? Here he was, involved in another case that didn't need involving, getting chewed to hell because Schim had to do the right thing and get himself killed. Schim had to make a stink about wanting to move on and being unable. Schim had to be an intangible pain in Cherry's ass who he liked just well enough...

The sound of a dull blast brought Cherry back to reality. The wolf was gone and the world around him was muted. The sheriff tried to move, to make a run for it while he had his chance. Maybe the hairy monstrosity would pick off the women first. Martine was older and heavy set, Cherry reasoned. While she was being dismembered, he could slip out unseen. It was a plan and he'd work with it. He strained, fighting with the whole of his being against his discomfort and weakness, to pull himself up.

His arms buckled, sending him crashing into the wood and Sheriff Ewald Cherry passed out on the floor.

On the other side of Brody's Cross, Deputy Jeff Schim sat watching his wife wash the windows at the Asper manor. She couldn't see him. She didn't know he occupied one of the mahogany dining chairs with the fine green cushions no more than three feet away. Schim was past the point of being bothered by his inability to communicate with the majority of his past life. It was, of course, a cruel irony that the person who could see him was the one who paid no mind to what he said.

He was in no rush to rejoin Cherry. It was as the sheriff had said; despite his talk of meting out revenge by his own hands, there was nothing he could do about his situation. It would remain the responsibility of his partner and Schim did not wish, just yet, to give Cherry the satisfaction of being right. His search for his killer had proved fruitless. He'd wandered Brody's Cross and the outskirts and what he found was a whole lot of nothing. Without the responsible party, his ire had dwindled with nothing to fuel it. Oh, he was still cross with the sheriff. He was always cross with the sheriff. What did Cherry hope to gain by keeping him on hand? Schim had often wondered if Cherry didn't actually enjoy their arguments.

There was a scary thought. He'd be stuck forever. Not that Cherry was all bad but, well, he wasn't exactly good either, be it by morality standards or by competency.

As Amanda knelt to soak her rag, a pair of double doors from elsewhere in the house were flung open with a force that rattled the entire structure. Both Schim and his wife turned towards the din in time to see a red-faced Levi Asper stomping forward. "Mrs. Schim," he bellowed. "I want a word."

The woman, alone as far as she knew, swallowed nervously and beheld her employer. Schim frowned. "Yes, Mr. Asper?"

"Your friend the sheriff. What kind of horse does he ride?"

"Sheriff Cherry?" blinked Amanda. "You mean Goldie?"

"I didn't ask you the name," barked Asper. "I asked you what kind?"

"A special kind," said Amanda, thinking of the unique qualities she'd seen from previous interactions.

Asper put his hands on his hips. "Is it a palomino? Yes or no?"

What now? wondered Schim.

"Yes," said Amanda.

"That son of a bitch," said Asper. "You know, I told him a mere three hours ago that I was lookin' for the man who owned a palomino--"

"I think Ewald's got the only palomino in Brody's Cross." Amanda's tone was even though Schim knew she was privately tickled that Asper's ignorance painted him an idiot. "Why do you want to know about his horse?"

"Because I saw it someplace it shouldn't have--" The man stopped abruptly. "It doesn't concern you, Mrs. Schim. Forget I said anythin'. I trust this will remain between us."

Schim scratched his head. Since when did Asper care about Cherry's horse? Where could it possibly have been, considering not two days prior, it had--

"Oh," said Schim to no one. He quickly followed after the rancher as he returned to his study. One of his cowhands, Bob Natch, waited within.

"I told you," said Bob as Asper shut the door behind. "It's Cherry's."

Asper spoke in a whisper. "Go get the sheriff. He's been playin' me for a fool. I don't much appreciate it."

"What do you mean?"

"He's been to the church. He's probably hidin' Tate somewhere, workin' with the preacher." Asper crossed to his desk and sat. "How the hell does Herman Tate have both Father Spiegelman and Sheriff Cherry pullin' strings for him? Do you think he's payin' 'em off?"

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"I don't think the preacher would take the money," said Bob.

Ewald would, mused Schim.

"Besides," Bob continued, "Didn't you say the church was messed up? Missin' the door, covered in blood? You sure somethin' didn't happen to Spiegelman?"

"What, do I think the sheriff murdered the preacher? No, but I think he knows where he is. Tate too, probably."

"You think it's Tate bleedin' everywhere?"

"I don't think the preacher shot the sheriff's horse," said Asper. It took Schim a moment to parse the misunderstanding. It was fair, given that one did not typically assume that a hole in a head came from a brain-sucking fiend. "I don't know what happened, Bob. What I do know is that Spiegelman is gone and Cherry was there. He didn't mention it to me so I assume he has secrets to keep. What secrets?" He leaned forward. "Tate. It has to be Tate. He knows I'm lookin' for him and he says nothin'."

"I don't know," said Bob. "I wouldn't put it past Sheriff Cherry to kill the preacher."

"I would," scoffed Asper. "That's too much to expect from him. He's too damn lazy." He added, "On the other hand, his laziness killed Jeff Schim, so maybe you're right. Poor bastard. I feel for him."

"Thank you," said Schim dryly. It had been how many years? Not that he believed Asper cared one bit about him.

"Me too," said Bob. The deputy was equally dubious.

"I know he knows more about this," said Asper, returning to the Tate affair. "Bring him out this way. We'll have a few words behind closed doors. See why his horse was left for dead tied to the church post."

"Where is he?"

"If he's not in his office, he's at Garrapy's," dismissed Asper. "Check Garrapy's first."

Schim trailed behind Bob as he left the rancher, moving to rejoin his wife. She had switched to the foyer and was beginning on the windows there when the front door opened and Lindsey Pieth almost knocked her over. "Oh! Mrs. Schim! I'm sorry!"

"It's all right," Amanda reassured. "There's no reason you'd know where I was." Then, "Here to visit your grandpa?"

"Yes," said Pieth. "And maybe a quick word with my uncle."

"He's in a mood," warned Amanda.

"About what?" inquired the young man.

Amanda hesitated before admitting, "I'm not sure. He was askin' about Ewald's horse."

At the mention of Cherry's forename, Pieth soured. "Oh. Sheriff Cherry. He's no good, that man."

Amanda laughed. "He's all right if you give him a chance."

Pieth stiffened. "It's been several days and he still hasn't spoken to Miss Lacey or retrieved my ring!"

The woman smiled. A knowing smile, one only her husband appreciated. "Believe me, he's very committed to retrievin' that ring. Your uncle has him tied up lookin' for Miss Lacey's brother."

"Is that so?" harrumphed Pieth. "Is that why I haven't been able to find him today?"

"Where have you looked?" asked Amanda.

Pieth stepped aside, waving a hand, passing through Schim as he did. "I've been to his office, to the jail, to Garrapy's, to the general store... I even stopped by the brothel! No one has seen him."

Amanda chuckled. "What compelled you to poke your head into the jail?" It was a known fact that the small collection of cells connected to the sheriff's office were rarely used. If anyone had been locked up, it would have been the talk of the town, a sign that their sheriff had bothered to arrest someone. Amanda hadn't heard anything.

"The connectin' door was open," said Pieth. "I thought he might be in there."

"That's odd," remarked Amanda, making little of it. "He wasn't, I take it."

"Completely empty," confirmed Pieth.

"What," said Schim, horrified.

"So you figured if he wasn't there, he had to be at the brothel?" teased the woman.

"I checked the general store first!" huffed Pieth.

"What do you mean the jail was empty?" demanded Schim futility. "Didn't you see Father Spiegelman?"

"Did you meet anyone interestin' at the store?"

"Mary Knight. She says the pig had its litter."

The conversation carried on. Jeff Schim, however, abandoned the Asper manor and traveled as fast as his spectral legs could carry him to town. True to Pieth's word, Cherry's office was abandoned and the heavy back door ajar. There was no sign of Spiegelman in his cell. He had vanished.

Schim was livid. Suffice to say, he was always livid, but this went beyond the color of his drowned flesh and into the realm of righteous anger.

Cherry was a ghost in his own way. He impossible to locate. He did not occupy his corner of Garrapy's or the hovel he called the room he kept above the feed store. Schim went as far as considering a return to the church, half convinced Cherry might have followed a lead. It was by chance he loitered in Burnham's Goods and Services when Gordon Jewlett, foreman of the Tate ranch, entered in a hurry.

"Back again?" smiled Mrs. Burnham from behind the counter.

"I need more ammunition," the foreman huffed. "Whatever you've got."

Burnham tittered. "Why, Mr. Jewlett, you only bought the shotgun this mornin'."

"I should have bought it sooner," said the foreman. "If I had known, I would have bought it days ago."

"Why, whatever has you worked up?"

Schim cocked his head to listen. The foreman, somewhat pale, shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Please sell me what you can."

"Are you in trouble?"

"It's not somethin' I can explain," he said cryptically.

"Should we call the sheriff?" joked the woman, quite taken with her own wit.

"No! The sheriff is--" The foreman snapped, stopping himself as he regained composure. Mumbling, he said, "...indisposed. I'll take the ammunition. The ladies and I, we'll go away. It will be safer that way..."

"Safer than what?" inquired Burnham, finally recognizing that it was no joke.

"I don't know," said the foreman. "Safer than tryin' to watch the doors in the house. Safer than stickin' around when he comes back to finish what he started."

"What's goin' on?"

Schim had heard enough and suspected he knew his partner's whereabouts. His intuition proved correct although it brought about several questions. Laying face down in the middle of the Tate's parlor, he found the Cherry. It was a curious scene. The lawman was surrounded by a pool of his own blood, his back painted red and ripped raw. The walls and décor of the room were littered with buckshot and the settee had been flipped. Clumps of black fur filled the area in haphazard piles. A blood trail led to a shattered window where the clinging glass and splintered frame had hooked more fur. Most impressive, Cherry was somehow alive. Schim wondered if the bear that had gone after Spiegelman those years before hadn't come back to hunt the sheriff.

As far as Cherry went, there was nothing Schim could do. There was no way to tend to him. Schim didn't wish this upon him; he looked plain awful and in his useless undead state, the deputy could only fret. Yes, Cherry was a moron and yes, if he pulled through, they were going to have a long talk about how the demon he'd brought into town had escaped. Maybe the poor bastard would expire before his missing prisoner brought about a catastrophic disaster. It would be like the man to duck out without taking responsibility.

Schim truly wished Cherry would regain consciousness soon, if only so he could tell him what a tremendous fuckwit he'd been.