Simpson's Saloon was starting to fill up with the regular noon time crowd, coming in for a drink out of the hot sun or a poorly made sandwich to hold them over until supper. The bartender was giving the bar counter a quick wash down as Sheriff Reynold, Deputy Alcott, and Marshal De La Cruz came in. Simpson could tell from the expression on Reynold's face something was not ideal about their arrival.

"Howdy, gents," he said professionally, pausing from his task. "What will it be? A whiskey? A cheese sandwich?"

Locals knew better than to take Simpson up on the cheese sandwich. The cheese he used was expired Parmesan picked up from a trip years ago; it seemed to be getting harder and harder each passing day and could no longer be chewed with a human mouth. Not that the bread it was sandwiched between was much better- it was certain to be coated in mold and be an uncomfortable green color.

Though he was a bit hungry after his long journey, the marshal shook his head. "I'll just have a glass of milk." He didn't ask if Reynold or Alcott wanted anything and instead took the time to look around the saloon for the two wanted men.

Alcott, meanwhile, was taking in the sights of the saloon. Not that anything particularly scandalous was going on at that hour, but with his youth he had rarely has reason to enter such a grown-up establishment. The bottles of alcohol on the back wall behind Simpson in particular caught his eye.

"Wow..." he said to no one, but couldn't help himself, " I had no idea there were so many options..."

Simpson turned his attention to Reynold. "I know you won't want anything, sheriff, with your abstaining from drinks. So, to what do I owe this visit?" He was hopeful he could get a clue from Reynold's well-known personal ticks what was going on, but all he could put together was that there was some sort of tension between him and the other adult male.

De La Cruz, having failed to spot his targets, turned back to the barman. "Sam Starcriss and Flat Harrigrove. Those two names ring a bell?"

"Sure," Simpson answered as he set an empty glass on the counter and reached for the milk pitcher underneath, "they've been in here before."

"When did you last see them?"

Simpson glanced subtly to Reynold again who kept his blank expression. Not sure what to say and who he was talking to, he decided to err on the side of caution.

"Hmm, I'd have to think." He filled the glass with room temperature milk and pushed it forward.

Alcott, not picking up on the intentional vagueness of Simpson (not that he would have ever been as discreet when asked by a marshal himself, anyway) gave a confused look to the sheriff. "I thought you said you saw them in here last night?"

De La Cruz perked up at that, turning to the sheriff. "You saw the two here last night?!" He turned back to Simpson. "Were they here last night talking to the sheriff?"

Simpson still could not tell whether to say yes or no, but seeing the sheriff stay quiet took that as a hint. "Was that last night?" He tapped the side of his head. "Most days here are the same so they blur together."

"He didn't talk to them," clarified Alcott, thinking he was helping, "the sheriff was busy..." He caught himself before mentioning the robbery; Sheriff Reynold had been clear not to mention that to the marshal. "...he was busy."

Marshal De La Cruz shot another glance at Reynold. "You were busy? Doing what? This is a saloon where one comes to drink, and the barkeep just said you don't do that."

"Doesn't mean he can't come here to unwind," offered Simpson, going back to his cleaning. "Or he could've been drinking milk, as you are, Mr...?"

The marshal picked up the milk glass. "Marshal De La Cruz."

"Marshal, my, don't get your kind here often. You do look familiar, though. Have we met?"

"Years ago. But with how you can't remember if the sheriff was here last night or if Sam and Flat were here last night, not surprising you are not able to remember me."

Simpson gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Fair enough, marshal."

"Here, let me try your memory with this name: Gabriel Ghortfash." De La Cruz was facing Simpson, but did his best to watch Reynold from the corner of his eye.

"Well now," said Simpson, "that's a name I've not heard for awhile now."

"Was he ever found? Any trace of him at all?"

"Not that I'm aware of." The barman shrugged. "Sheriff?"

"I haven't found any new evidence, no," Reynold replied.

Alcott blinked. "Who's Gabriel Ghortfash? Another horse thief?"

"No, he was my predecessor -" began Reynold, but De La Cruz cut him off.

"-he was the finest sheriff Fox Den has ever known. A good friend of mine, too. Disappeared just like that one day, and the Sheriff Reynold took over."

"Ah, yes," Simpson nodded, "that must be why you look familiar. You came out to help with that search, didn't you, marshal."

"I did, yes. Glad I could jog your memory. Now, what would it take to jog your memory about Sam Starcriss and Flat Horrigrove?"

Simpson again shrugged. "I said I've seen them in here. Not sure what more you want."

"Well," the marshal replied, "my understanding is they're either here or by the General Store. Yet they're neither here nor there. That's odd, is it not?"

"Well," answered Simpson, "sometimes they find day work. Their tab here doesn't just pay itself. If they aren't where you expect, they may be out doing something for some money."

"They pretty good about paying their tab with you?"

"They're all paid up, if that's your meaning."

The marshal crossed his arms. "So, the horse thieves slip away for 'day work' to meet ends meet. And what skill set do they have for 'day work', do you suppose?"

Simpson was unsure if he was expected to answer. "I don't know. I just can say they're paid up-"

"-I know the answer. It's horse thieving. That's what they know and excel at. If they're all paid up, guess they've been breaking the law here too." He gave Sheriff Reynold a dirty look before chugging his glass of milk and slamming it on the counter.

In the meantime, Alcott's eyes went wide. "Hey, then if they've been stealing horses we should have them arrested! They have broken the law in Fox Den! Sheriff, we gotta put them in jail!"

Sheriff Reynold remained quiet, not seeing any value in speaking. But things were not going well.

The marshal used his backhand and wiped the milk residue from his mustache. "If you happen to see Flat or Sam, let me know," he told the bartender, "I'm in town to bring them back to Kansas to face justice, so I'll be here however long that takes. And don't think of warning them."

"The thought hadn't crossed my mind." Simpson replied.

"Good." The marshal began to make his way to the saloon door.

"Um, marshal?" called Simpson behind him, "your milk? You haven't paid. You owe-"

"-put it on Sam and Flat's tab," the lawman retorted and kept walking.