The afternoon turned out to be a real scorcher. Though Sheriff Reynold, Deputy Alcott, and Marshal De La Cruz were out of the sun where they sat in the sheriff’s office, the simple building had no ventilation and the space quickly got humid. As a solution, the three men decided to keep the front door open for more circulation, but that came with a cost; with the door open, the marshal’s horse, Old Moan, could see her owner. Whether it was out of excitement from him being so close in her line of vision, or because she was envious he got to escape the direct sunlight she had to stay out in, the creature was agitated. As such, she let out a regular stream of shrieks and screams, terrorizing all who heard her and causing birds unfortunate to be flying over Fox Den during those times to drop from the sky, dead from sudden shock-induced heart attacks.

There was a loud thud outside as the latest aviary tragedy hit the ground.

“Think that was a Rough-legged buzzard, sheriff,” offered Alcott, utilizing his knowledge of birds from the books he had read.

“That horse has some voice,” remarked Sheriff Reynold to Marshal De La Cruz, but the marshal just made a gruff sound back. He was not in a speaking mood as he waited for Sam and Flat to come back to town; in fact, the marshal was almost convinced they were not going to show. But everyone in Fox Den had swore there was no sense in assuming the two would be in the Cheyenne Crossing Caves and, in the heat outside, the marshal was inclined to not waste the energy if there was no reason. Still, he was hot and did not enjoy sitting in the same room as the man he was certain- despite the badge he wore- was somehow connected to his dear childhood friend Gabriel Ghortfash’s disappearance.

Sheriff Reynold took in the sight of the marshal. He knew the marshal was not his biggest fan and had suspicions about him, but he was unaware just how deep with suspicions De La Cruz really was. To Reynold, he just looked hot. It gave the sheriff an idea.

“Say, Asberry,” he said to his deputy, “I was just thinking it’s a good time of day for a lemonade. For all of us, I mean,” he motioned to the marshal, “I would imagine Mrs. Glinty’s probably made a batch or two already.”

Mrs. Gloria Glinty was the wife of Grover Glinty, the proprietor of the General Store across the street from the sheriff’s office. Was her lemonade good? Not especially. Mrs. Glinty was a tadwad when it came to using sugar, considering it a hot commodity and not wanting to waste it. As such, her lemonade either had nothing in it to moderate the tart flavor, or sometimes, when she thought she was being sneaky, Mrs. Glinty would put salt into the drink in hopes it would encourage folks to drink more with their continued thirst. Despite all its shortcomings, her lemonade was cold, and more importantly, it gave Deputy Alcott something to do. That would leave Reynold and De La Cruz alone, and give the sheriff a chance to try and negotiate on behalf of Sam and Flat’s freedom as he had promised the horse thieves he would do in exchange for their helping him get back his right arm.

Asberry, however, was a local and knew full well about Mrs. Glinty’s lemonade.

“Ugh, pass,” he said, not disguising his disgust, “last time I had one of Mrs. Glinty’s lemonades I ended up in the outhouse all night.”

“Well,” Reynold said, trying to sound firmer, “that was probably unrelated to her lemonade, just a coincidence. I think we all could use something cool in this hot weather.”

“I bet the water in the horse trough is safer for the stomach and tastes better than Mrs. Glinty’s lemonade,” the teen replied. Upon hearing the word ‘horse’, Old Moan let out a irritating screech that was followed by the familiar thump of another bird meeting its demise.

“That time was just a cardinal,” commented Alcott. But as he looked at his supervisor’s face, he detected some irritation. The young deputy quickly hopped to his feet.

“Asberry,” Reynold was not hiding his commanding tone this time, “I would like for you to go across the street and get us some lemonade from Mrs. Glinty.”

“S-Sure, sheriff!” Alcott said, though he couldn’t understand why. The sheriff never drank that swill.

Reynold handed the deputy a couple of coins. “If you see something else that looks good over there, a pie or cake perhaps, feel free to buy it as well. I’m sure the marshal wouldn’t mind putting some food in his belly.”

Again, De La Cruz made little noise. He just kept staring at the horizon through the window. He was not going to miss Sam and Flat’s return.

“Oh, okay, sure!” the deputy ran out the door. He did like a good pie or two. The sight of all the dead birds in the street had minimal effect on his appetite as he entered the General Store.

With Alcott out of the way, Sheriff Reynold decided to spring into action. “You know, marshal,” he addressed his colleague, “I’ve always admired your commitment to justice.”

De La Cruz didn’t flinch, but internally he was noting the odd conversation Sheriff Reynold was starting. His commitment to justice? The sheriff was, well, a sheriff. Surely he was committed to justice too? De La Cruz had his skepticisms but now to hear the sheriff talk like this…

“As such,” Reynold continued, “I imagine you agree that part of justice is mercy. Sure, wrongs should be punished, but what about rights? Shouldn’t rights be rewarded?” Reynold figured he would keep things vague and ease into the topic. No sense in telling the marshal he was asking on behalf of the two outlaws the man pursued; best to first gauged the situation and see how the marshal responded.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Where did this come from? De La Cruz pondered to himself. Why is Reynold talking about ‘justice’ and ‘mercy’ out of the blue?

Then, suddenly, an thought came over the marshal. Wait, was Reynold, perhaps, speaking of himself? Was the justice and mercy he was about to discuss related to something the sheriff had done? Was it related to Ghortfash?

The marshal decided this would be a good time to respond to conversation. He turned to look Sheriff Reynold in the eye.

“Yes, I would say mercy can be part of justice,” he replied, trying to remain cool and collected. Certainly, if the sheriff was involved in Ghortfash’s disappearance and De La Cruz could prove it, he wouldn’t show the lawman mercy, but as it was he had no evidence to prove anything. Maybe, just maybe, the sheriff was about to confess; the marshal had to do what he could to get that to happen.

“In this wild world today, sometimes we in law enforcement do have to walk a thin line,” said Reynold, “we know things about someone’s past that would paint them a criminal, but their current actions show them to be of good character and conviction. At what point do you suppose it’s all right to forgive and forget?”

“Now, when you say ‘forgive and forget’, sheriff,” inquired the marshal, “you’re talking about more than just a minor slight. You’re talking about things that are serious in the eyes of the law?”

“I am, but like I said, what if someone really does want to change? What if they needed a wake-up call to see the error in their criminal ways and have decided to make up for their misdeeds by doing good?”

He has to be talking about himself, De La Cruz reasoned, his misdeeds- he must be beating around the bush regarding what happened to Ghortfash! And the ‘doing good’? He’s become sheriff of Fox Den and since then done the best he can- incompetent though he may be- to keep justice in this place!

“Well,” De La Cruz slowly answered, “I would think there is some room for mercy…but someone would have to be willing to first confess their misdeeds before mercy would even be an option on the table.”

“What if they already have confessed?” Reynold replied, thinking of the night before when he got Sam and Flat to admit to being horse thieves to him.

That answer seemed to take the marshal for a loop. Wait, Reynold has already confessed? He thought. When? To who? It wasn’t to me. Was it…was it to a local priest? Is there a priest in town?

“Well, sheriff, they have to confess to everyone,” he countered, “including the friends and family of those who their misdeeds wronged. THEN perhaps I think mercy could be an acceptable outcome.”

Reynold paused. Wait, so the marshal was saying he would be willing to let Sam and Flat off, so long as they confessed to the families and friends of those whom they had stolen horses from? Seeing as they were wanted on a federal level and had crossed state lines, tracking down so many parties was going to be a bit challenging.

“Well, what if they can’t confess to everyone?” the sheriff countered, “what if they can only confess to very specific parties?”

“Why can’t they confess to everyone?” De La Cruz was perplexed. Ghortfash’s mother and father were old, but they were still around. So were Ghortfash’s siblings. And of course, here he was, Ghortfash’s childhood best friend- he was still there. There was no hold-up if the sheriff was ready to come clean.

“What if who they needed to confess to is…hard to find?”

The marshal narrowed his eyes. Oh, so that was it. Sheriff Reynold would only confess to the one he had wrong- Ghortfash. But with twenty years behind him, it was going to be hard to find what remained of Ghortfash. That made the marshal wonder just what the sheriff had done to his friend that he now was so hard to relocate.

“Well, I guess…” the marshal said, stroking his mustache, “perhaps the person seeking mercy should just confess to me. After all, as a representative of the law, I would certainly be able to make a plea for mercy on their behalf if they were to prove to me they were an otherwise upright citizen truly hoping to leave their sordid past behind them.”

“So you would show mercy?” pressed Reynold.

“I would consider mercy,” replied the marshal.

Reynold pondered this a minute. He had promised Sam and Flat he would get the marshal to let them off, much as he was letting them off with their particular Fox Den-based crimes. The marshal didn’t sound like he was committing fully to leniency, however, and that didn’t sit right with Reynold.

“What would it take to guarantee mercy?” he asked.

‘Guarantee mercy’? The marshal thought, how on Earth can I guarantee mercy if a man- a good man, like Ghortfash, has been murdered?

Yet, with all this supposing, the marshal had nothing conclusive to pin anything on Reynold. Here could be the chance he had been waiting for- a chance to finally find out what happened to Ghostfash. But Reynold wanted guaranteed mercy. It was not easy for the marshal to agree to anything, knowing what he thought he knew.

“I think it would take a lot to guarantee mercy,” he answered finally, “it would have to be like the crime had never happened. All wrongs undone. And I would imagine in the case of the…criminal you speak of, that would be next to impossible to do.”

The sheriff nodded. He had no idea how many horses Sam and Flat had stolen over their career, yet alone where the beasts were now.

Before the two men could continue, from outside Old Moan let out another cry that made them both pause in horror. A second later, Deputy Alcott was back through the sheriff office door, dripping wet.

“Sorry, sheriff,” he remarked as he handed a glass of a yellowish liquid to the marshal, “I got you a glass too, but just now as I came in a Western Meadowlark fell from the sky and knocked the glass out of my hand. Spilled most of it on myself, and it smells pretty awful.”

“Well, that’s alright, Asberry,” Reynold replied, “yes, give the remaining glass to the marshal, he’s the guest and as such deserves it. Did you bring back a pie?”

“I brought back two pies, sheriff- raspberry and apple pies.”

“Ooo, good boy.”

As the deputy and sheriff doted over the pies, the marshal took a swig of the lemonade. As expected from Alcott’s warning, it was terrible. But De La Cruz didn’t care; his mind was turning over the conversation he and Reynold had just had- was there a way to get the sheriff, who it seemed was ready to talk, to confess that didn’t require promising mercy?

Once more, from outside, Old Moan let out a shout. The corpse of a Canada goose slammed on the doorstep a moment later.