Something was becoming very clear to Marshal De La Cruz: the people of Fox Den had no idea how to prepare food.

The lemonade he had drank was disgusting; he had only decided to finish it because the great heat of the day was brutal and it was cooler than nothing. The raspberry and apple pies Deputy Alcott had brought back likewise seemed to be terrible; their crusts were bland, their contents out of season and unsweetened, and the filling consistency a runny sludge. Marshal De La Cruz had had good pies a time or two in his travels; these were not good pies.

That said, Deputy Alcott and Sheriff Reynold did not seem to mind the abysmal state of the baked goods. Both ate their pieces of pie with many sounds of satisfaction and remarks of how tasty they were. Out in this part of Colorado, it seemed pies like these were enjoyed, mediocre though they may be.

“-And when do you suppose Sam and Flat will be back from their day job?” De La Cruz asked his companions. It had been hours and there was no motion from the direction the two men were last spotted heading.

“Well,” Reynold replied, doing his best to be optimistic, “the sun hasn’t set yet. I imagine they’ll be out day working as long as there’s day.” He had to keep the marshal unsuspicious, lest he try to go to the Cheyenne Crossing Caves and find them. That would ruin his plans and most definitely alert Meriem that he was looking for her, giving her the upper hand to hide his right arm and the figure it was attached to from him.

“If that’s the case,” De La Cruz sighed, “it seems I may be in Fox Den for at least a day.”

“Were you not planning to stay the night, marshal?”

“I hadn’t arranged anything yet. It had been my hope to get the two outlaws and be out of town long before now. At this rate, even if they do come back soon, they’d have to stay in the jail overnight before we could set off tomorrow morning.”

“Well, sounds like you should get a room somewhere here,” said Reynold, “we have a couple local establishments for visitors that would do the job.”

A thought suddenly popped into the marshal’s head. “I don’t suppose you’d mind going and arranging a room for me, sheriff? After all, folks round here know you, I bet you’d be able to get me a good rate.”

Reynold had to nod. Yes, he was a beloved figure in Fox Den and he did know the proprietors of the inns. A discount was less likely than the marshal may have realized, but at the same time, Sheriff Reynold could at least be a courteous host to the lawman while he was in his town.

“Well, now,” Reynold tapped the side of his hat, “I suppose I could get you a room at Fox Den Inn. The beds aren’t overly comfortable, but the room would be clean and private.”

“Anything is more comfortable than sleeping on the ground as I’ve been doing, sheriff. I am sure the Fox Den Inn will be adequate.”

The sheriff rose to his feet. “Shall we go book you a room, then?”

The marshal glanced at the window. “I’d rather stay here. Gotta keep a watch for Sam and Flat, after all. Oh, and I’d like the deputy to stay too, in case we happen to see them and I need a second pair of hands to arrest them.”

The thought that he could potentially help a US Marshal with the arrest of outlaws made Alcott light up. “Sure, I’ll stay here and help you, marshal!” he exclaimed, though he then turned to Reynold. “That is, sheriff, if that’s okay with you.”

“That’s fine. The Fox Den Inn is just around the corner, I won’t be gone long.”

The sheriff walked out to the screaming bray of Old Moan. It seemed no birds were overhead as he managed to make his way down the street with no falling carnage.

As the sheriff disappeared, the marshal could put the thought that came to mind to work. He had been mulling over Sheriff Reynold’s partial confession; it seemed to De La Cruz that Reynold was conflicted, wanting to share what he had done and come clean but unable to do so without knowledge he’d be absolved. He had also mentioned already confessing to someone. The marshal wondered if perhaps Deputy Alcott could provide more insight into what he wanted to know- after all, though young, the deputy did seem to work closely with the sheriff. As such, he may have picked up unrealized clues about Ghortfash's fate without being aware.

“Say, deputy,” the marshal began, doing his best to seem pleasant, “I must confess to you, part of why I wanted you to stay with me is because I see potential in you.”

“Potential?” repeated Alcott, “Potential for what?”

“Why, to one day become a US Marshal like me. You seem to have a strong conviction to justice and the law. Those are both important if you want to do the kind of work I do.”

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Alcott’s face was glowing as he grinned widely. “Gee, Marshal De La Cruz, you can tell that about me? Because you’re right! I DO care strongly about justice and the law! You really think one day I could be a great marshal…like you?”

“Well, sure,” De La Cruz shrugged, “like I said, you have potential. But, as you surely know- you’ve read all about my exploits, after all- being a marshal isn’t always about being just. Sometimes you have to make hard decisions.”

“Right,” the deputy nodded, “like whether to shoot first and ask questions later or risk being hit by the burning lead of an outlaw’s gun by giving them a warning shot.”

“Well, yes, that, but I was thinking…more subdued decisions.”

“Like what, marshal?”

“Well,” the marshal could tell he had the deputy hooked on his line, almost like he were a fish lured by a worm, “one quality that is very important in a US Marshal is honesty.”

“Well, I’m honest!” Deputy Alcott nodded.

“Are you, deputy? You’ve always told the truth, no matter how hard it is?”

A look seemed to cross Alcott’s face of uncertainty.

“Take, for example, Sheriff Reynold,” the marshal continued, “I know he’s your boss and I’m sure he’s been really good to you. Why, I can see how respected he is by everyone here in town. But has Sheriff Reynold…has he ever put you in a situation where you had to lie for him?”

The young deputy’s face continued to show some uncertainty as if he was internally grappling with the idea.

“I…I don’t think Sheriff Reynold has ever told me to lie,” Alcott tried to reason, “he’s not like that…”

“Well, how about not lie, but has he ever asked you not tell the full story? To stay quiet when you know something? That’s not really lying, but it’s not really telling the truth either, is it?”

“Sheriff Reynold did tell me not to tell you about the bank robbery,” confessed the deputy with some hesitation, “but…that was because he didn’t want you to worry about it, what with your hunting Sam and Flat!!”

“Anything else?”

“Well…that he may have seen Sam and Flat in Simpson’s saloon the other night…” he paused. “But no, he misunderstood! He thought you weren’t supposed to arrest anyone just because a marshal wrote a letter unless clearly stated that was what you wanted! Just like he said earlier! I’m sure that was an accident! Really! The sheriff wouldn’t do anything wrong on purpose!”

Marshal De La Cruz went for the kill. “Has he ever told you not to say anything about Gabriel Ghortfash? He ever say what happened to him?”

“No,” Alcott replied, much to the marshal’s disappointment.

“Not at all?”

“Really, marshal! Until today when you showed up, I’d never heard him mention that name. I mean, I haven’t worked here so long, but I swear he hasn’t told me to keep quiet about anything. What do you think the sheriff knows?”

De La Cruz stayed quiet a moment and did not answer the question. “Is the sheriff a spiritual man?” he tried from a different approach, “if he had something weighing on his mind where would he go, or…you know, is there a particularly church he attends?”

“Sheriff Reynold isn’t really religious,” replied Alcott, “at least, not that I’ve seen. I try to keep an eye on him- he keeps an eye on me, too, so fair is fair- but I don’t recall seeing him ever at a church as of late.”

“Ah, you watch him?” This caught the marshal’s attention. “Where does he go? Anywhere that you wonder about? Does he have any close friends?”

The deputy shook his head slowly. “I…I don’t think he has many friends. Apart from me, that is. He visits some places more often than others, but I'm not sure if it's to see friends or anything like that.”

“Who would he go to if he wanted to confess to something?” De La Cruz asked point blank. The deputy seemed caught off-guard.

“Confess something? What do you mean?”

“If he needed to talk to someone, wanted to get something off his chest…” The marshal tried to continue to sound casual, “maybe he’s had a bad day. He wanted someone to talk to. To feel better. Does it seem like he spends a lot of time in one place more than any other?”

“Well…” The deputy fidgeted a little. “I mean, I know most men in town when they’re having trouble and want to be better go to see Mr. McLaughlin. And I have seen the sheriff go to him a bunch lately.”

De La Cruz blinked. “Who is Mr. McLaughlin?”

“He’s got a business down on the east side of town,” the deputy replied, “I haven’t ever gone to him myself, but as I said, lots of locals do.”

“You think if the sheriff goes to Mr. McLaughlin to talk?”

“He’s the sheriff, he visits everyone one now and then- but Mr. McLaughlin’s always saying he’s ‘a friend to all’. And the sheriff has been visiting his place often these past few weeks, now that I think about it. But why are you asking, marshal?”

Before De La Rosa could reply, the form of Sheriff Reynold was seen coming back down the street.

“Oh, I’m just making sure Sheriff Reynold is doing okay,” the marshal answered quickly, “as you said, he seems to have few friends so he must be lonely. But if he has Mr. McLaughlin to talk to, maybe that’s all he needs.”

“And me, he has me,” added Alcott.

“And you,” nodded marshal.

“The room is booked,” Reynold replied as he walked in, handing a key to De La Cruz, “Room three.”

“Three works for me,” the marshal answered.

“Any sign of them?” The sheriff inquired, expecting full well the answer to be no.

“Not yet.”

“Sheriff,” interjected Deputy Alcott, “the marshal and I were just talking. Do you have any friends around here? In Fox Den, I mean?”

The marshal thought invective to himself. He should have told the kid to keep quiet. Then again, that would have been contrary to his whole honesty spiel he had just given.

The sheriff cocked his head. Odd question for the marshal to be asking.

“I suppose not,” he replied.

“Other than Mr. McLaughlin, that is?”

“Well, yeah,” the sheriff smirked slightly, “Mr. McLaughlin’s a friend to all, like he says. He’s my friend as much as your friend, sure.”

Hmm, De La Cruz wondered, perhaps Mr. McLaughlin could be a viable lead…there was a noticeable hint of sarcasm to Reynold's voice, yet that didn't rule out the possibility...

He would need to talk to this Mr. McLaughlin. Perhaps he was the man Reynold implied he had confessed his crimes to earlier. The marshal was convinced that he was on the right path, completely unaware that the sheriff had been speaking on behalf of the horse thieves and not himself.