"Home isn't a place, home is the people, or in some cases just one person."

-Herschel I. Pensador, Hubad philosopher

Earl'd spent the last two days on a pin-legged stool on the office porch, seeing how far he could lean back without falling over. And only getting up to let the rot out of his arse before his legs went prickly. He was supposed to be watching Herschel whitewash the bunkhouse. But the man worked like he had both his thumbs glued to his palms, with little to no success.

Still, it wasn't so bad. The late summer heat wasn't unbearable, only stifling. And beautiful white clouds rolled through the blue skies. Even he was forced to take off his hat now and then to enjoy the sight. He should've let Charlene take the sheep sheering scissors to him for a de-shagging, but it could wait

This morning, he was watching Herschel sitting on the ground in front of the blossom ghetto. An impolite word picture for the bunkhouse, where those who enjoyed their drink too much usually ended up.

Shirtless, legs crossed, with forearms on his knees, and palms up, the red skinned man stuck out like a large brawl in a small barrel.

But the scene was missing something. Without thinking, Earl looked around for Rascal. Since Herschel's capture, the mutt hadn't left his side, but lately she strayed more and more.

After the old man's trial, Earl wondered what Rascal would've done if he'd hanged. Would the dog have left anything of the town oak? Or would Stagna have found out what it was like to be a one-armed town? Not that it mattered none now, they'd had a lucky escape.

As Herschel was first let out among the general population, Rascal and Earl had both stayed near to the blue eyed man. But even the less savoury characters seemed to accept his mild mannered strangeness as part of the scenery.

Most people just ignored him, except of course for the small children pointing in wonder, and asking to touch his hair.

Earl's only worry were the whispers about the bleedin' state of him. Which was fair enough, the lean man was never quite dressed. Even the drunk-fellows had the decency to put on a shirt, most of the time.

It all made for conflict in what Earl thought of as his simple mind. Like most in town, he felt justice had been served with community service.

The rust-red crackpot hadn't done anything to deserve to hang. And after having him lounge about in Charlene's clean cell for a while, locking up him seemed more like a reward. But now that the tall man was out and about, he spent most of his time with Charlene.

Also, as Stagna's marshal, he was supposed to choose the community services. In reality, Charlene and Fannie'd chosen. They decided that Herschel's talents, as they were, would be best spent on town beautification.

The awkward sight of the spindly man performing manual labour only gave Earl a little comfort. Even if there were a lot of chuckles. Like when he fell of the ladder, and the whole square turned to laugh at him. The funny thing was, Herschel laughed to, a normal person would've been embarrassed.

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Sucking air in through his teeth, with a disapproving sound, Earl got up and crossed the square. It went against his better judgement, but they needed to have a chat about work ethic.

"Herschel," he tipped him his hat, "what're you doing?"

"I'm planning. I've accepted that I know nothing about whitewashing," he answered in his customary tone, squinting up at Earl.

"All you have to do is slop paint on a wall, there ain't no trick to it."

"Hmm, but if I don't consider the possibilities, then by the time a problem arises, the ramifications could be severe."

The worst thing was, Earl knew he was trying his best.

"You know, shovelling shite around to make it sound sensible is not the same as planning."

Herschel's eyebrow lifted at him in an enquiring frown. Earl immediately regretted the comment. The man was now fully considering his comment on planning and shite. And when Herschel started thinking, that was his cue to be somewhere else.

"Just get to work will ya! You're not serving anyone by sitting on the ground!"

Annoyance had tricked Earl into removing his hat and he was pointing it at Herschel.

"You need a haircut marshal, I'm sure Charlene would help you with that."

"That's none of your business! Get on with your work!"

He turned to walk off before Herschel could reply. In his rush to get away, he almost tripped over Rascal.

"There you are girl," he said bending down to pet the scruff of her neck.

"Yea, she's been followin' me all mornin', don't make it no easier to pack a picnic let me tell ya." Charlene was carrying a wicker basket of her own design, and it smelled intriguing.

She'd taken it upon herself to start turning up with coffee, lunch, snacks, all sorts of things. With all their little breaks, she and Herschel spent more time socialising than working. That was where most of Earl's conflict came from. Because while it meant that Charlene worked less and seemed happier. It also meant Herschel went from only nearly useless to utterly hopeless.

Leaving the two of them picnicking in the square, he could only hope that weirdo would at some point do some work. Any work. But he couldn't watch the spectacle any more, so he was going to Bern's.

It was close to midday before he decided to head over for an inspection of the unlikely progress. Stepping out on Bern's porch, he saw Herschel skulking around the bunkhouse door with two day labourers. As he approached, the men hurried off and left Herschel standing alone.

"What was that about?"

"What was what about what marshal," Herschel counter-asked.

"Those two men, what were you doing with them?"

"I was helping them to help themselves."

"Yeah right. Well, how's the painting going?"

Earl no longer had any real interest in how it was going. But it was Herschel's duty, which made it Earl's duty to make sure he was doing his duty.

"I think it's going as well as can be expected," Herschel said smiling broadly, which worried Earl.

He followed the old man towards the north corner off the bunkhouse. The wall, facing away from the square, wasn't white. But the sun-bleached wood had been partially painted. It was a mural. A suggestive painting of a woman that Earl thought looked all too familiar.

"What in Bayit's name is that?" Earl yelled, using the place that his countrymen thought of as their final reward as a curse.

"Beautification?" For once Herschel sounded uncertain.

"Paint over it! Now!"

On his way back to the marshal's office, he almost regretted that he'd gotten rid of the interrogation room in favour of another cell. Other law-men used that room to beat confessions out of suspects and troublemakers.