"I was... Talking with the man downstairs. Things got a little messy." He said and then strode across the small kitchen floor and to his tiny room. It was little more than a tiny bed and a dresser. Not nearly enough room to change his shirt without bashing his head against the slanted roof.

When they had first come here, the old sheriff let Charlotte have the big room and slept in the jail most of the time. Just recently had Jedd taken up the same practice but he had yet to move his clothing downstairs. So he grabbed a shirt and stepped out into the kitchen.

He yanked the clean cotton over his shoulders and wham-o! Aside from the red splotches on his face and arms, he was a brand new man. "Couldn't get the poor guy to say a word."

The Marshal sighed.

"Did he even give you his name?" she asked hopefully.

Charlotte watched both of them, a confused frown on her face. "What are you two trying to get him to tell you?" she asked, not willing to let their mysteriousness go by unquestioned.

"Just...things. There's so much history to it, I'm not sure I could explain it fully without taking a really long time," the Marshal replied, drifting over to where she had piled her things and shuffling through them. "I just need to know if he's connected with a certain organized crime unit or not. So what did he say, Jedd?"

"No ma'am. He passed out about a minute ago, he's making more noise now than he did when we were having our one-way conversation. He called himself Legion though, if thats important." Sarcasm laced the boy's tongue as he addressed the Marshal, completely ignoring the mini-Inquisition that his sister was attempting to launch. Curiosity killed the cat, after all.

"Great," the Marshal muttered, sticking a few things in her waistband. "Where is he now?"

"Just... things," Charlotte parroted, giving them a sarcastic look. "Right."

She stayed quiet after that, though, and listened, trying to gain information from what they were saying instead.

"In his cell, a bucket of water aught to rouse him. If you want a few words." He rubbed his knuckles and then plopped his cowboy hat back onto his head. After which, he fiddled with it, adjusting it just so. While he was frustrated with Legion, he was scared for the guy.

He wouldn't wish the Marshal on anyone.

The Marshal nodded.

"Is that steel chair still in the back corner cell?" she asked, fiddling with her things and pulling her coat back on.

"Yes ma'am. Feel free to use whatever the heck you want in there." He bit his lip.

"Oh, good," she said, picking up a pair of Jedd's handcuffs from the counter. "I think I'll borrow these."

"You can use anything except the branding iron," Charlotte added. "That one's off limits."

"Char... Thats not even funny." Jedd commented as the Marshal left their apartment. Branding a man was serious business, worse than beatings because it left a more blatant and permanent mark on a person.

Jedd would know, while it hadn't been a traditional-style branding, he had received very serious burns when their homestead went up in smoke. Burns that stuck with him to this very day.

He fiddled with his hat again.

Caldwell was keeping quiet in his cell for the moment. The beating the sheriff had meted out to the assassin had been pretty severe and he had a feeling the kid wouldn't lose much sleep over treating Caldwell to the same. Then said assassin begun to stir from the unconscious state previously mentioned sheriff had beat him into.

"Hey over there, pardner. Reckon you best start singing them a pretty song, because the Marshall's going to be coming in next. And you don't want to see what that crazy gal will do to ya."

The assassin groaned and then slumped back onto the floor, unconscious again.

"What a little momma's boy. Hardest beatin' he must have gotten before was a little switchin' on the flanks when he stole some cookies. I've gotten beaten worse than that and jumped right into the saddle and rode off," Caldwell muttered. He didn't want to admit it, but the assassin made him extremely uneasy. Sending someone to sneak around the town and try to kill him seemed decidedly unlike the Meyer gang, who mainly operated off of the principle of might makes up for deficiencies in grey matter.

The Marshal slowly descended the stairs, stopping at the bottom to let her eyes adjust to the low light of the jail. Jedd had been smart and closed the shutters, she noted approvingly. Finally, she moved forward and set the cuffs down on Jedd's desk, then unwrapped her tools and laid them out neatly along the edge.