Caldwell heard the Marshall coming and feigned indifference as she entered the room.

"Howdy, Marshall! I see you brought some party favors. That bad man won't know what hit him."

The Marshal shot Caldwell a look.

"Just to be clear, Mr. Caldwell, my relationship with our mutual acquaintance has absolutely nothing to do with you," she said as she disappeared around the corner. She return a few moments later with the chair, set it down, then walked over and leaned against the bars of Caldwell's cell. "It has everything to do with the fact that he got between me and something I want. He'll know very well exactly what hit him, because I will make sure he understands exactly what I am doing before I do it."

"So does that mean you're going to show him his guts while you're pullin' them out?" Caldwell asked.

The Marshal gave a short laugh.

"You men. You think that pain comes from tearing people apart. It doesn't. Pain is an art, just like fear. And the best artist uses both."

"You're going to paint a picture with his guts?" Caldwell asked, feigning confusion. Sometimes he wondered if deliberately poking bears was going to get him killed. But hey, at least he would have fun first.

The Marshal ignored Caldwell, and threw Legion over her shoulder to get him out of his cell and into the chair. A few seconds later the handcuffs clicked shut, attaching the man firmly to the chair.

"You see," she said, soaking a cloth in a bucket of water, then squeezing it out. "You're rather shallow minded. Which is precisely what makes you men vulnerable."

She picked up a few strips of cloth and began wrapping them around her hand.

"But, you know, you could always shut your trap. Unless, that is, you want me to sew it closed when I'm done with him."

"Oh. Um. I'm fine. Shutting up now," Caldwell said and mimed zipping his lips.

The assassin started to stir again after the Marshal chained him to the chair.

The Marshal picked up the wet rag and laid it over his face for a moment, then used it to wipe some of the blood and grime off of his face when his chest started heaving.

"Good morning," she said, taking a seat a few feet away from the man.

"What do you want?" the assassin groaned. He'd lost a considerable amount of his sass and spunk at the hands of Jedd.

"Well, we could start with your name."

"Can't have it. Get your own," he said and spit some blood on the floor. There may have been teeth fragments in the slimy pool of clots and saliva.

"Tell me your name," the Marshal repeated, her voice dropping.

The man just shook his head and clamped his mouth shut tight. Caldwell shook his head and waited for the screaming to start.

The Marshal slowly stood and walked over until she was just standing out of the man's line of sight.

"This is the last time I will ask nicely," she said softly. "What is your name?"

He cleared his throat and then spoke finally," Abraham Lincoln."