The Marshal shook her head again as Caldwell left, then stood, staring out the window into the street. Finally, she turned and slipped down the stairs and out the front door, going for a walk through the nearly deserted town. It was too hot for any smart person to be out working at this time.

It took her a while to circle the town, but she finally found her way back to the sheriff's humble abode. The Marshal slowly walked past the empty jail cells and pushed open the back door. It closed with a bang, the window rattling slightly. Caldwell was lounging on the steps, hidden from the town’s sight by the jail and the half-tended garden Charlotte had kept. The Marshal eased down, still a bit sore from her fight with Jed the previous night and her much less conclusive match with Abby that morning. She set a pair of shot glasses down on the stair between them, then inspected the bottle of whiskey in her hand.

Caldwell looked up at the Marshal and grinned.

"Two glasses? Does that mean what I think it means?"

"Well, they aren't both for me," the Marshal replied, opening the bottle and pouring them both a shot. “So I think you guessed right.”

“This is a day that needs some liquid refreshment not suitable for children. Thanks,” Caldwell said and stared off into the distance. “Do you think she’ll be okay? I know Jed will hate me either way, but I don’t want to be the one who got his sister killed.”

“I hope she is,” the Marshal replied. “But there’s no saying. Got a little information while I was there, and they said she was in good hands, but I find it hard to imagine there being a pair of good hands in Meyer’s place.”

Caldwell wondered how the Marshal had gotten information from inside the bandit camp. It seemed unlikely, but if anyone could get a bandit to spill the beans, it was her. He tossed back his shot and turned to look at the Marshal with a quizzical look on his face,” I’ve been thinkin’ about the unpleasantness with that backstabber Abe. Why would he think you have anythin’ to do with Mercy (God rest her soul)? She’s been dead for years, ever since those no-good bounty hunters tracked her down. You her sister or something?”

The Marshal sat quietly for a few minutes, then poured another shot, slowly drinking it before replying.

“He’s not the first one to confuse the two,” she admitted. “We...well, I did know her, quite well. We were trained the same way, but she got herself into a bad place.”

She looked down at her shot glass, inspecting it, then nodded.

“Guess you could say we were sisters. Can’t get much closer than that.”

“Mercy was a legend. Wish I could have met her,” Caldwell said, raising his shot glass in a salute and then downing it. “But enough about that. I don’t want you shootin’ me for admirin’ desperados.”

"Mercy Tzu wasn't really a desperado, though," the Marshal said, smiling softly. "She had the right idea, and she was the best at what she did. She was trained as an assassin--did you know that?"

Caldwell shrugged, "Well, there were stories. But everyone has all kinds of crazy stories about us. I hear I’ve got a dime novel series back East. Apparently I fight Rebel trackless train thingamabobs and mechanical buzzards while rescuing fair damsels from ruthless stepfathers. The last part is true.”

The Marshal snorted.

“I have trouble believing that. But those novels all just pick up on a name, and build up a legend around the name. If you’re lucky, it builds on the reputation you want to have. Most people aren’t that lucky.”

Caldwell mulled the Marshal’s words over for a few silent moments and then asked,” So what kind of reputation do you want to have?”

“Honestly, I’d prefer not to have one,” she admitted, “but I don’t think that is very likely to happen. Reputations, when you’re on your own, mean business. When you’re working for the state, they more often mean bad luck than anything. You?”

“One good enough I don’t actually have to shoot people to rob a bank. Makes the whole thing so much more efficient-like. And ammo is costly. No sense in spending all the loot on supplies to rob the next bank,” Caldwell said, deflecting the question.

“Would you like to eat, or buy ammunition? You can’t have both,” the Marshal grinned. “I’ve been there.”