"Marshal, I surely am offended. I am a God-fearin' man. If I didn't give them a proper Christian burial, I do not believe I could sleep at night," Caldwell said, mock-indignantly as he grabbed a chair to sprawl in. "So we plannin' us an escapade? Heroic rescue of the sweet young lady languishin' in captivity?"

"Are you sure you haven't gotten your religions mixed up? Because given what you just said, I'm surprised you haven't died from lack of sleep yet," the Marshal said. "And we're figuring something out. Still heavily on the figuring part."

"Give me fifty years of practice and maybe then I'll catch up to you." Abigail replied, once she finally came up with a reply suitably sarcastic enough.

Given his exterior vantage point, Jed couldn't help but snicker a bit. It wasn't everyday that someone dared to wedge themselves under the Marshal's skin, but this bounty hunter didn't seem to be afraid of the alpha female. Not the wisest choice, in his experience. "Look, lets just draw this map."

He was starting to root for the redhead.

"Honey, if I gave you fifty years, you'd be the president of the bi-annual knitting bee," the Marshal replied without missing a beat. She slid some papers and graphite across the table. "Get to drawing, Ang Mo."

Charlotte stayed put in the tent, cramped from the lack of movement and irritated with not knowing where she was. She occasionally heard voices, but couldn't discern anything beyond that. She considered going outside the tent, but thought better of it. Something about the way the man had warned her to stay told her this was serious, and that of all times, she should listen now.

Charlotte didn't mean to, but her eyelids started getting drowsy, and her head nodded back and forth. She laid down on the soft grass. Whether it was the sheer boredom or lack or sleep, she ended up falling asleep, and sleeping fitfully off and on.

~~~

Charlotte woke with a start, scooting backwards with an involuntary jerk of her limbs. There had been a horse whinny or something, that had woken her up. She looked around, still trying to get her bearings. A moment later, the flap of the tent pulled back, and the first man, the one with the metal arm, ducked in.

Daniel studied her for a moment, then picked up a chair and set it down where he could face her, but was still between her and the door. He sat, watching her, then finally spoke.

“Hello, Charlotte,” he said.

She recoiled, scooting back even further. “How do you know my name?”

“I’ve known you for far longer than you would expect,” he replied. “I’ve made sure to watch over you as you’ve grown up. Which, I suppose, is why I’m a little surprised that you turned up here.”

“What?” She stared at him. “Because that’s not creepy at all.” She sat forward, pulling a handful of grass out of the ground absentmindedly to give her fingers something to do. “Yeah. I’m kind of wondering the same myself, to be honest.”

“Why were you outside of the town? The Marshal should have taught you better than that.”

“How do you know the Marshal?” Charlotte asked. “And why should I tell you anything, when I don’t know you?”

Daniel sat quietly for a few moments, his eyes closed. Just when one might have wondered if he had fallen asleep, he finally spoke.

“Your life is more complicated than you think,” he finally said. “Think of it like a spider’s web--your life is one strand in a twisted web. It bends this way and that; all of ours do, and the different lines intersect in many different places--but they all touch at some point. I can’t help you unless you trust me--but that’s something you’re going to choose to do.”

Charlotte was speechless for a moment. “That’s a really beautiful analogy,” she finally said, “but awfully, awfully cryptic. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you right away. Tell me how you know the Marshal. And how you know so much about me.”

“The Marshal’s story is her own,” Daniel said shortly. “And I’m not sure you’re ready to know how I know you. Even if I did tell you, you would not remember it. Suffice to say that Ezekiel Cane was a good friend of mine, as was William Greyson--though you might not remember him, either. It’s been a while since he has been around.”

“I know him…” she said warily, “Ezekiel, that is.” She paused for a long moment. “I’m still not… sure how you know so much about me. Or whether to trust you. And as much as I would love to ask the Marshal about her story, she’s not here.” Her voice rose at the last part of her sentence, a symptom of her exhaustion and frayed nerves.