"Hands," the Marshal stepped forward and lifted her gun, her finger resting on the trigger.

"Easy there! I went and threw all the weapons out the door like a good little boy and this is how you treat me?" Caldwell said. He backed away with his hands in the air and an exaggerated pout on his face.

Charlotte pulled Thunderstick off her back and held it at her side, her thumb ready to c**k it if necessary. One of the men seemed to be unconscious, but how did they know that for certain? And the other man was Caldwell, the guy who singlehandedly held a man captive with a fish fork. The vulnerability of their situation—two women against two criminal men—didn't escape her. And if there was one thing that Jed had taught her, it was to always be prepared.

"You just said yourself you're a not really honest man, Caldwell, and one can always trust a dishonest man to be dishonest. Jacket off--throw it on the bed."

"Take my jacket off? It's cold in here, woman! Are you trying to get me to die of the sniffles before my rightful trial?" Caldwell said as he reluctantly removed the jacket.

"If you don't toss it now, you won't live to have a rightful trial."

"Fine, I'll toss it," Caldwell grumbled as he threw the jacket over to the cot. "What's next, my pants? It's against my religion to get naked in front of strangers."

"You're not helping your cause any, Caldwell. Boots next. Same drill. One boot at a time and remain standing."

"I have blisters. Taking these boots off is going to tear them open. I'm going to get a horrible infection and my feet are going to rot off and you're going to have to carry me everywhere. Though that last bit doesn't sound too bad now that I think about it."

Charlotte snorted at Caldwell's first comment. "That will not be necessary. Taking your boots off, however, will." She cocked her rifle. "Do it. Now."

"Are you sure you're even old enough or big enough for that gun?" Caldwell said while taking off the boots. "I'm pretty sure I've seen lion-hares bigger than you."

"Just...shut up and do it," the Marshal growled, her eyes dark and mean.

"I made this gun out of what people thought was trash, which I'm sure is more than you can say. Because of this, it's highly advanced and suited to my needs. It isn't called Thunderstick for nothing." Charlotte watched and waited until Caldwell's boots were completely off his feet, then nodded. "Thank you for your cooperation."

"Thunderstick? So what, it passes gas around the campfire or something?" Caldwell fired back. He picked his boots off and wiggled them in the air so that the contents fell out on the floor. "There! My boots are off! See! Noooooothing inside of them, but bad stinks, sand, and maybe a few dead scorpions. Oh, and five aces, but I was playing cards last Tuesday in a right nice gambling hall."

The Marshal chuckled softly.

"Base of the bed," she said, and waited until he did so. "Turn around slowly, Caldwell, and keep those hands high."