An entire day and night spent huddling in the cave, and still the dust storm showed no signs of letting up.

Tracy had been warned about this sector of Mars. If the storm didn't let up, they could very well be trapped in here for several more days.

Roy slumped, sitting awkward, hands cuffed behind his back. His busted lip bled a little through a fine crack. The soft glow of the warm crackling fire lit up his bruised eye socket, showing a mosaic of deep purples, dark blues, and sickly yellows.

Some of the damage was from getting tugged out of the speeder and dragged behind Chasm for a time. The rest was from Tracy's limbs.

Outside the mouth of the cave, a veil of darkness hovered over the sky, even though they still had several Martian hours of daylight yet.

Inside, fire light flickered against the walls of the cave, dancing across a strange mask—chief among the small pile of things Tracy had removed from Roy's person after patting him down.

The marshal checked on Cora and Ashton, who used his duster as a blanket while sleeping in a small adjacent cavern, exhausted from the earlier excitement. When he came back, he found Roy watching his every move.

"You're not out of this Rothspalt. When this dust storm blows over, we'll take our first steps back home. To Earth. It's time you faced justice, don't you think?"

Roy remained silent, finding more interest in the strange patches of yellow mushrooms scattered throughout the cave that were native to Mars. They sprang from the smallest purchase of soil.

As for his part, Roy looked sick. A pallid yellow tint covered his face and hands, as if overtaken by jaundice.

"Hungry Roy?"

Roy grunted.

Starvation raked Tracy's innards himself. But for the time being, Tracy was stuck. As reliable as Chasm proved himself, with Roy's hovercraft lost in the canyon depths, he and Roy would be walking while Cora and her son rode. But until the violent sand clouds passed, there was nothing for them to do but wait it out. He pulled out a quality cigar from his portable humidor, one he'd been waiting for a while to smoke, a celebration cigar for a special occasion.

He was plumb out of matches. Sending a command to his cyberhand, his pointer fingertip opened, morphing into a makeshift torch. A cobalt blue tongue of flame kissed the edge of the cigar, toasting the end.

Roy watched Tracy, eyebrows furrowing. "I don't understand the allure of those."

Tracy lit the cigar, took a long measured draw, then spun the cigar and blew smoke into the cherry. The end shone blood-orange. "Ever enjoyed one?"

"Sure. One of those e-cigars. The taste was okay. Made me feel queasier than a dog lapping its own vomit."

"Well that's where you messed up. You did not take the time to savor an authentic cigar. And even most people that smoke an authentic cigar go about it all wrong."

"Maybe you could teach me the right way."

Tracy studied Roy, frowning. Was Roy fixing to trick him in some way?

"What? Too high-n-mighty to light tobacco with me? I see how it is."

He should be enraged at Roy. But he was too tired, too burned out to care anymore. He'd captured Roy. Again. This time he'd watch his every move so Roy wouldn't escape. As soon as the storm blew over, they'd be returning to the settlement, then to Earth.

The lawman leered at the obscured landscape outside. There was nothing around for kilometers. Nowhere for Roy to flee. Perhaps he really just was curious. Why not?

Tracy motioned for Roy to turn around. He unclasped one handcuff, then had Roy face him and cuffed his hands in front of the fugitive. He pulled out a twin of the cigar in his mouth, clipped the cap off with a cutter and toasted the end, then held it out to Roy. Roy squinted, trying to see through the ruse.

"You changed your mind so fast, not sure if I want to now."

"Take it man. Ain't poison, like those mushrooms."

Roy shrugged and took the offering. Tracy held up his torchfinger. "Tilt it towards me slightly. Right. Now, take a slow draw. No quick puffs. You'll overheat all the oils inside before you can pull them out of the cigar. Good. It's nice and lit. Now count to forty-five and then take another slow draw. And whatever you do don't take it into your lungs. It's not a cigarette."

"Then what's the point?"

"Point is, relax and enjoy the taste and the slow pace. Pause. Rest a moment. Be in the moment. Reflect."

Roy did.

"Hey, that's not half bad. I've heard these were real bitter."

"Only if you overheat. That scorches the cigar before you even really begin. The turning point, right when you burn through the foot—the first third—then you hit the body. That's where the notes start to sing."

Roy followed his instructions. The two drew in silence for a while.

"How do I get the most out of this thing? Don't want to miss an opportunity, since you seem to be a connoisseur."

Tracy nodded. "Draw in. Puff out your cheeks like a birthday balloon. Push the flavor profiles out, expanding to every corner of your mouth. Now blow out slow, and tilt your tongue up, slightly."

Roy followed the instructions.

"Now close your eyes."

Roy glared.

"Trust me. Okay, now taste the roof of your mouth. What kinds of notes sing to you?"

Roy's eyeballs twitched under his closed eyelids. "Mmm. Wow. Ain't that something."

"See how that opened up the profiles?"

"Yeah. I'm getting kind of a fresh floral mingled with a caramel aftertaste. And a pinch of zest."

"Interesting. Your palette is different than mine."

"You ain't tasting that? Aren't these the same cigar?"

Tracy closed his eyes. The scents emanating from the fumes, the notes in his mouth, they called up a different memory. "I've got earthy notes of leather, nuts, and cocoa bean."

"How are we getting different vibes from the same cigar? Bad quality control?"

Tracy eased back, stretching his legs. "Not at all. The blend you taste has everything to do with your palette, and your past." Tracy closed his eyes again. "This conjures up a Saturday afternoon. I'm at grandpa's ranch. I'm helping him saddle up the horse. It's early morning. We've had our coffee, the air is fresh, the perfect morning for a trot around the ranch."

He opened his eyes. Roy studied his cigar. "This reminds me of my parent's floral shop. Sat right next to an ice cream parlor. Used to get sea salt and caramel. Back when times was good. That didn't last long." Shadows gathered under Roy's eyes. He gazed at the mask, the one sitting on top of his pile of things.

"What happened?"

Roy chuckled. "My old man couldn't keep his hands tending the flowers. He was too much man for one woman, my mother used to say. Like a rose, he was, she used to say. A real looker, but his thorns always cut deep."

"How so?"

"Kept cheating on her. Always would beg for forgiveness after she found out. Ma always forgave him. But Dad grew worse. Mother grew bitter. Couldn't run the business together when Pops was always running off."

Tracy grunted, puffing a cloud of smoke.

"Finances got caught in a bind. Ma wasn't good with money. Pops was, but he didn't pay attention to the bills. Things piled up. Debt collectors came around. He took a dive off the deep end. Eventually, had to close up shop. They split. And I had to choose. They were so busy fighting with each other, they forgot to parent me."

Tracy nodded, noting that the entire time Roy spoke, his gaze never left the mask.

"My dad was a deadbeat. When things got hard, he'd throw in the towel, just give up. Eventually abandoned my mom. No side fling. No other woman. Just didn't want nothing to do with us."

"Really? How does a lawman like you come from a childhood like that?"

"I hated my dad. It was impotent rage at best. Couldn't fight him. Couldn't change him. So I vowed to never be like my father. Whatever he was, I was gonna be the opposite."

"To make something of yourself?"

Tracy frowned. "I guess. Mostly just to spite him. Just to show him, after all his failures, I still turned out the better man."

Roy's eyes widened. "Still bothers you? Gets you where it hurts, don't it?"

Tracy spit with the wind. "One of the last things I did a few weeks before coming here was visit him in jail. He's still the same. Blaming everyone else. Never owning up to anything."

Tracy huffed on his cigar. "That man wasn't my father. Grandpa ended up raising me."

"Better than me. I's raised by the foster system."

"Better individuals have come from that system. Downright shame you had to stain it."

Roy flashed on Tracy. "Those people were family. But they had their hands full. There's always another foster kid coming into the system, right behind you. And another right behind her. Too many to devote too, too many to care for completely. They gotta spread their love. And lots of them kids ain't loveable. Like impounded mutts. Been hurt too many times. All they know how to do is snarl and bite. They damage all their own chances at settling down with a real, good family. Then they think something must be wrong with them, and there is, but they think there's something wrong on a fundamental level. At the core."

Tracy squinted, reflecting on Roy's meaning. "So you admit, life in and of itself, has intrinsic value?"

"Well sure."

"Well, you sure don't act like it."

Roy didn't answer. He worked on the cigar some more.

"You need to be center stage, huh? All eyes on you. Others may have a spark of value, but you, you're special. You're a blazing bonfire of worth. What are you trying to do? Make up for all the affection you missed as a kid? How'd you go from clipping flowers, to cutting lives short, Roy?"

Roy ignored the question, changing the focus from himself to the marshal. "You think you're the Law, man. But you ain't. You're the Law's hound dog. Sure they've let you off the leash while the hunt is on. But after the hunt ends, back on the leash you go. And eventually when they run out of use for you... well, I don't want to be crass, but they'll do you in like Ole' Yeller."

Roy's cuffed hands reached for the pile of his belongings.

Before Roy moved another inch, the lawman had Judge and Jury cocked and ready.

"Easy, Marshal. It's just a trinket."

He held up the pallid bronze mask for Tracy to see.

Copper light reflected off the facial façade. Tracy had seen it somewhere before, but he knew that wasn't possible. An uneasy feeling of dread clawed up his gut into his chest, but he gripped Judge and Jury all the more, drawing strength from them.

"In foster care, I delved into books. They were the only things I had. Whole worlds existed inside those pages, places full of wonder. And hidden power. I once read an old book, penned by an old dead Terran writer," Roy began. "I read a conversation between two characters and the words have always stuck with me, even if I did not grasp the depth of their meaning."

He paused, but Tracy stayed silent.

"In the story, one man said, 'You've forgotten the face of your father.'"

If the words were supposed to hold a weight of value, they meant nothing to Tracy on the surface.

Roy's eyebrows furrowed, sensing the ignorance in Tracy. "My dad was the reason I got thrown into the foster system. So when I got out I tracked him down. Thought it would be hard, you know. He must be far away, never able to come visit me. But no, found out I'd lived just on the other side of town from him. He never visited me. Not once did he contact me.

"I pummeled him, breaking his ribs, until it was too hard for him to breathe. But those words echoed in my mind, the words from the book. I did not harm his face. After he fell still, I gazed upon the man that brought me into the world, the man who shaped me. I still loved him, and longed for his love in return. But I'd ended him.

"Okay. I've heard enough," said Tracy.

Roy grinned. "I'm almost to the best part. As I gazed upon my father, the words rang out in my mind so clear, that I knew I must never forget the face of my father. Before the body could decompose, I made a cast, a perfect likeness of his death mask."

Roy brought the mask up, covering his own face. From behind it he whispered. "Now I never have to forget the face of my father. I wear it."

Numbness washed over Tracy's own face. Lips tingling, he scowled to fight back the unease.

"You're sick."

Tracy leaned in to snatch the mask, but Roy tucked it away.

The lawman removed Jury from the holster and gave the cylinder a spin. The clicks ticked off from fast to slow. In a wink, Tracy flipped the revolver around his finger and pressed the barrel against Roy's forehead.

"You almost had me fooled with that sob story. I forgot that you're little more than an animal acting out his base instinct. I'd do the world a favor right now blowing your head clean off."

Tracy edged the barrel deeper, wrinkling Roy's skin.

Roy smirked. "Do it already. Why don'tcha?"

Heavy breaths pumped Tracy's ribs in and out. His heart thumped in his chest, blood pounding in his ears.

He gritted his teeth. "I should turn your head into a strainer, huh."

Roy wiggled his eyebrows. "Come on. Give me a good jolt."

Surprising even himself, Tracy's grip tightened on the gun, testing the trigger pull. His finger pulled back, ever so slowly, until he knew he reached the end of the give, and even the slightest twinge of his index would cause a blast that at this range would warp Roy's face beyond recognition, leaving him an unidentifiable smoking corpse.

He could end it all. Right then. All the tracking, running, and chasing would be over. And every life Roy ever took would be avenged. He could go home to Hina, and his unborn child.

But would he return the same man?

No.

Did he even care anymore?

Roy sickened him, revolting him to the core, bubbling his insides.

Staring down the sight of the blaster, the name Jury popped out at him.

Judge. Jury. Court of Law.

Tracy eased off of the trigger with a slow sigh and holstered the gun. He thanked himself for etching those reminders in his revolvers. They kept him from taking the law into his own hands.

"I knew you couldn't do it. Pathetic."

"Yeah. I'm not a sick murderer like you."

Roy spat at Tracy, but missed.

He looked pitiful now. His silly saffron suit torn to shreds, covered in dirt and dust, battered and bruised. His air of dignity fled.

"Why the reverend ruse, Roy? Why deceive the lost and lowly? Why abuse your good looks?"

Roy scoffed. "Why? Because it's fun, duping the masses. I hold them in the palm of my hand. Once I have their trust, they'll do almost anything I ask or order. And in exchange, the King gives me more power."

"The King? Part of your made-up religion?"

Roy's face contorted. "My intentions for the sheep are simple. Lead them to sheering, so all their imperfections can be stripped away. Or, if they are weak, to the slaughter. But the King—he's real. Don't believe me? Every man serves a master. You serve your feeble Law. I serve the King in Yellow."

Tracy wanted to brush it off as the raving of a madman, but he recalled his dream, the nightmare that occurred after he'd saved the homesteader Jorah from the clutches of the rustlers.

He'd seen an immense figure, cloaked in yellow, wearing a crown. He shuddered as the image entered his mind. Something beyond the decrepit figure's elongated disproportionate figure disturbed him. The being emanated a roiling sense of wrong, feelings of vengeful hate, famished hunger, and cold indifference, all drowning in a sea of terror.

Outside, the dust storm blew across the mouth of the cave, howling.

Tracy fought back a shiver.

Roy whispered. "I recognize that faraway look. You've seen him too, huh?"

Tracy gulped, wanting to deny it, but unable to lie.

The mad fugitive continued in a joyous whisper. "If you've seen the King, then you know why I must obey his will. I alone was chosen for this task, to lead the sheep."

"Well good luck with that, leading them cuffed up while in a cave during a sandstorm."

Then he tied Roy to Chasm and checked on Cora and Ashton again. She stirred, but still slept in spite of he and the fugitive's scuffle. The loud wind must have muffled most of their clamor. He sat down and tried to get comfortable on the cave floor.

"Shuddup now, Rothspalt. I'm needing some peace and quiet. Soon you'll be heading back to face justice."

Roy lay his head down and closed his eyes with a grin. Soon he snored like a man asleep in a feather bed.