Each day a man must ask, “Toward what am I called? Is there anything at all?”

Yule Sherwin did surely have to wonder. Just rolling out of bed meant suffering life's accumulated aches. He had driven more nails than were stars in the sky. Wrist and elbows, rusty hinges; bone-on-bone grinding. His mind ached at first light, too. Demons hell-bent on sloth were crafting sweet dreams to keep him in bed. The whole day prior had been spent acquiescing to those devils, and he loathed himself for indulging in that infernal siesta. Today ought to be different.

Thus, when sunlight had just begun to seep inside the loft, his bed was already empty. He had his boots on before coffee could even be brewed. He'd heard a call, alright – but it wasn't the trade. He went past his half-built armoires, barely-cobbled bureaus and utterly-abandoned chiffoniers. He went past the coffin parts. High up in the Rockies, morning is right-fucking-brisk and a man's lungs do feel the squeeze. Stepping out onto the planked porch fronting his shop, Yule grinned at the chill. The air was crisp and clear as his purpose. The burro laid with its legs curled up under its trunk. The sign next door read: JAIL.

For months, treasonous whispers had criss-crossed the camp, “Was the Sheriff Sterling Penrose kept in Rex Westman's pocket? Was he a puppet?” Yule reckoned not. He'd witnessed and overheard Sheriff Penrose in action. It didn't matter the hue of a man's flannel, nor if by wearing it they bore allegiance to Westman – the Sheriff was color-blind in his pursuit of justice. Standing before the JAIL, Yule reckoned not even a crooked lawman could ignore the crimes he was come to report, anyway. He meant to testify to maimings, grave-robbing, poisoning – and the impossible murder of the Madame's already-dead boy.

“I'm about to sound right fucking mental,” Yule said. His breath fogged out and the burro blinked once and twitched its ears. Shuffling indecisively, Yule repeated, “I sound right fucking mental.” But before Yule could lose his nerve, the door swung open and the Sheriff stepped out of the JAIL.

“Holdin' congress with yourself alone?” Sheriff Penrose asked. He was hauling an armful of saddle and went to work dressing his horse.

“Yes sir,” Yule replied. “Just sussing out loud.”

“Much whiskey this morning, Yule?”

“No sir.”

“Can I do ye for something, then?” The Sheriff finished strapping and tightening the harness upon his mount. “I'm in a rush to execute this warrant and mine deputy is tardy – per-the-fucking-norm. Thought for sure you were him out here ramblin'.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Do you own a pistol?”

“No sir,” Yule answered. “I come by a rifle, though.”

“Well get ye horse and rifle and come along,” the Sheriff ordered. He put his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up. “I hereby swear you in as deputy for today only.”

“I'm flattered but I must refuse.” Backing away, Yule said, “In truth I was meaning to report some crimes this morning, but mayhap I ought come see you again later.”

“You can tell me all about it while we ride out.” Sheriff Penrose checked the bullets in his belt. “I need your gun, Sherwin – just for a little while.”

After impersonating the Law the night prior, it was apt that Yule should be conscripted as its honest instrument. This was his karmic comeuppance. He collected his long-arm and pony and went out of town beside the Sheriff. It was a resigned, awkwardly quiet ride.

“I ought inform you – we're to apprehend a murderer this morn,” the Sheriff finally said. He studied a piece of parchment he'd unfolded upon his horse's pommel. He read the charges aloud, “Linus Meeks. Wanted for the stabbing of one whore. Assumption is she was raped as well – but that charge is of lesser consequence.”

“The girl found dead last week at the Bare?” Yule had heard of the slaying from Misty.

“Aye yup,” the Sheriff confirmed. “Now listen Sherwin, you just keep me covered and we'll bring him in without any more bloodshed.”

“I shall perform to the best of my ability,” Yule promised.

“That's all I ask.” Sheriff Penrose tucked the warrant back inside his jacket.

The trail turned quiet again. Yule was at a loss for words. He still meant to report the crimes he'd come to know – but where to begin? The Sheriff's star was glinting in the sunlight, same as the nearby creek.

“Linus Meeks stays in a cabin up yonder,” Sheriff Penrose said. “Just off the trail – abut the brook. We'll go by foot from here.”

They stashed the horses in the brush. Yule followed the Sheriff's lead and they crept along with guns drawn. The rifle had never been heavier. He'd only ever lifted the barrel at bunnies before, and never had he managed to peg one.

Up ahead, a thatch-roofed cabin was plopped alongside the creek. There were telltale signs of hard luck. Gold-pans littered the dirt and the stream riffled around a clogged sluice. A bag of corn was spilled beside a copper still, and jugs of moonshine were in shards. Gray smoke puffed out of the cabin's flue.

“Looks to be occupied,” the Sheriff whispered. He ordered Yule, “Hunker down here and keep an eye out.”

“Will do.” Yule aimed his rifle at the cabin.

“Yule,” Sheriff Penrose grimly implored, “should the need arise, you shoot to kill.”

Leaving behind the cover of brush, the Sheriff sneaked across the dirt lot with his pistol cocked. He spied through the cabin's window. Even from afar Yule could tell it was dark and he doubted the Sheriff would be able to see if anyone was inside. He watched the lawman skirt around the shanty till he came to a porch and then the front door. Sheriff Penrose pressed his back against the wall and held his gun ready. He made a fist and pounded on the door.

“Linus Meeks!” he hollered. “By the count of three, you will make yourself fucking present.”

There was no answer from the cabin, but on the far side of the creek the scrub rustled. Yule saw him, presumptively Linus Meeks, crouching in the gnarls over yonder. Meeks was loading shells into a shotgun, and Yule reckoned with the way they were all situated that Sheriff Penrose wasn't wise to his true whereabouts. The cabin was blocking the Sheriff's view. It was falling on Yule to act, and the rifle was not going to aim itself.

“Meeks!” the Sheriff reiterated. “You will throw down your arms and exit the cabin this fucking instant!”

On the far end of the creek, Linus closed the break on his shotgun and aimed it toward the cabin. He slipped out of the snarls and waded calf-deep through the water. Sheriff Penrose pounded upon the cabin's door, and Meeks used the ruckus to camouflage the sound of his own advance. He closed to the cabin's rear wall and leveled his shotgun. Yule Sherwin's gut was cold and turgid as a bucket of old mortar. Sheriff Penrose abandoned the front door and crept toward the rear – on a course to bring him into Meeks's line-of-fire. There was no time left to think. Yule couldn't sit idly by and watch the Sheriff's murder. He raised his rifle and the lawman's words echoed in his mind: “Should the need arise, you shoot to kill.”

There was a hitch in their collective giddy-up, though. When it came to manslaughter, Yule Sherwin was a virgin. His trigger was too sensitive, and it discharged prematurely – before he could even get it aimed. The bullet thudded into the dirt and Linus swung the shotgun about and returned fire. Yule dove into the brush and thought himself dead. He gagged on gunsmoke. The Sheriff was shouting but Yule couldn't make out any words with his rung ears. Then it was quieter.

Yule gulped and peered out from his hiding hole, meek as any rifle-armed man could ever be. Linus had cast off his shotgun and his hands were held high. The Sheriff's pistol was low and ready. He chucked a set of cuffs and Linus caught them against his belly.

“Put 'em on tight,” the lawman ordered.

“I deny all wrong-doing!” Linus yowled.

“I've yet to read you any charges.”

“You sure ain't.” Linus held the cuffs in his clutch but was no closer to fixing them on his wrists. “Maybe you ought to.”

“Linus Meeks, Madame Danish has an eye-witness saw you stab a girl to death in the bordello,” the Sheriff began.

“Oh?” Meeks laughed. “That so?”

“Yes that's fuckin' so.” Sheriff Penrose gestured with his pistol. “Get the cuffs on.”

“Sheriff I sure would – if I were Linus Meeks.” He dropped the manacles in the dirt. The Sheriff cocked his gun to kill and Yule could only watch.

“Pick them up,” the Sheriff demanded.

“No sir, I'm not Linus! I be Joseph Meeks – his brother.” He kept his hands raised and did not stoop to retrieve the handcuffs. “He's inside. He's in bed sick. I'll show you.”

“I'll show myself.” Sheriff Penrose turned to Yule. “Shoot him if he moves.”

The lawman went inside, and Yule tried to keep his rifle steady enough to be taken seriously. The Meeks, whichever he was, laughed and shook his head.

“That feller's in for a shock,” he said. Yule snorted and did his best impression of grit. Meeks asked, “You got a smoke, Deputy?”

“No I do not,” Yule answered.

The Sheriff reemerged from the cabin, paler.

“Gadzooks.” He was gut-punched – breathless. “You're twins? Identically?”

“Yup,” the Meeks replied.

“You say you're Joseph – and that sick man who looks just the same – is Linus?”

“Affirmative.”

“Well alright then.” The sheriff aimed his pistol at the man now known as Joseph Meeks and said, “Put the cuffs on.”

“Why? I told you—”

“I'm taking you both in,” the Sheriff interrupted. “We'll need a sled for your brother – he's too sick for the saddle.”

“What for? I did nothing!”

“To mine eyes you both present as criminally offensive cocksuckers,” Sheriff Penrose explained. “And I've cells enough at the jail till we can suss out the genuine felon. Now, you got a sled for your kin?”

The Brothers Meeks did possess a sled, and the unwell twin was tied to it. Yule could not believe his own eyes. The brothers were a single man in duplicate. The sick brother would attempt to speak but his pipes were clogged. Yule wondered if he'd survive long enough to hang. He wondered just what sort of sick the Meeks had, too, and kept his distance best he could. The sled was tied to the Sheriff's mount and dragged behind. The other brother was made to march with his wrists manacled.

“Has the doctor seen him?” Sheriff Penrose asked the upright Meeks as they rode back toward Red Junction.

“Nope,” he answered. “He didn't want to come back into town. You know, since he'd killed that girl and all.” The Meeks grinned, and Yule thought for sure that meant he was the real killer. That was some cold-blood, tossing your own kin under the coach that way. Yule Sherwin's enlistment could not end soon enough. He did not want to spend any more time as deputy, with scoundrels so close at hand.