"God damn you, Sheriff Bailey."

Bill Dawson snarled, his face bent over in a rusty enamel bowl.
"I ain't never seen a mornin' from this side o' the grill before."

He wiped his rough hand across his mouth to remove the stringy remnants of sick, then glared over his shoulder at the hunched figure sat next to the doorway.

Sheriff Bailey didn't move an inch.

Old Bill sniffed and leaned back on the creaky metal bunk. He rested his back straight against the stone sides of the jail cell wall. It cooled his hot skin through his thin, torn shirt. The welcome breeze from the open door behind the Sheriff washed over his upturned face. A faint taint of Bailey's moustache pomade turned his empty stomach over.

"Ah, heck." He groaned as he bit back the urge to vomit again. "Are you ever gonna use something other than that rancid ol' 'Crispin' ointment? That stuff'll rot the hair right offa your skin."

The old high-backed dining chair Bailey sat in creaked with his sudden shift in balance. He favoured resting his reasonable weight against his right hip and buttock. A fall from a disrespectful cob in his teens had left the Sheriff with a constant lean to that side. Along with a nagging ache in his damaged left thigh on the damper days of winter.

He winced and dug his trimmed nails into the soft varnish of the chair's slim armrests. Once again he congratulated himself for having the foresight to leave the front door open. There was nothing worse than the stench of a drunk's sick to set himself calling 'Huey' into a bucket.

Calvin Bailey's thirty-five years on this earth had doubled with his experience of life. Time in the military had left him with a cool view of the chain of command led by ignorance from the rich and mighty. Only one man had gained Bailey's respect during his tour of duty.

Sergeant Cooper, a tough act for any man to follow. Although Bailey strove every day to do just that. Follow that man's lead in life and probably, as he had so bravely done himself, into death.

The Sheriff of Serenity cleared his throat noisily and rubbed his calloused palms along the rough stubble of his cheeks. Old Bill had been in the wrong place at the wrong time in the early hours of this Tuesday morning.

He hadn't exactly wanted to lock up the old fella but unfortunately that pompous, pain in the ass Zimmerman had forced his hand. Standing there all high and mighty under the light of the full moon. Bailey had sensed his steel blue eyes glinting with menace.

He knew what kind of a man Carl Zimmerman was. He'd met that type before. They were their most dangerous when they kept calm. That kind of man would snap when you least expected. Better to trust a raving, loud mouth hurling abuse at the world than a quiet, collected and calculating demon in disguise.

You couldn't trust him farther than you could throw him. And man, he'd like to do that someday.

Bailey had done old Bill a favour. By scooping him up off the dirt in the street, he'd made sure the poor old drunk was sure to see another day's dawn. The look on Zimmerman's face had given Bailey the cue to steer Bill Dawson away from trouble and into the relative safety of the jail cell. At least for one night.

Men like Zimmerman never let things go. It would only be a matter of time before old Bill came to the moment of reckoning for whatever offence he may have given the callous Saloon owner. However, until that fateful day, Calvin Bailey was willing to step in-between the paths of fate.

He owed old Bill that much. After two years and seven months, the Sheriff had come no closer to solving the mystery behind the murder of Bill's drinking buddy.

Now, that was a strange old story. The body had never been found, yet the mouthpiece of the Spirit of the West, Miss Molly Stockholme herself, swore to have witnessed his dead body. More specifically, the lady had spoken of Harrison's slit throat still seeping with sticky blood while he lay there on her bedroom floor.

How exactly the man had come to such a terrible end still remained a mystery. Miss Molly had no recollection of the events leading up to the suspected murder and her alibi held up in view of her profession. A lady of such an employment could be understandably incommunicado within the arms of certain hallucigens. No doubt a regular event to these ladies of ill repute.

Calvin found no reason to disbelieve Miss Molly Stockholme. Or the sincere recount of the evening and the discovery by the sad-eyed bartender. It had been the unnerving presence of the owner of the saloon, Mr Zimmerman that had set the Sheriff's nerves on edge.

That man would not be capable of recognising the truth even if it slapped him across that self-satisfied face of his.

"Hey, Sheriff."

Old Bill called out, shaking Bailey from his thoughts.
"You gonna keep me here all day, or you gonna let me go home and sleep it off? 'Cause I gotta warn you, I'm a real bad snorer. Or so I been told." Bill added the last nugget of information in a muttered whisper. He hung his head down close to his knees and glanced sideways up at the Sheriff.

Bailey read his expression for a while. He knew that old Bill understood the real motive behind his incarceration. There was no point in holding onto him any longer.

The Sheriff stretched out his long, muscular legs and rose slowly from the chair.
"I guess I could let you slide on that account, Bill."

A warm breath of morning air blew in through the doorway, accompanied by the tantalising scent of bacon frying for breakfast in the canteen across the street.

Bailey's stomach growled in answer to the call.

He closed his eyes and lifted his chin up, catching the delicious trail.
"What do you say we go and grab us a plate of that bacon and tomato from Frank's Cafeteria? You know, fend off the whiskey's sour wake up call. Line your stomach, so to speak?"

Calvin's eyebrows crossed and rose involuntarily as he moved behind the chair and stooped over to rest his weight on its back. He could alleviate the ache at the base of his spine this way.

"So?" He prompted the pale-faced inmate. "You think you can handle some chow there, old man?"

Bill Dawson slowly slid his way from the edge of the bunk and straightened himself to a respectable posture. The sweet smell of bacon had reached his nostrils. Causing the old man to lick his dry lips and open his mouth to taste the air.

Memories swamped Bailey's focus for a second. His father had cooked up bacon every Sunday morning for eight-year-old Calvin Bailey and his two brothers. Every Goddamn Sunday. Right up until the last Sunday in May, twenty-seven years ago.

That morning the bacon had been left to burn. Calvin's brothers, one tall and funny as hell, the other broad and silent as the night, had been cut down to the ground by the rapid fire of a gatling gun. Splays of splintered wood covering young Calvin's head.

His neck still bore the scared lines of scratches from this trauma. He passed a hand absent-mindedly along the soft skin of his neck and rubbed at the top of his spine. It gave him comfort in a way. Kind of a connection to what he'd lost that day and what he refused to forget.

"Hey, Sheriff."

Old Bill's words croaked their way through the memory of Calvin's youth.

"Are you gonna bust me outta here or what? 'Cause I know for a fact that that there breakfast' ain't gonna be a waiting on us much longer. What do you say?"

Sheriff Bailey took a deep breath. He pushed the tip of his hat back with a flick of his finger and fixed his eyes on the bloodshot pupils of Bill Dawson.
"I'd say that's a reasonable argument to be had, Bill. You think you can make it through breakfast without hurling your guts up on that nice clean floor of Frank's?"

Bill lowered his greying head and shook it with exaggerated movements.
"Hell, no, Mr Bailey, Sir, I ain't got nothing left to hurl."

Calvin smiled and pushed himself away from the back of the chair. He strode over to the jail cell and pulled out the key from his trouser pocket. A tune from Sunday morning's hymns scratched its way onto his lips and he whistled 'All Things Bright and Beautiful' into the vomit-ridden air surrounding Bill's cell.

He watched the old man straighten himself up and smooth back the greying brown strands across his scalp as he got ready for his release.

The key jammed in the lock.

Bill caught Bailey's eye. The Sheriff raised his left eyebrow and waggled the key roughly up and down. Bill held his gaze and growled.
"You gotta be kidding me, Mister."

Heat began to rise in Bailey's cheeks. He shuffled the rusty key harder around its lock then kicked the bottom of the barred door for good measure.

Old Bill smirked and sat back down on the bunk.
"Yeah, that'll do it."

The Sheriff's blood boiled.
"Hey!" He yelled out. "Keep your trap shut or I'll have you in here till Christmas, old man."

Unperturbed, Bill Dawson held up his hands and preceeded to examine the cleanliness of his nails.

Bailey couldn't help but snort with laughter at the figure his prisoner was portraying.
"Ah, Bill," He sniggered, "Give over, you're never going to find gold in that collection of dirt."

The Sheriff finally felt the key pull on the correct nodule of the lock. Thankfully, he yanked back the cell door.
"Besides," He added, grinning from ear to ear. "You stink so much that that poor little Leprechaun at the end of your immigrant rainbow is going to want to fill his pot with hot and soapy water instead of gold. Anything to rid us of the stench."

Old Bill jumped off his bunk and shouldered his way through the door past the taller Sheriff.

"I'm gonna choose to ignore that last remark, Mr Sheriff. Also, I'm gonna need you to refrain from future insults as to the like, whilst we partake in the bounty of Mr. Frank's canteen bacon."

Sheriff Bailey stood back and placed his strong hands on the top of his thighs.
"Heck, Bill. That has to be the first time I've heard you string a sentence together. You sure you're feeling alright?"

Bill Dawson hoisted up his collapsing pants and grumbled to himself.

The Sheriff let the older man take the lead out of the cramped space of the Sheriff's office.

Once out and across the boardwalk, Bailey kicked the right heel of his boots into the dusty road. It had been so long since it rained that a cloud of light yellow dust formed a bubble around the lower half of his body. His dark blue pants were obscured by the dust particles.

Bailey sighed and brushed his hands down roughly over his legs.

Old Bill Dawson grinned back at the Sheriff. His path already set on the open and welcoming doorway of the hostel opposite the Sheriff's office. The entrancing odour of sizzling bacon must have grabbed Bill by the throat and dragged him in.

The Sheriff followed, gently cautious. He glanced to his left and right quickly. Checking for signs of attack. So far so good. Once satisfied that no harm lay in wait for his recently released prisoner, Bailey snuck into the Café and took his place in a stall close to the far wall.

Bill had chosen the stall in front of him, already half occupied by a large lady in a dust-ridden dark riding habit. He hesitated before sitting down.

The lady preceeded to recount a loud tale to the unwilling ears of the shabby newcomer.

The Sheriff shook his head and glanced his way through the Café's small line of hungry gold prospectors and entrepreneurs, all hungrily awaiting their turn for food. He watched Bill reach a hand backwards towards the worn-out butt section of his pants and scratch some kind of itch.

Laughing loudly, Bailey ignored the old man's stares, then helped himself to the waiting stack of glorious bacon and smiled.