Serenity

4. Morning Glory

"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.