In today’s hilariously corrupt frontier exchange, Gooser Dadburn is still trapped in a battle of wits inside the Canyon City Sheriff’s office. Desperate for a real court date, Gooser is told by the Sheriff to take his killer down the road to the actual town called Justice. When Gooser firmly points out the legal reality—that a criminal must be tried in the exact town where the crime was committed—the Sheriff waves it off, claiming the judge in Justice will happily overlook jurisdiction for a “small fee.” Gooser immediately calls out the obvious: “Um… you mean BRIBE.” But the Sheriff delivers a masterclass in administrative spin, explaining that calling it a bribe makes it a crime, whereas calling it a “fee” keeps everything totally above board—prompting Gooser’s classic, jaw-dropping reaction: “HOLY MACCA NOODLE.”

The single candle on the corner of the wooden desk flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the Sheriff’s relaxed, unbothered grin. Gooser stood dead center on the creaking floorboards, clenching all four of his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“A fee,” Gooser repeated, his single exposed eye narrowing to a sharp, disbelieving slit. “You’re standing there in front of the territorial flag, wearing a tin star pinned to your vest, telling me with a straight face that when a ruthless outlaw hands you a stack of greenbacks to avoid jail time, it’s just a standard municipal service fee?”

“Well, naturally,” the Sheriff replied, leaning casually against the iron bars of the empty holding cell. He hooked his thumbs behind his suspenders, looking like a man explaining basic arithmetic to a confused child. “Language matters, Gooser. Words have power. If a man walks in here and says, ‘Here is fifty dollars so you forget you saw me dynamite the safe at the assay office,’ that’s vulgar. That’s uncivilized. That’s a bribe, and I won’t stand for it in my precinct.”

“Right!” Gooser shouted, leaning forward. “Because that’s a felony!”

“Exactly,” the Sheriff nodded smoothly. “So instead, I hand him Form 104-B: The Voluntary Community Development and Sheriff’s Well-Being Application. He signs on the dotted line, submits a non-refundable cash donation to the Law Enforcement Benevolent Fund, and I simply find myself unable to recall the specifics of the explosion due to sudden, legally documented memory fatigue. It’s clean. It’s dignified. Everyone wins.”

Gooser squeezed his eye shut and took a long, trembling breath. “The safe at the assay office was blown to smithereens, Sheriff! The town lost its payroll!”

“And gained a brand-new spittoon for the front porch,” the Sheriff pointed out, tapping the brass container with the toe of his boot. “Paid for entirely by that gentleman’s generous civic contribution. You’re looking at this through a very narrow, punitive lens. You see ‘crime and punishment.’ I see ‘unconventional community fundraising.’”

“Unconventional fundraising?!” Gooser roared, throwing all four arms up toward the ceiling. “Sheriff, you are letting armed desperadoes walk right back out into the streets! What about the horse thief you caught on Tuesday? Did he make a ‘charitable donation’ to your pocket?”

“He was an active sponsor of our equine relocation program,” the Sheriff corrected without missing a beat. “He recognized that Buttercup was experiencing severe emotional distress in his previous pasture. In exchange for a nominal processing donation—and a very handsome pair of hand-tooled silver spur straps—I agreed that the horse had simply chosen a new career path under new management.”

“He stole the mayor’s prize stallion!” Gooser yelled. “The horse didn’t choose a career path!”

“You don’t know that,” the Sheriff mused, scratching his antenna thoughtfully. “You haven’t interviewed the horse. I tried, but he was completely uncooperative during depositions. Just kept chewing on my ledger.”

Gooser slapped both of his upper hands against his forehead, letting out a groan of sheer exasperation that rattled the windowpanes. He paced across the office, his boots thudding against the pine planks, trying to find even an ounce of logic in the lawman’s twisted worldview.

“Listen to yourself!” Gooser pleaded, turning on his heel to face the Sheriff. “If you let every killer, thief, and rustler buy their way out of a noose, the badlands will swallow this territory whole! Law and order exists to keep folks safe! When an outlaw commits a heinous act, he owes a debt to society, not an optional gratuity to your personal retirement account!”

The Sheriff sighed, shaking his head with deep, grandfatherly pity. “Gooser, son, think about the logistics for a second. If I lock up every bandit who passes through Canyon City, who pays for their room and board? The town! I gotta hire a cook to make ’em gruel. I gotta buy fresh straw for the bunks. I gotta sit here all afternoon listening to ’em complain that the harmonica playing in Cell Two is off-key. A prisoner is a liability. A philanthropist, on the other hand, is an asset!”

“They aren’t philanthropists! They’re felons!”

“They are patrons of the badge,” the Sheriff insisted warmly. “Why, just last week, Black-Eyed Bart rode into town after holding up the afternoon stage. A lesser lawman would have engaged in a messy, loud gunfight that probably would have broken the saloon windows. But I approached him with diplomacy. I explained that Canyon City has a mandatory five-dollar road maintenance assessment for high-speed stagecoach interception. Bart was so moved by our commitment to infrastructure that he donated twenty dollars on the spot! I waved goodbye, he rode off toward the border, and not a single bullet was wasted. If that isn’t peak frontier law enforcement, I don’t know what is.”

Gooser stared at him, his large red nose twitching with pure, unadulterated fury. “And what happens when Black-Eyed Bart comes back and robs the dry goods store?!”

“Then he’ll have to pay the Commercial Mercantile Verification Tariff,” the Sheriff smiled cheerfully. “I might even upgrade him to our Gold Tier Donor program. Members get a free cup of chicory coffee and immunity from loitering charges on alternate Thursdays.”

Gooser stood frozen in silence. He looked at the Sheriff, then at the empty cell, then down at the cracked pocket watch in his own vest pocket—the watch belonging to the murdered father of young Clementine Vance. The weight of his mission pressed down hard on his shoulders. He had promised that little girl that her father’s killer would stand before a real judge, face real evidence, and receive a real verdict.

He leaned across the desk, his single blue eye locked onto the Sheriff’s with cold, unyielding determination.

“Sheriff,” Gooser growled in a low, dangerous whisper. “I am going to track down that murderer. I am going to drag him back to this town by the collar of his dusty grey vest. And when I kick open that door and toss him at your feet, I am going to make sure he stands trial—without paying a single dime to your ‘benevolent fund.’”

The Sheriff looked at Gooser, stroked his chin, and grinned.

“Well now, Gooser,” the Sheriff chuckled, resting his hand on his holster. “If you’re bringing in a high-profile guest of honor and you’re insisting on zero financial contributions on his behalf… that’s going to require a very special permit.”

Gooser glared. “A permit for what?”

“For bringing in a non-paying customer,” the Sheriff said brightly. “Standard filing fee is ten dollars. But seeing as how you’re doing all the legwork, I’ll let you sponsor his arrest for eight.”

Gooser grabbed his cowboy hat, pulled it down over his face, and walked straight out the door before his head exploded into flames all over again.

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