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Linn Keller 11-22-07 Jacob and I took turns out back, splitting wood and hauling in kindling and fire wood, for the days were chll and the nights more so, and a November mist had started: the clouds were the color of lead, snow clouds if I'd ever seen them, I thought, and the cast iron stove felt pretty darn good. Jacob had filled the water bucket, carrying it left handed, two gallon and more ... I did a quick calculation. Twenty pound of wood and water, easily hauled in his off hand. There was strength in that young arm. He swung an ax easily, as if born to it, and his young hands, though callused, were quick and dextrous. He habitually kept his gun hand free. I hadn't taught him that, but he saw it in me as well. Though I carried two Colts, I am right handed, and prefer to fire with my right hand, as I am quicker, and more accurate; Jacob practiced with either hand, and though he carried his Army Colt inside his belt on the right hand side, he was equally as deadly with a left hand presentation. We sparred, there in the quiet of the Sheriff's office, using rolled up news paper we'd both read and re-read and re-read again, rolled into practice knives. I am not slow by any means, and in spite of many winters' snowy stains upon my temples, I am hardly in the "sere and yellow," as a fellow named Doyle wrote in his detective serial so popular in Eastern papers; still, Jacob was young, and lithe, and with the quick reflexes and green strength of youth, and could "kill" me anytime he wanted with a "knife." He and I knew, and knew well, the vulnerable points of the human body. I taught him efficiency; he taught himself smoothness; together we both improved our skills, but Jacob was a marvel, a wonder to behold. He moved with the smooth grace of a dancer, the deadly efficiency of a swordsman, the precision of a meatcutter. He was a dead shot with a rifle, but he knew his own limitations, and those of his rifle; he never once tried to exceed either one -- not once, ever. In spite of his prowess as a warrior he was still ... well, the words I penned into my journal were "a sweet boy, my own dear son, in whom I am proud as hell!" We went over to the Jewel and had a quiet supper. Esther had just finished her interminable book work for the evening, and I saw her floating downstairs, as she always did; for all that she was solid and real in my arms, it would be easy for me to think of her as a creature etheral, who floated rather than walked. Jacob, too, respected her beauty. We stood at the foot of the grand staircase, each of us with our hat in our hand, and Jacob spoke for us both when he breathed, "I want to remember this, sir. I want to remember this forever!" I looked at Esther's emerald eyes, and how the satin trim on her gown rippled like liquid fire in the lamplight, and how delicately she colored, and her eyes lowered, when she heard Jacob's quiet words. I want to remember this, too, I thought. I want to remember this forever!