[Firelands-The Beginning]

Duzy Wales 4-22-08

 

When Jake arrived in Marshville, he had a sick feeling inside, not just looking at the devastation of almost the entire town; no, this was something more personal, and as he read the list of passengers that were on the incoming train, he suddenly realized why. The last car, a private railcar, had the names, Kid Sopris and Duzy Wales Sopris.

“No!” It was only one word, but the thoughts behind it were many. Could it be true that Duzy and Kid were now married? Were they alive? The storm had not did as much damage to the train itself, as it had the town, even though it had hit in four places that they could determine. Jake went in search of the private railcar and found it off the track, lying almost 500 yards away, overturned.

Carefully making his way inside, he called out their names, hoping to hear some sign of life, but no one was there. As he turned, he noticed Duzy’s diary in the corner, and picked it up and began to read. The words filled him with joy and hope in the beginning, as she spoke of their love and plans for the future, and then she had written of the heart wrenching pain of his tryst with Mary Sloan. As he turned the pages, he began to read about the trip to Washington, and how close she was becoming to Kid, and the last two entries tore at his heart. Would he ever know what she had decided? Would he have the chance to find out?

As he left the railcar, he looked for any signs of Duzy and Kid leaving the car, but the rain had washed away any evidence of anyone being there, and then he noticed a small cemetery, another 50 feet away, probably a family plot, sitting atop a hill, and turned away, not wanting to think of that final scene. Jake returned to the Court House, which was now serving as the morgue, to search each person that had not already been buried.

After an extensive search at the courthouse, neither Duzy nor Kid could be found. Jake, along with two of his men, left to search the perimeters of the railcar, not expecting to find anyone. With a heavy heart, and unspeakable grief, he wrote the words that were to be sent to Firelands, as soon as the wires were back up, wishing he could go in person, but knowing he had a job to do.

To: Sheriff Linn Keller, Firelands, Colorado
Duzy and Kid missing.
Presumed dead.
Marshall Jake Thomas, Marshville, Missouri

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Linn Keller 4-22-08

 

Jacob and his father worked together, quickly, silently, with the efficiency of practice and close association: Jacob turned down the covers of the single bed Esther kept in her office, for those long nights when business kept her from home, or she might feel the need for a nap: Linn swung her into bed, hesitated, then quickly divested her of the gown she wore: he worked silently, frowning, with a look Jacob had seen before.
Jacob knew his father believed something was very wrong, but he also knew that his father could handle the situation.
Linn released Esther's corset, using the bedsheet to maintain her modesty, and rested his fingers lightly on the side of her throat, then against her cheek.
He looked over, at the bureau. Jacob followed his gaze and smiled.
He poured water from the pitcher into the basin, and brought the basin over, and two towels.
Esther woke to the feeling of having her left hand carefully washed with a damp cloth, and her face; she moaned, shaking her head, and her emerald eyes snapped open, regarding the tin ceiling with alarm. She closed her eyes, pressed her lips together, shivering.
"My dear?" Linn asked gently, her hand in both of his.
He felt the tension in her, felt her tremble, felt the effort she put into composing herself.
Jacob drew up a chair for his father. Linn got up off his right knee. "Thank you," he said quietly, and settled gratefully into the seat.
Esther looked over at Jacob, and back at her husband.
Jacob looked down at his hands, not quite sure what he should do next.
Esther slid her free hand under the sheet, found her corset open in front; she gave her husband a quizzical look.
"You needed to breathe easy," he said simply.
Her eyes flicked over to Jacob.
"He was the perfect gentleman, my dear," Linn assured her. "I handled the..." he cleared his throat -- "delicate arrangements."
Esther bit her bottom lip.
She cleared her own throat, started to say something, closed her mouth and thought a moment.
"Jacob," she said suddenly, "you've familiarized yourself with the railroad's bookkeeping, have you not?"
"I have, ma'am," he nodded, giving his father a puzzled look.
"Do you think you can keep track of expenses, authorize expenditures, oversee the rebuilding of the depot?"
"I can, ma'am," he said without hesitation.
"Good." She seemed to relax a little.
"Ma'am?" Jacob asked.
Esther reached out her left hand. Jacob took it in both his own, just as his father had done her other hand.
"The two most important men in my life," she said with a smile, giving each of them a squeeze. "I have wonderful news."
Linn and Jacob leaned forward just a little, listening closely.
"I am with child."
Jacob's grin split his face and threatened to run clear around to the nape of his neck. Linn's was no less delighted; he gathered a deep breath and bit back the yell of joy that rose unbidden.
A tear rolled over the dam of Esther's left eye, and trickled back toward her ear, and another: her right eye, in like manner, began to leak, then to flood, and Esther sat up, and reached for her husband, and clutched him with a desperate, fearful grip.
Linn gathered her into his arms and held her as she sobbed, heartbroken.
Jacob's expression was one of alarm.
He'd seen his father in his many moods; he'd stood shoulder to shoulder with the man as they faced death together, as they fought drunks and robbers together, he'd laughed with his father, raced with his father, wrestled and boxed and shot with his father.
He had never seen this expression on his father's face.
He looked at his father now, and he saw fear.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Linn Keller 4-22-08

 

Jacob removed his Stetson as he came into the Silver Jewel.
His father wasn't in the Sheriff's office, and his appetite won out over any further search: he swept the room as he came in, as he always did, easily, automatically; he nodded to Tilly behind the desk, smiled as he saw the busy flash of Mr. Baxter's elbow, and the ever-present polishing cloth.
He looked up the stairs.
The Sheriff had Esther on his arm. His mustache was freshly waxed and curled into a modest handlebar; Esther, as always, was striking, and just before her smile washed out everything else, he saw the cameo brooch he'd given her, in against her throat, bedded in a nest of ruffles.
They'd just made the second step when Esther hesitated; her right hand seized the hand rail and she nearly fell.
The Sheriff spun, his left bootsole planting hard and flat on the next step down; he spun, his left arm coming around her middle, his hand locking around the hand rail.
Jacob's Stetson wobbled slowly in mid-air, discarded and forgotten, as he launched himself up the stairs two at a time.
The Sheriff ran his right arm under Esther, just above the small of her back, his left thrusting under her knees; he picked her up, bounced her a little to settle her in his arms.
Tillie, curious, was half-risen from her chair, looking at the space where Jacob had been just a moment ago. She heard a low-voiced, urgent conversation, then slow, heavy footsteps; a door opening, closing.
Mr. Baxter came around the end of the bar, folding the towel neatly over his arm, and directed an inquisitive look at Tillie.
Tillie felt his gaze and turned, spreading her hands in a mute confession of ignorance.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Duzy Wales 4-22-08

 

At the back of the railcar, Kid stood and scanned the sky. An uneasy feeling had made him reach for his cloak, hooded against wind, rain, or someone trying to make his identity, a gut feeling that had served him for years. When he saw the clouds start to swirl and reach toward the ground, he hurried inside, lifted Duzy off the bed, and laid her on the floor, as he pulled the mattress off the bed and over the two of them, him atop her, shielding, another instinct to protect. For an instant, he realized he would always be a lawman, retired, or not.

Duzy tried to look into Kid’s eyes, to find a clue to his thoughts of their outcome, but there was only darkness, and then his voice, “hold on Duzy, we may be in for the ride of our lives, and we need to stay together!” Duzy wrapped her arms around Kid; feeling the shaking of the railcar beneath them, and remembered her dream. The sound was like nothing she could remember, furious, unyielding, and suddenly the car left the tracks.

After a while, Duzy stopped hearing anything, stopped feeling anything, and had no idea whether she would ever see her family and friends again. She had heard that before you die, you see your life flash before you, and in those moments, she did.

The beautiful mountains of North Carolina where she had played with her siblings, watching her parents kissing under the pine tree, graduating from high school, then college, meeting Fannie, the decision to become a journalist, the job offer from Firelands, killing Bert Graves, meeting and loving Sarah, Bonnie, and Tilly, her precious Aunt Esther and Uncle Linn at their wedding, building the Silver Jewel, Jacob, Daisy, Sean, Mr. Baxter, Emma and Jackson, Dawg, Twain Dawg, Charlie and Fannie, Kid, Jake, flashes of her times with each of these people, and others, and their times together, and then oblivion, a young life cut short.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Linn Keller 4-20-08

 

Apple-horse stood patiently, for a change, there in the middle of the street, ears swiveling and tail busy in the lengthening sunlight.
Jacob looked long at the library.
He had need of a soft hand in his, a gentle voice on his ears, a gentle soul to soothe his own.
Jacob turned Apple-horse and looked at the Sheriff's office.
He needed a father's strength, a father's hand on his shoulder, the ear of authority for his troubled voice.
Jacob turned Apple-horse and looked at the Jewel.
He needed a good square meal.
His belly rumbled and Apple's ears swiveled back at the sound.
Jacob laughed, a little, and patted Apple's neck.
"Come on, fellow," he said, with reins and knee-pressure, "let's go see the Sheriff. Might be he's hungry too."

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Duzy Wales 4-20-08

 

April 20, 1880

Jake looked at the telegraph he had just received and was on his way to Marshville, Missouri. A terrible storm had come through wiping out most of the town and had hit the railroad in four different places on its way to Saint Louis. His mission was to help find the dead and to bring order to the devastated town.

As he neared Saint Louis, more word was coming in from various places as he read what was before him:


Marshfield, Missouri Tornado
April 18, 1880

THE TORNADO.

Marshfield, Mo., Leveled by a Hurricane.

The Debris Immediately Takes Fire in Several Places.

Eighty Dead Bodies Taken Out and Many More in the Ruins

Two Hundred People Wounded and No Physicians Left to Attend Them

Relief Trains With Doctors, Nurses and Supplies Sent From Neighboring Towns

A TERRIBLE DISASTER.
St. Louis, April 19. – Reports have been received that nearly the whole town of Marshfield, Mo., was blown down by a terrific wind storm last evening and then burned, resulting in frightful loss of life. Telegraph wires are all down and nothing direct from the seat of the calamity can be obtained.
Last nights storm did no serious damage in this city but caused a general shaking up.
Many farmers’ families have been destroyed and not yet reported. Seven of the wounded on the James River died this afternoon, five at Marshfield.
ALL IS CONFUSION
and the people in such an excited state that it is almost impossible to get an intelligible report. Many families are homeless and have taken refuge in the depot and empty cars standing at the station. The court house is still standing and has been converted into a morgue. The school building is used for a hospital. Up to 7 p. m., they have a death list of 78 and a prospect of increasing it before morning. Many are yet missing and a number of people have been buried of whom no record is kept.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Duzy Wales 4-20-08

 

April 18, 1880

Dear Diary,

I have been remiss in writing. We are on our return trip and I have much to document, with pictures of the many sights we have seen. It is six in the evening and the Marshall; no I cannot call Kid “the Marshall,” as he surprised everyone by retiring once we completed our business in Washington.

Kid is standing on the deck, and I can see the wind blowing his cloak as he watches the darkening of the sky. We will go through Marshville and then Saint Louis will be our next stop, where we will return the books we borrowed and then return to Firelands. I have missed everyone and will be so happy to be home. I did as I said, and searched my heart since my last entry, concerning my love for Jake, his betrayal, and my growing feelings for Kid.

The wind has picked up and I see Kid coming back inside

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Linn Keller 4-19-08

 

The Apple-horse was of wild stock: tough, built for endurance, he kept up a good pace most of the way back to Firelands.
Jacob leaned back in the saddle.
Apple-horse slowed in response, breathing easy, went from a gallop to a mile eating lope.
Jacob's face was tight and his belly was tight and his soul was in turmoil.
It was crowding sundown by the time he got back to Firelands. Instead of going directly to the Sheriff's office to report, he slowed Apple to a fast walk, turning a little to come into town from the back side, and they ended up at the town cemetery's ornate archway.
Jacob tied Apple off to the cast iron upright, snatched the rifle from its scabbard, strode into the cemetery.
He looked around, reading the familiar markers, remembering the lives represented by the chiseled names: his eyes stopped on a tiny marker, and he remembered the cold day when they lowered the infant into the earth, and how warm Annette's hand was in his, and how the wind cut into his kidneys after he wrapped his coat around her grateful shoulders.
He walked a little, casting back and forth, and found himself standing at the foot of a grave that was a bit too familiar.
Jacob knelt, the crescent steel butt plate resting on the sod, and he took off his Stetson, and looked at the stone.
He remembered a girl who wore a blindfold, and played a piano, a girl who laughed, and held his arm, a girl he wanted to help and couldn't.
He'd dared to love, and she died.
He'd loved his Mama, and she was killed, while he watched helplessly.
He'd dared to try loving his new Pa, and he near to died, shot from ambush.
Now he'd killed a man, he'd looked into his eyes and saw the light go out of them and knew it was his hand that did it, and he felt nothing.
Nothing.
He looked long at the tomb stone, and remembered her laugh, her voice, how she smelled of soap and the barest trace of rose water.
"I remember," he whispered.
He stood, settling the Stetson on his head.
His step was slow, measured, as he walked thoughtfully back to Apple-horse.
Drawing the reins free, he thrust the rifle back in its scabbard and stepped into the saddle.
Apple-horse turned his nose back toward the main street, and together they rode to the Sheriff's office.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Linn Keller 4-19-08

 

Rentay looked around, suddenly uneasy.
He's comfortable, Rentay thought with a mixture of confusion and surprise.
Too comfortable.
Rentay fancied himself a hard man, and believed he should be the mine boss. The stockholders, having better sense, dismissed his efforts, which made him all the more unpleasant: a natural bully, he was also a coward, and had come to the gold mine hoping to do some high-grading.
So far his entire take, after two months of hard work, amounted to less than half a thimble full of gold.
"You're all they sent?" Rentay demanded loudly, shaking a fist in the air, hoping to bluff the slender young man on the Appaloosa stallion. "Why, boy, I"d ought to bend you over my knee and take my belt to you!"
"Be sure it's what you want," Jacob said quietly.
Rentay's mouth was dry. He'd just talked himself into a corner.
Glancing around, he found he was surrounded by the same miners he'd bullied and cowed with threats and a few beatings -- carefully selected beatings, generally involving applying a pick handle by surprise, and only to those he was sure he could take.
Now they waited, silent, watching.
Rentay knew if he backed down, his authority would be gone.
There's no gold to be had, he thought. Why am I staying?
Pride overrode good sense.
"You step down off that horse, sonny, and I'll welt you good!" he roared, shaking a finger at Jacob.
Jacob's smile was tight, his eyes half-lidded, almost sleepy.
Something like lead settled in Rentay's belly and he began looking around for a pick handle.
Jacob stepped out of the saddle, lightly, gracefully, ground-reining the stallion.
Rentay came at him quickly, rushing him before he could get set.
Jacob sidestepped him, arms loose, hands open, moving easily, lightly.
"Come on Rentay!" someone shouted. "Belt him, if you're man enough!"
Rentay's face purpled and he reached for Jacob.
Jacob seized his wrist, pulled: Rentay fell over Jacob's leg, face-first into the dirt, his arm twisted up behind him.
Jacob bent Rentay's wrist, bent it down, causing quite a bit of pain. Rentay bit his tongue, hard, clenching his jaws against the sensation of having the wrist ripped out of his forearm.
Jacob's boot was heavy on Rentay's shoulder blade. "Now what was that about taking your belt to my backside?" he asked mildly.
Rentay managed a strangled noise.
"I'm gonna let you up," Jacob said, unruffled. "You're going to behave yourself, or I'll teach you some manners."
Jacob removed his boot and released his grip on Rentay's arm, and stepped back.
Rentay rolled over and sat up, scrambling to his feet, shaking his arm.
One of the miners started to laugh.
The miners' numbers had grown: word passed quickly that Rentay had picked a fight, and it didn't look like this stranger was afraid of him.
One of the stockholders had arrived on the previous ore train, on an inspection tour; he followed a running knot of miners, walking sedately along, biting the end off a Havana and sizing up this new opportunity.
Like most successful businessmen, he knew when to make money, and he stood to make something on a wager, and he knew just who to approach.
Rentay looked around.
"What's wrong, big man?" a voice asked. "Scared?"
"I ain't scared of nothin'!" Rentay roared, pointing at the sleepy-eyed young man. "You! You're nothin'! You're just a kid!"
"And you're picking a fight with just a kid?" Jacob answered gently, the tight smile never leaving his face. "You must be a really dangerous man, if you have to beat up on little boys!"
Rentay's eyes were almost panicked, but he couldnt' back down now.
Gathering his strength, he charged Jacob.
The stockholder bumped the foreman's arm. "Care to place a friendly wager?" he asked. "I've got an ounce of gold on the stranger."
"I'll take that!" the foreman chuckled. "It'll be a pleasure takin' your money!"
"How many times do you want that?"
The foreman smiled. "Once is plenty. I'll delight in spending your gold!"
The stockholder shifted his Havana to the other side of his mouth and turned his attention to the developing fracas.
Jacob stepped into his charge, blocking a grasping arm and seizing Rentay by the coat and the belt and throwing him an impressive distance -- not by strength, but by misdirection, using the running man's momentum against him, a trick he and the Sheriff had practiced.
Rentay came up on his knees, to his feet.
"Rentay! Catch!" someone shouted, and a pick flew through the air.
All good sense lost, Rentay swung the pick, charging Jacob.
Jacob snatched his .40-60 from its saddle scabbard, cocked the hammer.
"DROP IT, RENTAY, OR I DROP YOU!"
Rentay neither dropped the pick, nor slowed his charge.
Jacob fired once, catching Rentay just below the belt buckle.
Rentay's legs collapsed, the pick falling from nerveless fingers.
Jacob looked around, slowly, making eye contact with every man there.
Not a man among them moved, nor said a word.
Blue smoke from the rifle's shot drifted slowly on the slight breeze, and the Apple-horse switched his tail; otherwise, all was still.
Jacob nodded. "Does anyone object to my action?" he challenged, cycling a fresh round into the Winchester. "Speak now and I'll be happy to entertain your argument."
The foreman frowned and handed a small leather poke to the stockholder.
Jacob walked up to the choking man, seized his shoulder and rolled him over.
Rentay was half curled up, hands pressed to the belly wound.
"Don't let me die," he begged. "Get me to the hospital. Please! Don't let me die!"
"You're gut shot, Rentay," Jacob said quietly. "You tried to kill a lawman. That's a hangin' offense. You can die here or you can hang, either way you're dead."
The foreman shoved his way through the crowd. He looked at the dying Rentay, then at Jacob.
"It was a fair killin'," he declared to the assembled. "The man had it comin'."
There was muttered assent.
"Obliged," Jacob nodded once. "Anything we can do to help?"
"Nah," the foreman said. "We got everyone out and they're headed for your hospital on the outbound ore train."
Jacob nodded.
The foreman looked at the weakening Rentay. "We'll bury him here, Deputy. No need for you to haul his bloody carcass back."
Jacob looked at the approaching stockholder.
"Deputy, is it then?" The stockholder shoved out a hand. "Samuel O'Farell. I don't believe I've seen better!"
Jacob's grip was firm. "My father taught me well, sir."
"Your father?" O'Farrell squinted. "And who is your father, my good man?"
"Sheriff Linn Keller, sir."
"Sheriff!" the stockholder snorted. "Well!"
"Your foreman tells me you recovered everyone from the explosion."
"So I'm told myself," the stockholder affirmed. "You understand, I'm relying on the men that actually go down into the mine."
"I understand, sir." Jacob paused. "The Sheriff sent me out to see what happened, and to see if we could extend any assistance."
"Well, what happened, we must've got a gas pocket in an old lateral. One of the heathen Chinee struck a light and bang she went!" The foreman shook his head.
"Did he live?" Jacob asked, easing the hammer down to half cock and sliding the Winchester back into its scabbard.
"Him? Nah, he's just a Chinaman."
Jacob's eyes were cold.
Silent, he swung easily into the saddle, touched his hat-brim to the foreman, turned the dancing stallion.
The circle opened, and Jacob galloped out of the assemblage.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Linn Keller 4-18-08

 

Morning Star did not look up as Doctor Flint approached her.
He stopped about two arms' lengths from her, and sat, his back to the bar, crossing his legs under him.
Morning Star shivered, eyes squeezed tight shut, waiting, waiting for that hated grasp at the back of her neck, or the yank on her gleaming, raven's-wing hair, the slap, the punch ...
She heard a quiet humming.
Doctor Flint spoke a word.
Morning Star's eyes snapped open. It was not a word of her people, but it was a word, and she knew its sound.
Morning Star's mouth was open a little, her breathing was quick, silent; she put her hand flat on the floor, turned her head.
Doctor George Flint, physician and college man, respected member of the white man's community, sat in breechclout and moccasins, wearing a buffalo-horn ceremonial headpiece, and sprinkled dried leaves on a small fire.
Morning Star closed her eyes hard, shook her head, opened them.
She saw Doctor Flint sitting with his eyes closed, in a white man's suit, sitting cross legged as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Morning Star blinked, puzzled.
Doctor Flint's eyes were closed, his breathing relaxed, as if asleep.
Morning Star shifted her position, tilting her head a little to the side, curiosity overcoming fear. Somewhere within her she knew This is a good man, and she did not know how she knew, but she knew!
Shaman? she signed in the hand-language common to all tribes.
Doctor Flint opened his eyes, lazily, like a cat in a sunny windowsill, and turned and smiled at her, a quiet smile, with his eyes.
He raised his right hand to his face, drew two fingers across his cheek bone.
His finger tips left ochre and black in their wake.
Morning Star's eyes dropped to where his hands had been, looking for a pot, a pouch, something that would contain the ceremonial pigments --
She looked again, and the stripes were gone.
The Sheriff looked briefly at them, as he passed the end of the bar, folded towel held to his face. Morning Star waited until the door opened, and closed, and she believed them alone.
Warrior, she signed. Chieftain?
Yes, George Flint's hand said.
Morning Star signed Gratitude.
He knows.
White man! (anger) (Not know!)
Chosen brother.
Morning Star was taken aback. Chosen brother? she thought, suddenly aware of the ramifications of a shaman choosing a warrior-brother of another tribe, of another ... of another people!
Protector, George Flint signed. Good heart.
Morning Star clutched the ripped material of her bodice and bent over a little, groaning.
She smelled ceremonial sage and heard, dimly, distantly, a shaman's chant, and the wind, and she looked up ...
She was alone behind the bar.
Twain Dawg looked around the end of the bar, pink tongue dangling as it often did.
Morning Star held out her hand and smiled. Of all the souls in Firelands, Twain Dawg was perhaps her favorite.
Twain Dawg trotted happily to her, toenails tik-tik-tikking on the tightly-fitted, scrupulously-clean floor.
"Morning Star?" Esther called gently from the other side of the bar. "I think this may just fit you."
Morning Star could just see Esther's hands as they held up a new dress.
Twain Dawg looked up at the sound of Esther's voice, and his tail beat a happy tattoo on the floor.
Morning Star got her feet under her and rose, and smiled shyly at the emerald-eyed, motherly woman holding up the newly-finished dress.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Charlie MacNeil 4-18-08

 

Charlie and Dawg took the middle of the street, and drew their fair of attention and then some. The big black dog drew attention wherever he went, unless he was trying not to. In some way that Charlie was never able to adequately explain to himself Dawg could seem to vanish into his own tracks while standing in plain sight. It was a talent Charlie wished that he himself had.

At the livery he drew up and stepped gingerly down from his rented horse, giving the animal a pat on the neck. "You were better than most I've seen before, pardner," he told the horse. He handed the reins off to the stableman. "Give this fella some extra grain and a good rubdown," he told the hostler. "That's a damn good horse you've got there."

"I'll sure do that, sir," the young man said.

"What do I owe you?" Charlie asked. "I kind of kept him longer than I planned to."

The youth named a price, and Charlie gladly paid it. That was a good horse. "Come on, Dawg. I need to change my clothes," he said. He turned towards his hotel.

Charlie walked purposefully into the lobby of the small hotel. Dawg waited outside for Charlie to signal. The desk clerk looked startled at his sudden appearance. "Marshal MacNeil!" he exclaimed. "You're supposed to be dead!" It was no wonder the man looked like he'd seen his Grandpa's ghost.

"Excuse me?" Charlie asked, dumbfounded himself.

"That's right. It was in the papers a few days ago that you were killed by bandits up in the mountains."

"And just who exactly was it who reported my death?" Charlie asked with a cold growl in his voice.

"Why, the Federal Marshal's office here in Denver," the man said.

Charlie gave him a grim smile. "As the man said, it's obvious that the rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated," he said quietly. "I suppose my room's been closed and my stuff done away with?"

"Your room's been closed, but your gear is in storage right here in the hotel," the man said. "But we've got another room available." He looked in the register. "Yep, second floor front, best room in the house. And it'll be free gratis, of course."

"Alright," Charlie said. "Get me a bath, a bottle of good whiskey, ten pounds of beef, and a couple of big bones."

Now it was the desk clerk's turn. "Excuse me?"

Charlie smiled at him and whistled shrilly. Dawg strolled inside. "I'm sorry Marshal, but we don't allow dogs," the clerk said.

"Don't tell me, tell him," Charlie said mildly. Dawg sat on his haunches, which put his head somewhat above the level of the counter, and yawned widely. The white flash of his teeth was essentially mirrored in the clerk's sudden pallor.

"Uhm, er, no, that's alright. Uhm, that was er, ten pounds of beef and two bones, right?"

"And don't forget the bath," Charlie said. The clerk just nodded, swallowed loudly, and handed Charlie a key. "Oh, and I'll need my clothes sent up too."

"Ri, right away, Marshal." Charlie turned and headed for the stairs. Dawg gave the clerk one more yawn and rose to follow Charlie.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Linn Keller 4-18-08

 

Mr. Baxter was no stranger to bar fights, nor to misfortune in its various forms; nor was he, especially on this occasion, averse to admiring the sheer savagery and the terrible beauty of a good knock-down, drag-out sort of a manly disagreement.
Especially when the fellow getting the stuffing knocked out of him was so very deserving.
Morning Star cowered behind the bar, her torn dress clutched up to cover her modesty, a growing bruise on one cheekbone; she'd received too many such, when in the unwholesome employ of those who forced women to sell themselves, and her spirit, if not broken, had been badly bent in those dark times.
The pain and the humiliation of every assault, every fist, every hard hand, came roaring down on her as she cowered in the corner, whimpering like a frightened child, trying to make herself small, trying to hide.
Mr. Baxter stood with the bung starter in one hand and the double gun in the other: silent, patient, he satisfied himself the fight was not going to trespass upon his kingdom, but he stood ready anyhow: he'd seen enough of these to get completely out of hand not to be wary.
The Sheriff's face was white, except for the cut where a punch had caught him over the eye, and Mr. Baxter could tell the way he held his left arm that a punch to the ribs had cost him: still, he dispensed justice as he saw fit, and he apparently saw fit to dispense quite a bit of it, for he'd picked up one fellow and thrown him bodily into another, and while they were sorting themselves out on the floor and shaking their heads, the Sheriff addressed the third.
Mr. Baxter flinched as the Sheriff's good right fist buried itself just under this fellow's wishbone, doubling him over, at least until the Sheriff grabbed the hair of his head and drove his knee into the man's face, hard.
The Sheriff's tie was askew, his hat was halfway across the room and his nose was bleeding: breathing heavily, he glared at the two still supine on the polished floor and said quietly, "If you want some more, just step right up."
One shook his head and raised a hand, palm out; the other laid back with a groan.
The third fellow, the one whose nose had been kind of flattened, tried to rise.
The Sheriff reached down and seized him by the front of his coat and hauled him upright, a quick, violent snatch that brought the man's toes off the floor.
"You like beatin' on women?" the Sheriff grated.
"She's just a squaw," the stranger muttered, and the Sheriff let go of the fellow's left-hand lapel so he could cock his fist again.
"Sheriff?" There was a hand on his shoulder, and a cultured, familiar voice from behind him. "May I?"
Doctor George Flint reached in with his left hand and took the man by the throat.
The Sheriff let go and stepped back.
Strangling, the fellow grabbed at Doctor Flint's wrists, kicking weakly.
Doctor Flint wasn't quite as tall as the Sheriff, but the Sheriff had seen him without his shirt one time, and the man's build was impressive: it showed, now, as he carried the bully, by the throat, to the front door of the Jewel.
He casually opened the front door and threw the man over the hitch rail and into the street.
The Sheriff accepted a wet bar towel from Mr. Baxter with a nod, and tried to contain, or at least capture, the blood from his nose.
"You fellows get out of my town," the Sheriff said, his voice muffled a little from the towel. "Get out of here and don't you ever come back, none of you."
The two rose painfully to their feet and hobbled for the front door; one was guarding his ribs, bent over a little to the right, and the other was exploring a couple of loosened teeth and wondering if his jaw hinge was broke in three places or only two.
That Sheriff might be kind of gray but he wasn't to be trifled with.

Dr. Flint came back in, standing politely to one side as the hobbling pair gave him a wide berth as they could in their departure, then he tilted his head a little to the left and regarded the Sheriff. "Now, then," he said, "let's have a look at you."
The Sheriff glared at him, then ruefully regarded the front of his coat. "Esther won't be happy," he muttered through swelling lips.
"Nor are you," Doctor Flint smiled. "That was quite a performance, Sheriff. Did you ever consider a career in boxing?"
The Sheriff grunted.
"Here. Let's take a look at you." He drew the Sheriff's hands down, and with them, the red and dripping bar towel; Doctor Flint frowned as he explored the various injuries to the older man's face.
"Take off your coat, please," he said, and the Sheriff stood, with an effort, wincing.
"The numb's wearing off, isn't it?" Doctor Flint asked.
The Sheriff grunted again.
"Ribs?"
Another grunt.
Doctor Flint helped the Sheriff out of his shirt, explored the tender ribs with quick, expert fingers.
"Cracked, I should imagine. I don't feel any grating. Hold still." He placed two fingers on the Sheriff's rib cage, well away from the tender ribs, and tapped on his paired fingers, listening; he repeated the process at top, middle and bottom of front and back of each lung.
"Good. Your lungs are still up. Tricky thing, broken ribs, they can punch a lung fairly easily." He eyed the Sheriff's scar, low on the right ribs. "But you know that already, I take it."
The Sheriff nodded.
"Sick?"
Another nod.
"Mr. Baxter, would you have a pail of clean water, please? And another towel?"
Daisy came hustling up the hall with a wooden bucket and a towel over her arm. "Brawlin' again, is it?" she said briskly, her Irish accent prominent. "You should have seen me Sean, back in Porkopolis! The man didn't know defeat! Oh, they marked him, they did, and many's the time I cleaned the man up and tended his cuts and his bruises." All the time she scolded the Sheriff she was also wiping the blood from his face, wringing out the towel and laying it across his shoulders, wiping his arms.
Mr. Baxter offered him a beer mug of water and the Sheriff sipped it carefully.
"Your teeth, Sheriff?"
The Sheriff ran an exploring tongue around his dentures, tentatively tested his left canine with a careful thumb. "None loose."
"Hm. Tilt your head back and open up." Doctor Flint carefully drew back the lawman's lips, gently pressed the corner of the wet-and-wrung-out towel against a cut inside his upper lip. "Just hold that there."
Mr. Baxter had put away the Greener and the setting-maul both and was getting ready to slide another two bar towels across the mahogany to Daisy when he heard Esther's light step on the stair.
To her credit, the Sheriff's wife did not exclaim, faint or scream; she looked at Mr. Baxter, for all the world like a commanding officer expecting a subaltern's report.
"Three fellows came in, called Morning Star a dirty squaw and tried to have their way with her," Mr. Baxter said quietly. "They tried, until the Sheriff stepped in."
Esther's eyes went to the cowering woman at the back of the bar. "Morning Star," she said gently, "are you hurt?"
Morning Star drew even further into herself.
"Doctor Flint?" Esther asked quietly.
Doctor Flint looked up and nodded solemnly, then turned back to the Sheriff. "You need to have that nose looked at, Sheriff. Go on down to the office, Doctor Greenlees is there with the miners."
The Sheriff nodded cautiously. "I will," he agreed.
Doctor Flint went to the end of the bar, motioned to Mr. Baxter.
Mr. Baxter came over to the Doctor, curious.
"Doctor, would you be so kind as to keep company with the Sheriff? I fear Morning Star may take some persuasion to come out of there."
"Sure." Mr. Baxter folded his polishing cloth carefully and laid it precisely on the corner of the bar, untied his apron and hung it on the peg. "Poor child is terrified," he said sadly.
Doctor Flint's hand was heavy on Mr. Baxter's shoulder. "You did the right thing, Mr. Baxter. You kept her safe. Thank you."

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Linn Keller 4-16-08

 

Of the injured sent to Firelands on the ore train, one died enroute, one died within an hour of arrival, and the rest were recovering in the clean, well-lighted surroundings of the new hospital.
Dr. John Greenlees was no stranger to the urgency that often accompanied his chosen vocation; he could have had a soft, well-paid practice back East, and for a time, shared a practice with an old, established physician with a number of well-off clients; like many young men, or men seeing their youth retreat at an alarming pace, the younger physician set off, first with the military, then on his own, and had once admitted to the Sheriff, in an unguarded moment, that his arrival in Firelands was "more accident than design."
He'd been busy from the moment the ore train braked to a screeching stop, the hastily-added boxcar at the end of the ore cars was a couple hundred yards from the black cavity that used to be the depot: wagons were brought alongside, the injured transferred and brought to the hospital.
The dead were last to be off-loaded; sheeted, shrouded, they went to the funeral parlor's back door.
Doctor Greenlees worked swiftly, lips pursed, his hands quick and sure as he repaired the shattered humanity on his operating table; one, then another, received his careful ministrations.
He stayed with his patients the rest of the day, and into the night; dark of night, he knew, was the most likely time they would surrender to their injuries; he was restless, prowling from bed to bed, until one miner husked, "Doc, will ye go lay down, ye're makin' me tired watchin' ye!"
Doc Greenlees chuckled and drew up a chair, and the two of them talked quietly, into the night, and finally Doc winked and wished his patient a good night's rest, and withdrew.
He'd pulled off his shoes and laid down on his bunk, still dressed.
Exhaustion closed his eyes, and he was asleep inside of three breaths.
He was unable to hear the quiet discussion between two of the miners.
"Hey, Pete?"
"Yeah, Red?"
"I never thought that long tall drink o' water was ever gonna leave!"
"Me neither!"
"They got any nurses here?"
"Yeah, they got two of 'em anyway. Cute ones, too!"
"I might just marry one or two of 'em."
"You lyin' sack, you couldn't handle one good woman, let alone two!"
Pete grunted. "You wasn't with me in Kansas City last summer, neither."
"You wasn't even in Kansas City last summer!"
Pete sighed. "Naw," he finally admitted, "but I sure wisht I had been!"
"How's your leg?"
"How's yours?"
"My leg's just fine, you ugly son of a bank mule, but my ribs sure hurt!"
"You shoulda gone to Kansas City!"
Red chuckled, then groaned. "Yeah, I shoulda."
There was a long silence, then: "Hey, Pete?"
"Yeah, Red?"
"How long do you reckon before that cute little nurse comes in here?"
"Why? Is she from Kansas City?"

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Duzy Wales 4-16-08

 

April, 1880

Dear Diary,

Today was most unusual. The Marshall and I enjoyed the day, laughing and talking, but as I watched him, I had memories of being in his arms, of him carrying me to bed last night, but I did not dare broach the subject, for if it was true, he did not give any indication of it.

At times I would find myself looking at him, and I cannot deny that there is an attraction that I cannot explain, even to myself. Perhaps it is pure chemistry between two friends who are sharing so much time together, and in such close quarters, and perhaps I am the only one who feels it! I honestly do not know what has come over me. I am beginning to question my loyalty and my judgment when it involves matters of the heart!

I think of Jake and I wonder why he accepted his new position, instead of staying and fighting for our relationship. I wonder if he thinks of me or if he has already moved on with his life without even trying to explain what happened with Mary Sloan. Sometimes, I wonder if I ever truly knew him at all; at other times I feel an emptiness that hurts to my soul!

As I write this, I think of the Marshall, in the parlor, so handsome and virile, so close, and I must admit that my thoughts are not that of a lady, but of a woman whose fantasy at this moment would be for him to part the curtain that separates us, as I would open my arms to him and partake of the pleasures that we could share.

In reality, I know that my thoughts are not honorable, and I question my motives as well. I wonder if I wish to be with the Marshall to hurt Jake, to show him how it would feel to know that I was with another, or could I be realizing that Jake was not the man for me all along? I also wonder why in my vision, I am sure it was the Marshall that I was with? Could that have been a sign for me to stop the wedding? Will the vision come true? Could it be that I gave my heart and body to the wrong man?

I must be careful to hide these feelings and try to not think of them again. Instead, I must search my heart for the answers, and give myself time to heal, for I cannot use the Marshall to ease my loneliness or to get back at Jake! I value our friendship too much to lose it, and I must know that if we are ever together, that it is part of a master plan….one that has been meant to be all along.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Linn Keller 4-15-08

 

Mr. Baxter was industriously removing bottles from the shelves, one at a time, wiping them free of dust real or imagined, and swiping the shelf where they sat, before restoring them to their neat ranks. Always a tidy man, he demanded his bottles be precisely spaced and exactly arranged, and the bottles remained obediently ranked.
In spite of the recent excitement, business was good, and business was steady; there was the regular demand from the gambling tables, and the girls were both attentive to customers' thirst, and quick with a smile and a laugh.
Few things were quite so quick to open a man's purse as the sound of a woman's laughter, he'd found.
Daisy had come in shortly after the depot caught fire, Little Sean on her hip and thunder on her brow: she'd gone to the trouble, she declared, of fixing those bog trotting Irishmen a good kettle of stew, and a few loaves of bread, and that great red-faced oaf of a husband was dandling his dear little son -- just a child, now! -- on his knee when WHOOSH -- her free hand described the speed with which the man had left -- and him with his own dear son under his great arm, can you believe it!
Mr. Baxter listened solemnly to the blue-eyed Irishwoman's declaration, somehow managing a poker face in spite of his honest amusement, for the more Daisy described the events that transpired, the more strident she became, the harder it was for Mr. Baxter to keep from laughing --
"And I snatched up me skirts and let me tell you, Mr. Baxter, I never ran s'fast in all m' life! Why, the guid Saint Patrick himsel' couldna' kept up wi' me, an' him wi' wings!"
Mr. Baxter's eyes twinkled and the corners of his mouth twitched, and Daisy continued, neither noticing nor even suspecting the difficulty she was causing a half-dozen other patrons, who had kerchiefs or coat sleeves pressed against their mouths to muffle any premature explosions of mirth.
"And there I am, clinging to the ladder at a full gallop -- and me a married woman, mind you! -- Sean is as proud as he can be, standing up and whipping the team into a gallop, and him wi' our wee child under his great arm, singing those Irish war-songs he is so fond of, I'm surprised little Sean here didn't die o' fright! But ye didn't, did ye, my wee man?" She stroked Little Sean's cheek, and Little Sean laughed and grasped her finger, for he was hungry and he was determined to taste test anything in reach.
"And when he hauls up the team I snatch up me skirts again and run t' the front o' the steam buggy, and what does that great red-shirted oaf do but hand me wee Sean here as if it were the most normal thing in the world! Ooooh! I've a mind t' take a rollin' pin t' his hard Irish head! And I've just the good marble pin t' use, too!"
Daisy muttered and declared her way down the hall, free hand still occupied with grand and forceful gestures, and Mr. Baxter's eyes were watering with the effort of containing his hidden hysterics; finally he abandoned all pretense at composure, and pressing the folded bar towel to his face, began to make noises somewhat akin to a chicken in labor.
The other patrons, abandoning any further attempt at muffling their laughter, voiced their appreciation for the entertainment afforded by the incensed Irishwoman.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Charlie MacNeil 4-15-08

 

For the next few days, Charlie was asleep more than he was awake. Han's mother had given him some kind of tea that made him sleep, because she said, through Han, that "Sleep is the best of medicines".

Charlie woke up with the dawn and felt stronger than he had since he'd been shot. He sat up carefully and felt of his side. It was slightly tender, but if he moved slow and gentle he figured he would be fine. It was when he was dressing that he got a shock. He slipped the top of his union suit down to see the bullet hole, and all he could see was a dimple of scar tissue! He couldn't for the life of him see how he had healed that fast, unless Han's mother was right: that sleep was good medicine. Some good medicinal herbs probably hadn't hurt either.

He slipped his arms back into his long underwear and buttoned up the front. His pants and shirt were laundered and folded on a chair by his bed, his boots standing at attention on the floor in front. He got dressed then slipped his feet into this boots and stamped them into place. The noise finally woke up Willy, who was snoring in the next bed over.

"Wha, wha," Willy snorted. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

"We're burnin' daylight," Charlie said with a grin. "I gotta get to Denver. I need to send a telegram. Fannie's probably worried sick about not hearing from me."

"Lemme get my britches on and we'll get some breakfast and I'll saddle your horse," Willy said. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. Dawg stood up and stretched and yawned mightily then sauntered over to Charlie with his stub tail flicking.

"Mornin', Dawg," Charlie said. He ruffled the big dog's ears and picked up his hat.

Han came into the room. "I see that my mother's herbs have performed another miracle," he said. "I believe prayer may have played a part as well." Charlie gave him a startled look. "I am a Christian," Han said with a smile. "I've found that having God on one's side is a great help when practicing medicine." He pointed to the door he'd just come through. "My mother's cooking helps, also, and breakfast is ready." He led the way to the kitchen area where Han's mother had tea and other food on the table.

After breakfast Charlie and Willy went out to where Charlie's rented horse was stabled. After a brief argument over who was going to saddle the horse, Willy slung the blankets and saddle on the horse's back and Charlie cinched him up. Han came out to the porch when Charlie led the horse up to the front of the canvas-roofed building. "What do I owe you, Han?" Charlie asked. He paid what Han asked and swung into the saddle. He leaned over to shake the doctor's hand. "Adios, my friend." He reined the horse toward the trail to Denver. "Come on, Dawg." The big dog stepped up alongside the horse with his tongue lolling out. Dawg was always happiest on the trail.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Duzy Wales 4-15-08

 

Kid awoke to find Duzy still sleeping peacefully, and as easily as he could, he slipped out of the bed and back into the parlor. Splashing some water on his face, he ran his fingers through his hair, put on his hat and gun belt, and went in search of a good stout cup of coffee. The railcar was stocked, but he needed some time to think and felt Duzy would need some time alone when she awoke as well. His stomach was telling him that it was well past his usual breakfast time, as it had growled loud enough to wake her, had he still been beside her! Reaching for his pocket watch, he looked at the time and was surprised to see that he had slept longer and more peacefully than he could remember in a long time.

Duzy awoke shortly after the Marshall had left and looked beside her, but the Marshall wasn’t there and she started trying to put the pieces of the night together. Had she dreamed she had fallen asleep in the Marshall’s arms, along with the dream of the cemetery and the shaking railcar? It was times like this Duzy needed the counsel of Aunt Esther, the woman who knew her better than her own Mama, as she had always understood that the visions were real and had helped her to better understand what they meant. Just thinking of her dear Aunt, made Duzy wish for the feel of Aunt Esther’s arms around her, like she had since Duzy was a small child and was troubled….and Duzy also wished she had the chance to have a good heart to heart talk about her feelings concerning Jake, and now the Marshall as well!

Duzy mentally shook herself and quickly got out of bed. She was a grown woman now and it was time she started to rely on herself. Looking through the curtain to the parlor, she didn’t see any sign of the Marshall, so she went into the lavatory to freshen up and face the day, dressing in a simple day outfit, made of cotton and more for comfort than the outfits she had worn in Saint Louis. Duzy was putting the last pin in her hair when she heard Kid call out, “Duzy, are you dressed?”

“Yes and good morning Marshall! Did you sleep well last night?”

Marshall Sopris wasn’t sure if Duzy didn’t remember or was putting on a brave face at the moment, but he figured it best to go along with her, so he responded. “Yes, I slept very well; I hope you did?”

Duzy blushed slightly, thinking of her dreams, and was thankful when the Marshall continued, “I brought you a bite to eat and some coffee, even had them round up some vanilla for the coffee.”

“Thank you! Would you care to sit out on the deck with me as I eat?”

The Marshall smiled and said that he would love to and soon they were sitting outside enjoying the sunshine, as they each pointed out pretty places in the countryside, and looked at the clouds for shapes of imaginary animals, and other objects, and found themselves laughing and having a wonderful day.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Linn Keller 4-13-08

 

The Sheriff took the stairs two at a time.
Esther was bent over a little, her left hand flat on Lightning's desk, her left arm stiff as she leaned hard on it, watching Lightning's pencil move in quick, sure strokes.
CANCEL HELP, she read, EIGHT INJURED ON ORE TRAIN HAVE HOSPITAL READY END.
"There's been an explosion at the mine," Esther said matter-of-factly.
"What do they need?" The Sheriff's voice was equally businesslike.
"Nothing, apparently." She waved at the ledger. "They asked for help then canceled just as quickly."
The Sheriff came over and took in Lightning's clear hand at a glance, reading the past several messages from his logbook, and smiled grimly. "I'll bet the foreman canceled the request, and he's probably not happy with whoever panicked and sent the first message."
Esther nodded. "Eight injured. How full is the hospital?"
"I'll find out." The Sheriff turned and bumped into Jacob. "Good Lord, son, I'm sorry! Didn't even hear you!"
"I'm sorry, sir. I can find out for you."
"Go." The Sheriff's brief command was softened by his gentle voice and expression.
Jacob smiled a little, and spun, and was out the door in two long steps.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Duzy Wales 4-13-08

 

Duzy awoke to the whistle of the train and felt the movement as the train pulled out of Saint Louis. Hoping to watch as they crossed the Mississippi, she rose up in bed and looked out of the window. Looking at the Eads Bridge from land was one thing, crossing it was another sight, and even though the sun was barely rising, the view of the river was beautiful.

Lying back down and snuggling in, Duzy hoped to get a little more sleep before breakfast, as she was not normally an early riser, especially after getting used to the hours of the Silver Jewel! The movement of the train lulled her back to sleep.

Faintly, screams could be heard, and then Kid came running to Duzy’s side and laid her on the floor of the railcar, shielding her with his body. Duzy could feel the movement of the railcar, unusual movement, not the type that normally lulled her to sleep. Suddenly there was darkness all around and when she could finally see, they were in a cemetery, and she was with the man in the cloak, and they were once again in each others arms, kissing and clinging to each other as if they were depending on each other for life itself, and may never have the chance to feel like this again….

Duzy awoke shaking, and thought about the dream….actually it seemed to be a mixture of her vision and a dream, and she could only wonder at their meaning! Duzy rose from the bed, clad only in her chemise, and walked to the parlor, still groggy, but seeking comfort. The Marshall was lying on the sofa, still fully dressed, and Duzy sat beside him, as he turned sideways to make room for her.

“What is it Duzy?” the Marshall asked.

“A bad dream, will you hold me for a few minutes, like Jake used to do, before….before, and the words wouldn’t come, as tears started forming in her eyes?”

Marshall Sopris was a hardened lawman, but the sight of a woman’s tears still had the ability to move him in certain circumstances. Watching Duzy, and the pain that she felt, a hurt she had tried hard to hide while they had toured Saint Louis, made him quickly come to a decision. He stood, lifting Duzy into his arms as he carried her back to the bed, and lay down beside her. Holding her against him, he whispered that she was safe, and not to worry, as he wiped the tears from her eyes, and continued to hold her, and rock her, until he could feel her body stop shaking, her breathing begin to slow down, and finally until she was asleep in his arms.

Afraid that he would wake her if he moved, Kid continued to hold Duzy. When he felt his body begin to respond to the feel of her body against his, he cursed the day that Jake had walked away and left Duzy alone, he cursed Mary Sloan for the poisoned kiss and Jake for responding, for God help him, he didn’t know how much longer he could resist the urges he felt or the temptation that he was beginning to feel more and more often, and other feelings that he couldn't identify when he was near Duzy, and yet he knew he had to try! Duzy had become a close friend and he couldn’t betray that friendship while she was in a vulnerable state of mind….and yet she felt so good in his arms that it made him want to throw caution to the wind! Damn, what was a man supposed to do, he thought as Duzy snuggled her body closer to his, turning to face him, laying her head on his shoulder, and then to make matters even worse, she moved her legs, so that one was against his and the other was lying atop him as she wrapped one arm around his chest, hugging him to her, until he could feel every curve of her body, not to mention the sight of her body against his, through the thin material, as soft as silk and clinging to her body, with her long hair mussed and falling loosely to her waist, and onto his body, and yet with the innocence of a child asleep his arms.

With iron will, Kid brought his body under control, realizing that Duzy trusted him and felt safe in his arms, a thought that made him smile, and he lay back and fell asleep as if it was the perfectly natural thing to do.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Linn Keller 4-11-08

 

String was found, and a rock; the string was thrown from rooftop to rooftop, line tied to the string and drawn across; wire tied to the line: Lightning supervised installation of the big glass insulators and directed how the wire should be attached to them, and fussed over the wire run down the roof of the Jewel and into Esther's window.
It was not the workmanlike job he wanted to see, but it would let them get back up quickly.
Esther arranged a desk and willing hands hauled precious cargo up the stairs, and into Esther's office, and Lightning improvised shelving and arranged his work area; quickly spinning the round knurled nuts on the brass studs, he secured the wire to the sounder, and to his own key.
Immediately there was the clatter of traffic, and he cocked his head a little, as he always did, and began "copying the mail."
He squared his shoulders and reached for the key, and Esther tilted her head with ladylike curiosity, admiring the ease with which he plied the big button.
Up and down the line the message went, and welcome news it was:
FIRELANDS STATION IN OPERATION.
The sounder began a rapid clatter.
The metallic tapping ran in Lightning's ears and out the sharpened end of his pencil.
Esther looked over his shoulder as the message flowed in block print onto the ledger book:
MINE EXPLOSION STOP TEN MEN TRAPPED STOP SEND HELP END.
Esther knew she had to get word to her husband, and fast.
She seized the recently-opened window and hauled it up again, leaned out and put two fingers to her lips.
Drawing a deep breath, she let out a shrill, piercing, and most unladylike whistle.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Duzy Wales 4-10-08

 

Jake received a telegram from headquarters that he was to be working as a Territorial Marshall in Oklahoma, so that was the way he was headed. He had thought long and hard, almost every sleepless night, and many times in between, and the only thing that kept him from seeing Duzy was his duty to his job, or so he tried to make himself believe…..

He knew how badly he had hurt Duzy, how betrayed she felt, how humiliated, and he didn’t blame her for whatever she did, at least not at this moment….

Jake felt in his heart that Duzy needed him now more than ever, and yet, he was headed elsewhere….and he wondered if she would find Marshall Sopris to be charming and comforting, someone close, that she could trust, someone who would treat her like a lady, and perhaps, someone that could possibly take his place in her heart, or find a special place of his own!

Hell, it was hard to think about, as he liked Kid and he loved Duzy, he thought Kid was honorable, and he respected him, but could he truly blame Kid if he did want Duzy? Especially knowing what he himself had did to her? What would he do in the same circumstances? Would he take the chance while it was in his grasp? Would he find himself looking at her, longing for her, wanting her, wanting her to be by his side, and still be able to deny those feelings and not act upon them?

“Just please keep her safe Kid, please keep her safe, that is all that I ask?” was his final thought before sleep finally came.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Linn Keller 4-10-08

 

The Lady Esther's whistle was a long warning as she coasted with otherwise near-silence into the depot.
The Sheriff ran up to the engineer and handed him Lightning's hand-written order. The engineer read it, nodded and shouted, "The conductor needs this!" before laying on the whistle again, a quick signal that he was backing.
The fireman opened the sanders and the engineer laid his weight on the Johnson bar, and the Lady Esther leaned back against her string of a half-dozen cars.
Passengers seated themselves quickly at the unexpected movement and the conductor leaned down to take the flimsy from the Sheriff's up-thrust hand. He read it quickly, waved understanding, and leaned further out, waving to the engineer, giving permission to proceed.
The Lady Esther pushed more strongly and they backed up about two train-lengths, enough to get away from the fire scene, but not so far as to terribly inconvenience the new arrivals.
The town was nearly all turned out to see the spectacle of their depot becoming a charred memory; most of the men moved with the train, ready to lend a hand with unloading as necessary.
Jacob came trotting up on his Appaloosa. "Sir!" he called to his father. "With the train stopped, sir, when may we expect another on this line?"
"I don't know," the Sheriff admitted. "Find out. Lightning's on that end of the depot."
"Yes, sir!" Jacob trotted the now-skittish stallion to the end of the platform, looked up at Lightning, standing about a head taller than he sat.
Jacob smiled a little as he lifted his hat to his mother, both from natural affection, and because she was wearing the cameo brooch he'd given her.
"Sir! When will the next train be on this line?"
"Not for another four hours," Lightning replied, "but I need to get the wire up again." He looked sadly at the collapsing inferno that used to be a depot. "The extra wire was in there."
"No, sir, it wasn't," Jacob replied. "It's still in the hardware. It got delivered there by mistake."
"Praise God and Saint Whoever!" Lightning laughed, and Jacob thought he might actually do a little jig, so delighted did he appear. "Get me some help, Jacob, we're setting up office above the Jewel!"
"Yes, sir!" Jacob touched his hat-brim to his mother, who smiled at her son's manners, and Jacob spun the grunting stallion, giving him his head onto the now-empty street.
He knew just where to go to find help.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Charlie MacNeil 4-10-08

 

...and with a Herculean effort Charlie forced his eyes to open. The light in the big tent was dim and came only from a guttering lamp, its wick turned down to the bare minimum. Even that little bit of light was almost more than he could handle and he blinked gummy eyelids until his eyes adjusted.

From the corner of his eye he could see a blurry image of Willy slumped in a chair beside the cot that Charlie lay on. He cranked his rusty neck muscles to the side enough to allow him to see Willy better and croaked, "Willy," in a dry, dusty voice that barely carried past his lips. Willy sat up and rubbed his eyes.

"Well, I guess you're alive after all," Willy said. "How do you feel?"

"Thirsty," Charlie ground out. It came out more like "Firsy" but Willy got the point. He poured a glass of water from a pitcher on a small table nearby, slipped a hand under Charlie's shoulders, and held the glass to Charlie's lips. The first drops of the cool liquid were like nectar crossing Charlie's tongue. He swallowed greedily and the cool freshness spread through him.

When the glass was empty Willy let him back down on the pillows. "Where's Dawg?" Charlie asked. A big, black furry head appeared alongside of Willy and a huge rough tongue flicked out and touched Charlie's hand. Charlie lifted a five ton lead hand to ruffle Dawg's ears then the hand dropped back onto the blankets. "How long?" Charlie asked.

"You've been out for three days," Willy said. "You lost a lot of blood before Dawg and me got you back here to the doc's. I wasn't too sure you were gonna make it that far even. Scorsby put quite a hole in you on back and front both."

"Damn, I'm gettin' too old for this crap," Charlie said. For some obscure reason he reached for the blankets to throw them off and started to sit up.

"Where in hell do you think you're going?" Willy asked.

"I gotta get to Denver," Charlie said, but he had barely gotten up on one elbow when a stitch of pain hit him again. He settled back on the pillows with his face white and a sudden sweat sheeting down his forehead.

"You dern fool, didn't you hear what I just said?" Willy demanded. "You ain't in any shape to go anywhere for a while. Now you just lay there, and I'll see about gettin' you something to eat." Willy got up from his chair, tucked his crutch under his arm, and started toward the back of the tent.

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Linn Keller 4-10-08

 

Lightning continued taking messages, relaying them and making carefully printed notes of all that transpired in his log; he was a methodical man, and long past the excitability of youth.
His son had none of that seasoning.
He'd been put to running to the nearest rain barrel with a bucket and hauling water back, and dumping it in the rain barrel into which the Irish Brigade had thrust the suction line for their steam engine. There were two rain barrels, side by side, both full, but the steam pump had an appetite, and the engineer knew they could empty it fast.
He looked longingly at the water tower, wishing for a long, flexible line he could button on its hinged spout, but such was not to be: he dealt with the reality he had, and throttled back the discharge on his pump.
Lightning continued to send and receive until the wall beside him started to smoke, then he sent "ALL STATIONS NOW HEAR THIS STOP FIRELANDS DEPOT FIRED STOP WILL ADVISE WHEN WIRE BACK UP END."
Lightning stood and calmly unscrewed the brass nuts holding copper wire to his key; then, unbuttoning the sounder as well, he stacked them neatly on his log book, gathered as much as he could conveniently carry, and piled it on the wheeled wooden chair he normally sat in.
He dollied this out the door, and to the opposite end of the platform from the conflagration.
Snatching up an empty powder box, he went back into his little office and continued loading all that he could. An anonymous townsman, offering to help, found the powder box thrust into his hands with the calm instruction to take it to the far end of the platform, where his chair was; Lightning's boy was busy with water, so on the good townsman's return, Lightning "drafted from the Unorganized Militia" and had him take one end of the wooden desk, and Lightning picked up the other; coughing now, for the smoke was gathering and lowering in the telegraph office, they carried the desk out, and duck-walking under the weight, labored their way to the far end, with the other rescued supplies.
Esther was standing at the far end of the platform. She laid a gentle hand on Lightning's forearm. "You are well?" she asked, spectacles forgotten and slid to the end of her nose.
"I am, ma'am," Lightning said deferentially, and looked sadly back at his little office. Fire was just starting to light up its interior.
"Have a wire strung to my office in the Jewel. We'll move you up there until we're rebuilt."
"Ma'am?" Lightning said. "Would that be proper? I mean, you're a married woman and all --"
"Hang propriety!" she barked. "We've got a railroad to run!"
"Yes, ma'am!" Lightning grinned in reply. His bladed hand came up automatically, in a crisp military salute, a response to the ring of command.
He always did like her spirit.
She generally kept her temper hidden, but her red hair was a warning, and when those lovely green eyes flashed, he knew, the wise man did not stand in Miz Esther's way!

[Firelands-The Beginning]

Duzy Wales 4-10-08

 

Kid settled in on the sofa, hoping to get some rest, but like most men, who do not wish to talk about their personal lives to others, those thoughts come back, once they are alone.

What neither Duzy nor anyone else knew was that he had already had enough cross country travel. After the delivery of the suspect, and Chang received his well deserved bounties, his plan was to retire from law enforcement.

Kid dreamed of quiet time traveling back to the West and the expansion of the new frontier. As the days passed with Duzy, he thought of the intelligent and beautiful young woman, and at times wondered how it would be for the two of them to revisit the small Colorado town, Mt. Sopris, that was named after his Father, and to settle down together, enjoying the scenery of his home place.

He thought of the dark haired woman, so vibrant and full of life, laying asleep just a few feet away, and had to admit that she was tempting, but he also thought of Jake, a fellow lawman, and tried to keep those thoughts at bay. This was a vulnerable time in her life, and she may forgive Jake and return to him, so in his mind, she was already taken.

Kid’s last thought before he shut his eyes was that this trip would have been a hell of a lot easier, in some ways, had he kept her on the train for the rest of the trip, but by taking advantage of the generous offer of the private railcar, he could protect her much more effectively, so that was what he planned to do. Damn!