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Charlie MacNeil, SASS #48580

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Everything posted by Charlie MacNeil, SASS #48580

  1. I shoot Classic Cowboy category and I’m getting slower as my arthritic wrists age so I’ve pretty much decided that I need to start working on style points instead of time, hence the idea of the Henry. But after some research and talking to friends I’ve about decided on a pair of open tops instead of 58’s to go with the Henry and my hammer double. Now I just need to somehow come up with the dinero to make my dream a reality!
  2. Uhm, probably not. But one never knows what the future may hold...
  3. Yep, gamer, that’s me. I’m thinking about going from a pair of tuned Vaqueros and a full race 73 to a Henry and a pair of 58 Remingtons with conversion cylinders... sounds plumb gamey to me!
  4. Never mind, the fog cleared and I looked on PGWs website and got the answer...
  5. Does anyone know, will a short stroke kit for either a 66 or 73 work in a 1860 Henry, or would they need to be modified? Or does anyone make a short stroke kit for the 1860? Enquiring minds want to know... Thanks!
  6. I'd buy it if I could make payments... Back to the top...
  7. My wife has two dogs, both outside dogs (we live on a ranch), one Aussie and one Border Collie. Both were “inherited” from our son who would work on a ranch for a while somewhere, get a new pup, come home for a while then leave the pup when he went back to work because it wasn’t quite what he thought it would be. The Aussie’s name is Roxie but she’ll also come to her nickname, which is “Fat Dog”. Ever seen a 55 pound Aussie? The other dog started out as Oakley, which became Okie Dokie and is now Okie or Oak. Or Little Fat Dog because she’s smaller than Roxie.. She comes to any of those. They both start wagging when I call ‘em Doggerts. The reason they are both a bit on the robust side is that they get gravy on their feed store dog food every night...
  8. Yeah, but shouldn't her name be Thorina or something?
  9. I shaved my mustache off many moons ago, kept the lip bare for a month or so then grew the 'stache back 'cause I really hate shavin' my upper lip! Hurts too much! Haven't shaved my upper lip since... My lovely bride doesn't seem to be taken with the waxed handlebars I'm sporting now, but I like it, and she's not complaining any more than usual, which actually ain't all that much...
  10. Nothin' weird about peanut butter and cheese. Add a little hot pepper jam and it becomes really good!
  11. As you may have noticed, Firelands is back at least for a short stint. I won't guarantee how long I'll be able to keep posting this time around. Life tends to get busy on pretty short notice around here...
  12. Linn Keller 10-4-11 The eldest Daine tilted his head a little, regarding the powder horn in his lap as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. His Pa had made it for him, back home in Kentucky. He knew that inside the plug was wood burnt "A. Daine His Horn" and a year, the year he was twelve and a man grown, the year he kilt his first b'ar. He'd carried that powder horn opposite his war bag since that time ... near as he could figure, that-there powder horn was near onto 70 years old. Maybe older. He held a piece of broken glass between thumb and fore finger of his skinny, withered right hand, more a claw now, for like all men of his line, the older he got, the thinner he got, until he looked more a walking skeleton with some ancient parchment stretched tightly over the bones: without his shirt, his elbows looked like they threatened to poke out through his hide. The glass had been part of a round whiskey bottle. He'd sorted through the broken pieces carefully and chose two, and only two. He held it now, delicately, and began to draw it the length of the horn, scraping it slowly, precisely, peeling off a shaving of horn. It had been a good, heavy horn, those many years ago, and now was nearly so thin you could see through it. He smiled as he worked, remembering the times he'd measured powder into the horn-tip measure and dumped it down the barl, the times he'd shot ag'in friends and family, shooting at a chunk or a scratch or at the flame of a candle. The rifle had broke in the wrist when he fell one winter and he made a new stock himself. The old stock had been straight grain maple, very plain, and he was never satisfied with it: he cut and filed and finished one out of tiger stripe maple and stained it to his liking, coaxing the curl out with acid and with flame, until it suited him. He shifted a little, trying to find a more comfortable seat. He was so skinny these days he almost needed a pillow under his back side if he was a-settin' on a feather tick, for he didn't have much meat on his bones back there any more -- not that he had much to start with. The sun warmed his bones and the wind carried the smell of fall, and he remembered fall back home, how the hills and hollers ran riot with color: he remembered snorting up a buck, he remembered watching two yearling bucks tentatively set their racks ag'in one another and push one another back and forth a little, how he'd set that bright spark of a front sight behind the front shoulder of the larger of the two, and how he'd lowered his rifle after a time: he set there and watched them, and finally they got tired and wandered off, and he looked up to see his Pa watching him, expressionless, and it warn't until they was halfway home that his Pa said he'd done that same thing one time and it was somethin' he cherished to remember. He turned the horn over, recalling the day his Pa give him that horn. It was the one thing he'd managed to hold onto after all those years. He'd told his own son once he died, that-there horn was his, and his son give him a long look and asked, "Pa, you figgerin' to die on me now?" and the old man chuckled and said "Not long as I can help it!" -- and that afternoon his son had been killed when a tree fell the wrong way, twisting as it came down, and laid him open with a stub branch. I got little to leave anyone, he thought, blinking slowly, then he smiled, for he saw the youngest Daine -- his great-grandson -- jog trotting silently up the path with that loose, long legged, easy run of the long hunter. He'd run that same way, when he was the boy's age. The boy saw him and grinned. Despite the high altitude, the lad was breathing easy, and came over to where the old man paused in scraping his horn. They two sat for a time, silent, save only for the whisper of the broken-glass edge, peeling up a shaving of pure white horn. Finally the old man spoke. "I got sons," he said, "and I got grandsons." The great-grandson looked at him curiously. "I ain't got no fortune t'give away but I got m'name." Curved glass whispered over the inside curve of the horn; a curled shaving fell away, spiraled to the ground to join its fellows. "I reckon that's as rich as a man kin ask fer." His grandson said nothing. The old man didn't expect him to. Of all his sons and all his grandsons, this great-grandson was given more to listen than to talk. "Oncet I'm dead," the old man said, and there was something in his voice that tugged at the youngest Daine's right ear, "I want you t' have m' rifle and m' horn." His great-grandson fixed him with a sharp look, as if to pierce the old man's grey eyes and divine the meaning behind them. "My pa," he said, holding up the horn, "give me this when I was your size." He leaned his head back against the tree trunk. He was tired, very tired. "My Pa made me m'rifle." The youngest Daine looked at his own rifle, laid across his lap: his own Pa had made it for him, and when the old man said his Pa had made his rifle, it meant something. "I fell an' broke th' stock so I made me one." The youngest Daine nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. The old man looked affectionately at his great-grandson. "Iffen a man's gonna make a gun stock," he said, "he'd ought t' work in the very best piece of fancy wood he can find." The boy's eyes were as much a question as any voice would have been, and the oldest Daine smiled tiredly at the youngest Daine. "A man puts th' same amount o' work int' fancy wood as plain," he said, his voice faint: "he'd ought t' work in the best there is." The old man sighed a little, and closed his eyes. The wind stilled for a moment: the eldest Daine stood, but stood easy, as if he was twenty years ... hell, sixty years younger! The man took a step, feeling fatigue and years fall from him like a soiled, worn out cloak would fall from his shoulders. He looked across the clearing, and a young woman, a beautiful young woman, smiled at him. "Maycel?" he said, surprised at the strength in his voice: "Maycel!" Maycel smiled and extended her hands, and the eldest Daine, no longer a feeble old man, but a man once again in the green strength of youth, started to run. He seized his beautiful young bride and snatched her up and spun her around, and she held him around the neck and threw her head back and laughed the way she always had, and they stopped, and he looked back across the clearing. He was surprised at how old, how dried up, how feeble that old fellow asleep against the tree was. "That poor fellow needs a good square meal," he said, and then looked at Maycel, puzzled. Her expression was patient, knowing, the way he remembered, and then the knowledge was upon him. The youngest Daine bowed his head and the eldest Daine, still holding his wife, saw the boy's shoulders start to shake. "That's me," he whispered. Maycel squeezed his hand. "Come, Albert," she said quietly. "It's time we went home."
  13. Charlie MacNeil 10-3-11 Echoing in the darkness, softened by distance and moonlight, fading with the owl's wingbeats, the joyous song of the wolf's celebration of hot-blooded life...
  14. Linn Keller 10-2-11 When Lightning slept, he slept like a man of clean conscience: flat on his back, relaxed, dreamless. Since becoming a married man, he was adjusting to sleeping with someone: instead of sleeping flat on his back and relaxed, when he was ready for sleep, he was now flat on his back and relaxed, but his hand held his bride's hand, and he slept thusly. Daciana, too, was acclimatizing herself to sharing a bed with another: she normally curled up on her side, and she had been trying to sleep on her back, but the rope burns from rappelling down the cliff face made that less than comfortable, and so she was on her side again. Lightning felt her roll up on her side, and cuddle into him, and though he was mostly asleep yet, he rolled over and ran one arm under Daciana's pillow, and the other over her ribs, serendipitously missing her burns: each felt a comfort from the other's closeness, and together they slept, relaxed, warm, safe. Sarah felt no such relaxation. Sarah lay awake, staring at the ceiling, remembering Daisy's travail, hearing her agonies, watching her strain and labor and work herself to exhaustion, until finally she was delivered of her child. Sarah imagined her Mama -- she imagined Bonnie -- laboring with her own young, and wondered if she too cried out with pain as had the Irishwoman. Sarah wondered if she herself would scream and swear and strip her throat raw with the birthing of her own child, or children. Finally she seized the covers, threw them back. "I can't sleep," she whispered impatiently. Ten minutes later Bonnie stirred a little at the sound of retreating hoofbeats: she made a sleepy little noise and rolled up on her side, then relaxed back into slumber. The night air was chilly, almost damp: Sarah relished its cold on her cheeks, how it sifted through the weave of her canvas britches. She knew where she was going; there was moon enough to see, and the racer was full of fettle and anxious to run. She held the gelding's speed down, knowing she had a little distance to go. It took her a few hours and she had to cast about a few times to find her way, but finally she found the cliff face, the rocky flat. Sarah drew up, looked around, nostrils flared: yes, she thought, this is it, and she was almost disappointed that she was alone. She walked the gelding to the rocky flat and dismounted, holding the reins in her left hand. There wasn't much moon, but it was enough: she studied the ground, patiently, carefully, wishing for her uncles' skills in tracking, in reading sign. There was no trace of wood ash or fire, no blue-stained sand to show where Dr. Flint had worked his otherworldly magic. Sarah looked at the cliff face. It was absolutely unremarkable. Rock, eroded and weathered, here and there a plant straggled out of a little pocket of erosion, of pulverized rock-dirt; nothing moved, there was no wind to stir the very few leaves. Sarah's breath hung still in the air. Sarah went to one knee, resting the crescent butt place of Jacob's rifle on the arch of her boot. "Mama," she whispered, "are you here?" She let the rifle drop back into the bend of her elbow, touched the blue cameo with her fingertips. Something bade her look up, look around. She stood, circling, searching with her eyes. Nothing. I was hoping for an owl, she thought, remembering the great, snowy-white owl that had passed by her that night when she emerged from the blue-sand circle, and then she looked quickly at the cliff face. Nothing. Sarah's bottom lip quivered a little and she batted at the sudden sting in her eyes. She turned and thrust Jacob's rifle back in its scabbard. Mama, she thought, I wanted to thank you. Sarah thrust her boot into the doghouse stirrup, swung easily aboard the Mexican saddle, brought the gelding about. Sarah took one last look around, then pressed her heels into the gelding's ribs. She looked down the trail, studying the wooded mountainside, her attention forward, alert for the unexpected. Behind her, the shadow of a woman flowed onto the cliff face, spread its wings, and was gone. The gelding hadn't really exerted himself; he still had plenty of starch in him by the time he and Sarah cantered through the big ornate McKenna archway. Sarah unsaddled the horse and brushed him down, baited him with some oats and hung up saddle and bridle and closed the barn doors. Only then did she see the snow-white owl perched on the front porch rail. Sarah froze, her eyes huge in the moonlight, and the owl spread its wings, and was gone.
  15. Mr. Box 10-2-11 "IT'S A GIRL!" And that's all that needed to be said! The place was roaring! With all that has been going on, this celebration wasn't going to be short lived! I had been answering questions about how the rescue had been done up until then but it was soon forgotten with the newest event at hand! Out there on the cliff, I suddenly realized that you don't always need the biggest and strongest brute you can find to handle the problem. That young lady that went down the face of that cliff was perfect for the job! I'll never forget what I saw out there today!
  16. Linn Keller 10-2-11 Daisy collapsed back on her sweat-damp sheet. Her throat was stripped raw: her groan was more like a rasp or a wheeze, but her pleading eyes spoke when her voice could not. "It hurts," she squeaked. "It hurts, Sean!" -- then she rallied a reserve of strength, the way laboring women do, and she seized her husband's hand and hissed, "And it's all your fault!" Daisy took another long breath and closed her eyes, gritted her teeth. "Saint Michael and Saint Christopher," she gasped, and her hand fair to crushed Sean's meaty paw. Sarah stood beside her mother, silent, her eyes large and round. She'd just come up from downstairs; she'd slipped out for a moment, to check on the children: the twins were collaborating with little Sean, something involving two upturned kettles, half a dozen blocks and a rag doll: Sarah was not sure quite what they were building, but they were quiet, and they were cooperating. Little Michael was piled up on a chair, curled up like a cat, his head on a minimally padded arm of the chair, sound asleep. Dr. Greenlees nodded, slowly, and Esther tilted her head slightly: she looked up as the door opened and Sarah slipped in, quietly, resuming her place beside her Mama. "Sarah," Dr. Greenlees said without looking up, "I shall need a large washpan of warm water. I need the water just warm, just body temperature, two large towels and a washcloth, and just a slip of soap." Sarah nodded and started for the door. Sean made a little sound of distress and Sarah turned, alarmed. Esther, behind and beside Sean, nodded to Sarah and mouthed a single word: Hurry! "Sean?" Daisy squeaked. Sean brushed her forehead with the back of a big finger. "Daisy, m'dear," he whispered. "Sean, it's got t' be a boy, he's big as a team and wagon!" "I know, Daisy me dear," Sean whispered, looking at Dr. Greenlees' impassive face. Dr. Greenlees looked up, nodded once. Daisy groaned again, a deep, from-the-depths-of-her-exhausted-soul sound, then began to pant, wringing Sean's hand powerfully: the door opened and Sarah came in with the wash basin before her, steaming-warm, and a towel over each of her shoulders. Bonnie moved aside and Sarah carefully, slowly, walked around the foot of the bed, placed the basin on the vacant corner of the dresser. "Pull the chair over here, please," Dr. Greenlees said mildly, as if he were ordering another slice of bread with his meal, "and place the basin on it." Sarah looked at Esther, curiosity on her face, and Esther smiled a secret smile, something just between the two of them, and nodded to the straight-back chair behind her. "It hurts," Daisy whimpered. "Why's he hurt his Mama, ma wee babe --" Daisy's lips peeled back from her teeth and she twisted a little, then arched again and bore down, hard. Sarah's hand found her Mama's and squeezed, and Bonnie squeezed back. "Ah, yes," Dr. Greenlees said quietly, and Sarah had a glimpse of something before Dr. Greenlees' shoulder blocked her view. "Mama?" Sarah whispered, looking at Bonnie, and Bonnie bit her knuckles as she watched new life, borne in pain and in blood, thrust into the world and into the Doctor's waiting hands. Daisy let out a long wail and Sean looked, alarmed, at his wife, then at the doctor. "Well," Dr. Greenlees said with a satsified tone, and began to grin. "Well?" Sean blurted. Daisy relaxed, limp, spent: it was if the last of her strength washed out of her like water thrown from a pail. Bonnie pressed her knuckles against her lips and she bounced on her toes a little with excitement. Sarah's eyes were huge and she was a little pale. Esther drew a lace-edged kerchief from her sleeve and dabbed delicately at her eyes. "Doctor?" Sean asked. Dr. Greenlees was busy with something: he stood, turning, and Sean saw something bent, wrinkled, ugly, bloody and wiggling in the man's hands. Dr. Greenlees eased the newest addition to the Irish household into the basin of blood-warm water and ceremonially administered the first bath. "My baby?" Daisy whispered through a dry throat. Dr. Greenlees tapped the child's soles: "Now what do you have to tell us, little one?" he murmured, and the arm-waving little package opened its mouth and took several quick breaths, turning rapidly from an ugly slate grey to a healthier pink, helped by the good Doctor's massaging towel. Daisy looked at Sean as they heard a little mouse-squeak, then another, and finally the weak cry of a newborn -- a cry that grew in strength and volume, until the world at large had been well informed that Here I Am, And I Am Not Happy About It! Dr. Greenlees stood, the bundle in his bent arm. "Sean," he said "would you present your wife with your little baby" -- he lifted the towel and took an exaggerated look -- "daughter!" Bonnie and Sarah hugged each other. Esther gave Sean's shoulders a squeeze. Sean stood and extended splay-fingered hands, with the expression of a man who was afraid he was going to be handed a delicate crystal piece of art that he would likely break. Sean turned, swallowing hard. "It's a girl," he whispered. "I have a daughter!" Daisy reached for her little daughter. Sean eased the bundle down on her belly, and Daisy unwrapped the child. The little girl-baby waved its fist-clenched arms and fell against Daisy's chest and began rooting vigorously. Sean chuckled, then threw his head back and laughed, tension falling away like snow from a springtime roof. "She's no' had a meal for nine months!" he declared. "She knows where to go!" "But what will you name her?" Sarah asked. Daisy drew the towel over her baby, covering it completely, knowing she had to keep it warm, in spite of wanting to show it off: she looked at Sean, distressed. "I was s' sure 'twas a boy," she whispered. "So sure!" Sean nodded. "We could name her for your mother." "Or yours, Daisy m'dear." "My mother's name was Shannon," Daisy squeaked. "She was born in a boat on the River Shannon." Sean nodded. "Grace," he said. "Grace," Daisy said thoughtfully. "Gráinne," Sean confirmed: "Grace O'Malley was a warrior princess." "She'll be no warrior!" Daisy flared. "She'll be a proper lady!" "Grace it is, then?" Daisy lifted the towel and kissed her baby's head. "Aye," she said. "Grace." Sarah's eyes were distant as she rode beside her mother. The twins were asleep in the back of their carriage: they had played quietly with Little Sean and with brother Michael -- at least until Michael piled up in a chair and went to sleep, curled up like a cat, his head laid over on the barely-upholstered arm of the chair. Sarah was no stranger to life's realities. She'd watched as fresh mares or heifers were serviced, she'd seen calves and colts birthed, and helped pull a calf or two when the bovines didn't want to come into the world peacefully. The mechanical process of birthing was not a mystery to Sarah. Being one of the ladies present with Daisy as the youngest Irish child was born, was something Sarah had not expected. Sarah swayed a little as they drove. Part of her mind registered the road ahead, open country to the left and to the right; she heard the regular cadence of the mare's trotting hooves, the hum of spoked wheels beneath her; part of her was still in Daisy's bedroom, standing at the foot of the bed with her Mama, ready to lend a hand as needed. Sarah smiled a little at Sean's reaction to being handed his little baby daughter, how the big Irishman's eyes widened and he looked around at each of the ladies and finally blurted, "Will she break?" Sarah remembered the brief discussion of names and how they'd settled on Grace, and this little princess was declaring her warlike intent to any within earshot. Sarah remembered how Daisy arched and snarled and collapsed and panted, how there at the last she was too tired and throat-stripped to scream and merely groaned, there until the very last contraction. Sarah looked back at the twins again, considering. "Penny for your thoughts?" Bonnie asked, smiling a little. Sarah's expression was serious as she replied, "I never had the chance to thank my Mama for birthing me." Bonnie hugged Sarah into her with her right arm, reins in her left hand. "Mama?" "Yes, Sweets?" Sarah took a long breath, raised gentle fingertips to the blue cameo at her throat. "Thank you for being my Mama." The Irish Brigade came boiling out of the firehouse and laughed, swore, joked, quarreled, jostled and trampled their way to the Silver Jewel. Mr. Baxter found himself the recipient of a half dozen hand rolled Cubans: one of the Brigade clapped a handful of coins on the bar and declared, "Sean has a fine little baby again! Set 'em up, we're uncles all!" "That's wonderful!" Mr. Baxter declared with a broad grin, pulling the handle on his beer tap. "Is it a boy or a girl?" The Welsh Irishman pounded his cohort on the shoulder blades . "Ya, we need t' know i' it's a boy 'r a girl, so we know if we're an aunt or an uncle!" Sean himself came in about that time, grinning like a kid after his first kiss, and found himself glad-handed, back-pounded, congratulated and cigar'd: he reared one muscled leg up, planted one burnished black boot onto the brass foot rail, grinning like a fool kid plumb addled over some girl. He looked shyly at Mr. Baxter. He opened his mouth to say something, and had to stop to clear his throat. Sean swallowed, took three long swallows of beer, thumped his nearly empty mug down on the burnished mahogany: turning, he leaned both elbows on the bar-top and tilted his head back. "IT'S A GIRL!" he roared, and the Silver Jewel shivered with the answering roar from every throat, and the happy stomping of many feet.
  17. Linn Keller 9-30-11 "And when she said it that way," the cowpoke grinned, "why, it woulda been plumb impolite not to oblige her!" The men laughed with a shared knowledge, the rough good humor men share in such moments: the Sheriff nodded, grinning, and looked up just as the Silver Jewel's left hand door swung open and a fellow backed out, and Jacob facing him. The Sheriff's chuckle fell away like a dropped sledgehammer as the fellow crouched and swung: he saw Jacob twist, the pair spun and Jacob fell backwards down the three steps. The Sheriff tasted copper and leaned forward into a sprint but he was too slow, too slow, and Jacob's Colt snaked into view and the Sheriff knew his son was about to address a matter of importance, and only then did he see the knife, still moving in an upward arc -- The Colt's report broke the spell. The knife disappeared. The Sheriff was across the street and up the steps in two long strides. Judge Hostetler had just emerged from the doorway when the cheat's head slammed against the door post to the jurist's right. Judge Donald Hostetler stopped and turned, regarding the moment with a detatched indifference. The Sheriff's eyes were pale, very pale, and his lips were pulled back: His Honor had seen the man thus, once before, when he had someone else by the throat. That time it had been an enemy combatant, a soldier who had very nearly spitted the Judge on a yard-long bayonet, and the Colonel, his pistols empty and his sabre broken, had seized the soldier about the neck and slammed him against a bullet-splintered tree. Judge Donald Hostetler remembered the scene, and remembered how surprised he'd been at seeing the Sheriff's -- that is, the Colonel's -- eyes, really seeing them for the first time. The Judge saw the cords standing out in the back of the Sheriff's hand, and in his neck, and he knew the man meant to coldly, very personally, kill the man who had so offended him. The Judge laid a hand on the Sheriff's forearm. "Colonel," he said sternly, stand down, sir." The felon's face was darkening; his struggles were measurably weakened. "Colonel!" The Sheriff blinked, looked at the Judge. "Stand down, sir." The Sheriff looked at the man he held. The Sheriff's lip curled with distaste and he released his grip. He turned and took the three steps down in one long stride. Jacob lay on his back, fumbling with his revolver, trying to reload his spent round. The Sheriff went to one knee, seized his son's vest, yanked it savagely open: he opened Jacob's shirt in the same manner, scattering buttons and tearing cloth, and finally ripped open the red Union suit beneath. A long, gleaming red line crossed his son's flat, muscled belly, running diagonally and bleeding freely. The Sheriff drew his own knife -- the small one, with the razor's edge -- and sliced a wide strip of linen from Jacob's ruined shirt: he folded it, wiped quickly at the bloody, incised wound. "Shallow," he said, his voice husky. Jacob bent his head, chin to his chest, looking at his incised middle. "Oh hell," he said, disappointment in his voice, "that was my good shirt!" "I can replace the shirt," the Sheriff said coldly. "I've only got one of you!" He wiped again at the hemorrhaging incision. "You're lucky. It didn't even get through the first muscle." The Sheriff glared at his firstborn. "You shot the knife." "My aim was off." "I taught you better!" "Well pardon me all to hell!" Jacob flared. Cold eyes and hard-clenched jaws held for a long moment. The Sheriff was the first to relent. "I'm glad you're not hurt," he said. Jacob's eyes softened a little, just like his Pa's, and in the same moment. "Me too," he admitted, then grinned -- that quick, flashing grin of his -- "if he'd kilt me, my wife would never speak to me again!" The Sheriff's grin was just as quick. He cut another chunk off Jacob's shirt, folded it, pressed it against his son's belly. "Here," he said, "hold this. Let's have Doc take a look at that." Jacob came to his feet and frowned. As the two started walking toward the fine stone hospital Jacob said, "Sir?" "Yes, Jacob?" "Sir, did I ever tell you just how much I hate Doc's carbolic?"
  18. Linn Keller 9-30-11 Fred Jerome had deferred the telegrapher's chair to Lightning for the duration. Now that the special was returned, its cargo discharged and the inspection car switched on the curving track back to the round house, Lightning sent word up and down the line that the timetable was back in effect. He timed it just right, of course; two minutes later, right on time, The Lady Esther pulled her passenger cars and two box cars out of Carbon Hill, bound for Firelands on her scheduled run, and as usual, she was precisely on time, in spite of the unplanned interruption. Dr. Flint prevailed upon one of the obliging cowhands to help him set the injured lad astraddle of the saddle, and they two walked the boy -- well, walked the horse, with the boy on top -- over to the hospital. The other cowhand, at the prospect of wetting his dried up whistle, followed Mr. Baxter and the Sheriff. The Sheriff took a moment, excusing himself from the group: Daciana was on his arm, and it was only proper that he formally return her to her husband. It was a given in the etiquette of the age, that a Lady did not leave the room unless she was on the arm of a man: in like wise, it was proper for her to arrive in the company of an honorable and trusted escort, and for her to be returned to her husband, on that trusted man's arm. Lightning and Fred Jerome both rose as the pair entered the snug little telegraph office. The Sheriff's eyes were warm and approving. "My friend," he said softly, "you may be very proud of your wife" -- and so saying, he turned, swept up her hand and very formally, in a very gentlemanly manner, kissed Daciana's knuckles. Daciana, in turn, returned a flawless curtsy, though her strong and athletic legs were trembling a bit. In this moment, Daciana was most grateful that her skirts hid their tremors, for she was certain her knees were about to start banging rather briskly together. The Sheriff raised his hat to the three of them, stepped through the door, closed it quietly behind him. Lightning's arm encircled Daciana's waist, and he drew her into him, his eyes bright with concern: he brushed the hair back from her face and murmured, "Are you well, my dear?" Fred Jerome blinked. He'd expected his long time friend to ask "Are you all right?" -- or the slurred abbreviation the two brass pounders often exchanged, "Yaw rat?" It was Mr. Jerome's turn to exercise a gentleman's discretion. Quietly, invisibly, he sidestepped to the door, opened it just enough to slip through sideways, and closed it very quietly behind him. "Mr. Baxter," the Sheriff declared cheerfully, "I believe you said something about a drink." "Aye, I did that!" Mr. Baxter declared right back, smoothing the folded barkeep's apron draped over his arm. The Sheriff raised one eyebrow as he regarded the other cowboy, the one that remained when his partner transported the boy to the hospital. "Name's Keller," he said, thrusting out a hand. "Bailey," the 'poke blurted, taking the man's thin, strong hand: the Sheriff noted calluses, with approval: he hadn't much use for a man without calluses. "Mr. Bailey, I have a thirst, and I believe we have a cure for that dreadful condition. Will you join us, with the understanding your money is no good today?" Bailey's grin broadened until it threatened to run halfway around his head. "Wa'l, Ah'd just take you up on that," he said, and the Sheriff's quick ear heard a trace of the old South in his slow syllables. "The man said leave," Jacob said mildly, considering the cards he held. "I don't take that from no one!" "You are a cheat, mister, and you got caught. You can leave peacefully or otherwise and I don't care which." Jacob laid his hand face down and stood, his eyes pale, cold as his father's. "You ain't man enough," the cheat snarled. Jacob kicked his chair out of the way and took a slow step toward the blustering cheater. The man took a slow step back. Jacob advanced. The man retreated. Tom Landers stood, his face wooden, looking like it had been carved out of ironwood: years had creased his face, the sun had tanned it, and despite his work mostly inside the Jewel, he still kept active outdoors, and it showed. Still and all, he was not unhappy the young lawman was taking a hand. Tom Landers had learned the hard way that terra firma was generally much more firma than he really liked, and so when Jacob addressed the matter, Tom Landers stood back to watch someone else do the work. The pair made for the door, dead slow: the cheat, one step back, Jacob, one step ahead, remaining just out of arm's reach. The Honorable Judge Donald Hostetler took his hand-rolled Havana from the left corner of his mouth and moved it slowly to the right corner of his mouth. Those that knew the Judge, knew that it meant he was displeased. He, too, rose, more to watch and see than to take a hand himself. An anonymous soul slid behind the retreating cheater, swung open the Jewel's ornately frosted, hand-carved and carefully-glazed door. The cheat backed out, onto the boardwalk. Several in the Jewel had laid down their cards, put down their dice, carried along their beer mugs, following the slow moving tableau. The cheat looked left, looked right, looked at all those eyes burning into him, and turned a little. Jacob moved closer. Whether it was instinct, whether it was a premonition, Jacob never said in all the years that followed: all anyone knew was that when the man turned, Jacob turned as well, circling quickly to his left. The knife sliced a silver arc through the air, a vicious, savage gut-thrust, the fastest to put into motion and the most difficult to defend against: Jacob twisted a little, feeling steel sear a bright line of incised pain across his flat, muscled belly, and he fell backwards, down the steps that led up to the Jewel's boardwalk. Jacob fell in slow motion. He drew his right-hand Colt, cocking as it came out of the holster as was his habit, and he punched the revolver's muzzle toward the murderous cheat. The Colt felt right and Jacob's finger tightened on the trigger and 40 grains of FF black detonated in the bottleneck case, just as he landed, back-flat on the packed dirt street.
  19. If you could get me some pics that would be great. Thanks!
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