Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

The steering actually brakes one track or the other for steering ... ... wait a minute, if you can do that, eliminate the skis and go with longer tracks, so that's not it ... The skis must steer. No, no, it's evident they don't, just look at it ... besides, with two tracks driving, skis wouldn't be able to turn that thing ... (scratches a rapidly thinning scalp) Be damned if I know!

I'm gonna repaint my boat blue-green and rename it "Thirteen Whistling Pigs!"

I AM SURE Dana drew up with a clump of brush behind her, laid a quieting hand on her mare’s neck. I knew why she did that. I knew why she didn’t favor the bright and girly colors her sisters loved. Dana wore a riding skirt, but it would not have surprised me if she’d worn trousers, convention be damned! – and I knew she wore boots beneath that riding skirt. She was young enough to wear whatever she damn well pleased, and look like a girl when she did, and she was old enough to wear whatever she damn well pleased, and look like a girl when she did. She was my youngest daughter. I know why she drew up in front of some brush like that. Her Appaloosa didn’t have much white on it. From a distance, holding still, her mare blended into a background. Dana, in tans and browns and black gloves and hat, did as well, her shining-blond hair was piled up somehow underneath that chin strapped Stetson – how, I’ll never know. Woman’s magic, I reckon, and her not a woman yet, but she could still get that glorious, shining fall of hair all up under her hat and hid. Sarah, now, Sarah braided hers and wrapped it around her neck when she was going into something serious, and more times than one it kept her from getting throat cut. She learned that from another remarkable woman, Bonnie McKenna’s top hand, Clark. I set there on my black Outlaw-horse – he was old now, likely I’d retire him pretty soon, but he loved the mountains, just like me – I set there and let my mind wander, and I looked at Dana and I remembered her Mama, how she set a horse just like that, she saddled like the Queen on a velvet throne. Esther rode with a regal dignity. Dana rides with all the dignity of a five year old after drinkin’ half a pot of coffee, with all the skill of a screaming Mexican: when her horse lights up under her it’s like you lit a fire in a boiler, she and the horse become one magical creature and there’s no tellin’ where one ends and the other begins, and she does all this without reins or bit either one. I looked at my daughter and considered she’d stopped in front of that clump of brush because that’s what I do, and my little girl picked up a surprisin’ number of my habits. She was silent, she was watchful: her gloved hand caressed her mare’s neck, and the mare stood absolutely still, didn’t even switch her tail: when they held dead still like that, in front of an irregular structure like that brush or a cluster of rocks, why, she turned invisible. Invisible. She learned that from me. I set there thinkin’ all this but I was not a-starin’ at my little girl. I turned Outlaw-horse – I stopped twenty foot from her, knowin’ that shinin’-black gelding would draw the eye, and if anyone took a shot at me, I didn’t want Dana hit – I looked around and satisfied myself we were alone. Always did like the lonesome places. Earlier, now, Dana stopped at a spring we favored, well down the mountain, she filled three whiskey bottles with good cold water, then we let our horses drink – man and beast dry out fast in the high, thin air – we headed on up-trail and now we stopped, and we looked, and we listened. It didn’t take much to start a small fire from dry stuff and boil up a little water for tea. Dana unwrapped a pyramid of sugar she’d bought at the Mercantile for such moments: brown it was, and it tasted of maple, and many’s the time I’d fried up bacon or whatever else we’d brought. Damned if Dana didn’t fetch out some flour and add some of that spring water, she made little flat cakes and fried them in bacon grease while we drank sweetened tea and ate the bacon she fixed, her mare came over and she whispered to her and fed her some of that sugar and stroked her ears and called her a good girl, and I couldn’t help but smile, for Esther used to whisper to sugar her mare, and whisper, just like that. Dana could not have learned that from me, and Esther died in childbirth, so I have no idea how Dana got that, not unless it’s born into her. Dana ate like I did, speared her bacon with her knife, let it dangle and cool and she et off her knife blade, but damned if she didn’t eat dainty. I reckon she saw the amusement in my eyes, for she looked at me and damned if she didn’t have that same understandin’ look in her eyes Esther used to give me in such moments. Once we et, once we’d mopped out what little bacon grease was left with that fry bread and et with a good appetite, I scoured the pan out with sand and we scattered the fire and made sure it was sure-enough dead. I’ve seen fire on the mountain and that’s something a man can’t hardly outrun and Dana saw me makin’ sure a fire was absolutely positively out, so she did the same thing with her own trail fires. Now as much as Dana watched me and as much as Dana hid herself in plain sight like she’d seen me do, and as much as Dana would kill a trailside fire just graveyard dead like she’d seen me do, Dana was a girl and no doubtin’ it, and I give thanks to Bonnie McKenna and her girls for that. Sarah was long gone off to Europe and I don’t reckon she was much more’n a wisp of memory to Dana, so Dana could not have learned girl stuff from her … Bonnie told me once that she very much appreciated that I treated her like a lady, and I taken Bonnie’s hands in mine – quick-like, she looked at me, startled, for I’d never been that forward before – I recall I told her quietly that she was indeed a Lady, and had always been. “Bonnie,” said I, “I treat you like the Lady that you genuinely be.” I closed my eyes and bit my bottom lip and thought You are making a damned fool of yourself, but that wouldn’t be the first time. Bonnie’s hands squeezed mine and she got kind of teary and she squeaked “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” and she near to jumped up on her toes and kissed me on the cheek and the she turned and scampered off like a bashful schoolgirl and there I stood with my teeth in my mouth and my elbow halfway up my sleeve, a-wonderin’ what the hell just happened. “Your Mama,” I said, and I had to stop and harrumph and swallow hard, for memories came rip roarin’ like a Cavalry charge from where I tried to keep ‘em corralled. “Your Mama always liked it up here,” I said. Dana looked at me with those big, lovely eyes, blinked, waited. “You miss her,” Dana said – a statement, not a question. I nodded, walked over to her, reached thumb and forefinger into my vest pocket. “I had this made for her,” I said quietly, and pulled out a necklace. It was a square cut ruby, blood red and polished, faceted and rectangular and silver mounted: Dana lifted her chin, then bent her head down a little as I put the delicate silver chain around her neck, fast it in back. It rode in the little hollow between her collar bones. “Daddy,” Dana whispered, “are you sure?” I took my little girl’s hands in mine and I looked at the infant I’d diapered, at the giggling little girl just learning to walk on chubby little legs. I looked at the little girl in a frilly frock who tilted her head waaaaay back to look in amazement at this biiig creature her Daddy rode, and I looked at this lovely young damn-neart-a-woman who’d rode up the mountain with me, and I felt her hands in mine and I whispered, “Darlin’, I’m sure.”

... I read "Innamincka" as "Winnemucca" ... sorry about that ...

AN EXPLOSIVE SITUATION Walk-in patients were nothing new to the firehouse. If they needed looked at, assessed, needed some good sound advice, often times they came to the firehouse instead of the hospital – if nothing else, it spared them the expense of an ER visit. So it was today, when a father and son came through the squad bay’s man door. Captain Crane was medic-in-charge. Captain Crane was a widower, a father, and a grandfather. Captain Crane had Grandfather’s Reflexes. Shelly Keller was taking care of the patient – he’d stopped in the firehouse for a blood pressure check, and nothing else was amiss, at least with the man who stopped. His little boy, on the other hand, needed some attention. The Captain went to one knee before the lad and said gently, “What’s wrong, son?” The boy looked genuinely distressed as he looked past the Captain, at his father, seated and laughing quietly with whatever line Shelly was feeding him. The child spoke his fears to the Captain. The Captain listened carefully to the young boy’s fears, and considered his reply just as carefully. As Shelly peeled the blood pressure cuff free, patted the man’s hand and winked at him, declaring him a fine and healthy example of Western manhood, the Captain, in a quiet and grandfatherly voice, put the boy’s fears to rest: his explanation was geared to a five year old’s understanding, but his words carried the weight of truth, and coming from someone his father respected, the child accepted the Captain’s explanation without question. They watched as father and son departed the firehouse, the boy gripping his father’s hand as they did. Shelly folded the blood pressure cuff, wrapped tubing around it and slipped the compact package back into the orange-plastic bottom tray of their voluminous medic’s box. “What was that all about?” Shelly asked, looking sidelong at her father. The Captain took a long breath, ran his arm around her shoulders, hugged her into him: she felt his silent chuckle and so she tilted her head and turned to face him. Shelly raised an eyebrow, looked over a set of nonexistent spectacles at her father’s increasingly reddening face. “Do you know,” he said quietly, “that’s the most trouble I ever had, keeping a straight face?” Shelly exaggerated her blinks: she folded her arms and began tapping her foot, for all the world like a stern and disapproving schoolmarm. The Captain sighed, shook his head. “His son,” he said, “was … distressed.” “So I gathered.” “He said his Daddy was taking nitroglycerin, and he was afraid to make any noise or do anything for fear his Daddy would blow up!” Shelly smiled. Shelly’s ears turned red. Shelly and her father embraced one another and gave up, and laughter filled the sunlit squad bay.

Not that I know of. Our Medieval re-enactment group held an event at the county fairgrounds; a short line runs through the grounds, and we were told recent Federal anti-terrorism laws prohibit divulging train schedules. Our local village has a fire station north of a pair of tracks; they built a second station below the tracks because the squad couldn't get to a scene in time, and there were structures lost because of a train either stopped on the crossing, or running warp slow, and mutual aid from an adjacent village got there after it burned through the roof.

JUST LIKE US Angela put her hand on her sister's collarbone. "You're not going." Dana smacked her hand aside, leaned closer, hissed "Try and stop me, sister!" Angela's eyes were already pale. She already had her belt cinched tight, she already had eighteen ways of dyin' on her right hip and two more magazines in the horizontal carrier, and she had her favorite Ithaca with rifle sights swinging from her right hand, dangling down beside her white-stockinged leg. "She's my student," Angela said, her voice low, menacing, "and you just got engaged! I'm not risking you!" "I'm not risking you either," Dana snapped -- if it's possible to snap at someone in a whisper, she did. Pale eyes stared into pale eyes, then two women drew a little apart, each brought a twelve gauge pump up to port arms, each nodded, once. They'd gone into situations before. They were doing it again. Jacob Keller laughed as Little John piled on the couch beside him. Jacob ran his arm around Little John's shoulders, pulled him close, looked down at the laughing little boy and winked. The Bear Killer looked from one to the other, his big furry brush of a tail swinging, jaws open, the image of a happy canine ready to romp. "Littlejohn," Jacob said, running the syllables together so it sounded like an actual name, "I'm glad you're here!" "Yis!" Little John agreed, wiggling happily against his favorite uncle's ribs. Jacob's wrist-comm buzzed. He looked at it, frowned, tapped the screen. "Yeah, Sis!" "I need The Bear Killer, we have a situation." "He's right here, how can I help?" "Keep Little John from running after him!" An Iris appeared: The Bear Killer spun, looked at the cat's-eye opening, tilted his head and made a querulous sound. Angela poked her head out: "Bear Killer!" she called, drew back. "Auntie!" Little John called happily, tried to get up as The Bear Killer took two running jumps and disappeared. "Awww," Little John said: Jacob looked at the lad, at the hung-forward head, at the bottom lip pooched out in disappointment. Jacob sighed, leaned back, hugged Little John to him again. "Ain't that the way of it," he murmured. Leavin' us home to guard the fort." "Yeah," Little John said. "Guard the fort." Little John nodded emphatically, crossed his arms, shoved his bottom jaw out and frowned, the very image of youthful rebellion, as Jacob made a mental note never to say anything in Little John’s presence that he didn’t want repeated. Angela held up the vest and The Bear Killer's demeanor changed instantly. She slipped it over his head, snapped it in place across his back, fast up the straps under his belly. This vest almost looked like the one he wore when he rode with the Sheriff. Almost. There were four rectangular panels in the upper half, four below; the vest was black, like the one he wore when he rode with the Sheriff. It had a gold, six point star embroidered on the side, like the one he wore when he rode with the Sheriff. The letters K9 stood out as boldly as the six point star. The only visible difference -- other than the rectangular panels -- instead of saying FIRELANDS COUNTY in the middle of the gold-embroidered star, it said 13. Dana looked at it, looked at her sister. "Thirteen ... star systems?" "Yep." The Bear Killer was no longer the mouth-open, tail-swinging, ready-to-play member of the family. He wore his Vest, and he was all business. "Your uniform will do fine," Angela said. "You're on detached duty, just like Jacob." "Do we know where she's being held?" "Generally so," Angela replied. "Generally. That's why you need The Bear Killer." "Yyyep." Angela keyed her wrist-pad. An Iris opened. Two pale eyed deputies and a silent black Bear Killer stepped through, and were gone. "Gampaw!" Littlejohn shouted happily, and Linn laughed, or at least his image on the comm-screen did. "Little John, are you behavin' yourself?" Linn grinned. "Yis!" Little John declared with an emphatic nod and a flash of young white teeth. "Sir, the girls have a situation." Linn's face was instantly serious. "Report." Jacob nodded, considered that his father -- although Sheriff -- had no authority to order him to report. On the other hand, this was Family, so maybe he did. "Sir, one of Angela's students was abducted. She recruited Dana." "She knows we can back her up." "She does, sir." "She turned it down." -- it was a statement, not a question. "Yes, sir." Linn took a long breath, looked to the side, his jaw muscles bulging. "She's as hard headed as I am," he muttered, then glared back at Jacob. "I hope that independence doesn't get her hostage killed!" "Yes, sir," Jacob said quietly. Angela squatted, slipped the warbag off her shoulder, opened it, reached in. The Bear Killer watched as Angela opened a zip top bag of some kind, held it open. The Bear Killer shoved his muzzle into the bag, took a good whiff, took another: he brought his head out, looked at Angela, whuffed quietly, chopped his jaws once. She thrust the evidence bag back into the canvas satchel, reached deeper, pulled out what looked like a bundle of tan rods. She unfolded what quickly became a slender frame, with four foot long handles: she rose, held the tall, door-sized rectangle in front of her, the Ithaca hanging muzzle down from her off shoulder. Dana turned, looked around, turned again, looking for watchers, snipers, cameras. Angela advanced quickly, pressed the slim rectangular framework against the front door. Dana heard a quiet hissing, saw the door fall silently into what looked like ivory colored sawdust. Angela dropped the framework -- it coiled in on itself, sizzled, disappeared -- Angela brought the shotgun up, advanced. The Bear Killer paced forward, scenting the floor, lifting his head, scented the air. He pressed against Angela's shapely, stockinged leg -- she felt his snarl, rather than heard it -- Dana looked behind again, drew over against the wall, looked back. Angela brought her Ithaca up, fingers tight around the shotgun's fore-end, she felt the switch under her middle finger, pressed -- Her light blasted into a man's face, caused him to flinch back, raising a hand to block the blazing beam. A pistol raised with his hand, then fell to the ground as Angela's Ithaca spoke. The Bear Killer roared and charged, all fangs and fury, he ran to a door, yammering, clawing, rearing, trying to dig his way through. Two pale eyed deputies charged the stairs. Dana's muscular, equestrian's leg drew back, she brought her knee to her chest, drove her boot heel hard against the door just beside the knob. Two shotguns thrust into the room and brought two pale eyed deputies with them. "What was the casualty count?" Linn asked, his voice serious. Dana sat at the kitchen table with her father, her hands wrapped around the welcome warmth of a big mug of coffee. "Three," she said. "One dead, two injured." "Go on." "Angela neutralized the lookout when he pointed a pistol at us.” Linn nodded, listening. "We kicked the door. "The Bear Killer responded as he'd been trained." She saw her father's eyes tighten a little at the corners. "That one Angela took into custody." "That one?" "I took the other one." "You took the other one." Linn knew to echo a statement and wait, knowing it was natural to want to fill the silent vacuum with words. Dana smiled at him. She’d participated in enough interrogations to know what he was doing. "He dropped what he was holding and surrendered," she said quietly, "so I kicked him just north of the belt buckle to soften him up and drove the butt of my gun into the kidneys to make sure he behaved, then I stepped on his wrist and looked around to make sure there were no more in the room." Linn nodded. "He didn't resist any when I got him in irons." "No, I'd reckon not," Linn said softly. "You know that wouldn't fly here." "We weren't here." Linn nodded. "The girl?" he asked. Angela looked away, bit her bottom lip. "How bad?" She looked back at her father. “You remember what happened to Angela, back East.” Linn’s eyes hardened: he veiled them quickly, raised his coffee, took a slow, controlled sip. "I wanted to kill him, Daddy," she said quietly. "After what he'd done to her, I wanted to kill him." "You didn't." She shook her head. "I got them both in irons. Angela had the local authorities on speed dial.” Linn nodded again. “Somehow I thought …” Linn waited. “I thought maybe …” Dana glared into her coffee mug, took a long breath. “I thought people would be different, Daddy. I thought they’d be better than us.” She shook her head, looked up, looked at the black-glass mirror of the kitchen window. “They’re just like us, Daddy. Just like us. Just as good and just as bad and full of the same sins and prone to the same …” She took a long breath, smiled cynically, shook her head like us, raised her mug, muttered. “Just, like, us.”

INVISIBILITY: IT'S NOT ALWAYS GOOD! It's important to dress properly for the occasion. I wore my best suit for this one. Dana and Victoria both dressed for the evening as well: two lovely ladies in carefully tailored dresses, their hair fixed, young and lovely enough to bring an ache to a man's heart. In realistic terms, that's not what they brought to most of the hearts that cast eyes upon them, but we won't talk about that. I had them out to a fine restaurant and an excellent meal. The Bear Killer lay between Angela's chair and Victoria's, his back side to the table, facing outward: we garnered several looks -- some curious, some less than friendly, and the snooty waiter disliked being told that he would admit us, peacefully or otherwise, and I'd already cleared it with his boss. It helped when The Bear Killer bristled and rippled his gums a little and I said I feed him uncooperative waiters and he's not eaten in two days, and then his boss flagged him from across the room. The waiter didn't come near us the rest of the evening; the boss himself seated us at the best table in the house. The girls paced themselves, as far as their meal: although a wine list was offered, we did not partake: Victoria was too young, and Dana set herself a hard and fast rule of no alcohol, period -- I think that was because she tried it once and found it very much to her taste, and she didn't have a morning after, she had a day after -- but that's a story I won't get into here. Suffice it to say that her sisters tended to her misery, and my wife and I very carefully took no notice. The meal was excellent, as it always was. The girls were perfect ladies. It's always amazed me at how feminine a girl can be, and they were. I remember attending a wedding -- most of the family was Oriental -- the ladies ate rice with their fingers: Shelly explained to me later that it was a sticky rice that held together in clumps, but I was struck by how absolutely feminine they were as they ate something that would fall apart in my clumsy hands. That's beside the point. Once the meal was cleared, once the ladies had tea and I had coffee, we settled down to the business at hand. "Ladies," I said formally, which changed the entire tenor of the table. I saw Dana's eyes change, she looked at Victoria and then at me, and Victoria was suddenly attentive and carefully expressionless. I'd addressed them as "Ladies," we were well dressed, we were at what was very obviously an expensive restaurant, and this was not just a nice evening out. "I brought you here," I said carefully, "by way of apology." Dana's head tilted ever so slightly to the side; Victoria looked at me with open curiosity, then they looked at one another, looked back at me and quietly chorused, in honest puzzlement, "Why?" I smiled a little -- kind of sadly, or so it felt from behind my face -- "Ladies, you have both been the very soul of patience with all that's gone on." They looked at one another again, looked back. "What's been going on, Daddy?" Victoria asked, and for a moment her voice was that of a little girl, instead of a beautiful young lady. I swallowed, bit my bottom lip, blinked. "I've been spending my attention either at work, or with Michael," I said. "I've not ... given the two of you the attention you deserve." "Daddy," Dana said quietly, "you have not neglected us." "I didn't want either of you to think you were invisible." Victoria held very still, blinked those big lovely eyes of hers. Part of my mind whispered, She's already a heartbreaker, and I could almost feel my spine twisting around her little finger. "Dana, you brought your boyfriend around twice and I was not there. That is my fault and I apologize." I looked at Victoria. "I've done nothing to celebrate your and Michael's being graduated besides having cake and ice cream." "Daddy," Victoria said quietly, "you have never hesitated to show us how proud you are of us." "Words are cheap, Daddy," Dana reinforced. "Actions count. You've said more with all you've done, than with all the words you've ever spoken." I nodded. "Thank you, darlin'." I frowned, considered for a long moment. "Ladies, I am pretty damned proud of you both. You have each achieved more and better than anyone else of your ages I've ever known." I looked at Dana. "I had a talk with your boyfriend." That one took her by surprise. "We went over to the Jewel and set down in the back room for a while," I continued. "What did ... you tell him?" Dana asked, almost hesitantly. I grinned. "I told him my Uncle Will once said that when I got sweet on a girl, I should sit down at the table across from her Mama, and I should take a good long look at her Mama, because in twenty years, that's what your girl will look like. "He said I should eat her Mama's cookin' because that's how your girl's always going to cook, so choose wisely." "Aaannnddd ....?" Dana asked. "He allowed as he did, he did, and he was satisfied with both, and then we stood up and he looked me in the eye and asked my permission." It's not easy to surprise my daughter. Dana is as perceptive as her Mama, she's as quick to pick up on things as her Gammaw, and quick as she was to resume a neutral expression, for a moment I saw I'd taken her aback. "He ... asked ... your ... permission?" Dana echoed slowly, her lips very carefully framing each individual word. "He asked if he may have my permission," I said, "to ask you for your hand in marriage." Dana's hands drifted down to the tablecloth and she stared at me with big and vulnerable eyes. "I've already looked into him," I said, "I've spent some time with him. I understand you've been assessing him as well." Victoria looked at her sister and looked at me, looked back at her sister. "Daddy," Dana said carefully, "I have been ... looking into his background, as well." I nodded. "I think he is a good choice." "Have you discussed this with your mother?" Dana smiled, just a little: she colored delicately, lowered her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "Dear heart," I said in a soft, fatherly voice, "when it comes to matters of the heart, women are generally better judges of character than are men. I can find nothing significantly objectionable about him." "Significantly objectionable," Victoria echoed with an utterly innocent expression, and I couldn't help it, I laughed a little. I rose. I came around the table. Dana stood, looked up at me, bit her bottom lip just like her Mama. I held my little girl and she hugged me and then she looked up at me and whispered, "Daddy, I will choose very carefully." I kissed her forehead, I laid my cheek over on top of her head and I whispered, "Choose wisely, dear heart. I did, and we're just as happy as if we had good sense." I felt her giggle: "Oh, Daddy!" Victoria, for her part, looked at the waitress who brought dessert, smiled with delight at the arrival of her chocolate hot fudge sundae, and on the floor beside her, The Bear Killer gave a great and dramatic sigh, and went to sleep.

YOU'RE WELCOME I stood out on my porch and took a long, deep breath. Fall was approaching, it was getting cooler, it was getting dark earlier, and I smiled. My wife knows me better than I know myself. I made mention of the shorter days and she turned and looked at me, she put her hands on her hips and said, "And the Frost Giants from the North are greasing their boots so they can stride across the frozen landscape spreading cold and snow, dooooooommmm!" -- and I laughed, for I'd made that word for word complaint before. Several years before, as a matter of fact, and she still torments me about it, so generally I'll torment her right back and go on about the frosty blanket of White Death that settles over the land and invisible hands claw and steal at a body's warmth, and there's nothing between here and the North Pole but a bobwarr fence with two of three strands broke. Generally that's when she thrusts her arm up in the air and declares, "It's over the boots, save the watch!" I stood on the porch and smiled a little as I remembered all this, and then I remembered Michael had been uncharacteristically quiet through supper and now he was gone. I figured I knew where he'd gone, and I was right. Shelly told me once that when men get hurt, they hide. She's right, they do. I know Mama used to tell me she'd started CPR on men in bathrooms more times than one, she'd complained about men having chest pains and going to the bathroom for some seltzer instead of calling the squad, and I remembered burning myself with gasoline, I'd got careless and I still have the scars on the backs of my fingers, but I was just a little boy when it happened and I'd run around the house, dead silent and likely streaming fire as I ran, and I'd dove elbow deep into the spring behind the house and stayed there until my hands were so cold they were numb. I hid the injury from Mama long as I could, which was until I got back in the house, but yes, typical man, I tried to hide my hurt, and that's when I figured Michael was in pain. I went out to the barn and he was set down on a bale of hay with a blanket folded under him and he was hunched over some, they way he'd done before when his back was giving him billy Hell. When it got really bad, he said it made him half sick. I know he's trying hard as he can to be normal, he is fed up to the gills with being hurt, and I know it cost him to ride that riot and delay things long enough for Marnie to work her magic with their respective bosses. Michael was just plainly sunk in misery. He was well enough disciplined he never let us see his hurt face, and I didn't see it until I came sneakin' up on him, and it troubled me to see it. No father wants to see his son in pain. I'd known for some long time he was in pain and plenty of it, and not one damned thing I could do to ease that pain, but this is the first time I saw the pain on his face. I wanted to set down beside him and lay my arm across his shoulders, but I remembered he'd said any pressure on his back hurt terribly, so I cat footed in and eased down on the hay bale beside him. He leaned over against me, something he's not done since he was ... well, since he was a little boy. Hell, he's still a boy, he's not but eleven, he's gettin' some height to him but he's ... No. I almost said he's just a schoolboy. He's not. He's been graduated from high school, what with the advanced classes he and Victoria took. That didn't matter. Right now he was my boy and he was hurtin' so I reached over his shoulders and gripped his shoulder carefully and drew him into me a little. "I'm tired, Pa," he said in a thin, worn voice, and that genuinely scared me. The last man that was in pain and said those words, was soul-deep worn from cancer, he'd been in what the doctors called "Intractable Pain" and he got tired of hurtin' and took the Twenty-Five Cent Solution. I did not want my son to put a deer slug through the roof of his mouth. "I'm tired, Pa. I'm tired of hurtin' and I'm tired of puttin' up a good front." "You're doin' a fine job with the good front," I admitted. "Thank you, sir." "You look half sick." "Yes, sir." "I'm about give up, sir." "How's that?" Michael took a careful breath -- ordinarily he'd take a long breath, but this was a careful breath, and that alone told me he didn't want to stress his back any at all -- he groaned, "Pa, I'm ready to give up and ask for some pain killers." He closed his young eyes and hung his head a little and whispered, "I don't want to, Pa, but I'm ..." He looked at me and that was the first time I've seen him that close to crying for a very long time. "I give up, Pa," he whispered. I nodded. "We'll get you some relief," I said quietly. "I know who to call." I rode with Michael in the back of an ambulance. That would not be terribly remarkable, save that this ambulance had no wheels, it passed through an Iris and set down at a hospital on another planet. Angela gave him something, I have no idea what, she explained it would relax him and it would block his memory so he would have no recollection of being in such pain. She also added that the pain might remain in body memory, and that gave me no comfort at all. Michael was taken into another suite and Angela explained to me that he would be examined carefully, that his spine would be scanned, she said they could simply block the pain, but that wouldn't treat the cause, and whatever was causing his pain, had to be treated. I nodded, slowly, recalled an hour earlier when I stood on my front porch and had such a feeling of contentment, smelling the approaching night, feeling the air cool down with the changing season. "Daddy," Angela whispered, "this will take a while. Go home and get some rest. Let Mama know he's in the best hands in seven systems." "I thought it was thirteen systems." "These are the seven best as far as medical care." I nodded. I took a few days off. I'd built up vacation time, we didn't have anything of note going on, I had all my have-to's tended, and I couldn't do a damned thing to help Michael. Didn't keep me out from underfoot. My best use was to see Michael occasionally, but I'd brought Apple-horse with me and damned if the hospital didn't want me to fetch him into the children's ward. When Angela said they were advanced, she was not kidding: I have no idea how they did it, but Apple-horse was not what you'd call housebroken, and this was a hospital, and though he relieved himself rather casually, nothing hit the floor ... I reckon it must be more of that force field stuff. I didn't care. There is a magic when a child forgets, for a moment, why they're in a hospital, and the long nose of a genuine Appaloosa stallion lowers into their bedclothes and snuffs loudly, and a child that lacks strength to sit up, smiles mighty broad when strong hands grip around young ribs and hoist weak legs over a saddle and steady them as the stallion takes a few steps. I don't mind admittin' my eyes stung a little to see happiness in these young faces. Of course the picture that made the Inter-System had me standing there steadying a laughing little boy, and him wearin' my Stetson, and it came down to his ears, but you could look at a still image and hear his laugh, and Apple-horse even looked pleased with himself. Apple walked carefully, for steel horseshoes on a polished hospital floor is just awful slick, and I felt bad for scarrin' up that shiny wax job (I found out later there was some debate as to whether they should buff and polish to remove them, or keep them as a permanent reminder that someone famous, this way came), and of course I'd have to hunch over to ride Apple, so we walked together down the corridor and into Michael's room. I reckon 'twas Angela's doin' that The Bear Killer was there, and I know it was her doin' that she had peppermints ready for Apple-horse, and Michael had some molasses twist for him, and I considered that my children would just plainly spoil my stallion. Angela opened an Iris and I walked Apple back into my barn, I unsaddled him and hung up saddle and blanket and stepped back into the hospital room, for Angela wanted to talk to me about Michael. I set foot in the room in time to see Angela press a shining-silver injector against Michael's neck. She consulted a bank of small screens, nodded, turned to me: my lovely daughter, tall as her mother and just as beautiful, took my arm and whispered, "We'll let him rest now," and I let her steer me out of the hospital room and down the corridor. We ended up in the cafeteria. I drew a mug of what passed for coffee on that world -- it tasted like boiled sawdust with vanilla and maybe ground walnut hulls -- Angela swore it kept her awake like coffee, so hell, I've had bad coffee before, I drew a mug and we sat down at a back table. Angela considered her words carefully: she turned her coffee mug slowly, well-scrubbed fingertips barely touching the glazed ceramic. "Michael's back," she said finally, "actually is healing." I waited. "He hasn't told us about the bone pain he's been enduring." "Bone pain," I echoed. "I've heard of that with cancer patients." Angela nodded, looked at me, her eyes carefully expressionless. "Daddy, he's been in more pain than anyone realized. There are instruments that gauge pain levels and he's off the scale. If he'd ... " "He said he was tired, that he'd given up." Angela nodded. "I was afraid he'd eat a deer slug to stop the pain." "It's happened," she whispered. "Damaging the trigeminal nerve can cause what's called a Suicide Headache. It's so bad people suicide to get away from the pain." I waited again. "We've applied a pain block but that has not addressed the root cause." "What is the root cause?" I saw my daughter's lovely face harden, I watched her eyes grow pale with suppressed anger. "It's from having been electrocuted," she said flatly. "He ... it's a miracle that even this technology could re-grow bone. It's still growing and restoring original contour, original shape, original volume." I nodded, slowly. "How long," I asked carefully, "will he be in pain?" "Realistically?" she asked. "For the rest of his life. How long at this level of pain? They're applying bonestim right now to hurry up and restore his full-depth structure. Until now he's been at risk of crushed vertebrae." "He wasn't told about that?" "They didn't realize it, not until you called me and I arranged transport." "Should they have?" "I think so, yes," Angela said quietly, an edge to her voice, "but I have to be fair, Daddy. Nobody has ever survived this particular injury before." "So Michael is a test case." "Big time. He's proven several new procedures and still going. I know of two people who can see because of what they learned from treating Michael, there are a dozen people who had broke hips who no longer have a deficit, twice that number of osteoporotics who will not break a hip while standing still -- yes, that does happen." "How long will he be in here?" "I would say a week." I nodded. "Daddy," Angela said, laying delicate, pink-scrubbed fingertips on the back of my hand, "you helped more children than Michael by bringing Apple-horse. The Bear Killer is good, but a horse is the stuff of legend, at least in the popular imagination, and he helps, Daddy. He really does help." I nodded. "Bring him back, Daddy. It'll give us an excuse to get children out of the ward and out in sunshine and clean air." For the rest of that week, I saw a little of Michael, and a great deal of a great many children. Many were hospital patients. I ended up at a grade school and each class let out in turn to ooh and aah over Apple-horse, to pet him and marvel at him and to giggle when he snuffed their hands or the backs of their necks, and of course they all wanted to ride him, and I reckon I knocked their schoolroom schedules into a cocked hat, my arms were tired from hoisting children up into the saddle, but by golly from the looks on their faces, it was worth it! Angela's estimate was spot-on. Michael was discharged a week later. He had a particular prescribed diet, which for the most part consisted of Mama's good cookin', he had exercises prescribed which he did better than what was recommended by either riding, or scraping stalls -- like I'd said, he was hard headed determined to build himself back up to normal -- and he had visitors, among them were men from the riot he'd stopped, and there was a young wife with two daughters who visited with him, one daughter -- the youngest -- who insisted he was "Saint Michael" and she showed me a necklace she'd been given by her grandmother two years before, a religious medal with a man a-horseback on the front, and on its reverse, "Saint Michael protect us." Michael and I sat side by side on the front porch, our legs hung over the edge and resting on neatly trimmed grass. "I don't reckon we've any fresh ripe tomatoes in the garden?" Michael asked hopefully. I grinned. "Two big tomatoes and a double handful of cherry tomatoes," I said. "They're finishin' ripenin' in the kitchen window sill." Michael nodded slowly. "Pa?" "Yes, Michael?" Michael looked over at me. "Thank you, sir." I nodded slowly, reached over, laid my big hand over his, gently, so as not to make him feel trapped. "You're welcome, Michael."

PAY, AND PROMOTION "I heard you stopped a riot." Linn's voice was quiet as he stoned the edge of a slender bladed knife. "Yes, sir." Steel whispered on stone, long, regular strokes: Linn lifted the blade, dribbled on a little more thin oil, turned the blade over, stoned the opposite edge. "Was Lightning any help?" "She ate a man's hand, sir." Linn's long, careful sweeps of steel on stone never varied. "You'll have that," he said noncommittally. "I asked for a man's knife." "His knife." "Arkansas toothpick, sir. I wanted to use it to make a point and he tried to stab Lightning with it." "I see." Linn laid a few more long, uniform strokes on the stone, lifted the blade, wiped it on a filthy cloth apparently kept on the bench for that purpose: he drew the blade backwards across the heel of his hand, checking for burrs, for a wire edge: satisfied, he gripped the end of the razor strop, began to strop the blade. "Did he bleed out?" "No, sir. His buddies got a rag around it and twisted it into a torniquet." Linn grunted. "Marnie showed up with their bosses and they allowed as they'd worked out their differences, everyone could go home, the fight was over." "Did they?" "I reckon so, sir. Lightning and I left shortly after." "How'd you get involved?" Michael drew his own knife, oiled the coarse stone, began to sharpen his own knife: Linn knew Michael would only sharpen one side, and he'd use the coarse stone, to give his knife an edge like an Amish scythe -- a superb combination for skinning an animal, for cutting flesh of any kind, and Michael, like his sisters, was very well versed in the use of the fighting blade. Michael concentrated on his work for several long, careful strokes, then he stopped, he lifted his blade and looked very directly at his father. "Sir," he said, "I was drafted." Ambassador Marnie Keller smiled quietly, fanned herself as only a Lady can: she tilted her head to the side, just a little, and asked their secretary to re-read the projected casualties, had the fight become general. She nodded as the fell numbers were read, as the projected death count was enumerated as well. "And how many casualties were there?" she asked quietly. "One," the secretary said. "Only one." Marnie snapped her fan shut -- a swift move, an abrupt move, a surprisingly loud strike against her gloved palm. "Gentlemen," she said -- her voice was firm, she did not raise it at all, but there was no mistaking that she meant what she was about to say -- "I requested Michael's pay equal my own in this little adventure. His intervention was instrumental in the delay necessary to reach an accord." "But he's not a Diplomat! How can we pay him Diplomatic scale?" a voice protested. "Because he did the work of a Diplomat," Marnie explained patiently, "and because he was recruited by the Diplomatic Corps." She turned her head, looked very directly at the Chief Diplomat, who raised an eyebrow. "My esteemed colleague speaks truly," he said slowly, weighing his words before allowing their passage over his tongue: "he was indeed ... drafted ... owing to the exigent necessity of the moment." He swung his gaze, looked very deliberately into the eyes of the Council. "He did the work of a Diplomat. It is only right he receive commensurate pay." Michael slid his sharpened blade back into its hidden sheath. Linn turned a scrounged shaving mirror, leaned close to his magnified image, tried the blade against his cheek, nodded his satisfaction at the whisker-stubble he shaved off: he ran a finger down the honed edge, examined his finger, wiped it on his jeans leg. "I've got the oily skin of a teen-ager," he complained. "Is that why you shave with rubbing alcohol?" Michael asked. "That's exactly why, Michael," Linn grinned. "Alcohol complexes the skin oil and keeps me from growin' too many more blackheads." "Yes, sir." "My father used to give me hell for buying those skin pads -- they look like cleaning patches in a squatty little round jar of scented alcohol -- they were just the berries for getting skin oil off, and even when you washed your face, wipe off with one of those alcohol soaky coarse cloth rounder things and it would bring off dirt you never knew was even there." "Alcohol soaky rounder things," Michael grinned. Linn chuckled, slipped his honed steel back into its hidden sheath. "That's why I keep a bottle of rubbing alcohol on the bathroom sink. I'll dampen the corner of a towel and degrease my face before I go to bed at night." "Yes, sir." "How'd you come to get drafted, Michael?" "Just how did you persuade my brother to perform his diplomatic duty?" Marnie asked quietly, once they were away from the Council chamber, once it was just the two of them, and over dinner. The Chief Diplomat cut a slice of truly excellent steak, forked it to his mouth, chewed appreciatively, his eyes closed: Marnie waited, patient, as she usually was in such moments. "I knew we didn't have time to waste," he explained, once he'd chewed and swallowed: "I knew you could bring the warring parties to accord. That" -- he waved half a biscuit at her for emphasis -- "is your strong suit. You are one of the most accomplished persuaders I've ever seen. "Michael was needed to keep the fight from happening. It was progressing much faster than I anticipated. I thought it would be another two days before men lined up for a general riot. "Had it been anyone else, nobody would have hesitated -- mounted or not, they'd have cut down anyone else on any other horse, but because it was your brother, because it was a pale eyed hell raiser that rode toward danger and killed because they need killin' " -- "Mister Ambassador!" Marnie protested, her eyes widening. He raised a hand, smiled. "I know. That was hyperbole. Just wanted to see if I could get a rise out of you." Marnie threw a biscuit -- hard -- it bounced off the man's breastbone, fell to his plate. "I deserved that," he muttered, but the mutter could not conceal his grin. Marnie shook her Mommy-finger at him: "Do I need to turn you over my knee and spank you?" "They figured you were the right man for the job." "Yes, sir." "They figured nobody would want to rush a man eatin' Fanghorn." "Correct, sir." "I don't reckon it hurt any that Lightning ate that fellow's arm." "I don't reckon he liked losing it, sir." "His own fool fault. He tried to knife her, she made him pay for it." "Yes, sir." "Run with that one, Michael. You're making a reputation. Don't ever abuse it or you'll be hated, but don't waste it when that good fortune drops in your lap." "Drops in my lap, sir? The man lost his arm!" "And you nearly lost Lighting." Michael considered. "Yes, sir, that's true." "Make a stupid decision with a chain saw and you lose a leg, the first time, Michael. No second chances. Make a mistake with a table saw and you lose half a hand. Make it with electricity and lose more than that." Damn, I should never have said that, Linn mentally kicked himself. Not after what Michael went through! "I could take that wrong, sir." Linn nodded slowly. "Yes, you could." "Is that one of those hoof in mouth moments, sir?" You earned it, dummy, Linn thought to himself. Stand for your beatin', you've earned it! "Yes, Michael," Linn said slowly, "that is indeed one of those hoof in mouth moments." Michael frowned, looked at his father. "Sir," he said, "you are not supposed to imitate my bad examples!" Father and son looked at one another, each one a little more surprised than the other: they laughed, and the tension between them was gone. Michael Keller picked up the saddle bags, slung them over his off shoulder. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly, extending his hand. The Chief Diplomat hadn't been sure Michael would take his hand, not after having been just shy of strongarmed into riding between two factions, ready for battle. The Diplomat shook Michael's hand. "You did well," he said, "and your pay reflects that." "Yes, sir." "You can take comfort in knowing you saved lives, Michael." "Yes, sir, I was told that." "Were you told anything else?" the Diplomat asked, frowning a little -- had someone tried to manipulate him, are there deeper politics than I'm aware of? "It was not a statement, sir. It was a question." "A question," the Diplomat echoed. "What kind of a ... question?" "A woman thanked me for not letting her become a widow, and her daughter asked me if I was Saint Michael." The Diplomat nodded slowly, smiled, just a little. "Sir," Michael persisted, "does this mean I've been promoted?" It wasn't until Michael's quiet laugh that the Diplomat realized he'd just had his leg pulled: he looked up and saw Michael's pale eyed sister, her hand discreetly raised to conceal her own smile.

A SAINTLY DISLIKE Four dirt geysers erupted between two lines of angry, shouting men. Fists, oaths, clubs, all stilled as something that sounded like an unhappily interrupted steam whistle shivered the air. Cartridge brass spun, fell, forgotten as a pale eyed rider cantered forward, stopped abruptly, as a truly massive saddlehorse spun, restless, blood-red eyes sweeping the ranks of men gathered for a fight. Michael Keller thumbed rounds into his Winchester, propped it up on his leg, muzzle to the sky. Lightning screamed and shook her head, reared: Michael's serious young face never changed, nor did his posture; his back side may as well have been sewn to saddle leather. Lightning came down, massive hooves shivering the ground as she planted them back on the dirt street. Michael turned her, walked her slowly along one shocked-silent rank of shoulder-strikers, men who'd come for a fight, men likely hired for the event, or goaded into it; he finally turned her, walked down the opposite side, at working men with callused hands and trousers worn at the knee, gripping the tools of their trade as weapons. Michael sat straight, very straight, in the saddle, his eyes cold, hard, very pale. He didn't want this fight and he didn't want to be here, but he'd ended up here through neither fault nor desire of his own. "WE DON'T WANT YOU HERE!" an anonymous voice shouted: Michael turned Lightning, shoved her in between the rows of angry men. "LOOK ME IN THE EYE, YOU DAMNED COWARD!" Michael shouted back. "WHO SAID THAT, YOU GUTLESS WONDER? SHOW YOURSELF TO ME!" Lightning's lips pulled back from her fangs; she lowered her head, swung it, scattering men without touching them. Michael rode the depth of the men, turned, came back: where they'd been shoulder to shoulder and solid, they were now homogenized, uncertain, and very unwilling to attack something that would take delight in biting their head off and eating it for breakfast. Michael rode back to the street, turned his back on the one side of the street, rode to the other. "WHO LEADS HERE!" he demanded. Men looked at one another, uncertain. Michael rode Lightning up the street, then came back down the center. "MY PA TAUGHT ME FIGHTIN' GETS YOU NOTHIN' BUT HURT FACES AND HURT FEELIN'S!" he shouted. "PA ALSO TAUGHT ME MEN FIGHT WHEN THEY RUN OUT OF WORDS!" Michael stopped, spun the Fanghorn, glared at one group, glared at the other. He rode back to one side, reached down: "Let me borrow your shovel," he said quietly. Startled, a man with dirty and callused knuckles surrendered his shovel. Michael rode back to the other side, held it up, his Winchester still propped up on his thigh. "THIS," he called loudly, "WILL CLEAVE THROUGH A MAN'S SKULL. IT MIGHT NOT KILL YOU. CATCH A MAN OVER THE EAR ON ONE SIDE AND HE'LL NOT BE ABLE TO SPEAK. CUT INTO THE BACK OF HIS SKULL AND IF HE LIVES HE MIGHT BE BLIND FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE. THIS CAN BREAK COLLAR BONES AND ARMS AND IT'LL CUT HALF WAY THROUGH A SHIN BONE. DON'T ASK ME WHAT IT'LL DO TO A MAN'S KNEE, I'VE SEEN IT HAPPEN!" He turned Lightning, rode the little distance between the two lines, handed the shovel back. He came to the better dressed side of the street. "Hand me that war club." "You go to hell!" Michael shrugged. "Suit yourself. How 'bout that knife?" The man with the Arkansas toothpick surged forward, thrust at Lightning's shoulder, screamed as he brought back a bloody stub. The knife fell to the ground while Lightning chewed happily: she swallowed, belched as the injured man screamed, as his fellows wound cloth around the stump and twisted. "TALK IS CHEAPER THAN BLOOD," Michael shouted, his young voice echoing off the buildings. "YOU TEAR INTO ONE ANOTHER, YOU'LL BE DIGGIN' GRAVES AND WIDOWS WILL BE ON YOU WITH THEIR SPURS A-DIGGIN'! YOU WANT THAT?" Michael rode the Fanghorn slowly down the middle of the street again. "I DONT RECKON ANY OF YOU HAVE A QUARREL WITH THE MAN ACROSS THE STREET FROM YOU. YOU'RE ALL WORKIN' MEN BY THE LOOK OF YOU. IT'S YOUR BOSSES THAT AREN'T TALKING. DON'T FIGHT WITH ONE ANOTHER. IT'S YOUR BOSSES THAT NEED TO TALK." Michael was taking a gamble, and he knew it: he wanted to delay this unnecessary violence. Delay. That was his goal. It was working but he didn't know for how long. Lightning spun as something boxy and silver floated silently, swiftly, down the street toward them. Michael and men on both sides of the street turned as the silver box slowed, stopped; its entire back end swung open, a broad ramp extended. Michael watched the men, his eyes lifted and he scanned the roof lines again: Lightning danced under him, restless, turning quickly, suspiciously at his knee-pressure: he waited as a pale eyed woman in a McKenna gown flowed down the ramp, all smiles and charm, one gloved hand on a well dressed man's arm on her right, one gloved hand on an almost well dressed man's arm, on her left: Michael leaned forward, caressed Lightning's neck, soothed her with words and with touch as the bosses, with Marnie still smiling, still charming, still holding their arms, declared to both sides, that agreement was reached, as they declared the particulars, as they told their men to disperse. Michael gave a formal half-bow and raised a woman's knuckles to his lips, as he'd seen his father do, for it seemed the right thing: a woman came to him, her daughters big-eyed and shy behind her, and she'd thanked Michael for keeping men from killing one another. She'd said she was orphaned at a young age, and was now married, and honestly terrified at the prospect of widowhood, that her husband was the man from whom Michael borrowed a shovel, and she said he would not have backed down and would very likely have been killed that day. One of the daughters screwed up the courage to advance, just out of arm's reach: she curtsied and asked shyly, "Are you Saint Michael?" and looked almost fearfully at Lightning, who was happily (and loudly) chewing on a loaf of spiced bread somebody offered. "No," Michael smiled. "I'm just me, I'm nobody special." "You kept our Daddy alive," the other girl said, her eyes big and scared, at least until Lightning raised her head and belched, then draped her head over Michael's shoulder and gave a happy little birdlike chirp. Michael's eyes were haunted as he looked at the girl who'd asked about his sainthood. "I know what it is to be hurt," Michael said, and there was something in his voice that made the near-widow look at him with alarm, for she heard something in his voice she'd heard in her own. "I know what it is to be hurt and nearly die," Michael said, then he bit his bottom lip and he closed his eyes, hard: he reached up, caressed Lightning's silky-furred nose. "I know what it is to have to heal up, and if I can spare somebody else all that, I will!"

HAVE I FAILED? Michael Keller emerged, running full-tilt from the Iris with a grin on his face and Little John gripping his hand. "HiPawe'regonnagoseethehorses!" he called in a cheerful, over-his-shoulder shout as he and his shorter-legged cousin charged for the front door. "DON'T SLAM THE" -- *SLAM!* "-- door," Linn called after the boys' retreating backsides: he turned just as a quiet smile attached to Marnie's face came through the Iris, and brought the rest of his daughter with it. Marnie stopped, tilted her head, gave her father a serious look. "Daddy, what's wrong?" she asked in a quiet voice. "I need your advice, darlin'." Marnie glided up to her father, took his hand: they turned and sat on his big, comfortable couch. "Darlin'," Linn said slowly, "you are a woman grown, and you are experienced." Marnie regarded her Daddy, assessed his words, his voice tones, his body language, waited. "Darlin', have I failed?" Michael showed Little John how to climb the board fence: the chubby-legged little boy grinned as he ascended whitewashed boards, turned. Michael sidled an Appaloosa mare up to him. "Now swing your leg over behind me," he said: he reached around, helped Little John get settled. "Now grab hold of my belt." Two happy boys and a good looking Appaloosa mare stepped out into the sunlit field. "Darlin', did I lead you and your sisters down the primrose path?" "What primrose path would that be, Daddy?" Marnie asked quietly. Linn frowned, ran his bottom jaw out, sandpapered his palms slowly together. "Darlin' ... you all three followed me into law enforcement." Marnie waited, betraying neither blink nor nod nor shake of head. "You've all charged into ... hell, you were ... you ran into Hermey's garage and dodged live wires to get a man out, you started CPR and then you dragged him halfway out and stopped and ran some more CPR and you got him out and onto the cot and you barely avoided getting killed when the cornice broke loose and fell." Marnie nodded. "I broke a nail," she said innocently. "You're trying to make me feel better," Linn growled. "I'm trying to get you to laugh, Daddy. Yes we followed you into law enforcement, and Dana and Angela went into the old furniture building to get a hostage out. They both engaged with deadly force. I've done more than that, offworld. I intend to raise both my sons to be just as fast and just as deadly as either you or I. Should I have a daughter, I fully intend to see that she rides a winged horse at the Last Battle." "I should never have taught you what I did, Marnie." "You couldn't keep me from it. I'd been hurt very young. I was not going to be hurt again. It was either learn and learn well from a known and proven warrior, or get that training somewhere else and maybe not as good a training, and that would get me killed." "You're missing the point." "What is the point?" Marnie sat very properly, very formally: she wore a McKenna gown, she sat like a disapproving Queen, her hands were folded in her lap and cold waves of disapproval cascaded from her as she gave her father a pale eyed glare. "My point is --" Linn stopped, took a long breath. "Daddy, Angela drove a broom handle through an attacker's eye socket and stopped him. He was in the grade school and his notes indicated his intent to kidnap and worse. He tried to catch her in the hallway and she kept him from hurting her or anyone else, and she did it by using the custodian's broom like a lance." Marnie's voice was quiet, factual. "Daddy, you kept us from harm. You did this directly, with your personal intervention, but you did it by training us, you did it by teaching us, you did it by preparing us. You showed us how to prepare our judgement, how to make a decision and how to assess body language and attack posture and I can't count how many other things." Marnie Keller leaned closer, lowered her head. "Daddy, you asked if you'd failed." Linn nodded again. "Michael and Victoria rode down the main street of a strange town, rode to the sound of guns, they rode down and shot two holdups who were ... " "Two armed criminals who were putting the public at large in danger. Michael and Victoria saved lives." "Victoria walked up to a military commander, all pretty and girly, and she disarmed him with a smile and a question, and then she raised my Walther pistol and shot him through the eyes. She took the fire team by surprise. Michael set up behind cover and he just plainly cleaned house. Michael ..." Linn frowned at the hook rug, took a long breath. "Michael was damn neart killed. I could have kept him here but he ..." "Daddy." Marnie's words were as light as the fingertips she laid on the back of his hand. "What are you really asking?" "Darlin', did I cheat all of you out of your childhoods?" Marnie considered for a long moment. "Daddy, what was Michael doing when he passed through here, just now?" Linn smiled, remembered. "He and Little John ran for the door." He turned as something caught his peripheral, turned just in time to see to happy boys on an Appaloosa mare, riding down the driveway. "Daddy, is that the behavior of a child?" Linn blinked, surprised, then he smiled a little and said "Yes. Yes, it is." "They ran through here, they slammed the door, they went for the horses, and there they go," Marnie said as she leaned a little, looking around her Daddy's muscled shoulder to watch two tandem-mounted boys trot the patient old Appaloosa mare slowly down the newly-paved drive. "That looks rather childlike to me, Daddy." Marnie slipped a gloved hand under her Daddy's palm, laid her other hand atop his. "Daddy, I am a successful woman. Marnie is a successful woman. Dana is a successful woman. We have you to thank for our successes." Marnie's voice was quiet, her eyes were serious, at least until she added, "You will understand that Mama had something to do with our successes, too." "Victoria?" "Daddy." Marnie regarded her father through long, curled lashes. "Daddy, Victoria is still a child, and she is becoming a woman, but trust me" -- Marnie leaned her head a little forward, whispered, knowing the best way to claim a man's undivided attention was to speak softly -- "Daddy, she is still very much your little girl!" "Even if she did break that fella's arch and kick his knee apart?" "Especially because of that!" Marnie smiled. Linn sighed, nodded. "Daddy," Marnie said firmly, "you have not failed your children. We all knew childhood, but all children grow out of it. You readied us for that climb into adulthood, and I'm proud of you!" Linn nodded, leaned back, looked out the window, looked back. "You'll find Michael still has a good percentage of the child in him, Daddy, especially when he's playing with Little John!" They both looked out the window at the sound of galloping hooves, of delighted laughter: Little John was behind Michael, Michael's Stetson gripped in both hands and pulled down over his head, squealing with laughter, gripping with his chubby young bare legs: Michael was leaned forward, grinning, hands flat on the mare's neck. Marnie felt her Daddy's silent laughter as the mare leaned into her galloping turn, sure-footed now that she was on sod instead of paved driveway. Linn leaned back and laughed quietly. "Daddy," Marnie said quietly but firmly, "you did not cheat us out of our childhood. You did not fail."

DON'T KILL SOMEONE ON MY ACCOUNT Sixteen-year-old Jacob Keller spun the three foot, turned-hickory baton, delivered a backhand strike, a thrust, another thrust: it was genuinely a marvel to watch him work as he assaulted the homemade dummy. Jacob Keller was young, Jacob Keller was lean, Jacob Keller was a son of the mountains and a pale eyed Sheriff, and in spite of his few years, Jacob Keller was also one of the best baton fighters the pale eyed Sheriff had ever seen. Linn knew Jacob trained with the very best hand to hand instructors he could find; Linn knew Jacob was attentive and polite and in all ways a credit to his family, and by extension, of the Sheriff's Office to which he aspired, even from a very young age. Linn could not but stare in open admiration as Jacob worked, as he finally brought the baton up under one arm, bowed to the much-worse-for-wear dummy, turned. Jacob didn't know his Pa was anywhere near: he reddened a little and grinned like a bashful little boy as he realized the Grand Old Man was standing there. Linn nodded approvingly. "Well done indeed," he said softly. "Thank you, sir." Jacob's exertions worked up a sweat, but there was almost none to be wiped off, owing to the thin, dry air, this high in the mountains: father and son sat on a blanket covered bale of hay and Jacob hung his war club from a handy peg. "Mactavish tells me you're one of his best students." "Thank you, sir." "Makes me wish we still issued a straight stick instead of that telescoping thing." "The telescoping baton is lighter, sir," Jacob said, his breathing deep, regular, but rigidly controlled -- like everything else about him. "Yes, it is. Doesn't get in the way as badly." "No, sir." A comfortable silence grew between father and son. "Sir?" "Yes, Jacob?" "Mactavish said he was getting a new instructor, and he'd like me to try him out." Linn nodded, smiled a little. " 'Try him out,' " the Sheriff echoed. "Yes, sir." "As in see if you can take him?" "No, sir." Jacob smiled a little, that easy, relaxed smile of his nobody but family and very close friends ever saw. "Mactavish has tried out several instructors and he's always tried them with me. He said I can appear to be an awkward and uncertain student, and he watches how the instructor reacts." "I see." "He has me wait until the instructor is convinced I'm just an awkward kid, and then I Uncork the Genie and Mactavish sees how they react." "How has that gone so far?" "One fellow got madder'n a wet hen, sir. He nearly bested me out of spite. Another called a hold, stepped back and disengaged, he called Mactavish a treacherous scoundrel" -- Jacob's ears reddened a little at the memory -- "that's not exactly what he said, sir," Jacob continued in a quiet voice, "but you get the idea." His father nodded, slowly, for he'd been there, watching from an unseen vantage: he'd been interested in this well recommended instructor as well, but he'd heard the man had an unpredictable nature, and the instructor's response to Jacob's sudden expertise confirmed the Sheriff's suspicion. "This instructor he wants you to evaluate," the Sheriff said slowly. "Tell me about him." "Little to tell, sir. Never saw the man, don't know a thing about him, just that we'll meet this afternoon." Marnie Keller stormed up to Jacob, seized him by the shirt front, shook him viciously, her teeth clenched. "Jacob Keller," she hissed, her pale eyes blazing into his, "what in the name of three green goblins have you done now?" Jacob laughed, gripped his big sister's elbows and dropped his heavy wooden cane, balancing on his good leg. "I finally went to see the orthopod." "So what did the medical grade spider have to say?" "Orthopedist." "I know that," Marnie snarled, her eyes pale, intense: she looked down at the black-nylon, full-length leg brace on her brother and said quietly, "Who do I have to kill? Daddy has fifty acres and I can run his backhoe!" "I've seen you run that hoe," Jacob murmured, "so let's spare wear and tear on the machine, hey?" Marnie smacked Jacob's shoulder, anger plain on her face: she shoved her nose up against his, pressed her forehead into his and muttered, "Jacob Keller, get this through your thick head, I've only got one of you and I don't want you damaged! Now who did this to you?" Jacob laughed, hugged his sister. "Sis," he sighed, "don't ever change!" "Try and make me," she mumbled into the material of his shirt's shoulder. Jacob leaned his head down, whispered into her hair, "You saw I'd almost been limping here of late." "Almost my foot," Marnie snapped quietly: she pulled back, waved a fist under Jacob's nose: "Out with it, mister, what the hell happened?" Jacob took her wrist, kissed her fisted knuckles and laughed "You kiss your Mama with that mouth?" Marnie punched him with her free hand. Hard. Jacob laughed, which just made her madder. Marnie Keller thrust up against him, arms stiff at her sides, hands fisted: "Jacob Keller, you are the hardest headed, most contrary, infuriating --" Jacob gave her a patient look and said softly, "I won't need surgery, Sis." Marnie stopped, shocked. "Sis, maybe we'd better set down." Brother and sister sat on the broad front porch of the home place. "Sis, I managed to grow a bone spur inside my left Achilles tendon." "You idiot, what did you do that for?" Marnie snapped. Jacob shrugged. "Just somethin' to do, I guess." "Go on." "I'll be in this leg brace for six weeks or so, maybe a little longer." "And?" "And that rascally spur ought to dissolve on its own." Marnie's carriage was erect, stiff: she reminded Jacob very powerfully of their Gammaw, when the woman had a good head of steam, when she was indignant and waiting for the right moment to very politely rip someone's head off. "Jacob?" "Hm?" "Jacob, I'd feel better if I killed someone." "You haven't killed anyone yet, Marnie." "Yet." Jacob nodded. "Yet." He looked over at Marnie, smiled, just a little. "Until then, don't start by killin' on my account." Marnie's shoulders rose, fell; he heard her deep, near-silent breath, felt her hand close on his. "Jacob?" she said softly. "Hm?" "Please take care of yourself," she almost whispered. "You're the only one of you I have!" Jacob ran his arm around Marnie's shoulders and pulled her close, leaned his head against hers. "I'll be careful, Sis," he murmured. "You be careful too, hey?"

I write this with a quiet smile as I am about grinned out. Today me dear pappy turned 90. The Grand Old Man is still pretty sharp and it's a remarkable achievement to pull ANYTHING over on him -- he and Mama, rest her skinny little soul, survived raising three children and all the collective shenanigans we pulled over our lifetimes. Getting something past the man is just darn near impossible. Did it today, he was honestly surprised to step through the door and see the place was plumb full of kindred, brethren, friends, neighbors, Lodge brothers, in-laws and out-laws, not necessarily in that order. Wait a minute. In exactly that order! Much good food and much good talk, two nieces sang him Happy Birthday after inhaling helium from the floaty balloons (very well received) and my cousin Elaine, when I told her she looked like a million bucks, smacked me on the shoulder and declared I was as full of second hand horse feed as I always was, to which I spread my hands and declared in reply, "The Pope is Catholic, what else is news!" Ninety years old and tending his own needs, clear minded and ornery as ever, and proud as hell of his high achieving young, both children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and the accumulated squadron of shirt tail relatives a man gathers up over a lifetime. It is my great pleasure to report that today went rather well. Rather well indeed!

... file the good Subdeacon's submission under "S" ... ... for "SCARES ME AND I'M FEARLESS!"