Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

YENTA, THE MATCHMAKER Angela Keller sat with her white-stockinged knees carefully together, her hands very properly folded in the skirt of her white uniform skirt, her head tilted a little the way a woman will, when something interests her. She was listening to the regular cadence of tones from the black-plastic-grilled speaker. She knew it was Morse code -- beyond that, she had to wait for the twins' yellow-painted Number Two Lead pencils to quit their busy lines and curlicues, and their results ripped free of pads maintained for that purpose, and handed to her. Angela smiled as she read this modern day transcript of a Morse code message, and part of her mind quietly appreciated that this scene had been played out more than a century before, when a man who'd worn Confederate grey, inclined a professional ear to a polished-brass sounder and interpreted a rapid series of clicks and clatters, letting the metallic racket run in his ears and out the Barlow-whittled tip of his stub of a pencil. Angela read the regular print, looking from one page to another -- even their handwriting is almost identical! she thought -- she looked up at the twins and smiled that gentle smile of hers, then she rose, knelt, opened her arms. Michael and Victoria happily embraced their big sis, delighted to have so obviously gained her approval. Angela knocked at the door, then looked down and smiled: she stepped back a little, bent slightly, looked at the round lens of a doorbell pushbutton. "Mitch?" she called. "It's Angela. Permission to come aboard!" There was a heavy, mechanical sound as the door was remotely unlocked, and Mitch's voice grinned from the rectangular doorbell, "Permission granted!" Angela straightened, pushed open the door, stepped inside: she carefully closed it behind her, smiled a little at the sound of heavy bolts driving home, securing the portal. If I rode a wheelchair for a living, she thought, I'd have a fortress too! She turned at the sound of hydraulics whining; a moment later, a panel opened and Mitch rolled toward her, grinning. He extended a hand and Angela ignored it: she bent, hugged him, giggled, and he hugged her back, laughing. "You've lost weight!" she exclaimed, and he slapped his stumps and declared firmly, "The Alfred Hitchcock method! Lose weight fast, use a knife!" -- they both laughed, for it was an old joke between them: it started out as Angela's psychic slap-in-the-face to him when she was first taking care of him, right after he'd lost both legs from being hit by that drunk driver, and Mitch seized on the phrase as a survival tool. Rotten humor, he'd told her later, was his salvation, and Angela agreed, for she'd seen that same particular tool used by the Combined Emergency Services more times than she could count. They strolled and rolled into the kitchen: "The Navy runs on coffee, and so do I!" Mitch said firmly, reaching up and turning a little carousel: "Individual packages, take-a you pick!" Angela bent, studied the selection, chose what she thought was the strongest brew: the coffee maker already had water in the reservoir, and her big mug of steaming-hot wide-awake was quickly and fragrantly produced, Mitch's right behind it, and the two of them took their places at Mitch's kitchen table. "Deborah's gone for the day," Mitch said as he slopped milk from the plastic jug into his big insulated travel mug with MITCH'S GAS TANK hand painted on the side. "How's she getting along?" Mitch set the jug down, looked very frankly at Angela. "She is the best thing that ever happened to me," he said softly, then chuckled. "I remember when we first met" -- he looked sharply at Angela, who regarded him with an innocent batting of her long, curled eyelashes over the glazed rim of her heavy white-ceramic mug -- "I'd not gotten ... the idea of not having legs anymore was just sinkin' in and it felt like an anchor pulling me to the bottom of the ocean." "I remember," Angela murmured. "You were profoundly depressed." "Yeah," Mitch said quietly, nodding, then took a sip of his steaming-fresh brew. "Then this really good looking gal in a skirt comes into the room. "Here I am, feeling all sorry for myself, I can't hardly look at her -- what woman wants half a man? -- she sat down and looked at me." His voice softened a little. "Angela, I honestly can't tell you just how surprised I was when she hiked that skirt up." Angela hid her quiet smile behind her cup, gave him those big lovely eyes to show him she was listening and listening closely. "She unbuckled her left leg, she pulled it off her stump, she took it overhead in both hands and heaved it across the room into my belly -- I caught it and I'm starin' at her like she just sprouted a third eye -- she pulls off her right leg and hauls off and heaves it across the room at me, she points that finger of hers at me and said, 'Now that I have your attention, you listen to me!' " He took a long breath, sighed it out, smiled. "That," he said softly, "was the beginning of my recovery. I have no idea why, but she stayed with me every step of the way. "We've set the date. We're getting married. She's got your invitation made out and ready to send." Angela set her mug down carefully, clapped her hands with delight, laughed. "So she got your attention!" -- her voice was sunshine and merriment, and Mitch laughed with her and nodded. "I understand you arranged for her visit," Mitch said quietly. "Thank you." "A nurse is many things," Angela said quietly. "Some are more satisfying than others" -- she leaned forward, lowered her head a bit, smiled, spoke as one old friend to another -- "but the best part is becoming Yenta, the Matchmaker!" "I was surprised when the twins asked if you could come by today." Mitch shifted a little, pushed up on the arms of his chair, resettled himself on the gel doughnut under his backside. "I was watching your traffic stop a couple days ago." Angela nodded. "That one," she admitted, "did not go quite the way I expected!" "I thought you were hurt." "No. Just the windshield and some sheet metal." Mitch set his big plastic travel mug down, leaned forward, looked intently, directly, into Angela's pale eyes. "I don't have many friends anymore," Mitch said, his voice quiet, intense: "no man can afford to throw a friend away and I don't want to lose any more." Angela watched him frown, look away, swallow, look back, and she knew what he was saying was both spontaneous, and whole cloth. "Angela, you be careful. You're the only one of you we've got." "Angela, I mean it. I had a crush on you in school and" -- his teeth clicked together as he looked away again, as if he'd let something slip he didn't mean to. "I shouldn't have said that," he muttered. Angela reached across the table, gripped his hand. "Mitch?" she almost whispered. "Thank you." Mitch looked back, nodded, then grinned. "The world has a shortage of good matchmakers," he grinned. "I don't want anything to happen to my favorite Yenta!"

FORTRESS FORD AND BATTLESHIP BUICK Mitch didn't get out much, at least not like his peers. He did quite a bit of traveling, most of it through an old-fashioned telegraph key. Jacob Keller got him started in ham radio, right after the drunk driver took Mitch's legs: Mitch threw himself into learning Morse code and radio theory, antenna theory and propagation, he studied with a single minded focus: when he sat for his exams, he paid his money to take the Technician exam, then for no extra cost, he immediately took (and passed) the Extra and the Advanced as well. When his set began an urgent set of tones, he drove his powered wheelchair over to his shack bench, frowned, reached for the key and sent a quick burst, then went to his window and picked up a set of binoculars. He had a bay window that afforded him 270 degrees of view; as he was well up on the mountainside, he had a grand vista ahead of him, none of which he saw. He turned the focus wheel, leaned forward, watched for several long moments, then backed his chair, turned it, gripped the key again and sent one word: ALIVE Angela's Gammaw still taught, in spite of her being dead for a lot of years now. Angela's Gammaw videotaped a variety of presentations for the Academy, and Angela watched every last one of them, from early childhood to the present day. Willamina could convey an idea fast, clearly, concisely, and did: she taught her troops that there is no such thing as routine patrol, and there is sure as hell no such thing as a routine traffic stop, and she set up a variety of realistic scenarios based on actual stops gone bad. Angela called in a plate, pulled over a vehicle: she'd not come to a full stop behind the subject vehicle when the driver's door flew open, the driver came out, running toward her, shooting. Angela dumped the shifter in Go Backwards gear and quite honestly mashed the throttle: her cruiser screamed backwards, the driver ran back into his car, he started to jackrabbit out of there, until Angela rammed his rear quarter panel, PIT-ing him, hard, when he was barely moving. She backed up, yanked the shifter savagely into gear: the driver started moving again and Angela rammed him again, hard, just behind the driver's door, shoving him sideways and into the ditch. She just honestly bulldozed him off the roadway and over on his side. Angela backed again, made a quick sweep of her mirrors: she reached up, hit the release, shouldered her own door open and stepped out, using her engine block and front wheel for cover. She jacked a round of genuine US Military 00 Buck into her Ithaca, dropped the barrel level, glared through the ghost ring peep, and waited. Her tan cruiser's big block engine whispered mechanical secrets to itself, patiently waiting for the next demand upon its services; her red-and-blue LED bar, and the other pretty little lights Weenkeeng and Bleenkeeng fore, aft and on running boards and mirrors, were silent; Angela waited, knowing the other driver's only exit was through his driver's-side door, unless he kicked his windshield out -- which would give her well more than enough advance warning, to line up a killing shot if need be. Michael and Victoria sat side by side at what used to be Jacob's ham radio desk. It now belonged to the twins. Victoria had the enlarged map on display; she'd placed rectangular markers to show the positions of Angela's cruiser, and as best they could estimate, location of the subject vehicle. It was too far away for them to intervene, and they knew better than to interfere with a law enforcement matter, but both knew the moment Angela's windshield starburst with the first hostile gunshot, and both sprinted upstairs, to where the scanner patiently ran the bands, and their natural affinity for things electronic enabled them to play back radio traffic, and they heard Angela's professional voice -- she sounded different when she spoke professionally -- call in the plate number and location, then they heard the sound of bullet strikes, the squall of tires, the sound of the well-muffled engine's protest and Angela's clipped, "Shots fired, taking evasive, backup, NOW!" Michael consulted another map, turned an antenna's directional control: a Yagi-Uda swung obediently in response to his safecracker's touch on the directional knob, then he gripped the straight key and tapped out a message to a set of ears he knew would be listening. Mitch watched, shocked, as the tan Sheriff's cruiser rammed the vehicle, turning it: his mouth opened in surprise as he saw the cruiser, like a bull, lower its head and ram the stopped car in the side, pushing it off the roadway and into the ditch, where it rocked once and stayed. He made a mental note to rig a relay so he could run a key from his chair, while here in his overwatch, and kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. He pulled back and sent Michael a one word reply, then rolled back into his bay window, glass glued to his eyes, watching. Angela waited for backup, then took a ballistic shield, jumped the ditch, walked around the car and tapped on its underside. "Anybody home?" she called. The reply from within was less than kindly in nature. "Tell you what," Angela called, and she smiled as she did: "Roll down your window, throw out your gun and we'll get you out of there!" The reply was to fire a half-dozen rounds through the bottom of the car. "I thought you might say that," Angela muttered: she went to the back of the car, smacked the back glass with a glass breaker, dropped the pointy nosed hammerhead. She pulled the pin on a tear dust grenade, drove its end into the roof of the car, then tossed the can inside. A muted detonation, a cloud: blinded, unable to breathe, the driver fought his way out the back and through what used to be his rear window, where he was cheerfully dogpiled and cuffed. Mitch waited until the rescue truck unspooled a compressed air line and blew the excess tear dust off the prisoner and out of his hair, then rolled back to his key and sent a brief reply to Michael. Victoria's eyes met her twin's and they smiled a quiet smile of satisfaction as they heard the all-well, as they listened to Angela requesting a shots-fired team to help process the scene. Michael and Victoria were as accustomed to watching their Gammaw's training videos as was their older sister. They watched as their Gammaw's voice narrated the scene as a driver stepped out of a simulated stopped vehicle and charged the camera, firing paintballs as he came: splats of red blasted against the windshield and Willamina's voice said "Congratulations, you're dead. Now let's see how else we might handle this." Pale eyed twins watched and listened as the stopped vehicle's driver's door flew open, as the driver emerged weapon in hand, as the camera's vehicle accelerated hard in reverse. "Distance is your friend, and your vehicle provides some cover," Willamina's voice said. "Your vehicle gives you speed, mobility and protection. It runs faster than you can, it hits harder than you can. The vehicle itself is a weapon and can be used to counter deadly force." The scene changed, melted, coalesced into an attractive woman with Marine-short hair and a tailored suit dress, behind a podium, in front of the now-blank projector screen behind her. "Remember, boys and girls," she smiled, "when you are behind the wheel, on duty or off, you are driving Fortress Ford, and Battleship Buick!"

... trying to think of something intelligent, educational, informative, supportive, actually useful and at least a little entertaining, and the mind just went blank! As I suffer a terrible condition -- you might've heard of it, Hoof In Mouth syndrome -- might be I'd be wise just to stay hush! What was it the wise man admonished me? ... "a closed mouth gathers no foot ..." Looking forward to your after action report! Safe travels, enjoy yourself!

Me dear Pappy would get a cardboard can of "Flowers of Sulfur" (powdered sulfur) at the drug store. We'd dust our pants cuffs with sulfur to keep off ticks. Looking at your reversed tape dodge ... can't argue with results ... I'll give that a try, and thank you for it!

MEANWHILE, IN THE BACK STAIRWAY Sarah Lynne McKenna gripped Jacob Keller's hand, turned her head, looked at him. "He doesn't realize we're both his woods colts, you know." "I know." "Mama suspects. I think your Mama does too." "Reckon so." "Mama implied he found a family Bible, but she stopped talking when she saw I was looking at her and listening closely." "That's where you get it." "Get what?" Jacob grinned. "Little Sis," he said quietly, for the back stairway was hushed, and the softest voice was plainly heard, "your Mama can listen to someone talking and she can just fade into the wall and not be seen!" Sarah swatted at his shoulder: "Who you calling little sis, little brother?" Jacob let it pass: they knew early that they were the get of that pale eyed lawman, even if he didn't seem to realize it; there was doubt as to Jacob's actual age, and of Sarah's, though Bonnie implied that Sarah's birthday would be found out. "Sarah, when you're with people, you have the gift of disappearing," Jacob said, his voice suddenly serious. "That's a gift and that's how to find things out, just listen and don't be noticed." "I know." Her hand tightened on his. "I'm glad you're here, Jacob." "So am I." She felt him take a deep breath, saw him turn his head and grin. "It feels good to have family." Sarah's hand tightened in his. "Yes," she agreed. "Yes, it does." Sarah's eyes drifted down to the landing, rested on a varnished wood panel. "I used to hide in there," she said softly. Jacob looked at her, looked at the several wood panels, all varnished, all identical. "The Silver Jewel wasn't ... respectable then." Jacob nodded. "Mama was ... upstairs ... and when my Daddy came in he'd get drunk and beat the working girls. If he wasn't hurting me he was ignoring me, and they ... the girls ... they would bath me and patch my dress and fix my hair and put a ribbon in it ... they said I was the only sunshine in their lives." Sarah's voice was haunted, her eyes distant and filled with ghosts. Jacob ran his arm around his half-sister's shoulders, pulled her close: she laid her head over on his shoulder, shivered. "I'm glad you're here, Jacob." "I am too." Sarah sighed. "Jacob?" "Hm?" "Angela was asking me why bad men wanted to do bad things to her Daddy." Jacob turned his head toward her a little, listening closely. "She didn't want to talk about it with her Mama so she talked with me." "Pa said it is" -- he hesitated, lifted his chin, pale eyes searching the opposite wall for the right words -- "a mark of significant trust," he quoted with a smile, looked back at Sarah -- "for a little child to confide in us." Sarah smiled -- it was a soul-deep smile, the kind that shines from within -- "Jacob," she whispered, "you sound just like him!" Jacob shrugged. "Can't imagine why." "What did you tell her?" "When she asked me why bad men wanted to do bad things to her Daddy?" Sarah took a long breath, sighed it out: she looked sadly at Jacob. "I told her that ... when you put someone in prison, they don't forget you, and their families do not forget you, and their partners do not forget you." Jacob raised an eyebrow, nodded. "What did she say?" "She looked surprised -- like the thought honestly never occurred to her -- she said 'Oh,' and that seemed to satisfy her." Jacob nodded, chewed on his bottom lip. "Jacob, what is she like? At home, as a sister?" Jacob smiled, just a little. "It's like living with a glowing sunflower," he almost whispered. "She's never still, she's always smiling, she'll run up and give me a big hug, or she'll be talking nonstop to The Bear Killer while they're walking ..." Sarah saw the memories shine inside him, and she smiled to see them. "I'm glad you have her." "Me too." Silence, then: "Jacob, what's this I hear about a man killed with an ax?" Jacob was quiet for a long moment, his jaw slid out as he considered -- just like his father! Sarah thought. "You said something about not bein' forgot when you send someone to prison." Sarah nodded, her eyes big. "I heard a fellow talkin' quiet, how he figured to backshoot Pa. "I followed him, watched him ... he tried two or three places and he settled on one, and a good place for bush whack it was." "And you killed him." "Damn right." Jacob's eyes were a shade more pale now. "He was layin' for my Pa. "I didn't want to up and shoot him -- I could have, I could've blowed the eyeballs out of his skull from behind -- Pa said he kilt men durin' the War with an ax an' one was handy. "I saw Pa comin' along and I faded back and eased attair broad ax out of its chunk and I waited. "He fetched up his rifle and didn't have it fair to shoulder when I stepped up behint where he was down on one knee, and I clove him from crown to teeth. "He never twitched. "I taken his rifle and his proud-ofs, I unsaddled his horse and took his saddle bags." "Won't they blame whoever owned the ax?" "Place is abandoned. Nobody's been there for a year. I'm surprised that ax was still stuck in the chunk." "Did you know the man?" "Only that Pa sent him off to prison an' he'd made his brags he was gonna kill that pale eyed son of a sheepherder for sendin' him away." " 'Son of a sheepherder?' " she quoted, shaking her head. "Jacob, if he's going to say that about our Papa, I'm glad you killed him!"

GET OUTTA HERE NOW The Sheriff was not a trusting man. He’d been lied to often enough and badly enough that he trusted very few individuals: those of his inner circle were trusted implicitly and without hesitation, but those who were not part of that inner circle … weren’t. When word came to him that three men with lready stained reputations wished him harm, he considered the information was probably correct … though it could be just hot air, bluster, bragging, the way men will in careless moments. When two of those men came riding toward him, the Sheriff looked at the lay of the land, gigged his stallion in the ribs, ran on ahead to where he’d have the advantage of terrain. The pair saw him and reacted, and the three ended up a mile or so distant, playing cat-and-mouse with each other, until one disappeared and the Sheriff had no idea where he was. His stallion stood, sleepy-looking as was his habit: the Sheriff knew his golden Palomino was anything but drowsy, and when an ear swung to the right, horse and rider both spun and surged forward. “DON’T!” the Sheriff yelled as his left hand Colt came to full cock. One of the men he was after had his rifle in hand, and halfway raised: the stallion’s head started to move. Linn never remembered drawing his right hand revolver, only that his left hand Colt fired, his stallion spun under him and he fired a second round from the engraved, gold-inlaid, left-hand Colt. Part of his mind, sitting well behind his eyes, stood on the quarterdeck of a sailing-ship, wearing a Captain’s hat and watching the enemy’s ship: he heard his own voice, distant and faint, “Fire as they come to bear!” – and his left-hand Colt did just that as his stallion completed his surging turn. Linn gigged his stallion into a gallop, he dropped into a gully, stopped, turned. They’ll expect me to ride downhill, under cover, he thought. Yonder’s where they’ll expect me to come up. He turned the Palomino’s head upstream, walked him quickly, then gigged him into a jump and he was back up on the flat, a revolver in each hand, ready – One horse stood looking at him, ears swinging, the other was a quarter mile distant and still moving. Two men lay on the ground, face down. Linn holstered his unfired, right-hand revolver, kicked out the fired hulls and reloaded the other: he holstered, walked his stallion over to the watching horse, looked down. As there was a bloody hole out the back of the man’s head, he concluded there was little threat to be had from this one, and walked Rey del Sol over to the other unmoving form. The saddled gelding followed him, apparently anxious for the company. Linn swung down. Don’t see any holes out his back. “You alive?” he asked uncharitably. The other outlaw made no reply. The Sheriff squatted, picked up the dropped pistol. “Be damned,” he muttered as he checked the loads, then sniffed the muzzle: “You got a shot off!” Part of his mind reminded him his earlobe was stinging just a little. He reached up, brushed it with the back of his finger, and it came away wet and red. Well, hell, he thought, I’m gettin’ my coat bloody! He grabbed the outlaw, rolled him over, ready for an arm to punch up, ready for a close-held pistol to come to bear – The Sheriff grunted. The man’s life was soaked out into the sandy ground. One hole in, no holes out. He looked up, looked around, squinting a little against the sun’s glaring brightness. He put two fingers to his lips, whistled, a high, shimmering note, the kind that carried well in the thin, high air. He reached into a pocket and drew out a plug of molasses twist tobacker and shaved off several generous curls, bribed the dead outlaw’s horse into coming closer: once he had hands on its reins, the horse followed docilely. His whistle brought the departing equine’s head up: the Sheriff saw it coming back toward him, as he’d hoped it would. “Daddy,” Angela said, her big blue eyes wide and innocent, “did you get hurt?” Linn smiled at his little girl, squatted. “No, Princess, why would you ask that?” “Your ear’s bloody.” “Yeah, I kinda scraped it on something.” “Ow,” Angela grimaced sympathetically, then turned and looked at two carcasses bent over their saddles. She looked at her pale eyed Daddy and said skeptically, “Daddy, are you sure you’re not hurt?” Linn’s voice was gentle as he nodded. “I’m sure, Princess.” Five year old Angela Keller drew herself up to her full frilly frocked height and shook her little pink Mommy-finger at her Daddy and scolded, “Daddy, if you gets hurted real bad an’ killed, I’ll never speak to you again!” Hard men remain hard men when they are faced with danger, with enemies, with confrontation. Hard men will not infrequently melt like butter on a hot skillet when a pretty little girl shakes her little pink Mommy-finger and admonishes her Daddy in a high, sincere, little-girl voice: Sheriff Linn Keller laughed quietly, went to one knee, wrapped his little girl in a big comforting Daddy-hug and murmured gently in her little pink ear, “I’ll keep that in mind, Princess,” then she felt him change and he released her, leaned back. The Sheriff rose, his eyes hard and his voice matched his eyes. “Get out of here, now,” he said, his voice low, urgent. Angela was Daddy’s Little Girl. Angela was a blue-eyed child of the Kentucky mountains, orphaned in a train wreck. Angela had been Linn and Esther’s daughter for just over one year, and in that one year, as children often do, she was a highly observant, extremely attentive, sponge. Angela knew her Daddy’s voice and her Daddy’s hands and she knew when her Daddy said to scoot, it was time to scoot! – and she did. Her Daddy stood and her Daddy’s coat was open and Angela twisted between her Daddy and the front of the Sheriff’s office, she ran a-scamper to the end of the boardwalk and jumped, landed flat footed and ducked to the right. She was halfway down the alley before she realized she’d just heard two gunshots, sudden, shocking, slapping at her as they echoed down the alley between Digger’s funeral parlor and the Sheriff’s log fortress. Angela kept running, turned right again, skidded a little as she came to her Daddy’s little bitty stable behind the Sheriff’s office. Angela stopped, looked down the alley. A man was just falling off his horse – limp, boneless, he fell and hit the ground like a sack of sawdust and just laid there, his foot falling from the stirrup as his horse danced sideways, eyes walling. Angela ran to the mouth of the alley, looked around, then she strutted out in the middle of the street, her little pink hand extended: “Come here, horsie,” she cooed in her little-girl’s voice: “ ’Mere, horsie.” The horse’s nostrils were flared, its ears laid back, but at the approach of this little frilly creature with a gentle voice, the horse stretched its neck, snuffing loudly at the little pink hand. Angela giggled and gathered the reins in her hands, reached up and stroked the horsie’s damp pink nose, chattering quietly to it the way a fearless little girl will do. Angela was enamored with the snuffy horsie, so much so that she honestly did not see running men, curious onlookers: it wasn’t until she heard the clatter of Digger’s dead wagon that she looked up and realized the fellow who fell from the horsie was picked up from behind her, and loaded into the dead wagon. Angela looked up, all bright eyes and white teeth, smiled as Esther dipped her knees, gripped her daughter’s shoulders with motherly hands, regarded her with wide, frightened eyes. “Hi, Mommy,” Angela laughed. “I founded me a horsie!” An empty brass hull fell to the boardwalk. The Sheriff did not hear it hit through the red ringing in his ears, but he felt the impact of the brass rim hitting the weathered, warped, dusty board through his bootsole. He replaced the fired round and holstered his engraved Colt. He looked at his wife and at his little girl, and he was flat forevermore grateful that when he told her to get out of here ... she did.

My wife started this some long time ago with intent to have it finished by my birthday. It's a little late but I am sitting here just plainly devouring it with my eyes! She ordered a plastic model and spent an unholy amount of time and effort (and holding her breath!) to detail this to her satisfaction!

A MOUNTAIN, A BLANKET, A SKY Two hands found one another: one larger and callused, the other smaller, softer. Two souls merged with this simple joining of the hands. "Mr. Keller?" Esther whispered. "Yes, Mrs. Keller?" Linn whispered back. "Mr. Keller, you are an old romantic, you know that." Sheriff Linn Keller smiled a little, just a little, the softening of his expression hidden beneath his waxed handlebar mustache and the nighttime darkness. "Specially for you," he whispered back, and felt her quick squeeze in reply. Overhead, instead of a night-dark bedroom ceiling, they beheld the blazing glory of the Universe itself. The moon was only just set; the stars, relieved of its silvery glare, blazed defiance, each competing with its neighbor for prominence. Pale eyes automatically picked out the Dipper, the North Star; he looked for that red star he'd seen now and again, and couldn't find it ... but with this many stars in view, it would be pretty hard to find anyhow. "Mr. Keller?" "Dearest?" Esther smiled, tightened her hand again: her husband was a man of short temper and mighty strength, he'd picked men up by the neck and pinned them against the side of a building just to get their attention, and he was known to donate miscreants to the nearest horse trough on occasion, and the thought of such a hard man's lips positively caressing her with the word "Dearest" send a wickedly delicious shiver through her. "Mr. Keller, what does it all mean?" Linn lay on the blanket he'd spread for himself: he'd brought up a rolled tick for his wife's recumbence, that, and another heavy blanket: he'd planned this night's outing because he remembered a night, back East, when he and his new bride lay together and stared up at the starry-decked firmament, and honestly marveled at this glorious, almost wasteful beauty, spread out for their joy and delight. "Mrs. Keller, what does all what mean?" "This," Esther whispered, staring childlike at the shining glory overhead. Linn considered the night sky, turned his head slightly, regarded its expanse, contemplated its depth. "I reckon," he said quietly, "God Almighty wants us to be happy." He rolled up on his side, laid his arm carefully across his wife's belly. "That's why He lays such beauty before us, so we can see the joy of Creation, and take that joy in each other." "Mr. Keller," Esther whispered, laying her hand on his, "are you suggesting that you have improper thoughts now that we are alone?" Esther shivered, stifled a giggle as her husband nuzzled under her jaw with his mustache, kissed the fragrant softness of her neck, just under her earlobe. "Mrs. Keller," he whispered, lifting his head and placing his lips gently on hers, "whatever gave you such an idea?" Conversation was suspended for a significant length of time afterward; a huge, black guardian and a shining-gold stallion were the only witnesses: disinterested in such human activities, they returned to their observation of the surrounding night. Marnie Keller lay on her back on a field-blanket, its insulated layers separated by a two-fingers-thick force field that served as an efficient cushion against the cold Martian sands beneath. She lay flat on her back, looking up at the incredible, star-blazing sky, made all the more brilliant by the absolutely BLACK of their background. She'd consulted the Valkyries' observations, compared relative velocities and projected trajectories, and she and her husband slipped away from their cozy quarters to come out here, onto the nighttime surface, to spread their blankets and lay side by side, holding hands, their personal protective fields merging: when they held hands, no energy barrier separated them as it otherwise would have. "What are we looking for?" John asked quietly: his voice did not go through the usual transmission protocol, but was rather air conducted. Marnie smiled just a little. "I have a surprise for you," she whispered. Dr. John Greenlees Jr rolled up on his side, laid his hand carefully splay-fingered, on his wife's belly. "Marnie," he whispered, "is there something you want to tell me?" Marnie giggled, laid her hand on his, pressed affectionately. "No, Doctor," she sighed, "in spite of your best efforts here of late, I am not with child again." She turned and smiled lasciviously at her husband. "At least not yet, you naughty boy!" John gave his wife a long look, smiled just a little, then rolled back over on his back, his hand finding hers. "I never get tired of this," Marnie sighed. "Almost nobody comes out to see the stars anymore." "Damn shame -- look!" A silver streak blazed through the thin Martian atmosphere. "Be damned," John swore softly. "I didn't know they'd --" Two more blazing silver slashes lacerated the sky above them. "Just watch," Marnie breathed, and suddenly a half-dozen, in close proximity to one another, as if a young squadron of silvery knives were trying to slice open the thin envelope of Martian atmosphere. "Marnie," John asked, his voice quietly serious, "are we in danger?" Marnie lifted her free arm, consulted a small panel on the back of her wrist, tapped the screen, sat up. "Yes we are," she said briskly. "Inside!" Husband and wife seized their insulating field-blankets, rolled over onto their knees, pushed up to their feet, sprinted awkwardly for the airlock: they usually lived and worked in one-and-a-quarter Earth gravities to keep their bodies in shape, to keep their bones from decalcifying, to prevent the agonies of kidney stones that was the consequence of calcium leaching out of the bones and into the blood (not to mention the concomitant cardiac conduction problems it caused!) -- and their adrenalized sprint, Mars-normal gravity, was awkward, stumbling and almost comical. They flattened themselves against the airlock door as Marnie slapped her palm against the Open Sesame button, they nearly fell at the door's immediate response: outside, they saw three small geysers of sandy dust as meteors hit the ground, not far from where they'd lain, watching the show overhead. Marnie Keller hugged her husband, let her field blanket hit the floor: it rolled up automatically, waited patiently for someone to step on it or trip over it, as it usually did: John tossed his atop his wife's, and the two tight-rolled survival tools lay side by side as husband and wife hugged each other and laughed. John kissed his wife, picked her up, hoist her to eye level: like his father, John Jr was tall and lean, and Marnie giggled, for her big strong Daddy used to pick her up when she was a little girl, and he'd draw her in close and twiddle his handlebar mustache against her nose, and she'd giggle. "John," Marnie smiled, her pale eyes level with his hazel orbs, "have you ever thought of growing a mustache?"

Your second update looks encouraging. Still standing up on my knees for the three of you!

Likely I'd say something really intelligent -- something like "W'al I'll be damned!" -- but I'd have to winch my jaw up from belt buckle level first!

Many thanks for this! Passed this along to the group Snub Noir, the new home of Gats and Hats!

BOOKMARK "William." "Yes, sir?" "William, would you read tonight, please." "Yes, sir." "The place is marked." "Yes, sir." William took his father's Bible, turned a little and sat, so as to get the best light across the page. William looked up at his father. "Second Kings, sir?" Jacob closed his eyes, rocking a little, the youngest curled up on his lap, cuddled into his shirt front: he nodded, just a little, his arms protectively around a blanket wrapped infant, and William wished he had one of those camera things he'd heard about, for this moment -- where his Pa had that quiet smile -- was something he wished to remember forever. William opened the Book, looked at the bookmark. It was grey wool, and quite old: rectangular, neatly hemmed at the edges, and in the center, what looked like a bullet hole. He'd seen it a thousand time and more -- at least, his eyes beheld it -- but he never really saw it. He looked up at his Pa and saw Jacob's eyes were on him, those knowing eyes of a father who remembered what it was to be young. "There is a question in your eyes," Jacob said quietly. "Yes, sir." Annette smiled a little, rocking as she sewed: there were always repairs to be made, and though the hired girl did an outstanding job, Annette worked hard to keep a proper household for her husband, for her family: she had a sock on a darning egg and was busy weaving a repair across the hole. Her fingers knew the work; she looked up at her son, at her husband, with the knowing eyes of a wife, of a mother, who knew that Second Kings was going to be somewhat delayed. "That used to be part of a blanket that belonged to your Granddad," Jacob explained, his voice gentle, reassuring, for the infant he held was asleep, or near to it. "Sir?" Jacob smiled, just a little, as he rocked, slowly, thoughtfully. "Pa was headed West. He'd been in that damned War, he'd been a lawman back East, he'd got the Fiddle Foot" -- Jacob looked at his wife, who smiled indulgently: her brother had the Fiddle Foot, and never stayed in one place more than a couple of months -- "when he finally told a dirty little Kansas town he'd not be cheated out of his pay, he knocked the Dog Stuffing out of Mayor and Council, he took his wages from the Mayor's wallet -- I think there was the small matter of having smacked the man across the back of the head with a chair or something of the kind --" Jacob managed to look innocent as he described the event -- "your Granddad always did have a way of getting his ideas, understood." William smiled, then grinned. "Yes, sir," he agreed, "he still does!" "You mean the horse trough thing?" Jacob chuckled. "I reckon he give that young fellow a bath so he'd not get so hot under the collar as to set his hair afire!" "Yes, sir." "Now about that blanket." "Yes, sir?" "That good old blanket ..." Jacob's voice trailed off and he got a distant look about him, as if he was looking at a memory, and William waited, knowing his Pa was likely looking at something through his own father's eyes. "Pa had damn little when he come West. I don't recall if he'd found gold in that streambed yet or not. I do know he was asleep under that same blanket when some fellow snuck up and tried to steal his Sam-horse." William frowned a little. Horse theft was a serious matter, and he'd seen men hung for the crime. "Your Grampa fetched up his Navy colt and fired one shot." "Yes, sir?" "Trouble was, 'twas under the blanket yet when he fired." "Yes, sir?" "He did not miss, William, but he was distressed that he'd set his blanket afire." "Sir?" "Oh, it didn't catch fire, wool doesn't burn easy at all, but that much smoke under a wool blanket would likely look like 'twas a-smolder somethin' fierce!" "Don't get any ideas," Annette cautioned her son as she saw an idea dance across his young eyes. "No ma'am," William replied, his ears reddening, which told the perceptive Annette that their son did indeed have thoughts of replicating the event as an experiment, to see just how smokey such a blanket would look. "That blanket got kind of thin and worn with time," Jacob continued, rocking slowly, gently, the weight of their sleeping infant warm and reassuring on his front, in his arms. "It got cut apart and re-used, re-sewn -- you recall how your Mama split that worn bedsheet and sewed the sides together to form the new center." "Yes, sir." "Your Granddad is a thrifty man, William. He wastes nothing. He's known privation and he's known a slim pocketbook. He's still that way. I reckon if he was rich as them steel barons back East, he'd be just as thrifty." "Yes, sir." "That bookmark" -- Jacob nodded toward the open Book -- "is about all that's left of that blanket. That, and an oiled gunrag I keep in my office." William grinned, slowly, broadly, for he remembered using that selfsame oily rag for that very purpose. William considered the bookmark, frowned a little, looked up at his Pa. "Sir, is there a significance to tonight's reading?" "There is, William." Jacob looked at his wife, who gave him a warning look. "You see, not long after your Mama and I took up house keepin' -- you probably don't remember, but you were ringbearer at our weddin', and your little sister was flower girl --" "JACOB!" Annette hissed, shocked. "Well, maybe that ain't quite what happened," Jacob said innocently. "No, y'see, shortly after we taken up housekeepin' an bein' man and wife, I asked her why I ought to be doin' dishes, y'see." Jacob gave his wife an innocent look as she hefted the darning egg, clearly debating whether she could bounce it off his skull without hitting their sleeping child. "Your Mama is an educated woman, and she knows her Scripture. She quoted me from Second Kings when I asked why I'd ought to be doin' them supper dishes, and she quoted from the Book. You'll find it right there directly, that part where God says He will wipe Jerusalem like a man washes a bowl, wipes it out with a rag and turns it over." Annette resumed her darning, rocking as she did: something went *pop!* in their cast iron stove, and William paged forward a little, scanning, stopped, smiled. "William, if that old book mark passes itself on to your hands, remember where it came from." "Yes, sir." "And remember that God said men-folk can warsh dishes too." William grinned, chuckled quietly. "Yes, sir." He looked at the open page, began to read.

Just read your update. Still talking to God about it!

IF YOU’RE INTERESTED Mr. Baxter waited until the Hard Hand of Doom descended on two boys’ shoulders. “You boys,” the Sheriff said quietly, “oughtn’t try that.” The two were caught, and fairly so: they’d tried cutting up barbershop trimmin’s short and with paste and subterfuge, tried fabricating some facial hair in an effort to patronize the bar. “Now was I to run you boys in,” the Sheriff continued quietly, “I’d have to turn you over to your Pa’s custody. How do you reckon he’d like hearin’ you were expected in court for a case you’d not win?” Two boys felt all hope drain out of their very marrow. “Tell you what.” Two boys dared not breathe, let alone move. “I might let you both go if you’d do somethin’ for me.” Two pale, sweating boys with hair stuck to their faces, assented. “I might need a favor sometime. ‘Ginst I do, I’ll let ye know. Deal?” Two boys nodded; their dual “Yes, sir’s” hovered in the air behind them as they fled down the hallway, past Daisy’s kitchen and out the back door. Sheriff William Keller looked up at Mr. Baxter, grinned that contagious grin this young Mr. Baxter remembered seeing on William’s pa’s face, back when William’s father Jacob was still Sheriff. “Boys,” Mr. Baxter sighed, shaking his head and polishing the bar. “Don’t they realize drink’s been outlawed?” “God help us,” William muttered. “Prohibition will be the ruin of us all!” “Tell your wife I do admire her piano playin’,” Mr. Baxter called as the Sheriff strolled to the front of the saloon, and out the front doors: he nodded to a pair of well dressed strangers: “Gentlemen.” Mr. Baxter looked up as the pair came in, looked around, looked pointedly at the nearly empty shelves behind the bar. “What do you have for two thirsty travelers?” one asked. Mr. Baxter considered these two strangers in suits and Fedoras, two men who were obviously more at home in the big city than clear out here. Mr. Baxter looked left, looked right, leaned closer and said quietly, “I rigged up a little pump to run good cold wellwater in a tub.” “Oh?” He winked. “Been cooling a couple bottles, if you’re interested.” The two strangers looked at one another, looked at the pomaded barkeep. “Sounds like just what we want.” Mr. Baxter reached under the bar, picked up a bottle – it was an old-fashioned, heavy-glass bottle, with a wire bail and cork arrangement – he brought down a tall glass, another: they heard a *pop* and the hissing gurgle of something carbonated being decanted. Mr. Baxter straightened, placed two brimming glasses on the gleaming mahogany bar. Two men looked at one another, picked up their glass, took a drink. They both recoiled, surprised. “Sarsaparilla!” one exclaimed, as the other swallowed, coughed, grimaced. “Good and cold, too,” Mr. Baxter nodded. “Nothing but the best for men of your quality!” “I was hoping for a beer,” came the disappointed response. “Wouldn’t we all,” Mr. Baxter sighed. The Silver Jewel was barely making expenses with the restaurant trade, thanks to the railroad and the nearby mines; Mr. Baxter waited until the pair were gone, until after he dropped their coin in the till and muttered, “Damned dry dicks!” “Revenue agents?” William asked, and Mr. Baxter jumped: “Jehosophat, Sheriff, don’t sneak up on a man like that!” William grinned again: “Yeah, but I’m good at it!” “Yeah, they were Revenuers, all right. Thought they’d found me out until they took a good cold slug of genuine high powered Sarsaparilla!” “Did they say where they were headed next?” “Nope. Didn’t see which way they went, either.” “They headed on toward Carbon Hill.” Sheriff William Keller paused, leaned across the bar a little and said quietly, “I let Carbon know, too!” Michael Keller stood in his Pa’s study and took a long, thoughtful look at a pair of framed portraits. Both were of truly beautiful women. He knew one was his Gammaw: she wore her usual tailored suit dress and heels, she was standing in her office, under the framed revolver Michael remembered hanging there, when he’d visit his Pa in that selfsame office. He looked at the portrait beside, that of another genuinely beautiful woman. This one wore a floor length gown, her hair was elaborately atop her head instead of Marine-short like his Gammaw. Michael knew this was the legendary Sarah Lynne McKenna, the justly famous Black Agent. Like most children that grow up looking at something every day and every day, he took the two portraits for granted: he looked at them, but didn’t really see them, and as sometimes happens, he stood and studied one, then the other, and genuinely saw them, probably for the first time. He’d honestly never appreciated just how identical the two of them were. He compared them to his mental image of Marnie. He felt the edge of his Pa’s desk. Michael carefully orbited, backwards, around the rim of his Pa’s solid old desk, found the high, padded back of his Pa’s chair, drew it out, sat. His pale eyes never left the two portraits. Michael frowned, considered, applied all the young knowledge he had on the subject, and came up dry. A quiet voice behind his right shoulder said “If you think too hard, your hair will catch fire.” “Hi, Marnie.” Michael smelled sunshine and lilac water and felt a familiar hand grip his young shoulder. “Your father is working on a puzzle.” “He’ll figure it out,” Michael said proudly. “I know he will. He always does.” “You’re puzzling over something too.” “Marnie, are you a ghost?” Feminine laughter, light, delicate, hands gripped his shoulders, massaged him through his heavy denim vest: “Does this feel like a ghost?” “Marnie, how come you and Gammaw and Sarah all look alike enough to be clones?” The hands stopped massaging, gripped him gently instead. “I don’t know, Michael. God’s honest truth, I don’t know.” “The Parson said reincarnation’s not real.” “He might be right.” “Then how come there’s so many examples of it?” “That,” came the soft-voice reply, close up behind his ear, “is for wiser heads than my own.” “Pa and Jacob and Old Pale Eyes, and there’s a couple more –” “I know. Remarkable, isn’t it?” “Pa said someone with a big black horse got that trucker out of there just before the thing blew up on ‘em. He doesn’t know who it was and that’s eatin’ at him.” “Your father doesn’t like puzzles.” “No.” Michael frowned. “Sometimes a puzzle can’t be solved.” “Don’t tell Pa. He’ll hammer at it until he does.” He heard the familiar, feminine sigh behind him. “Your father sounds so very much like Papa.” Michael frowned, surprised, turned. He was alone. “Marnie!” he exclaimed, annoyed, then movement at the corner of his vision: he turned, looked out the window, saw a pale eyed woman in a McKenna gown astride a truly huge horse, smiling at him as she walked her horse past the pane. Michael was out of his father’s high back office chair like a shot: he scrambled for the front door, yanked it open – Nothing – He drew back, shut the door, went to the window, looked again, then returned to his father’s padded, high back office chair, sat. He looked at the portraits again, looked out the window, looked back. “Pa,” he said aloud, “isn’t the only one that doesn’t like puzzles!”