Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

NOW WHAT? A whisper, somewhere behind his mind. Home. Michael's eyes snapped open: he sat up, The Bear Killer coming to his feet, cocking his head and regarding Michael with bright-eyed intensity. Michael settled his Stetson on his head, rose, went over to Lightning. "Darlin'," he whispered as he went to one knee beside her head, "can you get up?" The Fanghorn mare muttered, rolled over on her belly. Thunder and Cyclone were pacing, restless, scenting the air, bugling -- almost a warning -- their lips peeled back to show their shining-ivory canines. "I can't carry you," Michael murmured. "You'll have to stand at least!" Lightning muttered, grunted: she rolled onto her belly, closed her eyes, dropped her jaw flat on the ground and bawled. Michael tapped his wrist unit, spoke quickly, urgently: an Iris opened two feet ahead of Lightning's wet, flaring nostrils. "Come on, girl," Michael whispered, his hand caressing her now-rock-hard neck: "stand for me!" Lightning came upright -- it took an effort -- she stood, shivering. Michael backed toward the Iris, his hand under her jaw, standing a little to the side so she could see him. A pale eyed son of a pale eyed Sheriff backed into a black ellipse, a Fanghorn mare and two colts following, then the ellipse closed like a cat's pupil, and was gone. Angela was just finishing. She'd taught two classes that morning, and was scheduled off the rest of the day. She'd planned to meet with the White Angels and review their trauma protocols and their latest proficiencies. Her nurse-paramedics were driven, ambitious, focused: each of them, the ones that lasted, the ones that hadn't washed out when they found out firsthand what it was like when it hit the fan, for real, and them in the middle of it -- the ones that remained were damned good at what they did. Angela intended to see that they stayed that way. When her wrist-unit buzzed, vibrating silently, she frowned, looked at the screen, accepted the incoming communication. She raised an eyebrow, spoke a reply. She didn't make her scheduled review. The Bear Killer bristled, snarled, fangs exposed, the hair rippling the length of his back bone and across his shoulders blades: he stood, stiff-legged, between Michael and these approaching, hoof-stomping, fang-bared creatures. Lightning threw her head back and gave a God's-honest scream: Thunder and Cyclone stood on either side of her hind quarters, facing out, shaking their heads, whistling a challenge: this was THEIR dam, this was THEIR herd, STAY THE HELL AWAY OR I WILL EAT YOU!!! Michael made no move to shuck his Marlin. He stayed with Lightning, hands on her neck, head bowed, eyes closed, as if communing without words. An Iris opened: Angela and a white-armored field medic stepped out, looked around. A half dozen Fanghorns were coming, on a brisk trot, and Angela had the distinct feeling she was not entirely welcome at this particular party. Lightning stood, head down, pressing into Michael's front, her big liquid-black eyes closed: her breathing was labored, she gave a shiver, a long, deep-chested groan. Angela walked past Michael, laid a hand on Lightning's gravid belly, tilted her head a little, her field medic at her side, watching the openly-hostile Fanghorns. One rushed, made as if to bite the diminutive, white-armored medic's arm. The medic slapped the Fanghorn's nose -- hard! -- snapped "STOP THAT!" and The Bear Killer advanced, yammering, slavering, a red-eyed image of diminutive destruction. The Bear Killer was still small enough that, compared to the towering Fanghorns, he looked almost comical. "Bear Killer," Michael murmured. The Bear Killer didn't draw back: he stood, bristling, fangs bared, glaring at the Fanghorn who glared back just as dangerously. Lightning stuck her neck straight out and, if it's possible for a steam whistle to bray like a donkey that's just been clap boarded across the backside, she did, and when she did, better than another half dozen Fanghorns joined the first six. This time they surrounded Lightning, muttering, grunting, snarling -- Horses snarl? the medic thought, considering that her Confederate field would keep her safe from kick, bite or ram, but not particularly wanting to experience the particular possibility. Angela turned, looked at Michael, who was standing, one arm under Lightning's neck, one hand flat on her starboard neck, one hand flat on her portside, his head leaned into hers, his Stetson, fallen and forgotten, on the ground at his feet. Lightning shuddered again. More Fanghorns came, their running pace deceptively ponderous. Angela and her medic felt the ground shivering underfoot as they approached -- fast, with purpose -- another ring of outward-facing, pawing, head-slinging, fang-bared Fanghorn herd surrounded them, facing outward. "I've delivered babies and I've pulled stuck calves," Angela muttered, "but never in my nursing whites!" "I can handle it," her medic said confidently, dropping her face shield: "I'm proof against splash and biohazard, just hose me off afterward!" Angela took one step toward Lightning's backside and the Waters of Life gushed forth, followed by a nose: Lightning's hind quarters folded, she grunted again, strained, cut loose with another God-awful Mexican donkey playing a steam whistle like a drunken bugler -- a Fanghorn colt struggled in its uterine sac, out on the ground, delivered. Angela snapped open a lockback, decided the first cut would be across the forehooves -- safest, she wouldn't risk cutting anything beneath -- a slice, another, and small, gristle-covered hooves pushed through the sliced-open gaps in the almost-transparent membrane. The medic came around, reached for the gap Angela opened. Something hit her shoulder, knocked her to the side -- a head, a big head! -- the head slashed the other way, knocked Angela back, hard. The Herd Mare lowered her head, bit into the membrane, pulled. A colt struggled, pushed through the torn membrane, stood, legs surprisingly stout, but wobbly, like a newborn colt -- but blocky, businesslike, not slim and gangly like a horse. Fanghorn teeth nibbled carefully at the colt, pulling and tearing: whether instinct, whether learned behavior, Angela really didn't know. The colt dropped its chest to the ground, grunted, coughed -- Draining its lungs, Angela thought -- the Herd Mare's nose slid under its neck, helped it stand -- Angela watched as this wet, wobbling newborn blinked in sudden bright light, as it lifted and lowered its head, working to inflate newborn lungs, working to breathe air! The Bear Killer wiggled into the mix, licked the broad, pink nose as it came free, muttering and yipping quietly -- almost encouragement, the medic thought as she came back toward the mare that smacked her aside. Michael was on his knees, his head bowed and his forehead against Lightning's mane: her neck was still thrust straight out, her jaw on the ground, her eyes closed. Thunder and Cyclone muttered, glared at the Herd Mare as the colt laid down, rolled over. Medic and nurse watched as the Herd Mare bit the umbilical -- not in two -- carefully bit it, held it between flat front teeth. Angela moved to Lightning's no-longer-bulging belly, looked at her medic. "I want to massage the fundus," she said, "but ..." She looked at the Fanghorn, back to the young woman in the red-trimmed white armor, still eyeing the surrounding herd mistrustfully. "Maybe you can just skip that part," the medic suggested. The Bear Killer was backed up beside Michael now, still bristling, still lifting black, rippling lips in an unmistakable warning, but no longer growling. By the time Victoria got there, Lightning was upright, nuzzling her colt, the bit-free umbilical stub shriveling already: Lightning was busy cleaning her colt, filling her nostrils with her get's scent. The newborn, for its part, was busy dining at what Michael's father referred to as "the Topless Restaurant," the first time Michael ever saw an infant breast fed. Victoria planted her knuckles on her belt, scowled at the Fanghorn, at the colt, at the surrounding, restlessly-milling herd, and at her brother and her big sister. Victoria Keller, a very proper young lady in a McKenna gown and a fashionable little hat, stepped out of an Iris and took in the scene, frowned, raised a gloved hand and shook her Mommy-finger at the entire assemblage and scolded, "Who said you could start without me!"

SUSHI! Victoria sat along the streambank, on a spread-out quilt: she sat, as she often did, cross legged, her long skirt modestly covering stockinged legs. Michael sat on the rug with her, rifle beside him: they faced the water, contemplated the springtime flow: the water was clear, swift, deep along one side, where the stream curved, where it had eroded away dirt and gravel and left a smooth-faced bedrock wall, twice Michael's height of stone. The twins sat, unmoving, silent. The Bear Killer was busy trailing something, or trying to. Thunder and Cyclone followed the curly-furred pup, noses to the ground, scenting whatever it was he was following. "Marnie talked to me yesterday," Michael said softly. Victoria blinked, her eyes still on the water. "Oh?" "She said I was as sneaky as a diplomat." "How's that?" "She said by recruiting the colts for find-it games -- trailing and finding children -- they're in the public mind as harmless, as trailers, not as carnivores." "Why would they be carnivores?" "Do you remember me tellin' you about that Jack Doe that tried to firebomb our house?" Victoria looked at Michael, her eyes wide and serious, and Michael realized he'd just let a feline out of the burlap he maybe should have kept hid. "No," Victoria said firmly. "You didn't." Michael took a long breath, grimaced. "I shot him and Lightning et him. There were two others and they got et too." Victoria looked past Michael at Lightning, laid over on her side in the sun, asleep. "When does she foal?" Victoria asked. "She's gettin' close." "Should you still be riding her?" Michael smiled, ever so slightly. "If she was ... if it wasn't good for me to ride her, she'd let me know." "She talks to you?" Victoria asked, half suspecting and half skeptical. "Something like that," Michael affirmed. Victoria turned, looked at The Bear Killer, then Thunder, then Cyclone, single file, all three noses down, trailing something. "Do they ... Michael ..." Victoria turned, looked at her twin brother. "Michael, what happened to that man you went after?" "I shot him," Michael said casually. "And ...?" "And the colts helped. "Miiichaaaeellllll," Victoria said, drawing his name out the way a sister will. Michael looked very directly at his sister. "They et him," Michael said flatly. "All of him. Nothing left." "Does the jurisdictional Sheriff know that?" "No." "Does Marnie know?" "No." "Why did she tell 'em about a hemp necktie?" "Throw 'em off. Hanging is still a capital punishment here. They'll understand a noose." The Bear Killer came happily hobby-horsing back, jumping happily at one colt, then the other: Cyclone swerved, gave both quilt and dam a wide berth, found a slope and splashed happily in cold creekwater. Michael saw her hind quarters rise -- not a kick, he wasn't sure what she'd done -- Lightning came up with a fish crosswise in her mouth, looked at Michael, then threw her head back and flipped the fish: she caught it headfirst, crunched it happily, chewed it up, swallowed. "Eeewww," Victoria exclaimed, wrinkling her nose and forehead: Michael deadpanned "Sushi? Nice and fresh!" -- to which his twin sister shuddered, shook her head, held up gloved palms as if to ward off a particularly unpleasant idea. "I like fish," Michael murmured, "I like fresh fish." Lightning's head drove down into the water again. "I like mine fried in butter, thank you very much!" Lightning came up with another fish and managed to look very pleased with himself when he did. Victoria ignored the second serving of chilled sushi. "Michael, why did Marnie tell them your badge didn't say Sheriff?" Michael shrugged. "She never told them I don't have a badge." "So she was covering for you." "Something like that." "I implied the hell out of it," Marnie said, and Michael and Victoria both startled. Marnie came over, sat beside Michael on what was little more than the edge of the quilt. "I told them I had Sheriff's-level authority throughout the Confederacy. You're known to be associated with the Diplomatic Corps. That implied you carry the same authority." She turned her head, smiled quietly at her younger sibling. "Thanks, Sis," he said quietly.

I believe it was here in Ohio, though the particulars escape me, that the Amish rebuilt so quickly after a tornado that FEMA was not able to get an accurate assay on damage.

HORSIE PUPPY! Michael Keller moved with Lightning's gait, the unconscious, natural movement of one who was perfectly at home in the saddle. Lightning's gait was not a smooth singlefoot and it sure as hell wasn't as nice as his Pa's Paso Fino, but it wasn't rough and choppy like Michael had known in years past. The colts coasted silently beside the big, lightning-patterned mare, and as they rode, Michael laughed quietly. He'd delivered another crate of hymnals -- another world, another church, this time with two pecan pies and a crate of groceries -- and after this second delivery, with one of The Bear Killer pups tagging at his heels, one of this Parson's children looked seriously at The Bear Killer, who was industriously chewing on a fresh bone donated by the local butcher. The boy's father asked him what that was -- he'd squatted, one arm around his wee son, he'd pointed at The Bear Killer and he'd asked, "What is that?" and his son loudly and happily declared, "Puppy!" Lightning lifted her head at the sound, blinked sleepily: the Parson pointed to Thunder and said, "What's that?" His little boy might not have known the correct term, but he did not lack for confidence. He pointed and shouted, "Horsie puppy!" Michael laughed quietly at the memory. Something told him that the young of any species was going to be called a Cowie Puppy, or a Kitty Puppy, or a Horsie Puppy. He allowed his mind to wander. He'd made his most recent delivery on a world that was only just getting its first, modern, fire department and emergency medical service. He remembered sitting in the back row of his sister Angela's presentations. His Mama was in another room, the actual training room, of a brand new firehouse, conducting another paramedic class: the local economy benefitted greatly from construction of this particular station, as gas wells were drilled, cased off, piped in; a brick-works was built, a long kiln constructed, native clay mined, refined, shaped, baked: the firehouse was built of this native brick, originally scaled to fit the new Ahrens steam firefighting engine, almost a twin for the machine the Firelands Fire Department back home still fired and threw water with. There was discussion as to whether they wanted to start with a Diesel pumper, but a turbocharged Kenworth was so far beyond current technology, that they agreed on a steam pumper: steam was a technology they knew, that they used, that they accepted: the Ahrens would throw an incredible amount of water, horses were new to this world but they were something this world wanted, especially after seeing the Firelands Fire Department in action, with their steam pumper -- screaming down the street, all pounding hooves and shrill-screaming whistle and polished boiler, all red-shirted Irishmen with curled black mustaches and gleaming teeth and knee-high boots, horses that hat two speeds, wide open and dead stop -- they watched the Irish Brigade swing to a skidding side-sliding stop, swarm off apparatus and spin on connections, dunking the suction into a handy cistern while others ran hose toward a structure, and hard-muscled men shouted defiantly, joyfully, profanely. Horse drawn steam power blasted water in silver streams toward the simulated fire structure, watches were consulted: a bonfire, nearby, was extinguished with a great show of rolling steam and blasted embers. Men laughed, women fluttered kerchiefs, little boys either jumped up and down with excitement, or stared, wide-eyed and amazed, boys who dreamed that night of being one of these red-shirted GODS who tamed fire and handled water like a horsewhip! So it was that this very first structure, was built to house three matched white mares, a steam powered pumper, a ladder wagon and a hose wagon, a bunkroom above, kitchen below, with rooms for training and for offices. Now Michael sat in the back row as Angela, in her nursing whites, presented for the general community in what was normally the pumper bay. Pumper and two accessory wagons were pulled out, the mares were out on long leads, grazing and enjoying the adoring attention of children and adults alike: a sinner's-heart-black Bear Killer paced among them, a creature from which people drew away, a creature not known to this world, at least until an adventurous child, barely able to walk, squealed and literally fell into the Bear Killer pup. Child and canine hit the ground rolling: The Bear Killer bounced up, tongue out, mouth open in a happy doggy grin: a little boy with curly blond hair laughed and wobbled toward the curly-furred pup, laughed at the enthusiastic face-washing: suddenly The Bear Killer was surrounded by children, marveling at how silky-soft his shining-black fur was, delighting in his cold nose and whipping tail. Michael turned from where he'd been watching this through the open, overhead bay door: he turned his attention back to his big sister, who was saying something about prevention, being far cheaper than treatment. Michael heard her give the same presentation back home: he rose, slipped outside, laughed as three, then four, then six children clustered around him, begging him to let them hide so Thunder or Cyclone could find them. Michael grinned. He hadn't realized the colts' tracking ability had been advertised, but apparently it had. Michael drew his entourage a little ways away from the firehouse, off into the side yard, out of line-of-sight: he didn't wish to interrupt the public meeting, nor Angela's presentation: he squatted, motioned them closer. Eager children bent over, surrounding him, listened closely as he instructed them. Michael handed each of them two wrapped peppermints, had them secret the peppermints on their person, instructed them in how to present the peppermint when they were found. He then acquired an artifact from each: a bonnet, a hat, a kerchief, items that carried the child's scent: each item, placed on the ground, the children were told to go hide, but don't get hurt and don't fall into a hole or anything. Half a dozen laughing children scattered, hid. Michael waited: he stood, separated the artifacts, extended his hand and made a kissing sound. Thunder and Cyclone came trotting over to him, two vaguely horselike colts with bony forehead bosses beginning to broaden, to harden, to protrude: Michael rubbed their muzzles, called them good horsie puppies, and the colts crowded in against him: he could have called them yesterday's stew or soured milk and they'd have done the same thing. He held a hat up to Thunder's muzzle. Thunder cocked his head like a wine-taster sniffing a vintage. "Find," Michael said softly. Thunder backed up, shook his head: he circled, nose to the ground, sniffed the other artifacts, then lifted his head, tasted the air, looked back. Michael was introducing Cyclone's nose to the sunbonnet. Cylone tried to eat it. Michael had to bribe it away from her with a peppermint, then he had her sniff it again and said, "Find." It was Cyclone's turn to sniff each item on the ground. When Thunder interrogated the scents, he swung his neck back and forth to taste each scent before going on his quest. Cyclone circled, scenting each in turn. Michael watched them throw their heads up, hobby-horse happily in divergent directions. Michael went over to Lightning, who was rolled over on her back, snoring quietly. A father and two children were asleep, leaning against her shoulder, the father on one side, children on the other. Michael did not have the heart to disturb their rest -- normally he'd have given Lightning a belly rub, but he knew she'd kick like a dog if he did -- instead, he sat down beside the father, leaned back, tilted his hat over his eyes and relaxed in the sun. Angela concluded her presentation. It was an easy sell. This would be the first powered firehouse on the planet. The local political community saw it as a sign of progress, of advancement. They, and others, thought in terms of commerce, of business, of political advantage. Citizens appreciated Angela's reasoning that preventing a fire was far less expensive than fighting a fire, just as good health -- preventing disease -- was less expensive, and much less uncomfortable, than treating the disease. She was taking questions, answering them with the ease of an experienced instructor, when she looked over the heads of the assembled, and smiled, then laughed. Men, women, business folk, politicians, turned, rose, watched, as two Fanghorn colts paced happily back toward Michael. Each had a child on its back and a child on either side, hands on warm, living fur. Each had an expression of absolute delight. Two Fanghorn colts fairly strutted as they returned, having found not one, but three. And very near Michael's outstretched left leg, a curly-black-furred, half-grown Bear Killer pup, lay sprawled on the ground, eyes closed, not quite snoring: a little blond-haired boy, just as sprawled, laid up against the canine spine, one arm over the rib cage, eyes closed, sound asleep as well.

Ran into this in Police Basic. Telling my age here, we qualified with .38 Specials. The Academy bought the cheapest, filthiest reloads they could find. I think the bullets were swaged out of rope solder. After one cylinder out the bore, it wouldn't hold a dinner plate sized group at thirty feet. I looked through my barrel and good Lord! it looked like ICICLES hanging from the roof of that tube! I always brought a cleaning kit -- between relays my buddy and I would RUN to the back, we set up on a picnic table and we were scrubbing our barrels so hard you'd think we were running Muzzle Loaders! That night I pulled the bullets on a half dozen of those cheapo reloads. Looked identical to Unique powder. Weighed the charge. I had 158 gr SWC half jackets. Loaded my own with half jacket SWCs, crimped over the jacket, visually indistinguishable from the Academy supplied stuff. Next day my buddy and I shot my reloads. We went from minute-of-washboiler to cigarette-pack sized groups.

(admiring whistle) Did ye notice when she was in the middle of a roll, she raised a hand to finger-flutter a howdy at the camera? Femininity, and flight control!

PAYIN' THE PREACHER The hymnals were bound in red, with gold lettering: they were thick, heavy, they smelled of ink and paper, as hymnals always do, and they were brand new, not a week off the printing press. Two good men packed them in, secure in a wooden crate. The Parson's wife threw two broad towels out to set the crate on; Michael waited until the top was prized loose and set aside, waited until the Parson reached in, handed one to his wife, then opened one and laughed as he read the title page. He looked at Michael, delight on his face, then back to the hymnal, flipped through it, stopped, paged back to the contents, ran his eye down names familiar, and names otherwise. "You've done so much for us already," Mrs. Parson said in her gentle voice. Michael's ears reddened and he shifted his weight like an uncomfortable schoolboy, then turned as shadow darkened the double doors again. Another crate, and behind this one, and the men packing it in, a little boy, fairly strutting with importance, for he was carrying a square, flat box, thick as his hand was long. Michael thanked the boy, winked: the delighted lad ran barefoot back down the aisle and out the door, quickly reclaiming the sack of chocolate chip cookies Michael paid him with, if he'd pack in the pie for the Parson. Mrs. Parson's hands went to her cheeks with astonishment, her mouth round with delight. "I figured you could use some groceries," Michael said innocently. Daughters were summoned; ladies set to carrying a crate's worth of comestibles to the Parsonage kitchen. The Parson looked at Michael, nodded. "Thank you," he said quietly, then looked over at the piano -- it too was a gift from Michael, and the woman who played it on Sunday: she was making a tidy living teaching their young, and some not so young, to play piano. "The usual pay scale," Michael said innocently, and he and the Parson both laughed. Michael's piano was a gift, as were the hymnals. The hymnals were reprints. Originally they were from an old Methodist church somewhere, stacked in a church belfry and forgotten; few survived weather, insects, rodents: the one that did, Michael purchased, and had reprinted, with very few changes. This particular church, on this particular world, wasn't old Methodist, but the hymns were sung by a variety of denominations, and so these were an exact fit. Michael discreetly refrained from mentioning one was missing -- the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" -- this omission might have been thought a diplomatic sensitivity. It wasn't. Michael read of its origins and personally considered it heresy, and for that particular reason, quietly had it excluded. Ambassador Marnie Keller sat down with the local Judge, their Sheriff, and a surprising number of folk who managed to include themselves in this unexpected visit from one of the more famous faces in the Thirteen Systems. Marnie was engaging, pleasant, charming: she was quick to listen, her questions were few, but on point: she discreetly steered conversation to a recent criminal situation which caused her several hosts visible discomfort. Marnie had been a Sheriff's deputy, and Marnie showed a surprising aptitude for interrogation: she had her Gammaw's pale eyes and good looking legs, she had her Gammaw's mercurial temper, she had all the lethal inclinations of her bloodline, but she also had all the charm and guile of another of her ancestry. Had the shade of Sarah Lynne McKenna been hovering, she might have smiled and nodded her approval with the ease with which Marnie steered the conversation, how she delicately came back to information she wanted, almost like a lovely hummingbird returning to a cluster of favorite flowers. Marnie provided something fermented, purple, fragrant, chilled and unexpectedly authoritative: she poured generously, insisted on refilling glasses, all while charming and smiling her way through the meeting. She managed to persuade her hosts that yes, she was a veteran Sheriff's deputy, yes she'd seen disaster and she'd waded in blood up to her ankles and she'd run her hand down the throat of Evil, grabbed its ankle and jerked it inside out, and she'd sent it running naked back to the Infero that spawned it -- Marnie well knew that if you're going to tell a lie, tell one that is so magnificently outrageous as to bring laughter, and nobody will suspect you're actually far closer to the truth than they realize. Marnie got the particulars on the terrible experience a family had: she discreetly dispatched Confederate healers, including a pair of the White Angels, to take over medical care, at no cost to the family: she asked incisive questions, listened to their account of Michael's performance, and discovered to her relief that they really did not know quite what he'd done with the attacker ... only that the attacker was very dead, his body was disposed of, and good riddance. The Sheriff gave Marnie a speculative look and asked quietly -- so he could accurately complete his report, of course -- just how Michael handled the situation. Marnie tilted her head, smiled pleasantly as she looked at their Sheriff, sitting with a pad open, and pencil poised. Marnie straightened, then she lifted a gloved hand and displayed a six-point star on a black leather badge holder. "I am still a commissioned Sheriff's deputy back home on Earth," she said, "and I am still Sheriff Emeritus on Mars. As such, the Confederacy has recognized my law enforcement authority system-wide, including but by no means limited to powers of weapons, arrest, search and seizure, and use of force, including deadly force." She looked their Sheriff very directly in the eye. No one else moved. No one else spoke. "The Sheriff is the chief law enforcement authority in his county," Marnie said, her words carrying the weight of fact: "as such, the Sheriff is authorized to conduct extraordinary actions as needed. "When Michael" -- she smiled, lowered her hand -- "acted, his badge didn't say SHERIFF." The Sheriff's pencil moved quickly, noting down her words. "Michael acted as any man ought when faced with evil of that degree. "Exactly how, is not important. That evil was vanquished, with prejudice, is all that matters." Marnie picked up her wineglass, sipped delicately: where others partook liberally of her generosity, she'd barely sipped her glass of Uncle Will's Finest. Marnie well knew just how potent this elixr was, how easy it went down, how much of a liquid sledgehammer it was. "But," she added as she replaced her glass on the linen tablecloth, then leaned a little toward the Sheriff, smiled. "Let's just say that a noose of thirteen turns is good for guaranteeing that particular evil does not visit itself upon good folk, ever again!" Michael's more personal gift to the Parson and his wife was a pair of fresh baked peach pies. One, he knew, would be cut, served, shared right away. He'd gotten the second because he knew this particular Parson had a fondness for peach pie. Peaches were out of season, and so this flaky-crusted bounty was a delightful and most unexpected surprise. They sat down together and had fresh peach pie, the other sitting on the counter, discreetly covered with a clean dishtowel. When they were done, well after the freight wagon rumbled off after its deliveries to the Church, Michael shook the Parson's hand, accepted the man's thanks: he lifted Mrs. Parson's knuckles to his lips, kissed hem delicately and said, "Thank you so much for that nice fresh pie. I'll bet you baked it with your own two hands!" -- then he swung a leg over the saddle, Lightning stood, Michael found his stirrups. Cyclone on his left, Thunder on his right, and a tall boy in a black suit lifted his Stetson, laughed, and rode off.

Now there's history I can use! Thank you for that!

PLANTING BY THE SIGNS Sheriff Jacob Keller lifted green leaves and studied them. They soil they grew in was loose, rich, almost black, and smelled like ... well, it smelled like good old fashioned garden dirt. Jacob closed his eyes and smiled, remembering working the dirt in his Mama's table garden, back home, when he was a boy. He took pride in that garden. His Mama didn't think she had time for a garden. Jacob took the time for their garden. The edges of the tilled soil were precise, straight, clean, edged: the rows were laid out with a string, plants grew in neat ranks, precisely spaced: Jacob researched companion planting, he staggered his plantings, and his product appeared on their table with regularity. Now that Jacob was Sheriff on Mars, he still had an affinity for green growing things: he stood beside the raised bed, fingers caressing healthy green plants, eyes closed, smiling just a little s he remembered. Deputy Angela Keller gave her long tall Daddy a knowing look. She was in her deputy's uniform, the caduceus on her collar the only indication that this badge packer was anything but a lawdawg: the uniform was tailored and made of fabric of regulation cut, style, pattern and color, though the material itself was not Earth-standard. The uniform blouse betrayed the blocky outline of the issue body armor, worn under the military-creased blouse, and so the rectangle outlined on her back was not unexpected -- never mind that it showed Confederate shield technology, instead of Earth tech. Angela well knew that body armor did not cover the entire body; her intimate knowledge of human physiology, her experience in treating catastrophic injuries taught her that random violence -- whether assault, whether industrial explosion, building collapse, or the minor river of burning gasoline she casually walked through, one day after getting her first Confederate shield-plate -- could cause lethal injuries that standard, Sheriff's-issue, body armor, would not stop. Angela finished drawing a big mug of coffee. She'd debated which mug to use, and finally settled on the larger of the two -- not because of the motto baked into its glazed ceramic surface, but because it held more, and she knew her Daddy liked his coffee. This mug said, in bold letters, "#1 DAD" -- the other mug, which he used when he was having "One of Those Days" said on one side, "DAMNED IF I DO" and on the other side, "DAMNED IF I DON'T!" I have to get one of those for when I'm working the nursing floor, Angela thought as she looked at the smaller mug: Sharon saw her quiet smile, Angela felt her look, shot her an appreciative glance: Sharon was the wise acre that gave that smaller mug to the Sheriff, and Angela remembered her Daddy's great gusting laughter, his genuine approval, how he'd hugged Sharon and lifted her a little and gave her a little shake -- Angela remembered the rippling pops as the dispatcher's spine surrendered its stress and how she squealed, "Love me or leave me but don't take me halfway, you long tall Trinkvasser!" Angela took a moment to close her eyes and laugh quietly before drizzling milk into her Daddy's coffee: she pinched a small paper sack between two fingers, held sack and big mug left handed, headed for the Sheriff's office door. Michael stood, one arm draped over Thunder's broad, hard-muscled neck. The Fanghorn colt's head was down, blunt nose thrust forward, fangs bared. Michael felt the silent rumble in the broad young chest, like a big powerful Diesel engine snarling its valves deep in that heavy boned rib cage. Michael lowered his head so he was cheek-and-jowl with the fanghorn. Both predators looked straight ahead, at the small rise concealing whatever trouble lay on the other side. "What do you see?" Michael whispered, and he felt Thunder's fine-furred cheek pressed a little more firmly on his -- just a little -- Michael sidestepped, thumbed the hammer back on his rifle, raised it to shoulder. Cyclone glided up on Michael's left, silent -- he never failed to be amazed at how hard a Fanghorn's hooves were, yet how utterly silent they were, when they were on the hunt. Michael suspected a Fanghorn's senses were keener than his own. He was not surprised that Lightning's ears were incredibly sensitive -- the Confederate plates under her saddlebags attenuated gunshots, kept her sensitive ears from damage from concussion -- Michael fitted both Thunder and Cyclone with the same plate-and-saddlebag arrangement, which seemed to please both colts immensely: Angela laughed and clapped her hands like a little girl, bouncing on her toes, giggling as one Fanghorn colt, then the other, absolutely strutted! when Michael invested them with the same arrangement that their towering, hard-muscled mother wore. Michael knew their hearing was superior to his, he knew their vision was at least equal to his and probably better. He never realized their powers of scent were, as well. Lightning followed, casually, unconcerned, drifting along behind hunter and progeny like a four-hooved, blond-furred cloud, unconcerned ... and absolutely ... Silent. Michael was hunting, yes. Michael was hunting a man. Michael was hunting a man who'd hurt a family, Michael was hunting a man who caused harm and spilled blood and brought terror. Michael was hunting a man who'd done things that condemned him in the eyes of a decent society. Thunder came into the house with him, watched as Michael tended wounds, bandaged injuries, splinted bones: he listened as terrified girls, a barely-conscious mother, a father almost unable to talk after having been stomped in the guts several times: he'd tried, he really had, but he was not a fighter, he had no experience with this level of violence, of evil. Michael bent his wrist and called for assistance, and as the Cavalry arrived, Michael departed. He'd noted Thunder's nose, busy, sniffing: he'd thought Thunder's inspection of injured children simply an expression of comfort. He didn't know until Thunder began ground-scenting, then air-scenting, that Thunder was following the attacker. Michael ran beside the Fanghorn, swift, boots silent on the soft, thick grasses. Cyclone joined them, pressed her head curiously against Thunder's, then began scenting as well. Michael wondered if some silent, subtle communication passed between them. He didn't care. He was hunting a monster. Michael did not have law enforcement credentials on this planet. He didn't care. He'd seen what a monster did, and now he was pursuing that monster. Cyclone dropped back, crossed behind Thunder, came up on Michael's left. They stopped. Michael looked right, looked left: the Fanghorn colts swung their broad, blocky heads toward him, each gave a quiet sniff -- almost like a dog will fake-sneeze to get your attention, only quieter -- then they both looked forward. Michael smiled. No, Michael did not smile. Michael was feeling no pleasure. He peeled his lips back like a predator and exposed his fangs, just like two Fanghorn colts were doing. Michael's rifle was to shoulder and he advanced, thrusting quickly over the little rise. Jacob saw the gardener, several rows over, looking his plants over: he lifted a hand, Jacob returned the greeting. They moved toward one another, shook hands: the gardener was a man who spoke little -- he was one of the original colonists, he'd opted to remain one of the Heavies, working and living in Earth-normal gravity -- it only took one kidney stone to convince him that living in the lighter, Mars-normal gravity was a bad idea. Besides, his plants were doing well in Earth gravity, and he liked to stick with what worked. "I've been meaning to ask you," Jacob said thoughtfully. The gardener nodded, once, curious. "Back home Uncle Emmett swore by planting by the signs, and he always had a bumper of a garden." The gardener's nod was slow, thoughtful. "I don't reckon planting by the signs would work here." The gardener smiled a little. "I wondered," he admitted, "but with two moons, and they're moving so fast ... I'd need a stopwatch to plant by the signs here." Jacob's eyes tightened at the corners. "I'd ought to be able to make a smart remark about that," he admitted, "but the mind just went blank!" Two men who knew the smell of fresh turned garden dirt shared a quiet laugh. Michael remembered his Pa talking about something terrible that happened back home. He'd said -- he was presenting before the Ladies' Tea Society, holding an AR carbine muzzle-up, its butt on the table as he spoke -- "Evil strikes any time, any where, and without warning." Michael looked down at something that used to be evil. Thunder raised his head, looked at Michael -- glared might be a more accurate term -- Thunder's tail slashed and Michael heard that deep, rumbling growl again. Michael's bottom jaw slid out. He nodded, once. Two Fanghorn colts snarled, drove fanged muzzles down, bit into hot, bloody flesh. Lightning bellied down beside Michael, chirped contentedly as her young ate the prey they'd pursued, they'd caught. When they came over the rise, they'd come at a full-on gallop. The man they pursued turned, his victim's blood bright and wet on his hands, on his face. He held a weapon: startled, he turned, tried to raise it. He didn't have a chance. Fanghorn jaws closed about his arm, crushed, Thunder's head pulled to the side, the severed arm coming with it. Cyclone's head ducked, closed around the man's knee. She didn't jerk her head to the side. She didn't have to. The monster that murdered, that brutalized, that shattered a family, fell dead, a hole appearing between his eyebrows just above the bridge of his nose. A Fanghorn hoof drove down into his dead belly, a predator's move to guarantee the prey didn't escape. It wasn't really necessary. Michael eased the lever down on his Marlin, plucked the empty from the ejection port, dropped it in a pocket: he finished cycling the action, eased the hammer to half cock, thrust a fresh round into the loading gate, watched as the colts fed. Michael practiced efficiency. It was efficient to put the shining brass bead between the man's eyes. It was efficient to fire one shot. It was efficient to use both eyes when breaking the shot. It let him see the dead man's eyes. It may not have been efficient, but it was satisfying to see the dead man's eyes, the expression, the knowledge that death was upon him. A little boy squealed, laughing, as Thunder trotted happily back to the review stand, carrying the arm-waving, leg-thrashing, red-faced, tousle-haired child back to Michael. Michael fed him a peppermint, rubbed his ears, called him a good boy: Thunder, eyes closed in apparent pleasure, purred loudly, his long, silky tail slashing vigorously. Michael informed the local law enforcement of his part in the event: the chase, the apprehension; he stated the attacker was particularly identified, was apprehended, and in the course of resisting arrest, presented deadly threat that resulted in his demise. There was question as to Michael's method -- curiosity, mostly: there was legend of dogs that tracked, here on this Confederate world where canids never developed, and Michael's description of Thunder ground-scenting and air-scenting, captured the popular imagination. Michael made no mention of allowing the colts to eat their rightful prey. He went so far as to recruit a little boy, telling him to go hide somewhere, and this silky furred colt the boy had been petting would find him. Michael led the colts away as the boy ran and hid. Michael fed the colts a peppermint, led them back to where the boy was delighting in the feel of warm, muscled Fanghorn under silky-fine fur: Michael brought his hand to the ground, patted it. Thunder scented the ground. "Find him," Michael murmured. It was a game they'd played before. Thunder sniffed the ground, blowing dust as he snuffed industriously where little bare feet had stood not long before: he raised his head, tasted the air. Cyclone sniffed the ground as well. Two Fanghorn colts trotted slowly, following the boy, each alternately scenting the ground, scenting the air. They disappeared around a shed. There was a happy squeal and juvenile laughter; men laughed quietly as a little boy, red-faced, waved arms and legs as a blond Fanghorn colt proudly trotted back to Michael, carrying the little boy by his crossed overall straps, Cyclone beside him, strutting like she'd done all the work herself. Lightning rolled over on her back, begging a belly rub and chirping. To the onlookers, to the officials, it looked like Fanghorns were careful, playful, and not a threat. Michael discreetly declined to detail how the dead man's remains were disposed of: he made a casual comment as to their having been properly deposited. Which they were. In two steaming piles. Sheriff Linn Keller looked up at the quick, light rat-tat, tat, on his office door. Angela pushed in, smiling: she set his mug on the desk blotter, tilted her head, looked speculatively at him, her eyes bright, innocent, merry, full of mischief. He'd intended to thank her for her kindness. He opened his mouth to say "Thank you, darlin'." He never got the chance. Before she came through his door, she took out one of the half-dozen, chocolate chip cookies, and the moment his teeth parted, she thrust it neatly between his pearly whites -- she set the sack beside the coffee, she giggled, spun, slipped out the door and pulled it shut, her laugh lingering in the quiet air.

YOU WANTED TO SEE ME? I considered for some long time before finally dipping pen in ink. I pride myself on being an honest man. I have to be honest here, even if my ears feel like they're smoldering. I closed my eyes and bowed my head ... do I bow my head in shame? -- I tell myself it's to collect my thoughts, but no ... No, there is no one harder on me than the man in the mirror. Sheriff Linn Keller raised his head, leaned back, ordered his thoughts, arranged them in chronological order, marshaling them like troops -- rows, ranks, dress front, dress right. He lowered the steel nib into good India ink, wiped it once on the mouth of the glass inkwell, and committed his thoughts to good rag paper. The Sheriff had an eye for the ladies. He was a man who appreciated the finer things in life, though he made no show of excess: his sole jewelry was a square ruby stickpin in his necktie, his carriage was well cared for, he'd paid a man with a steady hand to pin stripe it -- tasteful, understated, enough to look good, but nowhere near enough to be gaudy. He'd leave gaudy to Daciana, that Gypsy trick rider with a silver mounted, canary yellow saddle that was fit to make a man's eyes bleed. He wore his usual black suit and his black Stetson was tilted back on his head, he raised his beer, took a slow taste. He was a man who appreciated the finer things in life, and he'd learned that few things are quite so fine as a cool beer when you're thirsty, or food when you're hungry, or clean blankets to cover up with at night. He'd been in That Damned War, and he took little for granted as a result. The piano player's fanfare announced the little stage there in the Silver Jewel was about to be populated. The Sheriff drifted casually away from the bar, moving to where he could better view what was reported to be a pretty good performance. Three dancers, three scanty-clad ladies, all stockings and smiles and green glitter masks, all scandalous outfits and carmine lips, struck a pose as the curtains flowed apart: the piano player was new, or maybe he came with the ladies: he played with his head tilted a little, turned a little, watching the dancers and adjusting his tempo to accommodate. Those who watched the ladies, appreciated the sight of long, shaped, stockinged legs high-kicking and strutting, the sight of teasing femininity, enough revealed to stir a man's baser instincts, but not enough to scandalize: their moves were smooth, graceful, coordinated, utterly feminine, flowing bonelessly as they danced, as they turned, paraded, disported themselves in a manner that was utterly shameless, and at the same time, demurely enticing. The Sheriff's eyes narrowed. The dancers wore ornate, feathered, green, glitter masks. His bottom jaw slid out as he considered, as he frowned a little. He'd known decent women, he'd known girls just coming into womanhood, who would mask their identity and perform thusly -- there was money in it, he knew, though a certain young lady of his (ahem!) acquaintance (ahem!) was known to costume herself for various purposes, and was rumored to have performed in this selfsame manner. His frown drew his brows together a little: it was rare that he allowed his expression to be see in public -- he was a man who practiced the Poker Face -- but when one of his own placed herself in the public eye as something as utterly, as scandalously immodest, as a dancer! -- He tilted his mug up, drained the beer. Tom Landers watched him, concerned. Landers had been the first Sheriff of Firelands County. When the current Sheriff rode into town, decked the town's lawyer and accepted a deputy's position, Landers saw his replacement, and glad he was for it: the two formed an immediate friendship, and Landers found himself offered the job at the Silver Jewel -- watch for card sharpers, take care of trouble makers, and Landers did just that ... discreetly when possible, authoritatively, when not. Landers was concerned when Linn threw back his beer, moved with sudden purpose for the bar: he placed the empty, heavy glass mug on the end of the bar, moved unimpeded down the hallway. Landers lifted his chin; Linn stopped. Two lawmen can communicate without words, or with a minimum of words: Landers didn't have to ask what was in the wind, one eyebrow quirked up made the inquiry quite effectively. Linn's jaw thrust out again and he frowned, clearly troubled, which told Landers this was a serious matter. "Tell me what you need," he said quietly. Linn's eyes went to the nearby stage door. He swallowed, looked back at Landers. "Sarah is dancing," he said. He saw Landers' chin lift, slowly, then lower, a nod of fatherly understanding. Both men had a deep and abiding affection for Sarah: both saw her grow up, both had known her since she was an underfed, hollow eyed waif, both saw her bloom, watched her grow, both knew of her exploits when the Judge recruited her at thirteen years of age as a set of ears, not realizing her wounded soul was scarred and significantly older than her youthful appearance: Sarah was master of the Quick Change, of disguise, and used subterfuge, incredibly skilled acting talents, costume and face paint to become someone else, rapidly and with ease. Both men knew she'd disguised herself as a dancing-girl in the past, but never here. "I would speak with her," Linn said. "I'll arrange it," Landers replied. "Give me a few minutes." The Sheriff nodded, once. The Silver Jewel was Landers' kingdom: although as Sheriff, he could pull rank at any time, he found it more productive to let Landers handle such arrangements. Usually. The Sheriff was a man of patience. Usually. He frowned, looked down the hallway toward Daisy's kitchen, looked at the back door. He turned, looked up the hall, at the polished mahogany bar, at men talking, laughing, cheerfully handing each other utterly, absurdly, outrageous lies, and laughing together when they did. The stage door opened and a dancer stepped out, looked at him, tilted her head, the plumed feathers sprouting from the top of her mask swinging as she did. She was young and lovely and smiling, I wrote, and I remembered how modest Sarah looked in a proper McKenna gown, and how modest this ... dancer ... wasn't. I spoke as a father might. My voice was quiet, deep, my words were plain, and to the point. "My dear," the Sheriff said sternly, "I do not wish to see you on stage again." She laughed -- quietly, the way a woman will when she knows a man is so far out of line as to be well beyond absurd. "Is that a proposal?" she smiled, and her voice wasn't Sarah's. A hand laid over the Sheriff's shoulder. A woman's gloved hand. Sarah's voice, but ... from behind him. I turned and took a step back so I could see both the new arrival, and the dancer. Sarah Lynne McKenna smiled at me, modest and demure in a proper McKenna gown, her head tilted a little. "Mr. Landers said you wanted to see me," she said. I looked back at the dancer, who was -- in spite of the mask -- looking definitely amused. I removed my Stetson and I felt the color rise in my face. "I," I admitted, "have made a terrible mistake." I took a long breath. "Young lady, I do beg your pardon. I mistook you for" -- I looked at Sarah, looked back -- "as a matter of fact, I owe you both a most ... profound ... apology." The dancer pouted, struck a leggy pose, one arm behind her head, the other on her hip: "Oh, poo," she said in mock disappointment, "I thought that was a marriage proposal!" -- she straightened, giggled, skipped over to me and kissed the Sheriff on the cheek -- she spun, all feathers and frills and long stockinged legs, and disappeared inside the stage door, closing it behind her. Sarah stood and looked at the Sheriff with those big, gentle, innocent eyes of hers. "You thought I was dancing?" she asked, in almost a little-girl voice. The Sheriff nodded. "You were going to tell me you didn't want me displaying myself." The Sheriff nodded, again, slowly. Sarah glided up to him, came up on tiptoes, kissed his other cheek and looked at him with an adoring expression. "I think that is the sweetest thing anyone ever said to me," she squeaked. The Sheriff pulled the kerchief from his sleeve: the way her voice squeaked, the way her face reddened, he thought she was about to cry, the way women will in such moments. She didn't cry. She laughed. She patted my hand and said, "When I'm dancing, I wear a purple glitter mask!" -- then she turned and skipped down the hall, laughing, out the back door and into the sunshine, and gone.

MEANWHILE, ONE FRIDAY NIGHT Marnie was -- as she usually was -- well dressed. It was evening, it was Friday night: she and her brother Jacob were not yet graduated early, but their school week was over: they were old enough to be left home alone, young enough to know that their parents had some magical way of knowing if they were up to any deviltry. Jacob came downstairs. His jeans were pressed, as was his shirt; he was freshly showered, his hair combed, he looked as if he could jump in his half ton Dodge and head for town, or for a party, or for a girl's house. He looked over at Marnie and considered that -- as she was in a blouse and skirt, a ribbon in her hair, she could be waiting for a beau to pick her up, or perhaps delaying her own leave-time in order to arrive fashionably late. She sat at her Daddy's desk, which she often did when reading, and raised her eyes, smiling a little. "I love it when I answer my own questions," she said quietly. Jacob came over, pulled up a chair, sat. "How's that, little sis?" Marnie raised an eyebrow, lowered her head: "Watch yourself, little brother," she muttered, raising a fist and waving it threateningly -- then they both said, in flawless chorus, "Wednesday or Thursday?" -- and they both laughed. "Y'know," Jacob chuckled, rubbing his palms together between his knees -- a habit he shared with his pale eyed Pa -- "if you ever threaten to knock me into the middle of next week, neither of us will be able to keep a straight face!" "I know," Marnie sighed, planting an elbow on the desk and leaning her cheek bone into her knuckles: "you're just too good natured for your own good!" "I could say the same about you," he replied, his voice quiet. "Don't tell that to the Chappalear twins," she said, an edge to her voice. "They grabbed yourrr ..." Jacob leaned over, as if to examine his sister's backside. "They grabbed you, didn't they?" Marnie closed her eyes, nodded. "And you educated them as to the error of their ways." She nodded again. "I'd say they deserved it." "They know if I'd gone to you or to Daddy, they'd be worse off!" "The only reason I didn't go after 'em was because you told me you'd taken care of it and to let it go." "You haven't told Daddy?" Jacob shook his head. "Good." Jacob nodded to the open Journal on the desk. He and Marnie had read every last one of them, enough times they near to had them memorized. "What stirred your thoughts?" Marnie smiled with half her mouth. "I wanted to ... I had a memory fragment of something, and ..." Her voice trailed off. "Old Pale Eyes paid the dowry for every one of their maids they married off." It was Jacob's turn to raise an eyebrow. Marnie frowned. "Jacob, when I get married, I don't want Daddy to ... I'd like a dowry, sure, but ..." "Sis," Jacob said quietly, "he can afford it." "I know," she groaned, "but I don't want ..." She let the sentence trail off; Jacob did not pursue: instead, he shifted, frowned, considered his sister with a serious expression. "Now there's a question in your eyes," Marnie said quietly. "Sis, you are the very definition of a neat freak. Your bedroom is never, ever out of order. I've never seen your bed when it wasn't made. I think you sleep on the floor." Marnie leaned back, folded her arms, assumed a haughty air: "I will neither confirm nor deny that I find the braided rug adequate for sleeping!" Jacob laughed, shook his head, sighed, then frowned again. "Sis," he said, "you've never ... Mama hasn't had to get on you to sweep or mop or do dishes or help fix a meal or anything." Marnie blinked innocently. "And ...?" "Sis, most girls your age will make excuses and do anything to get out of housework!" Jacob turned his head a little, frowning as he saw something trouble his sister's eyes -- a memory, most likely, something that made her uncomfortable. "Jacob," Marnie finally said, "I know what it is to live in filth and in chaos, and I don't ever want to live like that again." Jacob nodded, slowly: he remembered hearing about Marnie's early life, back in New York, when she hid in a hot air duct to keep from being found and killed, he remembered hearing that a dealer hung her out a window and threatened to drop her if he didn't get something from her Mama, drugs or money he was never sure what the tweaker wanted, only that he remembered thinking that would be nothing short of terrifying to a four year old child, which of course led to dark thoughts of his father's voice when he spoke of his older sister -- Marnie's mama -- he'd been with his father when the man spoke harsh words to his older sister's tomb stone, said things no brother should ever say to a sister. I know what it is to live in filth and in chaos. He looked up, met his sister's troubled eyes, reached out his hand. She gripped his hand, leaned forward. "I'm glad you don't live like that now." Marnie nodded bleakly. "Got anything planned for tonight?" Marnie shook her head. "Me neither. Like to go get something?" Marnie shook her head, frowning. "Me neither." Jacob looked past his sister, out the window that opened toward their driveway: Marnie saw his face widen in a grin. "Daddy?" she asked. Jacob nodded. "Things must've been busy, for him to be this late." "It is Friday," Marnie pointed out, then rose. "I'll get the dishes set out. It won't take but a minute to heat up supper." The door opened and a stacked pair of pizza boxes came in, dutifully towing the Sheriff in with them. Brother and sister rose, their expressions as innocent as their father's. "Haven't had pizza in a while," Linn said quietly. "Two deluxe and I had them add extra chocolate chips and floor sweepin's." "Myyyyy favorite," Jacob and Marnie chorused, rolling their eyes as they drawled out the words (another one of those inside jokes every family accumulates); a father and his young sat down with paper plates and laughter, and supper was happily consumed, one triangle at a time. Jacob and Marnie were both pleased to note a profound lack of either chocolate chips, or floor sweepin's, on their slices. Partway through their third slice apiece, the Sheriff casually asked, "You two have any plans for tonight?" Brother and sister exchanged a glance, as if wondering if this was prelude to being assigned some odious task: they looked at their father, swallowed. "Nothing," Marnie said, and "Not a single solitary," Jacob contributed. "Good," Linn said quietly, then he extended a finger, thrust at one, then the other. "You two I trust," he said quietly, and something in his voice told his young that he was serious: "you I trust, but there are idiots, lunaticks and damned drunks on the road tonight." "Something happened, sir?" The Sheriff nodded, troubled. "Someone went all road rage on the Chappalear boys. We caught the guy. Seems they were ... improper ... with the wrong girlfriend, and her boyfriend run 'em into a rock face." "Hurt 'em?" Jacob asked quietly. "Killed 'em both. That's what took me so long." "I heard they got beat up for grabbin' some guy's girl last week. I know they looked a fright. Someone gave 'em black eyes and bruised ribs." He took a long look at Jacob's knuckles, then turned and caught a guilty look from his daughter. "Marnie, you okay?" he asked carefully. Marnie's lips thinned. "They got beat by someone's boyfriend once already, and they did it again?" She shook her head. "Why can't people learn the first time?"

WE'LL MAKE DO The Sheriff's hands drove out, slicing in between ribs and arms and hoisting the startled young woman off his feet. The earth dropped out from under her and she dizzied momentarily as the man spun her around, laughing with genuine delight. Esther smiled quietly, looked at a nervous young man in his best suit and an uncertain expression: she nodded, once, then glided across the parlor and laid claim to his arm. He allowed her to steer him toward the window: he swallowed nervously -- it had taken quite a bit to approach this pale eyed old lawman and ask for Mary's hand in marriage. He knew her name wasn't actually Mary, but for whatever reason, that's what she'd been called: she was the Girl, she was Esther's maid, her cook, her domestic servant -- which meant, in this household, she was part of the family, she was never bullyragged, overworked, scolded, nor talked down to: the Girl had no family, this side of the Old Sod, and so this young man thought it proper to approach the only man he figured would be the right one to ask. Old Pale Eyes listened, silent, expressionless, as the young man laid out his case. The Sheriff nodded, excused himself, went to the parlor door and called gently, "Mary, may I speak with you?" Esther knew what was going on -- the wife always knows! -- she glided in behind the maid, slipped to the other side of the room, silent, watching, almost smiling, the way a woman will when she knows something is in the wind. The young man did not hear the quiet-voiced conversation between his intended, and her employer: he blinked, startled, as the Girl gave a startled squeak, as she was hoist up at arm's length and whirled about, as a man with pale eyes and an iron grey mustache laughed with genuine delight. The young man barely remembered Esther's quiet-voiced questions; he only vaguely remembered her asking him whether he had a house and property, whether he had the finances to support a family, whether his own family would accept this young woman as one of their own: he was too busy watching his intended's face, beautiful, the color rising in her cheeks, her eyes shining. He held two pictures in his heart for all their married life. One was his wife, on the day of their marriage, at the moment he lifted her veil and swallowed hard, just before he kissed his bride. The other was this moment, when she looked at him, eyes shining and cheeks flushed, and he knew the answer to his question. The Sheriff hung his Stetson on its peg, turned, took his wife around her waist with strong, gentle hands. Esther laid her hands over his shoulders and smiled up at him. "Mrs. Keller," the Sheriff said, "I do love a good wedding!" "Mr. Keller," Esther said, "I do too!" The Sheriff hugged his wife to him, holding her for several long moments, eyes closed, savoring this silent, private moment. He laid his cheek over atop his wife's ornate hair, careful not to disturb it -- she'd taken pains to look really good, not for the occasion, he knew, but for him -- he murmured, "Darlin', I'm sorry I've made work for you by givin' Mary away." He drew back, looked down at his wife, pale eyes a light blue now, gentle and quiet: "I reckon I can help some." She patted him on the shirt front and murmured, "We'll make do, my dear," and then looked up with something like mischief in her eyes. A young woman in a proper uniform dress and a starched apron and cap turned, stopped in the doorway: "I'll have dinner ready in an hour," she called, and the Sheriff laughed quietly, looked down at his amused bride. "Bless you, darlin'," he murmured, marveling yet again on his wife's unfailing efficiency.

I was standing beside a sergeant when a general officer walked up and saluted him. They were old friends, the SGT was not wearing the MOH, the General knew him personally so he knew he was CMH. Me, I'm standing there trying hard to turn invisible, I felt kind of like a nuclear pile just walked up and said howdy. And yes I heel locked and saluted when attair General walked up and thank God he acted like I was not even there! (Back when I was young and skinny ... back when dirt was young and so was I ... Noah and I used to go fishing together ...)

I find good, sound and compelling reasoning in all the above! (heh, heh, heh ...)

I'm satisfied I posted this one before. When I wrote of Victoria dancing Irish hardshoe to this particular tune, I had to hear it again. Forgive me. I'm a sentimental old softy!