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Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

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Everything posted by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

  1. IMPATIENCE A pale eyed stripling settled his black Stetson on his head, looked at his pale eyed big sister. "I don't have time to wait," he said bluntly. Marnie gave him a single nod, turned back to the negotiating committee. Michael strode over to his drowsing Fanghorn. At his approach, Lightning chirped, lifted her head, ears perking: Michael threw a leg over the saddle, patted her neck: "Up." "You there!" a voice challenged. "What do you think you're doing!" "I'm causin' a war!" Michael snapped. "That's why we're here, and I'm tired of waitin'!" Lightning came easily to her full height. Michael reached down, gripped the wrist of his Marlin rifle, drew it free, leaned forward a little. "YAAA!" he yelled, and a blond-furred Fanghorn with lightning blaze patterned into her pelt, stepped out lively, then seemed to lean forward, to lengthen and stretch and charge the rise, the crest, that separated mounted cavalry from the challenging enemy on the other side. Michael stood in the stirrups, leaned forward, his rifle's blued-steel barrel laid vertical against his shoulder, his off hand laid over the Fanghorn's black mane: alone, he charged, straight for the center of the enemy's lines. Sentries whistled, signaled; pennants raised, lowered, raised again, bugles blared alarm. Lightning made no attempt at jumping the defensive breastwork. She lowered her head and Michael felt her muscles bunch harder and faster and he laid down over her neck and gripped her huge barrel as best he could before she hit, before sandbags blasted apart and fell over and Michael nearly went over her head. He managed to recover, and so did she, and he brought her around and headed for what he figured to be the command tent. One rider, alone, was obviously not a threat -- it was God's grace alone that no one opened fire, never mind the defenders' weaponry would pose no threat to Confederate shielding -- Michael brought Lightning around in a tight orbit of the command tent, drew her up, stomping and grunting and ready for a fight. A dignified older man with braid on his shoulders and authority laid over his shoulders like a cloak settled a uniform cap on his head and frowned his way toward Michael. "Do you attack us, sir?" he challenged. Michael liked the man right away. Michael sat his huge mount as if born in the saddle. "Sir, my Mama worked hard to beat some manners into me," Michael began, then corrected with a harrumph, "I mean she worked hard to teach me good manners!" Michael learned from his Pa how to read men, and he read a flicker of amusement in this man's eyes, and he knew he'd just lowered hostilities by a few notches. "Sir, I would know by what rank or title you should be addressed." An adjutant blustered his way forward: "This is High Colonel Hutchins!" he shouted, "and you will address him with respect!" "Mister, I don't tolerate interference. Back up and shut up or I'll put a hole through your wish bone you could throw a cat!" Michael's thumb on the Marlin's hammer left little doubt he meant what he said, for all that the muzzle remained skyward. "High Colonel," Michael said, "you see how easily one mount" -- Michael caressed Lightning's neck -- "came through your wall yonder." "Is that what happened?" the Colonel asked. He's testing me, Michael thought. He wants to see if someone young as me will take his bait and get mad! "Colonel, the men you sent to negotiate aren't doing a very good job," Michael said. "Matter of fact you need to replace them with men who know how to listen for a change." "You will NOT tell the COLONEL how to --" Michael extended his left hand -- there was something blunt and blocky in it -- the adjutant was thrown backwards as if punched by a giant. Michael brought his hand back in as the adjutant rolled over, gagging the way a man will when he's just been gut punched, hard, replaced the force-gun in its saddle holster. He turned back to the silent, watchful older man. "Colonel, there are just shy of half a thousand mounted men on the other side of that ridge line. They're well mounted, they're well trained, they're ready to go to war, and if that happens, good men will die for really stupid reasons." The Colonel raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" "Colonel, old men send young men off to die for reasons that don't justify blood. It's stupid and it's the way wars have always been. If the King wants a war fought, let the King step up to the other King and the two of 'em settle it between the two of 'em. No reason these young men here should die. I'd rather see 'em go home and sire fine tall sons and beautiful daughters." The Colonel looked less amused than he did thoughtful. "What do you suggest?" "Send better negotiators, sir," Michael replied frankly. "If they can't come to an accord, you've lost nothing. If the war starts today, if it starts a week from today, you've lost nothing but a week's time." "Why are you telling me this?" Michael took a long breath. "Colonel, I know what it is to bury family. I know what it is to bury someone I ... cared for, very much." His fingers grazed the crystal watch-fob, then lowered to his saddle horn. "I'd just as soon we kept these fine young men of yours, alive, so their families don't have to know what I've known." Michael reached up, touched his hat-brim: "Colonel." Lightning whistled, spun: she launched, almost clumsily for the first two strides, then she shot like an elephantine freight locomotive through the hole she'd made in the sandbag wall. Lightning crested the rise at a gallop, slowed, cantered up to where his mounted sister waited: as Lightning folded her legs and settled to the earth, Michael swung his leg over the cantle, turned, waited until Marnie dismounted from Peppermint. "Well?" Marnie asked, as she gave her younger brother a mischievous look. "I don't reckon they're going to attack just yet," Michael said, looking around: "they're laagered in to receive an attack. They're behind a sandbag wall." "We saw you go through it." Michael grimaced, remembering how closely he'd come to going a header over Lightning's forehead boss. "What did you tell them?" Uniformed men watched, listened closely as Michael looked at each one, then at his sister. "I told them to get better negotiators." Lean young men in grey uniforms and kepis stood guard around the Ambassadorial shuttle. Lightning, freed of her saddle and responsibilities, rolled like a happy kitten, grunting and snorting her pleasure as she ground her back into the rocky ground. Inside the shuttle, Michael sat beside Marnie, in the company of a half dozen uniformed men: they ate an excellent meal, drank sparingly of an excellent vintage, all but Michael and Marnie, who sipped chilled, mint-sweetened tea. One of the officers looked at Michael and asked bluntly, "Whatever possessed you to ride into the enemy camp like that?" Michael grinned, considered, looked at the man and replied, "Impatience." "Impatience?" Michael shrugged. "I got tired of waiting and I figured everyone else was tired of it too, so I figured I'd either start it or stop it. I was really hoping to stop it." "From this evening's negotiations, you may have done exactly that." "I hope so," Michael said bleakly. The men in uniform were all veterans; each knew what it was to go to war, and to come out the other side, and not a one of them missed the look in Michael's young eyes. They recognized the look of someone who'd seen too much, too young, and never wanted to see it again. A glass was raised: "Then here's to impatience!" Every glass was hoist. "Impatience!" They drank.
  2. SOGGY BREAD Two Stetsons crested the rise, coming up Cemetery Drive. One was pink, with a turquoise-and-silver hatband. The other was black, with a black bootlace hatband that doubled low around the crown, went through grommets above the wearer's ears, and connected with a square knot below the back of his head. Two riders drew up, dismounted, went to a particular grave. Sheriff Linn Keller took off his Stetson, as he always did when addressing his Mama's tombstone: he had kind of a lopsided grin on his face, and he ran his arm gently around Victoria's shoulders as she leaned into him, content to be home, content to be Daddy's Little Girl again. "Mama," Linn said softly, "there was a shadow in the doorway today." It was the Sheriff's day off. His daughters were laughing and chattering and soaking up heat from the propane heater: he'd hung tarps around and overhead to trap the warmth, at least a little, for it was still right chilly outside and in the unheated barn. He'd checked the insulated cabinet and the heater bar inside to make sure the water line and water hose were nowhere near freezing (one of these days I've got to install a remote read thermometer!), he'd ridden down to the stream and made sure the horses could water (didn't have to bust ice today), he'd petted and fooled with almost every horse in his gregarious herd, and the Paso mare that had been big and pregnant wasn't, and he found the shivering colt and carried it back to the barn, the worried and shoulder-nudging mare interfering almost every step of the way: the girls saw him coming and had straw laid down, thick and insulating and cushioning, they'd clustered around the mare and the new foal and they'd made sure the mare was going to associate their close presence with her get, with safety and attention and swirly peppermints. Now the girls were concentrating on the work at hand. Each of the girls was an artist in her own right: Dana was the departmental sketch artist, though Marnie and Angela had served effectively in that capacity in the past: Dana's most recent work was a gift from a little girl to her Daddy, and when the Daddy unwrapped the framed work, he laughed and hung it up in the living room: an eight year old child's description of what her Daddy looked like, ended up as a knight in shining armor, astride a fine and spirited, armored war-horse, and none who saw it, doubted one little bit that this is how an eight year old girl-child saw her big strong Daddy. Today, though, circumscribed by tarps and warmed by a glowing-red heater, the girls were working on the passenger door of their Daddy's six-by. It was surplus military, it was in remarkably excellent shape, it had proven its usefulness many times over, and instead of a serial number stenciled alongside the hood, it said WILLAMINA. Four pale-eyed Keller ladies sketched, drew, measured, frowned, pointed, discussed: one design, another, exclamations of delight at one idea, a groan as an artist realized that just wouldn't do. Linn unfolded the legs from under a table; willing hands helped envelope this addition to their heated workspace, approving eyes watched as he set a microwave, then returned with mugs, a wicker basket of instant cocoa and a jar of instant chocolate: Angela sorted through the basket, drew in a quick, delighted breath, held up packages of microwave popcorn, to the general approval of the artistic gathering. Linn smiled a little, slipped out of the enclosure's welcome bubble of warmth: he turned, froze. A shadow stood in the open sliding door. Female, non-threatening, alone, he thought, saw an unfamiliar two-door compact parked behind her. "Sheriff?" a woman's voice asked. Sheriff Linn Keller removed his Stetson, tucked it correctly under his off arm, circled a little to the side to diminish the glare that washed out her facial features: "How can I help you, ma'am?" he asked in a gentle voice. She advanced into the shadowed interior and Linn's face broadened into a grin: he clapped his Stetson back on his head, stepped into her advance, grabbed her in a heartfelt but careful hug: "Dear Lord and Saint Peter, how in the world have you been?" -- which translated to "I can't remember your name but I know where I've seen you!" She hugged him back and laughed, gripped his upper arms, looked at him almost the way a schoolteacher will when seeing a favorite student, all grown up now. "Your son," Linn said softly. "He is well?" "He is," she smiled, and that's why I'm here." A pair of curious pale eyes peeked out of the heated artists' enclosure, then a pair of pink cowboy boots and a pink Stetson, with a happy pale eyed girl sandwiched between them, came scampering noisily across the smooth, clean-swept floor, hugged the newcomer with all the spontaneous and genuine delight of the young. "My youngest daughter, Victoria," Linn murmured. "Sheriff, I ... I came to say thank you." "You're welcome, I'm sure, but what did I do to get in trouble this time?" Linn asked gently, and she laughed a little, looked down at Victoria, looked at the Sheriff. "Years ago," she said, and swallowed. Linn touched fingertips to her upper arm -- "Come over here where it's warm," he said, and Angela led the way back to the heated section: she gripped the light wood frame, drew it aside, slid it shut once they were within. "Oh," their visitor breathed, "that's gorgeous!" She was staring at a drawing on the table -- actually at several -- all had a circle, the size of the center of the white star, originally stenciled on the doors -- multiple pages, multiple images. Most were pushed back, as if considered and rejected; one was placed carefully, as if studied, and then set aside so the artists could concentrate on creating what they'd sketched. What she was looking at, and what the girls were carefully oil painting inside the star on the truck's passenger door, was the image of a rearing red mare and a woman astride -- a woman with a black Stetson worn on the back of her head, a woman in a riding-skirt and knee-high, flat-heel Cavalry boots -- a woman with a Winchester rifle held triumphantly overhead. The visitor's breath sighed out as she recognized the woman on the horse. "She's why I came," she breathed, then turned to the Sheriff and swallowed. "Your mother ... there was a parade in town and she was ... she was in her Marine uniform with the VFW color guard. My son ... we'd just buried his father." "I remember," Linn said softly. "My son wanted so badly to represent his father. I ended up making his uniform." "As I recall," Linn said gently, "you did a fine job of it!" She nodded, an old grief filling her eyes. "Your ... mother ... called a halt ... she had the honor guard turn to face my son and she inspected him ... she called them to attention and she saluted him and then she gave him the sunglasses from her own face and told him he presented a proper uniform appearance, and carry on ..." She stopped and swallowed and wiped at her eyes with a crumpled kerchief. "He followed his father into the military. He's with Signals now and he can't tell me what he does." She looked at the six-by, smiled a little as she saw the curve of the antenna, bent over and tied off to the front bumper with a length of olive-drab nylon string. "He sent me a picture, and that" -- she pointed to the tied-down antenna -- "is how he ... when he was home on leave, he said that's better in the mountains than with the antenna straight up in the air!" Linn nodded, smiled a little: his Mama had told him the same thing, his son Jacob was a ham radio operator and explained the particulars, but all Linn really cared about was that it worked. "I came to say thank you. Your mother's kindness meant so very much to us." Linn nodded, remembered how his Mama put them up in the Silver Jewel for just shy of a week. His Mama knew what it was to be a widow, and she knew they needed somewhere safe for a few days. "Daddy?" Angela asked. "Come look at this." Linn said "Excuse me," slipped around the table, went down on one knee and studied the image, gleaming-wet in the center of the white five point star. "Dear Lord," he breathed, "that looks just like her!" A father and a daughter looked at a laser engraved quartz tombstone in a wintry-cold cemetery. "Mama," Linn said softly, "cast your bread upon the waters and it'll come floatin' back to you. "A woman came to thank us for your kindness with her little boy." Angela hugged her Daddy and he laid his arm over her, held her close. "I don't reckon that floatin' bread was soggy a'tall."
  3. I HEARD A SMALL VOICE A cowboy hat came over the crest of Cemetery Drive. A pink cowboy hat, with a silver-and-turquoise hatband and a back strap. It was attached to a pretty lass, bigger than a child but not yet a woman, an equestrienne between the ages of thirteen: intelligent enough to have been graduated shockingly early, with enough drive and savvy to establish multiple business ventures, but vulnerable enough to realize that sometimes a girl just wants to come home. She drew her mare to a halt, swung down: though the mare was knee-trained and bitless, she was reined, and Victoria dropped the reins and caressed the warm-furred, spotty Appaloosa neck and whispered, "Stay," and the mare started snuffing the winter-dry grass sticking up through the snow. Victoria walked over to a grave, stared at the tombstone, at the image of the woman she barely remembered. "Gammaw," she said, her voice small and thin in the winter wind, "you came home to here when you were young." She swallowed, bit her bottom lip, looked out over the graveyard, looked across the great distance to the town below: she closed her eyes, took a long breath. "Gammaw, I need to come home and ..." Victoria blinked, her eyes stinging, her voice tightening to a squeak: "I miss my Daddy!" Sheriff Linn Keller stood behind the podium, stepped out from behind it. "You don't need a lecture," he said, "so here's what's on my mind." He reached for a box on a low table beside the podium, pushed a toggle switch: there was a sharp *click* -- a cylinder of light seared into life beside him, then within the cylinder, an attractive young woman: she stood, hands clasped in front of her, head tilted a little, apparently looking at the audience. "This is a hologram," the Sheriff said. "That's my daughter Victoria. "I told her what I'm going to tell you right now. "Victoria was graduated far earlier than usual. There was resistance from the school board, that resistance was overcome, and since then, Victoria has been broadening her education in ways I could never have dreamed of. She is established in business, she has a market base that puts to absolute shame anything I ever tried, she is a success and a marvel and she is a gifted performer on top of that. "I told her what I'm telling you now. "If things get uncomfortable, come home. "If things get too rough, come home. "If you find someone you think will be the perfect mate for life and they hit you -- even once -- come home. I have forty acres, a shotgun and a backhoe." The Firelands High School student body laughed quietly at that one, then applauded: the Sheriff grinned -- that quick, contagious, boyish grin of his -- "Well, maybe not that last part, but come home, and I told my sons that same thing. "If you can't handle credit cards and you bankrupt and get evicted from your apartment, come home." He looked at the hologram, looked back at the student body. "That goes for you guys as well. Don't ever be ashamed to come back home where you're safe." The light-cylinder beside him flickered, steadied: he reached for the box on the table, pressed his thumb against the chrome toggle switch, pushed. There was the usual sharp *click!* and the light-cylinder disappeared. Victoria did not. She looked out over the student body, blinked, then she turned to the Sheriff and said in a small voice, "Daddy, can I come home?" The student body came to its feet, roaring approval, pounding their palms together and whistling, yelling encouragement as a long tall Sheriff stooped and seized his little girl, hugged her into him, stood, bringing her feet well off the floor. Had he said anything in reply, the applause, the whistles, the yells of approval would have drowned out the sound of the small voice he'd heard.
  4. GAMP-PAW, CAN I STAY HERE WITH YOU? Littlejohn watched his Uncle Jacob with a fascinated attention. Uncle Jacob was talking to someone. Littlejohn's eyes were wide and unblinking as Uncle Jacob showed his nephew a picture of the globe, with colored rings around it, representing layers of the atmosphere: another picture, with a cartoon Sun and wobbly lines to indicate sunlight, then a third, showing a pointy thing (Littlejohn had never seen a radio mast) and zigzag blue lines to show radiation from the antenna and how it reflected off ionized layers of the atmosphere. Littlejohn watched and listened as Uncle Jacob made several ham radio contacts, then he watched, puzzled, as Uncle Jacob used what he called a "paddle" -- Littlejohn wasn't sure just what his Uncle was doing, but the radio made funny beepy noises as he did. Littlejohn clumped along, dutifully following his Gamp-paw as the older man forked out stalls -- Littlejohn wore a pair of Angela's outgrown muck boots, fortunately in kind of a greenish-brown instead of a girly-pink pair he saw hanging from the rack -- Linn put a little cargo in the wheelbarrow and had Littlejohn wheel the Irish Buggy out to the manure pile. Littlejohn bent and frowned seriously as Linn lifted the hoof on one of the white fire mares, as he scraped and tapped and inspected and pronounced that hoof good; Littlejohn laughed as his long tall Gamp-paw snatched him up, swung him way up on a mare's back: they walked the fence, grandfather and grandson and a cluster of mares. Linn had Littlejohn pull on a pair of work gloves and help him hitch a two wheel trailer on the Farmall Cub that usually lived with a mower on its three-point hitch. Linn showed Littlejohn how to pull the safety pins and he gave his grinning grandboy a rubber mallet and had him knock the pins out to drop the mower, there in the barn, and Littlejohn rode his Gamp-paw's thigh as Linn swung the Cub around and backed it up to the trailer. Four hands gripped the thickwall pipe trailer tongue and set it on the ball hitch. Linn had Littlejohn flip down the latch, then Linn looked very seriously at his grandson and said, "Littlejohn, you drivin' yet?" and Littlejohn blinked, surprised, then looked kind of bashful and mumbled something about just bein' a little kid. "Horse feathers," Linn grinned. "Climb up in that seat, it's time you l'arned how to run a tractor!" What followed was less a collaborative effort and more ... well, young hands on the wheel did all right, but young legs were too short to run the clutch, and the gearbox was out of reach without leaning over to a significant degree, but on level ground, Linn leaned back and told Littlejohn, "She's all yours now," and bumped the throttle open a little more, and it would be hard to tell which of the two was grinning the more broadly as the little red Farmall cackled happily across the pasture. Angela told a colleague, some years before, that her Daddy operated by the medical school principle of "Learn it, do it, teach it," and in another classroom example she quoted him -- "Show men and I'll forget it, tell me and I won't remember it, but involve me, and I've got it forever!" Littlejohn learned about hosing muck off his boots before he took them off and hung them up, he learned how to hitch on a trailer and how to pull the safety pin and then knock out the heavy pins to drop a mower from the three point hitch. Littlejohn learned what a level was, and how to use a level, Littlejohn strutted back to the trailer and brought Gamp-paw the tamper (it was the only long thing in there) and he learned how to tamp in a fence post, and how to use the long aluminum level to determine plumb. He wasn't sure quite why a fence post had to be plumb, but his Gamp-paw seemed to think it was important enough, and so Littlejohn decided in his young mind fence posts had to be trued up when they were tamped in. Littlejohn wobbled a little once they got back in the house, Gamp-paw held one young hand to steady his grandson as one boot, then the other, was slid off and left in the boot tray: Littlejohn sprinted upstairs, washed his hands with the abbreviated ferocity of the impatient young, then washed them again, knowing Gamp-paw would examine them to make sure he'd gotten them clean. Littlejohn came back downstairs with all the stealth of a bear cub after two pots of coffee. It had been quite some time since Linn and Shelly had an active, noisy, curious little boy under their roof, and both decided this was very much to their taste: Marnie and Dr. John were off on their own for a week or so, and in the meantime, Linn fully intended to teach his grandson a variety of manly skills, such as how to whistle, how to whittle, how to spit ... you know, important stuff! Littlejohn was about two-thirds of the way through his slice of pie when they noticed he was starting to drowse: to his credit, Littlejohn finished dessert, but only just. He had no recollection of being carried upstairs; it was only when he'd been divested of shirt and drawers, only when his socks were pulled off, only when flannel sheets covered him like a warm, fuzzy, gentle hug, that he rallied, that he looked up with the sudden sincerity of the very young. "Gamp-paw," he said in a drowsy, little-boy voice, "can I stay here with you?" He didn't stay awake long enough to hear whatever reply his Gamp-paw might have given.
  5. Madame Pele is restless!
  6. SOME SEASONING REQUIRED Dr. John Greenlees, M.D., Chief Surgeon of Firelands (Mars), shook hands with his relief. "Dr. Summit," he said, "I'm trying to think of some good free advice, and my mind just went blank!" Robert Summit, a respected physician and surgeon from one of the more advanced Confederate worlds, laughed quietly: "Doctor, I believe each of us will benefit from the experience! How long has it been since you had vacation?" "Too long," Marnie interjected, claiming her husband's arm. "Now before you think of something to delay us, John, we are packed, Littlejohn is already insisting on riding my Daddy's Outlaw-horse, and you know what that means!" "Duty calls," Dr. Greenlees sighed, looking at his wife and smiling gently: "and a most pleasant duty this is!" Husband and wife stepped through the Iris, disappeared; Dr. Robert Summit looked around, nodded his approval at the Martian infirmary, so very much like his own suite back home. Michael Keller leaned forward in the saddle, hands flat on Lightning's bulging, muscled neck, feeling her move, feeling her gallop, feeling her very life! -- there is no ride like a ride on a fast horse, and when that horse had fangs, ate meat, killed native buffalo and stood as tall as an African elephant, the experience was at once better than, and yet so very unlike, running his Pa's horses back home! Lightning found her stride: she ran with a four-strike cadence, slower than a saddlehorse, owing to her heavier build, her greater height, the greater reach of her heavy-boned legs, yet her velocity was comparable to an Earth-horse. Two smaller Fanghorns paced Lightning: they were smaller, just as fast: Jacob knew from watching Fanghorn herds that their young were remarkably swift, rarely outrun by the rest of the herd. Michael kept an eye on the young Fanghorns: when they started to drop back, he leaned back in his saddle, slowed Lightning: the small herd coasted to a fast walk, Thunder and Cyclone chirping intermittently as they slowed. They drew up in sight of town. Michael let them graze: Thunder waded out into a stream, drank, came back up the bank, slashed his thick, coarse-haired tail: Michael didn't see any flies, but he reckoned this was a sign of contentment, or at least approval. Cyclone paced downstream, rather than surging boldly down the embankment: she drank almost daintily -- "Yep, you're a girl, all right," Michael said softly, his hand caressing Lightning's thick neck: the Herd Mare waited until the young watered, and were returned, before she, too, drank -- but Lightning drank like a deer: she took a taste of the water, lifted her head quickly, looking around; another drink, another look: the colts, if that's the proper term for young Fanghorns, saw this, and began looking around as well. They made their leisurely way toward the town. Michael wanted to see a man of his acquaintance. He had all day to get there, the distance was not far, and he was not about to rush his small herd, for the grass here was good, it was what they were used to. Michael smiled a little as he recalled something his pale eyed Pa told him once. I think better in the saddle. A preacher looked out the window and smiled. A little boy's fingertips gripped the edge of the widow sill, a little boy's legs thrust him up barely far enough to see out, at least until his Pa's big, warm hands gripped him under the arms and hoist him up. A little boy with curly hair and big eyes stared, awe-struck, at someone he'd only seen on the Inter-System, at something he'd only seen on the glowing screen, at two smaller versions of that big, fanged creature. A little boy put an uncertain finger to the corner of his mouth and looked at his Pa, wide-eyed and hopeful. Michael bent over a little. It wasn't necessary, not really, but he knew he was being watched, and he knew Thunder was like any child, full of play, and as a preacher came out the door with a little boy in his arms, Michael gave a mock-indignant yell and made a futile swipe at the bandanna Thunder neatly pickpocketed from where he'd intentionally hung it out of his back pocket: the young Fanghorn stallion threw his head, waving the wild rag like a banner, Michael chased Thunder, Cyclone chased Michael, Lightning unfolded her legs and followed, her hoof-falls absolutely silent, in spite of her (quite literal) tonnage. Thunder ran up behind the preacher almost as if he was hiding from the man. Michael grinned and thrust out his hand, then he carefully reached up and very gently shook the Preacher's little boy's hand. "Nehemiah," he said quietly, "are you behavin' yourself?" "Yis!" Nehemiah declared. Thunder came up beside Michael, thrust his head under Michael's arm: the wild rag was surrendered in favor of some ear scratching, and Michael grinned, "Nehemiah, did you ever see a genuine wild Fanghorn before?" "Yis!" Nehemiah laughed, and Michael laughed with him, then looked at the preacher. "Reverend," he said, "I've got some coffee that needs ground, and I could use some wise counsel." "I've got that brand new coffee grinder you gave me," the man replied, "come on inside!" The Parson's wife smiled as she watched their little boy running, the Fanghorn colts on either side: they turned, they came back, and their son, red-cheeked and laughing, stopped and turned and looked at the elephantine Lightning. Lightning turned and looked down at this small creature that seemed to delight the colts with his laugh and with his exertion. The Parson's wife smiled, the back of her hand to her mouth, as the little boy looked waaaaay up at the Fanghorn mare and declared, "Vurbeeg!" "Parson," Michael said, his fingers delicately gripping the crystal watch fob and the memories it held, "I lost someone ... I thought ... very ..." Michael's voice trailed off and he swallowed hard, as if trying to down something sticky. "I can accept death, Parson. I've seen the Valley myself. So did Lightning. I'm not afraid of dyin' ... nothing I could do to keep her from it, or I would have." "Her?" "Her name was Annette. She was my age." "Ah." "Parson, I can't say as my boiler is fired up yet. I'm too young to have that happen." Michael shifted, his expression uncertain: he frowned, struggling to form up coherence from the vagueness he felt. "Do you miss her?" "I do, sir." "Is there something special ... she liked?" Michael considered for a long moment. "Parson, she'd been blinded by some-or-another plant. I don't know what it was, everyone got together and dug out every one of those plants once it burned the eyes out of her head. The same doctors that regrew my spine and all those nerves and got everything connected back up and workin' right, they ... regrew her eyes." The Parson waited. Michael leaned back, a look on his face the Parson had never seen in one so young. He'd seen it in men who'd seen horrors and death, he'd seen men's eyes staring through the wall, seeing something a thousand miles distant. He'd never seen that in one of so few years. "The first thing she saw, once they regrew her eyes and they took off the bandages ... the very first thing, was stars. "When she found out near to a year later that damned plant poisoned her brain and it was killing her and not one thing anyone could do to stop it" -- Michael's hands closed to fists: they rested on the table top, he closed his eyes, took a long breath. "Parson, she asked me to send her ashes out among those stars she saw. She said she wanted to be part of that great beauty." "Did you?" "I did, sir." Michael's fingers caressed the dangling crystal watch fob. "From dust we came, and to dust we shall return," Michael said softly, "and hers ... hers is returned to Creation." "Then you have done a good thing." Michael nodded. "I arranged funding for them to build a children's wing on that hospital that worked on me and worked on her. Doubled the size of the place. I arranged ..." Michael closed his eyes, took a long breath. "Parson, I raised funds enough to make ten men wealthy, and I gave it in her name. I asked only one thing of them, that they put her name somewhere that it could be seen." "Did they?" Michael nodded. "Right over the front door of the new construction," he said, the pulled out something rectangular that lit up when he touched it. He turned the screen to show the Parson. It showed a wide set of glass doors, and overhead, across the lintel: The Juliette Wing, he read. "I didn't do it all myself. Marnie is Ambassador and she arranged necessary introductions, but ..." "But you raised the money." "Yes, sir." "You made it happen." "Yes, sir." "You made a difference." "For some," Michael said hoarsely. "I heard Pa talk about 'Too little, too late,' and that's how it felt." "What of the children that came after, those who were treated there?" Michael looked at the Parson, considered. "I don't know them," he said frankly. "I knew Juliette." "And you hurt for her loss." Michael nodded, looked away, looking as lost as he felt. "What is the advice you need from me?" "Parson" -- Michael blinked and almost visibly shifted gears -- "ever since I've been on the Inter-System, ever since Victoria and I came across the screen and rode to the sound of a fight, we've ... we're known. Victoria receives marriage proposals, she's way too young and so am I, I've had women and girls all in a lather to snatch me up for a marryin' prize." The Parson nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "Parson, I don't reckon I need advice as much as I need what you're givin' me right now." "How's that?" The Parson leaned forward, clearly interested. "Pa told me most times a man already knows the right answer and sometimes he has to sort through the gravel to find it." "Have you found it?" "Yes, sir, and thank you." "I'm glad I could help, but I'm not sure I understand what help I've been!" Michael leaned back, squared his shoulders. "Parson, there's an awful lot in me that's ... most times I don't know straight up from go-to-hell," he said frankly. "I reckon I just needed a sympathetic ear so I could throw some things out on the air and see what they sound like." The Parson nodded thoughtfully. "I just needed someplace safe," Michael said softly. The scent of roasted coffee being ground teased their senses as Michael stood, suddenly, decisively. "Thank you for your time, sir. I reckon I need to go talk things over with my Pa." "Before you go," the Parson's wife said gently, "if you wondered about making a difference, look out the window." Parson, mother and guest came to the window, looked outside. Lightning stood, facing the small group of curious folk who stared at the two young Fanghorns bellied down in the Parson's front yard, heads toward the house. Parson, mother and guest smiled as they saw a little boy with curly hair, sound asleep on the grass, a sleeping Fanghorn colt cuddled up close, solid, warm and comforting, on either side of the sleeping child, and over them, a watchful, protective Fanghorn mare.
  7. Making Eagle is an achievement indeed. Eagle, and every last merit badge ... an immense amount of work, outstanding!
  8. BEDSIDE COMANCHE Deputy Sheriff Angela Keller crossed athletic, white-stockinged legs and tapped her forefinger thoughtfully against her cheekbone. Her Daddy's face was serious: he leaned forward, pressed a button and hung the handset up. "Say that again, Uncle Will," he said, and Angela knew from his tone of voice that a) Something was Very Not Right, and b) Putting it on speaker meant he wanted her to hear it too. It was Uncle Will's voice, and it wasn't quite ... right. "Is this better?" Will growled. "I hear you better now, say again your traffic." There was a long pause. "Linn, can you take me in to ER? I don't want that damned squad whistlin' up here, everyone will know I'm gone for a while and they'll break in and --" "I've got it," Angela snapped: she stood, whirled, and was out the door before the Sheriff could say anything. There was another long pause, then Will's voice again. "Angela," he said. "Good." Angela Keller drove a purple Dodge Charger. Angela's Dodge had the turbocharged engine. Angela liked her pretty purple Dodge with the turbo. The only thing she did not like about it, was it lacked that telltale whistle that a big truck's turbo had, but she could live with its lack, especially when she planted her hind hoof on the go pedal and got shoved back into her seat. When Angela was coming of driver's license age, Linn asked a personal favor of his chief deputy, Paul Barrents. Pauls' father WJ was the best driver Linn ever knew -- he could get more speed out of a vehicle, he could maintain control better, at higher speeds, than anyone he'd ever met, his lead foot Mama not excepted -- and so he decided Paul, who shared the Swiftrunner's gift, would be the one to teach Angela how to drive. He did. When the two of them came in after a session, they were both red faced and almost laughing, and had Linn and Shelly not both trusted Paul implicitly, and known he was teaching a craft that he loved and in which he excelled, they might have suspected some ... red faced and almost laughing impropriety. Angela, as much as she loved velocity, was also careful, and so she neither launched like a rubber-screaming arrow, nor did she leave black skid marks on the pavement as she headed the short distance from here to there. It is probably to her credit that she did not make a dramatic, broad-slide skid to come to a stop near to her Uncle Will's front door. Angela rapped twice, shoved the door open, yelled "It's Angela!" and swung in, warbag over her shoulder: she followed her cheerful announcement with an utterly spontaneous, "You look awful!" Will was pale and sweaty, he glared at her from under no-longer-shaggy eyebrows (he had his hair cut the day before and the Sweet Young Thing trimmed his eyebrows for him), and he managed kind of an irritated grunt. Angela thrust a hand into her shoulder bag, came out with something boxy: "Hold still," she murmured as she swung in behind her Uncle. Will was hunched over some, sideways on a kitchen chair, one arm hooked over its tall back. "I see it," Angela murmured. "Let me give you something." "I don't want any damned narcotic," Will growled, and Angela saw his hand start to close. She knew if he was feeling better he'd make a fist. He either hurt too bad to close his hand completely, or he lacked the strength. From what she saw on her scanner, she surmised it was both. Will felt something press against his throat, heard a hiss, felt kind of a cold sting. "Smooth muscle relaxer," Angela explained. "Non-narcotic. I know how you hate painkillers." Will almost growled by way of reply, and this alone was frightening. Angela was used to her Uncle as cheerful, chatty, laughing, a man quick to play on words or pull your leg: to see this strong man reduced to cold sweat and grunts was concerning, both in terms of medical assessment, and from the standpoint of having honestly never seen her Uncle this out of sorts. Angela adjusted the injector, pressed it against his neck again: another quick chill and Will felt himself relax again. "Taste anything?" she asked. "Old leather," Will muttered. "Good. I tried to get peppermint but that's all they had, now hold still." "Just take me in to ER, honey --" "Shut up." She pressed something against his flank. "This will take about a minute okay we're done." "I don't feel any difference." "You won't, until that first injection takes full effect. Want to see what's causing your pain?" "Just take me to the damned hospital!" Angela thrust her scanner in front of his face. "What the hell is that?" She withdrew the device, tapped a few keys, set it on the kitchen table, pressed another. "That," she said as she thrust an accusing finger at something coarse, spiked and brownish-yellow, rotating slowly above the scanner's suspensor, "is one hell of a kidney stone." Will looked at it with the expression of a man who wished he had a large hammer. "That one's about seven millimeters across. It's too big to pass. They'd have to dunk you in a horse tank of hot water and set underwater speakers to play acid rock at high volume to blow that thing to sand!" "Is that a picture or is that the stone?" "That's the stone. Pick it up if you like." Will swallowed, shook his head. "The second shot should be taking care of the colic. You're still nauseated?" Will shook his head. "Good. Just sit there and let me run another scan." Angela picked up her scanner, pressed it lightly against her Uncle's back ran it slowly down one side of his spine, then down the other. "Some men collect stamps," she murmured thoughtfully, "you collect kidney stones." "I quit countin' after two dozen of the damned things." Angela whistled. "Damn, Uncle Will," she murmured, "kidney stones hurt worse than giving birth!" "You are not helpin'," he muttered irritably. "No, I suppose not. Let's get that gravel out of you, now hold still." Will sighed resignedly, nodded. That night, after supper, Angela yelled "I'll get it!" and scampered downstairs the way she used to as a girl at home: she opened the door, her face absolutely lit up with delight: "Uncle Will!" she squealed as she jumped up and hugged the man around the neck. Retired Chief Will Keller laughed and ran an arm around her, came in, handed her a fragrant bouquet of flowers: he shut the door behind him, hung his hat on a peg and gave his eyes-closed, flower-sniffing niece kind of an odd look. "Darlin'," he said, "that's by way of apology. I was an absolute crank earlier today and you didn't deserve that. I'm sorry." Angela turned, handed the flowers to her Mama, gripped her Uncle by the shoulders and smiled up at the man. "Uncle Will," she almost whispered, "I've seen strong men wallow like a worm on a fish hook and cry like a little girl for those damned stones! Believe me, you're fine!" She reached into a pocket, pulled out a slender pill bottle one-third full of what looked like sand and gravel. "Here's what I got out of you today. I'll run a monthly check and we'll keep the damned things cleared out of you, whattaya say?" Will lowered his head and gave Angela a long look, then he blinked and nodded and said softly, "I'd say you're younger, smarter and better lookin' than me, darlin'!"
  9. KIND OF STOVE UP AND SORE Chief Deputy Paul Barrents gave the Sheriff an assessing look. Linn closed his eyes for a long moment, then muttered, "Go on, say it." "You'rrrre ... movin' kind of ... carefully," Barrents hazarded. Linn grunted, and this was not a good thing, for his Navajo chief deputy knew he'd normally give a single, shallow nod. Whatever happened, must've hurt bad enough he didn't want to move his head. Paul did not see any marks on the man's face -- he'd not gotten slugged in the face, at least -- but long pants and long sleeves will conceal a multitude of sins, and something seems to have been right sinful with his pale eyed boss. "Is there someone I should look at?" Paul asked diplomatically. Linn glared at the man, which did not put off his old friend one little bit. Paul opened his mouth to ask another question and Linn raised a hand, then looked at the conference room. "Coffee," he said, and Barrents closed his mouth on words unspoken. When the two sat down at the far end of the conference room table, Linn sat carefully -- not as if his backside hurt, more like his legs hurt -- Barrents, like most lawmen, noticed things, and he knew how the Sheriff normally lowered himself into the folding tin chairs in the conference room. Barrents waited. Linn very carefully did not move his head, he did not turn his neck: he lifted his eyes to look at Paul. "Scared hell out of Shelly," Linn said, and Paul mentally kicked himself for not realizing the man's jaw wasn't moving much at all -- further sign of injury? he wondered -- Linn took a very cautious sip of coffee, closed his eyes for a long moment. "Boss, if you need to be seen --" Linn looked at his segundo. "If you need some time off --" Barrents saw Linn's shoulders lift, knew the man was taking a long, calming breath. "Paul," he finally said, his voice quiet, "I am tryin' really hard here." Paul waited, not sure which direction this line of talk was going to go. Linn looked up at his lifelong friend and finished his thought. "Paul, I'm afraid I'm a-goin' to laugh, and if I laugh it's goin' to hurt again, an' I'm hurtin' enough the way it is!" Paul spread his hands: "Dammit, Linn, don't leave me hangin', what happened?" The man's words were sincere, they were firmly spoken in the tones of a man who saw someone he thought well of, in pain, and felt frustrated as hell that he wasn't doing something to make it better! Jacob Keller was Linn's oldest son. Jacob and Marnie were very close to the same age, four years or barely under. Where Marnie was shy -- where Marnie was fearful, though she was slowly learning that she didn't need to fear every shadow, every word -- Jacob was the opposite: he was quick, fast, noisy, inquisitive, all the things that healthy young boys were, and at the moment, he was buck naked, half-scampering and half-skating across the hardwood floor, dripping soap suds and laughter, and his Pa was right after him. Father and son made a laughing, noisy turn out of the bathroom and into the landing, the rug slid out from under Linn's sock feet and he went down, rolled: he came up, bathtowel gripped in both hands, as Jacob slipped, skidded, slid on his wet and soapy backside, right toward the stairs. "NNOOOO!" Linn yelled, dove for Jacob, intending to throw the towel over enough of his torso to get a grip, and yank him back -- but momentum, a slick wet varnished floor and outrageous Fate conspired otherwise: Jacob scrambled, stumbled, went over backwards, down the handmade stairs, all legs and big eyes and distressed expression and shining little bottom, and Linn tobogganed down the stairs, the towel providing absolutely no padding whatsoever: he tried to roll toward the passing bannisters, overcompensated, slid the rest of the way on his back, banged the back of his head on the hardwood floor at the foot of the stairs and slid hard against the coat rack, which fell over and banged him across the right shin with an absolute sunball detonation of PAIN! Shelly was out of the kitchen and to the stairs just as father and son arrived at the finish line together: Shelly watched, horrified, as little Jacob stood up, shook himself, laughed and said "WOW!" -- just as the coat rack fell on her husband's shin and she heard his teeth click together, and his breath hiss as he drew in a sharp lungful through his pain-clenched dentition. Chief Deputy Paul Barrents regarded his boss with obsidian-black eyes. Chief Deputy Paul Barrents honestly tried not to laugh. He tried. He looked at his lifelong friend, his boss, his Sheriff, and pictured him skidding downstairs as a naked little boy tumbled, boom-boom-boom ahead of him, spraying drops of water as he went. He pictured a little boy getting to his feet and exclaiming, "Wow!" and then looking over at his Pa, just as the coat rack fell and smacked the man across the shin bone. He imagined Shelly Keller, wife, mother, paramedic and friend, planting her knuckles on her beltline and glaring murder at the two as she snarled, "Are you two quite finished?" He looked at the Sheriff's darkening face, at the tightening of the corners of the man's eyes. "Jacob didn't so much as bruise," Linn said quietly, then he carefully -- carefully! -- bent a little, reached down, rubbed his shin. "Can't say as much for me."
  10. ... trust me to cause trouble ...
  11. Yeah, but you're smarter and better lookin' than me! I'm just a pore dumb hillbilly!
  12. THE DEATH OF TIBERIUS Parson Belden frowned as he came into the Sanctuary. Something was on his pulpit ... a paper? -- he'd left nothing on it after services, at least not that he remembered. The Parson looked around, frowned a little, then crossed the front of the Church with a vague feeling that something just wasn't right. He ascended the two steps, came up behind his pulpit, blinked, picked up a small sheaf of bills and a few gold coins. Puzzled, he read the sheet of folded, worn, stained paper the money rested on. He read it a second time, raised an eyebrow, then he took out a kerchief, put the money in it and tied it, took the paper and held it carefully. He came down from behind the pulpit, walked quickly down the center aisle. Sheriff Linn Keller looked up, stood at the summoning knock on his door. His Stetson came off its peg and onto his head -- he had no recollection of reaching up and setting it in place, so automatic was his gesture -- he strode to the door, opened it cautiously, then drew it wide open. "Parson?" The Parson's face was troubled as he handed the sheet to the Sheriff. The Sheriff read it, read it again, looked at the Parson. The Sheriff turned, slipped past the Parson, looked up over the municipal building toward Graveyard Hill, took a long breath. "Parson," he said, "I reckon I'll need your help." "However I can, Sheriff." "Fetch yourself down to the livery ... no" -- he turned -- "come with me." He drew the door shut, secured it, then the Parson followed the long-legged Sheriff the short distance next door. They went in through the front door -- an intentional choice: there was a bell to announce them, if Digger was busy with a body, neither man wished to interfere, and if Digger was busy with a bottle, neither man wished to intrude on a man's private vice. Digger came bustling through the black curtains, saw the Sheriff and the Parson: his normally doleful face grew even longer as he murmured "Bad business, bad business," and shook his head before reaching for his black topper. "And how can I be of assistance, gentlemen?" "Fetch up the dead wagon," the Sheriff said without preamble. "You're needed at Hangman's Drop." "Oh, dear, oh, dear," Digger murmured, "the usual arrangements, I presume?" "Fetch a box. I won't know until we get there. Parson, you'll ride with Digger here." The Sheriff was saddled and ready before Digger drove the dead wagon up the alley separating his funeral parlor from the Sheriff's office: curious folk saw the Sheriff, saw how serious his face, and as happens in any small town, word began to spread, and spread fast. Digger followed the Sheriff to the bottom of the short dropoff. A man hung by the neck, deader'n a politician's promise, turning slowly at the end of a lariat. Linn climbed up onto the dead wagon, stood on the closed box, grabbed the dead man under the arms, hoist him up enough so Digger could get the loop from around his neck. They laid him down atop the box; both men knew how to tell if a man was dead, but their skills were not needed; this man had been hanging for some hours. A bloodied knife was in a sheath, shoved behind the man's belt. Jacob saw the dead wagon, his father following, as they came up the alley beside the Silver Jewel and diagonally across the street to the Sheriff's office. He walked his stallion closer as the three men disembarked, went into the Sheriff's office. "Hey Jacob!" came a shout, "what's going on?" Jacob looked at a local and admitted, "I just got here myself, but I reckon I ought to find out!" "Not much here," Linn said. "That must be the knife he used." He raised his head -- horse, coming in -- the door swung open and Jacob stepped in. "Sir, Harry." Jacob stepped inside and Law and Order Harry McFarland, Marshal of Carbon Hill, came in and brought an aggravated expression with him. "You're lookin' for someone," Linn said -- a statement, not a question. "Fellow named Tiberius," Harry nodded. "Got drunked up and knifed a fellow in our saloon." "We got him." "You got him? Wha'd he do here?" "He died," Linn grunted. "Have a set while we sort this out. Jacob." "Sir." "Fetch on over here and help me think." "Yes, sir." Linn laid out the dead man's belongings on his desk top, laid down the sheet the Parson handed him, set down the bills and the coin. He re-read the sheet, frowned, looked up. "Jacob." "Sir." "Head down to the Livery. See if some fella sold Shorty a horse with a rocking R brand and ask how much he sold for. Find out what-all Shorty knows and report back." "Sir." Jacob turned, strode for the door. "Shorty's pretty sharp," Linn murmured. "If it's to be known, he'll know it, and he's got a way of weaselin' information out of a man without they know it." He looked up. "Parson, tell me again how you came by this." "I heard the door close," he said. "In the Church?" Linn interrupted. "Yes. I was in the Parsonage trimming up my Sunday sermon." Linn nodded his go-ahead. "I saw the corner of this sheet, turned up a little -- it was on my pulpit, and I had left nothing on my pulpit. These bills" -- his fingertips rested on Yankee greenbacks -- "and these coin were on the paper. "I read the paper, I gathered the cash and I came over here. The rest, you know." "Paper? Paper? What paper?" Harry asked. Linn handed it to the Parson. "Read it," he said, "out loud, so we'll all know what it says." The Parson turned the paper a little to catch the better light across the pencil scrawl. "I got all drunk and knifed a man in the guts and he will die and I have kilt him. "I can run an get shot or give up and hang so I'll go hang below the cemetery God forgive me. I sold my horse and saddle to Shorty and I give this money to the Church I don't want to burn in hell." The Parson looked up. "It's signed with a capital T." "Tiberius," Harry said. "I know the man. Where is he?" "Out in the dead wagon," Linn grunted. "Parson, you might want to go a-prayin' over his carcass. Harry, has he got any family?" "He's got a sister back East. I'll see if I can find the pa'tickelars." "Parson, the money's yours. Digger, plant him in Potter's Field, the county will pay as usual. Parson, you'll want to preside at the burial. Digger, let me know when you're ready, I'll be there. Harry, anything else?" Law and Order Harry McFarland shook his head. "You want the knife?" "I got knives enough already. Clean it up and give it to someone, looks like a good enough skinner." Sheriff Willamina Keller looked at the knife, at the dried, cracked leather scabbard that came with it. She looked at the Parson, accepted the envelope he'd been holding. "There's a story with that old knife," the Parson said. "It belonged to a man named Tiberius. I don't know a thing about him." "Tiberius?" a woman's voice asked -- the Parson turned and Willamina smiled a little as a woman came up the steps from the library, into the back office where Sheriff Willamina Keller did her research into Firelands of the past. "I'm Shannon Miller," the woman said, "and I've been doing some ancestry research, and since I was out here, I thought I would ask ... " Her voice tapered off, and she looked hopefully at Willamina. "Tiberius is not a terribly common name," Willamina said. "Please. Come in. Let's see if we can find out."
  13. "Haggi" ... thank you for that ... always did wonder what their plural was ... 😅😅😅
  14. Dear old Dad talked about a trade he made, years ago. He said the fellow trading him was so convinced he'd swindled Dad out of his eye teeth, he couldn't look the Grand Old Man in the eye. Me dear Pappy was so convinced he'd slickered this fellow out of his birthright, he couldn't look the man in the eye either. He said both parties allowed as it was a good trade!
  15. "I just survived" ... well put!
  16. CALL ME ANYTHING BUT LATE FOR SUPPER! Shelly prided herself on caring for her family. Shelly worked, yes; Shelly was not just a paramedic, she was a damned good paramedic, and she took a fierce pride in that. She took an equally sincere pride in the care she gave her family. Shelly stood at the far end of the table, regarded plates and forks and cups and glasses with satisfaction. There were times when the Silver Jewel did the cooking, and there were times when Shelly did the cooking, and when all her children -- or at least most of them -- came to her table, she showed her pride in the lay of the table and the provender which she prepared. Laughter and voices and the smells of good home cooking filled the kitchen, with the welcome interruptions that always occur: Jacob hugged his Mama and lifted her an inch off the floor, gave her a little shake -- she whispered "Ouch, do that again," and this time she lifted her arms and Jacob picked her up again, and gave her that little shake, and they both felt her spine pop in both protest and in relief. She bent, but only a little, to receive the happy hugs from the twins; Linn stood back and watched, smiling a little, he gathered his young in both arms and laughed quietly and listened, and when Angela murmured to Shelly that Marnie might not make it, Linn saw a shadow of disappointment cross his wife's face. Angela looked at her Daddy and said, "She is testifying in court. A capital case," and she saw her Daddy's eyes grow serious as he gave her a single, acknowledging nod. Michael saw his Mama's eyes go to Marnie's place at the table. "Mama," he said gently, "you know Marnie. If it's suppertime, she'll be here!" "The People call the Madame Ambassador!" Madame Ambassador rose, glided diagonally across the courtroom, from the Prosecution table, across in front of the Judge's bench, to the waiting Bailiff, nervous with a closed Book in hand. Marnie smiled a little as she recognized the cover: it was one of the newly printed Bibles Michael arranged to have freighted in. Marnie raised her right hand, laid her left palm on the Book, swore the usual oath: she smiled just a little and winked at the Bailiff, then she turned, sat the witness chair as if she were a Queen settling into a cushioned throne. "The Court thanks the Ambassador for her participation," the Judge said formally: "we recognize that the Ambassadorial Service does not usually take a hand in local matters." "I thank Your Honor," Marnie acknowledged, then looked at the prosecutor, who tried to look stern, but succeeded in looking uncomfortable. "Madame Ambassador," he said, "could you please tell the court what occurred on the day in question." "Briefly, I observed an arson fire in an occupied structure, and I moved to save lives by extinguishing the fire." "Objection," Counsel for the Defense popped up like a cork from deep water. "The witness has no credentials in firefighting, it is not possible to know this was an arson fire!" Marnie rose, bent her wrist up, tapped a control, looked at the defense attorney and smiled, then turned to the Judge. "I believe the Court grants the Ambassadorial Service leeway in reply," Marnie smiled: not waiting for reply, the courtroom disappeared -- or so it seemed to everyone in the courtroom. Each of them was standing inside a fire structure, feeling heat, smelling smoke. A figure in a filthy fire coat and helmet went to one knee, hauled the chrome Elkhart nozzle up, yanked the gate open, twisted the nob: a tight fan spray erupted, hissed, drove against the flames roaring up the wall and across the ceiling: they felt cool spray from the nozzle, heard the hiss and click of the self-contained breathing apparatus, saw the grim and determined expression through the air mask's face plate -- the expression in those pale eyes was unmistakable. The scene twisted, changed. None there were familiar with a garage that serviced over-the-road tractor-trailers, but no one had to be conversant in this unfamiliar transport to realize they were in a cavernous structure, smoke banked down to belt buckle height: they saw the same pale eyed figure, firehose under one arm, assaulting something blazing, harsh and bright, ahead of them in the thickening smoke. It did not matter that nobody in the courtroom, save only the witness, knew what a tire was. Nobody there doubted the seriousness of the moment when one of the tires exploded from heat, then something came flowing toward them, a river of living fire. They felt the pale eyed firefighter on the nob scream "PULL BACK! GIMME A SECOND LINE IN HERE, PULL BACK!" The scene cleared, and everyone was back in the courtroom: Marnie turned off the holographic envelope, sat. "You will find," Marnie declared coldly, "that my experience, my training and my credentials exceed anything your firefighting forces on this planet have. They were trained by my home department back in Firelands, and I was a fire paramedic with that department. " The Judge shifted uncomfortably in his chair, rapped his gavel. "The Court accepts expert testimony from this witness." The defense attorney was still standing. "You stated that the building was occupied, is that correct?" Marnie again rose, bent her wrist: this time the courtroom was transported to the Firelands County Sheriff's Office. Marnie walked through in uniform, confident, relaxed: she stepped to the head of the table in the conference room, pressed a tabletop control, lighting up the screen behind her. "Observation is our stock in trade," Marnie said. "When we meet someone we are constantly sizing them up and we are watching their hands. When we arrive at a building, we are looking at it -- we are not just casting our eyes casually across the front, we're looking first for threats to ourselves, then threats to everyone else. We're looking for signs of occupancy, whether residence, transient or commercial. Movement behind windows, movement of a curtain, light from within." The courtroom reappeared and Marnie held up a gloved hand, and in it, a six point star. "I am still Sheriff Emeritus on Mars, and a commissioned Sheriff's Deputy back home in Firelands. I make it my business to notice things, including which buildings are occupied." "Objection overruled," the Judge rumbled, giving the defense attorney a warning glare. "Madame Ambassador, you spoke of your actions as saving lives." "Yes." "Could you clarify that for us, please." Marnie tilted her head a little, the way a woman will, and gave the prosecutor a patient look. "I have survived fires, sir," she said, "in my earliest childhood, some very bad people tried to kill us by setting fire to our building. It is God's grace alone that we managed an escape, and that with nothing but the clothes we wore. Firing a building condemns those above the fire to death, whether by smoke inhalation, by immolation, or by jumping to their deaths to escape the flames. Persons in buildings adjacent are in similar jeopardy, as a fire will not confine itself to one building. To extinguish the fire is to save lives, and that's what I did." She shot a challenging look at the defense attorney, who looked away, uncomfortable. Shelly began setting big serving bowls on the table, Angela set a big bowl of fresh, steaming light rolls; butter, gravy, onion-roasted vegetables, all added their aromas to the atmosphere: just as Shelly thrust the serving spoon into the mashed potatoes, an Iris opened and a smiling set of eyes with Marnie wrapped around them, emerged from a slender Iris: she kissed her Daddy on the cheek, hugged him quickly, impulsively, like she was a little girl again. "I was just about to call you," Linn murmured, and Marnie looked at him and giggled, "Call me anything but late for supper!"
  17. BLAZE, FOG, AND BLOOD Marnie leaned her forehead against Peppermint's head. The Appaloosa mare was content to let her. Marnie's hands caressed Peppermint's silky jaw: eyes closed, she reviewed the day, shivered a little as she did. Sheriff Linn Keller's voice was Daddy-strong and Daddy-confident as Marnie heard it again, years and leagues and impossible distances from where her Daddy spoke those words. She'd remembered them, and she'd taken them to heart, and she'd practiced them often, and practiced them to her benefit. When in doubt, her Daddy taught her, cheat. Whenever possible, cheat. As often as possible, cheat. To the greatest degree possible, cheat. She remembered looking at her Daddy, doing her best to look wide-eyed and innocent, which fooled everybody in the entire world except only her pale eyed Daddy and her all-knowing Mama. She remembered how much trouble her Daddy had, keeping a straight face as he said these words, until his humor broke through his reserves: with a laugh, he'd dropped to a hunker, he'd run his hand around her slender waist and he'd said gently, "Don't cheat if it's illegal, immoral or fattening, darlin', but take every possible advantage. Cheat as best you can. Like this." He'd been booming down a load of pipe on a friend's truck -- his friend was laid up with a broken hand, and her Daddy was making a delivery for him, and to do that, father and daughter loaded two-inch heavy-wall pipe on the man's truck, her Daddy wrapped chain around it from the underside, secured the chain around the corners of the headache rack, slid links edgewise through the grab hooks, then he'd put the snap binder on the chain and taken a pull on the binder. "Watch this, Marnie," he said, and threw the heavy steel handle over with an effort. The pipes crowded together, and he reset the chain, tightened it again until he could make no more headway. He'd taken a three foot length of the same two-inch, thickwall pipe, and he'd honestly beat the hell out of the bundle -- then he released the binder, took another bite, tightened the bundle -- he'd beat it again, from the sides this time, took another bite, shortening the snap binder's grip on the bundling chain. This time it was too tight to muscle over. He'd looked at Marnie and grinned -- "Let's cheat on this!" -- he took the three foot war club, slid it over the handle of the snap binder. It took an effort -- he'd hauled it until it went over center and SNAP! it was fast down -- he took the three foot length of pipe, tapped the chain experimentally -- "Singin' tight!" -- then he boomed down the back of the bundle in the same manner. Marnie believed in her father's version of cheating. To that end, she had certain items of emergency equipment available, wherever she was, discreetly staged: when she emerged from a restaurant where she'd just dined with a half-dozen women from the planet, women who were curious about this pale-eyed Ambassador, she froze and threw an arm in front of her dinner companion, stopping her abruptly. Marnie turned, her eyes suddenly very pale: "Sound the alarm," she said, her voice tight -- the ladies stared openly as Marnie seized her skirts, charged across the street, no longer the laughing, pleasant, decorous Madam Ambassador -- no Ambassador ran like a blue-satin arrow! -- they watched as Marnie skidded to a fast stop, drew her wrist up to her chest, did something -- A black-velvet ellipse opened beside her, tall as she was and three feet wide -- Marnie reached in, seized a red cylinder, brought it out, one dainty, lace-gloved hand death-gripping the chromed squeeze-valve on one end, her other arm hooked under it -- Marnie stepped up to the door, bent a little, freed one hand and tried the knob: she drew the extinguisher back, used it as a ram, hit the door hard at the latch -- once -- she drew back a step, thrust into it, swinging the extinguisher and putting her weight behind it, she drove its bottom hard against trauma-cracked wood -- Marnie leaned back and kicked the lock-shattered door, dropped the extinguisher's base, seized the valve with her free hand, ran her finger through the pin, yanked. Tank in one hand, horn in the other, Marnie advanced into smoke and flame, crouching a little, protected by her Confederate field and rage: she squeezed the handle, rolled a cloud of carbon dioxide before her. She knew the fire; she'd seen this kind before -- liquid hydrocarbon of some kind -- coal oil, she thought, or petroleum distillate, kerosine maybe, or hell maybe some vegetable oil. Whatever it was, the building was wood, the fire was hot and moving fast, and Marnie knew when she drove the door open, it got a good draft of fresh oxygen. If she didn't kill it fast, it would kill everyone in the building. Someone came in behind her -- "WHATTAYA DOIN' STOP THAT!" -- Marnie dropped, hooked her arm around the tank, brought it around: she drove the end into a man's gut, shot him with a cloud of cold vapor, gave the next man a good face full of cold suffocation and hauled the tank back for momentum, decked him -- hard -- broken arm, she thought, and realized with a fierce joy she honestly didn't give a good damn! Marnie turned back to the fire, gave it another long, noisy fogging, looked up at the ceiling: another few quick squirts, and it was out overhead. Marnie looked around, turned, stomped out into the open air, holding the nozzle like a weapon, gripping the squeeze valve with the other: she stopped on the sidewalk, waved the nozzle and shot a puff of vapor into the air as the fire truck came snarling down the road toward her. Marnie stepped carefully away from where the firemen would make entry; she set the heavy tank down, watched with assessing eyes as men pulled the crosslay, settled masks on their faces and shoved inside the darkened, scorched interior. One of their number with the single trumpet of a Lieutenant on his helmet shield approached her and asked her what happened: he spoke carefully, as if at once recognizing he was addressing Madam Ambassador herself, and yet realizing she was witness to a situation. After Marnie filled in what she could, after she opened the Iris and stowed the discharged extinguisher, Marnie lifted her skirts and stepped down to the street, looked both ways and glided back to where spectators were openly staring. Marnie Keller -- a much younger Marnie, still a schoolgirl -- positively devoured every reference she could find that mentioned, described or quoted a legendary war-goddess who (in her young mind) wore armor and wings and carried a sword, a mighty figure of legend with a silver Corinthian helmet and a skirt of plates: if it had to do with Sarah Lynne McKenna, Marnie wanted to read it, to know it, to be it! Marnie read of Old Pale Eyes' wife Esther and how she hired European blademasters to keep up her own skill with a fencing schlager: she read of Old Pale Eyes and his Cavalry saber and how he worked with the honed, curved blade on a regular basis, how his wrists were like iron and stayed that way to the day of his death, thanks to swinging a yard of steel on a daily basis. Marnie took an interest in the blade, at a very young age. Shelly may not have considered it a properly ladylike pursuit, but she did approve of dance lessons: it was one of the only areas in which Shelly's husband conspired ... not against his wife, exactly, more like he conspired with his daughter. Marnie reasoned that bladework was a dance; she fell in love with Ukranian sword-dancing, and got really good at it -- but she never confused it with the more deadly art of the shiv, as practiced by those less than law-abiding souls she'd first known as a very young child. Marnie was, honestly, deadly with a blade of any length, and her efforts showed in her musculature. She did not bulk up, like a man would, but her arms had not the slender taper of a woman of leisure. Madam Ambassador's wrists, like those of her honored ancestor with the iron grey mustache, were like iron, and she, too, made a habit of swinging a yard of steel on a daily basis, and so, at the dinner with the half dozen curious ladies from the planet she was visiting, when she was asked why she was never seen with less than long sleeves, she'd smiled and raised her teacup and said in a soft voice, "It would not be very ladylike," and took a dainty sip of the local oolong.
  18. NAMESAKES Michael leaned back in the saddle, gripped the cantle with his gloved right hand, carefully worked his off hand into the saddlebag behind him. He leaned back without twisting his spine. Michael leaned forward again, unfolded the topographic map, studied its curving lines: he looked ahead, his breath drifting quickly away on the winter-cold wind. Lightning blinked, looked around, apparently less than impressed with her surroundings. I read about the place, Michael thought. Pa said it faced this-a-way, crossways of the wind. He didn't say if 'twas a big enough gap for Lightning to fit! Michael eased Lightning ahead, turned her a little to the left -- There! Lightning sensed Michael's triumph: she lifted her head, scented the cold wind, advanced a little more quickly. Dana and Shelly sat at the corner of the kitchen table, their heads leaned toward one another, the way women will when discussing womanly matters: supper was ready and would only need heated, which is why God Almighty invented the microwave, at least according to Shelly's perpetually irreverent husband. "Mama," Dana asked in a quiet and serious voice, "was I a difficult birth?" Shelly blinked, surprised: "No, dear," she said gently, "you were my easiest delivery!" "Sooo ... they didn't have to section you." Shelly leaned back a little, surprise plain on her face: "Why, no ... why ever would you ask?" Dana frowned, looked away, looked back. "Dana ... you're not ..." "No, Mama, I'm not," Dana said quickly, then closed her eyes and took a long breath. "I'm sorry. That didn't ... I didn't mean to snap." Shelly waited -- not because it's something she learned from her husband, when interrogating a subject, but because she was honestly at a loss what to ask. "Mama, there are so many circles. Old Pale Eyes was named Linn. Daddy is named Linn. They both have a son named Jacob. Jacob back when had a son, Joseph, and our Jacob has Joseph." She waved a hand as Shelly started to say something. "I know, I know, there are no Michelles, we have no Esther, that Jacob married Annette and we don't have an Annette, there was a Michael back when but no Victoria" -- she looked at her mother with frightened eyes, hesitated. "There was a Dana, Mama, and that Dana killed her Mama in childbirth." Dana's voice quivered a little as she spoke, as she clutched her Mama's hands. "I ... hoped ... I didn't almost kill you." "Oh, honey," Shelly breathed, "no. Not even close." Michael left it up to Lightning to decide if she wished to go into the dark cleft. He thrust an arm forward, his wrist-unit's broad beam fanning into the dark. It opened quickly once they were inside. Michael leaned back again, got into his other saddlebag, pulled out a small crystal sphere, half the size of a cue ball: he tapped at his wrist-unit, turned his palm over, let the sphere float upward. Light bloomed, a harsh white illumination that showed the interior clearly. Michael's pale eyes took it in: at the upper end, daylight, but not much of it; a stream, running through. He looked left, looked right, saw where rock was burnt red. Likely that's where he laid his fires, he thought. Direct and reflected radiation, steep enough to carry smoke off. Michael looked around, touched his wrist-unit, lifted a hand; the ball subdued itself, settled into his waiting palm, became a miniature crystal ball again, was returned to its home in the saddlebag. Fanghorn and rider came out of the cliff face and back into the wind. Lightning turned to her right and began to drift with the wind as snowflakes started up again. Michael consulted his wrist-unit, smiled a little: an Iris opened, and they rode through the black-velvet cat's-eye, and disappeared. Dana was only just back in her quarters on Second Prime when her wrist-unit vibrated. She consulted it, looked at Michael's face grinning up from her wrist, and smiled. "That sounds wonderful," she murmured. "Give me a minute." It didn't take her the full minute: she'd changed quickly, snatched up two large towels, keyed in an Iris. Brother and sister lay back in a sandy-bottom, warm, steaming pool that smelled of ... minerals? ... the water was shockingly clear, with neither swimmers nor algae. Lightning floated happily in the deeper end, unshod hooves barely grazing the bottom: if it's possible for a bony-headed, conical-bossed Fanghorn to look drowsy and contented, she did. "I needed this," Dana nearly whispered. "I know Lightning did," Michael murmured. "She's got a good cold tolerance, but she does love the Springs!" Michael looked up, at a sky that was only just beginning to show stars. He and Dana floated on their backs, heels resting on the sandy bottom, light anchors holding them in place. Michael raised an arm, pointed: steam feathered off his arm as he did. "There," he said. Dana followed his gesture. "I don't know the constellations here," she admitted, then looked at her younger brother. "That's where Juliette is?" Michael nodded, smiled a little. "The stars ... were the first things she saw with her new eyes," he said softly. "Now she's among them." Dana didn't know what to say, so she took her Daddy's advice, and said nothing. Michael's voice was soft as he added, "I've never seen a more beautiful cemetery." He looked over at Dana. "Old Pale Eyes' son Jacob fell for a blind girl who died right after he met her. He buried her at his expense and set the only zinc marker in the Firelands cemetery." "I remember reading that." "I think her name was Miriam." "I think it was." "Jacob said if he and Ruth have a little girl, that's what they'll name her." "Is Ruth ...?" Michael turned his head, grinned at her. "I'm not supposed to know. When they tell you, act surprised!" "Cross my heart," Dana murmured, sketching a quick X in front of her swimsuit top. She looked over at Lightning, who was happily lowering her head and blowing bubbles in the steaming-warm water. "Jacob told Ruth he'd like his little girl to play piano. Josph is learning." "I think Littlejohn is too." "Marnie liked the idea of dressing up like a saloon girl and singing bawdy songs as she played a saloon piano," Michael mused, "until she realized a Sheriff really shouldn't do that if she wished to be seen as the no-nonsense Sheriff." "I know my sister," Dana replied. "Where does she gussy up and thump the ivory 88?" Michael smiled knowingly. "I'm not supposed to know!" "But you do," Dana pressed. "Where?" A pale eyed woman with legs that ran clear up to Hail Columbia wore a skimpy saloon-girl costume and a feathery glitter mask: she played a brisk tune while four girls in costumes identical to hers, in seamed stockings and heels the same as she, danced and high-kicked on the stage, while men whistled and pounded tabletops and yelled encouragement. The one woman who wasn't dancing was seated at the ivory 88, laughing with delight as she set the dancers' tempo. The barkeep took a lump of native chalk and scrawled on a sawmill cut plank: Sarah McKenna, then set the plank up across the top of the piano, so their new piano player's name -- or at least, the name she gave -- was displayed boldly the width of the piano's top. The plank fell down once, it was knocked over when a patron brought her a beer and was careless when he set the mug, and the piano player pushed it over backwards when the inevitable saloon brawl started: she twisted into the middle of the fist-swinging melee as one of the girls hopped off the stage and took her place at the piano, as what had been a dancing-girl in a scandalously-short dancing costume played a lively tune while the former piano player climbed up onto a chair and then onto one of the round tables, set her hands on her slender waist and began happily high-kicking in time to the music. Her name might not have been Sarah Lynne McKenna, but she sure acted -- and danced -- like her namesake!
  19. From a greying old fellow granddad, most excellent!
  20. BIKINI SHOT, WITH HEELS Sheriff Linn Keller slipped in the back door of the firehouse, closed the door quickly behind him to shut out the cold February air. His wife was in the Chief's office: he heard their quiet laughter, then Shelly came out of the man's office, pulled the door shut, looked at her husband and then looked down and shook her head. Linn waited until she ascended to the kitchen deck, until she came over to him. "Dearest?" he asked quietly. "Is all well?" Shelly laid a flat palm on her husband's unbuttoned uniform jacked and sighed dramatically, smiled a little. "You really need to stop leaving all those Journals lying about." Shelly pushed past her husband and out the back door, leaving the lean waisted lawman wondering just what in the hell had he done now. Shelly had two days off -- she worked one on, two off, the same as the rest of the Irish Brigade -- Linn waited until they were seated in the Silver Jewel, waited until they'd ordered their usual breakfast, waited until coffee arrived, then Linn looked at his wife with an honestly puzzled look. "Darlin'," he said, "what was that about me scatterin' Journals around now?" Shelly laughed, laid gentle fingertips on the back of her husband's hand. "Dana stopped by to see me," she smiled. "She had a question." Linn nodded, once, his face serious. "Chief saw her come in and look at me and then at him, and he said she could use his office, so we went inside. "He had a girly magazine open on his desk." "A girly mag." "It was open to an article." "An article." "A scholarly treatise on the intricacies of a vintage Volkswagen engine." "I see." "Dana and I came out and Fitz's ears were red and he mumbled something about having forgotten about what he'd been reading, and Dana patted his hand and there-there'd him, and said there's nothing to be ashamed of, reading about the opposed-four Porsche engine, and Fitz popped off something about not havin' any real good steamy pictures of her, and she laughed and kissed him on the cheek and said give her a day and she'd fix him right up." She didn't!" Shelly picked up her coffee, gave her husband a wicked look over the steaming rim of her mug. "Oh yes she did," Shelly said quietly. "Oh yes she did what?" Linn asked uncomfortably. "A bikini shot," Shelly said quietly. "With heels." Angela's mouth dropped open and she openly stared at her sister. "You gave him what?" "You heard me." Angela covered her face with her hand, her other hand across her belly, cupping her elbow as she shook her head and muttered, "Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb!" "Want to see what I gave him?" Angela lowered her hand, gave her sister the full benefit of wide-open, unblinking, dead-pale eyes. Dana smiled, pulled out her phone, swiped the screen a few times, turned the phone so Angela could see. Two sisters were silent for the space of several heartbeats. "We have to let Marnie know." That afternoon, the Sheriff rose at the discreet fingernail-tap at his frosted-glass-windowed door. "Come on in, Chief," he called. Fitz came in, red-faced, a manila envelope in hand. "Ya gotta see this," Fitz mumbled through a broadening grin. Linn raised an eyebrow. Somehow he had the general feeling Fitz was going to pull the rug right out from underfoot. "I let Shelly and Dana use my office for a conference the other day," Fitz admitted, "and there was a ... magazine ... I'd forgot about, was still open on my desk." "A magazine." "They kind of pulled my leg about it and I told Dana she'd never give me any bikini shots and I felt kind of left out, she she gave me one." "She gave you one." "Yep. She's wearin' ... well, see for yourself." Linn took the proffered 8 x 10 with an uncertain expression, looked at it, blinked, looked at the Chief, looked back at the picture. Two men looked at one another and laughed. The Sheriff was holding a color photo of a two-year-old little girl in a two piece swimsuit, standing in a pair of her Mommy's much-too-big high heels.
  21. BENEFIT Esther Keller watched as her husband trimmed up the wick, carefully topped off the lantern, lit it, turned the wick down to keep it from smoking up. Linn looked at his wife with an expression that revealed both his unhappiness, and his unwillingness to express it to his wife. "Jacob?" she asked quietly. Linn nodded, his bottom jaw sliding out as he did. "Whither away?" "I don't know," Linn admitted, setting the lantern down and resting his fingertips on the tablecloth. "I don't want to go hell-a-tearin' out into the dark and miss him." Esther laid a hand on her husband's arm. "You know I can ride," she whispered. Linn gave his wife a hard and serious look, and his words were just as matter-of-fact as his expression. "Darlin'," he said, "you can ride like an Apache and you can get more out of a horse than most men." He set his teeth together and looked away, reluctantly letting her see the depths of his unhappiness. "I'll hang the lantern," he said. "It's all I can really do." Esther looked to the kitchen window, to icy half-snow, half-sleet that rattled against the single-thickness, wavy-glass pane, and shivered a little. It was near full dark now, and their son was out in the storm, and they had no idea where. Jacob Keller labored steadily, cutting slash and brush and dragging it back to where his Pa showed him a man could shelter. Jacob was out on business and time got away from him. He'd thought to short cut across what he thought was shallow water, froze over: it was cold enough, long enough, it ought to hold up a horse and rider -- hell, cold as it was, it ought to hold up a team and a wagon! -- but he didn't consider shallow water is swift water, and ice with snow on top was not frozen as deep as he'd hoped. Apple-horse went through the ice, just shy of boot top depth: the Appaloosa stallion fought free of the coldwater deathtrap, thrashed and fought his way back to thicker ice along the edges: Jacob turned him toward the cliffs nearby, remembering his Pa showing him shelter that set crossways of the prevailing wind -- "Over yonder there's one that faces the wind," he'd said, "it generally drifts full in the winter. Man tried to shelter there, he'd freeze plumb to death." Jacob got them into the narrow opening, to the still air deeper inside: it was near to full dark, and Jacob was obliged to strike flint and steel and make a tinder fire just to see where firewood was cribbed up for use. He set two fires, one against each wall, with Apple-horse between, and then he pulled out a clean, folded gunny sack and rubbed the stallion down, rubbed him dry, went back to build up the fires again. Apple had an ice-cut on one leg, and Jacob had some goose grease he carried for just such purposes, and slathered it on the carefully-edge-dried cut: Apple was not happy, but the unguent soothed the cut, and Jacob unsaddled the stallion and bade him stand. As Apple was between two welcome sources of heat, the steelshod stallion offered no objection to their shelter. Jacob went out into the snow, grimaced as ice-pellets rattled off his Stetson brim: not for the first time that day, he damned his stupidity in not wearing his fur cap. Jacob cut slash, brush and saplings, brought them to the entrance, laid them and crisscrossed them and made a catch for the snowfall, knowing snow would trap and bank up and shut off the wind, and the more wind he could stop, the better off he and Apple would be. They wouldn't be warm, but they'd not be as cold. A big, black, curly furred creature lay on his side on the hook rug, a little boy laid up against his spine, sound asleep, one arm over The Bear Killer's ribs: another lay between the bear sized beast's forepaws and hind legs, not quite cuddled against the big warm furry belly, but almost. Youthful family, one at a time, carefully picked up and carried off to bed: The Bear Killer sighed, warm and comfortable in front of the cast iron stove, at least until a man with a lantern opened the front door and stepped out on the front porch. The Bear Killer came out with him, scented the wind, looked up at the Sheriff, looked out through falling snow and into night-shadowed distance. Linn checked his watch, nodded. He knew how long the lantern would stay lit with a full reservoir. Jacob fed Apple-horse the sweet rolls, rubbed the stallion's neck, murmured his apologies he hadn't brought a feed bag, he honestly thought they'd be home before dark and it was his fault they weren't. The stallion apparently liked sweet rolls. Jacob boiled up some tea and fried some dead pig, he threw bread in the grease and fried that too: somehow food tasted better out on the trail, unless a man was obliged to live out on the trail, then a woman cooked meal tasted better than anything comin' or goin', and that for a fact. Jacob stretched out on one blanket, there on cold dry sand, covered up with another. Wisht I had The Bear Killer here. Come springtime, Jacob knew, spring rains would flood out this friendly shelter; wood ashes and charcoal would be washed away and gone, only smoke stains and red-burnt rock showing where a man set two fires when he was needful. He was awake with the sun, or what little sun squeezed through snow-heavy clouds. Jacob tore down his sheltering barrier, shook the components free of snow and dragged them in and stacked them up, knowing they'd provide firewood for the next man who had to shelter here: he ran diagnostic fingers down Apple-horse's legs, felt and watched for any sign of flinch when he came to the ice-cut. Once he had better light to see by, he realized the cut was without swelling or heat, and apparently without pain, other than probably some bruise-pain: Jacob saddled his stallion, threw a leg over the hurricane deck, and horse and rider emerged into the hushed, cold, still and sparkle-white world. This time they skirted the treachery of shallow water ice. There were tracks in the snow, in front of the two story, timber home, tracks of a single horse that rode up to the porch, and stopped. If a man were to look and wonder and consider what the rider might have found interesting enough to stop, he might notice a peg on the porch post ... a peg where a man might hang a lantern. When Jacob slogged from the barn to the house, when Jacob stopped on the clean-swept porch steps and kicked snow off his boots, he climbed to the top step and hesitated, then reached up and lifted off the wick-charred lantern. He stepped inside, hooked off his boots, set the lantern on its shelf where it was usually kept, and looked at his father, asleep in a chair. Jacob looked at the oil can beside the door, where a man might set his refill of coal oil was he to keep a lantern refueled outside. Jacob walked silently into the kitchen, smiling a little as his mother turned with a pleased expression. Jacob put his finger to his lips, then hugged his Mama. "You're cold," she whispered. "I'm hungry," he admitted, "but Pa looks wore out!" Esther blinked, bit her bottom lip. "He hung the lantern," Jacob said -- a statement, not a question. Esther nodded. Jacob turned, looked at the coffee pot and then at the hired girl. She poured him a mug of scalding-hot and he thanked her, turned to his Mama and murmured, "I'll be right back." Jacob walked back to the parlor and squatted beside his Pa. He laid a hand on the Sheriff's shoulder, carefully, squeezed just a little, released. Linn took a long breath, opened one eye. Jacob offered him the steaming mug and Linn leaned forward, twisted one way, turned the other, grimaced. "I hung the lantern," he said. Jacob handed him the mug of coffee. "You showed me where to shelter and said there was wood enough for a stay," Jacob said quietly, then grinned. "Sir, when you spoke, I listened, and it was of benefit."
  22. BAIRN "Sean?" Daisy's voice was quiet as she shot a green-eyed look at her hard-muscled husband. Sean Finnegan, the local Fire Chief, looked at his wife with a puzzled expression -- not that she called his name, that was not at all unusual, but the way she called his name. "Sean, I would speak t' th' Sheriff." Sean reached up, ran thick fingers into his Irish-red scalp thatching. "Daisymedear," he rumbled, "ye need not m' permission t' speak wi' th' Sheriff!" "Sean, he's a married man," Daisy fretted, "an' 'twould no' be proper --" Sean took his wife around the waist, drew her into him, careful not to interfere with her stir of the stewpot. "He's no' a married man, Daisymedear, he's th' Sheriff an' --" Sean stopped frowned -- Daisy didn't have to see her husband's face to know his brows crowded together, and she'd not need ears to know the man grunted -- he raised his hands, curved his fingers and began scratching his wife's back with long, carefully moderated strokes. Daisy arched her back a little with pleasure. "Finn MacCool," she groaned, "I'll gi'e ye a week t' stop that!" "Is it th' calendar then?" Sean asked, and Daisy stopped stirring, then started again. "Aye," she said quietly. "Daisy." Sean's lips fairly caressed her name as he spoke it. "Daisymedear, ye may speak wi' th' Sheriff whenever it pleases ye." Daisy shoved back against her husband, grabbed the oven door, pulled it open and reached in with a towel: she brought out two loaves of bread on a flat tin sheet, slid them onto a cooling rack, thrust the pan back into the heat-radiating oven and shut the door. A night and a day followed this exchange. Sheriff Linn Keller was most of the way from the Sheriff's Office to the firehouse, riding down the packed-dirt street on that fine big stallion of his, when Daisy came out the front doors of the Silver Jewel: she glared at the Sheriff's retreating backside, snapped her thumb joint, spat over her left elbow, stamped her right foot three times and crossed herself, then she whirled, seized the heavy door, pulled hard and stomped upstairs, wearing her ill temper like cloak. Daisy raised a knuckled hand to knock at the office door of the Z&W Railroad. She didn't get the chance. The door drew open quickly and Esther's amused eyes regarded her dear friend. "I knew you were coming," she said gently, and Daisy hesitated. "Then ye know why I'm here." "I bless you for remembering. Please, come in." Daisy swept in, sat heavily on the edge of the little cot Esther kept made up and ready: Daisy planted her elbows on her knees, dropped her face in her hands and growled quietly. Esther glided over to her, sat beside her, an arm around the Irishwoman's shoulders. "He's a deep one, he is," Daisy muttered as she lifted her face from her palms. "I know," Esther sighed. "Has he said a word about t'day?" "Only that he has business in Stone Creek." "Ah, the orphans, then." "Yes," Esther nodded. "That's ... his cousin?" Esther laughed quietly. "Yes," she nodded, and Daisy heard the smile in Esther's voice. "Damndest preacher ever did I see," Daisy whispered. "He's no' a Catholic but he'll kneel an' say th' Rosary wi' th' children that are." Esther nodded slowly, smiling a little at a memory. "He's goin' there because of ... t'day?" Daisy asked carefully. "He goes down at least every week since it's not far. Sometimes twice. He takes supplies, clothes, books, sometimes he hires a wagon." "He remembers what 'tis to lose his own young," Daisy said -- a statement, not a question. "Yes," Esther agreed. "He does." "That's why he goes t' th' orphanage." Esther made no reply; none was needed. Daisy looked over at her long time friend: "Does he e'er let ye in?" Esther dropped her eyes, bit her bottom lip: Daisy saw her fingers interlace, saw Esther's shoulders raise with a long breath, fall as she sighed it out. "Sometimes," she whispered. "I wished t' speak t' th' man," Daisy said quietly. "He has no need t' carry a'that himsel' --" Esther laughed silently, and the two women shared a knowing look. "I told him that," Esther said in a resigned voice, "and he said 'They're my ghosts to carry,' and that's all he'd say." Daisy spread her fingers, raised supplicating hands to Heaven above: "Ooooooh!" she snarled, "MEN!" -- then she and Esther looked at one another, and embraced, leaned their foreheads together, and laughed. Sheriff Linn Keller extended his hand. "Parson." Reverend Linn Keller returned the lawman's grip. "Sheriff." Willing hands were unloading the wagon: Linn handed his ecclesiastical cousin a sack -- "Coffee, and jarred-up fruit. I know your wife favors 'em for pies." Cousin Linn took the prized gunny sack, handed it off to a trusted adjutant, looked back at Cousin Linn the lawman. "You look troubled." Linn nodded. "Dark anniversary." Comprehension flowed into the preacher's eyes and he nodded. "How can I help?" "Some coffee, if you have it." A grinning little boy looked up at the Sheriff. Sheriff Linn Keller screwed one eye shut and bent down to look closely at the lad's face, then he opened that eye and squinted the other one shut: he squatted, motioned the lad closer, leaned his head down and murmured, "You'd best be careful, son. Some scoundrel done slud up close an' stole one o' your teeth!" The delighted little boy giggled and looked at the Parson, then back to the Sheriff. "Now them rascals that makes off with teeth, they'll throw the Hoo Doo magic spell on 'em and them teeth'll hop around under the full moon just lookin' for someone t' bite," the Sheriff added, "only they ain't got a jaw for power so all they c'n do is kind of bounce off." He winked and gave the laughing little boy a solemn nod, then rose and looked innocently at his cousin, who shook his head and chuckled, then turned and led the way toward coffee that hadn't been drunk yet. Next day, when Daisy brought Esther's tea as she did every afternoon, Esther was red-faced and smiling: Daisy set the tea tray on a table, turned, planted her knuckles on her apron and hissed, "Out wi' it now, I know that look! Ev'ry juicy detail, an' don't be leavin' a thing out!" Esther took Daisy's hands, leaned her head close and whispered, "You remember we adopted a little boy and a little girl, and you warned me that bringin' a bairn into the household would cause pregnancy!" Daisy's eyes widened, she pulled back, looked at Esther's waist, clapped her hands to her mouth. Two women held hands and jumped up and down on their toes like a pair of excited little girls. Directly below them, a great, broad-shouldered Irishman's eyes narrowed, his grin broadened, and he nearly drove the Sheriff face first into the floor with a congratulatory slap between the shoulder blades. Sheriff Linn Keller did not have to buy a single drink the rest of the night.
  23. Looking forward to your After Action Report!
  24. Charlie, that's how Parkersburg drilling rigs came: the cast iron parts were freighted in and most of the rig was made on-site. Hubs, axles and other metal parts were in the shipment but most of it was timber and powered either with steam, or later, with (most commonly) a Buffalo one cylinder, stationary Diesel engine.
  25. First, a woman's purse is indeed a quantum black hole -- Blackwater spake truly indeed! -- I told my wife I was afraid if I reached in to get whatever it was she wanted, something in there would grab me, yank me in, lump me up and kick me out and I still wouldn't find it! Second, my father told me of a contemporary who, as a young man, detail disassembled an original .44 rimfire Henry rifle. His Mama threw a cleaning fit and took the cigar box of parts and threw them into the sulfur crick behind the house. During a flood. When she was given to understand the dollar value of what she'd done, she looked like she wished she could crawl under the linoleum and slink off.
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