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Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

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Everything posted by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

  1. Amigos pistoleros, a lesson came back and smacked me a second time. I give it to you to use as you will. First time it belted me: I'd done the funeral for my best friend: Brother Beymer had been fire chief for a quarter of a century, and he was borne from hearse to hole by brother firefighters in their class As. When I said the final words over my best friend's box, with salt water still on my cheeks, the chief shook my hand and thanked me, then he said "You may not remember me. My name is Heath Beal." I remembered him. I remembered little Heathie Beal, who rode a shining red bicycle and just admired the hell out of our fire department. He continued and said -- and herein lies the lesson -- "I became a fire paramedic because of what I saw in you." Second lesson: My niece is attending Marietta College, studying art: she is a gifted artist, and recently illustrated a newly published children's book: Alex Plays Ball, by Jayden Allen (Author), Carly Keller (Illustrator) Her father asked me to get them a calligraphy set -- she was most impressed by my calligraphic skills, and immediately outstripped my efforts -- I published three books -- now she herself can see her work in print. My friends, herein lies the lesson: As we lead, so shall someone follow. Every word we say, or say not, is heard, and lessons are thereby taught: everything we do, or do not, is seen, and lessons are thereby taught. For good or for ill, set ye therefore a good example! (Now I'm worried. I'm windy as a sack full of politicians! What kind of a sorry example am I setting there?)
  2. WORD TRAVELS FAST Jacob Keller had never been glad handed, back slapped or congratulated as much in his entire young life. Jacob was acting Sheriff during his sister's ambassadorial absences: he was accepted as Sheriff, both because of his pale eyes, his six point star, his skill at reducing the lawless to a more peaceful posture, and especially because he practiced his sister's unfailing fairness when coming into a dispute. Jacob was also a new father. Births on the Mars colony were a reason for celebration, and Jacob accepted a short swig of celebratory beer when offered: he begged off the entire proffered volume, as he was working, but he winked and said it would be impolite to just turn them down, y'see, his Mama worked hard to beat some manners into him -- hak-kaff! Har-rumph! -- that is, his Mama worked hard to teach him good manners! -- his grin and his wink and his line of bull turned the trick, no feelings were bruised, and he remained sober as the old Judge. Marnie sat with a colonist in an isolated tunnel, leaned forward and listening closely. The man lost his wife when the alien raiders tried to destroy their colony; they'd married after a year on Mars, and they'd been what Marnie thought of as a "Cute Couple" -- he'd been devastated, crushed, when she died of catastrophic decompression, and now -- now, at Christmas -- memories came to surface that brought him sorrow, and Marnie sat with him, and let him talk. Jacob was inclined to pack his baby boy around in a picnic basket to show him off, but he admitted he'd have to fit his wife into the basket as well, as the lad had a good appetite, and besides he was enjoying some time off. Truth be told, Marnie was enjoying getting back to being Sheriff. Jacob never knew exactly what Marnie said to that fellow in the isolated mining tunnel. He suspected that the two of them walked out of the tunnel and were safely behind the force-wall before the rotary cutters activated, slicing ore free with beams from the Ripper projectors, and he had the suspicion that the man she'd been talking with, intended to join his wife -- in the only way he could, as there were too many safeguards on body sized Rippers used for funeral purposes. Later that day, Ruth, looking ladylike and motherly in a proper gown, their son in an open bottom flannel sleeper, received callers for the first time since birthing their first child: the women of the colony converged, and Jacob stayed away, figuring it would be a good way for his wife to know more of the women. Jacob knew what it was to be a stranger in a strange land, and he wished not for his wife to feel isolated. Will Keller pulled the flat box out of the closet, smiled a little, then puffed his breath at the lid, dislodging a light cloud of dust. He'd put this away against the time when it would come in handy. He carried it to his kitchen table, set it down, looked up at the shave-and-a-haircut knock on his front door. He opened the door, stepped back to let Angela skip in, looking young and fresh and beautiful as a blooming rose after a light spring shower. Will hugged his niece and she hugged him back, giggling, then she kissed him on the cheek. "You spoke of a conspiracy!" she smiled, and Will motioned her to a seat. He waited until Angela smoothed her skirt under her, crossed her ankles under the chair, tilted her head a little and looked at the slot cars illustrated on the lid of the cardboard box. "I bought this years ago," Will said. Angela regarded him with bright-blue, innocent-wide eyes. "I bought one set and set it up on my living room floor," Will explained, "but it wasn't fast enough for my grandsons, so I took it back. I traded for this one." "And is this one fast enough?" "It is," he grinned. "I tried it out." "Which of the grandsons did you get it for?" "The one that will never be," Will said, his voice suddenly serious. "You know my son was killed in an undercover operation." "I remember." "I just put this away and forgot about it." His voice softened. "Crystal laughed at me ... I've got a picture somewhere ... I'm down on my Prayer Bones on the living room floor in a wife beater and opera slippers, running slot cars like a happy kid." "I see." "I'll never have sons, or grandsons." He looked at Angela and smiled, just a little. "I hear Jacob is a Daddy." Angela laughed. "I can only imagine how he'll panic at the first colic or when his little boy starts teething!" "He'll do all right," Will said, waving a dismissive hand. He looked at his niece, all girly and feminine in a red dress with white lace trim. "I'm not supposed to know about your clandestine trips to Mars." He looked very directly at the lovely young woman across the kitchen table from him, and for a moment, he wondered how the laughing, giggly little girl he knew, became a woman so fast. "If you could have this delivered to Jacob, I would be very much obliged." "How did you know about Jacob's baby, Uncle Will?" Chief of Police Will Keller laughed, leaned forward a little. "This is a small town," he said quietly. "Word travels fast."
  3. MERRY CHRISTMAS, GRAMPA Two uniformed badge packers dismounted in the stable behind the Sheriff's Office. Two saddlehorses were unsaddled, grained, fooled with: the Sheriff punched a code into the keypad, opened the back door. Two pale eyed enforcers filed into the break room right at shift change. The Sheriff knew his people. He knew his men, he knew their families, he knew their kids ... hell, he knew their dogs, and their dogs knew him. "You, and you," he said, pointing with a knife hand. "Go home. You've got families, we've got your shift, you're getting paid." Two deputies looked at one another, looked at the Sheriff and his flanker. "You've got family too, Boss," one said. Linn smiled, just a little, looked at Angela on his left, trim and feminine in her Sheriff's uniform and boots. "I have," he said, "but your young are ..." -- he smiled, just a little, the smile of a man who remembered what Christmas was when his children were much younger -- "your young need your memories, and you need theirs." Two deputies expressed their thanks. It was not unusual for the Sheriff to take a road deputy's slot at Christmas, especially a road deputy that had young children at home: this year, he relieved three at once. Back on Mars, Marnie wore her familiar white skinsuit with the six point star embossed over the left breast, she wore her Uncle's blued Smith & Wesson in a carved gunbelt and holster, and she wore an embossed spray of holly above the gold Sheriff's star. She'd divested herself of a diplomat's more formal attire and resumed her original duty, to allow her brother and his wife their Christmas together. Ruth was not as active as she had been: she made good friends with her rocking chair now that she was big and pregnant -- "I look like a melon on a knitting needle," she complained, and when Jacob told her his sister was going to cover for him, so they could have the evening together, she smiled and asked her husband to thank his sister for her. Angela stopped in at the All-Night to fill her thermos. There were a few customers, most in a hurry to pick up some last-minute item that would be an ABSOLUTE CRISIS if they didn't get it -- milk or batteries or something of the kind -- Angela emptied one coffee pot, added a little from the fresh, stepped to the side as the clerk made a fresh pot. Angela added a squirt of honey, a stream of milk, looked around: she smiled at the clerk and said, "I was wondering where I put the vanilla, until I remembered I'm not at home!" -- she capped her thermos carefully, screwed the stainless cup down over the stopper, turned it over and shook it a little, then returned it to upright and packed it over to the register. The clerk looked at the scarred, dented, green-painted container and laughed a little as Angela handed her shekels enough to cover the cost: "I just now noticed someone wrote 'Gas Tank' on the side." Angela smiled a little. "Truth in advertising," she said. "Fill my tank and I can run all night!" The Bear Killer filled the passenger front seat of the Sheriff's cruiser. He headed for the far corner of the county: from here, he could respond to a third of his jurisdiction; Angela, he knew, would be at the opposite corner, and with their encyclopedic knowledge of their bailiwick, he had every confidence they could cover any location. Fitz tripped when he came out of the passenger side of their first-out pumper, went face first into a nice friendly pile of snow: he came to his feet, blowing, swatting cold crystals from his turnout coat, biting back his usual language: he knew the sight of a pumper, pulling up in front of a house, was unusual -- they weren't running their emergency lights, but something that big and that red tends to draw attention, and sure enough, young noses and splayed fingers were pressed against windowpanes, young breath fogged the cold glass as three of their Irish Brigade ran for the door. All wore firecoats, fireboots, bunker pants and helmets, all wore a broad grin, the two following their white-helmeted Chief each had a sack over his shoulder. Fitz raised a gloved hand to beat on the door and it opened before he could strike, leaving him waving his glove against the empty air: he frowned a little, drew back his knocking fist and glared at it, then looked at the curious husband and wife and two barefoot children in flannel jammies looking at him like he had a fish sticking out of his shirt pocket. Fitz stepped aside and the other two crowded inside, went into the living room, set down their sacks, ran back outside and ran for the apparatus. "Santa's short handed this year," Fitz declared happily, "ye'll have to sort through that lot yourself!" -- then he too turned, legged it for the pumper: the children ran for the sacks, their mother following, and the young father raised a hand in thanks, realizing he'd not spoken his thanks, so surprised had he been. Loot in the sacks was wrapped and labeled: gifts were stacked under the sparsely-populated tree, and the father opened an envelope with his name on it, and a hand-drawn spray of holly in one corner. He unfolded the single page, read the neat, feminine script. I have been where you are now. Things will get better. He considered the sheaf of fifty dollar bills folded into the letter, his stomach unwinding a little: he'd been laid off a month before, and Christmas had been looking terribly lean. The letter was signed, Santa, and he carefully refolded the single page, slipped it back into its envelope. He looked at his wife, blinked a few times, swallowed. "It's Crif-thas Eve," their little boy said hopefully. "Can we open one?" Linn eased his cruiser to a stop, stepped out onto the roadway. No vehicles to the horizon from either direction. Linn looked up, smiled a little as he considered the stars. "Which one of you fellows," he said softly, "led those Wise Guys to Bethlehem?" As if in reply, a meteor blazed silver through the atmosphere, flared, died. Angela pulled up in front of a house, talked to her microphone, came out of her unit, shotgun in hand. Like generations of badge packers before her, she had a profound fondness for her shotgun. She looked at the roof, looked at the individual crouched, afraid to move. "My ladder fell," he called, and Angela looked, saw an aluminum extension ladder laying on the ground. "Stand fast," she said. "Where did you have it set up?" "Here, below this chimney." Angela slung her shotgun muzzle down from her left shoulder: she lifted the dogs, collapsed the ladder, then she picked it up, carried it a little from the house, planted its feet and walked it upright: a little more effort and she had it extended, the dogs clattering loudly as they dropped over each rung. "Can you come down peacefully?" Angela called. "I can get help if you need it." A leg came over top of the ladder, found a rung: it was followed by the rest of the rooftop adventurer, and Angela footed the ladder, steadying it as the kid descended. Angela seized the scruff of his neck as he tried to duck away. "Wait a minute," she said quietly. "What were you doing up there?" -- she turned him, looked at his face. "Jimmy," she scolded, "what were you up to?" "I wanted to stomp around and holler 'Ho, ho, ho' down the chimney," he admitted shamefacedly, "and I slipped when I got up there and kicked the ladder and --" "Did you holler 'Ho, ho, ho' down the chimney?" Angela asked "Yeah," Jimmy said in a discouraged voice. Angela heard a door open, saw someone come around the corner. She stepped into the light falling from a window: "Jimmy was making sure you didn't have an intruder," she declared loudly, knowing there were young faces regarding them through the window. "When the reindeer launched for the next house, they didn't get altitude fast enough and the sleigh knocked the ladder down." Angela gave the father a challenging glare, as if to dare him to dispute her account. "I'll leave it to you two to lower the ladder." Angela raised an eyebrow. "Anything else for us tonight?" "How do I explain to the kids that Santa didn't leave anything?" Angela smiled. "He works in secret so nobody sees what or how he does it. Jimmy surprised him and Santa took out to keep his proprietary methods secret. Don't worry" -- she looked up, smiled at the children behind the window -- "he'll be back!" Jacob's head came up as his wife stood, one hand on her belly, as she looked at him with a mixture of fear and wonder on her face. "Jacob," she quavered, "it's time!" Jacob came over, took her hand, ran his other arm around her waist: "Can you make it to the infirmary?" Ruth nodded, breathing deeply: "Women of my line deliver quickly," she said, her voice strained. Jacob stopped, turned, hit the comm button. "Infirmary, this is the Sheriff." "Infirmary." "Mary is in labor." "We'll be ready." Jacob picked his wife up, rolled her into him, strode for the doorway: the plast door hissed open, Jacob stepped through, his long-legged stride carrying them at a good velocity toward the nearby infirmary. "I remember when you carried me like this," Ruth groaned. "Our honeymoon?" "Yes." "And here's me carryin' you because of the honeymoon." Ruth's breath hissed in between clenched teeth, and Jacob kicked the infirmary door three times before it opened. It's not that the infirmary door was slow opening, it's that he was reacting like a man whose wife was in labor. Linn followed the speeding vehicle, close enough to observe it, far enough not to crowd it: he eased up closer, until he could read the plate, until he got the report back, until he knew who it was. Linn dropped off the throttle, allowed a long time resident to finish his trip home, rushing to get there while it was still Christmas Eve. He followed long enough to make sure his resident made it safely home, then sailed right on past. The sun came up, two Sheriff's cruisers backed into marked areas on the Fire Department's apron. Two tired, pale eyed badge packers went inside. The Sheriff's family was there, waiting; the firehouse smelled delightfully of bacon and eggs, toast and coffee, the Irish Brigade greeted one another and their visitors cheerfully, and all hands sat down to a good breakfast. At least most of them did. Linn sat beside Shelly, looked at her, smiled a little. "You do look good first thing in the morning," he said, squeezing her hand just a little, and his phone rang. "Sheriff, I have a message relay from Mars," Sharon said. Linn pulled out a pocket notebook, flipped it open, clicked his pen and prepared to copy traffic. "Ready." "Merry Christmas, Grampa."
  4. I've seen horses pull some truly impressive loads. I understand reindeer are used like draft horses in certain snowy Scandinavian countries. Harness eight-plus-one up and give 'em room to run, and I doubt me not they could drag something heavy as a jet ... but to achieve takeoff speed ... THAT'S IMPRESSIVE!!!
  5. I regard twirling spaghetti on a spoon the same as I regard those truly gifted souls who can back a trailer. I can back a straight frame through the eye of a needle, but hitch a hay baler on the back of an 8N Ford farm tractor, and I can't back it to save my sorry backside. Same with twirling spaghetti. I've seen it done, I've tried it, I gave it up for a bad job!
  6. As if you haven't guessed already, I am an unmitigated nerd ... this one struck my fancy as well!
  7. (insert distressed expression here!) That hurts to think about!
  8. DO US A FLAVOR "I thought you'd be back in your office." "This time of year?" Linn smiled grimly. "It might look like I'm hidin'. Not about to do that." "What about the wreck earlier?" Linn sighed, shifted his two-hand embrace on that nice warm coffee mug. His fingers were chilled, he already had one joint going to arthritis and it felt like a couple more might be following their bad example: he considered, smiled just a little, took a noisy slurp of coffee, nodded. "Bruce," he said tiredly, "a friend of mine called this the Silly Season." "Oh?" Bruce Jones, editor, reporter, photographer and chief broom pusher for the weekly Firelands Gazette, sat when the Sheriff did: their chairs were close, they sat almost knee-to-knee, the newspaperman leaned forward, clearly interested. "He was a fire captain back East, well up into the Yankee North. City fire department. We compared notes on the seasonal lunacy this time of year and when he called this the Silly Season, I allowed as I called it something less kindly, and he laughed and said that's why he called it what he did, elsewise he'd profane the air blue." "Ah." Bruce frowned. "What about the wreck earlier?" "Seasonal impatience," Linn replied frankly. "That's the fancy term for it. Truth? Seasonal stupidity." "That doesn't sound very charitable." "I've seen too much of it." "You were still able to get an angry driver to laugh." Linn nodded slowly, then smiled, just a little, that quiet smile he only shared with family, and with his closest friends. "Which part you talkin' about?" he murmured. "The part where..." "Where you threatened to dunk his backside in the nearest horse trough, and the rest of him will be goin' along for the ride!" Linn laughed, just a little, nodded again: he took a drink, frowned into his empty coffee mug. "Hole in the damned thing," he complained, then looked up at Bruce. "This time of year we get domestics, we get family fights, we get knock down drag out hell raisin' brawls and when all's settled, why, Christmas trees get knocked over, Grandma's antique ornaments broken, presents trampled, kids are cryin', parents are being dragged off in irons and the whole world's gone sour." "You sound just awfully cynical." "I've seen too much." Linn handed his mug off to his dispatcher, who came over to discreetly relieve her boss of the empty implement: she rinsed it, set it in the drain rack, returned to her front desk. "Last year it was the South Plains fire. Fitz was about ready to cry when he told me how he walked through what was left of a burnt out living room, once the fire was out. He talked about a stack of black toothpicks that used to be a Christmas tree, and how he scuffed his fireboot through the ashes and turned up a few bright scraps of unburnt wrapping paper." "Christmas Eve last year." "The same." "They saved the house." "They did. A good save, but ... " Linn's voice trailed off and he looked past Bruce, his pale eyes seeing memories that rose from their graves, and Bruce was reminded yet again of Linn's observation that no matter how deep you bury some ghosts, they still come philtering up out of their grave to say hello, no matter how many rocks you pile on top to try and hold 'em in. "The horse trough," Bruce said, breaking the spell. Linn blinked, looked at his old friend. "I'm sorry. What was the question again?" "The wreck on Main Street." "Oh. Yeah." Linn rubbed his hands thoughtfully together. "Fender bender, nothing serious, enough to bust open all the frustrations one fellow had. He was jumpin' up and down stiff legged just a-raisin' hell and I grabbed his shoulder and allowed as he could calm himself down or I'd introduce his sorry backside to the nearest horse trough and give him his Saturday night bath early." Bruce wasn't near enough to hear what Linn said to the man, all he saw was Linn gripping the man's shoulder and speaking to him with a serious face, and then both motorist and pale eyed Sheriff laughed, and Bruce knew there was more to the story. "Y'see, when I told him about the horse trough, he allowed as they were drained for the winter, and I said he'd have to stand there and watch it fill, knowin' full well that God and everybody would be watchin' him as it did, and soon as it was deep enough, why, I'd take him by the scruff of the neck and slosh him around in that cold water like two oysters in a Bull Durham sack bein' drug through a wash boiler of boilin' milk to make oyster stew. "I was hopin' to tickle his funny bone. "Could I but get him to laugh, I figured his aggravation would crumble and run like dry sand down his pants leg and be gone, and I was right. "I talked to him some more and told him he'd paid that insurance company for years and it was high time he got some money back from 'em. The other vehicle had two scratches on the bumper, that was all, and I told him about watchin' Mike Hall drill a couple holes in a car's door dent, run a coat hanger through it and pop the dent out -- then I looked him in the eye just as solemn as the old Judge and said 'Sounds easy when you say it fast.' " "What did he say?" "It took him a while but I got him calmed down, but I'll tell you honest" -- Linn smiled with half his mouth -- "I genuinely slickered and soft soaped him like a used car salesman!" Bruce laughed, nodded. "You're good at that!" "Saves hurt feelin's." "And knuckles." "That too." Linn looked up. "Wonder if you could do us a flavor." "I can try." Linn rose, walked over to the coffee pot, picked up a string-tied box, handed it to Bruce. "The bakery give us a whole box of cookies for Merry Ho Ho. Wonder if you could eat those up for us so we don't get fat." Bruce smiled, nodded, accepted the white-cardboard box with its fragrant, fresh payload. "I think I can do that."
  9. ANGEL ONE: HOGJAWS! Angela thumbed the release on her lap belt, almost ran up the short, narrow aisle into the cockpit. She dropped hard into the copilot's seat -- this was supposed to be a milk run, a shuttle run to Earth and back, just the pilot and the one passenger -- but when Angela saw a car below lose it on a road she knew well, when she saw the car hit the ditch and flip once, land on its wheels and bend in the middle when it slammed side-on into a rock well bigger than the car, she charged the cockpit, dropped into the empty copilot's seat, looked at the surprised young man doing the driving and spoke her mind. She saw a young man in Confederate grey, with the red piping and shoulder-boards of their air wing, grin, and she recognized the grin. She'd seen it on her own Daddy's face, when he was about to do something fast, vigorous and very impolite, and she'd seen the same grin on her brother Jacob's face, at the moment he realized he could cheerfully turn his badger loose on someone who really, really deserved it. Her Confederate pilot knew if his high-ranking passenger assumed the copilot's seat, something was about to hit the fan, and he was going to be right in the middle of it. Diplomatic shuttles were designed to work with gravity fields. Diplomatic shuttles were designed to run silently, unobtrusively, silently, invisibly, and very stealthily; they were designed to give a perambulator grade ride to their high ranking passengers, and most times, they did. Unless, of course, it was necessary to do otherwise. In those cases, the diplomatic shuttles were both armored, and armed, and had capacities a casual observer would not appreciate by simply looking at an oblong box with a flat chisel nose... like wings and control surfaces that could be deployed for flight in-atmosphere. "Belt in," the pilot said: his hands did an intricate dance as an auxiliary control panel hummed from its recess under the regular flight control panel, as a set of rudder pedals rose from the deck underfoot, as he traded the touch screen and neural link for his first love, a throttle and a stick, flaps and rudder, controls with which he'd practiced ten times ten thousand times, waiting -- just waiting -- for the day when he would have to fly an urgent mission, in atmosphere, instead of through vacuum. Angela grabbed the shoulder belts, hauled them down, drove them into the central buckle: she seized the lap belts, pulled them up as well, thrust them mercilessly into the circular buckle with the big red release button in the middle. A set of headphones deployed automatically, clamped over her ears, her peripheral vision picked up the boom microphone that extended to the corner of her mouth. Angela's stomach felt like it dropped two football fields as the pilot stood the shuttle on its wing, as he came about, as Angela looked out the side of the suddenly-transparent cockpit. "Set me down as close as you can," she said, her voice calm, but carrying the unmistakable authority of someone used to giving orders. "Yes, ma'am," the pilot said: the shuttle shot off to the north, turned, leveled, came in, slowing: wings retracted, as did rudder and rear stabilizer, landing gear thumped and whined as they were lowered, locked. Angela reached for a panel, keyed in a command, spoke. "Firelands Dispatch, this is Angel One. Need fire rescue and S.O. two miles west of town, one car off the road, partial rollover." Captain Crane looked up from his inventory of the drug box. Opposite the drug box, Shelly looked up, locked eyes with her father. The scanner normally ran 24/7, its feed piped through the entire firehouse: it was a background, it was never terribly loud, and the Irish Brigade developed the knack of conversation and work details while still listening, still comprehending anything that came over the scanner. When another agency reported they were needed, they responded, ready and generally in motion before they were called by the Sheriff's dispatcher -- not always, but most of the time. Father and daughter felt the immediate physiologic response of their kidney-mounted adrenaline pumps screaming into full wartime emergency. Whether it was the no-nonsense words that were used, whether it was the familiar voice framing those dread syllables, father and daughter knew with absolutely no doubt whatsoever that THIS NO DRILL, BOOTS AND SADDLES, GENERAL QUARTERS, and before Fitz could begin shouting for the Irish Brigade to turn out, ye lot, or I'll have yer guts for garters, men were running for fireboots and helmets, bunker pants and firecoats, Nomex hoods and heavy leather, Nomex-lined gloves: Captain Crane ripped the shoreline from its spring-covered receptacle on the rear of the squad, he and Shelly shoved the drug box into the back of the squad, slammed the rear doors, dove into the cab, hit the garage door opener and prepared for takeoff. The moment the first battery came on-line, their radio lit up, and with it, the followup message: Sharon, in the Sheriff's office, leaned over a little, then lifted the tips of three fingers before they could press the grey plastic transmit bar on her desk mic. Dispatcher, medics, Chief and firemen heard Angela's voice transmit a followup from the passenger seat of a boxy silver shuttle with a flat chisel nose. "FIRELANDS, THIS IS ANGEL ONE. HOGJAWS, HOGJAWS, HOGJAWS!" The squad was first out -- an Omaha-Orange-and-White, lights-and-siren, Diesel-powered torpedo, launched from a tall, narrow, hand-laid brick torpedo tube: the other three bays were all one-story, side by side, a new addition: the squad lived in the old horse house, tall and narrow, to accommodate the original hose drying tower and the horses' stables, where -- back in the day -- horsecollars and harness slept, suspended over three matched white mares, waiting for signal to be dropped into place and cinched up. Fireboots were heavy on Diesel throttles as turbochargers whistled, ramming compressed air into Diesel cylinders, as men were pressed back into their seats, as the rescue and the first-out pumper roared smoky defiance from polished chrome exhausts. Two of the Irish Brigade crossed themselves: eyes closed, they reviewed the assembly procedure for their Hogjaws, their hydraulic, high-pressure, car-ripping tool that could shear, or spread, or do any of several unkind things to automotive structures. Their Hogjaws ran off the rig's hydraulic system instead of a separate engine and pump -- though this was available, in case a situation was too far from the rig to be handled by their good length of twin hydraulic hoses. "FIRELANDS FIRE DEPARTMENT, ANGEL ONE ADVISES TWO TRAPPED, NEAR ROADWAY, PULL TWO LINES UPON ARRIVAL." Fitz reached for the mic just ahead of his left hand. "Dispatch, roll Tank One." "FIRELANDS FIRE DEPARTMENT SECOND CREW, ROLL TANKER, SAME LOCATION." Angela adjusted her belt box, felt the force field tighten against her skin, pressing her white nurse's uniform firmly against her: she knew her white winged cap would be protected, that she could drive her head into the side of a car and know the white wings of her nurse's cap would punch through the sheet metal, and she wouldn't even get a headache. She had no wish to do anything of the kind. All she wanted was to be armored, so she could make entry into the car without getting burned, cut or otherwise damaged. She ran for the car, twisted into its interior, grateful for the years she'd spent horseback, keeping her maidenly waist trim: no way a grown man could have slithered into this twisted mess, she thought. "Captain." "Yes, ma'am." "Patch me through, short-range, to the first-in vehicle when they arrive." "Roger that, ma'am." "Firelands, Squad One and Rescue One on scene." "I roger your arrival, advise further." "Firelands, Pump One on scene, break, break. Tanker One, come in behind and lay into the pumper, break, break. Firelands, Chief One, request Carbon Hill stand by for water shuttle." "Roger pump one arrival and toning out Carbon Hill now." Hose sizzled from the twin Mattydale crosslays, men with woven-canvas lances couched under fire-coated arms charged the smoking wreck, set up on either side: they heard the pump begin its rising white, heard the German Irishman roar "WATER COMIN' AT'CHA!" and nozzles hissed as trapped air was released, as water sprayed in broad fans from the preset fan setting, as nozzles were gated shut. Chief, two medics and two rescuemen assessed the situation: hydraulic lines were coupled, connections checked, valves opened: the rescue's Diesel throttled up slightly, then back down, in response to the change in hydraulic pressure, then throttled up again as steel jaws were driven into a gap, sheet metal groaned like a condemned soul as it was pried apart: men worked with chains, blocks, skill and the results of practice and practice and practice again, and the car was disassembled from around its victims, in a brutal, efficient and most effective manner. A scared set of little blue eyes regarded a bright set of Arizona-blue eyes. "My legs hurt," she complained. "Hold still, honey," the woman with the funny wingy hat said. "Let's take a look, shall we?" She looked up as an ambulance made a fast stop at the road's shoulder: in her ear, she heard her pilot's words, "Ma'am, first in is arriving, you're live." "Squad One, Angel One, one female child trapped back seat, leg under front seat, unknown whether distal pulse, conscious and talking. "Mother trapped front seat, strong regular pulse and spontaneous respirations, does not respond to verbal stimuli." Angela looked back to the scared, hurting little girl in the back seat, turned, caressed the child's cheek with the backs of her fingers. "Are you an angel?" the little girl asked, and Angela bit her bottom lip, hard, as she recognized the pain but the hopefulness in the child's voice. She'd heard her own voice sound just like that, when she was hurt, when she was this little girl's size, back in New York. Angela reached up -- her fingers had eyes -- she pulled the back off the holly pin on the tip of one of her nurse's cap's wing tip -- she pressed the pin through the collar of the child's blouse, pressed the pin's back firmly in place. "There," she whispered. "More angels are coming, and you" -- she touched the tip of a delicate finger on the tip of a little girl's freckled nose -- "will be just fine!" Then she disappeared. Angela pulled back, twisting out of the way, knowing she was invisible, but not wanting to bump into anyone. She'd caused enough questions for one day. She watched as her Mama and her grandfather took over, as the car was impolitely disassembled from its two trapped victims: she drew back to the shuttle, climbed inside, returned to the co-pilot's seat, switched off her protective field. "You're invisible?" "It's policy, ma'am." "Good." She looked at her pilot. "I need a silent liftoff," she said, "and a stealthy landing not far from here." A little girl and her mother were treated for their several injuries in the emergency department. The child looked all the smaller for being transported on an adult-sized gurney. Her legs were splinted, wrapped, she had an IV in her arm, and she was trying hard not to cry. She'd insisted on keeping her blouse: it was scissored from her, but she clutched half of it in her free hand, and she looked at it every few minutes. When she was x-rayed, the radiologist made a comment about a holly shaped artifact apparently clutched in the patient's left hand, and when the x-ray technologist left the room to check films, a door opened and someone came in. A set of Arizona blue eyes smiled down at a little girl, whose little blue eyes widened and she breathed, "Angel!" "Your mother will be fine," she heard her Angel say in a quiet voice, and she felt her Angel's hands, warm and reassuring, on her own, and then her Angel disappeared. A moment later, a door opened, and closed, but nobody was seen entering, or leaving. That night, after a midnight shift nurse checked on mother and daughter, another nurse came in: she was well-known to the med-surg nurses, she was not scheduled, but she came on the ward with a smile and a bag of mixed miniature chocolates, to be donated to the wicker basket on the floor supervisor's short filing cabinet. Angela was in the habit of bringing chocolate when she worked a shift, and was therefore not just accepted, but well thought of by her fellow nurses: she came onto the ward in her whites, instead of scrubs, she slipped into a room, and after a few minutes, she slipped back out, smiling the way a woman will when she knows a secret. Curious, the nurse assigned to these two patients went into the room, but the only thing she could find was the scrap of scissored blouse in the sleeping little girl's hand, and a holly pin in the fabric. The midnight shift nurse's head came up, and she smiled in the dim light of the patient's room as she remembered what she'd seen as Angela poured foil-wrapped, miniature chocolates into the boss's wicker basket. Angela's white nursing cap had a holly pin on the tip of one wing, but not the other.
  10. MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE TANK Fitchie leaned his broom against the wall, sat in the ancient wooden chair, looked at the black-plastic microphone. He knew if anything went wrong, he could pick up the mic and speak into it, and a voice would speak back to him: the roundhouse was several miles away as the crow flew, but as near as the curly cord. He smiled a little, then rose and picked up the broom again. The Lady Esther was running in freezing weather. She may have fire in her heart, but she was a thirsty Lady, and his tank was a critical link in the Z&W's winter operation. Fitchie was one of a few who preferred to laager in at a tank, just stay there: he had a cot, a stove to cook on, he kept the bigger stove stoked, he monitored water levels and the pumps that kept it circulating: as long as the water was moving, as long as the insulating outer shell was intact, as long as there were no unexplained leaks, he knew he'd be able to slake the locomotives' thirst. Two steam engines, the inspection car, the steam crane: all ate coal and drank water, and their needs would not be denied, and he saw to it that when they wanted a drink, they could come and water at his faucet. There were two other tanks; they were not staffed, nor were they heated, though they could be: Fitchie could keep an eye on their levels, their internal temperature, the state of their pumps, from his station, and did: should a problem arise, he'd contact the roundhouse and they'd send a crew in one of the motor speeders to tend whatever needed looked at. When they were called out, Fitchie's habit was to wait at trackside with two insulated jugs of coffee for them, and more often than not, some cookies as well. These weren't necessary, but he knew they were welcome, and he knew that his hospitable habit was the reason each speeder had a stack of cups in one of the toolboxes. Fitchie liked tank duty. He'd been a railroader back East, he'd been an engineer on the secondary lines: when he first started, of course, he was just another hire and one of his first tasks was to help with a derailment's cleanup. He was wearing ankle high work shoes, which nearly everyone did -- steel toes, good solid construction -- but they didn't help any when one of the spilling cargoes was free-flowing, granular, caustic soda. He'd gotten some in a shoetop and the dry crystals abraded into his skin. Liquid caustic will burn and hurt but the dry caustic abrades in and burns ... painlessly. Half a century later, Fitchie still had an open sore the size of a silver dollar on one ankle, for a caustic burn of this type, never heals. He remembered when the Sheriff's wife Shelly drove up to their roundhouse looking for him, when she came in wearing her medic's uniform and she sat down with him in their breakroom and thanked him for telling her about dry caustic, and then her daughter Angela came in wearing that white nurse's uniform and looking very out of place in a dirty old railroad roundhouse -- and she thanked him as well. A little boy had a caustic burn on his hand, and had both Shelly and Angela not heard Fitchie talk about his own injury, they'd neither have recognized the dry-caustic burn for what it was, not would their hospital have been able to effectively treat the injury. Fitchie sat, alone, in the silence of Tank Seven's insulated pump room, and smiled at the memory. He looked at the big, old-fashioned gauges, then at the computer screen: pumps near and pumps far were running steadily, taking water from the bottom of the tanks and running it up the standpipe to the top, keeping it circulating: both tanks were insulated, both could be heated: there were no leaks -- his great fear was a leak, concealed by the insulation, that would require taking the tank down and welding a repair in cold weather. So far, thanks to regular inspections, that had never happened. He got up, picked up his binoculars, went out into the cold: he'd swept the fresh snow from the two steps, cleaned off the walkway to trackside: he stepped out over the first rail, stopped in the middle of the tracks: he raised his glasses and took a long, studying look to where the shining steel came around the far bend; he turned, looked in the opposite, satisfying himself that all was well, that there was neither fallen timber, landslide nor avalanche. He turned, squinted up at the ancient tank, well made in its day and still surprisingly solid: the outer, octagonal hull was the shell, he knew, with a thick layer of insulation, then the inner tank, lined with paraffin, and between the insulation and the inner tank, the gap through which his heater blew hot air to keep it from freezing. Fitchie knew the train ran regularly, even in winter weather: the pale eyed Willamina Keller, rest her soul, owned the railroad and now her heirs did, and they kept up enough business, hauling freight, ore, passengers, and in season, tourists -- to make it a profitable business. Probably not terribly profitable, he thought, but that was their business, not his. He was content to do this, in retirement. He'd started railroading when steam engines were just being phased out, and when the chance came to work on a rail line that still ran steam, why, he came out and looked the operation over, he liked what he saw, and he'd been there ever since. Fitchie went back inside, set his field glasses on the shelf, ran an experienced eye over shining brass housed gauges, looked suspiciously at the computer screen: satisfied all was well, he looked at the clock, nodded. An old retired railroader took off his shoes and lay down on the old familiar cot, he listened to the pumps whine, to the gas heater's deep rumble, and undisturbed by the thought of the many tons of water in the tank above him, closed his eyes and went to sleep. The Lady Esther came to an easy stop, the engineer bringing his train to a halt very precisely under the nozzle. He had a new fireman, Crosby, nice young fellow and curious as a Beagle dog: Crosby was eager but careful, and Bill waited while his beloved Lady's tank filled. Crosby swung the counterweighted nozzle back up, climbed back down into the cab, stopped, frowned. Bill looked curiously at the younger man as he pointed. "Bill, someone's swept snow off that sidewalk." Bill smiled, nodded. "Fitchie," he said. "Fitchie?" "Used to have an old retired railroader pretty much lived here. Widower he was. Heard tell he ran live steam back East. He helped design and build the insulation and the heater system to keep our two tanks from freezing in winter." "Be damned. Is he still here?" Bill considered his reply as he ran an experienced eye over his gauges, over the sight glass: he waited until Crosby picked up his shovel before answering. "I went in and found the man deader'n hell on that cot he used to sleep on. Ever since, we'll come through and sometimes we'll find the walk swept off like that -- but no tracks anywhere around, nothing disturbed. The Sheriff had motion sensors installed and they never went off. Cameras never caught anything inside, but if there's a problem and a speeder comes through with a work crew, why, sometimes there are two insulated jugs of fresh hot coffee and a sack of cookies waitin' for 'em." Bill smiled a little and added, "Every time that happens, why, I'll come out and check on the stores inside, I'll trade out the coffee to keep it fresh and I'll leave some fresh cookies." "You found him dead." "Yep." "Who swept off the walk, then?" Bill smiled. "Our Lady is hungry," he replied. "Best feed her." The fireman hooked open the firebox door, slung in a ringing shovelful of coal, and The Lady Esther began to move again.
  11. I read a recent comment, something to do with an awe-struck child regarding a folded road map excavated from the glovebox ... "You mean you navigated with paper maps ... like pirates?"
  12. NEED I turned cold eyes on the man and said, "When you speak, I listen without interruption. You'll do the same or you'll get your Saturday night bath a little early!" He made the mistake of blustering up and allowing as I'd do no such thing so once I kicked him and gut punched him, I fetched him off the ground by the throat and the crotch and I r'ared up and drove him down into the horse trough and I was not in the least little bit peaceful when I did. I knowed there was not but a skift of ice, not more'n a half inch or so, I'd checked earlier when I made sure the chunks we kept in the trough so she wouldn't freeze and bust, were still free enough to crowd up and relieve the pressure. I throwed him in and I skipped back a couple of steps and I let him bubble and waller and snort and I looked at the fellow he'd been disputin' with and said "Now that he's gettin' that hot temper cooled off, why don't you tell me what really happened." I talked to him and Jackson Cooper grabbed the other fellow by his soaky wet shirt front and hauled him the rest of the way out of the horse trough and inquired what did I want to do with this one and I said hell, you're Marshal, it's your town, so Jackson Cooper brought the man the rest of the way out of the horse trough and fetched him up real close so he could hear good -- Jackson Cooper was a big man, hell, he's a head taller'n me and I am reckoned a tall man -- and Jackson Cooper is wider acrost the shoulders by maybe half a cubit and I don't think there's much on this earth the man couldn't walk up to, and pick up, and walk off with, had he a mind. Now a granite mountain might be a problem, it'd be hard to get a good enough grip to fetch it out by its roots but if anyone could do it I reckon it would be him. Anyway Jackson Cooper, he hauled attair fella drippin' and shiverin' and hollerin' across the street and into the calabozo and I reckoned His Honor the Judge would address the matter right here directly. Now after I spoke with that other fellow, who was right reasonable, and I spoke with what witnesses we could rat up, I figured out the straight of it and me and Jackson Cooper we had us a talk for I dislike treading upon another man's jurisdiction, and Jackson Cooper he laughed and allowed as he warn't in the least bit troubled, he said he did admire watchin' a man who was good at what he did. Anyway that's how the day started. I had to ride out and handle a couple other details, most of which didn't amount to much, I checked on an old feller mostly to make sure he was still alive, him and his old dog, and I figured 'twas a toss up as to which of 'em would fall over dead first, but they were both happy to see me and we set down and just lied outrageously to one another, laughin' as we did, and attair tired old hound dog of his, he snuffed me some and then laid his chin on my leg and fell asleep whilst we were settin' at the man's table layin' big outrageous whoppers on one another. He cussed me for a sneaky sort, for last I was out, I'd left a cloth poke of frash ground Arbuckle's behind, I'd set it down while he was lookin' elsewhere and he didn't find it until I was rode off and he allowed as he was a prideful man and he'd kick my backside up between my shoulder blades was I to imply he was too pore to buy his own coffee so I stood up and walked out and come back in with a poke of coffee and a small sack of flour and set 'em on his table and I allowed as he was too poor to pay attention, let alone pay for groceries, and I set down a sack of sugar with 'em and I thought he was goin' to cry. I knowed he didn't have two shekels to rub together and the only way I could get him to accept help was to take me a mason's trowel and just putty him up one side and down the other with second hand full feed and then just set 'em there in front of him of a sudden and without asking any let-be. It didn't hurt none when I told him 'twas a blessin' on me and I was tryin' to scour my corroded soul clean and shiny 'gainst the time when my ticket got punched and I'd have to stand in front of Saint Peter and tell him why he'd ought to let me in. He allowed as well, if I was doin' it f'r my own selfish good, why, he'd take it, and we shook hands and then we laughed ag'in, for the man was as full of it as two sacks full of politicians. I'm full of it but he's got me beat. I caught up with a fellow I knowed was wanted but I also knowed he was not guilty of whatever he'd been accused of so we set and talked a spell and I give him a twist of molasses twist tobacker and he was happy with that, he allowed as he was headed down Mexico way and I fetched attair wanted dodger out of my saddle bag and showed him and told him to keep his head down for I knowed he was innocent and he laughed and allowed as he warn't quite innocent but he didn't do what attair wanted dodger accused him of, and he headed south with my blessin'. Had he stayed I'd have been obliged to haul him in to face them accusations and 'twould be a task to disprove 'em. As much as I was satisfied he'd got a raw deal and he warn't guilty of that dodger's accusation, I was just as happy to see him head out of my jurisdiction. I knew him to be honest and when he looked me in the eye and said he was headed for Mexico I believed him. Turns out he did, he made a good life for himself and I think he died either from scorpion or rattlesnake, I never did hear the straight of it, but he done all right. Things was quiet enough I locked up the Sheriff's Office and went on home before dark. His Honor come in and heard the particulars and fined attair fella who was still damp from his bath and Jackson Cooper turned him loose to shiver his way home, and I went on home and glad for it. First thing I saw once I come through my front door -- other'n for the maid takin' my hat and my coat, was the girls in the parlor. Since Esther died I never had the heart to take up with another woman, and Angela pretty much took over as the Woman of the House, bless her: she was motherly to her sisters, and to her younger brothers, though a time or two she did have to have my help when they back sassed her. I come in to see the girls in the parlor, in their holiday dresses and shiny little slippers, layin' with their heads under the tree, lookin' up through the branches, and gigglin'. I'd like to have had a photographer come and take that picture. Petticoats and stockinged legs stuck out in a colorful fan under that tree, and even Angela, who was maturing into young womanhood, was giggling with the others, looking up through attair tree at the shiny bulbs and the foo-far-raws they'd hung on scented pine branches. When Angela was just a little girl, I laid down on the floor and wallered my shoulders under attair tree the day after we got it all decorated and prettied up and Angela, she was a curious little girl so she got down on her widdershins and rolled over and wiggled under the tree with me, and I whispered to her that Sarah liked to do this, and later that evening, when Bonnie and Levi come over and Sarah and her little twin sisters come too, why, all them girls laid under the tree and looked up through the branches and giggled. I come through my front door and the maid, she taken my Stetson and my coat, and I stood there and looked into the parlor at the girls and their giggles, and I couldn't help but smile at the sight. This was something I needed.
  13. Subdeacon Joe, thank you! Your Garlic Lemon Shrimp with Butter-Lemon Spaghetti looks particularly good! I only now found your Hamburger Pancakes from back in September (no idea how I missed that one!) and that's on my let's-try-it list! I was going to post another egg-on-the-face memory but realized I already did, no sense to plow the same ground twice (search function kept me out of trouble! )
  14. TAKE THE REJECT Linn smiled as he heard running feet in the snow behind him. He suspected this would be the case, and it didn't hurt his feelin's one little bit that two of his young, a boy and a girl, were making a running escape from the house. Linn pretended not to notice. He went up to the sliding barn door, hauled it open, walked inside, and made his way, unconcerned, across the cold concrete floor. He heard two sets of boot heels, heard the door rumble shut behind: the evidence of their flight would be plain to see in the snow, and by the time their escape was discovered, Linn knew, they should be a-horseback and far enough away to honestly not hear the matronly summons that was sure to follow. Linn kicked his polished Wellington boot against the truck's front tire to knock off the last of the snow; Jacob went to the passenger front and booted it vigorously, Marnie went to the passenger rear and kicked in a quick, nervous tap-tap-tap with one foot, then the other. Moments later, the faded orange, 1968 Dodge pickup cackled quietly out of the barn and down the driveway. Linn ducked, pulled off his skypiece, slid his Stetson upside-down into the ceiling-mounted bracket: Jacob and Marnie looked at one another, pounded fists in the air, rock-paper-scissors: Jacob put his hat in his lap and Marnie threaded hers into the other hat bracket. "I take it," Linn said quietly as he pulled the heater valve open, turned the fan switch, "neither of you wanted to go to town." "No, sir," two young voices chorused. "You'd rather rat around with the Old Man." "Yes, sir." "Hell, I might be goin' to pick up swamp water for the Slimy Monster from the Sulfur Crick." Neither child knew what a sulfur crick was, but they'd heard about this legendary creature all their lives, and imagined it as something green, scaly and escaped from a B-horror movie: young smiles quietly spread as the pair waited. "I'm going to buy a Christmas tree." Two children looked at one another in honest surprise. Buying a Christmas tree was sacrilege -- as shocking as if he'd said he was going to buy a pie, or a cake: unthinkable, to say the least! Brother and sister considered this for several long moments. Linn spoke first. "I'll need your help." "Yes, sir," both children said eagerly: they might not understand, but it was with their father, and that made it interesting. Not long after, the pulled into what used to be a used-car lot, years before they were born; the place went out of business, but not before grading off, expanding and paving a large blacktop area where the old corral used to be there in town. Part of it was sectioned off with ropes and with lights, and trees were stacked for sale. Linn eased up and parked where he'd be out of the way, shut off the engine: on the one hand, he hated that 318 under the hood -- Jacob and Marnie had heard him profane it as a gutless wonder, they'd heard him swear at the truck and call it a Lemon Dog -- but still he kept it, and he used it, and they knew their tight-fisted, thifty father would keep the machine until it fell down and died, and in the meantime he'd keep it running with skill and new parts and profanity, not necessarily in that order. They got out, walked over to the gap in the rope corral: Linn shook hands with a man shifting from one foot to the other, rubbing his hands together, and both Keller young watched as Linn took off his gloves and gave to the man, then spoke before the recipient could say a word -- "We're in the market for two trees, no taller than I am, we don't want to saw a hole in the ceiling." They sorted through the fresh cut Christmas trees, stopped and looked at another group of trees, marked down. Linn went over, pulled one free, turned it: the branches were thick, lush, symmetrical, until he turned it ... the back side was lacking in foliage and was almost flat. "How much for this one?" "Oh hell, Sheriff, that's one of the discards. Don't take one from the reject pile --" "We'll take it. Same price as the others." Jacob and Marnie watched the proprietor's mouth open in surprise, then close. "Um ... sure," he said. The tree was fed into a conical device that fed it through, netting it in a mesh bag of some kind, compacting it for easy transport. Jacob turned, took a look at the price posted on the good trees, looked at the heavy discount on the reject pile, looked at his sister, puzzled. Marnie gave him the same look and shrugged. "Jacob, Marnie, drop the tailgate and slide this in if you would please." "Yes, sir," two young voices chorused: the tree was packed off to the truckbed and Linn pulled out his wallet, looked at the proprietor and said quietly, "My favorite credit system. 100% cash and no monthly payments." He chose another from the same reject pile: like the first one, it was flat on one side, and like the first one, Linn insisted on paying the same price as was marked on the "good" trees. The faded orange Dodge cackled quietly out of the lot, eased onto the main street: Linn's bare hands were busy, between shifting, steering and waving, for it seemed everyone and their uncle waved at that familiar old Dodge with a cab full of pale eyed humanity. Linn eased over in front of the Mercanile. "I'll need your help in here," he said, checking his mirror before opening the door: he stepped out, his young jumped out, doors were closed quietly -- neither Marnie nor Jacob ever considered why they closed their doors quietly, only that it's how their Pa did, so they did too. Father and young went into the Mercantile, under a dingle-bell that had announced guests since the days of Old Pale Eyes himself. The Mercantile smelled of pine branches and peppermint and fresh baked cookies, very likely from the proprietor's wife's efforts in their apartment above: she was known to be an excellent cook, and oftentimes their good smells meant hungry patrons adjourned to the Silver Jewel after shopping, as their appetites had been well stimulated thereby. Linn greeted the proprietor, asked him about that new baby of his: Jacob and Marnie looked around, flanking their father, backs to the display counter as they did: again, they did not know why they did this, only that they'd learned it from Dear Old Dad, and it had become an unconscious habit. Garry pulled out a stack of pictures, laid them out on the counter: Linn leaned over a little, grinning as he looked at photos of a new mother and her baby, pictures of a pink-faced infant bundled up in a grandmother's gift of a knit cap and sleeper: Linn's grin was broad and genuine, then he looked at Garry almost sadly and said "She's a fine lookin' little girl, Garry, but she does not look a thing like you." Garry's face fell about ten feet. Linn stroked his grey-shot handlebar, looked at Garry's neatly-trimmed lip broom and said, straight-faced, "No mustache." Gary hesitated for a minute, then he laughed, nodded, gave Linn a shrewd look: "Hook, line and sinker," he chuckled, "ya got me good!" "Speaking of gettin'," Linn said, "we need some Christmas tree decorations." "Oh, no," Garry groaned. "Your cat didn't climb the tree too?" Linn laughed, shook his head. "No, no, we've no house cats, but we're taking trees to someone and it wouldn't be right to give 'em a bare tree." Garry nodded, thrust a military-bladed hand toward a back wall: "Right there," he said, "help yourself!" Not long after, young hands lowered the orange tailgate again, and boxed purchases were carefully slid into the truckbed, the tailgate raised, latched: Jacob pushed the heel of his hand against the handle to make sure it was in ... once, and once only, it hadn't wanted to latch, and fell open with a SLAM, and he was determined not to let that happen again! The three pulled up in front of the new apartments. Linn pulled the tree out, leaned it against the corner of the lowered tailgate -- "Steady that," he said, then leaned in and pulled one of the two cardboard boxes out, looked in it. "New stand, tree blanket, bulbs, tinsel, garland, two strings of lights, topper." He looked over at his watchful young. "Jacob, can you manage that tree?" "Yes, sir!" Jacob grinned: he leaned the tree back against himself, bent, got the tree on his shoulder, straightened, backed up a few steps. "Got it!" "Show-off," Marnie muttered. Linn handed her the cardboard box. "Pack this, if you would, please." Two young Kellers followed an older Keller, wading happily through the fresh snow. Linn knocked on an apartment door -- rat-tat, tat -- the door opened and Linn swept off his Stetson. "Permission to come aboard!" he called cheerfully, and a startled young woman blinked and then said "Of course." When they left, a tree stood in the corner of the sparsely furnished living room. It was rejected because it had no branches on one side. That meant it fit perfectly against one wall. Linn fitted it carefully into the stand, arranged the decorative skirting around the base, watered the tree: he'd whittled the bark away around the bottom so it would actually take up water: he laid out the lights, the bulbs, packages of tinsel, of garland, and he'd carefully cut away the netting: he borrowed the household broom to sweep up what few needles fell with the netting's removal, he gathered the discards and tossed them in the now-empty box: "I'm just naturally lazy," he said, "so I'll leave decorating to you and your daughter." A few days later, at the Sheriff's office, a hand delivered Christmas card arrived: it was from a young mother, new in town and low on funds: it contained a printout of her four year old daughter in her one piece jammies, clutching a rag doll and staring with wonder at a Christmas tree, all lights and tinsel and bulbs, and Linn would keep that card and that picture for many years after. The other tree went to another family, on the other side of town: in both locations, Linn drew the mother aside and asked in a quiet voice questions from a list he'd written with the assistance of his wife: later that day, by trusted messenger, both locations received boxed deliveries of goods and wrapping paper both, and Marnie and Jacob watched their father exercising discretion, and unfailing courtesy, and his usual ornery sense of humor. They didn't realize it, but their Old Man was teaching them, and they never forgot those lessons they gained that day. That night Shelly asked Linn, when they were alone, "Did it work?" Linn grinned and leaned over a little, looked in to see Marnie and Jacob both reading, The Bear Killer piled up between them, the three of them content: he leaned back and laid his warm, callused hand over his wife's. "When you told them to get dressed to go to town," he murmured, "they busted a gut to get into blue jeans and boots and run off with me!" Shelly pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, laughing silently: she leaned closer and whispered, "I love it when a plan comes together!"
  15. It snowed last night so I'm gonna have me a cheeseburger bacon and fruitcake sammitch.
  16. I AM VERY PROUD OF YOU Linn's eyes were a cold, frosty, glacier's-heart white. The skin was pulled tight over his cheekbones and he pulled on a pair of leather gloves. It was hard to tell what was the more honestly frightening. The man's silence, or the icy, absolutely deadly control he showed as he worked his fingers into the gloves. His reserve did not last long. It was rare that he let go of his reserve, it was most unusual for him to let slip his personal monster. No man there doubted that he'd done exactly that. He was not sure how it happened and he did not care. All he knew was, blood was running out from under a pile of rails, rails that spilled from a flatcar, a flatcar that had some kind of structural failure and dumped them on two men who happened to be on the downhill side of a disaster nobody saw coming. Linn moved toward the pile of rails, assessing the metallic jackstraws. He seized an end, hoisted it up, swung it off to the side, almost at a run, threw it. Men drew back. They'd seen feats of strength before. They'd never heard this pale eyed lawman give voice to his rage as he seized a rail that normally took several men to move, and made it obey his will. He grabbed another, hauled it up a little, dragged it, swung it, threw it. Men waded into the pile, several men seized the next rail: the Sheriff glared about, slicing a streak of cold into men's souls as he did, then he thrust a stiff-fingered hand toward a man he recognized. "MULDOON!" he roared. "YOU'RE A RAIL MAN! TAKE CHARGE!" Muldoon blinked, surprised, then got his mental feet under him: he knew men and he knew rails, and his experience, the Sheriff knew, made him the man for the job. He turned, held out a hand, kissed at his stallion: Rey del Sol came mincing over to him, and the Sheriff swarmed into the saddle: horse and rider, their souls united with a common purpose, whirled and launched into a gallop, down the trail that parallelled the tracks. Linn needed to find the conductor, he needed them to connect the portable telegraph to the trackside wires, he needed them to contact the Firelands depot. He needed to get Doc Greenlees out here. Esther Keller stopped, her freshly dipped pen hovering an inch above her ledger. Her green eyes went to an oval portrait she kept over her desk, a portrait of her unsmiling husband and herself, taken not long after their return from an unpleasantly eventful honeymoon trip. Esther opened a small drawer, very carefully wiped ink from her steel nib pen: she placed the pen in its holder, capped the bottle of India ink, and placed a stiff bookmark in the open ledger against the off chance it might be accidentally closed. Esther Keller rose and walked quickly into the kitchen, spoke quietly to the maid: she spun her cloak about her shoulders, fastened the silver clasp at her throat, slipped silently out the back door and walked quickly to the barn. "Mister Johnson?" she called to the hired man. "Could you harness my buggy, please, the light one. My husband has been hurt and I must go to him." Linn watched as the conductor raised one pole, then another, as he connected to the telegraph wires: he stood, silent, unmoving, as the conductor unfolded a small wooden table, placed the portable set on it, connected wires: to Linn's ear, they were merely clicks and clatters, the rattling of a metallic arm: he knew the conductor ran a key with the best of them, he knew the conductor had a good ear and could read the wire as easily as Linn could read their weekly newspaper. This made him no less impatient. It seemed to the Sheriff that there was a great deal of back-and-forth: he knew this was an illusion, created from his own screaming need for action, and action NOW. A younger man would have been demanding to know what the delay was, why the excess of conversation. Linn was old enough to feel that impatience, but to not act on it. The conductor finally looked up. "We've a full crew coming," he said, "and Doc will be with them." Linn nodded once. "When they get here, send 'em on up." Linn thrust a polished boot into a doghouse stirrup, stopped, gripped saddlehorn and cantle hard enough to blanch the knuckles on both hands: he took a long breath, bounced once and swung into the saddle. Esther Keller saw her husband cantering down the trail beside the railroad tracks. She'd been apprised of the flatcar's failure, of two men hurt, possibly killed: she owned the Z&W Railroad, and she knew each employee by name, and she knew their families: she waited as her husband drew nearer, her green eyes assessing the stiffness of his carriage, of the care with which he rode. Esther's concern turned to alarm at the way her husband looked at her. Linn rode up to the end of the depot, where the deck was about knee level on a mounted man: he drew up, looked through the telegrapher's open door. Lightning felt the man's eyes on him: he turned, rose, came outside. "Send word when you have news," Linn said quietly, "we will be at home" -- he did not wait for a reply, further evidence of his personal discomfiture, and he returned to his wife, still seated in their lightest, fastest buggy. "You're hurt," she said quietly. "I am," he agreed. "Do you need to see Dr. Greenlees?" "No. He's needed elsewhere." "Dr. Flint?" "He'll likely be needed out there as well. If not there, then at hospital." "How many ...?" "Two, near as I could tell." Linn's eyes were veiled, his face impassive, but Esther could see fine little beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. "Let's get you home," Esther said quietly. Linn rode stiffly, the way a man will when he's injured and trying hard not to show it. "He didn't ... he's hurt but he'll heal." "I know he'll heal, Doctor. Will he heal completely?" Dr. George Flint regarded the Sheriff's wife with eyes of polished obsidian. "Mrs. Keller, a patient's attitude is important." "Dr. Flint, if you're telling me my husband is hard headed and contrary ..." "I won't tell you what you already know." Esther and the Navajo doctor each allowed themselves a small smile. "I've known women to lift a freight wagon off their husband. I watched a woman a head shorter than you run into her burning cabin, bend over and run under their handmade kitchen table, hoist it up and run out of their cabin with the table on her back -- it was solid oak and took two men to move, then she ran inside, bear hugged their flour barrel and packed it outside as well. "Your husband, from what I'm told, threw rails around like they were wheat straws, trying to save those men under the pile." "Have we word yet?" "We have, Mrs. Keller." Dr. Flint hesitated. "Mrs. Keller, two men were under that steel cascade, and they both survived." Esther Keller sat down heavily, as if she'd just lost all strength in her legs, and she turned white to her lips. Dr. Flint knew where the Sheriff kept his brandy: he poured the Sheriff's wife three fingers' worth, brought it over, handed it to her. Esther Keller, daughter of culture and gentility, child of the Old South and all its elaborate courtesies, took the heavy, cut-glass from the good Doctor's grasp and drank it down like water. Dr. Flint raised an eyebrow, but made no other comment. "It would seem," he continued in his cultured voice, the voice he used in his role as an Eastern-educated physician, "that the rails formed something of a lean-to. The men were trapped. One had a serious cut on the side of his head. When your husband saw the blood, I'm told he turned the shade of wheat paste and began throwing rails about before delegating further work to someone better suited." "Tell me, Doctor ... how badly did my husband hurt himself?" "He'll be quite sore, and probably for a month. Knowing your husband, he will push himself judiciously. I don't think I'll have to warn him not to over do it." "Oh, he'll over do it, unless I miss my guess!" Esther murmured. Dr. Greenlees was silent for a long moment, then diplomatically offered, "I would not consider second guessing your superior expertise in the matter." Sheriff Linn Keller opened his eyes as his wife came into the back room. He was soaking in a steaming-hot tub of water. Esther could smell the herbals Dr. Flint prescribed for the soak. "The good Doctor prescribed a tea," Linn said quietly. "I was to drink some and soak in the others." Esther tilted her head a little to the side. "I understand you removed the most dangerous rails," she said quietly. "The man you appointed is now foreman. I promoted him when I found you'd put him in charge." Linn nodded carefully. "I think," he said slowly, "I'm going to need to soak a while." He looked at his green-eyed bride and smiled with half his mouth. "Apparently I'm still young enough to be foolish," he admitted. "Apparently you removed the least stable rails. Had you not moved them, when you did, I'm told further collapse would have been inevitable, and those men would've been killed." Linn closed his eyes, leaned his head back -- very carefully. "I'm gonna be sore in the morning," he said quietly. Esther bent over and kissed her husband's forehead. "I am very proud of you," she whispered.
  17. THAT’S MY GIRL! A little girl slipped from her bed, careful to make absolutely no noise. She couldn’t let anyone know she was awake. People got mad and hurt her when they found out she was awake. She padded barefoot across the hook rug and varnished boards, she turned the door knob and eased the door open, just a little, peeked out with one eye… a little wider, both eyes, then she poked her head out, looked around, listened. She drew back, eased the door shut, turning the knob as she did to prevent its click. A shadow moved in the nighttime bedroom: something warm and familiar came up beside her, a cold wet nose grazed her jaw, a warm tongue licked her reassuringly. Marnie laid her arm over The Bear Killer’s shoulders, her eyes wide, staring: she looked around the darkened bedroom, listened. She was satisfied nobody else was awake. Safe. She gripped her chair, pulled it out slowly, carefully: she’d pulled it out yesterday, in the daylight, and it chattered on the varnished board floor: she pulled a little, slowly, a little more, carefully: she stopped, breathing silently through her nose, listening for the slightest sound, the least indication she might be found out. Marnie was only just taken into her new Daddy’s house, she was only just brought into a house that was clean, a house where people did not raise their voices – where nobody fought – a house with … with The Bear Killer, with clean towels, clean clothes, and food. Best of all, food! Marnie carefully worked her skinny little backside up onto the chair. She reached up, found the desk lamp … one last look to her closed bedroom door, one last hesitation to listen, then she gripped the black plastic knob and turned it slowly, carefully, flinching at the sudden click! and the blast of light against her screwed-shut eyelids. She opened watering eyes a little, a little more, getting used to this sudden glare. She knew what she had to do. Linn went down on one knee and asked gently, “Honey, are you sure?” Marnie nodded solemnly. She looked at her pale eyed Gammaw, who looked at her son and said gently, “I think it’s good when the father and the child share an interest.” Marnie’s pale eyed, brand-new Daddy laughed that quiet Daddy-laugh of his, and he opened his arms, an invitation. He didn’t try to grab her. Marnie thrust herself into him, seized him almost desperately. Of all things she needed, she needed to feel wanted. She hadn’t been wanted for as long as she could remember, and now she was, and she did not want to lose that. Linn picked up his little girl, kissed his Mama’s cheek: a moment later, father and daughter were headed out, the bright-eyed, curious little girl looking around as her Daddy drove his Jeep to a place he called “The Range.” Marnie slid the shallow drawer open, selected a pencil, pulled out two sheets of paper, began to draw. Linn went down on one knee again. They were at the range. “Marnie,” he said in his gentle Daddy-voice, “things are going to be very loud.” Marnie nodded, her pale eyes wide, innocent, never leaving her Daddy’s gentle, light-blue eyes. Linn reached up, tapped the electronic muffs he wore with a curved forefinger. “I’m going to be wearing earmuffs to keep it from being too loud.” Marnie nodded solemnly, her hands laced together at belt level. “Do you think you could wear muffs too?” Marnie nodded. Linn brought out a set of muffs, turned a black knob – there was a little click-sound – “Pull your hair back a little, honey” – Linn carefully fitted the muffs to her little head, tilted his head as he worked them into place. “Can you hear me, honey?” Marnie nodded. “Reach up here – like this – that’s right. Feel that knob? Roll it one way …” Marnie rolled it as instructed and giggled as sounds got louder. “Now roll it the other way.” Marnie did, and the sounds got softer. “Adjust it so you can hear voices, but not too loud.” Marnie frowned, her expression suddenly serious: Linn rose, held out his hand. Marnie took his hand and strutted beside her big tall Daddy as he went up to the line. Marnie watched, interested, as one of the men there sat behind something that looked kind of metal-boxy with a barrel-thing out the front and it had shining stuff curving out of a box and he lifted a lid and dropped the shiny belt-thing into it and slapped the lid down and pulled on something and Marnie giggled because it was metally and clacky and it sounded like something fun. Linn dropped down on one knee behind Marnie again, his hands on her shoulders: she heard his voice, funny-sounding through the electronic muffs – “Here’s where it gets loud,” and then the boxy thing shivered and hammered and shining brass spun off to one side and black pieces fell to the ground. Linn looked around at Marnie’s face and he saw something he had not seen until this moment. He saw a smile – no, not a smile – this scared little girl, this timid, mousy creature that clung to his Gammaw, who looked at him with innocence and trust, this little girl he’d found backed into a corner the first morning she woke up under her new roof, pushed back against the wall as tightly as she could, shivering under a blanket, with The Bear Killer protectively curled around her shins and her little pink feet. Marnie looked at her Daddy, her eyes really wide, shining with a child’s absolute and utter delight. “Again?” Linn asked, and Marnie nodded – she was almost afraid to nod, afraid she’d be yanked away, slapped for enjoying herself, for finding something she could smile at. Linn looked at the gunner, nodded. Linn pointed to the thumbs tightening down on the butterfly trigger: Marnie waited, anticipating, and then – RAAP – another three-round burst, the handle slamming fore-and-aft, brass shining and spinning, links falling. Marnie laughed. Linn pointed, Marnie watched: another burst, and a hanging steel plate swung as the .30-cal punished plate once again. Linn waited until the Browning air-cooled was made safe, then he, the rangemaster, the gunner and Marnie, all went downrange to see the damage done to plate metal. Linn tapped the plate with neatly-trimmed fingernails, touched the holes in front, bent in, went behind the plate, touched the spalled-out metal around the bullet holes. Marnie tapped the plate like her Daddy did. She touched the holes, she went around behind, she touched the blasted-out metal, she looked at her Daddy. “What do you think of that, honey?” he grinned, and Marnie threw herself into her Daddy’s embrace. He felt her shivering and he wasn’t sure if this was a good thing: he’d seen how scared she often was, he’d seen her give a little choked-back squeak and hide, she’d clung in blind panic to his Mama, and later, to him. He honestly wasn’t sure if she was shivering out of fear, if she was stifling the sounds of a child in absolute, utter, terror. “Princess?” he asked gently, and she looked up at him with an expression of utter, absolute, complete, unadulterated, delight. Marnie sat in her silent bedroom, her pencil whispering secrets to the paper. She frowned a little as she drew: a central figure, surrounded by supporting illustrations. A little girl, her face twisted with anger, screaming defiance: she sat behind a Browning .30 cal, tripod mounted: her rendition of the machine gun was flawless, correct in perspective, in proportion, in scale: she pulled open the drawer, rattled through her pencils: the muzzle flame had traces of red, of yellow, the girl behind the gun was screaming in defiance, the cords standing out in her neck, shining empty brass hulls spinning off to the side: around her, a child, running in fear, escaping grasping hands: another a child, in mid-air, knocked backwards by a hard-swung hand: there were others, horrors from her brief, terror-filled life in New York. Central to all these, a little girl, filled with rage, behind a Browning machine gun, adding its voice to hers. Marnie Keller placed her pencil to the side, got a fresh one with a good point, kept working. She drew the firing range, she drew her Daddy standing with his arms crossed, waiting for his turn to step up to the line: the detail was flawless, it was drawn from the perspective of someone shorter than the subject, from a little behind the subject: another, her Daddy in a slight crouch – the wrinkles in his trousers flowed from the pencil’s sharpened point -- trigger finger rigidly alongside the frame as he drew – another, with her Daddy’s arms extended: Marnie’s quick young eye captured the slide in full recoil, showed the empty partway out the ejection port. Marnie drew to the point of exhaustion: she finally gave up, after a half-dozen sheets of paper – her exhaustion was less physical, than it was spiritual. Linn looked up as Shelly slipped downstairs, silent in sock feet. He set down his coffee, alarmed at Shelly’s gesture: he almost ran up the stairs, stopped at Marnie’s bedroom door. Shelly turned, place her hand flat on his chest, then put her finger to her lips. She eased the door open, stood back. Linn looked in. Marnie was sound asleep, her arms crossed on her desktop: she sat in the chair he’d altered for her little girl’s size, her desk light was on, she still had a pencil in her hand. Shelly and Linn stepped into the bedroom, silent: Linn touched his wife’s arm, winked: he bent, he whispered “Good morning, Princess,” as he ran an arm behind her back and under her legs. He lifted straight up, just enough for Shelly to pull the chair back, then he straightened, rolled the warm, relaxed little girl into him. Marnie mumbled something and Shelly saw her husband laugh, silently, as he carried her out of the bedroom and to the nearby bathroom. “You may want to take over,” Linn said gently: Marnie yawned, knuckled her eyes, looked around, surprised. Linn kissed the top of her head – that seemed safest – he put her down, carefully, giving her a moment to get her weight on her legs before he released her, then he backed out. Linn left necessities to the ladies: he knew when he got up, that he generally had to get rid of second hand coffee, and he knew that a wee child would probably have a bladder the size of a walnut. He slipped back into Marnie’s bedroom, curious as to what she’d been working on. When Shelly came in, Linn was sorting through the sheets, looking at them with obvious interest. He came back to two particular sheets, picked them up, one in each hand. He smiled as he studied them. Mother and daughter came back into the bedroom. Linn looked over at the pair, laid the sheets carefully on the others there on her desk. Marnie froze, her eyes showing her fear. Linn turned and went to one knee. He opened his arms, his smile broad and genuine, and Marnie scampered into his embrace. Linn hugged Marnie to him and murmured “That’s my girl,” and Marnie hugged him back, and Shelly came closer, looked at the two sheets Linn was favoring. One was a pencil drawing of Marnie, her young face filled with a rage that no child’s visage should ever know – a child screaming defiance at all the hurts and all the wrongs done her – a child behind a machine gun, punctuating her line in the sand with steel-jacketed justice. The second was that same little girl, laughing with delight, behind the same boxy machine gun, with a grinning man with pale eyes, down on one knee behind her, his hands gripping her shoulders, his body language very obviously that of total approval. Shelly looked at Linn and Marnie as they stood, as Linn said quietly, “You ready for breakfast?” and Marnie nodded, looked hopefully at Shelly, and Shelly looked at the drawing again. Somehow she knew what her husband’s words were when he gripped Marnie’s shoulders, after she fired a short burst from the Browning: “That’s my girl!”
  18. Subdeacon, thank you, I got a good laugh out of that one! Been using Old Spice all my life ... ... but your post resurrected my mother's Christmas gift for my bald headed grandfather. She was a newlywed, this was her first Christmas gifting the in-laws. She got him a bottle of hair tonic. She meant to get after shave ...
  19. Frozen pizza is improved by adding pepperoni and crumbled bacon. And cheese. Lots More Cheese! Hard part is getting the bottom crust, if not crispy, at least not soggy, even when baked on the oven rack.
  20. HOOFIES A man's laughter, free, honest, relaxed and sincere, is contagious. Sheriff Linn Keller had a laugh like that. His little girl Angela talked her big brother into saddling her horsie -- "My horsie!" she'd declared, laying a possessive hand on the Paso mare's foreleg. Jacob knew his Pa had a saddle made for her, he knew the stirrups were designed to let out as she grew, he knew that eventually the saddle would be handed down to younger of the Keller clan: he also knew he'd never ridden this Paso mare, though she was reputed to be mild as milk, and so far she'd been exactly that. Angela squealed with laughing delight as Jacob took her under the arms, swung her back, forth, back wide and then waaaaaay up in the air, and eased her down into her saddle: he made a final length adjustment on the stirrups, patted the mare on the hind quarters, looked over at the Paso colt regarding him with a hopeful curiosity. Jacob shared his father's affection for the Paso Fino. He loved his Appaloosas, he loved their fire and dash, he loved that they were tough and hard working and eager to please, but there was no denying that the Paso had a much smoother gait, and that the gait was not just pleasing to his backside, but pleasing to the spectator's eye. Jacob whistled his Apple-horse over, saddled him, mounted: he led the way to the gate, opened it, waited until their little entourage was through, then fast it up behind them, before they proceeded at a walk toward town. Jacob was not willing to go any faster at all, because the little Paso colt was with them. Three riders clattered down the main drag of beautiful downtown Firelands: a tall, lean young man on a spirited, almost dancing, Appaloosa stallion: a Paso Fino mare with a pleased little girl astride, fairly strutting as she sat in saddle leather, and behind them, the object of the Sheriff's mirth, a Paso Fino colt, its little hooves industriously rattling fifteen to the dozen as it paced along behind its Mama. The Sheriff's laughter brought curious eyes to the street, eyes that appreciated the sight of a little girl with a bright smile and bright blue eyes, a little girl in a divided riding skirt and colorfully-embroidered boots, but the greatest delight was from watching the Paso colt and its quick, staccato, rattling gait. Jacob made an executive decision, and drew up in front of their combination drugstore and ice cream parlor: Angela squealed with delight as she leaned over and surrendered to her big brother's strong, reassuring hands, and she scampered over and hugged the Paso colt and told him to be a good boy, that she'd bring him something. Jacob was feeding his Apple-horse and the mare each a striped peppermint horse crack, and he wondered silently how the youngest of their herd might like vanilla ice cream in a sugar cone. "Do you have a name for Short Stuff yet, Angela?" Jacob asked. Angela looked up, her bright blue eyes wide and sincere, and she gave a single, emphatic nod and set her blond curls a-bounce with her emphatic reply: "Hoofies!"
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