Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

You're not the first to tell me this. It took a while but I finally realized ... *nok nok* hello, Einstein ... these folks are speaking with the voice of experience!

In this, you speak truly.

MY ADVICE? ARMOR! Sheriff Linn Keller smiled a little as a familiar figure shoved through the heavy glass doors. He set his mug down, drew a second, as Angela Keller glided across the polished quartz floor, arms stiff at her sides, insulated-nylon-gloved hands fisted at her sides: her head was pulled down into her turned-up collar, her knit cap was pulled down over her head, and she had the appearance of a contained explosion in blue jeans and a puffy coat. Linn drizzled milk into two mugs, held one out. Angela stopped, glared at her Daddy, looked at the steaming mug, muttered "Does yas knows me or what!" and accepted the offering. Linn took a noisy slurp, picked up a paper napkin and mopped the excess from his lip broom. Angela glared at him through the steam of her chin-level mug and snapped, "Don't you give me that innocent look, mister!" "Habit," Linn deadpanned. "It's never worked yet but I keep tryin'." Angela looked away, looked back: she studied her Daddy's face, then she put her untasted mug on the antique table that lived under their coffee maker. Linn did the same. Angela pulled off her gloves, stuffed them unceremoniously into the slash pockets of her pastel pink coat, reached for her Daddy's hands. Linn opened his arms and she fell into him, hugging him with a surprising strength. "Darlin'," Linn rumbled quietly, "what happened?" Angela pulled back to arm's length, her eyes full of misery. "Daddy," she complained, "why wasn't I a boy?" Linn considered for a moment. "I could make a wise guy comment," he said slowly, "but there's more to your question than your words. What happened?" Angela turned. "Paul," she called. Chief Deputy Paul Barrents came over. Angela took his hand in hers, held her Daddy's hand in her other: "Paul, if two guys get into it and they can't settle things with words, what do they do?" Paul's Navajo eyes were veiled, his face almost wooden -- clearly, his walls were up -- but he replied honestly, "They'll go out in the parking lot and settle it with knuckles." "What happens after that?" "They'll come back with their arms around one another's shoulders, they'll buy one another a beer and it's over." "Right!" Angela let go of both men's hands: she reached up, seized her zipper pull, yanked savagely: the zipper snarled open, she whipped off her coat, turned it around. "Look close. What do you see?" Paul frowned, gripped the coat under its arms, drew it taut. He looked at Angela. "Nylon?" he guessed. Angela snatched the coat back, stopped, turned and draped it over a chair, turned back to Barrents. "Paul, I'm sorry," she said, taking both his hands this time: "you didn't deserve that." "Princess," Paul said gently, "I used to hold you when you cried because someone hurt your feelin's on the playground. It's no different today. Someone got to you. Tell me who and I'll skin them." His voice was quiet, and Angela did not doubt the sincerity of his words. "Alive," Paul added. Angela began to doubt that he really meant it. "With a spoon." Angela smiled, Angela giggled, Angela seized Chief Deputy Paul Barrents in a quick, impulsive hug, the way she did when she was a little girl and her Daddy wasn't there. Paul looked at the Sheriff. It was the Navajo's turn to practice that Innocent Expression, and he tried it, with the same utter lack of success as his boss. "Isn't this your department?" he asked, a smile widening his weather-tanned face, and Linn chuckled. "Why don't we park our backsides and talk 'er all over." The Valkyries met in the big round barn under the cliff's overhang. The Valkyries prided themselves in being what their founder, Willamina, called "Being Effective." Angela was too young to have trained under her pale eyed Gammaw, but she had the full dose of pale eyed blood, all the hot and violent passion as her pale eyed ancestresses, and when she came in to practice with the Valkyries, she was careful to work the heavy bag and the padded simulacrum, rather than her fellow feminine fighters. Angela warmed up steadily but quickly, and it did not go unnoticed that her address to the heavy bag was done at full speed and at full power. Angela was known as a sweet girl, she was known as a gentle soul, she was known as a compassionate but effective nurse, and as she drove punches, chops, elbow strikes, kicks, kneestrikes and brutally murderous attacks on her inanimate opponents, none of the Valkyries doubted but that she had been provoked to violence, and rather than killing the offender barehand, she'd chosen to come here, and discharge the full lightning-strike of her anger on the unliving. Angela did not sit. Neither did the Sheriff. Barrents slouched against the back wall, thumb hooked in his gunbelt just ahead of his sidearm, coffee in his other hand: obsidian-black eyes regarded the Sheriff's little girl (yes, a woman grown, he knew, but he'd known her since she came home from the hospital with the warranty sticker pasted on her cute little bottom, or so he'd kidded her!) -- he watched as Angela paced back and forth, as the Sheriff waited patiently. Angela stopped, looked very directly at her Daddy. "I was warned," she said. Linn frowned a little, turned his head as if to bring a good ear to bear. "Daddy, when I went into nursing school, Mama warned me" -- she stopped, swallowed, crossed her arms, turned: she marched to the far wall, turned, marched back, stopped and looked again at her patiently listening Daddy. "Mama warned me when I said I was going to nursing school that I should wear my body armor." Linn nodded, once, a slow lowering of his head, an equally slow raise, his eyes never leaving her face. "Mama warned me I needed to wear level III ballistic armor with the ceramic impact plate especially in the back pocket because I was going to inherit a fine collection of knives between my shoulder blades." She stopped, looked at Barrents, looked back at her Daddy. "That ... sounds like something ... you would say," she said slowly, suspiciously. "He did," Barrents agreed. "I did," Linn confirmed. "I was quoting my Mama." "Well, you were right, all of you." Angela dropped heavily into a chair, the way she used to when she was a little girl in what Jacob called an "Eight-Cylinder Huff." Linn looked at Barrents, raised an eyebrow: his chief deputy shrugged. "Daddy," Angela groaned, "if I'd been born a guy, we'd knock the dog stuffing out of one another and have a beer and it would be over." "But with women, once they get their knives into you, it's forever and they don't quit." Angela lowered her head into her hands, nodded, then she looked up. "You can quit that chicken feather outfit," Linn said bluntly, "and tell the boss exactly why, and tell her if they straighten out the troublemakers you'll be willing to come back, otherwise adios. Are you filing a formal discrimination complaint?" "No, Daddy," Angela sighed. "Quitting sounds good. I'm too busy the way it is." Linn looked at Barrents, nodded ever so slightly. The Navajo paced slowly, deliberately the length of the conference room, stopped, set his mug on the table and rested both hands on Angela's shoulders. "They'll work a willin' horse to death," he said softly. "I know," Angela sighed, reaching across her chest to lay her fingers over Barrents' comforting knuckles. She looked up at her Daddy. "If I do quit there," she said, "I'll still be making the one armed paper hanger look like an amateur!" Linn sat, slowly, deliberately, leaned over, elbows on his knees, looked very directly into his daughter's troubled face. "Darlin'," he said quietly, "whichever choice you make, understand the knives in the back will never end. Mama told me about bein' knifed more times than one, and mostly by her fellow nurses. That's why she quit nursin' and just kept the license active, she said it made a good parachute in case other employment fell apart and she had to fall back on another marketable skill. "My advice?" Angela looked hopefully at her Daddy, nodded. "Same as Mama told me she wished she'd done before she started nursin' school." His voice was quiet, his eyes full of memories as he remembered his Mama, recalled looking at the front page newspaper photograph of his Mama in her nursing whites, a scared little girl hipped on her left, a .44 revolver extended in her right hand -- a picture in the paper from where she'd rescued an abducted child, a picture that got her hailed as a hero, and fired as a nurse. "My advice? Armor!"

THE HELL WITH YOUR LAWS Flight Commander Hans Hake half-ran, half-fell from the simulator. He looked at two of the Valkyries, who regarded him with surprise: they'd never known the man to get excited, not even when his wife presented him with a fine, strong son. Hans landed on all fours: head down, panting, gasping, half sick: he raised his head, looked at two pretty young women in black skinsuits, their black, spherical helmets under their off arms. "It's not possible," he gasped, shaking his head. "NOT POSSIBLE!" "Look," Marnie said, spreading gloved hands and looking from one table of skeptical negotiators to the other table of equally skeptical negotiators, "I don't have a dog in this fight. You" -- she extended one hand, palm-up, fingers bent a little, a very feminine gesture -- she turned, which put a slight twist in the drape of her skirt -- she wished to look feminine, womanly, ladylike, non-threatening --"You want the Peninsula and the Cluster Islands." "They are ours by right," came the carefully firm reply. "I can appreciate that," Marnie said. "Your people have lived there for more than two-tenths of a century." She turned to the other table, raised a palm as if to deflect the indiginant, red-faced "See here!" -- she glided a few steps, putting herself between the two tablesful of opposing opinion. "You've maintained a political claim on that coast for an equal length of time." Marnie turned, slowly, a full circle: her steps, hidden beneath her floor-length skirt, were quick, small, smooth. She looked as if she was a figurine in a music box, turning smoothly, mechanically, as if she was on wheels. "None of the Cluster Islands have any great mineral wealth. Fishing is much better to the north. The peninsula offers little beyond a shallow harbor, not deep enough for your oceangoing vessels." "We can deepen the harbors!" "With what?" Marnie asked, turning to the speaker, resting her hands on her womanly hips: "You lack the technology to deepen that harbor. The bottom is solid rock. You lack the ability to drill that obdurate strata. It's not freestone, you can't drill it, and you haven't explosives powerful enough even if you could drill it. The harbors are deep enough for a twenty foot fishing smack and that's about it." Marnie looked from one table to the other. "Your national sovereignty is not in dispute. The Islands and that peninsula are not critical for your national defense. Your warships draft too deeply, they could never get into the harbor at high tide, let alone at low tide. "As a matter of fact" -- she folded her arms, then raised one gloved hand to the side of her face, curled her fingers under jaw and tapped the side of her cheekbone with a thoughtful finger -- "I seem to remember talk of abandoning that part of the coastline." "We never agreed to abandon it!" came the blustering reply. Marnie turned, glided to her table, sorted delicately through a stack of folders: she opened one, paged through it, smiled. "Actually, sir, your government already surrendered that section of the coastline to its occupants." "Impossible!" "Twenty years ago." Marnie smiled over her round, schoolmarm spectacles, worn halfway down her nose: she glided over to the challengers' table. "The documents, sir." "Forgeries!" "Bearing your signature, and the Governor's seal." The documents were snatched away, passed from hand to hand as the red-faced man shook his head and muttered impotently. "And we also have" -- Marnie paused, knowing men would stop their talk, knowing they would strain to hear what additional rabbit she might pull out of the bonnet she wasn't wearing. "We also have a handwritten order to destroy all copies of the abandonment documents." "Preposterous! Impossible!" "It is written in your own hand, sirrah," Marnie said coldly, glaring at the jowl-shaking politician over her spectacles, for all the world a schoolmarm correcting a naughty schoolboy. The handwritten note made its circuit up the table, then back down. "Gentlemen," Marnie said primly, "I believe we've come to the end of negotiations. Your own government surrendered all ownership, control, rights and claim to the Peninsula, to the Cluster Islands, and half a hundred miles of coastline north and south both. These abandoned lands were lawfully annexed by the people who chose to live there. Are we agreed that these are the facts?" A formal vote was taken; the pale eyed Ambassador was informed that she was, indeed, correct. "Good," Marnie said briskly, dusting her hands together and smiling. "Now that we're finished, I feel like a dance. Gentlemen, if you will kindly move these tables and chairs back, there are musicians waiting in the wings, ladies enough for each of you, and I should like very much to tread a measure with the gentlemen with whom I have butted heads for the past two days!" "It can't be done," Flight Commander Hake muttered, shaking his head. "An object in motion stays in motion, in a straight line, unless acted on by some outside force!" Two of his best pilots, two Valkyries, whose likenesses were the nose art on their respective Starfighters, listened patiently as the man got his mental legs under him. "You, you, you can't turn and bank, you can't Chandelle, you can't split-S or loop or roll into a turn or out of a turn --" "The laws of physics?" one of the Valkyries interrupted. "Yes. Immutable, unchangeable, laws!" The two Valkyries looked at one another, looked at their Flight Commander. "Sir," they said with one mind-linked voice, "the hell with your laws!" Two Valkyries spun their black, spherical helmets between black-gloved hands, dunked the globes over their shaven scalps: they turned, and as they did, their Interceptors lowered their lower jaw, exposing the form-fitting flight couch each would occupy. Two black-suited figures lay back in their couches, disappeared: the visual effect was that of a sleek, needle-shaped silver bird opened its mouth, and swallowed two gleaming, licorice coated humans. The Interceptors did not roar into life with the turbine blast of mighty jet engines, nor did they sear the hangar walls with Mach diamonds screaming from rocket nozzles. No, the Interceptors withdrew their landing gear: the rectangular feet of the landing gear became part of the hull, and the Interceptors simply ... ... disappeared ... Hans stood, staggered over to the control panel. He stared at the holographic representation, he honestly gawked at the sight of two sleek warbirds with yawning cannon running the length of the hull, open mouths black and menacing beneath the cockpit and on either side, and he shook his head in denial as the two Interceptors turned, banked, drew shining silver curves through empty space, as smoothly and naturally as if they were in atmosphere. Hans heard the airlock hiss open, shut: hard little heels were loud on the smooth ferroplast floor, a gloved hand rested on his shoulder. "You look troubled," she said, "or you had some bad seafood for lunch." "No, it's" -- Hans gestured toward the holo-sim tank -- "it's not possible to fly a spacecraft like a, a, an atmosphere fighter!" "Why not?" Marnie asked innocently. "I just negotiated a dispute, I proved a politician a cheat and a scoundrel and made him like it, and you're telling me the Valkyries can't fly their Interceptors the way they've been flying them since day one?" "But, but, but -- Ambassador, the laws of physics!" Marnie leaned close, looked over her spectacles at the troubled officer. "The laws of physics?" she echoed, and smiled before speaking again. She whispered, for she knew when a woman whispers, a man listens more closely. Ambassador Marnie Keller smiled and whispered gently, "The hell with your laws," kissed Hans quickly on the cheek, whirled and skipped away, giggling like a schoolgirl.

If memory serves, this is a child's grave: a little girl who was terrified of storms. The mother had the stairs installed so she could go down to coffin level and read to her daughter, looking at her coffin through a window, until the thunderstorm was past. Publicity and notoriety prompted removal of the window and bricking it shut.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY Paul Barrents looked at Linn with knowing eyes. Linn felt his chief deputy's attention directed like twin obsidian searchlights against the side of his head. "How long, Boss?" Linn eased the cruiser over the rise to where they could see the lights of nighttime Firelands ahead. He squinted, a little, unconsciously, trying to minimize the starbursts. "How long what?" "How long are you going to ignore those cataracts?" Linn hit the brakes, stopped: no other vehicles were visible to either horizon. He turned, looked at Paul. "That bad?" "That bad." Linn's teeth clicked together, barely audible: Paul saw the Sheriff's jaw muscles bulge a little. "You've time enough," Paul said. "Hell, you've got a couple months of vacation time." "More than that of sick time," Linn agreed. "Take the time, Boss. Get 'em fixed." Linn's foot was firm on the brake pedal; the big block Chevy idled quietly, patiently. Linn blinked several times, nodded. "I'd be a damned fool not to take my own advice," he said softly. "That's why I used your exact words." Linn looked back at Paul, laughed. It was not a common thing for Linn to laugh in public -- but that sudden grin, that easy, relaxed laugh, was something that did happen on occasion -- with close friends, or with family. "Paul," he nodded, "your advice is sound, and I shall take it. Let me make some phone calls and I'll let you know when." Paul nodded impassively as Linn eased off the brake, came down gently on the throttle, headed back for the office after a late evening of keeping things peaceful. Dr. John Greenlees bounced his fist-chewing, chubby-armed little boy on his leg, grinned at the screen. "How can I help, Sheriff?" he asked. "Doc, my cataracts are bad enough I need 'em taken care of." "Shouldn't you consult an ophthalmic surgeon in the City?" "Doc," Linn confessed, "few things scare me, but the thought of someone cuttin' on my eyeballs just terrifies me. I was wondering if some of that Confederate medicine might be easier than cuttin' out the old and sewin' in a new lens." "Let me make some calls," Dr. John said thoughtfully. "That's one area I'll need to consult." "You're quiet," Shelly said after supper. She'd come into his study, she'd taken his hand, pulled: Linn rose, knowing this to be her signal for a conference, and they sat on the couch together. "I have a call in." "You have a call in," Shelly echoed, frowning a little. "Is this ... a good thing?" The annunciator chimed; Linn rose, went to the desk, tapped a few keys, and an iris opened beside his desk. Marnie stepped out, hugged her Daddy: "Pack your toothbrush and give the office a call," she said, then she swept over to her Mama, sat, took her hands. "I'm going to borrow your husband," she said. "I'll bring him back eventually." Linn did not remember the light touch of the anesthetic clamp Marnie slipped onto the base of his skull; he had no recollection of the procedure, the recovery, the follow-up tests: he woke in his own bed, two days later, with Angela sitting beside him, holding his hand and smiling gently. Linn looked around, puzzled, looked at his daughter. "Did something go wrong?" he asked quietly. Angela squeezed his big, strong, callused Daddy-hand between hers, and she laughed, just a little. "Daddy," she smiled, "it's all done, your cataracts are gone, you did fine!" Linn blinked, considered, then smiled uncertainly. "Here I was going to tell you to proceed with the operation." Angela laughed quietly. "I'll note that on your chart," she said. "That tells us your anesthetic was properly regulated." Angela rose. "I have to get back," she said quietly, and bent to kiss her Daddy's forehead. "Dr. John got you right in. He says Happy Birthday." Linn laughed a little: "He's early for my birthday," he replied, "but like the old preacher said, all donations cheerfully accepted!"

OH, yasss ... ... they were ideal for customized, carefully-lettered titling ... ... such as "Brain Surgery for Fun and Profit" ...

I've got absolutely no room to complain!

ENOUGH TALK Michael Keller planned his work carefully. He did not size the situation up as a military man, for he had no military experience; he did not plan an assault, an attack; instead, he put his young mind on the same path it had been led, when he and his father worked on a similar problem the year before. Michael Keller set the aging, faded-orange Dodge pickup in position; he strung rope from the corner of the bed to a fencepost and back, made three sagging runs of twisted jute, enough to establish in equine minds that here was a fence. Michael had cans of fuel and oil in the truckbed; he set these out, traded his Stetson for a hardhat with a mesh visor and earmuffs, flipped the switch on the ancient David Bradley chain saw. It started on the first pull. The saw was old and it was heavy, but Michael was a young man in the green strength of youth, and he rejoiced at pitting his strength against tasks of the kind. A tree fell, mashed some fence; its branches plugged its own hole, but the fence needed repaired, and besides, Michael knew the firewood was also needed -- less for their own hacienda, more for two households he knew of that could use the help. Michael sized up the nearest of the forks, decided he could cut it off without the sudden loss of weight causing the rest of the tree to roll -- he'd seen that happen -- he cut swiftly, precisely, but cautiously: once, and once only, did a branch twist and try to bind the saw blade, and Michael wrenched it free before it could pinch it too hard to be removed. He bucked up the cut branches into chunks that could be easily handled, stacked, split: he labored steadily, the unmuffled two-cycle's screaming racket was enough to discourage the normally curious saddlemounts from coming too close: even The Bear Killer, who was usually little short of underfoot, stayed away, repelled by the utter lack of any muffling system whatsoever. Michael gave himself two days for the job, and it took two full days for him to finish it by himself. He knew his Pa was up to his elbows in alligators, so to speak; his Mama had his little brother off to the City for some dental surgery or another, he wasn't sure quite what-all was wrong, only that he genuinely felt sorry for the fellow: his little sister went with his Mama, and he was home, alone, taking care of necessaries. Michael paced himself. Once the heavy cutting was done, once the trunk was limbed off and he had a discrete trunk to be handled, once all the cut-up chunks were stacked, he hitched onto the trunk with the truck, wound in the hubs -- this took some effort, he had to ease the truck ahead or back slightly before they'd wind in, they were the old-fashioned, solid-bronze Warn hubs that wouldn't engage unless they were just right -- once he'd wound in the front axle, he shoved the transfer case into low range, eased the stick into first gear, eased out on the clutch and muttered, "Damn you, Lemon Dog, don't fail me now!" He managed to get the trunk dragged out, thanks to frozen ground, though it was a task: Michael dragged the trunk well into the pasture, unhitched, left it to be pulled the rest of the way later: he knew a sawmill that bought timber, and likely he'd get something for this one. He went back, loaded up as much as he could: he propped up two tripods of skinny branches he'd saved out, he ran the rope fence across the gap: firewood was delivered, stacked, ricked up at two households that were most grateful for winter's heat: by happy accident, he ran into Buck Post and asked him about selling timber, and Buck came out and was delighted with the hardwood trunk, already limbed off: Michael was stinging the tractor mounted augur in beside the broke off fencepost when Buck came out: Michael drilled down deep enough, he and Buck slid the new fence post into the hole, Michael hitched the tractor onto the log and dragged it through the gate and out beside their driveway, where Buck said he could load it easily. Michael admitted he knew right next to nothing about timber cutting, this was a blowdown and he'd tried to save as much of the trunk as he could, with intent to sell it, but he had no idea quite how to go about sellin' timber. Buck paid him and paid him in cash: the two shook hands, Michael went back to the barn, dismounted the augur and hitched on a trailer and material enough to replace the broke down board fence. That night, after a hot shower, after he changed clothes and went into town for supper, he had occasion to mention his labors to a friend of his father's: it was a casual mention, but apparently the size of a straight, prime-timber hardwood impressed Buck Post enough he spoke of it, and word got back to the Sheriff. Michael woke the next morning, a little stiff, but not much, for he was young and full of vinegar: he came downstairs and was considering breakfast when his father came through the front door. Linn walked into the kitchen, still wearing his coat, Stetson still in hand. "Michael." "Sir." Michael closed the cupboard door, gave his father his undivided. "I just drove to the back of the pasture." "Yes, sir." "I see where a tree fell." "It did, sir." "That," Linn said in an approving voice, "looks like a good, workmanlike job repairing the fence." "Thank you, sir." "I notice you took pains to plumb up that fencepost." "I did, sir." "And it looks well tamped." "I took pains with it, sir." Linn nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. "Michael," he said, "what of the tree? There's a hell of a lot of sawdust and some loose stuff, but it looks pretty well gone." "I turned it into stovewood, sir, save for the trunk. Buck Post bought it and said it looked to be good straight grain hardwood." Michael turned his head, thrust his chin toward his father's study. "The money is in an envelope on your desk, sir." Linn was quiet for a long moment, pale eyes considering the crease in his uniform Stetson. He looked up. "That would have been quite a bit of wood." "Yes, sir." "Disposition?" "I knew some folks needed stovewood, sir, and we've plenty." "Had breakfast?" "No, sir." "Neither have I. I understand the Silver Jewel has bacon and eggs ain't been et yet." Michael grinned, for like most young men, he was a walking appetite on two hollow legs, and bacon and eggs sounded better than boiling up some oats like he'd thought to do. Two pale eyed Kellers climbed in the Sheriff's cruiser, slammed the doors, drew belts across them and thrust chrome steel buckles in until they latched. Linn reached for the ignition switch, hesitated, looked at his son. "Michael." "Yes, sir?" "When did that tree fall?" "Three days ago, sir." "Three days." "Yes, sir. It took me two days to get it cut up and hauled out, and the fence repaired." "That," Linn said slowly, "was just one hell of a lot of work." "Yes, sir." "You stiff and sore?" "A little, sir." Linn laughed. "Was that me doin' that much work, I'd probably not be able to move in the morning!" Father and son shared a quiet laugh, then Linn looked very directly at his son. "That was a hell of a lot of work," he repeated seriously. "Michael, you saw work needed done, and you did it, and you did it well. Thank you. I am proud of you." "Thank you, sir." Linn twisted the ignition switch, the engine woke up. "Enough talk," Linn grinned, "I'm hungry!"

FULL MOON Just shy of a half dozen backsides were bent over, right in front of God an everybody, displaying themselves most shamelessly in the middle of beautiful downtown Firelands, hub of industry and commerce, center of culture and education. Well … Maybe not. Actually they were bent over with their owners’ heads thrust under the open hood of a rather elderly pickup truck, right across from the firehouse, in front of the auto parts store. One stood on the front bumper, bent over, reaching clear back to the firewall, or nearly so, at least until a hot radiator cap got too uncomfortable: a young man started to straighten, smacked his gourd on the underside of the hood, half-fell, half-back-stepped, nearly went over backwards: only a strong set of hands, clapping together around his high ribs, kept him from what the pilots call an "Uncontrolled Descent" onto the cold blacktop. The Sheriff chuckled a little as he was obliged to take a quick back-step to keep his own balance: he grinned at the young man who’d nearly gone over backwards. “You’ll have to thrash that rascally toolbox,” Linn said quietly, merriment brightening his pale eyes: “it jumped right out where it could trip you!” “Yeah, thanks,” came the uncertain answer, “I’d kick it but –” “But you’re wearing sneakers and the toolbox wouldn’t come out in second place,” Linn chuckled. “I made that mistake one time, and once only!” “You wore sneakers?” another young voice blurted as every set of eyes swung to the good-natured lawman. “Like I said,” Linn nodded, “I made THAT mistake once and once only!” “I can’t reach that distributor.” “I can, give me a screwdriver!” “You’re cheatin’, you’re up on a peach crate!” “Yeah, when in doubt, cheat. Gimme that screwdriver and shut up.” A hand, extended; a fluted plastic handle smacked into the palm as briskly as a scalpel into a surgeon’s palm: a muttered oath, the old points were lifted out, the screwdriver was dipped rather hopefully into the depths of the exposed distributor, a great gusty sigh of relief as the dropped screw clung to the magnetized tip. “O-kay, got that.” Linn set a boot up on the front bumper, took off his Stetson, dunked it on the nearest spectator’s head: “Hold that,” he said, then leaned waaay over and put his height and long arms to good use: a small but powerful flashlight clicked – “That’s cheatin’! You’re not supposed to see what you’re doin’!” Linn laughed. “Can you reach the condenser?” “Yeah.” “Uncle Pete taught me at a tender age, when in doubt, cheat,” Linn grinned. “Works.” A few turns of the screwdriver. “I don’t want to drop this screw too.” “Whoa, hold, hold,” Linn said softly. “Hold right there.” Long fingers slid down the screwdriver’s shaft. “Lift your blade.” The screwdriver levitated; Linn carefully wiggled the condenser loose, trapping the screw head with one finger: it came free without difficulty, and Linn looked at the young man with the screwdriver. “Did you already loosen the nut?” “What nut?” “That holds the spade connector on this.” He held up the condenser, displaying the short bend of wire with the coupler on the end. “Um, no.” “Whose truck?” “Mine, Sheriff.” “It got to running rough.” “Real rough.” “No wonder, if that nut came loose.” Linn backed up, stepped off the bumper, looked closely at the spade. “Here, look at this, it’s burnt a little.” He tapped the screw into his palm, handed off the condenser: it went from hand to hand, was closely examined by an interested audience. “You’ve got the new ones?” “Right here, Sheriff.” “Can you reach it from there or you want to come at it from this end?” “Let me try it from the front.” “Mitch, you got that rug in your passenger floorboard?” “Sure.” “Pass it up here. Hold on a minute, let me drape this over … this … radiator. You won’t get burnt now, that thing’s hot.” “Okay. I can reach it … I can see … hand me the new condenser.” A shining new condenser was tapped from its red-and-white cardboard box, handed across the chasm between fender and center rear of the engine block. “Whoever put a distributor clear back here needs to be kicked,” came the dark mutter from under the hood: several eyes saw the Sheriff’s quiet nod of agreement. “Okay, I see where … no, that’s not right.” Linn looked from one to another, watching as they learned: if they did not have eyes on the immediate focus of the repair, they had ears and the memory of having looked at it very recently. “Okay. That’s down. Wherinell’s the screw … oh, thank you. Screwdriver.” “Feeler gauge?” Linn asked; there was a brisk rattle from the rascally toolbox. “Clean off the … what’s your gap?” Young men looked from one to another, apparently uncertain. “When in doubt, cheat,” Linn grinned. “That’s a Chevy, set your gap with a matchbook cover, set the time by ear.” Across the street, inside the firehouse squad bay, coffee in hand, a mother and a daughter regarded the shameless display of firm, masculine backsides. They sipped coffee, looked at one another and smiled, looked back out at the collective display of testosterone being applied to an aging, greasy engine block. “Nice view,” Angela murmured. “Mm-hmm,” Shelly agreed.

MY WIFE, THE GHOST "There it is again." Two red-wool-shirted Irishmen stood out on the firehouse apron, listening. Faint, in the distance, a woman's voice. The engineer looked at the truckie and shook his head. "Where from?" The truckie looked across the rooftops, at an upward angle, toward the cemetery, looked back. "You have to ask?" Another ten minutes and the firehouse was emptied if its Brigade: men stood on the snowy apron, two with binoculars: they searched with their ears, with their eyes, with good high grade glass. The wind was carrying out of the west, bringing snow with it: when it slacked, they heard the voice again. A woman's voice it was, and beautiful. Someone, somewhere, in this cold and snowy midnight, was singing. The Welsh Irishman opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "I've got her." "Where?" Another set of glasses raised -- Fitz had his personal set of Bushnells, not as good as the department's Zeiss, but they were a gift, so he used them -- he scanned the distance, searching. The clouds fractured, tore apart, a shaft of moonlight lanced down and illuminated the Firelands Fire Department's Irish Brigade, meandered across town into the distance: another fracture, another shaft, walked up the side of Cemetery Hill, caressed polished quartz tombstones with a monochromatic hand, and they all saw her this time. A woman it was, in a long, emerald gown, shining in the moonlight, then the clouds closed, and she was gone. The Sheriff laughed and patted a friend's shoulder: Linn was coming into the Silver Jewel and an acquaintance was going out, he'd come in just in time to catch the punch line of an old and well worn joke, and it still brought a laugh to the pale eyed lawman to hear it. Linn knew the Irish Brigade would cycle off, B shift would take over, and his wife would meet him here for breakfast. Usually she ate with her firemen, unless she was meeting her husband and sometimes husband and family: it was handy for her, she didn't have to clean up afterward. He heard hurried steps on the boardwalk outside, turned: there were those who watched the lean waisted lawman as he entered, and those who did, saw him scan the interior, then turn at the sound of quick, urgent footsteps outside, at the sudden pull on the Silver Jewel's ornate, heavy door. Bruce Jones came in, snow flecking his shoulders: he looked at Linn, and Linn lifted his chin, turned his head a little, nodded: come with me, we're going there. Linn usually waited at the front of the Silver Jewel for his wife, but at the newspaperman's sudden appearance, Linn knew the man either had information, or had questions, and Bruce was never what you'd call a terribly patient sort in either case. Linn knew his best bet was to sit down with him, figure out what was on his mind, and take it from there. They got halfway back to the Lawman's Corner and the door opened again. Shelly came in, hugging herself in her colorful red-white-and-green plaid wool coat and a knit cap with what looked like an exploding yarn pom-pom on top: on anyone else it would look silly, but on Shelly, it looked good. Linn thrust out an arm, palm down, curled his fingers twice in a come-here motion: Shelly, Fitz and one of the firemen single-filed after the Sheriff. Linn stopped, looked at his entourage, saw two more of the Brigade headed his way. He looked at Bruce, tilted his head to the side and said, "We're in the conference room this morning." Over bacon and eggs, sausage and fried taters, over apple pie and an unholy volume of really good coffee (with vanilla, Linn's favorite!) both the Irish Brigade and Bruce Jones discussed the previous night's observations. Linn was obliged at several points to stand, to raise both hands for slience, then to thrust a bladed hand at one individual: when that soul had his say, Linn bladed a hand at another: he, himself, was saying almost nothing. His breakfast was almost cold; he ate it anyway -- he frowned a little as he considered what had been said -- of hearing a woman's voice, faint at first, until the wind shifted, until the moon split the clouds and spotlighted the singer. "I heard it -- faintly -- I've heard women scream at night, but this was no scream." "Once the wind quit and I could hear her, she was singing." "The Ave." "I've heard it before but damned if I remember where." "We got binoculars out of the rigs and saw her in the graveyard." "She wore green." "Everything was washed-out grey, everything was black-and-white, she stood out like ... almost like green fire." "Living green fire." Shelly looked at her husband, raised an eyebrow. Linn recognized her signal, nodded, ever so slightly. "Let me finish breakfast," he said, "I'll go up on Cemetery Hill and see if there's anything this morning. It snowed last night so there's a snowball's chance, but I'll take a look. Bruce." The newspaperman looked at the Sheriff. "See if your computer archives have anything about ghosts on the mountain. Mama and your father scanned in the old editions, archived them on computer and if I remember Mama rightly, you should be able to search by keyword." Linn looked around. "Are we agreed that nobody perceived this woman was distressed?" The Irish Brigade, the newspaperman, all looked at one another and shook their heads. "Who else would be up and about at such an unholy hour?" "The fellow who runs the sewer plant, maybe, but he's down in the bottom and he's got compressors running 24/7. He wouldn't hear a sonic boom." "Okay. Not a crime, then, but something out of the ordinary. My Mama didn't like puzzles and neither do I. I'll go up and see what's there after snowfall. If you remember anything else, let me know." Linn and Shelly climbed into the tan cruiser, settled themselves, belted in. The engine started easily, idled smoothly; Linn eased out into the street, drove the short distance back to the house. "You know something." "Something Marnie drew." Shelly saw her husband's face become suddenly, carefully, impassive: he did this when he was acquiring information and not wanting to betray anything he knew. "Go on." "I think I know where to find it." Ambassador Marnie Keller smiled brightly, her happy, squealing little boy on her lap. The usual feminine pleasantries seared through the micron-thick gap separating two realities; their Confederate communication was instantaneous, as it opened a window between two points in space-time, eliminating the slow and clumsy lightspeed communication that limited Earth's commo. "Marnie, we had something unusual last night." "Oh?" "The German Irishman couldn't sleep, so he went out on the firehouse apron just after midnight. You know Firelands, they rolled up the sidewalks and fired a cannon down the street at ten o'clock. He heard a woman's voice. He got us up and we went out and listened. "Marnie, it was singing, and it was beautiful!" "Where was it coming from? Were the White Sisters in town?" "No." Shelly swallowed, wet her lips. "We saw her. With binoculars. In the graveyard." "The ... graveyard," Marnie said, her voice guarded: she turned her head a little, looked down at her wiggling, smiling little boy, looked back at the screen. "As near as I can tell ... I think she was in the family section, and she wore a shining, almost glowing, emerald green gown." "An emerald green gown." "That's what we saw. Bruce Jones is searching the newspaper archives for anything of the sort." "A singing ghost," Marnie said softly. "See if there are other ghost stories to be had. Bruce might make an interesting series of stories on local ghosts." Chubby little legs, scampered across the floor: a fresh, white-cloth diaper and a happy "Da!" and Dr. John Greenlees was greeted by a delighted little boy who squealed happily as the slender physician picked the lad up and bumped his head very gently against the ferroplast overhead. Supper was ready when he got home: when Marnie was not away on an Ambassadorial detail, she delighted in being wife and mother, and made it a point to have her husband's supper ready when he got home. Dr. Greenlees was three bites into a truly excellent pot roast when he stopped, looked very directly at his wife. "Out with it, Keller," he said softly. Marnie sighed dramatically, planted an elbow on the table, leaned her forehead into the heel of her hand: she straightened, spread her fingers, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, shook her head, dropped her forehead into the palm of her hand. "I can't win," she groaned. Dr. John reached across the steaming bowl of mashed potatoes, caressed her forearm with the backs of his bent fingers. "Dearest," he said gently, "what happened?" Marnie looked at John, sighed: she straightened, raised both hands, palms-up, fingers spread, shook her head. "John, I just can't win!" "I'll buy you a lottery ticket," he offered innocently. "Darlin', I can suture, I can diagnose, I can take out an appendix and I can put a Band-Aid on a skinned knee, but I can't read minds. You'll have to tell me." Marnie nodded miserably, looked up at her husband, her expression almost that of a guilty child. "John, you know I love to sing," she said sadly. Dr. John nodded. "You remember when I found that big long empty mineshaft and how it echoed, I sang there and it was glorious!" John nodded again, smiling: he did indeed remember, and he'd never heard his wife sing better: the accidental acoustics of that massive excavation were perfect, and he'd stood there with tears stinging his eyes, to hear the beauty of his wife's voice in such a place. "You remember it wasn't as empty as I'd thought. There was a connecting mineshaft, and I was heard at a distance, and rumor started that the mines were haunted, and we played hell convincing the miners that they hadn't cut into a Martian graveyard or something!" Dr. John smiled, just a little: he dare not laugh, which he could've -- his wife's expression was genuinely rueful. "I wanted to sing again, John, so I opened an Iris and went home." John nodded. "It was just midnight. I didn't think anyone else was awake. I've always loved singing in the Firelands graveyard, it's always felt so peaceful. Maybe I didn't want the shades of my ancestors to think they'd been forgotten. "I sang, John, I sang in the cold and in the moonlight, I sang in the falling snow." Dr. John nodded, once, a silent go-ahead. Marnie blinked rapidly, looked away. "Apparently my voice carried better than I ever thought it would. Cold air, prevailing wind, whatever it was, one of the firemen was outside at midnight and he heard me. Pretty soon the firehouse was empty and they were glassing the mountain to try and find the voice." "Did they see you?" Marnie looked to her right, where an emerald-green gown hung, bright and shimmering, where she'd hung it the night before. "The clouds parted and I was spotlighted by a shaft of full moon's light," she said. "They saw a woman in a glowing green gown, in the old section off the cemetery, and now they're searching for the Singing Ghost." Marnie shook her head. "You know what this means, John." "It means I can write a tell-all article titled 'My Wife, the Ghost.'" "It means," Marnie said, rising and turning to the sideboard, "I need to drown my sorrows in chocolate cake. You want yours with ice cream?"

RESISTANT Retired Chief of Police Will Keller opened his door and smiled. A pretty young woman in a bright-red dress and heels struck a pose, batted her eyes: "Hey, sailor, looking for a good time?" Will's smile spread into a laugh: he stepped aside and Angela Keller sashayed into his house, swivel hipping with every step: she got three steps inside the living room -- just enough for Will to close the door -- she stopped, she turned, she leaned over with her hands on her knees and laughed the way she used to when she was a little girl. Will opened his arms and Angela hugged him, quickly, firmly, looked up at him, eyes shining: "Uncle Will, can I ask a flavor?" "For you, darlin', anything," Will rumbled. Angela drew back, tilted her head, took his hand and brought his arm out so she could wrap her hand around it. "I'm going out for dinner," she said, "and I would really like the company of a handsome older man!" Will laughed again, and before he could say as much, Angela said, "Yes, I know both you and Daddy were accused of carousing with younger women -- once Daddy was out with Marnie, once you were out with Marnie, and both times" -- she sidled up to him, nudged him in the ribs with her elbow -- "Hey, fella, who was that younger woman you were out with, nudge, nudge, wink wink!" Will nodded. "I remember," he sighed. Angela took her uncle's warm, strong hands, squeezed them gently, looked into her Uncle's eyes. "I wore red so the town gossips would have something to clatter about!" she said mischievously. "So which will it be? The Silver Jewel, the ice cream place, do we go over to Ruby's Boardwalk?" "I like Ruby's," Will admitted, "but I'd like something nicer if I'm in the company of a beautiful young woman." Angela raised up on her toes, kissed her uncle quickly on the cheek. "Flatterer," she whispered, giving him those adoring eyes, those long lashes that she knew would just plainly melt the man's heart. "We can walk, or my car is warmed up." "Let me change. You had me at warm!" Angela looked very proper, very feminine, as she sat across from her dignified Uncle. Her Uncle Will was not quite the quick change artist Marnie had been, but he wasn't bad: he was out of blue jeans and a flannel shirt, and into a suit and tie, much more quickly than Angela expected. She didn't even get a chance to do up the few dishes in his sink. She drove to the Silver Jewel; Will was content to let her handle the detail, though it would have been more proper for him to do the driving -- besides, he'd like to try wheeling this pretty purple Dodge with the long bulge down the hood. He was a Crown Vic man himself, and very fond of Ford's large displacement Interceptor engines, but he also knew these turbo Dodges would flat out scoot, and somewhere in his old man's carcass, lived a laughing young man who delighted in exercising his lead foot. They settled in at an intimate little table in the back room, just the two of them: Will ordered for both, which pleased Angela greatly -- she took pains to conduct herself as a lady, and she delighted when a man conducted himself as a gentleman -- after the server left water and a platter of fresh sourdough and soft butter, Angela rested her chin on delicate fingertips and regarded her Uncle rather frankly. "You realize," she said, "I'm doing this as a matter of medical necessity." Will raised an eyebrow. "It's medically necessary to eat?" "No, silly," she smiled, and Will remembered her voice, her smile, when she was still a little girl, laughing and saying "No, silly." Angela batted her eyes and said, "If a prizefighter hadn't set foot in a gym in ten years, then squared off against the current Golden Gloves champ, he'd get pounded into the canvas." Will considered this, nodded. "It's the same with your immune system. You've not gone much of anywhere or done much of anything since you retired again. Your immune system hasn't had to work much. I'm getting you out into the world to keep it active." Will grunted. "So you're making me sick to keep me well." "I'm preventing your getting sick, Uncle Will," she said quietly, lowering her head a fraction as she did: "I know how fast a sinus infection will knock your butt in the dirt." She leaned a little to the side, pretended to see through the tabletop. "Cute butt, by the way." "Thanks," Will said innocently, "I'm rather attached to it myself." The server came in with their salads as Will and Angela were both laughing. Will held Angela's hands, gently, the way an older man will: he gazed fondly at his niece, pride swelling his heart as he considered what she'd accomplished in her young life. "Uncle Will, you're a Mason." It was a statement, not a question. Will nodded carefully. "I heard Daddy say something about a secret of a Master Mason, how it was a secret given in confidence and not part of the ritual." Will turned his head a little, as if to bring a good ear to bear, nodded again. "Uncle Will, I'm not a Mason -- obviously! -- but I understand confidentiality -- both as law enforcement, and as Medical." Angela laid her hand on her Uncle's lapel. "Can I give you something with that confidentiality?" Her Uncle Will nodded gravely. "Anything, darlin'," he rumbled. Angela licked her lips, swallowed, looked away, looked back. "Uncle Will," she almost whispered -- he frowned, shook his head, raised two fingers to his ear. "I'm sorry," Angela said, raising her volume a little. "That's better, darlin'. A lifetime and loud noises and I can't hear quite as well, and I'm glad you drove, for I don't like drivin' at night anymore." Angela nodded, swallowed again. "Uncle Will ... you know Marnie is on Mars." Uncle Will nodded. Angela opened her mouth to say something, hesitated, closed her mouth. She looked away, looked back. "I'm sorry. I ... can't." Uncle Will steered her toward the kitchen table, pulled out a chair: Angela sat, very properly, very ladylike. Uncle Will pulled up another chair, sat knee to knee with her. "Darlin'," he said in that deep, reassuring voice of his, "do you remember the only advice I gave you the day your Daddy pinned that six point star on your shirt pocket flap?" Angela blinked, smiled: "You told me when in doubt, follow my gut." "Somethin' tells me," he said, "you just did." Angela nodded, opened her mouth to explain: Will raised a forestalling palm. "Darlin'," he said, "you hold a confidence. I thank you that you were willin' to share it with me, but then you realized the fewer people know it, the less likely it'll be to get away." Angela reddened, dropped her eyes, nodded, her fingers fumbling with the metal tips of her belt the way she did when she was a nervous little girl. Will leaned forward, laid gentle fingertips on the back of her hand. "Darlin', that advice still stands. When in doubt, follow your gut. You were doubtful so you didn't." He winked reassuringly. "Well done." Angela looked bashfully at him, the way an uncertain little girl will do, and Will patted her hand gently. "You did the right thing, darlin', and thank you for that dinner." Retired Chief of Police Will Keller grinned, and Angela could not help but smile as well. "It does an older man good to be seen in the company of a really good lookin', younger woman!"

Safe travels, my friend! If I had something like a Weasel or an APC, I'd fetch it out for your use to guarantee your safe travel! She'll be delighted to sleep under her own roof again! (Hey, the bed's more comfortable, the company's better and so is the cookin'!)

Grew up hearing it routinely, SE (Appalachian) Ohio

I'm reading the delightful news that her plumbing is back to industry standard and she's on the mend! Trouble is, I'm reading it just after 1 in the morning (woke up & couldn't get back to sleep) so no full-voiced WAHOO of celebration. Don't want the wife to think I hit the lottery or something. Still standing up on my knees for full healing without complications, and pickled tink she's not plagued with that packing!

BOOM One moment Sarah Lynne McKenna and her Mama were discussing the latest shipment of ladies' fashions to the Coast. The next, Bonnie looked up, startled, as Sarah bolted -- launched -- drove from her chair to the door, running in what appeared to be an utter, blind panic, out of the dress-works and towards town. "Oh, no," Bonnie murmured: she put her ledger on the shelf, removed her glasses, folded them and placed them carefully in their colorful, Japanned case, placed this on the shelf with the ledger. She rose, tugged at the bell-pull: one of the girls came in, dipped her knees at Bonnie's summoning ring. "Have my carriage brought around," Bonnie said quietly. "Yes, ma'am." The concussion was felt for several miles. Its effects lasted for some time afterward. The Emerald Rose Brick Works was in a turmoil: Kiln #1 just detonated, chunks of brick were falling to the ground, men were shouting, running toward the long, brick kiln. Callused hands seized gas valves, turned them, shut off the supply: yellow fires flared within, where no yellow flame should ever be: as the valves closed, these renegade flares shrank, died. A boy was boosted up onto a horse, the boss's hand smacked the horse's backside, a little boy with a grim expression gripped the mare's reins and galloped toward town, toward the hospital, toward help. Chief Finnegan rose slowly, his bottom jaw out: his face wore the same determined expression he'd worn when he was ready to bust knuckles and bust jawbones in a Cincinnati street brawl. "ALL HANDS ON DECK! TURN TO, DAMN YE LOT, OR I'LL HAVE YER GUTS FOR GARTERS!" Three matched white mares, drowsing a moment before, came to sudden, dancing life: they knew their collars would be lowered, the harness dropped over them, they knew they'd be harnessed up, and the knew they'd be given let to run, to run with all the joy of their kind, with all the celebration of horses that loved to pull their shining Seam Machine at an absolutely breakneck velocity. The German Engineer leaped onto the tailboard, snatched open the firedoor, slung in two scuts of coal and a splash of the Devil's breath: they kept their boiler warm, that they could make steam faster, and when the Chief roared his stentorian summons, all hands wanted steam up, and they wanted it five minutes ago! "CHIEF! WHATTAWE GOT?" the New York Irishman demanded loudly as they seized the hose wagon, hitched it on behind the Steam Masheen. "NO IDEA, LADS! NE'ER FEAR, WE'LL FIND OUT!" Esther Keller inspected the still-warm brick, smiling at the stamped words, Emerald Rose, running its length: most of the bricks were plain, though the made glazed brick with decorative designs, for laying walkways, for masonry work that required a more decorative appearance: these were for construction, the stamped name would be seen only while the brick was being laid, but Esther insisted on this cartouche: she wished to impress upon the minds of every brickmason that handled her product, that Emerald Rose bricks were the very best. The brick fell to the ground, not because it was stripped from her gloved fingers, but because Esther was blown away from the brick by the concussion of an explosion. She was in one of the worst places to be, short of inside the kiln itself -- she was in front of its open end, and the detonation focused the gas explosion's blast like a gunbarrel. Esther Keller, the green eyed wife of that pale eyed old Sheriff, premier businesswoman, owner and chief executive of the Z&W Railroad, of the Emerald Rose Brick Works and of multiple mining operations in multiple states, flew through the air like a leaf before a hard gust of wind. She had no recollection of hitting the ground. The sight of a pretty young woman, running, her skirts snatched shamefully high, stockinged legs flashing in the sunlight, was at once shocking, and alarming: the velocity of her travel was, in and of itself, enough to elicit concern. When she skidded on her hard little heels -- when she nearly fell, when she leaped onto the hospital's stoop, when she seized the bell-pull and yanked, hard, those folk who'd seen her approach knew -- with absolutely no doubt -- that something was very, very, wrong! Bonnie was halfway from the dress-works and the firehouse when she was passed by a boy on a horse. She knew the boy, and she knew the horse, and she knew the urgency of their speed: her eyes swung over to the firehouse, saw the big wooden valves swing open, saw three matched white mares dancing impatiently, throwing their heads, clearly wanting to run. "BONNIE!" Sean roared, reins in one hand, blacksnake whip curled in the other: "BONNIE, WHITHER AWAY?" Bonnie looked at Sean, looked toward the hospital. She turned back to Sean, opened her mouth, just as the hospital's front door slammed open and something with long stockinged legs, flying petticoats and big pale eyes came streaking out, leaped to the street, ran at the top of her young lungs toward three matched white mares and a big, curled-mustache Irishman in the driver's box. "EXPLOSION AT THE BRICK WORKS!" Sarah screamed, opera-trained lungs driving her words before her: "EXPLOSION IN THE KILN!" Saran seized the polished brass rail, vaulted into the driver's box: Sean swung his blacksnake whip, snapped a hole in the air a yard over the center mare's ears, slacked his reins: "RUN, LADIES, RUN! SAINT FLORIAN, SAINT CHRISTOPER AND THE BLESSED VIRGIN'S TEARS, RUN!" Sarah Lynne McKenna sat, braced her feet on the dash board, gripped the brass rail with one hand and Sean's belt with the other as three, pure-white firehorses, did what they absolutely loved to do. Smoke, shining brass, polished hooves and an Irishman's voice, happily singing a Gaelic war-song, and behind them, a woman bringing her carriage hard about. Less than a minute later, Parson Belden seized the twisted hemp bell-rope and pulled, pulled again, the cast-iron bell spreading alarm, its metallic summons following Irishmen in pressed-leather helmets and a mother in a shining carriage. Father and son shared a look. Father and son rose to their feet. Father and son picked up their Stetsons, settled them in place. "Jacob, you go on ahead." "Yes, sir." Esther Keller felt hands gripping her, felt herself being turned over. She looked up, squinted: a shadow fell across her face and she could see. Esther blinked, confused. Why is Bonnie upside down? Another face, right-side-up: Jacob. "Lie still," Bonnie's lips moved: Esther frowned, squinted, divined what Bonnie must have said: she knew Bonnie was soft spoken, but good God! was all that screaming noise? A hand gripped Bonnie's shoulder: that sun again, searing Esther's eyes: she squinted, turned her head a little: someone gripped her head, someone ... Dr. Greenlees, she thought. No one else has such cold hands! She saw the good Doctor's lips move: she frowned, tried to sit up. His hand laid itself on her high chest, across her collar bones: only a physician would be so bold as to touch a woman's bodice without her let-be, and his lips moved again, and this time he frowned. Esther opened her mouth, worked her jaw, raised a hand to her ear, then slapped her hand hard against the ground, found a wrist, seized it: of a sudden the world was assuming a hard list to starboard, while rotating and dropping by the bow. Bonnie knelt, hugged her, Esther clutched her desperately, her eyes closed: she laid back down, teeth clenched, half sick. Esther felt several hands working their way under her, she felt herself lifted, she felt herself put on what must have been a litter of some kind. Esther Keller, woman of business and commerce, matron and icon of society, rolled up on her side and managed to throw up over the side of the litter. Sarah McKenna rode back to the firehouse, waited until the mares were unhitched from the Steam Masheen, until they were hitched to the surplus military ambulance: she rode back with them, chewed her knuckles helplessly as Esther, on her side, clutching the hardwood pole on the left side of the litter, was hoisted, slid into the ambulance. A blanket was unfolded, snapped free, draped carefully over her: Sarah and Bonnie looked at one another, each seeing the distress in the other's eyes. "You go," Sarah said quickly. "You're her best friend. You should be with her. I'll take the carriage back." Sheriff Linn Keller rose as Sarah came through the door. Sarah saw his quiet smile fade as he saw her face. Sarah swallowed and said the most difficult words she'd spoken in her life. "It's Esther," she said. "You're needed at hospital." The kiln had not even begun to heat when the explosion occurred. The foreman went over the startup with them who were there when it happened. Apparently either the pilot flame went out, or the insurance fire hadn't been lit beforehand: gas filled the kiln, someone realized it hadn't fired, threw in a burning gob of greasy rag waste, and boom. They surveyed the kiln's arched roof, calculated the damage: they switched to Number Two, and the foreman went to see if Miz Esther was still alive. Every man there watched him depart, every man there felt his stomach slide slowly down to his shoetops, for Miz Esther was well loved by them: not only was she absolutely fair as a boss and as an owner, she was genuinely liked. Jacob was pacing like a panther. Sarah, on the other hand, sat composed, a Western Queen on a velvet-upholstered throne. Jacob stopped, turned, glared at Sarah. "Go on, say it," Sarah said quietly. "If I say it I'll have to see it done." "So do it." Jacob glared at his sister, looked to his right, at the paneled wall with a vase of flowers painted on hanged canvas: he looked at the other wall, at a vase of flowers on a shelf, then looked back at Sarah. "Doc needs a bigger waiting room." Sarah arched an eyebrow. "Oh?" Jacob nodded solemnly. "I can't get three steps before I have to turn and go the other way." "I see." Sarah rose, took Jacob's hands. "Jacob," Sarah said quietly, "I'm not sure what to say." Jacob frowned, studied his sister's face. "How's that, Little Sis?" Sarah hauled off and punched him in the chest. "Papa is coming through that door and I haven't any idea what to say to him, little brother!" Jacob grinned with half his face. "Little Sis, I oughta turn you over my knee and fan your little biscuits!" Sarah ran her arms under his, hugged him desperately, buried her face in shirtfront linen: Jacob hugged her to him, whispered "I'm scared too, Sis." The door opened, the Sheriff's silhouette was black in the sudden blaze of light. The others in the waiting room saw the man's face as he saw Jacob and Sarah in embrace, saw the controlled anger in his son's expression. "Jacob?" he said. Jacob raised his head. "Alive, sir." Linn's face was a mask: he knew he was watched, habit alone bade him show no expression, not even now. "Where?" Jacob raised an arm, thrust a stiff hand toward one of the three doors. Linn strode to the door, several of the townsfolk followed him with their eyes. Jacob released Sarah, followed his father. "Was anyone hurt?" Esther whispered. "Besides you?" Doc Greenlees said, his face unsmiling. "I haven't heard." "I have to --" she started, sitting up a little, then fell back, brought a forearm across her forehead, the other hand seizing the edge of he bed. "Lie still," Dr. Greenlees said, not unkindly. "You're likely dizzy as hell." Esther tried nodding her head, clenched her teeth as she realized that, too, was a bad idea. "I can barely hear you." "That should fade in a few days. You might have ringing in your ears for some long time." "My husband," Esther whispered, not daring to speak any louder. "He'll be worried sick." She felt a familiar warmth as a hand laid itself over her blanched knuckles. As cold as Doc Greenlees' hands were, her husband's hands were just as hot: she'd joked with Bonnie that sleeping with Linn was like sleeping with a full length bed warming pan, and Bonnie asked if Esther ever put her cold feet in the middle of Linn's back when he slept, and Esther described a yelp and a launch as if her husband had been Clap Boarded across his backside, and both ladies laughed quietly: now, though, now Esther was content to know Linn was there. Linn was there, and everything would be all right.

GUESTING Linn's counterpart accepted the stone jug with a quiet, knowing smile. Father of the bride and father of the groom looked to the door of the man's study: the servant drew the doors shut, bowed as he backed out, left the two alone. "I have no idea," Linn said slowly, "what a proper gift might be, so I asked the Daine boys if they had any jugs of Uncle Will's Finest." Jacob's father in law smiled quietly: "If it's anything like our local product," he said, "I look forward to a touch. Will you join me?" "I will, thank you." Two glasses were produced; Linn watched with approval as the man worked the corn cob stopper loose, set it carefully aside, picked the jug up by its ring and dropped it over his bent elbow to decant two volumes: it was evident he was used to handling a jug, or at least had been, at one time. Two men raised their glasses in salute, two men considered the rose-colored payload that filled the glasses to the one-third mark -- again, Linn thought, a sign of the man's experience. They drank. Ruth's father closed his eyes and savored the sip, letting it scald the hair off his tongue, sterilize his tonsils and warm him clear down to his belt buckle, where it ignited a warm and comfortable fire in his boiler, so to speak. "Now that," he said with satisfaction, "is sippin' likker!" "We've a tribe of Kentucky mountain folk nearby," Linn said quietly. "Master gunsmiths, best craftsmen when it comes to wood work I've ever seen, and this" -- he swirled his glass a little -- "is another of their skills." "I've never had anything quite like it," McGillicuddy said thoughtfully. "Half and half moon likker and homemade wine. This batch was aged about 75 years." "I've never had its equal," McGillicuddy admitted. "Nor I," Linn admitted. "It's potent. Goes down like Mama's milk and blows the socks right off your feet." Two men laughed, raised their glasses to one another again, drank. Shelly's gift to her counterpart was equally ceremonial, but far more modest: a length of silk ribbon, a paper of pins, a pincushion with exactly 21 sewing needles, arranged in a precise circle. Why this was the proper greeting-gift, Shelly did not know, but she was most grateful to Jacob's wife Ruth for letting her know the propriety of this first meeting-gift. They'd met before -- it was a careful meeting, almost an overly cautious meeting, as it involved offworlders, and offworlders related to the Ambassador herself, friends to their own Ambassador: this meeting, after the first child established the fertile bond between their peoples, was considerably more relaxed. Neither Shelly Keller nor Mary Ruth McGillicuddy had any real liking for stiff formalities: after the ceremonial giving of ribboned pins and pincushion, the ladies sat down to talk as women will, to discuss their husband, to lean toward one another and share confidences: we will leave such matters to the ladies, for there are other activities to consider. There were horses on this world, as there were on nearly all the Confederate worlds; just as Jacob had his beloved stallion back on Earth, Ruth had her favorite mare here, but she also had her Papa's chestnut, a horse he forbade her to ride, as he raced the chestnut stallion on occasion. Ruth, of course, exercised a child's prerogative and rode the stallion at every opportunity, a fact her father politely ignored: Jacob admired this fine animal, regarded it with a horseman's eye, ran his hands over the stallion's neck, down his forelegs, examined the hooves -- he straightened quickly, shook a fist at the stallion's mischievous attempt at biting Jacob's backside -- Jacob ran his hands down the horse's flanks, turned with his fist up again as the stallion came around, made another try. Jacob shook his fist, frowned, set his heels: "Glue Hoof," he said warningly, "I'll knock you into the middle of next week!" The stallion's head came up with what looked to Jacob's amused bride, to be an expression of utter, equine, innocence. Jacob turned back to the horse, bent over, made to pick up the horse's hindhoof. The stallion's dentistry clamped shut with the speed of a striking viper -- Jacob straightened -- Ruth clapped her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide, surprised -- Her Papa's prized stallion had Jacob's bandanna in its teeth and was waving it triumphantly. Jacob planted his knuckles on his belt, his jaw thrust out, and he shook his Daddy-finger at the offending equine. "Youuu dooty rat," he said in a truly awful Jimmy Cagney voice, "Youuu dooty, dooty rat! I'd oughta give to you, see, nyaah, nyaah!" -- which prompted the stallion to turn and nudge its forehead into Jacob's chest, which prompted Jacob to rub the stallion under the jaw and around its ears, and elicited sounds from his beautiful bride somewhat reminiscent of a chicken laying a meteor. The corn cob was carefully replaced into the jug's glazed neck: each man agreed that a third of a glass was God's aplenty of Uncle Will's Finest. Shelly and Mary Ruth relaxed and fussed over their first grandchild, pink cheeked and healthy, bright-eyed and smiling: by the time Jacob and Ruth came back in, smiling, supper was almost ready, and it was a toss-up as to which grandfather was making a bigger damn fool of himself with the grandchild. Grandfathers do that.

Very definitely will stand up on my knees for her and for yourself both! Looking forward to your After Action Report!

TEAM FIRELANDS Marnie Keller flipped her twin braids over her shoulders with a quick twist of her head: she held out her hand, received the two rounds from a grinning, older man wearing a carpenter's apron bulging with shotshells, she thumbed them into the Ithaca's magazine. Marnie Keller set her saddle shoes at shoulder width, her left a little forward, she brought the red rubber recoil pad to the shoulder of her cheerleading sweater, and she smiled. "Pull," she said quietly. A claybird disappeared in a cloud of orange dust, bright against a cloudless blue sky. A second clattering thump behind her, another clay bird, sailing through the cloud of pulverized, baked predecessor: Marnie's Ithaca spoke again, another empty hull hit the ground, and a pale eyed high school freshman raised her shotgun's stubby muzzle to the vertical, turned and looked at her broadly grinning Daddy. There were twenty students on the line today: they'd reserved the range, they were competing to see who would go to the Regionals, and Marnie was first to shoot. She knew she'd have a few more rounds to go; like the other shooters, she waited until the last station shot, then they all turned and went back to let the next squad come forward. Marnie was shooting her Daddy's shotgun, the one he carrried in his cruiser: he told her it was a little long for her, and she hugged him and leaned the side of her head into his chest and said "Oh, Daddy," the way she did when she was wheedling him out of something, then she laughed and kissed his cheek and said, "If you'll screw the Modified tube in your shotgun, I'll bet you a hot fudge Sundae I can break twenty!" Now, when the first squad came off the line and the second squad came up, Marnie hung the shotgun, muzzle up, from its carrying strap on her left shoulder and stood beside her long tall Daddy. "Nice work," Linn murmured. "You didn't want to shoot your own gun today?" "Daddy's shotgun is lucky," Marnie smiled, and her ear pulled back a little as the Sheriff's talkie chimed the quick two-note repeater tone. Marnie's face went from happy and girlish to pale and solemn in a tenth of a second or less: she slipped the short shotgun from her shoulder, seized the choke tube wrench: she switched the Modified for the Improved Cylinder, which her Daddy preferred: the Sheriff was half-bent-over, noting information on his flipped-open pad that lived in his shirt pocket. Marnie snugged the choke tube, dropped the choke wrench back into the plastic tacklebox they kept extra tubes, parts, cleaning supplies and miscellaneous necessities: she shoved the magazine full of 00 buck, thumbing the last round into the magazine as her father reached for the gun. "Got to go, Princess," he murmured: "Be careful, Daddy," she replied, and watched as the Sheriff strode for his tan cruiser. Marnie picked up a gun case, unzipped it, gripped another shotgun by the hand-checkered wrist: she lifted the two-tone gun case free, draped it over the table, frowned as she read the stamp on the little flat on the exposed choke tube's knurled collar. Marnie slung this shotgun from her off shoulder, like she'd done with her Daddy's cruiser gun. It would be several minutes before her squad cycled back onto the line, so she leaned back against the heavy wooden table, a pretty high-school girl in her cheerleader's uniform. Mary Lou came over, stood beside her: like Marnie, she wore her pleated-skirt cheerleader's uniform; like Marnie, this one also employed a long sleeved sweater, worn over a white blouse; like Marnie's, she wore a gold pin on the top bar of the gracefully-curved script-F. Mary Lou's pin was a shotgun, in profile: Marnie wore the same shotgun, with a gold rifle on the second bar, and a gold pistol on the curved upright. "Did he take the bet?" Mary Lou asked hopefully. Marnie looked at her, smiling a little, the way two girls will when talking about boys or other girlish subjects: "He took the bet." "Good." Mary Lou smiled. "When he buys you a hot fudge Sundae, he buys for the team!" "But he only buys if I break twenty today." Mary Lou giggled, nudged her with an elbow, gave her another conspiratorial look. "Don't miss," she said, "I really want that hot fudge Sundae!" The Valkyries were not the only students competing to see who would go to Regional. Marnie's stiffest competition came from two upperclassmen, local boys with custom stocked over-and-unders: they'd worked and scraped and saved for these high grade trap guns, and an anonymous benefactor paid for custom fitting of Circassian walnut stocks: the boys had no idea who'd made the donation, and try as they might, they weren't able to find out. They had to satisfy themselves with expressing their thanks to their shooting coach. By the time Linn returned -- which was well into the afternoon -- he was just in time to see Marnie, on the line, her extended-magazine 870 stoked: he heard her quiet, confident, "Pull!" -- he saw the doubles sail out, saw the trap crew reset and throw without prompt: he knew Marnie was challenging herself, this was an optional stage, where twenty birds would throw out as fast as the loaders could cock the thrower and drop birds on, two and three at a time. Marnie's rhythm was steady, her aim unerring: her left hand had eyes -- she fired three times, loaded two into the magazine, fired twice, shoved in two more, then a third: her hand dropped from the loading gate, seized the fore-end: she breathed easily, she knew her pupils were dilated, it was all she could do to keep from quivering like a bird dog on point, waiting for the next salvo of clay birds to come sailing out. Linn leaned back against his cruiser, arms folded, smiling quietly: he nodded just a little, watching his daughter punish the sky with cloud after cloud of orange dust. Linn was not the only proud parent present. He was, however, the only one who caught his daughter, as she came running to him, shotgun slung over her off shoulder, screaming "Daddy, I did it, I did it, I did it!" as Linn caught her under the arms, swung her high in the air, dissipating her running momentum by spinning her around, his head back and laughing, Marnie's delight and wide eyes plain for the camera to see. That was the picture Bruce Jones caught for the Firelands Gazette's next issue: a pale eyed Sheriff, his uniform Stetson just falling off his head, his delighted daughter, pigtails flying, skirt flared, legs bent up behind her as her big strong Daddy whirled her around, and the shotgun carried by Marnie's Gammaw Willamina, slung over her shoulder, secure in spite of the triumphant hoist toward the blue heavens above: that afternoon, Team Firelands adjourned to the chrome-and-mirrors, 1950s-decor drugstore and ice cream parlor, and triumph was celebrated with chocolate hot fudge Sundaes, all around.

OLD NICK "I'll be damned," Marnie said softly. Dr. Greenlees joined his wife for lunch, and as was their habit, they sat side by side to catch up on news from home. Marnie was scrolling through the obituaries. "Anybody you know?" Dr. Greenlees murmured, leaning into his wife and running his arm around her back. Marnie purred and laid her head over on his shoulder. "I'll give you a week to stop that." Doc began scratching her back with long, practiced strokes: Marnie arched her back like a cat, snapped her head back, eyes closed as she savored the sensation of a skilled back scratching. "Purrrrrr," she said. "Oh, purrrrr." Doc Greenlees laughed, scratched a little more, rubbed her back with the flat of his palm. "It looked like you saw somebody you knew." "Yeah," Marnie said, almost drowsily: "Old Nick died, damn him!" "Who's Old Nick?" Marnie looked at her husband, tilted her head back, accepted his careful kiss, laid her head back over onto his shoulder. "He's one of the few people my Daddy ever really disliked!" Sheriff Linn Keller stepped in front of a man, pale eyes cold, his jaw set. "Nick." "Sheriff." "You went into Willy's employment." "So?" "You told him if you saw him with your wife, you'd take a shotgun and shoot him." Nick shifted his weight, his eyes shifting down and to the side, giving him all the sincere appearance of a gutter rat on a mission. "You left your wife, Nick. You're shacking up with a younger woman. That's your business. You threatened to kill a man. Now it's mine." Nick glared at the Sheriff, not daring to deny what the man apparently already knew. "I gave him orders, Nick. I told Willie if he sees you with a weapon, he is to shoot you dead on the spot. I'll see to it you're buried face down so you can see where you're going." "You can't do that!" "I've done it before," Linn said quietly. Nick's hand drifted backwards a little and a voice behind him said, "Don't," and there was the unmistakable triple-click of a revolver coming into battery. Nick was wise enough to freeze. Linn put him up against the nearest wall, pinned him with one ranch-hardened hand clamped around the back of the man's neck: he relieved him of a switchblade, snapped the blade open, then stuck the blade in a gap in the brickwork and broke it off. "You ever do that again and I'll shoot you myself," Linn said quietly. "Never reach for anything when you're talkin' to a lawman. You could have been shot just now and it would have been no-billed. You made what's called a furtive move, and with a knife in your hip pocket, why, the jury would say 'twas justified." Linn pulled him away from the wall, spun him around, slammed him against the brickwork, his hand hard on the man's windpipe. "You left a good woman," he said quietly, "you left the mother of your children and you're shackin' up with a sweet young thing. You have no claim on the woman you left. Willy didn't want to press charges but he did want to let me know what you said. You ever talk to him again, you go near him, if you survive I'll lock you up on as many charges as the law will tolerate." Marnie eased the hammer down on her Smith, holstered, fast up the thumb break on her floral carved holster. Linn released his tight grip on the man's throat. Nick's eyes swung over to Marnie, looked away: as hard as the Sheriff's eyes were, the sculpted ice of this Daughter of the Law, turned a coward's face from her as quickly as a grasping hand seizing him by the cheekbones and twisting his head. Marnie stood beside her Daddy as Nick walked quickly away, glancing over his shoulder at them as he did. "You don't like him," Marnie murmured. "I hate few things, Marnie," Linn replied, "but one of them is a coward, and he is King among the breed." "Did you know him?" Dr John asked as he rubbed his wife's shoulders, kneading the tension out of the base of her neck. "I knew him," she replied. "I take it you didn't like him." He felt her silent laughter, felt her lay her hand over his skilled fingers. "I had a chance to kill him once," she said, "and if I had a bushel basket of gold shekels, I'd pay the Witch of Endor to resurrect his miserable carcass so I could twist his head off and ball bat it over the backfield fence!"

POPEYE THE ROTT Michael fished in his coat pocket, pulled out a set of keys, opened the door. Two shining dark eyes and a wet nose greeted him. Michael shut the door behind him, locked it, fooled with the happy, tail-whipping Rottweiler. "Popeye, you wanta go ouuuut?" he asked, drawling the word out: Popeye, an aging, greying-muzzled Rottweiler, fake-sneezed loudly to emphasize that yes, his bladder was ready to bust, open that back door fast! Michael unlocked the back door, let Popeye out into the spacious, privacy-fenced back yard. His neighbor was still recovering from having most of one leg cut off, diabetic infection: the man's wife was spiraling down into Alzheimer's, she'd been taken away by squad and she was under a 72 hour mental health hold, somewhere. Michael knew Pete asked his Pa to have someone let his dog out, and Michael did, four times a day, and he stayed a bit and fooled with the sociable Rott. He also washed dishes, carried out the trash and mopped the kitchen linoleum, because Popeye tracked in mud that last trip out, and Pete's house was always tidy. Michael knew his Pa was a busy man -- hell, he was the Sheriff, he was always being called or asked or served or responding to this-or-that -- Michael took pains to tend what was needful, and when Pete asked his Pa to let Popeye out, Michael told his Pa he'd tend that detail, and did. Michael knew Jacob used to bring the tractor over and give the man's yard a haircut every Monday, like clock work, he'd more often than not bring a weed cutter and string trim where it was needful: Pete was diabetic and had trouble with his legs, and now he was healing up from an amputation. Michael took out his phone and took Popeye's picture, close-up and happy, sent it to Pete: the day before, he'd brought in the man's mail, laid it out on his kitchen table so the return addresses showed, one above the other, took that picture and sent him: he knew Pete's sister tended his bills these days, he knew Pete would instruct his sister according to the mail received. It was little enough he did, and Michael felt it wasn't enough, but short of moving in -- or taking Popeye home with him, which his mother allowed as she didn't want him to do -- well, he was doing the best he could. Michael changed which lights were on, with every visit, and he left the TV set on in the living room, to try and make it look like someone was home, and active, and once a week, he started Pete's pickup truck and let it idle, then he drove it to the end of the driveway and back, to keep things limbered up, keep seals from drying out, keep the battery charged. Michael sat down with Popeye, rubbing the old dog's chest, murmuring to him, calling him a good boy: Popeye licked Michael's chin, happily accepting the attention: Michael sat down on the backless sofa and Popeye piled up behind him, warm against his back, and Michael smiled a little. Few things feel quite as good as a sizable, happy-to-see-you dog, piled up against your tenderloins. "You're quiet tonight," Linn said softly. Michael looked up from his supper plate, his face solemn. "Yes, sir." "Story at eleven?" Linn asked. Young eyes watched them; Shelly considered the pale eyed father and the pale eyed son, and she knew from the gentleness in her husband's voice, that he was remembering the authoritarian nature of his own father. It was not the first time Shelly was most grateful Linn did not repeat the parenting mistakes that were made with him. "Sir," Michael said, "I've been doing my schoolwork over at Pete's." "Sounds like an efficient use of time." "Yes, sir," Michael agreed. "Popeye listens well." Linn nodded, forked up another stab of pot roast: he looked at Shelly, his eyes smilling. "That's good pot roast," he murmured, and Shelly warmed a little inside: Linn's mother made a truly superb pot roast, and for him to complement his wife's, was an achievement indeed. Linn looked back at Michael. "Are you doing memory work?" "We have to give a Shakespearean." "Takes practice," Linn agreed. "That's why I'm talking to my windshield when I drive. Helps me with degree work." "Yes, sir." "Popeye listens well?" "He does, sir, though when I'm working on algebra, he'll come along and nose my elbow 'cause he feels ignored." Linn chuckled. "I understand that one!" he said, nodding, then tore a roll in two, mopped his plate clean: he looked at Michael and said "It's impolite to mop your plate. Makes it look like you're still starved out, but your Mama's good cookin' is too good not to!" "Yes, sir," Michael agreed. "A man's character is revealed," Linn said slowly, "when he does the right thing when nobody's lookin'. I understand you keep Pete's house clean." "Yes, sir. Popeye has big paws and he tracks in mud." Linn nodded. "Nobody sees what you're doin'." "No, sir." "You know Pete doesn't have two nickels to rub together." "Yes, sir." "He's got nothing by way of worldly wealth." "No, sir." "He can't pay you for your efforts." "No, sir." "But you're still helpin' him out." "Yes, sir." "Michael," Linn said, looking very directly at his son, and knowing full well that younger ears were listening, younger eyes were watching, "you reveal your character by these things. You are doing it right, and I am proud of you." Michael's grin was quick, genuine. "Thank you, sir." Linn leaned back as Shelly and one of the girls collected their plates, as a slice of fresh baked chocolate cake descended to the tabletop before him. Further conversation was suspended in favor of dessert.

TWO ANGELS AND A HORSE His given Christian name was Victor, but everyone knew him as Hoghead: matter of fact, the wanted dodger in the Sheriff's saddlebag was headed with the black blocky letters, WANTED: HOGHEAD MATTHEWS, followed by a poor rendering of the man's likeness, a physical description: his crimes were listed, the reward was named. The Sheriff knew Hoghead was somewhere close. He'd been tracking him, and his son Jacob was tracking his little girl Angela, who'd wandered off from her horse high up and by now was who-knows-where, chasin' butterflies or birdies or picking flowers, the way happy little girls will. The Sheriff was a patient man, but part of him wanted to swat her little bottom for wandering off and leaving her saddlehorse like that. Hoghead's knuckles were scarred, his face was dirty and stubbled, and he'd just swallowed the last of his coffee. It was cold, it was bitter, but it was his, and now it was gone. Just as well, the bottom was burnt out of his coffee pot and the only way he had any left was because the pot sat crooked near the fire and it all didn't leak out the rotted out seam. Hoghead's expression was sour, he had scars visible and otherwise, and he knew the Law was after him: could he but make the Nations, he'd be safe. He'd managed to get himself gloriously lost, shaking the skilled pursuit: he'd gone into the mountains, he'd worn out one horse, stole another from a remote cabin, left the exhausted nag in its place: hardly a fair trade, he knew, but he wasn't going to go concerning himself with fairness when 'twas his neck Hangin' Judge Hodson wanted to stretch. Hoghead stood up and froze. A little girl with bright blue eyes, a little girl in shining slippers and a frilly, little-girlish frock smiled at him, tilted her head: she looked for all the world to this staring, astonished outlaw, as if she were smiling at a favorite grandfather. "Hello," she said, waving a little pink hand, and Hoghead realized ... it had been a very long time ... a very long time! -- since he saw anything as pink, as pure, as ... clean ... as the palm of this little girl's hand, raised in greeting. He raised his own hand, almost ashamed at his unwashed condition. "My name's Angela," she said, tilting her head and looking absolutely charming and innocent, "an' my horse is losted." Hoghead expected a lawman, Hoghead expected a bounty hunter, Hoghead expected ... anything ... but this. Ol' Hog went slowly to one knee, openly staring, his mouth open: he finally said, "What are you doin' clear out here, little lady?" Angela giggled, clasped her hands in front of her, turned her shoulder bashfully toward him, rotated left and right the way a giggly little girl will do: her skirts swung and flared a little, and a very dim memory of his own little sisters swam closer to the surface, and this hard man -- this outlaw, whose profession was to take what was others' and to hurt anyone who tried to stop him -- this man with a soul as stained as his unwashed hands, felt himself soften a bit at the sight, the sound, of this smiling little child. Jacob Keller followed Angela's mare's tracks. He cursed himself for ever saddling the mare for his little sis. He'd taken pains to shorten the stirrups for her, he'd made sure the saddle pad was just right, the saddle was screwed down snug, he'd hoisted Angela up onto the placid old mare's back. He thought he was going to walk around the corral, maybe out into the field, leading the old veteran nag by the cheekstrap, but the moment Angela got settled in and found both stirrups, the mare bunched up and shot ahead, driving for the far fence like a dapple-grey arrow. Jacob curled his lip and whistled, seized saddleblanket and saddle, and for the first time that day -- very definitely not the last -- damned himself for seven kinds of a careless fool! Jacob never claimed to be an expert tracker. He'd heard the town's attorney, Mr. Moulton, offer the studied opinion that "An ex is a has-been, and a spurt is a drip under pressure" -- he never forgot the lawyer's definition of an expert -- but fair is fair, he was pretty damned good at following someone who didn't want to be followed. Macneil was long dead, and the world was a poorer place for it, but before the man died, he'd taken a liking to Jacob and taught him what to look for, and how to look for it. Jacob's pale eyed Pa was good. Jacob was better. He urged his stallion ahead, following his little sister's mare's trail. "What kind of horse do you have, little lady?" Hoghead asked carefully. "She's losted," Angela sighed with a dramatic rise and drop of her shoulders. "Your ... mare ... is lost." Angela nodded, her big blue eyes wide and sincere. "But you're not." Angela shook her head, then swung her entire body again: she extended her arms and spun around like a dancer, and Hoghead remembered his own sisters doing that very thing, when he was still a boy at home. The thought of a fresh horse overrode any altruism, and his sneaky nature came to the fore. A trusting child, a fresh horse? My lucky day! "Let's find your mare," Hoghead said, and Angela's smile was sunrise-bright as she happily piped, "O-kay!" Jacob rode quicker now, as the trail was plain -- that his, he rode until his horse stopped abruptly and he realized his attention had been too much on puzzling out tracks and not enough ahead. A horse stood crossways of Angela's mare's faint hoofprints, and on the horse, a stranger. "Mister," Jacob said, "I'm lookin' for my little sister. She's on a dapple grey mare --" "You can't have her," the man interrupted. Jacob's eyes went dead pale: Apple-horse threw his head to the side as Jacob's right-hand Colt whispered from carved leather and chuckled to itself as it rolled into battery. "I'll have her," Jacob said, his voice tight: "you can stand aside or I can kill you or take you to jail." "You will do nothing of the kind," the man said, dismounting and opening his coat. "I'm not armed." Jacob holstered his revolver. "Mister, I'm a Firelands County deputy Sheriff, and my little sister is lost. You can get out of my way or I can get you out of my way." "How?" The man's insolent smile, the sneer in his voice, triggered Jacob's young pride. He swung down, unbuckled his gunbelt and hung it over his saddle horn: righteous anger fired his boiler and he paced forward. The stranger was fast: Jacob was faster, he slipped his head to the side and missed the punch, drove a quick one-two into the man's ribs, stepped back, blocked a punch: he seized the wrist, twisted, tried to down him with leverage. The man drove a fist into Jacob's wind, broke his grip: they separated, Jacob fought to get air back into his lungs. The pair crouched, then drove into one another again: Jacob's boot heel caught the man squarely on the kneecap, he seized the stranger by the throat and the crotch, hauled him off the ground, slammed him down, hard. Sheriff Linn Keller heard a familiar voice -- Angela? He dismounted, dropped the bitless reins, his golden stallion obediently halting: the big Palomino blinked sleepily, looking bored, looking like he might drop his head and take a nap. Linn catfooted around a rock, saw the man he was looking for, saw his daughter, still out of his arm's reach. Linn's left hand Colt was in his hand, the sound of its cocking lost in his challenging shout: "HOGHEAD! THIS IS SHERIFF KELLER! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE 'EM! ANGELA, BACK UP!" Hoghead weighed his chances. He'd never met that pale eyed lawman with the iron grey mustache, but he'd heard plenty about him, and he knew the little distance between himself and this pretty little girl was not enough to keep him from inheriting a thumb sized slug between the shoulder blades -- knowing that pale eyed old lawman, likely it would be through the back of his head! -- Hoghead raised his hands, slowly, waited. "Angela, back up." Angela looked disappointed. "Okay, Daddy," she said in a small, little-girl's voice. Angela turned, dejected, head down, her bottom lip pooched out and nearly down to her belly button, or so it seemed from her expression, then she looked up, brightened. Her mood went from sorrow to joy in a tenth of a second or less. "Dapple!" Jacob crouched a little, and so did the stranger. Civilization was gone, manners and gentility did not exist: here were two warriors, each intent on besting the other: Jacob, fueled by a young man's rage, against this stranger who refused to stand aside. Mighty blows they gave, and took: each grappled, seized, threw, punched, kicked: finally they drew a little apart. "Enough," the stranger said. Jacob felt one eye swelling almost shut: he wiped the back of a bent wrist across his agonized nose, realized from the bright burst of pain it was likely broken: his ribs hurt and he knew they'd hurt worse later, but he was warmed up and his blood sang with the joyful rage of a young man at war who knew he was absolutely in the right! The stranger looked no better: Jacob had genuinely taken his measure, and Jacob heard ribs crack when he drove his elbow into them, or his boot heel, he was satisfied the man's knee should have broken when he drove the stacked-leather heel hard into the kneecap. "You fight well," the stranger said: he wiped a hand across his own face, and the damage was gone: he straightened, all sign of injury, of exertion, just ... gone. The stranger took a step toward Jacob, took another. Jacob could not move. The stranger's hands were feather-light as they passed across his face, down his ribs: everywhere he'd taken a blow, the hands passed over, the pain disappeared: Jacob's eye wasn't feeling swollen, his cheekbone -- he thought he heard a crack when he got hit below the eye -- there was no pain. The stranger stepped back. "You fought for your sister," the stranger said. Jacob could move again. He reached up, touched his nose with the backs of two fingers. No pain, he thought. He looked at his bent fingers. No blood. "You did not fight for yourself," the stranger said. "You fought to keep your sister safe. You knew you could not do that until you found her." Jacob turned his head a little, eyes locked on the stranger, debating whether to go for the gunbelt still hung over Apple-horse's saddlehorn. The stranger changed, Apple-horse screamed, Jacob seized his stallion's cheekstrap and was hauled off the ground for his troubles. "How's for coffee?" Linn asked in a mild voice. Hoghead's hands were still up, shoulder high: he looked warily at the pale eyed lawman. "M' pot's rusted out," he admitted, "an' I run plumb out of coffee." Linn nodded. "I've enough for two. Angela?" Angela came scampering past Hoghead -- out of arm's reach -- she ran over to her Daddy, hugged his leg happily, looked up with an absolutely adoring expression. "Angela, if I fetch out the coffee pot, could you get us some clean water?" "Okay, Daddy!" she piped, her voice as happy as her beaming expression. Linn looked at Hoghead. "Stand easy," he said, "and don't go anywhere." Hoghead stared as the lawman went back to his saddlebags. Likely going to get a set of irons, he thought, I'll fight him then, I've got a knife and a hideout gun. The Sherff untied a canvas poke behind his off saddlebag, pulled out a blue-granite coffeepot and handed it to his little girl, who ran happily downhill to where a stream bent against the rock. "Stoke up the fire," Linn said quietly, tossing ol' Hog a cloth wrapped bundle. Hog caught it, smelled it, looked up, surprised. "Ground that one yesterday morning." Linn's face was unsmiling, but Hoghead heard no threat in the man's voice. Linn used a stick to shift one of the fire rocks, brought the little blue granite pot to level: he opened the cloth bundle -- it contained two smaller bundles -- he untied the smaller bundle, dumped it into the cold water. "Ground eggshells," he explained, seeing Hog's eye catch a glimpse of small white particles falling into the pot. "Helps settle the grounds." "My Mama used to do that," Hog said slowly. Linn went back to his stallion, back into the cloth poke, pulled out two tin cups: he got into the saddlebag, fetched out the wanted dodger, brought it back. "Can you read?" "I can read." Linn handed him the dodger. Hoghead read it, read it again, stared at the poor quality engraving of a man's face. "That don't look like me," he said. "No it don't," Linn admitted. "How do you know I'm him?" Linn's pale eyed glare was answer enough. Hoghead looked at the wanted poster again, stopped at the bottom. "Hodson," he grunted. "Hangin' Judge Hodson," Linn echoed. "I'm not takin' you there." Hoghead's surprise was genuine as he looked up at the Sheriff. "We're goin' back to Firelands. Food's better, the bunk doesn't have bugs and Judge Hostetler is a fair man." Linn was good at reading men, and he read relief in Hoghead's shoulders as they sagged just a little. Two men drank scalding coffee on a mountain trail while a pretty little blue-eyed girl watched them, hugging her knees under the drape of her skirt. Jacob seized his screaming fear, his hand flat on the Appaloosa's neck: with word and with caress, he calmed the stallion, and the stallion, with the familiar voice and the familiar touch, calmed enough not to haul Jacob off the ground again and drag him along behind like a black-suited kite tail. Jacob turned to what used to be a man: he buckled the gunbelt around his middle, looked very directly at this terrifying vision, all eyes and wings and light. "You're an angel," Jacob said -- a statement, not a question. Yes. The voice was little more than a whisper, heard in his mind and not with his ears. "You were sent to delay me." Yes. "Is my little sister safe?" Jacob had the momentary vision of his little sister, looking with interest at his father and another man, drinking coffee beside a small, smokeless fire. "Will she remain safe?" Yes. Apple-horse pulled, hard, his eyes walling: he was dancing, clearly unhappy, and suddenly this terrifying apparition with more eyes and more wings than Jacob could easily count, just ... ... disappeared ... ... and Apple-horse stopped fighting. Jacob stood, staring at where the angel had been, then out of habit he looked to the ground for tracks. He saw Angela's mare's prints -- here, one track, where the sand was pocketed, and there, where the steel shoe scarred a rock -- Jacob stepped into the stirrup, followed the tracks, considering he was pretty damned lucky this fellow didn't put his hip out of joint. "You realize," Hoghead said, "the man you're after is dead." "Which one?" Linn grunted. Hoghead set the cup down, smiled, stood. "Thank you for the coffee," he said, and he disappeared. Linn blinked, looked around, looked at his little girl, who was looking up at a shallow angle, smiling as if hearing something very pleasing. Jacob met his father and his baby sister riding toward him. Each stopped, each looked long at the other. "Sir," Jacob said, "have you noticed anything ... unusual?" "Daddy was tested!" Angela's voice was almost joyful in its certainty. Father and son turned and regarded the pretty little girl as she walked her mare between the two lawmen, stopped. "Daddy could have shotted the man 'cause the poster said dead or alive but he didn't. He made coffee." Jacob looked at his little sister, raised an eyebrow. "Daddy could have taken him back to the bad judge that likes to hang people but he was gonna take him to Judge Hots-tetler 'cause Judge Hots-tetler is fair!" Angela emphasized the word fair! with an emphatic nod of her head, setting her curls a-bounce as she did. "An' den da Angel disappeared!" Angela's words were almost a happy shout, and she spread her arms overhead as if to illustrate the burst of a great soap-bubble. "Angel," Jacob said slowly. "Jacob, what did you see?" the Sheriff asked, and Jacob smiled with half his mouth and said "I reckon I could ask the same thing, sir, but you asked first, so here's what happened."

I was given to understand (this from an armor maker in the current Medieval re-enactment community) that a captured knight was not infrequently held for ransom. The family back home generally would ransom the armor, as it cost a young fortune. The theory was that they could always sire another son, but armor was terribly expensive!

... exactly right ... at a raised volume, including certain Anglo-Saxon labiodental fricatives ...

Here again -- and I've pointed this out before -- As often happens, the Voice of Experience Reply benefits more than the OP! Many thanks, Blackwater, your sound advice is helping me too!