Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

YOU GOT ME ON THAT ONE! Jacob Keller stood and regarded the gunrack against the wall beside the pot belly stove. He turned the Sharps rifle sideways, then he took one of the '73 rifles and turned it likewise. Jacob Keller stepped back, pale eyes considering their relative length, depth, contours, construction. Jacob Keller stepped back up to the gunrack and returned each to its precise resting position, then he slid open the drawer and brought out two loaded rounds. He brought out a .45-70, and he brought out a .44-40. It took some doing but he managed to work the bullet out of each. Jacob knew his Pa would not be back for some time. He went over to his Pa's desk and drew out two note sized sheets of paper. Carefully, slowly, he poured the powder from the .45-70 into a pile; below it, on the other sheet, the powder from the bottleneck .44-40. He set the bullets base-to-base, considered the pairing with his eyes and his fingers, then he set each on the desk blotter, regarded their relative lengths. His serious expression had not changed since he'd come into his Pa's office: he picked up each bullet, hefted its weight. Jacob tried to reassemble the rounds, realized that without a nutcracker tool -- which he didn't have -- he'd play hell trying to re-bullet the cases. He lifted the lid on the stove, scaled in the powder -- one, then the other -- a boy would normally smile at the sizzling *foof*, the bright sparkle of loose powder committing to the coals -- but his young face remained expressionless. Jacob rolled each bullet in one of the sheets he'd used; rolled, folded over, inserted into a pocket with the empty hull: he opened the heavy timber door, opened it, stepped outside, a tall, lean young man in a black suit. His pale eyes were busy from the moment he hesitated at the opening of the door; they were just as busy as he stepped outside, until he looked up the street and to the left. There. There's where the murderer stood. Jacob recalled what it was to seize his coughing, bleeding Pa by the collar with his off hand, his good right hand filled by the Army Colt he'd taken from the monster that murdered his Ma: Jacob fired at his father's would-be assassin, fired twice more, until Macneil stepped out the door with that buffalo rifle and settled the fight with one shot: he and Macneil dragged his Pa off the dirt and over the boardwalk and safely inside -- Jacob closed his eyes, took a long breath, opened them, looked again. He'd killed men easily, at that distance, with a .44-40 lever gun. The Sharps, he knew, spoke with authority, and if a man knew his rifle, it carried that authority for a respectably greater distance. Years later, another Jacob Keller, a young man in a handmade black suit, would make that same considering comparison between the same two cartridges, only he would follow this with a study of ballistics tables, and then live fire on steel plates at varying yardages, and after this particular Jacob Keller became a husband and father, and had occasion to employ a Sharps rifle on a dirt street a very long way from home, he expanded his study of relative ballistics to include a scholarly assessment of a longer case than that used by his Pa's Sharps -- a .45-70, factory converted to fixed metallic from the tobacco cutter, and with the fragile dogleg firing pin to prove it. Jacob knew that he might need a rifle with greater stopping power than his Pa's Buffalo Rifle, and so he had one custom made -- a genuine Sharps it was, a .50-100, and his careful research showed him a 500 grain, paper patched Linotype cast over 90 grains of 2F gave him the best accuracy. It also had a healthy kick to it. His Pa loaded the 350 grain Gould's Express in his .45-70, and Jacob one time laughed that he had to respect a rifle with an "Express" load that still carried 350 grains' weight. Jacob Keller had occasion to use that .50-100, and not all its uses were terrestrial: most, but not all, like the time he stood on a highway overpass, then folded his legs and sat, in that order: he had two heavy dowels in hand, held them like cross sticks, laid his rifle's octagon barrel over his gloved fist and drove a single round through the radiator and an impressive percentage of a truck's engine block, stopping the hijacked tractor-trailer with one shot: he was presented with a broken timing gear mounted on a plaque, afterward, with the brass tag beneath that read "One Shot, One Kill" (the truck was killed, the driver was taken alive, persuaded to surrender by the sight of that big blossom of a blue cloud from the overpass ahead, and the even more persuasive sounds of a sledgehammer hitting, and the horrible noises of a shattered engine beneath him) When Sheriff Jacob Keller was intercepted and interviewed by an eager young reporter for the Inter-System, Jacob stopped and patiently endured the reporter's congratulations, the intrusion of the hover-camera: the reporter, of course, inquired if Jacob felt any fear as the curlhorn came down the street toward him, knowing full well a victim's blood was still wet on the beast's cloven hooves. "Mister," Jacob asked quietly, "are you familiar with buffalo?" "Buffalo," the reporter echoed. "No, I ... I'm afraid I'm not." Jacob lifted his chin a little, considered, then laid a gentle hand on the younger man's shoulder. "The American Bison is a big and impressive beast," he said quietly, looking over the man's shoulder at his pale eyed sister, who was busy with her tablet. "Big Shaggy is native to the North American continent, this native bovine is fast, agile, strong and would be a match for that curl horn outside." There was a grunt from behind the reporter and Jacob stepped a little to the side. The reporter turned, surprised: something huge, shaggy and solid stood beside him. "This is a hologram," Jacob said, "the real thing is back on Earth. What I used was a buffalo rifle. I had occasion to stop a buffalo, back home, and that same rifle worked here too." Jacob and Marnie gracefully ended the interview, leaving the eager young man to talk to his hovering observer: Marnie gave her brother an affectionate look and murmured, "You used that on a buffalo back home?" Jacob grinned -- that quick, boyish grin he only shared when nobody else was watching -- "You remember when I shot that hijacked truck from the overpass?" "The one where the State Trooper wanted your scalp, until the Governor said he wanted to give you a medal?" "Yep." Jacob pulled out his phone, tapped and swiped, brought up a picture. "Right here, Little Sis. See, I'm standing beside the fender ... let me slide this picture over ... see what it says on the door?" Marnie laughed, swatted Jacob on the shoulder. "Buffalo Trucking," she sighed. "You got me on that one!"

Soggy south shore of Lake Erie reporting. I was out in the yard earlier, assessing the Squish Factor underfoot, lengthy and semi profane commentary on basement sump pumps omitted (nutshell: caught problem in time, no flood!) Looking around at the state of the yard, considering I'll have to run attair extension cord into the yard barn and put the trickle charger on the riding mower's battery. My neighbor cut grass last month. I won't even consider giving my yard a haircut in March! Looked toward my Jeep. Against the purple paint job I could see a rain-snow mix coming down so gave up further assessment of the sod. Daffodils in the snow. Pardon me while I shake my head and mutter something about Mother Nature's level of intoxication!

Learned to drive on an Allis-Chalmers WC model with tricycle front end, suicide clutch and hand brakes. Taught me clutch control at a very tender age: stomp the clutch, pick which gear you wanted, let the clutch out about three feet and STOP. Let the clutch out another half inch and hesitate, then another quarter inch and she's full engaged. That good old Allis was our oilfield prime mover, until dear old Dad got a pair of A model John Deere tractors, then a G model. The first A model John Deere he got, sheared off a bolt on the cam flange: he liked that tractor because he could get into the gear case up to both elbows with a 3/8" drill and drill out that broken off bolt. My mechanical expertise is still in the points-plugs-and-condenser era. I can set points with a matchbook cover, I can set time with a light, I can change a U-joint on a Dodge pickup ... but these more modern vehicles are (I freely admit!) well beyond my poor and pitiful efforts. I would be well beyond lost on that new modern John Deere computer mobile.

SCIENTIFIC DISCOURSE "I realize this is an advanced placement student." "But ...?" "These drawings. Anatomically, they are very precise." "I understand they were done from slaughterhouse exemplars." "And these?" "These were the result of research. I believe the London Museum of Natural Sciences was the cited reference." "He has citations?" "Right here." Pages turned; frowning eyes scanned the pages, nodded. "His main premise is that ... had the so-called Texas Longhorn evolved with more curled horns, like the mountain goat ..." "Had natural selection favored that, yes." "That the skull would have responded with a greater bone density at the stress points, to endure head-butting collisions." "The longhorn skull -- this sketch ... figure 7-4, Professor ... these are ..." "Yes?" A page turned, another. "These were done by a mere schoolboy?" "I watched him," came the solemn reply. "He did them from memory, and when I questioned his sources, he called up what he called an 'Anatomic Disassembly' on his school computer." "Anatomic," the professorial skeptic repeated slowly, "disassembly." "A slaughterhouse, sir." "Slaughterhouse." A slow, disapproving shake of a professorial head. "Why isn't a schoolboy out chasing cats up a tree or playing video games?" "He is advanced placement, sir." "Hm." "The London Museum citations. These are actual ... Anatomic Disassemblies" -- the Professor's adjutant heard the slight smile in the skeptical educator's voice -- "of an African cape buffalo?" "They are, sir. Bone density measurements, testimonies from a variety of wild game professionals, African big game hunters, natives. There are cited discussions of bullet-strikes to the bony boss between the horns, attempts to brain-shoot mbogo, even with the most powerful of African big-game rifles, without success." The Professor gave his assistant a long, assessing look, remembering how the man ordered his breakfast eggs in one of the African vernaculars, even to the point of using the proper Q-click, something difficult for a non-native and impossible without extensive, immersive exposure to the culture. "I've seen what Mbogo can do, sir," his assistant said quietly. "If this young man's curlhorn -- I believe he even coined the name -- had indeed evolved on this continent, it would have been a most formidable impediment to settlement of the New World." "Hmp." The professor grunted: he looked around, backed up, sat on the corner of the teacher's desk, frowned at the pages in his hand. "These drawings are extremely precise," he said softly, "his premise is clearly stated, he supports his arguments with facts and citations. His use of medico-veterinary terminology is flawless. I find his premise sound." The professor nodded thoughtfully, looked at his assistant. "Never in my career," he said softly, "have I ever done this at a grade school science fair." His assistant pulled out a tablet, started recording. "I am awarding this young man a superior rating. Blue ribbon prize. I wish to sponsor him in his higher education. You've confirmed this is all original work." "I have, sir." "Brilliance like this should be encouraged. Avail him of whatever he needs -- with that skill in his anatomic renderings, he could teach art classes, I doubt if he could benefit from them." The professor's voice trailed off, he looked down at the thick bundle he held. "Superior rating. See to it." "Yes, sir."

A GOOD MAN'S TEMPER Tables were removed, chairs spirited away: fiddlers, musicians, laughter: Ambassador Marnie Keller's hand was cool in a stranger's callused grip as she spun like a top, as her skirt flared with her turn: celebration was dear to a grateful community's heart, until a scream shivered in between the fiddler's notes like a bloodied knife blade. Jacob and his sister froze, turned: two faces went pale, tight, their eyes going glacier-white. A Western Sheriff's hands knifed under his unbuttoned coat, an Ambassador's hand drove into a hidden pocket in her skirt, and two agents of the Law wove quickly through confusion, through concern. Jacob stopped at the door, turned to his sister. "I'll need my stallion," he said quietly. "I'll call for backup." Marnie raised a bent wrist to her lips, spoke urgently, as Sheriff Jacob Keller drew his right-hand .44 and thrust the door open. Not again, he thought, his jaw clenched: by God! you are NOT doing this AGAIN! An Iris dilated, tall and narrow, behind him: Jacob turned, thrust through the Iris as Marnie stepped out of the double doors, looked up the street. Her gloved hands tightened on the checkered grip of a .44 Bulldog revolver that suddenly felt ten sizes too small. Marnie turned, thrust through the Iris behind her brother. Men surged to the window, started toward the doorway, at least until a golden stallion fairly detonated out of the Iris, followed by an Appaloosa stallion: their riders were bent low over their necks to keep from cracking heads with the lintel, and two horses made two surging leaps to the dirt street, turned. Jacob Keller dropped the breechblock on a Sharps rifle, thumbed in a shining brass cartridge the size of a panetela: Marnie, beside him, cranked the lever on a rifle she knew intimately. Two dismounted, two strode forward: their stallions, restless, danced behind them, but stood, ground-reined, waiting. Jacob shouldered the Sharps, thumbed the tang mounted peep sight up, went to one knee. 90 grains of soft coal detonated in the rifle's steel throat, a slug the size of a man's thumb drew a fiddlestring through the air, and half a thousand grains of Linotype alloy smacked the curlhorn squarely between the eyes. The oncoming, grunting, head-shaking bull didn't drop, but he did stagger. Marnie danced to the side -- that's the only way to describe how she moved, she was not a creature of two legs, she did not walk, she moved on the balls of her feet, half-floating, half-skipping, lining up to drive Winchester brass and lead behind the bull's leg as it came alongside: she was cheeked down hard on the rifle's comb, her eye hard and unblinking behind the Marble's peep, red lips pressed grimly together. A smoking brass hull spun slowly through the air, another brass panatela shoved into the breech: Jacob closed the lever, sighted again, corrected for the bull's lifting of his head -- The trigger was smooth under his finger, the front sight steady on the bloody spot between its horns -- The bull lifted its head, Jacob hesitated, lowered his aim, broke the shot. This time, when half a thousand grains of hard cast lead hit, it punched through the now-horizontal sinuses and through the brain. A bull that made the biggest Texas longhorn look like an underfed calf, collapsed like a baggie of ground beef. Sheriff Jacob Keller swept back the heavy Sharps hammer, dropped the breechblock, lowered the muzzle, dunked in another round without looking, closed the breech. Sheriff and Ambassador flanked out, moving together, moving as they'd practiced a thousand times, back home: they advanced on the threat, rifles at the ready, moving slowly, steadily. Jacob was well to the unmoving beef's right, Marnie symmetrically to its left: Jacob looked at his sister, nodded. The two walked slowly up to the beef. Jacob grabbed the ear, lifted, shoved the rifle's muzzle deep into the ear canal, took a good two hand grip on his octagon barrel buffalo rifle and pulled the trigger. Smoke, blood, but no movement. Jacob backed up, wiped the hammer back and dropped the lever, let the smoking round hit the packed dirt street, looked back the way the beef had come. He and Marnie looked at one another, headed up the beef's back trail, to where people were converging on something that might have been human, at one time. Jacob turned, curled his lip, whistled. Two stallions cantered up to them, two agents of the Law swung into their saddles. Two pale eyed riders gigged their mounts into a gallop, toward the gates that were supposed to be repaired, supposed to be proof against another incursion. Someone had to let this one in. Someone's idea of a joke just got a woman killed. Someone just earned a hemp necktie! The local law received the prisoners from the pale eyed Sheriff and the Ambassador. They were alive, they were not damaged, but they were more than cowed, between the knowledge that their idea of a joke got someone killed, that they'd been wordlessly confronted by a legend on a shining-gold stallion, a legend with the cold, unforgiving eyes of a polished granite statue: the Sheriff took some time to wipe the blood off his rifle's muzzle, took some time to slide the Sharps back into its saddle scabbard: the dining room was silent as he walked inside, his tread slow, heavy, his hat in his hand. "I'm looking for His Honor the Judge," he said, his words carefully, precisely spoken. Ambassador Marnie Keller stood beside her brother, her gloved hand wrapped delicately around his arm, her Winchester rifle laid back over her shoulder. A dignified man came forward. "Your Honor," Jacob said quietly, "I find I am no longer festive. The Ambassador will be pleased to inform me when my testimony may be required in tonight's event." Jacob raised his eyes and his voice both. "I thank one and all for your kindness," he declared. "We have been received with the very best of hospitality, and I am very much obliged for that." Technology on this world had not progressed to traction vehicles of any kind; steam was but in its infancy, horsepower was the prime mover, and so when the Sheriff's words were followed with the clattering rumble of a Diesel tractor, the Sheriff smiled grimly. "The Ambassador and I felt it only proper that we should help you remove that big carcass. I doubt me not you have teams that could move it, but my conscience wouldn't let me sleep at night if I just dropped that much meat without offering to get it out of your road." A golden stallion stuck its head through the open double doors and muttered: Jacob turned, grinned. "I know, fella. Be right there." Sheriff Jacob Keller turned, walked over to his stallion, backed the shining-gold Palomino out of the doorway and into the street, mounted. The Ambassador followed, fed her Appaloosa a striped peppermint, rubbed his neck and cooed to him, to his obvious, tail-slashing pleasure: the hotel's celebratory crowd poured slowly out, gawping at something they'd never seen before: they never suspected the possibility, much less knew of the existence, of a tracked, yellow, Diesel-powered tractor with CATERPICKLE boldly stenciled on the heavy steel arms running to the raised blade. A company of grey-uniformed soldiers hitched the tractor to the dead beef: heavy nylon straps, run through the clevis, safety pinned to the drawbar: the operator, red-eared with the self-conscious realization that he was being openly stared at, bumped the throttle forward, half-turned in his seat, made sure his cargo was moving, set a steady, noisy course down the street, half-a-hundred single-file men moving in military step, on either side. Jacob looked at his sister. "Company strength," he said. "You weren't kidding about backup." Marnie smiled: "I get results, little brother!"

FEET OF THE KING Sheriff Jacob Keller and his wife sat down to supper. Marnie joined them, which caused an even greater congestion at the doorways: Jacob’s actions on the street outside instantly promoted him to hero status, and the Ambassador was already well known, thanks to the Inter-System news broadcasts: had Angela joined them, with her own Inter-System exposure, the press of humanity, gazing upon these personages, would have prevented anyone from entering or leaving the hotel entirely. Ruth smiled quietly as Jacob addressed the serving-girl with his usual gentle voice: after looking over the menu, after deferring to his ladies, allowing them to order first, he looked at the waitress and said, “If I could trouble you for the special, please,” and Ruth and Marnie shared a look as the star-struck girl nearly melted in her moccasins: here was a man who could’ve demanded the most expensive items on the menu, who could have said “Give me such-and-such” in a demanding tone … but he ordered with a gentle voice, with a gentle smile, and he asked, rather than really ordered. Their dinner conversation was quiet voiced and good natured. Marnie’s analyzers scanned each dish as it came to their table, ensuring the provender was compatible with the human digestive system: there were worlds where trace elements, or toxic elements, were assimilated into what would be perfectly edible in another soil: such was not the case here. They ate in the main dining room, like anyone else; they ate the same food, sipped the same sweet tea, as the other diners around them, and they pretended to not notice that they were the subject of nearly everyone else’s attention there in the dining room. After their meal, after pie (and after cleaning up their happy son, who managed to get pie over an impressive percentage of his young face), Marnie consulted her watch and smiled: she led them into a larger room, apparently used for meetings, where Jacob was hailed for his heroic actions, where he met those who’d been on the street when the intruding bull made its way down their main street, when Jacob distracted it from its usual crushing assault on anything that wasn’t bovine. Mention was made of a mechanical malfunction that failed to completely shut the town’s gates, those great, heavy, timber-and-riveted-iron valves that were constructed to keep out the undesired: repairs were still underway, he was told, but temporary barriers were in place to prevent a recurrence. Jacob was asked to speak, and he expressed his satisfaction at the meal, his delight with the hospitality his family and himself were receiving, he laughed a little as he admitted he must have looked a fright after landing flat on his back – “I was spoken to,” he said carefully, “about the filthy nature of my suit afterward,” and his gentle voice, his rueful expression, got a laugh from those present. “I will admit,” he added, “that we are being treated like royalty, and thank you for that kindness” – he looked around with that gentle smile, he reached his hand around to the small of his back – “but I’m afraid your new King has feet of clay, for I find I now have a fine accumulation of aches and pains!” A reception was held afterward; Jacob and his wife were formally introduced to a remarkable number of people: a nervous looking woman shook his hand, carefully, as if afraid he might burst into bright splinters: her husband’s grip, a moment before, had been enthusiastic, but hers was tentative: Jacob hesitated, looked more closely into her face. “Ma’am,” he said, “do I recall you had a child in each hand yesterday?” She blinked, swallowed hard, nodded. Jacob took her hand in both of his, looked very directly, very intently into her face. “Ma’am, a lesser soul would have abandoned her grip and run to save herself.” His voice was quiet now, very serious. “You didn’t. You got your children to safety, peacefully or otherwise.” Jacob took a breath, his pale-blue eyes boring deep into hers. “Ma’am, I’ve been called a hero here tonight, but if anyone here is a hero, it’s you!” Jacob’s intent expression, his quiet words, flashed over the Inter-System and were seen and heard on many worlds, including a blue world in the Sol system, where a husband and wife were watching on a screen that received signal via an interdimensional portal unaffected by such limits as the speed of light. His image, his smile, his words were carried by the Inter-System: pale eyes watched, familial ears listened as Jacob’s image, as his words, came over their screen, their speakers: Shelly leaned over her husband’s shoulder, hugged him from behind, whispered “He sounds just like you,” and Linn chuckled and said “He’s a better speaker than me,” and patted her hand. “ ‘Your King has feet of clay,’ “ he quoted, chuckled, shook his head. “Jacob, my son, you could run for office!”

The Sergeant speaks truly. It starts a paper trail.

During Lincoln's War, General John Hunt Morgan (a blessing upon his name!) crossed the rain swollen river and came out on the opposite bank. They'd commandeered anything that floated; they'd pitched the canoes, folded their clothes in the bottom, laid a brace of Colt Navy pistols atop, and swam the river -- one hand for the river, one hand on the canoe. When they emerged, they drew their fragile craft from the water, picked up their Colts. Now let's turn this around. You're a green Yankee picket, drowsing over your musket, trying not to fall asleep. The Rebs aren't going to raid across a flood. ALL OF A SUDDEN HERE THEY COME BUCK NAKED FIRE AND LEAD FROM BOTH HANDS SCREAMING THAT DREADED REBEL YELL -- The Yankee pickets did what green troops often do. They dropped their weapons and ran like scared little girls. Not since the Peloponnesian War in ancient Greece, had naked warriors gone screaming naked into battle. So began Morgan's Raid, the longest, fastest, most northerly incursion of Suth'n forces into Yankee territory of that entire damned War.

VACATION Sheriff Jacob Keller felt his stomach shrink, twist up into knots. He would have given a good percentage of his eternal soul to have a good saddlehorse under him. All he had was what he wore, and that felt pitifully inadequate. What he was facing was kind of like a Texas longhorn, only instead of an impressive breadth of horns, these were curled like a mountain goat’s – one symmetrical curve, a full circle of smooth ivory horn, with the points projecting alongside and just ahead of the big beef’s nostrils. It did not help any that, even if Jacob were mounted, the bull’s shoulders would have been saddle horn tall. Jacob stood alone in the middle of the street, tasting copper, crouched just a little: he wore his usual brace of .44 Magnum single action revolvers, given him by his father, a brace of frontier justice he’d used more times than one to keep himself alive – against the mechanical, against the inanimate, against the occasional human opponent. Jacob Keller, Sheriff of Mars, was on vacation. Jacob Keller, Sheriff of the Firelands colony, dressed as he was comfortable: well polished Wellington boots, a tailored black suit, the matched, engraved revolvers discreetly worn under his now-unbuttoned coat, a black Stetson, forgotten on top of his head. He knew there were people on the street, he’d gauged their reactions, he’d concluded this big beef was bad medicine, and he did what he always did. Sheriff Jacob Keller acted to keep as many people safe as he possibly could. Heavy horns, he thought, curled for impact. Thick skull to carry that weight. Cape buffalo have a bony forehead plate. Damn, I want a brain shot but can I get one? Marnie Keller smiled as she gripped her brother’s shoulders. “You need a vacation, Jacob,” she’d said persuasively. “I know just the world you’d like. Their horses aren’t too bad, they have McClellan saddles instead of a good roping saddle, the food’s good” – she’d batted long lashes and managed to look very innocent – “and they think very highly of a certain, honest to God, Western Sheriff!” She’d finally convinced him that some time away would do him good. She’d talked him into a week away from the Firelands colony. Now he stood in the middle of the street, not knowing his wife was watching, her eyes wide with fear, from an upstairs window in the local hotel, looking at a bull bigger than all of Creation itself, a bull that stopped and stared at this puny two-legs that dared defy it, a bull that bellowed with the sound of a monster and pawed at the packed dirt street and very obviously was more than ready to charge her husband. Ruth Keller looked down at the child she held, brought the infant up against her bodice, bit her bottom lip, watching as Death on cloven hooves sized up the man she loved. Jacob’s weight came up on the balls of his feet. He saw movement to his right. So did the bull. People were getting the hell off the street -- apparently they were smarter than he was -- to his right, a mother with a child's hand in each of hers, looking over her shoulder, fear-widened eyes and a desperate expression telling Jacob that she only needed a few more seconds, just a few seconds to get out of sight -- Jacob saw the big head turn, saw weight shift, saw massive muscles ripple under shining, healthy fur – “HEY! HAMBURGER! OVER HERE, YOU FOUR WHEEL DRIVE MAIN COURSE!” Jacob whipped off his coat, spun it over his head, curled his lip, whistled, high, shrill, commanding. “YEAH YOU! I’M TALKING TO YOU, HAMBURGER! GET OVER HERE, SANDWICH, YOU LOOK LIKE A MAIN COURSE TO ME!” The bull turned back toward Jacob, shook its head – an awful, slow-motion shake, owing to its size, its weight. Jacob brought his coat down, snapped it like an impatient matador. “HEY, TORO! TORO! COME AND GET IT!” Ruth felt her eyes start to water up as the bull lowered its head, as it roared more than bellowed. Ruth watched her husband, a lone man in a black suit, distracting the monstrous, curl horn bull long enough for the last few people to get down the alley and out of sight. Jacob spun the coat around, thrust his arms into it. Ruth’s white teeth bit down on her knuckle – Her breath caught in her throat – One man alone, a man whose eyes went from worried to ice-pale, a man with a face the color of parchment and stretched tight over high cheekbones, charged a bull that made the African mbogo look like a child’s toy. Jacob Keller, son of a pale eyed Sheriff, grandson of a pale eyed Sheriff, saw the big head come down – His head’s down, he can’t see me – He'll see me if I run to the side -- No help for it! Jacob screamed defiance as he ran, as he jumped, an honest to God running leap. He’d read where the legendary Sarah Lynne McKenna ran screaming toward a charging longhorn, how she’d seized the horns near their mossy base, how she’d vaulted neatly over its back. Jacob didn’t even try. The bull’s head swung up – Jacob was running up the bull’s snout -- Jacob almost got to the fur-covered boss, that heavy plate between the roots of the heavy, curled horns, before he was thrown – Sky, earth, sky, earth, IMPACT – Sheriff Jacob Keller landed flat on his back on the packed dirt street. Ruth was not breathing. She saw Jacob twist, come up on all fours – Oh dear, he’s gotten his coat all filthy, she thought, then she slapped the thought aside, looked around – All there was, was one of the surveillance cameras, mounted on the window sill, looking out onto the street -- Dear God, why didn’t he bring a rifle? Why didn't I bring mine? Jacob fought to get wind into his shocked lungs. He saw the bull’s retreating backside. Jacob came up on the balls of his feet, he threw his head back, desperately tried to get air, sweet air! – his hands swept his coat tails back, he gripped the matched pair of .44s, waited, fighting to clear the sparkles in front of his eyes. I can’t take another hit like that. Men came running out, grabbed Jacob, arm and belt, hustled him quickly off the street. Jacob allowed them to set him down, inside, on one of the hotel’s elaborate, padded parlor chairs, inside, where it was shadowed and cool. He shook his head, threw his head back, rose. Something pastel came swarming down the stairs on the other side of the room – Ruth? Jacob felt his wife’s arms around him, heard her whispers, felt her kiss his lips, on his cheeks, heard her frantic words as she poured her pent-up fears over him like dumping a bucketful of feminine apprehension over his head – Jacob managed to get a deep breath into his lungs. He looked around, turned a little, one hand on his wife’s forearm: “The bull … how do we stop it?” “We don’t,” came the frank answer. “We just let ‘em go, everyone gets off the street.” “And if you don’t?” “We get killed.” A heavy, faceted mug of something sweating-cold, amber, with a foamy head, was pressed into his grip. “Here, man, you’ve earned this! You kept my wife and children from –” Jacob’s pale eyes drove into the speaker’s brown eyes. The man’s voice stopped. One man looked at another. A pale eyed Sheriff nodded, just a little, then he raised the mug, drank. Ambassador Marnie Keller came down the stairs considerably more slowly than had her sister in law. The moment Ruth triggered the emergency alarm, Marnie rose, keyed in a quick command, stepped through the midnight-black portal to a preprogrammed destination, one she herself arranged. She’d stepped out of an Iris, in the rented room upstairs, she’d picked up the smiling, arm-waving baby with apple cheeks and chubby arms, carried him downstairs with her. The Ambassador hung back, watching, her back to a wall: she discreetly held up a tablet, watched the surveillance playback: a raised eyebrow was her only reaction. Jacob lowered the half empty mug, took a long breath, handed it back. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “I needed that.” He looked across the room at his sister: Marnie glided forward, a gentle voice and a feminine, gloved hand on men’s shoulders, and they parted to let her through. Marnie smiled as she handed Ruth the yawning bundle, turned to look at Jacob. “I can get you a clean suit,” she offered innocently, then tilted her head and asked, “Are you enjoying your vacation?”

Thank you for the wise words of Archbishop Dmitri. His few, simple words, answering a child's question, illustrates his point perfectly!

As a working medic, I attended training sessions of various kinds. The College of Osteopathic Medicine had a forensic presentation of the Crucifixion. I viewed it with the eyes of a working medic, taking in the mechanism of the injuries and the body's systemic and physiologic responses. Behind my medic's eyes, behind my professional mask, I was quietly falling apart. Before this cold, clinical discussion of one man's death, before this unfeeling, clinical analysis of its precise effects, I'd taken Easter for granted. Never since.

*snif* (wipes tear) I do love a happy ending!

WHEN A LADY TAKES A NOTION A little girl with a winning smile and shining blond hair strutted up to the cash register with her Secret Weapon under her arm. She set a pink plastic piggy bank on the counter, and the bill from their meal. It was her Daddy's birf-day and she wanted to take him out to eat, and so they went to a restaurant and had a Happy Birf-day meal. (She tried hard to say "Birthday" but she'd lost a couple milk teeth in front, which made precise diction difficult) The young man behind the register watched as the little girl gave the plug in the belly of her pink plastic piggie a quarter-turn: he expected her to dump out a handful of pennies and quarters, and that her Daddy, smiling indulgently behind her, was the one who was really going to pay the bill. The child reached into her pink piggy with two tiny fingers, teased out the corners of a couple bills, laid two twenties atop their dinner check: she replaced the pink piggy's plug, tucked it back under her arm as if it were a football and she wasn't going to let the opposing team lay a finger on it. She waited patiently while the young man made change, handed to her. "That's a lot of money for a little girl," he said, smiling a little. "How'd you come across that?" Marnie Keller gave him a big, shining smile, made all the more adorable by her missing incisors: "You just never know what you're going to find on the street these days!" She turned, scampered back to their table: eyes followed her rapid, pattering progress, a pretty little girl in a frilly dress and shiny shippers, a little girl who gave the waitress a good tip, ran back, took her Daddy's hand, looked up at him. "I didn't tell any-boddie it was your birf-day," she said, sincerity shining from her young face. "I didn't want nobody singing and clapping like they did last week!" Linn laughed, dropped to a squat, hugged Marnie: she felt his silent Daddy-laugh, then he whispered in her ear, "Thank you for saving me that public humiliation!" That evening, Shelly tilted her head and looked at her husband. Linn was at his desk in his study, laughing. He looked up, motioned her to come closer: he pointed to the screen, still chuckling. "Look at that," he said quietly. "The news makes just all kind of hay over mounted officers running down a shoplifter!" Linn raised his head, thrust his chin toward the window, and they both looked outside at a pretty little blond haired girl in red cowboy boots and a matching Stetson, a serious look on her face as she spun a lariat -- she spun her loop beside her, then overhead, she eased her patient old mare ahead, still spinning the plaited leather and making it look easy. "Has she seen this?" Shelly murmured. Linn laughed. "No she hasn't," he replied, "and I'm not going to go giving her ideas!" "I understand she treated you to Happy Birthday dinner out." Shelly's hands rubbed his shoulders and he groaned with pleasure: "I'll give you a week to stop that!" Shelly bent down, whispered "You rake, carousing with a younger woman!" "Wasn't my idea," Linn sighed as his wife's talented fingers kneaded the tensions from his neck and shoulders. "I learned a long time ago, when a lady takes a notion, it's best to go with it." "What would you think of this lady's notion of Happy Birthday Cake and Ice Cream?" "I think that would be best shared with all hands." Shelly laughed, squeezed her husband's upper arms. "I think we can arrange that!"

... that distant braying sound is me, laughing ... ... oh dear God, I'm wiping tears from my eyes! Thank you, my friend, for whatever perverse reason, this one hit my funny bone and how!

My apologies. I misunderstood. When I read "Made Up Words" my first thought was the verbalized phonemes that resulted in my running my bare toes into the leg of the coffee table I'd just banged my shin bone on, while trying to navigate in the dark so as not to wake the wife. Firecracker Mel is a very perceptive soul. In other moments, when I was able to hold my tongue, she told me that was the most profane silence she'd ever heard. This time -- when I held not my words -- she inquired in which language I was vigorously blaspheming the furniture, for she heard my shin bone hit it, followed by language she did not understand, and she was satisfied was not included in the Funk and Wagnall's!

Watery tart's getting serious!

“BUGLER! SOUND RECALL!” A pale-eyed ambassador tilted her head and regarded the Judge: her expression, her posture, told His Honor that he had her undivided attention. She’d been formally received: on a world where the swiftest transportation was the fastest horse, the arrival of a boxy, chisel-nosed shuttle, shining and silent and descending from the skies, was unusual enough to catch the eye: the shuttle, as it always did for a State visit, descended along a prescribed course, and watchers knew to anticipate its approach from a particular direction, they expected to see it descend along a designated path: signals were passed, flashes of reflected sunlight if in the daytime, torches ignited in a particular pattern along relay-points, if at night. The shuttle’s course was long and straight; it came at a steady velocity, slowing only after crossing the river; one mile more, and it came to a stop, hovered, descended straight down in the middle of a grassy clearing. The pale-eyed Ambassador stood in the shuttle’s broad hatchway as the fan-shaped ramp lowered: a brass band greeted her with a brisk air, a distinguished representative removed his fine, tall hat and formally bade her welcome: only then did she set foot on the soil of this Confederate world. Ambassador Marnie Keller allowed the representative to take her hand, raise it to his lips: his expression was solemn, his eyes unusually so: Marnie knew the man to be a charming dinner companion and an expert dancer, and she also knew that his delight would be expressed with shining eyes and a cheerful voice. She saw instead a troubled man. A dignified woman in a McKenna gown sat across from His Honor the Judge. Tea was brought, hot, steaming, fragrant: Marnie had been instrumental in introducing both the Camellia shrub and Bergamot to the planet, and both were enthusiastically embraced: on this trip, she’d brought coffee plants, and complete instructions for their horticulturists, but for now, tea was a new drink, and very popular with those who could afford it. Marnie’s choice of the tea and bergamot was intentional. There were multiple well-established crops introduced to this world’s fertile soils. Marnie did love her Earl Grey tea, and tea had receded into distant legend in the common imagination. Her gift of plants the year before, with instructions on where to plant them, and how to care for them, when and how to harvest, was enthusiastically received. The first crops were carefully dried, brewed, sampled and pronounced good. Marnie knew that a very few containers of dried leaves were sold, among those few who could afford it just yet … and she knew these were sold in Japanned boxes with illustrations of a woman in a long gown, presumably her engraved image, pressed into the heavy paper boxes in four colors. “Your Honor,” Marnie said neutrally, “you have the look of a troubled man.” He nodded, set his delicate china teacup down, untasted. Marnie set hers down as well. If the matter was serious enough to warrant his emptying his hands and giving his full attention to what he was about to say, it was serious enough for Marnie to empty her hands and give him her undivided attention. “Are you familiar with our methods of execution?” he asked. “I am not.” “For particularly heinous crimes, we have the Pits.” “I am not familiar, Your Honor.” “I believe you have Coulter’s Hell on your world.” Marnie smiled, just a little, nodded. “I’m familiar with Coulter’s Hell,” she affirmed. “I have been through it several times.” “We have something similar.” “Is yours a place of execution?” “It has been. One pit is reserved for … truly terrible crimes.” Marnie waited as the man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There are mud pits in various colors. Our men of science tell me they can color up from mineral content, or from something they call algae.” “I am familiar with several varieties of colored algae.” “There’s one pit that has something in it. It’s not algae. If you throw … they tested it yesterday to make sure it works … they threw a dead chicken in it and watched it dissolve.” “Dissolve.” “We make condemned prisoners view this dissolution, one week to the day of their date of execution.” “And how are the prisoners executed?” The Judge swallowed, looked away, looked back. “Terrible things happened,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Terrible. I hesitate to describe them.” “Your Honor, you’ll find I have a cast iron stomach. Please speak plainly.” “There was brutality, Madam Ambassador. Cruelty and monstrosity more terrible than a civilized mind can grasp. A man was found guilty, and he was placed in a small metal cage. The door was riveted shut and remains so.” Marnie’s eyebrow raised. “He was … his cage was placed on a wagon, and this was taken to the place of execution. “He was shown the ramp his cage would slide down and into this bubbling pit. “The dead chicken was thrown in and he watched as … as whatever devil’s soup lives there … dissolved the chicken.” “The prisoner will be dissolved alive.” “The pit is quite warm. I am told it’s not hot enough to boil a man to death, but he’ll scream with pain when he is introduced. The cage will sink to half its depth and he will … between the heat, and being eaten alive …” The judge shivered. “The family of his victim will be assembled, to witness this most horrible death.” Marnie nodded, tilted her head a little, studied the Judge’s face. “And you are quite sure you have the actual culprit.” The judge nodded, then shook his head. “There is always doubt, Madam Ambassador. Evidence was presented and the jury was convinced. This fellow … he is a known criminal, but to create horrors of the magnitude of which he is accused …” The Judge shook his head. “He was brought back from having been shown, and one week to the day from his guilty verdict, he will be slid down the ramp, still riveted in that small steel cage, and he’ll scream his last, while his victim’s family watches.” “And when will the execution take place?” “Today.” “Then I am just in time,” she murmured, and picked her tea up again. The Judge looked at his tea, still untouched, shook his head. Marnie placed her delicate teacup on its saucer just as an urgent knock drove against the inner chamber’s door: a messenger threw the door open, paper in hand. “Your Honor,” he said, “we convicted the wrong man!” The Judge powered to his feet. “Your Honor, when is the execution?” “He’s being taken there now!” “How do we stop it?” The Judge looked at the messenger. “Have my surrey hitched up!” “Yes, sir!” “Your Honor,” Marnie said crisply as they rose, “can we get to my ship? It’s swifter than –” “Yes,” the Judge said, “we can do that!” A bugler and a red-faced Sergeant rode ahead of the Judge’s surrey. The bugler blew a sharp summons, clearing the road ahead of them: the Judge’s face was grim, he had an arm clamped hard down against his chest, reins in his off hand. The chestnut was a pacer, and swift: she was a racer, and the lightweight, two-wheel surrey was a younger man’s carriage, but it suited the Judge, who remembered what it was to drive behind a fast horse, and never lost that love. Marnie spoke quietly into her lace-trimmed sleeve-cuff: as horsemen and a racing-style surrey came into the clearing, men came to attention on either side of the diplomatic shuttle: the boarding-ramp was down, the pilot was at the controls, Marnie hiked her skirts and jumped from the surrey, hit the ground running. Three steps and she was on the ramp, her hand gripping the Judge’s coat-sleeve. The ramp was only just beginning to whine shut when the shuttle jumped straight up like a scared jackrabbit, if a jackrabbit can make a hundred yards straight up in two seconds. “Does the condemned have any last words?” A known thief looked out through the bars that held him, crouched and cramped, for the past week. “Would it do any good?” he snapped. “I didn’t kill nobody, so be damned with you all!” The executioner nodded at an old man, who hitched a spring loaded hook onto a heavy ring welded to the back of the condemned man’s small cage: when the mechanism raised the back of the ramp and the cage slid into the pit, a team of mules would be used to pull the empty cage back up the timber ramp, as buckets of water sloshed the hungry mud off the metal, lest the mud it dragged back onto the wooden ramp, eat great gouges in the ramp. When the cage came out, they knew, it would be completely empty. The hungry mud would have eaten every particle of the prisoner. Silence descended over the scene: the executioner brought out his watch, consulted it. The prisoner, alone, naked, waited for the mechanism to activate, waited to hear gears and springs beneath him start to clatter, start to hoist the back of the ramp, start to slide him into Hell while he was still alive. Something silver streaked over the horizon toward them. The diplomatic shuttles were normally silent. This wasn’t. The shuttle screamed through the air, a high-pitched half-whistle, half-siren, louder as it approached, shining and arrow-swift, drawing a straight line for the Place of Execution. His Honor muttered, “If only we had a bugler!” “Bugler?” the pilot laughed. “We can handle that! What call, sir?” The Judge’s eyes widened. “Sound Recall!” The pilot’s hands danced over a small keypad, and Marnie smiled, just a little, as her uniformed Confederate pilot murmured, “Sound files, bugle calls, Recall.” Beneath them, a hatch opened, a bank of a half dozen loudspeakers dropped into the slipstream, adding to the ship’s rumbling vibration as it shrieked through the air. The executioner watched as the hand swept upward, biting chunks from a man’s lifespan with each tick of its mechanism. He gripped a short, smooth, cast-iron handle, waited for the appointed moment. The watch’s long, slender second hand touched the ornate, hand-painted 12 at the top of the age-yellowed watch dial. The executioner gripped a small handle, pulled, stepped back: the preacher began reading from the Book, and beneath the condemned man, beneath the riveted-shut cage, a powerful spring began to unwind, turning an axle, turning gears, turning a screw mechanism which hoist the back of the ramp. Heads rose, mouths opened as something boxy and silver stopped overhead, dropped straight down toward them, as the commanding, sharp, precise notes of Recall shivered the air. “STOP THE MECHANISM!” The executioner shoved at the short, cast-iron handle, shoved harder, desperately trying to stop what he’d started: he put both hands on the smooth, red-painted handle, shoved impotently at the locked bar, the well-greased mechanism sounding like it was chuckling at his efforts. The mule skinner spat a brown stream of tobacco juice, picked up the reins: “Yup there, now, yup, boys,” he called, and the mules surged forward, against the chain. The cage started to slide, stopped suddenly, held by the chain and by two mules. The shuttle landed, the ramp dropped, the Judge ran up, his hand driving into his coat. He pulled out his gavel. A Judge’s gavel was made of the hardest wood on the planet. Its handle was turned, shaped, given particular decorative looking rings that served as a key, as a signature: the Judge’s gavel was the only thing that could stop the ramp’s mechanism: as the silver diplomatic shuttle lifted, pirouetted, backed against the rising ramp, the landing ramp blocking the cage from sliding off smooth timbers, the Judge drove the handle of his gavel into the execution machine’s socket. Gears slammed to a stop. The Judge looked at the executioner. “We have the wrong man.” Sheriff Jacob Keller listened to his sister’s recounting of her latest diplomatic venture. “What happened after they got him out of the cage?” “They made the official proclamations that he was innocent, that the right man was found, the usual language.” “What about him? Any compensation for wrongful conviction?” “I argued that his reputation was stained beyond redemption and through no fault of his own. We agreed that a fresh start was indicated, so we moved him to another world entirely, someplace that had never heard of him or his homeworld.” Jacob raised an eyebrow. “I set him up with his own tea plantation,” Marnie smiled. “That was a year ago. Yesterday I received a package of tea by courier post, and a note.” She handed Jacob the note. I hope this blend is to your liking. It was signed with an ornate, capital R. Marnie raised a small, cloth-wrapped package, closed her eyes, took a deep, savoring breath. “He got the blend just right.”

FENCE SETTIN' I wasn't sure at first. I thought it was my daughter Dana, settin' on the top rail of the whitewashed fence behind the barn, least until I got close enough to see her boots. I couldn't help but grin. Marnie wore red cowboy boots and Dana wore black, and these ... these were red. I clumb up on the fence and throwed my leg over, then my other leg and there I set beside my darlin' daughter, and her lookin' out over the pasture, her eyes full of memories. Dana and Marnie both braided their hair and wrapped it around their necks, and twice it spared them a throat-slash in a close encounter of the bladed kind: both times the attempt was not well received, and the individual that tried it, come out in second place -- one will be in prison another twenty three years, the other commenced to assume room temperature our friendly local coroner's slab. We set there side by side, neither of sayin' a word. I hadn't expected Marnie to show up. Ordinarily she'd open an Iris in my study and step out lookin' all gorgeous and ladylike in a McKenna gown, and she'd told me she was known in all the Confederate worlds by the way she dressed -- "brand recognition," she'd said, and smiled as she did. I waited for her to speak. If she was here, and she wasn't in her Ambassador's gown, she was here as just her, and that suited me fine. I saw her bottom jaw slide out and she looked down and said, "Daddy, do you remember when I first came out here?" "I remember," I said gently, for the evening was quiet, and there was no need to speak loudly a'tall. "You brought me out here to show me the horses." I thought of that evening, and how little she was ... four years old, no bigger'n a cake of soap, big eyed and scared of everything, even me. I didn't know quite what to do with her but I figured if I acted like I did, why, I might do something right, so we come out here behind the barn and I whistled up the mares and I let Marnie stand behind me as the mare come up and snuffed at my shirt front, and two others come up, and I unwrapped several of those red and white swirlie striped peppermints and proceeded to bribe the mares with 'em. I told Marnie horses bribe as well as any politician. She pretty much hid behind me, least until one of the colts come up, one of the little bitty fresh laid ones, I don't reckon he was more'n two days old: hungry, frisky, curious, he come up a-buttin' his Mama for a meal and she stood for it and Marnie watched that cold with big and solemn eyes and when he come up for air, why, Marnie started out from behint me just a little an' that colt saw her and I don't reckon either of 'em had ever seen a little bitty version of the full grown product before. I let nature take its course: Marnie was hesitant to touch the colt, but she did, and the colt laid his chin over her shoulder and Marnie looked at me with great big eyes and I said quietly, "He's giving you a horsie hug," and Marnie tentatively, carefully, gave the colt a hug. The mares wandered off and the colt followed his meal. I hunkered down beside Marnie and she looked at me with big and wondering eyes and she looked after the horses and I said "What are those called, Marnie?" and Marnie whispered "Horsie puppies." I couldn't help but grin to hear it. All this went just a-whistlin' through my mind in the two seconds after she asked if I remembered, and I allowed that I did. "I didn't know what a good man was," she said, her voice distant as she swam through memories of her own. She turned and looked at me and said "I never knew anyone could be gentle, but you were." I nodded slowly. "You taught me to be a lady, Daddy." Now that honestly surprised me, for I don't ever recall teachin' her how to sit or stand or walk with a book balanced atop her head, I never taught her to sew nor flirt nor pout, and Marnie laughed, for I reckon I looked surprised, or confused, or both. "You ... treated Mama like a lady. All the time. I don't ever remember your raising your voice, not once, not ever, inside the house." She smiled and interrupted me before I could say it -- "I know, Daddy, you dislike loud noises!" I laughed, nodded. My daughter knew me better than I realized, but I was not surprised at this. "I remember ... it wasn't much later, a week or so ... you asked me if I'd like to ride a horse." I nodded again. Marnie looked down, swallowed. "I was scared," she whispered, then she looked at me, and I could see that little girl she'd been, looking at me out of those pale eyes, alone, vulnerable, frightened. "I was scared to ride a horse, Daddy, I was scared to tell you no, I was scared to do anything that would raise your voice or raise your hand --" "You were walking on eggshells before you started school," I murmured. "Do you remember what you asked me next?" I smiled, for there was a memory I had chambered up and ready to go. Little four year old Marnie Keller wore a frilly dress, and knee socks and little saddle shoes, her hair was braided and she sat on the top rail of the fence behind the barn. The big man with pale eyes walked a spotty horsie up to her and it sidled up to her and he said, "You could ride with me. Come on over behind me, darlin'." Her pale eyes were uncertain, her face was pale, she swallowed hard, but she hooked her heel on the second rail down and leaned forward -- she grabbed the shoulder of his coat and she stepped over, onto the saddle skirt -- she had not the least idea that she could sit, and what Shelly saw when she came out to call them to supper, was a strutting Appaloosa stallion at an easy canter, mane and tail floating in the chilly evening air, a pale eyed man with a big grin on his face riding proudly in the saddle, and standing up behind him, a laughing little girl with even white teeth, a little girl with blanched-white knuckles as she death gripped the man's Carhartt shoulders, as she stood up behind him, feeling taller and faster and happier than she ever remembered being in all her young life! "I remember," I said quietly. "That was the first time you ever rode a horse. Your Mama still has the picture." I looked over at Marnie. "Do you know what I saw when I looked at that picture?" Marnie blinked, curious, smiled just a little, shook her head. "I used to stand up behind my Mama a-horseback, when I was that size. Mama had a picture, I don't know whatever come of it, but I remember ... feeling ..." I looked down and I couldn't help but smile. "Marnie, you looked happy. You looked at the world for the very first time with fearless eyes. When I saw that picture, I knew I'd done something right." Marnie reached over, laid her hand on mine. "You did many things right, Daddy. That's why I'm here." "Oh?" "I wanted to sit here and remember the first time things went right in my life." There are times in a man's life when he realizes just how profound an effect he's had, and this was one of those times. "I wanted to sit on the fence, Daddy. Here's where it all started."

ARE YOU AN ANGEL? “Grampa?” An old man snorted and blew as he scrubbed his face with a double handful of good cold freshly pumped wellwater. A little boy cocked his head and regarded his ol’ Granddad curiously. The old man, as was his habit, was stripped to the waist before he washed up: like most men of his vintage, he was lean, his skeleton could be seen – most of it, at least – the result of a hard life and hard work and many years. He reached up, pulled down a flour sack towel, rubbed wet arms and his wet face, briskly scrubbing water from his ancient hide, looked at his grandson. “Eh?” “Grampa, how come your ribs is funny?” the boy asked, pointing. “Hah? Them?” The old man approached his grandson, sat down on a handy sawed chunk. “You mean here?” The little boy traced careful fingertips down the irregularities, nodded, his eyes wide and solemn. “Does it hurt, Grampa?” “Sure as thunder did,” the old man grunted. “What happened?” The old man snorted, coughed, laughed and coughed again, spat. “I was young oncet,” he said. “Warn’t that long ago, neither. Hold old are you, boy?” “I’m five, Grampa.” “I used to be five,” the old man said thoughtfully. “Built me a cabin, too.” “You built a cabin when you were five?” “Oh, ya. I was about your size too.” “Grampa,” the lad said skeptically, “ya did not!” The old man frowned, hawked, spat, rubbed his stubbled chin. “Well, hell, maybe I was a little older,” he said, “but I near to kilt myself buildin’ it!” He’d laid out how he wanted to notch the logs, and notch them he did. He’d cut them to a uniform length. John Noble was a young man and John Noble was an exacting man, and John Noble knew whoever looked at what he built, would judge him by the skill of his work, and he, John Noble, was not about to do anything but first rate work! He’d sawed his logs to a uniform length. He’d laid stone for the foundation, rather than lay logs directly on dirt: most cabins were quick and dirty in their construction, built in a hurry to beat the cold weather: John laid out where he wanted the cabin set, he leveled the ground, what little had to be leveled off, he set his stones where he wanted them. He was better than a fair hand with an adz, and God be praised he had one: he’d made trade for tools, he’d found or scrounged or bought others: he drilled holes, cut pegs, tapped in the wooden stays that would hold his logs tight. John worked as young men work – steadily, mightily, putting the lean cords of muscle and sinew against the weight of fragrant timber. He’d cut skids and he’d used his mule and good hemp rope to skid timbers, cut flat on the bottom and on the top, he’d set them tight atop one another, he eased one heavy timber after another up the skids and to the top of the walls he was raising. He was doing well for one man working alone, until one of the skids kicked out and the timber came down on top of him. Sheriff Linn Keller knew there was a cabin being built, and he knew roughly where, and frankly he was curious to take a look at it. When he came in sight of the cabin, his stallion surged forward into a gallop. “There I was, a-layin’ under attair log,” his Granddad said in his old man’s voice, “and damned if this-yere fella didn’t come just a-gallopin’ up on an honest to God Appaloosa stallion.” “A stallion?” his grandson asked in a awe-struck voice. “Damn right, a stallion,” his Granddad nodded. “Know how t’ tell an honest to God Appaloosa stallion?” His grandson shook his curly-haired head. The old man raised a clawed hand up in front of his mouth, two fingers extended, curled a little. “They got fangs, they do, an’ they eat bears an’ bull elks f’r breakfast!” The old man winked and the boy grinned uncertainly – his Granddad didn’t always tell things the way they really were, but he was his Granddad and he was old and that meant he was really smart and maybe stallions really did eat bears an’ bull elks! “Anyway when attair log come down atop of me, why, one end hit a rock ‘r it would’ve mashed me flat an’ kilt me t’ boot!” “Grampa,” the boy said softly, “I’m awful glad it didn’t!” The old man leaned closer, screwed one eye shut: “Me too, sonny, me too!” Linn set a chunk on the rock the high end of the log was resting on. He tucked his backside, gripped the timber, took a long breath, took another, gritted his teeth. He brought the log up and over and on top of the chunk he’d just set there. It seemed steady enough – Linn grabbed another chunk, set in beside it – he went around, ran his arms under the injured man, pulled him out from under. Linn knew he hurt the man, pulling him like that, but he knew he had to get him out, get the timber off him. He didn’t know what else to do for the man. “Oh it hurt, all right,” the old man said thoughtfully. “It hurt like two hells and a sledgehammer, but y’know what?” “What, Grampa?” the boy breathed. “I’m alive t’ complain about it. Y’know why?” “Why, Grampa?” The old man leaned closer again, looked very directly at his grandson, his expression suddenly, humorlessly, stonefaced, serious. “There’s angels in this world, boy,” he said, “an’ one of ‘em rode that Appaloosa stallion.” “Really?” the boy asked in a marveling voice. The old man nodded. “You c’n tell,” he said, “there’s white about an angel, boy, and this one … when I looked up I seen them white eyes an’ that’s how I knew.” He nodded again, his own eyes growing distant, seeing the memory again. “I likely passed out, must’ve. Come to an’ there was folks tendin’ me. Found out ‘twas an honest t’ God surgeon workin’ on me. His boy’s the doc over’n Firelands.” “Dad?” a woman’s voice called. “Coming?” The old man sighed, stood, hung the flour sack towel back on its peg. “Help me back int’ m’ Union suit, sonny, yer Mama wants t’ eat.” A new student, a new school year, and Miz Sarah was greeting each one personally, as she always did. One little boy, shy the way new students often are, had trouble raising his eyes from the floor. When he did, when Miz Saran bent over and asked gently, “And what is your name?” he looked at her – his eyes grew big, startled, his mouth opened into an absolutely surprised O – “My name is Sarah,” she said. “Do I know you?” He swallowed, blinked, looked left, looked right, blinked again, and then he whispered, “Are you an angel?” Miz Sarah smiled, just a little: she went down on her knees, rested her hands gently on his young shoulders, drew him closer, laid her cheek against his and whispered, so only he could hear: “Nobody else knows,” she said, her sibilants tickling the fine hairs on his pink-scrubbed young ear: she drew back, smiled gently. “Our secret?” A big-eyed little boy nodded, awe struck. In his young mind, a promise was a promise. An angel asked him to keep their secret. When he was a little boy, his Granddad told him about seeing an angel, and how to recognize one. When he became a Granddad, he told his young grandson about his Granddad, and how he’d seen an angel, and he told his young grandson about the angel he met when he first started school. A little boy came home from school, his eyes shining with excitement. His mother recognized the signs, and smiled quietly as she set a saucer in front of him with his usual after-school peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. He usually devoured his snack, then ran outside to play: she watched him eat slowly, thoughtfully, completely at odds with the contained excitement in his eyes. His Mama sat down, tilted her head a little, studied her son. “Did something happen today?” she asked quietly. He nodded. “Can you tell me about it?” He blinked rapidly, nodded. “Mama, they sent an angel to Mars today!” he whispered, his eyes big and sincere. “An angel?” she asked. He nodded. “She looks just like us, Mama, but Grampa told me what to look for!” Later that night, on the evening news, the split-screen portraits of Marnie Keller and Dr. John Greenlees Jr were shown: the local station was making much of the local folk chosen for this second Martian launch, the big colony ship that would absolutely establish a long-term human presence on another planet. “There she is, Mama! Do you see it?” “See what, Bobby?” He pointed, his voice as excited as his expression: “Grampa told me what to look for! Right there, Mama! See it?” His Mama looked at the TV screen, and the formal portrait of the pale-eyed Deputy Sheriff Marnie Keller looked back at her. “She’s an angel,” a little boy’s voice breathed.

... can I adopt them?

My arthritic old Prayer Bones thank you kindly. We got rid of all the carpet and went entirely with laminate so as not to aggravate my wife's many allergies, and attair floor gets uncomfortable after a while. Besides, I'm just naturally lazy!

... grrr ...

TEARS, DELIGHT AND ACCOMPLISHMENT Sheriff Jacob Keller, Firelands, Mars, grinned as broad as two Texas townships as his wife handed him their child. Ruth Keller smiled quietly, silently rejoicing at the expression on her husband's face. Jacob hefted their laughing little boy, hoist him well overhead, to the juvenile delight (and squeals) of his son, brought him down, bounced him a couple times, looked at Ruth and asked, "What have you been feedin' him? T-bone steaks and high nitrogen fertilizer?" Ruth laughed, tilted her head. "He has his father's appetite." Jacob swung their fist-chewing son up on his left hip, gathered his wife into him with his right arm, buried his face in the side of her neck, nibbling at her with his lips. "Darlin', I missed you," he mumbled, and Ruth giggled -- Jacob's richly-curved handlebar mustache tickled -- she hugged him back and whispered, "I missed you too!" Ruth felt Jacob's body change when the annunciator chimed. Jacob released his wife, turned quickly, one hand on his pistol: Ruth felt the static sizzle of a midfield that split the room in two -- she was behind it, Jacob was on the other side of it. He keyed a command into his desktop keyboard. Ruth saw his shoulders rise, then fall, and she knew he'd just taken a long breath and blown it out. He did not, however, lower the field. The door slid open, Marnie came smiling through the portal, an oversized picnic basket in hand, covered with a tucked-in, red-and-white-check tablecloth -- "I didn't think you'd want to make your wife fix supper when she's just getting home!" Marnie suggested quietly. Jacob nodded, took the basket, touched a control on his belt: the invisible field sizzled out of existence, and the two women embraced, a chubby set of arms reached for his Aunt Marnie, and the table was quickly set for three adults and a child. Supper was a cheerful event: Ruth turned her attention to feeding their little boy in moments where Marnie described young Michael pulling a clandestine pistol and hitting an area the size of a man's thumbnail to stop an extremely poisonous reptile from killing his twin sister; she turned big and startled eyes toward the description of Victoria riding a fighting twisthorn stallion -- Ruth knew twisthorns, and she'd seen their stallions fight -- she smiled as Marnie described Dana, disguised as one of the Faceless Sisters, singing in adoration before the ornate Altar in the Rabbitville monastery. Ruth had heard Dana sing -- in fact, she'd sung duets with Dana, and delighted in how well they harmonized -- and then she looked, puzzled, at her husband and back to Marnie at the description of Dana's sojourn East, to bathe her wounded soul in the sonic waters of the restored, fully functional, Roosevelt pipe organ. Marnie and Jacob both knew Ruth loved music in all of its forms, and when they realized Ruth had absolutely no idea what a pipe organ was, they looked at one another and smiled. Inquiry was made, then arrangements, and while The Bear Killer and Snowdrift collaborated on riding herd on a laughing little boy who'd never seen a pair of truly huge, mountain Mastiffs before, three people sat in the front pew of the Barrington Congregational Church as a guest organist brought tears to a pale eyed lawman's cheeks, delight to his wife's face, and a sense of accomplishment to a pale eyed Ambassador in a McKenna gown.

Awaiting a UPS that's SUPPOSED to arrive today by ... seven minutes ago. Rechecked tracking, now it says by 7 pm. If it was FedEx this would translate by "Sometime after the weekend even though we promised it last Wednesday." Edit to Add -- Mine arrived 1 hr 45 min after the window they gave me originally. Dee-lighted!

STRUT Sheriff Linn Keller assumed the badge when Tom Landers allowed as he'd had the job long enough, he was tired, his aches and pains persuaded him to hand the star off to someone younger. The new Sheriff promptly arrested the saloon's owner, the bank's manager, took a Territorial Marshal's kindness and hired in a bookkeeper, who listed the financial sins and wrongdoings of both businesses: Linn gave Dirty Sam a choice, by virtue of setting a table in front Sam's jail cell, dropping a bag of silver in the middle and stobbing two knives into the tabletop: Sell the Silver Jewel for this poke of hard coin, or pick up a knife and we'll settle it once and for all. Dirty Sam and the crooked banker did not last long in prison, Linn turned the Silver Jewel from a dirty saloon and whorehouse, into a respectable business and restaurant: when word spread that the games were straight and the new owner had a screw loose -- he just honestly gave the restaurant part to an Irishwoman he'd only just met, he'd handed the saloon part off to the barkeep as his own -- then he threw out the weighted wheels, he'd burnt marked and tapered cards, he'd thrown card sharpers and cheats out with great ceremony (and vigor) -- it took some time, it took all the funds he had, but the Silver Jewel became just that -- a jewel -- clean and sparkling, there on the main street, freshly painted, brightly trimmed, with offices and hotel rooms in the second story. Sheriff Linn Keller was seen taking a man by the throat -- not just pinning him against the wall, but hauling him off his feet and holding him there -- he was seen facing up to and facing down large and angry men armed with a variety of weapons, he was seen taking troublemakers by the collar and the belt and dunking them in the nearest horse trough, and he was seen to throw his recalcitrant four legged office chair out into the street and take an ax to the damned thing when it dumped him over backwards one time too many. This hard man, who'd survived a cannon blowing up beside him and stoving in some ribs, this man who'd been shot, stabbed, cut, run into and run over, earned the respect of hard men, not just because his word was Law, but because he was unfailingly, even-handedly, fair. He never failed to hear a man out: if there was a dispute, he would hear one man out completely, then he would hear the other man out completely. For this he was respected. This hard man, this pale-eyed badge packer with a temper he tried hard not to let slip, raised a hand to a woman this one fine day. In fairness, the woman was quite young. Quite young. I believe she was about four years old, as a matter of fact. The Sheriff's green-eyed wife was very carefully not watching as he did, for this ladylike little four year old was walking the narrow top plank of the wooden corral fence, her hand laid over her Daddy's knuckles: as long as she had a hand on her Daddy, she was steady and sure footed: the moment she raised her hand from his, she got kind of wobbly. The Sheriff was a strong man, a man of authority and of justice, and as such, he cultivated a very reassuring voice, and he put this voice to work with this four year old daughter of his. Angela Keller survived a terrible train wreck that killed her birth-parents -- an iron rail worked loose, as too often happened with iron rails; it rose when the train's wheels passed over and drove up like a snakehead, ripping the belly out of a passenger car, killing everyone in it and derailing the rest of the train. The Sheriff came upon the wreck right after it happened and started throwing debris aside and found this still, silent figure lying under what used to be the side wall of the passenger car. He'd seized the wall, threw it aside (a feat for three strong men, but in extremis, a man can do incredible things!) -- he'd knelt and brushed the blond hair from her face, then he picked her up and stood and threw his head back and cried out to the Heavens themselves. This was the child that walked the top corral rail, one hand on her Daddy's upraised knuckles, the other held delicately out to the side, her wrist bent back a little, the way she'd seen her Mommy stand. Angela found if she looked straight ahead, and not down at her shiny slippers treading the whitewashed plank, she was steadier: she looked straight ahead, lifted her hand from her Daddy's reassuring knuckles, took two steps -- and her third step was too close to the edge, and she fell. Jacob Keller was only just come into the Sheriff's life: his story is well known, and tragic: he was pacing silently inside the corral, keeping exact station with his father, his eyes upraised to the pretty little girl tightrope walking that top rail. Jacob had a very dim memory of doing just that as a wee child, and seeing Angela's confidence when her hand touched her Daddy, warmed a memory of doing something similar in his very early existence. He was looking up, he saw her step come to the edge, her next step half-off, when she lost her balance: she gave a little squeak, and fell neatly into his arms. Linn's hand thrust impotently into empty air, trying to catch what was already gone: he stepped back, saw Jacob holding Angela, saw her wide-eyed expression, her even white teeth as she laughed with childish delight: Jacob looked at her, looked at his father and asked quietly, "Sir, what shall I do with her?" Sheriff Jacob Keller stood a-straddle of his firstborn. His Pa was dead and gone a year now; he'd lived long enough to become Grampa to his own blood, and unofficially to a handful of young who more or less adopted him: Jacob held two wooden pegs he'd whittled out earlier, and his firstborn's upraised hands gripped these pegs. As long as young William Linn had hold of his Pa's fingers, he could walk -- no, not walk: Jacob's son strutted across the floor, chubby arms upraised, little pink fingers holding onto his Pa's fingers. Today William Linn held those smooth-whittled pegs. Jacob looked over at his wife, who smiled knowingly, nodded: Go ahead. Jacob started walking across the floor, William Linn holding onto those pegs, little bare feet patting soundlessly on the long rag rug: Jacob let go of the pegs and William Linn happily charged across the floor, arms up in the air, laughing. When he realized he'd been fooled, he stopped, wobbled, set down hard on his round little bottom, but it didn't take long after that to realize he could walk without holding onto anything, and not long after that discovery, that Annette carefully did not look outside as her husband set their son on the top plank of the rail fence around their corral, and walked beside his son as William Linn laughed and strutted like a tightrope walker, one hand laid over on his Pa's upraised knuckles.