Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

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.

SHE HAS A GIFT Michael stood as their guest crossed the threshold. He’d been seated at the family’s breakfast table – dressed, ready for school, saddlebags waiting by the front door – his father raised an eyebrow at the early morning rat-tat, tat – “Dana?” Michael asked, glancing to the narrow door to his left, the one where a loaded .22 rifle lived. “She has a key,” Linn replied quietly: he glided toward the front door, silent on sock feet, interrogated the computer screen, smiled. He opened the front door without hesitation. A tall man with a little hair fringing around the back of his head, a lean, tanned soul with a staff in one hand and the other extended and gripping the Sheriff’s, stood at the doorway, his lined face wrinkling into a delighted grin. Michael rose, breakfast forgotten. Victoria had no such polite reserve: she scampered across the intervening floor, ducked around her Daddy, seized the white-robed guest in a happy hug and a delighted, “Woom Coffee!” Abbot William laughed, knelt, handed his staff to the Sheriff and hugged the delighted little girl (who wasn’t nearly so little anymore!) – he slacked his embrace, looked up at the Sheriff, looked at Victoria and said “Your pardon, my Lady, I was looking for a little girl of my acquaintance. Her name is Victoria, but you cannot be her, for you are much too grown!” She laughed again, and he hugged her again, and she felt him take in a long, shivering breath, and let it out. The Sheriff saw this, too, and saw the man’s eyes close against the sadness Linn knew he felt. William knew what it was to bury a daughter – that was part of the reason he became a Religious – and every time Linn saw that unhealed grief in his old friend’s soul, he swore he would never, ever, take any of his children for granted! William rose, looked across the intervening space at Michael, standing beside his chair: William cocked an eye at Linn and murmured, “Permission to come aboard, sir!” “Aboard, hell,” Linn laughed, “we’re settin’ down for breakfast! I’ll get you a plate!” “I won’t turn you down,” the Abbot smiled. Breakfast finished, the four adjourned to the broad front porch to wait on the school bus. The twins scampered down the gravel drive when they saw the big yellow school bus turn off the main route, start down the side road: they, and The Bear Killer, were at the end of the drive just as the bus choo-choo’d to a stop with the unmistakable hiss and sigh of air brakes: Linn waved from the front porch, The Bear Killer turned and galloped happily back up the driveway as the bus pulled away. Linn picked up his rifle where he’d parked it beside the front door, opened it, stepped aside to let William and The Bear Killer enter first, then followed them in. Linn and the Abbot sat at one end of the table, Linn at the very end and William on his right. Linn already had the breakfast dishes soaking in soapy dishwater, he’d poured William another mug of coffee – the Abbot soaked up coffee at twice the Sheriff’s rate of consumption – Linn sat, looked at his half empty mug and smiled quietly. “Abbot,” he said gently, “are you sure I can’t get you anything more?” The Abbott patted his flat belly, smiled. “I’m full as a tick,” he said. “Bacon and eggs are always better with good company!” “Victoria was glad to see you.” The Abbot laughed gently, nodded. “I remember when she was … younger.” His voice was soft, the voice of a man sharing something cherished. “She… her voice was excited … and she could not frame to pronounce ‘William.’ “It came out ‘Woom.’ “ The Sheriff nodded. “I remember.” “But she could say ‘Coffee.’ “ They laughed, they nodded, the Abbot looked speculatively at the Sheriff. “Dana.” Linn looked at his old friend: his expression did not change, but the Abbot could feel the change in the man, and he knew the Sheriff was listening closely to whatever words he was about to utter. “You know she sings with the Sisters.” Linn smiled a little, nodded. “I’ve heard her sing.” “She is quite the Bible scholar. She’s the equal of most seminarians I know.” Linn nodded again, took a short snort of coffee, swallowed. “She came to see me, Linn.” “Confession?” “No. Well, yes, but not …” Abbot William leaned back, his fingers flat on the table: he looked away, looked back, a look of amusement on his expressive, weathered face. “Linn, your daughter has both a strong sense of history, and a flair for the dramatic!” “I see,” Linn replied, affecting his best Innocent Expression. “She’s become an actress!” “Oh, she’s been that, for years,” William waved a dismissive hand. “She can become someone else or something else – do you remember when your mother discovered that long lost series of portraits, those … those glass plate treasures?” “I remember, yes.” “There were photographs of our early Monastery, of the Brethren ranked on one side, the Sisters on the other, how two chickens in the front looked like they were long and blurry because of the long exposure?” Linn laughed. “I remember those chickens look like they’re three feet long or better!” William leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingertips steepled. “Do you remember your mother describing how Sarah Lynne McKenna became an Agent of the Church?” Linn stopped and looked very directly at the Abbot. William waved a hand again: “No, no, Dana isn’t an Agent, don’t worry, the Holy Mother Church isn’t stealing her away to do clandestine investigation!” Linn raised an eyebrow. “From your introduction, I was beginning to wonder.” “No … but your daughter does have a penchant for disguise.” The Sheriff turned his head a little, as if to bring a good ear to bear. “Sarah Lynne McKenna became one of the White Sisters. She sang with them, and so does your Dana. Dana has not become a Religious, she does not wear the silver ring of Sisterhood, but when she is among us – when she comes to the Monastery – she assumes the Veil and she is indistinguishable from the Sisters.” “I see.” The Abbot removed one elbow from the table, gripped his lean chin between thumb and forefinger. “Linn,” he said softly, “she has absolutely the purest, most magnificent singing voice I have ever heard in my life!” Linn nodded. “She went back East on vacation. She felt it wise to go in disguise, after the … excitement … here locally.” Linn nodded again. “She has a love for a good pipe organ and she sought out one of the oldest working organs in the country, a Congregational Church in Massachusetts.” Linn tilted his head, favored his friend with a curious expression, clearly very interested in the man’s words. “She said it was one of the most powerfully beautiful experiences of her life,” the Abbot said softly. “She wept for its beauty.” “There’s something you’re not telling me.” “Ever the investigator, eh?” William smiled, nodding. “She had me write an introductory note, in case there might be resistance in admitting a Catholic Nun into a Congregational Church. I served on the Leyte Gulf with their chief pastor.” Linn nodded. “When she went in disguise, she went in a very old disguise.” “Old?” Linn frowned a little, his brows puzzling together as he did. “She came to see me afterward. It seems she took a cosmetic brush and nonflexible collodion, and painted an awful looking scar – from the corner of her eye, diagonally down and across her face, another across her throat.” “Sarah McKenna used that dodge, back when.” The Abbot snapped his fingers, pointed at the Sheriff. “Bingo. She said she raised the veil and said in a hoarse whisper she used to sing opera.” “Distraction technique. All the witness will remember is that awful scar and the husky voice.” “Your daughter could make a good living on Broadway, with the skills of disguise and that lovely voice.” “Her choice,” Linn grunted. “Now you’re holding something back.” Linn looked long at his old friend, as if weighing a decision. “Abbot, some things are not fit for the confessional.” “I’ve heard things, Sheriff. I’ve heard the blackest of stains on what the world thought were good men’s souls.” Linn leaned back, considered, his eyes tracking across the newly-painted ceiling. “Abbot,” Linn said quietly, “Dana does have an angel’s voice. I didn’t know she was into disguise as well, but I’m not surprised. Marnie …” The Abbott listened intently: he knew Marnie was recruited to Mars as their second Sheriff, he knew something happened to the Colony, there was almost no word about it these days. Linn slid his mug away from him, leaned forward. “Abbot, the Mars colonies are alive and well,” he said in a quiet, confidential voice, “and Marnie is quite the dancer. She was in disguise very recently, she danced the Can-Can with a professional troupe. I am trusting you with this information. There is considerably more that I cannot say, and what little I’ve given you would cause great … difficulty … if it were made known.” The Abbot nodded, frowned. “I’d feared them dead. There’s been almost nothing …” “Many of them were killed,” Linn admitted, looking away. He let an uncomfortable silence grow, then looked back. “Dana painted on a scar and said she used to sing opera.” The Abbot nodded, and Linn chuckled a little. “I knew Sarah Lynne McKenna would shake her trotters on the boards. Apparently my daughters have inherited some of her talents!” “ ‘Shake her trotters’?” the Abbot echoed. Linn grinned. “Slang for dancing on stage.” “Ah.” Linn’s eyes widened a little – it was rare for the man to be surprised, but that’s what the Abbot saw in the man’s expression as a memory came into focus. “Well I’d be sawed off and damned,” Linn said slowly. The Abbot raised an eyebrow, waited. Linn looked at him. “Dana. She’s been taking classes in the City. Dollars to doughnuts that’s been voice training!” “Encourage her, my friend,” the Abbot suggested. “She has a gift!”

Incurable Lead and Brass Scrounger here!

Mama called these a "Genuine Australian Go-to-Hell Hat!"

Snowed twice last week. Yesterday there were still fist sized snowballs where I got mad and shoveled the stuff off my driveway. Last night the idiot neighbor mowed his lawn. I went out back and checked to make sure my back yard was still there, and we have standing water in the low places. As much cold and freeze as we've had here of late I doubt me not we've more snow on the way!

Hardware store will fax anything I need for a quarter a sheet. Does just fine for renewing my nursing license. My last printer had fax capability, until it quit printing. Now it's sleeping in the basement ... somewhere ...

MIRIAM Parson Belden was a man of routine. He’d put a morning into cutting and stacking wood – Parson or not, the cookstove needed fuel and so did the pot belly – he’d washed his hands and his face, he and his wife ate together, talking quietly, laughing a little as they discussed the stir that scandalous trick rider caused, riding through town all gussied up and doing handstands and summersets on that gaudy saddle, and the menfolk watching her with their tongues hanging clear down to their belt buckles – husband and wife each built on the other’s exaggeration, until both were laughing too hard to push the ridiculous further. The Parson finished his meal and withdrew to work on his sermon. As too often happens with men of the cloth, his desire to come up with something inspiring, informative, encouraging, and spiritual, was far greater than his ability to come up with something inspiring, informative, encouraging, or spiritual. He stared at the blank sheet under his hand; he turned the knife-whittled pencil in his fingers, remembering other clergy who would doodle or write random words, trying to prime the mental pump – he did neither, for he was a thrifty man, and wished not to spoil a perfectly good sheet of paper with anything but useful information. He sighed, parked his pencil: he rose, he knotted his necktie, he kissed his wife and settled his hat on his head and commenced to walk. The Parson had no particular destination; he trusted the Lord would guide his steps, would guide his thoughts. Sunshine was warm on his shoulders, the backs of his arms, his legs: he stopped, turned, looking around, relaxing his mind, listening for that Still Small Voice. He thought about talk he’d heard, talk of building a better structure for their Irish Brigade: he’d understood the Sheriff’s green-eyed wife invested monies she may not’ve actually had, in the building of a brick-works, and using the bricks to build the firehouse as the first showpiece of this local product. His mind wandered further: there’d been talk of building a hospital – their Doc had an office upstairs, in the Silver Jewel, which was fine if you had strength enough to walk up the stairs, or strong men to carry you up – the Parson’s mind went back to their own Irish Brigade. He knew there’d been a private effort to raise funds for a fire engine, for men to operate it, horses to pull the Steam Masheen and the ladder and hose wagon, and this was accomplished – how, he wasn’t entirely sure: he knew he’d find out, eventually, he always did. He thought of their little whitewashed Church. He wasn’t the first Parson here, but this was the town’s first Church: it wasn’t terribly big, it was built – as he’d said in a letter to an old friend, back East – on the New England Meetinghouse style: it was a rectangle, simple, functional, the only thing fancy about it was that the doors opened on the back corner instead of on a back wall or a side wall. The only other building of note he knew of, that opened on a corner, was a saloon back in Corning, the one where Froggy Schlingermann got punched so hard he flew backwards out the batwing doors and landed colder’n a foundered flounder in the gutter – never mind that ol’ Froggy deserved it, given the nature of his insult to another man’s wife. Tricky thing, that, he thought: honor was a touchy thing anywhere, even back East: here in the West, talk like that might earn a man bed space in the local boneyard. Pride, he thought: I might find a sermon in … pride … The Parson raised his eyes toward the town’s cemetery as he thought. The Sheriff’s son was riding off Cemetery Hill, toward him. The Parson stopped, admiring how well Jacob Keller sat the saddle. The Parson was a man who noticed things; though not a horseman himself, he could recognize one, and he knew the Sheriff’s son was very definitely what the French called a Chevalier, a “man of the horse,” if he understood the term correctly. His quick mind sidetracked, attracted to the word like a compass-needle to native lodestone. There were connotations of good breeding and good manners attached to the term, and as the Parson looked up at this lean-waisted, pale-eyed Chevalier, he considered that these qualities, too, fit Jacob well. “Howdy, Parson,” Jacob grinned, touching his hat brim. “Visiting a memory?” the Parson asked. Jacob frowned a little, then dismounted. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “I would counsel with you.” The Parson was struck by his phrasing: this was something he would expect a man of breeding to say, a man of education: Jacob’s few years precluded his being a University man, what little the Parson knew of him, would not lead him to think Jacob the son of means or wealth. This intrigued the sky pilot. “I am very much at your service,” the Parson said gravely. Jacob took a long breath, turned, looked back toward Cemetery Hill. “Parson,” he said, “I was just up there lookin’ at a tombstone.” The Parson nodded, slowly, listening carefully. “Her name was Miriam.” “Ah, the blind girl.” “Yes, sir.” Jacob frowned again. “Sir, she could play the piano … very well indeed, and she danced with me, and danced well.” “She was blind.” “Yes, sir, stone blind. Her eyes were bulged out some and that’s what killed her.” “I remember being told …” “That she died hard, yes sir, she did,” Jacob interrupted, looking away, clearly troubled. He looked back, his jaw set. “Sir, that wasn’t right. She’d done nothing to deserve that. She’d … she was decent and she helped her Mama as best she could when their wagon broke an axle and her Mama went a-laborin’ and I birthed her baby right there beside the wagon trail, and Miriam did the best she could in everything she did and she … “ His voice ground to a halt: he looked away again, controlling himself: he was silent for several long moments, his eyes closed, then he opened his eyes and looked back at the Parson. “It was not right, sir. I’ve been tryin’ to figure why things like this happen.” The Parson nodded again, once, carefully, his eyes never leaving Jacob’s serious young face. “Parson, I’m not the brightest candle in the chandelier, but I can’t see the Almighty causin’ these things to happen. Even when Job was deviled, ‘twas the devil doin’ those things to him, not God. I don’t reckon God causes the bad to happen, but I can’t help but … notice … He is not a’tall bashful about usin’ ‘em to teach lessons.” Jacob looked away again, smiled with half his mouth. “On t’other hand, Parson, if I know so much, why haven’t I made a fortune already, eh?” The Parson considered this lean waisted son of that pale eyed Sheriff, his expression thoughtful. “Jacob,” he said gently, “you have a greater wisdom than most grown men.” Jacob laughed – an easy, good-natured laugh – “Well, Parson, I’m glad you think so, ‘cause sometimes I don’t think I know straight up from go-to-hell!” The Parson’s wife looked up as her husband came through their door. He hung his hat on its peg, went straight to his desk and began to write. Mrs. Parson smiled a little as she kneaded the bread dough. She heard her husband’s pencil scratching purposefully, steadily, on good rag paper, and she knew this meant he’d found the subject for his Sunday sermon.

To quote the previous century's wise old sage: "To err is human. To really screw it up beyond belief, use a computer!" (Been there, done that, felt like the north end of a south bound horse afterward!)