Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

I read somewhere of a target rifle that had this system. Russian, I believe, though now have not the least idea where I read it!

... okay, now I feel like a dunce ... I looked at the top of the crossing signal masts. I looked at curved arms with protective black tips and thought "Why in the world did they bend those antennas?" It took a minute and a reply from the beginning to realize ... *nok nok* ... hey Einstein ... those aren't antennas ... those are guides for the gates themselves! (tired sigh) Must be the ham radio operator in me ... I'm forever looking for antennas in the industrial sector!

DIGGER, YOU DON'T LOOK SO GOOD Esther Keller was a woman of culture and of commerce. Esther Keller was a mother, a wife, a woman well known about Firelands as cultured, genteel, unfailingly courteous: like most women of moment, she was also considerably deeper than those qualities which met the common eye, and she was exercising one of those qualities as she stood in her front parlor. Esther Keller, wife of that pale eyed old lawman with the iron grey mustache -- Esther Keller, genteel businesswoman and cheerful instigator of the Ladies' Tea Society -- Esther Keller, in a tailored gown and matching gloves, with a pleasant and gentle smile on her face, raised a pistol and fired three rapid shots into a man's belly. The day started ordinarily enough, though when her trip on the steam train was interrupted by a boulder that decided it was tired of living near the mountain's summit and set off to see what life was like in the valley below, a boulder that hit another and split, and consequently blasted through the only set of vacant seats in the passenger car -- not to mention both port and starboard walls of said passenger car -- well, perhaps this woman of the antebellum South might have harkened to superstitions of an earlier era, or perhaps those from her husband's Appalachian upbringing: signs and portents are not at all unknown to hillfolk, after all. The passenger car was immediately regarded by its inhabitants as either supremely lucky, because not a single soul sustained the least little injury from the experience, or the passenger car was supremely unlucky, because a spalled-off boulder seared through the walls like a tea-saucer thrown edge-on by a petulant giant's tantrum-child: however it was, Esther opened her private car to all who sought refuge, and soon humanity's throng populated the car rather intimately. One fellow insisted that his luck was suddenly immensely good, that he would challenge all comers to a game of poker: Esther stood, declared she'd play him, and produced a stack of gold coin. Wagers were laid, cards shuffled and dealt: one card, another, a bet made, countered: coins jingled into the space between the players -- a young fortune grew, flowed to one side, then diminished, flowed to the other: finally, when the available lagniappe was piled on Esther's side of the desk, the gambler -- still believing he was riding a streak -- bet the last item of value, a particularly handsome watch. Esther did not match his bet with coin: rather, she unpinned the dainty, jewel-cased watch from her bosom, laid it beside his. Cards were laid; men leaned forward: there were groans of sympathy, for Esther's hand was considerably better than his. Esther picked up his watch, pressed the stem, smiled gently: the gambler rose as well and bowed, and Esther reached for his hand, pressed the watch into it. "I have never played such a skilled opponent," she murmured. "It would be my honor if you would accept a gift from one who appreciates a good game." The gambler didn't make a great fortune that day, but when he and his fellow travelers disembarked from the private car -- as he and his fellows, as the hangers-on at the depot stood and solemnly regarded the splintered hole through both walls of the passenger car -- he had his watch back, he had his funds back, and he had the feeling that maybe luck wasn't measured in sudden wealth. Sheriff Linn Keller's return to his house was considerably earlier in the day than was usual. It was also at a significantly faster velocity that was usual. This did not concern his golden stallion, for Rey del Sol was a runnin' fool, and no two ways about it: Linn drew the stallion up short -- unexpectedly so -- the big Palomino reared, shaking his head, unhappy, muttering, though whether at their finding a dying man at the foot of his porch steps, or because of the abrupt stop when the mount wished to continue running, is not entirely certain. What is certain, is that a blood trail started on his front porch, and ended where a man lay on his back, a man whose color was genuinely ghastly, a man who was bleeding steadily from three small holes, just south of his belt buckle. Esther Keller stepped out onto the front porch, frowning at blood on the painted surface, her expression that of an annoyed housewife considering the best way to get that stain off her pristine porch planks. "My dear," Linn said, his voice hardening, "are you ... what did he do to you?" Esther saw her husband's eyes go pale, saw the skin start tightening over his face. "I was followed home," Esther said quietly, "by a footpad who demanded my traveling funds and my watch." Her gloved hand raised and she pressed dainty fingers to the watch, a gift from her husband. "As I wished to surrender neither my virtue nor my worldly goods, I presented an argument to the contrary." The Sheriff went slowly to one knee, turned his head a little, frowned as he looked into a set of eyes from which the light was only just departing. No use to ask who he's with, he thought, then looked at his wife. "Ever see him before?" "He was a passenger on the train," Esther replied. "I suppose he believed I looked ... prosperous." The Sheriff stood. "He'll prosper the worms now," the Sheriff muttered, then extended a hand and kissed at his palomino. He mounted, looked very directly at his wife. "I'll get Digger and the dead wagon so he doesn't stink the place up any more." Digger gave the Sheriff what few effects the dead man had. "I reckon Esther will have the maid scrub the blood off the porch," the Sheriff said. "I suppose I can just throw dirt over the blood outside." Digger loosed the dead man's drawers, exposed three small holes in a location which gave both men discomfort to look at. Digger looked back up at the Sheriff and hesitated. "Digger," the lawman said, "you don't look so good." Digger's eyes went to the lid of the rough box. He and the Sheriff set it in place and screwed it down. Digger would plant it in Potter's Field, at the county's expense, same as always, but for now he just wanted to get the lid on, to block the sight of where the woman shot an intruder and genuinely changed his entire attitude.

When I turned Officially Old and Decrepit, my Baby Sis laughed, stuck her thumbs in her ears and waggled her fingers at me, suck out her tongue and allowed as I WILL ALWAYS BE OLDER THAN SHE IS!! (She's also the one who just couldn't wait ... I called her with pain in my voice, and other areas of my anatomy, allowed as I'd fallen on my basement stairs and broke my tailbone ... she called Mama and practically yelled "HEY MOM! GUESS WHAT! LINN BROKE HIS BUTT!" (shakes head) (tired sigh) Baby sisters ... whattaya gonna do ...

APPLIED GYMNASTICS Ambassador Marnie Keller believed in balance in her life. Ambassador Marnie Keller laced on a pair of soft, light, flexible shoes, took a running jump, soared onto the long, polished, laminated wood beam: she stopped, crossed her ankles, then spun: she bent, one foot flat on the beam, her other leg straight out behind her, suede-slippered foot pointed, arms out to her sides, the very image of feminine grace and beauty. She straightened, her moves incorporating both those of a gymnast, and a ballerina: schoolgirls stopped and stared in awe as their beloved Madam Ambassador flowed, danced, tiptoed, twirled and cartwheeled the length of the smooth, varnished beam: she came to the end, hesitated, frowned, crossed her arms, tapping a thoughtful finger against her cheekbone before gathering herself, launching into space, tucking and reverse-somersaulting, landing flat on her feet in a deep crouch, arms straight out. Marnie stood, came up on her toes, one arm out and down, the other curved overhead, again a ballerina's pose, then she laughed, clapped her hands, skipped over to the girls in pastel tights and slippers: as Marnie knelt, young femininity gathered around her, chattering, hugging, everyone talking at once, a flock of pink and lavender chicks clustered around a laughing mother hen. A quiet set of eyes watched from the far corner: dark eyes they were, in a man's face: the feeling in his breast was almost that of a schoolboy, suddenly short of breath at beholding what he knew would be absolutely the love of his life. Dr. John Greenlees read the famous Firelands Journals. He'd read the passage where Old Pale Eyes confided to paper what he never, ever confided to a living soul with the spoken word. Now he understood what that old lawman with the iron grey mustache meant by ripping the living heart from his breast and laying it, still beating, at her feet. Marnie deferred happily to the gymnastics coaches. It was at their invitation, that she appeared; it was at her request, that they relinquished the balance beam for her use; it was to her credit, that when the young gymnasts asked Marnie to teach them, that she looked at the coaches and suggested gymnastics was a process, and baseline skills had to be perfected before subsequent skills could be added. "But," she said softly, "everything you are, adds to what you do" -- she pointed at the beam -- "there!" Marnie came up quickly, raised her arms and pirouetted, lowered her arms: Dr. John marveled as she transformed from kneeling and shining-faced, both arms full of adoring young, to a towering, graceful swan, swimming among a clutch of chicks. "Now it doesn't always work out well," Marnie laughed, raising a teaching finger and smiling. Marnie was still a girl at home. Marnie was coming up the sidewalk from the bank, headed generally toward the Silver Jewel. Marnie was not yet in high school. Marnie was, however, representative of a significant sum, gained through careful investment. She'd been reviewing her investments with Beatrice, the astute soul who ran the bank and ran it well: her sound advice doubled Marnie's profits, twice now, and Marnie thanked the warm, grandmotherly soul in a quiet and serious voice as she considered a rather healthy bottom line. Marnie usually wore her trademark red cowboy boots. Today she wore saddle shoes, with their softer, more rubbery soles. When she was confronted by a jealous classmate, Marnie twisted away from a clawing grab at the schoolbooks she carried: Marnie was also a dancer, and a good one, she was a horsewoman, with horse-toned muscles from the collar bones down: between both well-practiced skills, her evasive twist became a side-snap-kick, she folded her tormenter with a belly full of hard-driven foot. Two pickup trucks were pulled, nose-in, toward the horse trough, almost touching: Marnie took a running jump, came up on the hitch rail, skipped easily down its length, jumped lightly to the ground, and got some distance. Her Daddy saw to her early and continued training in various less-than-gentle disciplines on how to Pacify Thy Neighbor, whether such pacification was desired, or not: Marnie was both fast, good, and quite effective: she also knew further hostilities would be less understood than a simple kick-and-run. Her tormentors would have to climb the steps to the boardwalk and engage in a running pursuit, or run around the back of the parked vehicles. If her tormentors were boys, Marnie would have a concern for a pack pursuit; as they were girls, and folding the ringleader fast and effectively, would in all likelihood stop them from further chase, Marnie slipped into the first alley and disappeared. She considered, as she changed from her schoolgirl dress and saddle shoes, into loose jeans with a diamond panel sewn into the crotch, to allow a full-extension kick without denim binding her style, that her beloved red cowboy boots would have been less useful when running the length of the hitch rail, that her cheerleading saddles were more flexible and more grippy than leather boot soles. She smiled grimly as she changed clothes. Her tormenters opportunistically sought her out, and their ringleader wanted to cause her harm. Marnie knew where to find them: she'd identified them as potential trouble, she'd studied each of them individually, she knew their habits. Marnie skipped across the gym floor to her husband, red-faced and laughing: children waved and shouted, and Marnie turned and waved, took her husband's arm, and made her escape into the cool outer hallway. Marnie's red cowboy boots were still in her carpet bag, she still wore her soft gymnastic shoes, and she was almost skipping like a happy schoolgirl. "Dearest," Dr. John murmured as they emerged into sunlight, as their driver opened the door of their diplomatic brougham, "you were gorgeous!" Marnie threw her head back and laughed, she spun like a dancer, out to arm's length, spun back into his arms, kissed him quickly, lightly, then bent backwards -- his arm was around the small of her back, her arm was up and curved -- she laughed, straightened. "At least," she said, giving her husband a look that promised more to come, "I didn't have to run the length of a hitch rail and jump over the end of the horse trough!" Dr. John Greenlees, and a uniformed Confederate driver, both blinked, looked at Marnie, looked at one another, and both men had the distinct feeling that whatever Marnie was referring to, just whistled over their heads and was gone.

DISGUSTING, SHE SAID! Retired Chief of Police Will Keller absolutely scowled his gaze around the baseboard like he would direct a searchlight. The rug was clean and in place, he'd wadded up plastic cling wrap and tossed under it in a few places so it would not slip. The couch was clean, the square backrest cushions set up on end like diamonds, laid against either arm of the couch. He turned and looked at the kitchen. Precise, rigid, minimal: the only sign of disorder was the wrinkling of the trash can liner. Will frowned at it, as if his expression alone could straighten its irregular stress convolutions. The plastic trash can liner was not impressed. Will frowned his way into the kitchen, looked at the clock. He put a fresh filter in the basket, added coffee, added water to the reservoir, set the pot under the basket and pressed the red rocker switch. He didn't set out a box of doughnuts. No, that health nurse would be here shortly -- sent by the insurance company, she came every year to make sure he was walkie talkie, sane, rational, and not likely to be a risk that would cause the insurance to spend money on him. She should be here between three and five, he thought. His quick eye caught movement through one of the three diagonal panes in his front door. He frowned. She's too early, he thought. Retired Chief of Police Will Keller routinely wore a belt gun around the house. He wasn't wearing one as he went to the door -- not all nurses understood when they saw guns in the house -- but his off hand slipped into a trouser pocket and gripped the .38 hideout he'd carried all those years as a lawman. He never went to the door unarmed, nor did he have a normal front door: no, his was solid wood: anyone shooting through it would need something potent indeed to penetrate, and the door frame was reinforced against a kicking attack. Will's hand was firm around the handle of his J-frame as he took a quick look through the inch-thick Lexan window: he did not hesitate to unlock the door, to draw it open. Something female with pale eyes and a white winged cap laughed her way through the door, seized her Uncle in a delighted hug: Will laughed and hugged his niece as she kissed his cheek, as she spun free, gripping his hand: "How's for coffee? I'm dying!" -- she released his hand, skipped into the kitchen like a happy little girl. Will shook his head and chuckled a little as he shut and locked the door. "You the insurance nurse?" Will called as Angela poured fresh, steaming coffee into the biggest mug in her Uncle's cupboard -- the one that said FAVORITE UNCLE in what looked like a childish scrawl, which it was. Angela took a ceramics class in grade school and poured, trimmed, fired, decorated and glazed a genuinely sizable mug, deliberately making FAVORITE UNCLE look ... well, childish. The mug was two decades old and more, and so far, Angela was the only one who really used it. Angela stopped, frowned, turned to face her Uncle: she considered for a moment, shook her head, went to the fridge and pulled out the Genuine Antique Milk Pitcher, a half gallon plastic jug of Extract of Bovine, and added a splash to her hefty mug. She set the jug back on the shelf, capped it, shut the door, gave her Uncle her Very Best Innocent Look, blinked. "Insurance?" she echoed, then she took a noisy, inelegant, un-ladylike slurp of coffee, swallowed, savored with her eyes closed, and hummed with pleasure. Will shook his head and muttered his way into the kitchen, opened the cupboard door, stopped. There was quick rat-tat, tat on the door -- light, feminine knuckles, he judged. "I'll get it," Angela called like a little girl, skipping toward the front door like a kindergartener instead of a veteran nurse apparently just off shift, or maybe going to work. Will's hand slid into his pocket and he faded left, watchful, suspicious. He'd been shot at before. He didn't expect Angela to squeal like a schoolgirl, to seize the visitor and jump up and down, and he didn't expect the visitor to grip Angela's elbows and squeal and jump up and down. Will shook his head, turned, reached up and pulled down two coffee mugs. Coffee gurgled into glazed ceramic. Will set two steaming mugs of fresh, hot coffee on the kitchen table -- one at his place, one in front of one chair, he moved Angela's mug to the chair she favored -- and he politely ignored the happy cascade of feminine vocabulary as two women talked, fast and delighted, both talking at the same time and both apparently comfortable with the arrangement. Will opened the fridge back up and pulled out a bowl of fruit he'd prepared earlier, on the theory that a visiting nurse would want to see he was eating healthy, and besides, with two ladies present, it would look pretty in the middle of the table. His late wife Crystal favored that particular bowl for holding fruit -- Will stopped, remembering, then blinked: he closed the refrigerator door slowly, turned, set the bowl carefully on the table: he turned, opened a drawer, pulled out a square potholder, lifted the bowl, set it on the potholder. Crystal gave him hell one time for putting a cold bowl directly on the tabletop. She'd been dead a lot of years and he still took pains not to put condensation rings on the table. Will sipped coffee and watched with amusement as what must have been two well acquainted nurses talked nonstop, delight in their voices, animation in their gestures: he pulled a few grapes loose, ate them, leaned back in his chair and waited. The visit was more like a happy reunion: when the two ladies finally wound down enough to get down to business, the questions for Will were actually very few: a quick listen to his lungs -- the visiting nurse exclaimed happily "You have beautiful lungs!" and Will growled something to the effect that his lungs were beautiful because his face wasn't; a quick blood pressure, Angela recited her Uncle's height, weight, list of medications and allergies -- "He is distinctly allergic to falling from ladders, small paychecks and large bills," she said, which set the ladies laughing again, and after the visiting nurse left, all smiles and sunshine, Will considered the closed door and finally turned to his pretty young niece. "Darlin'," he rumbled, "what was all that?" "Oh, that," Angela said with an exaggerated, limp-wristed wave: "I told her you are so disgustingly healthy, and after that, what is there to say?" Will frowned and tried to harrumph skeptically, and when that didn't work, he took another sip of coffee. "Now Uncle Will," Angela scolded gently, swiping her skirt under her and sitting again, "Elizabeth and I went through nursing school together, we hadn't seen one another in just forever, and besides" -- she tilted her head and gave him a smile that could melt the heart of a marble statue -- "how else could I get rid of her so I can spend time with my favorite uncle?" Will gave Angela a knowing look. "Even if my health is disgusting and I have pretty lungs?" he grinned.

FLOWERS, AT WORK There was the sound of the man door opening, light brightened the firehouse interior: footsteps, voices, a quiet laugh. Shelly frowned at the passenger side of the squad. She was particular about her rig: the inside was to her satisfaction, it was restocked, it was organized, it was clean!! -- she took exquisite pains to ensure her rig was IMMACULATE!! -- she took a long look down the side of the squad, bent a little, catching the long reflection in the waxed surface, knowing the public judged by appearances and she was damn well going to make sure HER rig looked GOOD -- The shout went up from the equipment bay, men's voices, several of them -- Loud -- Echoing, inside the hand-laid brick firehouse's interior -- MEEDDIIIICCCC!" Shelly dropped the polishing rag, yanked the compartment door open, seized the orange jump box: there was the sound of a slamming door, of running feet, Shelly came around into the bay at a dead run, her face serious, eyes wide -- She skidded a little as she stopped -- Her jaw dropped open -- Shelly Keller, wife of Sheriff Linn Keller, firefighter-paramedic and feminine presence on A shift, set the jump box on the pumper's tailboard as she stared, as she looked from one grinning face to another, as the friendly local florist walked up to her with an opened box, handed her a bouquet of flowers nested in sparkly tissue paper, as the entire Irish Brigade laughed and applauded and shouted approving words she didn't hear. The next morning, when B shift took over, Shelly found her husband waiting for her. They walked out the same door the florist came in. Husband and wife walked down the apron, holding hands; they crossed the street and went uphill, toward the Silver Jewel, their pace slow, unhurried. "I got the flowers," Shelly finally said. "I know." She heard the smile in his words, a smile he was working hard not to show. A few more steps; they waved at a passing pickup truck, the driver grinned and waved back. Running feet from behind them; they drew back against the front of a building and two schoolboys pelted past them, books under one arm -- " 'Scuse meee!" -- they were racing, and Shelly felt Linn's hand tighten ever so slightly on hers. She looked, and the smile he was trying so hard to hide, was flowing across his eyes and contaminating the rest of his face. He gave up, he hugged his wife, he laughed. They resumed their walk. Once they were inside, once seated, Shelly waited impatiently while the hash slinger in the pink-and-white checked dress poured their coffee and took their order, then she gave Linn a knowing look. "The flowers are lovely," she said quietly. "Thank you." "I had Matt include a vase," the Sheriff said. "I told him otherwise that ornery bunch you work with would saw off the stems and arrange your posies in a chamberpot." Shelly sighed dramatically. "Knowing that ornery bunch," she agreed, "they would!" She planted her elbows on the table, bridged her hands under her chin, regarded her husband thoughtfully. "Why send 'em at work?" Linn gave his wife a knowing look. "Sending flowers to your home is good," he said, "but Uncle Will taught me it's better to send flowers where a woman can be seen, getting those flowers. He did that with Crystal. He said her face was just shinin' when she came home that day. Seems her co-workers sizzled and hissed like cats." His voice was peevish and spiteful as he quoted his Uncle's account of what feminine observers said. " 'Eew! I hate you! My husband never sends me flowers! Eew! I hate you!' -- he grinned as his voice returned to normal. "He said Crystal just absolutely preened when she told him about it!" Shelly looked up from her coffee, smiled a little as she did. "The guys said you must've done something," she murmured, "that I was mad at you and what ever did you do to require flowers?" Shelly's voice was light, teasing, then she stopped and she felt a chill layer over her like a refrigerated cloak. Her husband was not smiling. She saw his jaw come out a little. "There is," he admitted slowly, "a reason." He took a long breath, looked away, looked back, then reached across the table and took both her hands in his. "I saw two men in the cemetery yesterday." Shelly's eyes were wide, unblinking, she was trying hard to read her husband's face, trying hard to anticipate his words, the way a woman will when she just realized there is bad news in the wind. "I hung back as they stood at a grave. "I watched as they very carefully opened a little container and carefully scattered dust over a man I knew. "The older man opened a red-backed book and read from it, the two of them bowed their heads, I watched as they wiped their eyes and turned away and got in their car and left. "Come to find out, they drove out from back East to keep a promise. "The man I knew ... his daughter died, diabetic complications and then a post-op infection. They replaced a heart valve from inside, they went into the groin and up a great vessel and you'd know more about that than me." Shelly nodded, listening closely. "The older man laid a red rose and a yellow rose on the dust, and then they left." Linn looked very seriously at the woman he'd loved since he was a very young man. "That old man was just tore apart when he laid flowers on the dust that used to be someone he knew and loved, someone he'll see no more and someone --" she felt his grip tighten, just a little, then relax -- "someone he'll never be able to hold her hands and ..." Linn's voice ground to a halt and he bit his bottom lip again, looked down at the tablecloth, looked up at his wife. "Darlin', Uncle Will said not to send flowers when he dies. He wants 'em while he's alive to smell 'em." The hash slinger came sashaying toward them and Linn released her hands, leaned back as the teen-age girl set the big, awkward-looking tray on an adjacent table, brought their piled-full plates over, set them down. Linn waited until the skirt-swinging waitress retreated before looking very directly at his wife. "I came too close to you dyin' twice now," he said quietly. "I don't ever want to take you for granted, and I don't want to be that old man, layin' flowers on what used to be someone he loved." He grinned, reached for the salt and pepper. "I'd rather you got flowers where the guys can torment you about it!"

A TALL MAN'S BOOTS The slap was loud, sharp, followed by the sound of a body hitting the street. A woman shivered, gasped, her shocked-wide eyes seeing bright crimson drops appearing under her. Her face -- half of it, at least -- was numb for several seconds. In those several seconds, there was the sound of boot heels. A man's boot heels. No words were said, no warning given, no threats uttered: the woman tried to come up on one elbow, then dropped again, terrified, wishing she could crawl under the pavement and hide. She heard sounds she'd hoped she'd never hear again, the sounds of men at war with one another. There'd been three of them, one grabbed her, she pulled loose, she'd shouted "NO!" -- that's when the biggest of them backhanded her, hard. She closed her eyes, afraid to move, afraid not to move. More meaty sounds, grunts, the sound of a body falling -- hard -- another sound, like someone's head bouncing off the wooden wall. Running feet, as if someone broke and ran from the fight, followed by a muted snarl, a man's scream, then more screaming, high-pitched, panicked, almost unintelligible: begging for help, begging to get a monster off him, and more snarling sounds. Something landed in the street -- something limp, bloodied, eyes wide, staring, eyes that did not belong to a sane, man, a rational man -- it took her several moments to realize they did not belong to a conscious man. A boot stopped, just ahead of her half-curled fingers. Its mate came up close alongside the first. A shadow, a presence, a voice. "They'll not trouble you again," the voice said -- deep, reassuring, comforting, then: "Are you hurt, ma'am?" She lifted her head -- timid, afraid, shivering, afraid it was a cruel trick, afraid a hand would sear through the air, would slap her again -- A pale eyed man in a black suit squatted, his head tilted a little: his coat was unbuttoned, his black Stetson was still on his head, and his knuckles showed traces of blood and of bruising. People gathered, as they always do, perhaps drawn by an agonized man screaming while canine fangs pierced an arm, dragged him steadily, keeping him from rising, from resisting: a hand, warm and reassuring, did not swing to slap, but rather descended, feather-light, warm and reassuring, onto her shoulder: " 'Scuse me," the man said courteously, then rose. The boots disappeared. Her face still stung, her nose dripped steadily, and she was afraid to move. She heard voices, as from a distance; she heard a man whimper, a man's voice should never whimper like that, she thought, and then she saw the boots again, and her breath caught. Something the size of a young bear paced alongside the boots, something with teeth long as daggers, something with rippling black lips and bristling fur that looked almost comically out of place -- the rest of the fur was almost long, almost curly, and was very, very, shining black, and its polished jet eyes never left a man being carried by his coat like a man would carry a piece of luggage. The voice again, she thought, only this time the voice was not the quiet, reassuring tones that addressed her earlier. "I'm gonna set you down," the voice said. "If you try gettin' up, I won't pull The Bear Killer off you this time. He hasn't et anybody for a week and I'll just let him make a meal of you." A hand opened, the coat released, its wearer dropped to the pavement, curled up a little, whimpering. She allowed strong hands to slip under her arms, she caught her breath as she was hoist quickly to her feet, then she gave a timid little sound as the strong hands that hoist her became strong arms under her, and she closed her eyes and tried to shrink as much as she could for fear that -- as much as she wanted to believe she was safe -- her defenses were shattered, she realized she was powerless to prevent anything from being done to her -- A whisper, like a father carrying a terrified child: "You're safe now, shhh, you're safe, I've got you" -- then the voice changed, but when it spoke, it spoke gently: "Get the door for me," and she felt herself carried into cool shadow, she felt herself being turned a little, then carefully set into a chair. A cloth -- cool, wet, the hand behind it gentle, careful, wiping her face -- "I must look a fright," she quavered, and only then did she dare open her eyes. The cool, wet cloth was streaked a little with blood, the cloth was held by a hand: the hand came from an arm, the arm disappeared into a dress-sleeve, and the dress was worn by a pretty young woman with pale eyes. She heard the boot heels again, that same measured, deliberate pace: a door opened, a door closed, men's muffled voices from without: the sharper accents that had to be the police -- they always sound like that, she thought -- gentle fingers touched her nose, the pretty young woman's gentle voice, almost a whisper -- "I don't think it's broken" -- and she felt the last of her reserves collapse. She leaned forward into feminine arms and all the fear and the terror and black memories of having been beaten before, shattered the fragile dam she'd built. A municipal officer and a Sheriff in a black suit stopped and looked at the closed door, then at one another, their faces hardening. "Damn a man that'll make a woman cry," the constable muttered as he and the Sheriff shook hands, then the town cop climbed up onto the tailboard of the Black Maria: the horsedrawn rig clattered down-street, and a man with pale eyes watched it go. Something big, black, curly-furred and content sat beside the tall lawman's leg. The Sheriff did not have to bend any at all to caress The Bear Killer's ears.

Sedalia Dave speaks truly, and we too used Flowers of Sulfur (powdered sulfur purchased at local Rexall drug store in Corning when I was a boy) We still had regular tick inspections. Deer ticks weren't a thing in my wild and misspent youth. They sure as hell are now!

Colorful shoulder ... ummm, yeaaaahhhhhh ... Dear old Dad put together some B'ar Loads for a trip to Canada. He had a Ruger Number 1 carbine in .45-70. The loads he put together, he said, had ... authority. He said "One shot off each shoulder is just all you want!" I thought, "Old man, you're getting puny in your old age. I'm young and tough and I can take it!" Guess what. One shot off each shoulder is just all I wanted!

Me dear Pappy was always mighty pa'tickelar about his taps. He taught my brother and I at a tender (very tender!) age, the proper way to wind in a tap -- and back it out every little bit to break the cuttin's so it wouldn't bind up and break off -- and he was a firm and staunch advocate of cutting oil, whether when tapping, threading or drilling. Thank you for these!

PASTURE BEDTIME Michael slept between two Fanghorns, while another orbited him, restless, watchful. Michael slept as do the young: mindless of the hard ground, uncaring of the thin pad between his sleeping bag and his father’s grassy pasture: neither Thunder nor Cyclone slept – they were picking up on Michael’s dream-state, and though neither made a sound, each cuddled in closer on either side of the sleeping bag. Lightning was not so discreet. She stopped periodically, shook her head, rumbled deep in her chest, predatory fangs gleaming in moonlight: when a solitary figure opened a gate and slipped through, she was instantly on alert, ready to charge, to guard, until the wind carried a familiar scent. Michael’s eyes rolled beneath closed lids; his breath came more quickly as his deepest mind processed the day: his eyes snapped open, he took a quick, gasping breath, sat up suddenly, throwing the unzipped sleeping bag open. Thunder and Cyclone’s heads were up, their ears perked: Michael heard their greeting-chirp, saw a silhouette: he blinked his eyes, his hand dropping to his rifle, then releasing. Michael’s father squatted at the foot of the sleeping bag. Michael heard the plastic sound of a cup being unscrewed from a thermos – he heard something gurgle – steam rose from something, still hot, and the barely moving breeze carried the scent of hot chocolate. “I thought you might be restless,” Linn said quietly as Lightning hung her big head over his shoulder, curious nostrils working at the smell. Michael sat, cross-legged, bent well forward, accepted the cup: he took a careful sip, savoring the rich flavor, sipped again. “How’d you know, sir?” he asked quietly, for the night pressed down round about them, stars bright overhead, horses holding well back from the Fanghorns, almost invisible in the dark. Linn did not answer. He didn’t have to. Michael rarely rode Lightning on Earth. Michael even more rarely rode Lightning outside the protective screening fields that surrounded his father’s ranch. He’d tossed caution to the winds, he’d ridden a distance away, until he saw something just a nickel’s worth out of the ordinary. Michael heard the freight in the distance – the main line ran through here, some miles from Firelands – he honestly preferred the sound of The Lady Esther and steam whistles to Diesel power and air horns, but nobody bothered to consult him on how to run their railroads, and besides, it had been that way since his earliest memory. What was not ordinary was the vehicle, pulled parallel to the coarse gravel ballast beside the grade crossing. It was bright afternoon, the air was still and clear, Michael could see the distance without difficulty. Lightning picked up on his increasing unease: she muttered, turned toward the figure as it did something at the open door of its car. Lightning’s ears both swung back at Michael’s quiet, “Oh, no, no, no!” – he leaned forward and Lightning responded with a will – she surged forward, driving into her sudden, predatory gallop – The train was close, now, too close – Michael stood up in the stirrups, his hands flat against Lightning’s broad, hard-muscled neck, he heard someone screaming “DON’T DO IT, DON’T DO IT, DON’T DO IT!” – it wasn’t until he took a quick breath that he realized it was his voice screaming. Michael’s eyes were wide, unblinking, he shoved his face into the wind, tears stripped out the corners of his eyes by the wind of their passing – The man stood in the middle of the tracks, raised both arms, palms open to the Heavens above. Michael heard his defiant scream, just before the freight hit him, just before his eternal soul was honestly blasted out of his body by the impact of a Diesel locomotive running better than seventy miles an hour and backed by a mile of freight behind. Lightning threw herself sideways, skidding, dancing, fighting: she shook her head, her own steam-whistle anger a discordant counterpoint to air brakes and air horns. Michael held the plastic cup of hot chocolate, stared at the dark blue sleeping bag: he sat cross legged on insulation and on flannel, Thunder cuddled protective and warm on his left, Cyclone just as close and just as watchful on his right. Lightning paced slowly around them, finally stopping, folding her legs, bellying down behind him with her head laid over his shoulder. “I couldn’t … I wasn’t … fast enough,” he said hollowly, and in the dim light, Linn knew his youngest son’s expression was the same thing he’d seen in his own mirror after terrible events, after too many terrible events, and his son’s words were the same ones he himself had spoken in such moments. Michael looked up at his father. “I tried,” he almost whispered. “I honestly tried!” Linn nodded slowly as Cyclone laid her head over on his cross-legged lap, as his hand found the soft fur behind her ear, as she closed her eyes contentedly and chirped, a sleepy little note of utter bliss. “I hear the same thing from the Irish Brigade,” Linn said quietly, in that reassuring voice fathers use in such moments. “They don’t get called until the fire is through the roof and nothing they could honestly have done, but they’ll say ‘We lost a house today’ or ‘We lost someone today’ – not their fault at all, but …” Michael felt more than saw his father take a long breath, imagined his father’s T-square shoulders rising and falling slowly as he did. “He shouted a name,” Michael finally said, his voice distant. He was honestly not sure if he’d given this intelligence when he debriefed or not. “He raised his arms and yelled “Here I come, Annie!” Linn nodded. “I kind of suspected.” “Sir,” Michael asked, “who was Annie?” “His wife,” Linn replied quietly. “She died a year ago today.” “I see, sir.” “We do our best, Michael, but sometimes things happen. In spite of our best efforts, in spite of having a fast mount” – Lightning muttered something and Michael drained the last of his hot chocolate – “sometimes we just can’t stop it.” Father and son were quiet for long minutes. Linn leaned forward, extending the thermos, and Michael accepted a refill. “I diced up some Polish sausage with green peppers and onions. It’ll fry up for a good breakfast, if you’ve a mind.” “It sounds good, sir.” “Your Mama works tomorrow so I’ll be fixin’ breakfast.” “Sounds good, sir.” Linn spun the thermos a little, swirling up the settled-out chocolate: “Not much left, you want it?” “No thank you, sir, I’ve plenty.” Linn tilted the thermos up, drank what was left, capped it: Michael handed him the empty cup, heard the plastic scrape as Linn replaced it on the chrome-ringed body. “Sir?” Michael asked as his father rose. Linn hesitated, turned to face his son squarely. “Sir, why’d you come out?” Linn was quiet for several long moments before he spoke in a quiet voice. “Thought you might need a shot of somethin’ warm,” he finally said. “Thank you, sir.”

MARNIE, IT WASN'T MY FAULT! Michael threw his head back, took a quick, exasperated breath, then lowered his head and glared at his Big Sis. In that moment, Michael did not care they were not on Earth. He did not care that politics were involved. He honestly did not care that Fanghorn canines absolutely ruined a child's coat, that the child had been hoist off the ground and transported at a hard-hooved trot, that there'd been screams, shouts, accusations. "Marnie," Michael said with the sincerity of a Little Brother Who'd Just Been Wronged, "Thunder was doing as he'd seen The Bear Killer and Tank in training!" Marnie Keller, Ambassador-at-Large for the thirteen-star-system Confederacy, Untangler of Diplomatic Difficulties and Political Misunderstandings, lowered her face into a gloved hand, shook her head and muttered, "I should never have gotten out of bed!" She looked up at Michael. "We can't just go around --" Michael's stiff finger stabbed at a touch screen, and the holographic reply lit up. A deputy in a bite suit advanced, bowlegged and awkward, swinging a switch, shouting. Tank stood beside his handler, alert, black eyes target-locked on the subject. "Hold," the handler said softly, gripping the quick release. Tank held. The waddling bite suit dropped the thin switch and pulled a rubber knife, grabbed for a child-sized dummy. The deputy released the Malinois. Tank needed no further command. A black-masked, tan arrow shot across the intervening distance, seized the bite suit's arm: the momentum of 70 pounds of lean muscle and bone, running flat-out and clamping steel-trap jaws on the bite suit's padded arm, was enough to bring a braced, prepared, grown man off his feet. The Malinois pulled, growling, tail swinging. Not far away, two pale eyed children and three Fanghorn watched. Thunder chirped and Cyclone echoed the chirp; Lightning's head was lowered, her eyes closed with pleasure as Michael used a coarse brush to curry around her jaw and around the base of her ears. It wasn't until they'd left, not for a day and a night and a day again, that Michael realized how fast Fanghorn young can learn. Paramedic training was not the only skill being exported to the Outer Worlds -- unofficially, without the knowledge or permission of governments or politicians. The Sheriff had been approached by brother lawmen, on other planets, and agreed to help them start their own K9 officer programs. Michael and Victoria were intimately familiar with K9 officers, their training, their capabilities: many's the time they would each lace on lightweight boots and take off at a run on mountain trails with a leashed Malinois or Shepherd or Staffy: working dogs take exercise, they have to burn off their energies, and children have these energies to spare: Michael and Victoria would travel a distance on foot and hide, and the variety of K9 partners would track them: Michael and Victoria would conceal certain compounds that were officially "Of Concern" -- they would hide them and hide them well, and they rejoiced when keen noses sniffed these out. This training was not exclusively conducted on Earth. Michael found out, entirely by accident, that both Thunder and Cyclone had scenting abilities that were --admittedly not as keen -- but pretty damned good, they learned that, like the Malinois, they were sight hunters, they already knew they were pursuit predators, with a love for running. It was an honest misunderstanding when, at a demonstration before influential folk of politics and of business, that a genuine call came in: two children were lost -- Marnie later suspected this was a surreptitious, unofficial test, invented on the spur of the moment by a skeptic who didn't really believe these quadrupedal creatures could actually track someone. A jacket was produced, and a hat: Malinois and Fanghorn muzzles both explored these, snuffing loudly at the olfactory exemplars. Tank scented the air, as did Thunder: men drew back, for they'd seen Tank at speed, they'd seen those ivory fangs open and snap shut, hard, on a padded arm, they'd heard that deep snarling, utterly intimidating growl as the bite-suited quarry was downed, pulled steadily to prevent escape. Tank and Thunder scented the ground, moving with purpose: Thunder's head came up, nostrils flared, then he surged forward, weaving through people and into the park behind. Tank forked off to the left, toward a low building. Tank came back, fairly strutting, with an apple-cheeked little girl running beside him, her happy laughter as bright as the sunshine that warmed the scene. The scene as Thunder returned was not quite as ... pastoral. A red-faced little boy kicked bare legs and swung indignant arms, his face red with loud-voiced protestations. He was not happily accompanying the half-grown Fanghorn. He was swinging from clamped-shut jaws. Thunder's head was up, his ears were up, his tail was up, he was fairly strutting as he trotted back to the gathered assemblage: the Malinois and the Fanghorn both arrived at the same time, the little girl clapped her hands with delight, and the little boy was unceremoniously dropped about a foot as Thunder relinquished his prize. The back of the little boy's jacket was fang-pierced and soaked with slobber, the six year old child was mad as hell that he'd been found out, but worse, that he'd been packed back like luggage! Marnie sighed and shook her head. "You don't understand, Michael," Marnie said quietly. "Thunder could have --" "So could Tank have," Michael cut her off. "We trust Tank because he's trained. I trust Thunder because I've trained him. He learns fast, Marnie. He knows to be careful with children. He hasn't eaten one in a week." Marnie turned, eyes wide and alarmed, until she saw her little brother's eyes. Marnie was Ambassador, yes, but Marnie was also a mother, with a boy-child of her own, and Marnie was a Big Sister with multiple brothers. "Michael," she sighed, "nobody realized Fanghorns have -- well, fangs -- not until Thunder brought that little boy back with big holes in his jacket." "I'll replace the jacket," Michael interrupted. "Nobody realized Fanghorns could scent. Nobody realized Fanghorns could scent-trail or find lost kids." "Nobody asked me," Michael interrupted again. "I could have told 'em." "Michael, you don't realize," Marnie said, exasperation edging her voice. "Not only are we opening up canines in law enforcement on who knows how many worlds, now I'm getting requests for police Fanghorns!" Michael stopped, blinked, then frowned, concerned. "This ain't good," he said quietly. "Like it or not, Michael, you're right in the middle of it. You can grab hold of this situation and guide it, you can ride the tsunami and steer it, or it can crash and destroy." Michael sat down slowly, the enormity of Marnie's words taking root -- fast! -- in his quick young imagination. "This," he said softly, "is not what I'd planned on." "You've established a good commerce in hymnals, in publishing, in general literature," Marnie said quietly, gliding over and sitting beside her suddenly deflated younger brother. "It's your choice whether you wish to guide Fanghorn propagation and training. If there's a market demand, there will be people willing to feed that market, legally or otherwise." Michael swallowed hard, stared at the far wall, his mind working. "Think about it," Marnie said quietly. "You are the current Interstellar Expert on Fanghorn behavior and psychology. Imagine back in Old Pale Eyes' time, if you were the one individual controlling the sales and training of horses --" Marnie let the idea dangle. Michael sat there, staring, mind busy: Marnie withdrew, left her younger brother to his thoughts, and she didn't see him again until that evening. Michael was currying Cyclone, bent over a little: he had her off forehoof up, between his knees, he was scraping her unshod hoof, then lightly brushing out the fetlock before letting it back down. Cyclone's chin was laid over Thunder's withers, her eyes closed. Marnie was honestly surprised. She never knew a Fanghorn could actually look contented. Michael lowered her forehoof -- he hadn't seen Marnie yet -- he laid one arm over one Fanghorn neck, the other arm over the other Fanghorn neck: sandwiched between two warm, living, intelligent creatures, he sighed, hung his head. "It wasn't my fault," he said miserably. "Honest, it wasn't my fault!"

CURIOSITY Michael and Victoria were known to the Confederate worlds, thanks to the Inter-System. They were known, in part, because Michael was commonly mounted on a lightning-patterned Fanghorn, and Victoria, on an Appaloosa mare: more often than not, even on a State visit, they were flanked by a pair of half grown Fanghorn, one on either side. It was not considered the least little bit unusual that something black-furred and pink-tongued paced along with them, something that was very obviously comfortable in their company, something accepted by equine and Fanghorn alike, even here on a world where canids never developed. Although The Bear Killer was not considered unusual, when found in their company, the general public was somewhat wary of this unknown creature: they knew Fanghorns ate meat on occasion, though Michael was careful not to go into particulars, just as the general public knew that one does not approach an Appaloosa from behind, nor startle it from any direction, and so The Bear Killer was regarded with a healthy degree of caution. Except, of course, by children. There is a natural and mutual affinity between the young of any species. When The Bear Killer looked around and yawned, displaying a fine set of fighting ivory, when The Bear Killer sat and surveyed this, his new (if short-lived) kingdom, The Bear Killer assessed his surroundings. Not just threat assessment, which was natural, given his bloodline. The Bear Killer considered the variety of scents with a professional nose. Michael and Victoria were busy with whatever it was they’d been invited for; The Bear Killer picked up no scents of stress, heard no changes in voices that indicated a danger was about: given this assurance, he touched noses with Thunder, as if sharing a silent communication. The Bear Killer assessed his surroundings with a professional eye, approached a child with a half eaten sausage sandwich. The Bear Killer did what The Bear Killer did very well. He regarded the dainty, the edible, with big, dark, puppy-dog eyes, and whined a little, and the child did what the child did very well: he offered The Bear Killer the uneaten half. The Bear Killer’s tail swung with unmitigated delight as he took the offering, carefully, gently: tentative young fingers stroked his sun-warmed fur, and The Bear Killer happily scrubbed a trace of sausage grease off a laughing little boy’s hand. More children gravitated toward the little boy’s quiet laugh: The Bear Killer’s jaws were open in a happy doggy grin as he accepted the adulation that was his rightful due. At least in his mind. He’d closed his eyes and gave a happy, puppy-like yow-wow-wow, gentle, contented, which delighted his young supplicants. The Bear Killer’s head came up, suddenly, ears perked. This sudden move caused the adoring young to hesitate, to draw back a little. A baby, blanket wrapped and in a wicker basket, decided it was not happy at being ignored: its tiny face screwed up and reddened, and it gave the first hesitant sounds of a little one just fixin’ to cloud up and rain all over the place. The Bear Killer twisted, wove through the crowd, ran to the unhappy infant: forepaws on the table, he shoved his blunt muzzle into the basket and gave a loud, curious sniff. The infant, who was concentrating on drawing the energies from the Dark Universe in order to distill them into a truly devastating, earth-shattering scream, paid no attention, at least until The Bear Killer’s warm tongue taste-tested the back of a tiny, clenched fist. An infant’s eyes snapped open, startled, and saw something big, black, close by. Surprised, the Baby in the Basket did what babies do, and that was reach for The Bear Killer. The crowd parted as two Fanghorns eased forward, curious as to what their companion was seeing, or perhaps at the strange noises this odd discovery made a moment ago. The Bear Killer tilted his head curiously, regarded the undecided little red-face with button-bright eyes. The baby, perhaps remembering that he’d set upon a course of Pique and Unhappiness, waved his little pink fists and screwed his face up again, and this time cut loose with a baby-sized caterwaul. The Bear Killer threw his head back and sang with the child. Startled, the baby stopped crying, looked with big-eyed surprise at this source of a harmonious counterpoint: a few more moments, he cried again, and again The Bear Killer gave a gentle, sustained “woo-woo-woo” – not a full-voiced howl, more like an expression of sympathy, or of understanding. When the baby stopped to take a breath and recharge his systems, he looked up to see two more faces regarding him with solemn curiosity. An infant is likely not able to recognize that three carnivorous Messengers of Death, three engines of bloody destruction, were regarding him from very close range. An infant, however, can recognize a kindred soul, and so this particular infant, bare moments from having loudly voiced his general unhappiness with the universe at large, gave a gurgling laugh and reached up, batting its little pink fingers at what it didn’t quite recognize, but wanted to explore anyhow. Cyclone lifted her head and looked at Thunder, and Thunder lifted his head and looked at Cyclone, and The Bear Killer gave a little pink face a happy lick: two Fanghorns chirped, a baby laughed, and a young mother smiled. She might not know what a Fanghorn was, she certainly did not know what a Bear Killer was, but she knew what guardians were, and her maternal instinct told her that her child, in this moment, was probably safer than it had ever been.

A FORMAL INTRODUCTION Sean Finnegan, the broad-shouldered, blacksmith-armed Chief of the Firelands Fire Department, aggressively planted a broad brogan on the polished brass foot rail and leaned muscled forearms on the mirror polished mahogany bar top. His head was thrust forward, as was his jaw, his face was set and he glared into the broad mirror behind the bar with a ferocity that had stopped bar fights and caused hard men to stop whatever it was they were doing at the moment. The man beside him was not at all intimidated by the big, red-headed Irishman's expression. Each man held their silent counsel, even when Mr. Baxter slid a brimming, cool, freshly-beheaded mug of beer in front of each: the pomaded barkeep looked from one hard man to the other hard man, raised an eyebrow, lifted his chin in response to another thirsty patron's summons. Sean laid a broad, blunt-fingered, but surprisingly gentle hand between the other fellow's shoulder blades. "Yon's a fine, strong woman," he said softly. "She's borne ye fine young an' I doubt me not she's callin' ye anythin' but decent while she's doin' of it." Sheriff Linn Keller glared at his pale eyed reflection, worked his jaw, then shook his head, sighed quietly and straightened: he took a long pull on his beer, hesitated while a girl slipped a plate in front of him, her hand cool as she laid it over Sean's companionable knuckles, still laid across an impressive percentage of the Sheriff's back. "You must eat," she almost whispered. "Another child means you'll be busier now." The Sheriff turned, looked at the girl -- she was about fifteen or so, he was surprised she wasn't married already -- he smiled, almost sadly, and said "Thank you, darlin'," in a gentle voice. She gave him a big-eyed innocent look, her eyes liquid and dark, then she turned and skipped like a little girl back down the hallway toward Daisy's kitchen. Linn slid his plate over toward Sean. Sean slid it back. "Th' lass is right," he rumbled. "Ye must keep up yer strength! Just think o' all that ye maun be doin' now! Why, ye'll have young t' teach how t' whistle an' how t' whittle, how t' --" Sarah Lynne McKenna sat alone in the Sheriff's study. His cavalry saber normally hung on the far wall in the Sheriff's office, where he could turn, and look at it, or he could reach up and fetch it down easily. He kept his saber sharp -- the Sheriff was particular about its edge -- it was good steel, it took a good edge, and Sarah had managed to remove it to the Sheriff's study, for reasons of her own. She worked steadily, quietly, studying the blade's edge, studying the edge the Sheriff placed: it was not smooth, it did not shine with the precision of a razor's shaving edge: no, this almost sparkled. Sarah ran her palm along its length, moving her flat hand slightly from its spine to its edge, feeling the coarse edge: she remembered examining Dr. Greenlees' scalpels, and how they had this same sparkle-looking, miniature-sawblade edge. Sarah slipped curved steel back into its scabbard, hung it on a likely peg. Upstairs, the women were attending Esther, who was in labor: Sarah left that duty to those with experience in the art: she slipped out, silent in her flat-heeled shoes: she would return, but she wished to take a moment away from what felt like stifling femininity. She stood and considered the saber, hanging on a peg, at a convenient height for a man to grasp, and whispered, "A man's infant son should take its first solid food from the tip of his father's blade," then she turned, took a deep breath, flowed back up the stairs to the bedroom. Neither her absence, nor her return, had been missed. Sarah resumed her silent, solemn watch, a step behind her mother Bonnie, and Daisy, the sharp-tongued, green-eyed Irishwoman. Sarah watched as Dr. Greenlees turned, slung the contents of the washpan out the open window, poured water from the pitcher into the basin, washed his hands yet again: Sarah watched with pale and assessing eyes, knowing Dr. Greenlees' obsession with cleanliness was reflected in the rarity of infections among his patients. Sarah blinked, saw Esther had a blanket wrapped infant at her breast. She saw the woman was also still in delivery position. Sarah blinked, took a step back as Esther's head snapped back, teeth clenched, as the fingers of her free hand clawed up a good handful of bedsheet, as her sweaty face turned scarlet and she gave a stifled groan. Dr. Greenlees leaned in, he did something, Sarah couldn't see quite what -- He turned a fleshy, discolored, misshapen -- Another baby? Sarah thought, her mouth opening: she saw Daisy bouncing on her toes, saw her mother bend a little and blot Esther's forehead, Sarah heard feminine voices as from a distance -- "And what if Esther births me a little girl child?" Linn asked quietly. Sean chuckled, nodded his understanding: his Daisy was with child herself, though she'd barely begun to show: Sean was father to a little red-headed Irishman and a red-headed girl-child himself, and he too faced the quandary of not knowing what he'd have to teach his daughter: when he told Daisy he'd build their little red-headed warrior princess a fine Irish war-chariot and teach her the ways of the legendary Queen Boudicca, Daisy's Irish-green eyes snapped, as did her voice, and she threatened to unscrew Sean's head and stuff a yard of good Irish peat down his neck before puttin' his head back on upside down so he'd ne'er see straight again, which of course meant Sean laughed that great powerful manly laugh of his, and he'd snatched up his Daisy-me-dear and crushed her to him and whirled her around, and he'd planted his mouth on hers while she thrashed and kicked and hit at him, until she melted and returned his attentions, and likely that's how she ended up wi' a bit of a maternal belly today. "There's somethin' on yer mind, now," Sean rumbled quietly so only the two of them could hear, and Linn glared at his reflection and nodded. "I can do many things, Sean," Linn said thoughtfully. "I can fix what's broke and I can make bad situations better, or at least give it a damned good try." Sean considered this, took a pull on his beer. "If Esther needs something built, I build it, or arrange to have it built. If she can't reach something, I stretch up and get it." Sean nodded again, set his beer down, turned his head slightly, listening. "Esther ... I can't ... she's got to deliver this child herself," Linn said. "I know the ladies are with her, I know Doc Greenlees is there, but Esther is the only one who can do this, I'm just in the way ..." Sean looked to his left, then turned and looked around, making certain nobody was in earshot. He lowered his great head again and said in low voice, "I ne'er felt s'damned helpless as when Daisymedear was hatchin' an' I couldna' help!" Linn took a long breath, sighed it out, nodded. "That," he said decisively, "is exactly the case!" They both looked at their beer. "Ye've no' touched yer sandwich." "I've no appetite." "Nor have I." The girl had halved the sandwich before bringing it out. Each man seized half, ate it like he was starved: they washed down their quick meal with the rest of their beer, straightened. "Reckon I'd best go see." "Aye." Two men and a Bear Killer waited in the Sheriff's study. They listened to the quick patter of young feet descending the stairs. Sarah Lynne McKenna opened the door, folded her hands in her apron. "Gentlemen," Sarah said formally, "if you could come with me, please, introductions are in order." Sean and Linn looked at one another, looked at The Bear Killer. The Bear Killer looked up at them with an expression of bright-eyed, tongue-wobbling, tail-swinging, canine delight. Sarah let The Bear Killer out: she well knew that excited Bear Killers and little boys share the common characteristic of a Bladder the Size of a Walnut, and young though she was, she knew enough to prevent misunderstandings whenever possible. Esther lay on fresh linens, she wore a fresh nightgown and held a red-faced, flannel-wrapped infant to each breast. Linn leaned down, kissed her forehead, whispered, "You're beautiful." "Liar," Esther smiled. The Bear Killer launched up onto the bed from the other side, drove his blunt black muzzle into the nearest bundle, sniffed loudly, tail swinging: he sniffed at the other, cocked his head and gave Esther a puzzled look. "Yes, they're both mine," Esther murmured. "Bear Killer, down," Sarah said quietly: The Bear Killer turned, jumped to the floor. Esther looked from one newborn to the other, with the gentle expression of an exhausted mother. Bonnie gripped the Sheriff's arm, gave him a knowing look. "Mr. Keller," she said mischeviously, "I believe introductions are in order." "Run out of my own house," Linn muttered. He and Sean walked side by side, Apple-horse following. "Ah, lad," Sean rumbled, "let th' ladies reign this day. God knows yer Esther worked hard enough for't!" "She did that," Linn said in a wondering voice, then: "Twins." He shook his head. "I know Esther was big, but ..." He shook his head, his voice distant. "Twins." "Aye!" Sean roared happily, dropping a massive hand to the man's far shoulder and shaking him companionably: "ye're a man wi' loins s'potent that ye sire yer young in LITTERS!" Two men laughed

MIRROR "You're quiet." Esther Keller's words were gently spoken: supper was a subdued affair, as if the entire family knew something wasn't quite right, but nobody was really sure just what. Esther's pale eyed husband considered for a moment, then tore another sweet roll in two and puttied each half with a thick layer of fresh churned. He looked at the hired girl, watching warily from a little distance back -- she'd had to have sawed a hole in the wall to retreat any further -- his eyes were as gentle as his wife's voice as he said, "Thank you, Mary. That was genuinely good." The hired girl looked uncertainly at Esther, then gave a quick knee-dip before slipping out of the room. Linn's youngest looked at him with big and innocent eyes, knowing on one level something was not quite right, but with a full belly and gentle voices, nothing could be terribly wrong -- at least not in their young worlds. It was not until after supper, not until Esther supervised their young into tending their studies, not until she'd withdrawn, slipped silently down the hall, and entered her husband's book-lined study, that she spoke further. Sheriff Linn Keller looked up at the sound of his wife's voice: he closed the volume he held, crossed the room, took her hands in his -- carefully, as he always did -- behind closed doors, in the privacy of the moment, he kissed his wife with the care and the gentleness he practiced whenever possible. Linn drew back a little, looked at the comfortably upholstered seat Esther favored: she sat, dropped her eyes and tried to hide her smile at the admiration in her husband's eyes, wondering for the hundred thousandth time what he ever saw in her that made him think she was anywhere near graceful. Linn picked up his own chair, brought it over, placed it, sat. Esther waited. Linn frowned as he arranged his thoughts. "You'll remember," he said quietly, "I described what I saw in the Valley." Esther's eyes widened, then narrowed: her green eyes were very direct, their shining intensity, reply enough. Linn lifted his head, considered the texture of the ceiling, allowed his eyes to follow the crown molding, then looked back down at his wife. "Often times when a man asks another man's advice," he said thoughtfully, "the best thing I can do is help find the answer he's already got." "I have noticed your skill," Esther replied carefully, "in helping with these ... discoveries." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "I take it you helped someone find such an answer?" Linn nodded. "Stranger he was, out on East Branch. He looked just plainly lost." Esther considered the moments when her husband's expression was just that -- just plainly lost -- she said nothing, just listened. "We set a small fire and made coffee, we set and he talked and I listened." Esther's eyes never left her husband's: she was motionless, her expression, her posture telling her husband that she was giving him absolute and undivided attention. "He'd lost someone not long ago, and he was troubled by it." Linn's bottom jaw eased out as he leaned back, took a long breath, blew it out. "I fetched out my Scripture and he throwed a couple ideas at me, so I went over and set beside him so he could see the Word." Esther's head turned, just a little, and she leaned forward ever so slightly. "He said she -- didn't say who 'she' was, just ... she'd been terrible scairt at what was to come. "He wondered aloud what comes after dyin'." Esther frowned just a little: Linn saw it and nodded. "You've heard me describe what it was like to die twice. You heard me talk about seein' the Valley and how I did not want to come back." He frowned, considered, pressed forward. "I didn't tell him about that. "He quoted Ecclesiastes, how the dead know not any thing, he wasn't comfortable a'tall with that idea, so I turned to Luke -- 'This day you will be with me in Paradise' -- he gave that a good thinkin' over and allowed as that must be the right of it. "Come to find out he'd already considered Luke. I reckon he just needed someone to show him again." "Did he seem satisfied with what you showed him, dear?" Esther murmured. Linn leaned forward, took his wife's hand again, nodded. "He already had the answer," he replied gently, raised her hand, kissed her knuckles. "I just had to hold up the mirror so he could see it."

An Aside The Lady Esther, in my imagination, is an early Baldwin diamond-stacker, but in the stories I've spun, I wrote of her being fired with coal: this would argue for her having a coal stack rather than the traditional diamond stack. I am incurably romantic when it comes to things like steam engines, big furry hound dogs, truly huge horses and Appaloosas: Apple-horse was very real, and I grieved in private when Granddad sold him, but that's beside the point. Steam locomotives, whether rail mounted or traction engines, are something I've long loved. A very few times I've heard a steam whistle in the hill country back home, sounding like ghosts singing in the faraway wind. Gracie seemed to like it. This that I'm trying to link, sounds kind of like The Lady Esther sounds in my imagination. So much for author's comments. Back to the story line. Steam Whistle on a High Trestle

Scientifically correct. Recent news articles report most store bought sunscreen is ineffective and most are chemically harmful. Ye tin roof is SPF Effective!

Take a sewing thimble between thumb and forefinger. Pick up a spike nail with the other thumb and forefinger. Use the nail's head to tamp all my working knowledge of the Australian hopper beast down into said sewing thimble. You will now have room enough to pour in a quart of whiskey!

A CHOIR OF GHOSTS Sarah Lynne McKenna waited behind two great boulders. Erosion, or catastrophe, loosened them from the mountainside above, who knows how many years before: smaller rocks provided sun-warmed, surprisingly clean, dry seats for herself and Gracie. Gracie had her fiddle with her -- Sarah had her in a gown in the City, wearing a glitter mask, while Sarah, also in a glitter mask, and in a scandalous dancing-girl dress and frillies, shook her trotters on stage and netted them both an unexpectedly good purse. Now they were returned home, Gracie back in her usual shapeless hat and colorless dress, Sarah almost as drab: Gracie's riding mule was sleepily consulting the local vegetation, while Sarah's huge Snowflake-mare drowsed in the sun nearby. "I think it's here," Sarah told Gracie a few minutes earlier, when Sarah consulted her watch. Gracie's eyes were bright with anticipation. Sarah described the new, lower-pitched whistle The Lady Esther wore, something Bill the engineer wanted to try: Sarah and Gracie both knew where the echo was funneled by trackside topography, and Sarah, with her perfect pitch, speculated the lower-toned whistle would have what she called "a spooky sound." The Lady Esther was barking as she pulled the section -- there was a grade, not enough to really slow her velocity, but enough Bill had to give her more throttle to keep his speed, and that meant her four-count chant was loud and powerful -- moreso as she came into the natural sound funnel. Gracie chinned her fiddle, ready to spin a curlyback melody with the steam engine's cracking chant. She raised her bow, eyes closed, absorbing the steam engine's rhythm into her very soul. Then Bill hauled down on the whistle's chain. Gracie's eyes snapped open, wide, wide ... Sarah's eyes met Gracie's, and the two felt their breath catch. It didn't sound spooky. Spooky wasn't a comprehensive enough term for what they both heard, for the very first time. The lower pitched steam whistle, directed and partially delayed by this trick of geographic structure, didn't sound like a single voice. It sounded like an entire, harmonized, spectral, choir. Gracie's eyes wandered a little to the side as she replayed its voice, feeling it shivering in her bones, she looked back at Sarah, her expression the same marveling, wondrous look of a child beholding a field full of lightning bugs for the very first time. Gracie was so utterly entranced that The Lady Esther was past them, and gone, before she remembered ... ... her fiddle was under her chin, as forgotten as the rosined bow, not budged from its vertical position. Gracie's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "Sarah," she managed, "that was as gorgeous as the church choir." Gracie blinked a few times, looked back at her dear friend, blinked. "That sounded like a choir of ghosts!"

It does go to ground. With those unholy megavoltages, current blasts from bottom dead center of the rims, runs like snaking liquid fire over tire sidewalls, and into the ground. I forget where I saw the photograph of the phenomenon.

A KIND MAN’S STRENGTH An anonymous arm thrust itself through the partially open door, a white-waxed-paper doughnut sack swinging from gripping fingers. An unsmiling diplomat looked up, closed her eyes for a long moment as this unexpected visitor whistled, a quick, liquid, two-note question. Angela pushed the door open a little, stuck her head in: “Marnie? Permission to come aboard?” Marnie removed her pince-nez from the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes: she rubbed the contact points with gloved fingers, heard her sister close the door, heard the doughnut sack land gently on the table. “ ‘I’m thinking about you’ is only words,” Angela said quietly. “Doughnuts say it better.” Marnie opened her eyes, glared at her sister and snarled, “You’d better have white cream filled in there!” “Chocolate iced stick, your favorite.” Angela went over to the wall mounted dispenser, keyed in two mugs of hot tea: she carried the glazed-enamel mugs back to the table, set them down, pulled out a chair and sat. Marnie’s gloved hand gripped the now-open sack’s edge; Angela seized the other side: they pulled, quickly, tearing the sack open. They’d done this as children, which earned them a scolding from their mother, which of course meant that every time they brought doughnuts home, that’s how they accessed the pastries. “Do I guess why you’re here?” Marnie asked before taking a dainty nibble of fresh, fragrant, still-warm pastry. “Go to hell and eat your doughnut,” Angela said, then took a quick bite out of her own: she closed her eyes and chewed happily, swallowed. “Mmm, strawberry,” she purred. “Mama is allergic to strawberries,” Marnie said quietly. “That’s why I eat them here and not there.” Two sisters sipped steaming Earl Grey, lowered their doughnuts, each tilting her head to the left, each regarding the other with assessing eyes. “Well?” “Well what?” “Well what are you going to lecture me about?” Angela’s eyes widened innocently. “Why would I lecture you?” Marnie’s eyes closed halfway. “Littlejohn.” Angela sighed, shook her head. “No,” she said. “Says the woman without husband or children.” “Says the woman who came to warn you.” Marnie raised an eyebrow, raised her defenses. “Warn me?” “You know Littlejohn went to see Daddy.” Marnie turned her head, just a little. Angela trained to read body language. So had Marnie. Each knew the other was looking at the other for more than politenesss. Both knew the they were assessing each other, part of the interrogation skills they’d learned from their pale eyed Daddy, and from subsequent law enforcement training. “It’s not Littlejohn,” she said. “It’s Daddy.” Marnie’s defensiveness had been a glass shield, held in front of her, to let her see clearly, but protect her from attack. Now that shield hit the floor and shattered. “Daddy told me what he told Littlejohn, Marnie,” Angela said quietly, leaning forward, her forearm pressing into the tabletop. “Aannnddd ….?” “Daddy did what Daddy does. best” Marnie’s stomach fell several feet. “What did Daddy do?” Marnie asked, her throat suddenly dry. Angela closed her eyes, opened them, took a sip of tea, swallowed. “You know Daddy … knew … someone before he married Mama.” Marnie turned a gloved hand a little in reply. “When Daddy talked to Littlejohn, he was … he’d … just gotten a death notice.” Marnie nodded, barely, as her sister’s words confirmed what her gut was afraid of. “Daddy was always gentlest when he was hurt.” Marnie tore her half of the doughnut sack, carefully, laying it out flat, placing her half eaten, chocolate iced, white-cream-filled on white waxed paper: she placed her hands in her lap and gave her sister her disconcertingly unblinking attention. “When I got there, Daddy had me hold a 2x4 under one edge of a lid.” “A lid,” Marnie echoed. Angela took a deep breath, looked to the side and blinked twice, then looked back. “Her name was Rosalee,” Angela said quietly, “and Daddy loved her … once …” “Rosalee?” Marnie asked, shaking her head a little. “I’m not …” “They remained friends, apparently … Rosalee lost a leg to infection and Daddy paid for her power wheelchair, and he helped her … financially … several times.” Marnie raised an eyebrow, just a little. “He said … he was screwing a rectangular wooden lid above the pegboard over his workbench, out in the barn.” Marnie frowned, turned her head a little, listening closely. “He said the lid was from a rotted-out old chest Rosalee’s father built her when Rosalee was a little girl. It had a horse shoe in the middle of the lid and it was painted silver. Over the years the bottom rotted out and the sides decayed, but she kept the lid … he said it reminded him …” Angela picked up her tea, took a sip, took another, then she seized a glazed twist and bit into it with a surprising ferocity. “So you’re saying Daddy was hurting when he talked to Littlejohn.” Angela slurped tea noisily, indelicately, chewed: she swallowed, harrumphed. “Marnie, what did you tell Littlejohn about his going into the cave-in?” Marnie’s bottom jaw shoved out, slowly, as she considered: Angela could not miss the hardening of her sister’s expression. “I was not very … understanding,” Marnie admitted, looking away, looking toward Littlejohn’s bedroom. “You weren’t, but Daddy was,” Angela said quietly. “Did you talk to Littlejohn for Irising out without telling you first?” Marnie blinked several times, shook her head. “No. No, I didn’t. Not yet.” “You know he went.” Marnie nodded. “Of course you did,” Angela murmured. “Mothers always know.” “Ours did,” Marnie replied, and there was no smile in either her voice, nor in her eyes. She looked at Angela, her voice softer, suddenly vulnerable. “How’s Daddy?” Angela lowered her head, glared at her sister. “You know Daddy. He’s got that wall up again. ‘I’m fine, nothing’s wrong, pardon me while I hold the world at arm’s length.’” Marnie’s lips pressed together as she nodded, as she lowered her forehead into the heel of her gloved palm. “Stupid, stubborn, hard headed, contrary,” she muttered. “Obdurate, recalcitrant, mule-brained,” Angela added helpfully. “That too.” Marnie threw her head back, took a great, open-mouth gulp of air, like she was coming up from too-deep a dive. “He confirms what I’d taught in a psychology presentation,” Angela said. Marnie raised an eyebrow, curious. “When a truly strong man is in pain, if it’s at all possible, that truly strong man will be kind.” Marnie nodded, closing her eyes against a memory her sister’s words resurrected. “Yes,” she whispered. “You’re right.”

That may well have been the case!

Some years ago, lightning hit my wire ham radio antenna and blew right through what I'd thought were adequate lightning protections. Attaching link to a Norman, Oklahoma, police car being struck by lightning. Vehicle was empty at the time, just sitting in the parking lot, minding its own business. I see what seems to be at least one tree behind it. Trees are taller than the vehicle's roofline; I have to believe a police station would be taller than the vehicle's strike point; surely there were also flagpoles and other conductive structures proximate to this cruiser's metal roof. This illustrates our superintendent's observation that "Lightning does what lightning will." Watching this ... my sense of safety is somewhat diminished! https://www.msn.com/en-us/weather/topstories/oklahoma-police-vehicle-damaged-by-lightning-strike/vi-AA1F89i9?ocid=BingNewsSerp

I recall a Korean war veteran speaking of facing human wave attacks, rest his soul. I was told later it was the only time he ever spoke of his experience there. I do recall it was the first time I ever saw memories haunt both a man's eyes and his voice.