Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

Still standin' up on my knees for you both, absolutely pickled tink delighted with progress, and still making mention of Imis in my discussions with the Almighty as it's become a habit if nothing else!

I dunno ... I've seen cars with strategically placed political (and other freebie) stickers to cover rust bubbles and rusted out holes in the car's body!

LESSONS IN GUNFIGHTING: PROPER ATTIRE Sarah Lynne McKenna was still standing in the smoke-filled hallway, her face the shade of a sun-dried corpse: the lighting, probably, for her complexion was always remarkably healthy, except when the Rage was upon her. Sarah Lynne McKenna stood with her feet apart, her sharp little heels driven into the carpet, giving the impression that she’d driven spikes through her heels and deep into the floor, to anchor herself in place: her expression was one of anger, and forgiveness was nowhere to be seen in her appearance. Sarah Lynne McKenna was wearing her sharp-heeled shoes, her stockings, her corset: her hair was loose, curled, cascading down over the front of one shoulder and the back of the other, and Sarah Lynne McKenna gripped a blocky, businesslike, bulldog .44 in one white-knuckled fist. Luck alone would have two constables in front of the hotel when the fracas began: a bellman ran out, snatched at one uniform coat-sleeve and said something about a group of men intending a guest harm: at the first shout from within, the other constable put his whistle to his lips, blew a loud, discordant blast, then the two ran inside, just in time to be hit in the face with two fists of funneled sound. Gunfire, from within. To their credit, they drew their weapons and charged, looking left, looking right, the bellman in pursuit: “Upstairs, upstairs!” he shouted, and two City constables charged up the fine, broad staircase, a passageway better suited to men in fine suits and women in elaborate gowns, than the sight of two uniformed officers of the law, weapons in hand. They came to the top of the stairs and stopped. They honestly froze. Smoke layered the air, four men lay dead and dying, and a woman with white eyes and a colorless face raised a hand to display a bronze shield. “AGENT McKENNA, FIRELANDS DISTRICT COURT!” she declared loudly. They saw the badge only because it was raised, for the human eye is drawn to movement. It was not until they’d been badged that they realized this woman, standing defiant and commanding over a field of slaughter, was wearing little more than her frillies and an irritated expression. Ambassador Marnie Keller stepped through the Iris, looked around. She grabbed Ruth by the shoulders, pulled hard, pulled her over backwards – Ruth gave a surprised little squeak, fell back, fell through the portal with Marnie, landed on her back atop of the Ambassador as the Ambassador landed on her back on the floor of her quarters – Marnie grunted a little as the weight hit her, then the two women struggled upright, Ruth’s arms clutching their blanket-wrapped son. “Stay here,” Marnie hissed: she picked up a stubby, businesslike shotgun, surged through the Iris, and was gone. Sheriff Jacob Keller’s eyes were dead white and his face was colorless, the flesh drawn tight over his cheekbones: his bloodless lips were peeled back, giving him the appearance of a living skull: early in his law enforcement career, he’d developed a profound liking for the police shotgun, an opinion he had absolutely no reason to change over the years, and with a pounding on the door to his quarters, with shouted voices and demands that he open up, he waited inside, a double handful of Remington justice ready and waiting for anyone to defeat his security protocols. Marnie stepped up beside him, the twin to his fighting artillery in her gloved hands. He looked at her, elegant in a McKenna gown and a ruby brooch at her throat. “Overdressed for a gunfight, ain’t you?” he snapped. “You’re a fine one to talk.” Jacob chuckled. When the first impact hit their door, when the first beeps of an override attempt came from the internal keypad, Jacob’s gunbelt went around his waist, he clapped his uniform Stetson on his head and snatched up the twelve-gauge. He looked at the screen, counted the attackers. “Front to back,” he said. He heard the metallic click of Marnie’s safety disengaging. “Explosive charge,” Marnie said quietly. “Now.” Jacob released the door, it slid open. Jacob and Marnie fired, fast, accurate: the fighting was close-in and brutal: of eight that sought to assault the Sheriff’s quarters, six were killed right away. Two tried to run. They died running. Jacob grabbed the explosive charge, opened the disposal chute – a precaution he’d installed just inside his door, for just such an occasion – the explosive went into the hatch, he slammed it shut. The payload and its timer were instantly annihilated, disassembled at the subatomic level: the components were automatically scanned as they went in, and could be documented at a later time for evidentiary purposes: the crisis was ended before the last of the smoking, empty shotgun shells quit spinning on the clean floor. Sarah Lynne McKenna thumbed fresh rounds into her shotgun, handed Jacob two rounds, two rounds again: as she fed them to him, he fed them to his own 870. Jacob emerged, swung his gunbarrel to the left; Marnie swung right, her own Portal of Death looking unblinkingly in the opposite direction. Each one advanced, silent, deadly: a quick interrogation of the screen beside the closed airlock doors showed the cameras were covered. Jacob turned, looked at his sister: Marnie turned, raised a gloved hand. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, then raised a hand, gestured as if raking her eyes closed: Cameras are blind. Jacob nodded grimly. The two raised their fists, rock-paper-scissors: Jacob secured the airlock door behind him with his personal override, ran barefoot down the hallway, took up a position against the wall, opposite his sister. He went to one knee, shotgun to shoulder, nodded: Ready. Marnie keyed in her personal priority-override code. The airlock swung open. Nothing. She stepped out, eyes busy, reached up, pulled black electric tape off four camera lenses: she brought these inside the airlock, laid them carefully, sticky side up. Forensics would examine them for trace DNA and fingerprints. She closed the airlock, secured it with her personal priority lockdown: she and Jacob went to the other airlock, took their positions just as something started hammering from the other side. Jacob went to the comm pad. The cameras were blind, but audio still worked: he keyed in a command: “Who goes there!” he demanded. “Damage Control!” came the return shout. “Deputy Rutter is with us!” “Eddie!” Jacob shouted. “Here!” Eddie Rutter shouted back. “Eddie, the cameras are blind. Look for black electric tape. Remove carefully and preserve for Forensics, do it now!” “Roger that!” “And scan for explosives!” The vidscreen lit up: Jacob saw Damage Control in protective suits, saw the equipment cart, saw his deputy: he keyed the unlock sequence, the airlock door hissed open. Eddie Rutter stopped, his jaw opening in honest surprise: he managed to winch it shut and asked, “Sheriff, do you usually gunfight naked?” Ambassador Marnie Keller, demure in a McKenna gown and gloves, savored the moment when her brother turned a truly remarkable shade of red, when he realized he’d just engaged in a gunfight wearing his hat, and his gunbelt, and an irritated expression, and absolutely nothing else whatsoever.

WHAT THE HORSE SAID Deputy Sheriff Jacob Keller rode his stallion slowly up the wagon road to his fine stone house. He was tired, but it was a good tired. It was late; he wanted little more than to eat supper, and set down in his easy chair, and read from the Book. “Lord,” Jacob said aloud, “forgive me if I don’t read as much as I’d like.” Part of him smiled, a smile that did not quite make it to his face; he remembered reading from the Book, and being so tired he fell asleep as he did: his wife managed to get him to his feet, and to bed, and she’d observed quietly that the Almighty walked among us as a man, and He knew what it was to be tired, and He would understand Jacob’s having fallen asleep with the Word open on his lap. Jacob’s stallion was not tired at all: it had been Jacob who’d done the work that day, Apple-horse mostly drowsed, hip-shot, patient, except when he was grazing, or politely ignoring one of the local dogs who yammered and snarled as if Apple-horse was a ravening monster. Deputy Sheriff Jacob Keller hung his coat over a handy fence post and turned a hand to help a man who was trying to set up a hoist. He and his sons were digging a well – they’d witched it and found where the vein of water ran, they’d found the convergence of two veins and decided to dig, but once they were beyond a man’s height in the hole, they needed a hoist, a winch mechanism. Jacob was a fair hand with an ax: he sounded the ground around their hole with the shovel’s bit, he discussed what the man had in mind, and he allowed as they could fashion a winch and it wouldn’t be hard at all, and so Deputy Sheriff Jacob Keller proceeded to sink two post holes and set two posts, he selected healthy forks from the cut trees available, and cut them to length: he’d stopped to stone the ax head at frequent intervals, which interested both the man and his curious young son, and Jacob grinned and explained a sharp ax cuts and makes the work go faster, but a dull ax will bounce and cause injuries – he winked at the boy and added, “It also causes bad language, and I don’t want my Mama to stuff a bar of soap in my mouth!” Jacob helped another man load goods onto his wagon at the Mercantile – Jacob knew he’d hurt his arm not long before – vanity prompted the man to not wear a sling, and Jacob was obliged to lay a wager with the man that he, Jacob, could load that wagon in less than so many minutes, and so Jacob loaded his several purchases while the man watched: Jacob lost the bet, of course – he’d planned it that way, knowing the fellow could go home with honor intact, knowing there were sons at home to offload the goods and spare the man’s wounded wing. Jacob stopped in the Silver Jewel for a sandwich and a beer – he’d hoped to rest and refresh himself, and as ill fortune would have it, he’d ended up distracting an argument long enough for Mr. Baxter to hand Tom Landers a bung starter, and while Jacob was entertaining half the pugilistic party, the other hit the floor with a knot on his head: Jackson Cooper showed up, and two disputants were hauled off to the calabozo, one with a headache and one without, and Jacob tried to return to his interrupted lunch. There was a commotion down the hallway. Jacob turned, looked, the strode quickly toward Daisy’s kitchen. He ran into a cloud of Gaelic and a wall of indignation: Daisy was berating two fellows who were trying to muscle the biggest part of a new cast iron stove into the doorway, which wasn’t going well – one fellow was a bit more puny than he was willing to admit, and he honestly did not have the strength to carry that heavy, awkward stove up three steps and work it through the doorway. Jacob slid in beside him, crowded him aside: “Move your hand, I’ve got it” – he tucked his backside and gritted his teeth, for a cast iron stove is not a light thing at all: he backed up the three steps, he had the fellow at the other end swing to his right, they got the legs through, now swing left and come in: it took some more maneuvering, but they got it into Daisy’s kitchen, they got it generally where the old one had been, and Jacob let the fellow he’d relieved, take over assembly and final installation. He turned and nearly ran into Daisy, who seized his face in both hands, pulled his face down and kissed him, once, quickly: she released his face and seized his lapels, pulled him close. “I’ve wanted t’ do that t’ yer father f’r years,” she said quietly, “don’t tell him, but ye’ve made an Irishwoman happy” – she whirled and commenced to supervise the stove’s final positioning, and Jacob, having absolutely no idea what reply to make to this most unexpected admission of feminine admiration, wisely executed that military exercise known as Getting the Hell out of There! Later in the day, a pair of draft horses decided they didn’t want much to do with a loaded freight wagon, and started to fight in the harness: Jacob kneed his Apple-horse into a pursuing gallop as one of the two bolted down the street, trailing reins and trying to throw his collar: Jacob caught up with the big gelding, managed to grab one of the reins, and by virtue of persistence and profanity, got him slowed enough to get the other rein: they returned to the scene of the crime, where Jacob brought the big footed fellow around, backed him back into position, and let the teamsters set about repairing the damage the now-peaceful pair had done. Deputy Sheriff Jacob Keller walked his Apple-horse past his fine stone house, to the big, solid-built barn, swung down out of his saddle and just stood there for a long moment. He knew young eyes were watching him as he unsaddled his stallion, as he brushed him down, grained him, as he trudged toward the house, hung his coat by the washbasin and pumped fresh, cold water, washed his hands and his face and snorted the water from his nose. Jacob rubbed his face with a clean flour sack towel, reached up and plucked his Stetson from where he’d set it on its peg, dunked the skypiece on his grinning son: he pulled his coat from the other peg, draped it over his boy’s arm, ran his arm around his son’s shoulders. They walked toward the house. “Your Mama got anythin’ worth eatin’ in there?” Jacob asked. “Yes, sir.” “She got anythin’ ain’t been et yet?” “Yes, sir!” “Sounds good to me.” Jacob’s hand tightened on his son’s off shoulder. “When I was ridin’ up here I told Apple that I was hungry enough to eat a horse.” “Yes, sir?” “Know what Apple said?” “Moooo,” Joseph grinned. Father and son laughed and went into the house.

SUDDEN GAIN "I have something for each of you." Linn rose, walked over to the gun case. He opened the door, brought out a pair of lever action rifles, brought them back. "You two have proven yourselves responsible and trustworthy." "Thank you, sir," two soft little voices replied. He handed one to Michael and one to Victoria. "Chamber check." Two young children jacked the levers open, looked into the action, looked back. "Clear," they said in one voice. "Close and half-cock." Actions closed, carefully, young thumbs laid over hammer spurs, pulled triggers; the hammers went to half cock. "You each hold a model of 1892 Winchester rifle. They are chambered in .357 Magnum. They were originally .25-20, but they were converted, and I'd like to kick the fellow who converted them." "Sir?" Michael asked: Victoria's question was spoken with her eyes and not her voice, as was usual with them both. "I know in practical terms the .357 is a better choice, but my father had a 92 in .25-20 and I loved that little rifle. He traded it off for a Remington Matchmaster and never liked it. I've been hunting for a .25-20 ever since. When I found these a few years ago, I had them engraved and gold inlaid, and I set them back for the right time." "A few years ago, sir?" Michael asked. Linn grinned, nodded. "The day you were both born." Two young heads nodded solemnly. "Ground the butts." Two rifle butts came down on the holder's right foot. "Look at the muzzle engraving." Young eyes regarded gold-inlaid vining encircling the muzzle, slithering with a barbaric splendor rearward for three fingers' width. "Now take a look at the breech." Michael took a step back, looked behind, then swung the rifle level, having satisfied nothing of importance, that no one, was behind him: he considered the matching, gold-inlaid vining around the breech end of the barrel, then the side of the receiver. In an ornate circle, an armored angel bearing a flaming sword: above, in a banner's arc, Michael: in the banner beneath, Angelus custos. "Victoria." Michael stepped forward, Angela stepped back: she frowned as she studied the barrel breech's vining, the receiver's gold inlaid, hand chased circle. Within, a mounted warrior in feminine armor, astride a rearing horse: in an armor-gloved fist, held triumphantly overhead, gripping a silver-headed lance: in the over-arching banner, Victoria; in the banner beneath, Soror Valkyria. "Now." Two solemn-eyed children grounded their rifles' butts on the arch of their right foot. Linn reached into one tin box, then the other. The cloth within was in surprisingly good shape: it appeared to be a light weight canvas, and appeared to be ... waxed, maybe? -- Linn held the edge of the nearest box with one hand, muscled the poke out with the other, set it on his desk. Solemn young eyes followed his efforts. He did the same for the second box. Each poke was tied with stout red cord. Linn worked the knot on each, a little, freed each sack's neck, drew them open, one, then the other. He looked in each sack and nodded. He reached in each one and brought out a tiny, individual cloth sleeve, handed one to Michael, the other to Victoria. "Take a look." Each child slid thumb-and-forefinger into their individual, flat little sleeve, withdrew a silver coin. "We'll have that inletted in your rifle stock," Linn said. "I know just the man for the job." Linn reached into the nearest poke, Michael's poke, and withdrew a gold double eagle, handed it to Michael: he picked one out of Victoria's poke, handed to her. "Take a good look," he said. "It's no wonder these were so heavy!" Michael and Victoria looked at their double eagles, looked at one another, looked at their Pa, handed them back. "This," Linn said, "represents a fortune. The way things are going, we will be wise to keep these as they are, in gold instead of Yankee greenbacks." "Sir, where did these come from?" "Do you remember Old Pale Eyes, way back when?" "Yes, sir." "He had the notion that he should provide for his children." "Yes, sir." "He had gold in a New York bank that wasn't found until after your Gammaw took office." "Yes, sir." "His son Jacob had the same idea." "Yes, sir?" "Jacob consulted a Gypsy trick rider named Daciana. She had a crystal ball and some said she was a witch-woman. I don't think she was a witch, really, but I do think she was a wise woman. “She told Jacob how he should provide for those to come." "Is that why mine says Michael and hers says Victoria?" Michael asked. "Yes it is." Michael frowned. "How do we keep all this safe, sir?" "What is the military principle of defense?" "Layered principle of defense," two young voices chorused. "What is the first layer of defense?" "Knowledge!" "Who do we tell about this?" The twins looked at one another, looked at their Daddy. “Nobody?” Linn winked, nodded approvingly. “Exactly that,” he affirmed. “Nobody. Why do we tell nobody?” “ ‘Cause the Baron von Ripemoff will break in an’ take it if we do!” Michael blurted. “I was gonna say that!” Victoria protested. “What else might they take if they broke in?” “Everything,” Michael said sadly. “Yep,” Linn nodded. “Everything not nailed down, wiring out of the walls, copper pipes, Christ off the cross and they’d come back for the nails!” Linn closed each box, turned the key in the lock. “I’ll arrange tomorrow,” he said, “to have those silvers inletted into your rifle stocks. I’ll give Marnie a call and see if she can help us out.” Delighted eyes looked at each other, looked at their Pa. “Marnie!” two young voices breathed in a quiet-voiced chorus. An attractive young mother sat down in front of her screen, her pink-cheeked, shining-eyed little boy on her lap, looking around, very obviously interested in the world around him. “Hi, Daddy,” Marnie smiled, then turned to the toothless, grinning little boy on her thigh: “John, say hello to your grandfather.” “Wa’l hello, John William,” Linn grinned. “You smokin’ cig-gars yet?” “He doesn’t have a grandfather nearby to teach him bad habits,” Marnie laughed. “I’ll have to remedy that!” Linn declared happily. “Say, you recall those two rifles I had you arrange to have engraved?” “I do,” Marnie replied happily. “Do you reckon you can arrange to have a silver dollar inletted into each rifle stock?” Marnie lowered her head, kissed her warm, wiggling little baby boy on top of his head. “Five minutes ago, or do you need it sooner?” Linn pushed back from his desk, looked to his right: Michael and Victoria moved in front of the screen, each holding their rifle like they considered their personal carbine as the most precious thing they’d ever handled. Marnie laughed quietly. “Daddy, how would you three like to make a road trip?”

Ours were very similar, only with ornate cast iron scrollwork, screwed down to the wooden floor, and ours were singles instead of a side by side. Inkwell, yep ... but our desktops were nowhere this nice. Ours had initials, names, gouges ...

BELLIED DOWN Victoria Keller was a very proper little girl. She wore frilly dresses and shiny slippers and her Mama fussed over her hair and delighted that she had a pretty little girl she could raise as a girl. Victoria was obedient and Victoria was gentle, and Victoria had pale eyes and Victoria watched and listened. Sometimes Victoria decided she'd had enough of being a girly little girl. Michael, of course, was as close to his sister as any twin, but Michael was most definitely all boy: Michael was his Pa's shadow, Michael loved getting into "Stuff" with dear old Dad, and Michael delighted in getting away with anything he could ... never anything terribly bad, but like generations of his predecessors, he had an adventurous spirit and a curious nature. Michael and Victoria learned to read, each one determined to out-do the other, yet each equally determined to bring the other up to their level: what one learned, the other learned, and quickly, and so it was that two pale eyed children of that long tall Sheriff disappeared as they sometimes did, leaving behind nothing more than the fading sound of hoofbeats. The solid built barn beside the Firelands Museum still stood, still sound, still protected by a granite wall on one side, in a natural lee: winter's snows never piled terribly deep, it was easily accessed to clean out second hand horse feed, or to haul in hay, and two spotted Appaloosas walked between the barn and the museum -- a stone museum that used to be a house, the home of one Sarah Lynne Llewellyn, until she took her maiden name back after becoming a widow. The pair rode up the narrow passage, through a hidden opening, into the high meadow above, dismounted: they climbed with the fearlessness of children, they delighted in looking out over an incredible distance, visible from this high up, and they took turns looking down the sheer drop, giggling as they dizzied themselves, then leaning back against the sun-warmed granite, looking up at the incredibly blue sky overhead and dizzying again. They navigated the narrow, ancient path with the ease of the fearless young, came out on the shelf known to their ancestors as a place of refuge, a place of contemplation. "Did you bring it?" Victoria asked quietly. Michael nodded. "Bring yours?" Youthful hands thrust into pockets, brought out small, high-intensity flashlights. "It might be a den," Victoria cautioned. "It has been, you know." "I know. I'll take a look first." Two children moved to the low opening, knelt, then bellied down: they squirted beams of incredible brightness into the dark. "I don't see much." "I don't see any eyes." Michael slithered in, fitting easily -- he thought he would, an ancestral Jacob made it in, and back out, when he interred his ancestral Bear Killer here. "Michael?" "Huh?" "To your right. What's that?" Michael swung his light, blinked. There was not enough room to come up on hands and knees; he slithered forward without difficulty. "Ummm," he said, wiping at something on what looked like a square tin box. "Victoria ... you ever been here?" "No." "This has your name on it." "What is it?" Michael gripped the square tin, or tried to: he frowned, tried gripping his light in his teeth. "Shoot your light over here. I gotta use both hands." Michael shut off his light, thrust it into a pocket: he gripped the tin with both hands, worked it back and forth, dragged it toward him. Another, behind it: he stopped, shifted so Victoria's light could sear past him, illuminate the plate on the second square box. He rubbed the plate across the front. "Victoria?" "Yeah?" "This one has my name on it." "Are there any others?" Michael pulled his light out, clicked it on, swung it around. "No." He turned his light off, thrust it away: he worked backwards, dragging one box, then the other. They backed out, emerging into daylight: Victoria got up, squatted impatiently as Michael wiggled backwards out from under the gap in the mountain, dragging one heavy tin box, then the other. “Ow.” “Ow?” Victoria bellied down again, squinting into the darkness, then wiggled to the side as Michael’s boot soles advanced toward her. It was more spacious inside than at the opening: Michael’s quiet-voiced “Ow” was because he’d banged his gourd on the narrowing opening as he slithered out backwards. Victoria stood, swatted at her front, frowning at how filthy she'd gotten: Michael stood, did the same. Two pale eyed children studied the tin boxes, gripped the handles on top: they were easier to pick up, now that they were standing – the boxes were heavy, awkward; they managed to duck walk down the narrow path, leaned back a little, hugging the boxes to their bellies, their shoulders rubbing the granite as they did, the edge of their tin box hooked on their belt buckle. It helped, a little. They got down to their horses, stopped and washed their hands in the near-freezing stream: Michael slung his hands off, frowned at his front -- typical boy, he almost wiped his hands down his belly and thighs -- he stopped, reached back, dried his hands on the seat of his blue jeans. Victoria tilted her head, considered this, then did the same thing. Two riders walked their Appaloosas down the hidden path, came out between the still-solid old barn and its drowsing ghosts, and the museum, watching them with glassy, unblinking eyes: they made it home, they donated what they'd been wearing to the friendly local Maytag and got it thrashing, then scampered upstairs in underwear and socks. They were showered and into clean clothes, their wet duds anonymous on the populated clothesline behind the house, before their Mama got home. That evening, Michael and Victoria presented themselves at their Papa's desk: they stood, shoulder to shoulder, each carrying a wiped-clean tin box that Linn thought appeared heavy, judging by the way they held them. Michael said "Sir, your advice?" Linn hadn't gotten to whatever it was he'd been thinking about. It was rare for his children, his youngest, to face him with such solemn expressions, even moreso for them to present with an obviously-heavy burden in hand. Michael flipped a folded towel onto his Pa's desk. "I don't want to scrape up your desk," he said, "this is kind of heavy." Linn reached over, put a hand under the box, raised a surprised eyebrow. "Yes it is," he murmured. Victoria was barely able to pack hers, using both hands: Linn gripped her box as she offered it. Linn saw her name was hand-chased on a plate, riveted to the front of the age-darkened metal. "They're locked," Michael said. Brother and sister watched a light dawn in their father's eyes. He looked at one box, then the other: he looked at his children, at the boxes: he rose, took two long strides to a shelf, ran his finger along the row of reprinted Journals. He pulled one down, flipped quickly through it: closed it with a snap, thrust it back, hooked the next with one finger, tilted it back, gripped it, brought it down. Michael's hand opened as Victoria's hand opened and turned: they held hands, silently sharing an uncertain anticipation as they watched their father's suddenly-serious eyes scan quickly, as he ran fingertips down the page, as an unguarded expression of discovery tightened the corners of his eyes, broadened into an actual smile. He snapped this Journal shut, carefully threaded it back into its place on the shelf: he turned, looked at his desk, looked beyond it to his Mama's ancient roll top desk. Linn nodded, looked at his two youngest. Michael felt Victoria's hand tighten in his. Linn went to his desk, pulled open one drawer, another: he pulled out a keyring, fingered through the jingling sawtoothed collection, separated one key out – instead of flat and toothed, it was old-fashioned-looking, dark and round-shafted, a hollow in its end, with a single, spade-shaped projection at its end. Linn went to a shelf, removed two books, two more, set them aside. He reached in -- Michael and Victoria saw his elbow move a little, but they could not see what was out of sight on that eye level shelf -- Linn did something, turned something, it looked to the twins as if he turned his arm a little and pushed something, then turned his hand again: he replaced the volumes, strode quickly to his Mama's antique, ancient, heirloom rolltop desk. Linn unlocked the ancient desk, carefully raised the curved, flexible wooden roll top, then brought it back down, silently counting the wood crossmembers as they passed a dimple, placed with a centerpunch by its appearance: he held the rolltop with one hand, inserted the key, turned it, opened a little hinged door: he removed the key, inserted it deep into the cubby the little hinged door revealed. Carefully, slowly, he withdrew his hand, and with it, a small drawer, with a lid. He withdrew the key from its front, inserted it straight down into the drawer's lid, turned the key. Michael and Victoria saw him remove the key, place the well populated keyring on the desk's writing surface. He lifted the lid on the drawer he'd just brought to light and withdrew a single key. Linn turned, walked over to the two metal boxes. His thumbnail explored a little tarnished-silver plate -- he found something -- a click, the plate slid aside, revealing a keyhole. Linn slid the just-retrieved key into the darkened metal box's keyhole, turned it, lifted the lid: he did the same for the second box. Michael was containing himself with an effort; Victoria was bouncing on her toes, grateful she was in sock feet, elsewise the hard little heels her Mama liked her to wear, would have beat a nervous tattoo on the hardwood floor. Linn sat down, looked at these, the youngest of his get. "Thank you for bringing these," he said. "You're welcome, sir," two young voices said in a soft-spoken chorus. "You got these from the High Lonesome." Two young voices again: "Yes, sir." “Good.” Linn looked at his two youngest. "I think ... it's time."

Birthday? Wa'l now Happy Birthday Forty! I have it on the very best authority that Happy Birthday Cake contains no calories a'tall!

LIGHTNING ROD Shelly Keller knew the touch of genuine fear twice in her life. Both times, it was shortly after she'd done something she shouldn't have. Once was when she backhanded her daughter, Marnie. Marnie's head snapped around with the force of the blow. Her head returned slowly to face Shelly as the air turned frosty-cold and Shelly saw her daughter's face drain of color and her eyes went absolutely white as her adrenaline levels spiked. Shelly tasted copper and Shelly expected Marnie to rip her head off her shoulders and throw it through the nearest window without benefit of opening same. Marnie's voice was quietly spoken, coldly spoken, as she told her mother that if she ever, ever hit her again, she, Marnie, would rip her throat out. The second time Shelly felt that level of paralytic freezing realization was when her husband moved faster than Shelly's eye could follow. She heard the angry voice, she saw a man make a move -- a good sized man -- and she saw her husband turn, seize the man's wrist, wind it up behind him fast and, from the pained yell that followed, far less than comfortably: the Sheriff introduced the fellow's face to the rounded, stainless-steel corner of the ice cream freezer, just before he released this one, punched a second in the gut while ducking an incoming, hard-swung winebottle: Linn seized the second one by the throat and by the crotch, hauled him off the ground and SLAMMED him down to the tile floor, ending the fight and leaving absolutely no doubt as to the folly of picking on what looked like just some hick rancher stopping for gas. Shelly sat with the dispatcher while Linn made out the requisite reports back at the Sheriff's office. Not one word was said on the drive home. Shelly looked over at her husband. Linn was his usual relaxed, cheerful self: he reached over without looking, took Shelly's hand ever so gently in his own, gave her a reassuring squeeze. He was driving, his attention was on the serious business of guiding a half ton of steel and glass, a guided missile containing two human lives and capable of destroying many more if his attention were slacked right at the wrong moment. Shelly remembered how fast her husband moved -- how strong his grip had to be, to twist the first attacker's wrist out of joint -- or to pick a grown man off the floor and make it look easy. He'd have been justified if he'd done as much to her. Shelly went through the door first -- Linn, ever the gentleman, unlocked the door, let her through first, tapped the keypad to disarm the heads-up beeper -- Shelly stopped, turned, her eyes big and vulnerable. Linn turned from the pad, looked at his wife: his face went from cheerful to concerned: "Dearest, what's wrong?" he asked quietly. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her bottom lip quivering a little. Linn stepped into her, his left arm going around the small of her back: she froze, expecting to be picked up and thrown across the kitchen table, or worse. Linn took her other hand, brought it to his lips, kissed her knuckles carefully, gently, then he held her hand at extension, spun her around in a waltzing step, singing quietly: Shelly Keller, filled with guilt for having behaved as she had, waltzed with her husband, at least until they got to the head of the table. Linn spun her, slowly, as he always did, and Shelly stopped and looked at her husband with big tears rolling down her face and her expression crumbled and she squeaked "I'm sorry," and fell into his front. Sheriff Linn Keller, warrior and peacekeeper, father, grandfather and teller of tall tales, held his wife as she sobbed her submission into his shirt front. Nobody was home to see it, and likely a good thing, for Linn's expression was one of honest confusion: his own words, given quietly to Jacob in one of the rare moments when a father's advice is actually of use, "If your girl wants to cry, let her. Hold her and let her rain herself out, even if you have absolutely no idea what in the hell is going on." Linn had no idea, so he followed his own advice, and finally, when Shelly's tear storm rained itself out into his shirt front, he hooked a curled finger under her chin, lifted her face, kissed the tip of her nose. "Darlin'," he said, "if I've done somethin' to hurt your feelin's --" Shelly shook her head, dropped her forehead into his chest, shook her head again. She looked up. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should never have slapped that cookie out of your hand and snapped at you like I did!" Linn blinked, frowned, raised an eyebrow, looked at his wife, pulled his head back a little. "That's all?" he asked. Shelly's mouth opened: she'd just apologized, she'd laid her soul bare, what more could he want -- Linn took Shelly's hands, brought one, then the other to his lips, kissed her knuckles, lowered her hands. "Darlin'," he said gently, "do you remember how genuinely bad a day you had?" Shelly closed her eyes, took a long breath, nodded. "Do you remember that new doc in ER gave you hell and turned out he was wrong, and the arrogant clod didn't have the grace to apologize?" Shelly chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes swung to the side, she nodded. "Do you remember that stray beef came RIGHT OUT IN FRONT OF YOU and if you didn't have a damned good set of reflexes you'd have had hamburger all over the Jeep?" Shelly nodded again. "Dearest" -- Linn's fingers were gentle as he touched her jaw, turned her face toward him -- "if a man can't forgive his wife when she's had genuinely a day from hell, he's not much of a man, now is he?" Shelly swallowed: Linn pulled out a handkerchief, laid it over her nose, pinched very gently, said in a fatherly voice, "Blow." Shelly reached up, giggled, hiccupped, blew: she wiped her beak, took a breath, gave a most unladylike blow that honestly sounded like a young foghorn. She wiped her nose again, sadly regarded how badly she'd fouled his clean white hankie. "I've got another right here," Linn said softly. "I always carry two." He took the soiled snot rag from her, stepped to the far doorway, gave it a backhand flip toward the laundry tub, came back. Shelly stepped over to the sink, leaned over it, stiff-armed, her head hanging. "I saw how fast you hit that guy," she said, then turned her head to look at him. "I would've deserved that." "You what?" "You'd just picked up a cookie off the cooling rack. I slapped your hand and yelled at you." Linn paced slowly over to his wife. He turned, leaned back against the sink, ran his arm around her shoulder. "Shelly, look at me. You would not deserve that," he said quietly. "I saw the look you gave me," Shelly said, her voice husky. "What did I look like?" "You looked so... disappointed." "I was," Linn admitted, his expressing sliding from concern to innocence. "You make really good cookies." Shelly leaned her head against her husband's chest. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "For being human?" Linn asked. "Darlin', you're one of the most patient souls I know. When you load up to where you've got to lightning rod to get rid of it ..." He bent his head, lifted her hair, kissed the back of her neck. "Besides, The Bear Killer helped me clean up the cookie crumbs."

Celebration Day is RIGHT!! Blessings on Hatfield for tending you as he has! (Still laughing at Schoolmarm refusing to eat RUBBER CHICKEN! Don't blame her one little bit!)

Proof yet again that cats go where they will!

A SURE THING Jacob Keller sat across from Attorney Moulton's desk, marveling at the collection of volumes ranked behind the man. All the knowledge in the world, his pale eyed Pa told him once, is contained in books. Jacob considered that their big, blacksmith-shouldered Irish fire chieftain was also right when he observed, "Lad, th' intelligent man isn't th' one who can spout answers like a fountain. 'Tis th' man who knows where t' find those answers!" Sean's words, given with a wink, a fatherly hand on Jacob's shoulder, came back on the heels of the Sheriff's observation. Mr. Moulton was riffling through his files: he withdrew a sheaf of papers with a satisfied grunt. "Jacob," he said thoughtfully, "you chose well with your investments." "Thank you, sir." "These are copies of the original papers. You asked me to keep them for you." "Yes, sir. I feared one copy might be lost, but a second copy kept somewhere else would be wise." Attorney Moulton nodded slowly. "I wish some grown men would think that way," he said, almost sadly: "you remember Old Man Penrod very nearly lost his ranch when his house burned, and his papers with it, and a false claim on his property was filed at the State Capitol." "I remember, sir." "That's why I've taken pains to keep my files in a fireproof room. Cost me enough, too!" "I would imagine so, sir." "God be praised I've never had to test it," Moulton said absently, his pencil busy on the pad beneath his good right hand. Jacob waited patiently, his hat across his lap. "Your father ... suggested these investments?" "Two of them, sir. My mother suggested three. The others were mine." Mr. Moulton's eyebrows raised and he whistled admiringly, looked at the lean young man across the desk from him. "Frankly, Jacob, from these latest results, you are a wealthy young man." "Thank you, sir." "What do you plan to do now?" "I've given that some thought, sir," Jacob said slowly. "I'm not much of a gambler, but it strikes me that mines will play out in time, but there will always be need for meat on the plate, a roof overhead ... I've been looking at investing in building materials." Mr. Moulton unfolded the paper, read it, nodded. "Ames is a good and reputable firm," he said. "If they're selling shares, I would say a man would stand a good chance of making a steady income." "I like the sound of that, sir." "And your other investments?" "Sir, I am inclined to sell the first two silver mines. Men have been asking whether they'd be up for sale and I believe I can turn a profit with a sale." "You'll turn a handsome profit, but don't you want to keep making money from it?" Jacob frowned, shook his head. "Sir, my crystal ball rolled off the table and broke. I've no way of knowin' how much longer that silver streak will run. If I sell now, I'll have a sure thing. If another man makes a pile of money from that mine, good for him, but if the vein plays out tomorrow and I'm sittin' on it like a dog in a manger, no." "You're serious about liking a sure thing." "Life itself is uncertain, sir." "I can make the arrangements, same as last time." "If you could, please. Your usual fee?" "My usual fee." Jacob rose, thrust out his hand. "Mr. Moulton, thank you. I prefer not to make these deals in person. I am seen as still a boy and men don't like to do business with boys." " 'Mere boy' is not a term I would apply to you, Jacob." "Thank you, sir." Jacob hesitated, frowned: Mr. Moulton knew there was something more on his mind. "Sir ..." "Yes, Jacob?" "Sir, I would ... invest just a little bit more." Mr. Moulton waited, inclining his head slightly to indicate his assent. "Mr. Moulton, if you could arrange the purchase of a ruby red stickpin for a man's necktie, say, something the size of my little fingernail, and a matching lady's brooch with some fancy goldwork around it ... I would be very much obliged to you." "For the Sheriff, and for your mother." "Yes, sir." "I will see to it." "Thank you, sir."

SIREN SONG Fire Chief Chuck Fitzgerald looked across the bay, raised a finger, thrust his arm out like he was casting a line. The German Irishman hit a cast aluminum button that hadn't been used for a decade anyway. He had no doubt the siren would work -- the Irish Brigade took pride in their equipment, in their station, in each other; they kept everything -- everything! -- ready for use at a moment's notice. The pale eyed Sheriff was clutching a K9 harness vest, with its built-in remote-trigger strobe, with its radio tracker, with its six point star and the words SHERIFF K9 embroidered in gold on the black Kevlar surface. Marnie gripped her father's shoulder. "Daddy," she said quietly, penetrating the black cloud of the Sheriff's self-absorbed anger, "you know what kind of a nose Tank has." Linn glared at his daughter, his jaw muscles bulged against the language he wanted to use. Marnie brought her other hand up, gripped his other shoulder as well. "Tank wants to please, you know that." An impatient finger hit the cast aluminum button again, pushed hard, held it. "He'll be scenting and he'll be looking. You know him. He's a scent-and-sight hound, even if he does like to steal your socks." Linn closed his eyes, took a long breath, his hands crushing into shivering fists, the harness material of Tank's unused vest wadding up in his palms as he did. "He got the scent and he took out. He's like that. He's fast." "He's fast and we don't know where he is." Linn looked at Fitz. The German Irishman turned from the switch, strode across the firehouse: he shoved the latch with his thumb, swung the grey breaker box panel open, ran his eyes down the row of breakers. "You know how he hates the siren," Marnie continued. "Now let's get outside and listen." Marnie did not wait for her father's reply: she turned, raised her talkie, pressed the textured, flush-mountted transmit button on the side. "This is Mary Seven. All hands, now hear this. We're about to blow the fire whistle. When we do, listen and listen good. Tank will howl when he hears the siren. Get a bearing and report when we run the inventory, Mary Seven clear." Marnie thrust a boot into the black doghouse stirrup, swung onto her Daddy's black gelding, kneed him about, gigged him into a fast trot. When the fire whistle blew, she wanted to have some distance. As much as Tank hated that fire whistle, the gelding hated it more, and if she didn't have some distance, she'd have to play rodeo right in the middle of the street, and she didn't want to do that. Not with God and everybody watching. There was a brittle click as the breaker was turned back on, the sound of hurried steps crossing the bay floor. The German Irishman raised a hand, looked across the firehouse, cheerfully called "Fire In the Hole!" A little boy can cover a surprising distance, but a little boy at high altitude will wear out kind of quick. A little boy sat on a handy rock and threw his head back, breathing hungrily, laid back, leaned over, curled his legs up: the sun was warm, he was out of the wind and he felt half sick. A brown-black-and-tan Malinois cast back and forth on the depot platform, tail swinging: he pattered down the stairs, stopped, turned, nose in the air, tasting the wind. The Malinois turned his head, swung around, mouth open, tongue curled, the happy expression of a dog doing what he loved. He took off running, running toward a path he'd run before, a path that went up the side of the mountain. Tank had a snootful of scent, thanks to the coat held down for his inspection: he'd cocked his head a little and shoved his nose deep into the quilting, his tail whipping. The Sheriff rose, turned: they were outside the firehouse, the wind was carrying down the mountain, toward them, when Tank drove his muzzle deep into the coat, when he drew his head back, when he raised his muzzle, sniffing the air: Linn turned to pick up the canine vest, turned back. He saw the retreating backside of his K9 partner, full sprint, disappearing around the back of the firehouse. Marnie gripped the gelding's barrel, snatched off her uniform Stetson. If we're going to dance, damn you, I'll beat you to death with my hat! Midnight hated that tower mounted siren with a deep purple passion, and Marnie knew it: she felt like a condemned man must feel, strapped to a keg of powder, when the sizzling fuse just disappears into the keg, in that bright tenth of a second before detonation. The ancient, surplus, tower mounted air raid siren began to rotate, began to howl, began to scream: the timer was handmade and ancient, strips of curved copper driven by a washing machine motor, a V-belt and two pulleys: as long as the curved contact strips were touching the metallic brushes, the siren ran; the curved strips broke contact, the siren began coasting down, its alarming howl dropping in pitch, if not volume. Midnight shivered, danced a little, shook his head, muttering. "Don't you dare, damn you," Marnie snarled. Her head came up, as did her hand: she mashed her Stetson down on her heat, snatched the talkie free. "THIS IS MARY SEVEN. KILL THE SIREN, KILL THE SIREN, KILL THE SIREN!" She sat very straight, listened, turned her head a little, turned it back, smiled. "Gotcha." A little boy rubbed his eyes, confused. He had no idea where he was and he didn't have any idea why he was hearing a wolf howl, then he opened his eyes and there he was. Big and brown and black and tan, a wolf, big as he was, sitting there looking at him, right before he raised his muzzle and sang again. It was not the first time the wild song of a yellow eyed canid sang for the joy of singing, and it would not be the last, but it was the first time a little boy sat up, delighted, threw his head back and sang with him. Deputy Sheriff Marnie Keller urged Midnight up the path, toward the Wildsong, toward a happy and somewhat discordant harmony. She raised the blocky talkie and pressed the textured, flush mounted transmit button. "Dispatch, this is Mary Seven. I believe we've found him." A little boy's mother would include the picture cut from The Firelands Gazette in a scrapbook. The picture was of a delighted looking little boy riding in front of a mounted Sheriff's deputy, with the deputy's jacket around him: the picture was taken quartering-on, from a little distance: it showed the shining-black horse, the laughing deputy, the delighted little boy with his arms thrown wide, and a black-brown-and-tan Malinois trotting along beside them, looking up at the mounted pair, mouth open in a doggy grin, curled tongue declaring his absolute happiness.

ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT Jacob came along not long after Marnie was adopted into Linn's family. Willamina came over more often than she used to: she and Shelly got along like two old friends, which is not surprising; Willamina was good friends with Shelly's mother, and Shelly asked Willamina to be her Matron of Honor when she and Linn were married. Marnie grew, as little girls do, and she watched solemnly as Jacob -- tiny, red-faced, too young to even turn over on his own -- was powdered and diapered as little babies are. Marnie insisted on holding Jacob after he was clean and changed and fed and sleepy, and she soon graduated to the other motherly duties incumbent on the care and feeding of the infant human. Willamina watched as Marnie learned these skills and applied these skills, and Willamina saw that Marnie never smiled -- not once -- as she tended these details: her expression was serious, very little short of frowning. It was evident she was good at what she did, it was clear she considered what she did, to be important: Shelly accepted this assistance almost as if it was expected, but Willamina's instincts prompted her to look deeper. Marnie was the child of Willamina's daughter, the child with whom she'd fought constantly, the child that ran off with a man, ran off to New York and got herself in trouble, the child that got into drugs and ended up coming home with a little girl and a terminally cancerous pancreas, a child that died in more pain that she'd caused in her lifetime. Now Willamina regarded this unsmiling child, this little girl who rarely laughed, and considered the precision, the attention, the perfection, of every move she made with her smiling, gurling, laughing, knuckle-chewing little brother. Marnie was holding her little brother when Willamina picked her up, set her on her grandmotherly lap, little brother and all, and held them both. They sat thus, together, for several minutes. Willamina laid her cheek over on Marnie's soft, fine hair. "Marnie?" she murmured gently, and felt the child stiffen -- the way a child will, when she's used to nothing but criticism. Marnie turned her head, turned her eyes, looked at her Gammaw, her arms tightening around her sleeping, blanket-wrapped little brother. "You take the very best care of Jacob, Sweets. Thank you." Marnie blinked, not entirely certain how to accept a compliment. She'd been treated kindly, as Linn's daughter; she'd been treated as one of Linn's own, he was unfailingly patient with her, he was careful when he held her or picked her up, for he'd noticed every time she was touched, she flinched, she froze, she turned ghost white, as if she expected something bad to happen: even when her name was called, Linn noticed a look of absolute dread on her young face, replaced almost instantly by an impassive mask. Linn and his Mama discussed these observations in quiet voice, when away from the house, well away from Marnie's quick and youthful ears. Both agreed that this pretty little girl with pale eyes and a terrified heart, must have survived terrors unknown: add to this the medical reports, which Linn paled to read, after Marnie was carefully examined in a clinical setting, and Linn admitted he had no idea how to raise a little girl-child, but he'd do his best. Now Marnie sat on her Gammaw's lap, and Willamina drew a blanket over her and Jacob both -- but Willamina kept her arms outside the blanket as she held her stiff, rigid granddaughter. "Marnie," Willamina almost whispered, "how does Jacob feel when you hold him?" Marnie swallowed, uncomfortable: Willamina felt the little girl's breathing quicken. "Marnie, how did you feel when you were held?" Marnie twisted a little, looked at her Gammaw with wide and frightened eyes, but made no reply. "You're safe here, Sweets," Willamina whispered, rocking a little as she did. "You are safe here." Marnie's breathing did not slow down: Willamina felt her shivering, just a little, and finally she laid her head over against her Gammaw's collarbone. "Nobody ever held me like this," she whispered. Willamina rocked her, slowly, gently. "Nobody grabbed me unless they wanted to hurt me." Willamina closed her pale eyes: it was her turn to wear a mask, to be utterly expressionless. A year later, when little Jacob Harold began crawling, exploring his world, Willamina came over for another visit, as she often did: Marnie was not as fearful, not as timid, not as passively rigid when held: Jacob crawled from the oval hook rug onto the bare floor, stopped, patted the bare floor and laughed. Marnie had been crawling with him: she bellied down, looked at her little brother. Marnie smiled. Willamina looked up, looked at Shelly, watching from the kitchen: Shelly's hand went to her mouth as Willamina smiled and looked back at the pair. Linn was home from work. It wasn't unusual for Linn to take a nap when he got home, especially if it was a stressful day: Marnie and Jacob were half-in, half-out of his study as Linn went down on one knee, both knees, all fours, then lay down: little brother and big sister turned, looked, and Linn pointed to them and said sternly, "I'm gonna take a nap and I don't want to be bothered!" -- he looked at his Mama, looked at his wife just beyond, and winked. Linn laid down on the floor and waited. His wait was brief indeed: Jacob turned with a happy gurgle, trundled industriously on all fours, Marnie following: Linn's arms were crossed, his face laid down on his arms, and the watching Ladies could see his grin as a happy little boy and a happy little girl climbed up on dear old Dad, young Jacob Harold attaining the summit of Mount Backside, squealing and happily spanking the Old Man's hip pockets, Marnie giggling as she lay beside. Willamina expressed her disappointment, afterward, in a private moment with her daughter-in-law: she was so unhappy to have seen that, she said, without having a camera ready!

HE'LL HAVE TO Linn and the veterinarian ran practiced hands down the Appaloosa's leg -- one, then the other -- the two men stood back and watched the gelding pace, left, then right, according to Linn's call of "Gee!" -- then "Haw!" -- then he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a plastic wrapped peppermint, and the gelding needed no further encouragement to approach. Matter of fact, Linn thought, you couldn't have kept him away from that red-and-white, spiral striped, horse crack. "He doesn't appear be hurt any." "No." "Did you take a look at that slope he went down?" The vet looked at the Sheriff speculatively. "Steep?" "Yep." "Scree?" "Yep." The vet shivered. "Didn't fall?" "Nope." The vet caressed the gelding's neck, looked back at the Sheriff. "You buy a lottery ticket lately?" Linn grinned. "Would Michael buy it, or do we take the horse into the All-Night and have him make the purchase?" The vet grinned back, then sobered. "Last time I saw a horse go down a slope like that ..." "I remember." "Where's Michael now?" "School." The vet nodded. "I'd say this fellow is just fine. Doesn't seem to have pulled anything, I'm not feeling anything tender or hot, he's not favoring anything, no limp, no hesitation, no flinch." "I took a close look at his hooves. I was looking for any cuts just above ... " Linn's voice tapered off and the vet saw him shiver. Smith was concerned enough to look closely at the Sheriff and ask quietly, "Are you okay, Linn?" Linn grunted, looked at the Appaloosa, who came over and rubbed his nose against Linn's front, plainly bumming for another peppermint. He got the peppermint, and he got rubbed under his jaw, which got him to close his eyes with pleasure and mutter something deep in his equine chest. "You talk to your boy about going down that slope?" Linn nodded. "I looked it over, Doc. Path collapsed under the hiker and it collapsed under Michael as well." "He didn't ride down that slope by choice." "No." "Linn," the vet said quietly, "not every father knows that his boys listen. "Michael did. "I've seen you riding with him and I saw how Michael watches you, and listens to you, and tries hard to be like you." Linn nodded, his expression uncertain. "What you taught him, kept him alive. If he'd lost the saddle and gone down hip pockets over teakettle, he'd still be rollin' unless he hit one of those big boulders." "Don't I know it." "How'd you get that fellow out of there, anyway?" "Dana took Mama's six-by up the cutoff and back down. They set up a pulley system and winched the basket out." "Damn. I've been through there. How'd she fit something wide as that six-by through the Cutoff?" Linn chuckled. "Not peacefully," he admitted, "but that old truck is pretty tough." "Did Michael ride up by himself?" "No," Linn sighed. "Victoria went with him." "The hell you say! That sweet little girl?" Linn chuckled. "That sweet little girl can stick in a saddle like a burr in a coon dog's fur." Pete Smith shook his head, laughed quietly. "Linn," he said, "you've raised some remarkable children." Linn nodded. "Don't I know it!" "How's Marnie doin' clear up on Mars?" "Last I heard, just fine." "How's Jacob these days? I heard he was on detached duty." Linn hesitated, then nodded. "Yep." "Sheriff, you haven't told me how to be a vet and I don't want to tell you how to run your department --" Linn looked at his old friend -- Pete thought the man looked honestly tired -- and replied, "Go ahead and say it, Pete." "Linn, I don't know much about law enforcement, but if Jacob's doin' undercover work ... tell him to be careful, will you?" Linn nodded, grinned. "He'll have to," Linn replied. "He's replacing me one of these fine days."

MICHAEL THE ARCHANGEL Michael frowned as he listened to the Irish Brigade's discussion. He and his Pa used to sit down with maps and identify places they'd been -- Linn had a love for paper maps ("they never run out of batteries!") and a compass (there's one on my cell phone and I don't use it!) -- he and Michael would hunch over the contoured green-white-and-brown sheets, follow trails, roads, identify hills, hollows, run, watercourses, railroad tracks; their maps were waterproofed, and more often than not, carefully hand-inked with corrections or updates. When the map was projected onto the wall-mounted, pull-down screen in the firehouse, Michael stood beside his twin sister and regarded the projected image with solemn eyes. A hiker was lost and presumed injured; there was a known cell-phone-dead-zone where the hiker was last seen, and part of a text managed to get through, enough to indicate trouble and help needed. Victoria looked at the map, looked at her twin brother, raised an eyebrow. Michael's nod was shallow, but it was enough. The Sheriff's pale eyed twins turned, slipped between the search parties assembled: the Sheriff's youngest two children ran home, ran with the ease of the mountain bred, a little boy in polished Wellington boots and a little girl in a denim skirt and saddle shoes: they arrived at home, scarcely out of breath in spite of the altitude, ran upstairs. Angela got into her closet, shrugged into her insulated Carhartt jacket, as it was a little chillier than she'd anticipated, and a fluffy white sweater with pink ribbons was not quite enough to keep her warm: Michael pulled on his own. He waited for his sister to put on a pair of tights, and while he waited, he grabbed a pair of talkies dedicated to special use. He set them both on channel 3, which would communicate with each other, but thanks to Jacob's electronic skills, Michael knew they could go channel 6 and receive the Irish Brigade's common channel, and if absolutely necessary, they could declare an emergency and talk on that frequency as well. Brother and sister had exchanged not one word thus far. They descended the stairs, ran to the barn, into the back pasture. Two pale eyed children of the high mountains, mounted on mountain-bred Appaloosas, clattered down the gravel driveway, across the blacktop road, onto the mountain trail they knew very well indeed, and head up the mountain, toward where the hiker was last supposed to be. A drone hummed into the air, flown by an admitted computer geek: much to the dismay of his parents, instead of putting money into kegs of beer, fast cars and chasing girls, he'd bought a well used ambulance, stripped out the trim and disinfected the interior thoroughly: it had been the project vehicle for the local community college, the engine and transmission were both rebuilt, the electrical system gone over, both alternators rebuilt, new batteries installed: the front suspension, the drivetrain, were all removed, inspected, replaced, all under the watchful eye of both the instructors, and also one of the vehicle's original builders, who'd heard of this project and who'd taken an interest in it. Heater hoses, radiator hoses, vacuum lines, steel brake lines, all replaced: power steering lines, brakes, topmast to keel and stem to stern, what used to be an engine of mercy became a rolling ham radio shack, a computer geek's dream, and when it was backed onto the apron at the firehouse, a shoreline attached, the systems inside came alive and a pencil necked geek looked from one computer screen to another and said, "Showtime!" A yellow tarp was laid out on the concrete apron ahead of the overhauled ambulance with yellow lenses where reds used to live: traffic cones weighted the four corners, caution tape ran from the tops of the traffic cones, in the center of the tarp was a red circle with the letter H hand painted, and on this designated landing zone, a six-motor drone woke up, hummed happily to itself, lifted easily into the thin air. Eddie Smith was less a geeky high school kid and more a part of his setup as he flew straight up, laid in a course for the last known location, watched his drone's flight path on one screen. He hadn't turned on the drone's cameras yet, in order to save precious battery power. A pale eyed deputy twisted the shoreline, pulled the plug free, hung it on its designated hook: the barn doors were rolled aside, cool air rolled in. Dana looked at yellow lettering on the edge of the olive-drab hood -- WILLAMINA, it said -- she set her boot on the step, climbed aboard. "Come on, Jimmy, don't fail me now," she muttered. A moment later, the turbocharged Cummins clattered to life, the turbo whistling happily as Angela eased the big machine out of their barn and accelerated down the drive, down the paved road toward the first rendezvous point. It wasn't the first time he cursed himself for his stupidity. He'd set out by himself on a clear path, he'd stopped to admire the vistas several times, he'd taken some absolutely breathtaking photographs. He had no idea where his camera was now. He'd been swinging the camera to get the very best image before he pressed the shutter release when the path collapsed from under him. He'd traveled most of the way on his backside, but he'd lost the camera: his cell phone had a very little signal, then none at all: his best bet, he reasoned, was to send a text. It took him some time to do this. He was seriously distracted by the agony in his knee, where he'd stopped himself with one foot against the young boulder in his path. He sent the text, sent it again, dropped his head back against damp scree: one hand fumbled at the chain around his neck, the chain he pulled, brought out an oval, silver medal, rubbed it between thumb and fingers. "Saint Michael," he whispered, "get me out of this one!" Michael and Angela rode single file up the narrow path. It was not a path either one wanted to hurry on. Michael was leaned over, studying the path: he saw fresh disturbance, his quick young mind read where waffle stomper soles stopped, turned, likely considering the vista: Michael grew up with it and didn't see anything particularly interesting, and neither did Angela. It wasn't until Michael saw where the ground was soft, where it was fallen away, that his interest was piqued. The Sheriff's pale eyed children drew up, stopped. The path was narrow -- very narrow -- Michael looked ahead, then turned in his saddle to address his twin sis. "There's a flat up ahead," he said, "I think it comes around and back of Robert's Knob --" He felt Apple try to jump, try to twist out of the way, and the path collapsed under him. Michael's teeth clicked together as he realized he and Apple-horse were headed downhill, and God Almighty was about the only thing that could stop them. Angela watched, horrified, as her twin brother and his spotty horse cascaded downhill -- Apple was not quite stiff-legging it, his hind quarters were working, they came out below, on a flat -- Angela blinked. Michael and his Apple-horse were both upright. Michael looked up at his twin sis, waved: "That was fun!" he called, his boyish voice high-pitched, echoing: Angela waved back, then she held up her talkie. "Oh, yeah," Michael breathed as he pulled his talkie free, turned the channel selector. Michael grinned at the fellow lying up against a boulder, a man in shorts and hikers, a man whose knee was swollen and discolored, and his leg at an awkward angle. He squinted up at this rescuing figure that just descended from the heavens on a shining white horse, shading his eyes a little with one hand as he did. "You're Saint Michael?" he asked, surprised. Dana turned up the volume on her radio, frowned, went F6. "Quarter unit, this is Four, say again your traffic." Michael's young voice came over the common fire frequency. "I found him," Michael called. "His knee is hurt but he's alive. Angela is waiting to pop smoke." Eddie Smith looked up at the Sheriff, pointed at one screen. "I've got her," he said. "Let me widen the view." The Sheriff watched as the drone's camera backed away a little, looked downhill. "There. There's a man and a horse ... let me zoom in here." The image enlarged, fast. "Ouch, that knee looks painful." Fitz looked at the impressive array of commo before him. "How do I talk to my guys?" "Red mic, red for fire. F6 your channel. Blue mic for S.O." Fitz picked up the red mike, began directing his troops. Angela pulled the pin on the smoke grenade, stood up in her stirrups, threw it toward the flat Michael indicated right before his equine version of a Nantucket Sleigh Ride. The glorified tin can spun through the air, bounced once, rolled onto the grassy flat and began evolving an impressive red cloud. Angela shaded her eyes, looked up, saw the drone, waved. Dana wheeled the six-by into the flat, stopped: she could see Angela, still mounted, waving from the other side of where the path gave up and slid downhill. Angela dismounted and walked over to the edge, stepping cautiously: the ground was solid here, the footing under her turbocharged prime mover, equally so: men and equipment piled out of the back, a rappel was established: nylon tow straps, pulleys, blocks and line, and Angela used the bumper mounted winch to good effect. A hiker in a rescue basket was hauled up the steep grade. Below him, Michael and Apple-horse picked their way along a game trail, made it back to the narrow path he and his twin sister came off of originally. Victoria and her Apple-horse turned around in their own length, on the narrow path, her sure footed mountain horse dainty as she did: she rejoined Michael and they rode home, unsaddled their horses, turned off their radios and set them back, and were busy with a cut throat game of checkers played on a plank gridded off with a yardstick, a number two lead pencil and a fair degree of precision: washers served for black checkers, hex nuts for red, and when the six-by with WILLAMINA stenciled in yellow along its hood, backed into the barn and shut off, Victoria happily grabbed a hex nut, jumped three of Michael's washers and declared "King me!" A hiker looked at his wrapped leg, listened to the physician's explanation of the x-ray up on the light box: the hospital chaplain, one of the Brethren from the Rabbitville Monastery, stood patiently beside the bed, waited for the medical discussion to end, for the physician to depart. "Padre," the hiker said, gripping the visiting friar's hand, "you won't believe this, but I saw Saint Michael descend from the heavens on a spotted white horse!" Back in the Sheriff's barn, Saint Michael regarded the checkerboard with dismay, looked with juvenile distress at his twin sis and yelled, "No fair! You cheated!"

NOTHIN' SPECIAL I like old horses, Jacob thought. They've got more sense. This one sure as hell has more sense than the man a-ridin' her. Jacob's stallion plodded patiently alongside the aging nag a young man rode into town, a nag that knew her way home, and was headed that-a-way about as fast as she cared to travel ... which really wasn't very fast at all. This suited Jacob. The fellow in the saddle, the younger man riding beside him, very likely had no idea where he was -- chances were fair he didn't even realize he was in his own saddle. Jacob knew well that the young and the inexperienced generally have to get one good drunk on, one genuine High Lonesome of a skull popping, pass-out-in-the-street drunk, in order to understand why it's not wise to drink to excess. Once, and only once in his young life, had Jacob indulged in the distilled spirits: he was smarter than most, and indulged alone, in a line shack, and ended up buck naked, howling at the moon: by his own admission, he hadn't had a morning after, he'd had an entire day after, and that was the last time Jacob drank well indeed but not at all wisely. This young fellow, now ... Jacob genuinely felt sorry for him. He'd been plied with drink after shot after tumbler after bumper after snort after two fingers' worth, for whatever reason the population of the Silver Jewel thought it great sport to supply this agreeable young fellow with the Demon Rum and its related distillates, and by the time Jacob came along, he was busy trying to pour himself over the railing so he could mount his horse -- which was on the other side of the watering trough and well out of reach. All he'd succeeded in doing was getting his Saturday night bath a few days early. Jacob got him out before he drowned, he'd got him dried off at least a little, he'd managed to muscle him up into his own saddle; Jacob rode with him, and now the pair were almost to where a still drunken rider lived with his young wife. Firelands was a town that didn't do a whole lot once the sun started to crowd the Western horizon: people worked hard, they played hard, they slept well at night: one wag was of the opinion that a man could fire a cannon down the main street and roll up the boardwalks as soon as the sun went down, and no one would be in the least bit inconvenienced by it: this was very nearly so. By this gauge, it was rather late by the time the patient old mare plodded into her own pasture. Jacob swung down, ground-reined his Apple-horse: he managed to get his younger counterpart out of the saddle without his hitting the ground (although it was a near thing!) -- Jacob propped the still-damp young fellow against a well-built rail fence, hung his arm over the rail and told him to prop up that fence post with his shoulder so it didn't fall over: given a task, his inebriated brain seized upon this Bounden Duty, and though his mind swam in alcoholic fumes and splashed in an ocean of distilled grain, he managed to shove his shoulder into adz-smoothed timber and prop that rascally fence post up as he'd been told. Jacob unsaddled the mare, rubbed her down, baited her with a scoop of grain: he saw a light, a woman came out an opening door, shaded her eyes to peer more deeply into the dark: "Dirk?" she called hopefully. Now why couldn't I think of his name? Jacob wondered. I knew it and couldn't think of it! Jacob unwound Dirk's arm from over the rail, got it around his shoulders: he spoke quietly to the stumbling sufferer and got a little less than halfway to the plank house when he spun, got behind his young charge, bent him over: Jacob's arm was around Dirk's lean belly and he bent him over. Dirk's stomach had been insulted enough for one day. By Jacob's estimate, the poor fellow heaved up enough contents to account for two weeks of intake: they were fairly near the pump, and so managed to make the pump, Jacob got some water down him: Dirk bent over and heaved this up as well, and Jacob primed him with more from the tin cup, pumped the washpan full. Dirk washed his hands, clumsily, awkwardly, then gripped the pan and shoved his face into the cold water: he came up, blowing, snorting: Jacob thrust a flour sack towel into his hands, and Dirk rubbed his face. Jacob stood behind him, still holding him around the waist, and a good thing, for the deck underfoot was exhibiting a distinct list to starboard, and was also going down by the bow. Another tin cup of water, this one stayed down: Jacob's voice was quiet, reassuring, not quite nonstop, but enough to wake the sobering mind from its staggering stupor. Jacob got the arm around his shoulders again, reached around back of him, gripped the waistband over the opposite hip: awkwardly, haltingly, the two made for the cabin, made for the worried young woman with a lamp in hand, the young woman who stood awkwardly, her pregnant belly thrusting proudly under her apron. Jacob got him inside. Together they got the poor fellow stripped down: Jacob picked him up, laid him on the rope bed's tick mattress, rolled him up on his side and worked a towel under his head, a towel that draped over the edge of the bed into an empty, rinsed-out slop bucket. Dirk honestly passed out after all this, Jacob on one knee beside the bed, his hand warm, strong on Dirk's uphill shoulder. Jacob rose, stepped back, looked at Dirk's wife, who was busy looking embarrassed and uncertain. "He's never done anything like this before," she almost whispered. Jacob nodded, pulled a chair over behind her, eased it up until it just touched the backs of her legs: she sat, hands clasped, worried, between her knees. "He'll feel bad in the mornin'," Jacob murmured: he reached into his coat pocket, handed her a folded paper envelope. "Doc give me this. Mix it in his mornin' water. He'll be dry as a powder horn and he'll slug this down. Point him in a safe direction in case it comes back up in a hurry, but get as much water into him as he'll drink. It helps the big head. The powders will help the bad belly." "Do I mix this" -- she looked at the hand-folded envelope -- "with cold water or hot water?" "Doc said water that's just warm but no more, and follow it with good cold water." Jacob looked at her very pregnant belly. "How close is the baby?" She lay a hand on her belly, looked at her snoring husband. "Any time now," she whispered. "I'll have the Ladies come out," Jacob said quietly. "You shouldn't be alone." She shot him a grateful look, wrung her hands together in distress. "Thank you for not locking him up," she whispered. "He's never done this before." "I know," Jacob nodded. "He's always been sober as the old Judge. Ever'body and their uncle were busy gettin' him drunk and thinkin' it was just such great sport." Jacob rose. She followed him with big, vulnerable eyes. "You're a good man," she whispered. Jacob smiled, almost sadly, shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm nothin' special." Two days later, Jacob's son Michael planted the sawed chunk on the splittin' stump, stepped back. Jacob swung the broad ax, clove the chunk in two: he pulled the ax free, stepped back, waited for Michael to grab one of the halves and set it back on the stump. Both Kellers stopped and looked as Annette came up their driveway at an easy trot -- or rather, as she drove their fine and shining buggy up the drive, for it was their mare that trotted, not Jacob's wife. Jacob leaned the ax against the stump, straightened: Michael stood, grinning, as his Ma drew the chestnut to a stop. "Jacob Keller," Annette said, her eyes dancing with delight, "I'll have you know you've been elevated to sainthood!" Jacob gave her his very best Innocent Expression, which of course fooled her not one little bit -- she as his wife, after all, and wives tend to see right through their husbands' facades. Annette tilted her head a little and regarded father and son, laughed: even at his tender age, Michael even stood like his father. "What in Heaven's name did I do to gain the approval of the Pope?" Jacob asked. "Dirk and his wife send greetings, and they have a fine healthy baby boy named Henry, after Dirk's father." Jacob grinned -- broad, quick, genuine: he remembered how big that poor young woman's belly was, and he'd been honestly afraid she might go a-laborin' while he was still there. "Dirk still has no memory of the night, but his wife took me aside and said to thank you for your kindness." Annette tilted her head again and gave her husband a speculative look. "She's right, by the way." "How's that?" "You are a good man." Jacob walked up, took the mare's cheek strap, rubbed her neck as Annette dismounted. He and young Michael walked the buggy back to the barn and got it backed into its stall, unhitched the mare, rubbed her down and grained her a little, and Michael looked at his father curiously as Jacob muttered, "Honest to God, I'm nothin' special!"

By golly now you've brought another broad and toothy grin to my grandfatherly face! Pickled tink, absolutely delighted and still standing up on my Prayer Bones for you both! (Haven't forgot about Imis. Still naming him too when I talk to God about it!)

THE EIGHT DAY CLOCK Sarah Lynne McKenna snapped her fan shut, slapping her gloved palm loudly and glaring at an unshaven man in a rumpled suit, a broad-shouldered sort out of place in the dining room of a fine hotel. Sarah rose, stood, her closed fan in both hands before her: she held it loosely, almost casually, she lifted her chin. "State your business, sirrah," she said icily. The shoulder-striker glared at her turned a little as if to line up a backhand slap: the sound of a revolving-pistol rolling into full cock froze him. "I'll see you later," he snarled and started to turn. The woman's hands came apart, the fan fell to the floor: his eyes, attracted naturally to movement, followed the fan as it fell: he looked up and saw the woman had a long, slender, almost needle-like blade in hand. "You will see me now, sirrah," she said, her voice low, cold: he forgot, for just a moment, the cocked pistol he heard to his right. He was an enforcer for a crime boss; his world was simple, uncomplicated, basic: when faced with violence, one responded with greater violence, or one withdrew, to do violence another day. He'd been sent to find a woman, and that woman wasn't here -- the woman he wanted had a scar down her face, another across her throat, the woman he wanted wore a face-veil to hide those terrible scars. This woman, though, this woman defied him in public, and he would not stand for that defiance. He was a hand taller than she, well broader across the shoulders, hard-muscled. She would stand no chance, once his hands were on her. He surged forward, expecting her to freeze, as women always did. She did not freeze. He bent eagerly, going for a grab: something hit his hip and then he felt something, a momentarily prick that grew into an utterly blinding, agonizing, paralyzing PAIN -- The floor came up to meet his face -- Someone detonated a sunball of paralyzing, screaming, incinerating AGONY in his tenderloins -- A chair crashed down on the back of his head, his face made intimate contact with the burnished floor: the chair was well-built, and did not break. One could not say as much for his nose, his jaw and one cheekbone, for when a pale-eyed woman in a fine gown seized the dining room chair in her gloved hands, swung it hard and brought it down on the back of her attacker's head, she did not do so in either a gentle manner, nor in a half-hearted manner: no, she swung the chair like she meant it and she hit him with full intent to drive his face through to the cellars below. Sarah Lynne McKenna pulled the slender, needle-like blade from the man's kidneys, lifted his coat tail and wiped the blade on the inside of the material: she splashed a little wine on the coattail, wiped the blade again, slid it into the handle of the dropped fan. A well-dressed woman snapped her fan open, fluttered it delicately, took a well-dressed man's elbow, walked with a queenly gait toward the front door. No one dared impede their progress. Sarah sighed, leaned her head back against the padded headrest: the private car shivered as they started moving, as slack banged out of the couplers, as a pale eyed man in a tailored black suit regarded her with admiration. "Little Sis," Jacob said softly, "I have never seen better!" "You should see me on a good day," Sarah murmured without opening her eyes. "Thank you for kicking him like you did." "It was that or shoot him," Jacob grinned, "and you know how I hate loud noises!" "I ought to have Mama spank you." "What was he all fired up about, anyhow?" "He was looking for that feathered doxy that stole some papers from a crooked councilman." "Will we be receiving a warrant, or maybe they'll send detectives looking for you?" "No," Sarah sighed. "I pay the staff well to see nothing. Besides, the other diners will attest that a woman was set upon by an unwashed brute, she defended herself against a known footpad and street thug." She opened her eyes, gave Jacob a sleepy look. "I saved them the trouble of catching him. He's wanted in two states and a Territory." "You could have claimed any reward on him." Sarah smiled. "That's partly why he was after me. I did collect the reward money, when I stole those papers showing just how crooked the councilman was." "Was?" "The newspapers each received a third of the bundle I stole, along with a whispered suggestion that they can get the content from the other papers to fill out the complete story. By now the headlines will have him run out of office, if only to preserve the Mayor's image." "You don't play fair, do you?" "I never have, Jacob." Sarah opened her eyes, gave her brother a gentle look. "Not after everything that was done to me, no, I don't play fair. I am just a small and weak woman, helpless in the face of outrageous fortune, a defenseless player on the brutal chessboard of a cold and uncaring life." "So you stole from this crooked councilman as well." "He was the one who hired a wanted man. All I did was collect the bounty on the dacoit's head." Jacob Keller's expression was thoughtful: he eventually got up, came over, slipped his arm under his sister's ankles, raised her legs onto the long, padded sofa, worked a pillow under her head. Jacob Keller, pale eyed and unsmiling, moved carefully, silently, as he eased a cupboard open, as he teased a folded blanket from the cupboard, as he draped it carefully over his sister's still form. Jacob's eyes tightened a little at the corners as Sarah cuddled into the velvet upholstery, just a little, as one dainty, gloved hand gripped the edge of the blanket, pulled it in under her chin. It was not uncommon for the Sheriff to have visitors. Most of the time, he knew they were arriving -- most of the time, but not always. Linn removed his Stetson as he came through the door, hung it on its peg, swept the immaculate kitchen with pale and appreciative eyes, looked to his right, hesitated. He did not know the young woman lying on the couch in his study. He did know the young woman sitting in his office chair, reading. Angela looked up, smiled, put a finger to her lips: Linn pulled off his boots, set them in the tray, went over to a cupboard. Angela watched as her father removed a thick quilt, unfolded it: he moved, silent on sock feet, over to the sofa, carefully draped the quilt over the diminutive sleeper's form: he saw her wiggle a little, saw one hand grip the edge of the quilt, draw it under her chin as she cuddled deeper into the couch without waking. Linn turned, catfooted over to his daughter at her beckoning gesture, bent, hands on his knees, his ear close to Angela's lips. "Her name is Betsy," he heard as his daughter's breath tickled the fine hairs on his ears. "She has been through two days of absolute hell and she's wound up like an eight day clock." Linn turned his face toward her, closed one eye, nodded gravely, moved his own lips to his daughter's ear. "There is cold meatloaf and salad," he whispered back, "and I'll heat up the oven for some fries. Less messy than deep frying." He drew back, read the silent Thank you from his daughter's lips, looked at the two nursing caps on the edge of his desk, looked over at the young woman, asleep on his couch. The young Bear Killer lay contentedly beside Angela, looked adoringly up at her, gave a truly huge, tongue-curling yawn, then laid his head down on curly-furred, sinner's-heart-black paws, and went back to sleep. Sarah McKenna woke as the air brakes thumped and hissed beneath them. Jacob was still sitting in the same chair, in the same place: something told her he'd been awake, alert, watchful, for the entire journey home -- though very likely he'd prowled like a pregnant cat while he did, and only seated himself so he'd be where she could see him when she first opened her eyes. Jacob rose: Sarah sat up, gave herself a few moments before rising. Jacob folded the puffy, warm quilt, replaced it in the private car's cupboard, turned. "If you're hungry," he said quietly, "Annette fixes enough to feed a young regiment, you're welcome to supper at my place." Sarah walked slowly over to her brother, hugged him, laid the side of her face against his collar bone: he hugged her to him, felt her warmth, felt her long, deep, sigh. "I'd like that, Jacob," she murmured. "After the last few days I'm wound up like an eight day clock." Jacob rubbed his sister's back but made no other reply.

AND THE ANGEL CRIED The foreman wiped his cheek, saw blood, wet and bright on the back of his work glove. His head was ringing -- his ears were not ringing, no, his entire head rang like a cathedral bell -- he closed his eyes, opened them. If this is hell, I earned it, he thought, and then he began to fight his way through the rubble. It was always hot in the foundry. Now it was hot and the dust hung heavy in the air: he had no idea what blew -- one moment all was as it should be, then he got knocked off his feet -- chunks and fragments of something sailed over him as he landed on the floor -- it took him a long moment to gather wind and strength enough to roll over, to work his way to all fours, then to his feet. The gas, he thought. Got to shut off the gas. His eyes weren't working like they should -- they felt gritty, almost numb. He saw his water jug, still under the table where he'd set it. He unscrewed the spout, tilted his face up, dumped it over his face, into his eyes: he blinked he snorted, he sloshed some around in his mouth, spit, drank, screwed the cap back on the spout. Where was I? What the hell happened? Explosion ... gas ... gotta shut off the gas ... The foreman ignored the steady trickle of blood that ran down his face, down the chest of his singed overalls. Angela Keller, pristine in her nursing whites, was covering complications of pregnancy -- even those ordinary, expected results of a mother who just shed her placenta and was now shivering so hard the siderails of her bed had to be padded, padded as thickly as if she had a seizure disorder: "The placenta is one of the body's most powerful endocrine glands. The sudden loss of its --" The classroom door opened and the hospital's director shoved in. "Whatever you're doing, stop. Everyone get ready to move. Disaster protocol, foundry explosion." Angela's eyes turned pale: she turned to the shocked faces looking at the door, looking at her. "Nurses," she said briskly, "leave your books and your purses, they will be secure here. Bring your field kits, you should have them packed and ready as we discussed at the beginning of the term." One of her students raised a tentative hand: Angela saw how pale she'd become, and Angela knew she had to be their rock, their anchor, their example. "Miss Betsy." "Miss Angela ..." Betsy was the shortest, the slightest built student in the class: she was also the best at patient care, and Angela noticed early in their acquaintance that Betsy had the firsthand knowledge in moving, turning and handling a comatose patient -- not an easy thing at all. "Miss Angela, we're not nurses yet." Angela looked very directly at Betsy, then at the others. Angela lifted her chin and spoke, and she later imagined it was her Gammaw's voice that came out of her throat. "NOW HEAR THIS," she declared, "EFFECTIVE NOW YOU ARE NURSES. YOU WILL BE DOING THE WORK, YOU WILL HAVE THE RESPONSIBILITY. YOU HAVE THE TRAINING AND YOU'VE BEEN DOING PRETTY DAMNED WELL. SADDLE UP!" Angela watched with approval as her dozen students went to the cubbies along one wall, withdrew canvas shoulder bags, slung them over one shoulder and across their bodies. "Nurses," Angela said as she slung her own warbag across her, "with me!" The foreman found a length of heavy tubing -- he had no idea what it used to be, only that it was flattened on one end, torn as if ripped apart by an insane giant -- it was long enough to jam into the wheel valve: with the additional leverage, he got the valve to turn, a little, then more: he withdrew the cheater bar, reinserted it, pulled again: another two tries and the valve was turned far enough he could discard the cheater and grab the wheel with gloved hands and muscle it shut. He hadn't realized how much noise the fire was making until he'd shut the valve, until the fire shrank, shivered, died. He turned, looked deeper into the rubble, flinched as part of a wall fell over. Someone grabbed his shoulder: he turned, saw a familiar face, a man he worked with every day, a man that used to have a beard, a man with singed stubble and what looked like a bad sunburn. The man's mouth moved. The foreman looked at him oddly and the man's mouth moved again. It looked like he was shouting, and finally he made out what his co-worker was trying to say: "Who else is alive?" The foreman looked around, looked back, shook his head. The two waded deeper into the rubble, started digging, started throwing bricks and chunks of hot steel aside. Multiple Irises opened like elliptical mouths outside the foundry, within the fenced, gated property. Men and machines poured out: yellow loaders with black lettering, yellow cranes with black booms, bright-red fire trucks: a flyer was released from its flatbed trailer, launched straight up, began sending high-res images back to the command truck: a yellow bulldozer with CATERPICKLE stenciled along the hood bellowed out of an Iris, exhaust snarling aggressively into the dusty air: it turned, guided by the images from the flyer, stopped. Rigid suction lines were coupled, attached: the tractor started up again, lowered its blade, cut through the chain link fence and made a straight shot for the nearest water: men jogged alongside it, a portable pump was towed into position: the tractor got the line as close to the water as it could, released, turned, backed: chain was run around the line, its end was capped with a strainer basket, two men waded out into the water, grateful for rocky fill underfoot as the crawler advanced the line into the slow moving water. The big empty yard was organized chaos: men, machines, a combination of canvas walls and plastic panel roofs forming up, plastic decking laid down. The field hospital was being assembled, additional transport stood ready to take patients through the appropriate Iris to waiting facilities offworld. A bus pulled up outside the gates, flagged through by the constabulary, a bus that braked to a stop and allowed a baker's dozen nurses to flow out, and through the open gates, toward the field hospital. He found a boot. He dug some more, threw aside chunks of brick, slabs of bricks still mortared together: a leg, then the other leg, a body. The foreman knelt, bent closer, squinted. "Charlie!" His voice was faint, far away, though he felt himself shouting. "Charlie!" He looked up. Men were running toward him -- men in unfamiliar suits, but men with the grim look he'd seen before. He raised a summoning arm. Angela was everywhere at once: she was a steadying hand on a young shoulder, she was a moment's encouragement as young hands wrapped a blood pressure cuff around a filthied or bloodied arm, as another listened to a chest, nodded. Betsy was busy with shears, stripping a man quickly, efficiently: stainless steel chattered through dust-filthied work pants, she put both hands on the shears and muscled through the worn belt, then up the side seam of the shirt. Angela moved on to the next table just as a stretcher was set on it: her fingers told her what her eyes already knew: practiced fingers found the Adam's apple, dropped into the carotid groove, pressed, held: she closed her eyes, counted to ten: she whipped the stethoscope from around her neck, listened to the unmoving chest, then shook her head: a black tag was tied on, the stretcher carried to another tent. Angela turned, looked back at Betsy. She saw her most tentative, her least certain student, already had oxygen on her patient: Betsy stripped open a foil pack of vaseline gauze, saw her set the gauze, still on half the opened package, aside: she pressed the vaseline side of the foil packaging against the bubbling hole in the man's chest, watched as she taped it on three sides -- both sides, and the top, leaving the bottom unsecured -- then seized the patient at belt and shoulder and rolled him up on his injured side. Angela came around the other side of the table, pressed the bell of her stethoscope against the man's chest -- high, then low -- looked at Betsy, smiled just a little, nodded. A teacher's greatest delight is to see that light that comes in a student's face when they grasp a lesson that had been just beyond their grasp. When Betsy saw Angela's look of approval, Angela saw that same realization in her student's face. Angela made a mental note to have Betsy present before her class, on the use of a one way flutter valve, when the patient has sustained a penetrating chest wound. The disaster response team moved with the practiced efficiency of men who knew their work, and did it well. Technology unknown on this world was used to locate survivors; offworld devices hoisted or vaporized rubble in order to remove the injured, and after the survivors, the bodies. Through it all, a dozen plus one in winged caps, their hands busy, their faces serious: they were young, they were determined, they were handmaidens of life, handmaidens of death: not all that were retrieved, could be saved. Physicians there were, yes; surgeons, both male and female, technicians and technologists, but of all these, it was the nurses the injured men remembered. One man, half his face burned, one eye destroyed, a man beyond pain, looked at the smallest of these women in white winged caps: with the last of his strength, he asked, "Are you an angel?" and his hand closed around her wrist, gently, and then relaxed, and she felt the soul leave his body as his last breath sighed out, and was gone. Betsy was not the only one there who shed tears that day, but hers was the picture that made the newspapers on ten worlds: as she bent over a man, as her face crumpled and her tears dropped on his burned face, the shutter tripped, the picture appeared above the caption: "And The Angel Cried."

Now by golly this is good news and thank you for passing it along! Many's the time I've seen people benefit from being back under their own roof! (Among other things ... the company's generally better, the cookin' is almost always better and the beds are more comfortable!)

RADIOLOGY Sheriff Linn Keller was flat on his back on a padded table, a long foam wedge under his knees taking the discomfort from his lower back: the radioographer rubbed the inside of his forearm with something wet and almost cold, tilted her head like a vulture considering a particularly appetizing carcass. "You look stressed," Linn said gently. "One of those days?" "Honey, it was one of those days before twelve o'clock," she sighed: somewhere between "one of those days" and her sigh, the IV went into Linn's vein, easily, smoothly: he felt the cold as she flushed with saline, he smiled a little as she carefully secured the IV site. "Now remember," she cautioned, "when the contrast hits you, you'll feel flushed." "Like I wet myself," Linn grinned, and the tech laid gentle fingertips on his shoulder, bent closer, said confidentially "I wasn't going to say that," and giggled all the way back to her control booth. The scan was quick and uneventful: when the Sheriff left the hospital, he had a green cling wrap holding the folded gauze on the IV site -- he thought to himself the tech used green because she thought he was Irish, then he thought she thought he was Irish because he was full of blarney, then he remembered what he'd been very recently told he was full of, and considered that maybe that was the case after all. He went over the results with his daughter, the nurse: she looked at the results of the most recent scan, she took another look at his bloodwork, she pulled out a dainty little set of wire rimmed spectacles, placed them well down on her nose and glared at him overtop the wire rims, wiggling her nose like a bunny rabbit. "I suppose you're going to give me hell now," he said, and Dana could hear the smile in her Daddy's voice. "The scan shows everything is stable and has been for the past five years. That means you stay healthy and don't get yourself killed or I'll never speak to you again!" "Is that kind of like your Mama telling me I'm not to die before her?" "Dad-deee," Angela said, a warning note in her voice, "you have to give me away in marriage, remember?" Linn nodded. "I remember." "Now. Your blood work. You, my dear Sheriff, are a remarkably healthy man who needs to eat more blueberries and walnuts." "I just happen to like both." "Good. That makes it easier. And you have to eat more broccoli." "Don't push it." "Okay, we'll find something else. Alfalfa maybe." "Alfalfa's a legume. I'll eat peanuts. Peanut butter and jelly sammitches. Peanut butter chocolate sauce over ice cream with crushed walnuts." Angela raised spread fingers to the ceilling, shook her head. "O Lord," she begged, "is this man always so obstinate?" "Only when I'm refusing to take myself seriously!" Linn grinned. "Daddy, your heart has a slight enlargement and there's a slight enlargement to your ascending aorta. These have remained stable for the past five years. You have a cyst on your liver that remains unchanged. So far, nothing to run screaming from the room waving your arms over your head." "Yeah, that's what I said after the scan. The tech didn't run screaming from the control room so I knew there was nothing spectacularly bad on her screen." "Did you ask if she saw anything?" "I asked if she saw a spare set of keys." Angela looked at her Daddy over her spectacles -- again -- and gave a dramatic, exaggerated sigh. "I did not ask what she saw. I know they scan but they can't diagnose." Angela nodded. "People think the X-ray tech can tell them something right away." "No. I've listened to too many techs complain about that very thing. I'm not about to task them with anything of the kind." Linn looked at his daughter. "More blueberries and walnuts?" Angela nodded. "And peanuts." "Peanuts won't hurt." "Peanut butter and blueberry jelly sandwiches." "Daddy," Angela warned, shaking her Mommy-finger at him, "you are incorrigible!' "I also have an appetite for a banana split and I'm buyin'!" Angela rose as her father did: "Okay," she said, pretending to reluctance, "but only in the interest of dietary anti-oxidants, isoflavones and necessary nutrients found in fresh fruits, chocolate and tree nuts!" "Nothing but the best," Linn said solemnly, offering his daughter his elbow.

(admiring whistle) I do love a good double gun!

"I GOT SKILLS!" Michael looked up at his Pa. The two were sitting back in the Lawman's Corner, just the two of them, a pale eyed father and his pale eyed, eight year old son. It was unusually warm -- the air was chill and uncharacteristically damp, but warmer than average this high up -- father and son were working steadily on their meal, listening to the talk around them. Michael learned early and well from his Pa, the way children do -- imitation, and observation, far more than didactic instruction -- Michael saw his Pa's eyes lift, he saw the look of disapproval at the voices from the nearest booth -- two elderly women, one of whom could not find any favor in what she'd been brought. Michael recalled his Pa ordered blue cheese dressing with his salad. His Pa never said a word when the waitress set his salad down and said "Thousand Island dressing." Michael looked at his Pa, and his Pa closed one eye: at this silent, fatherly instruction, Michael held his question. The two worked steadily through their platesful of chopped sirloin, taters and gravy, salad: Linn tore his roll apart, grinned at his son. "It's not polite to mop up your gravy," he said quietly as he mopped up his gravy, "but this is good enough I'm making an exception!" Michael had already eaten his, elsewise he'd have done the same: Linn leaned back as the waitress came over, and Michael paid close attention when his Pa addressed the harried-looking hash slinger. "You're havin' one of those days," he said -- a statement, not a question -- the waitress gave him a grateful look and nodded. "Kind of figured you were," Linn said quietly. "Dessert?" the waitress asked, or rather gasped, as she picked up the stacked plates and utensils. "If you'd have any pecan pie?" Linn asked hopefully, and the waitress look crushed. "No, I'm sorry," she honestly moaned. "We're out of peanut butter, out of peach, demand for pie comes and goes and we're nearly out" -- she looked at Michael -- "but we have chocolate!" Linn looked at his son. "Sound good to you?" Michael's head turned toward the wall, his young hand pressed against the cool wood lining their corner, felt it shiver a little. "Be damned," Linn murmured. "Thunder. Didn't think that was comin' til this afternoon." Michael looked back. "Yes, sir. Chocolate sounds good." "Two of 'em, please?" Linn asked with a gentle voice and a gentle smile: the waitress nodded, picked up the stack, headed for the kitchen. Linn leaned over the table toward his son, and Michael leaned over toward his Pa. "Michael," Linn said gently, "did you hear those women behind you?" "Yes, sir." "You recall how they just complained to high heaven?" "Yes, sir." "Michael, those kind of people are not happy with anything. They'll complain if they were hanged with a new rope, to quote the Duchess." Michael had no idea who the Duchess was, but he added this new phrase to his young and growing vocabulary. The waitress came back, a distressed look on her face: she set down a fresh glass of sweet tea for Michael, refilled the Sheriff's coffee: "I am so sorry," she said, "but we're clear out of chocolate. All we have left is cherry!" Michael was only eight years old, but Michael was observant, and although Michael did not realize the full implications of what he saw, he realized that his Pa put this poor distressed soul at ease when he said, "Just so happens cherry is my favorite." "Warmed up, with ice cream?" "Yes ma'am, two of 'em if we could please." Michael remembered this meal, in the Silver Jewel, when it was just he and his Pa: it was a good memory he carried into his adult years, and when he sat with his own son in just such a place, he too had occasion to teach his young protege by virtue of the living example of his own life. Michael was reminded multiple times through his life, however, by his pale eyed Pa speaking a favorite memory: after they'd finished their pie and ice cream, after Linn paid the bill and the two stepped out under the roof overhanging the boardwalk, they held station as heavy clouds gave up trying to hold their payload, and the fat, thick, heavy, COLD cascade fell in sheets from the heavens, punishing the pavement and soaking the unwary. "Michael," Linn said, "I can bring up the Jeep so you don't get too wet." "Nah, I can swim," Michael said offhandedly, then grinned up at his Pa. "I got skills!"

That funny cackle in the distance was me laughing at your description of the Rubber Chicken Sandwich and other food related comments. Yep, used to work in a Horse Pistol, and you're absolutely right, it's that bad! Still standing up on my knees for the both of you and for Imis as well. Never thought of using Vegemite for a rubber patch. Buddy of mine said he used to spread Vegemite on the footbed of his Teva sandals to keep them from smelling bad, something about the acidity in the spread. I asked him if he'd ever heard of soap and water and a scrub brush. He threw one of 'em at me (not the one with Vegemite!)