Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

According to (*ahem*) "A Certain Three Letter Government Agency" (*ahem*), the one thing more American fear -- over and above an IRS audit, a root canal, or a used car salesman, is ... (drum roll please) PUBLIC SPEAKING!!! Not at all rare, my wife is an excellent one-on-one teacher, but put her in front of a group and she freezes, as in marble statue, as in mind jumps out the nearest window with a parachute. We see a lesser version of this when the timer goes BEEEP and suddenly we can't remember which order to shoot the plates. Not at all a rare condition!

The lovely and esteemed Miz Fannie Kikinshoot (a blessing on her name!) expressed her strong dislike of those ssscaly ssslithering ssserpentsss ... I am content to leave them on their island, alone, undisturbed by my cautious and standoffish self!

... again, my apologies for what was obviously my screw-up ... trust me, I can get in trouble just settin' in my easy chair ...

Ambassador Marnie Keller rose abruptly. The table was small enough to be intimate, large enough to be formal: she sat with two men, alone in a conference room. Two governments contested over what each insisted were important matters, each government stubbornly head-butted with the other, the Confederacy was asked to send an arbiter, and they'd each mutually aired their grievances when the Ambassador stood -- without warning, abruptly, her eyes suddenly very pale, her face serious. She projected a hologram onto the table before them. It was her brother. "Ambassador, this is the Sheriff," Jacob said formally, "we have a situation." "State your situation," she replied crisply, her voice businesslike, her face growing more pale as she spoke. "Your son is driving a mine rescue vehicle into a mine cave-in. We have a group of grade school children trapped, unknown casualties. I am routing Rescue in behind the collapse but after the earthquake we just had, there are no guarantees they'll be able to make it." Marnie closed her eyes for a long moment, opened them to see Littlejohn's determined face, distorted a little by the mine locomotive's camera: the contrast between the Spartan and industrial interior of the vehicle, and the youth and slight stature of its driver, made the image more shocking. One of the men, seated at the table, stared at Littlejohn's determined but very young face, whispered "He's about my son's age." Two men locked eyes as the other said "I have children," and swallowed. Marnie said "Keep me informed," collapsed the hologram. "Gentlemen, I must go." They both rose and spoke with a spontaneous but united voice. "How can we help?" Littlejohn braked hard, the trailing cars ramming forward a quarter-inch apiece, slack in their couplers giving them just enough momentum to jar him a little and BANG BANG BANG surprisingly loud in the dust-thick mineshaft. Littlejohn frowned, studied the control panel: he tried one switch, another: floodlights he wished he'd had earlier seared the tunnel in a harsh illumination. Another switch. A recessed spotlight behind its armored cage rotated, shone on the pile: he steered it up, across. There's a hole, he thought. I can get through that. He looked around again, snatched a pair of gloves -- too big. They'd have to do. Tools? he thought, frowning: seeing none, he swung down, ran forward, scrambled up the pile of busted rock and sandy soil. He pulled off his gloves, keyed his wrist-unit's light, wiggled through the little gap near the ceiling, slithering on his belly like a snake, sincerely regretting he was wearing schoolboy shorts and T-shirt. Jacob moved coordinating operations to the auxiliary station in the common room. Families gathered: the entire colony shook with the planet-wide temblor, something very unusual on this normally-stable world. Jacob projected a hologram into the middle of the Common, big enough for him and everyone else to see. He projected another image-panel: Littlejohn was digging his way up the collapsed pile, toward an elliptical black hole near the top of the pile: their last sight of him were sneaker soles kicking as he worked through, as he disappeared into whatever was on the other side. "Mine Rescue Team Two, report progress." "Proceeding East on the intercept tunnel," came a man's confident voice. "We have Medical on speeders behind you." "Roger that." Pause. The holographic green line that was the second rescue team slowed, stopped. "Control, Mine Two, we're collapsed here. Backing to a spur so the digger can move in and stabilize." An anonymous hand closed on Jacob's shoulder: he reached up blindly, laid his hand firmly on a man's knuckles. He had no idea if the hand belonged to a miner, a father, or a colonist. He did know that their young were in that collapse, somewhere, and in that moment, every one of them was a parent. An Iris opened in dusty darkness. Men experienced in such matters turned on twin helmet lights, breathed easily through filtered masks. They worked silently. No conversation was needed. Heads tilted back, examined the overhead, looked at the pile. Shovels, pry bars, picks and gloved hands assaulted the incarcerating cave-in. Littlejohn breathed slowly, through his nose. Dust hung thick in the air. He slid down the scree on his belly, genuinely regretting his choice of attire, though in fairness, all he'd expected to do was go to school and sit in a classroom, and then go to his father's clinic and practice suturing again. He found children -- dusty, shocked, silent: he looked around, swung his light slowly, searching. "Where's the teacher?" he asked. "We don't know," someone replied, then coughed. "Who's Second?" "Abraham." "Abraham, report," Littlejohn called, searching. One of the schoolboys stepped forward, blinking against the thick dust, raised a glowing tablet, tapped it a few times. "Call the roll," Littljohn said quietly, giving the children some structure: as Abraham called names, they fell into line. Three were missing, and the teacher. Littlejohn frowned at his wrist-unit, wishing it was a more adult model -- he could have used an adult's scanner function -- "Where was she when this caved in?" Littlejohn asked. "We were here, I think ... she was gathering us together when the ground shook and then it all fell in and she's gone," a little voice said quietly -- there were no tears, there was no panic, just uncertainty. Littlejohn pointed up at the hole he'd slithered through. "We can get you out through there," he said. "One at a time." "What about the teacher and the others?" "We'll find them," Littlejohn said grimly. "Right now we have to get all of you to safety." A rock fell, then a hiss of loose dirt. "There might be aftershocks," Littlejohn said quietly, looking around. "Has anyone looked down-tunnel?" "It's dark," a frightened young voice said. Littlejohn considered. The fractured ground above was weak and could cave in again, but he had to get them out -- they could go deeper into the mine, but the cave-in was where rescue would start -- His Grampa Linn's voice whispered in his memory. Sometimes you have to do something, even if it's wrong. "We're getting out of here," he said decisively, "the way I came in. Stay in line. First one, climb up here with me. Tail End Charlie, keep watch down-shaft, listen for any cave-in further down." Littlejohn, not much shy of ten years old, scrambled up a pile of broken rock and sandy dirt, a classmate clawing his way up beside him. Two schoolboys began digging at the small opening, enlarging it enough to get through, letting more light into the dusty confinement. "Mars Control, this is Team Two." A pause. "Team Two, identify," Jacob said, puzzled: he looked at his deputy, frowned. "Who in the hell is Team Two?" "Marnie sent us," the unfamiliar voice replied, and Jacob's eyebrows raised. "I should have expected that," he muttered. "Team Two, go ahead." "We're clearing a second cave-in. It's not much. We should be through in a few minutes. Status on your victims." "Status unknown. Waiting for report." He clicked the mic twice. "Littlejohn, what is your status?" Littlejohn pushed against his classmate's shoe soles, shoved him through: a schoolboy rolled down the dirt and rocks into blinding light, then strong hands grabbed him, pulled him carefully upright. Littlejohn's face was momentarily in the dusty ellipse. "Reverse airflow," he called, "it's hard to breathe in here!" -- then he drew back, and was gone. A miner swung back into the cab of his tractor, keyed in a command: it took a few moments for the air handlers to stop, then reverse, but when they did, they began pushing clean air through the hole the first rescued child came through. Men worked silently, grimly. They'd mined on their respective worlds. They knew cave-ins. On their worlds, the strata were prone to fall in broad, flat, incredibly heavy layers -- swift, silent, no warning, just crushing death. Digging at sandy, unstable soil, at crushed, shattered rock, gave them a great feeling of unease: they kept looking up, as if expecting the fatal inverted funnel above them to let go again and bury them. For all their discomfiture, they worked steadily and without complaint. This cave-in was not as serious as the one where they were headed. Marnie looked up at the two representatives, still seated, watching the holographic image on the table between them. Both men stared, silent, watching live-feed images from miners' cameras, from the stationary locomotive Littlejohn initially drove down-shaft. Then they saw it. A little boy, hair dirty, face dust-smeared: hands, then head and shoulders, then he shot through, skidded down the pile. Broad-shouldered men in canvas mine coveralls blocked the camera for a moment, then the image swung, froze. A little boy, big-eyed, looking into the camera ... ... alive ... The excavator operated on advanced principles never seen in any Earthside excavation. A force-lance drove through the cave-in at its base, widened: dirt was picked up for the width of the tunnel, hoisted all of the width of a man's fingernail. The entire caved-in mass was enveloped. It was disassembled at the subatomic level, reassembled into something at quarter-density -- instead of pure Crush, where orbiting electrons were crushed into nuclei, creating the densest possible element, this was only one-quarter as dense: it was formed into hexagonal tubes, it was fashioned into a broad arch, far more than capable of supporting the entire weight of planetary mass above. They advanced steadily, creating a hex-tube wall ten meters thick, an archway they walked through as if passing through a clean-swept pedestrian tunnel with smooth walls. Littlejohn helped the smallest children up the pile, boosting them with hands and with encouragement: one by one, he got them out, pausing each time, eyes closed, taking in a precious breath of clean, dust free air before ducking back into the thick air inside. Tail End Charlie was a little girl who'd started her morning in a brand new white T-shirt with a big green frog on the front and the words KISS ME above and below. Now her T-shirt was dirt brown and so was her once-cornsilk hair. She turned and looked at Joseph. "You're the last one," Joseph said, "let's get out of here!" "We're not alone," she said, and pointed down-shaft. Littlejohn shot his wrist-light down into the darkness. Lights -- clusters of three lights, moving a little, approaching. "I SEE A LIGHT!" Men advanced at a run, heavy boots pounding the dirt as they ran. They saw a little girl, a skinny boy, an empty chamber, a pile of rubble and light and clean air coming in an elliptical hole near the ceiling. One man peeled off his mask and helmet. "Is anyone missing?" he asked. "The teacher," Littlejohn said in a serious young voice, "and three students." The man turned. "Scanners," he said, and two men surged forward, glowing devices in their hands. Transport cars shot up-shaft at illegal speeds, running each rescued child to Medical, then returning just as swiftly: one by one parents hugged, then ran for Medical as their child was identified, was declared safe. Finally only teachers and a very few parents remained, watching solemnly as men experienced at such matters, dug where their scanners told them to dig. They uncovered a hand, then a snatch of pastel material -- Jacob's hands closed into fists and he closed his eyes, took a long, silent breath. The hand on his shoulder was long gone, departed for Medical to be with his child, Jacob had no real idea which one, and he didn't care. He waited, silent, unmoving, watching as men seized rocks and rolled or threw them aside, as dirt was cleared. He looked at another image -- movement, as a surprised miner turned -- "I heard something," a voice said. The camera's image was unsteady, as if its wearer was advancing -- The image jerked again, and this time a man's voice, a full SHOUT -- "I FOUND 'EM! THEY'RE ALIVE!" A miner squatted in dusty darkness, gathered two scared schoolkids into his arms, stood, ran for his fellows, a third child gripping his hip pocket and running to keep up. Jacob threw his head back, took a quick breath, and talked to God about it. Ambassador Marnie Keller watched two men as they stood, as they faced one another, as they shook hands. Her final report would involve having shown these rescue operations to both governments' ruling bodies, and how both governments realized they were stronger together than apart. The teacher was Irised to an offworld hospital -- her injuries were serious, but with advanced care, survivable -- she would not be returning to duty for some time, but she was alive to complain about it. And when Littlejohn walked into Medical, filthy, knees and elbows skinned, coughing up dirt and shedding sand as he walked, he stopped and looked sadly at his father and said, "I ruined my T-shirt!"

... oops, glitch ... ... typical computer related problem ... ... mechanical in nature ... ... something to do with the loose nut operating the keyboard ... ... let's see if we can pick this back up ...

SNAKEHIPS Littlejohn was in class. He sat, relaxed, a boy in shorts and a T-shirt with a Fanghorn on the front, a rearing, fanged, blood-muzzled predator wearing a bright-green Derby hat and the words beneath, "I'LL HAVE ANOTHER BEER!" Littlejohn was tall and lean -- he wasn't the tall-and-skinny of Mars-normal gravity, he spent as much time as he could in earth-and-a-quarter gravity, guaranteeing his physiology would remain as Earth-normal as possible. In his younger years he complained about the extra work it made for him -- children are naturally lazy creatures, in many cases, and Littlejohn was no exception -- but when he saw the agonies of fellow Martians suffering the internal tortures of kidney stones, when his father explained quietly as he removed the stones with quantum-phased forceps that reached through living tissue as if it was not there, gripped the offending, often microscopic calculi, and extracted them without making an incision, "The human body is designed for Earth gravity, John. Mars gravity doesn't stress the bones enough and they shed calcium, and the body gets rid of extra calcium through the kidneys." He dropped the offending calculus on a microscope slide and Littlejohn examined it, startled at how aggressively spiked it was. He saw just how badly grown men hurt when attacked from within, and suddenly the young son of a Martian physician, had no further objection to living in Earth-and-a-quarter gravity. The classroom was in Mars-normal gravity. Littlejohn sat cross-legged, eyes closed, the learning helmet making him look like he was sitting under a 1950s hair dryer. He'd exceeded the education necessary for a bachelor's degree; he was, for all intents and purposes, in a greatly improved version of medical school, thanks to reverse engineered alien technology (and in this case, modifying what had been used as straight-up implements of torture, used on abducted, uncooperative humans back during the Taking -- implements that injected red agony directly into human brains, rather than the learning the aliens intended to impart) Littlejohn breathed easily, absorbing information with his usual speed, when the floor shivered under his backside. He sat on a thick-folded saddleblanket -- he'd asked his Grampa Linn if he could have it, and he still smiled a little when he remembered how his Granddad grinned when he handed him the horse-smelling, hair-covered, red-and-black-striped saddle blanket: his Mama wanted to launder it, and Littlejohn wouldn't let her, because the smell reminded him of how it felt to ride his Grampa's horses, how it felt to be a giant on the earth, carried as swift as the wind itself on a hard-charging Appaloosa stallion. Littlejohn's eyes snapped open and his hands tightened on his bare knees as he fought to transition from a detailed, immersive study of the mesenteric arterial system, and the sudden, disorienting return to his suddenly-darkened classroom. Emergency lights snapped on, as did wall-reinforcing structural containment fields. Littlejohn realized he was hearing a bugle. General Quarters, he thought as he took a long, steadying breath, as he counseled his young body to calm: All hands, battle stations! His classmates had been in the usual variety of states when learning: some were building physical representations of their geometry lessons, others were wearing the hair dryer looking apparatus, directly absorbing college level instruction; a few were seated in a semicircular group, discussing the books they'd been reading with their attentively-listening teacher. Littlejohn looked around as his fellow students calmly closed their screens or their books, as they looked to their teacher, waiting. Littlejohn did not wait. He bent his wrist, keyed in a command. A holographic projection appeared ahead of him: it was polarized, only he could see it. Earthquake, he thought. Not an attack. Safe here. He sent his Mama a quick all's-well from his location, opened the hologram and shifted its display. Part of his mind registered the teacher clapping her hands twice, her classroom signal to pay attention: Littlejohn studied the display before him with part of his mind, while another part heard the schoolteacher announce that she was not sure quite what happened, but they would remain here, that they were perfectly safe in this classroom. Littlejohn leaned forward a little, his expression intent. "Miss Mapes," he called, his hand in the air, "Group Seven is on a mine-tour field trip." Miss Mapes looked at Littlejohn, her expression going from motherly reassurance to reminded concern: her eyes widened, her hand came up to cup her mouth. Littlejohn stood easily, strode with all the boldness of a ten-year-old on a mission toward the now-sealed classroom door: he keyed an override code into his wrist-unit as he moved, the door snapped open at his approach, shut firmly and hissed into a seal behind him. Sheriff Jacob Keller mobilized his troops. The very first thing he did was hit the panic button -- it was red, plastic, big around as a tea saucer, wall mounted, with the word PANIC in bright yellow letters on its smooth, domed surface: it was the General Quarters alert, followed by his confident voice chanted into the old-fashioned, curly-cord mic: "General Quarters, General Quarters, this is not a drill, this is not a drill." He turned to his screen, fingers pattering quickly on the screen. The temblor was sizable, significant, damaging: Jacob ordered diagnostics on the underground railroad, on the honeycomb of tunnels that connected the Mars colony underground: he considered rooms and hallways were fabricated by melting rock, compressing it with a triple-layered honeycomb structure, suitable for holding incredible weight: melted substrate was compressed to impossible degrees, rendering the material far denser than its original state. Between density and the honeycomb structure, their corridors, the train's tunnel, their living, meeting, working and educational structures, were proof against stresses, intentionally strong enough to withstand serious tectonic activity. Jacob considered the increase in stress on particular sections. "Sector Seven, Sector Seven. All hands, avoid corridor seven two five one, structural failure imminent, stand by containment fields. Subhabitat seven romeo, evacuate, evacuate, evacuate. Damage control to sector seven, stand by for catastrophic structural failure." Littlejohn ran as only an adrenalized ten year old can run. The mine's entrance was abandoned, the duty shift having already evacuated to reinforced shelter. He climbed into the shuttle, powered up, his wrist-unit bypassing all lockout authorizations. He keyed in a command and two troop carriers were mag-levitated into engagement behind him. If I can find them, Littlejohn thought, I'll have to get them out safely. His young hands closed on man-sized controls, he reached his ten year old foot down and mashed the rectangular throttle pedal. Lights blazed from the yellow-and-black-striped, locomotive-shaped shuttle, and he shot down the tunnel. "Mine Rescue shuttle, Sheriff One," Jacob called, frowning at his screen. Littlejohn appeared -- of all the people on Mars, Littlejohn was absolutely not one he'd expected to see. "Cave-in down here," Littlejohn said, young eyes intent on the cone of concentrated light shoving the dark away from

A CLEVER FAKE A very proper young woman in a McKenna gown sat behind the Judge's desk, in his private car. Her spectacles were halfway down her nose, as was proper for the era; she was reading a small book, holding it daintily in gloved hands, the very image of period-authentic femininity. She did not look up as she heard the skeleton key thrust into the lock, as she heard the greased lock mechanism turn, as she heard the door open, as sunlight brightened the private car's interior. Father, mother, and active young son waited for the uniformed porter to swing the door wide open, then step back: they advanced, tentatively, looking around at velvet curtains and pillows, at the tidy sofa that doubled as a narrow bed, and they stared openly at the young woman seated behind the desk, appearing as much a part of the furnishings as the ornate crown molding or scrollwork window trim. The mother's expression betrayed her surprise. She'd expected the interior of the private car to smell ... musty, dusty, disused, stale -- she'd expected dust, neglect, frayed cushions, faded upholstery. She was not expecting it to look ... well, clean. Her son raised a phone, turned, grinned at his image on the screen, thumbed a selfie. Sheriff Linn Keller rode as he always did -- as if he were part of his stallion, as if he and the horse were one creature -- he touched his hat-brim when the tourist family looked like they had a question, and the delighted little boy caressed Apple-horse's shoulder as his mother asked whether the Sheriff ever heard stories or rumors of someplace in town being haunted. "Yes, ma'am," he said, "this whole territory is haunted" -- he thrust a chin at the Judge's private car, with a boxcar separating it from the passenger car -- "we have to keep the Judge's car locked to keep ghost hunters out. It got so bad they'd try holding a seance on the floor and spill wax on the rugs, they stole lamps and doorknobs, so we had to give up and just lock it." The tourists, of course, wished to see inside, and they were only a few steps from where they could buy tickets for the seasonal train rides so popular with visitors: the Sheriff leaned down to speak quietly with conductor and porter, who each nodded, and so it was that an adventurous little family from back East was given access to the Honorable Judge Donald Hostetler's private railcar. When the train pulled out, the Sheriff and his stallion were in the stock car: first run of the day was to Carbon Hill, where the Sheriff had business. The family rode in the private car and were soon joined by the Sheriff: for some odd reason, they did not feel comfortable addressing the silent, very proper young woman in the McKenna gown, seated behind the Judge's desk, but the Sheriff brought an boyishly engaging grin with him, and soon he was being asked about the history of the area they'd be visiting. "Carbon Hill," the Sheriff explained, "had a minor boom in coal mining. It's wet coal, brown coal, there's still a very little mining going on, but not much. Carbon has been restored for the tourist trade, and yes" -- he winked at the mother -- "they have ghosts." "What kind of ghosts?" the little boy asked, big eyed and eager. "Nothing scary," the Sheriff said. "My wife met one over there when she was in high school." "She did?" The Sheriff nodded. Shelly Crane folded her arms and glared out the door. She could barely see out the barred window of the iron box that served as Carbon Hill's jail. Railroads of the era would donate a metal box to its whistle stop towns, to serve as the town jail: the door was either all barred, or was boilerplate sheet metal with a barred window. There was commonly one barred window toward the back, somewhere high above the hole in the floor that served as the communal toilet. Dark, airless, roasting in summer and freezing in winter, this small prison was too much bother to break up and haul off for scrap, and so it still stood when Shelly made the mistake of getting in a car with a few other cheerleaders and the high school quarterback. They came over to Carbon "so I can be alone with my girl," and when the jock tried to put the moves on Shelly, she backhanded him a good one. He grabbed her by her ponytails, dragged her out of the car, shoved her in the old cell, shouldered the door shut -- he looked down, found the old padlock, ran it through the staple, pushed it shut -- he glared at her, went back to the convertible, and Shelly was left, alone, locked in the reportedly haunted prison box as a carload of classmates she thought were her friends, laughed and drove away. She did not waste time or energy shaking a solid door; she lacked a source of light, she lacked any tool to help herself escape. She listened to the silence, turned, looked across the interior, eyes busy. No ghosts, she thought, listening to the night, listening hopefully for the sound of a car stopping, turning around, returning. A half hour later she gave up listening. She glared out the little window, wondering how long it would take someone to come over here. Nobody lived in Carbon anymore, there were no businesses -- she'd heard talk of restoring a few buildings for the tourist trade. Someone will come, she thought, closing her crossed-arm hands into fists. She heard hoofbeats, lifted her head curiously -- A horse? She stared, mouth open, as a man in a black suit, a man with a curled handlebar of an iron grey mustache, came down the street, his Appaloosa stallion at a spanking trot. She recognized the man. It must've been the light -- no, not the light -- that's not -- Willamina is Sheriff. That looks like her twin brother Will. I never saw Will in a black suit before. Or a Stetson! She watched him stop, saw him turn his spotty horse and she felt him look at her. His eyes were shadowed by his hat brim -- she could not see his eyes at all, but then moonlight is a tricky thing -- he rode up to the box, dismounted, reached in and gripped her hand gently, and said in a deep and reassuring voice, "I'll bet you'd like to get out of there." Shelly swallowed, nodded, not trusting her voice, grateful for the feel of his strong, reassuring, callused hand. He found the key -- she told him Everett, the football jock, picked up the lock from the ground and locked her in because she slapped him for being improper -- the pale eyed man with the iron grey mustache bent and she heard the swish of leaves brushed aside -- He straightened, she heard the sound of a lock releasing, he drew the door open for her. "Folks tell me I'm just the very image of the second Sheriff of Firelands County," Linn said. "Just between us here and the fence post, I still think 'twas the ghost of Old Pale Eyes himself that let my wife out of that iron box." "Did you ever take her back to the box ... you know, just to look at it?" Linn gave the tourist family his very best, big-eyed, Innocent Expression: "I'd not dare," he said, fabricated dread exaggerating the moment, "she'd likely pick the thing up and beat me about the head and shoulders with it!" When they arrived in Carbon, the Sheriff was met by a grinning boy running out from behind the Saloon with a bail-capped bottle, sweating-cold: he ran up to the Sheriff, who thanked him gravely, flipped the bail and tilted the bottle up, draining it: he thanked the urchin, turned and looked to the other side of the street. "That young fella," he said, "would likely be pleased with a good cold Sarsaparilla." He flipped the barefoot urchin a coin and a wink, lifted his reins and rode on down the street, and a delighted boy from back East happily accepted the bail-capped bottle of genuine Western Sody Pop. He watched as the boy picked up a loose board from the Boardwalk and carefully slipped the Sheriff's empty bottle under the weathered plank, set the board precisely back into place. When the Eastern boy was done with his cold Sarsaparilla, he dawdled back from his parents, turned and tried to pull up the weather-bowed board -- only the boardwalk here was not loose, it was not bowed nor weathered, it was new construction, and solidly screwed down. He set the empty beside a porch post, ran on swift-sneakered feet back to his parents, who were looking at the restored Marshal's Office. An Eastern boy submitted a photograph and won an award. It was taken in a private railcar. An interesting photograph, it had a book, suspended barely above the desktop, as if being held by ghostly hands: a pair of woman's dainty, round-lensed spectacles hung in midair, perfectly aligned, as if worn halfway down a spectral nose. But of course this photo had to be a clever fake. We all know there's no such thing as ghosts.

IT WAS NOT AXLE GREASE When an enemy commander looks through binoculars and sees self propelled artillery being driven over the ridgeline -- deliberately skylining itself, intending that it should be seen -- the commander is going to be reconsidering his life's choices. When a high-school wrestler steps into the ring, and opposite him, an opponent steps in that has him by a head and a hundred pounds, the atmosphere can change, and not for the better. When skeptical townsmen and minor politicians saw three women file into the meeting-room, their persuasive and well-practiced arguments they intended to present, suddenly became much less persuasive. When Shelly Keller, in her military-creased blue uniform shirt with the medical wings on one pocket flap, the shining name tag on the other, came out of the anteroom door and stepped behind the podium set on the table in the front of Council's chamber, they expected this: elected and appointed officials, mostly folk with a small amount of authority, mentally clutched their arguments like something precious. The point was petty, but for whatever reason, it became a sticking-point, and it was about to be shattered. They expected this Earth instructor to present herself and argue in favor of certain apparatus on their emergency squads. They did not expect a slightly taller woman in a white nurse's dress and winged cap, who emerged from the anteroom on silent, crepe-soled tread, turning to stand on Shelly's right. Nor did they expect the Confederacy's best-known diplomat in a velvet gown and ornate picture hat, to emerge from the anteroom, to flow with decorum and beauty, and stand on Shelly's left. They anticipated an Earth instructor. The absolutely did not expect this level of diplomatic firepower. "You're here to argue against our specifications," Shelly began without preamble. "Captain Crane, if you please, sir." A tall, flat-waisted man stepped out of the anteroom as well: he joined his wife behind the podium, assumed an easy parade-rest, waited. "We specify that every squad has a power lift," Shelly said, her voice carrying well and clearly, "and that every ambulance cot is powered as well. Let me show you why." She stepped back, took the Captain's arm, walked him around in front of the tables across the front of the Town Council's chambers, appropriated for this meeting of several districts. Shelly wore a stethoscope around her neck, as did her daughter, still beside the podium. "You are objecting to the cost of these power lifts," Shelly said. "First of all, your argument is that they represent an unnecessary expense." Her smile was thin. "Your argument is invalid. You are not paying for their purchase, you are not paying for their maintenance, you are not paying for their replacement." She saw surprised expressions -- either someone fed these representatives a bill of goods, or they were exercising a petty authority and trying to throw their weight around, to the detriment of their emergency services. "In the bad old days, ambulance cots were raised, lowered, height-adjusted and placed in vehicles, by" -- she turned sideways, flexed an arm, displaying an impressive amount of feminine bicep -- "good old Armstrong Power!" She spun the stethoscope from around her neck, attached a small square device just above its double bell. "After years of hoisting some unholy tonnage on these Type 30 Back Breakers, this is what happens." She squatted, wrapped one hand around the inside of the Captain's knee, placed the bell of her steth against the other side of his knee joint. The Captain did a slow, deep-knee bend. Men cringed to hear the cartilaginous sounds transmitted to hidden, but very efficient, speakers, thanks to the small square device on her stethoscope -- something like a stalk of celery being twisted in a bowl of crispy cereal just doused with milk. "I won't begin to detail the damage it does to the back," she said, "even with proper lifting techniques, after years in the profession, it has its ill effects. Having a powered cot and a powered squad lift is necessary to the continued long life of your emergency responders' knees and backs." The Captain looked down, winked solemnly, then turned and resumed his position beside the ladies behind the table. "Now." Shelly clapped her hands briskly together, scrubbing her palms enthusiastically as she smiled, bright-eyed. "I am willing to entertain your arguments as to why you do not want these injury prevention devices on your emergency response vehicles." Angela raised a hand as a screen hummed down from the ceiling -- a screen nobody knew was there -- a screen installed quickly, quietly, while everyone was filing into the chamber, shaking hands and reinforcing their bureaucratic self-importance. "This," Angela said, "is one of the most recent surgeries I assisted on. It is a joint replacement. The patient's knee was beyond salvage, thanks to abusive levels of over work." She smiled as men looked away, suddenly uncomfortable at the sight of a human knee joint being surgically opened. "It is a maxim in medicine that prevention is far cheaper and far less work than treatment and rehabilitation," Angela continued. "I am very interested in preventing operations of this kind from becoming necessary." She pressed a control; the screen blanked, hummed back into a hidden recess overhead. Fitz was watching remotely -- he'd set up a laptop on the kitchen counter there at station, the entire Irish Brigade was gathered behind him, coffee in one hand, something edible in the other -- their local bakery's doughnuts were legendary, but Cookie just mixed something with cream cheese, diced onion, diced garlic, spices of several kinds and just a trace of peanut butter: an entire bundle of celery was dissected, laid out and spread full for the Irish Brigade's taste test, and at the moment, quite frankly, as they watched Shelly and Cap and the deep-knee-bend, as they then heard the lovely Madam Ambassador, a vision of beauty and persuasion, speak with a quiet, good-natured authority, their celery stalks could have been puttied full of axle grease and they honestly would not have noticed. Cookie mixed up another batch of whatever that cream cheese stuff was, and laid out a plate, dumped out an entire box of crackers: the Irish Brigade laughed, swore cheerfully, started to spread oval saltines with Cookie's creation, and when the Iris opened and Shelly and the Captain stepped out onto the apparatus floor, a cheer went up, the persuasive pair was swarmed, Shelly was hugged, hoist, hand-kissed, twirled like the dancer she was: the Captain was glad-handed, back-pounded, cheerfully handed a ribbon decorated cane with a squeeze-bulb horn duct taped to it and a ribbon-dangling file card marked CERTIFIED CRIPPLED UP OLD GEEZER. In general, the Irish Brigade rejoiced that another bunch of self important folk had been disabused of the notion that they could micromanage where they had no expertise, that their friends and colleagues on other worlds were spared bad backs and bad knees, and when they taste tested whatever that stuff was Cookie just mixed up and they spread thick on crackers and topped with sliced olives, all hands agreed -- from White Hat clear down to New Boots -- that things turned out pretty well.

THE DAUGHTER WAS RIGHT Shelly Keller folded her arms and leaned her shoulder into the door frame. She crossed one ankle casually over the other, stood silent, watching her husband's efforts. Beside her, Snowflake sprawled comfortably on a spread out bath towel, unconcerned, almost asleep. Sheriff Linn Keller glared at the heavy bag hanging from its homemade welded-steel frame, then -- faster than Shelly's eye could follow -- he assaulted the training device with spaced attacks, combinations of chops, kicks, punches, elbow strikes, knee strikes -- Shelly could not but admire his speed, his precision, his control. She very carefully avoided looking at his face. To the best of her knowledge, nothing happened in the county to earn this degree of his displeasure. It wasn't uncommon for him to use the heavy bag to burn off rage, frustration, anger, irritation or the honest desire to rip someone's head off and drop kick it over the nearest roof's peak. Shelly stood in the doorway and waited. It wasn't until after he'd showered, until after he'd put on clean clothes, until after they'd had supper that he spoke. Sheriff Linn Keller, chief law enforcement officer of the county, a swift, deadly guardian of the public good, swept up his wife's hand, kissed her knuckles and regarded her with the gentle expression of a man who was not only married to her, but was just as happy as if he had good sense. "My dear," he murmured, "thank you." "There is ice cream," she nearly whispered as he drew her in to him. He lowered his head, nuzzled his nose against hers: "You are expert at spoiling a perfectly good sour mood, you know that?" He felt her hum with contentment as she molded herself into him. Apparently the two of them were interested of dessert that burned off calories instead of taking them in. Marnie broke the round red seal and unfolded the handwritten note. Pale eyes tracked quickly over her Daddy's regular, legible, deliberate script. Dr. John Greenlees watched as his wife stood, the note in one hand, her other arm bent, a forefinger laid across her upper lip like a thoughtful mustache. Marnie felt her husband's eyes on her, looked up, her expression soft. "This is so sweet," she said quietly. Doctor John was not surprised when she went to her desk, laid the note out flat on a scanner plate and punch in a comm code. "Angela? Victoria is coming on line. Did Daddy send you a note? -- here ... here's what he sent me." Victoria blinked, leaned forward, read the handwritten note displayed on her screen. Michael sat beside her, reading it with her. The twins smiled quietly. Michael's hand went down and rubbed The Bear Killer pup behind his ears, and Victoria smiled again to hear the curly-furred little fellow give a great, tongue-curling yawn of contentment. "Daddy is so proud of her," Victoria whispered. "He told me once he was proud of me," Michael replied quietly. "I was walking on air the rest of the day!" "Did he send you anything?" Victoria shook her head a little, pale eyes re-scanning her Daddy's handwriting. "Me neither. Maybe he doesn't know." "We'll be home for supper in a few days. We can tell him then." "Did the Inter-System get it on the air?" "Our raid? I hope not," Victoria said quietly. "Not after we went through there like a murder cyclone." "It was a hostage situation," Michael pointed out. "We had to take care of it." Family converged on the familiar old kitchen table. The girls moved with coordinated purpose, the guys stayed out of the way, at least until Angela stepped out on the back porch, brought a .22 revolver level and bounced a bullet off the thick shoulder of the cast bronze dinner bell. It was entirely unnecessary, of course, but she'd read where Sarah McKenna did that once, and her Gammaw Willamina did that on occasion, and so she did too, at random mealtimes, in memory of and in solidarity with those remarkable ancestresses. The meal was lively and animated, Michael and Victoria happily described their progress with Thunder and Cyclone -- "only they're still growing," Michael complained, "and we had to have their saddles rebuilt twice so far to account for" -- his hands described an expanding circle -- "Mama, you complained about Jacob and I hitting our growth spurt and our pants kept getting too short" -- his grin was quick, bright, and Shelly laughed a little and nodded as she remembered -- "well, Fanghorns hit growth spurts, and their barrel --" Again, Michael's hands described an expanding circle: the Sheriff nodded his understanding. "Daddy," Angela said, and there was something her gentle voice that silenced the table, "we were involved in a hostage rescue. Marnie is handling diplomatic cleanup, but here's what we did." Angela passed what looked like a medium sized laptop to her Daddy. "It's set to auto-play when you open it up." The Sheriff leaned back as Shelly removed his now-empty plate and flatware: he set the laptop on the cloth placemat, opened it, watched. He'll frown at first, Angela thought, then he'll plant his elbows on the table and lace his fingers, then he'll press his mustache into his forefingers and frown a little as he watches -- Linn watched without comment, his only move, an occasional blink: silence covered the table. Angela knew the recording ended when the Sheriff closed the lid, carefully, handed it back. He looked at Marnie. "As if you didn't have enough to handle with thirteen star systems," he said in a father's gentle voice. "Are you involved with straightening out this particular mess?" "Yes, Daddy," Marnie said quietly -- for all that she used the term "Daddy," her voice was mature and confident. The Sheriff shook his head. "Mama told me," he said slowly, "that in the military, Captain and above was all politics -- that was the big reason she got out -- County politics are bad enough --" He looked very directly at Marnie. "Darlin'," he said quietly, "right now you must be up to your earlobes in diplomatic alligators!" "You could say that," Marnie admitted. "If it's worth anything, I'm pretty damned proud of you." He looked at each of the others -- his gaze stopped on each one -- on Michael, on Victoria, on Angela, and again on Marnie. "Each of you is genuinely remarkable," he said quietly. He nodded toward the laptop as Angela slid it in her blue-canvas carryall. "You each, and you all, have my respect, and my admiration." His quiet praise, simply stated, hung on the air, at least until Victoria rose and went to the freezer. "That deserves ice cream. I brought a gallon of maple pecan and a gallon of Fudge Ripple. Mama, do we still have chocolate syrup?" Angela Keller did not have to look to know what her Daddy's reaction to Victoria's practical approach. Daddy's face will be turning red, Angela thought, and he will be laughing silently. Not until she made her silent prediction did she turn her head and look. She was right.

GOOD EXAMPLE, BAD EXAMPLE Angela Keller sat in a padded chair, a tall, sweating-cold glass of sweet tea on the expanded-metal, green-enamel-coated table beside her. "You look tired," Dr. Hermes said quietly. "It's my Daddy," she said in a soft voice. The physician straightened, then leaned forward, concern in his voice: "Is he all right?" Angela smiled tiredly, nodded: she picked up the sweet tea, took a sip, caught dripping condensation with a white-linen napkin. They were both taking a moment's respite from the day's work. Rain doves called gently in the distance; they heard steam powered buses, distant voices, the usual sounds for this time of day: they sat in a partially-enclosed area, sheltered against sun and rain, but open to air, a place where hospital personnel could come to take a moment. "My Daddy," Angela said, replacing her glass on the table, "works himself harder than he would ever work anyone else." "Even his sons?" the physician asked dryly: he and Angela looked at one another and laughed quietly, for they'd both known patients, young men mostly, who complained bitterly about how hard the Old Man was working them: one case was genuine overwork, a case of taking advantage of free labor, but the other case was nothing but laziness, and both medical professionals labeled this second young complainant as a spineless drone, lazy to the core, and destined to do less than the minimum required to just get by. Angela frowned, fingertips resting daintily on the slick, green-enamel-coated tabletop's wafflework. "His sons," Angela said slowly, then looked very directly at the physician and added sternly, "my brothers" -- her pale-eyed glare held for all of four seconds before they both laughed -- "my brothers work themselves just as hard and just as mercilessly." The doctor considered this. "I'm trying to ... I think that would make good material for a presentation, though ... I would have to present to a group of men who worked themselves in that same manner." "There are," the physician said thoughtfully, "such men." Angela closed her eyes, tilted her head back, looked up through one of the decorative trees -- there was a constant research, there was constant experimentation in importing Earth flora and fauna to the outer worlds, but these were weighed against the knowledge of the ill effects of Earth's experience with invasive species: harmless in their native habitat, overwhelming and sometimes even harmful when introduced into another region. The tree spreading above her was not an Earth tree; she did not know its name, only that its leaves were a rich, thick, waxy, dark green, almost as if it usually grew in a more arid climate: the leaves were blunt lanceolate, with pink flowers on their tips. Honeybees worked these flowers with their usual industry. At least honeybees don't cause harm, Angela thought, smiling a little as two such came down to investigate the fat condensation drops on her glass of tea. Five minutes later, Angela seized a hand coming in, pulled: she jointlocked the wrist, cranked the offending arm up behind the offender's back and introduced said sorry soul's face into the wall at a respectable velocity. Three men in suits and Derby hats had themselves confused with someone important, she'd realized: when one made as if to seize her wrist, his face reddening as the other two shouted they would not be delayed, they were too important for a mere woman to put them off, she knew they would not content themselves with merely shouting, with merely seizing her forearm. Deputy Sheriff Angela Keller, daughter of a pale eyed Firelands County Sheriff, responded as she had been trained, and stopped the first offender from unlawfully laying hands upon her person. Two more who took offense to her words had to be persuaded, less than gently, that they were indeed not going to prevail, that their authority in her facility was nonexistent, and the appearance of fast moving, uniformed, serious faced young men further reinforced that the pale eyed Sheriff's nurse's words would be obeyed, that they, individually and severally, would conform to and abide by her instructions. Peacefully. Or otherwise. Angela honestly did not care which. Neither did the Hospital Police who responded to the disturbance, though they kidded her good-naturedly upon their return to gather more information for their report: they assured her with artificial solemnity that their jobs were minimized by her having contained the situation prior to their arrival, which was not exactly the case, but as their comments were delivered with the same grin and the same ornery looks that she was used to seeing with her Daddy's deputies, their meaning was clear. This, of course, had to be pursued officially, and it was, and after the official proceedings, Angela was once again in the sheltered portico, listening to honeybees working blossoms, watching condensation run down the sides of her glass. She heard a door open, heard measured steps approach. "Doctor Hermes," she said quietly, not looking up. He sat down in the green-enamel-coated, expanded-metal chair beside her, looked at Angela speculatively. "How was the hearing?" he asked, his voice quiet, as it usually was. "We were no-billed, as we expected." The physician nodded thoughtfully, unwrapped a thick sandwich. "And your actions? he asked before taking a sizable bite: he'd missed lunch, and the sidewalls of his stomach had been sandpapering together for the past few hours. "Ruled justified," she said. "In fact, my counter-charges were upheld, and all three were fined." "I take it they were less than pleased." Angela smiled tiredly, looked up. "His Honor had to swing the gavel to shut them up," she said, "and then he reminded them that their actions merited incarceration, and one more outburst would result in their spending half a year enjoying the county's hospitality." "How did they take that?" "I'll let you know. They'll be released in six months if they behave themselves." The doctor laughed quietly, nodded, looked at her again. "We were talking about your father, and your brothers." Angela sipped her tea, her doubled linen napkin wrapped around the glass to prevent condensation from dripping on her immaculate white uniform dress. "Yes, Doctor, we were." "When you use them in your presentations," the Doctor said, "you can use them as good examples of ... good examples." "And?" Angela asked, raising one eyebrow and smiling a little. "And those fellows who are staying at the Crossbar Hotel you can use as good examples of bad examples."

HARD RIDER Sheriff Linn Keller leaned his head back against his Jeep's headrest. Fatigue and relaxation whispered seductively: rest, now, relax, a moment won't hurt. He opened his eyes, took a long breath: he thumbed the seat belt release, pulled the door handle, shouldered the door open. He hit the ground on his side, rolled, came up snarling, pain and anger waking him back up: he brushed viciously at his sleeve and pushed the Jeep's door shut -- deliberately, carefully, one click, two clicks, a shove to make sure it was fully closed. I need to scrape the barn, he thought, and headed toward the metal sided red barn. His wife Shelly looked around automatically -- years of having children as runners, as messengers, as an extra set of hands, and she was still looking to dispatch one of the pale eyed Keller young after their father. Supper was nearly ready, and she knew he was home. It wasn't until she wiped her hands on the dishtowel that lived over her left shoulder, not until she and the young Bear Killer went out to the barn, that she realized just how hard a day he'd had. She knew he'd been up longer than he would ever ask his people, that he'd worked more hours in the past 36 than he would ever require of a subordinate. She also knew her husband was a hard headed and contrary man who would start a task, who would set his teeth into it, and who would not surrender the work until it was not just done, but done to his standard and his satisfaction, and he a hard man to please. A man who rode himself mercilessly. Shelly waited until her husband had the stalls cleaned, fresh straw down; she stepped to the side, where he could see her: he stopped, then deliberately stood the fork back against the wall, hosed off his bright yellow muck boots, hooked them off and slid the plastic bags off his Wellingtons before hanging the overboots upside-down on the rack he'd made for them. Shelly looked at the man sized boots in the bent-steel rack and remembered the row of little boots that used to live there -- Marnie's red rubber boots, Angela's pink boots, Michael's black boots with the yellow stripe around the sole ... Linn staggered, caught himself, allowed Shelly to steer him toward the man door. He didn't quite fall asleep in his mashed potatoes -- there existed in his Mama's archives, a picture of him at a very young age, in his high chair, head laid over and his ear planted in his mashed potatoes ... sound asleep. He'd gotten his shower, he'd filled his belly, Shelly suggested he lay down and "take a little bit of a nap," knowing full well that when his head hit the pillow, he'd be out until sunrise and maybe after: he was coming into his weekend off, and so he could sleep in, and she contented herself with cleaning up after the meal, at least until she heard the urgent sound of sock feet hitting the floor, until she heard her husband coming downstairs at a pace that told her he'd caught something on scanner or maybe on the talkie he insisted having turned on but turned down, on his bedside table. He grabbed his gunbelt, threw it over one shoulder, clapped his Stetson on his head, thrust one sock foot into a boot and drove it home, bent to get the other one on, seized the door and hauled it open. "Aren't you forgetting something?" Shelly called. Sheriff Linn Keller stopped, startled: he looked at his wife, fatigue and puzzlement claiming an equal percentage of his face, at least until a half dozen neurons started firing simultaneously. He looked down. He'd come rip roarin' down stairs and was prepared to go charging into a situation ... ... without his trousers. Shelly never said a word. She didn't have to. His sagging shoulders, the drop of his head, the exhausted exhalation, said as plainly as words his realization: If he was so dog tired wore out as to start out the door without his pants, he would not be effective in a situation. Shelly spoke of this, over tea, when her daughters visited later that evening: they knew their father, they knew their brothers, they knew how men drive themselves, and three Keller ladies sat together at one end of the kitchen table, smiling and then giggling a little at the mental image of the Sheriff in an unbuttoned uniform shirt, hat on his head and boots on his feet, gunbelt over one shoulder and an irritated look on his face. And no trousers.

I got to thinking. That's not always a good thing. Thought is parent to the deed, and some things I thought of, were ... (let me put it politely) ... less than brilliant. Anyhow -- ask a German for the time and he tells you how the watch is made, to quote my dear skinny Mama, rest her soul -- -- now where was I? -- that puff of smoke on the horizon is my train of thought receding at a good velocity ... Oh, yes. Tires. My wife's car went in for recall work (something to do with side curtain air bags that detonate at random moments when driving) and oil change. Turns out tread depth is down to the time-for-new-shoes depth (I figured they were) and they had three brands of tires to fit. I went with top of the line, which was also the most expensive -- but it's like when the maniac -- I mean mechanic -- had to heat the back axle stub on the wife's Pontiac to free up the nut so he could change brakes, and the rotor warped: he said he could turn it, and made kind of a face. I regard tires the same as brakes. Put on new, top of the line, my wife's LIFE rides on those brakes and tires. (I could see relief wash off the mechanic like water off an oilcloth. He said you wouldn't believe how many folks try to cheap out and just have the rotors turned!) The other thing I was thinking about is that often times we never know the good that we do. I never figured I made that much a difference until I was going through the chow line in nursing school and the cook looked at me funny and said "You taught me CPR." By then I'd taught a thousand folks CPR so I said likely I had, and a tear started rolling down her cheek. She said she used what I taught her, and it worked, and a tear rolled down the other cheek, and my fellow nursing students were looking at her and looking at me and I said "Don't leave me hangin', what happened!" Turns out she was babysitting her little grandson. He found a penny. Penny went into mouth. She said don't put that in your mouth. He laughed and then looked funny, he turned that ugly color I described in class and she realized he couldn't breathe. She said, "I froze. I did NOT know WHAT to do!" -- then she pointed at me at at her ear and said "Then I heard Your Suth'n Voice in my ear say, 'Get Down on your Prayer Bones Behind Him and Squeeze!" I remembered the class. My grandson came charging into the class with his Mama -- she didn't charge, she left that to him, five year olds are good at it -- he came running up to me and I declared "Joshie! Need your help! Turn around and arms straight out!" He turned around, laughing: as Divine Providence decreed it, I'd just come to the Clearing the Pediatric Airway portion of the CPR class. I told the class as I went to my knees behind him, as I wrapped my arms around his belly, as I held up my fist and showed positioning, I declared loudly, "GET DOWN ON YOUR PRAYER BONES BEHIND HIM AND SQUEEZE!" By then my fellow nursing students were sniffling and wiping their eyes, I took my meal and thanked her kindly, we went back to the classroom and the teacher came over to my seatmate and I -- she probably thought we were having an affair or something, Cathy's eyes were still damp -- she asked what was going on, three nursing students filled her in and SHE started crying. Last one on the list: After the final words were spoken over my best friend's box, the fire chief came up and shook my hand. He said "You might not remember me, I'm Heath Beal." What he said next about floored me. His words were, and I quote: "I became a paramedic because of what I saw in you." Amigos pistoleros, never doubt the good that you do. If you see one deer in the woods, there are a half dozen that see you, and you don't see them, and that's the way it is with what you teach others. Every word we say or say not, is heard, and teaches someone, something: everything we do, or do not, is seen by someone, and teaches them something. I've taken pains to call my father, or visit my father, to send him pictures or take him photographs of work I've done -- a tight corner when installing baseboard, a nice tight job with flooring, I've called up my father in law to tell him I just made a repair and I used the tools you gifted me for Christmas some years ago, here's how I did it. They need to know they made a difference: fathers delight when their sons actually listen, when they put dear old Dad's teaching to use, when they use tools gifted them, to use. Too often, we never know the good that we do. In better than a decade of teaching first aid and CPR, that is the one, the only, feedback from the real world, I ever received. In three decades under the lights-and-siren, the Chief's grip and quiet words, is the only feedback I ever received from that venue. The moral of the story, and yes there is one: Never doubt the good that you do. You may never realize it, but you do more good than you realize. Voice of experience!

Wasp allergy here, wife and I both. No liking for them!

Mine was the soundtrack to the movie "Patton" ... loved that album ...

Rip Snorter, thank you, I benefitted from your description of a few hundredweight of canines scattered about the hacienda! 😁😄😁😄

Paris street gangs had the nickname "Apaches" ... thus the name for this particular, ah, combination. Always wanted to put together a collection of this example, a Chicago palm squeezer and a few other neat nifty (if impractical) oddities.

Subdeacon Joe is right about Dylan Hollis ... he is a HOOT and HILARIOUS and his descriptions are flat forevermore FUNNY, especially when something turns out ... bad ... I think he has a running feud with his 1930s vintage hand mixer, apparently it's both metal cased, and not grounded, and tried to electrocute him at some time in the past, or so he said in one episode

TALKED HIM INTO IT Sheriff Jacob Keller's shoulder ached where the club smacked him. His father in law, shocked, stared at the sudden, unannounced, unprovoked attack -- the response of a good man with absolutely no combat experience. Jacob, on the other hand, came around with a fast sweep of his arm, trapped the extended arm, twisted: his knee came up to his belly, then he kicked down and out, and his attacker went down, in too much pain to scream: elbow and knee both broken, the club fell to the ground. Jacob whipped around, knocked another blow aside -- he saw the shine of a knife -- for a moment it looked like an insane waltz: Jacob took the man's extended arm by the wrist, his other hand around the second attacker's waist: he spun his dance partner -- far less than gently, muscles first developed on his Pa's ranch and kept in tune and in tone with long practice, with hour upon hour of grappling with practice drones -- Jacob snapped the man out and used his attacker's departing weight, and an iron grip about the wrist, to break the second attacker's wrist. The third one was moving in when the second one came into Jacob's arm's reach: he was committed to close, and did not realize the folly of his choice until Jacob took him by the throat and the crotch, picked him up overhead, SLAMMED him into the sod. Neither Jacob nor his father-in-law realized the animal roar they were hearing, came from Jacob's own throat, at least until Jacob stopped and took a deep breath. He turned, turned again: his blood was up, he was more than willing to kill anyone who wished to pursue the matter: finding no more attackers, Jacob took a long breath, then looked at his three attackers, looked up at his father in law. "Well," he said, "that one's ... kinda broke, and that one's broke too ... this fella here" -- he nudged the third, eyes-bulging, painfully-gasping figure with the toe of his well polished boot -- "I reckon his head broke his fall." Jacob dusted his hands briskly together, looked around, hand flat on his belly: a politician might place dramatic fingertips upon shirtbreast linen before making a profound statement, but Jacob's was the move of a man with a revolver under his coat, a man wishing to be able to knife his gun hand under the opened coat and get an unobstructed grip on his blued-steel attorney. He turned, pale eyes busy, looking at every possible concealment where an attacker might lay back with a rifle: his gut told him these three, coming in a rush like they did, were the only threats for at least this initial attack. Jacob looked at his father in law. "Sir, if you could ride for the local Sheriff, I'll ride herd on these three 'til he gets here." Angela Keller had nothing better to do that particular day than to tag after her brother, especially when she got the automatic alert that he was engaged in something strenuous. An Iris opened and a woman in nursing whites and a dark-blue, red-edged cape, stepped out with an Ithaca shotgun cocked-and-locked at low ready. She stepped closer to Jacob, turned her back to him: she faced outward, eyes busy. "Did you turn your name tag around?" Jacob asked mildly. "No," she snapped. "Sitrep." "These three appear to be all there are." Angela turned, handed Jacob the shotgun, ran a hand into her cross-body warbag. "Let's see what kind of damage you've done here." The local Sheriff was just under a half hour arriving; by that time, Angela had fingerprints, iris prints and DNA tags filed with field mugshots. She also had all three prisoners removed to hospital: one with a mild concussion, the other two with at least one fracture and a serious case of regret: Angela, her name tag turned to show her Deputy Sheriff's credentials, handed the Sheriff a manila folder for each of the removed prisoners, and her quiet-voiced statement that as soon as their injuries were stable, they would be transported to his hoosegow for incarceration and due processing. When the man -- rather hesitant, as he was facing both a deadly effective Sheriff he'd only seen on the Inter-System, and he was also facing a soft-spoken, utterly beautiful woman who wore a laminated plastic tag that pronounced her deadlier than smallpox -- asked how long that might be, Angela slipped one of the files from his hand, opened it, turned a page, another, a third. "This one," she said, "has a fractured knee. Circulation is compromised. He'll be in surgery for a few hours to save the leg. I would imagine he'll be a week at minimum, and he will be unable to walk, even with crutches. With your permission, he can be maintained in the prison wing, and if you like, we can transport your prosecution team to formally charge him while he's healing." Jacob's father in law was watching all this, listening: the man had never had to handle much by the way of violence in his life, and the sight of what was very obviously deadly attack was an honest shock. He considered what he'd seen, what he'd heard, what he was hearing. He remembered Jacob seizing the third attacker, raising him overhead, then slamming him to the ground, instantly taking every last bit of fight out of him. And he remembered Jacob's words. "I reckon this fellow's head broke his fall." A prosperous plantation owner, father to this pale eyed Sheriff's wife, was loath to laugh, but he could not prevent a quiet smile at Jacob's words. Sheriff Linn Keller drummed fingertips slowly on his desk top, considering what he'd just watched. He blinked, looked from where the hologram had been, looked at his youngest son. "Tell me more about that planet," he said quietly. "The Originators -- that's what those ancient aliens were called -- at least someone called 'em that" -- he grinned -- "they terraformed captured worlds and put captured Confederates on 'em." "How many worlds?" "Two, sir. One they terraformed and it worked fine. This one you just saw --" "The one with something you had to stop with antiaircraft guns." "Yes, sir. That one. They didn't terraform it completely and native species just came rip-roarin' into the terraformed sections and took 'em over." "You asked Jacob for a AR in .45-70." "Yes, sir." "And you ended up using a pair of 20 millimeters." "Yes, sir." Linn's expression was serious. "Michael," he said quietly, leaning forward and looking very seriously at his youngest son, "I prefer a universe with you alive and well in it." Michael's expression was suddenly solemn. "Yes, sir." "I understand from what you've told me, and from other corroborating evidence, that you kept a man from killing himself and his family." "Yes, sir." "You offered him choices and then you got impressive with the local ... fauna." "Yes, sir." "And after you cut loose with a pair of Bofors, he saw the reasonableness of your argument." "Yes, sir." Linn took a long breath, leaned back again, frowned. "Let me be sure I'm understanding this correctly." Linn steepled his fingertips, frowned at the joint between the far wall and the painted ceiling. "You acted to keep people alive." "Yes, sir." "You tried to spare the man's pride." "Yes, sir." "You allowed him to express his hard headed intent." "Yes, sir." "And when you climbed into a World War II gun tub and cut loose on a mountain with claws and teeth, when his family finally listened to your telling them that the grass and the fruit and everything else on that planet would kill them, you refrained from any I-told-you-so." "Yes, sir." Linn rose, looked very seriously at his youngest son. "Michael," he said, "you did the right thing, and I am pretty damned proud of you." He stuck out his hand. Father and son shook. Linn sat, and so did his son. "I might have to have a talk with Jacob," Linn said quietly. "How's that, sir?" "I understand he used a man's head to break his fall." "I see, sir." "Do you know what the worst part is, Michael?" Michael blinked, frowned, considered. "No, sir." "When Jacob told me he used a man's head to break his fall, he said it with a perfectly straight face!" Father and son regarded each other with a solemn expression, which lasted for exactly four seconds, before laughter claimed them both. "Sir," Michael said quietly, "it sounds like Jacob was listening to your accounts again!"

PLEASE PASS THE BACKHOE Michael waited. He was silent, cloaked, concealed by technology rather than by vegetation. His curry-down of Lightning's legs with alcohol and with a wire brush actually did not happen. He knew brother Jacob saw him currying Lightning after that fashion, once before: he'd made the mistake of riding Lightning, back East, and she'd gathered a shocking number of ticks. Michael cussed himself silently for riding his beloved Fanghorn when the Confederate field generator was in for maintenance. Lightning, for her part, enjoyed it: she offered no objection to the metallic brush, he felt her near-sensual -- no, hell, it was sensual! -- the feeling of cold alcohol and the rough caress of the brass bristle brush brought her genuine pleasure. Michael realized this was probably because they shared an empathic link, triggered by their mutual murder: he did not pretend to understand it, he did not examine it closely, he simply accepted it. Behind him, in the sizable shuttle, Lightning was happily bedded down on thick straw, and flanking her, both Thunder and Cyclone: all three wore saddlebags, and under the saddlebags, field generators. Michael had not been fully forthcoming with his brother. This planet Violette's father intended -- beat fist on table, by God! we WILL do this! he'd roared, which Michael recognized as "I will do this and my family will come with me" -- and so, against what Michael considered good sound advice, he'd arranged a Pilgrim's Iris to this one, unfinished planet. Michael knew the man surveyed the world, Michael knew the man picked what he considered an ideal location for a farm, for a home, for the place he intended to build and raise his family and his legacy. Michael knew, when he'd ridden the man's intended homestead -- ridden with his own and Lightning's fields operating, with Thunder and Cyclone flanking, alert, their predatory senses alert -- had they not had these protective energy barriers in place, the grass itself would have driven in just above their hooves and begun feeding on them, they would have been injected with parasites similar to the ones that infested what looked like ripe, attractive fruits. Michael knew he'd have to work fast, once the man arrived with his family. The shuttle's stealth field made them invisible; they dropped fast, but under perfect control: they hovered, turned, grav-rep fields silent, not affecting the infected grasses on this, a terraformed section that looked as if it should grow good rich Earth crops. Michael threw the shuttle's shielding out across the grass and under the Iris as it appeared: he raised walls, a roof, he waited while the pallets were levitated out, placed. The family came out with them: husband and wife, two sons, two daughters. The Iris disappeared behind them, an invisible wall rose behind them: they were suddenly alone, on a new planet. Michael dropped the rear gate of the shuttle -- the interior was suddenly visible, as if a hatched opened in reality -- he rode Lightning out, stopped. Thunder and Cyclone paced out, silent, watchful: they turned, facing outward, clearly sensing that all was not well. The father raised an accusing arm. "YOU'LL NOT STOP US!" he roared. "I CLAIM THIS LAND!" "Claim what you like," Michael said mildly, "but it's already taken." "TAKEN!" -- an indignant roar -- fists doubled, face reddening -- "TAKEN?" "I own it, but it's for sale." "YE THIEVIN' SASSENSACH! WHAT'S YER PRICE?" "Your daughter's hand in marriage," Michael said quietly, "and your guarantee of safety for the rest of your family." "You?" came the incredulous reply. "You ... want me ... to guarantee the safety of my family?" "That's the price, and I'll tell you why." Michael never raised his voice; his posture astride Lightning was relaxed. Thunder and Cyclone mutterred, stamping, shaking their heads: Lightning was restless and Michael caressed her neck reassuringly. "You're standing on energy insulation. It's separated you from the ground by a couple of inches. You're walled in and there's even a roof to keep out seeds and spores but not the air itself." "So you think you can imprison us!" Michael shook his head. "Mister, that grass will eat you alive. Reach for a fruit and it'll drive needles in your hand that will inject creatures that'll eat you from the inside out, fast. There are monsters on this planet that would swallow you whole and not be satisfied it had even eaten. Now if you still want to set foot on this ground, that's fine. I've named my price, but you'll have to give me your daughter in marriage and then you set foot off that deck alone and we wait and see what happens. If it kills you, your family goes home or somewhere safe. If nothing happens and I am full of second hand horse feed, I give you" -- Michael lifted a bulging leather sack the size of two fists -- "twice this amount of gold coin." Michael lowered the sack to his saddle horn, suddenly, knowing the sound of coin would carry to them. "A man should always have a choice, so there's yours." The man glared, pride stiffening his back. "There's nothing wrong with that grass!" he snapped. He turned, made to take a step to the right, stopped when he felt the elastic firmness of the force-wall. His wife looked at him, worried, but afraid to say a word: his sons glared at Michael, the daughters drew closer to their mother. "Violette," Michael said, "will you be my wife?" She looked at her father, big-eyed and scared, looked back, shook her head. Michael sighed, his shoulders lowering. He looked at the man and said, "You're sure you want to kill yourself." The man tried to advance toward Michael. Cyclone and Lightning turned, fangs bared, stamping. It was the first time Michael knew that a Fanghorn's mane could bristle. He tapped his wrist control quickly, reconfigured the force-walls: "GET INSIDE THE SHUTTLE, NOW!" he yelled: he turned Lightning, gigged her toward the shuttle: he stopped her, kicked free of the stirrups, jumped onto the shuttle's broad, flat roof. He whirled, came into the back of a battleship-grey, riveted-steel gun tub: he dropped into the gunner's seat, hauled back on one charging-handle, then the other, allowed assisted springs to SLAM the breechblocks into battery, shining brass bottleneck rounds seating into the chambers. Something big, grey, scaled and fast moving came toward them -- it wasn't any dinosaur Michael ever saw illustrated, it was worse, it was carnivorous and it was coming straight at them. Energy shielding made a square cornered tunnel from where the Iris had been, into and around the shuttle: even if the family didn't go inside, they were safe. Michael was taking no chances. Hydraulics whined as he rotated the tub, brought the gunsight to bear. A pair of 20mm antiaircraft guns detonated, drove into the oncoming monster's chest. Smoking brass hulls sang as they fell, breechblocks cycled, slammed home. Michael fired again. Four shells penetrated, detonated. The monster, tall as a shot tower and utterly massive, muscled, intent on making these interlopers into a snack, collapsed. Michael climbed out of the seat, dropped another five round clip into the left gun, into the right, resumed his seat, shifted his aim. The shuttle's energy field kept the weapon's concussion from himself, from Lightning and the colts, from the family, shocked and staring in the force-tunnel, but it allowed the strange, offworld concussions to blast out across the countryside. These sounds did not dissuade three more monsters from following the first: two abreast, one following, clawed arms reach to seize, to rend, to stuff living victims into great, toothed jaws. Michael fired three times, coldly, precisely: three more carcasses hit the ground, twitching. Michael consulted a screen, satisfied himself they were safe, at least for the moment. He unrolled a ladder, let it drop, climbed down: the ladder rolled back up, stowed itself when he stepped off. Michael had not raised his voice, not once, through this entire encounter, and he did not raise it now. "Mister," Michael said, "you would not make a light snack for just one of those things." He faced the settler squarely, hooked a thumb over his shoulder. Inside of a day there will be no carcasses left. The grass will make a meal of them." He paused, letting his words sink in, not only to the settler, but to his shocked-silent wife, his staring children. "Now you're welcome to stay if you really want to, or I can call up an Iris to take you home." Jacob looked up at the door chime, rose as a solemn-faced Michael crossed his threshold. Jacob turned and keyed in a command, took two cold glasses of sweet tea from the recess, handed one to his younger brother. "Your advice was sound," Michael said. Jacob nodded. They drank. "What about the girl?" Jacob asked quietly. Michael looked away, his jaw sliding out, then he shook his head, closed his eyes. Jacob nodded, set his glass down, opened his arms and hugged Michael. "I'm sorry." Michael hugged him back, then released: Jacob slacked his own embrace, Michael sat, staring at something a couple miles on the other side of the far wall. "I didn't shame the man," Michael said softly. "I didn't let him step off the ... I could have let him set foot on ..." Michael picked up his tea, chewed on his bottom lip as he tried to order his confused thoughts. He took a sip, frowned. "I could have let him set foot on the grass and I could have let his family watch him die right there." "But you didn't." Michael shook his head. "What about Violette?" "I told the old man I owned the ground and I'd sell it, the price was his bride's hand in marriage." "Did that work out?" "No." "He's alive to complain about it." Michael nodded. "So is his family." Michael nodded again. "You gave a man a choice. He could have died and you kept him from it." "I kept them all from dyin', Jacob." "Was the 20mm overkill?" Michael swallowed, set down his tea. He keyed a sequence on his wrist-device. Jacob was suddenly in the gun tub, at least visually. Michael could feel Jacob's pulse pick up as he realized just how BIG those monsters were! Jacob's hands went reflexively for the charging handles, he hissed in frustration as they passed through the holographic image: Michael dissolved the projection. "One thing I'm grateful for," Michael said quietly. Jacob turned, blinking, took a long breath, looked at his younger brother. "I'm awful glad I didn't have to call you and say 'Please pass the back hoe!' "

BIG MEDICINE A tall, lean waisted Sheriff rose, took a step forward, thrust out his hand. Jacob's younger brother stepped forward, gripped the offered hand. Each wore a tailored black suit, a brushed Stetson, polished boots, and a broad grin. "You're still ridin' that impressive horse?" Jacob asked approvingly, and Michael's ears reddened a little as he nodded. "I need some advice," Michael said, getting to the point with his usual directness. "Grab a set, like some tea?" Michael gave his big brother a grateful look: "I would KILL for some tea!" Jacob laughed again. "Hell, you don't need to commit insecticide, I'll just get you some!" Jacob went over to the dispenser, keyed in a command: he reached in, withdrew a tall, sweating-cool glass of sweet tea with a little twist of mint, then drew one for himself. Michael drank a third of his, then came up for air: he sat the glass on a handy shelf, turned to Jacob, sat on a tall, three-legged stool, hooked a boot heel on the bottom rung. Jacob sampled his sweet tea, found it very much to his liking. "What's on your mind, Michael?" Michael's expression was suddenly solemn: his bottom jaw slid out and he frowned, and Jacob leaned forward a little, his own face carefully impassive. "Jacob, I've got a good rifle." Jacob nodded, slowly, thoughtfully: he'd long admired his brother's custom stocked Marlin, a tapered-octagon-barrel, one-of-a-kind in .32 Winchester Special -- deadly accurate it was, as good as most bolt rifles Jacob knew. "I need a better one." Each picked up their tea, took a careful sip. "Yon .32 Special is no slouch," Jacob said carefully. "It's taken sizable game reliably." Michael's eyes swung along the baseboard and he swallowed, clearly less than comfortable: he looked up and said quietly, "I need an AR in .45-70." Jacob raised an eyebrow. "Fill me in," he said quietly, mentally running over the shoulder fired artillery at his disposal. "I was going to go an FN-FAL or an M14," Michael said, "but that won't be big enough." "What are you going up against that you need an elephant rifle?" Michael's expression was almost haunted. "Jacob," he said quietly, "when the aliens put the Confederate ancestors on alien worlds, they terraformed most of 'em and eliminated native species when they did." "You found one they didn't." Michael nodded. "What are we lookin' at, size-wise?" Michael closed his eyes and shivered, remembering. "I thought to try shotgun slugs, Jacob, but I ... need ... something long. Lots of sectional density. Forty cal at least, I'd rather a .45 and 500 grains minimum. I thought the AR action to soften recoil." Jacob nodded thoughtfully. "What are you goin' up against?" Jacob asked quietly. "I don't know what they're called," Michael said, "but they've long since killed off everything the aliens put there. Lightning didn't want anything to do with the entire damned planet. Water's not fit to drink, she turned her nose up at native grass, we come a-past a fruit tree and somethin' ... I reached for whatever that fruit was and somethin' come stingin' out of that fruit and tried to drive into my hand. They told me later it'll get inside you and multiply fast, it'll get to your core and eat you from the inside out. I washed Lightning's legs off with a brass bristle brush and rubbing alcohol to kill any ticks." "Were there?" "Didn't see any," Michael admitted, "but I'm not takin' the chance!" Michael said, his voice husky, his eyes looking at a memory, a horror only he could see. Jacob rose, took one step toward his brother, stood over him -- not menacing, but strong -- his voice was decisive as he said, "Michael, what are you up ag'inst?" "There are people that want to leave the settled worlds and go there. It's a new discovery. I think they're idiots" -- his voice was bitter -- "they've ... if they live long enough ..." Michael snatched up his glass downed the rest of the tea. I hope he never tries whiskey, Jacob thought. Alcoholism skips a generation. Gammaw's Mama was a damned drunk but Gammaw wasn't and Pa wasn't, I'm not. If he gets this upset and pounds whiskey like he just slugged that tea, he's done for! A suspicion rose in the back of Jacob's mind. Look for the motive, his Pa taught him. What motive does Michael have, to want to go to such a place? Who is he protecting? He ... that girl he was sweet on ... Juliette ... she's dead and he scattered her ashes ... "Michael," Jacob said quietly, "are her folks going to that planet, in spite of your warnings?" Michael looked sharply at his older brother, not at all surprised. "Yep." "You've told them what they'll be up against." "I have." "The whole family is determined to go?" Michael shook his head. "No. Not everyone." Jacob considered this. "When do they go?" "Tomorrow." "The whole family." Michael nodded. "Even her." Michael nodded again. "What is her name, Michael?" Jacob asked quietly. "Violette Starr," Michael said, just as quietly. "Does she want to go?" "No." He looked past his brother. "No, but she's ... her Pa said they're goin', and that's it." Jacob sighed, shook his head. "Michael," he said softly, "often times it's best to leave a man to his folly." Michael's jaw set stubbornly and he looked away. Jacob drained the last of his tea, set the glass down decisively. "I don't have an AR in .45-70," he said, "but I might have something you can use."

Earth Quakes in the Eastern US concern me. Denser and more contiguous rock strata to conduct the shock further, faster and with less fade. It's even more concerning if it is due to the young ladies at playoffs. NEVER underestimate the Power of a Woman!

PORTRAITURE It was the Sheriff's weekend off. Willamina's teenaged son consulted older men and listened carefully to their answers, then he went to his mother. He asked her for her help. "Mama," he said carefully, "could you teach me how to wash clothes and cook, at least on a survival level?" Willamina, surprised, blinked, looked at her son, solemn and tall and serious-faced. Willamina's eyes tightened at the corners. Willamina blinked again and tried not to smile. Really. She tried. Her son managed a straight face as his pale eyed mother giggled, as her face turned red, as this pale eyed Sheriff of Firelands County cupped her hand over her mouth, as she turned away: Willamina snorted (delicately, of course -- she was a Lady, after all!) -- she turned back, her face red, then she took two quick steps to her son, gripped her shoulders, dropped her forehead into his collar bone and abandoned herself to laughter. Linn, having absolutely no idea quite how he'd managed to trip her funny bone, looked a little puzzled, but he ran his arms around his Mama and held her, and she felt contagious laughter flowing into his lean frame. She'd looked up at her son, delight in her eyes, the she laid the side of her head against him and sighed, laughing silently: she nodded, she took a long breath, she drew back. "I can do that," she said. Linn had polled older men, men he respected; he'd asked them quietly, when alone with them, and in confidence, what they wished they'd done as young men, and a surprising number of them said they wished they'd taken their Mama aside and asked her to teach them how to launder their own clothes, how to cook, at least enough to keep body and soul together. Linn considered this, and approached his Mama accordingly. It paid off. Linn quietly, discreetly, but steadily, took over such duties as the household laundry: he fixed meals for himself, and as time passed, more often than not, Willamina would come home to the smell of a home cooked meal. Not everything went smoothly. One of her good cotton blouses ended up being tumble dried and came out sized to fit a Barbie doll. That caused a misunderstanding and sharp words: Willamina went back later and apologized for telling Linn he was forbidden to tumble dry anything but bath towels, and she brought him a bowl of maple pecan ice cream as a peace offering. He tried making a meat loaf and had some miscalculation, some distraction, that ended up with smoke in the house and pizza for supper. These things happen. Because her son carefully, incrementally, assumed more housekeeping duties, Willamina had more time of a weekend to pursue her research into Firelands' past. Now Willamina sat in the back room of the library, in the fine stone house that was Mr. and Mrs. Daffyd Llewellyn's home, back when Old Pale Eyes was still Sheriff. Willamina was tracking ancestry, puzzling through tangles of bad handwriting, mistaken entries, children confused with spouses and vice versa: she'd just un-knotted a particularly intricate jumble of inconsistencies, but with the help of death records, tombstone photographs and an immense amount of corroborative cross-checks, she'd finally straightened out the mess, she straightened in her chair, she stretched. She heard a step on the stair: she smiled as one of the school's Lunch Ladies came in with rectangular, wrapped in cloth. Willamina smiled as the woman approached her desk, as she unwrapped the cloth, revealing something framed, behind glass. Willamina frowned a little, rose, tilted her head, then her eyes widened and her mouth opened in a surprised O of delight. The two women looked at one another, then back to the framed drawing. "We were remodeling," the woman said, "and my husband cut out an old section of wall and found another wall behind it." "And this ...?" "This was hanging from the old original wall." "And your house ..." "We ... you did the deep dive into real estate records." Willamina's eyes lit up. She turned to her computer, fingers pattering rapidly over plastic keys. "Give me the address again." She pulled up the record and gave a very un-Sheriff-like, but very feminine-delight, squeak as she read the original owner's name. Sarah Lynne McKenna's expression was serious, almost solemn, as she carefully worked warm soapy bath water into The Bear Killer's fur. The big mountain Mastiff sat, warm and content, in the slipper tub full of warm water. Eyes closed, a piled crown of soap suds between his ears, he looked like Big King Mug Wump, receiving the massaging adulation that was his due. Sarah's Mama's bath powders added their fragrance to the little room; Sarah worked carefully, she soaped and scrubbed The Bear Killer carefully, thoroughly, then rinsed him off with dippersful of water. Her Mama hired a traveling artist, who was painting their portraits: Sarah ignored him as she attended to The Bear Killer. Neither child nor black mountain Mastiff paid any attention to the gentle scrape of artist's charcoal on the textured rag paper. Sheriff Willamina Keller hung the charcoal drawing of The Bear Killer in the Firelands Museum. She hung it near a faceless mannikin wearing a little girl's frock of the era, an illustration of children's styles of the era: the drawing showed a contented-looking canine in a bathtub, a frowning little girl with finger-curls and a frock very similar to the one on the mannikin, clearly in the act of giving an old friend a bath. The big black mountain Mastiff looked very directly at the viewer with an expression of contentment, and a crown of soapsuds carefully piled up between relaxed, wet ears. Willamina took a step back, laid her hand on the shoulder of a truly huge, sinner's-heart-black, curly-furred Bear Killer leaning, warm and companionable, against her leg. She felt his body shift as his massive tail swung with approval. "Don't get any ideas, buster," she muttered, and looked down, and The Bear Killer looked up with an utterly adoring expression.

MATCHLESS A small, furry, sinners-heart-black Bear Killer cocked his head curiously, watching two well dressed children picking up spent .22 hulls with needle forceps. Michael and Victoria believed in leaving the range better than they found it: consequently, they were taking home a zipped-shut plastic baggie of yellow modeling clay, a trash sack containing what used to be a box of kitchen matches, a torn, discarded candy wafer wrapper, and the sack of meticulously gathered scrap brass. Earlier in the day, they'd each set an old fashioned tin dinner bucket on one of the Sheriff's range's benches, along with a thermos: they set their warbags up, halved the lump of yellow schoolroom putty, walked out to one of the falling plate racks and laid a thick arc of clay on top of one round steel plate, stood the plate up, then stuck in a half dozen kitchen matches. Brother and sister walked back to the shooting bench. Young eyes are keen eyes, and Michael and Victoria were using iron sights, and .22 target pistols. They were also using good old fashioned competition, laying wagers on their next shot. Neither shot with intent to cut a matchstick in two. Each shot with intent to graze a match head and light it afire. Sums were named and agreed on. Pistol sights settled on their intended targets; each adjusted their stance, or stepped a little to the side, to get the best contrast with the blue-sulfur tip. When they ran through the new box of kitchen matches, they declared a recess: each opened their dented dinner bucket, ate the lunches they'd brought, poured steaming-hot tea, sweetened with honey. After their shared benchtop lunch, Michael reached into a coat pocket and donated a roll of candy wafers he'd been given nearly a year before: he did not like their taste, and thought it a fine time, a fine way, to get rid of them. He divided the roleau in half, gave half to his twin sister: each child stuck a half dozen slim wafers in the clay, each one surreptitiously turning the wafers a little so they weren't exactly edge-on: candy wafers are brittle, and turning them enough to be easily seen, would guarantee a hit. No wagers were laid on these. This, after the frustrating shattering of most of the match heads (out of a box of kitchen matches, Victoria lit three and Michael, two), it felt good to shoot something small that shattered reliably enough to restore their confidence. Wafer fragments they left lay: these would dissolve and disintegrate, wildlife would consume them, and no harm. There were observers, there were the curious, drawn by the slow and deliberate pace of precision fire: had this been something unusual, word would have spread quickly, but this was not something unique, nor was it particularly interesting. The shooting accuracy of all the Sheriff's young was accepted in the community as a given: if comment there was, likely it was confined to the fact that Michael shot thus, casually, unofficially, in a black suit and necktie, and Victoria, in an ornately-ruffled dress that stopped just past halfway down her shins. When they returned home, they went via the Mercantile, and bought two boxes of kitchen matches. The twins had used their Mama's only box of modern day Lucifers, and thought it wise to replace what they'd used, with an extra box, for good measure. This was discussed at the supper table, where Michael declared solemnly their Mama was matchless, but that's not how they wanted to leave her. Linn raised an eyebrow, looked at his wife and offered the quiet opinion that she was indeed a matchless individual. Shelly gripped her husband's hand and looked quite pleased with herself. Michael did his best to look innocent. Victoria, for her part, slung a sweet roll and bounced it off her grinning brother's scalp.

I do like that slogan, "When Jesus comes back, He is riding a horse!" Glad you're back!

... you can't make something like this up ...