Dreams of the Golden Aspen Ranch

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Brother William slipped quietly through the bat wings, took a quick step to the side and got the wall to his back.

For a tall man, he moved light and quiet, but not light enough nor quiet enough to escape notice.

"Lawman," a dusty, disagreeable looking fellow at the bar muttered.

Brother William looked over the interior.

It was a bar much like every other he'd seen: sawdust on the floor, cards on the table, a mirror the size of a hardback book behind the bar.

Brother William satisfied himself that things were quiet; he took a step away from the wall, and the disagreeable looking man pushed away from the bar and squared off at the white-robed monk.

"You wearin' a dress, mister?" he sneered. "Izzat what you lawmen wear nowadays?"

Brother William's staff whipped up as he took a long stride forward: seasoned wood hummed viciously through the tobacco-fouled air as hard muscles and lean hands spun the staff up, around and down again, striking the dusty man three times, hard enough to break bone with two of them.

Dust puffed from vest and shirt and finally his hat, and Brother William shortened the grip on his staff, hooked the man around the neck and yanked, hard.

The disagreeable man hit the floor and did not move.

The monk drove the end of his staff into the floor beside his bullhide sandal, looked around, his eyes hard.

The barkeep looked over the bar, shifted his quid and spat.

"Reckon you kilt him," he said conversationally. "Pete, you go git Doc, if he's sober."

"If he's dead, why'nt I gotta get th' doc?" Pete whined, and the barkeep fetched his adolescent protoge a slap up side the head: "Okay, okay, I'm goin', I'm goin'!"

Brother William bent down, removed the supine man's sidearm and laid it on the bar and spoke the first word he'd uttered since his shadow darkened their doorstep.

"Beer."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Only one man in the saloon cared, or dared, to get anywhere near this stranger in a long undershirt and a fast moving war club, and that was the town marshal.

He bellied up to the bar, set one well polished boot on the scratched and tarnished foot rail and raised a finger at the wary, eyebrow-cocked barkeep, who drew him a beer, set it down and backed carefully away from the pair.

The Marshal ignored the troublemaker on the floor.

He knew the man and he knew Brother William just saved him some trouble: he'd seen the tall, slender monk whip that war club around like it was a match stick, and he knew the sound of bones breaking, and he knew this trouble maker was not dead but he'd be making little trouble if any for some time to come.

The silence was growing, thick, palpable, not even the brittle click of poker chips or the papery rattle of cards being shuffled broke the stillness.

A dog barked somewhere outside, a horse whinnied, but within, all was still, save for two men, faces grave, who raised their beer mugs in unison, two men who tasted, swallowed, set their mugs down.

The Marshal spoke first.

"Captain --" he began, and the lean monk with the shaven tonsure snapped his head around, glaring.

"Let's grab us a table."

"I might be inclined to eat."

"Finish your beer and we'll go over't the chop house."

Brother William and the Marshal raised their heavy glass beer mugs and drank as thirsty men do; neither lowered his mug until its contents were safely behind the drinker's belt buckle.

Two mugs set themselves gently on the worse-for-wear bar top, two coins hit the wood, two men turned toward the door, and every pair of eyes in the place followed them out.

The town doc drew up outside just as the pair pushed through the bat wings.

"Why bless me," he exclaimed, stumbling out of the surrey, "if it isn't Cap--"

Brother William's glare silenced him as effectively as a hand across the mouth.

"The war is over," he said quietly, steel in his voice and iron in his expression: "I am simply Brother William. No more than that."

"He's inside, Doc. Can't miss him."

The doc grunted, sizing Brother William up with an expert eye.

"Your doin', I suppose," he grunted. "Well, no help for it." He shook his head, reached into the surrey for his warbag and muttered his way through the dusty, scarred batwing doors.

The Marshal looked around, eyes bright and busy under the shade of his hat brim.

"Let's head yonder. Food's not bad and the place is clean."

Brother William nodded.

 

The two were seated in a back corner, which surprised the white-robed monk not at all.

The Silver Jewel Saloon back in Firelands had such a table, unofficially but universally known as the Lawman's Corner, and it was the favorite seat of their pale-eyed Sheriff and his equally pale eyed chief deputy, the man's firstborn son.

Lawmen like to sit with their back to a wall, where they can see the doors, and the Marshal was no exception.

Brother William leaned his carved runestaff into the corner before easing his lean frame down into a chair.

"You're still too thin," the Marshal muttered.

"My aunt said the same thing," Brother William replied as his belly reminded him it was tired of being wrapped around his back bone.

"What's good today, Susie?" the Marshal asked the tired-looking hash slinger: a widow, Brother William thought, judging the sorrow in her eyes and the pale ring-shadow on her finger where a wedding band had ridden.

"We've got beef, Marshal. Beans, cornbread, I can fry you up some eggs and I've light rolls in the oven."

The Marshal's expression softened and reminded Brother William very much of a hopeful little boy.

"Susie, you ain't got any of that real good pie today, now, do ye?"

The hash slinger shook her head, her eyes closed. "Sorry, Marshal. I'm all out of fixin's."

"How about some honey?"

"Honey I got, Marshal."

"If we could trouble you for beef and beans," Brother William said gently, "and when those light rolls come out of the oven ... would you have any butter churned up?"

She nodded. "I got butter."

"I would reckon those good hot light rolls and butter with honey would be ... good." He nodded a little as he spoke, and the widow-woman looked more closely at the soft-spoken fellow in the funny nightshirt. She recognized something in his voice that matched a sudden sadness, almost a longing, in his eyes.

"I'll fetch you out some coffee," she said and turned back toward the kitchen.

"I see you didn't forget what Frenchy taught you."

Brother William glared at the Marshal, then closed his eyes, rubbed his face and sighed.

"Frenchy was interesting," his voice hollow as he spoke into his hands.

"He was," the Marshal agreed. "What was it he b'long to ... the Lee-John Et-Tranjer?"

"Legion Etrangere," Brother William said easily. "French Foreign Legion."

"I recall he was hell with a rifle."

Brother William nodded, eyes distant, and the Marshal knew the man was seeing ghosts from a war a decade and more agone.

"The Legion trains to use the rifle as a killin' machine," Brother William said slowly, staring at something ten miles beyond the horizon just behind the Marshal's right shoulder. "They get in close and if they don't have a bayonet it does not matter much."

"That's what you used over'n the saloon."

Brother William blinked; it took him a moment to focus on the Marshal, to process the man's quiet-voiced comment, then he smiled and shook his head.

"I did not use a bayonet."

"But you used that war club like it was a musket."

"I did that."

"And just as fast as I remember you used that Enfield."

Brother William nodded, sighed out a long breath.

"I recall once we got our discharge and we saw Frenchy to the docks."

Brother William chuckled. "I remember the night."

"Got us a bottle of New Straitsville Red and drank to war's end."

"The ladies."

"Plantin' trees and watchin' 'em grow."

"Plantin' grandchildren in our women's bellies."

The Marshal's smile was soft, thoughtful as he nodded.

"We-all set there and drank that whole damned bottle."

Brother William nodded.

"Who swung the first punch?"

"Damned if I know," the whiterobe admitted. "I know Frenchy was pretty damned good in a fight, drunk or not."

"Yeah, you got back to back with him an' left me t' fend for meself!" the Marshal grinned, feigning indignation and failing miserably in the attempt.

"You were doin' pretty good layin' about with that chair!"

"Yeah, well, I didn't have no insane Frenchman puttin' men down with his feet as fast as his fists neither!"

"He was deadly kickin', that's fer sure."

"I can still hear him holler," the Marshal said thoughtfully. "Only one of the Legion can take one of the Legion!"

"Didn't nobody take him, neither."

"I don't see how we got outta there alive."

"Don't you recall? I picked you up and heaved you through the window."

"Well howinell'd I get all wet then?"

"The three of us dove out that-there winder and rolled down the bank right into the river!"

"And that's where Old Pale Eyes fished us out."

"I don't rightly recall," Brother William admitted. "I was pretty well ... between moon likker and a couple good belts to the head I don't recall much after I hove you out that glass."

The two men laughed as the hash slinger set down heavy ceramic mugs of good black coffee and two plates of beef and beans.

"You two sound like a couple old soldiers," she smiled.

The Marshal and the Monk looked at one another and laughed.

"Why yes ma'am," they chorsued.

"I'll bring your light rolls right out."

 

Brother William stayed the night with the Marshal, bunking on a folding canvas cot; he'd gone over to the barber shop and gotten a bath, closing his eyes and relaxing as he listened to the barber's wife beat the dust from his robe as if she were beating rugs.

Word spreads fast in a small town and there were maybe a half dozen waiting on him to emerge; he set up a confessional and used a nail keg as an altar, and the Faithful took advantage of his presence to shed their sins in due form and fashion: it is a comfort to return to a familiar ritual, and Brother William knew how important this spiritual touchstone could be, for many out West were newly arrived and a long way from home -- not to mention the brevity, the fragility of life, and no soul wishes to die unconfessed.

He was preparing the Host for Mass and shivered: he stopped, lifted his hands, stared at scarred, browned fingers, marveling at how little they trembled, for he was trembling inwardly, remembering men in battle and after battle, their voices, one voice --

Let me not die unshriven! the injured man screamed, the desperate plea of a man looking at his own death, and the Captain -- for he was not yet Brother William -- sprinted to the injured man, seized his hand, knelt ...

...too late.

Brother William closed his eyes and took a long breath, uttered a wordless prayer, and returned to his task at hand.

He'd been too late for a soldier, pleading for his eternal soul.

These faithful came to him, seeking their souls' salvation.

He would not turn these people away.

 

Next morning the Marshal and the Monk had a light breakfast; half a dozen eggs each, most of a pound of bacon, most of a loaf of bread and two pots of coffee,

It don't pay to eat too much at one settin'.

"Where are you headed?" the Marshal asked as he mopped his plate with his bread.

Brother William considered his answer carefully.

"There is someone I need to see," he replied, and under the table, his hand closed around one corner of his traveler's pouch, and he felt the crush of dried herbals beneath his grip.

"I am needed."

[Calico Mary]

I got a couple hours of sleep, and woke up feeling much better. Painted Filly wasn't inside the cabin when I awoke, so I slowly got up and made my way outside to look for her, I wanted to see if there was any more of that soup left. She was over by the barn, talking to the hand that she had sent to Denver to get my family, but I didn't see any signs of them at all. It didn't take long for them to notice me making my way down the front steps, and they hurried over to meet me.

 

“Calico, I'm afraid we have some bad news,” Filly said, “Slick couldn't find your family or friends.”

 

“No ma'am, I went to the orphanage, and the nuns said that your preacher and the rest had shown up looking to stay there, but there's a bunch of orphans that have the measles, and the Mother Superior didn't think it was a good idea to have your youngsters there...didn't want them getting sick too...so they left. She told me to go see the Winchesters to see if they went there, but no one was home, and a neighbor said that Mr. and Mrs. Winchester are out of town. I went by a few of the nicer hotels, but no luck there either. I had no idea where else to look, so I figured I better come back home and see if you had any other ideas. If you do, I can go back as soon as I saddle another horse...”

 

He couldn't find them? I was almost speechless, where did they go? It had never occurred to me that they wouldn't be able to stay at the orphanage, but the Mother Superior had been right in not wanting my kids exposed to the measles, especially the babies. I also hadn't been aware that the Winchesters would not be home, but if that was the case why hadn't Biblepuncher taken everybody to one of the hotels? From the ones that Slick listed off that he had checked, it sounded like they weren't staying at any of the ones we normally would have chosen, but where else could they be?

 

“Saddle my horse instead, I'm going myself!” I told Slick, and headed straight for the barn. Filly did everything she could to talk me out of going, insisting that I was in no shape to even consider it. I wasn't going to be talked out of it though, and told Slick that if he wouldn't saddle Swamp Rat for me I'd do it myself, I was going to Denver and that was final. Filly sighed, and finally told Slick to go ahead and get my horse, but to get hers as well. Slick walked off towards the barn, shaking his head and muttering something about hard-headed females, but I didn't hear the rest of it, I was already on my way back to the cabin to get my guns. Filly went with me and pulled a wooden box out from under the bed. When she opened it, I saw the prettiest pair of pistols I had ever seen, and even though I was in a hurry I couldn't help but stop to admire them. I asked if she knew how to use them, but she just laughed, telling me that as soon as possible she would prove to me that she did.

 

“Later,” I told her, “Got something more important to do first....” I finished buckling my gunbelt on, which wasn't at all comfortable, my side still hurt like crazy and so did having to bite my checks to keep from letting Filly know how bad I was hurting. It only took a few minutes before Slick came back leading three horses, he insisted on going along as well. I didn't think it was necessary, but if Filly and Slick were going to come along instead of trying to stop me, well, I wasn't going to turn down the help. Denver was growing, and it might take all three of us to find my family and friends.....

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"HOLD!"

A man's voice, a voice used to command, a voice that shot across the intervening space like a grasping hand at the end of a blacksmith's muscled arm.

Calico's eyes narrowed and her head turned, her jaw set hard.

Pain and determination added to the stiffness in her spine and the clench of her even, white teeth, and even across the intervening distance, Brother William saw the hardness in the woman's eyes.

He also saw how she held herself and he knew she was hurt.

"Now who the hell," Slick muttered, "is that?"

"That," Calico muttered, "is Brother Wiliam."

The white-robed Cistercian strode across the ground, his stride long-legged, easy, his head-tall staff an extension of his hand.

"You're leaving," he said flatly, looking up at Calico.

Calico nodded, once: the monk did not miss little beads of sweat popping out on her forehead.

"You've something important to tend, otherwise you'd be flat on your back healing up."

"Which is where she should be," Painted Filly snapped, glaring at Calico.

"Might be I can help," Brother William said quietly, looking from Calico to Slick to Filly. "Whither away, Captain?"

"Denver," Filly replied, her glare daring Calico to object. "Her children are gone and she's gettin' 'em back."

"Peacefully or otherwise?" Brother William asked, looking back up at Calico.

Calico nodded and whispered, "You're damned right," through bloodless lips.

"I know some people there. You'll need people on the inside, people who know people."

"I can find 'em myself," Calico hissed.

Brother William nodded. "I don't doubt you can and I don't doubt you will and I don't doubt you'll cut a bloody path through anyone who tries to stop you." He thrust his chin at Calico. "How bad you hurt?"

"I'm not hurt," Calico hissed.

Brother William saw how pale she was -- a little more than she had been when he first walked up on her.

"Are you even fit to ride?"

"No she's not," Filly snapped. "She shouldn't be out of bed!"

"Preacher," Slick spoke up, warning in his voice, "you're meddlin'."

"I can get you into their police department," Brother William snapped, glaring at Slick. "I can get you into their churches and I can get you into their criminal gangs. I can get you half a thousand sets of eyes. Half a thousand native townies, all looking, on your behalf!"

He looked up at Calico, judging whether he should move to the other side of her horse to try and catch her if she passed out and fell, decided against it: though she wobbled once, though she swayed for a long moment, she was a determined soul, and the white robed sky pilot knew from experience just how hard headed and contrary a woman could be ... and just how physically tough they could be, especially when fighting for her young.

"I got to get 'em," Calico whispered though stiff and pallid lips.

"I can muster a small army to help you out."

Calico was white to the roots of her hair and her right hand drifted down as if the glove it wore was too heavy to hold up.

She rested her hand on the saddle horn and nodded.

"Good," Brother William nodded. "Dismount. I'm making tea."

"Like hell," Calico hissed, lifting her reins and heeling her gelding.

Brother William ended up following by a little less than a mile, riding a borrowed saddle mule, muttering darkly about hard headed and contrary women folk and how in the cotton pickin' was he going to get to a telegraph and keep up with the trio ahead of him.

 

The Sheriff knocked on Sarah's door, a telegraph flimsy in his hand.

Sarah swung the door wide open and threw herself into her Papa's arms.

The Sheriff bear hugged his little girl, picking her up off the floor and shaking her a little: Sarah grimaced and whispered "Ow," as something painful rippled down her spine. "That hurt good!"

"I know," the Sheriff whispered, then he set his little girl down and held her at arm's length.

"Motherhood suits you," he said quietly, approval shining in his pale eyes.

Sarah laid a hand on her barely bulging belly.

"That's what Brother William said."

The Sheriff offered the flimsy.

"Speaking of whom," he said, and Sarah read the telegrapher's regular, block print, read it again.

Her face grew serious and she looked up at her father.

"Brother William needs the Agent and Sister Mercurius."

The Sheriff nodded, looking pointedly down at her belly.

"You don't have to go," he said gently.

Sarah laid a hand on her belly and glared at her father.

"Now what kind of a mother would I be," she snapped, "if I didn't help when it was needed? What kind of an example would I be settin' for my son? You" -- she took a step toward her father, shaking her finger at him, eyes as pale and hard as legend had it -- "what kind of a man would my son be if he had a spineless milk sop for a mother?"

The Sheriff tried his best to keep a poker face.

He tried.

Sarah planted her knuckles on her belt line, glaring with hard and ice-pale eyes at her long, tall father, her foot patting the boards beneath her skirt with a regular, disapproving rhythm.

The Sheriff gave up all pretense.

His solemn expression cracked and fell from his visage, and was replaced with a broad and genuine grin.

Sarah raised her Mommy-finger and wagged it at the Sheriff, then she thrust stiff arms down to her side and uttered an irritated "Oooh!" -- she turned on her heel and stalked away, her spine as stiff as her arms -- halfway across the room, she spun and glared again, opened her mouth, then closed it and turned and stomped up the stairway.

The Sheriff shook his head, picked up the telegram she'd dropped.

He laid it on the side table, remembering how interesting things generally became when Sarah went to Denver in the past.

Brother William would not ask a pregnant widow to help unless ...

The Sheriff looked at the empty staircase, his jaw thrusting slowly forward.

I genuinely feel sorry for whoever runs cross grained of her, he thought.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I'll give her this much.

That woman is tough.

Brother William rode patiently beside Calico.

She finally slumped and he was off his mule and under the sagging woman before she could go completely limp and even then she had strength enough to swear at him and tell him to get his damned filthy hands off her, she was a married woman.

Slick wasn't sure whether to lend a hand or not so he stood out of the way while the tall monk got her off leg free of where her boot tried to hang up on the saddle.

"Good thing you're tall," he muttered.

"I'll need a fire. Small one. Need to boil a tin cup of water."

Slick nodded, once, his face hardening: he could do that, it would help Calico.

He still wasn't sure about that fellow in the floor length nightshirt.

Brother William rolled Calico up against him, looked around.

Filly plucked the sleeve of his robe, nodded toward a nearby rock the size of an outhouse: it was one of a cluster, it was a defensible position and there was a fairly clean looking sand bed.

Brother William followed her nod and she saw approval in his eyes.

She flipped the blanket roll off her shoulder, untied the piggin strings and snapped it open.

"Help me undress her," he said quietly.

Calico's eyes were fever-bright and her face was sweaty again, but not with pain: Filly laid the backs of her fingers against Calico's cheek, jerked them back: alarmed, she looked up at the tonsured monk.

"She's hot," she whispered.

"I know."

Browned fingers ran down the buttons of her vest, then her tucked in shirt: he pulled back denim and flannel and looked up at Painted Filly.

"Is this her only wound?"

Filly nodded.

Brother William studied the dressing and nodded.

"Your work?"

Filly nodded.

"You've done this before."

"You could say that," Slick said, squatting. "Where d'ye want the fire?"

"Nearby. Arm's reach." He looked at the bundle of flammables Slick managed to scrounge.

"Dry wood. Good. That'll heat fast."

"I got to get movin'," Calico muttered and tried to sit up.

Filly and Brother William each laid a hand on one of her shoulders.

"You're fevered," Filly said.

Calico's eyes widened a little and followed something invisible, then she reached up and tried to catch the invisible something, her lips curling in a childlike smile.

Brother William carefully untied the surcingle, worked the windings loose: he and Filly ran their hands from her shoulder down to her shoulder blades, looked at one another and nodded, sat her up.

Calico set her teeth and hissed but made no other noise.

Brother William got the windings loose, carefully preserving them, not cutting them: he knew they could be washed and re-used, and where they were traveling, there would be no resupply.

He ran a hand into his traveling bag, came up with a tin cup not much less than a quart in size.

"Canteen on my mule, Slick. If you could fetch it once you've lit the fire."

Slick looked up and nodded.

Brother William pulled the pad away from Calico's side, his bottom jaw thrusting out.

Painted Filly tilted her head, watched curiously as the tonsured parson carefully wiped the accumulated corruption from the wound, then bent to sniff the wound itself.

He nodded.

"I don't think it busted a gut," he whispered, looking up at Filly, then over her head, his eyes distant as his hand expertly palpated her belly: "if the bullet punched a hole in her guts her belly muscles would be set up stiff as a board. They're not."

Slick thrust the monk's blanket sided canteen at him.

"Ah, thank you."

Brother William poured a half cup of water, set it on the two side-by-side firesticks; the small, dry-wood fire between them could be held in a man's cupped hands -- it was small but hot and water boiled quickly.

Brother William set his warbag on the sandy ground, opened it, looked inside: frowning, he reached in and pulled out a paper wrapped bundle, another.

He pulled out a clean, folded cloth, looked over at the shivering Calico.

"Help me roll her up on her side."

Filly and Brother William took her at shoulder and hip and rolled her up.

He examined the wound again, more closely this time; he unfolded the cloth, tore in in two, then two again, re-folding each with a double pinch of dried something under a single layer of the cloth, then watered these slowly with the steaming-hot, near-boiling water: he waited until color soaked through the cloth, tested the temperature with the backs of two fingers, and laid one on the angry, red, purse-lipped entry wound, and one on the exit.

He and Painted Filly carefully re-wrapped the binder, laid her down, rolled her tight in two blankets.

"Thirsty," she whispered.

Brother William nodded, brushing the hair back from her forehead.

"That's a good sign," he whispered.

Calico's eyes snapped open as she gained a little strength.

"Hands off the merchandise, mister," she snarled. "I'm a married woman!"

"Will this help?" Slick asked, offering a glass flask of a clear amber compound.

Brother William took it, pulled the cork, sniffed, raised an eyebrow.

"You must be a seafaring man," he said, appreciation in his voice. "It's not many this far inland with a taste for rum!"

Slick's expression was unreadable and Brother William handed it back.

"I will need that, and soon."

He refilled his tin cup, set it back on the fire, added the other wrapped packed into the water without unwrapping it.

"She's dry. We'll need to get the febrifuge into her and break that fever. Meantime we'll need to change that dressing as long as corruption keeps coming out."

"What about Denver?" Aspen asked. "She's got to get there."

Brother William smiled, and the smile was not entirely kind.

"I know someone," he said, "who can find out absolutely anything you could ever want to know about Dever."

He caressed Calico's cheek with gentle fingers.

"We will find them," he whispered, and looked up at Slick and Calico.

"I lost my wife and my children. I will not lose hers as well."

He used his sleeve as insulation and picked up the tin cup from the fire, poured the contents slowly into a second cup, flipped the soggy cloth herb packet on the ground, poured the fragrant decoction from one cup to another to cool it.

"We'll get you healed up, dear heart," he murmured, "don't you worry."

Calico drank gratefully, deeply; the shivering, sweating woman relaxed slowly as warmth spread through her freezing frame.

"Cheyenne," she whispered, just before her eyes sagged shut and she began breathing more easily.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

It was not unusual for a widow in the era to wear all black.

It was not unusual for a widow of the era to wear a heavy black veil.

Dresses, sleeves, petticoats, all conspired to conceal the wearer's form.

They also provided superb means of concealing a variety of items not normally associated with a woman in mourning.

Sarah settled herself into the private car's velvet-upholstered chair, sighing as she folded black-gloved hands demurely in her lap.

Judge Hostetler regarded the young woman through a curling blue nimbus of Havana smoke.

"My dear," he said gently, "I I trust you have been well?"

Sarah Llewellyn -- or the Widow Llewellyn, as she'd recently become -- nodded silently, her face completely hidden by the heavy veil.

Judge Hostetler harrumphed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, and Sarah knew this reflected his personal discomfort, and neither the result of old war wounds, nor any fault of the cushioned seat he occupied.

"It would be easier," he continued, "if I could see your face."

Sarah hesitated, then lifted her hands slowly to grasp the corners of the veil.

The Judge's eyes tightened at the corners, then his smile flowed down over the rest of his face as Sarah's pale-blue eyes regarded him merrily, and she laughed quietly, as if she'd just pulled a good one over on a trusted friend.

"It's good to see you again, Your Honor."

His Honor harrumphed again and puffed out a minor nimbus of rich blue tobacco smoke.

"I must say," he growled, "that widowhood has not diminished your loveliness."

"It has ... changed me," she admitted.

"Yes, so I understand. Should you be traveling in your ... condition?"

"Your Honor!" Sarah blinked, affecting a shocked expression. "Must I sit at home with my feet propped up on a stool, the image and example of wasteful luxury?"

He glared at her, biting carefully down on the rolled Havana. "If you were my wife," he muttered, then looked pointedly at her and continued, "or my daughter --"

"Your Honor," Sarah interrupted, her face suddenly tight, her eyes blazing ice-pale and her voice just as warm and welcoming as her glacial glare, "if I were your daughter I would occupy a privleged position in this world, and very likely I would end up as a crowned head of a minor European kingdom!"

"Yes you would," His Honor agreed, leaning back and spitting a fleck of tobacco into the goboon beside his chair. "And very likely by your own strength of will, I wot!"

Sarah produced an ornate black fan from somewhere, snapped it open, fluttered it delicately while managing to look absolutely, guilelessly innocent.

"I just might do that anyway," she smiled with a feminine tilt of her head.

"God help us," Judge Hostetler shook his head. "I think you could."

Sarah smiled and leaned back a little, relaxing as the engine whistle screamed a pure-white cloud into the clear, cool mountain air and the car beneath them jerked and banged as the slack came out of the couplers.

"If it would not be an affront," the Judge asked, "just what brings a grieving widow out of her great stone castle and into the world of the common man?"

"It would not be an affront, Your Honor." Sarah snapped the fan shut; a quick turn of her hand and it disappeared -- the Judge blinked, for as he hadn't seen where she'd drawn it from, he could not divine where she'd thrust it into.

"In fact, sir, you have legitimate need-to-know when your personal Agent of the Court is out and about, for I am about on business."

"I see." The Judge's tried to look stern, but he managed curious instead, puffing on the cigar to conceal his irritation.

"Brother William asked my help," she said. "He needs my multiple contacts on a matter. More than that I do not know."

"This," the Judge said, "is interesting."

"Isn't it?" Sarah smiled. "He knows of my activities ... and my several personae."

"You are a bit of a chameleon, my dear."

"I know," Sarah laughed, her mobile face relaxed and cheerful, even white teeth flashing a quick, genuine smile: outside, Firelands was well behind them and they were beginning the climb through forested terrain and beginning a long climb that echoed the laboring bark of the Baldwin engine's diamond-stacked exhaust.

"Just what is this urgent business for which he most earnestly solicits my most effective Agent?"

"I don't know," Sarah admitted frankly. "I will meet him in the usual place and proceed from there."

"Hm." The Judge regarded what was left of his cigar rather sadly. "I don't know if my chew has caught fire, or my cigar is about drowned out."

He dropped the butt into the goboon, considered the humidor and decided against lighting another.

"So it's a mystery," he sighed. "Well, no help for it, I suppose."

Sarah laughed. "You," she smiled, "are as impatient as I."

His Honor glared at the pretty young widow.

"My dear," he said at length, "might I be so bold as to be brutally honest?"

"You may, Your Honor," Sarah replied, sitting very straight and very proper. "I would be surprised if you were less than utterly forthright."

"I wish," he said slowly, "that our ages were not as disparate as they are."

Of all the utterances the dignified old jurist could have made, this was one Sarah absolutely positively did not expect: her jaw sagged, as did her shoulders, then she stood and walked over to the Judge.

Sarah Lynne Rosenthal, nee McKenna, known professionally as Agent Lynne Rosenthal, a deadly, silent, swift and blooded warrior, a woman who'd seen more of violence and grief in her seventeen years than most men thrice her age, swallowed and blinked and then bent to embrace the aging, grey-bearded Judge Hostetler with a strength that surprised the dignified old man.

 

Brother William's fine tenor filled the church's interior as he sang the Mass.

Now he waited in the confessional, head bowed, reviewing what he knew, re-reading the notes he'd made.

He planned to enlist the most effective detective he knew of in finding Calico's children.

He knew Sarah had contacts with the Denver police department, with Denver's population of street children, she'd even gained the respect of the shadow world of their criminal network, and she was possessed of a remarkable power of persuasion.

If anyone can find these people, he thought, she can cast a wide webwork and feel every subtle vibration on every silken strand.

The door of the confessional opened; a figure entered, the door closed, a woman's voice spoke.

"Hello, Brother William," Sarah said.

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

We quickly buried the dead men and started heading back to Kiowa's ranch and to my sweet Calico.

 

I was worried sick about her wounded side and I couldn't get back to her soon enough, but darkness was quickly enveloping us.

 

We made camp and had a fire going just as darkness set in, along with howls from coyotes.

 

Kiowa was making coffee and Ike and Eddie were cleaning some jack rabbits they had shot earlier as I slipped out of camp to find some time to myself.

 

 

The prayers flowed easily from within my burdened soul, and I wasn't bashful asking the Great Physician to take care of my Calico.

 

I had been there for a few minutes when I smelled the aroma of a woman near me, I looked over to see Velvet knelling beside me.

 

"I haven't done this since I was a little girl" she whispered, "You reckon He'll remember me?"

 

I gave her a quick smile, "He knows every hair on you head, I imagine He still knows your name."

[Calico Mary]

Getting up on that horse hurt worse than just about anything I'd ever been through except for giving birth. For a second I almost changed my mind, but no...my kids were missing and someone had to find them. There was no telling how long it would be before Cheyenne and the others returned, I couldn't wait. My companions had an easier time getting into their saddles, but just as we were about to leave, I heard a voice call out, “Hold!”

 

I turned to look, but I hadn't been expecting to see Brother William. Any other time I would have been happy to see the man, but right now I was in a hurry to get to Denver, and wasn't pleased with the interruption. I was even more annoyed that he could tell right away that I was injured, and of course he tried to get me to change my mind about going. Although I appreciated his concern and had no wish to argue with him, I wasn't about to let him stop me either. I managed to get him to think I'd cooperate, but as soon as he turned to head for the house I gave Swamp Rat a firm kick, and the gelding took off. Filly and Slick were right behind me, and as we rode off I could hear Brother William saying something, but I didn't stick around to find out what.

 

I should have known it wouldn't take him long to catch up as stubborn as he was, and it didn't. He didn't say anything this time and just rode along with us, though I could feel his eyes watching me the whole time. How far we traveled I had no idea, I was struggling just to stay in the saddle. I couldn't remember ever feeling this bad, and finally the pain got the best of me and I felt myself starting to slide sideways off the gelding. Next thing I knew Brother William was off his mule and trying to catch me as I fell, but my pride didn't want to accept. “Get yer hands off me...” I tried to tell him, but I was barely able to say them and he didn't listen anyway.

 

He carried me over behind some rocks and gently laid me on the ground, I was starting to shiver like crazy which made no sense to me as the day was rather warm. From the look on Filly's face I could tell something was wrong, but none of the others seems all that inclined to explain what, and I was feeling too weak and dizzy to even try and argue with them. I had no idea what Brother William was doing, but I didn't even have the strength to stop him when he lifted my shirt to look at my wounds, he may have been trying to help but even so, I wished he would have just let Filly handle it, especially with Slick standing right there too!

 

I had no idea how long they poked and prodded at me, or even what they were doing. All I knew was that it hurt, and I felt both really hot and very cold at the same time, which made no sense to me. Finally they gave me something to drink, which helped a little as I was also very thirsty, but my body had had enough and I could feel myself drifting off. My last conscious thought was of Cheyenne, and where was he? Then finally I could take no more and closed my eyes....

 

….Then I saw a small, dingy room, with one small table, no chairs, and a narrow cot. Kate was sitting on one end of the cot holding Ruth, the twins were asleep on the other end, snuggled up close to each other. Tommy and Rose were sitting on the floor at Kate's feet, looking at a book together, Tommy slowly turning the pages as he read to his younger sister. All the older kids, Cora, and Finn were standing on the opposite side of the room by the closed door, leading to where I had no idea. They seemed to be talking in whispers, but I could not hear what was being said.

 

I tried to say something to get Cora or LIttle Flower's attention, but it didn't take long to realize that they couldn't hear me either. Before long the door quickly opened just far enough for Biblepuncher to squeeze his way into the room, and was just as quickly shut behind him. This time I heard the words that Biblepuncher spoke to the others. “We're still safe for now, Reverend Adamson has seen to that, but for how long he doesn't know. He hasn't been able to get our baggage from the train station, too risky, anyone he sends after it would likely be followed from the station. He is arranging for as many firearms as he can discreetly get his hands on, he should have them by tonight and will bring them under cover of darkness. For now, all we can do is wait.”

 

The scene slowly faded, replaced by a dream of a lone eagle flying high over the Denver sky, looking downward, but looking for what? And just where was this room my family was hiding in, and why?

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Calico broke her fever two or three times.

Each time she soaked her sheets.

Painted Filly and Brother William tended her constantly: when she was conscious enough to drink, she was primed with the herbal decoction and water and a little rum, which helped to bring the fever out.

When she was unconscious, they kept her warm, changed her dressing, wiped her forehead and her cheeks, held her hand.

Twice she rallied enough to take some very finely cut meat and broth.

Slick wandered in and out, clearly worried; at one point he stood, staring at Calico, worrying his hat from one hand to another and finally blurted, "What's she doin' in there?"

"Traveling," Brother William said, looking up, both his hands clasping hers: "she is in a vision."

"Oh dear Gawd," Slick muttered, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "Cain't you just fix her?"

Brother William kept a straight face as he replied, "I'll need a half-inch nine-sixteenths box-end wrench, a screwdriver set, a rivet set and a single jack."

Slick's face, on the other hand, betrayed his feelings.

"How do you know she is traveling?" Filly whispered.

"No need to whisper," Brother William smiled. "She can hear us."

Painted Filly's eyes widened, almost with alarm.

"Hearing is the last sense to leave. That is why I am circumspect in her presence. She is far-seeing right now, her soul exists here and in the Valley at once and she can see far more than if she were in her fleshly shell."

Slick swore, clapped his hat on his head and stomped out the door.

"She will return in due time," Brother William said gently, fingertips resting at her temple: "and not long ... not long at all."

"What happens then?"

"Then I get a good description of everyone we're looking for, I take that to an agent I know of, and we recruit the reinforcements only she can muster."

"She?"

"Yes," Brother William murmured. "Agent Lynne Rosenthal. The Agent in Black."

"Not the Black Angel."

"She only wears black when she wishes to be seen." Brother William's expression was guarded. "Or completely unseen."

"How soon?"

"The Agent is enroute Denver right now. I am to meet her tomorrow."

"Will Calico ..."

"She'll be awake by then, clear minded, a little weak. She'll be bound and determined to get back in the saddle." Brother William's brows puzzled momentarily, quirking a little as a stray thought sailed in to interrupt his words. "Did she call that horse Swamp Rat?"

Painted Filly blinked, surprised, then giggled, and her face softened, and Brother William saw the girl she had once been -- but only for a moment.

"Darn right I called him Swamp Rat," Calico whispered hoarsely. "Now get your hands off me, mister, I'm a married woman!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"Slow down. I'm writing."

"There is no need," Brother William said quietly. "Take mine."

Sarah laid delicate fingertips on the good rag paper and drew it through the gap in the bottom of the confessional screen, pressed it out flat, read.

"Children ... Twins ... Kate, adult?" She looked up.

"I am sorry. I do not know."

"Infant, Ruth. Tommy. Older children ... Rose. Cora. Finn. And she said something about a dingy little room?"

"She was not entirely ... coherent."

"Probably very accurate." Sarah studied the page, frowning a little, then nodded.

"They were together when she saw them, chances are they'll still be together when she finds them."

She looked through the lattice work at the listening Cistercian.

"It would help if she knew where to find them."

"Yes."

"I know where to start. Have your contacts in the religious community found this Reverend Adamson?"

Yes. He is known to us."

"Good. And a train station close by." She tapped a gloved fingertip against her cheek. "Preparation for a fight."

"Yes."

"I would like to pay the good Reverend a visit."

"You could probably drive right up to his door and not raise suspicion."

Brother William could hear the smile in her voice.

"I think I should bring the good Reverend some gifts."

"And we have spent too much time here already. I've written the good Reverend's location at the bottom of that sheet. Do you visit my fellow sky pilot, and I shall to Calico. I would imagine she is ready to rip the horn off an anvil with her bare hands."

"You might want to take some supplies."
"I have a half dozen rifles and two cases of rounds."

"Man after my own heart."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"Mr. Smith?"

The blacksmith frowned as he hammered the glowing steel; his hammer was a standard sledge hammer, the handle sawed off a little shy of the half way mark, and the man swung it as easily as a normal man swings a rigbuilder's hatchet.

"Mr. Smith?"

The smith dunked the part in a quenching tub, swishing it twice before bringing it out.

He held it up, looked closely at it, then looked over it at the feminine silhouette centered in the open double doors.

Black Smith frowned again, turning his head slightly as if to bring his good ear, or his better eye, to bear; a broad and genuine smile split his mahogany features and he set the hammer on the anvil, the still-steaming part beside it, and he announced, "As I live and breathe, Miz Sarah!"

"Hello, Mr. Smith."

Black Smith snatched up a cake of lye soap and turned to a separate basin so he would not foul his quench barrel.

Sarah walked through the smithy, looking the muscled metalworker rather frankly up and down and finally nodding.

"Marriage suits you, Mr. Smith," she nodded.

"Thank you, Miz Sarah, an' how's --"

Black Smith caught himself and Sarah seized his large, callused hand, her grip surprisingly strong.

"Mr. Smith," she replied, and he saw sadness in her pale blue eyes, "it's sweet of you to ask and thank you for caring enough to inquire." She lay a hand on her belly and the smith's eyes widened.

"You is with chile, Miz Sarah?"

"I carry his son," Sarah said frankly, "he will have apple cheeks and green eyes with gold flecks, and he will be a bowyer and an archer."

Black Smith's eyes narrowed and he turned his head a little, regarding the diminutive, slender woman suspiciously.

"I allus thought you was a Seer," he muttered.

"We all have our gifts," Sarah agreed, "but not all of us have the same gifts. I can't work in iron, for instance, but you make it look easy!"

Black Smith blinked, surprised, then threw his head back and laughed.

"I has yo' ... I has it done, Miz Sarah."

"Good. Let's try it on."

Black Smith's eyes widened; he looked distinctly uncomfortable, and even less so when he brought out the contoured metal plates and Sarah shimmied out of her dress.

They fitted the metal plates around her, buckled it in place over her riding corset.

She drew the dress back up, fastened it; the cut was perfect, the fitted curiasse unnoticeable beneath carefully tailored cloth.

"Miz Sarah," Black Smith said slowly, "is you intend to git into trouble?"

Sarah looked directly at the man, her eyes steady, expressionless.

"I'm already in trouble, Mr. Smith, but some people are in a lot more, and I intend to help them out."

A grey muzzled mule shoved its head through a window and laid its ears back, baring yellowed teeth and giving that death-rattle greeting that indicates pleasure.

Sarah emptied a small cloth sack onto her palm and held it out and the mule happily licked salt from her open hand.

"Hello, Brindle," she said softly.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Sarah drove from the depot to the Mercantile.

She arranged -- with a sweet smile and a surreptiously-pressed coin in the boy's hand -- to have the luggage transferred from her rented wagon, to the Mercantile's wagon.

She'd rented the long-bed buggy from the livery and drove around to the Mercantile's back door, called to the proprietor's tall, rangy son, and asked him gently if he could help her out.

A widow-woman, all in black, asking for help -- especially with such pretty but sad eyes -- well, strong men had been melted in their moccasins by the lovely Agent Rosenthal's charms, and this tall boy was far more easily persuaded than any of the men she'd gulled in her few years on this planet -- he set about with a will, transferring luggage to the Mercantile conveyance.

Sarah went inside, in through the back door, surprising the proprietor: he laughed when he saw her and kissed her hand and asked in a whisper how she'd been.

Sarah's father, that pale eyed Sheriff back in Firelands, bankrolled the man's venture into business: with the old lawman's help, he'd established himself, and more times than one, Sarah availed herself of his premises and his assets, with the man's wholehearted cooperation.

Sarah, quiet-voiced, explained her needs, handed the man a small pouch: he tried to refuse it, but she pressed it on him, explaining that she could not sleep at night if she didn't pay him what she thought it was worth, then she lay a hand on her belly and laughed and said she would have enough trouble sleeping through the night before very long.

The proprietor nodded, accepted the fist sized poke of gold coin: it was many times over what he would have asked, even if the cargo she'd requested wasn't already paid for.

Two wooden crates went into the Mercantile wagon.

The wooden slats had been carefully prized loose, turned over, tacked back down so bare wood was exposed, and the stenciled WINCHESTER FIREARMS COMPANY was now hidden: a canvas and canned goods concealed two cases of ammunition.

Sarah had her conveyance loaded with materials the Parson had on order already: Bibles, tracts, note-paper and some household trifles; to this Sarah added cloth and sewing notions for the man's wife, some clothes and shoes for his own children, an assortment of clothes she hoped would fit the refugees hidden in the man's secret room.

Sarah knew the Mercantile wagon was such a common sight in the territory that -- even though the preacher's house was watched -- it would not arouse suspicion.

Her own, on the other hand, would be suspect, and she well knew she might be stopped on a pretext, and she intended that her cargo should be above reproach.

Useful, yes, but not suspicious.

She asked for one more thing and the proprietor nodded, opened a hidden panel at the end of the glass topped counter, and brought out a long box.

"Thank you," Sarah said quietly. "I think I shall need this before all is settled."

 

Sarah well knew the principles of overwatch and concealment, she knew misdirection and decoy: she knew when the Mercantile wagon, all painted up and lettered neatly, polished and pin striped, the matched geldings prancing in bell-topped collars, the watchers' eyes would follow this into the Parson's yard.

She waited until the Mercantile wagon was around back and being unloaded before she drove boldly down the road and up to the man's front door.

She was neither challenged, nor was she halted; she supervised the unloading of the cargo, letting it be plainly seen that she'd brought groceries and household goods, bolts of cloth and boxes of books -- she halted the Parson and they opened one, brought out a couple of volumes, flipped through them for the benefit of the watchers.

When the rifles were unloaded, still draped with canvas, Sarah knew there was one set of ears close enough to hear what was being said.

"I covered the childrens' coffins," she said, loudly enough to carry to listening ears: "I did not want to alarm the household."

The Parson was not slow on the uptake.

"Thank you," he nodded. "I appreciate that thoughtfulness."

Sarah picked up her long wooden box and carried it inside while the Parson's son tied his horse to the back of her buggy and drove it back into town for her.

Once she was inside, Sarah hoisted the box awkwardly onto the table and opened it.

The men's jaws fell open and their eyes bulged as Sarah stripped quickly out of her dress, revealing her hand forged steel foundation; she unbuttoned her high shoes, dipped her hand into the box, quickly thrust herself into black socks and drawers, black shirt and vest and knee-high, flat-heel cavalry boots, thrust a long knife into a boot-top sheath, slung a straight-bladed sword across her back and buckled into a black, unadorned gunbelt.

Finally she reached into the box and brought out the last two items: a black canvas ammunition belt, filled with gleaming, bottlenecked .40-60 rifle cartridges, and an 1876 Winchester of the same persuasion.

She turned over the lapel on her black vest to display a dull bronze badge.

"Agent Rosenthal, Firelands District Court," she said, her eyes gone cold, pale, the color of a glacier's heart.

"I might be out of my jurisdiction but this'll cut as much ice as need be with the law."

The Parson took a long breath, nodded.

"Now that you have your jawbone, Samson," he said, "shall we go forth and smite the Philistines?"

"Not just yet, Parson." Sarah opened the action just far enough to see cartridge brass, closed the lever, set the hammer to half cock. "Not just yet."

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

We woke as the sun was about to peek over the horizon that morning, Velvet had already gotten the fire hot again and had a pot of coffee brewing, Eddie had rabbits already on the spit and the aroma was mouthwatering. We saddled the horses as the coffee finished brewing and the rabbits turned a golden brown, we needed the nourishment but we didn't want to waste any time getting back to Kiowa's ranch and Calico.

 

Jr. couldn't take his eyes off of Velvet as he ate, he nearly gagged on the steaming coffee when he forgot to test it before taking a big swig. His face turned beet red, almost as red as mine. I figured it was from the embarrassment, but he tried to swear it was the coffee. Velvet giggled and shook her head as she looked at the ground to keep from bursting out laughing.

 

The ride back to the ranch was uneventful except for being able to take the time to smell the roses on the way there, our horses needed the rest and I had to admit that I did too.

 

We were still away out from the ranch buildings when Kiowa realized that the place was nearly deserted. We quickened our pace and one of the two ranch hands still on the ranch met us as we rode in. He filled us in quickly about Calico and Painted Filly heading for Denver when they received the news that our party was no where to be found in Denver.

 

My heart sunk to a new low, Calico was wounded and shouldn't be out of bed, but was now on horseback, and the kids and those with them were missing. "boy, somebody should write a book about this" I thought as we restocked for our continuing journey.

 

I started to tell Velvet that she didn't need to ride alone with us but she stopped me cold as soon as she figured out what I was trying to say.

 

We watered and fed the horses well and then struck out for Denver, another few hours in the saddle away. We rode painstakingly slow trying to save our animals in case we needed to ask more of them later. Ike and Eddie were besides themselves, their wives missing. We had to constantly remind them to keep their heads about them.

 

Jr. on the other hand was concentrating real hard on our little group, well, Velvet in particular. She had fully noticed the attention he was paying her and was making a game out of torchering the poor fellow. I smiled as I remembered the games that Calico had played on me when we had first met.

 

We rode into Denver just before dusk and went about trying to find information of Calico and the others to no avail.

[Calico Mary]

I don’t know how long I alternated between being conscious and being out cold, time didn’t seem to have any meaning any more. When I was awake I was miserable, I had no energy, I still felt like I was freezing even though I was covered in sweat, and my side hurt like crazy. Brother William and Painted Filly were always right there, and sometimes even Slick, but not Cheyenne and that worried me even more than my own condition. They were taking good care of me, but all I wanted was to find my husband, our children, and our friends.

When I was unconscious, well, that’s when things really got interesting. Again I dreamed I was an eagle flying high above the people below, but this time I was not alone. Every time I glanced back over my wings, there was a hawk following me. The hawk obviously meant me no harm, but I couldn’t figure out who it was or why it seemed so determined to accompany me. It kept a reasonable distance, but every time I would start circling to get a better look at what was happening below, so did the hawk.
At first we were soaring above the streets of Denver, and my attention was drawn to a little church not far from the South Platte River. I didn’t really recall seeing this particular church before, so I wasn’t sure why I was so interested in it, but I spent quite a while checking it out. The hawk swooped down even closer for a much better look, it seemed as though it was trying to commit every detail of the church and surrounding area to memory, for what I had no idea.

 

After that I saw inside the little room where my children and friends seemed to be hiding from someone, just who or what I still wasn't sure. The babies were all still asleep, as was Rose, but the adults seemed to be deep in discussion about something. I still couldn't hear what they were saying, but it was obviously important. Biblepuncher was doing most of the talking, and the ladies were all listening intently. Finn was over in one corner of the room, and he seemed to be showing Tommy one of his pistols. Then he handed the pistol to Tommy, and the boy was nodding, did that mean that Finn was letting the boy have it? I couldn't tell, but I was a little concerned with why Finn might think that was necessary. Cheyenne had started teaching Tommy to shoot, but just what trouble were they all in that Tommy would need a pistol of his own at this point? A shiver of fear went down my spine, but all I could do was pray that whatever was going on, we would find them before there was need for any of them to resort to having to use their guns.

Then I was over the Culpepper Ranch, again with the hawk following me, and I was seeing things that horrified me. The encampment of tipis that our cousins and friends were staying in seemed to be on fire. The hands were scrambling out of their homes and the bunkhouse to head for the camp, were they under attack? At first I wasn’t sure, but then I saw strangers almost surrounding the camp, and even from that height it was obvious that it was white men pretending to be Indians. I thought back to the previous winter’s attacks by Phillips and his men, Phillips had never given up the names of the man or men behind those attacks and we still didn’t know who was responsible. Phillips was now in a prison somewhere in the East, but I had the feeling that the mastermind behind it all was trying again. Or was this just a sign of what could be about to happen? I wasn’t sure, but all I could do was hope that our friends were going to be all right.

The next thing I saw concerned me almost as much as the previous vision had. It was much shorter, but I caught a glimpse of Cheyenne kneeling near a river praying, and a very attracting woman joining him. Just who was this woman and why was she with my husband? I sure wished that the hawk hadn’t seen that, but my shadow didn’t seem to be missing much of anything.

My final vision was the only one in which the hawk was not following me. I was soaring above the lush green landscape that I figured must be Virginia, and was looking down at the cemetery that I had seen Cheyenne, Junior, and Finn at before. They weren’t there this time, no one was, but there looked to be a fresh grave in among the older ones this time. I tried to dive down for a closer look at the tombstone to see if there was a name, but before I could I heard someone calling “Calico….Calico,” and then I was jerked back to reality.....

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"You're her, ain't you?"

Sarah looked up at Bible Puncher, her expression unreadable, her eyes pale.

"That would depend," she said slowly, "on which her you mean."

Bible Puncher let the silence grow between them, knowing it often provoked what lawman called a "spontaneous utterance," and he was not disappointed.

"Do you mean the mousy-grey schoolteacher, or do you mean a rich woman's daughter, do you mean a legendary story called the Ragdoll?"

At the word "Ragdoll" Bible Puncher blinked and his eyebrows quirked a little, and Sarah knew he was putting some pieces together in his mind.

"Or," she said, her words derailing the train of thought she'd set into motion, "do you mean the Black Angel, or perhaps the Lady with the Lance, the Faceless One? Or the Faceless Nun?"

Her words were quietly spoken and gently framed, so much so that a curly-headed little girl peeked around the edge of a partly-open door and regarded the strange woman in britches black with bright and innocent eyes.

Sarah's voice was so pleasantly modulated that the little girl raised her little arms and scampered across the floor, laughing.

Sarah's move was sheer reflex.

She turned and caught the little one under her arms and raised her up and set her neatly in her black-denimed lap.

The child put a finger to her bottom lip and giggled uncertainly, turning her head almost shyly, then peeking back at Sarah.

"Now whose pretty little child are you?" Sarah asked, her schoolteacher's smile slipping through the reserve of her self-imposed mask.

The little girl looked at Bible Puncher, then came to some decision and snuggled up against Sarah, sighing happily as Sarah's arms closed protectively around her.

"Mama," she said.

"You belong to Mama?" Sarah asked, and Bible Puncher saw the woman's eyes soften a little, and a little curve at the corners of her mouth told him that this wee child had done what grown men could not: they'd penetrated her reserve, pierced her defenses.

The little girl giggled and nodded.

"Does Mama have a name?"

The child nodded again, giggling quietly.

"Cow-wic-co," she said. "Papa is Shy Anne. He's ver-ry ver-ry big!"

Sarah blinked, widening her eyes. "He's big?" she echoed.

The little girl laughed and Bible Puncher couldn't help but grin at the sight of his legendary warrior, this blooded killer, looking so very naturally motherly with a little girl giggling on her lap.

"He's ver-ry big," she repeated, nodding, setting her curls a-bounce.

"I see," Sarah said, and Bible Puncher heard the schoolteacher in her voice.

The child sighed and leaned against Sarah again.

"I miss Mama," she said in a small voice.

Sarah cupped her hand around the back of the child's head and held her close, gently, firmly, the way a mother holds a child.

"We will see what we can do about that," she whispered, rocking her a little, looking at Bible Puncher, and the man saw the schoolteacher's eyes harden again and cool, like water in a bunkhouse bucket in freezing weather, liquid until a man climbed out of his bunk and walked across the room, then as soon as the first ripples mar its quiescent surface, harden suddenly and the entire bucket full was frozen to its woody heart.

God Almighty, Bible Puncher thought. What kind of a woman is she?

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

The meal was simple but good, and the children especially did full justice to this unexpected provender.

Sarah ate but lightly, protein mostly, and a little fruit: her maternity was at odds with her warrior, but she overrode both with the cold cognition that if she did not survive what was to come, she would never be a mother.

She was determined to survive.

Her line would continue. Of this she was certain; she had seen it, she'd seen a long line of warrior-maidens stretching into the past, with weapons and attire archaic and graceful, and she'd seen the line disappear into the future, with weapons of strange form and function, and attire that ranged from feminine to less modest, to bulky and enveloping.

Sarah spoke for the later watch; she lay down on the floor, rifle beside her, dropped the hat over her forehead and willed herself to relax.

She dreamed.

 

Brother William removed the dressing and studied the wounds, frowning a little.

Filly, dark under the eyes, watched as the man carefully pressed the sides of the wound, attempting to express any trapped corruption.

There was none.

Calico flinched and muttered, fresh sweat beading on her forehead.

Brother William released the wound, laid the backs of his fingers against her exposed arm and nodded, his bottom jaw thrust out.

He looked up at Filly.

"Your prognosis, Doctor?"

Filly blinked -- she was not a physician, though she had plenty of experience tending the sick and injured, as did many Western women of the day -- but she divined the monk's meaning from context, and opened her mouth to reply.

"She ain't fixed but she's better," Slick muttered.

They both saw the smile in the tonsured healer's eyes. "Do you two usually finish one another's sentences?"

Filly and Slick looked at one another and laughed and Brother William raised a palm toward them.

"Never mind. The wound remains open -- it is seeping a little but only clear fluid, free of infection -- I am unable to express anything and it is without odor. Her belly" -- his fingers, held flat together, pressed carefully, gently on Calico's belly -- "remains soft and without rigidity."

Now don't that sound fancy, Slick thought.

"Yes it does," Filly murmured, and Slick shot her a surprised look.

Brother William ignored the exchange.

He folded a clean bandage, pressed it into place, secured it with the binder, then he stood, walked a little ways away and carefully washed his hands in the pan of steaming-warm water he kept for that purpose: he dried his hands, head bowed and eyes closed, then he came back and took Calico's face in his hands.

"Calico," he said gently. "Calico, what do you see?"

Calico shivered and muttered, her head turning a little one way, then the other.

"Calico, tell me what you see."

"River," Calico slurred. "Hawk. Following. Dive. Look. Who?"

Brother William nodded, bent down, put his cheek against Calico's, his lips near her ear.

"Calico, you will remember your dream. You will remember it clearly and you will see each piece of the puzzle drop into place as you find its fit. You will wake when I count backwards from five to one and you will feel rested and refreshed and only a little sore."

Brother William straightened, took Calico's hand in both his.

"Calico," he said in a firm voice, "you will wake when I count to one."

Slick looked at Filly, puzzled; Filly watched closely, interested.

"Five."

Brother William's hands were strong and warm as they held Calico's good right hand.

"Four."

The great raptors banked in the clear sky, wind whispering through their flight primaries as they both came hard about, maintaining formation.

"Three."

Cheyenne knelt at the river's edge, hat in his hand, and Calico could feel the fervor of the man's heart without hearing his words.

"Two."

Calico's hand twitched between the tanned monk's palms, her fingers curling a little around his.

"One."

Calico opened her eyes, blinked, looked over at Filly and Slick, then turned to the kneeling monk bent over her.

"Hands off the merchandise, mister," she snapped, "I'm a married woman!"

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

I was about to enter a saloom when I heard a whisper, "Pssst, Mr. Culpepper." I turned in the direction of the voice to see a saloon girl standing in the shadows of the alley beside the saloon. I motioned for the others to stay back and cautiously entered the alley to speak with the woman.

 

"We've been warned not to speak to you or your family, but I know what you did for Sally and I can't keep silent. Your party that came in on the train is being held for ransom, they are not far out of town. I don't know where but the people behind it heard a rumor about you owning part of the railroad now and figure you'll be willing to pay to get them back. I have the girls listening for anything that can help, if there is any news we'll hear it here first. Your wife and a few others came through town a couple days ago but rode out shortly after, I think they went east."

 

I thanked her and I tried to reward her for the information but she adamantly refused it and with the pained look on her face told me that we had a true friend in Twoody. I couldn't help but invite her to the ranch if she decided she wanted a change in her life, then I took her hand, kissed it gently and turned to rejoin the others.

 

We had a single drink in the saloon to show ourselves to anyone that might be waiting for us to show up. We did notice that several men seemed to keep an eye on us. We left after a few minutes and stopped in a diner for a meal after leaving our horses at the livery. We noticed one of the men from the saloon shadowing us as we moved through town. Entering the diner I noticed him step into an alley a few buildings short of the diner.

 

We ordered our meals, and I told the others to wait for me that I was going to have a talk with the man who had been trailing us. I left from the rear door of the diner, made my way to the alley, snuck a look around the corner and after seeing the man with his back to me I drew my knife and stealth fully crept through the alley towards the man.

 

The man didn't budge as he felt the cold steel pressed up against his wind pipe, we back stepped out of the alley. I disarmed him of his pistol and knife and asked him if he was ready to meet the Maker. I didn't wait for the answer, "Do something stupid and you'll get a chance to meet old Lucifer himself" I told him as we walked through the back door of the diner.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Bible Puncher drifted through the little house like a ghost.

Sarah watched him from under the brim of her hat.

She lay absolutely still, unmoving, seeming asleep; she waited until all was quiet, until only she and the Bible Puncher were in the room, and she said softly, "I have a question."

His head snapped around and he crouched a little, clearly startled.

"Can we trust that preacher?"

Bible Puncher's head turned a little, his eyes narrowing, as Sarah's quiet question settled deeper into his consciousness.

"How ... do you mean?" Bible Puncher asked cautiously.

"Something does not size up right," Sarah said, sitting upright: she lay her hat beside her, Indian-crossed her legs.

She hasn't taken off her boots, Bible Puncher thought, surprised that he hadn't realized it until just then.

"Why can't the lot of you just saddle up and ride off? Or grab a wagon and go? What's keeping you? I didn't see any sign of a surrounding force, there are two watchers but only two ... "

Her voice trailed off and she raised her face a little, bringing her pale-blue eyes to bear like twin spot lights.

"What is keeping them here?" She stood, easily, from her cross-legged position: Bible Puncher did not miss the holstered pistols on her belt, nor the bearing of someone who was used to responding quickly and with deadly efficiency when the moment required.

"Is the preacher offering them shelter and a place to hide, or is he their captor?"

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

Kiowa quickly stood as I led the man into the diner, his pistol clearing leather in a split second. "Johnny, you have a hand in this? I never thought that I would see you take a turn like this. You've been a part of a plot to take this man's family and friends for money, is money that important to you?"

 

You could see the man's shoulders slump as Kiowa spoke with disappointment dripping from his voice. "The boss kept telling us that no breed should be that rich, I guess after a while I started to believe him, he said he'd split the ransom with us. I keep hearing my mother's voice, "What profiteth a man to gain the world if he looses his soul." With that Johnny hung his head until his chin touched his chest. "I'll help you if you want, I know where they are and how many men are there."

 

Kiowa slowly holstered his pistol, "Cheyenne, it's up to you, it's your family. I've known Johnny for a long time, I never would have expected this out of him."

 

I took my knife from Johnny's throat, pointed to a chair and told him to sit. "If you lie to us just once, I'll tie you to an ant hill and let them eat you alive, after I lift the scalp from your head."

 

Johnny's eyes darted to the floor, "I swear on my poor mother's grave, I'll not lie to you. There's three more men in town, they're most likely drunk at the Short Branch. I'll point them out to you. I'll help if you need it, I'm done with them."

 

The cook set our meals before us and not wanting word to get out that Johnny had repented and joined us I told the cook to have a seat and eat with us.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"Reverend Adamson is all right," Bible Puncher said slowly. "He's the only one who's played straight with us so far."

Sarah had not moved; other than her quiet voice, she might have been sound asleep yet.

"Good enough. How good is he in a fight?"

Bible Puncher hesitated, opened his mouth to reply, just as a curly headed little girl pushed the door open from the back room.

She rubbed her eyes, looked sleepily at Bible Puncher, then went over to Sarah and laid down on the floor beside her.

Sarah's arm curled around the drowsy child and drew her close.

What kind of a woman is this? Bible Puncher thought, then he turned his thoughts to their situation and his jaw muscles tensed again.

Get here, Calico, he thought, and bring Cheyenne with you. There's hell needin' raised and we'll do our share but we could sure as thunder use the both of you!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Brother William paused at the threshold, bowed his head: he raised his staff and stepped through the open door, stopping just inside the cool, shadowed interior of the white-clapboard church: he raised a hand and signed the Cross and intoned, "A blessing upon this House, and all who are within it, amen."

His tread was silent on scrubbed-clean boards; his staff, carried at an angle, was more a scepter than a walking-stick, almost an insignia of office: it was not until he stopped at the end of the aisle, before the altar rail, not until he spun the staff quickly before him, rumbling the quiet air with the velocity of its spin: not until he drove the end of the seasoned wood into the floor did he make another sound.

Brother William went to one knee, bowed his head: he'd been in churches, cathedrals, mosques and synagogues, he'd heard prayers sung in many languages, stood silently while many faiths worshipped: he watched and listened, he listened and learned, and so far as he could, he treated all men with respect and with courtesy.

He held to one knee for several long moments, one callused, big-knuckled hand gripping the man-tall staff, the other hand on his up-thrust knee: then he rose, brought the staff across his body like a sentry holding a rifle, the move betraying an old habit, and old profession.

He turned, looking around; he heard nothing, smelled nothing: the building held but one living soul, his own: his eyes were busy when he strode down the center aisle and he was satisfied there were none to hear his words but himself and the Almighty.

He raised his eyes to the smoothed, shaped, sanded, varnished Cross hung above the altar.

Closing his eyes, he heard men's shouts, their screams, he smelled sulfur and saw drifting smoke and felt the impact of a spent ball: he remembered running toward the battle, shouting commands, revolving pistol in one hand and curved cavalry sabre in the other, he remembered the skinny, suntanned lad a tenth of a second after his blade tore the boy's throat open: he'd come at him with a yard of bayonet, or so it looked, on the muzzle end of his Enfield musket, and he who later became Brother William twisted and thrust, ripping tempered steel out of the soldier's neck and recovering in time to parry another thrust.

He opened his eyes and saw the Cross, this solid reminder that he was no longer in a hell of man's making.

Brother William swallowed hard, his head bowing again as if too heavy to hold up.

"Lord," he said, his voice soft, "I do not know what You intend. If I did know I might run screaming into the distance like Jonah, hiding under a rock" -- he looked up, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth -- "I don't know too many whales here in the mountain country, Lord, so I don't reckon I would jump into any big fish."

He leaned heavily on the staff.

"I've been a tool in Your hand many times, Lord, and now is no different.

"Let me do Your will, Lord."

He looked up at the Cross again.

"Let me do some good!"

 

Sarah felt the child stir; she'd found a blanket, arranged it over the drowsy little curly headed child with the angelic expression; the little girl grimaced in her sleep, her lips twitching, then her eyes snapped open and her mouth opened wide as she stiffened and pushed away from Sarah, obviously terrified.

Sarah was on her feet instantly, the child in her arms: she threw the blanket over the little girl, squeezed her tight, whispering "Shhh, shhh, it's all right, you're safe, I've got you, I've got you," and the child shivered and fought with the strength of an absolutely terrified child: it was all Sarah could do to hold onto her.

The child finally collapsed, surrendering to whatever monstrous horror she'd just relived, her eyes still wide, shocked, her mouth open, her throat working -- a throat that was locked shut to stifle the full-voiced screams that wanted to rip their way out of her young neck.

The child hugged Sarah around the neck, her arms weak and shaking, her breathing ragged, gasping, and Sarah's eyes were pale, very pale, and her heart was as cold as her eyes.

I don't know what happened to you, she thought, but by God! I will find out who did whatever it was, and I will cut them apart.

Slowly!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"I wondered how long it would take you."

Jacob looked at his pale-eyed father.

Behind the man's stony exterior, behind his cold eyes, he could hear a degree of approval in his voice.

"She's my sister," Jacob explained simply.

The Sheriff took a step nearer the mincing Appaloosa stallion, extended an envelope.

"You'll need to justify your being out of the county."

The Sheriff saw anger in his son's eyes, and approved: at his age he too was hot blooded, and -- like father, like son -- angry or not, Jacob could put a lid on his feelings when need be, and the Sheriff saw his firstborn drop the cast-iron lid on his feelings and screw it down tight.

"There are two warrants. You will proceed to join up with your sister. Whether the warrants are served or not is immaterial."
"Thank you, sir."

Jacob turned, put two fingers to his lips, whistled.

An enormous, gleaming-black mare cantered down the street in response to his whistle: though saddled, she was not bridled; a great, curly-furred, equally-as-flawlessly-midnight-black dog the size of a young bear bounded along beside the mare.

The Sheriff nodded approval.

"If I'm not needed," Jacob said as the Frisian mare sidled up to him, begging a shaving of tobacco from the twist Jacob kept for that purpose, "I can always come on back."

The Sheriff nodded.

"Snowflake here" -- he carefully peeled a curled shaving from the molasses twist he carried, extended it on a flat palm: the Frisian delicately lipped the offering from his hand, her tail switching with pleasure -- "is long enough after foal she can be ridden."

"Her foal is weaned?" the Sheriff asked, a shade of surprise in his voice.

Jacob's eyes smiled; he stopped just short of a quiet laugh.

"Sir, she's been weaned for a couple months now."

The Sheriff nodded.

"So we don't have to worry about Snowflake here filling up with milk."

"No, sir, she's dried up and comfortable."

"Good. I'll look in on her stock while you're away."

"Thank you, sir."

"Bear Killer?"

The huge black dog looked at the Sheriff and grinned, a display of fighting canines that had caused more than one good man to dampen his drawers at the unexpected sight.

"You want I should thump you?"

Bear Killer's ears laid back; a great, growling snarl started somewhere back of the root of his tail, gained resonance as it echoed through a chest cavity the size of a tobacco hogshead.

The Sheriff raised a big-knuckled fist.

The Bear Killer's hackles raised, displaying a ruff across his shoulders and down the ridge of his spine to the great plumed brush of a tail.

The Sheriff narrowed his eyes, shook his fist, and The Bear Killer stalked, stiff-legged, toward the glaring lawman.

The Sheriff moved quickly and so did the dog: his hands went to the dog's ears and The Bear Killer's forepaws went to the Sheriff's shoulders, and while the Sheriff got a good face washing for his troubles, The Bear Killer got his ears rubbed.

Neither one paid the least bit of attention from open mouthed stares from various folk out and about on the Firelands main street.

The Sheriff patted The Bear Killer behind the shoulder and the great, black-furred canine dropped to all fours and looked up at Jacob.

Father and son exchanged a brief, shallow nod, Jacob dropped Apple-horse's knotted reins over the saddlehorn and gave the knee-trained stallion his knees.

The Sheriff removed his hat as his chief Deputy, his firstborn son, cantered down the street with his midnight-black entourage following.

"God Almighty," he breathed, "bring them home safe."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Kate woke and automatically made a count of the young.

She was a light sleeper and normally if a little one had to go during the night she woke right away.

I must've been more tired than I realized, she thought, rubbing her eyes and going to the door.

Kate's heart shot into her throat when she saw Rose asleep in the stranger's arms.

She took a quick step into the room, reached for Rose --

The woman rolled over -- impossibly fast -- she was on her feet, pale eyes blazing, then the hard-thrown quilt covered Kate's head and reaching arms and she heard the hiss of drawn steel.

Bible Puncher came to his feet, unsure whether to tackle Sarah, block Kate, or dive out the nearest window, for his gut told him nothing good was going to come of this encounter.

Kate tore the quilt away and saw the pale-eyed, black-dressed young woman, Rose still in her arm, a long-bladed knife in hand: she crouched a little, balanced on the balls of her feet: ten years later, or the space of three heartbeats, she spun the knife between her fingers, dipped her knees a little more and slid the fighting blade back into her right boot top.

"I don't think," she said, her voice low and pleasant -- not quite warm, but not as cold as her eyes -- "I don't think we've been introduced. I'm Sarah."

I'm Kate and that's Rose," Kate said, more by reflex than by intent: it was plain she wanted to snatch the child from the pale-eyed stranger, but good sense told her not to try it.

Rose solved the dilemma: she raised her head, rubbed her eyes and squirmed: "I gotta go," she whined.

Kate stepped up and reached and Sarah handed the little girl over.

Rose blinked and looked around.

"Mama?" she asked hopefully.

"No, honey, but she's coming," Kate said quietly, shooting a glare at Sarah. "Let's get you taken care of."

 

Rose was put in the safe care of her siblings, then Kate closed the door quietly behind her.

"Who do you think you are," she hissed.

Sarah's expression was carefully impassive.

"I'm your ticket out of here."

If she were a cat her tail would be big as a bottle brush and her ears would be laid back. I can see her fangs and her claws already, Sarah thought.

"You're in with them, aren't you!" Kate spat. "The Parson nearly got himself killed, getting us safely here, and now you're inside! You" -- Kate's fists trembled at the end of her stiff arms -- "you snake in the henhouse! You're here to kill us, damn you!"

"I don't think so --" Bible Puncher said mildly.

"You keep out of this!" Kate snapped. "And keep your voice down, the children --"

"You're the one raising your voice," Sarah said quietly.

"I AM NOT RAISING MY VOICE!" Kate shouted, the stress of everything she'd undergone heating her boiler until the pop-off valve let go.

Sarah reached up and turned over her black lapel, exposing the burnished bronze shield.

"Agent Lynne Rosenthal, Firelands District Court. Now suppose you tell me everything that's happened so far."

Kate opened her mouth, closed it slowly, looked down at a tug on her apron.

Rose looked up at her, eyes big and dark and innocent.

"I'm hungwy," she complained.

"You heard the lady," Sarah shrugged. "Might be a good time to eat."

 

The fact that the children ate and ate well, thanks to Sarah's arrival, did nothing to improve Kate's mood.

Nobody likes to feel a fool and that's exactly how she felt.

She buried her face in her hands, felt her legs starting to shake.

We've been kidnapped, held at gunpoint, jumped, run off, grabbed, rescued -- the Parson fought like a wildcat, men died -- my God! I never knew blood was so red -- now this ... an ... what is an Agent of the Court anyway?

Is this a trick?

A hand on her shoulder, not one of the children, lighter than the Bible Puncher's.

She looked up into the shadowed eyes of the black-clad Agent.

"I'm going outside," she said quietly, almost a whisper. "I'm going to see what I can find out."

Kate looked at Sarah, stood, reached up and gently, carefully placed the backs of her curled fingers against Sarah's cheek.

"You're pregnant."

Sarah nodded.

"You shouldn't be here."

Kate's blood ran cold as Sarah's eyes went dead pale.

There was no change to the woman's face, but Kate had the definite feeling Sarah just went stony cold inside.

Sarah looked at Rose.

"Her nightmares," she said. "I have them too." She looked into Kate's eyesas powerfully as if she were driving an icepick into them.

"I know what it's like to be ... " she started, then stopped, considered.

"I was her age when I saw hell."

Sarah looked at Rose as the little girl happily took another bite of buttered sourdough.

"I won't have that happen to her." She turned and glared at Kate. "Nor you."

Her eyes went to the high window.

"Stay inside."

Kate's stomach shrank a little.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going hunting."

"Can't you wait for Calico?"

"Calico?"

"Or Cheyenne?"

Sarah's eyes narrowed.

"I know a few men called Cheyenne. Which one do you mean?"

Sarah's eyes tightened with pleasure with Kate's reply.

"Cheyenne Culpepper."

"Good." Sarah nodded, slowly, the knot in her belly easing a little. "I know the man's reputation."

"Is that ... a good thing?"

"If he's the Cheyenne Culpepper my father told me about, yes. Yes, that is a very good thing." She smiled tightly. "He's silent, he's deadly, he can track a rattlesnake over bare rock, and if he's on his way here, you can bet your bottom dollar Lucifer himself couldn't stop him!"

Sarah considered for a long moment.

"You spoke of Calico."

"Calico Mary."

Rose looked around, her expression bright and hopeful. "Mama?" she asked.

"Not yet, honey," Kate said, "but soon. Soon."

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

We ate quickly, the savory food though was wasted on my as I hardly tasted a bite, my mind whirling with anger. I made an oath to the cook, I would hunt him down and use every trick that the Cheyenne knew to slowly torment a man without killing him until my wrath would be quenched, should he tell anyone of our presence in town and that Johnny had joined us. I do believe that he took me at my word, his seat was soaked as were his pants when he stood.

 

We rode our horses to the saloon through the back streets and left Johnny with them as we went to finish business at the saloon. I wasn't about to mince words once inside, "I'm Cheyenne Culpepper and I'm here to kill any man who has had anything to do with the harming of my family. Either unbuckle your gun belts or pull those hog legs!"

 

Three men stood, one dropped his belt, and Kiowa and I sent two men into the firey brimstone filled pit of hell that night. The third man begged for his life and just before my finger was about to squeeze the trigger I heard my mother's voice, "let him earn his forgiveness."

 

Kiowa looked at me, "You sure?" was all he said. I nodded yes and told the man to strap his pistols back on, "You're riding with us, get something to sober up with if you need it."

 

"Barkeep, all you saw was two men draw on us, nothing else, understand?" The barkeep nodded, "I've got family myself, I'll ride with you if you want me."

 

"Just pray for us" I told him as we backed out the doors, "You see any more of them, tell them we're coming and hell's coming with us."

 

We mounted up, but then I realized that we had no clue as to which direction to ride. I looked towards the heavens, "Lord God, you've got to help us here" was all I had gotten out when I heard a coyote howl from the end of the street. We rode west toward the howl to find Black Horse waiting for us.

 

"We ride west towards the mountains, Calico is wounded but will live, she has help and the man the Great Spirit has sent, a few hours away. I know too where your family is being held. The tribes have heard the cries of the young ones and have gathered and are awaiting you."

 

He spoke not another word as he urged Midnight into the darkness. All I could think was "Vengeance is mine saith the Lord, I will repay". I was fine with that, but I was sure in the mood to help...

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Watching eyes saw the front door open.

Watching shoulders rolled forward as watchers' bodies craned to see who was emerging, whether an escape was in the offing.

Dirty knuckled hands gripped stolen rifles and chapped, flaking lips peeled back from yellowing teeth as the Parson peered out into the darkness.

Even the one behind the house took several long steps toward the front.

Sarah slipped out the back door, slithered through shadow and behind a rain barrel, waited, the honed edge of her blued-steel knife gleaming in a shining arc in the shadow. She held it like an icepick, with the blade tucked back along her forearm.

She let her spirit flow into the night, let it expand like water poured on a flat slab, let it drift like fog on a night breeze; she felt the Parson's tremors, heard the click of one, then another hammer come to full stand, smelled tobacco breath and unwashed bodies.

"See anything?" a rough voice rasped.

"Nah. That chicken back Parson went back inside."

"Anyone else comes out, kill 'em."

"Why'nt we jus' go in an' take 'em?"

"Cuz they're bottled up, ya dip, they may as well as be locked up!"

"Who you callin' a dip, ya sheep herder?"

"Hey!" Another voice cut through the night. "Cork it, the both of ya!"

Sarah's ice-pale eyes narrowed.

She had them spotted.

She knew where they watched, she knew the good places to hide, the places they might be likely to move to if things got interesting.

Sarah worked her way clear around the parsonage, made a wide, slow, stealthy circle, stopping often, listening, smelling, memorizing.

She stopped in a shadowed little depression, drew out a leather bound book and a pencil, and began to sketch.

She was several minutes marking positions, fields of fire, depressions; a second page showed the layout of the building and location of the occupants.

Sarah slipped the two pages back into the book, worked the book back into an inside pocket, then smiled a thin, tight smile.

The watcher never felt the slender fingers that lifted his knife from its sheath.

Sarah withdrew again, calculated the most likely approach, turned and looked into the darkness.

He's coming, she thought, and from this direction -- then she reached into her coat, brought out the book; she slipped two fingers between the covers, brought out the two sheets, laid them against tree bark and drove the stolen knife blade through the paper.

Cheyenne is coming, she thought.

He'll need this information.

It took her another hour before she slithered back into the parsonage -- dirty, brush-scratched, but with a satisfied gleam in her ice-colored eyes.

If things go to hell and they find the papers, she thought with a narrow-eyed smile, they'll recognize the knife and they'll blame each other!

[Calico Mary]

I had given Brother William all the information I could remember from my dreams. Not much of it made any sense to me, and I didn’t think it made sense to him either, but he continued asking questions until I just couldn’t remember anything else. What good he thought that information would do I had no idea, but he seemed to feel even the tiniest detail was important.

For the first time in I wasn’t sure how long they let me have a decent meal, followed by a few swallows of rum. I wouldn’t have objected to a bit more of that, and Slick would have been happy to oblige, but Brother William just shook his head no. “There are things we all must do, and you must be fit to ride,” was all he would tell me, boy that fella sure could keep his mouth shut when it suited him. I tried to tell him I already was fit to ride, but I doubted he really believed me much. All the same, he asked Slick to saddle all the horses and bring them around.

As I was gingerly climbing into Swamp Rat’s saddle, Slick offered to help me but I refused. Brother William made no similar offer, and I noticed Slick frowning at him. “She would not accept help from me either, friend, and would just tell me to keep my hands to myself." He sure had that right, but all the same I was a little annoyed that he did offer to assist Filly in mounting her mare. I was even more annoyed when he told us, “There are things I must do, I will meet you later and hopefully will have some information for you that will help in your search,” but would not tell me where he wanted us to meet up again.

“Just follow your heart, it will lead you to where you need to be,” the monk said, then he quickly turned his mule and rode off without another word. Follow my heart? Those were some pretty lousy directions, and I had no idea what it meant. Filly and Slick were patiently waiting for me to decide which way to go, but I had no clue what we should do. Swamp Rat was getting fidgety and hard to control, seems the horse had the same disposition as his normal rider, Uncle Finn. I wished that I had Rascal to ride instead, but the ranch was way too far away to consider going there to switch mounts. As I looked around trying to figure out what to do, I noticed a shadow pass overhead, followed by a smaller one. Glancing up, I noticed an eagle and a hawk flying above us, circling around a little then heading west a ways, circling some more before heading west again. I wasn’t sure if it was my heart telling me “West”, or just those dang raptors, but it seemed like as good a direction as any. I spurred Swamp Rat that direction, and was pleased to see that Filly and Slick followed without a word.

As soon as we were moving, the eagle stopped circling and slowly winged his way towards the mountains, his smaller companion and us three humans following along. I had no clue where he was leading us, but maybe the serenity of the mountains could be just what I needed to clear my head and think about what we should do next. We rode for a few hours, climbing into the foothills until we came to a small clearing in a little valley. There was a stream trickling through a stand of trees, and then through a meadow full of wildflowers in full bloom. The horses needed a rest and some water, so the three of us dismounted and Slick led the horses to the stream to get a drink. I noticed that both of my winged friends had found branches to perch on, silently watching us. Painted Filly seemed content to watch them as well, so I took the opportunity to have a few moments alone. As I sank to my knees in prayer, my only concerns were for my husband, children, and friends, I asked nothing for myself except the strength to make it through whatever we faced in locating them all.

As I was muttering “Amen”, I looked up to see a large number of braves making their way through the trees towards us. Slick noticed them too, and immediately started swinging his rifle to his shoulder. I don’t think I’d ever moved that fast as I leapt to my feet to stop him, yelling for Filly to not touch her guns either. I think both of them thought I was crazy, or at the very least delirious again, but I knew better. I started scanning the faces of the men moving out to surround us, until I finally found a familiar face. Switching to the language of my mother-in-law’s people I exclaimed, “Black Horse, I can not tell you how happy I am to see you!”

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

We wasted little time riding west, though we did have to make camp for the night, but not before meeting up with several braves that Black Horse had gathered. We were in the saddle again as the sun kissed the morning sky turning it a beautiful pink.

 

I heard the shrill cries of hawks above me followed by those of an eagle soaring above us. I thought of the verse, "Those that wait upon the Lord will mount up with wings as eagles, they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk on not grow faint." My soul was weary with the worry of my family, I had had no clue as to how much I loved each one of them before now.

 

I reached for my knife, slid it across my palm creating a pool of blood. I slid the shiny blade back into it's home and then painted my face for battle from the life blood in my palm. I hadn't really noticed what the others had been doing for a while until I saw their faces painted in like manner. "Though I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no evil for thy rod and staff comfort me." That verse repeated itself its' self in my mind over and over.

 

Black Horse soon threw up his hand as a signal for us to stop. He and a few of the braves dismounted and ran to an opening in the trees. At last I heard my love's voice again. I hardly needed to nudge White of Snow at all and he was off at a full gallop to the sound of her voice. Any one else would have thought that he was going to run plum over Calico but he came to a sliding stop giving just enough clearance to leap from his back at Calico's feet.

 

I felt her gringe in pain as I hugged her, suddenly remembering her wound. She tried to let on like she didn't feel it, but the wince made her a liar.

 

Black Horse gave us a minute and then told us, "We ride, we are close. I have men there already waiting for us. Come, we go."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Jacob knew the stock car he occupied was painted with the Z&W's distinctive insignia, a spray of roses tied with a black ribbon.

He didn't care.

He dimly heard the four-count chant of the Lima-built Baldwin engine; normally he would have listened to it as a man listens to music, for he loved the chant of a steam engine on a hard pull.

Now ... now his hand was buried in The Bear Killer's silky black fir and his ice-blue eyes burned holes in the opposite wall, for his thoughts were for his widowed sister, somewhere towards Denver, tending a detail at the Judge's behest.

His gut told him that -- as usual -- there was more to it than he knew, more than Sarah suspected when she was sent, and he knew she was just as hard headed and contrary as his own father, a man Jacob long believed had a corner on the "Hard Headed and Contrary" market, and he knew she would not quit until whatever task it was, was finished, and to her satisfaction.

That generally meant she either brought in prisoners, in irons, or she brought in carcasses, wrapped in blankets and dripping blood.

Jacob willed himself to stillness.

The Firelands deputy knew out here, a man's speed and mobility was his horse, a man's very life was often his mount, and so he brought Sarah's big Frisian, an absolutely flawlessly gleaming black horse half again bigger than the usual Western saddlehorse: an impossibly big fighting platform, bred centuries ago to carry armored knights into battle: now, foaled in the high country and knowing nowt but the thin, high altitude air, Sarah's Snowflake -- for that was the fighting-mare's rather ironic name -- Snowflake had good, thick, rich blood which let her breathe as easily here in the mountains as a lowland horse did in a river valley where the air was heavy and thick.

Sarah looked like a little girl riding a kitchen table when she was astride her beloved Snowflake.

She was also fast and surprisingly maneuverable.

Jacob's fingers caressed The Bear Killer.

The massive canine, the get of Macneil's Dawg, a famous creature in his own right, was the size of a bear cub: his ancestors were bred in ancient China and Tibet, and one mountain dog could safeguard an entire village from marauders: The Bear Killer earned his name the hard way, the day he locked jaws on a wounded grizzly's windpipe and was nearly gut-shredded for his troubles.

It took some sewing up and tending to keep the young canine from treading the Bifrost that day.

Jacob willed himself to relax, then he sighed and gave up, came easily to his feet and crossed the rail car.

He loved his coffee as much as his pale-eyed Pa, and right now that coffee was having its usual effect on him.

 

The Bible Puncher was not a man to waste time.

He and Sarah stripped and cleaned and closely examined the brand-new rifles, cycled rounds through each one, loaded and stacked and distributed ammunition from brand-new crates.

"This is the most dangerous time," Sarah said quietly as she worked.

Biblepuncher looked at her, thumbing gleaming brass .44s into the loading gate, his fingers working as if they had eyes of their own.

"Help is on its way," Sarah continued quietly. "I think we can expect the Cavalry to arrive in no more than a day."

Biblepuncher stacked the loaded rifle against the wall, picked up another, laid it across his lap.

"Now we have to guard against anyone trying to remove us. Right now we stand fast no matter who or how and we wait for Cheyenne."

"Do you know Cheyenne?" Biblepuncher grunted.

"I know of him," she said, "and I pinned instructions on a tree out yonder for him."

Biblepuncher grunted skeptically.

"He'll know it's whole cloth," Sarah smiled, and her smile was quiet, gentle, the smile of Sarah-the-schoolteacher -- which she actually was, back in Firelands, or had been, before she got married. "I pinned it to a tree with an outlaw's knife, so if the outlaws find it they'll have a falling-out among themselves." She looked mischeviously at Biblepuncher -- almost like a little girl, smug at getting someone in trouble. "But Cheyenne will know it's genuine because I drew a totem on the bottom of the page. He'll recognize it."

"A totem?"

"An eagle, and a hawk, one following the other."

 

"Ah, hell, I give up," the outlaw mumbled, futilely scanning the ground, looking around their last bed-down. "I cain't find that knife nowhere."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Jacob, like his father, was not wasteful of the spoken word.

He'd known men who habitually talked -- talk, talk, talk all the time, whether anyone else was there to hear them or not -- his own utterances tended to be succinct, unless he was in a mood to talk, or he wished to make a point, or he was storytelling.

Or pulling someone's leg.

Now Jacob was a tall man, and Jacob was accustomed to taking care of his horses, and he'd saddled a blue million in his time, or so he'd said in a careless moment; he'd thrown saddle leather on horseflesh short and tall, but never in his life did he have to consider using a foothill for a step stool to complete the task.

As he saddled the black Frisian, he did invest some exhaled breath in inquiring of the great black war-mare, "How in thee hell does that sawed off little short coupled baby sister of mine get this saddle on you, anyway? What does she use, a step ladder?"

Snowflake snuffed in the feed trough, lipping a few stray grains of corn that managed to escape her earlier explorations.

Jacob got her saddled -- he hadn't even brought a bridle, it wasn't needed, both he and his "Baby Sis" knee-trained their mounts, just like their pale-eyed father -- he saddled his Apple-horse, drew his '76 rifle from its carved scabbard, checked the chamber; satisfied, he closed the action, eased the hammer down to half cock, replaced the rifle.

The Bear Killer lay in the open doorway of the stock car, drowsing in the morning sunlight; the train was slowing, approaching what Jacob knew to be their stop.

He slung the saddlebags aboard, thrust a polished boot into the doghouse stirrup, swung a long, lean leg over his Apple-horse's rump and settled into the hurricane deck of a good horse and leaned low over the stallion's neck.

He knew this section of track and he knew the lay of the land as they came close to station, and as the ground rose a little, he leaned forward and gave the Appaloosa his knees.

Horse and rider, war-horse and enormous black dog flowed out the side of the stock car, launching on a short ballistic arc and landing on good thatched sod as the train slowed to a walking pace. It was no trick for all participants to exit the Side Door Pullman and keep their footing.

They'd done this very thing, many times before; Jacob trained them for it, and they were comfortable with the maneuver.

"Bear Killer."

There was an edge to Jacob's quiet voice, and the bear-sized canine looked up at the lean lawman.

"Find her."

Fangs gleamed momentarily, there was a quiet, jaw-chopped "whuff!" and The Bear Killer flowed like a tumbling black stream up the hillock and stopped at its apex, thrust his black snout into the wind and tasted the breeze, then he turned a little and trotted industriously into the wind.

Snowflake did not need to be told to follow The Bear Killer.

 

Brother William turned the Navy Colt's engraved cylinder slowly, checking each of the gleaming-copper caps, the smooth wipe of grease over each chamber mouth.

Satisfied, he eased the hammer down on a pin between two nipples and thrust the revolver into a gap sewn into his robe, settling it into the Slim Jim belted around his lean waist.

"A loose robe covers a multitude of sins," he mumrmured, and in spite of himself, he chuckled a little, then he turned his face to the sky.

A golden eagle soared on an updraft, and behind and above it a little, a hawk.

"They come."

He picked up his rune-carved locust staff and twisted a little, feeling his back pop in several places: he grimaced at the sudden pain which flowed into almost exquisite pleasure.

In the distance he saw a man on an Appaloosa stallion, and with him, an enormous black mare, and ahead of them, an enormous black dog, gleaming in the morning sun.

Brother William stepped into the open, so he could be seen.

 

Jacob leaned down and shook the tonsured monk's callused hand.

"Where is she?" he asked simply.

"I have been there," Brother William said.

"Good."

Jacob dismounted; it was time for a palaver, and he never liked talking down to someone, especially someone he respected.

"I have bread, and some cold beef," Brother William offered.

Jacob's left eyebrow raised a little, and in spite of himself, the whte-robed monk smiled a little.

If you would know the father, behold the son, he thought.

"Reckon I could make coffee," Jacob said slowly.

The Bear Killer's muzzle rose, his gleaming-wet black nose working buisily.

Brother William nodded. "I have a fire laid. Come, let us reason together."

"Reason?" Jacob asked dryly, and Brother William's right ear twitched to hear it, for Jacob's jaw framed his father's voice.

"Reinforcements are almost here," Brother William explained, accepting the coffee pot; he poured the contents of a blanket covered canteen into the pot. "It is proper that they have the honor of first attack."

"Brother William," Jacob said slowly, withdrawing a cloth-wrapped bundle of coffee from his saddle bag, "you might ought fill me in here."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Honed steel laid against the man's neck.

The man showed great good sense and froze, not even raising his hands.

"Hello, Parson," Sarah said quietly. "Don't move."

"Explain yourself," the Parson said, his voice surprisingly steady for finding himself caught completely by surprise.

"My name is Agent Lynne Rosenthal, Firelands District Court."

Reverend Adamson swallowed hard.

"So you're with them?"

Reverend Adamson put a slight emphasis on "them" as if it were distasteful to his tongue.

"I'm here because of Rose."

"You'll never get away with this."

"Don't try it, Parson," Sarah warned. "We're on the same side here."

"You want to take Rose and hold her for ransom. What do you plan to do with the others, kill them here?"

"I'll say this for you, Parson," Sarah said, a shade of respect in her voice, "you've got sand."

She withdrew the blade, slid it into her forearm sheath.

"Parson," she said, "whoever wants to kidnap this bunch didn't count on me and they don't know who I am."

"Who are you?"

Sarah seized the man's shoulder and hauled him around.

Surprised, the Parson took a quick step to keep his balance.

"I'll tell you who I am," Sarah said quietly, an edge in her voice the Parson was used to hearing ... just not from a pretty, feminine young face.

"I was four years old when I watched the man my Mama married beat her to death.

"He turned his attentions on me and suddenly I wasn't a little girl anymore."

Sarah saw the Parson's pupils dilate, then shrink down again as the implications of her quiet-spoken words hit him like a kick in the gut.

"I know what hell is, Parson. I've been there several times. That man took me with him when he visited the whorehouse and beat the girls for the fun of it."

Sarah's eyes were ice-pale and glacier-hard.

"I was the only good thing in those ladies' lives. They bathed me and they patched my torn frocks and they brushed out my tangled hair and put a pretty ribbon in it and they hid me from what was happening in that place.

"That man" -- Sarah's voice was a hiss now, she almost spat the words -- "that man beat my Mama, my new Mama, and he made to beat another woman who came to do a newspaper story on the working women and she did the world an immense favor when she punched a Derringer into his gut and pulled the trigger."

The Parson remembered to breathe and was surprised when he did, for until he exhaled, he didn't realize he'd been holding his breath.

"Since that time I learned much, Parson. About me and about people who actually give a good damn about people like me. My Mama was given another chance when the Sheriff drove a knife into the table top and dropped a bag of coin beside it. He told the fellow running the place he could sell out or they could cross steel and he sold.

"Mama made something of herself afterward and now she's respected and a woman of means.

"I found out I"m a woods colt and my Papa gave me his eyes. You might know him, he's a Sheriff."

The Parson nodded mechanically.

He did not know the man but he knew the eyes.

He'd seen the eyes as the quiet voiced lawman with the iron grey mustache turned over one living prisoner and three wrapped bodies to a Denver detective at the train depot.

The Parson shivered with the memory.

"I know what happens when bad men take women, Parson. Sooner or later the women get used and I won't let that happen. It happened to me far earlier than any little girl should ever suspect" -- she spat the word, venom in her voice -- "and when I look at Rose in there I see me as I might have been."

Biblepuncher watched from across the room.

Sarah looked at him, looked back at the Parson and took a long breath, blowing it out through pursed lips.

"I came in with a wagon load of groceries and I brought in rifles and ammunition as well. I understand you managed to persuade the takers" -- she paused, a wry smile tugging one corner of her mouth -- "that the hostages would be secure here. Well done. Brother William got your message and he got hold of me."

It was the Parson's turn to take a long breath, and he felt a few of the knots in his twisted up stomach loosen some.

"He got the message," he said, feeling suddenly weak.

"The Cavalry is almost here. When they turn their wolf loose it'll be fast and it won't be particularly pretty. When it happens, Parson, you get your head down and take the rest of yourself with it, and if anyone comes in that is not you and it's not someone we recognize --"

Sarah's eyes tightened a little.

"You might have heard of me," Sarah whispered, leaning close, until her chin just brushed the sky pilot's shoulder, and she whispered a name, and the Parson's face turned the color of wheat paste when she did.

"You may have heard of the Ragdoll."

 

Kate stitched the first ragdoll's last seam shut.

She'd cut out two of them, at Sarah's instruction.

One of them she stuffed, carefully inserting the rolled bank notes into the doll's arms and legs, and the bundled rolls into its chest and belly and rolls into its legs and head.

"Do this for Rose," Sarah said quietly that night, while the others were asleep, "and tell no one else."

Kate nodded as Sarah nodded at the second one.

"Sew the head on this one, and the outside seams, but not the bottom."

When Kate was done, Sarah smiled at her work, nodding her satisfaction.

She took the second rag doll, the one with some scrap cloth stuffing its head.

She took the stubby revolver and thrust it into the second doll, then she picked it up and held it to her breast, the hand gripping the pistol concealing the lower part of its deadly payload: her arm went around the doll and she blinked, looking suddenly very innocent, and she said, "Nobody will suspect someone holding a rag doll."

"Ragdoll," Kate whispered, her lips suddenly numb. "You ... you're the Ragdoll."

Sarah laid the disguised defender on the table and tapped Rose's money doll with curved fingers.

"My Mama hid her wealth and safeguarded it for me like this," Sarah whispered, her throat tight. "She'll need this. Call it a dowry."

Kate's eyes were still wide as she remembered the stories she'd heard of the ten year old girl who'd become the Ragdoll, by virtue of gutting one of her dolls and hiding a percussion Colt in it, and using it to kill the man who'd come to kill her Mama and herself.

Kate opened her mouth to say something and then closed it as she realized her throat was so dry she could not make a sound.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Rose looked up, her face bright and delighted, her new rag doll locked in the bend of her elbow.

She leaped to her feet, ran as hard as she could across the room and grabbed Kate with all the happy enthusiasm of a delighted little girl's hug.

She looked up as Kate looked at Sarah, then Rose blinked, released Kate and grabbed Sarah.

She wasn't entirely sure who to thank for the doll but if she thanked enough people, she reasoned, she'd hit the right one eventually.

Kate looked at Sarah like she was looking at a live snake.

It didn't help her any when Sarah squatted with a gentle smile, brushed a stray curl back from Rose's face and said softly, "I had a doll just like that when I was young."

Rose released Sarah and hugged the doll joyfully to her.

"Can I show it to Mama?" she asked, and Sarah heard the half-sob Kate tried to stifle.

"Of course, Rose. Of course you can."

"When is Mama coming?" Rose's face changed like a cloud crossing the sun. "I want Mama."

Sarah gathered the little girl into her arms, held her gently.

"She'll be here soon," she whispered reassuringly. "Absolutely nothing will keep her from her little girl!"

Rose pulled back a little, looked curiously at Sarah.

"Katie said you're pweg-nat."

Kate's mouth fell open and she could have fallen through the floor; Sarah, surprised, laughed a little, caressed Rose's hair.

Rose blinked, her eyes bright and innocent.

"You don't look pweg-nat."

Sarah laughed again: in the outer room, Biblepuncher heard her laugh and smiled a little in spite of himself.

"I'm only a little pregnant," Sarah smiled.

"Oh," Rose replied matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything, then she looked up at Sarah, wrinkled her nose a little.

"Howcum you came here?" she asked, and Sarah suspected she was echoing a question Kate posed in a private moment.

"Brother William said you might need my help."

Rose's face brightened again and she laughed, showing even white teeth and apple-flushed cheeks: "Woom Coffee!" she declared joyfully, and Sarah laughed again.

"I never heard him called that," she replied, smiling.

"How longyagonna stay with us?" Rose asked, delightedly hugging her new doll to her.

"Until we can get your Mama here and get you home where you belong. Then I'll go home too."

Rose screwed her face up, rubbed her nose vigorously.

"You got any horsies?" she asked plaintively, and Sarah nodded.

Rose sighed, the exaggerated sigh of a little girl trying to sound grown-up, and managing to sound uncertain instead.

"I miss my horsies," she said sadly.

Sarah nodded, her eyes softening with a memory of her own.

"I miss my horsies too, sweetheart," Sarah managed to say, before the lump in her throat made her harrumph and turn her face to the wall.

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

We rode as hard as we dared because of Calico's wound. I gave a half a try at getting her to stay back or at least follow us at a pace that would best suit her wound, but the sudden flash in her eyes was all I needed to let that idea go.

 

We stopped when we saw a brave running out to meet us. He talked with Black Horse briefly before he handed me a paper with drawings and a message for me. The brave's eyes glistened when I told him in his tongue to keep the knife that had held the paper to a tree.

 

We were about a mile from where our family was being held and with the note we sat and planned our attack. The brave that had brought the knife told of a woman dressed in black with my family, she was the one that had stuck the note to a tree for me to find. I had heard of such a woman, and the thought of her with my family brought a great sense of relief to my soul.

 

We would wait until dark and then begin our attack, quietly as long as possible, using knives and bows on the five lookouts the gang had posted.

 

I did manage to convince Calico to stay back this time though, a dead mother would do our children no good.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Biblepuncher felt a laugh bubble up inside him as Sarah swatted his shoulder and said "You need to eat, fella! If you'd stand out in the noonday sun you'd have trouble throwin' a shadow!" She tossed another slab of meat on his plate and dropped a gob of mashed taters beside it. "I made the gravy myself and it's good!"

"Yeah I know," Bible Puncher protested, "I done et one plate!"

"I've already eaten one plate," Sarah corrected him, driving the gravy ladle down into the pile of fluffy white taters to make a well, then depositing the ladle's fragrant payload with a turn of her wrist.

Biblepuncher opened his mouth again and Sarah neatly plugged a light roll between his teeth.

Rose giggled and even Kate smiled; the Parson was doing full justice to his plate, and Sarah knew this was his way of dealing with the rat gnawing at his belly.

Different men react different to stress, she knew; Biblepuncher had to be coaxed to eat, the preacher would eat until he was bloated; the several young -- Sarah smiled again as her eyes swept the table -- the children were being children, walking appetites on two hollow legs: she and Kate fixed twice the meal and more they ordinarily would have, at Sarah's insistence, and to Sarah's calculating eye there would be very little by way of left overs.

She'd saved back some mashed potatoes for making potato candy; she knew that if all went well, it would be a welcome treat, and if things were protracted, it would provide a fast bite of something that would give them sustenance when there was no time for better.

Sarah knew Kate needed the normalcy of a familiar task, something other than riding herd on the young as she'd done for the past few days, and this one good meal was just the ticket: Sarah changed out of her drawers and vest and back into her widow's gown, and somehow Kate found her a little less ... frightening ... when she looked ...

Well, when she looked more like a woman.

Sarah wanted a good meal behind everyone's belt buckles.

She'd lain in a shadowed depression with her spyglass and watched as one of the outlaws scoured the area where she'd nailed her note.

She saw him looking around and she knew that -- no matter how incompetent he was -- he could not possibly miss white sheets of paper on a tree trunk.

She watched as his eyes swept the area, and she knew where she'd left the sketches, and she felt her eyes tighten just a bit at the corners when he paused in front of that particular tree, looking back and forth on the ground, then up a little, looking through the trees back toward the parsonage, and he moved on.

It's been picked up, she thought, lowering the eyepiece and listening to the night noises around her.

She made her way back to the others, thinking fast.

Cheyenne is a warrior, she thought, and a warrior will plan his attack.

He will not come in haste.

I think we have time for a good supper and a nap.

 

Biblepuncher and the Preacher looked up as Sarah swept into the room, a pie in each hand.

The children cheered quietly and Kate smiled, for she'd taken particular care with the lattice-laid top crust.

Biblepuncher groaned, leaning back and marveling at how well he'd eaten, watching as Sarah sliced the first pie with three quick moves, expertly slipping mouth watering wedges of dessert onto waiting plates, Kate following to fill the rest.

 

Kate and Sarah bedded the children down, tucked them in; Rose was asleep almost instantly, her doll cuddled up against her.

Kate hid the other doll, the one with the .44 inside it, but it was near to hand and she knew she could get it in two steps or less.

Sarah bade the Parson not to worry, the Lord would provide, he should get a good night's rest for at first light, or just shy of it -- when men's souls craved another few relaxed moment in a nice warm bunk -- then things would get interesting, but for tonight, he should rest, and with the help of a full belly the Parson didn't feel like arguing.

Biblepuncher was the last to bunk.

He heard Sarah open the door and heard the tik-tik-tik of dog claws on the clean board floor, and he heard the happy whining groan that sounded so much like his old Tip-dog, and he smiled a little as he relaxed and slid into the dark lake of slumber.

The Bear Killer happily washed Sarah's face, his great brush of a tail sweeping the floor.

[Calico Mary]

It wasn’t easy convincing Filly and Slick that these warriors were no threat to us, but they finally agreed to trust me. I explained how I knew Black Horse, and that the braves were a mixture of Ute and Cheyenne, and although the only other one I personally knew besides Black Horse was Runs With the Wind, I knew they were all there to help us. What I wasn’t sure about at first is how they knew their help was needed, until Runs With the Wind came over and told me, “Stands Alone sends his greetings.” For some reason that just didn’t surprise me as much as it probably should have.

 

Black Horse then told me he was going to go find Cheyenne, and at first I wanted to go with him, but he pointed out that I could use some rest and I knew he was right. After he had left, Slick built a fire and Painted Filly got busy preparing food for all who remained. I offered to help, but she said she didn’t need it, so I sat on a large rock nearby and tried to relax. A sound from a nearby tree caught my attention, and I looked up to see both the eagle and the hawk that we had followed here staring down at me. The eagle did not surprise me, as they were sort of a guardian spirit of Cheyenne’s, but I couldn’t understand the presence of the hawk. I did notice that there seemed to be dried blood on some of it’s wing feathers, how the blood had gotten there I had no clue but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was some sort of meaning to it. In a way I wanted to ask Runs With the Wind, but decided against it, no matter what language I used someone would overhear and I didn’t want anyone thinking that I was delirious.

 

It wasn’t long before darkness fell and I knew that Black Horse and Cheyenne wouldn’t be there until morning at the earliest, so we all wrapped ourselves in blankets and tried to get some sleep. I didn’t sleep as well as I would have liked, I had dreams of raptors battling coyotes, and flashes of my children and friends hiding away somewhere….and I couldn’t really rest not knowing where that place was. In the morning, we had barely had time to finish our coffee when I heard horses approaching. Glancing around at the braves, I noticed that they didn’t seem concerned, and that brought a smile to my lips. I knew it was Black Horse returning with Cheyenne even before I saw him racing towards me on his white stallion. I stood perfectly still, knowing better than to do anything to spook the horse, and it was only seconds before Cheyenne had me in his arms. Despite the pain in my side, nothing had ever felt so good as when I felt his arms around me.

 

We immediately got ready to ride out, although Cheyenne at first tried to convince me to stay put and wait there with Painted Filly for the men to return. I didn’t even have to say anything, the look I gave him shut him up pretty quick, and he just shook his head and got back on his horse. I wasn’t about to stay behind, it was OUR family in danger, and I wasn’t about to let my wound stop me from going along. I wasn’t sure how long we rode, but finally we came across a few more braves waiting for us in another clearing, and one of them handing some papers to Cheyenne. Glancing at them while he stood and read it, I realized that whoever had written them was on our side and was trying to help. That was a good thing, but just who was it that had done so?

 

This time both Cheyenne and Black Horse insisted I remain where we were at and let the rest of them handle the attack on the place Black Horse said our family was. I didn’t like the idea, but Cheyenne drew me aside and made me promise to stay back just this once. I was starting to recover, but I was still a little weak from the infection, and the last thing he needed was to have to worry about me, he needed to concentrate on getting our children back safely. As much as I hated to admit it, he had a good point and I finally nodded in agreement. The men were going to wait until dark to attack, not exactly standard practice for the braves but in this case they agreed with Cheyenne that it would be to their benefit.

 

As the men were getting ready, I asked Slick if he had any animal fat on him. He looked confused but handed me a little jar of deer fat, which I took with me over to the fire. Painted Filly came over and watched as I mixed a little bit of it with some ashes from the fire, and a little more with juice from some berries I had found nearby. Then I started painting streaks down my face of both mixtures, and I think that shocked her a little. “What are you doing, we’re not going with the men, why do you need to do that?” she asked.

 

“My body may not be going, but my spirit will be right alongside my husband and the others, I must be ready for whatever happens then,” I told her. She walked away shaking her head, and I knew she didn’t really understand. For that matter I wasn’t sure I did either, but Brother William had told me to follow my heart…and my heart was going along for this ride even if the rest of me wasn’t! It was my babies that were missing....

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Sarah was a child again.

She looked in the mirror, adjusted her straw hat with red ribbons streaming down from its back, nodding approval at her trim frock and her spotless white stockings and her gleaming little patent slippers, and she giggled as the reflection nodded back at her.

She skipped a few steps and stopped, tilting her head a little to the left, curious at the woman's appearance.

She knew the woman was a mother and she knew this was the mother of the children in the next room, but the mother was crouched a little, with a war-hawk in one hand and a knife in the other, her eyes were hard and suspicious and paint gleamed in fresh, wet stripes across both cheeks.

"Hello," Sarah said in a little girl's voice. "You are a Spirit Walker."

The woman turned her head a little, eyes narrowing, then she looked around.

"Your children are in there," Sarah said, her hands primly folded in her apron; she nodded to a closed door. "They miss you."

The woman looked toward the door, looked back: Sarah was a woman grown now, in widow's black, her hands still folded in her apron.

"You."

Sarah's eyebrows raised and there was a trace of a smile trying to tug at the corners of her mouth.

"Me?" she asked innocently, and Calico's spirit-form felt laughter bubbling in the Woman in Black's belly.

"You are the Woman in Black."

"You follow your husband."

The Spiritwalker looked long at Sarah.

"I see life within you." She looked puzzled. "Why do you fight?"

Sarah's spirit-form pulled off a black glove: an ancient diamond gleamed on one finger.

"This is the Ring of the Princess," she said, turning the back of her hand toward Calico's spirit-from. "It was worn by a Welsh warrior princess, the great-grandmother of my late husband." She lowered her hand to her flat belly. "What example would a warrior set for her son if she were such a coward as not to help when she could?"

Calico's spirit-form nodded understanding.

"You will see much, Spiritwalker," Sarah warned. "You will see things in spirit-form your bodily eyes could never behold, you will see things you never suspected existed."

The Bear Killer looked up from where he was curled up beside Sarah's pallet: he stood, stretched, yawned: his spirit-form grew to the size of a mature grizzly and she felt more than heard his thoughts: No two-legs will harm She-Who-Walks-the-Stars!

The Bear Killer's shade threw its head back and spread yard-long, yard-wide jaws studded with ivory daggers and screamed a dragon-voiced challenge that shivered the cold sky between the stars overhead.

 

Jacob came off his bunk and hit the floor on all fours, eyes wide, nostrils flared.

He'd heard the most terrifying, screaming, inhuman, monstrous war-challenge he'd ever heard in all his young life.

It was quiet in the church: Jacob listened, waiting for its repeat, but there was not even an echo to betray that he'd heard a great battling monster scream for war.

Jacob held his position for several long moments, breathing through his open mouth, then he stood, slowly, rubbed his face.

A dream, he thought. Just a dream.

His blood chilled several degrees and ran cold for about a minute as Brother William said quietly, "I heard it too."

 

Sarah opened her eyes and looked across the room.

She was alone, save for The Bear Killer curled up beside her narrow pallet.

She slept fully clothed; some instinct warned her against undressing for bed: she sat up, thrust stocking feet into her shoes, slipped her hip-flared gunbelt around her middle, cinched it tight.

The Bear Killer was fully awake, his ears pricked: he looked at Sarah and gave a quiet, breathy whuff! and then looked at the nearest window, his fur rippling up in a spiky line, down his neck, across his shoulders in a broad ruff, then down the rest of his back bone.

Tonight, she thought. They're not waiting for dawn, they're coming tonight!