Dreams of the Golden Aspen Ranch

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

We rode just after dusk, slowly, methodically and with a single mission, to rescue my family and friends. It was hard to hold Ike and Eddie back, both of their wives were being held, but with the help of the others they were convinced to follow the plan.

 

We split into two groups, and then two groups within those groups. Half would go in stealthfully first, eliminating any lookouts, the others would head for the small church where the hostages were being held. I made the decision that we would fire only if fired on first, except for cases of assured hostile targets.

 

The sky was dark, only a slight cresent moon in the sky as we dismounted and waited for the advance group to create havoc and death in the blackness. Men would be entering into the gates of darkness tonight and it wasn't about to bother me at all.

 

A howl that seemed to come out of the gates of hell shook my soul to it's core, I looked around an only Black Horse showed any sign of hearing it. I devilish smile came across his face, "We have help, strong help" was all he said as we began making our way towards the church.

 

Gunfire ripped through the night as lightning and thunder roll during a storm. The screams of dying men could be heard followed by war cries and then more blood curdling screams of pain. The braves were so incensed by the cowardice of taking children as hostages that they were sending those men they had taken alive into the hereafter without their scalps. But, they tried to make sure the men had to suffer through that ordeal before they sent them on their final journey into darkness.

 

Gunfire erupted from around the church that was directed towards us. I heard the howl again followed by a man's last scream and then gunfire came from the church, but directed at those firing on us. I saw a shadow moving towards us in the darkness and felt a sense of calm from it. I drew down on flashes coming from outside the church and opened up on them.

 

Just before a hand touched my shoulder from behind I heard my name whispered, "Cheyenne, come with me" was all the shadow said. I could see her eyes and a slight smile as I slowly rose to follow her. That calm I had felt now overwhelmed my as I followed the shadow toward the church. I heard heavy panting and looked down to see what had made the wrenching howls earlier. A dog the size of a calve, with the smell of death about him following along behind us.

 

The shadow stopped suddenly and I heard a guttural sound from the hound, he went silent as he went past me in a couched position, he wasn't quite out of sight when I saw him leap, followed by the screams of a dying man and the guttural growls of the massive hound.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A man sleeps well with a full belly.

A man with a full belly wakes quickly when a woman whispers, "Get your rifle and stand ready!" -- especially when her hand on his shoulder and her voice in his ear is followed by a few enthusiastic swipes of a dog's tongue.

Fortunately both Biblepuncher and the Parson kept their eyes shut during their quick wake-up bath, otherwise the size of a massive black dog standing over them -- a dog big enough to plow with, or maybe big enough to rip the back off the church by himself -- would have brought them awake too fast.

Sarah was out of her dress and into her drawers before the first scream from without, and she was pressing rifles into sleepy hands and assigning loophole positions as they'd arranged before in their quiet-voiced councils of war -- she even had an ideal shooting position for the lad, who showed the same confident dexterity with his assigned rifle as his mother.

This did not surprise Sarah one little bit.

The lads she'd taught back in Firelands were equally skilled-at-arms; it was a quality they acquired with their Mama's milk, they absorbed it in the air they breathed, it was a natural part of living: just as a carpenter becomes one with his favorite tools, just as a blacksmith's spirit flowed into hammer and tongs when working magic with glowing-red steel, just as a well-matched horse and rider became one magical creature, riding the wind itself, so did this boy handle this brand-new Model of 1873 Winchester as if it were an extension of his soul.

There were no lights within the little church building, nor were any needed; their eyes, used to the dark, searched the shadows without for shapes, movements that should not be there: Sarah was among them, a hand on this shoulder, a whisper in that ear, and when the fight started, everyone within the church building spoke with all the pent up anger at being badly treated and unjustly confined.

Sarah did not need to summon The Bear Killer when she slipped out the door.

They two became less than flesh, and more: they did not run, walk or skulk, they flowed, becoming shadow, a shape, a whisper: in the darkness, listening, smelling, they divined the positions of the attackers, those of the greater number who sought the attackers.

Sarah and The Bear Killer moved through the darkness, toward one she felt more than saw.

She sought the Cheyenne, for she wished to guide him to the church.

She felt the fire in his belly, she felt thunder in his loins; his spirit was strong, raging within his silent, tightly-controlled exterior, and Sarah saw, with more than her eyes, one of the most powerful warriors she'd ever encountered.

Silent, unseen, she nodded her approval, then she slipped closer.

"Cheyenne," she whispered, "come with me," and her hand was light on his shoulder.

The Bear Killer was at her shoulder when Cheyenne turned, and Sarah smiled, for he betrayed no surprise to see The Bear Killer, less than arm's reach from him.

Three forms of death flowed back toward the church, the black-furred shadow surging forward and a little to the side, ivory fangs gleaming suddenly in the dark.

Sarah and Cheyenne heard the man die, and his dying was not pleasant.

 

Jacob's control was absolute, icy, as hard as his pale eyes.

In his younger days he might have driven his stallion to a wide open gallop, charged into the heart of the fight, screaming his rage and laying about with death in both hands.

He bore the scars of having done that.

That he drew air today meant he'd learned from his mistakes.

Now he cantered in, Apple-horse's hooves silent or nearly so; he hesitated, listening, looking into the darkened hollow where the little church stood, where men screamed, where gunshots stuttered.

Sarah is there, he thought. Damn me, I should have been in there earlier!

"You are just in time," Brother William said quietly.

Jacob looked down, startled.

"How'd you get here?" he blurted.

Brother William looked up with a perfectly straight face.

"I walk fast."

Jacob grunted.

"Hold here. We have many who help."

"Yeah, what's this 'we' stuff?"

Brother William dropped his staff into the crook of his elbow and signed a greeting.

A shadow separated from the deeper shadow of a lodgepole pine; a lean Indian signed in return.

Jacob recognized the intertribal lingua franca, the sign language known to all tribes: he knew there were individual signed languages within individual tribes, and he knew those fluent in sign language could distinguish accent as well.

He himself was not that good.

He saw "Cheyenne" with the individual inflection, "attack," "many" and "death silent," then in the quick conversation that followed -- the hand-gestures were minimal, but fluid, graceful -- he saw "woman black" and "healer," and he had the feeling his sister was just mentioned.

Jacob's head came up as a terrified scream shivered the night, cut off as if the sufferer's throat were crushed in mid-voice.

 

Rose's eyes went big and round and her mouth opened in a delighted, ruby-lipped O, and she scampered across the floor as fast as her little-girl legs would carry her, arms thrown wide as they would go.

Cheyenne grunted and took a step back as the little girl drove into him at full gallop and he went slowly to his knees, gathering her to him, savoring the sound of her child's voice as a starving man might savor that first taste of food at a banquet-table.

Rose buried her face into his front, shivering a little, rejoicing at the feel of big strong Daddy-arms around her.

Women in black and great black dogs, men and rifles and women's assurances aside, there is nothing in all the entire world to make a child feel any safer than a set of big strong Daddy-arms around her, and with those arms, the smell of sweat and leather and horses and Indian tobacco and a trace of whiskey, to make a child feel truly, genuinely, absolutely, positively, utterly, I-can-relax-now-it's-all-right, safe.

[Calico Mary]

We knew we had a long wait ahead of us, so I told Painted Filly we should get some rest while we had the chance. I sat down and leaned back against a tree and closed my eyes….and in no time at all I saw myself in a small room. I was not alone, there was another woman in there, not much more than a girl, maybe a little older than Little Flower, Laura, and Sally. I had no idea who she was, but I quickly got the feeling that she was in some way involved in this whole mess, but on our side. That thought comforted me, though I wasn’t sure why. We spoke for a few minutes, and she confirmed my thoughts, she was there to help. I figured out pretty quickly that she was pregnant, though not very far along, and at first that concerned me, why would this stranger put not only herself but her unborn child in danger for us? Then I thought back to when I had been pregnant, first with the twins and then with Ruth, and had to smile. I had never let that stop me from doing what needed doing, this young woman obviously had the same courage. I knew we were blessed to have her assistance, as unexpected as it may have been.

As my spirit turned to go, the massive dog that was with the woman let out a blood-curdling howl. That shook me up pretty badly, all I could think was that I was glad they were on our side, I would hate to have to confront a monster like that if the tables were turned. As soon as the howl faded I was awake in an instant, glancing over at Painted Filly I half expected her to have heard the sound as well, but she was still dozing. I let her sleep until the sun was fully down and the crescent moon was rising in the sky, then gently shook her awake. “Come on, we’re going to get a little closer,” I told her, and at first she objected.

“You promised Cheyenne that we wouldn’t get involved.” I didn’t really need to be reminded of that, I knew what I had told him but I never said that we would stay so far away. “We’re not going to get that close, I just want to be closer than we are right now.” We moved forward until we were about a quarter mile from where I thought the building was where my family was being held we could hear the sounds of the battle starting. Even in the darkness I could tell Painted Filly was turning a little pale, she was no stranger to violence but all the same she didn’t like it any better than I did. The look in her eyes told me that she would not turn tail and run though, and I appreciated that she had the courage to remain by my side.

We found a spot to hide ourselves and our horses and settled in to wait. Before long however, we heard crashing sounds coming through the trees straight towards us, and we both tensed up. I could see Painted Filly’s hands creeping towards the pistols she wore, so I quickly put my hand on her shoulder and shook my head no. Then I reached down and pulled the large knife from my boot and showed it to her, and I could see that she recognized my meaning. We wanted to draw no attention to ourselves, best not to use our guns unless absolutely necessary. Within seconds a scruffy looking man came running straight towards the trees where we were hiding, but I was prepared, and one quick swipe with my knife across his throat took care of that problem. Filly had to look away as the man went down, bleeding out fairly quickly from the slash I had inflicted, but I was pleased to see that she didn’t try to run. “Sorry bout that, but even if he was being a coward he was still a danger to us,” I explained, and she nodded. Just then there was another of those monstrous howls, and this time I could tell she heard it too. Her eyes got as big as I knew mine had to be, and she whispered, “What the heck was that?”

“Hard to tell, but let’s just hope it’s on our side,” I told her, and before long we could tell the battle was winding down. From where we were it was impossible to tell which side was coming out victorious, so we left our horses where they were and silently moved forward to get a better look. As we drew close I could barely make out in the darkness that the braves we had come with were moving around, checking on the bodies and dispatching any that still drew breath. It wasn’t a pleasant sight, but one that told me we had won.

As soon as that thought registered in my brain, I left Filly behind and went running towards the church. It had been far too long since I had held my children, no one was going to stop me now and none of the braves that noticed me even tried. I went rushing inside, and came to a room full of people in the rear of the building. The first one I noticed was the woman I had seen in my vision, all she did was nod at me then pointed towards Cheyenne. He had his hands full with the twins, Rose, and Tommy, but his smile told me that he didn’t mind one bit. Little Sarah was the first of the children to notice my entrance, and she let go of her daddy to come racing towards me. Just as I scoped her into my left arm Kate came forward as well and silently placed Ruth in the crook of my other arm, and I couldn’t help but hug both my girls to me. Then Mathew came over as well, wrapping his little arms around my legs like he’d never let go. I didn’t mind in the slightest, my prayers had been answered and I had my babies back.

The only thing that ruined the whole scene was when a massive dog came over and started rubbing up against my back. This was obviously the source of the howls I had heard before, but the dog showed no signs of meaning any harm towards anyone in the room, so I wasn’t afraid. I was glad the creature was friendly, but then I could feel it starting, and there was no holding back…..AAACHOOO!! Dang allergies.....

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I will know this, too, Sarah thought, laying a hand on her belly as she watched the young pile up around Calico Mary.

The Bear Killer showed his true self when he, too, cuddled his big furry self up in the only available place and that was Calico Mary's exposed back, and he jumped back with a wounded expression when Calico Mary sneezed.

Sarah made a little kissing sound and The Bear Killer dropped his head and followed, for animals can feel emotion, and he liked what he felt radiating from the joyful pile of hugging humanity.

Sarah slipped out the door, taking her grip with her; it was the only luggage she'd brought -- all else she'd brought, was intended to be left: supplies, groceries, arms, they were all for this one purpose, this one moment.

She opened the door and stepped outside.

It was silent now, not a bird, not a bug broke the hush; Sarah stepped to the side, The Bear Killer in arm's reach as she eased the door shut.

She knew she was not alone.

Sarah walked confidently through the darkness, as sure in her step as if it were noontime, The Bear Killer beside her, as silent as death and just as lethal: for the nonce, he was calm, watchful, scenting the still air.

Sarah paused, faded into the shadow-shape of a tree.

"Hello, Jacob," she said quietly.

"Hello yourself, Little Sis," came the quiet voiced reply.

"Hey now! Who are you calling little?"

"Who? -- why, I oughta turn you over my knee and fan your little biscuits!"

Jacob could hear the smile in Sarah's voice as she riposted, "Catch me first!"

It was an old joke between them.

The only time he'd ever tried to swat her bottom, she gave him a good old fashioned beating -- he admitted later he deserved it, though a blue eye and a fat lip did his pride no good at all in the moment, and ever after, they both alluded to his learning experience with a laugh.

"Thought you might like a ride," Jacob said.

"Snowflake," Sarah called, and a great dark shadow drifted toward her.

Sarah stepped ahead, into a little clearing, just as an unseen hand drew the veil back from the quarter-moon.

Sarah was not alone in the clearing.

Healer, the first brave signed.

"Sil-ver-lance," the second spoke.

Spirit Walker, the third signed.

Respect, Warriors, Sarah signed in reply. Is justice done?

"Yes," a voice said hoarsely, and an older warrior, clearly a leader, stepped into the pale, washed-out moonlight.

"I see you, Black Horse," Sarah greeted the chieftain.

"I see you, Black Rider."

"I thank you."

Black Horse looked long at The Bear Killer.

"I have seen this one, in a vision," he said slowly, thoughtfully. "He sat on a ledge, watching, then he spread great feathered wings and flew."

Sarah nodded, looking at The Bear Killer, imagining him with a broad wingspan, silhouetted against a blue sky.

Black Horse looked over at Snowflake.

"This, too, I have seen," he said with an abrupt gesture. "Red Flower would touch this one."

Jacob frowned a little, looking at the younger braves, puzzled.

Sarah turned and smiled at her brother.

"I know who he means. Snowflake?"

The big Frisian walked up to her, rubbing her velvety nose against Sarah's front, begging for a treat.

Jacob stepped up and made a stirrup of his hands, boosted Sarah into the saddle.

Sarah walked Snowflake back to the church building, The Bear Killer ghosting along behind and a little to the side.

As she drew up, the door opened and a little curly head peeked out and a little girl's voice called "Sawwah?" -- and then Rose's eyes went big as she saw the great black mare in the spilled lamplight, and she scampered across the intervening distance and seized Snowflake around the foreleg in a delighted hug, then she drew back and looked waaaaay up at Sarah, blinked, then she bent down and petted Snowflake's long black fetlocks and said "Fuzzy foot!"

Sarah laughed and Rose tilted her head, regarding Snowflake's polished, black hoof.

"Horsie has shiny black hoofies," she said in her little-girl voice, then she balanced on one foot and held out her own little patent leather slipper and said "I have shiny hoofies too!"

Rose dashed back inside, seized Calico's hand, her eyes big, liquid, urgent.

"Mama," she said, interjecting when there was a momentary lull in the conversation, "can we go home now? I miss my horsies! -- come an' see Sawwah's horsie, it's big an' it has fuzzy hoofies and shiny!"

Rose paused to breathe and Calico ran an arm around her little girl's shoulders and drew her close, and Rose cuddled into her Mama with a contented sigh.

 

Years later, Brother William would tell a group of big-eyed little boys about the night the Indian chief spoke of the spirit-dog with wings, and how later that night, it was not the dog, but the great black horse, that spread a set of wings and soared into the night sky.

But that was a tale told many years later, in another place, and it has no place in this story.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Jacob and Sarah rode back to the depot together.

The Judge's private railcar was waiting for them at the siding.

A nearby hotel afforded them both a bath and a change of clothes, a meal and some time to talk quietly before the Judge's official duties were concluded.

Jacob's freshly brushed suit fitted him well -- Sarah's experienced eyes gauged how it hung across his shoulders, she read tension lines in the material as he moved, she finally concluded that she herself could not improve on his garment's tailoring -- and she herself, as she was still within her first year of mourning, wore a full-mourning gown, the utter, unrelieved black of material, trim, buttons and jewelry marking her a woman unavailable.

They shared a leisurely supper, neither eating a great amount, but both savoring good food, properly prepared: when finally they began to speak, it was quietly, carefully.

"Little Sis," Jacob began, and Sarah's light eyes smiled at ihim over the rim of her teacup as she replied, "Yes, LIttle Brother?"

He chuckled and nodded. "I deserved that."

"Yes you did."

"How many souls did you send to hell this time?"

Sarah took a sip of the fragrant oolong, hummed a little with pleasure as she tasted the orange-hint of burgamo in the back of her throat.

"Directly, or indirectly?"

Jacob raised an eyebrow.

"I fed the troops and brought a case of rifles, I scouted the enemy positions and sent intelligence reports. All those led to enemy deaths, so I have some responsibility there."

"That's not what I mean."

"You're asking me how many did I personally send to blistering hell."

Jacob's eyes were pale as he nodded, slowly.

"You carry too many ghosts, Jacob. You can't hold yourself responsible when someone makes a lawman kill him. It's a kind of suicide, that's on them, not you."

Jacob's eyes shifted to the side and she knew he was staring through the wall behind her, seeing things he'd rather not, scenes that came unbidden in quiet, unguarded moments.

"Suicide," he grunted.

"I didn't send a one this time."

Jacob blinked, returned to the here-and-now.

"Come again?"

Sarah's carriage was very erect, her demeanor very proper. "I didn't send any."

Jacob stared at her for a long moment, then, quietly, "Good."

Sarah placed her fragile, bone-china teacup precisely, silently, on its delicate tea-saucer, folded her hands in her lap.

"I am to be married again, you know."

Jacob's jaw fell open and if he hadn't been seated in a good substantial chair he would likely have fallen to the floor in astonishment.

"What?"

"My husband Daffyd has family, you know."

"Yeah, um, I knew, ah ... he has a brother, an older ..."

"He has another. A twin."

Jacob realized his mouth was still open. He reached up and set the heel of his hand under his clean-shaven chin and slowly returned his sagging mandible to the closed position.

"He will meet me at a time and place of my choosing, and he wishes to pursue my hand in honorable marriage."

"Sight unseen?"

Sarah reached into the blackness of her reticule, withdrew a hand-folded envelope; she extracted a single page, unfolded it.

"He says in part that Scripture admonishes us to care for widows and orphans, he alludes to a passage that instructs a surviving brother to marry his dead brother's barren widow, that she may raise children of their blood."

"Matthew 22:24," Jacob said softly, nodding, then he looked at Sarah and she saw his eyes sharpen.

"You're not barren."

"Daffyd learned only the morning of his death that our union was ... fertile."

Sarah's smile was gentle, her eyes soft as she laid a hand delicately on her belly.

"He believes you ... but you don't know a thing about him!"

"I plan to," Sarah said quietly. "Remember, Little Brother. We are agents of the Law, and we find things out!"

Jacob glared at her. "You've made up your mind?" he asked, a warning note in his voice.

Sarah laughed, reached across the table; in spite of himself, Jacob took her hand in his.

"Jacob," Sarah whispered, giving him a mischevious look, "the Lord is indeed merciful, for I am not as foolish as I look!" She squeezed his warm, strong hand and sighed. "No, Little Brother, I shall give him a rigorous inspection, both spiritually and ... and his character, and I will not give my consent to marriage unless I am quite certain he will be a good investment." She smiled. "Otherwise, I do know a fine gentleman who would happily step over a broom with me."

Sarah tilted her head a little, smiling quietly, looked up at the big Regulator clock on the side wall.

"I believe His Honor should be returned to his car," she said, standing, and Jacob stood with her.

Sarah took his hand in both hers, her grip tight.

"Let's go home, Jacob," she said quietly. "I've caused enough trouble here. Let's go home."

[G. I. Tarpicker, SASS #998]

BTT

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"I know the Golden Aspen," the Sheriff said quietly, nodding thoughtfully: "Good people. I ... " His voice trailed off and Sarah saw that slow, knowing smile spread, then fade as a memory bloomed like a moonflower.

"Cheyenne ... he is well?" he asked hopefully.

Sarah nodded, remembering the pile of young of varying ages that fairly mobbed the man there in the church building.

"He is well."

"Jacob."

"Yes, sir?"

"Jacob, had you any occasion to serve those warrants?"

"No, sir."

"There are only so many hours in a day. We'll tend that detail some other time."

"Yes, sir."

The Sheriff rose and walked slowly around from behind his solidly built desk, Jacob rising with him.

The Sheriff walked over to his little girl, extended an elbow.

"My dear," he said, "I would be most pleased if you would walk with me."

Sarah rose, took her father's arm and looked up into his eyes.

"Whither goest thou?" she asked with a slight smile.

"We," he said, "goest to meet a man who wishest to meet you in person."

The Sheriff felt Sarah's hand squeeze his muscled forearm as she quietly replied, "Good."

Jacob reached for the door, hesitated as the Sheriff stopped: he stopped because Sarah pulled at his arm, her expression suddenly serious.

"I shall wish your sound advice," she said formally. "I ... may not be the best judge of men."

The Sheriff's eyes were veiled as he considered Sarah's words.

"I think you'll do just fine," he said, "but we'll be there too."

"Good."

They walked across the street to the Silver Jewel Saloon.

Sarah drew them to a halt again just as they were about to mount the three steps to the board walk.

"I wish --" she said suddenly, then bit her bottom lip, dropping her eyes and turning a distinct pink.

Jacob and his father both raised their left eyebrow, slowly, looked at one another, then at Sarah.

Sarah threw her head up like a swimmer coming out of a deep dive and she took a great deep gasp of air, then she closed her mouth and willed herself to calm.

"I saw something," she said, "I saw something that I really want."

"Oh?" father and son said with one voice.

Sarah nodded.

She remembered Cheyenne, his arms wide, welcoming all within his man-wide grasp: she remembered Calico, the look on her face when her young were gathered to her.

"I saw something I want," she said again, slowly, "but I'm not sure I can put it into words."

She blinked, then raised her chin.

"I believe introductions are in order, gentlemen," she said, suddenly brisk and businesslike: "shall we?"

Jacob leaned forward, hauled open the ornate, frosted-glass-paned door and removed his cover.

"After you," he murmured, and Sarah lifted her skirts and her chin and stepped across the threshold to meet her husband-to-be.

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

By the time I was done being mobbed by my children the "shadow" had disappeared just as mysteriously as she had appeared. I said a silent prayer of thanks for her help as I felt continued hugs.

 

Calico pulled me up and with the little ones still hanging on us held each other as best we could. Ike, Eddie and Biblepuncher were all getting re-accustomed to their wives as well with kisses and staring into each other's eyes like they were looking for coins in a wishing well.

 

I felt a hand on my shoulder, Kiowa Kid stood there trying to be patient, but he needed my outside. Blackhorse and his braves had managed to take two men alive, though how long they would live was up for grabs. The braves had the men contained in a circle of braves who were enjoying sticking the men with their spears. The captured men were relieved when they saw me, although I had a mind to let the braves slowly torture them until they were ready to enter into the gates of hell. But, they would be more use alive for now than having the pleasure of seeing them plead for their lives as they slowly lost their life's blood.

 

I told Blackhorse and his men to let the men live, and I promised them an invitation to the men's hanging after their trials. That barely placated Blackhorse and the others but they acquiesced and quick poking the men.

 

The screech of an eagle caught my attention and in a blur and eagle swooped down, followed by a great hawk. Their aim was true as each drove their talons deep into the forehead of each man riping eyeballs from their sockets as the pair winged their way skyward again. The scowls that had been imprinted on each brave's face was now replaced with a wide smile as the two men howled out in pain.

 

It took some time, gathering horses, hitching teams to wagons but soon we were ready for the trip back to Denver. One question was nagging me though, did the parson of this little church know anything. Biblepuncher must have read my mind because as I started for the church again just said, "Let it go, he's gotten right, let him suffer with his own conscience, if he can."

 

I mounted my steed, "Where for now Calico?" I asked her, not knowing if she would want to head back to the ranch or to continue on to Virginia.

 

She winked at me, and then with that sly little smile of hers said, "As long as there's a water hole, whither thou goes I will go."

[Calico Mary]

It was almost dawn before we were finally ready to go, exhausted but extremely thankful we were all back together. I heard a noise and looked up into the branches of a tree on one side of the church, the eagle and the hawk were still there, watching us. Then the hawk took flight, swooping down to side on the top of the little picket fence surrounding the yard in front of the building. The bird sat there for a few minutes, staring straight at me, and I swore the look in its eyes reminded me of the woman that had been there earlier, and had been in my vision. Then the raptor let out a mighty screech, and took flight again, heading off towards the southeast. I looked back at the eagle, he was watching his feathered companion leave then he looked at me and I could tell that if he could have smiled he would have.

 

Then Cheyenne asked me where I wanted to go, and I just had to tease him about going anywhere with a water hole, although in truth I didn’t think I was quite up to that just yet. My side was still bothering me quite a bit, and I was starting to realize just how serious that infection I’d gotten had been. I knew I needed rest before we could head for Virginia, but at the same time I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back home either. As we rode towards Denver, it came to me, we should head for the Golden Aspen! It was only a couple of weeks until Danny and Ella’s wedding, so we might as well go down there now, stay for the wedding, and hopefully by then I’d feel good enough for us to continue on our trip East. There was no way we could make it there today, we all needed some rest, but Denver wasn’t that far and we could stay there overnight, and make arrangements for our private car to be ready to take us south the following day.

 

As we were riding towards the city, one of Cheyenne’s companions that I had assumed was one of Kiowa’s men all of a sudden took off “his” hat, and it was then I realized that it was in fact a young woman, and an attractive one at that. It only took a second for it to hit me, this was the woman I had seen in one of my visions, kneeling next to Cheyenne in prayer next to a stream, and a wave of jealousy hit me. Junior must have seen me staring at the woman, because the next thing I knew he was talking very fast, trying to explain to me who she was and what she was doing with them. So Junior was the one that was interested in her…that was obvious…I just hoped that Cheyenne wasn’t as well. I had to admit, the woman Junior called Velvet wasn’t doing anything wrong, and it certainly wasn’t her fault she was so pretty….but all the same I wasn’t entirely comfortable with her being there. Especially since I was too tired and too sore to give Cheyenne all the attention I really wanted to….

 

We made our way to Denver and checked into one of our favorite hotels close to the depot, thankfully they had enough available rooms for all of us. Even Kiowa and Filly and their men were going to stay there overnight, their ranch wasn’t far but they hadn’t gotten much sleep the last few days either. I couldn’t thank Filly enough for all she had done helping Brother William tend to me, but she just brushed it off, saying she was sure I would have done the same had our situation been reversed. All the same, I knew I had made a good friend, one that I would treasure for a long time. The hotel manager promised to contact the depot to have our car ready for us tomorrow, and we all headed up to our rooms. Kate was going to take Ruth and the twins with her, but I had a hard time handing the baby over to her again, I just wanted to hold her and never let go. Finally Cheyenne convinced me that I needed a nap before dinner, and that I could hold her all I wanted after a few hours of sleep.

 

Finally we were alone in our room, and Cheyenne couldn’t wait to wrap his arms around me. I appreciated the hug, but I almost wished he wasn’t hugging me so tight, it kind of hurt. He realized that pretty quickly, and loosened his grip, but didn’t let go completely. We laid down and snuggled up together, and I drifted off to sleep with thoughts of the Golden Aspen, and how good it would be to see it again, and the nearby water hole of course….

[Calico Mary]

The next morning we said goodbye to Filly, Kiowa, Slick, and the other hands, they had to get back to their ranch. The previous evening we had sent a telegram to the Golden Aspen letting them know our plans, and a return telegram reached us at the hotel just as our friends left, it said simply “Come on down!” First we had to go get all the horses from the livery, and I had to endure a lot of questions from Finn as to the condition of his horse. I guess I never realized until then just how much Swamp Rat meant to the old man, but I guess since his horse was about his only friend it did make sense. I for one was glad to hand that horse over to his rightful owner, he’d done ok by me but I still preferred my own horse Rascal.

 

Finally we were ready to board our private rail car, and all the horses and baggage had been loaded back up as well. I wanted to hold Ruth the whole time, but Cheyenne convinced me to let Kate hold her instead, though Kate sat in the seat directly across from me so that I could see the baby, and Sarah and Rose sat next to me, one on each side. Cheyenne sat with Tommy, and strangely enough Mathew wanted to sit with Finn. Laura came to sit next to Kate, and I got the idea she was feeling a little left out, since Little Flower and Sally were preoccupied with Eddie and Ike. Biblepuncher and Cora were sitting with Junior and Velvet, I hadn’t really wanted her to come with us but Junior wouldn’t hear of her being left behind, and Cheyenne agreed. I fully intended to keep an eye on her though, the men might trust her but I wasn’t so sure I did.

 

The trip south was uneventful, and before we knew it the train was pulling into the station in Hugo Springs. Buick was there to meet us, with two of his hands, Red and Gingles. They had brought two buggies and a wagon for us, and after loading the baggage in the wagon we all climbed into one of the vehicles, except for Junior and Finn, they chose to ride their horses. I was kind of surprised when Cheyenne decided to tie his horse to the back of one buggy and ride with me, but he pointed out that the twins and Ruth all would need to be held, and Kate and I could only deal with two of the three. Cheyenne put Mathew on his lap, Kate took Sarah, so I got to have Ruth in my arms for the whole trip, which was fine with me. We all rode with Buick, and Biblepuncher, Cora, and Velvet rode with Gingles in the other buggy. All the other kids climbed in the back of the wagon, except for Laura and Rose, they rode on the seat with Red, and I noticed that Cheyenne kept glancing over his shoulder at the wagon. Red was a good hand, but far too old for Laura, and both of us had noticed Laura trying to flirt with the man. To his credit, he seemed more amused than anything, but was a complete gentleman about it. Finally Buick leaned over and told Cheyenne, “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Red has a lady friend that he’s pretty serious about,” but Cheyenne didn’t relax until we reached the Golden Aspen.

 

We had a great time getting reacquainted with our old friends. The twins loved playing with Libby, and even Ruth got to play….well, sort of…..with little Davy. It was good seeing Danny and Ella again, and Cheyenne and I were honored when the couple asked us to be their best man and matron of honor. The wedding plans seemed to be coming together nicely, and I was really looking forward to the celebration. But first things first, I had to show all the older kids around the whole ranch, and let them see where I had grown up. I also showed them the graves of my parents, Morning Star had done a wonderful job of seeing to it that the graves were well cared for. I also described to them the original cabin, it was hard to picture it as it had been since the cabin that had replaced it had been expanded quite a bit. It wasn’t as big as the Culpepper main house, but it was still pretty impressive. I had the feeling that Buick and Morning Star weren’t planning on stopping at two kids.

 

After a few days of rest, I was feeling much better, even good enough to make a visit to our old water hole. For that I did not invite the kids along, and Morning Star made sure to come up with things to keep them occupied to give me and Cheyenne a little privacy. I couldn’t help but think back to some of the good times we’d spent there when we’d first gotten together, and I could tell Cheyenne remembered as well. That went a long way in helping me get over my initial jealousy towards Velvet…well, that and the fact Junior hardly ever left her side. At least Finn seemed to have no problem with the budding relationship, he seemed to be of the opinion that it could possibly be the best thing that ever happened to Junior. I wasn’t convinced yet, but they did seem to be getting along just fine…only time would tell if it would end up something permanent.

 

We been there almost a week, when one afternoon a storm started moving in. That was nothing unusual, so at first we weren’t real worried about it. But the clouds kept getting darker and darker, and we could all tell rain was heading our way. We’d gotten all the kids in the house before the rain started, but some of us were standing over by the barn keeping an eye on things when all of a sudden I noticed a familiar sight from my childhood, one I hadn’t seen in years and didn’t really want to again, but there was no mistaking the signs. It took a few seconds before I could shout “Tornado!” but instantly Buick and his hands went into action. They now had four barns full of horses, all of whom would be sitting ducks locked into stalls they couldn’t get out of if we didn’t release them before that twister got too close. I tried to yell towards the house for Morning Star to get all the kids and ladies into the storm cellar, but with the wind whipping around there was no way she could hear me.

 

Cheyenne grabbed my arm and tried to insist that I go warn everyone in the house, but I quickly shook my head. “No! You go, you can run faster than I can…I’ll help with the horses!” He didn’t like that, and tried to object, but I pulled my arm away and told him, “Don’t argue with me, we ain’t got time, now move!!! Get those kids in the cellar!” Before he could react I pulled away and headed for the farthest barn, that’s the one all of our horses were in. Cheyenne stared after me for a second or two, then headed for the house and our family. That was fine with me, he needed to make sure to get everyone under cover, but the horses needed help too. As I got to the barn and squeezed through the door, my only hope was that I could get all of the horses out of their stalls and running for safety, with enough time left over to get myself back to the storm cellar as well!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Sarah smiled as she quickly, deftly cut weeds from around the corn plants.

She smiled because she remembered the conversation with her maid, from the day before.

The maid's mouth dropped open as Sarah came down stairs, came down in men's trousers and knee-high moccasins, a man's shirt and a black felt Joe Crane hat with a crow feather swinging loosely from the apex of its round crown.

Whether it was her attire, or the rifle in her hand, or her plain intent to go harvest some eatin' meat that so scandalized the maid, Sarah wasn't certain.

"Well?" she asked, and there was amusement and not confrontation in her voice: the maid, emboldened at not having her head bit off, swallowed uncertainly and wrung her hands together and said, "Mum, ye maun' no' go huntin', y'noo, we can afford th' butcher --"

Sarah raised an eyebrow, effectively silencing the protesting servant girl.

"What I mean is, a woman o' your stature i' th' community --"

Sarah's eyes narrowed and the maid's voice ground to a halt.

"You don't want me to take a rifle and knock down an elk, is that it?" she asked quietly.

"Beggin' your pardon, mum --"

Sarah turned and strode upstairs.

The maid wrung her hands in her apron, waiting, afraid of what would happen: she'd known other servant girls, in other situations, who'd been fired for being so straightforward; she herself enjoyed a wonderfully ... informal ... relationship with her employer, and there had never been a problem with the hireling speaking her mind.

The maid's jaw fell to collarbone level as Sarah came back down the stairs.

She'd parked her rifle and brought a flint-tipped spear instead -- the maid knew the implement, she'd seen Sarah with it before, though she wasn't entirely certain as to its use -- but this was not the cause of her greatest distress.

Sarah was scandalously clothed in a short linsey-woolsey top that ended halfway between her ribs and her hips, and she wore a woven breechclout and the knee high moccasins: her hair was tied back and she had a skinning knife on her right hip, a hand forged war hawk on her left.

"Is this any better?" she asked innocently as the maid looked like she'd just been handed a cold dead fish.

Sarah had not gone hunting that day; she was afraid to: it was fear that her poor maid would have a case of the vapors that kept her home, and indeed the maid was somewhere southwest of nonplussed, for she'd come to Sarah's employ after tending a well-to-do family back East, a family of gentility and culture and breeding, where she and the other servants observed proprieties and facilitated culture.

Sarah remembered that conversation from the preceding day.

The maid, she knew, was shaking her head in disapproval as she watched her mistress hoe weeds in a properly cut dress and a broad brimmed hat and cotton gloves; Sarah loved tending the garden, and so did not concern herself at the servant's distress.

At one point she paused, her hand on her belly, thinking of new life within: she knew she was more than capable of bringing down game, gutting and skinning and boning it out; she'd done it before -- as a matter of fact, the grand rack hanging over the bar in the Silver Jewel, was the one she'd brought down with the same hand knapped flint spearhead that was lashed to the spearshaft she'd grasped on the staircase -- and Sarah knew that whatever life threw at her, no matter the outrageous fortune that may come her way, she could provide for herself and for the child she carried.

She could provide, peacefully or otherwise, and frankly she did not care which.

When she'd finished hoeing the garden she went to the well and winched up a bucket, drank of good cold mountain water and drank again, then she hung her hoe on its pegs and went back inside and sat down.

She was in a mood to remember.

She remembered the joy on the Calico woman's face as she embraced her young, and she remembered how little Rose slammed into Cheyenne and how his laugh filled the room, and Sarah's hand rested on her belly again and she remembered how absolutely right that moment had felt.

"I hope to know such happiness," she whispered aloud, smiling as the maid swept into the room with a tray and tea and sandwiches.

"Ye've been workin' hard all th' morn," the maid fussed. "Now don't be neglectin' yersel', ye must eat!"

Sarah wondered how Calico and Cheyenne and their family were, and hoped as she bit into her sandwich that they were peacefully enjoying the rewards of their own home.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Sarah looked up, then stood and dusted her gloved hands together as a carriage pulled up and a familiar figure lifted his Derby hat in greeting.

Ron Llewellyn climbed out of the carriage and thanked the hired man for taking the gelding; hat in hand, he approached Sarah, who walked between the neat, string-straight rows to meet him.

"Mr. Llewellyn."

"Mrs. Llewellyn."

"I see you don't stand on protocol, Mr. Llewellyn."

"No, Mrs. Llewellyn, I am standing on the ground."

"One does not usually call on a single woman without ..." Sarah smiled. "Without what the Mexicans call a duena." She pronounced it with the proper inflection of the n-sound.

"I am not Mexican, Mrs. Llewellyn."

"No, Mr. Llewellyn, you are Irish and Welsh, you are a fireman and you have a fine tenor and a fair baritone."

"You seem to know much about me, Mrs. Llewellyn."

"Your brother spoke very favorably of you, Mr. Llewellyn." Sarah removed her sun-shading hat, looking frankly at the man.

"Mr. Llewellyn, you stated an intent to pursuie my hand in honorable matrimony."

"Aye, Mrs. Llewellyn, that I did."

"Is that still your intent?"

"Aye, Mrs. Llewellyn, it is."

Sarah gave him a long, appraising look.

"Mr. Llewellyn, I am with child."

Ron Llewellyn blinked, then smiled and nodded again.

"A man wants children," he said.

"Even if the son I carry is not your own?"

"A son is it!" Ron exclaimed, white teeth gleaming beneath his thick, curled black handlebar.

"A son, aye," Sarah said gently, "with blue eyes and a bent for mischief, his father's son withal."

Ron gave her a long, appraising look.

"So it's true," he said at length.

"What's true, Mr. Llewellyn?"

"Me brother said --"

Ron Llewellyn hesitated, his eyes dropping, as if he'd said more than he'd planned.

"He said you have the Sight."

"He said that?"

"Aye."

"And what else did he say?"

"That there were things you saw you couldn't talk about."

Sarah's gaze was steady as she made no reply.

"Did ye see ma brother's death?"

"I saw a path, Mr. Llewellyn. A path with a fork and that fork represented a choice. I knew he could choose to the left or to the right, but the choice was his alone to make."

"Ye could see his choice?"

"No, Mr. Llewellyn." Sarah's eyes changed, darkened; her young face showed a moment of sadness -- a depth of grief Ron Llewellyn saw clearly, and in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to bundle her up in his arms and hold her, to comfort her, for he'd lost a brother and he knew how deep his own grief ran; this woman -- this young woman -- was his wife, for Christ's sake, how deep must her grief run!

Sarah lifted her chin.

"Mr. Llewellyn, I believe we should take a drive." She turned as the maid approached, handed her the gardening gloves. "Millicent, please have the hired man bring up Mr. Llewellyn's carriage, we are going to the cemetery."

The maid dropped a perfect curtsy, eyeing Ron Llewellyn appraisingly.

She took in his sculpted mustache and broad shoulders, his tailored suit and fine hat, and how much he resembled his dead twin brother; she looked at Sarah, and the women shared that secret that women have in such moments, but her only spoken reply was, "Yes, ma'am."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"Mr. Llewellyn."

"Yes, Mrs. Llewellyn."

The gelding's hooves made little sound on the dirt roadway; the horse walked, drawing the rented carriage easily behind.

"Your brother was a noble and an honorable man."

Ron Llewellyn considered this.

"He died in the line of duty and he died doing what he did well, and what he loved."

Sarah's voice was steady, but Llewellyn could her the underlying tension in her quiet words.

"My mother married an honorable man who turned out to be an utter cad. He planned to kill her and ship my sisters and I to a boarding school, and to take all we had and squander it gambling. He is dead now, a consequence of his own ill choices."

Llewellyn's brows quirked together as he puzzled this information into the growing portrait of this pretty young widow.
"His brother stepped up and married my mother. Levi is an upright and an honorable man and he has been as noble as his brother was a scoundrel."

Llewellyn waited patiently for her to finish her thought.

"Mr. Llewellyn, you stated your intent to have my hand in marriage."

"Aye," he nodded. "That I do."

"Mr. Llewellyn, your brother thought very highly about you. He spoke of your honesty and your integrity and he described in professional terms your fireground performance."

"Oh he did now?" Llewellyn grinned, a little surprised.

"I consulted with our fire chief and then the entire Irish Brigade."

Llewellyn blinked, looked down at the diminutive, black-garbed widow. She looked up at him, smiled -- a little sadly, he thought.

"Are you surprised?"

This, too, surprised him, and he finally, slowly, nodded.

"I am an Agent of the Court, Mr. Llewellyn." Sarah looked ahead again, her gaze unfocused. "I retrieve criminals at the behest of His Honor the Judge. Most of them come in alive, in irons. The remainder arrive tied in a blanket."

Sarah unbuttoned her sleeve, drew it back, thrust her bare arm forward, displaying a twisted scarring that raised chill-bumps on Llewellyn's arms.

"This, Mr. Llewellyn, is from a wolf. I could not outrun the creature and I wore no weapon and I had to use the training a US Marshal gave me." She slid the sleeve back down over her arm. "I thrust my forearm as far back into its jaws as I could and wrapped my other arm behind its head, I seized its flanks with my legs and I pulled up and snapped its head back."

Sarah's eyes were cold and distant as she remembered the moment.

"I broke its neck, Mr. Llewellyn. I was a fourteen year old girl and I broke a wolf's neck and killed it."

Her voice was flat, unemotional, a simple recitation of fact.

"I bear the mark of Cain, Mr. Llewellyn. I have killed and more than once. I have died and I have seen Hell and beyond, and when my husband threw a child across the collapsed floor into the Fire Chief's arms I felt his soaring victory, and I felt his desperate leap to try and escape the fire and I felt his death."

She held up a black-gloved hand.

Most of her jewelry was jet, gleaming and polished: the diamond, in its simple gold setting, was a bright contrast to the somber shade cloaking her finger.

"This is the Ring of the Princess, Mr. Llewellyn."

"Our Grandam's ring," Llewellyn breathed.

"I was given this ring by your brother. It is said to give the woman who wears it, a clearer sight."

"Aye," he said quietly. "It is that, and more."

Silence grew between them, until they came in sight of Firelands, then:

"Mr. Llewellyn, I saw what I want not long ago. I saw a father laugh as he gathered his children to him, I saw a mother rejoice as her young ran up and hugged her, I saw a husband and wife who belong together and I saw happiness flash between them like the noonday sun from a mirror. That is what I want, Mr. Llewellyn. Can you give it to me?"

Llewellyn "ho"-d to the gelding, gently drawing the reins, which Sarah approved: his hands were strong and consistently gentle, and she knew a gentle man with a horse's reins was not likely to be a harsh man with his wife.

Llewellyn hauled back the brake and set it, then turned to face Sarah and removed his Derby.

"I will give you that," he said simply.

Sarah took the reins from him. "Release the brake."

She turned the gelding, turned the carriage; they trotted back to her great stone house.

Sarah leaped from the still-moving carriage, snatched up her skirts, ran for the front door: she disappeared inside as Llewellyn, puzzled, dismounted somewhat less vigorously.

Sarah ran out with a long wooden box, set it on the back of the carriage.

"Mr. Llewellyn," she said, her voice low, urgent, "is it your intent that I should be your wife?"

"It is, Mrs. Llewellyn."

"Mr. Llewellyn, will you set me on a pedestal and make me your Queen, will you provide for me and protect me and be father to our children?"

"Aye, that I will."

"Will you be a sober and hard working man, not given to drink, gambling or wenching?"

Llewellyn threw his head back and laughed and Sarah's heart ached to hear it, for her late husband would laugh in that identical manner.

"My dear, were I to bet that the first horse crossing the line was the winner, I'd still lose, for my gambling luck is universally rotten!" he chuckled. "I'll drink but no' more than any man, but the ladies" -- his fingers were gentle under her chin and she allowed him to tilt her head up, and each assessed the other's eyes -- "I was true t' my late wife, without fail, an' I'll be so wi' you."

Sarah nodded, her jaw set.

"Good enough," she snapped. "Take a knee." She whirled stepped to the carriage, unlatched the long wooden box.

"What?"

"KNEEL!"

Sarah spun, sword in hand: it was a Schlager blade, of watered Solingen steel: her Aunt Esther taught her to fence with it, and within its yard long sweep she was more than deadly.

Puzzled, Ron Llewellyn sank to one knee.

Sarah stood straight before him, snapped the blade up in salute, then drew a silk kerchief from her sleeve: she tossed it to the side, slashed with the blade.

The kerchief fell to earth in two halves.

Sarah turned, laid the flat of the blade on his left shoulder, then his right, then his left again: "In nomine Santa Lucia, San Florian y Santo Cristobal," she recited, then grounded the blade's tip and backhanded Llewellyn across the face.

"Never made me strike you so long as you shall live," she said, "and neve take a blow from another."

She extended a gloved hand.

"Rise, Sir Knight, as my husband."

Ron Llewellyn rose, slowly, clearly astonished: he settled his hat on his head, set its angle.

"Is tha' how we get married here in th' West?"

"No," Sarah admitted. "There is a minor formality involving the church service and a minister, but this is a start."

"And when shall we ha'e this ... minor formality?" A smile grew under his sculpted black mustache.

"Before the storm hits, Mr. Llewellyn. Leaves are turning over, the clouds are thick and heavy and my old war wounds ache, we're in for a blow and I would rather be under roof when it hits." She smiled and the effect was dazzling. "I'll change clothes and we'll go tend that detail."

"Change ... but what o' your mournin' period?"

Sarah wiped the tip of her blade, put the Schlager back in its box, closed the lid and latched it.

"Mr.Llewellyn," she said, "neither of us may live to see sunrise and I see no sense in wasting a perfectly good year. You are dressed for the occasion and as soon as I change into my wedding gown, I will be too. Unless you don't want to marry me after all ...?"

"I've no ring for ye, lass!"

"I just happen to have one," she smiled. "A genuine Llewellyn gold band that would do me much honor if you would place it on my finger."

Sarah whirled and ran back into the house and Ron Llewellyn removed his Derby, thick, strong fingers scratching his sandy thatch as his brows furrowed in puzzlement.

"I meant well," he muttered. "Wha' in two hells ha'e I got into now?"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Sheriff Linn Keller rose as the door swung open.

Sarah breezed in with a bright smile on her face, her emerald-green gown shimmering in the indirect light.

The Sheriff could not but smile.

Sarah skipped up to him and took his hands in hers, raised up on tiptoes and kissed his clean-shaven cheek.

The Sheriff saw a figure enter and Sarah felt him change.

"Papa," she said, "this is Ron Llewellyn, brother to my late husband. He has come to marry me, and we need a best man."

The Sheriff stepped forward, extended a hand, sized up this stranger with the very familiar face.

"I am not he," the Sheriff said, "but I know who is."

Ron could not see Sarah's smile, otherwise he might have felt somewhat like the tax collector when he saw men carrying sacks of feathers into a warehouse and smelled the odor of boiling tar.

"I have accepted his proposal of marriage and I purpose to be wed this day," Sarah said matter-of-factly, to which Ron raised an eyebrow, as if hearing the idea for the first time.

"Mr. Llewellyn," the Sheriff said firmly, stepping squarely in front of the man, "is this of your own free will and accord?"

"It is," Llewellyn replied firmly.

"Will you honorably provide for" -- he turned, looked at Sarah, looked back, his face set and hard -- "will you honorably provide for and protect, my little girl?"

Ron Llewellyn looked squarely into the Sheriff's ice-pale eyes and said slowly, "I say to you now, Sheriff -- I say with the full knowledge that you are her father -- I will provide for your daughter, I will care for her and protect her and I will do my very best for her."

The Sheriff looked long into the man's eyes, his set expression never changing.

"By what right do you expect to be granted this favor?"

"By the right" -- he hesitated and smiled a little, looking at Sarah -- "by the right of having a lovely young woman pull a yard of steel and speak her mind!"

The Sheriff's eyes smiled first, then the corners of his eyes, and finally the rest of his face, and he clapped a hand on Ron's shoulder and chuckled, shaking his head.

"Why," he laughed, "am I not surprised!" He knuckled the corners of his eyes, took Llewellyn by the upper arm. "Walk with me." He looked at Sarah. "Meet us at the Jewel."

"Yes, Papa."

Sarah skipped happily out the door, almost like a little girl, and Ron Llewellyn considered just how complex this surprising creature was becoming.

"Not what you expected?" the Sheriff murmured as the two walked down the board walk, their boots loud on the warped, dusty boards.

Llewellyn considered for a moment before shaking his head. "No, Sheriff," he admitted, "she's not."

"Your brother was a good man."

"Aye, that he was."

Both men looked up as Sarah went pelting down the street, her skirts hiked and legs scissoring rapidly, sprinting hard as she could down the little grade toward the fine brick firehouse.

"She wouldn't," the Sheriff groaned.

Sarah skidded to a halt beside the fire alarm -- a steel plate about three feet long and a foot wide, hung by half a dozen chain links from a heavy post and crossbeam, with a wagon bolt hung beside it: she seized the long bolt and began to pound the alarm mercilessly, giving it at least a dozen fast, hard blows, piling one ringing tocsin atop another, assaulting the steel as if it were a personal enemy and she the Avenger incarnate: then she dropped the bolt, charged the building, seized the door and disappeared inside.

Sheriff Keller and Ron Llewellyn spontaneously leaned forward into a run.

 

Sarah McKenna, dignified schoolteacher and widow of Daffyd Llewellyn, second-in-command of the Irish Brigade, Firelands' own red-shirted fire department, put two fingers to her lips and gave a shrill, most unladylike whistle, and the men following heard her plainly, though they were a little distance from the still-open door: "BOOTS AND SADDLES! ALL HANDS ON DECK! NO IRISH NEED APPLY! TURN TO, DAMN YOU, OR I'LL HAVE YOUR GUTS FOR GARTERS! IN RANKS ON THE APPARATUS FLOOR, NOW!!!"

The Sheriff swarmed through the still-open door as the last of the Irish Brigade reported double-time to the apparatus floor: even Sean, the great, red-headed Irish chieftain, stood with his men, though his knuckles were on his belt and his eyes were on the diminutive young woman who stood, equally defiant, in an identical stance: each fixed the other with a stern-faced glare, until neither could hold it any longer, and Sean took Sarah under the arms and swung her up and spun her around, and Sarah threw her head back and laughed, and the Sheriff remembered the first time he'd done that with her, years before he knew she was of his blood.

Sean swung her down and she landed light on her toes, her hands on his muscled, fine-haired forearms.

"Sean, I need your help," she said, and Llewellyn and the Sheriff saw the man's expression change.

"Sean, you said if I ever needed anything I was but to ask," Sarah said, her words tumbling over one another: "I'm asking."

"Ye need but name it, lass," Sean rumbled, his quiet voice surprisingly loud in the firehouse bay, and the Brigade broke ranks and drew closer.

"I need all your help this time," Sarah said. "And I need it now."

Sean spat on a great, broad palm, smacked his hands together, dry-washed them and raised a double handful of Irish-red knuckles. "Ye need but ask it, lass," he declared, "whatever it may be!"

Sarah turned and looked at the Brigade, her expression beseeching, seeking and meeting every eye.

"I need" -- she hesitated -- "I need you to go to church with me today."

The Sheriff's hand was firm on Llewellyn's bulging bicep; each looked to the other, and they each realized the other was trying hard not to laugh.

Sean cleared his throat, straightened, ran his fingers through his thick, rich thatch of hair and in a puzzled voice replied, "Aye, lass, that we can do ... but why?"

Sarah gave him her very best Innocent Expression and said, "Because my fiancee needs a best man, and the Irish Brigade is the best damned men in town, that's why!" -- her arm swung up and she pointed, and the Irish Brigade followed her point.

Pandemonium followed.

The Sheriff stepped aside as the entire Brigade swarmed Llewellyn: there were grins, oaths, laughter, threats, fists shaken, hands shaken, questions asked, all in little short of a full-voiced roar: it was evident the man was known to the Brigade, and the Brigade was known to the man, and it took the better part of an hour for the happy confusion of congratulations and catching-up, for Llewellyn and his brother had both served in Cincinnati, and with every man of the Firelands Fire Department, back East: Sarah drew sidling around the rejoicing crowd and held her Papa's arm proudly.

She leaned her head against his arm and sighed.

"I think I made a good choice," she said, and she said it in a lull in the general hubbub, and the Sheriff heard her say it.

His hand, his warm and strong Daddy-hand, descending on hers and pressing her hand warmly against his arm, was a reply she could feel even if the rejoicing voices prevented her hearing his spoken reply.

The jostling, swearing, laughing throng crowded towards the kitchen, which served also as the dining room; a bottle was produced, libations poured, and as the Irish Brigade celebrated this joyful reunion with one of their own, the Sheriff turned as the double doors at the end of the equipment bay shivered and creaked.

He pulled back, went to a window, looked out.

Sarah looked out with him.

"Good thing Shorty took your nag to the stable," Linn said, his voice reflecting off the glass.

"I'm glad we're inside," she murmured. "It's wicked out there!"

 

Later that evening, after the storm passed, the Irish Brigade and the newly-betrothed groom, with the Sheriff and Sarah, and Daisy, Sean's wife, made their way to the little whitewashed church: word travels fast in a small town and in very short order, the church was nearly full of well-wishers, friends, neighbors and hangers-on.

Perhaps what followed is best conveyed by excerpting from the newly-established Firelands Tribune (Bruce Jones, Editor):

 

A COMPLETELY UNEVENTFUL WEDDING

After the fashion of the day, Sarah Llewellyn, widow of the late Daffyd Llewellyn, and Ron Llewellyn, brother of the deceased, were married in the Firelands Church Wednesday evening.

Attending as best man was the entire Firelands Fire Department, as the happy groom served with our own and well beloved Irish Brigade as firemen with the Cincinnati Metropolitan Fire Department, and so were well acquainted: Daisy Fitzgerald, wife of Fire Chief Sean Fitzgerald, stood proudly as Matron of Honor: as witnesses, most of Firelands defied the elements to attend this happy occasion.

Halfway through the servece, after our good Parson Belden explained the significance of the service and the symbolism of the rings, a visitor -- a stranger to Firelands, a man who had dined wisely but not at all well, but wined himself very well but not at all wisely -- stood up and yelled, "WHEN YA GONNA RIDE THAT FILLY, FELLA?"

As one, the entirety of the shocked-silent congregation turned to the interloper: a commanding voice shouted "HOLD!" and in spite of the universal distress at this affront to the bride's honor, general decency and the sanctity of God's Church, the groom turned to his bride and said, "My dear, a moment," handed his coat to one of the firemen, spat on his knuckles and strode toward the speaker.

Not to be outdone, the offender came boiling through the congregation, nostrils flared and fists balled: though there were those who sought to stop the stranger (no doubt to deliver their own brand of justice) the groom shouted "LET HIM GO! HE'S MINE!" -- they two met in the broad aisle, and the fight was on!

Each man set his feet and cocked his fists: there was the smack of bone and flesh, blood squirted as a nose was flattened, a pained grunt as a fist found the other's guts: a flurry of hard-swung punches, neither yielding an inch, each intent on the utter bloody defeat of the other.

The bride, beautiful and dainty in emerald green and feminine dignity, put two fingers to her lips and gave a shrill, piercing whistle: one of her students (for the bride was no one but our own beloved schoolteacher, Miss Sarah) stood -- as if in conspiracy with his beautiful instructress --and in standing, pitched Miz Sarah's signature schoolbell in a swift, low arc.

The reader will remember the day when Miss Sarah stormed from the schoolhouse, schoolbell in hand, and elbowed her way through a gathered ring of shouting, waving men, surrounding two who sought to pound each other into submission: she raised the heavy brass bell and brought it down across the back of one pugilist's head, decking the sweating fighter as if she'd just brain-shot a slaughter beef: her ice-pale glare was sufficient to take the fight out of the second man: she spun on her heel, held the bent bell before her like a scepter, and with the dignity of the Queen herself, marched back into the schoolhouse and slammed the door behind her.

Now, from the hand of one of her prize students, this selfsame heavy brass bell with the turned hickory handle spun through the air: the beautiful bride caught it easily, snatched up her skirts, took four running steps, swarmed over her husband's back and, screaming like a wildcat, tore into the foul-mouthed offender: three solid blows and the man lost all interest in insulting her character, fighting her husband, or much of anything else.

The unconscious offender was carried from the church by the bride's brother, Chief Deputy Jacob Keller, and after an extended period of being sloshed up and down in the nearest horse trough, the offender was manacled to a convenient tree and left in the rain until such time as his installation in the local calabozo might be accomplished.

The wedding then proceeded without interruption.

A good time was had by all.

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"Mr. Llewellyn?"

Sarah's voice was quiet in the dark.

"Yes, Mrs. Llewellyn?"

Sarah lay flat on her back, staring at the nighttime ceiling: her hand sought her husband's, and Ron Llewellyn gave his lovely new bride's hand a gentle squeeze in reply.

"Mr. Llewellyn, my father gave me some good advice."

"Yes, Mrs. Llewellyn?"
"Yes, Mr. Llewellyn. He said" -- she hesitated, her hand tightened a little, then relaxed -- "he said if I was ever in doubt, that I should follow my gut."

Sarah hesitated several long moments before continuing.

"My gut tells me I did the right thing."

Ron Llewellyn nodded, the stubble at the nape of his neck rasping almost inaudibly on the pillow case.

Sarah thought back to the brief visit with His Honor, Judge Donald Hostetler, in his private rail car.

She'd handed him back her Agent's bronze shield, explaining that she was remarried, and with child, and perhaps it was time she acted sensibly for once in her young life.

His Honor had puffed briskly on his freshly-lighted Cuban: he frowned a little, then offered them each a cigar (which both declined, Sarah with a laugh) and a brandy (which her husband accepted), and at the Judge's invitation, they sat together on the indicated velvet sofa.

His Honor leaned back in his chair, drew thoughtfully on the hand-rolled stogie, blew a meditative stream of rich, liquid smoke toward the ceiling.

Nodding, he rose, went to his desk: he opened a small door, reached in, withdrew a polished walnut box, opened it.

He picked up Sarah's bronze shield and carefully placed it in the box, where it rested in blue velvet, precisely shaped and cut out: obviously the Judge had this planned for some time.

He handed the box to Sarah.

"Keep this, my dear," he said, "and when the mood strikes, take a look at it and remember that you did a great deal of good in this lifetime."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

The Sheriff leaned back against the front wall of the solid, log-built Sheriff's office, looking off into the clear blue distance as he considered the news.

Tornado, the man said.

Went rippin' through the Golden Aspen spread, he said.

The Sheriff closed his eyes, took a long breath, remembered twisters he'd seen and the ruin they'd brought.

He opened his eyes, took a long breath, his eyes swinging up the street where a lumber-loaded freight wagon rumbled down the slight grade.

The railroad runs near to there, he thought, his slight smile grim and humorless as he contemplated his fortune in owning the Z&W Railroad: as its owner, he could ship anything he pleased, at any time, if need be.

I can hire freighters to haul supplies from the depot to the Golden Aspen.

Can I?

Are there freighters enough in that area?

I'd look pretty foolish -- not to mention spending a big pile of money without need -- if the report is wrong.

The Sheriff considered a few moments longer before leaning away from the log wall and sauntering inside the shadowed coolness of his office.

He opened the top drawer, picked up a telegraph form and a whittled pencil, and began to print.

TO CHEYENNE CULPEPPER GOLDEN ASPEN RANCH STOP ADVISE IF STORM DAMAGE AND EXTENT STOP KELLER FIRELANDS END

His father saved my life, the Sheriff thought, back during that damned War.

He looked up, staring through the opposite wall, seeing a scene of ruin and flame and destruction, remembering the aftermath of a Kansas twister when he was Marshal back in the lowlands.

Culpepper kept me alive that time.

The least I can do is help if I can.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"Sir?"

The Sheriff looked up from his map, spread out over his smooth pine-topped desk.

"I heard tell there was quite a storm at the Golden Aspen."

World travels fast, the Sheriff thought.

I wonder who's standing on a rooftop with a speaking trumpet, shouting it to the horizon.

Jacob walked closer, turned his head, frowning a little as he mentally identified the map's north, started picking out landmarks to get his bearings.

Father and son leaned over the map, each hunched over to the same degree, each frowning a little: were there an outside observer, one might be inclined to think the father had put his brand firmly on his son, for there was a significant resemblance between the slender, older man with the iron-grey mustache, and his slender young son with the mustache of good Clan Maxwell red.

Two pair of pale blue eyes narrowed, two bottom jaws thrust forward as each saw the same thing at the same time.

"Looks like good timber," Jacob said quietly.

"There is," his father replied. "Could you get into the file, please, second drawer, and look for ..."

He ran his finger down one side of the page, stopped at a number, then his eyes crossed the top of the hand drawn map, read it aloud.

"Six-F."

"Yes, sir."

Jacob riffled through several pages, brought one out, laid it on the map.

The Sheriff looked at the sheet, compared it with the map.

"I know that look, sir," Jacob said. "Someone else owns the timber rights on that patch."

The Sheriff looked up with a wry smile.

"It's worse than I thought," he chuckled. "Your sister owns the timber rights."

Both men straightened.

"Sir," Jacob offered, "I can go talk to her."

"She's just newly wed," the Sheriff said thoughtfully, "and she might not appreciate the interruption."

"Yes, sir."

"That will work to our advantage."
"Yes, sir."

"Tell you what."

The Sheriff picked up the handwritten timber-rights record, returned it to the file, slid the drawer gently closed.

"Go talk to the Daine boys."

"Yes, sir."

"See what it'll take to get them to set up their saw mill on Sarah's timber."

Jacob looked long at his father, considering how much just plain hard work it was to set up a saw mill, remembering how heavy the donkey engine was when he helped freight it up on Daine Mountain.

"It'll not be cheap, sir."

"No it won't." The Sheriff frowned, glaring at the map. "Maybe I'll just buy timber off them."

"That might be good, sir," Jacob offered cautiously. "How much do you reckon to need?"

"I don't know," the Sheriff admitted. "I sent a telegram off to Golden Aspen. Until I hear back from them I don't know what they'll need."

Jacob's eyes widened a little and he looked at his father, concern in his expression.

"Sir," he said, "a barn will be simple to rebuild, but the house ... I recall your description, sir ... I'm thinking cook stove and heating stoves, they'll need bedsteads, chairs, curtains, windows, hinges, doorknobs, chamber pots ..."

"I don't care what it takes," the Sheriff said quietly, his voice hard-edged. "Let's wait until we hear back before we spend a fortune, eh?"

"Yes, sir. How close will the Z&W take us?"

"We'll get within ten miles and switch tracks. They owe the Z&W for some shop work. They'll be happy to get off cheap."

"They're the ones that burned out two crown sheets?"

"They're the ones."

Jacob shook his head and is father grinned.

"Damn neart blew up two good engines, didn't they?"

"Yes, sir, that's what I heard our shop tell them."

"They owe us, Jacob, and I'll call in the favor. The cost of repairing two engines will be quite a bit more than the cost of freighting timber for us."

Jacob grinned, nodding.

"Yes, sir."

[Grizzly Dave]

BTT

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

The Sheriff sighed tiredly as he walked from the barn to his solid-built, log-and-timber house.

He'd stood for several long moments, looking, just looking ...

No.

Not just looking.

Remembering.

He remembered how Esther, his late wife, would stand on the front porch as he approached, her hands folded properly in her apron.

He remembered her waist in his hands, he remembered the scent of her hair, the way she molded herself into him when he embraced her, he remembered her laughter as he held her, there on the roofed porch, out where God and everybody could see them ... if there were anyone to see, that is.

Esther died birthing their daughter, and the Sheriff blamed himself for her death: if he'd not been such a randy old goat, he'd told the retired territorial Marshal, Macneil, one night in the Silver Jewel -- if he'd not been such a randy old goat Esther would never have gotten pregnant and she would still be alive.

Macneil's reply went unheard; the Sheriff was wallowed too far in grief to hear even the wisest counsel, and so Macneil offered the best, the wisest advice he could give.

He listened, and he listened with his callused hand on the lawman's shoulder.

"It looks so empty," the Sheriff said aloud.

He shook his head, paced off on the left and headed for his own front door.

The hired girl would have supper hot and ready for him, his bed turned down, the lamps lit.

She met him inside the front door, her cap and apron properly starched; with an Irish-accented "Good evenin', sor," she took his hat and his coat: as he always did, he thanked her in a gentle voice, and as she always did, she colored a little and said "Ye needn't be thankin' the maid, sor," and usually he smiled -- a little sadly, she always thought -- but tonight he stopped and thought a moment, and then said, "My Mama went to considerable trouble to beat good manners into m -- I mean" -- he harrumphed and grinned -- "I mean she taught me good manners."

The maid laughed, nodded toward the dining room.

"Supper's ready, sor, it's good and hot. I hope ye like yer gravy as lumpy as yer taties."

It was the Sheriff's turn to laugh, for the maid took special care to make absolutely smooth gravy and flawlessly mashed potatoes.

"I don't care if it tries to crawl off the plate," the Sheriff nodded, his smile lingering around his eyes. "I am a hungry man tonight."

The maid hung his coat, began brushing it, keeping one eye toward the long tall lawman's retreating backside: she managed a half dozen strokes before she set down the brush and bustled into the dining room.

She stood to one side, watchful, filling his coffee cup, ladling mashed potatoes and gravy onto his plate, adding a good slab of back strap: she placed the platter of still-steaming-warm bread in easy reach, a lump of pressed butter on a chilled plate beside.

He was halfway through meat and potatoes when the maid interrupted his silence.

"Ye're distant t'night," she said softly.

The Sheriff nodded, swallowed, took a noisy slurp of coffee, set the mug down and frowned thoughtfully.

"It's someone you're worryin' about," the maid persisted. "I've seen it b'fore."

"Some friends of mine," the Sheriff admitted. "I'd heard a tornado went through their part of the country."

The maid's eyes widened a little, her hand involuntarily rising to her chin before she returned it to her apron.

"I sent a telegram and asked what damage they'd sustained." His chin thrust slowly out, his fork forgotten in his left hand, his eyes staring through the salt cellar. "It's been near onto a month and no reply. That tells me either they had no damage, or they had so much damage ..."

He paused.

"Either way, I do nothing. If there's no damage, they need no help. If they don't want help and I show up, it'll insult a proud man and I won't do that." He blinked, took a long breath. "And if they've all been killed, they're beyond my help."

He shook his head. "Maybe ... I've got enough of my own to think about. I don't need ..." -- his voice trailed off and he shook his head again, then looked up with a wry grin. "Not knowin' is the hard part."

The maid's reply was to set a slice of pie beside the grey-mustached lawman's plate. "I traded for fresh picked blueberries."

The Sheriff took a long look at the blueberry pie, then looked up at the maid.

"I'd best clean my plate," he said quietly, "because that pie looks too good to pass up!"

[Calico Mary]

When I got inside I realized I had one slight problem. There were two doors into the barn, one on the west and one on the east. I had come in the west one, and had barely been able to open it enough to get inside because of the wind pushing against it. The horses would need to escape through the east door, but I couldn’t very well hold it open for them while I was releasing them all from the stalls at the same time. I looked around for something I could use to prop the door open with, but I couldn’t see anything that would work and I was running out of time. All the horses were starting to get very panicky, they knew they were in danger and releasing them without having that door open could prove dangerous to me.

 

 

Just as I was starting to panic worrying how I was going to do this, the west door opened again, just enough to admit Uncle Finn and to my surprise Velvet. Finn grabbed Velvet’s arm and said something to her, then pointed towards the east door. Velvet went running that direction, and Finn came over to me. “You get the stalls open on one side, I’ll take the other!” he shouted, and I nodded, that made sense to me. We started on the west end, and made sure to open the gates one at a time, so that the two horses on opposite sides wouldn’t run into each other heading out. Velvet wasn’t having an easy time with the door, but she managed to keep it open far enough for the horses to get out. The storm was moving from the southwest to the northeast, I just hoped the horses all had sense enough to head southeast after they got out, away from the twister.

 

 

The noise kept getting louder and louder, and it reminded me of a few times in my childhood that I had heard that noise before. Twisters had come close to our ranch a few times back then, but only once did it ever damage our home. Pa had to spend several weeks rebuilding the cabin that time, while we had stayed in the dugout in the bluff behind where the cabin had been. It had been rough but we had survived, and I knew that regardless of the outcome of this storm, the Golden Aspen would survive this too. But the people and the animals…well….that wasn’t such a sure thing. We had finally gotten to the last two stalls, the one on my side held Cheyenne’s stallion and the one on the other held Finn’s gelding, Swamp Rat. Velvet just couldn’t hold the door open by herself anymore because of the wind, but Finn yelled at her to let it go, we’d open the last two gates then all three of us could push the door open for the last two horses.

 

 

But when we finally got them both loose, something strange happened. We had counted on both horses wanting to get out, but as soon as I had the stallion out of his stall he almost seemed to push me towards Velvet, then pushed both of us towards a huge pile of hay that was just inside the door. Velvet tried to get back around him, but he reared up and she quickly changed her mind, and threw herself towards the hay pile. In an instant I realized what the horse instinctively seemed to know, that the twister was getting too close, we weren’t going to make it to the storm cellar in time and would have to take cover as best as we could where we were. Swamp Rat seemed to know it too, he was nudging Finn towards the hay as well, and as soon as all three of us had huddled together there, the two horses laid down next to us. It was almost as if they were trying to help protect us, and maybe they were. I had no way of knowing if that was true, I just sent up a silent prayer that all three of us and the two horses would make it out of this without injury. I also hoped that all of the others had made it to safety, either in the storm cellar or the dugout.

 

 

I had just whispered, “Amen,” when the noise got even louder, the whole barn started shaking, and then everything got dark as midnight. I could feel Velvet shaking next to me, and Finn wrapped his arms around both of us, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Stay down!” I closed my eyes, and started praying again….

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Ron Llewellyn swung the spyglass in slow, meticulous arcs.

He studied the slate roof, admiring the uniformity of the slates, the precision of their placement; he'd glassed the roof from three angles so far, each with its particular advantage: he was looking for any slates loosened, cracked, broken, missing -- they'd had quite a nasty storm just short of a month ago, and he knew that roof slates might not show damage for a few weeks after.

He'd mined and split slate as a lad, back in Wales; he knew the craft, and he knew the laying of roof slates, though he was never as good at it as his late brother.

Satisfied, he lowered the telescope, looked at the house.

Our house, he thought, grander than any back in Wales, save only the castles, and who wanted a castle? -- a grin widened his face and a chuckle bubbled up from deep in his gut.

It's a grand stone house, he thought, and a castle in a land that knows no castles.

He walked back across the intervening distance, his eye wandering to the neat garden, the ranked plants, the meticulous rows, laid out as neat as a tailor's stitching; he was barely across the threshold when the brass-and-ground-glass tube was plucked from his hand and Sarah spun herself into his arms, and he automatically fell into a waltz with her, matching her tempo though the only music was his lovely wife's laughter.

She stopped and so did he and he saw the light and delight in her eyes and he laughed again, his hands resting on her hips.

"Out with it, now," he said gently, "there's joy in your face an' I'm no' that handsome a man!"

Sarah seized his shirt front, pulled him down as she thrust up on tip-toes and kissed him quickly, lightly on his lips.

"You are too handsome, and don't you forget it!" she scolded, patting his manly chest with the flat of her hand; she looked down, shyly, then up through her long, curled lashes.

"I'm getting bigger," she whispered, one hand dropping to her belly.

Llewellyn blinked, then threw his head back and laughed: he bent a little, ran work-muscled arms around his laughing bride, picked her up and whirled her about, and it was Sarah's turn to throw her head back and laugh.

He set her back down and brushed her glowing cheek with the back of one bent finger, his touch gentle, so gentle she could feel the coarse hairs on the back of his finger.

"I know you're gettin' bigger," he whispered, "an' i' shows i' your face, m'dear!"

"I'm carrying a boy," Sarah whispered, leaning against her husband's warm, solid front, cuddling against him as his arms went protectively around her.

Her voice muffled a little as she laid her cheek against him, hugging him hard, hugging him tight.

"My face will get coarser," she said quietly. "I might get whiskers on my chin like an old woman!"

"Old woman is it!" Ron roared, pulling her arms loose, taking both her hands in both his and going to one knee. "Old woman? Wi' this lovely soft skin?" -- his fingertips circled slowly on the back of her hand, up her exposed forearm, causing Sarah to close her eyes and shiver and almost purr at the intensity of her husband's touch. "Old woman, now? An' ye've no' even birthed th' lad! Shame be wid' ye! Old woman!" He shook his head and glowered comically, raising an eyebrow to make sure she was still looking at him.

They both tried hard not to laugh, and they both almost succeeded, but mirth won out and when they were done, each took a long, cleansing breath, each looked at the other for a long moment.

Sarah's maid cleared her throat. "If you two pensioners would care to take up your cane and hobble to the dining room, I've your meal ready, unless you want me to boil up some gruel for your mutual toothlessness." She hoisted her nose in the air and gave a disdainful "Hmpf!" -- and with a swing of her hips and a swirl of skirts, she spun about and stalked back toward the kitchen.

Sarah giggled, hugging her husband to her again.

"Can I grow old with you?" she asked.

Ron held his wife, felt her breathe, felt her warm and real and very, very alive in his arms.

"My dear," he said, "as long as we ha'e this fine stone house t' shelter us from th' storms, I see no reason why the twa o' us can't grow old together!"

Sarah looked up at him and suddenly looked almost woebegone, like a child realizing something terrible had just happened.

"Will you still love me if I have a beard?" she asked in a little-girl's voice, and Ron hesitated: frowning, he tilted his head, closed one eye and considered his wife's distressed expression.

"Well, if you trim it right an' shape it a bit," he murmured. "I think a spade beard, cut off square on th' bottom --"

Sarah kicked him in the shin.

Hard.

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

I almost ran after Calico as she headed for the barns but I heard Mathew calling for me. I turned and saw him struggling to stay upright as he tried to get to me. I swooped him up in my arms as I ran to him and grabbed Ruth as well as I reached the porch of the house. Morning Star was in the doorway frantically motioning us to get in and down into the root cellar.

 

I dropped each one of the kids into reaching arms, and almost pushed Morning Star down the stairs before turning back to the doorway. I could hardly see the barn in the darkness and the whirling debris. I had to duck back into the house and what cover it provided from the danger before me. The same arms thay had caught the children were now pulling me to safety in the cellar. The doors were pulled shut behind me just as we heard the house start to crumble.

 

It was pitch black in the cellar, and above the sound of the storm the children were amazingly calm. The storm only last a few minutes and then the children started calling for their mothers. It took us some time to finally get the cellar doors open enough to slip out, and then the devastation was overwhelming. The house was basically gone, save for the floor. After I saw that the rest of the souls in the cellar would be able to get out I turned my attention towards the barn where Calico had run for, my heart sunk as I saw the roof gone and two sides missing.

 

I heard White as Snow whiney louded and then from the rubble I saw him rise like the mist from a water hole after a cool night. I called for him but he acted like he didn't hear me and instead of coming to me he bend his head down and nudged something. I found myself running towards him as I saw Swamp Rat stand and mimicking White as Snow he began nudging something at his feet.

 

I saw Finn first, he was hunched up, covered in blood, almost motionless. I reached for him and then saw that he had been covering Calico who had Finn's blood dripping down onto her face. I lifted Finn enough for Calico to slip out from underneath him and then I saw the board protruding from his side. I cradled him in my arms, his breathing short and shallow. "Did I keep her safe?" he asked looking into my eyes. "Yes, she's safe" I told him.

"Maybe this will make up for all my screw ups." he said as he took one last deep breath.

 

I don't know how long I sat there holding Finn, my eyes were too blurry to see much of anything anyway, and I knew that Calico and the children were safe. I knew that my father would be proud at last of his long lost brother.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"Daddy?"

Angela stood in the doorway, her ever present rag doll locked in the bend of her elbow.

She's getting so tall and grown-up, the Sheriff thought, but she still looks so much like a little girl when she's sleepy!

The Sheriff pushed back from his roll top desk, placed his steel-nib pen precisely alongside the sheet he was numbering, and slid the wheeled office chair back a few inches before turning to face the sleepy little girl rubbing her eyes with her nightgown sleeve.

"I thought you were in bed, Princess," the Sheriff said in a gently Daddy-voice.

"I couldn't sleep," Angela mumbled, padding across the floor, bare feet silent on polished wood and hooked rugs. She stopped in arm's reach and her Daddy took her under the arms and hoisted her onto his lap.

Angela cuddled into him and mumbled, "I'm hungry."

The Sheriff hugged his daughter and rested his cheek against her shining, lavender-scented hair.

She smells like Esther, he thought, and hugged her a little tighter; part of his mind admonished him that it was reasonable and economical for her to use the same soaps her Mama used, it was on hand and no sense letting it go unused; another part of him, the lonesome husband bereft of his heart's greatest love, closed his eyes and held this warm, breathing, living, surprising little bundle of fast-growing girlhood that looked nothing at all like either of her parents.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Princess?"

"Daddy, is it gonna storm?"

The Sheriff hugged his daughter a little tighter: he ran his other arm under her, stood: carrying his long-legged little girl, he walked to the window, looked out at stars, bright and hard against the near-black of the nighttime sky. With the lamp on his desk, only the brightest stars could be seen, but they were there.

"The sky is clear, Princess," he said in a reassuring, deep, quiet but strong Daddy-voice. "I don't think we're in for any storms tonight."

"I was scared when that last storm hit," Angela shivered a little.

"That was a rip snorter, all right."

He stood at the window a moment longer, remembering the night when Sarah and Angela were still very young and Sarah pointed out a star and said that's where their Aunt Duzy was now.

Have we always done this? he wondered silently.

Looked at the stars and imagined our dead ascend into these starry decked heavens?

He looked down at his little girl, and she lifted her head and looked at her Daddy and giggled, because he was almost cross eyed looking at her that close.

"I'm hungry too," the Sheriff whispered, "but don't tell the maid. I think she's asleep, poor thing."

The maid looked up with a smile as the Sheriff carried Angela into the kitchen.

"I've cold meat sandwiches," she said, "and there is pie."

"Yay!" Angela cheered quietly, squirming to be set down, and the Sheriff lowered his little girl to the floor, wondering how in Sam's Hill the maid got up and got fully dressed, even to her starched cap, looking like she'd just stepped out of --

Oh, never mind, he thought. I'm hungry too!

Angela ate with a growing child's appetite, to the maid's approval and the Sheriff's continued surprise. She was a lean child, no fat on her at all.

She is maybe what -- nine years old now? God Almighty, how'd she get this old this fast!

"Angela," the Sheriff said, "I need to go see the Daine boys tomorrow. Would you like to ride along?"

Angela, having just taken a bite of sandwich, chewed happily and nodded, her apple cheeks shining in the lamplight.

"Rosebud is still riding well for you?"

Angela nodded again and swallowed.

"Are you still jumping her over the back fence?"

Angela giggled and nodded. "Yes, Daddy!" -- then a thought occurred to her and she looked contrite.

"Mommy told me to be careful, Daddy, and we are careful."

The Sheriff nodded and Angela saw a sudden sadness in the man's night-gentle eyes.

"She never told me not to jump it, Daddy," Angela protested, afraid that her Daddy was going to take away something she loved to do.

The Sheriff chuckled.

He knew what it was to jump a good horse, and he knew that glorious moment when horse and rider became one magical creature, riding the wind itself, and he knew Angela was growing up in the saddle, growing with her Rosebud-horse, get of his legendary red mare Cannonball, sired by Rey del Sol, a gift from the Rancho Vega y Vega down along the Rio.

"Daddy, are you gonna havit another house builded?" Angela asked, almost stuttering, the way she did when she was excited.

The Sheriff shook his head. "No, Princess, but I need to see if they can crank up and cut me some lumber. I may need it to help someone rebuild."

Angela's face grew serious, her young eyes big and round and very, very blue.

"Did a house burn down?" she asked in a small, frightened voice.

The Sheriff reached out his big, strong, callused Daddy-hand and laid it gently over Angela's soft little girl-hand.

"No, Princess. I don't know if anything happened, but after that storm I heard a friend's ranch was hit by a tornado. I might be wrong, I don't know."

Angela puzzled her brows together, tilting her head a little, curious, the way her Mama used to, he thought.

"Howcomeit you're gonna gettit the lumber if you dunno?" Angela stuttered again, and the Sheriff tightened his hand very gently on his daughter's, barely enough to be felt, but warm, reassuring, the way a Daddy-hand should be.

"I'm going to ask them if they can cut the amount I have in mind. I won't ask them to cut it, just ask if they can, and how long will it take."

"Oh." Angela blinked, then nodded, satisfied, the way a child is satisfied with a parent's explanation, the subject is taken care of and closed, and she looked down at what was left of her pie.

Father and daughter each picked up their fork and finished cleaning their respective plates.

[Calico Mary]

For years after that storm the only time I could remember what happened during it was in my nightmares. The aftermath was difficult enough to deal with while awake. For the second time a man had given his life to protect me, and I took Finn’s death hard. He’d done a good job though, I hardly had a scratch on me, and Velvet only had a few. All the women and children were fine, Cheyenne and Morning Star had seen to that, but there were other injuries to some of the men caught in the barns though fortunately the only fatality was Finn. Velvet had gone to find Junior and break the news of his father’s death to him, while I went to help Morning Star and Ella tend to the other men. Cheyenne stayed with Finn, even after Junior came running, and I left the two of them be. I had no idea what to say to either one of them, and I didn’t want to interfere with their grieving.

 

I was busy enough for the next couple of hours that I didn’t really have time to think about it much, and that may have been a blessing. Ella and I had to take off our petticoats and rip them up to use as bandages for the men’s wounds, the first aid supplies that Morning Star had kept in the house were long gone. Buick was among the injured, he had a few nasty gashes, but he refused to let us look at them until all the other men were treated. While he was waiting, he and Danny did a quick walk around to see the extent of the damage, and when they came back there were tears in both men’s eyes. I didn’t blame them, all I’d done was take a quick glance around while heading to help Morning Star but even that was enough to tell that there wasn’t a single building without at least some damage. The main house and bunkhouse were both gone, and Danny’s little cabin had collapsed except for the chimney and part of one wall. A few of the other married hands had separate cabins as well, and all of those were missing windows and a couple were missing parts of the roofs, thankfully those cabins were a farther away and hadn’t been hit directly.

 

“We’ll fix the cabins over there first, won’t take so long to do and then the women and youngsters will have shelter,” Buick told us. “Then we’ll need to rig temporary corrals for as many of the horses we can catch, rebuilding the barns is going to take a while. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid our house is going to have to wait…” he finished, turning to Morning Star. Remember, I grew up living in a tipi, I don’t need a big house anyway,” she told him, moving to put her arms around him and comfort him as best she could. “Now, let me look at those cuts!” Buick tried to object, insisting that there was too much work to be done, but Danny just laughed. “Let he do what she needs to do first, boss…otherwise you’ll never hear the end of it and neither will I! That mess ain’t going nowhere, and the men are already starting to sift through it to find anything salvageable. Even some of the older kids are helping, you get fixed up and then we’ll see what else needs to be done.”

 

I started tearing a few more strips of petticoat to use on Buick, but Danny quickly pulled Ella aside. “I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone the wedding for a while, there’s too much work to be done and I don’t think anyone will be in the mood for a celebration any time soon…” he started to say, but Ella reached up and put her hand over his mouth to stop him. “Of course not, but don’t you worry, I’m not going anywhere,” she told him. She gave him a quick kiss, then sent him on his way to supervise the men that were starting the massive cleanup that needed to be done. “I’m going to go see what we have available in the way of food over in the dugout. It won’t be long before everyone is hungry, and although we’ll have to build a fire pit, I’ll see to it that we all have something to eat,” Ella told Morning Star, “It might help if we could spare someone to go hunting. I don’t know if they’ll be able to find any deer or anything after this storm, but no harm in trying.”

 

“Junior and I will go, we’re the only ones with horses right now, and I think it would be good for Junior to get away from here for a little while,” I heard Cheyenne say. I hadn’t even noticed him walking over to us, but I agreed that it was a good idea. I could tell from the look in his eyes that he needed to be alone as well, and if anyone could find any game it was him. Buick nodded, but then told him, “While you’re gone I’m going to send someone over to Barrett’s place, see how much damage they got. If their house is still standing, I’m sure they’ll let you and your family stay there for a spell….” But Cheyenne just shook his head, “No, send your kids and a few of the women over there if you want, but we’ll be fine here for tonight. We’ll be leaving as soon as we can tomorrow.”

 

That shocked me a little, as our friends needed all the help they could get, and I didn’t want to abandon them. How could he even think of leaving them now, and why? Before I could reply, Sheriff Gibson came riding up, and it was obvious he had heard what Cheyenne had said. “Not on the train you won’t, the tracks are destroyed a couple miles north of town, it will be awhile before they can run anything on them again. Telegraph is down for quite a ways too. Only way you’re getting to Denver right now is by wagon, though if you really want I’ll do what I can to arrange for someone to take you all up there. MacKane, I hate to tell you this, but so far of all the places I’ve checked you seem to have suffered the worst of it. I can ride back to town and see about getting as many folks as possible to come help you out, and bring you some supplies as well. Anybody hurt? I can send the doctor out as well if you need him.”

 

Morning Star let him know that she’d already tended to the wounded, then Cheyenne spoke up. “Do you have an undertaker that knows anything about embalming?” he asked the sheriff. Gibson nodded, saying, “I’m sorry for your loss, but who…?” Cheyenne closed his eyes really tight, then muttered “My uncle, that’s why we need to leave as soon as possible. Junior wants his father buried in Virginia, so it’s going to be necessary to have Finn embalmed. And I don’t think taking the time to ride to Denver by wagon is a good idea, what shape are the tracks in south of town? As long as our private cars weren’t damaged, there has to be a way we could head south a little then find a place to turn and go east.” Sheriff Gibson promised to have someone bring a map of the railroad lines south of town, so we could find the best route to take that would eventually get us back East.

 

So that’s why he was in a hurry to leave…not that he wasn’t willing to stay and help, but that Junior wanted his father laid to rest in Virginia. I couldn’t very well say no to that, but it did remind me of one thing. Excusing myself, I went to check on my parents’ graves. Although a lot of tree branches and leaves now covered them, I was glad to see that the crosses that Cheyenne had placed there a couple years earlier still stood in place. Falling to my knees in the mud, I finally was able to let my own tears at the loss of my husband’s uncle start flowing.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Church was a central hub of Firelands life.

Everyone converged on Sunday, not just to hear the Parson, but to visit with one another, to catch up on news, gossip, events, to see faces they'd not seen for some time.

It was also a good chance to air grievances.

Bonnie Rosenthal, nee McKenna, did just that.

Bonnie and the Sheriff had known one another literally since the day the Sheriff arrived -- before he was Sheriff, while he was just a migrating ex-lawman riding a plow horse -- there was a wonderful freedom between them, or at least Bonnie felt a wonderful freedom to express herself to the Sheriff.

Today was no exception.

She waited patiently while the Sheriff -- who was also owner and head big chief of the Z&W Railroad -- received reports from the returning crews that the railroad was open again, that the Z&W provided invaluable assistance to repairing the neighboring railroad's multiple washouts, telegraph poles reset, lines re-strung, that the railroad was once more in operation and better than they'd been before the storm damage.

She swung directly in front of the man, her knuckles on her hips, one eyebrow a little higher than the other, a posture the Sheriff knew meant she was about to speak her mind and she frankly didn't give a good grin where the chips fell.

"Bonnie," the Sheriff said deferentially, touching his hat brim.

"Don't you 'Bonnie' me, Linn Keller," Bonnie said, her words clipped, her lips thin and disapproving. "Just how long did you plan not to ask me?"

The Sheriff frowned a little, turning his head slightly as he did.

"Don't you give me those puppy-dog eyes," Bonnie snapped. "You know good and well those poor people lost all they had, and you didn't even think they might need clothes?"

The Sheriff opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, realizing that she was right.

"I've got half a dozen top seamstresses ready to go. Right now. We've got machines packed up, we've got cloth, we're ready to set up shop in a tent, a shed, wherever there's room." She poked the Sheriff's chest with a stiff finger. "Remember?" *poke* -- "We're" *poke* "supposed" *poke* to clothe *poke* our, fellow, man! -- poke, poke, poke!

"And wha' d'ye think they'll be eatin'?" Daisy shoved her way through the gathering, grinning gathering, shouldering up against Bonnie, her Irish-green eyes snapping. "Those poor folk lost house an' home, they lost cook stoves an' their cupboards, an' ye're standin' here well fed an' tappin' yer foot! For shame!"

The Sheriff raised his palms toward them. "Ladies --"

"Now don't you ladies us!" Daisy snapped. "Ye recall when they had th' mine explosion o'er i' Cripple, we set up th' kitchen an' we fed all comers! Tha' was a grand project an' we did i' easily! Ye great silly sod, d'ye no' think we can feed a few ranch hands?"

The Sheriff looked over their heads at a half dozen sets of amused, Kentucky-blue eyes, belonging to long, tall, skinny Kentucky moonshiners and carpenters, amused at the sight of the Sheriff's public discomfiture.

He looked around, considering.

"Folks, until I get confirmation from them that something actually happened --"

"It happened," Jackson Cooper growled from the edge of the group.

The Sheriff looked at his old friend, the town Marshal, a man he'd known from back East, when he was town Marshal shortly after that damned War.

"It happened. Damn neart nothing stands. One man dead, several hurt. It's been a week now since it hit."

The Sheriff nodded, his jaw thrusting out.

"I'll set up a special. Bonnie, we'll take you up on your kindness and thank you for it. Daisy, you've got the kitchen, let me know what help you'll need." He looked at Albert Daine and received a slow nod: the Daine boys were ready.

"How soon can you be ready to go?"

 

The shining, polished Baldwin engine hissed a thick finger of pure-white steam into the cold morning air, followed by the shivering scream of a turned-brass Lima steam whistle.

Precisely at the stroke of seven-thirty-five, the engineer opened the sanders, leaned on the Johnson bar, and the engine shouldered into her load.

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

The pain I was feeling over the loss of Finn, and then having to tell Jr. and watching the suffering that whelmed up within him was almost to much for me to bear. My mind went into full throttle trying to squelch the aches that my heart was feeling. I had to take care of business, that's all I could think of, at least with Finn around I didn't have to face the fact that I was the oldest of my family and the weight that followed with it. Damn it, why did he have to die!

 

At least now I was thankful that Jr had shown up when he did, at least he and Finn had finally buried the hatchet, sometimes almost literally.

 

Virginia? Lordy, how was I going to pull that off? Even finding a mortician after the storm wouldn't be easy.

 

I caught a glimpse of Calico pulling branches off of her family's graves and then my heart was nearly torn out of my chest as she fell to her knees and before I could get to her I could hear the sobbing coming from deep within her soul.

 

I fell to my knees beside her and wrapped her into my arms feeling her very being sob and her heart beating so loudly I wasn't sure she would hear me tell her how much I loved her.

 

We were only brought back to the present by little hands and voices making their ways into our pain and finally breaking the hold it had held on us.

Their little hearts and the wisdom of their words melted Calico and I so that we could deal with the matters at hand again. "Daddy, Mommy, you still have us, we won't leave you..." the rest of their words were lost as Calico and I held them and enjoyed their little kisses as they did their best to make mommy and daddy feel better.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

The dirt-polished sides of the good Ames steel post hole digger gleamed as it barely came to surface, then drove back into the hole with a solid THUNK.

Three more cuts and the handles were drawn apart, lifting out the payload of barely damp dirt.

Ten holes he'd dug so far, and ten more to go, for this one side of the corral: their first construction of cross-tied poles with more poles for horizontals, held for a time, but only because their horses chose to recognize these as boundaries.

Cabins, shelters, tents, lean-tos, even a brush hogan were assembled for hasty shelter, and an amazing amount of work for a week, cannibalizing timber and boards from the ruined structures; the boys scoured the countryside, triumphantly packing back planks, especially planks with nails, precious nails, sticking out of them, nails that would be carefully tapped free and straightened and re-used.

Cheyenne was not a stranger to hard work, so it was not surprising that it was his gloved hands on the work-smoothed handles of the post hole digger when a voice called, "Cheyenne, are we expectin' comp'ny?"

Cheyenne set the diggers down easy into the hole, squinting, then he wiped a bright, if somewhat sweat-soiled bandanna across his face and looked again.

A couple hundred yards distant, Calico looked up from where the women were patching the precious cloth that was recovered from the wind-scattered territories, making or repairing what clothing was left after the storm.

Calico looked up, drawing a bent wrist across her forehead, blinking in surprise at the approach.

Mouth open, she looked across the intervening distance to her husband, then back.

 

The first four wagons were flat bed freighters, boomed down with timbers, good saw-cut lumber, squared and trued up with an expert's hand, enough of a load the four-horse hitch labored to haul them up the grade after the only decent creek crossing.

One, then another of the Golden Aspen crew stopped and stared: work ground to a halt at the sight of wagons, mules, big furry-footed draft horses, all heavily loaded and all obviously headed for the scene of what had been home, and then destruction.

Cheyenne strode toward the lead wagon, looking up at the tanned, line-faced teamster.

The teamster spit a brown stream, shifted his quid.

"You Culpepper?"

Cheyenne nodded, wary: he'd not ordered any supplies, he'd not authorized any purchase.

The teamster reached down between his dusty boots, opened a wooden box, brought out a rolled up sheet tied with a ribbon, tossed it down.

Cheyenne slipped the ribbon off, unrolled the paper, read it, read it again.

"Paid in full?"

"Yep. Now where you want this first load? We got plenty more a-comin'!"

 

There were carpenters and stonecutters, general laborers and seamstresses; a half-built cabin was commandeered, its doorway widened, a stove moved in and a chimney pipe set up, under the watchful eye and sharp tongue of a red-headed little ball of Irish fire: the woman carried a long handled wooden spoon like a scepter, she gave orders like a foreman and on occasion swore like a sailor, but under her command a kitchen was set up, a kitchen that occupied what had been intended as a family's residence, and when a boy came in range she seized him by the back of the shirt, thrust a bucket into his astonished grip and commanded that he fetch her water, and keep it coming until she said stop!

Word and understanding traveled with an equal swiftness, wood for the brand-new cook stove piled itself as if by magic within and without the new kitchen: supplies were offloaded, organized, and with two loyal adjutants, Daisy set up a field kitchen with the swift efficiency and organization of her kitchen in the Silver Jewel Saloon.

The first meal, laid out on tables made of planks on knocked-together sawhorses, bore bread and cold meats, cold beans and pies -- Daisy brought plenty, for she knew how working men ate, and she knew working men who'd likely not eaten well would need to catch up the hole in their middle, but even her generous provender was strained by the collective appetite.

The smell of baking bread and frying bacon filled the air.

Daisy did not hesitate to draft more than the one boy for purposes of feeding the hungry: the ladies came by and were immediately seized into orbit around this vigorous little Irish sun, blazing with energy and directing her troops with the skill of a field-marshal: given purpose, the ladies, almost shellshocked by the enormity of destruction they'd survived, suddenly had a clear direction and a defined purpose, over and above simply surviving the day.

Cheyenne was not at all sure how many there were, just that there were more than he could keep track of easily: he looked over toward one barn, half-built, a protest coming to his lips as he saw long, lean Kentucky moonshiners knocking apart the logs he and his men so painstakingly put together not two days before.

"Cheyenne?"

Cheyenne turned and found a firm hand clasping his own, a set of light-blue eyes shining over an iron-grey mustache.

"I missed your birthday last year," the Sheriff said, grinning. "Why don't you take this for your birthday present."

A ceramic cup of steaming-hot coffee was pressed into his hand and he opened his mouth to protest, and Daisy neatly stuffed a sweet-roll-and-beef sandwich between the man's teeth.

Cheyenne's eyes widened with surprise, his free hand coming up reflexively to grab the sandwich, and Daisy frowned and patted the man's lean middle.

"Jaysus, Joseph an' Mary," she declared, "ye need a guid square meal! Ye'd not throw a decent shadow i' the noonday sun! Supper's in an hour an' don't ye be late! Ye puir underfed mon" -- she shook her head, muttering her way back to the kitchen, and Cheyenne took a noisy swig of coffee to wash down that first mouthful of sandwich.

"That's Daisy," the Sheriff chuckled. "She ain't always that shy and bashful."

Cheyenne grunted and took another bite of sandwich, thinking to himself that it tasted really, really good.

"We'll need a council of war," the Sheriff said quietly, "to lay out what buildings go where and how you want them built. I've got Italian stonecutters on the way, we can set good stone foundations. We'll need a source of stone and that's where you come in. You know your ranch and we don't. The Daine boys, yonder, are busy with that barn. They don't like the way it's laid on the south wall. Once they're done it'll be like fiddle music, here to stay."
A high-sided freight wagon rumbled past, drew to a halt, half a dozen sweating, swearing men hauling down the tail gate and forming a human chain to off load its cargo.

Cheyenne finished his sandwich and washed down the last of it with the last of his coffee.

Clearing his throat, he thrust out his hand again.

"Howdy," was all he could think to say.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"Bad business, bad business," Digger murmured dolefully, shaking his balding head, his silk topper in hand: the sallow-skinned undertaker regarded the still form, newly exhumed from the temporary grave.

"We want him embalmed, and returned to Virginia."

"Of course, of course," Digger nodded, his voice oily: "we can embalm him using the very latest scientific --"

He looked up, hesitated as the Sheriff regarded him with pale, unblinking eyes.

Digger hesitated, cleared his throat and tried again.

"Yes, of course," he said smoothly, his voice professionally unctuous: "Virginia, yes, we can do that."

"How much will it run us?" one of the hands asked, to the glares of several present: Digger, however, looked thoughtfully into the distance, began adding figures in his head.

"Preparation, embalming, a proper casket, the very latest in --"

He blinked and realized he was about a foot from the pale-eyed, lean-waisted Sheriff, and the Sheriff's eyes were trained on him like a pair of ice cannon.

The fact that the Sheriff's hat was in his hands did not lessen the intensity of his glare.

"He, I, ahm, that is," Digger stammered, "the Sheriff already graciously, um, it's paid for." He shuffled back a step, then to the side, and almost comically scrambled around the rough box and the still form it contained.

"Pete, Sam, George and Jim," the Sheriff said quietly. "Let's put Finn in the coach."

Six bare-headed men hoisted the box to shoulder height and carried it slowly, respectfully, to the waiting wagon, mindful that family, their hats in their hands, kerchiefs pressed to most of the womens' eyes, were nearby and watching closely: the Sheriff took a quilt he'd brought for the purpose, snapped it briskly, let it settle over the loaded box.

Digger tried to slink unseen into the wagon's seat, got one leg up to step in, when the Sheriff's quiet voice froze him like a fly on a pane.

"Digger."

Digger swallowed, eased himself back down.

"We'll need a double marker."

"A marker, yes, of course, Sheriff, yes, a double marker. For the Virginia interment, I presume?"

"No. That will require marble, and the family will provide you with the correct spelling, wording and dates."

"Marble, of course, and will that be a single or a double marker?"

"The double marker is for here."

"For here," Digger repeated, puzzled. "I understood there was but the one deceased?"

"We have two graves, marked by simple crosses. I want a proper marker for them."

"Of course, of course," Digger murmured. "And the type of marker?"

"White bronze."

"Wh -- wh -- white bronze?" Digger stammered, seeing his fee dwindle and trickle away between the rocks. White bronze -- cast zinc -- was less expensive than marble, and the undertaker got a kickback from a marble stone.

Not the cast zinc.

"White bronze. It lasts."

"White bronze," Digger nodded, resignation in his voice.

"You will need to set it properly and I want a good broad solid foundation."

"Of course, Sheriff, of course. You can count on me."

"Digger."

The Sheriff laid a callused hand on the cadaverous little man's shoulder.

"Digger, you do first rate work and your rates are not outrageous. I understand a man has to make money where he can and how he can. You are a businessman and the business of business is profit." He squeezed the man's black-coated shoulder gently. "Do not fear. You will be paid."

Digger blinked, surprised. "Of course, Sheriff. Of course."

"The return train will be at the crossing in fifteen minutes. You've just time to make it. Take a few men, many hands make light work."

"Of course, Sheriff."

"On your way, then. Pete, Sam, George, Jim, could you see Digger to the train, please, and see him safely loaded, then return here with the wagon?"

The four nodded assent and piled in the wagon, squatting or sitting beside the quilt-draped box.

The Sheriff closed his eyes at the sound of a woman's choked-off sob, remembering a dark moment when he stood beside another box, a box that contained the still remains of someone he'd loved deeply, more than he'd loved anyone before.

Digger flipped the reins, clucked to the gelding; harness bells jingled and the wagon rumbled around the turn and down the curving grade.

The Sheriff opened his eyes, looked around.

Parson Belden stepped up to Cheyenne and Calico, his words quiet: the Sheriff could not hear them, but he knew what the man was saying.

He was quite probably saying the same words he'd spoken to the Sheriff when the Sheriff stood, lost and more alone than he'd ever been, watching Digger's wagon rattle away, carrying the remains of what had been his wife.

Too many memories, he thought, turning away and walking blindly toward one of the unfinished cabins, taken over by a contingent of Firelands femininity for some purpose. At the moment he didn't care what their purpose was, he didn't want to see anyone, he didn't want to talk to anyone, he just wanted to be alone.

He wiped savagely at his eyes with his silk kerchief, suddenly angry as he realized it was a kerchief Esther embroidered for him as she sat, great with child, less than a week before she went into labor, a week before their child drew her first breath and Esther, her last.

A little girl's voice reached through the darkness he was spinning around his soul.

"Sheriff?" Opal asked, and he stopped, confused, then opened his eyes.

Bonnie's daughter looked at him, shining black hair straight as a die, the epicanthic fold of her birth-mother making her look slant eyed, a surprising thing in her Caucasian-fair complexion.

The Sheriff stopped, clearing his throat; he didn't trust his voice.

"Sheriff, we're making clothes," Opal said a little uncertainly: she wasn't sure why the Sheriff was behind the sewing cabin, rather than in its front, where the doorway was. "Do you need some?"

The Sheriff saw Opal with a curious duality.

Like his little Angela, she wasn't little anymore: she was growing and growing fast, and likely she was fixing meals and making clothes, like any child of her nine years.

"Opal," he said gently, "I am sorry." He squatted, took her soft hand in both of his. "My mind was somewhere else, and I'm afraid I was kind of wandering."

Opal giggled, coloring at the attention of the strong older man her mother thought so much of.

"How is your progress in clothing the naked?"

Opal blinked and looked a little uncertain.

"Nobody has been naked today, Sheriff," she said slowly. "Nobody took off their long handles."

"Good."

"Mama said we can get perfectly good measurements over a Union suit."

The Sheriff nodded. "Sounds reasonable."

"Mama had me making the trousers. They're easier."

The Sheriff considered the few attempts he'd made at manufacturing a set of drawers: the results were so pitiful he broke down and bought drawers at the general store.

He'd been a junior officer in the Ohio Volunteer Cavalry and he didn't have to nickles to rub together but somehow he managed to purchase his pants, and grateful he was that someone, anyone, could sew decently.

"Mama said we should have everyone clothed by tomorrow noon, and a second set of everything for everyone by noon the next day."

The Sheriff patted her hand gently. "I am impressed," he said honestly. "It is not an easy task to sew that much."

Opal giggled, then leaned forward, cupping her hand like a little girl to whisper breathily into the Sheriff's ear.

"It's easier with a treadle machine, Sheriff." She drew back and nodded, then giggled again and ran awkwardly around the end of the cabin.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Bonnie McKenna delicately fed material into the machine: cloth went in, a perfect seam came out: a bolt of brown cloth, under her practiced hands, became a dress, a second dress, several dresses, each one tailored to fit a different member of the Golden Aspen: each of the women, each of the girls, were measured, consulted, then fitted, not only with the everyday dresses common to the era, but also McKenna gowns of the very latest fashion: the younger girls were given exemplars -- French-made dolls with a china head, wearing a miniature of the latest Parisian fashion, carefully saved and stored. These dolls were the easiest way for the Paris fashion-houses to disseminate their designs to the rest of the world, and through a deal with other railroads, the Z&W arranged for express shipment of these exemplars, from the moment they arrived in New York's dockyards. The arrangement was efficient enough that the House of McKenna had their fashions market-ready before the San Francisco shops even saw the first doll.

In spite of having four treadle machines and experienced women to run them, there was a certain amount of hand work that went into sewing.

Bonnie had survived more grief and loss than any one woman should have to, in one lifetime; she knew what it was to have nothing, she knew what it was to have, and then lose -- both a ranch, and a husband.

When the Sheriff decked the dirty cheat that owned the Silver Jewel (and the working girls upstairs) and drug him off to the calabozo, he waited about one hour before dragging a small table back to the scoundrel's cell: he'd driven in two knives, dropped a bag of gold coin between them, and told Dirty Sam that he had two choices: take the gold, or take a knife and only one of them would walk away.

The Sheriff's action was not entirely legal.

As a matter of fact it wasn't remotely legal, but when he found out Sam's dirty deals, his collaboration with the crooked banker and the crooked lawyer, the Sheriff decided it was time to clean house.

Dirty Sam took the coin, the Sheriff was the new owner of the Silver Jewel Saloon, the soiled doves upstairs were suddenly no longer chattel and property, and one of them was Bonnie McKenna.

Bonnie knew the value of getting back on her feet and making something of her self; she knew the ladies of the Golden Aspen would benefit from activity that helped build the ranch again.

Part of this, she knew, could be gotten by being drafted into the House of McKenna's production.

Her words were gentle, her approach indirect, but not so Daisy: Daisy Fitzgerald, the red-headed Irishwoman, married to the red-headed Irish fire chief back in Firelands, would take a woman, a girl, by the arm, bring her firmly into her orbit: she would assign her a task with brisk and accented words, and though Daisy could be a scold, though she could flay the hide from a man's back with the honed edge of her tongue, she also had a touch, a look, a quietness when she spoke privately, and in that moment it was just Daisy and her startling green eyes and whoever she was speaking with.

Thus were the naked clothed, and thus were the hungry fed: woodsmoke and the smell of baking bread, frying bacon, meat and gravy and stew, saturate the doorless kitchen: pies came from Daisy's stoves and settled on one table, with one lady assigned to guard it, and given a long-handled wooden spoon to crack the knuckles of any, young or old, who dared reach for any of these cooling delectables.

The cooled pies, those ready to be cut and slabbed onto a plate with a well-earned meal, were on another table, and it was Daisy herself who determined when the pies were ready to make the brief journey from one rough-lumber plank table, to another.

The Daine boys erected another building, a little apart from the others: specialized equipment was brought in -- an acetylene-flame, carbide-powered light with a big focusing reflector, a military field autoclave to sterilize instruments, a spirit-fired stove.

Bunks and other furniture were made, quickly, efficiently, and a supply of carefully-folded sheets, sheets folded into long rectangles, long as a man's forearm and as big around, neatly stacked in a wall-hung cupboard; not far away, a laundry was set up.

The Golden Aspen Ranch now had its field kitchen, its field hospital, it had a complete tailoring facility, and as select stones were brought in from a back field, the barns, the cabins, the ranch house itself, all started to take shape.

The corral was in operation -- generous in size, solid in construction, and with an actual swinging gate and latch.

The Sheriff sat a little apart, his backside parked on an upturned nail keg: he slouched forward, his hat shoved back, one elbow on one knee, chin and mouth in his curled hand: he frowned a little, watching the activity, and at one point he nodded a little, as if satisfied with what he saw.

His eyes were darker now, the shade they took when he was pleased with a thing: it was something few people saw.

His thoughts were almost like a voice, almost like someone else's voice.

Why are you doing this?

He smiled at the question, his smile hidden by his hand.

This is costing you a young fortune, old son.

He chuckled: I know, he thought in reply.

Another voice, in his thoughts, his father's practical voice.

Where is the profit? it asked. Where is the benefit?

The Sheriff considered the question carefully.

Where is the profit? he asked himself.

He looked across the way, toward the ranch house.

Calico was standing with Cheyenne, her hand on his arm: she was looking with shining eyes at the ranch house, or what would be their ranch house: timbers were stacked, men had chalklines and stakes, engineer's tapes and shovels; at one corner, a man peered through a surveyor's transit, raised a hand in signal, and the Italian stonecutters swung the first foundation stone in place, there in the northeast corner.

The Sheriff knew there was a Masonic square-and-compasses cut in one face of the first foundation stone.

He knew this because these same operative masons prepared the ashlar that was the first foundation stone of his own fine house, and it too bore the Square and Compasses, the same insignia he had incised on the yellowing ivory handles of his twin Colts.

The Sheriff saw Calico's upturned face, and how it shone with delight: hers was the expression of a woman realizing that everything was going to work out, and the realization was just sinking in, and she was ready to bust for the delight of it.

He looked at Cheyenne and he saw a man with quiet eyes and strong hands, a man of integrity, dignity and character, a man who'd seen his own share of grief and loss and come through it, tempered in the fires of adversity as metal is tried in the forge.

He looked at Calico's expression and he closed his eyes, viciously forbidding his tears as he remembered how his own wife, his dear green-eyed Esther, had looked at him the same way.

He took a long breath and realized he had his answer.

I'm not doing this for me, he thought, then opened his eyes and looked at Cheyenne and Calico.

I'm doing this for them.

I'll never have Esther on my arm again.

I'll never make another memory with her.

Cheyenne still has Calico.

He can.

[Calico Mary]

Having Cheyenne and the kids come to my parents’ graves was comforting, but only up to a point. The hardest part of this ordeal was still to come, I would still have to face Junior. I knew that he was most likely devastated by his father’s death, how much he would blame me for it was anyone’s guess. As much as I wanted to go tell him how sorry I was, there was something else that needed to be done first. Buick and Morning Star had just lost everything they owned, and they needed to know that we would do everything possible to help them through this.

 

We walked back towards where the ranch house had stood to find all the Golden Aspen folks gathered around Buick and Danny. They were discussing all that needed to be done immediately to get the ranch through the first few days, obviously it would take a long time to completely rebuild, but there were more pressing needs to be taken care of first. I noticed Morning Star sitting nearby surrounded by the other ranch women, tears streaming down most of their faces, so I headed straight for my best friend to offer what sympathy I could. Cheyenne joined Buick and Danny, and I heard Buick tell him, “The horses are my first concern, some of them have already come back but there’s still quite a few missing. If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you could give Danny a hand with trying to round up as many as possible. Don’t really know where we’re going to put them for now, but we’ll come up with something.”

 

Cheyenne quickly agreed, and Eddie and Ike volunteered to help with that as well. I knew Biblepuncher wanted to help as well, but for now the Golden Aspen residents needed his assistance in dealing with the emotional effects of the tragedy far more than Danny did with the missing stock. After the men and women had moved off to take care of the chores assigned to them, Buick and Cheyenne came over to me and Morning Star, and I realized Buick was as upset as his wife, even though he was trying not to show it. “Remember when we first got here from Kansas….there was nothing left of my family’s homestead except the dugout,” I reminded them. “We had to start from scratch then, but we managed to build one heck of a ranch, and we can do it again! We need to head for Virginia at some point, but not until we’re sure you all will be alright.”

 

After giving me a huge hug, Buick thanked us for being willing to help out, then he and Cheyenne left to go with the other men that were looking for the horses. Morning Star went to oversee the women that were taking inventory of the supplies that were stored in the dugout, for now those supplies were all that would be available to feed the ranch until more could be brought in from Hugo Springs. I was going to help with that, but then Velvet came over and stopped me. “Junior wants to talk to you, if you don’t mind,” she told me. I was a little hesitant to do so, but knew I needed to sooner or later, might as well get it over with.

 

Velvet told me that Junior was waiting for me out by what was left of the barn where his father had died. As I headed that direction, Cora walked over to meet me, with Mathew in her arms. “I don’t know what to do, Calico,” she said, “he just keeps asking for his uncle, and I don’t know what to tell him.” Well, I didn’t know what to tell him either…my son wasn’t even quite a year and a half old, how do you explain death to a child that young? I held out my arms, and he came to me readily enough, but I almost started crying again when he asked me, “Where Uncle Finn, want Uncle Finn!” All I could do was hug him to me, and whisper to him that I loved him, but he couldn’t see his uncle right now. Cora went back to help Kate with the youngest of the children, and I took Mathew with me to find Junior.

 

As we approached, Junior didn’t even look up. He was sitting on the ground not far from the remains of the barn, and I sat down next to him, with Mathew in my lap. I didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent, but Mathew started wiggling to be let go. The boy got up then went over and plopped himself in Junior’s lap, and I was glad to see Junior didn’t seem to mind, in fact he gave the boy a big hug which seemed to please the child. It was a few minutes before Junior finally turned to me and started talking. “Just wanted you to know, I don’t blame you, it wasn’t your fault. Told Velvet the same thing. I just don’t know what I’m going to do now, I have to see to it that my father is laid to rest back in Virginia, that’s where he belongs, but after that I just don’t know….I had intended to ask Velvet to marry me once we got back there, but now….maybe that’s not such a good idea, when I can’t even offer her any kind of a future.”

 

I waited a few moments to see if he was going to continue, but he didn’t. Finally I spoke up, “Cheyenne and I intend to help you with Finn, but we can’t leave just yet, the MacKanes need our help as well. We will see this through though, and don’t be too sure Velvet won’t say yes if you ask her. And as for your future, well, you do have one. You’ve changed quite a bit in the last few months, and you’re turning into a decent enough worker. If you want to return to the Culpepper Ranch with us when we go you are more than welcome, or if not I’m sure Buick can find a place for you here. It’s going to take a lot of work to get this place back to the way it was, I’m sure Buick and Morning Star would appreciate an extra set of hands. But you don’t have to make up your mind just yet, think about it for a while and just let us know when you come to a decision.”

 

Junior nodded, then asked me if Mathew could stay with him for a while. If my son could offer Junior some comfort, I was more than agreeable, if the child proved to be too much for him to handle he could always take Mathew back to Kate and Cora. Walking away, I glanced back over my shoulder at the two of them, Mathew had started laughing at something and I saw the faintest hint of a smile creep over Junior’s face. There was hope for him yet, maybe his father’s sacrifice would be the inspiration Junior needed to finally get his own life straightened out. For his sake I sure hoped so, but for now there was work to be done….

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

We hadn't gotten away from the ranch when we saw a wagon train heading for the ranch. It looked like a whole town was heading for the Golden Aspen. I met Sheriff Keller, who was leading the way and welcomed him to the ranch. To my surprise the sheriff thought the Golden Aspen was mine and Calico's. We tried to tell him but it got lost in the confusion.

 

We continued on, after greeting Linn, in search of any livestock that we could locate. We didn't have to go far before we starting spotting strays, both horses and a few cattle. They were all more than a little skittish, so we had to take our time with them and it was nearly dark before we returned to the ranch. We could smell the aroma of hot meals well downwind from the ranch and without much thought we almost stampeded our retrieved livestock through the ranch.

 

The whole scene reminded me of our first days there after we had arrived from Kansas. Few buildings and pretty stark, except now it was a beehive of activity. The wagons hauling the lumber to rebuild the barns and house was neatly stacked near the building it was to be used to build and a new corral was already built.

 

We drove the livestock into the corral as Buick stood by the gate with a smile form ear to ear. I slid off of White as Snow and Morning Star beat Calico to me with one of her strong hugs. I was afraid that Calico was going to clock me a good one until I saw her wink at me.

 

Next were the women from town, with plates of all sorts of fixuns, they led all the ranch hands to several tables that had been built and told us in no uncertain terms that we were to sit and eat, and eat we did. We didn't even have to care for all the children as the ladies took care of feeding them as well. I looked around as I ate and was amazed at the progress that had been made while we had been rounding up the livestock.

 

Calico, sitting next to me of course, nudged me and asked, "Where in the world did all these folks come from? And how did they know we needed them?" Buick raised his eyebrows as if the ask the same thing.

 

"A little settlement along the tracks west of here, known as the Firelands. It's a small tight knit group from the east. Their grandparents were burnt out of Massachusetts by the British, that's why they called it Firelands. The Sheriff's father served with my father during the war and apparently kept track of me, even if he was several years behind."

 

That was all I was prepared, or wanted to take the time to say because a fresh apple cobbler was set in front of us and with the promise of more to come.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I made the list.

It was not a short one.

The Daine boys had particular instructions for their brethren back up on the mountain, they were quite clear on how much timber the needed sawed, what kind, what lengths, widths, thicknesses: they needed pegs, braces, they needed forgin' arn -- metal from which they could craft what they needed, on-site.

One thing about an anvil, about a forge, it generally don't blow away, even in as mean a storm as had come through here.

Daisy, too, had her needfuls.

I took careful note of her words, poured into my ears with her rapid Irish-accented voice and funneling them out the Barlow-whittled pencil onto good rag paper.

Bonnie, bless her, simply handed me her list; already written out in her even, feminine hand, she gave me a long look, that violet-eyed look of hers when she took a long gander right into the depths of my soul.

She handed me the list, but bless her heart, she didn't say a word.

The notion was on me that I should leave, and leave I did -- quietly, walking Cannonball away from the firelight, away from laughter and fiddle music, away from the Daine boys with two fiddles and a five string, double-strung banjo, away from Kentucky accents calling up a square dance.

I knew the mountain paths, the high trails, I knew the fastest way back to Firelands -- it wasn't the easiest, but it was the fastest, and if a horse was not mountain raised it would weary and if pushed, would drop from fatigue, from the thin air.

I did not push Cannonball.

She was mountain bred and mountain raised and she was considerable tougher than me, but I did not push her.

It took us until after moonset and most of the way to dawn before we slipped the woods from around us like a man slips out of a cloak.

I rode to my solid built house, my good log home, and I rubbed my eyes and blinked, for I'd weakened again.

For a moment, for just a moment, I thought I saw a woman on the porch.

I thought I saw my Esther, but when I looked again, the porch was empty.

I rubbed Cannonball down and grained her and got her settled in, I hung up saddle and rose-engraved bridle and the saddle blanket, I looked out the crack in the barn doors before pushing them open just a little and looking again.

I slid out, shut and latched the doors behind me, then with rifle in hand walked the short distance to the house and the big empty bed that would never, ever be warm again.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"Hello, Daddy."

Now I am not a man to startle easy, but I sure as Creation's Dawn jumped when Angela spoke.

I was three foot from setting foot on my front steps when she spoke and I reckon I started, for she giggled and said "I'm sorry, Daddy," and I stopped, one boot on the step, and I shook my head and I laughed, quiet-like, for it was full dark and late and I didn't want to rouse the household.

I hadn't seen a ghost earlier, I'd seen my daughter, standing dead still in the deep shadow.

Dana stepped out from behind Angela's night dress, rubbing her eyes the way a sleepy little girl will.

I stifled a groan.

My girls were awake and I reckon it was my fault, coming in this late.

It was a week day and they had school tomorrow and now I'd run them short on sleep, they'd likely fall asleep and I didn't want Emma Cooper to look at me over her spectacles and --

I stopped myself.

When I get tired my imagination tends to run off with me like that.

I set one foot ahead of the other and stepped up on the porch, I parked my engraved '73 rifle in the corner and I picked up Angela and hugged her, held her for a long moment, then I set her down and picked up Dana and hugged her just as fiercely and then I set her down too.

I went to one knee, Dana's warm little hand in my left and Angela's warm little hand in my right, and I said quietly, "Now what are you two doin' up this time of night?"

"I'm hungwy," Dana complained, and Angela and I both laughed, and about then there was a flare of light from inside as the maid came padding in her carpet slippers up to the door, Aladdin lamp in hand, bearing its fiercely-white corona with her.

"I've a cold supper ready, sor," she said quietly, and I squeezed my girls' hands, gently, once, then stood and picked up my rifle.

"You two should be in bed," I almost whispered.

"I need to eat something," Dana countered. "Daisy said I'm skin and bones!"

I stopped and bent over, frowned at Dana's serious expression: I curled my finger, caressed the curve of her apple-bright cheek with the back of a bent forefinger, gently enough I fancied I felt the tiniest little fuzz on her cheek.

"You have very pretty skin and bones," I whispered. "Just like your Mama."

"Mama was bee-you-tee-ful," Dana nodded solemnly, her eyes big and dark, and I looked up at Angela.

I'd adopted her when she was orphaned in a train wreck; her family was out of Kentucky, she looked nothing at all like Esther or I -- "of course she doesna'," Sean, our big Irish fire chief laughed once, "she has no mustache!" -- I had to laugh as well, for he caught me flat footed with that one.

Angela was getting tall, she was nearly as tall as Sarah -- Angela was nine now, crowding ten, tall for her age, and Sarah was a woman grown, but not but collar bone tall on me ... dear God, how did my little girl get this big, this fast? I thought.

There was the clatter of dishes being set out, the sharper sound of tableware being set.

Dana seized my hand and pulled.

"It's ver-ry late," she said in her little-girl voice. "You need to eat, Daddy."

"Would you like to help me eat?" I asked, grinning, and Dana nodded.

I stood up straight, looked toward my study.

"Ladies, please excuse me," I said, "but there is something I must do."

There was light enough for me to find the lamp atop my desk; I scratched a Lucifer into life, touched it to the lamp and soon had my own small sun: I laid out the lists I'd made, frowned at them, did some fast mental arithmetic, nodded.

I joined my girls and the maid in the kitchen.

"Angela," I said, "I believe you have school tomorrow."

"Yes, Daddy."

I nodded. "Dana, would you like to help me tomorrow?"

Dana nodded vigorously, chewing happily on her first bite.

"Good. Angela, you're riding Rosebud to school?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Please tell me you're not jumping the fences."

Angela laughed. "Oh, Daddy," she giggled, "it's fun!"

I sighed, shaking my head in mock sorrow. "It wouldn't be so bad," I intoned in a sepulchral voice, "if you weren't better at jumping fences than I am!"

 

Next morning, Angela swung her saddlebags over Rosebud, climbed the mounting-block, shoved her polished boot into the carved doghouse stirrup and swung easily into the saddle.

I had a momentary lump in my throat.

Esther used to mount in exactly that manner,

My red Cannonball mare tossed her head, impatient: Rosebud was her foal, but grown now, and Cannonball delighted in showing her younger generation that the old red mare was just as good as she'd ever been.

I made a kissing sound and Cannonball came over beside the porch rail.

I picked up Dana, stood her on the porch rail, just like I used to do Angela.

I drew Cannonball far enough from the porch to mount, then sidled her back up against the rail.

Dana leaned over, took my shoulders, stepped onto the back of the saddle.

Cannonball shivered her hind quarters a little, the way she did when a biting fly lit on her, then her ears laid back and I heard her tail switch strongly against the side of the porch.

Angela dropped her knotted reins over her saddle horn and I did the same with mine, and Angela looked over her shoulder and gave me a wicked grin, and Dana's hands fisted up two handsful of my coat's shoulders and she shouted, "Go, Daddy!" and Angela stood up in her stirrups and leaned forward and laid her hands against the sides of Rosebud's neck and the little mare took out like someone swatted her across the backside and in three long jumps she was at a dead-out gallop and she stuck her nose straight out and her tail streamed straight back in the wind of her passing and I heard Angela's delighted scream as Rosebud launched off the little rise and soared over the whitewashed board fence and Cannonball took out right after her and the sensation was like riding a ball out of a field artillery and Dana screamed with delight, standing up behind me in the saddle, her hands locked in my coat material and her feet on the saddle skirt and Cannonball shoved her nose straight out and for a moment, for one long glorious moment, we soared through the blue heavens and if I did not know better I would have laid good money that she had a set of wings she could have snapped out and caught the wind and in that moment we were not horse and rider, we were one magical creature, we were a golden-red god, riding the wind itself, and then she touched down light and easy and Dana laughed and yelled "Faster, Daddy!" and Cannonball galloped after her get, the drumming of her steel shod hooves loud on the damp mountain grasses.

Later in the day I took the lists and placed orders and delivered the lumber list to the long and lean Kentucky moonshiners and woodcutters, I arranged for delivery of goods and supplies enough for the rebuild, and saw to my several investments, I signed withdrawal slips and paid the bills I incurred by filling the lists, and then it was time to attend the good pleasure of His Honor Judge Donald Hostetler's court.

I did good work that day, but by God! that morning there was a good time of sheer delight, and that was when my daughters and I rode in the high country dawn, and we soared over that whitewashed fence, my girls screaming for joy.

I didn't scream but I reckon I had a grin on my face as broad as two townships in Texas!

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

We ate pie until we could hardly move, along with coffee and a little corn squeezings that appeared on the table. Calico started to nuzzle me a bit, but started sneezing and hollering "whoooeee, you stink worse than a dead mouse!" It hurt my feelings a bit until she told me that we'd best visit the old water hole where she had finally said "yes" to me.

 

As soon as we had the kids covered we were gone in a flash, and as Calico zoomed past me naked as a jay bird and sight of her diving into the water almost stopped me in my tracks. I said almost! I dove into the cool water and found her before I came up for air. For a little while anyway we were able to forget the devastation around us and act like we didn't have a care in the world.

 

We realized that it was starting to get dark and returned to the ranch and the festivities were just beginning to really get going. There was a fiddler, a man with a banjo and a mouth harp getting warmed up with the music filling the air. Couples were mating up for the square dance that was forming.

 

For a few hours that evening thoughts of the tornado and Finn's death were almost all but forgotten. A lone coyote howls and an owl hoot caught my attention, I pulled Calico's hand to follow me over to the shadows. "Didn't you get enough earlier?" she asked as we neared the darkness surrounding the ranch.

 

I answered the call of a screech owl and four Cheyenne braves stepped out of the darkness carrying two large deer with them. We talked for a few seconds and I convinced them to join us at the fires. There were more than a few eyebrows raised as the braves joined everyone around the fires. I stripped down to my pants and started a Cheyenne thanksgiving dance, joined by the braves, and eventually Calico and Morning Star and all the children.

 

After with had finished with the ritual Cheyenne dance a square dance was started up again with Calico and Morning Star each grabbing a brave, which of course encouraged other women to grab to two remaining braves for the square dance.

[Calico Mary]

For a while it seemed like we would never get the ranch back up and running, then a bunch of folks showed up with wagons full of supplies, courtesy of one Sheriff Keller, an old friend of Frank Culpepper. We never did figure out exactly how he knew that the Golden Aspen needed help, and in what form, but his generosity was much appreciated. I knew Buick and Morning Star had been almost in tears when they realized how much help they now had to get their ranch rebuilt. All the visitors started pitching in almost immediately to get shelters built, food cooked, and new clothes started for all the ranches’ occupants. The rest of us took a few minutes to offer our thanks, then went right to work alongside the newcomers.

 

By the end of the first day of work, quite a bit of progress had already been made. A kitchen building was up and running, and all the married hands’ cabins had been repaired. There was a frame already up for a new bunkhouse for the single hands, and one new corral already stood with a second close to completion. The barns had received some repairs as well, though they were far from finished. Buick and Morning Star insisted that a new house for them and their children needed to be left for last, they wanted their stock and their employees taken care of first. The sheriff had even made arrangements with an undertaker to prepare Finn’s body for transport back to Virginia. I was extremely grateful when Keller even insisted on providing a more permanent marker for my parents’ graves.

 

After a wonderful dinner was served, Cheyenne and I managed to sneak away for a little while to cool off at our old familiar waterhole, then returned to the ranch in time for the celebration that was just getting underway around a big bonfire. Pretty soon Cheyenne pulled me away into the shadows, and we were joined by several braves we knew were friends of Running Bear. They had brought us a gift of two deer, and we quickly invited them to join us. Everyone then started having a good time, dancing and laughing, and after a while some flasks started making an appearance as well. Even though I was having a great time, I couldn’t help but notice there was one person that was not enjoying themselves. Junior was sitting off to one side, obviously distraught. Velvet went over to try and comfort him, but it wasn’t long before he sent her back to the fire, it seemed he just wanted to be left alone. I understood his grief at the passing of his father, but I was still worried about him. It wasn’t like him to be this quiet, and I could tell Velvet was a little hurt that he was pushing her away.

 

The next morning, I overslept a bit, and Cheyenne was already gone when I woke up. We had been sleeping in one of the barns with our older kids, the younger ones were staying with some of the hands and their wives in the newly repaired cabins. As I went outside looking for him, I saw that pretty much everyone else was hard at work already. I stood watching for a few minutes, then made up my mind about something that had been bothering me. I finally found Cheyenne in the kitchen building, he was trying to convince the head cook to prepare the venison that the braves had brought us the way he liked it. I wasn’t sure he was having much success, the woman insisted she knew how to cook thank you very much! I signaled to him that I wanted to talk to him outside, and he followed me to a spot I knew we could talk in private.

 

“I don’t know how you feel about this, but I’ve thought about it, and I don’t think Buick and Morning Star will need us as much as we originally thought. It seems like they have plenty of help now, and it won’t be long before these folks have this place back to the way it was. Junior is anxious to get his father back home to Virginia, and I can’t say as I blame him. As much as I love this place, it’s time to let go, they’ll be fine without us. We’ve done enough here, what do you say about moving on with our lives?”

Cheyenne was quiet for a few moments, then just shook his head. “Let me think about that for a while, and I’ll let you know. I realize we have to leave sometime, but I’m not sure I want to until I’m positive our friends aren’t going to be hurt by it. You go get some breakfast, I have a few things to do then I’ll see about talking to the MacKanes and I’ll let you know. We’ll need a little time to make the arrangements anyway, no matter when we leave.”

 

He walked off to take care of his business, and I turned to go back to the kitchen to find out if there was any breakfast left. After that I knew I would have to find Junior, and make sure he didn’t do anything crazy like take off on his own with his father’s body. It wouldn’t be easier