Dreams of the Golden Aspen Ranch

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Brother William had seldom seen the Sheriff happier.

Could the white-robed Cistercian but render in oils, he would happily have entrusted to canvas the sight his eyes beheld.

The Sheriff was laughing, as were his daughters, both his oldest, and the youngest, who was busy bouncing on her toes, clapping her chubby little pink hands with delight: one of the twins was in mid-air, skirts and hair floating in that glorious moment between ascent and descent, and the Sheriff, his mouth open, arms up and hands spread, as he tossed his little girl in the air and was spread-fingers ready to catch her as she came back to him.

There is something contagious and delightful about children's laughter, and Brother William paused to lean on his staff, feeling a slow smile spread across his weathered face.

Like the Sheriff, he too had seen too much of "That Damned War," and like the Sheriff, carried scars to prove it, and like the Sheriff, seldom chose to reveal those scars, and like the Sheriff, part of him was forever guarded, forever watchful, forever mistrustful.

Then there were moments like this, when suddenly he was reminded that there could be moments of purity and of joy and of happiness, and for that moment, he could relax, just a little.

The Sheriff picked up his twin girls, one under each arm, and whirled about, their delighted shrieks scattering about as he spun them, faster he went until, dizzy, he found himself obliged to surrender to entropy's inexorable pull: twisting, he collapsed slowly to the ground, rolling over on his backside and his back, his boot heels thrust to the skies above, the twins safe atop him: laughing, the three lay in a gloriously dizzied pile, joined by Angela and Dana, and Brother William, silent, nodded again and whispered his thanks that he was allowed to see this one moment of shared happiness.

The tanned cleric waited until the Sheriff and his daughters gained their feet, and began staggering happily toward the house, before stepping out and following: a curly furred black dog, as tall at the shoulder as the traveling monk's kneecap, came bounding happily over to him, silent, save for the delighted thrashing of a great plume of a black tail.

Brother William extended a hand and this jet-furred get of The Bear Killer's latest siring snuffed loudly at the extended hand, then twisted his big-jawed head around, begging for an ear scratching.

Brother William leaned his head-tall runestaff against his shoulder, letting it stick out past his ear, and devoted both hands to the delighted canine.

 

Later that evening, over supper, the Sheriff quietly detailed his latest shipment to the Golden Aspen's rebuild, a final gift: genuine glass windows, a less than common, and not inexpensive, commodity: "Esther delighted in looking out her windows, especially if she could look up from her work and rest her eyes on the mountains. I know what it is to have oiled paper for a window pane, and I want their ladies to have the same ..."

His voice trailed off and his eyes went to his daughters, and Brother William saw a mixture of sadness and pride, loss and joy: his daughters were becoming his life, now that the man's wife was dead these few years: his grief ran deep, and always would -- the Sheriff was deep in these areas, Brother William knew -- but he was healing.

He looked up as his coffee was refilled by the pretty, efficient, silent hired girl in the proper black-and-white maid's uniform with its starched cap and apron.

"And I made an aaa ---" he snapped his jaw shut, looking with an almost guilty expression as the twins regarded him with blue-green eyes -- "I made a donkey of myself."

"I've done the same," Brother William murmured sympathetically. "I've done it more than once, Sheriff."

Linn chuckled, shook his head.

"Ever ... no," he said, shaking his head, dismissing the train of thought before it even left the station, then he tried again.

"Brother William, if you consider a man's brain like a gearbox, sometimes the gears don't quite mesh and they slip some."

Brother William poured a generous stream of thick, fresh cream into his coffee, nodded.

"Mine slipped some but it was a good thing anyhow."

Brother William raised one eyebrow, tasted his coffee, closed his eyes with pleasure, letting the aroma soak into his soul. Coffee was something he missed, living among the Brethren, and he admitted to his Confessor that he took an almost sensual pleasure in the coffee he was offered in his travels.

His confessor pronounced this neither weakness nor sin, there in the privacy and sanctity of the Confessional, and so Brother William freely accepted the gift of coffee when offered.

Now, at the Sheriff's table, he listened carefully to his old friend's words, and sipped slowly at the warming brew.

"Your gears slipped," he prompted.

The Sheriff's face reddened a little and his ears reddened quite a bit.

"Yiiahhh," he husked, then chuckled.

"You probably heard about my hauling supplies for the Golden Aspen."

"I heard you bought up Coxy's Army and marched them over."

"Almost." He leaned back, rubbed his face. "Mental misfire. I thought ..."

Brother William smiled as the hired girl refilled his mug.

"Never mind what I thought. It needed rebuilt. They're under shelter and getting more finished every day. Once the rebuild is finished they'll break down Daisy's kitchen and install the stoves in whichever houses can use 'em. Bonnie and her ladies made clothes enough for everyone and then they started on the children again, sewed up bigger clothes because young ones grow." He stopped and looked at his twins, then back to Brother William.

"Fast."

Brother William laughed, nodding.

"I know they do, Sheriff. You see them every day, but I see them rarely, and every time I come here they're grown -- " -- his hand, held level, went from one elevation to another, and he looked at Angela.

"I almost asked this lovely young lady for her name, because I was looking for a little girl named Angela, and this lovely creature is obviously not a little girl."

Angela giggled and turned a surprising shade of scarlet.

"Sheriff, you did more good than you realize. I know it cost you a fortune."

Sheriff Keller nodded. "It did. It was ..."

He stopped, remembering, and Brother William was not sure what the man was seeing in his memory.

"I prefer to build," the Sheriff said softly. "What good is yellow gold in a fruit jar under a fence post, if my brother is without a roof or without clothes?"

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hand.

"I got the --" he stopped, looked at the girls, then back to the monk.

"I got the shipment."

"I would review the shipment with you."

The Sheriff nodded, stood; everyone else stood at the same time.

"Ladies, if you will excuse us," the Sheriff said, politely, formally, "Brother William and I have business to discuss."

"Yes, Daddy," his daughters chorused, and the men retreated to the Sheriff's study and closed the door.

Once within, the Sheriff lifted the wooden lid of a packing crate, reached into the excelsior-padded interior, pulled out one of four stone jugs.

"I have yet to break the seal on any of them."

"That is wise," Brother William smiled. "Have you two glasses?"

"I have."

"Then pour two glasses, my friend, but please, no more than one finger's worth in each."

The Sheriff raised an eyebrow.

The cork was extracted and set aside, one finger's worth trickled quietly into each of two broad, heavy-bottom glasses.

The two men saluted one another with their respective libation, drank.

It is well that they seated themselves immediately after swallowing.

The Sheriff felt the rush of Sneaky Pete surge up his spine and throw a bag over his brain.

Neither he nor Brother William were strangers to strong drink; this, however, was different ... quite different!

When the Sheriff trusted his voice again, he said, "Goes down like Mama's milk and blowed the socks right off my feet!"

Brother William smiled quietly, afraid to nod, for it was hitting him too.

"Uncle Will's finest," he explained, "and I am not Uncle Will. I'm not that Uncle Will," he clarified. "Uncle Will was a butcher and a moonshiner back in Salesville, in Guernsey County. Uncle Will's Finest is a half and half of moon likker and home made wine." He closed one eye regarded the jug with the other, looked at his empty glass and came to a decision.

"One is quite enough for me."

The Sheriff picked up the cork, eased it back into the jug's mouth, tapped it gently with the flat of his palm.

"The simple sugars in the wine rush the alcohol into your system like a freight train."

"That," the Sheriff said, sitting very still, "is ... more potent ... than the white likker the Daine boys still off up on the mountain!"

"Those are yours," Brother William said, gesturing: "I received them and I like their taste ... too much, I fear, so please, accept them!"

"I will that." He looked at the wooden shipping crate. "I reckon that'll last me a very long time."

 

A very long time later, one of the jugs was found hidden beneath the Mercantile, with other jugs of white likker; they were given over to a pale eyed descendant of the old Sheriff, the man with the grey mustache and pale blue eyes, but the story of this descendant is not for here, nor is it for now.

There is always a past, and there is always a future.

Let these jugs of Uncle Will's Finest, then, be that link between the past, between a pale-eyed old lawman with an iron-grey mustache, and the far future, when one of his descendants regards two of these same jugs with pale blue eyes, and the descendant's ice-pale eyes crinkle at the corners, crinkle up with pleasure as the tale is told again of Uncle Will the butcher, and how he made Uncle Will's Finest back in Salesville, in Guernsey County, Ohio.

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

Cali had me thinking, thinking about something other than being in control and using my hands to fix something. After she left, I took the time to just stand there and watch, things were clicking along just fine without me.

 

I heard a small still voice within me, "Be still, and know that I Am God." A smile came across my face, and without bothering to look back towards the work going on I made my way to the aspens behind where the main house had stood and fell on my face before the Great Spirit. I acknowledged his power, his majesty, and his grace. Then I wept as I thanked him for the safety of my family and friends, as well as allowing Finn the opportunity to accept him before Finn gave his life to protect Calico.

 

After I had emptied my heart to the Great Spirit, I heard the snap of twigs and turning towards the sounds saw Jr, his head held low making his way towards me.

 

"Are you ready to head for Virginia?" I asked him. His eyes lit up, his head lifted, "Really, we don't have to wait until all the work here is done, we can leave now?" he said without trying to hide his surprise.

 

"First thing in the morning, we'll head out to find a working telegraph and have a train ready for us, is that soon enough?" I told him.

 

"Can Velvet come with us?" Jr asked almost dancing with joy.

 

I glanced over to where Velvet was trying to hide behind one of the golden aspens and motioned for her to join us, "I reckon you ought to ask her if she wants to follow your sad face all that way." I told him loud enough for her to hear.

 

Before he could ask Velvet announced, "Jr. your face will show a lot more than sadness if you don't wont me to come along."

 

"Would you?" was all Jr was able to muster before she grabbed hold of him squeezing him like a grizzly bear. I left the two of them alone there, gazing into each others souls through their eyes.

 

I found Calico talking with Buick and Morning Star, "We'll be leaving after sunrise, it's time to get Finn home." I told them with tears flowing from my eyes.

 

Calico grabbed me, and wrapped her arms around me, kissing the tears away from my cheeks.

 

I heard Jr's voice behind me, "If there's a preacher here, could we get married before we go?" he asked almost apologetically.

 

Calico let go of me, swung around and yelled out, "Fort Hays Preacher, put down that hammer, we've got more important work for you to do."

 

Well, all work was stopped, and in less than thirty minutes there was another beautiful Mrs. Culpepper. The two were whisked off to one of the newly rebuilt cabins with only this admonishment. "We're still leaving at sunrise, with or without sleep."

 

Calico, put the ouch on me with a slug to my shoulder, "You should know all about that" she said with a wink.

 

"Mornings going to be here soon, maybe we can get a little sleep tonight, or not" she said with a wink as she pushed the kids off to the cabins where they would be sleeping. Once she had them on there way, she held out her hand, "Well, Mr Culpepper, you gonna stand there like a calf looking at a new gate? or are you going to escort me to ........."

 

I didn't need to hear any more, I took her hand and the two of us skipped off towards our cabin, much to the enjoyment of those still around.

 

Morning would be here soon I thought, but we could sleep on the train, hopefully.

[G. I. Tarpicker, SASS #998]

BTT

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Digger was not a man given to drink.

Digger was not a man to talk about his work.

Digger, for his faults, was rather closed-mouthed about his work.

During the War, there was a demand for embalmers; after the War, there was a glut: Digger, having established a business, knew that another embalmer could set up shop and run a hard competition with him, and his only chance at staying solvent was to establish himself as the best there was, as someone with whom people could be satisfied.

He'd done that, and part of the reason he'd succeeded was the excellence of his work.

This had been a particularly difficult embalming, but he'd succeeded, and better than he'd hoped; the deceased was in a traveling coffin, hermetically sealed for the trip back East, and wearing an appropriate suit: Digger pushed the particulars from his mind, he washed his hands and he crossed the street to the Silver Jewel.

Mr. Baxter was an experienced barkeep, and he well knew the look of the man with troubles on his mind: Firelands was not a big town by any means, and it was no great task for Mr. Baxter to remember particular customers' preferences, and he added a healthy triple shot of the Daine boys' distilled sprouts to a mug of beer and shoved it toward the black-suited undertaker.

Mr. Baxter gravely lifted his beaver topper and gave a half-bow, reached into his vest pocket and sorted through its contents, brought out a coin, slid it slowly, precisely across the polished mahogany bar with a bent fingertip.

He was surprised at how steady the finger was as the coin made its slow journey.

He did not feel anywhere near as steady as his bent finger looked.

Mr. Baxter burnished the gleaming black wood and raised an eyebrow.

"You look like a man with troubles," he murmured as Digger sipped his fortified beer.

Digger looked at the man, took a long breath, set his mirror polished townie shoe on the flawlessly waxed foot rail, then guzzled the tankard.

He came up for air after it was empty; Mr. Baxter waited for a reorder, then drifted over to a newly arriving customer.

Digger stared into the empty depths of his foam-streaked tankard, contemplating the work he'd just done; he looked up, turned the tankard's handle toward the barkeep.

Mr. Baxter set him up with another one, just like the first; this, too, the silent, somber undertaker paid for with a single coin, disposed of in the same manner, and on an empty stomach: after the second one, he nodded once, solemnly, gravely, walked with a funereal pace out of the saloon and across the street and back over to his funeral parlor.

He closed the door, locked it, then ascended the back stairs to the roof: he brought a chair with him and set it on a little crosslay of rough, sawmill cut planks, sat there on the roof of his emporium and watched the night sky darken, then surge into glory as the river of stars men called the Milky Way surged across the blackening firmament.

I did good work today, Digger thought.

I did good work today.

He sat there for nearly an hour, alone with his thoughts, and it wasn't until he was ready to go back inside that he realized that he'd not spoken a single word, not one word aloud, since he began work the night before.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Digger didn't need to supervise the coffin and its loading into the railcar.

He didn't need to, but there was family to consider, and family was watching, and Digger prided himself on the quality of his work.

Part of the undertaker's trade is taking care of the living.

A man and a woman, both in black: the man wore a suit, his tie was neatly knotted, puffed a little, probably tied by his pretty wife; the woman wore a black gown, a mourning gown, of the latest cut and fashion -- a McKenna gown, or I miss my guess, Digger thought, smiling a little as he remembered the violet-eyed woman who ran the McKenna Dress Works.

Digger was not the only one to regard the couple.

There was more family; introductions had been made, but at the moment he could not put name with face -- given time, yes, given time in the car with them, sociable conversation, yes, but at the moment, no.

Digger shivered a little, for he knew the look of a warrior, and he saw warriors' eyes in the family assembled.

There were other eyes, as well ...

Black eyes, slanted eyes, eyes in a yellow face: his name was Chang, or that was the name he favored this week.

A man's name, Chang knew, was as changeable as the coat he wore: it could be put off, and another put on, when it was convenient, and he did so, as it suited him.

His assistant had the same black eyes, the same epicanthic fold at black eyes' outer corners; unlike Chang, who affected Western attire, this stranger wore the loose trousers and canvas slippers, the traditional Chinese jacket and hat, and wore his hair in a proper braid. That he was Chinese was something he neither feared nor sought to hide; he did not have to, for he was Chang's hand, and Chang's will, and Chang's personal, very swift, very deadly, weapon.

Digger waited until the couple, the new Mr. and Mrs., were aboard their private car -- it was from an adjacent railroad, he knew, though he didn't know whose -- and he himself ascended into one of the Z&W's best passenger coaches.

He had need of certain supplies, and he needed a trip away from his parlor, and this was the ideal opportunity: he would ride as far as St.Louis with the young couple, and their solemn cargo, then he would return to Firelands.

Digger sighed and placed his fine topper on his lap, never glancing to his right, where two sets of unblinking black eyes watched him closely.

Very closely.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Angela rode very straight, very proper; she held her reins in her left hand, her right on her thigh: she wore a young lady's divided riding skirt and she rode astride, the figured walnut of a model of 1873 Winchester sticking out from under one leg.

It used to belong to her Aunt Sarah, the schoolteacher, but Sarah took Angela by both shoulders and frowned and allowed as a proper young lady needed a proper rifle, and formally handed ownership of her own first rifle to the Sheriff's oldest daughter.

Sarah taught Angela how to shoot it better.

All the Sheriff's girls were accomplished riders and marksm ... marksw ... they were all good shots, mostly with a rifle, though each showed a gift for wingshooting: the younger girls may very well have inherited this from their mother, for blood carries more than height or skin tone or hair color: Esther Keller, nee Wales, was a renowned wing-shot, and she dearly loved shooting, whether in competition, or to put fresh bird on the table.

Angela rode as did her father, loose and easy in the saddle, moving unconsciously with her mount, yet appearing erect and dignified, absolutely at home in saddle leather.

Like the Sheriff, she gripped the reins lightly, by the flat overhand she'd thrown in them as soon as she mounted: there was slack enough to allow her to drop the knotted reins over her saddle horn, and yet allow her gleaming, red Rosebud-horse to thrust her neck hard out, the way she did at full gallop -- an inherited trait from her dam, the famous Cannonball, ridden by the Sheriff.

Angela adopted her Daddy's posture in the saddle for a very practical reason.

He'd been drilling her in shooting at full gallop, and drawing the rifle from the scabbard while on the move.

If her hands were busy with the reins, she'd lose time and maybe lose her chance at hitting a moving mark, by the time she got to the rifle while controlling her reins.

No, far better to ride loose and easy, her right hand on her thigh, her left palm upturned, delicately gripping the reins -- but able to drop them, then lean back and grab the rifle by its wrist, fetch it out and bring it to shoulder with the speed and confidence of much practice.

They rode together in the Colorado afternoon: school was out for the day, there were chores to be done, but the Sheriff cherished his time with his children, and he never, ever took one of these rides for granted.

Cannonball spun, dancing on the tips of her hooves: she squatted a little, ears back, and the Sheriff's eyes were pale, dead white ice-on-the-mountain pale, as his hand went down and back and he shucked out his own engraved '73.

Angela brought Rosebud around, her eyes wide, her mouth open, and she heard it.

Gunshots, from back in town, shouts.

She did not need to be told.

Like her father, she swung her rifle up across her chest and leaned forward, standing in her stirrups, as two red mares pounded with a desperate speed across the high meadow.

 

Junior was relaxed, allowing himself to drowse: he held Velvet's gloved hand, held it delicately, almost shyly: steel wheels on steel rails hummed and clickity-clack'd in an almost hypnotic pattern, and in their private car, he let his guard down.

"Good evening," an accented voice said, and Junior's eyes snapped open as Velvet's hand suddenly squeezed his, hard, then jerked away.

Junior snapped his head back and saw a foreigner -- one of them heathen Chinee, he thought -- close, too close, and behind him, a broad, tall, scowling Chinaman, looking like one of the Yellow Peril cartoons he'd read in one of them-there San Frisco news papers one time.

"I regret that I must extended condolences on the death of your honorable ancestor," Chang said smoothly with a half-bow: he never removed his hat, giving the lie to his words, a fact neither Junior nor Velvet missed.

Velvet's gloved hands were fisted in fear, drawn up tight against her bosom: here, in their private sanctum, two strangers -- Velvet's instincts screamed danger, but she froze, daring not to move: she was torn whether to react, or to wait for her husband's first move.

Velvet chose to wait.

"How do you know my grandfather?" Junior asked cautiously, thinking fast: Lie to him, lead him on a side track, he thought, gauging the distance between the sly-looking foreigner and himself and wondering if he could clear a draw and get a shot off in time, and deciding he didn't.

"My associate," Chang turned slightly,indicating his looming muscle behind him. "My ... bodyguard, Quaing Ting."

"Quaing Ting," Junior repeated, nodding to the scowling enforcer.

"It mean 'Dragonfly,'" Chang smiled, the smile of a snake charming a little bird. "My name Chang. And you ah --?"

"Matthews," Junior lied. "Victor Matthews. This is my wife Lora."

"Ha, so," Chang smiled again, reminding Junior and Velvet both of a snake oil salesman.

"Now we good friends." He rubbed his hands briskly. "I here to help."

"Help?" Junior reflected, the hairs on his neck standing straight up.

"I businessman," Chang continued. "You come. I show. You honorable grandfatha in danger. Chang can guarantee you grandfatha safe for journey. Very reasonable price."

"I see," Junior stalled.

I could drive my shoulder in his gut, he thought, knock him into that big jigger, roll left and shoot --

Those damned Chinee are fast, I seen 'em fight, they're like a snake on two feet --

I can't put Velvet in danger --

"My ... traveling funds ... are in a strongbox," Junior said slowly, looking over at Velvet, who shook her head just a little, mouthing a silent "No" -- which Chang, of course, did not miss.

"And the strongbox is ...?" Chang asked with the polite artifice of a professional liar.

"In the car with my grandfather's coffin."

"Ha, so," Chang bowed again. "Let us see that honorable grandfatha is safe."

Shorty stood, slowly, carefully, as did Velvet.

 

Two men were down on the street, one slumped against the bank's porch post, a forearm clamped across his belly.

The Sheriff bore down on the bank.

Two men opened fire on the approaching lawman, then a third swung out of the bank, raised a double gun and yanked both triggers.

From across the street, Marshal Jackson Cooper raised a buffalo rifle and drove a thumb sized slug through two of the holdups.

The outlaw with the shotgun backed up into the bank's doorway, swearing: Jackson Cooper saw two empty hulls fall, slowly, turning as they fell, incredibly slow.

The Marshal yanked back the rear trigger, hauling the heavy percussion style hammer back to full stand, then driving his hand down to drop the breech block.

Gleaming brass kicked out of the Sharps breech, bounced off the man's weathered, furry wrist.

The Sheriff brought Cannonball to a fast, haunch-skidding stop: he kicked his boots free of the stirrups and hit the ground running, charging for the open bank doorway, lips peeled back, teeth bright and bared, an animal snarl deep in his throat.

Angela swung Rosebud around, steered her around the downhill side of the bank, took out after the figure running from the back of the bank.

 

"Ah, so," Chang murmured, bowing respectfully toward the crated coffin. "Honorable ancestor." He turned, regarded Junior with gleaming, greedy black eyes. "In kingdom of Chin Yu," he said quietly, "bones of ancestor sacred. If lost --"

Quaing Ting slid open the side door, then walked up to the crate, seized a corner, hauled it up: a grunt, a grip and he brought it clear of the floor.

Junior raised a forestalling hand.

"I get your point," he stammered. "Let me --"

He shot a beseeching look at Velvet.

Velvet's gloved hand rose to her throat and she shook her head, a panicked look on her face: her mouth was open, but no sound came out, only a distressed shake of her head.

"It's over here," Junior said, almost running to the other end of the freight car.

Chang turned, following the man with his eyes.

Velvet's eyes widened as she looked at the leering Quaing Ting, looked beyond him, to the door at the end of the car.

Velvet turned, took a few quick steps toward Junior, then pulled back against the edge of the open side door.

Junior turned, revolver in hand, fired.

As fast as Junior was, Chang was faster: he spun, his arm flung out, and Quaing Ting began to smile, for he knew the deadly throwing spikes Chang wore in his sleeves, and Quaing Ting knew how deadly they were.

As fast as Chang had been, he was not faster than the .44 in Velvet's gloved fist: his arm was still upraised, allowing the blunt, heavy projectile free access to the side of his chest.

Quaing Ting's mouth opened, just before a swarm of heavy shot drove through the back of his neck and out his open mouth, taking most of his teeth with it.

Digger followed the big enforcer's carcass as it fell, keeping it covered with his unfired barrel.

Velvet let her .44 Russian roll up in recoil, just as she'd been taught, catching the stubby, checkered hammer with her thumb and cocking it as she brought the revolver back down to level, then down to the gasping extortionist on the freight car floor.

Junior took a step toward the dying man.

"No!" Velvet snapped. "No,don't! He's --"

Chang brought a hand up.

Junior saw the weapon, shining and foreign, scaled like a dragon's hide, saw the arm bend to bring the weapon to bear on him --

The Chinaman collapsed as Junior's .44 punched a crater of ruin through the man's eye and out the back of his head.

Digger broke his shotgun open, plucked the fired hull from the breech with thumb and forefinger, dropped it as if it were unclean: he reached into a coat pocket, brought out a fresh cartridge, reloaded the empty chamber, closed the breech, both barrels cocked and ready for another round.

 

A terrified clerk pointed to the open back door and the Sheriff charged, running off the back porch, knowing there was a foot and a half dropoff from the painted boards to the ground: he stumbled, fell, rolled, just as another swarm of shot whistled in his direction.

Angela settled the front bead on the holdup's chin, let it drift down just a little, broke the shot.

The Sheriff came up on one knee, took a sight, broke the shot.

Father and daughter walked up on the still figure, laying on its back, a pillow case dropped beside it, bundles of Yankee green backs and a handful of gold coins just spilled out its gathered mouth: the dead man's eyes were open, staring into the eternity that now welcomed his corroded soul.

Angela held her rifle in tight hands, her knuckles white: she was dead pale, she was white to her lips, and the Sheriff, once he was satisfied the holdup would not rise again, looked at his little girl.

Nine-year-old Angela, a pretty little girl and eldest daughter of Old Pale Eyes, Sheriff Linn Keller of Firelands County, Colorado, looked at her Daddy, then looked down at the holdup.

The Sheriff saw a surge of color come back into her face.

Angela drew back her little booted foot and kicked the holdup in the ribs, hard.

"YOU MEAN OLD MAN!" she screamed, bending at the waist, directing the full fury of her anger at the dead man's darkening face, "YOU LEAVE MY DADDY ALONE!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Nurse Susan looked over her spectacles at the Sheriff.

The Sheriff looked at the stamped-tin ceiling panels.

Angela looked at the wet, red buckshot Dr. Greenlees was lifting free of her Daddy's chest.

Angela swallowed hard and in a little girl's voice asked, "Daddy, does it hurt?"

The Sheriff would rather have bit the horn off an anvil than admit that yes, it hurt like homemade hell: he grinned -- more a grimace than a grin -- and he said "No, Princess, it doesn't hurt at all."

Angela's expression was solemn as she said, "Daddy, you'll go to hell for lying," and the Sheriff looked at his old friend Dr. Greenlees, who shrugged and said, "You heard the lady."

"At least she didn't try to put soap in his mouth," Nurse Susan said tartly, hoisting her nose in the air.

"No, that was Sarah," the Sheriff said quietly.

Angela stood and looked into the white-porcelain pan that held the other two buck shot, then she looked up at Dr. Greenlees.

"Are there any more?" she asked faintly.

"No more," Dr. Greenlees said briskly, soaking a folded cloth in carbolic. "Sheriff, this will not feel good."

"Tell me something I don't know," the Sheriff snarled, just before his jaws clicked shut.

I don't know what you put on that rag, Doc, he thought, but it feels like turpentine!

 

Velvet grabbed Junior's coat and pulled him around, hard, her eyes wide and scared.

She ran her hands down his coat, across his face and around his neck, she smacked the brim of his hat and flipped it off his head and ran her hands through his thick, wavy hair, held his head tight between her hands and turned it left, then right.

Junior stuck out his little finger and used it to pull back his coat; he holstered his Colt, his hands went to his wife's waist.

Velvet's eyes were huge and the color was running steadily out of her face, and Junior caught his wife as she collapsed.

Blinking, he wondered why Velvet was so sudden, so almost frantic, and as he eased her to the floor, he turned his head a little and looked at the wall behind where he'd been standing.

Three steel darts were stuck in the wall.

Now how did those get there? he thought, then he looked at the unmoving Chinaman in the Western suit, and he looked back at the darts.

They would have passed within two inches of his left eye.

He looked at the Chinaman, then the bigger, very dead muscleman.

He looked at Digger, standing unmoving, sallow-faced, the double gun across his arm, looking mournfully at the bodies.

"Thank you," Junior said in a husky voice, then he squatted and picked up Velvet.

"I reckon we'd ought to get back to that private car."

Digger nodded sadly.

"I'll get the door for you," he said in a professionally sorrowful voice.

Junior ran his arm under Velvet's knees, worked his other arm in under her shoulder blades; he rolled her easily up into his chest, leaned back, stood in one fluid motion, the move of a man used to picking up and packing off heavy objects.

"I hope nobody else heard all that," he said, coming to full stand. "Otherwise they'd be comin' in here ready for a young war."

 

"My Daddy got shot," Angela said solemnly, nodding big-eyed at the barkeep as he slid a sarsparilla across the bar to her.

"I see," Mr. Baxter said, looking with concern at the lawman with the iron-grey mustache. "Didn't he have anything better to do?"

The Sheriff shrugged, ignoring the discomfort in his ribs: he'd taken three of the .36 caliber shot, two in the left ribs and one on the right; they'd bruised, but not broken, his ribs -- "with luck like that," Dr. Greenlees opined, "you'd ought to go play poker tonight," to which the Sheriff made no reply.

He'd been minded to respond with a good string of Anglo-Saxon labiodental fricatives guaranteed to blister the paint off the ceiling, but his little girl was there and he didn't want her hearing her Daddy giving vent to any such language, and so he employed his own father's advice: "Son," the wise old man told him when he was but a lad, "never miss a good opportunity to keep your mouth shut."

The Sheriff accepted a heavy tumbler half full of something water clear and not over 30 days old.

"For medicinal purposes only," Mr. Baxter intoned with a perfectly straight face.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

The teamster happily bellowed another obscene verse, to the amusement of the others on the first wagon: men entertained themselves however they might, and among the mule skinners, a joyful competition existed as to who could more perversely sing what were normally inoffensive and ordinary songs.

The second wagon was manned by fellows of the same nature, but these were content to recognize the expertise of the singers in the lead wagon, and contented themselves with listening, grinning and laughing.

It was not a long drive from the rail spur to the rebuilt Golden Aspen, and most of the men had made this trip multiple times -- still, it was a surprise to them, each time they came, to see how much progress had been made.

The second wagon carried more than supplies.

It carried hard-rock miners, it carried mining supplies, it carried timbers, as did the third wagon, and it carried the Sheriff's instructions, given to the men in small groups.

Wagons and supplies were certainly no surprise to the ranch; this shipment, though, was not really expected.

The rebuild was nearly complete.

Fewer craftsmen were on hand; those who were, were busy; shakes were being split, hauled up, nailed down on the several roofs; within, the sound of hammer and saw, rasp and blocked sandpaper, and the smell of varnish and paint hung strong on the noontime air.

The wagons spilled their cargo of callused, profane, tobacco-spitting workmen; the mules were unharnessed, turned into a convenient corral, curried and grained: supplies were offloaded, stacked; stakes and cords, measuring tapes and shovels, sledgehammers and star drills and picks and mattocks were handed, tossed, stacked, and near to the main house, where the ground made a little raise, a small knot of men frowned at the terrain and discussed plans in quiet voices.

The oldest among them, eyes narrowed, nodded; he looked around, laid a hand on another's shoulder, picked up a coil of good braided line.

The men walked over to the well, the old man rigged a quick double bowline, stepped into it and was lowered into the hand dug well.

Curious eyes watched the men; a couple of the boys wandered over, knowing their youth could get them into the midst of whatever was happening where grown men might not.

They looked curiously at the lip of the smooth stones forming the well's low wall, heard the echoing voice from down the shaft: "Lower the string!"

They saw a miner with a broke brim hat and a rich, full beard lower what they recognized as a plumb-bob on a stout cord.

"Bring it down, gimme sammore, gimme six foot, got it!" they heard, then -- "Mark!"

The richly bearded miner threw a quick knot in the string where it came level with the top of the low wall.

"Hoist!"

Men hauled on the line, brought the old miner out.

"I was right," he declared happily, shimmying out of the double bowline: "it's good diggin' and all above water!"

The two boys looked curiously at one another.

It didn't take long for their curiosity to be satisfied: hard hands guided them over beside the house, pressed picks into their hands.

A square was staked out, scratched into the dirt, and men began to dig, the two boys right in there with them.

They dug into the side of the little grade; the hole was widened, made taller; it was evident these men had done this often, for they made work look easy, and easy it wasn't: cutting loose dirt and moving it is not a gentle task, nor for the feeble, nor for the young, though in truth these boys not yet sprouting their first chin whiskers made a good account of themselves.

The root cellar would double as a storm cellar: they dug it deep and they dug with the earth instead of simply into it, they dug with the intimate knowledge of a carpenter for wood, of a sculptor for stone: they bored a squared hole into the hillside, they timbered its dry sides and its overhead, they made it wider once they were well into the earth and they made narrow tables and shelved the walls.

Then they began moving the covered contents of the third wagon into the cellar.

The water table was below them, but in season there just might run ground water through the strata, so the bore went a little uphill, so any water would run out unimpeded.

Heavy timber doors were fashioned, doors cleverly hinged so they could be easily swung open by young or elderly if need be, doors that could be secured from within, should another twister come hard-walking through the mountains: the shelves were well stocked with glass jars of canned beef and elk, of canned vegetables and fruits; there were canned goods as well, carefully chosen, and in plenty.

Winter was coming, the Sheriff knew, and a well stocked larder might make the difference between Enough and Starve.

He'd known hunger's gnaw his own self.

 

The teamster with the fine bass looked at the envelope.

He turned it over, looked at his own message on its back in pencil:

Sorry Shurf he aint here, he'd written with the stub of a pencil he'd bummed off one of the carpenters.

Gone East.

Funeral.

The teamster was supposed to deliver the envelope into a particular individual's hands, and he wasn't about to admit he didn't know the recipient from Adam, and was too proud to ask.

It was easier just to scrawl a note on the back, go home, collect his pay and get drunk.

Whether anyone was there or not made no difference to him.

He'd heard talk of taking a carcass back to Virginny and plant it there instead of here.

He knew the Sheriff heard this same idea.

It was a lie, but it was a safe lie.

He flipped the reins.

"Yup, mule," he said, then drew a great lungful of air and followed his simple command with a lengthy and rather profane version of his initial command.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

The Sheriff leaned his left shoulder against the porch post.

The idler leaned his right shoulder against the other side, as if to keep the turned wood upright from being shoved over by the long, lean lawman.

The two were holding a conversation, as they did every few days, in the manner they were accustomed to speaking.

That is to say, neither man spoke a word for more than a half hour.

"Soapy," the idler finally offered, "when do you reckon Digger to be back?"

The Sheriff considered this, contemplated the ache in his lower back, thought of how his back field was ripening up for harvest, bethought himself of the apple trees he'd planted and how they were bearing and starting to blush ripe, before he turned his mind back to reply.

"If I recall arightly," he said thoughtfully, "Digger was goin' on to the Mr. and Mrs. Sippi but no farther."

The idler considered this, debated whether to abandon the conversation for a companionable beer, decided it was too much like work to stand upright, and remained slouched comfortably against the green-gold-and-red-painted post.

"The Father of Waters," he murmured.

"Ayep."

A freight wagon rumbled past, the Sheriff's light-blue eyes following it, his mind busy.

"Now wotinell do you reckon that cold handed carcass planter is a-doin' in a riverbank town, hey?"

The Sheriff watched a stray dog trot down the street, turn up the alley between Digger's place and the jail.

"Same as any other man, I reckon."

The idler chuckled, coughed, hawked, spat.

"Him?" He laughed again. "He cain't play cards to save his butt, he never did smoke, I don't reckon he's ever chased a skirt in his life an' he cain't bet a hoss race neither, now wotinell is he a-gonna do on the river?"

The Sheriff looked across the street at the funeral parlor, the hand lettered sign in the front door: Gone a few days. Don't die yet.

His face tightened a little, the corners of his eyes a little more; it was the closest thing to a smile he'd had so far that day.

"Knowin' Digger, he'll find somethin' to get into."

The idler coughed again, harrumphed.

"You tubercular or somethin'?" the Sheriff asked. "Had a man ought to stay up wind of you?"
"I ain't got no ter-berckle-osis, Soapy, an' you know it!"

"Naw, reckon not," the Sheriff nodded slowly. "You lived this long up high. I don't reckon the tubercular can live in a man more'n a year in the mountains."

"Hell, Soapy, I lived here all m'life!"

"I know."

There was a yowl, a screech, and the stray dog that had gone up the alley a moment before, came out the alley like a streak, its soiled cream colored fur giving the illusion that the dog was four feet long and six inches off the ground, shot from a bow and flashing across the street, something grey and black and furred up, yowling with feline fury on its back and digging with all four claws.

The stray squalled in distress, tried to turn up the street, lost traction, skidded, rolled: cat and dog tumbled, the dog made its feet first, and had the Sheriff not known better, he might have been ready to agree that the dog's claws, scrabbling against hard packed summertime dirt, was striking sparks in the sunlight.

The cat splayed out, stood up, took a few graceful steps, then stopped and began washing its paw and ears as if that were the only thing in the world worthy of its imperial attention.

The idler regarded the cat mournfully.

"I had me a girl frien' like that once," he said with a long face and a sorrowful voice.

The Sheriff's voice was unhurried, and he never missed a beat.

"Your girl friend was a cat?"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Junior stared out the glass of the private car's front door.

Velvet stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder, then she let her flat hand drift down to the small of his back.

"I was scared," she whispered.

"I let you down," Junior said quietly.

"You did no such thing."

"I was asleep and those two slipped in here. I should have been awake. I should have been watching."

"How could you? We're on a moving train. Nobody just comes in --"

Velvet felt Junior take a long breath, felt him stiffen.

"Sit with me," she whispered. "I'm scared."

Junior turned, looked sharply at her, puzzlement in his brows and concern in his hands as he gripped her elbows.

Velvet drew back a step, another; Junior moved with her, and impulsively, with a shy smile, Velvet shifted her hands, taking one of his and running the other over his shoulder, turning with a dancer's step.

Junior, like most Western men, could dance, and he could dance surprisingly well: automatically his horseman's lean waist, his tracker's light step, his husband's gentle touch all came together; all these together joined his wife as she swayed, turned, took the ritual steps he recognized with a grin as the waltz, the last waltz they'd danced together, the night he'd blushed furiously when he admitted in a whisper that he wished her to consider whether he might discuss marriage with her.

They both heard the air hiss into pistons under their feet, felt the train begin to slow; they both knew there were stops to be made, he knew this was probably one of the stops, but Velvet did not interfere with his quick adjustment of his coat, and she knew this was to allow him quick access to his reloaded revolver.

They remained standing, her arm around his waist and his arm protectively around her, as the trained eased to a stop: it was a little whistle stop town, the depot was as were all depots in this area -- well kept, tidy, the paint a little faded, but none peeling or unpainted -- and Junior frowned a little as a half-dozen round caps approached the private car.

He took a half-step back, to where he could see both doors to the private car, Velvet drawing away and back a little as knuckles rapped briskly at the front door.

A grinning porter opened the door, a package in hand: "Good mawnin' sah," he called cheerfully, "compliments of de Sheriff," and he held the door wide for two more of his kind: they were uniformed, their shoes mirror-polished, each wore the round, black cap with the railroad's logo proudly displayed on a broad brass band across the front, above the gleaming black bill.

"De Sheriff unnerstans whad 'tis fo' married folks travelin'," the porter continued with a deferential bow, "an' he figgers de lovely lady don' wan' be cookin', so" -- he whisked a covering cloth off a tray with a magician's flair -- "de Sheriff, he sez 'Bon Appeteet,' which is French fo' we cooks better dan he do."

Shorty watched the other two porters -- silent, efficient, quick, good at what they did, which was to suddenly set the table, place the meal, give the fresh linen tablecloth a quick tug, a wipe of a practiced palm to eliminate all wrinkles -- coffee was poured, the silver service placed: the two bowed and withdrew, and the lead porter lifted his cap and bowed again.

"Mista an' Missus," he said quietly, and backed out the door, drawing it closed behind him.

The bobbing caps flowed smoothly to the edge of the depot platform and back along the side of the private car.

Curious, Junior paced over to the back door and watched and the porters hauled several such packages to the passenger cars.

Velvet smiled as Junior turned, laughing.

"Now I will be sawed off and damned," he chuckled. "They're feeding everyone! I think they've got enough to feed a regiment!"

Velvet went over to the formally set table.

She recognized genuine crystal, genuine silver tableware: she picked up a spoon, read the stamp on the back off the handle, a single word: "Oneida."

Real silver, she thought, looked toward the moving stream of porters heading for the second passenger car.

Velvet set the spoon down, saw an envelope with her name on it.

Curious, she picked it up, opened it: she read the precise, elegant script in neat, absolutely-straight lines on the linen notepaper, smiled and replaced the note: Junior was still looking out the window, so Velvet slipped hers into hiding and picked up the second one.

"I think you have a letter," she said gently, and Junior turned.

Velvet held it out, delicately, between two fingers, her wrist bent a little, and Junior's breath caught for a moment at the sight of his wife.

He blinked, swallowed: it was like he was seeing her for the first time, all over again: young, beautiful, feminine, standing beside an ornately set table, a quiet, knowing smile, looking every inch a woman, every inch ... no, not a woman ... a creature of beauty, of magic, almost otherworldly.

He opened his suddenly-dry mouth and Velvet lowered her head a fraction of an inch: she never changed expression, she did not move, but suddenly she was so much more feminine and he felt a hot surge of desire, and he wanted nothing more than to take her up in his arms and crush her to him and never, ever, let her go.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"Angela said I might find you here."

The Sheriff picked up a blue granite cup, poured coffee from the steaming, blue-granite pot, replaced the pot on the rocks he'd set around the teacup sized dry-wood fire.

The Parson accepted the cup, sniffed at the brew, drew back.

"Careful," the Sheriff said in a hushed voice. "That'll scald the hair right off your tongue."

The Parson very carefully set the cup on the ground between his feet, lowered his backside onto the rock shelf.

The Sheriff poured himself some coffee, set it down to cool and slowly parked himself beside the black-coated Parson.

They sat thus together, two men alone with their thoughts, beside an ancient cliff, their feet on a sandy flat, almost like a stage.

"This is a ritual place," the Sheriff finally said.

"I know."

"Kind of a natural amphitheater."

The Parson nodded.

"I come here when I need to think."

Parson Belden lowered his curled fingers to the cup, hovered over the steaming brew, withdrew: it was still too hot to drink.

Silence, again, unbroken except by the gurgle of a water ouzel, then wind running a lover's fingers through the pines' lush green hair.

They sat there for most of an hour: the Sheriff, thinking, and his old friend, waiting patiently: patience bore fruit, for the Sheriff finally took a long breath and picked up his cup.

"Parson," he said, "I been a-meddlin'."

Parson Belden's eyes were busy along the rim of the natural rock amphitheater; his ears were busy listening to the Sheriff's quiet voice.

"I reckon ... it's my own fault."

"Most things are."

"I know." He took a tentative sip of his coffee, made a face. "Awful stuff."

"My grandmother used coffee to strip varnish off rockin' chairs," Parson Belden agreed. "It can't be good for you."

The Sheriff tossed his cup, sloshed the contents onto the thirsty sand. "Mine ain't fit to drink, I don't reckon yours is either."

The Parson diplomatically set his cup down, untasted, and offered no comment.

"Parson, I set myself to rebuild another man's ranch."

"So I heard."

"I went in with men and supplies and now their ranch house and all the cabins, the barn and the smithy, the whole cotton pickin' spread is built again."

Out of the corner of his eye, the Sheriff saw the Parson's black hat brim dip slowly, then come back up as the man gave his one, slow, understanding nod.

"I never asked, I just went. Then I paid Digger to take care of the dead and set the head stones, and one of 'em ..." -- the Sheriff lowered his forehead onto the heels of his hands, his voice muffled a little as he spoke to his forearms -- "Seems like when there's death and loss and destruction, people come together.

"I heard they had a wedding so I arranged ..."
He rubbed his face, took a long breath, then a quick, impatient one, shaking his head.

"You arranged?" the Parson prompted.

"Yeah." The Sheriff picked up his tin cup, slung out the last drops, set it back down. "I arranged a dinner for the newly wed couple. They have the private car and I reckon they'll have some family comin' along in the passenger car so I had a fine dinner sent to the happy couple and good box lunches for everyone in the passenger cars."

Parson Belden considered this.

"Parson, I'm meddlin'. This is their life. As much good as I did ... do you reckon I'm just buttin' in and takin' over?"

The Parson considered the question, frowning.

The Sheriff opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it, rubbed his clean-shaven chin, then automatically twisted the end of his iron-grey handlebar.

"I reckon ..."

The Sheriff shifted his weight a little, tried again.

"I reckon as much grief and loss as I've seen over the years ..."

He hesitated, eyes narrowing, seeing something only his eyes beheld.

"Parson, I couldn't save my wife ..."
His wife Esther, died in childbirth, Parson Belden thought, remembering the funeral: he's performed the service, he remembered it well, for Esther Keller was a fixture in the community, and she'd been the living example of a saying he'd heard: "Live your life so when you die, even the undertaker will be sorry to see you go."

"I couldn't save my wife nor my little girl from the small pox."

The Sheriff's voice was quiet, heavy with grief, and the Parson knew the lean waisted lawman was remembering his first wife, back in the Ohio country, who died one week to the day before he got home from that damned War: his little girl died in his arms that evening, and he buried their daughter in the same grave as his wife, her little box on top of her mother's.

"I couldn't save so many of my men."

The Parson knew the man was remembering his Captaincy with the 3rd Ohio Volunteer Cavalry, and he knew the Sheriff -- then the Captain -- took his leadership very seriously, and grieved the loss of every single man killed under his command.

"I been tryin' to make things better ever since, Parson," the Sheriff continued, his voice dry, colorless. "I went to be a lawman and I did good." He looked sharply at the sky pilot. "It was not enough.

"I didn't figure to marry again, Parson, but Esther had other ideas, and God bless her for that."

The Parson nodded again.

"I found gold on my way west, and I found gold again. I invested wisely and carefully and I been blessed with a good return on all of it. Ever since" --

The Parson watched the Sheriff's hands clasp tightly together, relax.

"Ever since I ..."

His voice faded, his head dropped, the man groaned from the depths of his soul.

Finally he raised his head, his eyes heavy with sorrow.

"I reckon I been tryin' to buy my way into Paradise, Parson. I gave a railroad to a man I served with, I been helping folks out right along reg'lar, I footed the bill for the fire engine -- that Ahrens steam machine, and I paid the wages for the Irishmen to run the thing -- I got gas drilled and laid into town and the school house" -- he grinned -- "and the church."

Parson Belden nodded again; the Sheriff was a steady benefactor to Firelands' whitewashed church, and the preacher well knew of the lawman's generosity in the community.

"Parson, I can't buy my way into heaven. I don't reckon I can meddle my way there either."

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

Calico had the kids ready to ride into town just after sunrise, she had pity on me and had let me sleep while she had readied the kids and rounded up food for our trip. I wasn't sure how she managed on the little sleep that we had actually had that night, but then she never was one to waste much time sleeping.

 

She awoke me with a gentle nudge, the smell of hot coffee and a plate bacon and biscuits with gravy. I ate slowly, something was gnawing at me and I wasn't sure how Calico was going to take it, but I was ready to head back to our ranch. Which of course meant that Jr. and Velvet would have to continue on to Virginia to bury his father, alone. I wasn't sure if Calico would like giving up the trip east now, but I wasn't giving up on the trip altogether, just postponing it.

 

It didn't take long for Calico to figure out that something was bothering me and being kept in the dark was not one of the things she tolerated easily. She lit up like a birthday cake when I told her. It seems that she was missing her Clydesdales and we had already been gone as long as we had intended to begin with. She was thoroughly pleased to be heading home, of course she mentioned our water hole right after voicing her concern for her horses.

 

We had the wagons loaded, with Jr. and Velvet driving the one with Finn's casket, and heading towards town the rails quickly. Calico was like a horse heading for the barn and nothing had best get in her way.

[Calico Mary]

It wasn’t easy to drag myself out of bed that morning, but someone had to get the kids up, dressed, and fed. Cheyenne was harder to wake up, but a fresh cup of coffee seemed to do the trick. I was kind of surprised when he said he wanted to return to the ranch, but I was more than agreeable. Junior was fine with the idea of taking his father’s body back to Virginia alone, well, not exactly alone as he now had Velvet by his side. I would miss her though, ever since we’d been caught in the barn by that tornado we had become close friends. We did make sure to let them both know that we would try to come out to Virginia at some point, but if we didn’t before they were ready to leave that they were welcome to return to the Culpepper Ranch. Junior said he would have to think about that, he appreciated the offer but wasn’t sure if that’s the path he wanted his life to follow. If nothing else, at least his father’s death had caused Junior to start thinking about what he did want to do with his future.

 

One other problem that developed was what to do about Swamp Rat. Technically, the horse should have automatically passed to Junior, except no one seemed to be able to get that fact through to the horse. Ever since Finn’s death, his horse had flat out refused to let any human get near him except for me. If anyone else even got close, Swamp Rat would start kicking and bucking like he was possessed. I could walk right up to him, pet him, feed him apples or sugar cubes, even ride him and he was as gentle as a kitten. No one else would dare try, even Danny. We had thought about leaving him at the Golden Aspen, but Buick refused to consider it. Swamp Rat would have to go back home with us, I just hoped that with time he would settle down. The gelding wasn’t bad, but I missed my stallion Rascal and of course my autumn pony.

 

When we got to the train depot, Biblepuncher asked if he could speak to Cheyenne, me, and Junior alone for a minute. “If nobody has any objection, Cora and I would like to continue on towards Virginia, at least for a while. I’m not sure if we’ll go all the way or not, but Cora had her heart set on a honeymoon, and I’d like to take her at least as far as St. Louis. At that point we may decide to go all the way East, or we may head somewhere else, or we just might stay there for a few weeks. I promise we won’t be gone long, maybe a month or so, and then we’ll head back home. What do you say?”

 

Cheyenne and I were more than agreeable, the couple deserved a vacation. Junior thought about it for a few minutes, then nodded. “Of course you’re welcome to come along, after all you tried to do for my father I wouldn’t dream of saying no. I’d consider it an honor if you would think about coming to Virginia with us, I know there is no other minister that I’d rather have officiate when Finn is finally laid to rest.” The men shook hands to seal the deal, and us ladies got busy hugging each other goodbye. We all boarded the train, our cars would all go as far as Denver together, then the private car with Junior, Velvet, Biblepuncher, and Cora would continue east, the rest of us would take a regular train back north to Fort Collins. As we settled in, I noticed that Sally didn’t seem to feel very well, she hadn’t for a few days. I wasn’t sure if it was because of all the work we had been doing had tired her out, or if there was something wrong. It was probably for the best that we were heading home, when we got there I intended to have Doc take a look at her just to make sure there was nothing seriously wrong.

 

As the train finally started moving, I couldn’t help but ask Kate to take Ruth for me, I was so tired I was afraid I would doze off and accidently drop her. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before my eyelids were so heavy I couldn’t keep them open any longer. In my dreams I saw myself riding Swamp Rat, first through the foothills west of the ranch, then through the gently rolling hills I had come to realize were part of Virginia. Then I saw myself and Swamp Rat riding through a bunch of flames, we weren’t being burned, but it was still scary. I woke up suddenly, shaking like a leaf and sweating as badly as if my dream of fire had been real. What this dream meant I had no idea, and I wasn’t so sure I wanted to find out….

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A young man stepped out of the passenger car with his box lunch under his arm.

He'd gotten a second one from a different porter, placed it on the platform at the rear of the car: now that the train was beginning to move, he eased out the back door, picked up the second lunch and stepped off the moving train before its speed increased beyond a slow walk.

He'd come onto the train hungry; this unexpected bounty was a sign, he figured, and so he took his bounty and his luck and found a shady spot under a handy tree and set himself down for a meal.

The box lunch was filling, unexpectedly so; he ate both of them, for he was not yet out of his mid-teens, and could be well described as a walking appetite on two hollow legs. He'd be hungry in an hour, he knew, but for the moment he was feeling the delights of a well filled belly.

A drink at a nearby pump, a quick wash-off of his face and hands, he ran his fingers through thick, now-damp hair, looked around.

He'd raised the money for his train trip by cheating a drunk at cards. It hadn't been hard, but he was not given to either cheating nor chance-taking; he was desperate to get distance, for he'd been accused of another man's crime, and he knew how these things went -- the first victim often received the crowd's wrath, and facts that turned up afterward mattered little.

He'd told the ticket agent his name was Finn MacCool, and the agent looked at him as if to say "You are full of it and I know it," for the agent was an Irishman and well knew the legends of Finn MacCool, but the man said nothing when the customer produced coin with his request. The agent, matter of fact, considered that he himself knew good men who'd needed to change their name, to start anew, whether due to misfortune, bad choices, or other unexpected events.

Now the young man found a handy burning pile, added his trash to what was already there, looked around as he walked down an alley and into the little town.

Right away he found trouble.

 

Sarah McKenna hooked her hand in her maid's elbow.

"You're caught up on your work, and I'm tired of sitting in the house," she said briskly, "we're going to town."

"But, mum, I've th' meal t' prepare an' sewin' t' do --"

"It'll wait," Sarah laughed. "It'll do us both good! Besides, what if I buy two bushels of apples? I can't carry that much!"

"And ye think I c'n pack mule such a burden!" the maid exclaimed in mock indignation, pulling away from Sarah's grasp and planting her knuckles on her hips. "Wha' should I do then, take off m' uniform an' wear a grey coat an' long ears?"

Sarah laughed and took her elbow again, steering her for the door.

"We'll leave that for the men folk," she smiled, "so many of them are good at doing just that!"

"Aye, I knew a mon that would strip off m' uniform as soon as look a' me," the maid mumbled, and Sarah laughed again.

 

The young stranger looked around, searching for a weapon, found a pick handle abandoned in the alley: it was well worn, it looked like it had been let dry out, the head slipped off -- it was worn around the head-swell -- and thrown aside, probably because the Mercantile was nearby and its former owner installed a new one and extravagantly tossed this one away.

Some people will throw away anything a'tall, the young stranger thought, hefting the weapon: he peeked cautiously around the corner, then pulled back as a body slammed against the corner of the building not a foot from him.

"You leave him alone!" a woman screamed, and the young man heard the meaty smack of fist on flesh and the woman's voice changed, and the young man felt his blood run hot and hard in his veins, and he stepped around, ready for a young war.

He was close, too close: he rammed the pick handle into the man's gut as the woman collapsed, her mouth bloody: no stranger to close-in coal-mine brawls, he used the pick handle with both hands, as a bayonet and a rifle-butt: three strokes and the woman beater was on the ground, his head cracked, the wind drove plumb out of him and a collar bone broken.

The first shot felt like he'd been punched, hard and deep, and he was instantly sick: his jaw locked shut and he turned, eyes blazing, and charged, bringing the pick handle up for a strike.

 

Sarah and her maid laughed and chattered all the way into town; Sarah hired her on a gut feeling, and sure enough, though they were hireling and mistress, they were also good friends: they'd come a third of the way down Firelands' main street when Sarah drew the gelding to a stop.

A brawl was erupted on the street in front of the Mercantile, three -- no, four men, and a woman: Sarah wasn't sure quite what was going on, but she knew the woman was outnumbered and seemed to be the subject of one man's ire, another man seemed to be defending the woman, and the third -- the third Sarah recognized, and handed the reins to her maid.

"Get out of here," she snapped, reaching behind the buggy's seat and jumping from the carriage.

The maid didn't need to be told twice: she snapped the reins and steered the gelding to the other side of the street, departing at a spanking trot toward the brick firehouse at the other end of town.

Sarah swore, squatted in front of the Mercantile: the boardwalk was shoulder high here and she dropped to get out of the fighters' line of sight, taking a moment to think, and think fast.

She meant to grab the rifle behind the seat, but she was in too much of a hurry; her hand closed around the scabbarded Schlager blade instead, and by the time her brain realized her hand was seized about a sword, she was already out of the buggy and headed for the ground.

That's all right, she thought.

I know what I can do with a blade.

 

"FAUGH FAH FALLAH!" he yelled, knowing he charged his death: the second shot took him in the side, but he was already in shock: any subsequent shots would only cause tissue damage, his nervous system was shocked all it would be, his blood was up and he was running on sheer adrenalin.

The young man who called himself Finn MacCool became a warrior in a desperate battle, facing impossible odds: his pick handle hummed menacingly through the air, swung hard at the nearest enemy, which was the revolver still pointed at him.

The pistol fired again, but not until after knocked well out of line; his blow broke the shooter's wrist and Finn shortened his grip, driving it like a bayonet up under the other's chin, hard.

Part of him heard teeth click together and the jaw bone break; he did not stop moving, he brought the butt of the war club down hard on the falling man's forehead and heard the hollow *pop* of a circumferential skull fracture.

He turned and saw the first man, sunk to his knees, one arm awkwardly across him, obviously out of action, but the man held a small pistol in his other hand.

Finn wondered why the world suddenly turned and the ground came up to lay beside his cheek.

I can smell the dirt, he thought, then he realized his hands and arms felt funny and tingly, and he blinked as a screaming war-goddess in one of them funny Greek gowns that draped over one shoulder swung a shining sword and clove the man's hand from his arm.

Finn's vision got kind of hazy and he felt someone, he didn't know who, grab his shoulder and he was looking up and a head was blocking the bright sun, the head was surrounded by the sun's blazing glory like a halo and he saw a nun all in white with her face veiled, a nun with a small sharp knife, and he felt his coat pulled open and his shirt parted down the front, firm hands assessing his wounds, quick and knowing hands that could tell as much as the eyes hidden by the white silk.

He blinked again and she was gone and so was the sun, just the blue sky above, clear and cloudless, except for the crows, three of the, crows that circled, and then the head was back, only it wore a winged helmet and an armored breastplate and he heard a voice, a woman's voice, and he felt her hand grasp his and he blinked again, but his eyes failed him and the world faded to grey.

He could still hear.

Warrior, you are found worthy, she whispered, only the whisper was in his mind, and his vision cleared again and the little nun was back and he heard, "Absolvo te, in nomini Patri, et Fili, et Spiritu Sancti," and he felt her squeeze his hand, and with his last breath, just before he soared out of his body and into the clear blue sky above, he whispered, "Ave Maria," and he was gone.

 

Digger was only just returned when the body was borne into his work room.

"Who was he?" he asked, frowning at the young man's darkening corpse.

"Don't have any idea," Marshal Jackson Cooper admitted. "No letters on him, nothing. I wired ahead to the next stop and they'll ask the passengers who he might have been and the agent there will check for any baggage he might've had."

Digger nodded.

"Was there any money on him?"

"Mrs. Llewellyn said to give you this."

Digger took the folded paper the Marshal withdrew from his vest pocket.

Digger unfolded it, smoothed it out on the white-enamel table.

I will pay for his funeral and burial, he read, and nodded: Mrs. S. Llewellyn.

He jumped as Sarah spoke. He hadn't heard her come in.

"I have Parson Belden here," she said. "You have a grave open and ready in Potters Field."

Digger turned, gave a deferential half-bow. "We can have him buried before sundown."

"Thank you."

"Who was he?"

"I don't know," Sarah admitted, "but he was defending a woman's honor, and he kept fighting after he was shot twice."

Digger looked with a new respect toward the dead man.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

You idiot, the voice hissed, you could have been shot!

"Well, I wasn't," Sarah grumbled in reply as she climbed awkwardly into the carriage.

"Beg pardon?" the maid asked, startled.

"Nothing," Sarah snapped, then she grabbed the maid's hand, her eyes wide, her face pale.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "You didn't deserve that. It's my fault."

The maid opened her mouth but could not think of a suitable reply: her other hand came over to cover Sarah's, and not until she'd made a hand sandwich did she realize her pregnant employer was trembling.

Your son could have been killed, the voice hissed again, reminding Sarah of belly scales slithering across desert-dry rock.

He wasn't and neither was I so SHUT UP!!! Sarah thought savagely, glaring over the horse's ears as the maid delicately flipped the reins and clucked at the gelding.

I will not shut up and you should not have risked your child and his father would never forgive you --

Sarah's hands fisted, hard, and she gave vent to an irritated, prolonged "Ooooooh!" -- a savage sound, with a tightening of the back of her neck and her jaw muscles, and in that moment she cheerfully wished that part of herself with which she was arguing, would kindly step out of her body so she could grab it and slam it against the nearest horse trough, hitch post or wall.

"Mum?" the maid asked again, her eyes big, and Sarah looked at her, looked quickly away, for she knew her eyes were anger-pale and fury-cold.

"I," she said, then closed her mouth.

"Am having," she continued with a little dip of her head, then a squaring of her shoulders.

"An argument." She looked at the maid again. "With myself."

The two women looked at one another for a long moment, each one serious and straight faced, until each saw the corners of the other's eyes begin to tighten, then to wrinkle, and finally neither one could hold it any longer and they started to laugh, and the two women leaned against one another and giggled the rest of the short distance to the Sheriff's office.

 

Law and Order Harry McFarland was leaned against the door frame, chewing on a match stick and looking curiously at Marshal Jackson Cooper.

The Marshal was a head and more taller than Harry, which wasn't saying much, because the Sheriff was a full head taller than Harry, and Jackson Cooper was a head and a half taller than the Sheriff, and half again as broad at the shoulders.

It was said what a shame it was that Jackson Cooper became a lawman and not a railroader, for if a steam crane couldn't re-rail a locomotive, the popular opinion was that Jackson Cooper could tighten his belt one notch, bite down on a fresh plug of molasses cure tobacker, give a grunt and a heave and fetch that cast iron teakettle back on the rails, and make it look easy.

It may not have been fact but it was the popular opinion, especially after he caught an anvil that tumbled off a freight wagon and walked along behind the wagon hollering "Hey! You want this back or do I toss it down a well?"

Harry turned and looked out the door.

"Izzat her?" he asked, curiosity in his voice and surprise on his face, and Sarah climbed out of the carriage and onto the mounting-block, then stepped daintily onto the boardwalk.

"Mr. McFarland," she greeted him, extending a hand, palm down, her wrist slightly bent: Harry missed the cue, taking her hand in his -- at least his grip was gentle -- and he said "Miz Sarah."

"Mr. Cooper," Sarah smiled, "I believe you will need my statement."

Jackson Cooper's hat was in his hands and he turned red like a schoolboy: "Yes ma'am," he rumbled with a voice that sounded like it ground its way through twenty feet of rock in a dry well, and his hands nervously crushed the good felt into a long sausage.

"Hang up your hat, Mr. Cooper, before you tear it apart," Sarah said gently, almost as if she were talking to a bashful schoolboy, and Law and Order Harry McFarland stared open mouthed, for this walking mountain of meat and muscle, this fearless fellow who'd walked up to a mean drunk and yanked the Sharps rifle out of his hands and bent the barrel over his knee before introducing the miscreant headfirst to the delights of the nearby rain-barrel, this stalwart lawman with the reputation of having no fear a'tall, this tall, broad and formidable badge packer was biting his bottom lip and shuffling his feet like the bashful schoolboy McFarland thought of the moment before.

"Here, I'll write it. Paper and pen are in the same place?" Sarah asked, swinging easily around him and opening the top drawer of her father's desk.

The Sheriff kept the military habit of neatness and order, after he separated from the Cavalry: Sarah smiled as she saw all was as it had been.

"There now," she said, laying supplies on top of the desk, placing a sheet of good rag paper on the felt: "let's get started, shall we?" -- and settling herself into her father's chair as if she owned the place, she dipped her Papa's steel-nib pen into good India ink and set about writing an account of the afternoon's unpleasantness.

 

"And I say she did no such thing."

"Well then," the rancher drawled, reaching into an inside pocket and pulling out a small leather poke, "I've got gold dust here that says you're wrong."

The poke hit the polished mahogany and conversation stopped: gold is heavy and the impact was audible, and palpable, and men's elbows and palms were on the bar when it hit, and faces turned toward the pair.

The first man's mouth went dry.

Appearances were everything, he knew: a man proven a liar was a man whose word was never good, for the rest of his life.

A man shamed was a man disgraced, a man scorned.

He could either back down, or he could meet the bet.

He pulled out his wallet, withdrew a thick pinch of bills, slapped it on the bar.

"All I've got," he snapped. "And I still say she's can't have done it!"

"Well, why don't you ask her?" the first one leered, "because here she comes now."

His voice carried to the far corners of the Silver Jewel, and silence progressed like a spreading stain: men stopped, cards were held in mid-deal, the roulette wheel was halted by the operator's long-fingered hand, the ball clattered loudly into a pocket as Mrs. Sarah Llewellyn and her maid swept into the Silver Jewel.

A bar was generally regarded as exclusively a man's domain, and the only women in a saloon were the dance hall girls and those who chose to offer horizontal refreshment, upstairs, but here in Firelands the ladies were free to enter and leave, to partake of the excellent restaurant fare, though most of them did this in the back room.

Sarah smiled as she came in, beaming as she saw every face was turned toward her: rather than discomfort, she showed a pleased acknowledgement, even going so far as to stop and drop an elaborate curtsy, then with an inclusive wave of her arm, she said "Thank you, gentlemen," as if an actress, acknowledging her audience.

She swung theatrically, deliberately, flaring her skirt with her turn: "Mr. Baxter," she smiled, tilting her head a little as she did, "may I trouble you for sandwiches and tea, in the back room?"

"Of course you may, my dear," Mr. Baxter boomed with a half-bow: "It will be my pleasure!" -- he straightened, gave a quick finger-flip toward the piano, and the piano player grinned and turned back to the ivories, the roulette wheel spun and clattered, a man laughed and conversation started again.

"Well? You gonna ask her?"

Sarah turned and favored the speaker with long lashes and a pleasant expression, and the man, grinning, poked the gold and the bills with a forefinger.

"I've got a man here," he said, "who says you couldn't possible have cut that fellow's hand off!"

"Really!" Sarah exclaimed. "And who doubts me?"

"I do," the stranger snapped, or rather sneered: he looked her up and looked her down, like he was sizing up a side of beef, then he stared pointedly at her expanding belly.

"You?" Contempt dripped from the word. "Why, you couldn't cut a loaf of bread!"

"Would you care to try me, sirrah?" Sarah asked quietly, her voice gentle, but her eyes pale, dangerously pale, and the maid tasted copper just before her mouth went completely dry and she was reminded of her brother pretending to light the fuse on a stick of dynamite and it caught and she remembered her mouth tasted just the same as it did before the dynamite went off --

"And you, sir," Sarah purred, "are a scoundrel, and you are a liar."

The man's face went pale, then flushed: "Why you --"

He surged forward, hand drawn back, ready to backhand her, and Sarah's hand raised: he moved quickly, but his move was that of a heavy set man, and ponderous: Sarah, though gravid, was slender, and she moved like a dancer, and she was suddenly inside his swing, and he realized that black rainbarrel looking at the end of his nose was the business end of a hand cannon, and the hand holding the cannon belonged to the pretty young woman whose eyes were as warm and as welcoming as the heart of a mountain glacier.

"No one will blame me," she said quietly, and he could hear her plainly, for the Silver Jewel was suddenly silent again, "if I were to blow what few brains you have left, all over the opposite wall. I'm a married woman, and pregnant, and you're a grown man, and you're going to beat me?"

Her smile was tight and just as warm as her ice-pale eyes.

"You won't make it out of here alive. Every man here will shoot you at least once. You will be stabbed, sliced, cut, gelded, filleted, skinned, diced and boned out, you will be strewn across a hundred miles of prairie and your bones ground for fertilizer. Your soul will be cursed, we have a mountain witch in town that will see your ghost never rests, and then" -- her eyes glittered with the edge of insanity -- "and then we'll start getting mean with you!"

The revolver disappeared and her other hand struck like a snake, her gloved palm smacking him across the cheek, hard: his eyes stung and watered, and Sarah waited, her face pale as a corpse's, the skin drawn tight across her cheekbones.

"If you doubt me," she shouted, her voice clear and ringing, "then let us draw steel and I will SHOW you what I can do with a blade!"

He saw a silver arc and realized as he felt something touch his belly that it was probably associated with the shining blur of her dress sleeve, then he looked down at his vest, the brocaded vest covering his rich man's paunch, and he realized the material was gaping open, gaping in two places, and he gave a choked gurgle and grabbed at his belly to keep his guts from falling out: the strength washed from his knees like water poured from a bucket and he collapsed, his hands grasping desperately at his middle.

Sarah bent over him, a slender, very sharp blade in each hand.

"Oh, don't worry," she said soothingly as she straightened, meticulously slipping the forearm knives back into their sheaths in her dress-sleeve: "I didn't even bring blood." She pressed the second one home, shook her dress sleeves down, smiled. "But you can see ... I could have."

She turned to the to the other man, who was pulled back against the bar, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open.

"Tell me," Sarah said conversationally, "did you win the bet?"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Digger knocked deferentially at the Sheriff's office door.

Jacob opened the door and grinned. "Come on in," he invited, "Pa didn't make the coffee."

Digger blinked, then laughed and removed his fine silk topper. "If I may have a shot," he replied, and Jacob closed the door as the man stepped inside.

Digger knew just how bad the Sheriff's coffee was, and he'd made the mistake of partaking only once: his belly button actually did not rot out and fall off, and he considered this something of a miracle.

Digger drew open his coat, reached into a pocket, withdrew an envelope bearing a green-wax seal.

"I am to give this to your father, but you are your father today."

Jacob grinned. "I am for the moment. He's off with a warrant, likely won't be back til sundown or so."

Jacob looked at the envelope, turned it over, slowly, nodding.

Cheyenne Culpepper, the woman's script on the front read, Golden Aspen Ranch.

"I am grateful that your father wired ahead of us," Digger said abruptly.

Jacob looked sharply at the black-suited undertaker.

"Have a set," he invited, pouring coffee into a blue-granite cup. "Cream? Skimmed some off fresh this morning."

"Please."

Jacob handed the man a sweating-cold pint jar of the thick liquid; Digger didn't spill too much of it, then handed it back to the tall, good looking deputy.

Jacob expertly added a splash to his own, returned the jar to the water bucket where it was staying cool. "Same fancy antique cream pitcher I have on my kitchen table."

Digger nodded, smiling, and the two men sat, Jacob behind the Sheriff's desk, Digger across from him, the chair drawn up to the desk so both men could set their coffee on the desk and lean their elbows on smooth pine to talk.

"We had a killin' on the way out," Digger said.

Jacob was instantly all business: he nodded, once, his full attention obviously on the smaller man.

"Two ... extortionists."

Jacob frowned a little, made no other move.

"The jurisdictional law enforcement authority," Digger continued, and Jacob almost smiled -- the man would never say "fishing" if he could get away with callng it a "piscatorial pasttime" -- "did not detain us." Digger looked up at Jacob. "Because your father wired ahead and asked for ... any accommodation."

Jacob nodded. It was like his father, to grease the skids if it was possible; he'd apparently had some suspicion, or maybe just a gut feeling, and as a precaution, asked brother lawmen on the intended line of march to render any and all aid and assistance as may be needed.

"That letter is for" -- Digger tilted his head, trying to read it, upside-down to him and on the other side of the desk top, under Jacob's fingers -- "I can't read it, but it is addressed."

"I'll see that he gets it."

"Thank you."

"Did you get your own supplies?"

"Oh, yes," Digger nodded. "Yes, indeed, some of the finest --" he looked up, blinked. "Yes I did."

He knew people often didn't care for the details of his work, and he'd learned not to discuss trochars and blood pumps, mortician's wax and coffin handles.

He took a drink of coffee to cover his discomfort. It was surprisingly good -- it was as good as his father's was, bad.

"Did you make this?"

Jacob nodded.

"Thank God," Digger breathed. "I had a bad batch of varnish not long ago. It just didn't ... well, I used your father's coffee to strip the varnish off and start over."

Jacob leaned back and laughed, a good easy laugh, and he nodded.

"I don't doubt it a bit," he grinned, his fingers thumping happily on the wax-sealed envelope.

 

Digger lacked the skill to defeat a wax seal -- actually he could have defeated it, but he would not have been able to restore it.

He was a curious man and it was not uncommon for a mail rider to open and read correspondence, out of boredom if nothing else; could he have accessed the folded, single sheet within, he would have read the same feminine, flowing hand as had addressed the envelope:

My husband dictates, I write, then in parentheses: He told me he will not be a dictator in our marriage.

We are in St. Louis.

They are switching our cars.

You were right. Your owning a railroad makes our travel much more pleasant.

Two Chinamen tried to steal the coffin.

Here is the porter to take the mail.

We are well, our love to all, home soon as we can.

Digger stood, as did Jacob: they shook hands and Jacob opened the door for him as he departed: Jacob rinsed out the cups, picked up the jar of cream and drank what was left, rinsed it out and tossed the sloshings out into the street, closed the door behind him, locked it.

He stroked his Apple-horse's nose, slipped the empty pint jar in his saddle bag.

"Come on, fella," he murmured. "Let's take us a ride around town. We'll give that letter to Pa once he gets home tonight."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Lucky or not, the punch rattled the Sheriff to his boots.

Both men were breathing hard, breathing deep, both men were bleeding and both men were grimly determined to put an end to this fight.

Dann's nose was laid over and blood streamed off the man's chin, making him look as if he were hurt far worse than he was: the Sheriff's mustache was bloody but his nose bled only a little, and had quit.

Both men had swollen cheekbones, Dan's right eye was nearly shut now, the left showed the ill effect of the rock the Sheriff picked up and planted hard against the man's bony ridges when they rolled on the ground earlier.

Dan's swollen and bloodied lip pulled back from a newly broken tooth and the Sheriff heard the man begin a deep, visceral snarl.

The Sheriff feinted a punch, then dropped, landing on his palms and kicking with both legs as Dann charged him..

His boots caught Dann just below the kneecap, driving the knee out of joint: the Sheriff half-rolled, barely avoiding the falling man's bulk: he grabbed the rock he'd slammed into Dann's face, picked it up, rolled again and belted the man hard across the back of the head, twice.

 

Sarah fluffed her skirts under her and sat on the swept-clean rock shelf a hundred feet and more above her fine stone house.

Her house was built with its back to sheer granite, and before it was built, Italian hard rock miners with pry bars and wedges and sledge hammers scaled and rappelled the entire face above, seeking and pounding and prying and getting all the loose stone away: nobody wished for a rock fall to come through their roof, and these professional stonemasons took great pride in their work; they built for the ages, and they knew stone as a carpenter knows wood.

Sarah found this high perch by accident, before she was married, while she was still active as an Agent of the Court: it became her refuge, her place of meditation, the one place in the world that was uniquely hers: its only other visitors left tiny tracks in what little sand or dust accumulated, before the wind swept it away again, and so today she sat, cross legged, on her folded coat, looking through the blue infinity of the mountains beyond.

She knew she would have to testify in the morning, to give her account of the unpleasantness there in the Silver Jewel: she knew she would be acquitted, she knew there were witnesses enough to uphold her side of the story, she knew the reputation of the main witnesses alone would be enough to prove her actions were more than justified and justifiable.

Sarah's pale eyes gained a shade lighter as she remembered the moment, and her spirit flowed from her body, surrounded her, resembling nothing more than a great African bush-cat, striped and fanged, flexing its claws and snarling deep in its lean, muscled chest, a warning to all comers that there is no fighter in Nature more dangerous than the mother cat defending her young.

Sarah laid a gentle hand on her increasing belly and smiled.

She'd been distressed to find her black drawers no longer fit, the men's trousers in which she'd run, jumped, ridden, fought, shot, scaled, leaped, swung, climbed, kicked and otherwise ungently conducted herself on behalf of the Firelands District Court: her gravid belly precluded their wear, and she'd stopped, surprised, and laughed a little, before finally letting out another of her riding skirts and wearing it for the climb.

Sarah sat on her folded coat on the high rock shelf, looking into the distance, her hand slipping protectively, unconsciously, across her baby bulge.

"What kind of a mother will I be?" she whispered, her eyes unfocused, searching. "What kind of a mother am I already?"

She shivered.

"Uncle Charlie was right," she whispered again, in response to a memory. "Uncle Charlie was right."

 

Jacob blotted the day's entry into the Sheriff's logbook, pressing the blotting-paper to the damp script with the rocker; he left the book open to finish drying, before he closed it and put it away.

He'd heard a wagon come down the street and stop somewhere close and it did not surprise him to hear his father's step on the boardwalk without.

Part of his mind considered that not every man would know his father's footfall on the boards; the rest of him accepted it as perfectly normal, and all of him rose from the wheeled wooden office chair behind the Sheriff's solid built desk.

He made one step toward the door when it opened, and another step before he saw his father's face.

Jacob's eyes went pale and cold and very hard, and the Sheriff saw himself at a younger age when he saw his son's jaw thrust out and his face harden.

"Need a hand," he grunted, hooking his thumb over his shoulder.

"He's unconshush," the Sheriff slurred. "Doc giff him shum joosh sho he could fiksh hish leg."

Jacob considered the splinted and tight-wrapped limb, looked at his father.

"Doc will shee him shumtimesh through the night. Can you shtay?"
"Jackson Cooper said he would sit the jail if we had prisoners."

"Good."
The two got their shoulders under the drugged man's armpits and packed him inside.

Not a word more was said as the two got the prisoner out of the wagon and into a cell; they stripped the beaten man down far enough to guarantee he hid nothing illegal, improper or fattening on his person.

It was not until the prisoner was settled in, locked in and the two lawmen went out back of the Sheriff's office, where the Sheriff made good use of a horse trough to get the blood and dirt washed off his own carcass, that either man said another word to the other.

Jacob handed his father a towel and waited until the naked-to-the-waist Sheriff was dried off, then the Sheriff hung the towel back on its nail and grinned crookedly, his lip still swollen, and mumbled, "Macneil wassh right. I'm gettin' too old for thish!"

"Sir, I could have gone."

The Sheriff grunted, nodded.

"Should haff let you," he agreed, reaching up to stroke his mustache and frowning as he grazed his tender, discolored lip.

Jacob did not reply; he waited for his father to complete his thought.

"He shaid I wassh too old to take him in."

The Sheriff coughed, his mouth twisted a little, and Jacob knew this was supposed to be a laugh.

"Yes, sir," Jacob said neutrally.

"Haff you had shupper? The girl will haff shupper on the table when I get home."

Jacob's eyes turned and the Sheriff knew he was thinking of his own pretty young wife, and the older man's eyes crinkled a little with pleasure. He clapped a hand on his son's shoulder.

"Go home to your wife, Chacob," he slurred, and Jacob saw a sadness in his father's eyes.

"Sir, you're more than welcome to have supper with us," he offered.

The Sheriff nodded -- he knew how good a cook Jacob's wife Annette was, and he delighted in his grandsons, but the Sheriff was not a wasteful man, and he knew his girl fixed supper enough for himself and his daughters, and he wished not to waste it by dining elsewhere.

"Shank you," he nodded, squeezing Jacob's shoulder gently. "Tomorrow, perhapsh."

"Tomorrow, sir," Jacob grinned, then blinked, remembering.

He reached into his coat, brought out the letter Digger gave him.

The Sheriff accepted it, read the address, tapped it thoughtfully against his callused palm, considering.

"I haff court in the morning," he thought aloud. "Sshould haff ..."

He considered distance and travel time, shook his head.

"I'm shorry, Jacup," he shook his head a little, "not tomorrow, but yesh. Yesh, shupper. I would enchoy that."

"Come on out and welcome, sir. Any time. You know that."

The Sheriff's hand dropped to his side and he brought the top of his long handles up and shrugged his arms into the Union suit.

"Shank you," he almost whispered, and again Jacob saw that deep sadness in the older man's eyes, a loss that hadn't gone away since Esther's passing.

[Calico Mary]

I woke up not long before we reached Fort Collins. I was looking forward to getting home, but as we were getting off the train Cheyenne realized that he’d forgotten to wire ahead to have someone at the ranch send the wagons for us. We decided to leave our bags at the station and walk down to the livery to borrow one. As we were heading down the street, we saw that a few of our hands were at the general store getting supplies, and they had one of our wagons. Lone Wolf was one of them, and we noticed three scruffy looking strangers were hanging around in front of the bank, and they were calling out insults to Lone Wolf. Our men were pretending to ignore the strangers, but it was obvious that Lone Wolf was not happy. He had taken to dressing just like the other hands, but his darker skin and long black hair still made it clear he was not a white man.

 

Cheyenne didn’t hesitate for one second, he drew both his pistols and walked right up to the strangers, saying, “You gents have a problem with my head wrangler?” The strangers all quickly denied it, and turned their attention elsewhere, but at least they had shut up. “No? Good, keep it that way,” Cheyenne told them, then he returned to my side. “You did not need to do that, I know to ignore them,” Lone Wolf muttered, but Cheyenne just shook his head. “No reason you should have to put up with that, and you won’t if I’m around!” Lone Wolf did cheer up a little though when Laura came over and gave him a big hug, saying that she had really missed him. I glanced back at the strangers a couple of times, they seemed to be taking an awfully strange interest in the bank, but then again maybe they were just trying to avoid eye contact with any of us, especially Cheyenne.

 

Since one of our wagons was in fact in town, we didn’t really need to borrow one from the livery after all. We wouldn’t all fit since it was already loaded with the supplies, but there was room enough for Kate to ride on the seat with Prairie Dawg, who was driving, and Sally asked to ride as well, as she wasn’t feeling well again. We also didn’t have enough horses, but Eddie, Little Flower, Laura, and Ike volunteered to stay in town, Lone Wolf said that he’d return to town in the other wagon as soon as he got back to the ranch to get them and the bags. I handed Ruth off to Kate, and after I had mounted Swamp Rat Cheyenne handed Sarah up to me. I was just hoping that Swamp Rat wouldn’t mind having Sarah ride with me, but he didn’t seem to react to it. Cheyenne climbed onto his stallion, then Eddie handed Mathew up to him. Lone Wolf leaned over and asked Rose, “How about you ride with me? Would you like that?” The young girl nodded and smiled, and Lone Wolf swung her up onto his saddle then climbed up behind her. At that point Tommy spoke up, “Who should I ride with?” Eddie ruffled Tommy’s hair, telling him “How bout you stay in town with us, and maybe Lone Wolf can bring your pony back with him instead?” Tommy was more than happy to stay with his older siblings for now, and I thanked Eddie for being willing to let his brother hang out with them.

 

As we were leaving I heard Ike tell Sally goodbye, and he also told her to rest when we got back to the ranch. I had other ideas, but I wasn’t going to say so just yet. On the road back to the ranch, Lone Wolf asked permission to ride on ahead a little faster so that he could get the wagon and return for the others. “Go ahead,” Cheyenne said, “just don’t go so fast that you scare Rose, ok?” Lone Wolf agreed, and the two of them took off at a fast trot. Rose didn’t seem to be having any problem with it, and I thought that it was high time we started considering a pony of her own for her. She was used to riding double with any of us, it was time she learned to ride on her own. By the time we got to the front gate Lone Wolf already had the wagon ready and was heading for town. I guessed that he had missed Laura as much as she had missed him.

 

When we got to the house, Kate took Ruth in to lay her down for a nap, and I asked Cheyenne to do the same with the twins. I cornered Sally just as soon as Prairie Dawg helped her down from the wagon seat, saying “You need to come with me, and no arguing!” She looked confused at that until she realized I was walking straight for Doc’s office, then she tried to object. I wasn’t having any of that, and it wasn’t long before I had the girl inside, where I insisted that she let Doc examine her. I had a pretty good idea of what was going on with her, but I wanted Doc Eells professional opinion to confirm it. No sooner than she had finally given in, I heard Cheyenne yelling, “Cali! Cali!” I rushed outside to see what was wrong, and noticed Cheyenne coming down the front porch steps and heading straight for me. “You don’t need to disturb the whole ranch, and the kids can’t nap with you yelling. What’s the matter?” I asked.

 

“Yer darn cat and her dang furballs are on our bed again!” he shouted, not happy about it at all, but I just had to laugh. “Well, at least they aren’t in the water hole, wouldn’t that be worse?” He did have to admit I had a point there, but insisted that we go check the water hole to make sure there weren’t any other critters in there. Fortunately there weren’t any in there, and we put it to good use for a little while. While we were in there we heard the other wagon returning, but figured that Hop Sing would probably take care of the bags, so we didn’t exactly hurry to rejoin the rest of the family. At least not until we heard Ike yell “Yeehaw!” and had to go see what he was so excited about.

 

As we hurried towards Doc’s office to see what the commotion was all about, I saw that Eddie and Little Flower were on Doc’s porch with Doc and Ike, but Eddie didn’t see to look anywhere near as happy as Ike. As we drew near, Cheyenne called out, “What’s going on….is Sally ok?” I figured she probably had to be, if Ike was that happy. I started smiling, but Cheyenne was still very concerned. “Sally is just fine…don’t worry about it, Grandpa!” Doc told him, and I thought for a minute Cheyenne was going to faint. He had turned awfully pale, well, as pale as he could, and he weakly asked, “Grandpa? Does that mean…Sally is…she’s gonna…well, is she…you know?”

 

“Yep!” Ike said, “She’s gonna have a baby, and I can’t wait! She wanted to start our family as soon as we could, this is just perfect! I just hope we are as good of parents as you two are!” As I congratulated him, Doc pushed Cheyenne into a chair before he fell over. The poor man was muttering “Grandpa?” under his breath, and I had the feeling it was going to take a while for it to sink in. I was thrilled for Sally and Ike, but at the same time I had the sinking suspicion that Eddie was more than a little jealous….

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

I walked into our bedroom, ready to plop down in my very own bed, but it was covered in fur balls from the cat, Calico's cat!!! That flea ridden, no mouse killing, milk drinking, wood scratching ball of shedding fur!

 

I left out of our room with fire in my eyes, it was a good thing that cat wasn't around, or.....

 

I found Calico and with little insisting needed on my part we checked out our cabin out back with the indoor waterhole. Lucky for that cat, it wasn't there, nor had it been, it wouldn't loose one of it's nine lives that day.

 

The wagon returning to the ranch from town brought the two of us out of the waterhole, especially hearing that yeehaw and other hollering.

 

Grandpa?? Who? Me? But I wasn't but 28!! I wasn't done adding to my family yet, even if Calico didn't know that yet. I plopped down into a chair with my heading spinning. I know I had adapted nearly grown kids, but how did this happen? Calico bent down and whispered in my ear, I don't know how she knew what I was thinking, but she reminded me how it worked again and they had been married for a little while....

 

The sound of horses running hard into the grounds of the ranch brought me out of my self induced fog. The sounds of Sheriff Tom's husky dried voice calling for me, what could he want with me?

 

"The bank has been robbed!!" Tom blurted out as he saw me stagger out of Doc's place. "You drunk?" Tom stuttered as he watched me try to find my feet and to get them to work, all to the humor of everyone around.

 

Calico, when she finally quit laughing, told Tom that I had just found out that I was going to be a grandpa. The confusion on Tom's face was apparent and didn't clear up until Ike told him that the new arrival coming was his and Sally's.

 

Tom wiped his brow, "Whew, you had me there for a second. I forgot about the adaptions."

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

Tom finally regained his senses and began telling us why he had ridden out to the ranch with news of the bank robbery.

 

"No one got a good look at the men who robbed the bank, but folks did remember Cheyenne and Lone Wolf having a run in with some strangers in town. I figure the two of you might be willing to ride with the posse towards Firelands where the the bank robbers appear to be headed."

 

My mind had cleared enough to think, "Oh great, I haven't even slept in my own bed yet, and he wants me to hit the trail!"

 

Lone Wolf stepped up, "I'll know those men any where, sure I'll go, I'd track them through the pits of Hell. Sure I'll go!"

 

Tom looked at me, "How about you grandpa, you figure you got one more ride with a posse left in you?"

 

For a second I didn't know whether to get mad or feign weakness and let Lone Wolf go alone with the posse. Calico looked at me with her best sad eye look and told me, "You know you have to go, but I promise you we'll not throw the party until you get back, Grandpa."

 

"The posse is about an hour behind me," Tom told us. "I gave them orders to swing by here and pick us up and then we'll head for the Firelands. I know the sheriff there, this should be a cake walk."

 

"Oh sure" I thought, cake walk, hah!!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Lightning automatically reached for his whittled pencil as the sounder began to clatter.

Sound went in his ears and out the Barlow-shaped lead, formed regular printed characters on the pad.

Lightning reached for the key, sent the acknowledgement, then he re-read the message, and it wasn't until he actually read it, that he realized what it said.

He heard the door bang open, but not until he'd charged through it and was halfway down the depot platform at a dead sprint.

 

The Sheriff was energetically engaged in solving a problem that had vexed him for some time.

He was bearing his best resources to its solution, and in the fashion he'd found most efficient in the past.

He was leaned back in his office chair, his boots kicked up on the corner of the desk and his hat down over his eyes, not so far as to keep him from seeing the door, but enough to shade his eyes from studying whether there were leaks in the eyelids.

The Sheriff reached up and slid his hat back when he heard running feet on the boardwalk.

If it were a boy at play the steps would be lighter, quicker ... no, this was a spaced-out, heavy pounding, a grown man and in a hurry.

He brought his feet off the desk and started to rise as his door slammed open.

Lightning thrust the yellow form at him and the Sheriff took it, laid it out flat on the desk, read Lightning's blocky print, looked up at the telegrapher.

Lightning, mouth open, breathing deep, blinked as the Sheriff nodded, slapped the telegrapher's shoulder and strode for the gunrack.

"Whattaya gonna do, Sheriff?" Lightning blurted as the lawman thumbed back his Winchester's hammer, eased the lever down far enough to see cartridge brass in the breech.

The Sheriff stood the rifle against the wall, pulled down his favorite double gun, slung a bandolier of buck shot across his chest.

"Me?" he grinned. "I think I'll go have a drink."

Lightning blinked, his jaw hanging, and the Sheriff turned for the door.

"Shut the door when you leave," he said over his shoulder, and Lightning heard the lawman's heels as he strode down the boardwalk; he shook off his ennui and ran out the door in time to see the lawman turn and start down the alley beside the little log fortress that was the Sheriff's office.

Lightning drew the door shut behind him, carefully, stood and waited: a year and a half later, which was probably more like a minute and a half, he heard hoofbeats and knew the Sheriff was astride his red Cannonball mare.

The Sheriff laid the mare's reins against her neck and gave her a knee and she turned smartly, uphill, and the Sheriff steered a course for the Town Marshal's house, for he knew Jackson Cooper was splitting wood against the cold weather a-comin', and his firstborn son and chief deputy Jacob was helping.

 

Joseph Keller, Jacob's firstborn, turned and shaded his eyes, seeking the source of approaching hoofbeats.

"Grampa!" he yelled happily, and Jacob drove his ax into the stump, straightened.

Both lawmen saw the Sheriff had a shotgun slung off his saddlehorn by a thong, and a bandolier of shot shells across his body, and he never did this unless there was a serious matter at hand.

He and Jackson Cooper looked at one another, then peeled off their leather work gloves and reached for their gun belts.

[Calico Mary]

While Cheyenne and Lone Wolf were getting ready to leave, Eddie spoke up and insisted on going as well. The men didn’t seem to object, but I could tell by the look on Little Flower’s face that she was less than thrilled. Something was going on with those two, and I had a feeling I knew what, but didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. I knew the best thing to do was talk to each of them separately, but if Eddie was going to go with the posse I wouldn’t be able to talk to him until he got back, and I wanted his story first. I quickly whispered to Lone Wolf to saddle Rascal as well, then headed for the house before he had a chance to ask questions.

 

I ran upstairs and changed into my buckskins as fast as I could, then grabbed my gun belt and pistols and headed back to the barn. By the time I got there, Cheyenne had noticed the saddle on Rascal and was not happy about it. “Just where do you think you’re going?” he asked as I got closer. I just shrugged and said “Where do you think? With you all, of course, Laura is filling my saddlebags with some food, might come in handy if we don’t have a chance to get anything while we’re on the move.” With that I got busy making sure Rascal was all set to go, but Cheyenne wasn’t finished.

 

“I don’t think we should both go, one of us really should stay with the kids. Besides, it wasn’t that long ago that you almost died from that gunshot, I was planning on having Doc check you out when we got here. You should stay, Tom said he has plenty of men coming with that posse….” He rambled on, but I hadn’t tied the front of my buckskins real tight and the neckline was quite loose, and I saw where his eyes were looking and it wasn’t at my face. I could tell he was getting really distracted, and I knew this was going to be like taking candy from a baby.

 

“But Cheyenne honey…..won’t you be lonely if I stay behind? And aren’t I better company than a bunch of scruffy men?” I asked, moving a little closer so that he would have an even better look down the front of my shirt. “The kids will be fine with Kate, and Sally and Ike can help, they’re going to need the practice anyway. I’d miss you so much if I don’t go….” I finished, but I wasn’t sure he was really paying much attention to what I was saying. I did have his attention though, at least until Tom cleared his throat and said, “Well, here comes the posse, so you two had better make up your minds if you’re going to argue about this or not. I don’t want those bank robbers to get too much of a head start!”

 

Just then Laura came out with the saddlebags full of food, and I swung the bags up behind my saddle on Rascal, then leapt into the saddle. “You heard the sheriff, let’s get a move on! What are you fellas waiting for?” I asked, and with that I spurred Rascal forward to join Sheriff Tom, then glanced back at Cheyenne. He was slowly climbing onto his stallion, with a confused look on his face, I could tell he was trying to figure out exactly how he had lost that argument when it had never really gotten started. Lone Wolf and Eddie were already on their horses, and patiently waiting for Cheyenne to mount up.

 

“Take good care of the kids, we’ll be back as soon as we can,” I told Sally and Ike, then called out to Little Flower, “I’ll make sure Eddie comes back safe and sound, you have my word on it.” Little Flower just nodded, but didn’t say anything, and I noticed that she was blinking back tears as she turned away to walk alone towards their house. I knew that I had to do something to help those two work out what was bothering them, and as we all rode forward to meet up with the rest of the posse I prayed silently for the guidance and wisdom I’d need to do so without making things any worse….

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"Orders, sir?" Jacob asked briskly, grinning at his awestruck boy.

Joseph's shining eyes watched the pair turn from his Pa and the mountainous Jackson Cooper into a genuine Lawman and another, significantly bigger Lawman.

"Gwampa can I come too?" he piped, knowing what the answer was but still hopeful.

Linn leaned his forearm over his saddlehorn, looked at his grandson.

"Tell me your qualifications," he grinned.

Joseph straightened up and puffed out his little boy's chest and cocked his fists.

"I'm wuff an' tuff an' hard ta bwuff!" he declared, and the three men laughed.

"Joseph, we'll need your help," the Sheriff said, walking his red mare up to his grandson: he unslung his canteen, handed it down.

"Warsh that out good and fill it for me."

Joseph's eyes got big and round and he spun around and sprinted for the well, clutching the blanket sided canteen to him like something precious.

The Sheriff's eyes followed after the lad and he nodded, and Jacob knew he was seeing more than just his scampering grandboy, he was seeing a memory, and a good one.

"Water's a good idea," he said, "and so's food."

"I believe Emma might have some fixin's," Jackson Cooper rumbled, turning to the house: his wife, Emma, was schoolteacher and would not be home yet, but he knew where the necessaries were. Like the Sheriff, he was an old campaigner, though his wars had been fought without benefit of uniform or supply train.

It did not take long to assemble coffee and a pot, tin cups and two loaves of bread, cold meat wrapped in cheesecloth, dried fruit and some beans: the Sheriff made a mental note to discreetly restock Mrs. Cooper's larder, once they got back, by way of a thank-you for this unscheduled requisition against her supply.

"How much do we know right now?" Jacob asked as he hitched up the wagon.

Joseph came running up with the dripping canteen, thrust it at arm's length up to Grampa.

The Sheriff took it gravely, winked at the lad, hung the canteen off his saddle horn.

"Doesn't do to get dry, now, does it?" he asked, going to one knee.

"No, sir," Joseph breathed.

"Where's the best place to carry water in a dry country?"

"Inside you, sir."

"That's right. Could you fetch me a dipper of water? I'm kind of dry."

Joseph spun and was off like a shot.

"All swar," Jackson Cooper drawled, "if you tol' that boy t' grab a bull moose by the tail an' fetch it in for ye he'd do it!"

The Sheriff nodded; Jacob waited until Joseph came back with the dipper of water and his father drank it down.

"Adam's Ale," he sighed. "Rock juice. None better." He handed the dipper back to Joseph. "Thank you for that. Now hang the dipper here off the ax handle -- yes, just like that -- and let's h'ist you up in this-here wagon."

To speak was to act; by the time he reached for his grandson's waist, the boy had hung the dipper as indicated, and was ready to be boosted up into his Pa's waiting wagon.

"Joseph, you fetch on home now and let your Ma know I'm takin' your Pa gally-vantin' acrost the countryside."

"Yes, sir," Joseph said solemnly.

"Good lad." The Sheriff winked, patted the boy's knee. "Head on out, now."

"Yes, sir," Joseph grinned, flipping the reins. "Yup, Butter!"

The Sheriff waited until the wagon was out of earshot before swinging back up into his saddle and looking at Jacob.

Jacob was just settling into his own kak.

"Butter?"

Jacob chuckled.

"His Aunt Sarah told him about their horses when she was a girl, she had a pair she named Butter and Jelly. Nothin' would do but we name that new gelding Butter."
The Sheriff chuckled.

"Jackson Cooper," he said, "Tom said three of 'em are headed our way. They held up the bank so they'll be moving fast and light I would imagine. Tom and his posse will be pushin' 'em toward us. Do you reckon we can set up an' greet 'em?"

Jackson Cooper gave the Sheriff a long look, then turned and went into his back door.

He emerged from the solid built farm house with his favorite ten-bore in one hand and his Sharps in the other.

"Yep," he said in his usual long winded fashion. "Reckon so."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Sarah tilted her head and looked critically at the straw dummy.

She'd made it of gunny sacks and bundles of twisted, string-tied straw: she'd made it life size, she'd put a pot on its head and a long grey coat, and she had it stood up to a fence post.

Sarah picked up her rifle and used it as a spacer: she put the crescent steel butt plate on her belly and the muzzle on the dummy's belly, she scratched a mark in the dirt at her feet and parked the rifle close at hand.

She stepped up to the scratch.

Frowning again, she looked around, then picked up a hatchet and walked over to a little patch of brush; she came back with a trimmed stick, about as long as her rifle, notched around one end.

She heard the wagon approaching and smiled a little as she tied string around the notch she'd cut around the end of the stick.

Sarah did not have to look to know her hired man was reaching for the gelding's bridle.

Rapid footsteps approached and she drew two yards of string off the roll she held loosely in one hand.

"Joseph," she said, holding out the string ball, "run this around that dummy for me, would you?"

Joseph grinned, snatched the string-ball from her extended hand, scampered around the fence post and the straw dummy and back to Sarah.

"Now hold this stick right here."

Young hands gripped the dusty bark; Sarah drew the string tight, tied it off, nodded, cut the string-ball free.

"Now Joseph," Sarah said in her Sarah-the-schoolmarm voice, "we need to prepare for something."

"Okay!" Joseph piped happily, grinning: Sarah was by far his favorite aunt, Sarah always did Neat Stuff, and today promised to be something neat again.

He looked expectantly at Sarah as she reached into a poke, pulled out a belt and four sheathed knives, clustered together.

"Joseph," she said, "are you right handed or left handed?"

"Left!" Jacob declared happily, holding up his right hand.

"Sounds good!" Sarah exclaimed, smiling. "Arms straight out!"

Joseph thrust his arms straight out from the shoulders and giggled as Sarah squatted behind him, running the belt around his middle: she slid two sheathed knives behind his left hip, two behind his right, drew the belt snug, tied it.

"Now," Sarah said, picking up the free end of the stick she'd tied to the dummy, "back up a step, okay, forward, and, there!"

She looked down; Joseph's boot toes were just at the scratch she'd made in the dirt.

"Joseph," she said, drawing one of the handmade knives, "can you throw a knife?"

"Yis!" he exclaimed, big-eyed.

Sarah laughed. "But can you stick it when you throw it?"

"No," Joseph admitted, dropping his head, his bottom lip running out at least a foot, the way a disappointed little boy will.

"We'll see about that," Sarah said, giving him one of those I-know-something-you-don't-know looks.

"Now Joseph, do you remember me teaching you about knives?"

"Yis!" Joseph exclaimed, jumping with excitement as he answered.

"Tell me about knives."

Joseph turned to face his Aunt Sarah squarely.

"A knife is always loaded," he said. "A knife doesn't need reloaded. A knife will make the other guy hurt really bad. A knife will make 'em bleed. Cut behind the knee and they go down. Cut the inside of the forearm" -- he demonstrated with a forefinger slash on his own extended arm -- "and he can't grip. Cut for the face and his hands come up, cut for the crotch and --"

Sarah raised a palm, laughing, then she hugged her eager young nephew, patting him on the back as she held him: she put her hands on his shoulders, held him out at arm's length, her eyes shining proudly.

"Joseph," she said softly, then kissed him on the forehead, "you are one of the best students I've ever had!" She held him out again, squeezing his young shoulders. "Now let's teach you how to throw close-up."

"Huh?" Joseph said, his forehead wrinkling with puzzlement.

"Step up here." Sarah picked up the dropped end of the fresh-cut stick. "Put your belly here. Now" -- she turned him to face her, put the heel of her hand on his forehead -- "I want you to make a fist and swing at me, but swing slowly."

Joseph balled his fists and swung a few enthusiastic roundhouses, but as his Aunt Sarah's arm was longer than his young limbs, his fists found only air.

"Okay, good," Sarah said, squatting again. "Joseph, I'll tell you a secret," she whispered, her eyes shining mischievously.

"My first husband and I argued sometimes," she confessed, still whispering, "and when we did, he would hold me out at arm's length -- like this" -- she put her hand on his forehead again -- "and I would try and slug him, and he'd laugh" -- she smiled sadly -- "and that just made me madder, and he'd laugh harder."

Joseph laughed as well.

"It was okay with us, we weren't really fighting, but it shows us something."

Joseph blinked. It was evident he was paying very close attention.

"Now back to the stick."

Joseph jumped into position, his toes on the scratch, facing the dummy.

"Let's say we have to stop this bad guy and we can't reach him."

Joseph frowned.

Sarah hefted the knife again.

"If we can't reach him with the blade, what can we do?"

Joseph tilted his head curiously and his Aunt Sarah smiled, and it was a smile he'd seen before, and he knew something was about to happen.

He was right.

Sarah's right hand came back over her shoulder, flashed forward: Joseph's eyes widened as her knife drove into the dummy's face.

"See how I did that?"

"No," Joseph admitted.

Sarah reached around him, drew one of the left hand knives.

"I had these made by Black Smith over in Denver," she said. "He's a friend of mine, and he makes stuff for me." She hefted the knife, enjoying its balance.

"These are all matched. They throw the same." Her hand came back again, shot forward, the second knife drove into the dummy's face.

"This close we don't want to spin the knife. Take it by the handle, throw it blade-first, and --"

A third knife, hilt-deep beside the first two.

"Aim for the eyes, Joseph. Drive it hilt deep through the eye socket and you'll do your best work."

She drew the knives from the dummy's face, slid two of them back into the sheaths on Joseph's belt, then said, "Hold out your hand. Just like that. Now the knife -- like this, grip it lightly. Put your thumb here. Remember you're going to release it, so don't grip it too tightly." She held his hand in hers, matched her moves with her words. "Bring it back over your shoulder, like this, now throw. Slowly, we're actually not going to throw --"

Joseph's arm moved of its own volition; the knife smacked the dummy's face side-on.

"Well look at that!" Sarah exclaimed, pleased. "Right on the face!"

 

Sarah's husband held his wife as she sagged into him.

He frowned a little as he heard her groan.

He'd seen Joseph driving up the mountain road toward Jacob Keller's ranch, but he didn't know the lad was out for a visit until he came in the house and found his wife's face wet with tears.

Sarah ran to her husband and seized him with the desperation of a drowning victim, and he knew the best thing to do was just hold her, and he did just that.

He knew she would shake for a little and she might cry a little, and then she would tell him what troubled her, and he was right.

Llewellyn's blood ran cold in his veins as Sarah described what she'd seen, and with her finger on his lips, she swore him on the most solemn of oaths to utter, undying, perpetual, eternal secrecy.

He nodded, looking into his diminutive wife's pale eyes, his arms tightening around her as tears welled up and spilled over yet again.

"I saw him die, Mr. Llewellyn," Sarah whispered, her voice and her bottom lip trembling: "I saw Joseph's death, and I can't tell him!"

"Can ye tell me, then?" he asked softly, and Sarah nodded, then she shoved him from her, shoved hard.

"I saw him," she said hoarsely, "I saw him with a bayonet in his guts.

"He wore a uniform and he wore a pair of copper plated Colt revolvers, and I saw him pull a Smith knife and he threw it and he killed the soldier that killed him and then he pulled out the bayonet and he shot the rifle dry and he charged and that's when he fell dead and I was there looking down at him and he saw me --"
Sarah's face screwed up again and her voice ended in a throat-tightening squeak, and this time she buried her face in his fireman's red bib front shirt, and she wept bitterly, hopelessly, clutching her fists full of the good red wool.

 

Joseph unhitched the gelding and stood up on a stool to curry him down; he tended the put-away like a man ought, then he strutted into the house, whistling.

Just before he reached the front door, he saw something white out of the corner of his eye.

He turned, and for a moment he thought he saw a great white wolf, but when he turned to face it, there was only a little twist of fog, dissipating into the ground.

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

I had learned years ago not to argue with Cali about going with me on forays, but I didn't want her to think she could get her way without a little disagreement.

 

I asked Karl to saddle up three more horses that we could trade off on to push ahead of the posse trailing the outlaws that had robbed the bank. Hop Sing had already brought my Sharps from the house, along with my Winchester. I didn't tell anyone, but I could feel the adrenalin pulsing through my veins. I removed the Sharps from it's case and caressed it as if it were one of Cali's arms and inspected it thoroughly. I pulled a round from my bandoleer, walked off behind a barn and spotted a prairie dog a few hundred yards out. In a few seconds it had been turned into a red mist as the huge bullet tore through it.

 

I walked back to where Tom and the others were waiting and slid the long rifle into its' scabbard. Cali was giving me one of those, "Are you ready yet?" stares, as if I was holding everyone up. Before I could say a word Karl had brought the extra horses out from the barn and handed Lone Wolf, Cali and me reigns for them.

 

"Now, I'm ready to ride" I announced and then told Tom that the three of us from the ranch would push hard in front of the posse, but without any thing but accidental contact with the outlaws should we catch up to them.

 

The three of us left the ranch at a fast gallop with the extra horses trailing behind us. As we passed the house I looked back over my shoulder and saw Grumpy ole Man and Buford riding towards us with a pack horse lightly laden with supplies. I smiled to myself and shook my head, there was no use telling the wily old veteran that he couldn't come along.

 

We slowed just a bit to let Grumpy catch up to us and then pushed on a little slower. Having the supplies with us would let us move longer so the slower speed wouldn't hurt us much in trying to catch up with the desperados.

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Half a dozen ways, the Sheriff thought.

At least half a dozen ways to get past us.

They just hit a bank.

They could swing north to Cripple.

No ... not if they're being pushed.

Like as not they'll sprint on ahead.

Guilty men do that.

What was it the Parson preached a couple Sundays ago ... "The guilty flee when no man pursueth."

The lean old lawman with the iron grey mustache grinned, and the effect was distinctly feral, wolflike.

"I know that look," Jackson Cooper rumbled. "You had it the night we caught them fellers back in Sedalia."

Jackson Cooper grunted, sounding like two big rocks grinding together at the bottom of a mine shaft.

"They've got to know they'll be followed," the Sheriff said slowly. "They'll get distance, they'll lay up and watch, then they'll sprint again if they see they're followed. If they planned ahead they'll have fresh horses waiting."

"Unless they know where to get horses."

"Every ranch has horse flesh," the Sheriff agreed. "I need to get word to Macneil."

"He might want to come along."

"I know that green-eyed wife of his." The Sheriff grinned again, shook his head. "She won't be terrible pleased if she can't come and raise some hell herself."

Father and son exchanged a look, and Jackson Cooper surmised -- correctly -- that mention of a female who'd been a very effective badge packer, reminded them of Sarah.

Jackson Cooper remembered seeing Sarah in the past day or two, and her pregnancy was ... evident.

No, it would not do to have Sarah along on this one.

"Sir?" Jacob said. "Shingle Knob might give us a good enough vantage."

"The very place," the Sheriff nodded. "Jacob, your eyes are young and sharp, you take the Knob. Jackson Cooper, you flank wide, make it about a half mile and I'll flank out t'other way. Jacob, you've glass?"

Jacob nodded. "I have that spy glass, sir, the one I won in MIssouri."

The Sheriff nodded. He remembered Jacob's game, and how he won a telescope of the latest German manufacture from a New York dandy who fancied himself good with cards.

"Jackson Cooper, have you a glass?"

Jackson Cooper shook his ponderous head, slowly, reminding the Sheriff of a bear, massive, deceptively slow, capable of quick and powerful action.

He reached back, unbuckled a saddle bag, pulled out his own binoculars.

"Here," he said, holding them out.

Jackson Cooper took them as if they were bone china and about to break.

"Turn each eye piece but not more than a half turn. Turn one way then the other until it comes into focus."

Jackson Cooper grunted skeptically, handed them back.

"Sir?" Jacob asked quietly. "How shall I signal you?"

The Sheriff considered the angle of the sun, grinned.

"You got that mirror in your vest pocket, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Use that."

"Yes, sir."

The three stepped their horses out at a brisk pace, heading for a particular promontory that would afford the best vantage of anyone coming.

 

Sarah fed her huge, black Snowflake mare a shaving of molasses cured twist tobacker.

Snowflake snuffed loudly at Sarah's expansive belly.

"I know," Sarah groaned. "I'm getting as big as a horse."

Snowflake made no reply.

Sarah grimaced, laid a hand on her belly.

"I don't mind you moving, Daffyd," she said quietly, looking down at what she called her Equatorial Bulge, "but I really don't like it when you stomp straight down like that!"

"What's that, mum?" the maid asked, bearing a small tray, a teapot, a bone-china cup.

"Oh, Mary, thank you!" Sarah groaned. "Ginger tea! I need that!"

"Yes, mum."

Sarah rubbed her belly, grimaced again.

"Is it the labors again, mum?"

Sarah nodded.

"It's yer body gettin' ready t' deliver, it is," the maid said reassuringly. "It's stretchin' itself an' --"

"I won't deliver until late November," Sarah interrupted.

"And babies come i' their own time," the maid replied, setting the tray down on a square-dressed stone and delicately pouring the fragile teacup nearly full. "Early or late, they don't listen t' doctors, nor midwives, nor mithers. Why, my own sister's child didna' come until well late! We had t' open every window i' th' house an' every door besides, an' th' midwife shouted t' the belly 'Come out, baby!' an' th' baby wouldna' come!"

"What did they finally do?" Sarah asked, taking the teacup and sipping carefully at the steaming liquid.

The maid gave her a long look.

"Twas the witch's tea, it was," she said. "The blight it was, the rye blight. Ergot blight, the Perfesser called it, an' he said it made cattle miscarry an' caused cramps an' the dysentery, an' witches used it t' cause miscarriage!" She nodded, her eyes bright. "So ma Grandam brewed it -- weak, she said she didn't want th' child t' shoot across th' room an' out yon window -- an' it worked!"

The maid nodded, beaming with pride, and Sarah had the sneaking suspicion that it wasn't her "Grandam" that brewed that particular batch of tea.

"Is th' ginger helpin' yer stomach then?" she asked brightly.

Sarah nodded.

"'Tis a boy ye're carryin'," the maid said confidently. "Boys gi'e ye a sour stomach an' the worse morning sickness!"

"He's doing a bang-up job," Sarah muttered, looking around for something to sit on.

With this great belly, the small of her back was giving her billy Hell, especially if she was on her feet for any length of time.

 

The Sheriff rode out to the distance he wanted, the sweep of his vision covering two of the only mountain trails any traveler could use.

He stopped with a tangle of brush behind him, a large rock to his right: at any distance, if he held still, he would look like part of the landscape.

There's water in the draw behind me, he thought.

They'll pass three or four creeks but there's a fair size pool back here, good water and on a known path.

I'm betting they'll come here.

He slipped the loop off his saddle horn, broke open his double gun, then closed the action, nodding.

He leaned forward a little and patted Cannonball's neck, then dismounted, led the mare behind the bigger of the rocks, ground-reined her.

She'll graze, he thought, and she won't wander far.

He found a comfortable place to lean himself against the sun-warmed rock and wait.

[Calico Mary]

I was glad to see that Cheyenne wasn’t going to argue with me, but then again he should have known it would annoy me that he took the time to show off before we left by shooting a poor defenseless prairie dog for no good reason. It wasn’t like he really needed the practice with that Sharps, and the critter wasn’t harming anyone….but I wasn’t about to waste even more time arguing about that, catching those bank robbers was more important. Most of our money was in banks in Denver, but we did have some in the Fort Collins bank, and most of our neighbors had all of theirs in this bank, and we knew that most of them couldn’t afford the loss. We had to find those men and get that money back, or else a lot of folks in the area would have a hard time keeping their families fed.

 

I agreed with his suggestion that he, Lone Wolf, and I ride on ahead, so I was kind of surprised when he decided to slow down a bit and wait for Grumpy. Not that I didn’t think the old man couldn’t keep up, but I wasn’t too sure how long Buford would be able to keep pace with the horses, and I knew Grumpy would never agree to leave the dog behind. Cheyenne must have seen the confused look on my face, because he leaned over and explained that although he was fairly confident in his ability to track the outlaws, if for any reason he did lose their trail Buford might come in handy in picking it back up again. I had to concede that point, Buford had already proven his worth in more ways than one and it was a good idea. It didn’t take long for Grumpy and Buford to catch up, and we were on our way again.

 

As we approached the front gate of the ranch we could see another rider waiting for us. When we got a little closer I realized it was Padre, mounted on the strongest of Running Bear’s ponies. He called out “Two Birds insisted I go along, said sumthin’ bout Stands Alone tellin’ her so, but think I’ll wait fer tha rest of tha fellers, don’t think this pony is gonna be able ta keep up wit ya’ll.” That made sense, the smaller horse had a lot of stamina but its shorter legs would be no match for our much larger stallions. Cheyenne nodded his agreement for Padre to join up with the rest of the posse behind us, and we were off again.

 

It didn’t take long for Cheyenne and Lone Wolf to find what was most likely the outlaws’ trail. Tom had already given us a general idea of the direction the men were heading and a description of a slight defect in one of their horses’ shoes that made their tracks easily identifiable. The trail headed straight south for a while, but once we had crossed the Little Thompson River the tracks turned west, into the foothills. I knew this was going to make following them a bit more difficult, so maybe it was a good idea for Buford to come with us. So far the dog was keeping up just fine, though I could tell he was showing signs of tiring. We needed to slow down a bit anyway, the ground was steadily becoming rockier with every passing mile and we didn’t want to risk the horses breaking any legs. At least the trail was fairly easy to follow, though for how long I wasn’t sure, the sun was already starting to sink pretty low in the sky.

 

After a while Cheyenne pulled up, and the rest of us stopped with him. I realized that the terrain was looking awfully familiar, but at first I couldn’t think of why. Then Cheyenne said, “We’re losing light fast, and even if Buford can still follow them in the dark I don’t think it’s a good idea to try it. Grizz’s cabin isn’t far from here, what do you say to dropping in and seeing if he’s home, and maybe we can talk him into letting us spend the night?” Now it dawned on me why I recognized the scenery, and I had to admit that it was worth a shot. As long as Grizz didn’t shoot us, of course, for showing up unannounced and uninvited, but Cheyenne and Grumpy didn’t seem worried. I was kind of relieved though when we were getting close to the cabin that Buford started barking, at least Grizz would know we were coming, and as we drew near to the cabin Grizz stepped outside to greet us. Cheyenne quickly explained why we were there, and of course Grizz immediately offered to come along and help out. “In the morning though, you all were smart in deciding not to try it in the dark. Git on down, I’ll see ifn’ I kin rustle up some vittles, Clara wuz just here a couple of days ago and she brought me some supplies.”

 

The men all dismounted fairly quickly, but when I tried to it all of a sudden dawned on me just how badly my lower back was hurting. I hadn’t ridden that far or that fast in a long time, and my body was letting me know in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t real happy about it. Cheyenne quickly came over to help me, but I still grimaced a bit climbing down out of that saddle. Grizz noticed it too, and refused my offer to help with cooking for us. Well, maybe my back pains weren’t the only reason he refused my help, but at least he was nice enough not to mention so. By the time we were done eating it was pitch black outside, there wasn’t much of a moon and the mountains did get awfully dark after sundown. Grizz then came over and handed Cheyenne his spare lantern and some matches. “Go down that trail behind the cabin about 150 yards or so, there’s a little hot spring pool back there. Just what Calico needs for that aching back of hers, ifn’ she’s gonna keep riding tomorrow she could use a good long soak in there tonight.”

 

I’d heard of those hot springs pools, and it sounded like a good idea to me. Cheyenne quickly lit the lantern, and the two of us headed up the path until we found it, just big enough for two people to immerse themselves in. It didn’t take me long to get undressed and head for the water, sure enough it felt wonderful on my lower back, and with Cheyenne giving me a nice back rub as well it wasn’t long before my aches and pains started easing a bit. Occasionally we could hear the sounds of Grizz and Grumpy laughing about something, I kind of wondered what they were talking about but had no real desire to go find out. Cheyenne didn’t seem to be in the mood for talking much, and that was just fine with me…

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Sarah lay cuddled against her nice warm husband.

Sleeping with a Llewellyn, she thought drowsily, was like sleeping with a warm brick, only softer: she made a sleepy, contented sound, spooned against her husband's back and bottom, her arm over his ribs, and she felt his hand drift up of its own accord, for he was sound asleep, and his hand rested on hers, and she felt him breathe.

Of a sudden Sarah was chilled.

Her eyes snapped open and she saw ...

Stars.

She looked to her right ... a stand of three tall rocks she knew, a smaller boulder to one side ...

Papa!

Sarah stiffened, then froze as her unborn child stirred within her.

The child's movement pressed on her bladder and Sarah knew she had to move quickly, before he decided to stomp around again.

She slithered out of bed, backward, slipping out from under the bedcovers so as not to introduce a quick draft in her absence: bare feet found fur-lined moccasins, and Sarah picked up her abbreviated double gun and cat-footed out the door and down the stairs.

She did not like to use the chamber pot -- she didn't want to put the maid to the trouble of emptying it, and she didn't want to teeter down the stairs with a thunder mug in one hand and her hand gripping the rail with the other.

Sarah slipped ghost-like down the stairs, a living shadow following: The Bear Killer slept in their bedroom, waking when she woke: they flowed to the bottom of the stairs, through the house, out the back door.

The Bear Killer ran scout, slipping ahead, listening and scenting, Sarah staying back in the shadow, her double gun in a fighting grip: she'd never had a problem, it was well known hers was a ranch to avoid if one wished trouble, and she'd delivered more than one trouble seeker either to hospital or to Potter's Field when this sound local advice was disregarded.

A few night birds was all she heard.

The Bear Killer pressed a cold, wet nose against her wrist and snuffed loudly, and Sarah knew all was well.

She threw a glance at the stars overhead and thought, Papa, what are you into now?

 

The lawmen were old campaigners and no strangers to making do with the contents of their saddlebags: each selected an accommodating location, the Sheriff going so far as to dig a slight depression for his bony hip: he slept on his side and he didn't ache quite as bad if he relieved the pressure on his femoral condyle.

Jacob slept sitting up, leaned back against a rock, his Apple-horse close by: Jackson Cooper simply lay down on the ground, covered up with a blanket, used his tortured hat for a pillow: he hung his boots off a convenient branch, wedged into a fork upside down, for the man had a mortal dread of scorpions.

The Sheriff mentioned once that scorpions were a desert creature and were never seen this high up, and Jackson Cooper looked uncomfortable and allowed as he warn't gon' ter take no chances 'cause some fancy perfesser ain't never found no blue mountain scorpions and he warn't gonter be th' first man t' find one th' hard way, and the Sheriff wisely nodded and accepted this without comment.

Jacob, blanket wrapped and set upright, dozed, breathing easily, part of his mind awake, listening to his stallion, to the night sounds: he was young, his mind was clear and untroubled, and he was actually able to rest and refresh himself in this manner.

The Sheriff relaxed, and as he relaxed, his mind wandered, and he remembered his wife Esther, and how she smelled, he remembered the warm comfort of cuddling with his green-eyed, red-headed Southern belle, he remembered the sound of her breath in the stillness of her nighttime bedroom.

He'd slept many a night under the stars, with his hat for a pillow and the earth for a mattress, covered with a single blanket and a clean conscience, and he'd never been really chilled, but this night, this night he missed his wife, and he wished for at least a good hound dog to keep him warm.

 

Sarah stopped and looked at the stars again.

The Bear Killer brushed her hand with a curious muzzle.

Sarah automatically rubbed him behind the ears, thinking.

Papa needs me, she thought.

Snowflake will come with a single whistle, my saddle is hung in its usual place, I can find him --

Sarah blinked, lay a maternal hand on her expansive middle.

No.

Straddling a Frisian is like straddling my kitchen table.

Why, I might spread so wide my child will just fall out!

Sarah giggled at the silly thought, remembering many stories of long and difficult deliveries.

"If I have any trouble birthing you," she whispered to her unborn son, stroking her belly as she spoke, "I'll just saddle up Snowflake and you'll pop right out!"

As if in agreement, the newest Llewellyn-to-be rolled over in the tightening confines of his warm, snug abode.

Sarah took a long breath, closed her eyes, let her spirit flow out and over the landscape, to soar over the settlement and wheel in the nighttime sky, and in her mind's eye she saw her Papa, and she saw he slept, and the distress he felt was a troubled soul and not a physical danger.

 

Sarah's husband gave a drowsly rumble as Sarah cuddled up against him again.

The man hadn't moved.

Sarah spooned up against him, cuddling a little, running her hand over his ribs, and his hand come up of its own accord and laid gently, warmly over hers.

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

The hot springs was just the thing after a long day in the saddle. The moon was over head as we finally decided to join the others for something to eat. After we had pulled our buckskins on we started to head for Grizz's cabin when Calico smelled smoke from the cabin.

 

"Boy, I hope Grizz has something hot for us, I'm famished!" Calico exclaimed excitedly.

 

I stopped, we were looking in the direction of Grizz's cabin, but the slight breeze was hitting the nape of my neck. I started sniffing the air as I turned into the breeze and as I did Calico started sniffing the breeze too.

 

"We're not going to get to eat are we?" she asked dejectedly.

 

"No, I don't reckon so." I answered her as my stomach growled it's disapproval.

 

We stood there a few seconds, staring at one another trying to come up with a plan. Tomorrow was going to be another hard day, and there was no way to safely sneak into the camp of the outlaws without knowing the lay of the land real well. Oh, Lone Wolf and I could have easily pulled it off, but that hot spring had sure felt good. About then our stomachs began to growl in unison.

 

We would wake before sunrise and leave out directly. We knew the general direction outlaws were heading and if we played it right we would be able to get in front of them and have a welcome party for them.

 

We finalized our plans just as we opened the door to Grizz's cabin and the magnificent aroma of venison stew filled our nostrils.

 

Grizz looked at the two of us and with a great deal of laughter proclaimed, "You two back already, I figured you'd fall asleep out there."

 

Then he heard our stomach's growl their displeasure. Grumpy was just shaking his head back and forth as Lone Wolf just sat there with a confused look on his face.

 

That confused look vanished though as Grizz set food in front of him, and the rest of us. Between bites Calico and I told them of the smoke we had smelled from up wind and of our plan to leave at or before sunrise.

 

We decided to leave well before sunrise, swing wide around where Grizz figured the outlaws had camped and get out in front of the outlaws. We would have them in a vise, the rest of the posse to their rear, and us out in front of them.

 

I smiled at the thought of our plans working out as we planned. I smiled even more as Calico suggested another round at the hot spring. Grizz was smiling so wide that you could see it through his mangled white beard.

 

We spent a little more time at the hot spring before settling down in the stable. Morning would come soon, and even sooner for us.

 

That night visions of an eagle swooping down on it's prey played it's way through my dreams. I woke as the moon was setting, I wasn't sure just what time it was, but I heard Calico say that it was time to go.

 

Buford was being followed by Grumpy and Lone Wolf to the stable from the cabin. You could sense the excitement among them, even Grizz who had volunteered to go along and lead us around the outlaws. He hadn't like the idea of the outlaws having the nerve of camping on his land, and the fact that Clara had money in the bank that had been robbed.

 

As the sun broke the horizon, Grizz stopped and pointed back over his shoulder, "I figure they camped about three miles back that way. We'll be able to stay well in front of them until it's time. I figure about two more hours before we get to the spot we'll ambush them."

 

We kicked up our pace but without creating a cloud of dust. We knew the outlaws wouldn't risk throwing up dust either so we would easily stay well out in front of them.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Jacob poured coffee, Jackson Cooper handed out light rolls tore in two with back strap meat sandwiched between tops and bottoms, and the three men ate.

They'd made a small fire, dry wood and under yellowing leaves enough to spread what little smoke their was, for coffee was a necessity of a morning: they could live without it, but they preferred not to.

Jacob discreetly ensured his Pa didn't make the coffee.

Conversation was quiet in the morning's hush; a little ground mist hugged the terrain, fog draped gauzy blankets in lower valleys and hollows, and the three men ate, and listened, and watched their horses.

Jacob found a rock overhang the night before and their saddles were cached under the overhang to keep morning dew off them; their blankets were hung in the lee of the rocks, spread out on the back sides where the sun could hit them but they would not be seen.

If the outlaws come from that-a-way, Jacob thought.

"Sir?" he asked, and the Sheriff looked up at him over the rim of his blue-granite cup.

"Sir, what do we know about the bank robbers?"

The Sheriff swallowed his mouthful, harrumphed a little and smiled.

"Not much," he admitted.

"How much do we know about the posse, sir?"

The Sheriff's smile became a grin, and the grin was not altogether pleasant.

Jacob had seen that grin before and it did not bode well for those the man pursued that day.

"If I recall rightly, they've got trackers ... good ones."

Jacob nodded. "Do we know how good the horses are?"

The Sheriff shook his head.

Jacob considered this, took a bite of sandwich, and made a mental note to thank Emma Cooper for her unknowing donation to their little expedition. His wife Annette was quite the good cook, but the Marshal's wife made light rolls that put Annette's to shame.

Might be where I'm eating it, Jacob thought, and might be that I'm hungry, too.

What was that old Chinese saying?

"Any food that fills the belly is good food" ... no .. "Hunger makes the best sauce."

Jacob took another bite of his breakfast and considered that he was hungry enough, a rock would taste as good as a red-ripe apple.

Jackson Cooper slurped noisily and gulped the last of his coffee.

"I wonder," the Sheriff said quietly, "if they'll even get this far."

"Sir?"

The Sheriff's eyes were pale, but not war-white, and Jacob could see some amusement in them.

"Gentlemen, we may have slept in a cold bed for nothing."

Jackson Cooper favored the Sheriff with a long look, and Jacob quirked an eybrow, curious.

"I got me a feelin' they just might nail those bank robbin' scoundrels without our help."

 

The maid orbited Sarah like a worried comet orbits the sun: coming nearer, drifting further, chattering constantly, as was her wont of a morning.

"And I don't know why ye're no' in bed!" she scolded. "Look at ye! Great wi' child an' ye're six months along noo an' ye shuid ha'e yer feet up an' --"

Sarah laughed, and her husband smiled to hear it, for he was finishing his breakfast and watching with amusement as the maid tended and fussed and berated and scolded and lavished absolute affection on his wife: he'd learned long ago that the maid was long past being merely hired help, she was a good and trusted friend, and he'd heard women fussing so in the past, knowing them to be associated and not alienated.

"I'm big as a whale already," Sarah complained, "my ankles swell, I'm tired, my back hurts and you want me just to lay around in bed? I'll get fat and float away!"

The maid produced a clothes-brush and proceeded to whisk nonexistent lint from Sarah's shoulders and across the back of her dress.

"Ye'll no' get fat," she muttered. "Ye've the figure of a girl, God be praised, though how ye do it I dinna ken, for ye eat like a thrasher an' I dona' see where i' goes --"

Sarah turned quickly, seized the maid's hands, looked into the hired girl's eyes.

Llewellyn looked up, interested, for what had been nonstop chatter and constant motion was suddenly still, and without sound.

Sarah looked long and deep into the maid's eyes, and finally she whispered, "Thank you," and the two women embraced, and Llewellyn stood up, wiping his mustache carefully with the linen napkin.

"Ladies," he said in a gentle voice, "I thank you for breakfast."

The maid colored furiously; she'd served families back East, folk of money and hereditary gentility, who treated hirelings like offal and never spoke without insult: she was still not used to being treated with consideration, and she hoped sincerely she never got used to it, for if she got used to it she might get complacent, and complacency could lead to those harsh words that still haunted her nightmares.

Llewellyn kissed his wife, embracing her carefully, as if she were a delicate china that might break if squeezed too hard: he squatted, caressed her belly and whispered, "Daffyd, you be a good lad now," and Sarah felt her son move, and smiled.

The two women watched him drive off, heading in for his 24-hour shift with the Irish Brigade.

"Will he be safe t'day, mum?" the maid asked.

"Oh, yes," Sarah laughed. "He'll be fine."

"Who, then?"

Sarah turned quickly and saw the maid's haunted expression.

The hired girl dropped her eyes, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Nobody," Sarah whispered, cupping gentle fingers under the maid's chin and bringing her face up. "I'm sorry. Nobody. Not today."

The maid nodded, bit her bottom lip, then the two turned from the front door, the maid closing it gently, quietly.

"Mum?" the maid spoke up, reaching for an envelope on the tray beside the door. "The boy brought this yesterday, an' 'twas no' a good time t' interrupt ye."

Sarah took the envelope, smiled when she saw the handwriting.

She broke the seal, took out the note; the maid saw her smile.

"Daciana will be coming out today," she nodded, "about noon."

The maid planted her knuckles on the waist-string of her white apron. "And it's about time!" she scolded.

Sarah re-folded the note, placed it carefully back in the envelope, and the maid's heart lifted to see Sarah's quiet smile.

 

The three lawmen resumed their stations, patient, waiting, watching.

They knew what it was to trust their money to the bank, and they knew if their bank were robbed, it was their money -- not the bank's -- that would be taken.

Bad men had taken money from good people, and these bad men would be stopped.

Peacefully, or otherwise.

Three lawmen waited, their horses saddled, watching the approaches, watching for a change, listening, waiting.

Jacob passed the honed edge of his fighting blade across his arm, puffed his breath on it and watched the shaved off arm hairs float for a moment on the still mountain air.

Jackson Cooper set himself comfortably against a tree trunk, his backside comfortable on his folded up blanket: from here, his Sharps commanded a broad arc of fire, and he knew where to hold from here to yonder, and he didn't much care how far out yonder was.

The Sheriff rubbed his Cannonball mare behind the ears, whispering to her, feeding her a sliver of molasses-cured whittled off the plug he carried.

It was a bribe, pure and simple, for the horse loved molasses cured tobacker, and it killed worms.

"I don't reckon we'll see a thing," he whispered. "Those men in that posse are good. I'll lay money we don't have to turn a hand."

Cannonball blinked and switched her tail but made no other reply; the Sheriff's mare was not one to lay bets, even in response to the lean lawman's words.

Three lawmen waited in the quiet of the morning.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Sarah hugged her sisters to her, delighted for their visit.

The maid was busy fixing a meal; the ladies were visiting, and the fine stone house was filled again with laughter and happy voices.

Polly and Opal were showing themselves to be young ladies, all of a sudden, and no longer the girls they had been; Sarah, a little short of breath with the burden she carried beneath her swelling bosom, marveled at how much alike, and yet unlike they looked, how much they'd grown, and she automatically started to catalog the differences in them since she last took a really good look.

Opal, with her half-Chinese heritage, had an absolutely flawless, glowing complexion; she was as fair skinned as her mother, but had the dark, almond eyes of an Oriental beauty: genetics had been kind, and she was becoming an absolutely beautiful young woman, as was her sister, for all that her hair was straight as a die and black as a sinner's heart.

Polly, her sister, was blond-haired and blue-eyed, her hair lay in natural curls, and though she lacked the almond shape of her eyes, her skin was as delicate and fair as her sister's: they looked alike, they walked alike, they carried themselves alike, and Sarah suspected they had that mystical, almost magical connection that twins have shared since time immemorial.

Even if they were cousins.

Polly turned up the gleaming, curved cover to expose polished-ivory piano keys: she stood again, scooted the piano bench back a half inch, sat: satisfied, she raised her hands, and, eyes closed, coaxed the first minor chords of a Bach sonata from Sarah's piano.

Sarah closed her eyes as well, allowing herself to relax: she'd been chafing at her inactivity, fretting that she was not with her Papa, helping with the posse, or at least taking blankets and a good hot meal out to the waiting lawmen.

Her mother and sisters were a very welcome distraction.

Opal's eyes widened and she blinked, opening her mouth, then closed it: she'd not seen Sarah's unborn child kick against her belly before.

 

Jackson Cooper watered his horse and himself, as did the Sheriff and Jacob: they talked quietly, discussing Jackson Cooper's crops, Jacob's herds, the Sheriff's apple trees.

Their eyes kept straying to the only two ways a man ahorse or on foot could get to this side -- unless they could climb a sheer granite cliff, or sprout wings and fly.

"If they try riding the steam train," the Sheriff said, "Lightning will send a rider with a message. If they try riding the railroad's right-of-way, if they don't twist off a horse's hoof between rail and tie or break a leg, they'll be seen" -- Jacob's eyes tightened at the corners, for he knew who watched, and where -- "and we'll know about it."

Jackson Cooper's eyes swung skyward, assessing the clouds, watching the patient circling of a great bird.

"You reckon we're chasin' a wild goose?" the Marshal rumbled in a voice better suited to rolling boulders around in a deep well.

The Sheriff grinned. "Culpepper learned from the best and he taught his boy the same as he learned. I reckon Cheyenne has split his posse" -- his hands moved with his words -- "he'll have half of 'em ahead and the rest in pursuit."

"The hammer and the anvil?" Jacob asked, his eyes pale.

His father nodded. "The hammer and the anvil."

Jackson Cooper grunted.

"I ain't had a day off in some time," he grinned. "This feels kinda good."

"Take yourself a nap if you like," the Sheriff offered. "I'll whip you a Whoop-Jamboreeho if we see anything."

Jackson Cooper chuckled, then looked thoughtful.

"Y'know," he said softly, "I keep expectin' t'see Sarah show up with a covered basket."

Jacob grinned. "I wish she would," he admitted.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Daciana's voice was distinctive, Romanian and delightful, in roughly reverse order; it was happy coincidence that Sarah's old and dear friend, who'd come to Firelands with a traveling circus and stayed, arrived shortly after Sarah's Mama and her sisters.

The house was filled with happy voices and feminine laughter, and the women discussed the things that women discuss when one of their own is becoming great with child; tea was brewed and dispensed in a steady stream, one set of hands, then another, played Sarah's fine and shining piano, and the younger girls helped the maid prepare sandwiches and little tea-cakes and the dainties that ladies nibble on in polite company.

The Sheriff, on the other hand, chewed on cold beef, his eyes busy; Jacob stropped one of his several knives on his boot sole, and Jackson Cooper leaned back against a tree, his backside on the folded blanket once more, arms folded across his chest and his hat tilted down over his face.

 

The ladies speculated happily on what Sarah's child would weigh, how long she would labor, what color eyes and hair, how soon Sarah would lose her maternal avoirdupois.

The Sheriff considered how single mindedly a posse, pursuing outlaws that hit their community and stole their savings, could remain on a man's track; he listened to birdsong, and wind in the trees, and the gentle snore of Jackson Cooper, relaxed beneath his worse-for-wear and rather misshapen hat.

 

Polly, the fair-haired sister, recited the Preamble to the Constitution.

Not to be outdone, Opal recited the Gettysburg Address.

Jackson Cooper snored.

The Sheriff raised his field glasses, studied the approaches and the countryside surrounding: lowering them, he rubbed his eyes, raised them again.

Sound carries far, this high up, he thought: echoes can fool a man for direction but once the shootin' starts, we'll hear it.

Behind the rock, Jacob's Appaloosa rolled happily in the tall grass: hip-shot,Cannonball dozed, her hide shivering at a fly.

Jacob tried his blade on his forearm, easily shaving arm hairs with a light touch.

A puff of breath and the freed fur floated on the light breeze.

[Cheyenne Culpepper 32827]

We rode for about five hours before we found our spot. We settled on a knoll with high grounds behind us, and the trail that let us to that spot ran through a shallow valley. If everything worked out, we would have them trapped with little chance of escape.

 

Grumpy took care of the horses and Calico found some of the food stuffs that Grumpy had brought. Lone Wolf made quite a face when he saw Calico with the food, I tried not to laugh but not well enough and before I knew it Calico had given me a sore arm. I would have tried to tell her it wasn't my fault, but I knew better than to waste my breath.

 

Fortunately the grub that Grump had packed was canned. Hard to ruin a can of beans, especially when you don't try to heat them. After Grumpy had taken care of the horses he dug out some jerky to go with the beans. It would have felt like a picnic had it not been for the seriousness of the occasion.

 

After we ate Grumpy took his Winchester and moved to our right flank and Lone Wolf took the left flank, leaving Calico and I in the middle. Calico was feeling guilty about hitting me so hard and wanted to cuddle a bit and as I turned around to kiss her a flash higher up behind us caught my eye. Calico wasn't to happy that I ignored her for a second until I told her about the flash, or a glinter of light.

 

There it was again, but this time it was in code, I pulled my glass from it's leather sheath and put it to my eye. " Fireland's sheriff and posse, been waiting for you."

 

A smile came across my face, more help, a good thing. I was real glad to that Calico and I hadn't gotten busy, she would have never forgiven me for that, even if it was her idea!

 

I signaled back my acknowledgement of his message and then turned my glass back towards the valley. It didn't take long before I spotted movement maybe seven hundred yards coming through the valley. Four, five riders moving briskly without taking the time to really notice their surroundings.

 

I laid my Sharps on a log and starting measuring distances for possible shots. Grumpy and Lone Wolf were each about one hundred yards back towards the valley with instructions to wait for my signal. I glassed the valley one more time, as far back as I could see, movement there seven riders and as I watched through the glass I saw the sunlight glance off a man's chest. Sheriff Tom, they had caught up with us and the trap was complete, and with more help behind us.

 

I waited until the outlaws were withing a hundred yards before I called out to them, "That's far enough, if you want to live you'll drop you firearms, then ride slowly towards us."

 

I guess they didn't believe me or they were ready to meet their Maker, because they answered with lead. Before any of us returned their fire I heard what had to been a heavy Sharps let go from behind us, followed by the whistleing of the heavy bullet overhead and then the thump of it hitting a man's chest.

One of the other four men quickly pointed to where the bullet had come from and hollered, "They're way up there! " and with that they started in ouir direction, not figuring we were waiting for them that closely.

 

Grumpy and Lone Wolf targeting the same man, one shot pushing him to one side and then a quick follow up shot righting him in the saddle, blood splurting from his sides.

 

My Sharps spoke, rolling another rider off the back of his mount, followed by Calico's Winchester opening up. The reamining two men quickly realized their predicament and spun their mounts around to try to head back into the valley. I heard another bullet whistle overhead......

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I rubbed my eyes, wishing for the hundredth time I was several years younger.

Time was, I could stare through a glass for an hour and not have to much more than blink.

Hell,at this rate I'll need spectacles to read!

I took a long breath, blinked hard two or three times, raised the glasses again, and this time I saw them.

Right where they ought to be.

I pushed up on the bottom of my vest pocket, pulled out the double sided mirror: I turned, shot a flash to Jacob, a quick series of flashes: he could read Morse as well by eye as by ear, and he could read signal flags -- something I'd come to appreciate during that damned War, so I taught him, and he was teaching his son Joseph -- then I turned and shot a quick glitter of flashes the opposite direction.

Jacob had taken my place on the right flank, but Jackson Cooper with that buffalo rifle of his was perfectly situated on my left.

I had the highest point and it was paying off.

I swung the glass up again, one handed.

No mistaking a Culpepper ... he looks an awful lot like his Pa.

I felt a moment's loss, the heaviness of a man who's lost a good friend, but I pushed it from me, for the older I get, the more dead people I know.

I had this mirror custom made.

It was two mirrors, silver side to silver side, with a hole in the middle, and I used that hole in the silver to sight through, and I shot a beam of sunlight right at Culpepper.

I gave him all the message that was needed:

Firelands sheriff and posse, been waiting for you.

I turned to Jacob and mirror-flashed one word, then I turned, slid the mirror back in my pocket, pulled my wild rag free and pulled the kerchief from my left sleeve: holding these at arm's length, I turned to where I knew Jackson Cooper was watching, and flagged the same one word:

Hold.

I looked back and Culpepper flashed his reply.

Him and another were in what I took to be the middle of a tactical field.

That told me he had flankers, and his message -- Hold there -- told me I was right, and our best use was to stand fast.

That's when the shooting started.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Sarah's eyes were pale as she laid a hand on her restless belly.

Gently, young warrior, she thought, and as if hearing her mind's words, her son stilled his uterine fury.

Sarah saw the scene in the far valley: she felt more than heard the deep concussion of the buffalo rifle, she smelled its 500 grain payload impact on a dusty, sweat-damp vest, she felt the soul stripped from the sinner's body, savagely yanked to its earned judgement.

The piano sang gently, a European waltz prettily coaxed from beneath the reaching fingers of a pretty young woman.

Sarah heard another soul scream in anguish as demonic claws hooked into its darkness, dragged it into a crack in the dry ground.

Polly's fingers curled gracefully as they lifted from a complex chord.

A dying man's fingers clawed grass and rocks as he fought for his last, blood-gurgling breath.

Sarah smelled fresh baked light rolls and a fresh-apple pie.

An outlaw smelled gunsmoke and his own blood and dust from the ground as he fell heavily, to rise no more.

The eyes of the lawful were hard, narrowed; the eyes of the lawless, wide, afraid.

Sarah blinked like a sleepy cat, her pale eyes veiled.