The Sheriff's Grandson

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

100. THE EYES HAVE IT

From the recent lesson presented by Professor T. Joseph Hunt, late of Alaska, the Klondike, San Francisco and points West, as given for the edification of his current Students of Detection.

 

TAKEN FROM THE RECORDS OF THE FIRELANDS DISTRICT COURT

FIRELANDS COUNTY, COLORADO

THE HONORABLE JUDGE DONALD HOSTETLER PRESIDING.

IN THE MATTER OF THE DEATH OF CHUCKIE SMITH, CHARLES RENTAY AND VICTOR MATTHEWS

Testimonies were duly taken under oath and are as follows:

 

"Your name?"

"Richard Merckle."

"And your occupation."

"Engineer with the Fire Department."

"The Firelands Fire Department."

"Yes, sir."

"In the matter currently before the court, could you tell us what you saw."

"I was standing in front of the firehouse, looking uphill."

"Toward the bank."

"Toward the bank, the church, the Silver Jewel, yes, sir, up the street in general."

"And were you looking at anything in particular?"

"Yes, sir."

"What would that be?"

"I was looking at another fireman."

"And were you looking at anything else?"

(hesitates)

"I was, sir."

"And what was that?"

"That was the young lady on his arm."

(quiet laughter)

(judge raps gavel)

"And what did you see them doing?"

"They were walking across the street, sir."

"Towards the bank, or away from it?"

"Generally towards it, sir."

"What happened then?"

The German Irishman closed his eyes, took a long breath --

He looked up the street at Daffyd and the lovely Miss McKenna, and how they stopped, and how she suddenly reached up and pulled his head down to hers.

The German Irishman felt his eyes widen as it looked like she'd just hauled his fellow fireman's face down for a good old fashioned lip lock, at least until she pushed him away and he staggered back a few steps, then turned and almost ran back the way he'd come.

Miss McKenna -- he never thought of her as anything else -- snatched up her skirts and ran toward the bank.

She ran blindly, she ran in panic, he could see her face clearly, she looked like she was ready to cry --

He blinked in surprise as she ran pell-mell into a rough-looking man standing with a few horses in front of the bank: startled, she pulled her face back, looking like a lost little girl who'd just lost her last friend in the entire world, then she buried her face in his coat and began to cry.

 

The mortician's testimony --

"Yes, I saw what happened. Terrible, terrible. Such a fine and upstanding young woman, suddenly forced to defend herself against hardened desperadoes! The world, gentlemen, is descending into chaos, and this is but one example.

"Exactly what did I see?
"I was just stepping out of my mortuary when I heard her cry out.

"I looked and saw this ruffian, this stranger grab her! I saw his arm seize about her shoulders and I opened my mouth to shout at him to unhand her, and that's when I heard the first gunshot.

"Where did it come from? Why, I did not know it at the time, but the bank's manager shot the inside man -- eh? Objection? Why are you objecting? I could see through the open door -- oh, very well.

"Yes, sir? What I actually saw? I have been telling you what I saw, young man, and if you insult me one more time I'll be forced to file a formal complaint against--"

(Objection withdrawn)

"I saw the young woman in question twist out of his filthy embrace.

"Strike him? Yes, I believe she did, I saw her push against him and then I saw her throw something away. What was it? -- it was a pistol, sir, I saw it clearly, for the light grey of the livery was visible down the alley beside the bank and I could see it silhouetted.

"Yes, sir? Of course. The young lady in question produced a pistol of her own and addressed the miscreant in a proper manner.

"Twice, sir, she addressed the nearest scoundrel twice.

"Her aim? It appeared she was shooting into his belt, sir, then she turned and addressed one shot into the first man coming out of the bank.

"Was he shooting? He most certainly was, sir, and if you will have the bailiff pass me my hat, I will show you the hole that scoundrel put in my best silk topper!

"Where was I, sir? As I already said, sir, I was just outside my mortuary establishment. No, sir, I was not shooting, nor had I a weapon in hand in that moment. Yes, sir, when I realized I'd just taken hostile fire I most certainly did avail myself of a gentleman's proper defensive battery!"

 

The Engineer --

"Yes, sir, I most certainly did see her shoot him. The first shot came from within the bank --"

(objection)

(overruled)

(engineer continues)

"The shot came from within the bank and that's when I saw Miss McKenna's hand come up. She pushed away from the man and I saw her throw a pistol high in the air behind her, then I saw her other hand come up and I heard two heavy gunshots.

"No, sir, I could not see the gun in her hand but I did see the gunsmoke.

"No, sir. She turned to her right and I heard two more shots, I heard another from the bank and saw one of the men running from the bank was shooting at Miss McKenna.

"What did he do then? He fell, sir, and the man behind her was staggering bent over with an arm across his belly.

"No, sir, I did not see a gun in his hand.

"Did Miss McKenna shoot him? No, sir, I did not see that she did."

 

The Sheriff's testimony --

"I was alarmed to the robbery by Daffyd Llewellyn, fireman.

"What did he say?"

(laughs)

"He said, and I quote, 'Sarah McKenna said to tell you the bank is being robbed.'

"Yes, sir, I can. I stood up and plucked my double gun from the rack and ran toward the gunfire.

"One, from within the bank, then I saw Sarah -- Miss McKenna -- stiff-arm the lookout and throw his gun high over her shoulder.

"No, sir, I saw him grab for her. When he did he let go of the reins he held and their horses dug in and ran.

"When? As soon as she got room enough to draw, she put two into his guts and turned to punch the ticket for that first fellow coming out of the bank.

"Yes, sir, two good hits and he went down, and the fellow behind her was in bad shape already.

"No, sir, she did not shoot the second man but she was ready.

"Me? Hell, there wasn't anything left for me to do but clean up the mess!"

 

"And finally, gentlemen," the Professor said from his pedantic position posterior to his podium, "we have the testimony of our very own Agent S. L. Rosenthal, known in these documents as one Sarah McKenna." He extended a hand toward the demure young woman seated at the table to his right. "Agent McKenna, if you would assume the podium, please."

Agent S. L. McKenna, in her mousy-grey schoolmarm dress and round-lensed spectacles, her hair drawn into a proper dowager's walnut atop her head, raised her chin and marched purposefully to her assigned position.

"Gentlemen," she said, ruler in hand and with the air of a schoolteacher about to deliver a lecture, "you have heard the testimony of several sets of eyes. Each viewed the same scene, saw the same action, and it is unusual that we have such accord between the several testimonies." She placed the ruler very precisely before her, exactly crossways of the smooth-wood bookrest. "It would be neither surprising nor would it be unusual for one or more witnesses to have sworn under oath that they saw me shoot first, or shoot ten times, or to have not shot at all.

"Let's start at the beginning." She turned and considered the blackboard behind her: a few quick strokes with her lump of chalk -- "Here is the main street" -- click, scrape -- "Sheriff's office, Digger's emporium" -- she turned a little, smiling quietly. "Digger is our mortician." She turned again to the board. "Bank here, alley, well back is the livery. Silver Jewel to the right. Horses here, here and here -- this is the lookout, holding the horses -- and here is where Fireman Llewellyn and I began.

"I will confess that I was complacent. Firelands is my home, after all, and we tend to let our guard down when we're in the familiar." She turned, raised an eyebrow. "Remember that, gentlemen: when you are comfortable, complacency slips in and complacency kills." Her smile was quiet, as if sharing a secret.

"It was too late that I realized a man holding horses in front of a bank was something I should have noticed.

"I knew we -- the fireman and I -- were in the middle of the street, and we were walking toward the bank.

"The human eye is designed to pick up movement before aught else. There is no way we were not seen, so I had to mislead the watcher.

"Mr. Tivner." She looked at one of the men with all the hauteur of a dedicated schoolmarm addressing a laggardly student. "If you please, sir, you are a volunteer, step up here."

Tivner rose, surprised, then sidestepped behind his row of fellows, approached the severe-looking schoolmarm that the day before had been their fashionably-dressed classmate.

"Mr. Tivner, it is a lovely day, you are a gentleman and I have your arm." She grasped his arm -- he was surprised at the strength of her grip, the purpose of her purposeful positioning of his elbow and his forearm -- then placing her palm under and over his forearm, she looked at him, and behind the round-lensed spectacles, Tivner saw a sparkle of -- amusement? mischief?

"You and I have just been spotted by what I recognize as a holdup. That's all of you." She smiled at the class, indicated them with a sweep of her free hand.

"Now you don't want to be discovered. You're in on a bank robbery, your guts are wound up like an eight day clock, you're about to be discovered by a couple.

"Let's say, though, the couple is occupied with each other."

She ran an arm around Tivner's head, pulled hard, drawing his face down to hers: she brought their cheeks together, then whispered, "Turn with me," and the pair turned, slowly.

"Notice, please, gentlemen, my mouth is conveniently close to his ear," Sarah said as she drew her head away from her classmate's. "But from another angle" -- she smiled -- "it looks to you as if I am committing an indiscreet intimacy. You, of course, are a man, and men have appetites, and to see a lovely lass engaging a man in such a way earns your lustful approval." Her voice shimmered with amusement as she said the words.

"But with my lips so close to his ear, instead of nibbling his earlobe, I am giving him a quick command.

"I told him to run into the Sheriff's office and tell my father the bank is being robbed.

"I chose my words carefully, gentlemen," she continued, releasing Tivner's arm -- "thank you, sir, please resume your seat -- firstly, to alarm the Sheriff of imminent hostilities.

"Secondly" -- she smiled again, that I-know-a-secret smile that told them she was sharing information "just between us detectives" -- "Mr. Llewellyn doesn't know it, but he intends to propose to me, and I wished to discreetly let him know that Sheriff Keller is my true father." She laughed a little, removed her spectacles and looked around. "You've heard of Old Pale Eyes ... guess where I got mine!"

Replacing her spectacles, she turned quickly, flaring her severe, straight skirt and resuming her lecturer's position behind the podium.

"Misdirection, gentlemen. I made the holdup believe we were ... involved ... and that we had a lover's spat. I ran blindly into him, which is a trick I have used in the past." She raised a hand and in it was a wallet. "Mr. Tivner, I believe this is yours. I haven't had a chance to go through it." She placed it on the table beside her. "Picking pockets is also a useful detective's skill. When I ran, apparently in blind flight from a lover's tiff, the man was surprised. When I screwed up my face and grabbed him and started to cry, he lost any suspicion that I might be anything but what I seemed to be -- a silly young woman who'd just broken her own heart.

"I needed to get close enough to him to disarm him, and I was barely there when the bank's owner shot the nearest of the inside men.

"I grabbed his holstered revolver and threw it hard and high behind me, then I pulled back and drove two rounds from my bulldog .44 into his lower guts." A blunt, blocky revolving pistol appeared as if by magic as she lifted her hand from behind the podium. "Gentlemen, I pray to God Almighty you never, ever have to shoot a man, but if you do, my Papa told me to shoot for the belt buckle. He said their arm will go dead and they'll be so sick they won't be able to fight any more.

"The inside pair ran when Beatrice drove the first one a good one right in the belly. She said she was aiming for his eagle beak" -- her finger rested lightly on the side of her own nose -- "personally I doubt that, but it makes a good story.

"The other fellow ran without firing a shot, at least until he saw me.

"I saw his gun come up. At that point he was bought and paid for. I put two into his guts and hit just below the belt line. Doc Greenlees said I broke one hip and tore open both femoral arteries. No one can survive that. They can't stand when you bust a hip and they can't survive with two of the biggest arteries in the body busted."

"Does this conclude your testimony, Agent Rosenthal?" the Professor interjected, thrusting himself painfully upright and walking with an arthritic slowness toward his accustomed position.

"It does, sir. Are there questions?"

Tivner's hand went up.

"Mr. Tivner."

"Agent Rosenthal ... how difficult is it to kill a man?"

A change flowed over the severe schoolmarm: suddenly she was no longer demure and almost pretty, suddenly she looked ... dangerous.

Tivner could not put his finger on it, she never changed expression, she never moved or shifted her weight, but she was absolutely silent and she was absolutely ...

...hard.

"A civilized man finds it repugnant to kill," she said matter-of-factly. "A reasonable man finds it repulsive to kill.

"The man who has seen combat, the man whose life was threatened, and his own personal skill-at-arms kept him alive, will find it much less difficult.

"The man who has no option but to use a lethal means to keep his family safe, to keep someone from killing wife or child or family member, will find it very easy. Does that answer your question?"

"You're ... not a man."

She raised an eyebrow, planted her knuckles on her hip, stuck out an elbow.

"You finally noticed!" she declared, wide-eyed, and the class laughed as Tivner's ears turned a remarkable shade of red.

She waited for the laughter to subside.

"You're right. We like to think of the distaff as the seat of the tender emotions. We want our women sweet and soft and smelling nice, and we want to be the big strong men that keep our pretty, helpless damsels safe."

Sarah moved quickly, violently: she raised a fist, slammed it down into the podium, removed her hand.

A Damascus bladed fighting knife quivered in the tabletop.

"I know what it is to be hurt," she said quietly, her voice flat, emotionless. "I know first hand the hell that men do to women, and that was done to me before I was even a maiden.

"I know what it is to kill a criminal in my own kitchen. I was twelve years old when my mother's husband" -- she turned her head, spat -- "I will never call him father -- he was a gambler, he wasted my Mama's inheritance and bankrupted our ranch. He could not cover his gambling debts and The Boss sent a man to collect.

"He was rat faced and he specialized in taking women and selling them into the slave trade, mostly to seaport whorehouses. Sound familiar?"

Two, and only two, recognized the story.

"Ragdoll," they whispered, and Sarah nodded.

"You are correct," she said, her eyes as warm and welcoming as the frozen heart of a mountain glacier.

"I was upstairs and I heard him corner my Mama in the kitchen.

"I knew she could not get to the Navy Colt she'd been given.

"I knew I could get to mine, but mine was an Army pistol carrying a .44 round ball.

"I also knew I had to get close and to get close I had to fool him.

"I changed clothes. I took off my tailored gown and put on a girl's short skirt and little flat slippers, a few strokes and my hair was tied with red ribbons and I snatched up a rag doll.

"I ripped out its crotch seam, yanked out the stuffing and ran the .44 pistol up into its head and cradled it before me as if I were holding a favorite dolly.

"He saw me coming down the stairs and he called me a pretty little girl, and I saw the fear in Mama's eyes as he said he'd like to get to know me better."

Sarah's voice was steady, as were her hands. She did not speak loudly; there was no need, for silence lived in every throat, and not a man moved, save to keep his eyes unwaveringly on hers.

"I dropped my left arm and brought the doll down to level and I was just within arm's reach when I called him every dockside Billingsgate I knew ... just as loudly as I could.

"He was surprised and he could not understand how a pretty little girl suddenly had a mouth like a seasoned whore, and then I pulled the trigger and the doll's head exploded.

"I stripped the doll off the pistol and cocked the hammer and shot him again and he collapsed to the floor and I kept shooting.

"I heard someone screaming and part of me realized it was me screaming and I did not care.

I walked the shots right up his middle and the last one I leaned down and stuck that heavy Army pistol in his mouth and I pulled the trigger and I sent him straight to hell!"

Sarah's voice climbed as she came to the end of her narrative, until finally she shouted the name of the Inferno, both hands clenched into fists, her face pale and drawn tight over her cheek bones.

She took a long breath, brought her arms up, then down, crossing before her with wrists and fingers bent, a dancer's move, as if to brush the recalled stress from her.

"I know what hell is, gentlemen. My father said once that he'd been shot, stabbed, cut, run into, run over, and a street evangelist tried to save his corroded soul. Well" -- she unbuttoned her right sleeve, thrust the cloth up, exposing an ugly, twisted scar halfway up her forearm -- "I have too, but how many of you broke a wolf's neck when it grabbed hold of you?"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

101. LESSON LEARNED

 

"Mister Duffy."

"Sir." The detective with a spectacularly puffy lip, swollen cheek and a black eye raised his head carefully, giving the impression that he felt like his head was a bowling ball balanced on the end of a pencil.

"Mr. Duffy, would you present on your results, please."

"Sir, with respect," Mr. Duffy replied, his words slightly slurred owing to the facial trauma, "I would rather not."

"You would rather not at this time, sir, or you would rather not?"

Student Duffy looked down at his desk top and muttered, "Not at thish time, Profesher."

"Very well. Mr. Rock."

Student Rock's expression was less than comfortable as he regarded the Professor.

"Your report, sir."

Student Rock's arm seemed to give him difficulty: he gathered his materials in one hand, very carefully using his right hand to hold the papers while he gripped them in his left; the right arm was held stiffly, unnaturally, tight against his body, and unlike the other students, he wore his hat indoors.

Professor Hunt chose not to comment on this fashion faux pas, as he could see what appeared to be the tail of an encircling bandage sticking out behind Mr. Rock's left ear.

The Professor yielded the podium to the student, who approached the front of the class with almost a pained slowness, and a stiffness of his right leg: he arranged his papers awkwardly, and when a half dozen of them cascaded to the floor, the glare he gave them and the most profane silence with which he addressed their escape, told the class that his lesson would be couched in the bitter voice of hard- and painfully-won experience.

"Mr. Duffy and I," he said, looking sidelong at the quiet young woman to his right, "were sent to background our own Agent Rosenthal."

Eyes shifted to the demure young woman, who was regarding the speaker with quiet and surprisingly-gentle eyes; she wore a pale-blue McKenna gown this day, one that almost exactly matched her eyes when she was calm, and relaxed, and feeling no stress -- a shade reflected by her own pale eyes.

Those who'd learned to gauge her state of emotion, or the likelihood of her detonation, watched her eyes for that most valuable clue: the others merely stared, either having nothing better to look at, or choosing to look at the one truly attractive sight in the room.

"Upon our arrival in Firelands, we noted our subject on the arm of one Llewellyn, Daffyd, late of Cincinnati, Ohio, a fireman with their local fire brigade." He frowned a little, nodded as a classmate quietly, considerately scooped up the fallen papers, deposited them to the left of the podium. "Thank you, sir. I was able to determine said Llewellyn has an acquaintance with the subject Agent but was not able to determine a connecting relationship."

Professor Hunt nodded, eyes closed, his pencil held by its ends between his index fingers. "Do continue, sir."

"I watched as the pair advanced toward the bank.

"I have the newspaper account that claims Agent Rosenthal did enlist the aid of said fireman to make it appear they were lovers, involved in the middle of the street, in order to fool the lookout standing before the bank and holding their getaway horses. The account describes how agent Rosenthal then charged the lookout, seized the lookout, shot the lookout and tossed his pistol into a nearby horse trough, and then shot the first of two fleeing robbers who came out of the bank shooting at her."

"And did you witness these events, Mr. Rock?"

"I did, sir, and my observations concurred with the newspaper account."

"Very good. Independent corroboration of newspaper articles is almost always necessary. The print seeks to sell newspapers, not necessarily to report fact. What are your other findings?"

"That the Agent is indeed employed by the Firelands District Court, that said agent is considered effective, that said Agent has a gift for costume and for disguise. Said Agent has a local reputation for being the most beautiful bundle of sudden death to ever swing a Reaper's scythe over the territory, that she charged and shot a cougar at three feet when said cougar was defending its recent kill, that she is witnessed to have shot hand-tossed silver dollars out of the air, that she is a dancer of remarkable skill and that when she practices with a chalked knife, she does not so much knife fight as she dances with knives." He swallowed uncomfortably, shot a sidelong look at the pretty young Agent, whose eyes were demurely on the open note-book before her.

"The exact phrase I was given was that when she dances, she weaves a web of shining steel round about her."

The Professor's eyebrows rose slowly and he, too, looked over at the Agent.

"I see," he murmured. "Do continue. What did you discover after you witnesses the bank robbery?"

"The robbery occurred as we were walking from the Depot to the Silver Jewel. The Jewel is their local saloon and it enjoys a well deserved reputation for good food, good drink at a fair price, and clean beds. It does not, however, employ a" -- he glanced over at the Agent, hesitated at the cold-eyed look she gave him.

"It does not employ a whorehouse."

"And what conclusion do you draw from this?"

"I have no conclusion, Professor. I did encounter rumors that the Sheriff purchased the Jewel upon his arrival in the territory and promptly disbanded the whorehouse for reasons of his own, but I was not there to explore the Sheriff or his motives."

"Quite right. Do continue."

"Mr. Duffy and I very quickly discovered the local population was not only suspicious of strangers asking questions, they were outrightly hostile to strangers asking questions."

"I assume that is why your right leg is giving you difficulties."

"Yes, sir."

"And why Mr. Duffy's face speaks of an unpleasant encounter."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me about your interrogations."

"We went first to the Silver Jewel on the premise that the saloon is a hub of local information.

"We asked the girl behind the bar, and she crooked a finger to what appeared to be an old veteran lawman, one" -- a quick turn of a page, another -- "one Tom Landers, past Sheriff and the saloon's designated peacekeeper.

"I identified myself as a detective and asked if I might buy him a beer.

"I knew my success would be limited when he politely declined my offer, but we were somewhat encouraged when he steered us to a corner table where we might speak in some confidence.

"Very quickly he gave us to understand that if we were investigating the Agent, that we would run into stone walls, that if we tried to dig up information we would find unpleasantness, and if we pressed the matter we would find hostility. Those were not his exact words but they encapsulate his general response.

"We thanked him for his kindness and cast about for a discontented soul, perhaps a man needing a drink; there were no dancing girls on the stage and the girl behind the bar was remarkably uncooperative -- pleasantly so, she was more than willing to sell us a drink, but claimed to know nothing at all about anyone at all.

"Very quickly we noticed men were looking at us, and we decided we'd be better served if we left.

"We then went to the Mercantile, on the premise that Agent Rosenthal would have needs, and needs are purchased at such an emporium, and the state of her finances might indicate a general character, and so we went in to inquire about any debts or payment difficulties.

"The proprietor is an old war veteran who lost an arm to a Confederate cannon-shot, his wife is sharp, competent, and very quick-minded. She was pleasant, she assured us that the Agent did indeed have an account with them, her payments were prompt and in full.

"We then considered where we might next inquire, and while consulting upon the board walk outside the Mercantile, a tall, slender young man rode up on an Appaloosa stallion -- inverted hatchet brand, forming an L, with two bars for the letter K on the handle --"

Sarah smiled at the awkward description of her father's brand, which her brother Jacob also used on his own stock.

"He did not so much dismount as he swung out of the saddle.

"He strode boldly up to us and demanded to know why we were asking about his sister.

"Mr. Duffy, I fear, may have chosen the wrong approach."

All eyes swung to Duffy's swollen face and rueful expression.

"Mr. Duffy, what was your ... approach?" the Professor asked gently.

Duffy struggled to stand, having stiffened up some from sitting. "I shaid," he slurred, "who the hell wanted to know?"

The Professor's eyebrows raised again. "I see," he murmured.

"And what followed?"

"Hish fisht."

Sarah hid a smile as the class chuckled.

"I flatter myself that I am a scrapper," Stone said hesitantly, "but in my entire life I never encountered an opponent who more resembled a cyclone full of fist-sized rocks!"

"Rocks?"

Duffy nodded, a shallow, miserable nod, and he raised a hand to his pounding forehead.

"Then there was this dog."

"Dog?" the Professor blurted, raising his head in sudden surprised.

"I thought it a bear at first," Stone admitted, shifting his weight to ease the ache in his badly bruised thigh. "It seized my leg and raised me off the ground, I found myself shaken like a doll and I am surprised my leg was not snapped!"

"You're lucky," Sarah spoke up, standing and putting two fingers to her lips. A shrill whistle stabbed their ears, harsh and loud in the room's hardwood confines. "Bear Killer! To me!"

Sarah stepped out from behind her table, but none regarded the fashionably-attired young woman.

All stared openly as something the size of a young bear flowed silently into the room -- something absolutely black, black as a sinner's heart, black as a murderer's soul: The Bear Killer paced easily between the tables, approached the young woman, who caressed the bushel basket sized head fearlessly.

"Gentlemen," she said, "this is The Bear Killer, named for an episode when he was still just a puppy. And this is my father" -- she raised a hand, palm-up, and the class turned to find a man was standing in the center of their room, his approach absolutely silent, the effect that of legerdemain, as if he'd appeared from the wave of a wizard's wand -- "this is my father, Sheriff Linn Keller, of Firelands County, Colorado."

The Sheriff looked around with absolutely cold eyes, his hard gaze meeting every eye: he turned, slowly, and not until he'd looked at every man there -- a gaze that reached through to their spine and examined it for the least trace of yellow -- not until then did he speak.

"You were asking about my little girl," he said, his voice as warm and welcoming as the frozen heart of a mountain glacier -- "two of your number were less than polite. In future if you want to know something about my Sarah, ask her yourself. If it's none of your damned business she'll say that and I suggest you let it go." He turned again, his glare like an icy spotlight, stopping on the one man who could not meet his eye.

"And you, sir, now know how The Bear Killer plays with his toys."

The Sheriff's lower jaw thrust out and he considered a moment before continuing.

"The Bear Killer has the same regard for family as my son and I. Had he bit down you would not have a leg. You might want to consider taking up poker because frankly you were just pretty damned lucky!"

There was a canine yow-wow-wow from the other end of the room and the class turned their heads to stare, open-mouthed, as their fashionably-dressed classmate was on her knees, happily massaging the massive canine's belly, and The Bear Killer, flat on his back with all four legs thrust upward, joyfully bicycling all four paws

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

102. A FOOL WILL LEARN AT NO OTHER

 

A man can say much without speaking a word.

The Sheriff made it known he was more than willin' to rip a man's head off and toss it through the nearest window, just by the way he walked.

His stride was slow, deliberate, his boot heels loud on the Denver boardwalk, his '73 rifle balanced easily in his left hand and the immense black bear killin' dog pacing silently just behind him, mouth open, fighting canines a-gleam.

He had no idea he was being followed, and frankly he would not have cared if he did know, for he was perfectly willing to look any man in the eye and tell him to jump right on and do your worst, and he didn't much care who that man might be.

I should have taken them to task, he thought bitterly.

I should have found out how many of them weren't in on chaining her down to that chair.

No more than one wasn't involved, I'd reckon. Send him out and then just plainly clean house.

Likely they were all in on it.

His right hand closed into a hard, quivering fist.

No.

No, she had to handle that one.

I won't always be around.

If she's going to ride an Agent's horse she'll have to learn it's a hard ride.

He stopped, frowned through the doors of the Nonpareil Saloon, set his jaw and opened the door.

"In," he said, and The Bear Killer fairly strutted as he crossed the threshold.

If one were standing on the boardwalk, one might be inclined to withdraw one's pocket watch, and press the stem, flip open the cover and watch the second hand tick patiently past the mark -- one second, two, three, four, five --

A man fell backwards out the slammed-open door, followed by the sound of a knock-down, drag-out fight and a second fellow, this one exiting the still-open portal backside-first and bent over like a man's wallet.

One would then be obliged to step closer to the door to hear the pale-eyed man's quiet words, inviting an unidentified soul to set that gun down slow and easy, followed by the tap-click of something metallic, then wood, being placed on a hard surface.

The Sheriff paced slowly forward, rifle up and ready: he'd already driven the crescent butt plate into one man's gut, set his boot against his exposed backside and shoved hard, propelling him into the not-long-closed door: slammed another across the ear with the rifle's octagon barrel, followed by another butt-drive to the back of the man's neck and another shove with the sole of his boot.

He turned, dropped to one knee, took a bead on the barkeep, who was only just bringing up a double gun with the wide-eyed uncertainty of a man who really didn't want to realize a Texas twister just set down in his saloon and his two bouncers just went out the door in less than a peaceful manner.

The Sheriff's pale eye was cold and hard and absolutely unforgiving as he set the gold bead on the barkeep's balding forehead.

"Set it down," he said, "slow and easy."

The barkeep set the double gun down on the polished bar-top with suddenly-nerveless hands.

The Sheriff rose. "Bear Killer, watch 'em," he said, and The Bear Killer swung around behind the long tall lawman, the fur suddenly a-bristle across his big shoulders and down his spine: his lips peeled back and a snarl started about ten foot deeper in his chest than he was long, and the sound of a canine's feral invitation to become dinner was loud in the suddenly-shocked saloon.

The Sheriff stood straight, looked around, looked back at the barkeep.

"Set that scatter gun back under the bar," he said quietly, for there was no need to raise his voice. "I've got a bad taste in my mouth and you'd best have some beer."

​The barkeep swallowed hard, nodded nervously.

"We've got beer," he said in a strained voice.

The Sheriff looked around, saw an open table, conveniently against the far wall, in the corner, where he could keep an eye on things above, about the bar, and both doors.

"Bear Killer, come," he said very quietly.

Men drew back at his approach; his pace was slow, measured, and he looked like a bundle of short fused, high test dynamite on two legs.

Behind him, a young woman in a pale-blue gown walked up to the bar, placed a dainty, lace-gloved hand on the polished wood. "Excuse me," she said, and the barkeep snapped a look at her, snarling "Whores upstairs!" and turned away.

The Sheriff turned quickly at the sound of the man's yell -- more of a scream, his voice soared well into the treble range, and as the pale lawman turned, he saw the pretty young woman in the pale-blue McKenna gown swing up onto the bar, snatch up a whiskey-bottle and just plainly loosen every joint the barkeep had with one hard swing to his shining dome.

She reached down, seized the wire-wrapped handle of her fighting knife, pulled it out of the man's hand and freed him from where she'd just pinned him to the wood.

Sarah McKenna, known also as Agent S.L. Rosenthal, picked up a bar towel, carefully wiped off her Damascus blade, slid it back into the sheath at the back of her neck.

The Sheriff could not help but admire his little girl as she stood on the bar, looking like the Valkyrie herself, a warrior-maiden, daughter of Odin the One-Eyed: all she lacked was a hammered-steel breastplate and a silver-headed spear --

Sarah drew in a great double-lungful of stale saloon air, and with a voice operatically trained, she bent at the waist, both fists doubled, and screamed at the unconscious man lying behind the bar, "DAMN YOU, I AM NOT A WHORE!"

Her voice fairly shivered the shocked-still air in the Nonpareil Saloon; three of Denver's finest were just coming through the door, nightsticks in the lead, and all three flinched at the auditory assault of the young woman's anger-powered scream.

She looked at them and planted her knuckles on her hips.

"Well?" she demanded. "Aren't you going to help a lady in distress?" -- and one of the Denver policemen, recognizing the young woman smiling secretively at him, stepped up, nightstick dangling from its wrist-thong, and held out his arms.

Sarah leaped happily into the air, fell horizontally into the man's strong, waiting arms: he caught her easily, his knees flexing with the impact, and as he swung her feet down, she gave him a quick, girlish kiss on the cheek before turning, giggling, and skipping like a happy little girl toward her pale-eyed Daddy and the big, black, bristling, bear killing dog.

The policeman walked boldly up to the hard-eyed, broad-shouldered lawman with the iron-grey mustache, thrust out his hand. "Colonel!" he exclaimed happily. "How in two hells ha'e ye been?"

"Fine, Muldoon," the Sheriff grated, "I'm doin' good when I'm not teachin' this Godless younger generation some manners!"

"I gathered, fro' th' trash ye were throwin' out th' door," Muldoon grinned. "Ye realize ye've just bested two o' th' best boxers i' Denver!"

"I didn't box 'em," the Sheriff growled, trying hard to look stern and not having much luck: he grinned, pumping the policeman's hand happily. "You might want to see to that loudmouth behind the bar."

"Oh? Wha'd he do?"

The Sheriff looked at Sarah, who was regarding the officer with wide, innocent eyes.

"The barkeep," the Sheriff said slowly, allowing the deep and abiding anger he still felt to boil into his voice, "called my little girl" -- he looked at Sarah, then back to Muldoon -- "he called her a whore!"

He saw Muldoon's eyes harden. "Oh he did, did he?" he declared, his Irish fairly ringing in his voice. "We'll see about that!" He turned, thrust a clean-shaven chin at the two men behind him. "Drag that scoundrel out, lads, he has me t' answer to! Lively now!"

He turned back to the Sheriff.

"Can I buy ye a beer, Sheriff? It's been years since I've seen ye! Yer lovely daughter --"

Muldoon stopped, realization widening his Irish-blue eyes.

"Yer daughter?" he declared, his grin wide enough to fair split his face in two, and he shook the Sheriff's hand again, clapping him heartily on the shoulder. "Why, 'tis no wonder, man! Why didna' ye tell me --" he turned to Sarah -- "Why didna' ye tell me the Colonel was yer father? Dear God, he an' me feyther put th' damned Sesech t' flight --"

Sarah saw something in her father's eyes -- pain, most likely, for he disliked talk that persisted, talk that referred to a people he admired as "Sesech" and worse -- Muldoon, oblivious, watched his men hauling the limp, bleeding fellow from behind the bar.

"Out cold, is he? Gi'e him a bucket o' water, lads, an' tell him t' mend his speech wi' a lady present!" He glared as the barkeep was doused with a bucket of freshly pumped wellwater. "Now don't ye jus' lay there, y' scoundrel! Gi'e an honest man a beer!"
​

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

103. DISCRETION

"I wouldn't," the slender young man murmured.

"And who the hell are you?" the boxer snapped, just before a boot caught him right below the ear.

Jacob recovered from the side-heel-kick, a trick he learned from a fellow who'd sailed to Japan and lived there for many years, waited for the boxer to recover from his surprise, then kicked him in the side of the knee.

The boxer had lunged, starting to turn, but his knee snapped and he went down hard, the splintered cartilage driving an absolute sunball of agony up into his abdomen, with bright, hot flares searing up his spine and into his skull.

The second boxer found himself faced with the cold, unblinking eye of a .44 revolver looking squarely at the end of his nose, and decided maybe he wouldn't come to his fellow bouncer's aid after all.

"You fellas bit into more of a bear than you could chaw," Jacob Keller drawled, ignoring the fact that a drawn gun on a city street would gather stares, whispers and, ultimately, the attention of the constabulary: "You don't go tellin' the Sheriff he can't come in, and you don't never tell my little sister's dog that he can't come in neither. Now why don't you pack that fella off to the doc before his leg goes gangrenous."

It was less a suggestion than an order, and the uninjured bouncer saw the wisdom of listening to someone who was obviously younger, smarter, and better looking than himself: despite being punched in the head multiple times, he was still smart enough not to argue with a cocked pistol, and so he managed to get his gasping, groaning cohort wallowed off the ground, packed over his shoulders, and he began staggering down the street to where he remembered a sawbones hung out his shingle.

Jacob casually eased the hammer down on his engraved Colt, turned the cylinder leisurely until the nose rested on his buryin' money, eased the ivory handled revolver back into its carved-leather holster and eased his coat casually back over it, before turning and smiling at men who wasted no time in getting the hell out of his way.

Jacob walked slowly, unimpeded, into the saloon, nodding to the few patrons who remained, grinning and shaking hands with the laughing policeman, who exclaimed in delight at Jacob's height, the breadth of his shoulders and the potency of his loins -- "Two sons, and another on the way? Why, man, ye'll be sirin' litters!" Muldoon laughed, teeth bright beneath his coal-black handlebar.

"I'll refer ye to my wife on that one," Jacob grinned. "How's your own bride? I heard you picked a looker!"

"Aye, that I did," Muldoon sighed, "an' it's all I c'n do t' keep th' las satisfied!" He shook his head in mock sorrow, laid a manly hand on Jacob's shoulder. "But I manage, somehow."

"I'll be ye do!" Jacob laughed. "How's for coffee on a cold day like this?"

Muldoon turned to the barkeep with the bloody bar towel wrapped around his hand. "Barkeep! How's f'r some coffee f'r an honest man? -- oh, th' hell wi' it, go get that hand looked after. Barmaid! God's bones, is there no one t' mind th' store? What's a man have t' do t' get some service around here!"

"Well first off ye quit beatin' up on th' help!" a woman's sharp voice rasped from the back of the bar, at the far end where a door was just opening. "An' then ye treat 'em wi' some respect, ye great Irish sod!"

"Now woman, ye'll keep a civil tongue in yer head," Muldoon shouted back, his face purpling with anger, and the woman came storming out of the kitchen, frying pan in hand -- "John Clancy Muldoon, so help me I'm gon' t' bend this fryin' pan over your thick Irish skull!"

"YOU AND WHOSE ARMY!" Muldoon laughed as he strode up to the bar, and the slattern dropped the cast iron, planted both hands on the bar top and thrust herself at the big Irish cop: the two met in the middle with an embrace and a kiss that showed they were far more than just acquainted, after which Muldoon dragged her over the bar, picked her up and carried her over to Jacob and his kin.

"May I introduce," he bellowed -- the man must be hard of hearing, Sarah thought, he's not spoken less than a shout all day! -- "May I introduce me beautiful bride, the grand Mrs. Muldoon, dear to me heart, mother to the children we'll have, and an angel on this earth!"

Sheriff and Chief Deputy each removed his cover, tucked their skypiece quite properly under a bent arm: each man gave a courteous half-bow, then the Sheriff took her extended hand, raised her knuckles to his lips. "A pleasure," he murmured: not to be outdone, Jacob followed suit with a courtly "Enchanté."

"Now see how a gentleman does it, y' lout," Mrs. Muldoon screeched, seizing her husband by his uniform's front and pulling his face down to hers, where she threw another lip lock on him: the Sheriff and Jacob both looked away, embarrassed, while Sarah smiled quietly in tacit approval.

"I'll get yer coffee," she whispered, her eyes promising far more, and she turned and marched industriously back toward her kitchen.

"Now there's a woman," Muldoon whispered, his eyes following the broad-hipped woman with an infatuated schoolboy expression.

"You are a lucky man," Jacob said diplomatically.

Muldoon's men shifted uncomfortably, one discreetly taking a quick peek at his pocket watch.

"Right, then," Muldoon said briskly. "Colonel" -- he thrust out his hand again -- "it would be my honor to sit an' partake wi' ye, but we poor cops have a beat t' patrol." He drew himself up smartly to attention, nightstick under his off arm like an officer's swagger stick, and he offered a palm-forward salute.

The Sheriff gravely returned the salute.

Mrs. Muldoon waited until her husband and his small cortege left before emerging with a tray: she had coffee and sandwiches and three bowls of surprisingly edible stew, all of which were most welcome after the outdoor chill.

Mrs. Muldoon blinked, wide-eyed, as something black, furry and huge rose up between Jacob and Sarah, blinked again as a startling-pink tongue emerged.

"Now wha' would you be wantin'?" Mrs. Muldoon demanded. "I'll bet it's no' coffee for you!"

The Bear Killer sniffed hopefully at the good smells from the table as Sarah laughed, "He does love biscuits and gravy."

"Biscuits and gravy, why didn't ye say so!" Mrs. Muldoon screeched. "I've got that in plenty! Come along, you!" -- and The Bear Killer happily trotted after Mrs. Muldoon's broad backside, his gait silent on the sawdust floor.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

104. RUNNING COLD

 

The Professor smiled quietly as he folded the note and slipped it under his desk blotter.

Agent Rosenthal, he thought, is discreet when it's needed.

Agent Rosenthal, for her part, relaxed in the velvet-upholstered chair, sighing her breath out contentedly as the train sang its metallic rhythm beneath her.

She usually wore a McKenna gown for her journeys, unless it was necessary to travel in some disguise; for no particular reason, she wore her mousy-grey schoolmarm's dress, her hair drawn tightly atop her head in a severe walnut, a carefully whittle-sharpened pencil thrust through it.

She did not have to look to know The Bear Killer lay at her feet; he was rolled over so his warmth covered the forepart of her plain black shoes.

Across the private car, the Sheriff systematically disassembled his most recent purchase, a Banker's Special, laying the parts out on a much-read newspaper, arranging them in precise formations: he'd been gifted with a young man's eyesight, and even in his less than youthful years, he could see up close just fine -- for which he was profoundly grateful.

Jacob stared restlessly out the window, his mind busy: it took no great power of observation to know the gears between his ears were turning steadily.

Outside, winter had its white mantel laid over the ground, turning rough and rocky country smooth and glistening: the sun was not out, but it was squeezing through the high overcast, just enough to lend a slight sparkle to the snow cover.

Ahead, in the cab of The Lady Esther, the engineer reached over and touched the water valve -- it did not need adjusting, and they would not need water until they reached Firelands, but it was ever his habit to know exactly where that particular valve was, without looking.

He'd seen what happened when an engine ran low on water and the crownsheet glowed bright red, just before the careless engineer dumped water on it and caused a steam explosion that ripped what used to be a good Baldwin engine into torn scrap on iron wheels.

The fireman carefully banked the firebox with precise thrusts of the shovel, laying coal into the left front, the right front, the left rear and the right rear: they had good coal today, which they usually did, and if there was need of emergency heat, they had four big slabs of bacon they could throw in the firebox and cause an unbelievably hot fire (not to mention a terrible smell!)

The engineer dropped his hand from the water valve, reached up, seized the wooden handle on the end of the chain-pull and hauled down hard, then grabbed the Johnson bar and hauled back, throwing the sanders open and gritting his teeth.

The fireman thrust head and shoulders out his window and swore, loudly and powerfully.

Air hissed through steel lines, shoved hard on machined-steel pistons, brake shoes slammed against steel wheels, and the five-car train shivered as slack drove forward through the couplers.

The Sheriff's head came up and he lay down the stripped frame with an abrupt sound; Jacob was on his feet, knees bent, pale eyes flicking from window to window.

Wordlessly, father and son each snatched up a rifle, one went right, one left: Sarah's eyes snapped open and were just as pale as the men's, and as The Bear Killer came bristling to his feet, she touched a hidden release and lifted a hidden cover, withdrawing a '76 rifle and covering the rear of the car.

"Nothing here," Jacob sang out.

"Nor here," the Sheriff echoed.

"Nothing," Sarah added.

The train was on an up grade, its speed had been slow, and it took little to stop: the Sheriff went to the front of the car, Jacob to the rear: each stepped out onto the platform, rifle at the ready, Sarah within, breathing silently through her nose.

The Bear Killer stood beside Sarah's skirt, then sat, pricked up his ears with a curious noise.

The Sheriff leaned out, looked.

"Jacob! Forward!"

The Sheriff dropped off the left side, Jacob off the right, and Sarah went out on the rear platform, rifle at the read, The Bear Killer with her, looking around: he reared easily up on his hind legs, laid forepaws over the railing as unconcerned as a sightseeing tourist.

 

The fireman swung down the iron ladder, dropped easily to the snow-covered ballast, squatted and opened his arms to the panicked boy.

"Ma fell in," he blurted, "she fell in an' we can't get her out!"

The Sheriff ran up, looking from the boy to the trees adjacent, looking forward, then down again, frowning.

The boy turned his face up toward the serious-faced lawman: "Ya gotta help us, Sheriff, Ma fell through the ice an' I heard the engine --"

The Sheriff turned. "SARAH!" he bellowed.

Sarah jumped easily, using one hand loose on the ladder to guide her descent, grabbed her skirts with one hand and ran up the track, ignoring curious faces pressing against the passenger car's windows.

Sarah handed her rifle to the Sheriff, dropped to her knees. "Paul, what happened?"

"Mama fell through the ice," he quavered, almost ready to cry.

"Where?" Sarah said, her voice clipped: suddenly she was pale, her face tightening over her cheekbones, and her eyes lightened in color, which only added to the lad's terror.

He raised a trembling arm, pointed back through the pines.

"How far?" she asked, her voice tight.

"Not far," he blurted.

"How long did it take you to get here?"

The Sheriff nodded with approval as the stock car's side door rumbled open and Jacob's head thrust around the edge.

The Sheriff raised a hand, nodded once, and Jacob's arm raised in reply: he disappeared into the stock car, and a moment later reappeared, mounted on his Appaloosa stallion and followed by the Sheriff's red mare and an absolutely huge, very black mare that floated through the air with a delicacy that looked more like flight than a leap -- it was more a long stretch, for the ground was high enough the horses could jump with no difficulty, and did.

"You'll ride with me," Sarah said, her voice booking no argument -- her look was more a challenge, and the Sheriff stepped back, rifle across his arm, offering no objection to her assuming the pathfinder's role.

Sarah touched her beloved Snowflake behind the knee and the great black Frisian knelt: Sarah hauled her skirts up, swung a leg over the plain black saddle, extended her arms and received the little boy the Sheriff handed her.

She planed him before her, put one arm around him, patted Snowflake's neck.

"Up, girl," she murmured, and the black Frisian rose without difficulty.

Sarah drew her cloak about herself and the shivering boy and she kneed Snowflake into a trot, following the boy's tracks in the fresh snow.

 

Inge Kolascinski was enjoying a rare holiday from housework: she'd bundled her children and herself and they'd gone out to play in the snow.

She laughed and scooped up double handfuls of snow, throwing the dry stuff in the air and laughing as the sparkling cloud came down around her, and of course her children outran her -- at least until their laughter and delighted exclamation ended and the air almost shivered with ... silence.

Inge looked up the hollow.

"Paul!" she called, automatically thinking if there was trouble, the youngest would be in it.

"Mama?" Paul's voice returned, and she heard the fear in it. "Mama?"

"Paul!" Inge shouted, panic seizing her heart, strengthening her legs: "PAUL!!"

Young Paul Kolascinski stood frozen, afraid to move.

He'd run out on the ice, laughing, and felt it sag: too late, he remembered his Mama's admonition to stay off the ice, and now -- now, as it bent beneath his weight and he heard an ominous, brittle crackle, he realized he was in more trouble than he could get out of.

He did the only thing a little boy could think of in such a moment.

He yelled for his Mama.

Inge slipped, stumbled, got her feet under her --

I remember this place, she thought.

It was lovely and cool this summer --

That pool was deep and we swam --

She saw her son, his eyes wide with terror, and she scanned the ice quickly, desperately, then she took a deep breath and did the only thing she could.

She mustered as much speed as she could, she drove ahead in a full-on sprint, hoping against hope that she could sweep him up and get him to the bank before the fragile ice broke under their combined weight.

She almost made it.

Inge drove across the ice swiftly, effortlessly, her son's face the only thing she could see --

Inge bent at the waist, willing herself to a greater speed, spread her arms --

She caught her son at the waist, threw him hard, sent him spinning on his backside toward the bank, all arms and legs like an awkward little boy will when he falls --

Paul Kolascinski screamed as his Mama stumbled, her feet thrusting straight back, her arms out to break her fall as the ice collapsed under her, and the last thing he saw was her hand, just before it too went under.

Paul looked around.

The other children were gone and Paul was alone, more alone than he'd ever been.

He looked at the dark water where his Mama just fell in, then his head came up as he heard the four-count chant of a laboring steam locomotive.

Paul looked at where his Mama had been and he knew he could not help her, but he knew there were people who could.

Paul ran and climbed and scrambled and headed toward where he knew the railroad tracks ran.

 

Sarah's arm was firm around Paul's belly.

Paul knew her as the kind and patient schoolmarm who sat with him and his brother, helping them make sense of the printed word.

Her voice was never anything but gentle, her hands soft and kind -- not like she was now, all hard and strong and her voice was like ice sharpened against granite, honed to a cutting edge.

Snowflake was surefooted on the mountain path, despite the snow, and The Bear Killer surged through the snow in her wake, taking advantage of the Frisian breaking trail.

Jacob and the Sheriff followed at a respectful distance.

The Sheriff knew he dare not delay the train: they ran on a timetable, and holding a train on a line with another due through on the same track was a formula for a disaster. He'd told the engineer to make for Firelands, and he would send Jacob for whatever additional help was needed.

Sarah wished for wings -- she wished for Snowflake to skim across the top of the snow like a magical creature -- but she dare not hurry the great Frisian: no, better let the horse pick her own speed, for she alone felt the ground underfoot.

Snowflake, however, felt Sarah's gut contract when she saw black water and broken ice, and she leaned ahead, dangerously fast on frozen, snow covered trail -- fast, but certain.

Paul thrust an arm from under the enveloping woolen cloak. "There!" he shouted. "Mama's there!"

Sarah knew the pool, she knew the water, and as she circled it, she saw an unnatural color.

Sarah threw up a leg, pushed hard away from the saddle, landed with her rifle in hand, sprinted for the lower end of the pool.

The Bear Killer raised his head as he ran and bayed -- his voice was deep and joyful, the sound of a predator closing in on the prey, and he charged the open headwaters, surging into the water with a great spray of liquid diamonds.

Sarah saw the current take him, thrust him under the ice, and she ran to the lower end of the ice, where the water was shallow and fast and open.

The Bear Killer scrambled for footing, found none: he swam strongly, moving with the water, found an arm, bit down on a sleeve, swam.

Sarah bent at the waist, hands fisted, then opening, then fisted again: she straightened, searching for a sign of progress, saw something black and indistinct and something calico behind it, moving steadily under the ice.

The Bear Killer's lungs were burning and cold robbed his legs of strength: his jaws were locked onto the sleeve, and he had but one thought -- to get the still figure to where he knew open water was, where he could take a breath, a precious breath.

His vision began to haze but still he swam.

Sarah turned, grabbed the '76 rifle from its scabbard, gauged the rescuer's progress, stepped carefully onto the ice.

"God guide me," she whispered, then cocked the rifle and dropped the muzzle to within an inch of the ice, fired.

The Sheriff's eyes narrowed as he watched his daughter drive a line of holes through the ice.

She slapped a hand to her side, he saw her lips tighten, and he knew she'd reached for where she usually kept reloads: she drove her heel hard against the ice, trying to break the row of holes, then turned, ran back to Snowflake.

Somewhere, in a space between universes, a place where spirits go to rest: who is to say that the honored dead go there, and watch us in our efforts?

Who is to say that generations and legions of canines feral and canines selectively bred looked with approval at their descendant, fighting the cold and the water and his lack of air, fighting a battle he was sure to lose, and not willing to give up ... and who is to say that one, then another, and finally all, raised muzzles sharp and blunt and bayed the song of their kind, and joined their strength, and sent it across eternity and across infinity and drove a renewed strength into this black and heroic figure, alone beneath the ice.

Sarah thrust the rifle back into its scabbard, led the big Frisian to the ice, then onto it.

The Sheriff heard the muted crackle as ice stressed, broke, fell in.

Snowflake advanced, pawing at the ice, seeming to take a delight in breaking great chunks of it free.

Sarah motioned her to stop, waved her back: Snowflake backed and a huge black head shoved up from under the ice, a coat sleeve clenched between his black jaws: Sarah seized the sleeve, pulled hard, slipped, fell, came up on all fours, pulled again.

The Bear Killer took another grip, pulled, and Inge Kolascinski, limp, pale, eyes open, came out from under the ice.

The Bear Killer released his grip and he trotted away from the water, shook himself and coughed, coughed again.

Sarah dragged Inge toward Snowflake, grabbed the mare behind the leg: the Frisian knelt and Sarah dragged the dead woman across the saddle, straddled the mare's back behind it: "Up!"

"Paul," the Sheriff called, dismounting: he took the lad under the arms, picked him up, swung him back, then powerfully up, dropping him neatly into place behind his saddle.

The Sheriff mounted awkwardly so as not to kick the lad, then he said "Put your arms around me," and touched Cannonball with his heels.

Sarah was already out of sight, heading for the Kolascinski cabin as hard as Snowflake felt safe to go.

 

Sarah leaned back a little and Snowflake stopped in front of the Kolascinski cabin.

"KOHHHHLLLLL!" Sarah screamed, dropping to the ground and dragging Inge's cold, unmoving form after: she pulled the dead woman's arms up over her shoulders, dragged her for the cabin door, hauled the door open.

"KOHHHLLLL!" she screamed into the interior.

Silence replied.

Sarah grunted, dragging Inge inside, eased her to the floor, turned and yanked the door shut: she turned to the stove, grabbed a towel, opened the cast iron door, threw in as much wood as she thought safe, opened the draft and slammed the door shut, then turned back to the dead woman sprawled on the floor.

What do I do, what do I do, what do I do --

What did they do on the docks?

What did that sailor tell me?

A keg!

Sarah grabbed a keg, rolled it over toward Inge, then straddling the cold, dead figure, took her around the waist, lifted: it was beyond her strength, but she did it, not bothering to wonder how: she'd heard tales of women, one of them the Sheriff's great-grandmother, who bear hugged the flour barrel and packed it out of a burning cabin, then running back in and running doubled-over under the heavy kitchen table, ra'ring up and packing it out on her back.

She draped Inge over the keg.

Sarah straightened, took a long breath, then stepped back, grabbed Inge's cold, wet ankles, and pushed ... she rolled Inge forward on the keg, then pulled and drew her back, the keg under her belly.

The sailor told me this worked, Sarah thought, pushed again, rolling Inge forward on the keg, and drew her back again.

Come on, come on, come on --

Sarah remembered Paul's expression, remembered how lost, how scared he sounded --

"YOUR SON NEEDS YOU," Sarah shouted, hauling Inge forward and back again.

"YOUR HUSBAND NEEDS YOU!" she snapped, rolled her back and forth again, then dropped her ankles and grabbed her face.

"INGE!!!" she shouted into the dead woman's face.

Nothing.

Sarah's head lowered, her eyes blazing with a cold fire, and in the space between worlds, in that gap where eternities slumber and spirits roam, an explosion detonated between firmaments, sending shock waves through an eternity and an infinity, and Sarah stood on the hot red sands of a hell she'd walked when her soul was sundered and she too wandered between worlds.

She faced a dark figure in a hooded robe, a figure she knew well, and she said quietly, "Not this one."

"All must come with me," the figure whispered, "in their due time."

"Her time," Sarah said coldly, her eyes shining like white bale-fires, "is not yet."

"She will come with me."

"No."

"Very well." Sarah heard amusement in the voice, and she was once again in the Kolascinski cabin.

Inge's eyes closed, then opened, and she threw up at least ten gallon of cold mountain water all over Sarah's shoes.

 

The Sheriff opened the door, motioned Jacob in: The Bear Killer flowed in between them, came over and snuffed loudly at Inge's face, washed her cold cheeks briskly, then looked at Sarah and made a questioning noise.

"Get warm," Sarah said quietly, and The Bear Killer trotted over to the stove, lay down in front of it, grateful for the warm dry floor.

"Jacob. Find me something to write on," Sarah said urgently. "And help me get her undressed. I've got to get her out of these wet things and dried off."

"Jacob, you find something to write on. I'll help Sarah."

"Yes, sir."

Sarah paused from tending Inge long enough to write a lengthy missive to a healer in whom she had full faith and confidence:

DROWNING. HELP!

She shoved it into Jacob's grip. "Take this to Daciana," she said, her voice tense, and Jacob nodded.

The Bear Killer, unconcerned, rolled over to warm his other side.

The stove felt pretty good to him.

Sarah and the Sheriff got Inge stripped down, and into her own bed, and they took turns rubbing her down with a rough towel, then got her into a flannel nightgown and covered up.

Paul was seated across the room, silent and big-eyed, and one by one, the children returned, came in, gathered around their Mama's bed.

Sarah turned to the oldest girl, whispered in her ear: the girl nodded, ran across the cabin, opened a cupboard, returned.

Sarah took the green-glass Rosary, draped it carefully in Inge's limp, cold hand, then motioned the children close.

"She must hear your voices," she said, her hands gripping Inge's, pressing the glass beads into the chilled flesh.

Reverently, respectfully, Sarah and the children said the Rosary, and the Sheriff, watching, removed his hat and stood silent, knowing the mystery that was death and was life, and that it was possible -- it was just possible -- that the childrens' voices might be enough to draw her soul back from beyond the Divide.

He was right.

They did.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

105. YOU ARE WHAT YOU MUST BE

Inge slept in her husband's arms.

Her husband's arms, she remembered, ran around her and rolled her over on top of him, and she lay limp on top of Kohl's lean-muscled body, warm and safe with her husband's grip around her and his breath on her neck.

Part of her mind never slept -- a mother's mind is like that -- she heard a pine knot crack in the stove's warm belly, she heard restless children roll over in bed, she heard winter wind in the treetops, but these were normal sounds, and far away.

Inge wandered at night, drifting through the realities that are our dreams, sorting out the day's confusion and seeing it again in allegory and in distortion and sometimes it made sense and often it made no sense at all, but Inge always found her dreams entertaining.

Tonight, while part of her remained warm and safe in her husband's arms, part of her looked around, interested, at the ice above her, air bubbles chasing one another under the frozen surface, pulling apart, bumping together.

It was warm under the ice, she floated as a child in the womb, she marveled how her hair writhed in unseen currents, at least until an unseen black monster seized her arm and towed her at an unholy velocity down a long, twisting, silvery tube with the sound of a waterfall, a torrent, a cascade.

Hoofbeats, drumbeats, heartbeats, she couldn't be sure, only that suddenly she was thrust free and she floated in a great black void, she floated between the nighttime stars, and a woman rode toward her -- no, rode wasn't the right word, and perhaps woman wasn't the right term either.

This figure was milk-pale and wore a woven silver robe, soft as silk and made of thousands time ten thousands of individual silver links, all woven and spun and sewn together into an incredibly soft garment, and she rode a horse of incredible blackness with great white wings, and the woman reached up and raked a handful of stars out of the sky, and another handful; she spun them between her fingers, drew them out into a lariat, a lasso, made of gleaming bright emerald beads, the beads Inge kept hung in her kitchen cupboard, the beads Esther Keller gave her years ago, and the woman spun the gleaming emerald-bead lasso and it spun and whirled and settled about Inge's waist.

A pull, and she was in her own bed, her husband's arms around her waist, and Inge never opened her eyes.

She cuddled a little and her husband's arms tightened just a wee, and Inge was content, for she was where she was supposed to be, and she slept dreamlessly the rest of the night.

Sarah lay wide-awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to The Bear Killer snore.

It didn't matter how fiddle string tight Sarah's nerves were, it never mattered how close she'd come to death, destruction, fire, murder, stampede or explosion, and it didn't matter whether The Bear Killer was in on the fracas or not: when nighttime came, when it was safe to relax, he did.

He slept, and when he slept, he snored.

Sarah blinked in the darkness, then threw her covers back, sat up.

The snoring stopped.

Sarah's bare feet found the fur-lined moccasins she'd had made earlier that month.

The Bear Killer made a quiet little yawning-puppy noise, the way he did when he stretched and arched his back and opened his jaws wide, then the flapping-ear noise as he shook his head, and Sarah stood, shaking her white-flannel nightgown so it draped down to her moccasin tops.

Her tread was silent as she descended from her bedroom, The Bear Killer waiting for her to reach the landing before happily galloping down the stairs: he ran stairs with all the abandon of a happy puppy, and Sarah had long ago given up on trying to teach him to be quiet on their staircase: anywhere else, he moved with all the thunderous noise of a passing wisp of fog, but here at home, here where he'd grown up with the laughing little girl Sarah had been, stairs were one of his favorite games.

Sarah tended to the necessity that visits itself upon the newly risen; she made a mental note to invent a heated outhouse seat, then considered this would very likely magnify the smell, and so abandoned the idea, choosing instead to return to the warmth of the kitchen and leave such ideas -- and the night's frost and chill -- outside.

The Bear Killer kept station at her right, just far enough from her to keep from tripping her, but close enough to lean against her if she stopped.

Sarah touched the tea kettle with the backs of her fingers, quickly, delicately, gauging whether it was warm enough to make tea.

"I already checked," her mother's voice said quietly, and Sarah jumped a little: it was difficult to startle her, she usually saw everything, heard everything, but this was home, this was her sanctum, and here, her guard was down.

"I'm sorry, sweets," her mother apologized, "I shouldn't have startled you."

Sarah responded by skipping over to her Mama and giving her a quick, spontaneous hug, one that lasted a moment longer than it usually did.

"You were thinking about tea," Bonnie murmured.

Sarah nodded.

"I think tea is a lovely idea, and we have wood in plenty."

Sarah quickly, expertly, fueled the stove, carefully shaking down the ashes to make the least noise: their maid was conscientious and attentive and she earned her pay, and to Sarah's way of thinking, she also earned her good rest, and Sarah wished not to disturb her, lest she come to the summoning sound of cast iron gears rolling around in the stove's belly.

Bonnie silently retrieved cups and saucers, the tin of good oolong, the stamped-metal perforated egg they used to steep a cuppa: all they needed now was for the banked-fire-warm water to heat a little more, and it would be just right for a good steep.

Bonnie scratched a Lucifer into bright, flaring life, striking it on the stove's warmed surface, touched match to the kerosene lamp's wick, turning it down to keep it from smoking: she'd cleaned enough lamp chimneys in her day and keeping one from smoking up was second nature.

Mother and daughter sat at the kitchen table as wood hissed and snapped in the stove's iron belly, The Bear Killer finding a comfortable, warm place between stove and wall: neither of the ladies needed to look to know he was watching them with solemn, obsidian-dark eyes.

They waited for the water to heat, each comfortable in the familiar silence of their kitchen; when the kettle hissed to itself and the boiling-marbles in the bottom began to jump and clatter a little, Sarah closed the stove's draft and poured the water, smiling a little as steam from the pouring rose into the still air.

They dunked the perforated steeper, let it set and repent of its sins, then dunked it in the other: they both savored the smell of good oolong, with a little citrus added, burgamo from the Canary Islands or so the one-armed Mr. Garrison at the Mercantile assured them: neither cared whether it was burgamo, burgoo, lemon or orange, it was good, and they both savored that first, hot, fragrant sip that set the palate to enjoy the rest of the dainty, delicate, eggshell porcelain cup of tea.

Sarah looked into the shadowed corner where The Bear Killer was a darker shadow, smiled, then she began to talk, quietly, the way she always did when mother and daughter held these impromptu midnight meetings.

"I recognized Paul from school," Sarah said without preamble. "I wondered why he was the reason the train stopped.

"He rode Snowflake with me.

"When we found his mother -- Inge, you remember her -- she'd broken through the ice and the current drew her under." Sarah's eyes were wide, staring, as she saw the scene again -- white, harsh, frozen, and she shivered, remembering how cold it was.

Sarah painted a portrait, a living, moving portrait, and Bonnie followed the dread performance in her mind as if it were a play on stage, seen through her daughter's eyes.

Sarah had come home, wet, shivering, and The Bear Killer was mostly dry, except for ice hanging here and there from his fur, mostly his tail.

She remembered how Sarah very quietly, very seriously, asked the maid to draw a hot tub of water, and how The Bear Killer ended up getting bathed before Sarah did.

Listening to her daughter's account of what happened, she now understood why.

In his corner between the warm stove, and the warmed wall and floor, The Bear Killer snored gently.

Sarah paused for a sip of tea, then:

"Mama, I was not ... entirely there." She looked at her mother, her expression serious. "I saw things I hadn't seen since one of my deaths. I walked hell again, Mama, I walked the hot red sands and talked with the Reaper like an old friend."

Bonnie heard a slight, a very, very slight, quiver in Sarah's voice as she relived the moment, and she knew this was the equal of another woman's hyperventilating and screaming in hysterics.

"Mother ... Inge was dead.

"I did not know what to do, and not even Dr. Greenlees or Dr. Flint could have done a thing to help."

Sarah picked up her teacup with both hands, took a noisy, indelicate slurp.

"I remembered" -- she smiled, then laid gentle, feminine fingertips on her Mama's wrist -- "I remember when I was on a case ... I pretended to be a saloon girl, and in getting information I had conversation with a Boston sailor." She giggled, sounding like a mischievous little girl. "I don't remember how it came up, but ... yes I do, someone was describing how our Sheriff threw a fellow into a horse trough rather than shoot him."

Bonnie smiled, for she remembered that pale-eyed lawman with the iron grey mustache doing just that.

"The sailor described men who fell off the docks and drowned." Her expression softened a little. "He said most sailors can't swim.

"And -- I remembered this -- he said when a man drowns he'll swallow the ocean dry before he'll get water in his lungs and it's not until his belly is full that he'll give up and inhale the salt water.

"He said to bring 'em back to life, his words, they would lay the drowned man belly-down over a keg and roll him back and forth.

"I remembered that, Mama, and I did that with Inge.

"It worked."

Her voice was hollow, distant, as far-away as the look in her wide, pale eyes.

"She was dead, Mama, and I rolled her back and forth on that keg and I took her dead cheeks between my hands and I screamed in her face and those dead eyes were open and not blinking and all I could think of was her laugh."

Sarah looked at her Mama, her own eyes filling and beginning to overflow.

"Mama, I remembered how she laughed when she watched her children, and I could not let her die. I just couldn't.

"I -- she -- I guess when she swallowed the stream ... her stomach emptied and she started to breathe.

"That's when we got her undressed and dried off and in bed.

"Daciana knew what to brew and she spooned a little of it down Inge's ... mostly her pillow ... but it helped ..."

Sarah looked at her Mama.

"I walked the hell-sands and I told the Reaper he couldn't have her and I rolled her around on a barrel until she threw up."

Sarah shivered.

"Mama, what am I?"

Bonnie very precisely placed her empty teacup in the very center of the dainty porcelain saucer, turned, took both Sarah's hands in her own.

"Sarah," she said, "we women are creatures of mystery that no man will ever understand, you more than any I've known.

"I know what you are."

Bonnie's hands tightened a little in emphasis.

"You are who you must be, and you are what you must be, and never, ever doubt the good that you do in this world!"

Mother and daughter shared a long embrace, warmed by human contact and a cast iron stove, and in his corner, The Bear Killer sighed in his sleep and began to snore again.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

106. "I THOUGHT SHE WAS A CRACK SHOT!"

 

Word travels quickly in a small town, but only if that word is spoken.

It wasn't.

Neither Jacob, the Sheriff, nor Sarah herself felt the previous day's adventures worthy of comment.

They'd simply done what had to be done.

Inge was alive, her children were about her chores so far as anyone knew (though the participants in our little adventure rather imagined Inge's stern admonishment that they stay away from the ice!), and the various participants went about their daily routine.

Miss Sarah stood on the clean-swept schoolhouse steps, swinging the handbell with its crooked handle; children sauntered, dawdled, ran, skipped and otherwise ambulated to the schoolhouse, kicking snow off their shoes on the bottom step before ascending into the welcome warmth of their one-room, whitewashed, tidy little schoolhouse.

Miz Emma, like most teachers, was observant of her students, and though she made a mental note of it, she never addressed the fact that the youngest Kolascinski boy regarded Miz Sarah with big, adoring, almost worshipful eyes.

She put it down to a little boy's crush.

 

The Bear Killer raised a paw, waved it in the air, his head turned half sideways, almost a comical figure: he never crossed the threshold, waiting instead just without, knowing the cook was watching his comical antic from the corner of her eye.

She turned, wooden spoon thrust out and knuckles on her hip, and shook her Mommy-finger at him.

"You bum!" she scolded.

The Bear Killer's ears pricked happily.

"You," she said, shaking her finger again, "are a bum!"

The Bear Killer danced on his forepaws just a little, the great swinging brush of a tail whipping joyfully through the air.

"Well don't just stand there, come on in," she grumbled, picking up a saucer of scrap meat cut into little bites, especially for The Bear Killer's visits.

She cast a quick eye over the stove and smiled, then held up a fat-streaked chunk of gristly meat. "Sit," she said quietly, and this fierce guardian of family and pack, this fanged and blooded taker of lives, this massive and muscled enforcer of the common good, dropped his backside quickly to the oiled boards, tongue panting out in anticipation.

"Good boy," the cook smiled, tossing the meat scrap on a low arc, and The Bear Killer's jaws snapped expertly, snatching it easily from the air.

 

"And this," Professor T. Joseph Hunt said, holding up a small, brown-glass bottle, "is an Oriental alkaloid with which the West is generally not familiar."

His students frowned, their pencils busy taking notes, for poisons were not generally used: when they were, it took good detective work to discover them, determine which poison was used, then back track to where they came from and finally who used them in a murderous fashion.

"This is in liquid form." He held up a second bottle, shook it. "This is the dried alkaloid, the form found in the murderer's cupboard. It is mixed with a salt water solution -- the salt concentration is the same as human tears, a common concentration that would be known to a good medical practitioner -- and this is an especially difficult poison to detect, because it is thrown into the victim's face."

"The face?" Mr. Kranyik looked up, a curious frown drawing his eyebrows together. "How would that be effective ... was the victim's mouth open?"

"No, sir," the Professor said solemnly. "This particular alkaloid is the result of centuries of Oriental poisoners and their research. It seems the eye is connected directly to the brain, and this poison runs most swiftly into and around the eye ball, then it travels into and through that thick nerve at the rear of the eye and directly into the brain. It is effective and it is quick" -- he snapped his fingers for emphasis -- "and the eye appears unaffected."

His smile was thin, almost resigned.

"One would think a poison of such efficacy would leave the eye bloodshot and the victim in great pain, but the opposite is reported. In the case where this was used -- two weeks ago, in San Francisco -- the victim reportedly stopped in surprise, drew out his kerchief and wiped his cheek, then fell over dead."

"Dear God," Mr. Tivner breathed. "Did ... how did they ..." He stopped, arranged his thoughts while the Professor waited patiently.

"Sir, I presume that -- as you have both the liquid solution, and the dry alkaloid -- that the murderer was discovered and his place of ... activity ... then searched?"

"You are correct, Mr. Tivner," Professor Hunt nodded. "Our own Agent Rosenthal, as a matter of fact, witnessed the attack, as did a San Francisco policeman on whose arm she was being proudly escorted." He chuckled. "She released the officer's arm, and while he stopped and stared at the dying man shivering his last upon the pavement, Miss Rosenthal gave pursuit and ..."

The Professor coughed delicately.

"Apprehended the suspect."

"How many times did she shoot him?" an anonymous voice asked, to the chuckles of his fellows, and Mr. Tivner, smiling, added, "Did she use a pack howitzer or a field gun?"

The Professor smiled and nodded. "I have it on good authority," he said, "that she knocked the hat off his head."

"She missed? I thought she was such a crack shot!"

The Professor shook his head, an amused expression on his whiskered face.

"No, Mr. Kranyik. She did not shoot him." He reached under the back of his coat, pulled out a long, serviceable black jack, spun it, smacked the table, hard, making a very loud noise as the shot-loaded leather jack belted the tabletop, hard.

"I believe she used one of these."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

107. DOWNHILL RUN

 

Strong hands covered Sarah's eyes, strong arms pulled back, dangerously hyperextending her neck.

Sarah's gut both tightened into a half dozen knots and dropped about twenty feet as she realized she had absolutely, positively no control over what was happening.

​It wasn't supposed to happen like this, she thought.

It went so fast, so very fast ...

She reached up, seized the wrists, her strength was born of desperation and she ripped the covering hands from her eyes.

Wind and snow hit her in the face and a voice behind her was screaming loud enough to drive icepicks through her ear-pans, and suddenly she had the sensation of falling through limitless space.

Opal had a death grip around Polly's waist, Polly's hands -- just ripped from the only thing she could grab, and that was Sarah's head -- closed around Sarah's throat, and the three girls, streaking downhill at the top of their lungs, felt the toboggan drift away from their chilled backsides as they shot off a ledge, snow swirling like smoke in their wake, clinging to their backs, their hair, the fur trimming their bonnets and their collars.

Sarah gave up scrabbling for the rope tied to the corners of the toboggan and reached up, grabbing her little sister's wrists, tearing the desperate grip from around her throat, choking from the sudden strangling grasp of a terrified little girl.

Opal was loudly declaring that this was a bad idea, she wanted to get off, make it stop make it stop make it stop, and Polly gave a prolonged squeak -- yes, a squeak is the best description of her distressed voice -- Sarah's throat was silent, her mind running back and forth behind her eyes, looking out one pale portal, then the other, with the desperation of a terrified, trapped animal, trying to figure some way out of her current predicament.

Sarah grunted as the sled bounced off a hillock, the twins' teeth clicking as their heads bobbed with the impact, wind stripping tears from the corners of Sarah's eyes as they sloped downhill even more steeply, snow pattering cold and sandy on her cheeks as trees blurred past, much too fast to count.

Opal's face was buried in the back of Polly's coat, Polly's face was pressed hard into the back of Sarah's coat, and Sarah's eyes widened, then squeezed shut as something big and white soared toward her, less than a tenth of a second before toboggan, grim-faced big sister and screaming twins exploded through a snowdrift half again deeper than the Sheriff's six foot two inches, emerging in a clinging cloud of grainy-dry snow that ran cold fingers up their sleeves and down the back of their necks and into their mouths and ears and noses, and the toboggan reared up under them, rolling to one side, throwing the three into another drift with a muted whuff! sound.

Sarah heard a grunt and knew it had to be her own sound, and she rolled in an out-of-control somersault, twisted, threw arms and legs wide: she skidded, slid, spun and finally stopped, snow settling around her like a silvery fog.

Sarah Lynne McKenna, big sister and scared to her soul, launched out of the half-buried snow grave like a bee-stung cat: she looked around, desperately, terrified that her sisters -- her responsibility -- were buried, gone, over a cliff, wrapped around a tree --

A young arm thrust up from the snow, followed by a snow-rimmed, red-cheeked face: not six feet away, a foot, then a leg, then another young body twisted out of the snow, laughing, teeth white and shining, eyes bright with delight, and the twins, with one voice, fixed on the big sis they both adored and shouted happily, "That was fun, Sawwah! Let's do it again!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

108. THE DANCE

The Sheriff planted his boot on his boot box, bent down and addressed the gleaming leather with the horsehair boot brush.

A German count of his acquaintance remarked on the quality of his schwarze Stiefel, which led to two old campaigners discussing their respective military careers, laughing at accounts of incompetent officers, inedible food, ill-fitted uniforms, ill-considered maneuvers, the many commonalities of military life in any army, but the Sheriff was left with a pleased feeling, for this Teutonic nobleman felt moved to a complement, and the Sheriff was a man who'd heard too few of those in his line of work.

In the fine brick firehouse, several boots were propped up on railings, chairs, an overturned bucket; several brushes whispered across insteps and around leather bootheels, while strong young men laughed and joked and made obscene predictions of the night to come.

Jacob, too, buffed his boots to a high shine, then sat on a low stool and showed his son how a man blacked his boots and coaxed that smooth finish from his labors.

It was winter, and winter was a bleak season; a dance, a box social, a concert, all were eagerly anticipated and generally well attended -- school recitals, where the community's children sang, or recited anything from Shakespeare to the Gettysburg Address, were equally well attended, for it was an age where individual performance was the norm, where individual skill was recognized and applauded.

The Daine boys were already down off their mountain, bringing banjo, fiddle, mandolin and gut bucket bass with them; truly gifted musicians as well as carpenters, they could coax magic from their instruments as skilfully as they could coax their potent brew from fermented grain and coiled copper.

Tonight they primed themselves with a judicious tilt of their potent product -- water clear and less than thirty days old -- a little Old Soul Saver to ward off the devil, as it were -- this tended to settle any nerves that might be tightened with the knowledge that they would be performing before the community at large.

The ladies selected gowns and accessories, then changed their minds and tried another, if they had another -- most had but few to choose from, many had only their everyday attire and one good gown, which they wore to church, marryin's and buryin's, box socials and dances -- but all made an effort to look better than they usually did.

There was going to be a barn dance, it would be in Daciana's big round barn, and they looked forward to it.

The Sheriff had Daciana's barn built some years ago, when the Romanian circus performer backhanded the crooked owner and called him seven kinds of a thief, in as many languages; the Sheriff's fist carried the swift and unmistakable message that the circus owner was not to try to grab, slug or slap the diminutive acrobat -- as a matter of fact, the Sheriff knocked the dog stuffing out of the man, fighting with a savage mixture of knuckles, elbows, boot heels and one close-in knee, which sufficed to end the fight, after which said miscreant was hauled to the hoosegow and locked up with his misery, left alone with more pain and nausea than he'd known for some long time -- as a matter of fact, since the last time he tried to backhand a pretty young acrobat, and that had been Daciana's mother, while they were touring Lisbon, just before they crossed the big salt water pond to a strange and wealthy land called America.

The Sheriff had the barn built, he had it built round, and he had it built big -- Daciana was a trick rider, and Daciana wanted to keep in practice, and Daciana's specialty was wearing a skin-tight, brightly-colored leotard, her trick pony Buttercup would wear a gaudy, black-and-canary-yellow saddle and feathered headpiece, both adorned with silver trim -- and the trick rider would perform handstands, somersaults, rolls, spins and a variety of barely believable acrobatics, all at a steady gallop.

Daciana and Sarah also took their exercise in the big, echoing-empty barn, climbing forearm-thick ropes and practicing throws, tumbles and other arts which kept them supple, strong and in practice.

Tonight, though, the sawdust floor was raked down smooth, Buttercup was in her stall, mane brushed and woven with artificial flowers, hooves burnished and shining, her fancy saddle hung up as if on display: Buttercup herself watched over the gate to her stall, long-lashed eyelids blinking sleepily as four stoves, all set on stone flags and piped through hinged holes installed for that purpose, pushed against the cold air, warming the benches set close by.

There was snow enough for horsedrawn sleighs, and sure enough, the Rosenthal sleigh was harnessed up and ready: Levi and Bonnie, Sarah and the twins, even their maid, boarded the fine, shining sleigh and cuddled under buffalo robes as the dapple gelding leaned into his harness and drew them easily over hard-crusted snow.

The Irish Brigade crowded around a round table, watching as the German Irishman shuffled cards, watching as the German Irishman dealt cards, watching as the German Irishman slammed the remainder of the deck down in the middle of the table.

Everyone got a poker hand, even Sean, the big-shouldered fire chief.

"Now remember, lads," the German Irishman declared loudly, "one o'us stays a' station t' cover an' th' rest o'ye can drink an' wench an' carouse, an' be damned with ye! Now when I say, ye'll pick up yer cards an' contemplate 'em, but ye'll lay 'em down face up so we can all see't! Man wi' th' worst hand stays!"
The German Irishman laid his hand on his cards.

"Pick 'em up," he said.

Irish hands gathered pasteboards, Irish fingers arranged their poker hand: eyes lifted, looked around, dropped back to their hands, looked around again.

"A'right, lads," the German Irishman declared. "Lay 'em down!"

Three minutes later, the German Irishman sadly contemplated the several hands of cards.

He'd had the low hand.

He didn't even get a chance to tell the Welsh Irishman, Daffyd Llewellyn, that he'd really ought to try and dance with that good lookin' McKenna girl.

He sighed, gathered the cards, shuffled them back into a deck, looked at his gleaming boots.

"All that good work," he sighed, "an' for nothin'!"

 

"Pa?"

"Yes, Joseph?"

"Pa, do I hafta dance?"

Jacob laughed, and Annette smiled quietly to hear it, for she did love to hear her husband's laugh.

"No, Joseph, you don't have to," Jacob chuckled.

"Oh." Joseph sounded almost disappointed.

"You can dance if you want."

Joseph frowned, staring at their gelding's backside, listening to snow squeak under the runners.

"You got a girl you're sweet on?" Jacob asked, straight-faced.

"Nope," Joseph declared proudly.

Wonder how long that'll last, Jacob thought, and Annette saw his eyes tighten a little with another smile.

 

The Sheriff reached up and took his wife around her lean waist, and she jumped a little, the way she usually did, and he swung her easily to the snow, pulling her in and kissing her quickly, unexpectedly, bringing a quick flush to her already-glowing cheeks and a warm look to her green eyes.

Angela stood, spread her arms: "Catch me, Daddy!" she exclaimed, jumping, and the Sheriff barely caught her, swinging her around faster than he'd intended, stumbling a little as his foot broke through the snow-crust: he grunted as he managed to set his darlin' daughter down without damage.

 

Daciana gave the quilt a quick flip: she had an area ready for mothers and their infants, for drowsy children or anyone who might need to lay down unexpectedly. The stove was warming the area nicely, its long tin smoke pipe running almost completely around the room before plunging through its insulated port, shedding as much heat into the interior as possible before exhausting to the outside air.

A nod of satisfaction and Daciana slipped back into the sawdust floored arena.

She smiled as the first of her guests arrived: the family Rosenthal, Bonnie on Levi's arm, followed by the Sheriff and his wife Esther, then the Sheriff's son Jacob, with his wife on one arm and Sarah on the other, and behind him, the Sheriff's bright-eyed little girl Angela, happily gripping the forearm of a scowling and sullen Joseph.

Daciana skipped across the sawdust, laughing, and welcomed her guests, while behind her, a grey-bearded mountaineer coaxed the first long, harmonious note from his curly-back fiddle.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

109. "STEP OUTSIDE!"

I recognized the voice.

I recognized that deep, sonorous, musical voice that seemed to rise up from the man's boot heels.

If he'd put his throat to the task, he would have made a most marvelous singer, but his soul was black and twisted and he used his voice to bring terror to his victims before he brought violence upon them.

"The man who speaks to my back," I said, my voice pitched to be clearly audible, "is a coward." I turned slowly, feeling my face tighten, as if my skin was drying to stretched parchment over my cheek bones. "And you" -- I felt the delicious joy of the man who knows he's a knife's edge from kissing Death itself -- "are a liar."

I don't know if he expected me to come unarmed to a barn dance, I don't know if he expected to freeze me so he could run that knife of his into my kidneys.

I do know when I turned, I swatted my coat tails back and gripped my Colts and I saw that spot between his upper lip and the bridge of his nose, that strip as wide as a man's finger, that strip that would just fit four .44 bullets, and at this range there is no way in God's good earth I would miss.

I didn't see it for very long, but it was long enough to remember the last time I heard that voice ... the last night of That Damned War, when a galvanized Yankee and I shared the last of my flask and a marginally comfortable log to set on, toasting our shins before an apple wood fire while he told me of his home, and how he could never go back since he'd swallered the dog and forswore his oath as a Confederate soldier.

I remember looking down for a moment and a moment is all it took.

There was something pale that moved kind of fast and I heard that galvanized Yankee make kind of a funny noise and then I smelt blood hot and fresh, blood copper and hot and I saw the knife slice damn neart clear through the man's neck, and then I saw the boot that shoved hard between his shoulder blades and I recall how hot and sticky that blood felt when it splashed me and that deep musical voice growled, "Damned Sesech scum," and then turned and walked into the darkness and disappeared, and I was so plainly caught flat footed I never even thought of the Colt revolver on my belt.

I faced the man now, but it ain't quite the way he'd planned.

"You," he'd said in that beautiful, deep-toned voice, "are a damned Yankee and a damned coward."

I reckon I had my conductor's hat on.

When he said those things he presented a ticket to the Hell-Bound Train, and I was more than willing to punch his ticket, but Sarah had other ideas.

Jacob told me later what she'd done.

She'd run up toward him, she'd grabbed her skirts up to about knee level and she just plainly climbed the man's back and grabbed him over top his head with her fingers in his eyes and she hauled his head back and laid that long slender knife of hers against his throat, and she rode him to the ground, hissing like a cat, her legs locked around his waist and her steel tasting the cartilage of his wind pipe.

He laid there on the ground and the music stopped.

We were in the center of those four stoves, in amongst the benches, where the dancers could set and warm themselves from four roundabout stoves, he laid there in the sawdust with me a-squattin' slow and easy in front of him with my coat open and the ivory handles of my engraved Colts plain to see.

I looked at him and I know my eyes were pale and I tilted my head a little like I was looking at an insect pinned to a cork, and I said, quiet-like, "You are not only a coward, you are a damned coward. I don't need to shoot you. I could reach down your neck and grab you by the seat of the pants and jerk you inside out and send you runnin' naked back to wherever you come from. That's my little girl" -- Sarah smiled up at me, but 'twas only her eyes that were a-smile -- "and she just brought you down. Now I'd suggest you hold very still, because she's like me. She's just like me." My eyes were wide and my grin was skeletal and my voice was a dry rasp as I said, "She's just like Old Pale Eyes."

I looked at Sarah. "Let go of him, Sarah."

Sarah released both her fingers wrapping over his eyebrows and into his eye sockets, and she withdrew the knife from his wind pipe, leaving a bleeding line just below his Adam's apple.

I drew my boot knife.

I shaved with that knife and I used it for nothing but knife fighting, it was nine inches of honed Damascus steel and the hilt was cross-wrapped with braided wire so I could handle it when it was wet and sticky with blood.

Dip your knife handle in honey and then try to fight with it and you'll understand why I won't have a fighting knife that's not wire wrapped. That's how blood feels in the hand, that's how blood makes things slippery, and right now my hands were bone dry and that knife was balanced in my hand and I said "Now step outside and we'll finish this, just you and me."

I looked up as His Honor the Judge puffed thoughtfully on his cigar.

"Going somewhere, Sheriff?" he asked casually.

"I'm going outside, Your Honor," I replied, "and so is he, and only one of us is a-comin' back in."

"Shouldn't you let the court decide that?"

"You saw it?"

"I saw."

"You heard?"

"I heard."

"Your verdict?"

His Honor's eyes crinkled a little at the corners; his cigar glowed red around the edges, then he casually flicked away the fluffy white ash and blew a liquid stream of Cuban smoke into the still air.

"Guilty," he said.

"Guilty of assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder of a law enforcement officer, unlawful use of weapons in town and imitation of a human being," I smiled. "The penalty of which is death by hanging. How say you, Your Honor? A hemp noose or do I take this fellow outside and cyarve mah 'nitials in his liver?"

I'd looked up at the Judge; the Judge was looking at me in that moment.

The man grunted, his head came up, his eyes wide, then he kind of sagged and went real limp.

Sarah sat back, on her knees, her slender-bladed knife sticking out of his back right about kidney level.

She smiled at me like a little girl who was pleased with a lesson she'd just mastered.

I looked at her and looked at the Judge and I looked back at her, realizing Sarah had just assumed the legal murder I was planning on.

"Oh, don't look so surprised," Sarah scolded, then she grabbed the knife, rocked it back and forth and drew it out, tossed it aside: "He was going for it" -- she rolled him over, and as he fell back onto his back, dead eyes staring vacantly through cigar smoke strata at the shadowed rafters overhead, his hand opened, relaxed in death, and a nickle plated Derringer dropped out of his grip.

I looked at the Judge, opened my mouth and found that I honestly didn't have anything to say.

"Oh, come on, now," Sarah chided me with a quiet smile. "Don't we law dawgs stick together like thieves?" She stood, then stooped to pick up her knife. "I've got to clean this off," she said absently. "I'll just be a minute."

I rolled back on my heels, stood, watched her retreating backside, as did His Honor the Judge.

We looked at one another and the Judge shook his head, then patted me on the shoulder like an older man giving wise counsel to a younger.

"Sheriff," he said quietly, "she's your daughter, all right!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

110. UNDER THE OVERHEAD DIAMONDS

"Albert?"

Albert looked across his fiddle at his long, tall, skinny brother, slowly drawing his fiddle's bow across the rosin block.

"You reckon she's related?"

Albert looked back toward the stoves, back toward the dead man with the gleaming little two barrel hideout laying by his open, darkening hand, back toward the pretty young woman swinging back across the sawdust, swinging with a dancer's step, flaring her skirt a little as she almost half-turned with each step she took.

"Nah," Albert grunted.

Daine scratched his beard, picked up his double-strung, five-string banjo, set it on his leg.

"She kinda reminds me of Ma."

Albert nodded slowly. "Aye," he agreed. "Ma had Pa's back, a'right."

They both nodded solemnly, remembering the white-haired woman with bright, piercing eyes who raised up young'uns and wifed her husband like a woman ought, and when need be she addressed the lawless in the language they understood ... including one night at another barn dance when she, too, knifed a man in the back because her husband's life was endangered.

"Don't reckon she's no relation," Albert muttered, setting aside the rosin block and tapping the bow lightly, a brisk little rat-tat, and he looked at his long, tall, skinny kinsman with a shared amusement in his Kentucky-blue eyes. "Attair little girl yonder is to pretty. Cain't be no relation t' you."

Daine nodded, his hand caressing the neck of his banjo like a lover, and his other hand strayed up and he worked the hand made picks onto two fingers and his thumb.

Sarah watched her father and her brother drag the dead man out the door, smiled and cocked her head as the Sailor's Hornpipe descended in bright, plucked notes from the fiddler's platform, and she threw her head back and laughed, a bright, happy, feminine sound, and she began dancing a quick, intricate jig.

It was all the invitation the people needed, and the sawdust floor filled quickly with couples, forming up in squares of four, and the oldest Daine stood, his arthritic hands aching with the memory of having coaxed hundreds of dances from his own banjo, and he drew in a deep breath clear down to his belt buckle and began to call the square dance.

Sarah spun, laughing, and whirled to a skirt-flared stop before the Irish Brigade.

She looked up at Daffyd Llewellyn's uncertain eyes, seized his hands, and said "You're new here," and drew him into the nearest set, pleased with how well he moved.

He came without stumbling, and he moved with me, she thought.

I'll bet he dances well.

As it turned out, she was right.

 

There is a magic to a dance, women become stately and magical creatures growing from the flared flower-petals of spinning gowns; men move easily and lightly, which is not to be wondered at, for it was an age and a time when a gentleman -- and a lady, for that matter -- was expected to be able to dance, and to dance well.

Violins sang, couples danced, and the Daine boys could not help but grin as they spun their magic over the crowd, for they could see men looking with warm affection at their wives, women looking up at their husbands with adoration, and they fed the engine that drove the dancers.

Sarah laughed, her hands happily gripping the tall fireman's, and she pulled him away from the center of the floor, handing him her cloak, turning.

He draped her cloak over her shoulders, snatched up his own coat, and they slipped out into night.

Sarah leaned into him and relaxed a little, music and laughter muffled as the door closed soundlessly behind them, closing off the light from several lanterns.

Their eyes accustomed easily to moonlight on glittering snow.

"I love it here," Sarah murmured. "I don't think I could be happy back East."

"I grew up back there," Daffyd almost whispered, for the hush outside was profound.

"I've never been out of the mountains."

Daffyd looked curiously at the young woman, studying her face as she looked out over the landscape.

"Would you like to?"

His question took Sarah by surprise, and she smiled, blinking.

"I never ... thought about it."

"There is more than the mountains, Sarah."

"I know," she breathed. "I know there is."
"I could show you."

She shook her head. "No," she said firmly. "No, Daffyd. The mountains are home. My people are here."

"My people are in Wales, Sarah, and I'm here. Half a world away."

"You must miss them."

"I do," he admitted, "but family is more than blood."

She turned to face him squarely, looked at him with both eyes. "I know that too," she said flatly.

He frowned a little. "Have I offended?"

"No." She squeezed his hands. "You have spoken plainly. Please don't change that."

His eyebrow quirked a little and she saw amusement in his eyes.

"You're the one Sean talked to me about."

It was Sarah's turn to be amused.

"Oh?"

Daffyd grinned, his hands tightening ever so slightly on hers, as if he thought her delicate porcelain and likely to break if he squeezed any harder than a butterfly's step. "You're the one that jumped out o' th' hose tower when they got the life net."

Sarah tilted her head back a little, looking past him, looking up at the black-velvet firmament with a giant's double handful of silvery-white diamonds scattered carelessly across the sky. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I did."

"Ye were fearless."

"I flew," she whispered, her eyes distant as she remembered.

"Knew ye not what would happen if they missed?" Daffyd hissed, his eyes serious.

"It wasn't important for me to know," Sarah said, her eyes piercing into his. "They knew. They knew the consequence of missing, and so they did not miss." Her hands tightened convulsively, strongly, her voice suddenly urgent. "Daffyd, why do you run into buildings that sane and rational people are running out of? Don't you know the consequence of a wrong step, of not putting water on the heart of the beast?" She looked deep into his soul, peering through his dilated pupils, seeking an answer on the face of his immortal soul. "Do you know what it is to die?"

Her question took him absolutely by surprise. "Do you?" he blurted, instantly sorry for the utterance.

Sarah nodded, closed her eyes, turned her face away. "I know," she whispered. "I have died, Daffyd. I've seen what comes after. I am not afraid to die. I've been there. I know where I'm going and I know what it's like because I've been there!"

Daffyd's eyes were wide as he touched her cheek, then placed his fingertips under her chin, turning her head ever so gently so she and he were absolutely, squared-off, face to face.

"What have you seen?" he whispered.

Sarah felt a moment's vertigo, and her voice narrated what she saw, without the filter of her rational and thinking mind to moderate her words.

"An old woman with blue eyes," she whispered, "a child on her knee. He is holding her hand and touching her ring ..."

Daffyd Llewellyn's breath caught as his dead grandmother's voice came from this beautiful young woman's throat.

"The Ring of the Princess," he heard his Granda's voice again, as he'd heard it when he was a wee lad on her lap, marveling at the ancient stone on her ancient finger. "It is worn by the Seer of her years, and she will see what you cannot."

"Like what, Granda?" and Daffyd's stomach shrank a little, half with fear, half with surprise, for it was a little boy's voice framed by those lovely lips.

"The Seer will wear the Ring of the Princess," his Granda continued, hugging her little man to her, "and she will see death and she will see life, and she will see that which is hidden from the common eye."

"Who is she, Granda? Are you the Seer?"

"Yes, child," she whispered, and he felt her arms around him again, and he smelled her soap-and-water scent, "and you will give this ring to the Pricess of your years."

Sarah stood, eyes distant, looking through the eternity that stretched above her, and part of her felt fear as she saw the man who stood before her, a man wearing a black-rubber coat and leather gloves, high boots and his mouth open in a shout: he looked down and she saw the infant he held, wrapped in a blanket, and she felt his voice roar up out of his chest, "SEAN! CATCH!!!"

Sarah's knees failed her and Daffyd seized her under the arms as her head fell back, then she blinked and grabbed his arms with a strength born of desperation and her throat locked shut against the vision that seized her soul.

"What is it, lass?" Daffyd whispered urgently, knowing he'd found her, he'd found the Seer of his years, he'd found the woman his Granda told him about.

Part of him knew he'd found the woman he would marry, and that part of him turned cold with dread, for it was obvious she was seeing what was to be.

Sarah gathered a last reserve of strength from somewhere and shivered, then stood, gathering herself and swallowing hard.

She looked up into this good and decent man's face and he saw the tears flooding up in her eyes and they spilled down her face as she squeaked, "Daffyd, I just saw you save a baby from the fire!" -- then her face screwed up in an expression of absolute, utter, lost-little-girl misery, and she fell against the Welsh Irishman, burying her face into his coat, muffling her grief as best she could.

Daffyd Llewellyn was absolutely confused, utterly baffled, and totally uncertain, and so he did the only thing he could think of.

He unbuttoned his coat and opened it, drew her in and drew the coat around her, holding her there in the darkness, whispering the reassurances his own Granda whispered to him when he woke from a nightmare.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

111. THE DUTCH UNCLE SPEAKS

The Sheriff used his left hand, as he wished to make a point.

The Sheriff was a right-handed man.

He'd just won several dollars throwing a steel war hawk, right-handed, at a post propped up in the middle of the street, him and a half dozen others, and after every man had three throws each (and after replacing two broken handles), he alone was able to stick the tomahawk three times running, and then he split a playing card with his next throw, clove the remaining half with the next throw, and finally was offered ten dollars if he could split the slim remainder of the punished pasteboard.

He'd laid down a double eagle.

"I will bet good coin," he declared, "that I can hit that little sliver that's still up there."

He made the mistake of grinning when he did, so nobody would take a bet of such magnitude.

The Sheriff turned, stepped into his throw, let fly: the hatchet turned over once, drove blade-on into the sliver of what used to be a playing card, and the lean lawman collected his winnings, then stood the good-natured gathering to a round of drinks.

Nobody lost any great amount of money, talk was easy and free, men happily partook of a free beer (which was good business, a man in good company who's had one beer is likely to buy another), and of course talk turns to recent interesting occurrences, and one fellow brought up the killin' at the barn dance.

The Sheriff set down his beer and picked up the bar towel, carefully, slowly wiping beer foam off his iron-grey mustache as the fellow two men over allowed as that girl was a menace and a renegade and she just plainly murdered that fellow, and back stabbed him to boot.

Old Pale Eyes moved with absolute silence.

He seized the man's shoulder and spun him around, then he seized the man by his shirt front, slamming his palm into the man's chest, grabbing and twisting to get a good handful of shirt front linen, and then he closed his hand, crushing the material into a knot, and he hoisted the speaker's feet off the floor, doubling up his arm and holding the fellow exactly at eye level, left handed.

Fetch a man's feet off the ground and of a sudden he's mighty uncertain about the right of what he's doing.

Bring his eyes close to yours and he'll know he's just earned some serious displeasure.

Speak in a quiet voice and you'll guarantee he'll hear every word you say.

The Sheriff spoke in a quiet voice.

"You were not there," he said, his voice a dry hiss, rasping like a rattlesnake's belly scales across a desert-dry rock. "I was.

"Had I any doubt, she'd be in the calaboose.

"You got anything else to say, the inquest is in an hour and I can arrange to have you deposed. You can make your witness statement under oath." He blinked, his pale eyes tightening a little. "Oh, that's right. You weren't there. You can't give a statement under oath because you didn't witness the event."

The Sheriff set the man down, picked up his beer, poured it on the speaker's boots.

"Get out of my saloon and get out of my town," he growled. "You ever come back I'll drive your head so far down between your shoulders you'll have to drop your drawers to blow your nose!"

The sight of a lawman with parchment-tight skin and ice-pale eyes, a man who'd just hoist him off the ground one-handed, was more than enough to persuade the speaker that the climate was probably healthier elsewhere, and it didn't much matter just where "elsewhere" might be.

 

"Please state your name for the record."

"Sarah Lynne McKenna."

"And how long have you lived here, Miss McKenna?"

"All my life."

"On the night in question, where were you?"

Sarah gave the attorney a quiet smile. "Before or after the killing?"

"At the time of the killing, if you please."

"I was in Daciana's barn, attending the barn dance."

"And can you tell the court what happened that night."

"I can."

The attorney looked expectantly at the composed young woman in the fashionable gown, seated regally on the witness's chair, gloved hands properly folded in her lap.

The attorney looked at the Judge, then back at the witness, and finally cleared his throat uncertainly.

"I have answered your question, sir," Sarah smiled. "You asked if I can tell the court what happened, and I replied that yes I can, but you did not instruct me to do so."

Quiet laughter rippled through the courtroom; His Honor hid a smile behind his hand as he pretended to grip his cigar. He had no particular liking for this particular attorney, and it pleased him to see this damned Easterner being put on the spot.

He raised his gavel, but it was not necessarily to bring it down on the block; the courtroom hushed, and the attorney, red-faced, nodded to the witness.

"Please tell the court what happened, Miss McKenna."

"The Sheriff was confronted by a man with a knife," Sarah said, her chin up and her gaze level: "his knife was secreted under his coat, but I'd seen it earlier, and knew him to be gripping it. He confronted the Sheriff in a manner which I have come to associate with a man looking for a fight, and the words he used were calculated as a challenge to a deadly confrontation." She drove her pale eyed gaze into the attorney. "You are not from around here, sir."

He blinked, surprised: he was used to being in control of a courtoom interrogation.

"This is the West, sir, and although we do have law, our law is often swift and brutal and administered by the defendant on the moment. Call a man a liar and you may expect to be shot, stabbed, cut, or otherwise done in with a deadly response. Honor, sir, is as prickly an affair here in the West as it ever was in the antebellum South."

She paused, took a breath.

"The deceased challenged the Sheriff in a manner which I -- in my experience as an Agent of the Court" -- she held up a palm, and in it, framed against its dark-leather wallet, gleamed the bronze shield, the insignia of her office -- "which in my experience meant he intended to bring the Sheriff into a deadly attack.

"I forestalled the attack and allowed the Sheriff to gain control of the individual by virtue of climbing his back as if I were scaling a steep grade."

Her words were precisely framed, all the more chilling for the beauty of her face, the redness of her lips, the utterly ladylike appearance she presented.

"I placed my blade across his throat and invited him to hold very still, otherwise I would be less than kind in my response.

"He went to his knees -- I rather imagine my sudden and unexpected appearance that high on his back overbalanced him, and he was unable to maintain his balance -- and I rode him down like a logger would ride a felled tree to the earth.

"The Sheriff squatted before him and spoke with him and the man came up on his knees.

"In that moment I felt obliged to withdraw my blade from his throat and drive it into his right kidney."

Her words were quietly spoken, factually stated, and brought a chill to not only the Eastern attorney, but most of those listening -- and of those present, all were listening closely, for a killing at a barn dance was an entertainment none were likely to forget.

The attorney closed his mouth, then opened it again. "I, um, what ... Miss McKenna, why ever -- if you were behind this man -- you couldn't see what he was doing, how did you determine it was necessary to take his life? What deadly thing did you witness that induced your MURDERING THIS MAN?"

Sarah stood, eyes blazing: she snapped her hand out, palm-up, fingers spread, and something silver spun through the air, hit the attorney in the chest.

His hand snapped up, reflexively slapped the two-barrel Derringer hard against his breast bone, lowered his hand, mouth hanging open.

"THAT," Sarah snapped, "is why, sirrah. His hand abandoned the knife carried in a point-up sheath under the back of his coat and instead grasped the implement you now hold. He intended to murder the Sheriff, sirrah, and my timely action prevented a bad man from assassinating a good man." Her voice was loud, cold, precise, and fairly rang in the courtroom's attentive hush.

The attorney lowered his hand, stared at the Derringer, mouth open: he looked from the nickle plated pistol to the witness, back to the pistol, looked sidelong at the Judge, who was leaning forward, elbows on his desk, puffing industriously on his cigar; the attorney tilted his palm, let the Derringer fall to the floor.

"Mister Prosecutor," the Judge intoned, "have you any further questions for this witness?"

The attorney stepped back, staring at the pistol gleaming on the floor. It took several moments for the Judge's question to penetrate his shocked consciousness.

"Um, no, Your Honor. No further questions."

The Judge turned to the jury, twelve good men assembled and watching closely.

"Gentlemen of the Jury, how say you?"

A quick conference, a quiet mutter of voices, a general nodding of heads, then the one-armed proprietor of their local Mercantile stood.

"Your Honor, we the jury return a No Bill in this matter."

The Judge grunted, withdrew his cigar, spat a fleck of tobacco leaf from his tongue, and sadly regarded the state of his Cuban.

"Either my cigar has about drowned out," he sadly observed, "or my chaw has caught fire."

He dropped it precisely in the polished-brass goboon beside his desk.

He picked up his gavel.

"Sheriff," he said, and the pale-eyed lawman with the iron-grey mustache stood, Stetson in hand.

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Sheriff, we are fortunate to have an Agent of such skill among us. I for one am grateful that her quick action spared you any unpleasantness. I have every faith and confidence in your abilities, and had things been different it would very likely be you on the stand explaining how it was necessary to kill the man who tried to kill you. Although" -- the Judge's eyes twinkled knowingly -- "I daresay had you done the killin', there would have been a sizable mess to clean up."

There was a general chuckle in the courtroom, for it was well known that the Sheriff didn't have any halfway about him when it came to keeping his long tall carcass alive and breathing.

The Judge swung the gavel, smacked it briskly on the turned-cherry sounder.

"Agent McKenna, a jury of your peers has issued a no-bill on your behalf. This court finds you without fault and without guilt. You are free to leave by any door you choose."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Sarah said, rising, and the Judge could tell by the tilt of her head she had something in mind.

Sure enough, she pointed to the far left portal and said with a mischievous twinkle, "That one is closest to the Silver Jewel, and I am hungry!"

"See me in my chambers," the Judge said quietly, so only she could hear, and he looked at the Sheriff, gave a quick come-here twitch with his head.

As the courtroom emptied, the Sheriff and Sarah repaired as instructed to the Judge's chambers, the little office in back.

The bailiff lifted his cap as Sarah smiled and entered the chambers, then he extended his hand and gave the dropped Derringer to the Sheriff, who nodded his thanks.

The bailiff drew the door shut behind them and returned to the courtroom to tend what few details remained.

The Judge seated himself, frowned at his humidor, lifted the lid, considered, then shook his head, opened a cupboard instead.

"Sarah," he declared, setting out an ornate, wide-bottom bottle of a light-brown liquid, "please understand that my verdict is unbiased."

He withdrew the heavy glass stopper, set it aside, turned to the cupboard again and withdrew three glasses.

"Had I thought otherwise, you would be in manacles and you would hear the Sheriff turn that heavy key in a jail cell's lock."

Sarah tilted her head a little, listening closely to the jurist's words.

"And Sheriff, I meant it when I said you could have handled the situation, but your solution would have been quite bloody."

"Yes, Your Honor."

"I've seen what you can do with a knife, and you and I both know" -- good California brandy gurgled into one glass, then another, then the third -- "we both know how much blood is in a man's body."

"Yes, Your Honor."

"And I suppose the community owes our Sarah their thanks, for her solution was rather tidy and did not spoil the mood of the evening."

Sarah blinked, managing somehow to look absolutely, utterly innocent.

The Judge stoppered the bottle, replaced it in the cupboard, handed Sarah one glass and the Sheriff another, before picking up his own.

"Sarah," he said, his voice serious, "his back was to you. You might have seen him let go of the knife you said he had in a back sheath -- which it was -- I will choose to believe that is exactly what you did see -- but you could not possibly have seen him grip that pistol."

He raised his glass in salute.

"You operated on instinct, and your instincts are sound, young lady, but I am very glad there was a pistol in his hand when you rolled him over."

Sarah and the Sheriff raised their glasses as well.

They drank.

 

Outside, the Bailiff, curious, slid open the top right hand drawer of the Judge's desk.

He knew there were irons in the lower drawer, but he looked long at the upper drawer's content.

Laid carefully atop a stack of note paper was another set of irons ... small irons, almost child sized, wrist and ankle irons both.

The Bailiff's eyes went to the closed chambers door.

He slid the drawer shut, carefully, so as to make no sound, and he whispered, "Miss Sarah, I'm glad he had a pistol!"

 

Ten minutes later, the Judge squatted, grunted in satisfaction.

He'd spit-pasted two hairs to the bottom edge of the desk drawer; they were loose.

The Bailiff had looked.

He smiled quietly, chuckled a little.

The bailiff was a man who talked -- not widely, but discreetly -- and the Judge knew he'd seen the set of irons, the small set that would just have fit his Agent's limbs had she been found guilty.

Because the Bailiff saw those irons, he knew the Judge to be a fair man who was ready to enforce the law -- no matter who was guilty -- and that word would get around.

It is well that the Judge be known as fair and impartial, and just by borrowing those small sized irons from the Sheriff by placing them where a curious man might look, he'd successfully cemented his reputation for fairness.

The Judge straightened, a look of satisfaction on his face.

This, he thought, calls for a cigar!

 

Sarah met her Mama at the Silver Jewel: the ladies met for their weekly tea in the back room on the second floor, away from men's laughter and coarse jests, away from piano and cigar and clattering roulette-wheel.

Sarah murmured polite greetings and smiled at the correct moments, and as she shifted her weight to be seated, she felt the other two Derringers, solid and reassuring, in their hidden pockets.

Sarah not only practiced escape from the several styles of handcuffs in use in that era, she also paid three different magicians to teach her the art of sleight-of-hand, and of picking pockets, both for which she had a natural gift, both of which she practiced often, and both of which she did with surprising ease.

Had the dead man's hand actually been empty, Sarah knew, the pistol she had concealed in her gloved palm when she rolled him over, would have been found beside the dead man's hand when she made a distracting show of seizing his shoulder and pushing him over on his back.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

112. "I RECKON HE RUN HIS HEAD INTO A WHISKEY BOTTLE!"

Sarah's face was drawn tight, her eyes pale, once-rich-red lips drawn back to bare her teeth, stretched pale and not even pink.

She pressed her back hard against the clapboard, not caring that she was getting bars of dirt across the back of her gown, not caring about the mud splashed on petticoat and skirt and onto her fine kidskin shoes.

Sarah waited, breath silent in her throat, breathing with a rigid discipline, listening with more than her ears, and her vigilance was rewarded in less than a quarter of a minute.

"This way!" a voice yelled, and she pressed harder against the clap board, counting on the rain barrel and a hanging sign to break her visual signature.

Two men ran past, then a third, and she counted one, two, three, and a fourth came pounding after the three, and she moved.

Sarah was away from class for her luncheon and she'd been spotted by someone who apparently wished her some ill will: a shout, a pointing arm, and three men began to sprint toward her.

Sarah -- stifling an instinct to drive a half-dozen .44 slugs toward them, as it was Denver, as they were on a city street, took a quick sidestep into an alley, cast about for something more silent than her bulldog revolver.

An empty whiskey-bottle lay in the dirt.

She seized its neck, straightened, flattened herself behind the only available cover, and waited.

Now the three men pounded past her, arms flailing to keep their balance as they made the tight turn off the city street and into the dirt alley, stumbling and nearly falling as they went from pavement and boardwalk to bare dirt and mudholes.

The fourth was not as lucky as the first three: his foot slipped in the mud, he went down with a mad sprawl of arms and flattened-out hands, and he bounced once before coming up on all fours.

There was a loud, sudden glassy clank! as the corner of the heavy square bottle bounced off his skull, and he went down, limp.

She looked left, looked right.

Traffic and pedestrians passed, unconcerned, not twenty feet from her, and so she seized the man by the collar and tried to drag him further from the public eye.

"Dead weight," for whatever reason, seems much heavier than, say, the equivalent weight of a sawed length of timber, or even a tightly-packed sack of gravel or feed: she very quickly gave this up as a bad job, looked around, walked quickly down the alley after the men who'd fled.

She hesitated at the back porch of some establishment, then on impulse, ducked back into its shelter.

Her instincts were as good as they were when she knifed the man who was about to shoot her father two nights before.

Three men came walking, briskly, panting, back up the alleyway.

No help for it, Sarah thought, setting the bottle down quietly and easing her hand into the slit in her dress.

Her hand was tight around the Bulldog's grip when the back door of the establishment opened and an older, tired-looking woman came out, a fur drape across her shoulders, hands on her hips and a knowing look in her hard eyes.

"Nice work, honey," she said frankly. "It's warmer inside."

Sarah heard the three breathing hard and barely out of sight, so she took the rickety steps quickly, skipped across the warped back porch, and into the cathouse by the back door.

The three saw the door swing shut.

"Hey!" one yelled, pointing, and the madam opened the door with a knowing smile.

"Hello, boys," she greeted them, spinning the end of the fur from one hand. "Like to come in?"

"Hey, did" -- pant -- "did you see" -- pant, pant -- "a woman run" -- the speaker bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard, apparently not entirely accustomed to the high altitude.

The madam raised her eyebrows. "Well, now," she purred, "we accommodate all types. I never cared for running, myself, but we can talk about --"

The fellow waved her away, shaking his head, and his fellows trotted ahead a few steps. "Hey, look here!" one exclaimed, and they moved out of sight, apparently at having discovered their cohort, bleeding and sprawled out in the mud alleyway.

The madam withdrew, closed the door, threw the latch and planted painted-nail hands on her hips. "Well, now," she drawled, assessing Sarah like a butcher might size up a side of beef, "you're a pretty one! Looking for work, honey?"

Sarah shook her head, the color coming back into her face.

The madam paced across the room, frowning, cupped her hand under Sarah's chin.

"My God, girl," she breathed, "you're ghost-white! You're not ... you don't have the consumption?"

Sarah shook her head again, swallowed. "I'm sorry," she blurted. "I didn't mean to bring .. trouble."

The madam laughed, slapping her thigh with merriment. "Honey, that wasn't trouble!" she exclaimed, then gently laid the backs of her fingers against Sarah's forehead, then her cheek. "You're cold. Here, have some tea. I've just had some made up -- oh, Sally!"

Sarah turned at the sound of a shoe sole scraping the threshold.

A girl of maybe ten shuffled into the kitchen, half her face scarred-up and wrinkled, the eye fish-belly white and half-closed; she wore a scarf which could not hide the scarring that crawled around her face and up over her scalp.

"Sally was given to us last year," the madam said. "She can't talk and her folks said nobody wanted damaged goods, so they opened the door and shoved her in and left."

"You were burned," Sarah said gently.

The girl turned, brought her good eye to bear, nodded once.

"Can you tell me your name?"

The girl swallowed, rolled her lips together and bit her bottom lip gently, then she whispered, "Miriam."

"Miriam is a lovely name," Sarah said, kneeling and cupping the girl's cheeks in her hands. "My name is Sarah."

"Sarah," Miriam whispered back, half her face smiling a little.

Sarah stroked the front of Miriam's throat with a bent finger. "Miriam, does your voice work?"

Miriam shook her head.

"Open your mouth, honey, I wonder ..."

Miriam obediently opened her mouth and Sarah closed one eye, peered into the moist depths.

"Okay, close now." She took Miriam's hands, looked at one, then the other. "Miriam, do you play piano?"

Miriam nodded.

Sarah turned to look at the astonished madam.

"Miriam, do you play piano here?"

Miriam shook her head, then pointed to the stove.

"You help out in the kitchen?"

She nodded.

"Did you make tea?"

Miriam smiled and nodded.

"I almost caught a chill outside," Sarah said gently, picking up the little girl's hand and laying it on her own chilled cheek. "Some tea would be lovely."

Miriam smiled again -- the half of her face that worked all the more beautiful for that the other half was scarred and stiff -- and she skipped across the kitchen and carefully, precisely, laid out cups and saucers, then picked up the porcelain teapot and dispensed quick, exact volumes into the cups.

 

"Boys, you did better than most," the underboss muttered around what was left of a nickle cigar. "At least you found her."

He thrust his unshaven jaw at the groaning man on the floor. "What happened to him?"

"As near as we can tell, Boss, he run his head into a whiskey bottle a few times."

The underboss chuckled, shook his head. "Now how did he manage to do that?"

"He was in back of Mazie's."

The underboss shook his head. "Now ain't that just like him! Take out on business and he stops for entertainment! I'll have to thank Mazie for beltin' him a good one!"

"Boss, what if she went into Mazie's? We didn't find her down that alley and she couldn't outrun us! Not with her in skirts!"

"Hm." The underboss considered this for a moment, then shook his head. "Nah. Mazie don't take kindly to strange girls coming into her pen. She's got her stable of workin' girls and she won't stand for an outsider. No, she must've slipped out somewhere else. There's gaps between ..." His voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed as he envisioned the alleyway. "Hell, fellas, she coulda crawled under one of the ... you know how they're built on foundation stones instead of a full foundation." He chuckled. "Get back out there and look for a woman in a filthy dress!"

"Right, boss!"

 

It was several hours later when Sarah left the house of ill repute, and it was the next day, when Professor Joseph Hunt greeted the madam in his gentlemanly way and they sat down for their usual morning tea before he went upstairs to enjoy his usual weekly visit, that the madam described a chance meeting with a very interesting young woman.

Intrigued, for the madam was a worldly woman, normally hard-eyed and hard to impress, the Professor listened to her account of a remarkable young woman who outran three footpads, belted another bravo briskly with a bottle, fitted two of her working girls with new gowns made in part from the one that she wore and sewed up a new gown for herself from out-of-style spares still hung in a closet, a pale-eyed young woman who helped their scarred waif -- you remember her, Professor, we'd been calling her Sally, but this pale-eyed young woman coaxed her into talking, and her name is Miriam, and she plays piano!

Just then the pair stopped and smiled, for piano music started from the parlor, and the Professor and the madam rose and walked quietly to the front parlor, where a young girl wearing a new wig, with a silk veil covering the left half of her face and wearing a newly-made gown of the latest fashion, played a particular favorite of the Professor's, a tune his own mother used to play when he was a child.

This ten-year-old waif with the scarred face played "Pretty Redwing," and the Professor stood long in the back of the parlor, a soft half-smile softening his pedantic features, and for a moment, three outcasts from this cruel, uncaring world found a place where they belonged.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

113. BIG, BLACK AND FAST!

Robbie was the middle son of old man Hinkle.

Robbie was a good enough sort, if you overlooked his taste in women (many and cheap), horses (losing) and clothes (gaudy and ill-fitting), but one thing at which Robbie excelled was drinking.

A man once said "I have to admire a man that's good at something" and Robbie was very, very good at getting himself on the outside of a remarkable volume of distilled lightning, and so it was today: he leaned companionably against a lamp post, very helpfully preventing the illuminating pedestal from swaying -- which, he realized, took considerable concentration, as it insisted powerfully on assuming a distinct list to starboard.

He seized the post and hung himself in the opposite direction until he manfully pulled the deck underfoot back to level, and he waited a moment to ensure it would maintain its mien, then lifting his hat politely to the painted post, he turned with a smile and high-stepped his way down the walk, lifting his hat with the exaggerated courtesy of the inebriate to the ladies he encountered ... all three of them, side by side, identical in appearance and a little out of focus, but ladies nonetheless.

He'd made about two city blocks when he stopped and squinted, then passed the sleeve of his coat over his squinted eyes, looked again.

The biggest, blackest horse God Almighty ever set down on the Earth's surface was coming down the street, its legs moving no faster than a normal horse's gait, but good Lord! with those long legs it was covering ground!

Another squint, a blink, and it was closer, and something, someone, gauzy and white and flowing on its back, like a cloud of silken banner, spun of purest white and surmounted by ... by what?

Robbie was obliged to lean his belt buckle against a convenient hitch rail to keep himself from calamity, so far had he leaned to gawp at this marvelous scene -- was this an angel, a spirit, a ghost in the wind, come to ride the black horse of Death itself?

This steed of Death's pace was stately, the sound of its hooves deep and resonant, not the sharp tenor clop of a normal horse -- no, this beast, this ton and a half of velvet blackness, paced with a heavy gait, and the besotted soul fancied he could feel the very earth shiver underfoot, and he imagined ripples in the horse-trough generated from the pounding of this prad's pace!

He gawped as the figure passed, and he marveled at the memory, and then he turned -- or, rather, he raised up on tip-toes and allowed the earth to rotate while he himself stood still -- and he waited until the nearby saloon was almost directly in front of him before bringing his heels to earth, and thus stopped the globe's rotation underfoot, and with purpose renewed, he strolled happily into the familiar embrace of another of his usual watering holes, happily contemplating just how many drinks he might use to salute the memory of this most impressive memory!

 

It was not at all unusual for a carriage, or a coach, or even a horse and rider to stop before Mazie's House, but it was quite out of the ordinary for a white nun astride an absolutely black, utterly monstrous horse to come to a stop.

Painted ladies and a few customers stared from upper story windows as the horse halted, without use of bit or bridle: the white Sister, her face concealed with a white veil, threw up one leg and slid down from the saddle like a child sliding down a moss-slick rock waterfall: she landed easily, walked up to the front door, opened it and stepped inside like she owned the place.

Men with stockinged doxies on their laps openly stared as the white nun glided silently through the front parlor, walked through the beaded curtain, past one of the girls -- who stared, almost pop-eyed, wondering what kind of screaming fight THIS was going to provoke -- and though incredulous eyes followed her progress to the back, to the kitchen, none followed.

Mazie, the madam, rose as the nun stepped into the kitchen.

Planting her painted nails on her generous hips, she tilted her pelvis sideways and declared, "Now I have seen everything! Honey, if you're saving souls, you've come to the wrong place! We're beyond --"

The nun turned to face her, then lifted the corner of her veil.

The veil was a little wet, as if one eye was crying, and as the silk revealed the face, the madam's eyes widened.

She saw a raw, ugly scar, running from the lower eyelid down across the cheek and down into the high collar, an ugly scar with crude cross hatches where an inexact hand stitched a brutal slash shut.

The eye was red and bloodshot, perpetually tearing, the lower lid scarred and pulled down -- probably from that God-awful scar! -- and the nun whispered hoarsely, "I used to sing opera."

"Honey, I'm sorry," the madam said, genuinely sympathetic with the mutilated woman, "but if you're looking for work, men want pretty girls --"

The nun raised a palm, shook her head, then turned her hand palm-up, pointed to the young girl with the veil covering half her face.

"Come with me," she whispered. "We are alike."

The child looked at the madam.

"You'll take her in?"

The nun slipped her hands into her sleeves, bowed.

"You'll take care of her?"

The nun bowed again.

Mazie looked at the little girl.

"Miriam," she said, "you'll have a better life with them."

Miriam nodded, blinked her one good eye, then suddenly, impulsively, hugged the madam around her corset-cinched middle.

The madam sat slowly, hugged her back, brushed a curl of hair out of her face and whispered, "If you were my daughter, I wouldn't let you near a house like this!"

Miriam giggled, hugged her again, then skipped over to the silent, unmoving nun.

"Come," the hoarse voice whispered through the concealing veil, and the two -- a child disfigured by fire, the nun disfigured by steel -- glided down the hallway and through the parlor, and out the front door.

Miriam's eye widened as she beheld this absolutely huuuge horse standing in front of the bordello.

"How will we get up on it?" she asked, and the white nun touched the great black Frisian behind the foreleg.

The horse knelt; the nun picked up the child, placed her behind the saddle, then climbed aboard herself.

The horse rose easily, to the continued stares of working girls and clients alike, who'd come out on the front porch to behold this marvel.

"Hold my waist," the nun whispered, and Miriam seized her around the middle, turned her head and laid her cheek against the white nun's back.

The Frisian stepped out with her long-legged gait, covering ground with an impressive speed.

 

The Sheriff flinched as the bullet sang past his cheekbone, close enough to kiss, and he went from relaxed-watchful to take-your-scalp mad in a tenth of a second or less.

Cannonball's ears laid back against her head and she whirled, driving toward the cloud of gunpowder smoke, and another round clipped the crown of the Sheriff's hat: he kicked out of his stirrups, shoved hard on the saddlehorn, pulled his legs up under him and squatted momentarily on saddle leather, then launched squarely for the octagon barrel that swung desperately, trying to bear on him.

He hit his ambusher with the combined speed of horse and his own leap and he never felt the bullet that punched through the hard muscle-meat just above his left gun belt.

He was concentrating on the throat around which his hands were locked, he was fighting to roll over again and he pulled back and slammed the back of the man's head hard on a rock the size of two fists sticking out of the ground.

He let go when he heard the skull bust, rolling over and coming up on all fours, teeth bared, eyes pale and hard, more animal than man, and he swung and locked his gaze on the other fellow, the man who dropped his own rifle from nerveless fingers and surrendered to a primal urge to flee in the face of danger, to flee like untried, green troops facing their first charge.

The Sheriff was like a wolf, only instead of baying joyfully to sing the pursuit, his charge was swift and utterly soundless.

The fleeing man felt something like the noon freight hit him in the back and they went over hard, his shins hit a log and he went fast and headfirst right into the dirt, a bear trap clamped around his arms and his ribs and he was sure he'd just been broke in half.

 

Jacob looked up as the Sheriff kicked the office door open.

Jacob rose, reached for the keys, for his Pa never kicked the door open unless he had a prisoner or two.

One fellow half-carried another, whose bloodied head spoke of some serious error, and the other fellow was pale, shaking and thoroughly cowed.

The Sheriff followed them, his hands empty, and Jacob knew this was a very, very bad sign.

It meant his Pa was ready to kill the both of them with his bare hands, something he'd seen his old man do, and the results were never, ever pleasant.

Effective, yes, but unpleasant.

"Lock 'em up, Jacob," the Sheriff said quietly, very quietly, and this too was a very bad sign ... it meant the Sheriff was still of a mind to twist their heads off and stuff them down the wrong neck hole, after which he would proceed to get genuinely hostile with them.

Jacob stopped and the Sheriff knew Jacob was looking at his bloody leg.

"Nothin'," the cold-eyed lawman with the iron-grey mustache snapped, and Jacob pointed down the row of cells. "Last one on the right, fellas," he said, his voice hard, "and once you get there, strip down to your Union suit." He smiled and his smile was as wolflike as his Pa's had been. "I kin help you with that if you like."

As usual, they didn't need his help, the threat of this younger version of that pale-eyed Sheriff removing their duds by virtue of a good sharp knife was sufficient for the clothes to come off quickly and without protest.

It was the fastest and most effective way Jacob had found to detect contraband, hideout weapons and the like, though he generally let them keep their tobacker, a flask and a deck of cards if they had it.

He turned the key in the lock, piled their raiment in another cell, closed the door without locking it, then said "Blankets on the bed. I'll send Doc to look about his head. Meanwhile be quiet and behave or I'll feed you to m' bear, he ain't et yet this week."

Jacob's boot heels were loud on the swept-clean boards as he returned to where his Pa was sagged against the wall, fresh blood bright on his trouser leg.

"Sir," Jacob said quietly, "let's get you over to see Doc."

 

Esther's head came up, her eyes wide, alarmed, and she reached for her shotgun, on its rack over the parlor mirror.

She snatched up her matronly skirt and ran upstairs, gun in hand, and but moments later, hammered back downstairs, heels loud on the carpeting, changed into a riding dress: such was her haste that she'd snatched the pins from her hair and let it fall free, and so did she depart: whistling for her gelding, she hauled open the gate, slipped through the gap, latched it behind her as the hired man thrust head and shoulders out of the hay mow.

"Hank!" she shouted. "Saddle me up!"

"Yes ma'am!"

Less than a minute later Esther's gelding surged under her, hooves hammering the frozen ground, tail and mane and Esther's flame-red hair flowing in the slipstream.

Esther rode with her jaw set, looking like a flame-haired Valkyrie riding into battle, shotgun across her saddle and war in her heart.

 

"I can ride," the Sheriff snarled, hauling his left boot off the ground and missing the stirrup.

"Dammit!" he hissed, gripping the saddle horn and falling backward: Jacob caught him, his hands strong, hard, a man's hands -- that should not surprise me, the Sheriff thought, he is a man grown now -- and he tried again, but his leg failed him and he barely got the foot off the ground.

"Here," Jackson Cooper rumbled, and Jacob felt the animal warmth of the man as he came in behind: he let Jackson Cooper's big blacksmith's hand slide in under his own, and the town marshal -- taller than the Sheriff by a full head and half again as broad across the shoulders -- picked up the lean lawman, careful as a little girl with a favorite dolly, and lifting him with just as much trouble, which is to say, no trouble at all.

"I ain't hurt," the Sheriff gasped, his face the color of wheat paste.

"Lie to me again, honest man," Jackson Cooper rumbled, his voice starting somewhere around his boot tops, "and I'll dunk ye in the nearest horse trough!"

He strode across the street, steering a course for the polished-quartz-faced hospital building.

"From the look of that leg, maybe I'd ought!"

"You and whose army," the Sheriff wheezed, teeth clenched, just before his head fell back and his Stetson parted company from his salt-and-pepper scalp.

Jacob caught the hat, followed Jackson Cooper like a rowboat pursuing a battleship, and the two made their way to Doc Greenlees' workshop.

 

Esther read blood on her husband's saddle, saw the blood smeared on the door, a boot heel partly outlined in crimson exanguinate.

Her knuckles were white and her grip was fair to crush the checkered wrist of her double barrel bird gun, choke bored and loaded with heavy shot.

She reached for the door and saw the boot print on the door, then looked down again and saw blood leading across the street.

The hospital, she thought: Esther leaned forward, and began to run.

 

"That horsh," Hinkle slurred, having traded coin for drink, "wash beyond deshcripshin, gentlemen."

One of the fellows looked out the window, rose slowly, incredulously as a truly huge, utterly black horse paced down the street at an amazing velocity, a woman in flowing white on its back, with a little girl behind her, clinging happily to her waist.

"Let me guess," he interrupted Robbie. "It's big, black and fast!"

Robbie blinked, surprised, then smiled blearily and wondered aloud, "How did you know?"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

114. CHOOSE NOW

About three-quarters of the seamstresses that made the House of McKenna the premier dress-works west of New York, had been working girls back when the Silver Jewel was a dirty saloon and whorehouse.

Bonnie McKenna seized the opportunity their new Sheriff offered and started her own business, doing what she did very well, what she'd learned back in the Carolinas: dressmaking -- not just making dresses, but making the very latest fashions, based on exemplars delivered as miniature garb on porcelain dolls, sent by clipper ship across the Atlantic and then by express trains West, connections made thanks to the green-eyed owner of the Z&W Railroad.

As these ladies had seen the worst side of humanity, they were able to contain their reactions as the girl's garments came off and the full extent of her scarring became evident.

Professionalism came to the fore, efficiency manifested itself: each woman became brisk, competent, confident, every woman knew what it was to be on the receiving end of brutality, and each of them knew the comfort of a kind word, a gentle hand, and these things they gave to the child before them.

She went from having one, and only one, dress to her name -- the one the pale-eyed woman made for her, the day she jumped into the kitchen through the back door, the day she'd coaxed Miriam into revealing that yes, she did play piano -- Miriam's other dress was in such sad shape that she'd consigned it to the rag bag, and it was used for cleanup duties later that day.

Now, though -- now Miriam was measured, assessed, try-fit, compared, wrapped, tucked, snugged, laced, buttoned, hooked, removed, replaced, all in a dizzying whirl of quiet voices, gentle hands, cloth spun off bolts and whirled across a treadle machine's table, flipped end-for-end and suddenly Miriam had clothes.

Her dresses were white and simple, the white nun stood silent and motionless as the child's attire matched her own: she fitted the wimple over Miriam's head, then picked up the white silk veil.

"We of the Order," she whispered in the raspy voice Miriam was learning was actually quite kindly, "veil our faces, that the world may not be tempted by womanly beauty." She knelt before the white-robed ten-year-old. "If you still wish to be of our Sisterhood, you may wear the veil as you have as a novice, or you may begin with our full veil."

"I want to look like you," Miriam whispered.

The white nun nodded, once. "As you wish" -- she removed Miriam's wimple, then placed the veil over her face, tied the silk ribbon behind her head, replaced the headcover.

Four more Miriam-sized habits appeared, borne by silent hands, and were stacked on a table at her elbow; smallclothes went into another tidily-folded stack.

"We will need shoes," the white nun whispered. "I know where to get them."

Miriam heard the smile in her voice.

 

Esther looked at the massive town marshal, a full head taller than her husband and half again as broad across the shoulders.

As he usually did when distressed, he was twisting his hat into a felt sausage.

Esther closed the door behind her, parked her double gun in the nearby corner, paced across the room to where Jacob leaned against the wall, his eyes white and hard, his arms crossed, one foot planted against the wall behind him.

"Jacob," she said gently, caressing his jaw.

He looked at his stepmother, his eyes softening a little, and he uncrossed his arms, then drew her into him and held her for a long moment.

"What do we know, Jacob?" she whispered.

He released his embrace, looked Esther squarely in the eye.

"I will find out how this happened," he said, and her ear twitched to hear her husband's voice rasping from his son's throat. "Doc is working on him."
Damn, that is the stupidest thing I've said in my entire life! Jacob thought, looking away, his jaw muscles bulging a little. Of course Doc is working on him, why else would he be here!

"I knew something happened," Esther murmured uncomfortably. "Please, Jacob. What do we know?"

"He was shot," Jacob said, his voice flat, emotionless. "Here. Left side, well out, above the gunbelt. I think it just got meat."

Esther paled a little.

She'd known men gut shot and every one of them died hard.

"Mama?" Jacob's hands closed on his mother's upper arms as she wobbled a little.

"I'll ... I'm ... fine, Jacob."

The waiting room door slammed open and a diminutive nun, veiled and all in white, stomped across the floor, a miniature following her a few feet behind.

She thrust hard against the pale eyed deputy, seized his vest in both hands, shoved her veiled face as close to his as she could -- even on tiptoes there was a significant offset -- her voice was rough as she demanded, "How is he?"

Jacob's eyes narrowed a little and the nun flipped her veil up, draped it over his head.

Sarah's pale eyes blazed into her brother's pale eyes.

"I go to the mercantile, I slip into the back room to wash my face, I come back and someone is saying the Sheriff's been shot full of holes! Jacob, what --"

A door opened; everyone turned.

Dr. John Greenlees, solemn-faced as always, stepped halfway across the threshold, looked around, looked at Esther, crooked his finger, then frowned at Sarah.

"Don't you ever wear the same outfit twice?"

 

The Bear Killer bristled, moist black nose working.

The Bear Killer well knew the smell of blood.

He well knew the Sheriff's scent.

The smell of both together brought his hair upright.

He looked up as Jacob strode across the winter-hard street toward him.

The Bear Killer's hair stood up across his shoulders and down his spine and Jacob kicked the office door open, looked at The Bear Killer.

"In," he snapped, and The Bear Killer, lips rippling back from ivory fangs, followed him into the little log fortress.

 

The Sheriff glared at the stamped tin ceiling panels overhead while Doc tended his side, and his hands closed into fists as Doc ran his curved needle through living flesh and drew the wound together, the deeper layers first, tightly, but the surface he left open.

"You're lucky," he'd grunted.

The Sheriff glared at the physician. "How's that?"

"It doesn't look like it busted a gut."

"I need a drink."

Doc nodded. "I agree."

The Sheriff waited until Doc handed him a squat, broad glass of something amber that smelled vaguely of brandy.

He sipped, made a face.

"What is this, owl droppings?"
"My secret formula."

The Sheriff took another swig, grimaced. "Thanks just a hell of a lot."

"I'll go tell your wife you love her."

"She'll call you a liar," the Sheriff said to the man's retreating back before he turned the glass up and chugged the rest of the ill-tasting payload.

"Gawd, that's awful! I'd as soon eat a barn owl!"

 

Miriam's expression was hidden behind her silk veil.

Sarah dropped her own veil back over her face, stepped back to Miriam, slipped her hands inside her sleeves, Miriam following suit: Esther stepped up to the physician, extended her hand. "Doctor," she murmured, and Dr. Greenlees took her hand, raised it to his lips. "Mrs. Keller."

"Doctor, how is my husband?"

"Mrs. Keller," Dr. John Greenlees said with an absolutely solemn expression, "your husband is a hard headed, contrary, irascible, disagreeable and hard headed man, not necessarily in that order."

"I know that, Doctor," Esther smiled, "but what is the state of his injury?"

The Sheriff's voice bellowed in reply, "DAMMIT, I'M HUNGRY!"

"He'll live for five minutes anyway," Jacob snapped. "Jackson Cooper, with me."

Jackson Cooper regarded the twisted ruin of what had been a good hat, smiled sadly at the taller of the two white nuns. "Ladies," he nodded, then turned to follow the long-striding deputy.

 

"Sheriff, if you're done profaning our room service, I will trouble you to lay back."

The Sheriff muttered something about rot gut whiskey and he expected better from an educated man, just before he relaxed and laid his head back on his pillow, out cold.

"Works every time," Doc murmured. "He won't even have a hangover."

"Now that my husband is somewhat calmer, Doctor," Esther said, "perhaps you would be good enough to fill me in on the nature and extent of his injuries, and the wound care I'll be performing."

"Mrs. Keller," the physician said formally, "we are fortunate in that he had only one hole in his hide, or rather two holes connected by a wound track. He will be stiff, he will be sore and he will quite probably be ill-tempered as a result. I would recommend a frying pan to the side of the head if his manners are less than tolerable."

"I see you've been listening to my mother," Esther murmured, "or at least her shade."

"My own mother's advice, actually," Dr. Greenlees admitted, "given my sister the night before she was married." The solemn-faced man's eyes twinkled merrily as he continued, "I understand it worked quite well."

Esther looked at her husband. "Jacob said the injury was on his left side, low."

"I'm about to dress the wound, Mrs. Keller. Here -- let me draw the sheet aside -- you can see the entrance wound, in the front, we have radial bruising which gives us the shallow wound track and back here -- roll up, Sheriff, there's a good fellow" (as he grabbed the lean lawman's hip and rolled him up on his right side) "you can see the exit wound. I've left the wound mouth open for drainage. I will need to know immediately if there is a sudden suppuration, if there is brown drainage -- roll back, Sheriff, thank you -- now, Mrs. Keller, put your hand here, on his belly. Fingers together and straight, now press down -- no, like this -- here, again here, reach over a little more and here, now here. Your husband's muscles are tight and well developed, but they are uniformly soft when he is relaxed." He withdrew his teaching hand from hers and looked into her serious green eyes with an equally serious look of his own. "If his belly sets up hard like a board, send for me immediately -- and the same for brown drainage or sudden drainage."

"Yes, Doctor," Esther nodded.

"I've patched this man back together several times now," Dr. Greenlees sighed. "Mrs. Keller, is there any way you can convince him to retire? He's got money enough to buy this town and sell it cheap and still make out like a tall dog!"

Esther was used to such language; she did not color at the off-color reference, but instead squeezed Dr. Greenlees' hand, a quick clasp between both hers, the gesture that said he was an old and trusted friend, and she appreciated his candor.

"I wish he would," she admitted.

 

Jacob glared at the man behind the barred door.

"That other fella is already planted," Jacob said, his voice low, dry, menacing.

"I need to know why you two tried to kill the Sheriff."

"Twas all Brown's idea."

"Cuts no ice. You were there helpin', you're guilty as he was. Unless you can tell me what I want to know. Might make a difference."

Dean looked miserably through the bars at the deputy with death's eyes and the black beast with death's fangs.

"We needed a horse."

"So you shot the Sheriff."

"Mister, I didn't know he was no sheriff! That was all Brown's doin's!"

"Maybe 'twas Brown that pulled that trigger, but you was there and you had a rifle!"

"I didn't shoot no sheriff!"

Jacob reached down, gripped the wire wrapped handle, drew the slender knife from its boot sheath.

He unfastened his shirt cuff, turned it back, then slowly, casually, shaved hair off his arm, puffed it from the knife's honed edge with a quick breath.

"Now I can give you a choice," Jacob said conversationally. "I can hand you a knife and open this door, and I'll have a knife too, and we'll see who walks away."

His eyes were pale, hard as he glared at the prisoner.

"Or we can give you a fair trial and then hang you."

He unlocked the cell door like his father did shortly after becoming Sheriff, he moved a table into place in the hallway, took two knives and stabbed into the table top, the knives driving wedge shaped wounds into the wood, each less than an eighth of an inch from another pair of wedge shaped wounds.

Jacob dropped a leather pouch that clanked when it hit the table top, between the knives.

"You can come out and take a knife, or you can stay put. Best me and you get that poke of gold and as much a head start and your legs will give you. Or you can stay put."

Jacob rubbed the shaved-bare patch on the top of his wrist, smiled.

"Make your choice, mister. Choose now."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

115. BROTHER WILLIAM'S ACCOUNT

His Honor the Judge was a man accustomed to authority.

He'd been of command rank in that damned War, he'd led men into deathstorms of Confederate lead and taken some himself -- his leg pained him when the weather changed, something to do with an eastbound buck-and-ball when he himself was leading his men in a westerly course.

His Honor the Judge was no stranger to commanding men, but he had to admit to himself that facing this lean deputy with the pale eyes was one of the more discomfiting moments of his later years.

Jacob's hand was steady as he looked again at the warrant the Judge handed him, and the Judge saw the lawman's lower jaw slowly thrust forward.

"Your Honor," Jacob said, his voice tight, "with my father laid up, I am Sheriff." His ice-pale eyes narrowed a little and the Judge could see the conflict with Jacob's lean frame.

"As Sheriff I am obliged to enforce the law." He handed the warrant back to the spade-bearded jurist. "I don't have to like it."

Jacob turned a little, looked down the row of cells, looked back.

"Your Honor, how do you propose this man be ... delivered?"
The Judge could appreciate Jacob's sentiments, and he could not help but feel a kinship for the disappointed young man: he'd secured one of the men who tried to kill his father, and damn near succeeded, and the Judge would not want to turn such a prisoner loose.

"He will be handed over to another deputy," the Judge said, "and taken in irons to Fort Carson, where he will be hanged for his crimes."

"I'd like to hang him myself," Jacob muttered, glaring at the Judge. "He tried to kill my father. I reckon I have a good claim."

"You have a very good claim," the Judge affirmed, "but he must answer for this prior claim."

Jacob nodded slowly. "Yes, Your Honor."

 

Brother William poured brandy for himself and his guest, smiled a little.

"Difficult?" he said softly, smiling just a little. "At times, yes, especially ... if something went wrong."

"Wrong?" the guest asked, curious.

Brother William took a long breath of the distilled wine's vapors, savoring the good California before he sipped.

"There was the time," he said, "that she changed out of her habit and went to war."

"She went ... war?"

Brother William nodded, swirling the golden-tan liquid in the crystal balloon.

"When she waged war, she was most effective. You didn't know she was an actress."

The guest shook his head.

"She was a fashion model. As a girl she modeled her mother's fashions for the San Frisco buyers. She was a quick-change artist while she was but a girl, and she would slip off to the theaters and the opera, and she studied tricks of makeup and disguise. I understand she sang in the Opera, under another name, of course, but she had a voice to back it."

His guest shook his head. "I never knew."

Brother William poured more brandy into his guest's forgotten goblet.

 

Sister Mercurius, as she was known here in the Rabbitville monastery, became very still as she read the single sheet of folded paper.

She knew Miriam was looking at her -- she did not have to look to know the veiled novice's face was tilted up just a little, curious as to this interruption to the quiet life she'd come to love.

Sister Mercurius knelt, quickly, placed gentle fingertips on Miriam's shoulders and spoke quietly but urgently.

"I must go," she said, her voice quivering a little, "for something terrible has happened."

Miriam nodded, then impulsively hugged the kneeling nun.

Sister Mercurius hugged her back, hard, almost desperately, then drew back and whispered, "I will be back."

Miriam watched as her veiled protector rose and walked quickly out of the room.

Bare moments later she heard the big black horse's distinctive pace and she knew her savior had ridden off to save someone else.

 

Jacob glared at the closed door, stifling an urge to go out and grab the sneering bailiff and drive his fist into the pompous fellow's eagle beak.

Jacob brought the prisoner out in irons and the bailiff curled his lip. "Are those really necessary?" he said imperiously.

"Only if you want to deliver your prisoner."

"Are you ... accusing ... me of something, Deputy?"

"That's Sheriff," Jacob said quietly, stepping in close, "and my word is law. If this man escapes I am coming after you and I have never, ever, not gotten the man I came after!"

"Oh, I'm scared," the bailiff almost lisped, at least until Jacob drove a fist into the man's gut, doubling him over.

"You" -- he turned to his prisoner -- "sit there. If you get up I'll kill you myself. And you" -- he seized the bailiff's throat, pinned him hard and suddenly against the wall -- "will keep a civil tongue in your head or I will slice it out and fry it up and feed it to you, do I make myself very clear?"

Jacob had gotten the bailiff's full attention, as Jacob had just shattered the shavetail's sense of superiority.

Twenty-four hours later, Jacob picked up his father's swivel chair, swung it hard around and slammed it into the log wall with a roar of absolute, unadulterated fury.

He'd just gotten word that the damned daisy of a bailiff was found dead -- strangled, and from behind -- and the prisoner escaped.

 

"She left us that afternoon. All we knew was that she was riding out.

"It was not until her return -- I'm sorry." He took a quick sip of brandy, ordered his thoughts. "It was a night and a day after her return that I found out what happened."

"I don't understand. Why did it take so long after her return? You're the ... what, the prior, the abbott or something like that? Wouldn't she have to report to you when she returned?"

Brother William looked up from his brandy, and his guest saw something he hadn't expected.

He saw sorrow.

 

"I know that look," the Sheriff said, pushing up on the arms of his rocking chair, taking the weight off his backside. Cushion or not, he got tired of sitting, but sitting was about all he could do with that hole in his side. "What happened?"

"Our prisoner," Jacob said, folding his long tall frame like a jackknife and parking his backside in the rocking chair beside his father.

"That fellow I brought in to you."

"The one that lived, yes, sir."

"The other fellow?"

"Lived about four hours, sir."

The Sheriff grunted. "I busted his skull on that rock. Surprised he lasted that long."

"Yes, sir."

"What about the other fellow?"

Jacob's jaw muscles tightened a little, bulged and then relaxed.

"There was a warrant for him."

"Must have been some warrant."

"Yes, sir. He was to be taken back to Fort Carson and hanged."

The Sheriff nodded, disappointed. "I'd hoped to hang him myself."

"I was practicin' a noose of thirteen turns myself."

"What happened?"

"This daisy of a bailiff came and got him. I'd like to've slapped the snot out of him. A dandy." He looked at his father, amusement competing for space with suppressed anger in his eyes. "A real genuine city dandy."

"I've slapped a few like that."

"It gets better."

The Sheriff stopped his slow rocking.

"The bailiff was found strangled."

"Dead?"

Jacob nodded.

"Strangled with chain."

"Yes, sir."

"Clod."

"Yes, sir."

"How much of a head start does he have?"

"Enough."

"What have you done?"

"I sent a telegram to Sarah."

The Sheriff took a long breath, nodded again.

"You realize," he said slowly, "he's a dead man."

"Yes, sir," Jacob said slowly, his eyes hard and pale. "That is my intent."

The Sheriff turned and looked at his son.

"Either Sarah kills him when she finds him," Jacob grinned, and his grin was not particularly pleasant.

"Or she brings him back here and I will kill him myself."

 

Brother William leaned back in his high-back chair, sighed.

"She could have been an actress ... the stage lost a great gift when she went into law enforcement."

"That wasn't all she did."

"I know." The tonsured prior took a thoughtful drink. "She was much more."

"What did she, that you said the stage lost a great gift?"

Brother William smiled, that broad, genuine smile of his that seemed to relax the tall cleric.

"Our own Sister Mercurius, our veiled White Nun, our Healer, stripped off her habit and gussied herself up like a cheap dance-hall girl."

The guest's glass stopped rising and slowly descended back to the tabletop.

"She what?"

 

Sarah Lynne McKenna, Agent of the Firelands District Court, daughter of the pale-eyed Sheriff and sister, or at least half-sister to the lean, hard-eyed deputy seated on the other side of the desk from her, kicked long, lovely, stockinged legs up, crossed at the ankles, high heels propped indolently on the edge of the desk top.

"I need a drink," she said, and it was not an idle statement.

Wordlessly, Jacob opened the top right hand drawer of his father's desk, withdrew two glasses: he closed the drawer, opened the bottom drawer, hoisted out a bottle half full of something water clear and not over 30 days old, and poured both glasses within a half inch of the rim.

He stood, handed one to his hussy of a sister, then downed his own potent payload without taking a breath.

"You're a glutton for punishment," Sarah murmured, sipping at hers, then taking a healthy gulp.

"You're no better, Little Sis," Jacob coughed, and Sarah fancied she could see a smoke ring emerge from beneath his mustache.

She took another swallow, willing her eyes not to water, knowing she would have to give an account of what happened before either she passed out, or someone they knew saw her.

Sarah was dressed, quite frankly, like a dance-hall slut.

This beautiful daughter of a respected businesswoman, offspring of one of the most respected lawmen in the state, this veteran detective and Agent of the Court, looked like a gussied up hussy: her face was painted, her lips were scarlet, her legs -- Jacob had to be honest -- looked really, really good in stockings, thrust out from the short hem of the fur-trimmed dancing skirt, and when she came into the Sheriff's office, her bound prisoner in a painful armlock, Jacob didn't recognize her -- even after he'd locked up the escapee, then come back out, he had to take two or three before it sank into his gourd that this hussy, this painted lady walking on gorgeous, oiled bearings, swaying her hips the way a woman will when she knows a man is devouring her with his eyes --

Jacob's eyes bulged a little when he realized ...

Sarah?

 

"She let out a little screech, just enough to get his attention," Brother William sighed. "She must have been a sight -- imagine a gussied up whorehouse slut, painted, powdered, dressed like an absolute tramp -- in the middle of nowhere, limping and crying for help, she'd twisted her ankle."
The guest was staring openly now, trying to reconcile his memory of this woman with the monk's quiet words, there in the hush of the cleric's little room there in the monastery where he'd lived for so many years.

"He gave her a ride.

"She said he ... implied ... an intent to be familiar with her."
The guest raised an eyebrow; further description, both men knew, was unnecessary.

"And when they'd covered about a mile, she pulled a lead filled sap from under her costume -- somewhere -- she whipped off his hat and belted him over the head just as hard as she could.

"She'd been told the Sheriff was dead.

"She wanted nothing more than to murder the man who'd killed the most decent and honorable man she knew.

"He fell off his horse and she got the reins -- I have no idea how -- but she rolled out of the saddle and tied the horse off on a bush, and then she went and looked down on this man.

"She told me later that she knew she had to bring him in, despite her feelings, and she said it was the hardest thing in the world to get him laid across the horse and tied with piggin strings rather than beat him to death right there."

Brother William heard Sarah's voice again, in his memory, and he shivered a little as he heard her describe how she'd thrown back her head and screamed, how she'd put all the power of her opera-trained lungs into one long, throat-ripping scream, as she summoned the Walkuren, summoned them for her dead father's shade.

She'd spent all the power of her very soul to summon Odin's daughters, those warrior-maidens who flew low over a battlefield and sought the hearts of the true warriors among the dead, and bore them to Valhalla, to feast at their one-eyed Allfather's board, to drink and feast and wench and fight forever, as befits men true and warriors born.

Brother William remembered these her words, but he didn't say these words to his guest.

 

"Don't play poker with him, Jacob," Sarah said, rising abruptly, surprisingly steadily in spite of high heels and a load of liquid lightning that threatened to reach up and clobber her hard. "He's alive. He's got to be the luckiest sod in shoe leather."

Her voice was dry, tight, her eyes hard and pale.

"I would love to have beaten him to death on the spot." Her expression was bleak. "Believe me, I considered it."

"Pa will be pleased you brought him in, Sarah."

Sarah's pupils dilated and her face paled beneath the dance-hall face paint.

"What?"

"Pa. He's stiff and sore but he's alive."

Jacob Keller was not easily surprised, but this night, Sarah genuinely surprised him.

Her eyes rolled up in her head and she kind of turned a little as she passed out in a dead faint, and Jacob managed to catch her before her knees gave out altogether.

 

"She brought in the man she'd been told killed her father," Brother William said quietly, staring into the coals of the fireplace. "She wanted most powerfully to kill him herself, but she did not." He looked at his guest. "She'd wondered at times if her soul was damned. That decision showed her -- showed us all -- that she was most certainly not."

His guest nodded slowly, drained the last of his brandy.

Daffyd Llewellyn, son of the late Daffyd Llewellyn and Sarah Lynne Llewellyn, nee McKenna, rose.

"Thank you, Brother William," he said.

"You are more than welcome to guest with us tonight. Longer, should you wish it."

"I know." He smiled, and Brother William felt an old familiar ache, for it was his mother's smile, the smile the aging cleric remembered so well.

"I know, but I must go." He hesitated. "If I may ..."

Brother William rose inclined his head: Go ahead, he said without words.

"If I may ... I would learn more of my mother."

Brother William smiled. "You may return whenever you wish. I am not the only one who could tell you of her."

Daffyd Llewellyn walked slowly toward the door, stopped, turned.

"Brother William ... my mother ... she hated the ... she hated it when anyone called her a Ragdoll." His brows puzzled together. "Why was that?"

Brother William nodded. "Perhaps we will save that for your next visit."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

116. "JUST HOLD STILL NOW!"

The Bear Killer galumphed happily up the three heavy plank steps, pink tongue lolling out the side of his jaw as he regarded the Sheriff with bright-black eyes.

The Sheriff regarded the huge black canine with unsmiling eyes.

"I oughta thump you," he growled, and The Bear Killer dropped his head a little, bristling up across his shoulders.

The Sheriff raised a fist, shook it slowly. "I oughta put knots on your head!"

The Bear Killer's lips rippled back off ivory fighting fangs and more fur rippled upright -- now down the spine in addition to broadly and very prominently across his muscled shoulders.

The Sheriff brought up his other fist, windmilled them slowly before him as he stood and squared off at the massive animal.

"I oughta knock you into the middle of next week! You want Wednesday or Thursday?"
The Bear Killer replied from deep behind his diaphragm, the rumbling snarl twisting through his ebony throat, uttering an obscene invitation to become bloody, shredded and dead, not necessarily in that order.

The Bear Killer paced forward on stiff legs, jaws opening a little, a slaver of drool falling in a bright streak, and the Sheriff set one leg back, cocked his off fist back behind his left ear, and he glared with hard eyes at the button-bright eyes regarding him with an equally obdurate expression.

The Bear Killer thrust ahead, shoved his nose into the Sheriff's side, snuffed loudly, snuffed again, dropped his backside down onto the porch planks and looked up at the Sheriff, tilting his head a little, ears coming up, the warlike rumble changing to a curious almost-whine.

The Sheriff reached down and rubbed The Bear Killer's peck basket sized head and the moist black nose shoved into his side again, snuffing loudly.

The Sheriff flinched, grunted, and The Bear Killer pulled back with a querulous little noise.

The front door opened and Angela pattered briskly out, almost scampering up to the dog that was just taller than she was.

"Now Bear Killer," she scolded fearlessly, shaking her little Mommy-finger at the curly-furred creature, "don't you hurt my Daddy!"
The Bear Killer began a happy facewashing, to which the curly-haired little girl giggled happily, hugging the great thick neck and looking up at her Daddy with bright, Kentucky-blue eyes.

The Bear Killer chopped his jaws and gave kind of a wobbling groan, and both the Sheriff and his bright-eyed little girl knew this meant he heard something, and sure enough, he was right.

The Sheriff nodded as Sarah came driving up in the Rosenthal carriage, looking very ladylike and proper and grown-up: the hired man jogged up and took her gelding's bridle as she smiled and thanked him, and she waited until the hired man came up beside the carriage to help her out.

They all knew Sarah could have planted her palm on the armrest and vaulted out like an athletic girl (something she usually did) but today, for whatever reason, she was affecting a more dignified mien: she stepped down from carriage to dressed stone, then to ground, and smiled warmly as she thanked the man for his kindness.

The Bear Killer turned quickly, tail swinging and thumping heavily into the Sheriff's thigh, bringing an almost suppressed grimace to the lean lawman's expression.

Sarah lifted her skirt, ascended the stairs, eyes downcast but chin up: she turned, gathered herself, then flowed across the porch toward her sire.

"You got him," the Sheriff said quietly, and Sarah heard approval in his voice.

"I did," she nodded, "and you should sit down."

"I'll stand."

Sarah folded her gloved hands very properly in her apron, looked the Sheriff squarely in the eye.

"You, sir," she said, "are contrary, hard headed, obdurate, obstinate and if I didn't mention it already, stubborn!"

"God loves you too," the Sheriff grunted. "Angela. Have Mary set another plate."

"Okay, Daddy," Angela piped happily, skipped around The Bear Killer, ran up and hugged Sarah quickly, impulsively, then skipped on into the house with the happy and carefree gait of a happy and carefree little girl.

Sarah planted her knuckles on her hips. "Sheriff," she said curtly, "I wish I had my spectacles with me!"

"Oh?"

The Sheriff was trying hard to keep a straight face, for he'd known Sarah since she was Angela's size, and it amused him to see her a-bristle like a Banty hen.

Sarah knew this.

She was trying hard to keep a straight face herself.

"I wish I had my spectacles, sir," she said in the sharp tone of a schoolteacher lecturing a recalcitrant student, "so that I might look over them while addressing you!"

She saw the smile in her father's eyes and felt triumph,for few people could penetrate the wall of disapproval he threw up in such moments.

He sighed.

"Sarah," he said, taking a slow step forward, "give me your hands."

Sarah unhesitatingly placed her gloved hands in his big and callused hands.

"Sarah," he said quietly, "I understand you captured the prisoner."

"You understand correctly, sir."

"May I speak with utter frankness?" he asked, a little more quietly, his voice a little deeper.

"You may."

"You really should sit down," the Sheriff said and Sarah heard the strain in his voice.

"I think you should sit," she said, moving a little closer, gripping his belt, ready to steady any wobble --

"Sarah," he said, or rather gasped, "my Mama -- rest her skinny little soul -- worked awful hard to beat some manners into m --"

He looked up and she saw pain in his eyes, but she also saw a hint of humor --

"My Mama worked awful hard to teach me good manners," he corrected, "and if I set down while a lady was standing, why, she'd climb outta that grave and stomp up these steps and kick me right in the liver!"

Sarah caressed her Papa's cheek with a gloved palm, and bit her bottom lip, for she'd seldom heard the man speak of his mother, and there was a deep and abiding respect in his voice.

She lowered her other hand, gripped his belt at left and right, turned him, steering him back into the rocking chair.

He folded slowly, gripping the arm of the hand made rocking chair with white-knuckled pain: Sarah turned, smoothed her skirts, sat in the rocker beside him.

The maid yanked the door open, turned and snatched up a folding table: she stomped briskly across the porch, set up the table beside Sarah, laid a hand on the younger woman's arm.

"I'm glad you're here," she said quietly, "he needs some intelligent company!" -- then she whirled, swung back into the house, banged the door shut.

"Is she often like that?" Sarah asked, placing a gloved hand gently on the lean old lawman's wrist.

He pulled his hand back, closed his hand on hers, rocking slowly, gently, Sarah matching his moves.

"You mean the Texas Cyclone?" he sighed. "Oh yeah. She'll be back with tea."

The front door banged open again and the maid came surging like a starched locomotive across the porch, tray held before her like a cowcatcher, and the Sheriff would not have been surprised to see puffs of steam from beneath her skirt: she set the tray on the table, laid out saucers and teacups and poured tea, then reached in her apron pocket and withdrew a silver flask, added a tilt to each teacup.

"Good for what ails ye," she whispered to Sarah, handing her one and then carrying the other over to the Sheriff.

"Thank you," the Sheriff rumbled, taking a noisy sip of the fortified brew.

Sarah sipped hers delicately, smiling: there was a hint of citrus and just a bit of honey, in addition to something potent, courtesy the maid's silver flask.

The Sheriff waited until the maid was withdrawn before speaking.

"How did you get him?"

Sarah smiled, leaning her head back against the high back of the carved rocker.

"I dressed up and lied to him," she said frankly.

"Jacob said you were ... surprising."

"Mm-hmm." Sarah took another sip of tea.

"Sarah," the Sheriff sighed, "I am genuinely sorry His Honor ever asked you to become an Agent."

"Oh?" she said archly, sounding remarkably like Ester -- or her mama Bonnie! he thought with a smile.

"Sarah ... your mother is a lady of the first water."

Sarah waited; she knew the Sheriff was working toward a point.

"You are every bit the lady as your mother, and I rejoice in that."

"Thank you."

"Jacob said you looked ..."

He turned his head toward her.

"He said you looked really good."

"I thought so."

"Did it work?"

"It worked well."

The Sheriff breathed in, deep and slow, blew out the long breath through pursed lips and puffed cheeks.

"You don't approve."

"I want you to be a lady, Sarah."

"I was ladylike, I assure you."

"I'm sure belting a man over the head with a lead cosh is ladylike."

"I could have back shot him."

The Sheriff grunted, his expression sour, his eyes closed.

"I like my little girls ..."

"You want to put your little girls on a high shelf," Sarah interrupted quietly, "you want to put us under a heavy glass bell jar to keep us pretty and safe."

The Sheriff opened pale eyes, looked to the horizon. "Yeah," he grunted.

"You know we can't do that."

"I know."

"I didn't kill him, Papa. I could have. I could have laid wait and shot him between the eyes from a hundred yards. I could have hauled in a carcass instead of a prisoner."

"I ... admit that," he said slowly. "You could have."

Sarah took her Papa's hand again, squeezed. "I was told ... I thought you were dead," she whispered hoarsely. "I was told you were as full of holes as Mama's kitchen sieve."

He looked at her again, a half-lidded assessment with cold eyes, and she felt his gaze reach deep into her soul.

"I would have killed him and be done with it."

"It would have been easier."

"Sarah" -- he tightened his hand, just a little bit, just enough to be felt -- "Sarah, I've only got one of you. I don't want ... I can go after someone like that --"

"But you don't want to risk me," Sarah interrupted.

"Yeah."

"You will risk you but not me."

"Exactly."

"That doesn't work, you know."

"I want it to work."

"Why?"

"I've only got one of you, Sarah. I don't want you hurt. Or killed."

"What about you?"

"I don't matter," he grunted, looking away.

Sarah turned, squeezing his hand hard.

Her voice was as cold as her pale-blue eyes.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"No," she said decisively. "You're hurt. Esther is in her office, running the railroad." Sarah's eyes were bright, piercing as she regarded her father's face.

"Do you know how much work she's actually getting done?"

The Sheriff blinked, remembered that morning, when he insisted she go into her office like she always did of a morning.

"You were hurt. Your family's life ground to a stop just like dropping a flat rock from a running stage coach. It skidded, it twisted, it flipped over, it finally came to a stop with a grind and with a cloud of dust. If you were killed it would kill all of us." Her voice was quiet, tight. "Don't you dare be so selfish that you think you can keep us from harm. It's going to happen and we'd better be able to take care of it!" She squeezed his hand, hard. "You weren't there when I was a little girl. You didn't know what happened to me, you weren't able to stop it. Nobody has a crystal ball, Papa --"

"I can make a difference now," he cut her off, "and I want you to stop --"

"No."

Pale eyes glared into pale eyes.

"I could turn you over my knee and spank you."

"You'd play hell trying."

Silence grew tight and tense between them, then he sighed, nodded.

"I know."

"Papa." Sarah slipped out of her rocker, turned, knelt, took her father's face between gentle fingers. "Papa, I promise, I will be careful."

The Sheriff looked long at Sarah, at this child of his loins, unknown to him until a year ago or thereabouts, and he reached a gentle hand to caress her soft cheek.

"Please do," he said frankly. "I prefer a universe with you in it."

"I promise," she whispered.

He nodded. "Good enough."

Sarah stood; the Sheriff pushed up from the rocker, straightened slowly, his jaw set.

"Something else is wrong," Sarah said thoughtfully, her eyes running over the long tall lawman like a buyer sizing up an auction steer. "That's more than a hole in your side."

The Sheriff snorted a suppressed chuckle. "Yeah."

"Well? What did you do this time?"

He sighed.

"I shoved down on the saddle horn" -- his hands came together, crossed, pushed down in illustration -- "and pulled my legs up under me, I stood on the saddle and then dove into the man that shot me. Got him around the neck and wallered him around some."

"Ahh-hummm," Sarah replied, nodding slowly, her eyes wide. "And that is less dangerous than me belting some fellow over the head from behind?"

Sarah looked toward the closed front door, looked back at the Sheriff.

"I should get Angela out here to shake her Mommy-finger at you."

The Sheriff chuckled carefully, stifling his mirth to keep it from hurting.

He walked with Sarah across the porch; the hired man walked up, his leather-gloved hand firm around the gelding's bridle, and Sarah thanked him for his kindness, mounted the carriage, picked up the reins.

"It works both ways, Papa," she said, a worried look on her face. "I only have one of you, and I want you around to grandfather our son."

The Sheriff nodded, waited until Sarah drove away before sitting, slowly, on his front steps.

The Bear Killer laid down beside him, forepaws draped over the edge of the step, leaning warm and comfortable against the lawman's injured side.

The Sheriff laid his arm over the black, curly furred canine, grateful he'd snagged the pillow off his rocking chair to set on.

His hand slowly rubbed The Bear Killer's head behind the ears, then his hand stopped and his brows drew slowly together.

"Grandson?"

He looked to where Sarah had disappeared in her carriage, then he shook his head slowly.

"Bear Killer," he finally said, "why don't you stay right there for a while, that feels good with you leanin' nice and warm ag'in me."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

117. "YOU STAY OUT OF THIS!"

Sarah Lynne McKenna plucked daintily at the fingers of her gloves.

She was, after all, a grown woman; she had money enough saved, earned, invested, to make her own way in the world if need be.

She knew who she intended to marry, and she knew her choice of husbands would be a good provider, for the short time he'd be alive, and then she would be a respected widow -- albeit a pregnant widow -- but that was yet to pass.

As a matter of fact, her intended had yet to more than kiss her knuckles in a gentlemanly manner.

Sarah's eyes darkened a little as she smiled at herself in the mirror, tossed her gloves onto the bed, debated whether to sit in the comfortably upholstered vanity's chair, or leap like a happy girl onto the bed.

Her decision-making was interrupted by a discreet tap at the door: the maid's knock -- she recognized the delicate rat-tat, tat -- she sighed, decided not to resume her gloves, and swept to the door with all the hauteur of a society matron, which of course she discarded as soon as she turned the knob.

"A gentleman to see you," the Irish girl said with a knowing smile, and Sarah smiled back, the two sharing a knowing look -- Sarah turned, seized her gloves, worked her hands awkwardly into them as she held her skirt up on her way downstairs.

She swung quickly at the foot of the stairs, faced the parlor door, raised her chin, took a deep breath.

She hadn't expected Daffyd Llewellyn to come calling quite yet, but she was not displeased, not at all.

Sarah opened the parlor door --

"Hello, Sis," Jacob greeted her unsmilingly.

Sarah raised a quizzical eyebrow, stepped into the room, closed the door behind her, gave her brother a frank assessment and did not bother to hide the fact that she was examining him from combed hair to polished boot-sole.

"You're not wearing your badge," she said, frowning a little.

"I'm not here as the law," Jacob said carefully. "I'm here as family."

Sarah staggered a little as the blood ran down to about her ankles, leaving her deathly pale. "Papa?" she whispered, her throat tight.

Jacob shook his head. "No one is hurt or dead," he said reassuringly.

Sarah took a long breath, her hand flattened just under her bodice, her eyes big and frightened.

"What happened?" she whispered, fumbling for the back of a chair: she suddenly seemed as unstable as an old woman, and she was barely able to walk around the chair to set herself in it.

Jacob drew up another chair, pulling it squarely in front of her, sat with his knees almost touching hers.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he said seriously, "Sis, I need your opinion."

Sarah swallowed and nodded.

"If you're not up to thinking straight I can come back tomorrow."

She shook her head, gripped his hands, then released them, fairly tore off her gloves: dropping them to the floor, she seized his hands, needing that fleshly contact.

Jacob looked older, somehow, for all that he was all of two years older than her -- if that, she thought -- but suddenly he looked ... mature, seasoned.

"I'm sorry," Sarah whispered. "I ... sometimes I don't ..."

"Sis?" Jacob asked, his eyes narrowing and his head turning just a little, for all the world like his pale eyed father. "Sis, is there something I should know?"

"Like what?" she whispered, white to the lips.

Jacob's hands tightened on hers, then cupped them gently, as if he were cupping little baby chipmunks in his palm, not wanting to squeeze them, just hold them warm and safe.

"Sis, are you having a baby?"

Sarah's eyes widened and her mouth opened about three feet or so -- Jacob later told Annette her jaw hung down about her belt buckle -- Sarah felt betrayal, dismay, anger, fear, disappointment, and her features were faithful servants to her emotions: Jacob saw every one of these chase one another across her face.

"Sis, nobody else knows," Jacob said helpfully, "and you know Pa will want another grandchild to spoil --"
Sarah leaned back in her chair, her hands slipping from her brother's, and Jacob saw her eyes go pale and the pallor of her cheeks was replaced by an angry flush as her hand drew back and then snapped forward like a sidewinder's strike.

Jacob reflexively blocked the slap, his own eyes pale and hard, but there was no second strike: Sarah lowered her arm and stood, slowly, trembling, her cheeks like bright red spots against the white framing her lips.

"How dare you," she trembled, her voice barely a whisper. "How dare you!"

Jacob stood as well. "Sis," he said softly, "who is the father, or do we know?"

Training and reflex kept Jacob from being kneed; Sarah's combination of knee-elbow-palm strike was something she'd practiced, and with which she was most effective, but she'd practiced them with Jacob ... and though they were delivered at speed, and at strength, he was able to deflect them.

Sarah kicked the chair from behind her, teeth bared, hands up and open, and she took a half-step to her left.

Jacob's hands were up as well, but he was loose, relaxed-looking, which Sarah knew meant he was as relaxed as a sleepy-looking cat a tenth of a second before its pounce.

Sarah's second attack was like a swarm of cats: she combined heel-strikes, something she'd learned from a sailor who'd lived in Okinawa for years, with kicks, elbow strikes and another knee attack: Jacob managed to block most of them, grunted with pain when she drove her hand into his ribs, snapped his head to the side just in time to inherit a graze to his cheekbone.

Sarah drew back again, lowered her head, growled deep in her throat, and Jacob Keller, lawman, acting Sheriff, blooded warrior and veteran of weapons-based and hand-to-hand combat more times than he could count, felt something he very seldom experienced.

Facing this pale-eyed woman, Acting Sheriff Jacob Keller felt fear.

 

Bonnie McKenna looked up as the maid rapped urgently on her office window.

A moment later both women were running for the main house, dignity forgotten as the sounds of combat reached them.

There was a screech, more a cat's angered yowl than anything from a human throat, the sound of a body hitting -- wall? Floor? -- a crash, then silence.

Bonnie McKenna snatched open the parlor door to behold a room beyond disarray: lamps and vases smashed, flowers scattered, furniture broken, Jacob standing in the middle of the floor, blood dripping from his nose and one ear red and swollen; Sarah, her dress torn, hair dissheveled, a bruise under one cheekbone: Jacob stood half bent over, one arm drawn back against his ribs, whether ready to block, punch, or to guard an injury, Bonnie wasn't sure; his other hand was extended, palm hard against Sarah's forehead, and she was sizzling like a cat on a hot stove, swinging impotently, missing her brother by bare inches, just the amount his arm was longer than her reach.

Bonnie's mouth dropped open, but only momentarily, and she shouted, "WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?"

Sarah jerked back and so did Jacob: they turned toward Bonnie and with one voice shouted, "YOU KEEP OUT OF THIS!"

They faced one another, arms up, palms open, ready to tear into one another all over again, and then they both stopped.

Jacob leaned his head a little to the side, lowered his hands.

"You're not --"

"No," Sarah hissed.

"You didn't --"

"NO!" Sarah snapped.

"So I don't --"

"No." Sarah's voice was low, menacing, a promise of worse to follow.

Jacob blinked, feeling his ears turn red, feeling his belly cascade about seventy feet straight down.

"Then I'm ..."

"You're bleeding," Sarah snapped, "all over my good carpet. Here" -- she yanked a lace-trimmed kerchief from her sleeve, slapped it in his hand -- "pinch your nose together, it'll stop. Mother" -- Sarah turned angrily to Bonnie -- "I don't like this furniture, I'm having it replaced!"

Bonnie looked at what had once been a good parlor chair, looked at broken glass, looked at the disorder and chaos in what had been her tidy and well-ordered parlor.

"Jacob," Sarah said coldly, "have you any further questions?"

"Do I dod't," Jacob said, shaking his head very carefully while he pinched his nostrils together. "Rebid be dever to ask you dat agaid."

Sarah glared at her brother, then began picking up pieces of what had been the milk-glass base of an Aladdin lamp.

"Sis?"

She turned, glaring.

"Dow I doe why Pa dever zbagkt your bottom."

Sarah strode over to her brother and kicked him in the shin.

Hard.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

118. "WE GET IT HONEST"

There is a place near Firelands, a cleft in the rock that native legend says was carved out by a giant's child, who hooked a finger in living granite and dug out a groove as easily as if it were riverbank clay.

It was a natural shelter from the prevailing wind; its course through the rock was curved, left, then right, so that even a random wind shift that blew directly up the cleft, was broken and deflected before it got very far.

Two riders converged on the cleft, two riders who would welcome its wind-shadow, two riders who intended to build a fire, heat water, boil up something hot to drink and make peace.

Wind rippled at Sarah's cloak, sending invisible fingers through its multiple weaves, soaking through the woolen plaid of Jacob's coat: each was glad they wore extra layers, for cold and wind was worse than just cold.

Snow skidded on the wind, hissing against chilled skin with dry fingers; they arrived within minutes of one another, and after their horses found a friendly thicket that afforded almost-edible browse and some decent shelter from the cold, the pair collaborated in building their fire.

They'd built fires here before; they had a rock circle laid up to contain it, and they set on folded saddle blankets to insulate their backsides from rocks that would just plainly pull the comfort right of your hinder, was you foolish enough to park your carcass on something that stone-cold and rock-hard.

It wasn't until Jacob boiled water and Sarah added tea that either of them spoke.

"How's the nose?" Sarah asked, lifting the blue-granite lid from the coffee pot and looking into the shimmering dark interior.

"Sore," Jacob admitted, "but it's not leaking now." He looked frankly at his sister. "Quite a shiner you've got, Sis."

She tried to glare at him and didn't quite succeed. "Thanks," she said, her voice clipped, then she almost smiled.

"Mama has new furniture now. I paid for it."

"I'll reimburse you."

"You will flap your arms and fly to the moon."

"Flip you for it."

"No you don't," she said quietly, and this time there was a smile -- he saw it, and he heard it in her voice. "The last time you flipped me I landed flat on my back and broke Mama's milk-glass lamp."

"I'll replace that too."

"In your dreams, cream puff."

Jacob sighed, thrust another stick into the fire.

"Least ways Garry Garrison is happy."

"What did you do this time?"

Jacob grinned. "I went to replace Pa's office chair."

"Why? Did he feed it to the stove again?"

Jacob laughed, that quick grin and quiet chuckle that teased a smile from her solemn affect. "No ... no, but I reckon I will."

"I don't understand."

Jacob looked across the thin smoke at his sister, his eyes a distinct blue now. "Sis," he admitted, "when I heard that fella strangled that sand pounder of a bailiff, I got man and beat that-there chair ag'in the wall."

"Did you hurt it?"

"I didn't hurt the wall none."

Sarah raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, so I had to re-chink it where I knocked the mud out."

"So what does that have to do with the price of tea?" Sarah asked, lifting the lid and sniffing the vapors, then pouring an experimental half-inch of hot tea into a blue-granite cup.

"I got mad and busted his chair."

"Oh."

"You've got his temper, Sis."

"So do you," Sarah riposted, almost calling him "little brother" -- it had taken a genuine knock-down drag-out between the two of them one afternoon to get him to stop calling her "Little Sis" and she would slash back with "Little Brother" and it finally came to an un-gentle understanding ... he called her "Sis" after that and she called him whatever she pleased, which most times was ladylike, but not always.

Jacob sighed.

"Yeah, I've got his temper too." He grinned again. "We come by it honest, I reckon."

"How's that?"

"When I went up to Gary's Grab Bag to have him order me up a new chair, he said he had two in stock, waitin' for the Grand Old Man to blow his cork again and beat that chair to death his own self." Jacob's grin was broad and genuine as he shared this confidence with his half-sister. "I am not the only Sheriff to bust that chair to flinders for gettin' mad!"

"Speaking of which." Sarah resettled herself on her folded blanket, legs crossed, cloak open and catching what heat radiated off the fire and reflected off the rock behind: "Speaking of which, is Papa ever going to get an attack of good sense and retire?"

Jacob's expression almost dissolved ... it was as if his infectious grin sort of slid off his face, leaving a solemn old man's visage behind.

"I don't know, Sis," he admitted, pouring himself some tea. "I ..."

Jacob frowned some, blew on his tea, producing a grand big cloud of fragrant vapor that curled up under his hat brim and obscured his eyes for a moment.

"Sis, on the one hand he's earned it. God Almighty, he's paid his dues a thousand times over, he's paid for what's good and decent in this town and ..."
His voice trailed off and he turned the cup around a little in his cupped hands.

"Sis, I don't have any screamin' desire to be Sheriff. I can do it, I've been doing it, I'm good at it and I reckon I'll Sheriff as long as the good Lord wants me to ... but I don't want to shove Pa out."

Sarah nodded, considering, sipped her tea carefully, then took a longer drink, poured herself a little more: "Jacob," she said, her own expression matching her brother's, "you are a good Sheriff, and I reckon you'll have the office as long as you want it."

Jacob grunted, nodded.

"How big is Joseph now, anyway?"

Jacob blinked, surprised at the change of subject.

"Oh, he's gettin' some size on him ... " Jacob's voice trailed off and he got a distant look to him, and Sarah knew he was thinking of his firstborn, the way a father will.

She saw Jacob's eyes lighten a little and he looked at her, puzzled.

"Sis, why are you teachin' him to throw knives?"

"it's something he'll need to know," she said, her voice serious.

Jacob was silent a moment longer than was necessary.

"Sis, I know Mother has the Sight. Aunt Duzy had it and I reckon you've got it. Your teachin' him to throw a knife ... "

Sarah looked at her brother, but made no reply, for when a woman has the Gift, there are things she can not divulge, and what she knew about young Joseph Keller was one of them.

They'd ridden up to this, their meeting place, about midmorning; they shared a cold meal of backstrap and bread and good hot tea, and finally a little after noontime they whistled their horses out of their brushy nest and stirred out their little dry-wood fire and got ready to head back.

"Sis," Jacob said as he swung a leg over his saddle.

Sarah settled herself into a good deep seat, found her stirrups, and Snowflake stood easily.

"Sis, I come out the other day to ask your opinion."

"I recall your saying that."

"I figured to ask your notion on what kind of Sheriff I'd make."

Sarah smiled. "It's too late for that."

"Come again?"

"You're already Sheriff, Jacob. Until Papa heals up, you are the Sheriff, so don't doubt yourself." Sarah tilted her head and regarded Jacob curiously. "Now it's my turn. Why did you ask if I was pregnant?"

"You told Pa something about being a granddad."

Sarah nodded, smiling a little, sidled her big Snowflake-mare close to Jacob's Apple-horse.

"Wanna know a secret?" she said confidentially.

"I'm listening."

"I know who I am going to marry. He doesn't know it yet. We will have a son and he will be named after his father, he will in his turn be a bowyer, an archer, a fletcher and Fire Chief, and Papa will delight in him."

"I ... see," Jacob said slowly.

"In two more generations there will be another Keller as Sheriff."

Jacob nodded slowly.

"And I am afraid," Sarah said almost sadly, "that this descendant will have both our Papa's eyes, and his temper."

Jacob laughed. "And will this Sheriff be as hard on office chairs as Pa and I were?"

Sarah laughed quietly, drawing her cloak around her and expertly flipping the tag end over her shoulder, locking in its warmth. "Some things," she admitted, "are hidden from me, but I would not doubt it!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

119. I GOT SOME THINKIN' TO DO

This ain't the same chair, I thought, frowning.

I wiggled a little in it, rocked it side to side ... no, it's good and tight, no wobble ... I rocked fore and aft just a little and that was a mistake.

WHAM! and the daggone thing shot out from under me, least ways the bottom section did, and the room rolled around me and the floor came up fast and belted me in the back of the head.

Again.

I'm satisfied the whole building shivered and I expected little trickles of dust to philter from between the roof beams and I closed my eyes to savor the vision of two constellations and three or four minor planets.

Yep.

Belted myself a good one there.

I heard the door open and felt cold air wash in, then the door shut and Jackson Cooper's slow, measured tread took a couple hesitant steps toward me.

I reckon he was lookin' at my boots stickin' up from behind the desk.

"Sheriff?" he asked, and then he hove into view over the edge of my desk like a battleship thrusting its prow over a dock.

"Just takin' a nap," I grunted.

He nodded, considering the sight of a long tall lawman flat on his back, still in his swivel chair, legs stuck straight up toward the ceiling.

"Say, while you're up there, could you take a look and tell me if these boots need half soles yet?"

Jackson Cooper frowned and studied my boot soles, shook his head and solemnly allowed as they looked fine to him.

I kind of swung myself sideways, banged my shin on the corner of the desk and rolled up on my side, come up on hands and knees and managed to unfold myself from an undignified situation.

"Jackson Cooper," I said, grabbing the edge of my desk and setting my teeth hard together as my side called me unkind names, "you wouldn't happen to know where a man could get a peach crate by any chance?"

I could see that quiet grin behind his eyes as he said "I do," and I looked at that chair still layin' on its back and I allowed as "I would as lief set on a peach crate as that treacherous chair rattair. Matter of fact was it not in such good shape I would donate it to a nice friendly stove." I glared at the chair and bent over a little and addressed it with "YOU HEAR ME DOWN THERE?"

The chair did not seem impressed.

I set down on the edge of the desk and intentionally straightened myself up. I'd started to slouch, favoring over toward that hurt side, and that would not do at all.

Jackson Cooper hiked up a leg and set on the edge of the desk, turned enough so he was almost facing me.

"Sheriff," he said quietly, "you and I have known one another for a very long time."

"Aye," I nodded, and I felt my face tighten up in a smile. "That we have."

"You saved my bacon a time or three and you got me this job. I am obliged to you many times over."

"'Twas my pleasure."

"Sheriff, I will not shove in where I'm not wanted but was I not ... Sheriff, I been ... oh, hell," he finally gave up, threw his hat across the office in the closest thing I'd seen to frustration in the man in many long years.

He stood up and faced me square.

"Linn, I was scairt. I seen men gut shot and you were. It didn't bust a gut this time but we ain't got but the one of you and I don't pa'tickelar want a world that don't have you in it!"

This took me just plainly by surprise, and I hesitated a moment before I asked, "What did Emma say?"

It was the right question.

Jackson Cooper's solemn face cracked into a grin and he lifted his arms, wrists limp, and pitched his voice some higher than his usual, boulders-in-a-well baritone: "Jackson Cooper, you need to tell that poor man he should retire! He's done more good for this commuity than the community has done for itself! He's a good man and if he doesn't stop that he's going to leave poor Esther a widow! Now Jackson Cooper, you tell him that I said so, you tell that man that he's done enough for this lifetime, it's time he let somebody else get shot for a change! You tell him that, Jackson Cooper!"

I laughed to hear the telling of it, for Jackson Cooper is a good mimic and he can whistle a warbler in close enough to touch, he had a gift for capturing someone else's posture and gestures and speech patterns, and coming out of someone as plainly big as this town marshal, why, the effect is more often that not just plain comical.

His imitation of his dignified and diminutive schoolteacher wife was honestly hilarious, and I leaned a little to the side and laughed, easing the strain on my healing belly while the rest of me appreciated the entertainment.

I got up and walked slow and stiff across to the stove, fed it a couple good chunks of wood, tapped the draft. "Now who am I gonna foist this office onto?"
"Jacob seems to be doing well enough."

"Jacob is doing very well," I nodded. "If he was another man's son I would say he's the man for the job, let him have it."

"So give it to him."

I turned my head a little and looked at the floor over by the far wall, then looked back, feeling lost.

"I been shot, Jackson Cooper. I been shot, stabbed, cut, run into, run over and a street evangelist tried to save my corroded soul."

Jackson Cooper grunted, nodded.

"I will take those risks for me but I don't want to risk my son."

"You already do."

I nodded miserably.

Jackson Cooper rose, gripped my shoulders.

"I have no sons," he said quietly. "Jacob has let me see what it is to have a son. I watched him grow and I have you to thank for that. He is a fine man."

Jacob, a man, I thought, and for a moment it was difficult to keep my mental balance. That's where you tap a knuckle to your forehead and say "I know that here" (knock knock) "but it's kind of hard to admit down here" -- (knocks knuckles on breastbone!)

He is doing the job already, I thought.

He can be trusted.

I stopped and considered that last.

"I can hear the gears turnin' between your ears," Jackson Cooper rumbled.

I took a long breath.

"Maybe you're right," I grunted, shoving to my feet.

Jackson Cooper's hand was quick and strong, gripping my off shoulder.

He bent his head down a little and frowned, studying me closely.

"Sheriff," he rumbled, "are you doin' a'rat?"

I looked at the man and I was not a-gonna lie to him, so I said something else instead.

"I reckon I got some thinkin' to do."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

120. "SHE DID WHAT?"

The Sheriff's face turned red and he leaned forward, quick-like, and sprayed brandy for a surprising distance.

Brother William was on his feet, alarmed, and as he surged across the room, palm upraised to swat the choking lawman between the shoulder blades, the Sheriff waved him down: he coughed, harrumphed, coughed again, ran his knuckles across watering eyes, waved the tonsured friar back to his seat.

It took another minute for the Sheriff to gain control over his vocal cords; a sudden alcohol bath does little to benefit the voice, and when he tried to talk, he squeaked, which lead to more coughing, another harrumph, and if it was possible -- an even redder face.

He set his brandy snifter aside, used his shirt cuff to wipe tears from his eyes, and after another minute or so -- during which Brother William resumed his seat and regarded his old friend with a worried expression -- he finally took a deep breath, blinked, regarded his guest and said in a husky voice, "She did what?"

Brother William had not yet picked up his own brandy: he spread his hands, palms up, his own face coloring a little.

"How was I to know the Bishop was coming to visit," he said, "and when Sister Lucy sat down at the brand-new piano, we'd only just had it tuned, and played the very first tune" -- he looked shamefacedly at the Sheriff -- "how was I to know she didn't know His High Eminence was in the house?"

The Sheriff was grinning, anticipating and yet afraid to anticipate what followed.

"Sister Lucy caressed the keys like a man caresses a woman," he said softly, having no luck at all suppressing his own amused expression, "and I was hoping she would play the Ave or something ..."

"Reverent?" the Sheriff suggested, and Brother William nodded miserably.

"When the Bishop himself visits, we really don't want ..." Brother William's voice trailed off and he snatched up his brandy, took a quick, noisy slurp.

"Well out with it, man," the Sheriff demanded, "what happened?"

"Sheriff, do you remember ... do you remember how a whorehouse piano sounds?"

The Sheriff's eyes widened. "Yyeeesss," he said slowly, drawling out the affirmative.

"Well," he said, "imagine the piano ... in our sanctuary ... with a stained glass window, the sun bright and colorful through blues and greens and reds and yellows, imagine the painted statues, all the saints looking down upon us, imagine the Madonna with her golden crown holding the Child ..."

The Sheriff scooted to the edge of his seat, listening closely, eyes riveted on his tonsured companion.

"Now imagine the veiled nun at the keyboard lifts her hands and plays Pretty Redwing, as brisk and as bawdy as if she were entertaining in a bawdy-house!"

The Sheriff's mouth opened, he fell back in his seat and he leaned his head back, imagining the quiet, dignified interior of the monastery's sanctuary, suddenly filled with a favorite tune of his ... but not a tune you could really call ... reverent.

He lifted his head, blinked.

"And what did His High Horse do?"

Brother William looked away, uncomfortable.

"He liked it," he said quietly, then looked back. "He liked it! He said too many times he was bored by the same old tunes -- his words -- he said that reverence does have its place, but that God wanted us to be creatures of joy, and what she played was joyful!"

"Sarah," the Sheriff murmured, shaking his head.

"No, Sheriff," Brother William corrected gently, "it wasn't Sarah. She wasn't there. It was a new Sister. Sister Lucy."

"Oh. I'm ... usually when something like that happens, Sarah has a hand in it."

"She brought Sister Lucy to us. Very recently."

"Hmp." The Sheriff grunted, nodded.

"Sometimes," the lawman continued, "I wonder about that girl."

"You did hear about Denver."

The Sheriff looked up, raised an eyebrow. "What now?"

Brother William rose, walked over to his traveler's bag, the one he slung across his body from his off shoulder, reached in and drew out a newspaper.

"There was a fire," he said thoughtfully, unfolding the paper, holding it up at an angle to catch the lamp's light. "Do you remember she has been attending Professor Hunt's School of Detection?"

"A fire," the Sheriff said thoughtfully. "I heard there ..."

His eyes widened.

"What do we know about the fire?"

Brother William read ahead a few lines, began to read aloud.

 

Sarah fell through space, arms and legs streaming skyward behind her, as a solitary eagle wheeled overhead: two creatures of the sky, sharing the clear mountain air for at least a moment.

Not five minutes before she'd realized smoke was coming through the transom over the door: she'd gotten her classmates on their feet and down the stairs, but Professor Hunt, limping painfully from a fall that morning, could not sprint as did the younger men: the class thundered downstairs, down the sagging, heat-weakened stairs, their coats drawn over their faces to filter out smoke chimneying up the staircase from the basement.

Sarah ran back, got her shoulder under the Professor's arm, hauled him out into the hallway and toward the staircase.

They reached the top step just as the lower stairs collapsed and fire gouted up toward them, sudden, hot, hungry.

"Back!" Sarah snapped, carrying most of the coughing man's weight; she got him back inside the classroom, slammed the door, set his backside on the end of a table and ran for the window.

She stretched up, threw the catches, seized the sash --

"I think," Professor Hunt coughed, "it's painted shut --"

Sarah thrust the window wide open, skipped to her left, yanked open the cupboard door, reached inside, yanked a hidden cord.

The Professor had no way of knowing Sarah had quietly contracted to have a rolled up fire ladder installed above their window: he had no time to stare, nor to even ask how it got there, before Sarah had him by the front of the coat: she hauled him up onto his toes, her strength fueled with adrenaline and with fear as she frogmarched him to the open window.

"GET DOWN THE LADDER!" she yelled, her nose an inch from his, "GET OUT! NOW!!!"

Smoke was curling up between the floor boards and the floor underfoot was getting warm through her shoe soles; smoke was rolling, thick and red-backlit through the transom.

Professor Hunt took a look at the incipient inferno just outside his door and wasted no time at all in swarming out the window, grasping rungs with hands and with feet, descended awkwardly.

Sarah knew the ladder would not take the weight of two people, but she was ready for that too: she reached into the cupboard, pulled out a steel bar and a length of black silk line, as strong ounce for ounce as woven steel: she tossed the line out the window, slapped a leather ladder belt around her middle, part of her mind considering that her corset would help distribute the strain.

She leaned out the window, whipping one turn through the spring-loaded hook: "On belay!" she yelled, fear tingeing her voice, and from below, a return shout: "Belay on!"

Sarah looked over her shoulder, pulled the bar up to keep it precisely across the window opening, leaned back and released the bar, kicking away from the building.

Her off hand above her, letting line slip freely through it, the other hand back, holding her line free so it wouldn't whip a jam hitch in her hook, she fell, swung back into the building, kicked off again --

Fire vomited out the window she'd just vacated.

Sarah hissed something profane and unladylike through clenched, white teeth, silk line spun and hissed through the ladder hook --

Flame tasted black silk and flame liked the taste, and the line snapped and Sarah remembered how it recoiled from the window, its length describing lazy Ss against the flawless blue sky, and she felt herself fall and she knew she was going to hit the cobbles below and she would be dead she would be dead dead dead --

"I GOT HER I GOT HER I GOT HER!" a half-dozen voices roared: hard-muscled firemen sprinted the very few steps it took to get under the falling body, taut canvas gripped in white-knuckled hands, and Sarah hit and bounced, but not off hand-laid bricks.

No, she landed flat on her back on canvas, a circle of tight-woven, tight-laced life-net: six men grunted as her weight hit it and twelve eyes beheld the young woman somersault gracefully in the air, a complete end-for-end turn, land again on her back, another bounce -- less than a foot this time -- she gripped the smooth, varnished rim of the ring, somersaulted off as easily as any gymnast, landed on the balls of her feet and raised an arm triumphantly as if saluting the applause in a circus tent.

It did not make the papers, but all six firemen on that life ring also got a crushing hug and a quick, if most sincere, kiss from a most grateful young woman.

 

Brother William lowered his newspaper and he and the Sheriff looked toward the door, toward the quick rat-tat, tat, tat, followed by the door's opening.

Sarah stepped into the room, but a very different Sarah from the Sister Mercurius who brought the new Sister Lucy to the Monastery.

Very different from the mousy-grey schoolmarm who helped teach the young of Firelands.

And most different from the fashionably-dressed young woman of means.

Agent Sarah L. Rosenthal wore black flat-heeled, knee-high cavalry boots, black britches and shirt, vest and wild rag, broad-brimmed hat and long coat.

The Sheriff could see she had a double gunbelt snug around her waist, and she had a '73 rifle in her off hand.

"You heard about Denver," she said, her voice tight, her eyes pale.

The Sheriff nodded.

"It was arson. They burned down the building to try and kill me. They nearly killed a dozen just to kill me."

The Sheriff rose, his eyes going pale and his face tightening.

"Brother William, I will not ask for Last Rites, but if you would pray for my corroded soul I would appreciate it."

She strode across the room, looked up at her pale-eyed father.

"This is my fight and I am faster alone," she whispered, "but I won't hesitate to ask for help."

"My father," the Sheriff whispered, his throat tight, "taught me at a tender age, 'When in doubt, cheat.'" His pale eyes bored into his daughter's pale eyes. "Whatever it takes, anything is fair."

"I understand."

Sarah came up on her tip toes and kissed the Sheriff quickly on his clean-shaven cheek, then turned and strode out of the room, clapping the hat on her crown-braided hair.

"Sarah!" the Sheriff shouted, and she stopped and turned.

He thrust his jaw at her.

"Instead of braiding your hair into a high crown like that," he said, "wrap the braids around your neck. Protects against a knife slash."

Sarah parked her rifle against the wall, lifted her hat, reached up.

A pull, a twist, a shake of her head and her hair fell in two thick braids.

She wrapped them around her neck, tucked the tag ends under her collar, picked up her hat, and smiled.

It was not a particularly pleasant smile.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

121. "TALK!"

Sparks flew in bright corusications as the hammer came down hard on glowing metal.

Steel folded on steel, layer upon layer, wire twisted on wire, heated and rolled in chopped straw and hammered and folded and heated and hammered, pausing only when the muzzein climbed the long spiral staircase inside the stone minaret, and plugged his ears, and raised a beatific face to Heaven as he sang the call to prayer, as he sang the five-times-daily summons to stop and face Mecca and kneel and praise Allah and the Prophet.

The blacksmith returned to anvil and forge and the steel he was creating, a century and more before bearded white men set foot across the great salt water pond, before even the red-bearded Vikings discovered a land fertile and full of grapes, and left their blood-seed and their runes: the blacksmith forged out what men would call Damascus steel, and the blade was shaped and finished and ground, the legend of its making as much a part of its existence as the steel itself.

The blade rode the waist of one of the Faithful, was captured and brought back to a cold and rainy land and hung a trophy in a great stone castle; it knew hands soft and hands callused, it knew men's envious looks, and it was twice stolen, and once lost: wrapped in cloth and forgotten in a trunk, it sailed in the stale hold of a creaking ship, was offloaded onto a dock by sweating, swearing men, placed on the wrong carriage, then a wagon, and two centuries after a nameless follower of the Prophet brought a blade out of twisted wire and a glowing forge, the knife was sold and sold and sold again, until finally -- in a cold and lightless mountain settlement -- it was fitted with a wooden sheath lined with sheeps-wool, and once again a fighting man's knife rode the waist of a fighter.

 

Death flowed down the dark, starlit alley, and Death was not alone.

The pale horse, her father's light-grey gelding he called Ghost, was safely stabled near the depot; a figure all in black, with a great black beast beside, moved easily through this familiar passage, paused at a familiar door.

A black-gloved hand gripped the knife's wire-wrapped handle; steel whispered its bloody secrets as it sliced through a man's leg just above the knee, through his forearm just above his wrist, and a pair of pale eyes thrust themselves close to the bleeding man's face, black glove shoving a cloth wad into the screaming mouth and the ancient Damascus blade's kiss burning the agonized man's throat-skin.

"Tell me what I want to know," the black assassin's whisper, "and I will let them find you alive." She gave the blade the slightest twitch, bringing blood and a stifled scream from her victim. "Fail me and I cut you apart slowly. I've done it before." The whispering voice was as kind as the dry hiss of an aggravated viper.

"Talk!"

The man felt blood running warm and wet under his leg and his arm and he knew he had to have help and soon, or he would die.

He nodded.

The cloth was extracted, and the man told what he knew.

Men died that night, bad men who'd done bad things, men whose sins blackened and twisted their souls: some were persuaded through the kiss of Damascus steel to reveal what they knew, others babbled fearfully, without being cut, for few things are as inspiring to honest terror as the honed edge of fighting steel held against one's more valued parts.

Some men were found in alleys, others stuffed into barrels, one managed to limp as far as the main street and fall against a lamp-post not ten yards from the patrolling policeman: the officer ran to the bleeding man, whose hand was tight around his own throat, trying desperately to stanch the life that escaped from between his fingers in gleaming red streams, and the officer looked down the alley, following the blood trail, and saw nothing in the dark.

Less than a minute later the hairs crawled and stood straight up on the back of his neck as a great, low-pitched howl, as if from the Mother of Wolves herself, echoed from the darkened passage.

 

Ten there were that night, ten who spoke of what they knew, ten who saw eyes the color of a cloud-veiled moon: of the ten, six were found there in Denver, dead, their mouths stuffed with cheap calico, an incredible amount of blood puddled around them; two more were found as well, two who'd been set upon with incredible savagery, each driven a penetrating thrust to the kidneys, then their throats slashed with one mighty blow, cutting through all the flesh and part of the spine.

The last two was not found for several days, probably because they'd been taken into the mountains, into a hidden place where things could be done far from the eye of civilized man.

The constabulary thought it best not to allow word to the papers.

That a madman was slashing his way through Denver was horrible enough, and (as usual) the newspapers gloried in describing the injuries and detailing the agonies the victims must've suffered, but to find the burnt remnants of a human body, chain-wrapped to a stake -- and twenty feet away, another, chained to another stake and allowed to watch as the other was burnt alive -- a man with charred claws for hands, a man insane with agony and with fear and with horror, a man who recovered enough after three months to recount that his own hands were burned by the murderous figure in black, that he screamed into the cheap calico stuffing his mouth while the other, helpless and immobile, watched, his own mouth muffled in like manner -- and after the man who set the fire in the basement of Professor Hunt's School of Detection passed out a few times as his hands were burnt into blackened claws, only then was the mastermind of the operation, the man who ordered the murderous arson, the new crime boss, was then burned to death -- burned alive -- by this murderous torturer, executed according to the crime he'd ordered performed.

Word might not have gotten to the papers, but word travels, especially among law enforcement circles, and the Sheriff knocked politely on Bonnie's door, his hat in his hand, and Sarah answered the door.

"Sarah," he said quietly, "may I come in?"

 

That night the Sheriff twisted his back a little, twisted until the familiar *pop* followed by a bright moment of pain, then relief, allowed him to sit in comfort at his roll top desk.

He dipped his steel nib pen, wiped the excess ink on the inside of the glass inkwell, and began to write.

I could have arrested her.

She made no secret to me of what she'd done.

I thought of the result of her actions, of the message she sent.

She saw the need to send an unmistakable message -- the message that murderers were murdered, that justice would be swift and utterly without mercy.

This is not the message the courts would have given.

She knew who to go after.

She went after the right people.

But only those people.

Everyone she killed was guilty and she had the proofs.

Had she not that proof on each one I would have her in irons and behind bars.

I had to consider what I myself would have done.

She did better than I could have.

The Sheriff blinked and leaned back, re-read that last line.

She did better than I could have.

He hadn't planned to write that.

He knew the words were absolutely true.

He nodded, wiped the pen clean and placed it very precisely beside his journal, aligned exactly with the edge of the bound book.

Sometimes, he thought, you have to speak the language they understand.

He had the feeling the criminal element would have no trouble at all understanding the message she'd sent.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

122. BLAZING A LIE, TWICE

 

"MULDOON, GET YOUR IRISH BACKSIDE IN HERE AND BRING THE REST OF YOU WITH IT!"
The Chief's roar echoed through the anteroom, down the hall and into most of the first floor offices ... the man was never soft spoken, but neither did he routinely raise his voice, except when he meant business.

Nobody, nobody at all, doubted that the Old Man meant business.

Muldoon swung across the Chief's threshold before the red-faced top kick refilled his lungs, glared at his clean-shaven superior and barked "Right here, Chief!"

"WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG? SIT DOWN!" The Chief dropped heavily into his office chair, glaring at the hard-jawed Irishman lowering himself into the indicated seat.

The Chief ran tense fingers through a thick thatch of hair, not yet thin nor gone to grey -- that'll change, Muldoon thought, but carefully kept his thoughts from crossing his face.

"Muldoon" -- the Chief snatched up a dead cigar, held it between his fingers as he thrust the grasping fingers at his top sergeant -- "Muldoon, who d'we know could have killed all these men? With a knife, for God's sake! Never mind how many it would've taken to burn the other two the way they did!"

Muldoon thought for a long moment before even considering his reply. He'd been chewing on this problem since the first alarm came, that a madman with a knife was killing in the alleys -- then as the body count increased, and the bodies were all persons the citizenry as a whole was better off without -- well, that turned the investigation in a different direction altogether.

"I do know a man," Muldoon said slowly. "I know a man who could do just that. As a matter of fact" -- he leaned forward, cutting off the Chief's thrusting-finger exclamation, "as a matter of fact I know two men who could have done that. Father an' son they are, an' I know where t' find 'em!"

The Chief leaned back suddenly, surprise evident on his face: he honestly didn't expect his sergeant to have an answer so soon.

"Find 'em," he said, his voice quiet. "Give me something I can hand the Mayor. The newspapers are all screaming for a suspect and running with wild fancies and accusations that we're incompetent, we're not doing our jobs --"

Sergeant Muldoon stood. "Will that be all, sir?" he snapped.

The Chief nodded, waved the man away: "Get me some results!" he shouted at Muldoon's retreating backside.

 

The Blaze Boys, cousins actually, but they looked enough alike people thought them twins, and the lightning-stroke that blew them to opposite sides of an open shed streaked one's scalp on the right with a streak of white hair, his companion with a matching streak on the left side, thus their nickname -- well, the Blaze Boys hunkered close to the quiet-voiced schoolmarm, all three squatting behind the schoolhouse.

Miss Sarah had her hands on their backs, she had their attention in her hands and somehow (women always know) she also had their undying, near-adolescent adoration in her pocket: she could have asked the pair to jack up the Cripple Creek National Bank and wheel it over the mountains on a child's wagon, and they'd have found a way to do it.

"I need your help," she whispered, knowing a woman's whisper will grab and hold a man's fascinated attention, twice that for tall boys their age -- "and I need you to tell absolutely no one about this for at least two and a half years."

The Blaze Boys looked at one another, then at their beloved schoolmarm, nodded.

"There may be strangers come to town, asking about me. Should any ask, I have not left town. You may allude to the Sheriff's being shot, you may imply that I am fainting with distress" -- she quavered her voice and raised a dramatically-bent wrist to her forehead, bringing a giggle from the conspiring pair -- "that he's been shot, you may whisper that I am" -- she looked suspiciously left and right, lowered her head, gave them both a confidential look -- "madly in love with an older man, but whisper it only. Look left and right before you do. You want to make them think you are divulging a deep and dark secret."

The Blaze Boys grinned, delighting in this formal sanction of uttering an untruth: they were jumping happily into a conspiracy, and for the very best of reasons: their beloved schoolmarm was asking them to do this, them, and no one else.

"How do we know," one asked, "how do we know who they are?"

Miss Sarah smiled, raised her hands to their shoulders, squeezed gently, smiled.

"They will come in on the steam train," she said, "and they will be well dressed, but townies -- they'll look like city men, you know the kind."

The pair nodded again.

"I will need you to let me know that you've spoken with them, but we cannot be seen together."

"We could tell you here, at school."

"I will need to know quicker than that," Miss Sarah said slowly, thoughtfully. "I need to know before they arrive at the schoolhouse to talk to me."

"How do we do that?" the two said with one, twin-like voice.

Miss Sarah smiled again.

"Do you remember the gap under the Mercantile's back porch?"
The two nodded.

"There is a can of paint and a brush. Now look over there" -- she looked toward the street, thrust with her chin -- "that horse trough. You can see it from where I stand in front."

The pair turned, looked at the horse trough, then looked at one another, then at the pretty young schoolmarm with the sincere light-blue eyes behind her round spectacles.

"When you see them, wait until they talk with you. They'll talk with each of you separately, or they may talk with only one of you. Whichever of you sees them first, run and get that paint and make a single red stripe along the top edge of the horse trough. Make it broad so I can see it."

"What about when they talk to the other of us?"

"Then paint the rest of the horse trough. I'll see you painting it. I may not see you painting the first stripe, but I'll see it when you're done. When that happens I'll be watching."

"Miss Sarah ... why are they looking for you?"

"They want to pin the tail on my donkey," Miss Sarah said, and they heard distress in her voice, "and I don't want to be the donkey they pin their lies on. They're looking for someone from out of town to blame for what a jealous woman did, and they think if they can find a pretty young schoolteacher, they can tell a lie about her and it'll be believed."

The three looked up as The Lady Esther's whistle announced the train's approach to the Firelands depot.

"We'll take care of you, Miss Sarah," the one said, and "You're damned right we will," the other echoed: the two lads surged to their feet, ran toward the street, then the depot, and Miss Sarah rose gracefully, dusting her hands together with satisfaction, a quiet smile on her pretty young face.

"The Firelands Irregulars," she murmured. "The loyal core of my private army."

She walked slowly along the schoolhouse, plucked up her skirts, walked with a quick, dainty step up the three board steps, opened the door and smiled as she entered the little whitewashed schoolhouse.

 

The Sheriff rose stiffly, extended his hand.

"Now there's a familiar face," he said quietly, his eyes smiling. "Muldoon, I haven't seen you for a year anyway! Give an account of yourself, lad, how in the hell have you been?"

"I'm looking for a murderer, Sheriff," Muldoon said bluntly, then hesitated as the Sheriff lowered painfully into his chair. "My God, man, what happened?"

"He's been shot, y'lout, an' laid up these three weeks," the maid declared tartly, seizing the men's coats and plucking the Derby hats off their heads. "Were ye born in a barn, then? No manners t' the lot o'' ye! Close that pneumonia hole an' sit down and I'll set two more plates at the table!" She whirled and set her mainsail and left the room under full canvas, so to speak, to the Sheriff's unspoken approval.

He put his palms on the arms of his chair, pushed painfully to his feet, opened a cupboard. "Have a set, Muldoon, who's your cohort and what's your pleasure? We have brandy, we have single malt Scotch, and I can recommend our local product." He withdrew a bottle, held it up. "Water clear and not over thirty days old, but don't take more than two fingers. Goes down like Mama's milk and blows the socks right off yer feet."

"This I've got t' try," Muldoon muttered, holding out two fingers, then spreading them wide apart.

The Sheriff wordlessly poured the squat, heavy glasses full, handed one to each of his visitors, poured a significantly smaller volume for himself.

He knew the local product and he sometimes referred to it as Two Hit John, an old joke: "I hit John, and John hit the floor," as he'd recounted to a friend, and the nickname was accurate.

 

"Do ye think 'twas him?" the detective asked quietly.

"Did ye see how his wound was healed?" Muldoon belched, wishing there was something on the carriage seat to hold onto.

"Oh. Yeah." He squinted and managed to squeeze the two rented nags drawing the livery's carriage back into one animal.

"That was some stuff he gave us."

Muldoon closed one eye, considered the gelding's right ear, then closed his left eye and felt a moment's fear as the world went dark ... then he realized it was because both eyes were closed at the same time.

"Aye," he agreed. "Some stuff."

 

It was a few hours before Muldoon felt clear-headed enough to continue his investigation.

He did recall the Sheriff's showing them a healing injury, and he was able to note down in his notebook that the wound was such that he had to have been shot a week and more earlier, as they'd been told.

Muldoon also knew better than to pursue any inquiries until he was considerably more sober.

 

Sarah --

Sergeant Muldoon and a detective of your acquaintance are here from Denver.

They aren't saying what they are investigating but they did ask my whereabouts yesterday, and Jacob's.

They did not ask about you.

 

He hesitated, the smiled a little as he dipped his pen again and signed the brief note.

Papa Linn

 

He passed the stamp across his forehead to pick up a skift of skin oil, heated the red wax, dropped scarlet spheres onto the paper's flap, pressed the seal home.

"Angela," he called, "I need you to take this to your Aunt Sarah."

 

"You there, boy," the detective called peremptorily.

One of the Blaze Boys glared truculently at the city dude, eyes fixed on the coin gleaming between thumb and forefinger.

"That's them," the other whispered, "I'll get the paint!"

 

Angela's eyes gleamed as their hired man led her Rosie-bud horsie out of the whitewashed corral and over to her Daddy's front porch.

Angela swarmed from the porch rail into the saddle in less than a ladylike manner, thrust her patent-leather slippers into the doghouse stirrups and gathered the unneeded reins in her hands.

Her Daddy didn't use a bit or reins and she didn't either, but people might take it amiss if her horsie seemed unguided, and so Rosie-bud wore a bridle with silver furniture (just like her Daddy's Cannonball-horsie wore!), with reins that connected with nothing but a ring of steel. It was an arrangement Rosie-bud tolerated, but only as long as it was Angela a-straddle of her rose-carved saddle.

Angela turned Rosie-bud with her knees and the rein against Rosie-bud's neck, and the little red mare gathered herself and spun easily, as lightly as a dancer, and launched herself toward the whitewashed fence, the closed gate, every bit as quickly as her dam, the famous Cannonball, so named because she could shoot from dead stop to wide open like a ball fired from a field gun.

Angela's high-pitched, little-girl's voice squealed with delight and she trailed laughter over her shoulder as Rosie-bud lifted forehooves from the possessive earth, thrust hard with well-muscled hind legs, launched herself into a ballistic arc, easily clearing the top board of the fence and landing easily on the other side, hooves driving hard into the frozen earth, thrusting hard and shoving her nose straight out ahead of her, ears laid back and tail corkscrewing in the wind behind her.

"Go, horsie!" Angela yelled, and well behind her, in his chair, her big strong Daddy smiled to hear it.

 

The brush painted a smooth red line, one paintbrush wide, along the top edge of the horse trough.

The blaze-haired lad took care to paint neatly, catching any sags before they became runs.

It was chilly today, which helped the paint to not run, but he knew it would sag and he'd have to go back and catch the sags.

He always did like painting. He could see the results of his work right away, and he had a steady hand, and the funeral parlor and the Silver Jewel both wore well-trimmed window frames thanks to his efforts not four months earlier.

He finished the length of the horse trough, went back and carefully brushed what he'd applied, catching the sags, then stepped back and eyed his work with satisfaction.

He refrained from looking over his shoulder at the schoolhouse.

 

Angela slid out of the saddle, landed neatly on the mounting-block in front of the schoolhouse, skipped happily up to the steps just as the door opened.

She looked up and blinked with bright-Kentucky-blue eyes and thrust her Daddy's folded and sealed note at the mousy-grey schoolmarm with the round spectacles and her hair drawn into a severe knot atop her head, then she giggled, turned and ran back to the stone, pulled herself into the saddle and looked down as she thrust her right foot into the stirrup, then looked to her left and shoved her left foot home.

"Go, horsie!" she yelled, her little-girl voice high and happy on the thin winter air, and Rosie-bud leaned forward into a trot, then at his young mount's encouragement, picked up speed on the down grade.

The mousy-grey-dressed schoolmarm broke the red-wax seal, read the familiar handwriting, looked up at the watering trough with the fresh red stripe.

 

"Mister, I never heard of no Agent Rosenthal. Old Man Rosenthal got killed over in Denver a couple years ago, you askin' about him?"

 

The Irish Brigade swung the big double doors open on their fine brick firehouse, the mares dancing in harness as they were held back to a walk.

"Easy, ladies, now, easy, we're only gon' to throw some watter," Sean soothed: the matched white mares threw their heads, impatient to run, knowing Sean would relent and let them gallop, but for now his firm hand held them in check.

Angela laughed and waved as she sailed past, her hair floating behind her with her laughter, and Sean laughed to see it, and waved in return, throwing his big head back, strong white teeth gleaming beneath his villainously-curled mustache.

"Ladies, do ye think ye can catch her?" he challenged, slacking the reins and picking up the blacksnake whip: he swung the plaited leather in a huge circle, snapped a hole in the air three feet over the mares' heads: "Saint Florian, Saint Christopher and the Blessed Virgin, ladies, RUN!"

 

Sarah saw the stranger talking to one of the Blaze Boys, while the other industriously coated the horse trough with a fresh coat of screaming-bright scarlet.

She unbuttoned her sleeve, working it up to her elbow, revealing a horrible, puckered scar halfway down her forearm: rubbing this thoughtfully, she drew the sleeve back down, then turned to the precious slate board, freighted west at considerable expense, picked up a lump of genuine English cliff chalk, left handed, and began writing on the board.

 

"Sergeant Muldoon," Jacob grinned, gripping the Denver policeman's hand firmly. "Of course I remember you. As I recall, you and your wife were the only ones over that-a-way who could dance a decent Virginia reel."

"You remember that!" Muldoon exclaimed happily, then caught himself: assuming a serious expression, he said "We had several murders last night, all by the same hand. We're looking for a man who likes a knife."

Jacob's eyes narrowed. "That would be a Mexican, most likely," he said. "Who-all was killed? Any pattern to the victims?"

Muldoon and the detective looked uncomfortably at one another.

They hadn't considered a Mexican connection.

"The victims," the detective said slowly, "are connected."

"I would follow that lead," Jacob said thoughtfully, and the Denver men saw the shutters close behind the young deputy's eyes. "Why are you asking me about this? We're a long way from Denver."

"Frankly, we thought of your father," Muldoon said bluntly. "You remember he likes that cavalry sabre of his."

Jacob nodded slowly. "Were the injuries the result of sabre strokes?"

Muldoon shook his head. "No. No, a heavy-bladed knife but nothing as long as a sabre."

"That," Jacob said slowly, "is ... different."

"How about someone ruthless enough? What about that Agent Rosenthal of yours?"

Jacob laughed. "You mean Sarah? Good God, man, we had to run her home with a switch! Pa was shot a couple weeks back and she's been a shadow at his heels!"

"Where is she now?"

"Damned if I know," Jacob admitted. "She's like a fly in a barnyard. You might ask Judge Hostetler."

"Is His Honor in?"

Jacob turned, frowned at the calendar.

"He'll be here in about ... it'll be another week and a half." He gave Muldoon an innocent look as he added, "You're welcome to wait."

Muldoon shook his head. "I don't believe we'll wait," he chuckled, "but thank you anyway."

Jacob waited until the pair left the Sheriff's office before whispering, "Little Sis, I hope you're ready!"

 

"What did you tell him?" Left Blaze asked.

"I told 'em I never heard of her."

"What'd they say?"

"They asked about the schoolmarm."

"What did you say?"

"I told 'em I don't go to school!"

"Did you get the front of the horse trough painted?"

"Front hell, I got both ends and the back as well!"

"You lied!"

"You did too!"

The two laughed and shook hands, then considered the partly-used can of paint, looked at one another.

"Ever see a horse with red hooves?"

 

Sarah drew a shawl around her shoulders, walked outside with the two Denver officers, slid the cuff up on her dress sleeve.

"Do you know why I was writing left-handed on the chalk board?"
"You are left handed?" the detective offered.

Sarah bared her right forearm, traced her forefinger over the scarring.

"Gentlemen, have you ever seen a wolf bite?"

"Wolf?" Muldoon asked, surprised.

"A wolf can crush your thigh bone. The one that bit me sustained a catastrophic injury to its neck, but it was too late." She cupped her off hand over the scar. "My arm aches, gentlemen. I often cradle it like an infant when the weather changes. My right hand lacks strength and the doctor tells me the healed bone is weak from having been partially crushed.

"From what you are telling me, someone was cutting off heads and slicing men in two."

She held up her hand.

"I can't feel two of my fingers. My third finger regained about half its sensation in two years' time. I doubt if I could grasp a knife firmly enough to swing it, let alone strike with it."

"But ... you are Agent Rosenthal."

"No, gentlemen, I am not," Sarah said tiredly. "I am tired of being mistaken for my sister. I don't know where she is and frankly I do not care. She has caused me no end of difficulty. I am a lady and she is ..."

Sarah's lip curled distastefully.

"I don't know what she is."

 

The two Denver detectives considered their day on the return train to Denver.

"Well, that was a bust," Muldoon sighed.

"I thought those twin boys could tell us something."

"They didn't know straight up from go-to-hell."

The detective nodded. "What about that Agent Rosenthal?"

"We'll have to find her."

"What if she finds you?"
The two men's eyes widened and they turned around in their seat.

Agent S. L. Rosenthal turned over her black lapel to display the burnished bronze shield.

"I understand you have an investigation. Would you like some help?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

123. REQUIESCAT IN PACE

The Chief glared at Muldoon, bit on his unlit cigar.

"Jay-sus Katie Kee-rist, Sergeant!" he snapped, "now the newspapers will claim we can't even investigate our own murders! Now we've got to import someone!"

"Why not," Agent Rosenthal said reasonably, pushing the Sergeant aside and walking up to the Chief's desk -- or, rather, beside it and sitting on its edge. "You might just find I'm useful."

"GET THE HELL OFF MY DESK!" the Chief roared, his face turning a lovely shade of scarlet.

"Think on this, Chief," the pale-eyed Agent said as quietly as he'd been loud. "You've got someone from outside ... what happens if the investigation turns up nobody? What if there is no one left alive? Your investigation fails. Who so you want to fail, Chief, your own people or an outsider? And think of this" -- she smiled a little, folding her arms across her chest and resting her chin on her thumb -- "what use could I make of the information I find? This is not my jurisdiction. All I can do is give it to your people here." She tilted her head toward Muldoon and the detective. "So let's start at the beginning." She made a quick, bent-wrist pass in front of his face, fire seared into life, and the Chief, never one to pass up an opportunity, drew deeply on his hand-rolled Cuban.

"Well now," he mumbled after several quick drafts, "well now!"

"Your Sergeant was kind enough to give me as few details as he possibly could. As a matter of fact" -- she looked over at the uncomfortable Muldoon as he shifted his weight from one leg to another, as if he wished to get out of there -- "prying information from him was as easy as squeezing milk from a lump of coal."

She looked back at the Chief. "I am more than willing to help, Chief, but if you don't want my assistance I'll leave."

The Chief glared at Muldoon, puffed viciously on his cigar, throwing out an incredible volume of smoke in the process.

"Tell you what," Agent Rosenthal said brightly, dropping her backside off the Chief's desk and turning to face the even less comfortable Sergeant. "I'll let you two chat about this. I haven't had supper and frankly I am hungry. I'll be at the Winston Hotel having supper, and if you gentlemen decide you want my help, come and get me. I shall wait one hour, no more. If no one summons my assistance, I'll just go home." She smiled a little, an easy, genuine, relaxed smile.

"Of course you probably don't need my help anyway. You went to Firelands to check on the Sheriff, who is recovering from being shot. While you were there, you talked shop, just on the off chance he might know some big fellow with a big knife and a big nasty temper. Of course you'll have to track down the gang it took to burn two men alive, but this is your town and I'm quite sure you know the bad people much better than I."

She stopped in front of the Sergeant, looked him squarely in the face, frowning a little.

"You should take more care stropping your straight razor," she murmured. "That's a nasty razor burn on your jaw."

Muldoon automatically raised a hand to his lateral mandible, blinking in surprise as Agent Rosenthal swung out the door and across the anteroom.

 

"What happened then?" the Sheriff asked, grunting as the maid peeled the bandage off his side: it was half stuck with dried corruption, and Sarah saw the sweat pop out on his forehead as the maid pressed the wound with experienced fingers, then cleansed it with efficiency and an utter lack of gentleness.

"I had supper," Sarah said, crossing her legs and wincing a little at the expression the Sheriff almost kept from his face. "And nobody came to get me, so I came home."

The maid wiggled the pennyhead glass stopper loose on the brown-glass bottle, frowned as she pressed folded cloth against the open bottle, turned it over to moisten the cloth, then wiped the Sheriff's wound with carbolic.

The Sheriff's jaw snapped shut with an audible click and Sarah flinched.

She knew how good carbolic does not feel on an open wound.

She got up and walked over to the Sheriff's cupboard, opened the double doors, withdrew a squat, heavy glass and poured it mostly full of brandy, handed it to the sweating lawman.

He accepted the kindness and drank gratefully, handed the glass back, nodded.

She poured it two-thirds full this time, handed it back: he took but a sip, set it down on the nearby table.

They waited until the maid finished dressing the Sheriff's wound before talking again.

"Sarah," the Sheriff said, "I told you to do whatever it took."

Sarah leaned back in her chair, smiled quietly. "I remember."

"You got the men that set the fire."

Sarah leaned forward, raised a finger.

"I got the man who lit the match," she said.

She raised a second finger. "I got the man who planned how to set it and where to set it."

A third finger. "I got the man who arranged to bring in straw and coal oil to start it and start it hot. Number two and three also soaked underneath the first floor staircase to guarantee it would burn like the devil's breath."

She raised a fourth finger. "And best of all ..."

Sarah's smile was quiet, relaxed, almost ... satisfied.

"Best of all ... I got the man who ordered it done, and I let it be known what each one did.

"Six all told, six guilty men, six men dead not two days after they burnt the building out and came really close to killing a dozen people in the process."

"A dozen?" the Sheriff asked, frowning. "I didn't think there were that many in the Professor's school of detection."

"There are offices on the lower floor," Sarah said quietly. "Or there were."

"Ah." The Sheriff took a sip of brandy, frowned.

"Sarah ..."

I know that look, she thought.

"Sarah ... did you sleep at all afterward?"

Sarah looked frankly at her pale eyed father.

"Your ghosts haunt you, don't they?" she asked softly.

"Some do, yes. Not all."

Sarah looked up as the maid elbowed the door open, turned, sandwiches and teapot balanced on the tray.

"I slept very peacefully," she said honestly.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

124. THE KING AND I

The Bear Killer blinked like a sleepy cat.

He was quite content right where he was, and frankly he looked as regal and as I-belong-here as a monarch on a gilded throne.

The Bear Killer was immersed in a copper tub of nice warm water, his fur was wet and slicked down, soap had been worked into his glossy black fur and a crown of soap suds sat like a diadem upon his noble brow, and he regarded the world with haughty, half-lidded eyes.

Sarah regarded him with a sour look.

"I'll have you know," she said quietly as she slowly poured a dipper of water over his ears and neck, dissolving His Majesty's soapy crown: "I had to clean up your mess."

The Bear Killer yawned, his huge, hard-muscled jaws opening to an alarming degree, showing off his most impressive arsenal of bone crushing, muscle tearing fangs, teeth and other flawless denture material.

"And don't you give me that innocent expression, mister!" Sarah scolded quietly, shaking her Mommy-finger at the regal canine, which gained her a quick doggy kiss, resulting in her squint-and-flinch and wiping the affection from her cheekbone with a bent wrist.

"You just sit there and soak," she said, trying to sound stern, "and I'll clean up what's left!"

The Bear Killer managed to look as innocent as she'd sounded stern -- that is to say, not at all -- and he sank slowly into the welcoming, warm waters, resting his chin on the rolled edge of the tub, giving a great, contented sigh as blood-warm water buoyed his weight and as he almost floated, the waters came within just less than an inch of running over.

Sarah was reading a newspaper -- six months old, and British, but something she hadn't read before -- she was engrossed with the latest installment of a serial she'd read a month earlier, and as she read, she was walking with the author in a foggy London evening along someplace called Baker Street, and she heard the approaching handsom cab from behind just as she heard The Bear Killer begin to retch.

Sarah's feet hit the floor, the newspaper hit the air and her palms hit the door, but too late: by the time she got to the harking, coughing canine, he'd already emptied his stomach on the kitchen's scrubbed-and-varnished board floor.

Sarah seized the coal-scuttle and a rag and quickly, efficiently -- or as efficiently as one can handle such a mess -- disposed of the dog's illness, regarded the stringing of ill-smelling drool down his chest, and decided he needed a bath after all that -- she knew he loved a warm tub in the winter, and while he soaked in leisurely luxury, she would have a chance to scrub the floor.

Daughter of privilege she might be, but chary of work she was not: if it needed done, she did it, whether it was split kindling, haul water, or clean up after a dog's unhappy belly-barf.

The Bear Killer drowsed as his beloved Mistress finished scouring and scrubbing the affected area; she hauled out the bucket of fouled water, tossed it as far as she could, taking a degree of satisfaction with the way it hissed when it hit cold snow: not until after she'd given it the pitch did she consider its smell may attract scavengers.

Too late now, she thought, but I shan't do that again -- she walked quickly back to the back porch, holding the bucket away from her skirts as she Hot Footed it back in where it was warm.

The Bear Killer snored.

Sarah stopped, bucket in one hand and the knuckles of her other hand on her hip: she could not help but smile at the sight of the snoozing Mountain Dog, relaxed in a tub of still-steaming bathwater.

 

"So what'll we tell the Chief, eh?" Muldoon said thoughtfully, tilting his head back and blowing three quick smoke rings toward the darkened ceiling.

The detective considered, studying his beer as if to find an answer in its bubble-trailed, amber depths.

"We tell him 'twas a gang, brought in for revenge, and gone, not likely to return. Hired killers that get in, get it and get out."

"Hired killers, eh?" Muldoon nodded. "Why not. Makes as much sense as anything else."

"We could tell him 'twas that Agent gal, the one with pale eyes."

Muldoon laughed. "Ya, I'll believe that as soon as ye use yer kerchief for a sail and fly an outhouse to the moon and back!"

"You want another beer, Sergeant?"

Muldoon looked at his mug, drained the last inch, shoved the empty stein across the table. "Talked me right into it!"

 

The Sheriff scooted the chair in under his green-eyed bride, then stepped around the table and parked his carcass against the wall, flipping his Stetson onto the overhead peg and leaning his engraved '73 rifle in the corner beside him.

"Mrs. Keller," he said, "I do believe you are a fine looking woman."

"Mr. Keller," Esther said, smiling quietly, "I do believe you are a randy old scoundrel who makes this lovely lady very happy!"

The Sheriff's ears reddened a little and the two shared a look which said more than their words.

The controlled descent of a cup and saucer broke the gaze-lock they had on one another: the Sheriff soon had a steaming mug of coffee before him, and Esther, her favorite blend of tea, and breakfast followed.

"Oh, Sheriff, I found this" -- the waitress handed him the Denver paper -- "it's the latest edition. Last week's!"

"Nice," the Sheriff murmured. "I can't wait until we get a paper here again. There's nothing like fresh news!"

"Only a week old?" Esther smiled as she picked up her delicate, eggshell-china teacup with both hands. "A week old isn't bad, dear!"

"Well, let's see who got caught this time, shall we?" the Sheriff chuckled, opening the printed broadsheet and scanning the headlines.

"Well I'll be darn," he said thoughtfully. "They figured out who killed all those people over in Denver!"

"Really?" Esther asked, leaning forward a little.

"Mm-hmm," the Sheriff nodded. "It says here ... it says here their detective force, after a thorough investigation, determined a rival gang exacted some dark revenge for an imagined slight or a debt unpaid, the deed was done by professional and hired assassins, a known bunch who move in, kill silently and disappear, never to return."

"I wonder how they found that out," Esther sighed, shaking their head.

The Sheriff laughed quietly, nodding as the waitress came around the corner with a tray full of their breakfast.

 

Sarah managed to put together a tent of sorts, out of an old quilt and a few towels; The Bear Killer did not shake until she told him to -- it was a trick she'd cultivated when the massive canine was but a wee pup, no bigger than two man's fists held side by side -- and The Bear Killer slung a gallon or two of water onto the waiting and thirsty cloth. He stood on an old, worn-out quilt, and with the cloth goods kept for that purpose, Sarah gave him a good brisk rubdown, which The Bear Killer tolerated with his ears laid happily back and his eyes contentedly closed.

Finally she led him in front of the stove, where she'd folded a quilt; it was warm, as was the floor under it, and The Bear Killer snuffed at the familiar, folded bedding, then lowered himself with an absolutely contented collapse; he took a long, deep, shivering breath, gave a great, absolutely contented sigh, and Sarah saw his massive body shift slightly as one muscle group after another progressively relaxed.

She went back into the other room and opened the drain-cock for the tub, running the used bath water down the pipe buried below frost line, knowing it would come out in a ravine behind the house, with a steep enough grade it would not freeze over; she crept into the other room, reassembled her British newspaper, carried it back into the kitchen, and while His Royal Majesty snored quietly in front of the stove, Sarah struck a match to the Aladdin lamp, settled herself comfortably into a kitchen chair, found her place in the newspaper's leaded-print column, and smiled as the hawk-faced man she rode with muttered a succession of street names as they passed them in the fog.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

125. IT WASN'T ME!

The Sheriff eyed his chair mistrustfully.

The chair remained calm in the face of such pale-eyed scrutiny.

The Sheriff took a step toward the chair.

The chair held its ground.

The Sheriff cautiously closed his hand around the back of the chair, drew it toward him; one wheel squeaked momentarily, the way this chair did, and he pulled it out from behind the desk, set it beside: he turned, picked up the folded saddle blanket and the peach crate, placed the latter behind the desk, the former atop it, and carefully, experimentally, lowered his weight onto it.

He looked over at the chair.

"You've been replaced," he muttered.

The chair offered no comment.

 

Jacob stepped into the little whitewashed schoolhouse, pulled the door quickly shut, grateful for the warmth within.

He removed his hat, smiling a little, for in his younger days he himself sat on these benches and he too absorbed the lessons given by Emma Cooper, the Marshal's wife.

Sarah looked up and raised a beckoning hand.

Curious, Jacob paced to the front of the room.

He knew it was a lesson of sorts; the children were ringed about the pretty young schoolmarm, the ones in the back standing on the benches to see over those in front of them; Sarah's voice was measured, gentle as it almost always was when teaching.

Jacob's eyes widened as a knife blade seemed to pierce Sarah's palm, thrusting up and out the back of her hand.

The children gasped or squeaked or clapped their hands to their mouths, or otherwise registered dismay: Sarah then turned, brought the injured member closer so they could see how she performed the illusion.

"You don't want to trust everything you see," she smiled, "because" -- she removed the knife, made a fist and opened her hand, held it out -- uninjured -- "it just might be a trick!"

Pretty darn good trick, Jacob thought. That one fooled me!

"People will try to distract you," Sarah said, raising a hand and suddenly spreading a spray of playing cards, then fumbling and dropping them -- "Oh phooey!" she declared loudly, seized up the knife and drove the blade angrily into her thigh.

Her mouth opened, her eyes widened, she looked with horror at her leg and instead of a full-throated scream, she quavered a pitiful little "Owwwww ...."

Jacob's heart fell a foot, at least until Sarah brought the knife back into sight, took the blade between thumb and forefinger and bent it easily: "Genuine rubber. Gotcha!"

Jacob and the children laughed.

Jacob raised his hand, a folded slip between two fingers, and Sarah beckoned him nearer: he handed it to her as she was pulling a coin from a little girl's ear, and she placed the note beside her as she accepted the cards she'd dropped, shuffled them into a deck, and said "Ace of spades!" -- a willing volunteer turned over the top card, turned it over.

"The ace," the little boy said admiringly.

"Put it back into the deck," Sarah said, then shuffled the deck, stacked it, placed it and tapped it once with a closely-trimmed fingernail: "Ace of spades!"

Another volunteer, another collective "Oooh," and Sarah shuffled the deck once more.

Curious, she put the deck down, picked up the note Jacob handed her.

Jacob looked at Emma Cooper as Sarah's hand went to her mouth, and she rose quickly: Emma Cooper rose, walked quickly over to her suddenly-pale assistant.

Moments later, Jacob and Sarah were driving to the Rosenthal household at a brisk trot.

 

The nuns were gathered around the fresh grave.

Brother William, almost finished, hesitated as the huge black horse thundered through the open monastery gates, the white nun on its back seeming to float in the air: he waited until she slid to the ground, the Lance of St. Mercurius gripped tightly in white-knuckled hands.

She walked quickly to the graveside; her sisters made room for her and Sister Mercurius -- known to them as such by the Lance she held, and the immense mare she rode -- knelt, shoulders heaving, and Brother William lay an understanding hand on her shoulder as he continued the final words of the service.

The kneeling Sister rose, raised the Lance, and sang a single, pure, high note, one her Sisters knew well: the note was held, and their voices joined, and they sang the Ave, there around the grave of their newest member, one who had known misfortune and grief too young in life and finally found a home and comfort among them.

The final note hung in the air and the iron Lance's head flared into silver life.

Sister Mercurius lowered the lance until it just touched the freshly-mounded dirt.

A white dove launched skyward, wings whistling in the cold air, and they watched it soar, and circle twice, and then streak directly to the east.

 

Later, in the hushed sanctuary, Brother William sat with his arm around Sister Mercurius's shoulders, holding her as she lay her head over on his solid, reassuring chest.

Her veil was streaked with wet; she'd made no sound since they sang in the beauteous harmony for which the Veiled Sisters were becoming known, but he felt her grief, pent-up and tortuous, and finally he gave up and held her in his arms and she gave up and sobbed bitterly, the grief of someone truly heartbroken.

Like all storm do, this one passed; as she'd done before, she knew she would bear this grief the rest of her life, and so the tears stopped, and she lifted her veil and blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

"Thank you for coming," Brother William whispered, and Sister Mercurius nodded.

"I like your magic trick with the dove. I have no idea how you did it, but thank you."

 

The Sheriff looked over at his office chair, wiggled his backside a little on the padded peach crate.

"You," he said, "have been relieved."

There was the sharp snap of splintering wood, the crate collapsed and the Sheriff went over backwards, his head bouncing off the scrubbed planks, and even white teeth clicked hard together as two constellations and a comet seared across his vision.

His chair, on the other side of the desk, offered no comment.

 

Sarah started to cry again, shoving her face in the tall cleric's shoulder, clinging to him like a drowning man will clutch a life-ring.

"I didn't do that," she choked. "Brother William ... it wasn't my doing. It ... it wasn't me!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

126. GHOST RIDER

The Faceless Nuns, as they were sometimes called, or just the White Nuns, were welcome guests at Denver's grand and ornate Catholic church: their voices filled the nave with echoing beauty and not a few residents admitted they came to Mass because they heard the Veiled Sisters were there, and would sing.

On one such day, a pale horse was tethered at the back door of a bawdy-house, and the buxom, blowzy madam bustled importantly to the back of the house, to the kitchen where she not uncommonly had breakfast with local notables -- the police chief was a regular guest, and left with both his belly and his pocket filled.

The madam knew payola was just part of doing business, and she accepted it as a business expense.

That morning she and the Chief were laughing that it was easier, in a way, when her House was beside one of the fire stations: when the city fathers and the newspapers determined there should be some gesture to show that Crime Did Not Pay, and the Public Morals would be Defended, the Chief would breakfast with the madam and tell her they were going to have another roundup of tainted women.

The working girls then moved their business into the top floor of the firehouse next door, appropriating the firemen's bunks; the tired girls who needed a vacation were waiting in the bordello for the Black Maria to come along, and the newspapers would print an engraving of slatterns being brought out of their den of sin and into the paddy wagon ... while business continued as usual next door.

The working girls personally reimbursed each displaced fireman (very personally, I might add) for "Bunk Rent," and the next day the girls returned to their former quarters.

It was an arrangement that worked for all parties: the House appreciated no loss of business, the customers were accommodated, the cops got paid off, the firemen got ... well, one night sleeping on a mat on the floor wasn't that much of a hardship, and besides, the terms of payment were quite agreeable.

The Chief was on his feet as the Madam came into the room, which was not unusual; he rose when she entered, but today he was already standing.

So was a veiled, white nun.

"Well!" the madam smiled, for she smiled when she was uncertain, "what have we here?"

"We have a guest," the Chief said, "and I am not sure which of you charming ladies I should seat first."

The madam looked at her silk-veiled guest; the White Sister may as well have been cloth-draped marble.

"I'll go first," the madam said briskly. "How is your appetite, Chief?"

The Chief looked guiltily at the silent, standing Sister and reddened a little. His reply was usually semi-profane, involving the north end of a south bound horse, which resulted in bawdy laughter, but he held his tongue in the presence of this pristine soul.

The madam picked up a small bell, shook it, set it back down; the whisper of slippers behind her and she knew the kitchen girl awaited orders.

"Breakfast for the Chief and I, and --" she shot an inquiring look at the still-unmoving nun.

The sister stood with her arms before her, hands thrust into opposing sleeves: one hand emerged, gave a quick edge-on flick, disappeared back into the sleeve.

"And nothing for the sister."

"Yes, ma'am."

The nun turned a little, walked between the table and the big cast iron stove: she glided silently around to the madam, the hand emerged again, gentle fingertips rested on the back of the stout woman's hand, nailing it as effectively to the table as a spike nail.

"Miriam is dead," the nun rasped painfully.

The Chief started, frowned suspiciously: "I thought the Veiled Sisters had such lovely voices!"

The nun lifted the corner of her veil, revealing a reddened scar that ran from one eye, down across her cheek and disappeared under her cowl, a horrible, red weal with cross hatches where a careless hand stitched it with something as delicate as manila rope, from the look of it.

The Chief shuddered as he saw the bloodshot, weeping eye with its scar-pulled lower lid, the colored part of the eye a horrible fish-belly white.

She's blind in that eye, he thought.

"I used to sing opera," the nun rasped, then dropped the veil, concealing the horror of what must have once been a beautiful face, turned a little, toward the seated madam.

"Miriam. Your burn girl."

The madam's eyes widened and she felt something cold grip her belly.

"Dead," the nun continued. "Pneumonia."

"Oh, no," the madam murmured, and the Chief saw her professional mask drop and shatter and he saw the woman within, someone who actually cared for her girls, someone he knew who'd cared for an orphan and kept her fed, and warm, and safe.

"You cared for her," the nun rasped, her voice catching, and the veil showed a wet stain -- whether from the ruined eye, or from grief, the Chief was not sure -- "thank you for that."

The nun drew back a step and glided back around the table, the kitchen girl shrinking back from her as from a wandering shade: their eyes followed the nun's retreating backside as she opened the back door, then closed it behind her.

The Chief reached over and took the madam's hand, and the madam let him.

 

No one saw the white nun lift her veil and scrub briskly at her face with a rough cloth; a convenient rain barrel served as her laver, and after discarding the cosmetic-stained washcloth -- stuffed into a discarded tin can, thrust into a pile of discarded tins -- she stepped up on a discarded chunk of wood, lost from a recent delivery and fell off the wagon, to roll to the side of the alley, where she turned it up and used it as a mounting block -- she swung a leg over the light grey gelding, revealing the skirt of her white habit to be a cleverly -disguised riding dress, its cleft hidden by the hemline-long white tabard that was part of her habit -- Sister Mercurius kneed the grey and she steered a course for the Catholic church.

"Up, Ghost," she said. "Let's not keep the Sisters waiting!"

Ghost stepped out with a brisk, long-legged pace, tail switching happily as it paced down the alley and to the paved street.

She did so love singing with her Sisters.

 

The Sheriff bent over a little, curiosity wrinkling his brow, as he beheld the sight of Shorty's backside.

Now Shorty was not a remarkable man, and his backside was not really unique, but it was presented squarely toward the lean lawman; perhaps what drew the law dawg's attention was the fine selection of invective Shorty was visiting upon some unspecified individual as he industriously sanded at something on a horse's hoof.

He straightened, one hand fisted at the small of his back, teeth clenched: the Sheriff saw traces of red on the horse's hoof, but the traces were horizontal, not vertical like blood would run.

"Shorty," he said, "would you like somethin' for that back of yours?"

Shorty's reply was loud, sharp, short and vulgar: it was composed mostly of invective, scatology, profanity and generally voiced in what the poet might describe as "In a Language that the Clergy Do Not Know."

The Sheriff grinned at the short hostler's response and said gently, "A simple yes would do fine."

Shorty threw the sanding block at the lawman and snapped "You try gettin' red paint off a horse's hooves! Who in their right mind would PAINT a set of hooves, especially MY HORSE? I rent it out and it comes back like this and them dudes I rented it to don't know how they got that way!"

The Sheriff reached up on the shelf and fetched down the bottle he knew Shorty had hid there: it was heavy glass, shaped like a pocket flask but considerable bigger, and he handed it to the muttering, frowning hostler: "Here, take a tilt. Good for what ails ye."

Shorty took a long swallow, shoved the flask back at the lawman. "Kind of ye to offer me ma own whiskey," he snapped.

"Your whiskey hell," the Sheriff grinned, "I'm the one that give it to ye!"

"Then give it back!" Shorty snarled, snatching it back and taking another tilt.

"Do ye reckon that'll clean the language out from between yer teeth?" the Sheriff said mildly, and Shorty suggested a travel destination that was considerably warmer than the surrounding, snowy terrain.

"God loves you, too, Shorty," the Sheriff said solicitously, patting the horse-handler's shoulder in a companionable manner, which gained him another string of unprintable verbage and some rather colorful (and anatomically unlikely) suggestions as to what he could do, where he could do it, and how far it could be shoved.

The Sheriff leaned back a little and laughed, shaking his head, and Shorty took the opportunity to drain the last of the bottle's contents: he regarded its emptiness sadly and grunted, "Must be a hole in this thing," and the Sheriff relieved him of the empty container.

"If you're done there, Shorty, come on back to your office. I got to sit down, my poor old back is a-givin' me hell ag'in."

"That-there chair o' yours been throwin' you, Sheriff?"
The Sheriff sighed, shook his head. "Does the entire world know about that damned chair?"

"Ayup." Shorty hauled open the door and the two stepped into his sanctum. "I got another bottle in here. You want somethin' for that back o' yours?"

He pulled the door shut, limped over to a cupboard, pulled out another heavy glass bottle like the first one, only full.

"Whoinell painted that horse trough yonder, ennyway? Them boards is water soaked an' that's gonna shed paint an' look bad come thaw! Do ye reckon 'twas the same scoundrels that painted my rent horse?"

"Painted your horse's hooves," the Sheriff said slowly, accepting the taste-tested bottle the liveryman handed him. He took a slow, appreciative tilt, handed it back. "Well, I reckon it could be, Shorty. You feel like scrapin' that red paint off that-there horse trough?"

"Hell no!" Shorty hobbled over to the stove, shook it down, threw on some more wood, set the draft.

"I don't either. Reckon we'll see if it falls off or what."

Shorty dropped heavily into his chair. "Least I don't fall outta ma own chair!"

"I didn't fall out," the Sheriff said quietly. "The damned thing threw me!"

"A likely story!" Shorty barked. "Why'nt ye get a peach crate ta set on then!"

"I tried," the Sheriff admitted.

Shorty's eyes narrowed speculatively. "You didn't ..."

The Sheriff nodded.

"You fell off a peach crate?"

"No, the damn thing fell apart underneath of me!" the Sheriff snarled, "so I fed it to the stove and set the chair back where it was!"

Shorty shook his head, took a final short snort and corked the bottle, set it aside. "You like livin' dangerous, y'know that."

"Yeah," the Sheriff sighed. "Reckon I do."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

127. THROW A TALL SHADOW

Annette looked approvingly at her son.

"You stand well," she said, smiling that quiet smile Joseph knew so well. "When you stand, you throw your shoulders back. That is how a man stands."

Joseph grinned that quick, little-boy grin of his and puffed his chest out as much as he could -- which wasn't much -- but his Mama's words reached deep inside his young frame and took good root.

They were words he never, ever forgot, and he made sure to stand tall, with his shoulders back.

Just like his Pa.

He looked out the window, looked back, his eyes excited, and his Mama knew what he was going to say before he said it.

"Ma, it's Aunt Sarah, can I go out and play?"

"You've filled the wood box and the water buckets are full. Yes, Joesph, you may go --"

SLAM! and the lad was out the door, scrambling in the fresh snow outside, scrambling to catch up with his Aunt Sarah on her big black mare.

Annette brushed at the hair hanging over her forehead with a bent wrist, turning back to her stove.

She had two hungry men to feed, and very likely Sarah would be staying for a meal as well.

She smiled again.

Annette loved company, especially a gentle and pleasant soul like Sarah, someone who sang like an angel ... and who could soothe a fussy baby or lend a womanly hand without hesitating or being asked.

She did not mind in the least that, thanks to this same angel-voiced Sarah, Joseph would be happily discussing knife fighting and his skill at throwing a double-edged dagger with his Pa.

 

Sarah measured the stick against the length of her rifle, the way she always did, then added another foot and a half: she fit the end of the stick in its socket on the back wall and had Joseph step up until the end of the stick rested on the top of his belt buckle.

She tacked the burlap to the back wall, burlap painted with the silhouette of a head, the shoulders.

She did not need any anatomic references on the silhouette, save only the eyes.

Sarah McKenna, daughter of the pale-eyed Sheriff, soon to be heir to the legendary Welsh Ring of the Princess, was patiently, very effectively, teaching this little boy to throw a knife with deadly precision, at a particular distance.

Joseph Keller, grandson of that pale-eyed Sheriff, could consistently hit a silver dollar, every time, at that distance, and Sarah used silver dollars to make the circles that served as eyes on her burlap target dummy.

She stood back and watched this happy little boy, the very image of his lean-waisted Pa, drive a throwing knife time after time after time again, into a painted circle the size of a man's eye socket, driving it hard enough to penetrate the thin bone at the back of the socket and pierce the back of the skull.

If one were to watch, one might see a haunted look in the pale-eyed woman's eyes, for she bore a curse in her blood, an hereditary curse that haunted the women of her line.

She had the Celtic gift -- or the Celtic curse -- of the Second Sight, and she saw a moment yet to come when that deadly skill would serve a tall, lean-waisted young man in a foreign land very well indeed.

She turned pale and she saw what was to be, and she knew she could not stop what was to come, for it was written and it was written in blood, and she wanted to snatch up this happy child and teach him to whittle and to make a bark whistle and play mumblety-peg and how to ride like the wind itself carried his saddle, but all she could see was his death.

She saw young Joseph Keller, heir to their bloodline, a laughing little boy with pale eyes, dying with enemy steel in his gut, dying the same way he'd been born.

Screaming, and covered in someone else's blood.

Joseph turned, saw the look on his Aunt Sarah's face.

"Aunt Sarah?" he said, and she heard the uncertainty in his voice: he turned, looking where her eyes were staring, looked back.

"Aunt Sarah, what do you see?"

"Shadows," she whispered, her knees collapsing slowly under her: she lowered herself on a hay bale and Joseph turned, drove the knife into the burlap's eye-socket and came over to his Aunt.

Sarah seized him in a big hug, hauled him up onto her lap.

"What shadows?" Joseph whispered.

Sarah's mouth was open and she breathed the cold air.

"Warriors," Sarah whispered back, and she shook her head, eyes closed, shaking the vision like she would shake away cobwebs on a springtime trail.

"What warriors?"

"Celtic warriors," she whispered.

"What's Celtic?" Joseph asked, and Sarah laughed a little, for she'd heard that same questioning time a thousand times over teaching school.

"You, my fine young man," Sarah said, touching the tip of his cold red nose, "are descended from some of the finest fighting men the world has ever seen."

"Celtic?" Joseph offered.

"Scots Celts. We are Highlanders, Maxwells of the Clan Maxwell."

Joseph didn't quite know what-all she was talking about, but it sounded good and that was enough for him.

"What's a Celtic look like?" he asked.

Sarah leaned back, looked into the dark loft, looked back.

"Our Scots ancestors are tall, like your father. They -- we -- are fair skinned and often red headed."

"Like Grandma Esther!"

"Exactly! Only she is an Irish Celt, not Scottish. They are some of the world's best fighters too!" Sarah caressed Joseph's cowlick and began to talk, quietly, and with her words she spun shadows, and the shadows took form and substance, and Joseph watched, fascinated, as red-bearded Highlanders in greatkilts and ghillies ran lightly across a rocky and broken country not so very different from some he'd seen.

He saw hard-muscled warriors swing axes and swords, studded shields and dirks: he saw steel-handled pistols seized and thrust toward an enemy, he heard voices raised in battle-rage, and he smelled blood and tasted conflict and Sarah saw his pupils dilate and felt his pulse speed up and she raised a hand, made a gathering motion, snatched up the shadows and -- poof! A purse of her lips, a puff of her breath, and the shadows were gone, and they were alone in their barn once again.

Sarah laughed, hugged Joseph to her.

"Did you like that?"

Joseph nodded, big-eyed and solemn.

"But Aunt Sarah ... what did you see before that?"

Sarah swallowed hard, looked away, then stood, sliding Joseph off her lap.

She knelt before him, putting her hands on his shoulders, and looked very intensely into his young eyes.

"Joseph," she said, "sometimes I see things ... that nobody else sees, and you must never, ever tell anyone I can see these things."

He nodded, very intensely focused on her sudden, serious change.

"I saw something that you will see in years to come."

Sarah took a long, deep breath, blew it out, tried again.

"I saw a man who threw a long shadow, a fine man, a warrior in a terrible battle."

"What happened to him, Aunt Sarah?"

"It hasn't happened yet and that's what you must never tell anyone," Sarah whispered, her throat tight. "Promise me!"

"I promise," he said gravely.

"I saw a man who threw a long shadow ..." Her voice trailed off and Joseph saw fear in her eyes: his mother's voice carried through the cold air and Sarah blinked, and the fear was gone.

"Supper," Sarah exclaimed. "I've got some kitchen goods for your Mama! Now what did we with my saddlebags?"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

128. THE PACK

The Sheriff kicked snow off his boots before reaching for the door.

Joseph opened it before he could reach for the knob: "Hi Grampa!" he exclaimed and the Sheriff went down on one knee, opened his arms to receive the happy charge of his eldest grandson.

The old man hugged the lad with a fierce affection, and the boy hugged him back just as passionately, then the Sheriff rose a little stiffly, swatting snow off his knee and taking a short, careful step as he resumed an upright posture.

Joseph didn't notice, boys seldom do when they're excited; he dashed back into the warm, welcoming house that smelled of coal oil lamps and his Ma's good cookin' and his Grandma's perfume, still hanging delicately in the air from her passage.

The Bear Killer sat beside Sarah, between she and young Joseph; Jacob and his grinning boy had worked the table apart earlier so they could set in the leaf, and the longer table accommodated the extra company.

Jacob stood awkwardly beside the head of the table, half-reaching for a kettle, but drawing back when Annette slid in between he and the big Monarch range: "You sit, now," she murmured, "let the women handle this" -- and like a wise husband, he listened to his beautiful bride: the table was already set, the courses moved easily from kitchen to table: when Jacob had his house built, he didn't have a separate dining room, as most did: he knew in the country's younger years, the smell of cooking was considered vulgar, but he was a man who knew what he liked, and he liked his Ma's kitchen, and he liked his kitchen, and he liked the way it smelled when his beautiful bride got to cookin', and so the kitchen did double duty, which worked out just fine.

It suited Annette; she didn't have to carry a serving platter a distance from stove to table; it suited Joseph, who didn't have to go nearly as far when he helped clean up after a meal, and it suited The Bear Killer, who was an incurable bum, and who perfected that sad expression that garnered scraps from cook and diner alike.

The dish of light rolls ended up at the far end of the table: everyone got themselves set and the Sheriff bowed his head, looked at his son, nodded once:

You are the man of the house, and yours is the head of the table. The grace is yours to say.

It was a silent, personal acknowledgement that his son was a man grown, a gift from father to son: being husband and father and The Man In Charge is a lifetime's habit, and sometimes a father has trouble forgetting this: Linn had to make a conscious effort to remember this, at least until Joseph came along, and he one afternoon rode out to his son's for no other reason than to ask Jacob's forgiveness for not recognizing this earlier.

Jacob nodded his acknowledgement, opened his mouth, hesitated, smiling a little.

Annette and Esther looked at him, then looked at each other, and they too shared a look.

Joseph looked over the steaming taters and the steaming gravy and the fragrant, steaming elk roast, and hoped silently that his Pa would be as brief as he usually was.

He was.

As soon as he said "Amen," everyone raised their heads, and the Sheriff -- seated at the opposite end of the table -- said "Jacob, could you pass me one of those real good rolls, please."

Jacob began to grin and Annette thought "Oh, here we go again," and she too was right.

Jacob picked up a roll and passed it to his father.

Via airmail.

The Bear Killer's head tracked the flying edible.

The Sheriff, seeing movement, divined its cause, tossed the light roll back to Jacob, who caught it easily: he, too, saw The Bear Killer's head turn, following its arc, and without prompt, sent the roll back along its previous flight path.

The Bear Killer's head swiveled smoothly, and as it did, he licked his chops.

"We hadn't ought to torment the fella," the Sheriff laughed.

"Bear Killer," Annette called gently, rising: "here, let's get yours," and she walked over toward the cupboard, The Bear Killer happily trotting around back of the diners' chairs to join her for what was sure to be something very good.

He was right, too.

Conversation was no stranger at their table, but the food was good -- very good -- and it wasn't until they were well into the meal that Jacob cleared his mouth, took a good swig of coffee and looked at his father. "Sir, how's your side comin' along?"

"Faithfully," his father said with a straight face. "It's bolted in place so wherever I go it comes along very faithfully."

Father and son each showed a narrowing of the eyes, that crinkling at the corners that showed a common sense of rotten humor.

"Your father's side is healing well, Jacob," Esther added gently. "There is no more drainage and Doctor Greenlees is pleased with your father's constitution."

"He'd ought to be," the Sheriff muttered, "it's the only one I got!" -- and had he not given voice to the words, Jacob would have heard them in his mind's ear anyway, for his father could be predicted in such matters: one-liners were very much in the man's habit.

"Mother, does the Z&W well these days?" Jacob continued, asking out of a genuine interest as well as politeness.

"We are making a steady profit, Jacob," Esther nodded. "The gold mine is a steady customer, and freight business has not diminished. We have picked up business hauling timber, as a matter of fact, and the second track we laid ..."

Esther smiled quietly, her eyes demurely lowered, and Annette saw satisfaction on her mother-in-law's face.

"The mine owners did not want to go to the expense of having a second track laid, but I insisted, and they were even less happy when I billed them for crushed stone ballast, treated crossties and another engine."

Jacob remembered the young war that waged in the boardroom, and how Esther stood unaffected by shouts, threats and invective, and how she punched her parasol into the gut of one individual who advanced threateningly on her: Jacob moved in behind her, pale eyes quiet, but very ready to rip the man's throat out if he took another step toward his green-eyed mother.

"Gentlemen," Esther had said, "I project a steady profit for your mines, which will only improve by dedicating one track to nothing but your ore traffic. With a proper timetable, we can make this second track one-way only, to the stamping mills, with the other track dedicated to freight, passengers and the returning ore train. It will take efficiency and organization, something my railroad exhibits with regularity. I will make you a bet" -- she smiled quietly, which should have been a warning to them, if only they'd been smart enough to realize it -- "I will bet you ten thousand dollars, in gold, that you will show a twenty per cent improvement in gold production as a result of this second track going in."

"I'll take that," the fat bellied loud blurted, the same one she'd stopped with the pointy end of her frilly pink parasol.

"Will that be your personal bet, sirrah, or will you bet the mine's money?"

"Mine, by God! and I'll not lose!"

"You gentlemen are witnesses," Esther smiled with an inclusive sweep of her gloved hand: "the bet is taken, the conditions are stated, the amount is given. Shall we shake on it? No? Very well, gentlemen, our business here is concluded."

Now, at the supper table, Jacob smiled and nodded.

His investments included stock in the Z&W Railroad, to be sure, but he much preferred to see the satisfaction in his mother's eyes than the making of a profit.

"Jacob" -- Esther lowered her lashes, gave her stepson "The Look" -- "I collected on that wager. You remember, in the boardroom ...?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jacob grinned. "I remember."

 

Annette excused herself after the table was cleared; Esther got started on the dishes, she and Sarah laughing and making short work of it, or as short as all the supper dishes could be: good company helps, and the men retired into the parlor, to await the ladies' good pleasure: Annette came downstairs in a little, having fed her youngest, changed his diaper and rocked him less than two minutes before the newest of Keller's Army was sound asleep in her arms.

It was a toss-up as to who would play the piano that night.

Jacob blessed his decision almost on a daily basis, the decision to get his wife a piano: Annette delighted in playing, and Jacob delighted in hearing his wife play: he had a little skill on the harmonica, but he inflicted his poor talents only on his long suffering horse: compared to his wife's artistry, he was almost ashamed at what little he could squeeze from the humble mouth organ.

He didn't feel badly about his lack of musical talent; he was a good enough singer, he reckoned, and part of the reason he wasn't distressed was because he one time heard his own father express a similar sentiment.

The Bear Killer came over beside young Joseph and sat, and Joseph put an arm around the great, black-furred mountain dog.

The Sheriff eased his long tall carcass down into one of two rocking chairs: his back appreciated its support, and he could rock a little and let his supper settle, and he knew if he dozed off -- which he generally did -- he would be left alone, probably with tolerant and understanding smiles.

He'd one time asked Doc Greenlees, "Doc, when I get up of a mornin' I'm stiff, my joints snap, crackle and pop, what's wrong with me?"

Ol' Doc, without cracking a smile, gave one of his typical long winded answers.

The man replied solemnly, and completely, "Mileage."

The Sheriff smiled a little as his wife glided over beside the other two, and he relaxed as piano music filled the room, and he felt the knots unwind out of his soul as the ladies raised their chins in flawless harmony.

Joseph touched the back of his father's hand, thrust his young jaw at his Grampa, asleep in the rocking chair opposite.

Jacob smiled and leaned close to his son's ear, and Joseph felt his Pa's breath warm in his ear, and his Pa's mustache tickled his ear, as his Pa whispered, "Your Grampa is like an old b'ar. He gets his belly full and he gets warm and he falls asleep."

Joseph nodded his understanding.

The ladies took turns at the piano, each one caressing the ivories, extracting magic from the machine, and The Bear Killer sat among them, looking from one to another, content to be among his pack.

Sarah was seated on the piano bench, playing softly, and she admitted to Annette and Esther, "I wish Daciana were here. She plays a lovely violin."

"That would be lovely," Esther agreed.

"Is there something particular you would like?"
Sarah hesitated, then swallowed.

"Yes. Yes, there is." She looked over at Annette. "Do you know Pretty Redwing?"

"Of course," Annette blinked, surprised.

"Double octave, four hand set."

Sarah took a quick breath, gave a quick nod.

Four hands descended, the Redwing sang in two octaves, high and low, and The Bear Killer rose and came pacing over, and as Sarah played, he licked the salt water off her cheeks.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

129. "NOTHIN', MAMA!"

"I got bruvvers an' sisters," Angela said shyly, looking sidelong at the slightly taller Joesph.

"I got a brother," Joseph said, making a face like a Moorish idol. "He's noisy."

Angela nodded wisely. She knew what it was to have brothers and sisters who were little, noisy and red faced.

"I got a horsie," she said in a satisfied voice, swinging back and forth so her skirt flared out a little as she did.

"I can ride every horse my Pa gots!" Joseph bragged.

"I can ride my horsie really fast," Angela giggled.

"I can ride fast too!" Joseph flared.

"I gots my own horsie," Angela goaded, and Joseph turned around and stomped off.

Angela skipped back toward her Daddy's corral, curls and petticoats bouncing, and she looked between the whitewashed planks and giggled to see Cannonball and Rosebud nuzzling in the sunshine.

Joseph thrust his jaw out and picked up a rock, tossed it in the air, caught it, then heaved it hard at a fence post.

It whistled past the fence post and was lost in the snow still covering the brittle, winter-bent grass.

A hand gripped his shoulder and a familiar voice said, "Aggervatin', ain't they?"

Joseph froze at his father's voice.

Jacob squatted slowly, regarding his son with a solemn expression.

"Yes, sir," he said, and Jacob saw the out-thrust lower jaw and the sullen expression and he saw himself at that tender age.

It was honestly all he could do to keep from laughing, but he knew laughing would just make his son's bruised feelings worse.

"What made you mad, Joseph?" Jacob asked with a careful neutrality.

Joseph glared at the far horizon, took a long breath, huffed it out, then faced his Pa squarely.

"She kept sayin' what-all she's got. She said she's got her own horse an' she said she's got a fast horse and she said it's her horse!"

Jacob nodded, remembering what it was to be young, to have such tender feelings that a little girl could bruise them.

I have to handle this one carefully, he thought, and part of him remembered those who hadn't handled his carefully, and he shoved an internal hand hard against the raging anger those memories generated, shoving them hard back into a dark cave and slamming an iron door on them.

"Pa, she hadn't oughta make me mad like that," Joseph pouted, and Jacob took him by both shoulders, looked at him with quiet eyes.

"She didn't," Jacob said, his voice deep, quiet, very fatherly. "You have a choice, Jacob. Anytime someone says things like that we can choose how we feel about it."

Jacob blinked, comprehension flaring in his eyes, then a minor war as his young price rebelled: he didn't want to be told he was in the wrong, he didn't realize his decision was wrong, he didn't think it was wrong when he did it --

"Joseph," Jacob said, rising, "walk with me."

Joseph's eyes widened.

He'd heard his Grampa say this to his Pa and when they did it was something important.

His Grampa never said that unless it was really important and it was always with a grown man and now his Pa was treating him the same way.

Joseph said "Yes, sir," and Joseph set a slow pace across the pasture.

"Joseph," he said, "you know I am Sheriff."

"Yes, sir."

"You know the Sheriff has to stand the gaff for what folks want to say."

"Why?" Joseph looked up, honestly surprised: he'd thought of his Grampa as tall as a church steeple and big around as Daciana's barn, at least in the eyes of an adoring young boy: he'd seen his Grampa take a man left handed and grab him by the front of the coat and hoist him off the ground, he'd seen his Grampa dig post holes and bear hug a fence post and hoist it out of the ground and he'd seen his Grampa take a club and bring a steer to its knees, and it would not have surprised the lad a bit to see his Grampa reach up and grab a handful of stars to sprinkle in his Grandma's shining red hair, or to grab the full moon on a dark night and haul it down out of the sky to use it for a spot light.

"Joseph ... if a man wants to look me in the eye and call me a low down scoundrel, I reckon he's entitled to his say."

Joseph looked confused.

"If he wants to look at me and say your Ma is a low down scoundrel, now, that's somethin' different." He chuckled. "Matter of fact" -- he stopped, turned, looked back at his father's two-story structure -- "Joseph ..."

Jacob chuckled, squatted again, and Joseph saw amusement in his father's pale eyes.

"Now when someone wants to call me seven kinds of a rascal, why, that's between me and him, but if he goes around town sayin' that, I put a stop to it, but I don't let it make me mad. Nor do I get sad or puny over it." His experience changed, he was serious now. "You can't let somebody else determine how you are going to feel. You are your own man. Don't ever let somebody else manipulate you like that."

"Yes, sir."

Jacob rose, his knees crackling a little as he did -- just like Grampa's, Joseph thought.

"I will tell you a secret," Jacob said unexpectedly.

"Sir?"

"Sometimes a man will let himself ... react."

"React?"

"Let me tell you a story."

"Yes, sir."

"Once upon a time," Jacob said, his pace slow, "there was a Sheriff named Linn Keller."

Joseph looked puzzled.

"This Sheriff was in the saloon one day. He was hot and he was tired and all he wanted was a cool beer."

Joseph blinked, sorting out what he was hearing, looked up at his Pa.

"There was a fella in the Saloon folks called Froggy."

"Why'd they call him that, Pa?"

Jacob laughed, his eyes busy studying the distance.

"They called him Froggy because he had such a big mouth."

Joseph grinned. This was something he could understand.

"Now when Froggy looked over at the Sheriff, all he could see was a tired old rancher."

Joseph nodded.

"He called the Sheriff a dirt farmer."

Joseph winced. Among cattlemen that was a sizable insult.

"The Sheriff just took a quiet pull on his beer.

"Froggy was lookin' for a fight and he wanted to make this old dirt farmer mad so he could knock the stuffin' out of him."

"Did it work, Pa?"

Jacob chuckled.

"Froggy took a fast gulp of his own beer and he allowed as the Sheriff -- he didn't know he was Sheriff, so he called him 'dirt farmer' -- he said, "Dirt farmer, I'm talkin' to you!"

"The Sheriff took a slow pull on his beer.

"You dirt farmin' sheep herder!" ol' Froggy yelled. "Yer yella an' ye're a thief!"

"Didn't Grampa get mad, Pa?"

Jacob smiled a little, shook his head.

"Nope. He knew he could choose how he felt, and he chose not to get mad."

Joseph frowned a little as he puzzled this over.

"Now when ol' Froggy started talkin' about your Grandma ..."

Joseph looked quickly up at his long tall Pa.

"Your Grampa set his beer down and started to turn.

"Old Froggy never saw the punch that knocked him backwards out the doors. He hit the ground and he was out colder'n a foundered flounder."

"Was Grampa mad yet?"

Jacob shook his head.

"Your Grampa never did get mad. Once he drove ol' Froggy a good one, why, he turned back to the bar and picked his beer up and took another slow pull."

He stopped, looked down at his son. "He chose how he wanted to feel. He didn't let no one else maneuver him into feelin' the way they wanted him to feel." He paused. "He could make that choice, Joseph. You can make the same choice."

"Yes, sir."

 

Esther Keller, the red-headed, green-eyed businesswoman who drove the Z&W Railroad to such profit, wife of the Sheriff, mother to Angela and two more children, stepmother to Jacob and aunt to Joseph, smiled warmly as Angela came skipping into the room.

"I know that look, young lady," she said sternly. "What have you been up to?"

Angela blinked, looking innocently at her lovely Mama, and smiled a truly angelic, little-girl smile.

"Joseph and I were talk-ing," she said, swinging back and forth, flaring her skirts the way a little girl will.

"Angelaaaaa," Esther said, turning her head just a little to emphasize that she wanted the truth, "what did you do to that boy?"

Angela blinked Kentucky-blue eyes, pink hands folded in her apron.

"Nothin', Mama!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

130. SWEET YOUNG THING, AIN'T SHE?

"You need yourself a girl."

Llewellyn looked sourly at the grinning fireman seated across from him at the breakfast table.

"You'll feel better, the world will be brighter, you'll have --"

Llewellyn surged out of his chair, planted one hand flat on the table, thrust his other arm forward, neatly stuffing a biscuit in the German Irishman's mouth and effectively ending the speculative lecture.

Sean quietly noted the exchange, but as whatever objectionable speech the engineer made was now effectively silenced -- quickly, and without violence -- he saw no need to interfere and turned his attention back to bacon and eggs.

The German Irishman accepted the gift of the unexpected biscuit, chewed thoughtfully and washed it down with a noisy slurp of witch's-heart coffee -- black and bitter -- and he stared speculatively at the silent Welshman who was biting his rashers as if they were an enemy's head.

 

Sarah threw up one leg and slid off the saddle like a little girl going down a sliding-board, only her slide was brief and her free-fall was most of five feet: she landed easily, on the balls of her feet, young knees and legs taking the shock of her lean dancer's body coming to earth.

She used to slide off like this when she wore heels, but then realized if her heel hit a rock, she would lose control and maybe lose an ankle, and so she had Snowflake kneel for dismount if she was all gussied up.

Today she wasn't: she was in her mousy-grey schoolmarm dress, the one that looked like a dress but was really divided for riding.

Snowflake was knee-trained and so wore not even a bridle, just her saddle; Sarah patted the big Frisian mare's shoulder and murmured, "I'll be back," and the mare nodded as if understanding the words: she plodded off toward the livery, dishpan-sized hooves silent on the cold ground.

Part of Sarah's mind recognized the big warmblood's stealth, and was grateful for it.

The rest of her thoughts were organizing themselves for the conversation she planned.

Sarah raised one foot and set it on the bottom step and looked up at the ornate frosted-glass design on the Silver Jewel's doors, and she realized with surprise her mouth was suddenly dry.

 

Daffyd Llewellyn waited until the table was cleared before he summoned the German Irishman with a quick tilt of his head.

The two climbed the stairs to the second floor bunk room easily -- Llewellyn was acclimatizing to the high altitude -- and he opened the trunk at the foot of his bunk, reached in, searched momentarily and then brought out a chip-carved box of some dark wood.

The engineer traced delicate fingertips over the chip carving, assessing it with knowing eyes.

"Old," he whispered. "Very old." He looked up at the Welsh Irishman's serious expression. "What is it?"

Daffyd gestured to a chair, grabbed another: the two sat knee-to-knee and Llewellyn swallowed hard, turned a catch and pressed a concealed stud, cleverly camouflaged in the carving.

He opened the lid and the German Irishman whistled soundlessly.

"This," Llewellyn whispered, holding the ring firmly between thumb and forefinger, "is the Ring of the Princess."

He held it up and the two men stared into its crystal heart, at the thousands of colors searing along the edge of each gleaming crystalline facet.

"Whence came this?" the engineer asked, his voice hushed, for he knew he was in the presence of something far less than ordinary, and that the Welsh Irishman was bestowing an immense trust in showing him this treasure.

"This, my dozy friend," the Welsh Irishman replied, his voice just as hushed, "is the Ring of the Princess."

"It has a story."

"It has."

"I would hear it."

Llewellyn turned the ring slowly, mesmerized by its water-clear stone.

"'Twas ma Grandam's," he murmured. "She was a Woman of Power, and a Seer, and they hanged her as a witch, damn 'em!"

The German Irishman nodded; he'd known of similar atrocities in the land of his own nativity.

"She had th' Second Sight, an' she ga'e me this. She told me of royalty that wore't, always women who warred for Wales, women who could foresee, women with a knowing about 'em."

The German Irishman nodded slowly. He had heard of such women.

"She said I would know to whom to give this, for the right woman will have eyes that can see what isn't here." He blinked, looked shamefacedly at the German Irishman and reddened. "Now isn't that nonsense."

His fingers fumbled a little as he thrust the stone back into its little padded casket.

 

Sarah composed herself, raised her knuckles to knock, froze as Esther's voice called "Come in, Sarah, I've been expecting you."

Sarah lowered her hand and Esther Keller drew the door open, smiling gently, the way she often did.

"I have tea, and I have your answer."

Sarah's eyes widened and she followed the older woman into Esther's office, the heart and hub of the Z&W Railroad.

Esther poured steaming oolong and Sarah smelled the citrus spice of burgamo and smiled.

She did love her Aunt Esther's blend of tea.

"Now sit there, my dear, and let us talk, for there is a matter weighting your heart and you've been meaning to ask me this for two weeks now."

Sarah blinked her surprise, accepted the eggshell-china teacup and saucer.

"Oh, don't look so surprised," Esther smiled, her voice as gentle as a mother's caress. "We women have a way of knowing these things."

"But I didn't tell anyone."

Esther sipper her tea, closed her eyes and savored the vapors as she swallowed.

"You have a knowledge that is not of this world," Esther said -- a fact, not a question. "You see, you foresee, you know things before they happen. You felt your father when he was shot -- you flinched and bent over a little and you clamped your arm hard to your side."

Sarah nodded.

"I did too, child. When he fell from a horse two years ago he landed on a rock the size of his fist. It broke two ribs loose and Doctor Greenlees put them back." She made a sudden face of ... well, almost distaste, as if the memory was rather unpleasant, which Sarah knew it had to be: she'd watched as Dr. Greenlees gave her father a good slug of whiskey, then put the heel of his hand against the offending rib and shoved straight down, returning it to alignment with her father's breastbone and knowing its opposite end, near the spine, was also returned to its correct position.

"I felt him put the rib back and believe me, my dear, I wished I hadn't!" Her voice was still gentle but Sarah could hear the sting of tears in her voice.

"Your mother was taken from you far too early. You needed her guidance and Bonnie has done very well indeed as your mother." Esther put down her teacup and looked at Sarah with frank approval.

"You lack one, and only one, guide ... and you've come to me because I am that guide."

"Then guide me."

Sarah's expression was almost one of alarm. The words came unbidden -- she realized part of her must realize what guidance was needed, but most of her was completely in the dark.

I wish I could let myself know these things, she thought ruefully.

Esther leaned forward, took Sarah's hands in her own.

"Let me tell you about my mother."

Sarah nodded, tightening her hands a little in Esther's, grateful this older woman she so admired was taking her into her confidence.

"I was not yet born, of course, and my mother was sweet on the man who she would marry."

It was Esther's turn to color, and she looked for a moment as bashful as any maiden.

"He fell from a horse -- men tend to do that, you know" -- Sarah felt the laughter in her words, though no laugh was expressed -- "and when he landed he was ... hurt.

"My mother came out of her chair, screamed like a panther and hit the ground, out cold."

Sarah nodded.

"In time between then and their marriage, she saw their life and she saw his death, and she carried a secret she entrusted to me, and I now to you."

Sarah nodded again, her red lips parted a little, and she leaned forward slightly, hanging on the red-headed, green-eyed matron's words.

"My father's blood and my mother's blood were meant to conmingle, and they did. Our lines came together and ..."

She bit her bottom lip as if uncertain whether to divulge one final piece of information.

She looked into Sarah's eyes, reached up and caressed Sarah's flawless complexion with the backs of her bent fingers.

"Sarah, my father had pale eyes, just like yours."

Sarah felt her stomach drop, felt the deck under her take a sudden list to starboard --

She stood on hot red sands, bleeding from half a dozen claw-strikes.

She was nearly exhausted.

Her wounds burned, she was tired from running, she was almost to safety, she was almost escaped --

Footfalls in the sand, the scrape of steel unsheathed --

Hard hands seized her arms and pulled her upright, a water-skin was thrust between her teeth.

Sarah drank, choked, drank, coughed, drank again.

"Better?" the pale-eyed warrior asked, his voice tired but hard-edged.

She nodded.

He turned her, thrust his sword at a dark opening in the cliff face. "There. We'll keep them off you. Go!"

Sarah ran.

Figures, dark and twisted figures, rose up before her: the two men slammed into them, swords a quick blur, and Sarah jumped the twisting, writhing creatures, her eyes fixed on the opening, on salvation, on escape --

The two men stopped, turned, shields up, swords low for a gutting thrust.

"RUN!" they roared, and as a swarm of hell-shadows came screaming over the low rise behind them, the man with pale eyes and an iron-grey mustache braced behind his scarred, sharp-edged shield, tightened a scar-knuckled grip on his wife-wound sword handle and bellowed, "YOU CAN'T HAVE HER!"

Sarah dove into the cave like she was diving into a mountain pool --

She flinched back, taking a quick breath, eyes wide, almost panicked.

She was back in the Z&W's executive office, and Esther was pouring tea.

"Welcome back."

Sarah stood, shaking, turned, buried her face in her hands.

Of all the memories she tried to forget, that was one of the first.

"Was that --"

"Yes, dear," Esther said, her voice kind and motherly. "That was your father."

"And the other --"

"They are still with us, Sarah. Guardians of the Light can exist in more than one place."

"But ... why did I remember ...?"

"You carry our bloodline, Sarah." Esther's hands were warm on Sarah's elbows, and she pressed against the shivering younger woman's back.

Sarah turned, hugged her father's wife with a desperate strength.

"You are bearing our kind into the future, Sarah. You have already seen much. You will see more, and you will become more than you can imagine."

"But why haven't you?"

Esther laughed, gripped Sarah's hands again.

"We are given certain tasks to perform in this lifetime. When our tasks are complete, then we may go home, but until then ... I choose to delight in this interesting game we call life."

"Ummm ... okay," Sarah said uncertainly.

"I learned that when I died," Esther confided in a whisper, taking Sarah's teacup and saucer and placing them on the tray. "Right now, young lady, you have an appointment."

"Appointment?"

"Yes. You are to go to the firehouse and speak with Mr. Llewellyn. You've already seen something of his future."

"I am to marry him," Sarah whispered as the Knowing came upon her.

"Yes," Esther smiled, "and you will be outrageously happy!"

"But not for long."

"No."

"What of ... his ... job?"

"He has several, and I have every confidence he will complete them before --" Esther stopped, frowning as if she'd just gone too far.

 

Snowflake knelt and Sarah threw a leg over the saddle, digesting the whirlwind she'd just experienced.

Snowflake rose; Sarah looked at the fine brick firehouse, and Snowflake, as if reading her mind, leaned forward in a nice, easy trot.

She dismounted like a little girl cascading down a sliding board, opened the man-door in the front of the fine brick firehouse and called, "Permission to come aboard!"

Sean leaned back a little, grinned when he saw her.

"Well don't stand there lettin' out the heat," he declared, "get in here!"

Sarah couldn't help but smile as the big red-headed Irish chieftain yelled "LLEWELLYN! GET YER WELSH BACKSIDE DOWN HERE AN' BRING THE REST O' YE WITH IT!"

Llewellyn launched from the bunk, the chip-carved box still in hand: he wrapped legs and an elbow around the polished brass pole, slid to the first floor, stepped away, the German Irishman right behind him.

Sean grinned at the confused fireman, looking from his Chief to the lovely young lady standing beside.

"Lad," Sean said, his volume considerably reduced, "ye ha'e a guest."

As fire chief and engineer strolled away from the couple, the German Irishman whispered, "She's a sweet young thing!"

"Aye, lad, she is," Sean nodded. "That she is!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

131. "YOU MAY NEVER KNOW"

The Bear Killer tended to show up where he was needed.

Daisy was grateful for the massive beast.

Right now he was curled up between the stove and the wall, relaxed, asleep, a living pillow for her youngest, who was fussy and whimpering and neither able to sleep nor let anyone else get their good rest.

The Bear Killer waited until Daisy changed the wee Irishman's diaper before scratching on the back door and woofing quietly, and when she let him in, he snuffed curiously at the restless bundle.

Daisy knew the magic the great black beast worked on the young, and so she waited until The Bear Killer selected his napping spot before squatting and putting her wee bairn in the curly-furred mountain dog's embrace.

The Bear Killer snuffed and licked the little red headed Irishman, and the youngest of the Irish Brigade cooed and grabbed a handful of fur and then patted the handful ... warm and supported by The Bear Killer's belly, the lad relaxed and to Daisy's great relief, went to sleep.

 

The Sheriff shook his powder horn, listening to good 2F hiss in response to his shake.

He considered the leather poke of rifle balls, smiled a little at the strip of shirt front linen hanging from his war bag's shoulder strap, then his eyes went up a little more to the long, curly maple stocked flint rifle hung in a place of honor in his study.

His father built him that rifle.

The old man nagged after him for three decades to let him re-stock it.

He'd built it when Linn was a boy, and the old man -- craftsman that he was, artisan that he was -- he'd sized it and proportioned it flawlessly ... for the boy he'd been when the work started.

A year and more later, he'd more than outgrown the rifle, which irritated the Grand Old Man to no end.

Now, though, with boyhood so far in his past as to be no longer visible, he looked at that flint rifle, and remembered.

It was a late Pennsylvania style now, blunter, stouter, the lock plate rounded and almost Hawken in profile; it was still a long, slender squirrel rifle, its fine sights perfectly suited for the Eastern woods where he'd grown up.

It was still a good rifle with a good bore, he'd bought a good stock of blond French gun flints while they were available, and it hit where he wanted it to.

He didn't shoot it much anymore but that didn't matter.

He had a father's love in solid form, he had something he could hold and heft and rub and look at and remember.

 

"Mr. Llewellyn."

"Miss McKenna."

"Mr. Llewellyn, walk with me."

Sean was elaborately pretending to ignore the pair, but Daffyd did not miss the quick flick of the fingers which meant the chieftain approved of this liaison, that Daffyd Llewellyn could depart the firehouse, that somehow the big red-headed Irishman was part of a conspiracy of sorts.

Daffyd Llewellyn opened the door for Sarah, closed it after he stepped outside as well, offered his arm.

"Mr. Llewellyn," Sarah said, "you have given me the pleasure of your arm in the past."

"I have, Miss McKenna."

"Mr. Llewellyn, you have been the perfect gentleman. Not once have you taken any action which could be construed as less than perfectly proper."

Daffyd considered this as they walked slowly together in the bright sunlight.

"Your speech in my presence has never been less than perfectly proper."

He nodded slowly at this pronouncement.

"And not once have I received any report of your having discussed me in anything but a gentlemanly manner."

He raised an eyebrow, surprised.

"Mr. Llewellyn, it would be forward and improper for me to throw myself at you, and I fear that if I were to invite you to Sunday dinner, it might be seen as just that."

She stopped; he stopped.

Sarah turned to face him squarely, and he turned as well.

"But I can extend my mother's invitation. You are welcome to join us for Sunday dinner, should you so choose."

Gentleman or not, Daffyd Llewellyn could not stop the slow spread of a broad grin over his ruddy Welsh features.

"Before you do, you must know something about me."

"I know something of you already."

"You do not know all."

"If you'll forgive my being forward, it's not possible for me to know all."

"Oh?" It was Sarah's turn to tent an eyebrow.

Daffyd took her hands -- his were warm, big, strong, hers were slender, smaller, cooler -- "Women ... Miss McKenna, I am ... not a terribly worldly man, and I cannot claim ... knowledge ... of women."

"Mr. Llewellyn, you face is turning quite red," Sarah almost whispered.

"So is yours."

Sarah clapped he hands to her face, turning even redder, then she seized his hands and gave him her very best Innocent Expression.

"I'll tell you a secret," she whispered. "I can't claim such knowledge either!"

"Thennnn ... we are in good company."

"You were making a point, Mr. Llewellyn, and I interrupted, I am sorry. You said you have not a worldly knowledge."

"That is true, Miss McKenna, but I have an observation."

Sarah gave him her direct attention, the one thing every man finds absolutely captivating -- the undivided attention of an attractive younger woman.

"Miss McKenna, women are a mystery. My Pa never had Mama figured out, Sean has not his Daisy figured out, I've not seen the man yet who understands the female. Women are a mystery, an enigma, a puzzle.

"You are right, Miss McKenna, there is something I do not know about you. There are many somethings I do not know about you."

She nodded.

"Is there some particular something you wished to speak of?"

"Yes." Sarah raised her chin, feeling suddenly unsure, as if she were standing on the lip of a high cliff, looking down at water she'd intended to dive into a moment ago.

She closed her eyes, wet her lips, took a deep breath, and leaped.

"Mr. Llewellyn, there are women who can ... see things."

"The Sight," Llewellyn whispered.

Sarah nodded.

"You have ... The Gift?"

"Or the curse."

"Dear God." Daffyd Llewellyn almost staggered back a step.

"Daffyd?" Sarah asked, her voice serious. "You're pale." He felt her firm grip on his arm.

"Come with me," he blurted, and took her hand, and he long-legged it back to the firehouse, yanking the door open with an unusual urgency.

He towed Sarah across the apparatus floor like the tail of a kite, one arm thrust out before him, reaching for the chip carved box he'd left on the long table.

Sarah watched as his hands reached for it, slowing and stopping just short of touching it.

"Daffyd," Sarah whispered, "you're shaking."

"Ma Grandam," he whispered back, "had The Sight." He looked at Sarah, his eyes bright, wide, almost scared. "She called it the Curse."

Sarah nodded. "It is both," she agreed.

He took a long breath, fumbled to open its lid, groaned, sat down and tried again.

"Here," Sarah said, her hands settling over his: he released the box and she placed it on the table, caressed its lid the way she'd caress The Bear Killer's head in a tender moment.

There was a click and the lid opened.

Sarah's hand rested on the open lid and she stared at the stone, seeming to listen to its story before she spoke.

"This ring has a history," she said, "and its age is measured in centuries. It was worn by wise women --"

She looked sharply at Daffyd.

"Your grandmother."

He nodded.

"This was her ring."

He nodded again.

"She was a Princess."

"Nay." He shook his head. "Not ma Grandam. She was a common --"

"She was not common," Sarah smiled. "She had a Gift, passed from grandmother to granddaughter. This ring" -- she looked from Daffyd to the gleaming, water-clear gem -- "this ring can only be worn by a Woman of Power."

"That," Daffyd whispered through a dry throat, "is what ma Grandam told me."

He looked at Sarah, went slowly to one knee.

Sarah's eyes widened and her hands covered her mouth.

"No," she whispered. "No ... I don't ... not yet ..."

Daffyd reached up and took her wrist, brought her hand down: he removed the Ring from its chip carved casket, looked up into Sarah's pale eyes.

"Ma Grandam said I would know the woman who was to wear this ring."

He swallowed something sticky, cleared his throat, tried again.

"She said 'twould be the woman I marry."

He slid the ring on her finger.

It was a perfect fit.

Sarah saw Daffyd holding something wrapped in a blanket, heard a baby's cry, felt the fire's heat --

She heard his shout, "SEAN! CATCH!" and she saw him toss the blanket-wrapped child across the gulf, across the fire-collapsed floor, through fire's breath, she saw sparkling lines of fire-wipe as the blanket's fuzzies seared in the heat and she saw Sean bend and open his arms and make a perfect catch --

Sarah gasped as Daffyd's hands gripped her upper arms, hard.

"I know that look," he said, his voice tight. "Ma Grandam had that look. She saw me just before she died. She saw me with her Sight, just before she died, and ye've looked at me that way before."

Sarah nodded, numb.

"I don't understand what I saw," she whispered.

"Ye may never know," he said softly. "Grandam didn't always understand until after a thing happened."

 

The Bear Killer snored quietly, furry belly rising and falling gently, the youngest Irishman buoyed as if on a slow-rolling sea.

There is no way of knowing what dreams the child had, and we could only speculate the dreams of the mountain dog, but we do know Daisy smiled as she watched her sleeping little man and how busy his eyes were behind closed eyelids, and she smiled with amusement at the little twitches of The Bear Killer's furry paws.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

132. HE WHAT???

I frowned and leaned back in my chair.

"Walk that one a-past me again," I told the Marshal.

Jackson Cooper nodded. "I would never have believed it had I not seen it."

"Well, hell." I took a long breath, thought for a minute. "Might be they'll get over it."

"Nope." Jackson Cooper shook his head, for all the world like an old b'ar wagging a bushel basket sized gourd back and forth. "I don't reckon. Not this time."

"This time?" My right ear pulled back a little, the way it does when I hear an odd accent or an unusual turn of phrase.

Jackson Cooper nodded. "They've had fallin' outs before."

"And they always patched it up."

Jackson Cooper nodded. "Yep. They used to."

I thought of the Blaze Boys and how they'd always been thick as thieves, shook my head. It always distressed me when good friends had a fallin' out ... I've known good friends and I've lost good friends and some of the worst hurts I ever felt was when a friend wounded me, or I slighted a friend and looked back on it with genuine regret.

There was a quick rat-tat at the door, the door swung open, fast, and I started up out of my chair.

Sarah looked at me and she looked kind of guilty.

"Papa," she said, and her voice quivered a little as she seized Jackson Cooper's hand, "I may have just done something very foolish."

"I'd best leave," Jackson Cooper rumbled, and Sarah grabbed his wrist with her other hand.

"Don't you dare!" she snapped. "Jackson Cooper, you are an anchor and a foundation and right now I need something solid to hold onto!"

Jackson Cooper looked at me and I've been told I have a good poker face, but I'll be honest ... I never had such trouble keeping my face from showing what I felt.

I near to laughed aloud, for Jackson Cooper wasn't a man who was really comfortable when a woman told him he was needful for her well-being, and the look on his face was awful close to the look Jacob had when Annette birthed their first and Doc Greenlees handed him his freshly bathed, wrapped up little boy, and Jacob blurted, "I'll break it!"

Sarah looked back at me. "Papa, the Blaze Boys had an awful fight --"

"Jackson Cooper was speaking of that," I said mildly.

"Well, it's happened before and both of them came to me and I mediated their spats in the past but this time --"

Sarah shook her head, hugged Jackson Cooper's big callused paw to her like a stuffed doll.

"Papa, it's bad this time. It's really bad."

I raised a hand. "Now hold it. Jackson Cooper, you've told me it's bad, and now Sarah, you tell me it's bad. Now how bad is it -- do I need to worry about them dueling, will they burn one another's barn down, have they started slicing fillets out of one another's backsides?"

"No," Sarah blurted, shaking her head. "Worse." She looked up at Jackson Cooper -- which involved her cranking her head back as far as it would go -- and Jackson Cooper looked down at her -- which involved him looking straight down -- then they both looked at me. "He's run off to join the Cavalry," just as Sarah said, "Il a rejoint La Légion Étrangère!"

"Wait, whoa, hold it," I said, holding up a palm. "Jackson Cooper, you first. What did he do?"

"He run off to join the Cavalry."

"Okay. Sarah, your turn. What did the other one do? English, if you please."

"He's run off to join the French Foreign Legion, and it's all my fault!"

"He what?" I blurted. "Isn't that taking it kind of far? Good Lord, if he wanted --" I shook my head.

"He wanted to out-do his cousin."

I sat back down. "Well, I reckon that out-does it, all right!"

"How do you think he'll do in the Cavalry?" Jackson Cooper rumbled, looking around: he disengaged his big arm from Sarah's grip, picked up a chair, swung it around, brought it in behind her: I am satisfied he intended to be gentle, but Sarah's knees broke over as the leading edge of that chair seat caught her behind the knees and she set down kind of sudden.

I pretended not to notice her surprise.

"How do you reckon they'll do?" Jackson Cooper wondered aloud.

"Well," I replied, "I reckon Mick will handle the one like any other recruit ... but I don't know much about them Frenchies ... other'n they fight like two hells!"

Sarah groaned and lowered her face into her hands. "It's my fault," she mumbled, her voice muffled by her palms, then she raised her chin, palms on her cheeks, staring overtop my desk with unseeing eyes.

"He came to me and he said he'd heard about the Légion. I'm afraid ... I spoke favorably of them." She hung her head, grabbed a double handful of her own hair. "It's all my fault!"

"Sarah," I said, "come here."

Sarah got up like a little girl about to be chastised.

"Come here." I held out my hands, swung my legs around, pulled her down on my lap.

"Sarah, if you feel so bad about it, should I turn you over my knee and swat your bottom?"

She leaned into me and dropped her chin over my shoulder, then turned her head sideways and laid her cheek down atop it.

"I might feel better," she muttered.

I hugged her. "Dear heart," I said, "he asked for information and you gave it. The choice was his, not yours."

"He's still gone."

"He's still gone," I agreed. "But he's gone on his terms. He's made a choice and I reckon he's going to see a big part of the world he'll not have otherwise seen."

"You're not helping, Papa."

I laughed. "I don't reckon I'm gonna swat your bottom, darlin'."

Sarah drew back, looked at me with a curious expression.

"Thank you, Papa."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

133. NO THEY DIDN'T

I eased myself down in my upholstered chair, grateful for the stove's heat, and looked at my beautiful bride.

Esther regarded me with that quiet smile of hers.

"What troubles you, my dear?"

Her voice was as gentle as her smile, the sound of her voice like her caress.

"The Blaze Boys," I said.

Esther considered my brief statement, her placid expression untroubled.

"They've run off."

Esther raised one eyebrow slightly.

"One joined the Cavalry."

Esther inclined her head marginally.

"The other one is headed for the French Foreign Legion."

Esther considered my miserable pronouncement.

"You seem distressed."

I nodded.

"Aren't they ... rather young, my dear?"

I grunted, shook my head.

"No. I saw boys in that damned war ... boys younger than they ..."
My voice trailed off and I could see them again, young faces, fresh faces, cheeks like peaches in the sun, grinning and laughing like the boys they were.

Those that survived their first battle and their second and the one after that were boys no more.

Neither were the ones that didn't survive.

I blinked, coming back from memories near to three decades agone.

"How did they travel?" Esther's voice reached through the ghosts that surrounded me.

I shook my head again, rubbed my forehead.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Would have taken the train, I reckon, they could ride together for a ways --"

"They haven't bought a ticket."

I stopped, looked at my wife. "Come again?"

Esther's gentle expression was patient as her voice.

"Word travels," she soothed. "Had the Blaze Boys taken passage -- on my railroad, or on the stage either one -- we would have heard about it."

I grunted again, feeling foolish: my wife reminded me of what I'd done in the past -- used local information -- I'd seized on information given me in good faith, but without confirmation.

"So they didn't run off after all."

"No they didn't."

I wasn't the only one to feel foolish, but I won't repeat what Jackson Cooper called himself, nor what Sarah didn't say -- her silence was most eloquent -- and yes I did hear later that she had a rather stern talk with the both of them.

Of course it didn't help any when Mick and his troop rode into town the next day, and in the course of buying him a beer, or two, or four, I mentioned how I'd been slickered, and the cavalry sergeant laughed with me, then added "You know, we do take 'em that young!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

134. GHOSTS, DAMMIT!

Esther Keller, the red-haired, green-eyed, slender-waisted and generally good-looking wife of that long tall pale eyed Sheriff, slipped across the hall, absolutely silent in a white flannel nightgown and white Chinese-silk slippers.

Her young were all asleep, the maid was retired for the night, and Esther smiled a little, moving through the darkened second story by memory, navigating as easily as if she had light enough to see.

The moment she flowed across the threshold into her bedroom, she knew something was wrong.

Esther froze, listening: her husband's breathing was not smooth like it was when he slept easy ... she bent slightly, catching the dregs of a waning moon across his sweat-beaded forehead.

She knew better than to come up to his side of the bed and touch him.

She'd only made that mistake once, very early in their married life.

No, far safer it was for her to circle round the foot of the bed, and slip into her side ... only then, with her familiar weight and warmth near him, only then would she dare touch her husband.

Esther raised knees and bare feet, her silk slippers on the floor, raised the covers and extended her legs under clean, sun-dried sheets.

She waited several moments, listening to her husband's ragged breathing, feeling the tremors of a barely-suppressed nightmare.

Slowly, gently, she rolled up on her side, hesitated, then eased her hand up, under the covers, hovered over his breastbone, then lowered her palm.

The moment she touched his chest, his left hand hissed against the bedsheet and slapped down hard on hers, pressing her hand into him: his jaw dropped open and he took a great gasping breath, like a man coming out of too deep a dive: his entire body shivered, then he relaxed, and she heard the tension sigh out of his throat with his over-deep breath.

She knew the crisis was passed, and he would either sleep the rest of the night, or he would wake.

She felt the muscles move beneath his breastbone as he swallowed, and her ear twitched as he took a breath.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice tight.

"I was already awake," she whispered back.

He released her hand, twisted, sat up: she didn't have to have light to know he sat with his head hung, shoulders rounded, then he raised his head and she knew grief would be deeply engraved on his face.

He stood, slowly, and she rolled over, found her slippers, tugged them on.

Linn staggered for the door, found the smooth, white-ceramic knob, drew it open, sagged against the door frame.

Esther reached blindly for where she thought the edge of the open door must be, found it, gripped its edge, waited for her husband to whisper downstairs in elk skin moccasins: she followed, like a ghost floating through the dark air.

Esther waited in the kitchen while Linn went out to tend a necessary call, common to men who drink coffee: she sliced good fresh bread from the loaf in the breadbox, set out the butter, waited for his return.

Linn came back in, washed his hands in warm water freshly tapped out of the stove's reservoir.

Esther waited patiently as her husband dipped up good cold wellwater, drank, drank again: she heard the dipper gurgle and scrape as it sank, and her husband drew out a chair, sat heavily.

Linn picked up a thick slice of fresh bread, shoved his nose down into the slice, breathed deeply, savoring the aroma, and Esther smiled, her expression invisible in the near darkness.

"Ghosts again?" Esther's voice was soft, gentle, and Linn nodded, then realizing his response would be unseen, whispered a hoarse "Yes."

"The Lieutenant?"

"Yeah." Deep breath again, and she heard his elbow come gently down on the table top. "Yeah."

"Did he speak to you?"

"No."

"Tell me about it, dearest. Speak of it and you take its power."

"They were so young."

"Who, dear? Who was so young?"

The Sheriff snorted. "Damn neart every one of 'em. Young men and full of fire, boys mostly, tall boys out to see the world and strut for the girls and back home in a month." He shook his head, lowered his forehead onto the heels of his hand. "Biggest part of 'em ... God help us, the Blaze Boys ... so many of 'em were their age." She felt him move, probably raised his head, she wasn't sure. "I saw the two of 'em, Esther. They were killed with that young Lieutenant. I could see them blown off to the side and the only part of 'em that wasn't bloody was their heads ... their white streak of a hair blaze."

"It was only a dream, dear. Only a dream."

"I know that here" -- he touched his forehead with a foreknuckle -- "but it's harder to know here" -- he tapped his breastbone.

He reached for the slice of bread and found his wife's hand, gripped it gently, raised it to his lips, kissed the back of her fingers.

"Ghosts can't hurt us, dear," and he heard the smile in her voice.

"Just ruin my good rest," he muttered. "Ghosts, dammit!"

Esther reached with her other hand, patted the back of his hand, still gripping hers.

"You have vanquished the shades for this night," Esther said reassuringly. "Let us submerge ourselves once more in your dark lake of slumber."

Linn rose, as did his wife: he opened his arms and she melted into him, his arms warm and strong around her, and they stood thus for several long moments, in the silence and the welcome of their kitchen, before they went back upstairs to bed.