SHORT STORIES!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I DON'T GIVE WARNINGS

The woman wore a shimmering, old-fashioned gown of almost electric blue: her face was pale, she wore lacy gloves and carried a lace-throated reticule: she glared harshly, her face set and angry.

"Leave me alone," she hissed.  "I will KILL you if you don't just LEAVE ME ALONE!"

 

Marnie Keller stood a little to the side, looked out the glass-front foyer: shoppers drifted into the mall, out of the mall: like her father, she had a marvelous ability to turn invisible, and she stood, still, unmoving, studying the parking lot, the area just outside the door, before moving.

Her purchases were in a bag, hanging from her left hand; her particulars were in a wallet, in an inside pocket: she was in the city, shopping, and so dressed for the occasion.

Her attire included a comfortably loose pair of jeans, with a diamond shaped gusset in the crotch, which allowed her a full-extension kick without binding up and diminishing the delivered energy: she wore her red cowboy boots, she wore a flannel shirt and vest, and beneath the vest, she wore a Smith & Wesson with a touch of tasteful, gold-inlaid engraving around the muzzle, around the cylinder.

Marnie looked around one last time, a slender, attractive young woman in denim and Stetson, and she pushed through the doors and was outside.

Her nostrils flared and she smiled, just a little, as she felt her gut contract.

She had no idea how she knew, but she knew -- she was being watched, she was being targeted, sized up as a victim.

A quick duck left, she walked quickly up a row of parked cars, looking around: nothing in sight, she ducked right, skipped across the empty lane of traffic, aimed for a few spaces to the side of her Jeep.

When two toughs stepped out in front of her, she dropped her bag, charged.

She kicked the first one -- hard -- she drove straight into him, too fast for him to grab the tape wrapped handle of the black plastic pistol in his waistband: the other, surprised, turned, knife in hand, as something very round and very black and very deadly rose up like a cobra readying for a strike.

He turned and ran.

Marnie turned back, kicked the first one hard in the ribs, intending to break at least two and hopefully three: her boot heel drove into his solar plexus, knocking all the fight out of him.

Smith & Wesson in hand, she bent, pulled the pistol from his waistband, stepped back, laid it on the hood of the car adjacent, looked around, pulled her badge wallet, dropped it open.

Marnie slipped her revolver out of sight under the jacket, her hand tight around checkered, hand-fitted Eastern walnut grip panels:  she raised her off hand, curled her lip, whistled.

 

Marnie Keller smiled as she opened the conference room door.

Two men rose: one was a detective of her acquaintance, the other, her father.

"Detective Campbell!" she exclaimed. "How's that daughter of yours?  Is she walking yet?"

The detective grinned, took her extended hand.  "She's cruising!" he declared happily. "As long as she can hold onto furniture -- or my finger -- she'll walk. So far she's set the Land Speed Record for orbiting our living room sofa!"

Marnie laughed.  "What's the word on our parking lot muggers?"

"We caught the second one, the one with the knife.  Your sketch was instrumental."

"I thought it might come in handy.  Please, sit.  Coffee?"

Campbell waved a hand, shook his head.  "I've had so much coffee today I'll have to water every fencepost between here and Denver.  No, we have your affidavit and your sketch, conviction won't be a problem."

"Then what is?"

"The fellow with the ribs."
"Oh?"  Marnie managed an innocent expression as she sat, as she tilted her head a little to the side the way she did when she was interested in the conversation.

Linn watched silently, observing what was said, and what wasn't: he was good at reading body language, and he knew both his daughter and the detective were holding something back.

This did not surprise him.

The detective frowned, drummed restless fingertips on the tabletop.

"I wanted to come and discuss this with you in person," he said slowly.  

"Oh?"

Dear God, she sounds like Mama! Linn thought, hiding a half-smile behind his closed hand.

"If I'd have called you, it would've been recorded, and some things ... I'd rather handle ... discreetly."

"Discreetly," Marnie echoed.

Detective Campbell shifted uncomfortably.

"The fellow with the ribs ... he said the woman with pale eyes kicked him six or seven times."

"Six or seven?"

"We looked at the video. That didn't happen, and nobody was there that he described."

"I see."  Marnie frowned a little.  "What was his description?"

"A pale eyed woman in a long blue dress. I was with him in ER as he was screaming for her to get away from him."

"She was there?"

"No. He was screaming at the blank wall. I tried to calm him down."

"Did it work?"

"No.  A needle full of Old Knockemstiff did."

"And?"

The detective frowned, rubbed his hands slowly together.

"It's not admissible," he said slowly, "as he was full of narcotic ... but what he described ... sounded  an awful lot like your portrait down in the tunnels."

"The tunnels under your Police Headquarters."

Detective Campbell nodded slowly.

"My ancestress, Sarah Lynne McKenna."

"I still think that's you."

"I sewed a gown using that as an exemplar," Marnie smiled. "How would you like to re-create that portrait? I happen to know some ladies who are superb seamstresses who'd love to put some handsome young men in handmade suits of the era."

Campbell grinned.  "They might like that," he admitted, then returned to the subject at hand.

"This Jack Doe likes to look tough. Neck tats, prison time, the usual, but he was screaming and crying and begging me to keep her away."

"Nobody was there?"

"Nobody."

"What'll this do for his sentencing?"

"He'll probably get more time in the nut house than he'd get in prison."

Marnie shrugged.  "So where's the problem?"

"I just thought ... you'd find it interesting ... that he thinks you warned him to stay away from you or you'd kill him."

"One problem with that."

"What's that?"

It was Marnie's turn to lean forward for emphasis.

"I don't give warnings," she said quietly, and as the Denver detective looked into those ice-pale eyes, he felt something cold pour itself over his soul, and he had no doubt at all -- none in the slightest -- that this pale eyed young woman was telling him the God's honest truth.

Edited August 10, 2023 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A TEST

The change in the Ambassador's eyes was unmistakable, even in profile.

"My apologies," the official said quickly:  "I have overstepped myself."

Marnie turned her head, turned her cold glare like she would swing an armored gun turret to bear.

She did not offer to break the offending arm that was currently around the small of her back.

She didn't have to.

"You asked if all Martian women are so remarkable," she said quietly, turning: the offending arm drew away, returned to its owner's side.

"Yes," she whispered.  "Yes, we are, and do you know why?"

She took a step closer, leaned forward a little: the official swallowed, shrank back a step.

Marnie took another step closer, crowding him, invading his personal space.

"Every one of us," Marnie whispered, "every last one of us has faced our own death. Too many of us have lost family and every last one of us has lost someone we loved, so yes, Martian women are remarkable."

Marnie stopped, her wide, pale, unblinking eyes holding the official's gaze like a cobra mesmerizing a rabbit.

"Every last one of us swore an oath and every one of us learned the hard way that when one of us breaks that oath, we break the back of the entire colony, so yes, Mister Politician, every Martian woman is remarkable."

She tilted her head, slowly, still unblinking: she stopped, allowed her quarry room to retreat another step.

"We have a distinctly frontier mindset, as a matter of fact."

She raised a shining steel blade: the Damascus pattern was as visible as the honed edge as she turned it, allowing moonlight to light the hand forged steel with its pale blue fires.

She spun the blade.

Liquid blue fire flowed in its wake.

"Do you know what Martian women do when someone tries to violate their wedding vows?"

"I assure you, Madam Ambassador, my intentions --"

"You intended to seduce me, sirrah," Marnie said quietly, her voice oily with menace: "you had no legal standing to lay your arm across my personal real estate, and you had no intention of behaving in an honorable manner."

Marnie's face was pale -- even moreso in the washed-out light of this planet's single moon -- her knife disappeared, though the official would have no memory of how it disappeared, nor to where, only that it did.

"I try to learn from every encounter," Marnie said quietly, "and every living soul I've met has taught me something. You, sirrah, have taught me I cannot trust you. Your world wished to engage in trade relations with our asteroid miners."

Her face held not the least trace of softness.

"I fear your conduct tonight has put any such arrangement in serious jeopardy."

Marnie turned, walked away, her step brisk, purposeful: she raised a gloved hand and a figure melted from the shadows, a tall, lean figure with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and a revolver belted around his middle.

It would later be said that pale eyes burned beneath the shadowing brim of a pearl-grey Stetson, though this statement would be regarded with suspicion, possibly the imaginings of a guilty conscience.

The Martian ambassador took the arm of this shadowy figure; they turned, they flowed out of the light, disappeared into the shadows.

Thirty seconds later the official felt the shift of air pressure that meant a Confederate shuttle departed by simply disappearing.

 

Dr. John Greenlees, a dignified member of Martian society, a respected instructor in the materia medica, a man of solemn mien and quiet, regular habits, laughed and galloped happily down the arched corridor, one child riding his back and the other shrieking with delight as he was carried upside down, held by the ankles, watching a topsy turvy world coming at him.

Willing hands tripped the sensor, the airlock hissed open as they approached:  Dr. Greenlees chuckled, breathing deeply, a giggling little boy hanging upside down from Daddy's strong grip, clapping his hands and laughing "Faster, Daddy! Faster!"

Dr. Greenlees jumped the threshold, feet slapping as he stopped quickly: yellow lights flashed and an echoing voice announced, "Swiftwater, arriving."

A red-faced little boy saw the boxy diplomatic shuttle appear -- no shimmer, no warning, just appear -- the stairs were quickly rolled up to the outer lock, which pulled back, tilted, disappeared into the hull: a woman in an electric-blue McKenna gown stepped out, took the hand of one of the landing-bay techs, smiled: a little boy's happy "Mama!" absolutely shattered the woman's courteous thanks, murmured to a blushing man in a yellow hardhat and coveralls.

Ambassador Marnie Keller, representative of Firelands, lifted her skirts and came down the three metal steps: she spread her arms, went to her knees, laughed as two pale eyed children, a boy and a girl, ran into her arms, each trying to out-talk the other with a sudden outpouring of everything that happened from the moment she'd departed.

Later that night, in their quarters, Dr. John Greenlees rose from the supper table as his wife rose: she gave him a warm look, leaned into him.

Dr. John Greenlees laid his arm across the small of her back, his hand gently splayed on her waist, as his wife sighed with pleasure and leaned the side of her face into his chest.

They held one another for several long moments, then Marnie looked up and said, "Dr. Greenlees?"

"Yes, Madam Ambassador?"

"Sir, do you presume to lay your arm across my personal real estate?"

"I do, madam," he replied gravely.

"Why, Doctor," Marnie murmured, batting her eyes dramatically, "I do believe you're trying to seduce me!"

Dr. Greenlees lowered his head, kissed his wife gently, ran his other arm around her, drew her close, held her tight, tight.

"You're damned right I am," he whispered.  

He felt his wife's long breath, felt her silent laughter; he looked down as she looked up.

"I was hoping that was the case."

"How was your trip, now that the kids are in bed and we've had a chance to eat?"

Marnie smiled a little, turned, flattened her hands on her husband's bony chest.

"I was tempted," she said frankly.

Dr. Greenlees smiled a little.  

"And?"

"I resisted the temptation," Marnie said quietly. "I cannot speak as highly for the tempter, though."

Husband and wife walked the few steps to the bedroom: their supper dishes were already in the recyclo and they were ready to relax for the night.

"How many bones did you break?" Dr. Greenlees asked, and once again he felt his wife's laughter, silent though it was, at least until she looked up at him and said in a truly awful Jimmy Cagney voice, "Does yas knows me or what!"

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WEATHER

Apple-horse was unhappy.

The pale eyed Sheriff astride the stallion looked at the approaching front and agreed with his mount.

He'd intended to come here, to the mountainside graveyard, he'd intended to sit quietly and let stresses and tensions flow from him, he'd intended to contemplate the sainted examples of ancestors who slept here, ancestors whose names were hand cut into native quartz, or sandblasted into native quartz, or laser engraved into native quartz: he'd stood at the foot of his Mama's grave, Stetson in hand, remembering one of her first murder investigations.

He remembered it because he'd wrapped up one with some very similar elements.

He looked to the distance, felt more than heard the distant thunder: the air was different -- he looked to his stallion, who looked back at him -- instead of snuffing about for something edible, Apple-horse's head was up, his ears were working, he was not quite dancing but he sure as hell wasn't calm and content.

Linn looked down the row of tomb stones, at the double stone where Old Pale Eyes slept, and he remembered how that fine old Sheriff spoke of his horse's senses, and how he'd trusted his horse, and he remembered, in that momentary streak of memory that went searing through his thinking forebrain, that the man's horse kept him alive, more times than one, but only because he had the good sense to pay attention.

Linn turned.

Apple-horse swung broadside to him, danced closer, clearly eager to get out of there, loath to do so without his rider:  Linn mounted in one smooth swarm, the stallion turned, stopped, swung his head, looked over the graves into the town below.

Linn looked, swore, quietly, powerfully.

Sheriff and Sheriff's stallion leaned into a trot, headed down the packed, stone-laid roadway, Apple-horse sidling over to where his steelshod hooves were on undisturbed sod.

 

Jacob, Joseph and Angela were all three a-horse.

Jacob, Joseph and Angela were all three dressed for the occasion.

Jacob, Joseph and Angela were guests at the regular meeting of the Ladies' Tea Society: they were dressed for the occasion, though not with a complete authenticity: although Jacob and his brother wore correctly-tailored, severely-black suits of their celebrated period, Angela's skirt (owing to her youth) should have been shorter and undivided, and she should have been in stockings with high-top shoes: instead, she wore a floor-length skirt, divided for riding, after the patterns Marnie favored when horseback.

They'd ridden downhill, toward the firehouse -- which, coincidentally, was the same direction as the ice cream parlor -- they'd partaken of the suggestion, given at the Society's adjournment, that perhaps ice cream would be a suitable thank-you for their presence, for their patience at the ladies' little fashion show -- their horses had each received peppermints (Angela referred to the cellophane-wrapped treats as "horsie crack" -- they were mounted and headed back uphill when their father came cantering out from between the bank building and the empty lot adjacent.

Jacob knew something was up.

He'd felt the air change, he'd noticed how restless his mount, he smelled rain on the air -- his Gammaw could smell rain, and he could too -- when their Pa came out into the street at a purposeful speed, three children needed no further summons.

The pale-eyed Keller young leaned forward a little.

Two serious faced young men and an equally serious young lady, ranked echelon right, began a fast canter up the empty street, joined their father:  as a cold wind hit them in the face, the Sheriff raised an arm, lowered it forward.

Echelon Right became Four Abreast.

Bruce Jones was not the only photographer to attend the Ladies' Tea Society, and its tutorial for an Eastern publication on styles and customs of its earlier days: both he and the visiting newsman had driven out of town a short distance, afterward, Bruce pointing out historical locations, his guest nodding politely.

They'd stopped when Bruce's weather radio alarmed, looked at one another at the unaccustomed words -- Tornado warning, radar indicated, visual confirmation by ham radio operator -- Bruce thought fast, opened his laptop, pulled up the weather radar.

His Eastern counterpart gripped his camera, popped his seat belt, yanked his door handle, shouldered outside, and a moment later, so did Bruce.

The sun was low enough to slant its rays under the cloud cover, beautifully illuminating four mounted riders, side-by-side: the image that appeared with the Eastern reporter's article featured several illustrations of period attire, styles seen routinely in the mid- to late- 1800s:  one picture, with four riders abreast, four forward-leaning riders on shining, healthy, hoof-pounding horses, four riders illumined by the low-slanting sun, stood out in sharp relief against the black wall of storm clouds looming behind.

It was evident the feminine face in the center was as determined as her male counterparts to get some distance from the danger approaching from behind; she was quite obviously as accustomed to the saddle as even the patriarch of the pack, and the Eastern magazine's editor congratulated his reporter not long after, for that one dramatic, dynamic photograph increased their circulation -- a noteworthy feat in an age when people got their reading material more from the glowing screen than the printed page.

 

Four horses stood, shivering, blowing, as they were stripped of bridles, saddles, blankets:  four horses stood for their riders' attentions:  four horses smelt the hard, pounding rain outside, the deluge that followed the first, fat, very cold drops that precede a genuine downpour, and did:  nobody got hit by more than two or three of those near-freezing precursors, but nobody was surprised to see hail, to hear it smacking the corrugated tin roof overhead.

Angela was as industrious, as attentive to her mount as her brothers:  she packed her saddle over to its place, swung it up -- it took a grunt and an effort, but she got it she dragged a peach crate over and stood on it so she could reach up and rub down her spotty horsie -- father and oldest son, tending their own mounts, watched approvingly as she did -- the horses were grained, fresh water pumped into their drinking trough.

The Sheriff stood with his young, looking out the big double doors, watching trees swing in the gusting winds:  pale eyes calmly regarded the storm.

"Joseph."

"Yes, sir."

"Climb upstairs and watch to the west. I don't like the looks of these clouds."

"Yes, sir."

Joseph, young, skinny, limber and grinning, swarmed up the ladder into the loft.

Linn calculated the fastest route to their basement door.

They felt air moving, differently now, chaff floated around them:  they knew Joseph had pushed a latched upper door open to look out.

"What am I looking for, sir?" he called down, and Linn relaxed, just a little:  had there been a funnel, he'd have said so.

"You're looking for mammatus, for rotation, you're looking for a funnel, either narrow or really broad."

"Nothing in sight, sir."

"Good. Fast up the door and come down."

They heard the wind complaining against the doors as Joseph fought to keep them from slamming on him:  he dropped the latch into place, turned, came down the thick haymow rope, hand over hand, grinning.

Pa can't do that, he thought. 

Once I get more weight on me I won't either, but I did something Pa can't!

The rain slacked, suddenly:  Linn nodded, looked left, looked right.

"With me!" 

A long tall lawman, with three children, sprinted through shallow water puddles and gusts of cold air, made their front porch before the approaching hazy-silver curtain of rain sluiced over them:  Sheriff Linn Keller laughed, hugged his young to him, tasted the air, heavy with a mist-fine rain-spray swirling in under the porch roof.

"I think," he said, "it's time for some hot chocolate and dry socks!"

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE

A pair of blue jeans was bent over: beneath, a pair of scuffed, grease-stained, once-red cowboy boots stood on an ancient, weathered, cracked peach crate: something was working on the inside of a big John Deere two-cylinder tractor's crankcase, and as the Ambassador took in the sight, he heard the brief whine of an electric drill -- then again, longer -- a figure withdrew both arms from the crankcase, leaned back, let her arm hang, drill firmly gripped, trigger finger laid alongside the drill's case.

Even here, the Ambassador thought, she practices trigger discipline!

Marnie laid the drill on top of a handy 30 gallon drum she was using for a workstand.

"Not quite what I was expecting to see," the Ambassador said carefully as he approached.

Marnie laughed -- she threw her head back, flipped her pigtails behind her, wiped her hands on a shop rag -- "I'd shake hands but I'm greasy! And what's wrong with a girl working on a pet project?"

The Ambassador ran his eyes over the G model John Deere.

On his home planet, John Deere tractors were legendary, though reverse-engineered: the two-bangers were the most popular, and he himself had run a much smaller tractor as a schoolboy, tending his family's modest gardens.

"Somehow," he admitted, "I hadn't imagined you as a farm girl."

Marnie laughed again.  "I was a ranch girl," she smiled, "and if it needed done, we did it. Daddy could have hired everything done but he didn't. We drove old cars -- Daddy loves his Jeeps and so do I, but modern cars are too complex for a shade tree mechanic.  No, we had old ones that broke down, and when they broke down, we'd all jump in and fix 'em."  

The Ambassador handed her a spray can of something marked BRAKE CLEANER: she turned away from him, sprayed a hand, wiped it clean, then the other, finally spraying the last clean corner of the rag and getting the transferred grease from the can before setting both on the drumhead.

"Let me wash my hands and we can talk."

The Ambassador leaned over, looked into the cavernous case, shining with steel gears and heavy oil.

"What were you doing in there?" he asked.

He heard running water, saw Marnie's elbows moving as she vigorously laved her hands with dish soap and something she shook out of a white can with a perforated top.

"The timing was off," she explained, scrubbing vigorously, reaching for a small bristle brush: "I kept setting the timing ahead, set it ahead, I ran clear out of adjustment and finally it quit running altogether.

"I tore into it and" -- she rinsed her hands, turned, toweling them vigorously, then brought her hands out, clawed fingers facing one another, talking as much with her hands as with her words -- "y'see, the cam shaft bolted to the distributor shaft with a three-bolt flange. Two bolts were broken off years before we got this old residenter, and the third one was loose enough it slid out of time, out of time, out of time, until it finally gave up and fell out and there she set."

"I see."

"I was elbow deep in a cast iron crankcase -- with both arms and a Three-Eighths Drill -- I drilled out the broken off bolt, now to get in there with a hole puller and get that broke off stub out of there!"

"And I interrupted you."

"I was ready for a break.  What's up?"

Marnie skipped across her Daddy's barn, snatched up a striped saddle blanket, gave it a wrist-snap and floated it down onto a convenient hay bale.  "Have a set, I've some coffee."

"Coffee would be wonderful," the Ambassador admitted as he lowered his backside onto the heavy blanket.

Marnie came back over, looking as comfortable in a flannel shirt and jeans as he'd ever seen her in her Ambassadorial gowns -- but looking less ... less dangerous than when she wore her uniform skinsuit.

Marnie poured coffee into a foam cup; it was still hot, steam rose, tickling the Ambassador's nose, bringing a little bit of a smile to the man's face.

"You were right."

"About ...?"

"When you cut off negotiations with Six-Seven-Six."

"Angelhair."

"The Angelhair system, yes."

"The night he ran an arm around me."

"The same."

"I was right ... how?"
Marnie leaned over, added more coffee to the Ambassador's cup.

"He did intend to seduce you, and then he intended to blackmail you."

"I see."

"He's since been relieved."

"That's their internal matter."

"It is, but it puts us in a much better negotiating position."

"You put an awful lot of effort into negotiations."

"We have to," the Ambassador admitted.  "Ever wonder why we haven't built an absolute armada of Interceptors, or even Dreadnoughts built on the Interceptor pattern?"

"I've wondered."

"We're afraid to."

"Oh?"

"The entire Confederacy is built on a healthy level of mistrust."

"Now that's a new one," Marnie muttered, sipping her own coffee.  

"We're afraid of a strong central government. Every Constitution we have echoes yours, that the rights remain with the people unless specifically delineated. That's why any member world is free to tell every other member world to go pound sand."

"And that's why you have no central currency."

"That is the exact reason."

"So where do I fit in?"

"First of all, you're a true neutral. Your planet has nothing to trade. Every other planet has trade goods and mostly trades only on a planetary scale. There's actually very little interplanetary commerce."

"Go on."

"We are constantly assessing for threats from outside, and believe me, they do exist. The Interceptors have kept the worst of them at bay. We've also used some other persuasions."

"Such as?"

"Oh, collapsing stars into an infinitesimal point of gravity, slinging planets out of orbit to freeze and die in interstellar space, or spiraling them into their own sun, things like that."

"You've done that."

"We've done worse."

Marnie waited.

"When we freed ourselves from the aliens that captured our ancestors, we did those things to inhabited worlds."

Marnie waited.

"I say 'we' but that was generations ago. The aliens didn't have the technology to do those things. They also had no idea what the human brain is capable of. We -- our ancestors -- used their learning helmets and extrapolated that learning."

Marnie was silent for several long moments; she looked across the silent barn and finally nodded, "Wow."

"Yes, wow," the Ambassador agreed.  "We've never done it since."

Marnie took another sip of coffee.

"Again:  why me?"

"Other than your neutrality?" the Ambassador smiled. "Frankly, we need you. You are a sign of ... I'm not sure what it is.  Unity?  Hope?  Earth, finally stretching out into the stars?"

"I'm just a ranch girl," Marnie muttered into her foam cup, tapping its edge with her bottom teeth the way she used to as a child.

"You're a ranch girl, yes," the Ambassador agreed, "and you're pretty damned impressive."

"So why come here today?"

"I was curious."

"About?"

"You."

Marnie laughed, shook her head.  "You know me. You've seen me in action. You know I'm happily married. You know I'm a charmer and a persuader and you know I've got my Gammaw's temper. You've seen me flip a negotiations table and scream down men in fine suits and titles, you've seen me go back to a dirty little frontier town with a double barrel shotgun and kill the skells that tried to kill me. You've seen me cry at funerals and you've seen me cry when a dear friend gave birth and you've seen me lay on my back out on the surface and marvel at the nighttime stars like a little child."  Marnie tilted the thermos up, drained the last of the coffee into the Ambassador's cup.  "And you're still curious about me?"

The Ambassador smiled, just a little.

"I wanted to see what you did to relax," he admitted.  "I've seen you at your formal best. I've seen you as Sheriff. I've seen you sitting cross-legged in a schoolroom, surrounded by children, reading to them or explaining something, I've seen you in the Spinner fighting practice golems, I've seen you belly-down behind a rifle, shooting at a thousand meters for the fun of it and laughing like a happy child when you knock a steel silhouette at that distance."  He tilted his head a little, considered her carefully.

"I don't think I know the real you."

Marnie smiled quietly. "Good," she said.  "A woman should have some mystery about her."

"You realize your husband is a damned lucky man."

"Oh, I realize that," Marnie said, blinking innocently.  "He had better realize it!"

The Ambassador laughed.  "Touché," he agreed.

The Ambassador stood; so did Marnie.

He looked at the tractor, big, green and silent:  he walked around the port side, Marnie walked back to the gear case.

The Ambassador bent, looked into the brightly-illuminated, lidless crankcase, frowned, whistled.

"I see what you mean," he murmured.

Marnie turned, went over to the workbench:  she pulled open one small drawer, another.

The Ambassador heard the bright clink of tool steel as Marnie sorted through something; she came back with shining steel in one hand and a ball peen hammer in the other.

"Pardon me while I give this a try," she said, bending over again: he watched her working her hands in the dark, greasy crankcase, heard her tapping something with the machinist's ball-peen, then:

"Pass me that wrench, would you? The one ahead of your left hand?"

Marnie still had her head in the crankcase; she extended her hand, palm up, and the Ambassador put the combination wrench in her palm.

A minute later, during which her voice echoed hollowly inside the crankcase -- her words were not quite understandable, but her tone of voice was less than kindly -- Marnie lifted her head, triumphantly held up the broken-off stub of a bolt, impaled on the fluted extractor.

"One down, one to go!" she declared, then turned her hand, frowned at a bloodied knuckle.

"The job's not done unless I draw blood," she muttered.  "The other one's drilled.  Let me knock this one off and I'll pull that last one."

"Will you be chasing the threads once you get it out?"

Marnie looked up with honest surprise. 

It was the Ambassador's turn to laugh.

"I saw you had a tap and die set laid out and ready."

"Something tells me there's more to you than meets the eye," Marnie said speculatively.  

 

 

Edited August 13, 2023 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

RUTH

Sheriff Jacob Keller removed his Stetson, tucked it correctly under his arm.

He reached for the bell-pull and the door opened without his summons.

"You are expected, sir," a uniformed butler said gravely: "this way, please."

Jacob followed the butler through an immaculate hall with shining crystal chandeliers, with oil paintings on the wall: he was led into a parlor, where a man in knee-high riding boots and a carefully tailored suit met him with a handshake and a quiet smile.

"You have made quite the impression on both my wife and my daughter," he said approvingly. "That's something no one locally has been able to do."

"Thank you, sir," Jacob said carefully.

The men turned at the stiff rustle of petticoats from above: a truly lovely young woman descended the stairs -- or, more correctly, appeared to float down the stairs: her gown would have been very much in vogue in the antebellum South, as would her hair-style: she moved with a flawless grace, a practiced calm, Jacob thought: she was sweetness and light, she blushed delicately, she fairly shone with a maidenly beauty --

-- until she stepped on a petticoat --

Jacob, like several generations of pale-eyed Keller men, had a panther's reflexes: his boots hit stair treads three times, his shoulder drove into her middle as she nearly dove to the horizontal owing to her catastrophic misstep: Jacob's arm closed around the back of her knees like a steel trap capturing its prey, and his off hand seized the banister as he went quickly to one knee.

He absorbed the energy of her fall, then stood: he turned, gravely descended the stairs: he bent at the waist, carefully set her on her feet and said to her father, "Your daughter, sir."

Of all the words that could have been spoken in the shocked silence of this untimely catastrophe, these were perhaps the least expected.

Jacob's expression was carefully neutral as the father turned red, as he folded his arms, raised his hand to his mouth: his daughter was blushing absolutely furiously, her face approaching scarlet, even white teeth biting her bottom lip as she looked sideways at Jacob, then at her father.

The man snorted.

Jacob saw the beautiful maiden he'd come to court, start to smile.

Her father choked, turned his head, shoulders heaving with the effort of containing himself:  finally he surrendered himself to the absurd and laughed, the great, gusting, relieved laugh of a father who has witnessed a daughter's humiliation instantly reversed, and with a good dose of humor.

A set of tall, inlaid doors swung open, folded in on themselves, disappeared into recesses in the walls, exposing a ballroom: in the ballroom, well dressed men, women in fine gowns, the murmur of conversation dying as Jacob extended his arm.

The daughter of a landed nobleman laid her gloved hand delicately on Jacob's sleeve.

Together, with a slow, ceremonial step, they paced into the ballroom: Jacob knew the custom was to first address the parents, and having addressed the father at the foot of the stairs -- though in not quite the manner he'd planned -- he now raised the mother's gloved knuckles to his lips, pressed them to his mustache, looked at this dignified matron who looked at him with what he recognized as a mother's assessing eye.

"What is your purpose here?" she asked -- normally this would be asked with husband and wife shoulder to shoulder, but the father had already shown his approval, and so stood behind them.

Jacob knew the rote answer, and chose not to use it.

"My Lady," he replied, pitching his voice to be heard to the far corners of the room -- clear, distinct, without being excessive -- "I have come to thank you."

The mother's eyebrow raised.  "Oh?" she asked archly, and Jacob knew he'd better be right, or his departure from this mansion would be both swift, and undignified.

"My Lady," Jacob said, "your daughter is, in all ways, a Lady."

He pronounced the word with a capital L.

"Our young learn more by observation and imitation, than by didactic presentation.

"There is only one place your daughter could have learned to be a Lady" -- he paused and drove his pale eyed gaze directly into her shining brown eyes -- "and I am looking at her.

"My Lady, I thank you for caring enough about being a Lady, to model that right and proper behavior!"

The silence that followed was profound.

Jacob was satisfied with his words: he'd spoken plainly, he'd spoken courteously, he'd spoken factually.

The husband came up beside his wife: she laid her hand on his forearm.

"We are agreed?" he asked quietly, and his wife gave him a look -- Jacob saw it was conflicted -- he saw several thoughts, several emotions chase one another across her face: she closed her eyes, nodded, then looked at her daughter, at her new son-in-law.

The mother reached behind her neck and unfastened a necklace.

She circled behind her daughter, laid the necklace in place: a teardrop sapphire, with shining, blood-red rubies surrounding: she fastened the delicate clasp of the fine-link gold necklace.

"Our blessings," she said, "and those of the women who wore this."

The mother looked at Jacob.

"This necklace was about the neck of a young bride who was taken," she said. "God alone saw to it that she was reunited with her husband. Ever since, the necklace has gone to the eldest daughter."

"Young man," the father said, "your thoughts?"

Jacob considered for a moment.

He'd already departed from tradition once.

"Sir," he said, "I am given to understand that no matter her age -- be she child, maiden, matron -- that she is always, always, Daddy's Little Girl."

He grinned, quickly, that boyish, contagious grin that endeared him to the young lady in question the first time she laid eyes on him.

"Or so said my own father, when a young man came to court my own sister."

Husband and wife looked at one another and laughed a little, and Jacob smiled as the father clapped a callused hand on his shoulder in obvious and hearty approval.

"My own father said the same!" he declared.

"Jacob Keller, what is your purpose here?"

Jacob turned, looked at a beautiful daughter of the Old South, born and raised under stars foreign to her ancestors, a young woman of privilege and wealth, a child of culture and breeding and education ... a young woman who'd made it plain to Jacob that she wished to see more of the Universe than her native planet, and that she wished to do so in his company.

Jacob, for his part, was in complete agreement with her words: they'd spoken, together, properly chaperoned, of course: Jacob almost held class as he taught this entrancing beauty, and her parents, her brothers and sisters, about Earth, about his life in the Shining Mountains, about becoming Sheriff of Mars after being a lawman back in Colorado: he spoke of Mars, he used holographic projectors to bring the bleak Martian surface to them, then the underground colony: he knew, and the parents knew, the change would be more powerful than Jacob's unvarnished descriptions, but their daughter would not be dissuaded from her notion that she should become this strong and interesting man's wife.

Jacob looked at her parents.

"My purpose here is to ask your permission," he declared in a clear and ringing voice, "to address your daughter on the subject of matrimony."

"You have that permission, and you have our approval," husband and wife replied with one voice.

Jacob turned to face this lovely flower of the South, with her shining hair, carefully styled: he went to one knee, held her gloved hands in his, then rolled his wrist -- a magician's move -- a black-velvet cube sat atop his peaked-together fingertips.

He snapped his fingers.

The box evaporated and he was holding a ring, a shining diamond of the first water, set firmly in a gold bed: four fiery rubies supported the diamond.

"I would ask your hand in marriage," Jacob declared in a ringing voice, "with one caveat."

Husband and wife looked at one another, allowing themselves the barest of smiles.

"And what would that be, Jacob Keller?" she asked in reply, with the barest trace of what might have been an Irish accent.

"I would ask for your hand, but only if the rest of you comes with it!"

She withdrew her hands from his: her smile was gentle, warm, as she plucked at the thumb, then the fingers of her glove: she removed her left glove, then her right, handed them to a nearby servant-girl in an immaculate black-and-white uniform and cap.

"I forgot to ask," she whispered, "which hand?"

Jacob smiled, took her left hand, slid the ring on her slightly-trembling finger.

"I promised myself I wouldn't shake," she whispered.

Jacob leaned forward, kissed her knuckles, felt her shiver.

He rose.

A single note, spun from a violin: a waltz, one Jacob knew: he bowed, she curtsied, as her father bowed to her mother, as her mother curtsied in reply: the crowd parted, and Jacob Keller, Sheriff of Firelands, waltzed in sweeping circles around the ballroom floor with the lovely young lady who'd done something no one in two star systems, nor on two planets, had ever managed to do.

She'd captured his heart.

 

Later that night, as they stood alone on a balcony, overlooking the moonlit fields, Jacob asked quietly, "My dear, nothing is set in stone until we are married. Are you very sure you want to hitch your wagon to a long tall lawman?"

"A lawman who brought Mama a double handful of jewels, a lawman who brought Daddy a chest of gold?"  She smiled up at Jacob. "You've more than quadrupled Daddy's net worth, and now Mama is the wealthiest woman in the Five Nations."

Jacob looked very seriously into her dark eyes, her liquid eyes, eyes he could swim in ...

"My dear," he said quietly, "you are more than worth all that!"

"There's something else, isn't there?"

"Yes there is," Jacob admitted.  "Until now I have simply called you Miss Messman.  I have not earned the right to call you aught else."

"You earned that right tonight."

"Miss Messman," Jacob said quietly, taking his intended by her elbows, holding her only with his fingertips, "by what name may I call you?"

She looked away, turned, leaned on the balcony railing, looking out across the land she knew so well.

"You said Mars is a dead world."

"On its surface, yes."

"But not beneath."

"We found ... as its core slowed and it lost a magnetic field, solar winds stripped its atmosphere and its oceans. We've found frozen water but we found topsoil as well, mostly in the valleys."

"And ...?"

"And we've reactivated it. It's alive in great underground fields. We have solar reflectors to capture sunlight and beam it in through fiber optic cables as big across as I am tall. We grow crops, and plenty of 'em. We have bees and bugs and we grow all we can of everything we can."

"But that is underground."

"Yes."

"What's it like on the dead surface, Jacob?"

Jacob unbuttoned his coat.

"Give me your hand."

He took her hand, pressed it gently on his belt.

"What do you feel?"

"A ... box?"

"You'll be issued one and you will wear it at all times."

"Even if it doesn't go with my gown?" she teased.

"It keeps you alive."

"I don't understand."

"The Martian atmosphere is second cousin to a vacuum. Surface temperatures make your coldest winters look like a hot August afternoon. This box projects a field around you, keeps you warm and lets you breathe. Without it you would die, fast, hard and nasty."

He saw her turn so the moonlight was on her face.

"Jacob Keller," she whispered, "will you keep me safe?"

"I will."

"Then where thou goest, I shall go. Thy lands shall be my lands, thy people shall be my people, and thy God shall be my God."

She reached up, caressed Jacob's cheek, pulled his mouth down to hers.

"My name," she whispered, "is Ruth."

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE

Forbid a thing, and it becomes attractive.

Tell the young something isn't a good idea, and it will become fascinating.

Advising against sledding on a particular grade, guaranteed that it would be done.

It took a week's planning, it took dismounting the streamlined hood from one of the oldest cars in the abandoned junkyard and hauling it -- with much labor, much effort -- to the top of the forbidden grade.

It took smuggling a chain saw and fuel to cut a deadfall from the planned sledding route, and it took a full day of labor to get the dead wood out of the way:  all told, a full week, and at week's end, with the chain saw and gas can stashed at the foot of the grade, a lone figure labored uphill, pale eyes busy assessing the grade, the drops, the snow depth, possible obstacles he hadn't planned on.

When Jacob Keller turned over the old car hood, shook it and thumped it to get the fresh snow out, when he threw down the folded saddle blanket to set on, when he jumped in and seized the length of clothesline rope tied to the nose of the inverted Mercury hood, his heart was hammering, his fists clenched tight, tight around braided cotton, his boots set themselves --

And the car-hood sled just settled down a little, into the snow, with a crunch, and made no other move.

Jacob Keller, nine years old -- a third-grader, tall and skinny and full of energy and orneriment, allowed himself a moment's disappointment before shifting his weight so he could roll out of his homemade snowrider.

Uncle Will rode one of these when he was a boy, he reasoned; his Uncle Will described waxing the car's hood so it would sail downhill like a bird riding the wind -- Jacob labored mightily to bring a waxed shine to ancient, oxidized paint, he'd gone so far as to sandpaper off the inevitable rust that crowds through sunburnt paint on abandoned sheet metal -- he was satisfied the bearing surface was slick as a gut, and that he should be sailing downhill, not settling deeper into the snow.

He started to get up.

The waxed hood, hauled with much labor up a long grade last sledded by pale eyed Keller young a century before, began to move.

Jacob dropped back into the hood, eyes widening.

He remembered the hiss of cold snow against sheet metal, he remembered how the wind picked up as it sailed past his pink cheeks -- his stomach parted company from the rest of him and Jacob was convinced, as he went whistling down most of a mile of fresh snow, as he picked up speed enough to scare him, that his Guardian Angel was streaming behind him like a gauzy kite, desperately holding onto the tail of Jacob's coat with one hand, gripping Jacob's absent stomach with the other!

Jacob whistled downhill faster than a human could possibly travel, and then some: he scraped on unseen rocks, he hit something that nearly threw him out, he grabbed the gunnels of his sheetmetal boat, sailing a frozen crystalline snow-sea, his eyes watered with the cold wind, part of him was SCREAMING OR ABSOLUTE JOY AND TERROR AND THIS IS MORE FUN THAN I'VE HAD IN MY LIFE --

Sheriff Jacob Keller smiled behind his mustache.

Like two adventurous Martian boys, lads of nine and ten years respectively, Jacob hauled a thick plastic sled to very near the summit of the extinct volcano that was, officially, the reason their colony was named Firelands.

Jacob stood on a narrow shelf, watched as one, then the other of the lads -- they were tall as he, though much skinnier, owing to growing up in one-third Earth-gravity -- they dropped their sleds, landed in them, sailed down the worn-smooth path like they'd done at least a half-dozen times before.

Jacob remembered being nine year old, cold, excited, about to achieve the culmination of a week's work, high up on a forbidden mountainside.

Sheriff Jacob Keller placed his thick-bottomed plastic sled, dropped his backside into it, felt it crunch into the loose dirt:  he hunched forward a few times, then began to slide, down the side of a tall volcanic cone, grinning like a schoolboy.

Somewhere in Jacob's soul he was screaming like he had as a nine year old boy, riding a waxed car hood down the long grade of a sledding slope Sarah McKenna and Angela Keller rode, in their day, and whether it was a boy of nine years on a snowy grade, or a grown man riding a plastic sled down the side of a volcanic mountain, that feeling of utter joy, that saturation of the soul with something SCARY and DANGEROUS and MORE FUN THAN HE'D HAD IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE, absolutely filled him like it had filled him when he was a child, in the mountains at home.

A pale eyed Sheriff slid down the side of a volcanic cone faster than he'd ever thought possible, and slid out on the sandy plain below, rode his sled to a stop, and just like he'd done, right before he loaded up the chain saw and gas can to haul them on his sled back home to be put away, he threw back his head, threw his arms wide and half-laughed, half-YAHOO'd, for the absolute and utter joy! of abandoning himself to a long, terrifying moment of more fun than he'd had in a very long time.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SATISFACTION

Sheriff Willamina Keller was an administrator.

She had to be: she was in charge of the entire county.

She was prior military, she'd led troops in combat, she'd taken orders and given orders and she'd gotten a reputation as being fast, silent and deadly -- so much so that she was considered a prize by her fellow troops, and there was a reward on her head by the enemy, a reward that was very nearly collected when the long arm of the unwashed reached deep into the North American continent, to plant an explosives-rigged motorcycle with intent to finish the job an enemy IED started.

It didn't work, partly because, in spite of returning to CONUS and cycling back into the civilian world, Sheriff Willamina Keller was paranoid as hell, suspicious as a curly wolf, and very attuned to Tank, who'd also rejoined the civilian world: when he alerted on the bike, Willamina had enough warning to keep herself alive, after which the guilty party's career was ended, rather permanently.

That, of course, is old history: the story is well known, and we will not presume to repeat it here.

Sheriff Willamina Keller was as prone to Cabin Fever and a general restlessness as anyone: on such days, she was known to hit the saddle, to drive the roads of her county, remaining in constant contact with her deputies, her dispatcher, with other agencies active at the moment, and so it was that she called in a plate and pulled over behind a vehicle that pulled over ahead of her.

Willamina was no stranger to law enforcement.

Few who rise to the rank of Sheriff are.

Her suspicions were excited when she came over a rise and the vehicle ahead of her pulled over, suddenly, the driver getting out, getting almost to the back of his car before seeing her, then hurrying back behind the wheel.

Willamina lit up as his brake lights came on, twisted the siren switch to YELP for a burst of four electronic yodels.

The brake lights went out and Willamina prepared for a chase, but the vehicle did not move.

The Bear Killer glared through the windshield, pink-rimmed lips rippling with the dark and suppressed mutters of a creature of preternatural senses:  Willamina pressed a switch -- The Bear Killer's passenger front window hummed down -- 

"Stay," she said quietly, then she keyed the mic and called in the plate and her location.

Willamina's feet hit the pavement.

She knew the driver would not be expecting a woman in a skirt and heels to come out from behind the wheel of a marked vehicle with blue lights:  she walked slowly up to the vehicle, pushed down on the trunk lid, pressed a finger against his tail light, never taking her eyes off the suspicious face in the outside mirror.

Sheriff Willamina Keller, warrior, chief officer, wife and mother, cocked her head and looked at the uncomfortable driver.

"I need your advice," she said conversationally.  "I'm thinking of getting a new car and this is one I've been considering.  How long have you had it?"

"Not long," he admitted.

Stolen, she thought, and the answer is not a lie.

"How's the mileage?"

"Good, mileage is good," he said.

"How's the trunk room?"

Willamina heard black canine claws digging at sheetmetal, heard a quiet whuff, and the driver's side taillight assembly flew out and hit the ground.

Willamina's draw was reflexive, swift: she backed a step, her pistol unwavering, steady, her ice-pale eyes looking over the slide leaving absolutely no doubt she was more than willing to send this sinner to the hell of his own earning.

"Hands," she said quietly.

He raised his hands.

"Pop the trunk."

Willamina saw his pupils dilate, saw his breathing speed up, knew he was adrenaline dumping: he reached down with one hand, the trunk popped, he raised his open hand again, slowly.

"Step out."

Willamina's finger was light on the trigger, she felt the trigger-mounted safety, she had a perfect sight picture --

The door clicked, opened: he swung his legs out, palms toward her.

"Stand up."

He stood.

"Turn around, one step to the right, hands against the car, feet back and spread 'em."

He turned, put his hands on the car, turned his head to watch her.

Willamina was ready for his spin, his grab.

He expected her to holster her pistol before she started to cuff him.

He didn't expect her grab, her kick, nor for the pavement to come roaring up and meet his face at a truly remarkable velocity.

Willamina holstered her pistol, waited for him to roll over.

"Your knee is broken," she said. "You can't stand."

He yelled, rolled over on his side, reached for his waistband.

Willamina kicked him under the chin, snapping his head back -- 

He rolled over onto his back --

Willamina raised her knee, stomped him hard in the gut.

She reached down, pulled out the tape-handled pistol, laid it on the hood of his car.

Willamina looked up as something tan and fast moving came over the rise a mile distant: as soon as the driver had eyes on his boss, Chief Deputy Barrents lit up.

He didn't increase his speed, he didn't have to:  Barrents had two speeds behind the wheel, wide open and dead stop, and he was most certainly not at a dead stop.

Willamina went around, looked in the trunk, came back, her eyes hard, unforgiving.

Sheriff Willamina Keller, slender of build and beautiful of sculpture -- Sheriff Willamina Keller, a noted dancer who could make an awkward dance partner look good -- Sheriff Willamina Keller, the patient, quick-to-listen representative of the Law in Firelands County -- bent and seized this criminal by his shirt front, hauled him off the ground -- drove her fist into his descending diaphragm hard enough to stop his falling momentum -- she picked him up, her teeth bared, RAGE blazing her her eyes, searing her throat --

Barrents braked hard, skidding a little sideways as he watched a woman with pale eyes and a wild expression pick up a man a head taller than she, pick him up by the throat and the crotch, haul him off the ground, raise him at arm's length overhead --

Chief Deputy Barrents was out of his cruiser and running, running to try and stop the Sheriff from pile driving this individual's head through blacktop and gravel fill --

Something was half-screaming, half-roaring, and Barrents, a pure blood Navajo, remembered tales told by the shaman, tales of creatures not of this earth, monsters and demons whose cries alone could strip the living soul from the strongest warrior --

Willamina turned.

Instead of slamming the perpetrator him head-down into pressed blacktop, she threw him facefirst into a water filled ditch.

 

Multiple agencies reviewed the cruiser cam recordings.

Willamina's husband, thanks to his standing as retired FBI, viewed them as well.

Willamina discussed the stop with her chief deputy over coffee after the investigation, after statements, after interviews and debriefs, and after an influential member of the State Legislature personally shook her hand and thanked her for saving his kidnapped daughter.

Willamina gravely accepted the politician's thanks.

Barrents was two arm's-lengths away; he stood beside the Sheriff as they watched the politician's backside retreat through the heavy glass doors.

"You realize," Barrents said, "you could have taken a tire tool and broken every bone in his body, and nobody would touch you for it."

Willamina nodded.  "It's not what'cha know, it's who ya know. Save a legislator's kid and you're a hero, do the same for the child of a trailer park and you're an abusive monster."

"You saved a child."  Barrents turned, looked at her.  "That's got to feel good."

"Nobody saved me when I was a child," Willamina said harshly, memories coarsening her voice:  "I've got to set the example.  By the way" -- she looked at her Chief Deputy -- "you were teaching tactics in the high school."

Barrents nodded.

"You were teaching the girls to knock out the taillight and stick their hand out and wave."

Barrents nodded again.

"She wasn't in your class but somebody taught her that trick. Use this as an example. When his taillight flew out and hit the ground I knew someone was in that trunk."

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

DADDY'S DAUGHTER

I told Angela to never hesitate to excel any anything she purposes.

She is as delightful a child as a man could ever want: she is as intelligent as her mother, and as beautiful: she has good sense about her, she is quick to smile and quick to laugh, and her laugh is as contagious to the high-born as to the low: she is as kind, and as gentle, as her mother, but she has a strength I doubt me not she inherited from Esther as well.

She rides like an Apache: I've watched her swing a leg over a stallion's bare back, her skirt becoming her saddle-blanket and saddle: as a wee child she lay herself down the horse's spine and over his neck, her hands were flat on his neck and I can still hear her high, little-girl's voice yell "Go, horsie!" and good Lord! that stallion did!

Sheriff Linn Keller straightened, leaned back, swung his shoulders back, his arms:  something just below his shoulder blades gave a dull *pop* and he wished Jackson Cooper were still alive: when Linn's back got to giving him trouble, he'd cross his arms, Jackson Cooper would grip his elbows and pick him up, slowly, until the man's heels were just off the ground, and he'd give a little shake.

Sometimes multiple vertebrae would release, sometimes just one or two, there was a brief, intense pain followed by a most profound relief.

"Jackson Cooper," Linn said softly, "I do miss you," and he stared at the ink-wet words he'd just written.

He didn't bother to blot them -- uncharacteristic for him -- he closed his eyes and remembered what it was to walk his little girl down the aisle, for her to come up on her toes and kiss him on the cheek, then to turn and seize the hands of the nervous young man waiting for her in front of the altar rail, there in their little whitewashed church.

Linn wiped the nib, put it carefully away, slid the glass stopper into the ink-bottle, set it away as well.

His Journal would wait.

 

Angela Keller sat at her Daddy's desk, reading the dark loops and whorls of a long-dead lawman's Journal.

Her Daddy taught her to look beneath the surface, to hear what was under the words being spoken. 

She read this ancient Journal with the same idea, frowning a little as the handwriting became distinctly black -- not the light grey of a blotted page.

Was he called away? she wondered, then turned the page back to read the date.

Not called away -- not for any official duty, at least. 

Jacob was Sheriff by now.

Old Pale Eyes was retired and going blind.

Was that why he didn't blot this page?

A distinctly black ink was easier to read?

Angela frowned, read ahead: if there'd been an interruption, surely he would have discussed this in a subsequent entry.

No mention was made.

Angela re-read the ancestral lawman's words to his little girl.

I told Angela to never hesitate to excel any anything she purposes.

"Anything she purposes," Angela whispered aloud.

"Purposes? Or proposes?"

Angela looked up and smiled: she heard gravel crunch as her Daddy came wheeling up the driveway, as he backed into his usual place, as The Bear Killer jumped across the console and out the open driver's door and went at a dead run around the house, running a joyful orbit of house and two barns before coming back to the front yard, skidding a little and galloping sideways as Linn came to the front door.

"Wipe your feet," Linn said quietly, and The Bear Killer planted his front paws, dug with his hind: he trotted happily to the front steps, galumphed noisily up them and into the house.

The Bear Killer swung around the Sheriff's desk, planted his broad backside and looked adoringly at Angela as she laid her arm across his shoulders.

"Keepin' my chair warm?" Linn grinned -- it was a standing joke -- of all the places in the house to read or do homework, Daddy's desk was Angela's favorite work station.

She nodded, solemn and big-eyed, reminding him most powerfully of the days when she was a little girl in pigtails and pinafores, nodding in just such a way.

Linn turned to the kitchen, raised both arms straight out in front, goose-stepped awkwardly in a fatherly imitation of Frankenstein's Monster:  "Coooffffeeeee," he rumbled, and Angela laughed, the way she always did she was a little girl and her Daddy was being silly.

Angela rose, walked quickly into the kitchen:  "I hope you like leftovers," she said quietly, opening the oven:  "we've meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and the green beans" -- she lifted a glass lid, stirred, replaced the lid -- "are ready too."

"Darlin'," Linn sighed, "the way all that smells, I'll eat it!"

 

It was a rare night when but one of the Keller young sat with dear old Dad at the supper table.

Angela ate at her Daddy's left hand, close enough to hear without difficulty, for her Daddy tended to be rather soft spoken when he was relaxed.

"How was your day, Daddy?" Angela asked, picking up the bread platter and moving it closer.

"Thank you darlin'," Linn murmured as he picked up two thick slices of home baked sourdough: he buttered one, then added a good gob of homemade preserves, spread it over the fragrant surface.

Angela waited: she buttered her own, tilted her head a little as she looked at her Daddy.

"Today," Linn sighed, "was a rare day indeed."

Angela's eyebrow went up quickly, came down slowly, a habit she'd acquired from her pale eyed father.

"We did not have one single call today."

"Is that good?" Angela asked quietly, taking a bite of her butter-and-jelly bread.

"Oh, that's very good," Linn grinned.  "I'll take those days with a smile on my face!"

Angela nodded.

"How's nursing school?"

Angela put down her bread, planted her palms on either side of her dinner plate: her pretty young face was serious as she looked at her Daddy.

"I need help with an obsolete definition."

"Oh?" Linn dipped his forkful of leftover mashed potatoes into re-warmed gravy, savored the bite.

"Old Pale Eyes' journal. He's writing about his Angela. He said she should never be afraid to excel at anything she purposes."

Linn nodded slowly.  "Purposes," he echoed, "not proposes."

Angela nodded.

"There is a phrase ..."  Linn said slowly.  " 'What I purpose, I perform.'  It refers to completing a task."

"As opposed to proposing."

"I propose to do this-or-that means I'm thinking about it but it's up in the air. It's a suggestion. When I purpose to something, I am setting it as a goal and I will achieve it."

"Hm."

Father and daughter finished their supper in thoughtful silence.

Linn helped Angela stack dishes, wash dishes, arrange clean, scalded-hot dishes in the drain rack.

"We'll let those set and repent of their sins," Linn said quietly.  "I feel like dessert."

Angela frowned, laid a hand on his arm, squeezed.  
"You feel like Daddy to me."

Linn laughed.  "Trust me cause trouble!"

"We're out of ice cream. I put it on the grocery list."

"We could go to the drugstore, have a chocolate hot fudge sundae."

Angela looked at her Daddy with the same big-eyed, hopeful expression she wore as an eight-year-old, hearing the same offer.

 

Not two days later, a man sidled up to the Sheriff and said slyly, "Hey Linn, who was that younger woman I saw you with the other day?"

He eased his elbow into Linn's ribs and winked.

Linn frowned a little.

"You know, that younger woman you were having ice cream with!"

Linn blinked, nodded.  "Oh, yes," he said quietly.

"Robbin' the cradle, aren't you, stud?" -- again the elbow, the knowing wink.

"You mean my daughter Angela," Linn said quietly.

"Oh," came the reply -- then, "Oh," and as Linn stared at him, pale eyed and unblinking, the questioner pressed a palm to his forehead and repeated "Oh!"

Linn admitted later he fully expected the questioner to crawl under the linoleum and slink away.

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A QUIET TALK

Old Pale Eyes considered the distilled sunshine in the cut glass decanter.

He considered it, decided against it.

No sense to drink alone.

He'd known too many men, lonely men who drank because it was their habit, and drink replaced people, and such men never lived long.

Linn turned, looked out the window.

His vision was failing; damned cataracts, Doc Greenlees called them: he'd recommended a specialist in Denver, who confirmed Doc's diagnosis: Linn rode to The City with his youngest daughter: they were not overlong, the specialist was brisk, efficient, professional, almost curt, and Linn and his darlin' daughter rode back in the same private car they'd taken that morning.

Linn was quiet, his expression serious: his youngest, a pretty girl just beginning to see the first changes that declared her a woman-to-be, sat beside her Daddy.

She hugged his arm, leaned into him, laid her head over on his shoulder, drawing comfort from his solid strength: she'd always known him as her big strong Daddy, and it distressed her to think that the man was going blind, for she'd long equated blindness with helplessness and weakness -- and there is no way on God's green earth her Daddy was either helpless, or weak!

"You know something, darlin'?" Linn rumbled, and she raised her face, smiled at this weathered, lined face, this pale eyed visage that had never failed to look at her with absolute kindness.

"What, Daddy?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

"I believe I owe you an apology."

Her eyes widened and she had a look of absolute confusion.

"I've wasted your afternoon," he said, "and now your evening, and for absolutely no productive end."

She laid her head back down on his shoulder, cuddled into him.

"I'm spending time with my Daddy," she said.  "I'm happy here."

Linn pulled his arm free, laid it across his daughter's shoulders, held her gently, a big warm Daddy-hug.

"I am too, Princess," he said quietly.  "I am too."

Linn held his daughter the rest of the way home: lulled by the repetitive clickety-clack of steel wheels over rail-joints, by the sway of the car, the hum of the wheels, she'd fallen asleep, relaxed, trusting, content.

It was not the first time Linn carried a sleeping child out of the private car.

Twelve years old she might be, and a young lady she might becoming, but she was still Daddy's little girl, and her big strong Daddy's arms meant she was safe, and she was loved, and all was right with the world.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A GOOD MOVE

Sheriff Linn Keller stood at the Silver Jewel's ancient, dark and gleaming bar.

He had one burnished boot up on the aged but well kept foot rail, one elbow on the bar, and he was regarding a young man with a kind and fatherly expression.

A little boy sat on a barstool, industriously working on a cheeseburger and fries: he ate steadily, his expression almost fearful, but hunger will persuade the fearful to cooperation, and his did just that.

The Bear Killer sat beside the barstool, watching the lad's consumption: Linn had a platter of chicken strips and fries, and every now and then he'd reach behind the lad and feed a dainty to The Bear Killer.

The big black mountain Mastiff accepted the Sheriff's offerings, but he made a study of the lad: boys and dogs have a curious affinity, and The Bear Killer was staying close to this young visitor to their community.

Linn received a call from the dispatcher: it seems that a young face was seen looking out the open door of a railroad boxcar, on the main line, when the train was stopped for whatever reason:  Linn found a scared, hungry little boy in the side door Pullman, coaxed him out: the boy was fearful, he was hungry, and apparently he was a long way from home.

Linn packed the little lad to his cruiser: The Bear Killer swarmed into the back seat and Linn set the lad in the passenger front: Linn got in, reached over, drew the seat belt across the little fellow, secured the buckle.

"You ever ride a train before?" Linn asked in a quiet voice, and the boy shook his head.

Linn nodded.  "Ever ride in a police car before?"

Again, the careful head-shake.

"I'm kind of hungry.  How about you?"

The lad nodded.

Linn winked.  "I just happen to know where there's some lunch that hasn't been eaten yet. Interested?"

Again, the careful nod.

The Bear Killer thrust his big head between the seats, panting happily: he knew several human words, and LUNCH was one of them -- matter of fact, it was one of his favorites.

Man and boy and big black Mastiff left the stopped train and headed for the Silver Jewel Saloon.

 

There was a bunk in the Sheriff's office -- there was more than one, as a matter of fact, but one was kept made up and ready -- Linn noticed that this visitor to their county was less uncomfortable with The Bear Killer, which was not surprising: The Bear Killer was a favorite when the Sheriff's office visited the schools, and sometimes Linn brought The Bear Killer around at random moments, or at the school's request: there were times when a child was traumatized and needed more reassurance than the staff could give them, and more times than one, Linn used The Bear Killer to get information from a scared or confused child.

The Sheriff knew better than to push the boy for answers: he'd let the lad relax and get used to his surroundings, meantime he had inquiries out with the railroad -- where was their train last stopped -- Jacob handled the inquiries, and in short order they found where it was stopped, which jurisdiction, that the jurisdictional police department had a report of a little boy, missing, then a subsequent report of a dirty double dog dare that went wrong when the train started to move and a scared little boy didn't want to jump out of the car when everyone else ran away, laughing.

Jacob came into the Silver Jewel, approached his father with a silent tread, laid a hand written sheet on the bar: he winked at Mr. Baxter, waited for his father to consider the contents of his missive.

He very carefully kept his father between himself and the boy.

No sense to stress the lad with being looked at by Another Official Person.

The Sheriff nodded, pulled out his pen, wrote along the margin of the lined yellow sheet:  he looked at Jacob, nodded, then turned back to his chicken fingers and fries.

Linn slid the empty platter across the shining bar, and his guest looked at him with innocent, trusting eyes and slid his own platter away from him as well:  Linn rose, picked up the boy -- his legs were too short to reach the ground, by a significant margin -- The Bear Killer danced along beside the long tall lawman and his big-eyed, marveling guest.

He packed him over to the Sheriff's Office -- "You ever been inside a genuine Sheriff's Office before?" he asked, and the lad shook his head, rubbing his eyes:  Linn carried him back to the bunk, set him down:  practiced and fatherly hands pulled off the boy's sneakers, lifted the covers.

A four year old with blue eyes yawned truly wide, laid down and curled up on his side, and Sheriff Linn Keller drew the covers up around the boy's chin.

The Bear Killer sat beside the bunk, his chin rested on its edge, and a little pink hand slipped out from under the covers and felt warm, welcome fur.

The Bear Killer taste tested the little hand, found it to his liking, laid his head more fully on the bunk and sighed with contentment.

 

"Sir, we've found his parents."

Linn nodded.

"It seems young Jimmy was tagging along after his brother and his brother wanted to hang out with his buddies so they put him in the railroad boxcar and told him to quit bothering them. Right about then, the train started to move and they boys ran and just left him. His parents are out of their tree worried."

"I would be too," Linn agreed quietly. "How far away is home?"

"He's been on that train better than a day, sir."

Linn whistled.  "No wonder he was hungry!"

"Sir, Mama likely has clothes to fit him. If he's needful of a bath we can wash and dry what he's wearing."

"Might not be a bad idea. It'll take a while for his folks to get out here."

"Or we could set up a relay and take him home, make the several police agencies look good."

"Make the arrangements."

"Yes, sir."

 

And so it was that a four year old boy with big blue eyes, freshly laundered clothes and a full belly, had one final nap, with his arm laid over The Bear Killer's shoulders, before being seat belted into a Sheriff's cruiser and taken to the state line, where another agency's cruiser picked him up and took him the width of the state of Kansas: from there, his home town police had a cruiser waiting, and drove him the final leg of the journey, where he was met by worried family and the local news station.

A package arrived a few days later, a package with an envelope: there were pictures of a little boy sitting in the front of a tan Sheriff's cruiser, of a little boy asleep on a bunk, his arm laid over the ribs of a truly huge dog, a picture of a little boy sitting on a barstool beside a genuine Western Sheriff.

There was also a big black plushy stuffed dog with a yellow plastic five point star dangling from its collar.

 

"Jacob."

"Yes, sir?"

"Take a look at this."

The Sheriff handed his son a thank-you card: Jacob opened it, read the handwritten message.

Thank you for the unexpected gift.

Jimmy had nightmares until he received your big black toy dog.

He sleeps without nightmares now.

Beneath, an addendum: the handwriting was not as regular.

Jimmy has never spoken until today.

He was hugging the stuffy you sent and he said 'Bear.'

 

Jacob looked up, surprised, and saw his father was regarding him with an approving expression.

"That was a good move, sending that toy Bear Killer and those pictures."

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SPEED

"I'M A-GONNA DRAW!"

Esther Keller's head came up: her pencil fell to the desk top, forgotten, as was the column of numbers she was adding: she thrust out of her chair, reached for her tight-choked double gun, stepped to her office window overlooking the street in front of the Silver Jewel.

Jacob Keller shucked the rifle from its scabbard: he did not need to look to know a round was in the chamber, he needed only look at the individual on the boardwalk, across the street, facing the approaching Sheriff.

Jacob's thumb brought the Winchester hammer back to full cock, the crescent steel buttplate settled into place, a pale eye sighted along the top flat of the octagon barrel.

Sheriff Linn Keller's face was grim, set: he was close enough if the man drew, he'd likely not miss: if Linn drew at three times the distance, it was butcher's range, for the man had the reputation of being a snake with a single action -- he was fast, and he was accurate, and he was advancing at a rapid, long-legged stride, boot heels loud on the dusty, warped boards in front of the log Sheriff's office.

The man who shouted his challenge realized he was too close -- too close, that damned lawman couldn't miss -- he started to draw --

Jacob's finger tightened, then paused, as his father moved faster than it was possible for an upright man to move.

He didn't lean forward into a sprint, he didn't dive into the man, he just ... moved.

The Sheriff's hands were faster yet: one seized his opponent's gun-hand wrist, the other smacked the man across the face, hard.

Jacob released the trigger entirely, laid his hand over the hammer spur, drew back, felt more than heard the sear drop fully into engagement.
He'd come closer to firing than he'd realized.

Jacob wasn't sure quite exactly what his father just did.

He knew attacker and defender switched places, rapidly; he knew the man who'd made the mistake of threatening that pale eyed old lawman, slammed hard against the corner of the funeral parlor, then as something that resembled a minor tornado in a black suit spun, hands still gripping the party of the second part, another impact and it was the solid log wall of the Sheriff's office that soaked up the impact of a hard-swung carcass.

Jacob brought the rifle off his shoulder, held out his hand:  Apple-horse came over, hooves surprisingly loud on the packed dirt:  Jacob didn't look, he waited until his stallion's shoulder found his extended fingertips, then he half-cocked the Winchester, thrust it back into its scabbard, mounted.

Esther Keller leaned out her open office window, shotgun in hand:  from her window to acros-the-street distance, her tight-choked double gun would spread little more than a dinner plate, and she was loaded with a heavy charge of swan shot: she preferred the dense shot swarm, a preference her husband shared, for it was heavy enough to do the job and a thick enough swarm to say NO enough times to make it stick.

Esther's bird gun was across her, not quite a high port: she was leaned out her window up to her waist, her knees against the inside wall, just under the window sill: from here, she reasoned, she could make an accurate shot, if only the Sheriff would do her the courtesy of getting the hell out of her way!

She did not shoulder her gun: her husband was taking care of the problem, and in his usual brisk, swift, efficient and very understandable manner.

Esther lowered her gun and watched as Linn finished his address to the criminal, by hauling the man overhead and slamming him to the packed dirt: the man landed flat on his back, and just lay there, every bit of wind knocked out of him.

Jacob walked his stallion into the mouth of the alley, leaned over a little -- an exaggerated move, for the benefit of the several eyes watching -- then he came back into his seat, looked across the street and up at an angle, and he raised his Stetson in salute toward the green-eyed matron leaning out her office window with a tight-bored, English-gripped double gun in hand.

"You want I should drown him, sir?" Jacob asked casually.  "There's a nice friendly rain barrel rattair."

Sheriff Linn Keller was standing very still ... so absolutely still that if a man listened for his heartbeat, likely he'd not hear one:  the man had a marvelous talent for turning invisible, or so he'd been told, and when he got mad enough to lay hands on someone, he generally got so impossibly silent that cold stillness cascaded off him like a cold wind sinking off a mountain peak.

Nothing a lawman does goes unnoticed.

If a lawman is lucky, what he does well, he does in the public eye, so it becomes known.

This is why Linn would practice pistolcraft in the whitewashed corral at the lower end of town, why he'd have little boys chasing ventilated, hand-tossed tin cans for him, why he'd toss a washer or a slug or the occasional coin into the air, to send it singing and whizzing off to who-knows-where with a draw-and-fire, or how he would casually, unexpectedly, produce a knife from somewhere and nonchalantly sling it into a corral post.

Seeing him charge a man threatening to draw and shoot him -- seeing him move the final feet with an impossible speed -- seeing his hands move faster than the eye could follow, realizing he'd just slapped the man, hard, while seizing his gun hand, then driving him HARD into the corner of the funeral parlor -- then spin him and slam him into the log wall of the Sheriff's office -- then pick a grown man up by crotch and collar, hold him high overhead for a long moment, and then SLAM him down flat on his back -- 

-- well, word travels, and that Old Pale Eyes was fast and deadly, that he was fast with his hands, was information widely disseminated.

It was not something the Sheriff sought out, it was nothing he intended to do, but when the time came, he proved himself capable, and that information prevented a number of disagreements in the years to come.

(Esther's having leaned out her office window with a double gun, lasted longer in the popular imagination than did Jacob's offer to drown the pained and knock-winded miscreant, perhaps because one week later she did so again, but this time she centered two shot charges on someone who most richly deserved her attention: the tight chokes did their work, someone who intended her son harm, paid dearly for his murderous intent, and Firelands became even more a place for the lawless to avoid, but that's a story for some other time)

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE SMILE

Older men have long memories.

An old man with pale eyes looked at the dusty back end of a horse trailer.

A memory walked up and opened the tail gate of the horse trailer, lowering it with a hiss of hydraulic pistons, a memory that showed a five year old girl in red cowboy boots and a red Stetson, holding the lead rope of her Gammaw's Frisian mare.

Marnie strutted down the lowered ramp and the Frisian -- looking all the taller for the short stature of the five-year-old towing the far end of the lead rope -- paced docilely behind this little girl with the broad brimmed hat and the broad, happy smile.

Linn blinked; the trailer sat there, unmoving, the gate still up and fast in place: he looked at sun-faded paint and road dust and a splash of mud at one corner, and he smiled just a little, for the memory of his little girl and that greeeaaaaat big horse was a good one, and one he cherished.

He remembered Marnie's expression -- again, not long after she came to be his little girl, when she was still just a wee child -- she saw a colt born, he remembered looking over and feeling surprised at how absolutely wide her eyes were as she saw new life fighting in the straw:  Linn smiled, just a little, the way an older man will, at a good memory.

Five-year-old Marnie crouched a little, balled up her tiny little fists and hammered the air with excitement and encouragement as the foal scrambled to get wobbly legs under, saw Marnie's expression of absolute delight as the foal made its legs, as it found its first meal, as the mare nuzzled her foal and talked to her foal and licked her foal.

Somewhere in the archives Linn had a picture of Marnie with her arms around the foal's neck, out in the pasture, he had the memory of Marnie running with the foal -- Marnie on one side of the whitewashed fence, the foal on the other -- they'd run one way, the shining chestnut foal hobby-horsing, Marnie laughing -- they would turn and run back -- 

Marnie, looking so tiny on the back of a horse, her boots thrust purposefully into stirrups shortened up for her use, Marnie learning to ride bitless, laughing and fearless in the Colorado sunshine.

Linn remembered the feel of her little fists, gripping bunched-up handsful of shirt as she rode behind him, standing upright, yelling "Faster, Daddy!  Faster!" -- and he remembered how Shelly gave him blue hell because horse, rider, and happily screaming daughter soared over the fence and landed at a wide open gallop, and Shelly was certain Marnie was going to hit the ground and break her neck.

Linn admitted it wasn't his brightest move, especially when they described a big circle in the back field and came back, with Marnie yelling "Faster, Daddy! Faster!" and his Apple-horse's ears laid back and his nose punched out into the wind and Marnie screamed again as they soared back over the fence, and Marnie was still behind him, her young body pressed against his back, her hands wound up in as much shirt material as she could twist loose and grab hold of --

Linn blinked, chewed on his bottom lip.

He stood behind his horse trailer and looked at the closed back gate, and he nodded, remembering how it felt to soar over that fence, knowing he was grinning like a schoolboy, knowing he was going to catch hell for it and honestly not giving a good damn.

Linn turned and looked back toward the house.

He remembered Marnie charging out the front door -- she had two speeds in those days, wide open and dead stop -- she ran out the front door, didn't bother with the steps, leaped from the porch, hit the ground at a sprint ... she was maybe twelve, she was becoming a young woman, she was competing at the county fair and she was dressed for the occasion.

The other girls wore makeup and Marnie refused:  she wore her pale skin and her pale eyes like a badge of honor, she steadfastly refused to hide her freckles, she'd braided her hair and shined up her trademark red cowboy boots, pantyhose being her only concession to getting gussied up like the other contestants -- she confessed later to her Daddy it was to prevent saddle sores and not to make her legs look good -- "My legs are pretty good the way they are," she said frankly, "but when Gammaw told me that's how she prevents saddle sores, I figured why not."

Linn remembered that summer, when Marnie was next in line for the barrel race.

She was the only barrel racer that wasn't in blue jeans, and she was the only barrel racer who didn't finish.

One of the other horses seized its bit and threw its rider, and Marnie dug her heels into her mare and shot diagonally across the arena, lariat in hand.

The uncooperative horse came after her rider, who was just rolling over and trying to come up on all fours: she was obviously hurt -- she spat blood, doubled over, collapsed -- the mare came at her, hooves-first --

Marnie's Appaloosa drove into her, hard, knocking the other horse away:  Marnie's teeth clicked together, hard, she and her mare pulled back, spun to face the other horse.

Marnie shook out a loop, charged.

Her loop floated, opened, dropped very neatly where the other horse's head had been a moment ago --

Marnie snapped the braied reata back, caught it, chased:  she herded the other horse to the far end of the arena, gathering herself, pale eyes hard, teeth bared --

The other mare charged --

Marnie's mare jumped to the side, spun --

Marnie's arm extended --

She'd gotten two fast turns around her saddlehorn when the line snapped taut, when one horse's momentum yanked her off her feet, when the other horse, braced, got pulled off balance, fell.

Marnie hit the ground, rolled:  she charged, she landed on the other mare's saddle as it fought upright.

Marnie's mare backed, keeping the line taut as the other mare fought:  she braced her forehooves, shook her head until she realized she had a rider on board --

It was a fine display.

A pretty young girl in a red vest, skirt and boots, ribbon-tied braids flying behind her, a red Stetson in one hand, and beneath her, a paint mare that didn't want anything to do with the arena, with barrels, with riders:  Marnie never heard the crowd, she never heard the announcer, she heard nothing but her unwilling mount's screams, and that from a distance.

She was too busy trying to keep from being tossed into the next county.

The horse's original rider was eased onto a litter and run out of the arena, the gate closed: Marnie's mare kept backing, keeping the reata taut, turning to stay nose-on to the unwilling, fighting captive.

More riders shot into the arena:  men skilled at such things sandwiched the bucking paint between their bigger, more powerful mounts, seized her bridle from either side, cornered her:  finally she stopped, trembling, and Marnie reached over and gripped a man's arm, left side, right side, squeezed.

Marnie worked the loop loose, tossed it to the ground, expecting another explosion, but the mare had apprently had enough.

They walked the tired mare and its red-Stetson-wearing rider around the arena, one rider dropped back and the mare was pressed up against the sideboards:  Marnie crossed her palms on the saddlehorn, she kicked free of the stirrups, jumped straight up, got both feet on the saddle: willing hands reached toward her, the rider on her right took her around the waist, she was passed from rider to spectator:  Marnie stopped, standing on the side of the arena, listening to the applause, the cheers, whistles, the yells:  she was near enough the announcer's booth that a wireless microphone was passed to her.

Before she could be asked a question, she raised a hand, waved:  "Let's hear it for these fine fellows that got me out of a situation!"

An absolute roar of approval went up:  Marnie worked her way through the crowd, handed the wireless mic back to the announcer, slipped out and around back, and retrieved her mare, waiting patiently at the far end of the arena, reata still dollied around the saddlehorn.

Marnie gathered her line, coiled it, mounted:  she looked around as the gate was opened for her, then she saw what she was looking for.

Marnie raised her arm, waved, then she and her mare trotted slowly out of the arena.

It took a little bit for Linn and Shelly to make their way to their daughter.

Linn seized Marnie -- he bent a little, he snatched her under the arms, he hoist her up to arm's length overhead and he spun her about, laughing, and that's the picture that made the Firelands Gazette:  a perfect profile shot, a proud and laughing father, his daughter at arm's length above him, her pigtails and her Stetson both in mid-air, her legs flying out behind her.

Linn looked at the road dust and the faded paint and the closed trailer gate and he remembered, and he nodded, and he smiled.

 

Edited August 21, 2023 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WORRYWART

"Pa?"

"Yes, Joseph?"  Linn raised the hatchet, brought it down briskly, split the chunk: sharpened steel bit into the splittin' stump and Linn reached down, picked up the bigger of the two halves, held it while he worked the hatchet bit free.

Joseph watched as his Pa set the stoned edge against the sawed edge, raised both, tapped it down, neatly splitting the wood into two thin slivers, suitable for a quick firing in the stove.

"Pa, are you going to die?"

Linn stopped, then gently -- gently! -- dunked the corner of the hatchet's blade in the stump: he knew Joseph was reacting to something heard, or half-heard, and he knew it took some courage to ask the Grand Old Man such a serious question ... and he knew if he drove the hatchet into the stump briskly, it might look like an anger response, and that would slam the door in a scared little boy's face.

Linn grabbed a sawed chunk, rolled it up, gestured to it: Joseph sat as Linn rolled up another one and dropped his skinny backside to the dry, seasoned wood.

Linn hunched over, forearms on his knees, and looked at his son with a wise and almost amused expression.

"Everybody dies, Joseph," he said softly.  "Just like all dogs, if they live long enough, develop cancer, just like every one of us will get cataracts if we live long enough."

Joseph frowned a little, looked away, looked back.

"Pa, you got cancer?"

Linn laughed.  "Not as I know of, why?"

"But you're goin' to the skin doc because Ma found somethin' suspicious on yer back and she's worried it's --"

Linn held up a hand and Joseph's frightened discourse stopped like a solenoid valve just slammed shut on a water line.

"Yes, I'm goin' to the skin doc," Linn said in a gentle voice.  "You recall Uncle Will had several skin cancers taken off his ears and the back of his neck?"

Joseph nodded.

"Your Gammaw had cataracts treated and I will too, but not for a while yet. Kind of like replacing wheel bearings or U-joints in the truck, some things wear and have to be taken care of."

"But Pa," Joseph protested, "ain't they gonna put you in the hospital and fill you up with pickle juice and cut on ya?"

Linn laughed, shook his head: he rose, picked up his son, hugged him close and set back down.

Joseph was getting a little big to be set on his Pa's lap, but sometimes it's needful, and Linn's gut told him this was needful.

"Joseph," he said in a gentle voice, "would you say I'm a smart feller?"

Joseph nodded, his young eyes wide and serious.

"I'd like to think so myself.  Do you reckon I can talk with authority on legal matters?"

Joseph nodded again.

"Would you say Doc Greenlees is a smart feller?"

Joseph nodded again.

"Now suppose you had a question about the laws of arrest, search and seizure. Would you be better off asking Doc about it, or asking me about it?"

Joseph looked surprised.  "I'd ask you, Pa!"

"Why not Doc?  He's a smart feller!"

"Yebbit," Joseph almost stammered -- he stopped, blinked, tried again -- "but Pa, Doc's a doc and you know all about that stuff!"

Linn nodded, squeezed his son's upper arm very gently.

"Now how about taking out an appendix. Would you want Doc to do the work, or me?"

"Ummm," Joseph hesitated, wondering why these questions were so easy, was his Pa trying to slicker him:  "didn't Old Pale Eyes do that oncet?"

Linn threw his head back and laughed, and Joseph felt some tension unwind in his young belly to see his Pa's genuine amusement, and hear the gentle side of his laughter.

"No," Linn grinned, "Old Pale Eyes was interesting, all right, but I don't believe he ever did deep abdominal surgery."  Linn raised a teaching finger.  "Here's what I'm gettin' at.  You recall that T-shirt Jacob likes to wear?"

Joseph frowned, blinked, brightened.

"What does it say right across the front?"

"It says 'A Little Knowledge is a Dangerous Thing,' Jacob quoted.

"And what's it say across the back?"

"It says 'I Know Just Enough to Get in Trouble!' "

Linn nodded, winked.  "That," he said, "is exactly right.  Now" -- he looked left, looked right, leaned his head a little closer.

"Your Mama saw something on my back she wants me to have looked at. Doc Greenlees is good at what he does and I trust the man, but he's what's called a General Practitioner.  GP for short, and no he's not a General Electric locomotive."

Linn saw Joseph's mouth open the moment he said 'GP' and knew his son's swift imagination had run straight to another memory, of he and his Pa and Jacob holding a scholarly discussion on modern railroads and types of locomotives they'd seen on the main lines.

"Y'see, the skin doc specializes in things that don't look quite right.  It might be this is totally harmless. If it's not, she'll tend it right there in the office. You recall Uncle Will had several skin cancers whittled off his own carcass and he's just fine."

"But Pa," Joseph protested, "that's Uncle Will and you're you!"

Linn looked very directly at his young son, then he slowly, carefully, wrapped his arms around the boy, held him:  Joseph felt his Pa breathe, slow, powerful, his embrace warm, reassuring, a fatherly reassurance that said better than any words what Joseph needed to hear in that moment.

"Your Ma saw what she thought was a black mole," Linn said quietly, "and I've got two moles on my arm that have changed. If they're nothing, so much the better. If they're anything, why, chances are Doc will take liquid nitrogen and bzzt!" -- he touched a quick finger to Joseph's ribs, bringing a quick tickling giggle from his suddenly-squirming son -- "she'll fetch it right off.  That is" -- he lowered his head, eased his face in until his nose just touched his son's nose, and Joseph saw his Pa's eyes converge to a single, shining, pale orb -- "if it's anything but normal."

Linn drew back, blinking, shook his head.

"Cross eyed dizzied me up some!" he complained, looking at his son:  he rose, his arm sliding under Joseph's young thighs.

"Tell you what," Linn said decisively. "I am given to understand that chocolate chip cookies are a good cancer preventative. What say we go prevent some."

"Okay!" Joseph brightened:  anytime Pa wanted to partake of Mama's homemade goodies, Joseph was all in, and in spite of his earlier oncological misgivings, a grinning little boy delighted in being packed back to the house by his long tall Pa.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

NO THANK YOU SIR

"Jacob."

"Yes, sir?"

Jacob Keller stopped and faced the phys ed teacher squarely.

"Why didn't you sign up for football?"

"Don't care for it, sir."

"I notice you've never scored even one basket in class."

"Don't care for it, sir."

Jimmy Cook frowned, crossed his arms:  in his world, sports were everything.

"Why don't you care for football?"

"Why questions slam doors and build walls," Jacob quoted.  "Why questions presuppose that I am in the wrong. With respect, sir, I have no use for any of your sports."

"What about teamwork, character, maturation?"

"I have plenty of that already, sir."

"I see."

"Will that be all, sir?"

Jimmy Cook frowned, looked away.

"Yes.  That'll be all."

"Thank you, sir."

 

Later in the period, the Phys Ed teacher and the student teacher were watching Jacob.

"He's fast," the student teacher murmured.

"He's good," Cook admitted.  "Notice when the ball came in reach, he grabbed it like he'd glued his fingers."

"And he got rid of it just as fast. He had a clear shot to the basket."

Cook whistled time; the class formed up, ran the mandatory three laps around the gym, then filed into the locker room for shower and change.

"He's never attempted a basket?" the student teacher asked.

"Never once.  He'll pass the ball to someone else."

"To someone with a better shot?"

"No.  Almost always he passes to the least competent player."

"So he's giving them a chance."

"I suppose."

"He's getting them to participate."

"Mmm."  Cook frowned, looked away.

"He's making sure everyone has the chance to participate."

Cook grunted, turned, headed for the locker room.

 

Jacob and Marnie Keller stood barefoot in the dojo, their white belts carefully knotted, their unadorned white ghi unadorned.

The instructor regarded them with quiet and knowing eyes.

The other students wore ghi of various colors, indicating their status in the martial art: their belts were colored according to their rank, some had colorful patches sewn on, to indicate their having mastered a technique or a level.

Neither Jacob nor Marnie had any such insignia.

New students gravitated to them because they wore the same ghi and belt as a beginner; Sensei did not offer to correct them as they helped the newcomers learn the basic katas, helped them gain proficiency, coached them and sparred very carefully with them, and rejoiced when these newcomers gained their first dan.

Other nights, Jacob and Marnie practiced with members of their Sheriff's office: they were welcomed owing to their youth, their speed, their strength, because the Sheriff wished to instill the notion that the very young are challenging to catch, to subdue, to get into irons: it was not unusual for lawman and student alike to end up rolling on the ground, shouting, fighting, twisting, kicking.

 

Jacob Keller, freshly showered, dressed, briefcase in hand (he refused to wear the ubiquitous backpack), paused on his way past the coach's office.

He knocked, leaned in.

"Mr. Cook?  Thank you for asking, sir, it was good of you to think of me."

Jim Cook nodded, surprised, watched as Jacob headed out with the rest of the class.

"Doesn't care for football," he sighed, shaking his head and snapping his newspaper open in obvious irritation.  "He'll never amount to much."

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

UMBRELLA SOLUTION

 

Angela -- all four feet two inches of her -- stood beside her Mommy, her back to the sausage vendor's trailer, giggling a little as rain-spray caressed her bare legs with damp fingers.

She and her Mommy came to the County Fair like they did every year, and Angela was in the Cheerleading Competition, and now she and her Mommy were going here and going there and looking at "Stuff" -- at least until the rain hit.

Angela delighted in looking at "Stuff," only right now they weren't: her Mommy shivered a little, laid a protective hand across her daughter's shoulders, as if a mother's presence could keep her from getting wet.

It wasn't just raining.

It was absolutely pouring cats, dogs and little green fish, or so it seemed.

"It's Fair Week," one of the other mommies sighed earlier, as Shelly and Angela set out on their way down the Midway, "it just has to rain!"

 

Sheriff Linn Keller knew his wife.

He knew when the weather was damp and chilly that she'd dress as many of her young as warmly as she could, as if layering them with insulation would keep her warm, kind of like old Mrs. Dawson, his first grade teacher: he was in line, waiting for the dismissal bell, and Mrs. Dawson came bustling up to him, buttoned his coat quickly, urgently:  "You have to button up," she said sternly, "or Mrs. Dawson will catch cold!"

Even at six years of age, Linn knew a con job when he heard one, but even at six years old, he was too much of a gentleman to declare his teacher to be full of second hand horse feed: the memory flickered to life in the back of his mind, then darkened into obscurity as he saw Angela, happily bouncing toward him in a sweater and long pants.

"Daddy!  Daddy! We won Cheerleading an' Mama found a gentleman!" she declared happily, and Linn snatched up his celebrating, noisy little daughter, hoist her at arm's length overhead: Angela laughed, extended her arm, swatted at the ceiling with pink, clean-scrubbed fingertips.

Linn lowered her, rubbed noses with her, then looked at Shelly, grinning.

"Your Mama found a gentleman?" he asked.  "Was he good looking?"

"Daddy," Angela said, suddenly serious, "I t'ink he might have been an aaangel!"

"Really!" Linn declared.  "You don't meet angels every day!"

Linn grinned at his wife, whose face was assuming a distinct shade of red:  "Pizza tonight," she said, "I didn't feel like cooking!"

"Yaaaay!" Angela cheered, clapping her little hands together with delight:  shortly the Keller young were descended for supper, all happily voicing their approval of their Mama's culinary choice.

Linn waited until the first slices were stacked on paper plates, distributed, waited until milk was poured and everyone seated, before bowing his head and returning the blessing.

At his quiet "Amen," eager hands snatched up their triangular repasts, all but Shelly, who was looking at her husband with almost a guilty expression.

"Darlin'," Linn said quietly, "I count it a good thing if a man is a gentleman nowadays."

Angela looked at her Mama with bright and delighted eyes, and Shelly blinked, smiled just a little.

She raised her eyes, looked at her husband, hesitated.

 

The breeze carried fine rain-mist in under the sausage trailer's swung-out awning; Angela giggled as damp coldies tickled her bare legs.

A tall figure strode fearlessly through the rain, an open umbrella warding off his personal percentage of the downpour: tall, shapeless in an oilskin coat and hat, polished boots shedding water with every purposeful step, this fellow looked at a mother wearing a distressed expression and a pastel blouse, at a happy little girl in a cheerleader's uniform, and both of them looking through the downpour at the direction they wished to travel, if only they could do so without getting soaked.

He turned, walked directly toward them.

"Ma'am," he said in a gentle voice as he touched his water-streaming hat-brim, "it would be a blessing on me if you'd take this."

He extended the umbrella.

Shelly blinked, surprised:  "But what about you?" she blurted.

He grinned -- behind the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the grey in his short-trimmed beard, she saw the young man he must've been -- "Ma'am, I'm a-wearin' mine!" -- and with that happy declaration, he ticked his hat-brim again, turned and strode boldly through the downpour, rain cascading off his oilskin drover's coat and matching hat.

 

"Mommy said he was a gen-tle-man," Angela declared, "but I think he was an aaangel."  She drawled out the first syllable, a juvenile emphasis on the firmness of her belief.

Linn nodded, and Shelly saw a softness to her husband's eyes, she saw his eyes go a little more to the blue than their usual pale:  his voice was quiet as he said "Darlin', it's kind of rare to find a gentleman nowadays.  I'm glad you did."  He looked at his little girl.  "Angela, did your squad win anything?"

"Nuffin good," she complained. "I wanned a stuffy animal or somethin' to play with an' all they had was gift certificates so I gave mine to Mommy 'cause she didn't win nuffin."

Linn nodded.

"I have it on very good authority that gift certificates are good for a chocolate hot fudge Sundae at the drugstore," he said thoughtfully.  

"Really?" Angela chirped, her head coming up, the next bite of pizza forgotten.

Linn looked at his wife, who looked distressed.

"It's actually for twenty dollars' worth of groceries," she said hesitantly, not wanting to disappoint her young.

Linn winked confidentially.  "I think you'll find there's fine print that says it's not valid until redeemed for ice cream after we have pizza."

"Yaaay!" Angela cheered, waving the remnant of her slice in celebration: brittle baked crust failed under her uncertain grip, a chunk of pizza spun out of control on a descending arc, until neatly intercepted by a watchful canine with curly black fur, who knew from experience, just where to station himself.

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

MY FAMILY HAS A LEGEND

Sheriff Linn Keller raised a heavy, cut-glass tumbler in salute.

As Father of the Groom, he and Father of the Bride were in conference, in the ornate and old-fashioned study.

A man should have such a study, Linn thought, and this is what it should look like -- he took a sip of brandy, savoring its warmth as it cascaded down his throat, searing his tonsils on the way by.

Shelves, from knee high to head high: on the shelves, books: there were wooden filing cabinets, the desk was orderly, the lamps polished and gleaming.

"I trust the brandy is to your approval, sir?"

"It is, sir," Linn nodded.  "An ancestor called it California sunshine."

"An ... ancestor," Pherson McGillicuddy said slowly, thoughtfully.

He turned slowly, paced toward the opposite wall, stopped, looked back.

Behind his left shoulder was a portrait, done in oils: a lean man, with the look of someone who knew privations, the thousand-yard stare perfectly captured by the artist's brush.

"My ancestor. I had him painted in Confederate grey."

Linn paced slowly toward the painting, stopped, studied the work.

"There is a resemblance," he said thoughtfully.

"We really don't know what he looked like, only that he was an officer -- note the quatrefoil on his sleeve, his rank was Captain -- and according to our family legend, he met a damned Yankee he came to trust."

Linn looked at the Father of the Bride, raised an eyebrow.

"A Yankee with pale eyes."

If it is possible for a living man to imitate a statue, Linn did.

Not a ripple in his glass of brandy betrayed the fact that a living hand held it; he could not be seen to breathe: his eyes, pale, watchful, bored into his host, while silence cascaded off him like a protective cloud.

"Raiders infiltrated the Yankee's camp when the camp was distracted.  It seems a man was injured and rode in looking more dead than alive. One of the infiltrators went into an officer's tent and took this."

He walked around behind his desk, opened a drawer, pulled out something brass-framed and angular.

He came slowly around the desk, handed it to Linn.

It was hinged: he opened it, like a little book.

Sheriff Linn Keller's eyebrow raised, slowly.

"Family legend," McGillicuddy repeated softly.  "Until I met your son ..."

His voice trailed off; he turned, regarded the portrait, regarded the Sheriff.

"Until I met your son, sir, I thought the legend was just that." 

Linn nodded, studied the images: tintypes they were, small enough to fit in a man's coat pocket.

In the left half, something that might've been taken of himself, or of Jacob: there was no doubting the family lineage -- indeed, it could have been Linn's portrait at a younger age, or Jacob's portrait, now.

On the other half, a young woman with straight hair, a lean woman with high cheekbones and a direct, piercing gaze.

Linn swallowed, cleared his throat, handed it back.

"A pity we don't know his name," McGillicuddy said softly, "or hers."

"His name," Linn said, "is my own, for I was named for him. He was known as Old Pale Eyes, and he was Sheriff of Firelands County, Colorado.  The woman ..."

He swallowed again.

"Her name was Connie Lee Sheets, and she was from Paint Creek near Shallagotha, in the shadow of Sugar Loaf Mountain."  He smiled, ever so slightly.  "I've long been told I look like him. Apparently I do."

McGillicuddy weighed the tintype in his hand, considered it for the space of ten heartbeats, then extended it.

"It should be returned to family," he said.

"Mr. McGillicuddy," Linn said gently, "I would be remiss indeed if my son stole your daughter and I stole a family legend, both on the same day."  

Linn swirled his brandy absently, smiling, just a little.

McGillicuddy closed the tintype, slowly, carefully, looked at the Sheriff with a thoughtful expression.

"My ancestor had this on him when he was taken by those alien raiders. We've cherished it because it came from home, and it ... I've used it to remind us that men of honor can be found in unexpected places."

He looked at the portrait of an officer in Confederate grey, stern and formal in oils and canvas.

"All those years ago.  Your ancestor, and my ancestor, and now ... and now, another honorable man with pale eyes...  is marrying my little girl."

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A WISE MAN

Jacob Keller was a lean and healthy young man.

Jacob Keller had the green strength of youth and the glowing skin and straight, strong teeth that spoke of good food and clean water, of honest labor and of family.

Until you looked at his eyes.

Jacob Keller had the pale eyes of his father, but he had something else, something frightening to those who knew what they were seeing.

Jacob had a gift of stillness.

Charlie Macneil remarked on it, quietly, commenting that Jacob could stand in the middle of the street and disappear, that he could lean against the front of a building and not be seen, that his gift for stillness, for silence, was so profound as to be almost unnatural.

Jacob Keller had what in later years would be called "The Thousand Mile Stare."

This troubled Marshal Macneil, for Jacob was of too few years to have such a look about him.

Linn, yes:  Linn had fought in That Damned War, and Lightning, old man Garrison who ran the Mercantile, a double handful of men in the county who'd worn either butternut, grey, or Union blue.

Macneil was a man of honor and of honesty, a man whose soul was troubled by the idea of someone of so few years who showed the signs of having survived horrors no soul should endure.

It wasn't until he saw Jacob without his shirt, not until a quiet conversation with Agent Sopris, not until he learned that Jacob was horsewhipped as a child and nearly killed as a result -- and Jacob's subsequent murder of the man who did it, how he'd buried his dead mother, whipped to death by the same drunken, abusive sot, how Jacob nearly died as he staggered away from hell in a cabin.

It would have been easy for Jacob -- taken in by Sopris, then sent to that pale eyed Sheriff with a note that read, A father needs a son, a son needs a father -- S. and sealed with a rose, in absolutely scarlet sealing wax -- to try to escape his memories in drink, it would have been easy for him to become a schoolyard bully, it would have been far too easy for the evils he'd survived to take root and grow in his wounded heart.

They didn't.

Perhaps it's because of the man to whom Sopris sent him.

Perhaps it's because Sopris saw how Jacob watched, and listened: perhaps it's because Sopris had a father who set a good example.

Children learn more by observation and imitation than by didactic instruction.

In the years that followed, Jacob and his father would speak with a surprising frankness on a variety of subjects, women included, and their discussions invariably, always, every time, without a single exception, discussed women in respectful tones, with respectful words.

It is quite probable that this is because Jacob saw his green-eyed mother being treated like a queen -- how Linn, though Sheriff, though Head of Household, though owner of his little ranch and the man who hired folk to work for him -- it is quite probable that Jacob saw Linn treat his wife with respect, with courtesy, with deference, how he treated other women with a grave courtesy, even the sharp-tongued Daisy Finnegan, the hot-tempered Irish wife of their fire chief, who seemingly took a delight in berating the Sheriff.

Another Jacob Keller, a century and more later, would read one of the few missives penned by his namesake: it was apparently written not long after Old Pale Eyes' death, and Jacob, our Jacob, could read the sorrow saturated into the words as they were written.

He read a dead man's account of how he learned to treat women, how to treat a wife, by the example set by his pale eyed father: how he'd learned to treat every woman as a Lady, unless she chose to prove herself otherwise, and in that, his father, he wrote, was very likely the wisest man he'd ever known.

Jacob Keller read these words, entrusted to good rag paper in a bound book barely used: old Jacob was not the writer his father was, but what little he wrote, was significant, and this certainly was.

Jacob Keller looked at his pale eyed father, standing beside his wife at the kitchen stove: their hips touched, his arm was around her, Jacob could not hear his father's words, but he could hear the affection in his tone of voice: husband and wife laughed together, and Jacob smiled to hear it, and he realized that he too was learning these very same lessons, in the very same manner, and had from his earliest childhood.

Jacob looked at his father's shoulder blades and nodded thoughtfully as he realized ... he, too, could say the very same things that he'd just read, and in that, he was fortunate indeed.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SHOW-OFF!

Sheriff Linn Keller's hand wrapped around the curly maple handle of his sixgun.

His little finger curled under the end of the handle, his thumb was firm on the hammer spur: his draw was smooth, practiced: he punched the muzzle toward the target, fired.

The sharp BLAP of a 22 rimfire and the twitch of the Ace of Spades was simultaneous.

Linn holstered, turned, nodded:  eager young feet pelted across what used to be a corral, a century and more ago, but was now blacktop: a grinning boy seized his prize, yanked it free of the clothespin.

A happy, juvenile "Looky what I got!" brought grins to the men, even tightening the corners of the Sheriff's pale eyes:  he paced over to the clothespin, reached into his suit coat pocket, pulled out another Ace of Spades.

He turned it sideways.

The clothespin was Velcroed to a 2x4 block, the block was set on top of a fence post, the fence post was set in a convenient hole where something used to protrude from the blacktop, back when this was a used car lot:  Linn turned, walked slowly back to where he'd been, stopped, turned.

He looked at little boys, impatient in their Sunday go-to-meetin's: it was after church, Linn was in his Sunday suit, Marnie watched, silent and umoving, as her father looked at the restless youth waiting for him to pull off another shot: they were still passing the center-holed Ace of Spades from hand to hand to hand, like a prize bubblegum card, until one noticed Linn easing his coat open again for the draw.

The Sheriff's hand extended, blued steel chuckled to itself as the cylinder rolled and the hammer eared back.

BLAP.

Half the card jumped straight in the air, fluttered away, spinning as it spiraled to the ground: the halves were seized, snatched, run back, to be pieced together, exclaimed over, passed around.

Linn dipped his hand in his pocket again, strolled over to the clothes pin.

He pressed five more of them against the velcro strip glued to the 2x4, then put a round candy disc in each one.

He took one extra (he liked the cherry flavor) and slipped it in his mouth, winking at grown men, patiently tolerant wives and eager boys: he spun quickly -- this time six rounds, rapid, six candy wafers shattered.

Chief of Police cupped his hands around his mouth:  "SHOW-OFF!" he catcalled: he slipped up beside Marnie, handed her a rifle and a mirror.  "Show that long tall drink of water how it's done!"

Marnie waited until her Daddy replaced the edge-on card:  she walked up to him, accepted a single round of .22 rimfire:  she stood with her back to the card, a pretty girl in a frilly dress with a matching ribbon in her hair, a beautiful child of the mountains with her shiny, flat-heeled dress slippers planted as securely as if she'd driven spike heels a foot into the pavement.

She fed the lone round into the rifle's chamber, closed the action, eased the hammer down: her Daddy backed away, discreetly leaving the stage entirely to this performer.

Marnie laid the rifle over her shoulder, laid the mirror behind the hammer: she cocked the hammer with a quick pull of her finger, her thumb in the trigger guard, just touching the smooth, fire-blued trigger.

Marnie took a long breath, blew it out, looked at the image in the mirror.

The rifle's report was not as sharp as the pistol had been: Marnie smiled, ever so slightly, as she saw the card shiver, as it slowly bent over, for the card wasn't flat, it was bowed a little: she'd cut it almost completely in two, the halves barely held by a single web of paper, well smaller than the lead in a #2 writing pencil.

Marnie Keller handed the hand mirror to her Daddy, raised the rifle's muzzle to the zenith, jacked the lever open: she carried it, muzzle up, over to her Uncle Will, handed him the mirror, then the rifle: twelve-year-old Marnie Keller planted her knuckles on her belt and tilted her head and declared, "Nice rifle.  I'll give ya twenty bucks and a good used pocketknife for it!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE MOST MANLY ARMS

"Jacob?"

Jacob looked up from his lunch tray, blinked.

"Hi, Donna. I'm sorry, I was ... on another continent."

"I could tell."  Donna tilted her head, looked pointedly at the gauze bandaging, spiral wrapped up both forearms, across both hands.

"Is everything okay?"

Jacob nodded, forked up the last of the cafeteria lasagna: he turned his bread-and-butter sandwich, cut on a diagonal -- he was looking for little bugs baked into the bread, something he'd not seen since grade school, but since that third-grade experience he always looked before he bit -- he took a bite, chewed, frowned, swallowed.

"I was ... thinking about how to arrange my day."

"How's that?"  Donna picked up an apple slice, nibbled delicately at the thick cut of fruit.

Jacob frowned, took a long breath.  

"It's my fault, really. I'm used to getting up and tending chores first thing in the morning, and then having the rest of the day to take care of everything else that needs done. Pa works, I can't expect Mama to muck out the barn, throw out feed, ride fence and tend whatever else needs done. Now that school's started again, I'll have to figure how to do all that before school, and after."

"It doesn't sound like you'll have much time," Donna murmured sympathetically.

"Oh, you know me," Jacob shrugged.  "If I didn't have something to complain about, I'd not be happy!"

Donna smiled quietly, nibbled delicately at her thick slice of apple.

"I think you were the only one in Government class who didn't fall asleep."

Jacob smiled.

"Mama used to sit in his Government class -- right in the front row, squarely ahead of his desk -- his class was always right after lunch, and she'd fall asleep, every time. He never saw her. Not once."

Donna's eyes brightened, she smiled a little more.

"Mama said he was always looking at the back row. When one of the guys back there fell asleep, he'd call 'em down and then he'd fairly strut for five minutes."

"Is that why you sit in the front row?"

"No, I wanted to see if he'd call me Linn."

Donna's smile went to puzzlement.  "Linn?"

"My father's name. Mr. Porter called me Linn on the very first day of class. We had a laugh later, when he apologized for any offense."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I'm the hardest soul to offend he'd ever meet -- it could be done, but you have to work at it, and so far he hadn't -- and then I told him to call me anything but late for supper."

Jacob looked up at the clock, stood.

"I'm glad you're back, Donna," he said quietly. 

Donna nodded. "I wouldn't be here ..."

Her voice trailed off as she remembered, and Jacob nodded.

"I know," he said, and Donna was almost surprised at the husky edge to his voice. "I was scared too."

Donna watched him carry his tray to the trash can, drop in his discard, set his tray on the conveyor: she watched him glide more than walk, the easy pace of a panther, silent, relaxed, ready to detonate in sudden and violent action -- something she'd seen -- and Donna remembered what it was to wake up in a hospital bed, to wake up and realize a warm hand had been holding hers all night.

Donna remembered opening her eyes and seeing a serious faced young man with pale eyes and gauze-wrapped arms looking at her.

"Welcome back," he'd said quietly. "I was worried."

It took several moments for Donna to gather her thoughts, to remember, to look with sudden concern at Jacob and ask, "My car?"

"Totaled," he said flatly.

Donna blinked, frowned, tried to remember.

Jacob hunched over a little, laid his other hand over hers:  "Darlin', they make new cars in Detroit every day. You're one of a kind and you're still with us. I can repair a car, I can replace a car, but we've only got one of you."

"How long ...?" Donna asked, looking around.

Jacob released her hands, turned, picked up the sweating-cold, pink-plastic water pitcher, poured her half a glass -- she suddenly realized she was thirsty -- he added a straw, bent it at its accordion pleated neck, stood:  he bent over the siderail, maneuvered the straw where she could take a sip.

Donna drank, took a breath, drank again: she coughed, opened her mouth: Jacob withdrew cup and straw and she coughed, coughed again.

Jacob sat the plastic glass back on the sidetable. 

He saw her cheeks color a little.

"Jacob, ummm ..."

"I'll get the nurse," he said, pressed the nurse call: he rose, picked up his Stetson.

"I'll be just outside," he said quietly.

"Jacob?"

He stopped, turned.

"Thank you."

Jacob nodded.

The door opened:  Jacob stepped aside as the nurse swept in, all green scrubs and efficiency, and Jacob slipped out and drew the door to behind him: he turned to the approaching State Trooper, saw the man's eyes go to the closed door, back to Jacob.

"She's awake," he said, "but she's being tended."

The troop nodded. "Is she coherent?"

"She just woke up."

The State Trooper shook his head.  "I saw what's left of her car. It's a wonder she's alive."

Jacob nodded.

"You were the one who got her out."

Jacob nodded again.

The troop looked at Jacob's bandaged arms, at the wrapping across the back of both hands.

"How bad ...?"

"I won't need skin grafts," he said, "but first thing I did was load both arms with raw honey and wrap 'em."

"Raw honey?"

"Old mountain remedy. Should heal without a scar."

The troop took a long breath, looked at the closed door, looked back at Jacob.

"You're sure about that."

"Mama was not convinced," he admitted, "but it's working, and I'm alive to complain about it."

 

Donna's father was laid off later in the school year, and he and his family went back East.

Jacob never spoke of the event, how he'd come along the wreck before the car stopped moving, how he'd taken a pry bar out of the bed of his truck to murder the car door open, how he'd worked Donna's legs free, how he'd clenched his teeth against the pain of being burned as he got her out, how he'd carried her to the side of the road, watched while the Irish Brigade came rolling to a stop: he'd held Donna while the cot was dismounted, he'd laid her gently on clean sheets, then he'd snatched the bottle of sterile saline from his grandfather's hands, dumped it slowly over his arms to kill the pain, cool the burns: he'd ignored his mother's shouted commands to GET BACK HERE, JACOB, he'd gone back to his truck, he'd driven home and he'd treated his wounds with the same single minded, hard headed contrariness that was the legacy of his pale eyed blood.

Years later, in an intimate moment, his new bride traced gentle fingertips the length of his forearms, and she said in a maidenly whisper that he had the most manly arms.

Jacob smiled quietly, kissed his beautiful young bride: it was the last conversation they would hold for the rest of the night.

 

 

Edited August 30, 2023 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Esther Keller wept.

Esther pressed her face into her pillow, willed herself to silence, let her grief run from her eyes and soak into the feather pillow: she lay on her side, one hand on her husband's breast, the other under the pillow.

Linn was hot under her hand, he was sweating, he was calm now: she knew as long as she touched him, as long as he had that touch to hold him to this earth, he would not cascade through horrors and hells that walked his nightmares, he would not fall into the underground war that raged through his nights.

She felt him stir, felt him almost shiver, then he rolled up on his side, thrust an arm under her: he rolled over on his back, pulling her atop him, held her.

Esther relaxed her head, let it drop onto his pillow, still hot, damp from the fevers that raged through his bloody red dreams: her cheek was soft and cool against his damp, stubbled cheek.

She felt him breathe, felt his arms around her, felt his breath as it puffed against his ear, heard his whisper:

"I'm sorry."

 

Sheriff Willamina Keller woke to the sound of a canine whine, to the sensation of a broad wet Bear Killing tongue laundering her jawline: her breathing was quick, labored, her hands crushed around nothing -- a moment before she was holding an enemy AK, she'd just bayonetted and buttstroked and laid waste to legions and waves and crushing oceans of the enemy, crushing in on her, overrunning her: she'd shot the battlefield pickup dry and then laid about her like Samson with the jaw bone of a jack mule, until their numbers were too many, too many, and a great black Bear Killer of a dog woke her with a worried whine and all the affection he could manage, the only thing he could do.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller sat up, hunched over like a man defeated: his forehead was on the heels of his hands, elbows on his knees, he was bent over: had it not been full dark, it would have been the picture of sorrow and loss.

Esther lay still, staring at the ceiling.

She knew her husband would try to not wake her; she knew he would go outside in moccasins and nightshirt, he would wander in the dark, willing dark memories to the night wind and away from his blistered soul: rarely, he would dress, quietly, then leave the bedroom again, and she would hear quiet hoofbeats, as if his stallion knew his desire for stealth, and he would return near daylight, and slip back into bed, trying his best not to worry his wife.

Esther lay for several more minutes, staring at the ceiling, feeling salt water run from the corners of her eyes back into her ears, then she sat up, dried her tears: she slipped into her dressing-gown, padded barefoot downstairs.

She carefully, as quietly as she could, built up the fire in the stove: water in the kettle was warm from the banked fire, it would not take long to heat enough to make tea.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller came downstairs in sock feet, looked at his wife sitting hollow-eyed at the kitchen table.

She had an untasted mug of coffee in front of her.

Linn reached over, lifted it away, opened the microwave.

"That's all right, I don't want it," Shelly said quietly.

"In that case I do."  Linn pressed a button, the microwave hummed to itself:  "Nothing like a good cup of coffee to put me to sleep."

"I don't know how you do that," Shelly complained.

"I'm immune to the stuff."  Linn's voice was quiet in the nighttime kitchen.  "All but the bladder."

Linn opened the microwave door as the countdown hit 1: another beep and Shelly knew he'd just cleared the microwave's memory.

"Sure you don't want this?"

"I won't be able to sleep."

"You can't sleep the way it is."

Linn opened the fridge, pulled out a jug of milk, added a splash to the coffee:  Shelly felt cold, refrigerated air wash over her bare feet, heard the fridge door shut as Linn set her coffee down in front of her again.

She heard the gurgle as he poured cold coffee into his mug, heard the microwave again:  she put delicate fingertips to her temple, stared sightlessly at the sugarbowl -- Who uses a sugarbowl these days? she thought -- she waited until Linn sat, took his first noisy slurp of reheated coffee, dashed the droplets from his going-to-iron-grey handlebar mustache.

"Nightmares?" he asked quietly.

She nodded.

"Do you remember 'em this time?"

Shelly gave her husband a haunted look.

"Was it that last wreck?"

"That ... was part of it," she admitted.

"It is not a natural thing to walk up the center line of the highway, carrying a human head by its hair, then waiting while the wrecker pulls what used to be a convertible out from under the back end of a semi trailer."

Shelly picked up her coffee, sipped delicately.

"Not to mention house fires, other wrecks, everything you've seen all these years."

"They don't usually bother me."

"I know why they do."

Shelly shot her husband an angry look.  "So you're a shrink already?" she snapped.

"No," Linn said quietly -- it made Shelly madder that he was so calm, that her barb hadn't caused the hurt she intended -- "it's because you actually give a damn about what you do."

Shelly opened her mouth, tried to find a sharp-edged retort, blinked, realized she'd just lost all the anger she'd built up.

Linn leaned forward a little, forearms on the table, steaming warmth of the heavy mug between his hands, fragrant vapors rising, caressing his chin with invisible fingers.

"Shelly, I've seen you in action. You had Dana in a papoose backpack when a woman fell on a broken bottle and you controlled the arterial bleed. You kept her calm, you kept the woman's panicked children calm, you were the one who called 911 because nobody else could do more than stand there with their jaws hangin' open. I watched you deliver a baby in a barn during a driving rainstorm -- you remember that -- we pushed three bales together and threw two sheets over 'em for a delivery table."

"And you caught the old farmer when he passed out," Shelly chuckled.

"Yeah, that's the first time you used ambulance headlights to light up a delivery room."  Linn grinned, reached over: he gripped his wife's hand gently.  "There's a hell of a lot more to you than meets the eye, darlin'!"

Shelly smiled, blinked a few times, stared through the opposite wall.

"How do I stop these nightmares?" she whispered.

She looked at Linn.  "How do you stop yours?"

"I started early," Linn admitted.  "Same as I taught Marnie.  She had awful nightmares from everything she'd been through back East."

Shelly frowned, shook her head, her coffee forgotten.

"My dreams are my kingdom.  MY kingdom.  I rule there. I am in charge of my dream world."

"I don't understand."

"I don't allow my dreams to rule me.  I require my dreams to entertain me. When I have a dream, I direct it, if it's terror or horror and God knows I've known both" -- an understanding look passed between husband and wife, for both well knew the veracity of the statement -- "monsters have come for me -- the one that scared me the most ... I was in court, being prosecuted for a shooting."

Linn frowned, took a long breath.

"I was terrified, then I remembered -- wait a minute -- this is MY dream -- I stood up, I thrust out my arm and I shoved all the falsehoods out of the courtroom.

"I shouted in a voice that shook the walls and the floor underfoot, 'IT DIDN'T HAPPEN!' -- and then I looked at the prosecutor.

I put a red clown nose on him, a ballerina's tutu skirt and a beanie cap with a spinning propeller, the court reporter began playing a circus tune on a red-and-yellow crank organ, and the jury began driving around the courtroom in a tiny little car singing "Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty," while a parrot flew over and landed on the Judge's desk squawking 'Polly want a cracker?'"

"You did that."

"Yep."

"You did that to your nightmare."

"Yep."

"You're strange."

"The Pope is Catholic, what else is news?"

Shelly sighed, looked down at her coffee as if just remembering it was there.

"I need to get some sleep."

"I can join you."

 

Sheriff Linn Keller slipped back into bed, quietly, carefully, not wanting to disturb his wife.

Esther stirred, cuddled up against him:  she smelled soap and water, she smelled the clean outside air, still clinging to Linn's nightshirt.

Esther relaxed, felt her husband's regular breathing, felt his soul submerge into the dark, peaceful lake of slumber:  only then did she allow herself to rest, to sleep, and her rest was not disturbed further.

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE CHIEF IS UP TO SOMETHING

Chief Chuck Fitzgerald caressed the mare's rump, his eyes busy: their restored Ahrens steam firefighting engine was the department's prize, its pet: skilled hands and a certain pale eyed Sheriff resurrected the original blueprints from God-alone-knows-where; said Sheriff with the real good legs and a winning smile provided Fitz with names and addresses and phone numbers, said pale eyed Sheriff in a tailored suit dress and three inch heels quietly funded the lion's share of the ungodly expense to have their Steam Masheen almost completely rebuilt: corrosion hadn't been as big a problem as had been feared, but a crack in the cast iron meant her main pump housing had to be recast from scratch, which was both difficult, expensive and time consuming -- but it had been done -- and fortunately for everyone involved in the restoration, the men making the casting were as meticulous as they were profane, and after their efforts were written up in certain professional journals, they found their business improved greatly, thanks to this one project.

That's beside the point.

The Steam Masheen, hand-painted, pinstriped, gold-leaf-embossed, burnished, polished, absolutely looked like a museum's gem.

This wasn't enough.

Men who knew what it was to fight fire, men who knew what it was to stride boldly into the Devil's parlor with a squirt gun under their arm, men who'd faced the hot breath of Hell itself with a bulging, sweating fireline and a chromed Elkhart nozzle gripped tightly in wet Firecraft gloves, had used their beloved machine, for real.

It hadn't been their choice, really.

They'd intended to go to a county fair some distance away, they'd intended to set up at speed, to gallop up with a whistle and a yell and the gleaming brass fire bell a-clang, they'd planned to bring their three-mare hitch to a dramatic stop in front of the grandstands, they'd intended to get steam up and throw water in as short a time as possible for the cheering crowd --

This is what they intended.

They did this, just a day later than they'd planned on.

They passed a road, they saw a house afire: they wheeled their convoy into the side road, offloaded with the speed of much practice: grim-faced men in red-wool, bib-front shirts and burnished, knee-high Cavalry boots, harnessed up their three white Ladies, murmuring to them as they got them collared and harnessed up: the youngest Irishman was fleet of foot, and seeming unencumbered by leather boots rather than track shoes, he set the land speed record in a fast orbit of the house, returning at the top of his lungs:

"THERE'S A SWIMMING POOL IN BACK AND IT'S FULL!"

They'd made entry into the house, they'd hit the fire and they'd hit it hard, they knocked it down before the first-in company arrived to take over, and of course it made the papers, how men with red wool shirts and pressed-leather helmets, strong Irishmen with fiercely-curled mustaches and soot-stained faces, charged into a burning house with technology of the 1800s, and thanks to a restored, steam-powered Ahrens fire engine, kicked the fire in the teeth and had it out before the first-in company got there.

 

Chief Chuck Fitzgerald ran his eyes over the gleaming boiler, he paced slowly along the ladder wagon, stored beside but ready to hitch on back: he bent down, shook the can of gasoline -- "Devil's Breath" was hand-painted on its side, and he smiled a little -- he looked at the coal pile, saw the water level in the sight glass.

His office used to be the stable.

The mares used to stable in the firehouse -- it was a horse house, tall and narrow, the mares' harness suspended overhead, ready to drop down and hitch up with the least delay -- but today the mares were outside, restless, waiting.

They were descended from the fine horses a long-dead chief raised, mares with thick, rich blood, used to the thin air in the mountains:  Sean Finnegan made a fine business of cycling mountain horses to the lowlands, where their thicker blood gave them greater strength and greater endurance.

Fitz nodded his satisfaction, looked around.

The Irish Brigade knew when the Chief was up to something.

He certainly was.

 

Fitz looked up at the quick rat-tat on his office door.

"IN!" he barked.

The door opened; two of his men came in.

"Close it."

The door closed.

"Sit."

Two Irishmen sat -- his German Irishman, his engineer, the man who kept their supercharged Kenworth Diesels running like sewing machines.

Big, noisy, powerful sewing machines.

The man had magic in his hands, and Fitz admitted the German Irishman could do more with a rounded screwdriver and a worn out pair of slip joint pliers, than he himself could do with a full toolbox.

"Lucas," he said, rubbing his palms slowly together, "do I recall your willingness to teach the care and feeding of the Steam Masheen?"

Lucas blinked, puzzled, then nodded.  

"There was word of ... you remember the firm that cast the parts we needed for the rebuild."

Again, the slow, thoughtful nod.

"Let's say they saw fit to build more Steam Masheens.  Let's say they needed someone to teach their use. Would you be interested?"

"Would it mean losin' my job?"

"Dear God, man, no!" Fitz exclaimed in honest dismay. "There's no way on God's green earth this department could get along without you!"

"Good," Lucas said quietly.  "I can teach, sure.  Where at?"

"Somewhere you've never heard of.  Muldoon."

"Sir."

"You're the man I want beside him. You two know that Masheen inside and out, you know her heart, you know her guts, you were there when she was in pieces and you two were the ones that put her back together and made double damned sure she was RIGHT!"

Muldoon frowned, looked at his partner:  "O-kaaay," he said slowly.  "So where we goin'? Cincinnati, where ours was rebuilt?"

"No," Fitz sighed.  "Not Cincinnati."

 

Ambassador Marnie Keller listened patiently as men of learning and of experience spoke; she listened as politicians angled for some particular advantage, she listened until she was tired, then she stood.

Ambassador Marnie Keller, as was her habit, wore a McKenna gown with a fashionable little hat, set off at a bit of an angle: she was, with no argument, a very attractive woman, and although the men gathered around the big hollow square were intent on getting their particular point across, they were also gentlemen.

When  a Lady rose, conversation ended and they came to their feet.

Marnie carefully pushed her long-stemmed wineglass to the side, set the flowers out of the way, then she turned, dropped her backside on the table: she whirled, legs in the air, did a neat little flip, came up on her feet in the center of the square of conference tables -- an utterly unexpected move, and one could absolutly guarantee she had the undivided attention of every man there.

Her hard little heels were loud on the polished tile floor:  she paced toward the head of the square, turned, paced back, looking very directly at every delegate present:  she circumnavigated the hollow square, meeting every last eye before she spoke the first word.

"Gentlemen," she finally said, as she looked at the grey-uniformed Ambassador, who was serving as chairman -- "are we agreed that the Five Nations are at a level of steam powered technology?"

She turned, looked at the Five Nations representative, who nodded, slowly.

"And are we agreed that technology should proceed at its own natural pace in each of the settled worlds?"

She looked around, turning slowly, knowing this was more a rhetorical question than a useful one.

"Now, gentlemen, the subject of firefighting has come up, and I just happen to have some firsthand experience in that field, and I can provide people and" -- she raised a hand, extended a gloved finger -- "and we can provide horse drawn, steam powered, firefighting engines with a proven track record."

There was a low buzz of conversation; several men rose, approached the head table, conferred with the Ambassador, resumed their seats.

"This would apply only to Five Nations, and no other world," Marnie continued after the Ambassador's nod.  "Each world is at its own level of development. Five Nations is near a breakthrough in electricity but it's not there yet, but they've developed stationary steam engines and are approaching some success with locomotives."
"Madam Firelands Ambassador," the Ambassador called, "what is your proposal?"

Marnie spun quickly, her skirt flaring as she did:  she looked very directly at the Ambassador, that quiet smile just showing -- only just, but showing -- as she replied, "With your permission, I would bring such a firefighting engine here, I would give aid and assistance in the manufacture of same here."

Again, a double handful of men rose, converged on the Ambassador:  Marnie waited patiently, gloved hands folded in her apron as she waited.

The Ambassador waited until the delegates were returned to their seats, then:

"Madam Firelands Ambassador," he replied formally, "your proposal is approved."

Marnie smiled, openly this time:  "I'll need to make a call."

She pulled back her sleeve, revealed an ornate bracelet:  she touched it twice, smiled again, and disappeared.

 

Fitz looked up at the quick, delicate rat-tat, tat, on his office door.

He rose, as did the two Irishmen seated across the desk from him.

Marnie opened the door, glided into the Chief's office:  formality was utterly cast aside as Marnie was no longer Ambassador, but rather the pretty girl he'd watched grow up, and Fitz was no longer Fire Chief, but rather a trusted and beloved family friend.

"Dear God, girl, where have you been?" Fitz laughed as they hugged:  Marnie drew back, patted his chest and tilted her head and gave him a warm and affectionate look.

"Chief," she said, "do you remember the matter we discussed?"

"I do."

"Is she ready?"

"We keep her ready!"

Fitz looked at his two steam engine specialists, looked at Marnie.

"What about transportation?"

"We have the mares outside and waiting."

Fitz grinned.

"I'll call in the coverage shift."

 

Men with torches ran out of the smoking building, turned, threw their firestarters back inside.

Straw, scrap wood, old furniture, flammable waste and refuse all added to the conflagration: the building was two stories, it was wood and it was dry and it was burning with a frightening speed.

Fire was no stranger to the spectators; it was something they tried their best to prevent, but it still happened:  the crowd flinched, turned, then drew back at the approach of a three-mare hitch.

Three pure-white mares, running hard, thrusting against padded, black-leather collars:  behind them, something never before seen:  it had a seat on the front, it was wheeled, smoking, men hung onto it, a long wagon bounced behind:  a high-pitched whistle thrust a pure-white steam plume into the air, a shining, round, brass bell bolted to the front, under the driver's seat, clanged alarm, and a red-shirted man wearing a white helmet, a man with a fiercely-curled handlebar mustache, swung a blacksnake whip, snapped a hole in the air three feet above the lead mare's ears.

A shining, polished, pinstriped, brass-and-lacquered-wood ... something ... came to a noisy halt: men piled off, ran with purpose, with practice, seized heavy, black-rubber hoses -- "WHERE'S THE DAMNED WELL?  WATER!  DAMN YOU EYES, GET ME WATER!" -- another team seized a flat ribbon of something that looked like dirty linen, ran toward the burning structure.

Gloved hands spun the strainer basket on the end of the hardline, dunked it down the well: another connection, two more, men swore as they took the strain off so they could get the threaded connection started, spun it tight, threw a valve, nodded.

The sound of a steam engine was not at all foreign to most who watched, but this was a smaller steam engine, it ran faster:  steam shot out from under, the governor's flyballs whirled, a man in a red-wool shirt with an embroidered Maltese cross on its cavalry bib front seized quarter-turn valves, turned one, then another, reached up and tapped a glass-front gauge, nodded.

He turned, roared "WATER A-COMIN'!" and opened the discharge.

What looked like a flat ribbon suddenly twisted, bulged: another ribbon was strung out, charged, and two hose streams blasted through open windows, shattering on ceilings, attacking the fire with a dramatic, silvery stream of hard-launched water.

The second team shut its valve: men ran up, spaced themselves at intervals, charged: the second hose team made entry, started fighting fire from the inside:  these men wore the same pressed-leather helmets as their fellows, but they wore what looked like black-rubber raincoats.

Diplomats, politicians, spectators, citizens, craftsmen, professionals, idlers, schoolboys and big-eyed children watched as these sweating swearing men did something they'd never seen before.

They watched as a red-shirted man unhitched the mares, drew them a little distance away, soothed them, caressed them:  there were men there who knew horses, and these men came over and spoke with this grinning stranger with the curled mustache.

Spectators, officials and representatives all watched, half-horrified, half-fascinated as smoke went from combustion-black to steam-white:  they watched as the hose team came out, grinning, sweating:  "She's out!" one shouted -- just as a young boy, bareback on a mule, came galloping toward them, shouting alarm.

"BREAK CONNECTIONS! LOAD UP AND READY TO MOVE, BOYS, THIS IS NO DRILL!"

The Ambassador leaned down, murmured in Marnie's ear, "How does he know what the problem is?"

"He's psychotic," Marnie replied.  "I mean psychic."

Men hung sections of hardline back in heavy steel hooks, left the strainer in place on the leading section: hose couplings were broken, sections seized in the middle, nozzles spun free, linen-jacketed hose run for the ladder wagon, fast-loaded: they'd practiced this, too, and they were loading with the full knowledge they'd be moving and redeploying, and they'd have to have hose off, fast.

Three white mares, dancing, impatient, fairly dragged their handler back to the Steam Masheen.

A hard-eyed Irishman seized the little boy who'd ridden up on his mule, blurting that they'd a fire in town -- "Lad, you're with me!" he roared, fairly threw the child into the tuck-and-roll-upholstered, driver's seat:  he swarmed aboard, turned:  "ALL LOADED?"

"GO, GO, GO!" came the return shout.

Chief Chuck Fitzgerald of the Firelands, Colorado, Fire Department, stood up in the driver's box like a long-ago, red-headed Irishman had:  he swung his blacksnake whip in a circle, snapped a hole in the air over the center mare's ears:  "JAYSUS, MARY AND THE BLESSED VIRGIN, LADIES, RUN!"

The engineer grinned and hauled on the whistle's lanyard, the engine screamed alarm, a restored Ahrens steam firefighting engine, a company of red-shirted, black-coated, boyishly-grinning Irishmen, and a big-eyed little boy sitting beside this laughing man swearing and singing in a language not heard on this planet, drove for town, toward the summoning plume of smoke, a crowd of residents, dignitaries and representatives swarming after.

 

Dr. John Greenlees hugged his wife, hoisted her off the floor, kissed her under the ear.

"I've missed you," he whispered.

Marnie hugged him back -- as usual, he was surprised at her strength -- he eased her down, until her feet bore her weight -- "How did everything go?"

Marnie smiled.

"Your Martian Ambassador is causing trouble again," she smiled.  "I've begun a highly illegal commerce between Earth and a planet a few star systems away.  Something to do with supplying certain critical cast-iron castings, which ought to last about a year, until the castings can be made locally."

"O-kaaay," Dr. Greenlees said slowly, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, it's not exactly illegal, it's just that Earth doesn't know I'm an Ambassador now, nor that we're allied with the Confederacy, nor that the Confederacy exists ..."
Marnie sighed.

"Dear, I'm sorry. I didn't ask how you've been since I left."

"It's only been three days," Dr. Greenlees soothed as he ran his arm around his wife's waist. "I just happen to have dehydrated field rations if you're hungry, otherwise the cafeteria has filet of backstrap with mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, corn on the cob and fresh picked tomatoes."

Marnie laughed, leaned her head against her husband's ribs.

"You know the way to my heart," she sighed.  "Right through my stomach!"

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE VOICE

Esther Keller was restless, apprehensive.

She and the hired girl looked helplessly at the room -- it was already immaculate -- Esther's instinct was to clean, to prepare, to change out fresh bed linens, but this was already done -- she looked at the absolutely spotless floor, her eyes wandered to pictures, to picture-frames absolutely free of dust.

The hired girl glided up to her, took her Mistress's face between gentle hands and whispered, "Ye are a Wise Woman, as was ma Grandam, an' ye're nestin'!"

Esther blinked, then laughed -- a gentle, delicate laugh -- she nodded, sank slowly into a chair, rested her elbow on the arm of the chair and her forehead against careful fingertips.

"Yes I am," she whispered, then she lay a hand on her maternal belly and grimaced.

The hired girl's head turned: she heard the rapid patter of canine pads on the stairs, she felt her face start to smile behind her skin, the smile hadn't surfaced before The Bear Killer powered up the final stairs, skidded on the hardwood, SLAMMED into the wall -- with a brittle rattle of canine claws, he swung from the hallway and into the bedroom, dropped his jaw on Esther's lap, regarded her with bright, intelligent eyes.

The Bear Killer snuffed loudly at her belly -- his ears raised -- he made a querulous little sound --

Esther's hand caressed The Bear Killer's head, his ears.

"It's time," she whispered. "Go, and sing!"

The Bear Killer lifted his head -- for such a massive creature, he was light on his feet, swift, nimble -- he swapped ends and flowed down the stairs.

They heard the door open, the door shut:  moments later, little child-sized feet came running up the stairs, the dry patter of leather-soled slippers, and a bright-eyed little girl looked in, looked at the maid's expression, looked at her Mama.

Esther extended a hand and her daughter came to her, pressed herself against her Mama's side.

"You're going to have a new brother or sister to take care of," Esther said softly:  the maid's eyes widened, her hands tightened in her apron as she saw the first trace of discomfort cross Esther's face.

"Be a dear and send the man for your father."

"Yes, Mama," came the dutiful reply:  a whirl of petticoats and little stockinged legs, a little girl scampered down the stairs with all the stealth and delicacy of an avalanche.

"Shall we get ye t' bed, then?" the hired girl asked, her hands very properly folded in her apron, her chin lifted.

Esther Keller pushed up from the chair, nodded.

"Yes," she whispered.  "Let's."

 

Honed steel whispered almost inaudibly against a lean man's cheek.

The barber was very good at his craft; he took pride in his work, and the Sheriff's face was not the easiest to shave: he was a lean man, his cheek was not bulged outward, like a prosperous merchant's, it didn't quite dimple in, but one straight stroke didn't get all the stubble.

The Sheriff helpfully puffed his cheek out a little:  three quick, light strokes, and the deed was done: Linn was not a man who indulged himself often, but at times, it was nice to have a Factory Made Shave.

He was finished up, anointed with the Tonsorial Sacrament of Bay Rum: Linn regarded himself in the mirror, struck a dramatic hand-to-his-breast pose and stoutle declared, "Fine figure of a man!" -- which, of course, brought quiet laughter: he was neither a braggart, not was he prideful, and these rate moments of silliness gave a quick, if brief, glimpse past his carefully constructed exterior, gave a glimpse of the inner man.

Linn winked as he paid the man -- as usual, he overpaid, enough to show his appreciation, not excessively to show arrogance -- he turned and accepted his Stetson from a silent, solemn Jacob.

Two sets of pale eyes narrowed at the sound of a truly huge mountain Mastiff's bay.

Father and son strode for the front door.

Moments later, one rider streaked for the fine, stone hospital, reached for the bell-pull: the other, for home, by way of the McKenna Dress Works.

Bonnie McKenna would be at her dress-works this time of day, Linn knew, and she would be needed.

A grinning little boy scampered for the Silver Jewel, coin clutched tight in his fist: he would slip in the back door, he'd tell Daisy that Miz Esther's time was upon her, and he'd get a good slice of pie.

If he was lucky, she'd feed him there in her kitchen, set him down with a fourth of a fresh baked pie slabbed out on a plate, and he wouldn't have to surrender his precious coin for his provender like he would if he ate out in the Saloon!

 

Esther was absent from church that Sunday; thanks were given in the Parson's address to the Almighty, before his sermon, for Miz Esther's safely being delivered of a fine healthy set of twins, a boy and a girl: absent also was the Sheriff's little girl, and a certain huge, black, curly-furred, mountain Mastiff.

They spent their Sabbath in an upstairs room, staring with wonder at two small, arm-waving, bright-eyed little children.

It is a curious phenomenon of babies, that when multiple of the creatures are assembled, should one begin to cry, the others will join out of sympathy.

In the case of these two, when one began to cloud up, when the little face began to darken and wrinkle and get ready for a infant's version of a summer storm, a certain curly-furred, hard-muscled, bear killing mountain Mastiff would cold-nose the child's arm, or give a companionable lick, which was often enough to change a darkened, scowling face to an expression of bright surprise:  in those instances where his efforts were not successful, why, he joined them in their song, and for some odd reason, the gentle, subdued howl was enough to soothe their noisy pique, which worked until they started teething, but that wasn't for some time yet.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

PETREL, ARRIVING

A pale eyed woman in a McKenna gown held the man's hand as he floated back up from the dark lake of slumber.

She smiled a little, squeezed his hand, laid her other hand over his knuckles.

"Good morning," she said quietly. "How do you feel?"

He passed his free hand over his eyes, took a long breath, another: his hand came away, he looked up at her, quickly, alarm filling his face.

"Easy," she murmured.  "You're safe."

"My ship," he blurted. "We -- the Yankees --"

His hand went to his belly, searching --

There'd been blood, ruin, he'd been blasted with shivers, his guts torn open as a cannonball blasted the ship's timber into shrapnel --

Her other hand caressed his forehead, her hand cool, soothing: he remembered his mother's hand, as cool, as reassuring, when he was a-fevered as a child, and he relaxed.

He blinked rapidly, memories filling his eyes, quickening his breathing.  "We were attacked," he gasped. "We -- they -- cannon --"

Something pressed against the side of his neck; there was a slight hiss, and he relaxed, his eyes closing again.

"He'll rest another few hours," the specialist said quietly. "If you could be here when he wakes again ...?"

"Of course."

"Can I get you something?"

"A chair, perhaps, and some tea."

 

I must be ashore.

I'm not moving.

I'm not aboard ship --

He took another long breath, sat up abruptly, eyes wide, panicked --

I was drowning --

We'd been holed, the damned Yankees came about and gave us a salvo from their fo'c'sle guns --

Thought I was dying --

A hand in his ... again?

Still?

She felt his hand twitch, as if recognizing it was a woman's hand he held.

The pale eyed woman tilted her head a little, gave him an interested look.

"Awake now?" she asked quietly.

He blinked, frowned, blinked again.

"I ... do I know ...?"

He looked down at his hand, at her hand in his.

"Ma'am, where am I ...?"

"You're alive," she said quietly, "and that's by God's grace. What's the last thing you remember?"

A hand gripped his shoulder, a heavy ceramic mug of steaming-hot coffee floated into view: he released the woman's hand, took the mug in both hands, took a tentative sip, another, eyes closed, savoring this rare treat.

The woman accepted one as well:  she took a healthy gulp, smiled.  

"I always did enjoy a mug-up," she smiled.

"Ye've salt water in yer family," he sighed. 

"You were aboard the Petrel."

"Aye, and a trim little schooner she was! A damned shame we only had two guns!"

He took another savoring, eyes-closed drink, as if partaking of a sacrament.

He swallowed, clearly savoring the taste, the smell of good, strong, hot, coffee.

"That's enough for now," a man's gentle voice said: a figure in white slid a hand in under the mug, and the waking man reluctantly surrendered the mug.

"You've been healing for some time. We don't want too much on your stomach too soon."

"Aye, sir," the man sighed.

The woman handed her mug over also, tilted her head, regarded her new acquaintance with a frank interest.

"I understand the Petrel's logbook was recovered," she said, "and I'm sorry to say you're the only man to survive."

He closed his eyes, lowered his face into his hands: he groaned, sounding as if his eternal soul were being tortured on an ethereal rack.

"I'm told you were found belowdecks, and injured. Was that the orlop deck?"

"Aye," he whispered huskily. "They took me there t'die."

He raised his face:  "All dead?"

She lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, nodded.

"Where am I now?"

"You're in hospital."

"A Yankee hospital?" he asked suspiciously.

"No. Confederate."

"Thank God for that!" he said huskily. "The damned Yankees would try me for piracy!"

"There were other survivors," she said, "who were loaded with irons and taken to Philadelphia. They were tried for piracy, but the charges were dismissed as it was wartime."

"I thought you said ..." He frowned.  "There were survivors?"

The woman looked across at another individual, solemn in a black suit.

"Perhaps this gentleman can explain it better than I."

 

Ambassador Marnie Keller sat down, crossed her forearms on the placemat, dropped her forehead against her gloved arms: her shoulders rose, fell, her expelled breath loud.

A hand on her shoulder, a voice.

"You handled that very well.  Thank you."

"You didn't have a nurse who could've done that?" she said to the tabletop, lips an inch from the placemat, her voice hollow for its confinement.

"We didn't have a properly gowned woman who was used to thinking on her feet."

"So how is he?"

The psych pulled out a chair, dropped heavily into it.

"He was pulled out of a sinking ship two centuries ago by aliens and put into stasis. We didn't find him until we found their derelict ship, drifting in space, two years ago. It's taken us this long to put him back together, get him healed from the physical injuries, restore him without the ill effects of enforced immobility."

"And?"

"And there was some serious question as to whether his mental faculties would survive. There was doubt as to whether he could make the mental transition from a Confederate wartime privateer in the 1860s to life two centuries later. The shock of knowing he was the sole survivor is bad enough. All his shipmates, gone, his ship gone, then to find out home and everyone he ever knew are long dead. We're still easing him into some of the realizations."

"And you thought I might be useful."

"You were."  His tone of voice held no doubt at all. "Yours was the first voice he heard, yours was the first face he saw. A mother's touch is a powerful thing; the feminine is a powerful anchor, an inspiration, a lighthouse for a man's soul, and you were all that, and more."

"I'm just a Colorado mountain girl, a long way from home."

The psych looked down, plucked at his lapel, looked up, smiled.

"I rather like this style," he admitted. "I understand this is what a professional man would have worn during the period."

"It does look good on you," Marnie nodded.  "You might consider adopting the look."

"I might," he said. "I'll be wearing it often, while I'm working with hiim."

"For the patient's comfort?"

He nodded.  "Yes. He needs to see the familiar."

Ambassador Marnie Keller tilted her head a little, the way a woman will when she is considering.

"We'll be making planetfall in two days," the psych said thoughtfully. "We considered where to take him that would be the most familiar, and we've a world with a seacoast population. Sailing ships, a familiar level of technology, at least for the most part."  He smiled sadly.  "When we arrive, it will be a formal affair, and he will be greeted."

Marnie raised an eyebrow.  "Oh?"

The psych nodded.  "I understand that when the Captain and the log book arrive, the ship has arrived."

"He was the Captain?"

"No.  No, but he is the last survivor of the Petrel, and he will be received with that accord."

 

A sun-browned man with the calluses of a bluewater sailor stood correctly at attention as the hatch slid open.

His uniform was new, well fitted; he was freshly barbered, his beard neatly trimmed: he looked out the hatch, saw the little crowd gathered, saw banners, heard the brass band.

He smelled salt water, heard seagulls cry: he smiled as he saw masts and sails, docks and houses that showed that peculiar weathering common to salt air.

A bell -- ting-ting, ting-ting, ting-ting, a bo'sun's whistle.

He was handed a restored book, taken from a ship sunk long ago by Yankee cannon fire, a book containing the words of good men and true who sailed a privateer in a war long past.

A woman with pale eyes, a woman in a proper gown and gloves, laid her palm gently against his close-trimmed beard, gave him a long look.

"I am very proud of you," she whispered, and for a moment, a hard and resolute man of the sea softened: she saw him swallow, blink, then he looked forward.

A Confederate privateer squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, paced off on the left, and strode into new life as a stentorian voice declared loudly, "Petrel, arriving."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited September 5, 2023 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE BATTLESHIP AND THE TADPOLE

Conversation ceased in the hotel's dining room as the woman's slap shocked the smoke-layered atmosphere.

Her eyes blazed with a quiet fury, her lips were pressed together into a thin line: she wore a fashionable dress and hat, she wore gloves, as a proper lady would in that day, and she wore an expression of distaste, and of a deep and unforgiving anger.

"Why, you --"

The triple-click of an engraved Colt's revolver froze what little conversation restarted, and all movement: the barkeep stopped in mid-pour to stare, the well-dressed businessman who'd presumed to speculate loudly as to whether this well dressed young woman could disport herself in a shameless Can-Can, such as they'd just watched in the theater, immediately regretted ever coming through the doors of this, the finest hotel in Denver.

"You have three choices," Jacob said quietly, his pale eye dead steady over the hogwaller notch:

"Were it me, my backhand would've put you on the floor, but I'd accord you a gentleman's challenge.

"Were it me, you would have the choice of time, place and weapons, for a backhand in public is the challenge to a duel of honor.

"First choice:  You can choose to face this woman in just such a duel. She chooses when, where and with what.

"Second choice, you can admit to everyone here you are a cad, a coward and a blustering fool, and that your battleship mouth just run right over your tadpole backside when it comes to talking about another man's little sister."

"Hey, watch it, little brother," Sarah Lynne McKenna snarled.

"Or, three, I shoot you right here and right now."

The bare ghost of a smile tightened the corners of Jacob's eyes.

A callused hand seized another man's wrist as it emerged from under an unbuttoned suit coat, the honed edge of a hand forged Damascus blade just kissing through the first layer of skin, just under this would-be rescuer's Adam's apple: another man, tall, with pale eyes, hissed "Don't," and a business associate released the revolver drawn from a leather-lined, inside holster: it fell, hit him on the foot, then hit the floor.

"HERE NOW!  HERE NOW!  WHAT'S THIS, WHAT'S THIS? -- DROP THOSE GUNS --"

A blazing set of pale eyes turned, as powerful as twin cannon in an armored turret: the Denver police officer stopped, looked, looked again: he took a few steps more, shook his head and slipped his own revolver under his uniform coat.

Frowning, he pulled out a set of shining Tower handcuffs, snapped one on the wrist of the man held by the pale eyed Sheriff: he pulled him to the other man, the one pinned in place by the sight of a cocked revolver as effectively as if he were a butterfly pinned to a professor's display board.

The other cuff closed around the other prisoner's wrist.

"Agent," he declared firmly, "we'll need your statement -- and yours, Sheriff --"

"Agent?" a voice murmured: another, "Sheriff?" -- then, "Damned fool," as the constable hustled his very willing prisoners toward the front door.

Jacob eased his revolver's hammer down, holstered: Linn slid the mountain forged blade back into its hidden sheath, his foot heavy on the dropped pistol: when its former owner bent to pick it up, Linn's boot casually planted over the blued steel, and its former owner offered absolutely no protest at losing its ownership.

Sarah lifted her chin, regarded the Sheriff with quiet, knowing eyes.

"We were about to have supper," she said quietly. "Please join us."

Linn turned to his right, Jacob to his left: hard and pale eyes swept the room, and as they did, men looked away, unwilling to meet the pale eyed gaze of two quiet, efficient, slayers of men.

"I understand you found the cavalry thieves," Linn said quietly, his eyes busy, his Stetson on his lap.

Sarah looked at her father through the veil of long, curled eyelashes.

"You even recovered the stolen gold."

Sarah picked up a delicate, long-stemmed wineglass, took a dainty sip.

"I recovered more than that," she said quietly. "Do you remember the Dynasty bank job from three years ago?"

"The one out of --"

Sarah's head lowered a fraction. "The bank's stockholders were very appreciative of my efforts," she said quietly.  "Very appreciative."

"I know that look," Jacob said, a warning note in his voice. "You won't get any reward money for returning Cavalry gold, but you got something for the bank's gold."

Sarah lowered her wineglass, smiled.

"Let's just say I intend to call in a favor."

 

Two months later, a businessman in California looked at the front of a fine theater, remembering.

His fellows had already gone inside.

He'd been ruined, ridiculed, crushed in Denver: his own business bought out, renamed -- his face flushed, shame incinerating his ears as he remembered seeing the advertisements -- it had been reworked.

Into a manufactory.

Renamed "Tadpole Corsetry and Smallclothes."

He looked at the theater, turned, looked at a saloon.

A familiar hand clapped him on the shoulder.

"You look like you could use a drink!"

"Yes," he agreed.  "I have a very bad taste in my mouth."

 

 

 

Edited September 6, 2023 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

INTERMISSION

Friends, kindred and brethren, in-laws, outlaws, Peers, Princes, Potentates and my Learned Colleagues of Commerce, Influence, and respected fellow pursuers of Anti-Scientific Research:

 

I regret the necessity of this interrupting Intermission: please forgive this entry, I should have been posting it at intervals: the fault is mine alone.

 

This is a Solo Thread.

I am its sole contruibutor.

This thread pertains to a certain Pale Eyed Bloodline that we have severally followed from just after the American Revolution, to after establishment of colonies on Mars: though technologies vary from the Flint Rifle through alien wonders that eschew Fast Than Light Travel as primitive, preferring instead to slip between realities (I don't pretend to understand how they do that, I only know that when it happens, I'm running after them, yelling, sprinting as fast as I can on the keyboard to try and keep up!)

 

I'd like to keep this a solo thread.  I'd also like to avoid bruising well-meaning feelings ... thus this missive.

 

With your collective permission, we now return to the regularly scheduled thread.

 

Linn

Edited September 6, 2023 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

AND WHILE I AM FEELING SENTIMENTAL, A PICTURE

This picture is from the Antique Fire Trucks Facebook group.

What can I say.

I'm an old softy when it comes to seeing what I've often described ... all it lacks is that big Irishman standing in the driver's box, alternately singing in Gaelic and swearing in three languages, swinging that blacksnake whip and snapping a hole in the air three feet above the lead mare's ears!
The photo's explanation following is courtesy Wm Dwyer:
Wm. Dwyer

That photo and this story: from the Detroit News archives.....On April 10, 1922, Detroit Engine Co. No. 37 made its famous final run; horses Pete, Jim and Tom pull the steam pumper while Babe and Rusty pull the hose cart. //, More than 50,000 people lined Woodward Ave to see them respond to an arranged false alarm at the National Bank Building. The five horses were then retired to a farm in River Rouge Park. This was the end of horse drawn equipment in the city.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

TRUE NATURE

Dry grass crunched under a man's advancing boot.

The fellow that heard it, wished mightily to look, to see who approached: he wanted more than he could say, to get up, to run, sprint, leap, flee!

If -- and that was a definite if -- the approaching boot happened to be worn by a man with pale eyes.

Get up, he screamed at himself -- roll over, jump up, drop behind the rock, hide!

He'd landed flat on his back and knocked every bit of wind out of his lungs; he couldn't breathe, his eyes were screwed shut with pain, it hurt too much to move --

He's close, I can feel him --

Oh God, I'm dead --

Jacob looked up, gauged the distance this fellow must've fallen.

The man's mule looked down at him, as if marveling at his rider's stupidity.

It wasn't the mule's fault he'd stopped abruptly: a horse might be stupid enough to run over a cliff at his rider's behest, but mules have better sense, and this one stopped, fast.

The rider was neither experienced, nor was he expecting anything of the kind when he kicked his stolen mount into blind flight, fearful that a certain pale eyed lawman was going to flow like a lean-waisted wraith from some tree trunk and seize him about the neck and pinch his head off his shoulders with one squeeze of those deadly and murderous hands.

Deputy Sheriff Jacob Keller looked down at the unmoving man, saw he was breathing -- not well, but breathing.

"Well," he said finally, "you ain't dead."

I'm dead, the man thought.

You just ain't killed me yet.

Jacob studied the unmoving man's pained face.

"Reckon you got the wind knocked out of you," he said conversationally, considering the sandy patch, assessing what would in later years be called "Flow Mechanics" where the body's impact blew sand to the side.

"Looks like you landed flat on your back."  

Jacob waited for some reply before continuing.

"Looks like you hit the only sandy patch around. Everything else is rock or dirt. 'Less, of course, you landed on a rock that broke your back... now that can kill you."

He saw the man breathing more deeply.

Won't be long before he can talk.

The mule, above them, turned, meandered a little, looking for something green to eat, something wet to drink: there was a much easier way down than the express route taken by his rider, and the mule meandered casually down the rocky path, slow and sure-footed, smelling water and interested in slaking his thirst.

Jacob waited until the mule came up for air before speaking.

"Hello, Jack," he called. "This fella belong to you?"

The mule swung his ears at Jacob's voice but made no other reply.

Jacob looked down as he heard the supine man groan faintly.

"Mind tellin' me why you tried imitatin' a bird, mister?" Jacob asked quietly.

"Mule stopped," came the pained answer.

"And you didn't."

The fellow opened his eyes, tried to glare at the long tall deputy, closed his eyes against glare and pain both.

Jacob squatted, his eyes busy: he couldn't see any suspicious bulges other than the sheathed knife, and the sheath covered all but the ball at the end of the pommel, the better to prevent the blade's falling out.

"Can you feel your hands?" Jacob asked.  "Make a fist. Both hands. Like that. Now spread your fingers."

Jacob nodded.

"Can you feel your hands okay?"

"What?"

"You got any lightning shootin' through 'em, anything numb or tingly or not feelin' right?"

The man wiggled his fingers.

"No," he finally gasped.

"Okay, how about your feet.  Move your feet."

He looked, saw one foot move, then the other.

"They feel okay?"

"Yeah."

"Does it feel like you landed on a rock?"

"Can't tell."

Jacob seized the man at shoulder and belt, rolled him up on his side: he heard the pained hiss of breath drawn between clenched teeth.

"Don't see a thing," he said, raking his fingers back and forth through surprisingly deep sand.  "Good thing this is dry. Was it wet it'd be like landin' on a rock."

He rolled the man back onto his back.

"Why'd you run?"

The man turned his face away -- "man" might be charitable -- he was shaving, yes, but not for very long: Jacob knew what it was to be a tall boy doing a man's job, and having to defend his right to do that job against men who wanted to chaff him for his youth.

"You're gonna kill me," came the near-whisper.

Jacob was still hunkered down, balancing on the balls of his feet:  he frowned a little, considering the face before him, comparing it to a mental file of wanted dodgers back at the office, and finding no matches.

"I generally have a reason," he said quietly, "for rippin' a man's soul out from around his spine. So far I don't have one.  Now I'm just naturally lazy and killin' you would be too much work without some good reason."

"You weren't comin' to kill me?"

"Any reason I should?"

The mule was sampling a patch of grass growing at the streambed, found it to his liking.

"Jackie said -- he said he'd say I stole attair jack mule --"

"Did you?" Jacob asked.

It felt to the supine man as if those pale eyes were driving steel lances right through to the back of his skull, looking for any sign of cheat or lie.

"Hell, the boss told me to take it!"

"Old man Hannigan?"

"Yeah."

"I know him. He sent you ridin' fence."

"Yeah."

"Jackie," Jacob said thoughtfully.

"Yeah."

"Think you can stand up?"

"I dunno."

"You didn't scream when I rolled you over so I don't reckon you've any broke ribs. Try settin' up first."

 

Two men rode up to the ranch house: one was a young man, more than a tall boy but not yet matured: the other was a lean waisted, pale eyed deputy, hard eyes glaring out from under the flat brim of his Stetson.

"Mister Hannigan."

"Depitty."

"Jackie around?"

"Jackie? What you want him for?"

Jacob's silent glare was all the reply the man got.

"He'll be ou't the barn."

Jacob's pale eyes turned toward the barn: Apple-horse backed up a few steps, turned.

"Now hold on," Hannigan said. "Wha'd Jackie do?"

 

Jacob accepted a beer from Mr. Baxter, set his boot up on the polished foot rail.

It was accepted that father and son looked remarkably alike; the two were of a like height, a like build, they stood the same, each studied the mirror before taking a thirsty pull from his heavy, faceted mug.

Linn listened to Jacob's quiet recounting of events, seeing the events unfold in his son's words: he watched, as if a spectator, as Old Man Hannigan hauled his troublemaking son to the same cliff his new hire fell from, watched as a father seized his son by the throat and the crotch and hauled him off the ground, as if to throw him from the same cliff.

He hadn't, but he'd put the fear of God into his troublemaking boy.

The only thing Jacob omitted was the quiet voiced conversation he'd had with Jackie.

Apparently, the Sheriff found out much later, Jacob took pains to describe his ... disappointment ... that Jackie lied about him, that Jackie described him as a bloodthirsty lawman who killed -- with no provocation, with his bare hands -- and tried to use this falsehood to bully the new hire.

Jackie's nature, unfortunately, emerged again, in spite of the strenuous nature of the Old Man's admonition: not long after, he chose the wrong victim, and ended up with a pick handle bent over his head -- but that was not in Firelands County, so it was not a concern of either the pale eyed Sheriff, nor of his pale eyed son.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

RESPITE

Sarah Lynne McKenna slipped into the hotel by a door not usually seen by the common eye: she had one of the only three keys, she slipped in, closed the door, turned the lock.

Safe.

She closed her eyes, leaned back against the wall, shaking.

She swallowed: she'd betrayed a man, a dangerous man, she'd stolen documents and made sketches, she'd gone before one of the few Judges she knew to be trustworthy and filed sworn affidavits that named names, and gave dates, times and places: she'd timed her efforts carefully, almost too closely: when the door was burst open and men with shotguns and badges and loud, harsh voices came roaring into the bedchamber, Sarah McKenna was very nearly in what might be called a "compromising position."

Only her proximity to a hidden bolt-hole, behind the dressing-screen, kept her from being swept up in the raid, and even so, she'd gotten away wearing her corset and her stockings and absolutely nothing else.

Sarah had planned carefully before engaging in her clandestine operation.

She'd been recruited by His Honor the Judge Donald Hostetler as an investigator, a detective in the purest sense of the word -- one who detects -- one who finds things out: he based this wild idea on two things:

First, a fellow named Pinkerton was surprised when a woman came into his office, bold as brass, asking for a job -- not as a secretary -- but as an investigator.

Pinkerton was a man who could see possibilities, and he found in short order that women were not regarded as a threat; that women could gull a man into telling her things he'd never tell another man, that a woman could find out more, better, faster -- not always, but often enough to prove her worth many times over.

For this reason, and because young Sarah Lynne McKenna was a quick change artist, and could cunningly use foundations and powders and the artifices of women to change her appearance: for those two overriding reasons, he'd hired her as an Agent of the Court.

Sarah Lynne McKenna had indeed used foundations and powders and wigs to become someone she wasn't, in order to bring down the criminal mastermind of an organization the Law didn't want to see expanded further: rather than try to take this well-guarded man herself, she'd given the Law the information that justified its sudden, door-splintering raid, while she was behind a dressing-screen, supposedly divesting herself of everything but a lustful expression.

Sarah slipped through a narrow passage, found the simple dress and shoes she'd stashed there against just such a possibility: she emerged into the night, glided past keyed-up men, watchful in the dark, who deferentially touched their hat-brims to a pretty young woman alone on the street at night.

She'd secured the key from its hiding place, she'd gone into the hotel, she'd unlocked another door and cat-footed up the back stairs, coming out on the third floor, where she slipped along the dim corridor, counting doors as they passed: she stopped, leaned back, caught the barest sheen of light coming through the window at the end of the hallway, such that it reflected off the door, showing the numbers in shadowed relief.

Sarah turned the key in the lock, opened the door, slipped inside, locked it again.

Sarah Lynne McKenna took a long, silent breath, felt herself start to shake, and she knew that -- for a few minutes at least -- she would be worthless, she'd be shaking like a streetwalker at a tent revival.

Her eyes were busy; she listened to the stillness, heard laughter, heard music from downstairs, smelled tobacco-smoke: she waited for several minutes, unmoving, then stepped where she remembered the rugs were, weight on the balls of her feet.

She reached up, scratched a Lucifer match, turned the gas-valve, touched match: the gas-light was a few moments coming to full brightness, and she averted her eyes so as not to blast her vision.

The match went smoking into the match-tray; Sarah went to the closet, opened the doors.

She froze, listening: she turned, a little, tilted her head, smiled.

Sarah Lynne McKenna, the pale eyed and illegitimate daughter of a pale eyed Sheriff, swept out of the room twelve minutes later, renewed, rejuvenated: she was dressed, she was confident, her heels were intentionally loud on polished hardwood, an ornate black fan held in one gloved hand, two round wood-looking objects in the other.

Men's heads turned as Sarah flowed down the stairs.

The ruffled train of her lobstertail dress almost framed her as she descended: she was beautiful and she knew it -- her hair was pulled severely back, a tall comb thrust so it stood up at the back of her head -- she descended with confidence, she stopped, snapped her fan open: it was a deliberate move, almost violent: she raised it in front of her face, regarded the room with a slow, left to right sweep of her eyes: conversation slacked, nearly stopped, as more heads turned, as Sarah snapped the fan shut against her hand, as she thrust it up her sleeve, as she removed a spherical, wood-looking object from her other hand.

An old man sat near one wall, an old man with his hat inverted on the floor: precious few coins showed for his work, but he played, and his skill with the double-strung, deep-toned Mexican guitar was impressive indeed.

His notes softened, grew gentler, slowed as he looked at this young woman, as she raised her chin and gave the room a haughty look, as she raised one hand, brought the other to the small of her back.

Castanuelas, or castanets, have a sharp, commanding note: a deceptively simple implement, played with three fingers: she commanded the room's attention with the first chattering address, then she set a rhythm, and she began to move.

Women are creatures of magic.

A woman can glide instead of walk, and she did: a woman can dance, instead of glide, and she did: Sarah's steps were quick, sure, graceful, and the white-haired old man's fingers remembered what it was to be young, and his guitar sang of the joy of youth, and the woman danced.

No stage, no curtains, no announcement: one moment, the hotel's dining room, poorly populated with men and cigars, with whiskey-pegs and conversation, suddenly seemed filled, suddenly seemed ... warmer ... as an old Mexican sang, the guitar his voice, and the young woman in the scarlet-and-yellow dress cadenced heels and castanets with the song of his youth.

He played a young man's strength, he played a vaquero a-horseback, dashing and handsome, he played the hot Mexican sun and the love of a maiden, and as he played, the woman spun and bent, swayed and thrust a stockinged, high-heeled foot forward: sharp little heels were as brisk on hardwood as Spanish chestnut was on the smoky atmosphere.

The guitarist was not a large man; he was not impressive to look at, but she danced for him, as a woman will dance for her beloved: when she spun, she began and ended her turns, looking at him: when she raised her arms in celebration of his music, she inclined them to him: magic it was she wove that night, and magic filled the room, entrancing the hearts of men, bringing more of them into the dining room, until finally it was filled, with only room enough for a black-haired maiden in a ruffled flamenco dress, and an old man sitting on the floor, against one wall.

None was entirely certain how she'd done it, but when she stopped, her head thrown back, chin to the ceiling, one arm upthrust and one arm out, toward the old Mexican and his guitar, she brought her hand down and snapped open an ornate black fan and covered her face, dropping into an elaborate curtsy.

It was not accident that she nudged the old man's hat with her foot.

Sarah Lynne McKenna, Agent of the Firelands District Court, the pale-eyed, daredevil, hellraising daughter of the pale eyed Sheriff, had been running for three days on nerves and coffee, waiting on a knife's edge for the moment to betray a man who would kill her for the betrayal, leading him on without surrendering her virtue: she'd cut it close, she'd cut it very close indeed, and it wasn't until she'd made her escape, not until she'd slipped, nearly naked, between the walls through a passage she'd discovered by accident, not until she'd gotten into her hotel room and honestly shook like a streetwalker at a tent revival --

When Sarah opened the closet and saw the flamenco dress and the mantilla, and the guitar's voice tugged at her ear as if with an invisible thumb-and-forefinger, Sarah Lynne McKenna knew just how to discharge all the tension, all the stress, of her most recent operation.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE GHOST'S ONLY FEAR

Angela Keller stood very properly.

Her chin was lifted, her hands clasped, her shoulders were back and she was standing very straight, breathing from her diaphragm, breathing from something her Daddy called the hara.

Angela was a very proper young lady, and Angela had very definite ideas of propriety: one was that she was scrupulous about names, preferring to call people by their name, and not by a nickname: another was to dress properly, as she was today.

Angela stood alone in their little whitewashed church, stood before the altar rail, faced the empty pews.

She'd warmed up her voice, carefully, methodically, as she'd been taught: Angela was a young woman gifted with both natural beauty, and with a truly gorgeous voice: she was also a curious sort, and had absolutely scoured the extensive family references that detailed the lives of her ancestors ... and especially her pale eyed ancestresses.

Angela Keller could recite their names, back to the family that sailed the blue salt water to pioneer their line to the North American continent; she could recite dates of birth, dates of death; children by each, place of birth, place of burial, and now, at thirteen years of age, as she was coming out of girlhood and into young womanhood, she stood alone, in a McKenna gown of her own making -- a gown correct in pattern, cut, construction, even thread count.

Angela Keller was a young woman with a definite sense of propriety, and she intended to sing, and she sang best when she wore the style of a certain of her ancestresses.

Angela's mind was quick -- remarkably so; she was almost labeled ADHD because her mind was racing so far ahead of her classmates; it took vigorous persuasion, but she'd been tested and advanced significantly in her education, until finally she was working at a level that suited the speed of her developing young mind: this quick young mind, as she took a deep, diaphragmatic breath, seized an idea, stopped running, turned and looked hard at her own question.

I read about Sarah McKenna singing.

My sister Marnie has a beautiful singing voice, though she didn't share it often.

I don't ever remember hearing my Gammaw Willamina sing.

Angela blinked, let her breath out, frowned: she shook her head, lifted her chin again:  another good deep breath, she heard her voice in her mind, she relaxed her soul and sang.

The little whitewashed church, over its many years, had heard many voices, and the best of these had been from singers with pale eyes: perhaps the ancient timbers remembered women ranked shoulder to shoulder, united in glorious harmony, their names as historic and ancient as the church's memories themselves -- Daisy Finnegan, Bonnie McKenna, Esther Keller, Sarah McKenna ... and in years that followed, singers male and female, who wove their magic here as well.

Angela sang.

Reverend John Burnett was scratching his thinning thatch with the end of his pen, frowning at the few lines he'd started to write: Sunday's sermon was coming, but with difficulty, and when he heard a familiar voice, he stopped, he smiled a little, and he pushed the yellow legal pad from him.

Ave Maria was a particular favorite of his: he'd heard it sung, here, and at the Rabbitville monastery: he always suspected the pale-eyed Willamina Keller (rest her soul!) was one of the white-veiled Sisters who sang when he visited the Monastery, but he was never sure, and he never felt forward enough to ask her.

Reverend John laid down his pen, relaxed, let the voice soak into his soul.

 

Angela sang with the control and the power of a trained operatic voice: she could, and did, soar high into the soprano, or swim down through contralto, or even range down to a perfectly-controlled alto: she'd heard sopranos who screeched, more than sang: her own voice was mercifully smooth, flawlessly disciplined, and the Ave shimmered in the still air of the empty church.

Angela bowed her head after her final note, listened to the echoes fade: she opened her eyes, looked at the pews where her family traditionally sat, remembered what it felt like to sit on her Gammaw's lap when she was very young.

Angela Keller glided over to the pew, seeing its occupants in her memory: she sat beside where she remembered her Gammaw sitting.

For a moment Angela could hear the brittle crackle of cellophane.

She smelled butterscotch, and she smiled, for the memory was a good one.

Sheriff Willamina Keller, wife, mother and grandmother, always had butterscotch hard candies in her purse, and peppermints:  the peppermints were horsie bribes, but the butterscotch -- of which there seemed to be a truly endless supply -- was handed out freely to the young.

Angela closed her eyes, remembered what it was to sit with her Gammaw.

"Gammaw," Angela whispered aloud, "why did I never hear you sing?"

"You did, child," came the returning whisper.

Angela's ear pulled back as if tugged by an invisible thumb-and-forefinger.

"When?"

"When you were very young," came the whisper again. "But I sang softly."

"Did I ever hear you sing after that?"

"Once," Angela heard: she felt her Gammaw's hand rest lightly on her own.

"The Church went to Rabbitville and the White Sisters sang."

Angela smiled a little, her eyes still closed: she remembered the occasion, when the White Sisters -- all in white habits, with their faces veiled -- sang in a flawless harmony, their voices soaring through the high sanctuary like the purest of sun-glowing seagulls.

"How come I never heard you sing here?"

"Because I was afraid," came the answering whisper.

Angela felt sudden uncertainty, hearing this susurrant confession that jarred against her every memory of her pale eyed Gammaw.

"But Gammaw," she whispered in juvenile protest, "you're not afraid of anything!"

She heard her Gammaw's quiet laugh, she felt her sitting beside her: she wanted so very badly to look, she wanted to believe it was her Gammaw sitting beside her, and not her imagination --

"I've always been afraid of singing in public," her Gammaw's voice whispered. "I kept it hidden, but I've always been afraid of that one thing!"

Angela could not stand it any longer.

She turned, she opened her eyes, she stared in surprise at her wise old Gammaw, just as young and just as beautiful as she remembered.

Angela felt her Gammaw's hand, laid warm and gentle over her own, tighten just a little, and then --

Gone --

Angela blinked, thrust desperate arms through the emptiness that a moment before had been her beloved Gammaw --

She looked down --

A single, cellophane wrapped butterscotch lay on the pew where her Gammaw had been.

Angela laid her hand on the bare wood ... stone cold ... she got up, felt where she'd been sitting ...

Warm ...

Angela Keller swallowed, picked up the butterscotch from the cool, smooth wooden pew.

She held it up, studied it intently, then slipped it into a hidden pocket in her McKenna gown.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller looked up at the quick, delicate tap at his office door, as the office door opened, as his daughter looked around, came in.

Angela was wearing a McKenna gown, and a beautifully made one, at that: when Angela wore a gown rather than a dress or jeans, she glided rather than walked, and so Linn was not at all surprised when she glided around his desk.

He was surprised when she cupped one hand behind his head, pressed the other palm against his forehead, looked up at the ceiling and frowned.

Angela released her father's head, curled delicate fingers under his smooth-shaven chin: she lifted, just a little, still frowning as she looked at one eye, then the other.

Angela nodded, as if reaching an important conclusion.

"I thought so," she murmured.

Linn raised an eyebrow.  "What's that, Princess?"

"Your chocolate levels are low. I prescribe a chocolate hot fudge Sundae, taken in the presence of an attractive younger woman."

Sheriff Linn Keller considered the tasks he'd planned for the day, considered his daughter's words, looked at the portrait of his Mama there on the wall, looked back at Angela.

He planted a palm firmly on his desk top, stood.

"I have benefitted often from listening to my beautiful bride," he said quietly, "and I see no reason why I should not benefit from the wise counsel of my beautiful daughter."

He offered his arm, reached for his Stetson, then the ornate, faceted-glass doorknob.

"And what prompted this?"

Angela looked at him with a serious expression.

"I want to talk to you about ghosts and Holy Ground."

"Is that all?"

"No."  Angela stopped, turned:  Linn turned with her.

Angela took her Daddy's hands in hers, closed her eyes, remembering how safe his big strong Daddy-hands always made her feel.

"I also want to talk about fear."

 

 

 

 

Edited September 10, 2023 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WELCOME

It was well known that one simply did not touch the person of the pale eyed Sheriff.

One simply did not do it, unless, of course, one wished to have a variety of body parts damaged, or worse.

It was a noteworthy moment in the history of the Firelands Colony, then, when a shouting, triumphant throng closed on the Sheriff and his new wife, as willing hands hoisted both of them off the ground, as this surging, shouting, laughing flood of celebrating humanity brought them off the ground and through the door, down the corridor and into the Great Hall: good men and true hoisted man and wife to shoulder height, charged with happy, noisy abandon up to the stage, passed them off to more associates of similar nature: the crowd drew back, laughing, grinning, putting a gap between the stage and the celebrants.

To the left and to the right, ranks of colonists, men and women, celebration and delight in their faces: Jacob and Ruth stood, facing this immense hall, facing the hardy souls who'd left Earth to start a new life far from home, faced their children who knew no other life, faced friends, kindred, colleagues.

The stage held two ornate chairs, obviously intended for the new husband and his bride, and on each side of the stage, neatly ranked, something new in the Colony's experience.

One individual, directly behind the ornate chairs, raised both arms, hesitated, brought them down.

These colonists, these folk who looked at Jacob as one of their own, who looked at his bride as a worthy addition to their Colony, simply because she merited Jacob's approval, did what people have done since time immemorial:

They welcomed them home, and they welcomed them home, with song.

It might not have been exactly what the happy couple expected.

This practiced chorus, this harmonious voice of united celebration, sang loudly, sang in practiced harmony:  one bank of singers, a second bank, then a third, on either side of the stage.

It has been said that there is no surround sound like standing in the center of a hundred voice chorus.

The new Mrs. Ruth Keller certainly felt that way.

For all that she'd grown up a child of wealth and privilege, she'd never been between two, three-tier-deep banks of singers.

Her chair was very near her husband's: she reached over, took his hand.

Jacob looked at his wife, saw bright delight in her eyes: she saw an almost boyish grin on his face, and then they both began to laugh.

They laughed, because Jacob Keller, the chief law enforcement officer for the Martian Colonies, and his new wife, were being serenaded in carefully crafted harmony, with a lusty, enthusiastic, 

"What do y' do with a Drunken Sailor,

     "What do y' do with a Drunken Sailor,

          "What do y' do with a Drunken Sailor,

               "Ear-lye in the Mor-ning!"

The moment was captured, and would be shown on the big screens afterward, how their pale eyed Sheriff, a hard but fair man, threw his head back and laughed to hear the welcoming chorus.

When they finished, Sheriff Jacob Keller stood, arms wide, Stetson in one hand: he turned, grinning, shouting something: as the applause died down, they heard his words, and his words were taken up as an air-shaking chant:

"FID-DLE-ER!

"FID-DLE-ER!

"FID-DLE-ER!"

Sheriff Jacob Keller settled his Stetson on his head, turned to his wife, held out his hands.

Her lips traced the word "No," her cheeks pinked, then she laughed and nodded.

A grinning young man ran onto the stage, a genuine cherry wood fiddle in one hand, bow in the other:  he came up to the Sheriff, dropped his head, putting his ear near Jacob's lips:  he stepped back, grinned, nodded.

The fiddler pulled a white handkerchief out of his hip pocket, flipped it between chin rest and beardless chin: fiddle pulled into battery, he raised the bow, grinned at the Sheriff and his wife as they turned to one another, holding hands, ready.

It was a happy moment in the history of the Firelands colony when the Sheriff and his wife danced together, for the first time as husband and wife on this new planet, and it was fitting indeed they danced to "The Irish Washerwoman" -- for they danced a jig, and a brisk jig it was: it was a favorite among the colonists, and while the Sheriff and his wife jigged to the Irish tune on stage, the close packed colonists paired off and danced as well.

Not long after, when the Sheriff's wife was interviewed for their news broadcast, she admitted that her seminal ancestors -- those stolen by the aliens, back during Lincoln's War -- her ancestors had been part of the Southern Irish Brigade.

This alone made their newest Colonist more than welcome.

This guaranteed her immediate and universal acceptance, and cemented the Irish Jig as one of the colony's favorite dances.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

ASSESSMENT

The Keller young were ranked for inspection.

The youngest, a baby in a carry-basket, was the last presented, as certain infant functions are no respecter of time, timing, or family plans: changed, fed, clean, powdered, she drowsed amid folded and fluffy blankets, flanked by a great black Bear Killer on her left, and a shining, flawless-white Bear Killer on her right.

Daughters in dresses and sons in suits, Sunday best as far as the eye could see: Linn nodded to the monitor, pressed a button, stepped away from his desk, came around beside his wife.

Shelly laid her hand on his arm, looked at him, smiled.

The Iris was as sudden as it was silent: one moment it wasn't there, the next, it was: perhaps a *pop* or a hum, a sizzle and perhaps a crackling nimbus would have added to its dramatic effect, but it simply appeared.

A tall, slender lawman stepped through, immaculate in a tailored black suit of severe cut: on his arm, a genuinely beautiful young woman with violet eyes, rich auburn hair and a gown of recognizable, but not quite identifiable, cut:  floor length, simple and elegant, it enhanced her natural beauty without overwhelming the wearer's features.

Jacob Keller lifted his chin: his face was solemn, his eyes were not.

"Sir," he said formally, "may I present my wife, Ruth."

He turned to address his wife.

"My dear," he said, "this is my family. You will be expected to remember all the names, ages and dates of birth, and there will be a written test in twenty minutes."

Ruth gave her pale eyed husband a patient look and said, "Do I beat you now or later?" -- and the solemnity of the moment fled, leaving everyone grinning, laughing and converging: Shelly immediately lay claim to this new creature who presumed to marry HER SON, and Linn and Jacob turned and slipped behind Linn's desk -- with the little girls flowing like a pastel cloud of chicks after the women, and Keller boys looking after the ladies, then following the men.

"Gentlemen," Linn said, looking at his sons, "the barn."

A group of black-suited, black-booted Keller men filed solemnly out the front door, and retreated to Linn's auxiliary office, out in the barn, used for just such overflow events.

Jacob automatically checked the coffee maker, pressed a button: the coffee maker sighed, hissed, and set about running hot water over what Jacob's nose told him were freshly ground beans: Linn opened a cupboard, brought out a box and passed out chocolate chip cookies -- "One to a customer," he admonished, "your Mama will insist on throwin' out the feed bag and we don't want to have a puny appetite!"

"No, sir," several young voices agreed, a few peppering their comments with a light spray of cookie crumbs.

"Jacob."

"Yes, sir."

"Does this young woman meet your approval?"

Jacob's expresssion was quiet, solemn.

"She does, sir."

"Boys."

The Keller young grew still, silent, wide-eyed and attentive to their pale eyed father's words.

"Jacob," he said, "has chosen a wife, and a wife is an important investment."

"Yes, sir," came the united chorus.

"Jacob."

"Yes, sir?"

"Have you taken a good look at your bride's mother?"

"I have, sir."

Linn turned his computer monitor around, pressed a button:  a couple, side by side, in a man's book-walled study appeared.

"Is this her?"

"It is, sir."

"Do you find her mother attractive?"

"I do, sir."

"Boys," Linn said to his young, "when you get sweet on a girl, you want to take a look at her mother. You'll be looking at your bride a lot more than anything else. In twenty years she will look like her mother, so bear that in mind."

"Yes, sir," came the juvenile chorus of assent.

"Jacob."

"Yes, sir?"

"Have you eaten her mother's cooking?"

Jacob smiled, just a little.

"Sir, I have eaten both my wife's cooking and before that, her mother's."

"What did you find about her mother's cooking?"

"Sir, on her world, the mother of the prospective bride fixes the first meal, which the young couple eat: the next meal is fixed by the bride-to-be, and is partaken of by the bride's father and her intended husband."

"And your assessment of her mother's skills and hers?"

"They are both quite good, sir."

"Boys."

"Yes, sir?" Shining, scrubbed-clean young faces regarded their pale eyed father as he pressed a button, as the computer's monitor went dark, as he turned it back around.

"Boys, when you get sweet on a gal, set down and eat her Mama's cooking. In twenty years she'll look like her Mama, and she will always cook like her Mama." 

"Yes, sir."

Most of the boys were well too young to take such admonition to heart, but all remembered; his advice was put to use in years to come, and at one time or another, every one of his several sons came to him and told him his advice, in that moment, on that day, was sound indeed.

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

AN IRISH WOMAN

A wedding is a fine thing, it is!

A man takes a woman for his lawful wedded wife, and he takes his fate in his hands, for as good a woman as she may seem before the knot is tied, she could change and not for the better after the ring goes on her finger and the other, through the groom's nose.

A man wants to choose wisely, he does, he wants an help meet, he wants a woman who'll let him be her man, who'll let him protect and provide and who'll let him feel like he's performing his husbandly duties -- but a woman who'll also let him follow his likes.

Sean Finnegan stood beside a red-headed, green-eyed, short-tempered saloon cook named Daisy, and he swore to protect and provide and to be the upright and honorable sort she deserved, and all was well with the world, for a short time at least.

Celebration is part and parcel of a wedding.

Celebration means joy, and music, dance, and drink, and unfortunately among the invited guests was not a certain saint who historically admonished, "In all things, moderation."

 

Jacob leaned against the side of his father's desk, smiling quietly at the look of discovery and delight illuminating his new wife's face: she read intently, she read with focus, she read with her eyes wide and unblinking, one hand holding the Journal open on his father's desktop, the other cupped over her mouth.

Jacob watched as his wife's face reddened a little, as she began that little shiver that told him she was about to laugh, and laugh she did: she looked at her grinning husband, blinked a few times, quickly, lowered her hand.

"Jacob," she squeaked, trying hard not to laugh as she did, "this sounds like us!"

"I thought you'd like that," he said quietly: Shelly, just coming in the room to join them, looked at her son, looked at her new daughter in law: she saw the same wise look on Jacob's face as she'd seen so often on Linn's.

 

It was the first time Mr. Baxter mixed whiskey punch.

He started with good ingredients and it was sneaky stuff, went down like Mama's milk and near to blowed the socks right off my feet.

It's not often I'll take that much of a tilt of Old Crud Cutter, not when I'm responsible, and as Sheriff I knew there'd be celebratin' and there'd be excess and like as not someone would get their temper up and I'd have to take a hand before Sean did, elsewise he might wind up one off those big fists of his and drive the offending soul through the floor like a man drives a fence post in soft ground.

That might tend to cause misunderstandings, y' understand.

I never found out how the fight started, but Daisy was right in the middle of it: she'd taken a gun off one fellow, she'd turned it around and had it by the barl and she belted the top strap down over the crown of his hat, hard, he went down and Daisy give a whistle and tossed it towards the stage, where Sarah caught it and dropped it in the nearest spitoon: Sean gave a great, gusting and absolutely joyful laugh, seized two men who were converging on his wife, he grabbed them by the backs of their coats and banged their heads together: Daisy was swinging those sharp knuckled little fists of hers and not doing much good, then Sean took her under the arms and hauled her off the floor and let her kick:  he hauled her through thronging humanity like a man will haul a child through floodwater to safety -- she was sizzling like a dunked cat -- "UNHAND ME, DAMN YE! I'M THE GRANDDAUGHTER OF BRIAN BARU AND I'LL KNOCK YER HARD HEAD CLEAR OFF YER SHOULDERS! SET ME DOWN, YA GREAT IRISH OAF!" 

By this time I realized I'd been drinking too well and not at all wisely: I raised my hand and waved most cheerfully to our red-faced, red-haired, swinging, kicking, swearing, Irish cook, I leaned back against the bar, watched the happy confusion as two or three more fights started, but nothing really serious: folks were considerate enough not to step on those fellows a-layin' on the floor, and I reckon that was a good thing.

Sean swung Daisy up onto the stage, then he seized Sarah and hoist her up on stage as well -- "Keep ma bride out'a trouble!" he roared, then he seized the mug of beer from the top of the piano, downed it in one breath, set it back, looked around.

"NOW WHERE'S MA FIDDLER!" he roared.

 

Ruth's voice was pleasant, well modulated: she read precisely, clearly, as if reading to a classroom: one could imagine her with a set of pince-nez glasses set well down her nose, standing in front of an old-fashioned classroom: the family Keller listened to her words, their imaginations steered with the inflections of her voice: Ruth McGillicuddy had a gift of reading, where she could take a story, and speak the words, and take the listener by the hand and run them into the story as part of it.

Only occasionally did she have to stop, to pause, or to laugh.

It might be noted that her face was a remarkable shade of scarlet, the deeper she got into the story, until her cheeks were absolutely aflame, just before she looked over at Jacob.

Husband and wife shared a look.

Silence hung long in the room, or so it seemed, just before Jacob and his lovely bride absolutely dissolved in piles of helpless laughter.

 

The fiddler was late to the party, but arrive he did, and willing hands propelled him to the stage: he stood beside the piano as Sean bent, spoke quietly into the mountaineer's good ear: he looked up at Daisy, standing impatiently as the curtains finished drawing apart, and she glared at the man and nodded, once, emphatically.

Daisy looked at Sarah, and Sarah lifted her skirts and came over beside Daisy.

I saw them both dip a little as the fiddler nodded: were it quieter, a man might have heard him pat his foot to set the rhythm, but until his curlyback fiddle began to sing, 'twas far too noisy.

It was traditional to play "Turkey in the Straw" for a wedding recessional and I reckon I'm to blame for that -- Sean and Daisy danced down the aisle as husband and wife to that good tune -- but now 'twas a different melody, and had anyone else but Sean or Daisy suggested it, why, I'd expect Daisy to take a frying pan to them the way she did Dirty Sam when he tried to work her as a soiled dove instead of the cook.

The tune he played was "The Irish Washerwoman," and Daisy and Sarah danced to it.

I'd rarely seen what some call Irish dance before: the arms are held to the side, their heels punish the boards in loud and coordinated time with the music: this was distinctly different from what Esther called Tap Dancing, which we'd seen on our own honeymoon, on that riverboat many years ago when she was nearly drowned and when we had to smuggle me ashore in a coffin, thanks to a false accusation.

Daisy and Sarah moved as one soul -- remarkably coordinated, they must've practiced this before -- their rhythm was flawless, their performance, perfection.

Many -- most -- could waltz, or close to it; all could square dance; a surprising number joined the dancers in as good an Irish jig as they could manage.

Something told me that tune would be played again, for other celebrations, and I was right.

 

Ruth released her touch on the book; she glided over to Jacob, took his arm, turned.

"Our wedding," she said, "was much as I'd just read ... there was celebration ..."

She looked at Jacob, as if half-fearing, half-hoping he would release a feline from the burlap.

Jacob grinned.

"Ruth didn't belt someone over the head with a revolver," he said, "but she did tear into a fellow who laid improper hands on her, and before I could get there, she had him bleedin' and backin' up, and I had to hold her back before she tore into him for fair and for serious!"

"No," Shelly gasped, her hand covering her smile.

"Oh, yes," Ruth laughed.

"And that part she read about being the granddaughter of Brian Boru and she was going to tear his meathouse down?"  

Jacob's grin was broad as two Texas townships as he looked proudly at his wife.

"She didn't!" Angela gasped.

"Oh, yes," Jacob said, looking proudly at his wife.  "She most certainly did!"

"Did she dance on stage, Jacob?" one of his younger brothers asked.

"She danced," Jacob confirmed, "but there was not a stage."

"Did she stiff arm dance?" Angela asked,and Jacob looked proudly at his wife again.

"Yes," he said. "She did, and she danced well indeed."

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE IMPOSSIBLE

Acting Sheriff Marnie Keller eased herself back into her old chair, smiling a little: she was once again in her immediately-identifiable, white, Olympic skinsuit, with her old familiar gunbelt around her trim waistline, her engraved .357 in a floral-carved, background-dyed, Jordan holster feeling warm and familiar and very, very welcome.

She had no pressing Ambassadorial duties; her brother Jacob, who'd been recruited as Sheriff, without Earth's knowledge or let-be, was away with his new bride -- she'd understood he was taking his pretty new wife home to Colorado, to show her off to his family, to show off his Shining Mountains, but most of all to introduce her to their horses.

Jacob's wife was a horsewoman, and from all accounts, a good one: Marnie took a long breath, sighed it out, allowed her a moment's reminisce, both for the days when she ran, wild, free, one with her saddlemount -- no longer horse and rider, but one magical creature, riding the wind itself -- she remembered when the Confederate Ambassador, by way of apology, arranged a detour to a particular planet, to a particular continent, to a particular region, where Marnie was introduced to a herd of horses, where she swung up bareback and rode, laughing like a child, delighting in a horse that was pleased to have a rider who knew how a horse should be ridden.

Marnie, blinked, sighed: horses were not to be had, not here on Mars: oh, they might arrange pasture and dirt, grasses and room enough to ride, but her husband had written multiple monographs on the subject of the difficulties of acclimatizing to the lesser gravity, and its several complications:  no, Marnie would leave horses on their own worlds.

She blinked at the rapid tattoo of knuckles on her door, then the sounder: she rose, hit the release.

"Sheriff," a young man blurted, "we gotta problem!"

Marnie's jaw thrust out and she pressed a button on her belt-box: her visor lowered, she was breathing on internal air, she was surrounded not only by her skinsuit with the embossed, gold, six-point star on her left breast, she was also surrounded by an invisible, but quite formidable, protective energy barrier, courtesy the Confederate technology she'd been given.

 

Jacob Keller nodded his approval as his bride saddled a particular black gelding.

"Pa named that one Outlaw," Jacob nodded as he slung his own saddle into place.

Outlaw-horse was busy rubber-lipping some red-and-white-striped peppermint candy wheels from Ruth's flat palm.  "Outlaw?" she queried, caressing Outlaw's long jaw, feeling as much as hearing the happy crunch of equine teeth on the minty treat.

"He's anything but," Jacob grinned.  "He's fast, and no mistake, but he's not at all vigorous."

"You don't ... use a bit?"

"None of our saddle stock do."  Jacob grinned at his bride, swung into saddle leather.  "Don't worry, Outlaw's used to it!"

"Oh, Outlaw is used to it," Ruth muttered.  "Jacob Keller, if you're going to pull a fast one on your wife, you'll feel the wrath of Brian Boru down around your ears!"

Outlaw's ears swung, listening; he stood for the woman's mount -- she was in the saddle with one easy move -- Jacob looked at his wife, now at his eye level.

"I'm not sure where to take you," Jacob said thoughtfully.  "There are so many places we could go."

"Then let's start at the beginning," Ruth declared.  

Jacob frowned, considered.

"That ... could be the Sheriff's office, or the Silver Jewel Saloon."

"I've read mention of the Silver Jewel. Your father's collection of Journals is something I would love to devour!"

"You and my Gammaw," Jacob laughed.

"Gammaw?"

Jacob laughed again.  "One of the girls -- when she was little, I think it was Marnie -- she couldn't say 'Grandma' -- it came out 'Gammaw,' and it stuck."

"I see."

"An overview is helpful. I like to study a map when I'm new to a territory."  Jacob's expression was thoughtful, then he grinned -- Ruth saw something almost reckless in that grin, and she knew Jacob was going to do what he'd told himself he wouldn't.

He spun his stallion.

Ruth watched as the spotty horse bunched and thrust and drove a hole in the very atmosphere, as man and beast melded into one long, lean arrow of flesh and iron-shod hooves.

There was no gate where he was headed.

Ruth's smile was grim.

Her brothers had done the same thing with her, only she'd been on a placid old mare.

"Jacob said you can run," she muttered, then shouted joyfully, "Outlaw, GO!"

Outlaw-horse did not have to be told twice.

Shelly stood at the back door, drying her hands on the dishtowel that lived on her shoulder when she was in the kitchen:  she felt Angela beside her, ran her arm around her tall daughter's shoulders.

"I was afraid this would happen," she sighed, then she laughed, her arm tightening as Jacob and Apple-horse sailed with invisible wings over the whitewashed board fence, Ruth but a length behind, following the exact trajectory as her swift-riding husband.

"She's done that before," Angela said -- a statement, not a question.

"I suppose she has," Shelly sighed.  "Well, let's make sure supper is cooperating, shall we?"

 

Marnie ducked as something slammed into the bulkhead beside her: her eyes went pale and she felt her flesh tighten over her cheekbones.

She took a quick step the other direction, getting a wall to her back: a quick left-and-right -- staring, shocked colonists, two men on the ground in pain, one holding a deformed arm, the other curled up, retching, a gaping wound in his skull, and Marnie knew the man was dead, he just hadn't quit breathing yet.

The culprit looked at her, wild-eyed, raised some kind of a tool on a shaft -- in his hands, with this approach, it amounted to an ax, and right before Marnie's Smith & Wesson drove a hole through the bridge of the attacker's nose, she remembered seeing blood sling off it as he raised it around and charged, screaming wordlessly, eyes wide, insane.

The report of a full-house .357 in an enclosed, smooth-rock-walled chamber, is a stunning experience in the truest sense of the word:  Marnie's hearing was protected, thanks to the Confederate forcefield she wore, but everyone else had the general sensation of being slapped in the face and both ears at the same time.

Everyone there froze.

All but the fellow with the ax.

He collapsed, hit the ground, and moved no more.

 

Jacob led the way up Cemetery Hill, through the ornate, cast-iron arch, held up with hand-laid stones.

Ruth followed, looking around, reasoning that they would likely go into the oldest secion of the cemetery first.

Jacob rode up the middle, looking to his left, and Ruth realized she'd already passed three tombstones with her married name on them.

Jacob stopped, removed his hat, looked at his bride.

Outlaw-horse stopped:  Ruth swung her leg over his hind quarters, Jacob clapped his Stetson back on his head and took his wife around the waist: she squeaked a little -- she hadn't intended her controlled descent to be interfered with -- and as usual, her husband's strength surprised her: he had her around the bony prominences of her pelvis, his grip was firm, strong, and she knew she was absolutely safe in his hands.

Jacob turned, thrust an arm out, indicated the town laid out below them.

"Straight yonder," he said, " is the firehouse. It's a horse house, tall and narrow from where they stabled their team of horses with men and machines. Behind and to the left, there's the depot, and you can see the railroad running --"

His bladed hand, out-thrust, indicated the steel rails.

"Off to the left -- you can see the church steeple.  There's history there, too, if you follow the Journals you'll read about my namesake being shot there when the reavers came to town."

"Oh, my," Ruth murmured.

Jacob turned and faced his bride squarely, his face serious:  he took her hands, looked very directly in her lovely violet eyes.

"Darlin'," he said quietly, "I am going to show you some things that may give you pause to consider."

"To consider ... what?" she asked carefully.

Jacob turned, drew her toward a tombstone.

"If you'll take a look at my Gammaw's portrait here --"

Ruth bent, studied the image laser engraved on polished quartz.

"Now if you were to go down to that end" -- he straightened, thrust an arm out the way they'd come -- "you would find the portrait on yonder stone to be damn neart identical to my Gammaw's. If you look at my sister Marnie, she could be Gammaw's twin, but for the difference in years."

"I see," Ruth said faintly.

Jacob drew her up the row of gravestones.

"That one is Jacob Keller. He's not there, he's buried in France, killed in the First World War."

"World War?" Ruth asked, horrified.  "First World War?"

"Yeah," Jacob said cynically.  "Once wasn't good enough, they had to light that fire off a second time, only worse. We don't have any pictures of Joseph as a young man. He was my namesake's son, and he was named for a crib death child Old Pale Eyes and his wife Esther had."

"Old Pale Eyes?"

Jacob's grin was quick, boyish, teeth even and white under his carefully curled handlebar mustache.

"Take a look at this portrait," he said, squatting, "then take a look at me."

Ruth stopped, frowned, tilted her head a little:  Jacob saw her eyes widen, saw her pupils dilate as she first read the names -- then she studied the portraits -- she looked at the one portrait again, then Jacob.

"Marnie could be Gammaw's twin. The stone at the end, Sarah Lynne McKenna, could be as well. I'm the image of my father, and we are both the image of Old Pale Eyes."

Ruth rose from her own crouch; Jacob rose as well.

"I'm not identical to the man," Jacob said quietly.  "Old Pale Eyes had back trouble. I never have. Pa does, Gammaw and her husband decided not to have him operated on. He has a sway back. We figure Old Pale Eyes had a sway back also. I inherited my Mama's good spine."

Ruth nodded, considered, looked back over Firelands, laid out below them.

They watched as two overhead doors opened, then a third, as headlights, then red-and-white emergency lights seized their attention: in the distance, Jacob heard the rising scream of the chrome-plated, bumper-mounted Federal siren.

He looked over at Ruth and instantly felt like an inconsiderate clod.

Her world hadn't progressed to the internal combustion engine yet -- their technology had not progressed beyond steam and horse power, and now she was seeing motorized fire trucks, motor vehicles --

He heard an airplane engine, looked up --

Ruth looked up as well --

A yellow-and-black Piper Cub was muttering its way overhead, high enough to look harmless, headed for the Firelands airport on the opposite mountaintop.

"Yeah, we have manned flight," Jacob sighed.  

Ruth gripped Jacob's arm firmly.

"Jacob," she said softly, "I am not unaccustomed to new experiences."  

Ruth frowned a little, as if considering, then pushed forward, through her thoughts.

"Be patient with me, dear husband. I do not wish to appear slow."

Jacob's eyes were as serious as his voice.

"Ruth," he said firmly, "you are one of the most naturally intelligent women I've ever known. You are quick and you are given of a great deal of common sense, which sad to say isn't all that common."

He took a deep breath.

"Machines are built by men and operate according to the laws God laid down for all things to abide by. All that can be learned. I would not overwhelm you with ... too much."

"Jacob," Ruth replied, "my idea of distant was the next town. My idea of large was my father's landholdings. My idea of swift was my father's horses. You've shown me distance unmeasurable, mountains I've seen only as white teeth on the horizon, you've crossed the distance between stars by stepping through an iris that opens and closes at your will and pleasure."

Ruth lowered her eyes, chewed on her bottom lip, looked back up.

"Jacob, I don't understand much of what I've seen, but I know that I trust you, and I know you are my husband, and I know your family has accepted me as one of their own."

Ruth McGillicuddy Keller hugged her husband, laid the side of her head against shirt-front linen, sighed contentedly.

She looked up at her pale eyed husband.

"Now, my husband, what new marvels and wonders shall we explore next?"

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING

Jacob Keller considered the ax head, calculated just how he wanted to stone it: he was a man who took care of his tools, and so he sat, ax handle laid over his shoulder, the ax head on a chunk between his boots: he took the round, palm-sized stone he used for the task, began to work the metal, establishing the line he wished to work.

He didn't look up as his wife came past with the chamber-pot: she was a modest woman, and to acknowledge her necessary trip to the outhouse would have been less than entirely proper.

There is a wonderful freedom between husband and wife, and at times, a ribald freedom at that, but so far as possible, Jacob considered his wife a Lady, and treated her accordingly, and he wasn't going to comment on her trip to the outhouse.

He looked up and grinned at his son Joseph: the lad was old enough to get into trouble, though with his short legs, he had to work at it -- He's takin' three steps to the yard, Jacob thought, and grinned again, for he heard the words in his father's voice, in that warm and affectionate voice grandfathers use in such moments.

Joseph was busy climbing the fence.

Jacob was of no mind to call him down.

Annette might, but she was tending her own details; like as not she was already taking her ease in the outhouse and would not want to be interrupted by a fatherly admonition, nor by a juvenile protest.

Stone whispered over steel; Jacob's abrasive strokes were long -- he was using what was becoming called a broad ax, rather than the smaller bit axes that were becoming more popular -- this one was hand forged, not store bought, and Jacob himself shaped and fitted the handle, wedged it tight, and used it regularly.

Jacob's hand still gripped the round sharpening stone as he jerked his hand away from the blade, as he looked hard to his left: Annette came a-boilin' out of the outhouse, swatting at something invisible, at least invisible to Jacob -- her foot tangled with the bail of the dropped combinet -- Annette slung it a surprising distance with an impatient kick and she backed away, glaring at the outhouse as if it were a personal enemy.

Jacob turned his attention back to the ax blade.

Long, even strokes, patiently done; an old timer once told Jacob he spent as much time sharpening his ax as cutting wood, and the old man was a timber cutter all of his life, and one time on a bet he drove a stake in the ground and felled a tree right atop the stake.

Jacob was still young when he saw this, but he was also quick, and he wagered a sum on the old man's skill and came away richer by sixbits. 

He could've wagered a twenty dollar gold piece, but that would be a sizable sum for someone to lose to a stripling, and Jacob knew he was safer to win a small sum than a great one, and so his bet was wisely modest.

All this went through his mind as his wife came stomping past him, headed back into the house.

She came back with a precious commodity -- a newspaper -- nothing was wasted; this newspaper was well read and could be up to six months old, and Jacob was willing to bet Annette found herself a wasp nest, and was determined to burn it out.

He didn't think any more of it: the edge was to his satisfaction, and he had wood to split.

He looked over at the fence, saw between the boards a little leg kind of floating past, and he grinned again, just before he swung the ax and drove it into a sawed chunk and split it cleanly.

Joseph was astride that Texas long horn, a little boy on a great big beef, and as two halves of a cloven chunk clattered to the ground, Jacob's ear drew back a little to hear the happy laughter of a little boy.

Jacob was lean and Jacob was strong and Jacob knew how to read grain: he took pride in his skill at splitting wood, and it wasn't until Annette crossed just at the field of his vision, not until she'd busied herself with something out of his sight, not until her startled screech, did he drop the edge lightly into a splittin' chunk to hold it -- he straightened -- he looked --

Jacob blinked, raised an eyebrow.

Annette was backing away from the outhouse, distress on as much of her face as he could see -- her hands were cupped up around her mouth -- she looked at Jacob, big-eyed, shocked, scared, then looked back at their outhouse, which by now was starting to burn rather vigorously.

Jacob strode over to Annette, seized her by the elbows, turned her to face him, pale eyes busy: she looked at him with honest fear, for she'd never committed such an unbelievable act before --

She'd just set fire to the outhouse he'd built --

She'd never seen him turn his temper toward her --

Annette squeezed her eyes shut, half-afraid of a hard-swung palm --

Jacob raised his good right hand.

He did not raise it in anger.

Jacob brushed a curl of hair away from her face, his other arm around her now, drawing her close.

"Darlin'," he said his voice serious, "did you get burnt?"

Annette opened her eyes, more surprised than relieved, then profoundly relieved when she saw the worry on Jacob's face instead of the dark anger her imagination painted there a moment before.

She looked at the outhouse and wailed "I've burned up our kaibo!" and collapsed into her husband's shirtfront, weeping like a heartbroken child.

Jacob's ears reddened a little.

Jacob's face reddened as well.

The corners of his eyes tightened, he started to lift the corners of his mouth, then he threw his head back and abandoned himself to laughter, his arms firm around his sorrowing bride:  as she wept, he laughed, and the harder she cried, the harder he laughed:  Annette twisted away from him, glared at her husband with surprise, with distress, and with anger, and then she hauled off and hit him in the chest with her dainty little hand.

Jacob Keller, known practitioner of the less-than-gentle art of Manual Pacification, responded to his wife's fisted attack:  he dropped back half a step, planted his palm on her forehead:  Annette snarled, frustrated, swung repeatedly as Jacob held her at arm's length, and the more Jacob laughed, the madder Annette got, and their outhouse ablaze behind her:  finally, when she showed signs of winding down, Jacob bundled her up in his arms, turned so she could see the kaibo -- he turned just as it collapsed in on itself, with a shower of sparks and a hissing crackle -- "Darlin'," he declared, "if this is the worst that happens to us, we're in pretty good shape!" 

Jacob released his embrace, stood with his arm around his wife's shoulders, watched as their well-built little outhouse continued to reduce itself to its component elements.

"I never liked that little bitty outhouse anyhow," he said.  "I always wanted a two-holer." 

He bent down, kissed Annette's forehead.  

"How'd the damned thing come to ketch fahr anyway?"

He felt Annette giggle, and then sniffle, and she hung her head.

"I lit the newspaper to try and burn out that wasp nest," she said, "and I must've kicked the coal oil can over, for when they tried to sting me I jumped back and dropped the burning twist!"

Jacob looked down his wife's front, alarmed: he squatted, seized her hemline, pulled it off the ground, ran it quickly through his hands, stood.

It was one of the only times Annette ever saw her long tall husband look anywhere near scared.

"Darlin'," he said quietly, his voice deeper and very serious, "I know what it is when a woman's dress catches fire. If you were anywhere near when that spilt coal oil lit off, you were just awful close to gettin' burnt plumb up!"

Jacob took his bride behind the knees and under her shoulder blades, picked her up, carried her quickly toward the house.

He had to do something to burn off the memory of seeing that exact thing happen, and not one damned thing he could do to keep a girl from burning to death when it did.

Out in the pasture, oblivious to the drama between his Pa and his Ma, little Joseph Keller laughed as he surveyed his high and sunlit kingdom from the lofty and powerful throne of his fondest playmate, a genuine Texas longhorn named Boocaffie.

Dried wood burns fast, desiccated by altitude and sunlight; what little was left of what had been a well-built (but small) outhouse, collapsed completely, falling into the hole beneath: a shaken wife sipped the tea her concerned husband prepared for her, and a little boy's laughter was heard in the mountains, near a little Colorado town called Firelands.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

FAST, AND GOOD

A young man in a black suit and a young woman in a long dress walked slowly, holding hands.

Not twenty hours earlier, they'd stood on a high ledge on a Colorado mountainside, they'd strolled through the Firelands museum, they'd explored the museum's library:  Jacob already had the contents of his father's library scanned, and thanks to Marnie, everything -- display and reference, book, folder and computer file -- was also scanned and stored electronically.

With his new wife's honest fascination with Firelands' past, his copying these scans and bringing them home with him, would guarantee Ruth could indulge her new interest without difficulty.

As soon as he taught her how to run a computer.

Jacob shook hands with his father, hugged his mother, went down on one knee and gathered a double armful of younger siblings to him: he rose, took his wife's hand: they'd stepped through the iris that appeared in his father's study, and once through, the elliptical portal disappeared as if it never was, and both Linn and his wife agreed that the house was suddenly a little emptier for their absence.

Jacob and Ruth stepped through the iris, into the smoothed-stone corridor outside the Sheriff's quarters.

Jacob looked at the hand lettered sign hanging beside the door -- Pale Eyes Peacekeepers Inc. -- and grinned:  it was a new addition, it hadn't been there before he and Ruth departed for their few days back home.

Jacob touched the annunciator as the doorway slid open.

Marnie wore her McKenna gown and a delighted smile:  she hugged Jacob, then Ruth, drew them inside -- "Come in, come in, this is your house, not mine, everything's taken care of, the report's on your desk and I didn't break any arms or legs this time!"

"The ... report?" Jacob asked carefully.

"Murderer came at me with an ax," Marnie shrugged.  "Cause of death was terminal insanity as manifested by trying to kill me."

"That's insanity, all right," Jacob agreed.

Marnie turned to Ruth.  "Did he bore you with his war stories?"

Ruth blinked, surprised.  "No, actually," she admitted. "I was too busy learning about ... home."

Marnie smiled, winked.  "Get him to tell you about Angela reading about a long-ago Angela blowing up the outhouse so the Slimy Monster from the Sulfur Crick wouldn't reach up and grab her."

"Oh?"  Ruth looked at her husband, raised her eyebrows.  "An old family secret?"

Jacob laughed.  "No, 'twas a mistake, and I didn't make it!" he declared.  "Old Pale Eyes had a little girl named Angela, and her older brother Jacob told her the Slimy Monster from the Sulfur Crick lived under the outhouse and was going to grab her sometime when she used it, so she stole one of her Daddy's sticks of blasting powder and a couple Lucifer matches and my ancestral namesake got her around the waist right after she lit the fuse, heaved that stick of powder down into the much and hollered 'Take that you mean old mont-ster!' " -- Jacob shifted his weight, grinned.

"And you told your little sister Angela the same thing."

Jacob nodded slowly.  "After I read it in Pale Eyes' Journal, but ... yes.  Yes, I did."

"And your little sister Angela ...?"

"She didn't use blasting powder."

"Oh?"  Ruth's tone was that of a schoolteacher, wringing a confession from a reluctant schoolboy.

"She used a stick of high test dynamite."

Ruth looked at Marnie, puzzled, mouthed the word "Dynamite?" and Marnie, grinning wickedly as only a co-conspirator can, raised a finger and nodded.

"I got Angela around the waist and I got her around the corner of a shed before she went boom."

"Boom," Ruth repeated skeptically.

Jacob nodded.  " 'Twas in such poor shape after the kaboom that Pa burnt what was left and built a new one in its place."

"Angela," Ruth said, folding her arms and giving her husband a speculative look.

"Innocent little baby sis Angela," Jacob nodded.

"Because you told her there was a monster that was going to grab her."

"Yyyep."

Ruth looked at Marnie, smiling just a little.

"I rather like Angela," she said thoughtfully.  "She didn't say two words while we were in Firelands, but she was quietly working with her mother to make my visit the best it could be."

"That's her, all right," Jacob grinned.

"A little sister that will use explosives to preserve her virtue," Ruth said thoughtfully.  "How old was she?"

Jacob looked at Marnie, frowned: he looked away, looked back.

"Five, maybe?"

Ruth released Jacob's arm, took Marnie's, turned her: the two women paced deeper into the Sheriff's quarters, their heads inclined to one another, the way women will when discussing matters of intimacy.

"Madam Ambassador," Ruth said quietly, "do I understand correctly that children you have, male and female?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"Tell me, Madam Ambassador, do you tell them stories from home?"

"Often," Marnie admitted.

"Have you told them about this ... Slimy Monster from Sulfur Crick?"

"Jacob already has."

"And has it caused ... difficulties?"

Marnie laughed, patted Ruth's gloved hand with her own. 

"He was smart enough to warn them that it only lives under outhouses, and they didn't know what an outhouse was until he explained it."

"You don't have outhouses."

"No."

Ruth turned, lifted her chin.

"Jacob?" she called.

Jacob was standing behind his desk, sorting through the files Marnie had out for his inspection.

He looked up.

"Dearest?"

"Jacob, remind me to keep explosives out of our children's reach."

"Yes, dear," Jacob said absently, returning to the open folder on the desk before him.

Marnie sighed, shook her head.  "He's just like his father," she whispered, taking Ruth's arm and heading towards the door:  "I just happen to know where there's some lovely oolong with our name on it."

Ruth wasn't at all sure what oolong was, but as she was still learning, she smiled a little and walked with Marnie.

Jacob Keller sat at his desk, one elbow on the green desk blotter, his forefinger across his mustache, frowning a little as he studied the report.

It could honestly be said he had no idea just how much he looked like his father in that moment.

Sheriff Jacob Keller, just returned home with his beautiful bride, nodded a little as he read his sister's account of a rare but troubling incident that required her immediate and vigorous intervention.

Jacob called up the surveillance, watched from one camera's angle, from another, re-read the report.

"Little Sis," he said aloud, "I'm just awful glad you're fast and good with that Smith!"