SHORT STORIES!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

LEMON SQUEEZER

Michael walked slowly between the two trees.

His hand-laid, rawhide reata was drawn tight between them.

Michael moved slowly, turning the braided leather, scrutinizing the leather lay, looking for damage, tears, wrinkles, any irregularity that might indicate a broken strand within the braid.

It had been made by an old man, a master of his craft: Michael listened closely as the old Mexican talked, as he told Michael of his younger days horseback, his younger days punching cattle, as his forefathers had done for multiple generations.

Michael remembered the shock as the steer came to the end of the line -- quite literally -- he was honestly surprised he hadn't snapped his reata.

That it survived the shock was testament to an old Mexican's skill at tanning leather, at selecting only the best parts of multiple heifers' hides, of cutting and braiding and making.

Michael went over the length of the reata twice, turning it slowly as he went, examining every square centimeter of its construction, at least all that was visible to the eye, then he walked over to the little table in the shade of one of the trees and pulled a lemon out of his coat pocket.

Lightning was doing what she did very well.

She and Snowdrift were laid down in the shade, sound asleep, each one cuddled up against the other -- though as big as Snowdrift was, her cuddle was against Lightning's jaw and upper neck.

Michael looked at the pair of them, he opened his lockback, set the lemon down on the weathered tabletop and sliced it in two.

A wipe of honed steel across his thigh, another metallic snap as the blade closed: Michael squeezed the cut surfaces together, the reata between them: he held a hard pressure and walked its length, turned the halves a little, pressed them firmly around the leather again and walked his way back.

He had no idea if Lightning liked lemons or not, and he hadn't the heart to wake her, so he set the two halves down on the tabletop, then wiped his hands on a shop towel.

I'll wait until that dries, he thought.

That's what Old Mex told me to do.

Once it's dry I'll rub it down with beef fat, just like he showed me.

Michael considered the several inquiries he'd gotten already.

Earth westerns were popular, both as reading material, and videos.

There was an instant demand -- having seen him running Lightning across his father-in-law's pasture (uncle-in-law? he wondered) -- and having seen him rope that rascally fence-busting steer, now the demand for saddlehorses absolutely skyrocketed, along with everything that went with them.

Saddles, bridles, bits, saddle pads, saddle blankets, curry combs ... and genuine rawhide, hand-braided, reatas.

And horses.

There was already a demand for horses.

Michael knew this was at least in part due to his and Victoria's now-famous ride, when their father was making a presentation and they arrived somewhat later, and ended up riding to the sound of gunfire, and settling the hash of the robbers who decided to shoot up the general areas, at least until one was shot once, one was shot twice, and one got knocked Galley West with the full-speed collision with an Appaloosa's chest.

His father was quietly breeding and breaking Appaloosas, shipping them to a small group of Confederate dealers, who re-sold them on their respective planets: Michael knew his father was making a fine addition to his purse, with horses alone.

Michael knew that he, himself, had not the skill to cut hide and braid a reata, nor to make a saddle; he could, however, teach folks how to ride, how to groom, what to look for when checking their hooves.

He'd taught himself how to rope, but he wasn't confident enough to presume to teach it: no, he thought, better to stick with what I know.

Lightning, having played a significant part in Michael's System-wide recognition, was following Michael's example, in that she was pursuing an activity in which she had some expertise.

Lying in the shade of a leafed-out tree, with a pure-white mountain Mastiff cuddled up against her throat, Lightning did what she does very well.

Lightning snored.

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I DON'T KNOW HOW TO FIGHT A WITCH

Michael Keller rubbed Lightning's muzzle, whispered "Wait for me," held out two unwrapped peppermints: she blinked sleepily as she crunched the minty-sweet swirlies.

Michael turned, looked at the church.

It was stone, it was solid, it was built to look both beautiful, and strong.

He walked slowly up the steps, pulled the left hand door open, removed his cover as he came across the threshold.

Church or not, Michael ducked quickly to the side to get a solid stone structure behind him, to hide his silhouette, to let his eyes adjust to the inside.

It smelled like beeswax and old books, and he smiled: every church had its own distinct odor, but they all smelled like a Church, and this one did.

Young eyes sought out the places where a man might lay wait: satisfied, he stepped forward, to the next set of doors, noting the hand-worked metal catches at their bottoms that probably held them open during services.

He came face to face with a surprised man in a black coat and a clerical collar.

Michael let himself look as surprised as this fellow -- his mind ran fast, faster than his legs ever could, and he knew if he looked surprised, he would be seen as less of a threat.

The cleric and the visitor looked at one another and grinned, and both said "Howdy!"

Michael saw recognition in the man's eyes, and he saw kindness: Michael's Stetson was correctly under his off arm and he stuck out his hand. 

"I'm Michael."

"Father Harris."

"Wonder if you could help me out."

The clergyman nodded, smiling a little. "Of course, my son."

Michael grinned, that quick, contagious, boyish grin -- again, a calculated expression -- the collared cleric stepped aside, and Michael stepped across the inner threshold.

"Sometimes," Michael said quietly, his voice naturally hushed in this polished, varnished, waxed, painfully clean sanctum, "I don't mind being called son!"

The priest nodded, smiling as if at a memory.

They paced slowly down the broad center aisle.

"Parson, are you familiar with the Witch of November?"

The priest blinked, surprised.

"No ... no, not at all, I'm sorry."

Michael considered for a moment longer.

"Today's Sunday?"

"It is, my son."

"Padre, you're gettin' ready for Sunday service. It wouldn't be right for me to pull you off that. I'll come back later, if I may."

"This ... witch," the priest said carefully. "Is she local?"

Michael smiled -- sadly, the older man thought -- "No, Padre, it'll take a while to explain it. The Witch isn't a person, it's winter storms on the Great Lakes and it's ill fortune that strikes through the month."

"Ill fortune," the priest echoed.

Michael recognized an interrogator's trick, echoing his own words: his Pa used it often enough that he caught it right away.

Michael swallowed, bit his bottom lip.

"The Witch took my Gammaw," he said, "and that troubles me."

Michael frowned again, considered.

"Padre, I travel a number of worlds. It's a gamble what time of day I'll arrive, or what month, or what season. Back home it's November, it's two weeks from Gammaw's deathday."

The priest waited.

"When I was younger I heard about the Witch of November and I figured if she's a witch she can be killed."

He looked at the priest, young eyes serious.

"Had I a bushel basket of Hebrew shekels, Padre, I'd have paid to meet the Witch so I could punch her ticket!"

The priest saw Michael's eyes grow pale, his expression one the priest had seen before -- old, he thought, older than someone this young should look -- then Michael closed and rubbed his eyes, sighed.

"That's not the case, though. It's a season --" he looked at the Priest, he looked so very tired --"Padre, I don't know how to fight a witch!"

 

Edited November 10, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE PARADE

Angela drove the boxy Dodge M37 with its door open.

Angela wore her nursing whites and her blue cape with the red edging.

She drove in compound low, with the hand throttle pulled out a little, just enough to maintain parade speed.

Hers was but one of several units in the Veterans' Day parade: when they had a lack of drivers who could handle a clutch, Angela laughed and raised a hand:  "I can!" -- and just that fast, she got drafted.

The Irishmen threw candy from the fire trucks, as they always did, and they always threw far enough away from the truck so children would not be tempted to dart close to rolling stock to snatch a sweet before it got run over and ruined: the Firelands Marching Band was in fine form, and it was a matter of local discussion when some wise acre skated a cannon cracker ahead of one of the mounted units, where -- as genuine fate would have it -- the least experienced horse was closest to the detonation, resulting in the rider making a rather spectacular dismount (landed on his feet for a miracle, didn't fall down, but it was a near thing!) and the Drum Majorette, marching backwards and ready to whistle up the next song, saw the horse come unglued, then lay its ears back and get ready to bolt.

She whistled a command --

-- the entire Marching Band executed a flawless to-the-rear-march --

Faced with the oncoming, panicked mare, two tubas and a baritone blew a loud and rather discordant blast --

The startled horse stopped, splay-legged, confused, long enough for one of the deputies to run up and seize the cheek strap: with this sudden, familiar sense of control, the horse stood and shivered, and finally allowed itself to be led down an alley, and out back of one of the buildings, where things were quieter and it could be soothed.

Angela was one of the last units; she was tired of riding, so she made a minor adjustment to the hand throttle, wound the window down, swung the door open and stepped out, walked beside the patient old Dodge, one hand on the wheel, ready to climb in if needed.

A little boy pointed an indignant arm:  "You can't drive like that!" he shouted.

"No?" Angela asked.

"No! Ya gotta shut the door when ya drive!"

"Oh, okay!" Angela laughed -- she shut the door, reached through the open window to grasp the wheel, still walking beside the idling Dodge -- "Like this?"

The little boy jumped up and down in a fit of youthful pique -- "Nooooo!" -- his jumping tantrum featured on page two of the weekly paper, captured in mid-stomp.

Sharon, the Sheriff's dispatcher, had a freshly popped bowl of popcorn on her desk: she slid her chair out to the side and looked through the glass doors: she had a fine view of the parade, she had fresh, hot popcorn, and gratefully, not a single call came in.

Shelly insisted the restored, horse drawn Army ambulance be Tail End Charlie.

Not many years before, an ambulance call came in, they had a go box and two medics on the horse drawn unit "just in case" ... sure enough, they were nearest, they were able to break away, swing up a side street and get to where they were needed, and they ran the patient to the hospital at a horsedrawn gallop.

Shelly was taking no chances.

She wanted to be Tail End Charlie, so if her unit was needed, she'd have the best chance of a fast escape.

Shelly remembered, years before, when the service and firing squad included her mother-in-law.

She remembered Willamina putting her issue sunglasses on a little boy who wore his late father's insignia on a well-rendered, handmade uniform.

She remembered how Willamina called her marching unit to a halt, how she'd marched over, how she'd looked sternly at the young man, walked around behind him, came back in front of him, squatted, how she removed her military issue sunglasses and slipped them on his young face and whispered, "Your Daddy is a man to be proud of!" -- then she'd stood, called a right-face.

Every old veteran there executed a crisp, precise right face.

Willamina drew a great lungful of high mountain air and called, "PRE-SENT HAHMS!"

A little boy who wore his Daddy's insignia of rank, was saluted by a Marine colonel and the ranks of veterans in ranks.

Shelly remembered this, and bit her bottom lip, and she whispered, "I miss you, Willa."

 

Service, prayer, firing squad, bugle: Shelly stood with her daughters and with her sons, and a shining-curly-furred-black mountain Mastiff, and a shining-curly-furred white mountain Mastiff, and two Belgian Malinois, sat on command, at least until the bugle drew out its last shimmering note.

Four canine muzzles raised, four canine throats sang an ancient song of sorrow and of loss.

When Angela climbed back in the Dodge truck, just before she set the ball of her foot on the starter, she stopped.

Shelly knew her daughter and she knew the ease with which she ran this particular vehicle, and when Angela froze, Shelly looked over, surprised.

Angela picked up a fresh-cut rose, fragrant and soft-petaled, with morning dew still clinging to leaf and petal.

Two women looked at one another and smiled, two women looked at a tombstone with a six point star laser engraved on its shining quartz surface.

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

TROBBLEMAKKA

Michael Keller knew he was a public figure, he knew where he went and what he did were more than noted.

He knew when he had Lightning belly down in front of a shul that his presence would be questioned, that there would be speculation.

He didn't care.

Michael hauled the heavy, custom made saddlebags off Lightning, slung it over his young shoulder, staggered a little, then got his balance and made his way through the ornate iron gates.

A man waited for him before the great double doors.

They walked a little to the side, went in another door.

Michael came out a half-hour later, a troubled look on his face: the saddlebags appeared to be less weighty: he slung them easily over Lightning's back, threw a leg over the saddle, hesitated as two barefoot, grinning, big-eyed boys ran up to him -- 

"Hey Mits-ter Michael," one said, grinning, his speech a little affected by the loss of two front teeth, "what'cha doin'?"

Michael grinned, settled himself in the saddle, found the stirrups, but hesitated to give Lightning the command to stand.

Lightning swung her bony muzzle toward the newcomers, chirped a greeting: two little boys caressed her silky fur, half-afraid, half-delighted.

"I'm performing works of charity," Michael said.

"What's charity?" the littler of the two towheads asked, wrinkling his nose the way a child will in a moment of confusion.

"The Temple helps folks that need helpin'," Michael grinned, "and I just brought 'em some supplies!"

Two little boys stepped back, awed, as Michael said "Up, girl," and the Fanghorn went from bellied-down and sleepy-looking, to absolutely HUGE as she towered over them.

Michael touched his hat brim:  "You fellas take care now," he said as Lightning backed up a half dozen careful steps, then turned.

Two little boys stared as a Fanghorn and her rider eased into a slow trot, as an Iris opened and they rode through the black ellipse, then they turned and ran in barefoot swiftness, yelling as they went:

"MA!  MA!  WE JUST MET MITS-TER MICHAEL!"

 

Michael emerged from another ellipse, walked Lightning casually across the coarsely paved street.

A priest stood at the foot of the steps, waiting.

Michael turned, grimaced: the priest saw a momentary pain cross Michael's face, quickly hidden, and the collared cleric correctly surmised that Michael was accustomed to hiding his pain.

Lightning folded her legs, bellied down, stretched her blunt, muscled neck out, laid her jaw on the grassy tree lawn and gave a great, dramatic sigh.

Michael swung a leg up and over and he slid out of the saddle, turned carefully, as if his back was hurting -- after that brisk turn in the saddle, it was -- he unfast a saddlebag, thrust a hand in, turned.

"Padre," he said quietly, "I can't do much, but I can do this."

He handed the priest a book, then he turned quickly, climbed back into the saddle: he gripped the saddlehorn tightly and bent forward a little, as if in pain, as Lightning stood, as she turned, as she thrust powerfully through the black Iris ellipse, leaving a priest holding a book with the expression of a man who'd just been handed a stack of gold doubloons out of the clear blue.

 

It was rare for Michael to ride Lightning anywhere back on his native planet, even more rare for him to ride Lightning anywhere but his Pa's pasture, where Confederate masking fields prevented any watchers from seeing what actually transpired.

Michael considered the risk minimal.

The town's cruiser was only just departed this area.

Lightning's unshod hooves were silent on mowed grass, she stepped carefully over sidewalks, bellied down when Michael whispered to her.

Michael knew which houses had doorbell cameras or other cameras, for he'd scouted and he'd surveilled, the way he'd heard his pale eyed Pa describe: still, he might miss one, so he halted Lightning two houses from his target.

Michael pulled a bandanna up over his face, he knew his wide, soft hat brim would further conceal his identity, and he wore a common, worn ranch jacket like a hundred other young men in the area wore.

Michael hauled a gunny sack free of his saddled Fanghorn, carried it carefully to the front steps: he set it slowly, cautiously, in place, grimacing as something gave a muted, metallic clank: he went back to Lightning, lifted the other:  it was lighter, it made no sound as he set it down.

Michael hit the doorbell, knocked  fast, hard -- BAMBAMBAM -- he punched the doorbell again and ran like a scared thief, jumped a-straddle of Lightning: she powered to her feet, whirled, shot through an Iris, and was gone before the door opened.

In a Jewish temple on another planet, a strong man wept to have a printed copy of the Talmud -- a complete, clearly legible, Talmud -- just delivered by a young man who rode what passed for a horse.

On the same planet, a priest sat at his desk and lit a second candle, paged slowly, wonderingly, through a brand new Douay Bible.

And a family in Firelands that hit on hard times answered a late-night summons at their door.

A puzzled young father brought in a heavy gunny sack, and a lighter one, cut the strings, opened them in the hallway just inside the front door.

Father and mother went to their knees, mouths open at the bounty the opened burlap revealed.

The mother wasted no time in arranging this new cache of canned goods in her depleted cupboard.

Plastic gallon jug of milk, still sweating-cold, went in the fridge; her husband grinned like a delighted little boy as he held up a jar of peanut butter in one hand, a jar of jelly in the other.

Over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a young married couple sorted through baby formula, diapers, powder, petroleum jelly, flour, yeast, baking powder, cinnamon, garlic, powdered and dried, diced onion, a sack of potatoes... wealth unimagined, and most welcome indeed!

Then they came to an envelope.

 

A Rabbi, alone in shul, raised his hands in thanksgiving.

A Priest in his church raised his hands in thanksgiving.

A young married couple stared in honest surprise at the receipts in the envelope.

"Electric bill," the young husband murmured, "paid ... water bill, paid, phone bill paid ... good God, he paid the hospital bill too!"

"Does it say who?"

The puzzled over the signature on each of the receipts.

 

Rabbi,

I was taught that your Talmud is hand written from memory and is incomplete, as your Holy Books were not on the persons abducted by aliens during That Damned War.

Here's a brand new copy.

 

Padre,

Your Bibles are hand copied from the Books soldiers had on their persons when abducted during That Damned War.

Here's a fresh new copy.

 

A young couple puzzled over the signature on the utility receipts.  

A priest puzzled over the signature on the note tucked into the front cover.

A Rabbi puzzled over the signature on the note tucked into the front cover.

They all concluded the writer must be German, for it was signed Trobblemakka

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THEN YOU DID RIGHT

Michael Keller tucked his hat correctly under his off arm.

"Parson," he said, "I need some good sound advice."

He'd met this particular preacher on one of his visits to Eight Seventeen Six One, called Goldenrod for reasons he never did figure out.

He'd studied planetary maps and as he usually did, he studied the mountainous regions, looking for a community about the size of his native Firelands.

He found one.

He rode into town like he owned the place; he wasn't as well known here, as the Inter-System was established in the cities, but this was an outlying community, and though there were a few who had Inter-System sets, most folks relied on the locally printed newspaper, thanks to Marnie's introduction of small-scale pulp manufacturing and a simplified printing press.

Michael scouted the location and studied his findings; there were a few horses, there was a railroad, there were stationary steam engines and a grand total of six steam powered buggies in what he figured to be the county.

There was also one Church in this county.

Michael rode Lightning just bold as brass right down the main street, bade her down, dismounted, walked up to the Parsonage with a sack in one hand and a covered dish in the other.

A kindly looking older man answered the door: he stared openly at the bellied-down Fanghorn, looked at Michael, looked back at Lightning and said quietly, "I've not seen many horses, son, but that is the ugliest horse I ever did see!"

Michael laughed quietly and nodded.

"She ain't pretty, I'll grant ye," he grinned, "but she suits me."

Michael held up the covered dish, handed it to the man.

"I figured if I'm goin' to take up your time, I'd best bring pie."

Michael came in at the man's invitation, went to the kitchen counter, reached into the sack of truck he'd brought in, started stacking goods on the counter.

"What's ... all that?" the Parson asked uncertainly.

"Flour," Michael said, laying a hand on two square, white--paper containers of the stuff; "coffee -- this is fresh roasted and ground just yesterday --"

"Coffee?" the Parson asked in a small voice.

"Coffee?"  his wife echoed as she came into the room, startled to find a visitor, curious as she heard both "Flour" and "Coffee" in the same breath.

"There's pecan pie on the table, ma'am," Michael smiled, "I came to ask the Parson here for some good sound advice and I just couldn't sleep for a guilty conscience if I showed up empty handed!"

As the Parson's wife reached for plates and forks, Michael discreetly scooted the rest of his sack out of the way: there was more to be unloaded, but he didn't need to stack it all out, he'd just leave it.

Pecan pie was another item of legend: pecans were unknown on this world, no good substitute had been found, but the dish itself was known, at least to the older women, and those who listened to these elders.

Mrs. Parson savored her pie, as did her husband; Michael ate slowly, almost guiltily -- he could get pecan pie any time in Firelands, but here, he knew, it was something they'd only heard of, and he had no wish to hurry them through what they'd sliced up and set on plates.

Mrs. Parson picked up the cloth sack of coffee, raised it to her nose, closed her eyes, took a long, savoring sniff.

"I've heard of coffee," she said softly. "I've never had it."

Michael looked at the Parson in honest surprise.

Mrs. Parson looked at Michael uncertainly.

"How ... I don't know how to make coffee."

Michael grinned.

"I'll be right back" -- they watched him swing out the kitchen door and onto the rude back porch, heard an angry, youthful shout -- "LET GO MY HORSE!" -- 

-- they jumped at the sharp crack of a pistol shot --

Parson and wife boiled out the door onto their porch, the Parson seized the porch rail, froze --

Michael stood, boots set apart, pistol in hand, as a shining, fired cartridge case rolled across the smooth board floor behind him: a man looked in dismay at his musket, at the snapped-off hammer.

Michael's voice was as cold as his eyes.

He turned over his lapel to show a six point star.

"FIRELANDS COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE," he declared. "HORSE THIEVIN' IS A HANGIN' OFFENSE AND I'VE GOT A ROPE!"
"Mister, we didn't have no --"

"YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT, IF YOU GIVE UP THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT ANYTHING YOU SAY CAN AND WILL BE USED AGAINST YOU IN A COURT OF LAW!" 

Michael's angry shout cut him off: the Miranda warning was not known outside of Earth, but voiced at a shout, voiced in anger, by the individual who just shot the hammer off a percussion musket, it had the desired effect.

The horse thief shut up.

"LIGHTNING!"

The Fanghorn was still on her belly, her chin almost demurely tucked: Michael rode her bitless, the same as he'd ridden his saddlestock back home: she wore no halter, and she'd paid no attention to the would-be pradprig who tried Michael's saddle for size.

Michael walked slowly down the Parson's adz-hewn steps, walked slowly over to the fellow with the broken musket.

"You," he said, "raised that gun toward my horse."

Michael spoke quietly now, coldly.

Michael's face was losing all its color, except for two spots over his cheekbones: his eyes were hard, like polished ice carved from a mountain glacier's frozen heart, and the two he faced felt the cold cascading from his lean, black-suited body.

"I will give you one chance," Michael said, his voice low, almost a hiss, "and one chance only. Turn around and get down that road. You ever cross me again --"

He thrust a chin at the rifle the man still held.

"I shot that hammer from the side. I can cut the heart out of the Ace of Spades from the leather.  I can put a bullet through whichever of your eyes I want, at twenty feet, from the belt, first shot. Make your peace with God Almighty, because you cross me again, you'll be meetin' him!"

Michael Keller, just shy of twelve years old, never raised his voice.

He didn't have to.

He waited until the pair turned, until they started walking away, then started to run.

Michael turned, scanned the terrain with pale eyes, pistol still welded in his white-knuckled grip: he turned clear around, then slowly, deliberately, stuck out his little finger, slid it under his open coat, drew it back, eased his pistol back into its holster.

Michael caressed his warbling Fanghorn, fed her a clutch of red-and-white swirled peppermints, then slung a leg over the saddle.

Lightning came easily to full height.

Lightning turned to the watching Parson and his wife, still on the porch, chirped happily.

Michael touched his hat-brim, his face grim; Lightning turned, eased into a trot.

The pair watched until they were out of sight.

Once back inside, Mrs. Parson tilted her head, reached down: she picked up the cloth sack, began setting goods out on her counter, exclaiming quietly at the delightful bounty she was excavating, until she reached in, looked in, stopped.

She looked up.

"I think this is yours," she said, and brought her hand -- and the item she grasped -- out of the sack.

Her husband's mouth dropped open as she handed him a green-leather-bound book with a gold cross embossed on the front.

He opened the cover, read the flyleaf, blinked, looked at his wife, sank to his knees.

It was a genuine Geneva Bible.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller closed his cruiser door quietly.

A lone figure in a black suit was on their range.

Linn watched as Michael drew from concealment, fired one shot, holstered.

He was not using a timer.

Linn watched as Michael fired four more times, one shot from the leather, then replaced the file card he was methodically assassinating.

He does nothing without a reason, Linn thought.

Something happened.

He either failed, and he's making sure he'll not fail again, or something went unusually well, and he's proving to himself it's not a fluke.

Linn walked up to the line, stopped at the table Michael was using as his start line.

"I take it you had some excitement," Linn said quietly.

Michael nodded, bent, picked up fired brass.

"I did, sir."

The Sheriff looked at Michael's target -- a slender, hand drawn rectangle, wide as a man's thumb and half as long, set at an angle, the card thumbtacked in place at about fifteen feet.

"I practice face shots," Linn said.

"Yes, sir."

"You've seen me draw a skinny rectangle on a paper plate to represent the eye sockets."

"Yes, sir."

"That's considerably smaller than a set of spectacles."

"Yes, sir."

Michael thumbed rounds into his partly-depleted magazine, thrust the refilled mag back into its carved-leather carrier.

"Sir," Michael said, "I made a slop shot today."

"Slop shot," the Sheriff echoed.

Linn considered Michael's target, walked over to the trash barrel, sorted through a half dozen file cards with the same diagonal rectangle hand drawn on each one.

Every last one of them had multiple holes through the slim rectangle.

"Whatever you got into," he speculated, "you must've done all right."

"Yes, sir. I did."

"Just out of curiosity," Linn said with an exaggerated casualness, "what was it you got into?"

Michael froze.

Linn saw his son's jaw slide out a little, saw his hands close into fists.

"Sir," he said, "two fellows tried to steal Lightning."

"Oh?"

"When she slung her head sideways and knocked one galley-west, the other fetched up a musket as if to shoot her."

"And?"

Michael turned slowly, until he faced his father very squarely.

Michael looked his father in the eye, looking older than his few years, his pale eyes wide, unblinking.

"Sir," he said, "I shot the percussion hammer off his musket. Hit it from the side. Snap shot from the leather. Broke it right off."

"I take it," Linn said slowly, "you got their attention."

"Yes, sir."

"Any further hostilities?"

"No, sir."

"Do we have something that needs ... cleaned up?"

"No, sir," Michael said, his eyes never leaving his father's. 

"Good enough."

"I misrepresented myself as a Sheriff's deputy, sir."

Linn folded his arms, leaned casually back against the solidly anchored loading table.

"Do tell."

"I came out of a preacher's kitchen, I shot that fella's musket hammer, I allowed as they'd crossed the wrong he-coon and I genuinely put the fear of the Lord into the Philistines, sir!"

Michael's serious expression, his equally serious words, quietly spoken, when contrasted with his obvious youth, sorely tested his father's skill at maintaining the legendary Poker Face.

"You claimed to be a Sheriff's deputy."

"I did, sir."

"Was it in my jurisdiction?"

"It was on Goldenrod, sir. Star system eight, cluster seventeen, solar system six, planet one."

"I see."

Linn considered this for a few moments.

"Did local law get involved?"

"No, sir."

"You came into a lawless situation and you handled it."

"I did, sir."

"No blood spilled?"

"I reckon a set of drawers might've got stained, sir."

"Yours?"

"No, sir."

Linn considered for several moments.

"I understand," he said softly, "horse thievin' is still a hangin ' offense in some parts."

"I understand that as well, sir."

"You kept some fellow from gettin' his neck stretched."

"Yes, sir."

"Then you did right."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

HER PRETTY LITTLE BACKSIDE

Angela Keller was still a little girl.

Angela Keller loved playing make-believe and she loved cuddling with The Bear Killer and she loved it when her big strong Daddy pulled her up and sat her on his lap and read to her.

Angela Keller absolutely delighted in her Daddy taking her around the waist and swinging her waaaaay up in the air and dunking her into a saddle.

Angela Keller was still too short in the leg to run the clutch on her Daddy's Farmall Cub, but she was determined to grow into it: her big brother Jacob used the Cub to cut grass, both the yard and on either side of the driveway, and Angela was firmly of the opinion that she could do just as neat a job as Jacob.

Angela was her Daddy's shadow, as much as she could arrange: oh, there were times when her Mommy did Mommy-things with her, but Angela preferred her Daddy's stuff 'cause her Daddy got into interesting stuff, like reloading shells and loading magazines, both of which appealed to Angela's sense of tidiness and order.

Angela had bright, sparkling eyes, an engaging and contagious smile, she was quite honestly a beautiful daughter of the mountains, and when her Daddy reached in the gun case and pulled out a bolt rifle, Angela tilted her head and regarded the .308 sporter with interest.

Her Daddy grinned at her and that meant he had something in mind, and then he took a screwdriver and removed the recoil pad.

Angela walked up to her Daddy's desk and watched with interest as her Daddy removed about two inches of buttstock, replaced it with what she recognized as a rubber recoil pad like her Daddy had on his bird gun.

She blinked as her Daddy raised the rifle's muzzle, turned it away from her, slid back from his desk and said, "Step up here, Princess, let's see how this one fits you now."

Angela stepped up to the shortened rifle, tried it on for size: her Daddy regarded her effort with a slight frown, which meant he was paying attention: it wasn't a mad-frown -- Angela had seen that expression, and this wasn't it -- her Daddy worked on the stock some more, took out another spacer, replaced the kick pad.

"Try it now."

Angela pulled the rifle's recoil pad into the hollow of her shoulder, cheeked down hard, looked through the scope and through the window, her young hand around the checkered wrist, the other laid over her Daddy's fore-end-supporting hand.

Father and daughter shared a look of satisfaction.

"You've wanted to shoot Daddy's rifle for some time," Linn said gently.  "How about today?"

"I'll get my muffs!" she gushed -- she turned, charged upstairs with the enthusiasm of the young, came clattering back down (how a little girl in rubber soled saddle shoes could make as much noise as a buffalo herd was beyond his understanding), stopped, bouncing on her toes, her eyes big, bright and eager.

Linn and his daughter weren't the only ones at the range that day.

Locals were welcome to use the range, as long as they didn't damage the equipment and they carried off their own trash, and when the Sheriff and a pretty little girl in knee socks and a skirt walked up to the benches, men watched: when a little girl in braids and saddle shoes accepted the blued-steel, slender-barrel rifle from her Daddy, comments were made.

When Angela laid the fore-end over a homemade denim shooting cushion (she'd sewn this one herself!), gripped the rifle's rearstock under her shoulder as she cycled the bolt, the not-quietly-voiced comments were to the effect that this light weight rifle was going to knock that pretty little girl on her backside.

Angela stopped, lifted her head, looked at her Daddy.

"Square plate at one hundred," she called, her young voice clearly heard: she cheeked down, let out half a breath --

The rifle spoke, the plate flinched, swung briskly.

Angela cycled the bolt.

"Six inch plate to its right!" she shouted, cheeking down, her pale young eye unblinking behind the scope.

The rifle spoke again, her lean young body rocked back in recoil, not trying to stop the rifle -- she let it push her, she recovered, cycled the bolt.

The six inch round plate swung more briskly than its one-foot-square counterpart.

"You hit that two inch," a voice called, "the beer's on me!"

The two inch plate slammed back, swung violently to the rear.

Angela opened the bolt most of the way, reached in, extracted the round by hand.

"I'm too young to drink," she called back, "but I'll take a chocolate hot fudge Sundae."

She lifted the rifle, handed it to her Daddy.

"Now what was that about this rifle knocking me on my pretty little backside?"

Edited November 14, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

PEPPERMINT

Sheriff Jacob Keller sat cross legged on the floor, surrounded by a happy, grinning, restless, anticipating clutch of schoolchildren.

"What's An-che-la doin'?" a little boy asked bashfully.

Jacob winked at the lad, looked down at the tablet he held: the class was suddenly in the middle of a dirt street -- children scrambled to their feet, the Sheriff Jacob Keller stood, sauntered casually to the side as a woman on horseback came around a corner a hundred yards distant, whistling: as her Appaloosa mare pounded past -- they felt hoofbeats underfoot, they felt the wind of her passing, tasted the dust she kicked up, stared in open-mouthed, wondering awe at the sight of their beloved Miss Angela, horseback --

Miss Angela, in her white nurse's dress and stockings, red-edged cape blue and floating behind her, winged cap securely pinned to Marine-short hair -- Miss Angela, standing in her stirrups, her hands pressed against the sides of her mare's neck just below the bristly-long mane -- Miss Angela, known to them as a nurse with a quick smile and gentle hands, was a creature reborn.

The scene changed, as if they were flying, as if they were on a magical craft that screamed through the air beside her: they saw the grim and determined look on her face, they saw her bearing down on a shouting, angry crowd blocking the street, a crowd that scattered at her approach --

The scene disappeared and schoolchildren and two schoolteachers blinked, gasped in a few quick breaths, looked around, realized they were still in their meeting room, underground, on Mars.

Jacob waited until everyone sat again.

"Angela was kind of busy."

He looked at one of the smallest children there, leaned forward a little and asked softly, "Reckon you could help me out here?"

A delighted grin and a little boy scrambled to his feet, scampered noisily up to the sitting Sheriff.

"Set down here beside me," Jacob said with a grin: he waited until the child sat, crossed his legs, looked with delight at the Sheriff.

"Refresh my poor failin' memory," Jacob murmured, leaning his head closer, "what's your name again?"

"Khayaam!" the boy exclaimed happily.

Jacob put his arm around the lad's shoulders:  "Folks, this is Khayaam, I've known him for some long time now," and at this bald faced lie, Khayaam, Sheriff, teachers and children all laughed, for this was one of the Sheriff's common stunts.

"Now Khayaam, hold your arm up like this -- straight up like that, bend your elbow -- now make a fist -- okay, hold that."

Jacob took the slender young wrist in his grip, brought the fist over to his lips as if it were a hand-held microphone, declared in a loud and nasal voice, "And here's your Action News Reporter giving you all the news that is the news across the Nay-Shun!"

He released Khayaam's wrist, snapped his fingers dramatically, touched the tablet with his other hand.

He'd staged his off hand, he'd used his right hand and the finger-snap to distract attention from the slight tap it took to activate the holo-screen.

The class saw the familiar newsdesk for the Inter-System, and above it, Angela's formal portrait, in her nursing uniform and white winged cap.

"And in other news, our own Angela Keller foiled a riot and was instrumental in capturing its leaders," the announcer declared: "horseback and alone, she charged a rioting crowd, scattering them" -- the announcer looked at the camera and said a little more loudly, "DEE-MORLAIZING THEM" -- he looked back down at the sheaf of papers he held -- "and then she spotted their leader as he fled, and gave chase!"

The announcer disappeared; the hover-cam's view replaced the talking head.

Angela Keller, on her Appaloosa mare, ducked -- she laid down over her mare's neck, the mare surged up the two steps onto the boardwalk and through the open doors of a hotel.

The scene shifted again.

It was Angela, horseback, walking: she was walking her mare down the dirt street, wearing her usual gentle smile as she looked around, looked at the camera.

"Want to know what really happened?" she asked, her eyes bright, innocent.

"Yes, I rode down the street.  Peppermint here" -- she caressed her mare's neck with obvious affection -- "was running at a gallop.

"We rode through the rioters, yes, but they were already breaking up when they saw me coming.

"And yes, I did ride into the hotel. Ho, girl."

Peppermint stopped, blew, shook her head.

"Do you know why I did that?"

She smiled again, that gentle smile the entire Inter-System knew and loved, that smile that endeared her to young and old alike.

"The local law enforcement were on top of it already. They needed a distraction, and that's all I was. The real work was done by hard working lawmen.

"Yes, the rioters' leaders ran into the hotel, and yes, we ran in after him, and yes, he was cornered behind the bar in the main ballroom, but the Law was there and waiting on him."

Angela clucked to her mare: Peppermint's head came up, ears erect as the camera drew back to capture the sight of an Appaloosa mare, dancing, eager to run.

"I didn't do anything, really," Angela smiled.  "All I did was provide a distraction so the Law could do its job!"

Peppermint reared a little, dropped steelshod hooves to the dirt street: she shot forward and the camera turned to follow her galloping departure, steelshod hooves loud on the packed, lightly rutted dirt.

The image returned to the solemn newsman: "And we have it on good authority that the courts will assess the convicted the cost of refinishing the ballroom floor."

A little boy raised his hand, Sheriff Jacob nodded to him.

"Howcum why izzit they hadda refinnishit the bafroom floor?" the boy asked all in a rush.

Jacob grinned, brought his tablet over, leaned closer to Khayaam, showed him what to touch on the screen.

An Iris opened beside them and an Appaloosa mare stepped through.

Young voices chorused "Miss Angela!" in a happy, united shout -- all decorum was lost -- children were on their feet and crowding around the head-bobbing mare as Miss Angela laughed.

"Step back a little now," she called: she waited until the happy crowd of eager children gave her room, then dismounted.

She turned, smiled, asked "Who was asking about refinishing the floor?"

A little boy with big and adoring eyes, raised his hand.

Angela lowered her head and crooked her finger.

She put a hand around him, laid gentle fingers across his shoulder blades.

She raised her other hand, stroked the mare's neck.

"This is Peppermint," she said softly. 

Peppermint turned her head, snuffed loudly at the giggling little boy's middle.

Angela ran her hand down Peppermint's foreleg, gripped the cannon bone, patted: Peppermint obediently lifted her off forehoof.

"Take a look," Angela murmured. "You can see she's shod."

Curious young fingers thrust forward, rubbed the shining horseshoe experimentally.

Angela released her grip and Peppermint lowered her forehoof.

"Her steel horseshoes kind of ruined that nice varnished dance floor," Angela admitted, her ears coloring a little. "I offered to pay for its refinish, but the Judge said it was due to the criminal's actions, so the criminal would pay for it."

Khayaam cranked his head off to the side, the way a curious little boy will.

"Miss Angela," he asked, "why do you call her Peppermint?"

Angela laughed, ran a hand into a skirt pocket, pulled out three cellophane-wrapped round candies.

Her mare swung her head, clearly interested, as she heard the brittle cellophane's crackle.

"Here," Angela said gently, "hold out your hand."

A half-dozen eager young palms thrust forward.

Angela laughed, placed a peppermint on Khayaam's palm, and one on two more hopefuls.

Peppermint daintily lipped the crunchy horsie crack from young hands.

Jacob couldn't help but grin to hear the happy giggles.

"I call her Peppermint," Angela smiled, "because that's what she really likes!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE GREAT STONE FACE

Dr. John Greenlees was only just getting home when his son turned off the street, backed into his parking space.

Father and son exited their vehicles; father and son rolled their shoulders, swung their heads about in a circle, trying to dispel the tension of the night.

Dr. John Greenlees Senior had multiple difficult cases; he'd been  just short of elbow deep in a young man's belly after a work related injury that would probably get the outfit shut down (about time!), he'd delivered three babies in three hours, he'd solemnly supervised the in-house training of a handful of new nurses who'd never taken a blood pressure with a stethoscope and a pump-up cuff before (what are they teaching these kids nowadays?), and he'd set down and wrote out a thank-you note to Angela for teaching her nursing students how to actually assess a patient!

John Greenlees, MD, and John Greenlees, Jr, walked toward one another, each one sizing the other up by porchlight.

"You look tired."

"You look happy."

"Difficult shift?"

Dr. Greenlees nodded, considered his son's immaculate appearance.

"How was Prom?"

John Jr laughed, spread his hands, took a great breath, shook his head, chuckled.

"Dad," he said quietly, "you know how the boyfriend is supposed to jump in and punch out someone who insults your date?"

Dr. Greenlees' eyes dropped to his son's knuckles.

"I didn't."

"Oh?"

"Marnie did."

Dr. John blinked, surprised, and turned his head a little, as if to bring a good ear to bear.

"What happened?"

 

Marnie Keller, demure and feminine and oh-dear-God-she's-gorgeous! in her handmade McKenna prom gown, grabbed the Road Rager by the throat, drove her knee into him, picked him up overhead and SLAMMED him to the muddy shoulder of the roadway.

Young John Greenlees did a masterful job of not losing control -- it was a near thing -- this IDIOT came around the road taking half John's lane in the process, then turned around and gave pursuit as if it were John's fault.

John hit the go pedal, hard, squirted ahead -- he knew the road and he was sober, unlike the pursuing driver -- at Marnie's clipped words, he nailed the brakes, reversed hard, squalling rubber and burning a blue cloud as he did, backed quickly into a side road: the Road Rager screamed past, realized he'd been had, lost control and shot off the curve and into a soft spot.

 

"He buried himself up to the axles," John said quietly.

"We came easing down the road and he came up onto the roadway like he was going to rip off my front bumper and beat me with it.

"Marnie baled out like she had an ejection seat, she went storming up to him and she tore into him like a Banty hen" -- John grinned at the memory, chuckled as her unexpected charge, unhampered by a long skirt, ended up with the other driver coming out in second place, regretting his ever having driven that night, and needing the attention of someone skilled with a needle, as when his face introduced itself to the pavement, he sustained visible damage to the flesh over a cheekbone and at the corner of his forehead.

"And then Marnie came stomping back to the car, she pulled out her phone and --"

He stopped, laughed a little --

"When she was coming back to the car she looked like Storm Cloud Number Nine, she looked like she was ready to bite the horn off an anvil and spit railroad spikes, but when she made her phone call she sounded like an uncertain little girl and said 'Daddy, we're at so-and-so and some drunk just tried to hit me and he's layin' on the ground and you might want to come out here."

Dr. John Greenlees listened to his son continue that they hadn't made it to Prom after all, they'd spent that much time at the Sheriff's office filling out reports and making statements.

"Did you take her out to dinner?" Dr. John asked quietly, and his son said yes, he had, and he bit his bottom lip and looked at his father.

He placed a hand on his coat pocket.

Dr. Greenlees saw his son put a ring box in that pocket that afternoon, just before he'd picked up the corsages and headed out the door.

Dr. John knew his son intended to propose to Marnie over dinner that night.

Dr. John looked at his son's hand, flat on an empty pocket.

"Did you ask her?" Dr. John Greenlees asked in a quiet and knowing voice.

John Greenlees Jr's face absolutely lit up with delight.

"She said yes."

This was no time for halfway measures.

Father and son embraced, each squeezing the other hard, hard, each one sharing equally in the joy of the moment.

Dr. John Greenlees was known for his solemn expression, for rarely if ever smiling in public.

There were those, mostly on staff, who referred to him as "The Great Stone Face."

Here, tonight, after a long and difficult day, as father and son rejoiced in their silent embrace, the Great Stone Face smiled.

 

Edited November 15, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

TO BURN THE HAT

Ambassador Marnie Keller regarded the dignified, older man in a well-fitted suit.

She looked around at the expectant men gathered, attentive, polite, waiting for her to speak.

Marnie rose, smiled, glided to the front: she dipped her knees as she thanked her host for his kind introduction, she turned to the roomful of men and women, these representatives of their community, their businesses, their local politics, and Marnie smiled that quiet, engaging smile of hers.

She dropped her eyes, covered her smile with a gloved hand, then gave up: she shook her head, she gripped the podium, and she laughed.

The color rose in her cheeks, her eyes sparkled, you could hear the smile in her voice.

"When I was still a girl at home," she said, "the State Police sent two representatives to our local fire department" -- behind her, the image of a Colorado State Police Cruiser, pulling into the firehouse's back lot, two uniformed troopers stepping out -- "they came in with the understanding that our Fire Department had a presentation for them."

Behind her, tall on the screen, red-bib-front-shirted Irishmen solemnly shook hands with the tall, well-uniformed officers: they went inside, the Irish Brigade rose as the State Police entered and were introduced.

"As it turns out," Marnie continued, still smiling, "there'd been a miscommunication.

"The State Police thought our Fire Department had a presentation for them.

"Our Fire Department though the State Police had a presentation for us.

"As neither one actually had a presentation for the other, they sat down, drank coffee and shot the bull, and a good time was had by all!"

Marnie laughed quietly.

"I came here thinking you had a presentation for the Diplomatic Service, and I find that you thought I was the one with a presentation."

Her smile and her good-natured admission were both contagious.

"Please accept my apologies for not having a presentation, so let me make one up really fast -- by the way, I brought coffee, and I can smell it brewing!"

This caused an appreciative murmur.

Genuine coffee was a thing of legend; various local substitutes were marketed, most had heard that genuine, honest-to-Granddad-used-to-talk-about-coffee, coffee, was coming available, but of those present, only Marnie and her silent, solemn younger brother siblings had actually partaken of that legendary brew.

Marnie turned, looked at Michael, her hand covering the chromed microphone's mesh grille: a quiet exchange, a nod.

"My Daddy," Marnie said, "is a wise man. He taught me three useful rules of public speaking. First, if you have nothing to say, say nothing" -- she held up a gloved finger, her eyes sparkling with mischief -- "second" -- another finger raised -- "the longer the speaker's wind, the harder those chairs get, and finally" -- she raised a third finger -- "the mind absorbs only until the backside grows numb.  Michael?"

Marnie stepped back and her younger brother came to the podium.

He'd been seated with his Stetson on his lap; he'd sat as unmoving, as properly, as his twin sister, feet flat on the floor, hands on his thighs: he rose, tucked his Stetson under his arm, stepped up to the microphone, placed his brushed-black-felt skypiece on the table beside the speaker's stand.

"Your motor vehicles and ours are different," Michael said, "but they share a number of common elements."

His voice was youthful, the voice of a growing boy: he spoke clearly, he spoke slowly and distinctly.

"All mechanical devices wear, and all of them need maintenance and repair."

Behind him, on the screen, Michael and his father, beside a faded-orange truck: the front tire was dismounted, rolled back and leaned against the passenger door.

The father was pointing to something with a greasy-tipped screwdriver, Michael leaned in close, looking, nodding at what seemed to be fatherly instruction: Michael picked up a pair of shining-clean needle-nose pliers, straightened a cotter pin, drew it out.

The camera followed his young hand placing the greasy pin on a sheet of newspaper laid out for that purpose.

Michael reached in, wiggled the crown cap out, laid it down, then used a hammer and chisel to very carefully tap the thin hex nut loose.

"Now that's a trick my father taught me," Michael commented. "There's a thinwall socket made to remove that, but we didn't have one, so my father taught me that trick to get it out."

He turned back to his audience; the screen darkened again.

"As the Ambassador said, my father is a wise man."

Michael hesitated, frowned, then said frankly, "Folks, if I slip and call Marnie my big sis, I'll beg your pardon ahead of time. She is my older sister, and Victoria here is my twin sister, and that puts me at kind of a disadvantage."

Michael looked over at Victoria, looked back with a pained expression and admitted, "My twin sis is younger, smarter and better lookin' than me, and they're both left handed, so most times I don't stand a chance!"

His contagious grin and his unexpected use of honest humor was well received: the assembled laughed quietly.

"Now my point is" -- Michael raised a palm -- "and I do have one -- my father never went to medical school.  He's the Sheriff, his education is broad and interesting but he was never taught the mantra of medical school:  "Learn it, do it, teach it."

Michael paused, looked around.

"My father does, however, know that if you tell me, I'll forget it.  If you show me, I won't remember it."

The screen lit up again.

Father and son were bent over a plank; a carpenter's ruler was stretched out, two heads bent over the printed tape.

Young fingers gripped a carpenter's pencil, made a decisive mark: the ruler was removed, young hands, at the father's instruction, placed a square very exactly on the mark, struck a line.

Young hands moved the plank a little to get it safely away from the sawhorse beneath; a cutoff saw was gripped, placed: the father said something, laid a finger on one side of the line, then the other, gestured with a bladed hand, left, then right: the Michael-on-the-screen nodded, made an adjustment.

The view went close-up, showing the saw's blade cutting smoothly, steadily through seasoned wood, very precisely slicing the edge of the pencil mark.

"I knew numbers and fractions before I started school," Michael continued, "because my father worked with me when we worked on stuff together. I learned fractions and decimals and how to read a micrometer before I ever set foot in a schoolhouse. My father sat with me and taught me handwriting. He is a man who prizes a good clear hand. I do a little calligraphy and that's because Pa taught me how to write legibly.

"Now I said I do have a point, and here it is."

Michael looked around, met every eye in the room.

"Tell me and I'll forget it. Show me and I won't remember, but involve me" -- the screen showed Michael working the greasy roller bearing out, setting it down, picking up the new replacement and gobbing wheel bearing grease into it, working it into the rollers, the other half of the screen showing the pencil very precisely marking the plank -- 

"Involve me, and I've got it forever!"

Michael turned, nodded to his sister as she glided toward him: he picked up his hat, returned to his seat.

"I saw this very thing in action earlier today," Marnie smiled. "A father and his young son were making a repair under one of the sinks in this very building. The father had his son reach up into the confined space where his father's hands had a hard time fitting."
Marnie smiled at the memory, looked down, looked up again.

"My Daddy had me do the same thing, years ago, when we had a leak under a sink in the Sheriff's office.

"As a matter of fact I held the light for the father and son making that repair here in this building: his son had an interesting wrench I've never seen before, he reached up in and got the coupling tightened back down first try. His father was involving him, and that's what came to mind."

Marnie turned, looked at her siblings.

"Victoria, honey, we're not ignoring you. Is there anything you'd like to add?"

Victoria smiled, shook her head, took her twin brother's hand.

Marnie looked toward the back of the room, lifted her chin at the signal.

"I understand refreshments are waiting, coffee is brewed.  Let's eat!"

 

Sheriff Linn Keller smiled a little as he watched the Inter-System broadcast that night.

He grinned as he remembered sessions with his children, all his children: he did indeed teach them handwriting, he coached them, he encouraged them, he praised them, and his children -- every one of them -- prized a good clear hand as much as he.

He nodded a little as he listened to Michael, he leaned back remembered changing out that wheel bearing with him, he remembered how frowning and studious Michael was as he did a careful and thorough job of working short-fiber wheel bearing grease into the new wheel bearing.

His comm signal chirped; he touched a key, grinned at his daughter's smiling face.

"Hello, Daddy, I was talking about you today, were your ears burning?" Marnie asked mischievously.

"Why, darlin'," Linn drawled, "it like to set m' hat on fahr!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A WOMAN OF QUALITY

Esther Keller's fingers were gentle as she caressed the pale, damp jawline of one of her express agents.

She felt his jaw clench against the nausea that twisted his guts, the pain that drained color from his face, the knowledge of his approaching death.

"They didn't get the safe," he whispered, closed his eyes, willing himself not to scream: he'd been gut shot and shot in the leg, that he'd lived this long was a miracle in and of itself.

Esther looked up:  "How long before we arrive in Firelands?"

"Another half hour, ma'am."

It won't be enough, she thought.

Word was already passed to the engineer -- he was already firing the boiler hard -- Esther knew he was doing his best to get them to their little stone hospital as quickly as he possibly could, and she knew that, swift as The Lady Esther was, it wouldn't be soon enough.

"It was Shaw," the agent gasped. "He's got fat jowls, ma'am, he's got that scar under his right jaw and them brown eyes."

"I know the man," she whispered.

"Tell -- tell Susie --"

Esther felt the soul leave the man's body.

She laid a gentle, gloved hand on his cold fingers, she turned as Doc checked for a pulse, as he slowly, respectfully drew the sheet up over the dead man's face.

Esther Keller lifted her chin, gathered her resolve around her like a cloak, and marched out of the treatment room.

Esther climbed into her carriage, her spine stiff, straight, the very image of a disapproving matron: she lifted the reins, clucked to the dapple, drove slowly to the Sheriff's office.

Half an hour later, a red-headed woman in a muted brown riding dress climbed into a saddle she'd never ridden, on a horse she'd never ridden, with a shotgun she'd never carried for this purpose.

Esther Keller caressed the aging black Snowflake-mare, whispered "You served Sarah, now serve me!"

 

Sheriff Linn Keller frowned as he read the tracks.

He looked back at the dead man, casualty of the express agent's shotgun.

Pale eyes studied the ground, the confusion of hoofprints; he puzzled out what blood drops and scrapes could tell him, and he wished mightily for his old friend Charlie Macneil's tracking skills.

Jacob Keller watched, his stallion patient, standing at the edge of the railroad bed: he held station, not wanting to further confuse what the ground could tell them.

The Bear Killer sat, patient, yawning, beside Jacob's stallion.

"Jacob," Linn said, "I make a blood trail -- here, here, here -- that doesn't look like where the dead man went."

"No, sir."

"Esther said it was Shaw."

"Dickie-boy?"

"Yep. Scar under the jaw, brown eyes, fat jowls."

"That's him, all right."

"Must not've been hurt bad. Blood stops here."

"Yes, sir."

"Esther said the express agent was gut shot, he's dead."

Jacob veiled his eyes: he'd played poker with the express agent, which meant a little shuffling of the cards and a great deal of trading outrageous lies and coarse jokes.

Jacob liked the express agent.

"Have you told his wife, sir?"

"I told her before we set out."

"Yes, sir."

"Bonnie and the ladies are with her. They'll help tend the young ones."

"Didn't they just have a baby, sir?"

Jacob saw his father's jaw muscles bulge.

"Yes. They did."

Jacob walked his stallion a little to the right, behind some brush: he leaned over, studying the ground.

"You got his tracks?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bear Killer."

The Bear Killer rose, paced over to the pale eyed Sheriff, sniffed at the blood, looked up, gave a quiet, jaw-chop whuff.

Two lawmen rode along the curving mountain trail Shaw took for his escape, a silent, black, bear cub sized mountain Mastiff coursing with them.

 

Opal and Polly wore matching gowns and identical expressions.

Opal's hair was jet-black and Oriental-straight; she had the Celtic- fair complexion of her Scottish father, the epicanthic folds at the corners of her shining-black, almond eyes of her Oriental mother.

She also had the ankles of a wiggling, cooing baby in her left hand as she lifted its little pink bottom up to slide a clean diaper into place.

Polly lacked her half-sister's Oriental heritage, but looked enough like her to be a twin -- if you overlooked that Polly's hair was a bright yellow, almost gold, and that her eyes were a deep sky-blue instead of Mandrain-black: she dusted the little pink bottom with powder, rubbed it quickly in, brought two corners of the diaper around as Opal brought the bottom point of the triangle up.

Practiced hands fast up the diaper, bundled the happy, just-fed little baby boy snugly in warm flannel.

Polly picked up the smiling, warm, cozy little baby boy as Opal draped the spit rag over her sister's shoulder: the two girls turned, looked at the little boy watching, smiled as he wrinkled his nose and asked bluntly, "I was one of those?"

 

Esther Keller was a beautiful daughter of Southern gentry: she'd had to shoot her way free of the Yankee raiders who raided their plantation, burned their buildings, hanged her father and brothers and brutalized and hanged her mother, despoiled her sisters: she fled on her Daddy's racer, and when faced with two of the damned Yankee murderers, she waited until they were close, close, before she pulled her Daddy's dueling pistols and dealt them each a sentence of death -- after which she put her heels to her horse's ribs, and fled as if all the hounds of Hell were chasing her.

She'd escaped; she'd returned, she'd buried her dead, wept for her family, she'd developed a deep, burning, undying hatred for those criminals who committed these outrages.

Esther Keller, the pretty young daughter of a Southern businessman and plantation owner, learned the names of those who led the murdering Yankees.

She disguised herself as a cook, and she added poison to the truly excellent meal she served them: they complimented her on the appearance of the excellent meal, they exclaimed in delight at its taste, and when they began to fall, Esther produced her Daddy's dueling pistols and shot the two guards who turned suspicious eyes upon her.

She seized a dying man's hair and pulled his head back and said quietly, "You hanged my Daddy, you ravished my Mama and my sisters.  Look at me, you damned Yankee. I want the last thing you see in this world to be the face of the woman who tracked you down and killed you for your crimes!"

Esther Keller resurrected her Daddy's business, though she was obliged to sell much of the plantation: hers was not the hand that killed multiple Yankee carpetbaggers who sought to steal the fertile land, but hers were the words that identified who to kill.

Esther turned her holdings over to family when her niece Duzy went West; Esther, restless, followed, officially "too keep an eye on my adventurous niece," but in reality, she was ... well, in her own words, "Everywhere I look, I see Daddy's ghost, I hear Mama's voice, my sisters are laughing and playing ... and then reality slaps me across the face with a cold dead fish!"

Esther Keller took one look at a pale eyed Sheriff in one of the smallest towns she'd ever seen -- Firelands, it was called -- and she knew, as had the Wise Women of her ancestry, that this would be her husband.

When a panting, panicked boy beat fist on their door, she, Duzy and Bonnie came to the door, curious as to the cause of the alarm.

When he boy blurted that the Sheriff was shot, Esther's face paled, and she fell back against the other two ladies: she staggered a moment, then whirled, ran to her room.

When she emerged, she whistled for her paint mare Edi, and moments later, Esther Keller, red hair streaming behind and a shotgun across her saddlebow, rode for Firelands, a flame-haired Valkyrie, riding to war.

 

"Blood," Jacob said, thrusting his chin at the dark drop on a rock.

One drop it was, dark now.

The Bear Killer's nose was busy, scenting the ground, the drop: he lifted his muzzle, scented the air, then went back to snuffing at the ground, sat.

He's not air smellin' him.

He's moved on.

Linn swung down, eyes busy: Jacob's rifle was in hand, pale eyes busy as his father touched the drop.

"Still sticky."

The Sheriff powered back into the saddle.

"He's hurt," Linn said.  "We keep pushin' him, he'll make a mistake."

"Yes, sir."

Two lawmen eased their horses forward, fast enough to cover ground, slow enough to trail, The Bear Killer keeping up easily.

 

I can see why Sarah loved this horse, Esther thought.

I never knew how powerful a horse could feel under me!

Esther's green eyes narrowed as she looked ahead, compared the terrain with the mental map she carried.

Esther Keller was a successful businesswoman, in part, because she had an eidetic memory: she considered the contours, the lines, the labeled trails her husband's hand brought into existence on bare paper.

From the murder, down this most likely trail, she thought.

Very likely he's just ahead of me.

Esther Keller, daughter of Southern nobility, cocked her shotgun's left hand hammer, then the right, shifted her weight in the saddle.

"Yup, girl," she murmured quietly.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller raised a hand.

Father and son ,separated by thirty feet, halted: pale eyes looked forward, saw with more than their eyes, listened with more than their ears.

Between them, a bear-sized mountain Mastiff's fur raised, rippled down his spine and across his shoulders; menace rumbled quietly in The Bear Killer's chest as his lips drew back from shining-ivory teeth.

Something brown moved ahead.

Two lawmen raise their rifles, walked their horses forward --

A voice.

A woman?

What the hell?

The voice again -- louder --

"Mister Shaw."

It was not a loud voice, it was certainly not a shouted voice, but it was the voice of a woman who was in no mood to be ignored.

Father and son dug their heels into their horses' ribs at the sound of a shotgun, the muted, pained grunt of a man who'd just been shot, who'd just been hit hard.

 

Esther Keller patted Snowflake's neck.

"Down," she said quietly.

Snowflake folded her legs the way she'd done for Sarah so many times.

Esther dismounted, flowed silently through the brush, froze.

A man with a bandaged arm sagged in the saddle, then raised his head, looked around with distinctly brown eyes.

Esther saw the scar along the bottom of his jawline.

A shotgun came out of the brush, with a red-headed, green-eyed woman attached.

"Mister Shaw," she said firmly.

He looked at her, startled.

"Don't move," Esther said, her voice cold.

"What are you doin' here?" Shaw blurted, the spontaneous exclamation of a man taken totally by surprise.

"You shot my agent, Mr. Shaw," Esther said, then she cheeked down hard on the hand-rubbed cherry stock, yanked the front trigger and gut shot the murderer that killed her express agent.

Esther waited until his rearing horse danced away from the thrown man before she walked up on him, before she dunked a fresh Black Ajax into the chamber and closed the action, before she squatted and laid down her double gun and seized the hair of his head in both hands, before she dropped her shins over his arm and shouted in his face, "YOU MURDERED A MAN WITH A WIFE AND CHILDREN, DAMN YOU! I WANT THE LAST THING YOU SEE ON THIS EARTH TO BE THE FACE OF THE WOMAN WHO AVENGED A YOUNG WIDOW AND THEIR INFANT SON!"

Two lawmen dismounted, stared at this flame-haired Valkyrie screaming final judgement into a dying man's face: they watched as Esther dropped the dying man's hair, as she stood, shotgun in hand, as she kicked him, hard, in the ribs.

The Bear Killer came over, sniffed at the bloody bandage, turned, lifted his leg over the dead man, cast his canine ballot on the situation.

Esther Keller, businesswoman, matron of society, wife and mother, glared at her husband and at her son: wordlessly, she turned, walked back through the brush.

They saw the top of her head as she mounted; they caught a glimpse of something large and black under her, and they watched as a hot-blooded Valkyrie rode off on a horse that hadn't been ridden since its owner, Sarah Lynne McKenna, was murdered, far across the salt water ocean.

 

Esther Keller looked up at the rat-tat, tat, at her office door.

She turned, watched as the door opened, as Daisy brought in her tea and sandwiches on a tray, as she always did; behind her, the Sheriff, his face impassive, as was his habit.

Daisy withdrew -- normally she'd have stayed, they'd have had the usual brief, womanly conversation they shared this time of day -- but with the Sheriff's entry, Daisy discreetly withdrew.

Esther watched as her husband removed his Stetson, hung it on a peg.

He reached into an inside coat pocket, withdrew an envelope, handed to his wife.

Esther weighed it in her hand, felt its thickness, raised an eyebrow.

"Yours isn't the only railroad he robbed," Linn said quietly. "The reward money."

Esther broke the seal, read the note, brought out a surprisingly thick sheaf of bills.

"My," she murmured. "He must have been a very naughty boy."

Linn gripped her hand gently, brought it to his lips.

"I wanted to bring you the reward money right away," he murmured as he gathered her into his embrace: he laid his cheek beside hers as he picked her up, just a little, gave her a very slight shake, felt her spine ripple, felt her flinch and giggle: "Ow, that hurts so good!" -- then he whispered, "Thought you might want to buy some more shotgun shells."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited November 16, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

HEY HANDSOME, HOW'S FOR SOME COFFEE!

All I wanted was a normal family.

That's all.

Is it too much to ask --

Sheriff Linn Keller shoved the memory from him, turned, strode for the exit, his serious-faced wife following.

A pretty little girl on stage, poised for her turn in the recital, went from a graceful, standing, ballerina's pose, to a running pastel streak.

Jacob Keller surged to his feet, caught his baby sis as she launched from the stage: he spun, soaking up the momentum of her hard-muscled little body, he set her down: brother and sister sprinted across the astonished front row to the side aisle, pounded down the side aisle in pursuit of their departing parents.

Shelly Keller, lips pressed grimly and disapprovingly together, came up on the balls of her feet and ran, swiftly, lightly, not at all hampered by wearing dress shoes instead of the polished Wellington boots she usually wore on duty.

 

Jacob Keller landed heavily into the driver's seat, swore as he ran a hand into his trouser pocket: keys, keys, come here damn you GOTCHA! -- the toothed metal key drove into the ignition switch as Victoria viciously thrust her steel seatbelt tongue into the buckle, leaned back, her face as serious and unsmiling as her Mama's had been.

Jacob twisted the ignition, his Jeep woke up instantly: he cleared himself in the mirrors, a fast second look, he eased out of the parking lot and then turned toward the highway, then towards town.

He didn't light up, but he didn't travel slowly.

 

Shelly swung out of the Sheriff's cruiser, sprinted for the firehouse as the overhead door clattered open.

The squad eased out of the bay, stopped: Shelly saw Angela come out of the passenger front seat, saw the passenger door swing open, saw her daughter turn and dive into the passenger mod to free the co-pilot's seat for her mother.

Shelly climbed in, slammed the door, seized the erasable marker with one hand and the mic with the other: "Firelands Squad One enroute," bit the cap off the marker and wrote the address on the clear shelf paper stuck to the dash.

Large, red, rumbling, supercharged Kenworth fire trucks snarled and then whistled as their turbos crushed the thin air into something the big Diesel engines could use: men and equipment rode forth, modern day knights, armed and armored and mounted on powerful, purpose-bred destriers, riding to war with an enemy that -- given the chance -- would devour them, and all that they knew.

 

Jacob wheeled into the back parking lot.

He and his baby sis looked at one another.

"They'll have me on traffic control," he said. "Where do you need to go?"

"The bakery," Victoria said firmly. "I'll hoof it, the back door is unlocked and they'll be baking!"

"Yeah, but will they be expecting you?"

Victoria looked through the windshield, looked at the street, still painted with bright flashing lights from the departing emergency vehicles.

"With all that noise?" she said grimly. "They'll know!"

"Where are they going?"

"That's where you come in."

"Good enough!"

 

Bruce Jones, editor, chief reporter, window washer and head broom pusher for the Firelands Gazette, saw another Sheriff's cruiser slow, then light up, then position itself.

He watched as a tall, lean-waisted Deputy strode up to the Sheriff: a quick conference, a nod, and Jacob went back to his cruiser, opened the back and pulled out a handful of 30-minute flares.

It was evening.

Jacob struck one, then another into eye-searing life, laid down a pattern to funnel traffic into the only available lane.

He jogged back to the Sheriff: the senior lawman peeled off his screaming-lemon-reflectorized vest, gave it to his son.

Jacob shrugged into the vest, pulled out a small talkie, switched it to the private channel, assumed his position on one end of the emergency vehicles.

The Sheriff began to circulate, first to the Fire Chief, then elsewhere as needed.

Jacob and a second deputy spoke quietly into their talkies, coordinating traffic flow on the private channel to maintain a controlled traffic flow.

Victoria opened the passenger rear door of Jacob's cruiser and brought out a tray.

Victoria Keller, her hair up in a dancer's bun, her face made up -- Victoria Keller, in a handmade dancing dress and stockings and shining-patent tap shoes -- balanced a bakery tray of sandwiches, doughnuts and lidded paper cups of still-hot coffee, carefully, as she made her way onto the fireground.

A pretty little girl with a reflectorized vest with DISASTER SERVICES across the back, minced up to the Fire Chief, looked at him innocently, blinked and asked, "Hey, handsome, how's for some coffee?"

Fitz automatically took a coffee, frowned at the pretty little girl looking at him with an expression of absolute innocence: he bit back the usual cautions he'd have voiced, for Victoria had proven several times she was very cognizant of fireground hazards.

"Thank ye, lass," he rumbled.

He expected a little-girlish giggle.

She didn't.

Victoria Keller made her first orbit, well back as this was a working fire: she'd be needed on overhaul, when men were feeling their fatigue, when a moment's respite for coffee and a sandwich would be most welcome.

Bruce Jones, too, knew fireground hazards; he also knew the Chief recruited him for fireground documentation, and he'd pulled Bruce into burnt-out buildings to take evidence photographs.

Bruce had an official blessing to go about anywhere, as long as he didn't pull a dummy that would get himself hurt.

When he saw pretty little Victoria facing up to the fire chief and offering him a coffee, he brought his camera up, framed the moment, tripped the shutter.

 

Michael Keller rode up an hour later with a purpose built carrier in lieu of his saddlebags: this kept sandwiches level and flat, it let him carry a cubic foot of coffee in a plastic bladder, inside a cubical cardboard box: Victoria set up this refill station on a convenient pumper's tailboard.

Michael had his little sis put her foot up on the tailboard and carefully wiped mud from it: Victoria thanked him quietly, then resumed her orbits of the fireground, either unaware of the camera's attention, or politely ignoring it: at one point, just short of return-to-station, Bruce asked her if she was the designated Doughnut Dolly.

Angela set down her tray, turned to face the newspaperman squarely, planted young knuckles on her slender waist, shoved out her bottom jaw.

"Don't call me that," she said quietly. "I haven't earned it."

"You're passing out doughnuts," Jones pointed out.

"Doughnut Dollies were Second War," Angela said seriously. "They were the last pretty girls our boys saw when they got on the train to go to war. I'm not a Doughnut Dolly. I haven't earned that one!"

She turned, looked back, then picked up her tray.

" 'Scuse me," she smiled, "work to do!"

Jones watched as Angela marched up the sidewalk of what used to be a two story home, then across the front of the building.

A firefighter leaned out the second story window, whistled.

Victoria looked up.

A pike pole emerged from a window, then was swung down: Victoria wiped most of the dirt off the hook with a napkin, then stacked doughnuts on it, watched as the pike was hauled back, hand over hand.

Jones watched, cranking his telephoto lens, took several shots.

When he lowered his camera, he realized he had a big grin on his face.

He felt an editorial coming on, and he had the feeling it might be titled something like Recital.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

YOU FIRST, COWARD!

Victoria Keller launched straight up like a frilly, feminine, pastel, rocket.

She spun in midair, her sharp little heel driving into the side of a man's face.

Victoria landed easily, skipped backwards, her Daddy's stainless Walther pistol in her young grip.

Michael ran up beside her, stopped, thrust out a bladed hand: "STOP WHERE YOU ARE!"

Words were exchanged, accusations made: Michael waited until the accuser, the offender, stopped for breath and declared loudly, "YOU, SIRRAH, ARE A LIAR, AND DO WITH THAT WHAT YOU WILL!"

Victoria Keller turned, slipped the stainless pistol back into its hidden holster, stood: she was shivering a little, her face was pale, her breathing under rigid control.

Her eyes were very pale, and very cold, and very bright.

A man who'd laid hands on Michael's twin sister blustered and threatened, to which Michael replied in a loud, commanding voice -- or as loud and as commanding as an eleven-year-old can manage -- 

"YOU, SIRRAH, ARE A LIAR, AND YOU ARE A COWARD!"

"I DEMAND SATISFACTION!" the enraged offender screamed.

Michael pulled a glove from his coat pocket.

"Have you a glove, sirrah, or are you so unprepared that I must lend you one?"

 

Word traveled quickly in the community: a duel would be fought, on the main street, the next day at twelve noon.

The challenged party, one Michael Keller, chose pistols at twenty paces: the challenger named his second, and Michael said his second would arrive in the morning, owing to distance involved: Michael and Victoria retired to their quarters, where they availed themselves of a friendly Iris, and did some fast recruiting.

The night was rather busy.

Vehicles never seen on this planet, trucks with flashing yellow lights and FIRELANDS COUNTY UTILITIES on the doors, rumbled forth from a variety of Irises, closed the street: barricades were set up, complete with battery-powered, lollipop-shaped, flashing yellow lights; a platform was built -- two platforms, actually, one for the judges, and one, ready for assembly just before the duel, for the entertainment.

When sunrise came, and with it, curious folk gathered, many of whom had little sleep, what with unaccustomed sounds of electric saws, drills, hammering, of generators, of floodlights bathing the work area: the dueling walk was measured, measured again, bordered, the edges marked with flour, precisely applied, then dampened to hold it in place: an interrupted center line marked where the duelists would begin.

The location was carefully chosen.

There was room for spectators on either side, buildings with balconies -- the owners realized they could charge per head for spectator space, and very quickly realized they could make money by selling edibles and drinks.

Kegs of beer were obtained, distributed: these were courtesy a particular planet where brewing was an art, and these artisans crafted a truly excellent beer, the hand-shaped kegs chilled for half a year in mountain's snows before being brought here, before bung-starters were swung and the taps driven in, before people began consuming this cool, truly excellent brew.

Nobody bothered to tell them that its alcohol content was almost nonexistent.

By nine o'clock the street was packed: little boys sat fearlessly on the flat tops of buildings' false fronts, watching, bare feet swinging idly: curtains were pulled back, in rooms that lacked a balcony, and two balconies collapsed from the weight of too many spectators.

Irises materialized, ambulances eased into the street, casualties were treated, transported as necessary: someone managed to roll both a peanut roasting handcart, and a popcorn machine, and soon the air filled with fragrance, barkers circulated through the crowd selling sandwiches, selling candies, selling programs:  "Get 'cher programs here! Can't tell the duelists without a pro-grayam! Michael the Murderer versus Lecherous Lacey! Get'cher pro-grayams here!"

An open space was maintained on either end of the dueling lane, in case either party missed: Michael was there at nine on the dot, his suit immaculate, his tie carefully knotted, the ruby stickpin gleaming in the early sun, and with him, Victoria, in an ornate, embroidered, shining-scarlet Irish dancing dress and shining, Irish hardshoes.

Michael supervised the setting up of a table, the placing of a tablecloth: Victoria brought over something rectangular, flat, covered with a shimmering red-velvet cloth with a white skull-and-crossbones embroidered on it.

Michael drew the velvet death's-head flag off with a flourish, held it up by its corners, turned one way, turned the other, giving the gathering, murmuring spectators a good look: he placed the cloth carefully on the white linen tablecloth, took the hand-rubbed walnut box from his quietly smiling sister.

Men ran up, bearing boards, planks, drills: boards were slammed to the ground, turned up edgewise, plywood half-sheets were noisily SLAMMED down on them, followed by careful taps of rubber mallets and the scream of battery drills: one, another, a third and a fourth, and a stage was built on the duelists' designated walkway.

"Way!" came the shout, "Make way there! Make a hole, people!" -- men, women, curious children drew reluctantly back, looking around, then staring as a stream of pretty young girls flowed, skipping happily through the gap, up onto this just-built stage, and behind them, fiddlers, guitarists, a bass fiddle -- novelties, with instruments that were almost familiar.

Victoria laughed and joined her sisters-in-dance: two ranks of pretty young girls, their hair ornately done and held with shimmering tiaras, the other dancers in green silk, Victoria in scarlet.

Michael casually withdrew one pistol, then the other, from the case, examined them closely: he turned, gestured, and a grinning boy came running up with a one foot square piece of cut-off plank.

Michael blew through each barrel, a quick puff, then capped each: the grinning boy poured a generous pinch of flour onto the board, another beside it.

Michael lowered one pistol's muzzle, pulled the trigger -- *BLAP!* -- a white cloud flew up --

Michael lowered the other pistol in like manner -- *BLAP!* -- a second white cloud --

The boy snatched up the square, turned, ran it back through the crowd.

Michael measured powder into one, followed by a greased patch, a ball, pressed it home with one stroke: the loaded the second pistol in like manner, curled his lip, whistled.

The boy who'd brought him the plank-and-flour came running back up, an empty tin can in each hand.

Michael capped the pistols, cocked them fully, stepped back, nodded.

Two cans -- one, then the other, thrown hard, thrown high --

Michael raised two pistols --

Two sharp cracks, men blinked, women flinched, children held their ears and jumped up and down and squealed with excitement --

Young feet and young hands were quick and eager to retrieve the cans, to bring them back, bearing them triumphantly overhead at arm's length.

Michael reloaded the pistols.

"Again."

Two cans, two shots.

"HERE!" a voice yelled "HIT THIS!"

Michael casually reloaded the pistols, then looked at the shouter, at the silver coin he held.

Michael thrust a bladed hand at him, gestured him closer.

The man dropped his hand, slung it skyward.

Two coins -- not one --

Two pistol shots --

Two coins howled in pain as they seared through the air.

Michael chewed on two cleaning patches, he spit patched the barrels, ran a dry patch through them, lifted his chin to his assistant, who brought him the foot-square plank and more flour.

Michael capped the empty pistols, blew another pair of white clouds into the air.

He placed the pistols on the table, dusted his hands briskly together, looked at the grinning fiddlers, at the Irish dancers lined up, pretty and pristine, two ranks on the newly-built stage.

Michael accepted the chair brought up for him, the cup of cold water: he nodded happily at "Cotton Eyed Joe" and precise ranks of well-rehearsed dancers, all in green, save his sister, a living ruby with color in her cheeks and a quiet, genuine smile on her face.

The young ladies danced to three tunes, then stopped, smiling, breathing deeply through their noses, hands on their belts and weight on one foot with the other prettily pointed: Michael stepped up on the stage, up beside his sister in her scarlet-silk dress.

"Let's hear it for the Firelands Ladies!" Michael called, and the dancers -- who'd performed on stages before, but never on an outdoor stage -- blushed and felt the earned delight of performers who were hit with an absolute, overtopping wave of palms pounded together, whistles, yells:  Michael grinned, waited for the calls to die down, then raised his hands for attention, for their silence.

"My friends," he called, his young tenor carrying well, "we are gathered here today to see honor satisfied.

"These lovely young ladies here -- judge their skill we have, and we find their skill to be great indeed -- are all less than twelve years of age. My sister here" -- he ran his arm around Victoria's shoulder -- "is but eleven.

"Yesterday a man put his lecherous hands on my sister.

"She kicked him in the jaw right in front of God and everybody.

"He ran his mouth rather than take what was due him, one thing led to another and he demanded satisfaction.

"I am here waiting."

Michael turned, looked through the crowd, made a slow orbit of the little stage, circled behind precise ranks of lovely young dancers.

"Is my opponent here, or is he coward enough to hide?"

As the crowd realized just what Michael just said, silence flowed like a dark river through them: somewhere in the distance, a horse, the bark of a steam engine under load.

"Is my opponent here," Michael called again, "or has the liar hidden himself from the challenge he gave?"

People looked around, searching: women and men alike leaned over the balconies' railings, heedless of the recent collapse: young eyes atop false fronts peered, then an arm thrust out, a shout:

"There he is! There he is!"

"Where?" men called, squinting up at the youthful lookouts.

Half a dozen skinny young arms thrust out, pointing: men turned, women followed, children craned their necks.

"Ladies," Michael called, "thank you for your presentation. We look forward to seeing you again!"

A dozen young ladies spun on their toes, flowed into two lines, danced off the stage and to the sidelines:  men hurried to the stage, drove screwdriver bits into countersunk screws, and the stage was disassembled more quickly than it was assembled, the planks carried off.

Michael Keller turned slowly, a confident young man in a black suit and brushed Stetson: he looked around, relaxed, then smiled as his opponent came through the crowd.

"Here he comes," Michael called cheerfully.  "The lying coward who put hands on an ELEVEN YEAR OLD CHILD!"

"How was I to know she's --" he blurted, then stopped.

"Do you wish to admit you were wrong, sirrah?" Michael sneered.  "You can avoid this unpleasant encounter. All you need do is admit you were wrong, and apologize to my sister here."

"I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL!"

Michael laughed, looked around.

"You hear that, folks? You're all witnesses. He has chosen the Duel."

A shout went up, then settled into a chant: "DU-EL! DU-EL! DU-EL!"

Michael raised his hands, turned: the chant faded, died.

"Just so you know what you're getting into," Michael declared, thrust a hand to the men in top hats and neckties in the judge's stand.

One of them stood, held a sheet in his hand, read from it.

"Whereas, the party of the first part has challenged the party of the second part to a duel of honor.

"Whereas, the party of the first part, having issued the challenged, consented to the challenged party the choice of time, place, and weapons, the time being now, the day being today, the weapons as specified and as present."

"Before we begin," Michael called, "if the crowd could draw back from the lines of duel, please."

His smile was genuine as he continued, "Set up the plates."

The crowd drew back, leaned forward to look down the dueling lane.

A rack of one-foot-across steel plates was set into place.

"That distance is about twenty feet," Michael said. "I'd like my opponent to know what he's in for."

Michael's hand slashed down, sliced under his coat, came back up --

Six fast shots --

Six plates fell back, six loud CLANKS! --

Michael casually switched magazines, slipped his pistol back into its holster.

"By the way," a voice called -- a woman's voice -- there was the sound of a shotgun cycling into battery, and Angela Keller stepped forward, Ithaca in one hand and a number 2 tin can in the other.

She slung it into the air, shouldered her shotgun, drove the can high into the cloudless sky.

Angela was running a modified choke and 00 buckshot.

There wasn't a whole lot left of the can when a grinning boy brought it back.

"My sister and I are here to guarantee the duel will be conducted as specified," Angela said, her voice pitched to be heard to the rearmost row. 

An eddy of stray breeze brought the smell of roast peanuts and fresh popped popcorn.

"If any attempt is made to shoot my brother prematurely" -- she held up the shredded can -- "I plan to empty this gun into your cowardly carcass.  This" -- she turned the can a little -- "is just one round.  This gun holds eight."

Angela looked at the judges, nodded: Marnie stepped up beside her, cycled her own Ithaca, thumbed one final round into the magazine.

The gentleman on the judge's platform -- designated the chief judge by the red ribbon rosette on his lapel -- consulted the sheet he held.

"Load Pistols!" he called.

Michael watched as both pistols were loaded: the powder charge was measured, visibly poured into each bore; a greased patch, a ball, thrust home with a single stroke of the spiral striped ramrod.

"Gentlemen," the judge called, "choose your weapons!"

"You first, coward," Michael smiled.

"I'll kill you," came the snarled reply: he snatched the nearest pistol, swatted the hammer back, drove the muzzle into Michael's gut, or tried to.

A pretty girl in a ruby silk Irish dancing dress loosened her finger enough to feel the trigger reset: her Walther's bark was sharp, loud in the shocked hush, its echo quickly lost to the noontime air.

The man who'd groped her, the man she's spun and kicked in the jaw, the man who just tried to murder Michael with a pistol that hadn't been capped yet, fell bonelessly to the earth, his brainstem transected from one round of .32 automatic out of a stainless-steel German pistol.

 

 

Edited November 19, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A MAN'S THOUGHTS

"Michael."

Michael, Angela, Marnie, Jacob and Victoria all turned toward the Sheriff.

"You provoked the man."

Michael nodded slowly.

"Yes, sir."

"Was that the best way to handle the situation?"

Linn's voice was quiet, the way it generally was, unless occasion demanded otherwise.

"It was, sir."

"Go on."

"Sir, I did provoke him, and I provoked him deliberately."

Linn waited, listening closely.

Michael was on his feet, as was Jacob: the ladies were seated, listening closely.

"Could you have handled it better?"

"I could have just shot him, sir, when he grabbed Victoria the way he did."

Linn nodded slowly, then looked at his youngest daughter.

The Sheriff's expression was carefully neutral.

Victoria's expression showed anger ... deep in her eyes it was, and Linn saw her bottom jaw slide out.

He looked at his other two daughters and he saw their hardening expressions, and he doubted not that they were in agreement with Michael that yes, he could have just shot the criminal.

"Not everyone saw him grab Victoria, sir. More saw her kick him in the jaw. When he demanded satisfaction, I saw a chance to shame him in public so everyone would know."

Linn gave his son an appraising look, but said nothing.

"Sir, it was a carnival. It was an Event. They had popcorn, hot roasted peanuts, we had Irish dancers and fiddlers."

"I saw the replay."  Linn looked at Victoria.  "Nice work on stage."

Victoria smiled, just a little, her face colored as she dropped her eyes the way a girl will when she knows flattery is given honestly.

"I called him for what he was, but I gave him a chance to admit he was wrong and give an apology to Victoria.

"I staged a shooting exhibition so he and everyone else would know he was up against certain death. A coward will back out if you give him the chance.

"I deliberately did not cap the pistols after they were loaded. I figured that would be the most likely time for him to try something."

"Which he did."

"Yes, sir."

"Victoria."

"Yes, Daddy?"

Victoria gave her Daddy those big, lovely eyes and managed to look innocent, little-girlish and harmless, which of course fooled no one at all.

"Nice shot."

"Thank you, Daddy."

"I expect honor was better satisfied with you punching his ticket."

Linn saw the same look in his daughters' eyes that he'd seen in Angela's when they hanged the monsters that brutalized her, back East.

He saw a deep and abiding hate, and he saw the grim satisfaction of a woman wronged, a woman avenged.

"Marnie."

Marnie raised her eyebrows. "Yes, Daddy?"

"All things are political. What ramifications do you foresee from this event?"

Marnie replied in a quiet voice, "That has been discussed already. It seems that Michael is seen as less a provocateur and more as having given a man every chance, even to the extent of displaying his personal skill-at-arms and offering him the opportunity to admit he was wrong, and to apologize."

"This will not be ... diplomatically ... detrimental?"

"Not in the least."

"Michael."

"Yes, sir?"

"You could have just shot him for what he did."

"Not everyone saw him grab Victoria, sir. Had I just shot him, there would be some doubt. When I called him for what he was, in such a public way, nobody lacks the knowledge of what he did."

Linn nodded slowly, considered, frowned a little, rubbed his chin meditatively, then looked up.

"Marnie."

"Yes, Daddy?"

Linn's expression was as impassive as it had been since they all assembled in Marnie's quarters.

"Now that this matter has been settled, can you recommend a good place to eat?"

Marnie gave a great and dramatic sigh, thrust splayed fingers at the ceiling:  "Men!" she declared. "All they think about is FOOD!"

 

 

 

Edited November 20, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE GIRL FROM HORSEHEAD

Victoria looked around, frowned.

"Angela?"

"Hm?"

Angela Keller leaned forward, scrolled her screen up, up again, obviously hunting for something: Victoria bit her bottom lip, took a half-step back, realizing she'd interrupted.

Angela blinked, smiled, raised her head: she arched her back, stretched, rubbed her eyes.

"God's bones," she groaned, "my eyes are pulled out to points looking at that thing!"

Victoria gave her a sympathetic look.

Angela put her fist into her other palm, elbows out, forearms level: she turned one way, then the other, turned back a little further, the other way as far as she could, then back to center.

"Michael," she smiled. "I understand he's gone to Horsehead."

"Horsehead," Victoria echoed. "The town, the rock formation, the mountain?"

"The nebula."

 

Michael removed his hat, swallowed, knocked at the door of a tidy little house on the outskirts of town.

Behind him, Lightning looked around, scenting the air, restless: she slashed her black, silk-fine tail, shook her head, muttered.

The door opened and a girl about Michael's age clapped her hand to her mouth, her eyes suddenly wide.

"Hi, Juliette," Michael said, almost shyly.

"Michael!" she squeaked, then she threw her arms wide and seized Michael in a delighted, crushing hug.

She felt Michael laughing quietly as he hugged her back.

The held one another for a long moment.

"I was afraid you'd never come back," she whispered.

They slacked their embrace; Michael held up a small bouquet.

She took it shyly, raised it to her face: eyes closed, she took a long, savoring sniff, then hugged Michael again.

Lightning eased forward, snuffed at the bouquet, opened her mouth and removed it from the girl's fingers.

Michael heard Lightning chewing on something and he groaned "Oh, no," then chuckled as Juliette whispered, "It's all right, Michael."

 

"Why'd he go to the Horsehead?" Victoria asked.

"He said he had to keep a promise."

"Oh," Victoria replied, as if that explained everything.

"You're all dressed up. Going somewhere?"

"Hand-to-hand practice," Victoria said matter-of-factly. "Every time something happened to me, I was dressed up, so I'm training like that."

"Have fun," Angela smiled.

"I'll be going out on the range this afternoon. Want to come?"

Angela considered the computer screen, her glowing pad with rows of hand-written notes, dark on the luminous face: she looked up, smiled.

"I'd like that!"

 

A tall boy and a furiously blushing girl walked slowly through the nearby park.

They would have been less conspicuous without a silky-blond Fanghorn following like an adoring dog, her black mane and tail contrasting against her healthy, lightning-patterned pelt.

"I'm glad you came, Michael."

"I made a promise."

"I'm glad."

Michael stopped, faced Juliette, his face serious: he tilted his head, raised gentle fingers, traced the pads of his fingers along the corners of her eyes.

She looked at his serious expression and she knew he was remembering what she must've looked like after the accident that left her blind, at least until the pioneering medical work that restored Michael's heart and his spine and who knows what else, showed how to regrow entire organs.

Her eyes had been regrown, the flesh surrounding, regrown as well: her skin was flawless, without scar, flaw or blemish -- but then her automatic pilot hadn't engaged yet, the hormonal storms that plague girls as they become women had not yet inflicted themselves upon her.

"I wanted to come back and say thank you," Michael said in a quiet voice.

She blinked, surprised: "Thank me? For what?"

Michael closed his eyes, bowed his head, bit his bottom lip: her hands gripped his and she whispered, "What is it, Michael?"

He looked up at her, his eyes haunted: Lightning felt his inner turmoil, came over, laid her jaw against Michael's upper arm, chirped.

"When I was at my ... darkest ..." Michael whispered, then swallowed, frowned, turning his hat brim between uncertain fingers.

He blinked, looked at her, blinked again, pushed forward through black memories, wading to a shoreline where a luminous figure waited.

"I was ready to give up," he whispered.

"I was in more pain than I knew could exist.

"My legs would not work.  I was a cripple, and then I met you."

He swallowed again: she felt him grip her fingers, just a little, almost uncertainly.

"You were blind," he whispered, "and I realized I hadn't lost everything, and then you ..."

He threw his head back, took a deep, desperate breath, blew it out, tilted his head down to look at her again.

"You showed me life does not end because you can't see and I realized life doesn't end because I couldn't walk, and then you got your eyes back and I realized I could get my legs back."

"It was easier for me," she whispered.

"May be," Michael nodded, "but it was you who showed me it was possible."

Michael considered for a long moment.

"I would like ... to ask you something."

She nodded, her eyes big, luminous.

Michael reached into a pocket, drew out a black-velvet box, opened it.

"This," he said, "is a Martian ruby."

He held it up by its delicate chain.

"My Gammaw complained about necklace clasps so she had little magnets put on hers" -- he showed Victoria, pulled them apart, let them snap back together.

"For me?" she whispered, her eyes big.

"For you."

Michael carefully draped the necklace, brought the ends together as she held her hair up: the faceted, gleaming, blood-red stone gleamed in the hollow of her throat.

"Michael?"

He took her hands, looked into her eyes, nodded.

"Does this mean we're engaged?"

Michael smiled almost sadly.

"We're way too young for that," he said, genuine regret in his quiet words.

"This is ... just me, thanking you."

"For what?"

"I've never told anyone this," he whispered, "but there's only two things kept me from sticking a gunmuzzle in my mouth and trying to pull the trigger twice."

He reached up without looking, caressed Lightning's jaw.

"Lightning here is one."

His other hand tightened on both hers.

"You" -- he leaned closer and whispered, "you! -- are the only reason I didn't blow my brains all over the hospital room ceiling."

Michael shivered a little, then hugged her, quickly, fiercely, desperately, as if he were drowning, and she was the only float on a stormy sea.

"Never doubt the good that you do, Juliette," he whispered as he held her, as he shivered, his arms tight around her:  "never ever doubt the good that you do, just by being you!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited November 20, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE OTHER WOMAN

Annette twisted her rich, auburn hair, plaited it into her usual bedtime braid: she smiled as she did, looking at the vaguely ghostlike backside of her husband, in his linen nightshirt, standing barefoot before their bedroom window.

Jacob did this, she knew, when he felt contemplative, when he was going over memories, when his mind was too busy to allow him to lie down and sleep.

Annette tied off her braid with a ribbon, rose, flowed silently across the bedroom's stone floor, grateful for the several rugs covering: she came up behind her husband, hugged him from behind, laid her cheek against his shoulder blade.

Jacob lifted a hand, laid it on her fingers, and as she usually did, Annette smiled: Jacob's hands were just like his father's -- hot! -- she'd complained good-naturedly to her mother-in-law, Esther, that sleeping with Jacob was like sleeping with a heated brick:  Esther laughed quietly, refilled Annettes' bone-china teacup and said quietly that Jacob's father was just like sleeping with a stove, often times she'd have to throw off her covers because sleeping with him was just too warm!

Jacob felt Annette's deep, contented breath.

"What are you seeing, Jacob?" she asked softly, and Jacob smiled, turned.

"I was thinking of another woman," he said quietly, and they both laughed, at last until their lips met.

 

Daciana opened the door before Jacob's summoning knuckles could begin their concussive descent.

"You are vondering aboutdt Zarah," she said. "Inkommen, downsitten, I make tea."

Jacob looked around, smiled, hung his Stetson, looked around.

Jacob inherited his father's military habit of neatness, and as he considered the absolutely tidy, completely organized, immaculately clean interior, he could not help but smile just a little, and nod his approval.

Daciana scuttled industriously back into the room, two heavy mugs hooked by the handles, dangling from two fingers, while she held a steaming, white-ceramic teapot with the other.

She set down the mugs, decanted a volume into each, placed a coarse brown sugar-cone in the middle of the table on a flower-bordered saucer.

Daciana swung her hips as she settled into her chair -- Jacob suspected it was how she threw her skirt, he'd seen Sarah do the same -- Daciana took a small, sharp knife, cut a slice off the sugar cone, dropped it in her mug, then added tea: she turned the knife so the handle was toward Jacob, clearly an invitation.

Curious, he sliced off a chunk thick as a shirt button was wide, added it to his own mug.

Daciana poured tea, filled his with steaming-hot oolong.

"Now that," Jacob murmured, "smells good!"

"Esther's blend," Daciana said softly, her accent adding an exotic flavor to her words: she stirred her tea, removed the spoon, dunked it in Jacob's tea and gave it a few quick turns, set the spoon down with the sugar cone.

"You vant know aboutdt Zarah," she said, mischief in her eyes as she sipped the fragrant, scalding brew.

Jacob was a realist.

He'd learned long ago that women were mysterious creatures who knew things, women were born diviners who could look through a man like window glass: he'd never managed to figure that out, but he realized he still had some growin' to do.

Jacob watched as Daciana reached over, gripped something covered with an embroidered kerchief.

She brought it over in front of her, pushed her tea mug away a little, lifted the kerchief carefully, as if not wishing to wake whatever it covered.

Jacob tasted his tea, found it very much to his liking.

He looked at the crystal ball on its simple wood base: shining, spotless, flawless crystal: he looked into it, interested, but couldn't really see much.

"You haff zomdink off Zarah's," Daciana said -- she made a statement, she did not ask it as a question.

Jacob nodded, reached into a pocket, handed over a folded kerchief with SLM embroidered ornately in one corner.

Daciana lifted the crystal from its holder, carefully unfolded the kerchief, the embroidered initials pointed toward Jacob: she replaced the shining sphere, spread her fingers, held them apart on either side.

It looked to Jacob as if she were spinning an invisible web between her fingertips.

 

"I went to Daciana," Jacob said softly, smiling at the memory only he could see.

"I asked her about Sarah."

"You didn't know she was your sister?"

"I suspected."

"What did Daciana say?"

"She said Sarah was blood of my blood, and that I loved her more than life itself."

Annette came up on her toes, kissed Jacob again.

He could only just see the sparkle in her eyes in the dim light of their nighttime bedroom.

"Was she right?" Annette whispered.

Jacob smiled, held his wife: her arms were around him again, and she felt his soundless laughter.

"Yes," he whispered. "And I still do."

"What else did this mysterious gypsy fortuneteller tell you, Mr. Keller?" Annette teased.

Jacob twisted, dropped, ran his arm around the back of his wife's thighs: he picked her up, quickly, rolled her into him.

"Mrs. Keller," he whispered, "she told me I would find you."

"Oh she did, did she?"

"Just ... not quite the way I expected."

 

Jacob could get nothing from his study of the crystal, so he reverted to what he knew.

He studied the person before him.

Daciana's eyes were closed; she frowned, slightly, her head turned a little, as if she were seeing something difficult.

"There vill be ... blood," Daciana said hoarsely, her voice very different now: her head came up, her eyes wide, very wide, almost shocked: "There vill be ... ladies, bound hand and foot, silenced and captured, and you will claim them for your own."

Jacob frowned, looked very intently at Daciana's wide and unblinking eyes.

"Ladies captured for sale and you vill take them, Chakob, you vill kill and you vill claim them as your own."

Her eyes converged on his -- dark, deep, bottomless --

I could swim in those eyes, Jacob thought, then he seized his wandering thoughts and returned to Daciana's words.

"I will claim women for sale?"

Daciana snatched up the embroidered kerchief, draped it carefully over the ancient crystal.

"It vass from my Grand-mère," Daciana murmured: she gripped it very carefully by its base, slid it with great care back to the edge of the table, where the wall would keep it safe.

She looked back at Jacob.

"You vill be zent to ze ocean, Chakob. Go."

 

Annette felt her husband's long breath, she heard the smile in his voice as he continued.

"Next morning Apple-horse and I set out for Frisco.

"I had a warrant and a set of irons, and I set out to bring a man home, peacefully or otherwise."

"And did you?"

Jacob laughed, set his wife's feet back down onto the hook rug.

"Darlin', that's when I met you and I brought you home!"

He felt Annette shiver a little as she cuddled into him, as she hugged him suddenly, desperately.

"Hold me, Jacob," she whispered.  "Hold me!"

Jacob held his wife and remembered seeing her for the very first time.

A cloth was tied tightly between her teeth, holding a larger balled-up cloth to silence her: he saw her wrists were bound, he saw the curtained hack had two girls inside, both tied, both gagged, both looking at him with terrified eyes.

Jacob Keller did not stop to consider; he did not shout a challenge.

He did not put his heels to his Apple-horse: no, the stallion, a creature of the wild, had deeper senses than the puny two-legs in the saddle: ears laid back, bit between strong, yellowed teeth, the stallion charged, launched, drove like a colorfully-spotted spear as Jacob raised in the saddle, as he raised Justice and drove Judgement ahead of him: he swung, shot the driver, turned back, holstered as he launched from the saddle, as he landed on the second kidnapper's shoulders, as he seized the man's head and smacked it hard into the cobblestones.

He remembered taking the driver -- he'd grazed the man's scalp -- two survivors and a carcass were secured in the curtained hack, while newly-liberated ladies arranged themselves on top.

Jacob kissed at his Apple-horse: the stallion followed the hack, and at Annette's directions, Jacob drove to the city hall, where the Mayor was proudly declaring crime had been eliminated.

Jacob drove through the protesting officers who tried to stop him, drove right up to the Mayor and the Chief of Police, ho'd the prad and set the brake.

He helped the girls off the roof of the hack, he helped Annette mount up behind him as what had been her sisters-in-captivity swarmed the Mayor, loudly and shrilly declaring their recent experience at being seized, bound, gagged, abducted, and intended for sale in the seaport's fleshpots:  Annette ran her arms around Jacob's flat, muscled belly, laid her cheek against his back as Apple-horse danced, spun, surged through the scattering rank of police officers.

 

"I was so proud to bring you home," Jacob said softly. "I was so very proud to bring you home as my wife!"

"You didn't want to wait and get married here?" Annette whispered, tracing her finger through his chest hairs.

Jacob's voice was solemn as he gripped her elbows, as he leaned his forehead down to touch hers.

"Darlin'," he said quietly, and there was steel in his words, "I was not going to risk losing the greatest treasure I'd ever found!"

A husband and a wife embraced, there in the bedroom's dark, and each gave the other to understand just how much each appreciated Daciana's admonition.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

MISUNDERSTANDING

Sheriff Jacob Keller shucked his Marlin, threw up a leg, dropped to the ground and went to one knee.

He had no memory of conscious or rational thought.

He acted entirely on a father's instinct.

A man was reaching for his son -- a man with one arm, one clawed hand reaching for MY LITTLE BOY!

That wasn't what commanded Jacob's attention.

That wasn't entirely what prompted Jacob's pale eye to settle behind the scope, to set the cross hairs right where he wanted them, that wasn't what tightened his finger on the smooth, curved trigger.

Jacob broke the shot, cranked another round into the chamber, fired again.

His father's words, whispered from a recess in the back of his mind:

Ammo is cheap. Lives are not.

Cartridge brass spun from the ejection port, slung hard to the side as Jacob slammed the lever shut on another .30-30 round.

The attacker fell, and so did his knife.

 

A smiling mother looked up as her husband and son came riding up.

Ruth straightened, her hand to the small of her back: she was kneeling on a thick, quilted pad, she wiped her forehead with her sleeve, smiled as Jacob picked up their laughing, curly-headed little boy, as Jacob slung his leg up and over and dropped easily to the ground, bringing another freshet of happy laughter from their son.

Ruth pulled off her gardening gloves:  still kneeling, she opened her arms, hugged her delighted little boy, then looked up at her husband.

Ruth had been smiling.

Ruth had been happy.

Ruth saw the look on her husband's face and she knew something was very wrong.

 

Sheriff Jacob Keller rode out with the local Sheriff, two deputies, and the dead wagon.

They rolled the dead man over, they looked at the knife, still loosely gripped in dead fingers, they looked at the dead man's posture -- flat on his face, one grasping hand still thrust forward, as if still reaching for a victim, even in death.

"Step back, please," Sheriff Jacob Keller said:  puzzled, they did, watching as Jacob pulled a sketch book from his saddlebags, as he sketched out the scene: first, as he saw it now -- his pencil moved quickly, surely, transferring the image of the dead man from fieldgrass to eggshell paper.

Jacob moved steadily, methodically: one, then another of the jurisdictional lawmen swung around beside and behind him, admiring his work.

Jacob turned the page, started again, and they watched as a running maniac emerged from the pencil's tip: they watched as the knife flowed from whittled graphite, as the attacker's face revealed what Jacob saw in the mental snapshot, right before he came off his horse.

Nobody moved -- nobody, save only his Appaloosa, unconcerned, grazing, tail-slashing, looking around with drowsy and unconcerned eyes.

Jacob turned the page, reached into the other saddlebag, pulled out a tape, pulled out a few feet, handed it to one of the deputies.

"Go to the carcass," he said quietly: he looked around, pale eyes scouring the ground, saw his cartridge brass in the grass.

The deputy stopped, the end of the long tape above the dead man: Jacob read the tape on his end, marked down the numbers, then sketched a diagram, quickly, efficiently.

"I wish we had someone to do this," one of the deputies murmured.

"Put the word out," Jacob said, not looking up, his pencil still busy: "find who can draw and recruit them."

He stopped, looked very directly at the Sheriff.

"It helps in court. This way there's no doubt as to whether you're remembering it correctly."

"I know who to ask," one of the deputies murmured.

"Okay. Let's look at the deceased."

"Damned loco weed," one of the deputies muttered.

Jacob nodded, carried the sketch book over to the body with the rest of the lawmen.

"Turn him over."

Hands gripped shoulder and belt, rolled the corpse face-up.

Jacob frowned a little, his jaw thrust out as he studied the dead man's face.

"That expression," he said.

"Loco weed," the Sheriff muttered. "He'll have some on him."

"Tell me about this loco weed."

"They chew it. Makes 'em crazy."

"Doesn't anybody just get drunk anymore?"

"Drink costs money. Weed grows wild. Makes 'em crazy."

"Crazy enough to try to chase down a two-year-old boy and try to knife him?"

The Sheriff looked at Jacob, his eyes serious.

"That's mild," he said, and Jacob felt the cold shivers trickle right down the middle of his back bone.

 

Jacob watched the dead wagon depart, and the jurisdictional lawmen with it: he'd given the Sheriff his sketch book -- it was new, and Jacob had more -- something told him that crime scene documentation was about to improve on this particular world.

He pressed his hand against his shirt pocket, felt the fired brass: he'd toss these in his to-be-tumbled bin, he'd reload them same as any others.

He'd never taken trophies of his kills and he wasn't about to start now.

Jacob rode back to his father in law's house, where his wife and son stood, waiting.

Jacob swung down, picked up his laughing little boy, swung him high and hard and swung him down in a fast, belly-tickle arc, back up again, and into him: he couldn't help but smile, for the laughter of a happy child is contagious.

Jacob set his son down, took his wife's hands, gave her a gentle look, kissed her carefully, the way he always did.

"He said a man was chasing him," Ruth said uncomfortably. "Did something happen?"

Jacob smiled gently.

"It was a misunderstanding," Jacob said quietly. "I'm letting the local authorities handle it."

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

 AFTER CHURCH

Parson Belden gave Mrs. Belden his hand: she steadied herself with her husband, and with a hand on the back of the buggy-seat, as she ascended from the mounting-block into the shining carriage.

Eager boys hoisted a series of baskets and packages into the buggy; one strode up beside the Parson and touched his hat-brim: "That's the lot, sir," he grinned.

The Parson winked and thanked him quietly, then lifted the reins: "Yup there," he called, and the placid old nag lifted her head a little and leaned into her shining-black collar.

Usually the Parson and his wife were invited to Sunday dinner, on an unofficial, rotating basis: today was no different, but they were  not going to a household where an invitation had been extended.

They drew up in front of a tidy little house with two little boys playing outside: they came scampering up, all bright eyes and big grins and "Howdy, Parson!" and both of them reached up for Mrs. Parson's hand as she came out of the buggy, all stout and matronly and smiling at their eager voices, their shining faces.

The Parson set the brake, dismounted:  "Lads," he called, "I could use your help!"

Two eager little boys scampered around the rear of the buggy to where the Parson was hoisting out a well-laden, red-painted, checkered-cloth-covered, withie basket.

"It'll take two of you to carry this," he cautioned. "Take it inside, this is for your mother!"

The Parson hoist the other heavy withie basket out -- it took both hands and a hoist to do it -- he swung it around, carried it in his good right hand, reached in and seized the tied neck of a sizable cloth poke: he levered it out, it was more awkward than heavy, he got it over his shoulder and trudged around the buggy's rear and toward the front door.

A distressed-looking man stood in the doorway, his mouth opening with dismay.

Oh, no --

We'd not made church that day, we had barely enough to feed just us, and now the Parson and his wife were here --

The Parson's wife drew aside as her heavily laden husband set foot up onto the cut stone step, as he hoisted the picnic basket.

The young father took the basket, looked past the Parson to where his grinning boys were holding another: he blinked, surprised, stepped back.

"Please come in!"

 

Mrs. Parson tilted her head, looked closely at the gravid young woman beside her.

She reached over, took her hand, under the table, gave her a long look.

The younger woman was clearly uncomfortable: she squeezed Mrs. Parson's hand, looked at her, nodded.

Mrs. Parson looked at Parson Belden, nodded.

The Parson reached into his coat, beckoned to the two eager, restless young boys.

He turned in his chair, opened a pocket-book, drew forth a folded note, handed it to the older of the two.

"Lads," he said, "I need your help, and you are the only ones who can do this."

Two young heads nodded solemnly.

"Now do you take this" -- he placed the folded note in the boy's hand -- "to the hospital. Run, don't walk, do not stop for anyone! -- ring the bell-pull, and when Nurse Susan pops out the door like a Jack-in-the-Box, hand her this note and tell her -- this is important" -- the Parson raised a teaching finger, leaned closer -- "tell her these words, and these words alone:  'It's my Mama!' -- and then run like the wind itself, run back here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," he breathed.

"Good.  Scoot.  And you, my fine young man" -- the Parson pressed the second note into the second boy's palm -- "your mission is the more important. I need you to run as if all the hounds of Hell were chasing you, I need you to run faster than lightning itself.  Run for the Sheriff's house. Do you know where he lives?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Beat on the door and when it is answered, hand over this note and say only this -- 'It's my Mama!' -- then run back here.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Go."

A second young boy ran on swift young legs, launched out the front door, and was gone.

The Parson turned back to the uncertain father, watching all this from the head of the table.

"Eat up, lad," the Parson said. "It would be a shame for this to go to waste."

He looked the length of the table at his wife.

She leaned back in her chair, she looked about half sick, she laid a hand on her maternal belly.

"Is it time, then?" 

She nodded.

Her husband strode around the table, the Parson joined him: one seized the back of the chair, tilted her back, while the other gripped the chair's legs: they lifted, they carried her carefully, around corners and through a doorway, and into a tidy bedroom.

"I've done this before," the Parson said softly.  "Put your arms around my neck, m'dear, my wife said she'd like t' do that on occasion."

"That's my hands around your throat," Mrs. Parson corrected, and the young mother laughed a little.

The Parson drove an arm around behind the small of her back, under her knees: he dropped his backside, rolled her into his chest, stood.

The young husband pulled the chair away, turned down the bedcovers.

"Now what do we do?" he asked.

"Now we let the women do what women do best," the Parson said. "Have ye whiskey?"

"I have ... but should she ...?"

The Parson clapped a hand on the man's shoulder.

"You're the color of wheat paste," he murmured. "We'll fortify ourselves and wait for developments!"

 

Word, and women, travel fast in a small town.

Of a Sunday, women usually wore their better gowns, especially for Sunday dinner.

Esther Keller led the Ladies into the little house: she wore a plain, practical gown, she had an armful of supplies, she looked at the Parson -- "We brought 'em," he grinned, and she nodded, once -- the Ladies' Tea Society filled the room and shooed out men and boys, and set about the feminine business of delivering a gravid mother of her child.

Dr. John Greenlees arrived less than a minute later -- he'd been halfway through his bath when the summons occurred -- he was almost dressed, his collar was unfastened and he still had shaving-soap streaking his jaw on one side.

Long, slender fingers spread over her maternal belly, his eyes were almost closed: he listened to her breathing, his fingers went to her wrist, her temple, lifted her eyelids, then the back of his bent fingers rested momentarily against her flushed cheek.

"The waters have not broken?" he asked quietly.

"Not yet."

"Soon, then. Mother, how many children have you borne?"

"Three," she gasped.

Dr. Greenlees looked up at Esther, then Bonnie, his eyebrow raised and he gave a single, firm nod.

Women looked at one another, two of them gripped the laboring mother's hands.

An unspoken It won't be long now! passed soundlessly through the Ladies -- that mysterious communication women have in such moments -- as Dr. Greenlees dashed his hands into the waiting basin of steaming-hot water: he washed quickly, thoroughly, dried his hands on the towel anonymous hands thrust at him, snapped the towel over his shoulder.

"Let's take a look."

He barely twisted out of the way as the Waters of Life burst forth.

 

Parson Belden poured two fingers' worth of Amber Sledgehammer into two of the only glasses in the house.

He made a mental note to gift the young mother-to-be with a set of honest-to-God glass tumblers.

Anonymously, of course.

He set down the whiskey bottle, eased the cork back in, handed the uncertain husband one, raised the other in salute.

"You have two fine sons," he said. "May your increase bring you joy!"

The husband raised his glass.

They drank.

His two sons watched, restless, big-eyed, silent.

Silence filled the kitchen.

The boys, being boys, sat down and continued eating: one, then the other, cast a covetous glance at the two pies on the sideboard, waiting to be cut.

"I don't hear anything," the husband said.

"These things can take time," the Parson said. "Unless they don't."

"We're hoping for a girl," the father admitted, "but we ... our last one was still born, and it ..."

The Parson rested an understanding hand on the man's shoulder.

"I buried m' daughter," he said quietly. "There's no hurt like losin' one of your own."

"There's plenty t' eat yet," the Parson pointed out.  "Ye may wish to fortify yourself."

"I've no appetite."

The Parson grinned, chuckled a little:  "Take it from an old campaigner, son. Eat when there's food, sleep when there's a chance. Never stand when ye can sit, never sit when ye can lay down, an' when God gives ye a smile, take it an' thank Him for it."

They felt a presence, more than heard: two men and two boys looked to the doorway.

Bonnie stood there, her hair drawn severely back, one curl laid over her forehead, her violet eyes shining with delight.

Two men and two boys rose.

"Your daughter would like to say hello."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

CONVERSATION

Two men sat at a round table, alone in an empty building.

There were more outside, but none dare interrupt the two within.

"I could kill you for that," one of the men said quietly.

The other smiled a little, but the smile did not extend beyond the corners of his pale eyes.

"You could try."

"I have a gun pointed at your belt buckle."

"So do I."

"So what do we do now?"

Three fast shots blasted the silence apart: the Sheriff dove to the left, drew his right-hand Colt, fired, the hideout .38 in his left fist smoking a little from its stubby barrel.

An outlaw hit the floor with a chunk missing from the back of his head.

 

"Hello, Biggins," the Sheriff said quietly.

Biggins turned, his pistol almost raised.

The Sheriff stood side-on to him, arm extended, a cocked Colt's Peacemaker looking very directly at the outlaw's face.

Biggins hesitated, just like the Sheriff believed he would.

"So what do we do now?" Biggins asked.

"After the chase you gave me?" the Sheriff said quietly. "I reckon we'll sit down and talk 'er all over."

Two men laid their thumbs over their respective hammers.

Two muzzles rolled into the air.

Two hammers were eased gently down on a live round and then holstered.

Two men walked slowly to a round table, drew out a chair, sat.

Both men had their right hand on the tabletop.

"You're a hard man to trail, Biggins."

Biggins nodded.  "Good of you to say so."

"You came close to partin' my hair back yonder."

"I see the hole in your hat."

The Sheriff grinned, then chuckled a little.

"Yeah, and that was my good hat, too."

"Don't expect me to buy you a new one."

"I thought it might be kind if you'd at least offer."

"No."

Two men sized one another up, two men who knew death was the third guest at their table.

"You know I'll not come with you."

"You know I'll not leave without you."

"You know I'm innocent."

"I know you're a damned liar."

Biggins did not bluster, anger, nor deny.

"Not just a liar?"

"Not just a liar."

"I've killed men for less."

"As have I."

"You've not!"

"Now you're askin' to be killed."

"You knew that already."

The Sheriff's eyes smiled again.

"Nobody calls me a liar," Biggins said, his voice almost gentle.  "I could kill you for that."

 

Jacob Keller stood casually, a double gun pointed more or less at two men gripping horses' reins.

"I'd say you two need to shuck those gunbelts," Jacob said casually.

"I'd listen to him if I were you," Linn called: Jacob twisted, drove a swarm of heavy shot toward an empty window, snapped back, yanked the second trigger, saw both men collapse.

It wasn't until he'd fired that he realized his shot was not necessary.

Jacob broke open the Greener double, jerked it to shuck the hulls, dunked in two fresh rounds, raised the rearstock to close it, just the way his Mama taught him when she had him out hunting birds, and she instructed him in the use of her fine, English-gripped bird gun.

The Sheriff half-cocked his revolver, clicked the cylinder methodically around, punched out the fired round and dropped in a fresh: he carefully set the hammer spur down on an empty chamber, holstered, looked up as a McKenna gown with a lovely young woman inside of it came marching up toward the two lawmen,, with a dignified man in a tailored suit and a spade-cut beard came with her.

"Your Honor," The Sheriff greeted His Honor the Judge. "To what do I owe the pleasure, sir?"

Sarah Lynne McKenna leaned her rifle's barrel back over her shoulder and sighed dramatically, then looked at the Judge.

"This," she explained, "is why women will snap out a fan and fan themselves.  He doesn't realize we dropped the pair that were about to cause him serious problems."

His Honor the Judge puffed importantly on his half-consumed Cuban.

"I take it," he said, flicking off an ash, "we don't need to schedule a court date?"

"No, Your Honor."

The Judge frowned at the Sheriff.

"It would seem, sir," he said slowly, "that your hat is a bit the worse for wear."

The Sheriff removed his Stetson, regarded the bullet hole, ran a hand through his thinning thatch.

"It was a near thing," he admitted. "The perpetrator confessed to having tried to part my hair, the hard way."

"A confession, you say."

"Yes, Your Honor. Spontaneous and without coercion. Matter of fact he allowed as he'd done the deed and he flat refused to buy me a new one."

"And what shall we do about that, Sheriff?"

The Sheriff smiled, just a little.

"I don't reckon his dead carcass will need the price of a new hat," he said, "so I relieved him of it."

He and the Judge shared an understanding look.

"I don't often get out into the field these days," the Judge said, frowning at his Cuban: "either my chaw is a-smolder, or my see-gar is about drowned out."  He dropped it sadly to the dirt, looked at the Sheriff, looked down at the Winchester he carried, laid back in the bend of his elbow.

"It is gratifying to see that I can still strike a blow on the side of the Law."

Jacob Keller leaned out the empty window.

"One here," he called.

"The one we wanted?"

"One of 'em, sir. I'd say this is the fourth of the four we were after."

"And he tried to shoot you from ambush," the Judge said softly. "An effective tactic."

"Yes, Your Honor. That's why Jacob brought the double gun."

His Honor the Judge considered the double twelve-bore as Jacob leaned its barrels back against his shoulder.

He looked back at the Sheriff.

"I must admit," he said, his voice smiling a little, "I find Jacob's conversation most ... persuasive."

 

Edited November 23, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

PERSUASION

Jacob Keller sat heavily in his padded office chair.

Ruth looked at him, concerned: he never just sat, not like that, never dropped heavily into his chair, unless he was bone tired.

He stared at the blank screen, dark now; he closed his eyes, took a long breath, then folded his arms and lowered his forehead to his shirtsleeves.

Ruth’s hands were warm on his shoulders; he felt her beside him, silent, reassuring.

“Dearest?” she murmured, then turned, pulled up a chair, sat, tilted her head a little.

Jacob raised his head, but not his arms.

He turned his head, looked at his wife.

His words were slow, they carried the weight of the fatigue he felt.

“I talked them out of it.”

Ruth’s eyes widened, her face shone with delight, with pride, then her brows puzzled together and she blinked as Jacob lowered his forehead onto his arms again and groaned.

 

Marnie read the report as it scrolled through her screen.

She sat regal, unmoving, a beautifully feminine figure in a McKenna gown, one arm extended to the computer’s control, the other in her lap.

The Ambassador did not read the report with her; rather, he read Marnie's face, or tried to.

Finally Marnie nodded, once, turned off the screen, pushed back a little and turned her chair to face the Ambassador.

“Well?” he asked quietly.

Marnie lifted her chin.

“Mister Ambassador,” she said quietly, “I beg to report that negotiations were successful, and that conflict has been averted.”

The Ambassador closed a manicured hand into a fist, shook it once as if knocking on an invisible portal: his voice held a note of satisfaction as he shook his fist again and hissed, “Good!”

 

Jacob usually took what he jokingly called a “Navy shower” – never mind their water was 100% recycled, with a fast cycle at that, never mind their recycled supply was, thanks to the Ripper's technology, practically limitless: he usually showered as if water were precious, and he, a miser.

Not today.

Steam clouded the bathroom as he took a long, hot, soak-the-tension-out-of-his-muscles shower.

He turned on the radiant heater when he stepped out – another unusual move for him – normally he took the chill of stepping out of the shower as a personal challenge.

He dried off, tended his few other ablutions; he emerged, dry, shaved, hair slicked back, but fully dressed instead of dressed for relaxing at home.

Ruth tilted her head as she regarded her husband curiously.

“Are we expecting business, dearest?” she asked quietly.

Jacob slung his gunbelt around his trim waist, fast it up: he drew the sidearm he’d worn as a Sheriff’s deputy, checked the magazine, drove it back in, press-checked, saw cartridge brass in the chamber, holstered.

He looked up, smiled a little.

“It could happen,” he admitted.

“Do we anticipate … difficulties?” Ruth asked carefully.

Jacob smiled a little.

“Difficulties, my dear, would be the very last thing I anticipate.”

 

Ruth smiled as she watched their son climb happily into his Daddy’s lap.

Jacob ran one arm around their happy, apple-cheeked little boy, opened the Scripture, the Book dropping open to the bookmark.

Jacob read aloud, as was his habit of an evening, his son on his lap and his wife beside him, knitting or sewing, or rocking gently and watching their blond-haired little boy grow drowsy, and relax against his Pa, until he was asleep, safe, warm, on his Daddy’s lap, his Daddy’s arm around him, his Daddy’s voice filling his universe with gently spoken syllables.

Ruth waited until Jacob replaced the bookmark, waited until he’d put their little boy to bed.

Jacob came out of his son’s bedroom, grinning: he sat down beside his wife, watched as she worked women’s magic with knitting needles and yarn.

“He’s like an old b’ar,” Jacob said softly. “He gets his belly full, he gets warm, he falls asleep!”

“I know someone else like that,” Ruth whispered, leaning into her husband, her needles pausing their work: she sighed, laid her head over against his shoulder.

“I take it you were successful.”

“Mm-hmm,” he replied, leaning his head over on top of hers.

“So you talked everyone out of fighting.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’m glad.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Jacob lifted his head as his wife shifted her weight; he reached behind them, picked up a handmade quilt – a wedding present they never saw fit to put on their bed – he kept it here on the couch, for moments like this.

Jacob drew the quilt around his shoulders and hers as well, reached over, folded her in its welcome warmth that smelled of her mother’s sewing room and all her girlhood memories of that magical place.

Jacob ran his arm around her back, cupped his hand gently around her side.

“Jacob?”

“Hm?”

“Jacob, am I still attractive to you?”

Jacob chuckled, turned his head, kissed her once, delicately, carefully, the way he always did, at least at first.

“Darlin’,” he murmured as he nuzzled the tip of his nose against hers, “you are more beautiful that you were the first time I laid eyes on you!”

“Even with stretch marks?”

“You are perfect,” he whispered.

Ruth felt her husband relax a little more, until the door chimed and he came out from under the quilt like he’d been clap boarded across the backside: he was on his feet, squared off at the door, nostrils flared, gone from almost asleep to wide awake in a tenth of a second or less.

He catfooted for the door, triggered the shielding, opened the portal.

Marnie smiled over the pie she held in one hand, the pressure can of whipped cream in the other.

“Well?” she asked innocently. “Successful negotiations deserve a fresh pecan pie, still warm!”

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

DEAD CHICKEN

Sheriff Linn Keller caught the hand of the most disagreeable, dour, unhappy old maid in Firelands: his move was sudden, unexpected; she let out a yelp as he ran his arm around her, spun her around in a quick dance step.

He'd dismounted, he'd left his Apple-horse outside the All-Night, he'd come in, he'd seen the one woman who was reputed to disapprove of everyone and everything, and the music was coming from the ceiling mounted speakers.

Mrs. Palmer, startled, gave a strangled half-yelp until she realized old reflexes had overtaken her legs, she danced with the Sheriff: he spun her out at arm's length, spun her back: she was in his arms, her shoulders laid back against his chest as he lowered his face until his lips were near her ear and he murmured, "Come with me to the Cazbah, where we shall see what we shall see!"

He spun her back around, back to arm's length: she turned easily on the balls of her feet: the Sheriff released her hand, sauntered casually deeper into the All-Night, leaving the dour Mrs. Palmer blushing most furiously, and feeling considerably younger than she had for a very long time.

A splash of flavored syrup, a little milk from the carton in its dish of ice, coffee gurgled into the tall paper cup: the Sheriff snapped a sippy-lid on the largest cup they had (the man takes his coffee seriously!) and he turned to the red-faced cashier, who looked to where the Sheriff just brightened an old wasp's soul.

"Hi, Marsha," he said quietly, "could I trouble you for a dozen chicken strips and some extra salt?"

"Them fried foods'll kill ye, Sheriff," one of the locals cautioned him, and Linn laughed, nodded.

"Hell, I've died twice already," he said good-naturedly. 

"You'll change your tune once you get gall stones! I never hurt so bad as t' when they hit me!"

"I've had kidney stones, you want some?"

Linn handed Marsha his payment, winked: Marsha dropped what little change there was in the seashell shaped ashtray that served to hold miscellaneous coin.

"You want a peppermint stick too, Sheriff?" she asked as she boxed up his hot-from-the-tray snack.

"No, I've still got some plug left, but thank you anyway."

Linn picked up the chicken, tucked the box under his arm, took the coffee cup and shifted it to his left hand: he sauntered casually out of the All-Night, walked over to a pickup truck at one of the gas pumps, handed coffee to the driver and the box of chicken to the grinning boys in the passenger side.

He winked at the boys and looked at the driver.

"I saw this pair workin' fence today," he said. "They did a man's work and no two ways about it!"

Father and sons stared at the Sheriff's shoulders as he sauntered back to his horse, as he pulled out a lockback and shaved thick slivers off a plug of molasses cured, held them out for his stallion.

"Y'know," he told Apple-horse, "that chicken smells pretty good. I might just get me another box."

 

The Sheriff turned off the main road, trotted Apple up hill toward the schoolhouse and down the back street that ran from schoolhouse to just behind the Sheriff's office.

Angela ran this street, he thought, remembering when his little girl fought for her life, fought with a broomhandle, fought with stealth and determination, driving its rounded wooden end through an attacker's eye socket and into his brain, killing him instantly: she did not wait around to watch the result of her act, she turned and ran like the scared little girl she was, she ran the length of this street and around the alley and into the Sheriff's office, out of breath, ghost-white and terrified.

He drew up, looked around: his stallion's breath blew out two great clouds in the chill air, and the Sheriff reckoned his own breath was steaming some as well.

He sat his horse for another several moments, looking around, listening, smelling ... 

... remembering ...

A thousand memories, he thought, then shifted his weight, eased Apple-horse forward again.

 

The firehouse was warm and welcoming.

Linn wasn't six feet inside the door before a hot mug of black and steaming was pressed into his hand: the Irish Brigade was busy tonight, and tomorrow's labors would be a continuation of this: Thanksgiving saw the doors open to all who entered, and the yearly Thanksgiving feed was generally attended by the whole town, or near to it: occasionally a troublemaking councilman or a county commissioner would get too full of themselves and demand to know whether this was done with taxpayers' money, then they would be shown the ledgers that documented the town's charitable support of this effort.

One councilman, unhappy that he couldn't stir up any trouble, called in a malicious false alarm during the meal: phone records placed the call's origin, a conversation with certain officials convinced him that resignation would be less politically damaging than prosecution, and last anyone heard, the councilman was stirring trouble in a small town three states over.

"Ye're up late," Fitz said speculatively, sipping from his own mug.

Linn looked more closely at the Chief's ceramic: on one side it had a white fire helmet, and on the other it said THE GUY IN THE WHITE HAT.

"Like that?" Fitz grinned.  "Laura got me that ..."

Sadness filled his eyes, and the Sheriff gripped his shoulder gently, squeezed.

"Had a bad one this morning," Linn said quietly. "Just tying up loose ends."

"I heard," Fitz nodded, frowning at the shimmering ebony liquid. "You okay?"

"No," Linn admitted. "Saddle time helps."

Fitz grunted. "Sometimes nothin' helps."

Linn nodded, accepted the fancy antique collectible heirloom plastic half gallon jug of milk, added a little to his coffee, handed it back.

"Michael and Victoria still goin' t' that fancy private school?" 

Linn took a long breath, sighed it out, drank.

"Yeah," he finally replied.  "That, and some travel."

"Excellence runs in yer family," Fitz grinned.

"They get it from their mother," Linn agreed. "Especially their good looks."

"I'll not debate that," the German Irishman agreed as he bent, opened the oven door, took a quick look: "yer darlin' dutters are gorgeous, an' no two ways about it!"

Linn drained his mug, turned to the sink, rinsed it out, sank it in warm, sudsy dishwater.

"I'm underfoot here," Linn muttered, headed for the door.

The German Irishman blinked, surprised, looked at the Chief.

"Was it somethin' I said?"

"No," Fitz said softly.  "No, he's restless. He's like that when they lose a child, an' they lost two boys this mornin'. It'll take him a few days but he'll settle down."

"Must've been bad. We weren't even called."

The Chief's look was all the reply given.

 

When the next day's shift came in, Fitz saw one of the men was chuckling, shaking his head: the Chief drifted closer, listened as the man described the previous evening, when he was at the All-Night, cheerfully pulling the Sheriff's leg about fried food.

"I don't know if it was because of or in spite of," he said, "but he went outside and gave that coffee and a box of chicken to a man and his two sons who were fillin' up.  I know the man and he said the Sheriff went out of his way to tell my buddy how hard his boys were workin', buildin' fence!"

The German Irishman and the Chief looked at one another, and both men smiled, just a little, and both men said, with one voice, "That sounds just like him!"

 

 

 

 

Edited November 25, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

GUESTS!

Might as well get dressed.

Hell, I'm already dressed.

No sense gettin' dressed up for it, it's not like I'm goin' anywhere special.

Retired Chief of Police Will Keller reached for his fedora when a brisk set of knuckles commanded his attention.

He couldn't help but smile, just a little.

Shave-and-a-haircut, he thought.

That's Angela!

Will hung the skypiece back on its peg, grinned as he reached for the doorknob.

Laughter, sunshine and femininity flowed into his house, filling it suddenly with delight, with the smell of fresh baked rolls and good beef and gravy: baskets were set on the table and the retired old lawman found himself surrounded by delighted young women and two grinning young men.

Will gripped Jacob's shoulder with one hand, Michael's with the other, nodded his approval.

"You're eatin' T-bone steak and high-nitrogen fertilizer?" he grinned at Michael, who laughed and nodded: Will looked at Jacob, winked, turned and hugged Marnie into him: Jacob backed up and let his uncle hug Angela with the other arm, and Victoria waited patiently, her hands folded properly in her apron.

Will looked at Victoria, his expression softening: he looked around, backed up to a chair, sat, opened his arms.

Victoria swept a little to the side: Jacob picked her up, set her on Will's lap, where she leaned into him and regarded him with big and innocent eyes and said in a childlike lisp, "San-ta, can I have a po-ny?" -- which of course brought more laughter from the man.

"We can eat now, or when we get back," Marnie smiled. "It looks like you were ready to head out the door."

"I was."

"We've a carriage outside."

Will laughed again.

"If you've got one big enough for all of us --"

"How do you think we got here?" Victoria interjected, which got her another hug from her favorite uncle.

 

The Irish Brigade kept the restored Ahrens steam powered fire pumper in the firehouse, burnished, gleaming, its boiler cold: the restoration brought it back to working order, and when they had it out on parade, it was drawn by the traditional three-horse hitch, three white mares harnessed side by side.

There were six matched white mares all told, and the Sheriff tended them as his own: none were bitted, all were voice trained, and three of them were hitched to the carriage that hauled family to the cemetery on a sunny, cloud-skipping November day.

Linn was there waiting on them, he and Snowflake: The Bear Killer flowed from the carriage, landed easily, hobby-horsed over to his littermate and exchanged the usual canine greetings.

"We haven't forgotten you, Mama," Linn said softly as he looked at his mother's headstone, as his eyes trailed back along the sod, and he felt that punch in the gut again, remembering how hard it had been to watch her box lowered into the ground.

Linn looked at Jacob and nodded.

"Gammaw," he said, "I'm Sheriff on Mars now. Ruth and I have a son" -- a smiling, heavy set woman beside him took his arm as their little boy looked around, eyes big and uncertain, at least until Snowflake and The Bear Killer came over and sat, warm and reassuring, on either side of him -- "and his name is Joseph."

"Hi!" Joseph declared, and family smiled at the little boy's happy declaration.

"Tomorrow's the annual feed," Linn said, "and we'll have your place set and ready."

He bit his bottom lip and Marnie ran her arm around her Daddy's waist: he nodded, cleared his throat, took Marnie around the waist with one arm, and Angela, with the other.

They stood for some long while, they remembered, they spoke quietly, they laughed a little, and when they finally turned to climb back into the carriage, when Linn picked up Joseph and dunked him in the passenger seat and fast up his seat belt, when they reassembled back at Will's house, they found an antique, cut-glass vase in the middle of the kitchen table -- slender necked, hand faceted, with a single, fresh-cut rose thrust into good cold spring water.

The table was pulled apart, the extra leaf set into place: plates were set out, silverware arranged, mugs distributed: coffee hissed and steamed through the coffeemaker, beef and gravy was warmed a little, as were the mashed potatoes.

"Wild beef," Jacob grinned, "as near to all natural organic and contaminant free as you're going to get!"

"Potatoes from a planet that has yet to see artificial fertilizer or insecticides," Angela said as she dropped a big gob of creamy whipped on Will's plate, pressed down a generous well for gravy: "flour from Egyptian wheat, grown from seed found in the Pyramids."

"Pie!" Joseph exclaimed happily, and Jacob nodded, tilted his fork at the happy little boy.

"And pie," he said, "it ain't pecan pie but it's a close enough cousin!"

The Bear Killer dropped his broad backside firmly between Angela and Marnie, knowing them to have been soft touches in the past; he was also near enough Will to give him a sorrowful look, which generally resulted in being slipped dainties from the table.

Snowdrift, on the other hand, considered her possibilities quite favorable in proximity to a restless little boy: she remembered such locations as being particularly profitable in the past.

Neither one was wrong.

"We brought beef," Angela explained as slabs off falling-apart-tender beef roast were distributed, "because they'll have ham and turkey at the firehouse tomorrow."

Will raised an eyebrow, lowered his head, gave a mock scowl and muttered, "What, you think I'm complaining maybe?" and then grinned as good smells and good talk and good company filled an old widower's empty house with life once again.

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

DESSERT COURSE

Angela's hands were cool, soft, gentle, as she placed flat fingers over Joseph's eyes.

They sat together on the living room floor.

Joseph watched, fascinated, as he -- at least his face -- flowed from his Aunt's pencil, he marveled with a little boy's delight as he emerged against a living room sofa, as the room appeared around the hand drawn image.

Now he sat with the clipboard on his own lap and a pencil in his young hand, listening to his aunt's whispered words.

Marnie smiled a little as she saw what Angela was doing: she gave a single, shallow nod of approval, enough to communicate to her sister, not enough to alert the observant lawmen still at the kitchen table.

Angela leaned over a little so her lips were close to the little boy's ear.

"Draw what you saw today."

Joseph blinked as she drew her fingers away, as he felt new possibilities wake up in his young mind.

His head inclined just a little as he made a quick, experimental pencil-mark: this became the edge of a table-leg, in the upper right corner of the page: the kitchen table, and people around it, emerged: the meal was indistinct, more suggested than defined; the more he drew, the better he got: he tried again, and a feminine hand holding a ladle materialized on the left side of the page, pressing a well into a fluffy pile of mashed potatoes: to the right, a fork, held by delicate fingers, impaled into a beef roast: he frowned as he textured the meat, as he added the slicing knife: in the lower corners, and bottom center, he drew the carriage, with two white mares harnessed, he drew his Uncle Will with a beautiful lady in each arm, he captured the honest delight in the man's face and the girlish expressions of feminine delight in his aunts' faces.

He stopped, he looked at the empty center of the page.

He looked up at Marnie, blinked: his eyes may have been on her, but his mind's eye was not.

His pencil moved with sure, purposeful strokes: he drew what mattered, suggested what wasn't as important.

Angela sighed out a delighted breath as he handed her back the pencil. 

He'd drawn a grave, viewed a little from the side: the other stones were  sketched, suggested, but all in perfect perspective: atop the gravestone, a cut-glass vase, slender necked, with a single and surprisingly lifelike rose thrust into it: on the stone, he'd captured the six point Sheriff's star, and the almost smiling image of the grandmother he'd never met, that he'd only seen in pictures.

Joseph looked at his Aunt with big, hopeful eyes, and Angela hugged him, delighted.

"This," she whispered, "is marvelous!" -- she looked up, lifted her chin in silent summons.

Joseph Keller wiggled with a combination of uncertainty and hopefulness as one, then another of the family came over to take a look at his handiwork.

The last to hold the clipboard, before it was passed back, were Jacob and Uncle Will.

They both held Joseph's work, they both studied it well.

"Willamina used to do these," Will said in a husky voice.

"I remember," Jacob murmured.

Two veteran lawmen were obliged to swallow hard on this, a pale-eyed Sheriff's birthday, the same day many years before when they'd returned her to the earth from whence she came, on the same day she emerged into the world.

They leaned down a little, handed it back to Joseph, and said in one voice, "Good work, square work, such as I have orders to receive!"

Angela blinked, captured the moment behind her long-lashed eyes, and that night, she drew a little boy holding a clipboard like it was something precious, looking awestruck up at two men who were looking down at him with obvious, unabashed, approval.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

ROGUE

Ambassador Marnie Keller gripped the railing, stared out at the sea: spume misted over her, dampened her fine gown, and she didn't care.

Fine saltwater droplets gathered on her long lashes and she stood, staring, marveling, delighting:

Is this how Sarah McKenna felt when she took her sea voyage to meet her husband?

Marnie moved naturally with the ship, as easily, as unthinkingly as any saltwater sailor: she released the wet rail, turned, walked easily toward the Officer of the Deck, smiled.

"Madam Ambassador," he said, touching his forelock, "the seas are unkind. Perhaps you'd be more comfortable below."

"And miss all this?" 

Marnie's smile was broad and genuine: she lifted her eyes, gazed in wondering admiration at sails and lines, halyards and spars, at men with callused hands and squinted eyes hauling canvas -- seeing it, really seeing it!

She'd read about sailing-ships, but this, a Confederate-built schooner, trim and swift, filled her soul with genuine joy!

She saw something in the OD's eyes, turned, crouching a little: overhead, the lookout's shout, "ROGUE WAVE! ROGUE WAVE! -- the clamoring alarm as an anonymous hand seized the emergency bell's clapper-rope, punished the bell's shining mouth with fast, panicked clapper-strikes, alerting the ship to the incoming emergency.

Men tied off their gathered canvas, dropped quickly, shot but one fast glance at the approaching green wall.

Marnie calculated the distance to the nearest gangway, saw a line: she and the OD dove for it, ran it quickly around the both of them: they had no time to tie fast -- callused hands and feminine fingers gripped the line --

The trim little ship turned, her canvas caught the wind, she drove defiantly for this rising green wall--

Marnie took six fast breaths as the ship pitched upward, then she squinted her eyes shut and clamped her throat closed, ducked as water drove across the deck, over the deck, onto the deck: she felt Wavecutter turn, felt her fall, she shook her head and saw they'd crested the mountain, they were skating now, screaming-fast down its back side: Marnie's hands were white, death-gripped on the line wrapped around her and timber and the deck officer, and she could not help herself.

Marnie remembered the first time she threw a leg over her Daddy's steeldust, how the horse shivered under her, how he just plainly came unglued, how it was the one hardest to stay a-straddle of horse ever did she ride, and she remembered as she clamped strong young legs around his barrel and fanned him with her Stetson, she felt this same exhilaration, this same savage rejoicing as she felt when an angry sea raised a great watery hand to slap these intruders onto its salty vastness.

Wavecutter shot down the back side, skimmed into the calm sea behind, coasted swiftly: Marnie let go of the line, as did the Officer of the Deck.

They unwound the line from their middles, stepped back, sized one another up: the OD reached up, grimaced: "I've lost me cap!" he declared in a distressed voice, then looked around:  "A'RIGHT, WHO'S MISSIN'! WHOEVER'S NOT HERE, SPEAK UP!"

Marnie looked down at herself and laughed.

If someone put a drowned rat in a McKenna gown, she thought with a silent, rueful giggle, that's what I must look like!

She took a long breath, then started looking out across the sea, looking for anyone washed overboard.

The lookout whistled, shrill, wavering:  "MAN OVERBOARD, TWO OF 'EM!  TWO HUNDRED YARDS! OFF THE PORT BEAM!"

"BOATS!" the Officer of the Deck roared: there was the sound of running feet, men untied waxed canvas from taut tie-downs, threw them back from the secured gigs.

Marnie knew this was not a whaler.

She did consider that perhaps this is how whalers must've responded.

She did not know if the great cetaceans were part of this world's oceans or not.

She did know there were fishes that duplicated the ecological niche occupied by sharks, back on Earth.

Sails were set, Wavecutter bore for two specks on the calming sea, making her best speed to the rescue of two of their own.

A soaking-wet boy ran up to the OD and touched his water-plastered forelock: "Two not accounted for, sir," he blurted, then followed the older man's gaze.

Marnie felt her breath catch.

"Have you a glass?" she demanded.

"A glass?"

Marnie thrust a bladed hand toward two swimming men, toward the triangular fin moving toward them.

"REQUIEM!" she screamed.

Marnie snatched up soaking wet skirts, ran for the gangway: she thundered down the heavy plank steps, shouldered into her quarters: she shucked out of her gown, stripped to her frillies, then unlocked a trunk.

When Ambassador Marnie Keller charged back up the stairs, she went to the rail, levered a round into her Winchester, her eyes pale, her jaw set.

"CLOSER! GET ME CLOSER!" she screamed.

The Captain turned from the OD, stared at an enraged woman wearing scandalously little, holding a Winchester rifle and raging at the distance separating her from two possibly injured men.

Sarah looked at the Captain, looked at the boat being lowered.

The Captain nodded, shouted "GO!"

Sarah didn't need to be told twice.

She swung over the rail, two men stood, held out their arms: she dropped easily into their grip, then she stood in the prow, snarling impotently as the boat hit the water, as davits were released, as oars were thrust into oarlocks.

On a saltwater ocean on a planet she'd never seen before, a soaking-wet Ambassador in stockings and high-button shoes and a long corset, snarled like a deadly, enchanted figurehead chained to a ship's prow.

Men grunted and hauled against their oars.

Two men swimming saw the boat.

One turned, looked abeam, saw the approaching fin.

Marnie brought her rifle to shoulder, fired.

450 grains of cast lead, driven by a healthy charge of soft coal, seared across the water, splashed, skipped: Marnie rocked forward, slammed the lever open, then shut.

The boat turned, coming between the oncoming threat and the men in the water.

Marnie knew she'd have to be much closer, she'd have to have a much better angle --

Oars slowed, men reached: Marnie's legs moved of their own accord as she stood in the prow, as she waited, as she watched the fin turn, aim for the second man.

She fired again.

The fin disappeared.

Marnie swore between clenched teeth, cycled the action, thrust two fresh rounds through the loading gate from the leather rearstock loops.

The boat surged forward again as the second man swam with the desperate swiftness that comes with knowing Death was coming and coming fast.

Callused hands reached desperately for the gunnel --

Callused hands reached down in reply, seized their fellow's wrists, hauled --

Marnie swung her muzzle down, fired three times, fast.

Smoke and thunder filled their world, a man dropped, limp and bleeding, rough gashes in one calf.

They pulled for Wavecutter, slowed as she came alongside, seized dangling pulleys and fast them to the lifting-eyes: four men and an Ambassador were hoist aboard by sweating, swearing, chanting men with sun-darkened faces and determined expressions.

 

"I'm not a surgeon," Marnie said softly as she held a man's hand, as he sipped broth from a pewter mug with the other.

"I've still me leg," he said in a husky voice. "I've ye t' thank fer that."

Marnie looked at the neat bandage wraps.

"I'll take that off and have a look tomorrow," she said. "Ocean water generally carries infection. I cleaned the wounds as best I could, and" -- she looked left, looked right, leaned close, as if imparting a confidence -- "and I used some of Sister Angela's Genuine Patent A-Number-One Ackumpuck to kill any infection!"

Marnie winked and smiled a little as the man chuckled: she released his hand, planted her knuckles on her belt, cocked her hips saucily and added, "Besides, I don't undress for just anybody!"

Captain, seaman, Ambassador and cabin boy all laughed.

Marnie bent over, kissed the man's forehead.

"Once you've finished your broth, there's grog," she whispered -- she looked at the Captain, winked, turned back -- "for medicinal purposes only!"

She patted his hand, drew back, stepped up to the Captain.

"I'll have another look at those wounds tomorrow."

The Captain nodded solemnly, took her elbow in a careful grip, turned away from the injured man.

"When ye shot, out there --"

Marnie gave him a big-eyed, innocent look, blinked.

"Once th' boat was away from where ye'd shot, more o' the Requiem came up an' tore int' the one ye killed. The ocean looked a-boil behind you."

Marnie blinked, swallowed hard.

"Ye were barely in time, Madam Ambassador, but in time ye were, and for that ye have the thanks of a grateful man!"

Marnie nodded, once, carefully, for she knew there was something else, and she was right.

The Captain looked past her, swallowed something sticky, harrumphed, and looked at Marnie with haunted eyes.

"Yon man's my son," he whispered, then he turned and hurried up the steps.

Edited November 26, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE AMBASSADOR'S NEW CLOTHES

 

A set of red cowboy boots marched into the Ambassador's office, and brought an attractive young woman with them.

The Ambassador looked up, startled, rose: he stared for a long moment, then harrumphed as Marnie pirouetted, struck a dancer's pose, gave him a sultry look and said, "Like what'cha see, fella?"

The Ambassador laughed -- it wasn't easy to surprise the man, but Marnie managed, and this wasn't the first time she'd genuinely astonished him ... but it was the first time he'd seen her in red cowboy boots and a pleated, knee length skirt.

"You look different in clothes," he said candidly, and Marnie smiled as chagrin claimed his face, as he realized what he'd just said.

Marnie skipped over to him, kissed him quickly on the cheek, like a mischievous cheerleader, and whispered, "Flattery will get you everywhere!"

"Yes, well" -- the Ambassador harrumphed, his face reddening, but looking not at all displeased -- "I take it your vacation was ... relaxing?"

Marnie laughed.

"Other than being nearly drowned on a sailing-ship, other than starting a feeding frenzy on another world's ocean, other than playing surgeon to a man who was grateful to have a leg left, even with dressmaker's stitches closing the wounds?" Marnie laughed. "Other than having to soak the salt out of my best gown and informing my sister she can start a business selling Sister Angela's Genuine Patent A-Number-One Ackumpuck, guaranteed to heal cuts, scrapes, prevent infection, cure crooked teeth and baldness and make you younger, smarter and better looking?"

Marnie sat and crossed her legs, sighed dramatically, placed a thumb under her jaw and tapped her cheekbone meditatively with a delicate forefinger as she gave the Ambassador a smoldering look.

"And I stripped down to my frillies and gave the entire crew of a sailing-ship a free show."

The Ambassador's expressions were fluid across his face; Marnie followed the man's changing seasons, from amusement to embarrassment to incredulity to skepticism, and finally to reluctant acceptance.

"Madam Ambassador," he sighed, shaking his head, "if it were anyone else -- anyone else! -- I would scarce credit the veracity of their words."

He turned his chair to face her squarely, nodded.

"You, however ... my dear, somehow I cannot doubt your words when you tell me this!"

Marnie chuckled quietly.

"Back home," she said softly, "addressing someone as 'Madam' was almost an insult, a formal way of verbally insulting in a backhand manner."

She smiled gently and said, " 'Madam Ambassador' still sounds funny, but I think I wear it well!"

The Ambassador nodded, considered her sculpted legs, her trim waist, and what he knew to be her attire from her younger years.

"You're wondering about my boots," she smiled. "I've worn red cowboy boots since I was four years old and divulged the location of funds stolen from a bank, and the bank -- in lieu of a cash reward -- sent me a pair of red cowboy boots.  Mama had to pry them off me, I wanted to wear them to bed!"

The Ambassador chuckled, nodded, as Marnie shrugged.

"I was only four year old at the time."

"And you've worn them ever since?"

Marnie smiled.

"It became my trademark. All through school, except when cheerleading or dressing up."

The Ambassador blinked at the unfamiliar term.

"Cheerleading?"

Marnie laughed.

"I'll take you home for a football game sometime," she said. "Give you hot chocolate and popcorn and let you watch twenty-two idiots kick a windbag back and forth between two snowdrifts."

The Ambassador gave her a genuinely confused look.

Marnie waved her hand, shook her head.  "Never mind. Story at eleven."

The Ambassador leaned back in his chair, rocked a little, blinking as he realized that -- as well as he knew Ambassador Marnie Keller -- as well as they worked together, as magnificent as her achievements were -- there was apparently a great deal about her he did not know.

He decided to change the subject.

"I take it," he began cautiously, "you represented the Confederacy with decorum ... other than your ... activities."

"Oh, yes," Marnie smiled. "Once I got the salt washed off me --"

She stopped, smiled, leaned forward: knees together, feet together, hands clasped on her knees, she bent toward the Ambassador as if delivering a quiet confidence.

"During the morning deckwatch -- our time, I would estimate, maybe five AM -- I went up on deck with mugs of coffee.  Fresh ground, my own crop, freshly roasted, ground and brewed.

"It's an old custom back on Earth to have a Mug-Up, and on a chilly predawn, when you pass a hot mug of Old Wakemup to the duty crew ..."

She smiled at the memory: a warm mug was a welcome thing to damp-chilled hands, and fresh hot coffee was an ancient and most welcome tradition to canvas-and-sail men, back on Earth.

"I've arranged to have Wavecutter supplied with coffee," she said softly, and he saw a memory in her eyes, saw the gentle smile that started deep inside and fairly glowed as it emerged.

The Ambassador blinked.

Marnie's interest in the man sharpened: she studied his face, her eyes bright, penetrating.

"Wavecutter," he whispered.

"You know her?"

"Know her?" he blurted.  "My brother is her Captain!"

"Have you spoken with him?"

The Ambassador shook his head.

Marnie smiled, rose, stuck a pose, one hand on her hip.

"You might want to ask him about a certain troublemaking Ambassador who handed out mugs of hot coffee while wearing a corset and stockings."

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

GIVE HIM THE HOOK!

Captain Crane eased down on the brake pedal.

He prided himself on giving a chauffeur grade ride.

Back when dirt was young (and so was the Captain), ambulances were made by Cadillac and doubled as a funeral coach.

He and the other driver read about the Rolls-Royce School of the Chauffeur, where as one of the final tests, a glass half full of water was set on the dash, and the driver had to come to a stop without rippling the water.

The Captain, of all the men who tried, was the only one who could.

He carried that same smooth-driving mindset with him, whether in his personal vehicle, or in the squad, and his braking was nice and smooth as he came to a stop on the paved back road he was taking as a shortcut back to the firehouse.

"Shelly?" he called.  "Take a look at this."

Shelly Keller squeezed her patient's hand, a sweet little old gal who'd fretted herself into a fine case of A-fib, and was now being given a nice, easy, peaceful ride to their friendly local ER.

Shelly looked through the windshield.

Ahead of them, one of the local hot rods -- wide tires, big engine, more money than good sense, obviously -- wound up the throttle and burned 'em off, fishtailing on the blacktop.

The vehicle stopped, the two in the front seat looking at each other and laughing.

"Surely they see us," Shelly said.

Again the fishtailing, tire burning, blue cloud rolling, squalling abuse of a perfectly good motor vehicle.

Captain Crane muttered, "Enough of this," and reached for the siren switch.

Shelly turned to her curious patient, laid her hand over the old woman's bony knuckles and said, "Violet, we're going to run the siren to get something out of our road," WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW --

Twin chromed Federal speakers screamed angrily, a huge set of utterly astonished eyeballs appeared in the subject vehicle's rearview, and a car that had been content to carve black S-marks in pavement -- the car jumped ahead, then slowed --

A driveshaft rolled casually along behind it.

The driver opened his door, took a look, his face falling about three feet when he saw what he'd done to his prized hot rod.

The Captain sighed, shook his head: he eased around the stricken car, continued on toward the hospital, picked up the heavy grey mic.

"Firelands, Firelands Squad One."

"Squad One, go."

"Could you call Brother Dean and have him send a wrecker up Beeham about a quarter mile. A car appears to have lost its driveshaft."

"I roger your Beeham, one-quarter mile, anything else?"

The Captain grinned, remembering an intentionally awful high school stage performance where a shepherd's crook was extended from the wings, caught the performer by the neck, pulled and mercifully ended the performance.

"Yeah," the Captain grunted.  "Tell Dean to give 'em the hook!"

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

IMPULSE AND PLAN

Lightning spun on her rear hooves, rearing -- Michael was much further off the ground than he'd like to be, were he unsaddled -- she lowered her head, snorted like a factory's rooftop steam whistle clearing its throat, and charged.

She lowered her head, Michael laid down over her neck and had the distinct feeling he was going to regret the rashness of his move: he gripped the curved edge of the saddle, gritted his teeth --

The Fanghorn's conical boss drove into the door, splintering it, but not breaking it apart.

Men scattered at her approach, they drew back further at the collision, gaped with open mouths and wide eyes as the Fanghorn spun again, then drove both rearhooves into the door with a mule kick that blasted the broken door from hinges and from door-lock.

She coasted forward a few steps, turned, shook her head, snorted, and danced a little, obviously very pleased with herself.

The fire department charged in at the top of their lungs, blasting water at the hated enemy: above them, men clambered from ladder to rooftop, another ladder slammed against a stone window sill.

Michael backed Lightning away from the fireground, until he was abreast of his sister and her mare.

One of their own Irish Brigade -- distinguished by a red helmet -- stood beside their white-helmeted Chief, nodding approval, watching as one, then another victim was brought out the window and down the ladder, looking up as ventilation was cut into the roof.

Victoria sidled her mare up against Lightning, leaned over, swiped Michael's elbow with her fingers.

He turned toward her, extended his hand: they clasped, they smiled, Victoria looked at the burning residence, looked back at Michael and murmured, "Show-off!"

Whether because of her words, or in spite of her words, Lightning bobbed her head in what looked like an enthusiastic agreement.

Michael had a speaking engagement; he and Victoria turned away, trotted towards the middle of town: if they had no further interruptions, they would only just make it.

 

Marnie Keller smiled as she drew multiple mugs of coffee, ranking the glazed ceramic mugs on trays: these were carried to the front counter, where attendees could taste a legendary beverage they'd only heard of until now, made even the more amazing by being drawn by The Ambassador Herself!

Marnie knew there would be refills; she was counting on it, and she laughed and smiled as one, then another cycled through, handed her their empty, watched as a famous figure they'd only seen on the Inter-System drew them -- drew me! -- a refill, with a smile and a quiet, pleasant word.

Michael's address pertained to the value of the newly-built firehouse, the newly-trained firefighters, the newly-certified paramedics and their shining, boxy ambulances: thanks to hover-cams and the portable screen behind him as he spoke, he showed Lightning making forcible entry, then he laughed and said, "This is not standard fireground practice. Had they attacked the door as they'd been trained, they would have been through almost as fast but just as certainly. We were passing through and I acted on impulse, which isn't always the wisest course."

The hover-cam zoomed in on Michael and Victoria holding hands, her quiet "Show-off!" and Lightning's apparent agreement, and Marnie smiled as the audience chuckled: with laughter comes acceptance, and this demonstration of the value of a quick-response fire department would go a long way toward reducing the skepticism over the service and would serve to further loosen purse-strings, both public and private, to fund such an effort.

Besides, she thought, showmanship sells.

Marnie decanted another coffee, brewed from plants grown on this very planet, plants she'd contracted through the newly-organized McKenna Coffee Company.

When the Chief Ambassador asked her about it later, as they all Irised to Firelands (Earth) to enjoy the community feed at the firehouse, Marnie smiled, handed him a business card: the corporate logo was the faceless profile of a woman in a long dress, carrying a tray with a coffee pot and cups.

"A girl likes to have a backup plan," she smiled. "Men can charge through the universe and break doors down for a living, but we women have to plan ahead."

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WE WHO REMAIN

A Sheriff with pale eyes and an iron grey mustache, seated at the head table, stood.

Sheriff Jacob Keller raised his hands for attention.

The Great Hall went silent.

"Friends, Kindred and Brethren," he called, pitching his voice to carry to the furthest tables -- the Hall was made for acoustical purity, so speakers at the stage end, could be heard clearly at the far end, and vice versa -- "we are gathered here in celebration of we who remain!"

Jacob's grin was contagious: everyone in the Firelands Colony, without exception, had lost friends and family, a few or several -- of the original Colonists, Marnie and Dr. Greenlees were among the bare handful who still drew breath

"Our calendar differs from Earth's several calendars," Jacob continued, "our customs remain similar, which is why we're here.  Let us pray."

Jacob removed his black-felt Stetson with polished, oval blue stones set in the gleaming silver hatband: the stones weren't turquoise, but they were close enough, and the silver was from a remarkably pure vein found while mining the tunnels that now connected First Colony with Second Colony.

"God Almighty, be with us as we give thanks with this feast. We have lost, and we have gained, and we have You to thank for this, and we especially ask to be spared the curse of the long winded invocation, AAA-MEN!"

The entire colony responded with an enthusiastic AAA-MEN! -- trolleys were wheeled quickly from the kitchen, loaded with the Feast.

Today was landmarked on their local calendar: at this point in the Martian year, the first colonists arrived.

It was but coincidence that it fell on Earth's Thanksgiving, back in Original Firelands.

Half the Valkyries were there: thanks to advances in technology inherited and reversed engineered from the Aliens, the Valkyries no longer needed the microneedle intrusions into their living brains in order to become part of their Ship: some wore their hair Marine-short, some wore theirs long and loose, Gracie braided hers and wrapped it around her neck -- "in case I get slashed with a bottle in a barfight," she explained, which invariably got a laugh from whoever she told: Gracie was an absolute teetotaler, and a knock-down, drag-out bar fight was absolutely the very last place anyone could ever imagine her.

Laughter and conversation filled the Hall: when plates were emptied, reloaded, emptied again, when pie and cake and finger-desserts were consumed, when men and women alike leaned back, happy and satiated, Gracie Daine slipped away from her table: moments later, the curtains concealing the stage quivered, hesitated, quivered again, drew quickly apart: a childishly hand painted rendering of snow capped mountains backdropped the stage as Gracie Daine, in a denim skirt, a frayed denim jacket, a broad brimmed hat and work boots, rode a sleepy eyed mule out onto the stage, a double barrel shotgun propped up on her thigh.

Laughter, applause; the mule swung its long ears and blinked, unimpressed:  Gracie thrust her double gun into its scabbard, swung down from the mule, slapped the saddlehorn, and the mule deflated with a rude sound, like a naughty little boy letting a hand held balloon deflate: she folded the flat mule like a bedsheet, picked it up, handed it to a grinning little boy who ran up and traded her the grey bedsheet for a curlyback fiddle.

Tables were seized, hauled to the sides, folded, stacked; chairs were likewise efficiently stowed, as Gracie plucked strings, gave short little strokes of her horsehair bow, as she nodded, satisfied with its tune.

Gracie Daine laughed a little as she looked out at the expectant faces, at couples already pairing off and arranging into squares, as two more Valkyries -- one with a fiddle and one with a big upright bull fiddle -- came out and flanked her.

On a red planet thirteen light-minutes from the Earth from whence they came, "Turkey in the Straw" and square dancing occupied the Great Hall, and the delighted colonists: Gracie was Their Fiddler, this was Their Feast; nationalities and races were for the most part lost in the generational shift, and the Firelands population danced with various levels of expertise, but with a great and universal enthusiasm.

Jacob was a favored dance partner, for he was a gifted dancer: Marnie was equally favored, for the same reason: Jacob's partner spun away, released her grip, was immediately snatched up by another square, as a beaming girl whirled into Jacob's sphere of influence.

Jacob laughed as he took her hand, took her around the waist: she'd danced with him since she was a very little girl, when he would pick her up, one arm around her backside, he'd hold her other hand out and whirl them about the dance floor, and she would throw her head back and laugh with delight -- a beautiful child with apple cheeks and white teeth, dizzying herself as she looked up at the ceiling rotating about overhead.

Jacob took this girl around the waist again, but now she was grown enough to actually dance:  she'd obviously been practicing, she spun out to arm's length and spun back: Jacob picked her up, spun her around and across the back of his shoulders, brought her around and back to her feet: she landed easily, spun like a top, one hand above her head, her hand fisted and turning in Jacob's grip.

Ruth stood back and laughed as he did, for Jacob was dancing with one of her younger sisters, a blooming beauty who just adored her brother-in-law:  the fiddlers changed tempo, announcing the shift with two long chords, then segued into The Irish Washerwoman.

Several of those present sang joyfully with the music:

     "Ohhhhh,

     "O'Reilly is dead and O'Reely don't know it,

     "O'Reely is dead and O'Reilly don't know it,

     "They're both lyin' dead in the very same bed,

     "And neither one knows that the other is dead!"

Jacob laughed and lifted his hand, and his lovely young dance partner raised her hand as well, spun on her toes, laughing, her skirt flaring: Jacob slowed the spin, ran a leg behind her, bent her backwards and kissed her delicately, carefully on the forehead: he brought her back upright, she spun away, and Ruth whirled into her husband's laughing arms, just as the fiddlers chorded again and slowed the tempo.

None there thought it in the least improper to go from square dance to Schottische to clogging to waltz: dancing went well into their evening, drink was provided, and when Jacob and his wife and sister-in-law withdrew from the Great Hall, it was nearly empty.

It wasn't quite Thanksgiving, there on a red planet thirteen light-seconds from Earth, but it was theirs, and they celebrated it with all the enthusiasm of those seminal ancestors from a colony of the same name, back in the Shining Mountains, back on Earth.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

AS A MAN PLEASES

"Sir?"

"Yes, Jacob?"

The Sheriff and his son rode together, walking their horses: there was no need to travel any faster, as they'd completed their task, they were near enough home, and neither one felt inclined to any kind of hurry.

"Sir, you give folks help with a free hand."

The Sheriff considered this for several long moments.

"Yep," he replied.

Jacob frowned a little.

"Sir, I reckon a man can do as he pleases with what's his, but if you'd held onto what you've just given away, you'd have a tidy sum."

The Sheriff considered this for a while, then finally nodded.

"Yes," he agreed. "I reckon that's so."

"Sir, you'll forgive me for being curious."

The Sheriff nodded, drew up: Jacob halted his stallion.

The two horsemen turned their mounts to face one another.

"Jacob," his father said frankly, "curiosity is a very good quality for a lawman to have."

"Yes, sir."

"Children learn mostly one of two ways -- by making mistakes, and by asking questions."

"Reckon so, sir."

"You're asking questions."

"Yes, sir."

The Sheriff nodded.

"Good," he said.

Jacob watched as his father laid the reins against his stallion's neck, turned him, and Jacob did the same.

The two resumed their leisurely pace toward home.

It was the Sheriff who spoke first.

"We didn't have much when I was growin' up," he said thoughtfully, "and durin' that damned War, I learned just how unimportant everything really was, except what really mattered."

Jacob waited; he knew his father's thoughts were like a slow running stream -- deceptive in appearance, capable of moving an incredible volume without being obvious, especially at first.

"Jacob, I hung onto the memory of my wife and daughter," the Sheriff said in a heavy voice, then he looked over at his son.

"That's why I tolerate children where most men would run 'em off."

Jacob felt his eyes tighten at the corners, as a smile threatened to betray that the Sheriff's son recalled how his pale eyed father would hunker with a young schoolboy and listen seriously, listen closely to him, why the Sheriff would sit on the Deacon's bench outside the little log fortress that was the Sheriff's office, with one or two or sometimes three little boys parked on the bench with him.

Jacob remembered the Sheriff teaching boys how to whistle and how to whittle and how to use a whet stone to put an edge on a Barlow knife.

"Yes, sir," he replied.

"I've helped folks out plenty, Jacob. I've been well blessed with goods and with the ability to help. Was I not able, likely I'd not, unless 'twas ... hell, a man comes to me hungry, I'll feed him, and I've done that plenty of times. I've set young men up in their own business, I've quietly provided for widows without lettin' them know where help has come from."

"Yes, sir."

"When my cousin down in Stone Creek run short on funds -- you recall we went down there with a team and wagon, loaded in the stock car, we took down canned goods and flour, we took down lumber and carpenters and built 'em a new orphanage when their old one burnt down."

"I recall, sir."

"You remember," the Sheriff smiled, "how I put a carpenter's apron on two or three of them orphan boys and showed 'em how to measure and mark and use a square, and I had 'em measure and cut boards and then help set the boards in place and spike them up."

"I recall, sir."

"My cousin told me later those same boys would stand outside the orphanage and run their fingertips along the particular board they measured and cut and nailed in place."

Jacob grinned; he recalled his Pa reading the cousin's letter out loud, and in his mind's eye, he saw awe-struck little boys reliving the moment when their labor became part of the whole.

"I could have hung onto that money, Jacob. I've enough to provide for my wife and family. Had I not give it away like I did, I reckon I could end up the richest man in the cemetery."

"I see, sir."

"I reckon I could be a rich miser, or I could be happy knowin' I was able to help, and did."

Jacob considered this for several long moments and finally nodded and said thoughtfully, "Yes, sir."

 

Another century, another world, another Sheriff.

His father in law told him of a hard working young man who was burnt out of his home.

Sheriff Jacob Keller organized carpenters, stonemasons and painters, he bought sawed lumber and supplies, sawhorses, squares, nails, screws, brace-and-bits; he hauled all these from an Iris, to the jobsite, on a skid towed by a cackling, bright-yellow tractor: he bulldozed what rubble was left, into a pit quickly bladed out of a low place, pushed displaced dirt over it, packed it down.

He had the site leveled out and back bladed.

The tractor waited patiently on the stonemasons and their labor.

Generators were fired, yellow extension cords run, sawhorses set up: the foundation was laid of stone cut from a local strata, loaded on the skid and towed to the worksite, then the crawler tractor was traded for a track hoe -- foundation was excavated, as was a basement; the walls were trued, undisturbed, dense soil proved itself gratefully proof against cave-in.

Another team set to witching a well, using a locally grown fruit twig -- Jacob had no idea what fruit tree was used, those trees that he found familiar, had been brought from Earth, and this witching fork was cut from a tree that produced a sweet red fruit he was really not that familiar with.

When finally generators, sawhorses, tradesmen and tools were loaded onto the skid and towed back through the Iris, they left behind a tidy little home built on the same general design as other houses locally, save that this had a stone walled basement, far enough up the sidehill so water incursion would not be an issue; a dug well provided plenty of water, and careful and repeat witching mapped out the water's travel underground, and the privy was dug downhill and downstream of their well.

Jacob's son would ask his Pa why the man had been so generous, so many times, for so many years, and Jacob would smile and remember what he'd read in an old lawman's Journal, and he'd tell his son in very nearly the exact words that his ancestor's father used.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SUCKER

There was a whistle, a yell: the Veterans' group wheeled mid-field, came to a halt, rifles grounded beside burnished boondockers as an American flag with its attached horse and rider came galloping onto the field, as a pretty young woman in white cowboy boots, a white nurse's uniform dress and winged cap, laid her Appaloosa mare hard over to make the turn -- they galloped the length of the field again --

The crowd was on its feet, roaring approval: presenting the Flag was always better with horses, and when the Flag came onto the field at a wide-open, ears-laid-back gallop, why, so much the better!

Angela brought Peppermint around, drove down the center of the Firelands High School football field, then the Appaloosa mare spun to face the home crowd bleachers, reared, screamed, windmilling her hooves, as Angela held the flag triumphantly skyward, a mounted Valkyrie on a rearing war-mare.

Peppermint danced backward on her hind legs, dropped easily to all fours, shook her head:  Angela turned, walked the mare up to the Honor Guard, handed down the flagpole:  Peppermint backed a few steps, Angela rendered a flawless hand salute, then Peppermint reared again, danced on her hind legs, shot off the field at a gallop, Angela's red-trimmed blue cape waving in their slipstream!

The Marching Band paraded onto the field, halted; attention was called to the Colors, the National Anthem was played, and a pale eyed daughter stood beside her pale eyed father, both in their respective uniforms -- though it was a matter of Angela's personal rebellion against convention that she wore her white nurse's dress with white cowboy boots, even if her name tag did display the six point star and clearly say DEPUTY SHERIFF in bold letters, and even if she did have the black-basketweave gunbelt and holster snug about her trim equestrienne's waist.

Sheriff and Deputy walked their mounts over to the concession stand.

Angela, for reasons peculiar to her dual professions, had not eaten since breakfast, and when her Daddy asked her if he could get her something, she said something about the sides of her stomach sand paperin' together, and they both laughed, for that's what her Daddy usually said about the state of his appetite, when the peculiarities of his profession precluded meals at their regular intervals.

Each requested, and received, a hot dog with mustard and onions.

Neither were able to eat more than half, thanks in no small part to a pair of K9 officers regarding them with hopeful eyes.

Sheriff and Deputy looked at one another and laughed.

"Go ahead and say it," Angela smiled as she tore chunks off her Waterlog Dog and tossed chunks to grateful Malinois jaws.

Linn tore his hog dog as well, grinning as he donated chunks to their friendly local mountain Mastiff.

Father and daughter looked at one another again and Linn gave up and admitted, "What can I say, they know a sucker when they see one!"

This early in the game, the concession was still ramping up for the anticipated demand: Linn paid for their meager meal and two hot chocolates, and a voice in back called, "See if they want some cotton candy!"

Angela's eyes lit up and she looked at her Daddy like a hopeful little girl, and they both laughed again.

Bruce Jones was on scene, of course; he was still looking for those good action shots for his weekly paper, but when the Sheriff was distracted by a clutch of grade-school kids petting the big doggies -- both canine and equine -- and the Sheriff didn't notice that the cotton candy he was holding, was being consumed by his steeldust stallion, while his daughter was hiding a smile behind her hand -- well, it made a good photo for the Firelands Gazette.

The Inter-System, too, saw the photo: the Sheriff was well known throughout the Thirteen, and the sight of a tall man, hunkered down and talking with just over a half-dozen big-eyed children with adoring looks, while beside him, his stallion was taking advantage of the neglected cloud of spun sugar ... well, it didn't hurt the man's reputation any, for all that he was already known as a Genuine Western Sheriff: the image of Old Pale Eyes as human, as approachable, was as well received elsewhere as it was in his home community.

His horse seemed to enjoy it as well.

 

The Sheriff orbited the stands, both the home bleachers, and the visitors' bleachers; his daughter did as well, spacing herself to be about opposite of where the Sheriff was operating.

Parking area, visitors' buses -- Angela's mare had as near to a silent tread as any horse she'd ever ridden, and when Peppermint catfooted up toward a bus and the group behind it, Angela hit them with her light, curled her lip and whistled:  "WHAT do you think you're doing?"

Four high school boys, startled, turned: one set his box down quickly and the four ran.

Angela picked up her talkie, spoke quickly, urgently.

There was the dull thump of the kickoff, the crowd shouted their encouragement; Angela held station, eyes busy, but not approaching the box.

A deputy backed in between the buses, stopped quickly, opened the back doors of a windowless van, pulled out and set down a ramp; he picked up a remote control box, drove a track-mounted drone down the ramp, guided it up to the buses, watching through the drone's cameras.

He lowered the camera, peered into an opening in the box.

He looked up at Angela, raised his talkie.

"We have a bioweapon," he said.

"Specify."

"It's a skunk."

There was a long silence.

Sharon was working late, back at the Sheriff's office, and those of the Irish Brigade who were not at the football field with the squad, drifted closer to the scanner, frowning as they listened.

"Say again your last."

"It's a skunk. Someone put a skunk on the visiting team's bus when I was in high school and it looks like these guys were going to do the same."

"A skunk."

"Yes ma'am. I can probably get it to the van with the drone."

"Do you want the bomb trailer?"

"I don't want that thing in my van!"

"Stand by one."

Angela whirled her mare, galloped to where a familiar, worse-for-wear pickup truck was just pulling into the lot, looking for a place to park.

"Mickey!" Angela called as the startled driver braked quickly and rolled down his window.

"Hi, Angela!"

"Mickey, we need your help and it's worth fifty bucks to me!"

"You had me at hello, whattaya need?"

"Mickey, do you remember when they put a skunk on the visiting team's school bus?"

Mickey's mouth dropped and his face started turning very red.

"Um ... yeah, I ... remember," he admitted.

"We just caught some boys trying it again. If you'll put that poor skunk, box and all, in your truck and get it out of here, it's fifty bucks and free admission once you're done!"

Mickey's grin was wide and immediate.

Angela raised her talkie.

"I have transportation for our bioweapon, hold fast and secure the scene, we're on our way!"

Irishmen looked at one another.

Back at the football field, the Sheriff leaned his ear a little to the side, spoke into the mic clipped to his uniform epaulet: he frowned, switched frequencies.

"Angel One, Firelands Actual, status."

"Preventing a situation. We are under control. Story at eleven."

"Roger that, Actual clear."

Back at the firehouse, members of the Irish Brigade exchanged puzzled looks.

One picked up the phone and dialed the Sheriff's dispatcher; when he returned to his fellows, he shook his head, still as much in the dark as they.

 

Mickey was back in just over fifteen minutes.

Angela was waiting for him at the gate.

She paid the attendant for Mickey's truck, then walked her mare up to Mickey's open window and handed him two twenties and a ten.

"Any trouble?"

"Nah," Mickey grinned.  "I set the box out and tied a string on the release, I dumped a pile of Purina Skunk Chow outside so the skunk would leave the box. Got it in back if you want it."

Angela waved -- "Thank you, Mickey, you're a lifesaver!" -- a pleased member of her high school class got in to see the game and had money enough for hot dogs and gas afterward, and Angela didn't have to take a report from the visiting team after a skunk sprayed the inside of a school bus.

Dispatcher and the Irish Brigade were filled in on the situation, later; the Sheriff reviewed the report of this very first use of their bomb disposal drone, Angela's report of drafting from the Unorganized Militia for disposal of an organic threat, and the next day, a father casually asked his son if he remembered dear old Dad telling him how he put a skunk on the rival team's school bus.

His son looked distinctly uncomfortable, but admitted that yes, he remembered the story.

Mickey told his son, "My old skunk catcher's box is in the bed of my truck.  Put it back where you got it."

His son's face fell about three feet and the boy looked distinctly guilty as his Pa added, "And by the way, you're grounded for a week!"

His son looked positively stricken, then Mickey rested his hand on his son's shoulder and said softly, "Count yourself lucky, son. I didn't get grounded."

His son looked at him, surprised.

"I had to scrub out the inside of that whole damned school bus!"

 

 

Edited November 30, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SELF-IMPROVEMENT

Esther Keller frowned a little as she carefully, meticulously scoured blood from her husband's mustache.

He sat unmoving, silent, as she ministered to his injuries.

She knew the other fellow came out in second place -- permanently -- but that didn't diminish the fact that her husband was bloodied, his suit was nowhere near clean, and she lacked sufficient funds to pay the Witch of Endor to resurrect the opposing party's exanimate carcass so she, Esther, could horse whip him to death!

Linn sat, eyes closed, as Esther dipped the cloth into the pink-water basin, as she returned to removing half-dried, clotted blood from her husband's handlebar mustache.

"Dearest?" he mumbled.

"Yes, dear?" she replied quietly as the maid changed out the first washpan for another filled with fresh, clean water, traded her the bloodied cloth for a clean.

Esther stopped, sighed, then continued her efforts.

"I do wish you would consort with a better grade of criminal."

Linn grunted, chuckled, keeping his face absolutely still, keeping his jaw just short of clenched.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Did you break any teeth?"

"Nope."

"Good. We don't have a dentist in town."

The Sheriff had his own opinion of dentists, having had to suffer the ministrations of the profession: somehow a man's mouth was considerably more personal than having the rest of his carcass worked on.

Esther pressed a fold of the clean cloth against his cheekbone, where she'd thrown in three tiny dressmaker's stitches: her husband did not so much as grunt as she carefully, precisely, closed the wound: it was still puffy, and would be at least overnight: the wound was almost done seeping.

"There," she said, her fingers delicate under his chin.

He opened his eyes, looked at his beautiful bride.

She looked at him with concern, almost with sadness.

"I'm sorry, dearest," he said gently.

 

Jacob Keller was quiet as he sat down at his supper table.

Annette sat at the opposite end of the table, watching her husband, a concerned expression on her face.

Jacob stared blankly at his shining-clean plate, then he shoved back, rose: he came quickly around the table, stopped beside his wife, held out his hand.

"Stand up," he said quietly.

Annette looked at the maid, looked at her children, stood.

Jacob took her hands in his, then raised one, then the other, to his lips, kissed her knuckles: he blinked, swallowed, then seized his wife in a crushing embrace, buried his face in her hair, held her for several long moments before slacking his arms, looked deep into her wide, surprised eyes, then bent and kissed her forehead.

Jacob swallowed -- almost nervously -- he took a long breath.

"Annette, my dear?"

Annette blinked:  "Yes?" she whispered.

"Darlin', I need your help."

"Of course," she said, surprised.

"Do you remember that biggest cast iron fryin' pan you have?"

Annette nodded uncertainly.

"Dear heart, if I ever, EVER, take you for granted, would you take that big heavy fryin' pan in both hands and kindly smack me upside the head with it?"

Annette blinked, confused: she blinked, amused: she looked at her husband and saw the laughter he was trying to hide, and then they both laughed.

Husband and wife held one another and laughed quietly, and Jacob sighed, his eyes closed as he laid his cheek over on top of her head, as he looked at their big-eyed little boy, who was taking this all in.

Jacob winked at Joseph, then grinned.

 

Marnie and Angela dismounted, tied their Appaloosa mares off in front of the Silver Jewel, climbed the three steps and hauled open the heavy, ornate door.

They waved at Tillie and at Mr. Baxter, they swung around the end of the bar and through the tables to the back room.

Linn and Shelly were waiting for them:  as he always did, Linn rose when in the presence of ladies, and his daughters were exactly that.

He waited until they were seated before resuming his own seat.

Marnie looked at her Daddy, concerned as she saw the strips holding a fresh cut shut on his cheekbone.

"Daddy," she said quietly, "are you okay?"

Linn laughed, looked at Shelly, sighed.

"Darlin'," he said softly, "your Mama and I have had a difficult day and there's no way in the world I'd tell her to rattle them pots and pans and fix me supper, that's why we're here."

"How bad a day?" Angela asked.

Linn raised careful fingertips to his cheek bone.

"Well," he said, "I let my guard down and a fellow smacked me a good one."

"I can see that, Daddy."

"You recall my head was kind of plugged up this mornin'?"

Both girls nodded.

"He was fast -- he got me once on the cheek and twice on the forehead, just bap-bap-bap" -- Linn paused, closed his eyes for a moment.

"I like to blowed my handkerchief full with all that he knocked loose from my snot box."

Marnie's eyebrows rose and she blinked several times, she looked at her Daddy, looked at her Mama.

"Daddy," Angela said, "are you gonna be okay?"

The Sheriff nodded slowly, spread his hands, leaned back as the waitress came through the door.

"Look at the bright side," he said, "I can breathe better now!"

Marnie looked up at the waitress:  "Could I have a basket of rolls?  I want to throw them at my father!"

 

 

 

 

 

Edited December 4, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE INNOCENCE OF PREVENTION

Victoria Keller skipped happily down the driveway.

Eleven years old she might be, but she had no pretense: it was a lovely sunny day, she was a girl, she was happy, she skipped with all the bouncy celebration of the innocent young.

Victoria knew the mail ran at a particular time.

Victoria heard the mail carrier, right on time; she also saw another vehicle, pulled over where it had line-of-sight on their mailbox.

Victoria was a girl who listened, when her elders spoke; she'd set in on many fire and paramedic classes, she'd unofficially tested with them, she'd hidden the results from the rest of the class, and she took as a maxim her Mama's comment that preventing a situation was less work and less expense and much less work, than curing, treating, fixing or extinguishing a situation.

For that reason, Victoria placed a phone call, smiled a little as she did.

When she hung up, she went to the gun case and traded out the .32 Walther she wore, hidden in her handmade skirt, for its .22 counterpart: she swapped out the two extra magazines she wore when she wore the stainless German pistol, then she listened for the scanner to stop on a particular frequency, for her Daddy's voice to say, "In position."

Victoria skipped happily down the driveway, feeling cool wind on her bare knees, sun on her face and delight in her heart.

Victoria swung around, opened the big rural mailbox, looked in, then looked down and frowned.

She bent, picked up a discarded aluminum can, tossed it out into the roadway, turned her back on the car that was just starting to move.

She drew the little Walther, fired.

The can spun into the air.

Victoria smiled as she raised her pistol, fired again at eye level instead of from the hip: the can flew higher, whirling in the sun.

Victoria turned, her pistol at low ready, looked very directly into the eyes of the approaching driver, and smiled.

A pretty eleven year old girl in a red-and-white checkered frock lowered her head slightly when she smiled, and the smile was not at all pleasant, and the car nailed its brakes and skidded a little, just as a tan Sheriff's cruiser came up behind it, lit up, blipped the siren.

Victoria knew a cluster of rimfires would have little chance of penetrating windshield and being effective against the driver, but she'd listened to her Daddy and his discussions of how to stop a motor vehicle: she knew the transmission cooler was about the middle of the radiator, and she knew she could put eight rapid through the grille and do unkind things to both the cooling system, and the transmission fluid levels.

Lucky enough, she didn't have to.

Her Daddy told her that night, after he got home from work, the driver was wanted on multiple warrants for doing things he didn't really want to discuss with what he still saw as his little girl.

He did, however, say that the prisoner admitted he changed his mind in a hell of a hurry when he saw what looked like an easy victim, suddenly make a tin can dance like it was suffering from the Hot Foot, and when she turned, he said she looked like hungry death when she locked eyes with him.

Angela nodded when her Daddy told her all this, and she hugged her Daddy, and then she looked at her Daddy with an absolutely guileless expression and said, "I'm getting low on .22s, Daddy, can I have another couple bricks? I only have ten left!"

Angela's pale eyed Daddy laughed and hugged her again, and she felt his breath, warm on the back of her neck, and she laughed as well and said, "Okay, maybe I don't need any .22s just yet, but it made ya laugh!"

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

RECKON I'LL STAY FOR SUPPER

"He's out in the barn."

Angela frowned a little, took a step closer.

"Mama?"

Shelly looked up, surprised.

"Mama, is he all right?"

Shelly laughed a little:  "Of course he is, dear, why do you ask?"

"I didn't think so," Angela muttered, crossing her arms and frowning: she turned, walked quickly toward the door, white-crepe soles silent on the polished hardwood.

Shelly sighed as her daughter disappeared through the front door, as the portal swung shut behind her.

"Like father, like daughter," she said softly.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller was bent over, his stallion's forehoof clamped between his knees as he carefully scraped mud from around the horseshoe, as he examined the hoof: satisfied, he lowered it, then bent, brushing the fetlocks -- something he did only when he was meditative, or troubled, or distracted.

Angela slipped silently into the barn, watched her father, bent over, boots set well apart: she watched him move on to another hoof, she waited while his hands saw with their own eyes, as the man tended Pig Iron's hooves, tapped the horse shoes, brushed the short fur-feathers.

Angela swung around to approach the stallion from the front.

Pig Iron did not shift his weight, but he did stretch his neck out in response to an extended hand: he lipped off tobacker shavings, slashed his tail happily as Angela picked up a rag and wiped horse slobber off her palm.

"Hello, legs," her Daddy said as he straightened: he hooked an arm over the steeldust shoulders, put a hand to the small of his back. 

"How bad, Daddy?" Angela asked, tilting her head a little as she took a step forward.

"Chronic," Linn grunted, "but what else is new. By the way, hello, staying for supper?"
"I heard Victoria handled herself well yesterday."

"Yes she did."  

Linn rubbed Pig Iron's shoulder, walked over to his daughter.

"You're troubled."

"You're right."

"What's going on, Daddy?"

Linn thrust a chin at the hay bale, picked up a saddle blanket, doubled it, slung it over the prickly seat.

Angela settled as gracefully as her Daddy was ungraceful: the man dropped heavily, then bent forward, elbows on his knees, his head hung down a little.

Angela's hand was warm, gentle as she laid it between her shoulder blades: she slid her palm over, gripped his far shoulder as she leaned into the near.

"I wish I could make it better," she whispered.

"You just did, darlin'."

Father and daughter sat in companionable silence, at least until Pig Iron walked slowly over to them, begging for attention.

"You bum," Linn said softly, rubbing his stallion under the jaw.

Angela rose, picked up the brush, started working on the dark-grey mane.

Linn twisted a little, trying to find a comfortable position, gave up, stood.

Angela handed him the brush, then stood, hands on her hips, watched as her Daddy's stallion closed its eyes and lowered its head with pleasure as the brush worked its comfortable magic.

"He'll give you all week to stop that," Angela said softly, and they both laughed a little: it was an old joke she first remembered when she was being coached in Back Scratching when she was a little girl, and father and daughter found she had a particular talent for chasing the Grand Old Man's Galloping Itch.

Angela gave in to impatience.

She seized a stool, pulled it up beside Pig Iron, stood, looked over his back at her Daddy.

"Out with it, Handsome," she said as she crossed her arms over the equine spine. "What's eatin' you?"

He stopped, looked very frankly at his darlin' daughter, frowned, considered for a long moment, looked back at the pretty young nurse with the lovely pale eyes.

"Darlin'," he said, "do you recall how the Parson preached forgiveness in one of his sermons?"

Angela blinked.  "I remember."

"I'm havin' trouble with that one."

Angela frowned, puzzled. "Who can't you forgive?"

"The man in the mirror."

Angela opened her mouth, closed it: she looked over the horse's back at her Daddy and said quietly, "So that's where I get it."

"Don't do that to yourself," Linn said. "You did nothing wrong."

"Neither did you."

"You're still whipping your own back raw over what they did to me back East."

Linn was quiet for several long moments as he glared at the far wall.

"Yeah."

"I forgave them, Daddy," Angela said in a quiet voice. "After all they did to me, I forgave them."

Angela ducked under Pig Iron's neck, thrust herself up boldly into her Daddy's front, her pale eyes intent.

"You did not betray me, Daddy. You operated under good faith and so did I."

Angela seized her father's shirt front, twisted up a good double handful of material without realizing it: he felt the anger in her grip as she hissed, "Daddy, they betrayed you!"

Angela took a long, shivering breath, pulled her face into her Daddy's flannel shirt front.

Linn ran his arms around his daughter -- around his little girl -- she shivered in his arms, and he knew she was still scarred by what happened to her.

"Daddy," Angela said, her words muffled into his chest, "do you know how I forgave them?"

She looked up at her Daddy, her eyes bright, but not with tears.

"Daddy, I take pride in putting my boot against their backsides and kicking them over the edge and letting them drop to the end of a hemp noose! I take pride in having the final say in whether they lived to hurt someone else, or whether I stopped them from ever hurting anyone, ever again!"

Angela set her teeth together and controlled her breathing with an effort.

"Daddy, I forgave them, but not until after I kicked them off the edge of that building and HANGED THEM!"

She reached up, caressed her Daddy's cheek, swallowed.

"Daddy, those are my ghosts. You carry yours. I carry mine. You did nothing wrong. I didn't either. You have nothing for which to forgive yourself. Neither do I."

She laid her hand flat on her Daddy's collar bone.

"Am I making any sense?"

Linn cupped his hands under his daughter's elbows, chewed on his bottom lip, nodded.

"Darlin'," he said in that deep, reassuring Daddy-voice, "you are makin' good sense."

Angela smiled a little.

"I reckon I'll stay for supper, then."

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WILLIAM WENT A-LOOKIN'

Marnie touched a key, smiled as the screen lit up, as she read her sister's message.

It's about time, she thought; she read further, smiled, then transferred the Iris coordinates to her wrist-unit.

A black ellipse opened; she shot a quick note to the Chief Ambassador, placed a flower-trimmed, broad-brimmed chapeau on her ornately-styled hair, swept through the Iris and disappeared.

Marnie stepped out in the middle of her Uncle Will's living room.

Angela laughed, skipped up to her sister: the two hugged -- Marnie, in her trademark McKenna gown and a gorgeous picture hat, and Angela, in knee socks and saddle shoes and a pleated cheerleader skirt -- they sat down at Uncle Will's kitchen table, Marnie planted her gloved palms flat on the tablecloth and leaned forward.

"What in two worlds ever pried the man out of here?" she smiled -- it took an effort to keep from giggling like a little girl -- Angela leaned confidentially forward, then jumped up as if stung, spun like a ballerina and seized two coffee mugs, poured them full.

She balanced two mugs of Hot and Steaming, set one down in front of Marnie, the other at her place, turned to the two-tone bronze refrigerator, pulled out a half gallon of Extract of Bovine and let Marnie have first dibs.

"It seems," Angela said quietly, "Uncle Will was curious about the original Old Pale Eyes."

"Oh?" Marnie arched an eyebrow, trickled cold-and-white into her black-and-steaming, set the genuine antique plastic heirloom half gallon jug in the middle of the table.

Angela trickled her own, capped the jug and returned it to the fridge, pulled out a platter:  "I made sandwiches."

"Good, I'm hungry!"

"Hey, it's like church, when we meet, we eat!"

"Got that right!"  Marnie picked up a sandwich, smiled as she saw a thick slab of meat loaf with generous, bright-yellow layers of cheese and thick slices of onion.

The sisters ate.

Marnie ate daintily, despite her hunger: Angela had no such delicacy: her appetite commanded her consumption, and she reached for a second sandwich before Marnie was finished with hers.

"Will always wanted to go back East and see if he could find the original home place."

"Which one? Old Pale Eyes was a boy after the American Revolution. They had a cabin in the south of the state. Humid as that territory is, it's likely long since rotted and gone."

"He headed up to Lake Erie, thereabouts."

"Oh, right, right ... didn't he marry a girl from ...?"

"Connie. From Shallagotha."

"Shallagotha," Marnie repeated slowly, frowning.  "Chillicothe?"

"That's what the white man called it," Angela nodded.

"When did he leave?"

"A week ago.  I'm house-sitting.  I needed a vacation."

"At least you're smart enough to take one," Marnie muttered.  "Daddy ... "

The sisters shared an understanding look.

Marnie lowered her gloved hands, gave Angela a serious look.  

"What's this I hear about Victoria shooting the heart out of a criminal's radiator?"

Angela laughed.  "No, no," she mumbled through a mouthful of meatloaf.  "She pulled a Daddy and bluffed the hell out of 'em, she shot twice and slipped a .22 under an aluminum can to spin it into the air and then she turned around at low ready and gave them the World Famous Stop an Eight Day Clock Victoria the Daughter of Death Glare, and that stopped 'em in their tracks!"

"She's not hurt?" Marnie said quietly, and Angela heard the edge her sister was stoning on her voice.

"She's not hurt.  She saw a car lying in wait so she called Daddy, he was nearby, when he was in position, she went to the mailbox."

"Why does that sound familiar?"

"We studied that case."

"Oh, right, right. Same guy?"

"Same guy. When Daddy came up with the business end of his Glock the first thing that guy saw, he kind of gave up."

Marnie dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

"That was good.  Got any chocolate?"

 

Marnie unfolded the note, smiled as she recognized Uncle Will's regular, very legible script.

She ran pale eyes over her Uncle's words, nodding a little as his words drew pictures in the air, or at least in her imagination.

"He couldn't find ... the one up North," she murmured, eyes busy, then she looked at Angela.

"This closes with him heading south. What are his landmarks?"

"Paint Creek," Angela said, rising and going to Uncle Will's rolltop desk: she had two maps folded but staged and ready: Marnie moved the sandwich platter, set their coffee mugs at the edge of the tale, tilted her head as Angela came up beside her, unfolded one map, then another, laid them open on the tabletop.

"Here's Ohio. He'd have been here" -- her finger rested near the soggy south shoreline of what the native Erie called the Sweet Sea -- "he'd have traveled south ... now before that, when he was a boy, he was in what is now southern Perry County, about here."

She rested a neatly trimmed fingernail on a squarish, stairstepped county's outline.

"Chillicothe over here, Perry County here, he'd have gone north -- I have no idea the route he'd have taken, likely he'd have pointed his nose generally north --"

"Sound familiar?" Marnie said dryly, and two sisters looked at one another and smiled as the mental images of both their Uncle Will, and their long tall Daddy, came to mind.

"Now here."

Angela unfolded a county map.

"Ross County.  Here's Chillicothe.  Paint Creek runs ... here."

"Paint Creek," Marnie murmured. "Refresh my memory."

"Old Pale Eyes met a crying girl not far from Paint Creek. She lived very near the creek. She was standing outside a church, she wanted to go in but she was ashamed of being barefoot."

"Oh that's right," Marnie breathed.  "She went home and her Daddy bloodied her back with a whip for seeing someone."

"He wanted to keep her for free labor," Angela nodded. "At least that's what I get, reading between the lines.  Old Pale Eyes went back and found what they'd done, he killed one, crippled another and horse whipped a third, he went into town and got the Sheriff and brought him out, the Sheriff allowed as he'd just saved the Law some work as there were warrants out on all of them, and the survivors were hanged, Linn married Connie, took her home, bought a wagon and mule from his Pa, and they set out by the North Star."

"So where is Will now?"

Angela pulled out a postcard, read quickly.

"He's found Sugar Loaf Mountain. Old Pale Eyes spoke of the Sugar Loaf. He's found Paint Creek. He's researching where the original churches were. He said he'll head for Perry County next."

"Where in Perry County?"

"Between Sedalia and ... oh, I can't think of its name, it changed ... old coal country, I think Monroe Township ... the home place was on Keller Ridge above Hatfield's Mill."

"Hatfield's Mill?  The Hatfields?"

"Different branch. The mill was on Sunday Creek, but it washed away in the floods of 1913."

Marnie nodded.

"The home place is still there. I think Gammaw said relatives of ours still live in it."

Two sisters studied the maps, two sisters went to their Uncle Will's surprisingly extensive library and retrieved a reprint of Old Pale Eyes' original Journal, two sisters read and frowned and discussed and mapped probable lines of march on large, crease-marked sheets of colorful paper laid out on the kitchen table.

When Uncle Will returned, two weeks later, he found his house cleaner than he'd left it, he found fresh milk in the fridge, on the same shelf as a fresh platter of just-made meat loaf sandwiches covered with plastic wrap; he found a note that said they'd replaced his starting-to-sun-bleach curtains with newly-sewn, same material, same color and print, and the chocolate cake on the counter was freshly iced, give it another hour to set up before he cut the cake.

"I'll have to have Angela house-sit more often," Will murmured aloud, then looked at the freshly iced bounty on the counter and smiled.

Uncle Will didn't wait for the icing to set up.

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

TOUR GUIDE

Angela looked innocently up at her Uncle Will and said, "Please?"

Retired Chief of Police Will Keller laughed, reached down: Angela crossed her arms in front of her, laid her palms on her collar bones as Uncle Will swung around behind her, reached around, cupped his hands under her elbows: he dropped his knees a little, tucked in his backside, lifted his niece up, just a little, held her for a long count of five, then gave her a little left-and-right shake.

Angela gasped as pain and relief rippled up her spine.

Will eased her down until her heels were on the floor: he came around in front of her and asked gently, "Better?"

Angela rolled her head around, grimacing: she rolled it back, straightened, looked at her Uncle Will the way she used to when she was a little girl, over for a visit.

"Thank you," she whispered.  "I needed that."

"Glad I could help," Will rumbled, then thrust a chin at his new living room curtains.

"You and Marnie made those," he said -- a statement, not a question -- "I'd threatened to take the old ones down and run 'em through the Maytag, least until I took a closer look and realized how sun rotted they really were."

"They would have shredded," Angela murmured.  "Any cake left?"

"Enough for two slices."

"That'll give me an excuse to make you another one. Or would you rather have walnut brownies?"

Will lowered his head, tried to glare through shaggy eyebrows, and failed completely in the effort.

"Darln'," he said, "I'll get the plates and forks!"

Angela skipped into the kitchen like a happy little girl, and Will remembered how she used to skip into his kitchen when she was still that happy little girl, ribbon-tied braids bouncing as she did: nowadays, her hair was either short, or pinned up under that white nurse's cap, he wasn't sure which -- he'd learned long ago that women are mysterious creatures that routinely employ magic in all that they do, and a woman's hair was one of those magical substances he never did quite have figured out.

Angela poured coffee as Will halved what was left of yesterday's cake.

He set two slabs of homemade chocolate cake at his place and hers, set a fork at each; Angela set down the heavy coffee mugs, turned to the fridge, got out the genuine antique plastic half gallon jug of milk, set it on the table.

They sat.

Will picked up his fork, hesitated, looked at Angela.

"You realize," he said seriously, "this will spoil our supper."

"Uncle Will," Angela said, just as seriously and leaning forward over her slice of cake as she did, "I found out you can buy a birthday cake and eat it, even if it's not your birthday! Nobody checks!"

Uncle and niece shared a quiet, understanding laugh, and day-old chocolate cake.

Both, they found, were quite good.

Angela waited until dishes were washed off, set in the drain rack, until she'd dried her hands and poured more coffee for them and made another pot: "I think better when I smell coffee," she explained, and Will nodded his agreement.

Finally Angela sat, looked at her Uncle.

"I didn't expect you home so soon," she admitted.

"I found what I was looking for."

"And that was ...?"

Will frowned, leaned forward, elbows on the tablecloth, sandpapered his palms thoughtfully as he framed his answer.

"I didn't find much," he admitted.  

"What did  you find?"

"Well, I found the Sugar Loaf. I found Paint Creek. I did not find where Old Pale Eyes' first wife came from. I did go up through Perry County and found where Hatfield's Mill stood -- there's a bridge across Sunday Creek, the locals told me original cut sandstones from the foundation were bulldozed into the roadbed when it was rebuilt."

Angela nodded, listening closely.

"I met some of our family still in the area."

Angela sipped coffee, waited as Uncle Will's expression told her he was seeing the moment again.

"Good people," he murmured, then frowned.

"I went on north and had absolutely no luck at all finding the home place up there. I checked churchyards, graveyards, I consulted the county courthouses. I didn't find Connie's grave until they called me the day after I got back. This mornig, it was."

"I'm sorry you didn't find it."

"I wasn't even close," he admitted ruefully. "I should've done like my sister and researched the hell out of it before I went hell-a-tearin' off on an adventure."

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Angela asked quietly.

Will leaned his head back, looked thoughtfully at the ceiling for a minute, then looked back down at Angela.

"Would you hold it against me," he said slowly, "if I admitted it felt good to look at something besides the inside of this house?"

Angela tilted her head a little to the side, smiled gently, reached across the table and laid her hand over her Uncle's knuckles.

"Would you like to do it again?"

He nodded, his eyes distant; he blinked, looked down at her, grinned.

"Whattaya got in mind?"

Angela leaned forward, planted her elbows on the tablecloth, laced her fingers delicately together under her chin, smiled.

"Well, for starters, have you ever sledded down the side of an extinct volcano on a plastic sled?"

"Nnnooooo," he admitted, raising an eyebrow.

"On Mars?" she teased, then added, "I have it on the very best authority that double-chocolate walnut brownies taste better on another planet!"

"Yes, but who will watch the house?" he asked, then looked up, looked over his niece's head as a pretty young woman in a McKenna gown glided out of an Iris, smiled.

"Angela can stay," Marnie replied. "Pack your bag, I'm your tour guide!"

 

 

 

 

 

Edited December 8, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A GENTLEMANLY DISTRACTION

Michael Keller checked his appearance in the full length mirror.

A solemn-faced young man in a tailored black suit looked back at him.

He examined himself critically, turned one foot sideways, then the other, checking the shine on his boots.

He took a long breath, blew it out, turned, reached for the doorknob.

He paused, considered, then turned the knob, opened the door.

Diffused sunlight saturated the large, open room: there were flowers in baskets, statues on pedestals, stone benches against the walls between the gauzy-curtained, floor-to-ceiling windows, but no other furniture; the floor was polished stone of some sort, smooth, flawless as a glass pane.

Michael's pace was silent, his step, measured: he moved smoothly, easily, toward a young lady in dancing-slippers and an ornate, ankle-length gown, who glided toward him with the same soundless step.

Michael took his twin sister's hand, raised it to his lips: "My lady," he said quietly, "might I have this dance?"

The music was the same as was played a century before and more; the dance was unchanged from those days when Old Pale Eyes would tread a measure with his green-eyed bride: when Michael read that George Washington was a noted dancer, that it was one measure of a gentleman to be able to dance well, he arranged for his education in this gentlemanly art.

Just as he'd applied himself to those arts martial, the empty-hand technique of less than gently pacifying thy neighbor, he applied himself to learning Dance with a single minded determination.

Brother and sister moved together, smoothly, coordinating well with the music: they claimed the broad, empty dance floor as their own, they whirled, they turned, they glided: when the music ended, Victoria spun slowly out to arm's length: Michael bowed, Victoria curtsied, they walked over to one of the cool, polished stone benches, sat.

"Angela said you're causing me trouble," she said innocently.

Michael spread his hands. "Trust me! I can get in trouble just a-settin' in my easy chair!"

Victoria gave him a patient look, then smiled: her Daddy used that line, and Michael sounded so very much like his pale eyed father when he said it.

"Daddy showed me what to look for in a husband," she explained. "Whoever I marry will have to be as good as my Daddy."

Michael raised an eyebrow.  "Tall order," he speculated.

Victoria nodded, bit her bottom lip, looked down: she crossed her ankles, started swinging her stockinged legs like a little girl.

"And I want a husband who can dance as well as you."

Michael's ears reddened a little.

"I'm not that good, Sis."

Victoria gave him an exaggerated, look-over-the-spectacles expression.

"Don't kid a kidder," she scolded. "Michael, do you remember when we danced at that wedding last week?"

Michael smiled, just a little, nodded.

He and Victoria paired off: Virginia Reel, at least a half dozen square dance sets, three waltzes: Michael was in sudden demand from the ladies, grown and otherwise, and like his pale eyed Pa, he danced well enough to make them look good, just as Victoria danced well enough to make any of her dance partners, look that much better -- though she was grateful to pair up with Michael again, as he did not tread upon her toes.

His older sisters were amused at the number of ladies who managed to approach them and ask with a carefully casual air, how soon Michael would be old enough to marry: those who were not disappointed at his young age, let slip that they had plans to introduce their daughters to this desirable catch -- Marnie's quick and scheming diplomatic mind made multiple notes to educate her younger brother on the wiles of such plotting women, as she freely admitted to herself that he would indeed make the right girl a fine catch.

A very fine catch.

"Michael?"

"Hm?"

"Are you still seeing Juliette?"

Michael smiled again, and Victoria realized she'd never seen this particular smile on her twin brother's face before.

She'd seen his surprised smile, his excited smile, she'd seen his smirk and she'd seen that tight smile that meant he was about to stomp someone's guts into the ground.

This smile was different.

This smile was gentle, soft, almost bashful.

Michael nodded.

"Yes," he admitted. "I'm still seeing her."

"Be careful, Michael," Victoria said in a concerned tone. "You fall hardest for your first love."

Michael took a long breath, he nodded, his eyes worried.

"I recall Pa said that."

"Daddy told me about the Dana he met in college."

"The one his Pa didn't approve of."

"And he regretted dumping her because his Pa didn't approve of her. Gammaw didn't say much about her, but his Pa ..."

Michael blinked, his expression bleak.

"I recall him telling me, one time."

"I think that's why he named our sister Dana."

"I always thought 'twas because Old Pale Eyes had a little girl named Dana."

"That might've played into it."

"Michael?"

Michael looked at his twin sister.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"It feels good to be pretty."

Michael took his sister's hand, pressed it firmly between his own, looked at her with just shy of a stern expression.

"Pa said beauty comes from within," he said seriously. "Clothes are fine but you're beautiful to start with, Sis. If you were ugly as a mud fence you'd still be beautiful!"

Victoria sighed, shook her head, looked sadly at her twin brother.

"Is this where I'm supposed to backhand you, punch you, or run away crying?"

Michael's eyes widened with surprise.

"How should I know, Sis, I've never been a girl!"

Victoria laughed, slid over against him, hugged him, laughter quivering her against him.

"Don't change, Michael," she whispered as she held him.  "Don't ever change!"