SHORT STORIES!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WHIPPED CREAM AND SPRINKLES

The graduating class sat in starched white ranks, wearing their new winged caps without the student stripe, for the very first time.

Angela was on stage, her graduating students before her, friends and family seated behind, on their left and on their right.

Angela smiled that bright, contagious smile known to her students, her fellow instructors, and most of the Inter-System:  she said, "My Daddy is a wise man, and he taught us about public speaking. You might've heard my brothers quote him."

She raised a finger.

"First, the longer the speaker's wind, the harder those chairs get, and" --

-- she raised a second finger --

"The mind absorbs only until the backside grows numb."

She lowered her fingers, swept her pale eyes proudly from left to right, front to back, and to each of her students, it felt like she was looking very personally, very directly, at her!

"I took what Earthside nursing schools taught and threw out what wasn't necessary. I added what you'll actually be using, what you'll actually be doing.

"Each of you has been honestly working, as a nurse, doing the work, for real."

Her voice was serious now, all trace of humor gone from her face.

"Normally you're given a pin, a paper diploma and a fine speech. I'm giving each of you a year's wages and a pin" -- she paused, and they felt as much as saw the change in her face, the change in her voice -- "and the knowledge that each and every one of you is just pretty damned good at what you do!"

She stepped back, lifted her palms: "First row.  On your feet, step up here!"

 

Angela Keller closed her eyes, leaned back in her Uncle's kitchen chair, smiled a little at the memory.

This had to be the best class she'd ever graduated -- in terms of focus, of skill, this last class proved themselves both in classroom and in practice.

Two weeks from today, she thought, she'd start the next class.

Until then ... until then, she needed time away, she needed some vacation, and here, here in Uncle Will's house, here where it was quiet, she could relax, and she could soak away her accumulated stress in this silent, filial pool of peaceful, silent refuge.

This lasted for about six minutes: Angela's characteristic industry thrust her back away from the table, looking around: she rose, she frowned -- dishes were done and put away, even the coffee mug she'd just drained, was washed out and dried and set back on its shelf: the beds were made, floor swept, everything was freshly dusted --

Angela snatched up her tan cloak, spun it around her shoulders, fast up the throat clasp, checked the revolver on her belt and thrust it back into its black-basket Jordan holster, she drew her backup J-frame, opened it, closed it, replaced it, gripped the speedloaders snapped in place just ahead of her holster.

Angela smiled.

It wasn't far to the chrome-and-glass, restored 1950s-decor pharmacy and soda shop, and she was in the mood for a double hot fudge sundae with whipped cream, sprinkles and crushed nuts, December be damned!

Angela stepped out into the thin winter sunshine, gripped the edge of her cloak and swung it over her shoulder: the garment was loose, comfortable, allowed for unlimited range of motion, and was proof against the winter winds -- she'd come to prefer it to an actual coat, unless weather conditions were truly terrible.

Angela knew the area intimately; she knew she could cross behind her Uncle's house, back to the stream, she knew where it was narrow enough to jump across without difficulty, she knew how far to follow the crushed gravel ballast of the Z&W Railroad's twin tracks, and where to cross back over, which alley to penetrate in order to come out beside the soda shop's front door.

She pulled the heavy door open, smiled a little at the bell's cheerful greeting -- it was the same kind of bell the Mercantile still used, mounted on the curved, spring-steel telltale mount.

The soda jerk looked up from sweeping, smiled: Angela smelled French fries and burgers frying, she skipped across the floor like a little girl, planted her palms on the counter and said, "I was just dying for a double hot fudge Sundae, but a burger and fries smells sooooo good!"

They laughed -- "Toasted buns, cheese on that?" -- Angela noddded and turned,  opened her cloak and sat, looking around, smiling, remembering.

 

Angela stood in front of the class, thrust a bladed hand at a student: "Yes?"

"Miss Angela, we've been reading about Gammaw Willamina."

Angela laughed: "What did you read?"

"That she was Sheriff, and she was a nurse."

Angela unclipped her name tag.

The side she wore when teaching, when working, when presenting herself as a nurse, had the ghostly image of Firelands General Hospital as its background: her smiling face in her white winged cap occupied about a third of it, with FIRELANDS GENERAL HOSPITAL, A. KELLER RN in bold black letters.

She turned her name tag around, clipped it back on her collar.

A third showed her unsmiling face, wearing her winged cap, it showed a six point gold star, and in bold black letters, A. KELLER, DEPUTY SHERIFF, FIRELANDS -- just Firelands, not "Firelands, Colorado."

Nobody with any rank picked up on this, which suited Angela fine, as it reflected her ability to function as a Sheriff's deputy on Mars as well as Earth, without the bother of carrying another name tag.

"My Gammaw Willamina was Sheriff, yes, and she kept up her nursing license," Angela affirmed. "Her dual certification -- nursing license, and law enforcement certification -- got her the keys to the city, and got her fired from her hospital job."

"What?"

The student's spontaneous exclamation was quite genuine.

"Oh, yes. As the prophet of the previous century observed, 'No good deed goes unpunished.'

"Gammaw was a deputy town marshal before she was Sheriff."

"I know that smile," one of her students hazarded. "There's a memory there."

Angela nodded.

"Yes there is, and it bears directly on our profession as nurses.  Here's what happened."

 

Angela smiled as the soda jerk set her blue-plastic, wax-paper-lined basket down in front of her; steam rose from fresh-from-the-fryer fries, brown and crispy and smelling really good: she picked up the cylindrical yellow plastic squeeze bottle, drew a quick spiral of mustard on the exposed burger patty, turned the cheese-melted bun over on the meat: a cherry Coke fizzed quietly in its fluted, clear-plastic glass and the soda jerk turned, retreated on silent sneaker soles.

Angela snatched up salt and pepper both: Fries always need salt, she thought silently, then she set down the salt and picked the pepper back up, lifted the lid on her burger, gave it a generous dosing.

As she took her first bite of fries, her first bite of burger, as even white teeth crunched through toasted bun and fragrant, crispy fries, she made a mental note to introduce this combination to the college cafeteria when she started classes in two weeks!

 

"My Gammaw had a local thief dead to rights," Angela said in response to her student's question.

"Unfortunately, if you look up 'Dirty Suth'n Politics' in the dictionary, the black silhouette of Athens County, Ohio, will appear at the head of the column.  Council President pulled some strings and got the town's Marshal fired, then the Council President broke into the police files, removed the file that contained evidence of his son's thefts, and burned it.

"Gammaw heard about it too late.  She got to the village hall just as the last black ashes were rolling across the grass."

"What did she do?"

Angela's lips pressed together.  "Not much she could do," she admitted. "She did not have proof it was the Council President who broke into the file, she couldn't prove he was the one that burned the evidence.  If she'd found out an hour earlier the Marshal was fired, she could have retrieved the evidence and gotten it to the County Prosecutor, but it was too late."

Angela smiled.

"You may be familiar with the phrase, 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.' "

"Romans?" the student suggested.

"Romans 12:19-21, to be exact," Angela nodded. "Gammaw did just that.  She did good to he who did evil, and in doing good, she heaped coals on his head."

Several sets of eyes were honestly puzzled as they regarded their white-uniformed instructor.

"The council president had a stroke and ended up in a nursing home. Gammaw worked as a nurse for that nursing home for a time. She went in one night and badged him" -- Angela raised her palm, dropped open a leather wallet (where did she get that from?) to show a shield shaped badge -- "this is her deputy marshal's badge, by the way" -- she flipped it shut, sketched a quick move, the wallet disappeared -- "she formally identified herself as a deputy marshal with the village.

"She bent over a little and looked down into his eyes.

"His stroke paralyzed him. He could communicate by blinking -- one for yes, two for no, that sort of thing, but that's all he could do -- Gammaw picked up his hand and held it and said quietly, 'I forgive you, Doug.'

"For the rest of the man's stay there, Gammaw cared for the man as if he was her grandfather, and that hurt him more than if she'd taken a rolled up towel and beat the hell out of him three times a day!"

Angela finished the class and asked the student who'd asked about Willamina, to stay for a moment.

Angela asked, "Do I recall that you attend St. Michael's Church?"

The student, surprised, blinked, nodded.

"Is that the one where your priest was given a new Bible?"

The student's expression brightened with unaffected delight and she replied that yes, a new Catholic Bible, and more Bibles had been delivered as well.

Angela turned, reached into what she called her "War Bag," pulled out a zippered, leather covered Douay Bible and a small wallet.

She handed the wallet to her student, who opened it, squeaked a little, one hand cupping her mouth in surprise and delight.

"My very great grandmother Esther gave a green glass Rosary to a dear friend of hers," Angela said softly. "I thought it wise to stick with tradition and do the same.  This" -- she handed her the white-leather-covered volume, ran her finger down to the student's name, embossed in gold in the lower corner -- "is yours also."

 

Angela Keller chewed happily as she remembered how her student hugged her, how her student clutched the Bible and the Rosary to her, how bright and shining and absolutely delighted her student's eyes were, and Angela decided that she was absolutely delighted she'd come here for a burger and fries and a double hot fudge Sundae.

With whipped cream, sprinkles, and crushed nuts

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited December 13, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WASN'T MY IDEA

Sheriff Linn Keller hauled the heavy glass doors open and limped inside.

His backside was filthy -- from boot heels to collar -- his hat was mashed down on his head and mud stained, one leg was wet, his elbow was skinned and bloody.

Sharon's jaw dropped open and she came out of her chair.

Linn raised a palm, stopped her with the gesture: he did not look at her.

The Sheriff limped through the lobby, turned right and down the hall.

Sharon heard the locker room door open, then shut.

 

Linn sat his stallion, sun warm on his shoulders and wind cold on his face, and he felt the corners of his eyes tighten with pleasure as a bull elk -- a respectable bull! -- and a herd of cow elk trotted easily down-mountain, through the thin brush.

Dear God, he thought, whatever did I do to earn this?

The Sheriff watched them until they were gone, then eased his stallion forward and on up the path.

Whatever business he had up-mountain, he realized in short order, would have to wait: he realized this as Pig Iron stopped, shied, lost his balance, fell heavily down hill.

Linn automatically kicked free of the stirrups, shoved hard on the saddlehorn, a maneuver he'd practiced many times -- he called it his "Poor Man's Ejection Seat" -- he landed on the loose scree below the ancient trail and started to slide.

The stallion thrashed, not far from him, skidding downhill:  somehow Pig Iron got his hooves under him and got stopped and stood, shivering.

Linn wasn't quite so lucky.

He didn't land as well as he wanted, thanks to the loose, flat, weathered rocks: he slid downhill, picked up speed, one hand on his Stetson, at least until his elbow intercepted a rock moving uphill at a respectable velocity, then another: he rolled away from the injury just in time to slide off loose rock and across mud, and his left leg rammed into the streambank, bending a little to take up the shock of his sudden stop.

Linn shoved hard against the scree that followed him down, got up: he leaned back against a rock, pulled off his left boot and dumped it out -- Damnation, he thought, that's just a trickle, why'd it feel like I had a gallon in there? 

Pig Iron found good footing off to the side and came downhill, curious: Linn reached up, rubbed the stallion's neck as the big steeldust snuffed curiously at his soaked thigh.

"I'm all right, damn you," Linn muttered, running his hand down the big stallion's foreleg.

"How about you? Take any damage?"

Linn's fingers had eyes; he read the bones under the skin, foreleg, hind leg, the other hind leg, foreleg: Linn stopped, pulled out a plug of molasses twist, shaved off several thick curls and held them out.

He shut the lockback, shoved it and the plug into a vest pocket.

"Reckon I'd best get us home before we both stiffen up," he muttered.  "Let's see you walk now."

Linn took the stallion's reins, walked backwards, narrowed eyes evaluating the stallion's gait.

"Reckon I'll try ridin' ag'in," Linn muttered.

 

"Boss?"

Barrents' voice echoed in the steamy locker room.

"Yeah," Linn called.

"You okay in there?"

The water shut off, a draped towel disappeared from over the shower stall's closed door.

"Just scrubbin' the dirt off my corroded soul, how 'bout you?"

Barrents hesitated, went over to the pile of clothes, picked up the torn, filthy, wet trousers, then the bloodied uniform shirt, black and expressionless eyes reading the story the tears had to tell.

"You want I should get you anything maybe?"

"Yeah, sing me a few bars of My Yiddische Mama. What's with the New York accent anyway?"

"Hey, I'm broadening my horizons. I can swear in six languages, you know."

"Yeah, I know. Mama told me a professor told her profanity was a sign of a limited vocabulary, so she learned to swear in six languages."

The shower door opened and Linn shoved his head out.

"You got that from her, didn't you?"

Barrents shrugged. "She spoke, I listened. How's the arm?"

Linn's grimace was answer enough.

 

Angela came through the double doors like Storm Cloud Number Nine.

She glared at Sharon.

Sharon thrust her arm toward the back of the lobby.

Angela stomped back to the back hallway, turned abruptly enough to swing her white uniform skirt: Sharon heard the locker room door open, heard Angela's challenging yell.

"CLOSE YOUR EYES, I'M COMING IN!"

Sharon shook her head, laughed, rose.

I'd better make coffee!

 

"Dammit, Angela, I'm naked!" Linn protested, gripping the corners of the modesty preserving towel.

"Shut up and hold still," Angela snapped, handing her blue-canvas warbag to Barrents and seizing her father's wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Hold still," she said a little more quietly: she ran her eyes the length of his forearm, then his upper arm, she carefully bent his arm, fingers gripping above the bloodied abrasion.

Angela moved her grip to his wrist.

"Extend your fingers."

Her Daddy did.

Angela tapped his fingertips.

"Painful?"

He shook his head.

"Raise your arm, let me take a look."

Angela frowned as she examined the long, bloody tale of woe.

"Looks like there's still debris in there."

"Clean it out."

"I'd rather do it in ER where I have better tools."

"I'm not goin' to ER."

Angela bristled -- Barrents was grateful for a lifetime of self-discipline, of near-constant practice of a stoic expression -- otherwise he would honestly have laughed, as Angela suddenly reminded him of a Banty hen all bristled up and ready for a fight.

"Sheriff," Angela said coldly, "I am this department's Chief Medical Officer.  In matters medical, I outrank you.

"Unless" -- she shoved out her bottom jaw, regarded him coldly -- "you want me to bring out the big guns and tell my Mommy on you!"

Angela's voice was so serious, her expression so fierce, her posture so exaggerated -- knuckles on her belt, head shoved forward -- Chief Deputy Paul Barrents, lifelong friend of the pale eyed Sheriff, pure blood Navajo and veteran lawman in his own right -- gave up his native reserve.

Sheriff and Chief Medical Officer both glared, unblinking, each assuming a stern and severe appearance, neither one yielding the least fraction ... at least, until they both looked at the Chief Deputy, who whose reserve was falling to the floor in splintered fragments, as Paul Barrents looked from one to the other, as Linn's lifelong friend and boon companion abandoned his stoic demeanor and started to laugh.

Father and daughter looked at one another.

Angela tasted victory, she applied her coup de grâce.

Angela shook her Mommy-finger at the Sheriff.

Sharon put the lid on the big stainless steel coffee pot and started the batch, then she turned her head and raised an eyebrow, she shook her head, she sighed.

The locker room's closed door could not contain the healthy, united laughter of three very amused people.

 

Linn knew all the ER nurses.

All the ER nurses knew the Sheriff.

Cindy was the one who debrided the rocks out of the lawman's arm, who cleansed the wound to her high standard, who mercilessly applied the dripping-yellow-soaked gauze as she personally determined the man would not have a follow-up infection.

"I feel like a damned fool," Linn muttered.

"After sliding down half the mountain?" Cindy murmured sympathetically.

"I should have been payin' better attention.  M' horse shied."

"Pig Iron?" Angela asked: Cindy glanced over and saw the concern on her face matched the concern in her voice.

"He's fine. Hell, he come out of it better than I did!"

Cindy made another careful pass with the gauze.

Linn's only response to this application of liquid devil's spit was to close his eyes for a long moment.

"When was your last tetanus shot?" Cindy asked.

Linn looked at Angela.

"When was that, darlin'? I forget!"

"It was either when you were shot, or when you were stabbed, or maybe it's when you stepped on a rusty nail ... that was what, last year?"

"That nail. Yeah, last year, Doc give me a tetanus shot for that."

Cindy nodded, dressed the wound.

Doc came breezing in, went over to the computer screen, clattered his fingers on the keyboard: an image came up, he frowned at it, nodded.

"No fractures, Sheriff," he said. "You've a good dense bone structure."

"Mama made sure I had milk at every meal," Linn grunted. "This isn't the first time I've been grateful for her diligence!"

"It paid off, all right."

Doc frowned at the screen.

"See these light marks? Debris in your arm. Cindy, could I have a follow-up x-ray, please."

"Yes, Doctor."

Doc came over, tilted the stainless steel pan Cindy was using for her incendiary solution: he frowned, tilted it again, looked at Cindy.

"All that came out of his arm?"

"Yes, Doctor."

The ER doc looked back over at the x-ray, looked in the pan, shook his head.

 

Angela walked down the alley with her Daddy.

He'd been turned loose from ER with follow-up instructions, Angela drove him back to the Sheriff's office, and now they were going to the little stable behind the Sheriff's office.

Linn hit the wall switch, illuminated the interior, backed Pig Iron out of his stall.

"Hi, handsome," Angela murmured, rubbing the steeldust's long nose and then holding out a swirly peppermint in her palm.

Pig Iron crunched happily, blinking; he slashed his tail as Angela's hands caressed his neck, then down his forelegs, as she lifted one hoof, then the other: she went back and did the same for the rear legs, she set steelshod hooves back down, she came back to Pig Iron's curious head and ran her hand under his jaw and cooed to him the way a mother will an infant.

I pity whatever man she fancies, Linn thought.

She'll likely do the same with him, wrap him around her finger so tight he'll need a standing appointment with the Bone Cracker!

Angela ducked under Pig Iron's neck, took her Daddy's hand.

"Sheriff," she said seriously, "I've only got one of you."

Linn turned to face his daughter squarely.

He looked her very directly in the eye, spoke quietly in that deep, reassuring Daddy-voice.

"Darlin'," he said, "thank you for actually givin' a good damn!"

Father and daughter stood in the gathering twilight, their embrace saying what needed said more clearly than any words.

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

AND THE GIANT LAUGHED

Teachers, baseball coach and grade school principal stopped and stared.

A good selection of Jaw Bones hinged downward, most halfway to their wearer's belt buckles.

The Sheriff stood halfway between third base and home plate.

He had the nine year old catcher by the strap of his chest protector.

He had the opposing team's runner by the front of his green-and-white striped shirt.

He had both boys hoist off the ground.

Two third-graders, fired on adrenaline, competition and aggravation, snarled, swung, kicked, and the Sheriff stood, arms doubled up, both boys hauled half a yard from Mother Earth, and the Sheriff's face turned a dark, strawberry red as he threw his head back and roared his laughter to the cloudless blue sky above.

It was a ball game; two teams of young boys, as boys always are: the second baseman was distracted by something and completely missed the ball that seared through the air a half inch from his nose; when it was the home teams' at-bat, the second baseman had a laser focus on the incoming ball --

He stepped into the catch, glove shoved out in front of him --

The ball SLAMMED into the web of the leather glove --

And he fell over backwards, just in time to trip the opposing runner: flat on his back, he scored an inadvertent out, and gained an impressive bruise on his upper arm, which he didn't hesitate to show off the next day.

Braggin' rights, you understand.

It was a close game. 

Each side played well, they showed good hustle, there were impressive hits from such pint size players, and in the final inning, with two outs and their most mediocre batter on the plate, the opposing pitcher glared -- steeely-eyed with resolve, shaking his head at the fingers dropped by the catcher -- he thrust his hand out, showed the batter his grip, as if to say "This is what I'm throwing and you can't hit it!" -- then he wound up, windmilling his arm and arching dramatically backward --

-- and he fell over backward --

-- ears burning and his pride smarting at laughter from both teams and the bleachers, he rolled upright, teeth bared, he wound up and fired a fastball --

CRACK!!!

The stitched white sphere sailed into the air, described a speedy arc --

"FAIR BALL!"

Young legs ran after the ball, caught it on the first bounce, spun and fired to the first baseman --

too late --

Mediocre the batter may've been on the stats page, but swift he certainly was: bladed young hands sliced through the air as he ran, eager young feet pounded the dirt with a swiftness and a determination that did his chosen sport due credit: he rounded second, beat the throw, blasted down the white line as the ball missed the third-baseman's glove, caught him in the gut --

He clapped a surprised hand to his belly, turned, fired the ball to the yelling catcher --

The catcher was fifteen feet from the bag, glove up, waving --

The ball arced swiftly into the waiting mitt --

The catcher wound up and fired the ball up the third-base line --

The runner twisted to miss being hit by the hard-thrown baseball, and war was declared.

He charged the catcher.

Two young ballplayers collided, rolled, each grappling, punching, snarling, thrashing, each putting forth a mighty, enthusiastic and inefficient effort to pound the other into the ground.

The Sheriff was on his feet, yelling encouragement when the catcher tried to drive the ball into the runner's belly: the Sheriff was moving when he saw the two charge one another, and the Sheriff reached fearlessly into the snarling malestrom of fists to haul each one to his feet, to hold each off the ground, to look from one to the other of these young, red-faced, fist-swinging, snarling young ballplayers.

Sheriff Linn Keller held a little boy off the ground and let them swing, and he threw his head back, and he laughed.

The picture of a laughing giant, holding a thrashing young warrior off the ground in each hand, made the weekly paper.

Edited December 11, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

AND THE SHERIFF WALKED OUT

Marnie Keller lowered her head and looked over her rimless spectacles at her pale eyed brother.

"Go on," she said softly. "I'll cover. It'll do you good to get mountains around you again!"

Jacob nodded, his expression going from serious to wistful.

"You're sure, Sis?"

Marnie caressed her brother's cheek with the backs of her fingers, looked at him with a gentle expression.

"Jacob," she said softly, "Daddy needs you now. I'm still Sheriff Emeritus.  Take your wife and son with you. It's time he rode real horses in real mountains!"

Jacob's grin was quick, bright, then he frowned, chewed on his bottom lip and looked at the floor, looked back at his sister.

"What was it Pa said about Mama?"

" 'I have often benefitted by listening to my beautiful bride,' " Marnie quoted.

Jacob nodded, smiled as he thought of Ruth, smiling at him that morning.

"You're right."

 

"Paul." 

Paul Barrents stopped.

He knew that tone of voice.

Linn turned, coffee mug in hand, went into the conference room.

Paul followed.

Linn dropped heavily back against the wall, raised his mug, took a noisy slurp.

Paul waited.

Linn leaned forward, set the mug on the table, looked at his old friend and chief deputy.

"I need some time off," he said. "Can you run it as acting Sheriff?"

Paul nodded once.  "Can do."

"Thank you."

"How's Shelly?"

Linn took a long breath, blew it out through puffed cheeks.

"She's one reason I need that time off."

Linn thrust away from the wall, picked up a folder, opened it, handed it to Barrents.

"Coroner's report."

Barrents began reading.

Linn saw the man's eyebrow raise.

He looked up at the Sheriff.

"Cause of death, multiple gunshot wounds," he said. "That much I expected, but ... crushed trachea?"

"Post-mortem. He documents that finding."

"I see."  Barrents scanned down, found the applicable entry, nodded, looked at the Sheriff.

"Any charges of abusing a corpse?"

"Not after they found out what happened."

 

Shelly ran forward, set the big orange box down, made a quick survey while her hands released latches, threw the lids open: she knew where to reach to find what she needed, she worked her hands into gloves, tore open gauze and a Bloodstopper insert.

She looked up at her father, halfway between the squad and the patient: "Single gunshot wound, lateral thigh, no arterial."

Shelly caught movement from the corner of her eye.

A man was approaching -- almost running -- Shelly threw herself back as he raised the pistol, fired three times into her patient's chest.

He swung the gunmuzzle toward her.

His voice was quiet.

Very quiet.

Calm.

Controlled.

"Give me," he said, "your phone."

Shelly had fallen back; she rolled a little, reached behind her --

The Captain stopped, his hand tight on the lapel mike, he spoke quickly, urgently into the plastic box on his shoulder --

The man turned --

Shelly raised her hand --

She said later she did not remember aiming, she did not remember firing.

All she knew was she felt her pocket pistol's flat handle in her grip, she was looking at the man that just murdered her patient and now he was going to murder her, she genuinely didn't realize she'd drawn and aimed and fired until the slide locked back.

She rolled, rolled again, scrambled up on all fours, the flat little automatic still in her desperate grip.

She looked at it.

Slide's locked back.

Empty.

RELOAD!

Shelly Keller, wife of the pale eyed Sheriff, thrust her hand into her hip pocket, gripped the spare magazine.

Suddenly dropping the magazine was confusing, clumsy: she finally pressed the checkered button, stared as the empty mag kicked out and fell, then she ran the fresh mag into the handle, amazed that it went in so easily.

She lowered her hand, brought it up, smacked the bottom of the mag -- hard! -- laid her hand over the slide, pulled it back, released.

She felt the slide slam back into battery.

Shelly Keller, paramedic, wife, mother, and now survivor, sat on the cold dirt, pistol in hand, eyes wide and staring with shock.

 

"I got there," Linn said quietly, "and the original patient was dead and so was his killer."

Barrents listened, his face as expressionless as carved wood.

He already knew these things.

He also knew his lifelong friend needed to put them into words.

"I saw my wife -- she had her pistol in a death grip -- I eased it out of her hand and took her under the arms, I picked her up and asked her if she could stand."

Barrents listened: only the brightness of his eyes betrayed that he was a living creature and not a statue.

"She told me the fellow on his back murdered her patient and tried to kill her.

"I let go of my wife and I turned to the man on the ground.

"I looked down at him and then I went to one knee and went for the carotid.

"Paul ..."  Linn swallowed, his bottom jaw thrust forward -- "Paul, I prayed to Almighty God that he was still alive."

Linn's face had been turned toward the table, as if watching his account play out on the plastic tablecloth's surface: he looked up, his eyes hard, his face pale and tight-drawn over his cheekbones.

"I prayed he was still alive, because I wanted to be the one that killed him.

"I drove my hand into his neck, Paul, and I squeezed just as hard as I could, and I hauled his damned carcass off the ground by the throat and" -- 

Linn closed his eyes, too a long, calming breath.

"And I realized he was dead and there was nothing more I could do to him, so I dropped him.

"I wanted to haymaker a good one up under his ribs, Paul" -- his fist rose a little, his arm cocked as if ready to drive it through the memory that fired his blood anew -- "I wanted to drive my fist up into his gut and out between his shoulder blades!"

Paul waited.

Linn opened his fist, rubbed his face with both hands.

"I need to get away," he muttered.  "Shelly and I need to go somewhere. I need to show her some new country, I need to get her away from responsibility and duty --"

Paul felt the Sheriff flinch when he gripped the man's shoulder.

"Linn," Paul said quietly, "we'll take care of things. Take the time you need. It'll be okay."

Linn nodded.  "Shelly already testified at the inquest. Jacob's coming back to take care of the home place."

"It'll be good to see him again."

"He's married now, y'know."

"A pretty one."

Linn nodded, took a long breath again, blinked, realized he'd forgotten about his coffee.

He picked it up, drained the mug on one breath.

"My Grandmama used that stuff to strip varnish off rockin' chairs," Barrents said quietly.

"Yeah," Linn grunted. "When I make it, you could strip paint off a Mack truck!"

"Remind me not to drink your coffee.  How soon do you figure?"

"How soon can you take over?"

"Five minutes ago."

"You have all my passwords."

Barrents nodded, slowly, once.

"You know how to contact me."

Again that slow, single nod.

"Linn?"

Linn looked at his chief deputy, surprised: normally Paul called him "Boss" as if it were an affectionate nickname -- one that affirmed that the Sheriff was indeed the man in charge.

"It's about time you're doing this. You're like a capacitor. You've soaked up so much from everything you've seen, you can either bleed it off on vacation, or you'll discharge by grabbin' someone by the throat."

It was Linn's turn to give a single, controlled nod.

"You were lucky this time. He was already dead."

Barrents clapped his hand firmly on the taller man's shoulder -- almost a blow -- Linn returned the grip in the same manner.

"Take the time you need," Paul said quietly. "We'll be here when you get back."

"Obliged."

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

BRASS IN THE AIR, BLOOD ON THE GROUND

Linn's face went dead white.

He turned, bent: Shelly watched as he cinched her saddle tighter, then yelped as he turned, seized her around the waist, hauled her off the ground, dunked her into the saddle.

The expression on his face told her this was not a playful moment.

She found her stirrups, looked at her husband, looked up.

Linn saw her eyes widen.

He stepped back, slapped Peppermint's backside:  "GO!"

The mare needed no further encouragement:  Shelly bent in the saddle, gripped the rolled leather gullet, locked her heels in the Appaloosa mare's ribs.

Behind her, she heard her husband's rifle.

 

"But, dear," Shelly said, "you're not Sheriff here."

Linn's eyes smiled just a little as he pressed her hand gently between his, as he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers.

"Darlin'," he sighed, "I'm known from the Inter-System broadcasts. You know the ones. I've been put forth as an honest to God Almighty Sheriff, and it's what people expect to see."

She gave him a skeptical look: he released her hand, hugged her to him, and she felt him laughing inside as he laid his cheek down over her hair.

"Darlin'," he sighed, "I just feel better with a gunbelt around my middle! Was I not weighed down, why, skinny as I am, I'd likely float off like a balloon!"

"And why horses? Can't we take your Jeep?"
Linn kissed the top of his wife's head.

"Darlin'," he said gently, "we're goin' to a mostly undeveloped world. They've not done much to it and there's things I want to see."

"Why not go somewhere on Earth? We could --"

Shelly stopped herself, sighed.

"Undeveloped, you say."

Her long, tall husband nodded, once.

"Will they have passenger pigeons and Carolina parakeets and buffalo herds?"

"I reckon not, darlin'. They might have somethin' similar."

"What about ticks and Texas fever, or whatever-it-was that killed all the horses in South Africa when the Dutch colonized!"

"Rinderpest. You'll be wearin' Confederate plate and so will I. The horses will as well. None of us will get a bug bite, musquitter bite, no ticks will even climb up our pants legs."

"If they have ticks," Shelly muttered. "What about scorpions?"

"We'll be fine, darlin'."

"I suppose," she sighed, then looked up.  "Will we at least be sleeping in beds, under a roof?"

Linn laughed, nodded.

"Yes, darlin', and the water will be safe to drink."

 

Linn felt fear run like a dipper of cold water right down his back bone.

God Almighty, he thought, that looks like a brown river of death!

He looked at Pig Iron, who was walling his eyes, starting to raise his head -- he was dancing, muttering, not at all happy with what he was seeing --

Linn had no memory of seizing saddlehorn and cantle, he honestly did not recall launching off the ground, but his backside remembered slamming into saddle leather, he drove his boots into doghouse stirrups.

Pig Iron whirled, began lunging, neck out, pointing his nose toward the distant Appaloosa's retreating backside and doing his level best to set the Land Speed Record.

The fact that a living river of cloven hooved destruction flowed toward then at a flat-out gallop probably had something to do with his haste.

The ground was flat -- broad -- endless, or so it seemed -- mountains misty in the distance, nothing but grass, waves carved by the wind, gentle, leisurely in the sun --

Linn turned, looked behind, faced forward again: he stood in his stirrups, leaned forward, planted his palms on Pig Iron's neck.

He never uttered a word.

Inside, where no one could hear, he was beating his heels into his stallion's ribs, he was screaming RUN, DAMN YOU, RUN!!! -- but the outer man was moving with his horse, the outer man was squinting into the wind, the outer man saw they were gaining on Shelly and Peppermint, and for the moment, they were pulling away from a mile long stampede.

We can't run forever.

Either the stampede slows down or we find somewhere to shelter behind --

 

Jacob Keller caressed one of the white mares.

He and Marnie were the only ones who could tell them apart.

They drew the Irish Brigade's steam fire engine: his father worked with them on a daily basis, hitching them to a weighted wagon, driving a circuit on the two mile long, abandoned, paved roadway he'd bought when the property came available.

It was the work of but moments to get them collared, harnessed: they danced, but they danced happily, delighted for the attention, for the treats he flat-palmed for them: Victoria watched from the top of the board fence, delighting in how her Big Brother Jacob made that look so easy!

Jacob backed the mares a little, hitched onto the wagon.

Victoria took it completely for granted -- she took it as normal -- that the Ladies were not bitted.

"Stand," Jacob called, and the mares stood -- three abreast, slashing their tails.

Jacob climbed easily into the driver's box, sat.

"Yup, ladies," he called, "yup now," and three matched white mares eased ahead in an easy walk.

Jacob walked them around the pasture, then toward the gate:  Victoria scampered ahead, shot the bolt, hauled the heavy wooden gate open.

"Ho, now," Jacob called.

Victoria grabbed the trailing gate-cord, made four fast turns around a stake: she released the string, ran for the wagon, launched up into the driver's box: behind her, the string unwound, the weighted gate swung shut, latched.

Jacob slid over, pulled the horse whip from its pocket.

Victoria stood, took the braided handle in one hand, the braided-leather loops in the other: she tossed the loops in the air, swung her arm, spinning the whip in a big, showy circle: long practice showed, for she turned braided leather into a living creature, she swung it around, overhead, the back, rolled it forward like a fly-fisherman casting a line: Victoria snapped a hole in the air three feet above the lead mare's ears.

"SAINT FLORIAN, SAINT CRISTOPHER AND THE BLESSED MOTHER, LADIES, RUN!!!" she yelled, dropped into the upholstered seat and coiled her whip.

The mares drove forward into their padded collars, driving hard against the wagon's weight as they did the one thing they loved to do above all else.

Three matched white mares lunged against their collars, settled into a coordinated, smooth, falt-out gallop.

Victoria yelled encouragement, the mares pounded down the ancient pavement, around the wide turn at the end.

Jacob looked over at his little sister and she looked up at him and you could not have removed the grin from their faces off with a hammer and chisel!

Horses, wagon, brother and sister, up the rise and down the other side at a wide open, ears-pinned-back gallop, with a couple of guardian angels, gauzy and streaming in the wind, white-knuckle-clinging to their shirt tails!

 

Linn brought Pig Iron around, hauled his '76 rifle out of its scabbard: his eyes were pale, his teeth set.

Shelly was behind the only shelter there was.

A tree.

One, solitary, twisted, tree.

"PIG IRON!"  Linn yelled.  "STAND!"

He kicked free of his stirrups, dropped to the earth, hauled the rifle's checkered hammer back.

Shelly pressed herself against the tree, Peppermint behind her: Shelly had the mare's reins in a death grip, she looked around the tree at a broad, dust raising, ground pounding river of utter destruction bearing down on them.

She remembered the deep BOOOMMM of the black powder loads, the swift deliberation of her husband's swift but accurate fire: he'd pulled three cartridges from their loops, held them between the fingers of his off hand -- Shelly saw him drop the leaders, saw the dead pile up, saw shining brass spinning in the air --

Shelly squeezed her eyes shut, pressed her face into the rough bark, felt as much as heard the stampede's approach --

The rifle stopped --

She looked, alarmed --

Linn stood, defiant, a .44 revolver in each hand, shooting left-right-left-right like he was throwing rocks, chopping the barrels down, invisible hatchets that dropped a running bovine with each cut.

Shelly stared, horrified, as brown death fell quite literally at her husband's feet, as he laid into them with thunder and death --

The river split --

Shelly moaned, her face grinding into the tree bark, Peppermint's chest shoved up warm and shivering against her back as ruin and destruction thundered around them --

Shelly swallowed, opened her eyes.

She looked around the tree, expecting to see bloody paste and shreds of denim where her husband used to be.

Linn punched out another empty, turned the cylinder, punched again, dropped fired brass to the ground.

He dropped fresh cartridges into the chambers, snapped the loading gate shut, holstered: he started reloading the right-hand .44.

Dead beeves, if you could call them that -- they were big, hairy like Highland cattle, cloven hooved, big as an American bison but lacking the curly-furred hump -- the nearest of the dead was half its length past him, the last to be shot before the splitting herd passed by.

Behind him, Pig Iron stood, muttering.

Linn thrust his left hand revolver into leather, pulled the tab over the hammer spur, bent, picked up his rifle.

He looked it over, frowned, wiped dirt off the action, grimaced at a dent and a scratch in the buttstock.

"That'll iron out," he muttered, "hell of a way to treat a good rifle!" -- he thumbed rounds into the magazine, cranked one into the chamber, lowered the hammer to half cock, slid one last round through the loading gate.

He patted Pig Iron's shoulder, slid the rifle back into its carved scabbard, looked at his wife, still peering fearfully around the tree.

"Did you bring your skinnin' knife, darlin'?" he called. 

It took Shelly a minute to let go of the tree.

When she did, when she came unsteadily around the tree and toward her husband, her heartfelt reply honestly did not bear repeating in polite company.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

CARDED

Linn and Shelly ate in silence.

Shelly was not being icy or incommunicative, and Linn was not being stubborn and bullheaded.

Knives sliced easily through good tender beef: Linn chewed slowly, eyes closed, savoring the flavor: there were spices he did not recognize -- he'd assured Shelly all cooking spices were discreetly vetted by the Diplomatic Service, as she had concerns that some unknown compound might cause an allergic reaction, for which she was neither equipped nor prepared to treat.

Meat, something that sort of resembled fried taters, Linn thought he could taste something similar to onion; there were greens, simmered in shredded meat and meat stock -- the fare was simple, it was good, it set well on his stomach.

Shelly's mood was considerably improved by a long, hot bath in a genuine slipper tub.

She squeaked with surprise to find a girl attending her, but was quickly set at ease, and when the girl showed her how to scoot down just a little bit in the tub so she could lean her head back on a broad, almost seashell shaped section at the head of the tub, soothing-warm water was poured slowly onto the front of her scalp, the pleasantly-warm water flowing back, and the girl worked an herbal smelling shampoo into her hair -- "My Mama taught me how to make this," she was told as busy fingers worked soap into her hair, as skilled fingers massaged tension from her scalp -- "Miz Marnie favors Mama's soap for her hair."

Shelly's eyes opened, surprised:  "Is that why it looks so much better than it did?" she blurted, and the girl laughed.

"Yas'm," she murmured as she worked massaging magic down the back of Shelly's skull, as she worked the tension out of the thick leaders in the back of her neck.

"Oh, God, this feels so good," Shelly groaned.

"Miz Marnie thought you might, Miz Shelly."

Once her long, pleasant soak was finished, once she was dried and powdered and in a white-flannel gown, Shelly took a long look at her luggage and considered the outfits she'd brought, then she looked at the ornate, pastel gown hanging and ready in case she wished something other than what she'd brought.

When Shelly glided down the stairs, she did so with all the regal ease of a woman of quality: men rose at her approach, several bowed slightly: she inclined her head with a quiet smile, looked across the room at her husband.

A well dressed wife joined her well dressed husband, both clean, both relaxed, both hungry.

Shelly was satisfied her husband still went his way armed -- he usually did -- but the drape of his coat "concealed a multitude of sins," as he put it: he drew out her chair, slid her in, then seated himself across the intimate little table from her.

The meal was truly excellent: the serving-girl wore a proper, long-skirted uniform, a starched apron and a starched, white cap, and she took what was obvious pride in telling them the coffee she poured from a genuine silver pot, was something new, something called Ambassador's Blend, this season's crop: they both tried it and agreed that this was genuinely excellent coffee, and neither of them missed the look of pleasure on the serving-girl's face when they made their approving pronouncement.

The Sheriff and his wife were intercepted by a delegation of local dignitaries, which surprised Linn not at all, but surprised Shelly greatly: introductions were made, Shelly never in her life had her knuckles kissed so many times; they retired to a more private room, where toasts were made, fluted glasses raised to a number of names neither Shelly nor her pale eyed husband had ever heard, but when the final salute to "our blessed Father Lee!" was offered, Shelly noticed her husband's broad, delighted grin as he joined this hoist to a legendary figure from their united past.

Shelly was abducted by a pastel flock of chattering, smiling, terribly curious women who wished to know more about this gentle creature wedded to a near-legend they'd only seen on the Inter-System, and never in person until tonight: Shelly, too, wished their counsel, for she was very much a stranger in a strange land.

Linn's eyes were busy: he paid close attention to what was said, within earshot, he maintained a firm eye contact with anyone addressing him, but he managed to scan the room as frequently, but as unobtrusively, as he could arrange.

In so doing he noted his wife's earnest conversation with a half-dozen well-dressed ladies, and when Shelly approached him on the quick-step, he turned and took her hand:  "My dear," he murmured, as he raised her knuckles to his lips.

I could get used to this, Shelly thought: her hand claimed his arm and she smiled at the men, some annoyed, some curious as to this unanticipated interruption.

"Gentlemen, a moment, I beg of you," she said with a smile:  "I promise I will return my husband to you, undamaged."

Her innocent expression -- and the sight of a diminutive woman on the arm of a tall, broad-shouldered, lean-waisted man -- had the desired effect: their hosts chuckled, smiled, nodded, and Shelly steered the Sheriff a few steps away, spoke quietly, urgently.

A young woman glided up to them, her hands clasped nervously as Shelly extended a hand, drew her in.

"Dearest, the gentleman in the white, spade-cut beard. Striped vest, velvet lapels."

Linn looked closely at his wife, gave the barest of nods, knowing they were watched, and watched closely.

"This is his daughter. I noticed his color and -- some other things," she almost stammered, then she looked Linn very directly in the eye.

"He is in renal failure. Medical intervention is requested."

Again that serious look, that brief nod.

"The man to his left, the one that's coughing. I do not believe it tuberculosis, it smells of lung cancer."

Linn's jaw slid out, he looked at the fearful young woman almost shrinking behind Shelly.

"Forgive me, my Lady," Linn said carefully, "we have not been properly introduced."  He extended a hand, palm up:  "Linn Keller."

The young lady placed her hand in his:  "Chloe Tolliver."

Linn raised her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles carefully.

"Chloe," he said quietly. "An herb. Medicinal, I believe."  He released her hand.

"Tell me about your father."

When Linn returned to the group, the general discussion was resumed: there was the usual toadying, the political jockeying to get into the good graces of this notable figure; men sounded him out, more transparent than they realized, hoping to find something that could be turned to their political advantage.

When the group broke up -- the ladies came to the rescue, swarming the men with charm and with fluttering fans, gentle voices and feminine laughter -- the Sheriff laughed, shook hands all around: sleight-of-hand pressed a business card into two of their palms, and two men discreetly pocketed these unexpected missives.

Each one examined the business card in private.

On its front, a six point star at one end: in bold print, FIRELANDS COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFFICE,

on the second line, LINN KELLER, SHERIFF.

A phone number and a website, in smaller letters, almost underlined the bold two lines preceding, which of course would mean nothing to these residents of an entirely different planet, but when the cards were turned over, the handwritten message was unmistakable:

SEE ME SOONEST

L.

 

Edited December 22, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

NO HOLES IN THE CEILING

That's the biggest beef I've seen in my LIFE!

Never mind that.

Put a .44 between his eyes.

Shelly's behind me but I can stop it.

One shot.

Hand tight and confident around the plow handle grip, thumb on the hammer spur, pull.

Hooves -- those big forehooves -- big around as a dishpan and steel-hard, cloven and scarred and I can see them clearly, I see the dust following them up from the ground as it's running at me in slow motion --

I can't move --

My hand is tight around the plow handle --

Pull --

PULL --

My eyes snapped open.

I breathed through my open mouth, doing my best to be silent, silent, don't let anyone know --

My heart was hammering, I was ready to launch out of bed --

Just a dream.

I reached over to my wife, found her hand, slipped my hand over hers, gripped it lightly: my big paw was big enough to close completely around hers, she closed her hand around my fingertips and stirred a little, then relaxed, her breathing unchanged, easy, quiet.

I held onto my wife's hand, the anchor to my sanity.

I closed my eyes, took a long, deep breath, blew it out.

Just a dream. 

I swallowed, willed myself to relax.

 

Here he comes again --

That's the biggest beef I've seen in my LIFE!

Never mind that.

Put a .44 between his eyes.

 

Shelly's behind me but I can stop it.

One shot.

Hand tight and confident around the plow handle grip, thumb on the hammer spur, pull.

Hooves -- those big forehooves -- big around as a dishpan and steel-hard, cloven and scarred and I can see them clearly, I see the dust following them up from the ground as it's running at me in slow motion, I can feel each individual hoof-strike pounding the hard ground --

The revolver comes easily out of leather, I raise it and drive it forward and the hammer is cocked already and I don't remember cocking the hammer and the sights settle on that broad bony plate between its eyes and I can do this and I press the trigger --

-- it doesn't move --

I YANK the trigger --

-- nothing --

YOU'LL RELEASE OR I'LL BREAK YOU OFF, DAMN YOU!

My eyes snapped open and so did my mouth and I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, shivering.

This time I slipped out, carefully, silently: I go over to the stand beside the window, I pour water, I drink, I pour water in the basin and dip with my hands and wash my face and scrub it dry on a nearby towel.

I bent at the waist, my hands turned backwards and the heels of my hands on the edge of the windowsill.

I got my breathing under control.

Barefoot, silent, I cat footed for the bunk, thought better of it.

Nightmares and the sound of pouring water have an effect on a man's kidneys.

I set the lid very carefully back on the chamber pot, trying my best to be quiet.

I troubled Shelly badly enough when we came out ahead of a stampede.

I'd no idea that would happen but it sure as hell did.

All I wanted was to ride in a wild country and maybe see the herd from a distance.

Silence in the room.

No wish to trouble her good rest.

I looked at the shadowed bed, the long shadow that was my wife, safe and warm under clean covers that smelled of sunshine and clean air.

I eased back under the covers, closed my eyes.

What was it I read about Sarah McKenna?

These are my dreams, she wrote.

I, and I alone, rule my dreams.

This is my kingdom.

Here I am supreme!

I took a long breath.

"Damn you, Beef," I whispered, "now I'm coming after you!"

I relaxed and imagined myself a submarine, settling into the dark lake of slumber.

I sank, relaxed, until I spread my legs and straddled into the hurricane deck of my saddled stallion.

Pig Iron swung his ears and muttered.

I caressed his neck, swung down.

"Stand," I murmured. "This one's mine."

Sandy-red death with long hair galloped toward me.

Six feet of polished, shining, slightly curved horns sprouted from the bovine head.

I drew my revolver and laughed.

The charging beef stopped, looked at me, confused.

I eared the hammer back, brought the barrel down level --

Front sight was perfectly framed in the adjustable square rear notch --

I pressed the trigger --

The beef flinched as a bulbous, bright-red nose appeared at the end of its beak, as a circus clown's colorful, pointed, pompom tipped hat sprouted from between its horns, as its horns deflated with the naughty noise of a little boy razzing a little girl on the playground.

The hammer fell, almost slowly --

A long, whizzing noise --

A cloud of butterflies rushed in a long, steady stream from the barrel, enveloped the beef, carried it away into the air and over the horizon, and I listened to its hysterical laughter as their wings tickled it every foot of the way.

I woke up.

Shelly was up on one elbow looking at me.

My arm was thrust straight up.

"Linn," Shelly said, "you were laughing."

I brought my arm down, rolled up on my side and looked at my wife.

"Look at the bright side, darlin'," I whispered.

"What's that?"

I rolled onto my back, looked up.

"No holes in the ceiling."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

BREAKFAST

 

Whenever it was humanly possible -- unless interrupted by fire, murder, or the cows getting out -- Linn and Shelly had a morning ritual.

They would stretch.

Before getting dressed, they would stretch: slowly, methodically, thoroughly: their daughters did this, and were quite accomplished dancers as a result.

Their sons did this, and they were blazingly effective in a variety of disciplines that concentrated on less than gentle means of pacifying thy neighbor.

It can honestly be said that skill at dance translated directly to skill at said arts martial, and that skill at those arts martial, added to skill in the dance, but that is for wiser heads than my own to contemplate.

They stretched in silence, their moves coordinated, graceful, the intimate ballet of two people who knew what it was to have need of every bit of strength, every bit of flexibility, that they could possibly muster.

When they were done, after hooking their ankles together and cranking out sit-ups and after rolling over and pushing the floor away from them several times (the Sheriff would push briskly away and clap his hands, then drop into the next one, push and clap and do it again ... whereupon his beautiful bride would sear the side of his head with a mock glare as she muttered, "Show-off!")

Thus it was that, when they descended for breakfast, the Sheriff in his trademark, severe, unrelieved black suit, a white shirt and blue-silk necktie with a single, small, diamond stickpin, with his wife in another of the gowns she decided she was really liking; her hand on his arm, they descended the stairs together, slowly, each content to be in the other's company.

They were met by a serving-girl, and by a tradesman with an uncertain expression, with traces of blood on what was supposed to be a fresh, clean slaughterhouse apron: he touched his forelock nervously, his face reddened as he looked at Shelly and muttered "Ma'am," then addressed the Sheriff as he extended a cloth poke.

"We thank ye for the Wildts," he said, swallowed: "ye've lined our pockets an' that be yer share."

The Sheriff accepted the poke, weighed it in his hand, nodded.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I would honestly hate to have seen that much meat go to waste."

The butcher grinned, quickly, nodded with jerky little twitches of his head: "We'd ... it's work, 'tis, t' get Wildts in f'r slaughter. This was th' easiest we've had it f'r some time!"

"Many thanks," Linn said quietly: the man touched his forelock again, backed up a few steps before turning to leave.

The serving-girl fretted silently during the exchange; she turned distressed eyes to Shelly, perhaps seeking some feminine reassurance:  "I'm sorry, sor, he'd no' be denied," and the Sheriff gave her a patient, almost amused look and said in his deep, comforting, Daddy-voice, "My dear, no harm was done and no offense was taken. Is a breakfast table available?"

Shelly did not miss the honest relief cascading from the girl's face: she dipped her knees, turned quickly, led the way to a table in the very center of the room.

"I guess we're being shown off," Linn murmured, and he felt his wife's squeeze of agreement on his coat-sleeve.

Linn drew out the chair for his wife, scooted her in: he managed to look fatherly and wise as he turned to the serving-girl in starched cap and apron and asked in a kindly voice, "What's good this morning?"

She smiled, quickly, brightly, the expression of a girl delighted in being addressed thus: coffee and fried eggs, a thin, fried meat and Johnny-cakes arrived, with a native syrup and what almost tasted like butter: the dining room was anything but empty, and the Sheriff and his wife knew they were the subject of discreet scrutiny.

"Darlin'," Linn murmured as he cut into a thin, fried meat of some kind, "I believe you are a celebrity here!"

Shelly, her face reddening, looked from under feminine eyebrows and murmured softly, "Is it socially proper for a celebrity to pelt her husband with breakfast rolls?"

They laughed quietly; conversation around them was muted, their own conversation was quiet-voiced as Shelly asked, "That man who spoke to you ... was that about yesterday?"
Linn nodded, forked another slice of rolled-up, fork-speared meat into his mouth, chewed: he took a careful sip of truly excellent coffee, regarded his wife with a serious expression.

"I couldn't stand to see that much good meat just go to waste," he said, "so I exercised a diplomatic prerogative and had a liaison contact the local abattoir. I'd be surprised if they're not making use of every part of the carcasses -- hide, hooves, horn and bellow."

"It sounds like you did them a service."

"From the weight of that bag he handed me," Linn admitted, "I think you're right!"

When their meal was concluded, Linn summoned the serving girl with an upraised hand: he rose, drew her close to his seated wife, spoke so only they could hear: others in the room saw this, noticed this, but could not hear the conversation, which is exactly what Linn wanted.

The serving-girl dipped her knees in apparent agreement, Linn raised a hand, a teaching-finger upraised: eyes followed this gesture, and completely missed his discreetly slipping Coin of the Realm into her apron-pocket: the Sheriff inclined his head courteously as the serving-girl dipped her knees and busied herself with clearing the table.

Shelly took her husband's arm; they glided to the front, where a man waited behind a polished countertop: Linn's expression was pleasant, he acknowledged the greetings as they passed through the room, he stopped, he bent a little closer to the man in the pressed shirt and neatly-trimmed mustache, and whatever passed between them, resulted in their quiet, mutual laughter: Shelly released her husband's arm, withdrew a discreet half-step as her husband paid the bill, and the two ascended the stairs again, re-entered their room, locked the door.

Shelly tilted her head a little and looked thoughtfully at her husband.

"I could get used to this," she admitted.

"How's that?" Linn grinned, taking her elbows and brushing her nose with his curled handlebar.

She looked into her husband's eyes and said softly, "I have never felt so much like a Lady, in all of my life!"

Linn raised her knuckles to his lips, kissed them, held her hand between his as he replied, "Darlin', a woman is at her most attractive when she is at her most feminine."

He frowned.

"That sounded awkward as hell," he muttered, at least until Shelly took his face between her hands,  lifted her face to his, gave him her mouth, and put an end to any further conversation.

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

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH

Jacob slapped a hand on the fencepost, vaulted over the whitewashed fence, landed flat-footed, bent his knees to take up the landing: he strode toward the tan Sheriff's cruiser with a grin and an outstretched hand.

Paul Barrents seized the younger man's hand and they pulled into a strong embrace, pounding one another's backs, laughing, both men talking -- "Damn it's good to see you!" and "You look better'n you did last I saw you!" and "Howinthehell you been!"

"I'd hoped to see you!" Barrents said, his voice low, the way he spoke when he really meant something.

"That was some jump over that fence!"

"I keep our quarters at gravity-and-a-quarter," Jacob laughed. "Ruth said she can dance all night in this light gravity!"

"Ruth ... that good-lookin' wife of yours?"

"Yep! She's inside, come on in and I'll introduce you! You've not met her?"

Barrents shook his head. "I've seen her on the screen, that's all."

The front door opened and Ruth stepped out, drying her hands on a dishtowel, smiling: "Are you staying for supper?"

Jacob and Paul came up on the porch: Paul tucked his uniform Stetson under his off arm.

"Ruth, this is Paul Barrents, and there's no man in this world I trust more!"

"What about your father?" Paul asked, surprised, and Jacob laughed again.

"He's not on-planet right now!"

 

The sound of a full-house .44 in an enclosed room is a wondrous thing indeed.

The man who'd pointed a pistol at the Sheriff looked surprised, then looked down, looked back up, then fell forward over the table, dead.

Shelly, for her part, was limbered up, stretched out, she was warmed up, she caught a man under the chin with the toe of her shoe, turned her hips, brought her knee back to her belly and drove a side-kick into an unsuspecting man's hip: she seized the back of a chair to keep her balance, whirled, brought the chair around as Linn shoved his own chair back, came up with a second revolver, turned.

A man with one hand upraised, fell limp, the hand-ax dropping from dead fingers as the cast lead slug went in under his jaw and came out between his ears and kept right on a-goin'.

Shelly's chair raked one man, broke another's arm: she spun, her heel driving into the side of a knee, she seized the tray from the adjacent table and sliced its rolled edge into a cheekbone, blocked a knife-thrust, brought her knee up, hard, twisted the tray: a man doubled over, his vision hazed with the absolute detonation of a sunball's agony from the woman's response to nearly inheriting a blade between the ribs.

Shelly reached over, tore the knife free of the stamped-steel tray, and the fight was over.

Across the table, her husband was turning, slowly, clearly very ready to continue however much of a young war anyone wanted.

Nobody did.

He eased the hammers down on his .44s, holstered one: his fingers had eyes as he punched out the fired empties, dunked in fresh rounds, closed the loading gate, holstered: he brought the right hand revolver out -- those who watched in shocked fascination saw the gold-inlaid scrollwork encircling the gunmuzzle, saw the gold-inlaid Thunder Bird on the side of the frame, the lifelike rose chased into the flat top strap.

He thrust the second, reloaded revolver into its holster, but he did not fasten the hold-down tabs: he pulled on their bottom ends, drew them down and out of the way.

Behind him, through the tall windows, they saw something flat-sided and silver descending with the sudden booming of landing jets blasting against the brick street as it landed.

The Sheriff and his wife's protective fields -- hidden, worn at the small of their backs -- were proof against gunshot damaging their ears; truth be told, had the first opponent, the one who pulled an old-fashioned pocket pistol and aimed it at the Sheriff while shouting that he was a dirty Yank, succeeded in firing before the Sheriff's bullet seared under the table and blasted through his belt buckle and out the back of a shattered pelvis ... well, had that initial assault been completed, the body-field would have kept the man safe, and not even the skull-cleaving hand ax would have posed a threat.

Hard hands that seized the Sheriff's wife, now ... Shelly reacted rather than thought, Shelly attacked, Shelly responded as she'd been trained, and in the bright moment after everything stopped, she stood, lips thin and colorless, the knife held like she knew how to use it, and men round about the Sheriff's table, backed away, carefully, none wishing to draw attention from Mr. and Mrs. Death.

It did not take long for the local constabulary to arrive, for officials high and low to come pouring in: the Sheriff was content to let local authority sort out who-all was involved in this brutal, cowardly and unconscionable attack, and then the Cavalry arrived.

An Ithaca twelve-gauge rack-shak!'d into battery as Angela stormed through the front door, her eyes dead pale, her face stretched tight across her cheek bones: uniformed Confederate soldiers, each with a pump shotgun and a set jaw, marched in a double column behind her.

Angela's glare was sufficient to clear the path between herself and her Mama.

Shelly looked at her daughter, her expression set, determined, then she looked at the groaning man curled up on the floor.

"That one," Angela said.  "Take him."

Hard hands seized him, hauled him to his feet.

One of the local lawmen looked at the Sheriff.

"Do you wish to prefer charges, sir?"

"Attempted murder of both my wife and myself, with weapon specifications," the Sheriff said quietly, his voice flat, unemotional: "attempted kidnap of my wife, weapon specification, impersonation of a human being, mopery with intent to creep, and as many local statutes as can be brought to bear."

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get here, Daddy," Angela said as she circled behind her Daddy, her back to him, her eyes like gun-turrets, directed protectively outward: "traffic was just awful this morning!"

 

 

 

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

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

CATFIGHT

Grey-uniformed men formed into a line, came stiffly to attention: Angela stood on her Daddy's right, her shotgun laid back against her shoulder, pointed vertically, her name tag turned to show the six point star.

Shelly stood on her husband's left: she released her hold on his arm, moved slightly to the side to give his draw-stroke the room it would need, should matters come to that.

The Mayor removed his hat, looked uncertainly from the approaching woman and her official entourage, to the pale-eyed Sheriff and his pale-eyed daughter, flanked and backed by lean, uniformed young men in grey.

The woman extended her elbow-length-gloved hand to the Sheriff.

Linn took a half-step forward, took her hand, raised the backs of her fingers to his lips: "Madame Governeur," he murmured.

"Sheriff," she said, a distinct chill in her voice, her eyes busy.

"Do you usually receive official guests with such a display of weaponry?"

"No ma'am," Linn said, just as coldly.  "Usually I'm the one holding the shotgun, but today I'm letting my little girl do my light work."

"I was intending to call upon you later today," the Governor replied haughtily, "but this recent ... unpleasantness ... required my change of plans."

"Very kind of you," Linn said quietly, his eyes veiled.

Shelly glared at the woman as Madame Governeur looked directly at her and then raised her chin a fraction.

"Sheriff, I do not appreciate your violent response."

"Madame Governeur, I do not appreciate two murderers attempting to kill me and kidnappers laying hands on my wife," the Sheriff said, and Shelly could feel the cold cascading from the man: "if this is your idea of propriety --"

"I will judge here, Sheriff," the Governor snapped.

The Sheriff stepped forward: "Madam," he said, his voice grinding like rocks rolling around in the bottom of a deep well, "my wife was endangered, my wife was placed in deadly peril, and I do not let that pass."

The Governor folded her arms, lifted her chin, and the Sheriff leaned down a little, deliberately invading her personal space to a shocking degree as he said quietly, "Do with that what you will, madam!"

What she did with it, was to slap him.

She stepped back, she drew her hand back, telegraphing hell out of her move.

The Sheriff never flinched.

The sound of her gloved hand smacking his cheek was loud, shocking -- just as shocking as the speed with which he backhanded her in reply.

Shotguns came down level as her uniformed entourage started to move, as hands sliced under coats.

"Tell your people to hold very still," Linn said softly, his nose a half inch from hers. "Anybody who produces a weapon will be shot, and you will be arrested for armed assault on a Diplomatic personage."

Venom sizzled behind her curled eyelashes.

"You can't win this one," Linn added, then stepped back.

"ACCORDING TO THE ANCIENT CODE," he declared in a loud voice, "YOU, MADAME GOVERNEUR, HAVE PERSONALLLY CHALLENGED ME TO A DUEL OF HONOR, AND I HAVE ACCEPTED. YOU WILL NOW STATE DATE, TIME AND CHOICE OF WEAPONS!"

"You wouldn't!" she hissed, the color running from her face as she realized just how big a bear she'd just poked.

"BEFORE THESE WITNESSES ASSEMBLED, MADAM, YOU WILL CHOOSE AND YOU WILL CHOOSE NOW!"  He lowered his head, gave her the full power of his pale eyes and added, "Or I will choose!"

The woman swallowed, sick with the realization that she'd just charged into a corner she couldn't get out of.

"Let me, Daddy," Angela said.  "I'll take her."

"No," Shelly snapped, pushing her husband back and thrusting her face into the Governor's. "I'm the injured party here."

Shelly's hands fisted into gloved, quivering knots as her face reddened, as the cords stood out in her neck, as she SCREAMED into another woman's face, "MY HUSBAND KEPT ME SAFE!  YOU DID NOT!"

Two women screamed and tore into one another, teeth bared: they clawed at one another, Shelly got a handful of the woman's hair, pulled hard, kicked her thigh: the Governor went down, a man's voice roared "NOBODY MOVES!"

Serious young eyes were steady as each set the front bead of his shotgun's barrel on a particular target, as young fingers curled into trigger guards: of all the experienced men in the Governor's detail, none doubted in the least that death hung in the air.

Two women clutched, twisted, hit the floor, rolled: propriety was abandoned as it descended into an honest-to-God catfight: the Governor's gloves kept her from using her lacquered claws -- which would not have done her any good, as Shelly's defensive field was active -- the Governor managed an inexpert punch to Shelly's jaw, which was like punching a block of soft rubber.

Shelly's return strike, on the other hand, a heelstrike to the woman's nose, shattered cartilage and started a crimson flood: the suddenly-pained Governeur screamed, rolled, both hands to her face.

Shelly's knees were on the floor, she was a-straddle of the Governeur's belly: Linn's hands were warm and strong on his wife's shoulders, not controlling, but suggesting.

Shelly stood.

The Governeur rolled over, still holding her face, crying.

"The fight's over," the Sheriff said firmly, turned:  "Angela, take care of your mother."

Linn stepped over the sobbing woman.

"SENIOR RANKING OFFICER WILL STEP FORWARD!" the Sheriff roared in Command Voice.

One man raised his chin, took one step forward.

"Are you in command?" Linn demanded.

"Captain Harris," the man replied firmly, "commanding!"

"Do you stand as Madame Governeur's second?"

The man took a long breath, as if considering his mortality.

"I do, sir."

"In the Governeur's name, do you now withdraw the challenge to a duel of honor?"

"I ... would hesitate to speak for her."

Linn laid a hand on the man's shoulder, spoke quietly: people watched as the two men conferred, as the Captain nodded, as Linn stepped back.

"UNDER TERMS OF THE CODE, FIRST BLOOD HAS BEEN DRAWN AND HONOR IS SATISFIED," Linn declared loudly.

Shelly shifted her weight, as if to move: Angela's hand gripped her shoulder.

"Mamaaaa," Angela said quietly, a warning note in her voice.

Shelly sighed, glared entirely unsympathetically as the Governeur was helped to her feet, as her bleeding nose was tended: shotgun barrels were returned to the vertical, and the Sheriff turned, thrust out a bladed hand.

A very uncertain serving-girl advanced to his summons, turning sideways to slip between staring spectators.

Linn pressed something into her hand, spoke quietly: she looked at him with big, uncertain eyes, nodded.

Linn turned to the Mayor, ran his arm around the man's shoulder: spectators drew back quickly to let them through to a table as grey-uniformed Confederates arranged themselves in military-neat ranks behind and beside Angela and her mother.

"Mister Mayor," Linn said quietly as he steered the man to a table, as they sat, "ever get the feeling that a hot potato just dropped in your lap?"

The Mayor wasn't really familiar with the phrase, but he understood its meaning: he nodded uncertainly.

"The Governor wanted to make trouble and she found quite a bit more of it than she wanted," Linn said quietly.  "I won't be lied to and I won't be pushed and no politician is going to bully me, especially when I'm in the right, and when it comes to my family, I'll go up against any man in any land at any time."

The serving girl came up, looked at the Sheriff, at the mayor.

"Darlin'," Linn said, "the Mayor here looks like he could use a drink.  Give the man what he's havin'."

"Whiskey," the Mayor said.

"Make it a double," Linn suggested, "nothing for me, thank you."

He looked at the Mayor again.

"Sir, this was not an isolated incident. I'll leave it up to you and your people to find out who else was involved. This is your jurisdiction and I'll trust you to handle the investigation and prosecution."

The Mayor nodded his understanding.

"When men plot to do evil, they often do their best to keep it secret. Too often nobody knows anything is afoot until the attack. I think that might be what happened here."

"What about the Governor?" the Mayor asked.

"If she wants to press charges, I'm sure the Supreme Confederate will have her up on charges for assault, not to mention answering for this attack on Diplomatic personnel."

The Mayor looked up, watched the broad-bottom glass descend to the tabletop with its shimmering amber payload.

"Mister Mayor," Linn said, "I believe we'll pull our freight and head out. You take good care now."

 

Linn and Shelly mounted up, looked up as the Diplomatic shuttle lifted, as dust rolled and windows rattled and men clapped hands to their hats and turned away from the liftoff blast.

Linn pressed a control on his wrist-unit, opened the Iris.

A man in a tailored suit and a woman in jeans and boots rode through the Iris.

Everyone was watching the shuttle's screaming takeoff, watched it lift, turn, watched the Iris open, watched the silver box drive through the black ellipse, watched the ellipse close like a vertical eye-slit, as silence suddenly covered the main street.

Nobody saw the Sheriff and his wife leave, and that suited them both.

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE ANCIENT AND HONORED SPORT

Acting Sheriff Paul Barrents, Jacob Keller and his wife Ruth (with their drowsy little boy happily cuddled in his Pa's lap) watched the Inter-System News.

It looked almost like a Western: a pale-eyed lawman fired a shot under the table, twisted, shot a second man with an upraised ax; as is ubiquitous and unavoidable in news broadcasts, a talking head replaced the interesting action with solemn pronouncements and official quotes from notables.

Barrents sighed.

"Some things never change," he said quietly.

Joseph's head was laid back against his Pa's collarbone; he was relaxed, boneless, as little boys are when sound asleep, when they feel absolutely safe: Paul's eyes narrowed with pleasure to see it, and he could not but think of his own son, and how he'd slept in Paul's lap, just like that.

The news broadcast ended with the Sheriff and his wife turning their mounts to watch the Diplomatic shuttle rise and turn and fly through an Iris, then husband and wife turned and rode through their own Iris, as silent, as uneventful, as the shuttle's lift-off had been loud and showy.

"What the news didn't tell you," Jacob said quietly -- quietly, for it was his habit to speak in a soft voice, unless volume was called for -- "was that Pa backhanded the Governor, it damn neart came to a duel, Mama jumped into the middle of it and just turned into a buzz saw --"

Barrents' eyes showed a momentary shock, quickly hidden, but he could not conceal his look of concern, for he'd always known Shelly as competent, confident, an ace paramedic, but in all cases, absolutely a Lady worthy of the name!

"Your mama?" he asked, and Jacob smiled, looked down at his sleeping son, looked up, nodded.

Barrents whistled soundlessly.

 

Shelly and Linn emerged in a paved parking lot.

A half-dozen steam broughams were parked; people were clustered, talking, laughing: they turned, stared as the Sheriff and his wife emerged from a black ellipse that shut silently behind them, disappeared.

Visitors to the Falls stared as the Sheriff and his wife rode casually toward the walkway to the overlook.

Green-painted pipe railings directed them to the overhanging vantage, a concrete finger thrust boldly out over the mist-rolling precipice.

They walked their saddlemounts out to the lollipop-shaped cement observation point.

Pig Iron was absolutely uninterested in either the sight of a mile-wide shoulder of falling water, one measured statute mile of water curving from its smooth, oily surface and cascading straight down into clouds of mist.

Peppermint was less comfortable, but pipe railings were familiar enough that the mare didn't more than shake her head, lay her ears back and mutter.

Nobody else was on the overlook: they had the concrete vantage to themselves.

Husband and wife stared openly at this sight, this wonder that honestly paled Angel Falls for depth, and genuinely shamed the famous Niagara, for breadth.

The uniformed caretaker watched from his station, smiling a little.

He recognized them from the Inter-System; he knew this must be the pale eyed father of the Sheriff who'd come with his twins, the time the children -- innocent and unknowing -- clambered happily over the coarse rock fill, nearly becoming prey to a local population of rock snakes.

As the pair walked their horses back to the parking area, he lifted his cap and grinned as the lawman touched his hat-brim in acknowledgement, then the pair conferred, turned, walked their head-bobbing horses over to him, as the other visitors to Overlook stared.

"Friend," Linn grinned, teeth white and even under his curled handlebar, "where's a good place to eat hereabouts?"

Shelly mock-glared at her husband. 

"You'll have to forgive the Sheriff," she said. "He's a typical man, he only thinks of one thing."

Linn straightened, drummed innocent fingertips on his necktie as he rolled his eyes and whistled like a little boy trying to look innocent.

"Don't you give me that innocent look, Mister," Shelly snarled, then she turned to the caretaker, thrust stiff and accusing fingers at her husband:  "Don't let him fool you.  He's all mouth and hands.  There's only one thing on his mind."

Husband and wife looked at one another and in a united voice loudly declared, "FOOD!"

Linn laughed, and the caretaker laughed with them.

Linn thrust a bladed hand toward the broad, smooth waters feeding the falls.

"How's fishing?" he asked.

"Not that good," the man in the round cap admitted. "Rock snakes are part of it."

"Rock snakes?" Shelly exclaimed, turning Peppermint to look over the field of coarse fill.  "That's where ...?"

"Yes ma'am," the caretaker nodded.  "That's the place."

"It wouldn't take much for them to come up here," Linn said slowly.

"So far they haven't. They wait for prey to come out among the rocks. They'll wait for prey to get close to the water."

"Like Michael and Victoria did."

The caretaker nodded.  "You know them."

"Our grandchildren."

"You do ... favor their father," the caretaker said slowly, squinting up at the Sheriff.

"Jacob is my son."

"Ah."  He looked at Shelly.  "Forgive my saying so, ma'am, but your granddaughter looks very much like ... herself."

Shelly laughed, and it was a pleasant thing to hear: she tilted her head and said, "I've never been told that before!"

"We rarely run into an honest man in our line of work," Linn admitted.

"Ye'd be a Sheriff then."

Linn turned back his lapel, nodded: the caretaker stared at that famous six-point star, worn by that famous man he'd never seen before, save on the Inter-System.

"And your ... wife, or ... daughter?"

Shelly ducked her head a little, smiled quietly and turned an incredible shade of red.

"My wife," Linn grinned.  "She's younger, smarter and better lookin' than me, not necessarily in that order."

He looked at Shelly, looked back.

"On the other hand ... in that exact order!"

"There's Anna Mae's place less than a mile from here," the attendant said, thrusting his chin toward the downstream side exit.  "On your left, one story.  Doesn't look like much. This time of day it'll have a few buggies out front, shouldn't be too crowded."

"Is there anything to mark it as a place to eat?" Linn asked carefully.  "I'd hate to just walk into someone's home by mistake!"

The uniformed caretaker laughed. "It used to be," he admitted, "but no, they've a rolling pin tall as two men, propped up out front -- it's standing up and they've guyed it off -- it says ANNA MAE in big red letters!"

"Obliged."

The caregiver lifted his cap as the Sheriff touched his hat-brim, and two riders turned and trotted noisily through the steadily filling parking area of a popular tourist attraction.

 

If Shelly was hoping for a quiet meal, she didn't get one.

It could not be said that she was disappointed.

Shelly found herself the center of a very interested audience, who begged to know more about what she did in Firelands: several knew people who'd trained in Firelands, whether as firefighters, or as paramedics, and it was a moment not to be wasted, when the legendary instructress showed up in their favorite diner!

Shelly was used to teaching, and Shelly was used to handling a class, and Shelly was smiling, quick, charming and amusing: somehow the conversation turned itself to the unexpected, which is not at all what Shelly expected to discuss with an attentive and growing group of enthralled listeners; Linn leaned back and let his wife take the spotlight -- he enjoyed watching someone else do the work, just like their Chaplain enjoyed going to weddings as a spectator and not as an officiant -- he smiled a little, thanked the waitress as she set a basket of rolls and a pot of local honey on the table, as she poured something fragrant, herbal and bright green into his mug.

Shelly was animated, her hands doing as much talking as her words: she thrust an imaginary door aside, leaned a little to her left as if peeking in at something --

"And he dropped his drawers and shot me the FULL MOON!" she declared, dismay in her voice -- "BOTH CHEEKS!" -- she turned and glared at her husband -- "and THIS long tall drink of water came around the doorway just in time to see this, and whattaya think he did?"

Shelly looked around, the image of a flustered female, then lowered her brows, thrust an accusing arm-and-finger and continued loudly, "HE STUFFED HIS FIST IN HIS MOUTH TO KEEP LAUGHING, HE TURNED THE COLOR OF A ROTTEN STRAWBERRY AND HE SNORTED HIS WAY BACK TO HIS BUGGY, GOT IN AND SHUT THE DOOR SO HE COULD LAUGH AND NOBODY COULD HEAR HIM!"

It was not often that Anna Mae's place filled with genuine and heartfelt laughter; Shelly's delivery had as much to do with their amusement as the content she described, and even the waitress had to bring her bent wrist to her mouth to hide her own amusement.

"Now speaking of dancing," she said, knowing this sudden shift in conversation would be to her advantage, "I dance like a stepladder, but Long Tall and Handsome here" -- she shot a look at her husband, and Linn's eyes tightened a little at the corners as he felt his ears starting to warm -- "can take a stepladder and make it look good! I don't know how he does it -- I think it's in his blood -- but our children all have that gift.  They don't get it from me!"

"If I might interrupt?" Linn called gently, rising: "Anna Mae has taken the trouble to fix us an excellent meal, and my Mama did her best to beat some good manners into mmm -- (ahem!) -- I mean teach me good manners," he amended, with his very best Innocent Expression.

"It would be unmannerly if we were to ignore this excellent meal this young lady is bringing to our table, so please forgive us, but right now I'm about starved out."

He turned to the waitress, drew a cloth poke from his pocket, pressed it into her hand, murmured gently into her ear.

Her eyes widened, she looked at the heavy, almost lumpy poke, looked up at the Sheriff, nodded.

The Sheriff and his wife ate their meal, knowing they continued to be the subject of discussion, of study, of scrutiny: the elderly Anna Mae herself came out -- Linn was on his feet instantly, drew out a chair for her: they leaned their heads together, spoke quietly, confidentially:  Linn took her hands between his, patted her ancient knuckles gently, then raised her hand to his lips and kissed her time-worn, wrinkled hand:  she nodded, he smiled, she withdrew.

It was not until after the meal, not until they went back outside, not until the Sheriff introduced at least a dozen eager, delighted young to his stallion, not until laughing children were seized about the waist or under the arms and hauled high into the air, not until young legs straddled the Sheriff's saddle and young hands clutched the saddlehorn, and not until a shy little girl who'd hung back, was coaxed forward, and shown how to hold a dinner roll in her flat hand for Peppermint to lip off and eat -- only then were they able to mount up, and continue on their journey.

Linn turned his stallion, knowing their departure was watched, especially by little children with big eyes:  he lifted his Stetson, Pig Iron reared, whinnying loudly as he pawed steelshod hooves in windmilling salute, then they turned and galloped after his wife.

They rode abreast for about a mile, in silence, content to ride thus together, the occasional steam-brougham chuckle-hissing past, and finally Shelly broke the silence.

She drew up, and so did her husband.

"Just out of curiosity," Shelly said, "just what did you tell that waitress?"

"You mean after I gave her coin enough to buy that place ten times over?"

"That too."

Linn's grin was broad and bright, the expression he wore when he was pleased with himself.

"I'd heard the woman that ran the place wasn't in good health, that she was hurtin' for money and she'd considered selling off. Now she won't have to."

"Bribery," Shelly said in a disapproving voice.

"An ancient and honored sport!" Linn laughed, nodding.

"Just how much did you give her?"

Linn shrugged.  "Each monetary system is different.  Let's just say I believe in overkill. She'll not have to worry about money ever again."

Shelly raised a hand, shook her Mommy-finger at Linn, and declared "Show-off!" -- they both laughed -- he touched a control, they rode through an Iris, and were gone.

 

 

 

 

 

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

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

FORETHOUGHT

Pig Iron threw his head -- hard -- reared, reared again: Linn's backside was welded to saddle leather as his stallion made it quite clear he was ready for a young war.

Unfortunately, he was squared off with something that looked kind of like a bear, and whatever this reddish-brown bear-thing was, it had hornets or bees or something of the kind orbiting its head, honey smeared on its face and bottom jaw, and it was rearing and roaring and batting at something only it could see.

Linn turned his stallion, gigged him in the ribs.

If that thing runs like an American Grizzly, he thought, we could be in trouble!

 

"Pa went where again?"

"Slater's Dropoff."

"Did anyone tell him about the honey?"

"Don't rightly know."

Michael's face paled by several degrees: he turned, ran to Lightning, seized the rifle from its carved-leather scabbard, threw a leg over the saddle.

The drowsing Fanghorn was wide awake and on her feet in a tenth of a second or less.

The Sheriff's son bent his wrist, spoke urgently into his wrist-comm, locked his heels in the Fanghorn's barrel as she launched for the trails that wound and twisted up-mountain.

 

Linn brought Pig Iron to a fast halt, spun him around, got him off to the side, out of sight: the stallion stopped, shivering.

Linn threw up a leg, fell to the ground, landed flat-footed: he turned, looked at the stallion.

Linn trained his horses extensively, thoroughly: Stay, his hand-gesture said, and Pig Iron dropped his head a little and stood, nostrils flaring, breathing hard after his run.

Linn could see the trail the bear would have to take to come after them.

He laid a thumb over checkered steel, brought his Winchester hammer back to full stand, watched, listened.

Better than 400 grains of hard cast lead waited patiently in the rifle's machined-steel throat.

 

The bear shambled rather than galloped.

Linn frowned, recognizing something was wrong with the creature.

It staggered -- it fell sideways, biting at a bush, then swatting at something invisible --

Swatting at bees?

Rabies?

Doesn't matter.

I'll kill it before it kills me!

The bear half-howled, half-wailed, twisting its head and then falling over, paws in the air, for all the world like a playful dog bouncing a beach ball with all four paws.

Linn rose cautiously, knowing at this distance if the bear faced him, he could slip the hardcast .40-60 ball through whichever eye socket he pleased, unless he ran it right up its nose and through the sinus cavities into the brainstem.

The bear whined, twitched.

Linn backed up a step, a second, a third: Pig Iron draped his long jaw over the Sheriff's shoulder.

Linn eased the hammer down to half-cock, looked back at the bear, shoved a boot into the doghouse, swung aboard.

He eased Pig Iron out at a walk.

The stallion was not happy but he was obedient: Linn advanced them toward the bear, then turned the stallion, eased down trail.

They made twenty yards, fifty, a hundred --

Linn turned to face forward --

"Go," he whispered, and Pig Iron laid his ears back and ran!

 

Michael saw his father heading his way, rifle in hand.

Michael drew Lightning up, propped his own rifle up on his thigh, waited.

Pig Iron slowed, coasted to a stop, turned.

Father and son brought their rifles down to the ready.

"Sir?"

"Bear."

Michael's pale eyes studied the terrain.

"Loco?"

"Yep."

Michael knew his father's eyes would be running back up-trail, but also to the sides: the bear likely knew these mountains, and neither wanted to be flanked.

"What was he doing last you saw him, sir?"

"He'd twisted his head around and then laid down."

"On his back?"

Linn looked at his son, looked back to his back trail.

"Yep."

"He's dizzy, sir," Michael said. "You're safe now."

"Safe."

"Yes, sir."

"Michael, a grizzly can run as fast as a galloping horse!"

"No, sir."

Linn raised an eyebrow, caressed Pig Iron's neck as the stallion shifted, restless.

"Sir, did it look to have been into a honeycomb?"

Linn blinked, frowned, looked at his son.

"Yes."

"Sir, do you remember reading to me about rhododendron honey?"

Linn's mouth opened, then closed, and his eyes tightened a little at the corners as he nodded.

"I don't know what plant it is, sir. They don't have rhododendron here that I know of, but they've got something hallucinogenic. Bees make honey from it and the honey is potent."

"What about that bear?"

"Once they're on their backs, they're so far into a wild drunk you could walk up and shave their belly and draw a tic-tac-toe on it.  Another day or two and he'll sober up enough to have one genuine redbelly hell of a hangover."

"What's a hung over bear like?"

"Sick, sir.  He'll hunt water and likely lay down in it so he doesn't have to lift his head to take a drink."

Linn whistled.

"The only time I ever tried spirits to excess," Linn said quietly, " 'twas on white rum, I got loaded and how, and I didn't have a morning after, I had a day after."

"I'm sorry, sir."

Linn chuckled.  "Not as sorry as I was!" he admitted ruefully, then thrust his chin toward their back trail.

"That b'ar isn't going anywhere?"

"No, sir."

Linn nodded.

Michael bent his wrist, spoke quietly into the cuff of his coat sleeve.

Linn looked curiously at his son.

"I called off the Cavalry, sir," Michael explained.

"Good forethought."

"Thank you, sir."

 

 

 

 

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

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I'M SORRY, I HAVE TO GO

Sheriff Marnie Keller stopped in front of the wall-sized mirror in the underground schoolroom.

She looked at her reflection, and a pale eyed woman with Marine-short hair, a trim-waisted woman in a white Olympic skinsuit and a black basketweave gunbelt, looked back at her.

Not bad for having had children, she thought, then as happy little children flowed in a noisy flood into the room, she looked at them, smiled, turned to her reflection and stuck her thumbs in her ears, stuck out her tongue and waggled fanned fingers.

Colonists' children ran up beside her, stuck their thumbs in their ears and happily imitated their beloved Sheriff's facemaking.

Marnie laughed and skipped to the center of the room.

One of the aides brought over a thick-folded quilt, lay it down:  Marnie stood over the quilt, then crossed her ankles standing, sat down and was instantly seated Indian-style: limber children happily followed her example, and three classes' worth of children surrounded her in concentric rings.

Marnie knew most of the learning was off glowing screens, handheld devices contained their books, but she'd grown up sitting on her Daddy's lap while her big strong Daddy read from a genuine book.

For this reason, Marnie read to the children from a genuine book.

Most of the children were very young, and the story was written for the very young, but Miz Marnie was reading it, and Miz Marnie made it interesting.

She described a Beagle dog, its wet black nose snuffing happily along the ground, and a hand went up, and a voice with it:  "Miz Marnie, what's a Beagle dog?"

Marnie looked up, smiled: she lifted a hand, and a pure-white mountain Mastiff came gliding over -- Snowdrift's gait was accustomed to the Earth-and-a-quarter gravity in Marnie's quarters, in her exercise bays, in the repurposed Spinner, and Marnie smiled to see this genuinely big, hard-muscled canine flowing almost -- almost! -- on tiptoes.

Marnie looked suddenly smaller with Snowdrift sitting beside her.

"What kind of a dog is Snowdrift?" Marnie asked.

"A Mountain Mastiff!" came the happy chorus.

"Would you like to see a Beagle?" Marnie smiled.

Children looked at her with big and hopeful eyes: heads nodded, young faces smiled tentatively.

Miz Marnie picked up a glowing pad, held it up in front of her face, wiggled white-gloved fingers at it as if spellcasting, then she frowned, tapped at it, swiped a few times: she shook it, she scowled, leaned her face closer to the screen.

The glowing pad did not seem impressed.

Marnie pointed a finger toward the screen, turned her head a little, raised one eyebrow.

She looked at Snowdrift, held it over for the pure-white Mastiff's inspection.

"Snowdrift," she said quietly, "growl at it!"

Snowdrift stood, fur rippling the length of her spine; her lips pulled back a little, rippling as she snarled menacingly.

The screen brightened, went dark.

Marnie brought it back in front of her nose:  "Chicken!" she snapped, lay the screen down.

Marnie looked around, raised one hand to her face, thumb under her jaw, forefinger tapping her cheekbone thoughtfully.

"I think," she said, "we can still make this happen!"

She clapped her hands and called "Streak-er!"

Something brown, black and white, something on four legs, scampered briskly from the back of the room, slipping between delighted, laughing children: a Beagle dog ran up, dove into Marnie's crossed legs, curled up and lifted its muzzle, its white-tipped tail whapping her calves.

Marnie laughed, rubbed the Beagle-dog like the old friend he was.

"This is Streaker," Marnie smiled.  "When he was a pup he ran like a streak! -- so that's his name!"

Snowdrift blinked and elaborately ignored this newcomer.

 

Shelly Keller's gloved hand wrapped around her husband's black-sleeved arm.

Shelly knew her husband looked really good in that tailored black suit.

She honestly preferred him to wear it, because he looked more ... he looked more manly in it, and that made her feel more feminine, especially when she was dressed as she was, in a long gown and gloves, with a wig to feed her vanity and a fashionable little hat to complete her ensemble.

She detested women who preened before a powder-room mirror, but she had to admit ...

... on the arm of a handsome and masculine man, she positively glowed, at least inside!

The chauffeured steam-brougham chuffed quietly through light traffic, came to an easy stop in front of the imposing stone building.

Linn thanked the driver in a quiet and courteous voice; a uniformed porter opened their door, placed a low stool for Shelly's convenience: she thanked the blushing, uniformed young man, turned, waited for her husband to emerge.

Shelly took her husband's arm again, and together, a well-dressed gentleman and his well-dressed wife, they advanced toward the opera-house.

Doors were opened as they approached; men drew back, women looked enviously at the couple: Linn removed his Stetson with his off hand as they crossed the threshold, spun it easily, brought it under his off arm as casually as if he'd done this several times a day.

Shelly's grip was purposely light.

If her husband had to act quickly, she did not want her hand to impede his draw, or interfere with any move of offense or defense.

Just as Shelly drilled, sometimes with her daughters, sometimes with the Valkyries, sometimes with instructors hired for the purpose, so had she and her husband drilled to meet unexpected hostility, and one thing they practiced, was reacting when in a formal environment, where he and Shelly were both dressed up, where her hand claimed his arm, while they were side by side.

It was darker inside, but not very: they were shown to a box, which gave them an excellent view of the stage; Linn spoke quietly to the porter, who bowed, withdrew, silent on felt soles.

"If you are needful," Linn murmured, "the ladies' room is on your left. Each box has private facilities."

"You've been here before?" Shelly asked quietly, smiling: she knew opera-glasses would be turned their way, and she was grateful she'd asked for a professionally-styled wig.

"I research my subject," he replied quietly. "By the way, I took the liberty of ordering sweet tea with mint."

"They have tea?" Shelly almost whispered, surprised.

"One guess where it came from."

"Ambassador's Blend?" Shelly hazarded.

"Bingo," Linn agreed. "Our little girl has been busy."

Shelly's eyes were wide, bright as she looked around the interior of the opera-house.

She frowned, wished for a set of binoculars, or at least opera-glasses.

"Are those ... organ pipes?"

"They are," Linn murmured. "Biggest organ in this part of the System."

"I'm sorry," Shelly said softly. "I ... thought everyone would be fairly ... primitive."

"Some are," Linn agreed, "but some are advanced beyond Earth-level. Fortunately, the advanced worlds embraced Confederate technology, so they've not fouled air nor water, and all waste is recycled -- solid, liquid and gas. This world has impressive manufacturing and culture both."

The interior of the opera house was contoured, curved, its planes arranged to carry sound clearly: Shelly looked to the stage below them as a young woman walked to center front, the sound of her heels loud, distinct, clear.

"Darlin', do you remember I mentioned Victoria was Irish dancing out in the Confederacy somewhere?"

Shelly looked at her husband with a shocked expression.

"She's not!"

"No," Linn admitted, "but tonight's performance might look familiar."

His hand laid over hers and he looked to the stage below as the young woman at center stage front, began to speak.

 

Marnie's wrist-comm buzzed silently: she looked at it, frowned, stood abruptly: she handed the open book to one of the aides, looked around.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," she said, turned, her eyes lifting toward the nearest exit as she calculated her most direct route to the location of her rather urgent summons.

"You gonna kick some butt, Sheriff?" a little boy asked, and Marnie stopped, thrust a bladed hand at the little boy who'd just experience his first lost baby tooth that morning:  "I'm gonna kick someone's backside clear up between their shoulder blades!" she threatened, sneering up half her face.

Snowdrift flowed easily along behind her; the Beagle that appeared so real and looked so solid and warm and furry, disappeared, and as the bulkhead door slid shut behind her, Marnie heard the collective "Awww," of disappointment -- whether at the loss of Streaker the Beagle, or whether at the loss of their favorite storyteller, she wasn't really sure.

Marnie leaned forward and began running, taking long, gliding strides in the Martian gravity, Snowdrift pacing her easily.

 

The Sheriff thanked the young man as the tray was delivered: he lifted the tall, sweating-cold glass of sweet tea, handed it to his beautiful bride, took the shorter, steaming mug, held it in both hands.

Shelly sipped her mint tea, hummed with pleasure as she let it trickle down her throat.

Below them, on the stage, young women in elaborate dresses skipped from the wings, arranged themselves into ranks as the big pipe organ's voice flowed gently through the watchers' souls.

 

Marnie reached down, gripped a big handful of Snowdrift's fur: a security hatch opened as they approached, closed behind them.

Snowdrift handled the grav-tube descent far better than the first time Marnie tried it: they dropped quickly, slowed as they approached the next level; Marnie tapped a control, they dropped one more.

Marnie hit the door release.

Her eyes went a shade more pale and she smiled, and Snowdrift began to rumble, deep in her chest.

Marnie reached over her shoulder, gripped the baton handle as it ejected itself from its sheath: she spun the sidehandle baton in a tight arc, tucked it up under her left arm.

A pale-eyed Sheriff waded into a good, old-fashioned knock-down, drag-out brawl, a curly-furred, pure-white mountain Mastiff at her side.

 

Jacob hosed out the stalls, then his muck boots.

He'd scraped them clean, he'd dollied manure out to the pile, he'd ridden fence, his little boy delighted to cling to his Pa's coat and survey the world with bright and fearless eyes.

Ruth stood at one end of the pasture, smiling as she watched her husband and their son riding: she remembered her Jacob telling about riding behind his Pa in this selfsame manner.

She honestly expected Jacob to draw up, to get his little boy to stand up behind him and hold the shoulders of his coat, then turn and come hell-a-tearin' down the pasture, his stallion's ears laid back and his little boy laughing with delight as they did.

As long as they wouldn't jump the fence like he said he and his Pa did, Ruth thought, then she looked down at the cubby legged little girl who was crouched, studying an interesting bug climbing up a fencepost with all the sincerity of a wee child.

"Miriam," Ruth said gently, "do you want to see your Daddy?"

Miriam looked up at her Mama, her big blue eyes wide and innocent, and Ruth picked their little girl up, ran an arm under her backside:  "See him?"

Miriam giggled, an uncertain finger to the corner of her mouth, then she pointed:  "Da!" she declared happily, and Ruth laughed, hugged their daughter to her.

She looked over the fence again and her breath caught.

Apple-horse was pointed right at her, his ears were back and his nose punched out, hooves barely grazing the earth: Jacob was leaned forward a little, Joseph's head up and fearless, laughing with delight as he clung to his Pa's shoulders --

Ruth ducked and Miriam squealed and Joseph shouted with triumph as Apple-horse seared through the air, as steelshod hooves passed an arm's-length from the woman crouched behind the whitewashed, head-tall fence:  she turned as Apple-horse thundered into the distance, throwing up dirt clods and scattering a happy little boy's laughter into the early evening's shadows.

Miriam thrust out a chubby little arm and declared, "Da!" and laughed.

Somehow Ruth could not bring herself to be unhappy with her husband's reckless ride.

 

Shelly Keller stared, entranced, as young ladies in perfect sync, drove their collective rhythms into the boards of the stage.

Linn looked at his wife and smiled, just a little, satisfied he'd done something right.

 

Marnie Keller blocked a hard-swung club, kicked one man in the belly, brought her baton around, punched the short end into her attacker's ribs beside the breastbone: the man grimaced, eyes suddenly squinted with pain, as he collapsed, all the fight gone in an instant.

Snowdrift soared like a fur-covered missile, seized an extended coverall sleeve, clamped down -- hard! -- as the full weight of a lean-muscled mountain Mastiff came to the end of its arc, another man was yanked off his feet.

 

Victoria and Michael held hands as they walked through the Iris, stepped out into the empty house that smelled as if a meal was recently laid: they looked around, separated, searched the house, upstairs, then down.

Michael raised a hand, listened: Victoria froze, head tilted, frowning as she listened.

Brother and sister looked at one another, turned, ran for the door, then for the back pasture.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

GAMPAW!

A tall man in a black suit looked around, sweeping the room with cold and pale eyes.

His expression was stern, his coat unbuttoned; beneath tailored broadcloth, death waited in matched, hand-carved holsters: twin knives, their edges honed to the rough, sawtooth edge of a surgeon's scalpel, or a slaughterhouse butcher's, waited patiently to drink of life's hot essence.

Absolutely nobody else in the room was cowed, intimidated or in the least bit troubled by his unsmiling visage.

Three classes' worth of children surged to the feet, and every last one of them raised the same joyful shout: 

"GAMPAW!"

Sheriff Linn Keller dropped to one knee, laughing, arms wide, open and welcoming, and the happy charge of Martian schoolchildren, boys and girls alike, hit him like an ocean wave, bore him over backwards: Shelly dipped her knees, then knelt as well, laughing as she, too, was swarmed, hugged, embraced by happy, laughing, delighted, chattering children: it felt like she hugged at least a dozen at once.

Her husband, flat on his back, laughed as the very young piled on, as he flexed work-hardened muscles, as he hugged as many as he possibly could: it took some effort, but he came up to at least a sitting position, his expression absolutely delighted, doing his best and utterly failing to follow an incredible number of happy little voices, all trying to tell him something different.

Shelly looked at her husband and realized it had been a very long time since she saw her husband so genuinely, ungardedly, happy!

 

Michael turned, sprinted back for the house, hands open, bladed, slashing at the air as he ran: he skidded and almost fell on the painted front porch boards, scrambled inside, slammed the door behind him.

Victoria blinked, stared after her twin brother's retreating backside: she frowned, knuckles on her belt, huffed, stamped her foot:  she turned, looked at Ruth and declared in an annoyed-little-sister's voice, "Men!"

Ruth blinked, startled, looked back over the fence rail: Victoria threw splay-fingered hands to the Heavens and shook her head, exasperated, as heavier hooves hammered harder on pasture's sod, as something blond and lightning-patterned, something ugly and blocky and fast moving whistled, launched over the fence-rail, soared easily through the air, as Michael waved his Stetson triumphantly, yelling encouragement:  Fanghorn and her rider pounded after the swift, graceful Appaloosa and its riders, the earth shivering a little underfoot as she punished it with piledriver hooves.

Victoria walked over to Ruth, then both ladies looked after the disappearing riders.

Two ladies shared a great, exaggerated sigh, two ladies shook their heads, and two ladies shared the same heartfelt exclamation:

"Show-offs!"

 

Sheriff Linn Keller sat in the very center of the room, children piled up against him, in front of him, beside him: two leaned against his back, delighting to feel him, warm and solid and very much alive, his deep, reassuring voice vibrating against their posterior ribs, their young shoulder blades:  a Beagle dog sat beside the Sheriff -- nobody was sure quite how he reappeared, only that he was real too, content to lean against the lawman's thigh and express his feelings by whapping his white-tipped tail against the floor as young hands caressed his fur.

Linn read from the book Marnie started, his voice Daddy-deep and Daddy-reassuring: he sat cross legged on the thick-folded quilt, like his white-skinsuited daughter did, and if he ever talked about such things, the knowledge that little children laid down and laid their heads on his legs as he read, and relaxed, and fell asleep, would be spoken of with a quiet-voiced satisfaction.

It may be correctly inferred that the pale eyed Sheriff in a tailored black coat and polished boots, a brushed black Stetson and a curled handlebar mustache, was not an infrequent visitor, here on the Martian colony; that these young knew what it was to ride a genuine Appaloosa stallion, knew what it was to have a kindly older man's hands teach theirs how to whittle, how to throw green apples, how to watch a sky-on-fire sunset from high on a mountain ledge, were memories they carried with themselves for a lifetime, and a man who knew what it was to lose sons to brain cancer, who knew what it was to lose family to violence or disease or misfortune or enemy attack, took a deep and abiding satisfaction by the many young who trusted him enough to fall asleep on him, or against him, as he read to them in a deep, reassuring Daddy-voice.

Of all he'd ever been called, nothing pleased him more than to hear that one word.

"Gampaw!"

 

 

Edited December 22, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

HELLO, GILEAD

A man sat in darkness, hands clasped, head bowed.

He rested his upper lip on his knuckles -- hard, as if to punish himself, even in this private moment.

Fool, he thought, then he shook his head, ground his fisted handclasp into his lip, hard.

No.

Not fool.

Damned fool!

He opened his eyes, took a long breath, sighed it out.

A woman's hands, light, reassuring, rested on his shoulders.

"Dear?" the Reverend Gilead Keller's wife said softly.

Gilead bowed his head more deeply, then unclasped his hands, raised his head, stood -- slowly, so as not to startle his wife -- he took her hands, lifted them, kissed her knuckles.

"You are the dearest thing I know," he whispered.

"So are you."

Gentle fingertips caressed his cheek bone.

He'd long ago quit wishing he could see his wife's face.

She'd married him just before the attack, just before he dove onto one of two men who came into the Church, who came in screaming and demanding money, two men with weapons who wished --

Who knows what they wished? he thought bitterly.

I jumped on one and the other took me across the face with something and that's when I lost my eyes!

He'd been hailed as a hero; his action, in all likelihood, kept more people from being hurt, or even killed: the perpetrators were arrested -- one right away, the other two days later -- 

Gilad pushed the thoughts from him.

"Gilead," his wife whispered, "please ... let me in!"

Gilead hugged his wife to him.

"They are my burdens, my dear," he whispered back. "They are mine to bear."

"Gilead."

Her hands were warm, reassuring, as she held his face.

He felt her breath on his chin, he smelled her scent, she was alive, warm, solid in his hands.

"Gilead, we are one flesh. Your burdens are mine."

"So is our bankruptcy," he said quietly, bitterly. "Between medical bills and everything --"

"Gilead."

Adina's voice was quiet, but there was steel behind the velvet.

"Gilead, we will get by. We always have."

"Our resources are gone," Gilead admitted. "I have failed you."

"There is one left."

Gilead stiffened.

"Go home?" he said. "Go back to Colorado and beg for the cripple to live on the family's charity?"

"You're being too harsh!" she protested.

"I'm" -- he shook his head, misery on his scarred face, sightless glass eyes blank and expressionless.  

He lifted his face a little, trying to look at his wife.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered, his voice tight.

A door opened.

Adina turned, startled: Gilead turned as well, sweeping his wife behind him: blind he might be, but he could be a meat shield between her and whatever this new threat was --

Adina saw a woman's silhouette.

She blinked, startled.

Few women nowadays wore a picture hat and a floor length gown.

"I'm looking for the Reverend Gilead Keller," a firm, feminine voice declared.

"Are you here to foreclose on what little there is?" Gilead challenged, his voice bitter.

He heard a woman's hard heels approach.

"No," the stranger's voice replied.

He felt the change in air pressure as she approached, smelled her scent -- lilac-water and soap and sunshine, and he had a momentary memory of home, of Colorado, of his pale eyed Gammaw Willamina.

"Gilead," the voice said, "I am your sister Marnie, and I need your help."

"His help?" Adina echoed, then caught her breath as a suddenly-familiar set of pale eyes turned and regarded her with the frankness she'd seen before.

"Marnie!" she whispered.

Gilead tried to look at her, and Marnie did not miss that his sightless gaze shot over her shoulder -- your elevation is good but your windage is off, she thought.

"Gilead, we need a preacher. We have a congregation who is only just rediscovering the Word. You were the best-read Bible scholar I've ever known. It's time to put that to work."

Gilead swallowed hard.

"Where?" he asked, his voice husky.

Marnie hesitated.

"I think we should discuss this over a meal. Why don't we go to my place."

"I'm ... not dressed for ..."
""Don't worry. I'll strip down to my petticoat and we can be informal."

Gilead raised a hand.

Marnie's hand rose to meet it, guided it to her face.

He raised his other hand, read her face with his finger tips, his expression sorrowful.

"Marnie?" he whispered.

Marnie seized him in a crushing hug: "Yes, it's me, why didn't you tell us you'd been hurt, you stupid prideful --"

She shoved him out at arm's length, seized a double handful of his shirt and shook him.

"DAMN YOU, GILEAD, WE'VE BEEN WORRIED ABOUT YOU, WE DIDN'T KNOW IF YOU WERE DEAD OR WHAT!"

Adina grabbed Marnie's arm:  "STOP THAT!" she demanded.

"You're his wife?" Marnie asked coldly.

"Yes," Adina hissed, her brown eyes blazing, "and if you don't stop it, I'm calling the police!"

Marnie raised a hand, dropped open a badge wallet, displayed a six point star.

"Here I am, sister," she said coldly, then:  "Gilead, I can offer you a parsonage, all expenses paid. Food, clothing, roof overhead, meat on the table, a congregation that needs you, and family!"

Gilead opened his mouth, reached for his wife: her hand found his and he said, "We'll take it!"

 

Sheriff Linn Keller keyed in his identifier.

The screen lit up, showed Marnie's delighted expression.

"Daddy," she said, "can you come to my place?"

Linn looked over at Shelly as she quietly thanked a little girl for the big bunch of flowers: a happy little apple-cheeked child giggled, scampered happily back to her beaming Mama.

"We can, darlin'. Do you need us right away or five minutes ago?"

Marnie looked a little to the side, her expression serious.

"You'd better make it five minutes ago."

Linn's expression became serious and he nodded, broke the connection: he turned.

"Dearest?" he said quietly. "Saddle up."

Shelly knew that tone of voice.

A smiling, waving little girl's eyes widened as a pretty woman holding a big bunch of flowers, turned and waved, just before she turned her Appaloosa mare and followed her husband through an Iris.

 

Linn and Shelly rode out into the stable -- though they were on Mars, they were in an Earth-normal section, thick straw on the smooth stone floor, delighted schoolchildren coming in to see the Sheriff (and especially the horses!) -- this was very nearly a routine occurrence, and these children were schooled in horse-handling, and so neither Linn nor Shelly had any qualms in allowing their mounts to be tended by these delighted young.

Linn pulled the rifle from its scabbard, carried it by its wrist, muzzle angled down: he strode for the airlock, his wife close behind him.

The door to the Sheriff's quarters opened at their approach.

Marnie rose, dignified in her Ambassador's trademark McKenna gown.

Marnie lifted her chin.

Linn stopped, eyes busy.

"Sheriff Linn Keller," Marnie said formally, "may I introduce the Reverend Gilead Keller."

Gilead turned.

Shelly felt her husband's shock as he looked at sightless eyes.

"Gilead?" he asked, handed his rifle to Marnie: he grasped his nephew's shoulders, for once in his life, absolutely nonplussed.

The two tall men embraced.

 

Gilead followed the smooth, curved handrail as he ascended the three steps; his hand naturally opened, long fingers found the corner of the pulpit.

He turned to face the congregation, a tall man with a scarred face and a quiet smile.

"I'm trying to think of something intelligent to say," he began, his voice pitched to carry to the furthest pews, "and the mind just walked over to the nearest window and jumped out!"

His grin was so engaging, his frank admission so understandable, that nearly every face smiled -- almost every head nodded -- gentle chuckles rippled through the congregation.

"You already know I'm blind, so you'll forgive me if I admit a degree of uncertainty."

Silence, as his words were processed, as congregants listened closely to this new Parson's words.

"You see, my wife once found me having a conversation with a coat rack."

He paused, reddening a little as he ruefully admitted, "I really hope I'm facing the congregation!"

There were more quiet chuckles as he took a long breath, blew it out.

"It's been a year and a half since I led a church service, so before I get myself in any more trouble, let us turn to --"

He turned to his right, nodded.

A pale eyed woman in a McKenna gown sat at the piano (a gift to the Church, never played since being delivered, tuned and finished-setup the day before) -- smiled as she called, "One-hundred-twenty-five in the hymnal, 'Seek the Lord.' "

Gilead smiled a little as Marnie played the introduction, as he took a deep breath.

He knew that one.

Edited December 18, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

TASTES LIKE CHICKEN

Adina stood beside her husband as parishioners filed out, shook her husband's hand, murmured their thanks for an excellent service: they departed with a young couple -- at least a half dozen invited this new Parson and his wife to their home for Sunday dinner -- Marnie smiled a little as she watched with pale and active eyes.

Marnie's gloved hand was laid over her Daddy's arm.

Shelly's hand was on her Daddy's other arm.

"Do you two realize," Linn said quietly, "that I have to be the luckiest sod in this church today, a beautiful woman on each arm?"

"And don't you forget it," Shelly murmured, to which Marnie whispered, "You beat me to it!"

"How many are coming to Sunday dinner?" Shelly asked uncomfortably.

"Enough," Marnie said. "I've reserved a room and we're having it catered."

"Good," Linn said.  "I'm hungry. What's on the menu?"

"Local crops, local meats, the usual."

"What, no fatted calf?"

Marnie leaned over a little, looked at her Mama.

"Do you want to punch him, or shall I?"

"Just kick him in the shins."

"Ladies, ladies," Linn said soothingly. "We're in church."

Marnie gave her Daddy a calculating look.

So did Shelly.

Somehow Linn had the distinct feeling he was going to regret speaking up.

 

Gilead turned to face whoever was speaking.

He didn't have to do this to hear them better.

He did it because he wished to practice good manners.

He knew this would give the appearance of looking at the speaker, the appearance of someone who was paying attention to what was being said.

He smiled a little when a little boy on his left spoke up and asked with the bluntness of the young, "Preacher, how come you got all them scars?"

A mother's voice spoke up to shush her intemperate child, stopped when Gilead raised a hand.

"It's a question everyone asks, sooner or later.  Young man, what is your name?"

"Julius, sir."

"Julius, which scars are you asking about -- the ones here" -- he raised a hand, trailed delicate artist's fingers across the side of his face -- "or these ones" -- he turned his hand, showed the back, the front, and the scar that told of a truly horrible injury to his left hand.

"It was the day after my wife and I were married," he said, "and I was a new pastor, very young in that church.

"Two men came in."

He swallowed, hesitated.

"One had a machete, the other had a motorcycle chain."

Linn's eyes narrowed a little and he leaned forward slightly.

"The one tried to snatch a purse.

"He raised the machete and I tackled him."

Gilead grimaced a little.
"That's when he split my hand to the wrist.

"I kicked him -- hard -- the other guy twisted loose and slashed me across the face several times with the chain."

Gilead swallowed again.

"I didn't know he had it studded with single edge razor blades."

Linn's eyes closed and his hands closed into fists.

He'd seen that particular weapon before, and he'd seen what was left of someone who was beaten to death with one.

"They ... the police arrested the one I kicked. They found the other one the next day."

"Is that why your eyes look funny?" the boy's voice asked.

Gilead nodded, pushed his plate away.

"Glass eyes," he said softly.

"Do they hurt?"

The child's voice was innocent, spontaneous: Gilead smiled sadly, shook his head.

Gilead was rescued from further questions by the arrival of the meal, hot and fragrant: as she always did, his wife turned his plate a little, gave him a quick verbal sketch of its contents -- "Meat at nine o'clock, bite size pieces. Fried diced potatoes at three o'clock, covered with gravy. Fruit compote at twelve o'clock, carrots at six o'clock, thumbnail sized pieces with minimal sauce. At one o'clock to your plate, water, eleven o'clock, hot tea."

"Thank you, dear," Gilead murmured, picked up his fork, found the water glass, tapped it twice, briskly, delicately.

"Let us bow our heads."

 

"That was a put-up job, you know."

Gilead turned his head to "look" at Marnie.

They were in the parsonage; Sunday dinner was finished, goodbyes were said, and family retired to less public surroundings.

"A put-up job," Linn echoed.

"The little boy," Gilead said, smiling with half his mouth. "Do you remember in Scripture where Christ said 'Suffer the little children to be brought to me?'

"I recall."

"Children were spies. They went everywhere, they saw everything. Christ knew that. He had the children brought to him, He knew they were spies for the Pharisees, and so He had the children in the front row where they could hear everything."

Linn raised an eyebrow, nodded.

"That little boy was put up to asking. Let's face it, when the new Parson shows up with scars like mine, people are curious."

"I'm sorry it resurrected your ghosts," Marnie said softly. "I could tell ..."

Gilead nodded.

"Did you enjoy the meal, at least?" Shelly asked.

Gilead laughed -- he can smile with his whole face, she thought -- "Yes I did," he declared, then turned.

"Marnie?"

"Yes?"

"Marnie ... you are Ambassador as well as Sheriff."

"I have that honor."

"When you say Ambassador ... for ... what?"

"The Confederacy at large, all thirteen star systems."

Gilead was silent for several seconds.

"This ... I know you had me on Mars ... and this isn't Earth, is it?"

"No."

Gilead nodded slowly.

"I thought those might have been turnips instead of potatoes," he said thoughtfully, "the carrots tasted more like radishes."

"Did you find the meat to your liking?"

"What was it?"

"A native wildfowl. I'm told they are usually quite good."

Gilead considered a few moments longer.

"We vetted everything to make sure it was compatible with contemporary digestive systems."

"The meat had quite a good texture," Gilead said thoughtfully, then grinned. 

"Tastes like chicken."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WE NEED TO TALK

 

Pale eyes and hot blood often meant feelings were ... expressed.

When Linn beheld his son, he did just that, before the church service and before Sunday dinner.

Marnie arranged the meeting, there in the Church, after Gilead made a few orbits, familiarizing himself with the layout, establishing a mental map to keep from embarrassing himself when the congregation filed in.

"Gilead?" Marnie said in her gentle voice, her sister Angela beside her, Adina between them.

Gilead turned, walked casually up the aisle, only the light brush of fingertips against pews as he passed betraying his lack of sight.

"Gilead, would you remember your father?"

Gilead stopped, swallowed.

A voice from behind, and he turned, startled.

"Hello, Gilead."

Gilead's face betrayed him in that moment.

Where his family cultivated a poker face, he himself adopted no such practice: he turned, blind eyes wide, wondering, sounding almost like a little boy as he replied, "Pa?"

"Right in front of you."

Two men collided.

No.

"Collided" isn't the right word.

"Collided" implies a head-on attack, two skulls crushing into one another, and that's not what happened, though in fairness one might honestly admit to one or the other (or both) skulls being unusually, but hereditarily, hard.

Perhaps "slammed" might be the better word.

It was full-bore, running-speed, with a collective, pained, choked-off but distinctly triumphant grunt: one set of arms was considerably stronger than the other, but both parties genuinely seized one another and staggered a moment for balance, and then stood.

Adina's palms pressed together in front of her lips, her eyes bright: Marnie's arm was around her from one side, Angela's, from the other: a lace-edged kerchief was pressed against her knuckles, and Adina opened her happy grasp, pressed it against closed eyelids to catch the happiness leaking from her eyes.

Linn's grin was broad and genuine, the two men slacked their embrace and Linn's hands tightened on Gilead's biceps:  "God ALMIGHTY, man, IT'S GOOD TO SEE YOU!"

His delight was spontaneous, honest, and loud: Gilead's arms came up, he gripped his father's biceps, grinning like a possum dining on a dead horse.

"Pa," he said softly, and the two embraced again.

"I thought you were dead," Linn whispered into his son's scarred ear.

"I thought I was," Gilead whispered back.

"Does anyone back home know you're alive?"

"I don't know."

Linn felt Gilead sag a little.

"I was ... ashamed ..."

Linn hugged his son to him again.

"Never be ashamed," he whispered fiercely. 

 

Heavy hoofbeats from without, a galloping cadence, but slow -- slow, almost ponderous ...

Powerful.

Juliette stopped kneading the fragrant dough, looked up at her Mama.

"Wash the flour off your hands," her mother said quietly, giving her daughter a knowing look.

Juliette skipped over to the sink, washed her hands quickly, dried them almost with an almost vicious speed, tossed the towel over the back of a chair, ran for the front door

Her mother sighed, remembering what it was to be a young maiden in the first throes of puppy love.

Juliette ran outside, caressed the Fanghorn's jaw as Lightning lowered her head to snuff greeting against her apron:  "Hello, beautiful," Juliette murmured, and Lightning chirped happily in reply, folded her legs, bellied down for the dismount.

Michael dropped easily to the manicured curl-grass, removed his Stetson and gave Juliette almost a bashful look.

"Juliette," he said, "I need your help."

Juliette's mother said later she considered Michael a proper young gentleman.

He'd come inside, his hat in his hand, and asked permission to introduce Juliette to his uncle.

 

It was after church, after the noon meal, after everyone returned to the Church for a council of war to determine their next move as a family, when Linn and Gilead both lifted their heads slightly, listening.

Horseback travel was not at all unknown on this world, thanks to the Sheriff's breeding program, thanks to the introduction of an increasing number of a breeding population, but this ...

This was no horse they heard.

Horses' hooves sound light, almost dainty, unless one gets into the warmbloods, into the larger breeds -- draft horses, horses bred for size and for power.

These slow-cadenced hoofbeats bespoke great power, and great size.

When the author of this deliberate gait came into view, people honestly stared, for such a thing was foreign indeed to all but the pale-eyed few.

This creature was half again taller than the tallest horse anyone on this planet ever saw.

This horse was shorter necked, its head was blunter, squarish, hard-muscled, and frankly ...

Ugly.

Its eyes were wide set, its ears almost mulish-big, all the more remarkable for being mule-proportional to its broad skull ... and between and just above its eyes, a low, conical, bony boss.

And fangs.

Astride this blond-haired monsterhorse with lightning-streaks tracing a shocking-white story of destruction the length of its shining, healthy hide, a saddle, almost comically small, and in the saddle, a tiny-looking version of the long tall Sheriff who stepped out to greet the new arrivals.

It wasn't until Lightning folded her legs and bellied down that anyone even saw the girl riding behind the young man in the tailored black suit.

Linn came back over beside Gilead.

"Introductions are in order," he said quietly.  "Gilead Keller, may I present my youngest son, Michael Keller."

Gilead turned his head a little, trying to find the sound that would indicate this Michael's location.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Gilead," Michael said in a serious and as grown-up a voice as he could manage.

Gilead extended his hand and Michael took it, his grip surprisingly firm, and Gilead felt calluses on the boy's hand.

"May I present someone I think you should meet," Michael continued, turning: "This is Juliette."

Juliette stepped shyly forward.

She'd lowered her eyes as a proper young lady should do in such moments.

When she looked up, her mouth opened with honest surprise.

Juliette took Gilead's gentle grip, then said, "May I see your face?"

Gilead's face was quick, mobile, his surprise was plain and instantly visible:  he knelt, allowing Julette's delicate fingers to read his face.

She closed her eyes to allow her fingers to see clearly.

"You look like the Sheriff," she said softly.

"May I see your face?" Gilead almost whispered.

Juliette closed her eyes, allowed his fingers to see her face.

"Were you blind from birth?" he whispered.

"No," she whispered back. "I was ... I think I was two years old and got into some plant sap. It burned my eyes and ..."

She swallowed, shivered.

"I remember it."

Her eyes were closed as her hands raised to Gilead's face again, fingers light as they read the terrible scarring that spoke of his own injury.

"Uncle Gilead," she said in a serious-little-girl's voice, "we need to talk."

 

 

Edited December 22, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

HELLO, JACOB

 

Esther Keller saw something in the skinny boy that she'd seen before.

"Hello, Jacob," she said in a mother-gentle voice, tilting her head a little.

Jacob met her gaze: "Ma'am," he said in a guarded voice.

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes ma'am," he admitted.

Esther's expression was gentle: she took his hand, rose, looked at her husband.

"Please excuse us, my dear," she said, and Jacob felt a degree of hope when he heard how gently, how courteously she addressed her husband, that long tall Sheriff who told Jacob he'd be pleased if Jacob would remain with him and his wife.

Jacob followed Esther to the kitchen.

Jacob stood behind a chair, gripping it uncertainly.

Esther pretended not to notice his defensive move.

He's been hurt, she thought.

He's holding that chair almost like a shield.

Esther set out plates, brought a towel-wrapped loaf out of the tin bread safe, set it on another plate: quick strokes with the serrated bread-knife and thick slabs of fresh, still-warm sourdough fell, stacked up.

Jacob swallowed, looking at it, remembering how his Mama used to bake bread, how the kitchen smelled when she baked it --

Esther turned, produced a plate of cold beef: another knife, more slices: butter, a big lump of fresh churned, almost troweled onto the bread, then the beef --

"Here's salt," Esther said, uncovering the salt-cellar and its little ceramic spoon, "we've dried spices --"

Esther stopped, looked at Jacob almost sadly.

"Please, Jacob. Sit, eat. You're safe here."

"I can't do that, ma'am."

Esther blinked, surprised. "Why not?"

"Ma'am, I can't sit while a lady is standing."

Esther looked up as her pale eyed husband came in the room: he laid a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Jacob," he said quietly, "thank you."

"Sir?"

Linn chuckled, then he grinned at his wife, he took a long breath and sighed it out and laughed again.

"I'm sorry," he shook his head, "but my Mama worked awful hard to beat some manners into mmm -- I mean" -- he cleared his throat, drummed his fingers on his breastbone and rolled his eyes innocently -- "I mean she worked hard to teach me good manners!"

Esther gave a great, dramatic sigh, shook her head, then looked at Jacob and smiled.

Linn drew out her chair; she sat, and not until she was seated, did her husband and this new addition to their young household sit as well.

"O Lord," Linn said quietly, "spare us the curse of the long winded blessing when hungry men sit down to a meal, Amen!"

"Oh, you," Esther scolded quietly, but Jacob could see the look of amused affection she gave him, and he let himself relax just a little more.

 

 

 

 

 

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

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

TO MEET THE AGENT

Esther Keller knew her husband, perhaps better than he knew himself.

Esther Keller knew that when he lay flat on his back and stared, unmoving, at the nighttime ceiling, that sleep would elude him -- that he was troubled -- that his mind was so busy, that sleep was scared off, like a wild creature afraid of an approaching fire.

Esther's hand touched his -- her move, like her words that evening, were calculated -- she brushed the backs of her fingers with a seeming accidental touch.

He opened his hand, inviting: she slipped her hand under his: relaxed, the two hands were content to rest gently in each other.

Linn was a passionate man, and he loved this green-eyed woman more than he'd ever loved anyone, and Esther knew this.

Normally he would roll over and run his arm around her, and pull her into him, and Esther knew this.

He did not, and Esther knew this meant he would rise and depart their marital bed.

He did.

He swung long, horse-muscled legs over the side of the bed, found the fur-lined moccasins he favored: he stood, shook down his nightshirt.

Esther knew he would pace off on the left.
He always did.

Esther knew this was habit ingrained during that damned War, and she slipped from under her own covers, found her slippers and followed like a ghost, flowing after another, taller ghost.

Esther knew which steps squeaked; she knew if she put her weight on the left edge of this step, on the right edge of the next, that she would not betray her passage.

She did not realize that another ghost watched, one pale eye barely exposed, and that, close to the floor.

Jacob's quick mind took note of the steps, he watched Esther's awkward step, almost an exaggerated waddle: he marked where this was, followed after she made the foot of the broad, solid-built stairs, after she turned, apparently following her husband's insomnia induced voyage.

Jacob breathed silently, concentrated on easing bare feet on the dust-free stairsteps: his descent took twice as long, owing to his screaming paranoia, owing to his fear: his fear of not knowing what was about to happen, forced him to face his fear of discovery.

He crouched at the foot of the stairs, listening.

Voices.

In the kitchen.

How close can I get without being seen?

Jacob tested each step before fully committing his weight: his caution brought his foot back a few inches, twice: he felt the board vibrate ever so slightly, he stopped his advancing weight before it could cause a squeak.

Jacob learned caution as a survival tactic, he learned stealth as a means of keeping himself safe: he was just around the corner from the kitchen.

He sank to the floor and listened.

 

Linn picked up the coffee pot, poured half a mug.

He lifted the pot, raised an eyebrow; Esther's eyes saw enough of his gesture, his expression, to know what he was asking.

He saw her palm, darker than her white flannel nightgown, raised toward him: he set the coffee pot down, quietly, but not soundlessly.

Jacob heard one of the chairs creak as they sat.

He estimated a straight line from eye level seated, to as far as they might be able to see: he could not risk leaning one eye around the corner, so he lay still and listened, willing his young ears to pick up the least sound.

 

"Agent Sopris sent Jacob with a note."

Jacob imagined Esther's nod in the dim moonlight.

"He said a son needs a father, and a father needs a son, and that I should look long into his eyes."

Jacob imagined Esther's smile: she smiled like his own dead mother -- gentle and soft and encouraging, and he felt grief gnaw at him again, and his eyes stung with the memories of soft hands and a gentle voice, a mother's arms he would never know again.

"Esther" -- Linn's voice hesitated, and Jacob thought he heard the man swallow -- "I think Jacob may be my son."

Jacob's stomach contracted, his breath caught.

He remembered the man's quiet words, there in the Sheriff's office, where Jacob first presented himself with a note from a man whose name he know only as "Sopris."

Is that why he said he'd be pleased if I stayed with them?

He remembered to breathe, and breathe he did, through an open mouth, his eyes wide, as if to see the words as well as hear them.

"I thought he might," Esther replied gently.

In his mind's eye Jacob saw Esther reach across the table to take her husband's hand, and in his imagination he saw the two hands grip one another in a shaft of moonlight driving through the wavy-paned window and between the ruffle-edged curtains.

"Esther, I have no idea what you ever saw in me," Linn said, "and I may have no right to ask you this, but could you stand the thought of having Jacob as our son?"

Jacob's breath stopped again, his blood loud in his ears.

"Dearest," Esther said in a quiet voice, but a voice that left no doubt as to her sincerity, "I would be most pleased to have Jacob as our son!"

Jacob tried to swallow, but there was nothing to gulp down: his mouth was dry, and in spite of the reserve he tried to cultivate, he found he was shaking, just a little.

"There is something else," Linn said quietly, and Jacob felt his stomach shrivel: fear wrapped a cold claw around his belly and squeezed, chilly and threatening.

"I must ask you not to look upon him undressed."

Jacob's eyes snapped wide open in the darkness and he felt his ears positively flaming with humiliation.

This man with pale eyes beheld his most terrible secret, written in healing ridges across Jacob's back.

Linn sat beside the slipper tub in the Silver Jewel while Jacob, elbow deep in warm, soapy bath water, divulged his deepest and most horrible memories.

"Jacob was whipped nearly to death," Linn said, and Jacob heard something he'd never heard in the man's voice thus far, and hearing it gave him another degree of fear.

He heard the sharpened edge of genuine anger.

"If he wants you to know the particulars, he'll tell you, but for now, dearest, please ..."

"I understand," she murmured, and Jacob was grateful he was almost prone.

He realized that hearing Esther's quiet "I understand" -- and knowing that she was a woman who spoke the truth -- might have caused his collapse from genuine relief.

He lowered his head onto his forearm and shook a little, as full of utter joy at having a mother again, and in the same moment, filled with shame and with guilt that he took this delight, here, with his own Mama dead and buried in the grave he himself was obliged to dig.

He took a deep breath, raised his head.

I can't let them find me here, he thought.

I have to get back upstairs!

Jacob rose, a ghost in the dark, around the corner from the kitchen: bare feet sought out the boards he'd trodden on his way down; his ascent was as silent as his descent had been, and he was barely around the corner and into his bed before Esther and her pale eyed husband made their less than stealthy climb.

Jacob was under his quilts and bedsheet and rolled up on his side.

He expected his door to open a little as he was looked in on.

He heard the door hinge whisper, ever so slightly, he heard Esther's murmur a moment later --

"Sound asleep" --

He heard them cross the hallway and enter their own room.

Jacob curled up in a tight ball, hugging his fresh-air-and-sunshine-smelling bedcovers to him.

Salt water soaked into his pillow as he thought of his Mama.

"I'm sorry, Mama," he whispered, the way he always did before falling asleep.

 

Linn stopped in the hallway on his way to breakfast.

Something did not look right, there on the floor.

He knelt, bent closer, saw three circular salt spots.

Those weren't there yesterday, he thought.

He frowned, he considered the location.

Jacob was here, last night, listening to us.

He looked down at the three white, crystallized, barely-visible rings.

Tears, he thought, and nodded.

He rose, saw Jacob was looking at him.

Linn took a step closer, regarded Jacob with an understanding expression.

"You know I was in that damned War."

"I do now, sir."

"I saw good men shed tears."

"Yes, sir."

"I saw strong men shed tears of grief. I have shed tears of joy and of sorrow both."

"You, sir?"

Linn nodded.

"Men do that, when there's words they can't say and it fills their heart up to the point it leaks out their eyes."

Jacob blinked rapidly, frowned, looked back at the pale eyed lawman.

"Yes, sir."

Linn turned, looked toward the kitchen.

"Smells like your Mama's rattlin' them pots and pans," Linn grinned.  "Be a shame to let that good breakfast go to waste."

Jacob grinned -- a quick, boyish grin, the kind that brings an answering grin from anyone who sees it.

"Yes, sir!"

 

 

 

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

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

CHOPPER ONE

Fire Chief Chuck Fitzgerald stood on the firehouse apron, coffee mug in hand and his chin debating whether to drop down to belt buckle level, or just sit there waiting for the next sip of scalding, US Navy Standard coffee.

The German Irishman stood beside him, grinning: "Well?  Well?  Whattaya think? Whattaya think?"

Fitz looked at his engineer, looked back at something bright red, short, rounded, and ... unusual.

Fitz thrust his chin at the screaming-red Volkswagen beetle and said, "Why?  Just ... why?"

"Why?" the German Irishman laughed. "Chief, we've got parades on the schedule, don't we?"

Fitz gave the man a skeptical look.

"Look.  Here, let me show you!"

The German Irishman almost ran the few steps to his newly-revealed project.

He jumped in, slammed the door, lowered the window: the offensively-red Beetle started easily, the 4-cylinder Porsche engine whistled a little as the engineer grinned out the lowered window:

"Watch this!"

He reached for the dash, pulled a white-plastic knob.

On the roof, the object of the Chief's incredulity began to move.

A motor, a small gearbox, a pitman, mounting hardware, and ... an ax.

An ax, mounted on a pivot, driven by the pitman, rapidly oscillating up and down, the rubber-guarded bit thumping against the rubber-coated wood block bolted to the scarlet Beetle Bug's roof.

The engineer reached up, moved something: the ax's tempo suddenly doubled.

"Listen to this!" the engineer yelled happily, picked up a talkie, keyed up, and the Chief heard the rapid wump-wump-wump-wump coming over the speaker for about five seconds.

The German Engineer turned off the insane ax, shut off the engine, jumped out, grinning like a kid with a new toy.

"Well?  Well?  Whattaya think, Chief? Whattaya think?"

Fitz shook his head, opened his mouth to reply.

"Chief, just imagine, we're lining up for parade, the units mark in, I key up and everyone in the COUNTY hears "FIRELANDS CHOPPER ONE, SPECIAL DETAIL!"

The Chief closed his mouth.

He leaned a little closer to his engineer.

"WHATTAYA THINK, CHIEF! EVERY OTHER DEPARTMENT THAT HEARS THIS WILL GO NUTS! THEY'LL THINK WE GOT AN AIR UNIT!"

Fitz laid a fatherly hand on his engineer's shoulder, looked the man in the eye, looked at Chopper One, looked back at the engineer.

"Get it out of sight," he said quietly. "When we spring it on the world, I want it to be a SURPRISE!"

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

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

JACOB, WOULD YOU WALK WITH ME?

Jacob Keller stood nervously in the doorway.

Esther's smile was as gentle as her voice.

She regarded this uncertain, almost awkward new member of their family, then she rose, smoothed her apron, glided across the floor toward him.

"Jacob," she said soothingly, "what is it?"

Jacob swallowed nervously, turning his short-brimmed hat around in long, quick fingers -- he has his father's hands, Esther thought -- I wonder if they're as hot to the touch?

Jacob shifted his weight, opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed nervously, harrumphed quietly, looked back up at her.

"I don't know what to call you," he said, his voice strained.

"Oh?"

Esther laid a gentle hand between his shoulder blades.

She did not miss that he flinched, but not until she pressed gently, to encourage him deeper into the room.

Odd that he did not flinch at my first touch, she thought.

Esther gestured to a chair, turned, swept her skirt behind her, sat.

Jacob sat, slowly, hesitantly, as if he thought he didn't belong.

He looked at Esther with an honestly haunted expression.

"Ma'am," he said, looking fearfully at the door, "what would he say if he saw me sitting here?"

"He," she echoed. "You are speaking of ... your father?"

"I suppose so, ma'am -- I mean I suppose he is my father -- he's the only man I've met with eyes like mine."

Esther rose, raised a hand as Jacob followed suit:  she drew her chair closer, sat again, so close their knees nearly touched.

"Jacob," she almost whispered, "what is it you're afraid of?"

"Ma'am," Jacob replied, and she heard the honest fear in his voice, "will he beat me for sitting here?"

Esther's eyes widened in honest shock.

Of all the things Jacob could have asked her, she expected this question the very least!

"No, Jacob," she said, pitching her voice in as soothing a manner as possible, "he would do no such thing."

Esther tilted her head.

"Give me your hands, Jacob."

Jacob extended his hands, allowed Esther to grip them.

"Jacob, I lived through some truly terrible times, and those times did terrible things to me."

"Yes, ma'am."

"The damned Yankees burned our plantation, they despoiled my sisters, they ravished my mother and then hanged her, but not until they made her watch as they hanged my father and my brothers."

Esther's voice was quiet, and Jacob could see she was trying to keep her voice quiet, but he heard the sharpened edge of a deep and unyielding hatred in her gently-framed syllables.

"I killed the men who killed my family, Jacob, and it was not murder.  They needed killed and I was the hand of God in that matter."

Jacob looked at her -- she saw surprise, she saw a sudden trust, she had the impression that a glass wall he'd held in place, just fell to the floor and shattered into crystal dust.

Jacob rose and stepped to the side.

He removed his coat and vest, he unbuttoned his shirt at the neck and then peeled it off over his head: he unbuttoned what Esther's eye told her was a brand new, red flannel Union suit, he faced her -- without looking at her -- as he pulled his skinny arms out of its sleeves, as he let it fall behind him.

Jacob waited until he was bare to the waist before looking at Esther again.

He turned.

He stood with his back to Esther for several long moments.

He heard her gasp, he heard her moan "Nooo," as if she were seeing something she'd seen before.

He turned, his face white, his face set, his eyes a shade of glacial ice she'd seen in her husband but once thus far.

Esther's face was coloring: she went from wheat paste to a sudden, florid, mad-as-hell scarlet.

"Jacob," she said, and this time she did not even try to hide the steel in her voice, "who did this to you?"

Jacob lifted his chin.

"The man who whipped my Mama to death, ma'am."

"Where is he now?"

"I reckon he's inside a few skunks and some carrion vultures, ma'am."

"Did you kill him?"

"Yes, ma'am, I did."

Esther lifted her chin.

"Resume your clothes, Jacob."

Esther stepped behind him, helped him into his Union suit top with the quick efficiency of a mother, or of a wife: she picked up his shirt, snapped it sharply -- angrily -- then she stood in front of him -- "Arms in," she said, then "Arms up," and slid the shirt down over him, her face set with an anger he'd never seen in a woman's face before.

Esther bade him tuck in his shirt tail as she buttoned the few buttons at his throat, then she said, "Walk with me, Jacob."

Esther whirled -- her move was vigorous, the move of a woman firing her boiler with liquid hate instead of coal -- she went over to a desk, retrieved a key from a hidden hook, unlocked a door in its side, pulled out a wooden box.

Esther turned, placed the box on a small table with a lacy white doily in its center: she opened the box, took out a dueling pistol.

"These belonged to my father," she said. "I had the box made, as the original case was burned up when those murdering --"

She snapped her jaw shut on words best left unsaid in polite company: her lips were pressed together in a thin line as she handed one to Jacob.

He lifted the hammer, examined the nipple: he nodded, trailed his fingers across the lockplate, reading the gunmaker's precise inletting like a man might read a fine novel.

"I killed a man with that very pistol, Jacob," she said quietly. "And I killed another with this pistol."

"Yes, ma'am."

"They killed my family, they ... brutalized! -- my sisters and hanged my mother and when I fled on my father's racer, two of them tried to stop me.

"I gulled them in close and I gave them each a pistol ball in the face, and I am glad I did it, Jacob!"

Esther paused, took a long breath, placed her pistol carefully in its velvet lined box.

Jacob handed her its twin, and she replaced it as well.

She looked at the tall boy with her husband's eyes.

"Jacob," she said quietly, "who did this to you?"
Jacob hesitated, swallowed.

"Jacob," Esther said as she picked up the powder flask, "I am going to load these pistols and I am going to take my shotgun and I am going to saddle my paint mare and I am going to kill whoever did this --"

"I killed him already," Jacob blurted.

Esther's hand stopped, then lowered the lacquered brass flask into its blue velvet recess.

"Tell me what happened."

Jacob took a long breath, his eyes closed: he opened them, spoke in a quiet, flat voice, absolutely devoid of emotion.

"Ma'am," he said, "Mama was with child. She'd been put upon by the man -- he said he was her husband, he wasn't, he forced his way into ... he beat me, ma'am, he beat Mama, and she wasn't able to fight back and I dare not, ma'am, he was a... he was ..."

Jacob's hands closed into fists and he took a long breath, his teeth set, lips peeled back.

He relaxed his hands and his face and his stature with an effort.

"He whipped Mama and I jumped him, ma'am, I yelled he'd not whip her and he whipped me."

"That's ... he's the one who did that to your back."

"He did, ma'am.  Mama was too bad hurt to stop  him.  She tried and he turned and whipped her again and she lost the child and he allowed as he was goin' to whip me to death."

"But he didn't."

"I didn't cry out, ma'am. I reckon that made him madder.  I fell out the door and just laid there and I reckon I looked dead."

Jacob's eyes were bleak as he whispered, "I sure felt dead."

He took another long breath, stared past her, stared out the far window, seeing horror, seeing memory.

"He went back in the house and went to drinkin' more and he passed out in the bed he'd ... forced Mama in.

"I crawled back into the house.

"I couldn't get up, I could barely crawl on my belly.

"Mama was dead.

"It took me most of an hour to crawl over to her and near as long to crawl back beside the bed where he was snorin'.

"He had an Army Colt and I taken it out of its holster," Jacob said, his voice still quiet.

His eyes most decidedly were not.

"I screwed that gun barrel into his ear and I fetched back the hammer so he'd hear Death a-comin' and then I pulled the trigger and I sent him to HELL!"

Jacob's face was gone from parchment white to deathlike.

His eyes were cold, like polished ice, his teeth were set, his hands fisted, he looked ready to leap out of his skin, he looked ready to seize an enemy by the throat and rip it from its spine: two spots of color stood out over his cheekbones, bright and shocking, and then he closed his eyes again and took a long breath and opened his shivering fists.

"It taken me most of the day after to get Mama buried," he said quietly.  

"I cribbed rock enough and buried her deep enough she'll sleep peaceful."

"And his body?" Esther whispered, her mouth dry as she saw these horrors through the quiet voiced words of a boy who should never have to know such things.

"I hitched the mule to him, ma'am," Jacob said, "and I dragged his carcass out into the brush, far enough away so his ghost wouldn't haunt the place and I left it for the buzzards."

"Good," Esther said quietly. "He'll never know peace."

"I went back to the house and took what was useful. I taken that Army Colt and what powder and shot and caps there were, and I taken a knife and a sharpenin' stone and a lump of bread.

"I reckon I was feverin', for I saw things that weren't there.

"A man named Sopris finally found me and taken me in, he broke my fever and fed me and he ... I didn't think I could tell anyone but he got me to talk, ma'am, I reckon he'd got men to talk before."

Esther nodded.

"I've met Agent Sopris," she said quietly. "He is truly a remarkable man."

"He sent me here, ma'am."

Esther took Jacob's hands in her own and looked very directly into his troubled eyes.

"Jacob, you did the right thing in killing him."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Just as I did the right thing when I went back and cooked for the officers who led those damned Yankees. I served the same ones who did those ... who murdered my family."

"Ma'am?"

Esther smiled, if you could call it that: she looked at the floor, looked back up at Jacob.

"I poisoned them, Jacob. I killed the two who tried to stop me when I fled, then when I came back and cooked for them, I found out who their officers were, and I killed every last one of them."

Esther's smile was not pleasant as she added, "And I made sure I went to each and every one of them, and lifted their heads, and told them they were dying, and the last thing I wanted them to see was the girl who survived their murderous rampage, the girl who avenged her family."

Jacob nodded, a new respect in his eyes.

Esther squeezed his hands, then laid gentle fingers against his cheek.

"Never be afraid of your father, Jacob. He is a good man."

"Yes, ma'am."

 

 

 

 

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

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

CHIEF KELLER, PLEASE COME WITH ME

Two men in uniform consulted a photograph, looked at the group surveying the historic battlefield.

"I don't see him."

"Nope."

"He's supposed to be here."

"Is that him?"

"Where?"

"Fellow with binoculars -- he's not with the others, he's by the fence --"

"I see him."

They consulted the photograph again.

"That's him."

 

Retired Chief of Police Will Keller looked up as two Park officers approached him.

"Chief Keller?"

"You've found me."

"Sir, please come with us."

"Why, what's going on?"

One handed him an envelope: he tapped its contents carefully to one end, delicately tore the opposite end, withdrew a folded sheet, read, read it again.

He offered no spoken comment.

One raised eyebrow spoke loudly enough.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I am very much at your disposal."

 

An unsmiling young woman in a white nurse's dress, white stockings and crepe-soled shoes, waited beside an idling Jeep.

The park vehicle pulled up, stopped:  Will dismounted, thanked the men for their kindness, turned and looked at Angela.

She looked very seriously at her Uncle, opened the door.

"What about my things, back at the hotel?" he asked.

"They'll be picked up," Angela said, her words clipped, her expression serious.

Will's stomach fell almost to his boot tops.

"Who died?" he asked quietly.

"It's worse," Angela said, then shut the door: she swung around the front of the Jeep, climbed in, slammed the door, drove the seat belt's steel tongue into the buckle.  "Hold onto your liver, we're making up time!"

Will fast up his seat belt as Angela pulled the Jeep into gear, eased out onto the paved road.

"Angel One, Delta Seven Two, in position."

"On approach," Angela replied.

"What --" Will started to ask as they came over a blind rise.

The Jeep was moving fast and picking up speed, they came over the rise as a large, elliptical black void opened in front of them --

Will's eyes widened --

-- the Jeep emerged on a brick-paved roadway in a place he did not recognize.

Angela slowed quickly, glanced over at her Uncle.

"You've never used an Iris?"

"What the hell is an Iris?"

Angela nodded.  "Answers my question," she muttered.

"Is this more of that Confederate stuff?"

"You could say that."

"When do you tell me what the hell is going on? The note they gave me said only it was an urgent family matter."

Angela drove into a small town, slowed in front of a stone church: people stared, as the high-ground-clearance steam-broughams were known, but Jeeps were not: Angela braked to a stop, thrust the shifter forward, turned off the ignition, pulled the keys.

"Last stop, all out."

"Angela, I'm not dressed for a funeral."

Angela stepped out, hit her door lock, closed the door and came around the front of the car as her Uncle climbed out.

Angela took his arm.

"This way, Uncle Will."

They climbed the cut-stone steps; Linn opened the door as they approached.

"Linn, what the hell is going on here?" Will demanded.

"We'll show you," Linn said, his expression unreadable.

Angela steered Will into the Sanctuary, down the broad center aisle to where family was gathered before the Altar and the altar rail.

Will's eyes were busy; he'd scanned wide, left and right, then turned his attention forward, looked beyond the clutch of family, cast his eyes upon the empty choir loft, the piano on the left, the pulpit on the right.

Only then did he look among those family he knew, those family he recognized.

Family turned, and family parted, and a young man stood directly ahead of him.

"Chief of Police Will Keller," Angela said formally, "may I present Parson Gilead Keller, pastor of this fine stone church."

Will was not a man easily surprised.

Will was not a man easily startled.

Linn looked at his late Mama's twin brother and saw surprise, and startlement.

Chief of Police Will Keller never felt Angela's hand leaving his arm.

His legs carried him to his son.

"Gilead?" he said, wonder in his voice as he looked at a man he thought dead.

Gilead turned to face the voice, looked at his father with sightless glass eyes.

Two men seized one another in a crushing embrace.

 

Family retreated to the Parsonage adjacent.

Adina pressed Uncle Will's hand between her own, blushed furiously as he regarded her frankly and said, "Adina. A name that means gentleness, and nobility."

"Most people think it has to do with an Eastern Woodland Indian tribe."

"I prefer to think of you as gently born, and nobility." 

Will's eyes tightened at the corners, and Adina saw the smile hiding in his pale eyes. 

"Gilead tells me you are a widower. Have you any prospects?"

Will's eyebrow raised a little. "Not a question I'd expect on a first meeting!"

"I am nothing if not direct."

Her smile took the sting out of her words.

"Gilead," Will said, "am I right in believing this young lady can give as good as she gets?"

Gilead nodded, smiled: "Yes, sir, she does!"

Adina shooed the family into the kitchen: it smelled of fresh baked cornbread and hot tea, and she waved them into chairs around the big oval table.

"Sit, I've cornbread, it's still warm, and there's tea -- hot or chilled, as you please."

Steaming-hot oolong gurgled into thick-walled, glazed-ceramic mugs, adding more fragrance to the already pleasant atmosphere: no one wanted cold tea, when the hot product smelled this good, though a pot of honey did make its way around the table.

"Gilead," Will said quietly, "tell me about the scars I see across your face."

Gilead held up his left hand.

"It starts here," he said quietly. "Two came into my Church service some years ago. One had a machete and split my left hand to the wrist. I got him down and kicked the other hard enough to double him up, but he had a motorcycle chain studded with single edge razor blades. He whipped me across the face. That's when I lost my eyes."

Will's jaw slid out and his expression hardened, his eyes paled, as did his face.

"What," he grated, "happened to your attackers?"

"The police arrived quickly enough to arrest the first one. The second was already gone. He was caught not long after."

"Are they still alive?"

"They were sentenced to prison."

"When do they get out?"

Gilead hesitated.

"Have they threatened to come back and finish the job?" Will asked, and nobody there missed the sharpened steel behind his voice. 

"Yes," Gilead admitted. "They have."

"When are they due to be released?"

"Next week."

Will looked at Linn, at Marnie and Angela, at Michael.

Michael lifted his chin in assent, Marnie raised a gloved finger, Angela raised her hand.

Will looked at Linn's hard and pale eyes.

The look on the man's face was enough.

He didn't have to say a word.

"Your security detail just indicated their readiness," Will said quietly. 

"There is something else we need to discuss," Linn added.

Several faces turned toward him.

"Gilead."

Gilead's face turned to the Sheriff's voice.

"Gilead, Michael was hit with a weapon that fried his spinal nerves and burned his spine. He had to have reconstruction. His twin sister's spine was scanned and a new one patterned out, and that medical skill gave Michael a working back and newly-regrown, absolutely-undamaged vertebrae.

"Michael's girlfriend Juliette was transplanted a set of lab-grown eyes.

"I'm not a doctor and I'll not make promises I can't keep, but I'd like to think chances are pretty damned good that Confederate medicine can give you your eyes back."

Gilead blinked, he reached carefully forward, found the heat-radiating mug: he picked it up, sipped.

Needs honey, he thought.

"Let me pray about this," he said quietly.

"What's to pray about!" Will protested. "Why, man, you stand to get your eyes back!"

"And what if this is a trial, or I was blinded so I could help someone else see?" Gilead said quietly. "Let's say someone I have yet to meet, needs to see that life does not end if the eyes are gone."

"Parson?" Juliette spoke up. "I wanted to talk to you about that. They made me a new set of eyes. I wasn't attacked, but I did fall into some plants and my eyes were open just long enough to catch some sap. It blinded me. I have new eyes now. They were regrown from healthy tissue remaining from my eyes."

Gilead nodded slowly.

"This is too much, too fast," he said quietly. "I'd honestly given up on ever seeing family again. I never knew the Iris system even existed."

"It's different," Will muttered.

Adina began setting out thick slabs of still-warm cornbread, on saucers, with a fork: she made another orbit, set two plastic butter dishes, each with a butter knife, and conversation was suspended in favor of this freshly made Johnny cake.

Michael finished his split and buttered slab when he felt someone at his elbow.

He turned, looked over his visitor's shoulder -- he didn't mean to, really he didn't, but he was a tall man, and Juliette was still a girl, and he was quite blind, so he can be forgiven for looking over her head as she spoke to him.

"At least consider it," Juliette said quietly. "If they can make me a set of eyes" -- he felt her young hands rest on his scarred left hand -- "they can make your good left hand work again."

"Uncle Gilead," Juliette pressed, "when they unwound the bandages from my eyes, I was afraid to look. The first thing I saw ..."

Her voice was soft, her words edged with a child's wonder as she remembered.

"It was nighttime, and I saw the stars.

"Then I saw Michael's Fanghorn, and she's beautiful."

Gilead nodded.

"This is all a bit much," he said, and none missed the catch in his voice he tried hard to hide.

"I ... have a family again ... and ..."

He lifted his face, looked down the table, turned his head a little to the left, to the right, as if looking at everyone there.

"I'd ... like some time with my father, please."

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

BE PLEASED IF YOU'D NOT

"You used that Army Colt pretty well, Jacob."

"Thank you, sir."

"I will have no objection if you wish to wear it."

"Thank you, sir."

The Sheriff considered the Appaloosa stallion cantering around the inside of the big round corral on the lower end of town.

"Ever ride an Appaloosa, Jacob?"

Jacob swallowed, chewed on his bottom lip.

"I've ridden a mule, sir," he admitted, then gave his father a shamefaced, sidelong glance.

"Bareback."

The Sheriff nodded, thrust a knuckle at the pacing stallion.

"This fellow," he said, "is going to be a handful."

"Yes, sir."

"Like to watch your old man get thrown?"

Jacob heard the grin in the man's voice.

He hesitated, then said slowly, "Be pleased if you'd not, sir."

"If I'd not try the horse?"

"I'd be pleased if you'd not hit the ground, sir."

The Sheriff laughed quietly.

Jacob looked at him, surprised.

He could not ever remember hearing a man laugh -- at least no man in loco parentis.

Jacob blinked, surprised as he realized he was remembering the words of a man they'd hold him was the Judge, a dignified older man who used those strange words as he solemnly regarded the skinny, underfed boy standing with the Sheriff.

Linn climbed over the fence, advanced toward the suspicious stallion: the man casually shaved from a plug of molasses twist tobacco, held out a flat palm.

He's taking a chance, Jacob thought.

Those big yellow teeth could take his hand off!

The stallion sniffed at the flat palm, lipped off the thick shavings with a surprising delicacy: Linn caressed the shining-healthy neck, murmured to the horse: Jacob couldn't hear what he was saying, he could barely hear the man's voice... he felt surprise yet again, that this man was using gentleness on a mere animal, instead of a whip and a club and a screaming voice.

Jacob watched as the Sheriff draped a blanket over the stallion's hide-shivering back, as he swung a saddle into place.

Voice and hands and soothing and patience ... it took time, and idlers and hangers-on watched, their boots propped up on the bottom rail, speculating on the man's chances.

Apparently, from their comments, this horse had been tried, and found too vigorous: again, from their comments, Jacob gathered the Sheriff was no stranger to vigorous saddle stock.

Linn took his time, finally cinched up the saddle:  he took it in stages -- Jacob was honestly surprised he didn't drive a hard-knuckled fist into the horse's wind to keep it from sucking its lungs full to loosen the cinch when it exhaled -- this isn't what the back-scarred, pale-eyed boy was used to!

Linn stood in front of the stallion, caressed the long nose, rubbed under his jaw, murmured to him, spoke softly.

Jacob was surprised yet again.

The Sheriff's expression ...

He wasn't frowning, he wasn't glaring, he wasn't being a hard man ...

He's being kind, Jacob thought with genuine surprise.

It wasn't until the Sheriff swung a leg over the saddle, until he was a-straddle of a four-hooved keg of dynamite, that Jacob realized ...

He didn't bridle him!

He's got no reins, no bit --

Jacob's stomach tightened, he took a breath as if to shout, then realized he was too late, the man was going to hit the ground and it was his fault, his fault! -- that this man -- who'd treated him with kindness -- he was going to be hurt and it would be his, Jacob's fault and he'd be beaten, he'd be whipped, he'd be seized with hard hands and punched and and and --

The stallion stood still, surprised, splay-legged, head down.

Linn reached down, caressed the spotty horse's neck, murmured quietly, and then he realized he'd just cinched his saddle down on a keg of dynamite that really didn't want to be ridden.

It was quite a show.

A man not far from Jacob shouted, "Ain't no horse that cain't be rode, ain't no man that cain't be throwed!  Ride 'em Sheriff!"

The shouted voice was echoed: "Sixbits on the horse!"

"The hell with you, sixbits on the Sheriff!"

Men whistled, yelled: the stallion spun, lunged, sunfished, twisted: he threw himself down on his right side -- the Sheriff got his boot out of the stirrup, planted his foot flat on the ground, shoved hard when the horse rolled and levered to his feet, reared, dropped his head, kicked his hind legs out: Jacob's ears were filled with the hammering of his own heart, the screams of the fighting stallion -- men's shouts faded into the distance, Jacob climbed the fence, threw a leg over --

The Sheriff launched, tumbled, landed on his feet, squatted deep to take up the shock --

Jacob launched from the fence, ran for the stallion, part of his mind surprised that he was running, he was SHOUTING -- 

"DAMN YOU DON'T HURT MY PA!" he screamed --

He fought into the saddle, seized his coat and tore it open --

He remembered buttons flying --

The stallion jerked his head, lunged, started to gallop, leaning over as he made his tight orbit --

Jacob threw his jacket over the stallion's head.

The horse stopped -- skidded, forelegs locked, shivered --

Jacob waited, his hands gripping the saddlehorn --

He pulled the coat free, threw it, felt the stallion bunch up under him, ready to detonate again.

Jacob's head snapped forward like a snake's.

He remembered something an Indian told him: he drove his face down, seized the stallion's ear between his front teeth, bit, hard!

The stallion froze, stood, shivering.

Jacob felt his teeth meet, then he released, leaned back, looked over at the Sheriff, now standing upright, looking with honest surprise at this tall skinny boy aboard a horse that just threw one of the most experienced horsemen in the territory!

Jacob tightened his knees, pressed his heels gently into the horse's ribs.

"Yup, now," he said quietly.

The stallion stepped out in an easy trot.

Jacob rode him around the corral, then turned him with weight and with knees, his hands on his thighs.

The Sheriff drifted over to the side of the corral, toward a man he knew had been Cavalry.

"Rogers," he said, "do you recall how we used to knee train our horses?"

"I do, sir," the man replied. "I recall you rode into battle with a pistol in one hand and saber in the other, you'd knotted your reins and dropped them over the saddlehorn and you could ride your horse through the eye of a needle!"

Two old cavalrymen watched a stripling boy ride a spirited Appaloosa around the corral.

"Oh, no," the Sheriff murmured as Jacob straightened, brought the stallion to a stop, turned him, leaned forward.

"JACOB, DON'T DO IT!" 

Jacob leaned forward, gripped the gullet:  "YAAA!" he yelled, a savage joy on his young face: the stallion laid his ears back, dug hard into the earth, charged across the corral --

-- men dropped as hooves sailed over them --

An Appaloosa stallion and a grinning boy soared like the horse had wings, as hooves came down, light and swift on packed dirt, as the spotty horse burned a hole in the air and set the dirt on fire with sheer, blazing, unadulterated speed!

Men rose, turned, stared open-mouthed as the horse disappeared.

The Sheriff's expression was just as astonished as everyone else's, especially when fast hoofbeats returned, grew louder, as a spotted horse and its laid-down-low rider came charging back, a shining, spotted arrow three feet tall and fifteen feet long, skimming just barely above the earth, flew over men's heads and back into the corral.

Linn was honestly not sure just how in two hells that horse managed to stop inside the diameter of the corral -- he knew the horse cantered around the inside as Jacob straightened, grinning, as men threw hats in the air and whistled and yelled and pounded on fence boards and each other, as money exchanged hands, as a pale-eyed Sheriff walked up to the horse, caressed its warm, shining-healthy coat, then extended a hand to a fellow horseman.

Father and son shook hands, and none who saw it, had the least doubt that this was indeed the rightful get of Sheriff Linn Keller's loins. 

 

 

 

 

Edited December 21, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

RIDE A SILENT HORSE

Jacob Keller kicked the door open.

He stomped into the doctor's office with a choking, coughing schoolboy in his arms.

Doc frowned, came across the room, concern on his face and speed in his legs: he snatched the child up, turned, pushed past the startled, buxom Nurse Susan and laid the boy down on the exam table.

Blood trickled from one ear, one scarlet drop falling to the clean-scrubbed wood tabletop.

Doc's long fingers and gimlet eyes assessed the twisting, choking child, then he turned his sharp gaze to Jacob and asked quietly, "What happened?"

"The teacher boxed his ears, sir."

Jacob saw a deep and abiding anger in the physician's eyes: his brown-eyed rage was silent, deep, and plain to see.

Jacob turned, pulled the door to behind him.

 

Jacob looked around, saw the top-hatted proprietor of the funeral parlor, ran across the street.

"Sir, I need the dead wagon."

The rat-faced undertaker lifted his silk topper: "A death is it? My condolences, young man --"

"At the schoolhouse," Jacob snapped, climbing into the seat beside the proprietor: he snatched the reins from the startled man's hands, snapped them:  "YUP THERE!"

The black gelding's head came up and he stepped out at a brisk pace: the funeral director gripped his elegant topper with one hand, the side of the wagon-seat with the other, wondering how in Sam Hill this stripling just hijacked his wagon!

 

There was no town marshal yet.

There had been, but crooked politics soured the man, and he left: the Sheriff found he was expected to do double duty, which surprised him none at all, and so when a breathless young messenger said there'd been a fight at the schoolhouse, ten boys were beaten to death and the schoolmaster was thrown over the roof and was hanging bloodied from the schoolyard tree, the Sheriff reached wordlessly for his Stetson and saddled up.

The schoolhouse was almost directly across from the Sheriff's office, but this was a Western town, and the Sheriff was a Western man, and like cowboys of legend, he did not walk across the street if he could ride across the street.

He arrived just as Jacob drew the dead wagon to a stop.

The Sheriff looked in the back of the just-arrived wagon, looked at Jacob, looked at uncertain schoolchildren who were taking it all in.

The Sheriff drew up and surveyed the scene with quiet and pale eyes.

No dripping carcass appeared to be draped bonelessly from the forks of the aforementioned tree; no multitude of carcasses appeared to be lying about, and indeed the only form that needed attention, was that of the schoolmaster, protesting feebly and in a pained voice as Jacob dragged him from the building by the collar of his coat.

Jacob Keller, a skinny boy, admittedly had some height to him, but he was nowhere near a grown man's stature; he was underfed, there was that about his spirit that appeared to fear his own shadow, but there was something else -- something the Sheriff did not expect -- Jacob gritted his teeth and groaned as he wallowed the whining, nauseated fellow over one shoulder, staggered for the back of the dead wagon, hitched twice to get the schoolmaster's backside just over the dead wagon's tailgate, then he shoved him and let him fall and bang his head on the wagon's tight-laid boards.

The Sheriff grimaced inwardly at the sound of the man's skull bouncing off the boards.

Jacob shoved the man's legs into the wagon, looked up at the Sheriff, and Linn saw something he'd never seen before in that particular set of pale young eyes.

He saw anger -- a deep, boiling, hatred!

The Sheriff followed the dead wagon as it drew up in front of the Silver Jewel.

Jacob stood, looked at the Sheriff and said "I'll need your help, sir. I can't pack him upstairs to the Doc's office."

The Sheriff dismounted:  "Stand," he murmured, and his stallion followed a few steps, as if hoping for a bribe.

The Sheriff dropped the wagon's tailgate, pulled the man out, got him over one shoulder, turned: Jacob hauled open the door for him, and Tilly stared as the Sheriff came in, touched his hat-brim as he always did, then stomped up the stairs the way a man will when burdened with twice his own weight.

Jacob nodded, unsmiling, to the pretty girl behind the hotel counter as he followed the Sheriff upstairs.

 

Linn and Jacob sat facing one another, in the back of the room, against the wall, as Doc worked on the schoolteacher.

Jacob was regaining his composure.

Linn could still see the agitation in his son's posture, in his movements.

Jacob looked up at the man -- defiantly, Linn thought, and he wondered if this was a good thing.

"Sir," Jacob said, "two boys in the next to last row of the schoolhouse were cuttin' up."

Linn nodded, once.

"The schoolmaster turned and accused the Spencer boy -- yonder -- the one with bandages gobbed up on one ear -- he allowed as he wasn't the one and the schoolmaster yelled at him for a liar and boxed his ears, hard."

Jacob's eyes were changing, and Linn took careful note of it, for he'd heard of this.

He'd heard of men with pale eyes, when their eyes went the color of ice, and he felt something inside him ... something he did not like.

He felt fear.

He felt the same fear he'd felt when he looked in a mirror, just before he killed a man barehanded and killed another with a beer mug, and he'd looked in the mirror behind the bar and he saw those same eyes Jacob had right now.

Cold, and hard, and as soft and forgiving and gentle as the polished heart of a mountain glacier.

"Go on," Linn said gently.

"Sir, I've been beat and I won't stand for a man beatin' a boy without cause."

Linn nodded, once.

"Sir, I taken a chunk of stovewood thick as my wrist, I taken it in both hands and I drove the end hard as I could into his tenderloins.

"That stopped him.

"He snapped upright with his head back and I reckon he hurt too much to scream.

"I'd been ... I'd known men to knife someone like that and it hurts too much to make a sound. Mexicans favor that. I done it to him to freeze him and then I dropped that chunk and I smacked the schoolteacher's ears like he did Spencer, then I grabbed Spencer up and ran him here and I caught the dead wagon and used it to haul that worthless --"

Jacob's jaw snapped shut, his lips pressed tightly together against what he felt and dare not say.

The Sheriff nodded.

"I'll be back," he said softly, rose.

"Did you pay Digger?"

Jacob blinked, then realized Digger must be the Sheriff's name for the top hatted man driving the dead wagon.

"I did, sir," Jacob said. "I used coin from the schoolmaster's vest."

The Sheriff looked at the groaning man, curled up on his side, his face in a white enamel basin as he made the sounds of a man about to lose two weeks' worth of lunches.

He looked back at Jacob, and Jacob saw approval in the man's eyes.

"Good."

 

Father and son stood out behind the Sheriff's house.

Linn raised an arm, pointed with a flat hand and all four fingers bladed together.

"Yonder" -- Jacob followed the man's indication with his eyes -- "I'll have this fenced for saddle stock."

"Yes, sir."

"That'll be an awful lot of diggin'."

"Yes, sir."

"Ever dig post holes, Jacob?"

Jacob hesitated -- Linn saw a sadness flow into his eyes, and he looked down -- "I dug a grave, sir," he said softly.

Linn came over, beside his son, ran a fatherly arm around his shoulders, drew him carefully, gently, to him.

"I know, Jacob," he whispered. "You did a hard thing but a good thing, and I am proud of  you."

Jacob looked at his father, his eyes filling as he chewed on his bottom lip.

"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered, and Linn held his son as a tall boy tried to sort out grief and sorrow and rage and what he couldn't change and Linn remembered what it was to be young and confused when he too was faced with grief and with anger and when he had to do things he'd not normally.

Jacob accepted the bed sheet handkerchief, wiped his eyes, blew his nose, looked sadly at the soiled cloth.

"I'd best wash this out," he said, his voice tight: he harrumphed, swallowed.

"You oughta hear me when I blow my nose," Linn murmured.  "Sounds like I'm callin' geese down from where they're flyin' overhead!"

His hand was warm and reassuring as he turned Jacob toward the house.

"I reckon supper's near ready."

They walked in silence until they reached the pump in the back yard.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Jacob?"

Jacob swallowed, pushed ahead with his thought.

"Sir, next time, I'll try to ride a silent horse."

 

Edited December 22, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

HOUSEHOLD TANNENBAUM

Marnie insisted.

She stood in front of her Daddy with her arms crossed and a serious look on her young face.

She also wore insulated coveralls and snowmobile boots, she wore a stocking cap mashed down over her braids and her hood pulled up.

Marnie was ready to melt.

Probably the only reason she didn't, was because she was giving her Daddy a frosty glare.

Upon later reflection -- when she thought of the moment, some years later -- she realized her Daddy planned to go out anyhow, on the very mission Marnie suggested, and he was probably amused by the dead serious look on a little girl's face.

Linn picked up his Uncle Pete's shotgun, an old model 10 Remington with absolutely no blue left anywhere, and precious little finish on the wood: he shrugged into his Carhartt, pulled the knit toque over his head and got into his own insulated winter boots.

Once the two of them got outside (a blessed relief, or so Marnie felt!), Linn hitched up the sled to the only mule in his herd.

"Want to ride the mule, Marnie," he asked, "or you want to ride the sled?"

Marnie considered: "If I ride the mule, you'll  have to walk," she said seriously, "and you told Mama you're just naturally lazy."

Linn laughed quietly, nodded, made a mental not to watch what he said around his young -- especially this one! -- he thought a moment whistled for a mare Marnie favored, and saddled her up.

It was early enough in the day that a mule, a mare and a sled made it well up the mountain in plenty of daylight.

Linn tethered their saddle stock and he and Marnie continued on foot.

Linn's shotgun was slung across his back, as he knew he might need both hands to help Marnie through the drifts, over deadfalls or otherwise, as she was still built pretty close to the ground: as luck would have it, they didn't have to wade through the snow any great distance, and not over any blowdowns, for which Linn was grateful.

Like he'd told his wife, he was just naturally lazy, at least with things like dragging trees.

They worked their way uphill until Linn found a likely pine.

He hunkered in the snow, ran an arm around the small of Marnie's back, thrust a gloved hand at a tree:  "Take a look at the top of this one," he said. "Think that'll do?"

Marnie regarded it seriously, then looked at her Daddy: her serious expression fell and was buried in the snow, and Marnie's expression was one of utter delight.

Linn stood, considered the tree, unslung the shotgun.

The old Remington had more miles on it than Linn had accumulated in his life so far, but the action was still tight: Marnie pressed gloved hands over her ears and watched as her Daddy screwed plugs in his ears, took a final consideration of the tree trunk, brought the shotgun barrel down, fired once, twice.

The tree shivered and he went to one side, pushed: only a light webbing held trunk to stump, and this crackled quietly as the tree swished, fell, as it shed snow and knocked snow off neighboring trees' branches.

Linn thumbed two more 00 buck into the magazine, considered the length carefully, lowered the gunmuzzle again.

One shot was sufficient to part the family Christmas tree from the trunk.

"Can you carry this for me?" Linn asked, and Marnie looked at him with big and solemn eyes and nodded with all the I-can-do-it seriousness of a little girl whose Daddy just showed that he trusted her more than she'd been trusted before.

Linn picked up the trunk, hauled it up on his shoulder: "I can use this," he said, "no sense lettin' it go to waste" -- he got it down to the sled, laid it down, made a few turns with hay string to secure it, most of its length sticking out behind -- Marnie trudged dutifully in his wake as he went back for their Christmas tree, dragged it back, secured it on the sled.

Linn nodded, looked at Marnie.

"Reckon that's secure?" he asked.

Marnie frowned studiously, patted the hay strings, found them singin' tight: she tilted her head and walked the length of the sled, frowning as she studied her Daddy's work, then she waded back and looked up at him and gave a length and detailed report of her observations:

"Yep!"

Linn took his little girl under her arms, swung her up into the saddle, then he handed up the shotgun, helped her settle it across her back: he mounted the mule, and the three headed down-mountain, following the path they'd broken coming up.

Linn showed Marnie how to peel out a measuring tape, he asked her how tall their living room ceiling was -- Marnie sized up her Daddy, she held her hands apart and said "This much taller than you!" -- Linn was honestly surprised at the accuracy of her estimate: they measured the tree's length, considered the terminal upright and whether it could hold the topper Shelly made when she was a girl at home, a topper constructed from a doll, cardboard, glitter and imagination.

Linn marked the trunk and Marnie industriously plied the crosscut saw.

Her determination was unfailing, but her young arm was not used to a hee-haw saw, so Linn spelled her off: the cut was square, he drove the base on, wound in the three setscrews, stood it up out in the barn.

"Now step back and check it for plumb," Linn said, and Marnie skipped backwards, then orbited the tree slowly, stopped several times to consider whether it pointed straight up or not.

"It looks good, Daddy!" she declared.

Linn nodded.

"Yes it does," he said, picked it up.  "Can you roll the big door open for me, honey?"

Marnie scampered over to the indicated portal, smacked the latch open, hauled it open -- it rumbled on greased rollers -- she rolled it back, slapped the latch back into place and ran out the man door, fast it shut behind her.

Decorating the tree was a family event, and everyone helped.

Shelly brought out an old bedsheet for a tree skirt; it was wrapped around, tucked in, Linn watered the tree's base with a long nosed green plastic watering can his Aunt Mary used to water her African violets, then tucked the sheet up around the trunk.

Linn looked at Marnie and winked solemnly.

Father and daughter rolled over on their backs and wallowed their shoulders until they were under the tree, looking up through green, fragrant branches at bulbs and lights and an absolutely different perspective on the household Tannenbaum.

"I used to do this when I was your size," Linn said softly.

Marnie looked at him with all the bright eyed innocence of the very young and said, "I'm vew-wy glad you still do!"

Edited December 22, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

CONSULTATION

Something black, furry, round and bright-eyed, scampered across the oiled board floor of the Mercantile and looked up at the newcomer.

Bonnie McKenna was discussing something with Mrs. Garrison.

Sarah was bored.

She'd been in Denver the day before, with her Mama: her Mama gave her a speculative look and had had her fit with a proper corset and stockings, with frillies and the underpinnings Sarah was used to seeing on grown women, not girls her age who still wore short skirts that showed her ankles.

Bonnie had an idea, and Bonnie discussed the idea with her seamstresses, and with Sarah, and when she was done -- thanks to tricks Sarah learned by associating with players, fakirs, performers and thespians next door to the stage and venue where her Mama displayed her wares for a surprising number of buyers -- Sarah became an accomplished quick-change artist.

Her Mama received china headed dolls wearing the very latest in Parisian fashions.

Her Mama scaled these up.

Her Mama made fine Parisian gowns for her young daughter to model, on stage, with her hair fixed and her face painted, looking (at least to the buyers) like a grown woman in these newly fabricated McKenna gowns.

That was the day before.

Now that they were home again, Sarah was with her Mama in the Mercantile, and her Mama was discussing matters with the proprietor's wife -- Sarah liked her, she was soft spoken and gentle-voiced -- Sarah looked up as the bell swung and tinkled cheerfully, and Jacob came in.

Sarah liked Jacob, and so did The Bear Killer.

Jacob squatted as The Bear Killer came over and nosed Jacob under the corner of the jaw, then industriously washed behind Jacob's left ear: Sarah smiled quietly to hear Jacob's subdued laugh, to see the genuine affection he showed as he rubbed The Bear Killer's curly-black fur.

Jacob looked up at Sarah, and she thought he looked kind of sad.

She knew why.

She'd hurt his feelings the day before.

Jacob looked up, smiled a little as their eyes met, then he rose, walked over and looked from Sarah to her Mama and Mrs. Garrison.

He waited politely, hat in hand, for the ladies to finish their conversation.

"Why, Jacob!" Bonnie smiled when she turned and saw him: "how nice to see you again!"

"Ma'am," Jacob replied.

Bonnie blinked, gave him a curious look.

"Jacob, is there ... is something wrong?"

"I would ask your advice, ma'am."

"Of course."  Bonnie turned to face Jacob squarely, and she gave him her full attention, and those remarkable violet eyes.

Jacob swallowed, looked at Sarah, then back at Bonnie.

"Ma'am, I ... do not know ... how to address ..."
He frowned, his breath coming more quickly: he chewed on his bottom lip, frowning, and finally look back.

"Ma'am, I call the Sheriff Pa.  I'm satisfied I'm his son and he is too."

Bonnie nodded, blinked to show that she was listening.

"Ma'am, I don't know what to call ... what to call Miz Esther."

"I see," Bonnie said quietly: she looked at Sarah, looked back at Jacob.

"My Mama is dead, ma'am. I watched her ... die ..."
Jacob swallowed.

He hadn't meant to let that slip.

"I'm sorry ma'am but my Mama was Mama and she's dead and I don't think I can call Miz Esther Mama and I don't know what to call her!"

Bonnie considered this, her expression thoughtful.

Of all the questions she might be asked in a day's time, this was one she honestly had not anticipated.

"Ma'am, I'm not the smartest by a long shot but I know enough to come to someone that knows more than me."

Bonnie brought a gloved hand to her cheek, tapped her cheek bone thoughtfully with a meditative forefinger: Jacob saw her eyebrow raise, as if bumped from beneath, as if an idea elbowed its way into her consciousness.

"Could you call her 'Mother'?" Bonnie asked. "That would address her with respect and it would not be as ... intimate ... a term as 'Mama.' "

Jacob considered, nodded slowly, then looked up, looked into Bonnie's eyes.

"Thank you, ma'am," Jacob said gravely. "I believe that is the solution."

Sarah waited until Jacob was out the door before looking at her Mama, who was still staring at the closed door.

"He sounds so very much like Linn," Bonnie whispered.

"He even walks like him," Sarah said.

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

LIKE A CHILD'S TOY

Shelly laughed and ran toward the blueshirt medics who were running toward her: behind them, the familiar shape of a contemporary ambulance waited patiently, pulled out onto the apron at shift change.

Linn stood back, his eyes tightening at the corners, quietly delighting in his wife meeting another class of medics she'd trained.

This bunch was enthusiastic, the older ones just as excited and happy as the younger members: Shelly kept turning from one to the other, listening, grasping hands, gripping shoulders, seizing elbows, hugging and being hugged: Linn leaned back against a low cement wall, looked to make sure it was at least mostly clean, sat, and watched.

Most of the Confederate worlds had some kind of fire department, better than half had some sort of ambulance service.

When Marnie detonated onto the Inter-System and connected thirteen star systems with what worked "back home," she created an instant demand for this new and unique form of fighting fire, this new mobility, these new tools -- and with them, the ability to treat and transport the sick and injured, and that's where great improvements in their medical system suddenly came about.

There were those who resisted these new innovations, there always are; some were converted when their family members were suddenly in desperate need of the advanced medical procedures their own medical system could not provide -- when a shining-new fire truck, not in station more than an hour, rolled on a two-story house fire, when ladders SLAMMED against second-story windowsills, when men in turnout coats and self-contained breathing apparatus dove into the hot breath of Hell and came to the window to hand off limp or weakly-struggling or coughing, choking children in nightclothes, to bring out an unconscious wife, draped over a man's shoulder, when burned patients were transferred first to the local hospital, and then to more advanced care off-planet -- well, real experience sometimes trumps curmudgeonly inertia.

Not always, but often enough.

Shelly had to whistle -- she put thumb-and-forefinger to her lips, cut loose with the piercing labial screech she used when necessary -- she looked around and raised her hands and declared loudly, "There's only one of me and I can't hear everyone at once!" -- she looked around and laughed, and they all laughed with her, and Linn suspected there was an old joke between them, or maybe a shared memory.

They ended up in the firehouse with two shifts' worth of firefighters and medics crowding the table, with conversation and laughter and Diplomat's Blend and sourdough bread, or something that almost tasted like sourdough (very much to Linn's taste!) -- and Shelly frowned, waved at her husband and called diagonally across the table, "Can you pull up a picture of an Eastern whitetail?"

Linn frowned, considered, then went over to the projection screen: he turned and asked, "Where's the District Education Officer? I don't know how to interface with this thing!" -- he looked at the screen and frowned and turned back and said "Ours fires on coal, where's your steam boiler?"

Shelly picked up a sweet roll and threw at him -- he caught it, stuck it in his coat pocket as one of their blue-bib-front-shirted members came up, keyed in a command, lit up the screen -- "I'll save that for when I'm hungry later tonight," the Sheriff deadpanned.

Linn considered his pocket screen, frowned at the big teaching screen: an image appeared.

"This," Linn said, "is an Eastern whitetail buck, only the males have antlers. This one is about a hundred twenty pounds, and they stand" -- he frowned at his pocket screen, conferred with the in-house training officer -- more magic of technology and a hologram sizzled into existence: the buck that occupied the screen, now stood before him, looking solid and real.

"They stand this tall."

Shelly stood, came over, borrowed her husband's pocket pad.

"This is the motor vehicle I was following," she said as a four door sedan appeared. "It didn't hit the deer, the deer ran out and hit the car in the side door."

Vehicle and Odocoileus virginianus disappeared.

"When it hit, it broke off the driver's side mirror and the pull-up door handle.

"We were following in the squad, deadheading back to station -- I was a ridealong guest when we went back East to see family a few years ago.

"I had my scissorkit on my belt.

"We pulled in behind and lit up, the driver got out and surveyed the damage, and the door closed.

"She realized the engine was running -- which meant the key she needed to unlock the door, was inside the car -- she was locked out, she was heading for work, and she'd just been scared out of a year's growth when a deer hit her at full running speed.

"I pulled out a pair of needle forceps. They're blunt, they're good for holding the hook of a fishing fly when you tie it" -- blank looks all around -- "never mind. 

"I reached in where the handle used to be and there was just enough of the handle left to grip with the forceps.

"I pulled slowly, steadily, it released, I pulled the door open and that poor soul started to cry with relief."

"But what about the deer?" someone asked from the far side of the table.

"When the deer hit the car," Shelly sighed, "it went rigid, it flipped over top with its legs stuck out stiff as a child's toy, it landed on its hooves and limped off.  Didn't appear to have any fractures, and I saw it twice after that, moving slow like it was bruised up, but otherwise ... unhurt."

"Do we have needle forceps?" one of the medics asked.

"You have hemostats," Shelly said, "but I don't think you ever saw us using needle forceps. They're dandy for suturing a button on you uniform coat," she added helpfully.

"We'll have to get some of those," their Chief Medic said softly, and several heads nodded in agreement.

Linn quietly thanked their training officer, returned to the table, looked diagonally across at his wife and asked, "Got any more sweet rolls?"

At least a half dozen sailed through the air from as many directions, and bounced off various parts of his anatomy.

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

EEYAHOO!

The town square was framed with curious people.

The Ambassador promised a Christmas tree would be delivered, at a particular time, on a particular date, at a particular location.

She didn't say how.

Each planet had its own orbital period, each planet had its own length of day, each planet had one or more moons to regulate tides and create legends, and each planet had its memories, ancient, incomplete, of holidays and festivities, but one that persisted, was Christmas.

A lovely girl with a big ribbon bow in her hair and a ruffle-bib dress, an anxious girl in white stockings and shining black slippers and a square cut ruby at the hollow of her throat, bounced on her toes with excitement: she'd told her Mama that he, Michael, would be delivering the ceremonial tree -- her Mama gave her daughter a skeptical look, but as the town's square was not far, they went on the appointed day and at the appointed time.

Her Mama smiled as she and her daughter walked with friends and neighbors, as she remembered the pale eyed young man describing winter and snow and the fragrance of mountain pines, of his pale eyed Pa, solemn and ceremonial, measuring ceiling to floor, then measuring the height of the tree stand: Michael's first mathematical exercises involved his Pa's measurements, whether to cut boards, or fence posts, or a Christmas tree for their parlor.

Cold was something neither Juliette nor her Mama really understood, for their latitude was quite pleasant: never oppressively hot, never shivering-cold ... the idea of snow was something they really couldn't quite grasp, and ice on ponds and running streams was beyond their understanding altogether.

They gathered near the rope-and-sawhorse barriers, there in the town's square, waiting.

High Twelve, Michael promised:  at High Twelve, he'll be there, with a tree.

Juliette pressed anxious fingertips to her lips, feeling a delicious anticipation.

Men consulted their watches, looked at one another --

The town's clock began to strike --

An Iris snapped into existence -- a black vertical line, an audible *CRACK!* -- 

-- Juliette stared ...

... When Michael emerged from Irises, they were only just big enough for he and his beautiful blond Fanghorn --

The Iris snapped wide, wider than Juliette ever saw one expand: instead of a graceful, tall, slender, feline ellipse, it was suddenly broad, fat, wide, wide! --

Juliette's breath caught --

Something white, like a great, blasting, crystalline-fog, hissed out, spread, cascaded the entire length of the town's square --

Cold, a gust of cold wind, blew, ruffled her hem and chilled her legs and clutched at her cheeks and her face --

A voice --

"EEEYAAAAHOOOOOO!"

Juliette's breath caught -- her mouth opened --

Michael!

Something tumbled out of the broad-as-a-church Ellipse, something rolled in an uncontrolled, flailing, hooves-in-the-air somersault, and something black with it: an avalanche, uncontrolled, powerful, a tree, shocking-green, came with them --

Michael swam to the surface, laughing, as Lightning wallowed, got her legs under her, threw her head back and forth, slinging snow and whistling --

Michael half-scrambled, half-swam, grabbed the saddlehorn, pulled himself astride --

Lightning shook herself, stood, shedding snow as she pulled powerfully forward --

A tree trunk emerged behind her, she pawed, she dug, she hauled it to the shallow end of the snowy cascade --

Michael dipped his hand into the cold crystal mass, got a good double handful, packed it, threw it at a random bunch of little boys.

Instantly children swarmed the cold snowy stuff, discovered they could pack the cold white fluff into snowballs!

Michael and Lightning dragged and surged and yanked and finally hauled a big pine free, hauled it to the far end of the cascade:  Michael pulled off his coat, shook it, gave it a hard snap, looked around -- his hat was nowhere to be found -- he laughed, pulled his cold coat back on.

"GIMME A HAND HERE!  WE NEED TO SET THIS UP!"

Laughing men with callused hands waded into the snow, shouting as they slogged, belt buckle deep, through cold and crystal and new-to-their-experience: Michael dismounted, fought through the stuff to supervise their digging the tree free, to wrapping lines around it at strategic points: a steam crane was brought closer, the tree was raised and set into a base Michael provided a few days before.

Juliette was given an envelope, not long after, one that contained two images captured from the Inter-System broadcast: one showed Michael, when he first emerged from the entirely-unplanned avalanche, snow on his head and shoulders, his laughing face red-cheeked and delighted, and the other, when Michael came over and shyly raised her hand to his lips as he kissed the back of her hand.

There was a third photograph she kept for the rest of her life.

A lightning-patterned Fanghorn, on her back, nearly buried in the snow, four legs happily pawing at the air, while laughing children threw snow in the air and lay over her warm, wet-beaded, heavy-boned chest and celebrated as children do, at their very first snowfall.

Merry Christmas.

 

Edited December 24, 2024 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103