SHORT STORIES!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WHEN IN DOUBT, CHEAT!

It was a contest of wills, and Michael was not winning.

He did, however, have an advantage his long tall Pa lacked.

Michael's Confederate field -- a much improved version of the one that kept him from being incinerated when he and Lightning inadvertently came into an area where military maneuvers were not supposed to be conducted -- was modified such that, when the fiery Appaloosa stallion dropped his head between splayed forelegs and did his best to mule-kick one of the two moons overhead, Michael sailed through the air, tried to tuck and tumble and land on his feet, and ended up slamming into packed ground, almost flat on his back.

As Michael's spine had been completely regrown, as he'd known pain beyond what most grown men could even survive, as he had an honest paranoia about reinjuring himself, when he landed, he just kind of laid there, mouth open, gasping in wind that somehow had not been knocked out of him.

When he realized the Confederate field soaked up the impact of landing, and the actual shock to his lean young body was almost nonexistent, he snarled, clamped his jaw shut, came up on all fours and charged the stallion.

Michael Keller stopped -- fast -- he skidded awkwardly, one leg thrust forward, then he rose, looked at the offending equine, still bucking around the circular corral.

It took an effort, but he unclenched his fists, he took another long breath, blew it out.

The stallion apparently thought this was great fun: he came mincing over, as if daring Michael to try again, and Michael did.

This time, when he felt the stallion start to bunch up, he drove his head down, grabbed an ear between even white teeth, and bit.

Hard.

The stallion squalled.

It wasn't the pure, beautiful, whistling whinny of a horse declaring its strength and mastery and happiness, it was the distressed wail that meant something was very wrong and the realization that it had just been bested sunk through his thick horse skull.

Michael felt his teeth meet, he opened his jaw, spat out some hair, sat up.

The stallion's eyes walled and Michael felt him shivering beneath him.

"Now, damn you," Michael muttered, spitting again, "walk!"

 

The stallion was not the only recalcitrant saddlemount Michael worked that day.

The stallion was, however, the one Michael kept coming back to, and fooling with, and gentling with caress and brush and thick pinches of shredded, molasses cured, chawin' tobacker.

Whether it's because the rebellious child is the one most loved by a parent, whether it's because this horse honestly had the most spirit, the most raw strength, the greatest intelligence, or whether because of a tall boy's bruised pride, Michael worked with this particular stallion more than the other horses.

It wasn't that he tamed it, or that he got it gentled down, it was more like there was some kind of a truce between them, and there was speculation among men who knew horses, that each party thought this to their benefit, and both horse and rider thought each had bamboozled the other.

Whether in spite of any of these, or because of any of these, Michael and this particular stallion matched up well.

Slingshot wasn't the smoothest riding horse Michael ever straddled.

Slingshot wasn't the fastest, though in fairness he was in the top three.

He was the contrariest, he was the stubbornnest, he was honestly the one most likely to try and duck under a low branch or wipe Michael off against a convenient tree -- but when he found none of these things worked, when other riders uses curses, kicks and quirts on him when he tried such things, and Michael did not -- well, Slingshot found himself under saddle leather for Michael more often, and offered less protest when it was Michael in the saddle.

Lightning, of course, was not impressed, but she had her adopted colts to tend; still, she would snuff elaborately at Michael's legs, then lift her head and grunt as if at a bad odor, after Michael came to her after a day's work with Slingshot.

Michael's father watched on his computer screen, a rarely seen, gentle smile as he marveled at his son's skill: Barrents watched with him, whistled quietly: "Boss, there is a horseman!"

Linn nodded and said softly, "He's twice the chevalier I ever was!"

"Is that what he's doing for a living now?"

Linn nodded.  "Very nearly, or so I understand.  He's borrowed my old experienced horses and he's using them to teach young men."

Linn smiled.

"What was it the man said about the Lipizzaners? 'The old men teach the young horses, and the old horses teach the young men.' "

Barrents gave a chuckling double-grunt, the way he did when his old friend managed to tickle the Navajo's funny bone.

"Is he making a decent living at it?"

"I gather he is. He's got quite the commerce in books and Angela built on that and she's dealing in printing presses, paper making ... and hemp."

"Hemp?"  Barrents was a hard man to surprise, but Linn heard just the hint of surprise in his lifelong friend's voice.

"Outlasts cotton several times over, it's better than jute for rigging on a sailing-ship. Makes fine rag paper that outlasts wood pulp paper seven ways from Sunday. That's opened the door for technologies from Confederate Central -- they install nuclear rippers on every stack, at every waste discharge of any kind, all waste is reduced to its subatomic components and reassembled into something they need."

Linn shook his head.

"All that's beyond me.  I'm just a poor dumb hillbilly."

Barrents rested a warm, strong, blunt-fingered hand on the shoulder of a man he'd known since earliest childhood.

"My sons have out-done me," he said quietly, "and I couldn't be prouder!"

Linn nodded.  "Me too, Buddy Joe," he said, just as quietly.  "Me too."

 

Michael looked at Thunder and Cyclone, one hand on Lightning's shoulder.

He looked up at the big, slow-blinking Fanghorn mare's blunt, businesslike skull.

"Down," he said, his voice quiet.

Lightning folded thick-boned, hard-muscled legs, bellied down with a surprising grace.

Michael walked over to Thunder, laid a hand on the young stallion's shoulder.

"Down," he said.

Cyclone looked at Lightning, looked at Michael, bellied down without being told.

Thunder looked at her, turned his neck toward Michael, bellied down.

Michael gave them each a peppermint, called them good puppies, the way he'd done when he was but a wee child -- when he and Victoria were still very young, they laughed and called their Daddy's colts "Horsie Puppies!" -- and Michael still secretly called them puppies, which he thought nobody else knew, which everyone else in his family thought was sweet and charming, and fortunately nobody teased him about.

Michael threw a leg over Thunder, eased a small amount of weight down onto the saddle, while stroking his neck and murmuring to him.

The young Fanghorn's eyes closed and he chirped happily, delighted for the attention.

Michael didn't put more than a very little of his weight onto the saddle:  he came off the bellied-down stallion, went over to Cyclone, called her a good little puppy, threw a leg over, let her feel a very few pounds' weight in the saddle, all the while caressing her and murmuring to her, all while under Lightning's watchful gaze.

Michael came out of the saddle:  "Up!" he called, with a dramatic lift to his palms.

Lightning came to her feet, towering impressively over the three.

Cyclone looked around, came to a stand as well.

Thunder, however, didn't so much stand, as sneak: he coasted over to Michael almost on tiptoes, if it's possible for a hooved Fanghorn to walk on the tippy-toe edges of hard, broad hooves:  Thunder's head lowered, he stuck his neck out, he very delicately nipped at Michael's backside, seizing the dangling wild rag -- he bit, he pulled, he danced back, waving the big white kerchief with blue polka-dots triumphantly.

Michael Keller, horse-handler, Fanghorn-rider and young businessman and entrepreneur, yelled, grabbed futilely at the fluttering poka-dot, chased after him, and Thunder whirled, hobby-horsed away, just out of reach.

Cyclone thought this was a fine game so she came bouncing along as well, and Lightning, not to be left out of the fun, trotted after the three, whistling approval.

Sharon's head turned and she looked from her dispatcher's desk back toward the closed door of the Sheriff's office, then she smiled as she recognized the sound.

The Sheriff and his chief deputy were laughing at something, and laughing well indeed.

 

 

 

 

 

Edited January 28 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

NOTHING MUCH, JUST CAUSIN' TROUBLE, HOW 'BOUT YOU?

"Howdy, Pa!"

Linn grinned at the scrubbed-clean face of his growing son, reddened cheeks glowing in what must be cold air: Linn saw snow landing on Michael's Stetson brim, saw his son's breath from between the turned up sheepskin lined collar as he spoke.

"How does Lightning handle the cold weather?"

"She's fine, sir. Thunder and Cyclone are wallerin' like a couple pups, playin' in the drifts!"

Linn grinned, nodded: Michael saw his father's brows crowd together a little and knew the Grand Old Man had a question.

"Michael, did you happen to travel back East by any chance?"

Michael's grin was quick, bright, genuine.

"I did, sir!"

"I thought that might've been you, but all they really had on camera was your saddle blanket."

Michael grimaced.

"Didn't mean to cause trouble, sir."

Sheriff Linn Keller's grin was just as quick, just as genuine as his son's.

"It couldn't be traced to us, Michael, and I have to admire what you did!"

Michael squinted at a gust of wind, as snow sleeted across, heavier now, a there-and-gone crystal curtain between himself and the camera/screen.

"I reckon you'd best find shelter out of that wind."

"We'll be home tonight, sir. Is Mama still fixin' meatloaf for supper?"

 

Michael lowered his arm, glad to get his wrist-screen back into his coat-sleeve: that wind was finding every gap in his insulation.

Lightning lifted her head and whistled: Thunder and Cyclone charged across what was, in warm weather, a tallgrass meadow, but was now either scoured down to dry grass and frosted, or drifted nearly tall as a grown man: they were two kids playing in the snow, lowering their heads, driving their flat, juvenile bone-bosses into the fluffy white stuff and whistling delight as they blasted drifts into clouds of crystal powder.

Fanghorn, colts and a pale eyed rider drifted ahead of the wind, toward a sheltered lee they knew of.

 

A worried looking woman cleaned the tracheostomy tube, dunked it in white vinegar, sloshed the scrubbed-clean plastic vigorously and set it out to dry.

Her daughter's trach was freshly changed and she was breathing more easily now.

There was a knock at the door -- a brisk shave-and-a-haircut.

"I'll be right back," she murmured, and her daughter signed a quick "OK" -- she communicated with sign language, her fingers fast and surprisingly graceful from years of practice.

The mother wiped her hands on a towel, snapped it over her shoulder, opened the door.

A tall boy -- not a young man yet, but getting there -- removed his black Stetson.

"I understand your insurance gave you grief," he said without preamble, extending a thick yellow envelope. "You likely had to pay out of pocket for a night nurse for your daughter. It would be a blessing on me if you'd accept this."

"I -- what --"

The young man replaced his Stetson, touched his hat-brim, turned: he swung a leg over what she thought was a horse, until it stood, until she realized this monstrous, muscled creature was almost horse shaped, but elephant tall.

The rider touched his hat-brim again, then they rode ahead.

The mother drew back, opened the thick, surprisingly heavy envelope, took a look.

She ripped the envelope, laid out the contents, tore the paper bands on thick bundles of bills, started to count.

Her jaw dropped as she whispered a sum to the still air, then she grabbed for her purse, for her phone, she pulled up an app and took a look at what the doorbell camera might have caught.

The only thing she really saw was the insignia on the saddle blanket, an insignia that made the evening news when they covered the story on the insurance company's refusal to pay for a night nurse for her daughter's care.

The evening news showed a gold, six point star, in the lower rear corner of the saddle blanket -- that, and blond fur with forked lightning paths in lighter fur.

 

A family sat down to supper: laughter, quiet voiced discussion, the smell of meat loaf, of green beans with onion and bacon, of taters and gravy, of fresh baked bread: Shelly complained good-naturedly that she cooked for thrashers, her husband said he was trying to think of a good smart remark to make and his mind just went blank, and his wife squinted one eye shut and shook a menacing fist at him, at least until he grabbed her wrist, kissed her knuckles and murmured, "You good lookin' thing, can I flirt with you?"

Meat loaf was slabbed off and deposited on plates, plates were circulated around the table and loaded down, when china settled to the tablecloth Linn bowed his head and said "Hello, plate!" and a half dozen sweet rolls sailed through the air and most of them hit his forehead or scalp -- he caught two of them, and Snowdrift made short work of the ones that hit the floor -- and the sound of knife and fork prevailed, at least until clean plates and covetous glances announced the arrival of the coveted "Time for Dessert!"

Pie and ice cream, distributed generously, while Shelly pretended to ignore that Michael and Victoria put their plates on the floor -- "Prewash," Michael described it innocently some years before, as Snowdrift et. al. polished the china free of any remainders -- Victoria looked at her Daddy, and at Michael, and said something about seeing a mystery man and his generous financial gift to a woman who'd had to take out a short term loan due to an insurance firm refusing to pay what they were eventually shamed and embarrassed into paying.

Michael managed to look very innocent as he paid close attention to fresh homemade still-warm-from-the-oven apple pie and the double scoop of vanilla ice cream atop the sugar-dusted crust.

"Nobody knows who it was," Victoria continued, "but they did show the only thing she got on her doorbell camera."

She held up her pad, turned the screen toward Michael, showed the still shot of a gold, six point star on a black saddleblanket, with blond, lightning-streaked hide showing behind.

"Michael," she said in a scolding sister's voice, "what have you been up to?"

Michael sat up very straight, pale eyes wide and innocent as he looked around the table, at every face there, then back to his twin sister's knowing expression and the screen she still held toward him.

"Oh, nothing much," he said casually, "just causin' trouble, how 'bout you?"

 

A thirteen year old girl looked out her window and waved, and a boy about her age, wearing a black suit and a black, flat-crowned Stetson, grinned and waved, and then the big blond horse he rode reared, huge hooves smashing at the air.

In the next room, a mother sat, staring at the pile of cash on her table.

She could pay off that loan she'd taken out, and then some.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A  PROMISE KEPT

The robot ship coasted silently in the silence between stars.

A heavy walled pipe extended through its hull into the black vacuum.

The ship was moving at a fantastic velocity, but owing to a lack of landmarks, it seemed to be still, unmoving.

A cloud of dust and crystallizing gas trickled from the pipe, a surprisingly cohesive stream that spread, dissipated, disappeared.

Michael Keller waited until the funnel was empty, until the dust was gone, educted with a stream of dry nitrogen, into interstellar space.

He'd made a promise.

A crystal hung from his vest, a crystal with a pinch of dust in its faceted heart: he wore a watch fob, and in it, the last earthly remains of a girl he'd known as Juliette.

Michael loaded the eductor into the ejection hatch, launched the spent device into the void, guaranteeing every milligram of ground, burnt, bone ash was sent to the stars she'd seen when her bandages were first removed from her regrown eyes.

Michael Keller manipulated the controls that closed the hatch, sealed the ejectors: he turned, addressed the robot ship.

"We're done. Take me home."

An Iris appeared before the ship; they passed through the black ellipse, and disappeared.

 

Michael sat heavily, remembering, staring at the long, faceted crystal at the end of his watch-chain.

He remembered how her arms felt, how she held him around his middle as she rode behind him, as Lightning took them to places he'd seen and described to her -- the great falls, where he'd shot rock snakes that tried to kill his twin sister, and him -- he'd taken her to glaciers, windy and cold, to seashores that glowed at night, he'd taken her to a planet where bright, screeching parrots fluttered around them, swinging around branches like acrobats.

He'd taken her to a prairie where herds of bovines moved like a broad, shaggy river, she'd laughed with delight as they stood atop a rocky promontory and felt the earth shivering underfoot at the passing of thousands of hooves, he'd taken her to a night-darkened field where glowing insects flashed green in an ancient mating dance, looking like living emeralds bobbing in a velvet pool.

He'd held her hand as she whispered that she did not want to die in a hospital, she wanted to die at home, in her own bed, and he'd set beside her and held her hand as she relaxed, as the cancer ate into her brain and murdered her as she slept.

He'd been with her when she was examined, when Confederate medicine, for all its miracles, failed to stop the cancer that damned flesh-burning plant caused, and he'd tried his best to find the plants that did this, only to discover they'd already been rooted out and destroyed.

Michael Keller held her as she whispered that he'd shown her beauty she never knew existed, he'd urged Lightning to greater speed as they thundered across a prairie, surrounded by whistling Fanghorns, running as if to escape Death itself.

All this he remembered as he sat, alone, in the silence of a robot ship, holding a pinch of dust, sealed in a crystal, attached to his watch chain.

An electronic voice said, "Arrival," and the rear hatch opened.

Michael stood, settled his Stetson on his head.

He saw his Pa's Appaloosas, he saw fence he and his Pa worked on and painted and rode together and kept up, he saw the pasture he'd known since earliest childhood.

Michael remembered how Juliette clapped her hands with delight and laughed at the Appaloosa colts, running and kicking and playing in the pasture, he remembered how gentle her words had been when she murmured, "Horsie puppies," and he'd looked sideways at her gentle smile, and he remembered how happy he was in that moment.

Michael walked out into the pasture, half sick with grief.

He walked over to one of the white mares that drew the fire wagon, fed her a pinch of molasses cured chawin' tobacker, bent his wrist and murmured "Ship, released," and the robot ship rose silently, turned, eased through an Iris, disappeared.

He laid an arm over the mare's back and buried his face in her long mane, forbidding himself the grief that roared like ocean's anger over the rock dam of his resolve, and he remembered the night when they unwrapped the bandages from Juliette's new eyes, and how the first thing she saw was the stars, and he remembered how she held his hand and whispered to him that the cancer was killing her and they couldn't stop it, and promise me you'll send me to those stars I saw when I had eyes again.

Michael Keller gritted his teeth and forbade himself to make a sound.

His shoulders heaved and he locked his grief deep in his throat as an Appaloosa colt came up and nosed him under the arm, and he swallowed hard and rubbed the curious little mare's back the way he did when the colt came up and nosed up under Juliette's arm, and then his.

Pale eyes watched him, from a distance: a mother moved, as if to go to her son, but a father shook his head, and she stopped.

"I don't understand," Shelly whispered, her throat tight, for she knew what it was to lose someone she loved.

Linn was silent for a long moment, his arm around his wife's shoulders, then he raised her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles, and she felt a scalding drop of saltwater drop on the back of her hand.

"Sometimes," he said, and swallowed, and started again, for he too knew what it was to say that final goodbye.

"Sometimes a man has to keep a promise."

The last long red ray of the setting sun reflected off the crystal on Michael's watch chain, as bright and pure as a maiden's heart.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

NEVER SPOKE, NEVER FORGOT

Sheriff Jacob Keller laughed as his grandson strutted noisily down the boardwalk, just button-bustin' proud of himself, leading a Paso Fino colt half beside and half behind him.

Sheriff Jacob Keller leaned his head forward a little to see this clattering wonder.

The gait of a Paso is rapid, unique, exquisitely smooth: this is an inborn, inbred gait, it is not taught, it is the natural pace of this fine breed, and even their very young colts walk with this rapid pace.

Juvenile boot heels were almost lost in the waterfall of tiny hooves on warped boards.

Jacob's son Will leaned against the opposite side of the ornately turned post.

The Sheriff's Office was of stone now, but the boardwalk remained -- there were plans to replace it with a stone walk, but that hadn't happened yet -- the snowshed roof that overhung the board walk in front of the Sheriff's office sheltered the Deacon's Bench (where to human knowledge, no deacon had ever parked his backside), and in season -- which was almost every day -- loafers, idlers, whittlers, liars and other interesting folk would take their ease, at least for a little while.

The pair watched as this representative of their pale eyed bloodline strutted happily past them, all little-boy grin and flannel shirt, unbuttoned vest and hat cocked back on his head: granddad and Pa waited until their progeny crossed the rutted dirt street (soon to be brick paved, or so they'd been told!) and down the broad alley toward the livery.

Father and son looked out over the street, at a local cat on one end of the horse trough, at one of the stray dogs at the other: the pair had a truce: neither intruded on the other's territory, though their young were not signatories to this territorial understanding: kittens were known to climb atop Mount Hounddog and sleep, or bat the scarred tail, but woe betide any representative of the Canine Kingdom that intruded upon Feline Territory!

"Will?"

Jacob's voice was deep, confident, the reassuring tones of a father who was certain of his place in the world, the comfortable voice of a man standing in the sunlight, soaking up a little heat on an otherwise chilly morning.

"Yes, sir?"

"Thank you."

Silence for several heartbeats.

"You're welcome, sir."

Jacob's ear pulled back a little at the note of uncertainty in his son's reply.

"Will, you're first born."

"Yes, sir."

"I was too."

"Yes, sir."

"A man makes his first mistakes and his worst mistakes and his most often mistakes with his firstborn."

"Sir?"

Jacob pushed away from the porch post, turned to face his son: Will turned as well, puzzled.

"Will, you've done better as a father than I did with you. I'm proud of you!"

"Sir?" Will replied, honestly puzzled.

Jacob laid a fatherly hand on his firstborn's shoulder, and Will saw the humor, deep in his Pa's pale eyes.

"You're doin' good, Will, and I'm proud of you!"

 

Linn sat on a bale of hay, grateful for the thick, folded saddleblanket that kept prickles from insulting his denim covered backside.

Michael sat beside him, silent, clutching an invisible blanket of misery like it was something precious.

Linn pulled out his watch, unfast it from his watch chain: he pressed the stem to flip open its cover, handed it to his son.

"Don't think I showed you this yet," he said, his voice gentle.

Michael took the watch, frowned a little as he looked at the inside of the hunter case, then he grinned, looked up at his Pa, honestly delighted.

"Sir, that's gorgeous!"

Linn winked. "Your Mama likes it!"

Shelly's image looked up from the inside of the watch case: it was Confederate work, engraved with lasers or something, Linn wasn't sure quite how it was done, he only knew his wife's portrait was actually engraved into the metal, colorized somehow, and had a protective layer of something over it to prevent its damage.

Michael nodded, started to hand it back.

"Look closer, Michael."

Michael's hand stopped, drew back, and he frowned a little as he studied the image again.

"Look around it. Circling the portrait."

Michael tilted the watch, frowning: he ran an exploring fingertip into it, looked up at his father, puzzled.

"A hair?"

Linn nodded, smiled a little -- almost sadly, Michael thought as his Pa accepted the watch back, closed the case, fast it back onto his watch chain, thumbed it into his vest.

"It is a single, blond hair."

Michael's brows twitched a little -- Linn knew this meant his son was surprised, that he wasn't expecting that answer -- he looked at his Pa and said, "Sir?"

Linn chewed on his bottom lip, rubbed his palms slowly together.

"Michael," he said slowly, "I had a girlfriend ... in college ..."

He frowned, looked at the floor: Michael saw his body language shift just a little, he read this as defensiveness, and he was right.

"Her name was Dana," Linn said softly, "and my Pa disliked her from the moment he laid eyes on her. I don't know if that's because he thought her a city girl, I don't know if it's just ... sometimes you meet someone and they remind you of someone else and you dislike them instantly.  I don't know."

Linn looked up, looked across the barn, looked through the workbench and the far wall, his voice distant, softer.

"She had blue eyes and blond hair and honestly she was built like a fire plug but I loved that woman," he almost whispered. "She complained I had my Pa so high on a pedestal it's a wonder he didn't have nosebleed. She had no idea that's where I had her."

Michael listened silently.

He knew somehow his Pa was showing him a hidden part of his heart, and he knew he would have to tread very carefully to keep from bruising this -- this apparently tender memory -- and so he stayed silent, he listened closely to his father's gently spoken words.

"I was firstborn, Michael, and a firstborn is trained -- first, foremost, before all else -- to OBEY.

"Don't think, OBEY.

"Don't ask questions, OBEY.

"Even before don't take off your diaper, the firstborn is taught to OBEY -- immediately, without hesitation, without question."

Michael waited; silence grew long in the stillness, then Linn continued.

"My Pa did not like Dana, and so -- I'm a firstborn -- I broke it off because he didn't ..."

Michael saw his father's head drop, slowly, saw his hands close into fists, then open.

"Pa and I were estranged for a lot of years.

"One day Mama and I were talking -- your Gammaw" -- Linn looked over at Michael, his expression soft, and Michael saw the smile of a good memory tightening up the corners of his Pa's eyes -- "she said Pa was working on an important speech, dictating it into a tape recorder and playing it back. 

"She said he looked at her all surprised and said, 'That sounds like Linn!' "

He looked off toward the workbench again and continued in a gentle voice, "Mama said 'You're just now realizing this?' -- and she didn't say any more about it.

"She didn't have to.

"I realized then how much alike we were and that's why we were damn neart estranged for a time.

"I went home and we set down and Pa and I talked for a good long while and neither of us said a thing about it and by then Dana married someone else -- she died ten years ago, rest her soul, pneumonia -- but this..."

Linn pressed the stem on his watch, flipped it open again.

"That one single hair," he said, "is from Dana's hairbrush."

He dropped his head again.

"The firstborn is taught to obey," he said, and Michael heard honest regret in his father's voice.

"I dropped Dana and I've regretted that every single day of my life since then.  I blamed Pa for a long time until I realized it was my choice, I could have married Dana anyhow, so I blamed me for a long time, and finally I let it go."

Michael blinked, silent, digesting all this: his fingers closed gently around his shining, faceted crystal watch fob.

"Juliette was a fine young lady," Linn said slowly. "I am genuinely sorry she was lost to us."

"Thank you, sir."

"Marnie filled me in on how you kept a promise."

"Yes, sir."

Linn turned, laid a careful, open hand gently on his son's shoulder blades.

"Michael, I am proud of you."

Michael swallowed.

"Thank you, sir."

Linn's jaw eased forward, his brows wrinkling together a little, then he looked very seriously at his youngest son.

"Michael, follow your heart. I'm not the one marryin' the girl you take a shine to. If she's the right one for you, then you are not answerable to anyone for your choice."

"Sir?"

"Yes, Michael?"

Linn's youngest son squirmed a little, the way he used to as a little boy, then he turned and looked very directly at his Pa.

"Sir, why are you tellin' me this?"

Linn considered for several long moments: he rubbed his palms thoughtfully together, he looked across the still, empty barn, listening to the ghosts that lived there, the memories that filled this shadowed space.

"Michael," he said slowly, "a father realizes at some point that even his youngest is growin' up. You kept a promise, hard though it was."

Linn swallowed, continued in a huskier voice.

"When that happens, the Old Man has to realize his son just stood up on his hind legs and started makin' noises like a man. You've proven yourself many times, Michael, it just took this long and this one thing to soak through my thick skull."

Michael nodded, chewed on his bottom lip, considered for a long moment, then he pulled out his own watch.

He unfast it from his own watch-chain, pressed the stem, flipped open the cover and wordlessly handed it to his father.

Linn looked at the blank inside of the watch cover.

He tilted it a little to catch the light across it.

Michael saw his father's eyes smile a little at the corners as his Pa saw a single hair, circling the inside of the watch cover, sealed to its stainless steel surface.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

OLD FASHIONED

Sheriff Jacob Keller's breathing was deep, silent, controlled.

He was alive, alive! -- more so than he'd felt in years! -- his face tightened and felt odd, and then he realized why.

He had a broad grin on his face.

Sheriff Jacob Keller pulled the pin on a flashbang, smacked it against his holster, held the spoon down: he extended his finger, punched in the master override code, knowing they'd expect him to do that, knowing they'd be ready to cancel the override.

Not before he flipped the flash-bang through the brief gap in the airlock door.

The door slid shut.

He keyed in the override again as the muted detonation struggled through the heavy door: he spun through the opening, shotgun first, his deputy close behind.

Two men were sagging, mouths open, eyes screwed shut, hands over their ears, and Jacob kicked one hard in the kidneys, driving his stacked-leather bootheel into the man's tenderloin, then drove the butt of his Ithaca into the base of the other one's skull.

Jacob knew he had to get to the hostages.

Jacob knew one hostage was already dead, a shaped charge plastic-welded between her shoulder blades had been detonated on camera before the hostage-takers made their demands.

He ran down the hall, slice the pie at the corner, ran again, yelled "WE GOT HIM! THE SHERIFF'S DEAD!"

A door opened and Jacob drove a charge of double-ought buck through a man's face, shucked the action as he twisted around the falling carcass.

I need to confuse them, he thought, then yelled "YA IDIOT, DON'T SHOOT ME, I'M ONE OF US!"

He dropped, skidded feet first through the doorway, sliding on his backside, knowing he'd have a belt buckle tall, formed-meltrock control panel for cover.

He pulled the other grenade without pulling the pin, drew back, threw it, hard, then rose.

The man on the other side held a weapon, but he turned at the sharp sound of the grenade smacking a panel --

Jacob brought the shotgun up --

The man's chest erupted as the shot swarm shattered spine, heart and breast bone, in that order, as it carried an incredible amount of blood and tissue with it as it sailed out into the big empty space of the control center.

Sheriff Jacob Keller shucked the Ithaca, turned, made a full, swift, controlled circle.

He came around the control panel.

Two of the colonists' daughters were blindfolded, hogtied, a box on each of their backs.

Jacob pulled a knife, cut the material of their coveralls, separating the plastic-welded explosives from between their shoulder blades.

He rose, bent his wrist, keyed in a command: an Iris opened -- he tossed the square plastic boxes through it, touched another key, the Iris closed --

Sheriff Jacob Keller looked around, bent his wrist, raised it to his lips, spoke quietly.

"It's taken care of. Hostages safe. Get Medical to Control Three, break, break. Firelands Three, actual."

"Three, go."

"Status?"

"Prisoners secured. Should I take them to medical?"

"Let Doc see 'em in cells."

"Roger that."

 

Sheriff Linn Keller watched the video, thanks to split screen and two screens: he watched with quiet eyes as his son moved like a panther, as he handled a situation with brutal and unforgiving efficiency.

Jacob sat beside him, casually chewing on a sandwich.

Linn finally nodded.

"They demanded return to Earth?"

Jacob grunted, nodded.

"They didn't ask politely."

Jacob shook his head, still chewing.

"Murderin' a hostage," Linn said softly.  "Bought and paid for."

Jacob took another bite of the bacon cheeseburger, still warm from the Silver Jewel's grill.

"I do admire your tactics."

Jacob swallowed, picked up his coffee, took a noisy slurp.

"I'm an old lawman," he grunted. "I like my shotgun reeeeeal well!"

"Do you anticipate any problem with back shootin' that fella?"

"Nope."

Linn's smile made it no further than the corners of his eyes.

"I do admire the old fashioned approach."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE PARSON'S DISCOVERY

Reverend John Burnett held a single piece of straw, turned it slowly between thumb and forefinger, considered as he did the complexity of the living plant, the testimony to the Creator its dead stem presented to the discerning eye.

He looked out over the empty pews, looked back at where the Sheriff's family sat of a Sunday, and he nodded, slowly, remembering the quiet words of that pale eyed Sheriff when the two of them sat on the Deacon's Bench out front of the Sheriff's Office, soaking up a little sun and politely ignoring the chilly air.

"Parson," Linn said in a quiet voice as he languidly waved at a passing pickup truck, "do I recall that you have sons?"

The Parson nodded, thoughtfully, felt a smile gathering behind his face.

"Do you have grandsons?"

Again the thoughtful nod, and this time the smile came to the surface: "I have two fine grandsons, Sheriff" -- he chuckled a little as he realized he'd just said "I have two fine grandsons," and recalled the first he'd first heard that identical phrase was when the Sheriff spoke it -- "and a granddaughter, with another on the way."

"I do enjoy my grandsons," Linn said softly. "Their Mamas bring them to me and I burn off all the scamper and screech I can before I hand 'em back. Generally they're so wore out they sleep the night through and don't so much as stir."

"This is good country to do that."

"Especially with horses and dogs."

"Oh, yes."

They shared a comfortable silence.

It is a mark of genuine friendship when silence can grow long between two men, and neither grow uncomfortable for the doing of it.

"I found a stem of straw on the pew after services Sunday."

The Parson was looking at a stray cat padding stealthily along the opposite curb: he saw the Sheriff's Stetson brim lower a little, then raise as the man acknowledged the statement.

"Souvenir of your grandson?"

Linn took a long breath, sighed it out, and the Parson felt more than heard the man's chuckle.

"Reckon 'twas."

 

Grampaw Keller rolled open the big sliding door rather than coming in the man door.

The big rolling door made more noise.

Ol' Grampaw had been a little boy himself, and he recalled how Uncle Pete would come looking for him, when he was yet a little boy, and Uncle Pete would come in that big rumbly side door with a grin on his face and a laugh all primed up and ready.

Grampaw didn't stomp into the barn, but he did nothing to muffle the sound of boot heels on clean-swept concrete.

"WHEEEEERE'S LITTLEJOHN!" he called.

A little boy's happy giggle floated up from somewhere in the barn.

"I KNOOOOOW THAT FELLA IS HERE SOMEPLACE!" Grampa Linn declared dramatically.

"I'M A-GONNA GRAB HIM BY THE ANKLE AND TURN HIM UPSIDE DOWN!"

Again the giggle:  Linn looked around, saw a suspicious movement in a pile of straw, pretended to pay no attention to the big white tail sticking out of the straw, swinging happily back and forth.

"I'M A-GONNA DUNK HIM IN THE CRICK!"

Grampaw Linn rubbed his hands together, lowered his head, cast back and forth with an exaggerated scowl like an irritated bear.  

"I'M A-GONNA WALLER HIM AROUND IN COLD CRICK WATER AND GIVE HIM A SATURDAY NIGHT BATH EARLY!"

Linn went over to the work bench:  "WHEEERE'S LITTLEJOHN!"

He picked up one of Shelly's little clay flowerpots, peered under it -- "Nope, not there" -- he turned, rubbed his chin, went over to the tractor and lifted the cushion off the stamped steel seat.

"Nope. Not under there neither."

Linn backed up a little, lifted his Stetson, scratched his thatch, frowned.

"You know, I just can't find him anywhere!"

The giggles were louder now, the sounds of a happy little boy who almost could not contain himself.

"I RECKON I'LL JUST HAVE TO EAT ALL THAT ICE CREAM AND CHOCOLATE SAUCE ALL BY MYSELF!"

A white Mastiff head and a laughing little boy fairly exploded out of the pile of straw:  "Here I am, Gwampa!" -- and Linn turned, spread his hands in mock surprise:  "LITTLEJOHN! I NEVER WOULD HAVE FOUND YOU!"

A happy little boy scampered noisily over to his grinning Gwampa and got snatched under the arms, hauled off the floor and spun around, his legs swinging and Snowdrift dancing beside, watching with button-bright eyes as a delighted little boy, all healthy pink cheeks and even white teeth and giggles scattering far and wide, swung through the air in the safety of Gwampa's big strong hands.

Linn came packing his laughing grandson into the house, carrying him by one ankle all red-faced and laughing, Snowdrift pacing alongside, looking immensely pleased with herself, Shelly and Marnie turning to look at the pair, at straw still sticking to Littlejohn's clothes and prickling out of his cornsilk-fine hair.

 

Linn nodded a little and he, too, felt a smile gathering behind his face.

"I reckon that fell off Littlejohn," Linn said softly. "You know how boys are, forever gettin' into stuff!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

TO BURN, WITH FRUIT

A distinguished older man with a military-neat mustache and an immaculately-tailored grey uniform smiled quietly as he listened to the discussion.

As generally happens, whether in business or politics, more and better progress is made in a less formal atmosphere; here, men were gathered in twos, threes, no more than fours: the Chief Ambassador was one of three, drawn apart from the others, discussing matters and laughing.

Music played in the background, crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, there was the scent of polished leather, of soap and cologne, the occasional whiff of tobacco -- a rarity on this world, imported at scandalous expense and used to show off one's personal wealth -- when a participant offered Marnie a cigar, as she spun to a stop in the middle of the dance floor, she accepted the hand-rolled, she tilted her head and smiled, she caressed the giver's jawline with delicate fingers:

"I know the fortune this represents," she said softly, then returned the treasure to the giver's fingers: "My dear Senator, it would be wasteful to hold this until it was dry and unpalatable, and yet I am loath to burn up good money and blow it into the air as smoke!"
Her smile took any reproof from her words: the sweep of long, dark lashes, the shine of her eyes held the man as she added in a soft voice, "You have done me a greater honor than you realize," then she claimed a nearby hand and whirled the startled victim into the center of the floor to continue the stately waltz being spun from the formally-attired orchestra.

The Chief Ambassador listened gravely, nodded, frowned a little: an observer would see that he was very evidently giving the speaker his absolute and undivided attention: when he spoke, it was but briefly, and with a serious expression, and it was not until Marnie, red-cheeked and smiling, glided up to the men, not until she insinuated herself into their triad with a gloved hand on one man's left arm and her other gloved hand on another man's right arm, not until she arrived with bright eyes and a smile and the scent of lilac-water and soap and a mountain breeze, that the Chief Ambassador brought his hands from where he habitually clasped them behind his back.

"Senator Bonsar," Marnie greeted a portly gentleman in a velvet-lapel suit, "I understand your son has entered local politics, with initial and gratifying success!"

Senator Bonsar's chest puffed out a little, not quite matching the circumference of his belly: "He did, Madam Ambassador," he said gravely, inclining his head formally.

"I would expect no less," Marnie smiled, "coming from a family known for achievement!"

She turned to the second of the two men who'd been monopolizing the Chief Ambassador's time.

"Your progress with implementing a mounted cavalry is truly remarkable," Marnie said plainly, her eyes wide and sincere. "I understand there is no lack of volunteer strength."

"Indeed, my Lady," came the reply, as the speaker's face reddened like a schoolboy's.

"With your permission, gentlemen," Marnie smiled, "I would be most pleased to review your troops tomorrow at noon."

The Chief Ambassador's face was carefully grave: the man hid a smile, for Marnie was efficiently slipping in a wedge they'd discussed earlier, a means of separating Senator Bonsar from the appearance of favor he'd enjoyed.

Marnie tilted her head, looked very directly at Bonsar, released her hold on the other man's arm.

"Gentlemen, if you will please excuse us, the Senator and I have business."

The Senator hid his surprise well: indeed, he managed to give the air of someone satisfied with an arrangement as he and the lovely Madam Ambassador turned and made their way to the refreshments table.

They each received a broad, shallow crystal glass with a splash of something colorful, something that smelled of fruits: Marnie and the Senator raised their glasses in salute to one another, drank.

Marnie frowned.

The Senator murmured, "Is something wrong, Madam Ambassador?"

"It's a bit weak," Marnie complained, then slipped two fingers into a concealed pocket, withdrew a thick, flat, silver flask.

"May I reinforce your drink, Senator?"

The Senator blinked, surprised:  "Please."

Marnie flipped the metallic cap open, gurgled a generous amount into the Senator's glass, diluting its half-volume of fruit punch with something water clear.

Marnie raised the flask in salute, tilted the silver container, took a long drink, flipped the cap into place and slid it back into her hidden pocket.

"MMMPH!" she grunted, squinting with approval.  "Warms me all the way down!"

The Senator blinked, surprised, then took a tentative sip of his own, almost recoiled as he swallowed.

Marnie hoist her glass again.

He had no choice but to hoist his as well.

They each emptied their glasses.

Marnie slipped the flask out, took another good tilt, frowned:  "I have to get a bigger flask," she complained, "that's empty!"

The Senator's eyes watered a little as something that felt like a cascade of fruit flavored, molten steel, seared its way down his pipe and roared into hot life behind his straining vest buttons.

"I rather enjoy that blend," Marnie said conversationally. "Ground grain sprouts, fermented and distilled by masters of the art. There's no sugar mash in that one!"

The Senator cleared his throat carefully as he felt whatever this Liquid Sledgehammer was, start to roar into his system.

Marnie steered him to a nearby chair: he sat, his feet set carefully apart, his eyes wide as he concentrated on keeping his balance.

Whatever that stuff was Madam Ambassador just gave him, was potent! -- he turned wondering eyes to Marnie as she claimed a man's hand, spun him about in a brisk dance step, apparently not affected in the least by having just slugged down at least three times the volume she'd given him!

The Chief Ambassador had placed himself so he could both observe his conversation-partner, and watch whatever Marnie was pulling on the overblown Senator: he allowed himself a slight, a very slight smile as he saw her park the Senator safely out of the way and continue dancing with what seemed to be a randomly-snatched dance partner, but who was actually an individual with whom she wished to establish an acquaintance.

Later that night, as they discussed matters in quiet voice back in their guest-quarters, the Ambassador remarked on her skill in neutralizing the Senator and his monopolization of Ambassadorial time: she smiled and reported she'd made excellent progress in both introducing herself informally to the individual she saw as an asset to them, and in showing the Senator as less powerful than he'd imagined.

The next day, as Marnie cantered across a precisely-dressed rank of lean-waisted young men on restless, head-bobbing Appaloosa mares, a particular Senator watched from the visitor's platform, though he watched through the haze of a throbbing headache, thanks to the additional libations with which the lovely Madam Ambassador plied him: each time she added to his drink, she took a tilt straight from her flask.

The Senator had no idea what devil's brew was in that shining silver flask, and he had no idea which armored war-hell spawned a woman who could drink that stuff straight and never show a flinch or a stagger afterward.

The Senator watched as Marnie sat her Peppermint-mare, watching men on horseback maneuvering, wheeling on command, reforming: he watched as she laughed, as she brought two fingers to her lips and whistled, fluttering her lacy kerchief overhead with her other hand, for all the world like an excited schoolgirl thrilling at the sight of mounted men in formation, leaned out and running, a united cavalry at full CHAAARRRRGGGEEEEE!!

It was not until afterward, not until a grinning young officer rode with her through the training grounds, not until Marnie accepted the young officer's saber, not until Marnie whistled and screamed "EEYAHOOO!" and ran her Peppermint-mare a-gallop between two rows of posts, slashing the native gourds atop the posts -- left, right, left, right, powerful, skillful swings of the borrowed saber, not until after she'd come to the end of the posts and their cleanly-sliced lower gourd halves surmounting, not until she laughed as Peppermint reared, screaming and slashing at the empty air with steelshod hooves -- not until she herself laughed with delight and returned the saber, handle-first, to its owner, the grinning young officer -- only then did the Senator see her produce that damned flask, and tilt it up, and apparently drink it dry.

Marnie saw him shudder, and turn away, and Ambassador Marnie Keller, in blue jeans and red cowboy boots, a matching red Stetson and vest, slid the thick silver flask back into a pocket.

A thick flask, divided.

The Senator's half, the night before, contained the "Firsts" -- the first part of a moonshine distillation run: it was potent, but it contained the dreaded Fusel Oil, the stuff that gives the bad belly and the big head.

The other half of the flask -- the half Marnie drank from -- was a very dilute solution of middle-run moonshine, the good stuff that warms the belly without the ill effects the Senator was ... enjoying.

Marnie reared Peppermint again, raised the flask in salute to the shuddering Senator in the visitor's seats as lean young men raised their own broad brimmed hats and roared their approval of Madam Ambassador's horsemanship!

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

TO TALK TO GOD

Fourteen-year-old Marnie Keller crossed her stockinged legs at the ankles, her feet delicately pointed: she wore a modest dress and heels, her hair was brushed and healthy, held back by an elastic headband.

She sat very properly at the desk in her room, reading a book borrowed from her Daddy's library.

She read Old Pale Eyes' original Journal.

She frowned a little as she read, then her head came up, her brows drawn together, her mouth open in surprise.

Daddy, she thought, you traditionalist scoundrel, that's where you got it!

 

Marnie did not appreciate for many years, just what her pale eyed Daddy went through.

His older sister left home after a screaming argument with their Mama.

Linn didn't find out that's what happened, at least not for some long time: when she returned, years later, she had pancreatic cancer and a hollow-eyed little girl who regarded the world with the wariness of someone who knew too much about human nature, and how kind it wasn't.

She returned the day Linn buried twin sons.

Linn stood, he and his wife, stared long at two mounded piles of dirt -- very neat, very clean-edged, very precise, and very small: the sight of a raw grave, and knowing your own family is buried beneath that dirt, is bad enough, but when the grave is small -- when the mounded dirt is child wide and child long -- it is that much worse.

Linn stood at the foot of his sons' graves, black Stetson in one hand, his other arm bent, his wife holding his arm, at least until she leaned against her husband and he ran his arm around her, and then they turned to one another and quietly shared their sorrow, while the few people remaining, pretended to not notice.

Their little whitewashed church acquired an annex, an expansion of the Parsonage: an apartment was maintained for their designated sky pilot, but the annex was big enough for church dinners, and meals associated with weddings or funerals, and it was here that Linn and Shelly met Linn's sister and her little girl -- or rather, they met Marnie, and her Mama politely passed out and hit the floor, and ended up being taken by squad to ER.

Marnie was four years old.

Marnie's eyes were far older.

Linn set his Stetson on one of the folding tin chairs and went down on one knee when his Mama introduced them.

"Hi, Marnie," Linn said in a gentle voice, and Marnie blinked, surprised: she knew this man with pale eyes and a curly muts-tash was Important, but he wasn't Loud and Nasty Important like most of the men she'd had the misfortune to know.

"Hi, Marnie," he'd said. "I'm your Uncle Linn."

Marnie's expression saddened noticeably and she asked in a lost little voice, "You gonna hurt me too?"

A man who'd just buried two sons that morning, swallowed hard, looked at this little girl who was just shy of having nobody in the world.

He felt his heart ready to overflow his eyes, and then they did, and he swallowed again and whispered, "No. No, Marnie.  I won't ... I won't hurt you."

Marnie tilted her head, lifted a careful hand, caught a saltwater drop on her bent finger.

"I'm sorry," Linn whispered, not trusting his voice. "My boys ... died of brain tumors."

Marnie looked at Linn, her eyes wide and unguarded.

"My Mommy is gonna die from a pan-cree-attick tumor," she said, "an' I'll be an orphant."

Marnie looked at the man down on one knee before her and she asked, "When your boys died, did that make you an orphant Daddy?"

Linn bit his bottom lip, nodded.

Marnie laid a tiny little hand on the sleeve of his black, old-fashioned suit coat and looked miserably into eyes that felt the way she looked.

"Gammaw said we're fam-bi-ly," she said with an exaggerated care.

Linn nodded.  "Yeah," he managed to husk.

"I don't got no Daddy," Marnie said hesitantly, "an' you don't got no sons an' I'm just a little girl."

Linn opened his arms and Marnie thrust into him, hugged him desperately around the neck as his arms wrapped around her and under her, and his other knee hit the floor and he leaned back on his Prayer Bones and whispered into her curly, light-brown hair, "Daddies love little girls," and he felt her arms tighten a little more around his neck.

It did not take many days before Marnie had her own bed, her own room, her own clothes -- more clothes than she'd ever seen! -- a big curly furred mountain Mastiff snuffed loudly at her front and she'd giggled, and they'd fallen asleep on a hook rug in the middle of the floor, The Bear Killer curled up around her: she slept with the catastrophic relaxation of a child who finally gave up her hypervigilance, who finally relaxed: she'd come awake, stiff with panic as she was being undressed for bed, but The Bear Killer piled in bed with her and she was a little less afraid.

Bad things happened to her when hands undressed her, and she'd stiffened, she'd frozen, when she felt what she'd been wearing, taken from her: her eyes were screwed tight shut, but the hands were gentle, careful, and she'd been worked into something flannel that smelled nice, and then laid down in a clean bed that smelled nice and The Bear Killer piled up beside her and cuddled against her and gave a great snorting sigh, and Marnie rolled up on her side and cuddled into him and allowed herself to relax.

Fourteen-year-old Marnie Keller sat very properly at her desk, remembering all this, as she read of the man her Daddy called Old Pale Eyes wrote of going into their little whitewashed church, as she read of his unburdening his grieving soul, for his little girl died back East -- he'd thrown a the splintered wall from a snakehead-gutted passenger car off the still form of a little girl with Kentucky-blue eyes and cornsilk hair -- he'd stood in the silence of their Church and he'd talked to God about it.

He'd cried from the depths of misery in his soul, cried out unto the Lord that he wished to adopt that little child he'd found and fallen in love with, and his two best friends in all the world were waiting, hidden, one behind the piano, the other behind the handmade Altar: in a deep, booming voice, when that long-dead Sheriff declared to the Almighty that he wished to adopt this wee child, his old and dear friend's deep voice boomed, "AAANNNNDDDD SSSOOOO YYOOOUUU SSSHHHAAAALLLLL!"

Marnie smiled as she read the handwritten admission that his knees nearly failed him in that moment, for it is not a light thing to hear the voice of God: a moment later he realized this wasn't the Creator speaking, but for one bright moment, he admitted, it felt like it!

Fourteen-year-old Marnie Keller looked up, pale eyes bright and smiling as she recalled her new Daddy taking her into their Church, how he'd walked down the aisle with his black Stetson under one arm, holding her hand with his other, and how they'd stopped at the end of the aisle, and looked up at the big, rough-timber Cross on the back wall.

She remembered her Daddy as he said, "Lord, I wish to adopt Marnie."

He felt her hand twitch a little with surprise as a deep and powerful voice intoned, "AAANNNDDD SSSOOOOO YYYOOOUUUU SSSHHHAAALLLLLL!" -- and then the Welsh Irishman rose, grinning, from his hiding place behind the piano, and the Judge from behind the Altar, and suddenly they were surrounded by laughing men shaking the Sheriff's hand, gripping his shoulder and pound his  shoulder blades, Marnie felt herself picked up, handed from one man to another, and finally ending up in her Daddy's arms as an Important Man (Marnie learned early in her life to recognize Important Men) shook her Daddy's hand -- it was a little awkward, but he managed, in spite of having a double armful of little girl -- Marnie saw a look of absolute and utter delight on her Daddy's face as The Important Man said, "The adoption went through, congratulations!"

Fourteen-year-old Marnie Keller re-read words hand-written in good India ink, on good rag paper, and she smiled to imagine how that long-dead ancestor must've felt: Marnie knew what it was to lose people, and she knew Old Pale Eyes lost his little girl years before, and Marnie knew how healing it was to have a family again.

That, she thought.

That is why he talked to God about it!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

BAIRN

"Sean?"

Daisy's voice was quiet as she shot a green-eyed look at her hard-muscled husband.

Sean Finnegan, the local Fire Chief, looked at his wife with a puzzled expression -- not that she called his name, that was not at all unusual, but the way she called his name.

"Sean, I would speak t' th' Sheriff."

Sean reached up, ran thick fingers into his Irish-red scalp thatching.

"Daisymedear," he rumbled, "ye need not m' permission t' speak wi' th' Sheriff!"

"Sean, he's a married man," Daisy fretted, "an' 'twould no' be proper --"

Sean took his wife around the waist, drew her into him, careful not to interfere with her stir of the stewpot.

"He's no' a married man, Daisymedear, he's th' Sheriff an' --"

Sean stopped frowned -- Daisy didn't have to see her husband's face to know his brows crowded together, and she'd not need ears to know the man grunted -- he raised his hands, curved his fingers and began scratching his wife's back with long, carefully moderated strokes.

Daisy arched her back a little with pleasure.

"Finn MacCool," she groaned, "I'll gi'e ye a week t' stop that!"

"Is it th' calendar then?" Sean asked, and Daisy stopped stirring, then started again.

"Aye," she said quietly. 

"Daisy."

Sean's lips fairly caressed her name as he spoke it.

"Daisymedear, ye may speak wi' th' Sheriff whenever it pleases ye."

Daisy shoved back against her husband, grabbed the oven door, pulled it open and reached in with a towel: she brought out two loaves of bread on a flat tin sheet, slid them onto a cooling rack, thrust the pan back into the heat-radiating oven and shut the door.

 

A night and a day followed this exchange.

Sheriff Linn Keller was most of the way from the Sheriff's Office to the firehouse, riding down the packed-dirt street on that fine big stallion of his, when Daisy came out the front doors of the Silver Jewel: she glared at the Sheriff's retreating backside, snapped  her thumb joint, spat over her left elbow, stamped her right foot three times and crossed herself, then she whirled, seized the heavy door, pulled hard and stomped upstairs, wearing her ill temper like  cloak.

Daisy raised a knuckled hand to knock at the office door of the Z&W Railroad.

She didn't get the chance.

The door drew open quickly and Esther's amused eyes regarded her dear friend.

"I knew you were coming," she said gently, and Daisy hesitated.

"Then ye know why I'm here."

"I bless you for remembering. Please, come in."

Daisy swept in, sat heavily on the edge of the little cot Esther kept made up and ready: Daisy planted her elbows on her knees, dropped her face in her hands and growled quietly.

Esther glided over to her, sat beside her, an arm around the Irishwoman's shoulders.

"He's a deep one, he is," Daisy muttered as she lifted her face from her palms.

"I know," Esther sighed. 

"Has he said a word about t'day?"

"Only that he has business in Stone Creek."

"Ah, the orphans, then."

"Yes," Esther nodded.

"That's ... his cousin?"

Esther laughed quietly. "Yes," she nodded, and Daisy heard the smile in Esther's voice. 

"Damndest preacher ever did I see," Daisy whispered. "He's no' a Catholic but he'll kneel an' say th' Rosary wi' th' children that are."

Esther nodded slowly, smiling a little at a memory.

"He's goin' there because of ... t'day?" Daisy asked carefully.

"He goes down at least every week since it's not far. Sometimes twice. He takes supplies, clothes, books, sometimes he hires a wagon."

"He remembers what 'tis to lose his own young," Daisy said -- a statement, not a question.

"Yes," Esther agreed.  "He does."

"That's why he goes t' th' orphanage."

Esther made no reply; none was needed.

Daisy looked over at her long time friend: "Does he e'er let ye in?"

Esther dropped her eyes, bit her bottom lip: Daisy saw her fingers interlace, saw Esther's shoulders raise with a long breath, fall as she sighed it out.

"Sometimes," she whispered.

"I wished t' speak t' th' man," Daisy said quietly. "He has no need t' carry a'that himsel' --"

Esther laughed silently, and the two women shared a knowing look.

"I told him that," Esther said in a resigned voice, "and he said 'They're my ghosts to carry,' and that's all he'd say."

Daisy spread her fingers, raised supplicating hands to Heaven above:  "Ooooooh!" she snarled, "MEN!" -- then she and Esther looked at one another, and embraced, leaned their foreheads together, and laughed.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller extended his hand.

"Parson."

Reverend Linn Keller returned the lawman's grip.

"Sheriff."

Willing hands were unloading the wagon: Linn handed his ecclesiastical cousin a sack -- "Coffee, and jarred-up fruit. I know your wife favors 'em for pies."

Cousin Linn took the prized gunny sack, handed it off to a trusted adjutant, looked back at Cousin Linn the lawman.

"You look troubled."

Linn nodded.  "Dark anniversary."

Comprehension flowed into the preacher's eyes and he nodded.

"How can I help?"

"Some coffee, if you have it."

A grinning little boy looked up at the Sheriff.

Sheriff Linn Keller screwed one eye shut and bent down to look closely at the lad's face, then he opened that eye and squinted the other one shut: he squatted, motioned the lad closer, leaned his head down and murmured, "You'd best be careful, son. Some scoundrel done slud up close an' stole one o' your teeth!"

The delighted little boy giggled and looked at the Parson, then back to the Sheriff.

"Now them rascals that makes off with teeth, they'll throw the Hoo Doo magic spell on 'em and them teeth'll hop around under the full moon just lookin' for someone t' bite," the Sheriff added, "only they ain't got a jaw for power so all they c'n do is kind of bounce off."

He winked and gave the laughing little boy a solemn nod, then rose and looked innocently at his cousin, who shook his head and chuckled, then turned and led the way toward coffee that hadn't been drunk yet.

 

Next day, when Daisy brought Esther's tea as she did every afternoon, Esther was red-faced and smiling: Daisy set the tea tray on a table, turned, planted her knuckles on her apron and hissed, "Out wi' it now, I know that look! Ev'ry juicy detail, an' don't be leavin' a thing out!"

Esther took Daisy's hands, leaned her head close and whispered, "You remember we adopted a little boy and a little girl, and you warned me that bringin' a bairn into the household would cause pregnancy!"

Daisy's eyes widened, she pulled back, looked at Esther's waist, clapped her hands to her mouth.

Two women held hands and jumped up and down on their toes like a pair of excited little girls.

Directly below them, a great, broad-shouldered Irishman's eyes narrowed, his grin broadened, and he nearly drove the Sheriff face first into the floor with a congratulatory slap between the shoulder blades.

Sheriff Linn Keller did not have to buy a single drink the rest of the night.

 

 

Edited February 6 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

BENEFIT

Esther Keller watched as her husband trimmed up the wick, carefully topped off the lantern, lit it, turned the wick down to keep it from smoking up.

Linn looked at his wife with an expression that revealed both his unhappiness, and his unwillingness to express it to his wife.

"Jacob?" she asked quietly.

Linn nodded, his bottom jaw sliding out as he did.

"Whither away?"

"I don't know," Linn admitted, setting the lantern down and resting his fingertips on the tablecloth. "I don't want to go hell-a-tearin' out into the dark and miss him."

Esther laid a hand on her husband's arm.

"You know I can ride," she whispered.

Linn gave his wife a hard and serious look, and his words were just as matter-of-fact as his expression.

"Darlin'," he said, "you can ride like an Apache and you can get more out of a horse than most men."

He set his teeth together and looked away, reluctantly letting her see the depths of his unhappiness.

"I'll hang the lantern," he said. "It's all I can really do."

Esther looked to the kitchen window, to icy half-snow, half-sleet that rattled against the single-thickness, wavy-glass pane, and shivered a little.

It was near full dark now, and their son was out in the storm, and they had no idea where.

 

Jacob Keller labored steadily, cutting slash and brush and dragging it back to where his Pa showed him a man could shelter.

Jacob was out on business and time got away from him.

He'd thought to short cut across what he thought was shallow water, froze over: it was cold enough, long enough, it ought to hold up a horse and rider -- hell, cold as it was, it ought to hold up a team and a wagon! -- but he didn't consider shallow water is swift water, and ice with snow on top was not frozen as deep as he'd hoped.

Apple-horse went through the ice, just shy of boot top depth: the Appaloosa stallion fought free of the coldwater deathtrap, thrashed and fought his way back to thicker ice along the edges: Jacob turned him toward the cliffs nearby, remembering his Pa showing him shelter that set crossways of the prevailing wind -- "Over yonder there's one that faces the wind," he'd said, "it generally drifts full in the winter. Man tried to shelter there, he'd freeze plumb to death."

Jacob got them into the narrow opening, to the still air deeper inside: it was near to full dark, and Jacob was obliged to strike flint and steel and make a tinder fire just to see where firewood was cribbed up for use.

He set two fires, one against each wall, with Apple-horse between, and then he pulled out a clean, folded gunny sack and rubbed the stallion down, rubbed him dry, went back to build up the fires again.

Apple had an ice-cut on one leg, and Jacob had some goose grease he carried for just such purposes, and slathered it on the carefully-edge-dried cut: Apple was not happy, but the unguent soothed the cut, and Jacob unsaddled the stallion and bade him stand.

As Apple was between two welcome sources of heat, the steelshod stallion offered no objection to their shelter.

Jacob went out into the snow, grimaced as ice-pellets rattled off his Stetson brim: not for the first time that day, he damned his stupidity in not wearing his fur cap.

Jacob cut slash, brush and saplings, brought them to the entrance, laid them and crisscrossed them and made a catch for the snowfall, knowing snow would trap and bank up and shut off the wind, and the more wind he could stop, the better off he and Apple would be.

They wouldn't be warm, but they'd not be as cold.

 

A big, black, curly furred creature lay on his side on the hook rug, a little boy laid up against his spine, sound asleep, one arm over The Bear Killer's ribs: another lay between the bear sized beast's forepaws and hind legs, not quite cuddled against the big warm furry belly, but almost.

Youthful family, one at a time, carefully picked up and carried off to bed: The Bear Killer sighed, warm and comfortable in front of the cast iron stove, at least until a man with a lantern opened the front door and stepped out on the front porch.

The Bear Killer came out with him, scented the wind, looked up at the Sheriff, looked out through falling snow and into night-shadowed distance.

Linn checked his watch, nodded.

He knew how long the lantern would stay lit with a full reservoir.

 

Jacob fed Apple-horse the sweet rolls, rubbed the stallion's neck, murmured his apologies he hadn't brought a feed bag, he honestly thought they'd be home before dark and it was his fault they weren't.

The stallion apparently liked sweet rolls.

Jacob boiled up some tea and fried some dead pig, he threw bread in the grease and fried that too: somehow food tasted better out on the trail, unless a man was obliged to live out on the trail, then a woman cooked meal tasted better than anything comin' or goin', and that for a fact.

Jacob stretched out on one blanket, there on cold dry sand, covered up with another.

Wisht I had The Bear Killer here.

 

Come springtime, Jacob knew, spring rains would flood out this friendly shelter; wood ashes and charcoal would be washed away and gone, only smoke stains and red-burnt rock showing where a man set two fires when he was needful.

He was awake with the sun, or what little sun squeezed through snow-heavy clouds.

Jacob tore down his sheltering barrier, shook the components free of snow and dragged them in and stacked them up, knowing they'd provide firewood for the next man who had to shelter here: he ran diagnostic fingers down Apple-horse's legs, felt and watched for any sign of flinch when he came to the ice-cut.

Once he had better light to see by, he realized the cut was without swelling or heat, and apparently without pain, other than probably some bruise-pain: Jacob saddled his stallion, threw a leg over the hurricane deck, and horse and rider emerged into the hushed, cold, still and sparkle-white world.

This time they skirted the treachery of shallow water ice.

 

There were tracks in the snow, in front of the two story, timber home, tracks of a single horse that rode up to the porch, and stopped.

If a man were to look and wonder and consider what the rider might have found interesting enough to stop, he might notice a peg on the porch post ... a peg where a man might hang a lantern.

 

When Jacob slogged from the barn to the house, when Jacob stopped on the clean-swept porch steps and kicked snow off his boots, he climbed to the top step and hesitated, then reached up and lifted off the wick-charred lantern.

He stepped inside, hooked off his boots, set the lantern on its shelf where it was usually kept, and looked at his father, asleep in a chair.

Jacob looked at the oil can beside the door, where a man might set his refill of coal oil was he to keep a lantern refueled outside.

Jacob walked silently into the kitchen, smiling a little as his mother turned with a pleased expression.

Jacob put his finger to his lips, then hugged his Mama.

"You're cold," she whispered.

"I'm hungry," he admitted, "but Pa looks wore out!"

Esther blinked, bit her bottom lip.

"He hung the lantern," Jacob said -- a statement, not a question.

Esther nodded.

Jacob turned, looked at the coffee pot and then at the hired girl.

She poured him a mug of scalding-hot and he thanked her, turned to his Mama and murmured, "I'll be right back."

Jacob walked back to the parlor and squatted beside his Pa.

He laid a hand on the Sheriff's shoulder, carefully, squeezed just a little, released.

Linn took a long breath, opened one eye.

Jacob offered him the steaming mug and Linn leaned forward, twisted one way, turned the other, grimaced.

"I hung the lantern," he said.

Jacob handed him the mug of coffee.

"You showed me where to shelter and said there was wood enough for a stay," Jacob said quietly, then grinned.

"Sir, when you spoke, I listened, and it was of benefit."

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

BIKINI SHOT, WITH HEELS

Sheriff Linn Keller slipped in the back door of the firehouse, closed the door quickly behind him to shut out the cold February air.

His wife was in the Chief's office: he heard their quiet laughter, then Shelly came out of the man's office, pulled the door shut, looked at her husband and then looked down and shook her head.

Linn waited until she ascended to the kitchen deck, until she came over to him.

"Dearest?" he asked quietly. "Is all well?"

Shelly laid a flat palm on her husband's unbuttoned uniform jacked and sighed dramatically, smiled a little.

"You really need to stop leaving all those Journals lying about."

Shelly pushed past her husband and out the back door, leaving the lean waisted lawman wondering just what in the hell had he done now.

Shelly had two days off -- she worked one on, two off, the same as the rest of the Irish Brigade -- Linn waited until they were seated in the Silver Jewel, waited until they'd ordered their usual breakfast, waited until coffee arrived, then Linn looked at his wife with an honestly puzzled look.

"Darlin'," he said, "what was that about me scatterin' Journals around now?"

Shelly laughed, laid gentle fingertips on the back of her husband's hand.

"Dana stopped by to see me," she smiled. "She had a question."

Linn nodded, once, his face serious.

"Chief saw her come in and look at me and then at him, and he said she could use his office, so we went inside.

"He had a girly magazine open on his desk."

"A girly mag."

"It was open to an article."

"An article."

"A scholarly treatise on the intricacies of a vintage Volkswagen engine."

"I see."

"Dana and I came out and Fitz's ears were red and he mumbled something about having forgotten about what he'd been reading, and Dana patted his hand and there-there'd him, and said there's nothing to be ashamed of, reading about the opposed-four Porsche engine, and Fitz popped off something about not havin' any real good steamy pictures of her, and she laughed and kissed him on the cheek and said give her a day and she'd fix him right up."

She didn't!"

Shelly picked up her coffee, gave her husband a wicked look over the steaming rim of her mug.

"Oh yes she did," Shelly said quietly.

"Oh yes she did what?" Linn asked uncomfortably.

"A bikini shot," Shelly said quietly.  "With heels."

 

Angela's mouth dropped open and she openly stared at her sister.

"You gave him what?"

"You heard me."

Angela covered her face with her hand, her other hand across her belly, cupping her elbow as she shook her head and muttered, "Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb!"

"Want to see what I gave him?"

Angela lowered her hand, gave her sister the full benefit of wide-open, unblinking, dead-pale eyes.

Dana smiled, pulled out her phone, swiped the screen a few times, turned the phone so Angela could see.

Two sisters were silent for the space of several heartbeats.

"We have to let Marnie know."

 

That afternoon, the Sheriff rose at the discreet fingernail-tap at his frosted-glass-windowed door.

"Come on in, Chief," he called.

Fitz came in, red-faced, a manila envelope in hand.

"Ya gotta see this," Fitz mumbled through a broadening grin.

Linn raised an eyebrow.

Somehow he had the general feeling Fitz was going to pull the rug right out from underfoot.

"I let Shelly and Dana use my office for a conference the other day," Fitz admitted, "and there was a ... magazine ... I'd forgot about, was still open on my desk."

"A magazine."

"They kind of pulled my leg about it and I told Dana she'd never give me any bikini shots and I felt kind of left out, she she gave me one."

"She gave you one."

"Yep.  She's wearin' ... well, see for yourself."

Linn took the proffered 8 x 10 with an uncertain expression, looked at it, blinked, looked at the Chief, looked back at the picture.

Two men looked at one another and laughed.

The Sheriff was holding a color photo of a two-year-old little girl in a two piece swimsuit, standing in a pair of her Mommy's much-too-big high heels.

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

NAMESAKES

Michael leaned back in the saddle, gripped the cantle with his gloved right hand, carefully worked his off hand into the saddlebag behind him.

He leaned back without twisting his spine.

Michael leaned forward again, unfolded the topographic map, studied its curving lines: he looked ahead, his breath drifting quickly away on the winter-cold wind.

Lightning blinked, looked around, apparently less than impressed with her surroundings.

I read about the place, Michael thought.

Pa said it faced this-a-way, crossways of the wind.

He didn't say if 'twas a big enough gap for Lightning to fit!

Michael eased Lightning ahead, turned her a little to the left --

There!

Lightning sensed Michael's triumph: she lifted her head, scented the cold wind, advanced a little more quickly.

 

Dana and Shelly sat at the corner of the kitchen table, their heads leaned toward one another, the way women will when discussing womanly matters: supper was ready and would only need heated, which is why God Almighty invented the microwave, at least according to Shelly's perpetually irreverent husband.

"Mama," Dana asked in a quiet and serious voice, "was I a difficult birth?"

Shelly blinked, surprised: "No, dear," she said gently, "you were my easiest delivery!"

"Sooo ... they didn't have to section you."

Shelly leaned back a little, surprise plain on her face: "Why, no ... why ever would you ask?"

Dana frowned, looked away, looked back.

"Dana ... you're not ..."

"No, Mama, I'm not," Dana said quickly, then closed her eyes and took a long breath.

"I'm sorry. That didn't ... I didn't mean to snap."

Shelly waited -- not because it's something she learned from her husband, when interrogating a subject, but because she was honestly at a loss what to ask.

"Mama, there are so many circles. Old Pale Eyes was named Linn.  Daddy is named Linn. They both have a son named Jacob. Jacob back when had a son, Joseph, and our Jacob has Joseph."

She waved a hand as Shelly started to say something.

"I know, I know, there are no Michelles, we have no Esther, that Jacob married Annette and we don't have an Annette, there was a Michael back when but no Victoria" -- she looked at her mother with frightened eyes, hesitated.

"There was a Dana, Mama, and that Dana killed her Mama in childbirth."

Dana's voice quivered a little as she spoke, as she clutched her Mama's hands.

"I ... hoped ... I didn't almost kill you."

"Oh, honey," Shelly breathed, "no. Not even close."

 

Michael left it up to Lightning to decide if she wished to go into the dark cleft.

He thrust an arm forward, his wrist-unit's broad beam fanning into the dark.

It opened quickly once they were inside.

Michael leaned back again, got into his other saddlebag, pulled out a small crystal sphere, half the size of a cue ball: he tapped at his wrist-unit, turned his palm over, let the sphere float upward.

Light bloomed, a harsh white illumination that showed the interior clearly.

Michael's pale eyes took it in: at the upper end, daylight, but not much of it; a stream, running through.

He looked left, looked right, saw where rock was burnt red.

Likely that's where he laid his fires, he thought.

Direct and reflected radiation, steep enough to carry smoke off.

Michael looked around, touched his wrist-unit, lifted a hand; the ball subdued itself, settled into his waiting palm, became a miniature crystal ball again, was returned to its home in the saddlebag.

Fanghorn and rider came out of the cliff face and back into the wind.

Lightning turned to her right and began to drift with the wind as snowflakes started up again.

Michael consulted his wrist-unit, smiled a little: an Iris opened, and they rode through the black-velvet cat's-eye, and disappeared.

 

Dana was only just back in her quarters on Second Prime when her wrist-unit vibrated.

She consulted it, looked at Michael's face grinning up from her wrist, and smiled.

"That sounds wonderful," she murmured. "Give me a minute."

It didn't take her the full minute: she'd changed quickly, snatched up two large towels, keyed in an Iris.

Brother and sister lay back in a sandy-bottom, warm, steaming pool that smelled of ... minerals? ... the water was shockingly clear, with neither swimmers nor algae.

Lightning floated happily in the deeper end, unshod hooves barely grazing the bottom: if it's possible for a bony-headed, conical-bossed Fanghorn to look drowsy and contented, she did.

"I needed this," Dana nearly whispered.

"I know Lightning did," Michael murmured. "She's got a good cold tolerance, but she does love the Springs!"

Michael looked up, at a sky that was only just beginning to show stars.

He and Dana floated on their backs, heels resting on the sandy bottom, light anchors holding them in place.

Michael raised an arm, pointed: steam feathered off his arm as he did.

"There," he said.

Dana followed his gesture.

"I don't know the constellations here," she admitted, then looked at her younger brother.

"That's where Juliette is?"

Michael nodded, smiled a little.

"The stars ... were the first things she saw with her new eyes," he said softly. "Now she's among them."

Dana didn't know what to say, so she took her Daddy's advice, and said nothing.

Michael's voice was soft as he added, "I've never seen a more beautiful cemetery."

He looked over at Dana.

"Old Pale Eyes' son Jacob fell for a blind girl who died right after he met her. He buried her at his expense and set the only zinc marker in the Firelands cemetery."

"I remember reading that."

"I think her name was Miriam."

"I think it was."

"Jacob said if he and Ruth have a little girl, that's what they'll name her."

"Is Ruth ...?"

Michael turned his head, grinned at her. "I'm not supposed to know. When they tell you, act surprised!"

"Cross my heart," Dana murmured, sketching a quick X in front of her swimsuit top.

She looked over at Lightning, who was happily lowering her head and blowing bubbles in the steaming-warm water.

"Jacob told Ruth he'd like his little girl to play piano. Josph is learning."

"I think Littlejohn is too."

"Marnie liked the idea of dressing up like a saloon girl and singing bawdy songs as she played a saloon piano," Michael mused, "until she realized a Sheriff really shouldn't do that if she wished to be seen as the no-nonsense Sheriff."

"I know my sister," Dana replied. "Where does she gussy up and thump the ivory 88?"

Michael smiled knowingly. "I'm not supposed to know!"

"But you do," Dana pressed. "Where?"

 

A pale eyed woman with legs that ran clear up to Hail Columbia wore a skimpy saloon-girl costume and a feathery glitter mask: she played a brisk tune while four girls in costumes identical to hers, in seamed stockings and heels the same as she, danced and high-kicked on the stage, while men whistled and pounded tabletops and yelled encouragement.

The one woman who wasn't dancing was seated at the ivory 88, laughing with delight as she set the dancers' tempo.

The barkeep took a lump of native chalk and scrawled on a sawmill cut plank: Sarah McKenna, then set the plank up across the top of the piano, so their new piano player's name -- or at least, the name she gave -- was displayed boldly the width of the piano's top.

The plank fell down once, it was knocked over when a patron brought her a beer and was careless when he set the mug, and the piano player pushed it over backwards when the inevitable saloon brawl started: she twisted into the middle of the fist-swinging melee as one of the girls hopped off the stage and took her place at the piano, as what had been a dancing-girl in a scandalously-short dancing costume played a lively tune while the former piano player climbed up onto a chair and then onto one of the round tables, set her hands on her slender waist and began happily high-kicking in time to the music.

Her name might not have been Sarah Lynne McKenna, but she sure acted -- and danced -- like her namesake!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited February 8 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

BLAZE, FOG, AND BLOOD 

Marnie leaned her forehead against Peppermint's head.

The Appaloosa mare was content to let her.

Marnie's hands caressed Peppermint's silky jaw: eyes closed, she reviewed the day, shivered a little as she did.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller's voice was Daddy-strong and Daddy-confident as Marnie heard it again, years and leagues and impossible distances from where her Daddy spoke those words.

She'd remembered them, and she'd taken them to heart, and she'd practiced them often, and practiced them to her benefit.

When in doubt, her Daddy taught her, cheat.

Whenever possible, cheat.

As often as possible, cheat.

To the greatest degree possible, cheat.

She remembered looking at her Daddy, doing her best to look wide-eyed and innocent, which fooled everybody in the entire world except only her pale eyed Daddy and her all-knowing Mama.

She remembered how much trouble her Daddy had, keeping a straight face as he said these words, until his humor broke through his reserves: with a laugh, he'd dropped to a hunker, he'd run his hand around her slender waist and he'd said gently, "Don't cheat if it's illegal, immoral or fattening, darlin', but take every possible advantage. Cheat as best you can. Like this."

He'd been booming down a load of pipe on a friend's truck -- his friend was laid up with a broken hand, and her Daddy was making a delivery for him, and to do that, father and daughter loaded two-inch heavy-wall pipe on the man's truck, her Daddy wrapped chain around it from the underside, secured the chain around the corners of the headache rack, slid links edgewise through the grab hooks, then he'd put the snap binder on the chain and taken a pull on the binder.

"Watch this, Marnie," he said, and threw the heavy steel handle over with an effort.

The pipes crowded together, and he reset the chain, tightened it again until he could make no more headway.

He'd taken a three foot length of the same two-inch, thickwall pipe, and he'd honestly beat the hell out of the bundle -- then he released the binder, took another bite, tightened the bundle -- he'd beat it again, from the sides this time, took another bite, shortening the snap binder's grip on the bundling chain.

This time it was too tight to muscle over.

He'd looked at Marnie and grinned -- "Let's cheat on this!" -- he took the three foot war club, slid it over the handle of the snap binder.

It took an effort -- he'd hauled it until it went over center and SNAP! it was fast down -- he took the three foot length of pipe, tapped the chain experimentally -- "Singin' tight!" -- then he boomed down the back of the bundle in the same manner.

Marnie believed in her father's version of cheating.

To that end, she had certain items of emergency equipment available, wherever she was, discreetly staged: when she emerged from a restaurant where she'd just dined with a half-dozen women from the planet, women who were curious about this pale-eyed Ambassador, she froze and threw an arm in front of her dinner companion, stopping her abruptly.

Marnie turned, her eyes suddenly very pale: "Sound the alarm," she said, her voice tight -- the ladies stared openly as Marnie seized her skirts, charged across the street, no longer the laughing, pleasant, decorous Madam Ambassador -- no Ambassador ran like a blue-satin arrow! -- they watched as Marnie skidded to a fast stop, drew her wrist up to her chest, did something --

A black-velvet ellipse opened beside her, tall as she was and three feet wide --

Marnie reached in, seized a red cylinder, brought it out, one dainty, lace-gloved hand death-gripping the chromed squeeze-valve on one end, her other arm hooked under it --

Marnie stepped up to the door, bent a little, freed one hand and tried the knob: she drew the extinguisher back, used it as a ram, hit the door hard at the latch -- once -- she drew back a step, thrust into it, swinging the extinguisher and putting her weight behind it, she drove its bottom hard against trauma-cracked wood --

Marnie leaned back and kicked the lock-shattered door, dropped the extinguisher's base, seized the valve with her free hand, ran her finger through the pin, yanked.

Tank in one hand, horn in the other, Marnie advanced into smoke and flame, crouching a little, protected by her Confederate field and rage: she squeezed the handle, rolled a cloud of carbon dioxide before her.

She knew the fire; she'd seen this kind before -- liquid hydrocarbon of some kind -- coal oil, she thought, or petroleum distillate, kerosine maybe, or hell maybe some vegetable oil.

Whatever it was, the building was wood, the fire was hot and moving fast, and Marnie knew when she drove the door open, it got a good draft of fresh oxygen.

If she didn't kill it fast, it would kill everyone in the building.

Someone came in behind her -- "WHATTAYA DOIN' STOP THAT!" -- Marnie dropped, hooked her arm around the tank, brought it around: she drove the end into a man's gut, shot him with a cloud of cold vapor, gave the next man a good face full of cold suffocation and hauled the tank back for momentum, decked him -- hard -- broken arm, she thought, and realized with a fierce joy she honestly didn't give a good damn!

Marnie turned back to the fire, gave it another long, noisy fogging, looked up at the ceiling: another few quick squirts, and it was out overhead.

Marnie looked around, turned, stomped out into the open air, holding the nozzle like a weapon, gripping the squeeze valve with the other: she stopped on the sidewalk, waved the nozzle and shot a puff of vapor into the air as the fire truck came snarling down the road toward her.

Marnie stepped carefully away from where the firemen would make entry; she set the heavy tank down, watched with assessing eyes as men pulled the crosslay, settled masks on their faces and shoved inside the darkened, scorched interior.

One of their number with the single trumpet of a Lieutenant on his helmet shield approached her and asked her what happened: he spoke carefully, as if at once recognizing he was addressing Madam Ambassador herself, and yet realizing she was witness to a situation.

After Marnie filled in what she could, after she opened the Iris and stowed the discharged extinguisher, Marnie lifted her skirts and stepped down to the street, looked both ways and glided back to where spectators were openly staring.

 

Marnie Keller -- a much younger Marnie, still a schoolgirl -- positively devoured every reference she could find that mentioned, described or quoted a legendary war-goddess who (in her young mind) wore armor and wings and carried a sword, a mighty figure of legend with a silver Corinthian helmet and a skirt of plates: if it had to do with Sarah Lynne McKenna, Marnie wanted to read it, to know it, to be it!

Marnie read of Old Pale Eyes' wife Esther and how she hired European blademasters to keep up her own skill with a fencing schlager: she read of Old Pale Eyes and his Cavalry saber and how he worked with the honed, curved blade on a regular basis, how his wrists were like iron and stayed that way to the day of his death, thanks to swinging a yard of steel on a daily basis.

Marnie took an interest in the blade, at a very young age.

Shelly may not have considered it a properly ladylike pursuit, but she did approve of dance lessons: it was one of the only areas in which Shelly's husband conspired ... not against his wife, exactly, more like he conspired with his daughter.

Marnie reasoned that bladework was a dance; she fell in love with Ukranian sword-dancing, and got really good at it -- but she never confused it with the more deadly art of the shiv, as practiced by those less than law-abiding souls she'd first known as a very young child.

Marnie was, honestly, deadly with a blade of any length, and her efforts showed in her musculature.

She did not bulk up, like a man would, but her arms had not the slender taper of a woman of leisure.

Madam Ambassador's wrists, like those of her honored ancestor with the iron grey mustache, were like iron, and she, too, made a habit of swinging a yard of steel on a daily basis, and so, at the dinner with the half dozen curious ladies from the planet she was visiting, when she was asked why she was never seen with less than long sleeves, she'd smiled and raised her teacup and said in a soft voice, "It would not be very ladylike," and took a dainty sip of the local oolong.

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

CALL ME ANYTHING BUT LATE FOR SUPPER!

Shelly prided herself on caring for her family.

Shelly worked, yes; Shelly was not just a paramedic, she was a damned good paramedic, and she took a fierce pride in that.

She took an equally sincere pride in the care she gave her family.

Shelly stood at the far end of the table, regarded plates and forks and cups and glasses with satisfaction.

There were times when the Silver Jewel did the cooking, and there were times when Shelly did the cooking, and when all her children -- or at least most of them -- came to her table, she showed her pride in the lay of the table and the provender which she prepared.

Laughter and voices and the smells of good home cooking filled the kitchen, with the welcome interruptions that always occur: Jacob hugged his Mama and lifted her an inch off the floor, gave her a little shake -- she whispered "Ouch, do that again," and this time she lifted her arms and Jacob picked her up again, and gave her that little shake, and they both felt her spine pop in both protest and in relief.

She bent, but only a little, to receive the happy hugs from the twins; Linn stood back and watched, smiling a little, he gathered his young in both arms and laughed quietly and listened, and when Angela murmured to Shelly that Marnie might not make it, Linn saw a shadow of disappointment cross his wife's face.

Angela looked at her Daddy and said, "She is testifying in court. A capital case," and she saw her Daddy's eyes grow serious as he gave her a single, acknowledging nod.

Michael saw his Mama's eyes go to Marnie's place at the table.

"Mama," he said gently, "you know Marnie. If it's suppertime, she'll be here!"

 

"The People call the Madame Ambassador!"

Madame Ambassador rose, glided diagonally across the courtroom, from the Prosecution table, across in front of the Judge's bench, to the waiting Bailiff, nervous with a closed Book in hand.

Marnie smiled a little as she recognized the cover: it was one of the newly printed Bibles Michael arranged to have freighted in.

Marnie raised her right hand, laid her left palm on the Book, swore the usual oath: she smiled just a little and winked at the Bailiff, then she turned, sat the witness chair as if she were a Queen settling into a cushioned throne.

"The Court thanks the Ambassador for her participation," the Judge said formally: "we recognize that the Ambassadorial Service does not usually take a hand in local matters."

"I thank Your Honor," Marnie acknowledged, then looked at the prosecutor, who tried to look stern, but succeeded in looking uncomfortable.

"Madame Ambassador," he said, "could you please tell the court what occurred on the day in question."

"Briefly, I observed an arson fire in an occupied structure, and I moved to save lives by extinguishing the fire."

"Objection," Counsel for the Defense popped up like a cork from deep water. "The witness has no credentials in firefighting, it is not possible to know this was an arson fire!"

Marnie rose, bent her wrist up, tapped a control, looked at the defense attorney and smiled, then turned to the Judge.

"I believe the Court grants the Ambassadorial Service leeway in reply," Marnie smiled: not waiting for reply, the courtroom disappeared -- or so it seemed to everyone in the courtroom.

Each of them was standing inside a fire structure, feeling heat, smelling smoke.

A figure in a filthy fire coat and helmet went to one knee, hauled the chrome Elkhart nozzle up, yanked the gate open, twisted the nob: a tight fan spray erupted, hissed, drove against the flames roaring up the wall and across the ceiling: they felt cool spray from the nozzle, heard the hiss and click of the self-contained breathing apparatus, saw the grim and determined expression through the air mask's face plate -- the expression in those pale eyes was unmistakable.

The scene twisted, changed.

None there were familiar with a garage that serviced over-the-road tractor-trailers, but no one had to be conversant in this unfamiliar transport to realize they were in a cavernous structure, smoke banked down to belt buckle height: they saw the same pale eyed figure, firehose under one arm, assaulting something blazing, harsh and bright, ahead of them in the thickening smoke.

It did not matter that nobody in the courtroom, save only the witness, knew what a tire was.

Nobody there doubted the seriousness of the moment when one of the tires exploded from heat, then something came flowing toward them, a river of living fire.

They felt the pale eyed firefighter on the nob scream "PULL BACK! GIMME A SECOND LINE IN HERE, PULL BACK!"

The scene cleared, and everyone was back in the courtroom: Marnie turned off the holographic envelope, sat.

"You will find," Marnie declared coldly, "that my experience, my training and my credentials exceed anything your firefighting forces on this planet have. They were trained by my home department back in Firelands, and I was a fire paramedic with that department. "

The Judge shifted uncomfortably in his chair, rapped his gavel.

"The Court accepts expert testimony from this witness."

The defense attorney was still standing.

"You stated that the building was occupied, is that correct?"

Marnie again rose, bent her wrist: this time the courtroom was transported to the Firelands County Sheriff's Office.

Marnie walked through in uniform, confident, relaxed: she stepped to the head of the table in the conference room, pressed a tabletop control, lighting up the screen behind her.

"Observation is our stock in trade," Marnie said. "When we meet someone we are constantly sizing them up and we are watching their hands. When we arrive at a building, we are looking at it -- we are not just casting our eyes casually across the front, we're looking first for threats to ourselves, then threats to everyone else. We're looking for signs of occupancy, whether residence, transient or commercial. Movement behind windows, movement of a curtain, light from within."

The courtroom reappeared and Marnie held up a gloved hand, and in it, a six point star.

"I am still Sheriff Emeritus on Mars, and a commissioned Sheriff's Deputy back home in Firelands. I make it my business to notice things, including which buildings are occupied."

"Objection overruled," the Judge rumbled, giving the defense attorney a warning glare.

"Madame Ambassador, you spoke of your actions as saving lives."

"Yes."

"Could you clarify that for us, please."

Marnie tilted her head a little, the way a woman will, and gave the prosecutor a patient look.

"I have survived fires, sir," she said, "in my earliest childhood, some very bad people tried to kill us by setting fire to our building. It is God's grace alone that we managed an escape, and that with nothing but the clothes we wore. Firing a building condemns those above the fire to death, whether by smoke inhalation, by immolation, or by jumping to their deaths to escape the flames. Persons in buildings adjacent are in similar jeopardy, as a fire will not confine itself to one building. To extinguish the fire is to save lives, and that's what I did."  

She shot a challenging look at the defense attorney, who looked away, uncomfortable.

 

Shelly began setting big serving bowls on the table, Angela set a big bowl of fresh, steaming light rolls; butter, gravy, onion-roasted vegetables, all added their aromas to the atmosphere: just as Shelly thrust the serving spoon into the mashed potatoes, an Iris opened and a smiling set of eyes with Marnie wrapped around them, emerged from a slender Iris: she kissed her Daddy on the cheek, hugged him quickly, impulsively, like she was a little girl again.

"I was just about to call you," Linn murmured, and Marnie looked at him and giggled, "Call me anything but late for supper!"

 

 

 

Edited February 9 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE DEATH OF TIBERIUS

Parson Belden frowned as he came into the Sanctuary.

Something was on his pulpit ... a paper? -- he'd left nothing on it after services, at least not that he remembered.

The Parson looked around, frowned a little, then crossed the front of the Church with a vague feeling that something just wasn't right.

He ascended the two steps, came up behind his pulpit, blinked, picked up a small sheaf of bills and a few gold coins.

Puzzled, he read the sheet of folded, worn, stained paper the money rested on.

He read it a second time, raised an eyebrow, then he took out a kerchief, put the money in it and tied it, took the paper and held it carefully.

He came down from behind the pulpit, walked quickly down the center aisle.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller looked up, stood at the summoning knock on his door.

His Stetson came off its peg and onto his head -- he had no recollection of reaching up and setting it in place, so automatic was his gesture -- he strode to the door, opened it cautiously, then drew it wide open.

"Parson?"

The Parson's face was troubled as he handed the sheet to the Sheriff.

The Sheriff read it, read it again, looked at the Parson.

The Sheriff turned, slipped past the Parson, looked up over the municipal building toward Graveyard Hill, took a long breath.

"Parson," he said, "I reckon I'll need your help."

"However I can, Sheriff."

"Fetch yourself down to the livery ... no" -- he turned -- "come with me."

He drew the door shut, secured it, then the Parson followed the long-legged Sheriff the short distance next door.

They went in through the front door -- an intentional choice: there was a bell to announce them, if Digger was busy with a body, neither man wished to interfere, and if Digger was busy with a bottle, neither man wished to intrude on a man's private vice.

Digger came bustling through the black curtains, saw the Sheriff and the Parson: his normally doleful face grew even longer as he murmured "Bad business, bad business," and shook his head before reaching for his black topper. "And how can I be of assistance, gentlemen?"

"Fetch up the dead wagon," the Sheriff said without preamble. "You're needed at Hangman's Drop."

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," Digger murmured, "the usual arrangements, I presume?"

"Fetch a box. I won't know until we get there. Parson, you'll ride with Digger here."

The Sheriff was saddled and ready before Digger drove the dead wagon up the alley separating his funeral parlor from the Sheriff's office: curious folk saw the Sheriff, saw how serious his face, and as happens in any small town, word began to spread, and spread fast.

Digger followed the Sheriff to the bottom of the short dropoff.

A man hung by the neck, deader'n a politician's promise, turning slowly at the end of a lariat.

Linn climbed up onto the dead wagon, stood on the closed box, grabbed the dead man under the arms, hoist him up enough so Digger could get the loop from around his neck.

They laid him down atop the box; both men knew how to tell if a man was dead, but their skills were not needed; this man had been hanging for some hours.

A bloodied knife was in a sheath, shoved behind the man's belt.

 

Jacob saw the dead wagon, his father following, as they came up the alley beside the Silver Jewel and diagonally across the street to the Sheriff's office.

He walked his stallion closer as the three men disembarked, went into the Sheriff's office.

"Hey Jacob!" came a shout, "what's going on?"

Jacob looked at a local and admitted, "I just got here myself, but I reckon I ought to find out!"

 

"Not much here," Linn said. "That must be the knife he used."

He raised his head -- horse, coming in -- the door swung open and Jacob stepped in.

"Sir, Harry."

Jacob stepped inside and Law and Order Harry McFarland, Marshal of Carbon Hill, came in and brought an aggravated expression with him.

"You're lookin' for someone," Linn said -- a statement, not a question.

"Fellow named Tiberius," Harry nodded. "Got drunked up and knifed a fellow in our saloon."

"We got him."

"You got him? Wha'd he do here?"

"He died," Linn grunted. "Have a set while we sort this out. Jacob."

"Sir."

"Fetch on over here and help me think."

"Yes, sir."

Linn laid out the dead man's belongings on his desk top, laid down the sheet the Parson handed him, set down the bills and the coin.

He re-read the sheet, frowned, looked up.

"Jacob."

"Sir."

"Head down to the Livery. See if some fella sold Shorty a horse with a rocking R brand and ask how much he sold for. Find out what-all Shorty knows and report back."

"Sir."

Jacob turned, strode for the door.

"Shorty's pretty sharp," Linn murmured. "If it's to be known, he'll know it, and he's got a way of weaselin' information out of a man without they know it."

He looked up.

"Parson, tell me again how you came by this."

"I heard the door close," he said.

"In the Church?" Linn interrupted.

"Yes. I was in the Parsonage trimming up my Sunday sermon."

Linn nodded his go-ahead.

"I saw the corner of this sheet, turned up a little -- it was on my pulpit, and I had left nothing on my pulpit. These bills" -- his fingertips rested on Yankee greenbacks -- "and these coin were on the paper.

"I read the paper, I gathered the cash and I came over here. The rest, you know."

"Paper? Paper? What paper?" Harry asked.

Linn handed it to the Parson.

"Read it," he said, "out loud, so we'll all know what it says."

The Parson turned the paper a little to catch the better light across the pencil scrawl.

"I got all drunk and knifed a man in the guts and he will die and I have kilt him.

"I can run an get shot or give up and hang so I'll go hang below the cemetery God forgive me. I sold my horse and saddle to Shorty and I give this money to the Church I don't want to burn in hell."

The Parson looked up.

"It's signed with a capital T."

"Tiberius," Harry said. "I know the man. Where is he?"

"Out in the dead wagon," Linn grunted. "Parson, you might want to go a-prayin' over his carcass. Harry, has he got any family?"

"He's got a sister back East. I'll see if I can find the pa'tickelars."

"Parson, the money's yours. Digger, plant him in Potter's Field, the county will pay as usual. Parson, you'll want to preside at the burial. Digger, let me know when you're ready, I'll be there. Harry, anything else?"

Law and Order Harry McFarland shook his head.

"You want the knife?"

"I got knives enough already. Clean it up and give it to someone, looks like a good enough skinner."

 

Sheriff Willamina Keller looked at the knife, at the dried, cracked leather scabbard that came with it.

She looked at the Parson, accepted the envelope he'd been holding.

"There's a story with that old knife," the Parson said. "It belonged to a man named Tiberius. I don't know a thing about him."

"Tiberius?" a woman's voice asked -- the Parson turned and Willamina smiled a little as a woman came up the steps from the library, into the back office where Sheriff Willamina Keller did her research into Firelands of the past.

"I'm Shannon Miller," the woman said, "and I've been doing some ancestry research, and since I was out here, I thought I would ask ... "

Her voice tapered off, and she looked hopefully at Willamina.

"Tiberius is not a terribly common name," Willamina said. "Please. Come in. Let's see if we can find out."

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

KIND OF STOVE UP AND SORE

Chief Deputy Paul Barrents gave the Sheriff an assessing look.

Linn closed his eyes for a long moment, then muttered, "Go on, say it."

"You'rrrre ... movin' kind of ... carefully," Barrents hazarded.

Linn grunted, and this was not a good thing, for his Navajo chief deputy knew he'd normally give a single, shallow nod.

Whatever happened, must've hurt bad enough he didn't want to move his head.

Paul did not see any marks on the man's face -- he'd not gotten slugged in the face, at least -- but long pants and long sleeves will conceal a multitude of sins, and something seems to have been right sinful with his pale eyed boss.

"Is there someone I should look at?" Paul asked diplomatically.

Linn glared at the man, which did not put off his old friend one little bit.

Paul opened his mouth to ask another question and Linn raised a hand, then looked at the conference room.

"Coffee," he said, and Barrents closed his mouth on words unspoken.

When the two sat down at the far end of the conference room table, Linn sat carefully -- not as if his backside hurt, more like his legs hurt -- Barrents, like most lawmen, noticed things, and he knew how the Sheriff normally lowered himself into the folding tin chairs in the conference room.

Barrents waited.

Linn very carefully did not move his head, he did not turn his neck: he lifted his eyes to look at Paul.

"Scared hell out of Shelly," Linn said, and Paul mentally kicked himself for not realizing the man's jaw wasn't moving much at all -- further sign of injury? he wondered -- Linn took a very cautious sip of coffee, closed his eyes for a long moment.

"Boss, if you need to be seen --"

Linn looked at his segundo.

"If you need some time off --"

Barrents saw Linn's shoulders lift, knew the man was taking a long, calming breath.

"Paul," he finally said, his voice quiet, "I am tryin' really hard here."

Paul waited, not sure which direction this line of talk was going to go.

Linn looked up at his lifelong friend and finished his thought.

"Paul, I'm afraid I'm a-goin' to laugh, and if I laugh it's goin' to hurt again, an' I'm hurtin' enough the way it is!"

Paul spread his hands:  "Dammit, Linn, don't leave me hangin', what happened?"

The man's words were sincere, they were firmly spoken in the tones of a man who saw someone he thought well of, in pain, and felt frustrated as hell that he wasn't doing something to make it better!

 

Jacob Keller was Linn's oldest son.

Jacob and Marnie were very close to the same age, four years or barely under.

Where Marnie was shy -- where Marnie was fearful, though she was slowly learning that she didn't need to fear every shadow, every word -- Jacob was the opposite: he was quick, fast, noisy, inquisitive, all the things that healthy young boys were, and at the moment, he was buck naked, half-scampering and half-skating across the hardwood floor, dripping soap suds and laughter, and his Pa was right after him.

Father and son made a laughing, noisy turn out of the bathroom and into the landing, the rug slid out from under Linn's sock feet and he went down, rolled: he came up, bathtowel gripped in both hands, as Jacob slipped, skidded, slid on his wet and soapy backside, right toward the stairs.

"NNOOOO!" Linn yelled, dove for Jacob, intending to throw the towel over enough of his torso to get a grip, and yank him back -- but momentum, a slick wet varnished floor and outrageous Fate conspired otherwise: Jacob scrambled, stumbled, went over backwards, down the handmade stairs, all legs and big eyes and distressed expression and shining little bottom, and Linn tobogganed  down the stairs, the towel providing absolutely no padding whatsoever: he tried to roll toward the passing bannisters, overcompensated, slid the rest of the way on his back, banged the back of his head on the hardwood floor at the foot of the stairs and slid hard against the coat rack, which fell over and banged him across the right shin with an absolute sunball detonation of PAIN!

Shelly was out of the kitchen and to the stairs just as father and son arrived at the finish line together: Shelly watched, horrified, as little Jacob stood up, shook himself, laughed and said "WOW!" -- just as the coat rack fell on her husband's shin and she heard his teeth click together, and his breath hiss as he drew in a sharp lungful through his pain-clenched dentition.

 

Chief Deputy Paul Barrents regarded his boss with obsidian-black eyes.

Chief Deputy Paul Barrents honestly tried not to laugh.

He tried.

He looked at his lifelong friend, his boss, his Sheriff, and pictured him skidding downstairs as a naked little boy tumbled, boom-boom-boom ahead of him, spraying drops of water as he went.

He pictured a little boy getting to his feet and exclaiming, "Wow!" and then looking over at his Pa, just as the coat rack fell and smacked the man across the shin bone.

He imagined Shelly Keller, wife, mother, paramedic and friend, planting her knuckles on her beltline and glaring murder at the two as she snarled, "Are you two quite finished?"

He looked at the Sheriff's darkening face, at the tightening of the corners of the man's eyes.

"Jacob didn't so much as bruise," Linn said quietly, then he carefully -- carefully! -- bent a little, reached down, rubbed his shin.

"Can't say as much for me."

 

 

Edited February 10 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

BEDSIDE COMANCHE

Deputy Sheriff Angela Keller crossed athletic, white-stockinged legs and tapped her forefinger thoughtfully against her cheekbone.

Her Daddy's face was serious: he leaned forward, pressed a button and hung the handset up.

"Say that again, Uncle Will," he said, and Angela knew from his tone of voice that

a) Something was Very Not Right, and

b) Putting it on speaker meant he wanted her to hear it too.

It was Uncle Will's voice, and it wasn't quite ... right.

"Is this better?" Will growled.

"I hear you better now, say again your traffic."

There was a long pause.

"Linn, can you take me in to ER? I don't want that damned squad whistlin' up here, everyone will know I'm gone for a while and they'll break in and --"

"I've got it," Angela snapped: she stood, whirled, and was out the door before the Sheriff could say anything.

There was another long pause, then Will's voice again.

"Angela," he said. "Good."

 

Angela Keller drove a purple Dodge Charger.

Angela's Dodge had the turbocharged engine.

Angela liked her pretty purple Dodge with the turbo.

The only thing she did not like about it, was it lacked that telltale whistle that a big truck's turbo had, but she could live with its lack, especially when she planted her hind hoof on the go pedal and got shoved back into her seat.

When Angela was coming of driver's license age, Linn asked a personal favor of his chief deputy, Paul Barrents.

Pauls' father WJ was the best driver Linn ever knew -- he could get more speed out of a vehicle, he could maintain control better, at higher speeds, than anyone he'd ever met, his lead foot Mama not excepted -- and so he decided Paul, who shared the Swiftrunner's gift, would be the one to teach Angela how to drive.

He did.

When the two of them came in after a session, they were both red faced and almost laughing, and had Linn and Shelly not both trusted Paul implicitly, and known he was teaching a craft that he loved and in which he excelled, they might have suspected some ... red faced and almost laughing impropriety.

Angela, as much as she loved velocity, was also careful, and so she neither launched like a rubber-screaming arrow, nor did she leave black skid marks on the pavement as she headed the short distance from here to there.

It is probably to her credit that she did not make a dramatic, broad-slide skid to come to a stop near to her Uncle Will's front door.

Angela rapped twice, shoved the door open, yelled "It's Angela!" and swung in, warbag over her shoulder: she followed her cheerful announcement with an utterly spontaneous, "You look awful!"

Will was pale and sweaty, he glared at her from under no-longer-shaggy eyebrows (he had his hair cut the day before and the Sweet Young Thing trimmed his eyebrows for him), and he managed kind of an irritated grunt.

Angela thrust a hand into her shoulder bag, came out with something boxy: "Hold still," she murmured as she swung in behind her Uncle.

Will was hunched over some, sideways on a kitchen chair, one arm hooked over its tall back.

"I see it," Angela murmured. "Let me give you something."

"I don't want any damned narcotic," Will growled, and Angela saw his hand start to close.

She knew if he was feeling better he'd make a fist.

He either hurt too bad to close his hand completely, or he lacked the strength.

From what she saw on her scanner, she surmised it was both.

Will felt something press against his throat, heard a hiss, felt kind of a cold sting.

"Smooth muscle relaxer," Angela explained. "Non-narcotic. I know how you hate painkillers."

Will almost growled by way of reply, and this alone was frightening.

Angela was used to her Uncle as cheerful, chatty, laughing, a man quick to play on words or pull your leg: to see this strong man reduced to cold sweat and grunts was concerning, both in terms of medical assessment, and from the standpoint of having honestly never seen her Uncle this out of sorts.

Angela adjusted the injector, pressed it against his neck again: another quick chill and Will felt himself relax again.

"Taste anything?" she asked.

"Old leather," Will muttered.

"Good. I tried to get peppermint but that's all they had, now hold still."

"Just take me in to ER, honey --"

"Shut up."

She pressed something against his flank. "This will take about a minute okay we're done."

"I don't feel any difference."

"You won't, until that first injection takes full effect. Want to see what's causing your pain?"

"Just take me to the damned hospital!"

Angela thrust her scanner in front of his face.

"What the hell is that?"

She withdrew the device, tapped a few keys, set it on the kitchen table, pressed another.

"That," she said as she thrust an accusing finger at something coarse, spiked and brownish-yellow, rotating slowly above the scanner's suspensor, "is one hell of a kidney stone."

Will looked at it with the expression of a man who wished he had a large hammer.

"That one's about seven millimeters across. It's too big to pass. They'd have to dunk you in a horse tank of hot water and set underwater speakers to play acid rock at high volume to blow that thing to sand!"

"Is that a picture or is that the stone?"

"That's the stone. Pick it up if you like."

Will swallowed, shook his head.

"The second shot should be taking care of the colic. You're still nauseated?"

Will shook his head.

"Good. Just sit there and let me run another scan."

Angela picked up her scanner, pressed it lightly against her Uncle's back ran it slowly down one side of his spine, then down the other.

"Some men collect stamps," she murmured thoughtfully, "you collect kidney stones."

"I quit countin' after two dozen of the damned things."

Angela whistled. "Damn, Uncle Will," she murmured, "kidney stones hurt worse than giving birth!"

"You are not helpin'," he muttered irritably.

"No, I suppose not.  Let's get that gravel out of you, now hold still."

Will sighed resignedly, nodded.

 

That night, after supper, Angela yelled "I'll get it!" and scampered downstairs the way she used to as a girl at home: she opened the door, her face absolutely lit up with delight: "Uncle Will!" she squealed as she jumped up and hugged the man around the neck.

Retired Chief Will Keller laughed and ran an arm around her, came in, handed her a fragrant bouquet of flowers: he shut the door behind him, hung his hat on a peg and gave his eyes-closed, flower-sniffing niece kind of an odd look.

"Darlin'," he said, "that's by way of apology. I was an absolute crank earlier today and you didn't deserve that. I'm sorry."

Angela turned, handed the flowers to her Mama, gripped her Uncle by the shoulders and smiled up at the man.

"Uncle Will," she almost whispered, "I've seen strong men wallow like a worm on a fish hook and cry like a little girl for those damned stones! Believe me, you're fine!"

She reached into a pocket, pulled out a slender pill bottle one-third full of what looked like sand and gravel.

"Here's what I got out of you today. I'll run a monthly check and we'll keep the damned things cleared out of you, whattaya say?"

Will lowered his head and gave Angela a long look, then he blinked and nodded and said softly, "I'd say you're younger, smarter and better lookin' than me, darlin'!"

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SOME SEASONING REQUIRED

Dr. John Greenlees, M.D., Chief Surgeon of Firelands (Mars), shook hands with his relief.

"Dr. Summit," he said, "I'm trying to think of some good free advice, and my mind just went blank!"

Robert Summit, a respected physician and surgeon from one of the more advanced Confederate worlds, laughed quietly: "Doctor, I believe each of us will benefit from the experience! How long has it been since you had vacation?"

"Too long," Marnie interjected, claiming her husband's arm. "Now before you think of something to delay us, John, we are packed, Littlejohn is already insisting on riding my Daddy's Outlaw-horse, and you know what that means!"

"Duty calls," Dr. Greenlees sighed, looking at his wife and smiling gently: "and a most pleasant duty this is!"

Husband and wife stepped through the Iris, disappeared; Dr. Robert Summit looked around, nodded his approval at the Martian infirmary, so very much like his own suite back home.

 

Michael Keller leaned forward in the saddle, hands flat on Lightning's bulging, muscled neck, feeling her move, feeling her gallop, feeling her very life! -- there is no ride like a ride on a fast horse, and when that horse had fangs, ate meat, killed native buffalo and stood as tall as an African elephant, the experience was at once better than, and yet so very unlike, running his Pa's horses back home!

Lightning found her stride: she ran with a four-strike cadence, slower than a saddlehorse, owing to her heavier build, her greater height, the greater reach of her heavy-boned legs, yet her velocity was comparable to an Earth-horse.

Two smaller Fanghorns paced Lightning: they were smaller, just as fast: Jacob knew from watching Fanghorn herds that their young were remarkably swift, rarely outrun by the rest of the herd.

Michael kept an eye on the young Fanghorns: when they started to drop back, he leaned back in his saddle, slowed Lightning: the small herd coasted to a fast walk, Thunder and Cyclone chirping intermittently as they slowed.

They drew up in sight of town.

Michael let them graze: Thunder waded out into a stream, drank, came back up the bank, slashed his thick, coarse-haired tail: Michael didn't see any flies, but he reckoned this was a sign of contentment, or at least approval.

Cyclone paced downstream, rather than surging boldly down the embankment: she drank almost daintily -- "Yep, you're a girl, all right," Michael said softly, his hand caressing Lightning's thick neck: the Herd Mare waited until the young watered, and were returned, before she, too, drank -- but Lightning drank like a deer: she took a taste of the water, lifted her head quickly, looking around; another drink, another look: the colts, if that's the proper term for young Fanghorns, saw this, and began looking around as well.

They made their leisurely way toward the town.

Michael wanted to see a man of his acquaintance.

He had all day to get there, the distance was not far, and he was not about to rush his small herd, for the grass here was good, it was what they were used to.

Michael smiled a little as he recalled something his pale eyed Pa told him once.

I think better in the saddle.

 

A preacher looked out the window and smiled.

A little boy's fingertips gripped the edge of the widow sill, a little boy's legs thrust him up barely far enough to see out, at least until his Pa's big, warm hands gripped him under the arms and hoist him up.

A little boy with curly hair and big eyes stared, awe-struck, at someone he'd only seen on the Inter-System, at something he'd only seen on the glowing screen, at two smaller versions of that big, fanged creature.

A little boy put an uncertain finger to the corner of his mouth and looked at his Pa, wide-eyed and hopeful.

Michael bent over a little.

It wasn't necessary, not really, but he knew he was being watched, and he knew Thunder was like any child, full of play, and as a preacher came out the door with a little boy in his arms, Michael gave a mock-indignant yell and made a futile swipe at the bandanna Thunder neatly pickpocketed from where he'd intentionally hung it out of his back pocket: the young Fanghorn stallion threw his head, waving the wild rag like a banner, Michael chased Thunder, Cyclone chased Michael, Lightning unfolded her legs and followed, her hoof-falls absolutely silent, in spite of her (quite literal) tonnage.

Thunder ran up behind the preacher almost as if he was hiding from the man.

Michael grinned and thrust out his hand, then he carefully reached up and very gently shook the Preacher's little boy's hand.

"Nehemiah," he said quietly, "are you behavin' yourself?"

"Yis!" Nehemiah declared.

Thunder came up beside Michael, thrust his head under Michael's arm: the wild rag was surrendered in favor of some ear scratching, and Michael grinned, "Nehemiah, did you ever see a genuine wild Fanghorn before?"

"Yis!" Nehemiah laughed, and Michael laughed with him, then looked at the preacher.

"Reverend," he said, "I've got some coffee that needs ground, and I could use some wise counsel."

"I've got that brand new coffee grinder you gave me," the man replied, "come on inside!"

 

The Parson's wife smiled as she watched their little boy running, the Fanghorn colts on either side: they turned, they came back, and their son, red-cheeked and laughing, stopped and turned and looked at the elephantine Lightning.

Lightning turned and looked down at this small creature that seemed to delight the colts with his laugh and with his exertion.

The Parson's wife smiled, the back of her hand to her mouth, as the little boy looked waaaaay up at the Fanghorn mare and declared, "Vurbeeg!"

 

"Parson," Michael said, his fingers delicately gripping the crystal watch fob and the memories it held, "I lost someone ... I thought ... very ..."

Michael's voice trailed off and he swallowed hard, as if trying to down something sticky.

"I can accept death, Parson. I've seen the Valley myself. So did Lightning. I'm not afraid of dyin' ... nothing I could do to keep her from it, or I would have."

"Her?"

"Her name was Annette. She was my age."

"Ah."

"Parson, I can't say as my boiler is fired up yet. I'm too young to have that happen."

Michael shifted, his expression uncertain: he frowned, struggling to form up coherence from the vagueness he felt.

"Do you miss her?"

"I do, sir."

"Is there something special ... she liked?"

Michael considered for a long moment.

"Parson, she'd been blinded by some-or-another plant. I don't know what it was, everyone got together and dug out every one of those plants once it burned the eyes out of her head. The same doctors that regrew my spine and all those nerves and got everything connected back up and workin' right, they ... regrew her eyes."

The Parson waited.

Michael leaned back, a look on his face the Parson had never seen in one so young.

He'd seen it in men who'd seen horrors and death, he'd seen men's eyes staring through the wall, seeing something a thousand miles distant.

He'd never seen that in one of so few years.

"The first thing she saw, once they regrew her eyes and they took off the bandages ... the very first thing, was stars.

"When she found out near to a year later that damned plant poisoned her brain and it was killing her and not one thing anyone could do to stop it" -- 

Michael's hands closed to fists: they rested on the table top, he closed his eyes, took a long breath.

"Parson, she asked me to send her ashes out among those stars she saw. She said she wanted to be part of that great beauty."

"Did you?"

"I did, sir."

Michael's fingers caressed the dangling crystal watch fob.

"From dust we came, and to dust we shall return," Michael said softly, "and hers ... hers is returned to Creation."

"Then you have done a good thing."

Michael nodded.

"I arranged funding for them to build a children's wing on that hospital that worked on me and worked on her. Doubled the size of the place. I arranged ..."

Michael closed his eyes, took a long breath.

"Parson, I raised funds enough to make ten men wealthy, and I gave it in her name. I asked only one thing of them, that they put her name somewhere that it could be seen."

"Did they?"

Michael nodded.

"Right over the front door of the new construction," he said, the pulled out something rectangular that lit up when he touched it.

He turned the screen to show the Parson.

It showed a wide set of glass doors, and overhead, across the lintel:

The Juliette Wing, he read.

"I didn't do it all myself. Marnie is Ambassador and she arranged necessary introductions, but ..."

"But you raised the money."

"Yes, sir."

"You made it happen."

"Yes, sir."

"You made a difference."

"For some," Michael said hoarsely. "I heard Pa talk about 'Too little, too late,' and that's how it felt."

"What of the children that came after, those who were treated there?"

Michael looked at the Parson, considered.

"I don't know them," he said frankly. "I knew Juliette."

"And you hurt for her loss."

Michael nodded, looked away, looking as lost as he felt.

"What is the advice you need from me?"

"Parson" -- Michael blinked and almost visibly shifted gears -- "ever since I've been on the Inter-System, ever since Victoria and I came across the screen and rode to the sound of a fight, we've ... we're known. Victoria receives marriage proposals, she's way too young and so am I, I've had women and girls all in a lather to snatch me up for a marryin' prize."

The Parson nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

"Parson, I don't reckon I need advice as much as I need what you're givin' me right now."

"How's that?"  The Parson leaned forward, clearly interested.

"Pa told me most times a man already knows the right answer and sometimes he has to sort through the gravel to find it."

"Have you found it?"

"Yes, sir, and thank you."

"I'm glad I could help, but I'm not sure I understand what help I've been!"

Michael leaned back, squared his shoulders.

"Parson, there's an awful lot in me that's ... most times I don't know straight up from go-to-hell," he said frankly. "I reckon I just needed a sympathetic ear so I could throw some things out on the air and see what they sound like."

The Parson nodded thoughtfully.

"I just needed someplace safe," Michael said softly.

The scent of roasted coffee being ground teased their senses as Michael stood, suddenly, decisively.

"Thank you for your time, sir. I reckon I need to go talk things over with my Pa."

"Before you go," the Parson's wife said gently, "if you wondered about making a difference, look out the window."

Parson, mother and guest came to the window, looked outside.

Lightning stood, facing the small group of curious folk who stared at the two young Fanghorns bellied down in the Parson's front yard, heads toward the house.

Parson, mother and guest smiled as they saw a little boy with curly hair, sound asleep on the grass, a sleeping Fanghorn colt cuddled up close, solid, warm and comforting, on either side of the sleeping child, and over them, a watchful, protective Fanghorn mare.

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

GAMP-PAW, CAN I STAY HERE WITH YOU?

Littlejohn watched his Uncle Jacob with a fascinated attention.

Uncle Jacob was talking to someone.

Littlejohn's eyes were wide and unblinking as Uncle Jacob showed his nephew a picture of the globe, with colored rings around it, representing layers of the atmosphere: another picture, with a cartoon Sun and wobbly lines to indicate sunlight, then a third, showing a pointy thing (Littlejohn had never seen a radio mast) and zigzag blue lines to show radiation from the antenna and how it reflected off ionized layers of the atmosphere.

Littlejohn watched and listened as Uncle Jacob made several ham radio contacts, then he watched, puzzled, as Uncle Jacob used what he called a "paddle" -- Littlejohn wasn't sure just what his Uncle was doing, but the radio made funny beepy noises as he did.

Littlejohn clumped along, dutifully following his Gamp-paw as the older man forked out stalls -- Littlejohn wore a pair of Angela's outgrown muck boots, fortunately in kind of a greenish-brown instead of a girly-pink pair he saw hanging from the rack -- Linn put a little cargo in the wheelbarrow and had Littlejohn wheel the Irish Buggy out to the manure pile.

Littlejohn bent and frowned seriously as Linn lifted the hoof on one of the white fire mares, as he scraped and tapped and inspected and pronounced that hoof good; Littlejohn laughed as his long tall Gamp-paw snatched him up, swung him way up on a mare's back: they walked the fence, grandfather and grandson and a cluster of mares.

Linn had Littlejohn pull on a pair of work gloves and help him hitch a two wheel trailer on the Farmall Cub that usually lived with a mower on its three-point hitch.

Linn showed Littlejohn how to pull the safety pins and he gave his grinning grandboy a rubber mallet and had him knock the pins out to drop the mower, there in the barn, and Littlejohn rode his Gamp-paw's thigh as Linn swung the Cub around and backed it up to the trailer.

Four hands gripped the thickwall pipe trailer tongue and set it on the ball hitch.

Linn had Littlejohn flip down the latch, then Linn looked very seriously at his grandson and said, "Littlejohn, you drivin' yet?" and Littlejohn blinked, surprised, then looked kind of bashful and mumbled something about just bein' a little kid.

"Horse feathers," Linn grinned.  "Climb up in that seat, it's time you l'arned how to run a tractor!"

What followed was less a collaborative effort and more ... well, young hands on the wheel did all right, but young legs were too short to run the clutch, and the gearbox was out of reach without leaning over to a significant degree, but on level ground, Linn leaned back and told Littlejohn, "She's all yours now," and bumped the throttle open a little more, and it would be hard to tell which of the two was grinning the more broadly as the little red Farmall cackled happily across the pasture.

Angela told a colleague, some years before, that her Daddy operated by the medical school principle of "Learn it, do it, teach it," and in another classroom example she quoted him -- "Show men and I'll forget it, tell me and I won't remember it, but involve me, and I've got it forever!"

Littlejohn learned about hosing muck off his boots before he took them off and hung them up, he learned how to hitch on a trailer and how to pull the safety pin and then knock out the heavy pins to drop a mower from the three point hitch.

Littlejohn learned what a level was, and how to use a level, Littlejohn strutted back to the trailer and brought Gamp-paw the tamper (it was the only long thing in there) and he learned how to tamp in a fence post, and how to use the long aluminum level to determine plumb.

He wasn't sure quite why a fence post had to be plumb, but his Gamp-paw seemed to think it was important enough, and so Littlejohn decided in his young mind fence posts had to be trued up when they were tamped in.

Littlejohn wobbled a little once they got back in the house, Gamp-paw held one young hand to steady his grandson as one boot, then the other, was slid off and left in the boot tray: Littlejohn sprinted upstairs, washed his hands with the abbreviated ferocity of the impatient young, then washed them again, knowing Gamp-paw would examine them to make sure he'd gotten them clean.

Littlejohn came back downstairs with all the stealth of a bear cub after two pots of coffee.

It had been quite some time since Linn and Shelly had an active, noisy, curious little boy under their roof, and both decided this was very much to their taste: Marnie and Dr. John were off on their own for a week or so, and in the meantime, Linn fully intended to teach his grandson a variety of manly skills, such as how to whistle, how to whittle, how to spit ... you know, important stuff!

Littlejohn was about two-thirds of the way through his slice of pie when they noticed he was starting to drowse: to his credit, Littlejohn finished dessert, but only just.

He had no recollection of being carried upstairs; it was only when he'd been divested of shirt and drawers, only when his socks were pulled off, only when flannel sheets covered him like a warm, fuzzy, gentle hug, that he rallied, that he looked up with the sudden sincerity of the very young.

"Gamp-paw," he said in a drowsy, little-boy voice, "can I stay here with you?"

He didn't stay awake long enough to hear whatever reply his Gamp-paw might have given.

 

 

Edited February 13 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I HEARD A SMALL VOICE

A cowboy hat came over the crest of Cemetery Drive.

A pink cowboy hat, with a silver-and-turquoise hatband and a back strap.

It was attached to a pretty lass, bigger than a child but not yet a woman, an equestrienne between the ages of thirteen: intelligent enough to have been graduated shockingly early, with enough drive and savvy to establish multiple business ventures, but vulnerable enough to realize that sometimes a girl just wants to come home.

She drew her mare to a halt, swung down: though the mare was knee-trained and bitless, she was reined, and Victoria dropped the reins and caressed the warm-furred, spotty Appaloosa neck and whispered, "Stay," and the mare started snuffing the winter-dry grass sticking up through the snow.

Victoria walked over to a grave, stared at the tombstone, at the image of the woman she barely remembered.

"Gammaw," she said, her voice small and thin in the winter wind, "you came home to here when you were young."

She swallowed, bit her bottom lip, looked out over the graveyard, looked across the great distance to the town below: she closed her eyes, took a long breath.

"Gammaw, I need to come home and ..."
Victoria blinked, her eyes stinging, her voice tightening to a squeak:

"I miss my Daddy!"

 

Sheriff Linn Keller stood behind the podium, stepped out from behind it.

"You don't need a lecture," he said, "so here's what's on my mind."

He reached for a box on a low table beside the podium, pushed a toggle switch: there was a sharp *click* -- a cylinder of light seared into life beside him, then within the cylinder, an attractive young woman: she stood, hands clasped in front of her, head tilted a little, apparently looking at the audience.

"This is a hologram," the Sheriff said. "That's my daughter Victoria.

"I told her what I'm going to tell you right now.

"Victoria was graduated far earlier than usual. There was resistance from the school board, that resistance was overcome, and since then, Victoria has been broadening her education in ways I could never have dreamed of. She is established in business, she has a market base that puts to absolute shame anything I ever tried, she is a success and a marvel and she is a gifted performer on top of that.

"I told her what I'm telling you now.

"If things get uncomfortable, come home.

"If things get too rough, come home.

"If you find someone you think will be the perfect mate for life and they hit you -- even once -- come home. I have forty acres, a shotgun and a backhoe."

The Firelands High School student body laughed quietly at that one, then applauded: the Sheriff grinned -- that quick, contagious, boyish grin of his -- "Well, maybe not that last part, but come home, and I told my sons that same thing.

"If you can't handle credit cards and you bankrupt and get evicted from your apartment, come home."

He looked at the hologram, looked back at the student body.

"That goes for you guys as well. Don't ever be ashamed to come back home where you're safe."

The light-cylinder beside him flickered, steadied: he reached for the box on the table, pressed his thumb against the chrome toggle switch, pushed.

There was the usual sharp *click!* and the light-cylinder disappeared.

Victoria did not.

She looked out over the student body, blinked, then she turned to the Sheriff and said in a small voice, "Daddy, can I come home?"

The student body came to its feet, roaring approval, pounding their palms together and whistling, yelling encouragement as a long tall Sheriff stooped and seized his little girl, hugged her into him, stood, bringing her feet well off the floor.

Had he said anything in reply, the applause, the whistles, the yells of approval would have drowned out the sound of the small voice he'd heard.

 

Edited February 13 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SOGGY BREAD

Two Stetsons crested the rise, coming up Cemetery Drive.

One was pink, with a turquoise-and-silver hatband.

The other was black, with a black bootlace hatband that doubled low around the crown, went through grommets above the wearer's ears, and connected with a square knot below the back of his head.

Two riders drew up, dismounted, went to a particular grave.

Sheriff Linn Keller took off his Stetson, as he always did when addressing his Mama's tombstone: he had kind of a lopsided grin on his face, and he ran his arm gently around Victoria's shoulders as she leaned into him, content to be home, content to be Daddy's Little Girl again.

"Mama," Linn said softly, "there was a shadow in the doorway today."

 

It was the Sheriff's day off.

His daughters were laughing and chattering and soaking up heat from the propane heater: he'd hung tarps around and overhead to trap the warmth, at least a little, for it was still right chilly outside and in the unheated barn.

He'd checked the insulated cabinet and the heater bar inside to make sure the water line and water hose were nowhere near freezing (one of these days I've got to install a remote read thermometer!), he'd ridden down to the stream and made sure the horses could water (didn't have to bust ice today), he'd petted and fooled with almost every horse in his gregarious herd, and the Paso mare that had been big and pregnant wasn't, and he found the shivering colt and carried it back to the barn, the worried and shoulder-nudging mare interfering almost every step of the way: the girls saw him coming and had straw laid down, thick and insulating and cushioning, they'd clustered around the mare and the new foal and they'd made sure the mare was going to associate their close presence with her get, with safety and attention and swirly peppermints.

Now the girls were concentrating on the work at hand.

Each of the girls was an artist in her own right: Dana was the departmental sketch artist, though Marnie and Angela had served effectively in that capacity in the past: Dana's most recent work was a gift from a little girl to her Daddy, and when the Daddy unwrapped the framed work, he laughed and hung it up in the living room: an eight year old child's description of what her Daddy looked like, ended up as a knight in shining armor, astride a fine and spirited, armored war-horse, and none who saw it, doubted one little bit that this is how an eight year old girl-child saw her big strong Daddy.

Today, though, circumscribed by tarps and warmed by a glowing-red heater, the girls were working on the passenger door of their Daddy's six-by.

It was surplus military, it was in remarkably excellent shape, it had proven its usefulness many times over, and instead of a serial number stenciled alongside the hood, it said WILLAMINA.

Four pale-eyed Keller ladies sketched, drew, measured, frowned, pointed, discussed: one design, another, exclamations of delight at one idea, a groan as an artist realized that just wouldn't do.

Linn unfolded the legs from under a table; willing hands helped envelope this addition to their heated workspace, approving eyes watched as he set a microwave, then returned with mugs, a wicker basket of instant cocoa and a jar of instant chocolate: Angela sorted through the basket, drew in a quick, delighted breath, held up packages of microwave popcorn, to the general approval of the artistic gathering.

Linn smiled a little, slipped out of the enclosure's welcome bubble of warmth: he turned, froze.

A shadow stood in the open sliding door.

Female, non-threatening, alone, he thought, saw an unfamiliar two-door compact parked behind her.

"Sheriff?" a woman's voice asked.

Sheriff Linn Keller removed his Stetson, tucked it correctly under his off arm, circled a little to the side to diminish the glare that washed out her facial features: "How can I help you, ma'am?" he asked in a gentle voice.

She advanced into the shadowed interior and Linn's face broadened into a grin: he clapped his Stetson back on his head, stepped into her advance, grabbed her in a heartfelt but careful hug: "Dear Lord and Saint Peter, how in the world have you been?" -- which translated to "I can't remember your name but I know where I've seen you!"

She hugged him back and laughed, gripped his upper arms, looked at him almost the way a schoolteacher will when seeing a favorite student, all grown up now.

"Your son," Linn said softly. "He is well?"

"He is," she smiled, and that's why I'm here."

A pair of curious pale eyes peeked out of the heated artists' enclosure, then a pair of pink cowboy boots and a pink Stetson, with a happy pale eyed girl sandwiched between them, came scampering noisily across the smooth, clean-swept floor, hugged the newcomer with all the spontaneous and genuine delight of the young.

"My youngest daughter, Victoria," Linn murmured.

"Sheriff, I ... I came to say thank you."

"You're welcome, I'm sure, but what did I do to get in trouble this time?" Linn asked gently, and she laughed a little, looked down at Victoria, looked at the Sheriff.

"Years ago," she said, and swallowed.

Linn touched fingertips to her upper arm -- "Come over here where it's warm," he said, and Angela led the way back to the heated section: she gripped the light wood frame, drew it aside, slid it shut once they were within.

"Oh," their visitor breathed, "that's gorgeous!"

She was staring at a drawing on the table -- actually at several -- all had a circle, the size of the center of the white star, originally stenciled on the doors -- multiple pages, multiple images.

Most were pushed back, as if considered and rejected; one was placed carefully, as if studied, and then set aside so the artists could concentrate on creating what they'd sketched.

What she was looking at, and what the girls were carefully oil painting inside the star on the truck's passenger door, was the image of a rearing red mare and a woman astride -- a woman with a black Stetson worn on the back of her head, a woman in a riding-skirt and knee-high, flat-heel Cavalry boots -- a woman with a Winchester rifle held triumphantly overhead.

The visitor's breath sighed out as she recognized the woman on the horse.

"She's why I came," she breathed, then turned to the Sheriff and swallowed.

"Your mother ... there was a parade in town and she was ... she was in her Marine uniform with the VFW color guard. My son ... we'd just buried his father."

"I remember," Linn said softly.

"My son wanted so badly to represent his father. I ended up making his uniform."

"As I recall," Linn said gently, "you did a fine job of it!"

She nodded, an old grief filling her eyes.

"Your ... mother ... called a halt ... she had the honor guard turn to face my son and she inspected him ... she called them to attention and she saluted him and then she gave him the sunglasses from her own face and told him he presented a proper uniform appearance, and carry on ..."

She stopped and swallowed and wiped at her eyes with a crumpled kerchief.

"He followed his father into the military. He's with Signals now and he can't tell me what he does."

She looked at the six-by, smiled a little as she saw the curve of the antenna, bent over and tied off to the front bumper with a length of olive-drab nylon string.

"He sent me a picture, and that" -- she pointed to the tied-down antenna -- "is how he ... when he was home on leave, he said that's better in the mountains than with the antenna straight up in the air!"

Linn nodded, smiled a little: his Mama had told him the same thing, his son Jacob was a ham radio operator and explained the particulars, but all Linn really cared about was that it worked.

"I came to say thank you. Your mother's kindness meant so very much to us."

Linn nodded, remembered how his Mama put them up in the Silver Jewel for just shy of a week.

His Mama knew what it was to be a widow, and she knew they needed somewhere safe for a few days.

"Daddy?" Angela asked. "Come look at this."

Linn said "Excuse me," slipped around the table, went down on one knee and studied the image, gleaming-wet in the center of the white five point star.

"Dear Lord," he breathed, "that looks just like her!"

 

A father and a daughter looked at a laser engraved quartz tombstone in a wintry-cold cemetery.

"Mama," Linn said softly, "cast your bread upon the waters and it'll come floatin' back to you.

"A woman came to thank us for your kindness with her little boy."

Angela hugged her Daddy and he laid his arm over her, held her close.

"I don't reckon that floatin' bread was soggy a'tall."

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

IMPATIENCE

A pale eyed stripling settled his black Stetson on his head, looked at his pale eyed big sister.

"I don't have time to wait," he said bluntly.

Marnie gave him a single nod, turned back to the negotiating committee.

Michael strode over to his drowsing Fanghorn.

At his approach, Lightning chirped, lifted her head, ears perking: Michael threw a leg over the saddle, patted her neck: "Up."

"You there!" a voice challenged. "What do you think you're doing!"

"I'm causin' a war!" Michael snapped. "That's why we're here, and I'm tired of waitin'!"

Lightning came easily to her full height.

Michael reached down, gripped the wrist of his Marlin rifle, drew it free, leaned forward a little.

"YAAA!" he yelled, and a blond-furred Fanghorn with lightning blaze patterned into her pelt, stepped out lively, then seemed to lean forward, to lengthen and stretch and charge the rise, the crest, that separated mounted cavalry from the challenging enemy on the other side.

Michael stood in the stirrups, leaned forward, his rifle's blued-steel barrel laid vertical against his shoulder, his off hand laid over the Fanghorn's black mane: alone, he charged, straight for the center of the enemy's lines.

Sentries whistled, signaled; pennants raised, lowered, raised again, bugles blared alarm.

Lightning made no attempt at jumping the defensive breastwork.

She lowered her head and Michael felt her muscles bunch harder and faster and he laid down over her neck and gripped her huge barrel as best he could before she hit, before sandbags blasted apart and fell over and Michael nearly went over her head.

He managed to recover, and so did she, and he brought her around and headed for what he figured to be the command tent.

One rider, alone, was obviously not a threat -- it was God's grace alone that no one opened fire, never mind the defenders' weaponry would pose no threat to Confederate shielding -- Michael brought Lightning around in a tight orbit of the command tent, drew her up, stomping and grunting and ready for a fight.

A dignified older man with braid on his shoulders and authority laid over his shoulders like a cloak settled a uniform cap on his head and frowned his way toward Michael.

"Do you attack us, sir?" he challenged.

Michael liked the man right away.

Michael sat his huge mount as if born in the saddle.

"Sir, my Mama worked hard to beat some manners into me," Michael began, then corrected with a harrumph, "I mean she worked hard to teach me good manners!"

Michael learned from his Pa how to read men, and he read a flicker of amusement in this man's eyes, and he knew he'd just lowered hostilities by a few notches.

"Sir, I would know by what rank or title you should be addressed."

An adjutant blustered his way forward: "This is High Colonel Hutchins!" he shouted, "and you will address him with respect!"

"Mister, I don't tolerate interference. Back up and shut up or I'll put a hole through your wish bone you could throw a cat!"

Michael's thumb on the Marlin's hammer left little doubt he meant what he said, for all that the muzzle remained skyward.

"High Colonel," Michael said, "you see how easily one mount" -- Michael caressed Lightning's neck  -- "came through your wall yonder."

"Is that what happened?" the Colonel asked.

He's testing me, Michael thought. 

He wants to see if someone young as me will take his bait and get mad!

"Colonel, the men you sent to negotiate aren't doing a very good job," Michael said. "Matter of fact you need to replace them with men who know how to listen for a change."

"You will NOT tell the COLONEL how to --"

Michael extended his left hand -- there was something blunt and blocky in it -- the adjutant was thrown backwards as if punched by a giant.

Michael brought his hand back in as the adjutant rolled over, gagging the way a man will when he's just been gut punched, hard, replaced the force-gun in its saddle holster.

He turned back to the silent, watchful older man.

"Colonel, there are just shy of half a thousand mounted men on the other side of that ridge line. They're well mounted, they're well trained, they're ready to go to war, and if that happens, good men will die for really stupid reasons."

The Colonel raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"Colonel, old men send young men off to die for reasons that don't justify blood. It's stupid and it's the way wars have always been. If the King wants a war fought, let the King step up to the other King and the two of 'em settle it between the two of 'em. No reason these young men here should die. I'd rather see 'em go home and sire fine tall sons and beautiful daughters."

The Colonel looked less amused than he did thoughtful.

"What do you suggest?"

"Send better negotiators, sir," Michael replied frankly. "If they can't come to an accord, you've lost nothing. If the war starts today, if it starts a week from today, you've lost nothing but a week's time."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Michael took a long breath.

"Colonel, I know what it is to bury family. I know what it is to bury someone I ... cared for, very much."

His fingers grazed the crystal watch-fob, then lowered to his saddle horn.

"I'd just as soon we kept these fine young men of yours, alive, so their families don't have to know what I've known."

Michael reached up, touched his hat-brim:  "Colonel."

Lightning whistled, spun: she launched, almost clumsily for the first two strides, then she shot like an elephantine freight locomotive through the hole she'd made in the sandbag wall.

Lightning crested the rise at a gallop, slowed, cantered up to where his mounted sister waited: as Lightning folded her legs and settled to the earth, Michael swung his leg over the cantle, turned, waited until Marnie dismounted from Peppermint.

"Well?" Marnie asked, as she gave her younger brother a mischievous look.

"I don't reckon they're going to attack just yet," Michael said, looking around: "they're laagered in to receive an attack. They're behind a sandbag wall."

"We saw you go through it."

Michael grimaced, remembering how closely he'd come to going a header over Lightning's forehead boss.

"What did you tell them?"

Uniformed men watched, listened closely as Michael looked at each one, then at his sister.

"I told them to get better negotiators."

 

Lean young men in grey uniforms and kepis stood guard around the Ambassadorial shuttle.

Lightning, freed of her saddle and responsibilities, rolled like a happy kitten, grunting and snorting her pleasure as she ground her back into the rocky ground.

Inside the shuttle, Michael sat beside Marnie, in the company of a half dozen uniformed men: they ate an excellent meal, drank sparingly of an excellent vintage, all but Michael and Marnie, who sipped chilled, mint-sweetened tea.

One of the officers looked at Michael and asked bluntly, "Whatever possessed you to ride into the enemy camp like that?"

Michael grinned, considered, looked at the man and replied, "Impatience."

"Impatience?"

Michael shrugged. "I got tired of waiting and I figured everyone else was tired of it too, so I figured I'd either start it or stop it. I was really hoping to stop it."

"From this evening's negotiations, you may have done exactly that."

"I hope so," Michael said bleakly.

The men in uniform were all veterans; each knew what it was to go to war, and to come out the other side, and not a one of them missed the look in Michael's young eyes.

They recognized the look of someone who'd seen too much, too young, and never wanted to see it again.

A glass was raised: "Then here's to impatience!"

Every glass was hoist.

"Impatience!"

They drank.

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

UNGODLY BIG

A snow-dusted Stetson crested the rise of Cemetery Drive.

It brought a tired, slump shouldered young man in a black suit with it.

The young man brought a saddle, and the saddle brought something truly huge, something that looked mostly like a horse -- if a horse had an illicit affair with an African elephant, perhaps, with a carnivorous ancestor somewhere in the mix, or maybe a Cape buffalo, what with that bony boss across the Fanghorn mare's forehead.

Lightning's tread was soundless.

She was not shod -- like the Frisians of legend, she was barefoot; unlike the Frisians, which were shod if they were in rocky terrain that would damage their otherwise obdurate hooves, she had no need for steel reinforcement: her tread was that of a predator -- stealthy, silent, sure-footed.

A foot of snow didn't hurt her efforts for a silent passage.

She felt Michael's shift, halted; his hand on her neck, and she folded thick-boned, hard-muscled legs, bellied down in the fluffy white stuff: she playfully stuck her muzzle into the snow, snorted, blew a cloud of flakes into the air, and chirped her amusement.

Michael pulled his rifle free, laid it over his shoulder, dismounted, and walked over to a particular stone.

Like his Gammaw's stone, it was laser engraved with the image of a pale eyed woman; this one was in a McKenna gown, this one had a rather plain badge with a diagonal panel that said AGENT, and across the top, FIRELANDS.

Michael stopped at the foot of the grave.

He knew it contained bones recovered from a burned-out schloss somewhere in Germany -- he thought maybe near the Black Forest or the Hartz Mountains, maybe, could be, kinda sorta -- and made yet another mental note to look up the locations and maybe ask his Pa for sure where the place had been that his ancestral war-goddess fought and died to protect the man at her back and the child of her womb.

He stared long at the stone, remembered the several pictures, both drawings and photographs, of Sarah Lynne McKenna, and he remembered -- he smiled -- he heard his own young voice as he looked at his Gammaw's portrait, and Sarah's portrait, and he looked up at his Pa and said, "Same?"

Now he stood in the silent snowfall, staring at the resting place of that creature of legend that was the closest thing to an honest-to-God war-goddess he'd ever read about, ever heard about.

She seemed the right one to ask.

"Sarah Lynne McKenna!" he called loudly, chanting the syllables, then again -- "Sarah Lynne McKenna!" 

The wind was still; his voice was absorbed by the falling snow, not the least trace of an echo.

Call their name three times, he thought, and raise their shade.

"Sarah Lynne McKenna!"

Michael waited, his rifle laid back against his shoulder.

He looked around, listened, waited.

Nothing.

He looked back at the stone.

"Sarah," he said, "my luck is a-runnin' out.

"Twice now I stopped a war.

"I am not that good, I was just purblind lucky.

I rode into men who didn't want to go to war."

He took a long breath.

"They used me as an excuse to call it off."

He hesitated, took a long breath, blew it out.

"I wasn't the only one to bring things down from a boil. You know Marnie. I've been told she's like you were. I wouldn't know, I never knew you personal, but she's good at negotiatin'."

Michael listened, young ears straining to catch the least whisper of ghostly counsel.

All he felt was the slightest of breezes, gentle from his left.

"Maybe Marnie knew nobody wanted a war and she knew I was the right rock to throw in the gearbox. She's good at that."

His lower jaw slid out and he frowned a little.

"Sarah, I'm not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but next time I kick the hornet's nest I just might come out in second place and I don't want that. Both times if they'd gone to war they'd have lost too many people and I don't want them -- I don't want their families --"

His hand tightened around the checkered wrist as his voice ground to a stop, as his eyes went on up the row, as he remembered what it was to bury family here, to discharge Juliette's ashes among the stars she so loved.

"Ah, hell, what am I doin' here?" he muttered: he frowned, he turned back to Lightning, wiped snow-wet off the saddle with his wild rag: he sheathed the Marlin, straddled saddle leather, caressed her neck, gently, the way he always did.

Three sets of eyes watched them ride back down Cemetery Drive, watched as the snow-dusted Stetson disappeared over the crest.

One set of pale eyes looked at the other set of pale eyes.

"He realizes his sister knew what he would do, and used that to her advantage."

A set of violet eyes looked at the huge hoofprints and smiled.

"Ungodly big, aren't they?" Sarah asked, and Willamina caressed the girl's fine hair as she replied, "They're beautiful."

Two women in McKenna gowns smiled.

"Juliette, what is it like to dance among the stars?"

Edited February 15 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

NOW HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?

William Linn was Sheriff Jacob Keller's son.

He was second born -- Joseph run off to Europe and got himself killed in that damned War over there -- William Linn knew better than to speak his thoughts of the War in his Pa's presence.

William Linn was like any tall boy of his era: hard working, whether tending ranch duties, whether applying himself to his lessons, whether detailed to some particular task by father or mother.

He'd worked himself all day, he'd done a man's work in spite of his few years, he'd kept steady at it until needfuls were taken care of: it was an era when simple survival meant laboring from kin-see to cain't-see, and while his labors were not necessary for absolute, edge-of-the-knife survival, they were necessary for the daily operation of home and homestead.

Consequently, about mid-afternoon, when he'd gotten his work done, he returned to the barn, cleaned out what little muck there was, spread fresh straw.

He'd set down and realized just how tired he was.

A short nap wouldn't hurt a thing, he reasoned, and so he made a nest in the straw, threw a saddle blanket down and covered up with another: he was more tired than he realized, and just honestly passed out when his head hit the fold-up of blanket he'd made for his comfort.

He never woke when a certain mischievous young stallion snuffed at his skypiece, gripped the brim daintily between strong, yellow teeth, and trotted happily out of the barn and down the pasture, waving his prize with juvenile equine triumph.

Horse politics being what they were, other stallion colts were running, challenging one another: the hat was dropped, forgotten, abandoned.

It wasn't until a certain Bear Killer came trotting up through the field that the hat was rediscovered.

The Bear Killer was bound for the barn, as this time of day young William Linn would usually be mucking out the stalls: The Bear Killer, having neither timepiece nor a crystal ball, was not aware said labors were long since tended: nevertheless, having made his way to the barn, he cast about, trod carefully through loose straw, snuffed loudly at the somnolent form, and acted according to his nature.

He laid down beside and cuddled up with, and the two of them, thus mutually comforted, slept.

Jacob came out to the barn, looking for his son: he saw everything had been tended and in fine shape, the stalls were cleaned and new bedding laid: he looked out over the pasture and considered that his son had genuinely done a grown man's work that day, and he'd say as much to him, likely over supper so his Mama could hear.

It does well to praise when there's someone else to hear it.

Jacob saw William Linn's hat, frowned a little, wondered why it was carelessly dropped --

There's his boot --

Be damned, he's sound asleep --

After all that work, he's likely wore plumb out!

The Bear Killer looked up, his big feathered plume of a tail thumping slowly in greeting: Jacob raised a hand, put a finger to his lips: he bent, picked up his son's hat.

He looked closer, saw the brim was almost ... cut? -- no, not cut ...

Mashed almost through?

Maybe a horse bit it?

Jacob slid curious fingers up under his own hat brim, scratched his thatch in honest puzzlement, frowned at the hat and where it looked to be almost cut through.

Now how, he wondered, did that happen?

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WISDOM

"I know that look."

Linn looked at his chief deputy and nodded.

"Happened again?"
The Sheriff nodded.

"It happened with Marnie, didn't it?"

Linn closed his eyes, took a long breath, nodded.

"Then it was Angela and Dana."

"Eeyup."

"Now it's Victoria."

"And Michael."

"How about Jacob?"

Linn frowned, blinked, considered.

"No," he finally said, "Jacob ... I expected Jacob."

Barrents grunted.

"Paul," Linn said softly, "how did they grow up so fast?"

"Buddy Joe," Barrents said slowly, "if I knew, I'd write a book and make a mint!"

"I wonder if Mama ever felt that way, lookin' at me."

"She did."

Linn looked at his old friend, surprised.

"When we were graduated, remember?"

Linn shook his head, puzzled.

"I thought she told you."

" 'Fraid not."

Barrents dispensed a short shot of milk into the tall, All-Night paper cup, worked the sippy lid carefully on the hand-warming coffee, handed it to the Sheriff.

"Thank you," Linn said softly, looked over to where Marsha set their red-and-white cardboard to-go boxes on the counter.

Conversation was suspended until they were back in the cruiser.

Paul backed the cruiser in beside the All-Night, shoved the shifter into park: he and Linn turned their attention to the mirrors, to their meal, to the mirrors, out the windshield, to their meal, to the mirrors, the silent, watchful paranoia of lawmen wary of ambush or surprise.

Linn tore open a mayonnaise packet with his teeth, spat out the fragment, tore open the salt packet: chicken strips were hot, fragrant, crunchy, just the way he liked them, and so were the thick potato slices: mayonnaise and salt helped, but mostly the meal's quality was improved by the ancient Chinese proverb, "Hunger makes the best sauce."

Both men partook of said sauce, for it had been a busy day so far.

"Now what was it Mama said that she didn't tell me?" Linn finally asked.

Barrents gave his old friend a knowing look.

"Do you remember the soloist at Baccalaureate?"

"I remember Becky Hartley sang. That was the day before she was diagnosed with cancer."

"Yeah, I remember, but do you remember what she sang?"

Linn frowned, shook his head.

"Your Mama told me later that she sang, 'Where are you going, my little one, little one, where are you going, my baby, my own?' "

Linn nodded, his eyes distant.

"Your Mama sat there with big tears runnin' down her face."

Linn looked at Barrents, surprised.

"I never knew."

"So what happened that you realized Victoria is growin' up?"

Linn's jaw slid out and he frowned a little.

"This mornin' ... do you remember we stopped and I talked to the Parham girl?"

Barrents nodded.

"All that snow and she's the only one out shovelin' for folks. Anymore it's just been girls out shovelin' driveways. I thanked her for takin' care of the one she was working on and I paid her to shovel two more."

"Aannnnnd this reminded you how?"

"She's Victoria's age. Debbie Parham is nose high on me already and I realized so is Victoria and I keep thinkin' of her as my little girl."

Linn took a thoughtful pull on his coffee.

"Emphasis on little."

"Know what you mean, Buddy Joe," Barrents agreed.

"Michael ... he and Victoria are still the same height and ... Michael's growin' up too."

"Sneaks up on a man, don't it?"

Linn nodded, staring through the windscreen.  "It does."

 

Linn was unusually quiet at the supper table.

Victoria gave her Mama a worried look, then she picked up a sweet roll and tossed at her Daddy.

Linn was busy staring a hole in the salt shaker.

He never looked up, his hand snapped up and seized the flying bread, laid it carefully beside his plate.

Victoria looked at her Mama again.

"If we're done here," Linn said quietly, "conference, my office, five minutes."

He rose and left the room, silent on sock feet.

Wife, daughter and son looked at one another with genuine concern.

They came into Linn's study just as an Iris closed behind Angela.

Linn pushed his chair back from his desk, stood.

"First of all," he said, "nothing's gone wrong and no complaints."

"Oookaaaaay," Victoria said, drawling the word out as she looked from one to another of the family assembled.  "All this from tossing a biscuit?"

"No."  Linn took a long breath, tugged at the bottom of his vest.

"Firstly, my dear," he said, looking at his wife, "thank you. The meal was excellent."

"There's still dessert," Michael offered hopefully, casting a covetous glance at pie yet uncut on the kitchen counter.

Linn looked at his youngest son and said, solemn as the old Judge, "A man has his priorities and that's one of 'em. Please tell me there's ice cream as well."

Angela turned to face her Daddy squarely, frowning a little the way she did when she was studying an interesting clinical case.

Linn turned to Angela.

"I owe you an apology, and a big one."

Angela blinked, surprised. "And what brought this on?"

"I got smacked in the face by a cold dead fish today."

"The mill?" Shelly asked.

Linn looked at her, nodded.

"Nobody gave us any follow-up."

"Please, everyone, grab a seat, I'm tired of standin'."

Backsides lowered themselves into chairs, onto the big comfortable couch, The Bear Killer dropped a hopeful chin across Angela's lap.

Linn keyed in a code, the screen lit up.

Marnie smiled at her Daddy, a sleeping little boy on her lap, his head laid back against her shoulder.

"Marnie, I am making my apologies."

"Whatever for?" Marnie said softly: she picked up a headset, settled the foam earpiece over her left ear, adjusted the slender boom. "That's better," she said in an even quieter voice, looking down at Littlejohn, out like a light in her arms.

"Marnie. You and Angela ..."

Linn rubbed his hands slowly together, frowned, looked around at several sets of pale eyes looking at him.

"We got a call today, intruder on the mill roof. You know how high that thing is."

Heads nodded; the grain mill was a fixture in town, its structure was a local landmark.

"We get up there and I told Barrents to stay below and direct incoming units and I went a-swarmin' up the outside ladder."

Shelly shifted uncomfortably; she knew how her husband disliked heights.

"It was a girl I'd known since she'd been brought home with the hospital warranty sticker still pasted across her little pink backside."

Angela's head tilted a little to the side, as did Marnie's: each was studying her Daddy's face closely.

"I got up there and she was settin' on the edge of the roof with her feet danglin'.

"There'd been enough sun, the edge was dry, so I set down beside her.

"She didn't say a thing and neither did I, and finally I took off my gloves and handed to her.

"She stared at them and then she took 'em and worked her hands into 'em and said they felt good, and I said I'd missed your birthday last year, take that for your birthday present.

"She was quiet for a while longer and she finally said, 'I'm scared to jump.'

"I said I wasn't and she looked at me all a-startle and I allowed as I was sure as hell afraid of that sudden stop at the bottom!"

Angela rolled her eyes, Michael grinned, Shelly sighed, Marnie picked up a blanket and draped it carefully around the still-sound-asleep Littlejohn.

"I asked her what brings you to such a scenic overlook and she said she'd just lost all hope when her boyfriend dumped her.

"I told her such a thing could genuinely crush your heart and it hurts like no one has ever been hurt before.

"I asked her if she'd trusted him, and she said yes, and I asked if she'd been intimate with him and she turned a genuine shade of scarlet and I asked how he dumped her and she said he'd been bragging at school and she called him on it and he sneered and said she had round marks on her where he'd had to hold her off with a ten foot pole, so she figured to come up here and jump and just end it all.

"She talked like no one ever listened to her before and she had a genuine truckload backed up and she talked all of it out, settin' on that cold sandy tarpaper roof and the wind a-blowin' and let me tell you, it was cold up there! -- felt like there wasn't much between us and the North Pole but a bobwarr fence with two strands broke."

Linn swallowed; silence, both from family present, and family distant.

"Finally I allowed as I was about froze out, I'd be pleased to buy her a hot chocolate at the All-Night, and if she didn't want her Mama to know, if she didn't tell I wouldn't either, and she laughed a little bit, and I figured the crisis was over, so we scooted back from the edge and we stood up and I looked at her and I said you're about fourteen and she said yes."

Linn looked at Victoria.

"Darlin', you're thirteen. We'll get back to that in a minute.

"We come down that ladder, I started down first and she come second, I was her safety, so to speak. We got down and I told your relief" -- he looked at Shelly, for it was her day off, B shift had the station -- "that all we were was cold, but we had an appointment with the hot chocolate machine.

"We thawed out and I bought her some pizza and finally she looked at me all miserable and asked why I was being so nice to her, and I told her that a Daddy has to be understandin' when tragedy hits and she'd just had her heart ripped out and thrown down and stomped on, and I'd be a pretty poor example if I did not hear her out and see that she was going to be all right.

"We took her home and her Mama was surprised to see me comin' up the sidewalk with her, and I allowed as we'd been seein' the sights, and that she had a courageous and genuinely remarkable daughter, and I said it whilst Debbie was right there to hear me say it.

"So why are we here."

Linn looked around, looked at Marnie on the screen, looked at Angla watching skeptically to the side.

"When you two were coming of age, I did not want to see you as the young women you were becoming.

"I tried not to hold you back.

"I tried not to let you see that I wanted to keep you like a rare collector's doll under a glass dome on a high shelf where dust and the world couldn't get to you."

"You never made me feel held back," Marnie said softly as Littlejohn shifted, nuzzled his head into her bodice, warm and content under the enveloping blanket: Marnie's eyes swung toward Angela, who echoed the sentiment.

"Victoria."

Victoria looked at her Daddy with innocent eyes, which didn't fool anyone.

"You are my youngest and it would be too easy for me to hold you back and keep you in pinafores with a ragdoll in the bend of your elbow. If I try, kick me in the shin."

Victoria's wide eyes widened even further and she said in a serious voice, "Daddy, we need to talk."

"She wants something," Angela said warningly, looking at her Mama, who nodded and looked at her youngest daughter.

"Daddy, you never held me back," Marnie repeated as she handed Littlejohn off to a set of arms that came in from the side of the screen: her eyes thanked her husband for taking the warm, relaxed little boy. "You encouraged me at every success and at every achievement."

"My Pa didn't," Linn said bluntly. "Not once.  Ever.  That's why I wanted to encourage every one of you for every honest achievement you made."

Michael listened but offered no comment: he and Victoria exchanged a look, as if agreeing on something.

"Okay. That's all I got."

"What about the Parham girl?" Marnie asked, her voice still Mommy-gentle: she still wore her headset, which made understanding her gentle syllables easier than if she wasn't.

"Far as I know, she's okay. I've no idea if she's talked to her Mama about it."

"What about the boy?" Marnie asked. "I've a nice friendly airlock we can throw him out of."

"I'll remember the offer," Linn grinned.

"Goodnight, Daddy," Marnie smiled, reached forward: the screen went dark.

Angela took her Daddy's arm, looked up into his pale eyes.

"You hate heights, Daddy," she whispered. "Are you all right?"

Linn nodded.  "I felt the edge a-callin' to me," he said, "but I had to ignore it to take care of her!"

Angela came up on her tiptoes, kissed her Daddy on the cheek, laid her hand on his collar bone and looked at him with shining eyes.

"I'm proud of you, Daddy," she whispered, then she brought her wrist up, tapped at her screen, smiled at her Mama and stepped through the Iris as it opened behind her.

"If she hadn't left in such a hurry," Linn said thoughtfully, "she could've had some pie!"

"More for us!" Michael declared cheerfully.

Shelly rose, came over, took her husband's hand, gave him a thoughtful look.

"You bribed a suicide down with hot chocolate," she murmured.  "I'll have to remember that!"

"Never underestimate the power of chocolate," Linn intoned solemnly, then hugged his wife.

Victoria turned and ran upstairs.

Linn looked up, startled, looked at Michael, who shrugged.

"Girls," he said, spreading his hands. "What can I tell ya!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited February 16 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SHORT STUFF

The fellow behind the counter regarded Victoria with a skeptical eye.

The lovely daughter of that long tall Sheriff, her hand claiming his arm, looked at the gunshop's proprietor with poorly disguised amusement.

He turned that skeptical eye toward the Sheriff and said, "So you're runnin' around with younger women now, are ye?" and he saw the corners of the lawman's eyes tighten a little.

"You're damned right," Linn rumbled, "and she's in the market for a three inch airweight J-frame with a nice smooth pull."

"A matched pair, if you please," Victoria said archly, "sights regulated for 148 grain wadcutters."

Bruce frowned, leaned back, looked off to his left, thought for a moment, turned back to the pair.

"Come on in back," he said, "I don't have a pair but I have one and a half."

 

Victoria waited until her Daddy was finished with the supper she'd fixed -- her Mama worked on the A shift, and was at work -- when he finished, she rose and said, "Conference, your office, five minutes," and gathered up dishes and put them in the sink.

"Yes, ma'am," Linn murmured, watched as his little girl (dear God how'd she get this big this fast?) made short work of setting dishes to soak: she dried her hands, turned, marched purposefully into her Daddy's study, the Sheriff following.

Victoria pulled the chair up beside her Daddy's desk -- he half expected her to take the center chair  -- she looked at her Daddy and said, "You get the Big Chair," then sat, all lovely and dainty and feminine and girly, looking as controlled and composed as her Mama (dear God how'd she get so mature so sudden?) and waited for her Daddy to set down and get comfortable before she addressed the subject at hand.

"Daddy," Victoria said seriously, and Linn heard a much younger voice as she did -- "do you remember you said I could use your Walthers however long I wished?"

Linn nodded thoughtfully. 

"Daddy, do you remember teaching me to shoot the Walthers?"

Linn's face softened and he smiled a little, the way a Daddy will when he's seeing good memories of his young.

"I remember," he said softly.

Victoria leaned forward, laid an earnest hand on his.

"Daddy," she said seriously, "what you taught me, kept me alive."

His face was suddenly devoid of any pleasure: he looked square-on at his little girl and his eyes lightened several shades.

"Go on."

"I have kept myself alive with the Walthers, Daddy, and I have kept very bad people from doing very bad things to me because I had the .32 on me when they tried."

Sheriff Linn Keller considered his answer carefully.

"Victoria," he said quietly, "I have hanged men who hurt my daughters. I've hanged men who tried."

"I took care of it, Daddy," Victoria said seriously, and suddenly she did not look like Daddy's little girl.

She looked very much like his Mama when she discussed having to punch someone's ticket to the Hell-Bound Train.

"One example. An attempted kidnap. Another was a drive-by. Both times I used head shots with hardball and it kept me alive."

"I ... prefer ... having you alive," Linn said in that quiet voice he reserved for moments when he was most willing to reach through time and space and take someone by the throat with a crushing and deadly grip.

"That's why you're taking me to the gunshop that built you your Victory model."

Linn blinked, surprised.

"You remember that."

"I remember wanting to try a half dozen guns in the case, but I contained myself."

Linn remembered having taken Victoria and Michael with him, several times, when he'd visited the gunshop, when he'd dealt and dickered and lied and laughed and shared vignettes and victories with the proprietor.

"Daddy, if I'd been off just a little, hardball doesn't do much good against the curved surface of the skull."

"What are your thoughts?"

"The sights are tiny. I have young eyes and I knew I could not miss -- there were houses and people beyond, and I remembered you taught 'The target is its own backstop.' "

"You remember that."

"You were teaching a class, Daddy, and I've always been a good student," she reminded.

"Yes, but I was guest-presenter at the Academy."

"And you said I paid better attention than half the cadets."

Linn nodded thoughtfully.  "You're right, you did."

"I believe I know what I'd like to try."

Linn nodded, once, carefully:  Go ahead, the move said, and Victoria's eyes swung toward his gun case.

"When Gammaw was a deputy Marshal with Chauncey Village, back East, she carried a three inch Chief's Airweight in her boot top. She called it Short Stuff. She was also deadly accurate with it. I remember she used to cut playing cards edgewise for me."

Victoria saw her Daddy's eyes soften as he remembered.

Victoria had been but a wee child, a delightful little girl, all smiles and curls and little-girl giggle, and her Daddy put a great big set of earmuffs on her and she held them tight against her head as her Gammaw brought that spurless-hammer Chief's up, as it went *BLAP*, and Victoria laughed as half the card fell fluttering to the ground.

"Daddy, I've been reading, and I think a full wadcutter at target velocity is my best bet."

Linn nodded thoughtfully, rose.

He went to the gun case, lifted his Gammaw's Short Stuff from its display, handed it to Victoria.

She opened the cylinder and dumped the rounds into her palm, turned, lowered it to about 45 degrees.

He heard her close the cylinder, gently, carefully, just the way he'd taught her, and he heard her try the trigger, try it again, then turned back to her Daddy, the diminutive revolver's muzzle carefully directed to the floor.

She opened the cylinder, dropped the FBI loads back in it, handed it to him, cylinder open.

"That," she said firmly, "is what I want."

 

Bruce opened the five-shot cylinder, took a look, turned and handed it to Victoria.

She hooked a finger through the frame, frowned at the spurless hammer, nodded.

"Try the pull, see if it suits you."

Victoria turned away, closed the cylinder carefully, held it down at about 45 degrees, tried the trigger, tried it again.

She opened the cylinder, turned back.

"That," she said, "is what I'm looking for. You said you have one and a half."

He accepted the revolver back from her, laid it on a gunsmith's pad.

"The other bench," he said.

Victoria followed her Daddy over to the far side of the work bench.

Bruce picked up the stripped frame.

"I'm expecting some barrels any time. Three inch, you say."

"Yes, please," Marnie said confidently. "With the same glass smooth pull as the other, and no heavier a trigger."

Bruce looked at the Sheriff and said thoughtfully, "She sounds like she knows her way around a wheelgun."

"She's my daughter," Linn shrugged. "I'd be surprised if she didn't!"

"What about grips?" Bruce asked.

"Grip fillers if you have them," Victoria said without hesitation. "Herrett Shooting Ace stocks, and engraving."

"Engraving," Bruce said slowly, looking at the Sheriff, then back to Victoria.

"The usual?"

"The usual."

"You want to take that one with you now?"

"How long until you can have them both assembled to spec, regulated for 148 grain wadcutters, engraved and gold inlaid?"

"Give me a month."

"Give me a price."

He named a sum; father and daughter looked at one another.

Each nodded, once.

 

"Daddy?"

The well-muffled Jeep was sure-footed on fresh snow.

"Yes, Princess?"

"Since you're out carousing with a younger woman, why don't we stop at the firehouse and take everyone some doughnuts or something?"

Linn nodded thoughtfully. 

"We can do that."

Victoria was silent for several minutes, then gave a great, exaggerated sigh.

"Your Mama does that," Linn said. "What's on your mind?"

"I was thinking of holsters, Daddy, and I'm going to have to alter my dresses so I can carry accessibly and discreetly."

"Mmm."

"Yeah, mmm," she replied sternly. "You're a guy. You can just throw on a holster and hang your vest over it and get away with it. It's different with us girls, we've got ... more to consider!"

"Darlin'," Linn said gently, "I'm sure you can handle it. I realized long ago you are younger, smarter and better lookin' than me, not necessarily in that order."

Victoria looked at her Daddy and smiled.

" 'Younger, smarter and better lookin'?' " she quoted, then looked out the windshield again.

"Well, two out of three ain't bad!"

 

 

 

 

Edited February 17 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A HARD AND UNFEELING MAN

Marnie Keller snapped open the hot-off-the-printer issue of The Firelands Gazette.

Dr. John Greenlees relaxed into his easy chair, The Bear Killer curled up against Littlejohn's back as the spittin' image of his taciturn father sat cross-legged on the floor, hunched over his study book, frowning with youthful concentration.

Dr. John's eyes caught movement.

He looked up as his wife's hand cupped over her mouth, as her eyes widened with distress.

He watched Marnie blink a few times, then leap to her feet, dash the newspaper into her just-vacated chair, and run for the bedroom.

Alarmed, Dr. John picked up the paper, scanned it quickly, looking for the source of his wife's distress.

He stood, scanned the front page, saw the boldfaced GUEST EDITORIAL, PAGE TWO.

This is unusual, he thought, and turned the page.

He found it.

 

Bruce Jones, editor, publisher, proofreader, reporter, photographer and chief broom pusher of The Firelands Gazette, turned from his screen to the solemn-faced Sheriff: he rose, came around the ancient desk, extended his hand.

They shook.

"I'm sorry," the editor said. "I know you two were ... connected."

Sheriff Linn Keller swallowed, nodded: he thrust a single page at the editor.

"Letter to the Editor," he said hoarsely. "Be pleased if it meets your approval."

Jones read it, raised an eyebrow: he read it again, nodding as he did.

"This," he said, "will be our guest editorial."

He looked up at the Sheriff again.

"I don't often get hand written letters anymore."

"Had to," Linn said, his voice still hoarse. "Wouldn't be right just to hammer it out on a keyboard."

Bruce looked at the sheet again.

"Gorgeous handwriting."

Linn nodded, his eyes swinging to the ancient front window with the letters hand painted on the inside, reversed from within to read true from without.

"Mama prized a good clear hand," Linn said, and Bruce heard the weight crushing the man's words before they were spoken. "I learned from her."

"Thank you for this. You're just in time. I was ready to start my editorial."

Linn nodded, turned, walked toward the front door like he was wearing a pickup truck for a cloak.

He stopped, turned back, looking like he'd aged ten years since sunup.

"It's hard enough when you're Sheriff," he said. "When it's someone you know ... it's worse."

 

Dr. John paged quickly through the paper, found the obituaries.

There it is.

That must be her senior graduation picture.

She was cute.

He turned back to the front page to find the seminal article.

THREE KILLED IN HOUSE FIRE, he read, and under it, in smaller letters, Mother and daughters dead in failed rescue.

 

Little happened in the county the Sheriff didn't know about, almost nothing happened that he did not at least hear about.

When the fire call came in, Sharon curled her lip and whistled -- it was faster than the intercom, and  the whistle meant it was serious -- Linn came out of his inner office, almost grateful to be pulled away from administrative work.

He saw the fire trucks bellowing past on the street outside.

Sharon held up a slip; he long-legged it across the floor, took the slip and read it.

He handed it back and pushed through the heavy glass doors, jumped in the cruiser, followed.

 

John sat slowly on the bed beside his wife, laid a gentle hand between her shoulder blades.

Marnie's face was buried in the pillow; he'd given her some time to muffle her screams, and then her sobs: when she was no longer driving her grief and her rage and her sorrow into the genuine feather pillow, he wordlessly joined her.

Marnie twisted, almost convulsed as she curled up, snapped upright, seized her husband, held him desperately: a small voice said, "Mama?" and a small weight climbed on the bed, and Marnie ran an arm around their son and pulled him in close, while The Bear Killer surged easily onto the bunk, not at all sure what was going on, but determined to participate.

 

Shelly Keller cut a precise rectangle out of the news print, carried it over to the bulletin board, secured it with four push pins.

The entire Irish Brigade crowded in beside and behind her, reading the words her husband wrote with a dip quill, with good India ink, on a yellow legal pad.

 

Editor, The Firelands Gazette:

I lost a friend last night.

Sometime in the night, a girl I went to school with, died.

She and her husband and their infant daughter were asleep in the first floor bedroom.

We don't know what woke them.

We do know the smoke detector did not work, and we don't know why.

Husband, wife, infant daughter and his son in his first floor bedroom, all got out.

A neighbor told me their two daughters, in their second story bedroom, started screaming to death in the flames.

A girl I had a crush on in school, shoved the baby into her husband's arms and charged back into the house.

The witness said she fought her way up the stairs and into their bedroom.

She came out with a daughter under each arm.

They were halfway down the staircase when it collapsed.

What was left of them, was found on overhaul.

You know me.

I'm the Sheriff.

I go after the people who cause harm.

I bring them to justice.

Right now I feel pretty damned helpless.

There's no one to blame.

I can't go after anyone for this because there's no one to go after.

I have to do something.

Let me do this, at least.

Let me instead ask this of every last one of your readers.

As you love your family, change the battery in your smoke detector.

If you don't have one, stop by the fire house. They'll give you one.

Free.

If you need a battery for the one you have, the All-Night carries them, the Mercantile has plenty -- hell, stop by the Sheriff's office, I'll give you one of mine!

I knew Lora since she was in diapers.

My daughters went to school with her.

Change the battery in your smoke detector, test it to make sure it works.

It hurts too much to write a letter like this and I don't want your smoke detector to be the reason I have to write another.

 

Victoria sat solemnly at her Daddy's desk, a black rosette with two red beads sewn to its center, pinned to her dress.

She looked at the screen, divided into two feeds, and her sisters looked back at her.

"You read the article?" Victoria asked.

"Daddy's editorial?" Angela asked: she and Victoria saw Dr. John's hand as he sat just out of camera, seated close beside his wife, apparently with his arm around her: all they could see were his spatulate, surgeon's fingers, lightly wrapping around Marnie's arm as he held her.

"Bruce Jones left something out," Victoria said.

"Oh?" Angela asked, and Marnie looked up, her eyes heavy with misery.

"He didn't mention Daddy hand wrote that sermon."

Marnie's eyes were distant; she was listening, but she was seeing memories.

"Was there anything else he didn't mention?"

"He told Daddy his handwriting was gorgeous," Victoria replied, "but he didn't mention water spots on the paper from while Daddy was writing it."

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

ONE NIGHT, BESIDE THE STOVE

Sheriff Linn Keller considered the horn he held.

He was restless, and he knew why he was restless, and the reason should show up just any time.

A father knows his son, and this father's son was much like his pale eyed sire, and so Linn waited for Jacob's shadow to darken his doorstep.

In the meantime, he took a curved piece of broken glass that used to be part of a whiskey bottle, and carefully, precisely, scraped a curl of horn free of the ancient powder horn he held.

His Pa made him that horn.

He could have graven it and inlaid the scrimshaw with India ink, but he preferred to keep it blank, bare; on occasion he would scrape it, he'd seen horns scraped so thin a man could see the powder level inside, if he held it up in the sun.

This fine old horn wasn't there yet.

Horn scrapin's went in a handy cigar box, and would be donated to the stove before he went to bed.

Until then, he made a careful pass with the curved, incredibly sharp curve of broken glass.

 

Jacob Keller drove the buggy at an easy trot.

His mare could have handled a harder pace, but Jacob was not one to task a horse without reason, and there was no reason for haste.

He shifted the reins to his left hand, ran his arm around his wife, hugged her, looking at her with the eyes of a man who genuinely enjoys his wife's company.

Joseph, tented in a buffalo robe, drowsed contentedly in the back seat: like his younger brother, he too was well fed and warm. 

Annette, apple-cheeked and smiling, looked at her husband, then down at the blanket-wrapped bundle: little William Linn was fed, his diaper changed, the buggy's motion, damped by a mother's arms, were enough to send a wee child into contented sleep.

Jacob slacked the reins, gave the mare her head, which on the up grade, and going somewhere familiar, the mare slowed but little.

The hired girl opened the door at Jacob's rat-tat, tat, Linn smiled as he heard Jacob kick the stone step, knocking off what little snow was on his boots: it was something father and son both did, and Linn doubted not the sons that followed, would all do the same.

Annette and the hired girl clustered together, retreated into the kitchen, likely for tea -- Linn knew they were coming over, he'd asked the girl to have something ready -- and he knew she would ooh and aah over Jacob's youngest.

Linn bent over, placed the piece of broken whiskey-bottle in the cigar-box with the white curls of scraped horn: he hung the horn back with the flint rifle his Pa made him when he was yet a beardless youth, picked the few strays of scraped horn from his vest, turned and thrust out his hand as his son entered the room.

"The women makin' over the baby?" Linn asked Joseph, and Joseph grinned up at his Grampa and replied "Yes, sir," and Linn winked at his grandson.

"Grab a set, drag up beside the stove. I've been all day tryin' to think of a big lie to tell ye and just nothin' a'tall came to mind!"

Joseph's eyes were wide and delighted as he looked at his Grampa, then Linn saw the boy's expression cloud a little as young eyes swung over to his Pa, and this told Linn he was right as to Jacob's reason for coming over.

Linn poured two fingers' worth in two glasses, handed one to Jacob: he frowned at Joseph, gave his head a twitch.

Jacob came over to his Grampa and Linn squatted, held out the glass.

"Take a snort," Linn said, "and make sure it's not spoilt."

Joseph took a sip, closed one eye -- ol' Grampa didn't figure it was by choice -- he handed the glass back and coughed, "Good stuff."

Linn nodded solemnly. 

"Wanted to make sure. Appreciate your help."

He rose, slugged the brandy back, swallowed, savoring distilled California peaches as the liquid warmed him clear to his belt buckle.

Jacob handed over his empty glass; Linn set glasses and the decorative, cut-glass bottle back on the shelf where they normally lived.

"Well, hell, have a set," Linn said. "No sense in wearin' out boot leather standin' too long."

Young Joseph puzzled a little over this, but accepted his Grampa's pronouncement without question.

"Sir," Jacob said without preamble, "you likely heard about the Spence family bein' burnt out."

"I heard."

Jacob closed his eyes and took a long breath, and Linn knew he was right, this was the reason Jacob wanted to come out.

"Sir, I knew 'em."

Linn nodded, slowly, his eyes never leaving his son's.

Jacob's hands closed, opened.

"Sir, was it a murder, was it a crime -- I could ... find who did it, and bring the Law to bear."

Linn nodded, glanced down at Joseph, who was listening intently.

"There's no one to fault, sir. There's no criminal to blame."

"And you're madder'n hell, and no one to bring to justice for it."

"That's it exactly, sir."

"What have you done so far?"

"We split wood," Joseph offered.

Jacob's eyes were veiled, his walls were up, his defenses active.

"I've done that," Linn said quietly.  "As I recall, I broke a couple ax handles a-doin' it."

"I'm surprised I didn't, sir," Jacob admitted. "I swung that broad ax and I genuinely put the tariff right on it!"

Linn nodded.

"How'd you treat the mare on the way over?"

"Gentle, sir, same as always."

"You didn't stand up and scream at the mare and whip the hide off her carcass."

"No, sir."

"You didn't pick up Joseph here and heave him through the neighbor's cabin door a mile distant."

Jacob looked at Joseph, as if estimating his weight.

Joseph looked back, surprised.

"No, sir."

"And you didn't turn Annette over your knee and fan her biscuits."

Jacob laughed quietly.

"Sir, was I to try that ever, you'd know it, for you'd hear that fryin' pan ring like a bell when it bounced off my punkin head!"

"Joseph."

"Sir?"

"Joseph, notice what we've got here."

"Sir?"

"Your Pa is powerful unhappy because some folks are dead."

"Yes, sir?"

"Your Pa put stock in those folks. They were good people. 'Twas a fire and nobody to blame for it, so we can't go after anyone and bring 'em back for the Judge to see in court."

Joseph nodded solemnly at being addressed thusly.

"A weak man, a lesser man, will take it out by beatin' man or beast. Such souls will pick on the weaker. How would you say your Pa treated your Mama since that fire?"

Joseph's expression was of genuine surprise.

"Just fine, sir."

"And he's not hit you."

"No, sir."

"He didn't whip the mare comin' over here."

"No, sir."

"But he beat hell out of that splittin' wood."

"He did, sir."

'He did, sir' -- dear God, he sounds just like Jacob! Linn thought, and smiled as the thought occurred to him.

"Joseph, we must guard against such excess."

"Yes, sir."

"Jacob."

"Yes, sir?"

"I don't have any good sound advice for you. I've been where you are now. I've split wood and split it hard, I've dug post holes, I've broke a hay fork against a post and then broke the handle again because I broke it to start with."

Linn grimaced, looked at his hand, opened his hand and closed it, shook it like it stung.

"The handle split and stung hell out of my thumb, my own damned fault. Made me manner, I beat that split stub ag'in the fence post and y'know" -- he looked directly at his attentive, pale-eyed grandson -- "I didn't hurt that fence post none a'tall!"

"I remember seein' that one," Jacob said softly. "Scared the hell out of me!"

"I have a terrible temper, Jacob," Linn admitted frankly. "My own temper scares me. I reckon that's from that damned War. I've got to keep a good hold on my temper. That's why I'm so pleasant and even tempered except when I'm not."

"Yes, sir."

"Joseph."

Startled, Joseph looked at his Grampa with big eyes.

"There is a question in your eyes."

Joseph swallowed, looked uncertainly at his Pa, then back to his pale eyed Grampa.

"Sir, was Pa to get all mad and break somethin', what should I do?"

"Now that's a fair question," Linn nodded, looking at Jacob: father and son saw amusement in each other's eyes.

"Joseph, was your Pa to get that boilin' mad, just step back and let him go. He'll not come after you nor anyone else. Just let him raise hell and get it out of his system and he'll be fine."

"Yes, sir."

"Now ask me how likely 'tis that he'll do that."

Joseph's surprise was plain to see.

"Sir ... how likely will Pa be to do ... that?"

Linn laughed quietly, gave his son a knowing look.

"Joseph, the sun is more likely to rise in the west and set in the east than for your Pa to do anythin' of the kind."

Joseph looked beyond his Grampa as his Mama and the hired girl came in the room.

Annette had a pleased look on her face and the baby in her arms.

"I thought you might want to say hello," she murmured: Linn grinned, sat up and reached for the bundle: he leaned back in the rocking chair, he looked at Joseph and said softly, "There's nothin' like a little baby to bring out the damned fool in a grown man!"

Linn rose:  "Darlin', why'nt you have a set here by the stove!"

"Oh, no," Annette whispered, turning to an upholstered chair nearby, drawing it up to the welcome warmth of the cast iron.

"Joseph," Linn said, "is this little fella smokin' sig-gars and chasin' women yet?"

"No, sir," Joseph replied, giving his Pa a questioning look: Jacob winked back, raised a finger, and Joseph nodded.

"He has two teeth already," Annette murmured. "I had to wean him."

Linn nodded his understanding. "Esther said much the same," he said softly, and Annette saw a shadow cross Jacob's face: she knew her husband loved his mother, and she'd held him as he wept scalding tears, when none else could see, after his Mama's death.

"Jacob."

"Yes, sir?"

"I do not know why they were killed in that fire."

"No, sir."

"It ain't right and they did not deserve that but it happened anyhow."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't know much, Jacob, but I do know it is not wrong to ask why."

"Yes, sir."

"God is a loving father, and a father will not withhold the answer from his child."

"No, sir."

"The answer will almost never come right away. It'll often come some way we're not expecting and often times in a way we're not expecting, but there will be an answer."

"Yes, sir."

"It's not much of an answer, Jacob, and I am sorry for that, but it's the only answer I have."

"Thank you, sir."

Later, after Linn read aloud from Scripture, Bible in one hand and an armful of sleeping little baby boy in the other, Linn saw them to the door and spoke to young Joseph.

He winked at his grandson and said quietly, "Appreciate your helpin' me with that brandy. I wasn't sure about it so I figured I'd get an expert opinion!"

Old Grampa winked and Joseph grinned, and he stood in the cold on the porch as they loaded up and drove off.

The hired girl came out behind him, waited silently as the old lawman stared into the darkness.

"Mary," Linn said softly, "have you wood enough for the morning?"

"I have, sir."

"Water enough?"

"I've filled the stove, sir, and we've plenty besides."

"Good."

Linn took a step forward, looked up at stars, hard and sharp in the night sky.

"Esther did so love the stars out here."

"Yes, sir."

"Mary?"

"Yes, sir?"

"One of these days you'll find the right man and you'll know it. Make sure he treats you like a queen."

"Yes, sir," she replied uncomfortably.

An old widower and the hired girl went back into the house, closed the door: fires were banked, drafts set, the door barred.

The hired girl waited until the Sheriff went upstairs to his room, waited until she heard one boot, then the other, hit the floor.

Only then did she relax, only then did she make her own preparations for the night.

Linn laid his clothes out, checked the double gun beside the bed, set his fur lined moccasins beside the bed in case he had to make an unscheduled trip to the outhouse -- he hated using the chamber pot -- he thrust into the voluminous nightshirt, threw back the covers, stopped and stared for a long time at the other half of the bed.

"Esther, I miss you," he whispered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

CERTAIN, UNCERTAIN

Michael Keller set his feet shoulder width apart and marshalled his young muscles against the strain.

He was inspecting a white fire mare's off forehoof and she was leaning companionably against him.

On the one hand, Michael was pleased she thought enough of him to be so trusting.

On the other hand, she was just pretty damned heavy! and he didn't waste any time examining her shoe, scraping off what little mud there was, and setting her forehoof down.

He straightened, rubbed her neck and caressed under her jaw, he opened the foil package of molasses cured and fed her a thick pinch and murmured, "You bum," as two more white muzzles came snuffing up to him, bumming for a treat.

Michael's pale eyed Pa watched from the fence.

He waited for Michael to finish with the mare, waited for the round, fat, energetic Bear Killer pup to finish running circles around him, to finish scampering after long-legged colts who dropped silky noses to snuff at this happy, fast moving pasture buddy before they threw their heads and scampered happily away in what was very obviously a game of tag.

Michael straightened, looked over at his Pa, grinned.

He came pacing over, long-legged and skinny, leaned casually against the fence, slouching with one shoulder propping up the sawmill cut plank, the very image of his Pa at a similar age.

"Lightning doing okay?" Linn asked quietly.

"Yes, sir."

"She's gettin' big and pregnant?"

"She is, sir."

"What's their gestation?"

"Don't rightly know, sir. I reckon it's close to a horse but" -- he looked at the colts, hobby-horsing ahead of the laboring, curly-black Mastiff pup trying desperately to keep up -- "I reckon I'll have to find out firsthand."

Linn whistled quietly, two notes, and the pup's ears and tail came up: he turned, stormed toward them, all pink tongue and button-bright eyes and pluming tail: he came blasting toward the two pale eyed observers, tried to slow, ended up rolling, tumbled nose-over-teacup into Linn's well polished Wellington boot.

Linn reached down, picked up the panting pup, and Michael saw his Pa's eyes tighten up a little at the corners as this youngest Bear Killer licked his jaw and wiggled and panted and finally pretty much collapsed, his blunt young jaw dropping down onto Linn's muscled forearm as he gave a great, pup-sized sigh -- or as big a sigh as can be given by a very young Mastiff pup.

"Why did you both come home, Michael?" Linn asked gently.

Michael turned, leaned his shoulders against the fence and looked out over the pasture.

Sunlight warmed him, which was a good thing, as it wasn't what you'd call warm by any stretch: the horses had the pasture's snow pretty well trompled up, both men could see their breath -- it was February, after all, and it would be a week anyway before the temperature got clear up to freezin'.

"Sir," Michael said frankly, "we talked it over and allowed as we'd ought to be home for a spell."

"What about your business ventures? Your book customers?"

"I'm still shipping books, sir. There's quite a demand. I go back once a day anyhow and tend business. Victoria ..."

Michael heard his son's frown, the thoughtful sigh of breath that meant Michael was carefully formulating an answer.

Linn turned to face his son squarely.

"What say we go in where it's warm."

 

Back when Firelands was still young, a livery stood behind the Silver Jewel, far enough away so smells and sounds would neither offend bar patrons nor spook horses.

Over the years, the livery was replaced by a variety of businesses, the most recent being a failed, used car lot: it was now an empty lot with two light poles, ancient memories, and cracking pavement.

The Sheriff's Archives in the Firelands museum had a scale model of the original livery.

Inside the model was an office, and in the office, a cast iron stove.

A very young Linn Keller built that model, scaling its component parts carefully; in later years, the selfsame soul built an office inside his barn.

This office heated with propane rather than a pot belly stove -- "a man doesn't have to haul out near as many ashes with propane," he'd told his Mama with an absolutely straight face -- and it was to this intimate chamber that father and son and a furry Bear Killer pup retreated.

Coffee gurgled and hissed and added its fragrance to the atmosphere.

Linn decanted coffee one-handed, as he'd unfast his coat and held his forearm tight against his ribs, making a warm pocket for The Bear Killer to cuddle: Michael accepted the mug, thanked his Pa, and remembered how many times this tall, pale eyed dispenser of justice, showed a deep and genuine affection for stray kids and lost critters.

Michael settled his bony backside into the best padded seat in the house, the driver's seat harvested from a scrapped out school bus -- a thrifty neighbor had been janitor and bus driver for the Firelands schools, and when two buses were sold, he bought them: one had a blown engine, the other, a bad transmission.

Michael helped the man cut the bodies free of the chassis, to set them on timber and stone and he'd helped the man fabricate a plywood wall in one, then the other: in one, beside the man's house, he'd installed a harvested storm door, and this became the man's workshop.

The other, he and Michael fabricated two plywood doors, and this became a garage for his wife's compact car.

The neighbor scrapped out the carcasses of the two buses and made back more money than he'd paid for them; he sold school bus seats -- Michael remembered seeing them here, there and yonder, affording comfortable seating in Emmett's garage and elsewhere about the county.

He himself sat in what was one of the driver's seats, a well cushioned, superbly comfortable parking spot.

Father and son communed silently with steaming mugs of freshly brewed, until Michael's eyes rose over the rim of the mug and he said, "There is another reason, sir."

Linn nodded, set his mug on the short table at his right.

"Sir ... Victoria is gettin' ... some shape to her," Michael said carefully.

Linn nodded gravely, for he'd noticed her growing out of the stick-figure slender of girlhood.

"She ... dances ... well, sir."

Linn's head turned a little, as if to bring a good ear to bear.

"Marnie has had us attend diplomatic functions with her. Victoria dances with ... influential ... men."

Michael frowned, his eyes tracking left, then right, then back to his father.

"Sir," Michael said slowly, "do I recall your telling me that Gammaw danced with admirals?"

Linn nodded, his expression soft.

"She has," he replied quietly, and The Bear Killer sighed happily, inside his coat and supported by his off forearm: Linn looked down at the sleeping ball of snooze, looked back at his son.

"She danced with men of influence also, Michael."

"Victoria ..."

Michael swallowed, frowned.

"Victoria said she's been treated like a Lady, most of the time, sir, but there were men who were less than proper."

Michael saw his father's eyes harden.

"Michael," Linn said, and the younger Keller heard an edge sharpening up in the spoken voice, "is there something I should know?"

"Yes, sir," Michael said decisively. "I was approached by women as well and I had to make a decision."

"What about Victoria?"

"She handed the situations, sir, and I don't believe she bruised feelings when she did, but she's not going back."

"Don't blame her. Is that why she's here?"

"Yes, sir. She wanted to come home where it's safe."

Linn lifted his head a little higher than he normally would when noddding his understanding.

Michael knew this meant the man just realized something.

"And you, Michael?"

"Sir" -- Michael swallowed, then took a quick slug of coffee, frowned, looked away, looked back -- "sir, I don't know much about women, but I do know ... women are good at seduction."

Linn nodded, leaned forward a little.

The Bear Killer in his coat, snored.

"Sir, I don't know about such things, but when I realized some of those women who danced with me at those formal functions had designs on me, I excused myself and Victoria and I left."

"You did the right thing," Linn said firmly. "Well done."

Linn frowned, considered.

"Michael, has Marnie been using either of you as bait?"

"No, sir. I know she's Diplomat, but I do not think she's made any intentional attempt at using us as bait."

"Keep the possibility in mind, Michael. It's fine to be included in formal affairs. It is a very good thing to know how these matters work, but never let your safety -- or your comfort -- be compromised."

"Yes, sir."

"Did anything ... happen ... with those women, Michael?"

Michael looked very directly at his father.

Linn saw his son shiver, ever so slightly.

"No, sir," he finally said, "but it was ... close."

Michael referred to his mug, drained it, lowered it, looked uncomfortably at his Pa.

"I reckon Victoria is not the only one who wanted to come home where it's safe."

 

Edited February 19 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SURPRISE!

Sharon heard tires squall right outside the glass double doors.

She leaned over, looked out as the outer doors were hauled open, as a woman with a baby carrier twisted in, seized the inner door, yanked it open and nearly fell: Sharon said later she didn't so much set the carrier down as much as skid it across the floor like a bowling ball.

Sharon stared at the woman, her mouth open, then she put two curled fingers to her curled lip, whistled a loud and shrill summons that said as plain as words SOMETHING IS WRONG GET OUT HERE NOW!!!

Shelly Keller darted back out the doors, Shelly Keller fairly dove into the squad, and the Captain mashed the go pedal with a well polished brogan.

The Firelands Fire Department ambulance accelerated under heavy throttle, following pumper and pumper-tanker.

Sharon got up, knelt beside the carrier, carefully opened the blanket.

An infant -- a very young infant -- blinked big dark eyes and smiled to see a maternal face bending over her.

Sharon picked up the little baby, felt a presence beside her.

"I take it we have company," Linn murmured.

 

Fitz looked up, annoyed.

Someone just hit the insulated, heavy-steel man door beside the squad bay -- a fast, demanding BAMBAMBAM -- he leaned over so he could see out the window.

"MULDOON!" he barked. "CRANE!"

Muldoon tossed his polishing rag onto the pumper's tailboard, legged it across the smooth cement floor:  Crane came out from around the squad, stepped up from hand-laid brick to poured concrete, followed Muldoon.

They shoved open the door, looked down, looked around, looked at each other and looked down again.

"DAMMIT DON'T LET ALL THE HEAT OUT, IT'S COLD OUT THERE!" Fitz bellowed.

Crane reached down, picked up a satchel -- it looked like a satchel -- that's not a satchel! --

Two men and a baby carrier advanced toward the fire chief.

Captain Crane looked over toward the rig, to where a polishing rag could be seen flipping around the passenger rear corner of the squad.

"Shelly?" he called. "Customer!"

It did not take long at all for the entire Irish Brigade to descend on this unexpected visitor.

"Is there a note?"

"Don't see one."

"Nothing? No name, no necklace or a bracelet or something?"

"Belly binder. Look" -- Shelly's fingernail felt the milling around the edge of the silver dollar bound to the infant's umbilical stump.
"Anything else in the carrier?"

"Couple diapers, a can of baby powder."

"No formula, no bottle?"

"Nothing."

"Diaper's dry."

Shelly wrapped the child quickly, efficiently, snugly, the ease of long practice in her moves.

She looked at the Chief.

"I reckon we take her to ER," he said.

The baby startled, bright little eyes widening as the howler went off.

"Firelands Fire Department and Emergency Squad, structure fire with injuries, Collins Drive and County Line Road."

Shelly slid the infant back in the carrier, looked at her father, snapped "Sheriff's Office, we'll leave her there!"

Firemen surged toward the open lockers, thrust into their staged fire gear: Shelly set the infant carrier behind the doghouse in the squad, vaulted into the passenger front seat, belted in, seized the mic: "Firelands Squad One, enroute."

The overhead door clattered open and sunlight and cold air flooded the firehouse.

 

Sharon saw a shadow, movement: she straightened, saw the outer doors open, then smiled, just a little, 

"Be damned."

Shelly came in, looking around.

Sharon pointed toward the closed conference room door.

Shelly waved her thanks, skipped like a girl across the polished quartz floor, opened the door to the conference room.

Two shifts' worth of deputies and a long tall Sheriff were passing a squealing, happy, arm-waving little baby in a pink blanket from hand to hand, making big-eyed faces at the laughing infant and making all the damn-fool sounds a grown man makes when a little baby is present.

Shelly folded her arms, leaned back against the door frame and smiled.

It wasn't often the emergency services got to enjoy a good moment, and she was not about to hurry this one.

Barrents looked over at her, his normally unreadable expression anything but -- I've never seen him look so happy! -- "I just changed her diaper," he announced with all the cheerful expectation of a proud father.

"Yeah, made it look easy, too," one of the deputies seconded. "Wish I was that good!"

"I suppose you'll tell us this lovely little lady's back story?" Linn grinned as the child arrived at his chest: he gripped the blanket-wrapped ankle, cradling the child in the bend of an elbow with his other hand protectively over her, his big, callused and fatherly hand efficiently securing her against him.

"You," Shelly laughed, "will never believe it."

"Don't tell me the Sheriff's girlfriend dropped off a do-you-remember-me present!"

"Hey, Stud, I knew you had a harem somewhere!"

The Sheriff's ears turned a remarkable shade of red as he laughed and gave his wife the guilty look that an utterly innocent husband will, in such a moment.

"No, nothing like that," Shelly laughed.  "No, somebody left her at the firehouse. They set her down, beat on the door and ran!"

"No!" protested one, "You're kiddin'!" declared another, while the youngest of the deputies, the one who admired Barrents' expertise at diaper change, cheerfully declared "DIBS!"

"Not so fast, hotshot," Shelly warned, slipping between masculine shoulders and relieving her husband of his happy burden: "We were taking her to ER to be checked over when the alarm came in!"

Sheriff, Chief Deputy, the just-arrived dispatcher and two shifts' worth of deputies looked at Shelly with unhidden disappointment.

The Sheriff raised both index fingers, looked around.

"One, two, three," he said quietly, then in chorus, Sheriff, Chief Deputy, the just-arrived dispatcher and two shifts' worth of deputies chorused a unified, disappointed, "Awwwww!"

 

Multiple fire apparatus were parked nose-to-tail in front of the Sheriff's office.

The Irish Brigade was within, arguing loudly over coffee and doughnuts, spilling crumbs and arguing over who got the cream-filled and what pagan heathen ordered baloney-flavored, and who in their right mind would ever --

Sharon whistled, not the alarm whistle, but just enough of a sharp, rising note to turn every head: every Irishman had a mug of coffee in one hand, a half eaten doughnut in the other, and an attentive expression: the Sheriff looked at the engineer and said "Baloney flavored? That's a hangin' offense!"

"All right, you guys," Sharon called in the voice of an irritated schoolteacher, "did any of you jolly Joes happen to get the baby's name?"

Irishmen looked at one another, looked at the Sheriff, looked at the dispatcher: they spontaneously turned, huddled, conferring in low voice.

"Hold on a minute," Sharon murmured into the phone, "they know something. We might have a name."

The huddle opened, men turned, faced the dispatcher, and in one voice, roared in happy chorus:

"GOLDENROSE DAWN!"

"The child's name is Goldenrose Dawn," Sharon repeated into the telephone handset, then she lowered it, realizing she'd probably just been slickered.

"Is that her name or did you just make that up?"

"She is a beautiful Lady, and we love her!" the engineer protested. "Her name should be just as beautiful!"

"Get over here, you lot," Sharon scolded, "I'm putting this on speaker!"

A click; men inclined their heads a little, leaning in, surrounding Sharon and her dispatcher's desk.

 

The Sheriff lifted his phone to his ear, spoke quietly to another man's wife.

His voice was gentle, as was his expression.

It was a couple of hours after the Irish Brigade returned to quarters; the Sheriff was in the Chief's office, and Fitz could not help but feel that something good just happened.

He was right.

Linn ended the conversation, closed the connection, slid the phone back in his uniform blouse pocket and buttoned the flap.

"Did he get it?"

Linn smiled, nodded.

Fitz frowned, a disappointed look on his face.

"We're both on duty," he said sadly, "otherwise we'd take a touch."

The Sheriff's grin was conspiratorial, and so was that of the Fire Chief.

"The hell with it," Fitz grunted as he opened the lower right hand desk drawer.

Two men hoist a shot glass of something distilled, amber, and potent.

"That youngest deputy of mine," Linn said as they held their glasses up, "was broken hearted when his wife lost their child and she can't bear young now. He's going to foster Miss Goldenrose until he's clear to adopt her!"

"Now by God! that's good news!"

Glass touched glass, and two men drank.

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THERAPY

Michael Keller put the stethoscope's white-plastic tips into his ears, pressed the bell against Lightning's ribs, just behind her off foreleg.

The sound of her heart -- big, powerful, slow -- was LOUD.

He moved back, to her growing belly, pressed the bell against her fine fur, covered it with a flat palm, his expression a mixture of wonder and of delight.

He was hoping to hear a tiny heartbeat -- probably a light, fast sound -- he closed his eyes, concentrating.

Cyclone ran a blunt nose under his elbow, whistled softly: Michael switched hands, ran an arm over Cyclone's neck, rubbed her as she leaned happily against him, mashing him against her dam's side.

Lightning didn't seem to mind.

All I hear is her guts rumble, Michael thought peevishly: he pulled the ear tips free, thrust the stethoscope toward his sister.

"It's too early," he complained.

"Give her time," Angela murmured, tilting her head as Thunder came up and snuffed loudly at her backside.

"Hey, watch it, fella!" she laughed, then took a few running steps, stopped, half-crouched, arms wide, facing the frisky young stallion.

Thunder reared a little, danced like a rocking-horse -- forehooves, then hind hooves, back and forth a few times -- Angela spun, laughing, and Thunder surged past her, whirled, danced again.

Michael worked his way back up to Lightning's head, rubbed her ears.

The huge Fanghorn mare closed her eyes and hummed with pleasure -- no, not hummed.

Purred.

A great, coarse purr, and Michael was satisfied if he hadn't already handed off the stethoscope, he could listen to Lightning's chest and hear that purr thunder like a Diesel engine in a great, echoing cavern.

Michael sat beside Lightning and she leaned her head against him like she always did, and the two of them sat, silent and unmoving.

Cyclone plodded up on her starboard side, folded her strong, heavy boned legs and settled down beside Michael, a warm and reassuring half of a Fanghorn sandwich, with Michael safe and sheltered in the middle.

Angela was laughing like a little girl and running with Thunder across the flat, grassy ground.

 

Michael seldom really relaxed.

Here, between two fanged, carnivorous, hard-muscled, predatory herbivores, two creatures of the wild that chose to keep company with him, he could relax.

Michael's mind wandered and he remembered the doctors telling him, Whatever you're doing, keep it up: they'd done their best, rebuilding his spine, but their efforts were less than completely effective.

It was Michael, against medical advice, sneaking out, moving with pain and with purpose, alone in the night, coming into the compound with what was reputed a vicious, man-killing beast that deserved little more than a bullet.

Michael, wounded, injured, hurt, rebuilt, found an alliance with this wounded creature who'd been hurt in the same moment of stupidity as he -- not to the same degree, not to the same severity, but each recognized a fellow sufferer, and each protected the other.

Michael's back grew stronger as he rode.

The concept of "Equestrian Therapy" was broached and immediately dismissed among the medical community, until they saw its effects with Michael.

Angela brought real-life examples of Equestrian Therapy from back home.

She brought Confederate doctors to watch as a long tall Sheriff hoisted a grinning little boy onto his favorite stallion, as a child with big glasses and a head bald from chemotherapy, laughed for the first time in a very long time, to see the world from the lofty and commanding height of a genuine, honest Engine, Western Sheriff's Stallion!

They listened to fellow medical professionals presenting formally at an Earthside University, showing the projected images, hearing the strange dialect of orthopedics within the foreign language of medicine, clinically demonstrating the benefits presented by what seemed the absurdly simple act of riding a horse.

Balance, core strength, trunk muscle development, coordination -- these could be quantified, measured, graphed, they were told: other, perhaps greater benefits resulted as well -- confidence, inner strength, kindness toward the mount they rode, and not just for the young.

Michael knew this, in the back of his mind, for he'd set in on the same discussions; he'd been a guest speaker, giving firsthand testimony on exactly how the outside of a horse was good for the inside of himself ... even if that horse was twice as tall at the shoulder as his own carcass, even if the horse bore little resemblance to the Appaloosas he grew up riding, other than being saddled, and having four hooves.

Michael heard the snap of a blanket and knew Angela was ready to settle in against Lightning's ribs.

Michael was the only one she was comfortable allowing beside her head, or maybe it's that Michael was the only one she would choose to reassure, with her head laid up against him as he relaxed.

Fanghorns only relax like this in the middle of their herd, Michael thought.

They only relax like this when they feel safe.

Michael allowed himself to drowse, warm between a Fanghorn mare and the adopted colt rolled up against him.

He came wide awake when he felt both of them come to full wakefulness.

Michael was on his feet, Thunder surged upright, turned to face outwards, muttering: Cyclone bawled, and Angela came off the blanket like she'd been stung, pistol in one hand, a high powered flashlight clenched in the other.

Michael seized his rifle, pulled it free, jacked the lever, fed a handloaded round into the chamber.

"ANGELA! CLIMB ON!"

Angela did not hesitate.

Michael threw a leg over the saddle a tenth of a second before Lightning shot upright, giving them both the feeling of riding a soft and furry express elevator: Angela gripped with her legs, as best she could.

"TORPEDOES!" Michael yelled, dropping his rifle's muzzle and firing -- Angela knew the rifle's blast should smack her ears like a giant's hands, but the report was more of a pfft! as the Confederate fields that protected he, and she, and Lightning, kept the concussion from them.

Thunder and Cyclone were backed up, their hind quarters just behind Lightning's forelegs, facing outward: Thunder drummed angry forehooves, Cyclone watched, unmoving, all but her jaws.

The shining-red Fanghorn colt chopped her jaws as if in anticipation.

Angela thumbed the rubber pushbotton on the bottom of her hand light, saw something sleek and dark humping through the grass toward her.

Michael fired, three times:  "LIGHTNING! GO!"

A big blond Fanghorn whistled, surged forward, two Fanghorn colts flanking: Angela flipped a leg up, spun, came down backwards, wishing she was riding something that didn't feel like straddling the dining room table -- her pistol came up, she held fire, not wanting to waste an ineffective shot.

Michael brought his Marlin across him, reached over and tapped at his wrist-unit.

An Iris opened, and they ran through it, full-bore.

Michael leaned back a little in the saddle:  "Whoa, now," he called, "whoa, darlin'," and Lightning slowed quickly: a familiar herd milled around them, startled and uncertain, until Michael whistled and called "Kitty kitty kitty!" like Angela would when she came out with a bucket of feed.

"Down," Michael murmured, pressing a palm against Lightning's neck.

He swung off the port side, Angela slid down the starboard: Michael thrust his rifle back into its scabbard.

"Up," he said in a quiet voice: hands and eyes examined soft-furred, lightning-streaked Fanghorn hide closely, young and pale eyes serious as he looked for any sign of a torpedo bite.

"What were those things?" Angela asked uncomfortably.

"You're looking for bite marks, four round punctures that swell up fast," Michael said, his words coming quickly. "They're called torpedoes. Kind of like minks, but poison like snakes. They'd wait for something they bit, to die, they eat their way into the carcass and use it for shelter while they eat it from inside. When they're done, it's a skeleton inside a rotting hide."

"I don't see anything."

"Check Thunder."

Michael kissed at Cyclone, bent, ran practiced hands down her legs: Lightning bent her blunt neck, snuffed at Michael, then at her adopted foal, lifted her head and looked around, then turned and bit Thunder -- well, she didn't bite him, so much as she opened her jaws and drove her mouth down on his neck, and reminded him to be a good little boy and HOLD STILL!

Angela stopped, startled, looked at Lightning and said, "Thank you."

Another few moments:  "I don't find anything," she called: she straightened, backed away from Thunder, caressed Lightning's neck. "He looks okay," she said gently, not knowing whether the Fanghorn understood the spoken word, but certain she understood the tone of voice.

"I think we're okay," Michael said, ducking to look under the towering mare's belly.

"Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't take me there again."

"Where?" Michael asked innocently.

"That planet. The one with torpedoes."

"Oh, that," Michael said offhandedly. "They've got really good ice cream!"

"They've got poisonous minks that'll eat you from the inside out, and you want ice cream?"

Angela lifted her hands and raved at the darkening sky overhead.

"We've got sharks and rattlesnakes back home, but we've got dark chocolate and Mama's meat loaf," Michael teased. "Just stay away from the bitey things and you'll be fine."

Angela shook her head, looked around.

"So what kind of bitey things are there here?" she said.

"On this continent, not much," Michael replied, looking around. "They do have really good cherry pie. They're not really cherries but they're close."

Michael consulted his wrist-unit.

"Sorry, wrong planet. This one has something like cinnamon, only better."

"Cinnamon?"

"It's a lot like Ceylon cinnamon. There's a lot of it here. I've exported some plants and I'm going to farm it."

"Cinnamon?"

"This stuff cures diabetes."

"Cures?"

"As in repairs the pancreas."

It was the first time Michael ever knew his sister to be shocked into utter silence.

I'll have to do this more often!

 

 

 

Edited February 21 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

PERMISSION TO CAUSE TROUBLE, MA'AM!

WJ Garrisson, the Mercantile's irascible old proprietor, regarded Jacob's labors with skepticism.

"You're gonna get all this, clear out there."

"Yes, sir."  Jacob hoist a flour sack over his shoulder, turned, headed for the door.

WJ quick-stepped ahead, got the door for him, watched as Jacob stepped down onto the packed snow, eased the precious cargo into the wagon bed, turned and stepped easily back up onto the boardwalk.

"With that horse you're goin' all the way out there."

"No, sir."  Jacob pushed past him, went back inside, gripped a crate of canned goods, brought it out.

"Well whatinell are you doin' this for anyhow? You sweet on their girl or somethin'?" WJ demanded.

Jacob turned quickly, shoved up hard against the Mercantile's proprietor, his eyes pale and unsmiling.

"Sir," he said quietly, "I have bought and paid for a stack of goods. Be pleased if you'd let me load up and head out."

Mrs. Garrison watched silently from behind the counter.

When Jacob made his one last pass to make sure he'd loaded everything, she glided out and pressed a small parcel into his hands.

"Peppermint sticks for the children," she whispered, then gripped his gloved hands and whispered, "Thank you."

Jacob winked -- she saw the smile he was trying to keep hidden behind those solemn pale eyes -- he turned, closed the door quietly behind him.

WJ reached into the cracker barrel to caress the store cat, sighed.

"Best sale I've made this week."

 

Jacob unhitched the rented gelding, led the nag back into Shorty's livery: he looked over at the scowling proprietor and grinned, reached into his coat.

"I saw your supply of rheumatiz medicine was gettin' low," he said quietly as he handed Shorty a glass pint of something amber and potent: "that's the good stuff, not the cheap store bought kind!"

"Kentucky?" Shorty asked hopefully, thrusting the glass treasure into his own coat.

"Not over thirty days old," Jacob replied, handed Shorty a coin: "Appreciate your kindness."

As usual, Jacob over paid by a significant margin: Shorty nodded, thanked him quietly, watched as Jacob stepped outside, reached up to caress Sarah's Snowflake-horse as she arrived.

Sarah was astride the big black Frisian, riding as regal as the Queen herself -- Shorty laughed to see this sweet, diminutive and genuinely beautiful girl in a blue-velvet riding skirt and an enveloping cloak, furl her parasol and expertly back Snowflake into position.

Jacob hitched onto the thick, padded collar she already wore; he climbed into the sled's upholstered seat, looked over at Shorty and said "I'm not used to this! She's doin' all the work!" -- to which Sarah retorted, "Isn't that the way of it! We women do all the work and the men get all the credit!" -- she tapped Snowflake's hinder, delicately, with her furled parasol and said "Yup now," and Snowflake stepped out, towing the sled over packed snow as easily as if she were pulling a postage stamp.

Shorty nodded, one hand going to the bottle in his inside pocket as he murmured, "Now that is one sizable horse!" -- then he turned, went back into his office where it was warm.

 

"Pa," a boy called from the barn loft, "company!"

A man squinted up at his son, watchful at the haymow window.

"Who is it?"

His son's expression was genuine, shining with delight.

"Sir, it's Miz Sarah and that big horse of hers!"

By the time Snowflake labored through unbroken snow between the nearest road and the ranch, the family was turned out to receive these unexpected visitors.

Jacob swung down from the driver's seat, landed easily, removed his Stetson -- he looked at it, surprised, swatted it against his leg to remove a dusting of snow -- "Mrs. Simpson," he said, addressing the rancher's wife, "with your permission, ma'am, I'd like to cause some trouble."

Without waiting for an answer, he went to the back of the sled, dropped the tail gate, seized a flour sack and dragged it back, then brought it over his shoulder.

"Ma'am," Jacob grinned, "where should I set this?"

 

Sarah whispered to Snowflake, caressed her long jaw as men and boys unloaded the wagon: Jacob squatted on the front porch, opened the paper poke Mrs. Garrison gave him, handed out peppermint sticks to the rancher's several children.

The rancher stood with him, uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

Sarah glided up to him, handed him a flat, wrapped package.

"Open it," she said quietly.

He pulled off a dirty glove, plucked clumsily at the string, untied the bow-knot: he rolled up the string, unfolded the paper, grinned.

"McGuffey's Readers," Sarah said. "You said you were short on reading material. This is a Shakespeare, there are newspapers -- they are yours."

His mouth opened in surprise at this unexpected wealth.

"I didn't," he began, blinked.

"I ... I can't pay for all this."

"Mr. Simpson," Sarah said quietly, gripping his work-callused hand, "please. Let us do this. Penance for past misdeeds, payment for our sins, let us do this!"

"My boys didn't tell you we were runnin' short, now, did they?" Simpson asked sternly.

"They have said not one word," Sarah assured him, patting his hand reassuringly: "and they are perfect gentlemen."

"Mr. Simpson," Jacob said, "children learn by watching their elders. Sarah is right, your sons are gentlemen, and there's only one place they could've learned that."

They heard the door open; Sarah glanced over, smiled as Mrs. Simpson came out on the porch with them, drawing her shawl about her, for it was cold out.

Jacob looked the man very directly in the eye as he added, "Thank you, sir, for caring enough about being a gentleman, to be the example your sons are become!"

"Besides" -- Jacob grinned -- "I'm causin' trouble bringin' this out unannounced!"

He turned, looked at Mrs. Simpson. "With your permission, ma'am!"

Mrs. Simpson looked at her husband, looked back at Jacob.

"Permission granted!"

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

MARTIAN CAVALRY

Sheriff Jacob Keller rose at the summoning knock at his office door.

"Come."

The door hissed open and a smile came in, with a pale eyed Ambassador attached.

Jacob grinned and strode for the door, Marnie laughed and skipped across the floor like a happy little girl: brother and sister embraced, Jacob lifted her a little and shook her and Marnie gasped with pain, then with relief as three or four somethings in her back gave up their accumulated tension with a quick ripple of muted *pop!* sounds.

Marnie gave Jacob a warm, affectionate look:  "Jacob," she whispered, "whatever have you been up to now?"

Jacob laughed, took a long breath, sighed it out, looked at her again.

"Sis," he said, "I've been causing trouble!"

"So I understand!"

"Coffee?  I've got a new blend, it just hit the market.  McKenna's Blend."

"You don't say!" Sarah's voice was as innocent as her wide eyes, which fooled her grinning brother not at all.

"Sis," he said, "I have no idea whatever possessed you to start growing coffee, but please" -- he keyed in a command, the coffee maker began to hiss and gurgle -- "keep it up!"

"What was it Daddy told us?" Sarah smiled.  

Jacob turned to her, planted one set of knuckles on his gunbelt, thrust a declarative finger toward the ceiling and quoted, " 'The Navy runs on coffee, and so do I!' "

Brother and sister high-fived one another and declared "Shipmate!" -- it was something they started in childhood, and it seemed fitting in the moment.

Jacob spun a chair around, waited until Sarah was seated before resuming his own comfortably upholstered, armless chair.

"I see where the most popular Simulator is 'Horseback,' " Sarah murmured as she accepted a sizable, steaming mug of Hot and Fragrant.

"Eeeyep," Jacob affirmed.

"Full gravity horseback."

"Eeeyep."

"What's this about cavalry?"

Jacob sighed, shook his head.

"You mind all those Western movies that's so popular throughout the Confederacy?"

"Oh Lord, do I," Sarah groaned. "We've thirteen star systems' worth of little boys who want to grow up to be Old West characters!"

"Our bunch here saw whatever-it-was ... it was well-shot cinematography, it showed a Cavalry charge."

"And?"

"And probably twenty are good enough horseback that I took them on a field trip."

"A ... field trip," Marnie echoed. "What kind of ... field trip?"

"I asked Michael to introduce us to Confederate cavalry of his acquaintance."

"And...?"

"And now we have a formal request for Martian cavalry."

"Jacob!" Sarah exclaimed, lowering her mug in surprise.

"I know," he grinned, holding up a forestalling palm: "there's nowhere near enough here on Mars to field a decent cavalry, but somehow our boys are good enough horseback they're all hot to recruit them!"

"We can slip between realities without pushing through light speed, we've regrown Michael's spine and Juliette's eyes, we have Interceptor Starfighters that make the combined firepower of every saltwater battleship look puny, and the hot Interstellar commodity is horse cavalry," Marnie said softly, shaking her head.

"I don't think it's because they're from Mars," Jacob speculated. "I think it's ... they've also read account of American fighting men. A Frenchman once wrote that you want an American in the trench with you, he'll give you the last drink from his canteen, split the last of his rations, the last of his ammo, he'll go from undressed and sound asleep to dressed and ready for war in a tenth of a second or less, he'll charge through Hell itself to get a wounded man to safety, and this is their way of accepting ... Earthers ... without accepting Yankees."

"So they're Martians and not damned Yankees."

"I think that's it."

"Well, it's nice to have options."

"What about you, Sis?"

Sarah emptied her mug.

"Good coffee, thank you."

Jacob's grin was quick, boyish, spontaneous, the way she remembered from their childhood.

"Thought you'd like it."

"As soon as I get rid of some second hand coffee, I'm going to try that simulator. They need to know how to swing a cavalry saber at a gallop!"

 

•  
• Quote

 

Linn Keller, SASS 27332

Warrior, poet and hopeless romantic

Additional free advice upon request

† Prayer Posse †

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE ANGEL'S CHOICE

Deputy Sheriff Angela Keller sat down.

Actually she didn't as much sit, as she collapsed.

It wasn't just a collapse.

Once her terminal descent began, nothing in two worlds was going to stop her: Angela's skirted backside dropped onto the polished, varnished, waxed, absolutely spotless hardwood chair's seat, her arms flopped to the sides, her head dropped back: legs thrust awkwardly before her, head dropped back, eyes staring at the ceiling, she groaned, she sagged, she started to slide out of the chair.

Her descent to the floor was just as awkward, just as undignified: when her backside hit the ancient, hand-fitted, varnished boards, when her weight jarred her spine and her teeth clicked together, she gave a little "Ow," sounding more like an unhappy little girl than the grown woman, than the commissioned Sheriff's deputy, than the veteran nurse, that she was.

Sheriff Linn Keller never looked up from the report he was reading.

"Rough day?" he asked unsympathetically.

Angela rolled over on her side, pushed up off the floor: she got her white nurse's shoes under her, she stood, leaned heavily on the corner of the Sheriff's ancient desk and looked at her frowning Daddy with tired eyes.

Linn leaned back, rubbed his eyes, opened the broad middle drawer of the antique Sheriff's desk: he drew the report across the blotter toward him, thrust it into the drawer, closed it and looked at his daughter.

"You look awful," he said quietly.

"Yeah, God loves you too," Angela groaned.

Linn rose, came around the desk: Angela straightened, ran her hands around to the small of his back, gave him an absolutely exhausted look and mumbled, "It's been one of those days!"

Linn hugged his little girl to him.

He didn't hold the veteran nurse, his arms were not enveloping a trusted, veteran, effective Sheriff's deputy.

In that moment, a father held his little girl, and both were content to let that happen.

"Darlin'," Linn rumbled, working his face around the left-hand wing of her nursing uniform cap, "if you need to come home --"

Angela's arms tightened around her Daddy and he felt her take a long, shivering breath, blow it out.

"Victoria came home and I'm glad she did. Michael's like a fly in a barnyard, he's here and he's gone on another grand adventure."

"I know," Angela mumbled. "He had to shoot some torpedoes."

"Torpedoes."

"Yeah. Brown furry ones."

"Story at eleven?" Linn asked, drawing back a little and looking down at the top of his daughter's capped head.

Angela drew her head back, looked up at her long tall Daddy.

"I'm starved, I got paid, let's eat!"

 

A father and daughter sat alone in the conference room, sharing the corner of one of the long tables.

Angela admitted she would commit insecticide! for a double cheeseburger and fries: the Sheriff made a call, the meal was delivered, and after setting a go-order container in front of the surprised (but pleased!) dispatcher, the two retreated into the conference room and sat down to a companionable meal.

"Darlin'," Linn mumbled through half a mouthful of well chewed sandwich, "if you need to come home, I haven't turned your bedroom into a pool hall!"

"I just over-extended myself," Angela shook her head, sprinkling salt on her fries: she bit into a corrugated-crispy-brown fry, closed her mouth, chewed, hummed with pleasure.

"Oh, God," she mumbled happily, thrusting another one after the first, "you can't get these offworld!"

"You could do like Marnie and make a fortune at it."

Angela shook her head. "I know she has," Angela mumbled. "I'm ... I don't want to go there."

"You over-extended yourself," Linn said, his voice Daddy-deep, Daddy-reassuring. "Financially?"

She shook her head.

"No, no. I have currency for each world I work on. Gold is useful but common on one world, it's scarce and valuable on another. One world doesn't have aluminum, another has it coming out its ears. Each currency is different, there is no standard financial system Confederacy-wide."

"Did that answer my question?"

Angela gave her Daddy a grateful look, then took a bite of her sandwich, her eyes closing with pleasure.

"Onion," she mumbled as she chewed.  "Earth is the only onion" -- she coughed, swallowed, turned her head and coughed again.

Linn waited.

Eyes watering, Angela chewed quickly, swallowed, coughed, coughed again.

"Never saw anyone get worked up over onion before," Linn said quietly.

Angela pinched up a napkin, wiped her eyes: the Sheriff's eyes followed her fingers, remembered seeing nurses in ER pinch up tissues or bandages or gauze in that selfsame manner.

"Daddy, I've had some really good meals, out there."

Linn nodded.

"I've had spices Earth never heard of, but so far I've not found onions."

She looked at her sandwich, at the white strata that started it all.

"You could introduce onions and make a mint --"

"I'll let Marnie handle that," Angela said, turning her head and coughing again.  " 'Scuse me."

They finished their meal, tossed used napkins into the open cardboard containers, slid them back.

Linn leaned over the table a little.

"Darlin', you said you over extended yourself. What happened?"

"I worked a double shift. It was crazy" -- she fluttered a hand -- "the world has two moons and I think both of them were full moons, and I didn't get any sleep when I went to teach a wound ballistics class."

"How did the class go?"

"It was good. I geared it to their weaponry level. I didn't see any sense in discussing things like the hyper-velocity bottleneck-case pistol rounds when they don't have self-loading actions yet.

"The class I taught ... their technology is just starting on expanding bullet technology."

Linn nodded carefully, his eyes never leaving her fatigued expression.

"I told them from the start I'm a commissioned Sheriff's deputy, but I just came from work and that's why I'm teaching in my nursing whites.

"I gave them my experience with actual shootings, I used a simulated hog to show how a .32 pistol round will penetrate to an unexpected depth. I showed them -- holographic visual aids are wonderful in a classroom -- gel tests for the calibers they usually encounter.

"One of them casually speculated that I'm a nurse and I don't carry a gun."

Angela saw amusement in her Daddy's eyes.

"I unclasped my blue nurse's cape to show my holstered .44 Bulldog and said that the legendary Sarah Lynne McKenna carried a bulldog .44, and I did too. I told them I believe there is no substitute for momentum, and what I carried, has kept me alive, and I took off my blue nurse's cape and revealed my pretty white gunbelt with a pretty white holster and tapped the handle of my holstered Bulldog with the pretty white checkered ivory grips and my fingers went to the six point star on the badge holder just ahead of the holster, and I told them -- I warned them -- nobody will ever ask them how many lives they've saved, when they look at your sidearm, they'll always ask if you've killed anybody.

"I told them I'm a nurse and I keep people alive, but if I have to keep one person alive by killing someone that's trying to kill them, I've done it before and I'll do it again.

"Then I spun my blue nurse's cape back around my shoulders and fast the gold chain across the neck again.

"It drapes just right to hide the hardware.

"I concluded the class.  Good class, by the way."

"Were they surprised when you whipped off your cape and showed 'em you carry a .44?"

Angela laughed tiredly, chased the last salt crystals with the last half of her last crispy-brown fry.

"Daddy," she sighed, "eyebrows disappeared under wig lines all over that room when I did!"

Edited February 22 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I DON'T ALLOW THAT IN MY COUNTY!

Sheriff Linn Keller stood up in the stirrups, hands hard flat against his hard-running Palomino stallion's neck.

Horse and rider were united in spirit, their eyes on the fleeing horse and rider ahead of them.

The big Palomino loved one thing in the world more than anything else, and that was to run, and to run hard, and few things brought a savage joy to the Sheriff's heart faster and more powerfully than to give a strong horse his head.

They were gaining.

The fleeing horse thief glanced fearfully rearward, glanced again a minute later, saw that damned pale eyed Sheriff was gaining steadily.

He made the last mistake of his life.

The thief fired a shot rearward, fired a wild shot that had damned little hope of hitting his pursuer.

It was the last mistake of his life, because the horse he'd stolen was green-broke and not accustomed to a pistol's detonation, to the slap-your-ears concussion and the slap-across-the-backside sensation from a .44 pistol, fired from two feet above its wind-twisting tail.

The horse he'd stolen just plainly came unglued.

The Sheriff leaned back quickly, slowing his bitless stallion: Goldy grunted, slowing fast, came sideways as the pursued, green-broke grulla swapped ends, as the rider flew free, as the grulla kicked the dismounted rider before he hit the ground, just before the horse fell sideways and backwards and screamed in panic and in pain.

Sheriff Linn Keller came riding back into town considerably slower than he'd left.

He was leading a limping grulla at a walk, its former rider bent over the saddle and tied in place so the dead carcass wouldn't fall off.

Marshal Jackson Cooper met them at Digger's emporium, helped him lay the neck-broke body in a rough box.

The two lawmen took inventory of the thief's proud-ofs, which wasn't much; the Marshal returned the stolen grulla to its owner, who satisfied himself his horse was but bruised.

The Sheriff drew the dead man's face in his official journal, hand wrote a report of what transpired.

Digger stepped away to tend another matter as the Sheriff's pencil whispered over good rag paper, transferring a dead man's image into his book for safe keeping.

Digger did not hear the Sheriff as the man closed his Journal, leaned over the deceased and whispered into the dead man's face, "I don't allow that in my county!"

 

Angela Keller drew traction, both hands gripping a little boy's ankle: she and the doctor set the broken leg, Angela's voice, her expression, her eyes, reassuring a scared, hurting child.

Certain pharmaceuticals were of help, but so was touch, and voice, and The Look.

When they were done, once the leg was secured in a spiral-wrapped, purple cast of something that was too light weight to be patchin' plaster, Angela stayed with the child and his mother until the discharge papers were finished.

A yell, the sound of a body hitting something solid: Angela's eyes went pale, her expression hardened:  "Stay here," she said quietly, stepped out of the ER suite and slid the glass door shut behind her.

Angela saw an individual with a knife, grabbing at one of the nurses.

Angela picked up a bottle of saline -- a little bottle used to dilute injections -- it was just the right size to fit in her hand.

Nurse Angela Keller curled her lip and whistled, sharp, loud, shocking: the sound startled everyone in ER.

She did not care about that.

The sharp, shocking whistle startled the attacker.

Angela's hand came down, fast, hard: a moment later, she followed the hard-thrown bottle.

The glass bottle was thick enough, heavy enough, it did not break when it hit the attacker just above the cheekbone and ahead of the ear.

Angela seized a stainless-steel tray as she passed it, slammed it hard against the attacker's face.

Angela's knee came up into the drug-seeking attacker's gut, her elbow came down into the back of his head, she drove both knees into his spine as he went face-first into the tile floor.

Two security officers descended like the proverbial two thousand pounds of baked clay, got the attacker in irons, hauled him to his feet.

"Hold it," Angela said quietly. "He'll have to be checked out first."

She pulled her ID free of her collar, turned it around so the six point star side showed.

The prisoner snarled, tried to pull free, at least until Angela's fist drove up into his diaphragm, until her punch knocked every bit of wind out of him.

She seized his greasy hair, yanked his head back, held her ID up.

"Sheriff's Office," she snarled. "I don't allow that in my county!"

 

Paul Barrents mashed the go pedal, pursuing the stolen car with a single minded determination.

The thief took a car that lacked the raw horsepower of the over-powered Sheriff's cruiser, and Barrents knew he'd catch up on the straight stretch ahead.

The car launched over a rise, got air, drifted, came down not quite straight: Barrents had taken that jump more times than he could count, he was ready for the twisting drift, he was recovered before the fleeing car was.

Barrents gave the wheel a quick twist, a momentary spike on the brakes: he allowed the big tan cruiser to slow as the car fishtailed wildly, as rubber grabbed roadside grass and dirt, as the stolen car suddenly spun, fell backwards into the roadside ditch, ran backwards half a hundred yards.

Two doors opened and two uniformed lawmen stepped out of the cruiser.

The Sheriff jacked the fore-end of his Ithaca, advanced with the black portal to Hell in the lead.

The driver was defiant until the Sheriff held the twelve gauge level with one hand, pulled a window punch from his shirt pocket with the other, reduced the driver's side glass to a crystal cascade.

He introduced the shotgun's muzzle -- hard -- under the driver's left ear.

"Hands in plain view," the Sheriff said quietly. "Make no move unless I tell you to, otherwise you will be shot!"

When the handcuffed prisoner was half-carried, half-dragged to the cruiser, the Sheriff gripped him by the neck, lifted him to his tiptoes, while Barrents turned and elaborately ignored his boss's action.

"You held up a business. You stole wallets and cell phones and you stole a car."

His hand tightened painfully around the prisoner's throat.

He leaned his face closer, pale eyes burning into the prisoner's purpling face.

The Sheriff's voice was quiet as he snarled, "I don't allow that in my county!"

 

 

 

 

Edited February 23 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103