SHORT STORIES!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

HELLO

The Sheriff had several gaits, most of which were signals of one kind or another.

This was one few had seen.

The Sheriff was moving with utter silence, his bottom jaw thrust out: he moved like a panther, he moved like his joints were oiled, he moved like he was ready to flow like a greased shadow in moonlight so he could sneak up on someone and politely rip the head from their miserable carcass.

He didn't do that, of course.

What he did was to stop a fight, fast and wordlessly, by virtue of seizing one of the warring parties by the scruff of his shirt collar and yanking him to the ground while he reached out and seized the other warring party by his shirt front and threw him down as well.

He turned, faster than men naturally turned -- the two had no time to react, respond nor roll -- hard hands drove down onto their breastbones, twisted up material and chest hairs, hauled them both off the ground: the world swung around them for a bright, startling moment, until they both SLAMMED against the stone front of a main street building -- the net effect that of dropping from a rooftop flat onto their backs.

Hurried hands shoved open the man door beside the squad bay: a blueshirt medic spun out, hauling the door as far open as the heavy, old-fashioned slow-closer would allow, standing well out of the way as the wordless, grim-faced Sheriff brought two troublemaking customers inside.

The Captain came back inside, letting the door shut behind him, staring as the Sheriff slow curled both guests well off their feet.

He turned, eyes pale, glared at the Captain, then he dropped his twin burdens, turned, walked out without a word.

Another blueshirt medic, a woman, watched through the man door's big window as the broad shoulders under that military-creased uniform shirt stride down the concrete apron and turned uphill, back toward the Sheriff's office.

Shelly smiled quietly, the way a wife will when her husband does something of which she genuinely approves.

She turned, walked over to their guests as they struggled to sit up.

She looked down at the pair on the floor, folded her arms, patting her foot, looking for all the world like a schoolteacher who'd run out of patience.

"Are you two going to behave yourselves," she asked quietly, "or do I need to have my husband come back and have another talk with you?"

 

That night, Shelly had further occasion to regard the masculinity expressed by her husband.

She went out to the barn.

He bent a little, raised both hands, drove each down into a bale of hay: he crushed his hands shut around the strings, hauled two bales off the ground.

His jaw was set, his expression was that of a man who most sincerely wished to lay hard hands on an enemy.

Shelly watched as Linn twisted, threw one bale of hay over the high board fence, then twisted the other way and slung the other bale over -- throwing each bale, one handed.

She watched, she waited, not wanting to interrupt his pique.

He only did this when he was mad as hell, when he was frustrated at not being able to personally rip some deserving soul's guts out, kick their backside up between their shoulder blades, and then proceed to get mean with them.

He stopped, closed his eyes, took a long, deep breath, his mouth closed: he exhaled silently, then pulled off his gloves, turned to his wife as he stuffed them in a hip pocket.

His pace was deliberate, his boot heels not loud, not really, but very distinct, as he paced over to his waiting wife.

Linn took her hands, gently, raised one, then the other to his lips, kissed her knuckles: he hugged her carefully, as if she were delicate china, as if she were fragile, as if he was afraid he might break her.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Shelly laughed and hugged her husband, she looked up, she blinked innocently -- so that's where Victoria gets that look! he thought -- "What did I do this time, handsome?"

He hugged her a little tighter, laid his cheek over on top of her head.

She felt him take another long breath; she cuddled her ear into his breastbone, listened to the slow, powerful rhythm of that magnificent heart of his, running slow -- if I didn't know he was in such fantastic physical shape, I'd think he needed a pacemaker! she thought, smiling a little as she did.

She looked up, he looked down: she saw his eyes change ... no longer ice, now a pale blue, that shade few saw, and only in intimate moments.

"For bein' you," he whispered, and kissed her forehead.

He released her, turned, snatched a saddle blanket off the side of the stall and draped it quickly over another bale of hay.

Shelly knew the message.

Sit, we need to talk.

She sat.

They sat in the barn, fragrant with the smell of horses and tractors, of saddle leather and straw.

Linn leaned forward, forearms on his thighs.

"Years ago," he said softly, "I read of a primitive tribe whose young men went out in the world to search out Death so they could kill it."

Shelly waited, her thigh warm against his, her shoulder just touching his arm: she remembered his sculpted muscles, well defined, wet from the shower, and she felt her ears warming as her thoughts wandered to the not entirely pure.

She felt him take another long breath.

"I don't know if Death can be found as a corporeal being," he said slowly, "and I don't know if Misfortune walks beside him, and they toss a coin to see what they're going to do when they run into a mere mortal."

His hands closed slowly, not completely into fists, but close.

"Why Michael?" he asked softly. "Hasn't he hurt enough? Good God, that idiot soldier near to killed him, his spine was so damaged they had to grow him a new one -- that alone --"

He took a deeper breath, blew it out, a harsh sound in the barn's stillness.

Three heads raised at the sound -- one large, pure white and curious, two coal black, much smaller and no less inquisitive.

Shelly laid a hand on his shoulder blade: she wasn't sure what to say, and so she said it with a wife's understanding hand on her husband's back.

"Why Michael?" Linn whispered hoarsely, dropping his forehead into his hands. "Why not me?"

Shelly patted his back.

"You're not allowed survivor's guilt," she said softly.

He turned his head, eyes veiled, looked at her sternly -- very little short of anger, she knew, but not anger at her.

"They're my ghosts to carry," he said hoarsely, and Shelly blinked, bit her bottom lip.

Linn looked away, looked across the cement floor, his expression almost lost.

"He's my son," he said faintly. "I'm supposed to protect him."

"He's growing up. You remember growing up. It's a wonder we survived childhood."
Something round, black and curious came waddling over toward the pair, Snowdrift watching from her blanket lined nest behind another hay bale.

Linn picked up the curly-furred Bear Killer pup, set it on his lap, grimaced happily as a pink tongue taste tested his cheeks, then his ears.

He laughed, eyes and mouth closed, then the little furry Bear Killer pup turned around in his lap and dropped dramatically, gave a great sigh significantly larger than his short coupled carcass, and relaxed, safe between hard-muscled forearms and flannel shirtsleeves.

Shelly looked speculatively at her husband as if to ask "Well?"

He turned, looked at his wife.

He didn't quite smile.

He was close to it, though.

His voice was quiet: his face might not be smiling, but his voice, was.

"It's hard to be in a bad mood when a pup says hello."

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

LIGHTNINGHORSEN SCRUFFENGRABBER

Michael Keller was white faced and shivering.

Sweat was starting to bead out on his forehead.

He lifted his black Stetson and swiped his tailored black coat sleeve across his forehead, settled the Stetson back in place.

Victoria raised a cautioning hand to two nurses hovering close behind: her frown, her shake of the head, her upraised palm stopped them from intervening.

Michael controlled his breathing: jaw set, he gripped the edge of the doorway, looked out across manicured grass, across meticulously contoured, swept walkways.

A Fanghorn mare drowsed, bellied down on the grass: as he watched, she rolled over on her side, groaned with pleasure, basking in sunlight, eyes closed.

Michael nodded, breathing through his mouth, expression grim.

His prayer was wordless, silent, an intimate communication with the Eternal: he opened his eyes.

The nurses saw his shoulders raise as he took a long breath, saw him square those strong young shoulders, saw him pace off on the left.

Two Fanghorn colts quarreled happily, not far away, each snarling and squealing as if ready to rend the other into bloody gobbets: they thrust, they lunged, they bit: there were spectators, and not a few of them, for Lightning was known on the Worlds, her colts less so: a very few hardy souls advanced, perhaps intending to pet these strange, conical-bossed offspring of the now-famous Lightning, but all drew back when Fanghorn young bared fighting ivories and looked like they were going to eat the other alive.

Quarreling and play-fighting ended abruptly.

Two Fanghorn young swung their stout, muscled, surprisingly flexible necks toward Michael.

Michael Keller's lips peeled back from even, white teeth.

Victoria saw his hands close into fists, saw him crouch a little.

For the first time in her young life, Victoria Keller, twin sister to Michael Keller, wished she'd exercised Diplomatic Prerogative and worn her heavy rifle at sling arms inside the hospital.

They're going to ram me, Michael thought, remembering their rough play, remembering the times they'd greet him with a rush and a brush, with a hard shove: he'd been able to bulldog them to the ground when they were younger -- but now, with his healing back --

Something big, blond and lightning patterned, shot between Michael and the two charging Fanghorn colts.

A head raised, drove down: Cyclone rolled over twice, knocked galley-west from the force of the collision.

Thunder was pinned to the ground, Lightning's jaws wide open over his neck: her eyes were wide, red, and she was snarling -- a deep, almost feline, rumble.

Victoria saw Michael's hands loosen, saw him start to move.

He walked over to Lightning, laid a fearless hand on her neck.

A very chastened Cyclone came head-bobbing up, laid her head against Lightning's neck, burbled a little, and Michael rubbed her ears.

Neither the nurses nor the twin sister heard what Michael said.

Very likely, what he said was in a whisper, or nearly so: that's how he talked to them, in moments like this.

Lightning raised her head, jaws still open: Michael ran an arm under her throat, hugged her, laid his head against her, his Stetson falling unheeded to the ground.

The Fanghorn laid her long, strong, bone-crushing jaw over his shoulder and rumbled quietly.

Thunder rolled over, got his heavy-boned, stocky-muscled legs under him, almost crawled forward before running his nose between Michael's legs and then raising his nose in a rudely familiar greeting.

Michael yelped as his feet came off the ground: his arm snapped over Lightning's neck and she raised him a little, lowered him, snarled at Thunder.

Michael got his feet under him, turned, grabbed Thunder by one ear, shook his young fist menacingly at the young Fanghorn's bony forehead-boss.

"You want I should THUMP YOU?" he shouted.

Thunder danced on his forehooves as gracefully as a Caterpillar tractor driving hydraulic stands into the ground.

"YOU WANT I SHOULD KNOCK YOU INTO THE MIDDLE OF NEXT WEEK?" Michael shouted again, thumping the heel of his fist on Thunder's conical boss.

He didn't look, he thrust an open hand against the bridge of a rumbling Lightning's nose.

"PICK A DAY, JACK! MIDDLE OF NEXT WEEK! WEDNESDAY OR THURSDAY!"

Thunder, unabashed, nuzzled Michael's belly, snuffing loudly, his long, silky tail slashing enthusiastically.

Victoria leaned against the door casing, folded her arms and sighed dramatically, shaking her head as she did.

She looked at the two openly staring nurses, smiled.

"Latin is the root language of medicine," she said quietly. "This was not a medical event, this was conflict. Perhaps German is more appropriate."  She tilted her head speculatively.  "Nurse Ragvndottr, how would you call this?"

A pale skinned nurse with startling, Nordic-blue eyes stared at what had been her patient, feeding swirly-red-and-white peppermints to a creature that looked like it could casually bite a grown man in two.

She remembered the strike as her open jaws drove down onto the colt's neck, absolutely flattening it before it could charge in and collide with the still-healing Michael.

She considered for a moment, looked at her sister nurse, then at Victoria, and finally at the big Fanghorn, gone from a swift master of uncompromised justice to a lazy-blinking saddlehorse basking in the sun.

"The ... big horse's name ... is Lightning?" she asked.

Victoria nodded, arms crossed, ankles crossed, shoulder propping up the doorframe.

"I would say," the nurse replied, commanding her near nonexistent command of her ancestral Germanic tongue, "from the way she kept the colt from running into Michael ..."

She looked uncertainly at one Fanghorn colt rolling happily in the sun-warmed grass, another lipping peppermints off Michael's palm, at the big mare rolling over on her side with a contented groan.

"I would say that would be Lightninghorsen Scruffengrabber!"

Michael heard feminine laughter from the doorway: he rubbed Thunder's jaw, then sat, slowly, carefully, leaned back against Lightning's ribs, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Don't know what I did, he thought, but sounds like I made a donkey of myself for the ladies!

 

 

 

Edited April 3, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

 A CONFESSION

Abbott William leaned back, took a sip of cool, honey-sweetened, mint-spiced, tea.

He closed his eyes, remembering New Orleans, remembering a young woman -- Susan, her name was -- and the crystal chandelier's delicate chiming as a stray night breeze swirled through the tall double doors of the mansion.

She'd served him tea much like this, and they'd sipped it, there just inside the tall double doors.

He was riding off to war, an idealistic young man, eager to serve the Confederate Cause: he kissed her knuckles, ever the gentleman: he'd stepped back, bowed gravely, turned, settled his pearl-grey hat on his head, and stepped into the saddle.

He hadn't looked back.

He didn't dare.

The Abbott opened his eyes, slowly, still seeing stars, lamps, still feeling the mare under him, hearing night birds and laughter and music and smelling jasmine ...

He took a long breath, closed his arms, set the tall, cool glass down, bowed his head.

Another man set his down as well, careful to place it soundlessly on the table, not wishing to disturb his old friend's reverie.

Abbott and Sheriff, each the authority in his own territory, looked at one another, shared the expression worn by men who've survived being refined as metal in the forge, and carried the scars-- visible and otherwise-- to prove it.

The Abbott harrumphed quietly.

"You know," he said, "I cannot break the Seal of the Confessional."

Sheriff Linn Keller nodded, slowly, waited.

"I can ... speak of ... things."

The Sheriff's eyebrow raised a little, settled.

The Abbott laughed, then sighed.

"I saw you get a confession from a murderer with that eyebrow."

Linn's eyes tightened at the corners, then slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up, just a little.

"What kind of things?" he asked quietly.

The Abbott leaned back, considering, then gave the Sheriff a crooked grin -- that same devil-may-care look Linn remembered from that damned War, right after his discharge, when they met as men headed for home, instead of enemies on a battlefield.

"Let's say," the Abbott said, "a man on the wrong side of the law had a case of the guilty conscience."

"Let's say he did," Linn agreed quietly.

"Let's not say who it was."

Linn nodded again, that slow, patient nod he used in such moments.

"Now let's say that his guilty conscience had something to do with his being scared half out of his skin."

Linn regarded his old friend with what he intended to be an Innocent Expression.

The Abbott laced sun-browned fingers together over his flat belly.

"You might recognize who it was from what he told me."

"Then why tell me?"

"Because he's dead now."

"Ah."

Both men picked up their sweet, mint-infused tea, took a thoughtful sip, set their glasses down.

 

"Padre," came the hoarse whisper from the other side of the confessional's latticework screen, I ain't confessed for some years now."

"Go ahead, my son. Speak freely. You are safe here."

He heard the agitated man shift uncomfortably, breathing the way a man will when he's remembering something he'd rather not.

"He come out of the dark," he said, his voice lowering a little: the Abbott leaned closer to the grillwork, straining to hear.

"He come silent, like a shadow, until he opened up on us."

The man's hands closed into fists, his eyes wide, not seeing the quiet, shadowed interior of the Confessional.

He saw a campfire, he saw shadows, he saw ...

"Death," he whispered, his throat tight.

"Death?" the Abbott echoed.

"That damned pale eyed Sheriff," he husked, his words tight, as if his throat strained to utter the dread message.

"Go on, my son."

"He come at us a-firin' he had that damned rifle of his and he was ... he didn't miss none a'tall."

"You are safe, my son, you are here and you are alive. What happened next?"

"He'd ... we'd been a-runnin' for six days by then and we was all about played out. My horse went lame an' we allowed as we'd get us another come daylight so we found us a good place t'camp and ... and ... we made a little fire, least until Pete went out to check on Reuben."

"Why did he check on Reuben?" the Abbott asked quietly.

"Reuben was watchin' our back trail. They was only one good way anyone could come at us from an' he was watchin' that an' where we'd come from."

"Did he find Reuben?"

The man shivered -- the Abbott felt his tremors -- silence from the other side of the screen --

"My son?"

"He found him."

The Abbott had heard voices of all kind in Confession.

He'd heard guilt, sorrow, anger, lust, he'd heard satisfaction and sorrow and grief, profound and deep.

He heard something else in this man's voice.

He heard raw, honest fear.

"Reuben was dead."

"How?"

"He ... his ..."

Three quick breaths, in the shadowed darkness, then:

"His throat."

"Cut?"

"Clear to his back bone."

The Abbott crossed himself.

He knew what it was to slip up behind a man and cut his throat in that same manner.

He'd done it, back during the War.

"Pete he come a-runnin' in all wild eyed, he grabbed two dry tumble weeds an' throwed 'em on the fire an' he pulled his pistol an' he was lookin' around all wild eyed and he said Reuben's throat was cut an' not a sound for the doin' of it and everyone come into the firelight t' hear what he had t' say and that's when he come out of the dark with that damned Yankee rifle of his."

"What happened, my son?"

"He come at us, a-walkin'. Just a nice easy walk like he was a-strollin' down the street with his girl. He ... they was six of us when he started shootin'.

"Me, I run, I got the hell out of there an' I didn't bother to grab no horse, I just high tailed it out int' th' dark and I kept on a-runnin' and I didn't stop until I just collapsed an' I laid there in the dark on m'back tryin' not to breathe loud and I looked up at them nice bright stars an' I waited f'r him t' come out of th' dark an' kill me too."

"When was this?"

"Yesterday. I seen th' town here once the sun come up an' ... I come here an' hid."

"You're afraid he'll find you here."

"You can't get away from that damned old lawman," came the bitter voice: "oncet he's on yer trail ye're a dead man. I don't know if he'll lay back an' kill me with that damned rifle of his, or if he'll slip up an' grab my chin an' twist m'neck around so he can cut me plumb to my neck bone, but he'll get me, ohhh, yes, he'll get me!"

The Abbott was not at all surprised when the man thrust out of the confessional, slamming the door open: he heard running boot heels, heard another door hit hard, and he knew the man would not stop running again until he collapsed with exhaustion.

 

"We found his body an hour later," the Abbott said quietly.

The Sheriff nodded slowly.

"To hear him tell it, you laid among them like Samson among the Philistines."

"After what they done," the Sheriff said quietly, in a voice absolutely devoid of any regret whatsoever, "what I did to them was a kindness."

The Abbott nodded thoughtfully: he knew the Sheriff to be a man of absolute fairness, but he also knew the Sheriff was a man of justice.

"Did anyone else get away?" the Abbott asked.

Linn smiled thinly.

"Nope."

 

Edited April 3, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

BUP

A Sheriff's deputy in a tailored, pressed, military-creased uniform, regarded a subject with close attention.

The subject, for his part, paid no attention at all to the deputy with shined boots and a serious (if amused) expression.

The subject was busy working little pink fingers into a short, round, curly-furred mountain Mastiff pup's fur.

Deputy Sheriff Angela Keller squatted carefully, knees together, body language betraying her being accustomed to wearing a skirt rather than the uniform trousers.

Little boys and furry dogs have a natural affinity for one another.

Deputy Sheriff Angela Keller's eyes were not the only ones regarding this child's tactile exploration of a happy, wiggling, pink-tongued, black-eyed ball of distilled happiness.

A mother, a tired, almost resigned expression on her face, watched from between two parked cars.

The little boy looked up with bright and delighted eyes, looked down at the short coupled Bear Killer, then looked back up at the pretty woman with light blue eyes.

She saw the unspoken question.

"This is 45," Angela said quietly. "He's just a pup, but he'll grow big as a young bear."

The little boy blinked, frowned, looked curiously up at the deputy.

He tilted his head the way a very young child will, when they are considering something, and then he said, "Bup?"

Angela's laugh was gentle in the Colorado sunlight: a Sheriff's deputy knelt on the sidewalk, a happy little boy squatted, both hands wooling an absolutely delighted, roly-poly Bear Killer pup, and less than two arms' reach away, a mother bit her knuckle as tears started down her face.

Her son was five years old.

She was taking him to the Firelands school to see if it was a good fit for her child, but they hadn't made it yet -- her son stopped, pulled from her grasp, ran scampering over to a short, fat, happily trotting ball of very pleased juvenile canine, and now -- now, for the very first time --

Angela looked over at the mother, her expression flowing from delight to concern: she rose easily, went over to the woman, offered her a clean, unused white hankie.

The mother's voice was a whisper.

"He's never spoken before."

 

A man known as Old Pale Eyes lounged in a common passenger car seat.

The Bear Killer sat on the floor, chin on the Sheriff's knee, the man's hand gently rubbing the particular spot under the big mountain Mastiff's ear that he knew would bring drowsy eyes and a contented, breathy sigh.

Movement on his right -- the Sheriff looked, smiled just a little.

A curly headed little boy stood, marveling at The Bear Killer.

The lad looked at the Sheriff, then stepped up to the big, black, curly-furred creature and reached awkwardly, wobbling a little as he did.

The Sheriff caught him under the arms, spread his legs -- his left knee still propping The Bear Killer's chin, a little boy's backside lowered to his right thigh.

The little boy's expression -- wide-eyed surprise, delight, open and sincere as only a wee child's expression can be, brought a quiet smile to the old lawman's face.

"You like my pup?" he asked gently, his voice little more than a whisper, helping the child lean over until questing pink fingers were taste-tested by a solemn, black-muzzled Bear Killer.

The little boy laughed, and the laugh of a child is a contagious thing: passengers smiled to hear it, heads turned, curious, and more than one laughed quietly at the happy, juvenile exclamation.

"Bup!"

 

John Greenlees Jr. was quiet at supper.

He had little appetite.

His was the solemn duty to commit the body of The Bear Killer to the Eternal.

Martian dead went into the Recyclo: everyone who died, contributed to everyone else's life, and this was reflected in the solemn service conducted with most of the Colony in attendance, for The Bear Killer was known to every last soul there.

In death, there is life, Littlejohn remembered the Parson saying.

This did not make it any easier to say goodbye to part of his family.

The Bear Killer was old, his muzzle was silvered with time, his eyes were still bright -- cataracts were replaced not many years before, giving him back his vision -- almost every child there came past the bier and laid a caressing hand on curly black fur for the last time.

Ambassador Marnie Keller stood beside her husband, silent, both in mourning black: she was veiled, as is proper in such times: she turned away before raising a black kerchief discreetly, up under her veil, concealing her own sorrow as much as she could.

Littlejohn's hand was the last to touch the companion he'd known since his earliest days.

Littlejohn's hand pressed the stainless steel stud that withdrew the body into the waiting chamber: the stainless steel door descended, and what had been a living, vital creature, what was now still and unmoving and dead, became dissociated subatomic particles.

The Bear Killer became air, and water, and food that they ate, and Littlejohn remembered their Parson's quiet words.

He remembered them as just words.

Air was an intangible, water was taken for granted, but The Bear Killer was friend and confidante, companion and guardian, playmate and cuddle partner and a warm presence in the night.

When the family returned to their quarters, they found they had guests.

Victoria and Michael were just arriving, and with them, Snowdrift, and with Snowdrift, two snuffing, wandering, nibbling, curious balls of curly black fur: one came over to Littlejohn, looked up at him, dropped his square bottom on the floor and yawned -- a great, gaping, truly prodigious yawn, well bigger than the creature that originated it -- then this bright-eyed little fellow looked up at Littlejohn and tilted his head.

Just like The Bear Killer used to.

Littlejohn remained stoic through The Bear Killer's last days.

Littlejohn remained silent through their final, formal, ceremonial, goodbye.

Littlejohn knew, academically, clinically, what was happening.

Littlejohn's bottom lip quivered and he chewed on his lip when he wordlessly said his final goodbyes, and his jaw muscles bulged as he hit the stainless stud that committed The Bear Killer to Eternity.

Littlejohn squatted, then knelt, then went down on knees and elbows, and finally rolled over on his side.

A round, furry little Bear Killer taste tested Littlejohn's reddening cheeks, scoured the saltwater as it overspilled the dams he'd erected, wiggled with happiness as young arms hugged the warm, furry, absolutely delighted, miniature Bear Killer.

"What's his name?" Marnie asked quietly, lifting her black-lace veil and draping it back over her hat.

Littlejohn tried to answer, and his mumbled reply, interrupted by a happy little mountain Mastiff who insisted on washing the good Doctor's son's face, might not have been what he'd intended to say, but it's what stuck.

In between canine laundering and juvenile hiccups came the name that stuck.

"Bup."

 

 

Edited April 4, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

ESTHER'S DAINTY LITTLE WATCH

Two men shared a solemn handshake, two men shared a name.

"Parson," the Sheriff said, his voice low, masculine, quiet.

"Sheriff," the Parson said, his voice just as low, just as masculine, just as quiet.

Neither man could maintain the pretense more than a few seconds: their faces creased into grins, they seized each other in laughter and in embrace, and close to a dozen children watched, big-eyed and marveling, as two strong men they all knew, hugged and laughed openly and unashamedly.

The Bear Killer's big head came up, eyes bright -- a little boy with blond hair and surprisingly clean overalls picked up a stick and took off a-runnin' -- The Bear Killer launched after him, not the streaking pursuit of a predator after prey, but the happy, galumphing, hobby-horse gait of a mountain Mastiff at play, and just shy of a dozen children ran streaming after them, filling the springtime air with laughter.

Linn looked up at the lowering clouds while the other Linn looked at their wives: Mrs. Sheriff and Mrs. Parson looked after children, running across a field, then looked at their husbands, grinning as they, too, watched happy childhood streaming after instigator and pursuer.

The Sheriff stepped back, curled his lip, whistled -- a high, shrill, sustained note.

The Bear Killer knew the whistle: he surged forward, circling around in front of the stick-swinging instigator, led the string of running, yelling, laughing, apple-cheeked children, strong and healthy in disappearing sunlight: The Bear Killer ran up to the Sheriff, dropped his square backside firmly on the ground and looked up, tongue out, mouth open, breathing quick and deep, just the very image of canine happiness.

"Bear Killer," Linn the Sheriff said, and Linn the Parson heard the grin in his cousin's voice, "it's goin' to rain right here directly, what say we get the horses in under roof!"

The Bear Killer came up on all fours, dancing on his forepaws as children swarmed around them: the Sheriff frowned and rubbed his chin in mock concentration, nodded thoughtfully.

"You ... you ... you and you, you're volunteers," he said, picking out four of the boys, then he looked at the smallest of the grinning, bouncing little girls and said "Need your help too!" -- he winked at Linn the Parson, picked up the little girl and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of taters.

"Fellas," Linn the Sheriff declared, "we need to get horse and buggy under roof before it cuts loose and rains all over us!"

Sheriff, Parson, Bear Killer and just shy of a dozen eager, laughing children, positively swarmed the Sheriff's buggy and his shining-chestnut Morgan: young hands caressed a velvety-damp muzzle and lean, muscled legs, strong young limbs propelled willing young bodies into the shining-black, red-and-yellow-pinstriped carriage: brake released, the Sheriff managed to shave some molasses twist off his plug, even with a giggling little girl held over his shoulder with one practiced, fatherly arm: he managed to fold up his Barlow knife, stow it and the plug and not drop any shavings: the Morgan mare stuck her neck out, lipping eagerly at the bribe, even before he extended his hand.

The Sheriff rubbed the mare's ears, then worked through the clustered young, brought the bright-eyed, smiling little girl off his shoulder and dunked her a-straddle of the mare:  "Now don't let her run off," he admonished gently: she grabbed a big handful of mane with one hand, the other uncertainly to her cheek, one pink finger just touching her lips, the way a very young child will do when she's at once happy and just a little bit shy about what-all's happening.

They managed to get the mare in under roof, they got the carriage stowed, willing hands rubbed down shining hide and a little girl, transferred from mare's back to the ground, watched with big and solemn eyes as the Sheriff grabbed the smallest boy by the ankles, hauled him off the ground and asked the lad if things looked funny upside down like that, then they all looked up as the first fat, cold drops smacked against the corrugated tin roof overhead.

The Sheriff brought the little boy back upright, held him a moment while he steadied -- the Sheriff remembered what it was to be a very little boy, turned upside down by a beloved grandfather -- he squatted, one arm around the little lad, looked around, winked at his clerical counterpart: "Troops, move out!"

They got about three steps toward the orphanage when hail and rain cut loose: two laughing men herded their flock of laughing, squealing, stampeding young, each grown man with a double armful of terror-clinging, delight-laughing, very young humanity: children charged inside, all clatter and noise, spilling over the threshold, fanning out: The Bear Killer was looking around, mouth open, tongue out, then he shook, scattering happiness and cold rainwater for an incredible distance as children grimaced and laughed and held up hands to block the spray.

The men arrived at the door as the last of the running children followed The Bear Killer inside: the Sheriff looked at the Parson, grinned, declared happily, "In ye go!" -- the Parson followed his swarm of young humanity inside the Rock Creek Orphanage and Parsonage House, the Sheriff followed the Parson inside, the Parson's wife reached out into the rainfall and pulled the door to and latched it, and two grown men looked at one another and the happy burdens they carried, and in the orphanage once again, the rich sound of strong men's laughter.

Mrs. Parson and Mrs. Sheriff and a girl who'd been orphaned fairly recently, started to ladle up a thick stew, started piling biscuits on a big platter, started setting the table as the young filed past the handwashing basin: lumps of butter, glasses, drink, plates, forks, spoons, knives, all magically dispensed as the ladies orbited the long table: the Sheriff's Stetson and coat were hung near the stove on pegs, as were the Parson's: children had divested of damp garments and changed into dry, and damp young accoutrements hung from a clothesline apparently maintained for that very purpose.

The oldest girl fired the stove, smiling as she did, as rain punished the tin roof overhead, as young and old alike ate: they'd known for a week the Sheriff and his wife would be visiting today, and as usual, three days before their arrival, supplies showed up for stocking the orphanage larder, and when their guests drew up in front that day, willing young hands helped pack in broad, flat boxes that smelled really, really good: pies they were, still warm from the Silver Jewel's oven, and transported swiftly for this very occasion.

When the noon meal was finished, when pie was positively inhaled and the table cleared and dishes washed, dunked, dried and stacked, after the oldest girl saw to the stove again, the Sheriff pulled a chair up close to the cast iron, where it was warm, and children surrounded them, in a big semicircle, sitting cross legged on the painfully-clean floor.

Shining faces and attentive eyes regarded the lawman, and no less than four young arms draped over The Bear Killer's fur.

Usually the Parson read to the children after the meal (something guaranteed to put several of them to sleep), but today it was the Sheriff, sitting by the stove with a book open on his lap.

He frowned a little, paged slowly through the work, rubbing his chin and considering carefully.

"Well, y'see, it's like this," he said in an exaggerated nasal drawl, bringing giggles from the children, a grin from the Parson and causing two wives to exchange knowing looks: "I'm the Sheriff and I see all kind of people who disagree with one another, and sometimes they beat each other about the head and shoulders with big heavy things like freight wagons and steam locomotives."

"Nooooo," came the juvenile protest -- mostly from the boys -- the Sheriff stopped, eyes wide with mock surprise.

"Why they do so!" he declared, fingers dramatically to his breast bone: "why sez here in the Bible where David knocked the dog stuffing out of Goliath, and him no bigger'n a cake of soap!"  

The Sheriff winked at the Parson and turned back to the assembled young, admitting that "Y'have to understand, I was just a kid at the time!"

"Nooooo," came the enthusiastic chorus of juvenile protest -- it was a game they played, the Sheriff would whip several outrageous, patently obvious whoppers on them, to their common delight, which they would happily deny -- and today was no exception.

"I was so there!" the Sheriff protested in his best stuffy-old-geezer manner, turning his head and h'isting his nose in the air:  "hmph! Why, I was with Christopher Columbia when he sailed down the Mr. and Mrs. Sippi River with the Star Spangled Bandanna in one hand and the Declaration of Indigestion in t'other!"

"Nooooo," came the happy, laughing rejoinder:  Esther unpinned the dainty little watch from her bosom, held it up overhead:  Mrs. Parson, Linn the Parson and all the children looked at her.

The Bear Killer snored.

Esther looked at her husband and said, "It's over the boots, save the watch!"

Sheriff, Parson, wives and children all laughed, something hissed and popped inside the cast iron stove, and the Sheriff harrumphed with mock indignation, wiggled his bony backside on the polished hardwood chair as if settling into a comfortable position before actually reading from the Book.

 

Rain and visit concluded about the same time.

Pie tins were clean, dried, stacked in the baskets, stacked in the buggy, the Morgan mare harnessed up: Parson and wife and just shy of a dozen children waved as the Sheriff and his wife drove toward the depot.

Mrs. Parson held her husband's arm, leaned her head against his shoulder and laughed quietly.

The Parson ran his arm around his wife's generous waist and asked, "Hmmmmm?"

She looked up at him, smiled.

"I'll have to start wearing a watch as a brooch," she murmured.

The Parson looked down at her, trying to imitate his lawman cousin's very best Innocent Expression.

His wife held a hand over head, dangling an imaginary something from a dainty thumb-and-forefinger.

"It's over the boots, save the watch!"

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

NEXT TIME, THROW IT LIKE A FOOTBALL

The Bear Killer looked at Victoria with shining black eyes.

She and her twin brother Michael were all of seven years old -- bright, curious, nonstop, getting into everything -- in other words, typical healthy kids.

Michael watched as Victoria unwrapped a loaf of bread, still slightly warm from having been baked that morning: they'd ridden up here, to a particular high mountain pool, a pool known to their family for generations.

There, on the cliff overlooking, ancestral children ran, naked, dove, cutting into the deep, cold pool: there, on the cliffside, Sarah McKenna persuaded a bigger boulder than she'd intended, to release its grip on the mountain and fall into the water -- pinning a vanquished enemy's body to the bottom.

There, in the water, with smuggled equipment, the boulder was drilled, shot, broken up: the hidden gold beneath extracted, separated, conveyed a distance before being sold.

Chunks of the busted boulder could still be found, one with the drill hole visible as a long, clean cut scar on its broken open surface.

Pale eyed twins stood at this historic pool and solemnly regarded the loaf of fresh baked bread, looked at one another, their expressions almost ...

... disappointed.

They'd planned this expedition because it seemed important.

Now that they were about to pull it off, they looked at one another, looked at The Bear Killer.

The Bear Killer licked his chops hopefully.

"You wanta climb up there first?"

The Bear Killer lifted his nose, sniffed appreciatively at the loaf they held.

"Nah."

"Me neither."

"I'm kinda hungry."

The Bear Killer whuffed quietly, adding his vote to the process.

" 'Cast your bread upon the waters,' Michael said quietly.

"Do you throw it like a football or what?"

"It'll get all soggy."

"Ick."

"Maybe if we throw a chunk of bread instead."

Michael brought his knee up, the loaf down, breaking it in two: he handed the bigger half to Victoria.

The Bear Killer snapped at a falling crumb.

Victoria pulled out a thick pinch, gave it a backhand sling toward the rippling mountain pool.

"There. I just cast bread upon the waters."

Michael shoved an irregular chunk into his mouth, chewed happily:  "I'm eatin' mine!"

They each tore off a longer chunk, each fed their ripped-free offering to The Bear Killer, who happily accepted their offerings.

A floating chunk of rapidly-soaking bread bobbed vigorously as it was nibbled from underneath.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller placed his Stetson carefully beside the tabletop podium, something he only did when he was appearing in his office as Sheriff: otherwise he would hang the brushed skypiece from a wooden peg provided for that purpose.

He touched a control, brought up a formal portrait of a pale eyed woman in a tailored blue suit dress and heels, a woman looking boldly at the camera, a woman with an ancient, hand engraved, six point star on her lapel and a gunbelt snug about her trim waist.

"You remember my Mama," Sheriff Linn Keller said -- a statement, not a question, and there were murmurs of assent, heads that nodded slightly, or simply inclined a little.

There were several quiet smiles, for Sheriff Willamina Keller was well known to Firelands, and she was the chief spark plug, organizer and instigator of the Ladies' Tea Society, where her son spoke today.

He touched another control.

A nurse in white stockings and heels, a white uniform dress and winged cap, appeared on the big screen behind him -- a picture from a newspaper -- she had a child on her hip, her other arm extended, and in the arm, a cocked revolver.

"This," the Sheriff said, "is the picture that got my Mama fired from that hospital. It's out of business now and just as well. This is when Mama prevented a kidnapping. She was a Deputy Marshal for a nearby village, she routinely carried concealed under color of her police commission, and she was given a commendation by the Chief of Police, the key to the city by the Mayor, and her walking papers by the hospital's administration.

"This little girl's daughter came to see me yesterday."

Another picture: this one was dynamic, the shutter snapping off a moment of movement and preserving it.

A young woman with waist-length hair was off the ground, one leg bent, hair floating, quite obviously caught in that half-moment between Jumping Into the Sheriff's Arms, and Being Spun Around To Keep Them From Falling Over!

Both faces could be seen.

The woman, with the smile that precedes a delighted laugh; the Sheriff's, betraying honest surprise, but a pleased surprise.

"This is the daughter of that little girl a man tried to kidnap. My Mama kept her alive, and she came to say thank you."

He looked back at his twins, his youngest.

they were only in grade school yet, looking at him with all the solemn attention a pair of Properly Dressed Children could muster, manufacture, or perhaps fabricate: Linn well knew how vigorous, restless, energetic, exuberant, curious, and inadvertently destructive they could be, and he took it as a personal favor that they were behaving thusly.

The fact that Michael wore his black suit, and Victoria, a proper frock, may have had something to do with it.

"I've heard the Parson talk about casting your bread upon the waters," the Sheriff said thoughtfully, "and it's supposed to come a-floatin' back to you after a while."

He turned and looked at his Mama's newspaper picture, looked back.

"You can tell from the look on her face," he said, "she spoke softly and meant every word she said."

He swallowed, looked down, frowned a little, looked back up.

"I just wish she'd been here to see her bread come a-floatin' back."

 

A pair of pale eyed twins stood beside the mountain pool, dividing their edible bounty and sharing generously with The Bear Killer.

Michael squatted, rubbed The Bear Killer's broad head, grinned up at Victoria as he fed him the last of his crust.

"Pa said the preacher told him, 'All donations cheerfully accepted,' he said quietly. "Reckon The Bear Killer's a preacher?"

"I dunno," Victoria admitted, donating the last of her own bread crust to the cheerful canine's tail-swinging reception: she looked out over the water, searching for the chunk.

"I don't think that's gonna come a-floatin' back."

Michael considered the feel of the loaf as it was when Victoria handed it to him.

"Maybe if I throw it like a football next time." 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"MIZ MAWNIE, AW YOU SAWWAH?"

Ambassador Marnie Keller -- wife, mother, peacemaker, deal swinger, negotiator and sometimes chief backside booter for the Confederate Diplomatic Service -- Marnie propped a red cowboy boot up on the bottom rail of the whitewashed fence rail, looked over at the lean waisted, older man with the iron grey mustache, then she ran an arm around his middle, thudded her head happily into his arm, and laughed quietly.

Linn put his arm around his darlin' daughter, held her: she looked up at him and he felt her laughing.

He looked down at his oldest child and wiggled his mustache the way he used to when she was only just come into his household as a lost little waif, four years old with the eyes of a haunted septuagenarian.

She was a woman grown now, he knew, but her eyes were much younger now than when she was still a preschooler.

"Zom-tinks vonny?" he said in an absolutely atrocious accent, and Marnie smiled, sighed, and nodded.

They looked out over the pasture again, at colts and mares and a short-coupled creature the size of a paint can, sinner's-heart-black, chasing after one colt, then another -- they avoided this littlest Bear Killer easily, but always swung back, stopping splay-legged: they would eye one another, nose-to-nose, then duck right, or duck left, romping, playing.

Linn waited.

If Marnie had something on her mind, he'd let her trot it out when she thought it right.

Apparently she did, but she made no mention of it until after supper.

Her Mama was still on-shift at the firehouse: they shared a companionable silence until Linn reheated leftovers, until they sat, Linn at the far end of the table and Marnie on his right, her back to the sink and the counter cupboards.

Linn bowed his head and, solemnly and ceremonially, intoned, "Hello, plate!" and Marnie teased, "Oh, Daddy!" the way she did when she was still a little girl, and they both laughed.

About halfway through rewarmed beef stew and biscuits, Linn raised an eyebrow: Marnie saw The Look, lowered her head as if looking over a nonexistent set of spectacles.

"Do you know," Marnie said quietly, thumb splitting open a biscuit and troweling on a good gob of soft butter, "the various Journals are popular reading throughout every last star system!"

Linn frowned with one eyebrow, inclined his head toward his daughter: Go on, the gesture said, and she did.

"There is one edition that ..."

Marnie dropped her eyes, smiled a little -- dear God she smiles like her Mama! Linn thought, and Marnie looked up to see the smile he wore when she knew he was thinking of his wife.

"There is one edition with illustrations. It has formal portraits of Sarah McKenna -- it's colorized -- Sarah on the left hand page, Gammaw on the right, in an identical dress, looking like her clone. You remember those pictures."

Linn nodded, just a little: he'd been standing behind the photographer when his pale-eyed Mama's portrait was taken, in a shimmering-blue McKenna gown and gloves, with a fashionable little hat with just a touch of lace on one side.

"That ... edition ... was reprinted," Marnie continued, "with my portrait as well. I wore Gammaw's gown, and you remember I found and repaired her matching hat. The hardest part was getting my natural hair to look like Gammaw's wig."

Linn nodded, and Marnie saw a softening around his eyes as he remembered, not just Marnie's Mama and her sisters, but a half dozen or so from the Ladies' Tea Society, all flocking and clucking and everyone talking at once, Marnie in the very center: Linn remembered hairbrushes and ribbons and makeup brushes and hands and all of them moving like a cloud of mosquitoes swarming an Alaska moose in springtime.

"The reprint has three portraits on one page," Marnie said quietly, "and ..."

She looked at her Daddy, slid her empty plate and bowl to the side, planted her elbows on the tablecloth and folded her hands meditatively in front of her lips.

Linn waited.

He saw her blink, he could almost see the gears turning behind those pale eyes, and he waited, the way a patient Daddy will wait for a little girl to sort out her confusing thoughts and come up with something sensible.

Marnie's expression was serious as her eyes refocused.

"I visited a school," she said quietly, "and they were using some of those as study material."

She looked back up at her Daddy.

"A student asked me what a Walker was.

"I wasn't sure whether he meant an interplanetary assault vehicle, or a big percussion revolver.

"Turns out he wasn't sure how to read what the German Count called Sarah when she took that elk with an obsidian spear."

"Waulkyrie," Linn murmured, and Marnie snapped her fingers, pointed at him and winked.

"Bingo!"

"And you told him ...?"

Marnie laughed, leaned back a little: she lifted her wrist, keyed in a command: above the kitchen table, a holographic projection: apple-cheeked women in winged helmets and armor, mounted up and riding hard, braided hair swinging in the wind of their passing: they sang, their voices soaring as they did too, hooves shivering the earth with their galloping impacts while riding through clear air and clouds, as Wagner was played on a massive, deep-toned organ.

"I told him Sarah Lynne McKenna wasn't a walker, she was a Valkyrie -- a creature of legend, a harvester of souls after a battle, carrying the brave, the worthy, to Eternity on horseback.

"I told him Willamina Keller was a creature of legend, a Sheriff, dispensing justice from the saddle of a mare named Cannonball, and I told him I was just me, a hard working wife trying to do some good while I was able."

"I see."

"That was at the end of the schoolday. I didn't realize the book he had open on his desk was his book, not a schoolbook.

"His little sister came running into the schoolroom and she stopped dead and looked at me with Great Big Blue Eyes, and she blinked, just ... frozen right where she stood.

"Miz Mawnie," she finally said -- Marnie did a fair imitation of a little girl's near-lisp -- "Miz Mawnie, aw you Sawwah?"

Marnie's face reddened and she smiled, and she laid a hand on her Daddy's forearm.

"What did you do, darlin'?" he asked quietly.

Marnie gave him a big-eyed innocent look and said "What could I do, Daddy? I clapped my helmet back on my head, picked up my spear and shield, I strode outside and saddled up on my winged horse and flew off to join my sister Shield-Maidens!"

Linn took a long breath, looked at his daughter, nodded.

"Darlin'," he said quietly, "if anyone could do that, you're the one!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited April 6, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SOME GOOD SOUND ADVICE

Michael's expression was grim as he tightened the cinch under Lightning.

He could have asked for help.

He could have asked someone else to tend the stable.

He pushed himself, as best he could, pushing against his discomfort, stopping just short of honest pain: he told himself that every time he stopped, he went and got a dipper of water, and at this rate he'd flush out any kidney stones before they got big enough to bother.

Michael was young enough to be impatient, old enough to have at least a little wisdom: his personal theory was that if he pushed right up against his limit, and kept pushing against it, his back would heal and heal well and he could go back to doing all the things he used to, with all the youthfully careless excesses he used to.

On one level he knew that would never happen.

The rest of him cheerfully ignored that hidden knowledge and kept trying, until he started to hurt.

It took him a while to saddle Lightning.

He'd rigged a powered hoist, back when he was recovering from spine replacement, when the doctors were telling him to do nothing, or even less that that: Michael knew the outside of his horse was better medicine than idling in a hospital bed, so -- against medical advice, and probably against good sense -- he'd arranged to ride Lightning.

Now he was using the same powered hoist for the saddle, rather than grab it and swing it and drop it into position; Lightning patiently endured his ministrations, bellied down when he was finished.

He was closer to finished than he realized.

He knelt beside her, one arm over the saddle, the other over her neck, his face buried in her silky-fine mane, willing himself to not be worn out, to not be in pain, to not be SO DAMNED FRAGILE!! --

If it's possible to shout without using your throat, he did: Lightning felt it, she grunted, concerned, looking around at him.

Michael groaned.

"I'm sorry, darlin'," he whispered. "Just cranky and out of sorts."

Lightning grunted.

Michael looked up as the pipe gate groaned open, as Victoria came bouncing over toward him, her voluminous, tiered skirt flouncing with each exaggerated step.

She came over to him, planted her knuckles on her belt, leaned forward and stared intently into her twin brother's eyes.

"How bad?" she asked softly.

"Nothin' an aspirin won't cure."

"How big?" Victoria asked, neither her voice nor her face smiling, not even a little bit: "dishpan size or washtub size?"

"Yeah," he gasped in reply.

"How can I help?"

Michael brought his arm off the saddle, off Lightning's neck.

He turned, squatted, sat, leaned back against the warm, patient Fanghorn mare.

"You're helping already," he said quietly.

Victoria frowned, considered.

"I could ask your advice," she said quietly, squatting: she balanced easily on the balls of her feet, tilted her head a little.

"I am an expert," Michael said quietly. 

Pale eyes met pale eyes and two unsmiling siblings recited in chorus, "An ex is a has-been and a spurt is a drip under pressure!"

Each raised a teaching finger and continued, still in flawless, cadenced unity:

"Alternately, an expert knows more and more about less and less until finally they know ALL THERE IS to know, about NOTHING AT ALL!"

Each gave their upraised teaching finger a dramatic, wagging upward thrust: each held their pose with solemnity, until they looked at one another and laughed.

Victoria gave up and went into a crouch, then a sit-down, crossed her legs, her skirt modestly draped over her black-stockinged legs.

"Advice," Michael prompted.

Victoria nodded, her pretty face suddenly serious.

"Michael," she said, "I almost had to shoot someone."

Michael's face changed little: Victoria saw the slight tightening of his jaw, saw the telltale color change in his eyes.

Lightning was not as discreet.

If she did not understand the spoken word, she knew Michael's emotions, and she raised her head, looked at Victoria, muttering.

Victoria raised a calming hand: "It's all right," she said gently, "I took care of it!"

"I don't have to kill anybody?" Michael asked quietly.

Victoria considered for a moment, blinked, shook her head slowly.

"I had Daddy's gunsmith make me a pair of airweight Chief's Specials. Three inch, custom stocks, just the sweeeeetest trigger."

She looked at Michael.

"Until I was ... until it looked like ..."

Victoria swallowed, then she looked at Michael.

"I like .38 wadcutters. Especially out of a full size .357. They do well in ballistic gel and in real life."

"But?"

"But they felt just awful puny when it looked like ..."

"What happened, Sis?"

Victoria sighed -- an exaggerated, dramatic sigh, bent wrist raised to her forehead.

Michael closed one eye, raised the other eyebrow.

Each regarded the other, and laughed again.

"I walked in on a robbery. There were two of them. One had a gun. When he saw I had two guns, and I had the drop on him, he gave up."

"You didn't have to punch his ticket?"

Victoria shook her head.

"What advice do you need?"

"Michael" -- she leaned forward, gripping her shin bones through the ruffled flounces of her voluminous skirt -- "I carry a pair of five shot .38s."

Michael nodded.

"When it looked like he might swing that gun toward me instead of toward the clerk, all of a sudden that sweet little .38 felt just awfully puny."

Michael nodded, slowly, thoughtfully.

"Michael, should I go to a pair of .44s?"

"I would," he said without hesitation. "If I wasn't used to this Magic Plastic" -- he laid a hand on his left breast, over his shoulder holstered pistol -- "I'd carry a four inch .44!"

Victoria nodded again, frowning a little.

"Are you still splitting cards edgewise with your .38s?"

Victoria smiled and colored a little: she'd split cards with each pistol -- her right hand pistol, fired right handed, double action, the left hand pistol, fired left handed, double action: she'd split each card, first shot, just before her Daddy had his deputies shooting for qualification.

"Can you do that under stress?"

Victoria nodded again.

"You drew -- when you walked in on that robbery -- you made a shoot-no-shoot decision?"

"Yes."

"Was no shoot the right choice?"

She nodded again.

"Sis, if you're good with those, and if you're comfortable with those, I'd go with those.

"Now if you can find a pair of .44s set up like those are -- might be you could have that gunsmith tune you up a pair." but keep those ones and stay practiced up with them, and once you've got a pair of .44s to try out and carry for a while, why, I'd do that before makin' a change."

Victoria considered this, then nodded thoughtfully.

"Uncle Will said cops used to carry wadcutters in their .38s instead of the round nose. Wadcutters worked better on the street. If anything was said, why, I must not've changed ammo after practice."

"Uncle Will said he always carried hard cast semi wads."

"He still does. He still runs straight wheel weight."

"He can still get wheel weights?"

"Not so much anymore, but good Lord, he's got two five gallon buckets full of the things, and two-three pigs of linotype long as your arm!"

Victoria smiled. "You've been casting with him."

It was a statement, not a question.

Michael grinned. 

"Yeah, he likes it when we come over and cast bullets with him."

It was Michael's turn to give his sister a speculative look.

"Sis, you asked me, now I'm asking you. Where's a good place to get ice cream this time of the evening?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

DIPLOMATIC RESPONSE AND CANINE CONTEMPT

Young John Greenlees Jr. tilted his head.

A younger Bear Killer tilted his head as well.

Serious young eyes looked into delighted, shining-black eyes.

Young John dropped his hand to the floor, palm up.

The Bear Killer's jaw dropped open, a happy pink tongue flipped out, and a black-furred paw planted itself on Littlejohn's hand.

Littlejohn lifted his hand, just a little, raised it gently up and down, no more than a half inch: "Good boooie," he said, delight in his young voice, and half The Bear Killer remained still, one paw on the shining-clean floor, one paw on Littlejohn's palm.

Bear Killer's back half, however, was swinging with the delight and enthusiasm that is the rightful office of the canine young.

Littlejohn held a treat between his thumb and the base of his middle finger, held it out: he'd learned not to hold a treat with his fingertips, as enthusiastic young teeth were sharp, and though no blood was drawn in earlier offerings, Littlejohn realized very quickly that -- if he intended to suture with the precision his father required -- he could not risk damaging his fingers.

The Bear Killer, for his part, did not care whether the treat was extended with an open palm, curled fingers, or slip joint pliers.

Littlejohn sat cross legged, ran his hands under The Bear Killer.

The short-coupled pup added a boost to Littlejohn's hoist: Littlejohn went over backwards with the powerful thrust of mountain Mastiff hind quarters, he landed flat on his back, The Bear Killer surged forward, dropped flat on Littlejohn's breastbone, and gave the laughing, red-faced son of a Martian physician, a very enthusiastic face-washing.

A dignified older physician, gone grey at the temples, smiled at his wife, squeezed her hand gently, gave her the warm look that only a father and husband can produce: Marnie's smile was quiet, more her eyes than her face, but Dr. John Greenlee's whispered comment spoke for them both.

"It is a good thing," he said over their breakfast dishes, "when laughter fills the house!"

 

Ambassador Marnie Keller wore her usual, very proper, McKenna gown.

She also wore a matching cape, both as a fashionable accessory, and to discreetly cover her shoulder holstered Smith & Wesson.

Her smile was bright and genuine, her voice musical and welcoming, her manner at once spontaneous, just short of formal -- appropriate for a relaxed, not-quite-informal, Diplomatic gathering.

Beside her, silent, watchful, a boy of more than nine but not quite ten years: he wore a pressed shirt and a bow tie, knee pants and shined shoes: his manner was watchful, guarded, alert: when the Ambassador was approached from behind, he turned quickly, his back to his mother's, interposing himself between the Ambassador and someone who lacked the courtesy to approach from the front.

The Bear Killer, looking like a black ball of fluff and fur, snored.

Marnie felt her Shield activate.

Littlejohn wore a Shield, a discreet model that contoured itself against his back, from the base of his neck to the top of the pelvis: undetectable under his military-creased shirt, it automatically activated when he turned, when he backed a half-step, when his Shield came in proximity with his mother's Shield.

Marnie turned, gloved hands together: her expression was pleasant, and the individual coming up behind her never saw the stainless muzzle of the Walther pistol as it rose.

He was too busy driving a Stimkill through the point in three-dimensional space where the back of her neck used to be.

Young John Greenlees drove a side-snap to the attacker's knee, just as Marnie's Walther -- the same pistol her little sister used to carry -- blasted the atmosphere and shattered the quiet.

The Bear Killer jumped like he'd been scalded, landed on all fours, bristling, a ridge of fur running down his spine and across his shoulders: he launched at a collapsing body, stopped, black lips pulled back from shining-ivory, sharp little milk teeth.

The dropped Stimkill sizzled, smoked: a blue arc as its energies incinerated its electronics.

Marnie stepped quickly to the side to get away from the sizzling device.

She lowered the stainless Walther pistol, her Smith & Wesson in her other hand: she released it when Littlejohn reached up, took it, turned, pulled back into a compressed-ready, then lowering the muzzle to point to the floor three feet in front of him: he turned to remain back-to-back with his Mother, his shield vibrating a little as it interacted with his Mama's protective energy envelope.

Marnie's engraved, gold-inlaid Smith and Wesson was angled downward, but that was not the most dangerous part of her appearance.

Marnie's eyes were suddenly white, suddenly cold, the skin of her face drawn taut over high cheekbones, every trace of color gone from all but her lips and two startling red patches precisely over each cheek bone.

Mother and son turned left, turned right, something they'd very obviously practiced, something at which they were apparently very, very good.

Two Irises opened; armed security flowed quickly, silently, through the black ellipses, secured the room, surrounded the Ambassador and her son in an armed, silent, protective, watchful, ring.

Marnie casually reholstered her Uncle Will's Smith, settled the drape of her cape over her again, as casually as any fashionable woman returning a wind-blown garment to its proper position.

Littlejohn thumbed the Walther's hammer-drop, flicked it back up, turned, handed his mother back the stainless pistol.

The Bear Killer wandered back from the body, snuffed curiously at Littlejohn's foot, dropped his square little bottom on the floor and scratched enthusiastically at a pesky itch just aft of his starboard ear.

Camera drones downloaded their silent testimony for the debrief that followed.

Official apologies were extended, there were the usual promises of a swift investigation, of a vigorous prosecution of those responsible.

Marnie picked up the scorched stimkill, turned it over, studied what was left of it. 

"Tell me about this device," she said, raising pale eyes to this jurisdiction's chief investigator.

"An assassin's tool," he said quietly, but with an unusual ... hoarseness.

Marnie's eyes dropped to his throat.

He saw her slight frown, her intense look: his hand went to his throat, his fingers resting on what was left of a thin scar.

Their eyes met again, understanding passed between two who'd known death's caress and lived to tell the tale.

"This," he said, gesturing to the device -- a slim, small box the size of a pack of cigarettes, with a two-pronged extension as long as a man's finger -- "is similar to a slaughterhouse humane killer. It's pressed against the base of the skull. Capacitors in the body, contacts -- this assassin's model is spring loaded. These contacts are sharp. When the spring releases, it punches the sharpened contact prongs in deep, then discharges."

"It burns out the brainstem."

"Or the high spinal cord. It's as effective as a hangman's fracture. It's silent, it's supposed to be painless."

"Who makes these?"

"Commercially? Several companies make the slaughterhouse models. Nobody makes this one commercially."

"It is homemade?"

"We'll need to open it up and find out."

Marnie considered for several moments, frowned a little, nodded.

"I was not aware the Ambassador was ... armed," the investigator said carefully.

Marnie did not smile.

"This is not the first attempt upon my life, Detective. Not everyone is happy with the government's alliance with the Confederacy."

"So I gather."

"By the way, have you accounted for the bomb under the table?"

The detective's eyes widened.

He thrust his chair back, dropped to one knee, looked under, looked  back, eyes wide.

"Don't worry. Our security removed it and neutralized it. It is otherwise intact and quite functional."

Marnie leaned forward, rested her chin on delicately-interlaced fingertips.

"I wanted it intact and unchanged for your examination."

"Sir?" a technician said from across the room. "I've downloaded from the drones."

"Anything of interest?"

"I've keyed it up for your reference, sir. Just after it all happened."

A screen lit up on the nearest wall.

The technician cued up the sequence immediately after Marnie fired her single shot, after the would-be assassin fell.

They watched the device self-destruct the moment dead fingers relaxed their grip.

They watched a furry, short-coupled pup snarl and advance on the vanquished enemy, legs stiff, fangs bared.

They watched a very young Bear Killer sniff, growling, at the bloodied carcass.

They watched a bristling young mountain Mastiff hike his leg and cast his ballot upon the situation.

The investigator looked at the Ambassador.

Marnie's face colored delicately and she looked innocently at the Investigaior and said, "Please understand, Detective ... that is not an official Diplomatic statement!"

They looked back at the screen, at a short coupled, sinner's-heart-black, young mountain Mastiff hoist his nose, dig contemptuously with his hind legs, and stalk off, the very image of indignation and contempt.

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE SHERIFF'S OFFICE

Sheriff Linn Keller was consulting with a new deputy.

The new deputy was happily considering the Sheriff's most recent words.

The computer screen lit up and another Sheriff looked out at him -- as a matter of fact, both lawmen were engaged in the same activity, in the same moment.

Each had one of Snowdrift's furry pups on his lap, and each was in the process of assuring these newest additions to their respective Sheriff's offices, that he was a good booie, and these newest deputies happily accepted both this verbal praise, and the palmed treatskis.

Neither pup knew what he'd done right, but it didn't matter.

If treats were involved, the pups were eager participants!

"Sir," Jacob said, hands busy with the snuffing, licking, nibbling, cold-nose-thrusting Bear Killer on his Martian lap, "Marnie had to punch a ticket yesterday."

Sheriff Linn Keller's face was carefully impassive as he gave a single, slow nod.

"What happened?"

"Another assassination attempt, sir. Littlejohn saw the assassin approach. He moved to interpose himself between Marnie and the threat."

"I take it," Linn said dryly, "the assassin came out in second place."

Jacob's grin was quick, easy, natural: The Bear Killer pup turned around, thrust up toward Jacob's chin, tail wagging.

"Yes, sir," Jacob confirmed. "You could say that."

"Is the deeper situation being taken care of?"

"It is, sir. I was surprised, the locals actually had a really good handle on it. I heard this morning they've arrested almost everyone involved."

"Good."

Linn looked down at the mouth-open, tongue-hanging, grinning fuzzy pup on his lap.

"That sound good to you, 45?"

"45, sir?"

Linn looked at his son's image on the screen and grinned.

"Veronica called him 45 and said that's his puppy name. He'll grow into Bear Killer, but for now, he's like a 45 automatic: short, fat and slow, and gets the job done."

Jacob laughed quietly, rubbing The Bear Killer's belly as the pup sat proudly on the Martian lawman's lap: as Linn watched, the pup's forelegs folded, he dropped horizontal, head thrust straight out, relaxed and sound asleep, just that fast.

"You doing okay, Jacob?"

Jacob blinked a few times, his eyes distant, then he looked down at the relaxed pup, asleep on his lap.

He looked up, looked at his father's image on the glowing screen, looked back down at the pup.

"I am now."

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE OLD MAN AND THE NOZZLE

Marnie --

Nothing's gone wrong and no complaints.

Ambassador Marnie Keller read the hand written note and frowned a little.

Her husband looked across the supper table at his wife and asked, "Dearest, what's wrong?"

Marnie's pale eyes read quickly, devouring what little was left of the brief note.

"I don't know," she said slowly.

Littlejohn looked at his father, then at his mother, silent, concerned: even The Bear Killer cocked his head comically and looked at her with button-bright eyes and a nearly-inaudible whine of concern.

"Who is it from?"

Marnie looked up, her expression serious.

"It's from Uncle Will."

Dr. John Greenlees placed his fork on his now-empty plate, slowly, carefully, so as to make no sound: he would be sending a different message if he placed it firmly on his plate, intentionally making a sharp noise: he may've done this to convey silent watchfulness, or to emphasize that he was paying very close attention to his wife's concerns, or maybe because he knew their young son was watching, and sons learn by imitating their fathers.

"What does he say?" Dr. John asked, his voice quiet, reassuring.

Marnie cleared her throat delicately, lifted her chin a bit, as if she were formally addressing an assemblage of dignitaries.

"It says, 'Marnie, nothing's gone wrong and no complaints.' "

"Uh-oh," Dr. John muttered.

Littlejohn blinked, surreptitiously lowered a hoarded, gravy-rimmed bread crust: The Bear Killer took it, dropped back to his haunches, one eye squinched shut as he happily masticated the offering.

"He continues.

" 'I trust your revolver continues to serve you well. Its twin kept me from grief. Darwin is alive and well, and two Oyeas are in the hoosegow because of Darwin's Principle of Poor Victim Selection."

"What's the score of dead and wounded?" Dr. John murmured.

The Bear Killer tilted his head, looked hopefully up at Littlejohn.

"What are Oyeas?" Littlejohn asked.

Marnie blinked, laid the note aside, turned to her son: she gave him a slack jawed look, closed one eye and said in a terribly-affected urban accent, "Maan, you wanna be innada gang?" -- then she gave an exaggerated, wide-eyed look of fake joy and exclaimed in the same urban accent, "Oh Yea!"

Littlejohn giggled, the way a young boy will, and The Bear Killer swung his hind quarters in response: he had no idea what was causing Littlejohn delight, but he knew it was often followed with more smuggled treatskis.

"Does he go into detail?" Dr. John asked, his face serious.

"No," Marnie admitted, "so I'd better go see him."

 

Marnie's knuckles were not yet lowered from rapping on the door, when the door opened and her pale eyed Uncle grinned at her.

"Coffee's hot," he rumbled, and Marnie swept in, seized her Uncle in a crushing hug, the feathers on her fashionable little hat tickling his nose and bringing that quiet, closed-mouth laugh that she so delighted in ever since she was a little girl.

"You got my note."

Marnie drew back, stepped inside, shut the door, patted his chest with the flat of her gloved palm.

"Uncle Will," she said quietly, "is all well?"

Will spread his arms, grinning: "Darlin', do you see any bruises on my face?"

Marnie drew back, placed the tips of her curved, gloved fingers under his chin, turned his head carefully to the left, then to the right, giving her Uncle's visage a very definite study.

"Mmm," she hummed speculatively. "I see a handsome man, but no, no bruising."

She lowered her hand, tilted her head thoughtfully, frowned a little, and uttered a wise and well-thought-out comment.

"Coffee."

 

Marnie carefully, daintily, quartered her powdered doughnut with a knife and fork.

She speared a quadrant of white-powdered pastry, dunked it in her coffee, lowered her head and -- for all her daintiness, for all her careful femininity -- she loudly and indelicately slurped her coffee-dunked doughnut, caught the run-down drippin's from her chin with a ready napkin.

Uncle Will had no such decorum: after the first small bite, he dunked his, raised it, took an equally noisy, slurping bite, wiped his own chin with a napkin.

"Darlin'," he admitted, "I have long puzzled about women."

"How's that?" she asked,  cutting one of the quartered chunk in half before trying again.

"It does not matter what women folks do, they do it so ... womanly."

Marnie dunked her smaller chunk, managed to consume it without dribble or slurp: she chewed happily, regarded her Uncle with wide and innocent eyes, swallowed:  "I'll take that as a compliment!"

She leaned forward, wrists on the edge of the table, lowered her head as if looking over an invisible pair of spectacles.

"Uncle Will, what happened? I got your note and imagined ... quite a bit."

Retired Chief of Police Will Keller laughed a little, nodded.

"Darlin', do you recall how my sister led Willamina's Warriors Football Team on runs through the mountains?"

Marnie nodded.

"You know I run every morning."

"I know you're retired," she said, "and you threatened to park your backside in a rocking chair on the front porch and watch the world go to hell until you fell over dead."

"Yeah, I threaten a lot," he chuckled.

"I also know you get up, you make your bed, you drop and give me twenty and you run."

He nodded.  "Go on."

"I know you've got a chin-up bar where you chin as many times as you did push ups, you drop and hook your feet under the low bar and do that many sit-ups, fast."

Uncle Will smiled quietly, nodded.

"So you're running Willamina's Warriors now."

He chuckled.

"Your Mama taught 'em running songs -- they teach each other now -- she'd have homemade cookies for 'em."

Marnie looked at him with wide eyes.

"I tried baking cookies."

Marnie blinked, doing her best to look innocent.

Uncle Will grinned.

"I used 'em for clay pigeons, they were that bad. One of the football players' mothers organizes cookie baking now."

"Bless her for that."

"The Ladies' Tea Society still send care packages. One of 'em read a letter out loud she got from her son. He asked her to send a sweater as it gets blue cold over there at night, and some fabric softener. The bottle broke in shipment and soaked that sweater, and he said when he wore it -- under his fatigues -- it smelled like home."

Marnie nodded, her expression softening a little.

"Another mother said her son wrote that there were guys in his outfit that never got anything from home. she'd been sending a letter a week minimum, and a care package a week. When she got his note about some of the guys getting nothing, she upped her war budget."

Marnie's eyes tightened at the corners, that smile of hers that fair to lit her up from inside.

"She said he'd gotten in the habit at mail call of giving a whistle, and the guys would dog pile into his hootch" -- he frowned -- "tellin' my age there! -- anyway he'd hand out what-all he'd got until there was nothin' left, and so she sent bigger packages with more 'Stuff.' "

Will looked at Marnie.

"I've been doin' the same," he admitted.

Marnie's smile was bright, delighted, honest.

"The one mother ... they asked me to come to the Ladies' Tea Society where they were readin' the letters and talkin' it all over ... "

Will chuckled, his face reddening.

"Imagine a bunch of Marines. Hardened combat veterans with war engraved in their faces, young men made of white oak and rawhide, solemn and deadly and made of laminated whalebone and stainless steel ... down on their Prayer Bones, running Hot Wheels cars on cardboard tracks making 'vroom vroom' noises!"

Marnie's laugh was quiet, contagious: she nodded, delight shining in her face.

She tilted her head.

"So now that you've run clear around the barn, Mr. Darwin," she smiled, "what in two hells happened to you?"

 

"Sheriff's Office, what is the nature of your emergency?" Sharon asked, her voice precise, professional.

Marcia's voice, staccato, panicked: "Oh my God there's fight and Uncle Will just shot somebody!"

"Marcia, are you hurt?"

"No, but --"

Sharon heard the phone clatter as the handset was set quickly on the countertop.

Sharon heard the brittle shik-shak! of a twelve gauge slamming into battery.

Marcia's voice again, no longer scared, just businesslike: "GET AWAY FROM THE WINDOWS! EITHER HIT THE DECK OR GET INTO THE COOLER, GO!"

Sharon hit the intercom button: "Sheriff, Uncle Will is at the All-Night, shots fired!"

 

Will Keller, retired Chief of Police, returned to his white Crown Vic.

It was a retirement gift from the community: it was completely overhauled -- completely! -- by the local Vocational School: the body was, for all practical purposes, new -- corrosion ground out or cut out, replaced with new metal, heavily undercoated: the frame was replaced with a brand new one, custom fabricated by a startup that wanted to demonstrate their abilities, and donated this brand-new, factory-spec frame to the Vocational School's Automotive section; the suspension, steering, bearings, drivetrain -- every last system was dismounted, disassembled, rebuilt, it even had a new gas tank, a new sending unit, the brake lines were stainless steel instead of ferrous steel -- new brakes, new tires ... this had been a project to which the entire community conspired, contributed, and collectively embarrassed the hell out of Uncle Will when they gave it to him.

As he was retired, it lacked lights and siren, radio and antennas.

As it was the Police Interceptor model, it had the big engine, the heavy suspension, the big cooling system and big electrical system.

It was new enough to be fuel injected, and efficient; Will joked that as long as he kept his big hind hoof out of the four barrel, he got decent mileage, which got a smile from everyone, but a knowing grin from those who knew what a four barrel actually was.

He'd gone inside and prepaid his gas purchase: he'd stopped and looked very directly at Marcia and said, "Forgive my bein' forward, but I still think you have the loveliest smile!" -- he winked and departed as Marcia's face flushed.

She never thought of herself as particularly attractive, and when an older man with nothing to prove gave a woman a compliment, it was probably both sincere, and honest.

Will saw two strangers on the far side of his Crown Vic.

One was trying the door.

Will circled wide; the pair drew back at his approach.

They waited until he unlocked the gas cap, lifted the nozzle, started the gas pump.

"Hey old man!" one challenged, lifting his hoodie to show a pistol in his waistband.

Will looked the other way --  close, too close! -- he squeezed the nozzle, thrust it at the nearest, sloshed shocking-cold gasoline up his front and into his face.

Will dropped the nozzle, turned.

He responded as he'd been trained.

Muscle memory, a thousand dry-fire drills: his pistol was in hand, his eyes focused on the threat, the Smith's oiled mechanism rolled smoothly, the sight picture was crisp, sharp, he could see the individual serrations in the front sight ramp --

125 grains of controlled expansion projectile drove into the threat.

Uncle Will shot the hell out of the slide of that pistol in the hoodnik's waistband.

Marcia had been watching -- she'd followed the man out with her eyes, still warm and pleased from the compliment -- she felt her stomach sink as she saw the pair, saw the confrontation, saw the bright splash of something liquid, saw an old man move and turn and fire one shot, saw one troublemaker half-scream and turn and run, saw the other fold up and fall --

Marcia seized the phone, punched the keys with a panic-stiff finger, her voice tense, stressed, eyes wide as she crouched, just high enough to keep watching through the big front windows.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller's hoof mashed the go pedal.

He did not burn rubber, there was no squall of tortured tire tread, but the sound of a big block engine under heavy acceleration was unmistakable in evening's quiet.

His was not the only cruiser to arrive that night, his were not the only knuckles white and tight around a shotgun's wrist, and his were not the only hands that seized a wrongdoer.

The shotgun was handed off to another deputy as one hoodnik, spread eagled on the ground with an irritated old man's .357 looking at him, decided cooperation was better than being shot again; the other was seized, stripped -- quickly, much less than gently -- and whether it was really necessary or not, he got hosed down before being stuffed in a cruiser and transported for decontamination and incarceration.

 

Uncle Will plucked another powdered doughnut from the box, dribbled powdered sugar across the tablecloth on its way to his refilled coffee mug.

"So you shot his pistol," Marnie said quietly.

Will grinned.

"Darlin'," he said, "do you recall how you and I used to set up a row of playing cards, edge-on, and take turns cutting them in two?"

"I remember," Marnie smiled, feeling Colorado sunshine on her shoulders, hearing their shared laughter as they took turns firing, as an entire deck of playing cards, one at a time, got buzzsawed in two, edgewise, and neither of them missed a shot.

"Do you remember I'd set up the Ace of Spades and cut the heart out of it?"

"I remember we'd each set one up and shoot for the best group, loser buys the Sundaes."  She leaned forward a little.  "I remember it didn't matter who outshot who, you always bought!"

Will laughed, nodded, looked at his niece, sighed.

"I always did enjoy spoilin' you."

"So you shot his pistol."

"After all that precise practice," he shrugged, "I reckon I focused on the threat, and that's where my shot went."

"Good way to show with no doubt at all that he was armed."

"I testified before the grand jury this morning. I'm no-billed, and he ... isn't."

"That's a good way to put it."

"The gun was stolen."

"Are we surprised?"

"Your Pa already contacted the owner and offered to buy it. Once he's got a signed bill of sale, it'll go in the Sheriff's exhibit out in the Museum."

When Marnie took her leave, she paused at the door, gave her Uncle a long look.

"Uncle Will," she said quietly, "you should write a book!"

Will laughed. "Darlin', books are written by people who've actually done something!"

Marnie was quiet for a moment longer than necessary before she replied.

"It's always interesting," she said slowly, "to see the world through someone else's eyes."

Her expression brightened, and for a moment, Will saw the mischievous, energetic girl she used to be, looking out the eyes of a grown woman.

"Besides, you've already got the title."

"How's that, darlin'?"

Marnie caressed his cheek laughed.

" 'The Old Man and the Nozzle!' "

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

YOU COULD SAY THAT

Littlejohn was at once more terrified than he'd ever been, and just as exhilarated.

The wind was cold in his face and he had the sensation of speed! -- utter, unmitigated, unimaginable SPEED!! -- young hands gripped bitless reins, young legs gripped the barrel of the Appaloosa mare as she leaned into a turn, as she started to gallop, as she did the one thing she loved more than anything else in this world, and that was to RUN!!!

John Greenlees Jr. had ridden in simulations, yes, but they were just that -- simulations -- they had safety protocols, they were realistic, but here -- here, surrounded by mountains, here with every hoofstrike felt through his backside, with every lunge, every move, transmitted through saddle and through his legs and through his very living SOUL!! -- 

This was real, more real than anything he'd ever known in his entire young LIFE!!!

Dr. John Greenlees stood beside a long tall Sheriff: the Doctor's brogan was up on the bottom rail, the Sheriff's polished Wellington boot was up on the same rail, and both men watched as a patient old mare with a penchant for unmitigated velocity, turned and came thundering down the long stretch of pasture fast enough the good Doctor fancied he could see his son's Guardian Angel hanging onto the back of his son's belt with one hand, streaming like a gauzy kite tail and screaming "SLOW DOWN, I CAN'T KEEP UP!"

Behind the men, the Sheriff's stallion, saddled, stood hip-shot, his head down, looking for all the world like he was going to fall asleep.

The stallion's head came up, ears forward, as the Sheriff muttered something, then shouted: "Oh no don't you dare MILDRED DON'T DO IT --"

Dr. John Greenlees, physician and surgeon, felt his belly turn cold and twist inside him.

Mildred, the mild, placid, docile old mare -- Mildred, the mare the Sheriff trusted most when it came to riding the special needs children every week -- Mildred, the mare he deferred to when teaching absolute novices how to ride horseback --

Mildred, in her day, won several races, and showed an inclination for jumping, and now Mildred was heading for the end of the pasture and showing no sign of swinging to one side to make the turn to keep from colliding with the collar bone high, whitewashed board fence.

The Sheriff turned and threw one leg up, he was in the saddle in a single long step with no recollection of how he'd done it, and frankly he did not care: the moment the Sheriff's voice slashed through the clear mountain air like a horsewhip, his stallion knew he was going to run, and he was ready, he was ready! --

Dr. John Greenlees' mouth opened and his hands dropped to the next fence board down so he'd have something to actually grip.

John Greenlees Jr.'s legs tightened, his hands crushed the reins, he leaned forward a little, his eyes were wider than they'd been for a very long time, and a long, vigorous, youthful, primal SCREAM was locked in his throat as the world kicked hard up against them and Mildred reached with her forehooves and thrust her legs straight out behind her and they were flying they were flying they were flying --

There is a magical moment, when jumping a horse, when horse and rider are no longer separate entities: their souls merge, their joy merges as they leave the surly world of dirt and rock beneath and behind, and they join that heavenly league of those who ride the wind itself.

In that bright moment, when time shatters and the splintered, shining fractions of a second are lived, one at a time, at once slower than wading through molasses and faster than lightning on a greased plank, John Greenlees Jr. knew what it was to ride a good horse, and what it was to truly fly!

The Sheriff's teeth were clenched, he was bent low over the stallion's neck, palms pressed flat against warm-furred neck muscles, the black mane covering his hands: an Appaloosa stallion laid his ears back and busted a hole in the wind, driving with a desperate speed, not at all certain why his rider wanted such desperate velocity, but more than happy to oblige.

The Sheriff hadn't gotten near to cornering when Mildred returned to earth.

John Greenlees stuck to the saddle like a burr on a coon dog's pelt: Mildred had her blood up, she had her speed up, she was out of the pasture.

Two horses and two riders thundered toward the highway, turned, came back alongside the pasture: Mildred's years did not allow her the endurance she once had, and the Sheriff and his stallion caught up with Littlejohn and the mare: Mildred slowed to a good trot, Apple-horse pacing her, and the Sheriff could not help but grin when he looked over at a boy young enough to be the Sheriff's grandson.

It would take a hammer and chisel and two sticks of dynamite to get the grin off that boy's face! the Sheriff thought, and when Doc raised his binoculars and across the pasture at the two of them, that was exactly the thought he had about the look on the Sheriff's own expression.

 

An old country doctor and a greying old Sheriff spoke quietly over a meal, in the back room of the Silver Jewel.

Dr. John Greenlees Senior leaned back as the waitress set apple pie and ice cream in front of him and in front of the Sheriff as well: she refilled their coffee, smiled at the Doctor and squeezed the Sheriff's shoulder.

Linn reached up and patted her hand and said innocently, "You can flirt with me any time, dear heart!" and she laughed, and Doc shook his head as she hip-swung her way out, drew the door quietly shut behind her.

Linn looked at his old friend, smiled:  "Don't worry, Doc.  A hot woman and a cold glass of water and I'd die of a heart attack!"

"I didn't say a word," Doc replied innocently, picking up his fork.

"You said you had an idea."

Doc frowned, nodded, sampled his pie, grunted with pleasure.

"My grandson.  Littlejohn.  He's ... I can't say he's lazy."

Linn raised an eyebrow.

"He's your grandson, Doc. I don't think lazy is in his genes."

"You remember your Mama lecturing about moonshining back East."

Linn's grin was quick, genuine:  "Oh, yes!"

"She said each successive generation was lazier than the previous. She said moonshiners would throw a hundred pound bag of sugar over their shoulder and hike back through woods and hills by a different path each time so they wouldn't leave a trail, and how finally they quit hauling sugar and started growing a certain native herb that was less work and more profitable."

"I remember," Linn nodded, starting work on his own pie.

"Mars ... has a much lighter gravity."

Linn nodded.

"The human body doesn't do as well unless it grows up from birth in Mars-normal. Earthers lose calcium from their bones. Kidney stones, cardiac issues, they do better if they stay in Earth-normal gravity."

Linn nodded again.

"John Junior."

Doc frowned.

"That sound so formal."

"Littlejohn sounds so juvenile," Linn offered.

Doc's lips pressed together as he frowned. "He ... he's a boy, and boys are naturally lazy."

Linn waited.

"He ... his father, my son John -- told him he can operate better in Earth-normal gravity, He said he's steadier, even if he have to work in Mars grav, he's stronger and steadier and can stay on his feet longer."

Linn considered this, offered no comment.

"Young John decided he wanted to suture as well as his father. He has classmates studying medicine like he is. They compete in suturing, they've come up with simulations for simple surgeries, and John found he's better at a simulated operation than the boys who grew up in lighter gravity."

Linn nodded, once, his eyes steady on the Doctor's face.

"Now he's decided he'll spend his time in Earth-normal gravity."

Linn nodded thoughtfully.

"Sounds like he wants to please dear old Dad."

"That's part of it," Doc agreed, then frowned.

"There's something else."

"He'd like to ride real horses, not simulations."

Linn's grin was slow, broad, genuine.

"We can fix him right up."

 

Two Appaloosas, a stallion and a mare, slowed to a walk, stopped.

Linn snapped open a Barlow knife, handed it and a plug of molasses twist to young John as he dismounted, as he turned.

John blinked, surprised, then grinned.

He whittled shavings off the plug the way he'd watched the Sheriff: he handed the Barlow back, handle first, then the plug, then he held his palm out flat and let the mare lip the bribe off his palm.

He grinned up at the Sheriff and the older man saw a genuine delight in the boy's eyes.

John Greenlees Jr. unsaddled her -- he watched as the Sheriff unsaddled his stallion, then followed the example -- he watched as Linn gripped the saddlehorn and cantle and hauled it off, swung it easily onto its stand, and John Jr. discovered a saddle was quite a bit heavier, considerably more awkward than he'd expected.

He wasn't ready for the mare to nose his backside, either, but to his credit, he fell forward across the saddle and did not hit the concrete floor.

John turned, stared as the mare took the fallen saddle blanket between strong yellow teeth, backed up a few playful steps, raised her head.

Moments later, a Martian physician and a Colorado Sheriff laughed together as a boy ran, yelling, after an Appaloosa mare who was slinging a saddleblanket and running playfully across the pasture, with a stallion, two colts and three white firehorses joining the joyful parade.

 

That night, father and son sat at the supper table, each smiling quietly, staring at the day's memories they saw playing out on their empty plates.

Marnie gathered silverware, glasses and then the plates: when she returned, she sat, planted her elbows on the tabletop, rested her chin on her fists and looked from one to the other.

"You two look pleased with yourselves," she murmured, noting the healthy color in her son's cheeks, the knowing look in her husband's expression.

Father and son looked at one another, then looked at Marnie.

Doc spoke first.

"Pleased with ourselves?" he said quietly, with that quiet, lopsided smile of his: he and John Jr. looked at one another, then they both looked back at Marnie.

"You could say that."

 

Edited April 10, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

BLAZING WHISTLER

The right hand barrel was warm.

The Sheriff lowered the double barrel shotgun, slowly, his moves deliberate, controlled, contrasting to the tail-slashing dragon in his belly.

He broke open the Greener, dropped a smoking hull to the ground, dunked in a brass reload and raised the gun's rear to close it.

Even when he'd just blown a man's heart out through his breastbone, when he closed a shotgun, he raised the rear instead of snapping up the barrels.

The Sheriff's skin felt tight-stretched, and it was: his cheekbones stood out, his eyes were dead white, very much alive, bright and shining and looking like polished ice.

Running boot heels, voices, a shout: it did not take long for people to gather.

The Sheriff turned slowly, his expression less than friendly, gun muzzles raised, then tilted backward a little against his shoulder.

Another voice, a loud, hoarse "NOOO!" -- something the size of a young mountain came rip-roarin' out of the alley, turned toward him -- Jackson Cooper, the town's marshal, a full head taller than the Sheriff, broader at the shoulder, and in that post-shooting moment, it looked to the Sheriff as if the man was running through invisible molasses.

It would have been funny had the Sheriff not been absolutely vibrating with the knowledge that he'd just killed the man that came to kill him.

Jackson Cooper, for all his size, moved like a dancer: he turned, twisted, slipped through the intervening spectators, seized the Sheriff's shoulders, his hands big, hard, tight: Jackson Cooper, a calm man who had never in human existence ever, ever gotten angry, gotten excited -- Jackson Cooper, a man who still grew red-faced and tongue-tied when a woman addressed him with a quiet smile and a gentle voice -- Jackson Cooper, who Linn kept from being unjustly prosecuted from a false accusation back East --

Jackson Cooper seized Linn's shoulders, stopped, swallowed, breathing hard.

Linn looked at his old friend and spoke first, quietly, gently.

"I'm not hurt."

Jackson Cooper's grip tightened a little more as the man nodded, and for a moment, Linn thought this walking mountain might crush him with a fierce embrace as easily as a child crushes a paper sack after extracting the penny candy.

He didn't.

Linn felt the tremors through his old friend's tight grip on his shoulders.

Linn heard a window open, quickly, heard the SLAM as a sash was raised with womanly vigor, and he looked across the street and up, at a red-headed woman leaning out the window.

He saw the blued barrels of Esther's double gun, where she'd leaned it against the sill, and he saw his wife, and he saw the concern in her eyes.

He lifted his free hand, palm toward her, lowered it:

I see you, darlin', I'm all right! the gesture said, and Esther nodded, drew a breath: he saw her shoulders sag as screaming apprehension flowed out with that great breath, then she called, "Mr. Keller, will you take your supper at the usual time?"

Sheriff Linn Keller grinned at Jackson Cooper: the broad-shouldered, tan-coated, walking mountain lowered his hands, turned toward Esther Keller, the Sheriff's green-eyed, red-headed bride and personal friend of the Marshal's wife, and removed his misshapen, worse-for-wear skypiece out of his unfailing respect for the woman.

Linn shifted his double gun to the other hand, laid it back over his off shoulder and gripped Jackson Cooper's shoulder, smiled up at his beautiful bride.

"Mrs. Keller, I would be most pleased to take my supper with my wife this night."

"Please do, Mr. Keller," she called back, "and do try to consort with a better grade of outlaw!"

 

One of the Blaze Boys, barefoot despite the early season, grinned at the big town Marshal.

"Yeah, he's huntin' the Sheriff," he confirmed. "I dunno why he's tellin' everyone."

Jackson Cooper grunted.

Last time this happened, the Sheriff was surprised by an equally surprised fellow who'd come to town, intending to establish himself as the man who was a faster, deadlier gunfighter than that pale eyed fast draw artist who'd killed the man's outlawin' partner.

Trouble was, as he lay choking on his own blood and the Sheriff knelt beside him, holding the man's hand and hearing his last words, the attacker intended to challenge and out-draw another Linn Keller.

The preacher down in Stone Creek.

The man who'd had to settle outlaw hash shortly after he took over that little church and started the orphanage.

The town Marshal's jaw slid out and he frowned some as he heard the barefoot truant's report.

"Where's your brother?" he rumbled, his voice sounding like it was the product of a locomotive boiler.

Billy Blaze's face fell. 

"Awww, we gotta go back to school?"

"No," Jackson Cooper grunted. "I need the two of you to help me out."

Billy Blaze's face split in an enthusiastic grin. "Sure thing, Marshal!"

 

"SHERIFF, WHERE YOU AT! -- oh," the man went from full-throated shout to startled, much quieter exclamation of distress.

He had a Winchester rifle and a head of steam, but when he set foot in the Silver Jewel, when he just came through the doors and started to shout, a neatly-pomaded bartender with a spotless white apron and an irritated expression turned, a short double gun to shoulder and looking directly at the intruder; there was the triple-click of a revolving-pistol coming to full stand, and the intruder's wide and startled eyes swung to Tilly, behind the hotel desk, with what looked like a dainty little Colt Navy that got left out in the rain and shrunk, and Tillie's face behind that cocked pistol looked just as warm and welcoming as the gunmuzzles turned in his general direction.

He backed up and backed out and allowed to himself as the Sheriff must not be there and he'd not be gettin' a cold beer here anytime soon.

 

"He tried the Sheriff's door," Billy Blaze said quietly.

Jackson Cooper's big thumb was laid over the Sharps rifle's hammer.

Jackson Cooper was a big man and Jackson Cooper favored big rifles and Jackson Cooper's shotgun was a ten-bore, but it was back at the house and not doin' him a bit of good, so he figured if a fifty ball out of the Sharps wouldn't do it, why, he'd just have to get mean with this fellow his own self.

Linn kept Jackson Cooper from bounty hunters and false accusations long years before, and Linn had been a friend of his years before that, and Jackson Cooper had a genuine affection for the man.

For one thing, Linn was the only man Jackson Cooper sang with, in the privacy of his barn one day, and the two men laughed when one, then the other, sang a few bars of a popular barroom tune: their voices joined in a surprisingly good harmony, and each delighted to find someone whose musical taste matched their own, and whose voice came together with their own.

For another, Linn always, unfailingly, treated Jackson Cooper like the friend and brother he'd always been.

Linn stood shoulder to shoulder with the man the day Jackson Cooper married Miz Emma, the schoolmarm, and Linn had discreetly ordered a half dozen hats for the man, for Jackson Cooper was strong, and Jackson Cooper had a definite sense of right and wrong, and Jackson Cooper was a most effective Town Marshal, but Jackson Cooper was also bashful as hell when it came to the women folks, and he had a bad habit of taking off his hat and twisting it into a shapeless felt sausage when he felt embarrassed -- which was most of the time, when talking with any of the ladies -- and so when Jackson Cooper twisted his first felt skypiece into ruin, Linn discreetly drew the sad sausage from the Marshal's grip and slipped a brand-new hat -- of the right size! -- into the man's strong, weather-browned fingers.

Now Jackson Cooper looked across the street, his eyes following Billy Blaze as he went whistling across the rutted, packed dirt, hands in his pockets, the picture of youthful indolence.

"You there!  Boy!" a voice shouted.

Jackson Cooper's thumb eased back up, hooked over the Sharps rifle's hammer spur.

Billy Blaze turned, innocence washing his face like a mother's hand.

"Yes, sir?" he called.

"Boy, have you seen that pale eyed Sheriff?"

Jackson Cooper saw Billy Blaze's grin -- but he also saw the deviltry in the boy's eyes --

"Yes, sir, he's right down there in the alley."

Billy Blaze raised a hand, glanced over at Jackson Cooper.

The Marshal peeked around the corner of the Sheriff's office.

The man stepped off the boardwalk onto the dirt -- if he walked slow and easy, he was quiet on the boardwalk, but he needed to move faster, so he stepped down to the dirt --

Jackson Cooper eased out, brought the Sharps up --

The Sheriff's office door opened, not ten feet from him.

Linn looked around, saw Jackson Cooper: he looked the other way, saw the man retreating.

Jackson Cooper saw the Sheriff raise the double gun.

There was no challenge, there was no contest of speed.

A lawman who knew a man was out to kill him, raised the lawman's best friend, mashed the front trigger, and fired a charge of heavy shot.

The swarm had no time to spread.

A twelve gauge buzzsaw bored through the man's spine, through his heart, out his breast bone, and fell to the ground not far distant, bloodied pellets bouncing on cold, packed dirt and rattling against warped, seasoned wood.

 

A red-headed woman drew her own double gun back from the window sill, parked it in the corner, and closed the window quietly, firmly.

A pale eyed Sheriff gripped a big, hard-muscled Marshal's shoulder and murmured, "Thank you, my friend!"

And a truant schoolboy with a shock of white hair on one side of his head, a blaze seared into his scalp by a lightning bolt he'd called from the sky with a stolen skyrocket, thrust his hands in his pockets and went whistling, barefoot, down the street.

 

Edited April 11, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

45 AUTOMATIC

Researchers and medical men debated matters like ancestral memory, DNA memory, how experiences could possibly be transferred through the intricate genetic strands hidden in sperm and egg.

Victoria Keller, the lovely young daughter of the county Sheriff, had never concerned herself with the matter.

She was too busy kneeling on the hook rug, rubbing a fat, black-furred Bear Killer pup's belly, giggling as strong young mountain-born and mountain-bred legs kicked happily, rapidly, as gentle fingers massaged his canine Tickle Spot, as he twisted his head back and gave a happy, puppy-like yow-wow-wow of utter, sheer, absolute, I'll-Give-You-a-Week-to-Stop-That!, canine approval!

Victoria Keller caressed 45's warm, furry underside as the snow-white Bear Killer of a mama Mountain Mastiff came up beside her, ran a nose under Victoria's free arm, then snuffed loudly at the corner of Victoria's clean-scrubbed, healthy-pink-skinned jaw.

The pretty youngest daughter of the county Sheriff did not bother herself with considering how knowledge or training or experience or memory might be handed down genetically.

She was young enough to take it for granted, old enough to appreciate it greatly.

Especially after today.

 

Victoria Keller learned early and well that looking very innocent, looking very much like Daddy's Little Girl, opened doors and opportunities for her, kept people from raising their guards and walls against her: she was polite, she was courteous, she was gentle-voiced and absolutely feminine, except for those moments when she wasn't, and in her travels through the Confederacy, she learned to her profound distress that "Peoples is peoples wherever yas goes."

There were instances where shots had to be fired, to keep her alive, such as when she and Michael were younger, when he wore a concealed pistol (when he wasn't really supposed to) and when he used said concealed pistol to head-shoot multiple rock snakes before they could kill her.

She remembered instances where people intended her harm, by kidnap in one instance, in other ways afterward: Victoria found that appearing to be a pretty little girl in ribbons and bows could allay men's suspicions long enough for her to get in close, and she herself had fired shots, both to keep herself safe, and once, when her big sister Marnie was trapped in a marble-walled council chamber and troops were readying a high-powered energy cannon to blast through its security doors, Angela put a round of .32 automatic through the commanding officer's brain by virtue of having introduced it to the underside of his jaw after she'd skipped up to the fellow and given him those big lovely eyes and smiled disarmingly.

Victoria hadn't shot anyone today.

She didn't have to.

She had, however, exercised an opportunistic war club in a brisk and effective manner -- breaking an attacker's shin bone, cracking a breast bone (not hers!), shattering three bones in another's hand: this after an improper comment and an unwanted advance, with Victoria's drawing back a step, falling into a fighting stance, eyes pale and blazing with a fury that should not belong inside of someone as feminine and lovely as herself.

45, for his part, launched forward -- Death's arrow in miniature, at high speed and with deadly purpose -- sharp little shining-white teeth clamped down hard on the lead attacker's shin bone, just above his boot top: it was when her attacker made to kick 45 free that Victoria snatched up two feet of plumber's pipe, an inch across and just the right size for her purposes: she had a corner to her back, she had three of them coming at her, and although there were no surveillance devices at this particular location, eyewitness testimony all agreed that she moved with a dancer's grace, a fencer's precision and a tornado's absolutely ruthless speed.

Victoria smiled quietly as she sat cross-legged, ruffled skirt spread modestly over stockinged legs and a matching ribbon bow in her hair, caressing and massaging the rolled-over canine belly, as she remembered the sudden arrival of two genuine western Sheriffs, on spotty Appaloosa horses: 45 scampered back away from the confusion, dropped his backside between Victoria’s shining black slippers, snarling happily as they watched a lean waisted lawman with an iron grey mustache, and the younger version with a Clan-Maxwell-red mustache, laying fast, harsh and violent hands on the group that thought it would be fun to mishandle a pretty young woman.

“You would think,” the Ambassador said quietly, “the entire Confederacy would know Victoria by sight.”

“They remember her as the little girl she was when she and Michael rode through that cloud of steam toward the shootout,” Marnie replied, her voice quiet. “Victoria is taller now and she doesn’t look like a little girl anymore.”

The Ambassador nodded, looking almost sadly out their office window.

“I will say that they might not have recognized Victoria, but when two honest to God Western Sheriffs come in and lay hard hands on the guilty, the fight ended in quite a hurry.”

Marnie’s smile was quiet, her eyes veiled, as if to hide memories of serving as one of her father’s deputies.

“Yes,” she agreed, keying her personal screen and smiling a little as she did. “You’re right.”

She saved the picture her youngest sister just sent her: Victoria, sitting cross legged on the floor, ruffled skirt spilled out to cover her Indian-legged posture, and the black, curly-furred pup that automatically charged to Victoria’s defense, and she smiled as she read the caption again.

Meet 45 Automatic!

Edited April 12, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

ORPHEUS, AND TWO BUCKLERS

Michael and Victoria were particularly well matched.

Michael, in a tailored black suit that would have been perfectly at home in the year of our Lord 1885, and Victoria, in a properly fitted gown of the same era, waltzed with perfect step to orchestral music.

Each was an accomplished dancer: paired off with even a mediocre partner, each could make such a soul look good.

Jacob leaned gently against his sister’s shoulder, leaned his head toward hers.

“I’m good,” Jacob murmured, “but I’m not that good!”

Marnie drove her elbow quickly, vigorously into her brother’s ribs.

“Don’t sell yourself short, little brother,” she murmured, giving him a sidelong look: “I seem to remember you never lack for ladies wanting to claim your arm!”

Ruth, on Jacob’s left, listened to the exchange, smiling quietly: Marnie turned, looked behind Jacob’s head, as did Jacob’s wife: the two shared a knowing look the way women will when they share some silent agreement.

Marnie could not help but notice the satisfied look on Ruth’s face:

Yes, they want him, and he’s mine!

Victoria was growing, yes; she was getting some height to her, yes; her still-slim body was no longer girl-straight – she was starting to curve, she was becoming womanly, but she was also Daddy’s little girl, which meant she slung saddles and stable scrapin’s, she rode horses and fed horses and rode fence and helped her Daddy tamp loose fence posts and replace broken or damaged boards.

Michael’s eyes were never still as they danced, nor were Victoria’s: each was very cognizant of the other’s moves, but each was very aware of everyone around them: when the music spun to a stop, Victoria spun on her toes, her gown flaring, and Michael stopped, one hand raised, her gloved fingers against his palm, a bearing-point for her spin: he bowed, she curtsied, she took his arm, and they did not so much pace toward their chair, as they danced their walk, making simple ambulation look as graceful and as skilled as their waltz had been.

Instead of sitting, they glided to the refreshment table: each accepted a crystal glass of punch, and rather than carrying it back and sipping delicately, each slugged theirs down like it was a shot of cheap whiskey, turned, handed their empties back.

And they did this in perfect synchronization.

Marnie and Jacob opened their arms, welcomed them back to the sidelines: Jacob opened his mouth to speak his congratulations when the orchestral leader raised his arms for attention, and called for an encore from four of their most gifted dancers.

Michael and Victoria looked at one another, lowered their heads very slightly, and smiled – a conspiratorial look, if ever there was one.

“You’re not,” Marnie murmured.

“They are,” Jacob grinned.

Michael unbuttoned his coat, spun it over the nearest chair: Victoria smiled wickedly as Michael accepted a long, hand rubbed, cherry wood case from a liveried, bowing footman.

Marnie looked at Ruth: "Do you want this one, or shall I take it?”

Ruth looked at Victoria, cinching a broad leather belt around her corset-narrowed waist, watched as she buckled the baldric, then picked up the Schlager-bladed rapier, slid it very precisely into its long, ebony sheath: Michael backed up a step, spun his sword-belt around his own lean horseman’s waist, adjusted his own baldric strap before dunking the long, elliptical-cross-section blade into its fleece-padded sheath with a practiced dunk.

"I think," Ruth said quietly, "you should take this one."

Four dancers glided out onto the floor, ladies’ gloved hands very properly around their gentleman’s arm: they came to the center of the floor, got their spacing: the men bowed, the women curtsied, the conductor gave them a rather uncertain look – this was not shaping up as he’d thought it would – then he turned, raised his baton, brought it down.

A sharp whistle froze him in the downbeat, startled the orchestra into standstill:  Marnie released her brother’s arm, skipped over to the conductor.

No one could hear the content of their brief powwow; the conductor raised uncertain fingers to his lips, then raised an eyebrow, then smiled a little, nodded.

The dancers took their positions: one arm around the other’s back, hands extended and clasped, weight on one foot, the other foot back, pointed.

A Strauss waltz, gentle, majestic, smooth, leading flawlessly into the delicate, fairylike introduction of Orpheus in the Underworld: bright, quick, with both couples spinning quickly and laughing with delight, at least until the introduction led into the main, bouncy tune, which the rest of the world knew as ...

... the Can-Can.

Jacob and Marnie spun away from one another, skip-dancing to the sidelines, each picking up something round, the size of a pie plate, dancing back: Michael and Victoria drew steel, began to dance.

Each wove arcs of shining silver, in perfect synchronization: each thrust was mirrored by the other, each twist to miss the thrust, flawlessly imitated by the other:  Jacob slid a buckler onto Victoria’s free hand, Marnie slid a buckler onto Michael’s, then the older siblings spun away, letting their younger siblings bring a metallic counterpoint as they crossed steel, as they blocked thrusts with bucklers held in fisted grips: they, too, danced, a treat for the eyes and for the ears, for their efforts kept perfect rhythm with the orchestra: as the orchestra came to its final crescendo, their sword-blades met, slid together, until they were face-to-face, arms thrust overhead, steel crossed just ahead of the ornate hilts, where they held, a dancer’s pose – weight on the balls of their lead foot, the other back, just toe touching.

They stood, thus, looking at one another, trying hard not to laugh, for they were brother and sister, after all: each took a step back, spread their arms, bowed each to the other: they turned, bowed to the conductor, who gravely returned their gracious salute: they turned, bowed to the audience, who by now were on their feet and applauding with enthusiasm and vigor.

Michael took a step back, swatted his twin sister across the backside with the flat of his blade.

Victoria gave less a screech, more of a squeak, raised her sword and charged after her brother, who ran laughing, circled the dance floor, and ran out the nearest door, his twin close on his heels:  applause became laughter, especially when the pair came back through the doorway, holding hands, bucklers under one arm and blades sheathed, waving and laughing at the noisy, enthusiastic, loudly and demonstrably appreciative audience.

 

 

Edited April 13, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WHEN IT COUNTED, YOU WERE THERE

Shelly and the girls were in feminine consult, all gentle voices and all talking at once, the way girls will: at least they pulled back to Shelly’s sewing room and shut the door, containing their contented chatter.

Michael stood in his father’s study, turned his hat brim through his fingers, holding the brushed-black Stetson almost like a codpiece, concern in his eyes and bottom lip between his teeth.

“You look like Atlas,” his father said quietly, “with the entire world on his shoulders.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael admitted, nodding, then raised his head from where he’d been staring a hole in the hook rug, looked very directly at his father.

“Sir, I would counsel with you.”

Linn nodded slowly, drew out his armless, padded office chair.

“Drag up a chair and speak your piece.”

Michael took a long breath, hung his Stetson on a peg, paced slowly over beside his father’s desk: he couldn’t go much further, the big comfortable oversized couch prevented his deeper penetration, so he grabbed what had been a kitchen chair at one time, brought it up to the corner of his father’s desk.

“Sir, you … yes, you know. You and Jacob went in and handled it.”

“The Victoria situation?”

“Yes, sir.”

Linn’s eyes were amused as he looked at the memory.

“Your sister had things pretty well settled when we got there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Linn leaned forward, forearms on his knees.

“What troubles you, Michael?” he asked quietly.

Michael lifted his eyes, then his head.

“Guilt, sir.”

Linn opened his mouth, took in a long breath, leaned back: he raised his arms above his head, gripped the back of the chair, shifted his weight a little, sighed the breath out, then looked down at his son.

“Michael,” he said quietly, “you are preachin’ to the choir.”

Michael’s expression was that of a sinner who just had another truckload of guilt dumped on his already overweighted shoulders.

Linn leaned forward again, lifted a palm: “Michael…”

He hesitated, then spaced his words out, emphasizing each one individually.

“You,  did,  nothing,  wrong!”

Michael frowned, planted his feet well apart, leaned forward, mirroring his father’s elbows-on-the-knees posture.

“Sir, I should have been there!” he said, his voice low, urgent.

“Michael,” Linn said quietly, “do you remember when you were still” – he stopped, held his hand out about three or four feet off the floor – “kind of small, you saw my burn scars when I came out of the shower and you asked if they hurt?”

Michael blinked, then grinned, then blushed, nodded.

“I remember, sir.”

“They still hurt, Michael. Not physically. They don’t hurt because I ran through burnin’ gasoline to get your Mama out of that wrecked car.

“Michael” – Linn’s voice was quiet, urgent, almost a hoarse whisper – “those scars hurt because I take a memory whip and I flog myself every time I think of your Mama trapped in that overturned car. I whip myself bloody every time I remember grabbin’ that car and God alone knows how I rolled it over so they could get the fire out and her the hell out of there before she burnt up!”

Linn didn’t wait for Michael’s reply.

“Michael, up here” – he knocked against his own forehead – “I know she’s a woman grown, she was drivin’ from here to there for God knows what, I forget, I know up here” – knock, knock on the forehead plate – “there was no way I could have prevented that wreck short of havin’ a crystal ball, and up here” – again, knuckles against his own hard head – “I know I couldn’t have both worked my shift, and driven her off to whatever she was about, but here!” – he thumped himself viciously on the breast bone – “I keep whipping myself with the idea that I should have driven her or I should have prevented it or I should have kept her home.”

Michael listened, eyes unblinking, steady, absorbing.

“Michael, when you shot those rock snakes, you were the only thing that kept Victoria, and yourself, alive.”

Michael nodded.

“When it counted, you were there.

“Victoria rode beside you when you both rode to the sound of guns and you both put a stop to that armed robbery. You’ve said yourself Victoria is hell on greased timber skids in hand-to-hand training. You’ll remember I don’t pair off with your Mama for knife training.”

Michael’s eyebrow twitched and the Sheriff saw surprise in his son’s eyes.

Linn grinned, chuckled, rubbed his palms slowly together, then looked up – a little ruefully – and admitted, “Your Mama can kill me faster in knife fight practice than anyone I’ve ever paired off with!”

Michael grinned.  “Yes, sir,” he said carefully.

“Now let’s take a look at Victoria’s situation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“As I recall, you honestly had your hands full.”

Michael’s face darkened.  “Yes, sir, I did.”

“You kept two children and their father alive.”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Victoria had her wrist unit and her personal shield.”

Michael hesitated, frowned.

“She did, sir.”

“She also had 45.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael grinned, and his grin was bright and sudden, and as if bidden, said stout little canine soul came bumbling, bouncing, romping noisily downstairs, moving at the ragged edge of control -- and at the last two steps, overshooting the stair tread and tumbling: he rolled, came up on all fours, shook himself, looked at Michael and let out a distinctly puppy-like yip, then scampered for the front door.

“Excuse me, sir,” Michael said quietly, rising: he took three long sockfoot strides to the front door, let the anxious pup out: it had been some time since they had to clean up a puddle, but Michael knew if he wasn’t pretty quick getting the door open, this particular pup’s bladder was the size of a walnut, and apparently 45’s gauge didn’t send any signal until the needle hit TILT.

Victoria came pattering downstairs in a hurry – Michael was just pushing the door shut when he turned, eyes wide, arms spreading – Victoria’s stockingfoot cadence stumbled, she gave a little squeak, spread her arms like she was flying –

Michael stepped into her fall, caught his sister –

Brotherly arms closed protectively around sister’s ribs, sister’s arms seized brotherly salvation, each threw their head to the left to prevent a cranial collision.

Two pale eyed twins, brother and sister, hit the floor: Michael grunted, he’d gone backward far enough his head came down hard on the toe of an anonymous boot in the rubber boot tray, and Victoria was rolling off him before her weight slammed down on him, her left arm slinging out and slapping the floor, hard, to break her fall – just as she’d done a thousand times in the dojo.

Michael lay there for a long moment, as did Victoria, both of them flat on their backs, looking up at the ceiling.

Linn rose, came over to the pair as cascading femininity flowed down the stairs toward them.

Voices, overlapping and tangled, questions, all asking pretty much the same thing: Linn threw his arm out, stopping both their approach, and their tangle of confused voices.

Mother and daughters formed a curved line behind the pale eyed lawman as he went to one knee between his two youngest children.

“Michael,” he asked quietly, “are you hurt?”

Michael blinked, struggled to get some wind into him.

“Gimme a minute,” he gasped.

Linn gripped his son’s hand between his, then released, shifted his weight, leaned over his daughter.

“Victoria?”

Victoria Keller turned her pretty, pale-blue eyes toward her Daddy as he pressed her soft little hand between his.

“Not quite,” she gasped,  “what I planned.”

Linn nodded, shifted his weight again, turned his attention to Michael again.

“How’s your back?” he asked quietly.

“Back’s okay, sir,” Michael said faintly, “I didn’t twist any.”

“Take your time gettin’ up. Ain’t much give to a hard wood floor.”

“No, sir,” Michael grinned, then coughed, struggled to get up.

Linn’s hand on his breast bone stopped him.

“Michael,” Linn said, his voice Daddy-deep, Daddy-reassuring.

Michael blinked, looked up at his father, laid a hand on his father’s big scar-traced paw.

“Michael, when it counted, you were there. Remember that.”

Michael was quiet for a long moment as Linn turned his hand over, gripped his son’s, gave a single, solemn nod of approval.

Michael relaxed, bit his bottom lip again, looked over at Victoria, then back at his father.

“Thank you, sir.”

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A SUDDEN ATTACK OF GOOD SENSE

I'm a-gonna give my Mama a genuine B'ar Skin Rug!

His finger curled back, around the rear trigger.

He felt more than heard the set trigger engage.

He'd struck a b'ar track in fresh snow.

Youthful confidence and a rifle in hand and he began to follow the big round tracks, looking ahead, listening.

He heard the creek running in the holler below, a few birds, the wind was carrying from his left, and his scent would be going to the right: the b'ar was going straight ahead, roughly north, and so was he.

The flint rifle balanced well in his hands.

It was a late Bedford County rifle -- slim, graceful, handmade: it came to shoulder like a feather on the breeze, he took only head shots on squirrel with it: he knew exactly where it hit from here to yonder, and he'd stretched "yonder" out a number of times.

He moved quickly, silently: he knew how to move in the hill country, in the woods: he faded back against a tree, pale eyes busy.

Like as not the b'ar was passing through, unless it wanted to investigate their chickens, or maybe the hogs.

The south face of the ridge descended to the creek: he paced upstream several feet, took a long legged stride across the small, cold stream, labored up the other side, where the sun was working on snow and leaves -- and he lost the track.

There was enough sun to ruin the snow, the tracks were melted away: he stopped, considered where he'd been, where the b'ar had been headed, looked ahead, expecting to see a black rump heading away from him --

Nothing.

He stopped, listening, looking toward the ridgeline above.

Was I to take out a-runnin' I might catch sight of him.

Then what?

He thought of the moment when he loaded his rifle, he thought of the ball he'd patched and seated with the striped maple ram rod, he considered the last b'ar he saw hangin' from a gambrel, and he recalled men telling him how hard a b'ar was to kill.

Could he slip that round ball -- the size of a sweet pea -- right down that b'ar's ear, he could drop it, one shot.

Could he put a bad shot into one, why, it might get unhappy and allow as it was goin' to get impressive with him, and he'd seen what a b'ar can do to a good dog.

Linn Keller stopped, looked up hill, considered all this, and recalled attair preacher sayin' that all things worked together for the good of them that loves the Lord, and he decided that maybe the Almighty was keepin' him from a right poor decision.

Besides, he'd only the one knife to skin it out with, and that would be an awful lot of meat to have to bone out, and how'd he get all that back home, he'd not let that much good eatin' go to waste.

Pale eyes considered the browned octagon barrel of his flint rifle, and a combination of Divine Intervention and maybe a little bit of good common sense combined to guarantee the pale eyed blood line would not end in Perry County, Ohio.

He might not be a-gettin' attair b'ar skin rug for his Mama's side of the bed, but he'd be alive to complain about it!

 

 

Edited April 15, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE WORLD’S WORST LIAR

Sarah Lynne McKenna was her usual self.

Contradictory.

She absolutely loved being her Mama’s fashion model – corsets and frillies and face paint, wigs and gowns, cleverly made to look like the full-sized McKenna gowns her Mama’s dress-works manufactured and sold to the fashionable: Sarah was sternly admonished to stay away from the theaters (everyone knew actors were people with loose morals!) which, of course, guaranteed Sarah sought them out at the earliest opportunity, at every opportunity, learning from them tricks of makeup, of presentation, of the quick-costume-change – skills which even her skeptical Mama had to admit, came in very handy indeed when her Mama paraded her ten-year-old daughter on stage for the buyers to see the very latest fashions from the great houses in Paris and London.

The fashion exemplars were rushed by express train across the continent, beating the sailing-ships that had to fight their way around the Horn to get up to Frisco: by the time San Frisco got their hands on exemplars from overseas, the McKenna Dress Works were already satisfying the market with the very latest in high-demand fashion.

Sarah also very much enjoyed the relief that came with returning to Firelands and being … well, being “just Sarah,” as she confided to the very few schoolmates in whom she reposed enough trust to speak of such matters.

It was on one such day when “Just Sarah” was flouncing happily up the boardwalk, dressed like the little girl she was.

Her mind wandered elsewhere, as will happen when the guard is lowered.

The Bear Killer padded happily behind her, watchful, making as much noise as a passing cloud.

Sarah blinked, nearly stumbled, startled by the sudden appearance of a long set of legs, a very black coat, and a pair of startling-pale eyes: her mind returned from elsewhere, realize with astonishment that she honestly did not see the Sheriff step out of his office, draw the door to and secure it, then turn to see a happy little girl skipping up the boardwalk with what looked like a very young bear cub, dark and menacing behind her.

Sarah stopped abruptly, almost stumbling: she blinked, then she did what came naturally to her.

She pointed a shiny-slippered toe, gripped her skirt and dropped an absolutely flawless curtsy.

Sheriff Linn Keller, seeing this gesture of femininity and of respect, did what came naturally to him.

He removed his Stetson and gave her a grave, formal, half-bow.

The Bear Killer, observing these solemn proprieties, danced forward, jumped up and licked the Sheriff’s chin, fell back, jumped up and did it again.

Sheriff Linn Keller, Chief Enforcer of Justice and Law in Firelands County, veteran of war, violence, joy and sorrow, laughter and heartbreak, could keep a solemn face no longer:  he rubbed The Bear Killer vigorously, squatted, looked at Sarah.

He saw an apple-cheeked girl with bright and pale eyes, looking at him with an expression of beatific delight; she saw the face he kept hidden behind a professional mask, a face seen but rarely, and only by those he trusted implicitly – the face of a delighted man who was exactly where he wished to be, doing exactly what he wished to do.

The Bear Killer’s expression was one of unadulterated canine delight, affected not in the slightest by the bright-red ribbon Sarah tied loosely about his neck.

Linn looked at The Bear Killer and remembered screams and gunshots and the sound of a wounded grizzly, swinging its one uninured paw and sharp, black, curved claws, a grizzly laying about like Samson with the jaw bone of a jack mule; he remembered Charlie Macneil stepping in close and drawing a brace of Remingtons and driving their contents into the b’ar, close enough to feel the wind off that swinging meathook.

Linn closed his eyes and remembered Twain Dawg – as he was known then – black as sin’s beating heart, screaming defiance and flying like a loosed arrow from the Reaper’s bow – launching off the ground, seizing the grizzly by the throat, jaws closing on part of the damage Macneil’s revolvers caused.

Linn closed his eyes, shivered, remembering.

Twain Dawg’s eyes were blood red, his young voice high as a pup’s but low as a Mastiff’s, the sound of rage, with fangs, at least until his jaws crushed shut the bloody wounds at the grizzly’s throat: long barrel Kentucky rifles, Linn’s Sharps, lead from several directions, the b’ar was dead as he fought but like most creatures of the kind, the b’ar refused to admit the fact until the Eternal seized its eternal soul by the scruff of the neck and yanked it out of its mortally wounded carcass.

Only then did the b’ar fall over and die.

Linn shivered a little as he remembered Twain Dawg, jaws still locked, unmoving, silent.

He remembered how Macneil’s strong fingers prized canine jaws apart, how he laid a broad hand on the young mountain Mastiff’s flank, searching for breath, until he seized Twain Dawg’s hind legs and spun, fast, slinging the dog out level with the velocity of his rotation.

Men stared, wondering if Marshal Macneil was parted company from his sanity.

He hadn’t.

He slung Twain Dawg around fast.

Centrifugal force dislodged the clot of hot, fresh, b’ar blood from Twain Dawg’s windpipe.

Macneil brought him to a stop, went to one knee, less to bring the curly-black Dawg to earth and more to keep himself from falling over from the dizzies.

This, Linn knew, was how Twain Dawg shed his puppy name and became who he was known as now.

The Bear Killer.

Linn looked up at Sarah, blinked as his mind returned to the here-and-now.

“He doesn’t let just anybody touch him,” Sarah said quietly, her eyes big and sincere, as if imparting a confidence.

Linn nodded.

“He won’t come near Mama’s husband.”

Mama’s husband, Linn thought.

Not Papa.

Linn looked at Sarah’s pale eyes, aching with a knowledge he dare not speak. He wished mightily this pale eyed little girl was his.

“I know,” he said, his voice just as quiet. “He doesn’t trust just anybody.”

He looked seriously at Sarah, the smile gone from his face and from his eyes.

He trusts you.”

Sarah blinked, as if the realization was honestly a surprise to her.

 

Daisy felt the air shift.

She was stirring the stew – it was a good, thick, rich stew, she’d cut her taters up fine rather than chunking them up, this made it thick and pulled in all the flavors of the several spices she used – she rapped the wooden spoon edgewise on the lip of the stewpot, turned to scold whichever man dared interrupt her kitchen, stopped with a startled blink when she saw it was no man.

Sarah stood uncertainly in the doorway.

Daisy recognized the look on Sarah’s face.

“I be needin’ yer help,” Daisy said briskly, “come o’er here, th’ both of ye” – she picked up a bowl, dipped up a short ladle of stew, set it on the little table behind her with a spoon – a second bowl, cracked, kept for this purpose, and The Bear Killer found that he, too, was being recruited for quality control.

“Ye were no’ here when I put this together,” Daisy said quietly in that delightful Irish accent of hers: “I need an outside opinion.”

The Bear Killer was very evidently of the opinion that Daisy’s stew was quite good; he polished the bowl clean and looked hopefully up at the Irishwoman, tail wagging encouragement.

“Oh, all right,” Daisy muttered, pretending to speak crossly: she tossed The Bear Killer a roll, which he caught easily.

Sarah tasted the stew, considered, tasted another spoonful, frowned.

“There’s something wrong with this,” she said decisively, then looked at the startled chief cook of the Silver Jewel’s kitchen, her expression serious but innocent.

“And wha’ wuid tha’ be?” Daisy demanded, knuckles on her apron.

“I’m not sure,” Sarah said, “but there’s something wrong with it, so I’d better eat it all so nobody else gets sick!”

Sarah’s pronouncement was solemn, sincere, delivered with a beatific expression that belied the outrageousness of her words: she and Daisy cracked at the same moment, Daisy bent and hugged her, kissed the top of her head and whispered in her ear, “I may need help wi’ testin’ m’ pie!”

The Bear Killer looked hopefully at the pair, tilting his head a little, trying to look as adorable as possible.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller knocked at his wife’s office door, waited for Esther’s reply before stepping inside.

The Z&W Railroad maintained its office directly above the Silver Jewel Saloon, a little to the right of the main front door: if you climbed the stairs, the office door was first on the right, with Z&W RAILROAD, E. KELLER, PRESIDENT AND OWNER in neat, hand painted letters.

Esther tilted her head, smiled as her husband stepped into her space and put his hands around her slender middle.

Esther tilted her head back with that gentle smile, and the merriment in her eyes that warned him she was in fine form: “Mister Keller,” she said quietly, “I saw you carousing with that younger woman across the street!”

“Mrs. Keller,” he said quietly, tossing his Stetson on a convenient chair, “I have been a rake and a scoundrel, and I shall be so again!”

She raised his face to his, and he accepted her invitation: their arms tightened around each other, and when they came up for air, Esther whispered, “Mr. Keller?”

“Yes, Mrs. Keller?”

“You, sir are the world’s worst liar.”

She felt his silent laughter as his mouth met hers again.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

DAMN YOU, TALK!

"I wish you'd have called me when you found it," Willamina said quietly -- not quite disapprovingly, but close to it.

Her gunsmith frowned, looked at her over his half-glasses.

"No you don't," he said quietly.

Sheriff Willamina Keller folded her arms, looked steadily at the man: was she not so close to the counter, he'd expect to see her tapping her foot like an overly patient schoolteacher.

"Sheriff," he said, "this was wrapped in hide of some kind. The hide looked like it had been soaked in a barrel of oil and then wrapped around three wraps of  maybe ... linen ... and this was inside."

"Where was it found?"

"Buried."

"Where?"

Her gunsmith frowned again, wiped his hands on a shop rag.

He came around the glass topped counter, walked to the front door: Willamina watched as he locked the door, hung the sign on the little suction cup hook so CLOSED showed through the glass.

He turned.

"I made coffee."

Willamina raised an eyebrow, raised her talkie.

"Dispatch, this is Actual."

"Actual, Firelands, go."

"I'll be in conference, fishing pole protocol."

"I roger your fishing pole, good hunting."

Willamina lowered the slim, dark-textured talkie, slipped it back into its black-leather sheath behind her left hip.

She followed the gunsmith back into the back of his shop.

 

Polly ran delicate fingers over a Navy Colt revolver.

"I don't know how," she admitted.

Opal looked at her sister, her absolutely Oriental-black eyes unreadable.

"I know someone who does."

"Mama was particular about this."

"I know."

"Can we even get into the old mine?"

Opal's expression was quiet, but Polly could see the epicanthic folds a little more prominently, and that meant her half-sister knew something Polly didn't.

Both girls wore mourning black, for their mother was dead:  Bonnie Lynne McKenna was gone to join her Highland Scots ancestors, she was laid in the Firelands cemetery beside her husband: though her stone bore her married name -- she'd kept it after becoming a widow -- she was a McKenna, and was so recorded in the front page of the girls' Bibles.

Polly looked at her half-sister with the same violet eyes that captivated a pale eyed Sheriff's heart, the same eyes that her mother had: Opal felt a fresh wave of sadness crash over her, like a towering ocean wave -- grief came like that, she knew, it would hit her hard and without warning and from an unexpected direction, but she closed her eyes and disciplined herself to stillness, confining her grief to a hidden room: she was her mother's daughter, and her spine was layered of whalebone and sun-dried rawhide.

She would not weep.

Not here.

Polly's eyes leaked steadily; her grief was silent, but not unseen.

Opal picked up the Navy Colt, looked around: she picked up a large, linen place mat, placed the old revolver diagonally on the cloth, wrapped it, then tucked it under her arm, adjusted the drape of her capelet.

"You don't have to come along."

Polly nodded, raised her damp, crumpled kerchief to her nose: the girls turned, walked slowly, silently toward the door.

They stopped at the front door, looked back, as if expecting to see Bonnie smiling at them from the next room, then they turned, closed the door on an impossibly silent, incredibly empty house.

 

"This was found in a rusted metal box in an abandoned mineshaft," the gunsmith said as he poured relatively fresh coffee into two heavy ceramic mugs. 

"Who found it?" Willamina asked.

"Two local boys, high school boys who are making a project of mapping the old mineshafts."

"Dangerous work," Willamina murmured, sampling her scalding beverage: she grimaced, swallowed, took another sip.

"Scald the hair off your tongue?" the gunsmith asked quietly.

"What is this, bluing salts and battery acid?" Willamina coughed, then tilted the mug up and drank half of it before coming up for air: she squinted her eyes shut, turned her head, shivered.

"God, that's awful!" she grated, then thrust the mug toward him: "Hit me again!"

He refilled her mug, set the pot back on the warming plate, walked over to his workbench, pulled out two barstools he'd rescued from a yard sale some years before.

They sat.

He lifted a shop rag from the object of discussion.

 

A strong young man looked around the mineshaft, lifted his lantern, looked up at feminine faces above: they sky was bright above them, the ladder leading from the Light into Shadow, and he was at the bottom of the ladder.

"It's dry down here," he called.  "I think this will work fine."

Polly and Opal watched as he disappeared: they heard the sound of excavation, of pick and shovel: it did not take long at all -- surprising, they agreed later -- he came back, climbed the ladder, came out head-and-shoulders, grinned.

Polly picked up the metal box, handed it to him.

He backed down the ladder, holding the box overhead -- "Show-off!" Opal murmured -- he disappeared again.

The girls waited, hands clasped between their knees as they bent over, wind whipping their skirts and plucking at their hair: Polly raised a hand, pulled a strand back, tucked it behind her ear.

They were alone, there in the pasture: mountains and soaring birds, and their carriage-horse, were their only witnesses.

The ladder shivered a little as their college-bound excavator ascended: he pulled the ladder up, ran his arm through the rungs at balance, so it teetered on his shoulder: he smacked his gloves together, dusted them vigorously with an exaggerated vigor and announced happily, "Got 'er done!"

The three drove back into town, leaving a sinkhole surrounded by posts and fence boards, leaving the side pasture beside the house that used to be their home.

The posts and planks remained for years, keeping livestock, the curious, and the careless, from falling down a sinkhole into an abandoned mineshaft, one that opened while a young, pale eyed, Sarah McKenna watched from her bedroom window in the nearby farmhouse, many years before.

 

"The boys found some old records," the gunsmith said as Willamina stared at an ancient Navy Colt on the workbench. "They gave me copies of what they had. Here" -- he handed her a page -- "is a letter from Mrs. Polly something. Can't read the last name."

"She was Polly McKenna Rosenthal," Willamina murmured. "I have her wedding portrait in the Museum."

Her gunsmith nodded, unsurprised.

"The letter describes hiring a college man to go down into the old dry works and crib this into a rock niche. The boys checked property records, they went out and found some of the old original fence posts still standing. They went down into the sink hole and that's really what got 'em started mapping the old works."

Willamina nodded.

"The State got involved and now they're using high tech stuff."

"I know. We've been following their progress. Did they find anything else interesting?"

"Nothing much."

She looked at the Navy Colt revolver.

"Here."

He handed her a photocopy of a hand written letter.

"I'll have them bring you the original."

 

Polly McKenna Rosenthal smiled as she dipped her pen, as she transferred quick-running thoughts to paper.

Mama kept the revolver the Sheriff gave her, she wrote.

She told us he'd been a prisoner during the War.

A guard gave him the revolver in hopes he would shoot the hated Yankee judge.

He kept the revolver and carried it as Town Marshal back East, and carried it West with him.

He gave it to Mama when the Reavers came to town.

Mama used that old revolver to keep her and Aunt Sarah alive.

She kept it in a locked drawer of her desk, with a picture of the Sheriff.

I remember, after the Sheriff died, she would unlock the drawer -- always at night, always when she thought we were all asleep, always when she was alone -- she would look at that old revolver, and at the Sheriff's image, and she would weep, the way a woman will when her heart is torn asunder with grief.

She made us promise we would bury that old revolver where no one would ever find it.

We did.

It is in an old mineshaft, the one that fell in when Mama was a little girl. It is to the east of the old home place and surrounded with cedar posts, with boards nailed up to keep livestock from falling in.

Sheriff Willamina Keller looked at the Navy Colt revolver on the gunsmith's bench, her mouth open a little: she bit her bottom lip, picked it up carefully, swallowed hard.

The gunsmith expected her to cock it, or to ask his opinion of this fine old gun's condition.

She didn't.

Her face hardened as she looked at it.

Sheriff Willamina Keller's jaw tightened as she glared at an artifact from well back in her own blood's ancestry, as she took a deep, steadying breath.

Sheriff Willamina Keller picked up the revolver given to a pale eyed man in a Yankee prison, the revolver he'd shot a hole in a blanket with when stopping a horse thief, the revolver he'd carried when he walked down Butcher Knife Joe on a muddy main street in a little Appalachian coal mining town.

She held the revolver he'd handed to a woman he'd loved, a woman for whom he'd have ripped out his beating heart to lay at her feet, had circumstances been different, the revolver that woman used to keep her and her little girl safe from Reavers who came to burn the town and murder the inhabitants, the revolver she'd kept safe and hidden for the rest of her life, the revolver she'd had hidden away for posterity.

"It's been exquisitely well taken care of," the gunsmith said. "Matter of fact, it's ... the nipple threads were greased last time it was torn down and cleaned, that's what concerned me the most. They look factory new."

He picked it up, disassembled it quickly, held up the barrel and rammer assembly.

"Take a look at this."

He turned the muzzle down, dropped a pistol-ball in the barrel's breech end.

"Goes in just over halfway."

Willamina raised an eyebrow, looked at him.

He turned it over, tapped it to dislodge the ball, picked it up and set it on the barrel's upturned muzzle.

It almost perched on the muzzle end.

"Choke bored," he said quietly. "I haven't run a gauge to find out but I'd bet my paycheck she's rifled with a gain twist. The gain twist and choke bore meant these revolvers were incredibly accurate."

He reassembled the revolver; Willamina could see it was meticulously clean, bearing surfaces freshly greased.

He placed it back on the benchtop.

"I would not be afraid to shoot it today."

 

Sheriff Willamina Keller sat at her desk, there in the Sheriff's office, a polymer-framed, striker-fired pistol on her belt, a self-loading carbine with a generous magazine parked behind her left shoulder, an extended magazine pump shotgun in its stand behind her right shoulder.

She held a revolving pistol that went to war a century and a half before.

She looked to her right, at the framed image of the pale eyed Sheriff who'd worn this very pistol.

Sheriff Willamina Keller closed her eyes and considered what-all her hell-raising ancestor had seen, had done, with this hardware on his belt.

She opened her eyes, gave the pistol a hard glare, and hissed, "DAMN YOU, TALK!"

 

 

 

Edited April 17, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Brazos Bottom Bill Miller]

Looks like Linn has been savin' up fer this thread. Glad someone started it. 
I'm new around these here parts, and a little late fer the party. Some of y'all are purty good.

Mebbe I'll take a crack at it!

Good job, fellers!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Howdy, glad you're here, welcome to the Saloon.

Have Mr. Baxter draw you a cold one and if Daisy comes stormin' out of the kitchen with that drippin' spoon of hers, stay out of arm's reach. Her husband is a head taller than me and half again broader across the shoulders and she keeps him in line and makes it look easy!

This is a solo thread, I am its lone contributor: I'm a published author and I present at historic re-enactments as Old Pale Eyes, the second Sheriff of Firelands County, Colorado, who was one of the characters that started this thread long years ago when Belle Alley was still in operation.

Very much appreciate your kind words!

Sheriff Willamina has this distressing habit of coming up to me, grabbing me by the shirt collar and snatching me up short and hissing "Write!" -- and of course the only correct reply is to lift my Stetson and say "Yes ma'am!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE TOBACCO MARKET

Jacob Keller swung down from his stallion, his Apple-horse turned broadside to the city traffic.

He hunkered, looked at the little boy who was looking at him, shy and uncertain and a little scared.

"Howdy," Jacob said, his voice gentle: "you been here long?"

It was a city boy, a little boy, not more than maybe four or five years old: Jacob saw the child just standing in the middle of the street, looking around, looking lost.

"Where's your folks?" Jacob asked, and the boy looked at Jacob with big trusting eyes and declared, "Pa's lost."

Jacob nodded, slowly.

"That happens sometimes," he said. "Where was he last you recall?"

The boy frowned.

"I'm not s'pos'ta tell," he said quietly.

Jacob picked the lad up -- his own son was about this size -- "I reckon we might find him anyhow."

Hope brightened the lost little boy's expression.

Jacob swung the boy up, dunked him a-straddle of Apple-horse's neck, mounted: once, and only once before, had he thrown his stallion sideways here on the big city street, and he'd had a set-to with a carriage driver that swore at him and slashed Apple with a whip, shouting at him to get the hell out of the way.

After Jacob jumped into the carriage and beat the living hell out of the driver with the handle of his own whip, he dunked the ill tempered sort in the nearest horse trough, to the amusement of a local constable: Jacob was known to the Denver police force, and if the situation required a lawman's stern admonition in a language the sinner could understand, these Brothers of the Badge were not about to nay-say his efforts.

This time, though, Jacob hit the saddle, ran an arm around a well-dressed little boy's waist, and set out in search of a father who'd gotten himself lost.

It wasn't the boy that was lost -- this was obvious -- it was all that rascally father's fault, at least that's what Jacob told the boy, and the boy grinned his agreement.

"Now whereabouts would you say your Pa was when you saw him last?" Jacob inquired.

"Da Burley Coo," the boy said.

Jacob chuckled.

A father and son, in the City for whatever reason, the father wanted to take in a bawdy stage show but he didn't want to expose a young boy to its ribald humor: send the boy out for some penny candy or some such, tell him not to wander off, and of course boys will delight in the former and pay no attention at all to admonitions of the latter.

Jacob considered the boy's shoes and how dirty they weren't.

Had he been wandering for some time, he'd likely have gotten into some mud.

Close, then.

Jacob eased Apple-horse into a trot, curled his lip, whistled.

A street-corner police officer looked, startled, at the sharp summons: Jacob rode up to him, grinned.

"Samuel James, how's that lovely new wife of yours!" Jacob declared loudly, leaning a little and thrusting out his hand.

Officer Samuel James Blake laughed with honest delight, stepped forward, gripped Jacob's extended hand:  "Jacob! I've not seen you for a year! Is this your boy, then?"

"No, and we need your help," Jacob said frankly. "This young fellow knows where he is, so he's not lost a'tall, it's his father that's lost, and I'm thinkin' the Burley Cue might be a place to look."

"Robert!" a woman's voice called, sharp, loud: a woman seized her skirts, ran toward Jacob and the officer, looking up at the delighted little boy sharing an Appaloosa stallion with a genuine Sheriff.

Jacob leaned his head down, murmured quietly, "Son, do you know her?"

He already had his answer -- before he could ask, the boy squirmed with delight, thrust out an arm:  "Mama!"

Jacob laughed, picked the boy up, lowered him into his mother's anxious grip: she looked up at Jacob, halfway between thankful and scared.

"And my husband?"

Jacob thought quickly, looked at the officer, then looked at the woman and said, "I believe he is looking into tobacco, ma'am."

The woman had come from their left; a man came quickly from the right, down the sidewalk, moving quickly, turning to slip between the other pedestrians.

He was greeted by a delighted little boy, a worried wife: Jacob looked down at the man and said, "Sir, did you make any headway on your investments?  I understand the Kentucky tobacco interests are ... profitable."

"Why, yes," he blinked, picking up on the subterfuge: Jacob touched his hat-brim to the reunited family, jerked his head at the officer, who stepped off the curb, approached.

Jacob leaned down, spoke quietly.

"What was that about?" Officer S. J. Blake asked, looking from the retreating family's backsides back up at Jacob.

Jacob said quickly, confidentially, "Kentucky Burley is a kind of tobacco. The burley market is profitable this year, or so I'm told. I don't know but what the boy misunderstood what he'd heard, and" -- he looked sidelong at the reunited family, walking down the sidewalk together -- "I ain't gonna give a worried Mama cause to cloud up and rain all over her husband if I can help it!"

Blake clapped his hand on Jacob's thigh in agreement, his eyes bright with their shared skullduggery: he nodded, laughed quietly.

"Kentucky Burley. I'll have to remember that!"

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

FORGIVENESS. THIRTY CALIBER.

Victoria Keller dismounted from her Appaloosa mare.

She caressed the mare's jaw, whispered to her: the mare leaned her forehead against Victoria's bodice, two ladies sharing a confidence, or so it seemed.

Victoria dropped the bitless reins, walked over to the polished marble memorial.

The memorial was at the confluence of four radiating paths, paved with unpolished limestone; the memorial itself, a column, belt buckle tall on her long tall Daddy, flat on top.

Atop this one foot square polished marble plate, set atop this fluted marble column, was a glass bell jar, sealed into a groove cut very precisely into the marble.

Inside the bell jar stood a single rifle cartridge.

A word was sandblasted into the squared-off edge of the foot-square slab.

FORGIVENESS.

The column stood inside an arch, half again taller than a tall man, as wide as that man might be tall.

The net effect was to draw the eye, to frame the memorial.

Victoria stood quietly, her brows pulled together a little, a serious look on her face.

None approached her.

Frankly, nobody dared.

Victoria was known throughout the Thirteen Systems.

Victoria was yet a child when she and her twin brother were shown on the Inter-System, at full gallop, exploding through the wall of steam escaping a mortally wounded brougham: she'd been seen standing in the stirrups, rifle in hand, riding to the sound of a battle: the popular imagination held the snapshot of her taking a rifle shot with her mare in full, hoof-slashing rear, right before she and her brother laid among the armed robbers with horsepower and with lead.

The fact that Victoria had drawn her personal Winchester from its scabbard, and held it at balance as she stood and studied the single bottleneck round under protective glass, probably had something to do with nobody's interrupting her visit.

Victoria stood and glared at the memorial for what was actually a very few minutes.

To the onlookers, it seemed quite a bit longer, similar to the way time will suddenly crawl as the sizzling fuse disappears into a bundle of blasting powder.

A sound interrupted whatever dark thoughts were making her eyes pale.

Victoria turned.

She frowned now, but not in anger: thoughtfulness, most likely, as she tilted her head and listened.

Then she smiled.

Just a little, she smiled.

Victoria skipped back to her mare, thrust the rifle back into its scabbard: she unfast a saddlebag, came up on tiptoes so she could reach down into the leather treasure chest.

She brought out a pair of shoes.

Victoria turned, ran, light on her toes, almost skipping: her step had visible intent as she approached the memorial, but now ... now, as she ran, she ran, light, swift, graceful.

She ran with joy.

She came up beside a young man -- he was not much older than she -- surprised, he lifted the bow from fiddle-strings, lowered his instrument.

He recognized her: startled, he opened his mouth.

Victoria laid gentle fingertips on his forearm, her expression gone from the serious, almost hostile glare of the memorial, to one of honest delight -- "Do you know the Irish Washerwoman?"

He blinked a few times, closed his mouth, thought, frowning, his eyes dropping and swinging to the side: he finally looked back, shook his head.

Victoria whistled the tune -- bright, merry, contagious.

He blinked twice, his face brightening.

Victoria looked around, found a section of stone walkway that would suit her purpose: her shiny slippers came off and she slid into anklets and her Irish hardshoes, fast them up.

Victoria lay her slippers aside, planted her knuckles on her belt; she crossed her ankles, insides forward, took a long breath, tilted her head back and let the music flow through her soul.

She opened her eyes, looked at the young fiddler, who grinned at her, nodded his head -- one, two, three! -- and started to play.

The memorial was in a park; the park was a popular place; horses were rare, not unknown, but quite rare here on Planet Fanghorn -- even the native Fanghorn, broken to saddle, numbered less than six, counting the famous Lightning that Michael rode, and so when an Appaloosa mare lowered her head and grazed, as a pretty girl danced Irish hardshoe on a stone slab, while a grinning young fiddler spun the bouncy Irish Washerwoman, people watched, and people smiled, and people drew near.

Victoria turned, timing her turn when the music went up a third, down a third: she laughed when it dropped into a minor key, then climbed back out: when the final note spun, held, then stopped, she was stopped, up on her toes, arms up like a ballerina's, head back, arched back a little:  Victoria Keller, daughter of a pale eyed Sheriff --

Victoria Keller, twin to a pale eyed brother who rode something that made Victoria's saddlemount look like the Tooth Fairy --

Victoria Keller, the living personification of perpetual motion, who was started in dance class to try to burn off her never ending supply of youthful energy, and finding her delight in Irish dance --

Victoria laughed, delighted, skipped over to the fiddler, eyes shining.

"Thank you," she whispered, and kissed him quickly on the cheek:  she spun, ran, light, fairylike, bent and snatched her slippers from the grass: she dunked her shiny dress shoes into the still-unbuckled saddlebag, thrust a foot into the doghouse stirrup, and to the bystanders, this creature of grace and of dance, did not muscle off the ground, she soared as if she had invisible wings.

Victoria turned her Appaloosa, stopped, frowned, looked back at the fiddler: she kicked free of the stirrups and leaped to the ground, ran back over to the fiddler, her face suddenly serious.

"Never," she said, her voice urgent, her eyes serious, "never ever doubt the good that you do!"

She pulled him by the shirt-sleeve, pulled him at a brisk trot around the manicured hedge-bushes, until they stood on one of the straight walkways radiating from the commemorative memorial.

Victoria stopped, looked at the marble construct, at the bell jar, then at the fiddler.

"That idiot," she said, her voice low, heavy with menace, "that shot my brother, nearly killed him."

She frowned, her teeth set: she took a long breath, another, recovering her composure.

She looked back at the fiddler.

"My brother Michael is a really good dancer," she said, "but he had to stop while he healed up, and I could ..."

She bit off her words, closed her eyes, opened them slowly.

"Michael forgave him," she said, "and it's really hard for me to forgive."

She looked the serious-faced young man very directly in the eye.

"You gave me some happiness," she said quietly.  "Thank you."

She looked at the memorial, at the single word carved into the edge of its shelf.

"My brother forgave the man who tried to kill him," she said quietly. "If Michael could forgive him, I can too."

She looked back, smiled with half her mouth.

"As long as I can find a fiddler to remind me there's still joy in the world!"

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A TALE OF TWO CHURCHES

The Sheriff and his family usually sat in the front row of a Sunday.

Victoria, when possible -- if it was at all possible -- was part of the choir, seated behind the blocky, handmade altar, the one with Irish shotgun hooks on the back side, and occasionally, with a shotgun in the hooks.

If Victoria could not make it into the choir, Angela did: it was a rare day indeed when at least one of the Keller girls wasn't singing in the choir.

The choir-books were more props than useful, at least for whichever of the pale eyed ladies sang: rarely did they look down at the books: they had all seen the badger, and they had all fought the badger, and they cast pale and watchful eyes out over the congregation.

With the most beatific, gentle, feminine expression, of course.

There were watchers, mostly in back: strangers were a rarity, troublemakers almost as rare.

Another Sheriff -- firstborn son of the abovementioned pale eyed, iron-grey-mustached lawman -- not infrequently attended church with his wife's family, on their homeworld: because he was not Sheriff on that world, chances of assassination were considerably less, and so out of inherited custom, Jacob, Ruth and Joseph, and now their little baby girl, sat in the front row, as Jacob had, back home, when he was his son's age.

He did, however, reach over and lift their happy, bright-eyed, wiggling, arm-waving little girl, in her frilly bonnet and petticoats -- he ran a discreet hand under her bottom (still dry!) -- then set her on his lap, bounced her a little as their choir coasted to a stop, drawing out the final note as choirs always do.

Little Rebecca Lynne chewed on her pink knuckles, waved her damp little fist and gave a happy squeal, which brought a grin from their Parson.

He raised his chin, declared in a firm voice as the ushers brought the collection plates forward, "We are told, in the Bible, to make a joyful noise unto the Lord."

He looked down at the visiting Sheriff and his family, and his smile was that of a father who remembered what it was to hold his own happy young thusly.

"Children have that happy prerogative," he continued, then looked at the Choir and back to the congregation.

"If I would refer to our choir's hard work as a joyful noise, they would probably beat me to death with their hymnals" -- appreciative laughter from both choir and the faithful -- and a little baby on her Daddy's lap had no idea what was really being said, only that everyone laughed a little, and so she did too.

 

One moment, Reverend John Burnett was shaking hands, murmuring to each parishoner as they filed out, his smile genuine: he was a likeable man, he was a good-natured man, he was a soft-spoken man, and so, as the Sheriff hung back with his wife and his daughters, something happened -- whatever it was, it was fast, it was a violent confusion of voices and movement: there was an ugly, crunching snap, not quite like celery being twisted, the sound almost immediately lost in a yell of pain -- people flinched back, Linn felt the floor shiver as something -- someone! -- hit the ground.

Victoria shoved sideways, hard, leaving a hole: Angela punched through the hole, slid between the next two suit coats, claws raised --

Angela Keller, all Sunday dress and petticoats, long stockinged legs and high heels, snarled like a mountain cat and landed on someone who was trying to get up.

Linn twisted away from his wife, shouldered through the close confusion of shocked-still worshippers --

A long tall Sheriff, hands open and bladed, watched as his little girl, his daughter, his dainty feminine nurse Angela, wearing a white-and-pastel-pink Sunday dress instead of her nursing whites, rolled over, one hand locked around a man's wrist, twisted it up behind his back, her free hand going to the middle of her back.

She hissed something that shouldn't really be said in polite company, let alone in church, then she turned her head: "Dammit, I don't have my cuffs!" she shouted.

Her father handed her a stainless pair of Smith & Wessons and said quietly, "Don't call me Dammit."

He waited while Angela secured the prisoner, then deadpanned, "That's my rabbit dog's name."

Angela rolled the prisoner over, seized his coat, tore it open, blinked.

"Daddy," she said, her voice raising half an octave, "get everyone out of here."

She planted her hand on the prisoner's throat, turned her head, shot her Daddy a pale-eyed glare.

"NOW!"

 

It took a little while to sort out what-all happened.

The Parson submitted to Shelly's examination of his left hand.

He had one bloodied knuckle, probably from one of the stranger's teeth.

He had a cut -- more of a snag -- in his shirt, where the stranger tried to gut him.

The Parson seized the knife hand with a very precise, very efficient disarm -- something difficult, something that takes practice, and plenty of it -- the knife was recovered, bagged as evidence.

The prisoner was held down with a Taser pressed against his kidneys, with the promise to absolutely barbecue his tenderloins if he so much as flinched: one sustained application was enough to persuade compliance.

Angela felt his back to make sure nothing lay between his sweaty shirt and his greasy hide.

 

The Sheriff asked the Parson to join their debrief.

Federal forces were represented at the debrief; copies of the church's surveillance were distributed, as were copies of all affidavits, after action reports and recordings of every word the suspect uttered.

Reverend John Burnett watched, expressionless, as the video was enhanced, slowed, showing his reflexive disarm, his punch, then the chop alongside the neck, the one that dropped the subject.

Reverend John Burnett's expression did not change from its carefully neutral mask as he examined the suicide vest, woven of small-diameter explosive cord, double thick on the front and layered with ball bearings under duct tape: it was obviously handmade, it was intended as a directional device.

The prisoner confessed to a cellmate he'd intended to knife the preacher, back up and let the people crowd in to gawk the way sheep always do, then detonate and kill them all: this confession, duly recorded by the cellmate (funny thing, he wasn't really a prisoner. Imagine that) -- all these things were copied and distributed.

The prisoner's wrist was badly sprained, though not broken.

One of the Federal boys looked at the Parson and said quietly, "Losing your touch, John? I remember the day when you'd have ripped the hand off his arm and stuffed it down his throat!"

Reverend John Burnett gave the man a sleepy look and said, "To quote Saint Benedict, in all things, moderation!"

"Apparently," Linn said slowly, giving his old friend an assessing look, "there is more to you, Parson, than meets the eye!"

Edited April 19, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WE'LL MAKE DO

The Sheriff's hands drove out, slicing in between ribs and arms and hoisting the startled young woman off his feet.

The earth dropped out from under her and she dizzied momentarily as the man spun her around, laughing with genuine delight.

Esther smiled quietly, looked at a nervous young man in his best suit and an uncertain expression: she nodded, once, then glided across the parlor and laid claim to his arm.

He allowed her to steer him toward the window: he swallowed nervously -- it had taken quite a bit to approach this pale eyed old lawman and ask for Mary's hand in marriage.

He knew her name wasn't actually Mary, but for whatever reason, that's what she'd been called: she was the Girl, she was Esther's maid, her cook, her domestic servant -- which meant, in this household, she was part of the family, she was never bullyragged, overworked, scolded, nor talked down to: the Girl had no family, this side of the Old Sod, and so this young man thought it proper to approach the only man he figured would be the right one to ask.

Old Pale Eyes listened, silent, expressionless, as the young man laid out his case.

The Sheriff nodded, excused himself, went to the parlor door and called gently, "Mary, may I speak with you?"

Esther knew what was going on -- the wife always knows! -- she glided in behind the maid, slipped to the other side of the room, silent, watching, almost smiling, the way a woman will when she knows something is in the wind.

The young man did not hear the quiet-voiced conversation between his intended, and her employer: he blinked, startled, as the Girl gave a startled squeak, as she was hoist up at arm's length and whirled about, as a man with pale eyes and an iron grey mustache laughed with genuine delight.

The young man barely remembered Esther's quiet-voiced questions; he only vaguely remembered her asking him whether he had a house and property, whether he had the finances to support a family, whether his own family would accept this young woman as one of their own: he was too busy watching his intended's face, beautiful, the color rising in her cheeks, her eyes shining.

He held two pictures in his heart for all their married life.

One was his wife, on the day of their marriage, at the moment he lifted her veil and swallowed hard, just before he kissed his bride.

The other was this moment, when she looked at him, eyes shining and cheeks flushed, and he knew the answer to his question.

 

The Sheriff hung his Stetson on its peg, turned, took his wife around her waist with strong, gentle hands.

Esther laid her hands over his shoulders and smiled up at him.

"Mrs. Keller," the Sheriff said, "I do love a good wedding!"

"Mr. Keller," Esther said, "I do too!"

The Sheriff hugged his wife to him, holding her for several long moments, eyes closed, savoring this silent, private moment.

He laid his cheek over atop his wife's ornate hair, careful not to disturb it -- she'd taken pains to look really good, not for the occasion, he knew, but for him -- he murmured, "Darlin', I'm sorry I've made work for you by givin' Mary away."  He drew back, looked down at his wife, pale eyes a light blue now, gentle and quiet: "I reckon I can help some."

She patted him on the shirt front and murmured, "We'll make do, my dear," and then looked up with something like mischief in her eyes.

A young woman in a proper uniform dress and a starched apron and cap turned, stopped in the doorway: "I'll have dinner ready in an hour," she called, and the Sheriff laughed quietly, looked down at his amused bride.

"Bless you, darlin'," he murmured, marveling yet again on his wife's unfailing efficiency.

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

MEANWHILE, ONE FRIDAY NIGHT

Marnie was -- as she usually was -- well dressed.

It was evening, it was Friday night: she and her brother Jacob were not yet graduated early, but their school week was over: they were old enough to be left home alone, young enough to know that their parents had some magical way of knowing if they were up to any deviltry.

Jacob came downstairs.

His jeans were pressed, as was his shirt; he was freshly showered, his hair combed, he looked as if he could jump in his half ton Dodge and head for town, or for a party, or for a girl's house.

He looked over at Marnie and considered that -- as she was in a blouse and skirt, a ribbon in her hair, she could be waiting for a beau to pick her up, or perhaps delaying her own leave-time in order to arrive fashionably late.

She sat at her Daddy's desk, which she often did when reading, and raised her eyes, smiling a little.

"I love it when I answer my own questions," she said quietly.

Jacob came over, pulled up a chair, sat.

"How's that, little sis?"

Marnie raised an eyebrow, lowered her head: "Watch yourself, little brother," she muttered, raising a fist and waving it threateningly -- then they both said, in flawless chorus, "Wednesday or Thursday?" -- and they both laughed.

"Y'know," Jacob chuckled, rubbing his palms together between his knees -- a habit he shared with his pale eyed Pa -- "if you ever threaten to knock me into the middle of next week, neither of us will be able to keep a straight face!"

"I know," Marnie sighed, planting an elbow on the desk and leaning her cheek bone into her knuckles: "you're just too good natured for your own good!"

"I could say the same about you," he replied, his voice quiet.

"Don't tell that to the Chappalear twins," she said, an edge to her voice.

"They grabbed yourrr ..."

Jacob leaned over, as if to examine his sister's backside.

"They grabbed you, didn't they?"

Marnie closed her eyes, nodded.

"And you educated them as to the error of their ways."

She nodded again.

"I'd say they deserved it."

"They know if I'd gone to you or to Daddy, they'd be worse off!"

"The only reason I didn't go after 'em was because you told me you'd taken care of it and to let it go."

"You haven't told Daddy?"

Jacob shook his head.

"Good."

Jacob nodded to the open Journal on the desk.

He and Marnie had read every last one of them, enough times they near to had them memorized.

"What stirred your thoughts?"

Marnie smiled with half her mouth.

"I wanted to ... I had a memory fragment of something, and ..."

Her voice trailed off.

"Old Pale Eyes paid the dowry for every one of their maids they married off."

It was Jacob's turn to raise an eyebrow.

Marnie frowned.

"Jacob, when I get married, I don't want Daddy to ... I'd like a dowry, sure, but ..."

"Sis," Jacob said quietly, "he can afford it."

"I know," she groaned, "but I don't want ..."

She let the sentence trail off; Jacob did not pursue: instead, he shifted, frowned, considered his sister with a serious expression.

"Now there's a question in your eyes," Marnie said quietly.

"Sis, you are the very definition of a neat freak. Your bedroom is never, ever out of order. I've never seen your bed when it wasn't made. I think you sleep on the floor."

Marnie leaned back, folded her arms, assumed a haughty air:  "I will neither confirm nor deny that I find the braided rug adequate for sleeping!"

Jacob laughed, shook his head, sighed, then frowned again.

"Sis," he said, "you've never ... Mama hasn't had to get on you to sweep or mop or do dishes or help fix a meal or anything."

Marnie blinked innocently.

"And ...?"

"Sis, most girls your age will make excuses and do anything to get out of housework!"

Jacob turned his head a little, frowning as he saw something trouble his sister's eyes -- a memory, most likely, something that made her uncomfortable.

"Jacob," Marnie finally said, "I know what it is to live in filth and in chaos, and I don't ever want to live like that again."

Jacob nodded, slowly: he remembered hearing about Marnie's early life, back in New York, when she hid in a hot air duct to keep from being found and killed, he remembered hearing that a dealer hung her out a window and threatened to drop her if he didn't get something from her Mama, drugs or money he was never sure what the tweaker wanted, only that he remembered thinking that would be nothing short of terrifying to a four year old child, which of course led to dark thoughts of his father's voice when he spoke of his older sister -- Marnie's mama -- he'd been with his father when the man spoke harsh words to his older sister's tomb stone, said things no brother should ever say to a sister.

I know what it is to live in filth and in chaos.

He looked up, met his sister's troubled eyes, reached out his hand.

She gripped his hand, leaned forward.

"I'm glad you don't live like that now."

Marnie nodded bleakly.

"Got anything planned for tonight?"

Marnie shook her head.

"Me neither. Like to go get something?"

Marnie shook her head, frowning.

"Me neither."

Jacob looked past his sister, out the window that opened toward their driveway: Marnie saw his face widen in a grin.

"Daddy?" she asked.

Jacob nodded. "Things must've been busy, for him to be this late."

"It is Friday," Marnie pointed out, then rose. "I'll get the dishes set out. It won't take but a minute to heat up supper."

The door opened and a stacked pair of pizza boxes came in, dutifully towing the Sheriff in with them.

Brother and sister rose, their expressions as innocent as their father's.

"Haven't had pizza in a while," Linn said quietly. "Two deluxe and I had them add extra chocolate chips and floor sweepin's."

"Myyyyy favorite," Jacob and Marnie chorused, rolling their eyes as they drawled out the words (another one of those inside jokes every family accumulates); a father and his young sat down with paper plates and laughter, and supper was happily consumed, one triangle at a time.

Jacob and Marnie were both pleased to note a profound lack of either chocolate chips, or floor sweepin's, on their slices.

Partway through their third slice apiece, the Sheriff casually asked, "You two have any plans for tonight?"

Brother and sister exchanged a glance, as if wondering if this was prelude to being assigned some odious task: they looked at their father, swallowed.

"Nothing," Marnie said, and "Not a single solitary," Jacob contributed.

"Good," Linn said quietly, then he extended a finger, thrust at one, then the other.

"You two I trust," he said quietly, and something in his voice told his young that he was serious: "you I trust, but there are idiots, lunaticks and damned drunks on the road tonight."

"Something happened, sir?"

The Sheriff nodded, troubled.

"Someone went all road rage on the Chappalear boys. We caught the guy. Seems they were ... improper ... with the wrong girlfriend, and her boyfriend run 'em into a rock face."

"Hurt 'em?" Jacob asked quietly.

"Killed 'em both. That's what took me so long."

"I heard they got beat up for grabbin' some guy's girl last week. I know they looked a fright. Someone gave 'em black eyes and bruised ribs."

He took a long look at Jacob's knuckles, then turned and caught a guilty look from his daughter.

"Marnie, you okay?" he asked carefully.

Marnie's lips thinned. "They got beat by someone's boyfriend once already, and they did it again?" 

She shook her head.

"Why can't people learn the first time?"

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

YOU WANTED TO SEE ME?

I considered for some long time before finally dipping pen in ink.

I pride myself on being an honest man.

I have to be honest here, even if my ears feel like they're smoldering.

I closed my eyes and bowed my head ... do I bow my head in shame? -- I tell myself it's to collect my thoughts, but no ...

No, there is no one harder on me than the man in the mirror.

Sheriff Linn Keller raised his head, leaned back, ordered his thoughts, arranged them in chronological order, marshaling them like troops -- rows, ranks, dress front, dress right.

He lowered the steel nib into good India ink, wiped it once on the mouth of the glass inkwell, and committed his thoughts to good rag paper.

 

The Sheriff had an eye for the ladies.

He was a man who appreciated the finer things in life, though he made no show of excess: his sole jewelry was a square ruby stickpin in his necktie, his carriage was well cared for, he'd paid a man with a steady hand to pin stripe it -- tasteful, understated, enough to look good, but nowhere near enough to be gaudy.

He'd leave gaudy to Daciana, that Gypsy trick rider with a silver mounted, canary yellow saddle that was fit to make a man's eyes bleed.

He wore his usual black suit and his black Stetson was tilted back on his head, he raised his beer, took a slow taste.

He was a man who appreciated the finer things in life, and he'd learned that few things are quite so fine as a cool beer when you're thirsty, or food when you're hungry, or clean blankets to cover up with at night.

He'd been in That Damned War, and he took little for granted as a result.

The piano player's fanfare announced the little stage there in the Silver Jewel was about to be populated.

The Sheriff drifted casually away from the bar, moving to where he could better view what was reported to be a pretty good performance.

Three dancers, three scanty-clad ladies, all stockings and smiles and green glitter masks, all scandalous outfits and carmine lips, struck a pose as the curtains flowed apart: the piano player was new, or maybe he came with the ladies: he played with his head tilted a little, turned a little, watching the dancers and adjusting his tempo to accommodate.

Those who watched the ladies, appreciated the sight of long, shaped, stockinged legs high-kicking and strutting, the sight of teasing femininity, enough revealed to stir a man's baser instincts, but not enough to scandalize: their moves were smooth, graceful, coordinated, utterly feminine, flowing bonelessly as they danced, as they turned, paraded, disported themselves in a manner that was utterly shameless, and at the same time, demurely enticing.

The Sheriff's eyes narrowed.

The dancers wore ornate, feathered, green, glitter masks.

His bottom jaw slid out as he considered, as he frowned a little.

He'd known decent women, he'd known girls just coming into womanhood, who would mask their identity and perform thusly -- there was money in it, he knew, though a certain young lady of his (ahem!) acquaintance (ahem!) was known to costume herself for various purposes, and was rumored to have performed in this selfsame manner.

His frown drew his brows together a little: it was rare that he allowed his expression to be see in public -- he was a man who practiced the Poker Face -- but when one of his own placed herself in the public eye as something as utterly, as scandalously immodest, as a dancer! -- 

He tilted his mug up, drained the beer.

Tom Landers watched him, concerned.

Landers had been the first Sheriff of Firelands County.

When the current Sheriff rode into town, decked the town's lawyer and accepted a deputy's position, Landers saw his replacement, and glad he was for it: the two formed an immediate friendship, and Landers found himself offered the job at the Silver Jewel -- watch for card sharpers, take care of trouble makers, and Landers did just that ... discreetly when possible, authoritatively, when not.

Landers was concerned when Linn threw back his beer, moved with sudden purpose for the bar: he placed the empty, heavy glass mug on the end of the bar, moved unimpeded down the hallway.

Landers lifted his chin; Linn stopped.

Two lawmen can communicate without words, or with a minimum of words: Landers didn't have to ask what was in the wind, one eyebrow quirked up made the inquiry quite effectively.

Linn's jaw thrust out again and he frowned, clearly troubled, which told Landers this was a serious matter.

"Tell me what you need," he said quietly.

Linn's eyes went to the nearby stage door.

He swallowed, looked back at Landers.

"Sarah is dancing," he said.

He saw Landers' chin lift, slowly, then lower, a nod of fatherly understanding.

Both men had a deep and abiding affection for Sarah: both saw her grow up, both had known her since she was an underfed, hollow eyed waif, both saw her bloom, watched her grow, both knew of her exploits when the Judge recruited her at thirteen years of age as a set of ears, not realizing her wounded soul was scarred and significantly older than her youthful appearance: Sarah was master of the Quick Change, of disguise, and used subterfuge, incredibly skilled acting talents, costume and face paint to become someone else, rapidly and with ease.

Both men knew she'd disguised herself as a dancing-girl in the past, but never here.

"I would speak with her," Linn said.

"I'll arrange it," Landers replied. "Give me a few minutes."

The Sheriff nodded, once.

The Silver Jewel was Landers' kingdom: although as Sheriff, he could pull rank at any time, he found it more productive to let Landers handle such arrangements.

Usually.

The Sheriff was a man of patience.

Usually.

He frowned, looked down the hallway toward Daisy's kitchen, looked at the back door.

He turned, looked up the hall, at the polished mahogany bar, at men talking, laughing, cheerfully handing each other utterly, absurdly, outrageous lies, and laughing together when they did.

The stage door opened and a dancer stepped out, looked at him, tilted her head, the plumed feathers sprouting from the top of her mask swinging as she did.

 

She was young and lovely and smiling, I wrote, and I remembered how modest Sarah looked in a proper McKenna gown, and how modest this ... dancer ... wasn't.

I spoke as a father might.

My voice was quiet, deep, my words were plain, and to the point.

 

"My dear," the Sheriff said sternly, "I do not wish to see you on stage again."

She laughed -- quietly, the way a woman will when she knows a man is so far out of line as to be well beyond absurd.

"Is that a proposal?" she smiled, and her voice wasn't Sarah's.

A hand laid over the Sheriff's shoulder.

A woman's gloved hand.

Sarah's voice, but ... from behind him.

 

I turned and took a step back so I could see both the new arrival, and the dancer.

Sarah Lynne McKenna smiled at me, modest and demure in a proper McKenna gown, her head tilted a little.

"Mr. Landers said you wanted to see me," she said.

I looked back at the dancer, who was -- in spite of the mask -- looking definitely amused.

I removed my Stetson and I felt the color rise in my face.

"I," I admitted, "have made a terrible mistake."

I took a long breath.

"Young lady, I do beg your pardon. I mistook you for" -- I looked at Sarah, looked back -- "as a matter of fact, I owe you both a most ... profound ... apology."

 

The dancer pouted, struck a leggy pose, one arm behind her head, the other on her hip: "Oh, poo," she said in mock disappointment, "I thought that was a marriage proposal!" -- she straightened, giggled, skipped over to me and kissed the Sheriff on the cheek -- she spun, all feathers and frills and long stockinged legs, and disappeared inside the stage door, closing it behind her.

Sarah stood and looked at the Sheriff with those big, gentle, innocent eyes of hers.

"You thought I was dancing?" she asked, in almost a little-girl voice.

The Sheriff nodded.

"You were going to tell me you didn't want me displaying myself."

The Sheriff nodded, again, slowly.

Sarah glided up to him, came up on tiptoes, kissed his other cheek and looked at him with an adoring expression.

"I think that is the sweetest thing anyone ever said to me," she squeaked.

The Sheriff pulled the kerchief from his sleeve: the way her voice squeaked, the way her face reddened, he thought she was about to cry, the way women will in such moments.

 

She didn't cry.

She laughed.

She patted my hand and said, "When I'm dancing, I wear a purple glitter mask!" -- then she turned and skipped down the hall, laughing, out the back door and into the sunshine, and gone.

 

 

Edited April 22, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

PLANTING BY THE SIGNS

Sheriff Jacob Keller lifted green leaves and studied them.

They soil they grew in was loose, rich, almost black, and smelled like ... well, it smelled like good old fashioned garden dirt.

Jacob closed his eyes and smiled, remembering working the dirt in his Mama's table garden, back home, when he was a boy.

He took pride in that garden.

His Mama didn't think she had time for a garden.

Jacob took the time for their garden.

The edges of the tilled soil were precise, straight, clean, edged: the rows were laid out with a string, plants grew in neat ranks, precisely spaced: Jacob researched companion planting, he staggered his plantings, and his product appeared on their table with regularity.

Now that Jacob was Sheriff on Mars, he still had an affinity for green growing things: he stood beside the raised bed, fingers caressing healthy green plants, eyes closed, smiling just a little s he remembered.

 

Deputy Angela Keller gave her long tall Daddy a knowing look.

She was in her deputy's uniform, the caduceus on her collar the only indication that this badge packer was anything but a lawdawg: the uniform was tailored and made of fabric of regulation cut, style, pattern and color, though the material itself was not Earth-standard.

The uniform blouse betrayed the blocky outline of the issue body armor, worn under the military-creased blouse, and so the rectangle outlined on her back was not unexpected -- never mind that it showed Confederate shield technology, instead of Earth tech.

Angela well knew that body armor did not cover the entire body; her intimate knowledge of human physiology, her experience in treating catastrophic injuries taught her that random violence -- whether assault, whether industrial explosion, building collapse, or the minor river of burning gasoline she casually walked through, one day after getting her first Confederate shield-plate -- could cause lethal injuries that standard, Sheriff's-issue, body armor, would not stop.

Angela finished drawing a big mug of coffee.

She'd debated which mug to use, and finally settled on the larger of the two -- not because of the motto baked into its glazed ceramic surface, but because it held more, and she knew her Daddy liked his coffee.

This mug said, in bold letters, "#1 DAD" -- the other mug, which he used when he was having "One of Those Days" said on one side, "DAMNED IF I DO" and on the other side, "DAMNED IF I DON'T!"

I have to get one of those for when I'm working the nursing floor, Angela thought as she looked at the smaller mug: Sharon saw her quiet smile, Angela felt her look, shot her an appreciative glance: Sharon was the wise acre that gave that smaller mug to the Sheriff, and Angela remembered her Daddy's great gusting laughter, his genuine approval, how he'd hugged Sharon and lifted her a little and gave her a little shake -- Angela remembered the rippling pops as the dispatcher's spine surrendered its stress and how she squealed, "Love me or leave me but don't take me halfway, you long tall Trinkvasser!"

Angela took a moment to close her eyes and laugh quietly before drizzling milk into her Daddy's coffee: she pinched a small paper sack between two fingers, held sack and big mug left handed, headed for the Sheriff's office door.

 

Michael stood, one arm draped over Thunder's broad, hard-muscled neck.

The Fanghorn colt's head was down, blunt nose thrust forward, fangs bared.

Michael felt the silent rumble in the broad young chest, like a big powerful Diesel engine snarling its valves deep in that heavy boned rib cage.

Michael lowered his head so he was cheek-and-jowl with the fanghorn.

Both predators looked straight ahead, at the small rise concealing whatever trouble lay on the other side.

"What do you see?" Michael whispered, and he felt Thunder's fine-furred cheek pressed a little more firmly on his -- just a little -- Michael sidestepped, thumbed the hammer back on his rifle, raised it to shoulder.

Cyclone glided up on Michael's left, silent -- he never failed to be amazed at how hard a Fanghorn's hooves were, yet how utterly silent they were, when they were on the hunt.

Michael suspected a Fanghorn's senses were keener than his own.

He was not surprised that Lightning's ears were incredibly sensitive -- the Confederate plates under her saddlebags attenuated gunshots, kept her sensitive ears from damage from concussion -- Michael fitted both Thunder and Cyclone with the same plate-and-saddlebag arrangement, which seemed to please both colts immensely: Angela laughed and clapped her hands like a little girl, bouncing on her toes, giggling as one Fanghorn colt, then the other, absolutely strutted! when Michael invested them with the same arrangement that their towering, hard-muscled mother wore.

Michael knew their hearing was superior to his, he knew their vision was at least equal to his and probably better.

He never realized their powers of scent were, as well.

Lightning followed, casually, unconcerned, drifting along behind hunter and progeny like a four-hooved, blond-furred cloud, unconcerned ... and absolutely ...

Silent.

Michael was hunting, yes.

Michael was hunting a man.

Michael was hunting a man who'd hurt a family, Michael was hunting a man who caused harm and spilled blood and brought terror.

Michael was hunting a man who'd done things that condemned him in the eyes of a decent society.

Thunder came into the house with him, watched as Michael tended wounds, bandaged injuries, splinted bones: he listened as terrified girls, a barely-conscious mother, a father almost unable to talk after having been stomped in the guts several times: he'd tried, he really had, but he was not a fighter, he had no experience with this level of violence, of evil.

Michael bent his wrist and called for assistance, and as the Cavalry arrived, Michael departed.

He'd noted Thunder's nose, busy, sniffing: he'd thought Thunder's inspection of injured children simply an expression of comfort.

He didn't know until Thunder began ground-scenting, then air-scenting, that Thunder was following the attacker.

Michael ran beside the Fanghorn, swift, boots silent on the soft, thick grasses.

Cyclone joined them, pressed her head curiously against Thunder's, then began scenting as well.

Michael wondered if some silent, subtle communication passed between them.

He didn't care.

He was hunting a monster.

Michael did not have law enforcement credentials on this planet.

He didn't care.

He'd seen what a monster did, and now he was pursuing that monster.

Cyclone dropped back, crossed behind Thunder, came up on Michael's left.

They stopped.

Michael looked right, looked left: the Fanghorn colts swung their broad, blocky heads toward him, each gave a quiet sniff -- almost like a dog will fake-sneeze to get your attention, only quieter -- then they both looked forward.

Michael smiled.

No, Michael did not smile.

Michael was feeling no pleasure.

He peeled his lips back like a predator and exposed his fangs, just like two Fanghorn colts were doing.

Michael's rifle was to shoulder and he advanced, thrusting quickly over the little rise.

 

Jacob saw the gardener, several rows over, looking his plants over: he lifted a hand, Jacob returned the greeting.

They moved toward one another, shook hands: the gardener was a man who spoke little -- he was one of the original colonists, he'd opted to remain one of the Heavies, working and living in Earth-normal gravity -- it only took one kidney stone to convince him that living in the lighter, Mars-normal gravity was a bad idea.

Besides, his plants were doing well in Earth gravity, and he liked to stick with what worked.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Jacob said thoughtfully. 

The gardener nodded, once, curious.

"Back home Uncle Emmett swore by planting by the signs, and he always had a bumper of a garden."

The gardener's nod was slow, thoughtful.

"I don't reckon planting by the signs would work here."

The gardener smiled a little.

"I wondered," he admitted, "but with two moons, and they're moving so fast ... I'd need a stopwatch to plant by the signs here."

Jacob's eyes tightened at the corners.

"I'd ought to be able to make a smart remark about that," he admitted, "but the mind just went blank!"

Two men who knew the smell of fresh turned garden dirt shared a quiet laugh.

 

Michael remembered his Pa talking about something terrible that happened back home.

He'd said -- he was presenting before the Ladies' Tea Society, holding an AR carbine muzzle-up, its butt on the table as he spoke -- "Evil strikes any time, any where, and without warning."

Michael looked down at something that used to be evil.

Thunder raised his head, looked at Michael -- glared might be a more accurate term -- Thunder's tail slashed and Michael heard that deep, rumbling growl again.

Michael's bottom jaw slid out.

He nodded, once.

Two Fanghorn colts snarled, drove fanged muzzles down, bit into hot, bloody flesh.

Lightning bellied down beside Michael, chirped contentedly as her young ate the prey they'd pursued, they'd caught.

When they came over the rise, they'd come at a full-on gallop.

The man they pursued turned, his victim's blood bright and wet on his hands, on his face.

He held a weapon: startled, he turned, tried to raise it.

He didn't have a chance.

Fanghorn jaws closed about his arm, crushed, Thunder's head pulled to the side, the severed arm coming with it.

Cyclone's head ducked, closed around the man's knee.

She didn't jerk her head to the side.

She didn't have to.

The monster that murdered, that brutalized, that shattered a family, fell dead, a hole appearing between his eyebrows just above the bridge of his nose.

A Fanghorn hoof drove down into his dead belly, a predator's move to guarantee the prey didn't escape.

It wasn't really necessary.

Michael eased the lever down on his Marlin, plucked the empty from the ejection port, dropped it in a pocket: he finished cycling the action, eased the hammer to half cock, thrust a fresh round into the loading gate, watched as the colts fed.

Michael practiced efficiency.

It was efficient to put the shining brass bead between the man's eyes.

It was efficient to fire one shot.

It was efficient to use both eyes when breaking the shot.

It let him see the dead man's eyes.

It may not have been efficient, but it was satisfying to see the dead man's eyes, the expression, the knowledge that death was upon him.

 

A little boy squealed, laughing, as Thunder trotted happily back to the review stand, carrying the arm-waving, leg-thrashing, red-faced, tousle-haired child back to Michael.

Michael fed him a peppermint, rubbed his ears, called him a good boy:  Thunder, eyes closed in apparent pleasure, purred loudly, his long, silky tail slashing vigorously.

Michael informed the local law enforcement of his part in the event: the chase, the apprehension; he stated the attacker was particularly identified, was apprehended, and in the course of resisting arrest, presented deadly threat that resulted in his demise.

There was question as to Michael's method -- curiosity, mostly: there was legend of dogs that tracked, here on this Confederate world where canids never developed, and Michael's description of Thunder ground-scenting and air-scenting, captured the popular imagination.

Michael made no mention of allowing the colts to eat their rightful prey.

He went so far as to recruit a little boy, telling him to go hide somewhere, and this silky furred colt the boy had been petting would find him.

Michael led the colts away as the boy ran and hid.

Michael fed the colts a peppermint, led them back to where the boy was delighting in the feel of warm, muscled Fanghorn under silky-fine fur: Michael brought his hand to the ground, patted it.

Thunder scented the ground.

"Find him," Michael murmured.

It was a game they'd played before.

Thunder sniffed the ground, blowing dust as he snuffed industriously where little bare feet had stood not long before: he raised his head, tasted the air.

Cyclone sniffed the ground as well.

Two Fanghorn colts trotted slowly, following the boy, each alternately scenting the ground, scenting the air.

They disappeared around a shed.

There was a happy squeal and juvenile laughter; men laughed quietly as a little boy, red-faced, waved arms and legs as a blond Fanghorn colt proudly trotted back to Michael, carrying the little boy by his crossed overall straps, Cyclone beside him, strutting like she'd done all the work herself.

Lightning rolled over on her back, begging a belly rub and chirping.

To the onlookers, to the officials, it looked like Fanghorns were careful, playful, and not a threat.

Michael discreetly declined to detail how the dead man's remains were disposed of: he made a casual comment as to their having been properly deposited.

Which they were.

In two steaming piles.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller looked up at the quick, light rat-tat, tat, on his office door.

Angela pushed in, smiling: she set his mug on the desk blotter, tilted her head, looked speculatively at him, her eyes bright, innocent, merry, full of mischief.

He'd intended to thank her for her kindness.

He opened his mouth to say "Thank you, darlin'."

He never got the chance.

Before she came through his door, she took out one of the half-dozen, chocolate chip cookies, and the moment his teeth parted, she thrust it neatly between his pearly whites -- she set the sack beside the coffee, she giggled, spun, slipped out the door and pulled it shut, her laugh lingering in the quiet air.

 

 

Edited April 23, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

PAYIN' THE PREACHER

The hymnals were bound in red, with gold lettering: they were thick, heavy, they smelled of ink and paper, as hymnals always do, and they were brand new, not a week off the printing press.

Two good men packed them in, secure in a wooden crate.

The Parson's wife threw two broad towels out to set the crate on; Michael waited until the top was prized loose and set aside, waited until the Parson reached in, handed one to his wife, then opened one and laughed as he read the title page.

He looked at Michael, delight on his face, then back to the hymnal, flipped through it, stopped, paged back to the contents, ran his eye down names familiar, and names otherwise.

"You've done so much for us already," Mrs. Parson said in her gentle voice.

Michael's ears reddened and he shifted his weight like an uncomfortable schoolboy, then turned as shadow darkened the double doors again.

Another crate, and behind this one, and the men packing it in, a little boy, fairly strutting with importance, for he was carrying a square, flat box, thick as his hand was long.

Michael thanked the boy, winked: the delighted lad ran barefoot back down the aisle and out the door, quickly reclaiming the sack of chocolate chip cookies Michael paid him with, if he'd pack in the pie for the Parson.

Mrs. Parson's hands went to her cheeks with astonishment, her mouth round with delight.

"I figured you could use some groceries," Michael said innocently.

Daughters were summoned; ladies set to carrying a crate's worth of comestibles to the Parsonage kitchen.

The Parson looked at Michael, nodded.

"Thank you," he said quietly, then looked over at the piano -- it too was a gift from Michael, and the woman who played it on Sunday: she was making a tidy living teaching their young, and some not so young, to play piano.

"The usual pay scale," Michael said innocently, and he and the Parson both laughed.

Michael's piano was a gift, as were the hymnals.

The hymnals were reprints.

Originally they were from an old Methodist church somewhere, stacked in a church belfry and forgotten; few survived weather, insects, rodents: the one that did, Michael purchased, and had reprinted, with very few changes.

This particular church, on this particular world, wasn't old Methodist, but the hymns were sung by a variety of denominations, and so these were an exact fit.

Michael discreetly refrained from mentioning one was missing -- the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" -- this omission might have been thought a diplomatic sensitivity.

It wasn't.

Michael read of its origins and personally considered it heresy, and for that particular reason, quietly had it excluded.

 

Ambassador Marnie Keller sat down with the local Judge, their Sheriff, and a surprising number of folk who managed to include themselves in this unexpected visit from one of the more famous faces in the Thirteen Systems.

Marnie was engaging, pleasant, charming: she was quick to listen, her questions were few, but on point: she discreetly steered conversation to a recent criminal situation which caused her several hosts visible discomfort.

Marnie had been a Sheriff's deputy, and Marnie showed a surprising aptitude for interrogation: she had her Gammaw's pale eyes and good looking legs, she had her Gammaw's mercurial temper, she had all the lethal inclinations of her bloodline, but she also had all the charm and guile of another of her ancestry.

Had the shade of Sarah Lynne McKenna been hovering, she might have smiled and nodded her approval with the ease with which Marnie steered the conversation, how she delicately came back to information she wanted, almost like a lovely hummingbird returning to a cluster of favorite flowers.

Marnie provided something fermented, purple, fragrant, chilled and unexpectedly authoritative: she poured generously, insisted on refilling glasses, all while charming and smiling her way through the meeting.

She managed to persuade her hosts that yes, she was a veteran Sheriff's deputy, yes she'd seen disaster and she'd waded in blood up to her ankles and she'd run her hand down the throat of Evil, grabbed its ankle and jerked it inside out, and she'd sent it running naked back to the Infero that spawned it -- Marnie well knew that if you're going to tell a lie, tell one that is so magnificently outrageous as to bring laughter, and nobody will suspect you're actually far closer to the truth than they realize.

Marnie got the particulars on the terrible experience a family had: she discreetly dispatched Confederate healers, including a pair of the White Angels, to take over medical care, at no cost to the family: she asked incisive questions, listened to their account of Michael's performance, and discovered to her relief that they really did not know quite what he'd done with the attacker ... only that the attacker was very dead, his body was disposed of, and good riddance. 

The Sheriff gave Marnie a speculative look and asked quietly -- so he could accurately complete his report, of course -- just how Michael handled the situation.

Marnie tilted her head, smiled pleasantly as she looked at their Sheriff, sitting with a pad open, and pencil poised.

Marnie straightened, then she lifted a gloved hand and displayed a six-point star on a black leather badge holder.

"I am still a commissioned Sheriff's deputy back home on Earth," she said, "and I am still Sheriff Emeritus on Mars. As such, the Confederacy has recognized my law enforcement authority system-wide, including but by no means limited to powers of weapons, arrest, search and seizure, and use of force, including deadly force."

She looked their Sheriff very directly in the eye.

No one else moved.

No one else spoke.

"The Sheriff is the chief law enforcement authority in his county," Marnie said, her words carrying the weight of fact: "as such, the Sheriff is authorized to conduct extraordinary actions as needed.

"When Michael" -- she smiled, lowered her hand -- "acted, his badge didn't say SHERIFF."

The Sheriff's pencil moved quickly, noting down her words.

"Michael acted as any man ought when faced with evil of that degree.

"Exactly how, is not important. That evil was vanquished, with prejudice, is all that matters."

Marnie picked up her wineglass, sipped delicately: where others partook liberally of her generosity, she'd barely sipped her glass of Uncle Will's Finest.

Marnie well knew just how potent this elixr was, how easy it went down, how much of a liquid sledgehammer it was.

"But," she added as she replaced her glass on the linen tablecloth, then leaned a little toward the Sheriff, smiled.

"Let's just say that a noose of thirteen turns is good for guaranteeing that particular evil does not visit itself upon good folk, ever again!"

 

Michael's more personal gift to the Parson and his wife was a pair of fresh baked peach pies.

One, he knew, would be cut, served, shared right away.

He'd gotten the second because he knew this particular Parson had a fondness for peach pie.

Peaches were out of season, and so this flaky-crusted bounty was a delightful and most unexpected surprise.

They sat down together and had fresh peach pie, the other sitting on the counter, discreetly covered with a clean dishtowel.

When they were done, well after the freight wagon rumbled off after its deliveries to the Church, Michael shook the Parson's hand, accepted the man's thanks: he lifted Mrs. Parson's knuckles to his lips, kissed hem delicately and said, "Thank you so much for that nice fresh pie. I'll bet you baked it with your own two hands!" -- then he swung a leg over the saddle, Lightning stood, Michael found his stirrups.

Cyclone on his left, Thunder on his right, and a tall boy in a black suit lifted his Stetson, laughed, and rode off.

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

HORSIE PUPPY!

Michael Keller moved with Lightning's gait, the unconscious, natural movement of one who was perfectly at home in the saddle.

Lightning's gait was not a smooth singlefoot and it sure as hell wasn't as nice as his Pa's Paso Fino, but it wasn't rough and choppy like Michael had known in years past.

The colts coasted silently beside the big, lightning-patterned mare, and as they rode, Michael laughed quietly.

He'd delivered another crate of hymnals -- another world, another church, this time with two pecan pies and a crate of groceries -- and after this second delivery, with one of The Bear Killer pups tagging at his heels, one of this Parson's children looked seriously at The Bear Killer, who was industriously chewing on a fresh bone donated by the local butcher.

The boy's father asked him what that was -- he'd squatted, one arm around his wee son, he'd pointed at The Bear Killer and he'd asked, "What is that?" and his son loudly and happily declared, "Puppy!"

Lightning lifted her head at the sound, blinked sleepily: the Parson pointed to Thunder and said, "What's that?"

His little boy might not have known the correct term, but he did not lack for confidence.

He pointed and shouted, "Horsie puppy!"

Michael laughed quietly at the memory.

Something told him that the young of any species was going to be called a Cowie Puppy, or a Kitty Puppy, or a Horsie Puppy.

He allowed his mind to wander.

He'd made his most recent delivery on a world that was only just getting its first, modern, fire department and emergency medical service.

He remembered sitting in the back row of his sister Angela's presentations.

His Mama was in another room, the actual training room, of a brand new firehouse, conducting another paramedic class: the local economy benefitted greatly from construction of this particular station, as gas wells were drilled, cased off, piped in; a brick-works was built, a long kiln constructed, native clay mined, refined, shaped, baked: the firehouse was built of this native brick, originally scaled to fit the new Ahrens steam firefighting engine, almost a twin for the machine the Firelands Fire Department back home still fired and threw water with.

There was discussion as to whether they wanted to start with a Diesel pumper, but a turbocharged Kenworth was so far beyond current technology, that they agreed on a steam pumper: steam was a technology they knew, that they used, that they accepted: the Ahrens would throw an incredible amount of water,  horses were new to this world but they were something this world wanted, especially after seeing the Firelands Fire Department in action, with their steam pumper -- screaming down the street, all pounding hooves and shrill-screaming whistle and polished boiler, all red-shirted Irishmen with curled black mustaches and gleaming teeth and knee-high boots, horses that hat two speeds, wide open and dead stop -- they watched the Irish Brigade swing to a skidding side-sliding stop, swarm off apparatus and spin on connections, dunking the suction into a handy cistern while others ran hose toward a structure, and hard-muscled men shouted defiantly, joyfully, profanely.

Horse drawn steam power blasted water in silver streams toward the simulated fire structure, watches were consulted: a bonfire, nearby, was extinguished with a great show of rolling steam and blasted embers.

Men laughed, women fluttered kerchiefs, little boys either jumped up and down with excitement, or stared, wide-eyed and amazed, boys who dreamed that night of being one of these red-shirted GODS who tamed fire and handled water like a horsewhip!

So it was that this very first structure, was built to house three matched white mares, a steam powered pumper, a ladder wagon and a hose wagon, a bunkroom above, kitchen below, with rooms for training and for offices.

Now Michael sat in the back row as Angela, in her nursing whites, presented for the general community in what was normally the pumper bay.

Pumper and two accessory wagons were pulled out, the mares were out on long leads, grazing and enjoying the adoring attention of children and adults alike: a sinner's-heart-black Bear Killer paced among them, a creature from which people drew away, a creature not known to this world, at least until an adventurous child, barely able to walk, squealed and literally fell into the Bear Killer pup.

Child and canine hit the ground rolling: The Bear Killer bounced up, tongue out, mouth open in a happy doggy grin: a little boy with curly blond hair laughed and wobbled toward the curly-furred pup, laughed at the enthusiastic face-washing: suddenly The Bear Killer was surrounded by children, marveling at how silky-soft his shining-black fur was, delighting in his cold nose and whipping tail.

Michael turned from where he'd been watching this through the open, overhead bay door: he turned his attention back to his big sister, who was saying something about prevention, being far cheaper than treatment.

Michael heard her give the same presentation back home: he rose, slipped outside, laughed as three, then four, then six children clustered around him, begging him to let them hide so Thunder or Cyclone could find them.

Michael grinned.

He hadn't realized the colts' tracking ability had been advertised, but apparently it had.

Michael drew his entourage a little ways away from the firehouse, off into the side yard, out of line-of-sight: he didn't wish to interrupt the public meeting, nor Angela's presentation: he squatted, motioned them closer.

Eager children bent over, surrounding him, listened closely as he instructed them.

Michael handed each of them two wrapped peppermints, had them secret the peppermints on their person, instructed them in how to present the peppermint when they were found.

He then acquired an artifact from each: a bonnet, a hat, a kerchief, items that carried the child's scent: each item, placed on the ground, the children were told to go hide, but don't get hurt and don't fall into a hole or anything.

Half a dozen laughing children scattered, hid.

Michael waited: he stood, separated the artifacts, extended his hand and made a kissing sound.

Thunder and Cyclone came trotting over to him, two vaguely horselike colts with bony forehead bosses beginning to broaden, to harden, to protrude: Michael rubbed their muzzles, called them good horsie puppies, and the colts crowded in against him: he could have called them yesterday's stew or soured milk and they'd have done the same thing.

He held a hat up to Thunder's muzzle.

Thunder cocked his head like a wine-taster sniffing a vintage.

"Find," Michael said softly.

Thunder backed up, shook his head: he circled, nose to the ground, sniffed the other artifacts, then lifted his head, tasted the air, looked back.

Michael was introducing Cyclone's nose to the sunbonnet.

Cylone tried to eat it.

Michael had to bribe it away from her with a peppermint, then he had her sniff it again and said, "Find."

It was Cyclone's turn to sniff each item on the ground.

When Thunder interrogated the scents, he swung his neck back and forth to taste each scent before going on his quest.

Cyclone circled, scenting each in turn.

Michael watched them throw their heads up, hobby-horse happily in divergent directions.

Michael went over to Lightning, who was rolled over on her back, snoring quietly.

A father and two children were asleep, leaning against her shoulder, the father on one side, children on the other.

Michael did not have the heart to disturb their rest -- normally he'd have given Lightning a belly rub, but he knew she'd kick like a dog if he did -- instead, he sat down beside the father, leaned back, tilted his hat over his eyes and relaxed in the sun.

 

Angela concluded her presentation.

It was an easy sell.

This would be the first powered firehouse on the planet.

The local political community saw it as a sign of progress, of advancement.

They, and others, thought in terms of commerce, of business, of political advantage.

Citizens appreciated Angela's reasoning that preventing a fire was far less expensive than fighting a fire, just as good health -- preventing disease -- was less expensive, and much less uncomfortable, than treating the disease.

She was taking questions, answering them with the ease of an experienced instructor, when she looked over the heads of the assembled, and smiled, then laughed.

Men, women, business folk, politicians, turned, rose, watched, as two Fanghorn colts paced happily back toward Michael.

Each had a child on its back and a child on either side, hands on warm, living fur.

Each had an expression of absolute delight.

Two Fanghorn colts fairly strutted as they returned, having found not one, but three.

And very near Michael's outstretched left leg, a curly-black-furred, half-grown Bear Killer pup, lay sprawled on the ground, eyes closed, not quite snoring: a little blond-haired boy, just as sprawled, laid up against the canine spine, one arm over the rib cage, eyes closed, sound asleep as well.

 

Edited April 24, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SUSHI!

Victoria sat along the streambank, on a spread-out quilt: she sat, as she often did, cross legged, her long skirt modestly covering stockinged legs.

Michael sat on the rug with her, rifle beside him: they faced the water, contemplated the springtime flow: the water was clear, swift, deep along one side, where the stream curved, where it had eroded away dirt and gravel and left a smooth-faced bedrock wall, twice Michael's height of stone.

The twins sat, unmoving, silent.

The Bear Killer was busy trailing something, or trying to.

Thunder and Cyclone followed the curly-furred pup, noses to the ground, scenting whatever it was he was following.

"Marnie talked to me yesterday," Michael said softly.

Victoria blinked, her eyes still on the water.

"Oh?"
"She said I was as sneaky as a diplomat."

"How's that?"

"She said by recruiting the colts for find-it games -- trailing and finding children -- they're in the public mind as harmless, as trailers, not as carnivores."

"Why would they be carnivores?"

"Do you remember me tellin' you about that Jack Doe that tried to firebomb our house?"

Victoria looked at Michael, her eyes wide and serious, and Michael realized he'd just let a feline out of the burlap he maybe should have kept hid.

"No," Victoria said firmly. "You didn't."

Michael took a long breath, grimaced.

"I shot him and Lightning et him. There were two others and they got et too."

Victoria looked past Michael at Lightning, laid over on her side in the sun, asleep.

"When does she foal?" Victoria asked.

"She's gettin' close."

"Should you still be riding her?"

Michael smiled, ever so slightly.

"If she was ... if it wasn't good for me to ride her, she'd let me know."

"She talks to you?" Victoria asked, half suspecting and half skeptical.

"Something like that," Michael affirmed.

Victoria turned, looked at The Bear Killer, then Thunder, then Cyclone, single file, all three noses down, trailing something.

"Do they ... Michael ..."

Victoria turned, looked at her twin brother.

"Michael, what happened to that man you went after?"

"I shot him," Michael said casually.

"And ...?"

"And the colts helped.

"Miiichaaaeellllll," Victoria said, drawing his name out the way a sister will.

Michael looked very directly at his sister.

"They et him," Michael said flatly. "All of him. Nothing left."

"Does the jurisdictional Sheriff know that?"

"No."

"Does Marnie know?"

"No."

"Why did she tell 'em about a hemp necktie?"

"Throw 'em off. Hanging is still a capital punishment here. They'll understand a noose."

The Bear Killer came happily hobby-horsing back, jumping happily at one colt, then the other: Cyclone swerved, gave both quilt and dam a wide berth, found a slope and splashed happily in cold creekwater.

Michael saw her hind quarters rise -- not a kick, he wasn't sure what she'd done --

Lightning came up with a fish crosswise in her mouth, looked at Michael, then threw her head back and flipped the fish: she caught it headfirst, crunched it happily, chewed it up, swallowed.

"Eeewww," Victoria exclaimed, wrinkling her nose and forehead: Michael deadpanned "Sushi? Nice and fresh!" -- to which his twin sister shuddered, shook her head, held up gloved palms as if to ward off a particularly unpleasant idea.

"I like fish," Michael murmured, "I like fresh fish."

Lightning's head drove down into the water again.

"I like mine fried in butter, thank you very much!"

Lightning came up with another fish and managed to look very pleased with himself when he did.

Victoria ignored the second serving of chilled sushi.

"Michael, why did Marnie tell them your badge didn't say Sheriff?"

Michael shrugged. "She never told them I don't have a badge."

"So she was covering for you."

"Something like that."

"I implied the hell out of it," Marnie said, and Michael and Victoria both startled.

Marnie came over, sat beside Michael on what was little more than the edge of the quilt.

"I told them I had Sheriff's-level authority throughout the Confederacy. You're known to be associated with the Diplomatic Corps. That implied you carry the same authority."

She turned her head, smiled quietly at her younger sibling.

"Thanks, Sis," he said quietly.

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

NOW WHAT?

A whisper, somewhere behind his mind.

Home.

Michael's eyes snapped open: he sat up, The Bear Killer coming to his feet, cocking his head and regarding Michael with bright-eyed intensity.

Michael settled his Stetson on his head, rose, went over to Lightning.

"Darlin'," he whispered as he went to one knee beside her head, "can you get up?"

The Fanghorn mare muttered, rolled over on her belly.

Thunder and Cyclone were pacing, restless, scenting the air, bugling -- almost a warning -- their lips peeled back to show their shining-ivory canines.

"I can't carry you," Michael murmured. "You'll have to stand at least!"

Lightning muttered, grunted: she rolled onto her belly, closed her eyes, dropped her jaw flat on the ground and bawled.

Michael tapped his wrist unit, spoke quickly, urgently: an Iris opened two feet ahead of Lightning's wet, flaring nostrils.

"Come on, girl," Michael whispered, his hand caressing her now-rock-hard neck: "stand for me!"

Lightning came upright -- it took an effort -- she stood, shivering.

Michael backed toward the Iris, his hand under her jaw, standing a little to the side so she could see him.

A pale eyed son of a pale eyed Sheriff backed into a black ellipse, a Fanghorn mare and two colts following, then the ellipse closed like a cat's pupil, and was gone.

 

Angela was just finishing.

She'd taught two classes that morning, and was scheduled off the rest of the day.

She'd planned to meet with the White Angels and review their trauma protocols and their latest proficiencies.

Her nurse-paramedics were driven, ambitious, focused: each of them, the ones that lasted, the ones that hadn't washed out when they found out firsthand what it was like when it hit the fan, for real, and them in the middle of it -- the ones that remained were damned good at what they did.

Angela intended to see that they stayed that way.

When her wrist-unit buzzed, vibrating silently, she frowned, looked at the screen, accepted the incoming communication.

She raised an eyebrow, spoke a reply.

She didn't make her scheduled review.

 

The Bear Killer bristled, snarled, fangs exposed, the hair rippling the length of his back bone and across his shoulders blades: he stood, stiff-legged, between Michael and these approaching, hoof-stomping, fang-bared creatures.

Lightning threw her head back and gave a God's-honest scream: Thunder and Cyclone stood on either side of her hind quarters, facing out, shaking their heads, whistling a challenge: this was THEIR dam, this was THEIR herd, STAY THE HELL AWAY OR I WILL EAT YOU!!!

Michael made no move to shuck his Marlin.

He stayed with Lightning, hands on her neck, head bowed, eyes closed, as if communing without words.

An Iris opened: Angela and a white-armored field medic stepped out, looked around.

A half dozen Fanghorns were coming, on a brisk trot, and Angela had the distinct feeling she was not entirely welcome at this particular party.

Lightning stood, head down, pressing into Michael's front, her big liquid-black eyes closed: her breathing was labored, she gave a shiver, a long, deep-chested groan.

Angela walked past Michael, laid a hand on Lightning's gravid belly, tilted her head a little, her field medic at her side, watching the openly-hostile Fanghorns.

One rushed, made as if to bite the diminutive, white-armored medic's arm.

The medic slapped the Fanghorn's nose -- hard! -- snapped "STOP THAT!" and The Bear Killer advanced, yammering, slavering, a red-eyed image of diminutive destruction.

The Bear Killer was still small enough that, compared to the towering Fanghorns, he looked almost comical.

"Bear Killer," Michael murmured.

The Bear Killer didn't draw back:  he stood, bristling, fangs bared, glaring at the Fanghorn who glared back just as dangerously.

Lightning stuck her neck straight out and, if it's possible for a steam whistle to bray like a donkey that's just been clap boarded across the backside, she did, and when she did, better than another half dozen Fanghorns joined the first six.

This time they surrounded Lightning, muttering, grunting, snarling -- Horses snarl? the medic thought, considering that her Confederate field would keep her safe from kick, bite or ram, but not particularly wanting to experience the particular possibility.

Angela turned, looked at Michael, who was standing, one arm under Lightning's neck, one hand flat on her starboard neck, one hand flat on her portside, his head leaned into hers, his Stetson, fallen and forgotten, on the ground at his feet.

Lightning shuddered again.

More Fanghorns came, their running pace deceptively ponderous.

Angela and her medic felt the ground shivering underfoot as they approached -- fast, with purpose -- another ring of outward-facing, pawing, head-slinging, fang-bared Fanghorn herd surrounded them, facing outward.

"I've delivered babies and I've pulled stuck calves," Angela muttered, "but never in my nursing whites!"

"I can handle it," her medic said confidently, dropping her face shield: "I'm proof against splash and biohazard, just hose me off afterward!"

Angela took one step toward Lightning's backside and the Waters of Life gushed forth, followed by a nose: Lightning's hind quarters folded, she grunted again, strained, cut loose with another God-awful Mexican donkey playing a steam whistle like a drunken bugler -- a Fanghorn colt struggled in its uterine sac, out on the ground, delivered.

Angela snapped open a lockback, decided the first cut would be across the forehooves -- safest, she wouldn't risk cutting anything beneath -- a slice, another, and small, gristle-covered hooves pushed through the sliced-open gaps in the almost-transparent membrane.

The medic came around, reached for the gap Angela opened.

Something hit her shoulder, knocked her to the side -- a head, a big head! -- the head slashed the other way, knocked Angela back, hard.

The Herd Mare lowered her head, bit into the membrane, pulled.

A colt struggled, pushed through the torn membrane, stood, legs surprisingly stout, but wobbly, like a newborn colt -- but blocky, businesslike, not slim and gangly like a horse.

Fanghorn teeth nibbled carefully at the colt, pulling and tearing: whether instinct, whether learned behavior, Angela really didn't know.

The colt dropped its chest to the ground, grunted, coughed -- Draining its lungs, Angela thought -- the Herd Mare's nose slid under its neck, helped it stand -- Angela watched as this wet, wobbling newborn blinked in sudden bright light, as it lifted and lowered its head, working to inflate newborn lungs, working to breathe air!

The Bear Killer wiggled into the mix, licked the broad, pink nose as it came free, muttering and yipping quietly -- almost encouragement, the medic thought as she came back toward the mare that smacked her aside.

Michael was on his knees, his head bowed and his forehead against Lightning's mane: her neck was still thrust straight out, her jaw on the ground, her eyes closed.

Thunder and Cyclone muttered, glared at the Herd Mare as the colt laid down, rolled over.

Medic and nurse watched as the Herd Mare bit the umbilical -- not in two -- carefully bit it, held it between flat front teeth.

Angela moved to Lightning's no-longer-bulging belly, looked at her medic.

"I want to massage the fundus," she said, "but ..."

She looked at the Fanghorn, back to the young woman in the red-trimmed white armor, still eyeing the surrounding herd mistrustfully.

"Maybe you can just skip that part," the medic suggested.

The Bear Killer was backed up beside Michael now, still bristling, still lifting black, rippling lips in an unmistakable warning, but no longer growling.

 

By the time Victoria got there, Lightning was upright, nuzzling her colt, the bit-free umbilical stub shriveling already: Lightning was busy cleaning her colt, filling her nostrils with her get's scent.

The newborn, for its part, was busy dining at what Michael's father referred to as "the Topless Restaurant," the first time Michael ever saw an infant breast fed.

Victoria planted her knuckles on her belt, scowled at the Fanghorn, at the colt, at the surrounding, restlessly-milling herd, and at her brother and her big sister.

Victoria Keller, a very proper young lady in a McKenna gown and a fashionable little hat, stepped out of an Iris and took in the scene, frowned, raised a gloved hand and shook her Mommy-finger at the entire assemblage and scolded, "Who said you could start without me!"

Edited April 25, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

GOOD MORNING, SUNSHINE

Jacob eased the weight off his backside, worked his back a little, twisted.

He didn't get the *pop* he was hoping for.

Maybe later, he thought.

He'd backed his Apple-horse up a little, getting a rock structure big as a cottage, behind them.

Old habit.

His Pa took pains to cover his back, to stand with his back to a wall, when he fueled a vehicle, his back was to the vehicle, eyes busy, turning occasionally to cover everything around him.

Jacob took up the habit early.

He'd saddled up before daybreak, he'd set out for higher elevations, he and Apple-horse worked their way up the mountain on paths Jacob knew since earliest childhood.

Pale eyes busy, ears stretching in morning's quiet, he rode to a particular hanging meadow he knew of, a place he'd go to think -- High Lonesome was not his sole point of meditation -- Apple-horse knew the place, Apple-horse showed no reluctance, Apple-horse showed no alert that would indicate they were not alone.

Apple's breath steamed in the early light -- the sun was not quite taking its first peek over the distance, but it was really close -- Jacob leaned back in the saddle and Apple slowed, stopped, lowered his head, snuffed at grass and ground.

Jacob's pale eyes were busy.

It was chilly, this high up, not quite damp; Jacob's expression did not change -- like his pale eyed Pa, he practiced the Poker Face -- but he felt is gut relax a little.

He was happy here.

Jacob Keller, Sheriff of Firelands, Mars, was back on Earth for a quick visit.

He'd had some troublesome and troubling events, there in his Firelands: he'd tended business efficiently, professionally, he'd had to make it clear to Council that laws by right exist to protect people from the government -- not so the government could rigidly control the people.

He'd had a horn lockin' with two that wanted to set themselves up with more power than they had.

Jacob's quiet campaign of revelation against them gained their personal enmity -- which only increased when Council, seeing what was actually happening and realizing they actually did not have to put up with that foolishness -- suggested less than politely that the pair find themselves some other planet to live on.

Jacob was not entirely comfortable with setting the precedent of exile as a punishment, but he had to agree that -- in this particular situation -- it was probably the best choice.

Despite bluster and lies, nobody else went with the pair, and harmony returned to Firelands.

Jacob returned to his beloved mountains.

A scrub jay ruffled its feathers, scolded Jacob, sounding like someone was sandpapering a mouse butt, or so Jacob told his Pa when he was still in grade school: he'd seen the amusement in his father's otherwise expressionless face, and he'd later heard his pale eyed Pa use the same expression, to the mutual laughter of he and a deputy.

Jacob's eyes smiled a little at the memory.

Apple-horse turned a little.

Jacob looked into the distance.

The edge of the sun was just starting to sear the border between sky and earth; Jacob turned Apple again, felt his eyes tighten at the corners as the first long red rays set the highest peaks afire.

Sheriff Jacob Keller took a long, deep breath, savoring the chilly mountain air, marveling for ten times a thousand times he'd seen this same thing.

Sunrise in the Mountains.

A prayer escaped his lips.

Natives believed tobacco smoke carried their words to the Great Spirit.

Jacob's whispered words formed smoke-like clouds, and the clouds ascended.

He considered that maybe there was something to that tobacco thing as he considered his words were ascending in the selfsame manner on dead still air.

"God," he whispered reverently, "I do love the mornings!"

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WHITE ANGEL, RED MARE

Dr. John Greenlees looked up as Marnie and Littlejohn came through the door.

Marnie's face was red -- a rare flush of her normally pale face.

Whenever it was at all possible, Marnie would meet Littlejohn when he got out of school, walk with him through the underground corridors from the colony's school zone, to their quarters.

Littlejohn looked like a typical eight-year-old, happy and active and hungry, and Marnie looked almost ...

...embarrassed ...

Dr. John rose, walked across the room to meet his wife: Marnie threw her arms around him, leaned her cheekbone into his high breastbone and groaned, "John, can I run away now?"

She felt his silent laughter as he hugged her back and murmured, "Is the circus in town?"

It was one of many jokes they shared, like the one-liners they casually tossed back and forth.

She lifted her head, looked at the tall, lean physician, her husband, and sighed.

"Let's have supper," she said quietly. "Here. Not in the Commons."

Dr. John nodded.

 

Angela's face reddened as she looked at the book she was just handed.

I should have seen this coming, she thought, then swatted the thought aside.

"I saw this in the window," one of her students said, trying hard not to giggle as she and Angela looked at the dime novel's cover.

It was a surprisingly good likeness, Angela had to admit: it was her face, whoever drew the cover illustration captured her winged nurse's cap ... but the cape floating behind was half again longer than the horse she rode, and instead of an Appaloosa mare, this creature was shining red-copper: mane and tail lifted in the wind of the horse's galloping passage, the rider's expression was fierce, leaning forward, firing a pistol in each hand, elliptical tongues of exaggerated flame blasting forth from each muzzle.

Across the top, above the illustration, bright-yellow against the grass-green background, the words White Angel, and a comma.

Beneath the horse's shining-black hooves, Red Mare.

Angela's student was trying hard to look innocent as Angela committed what she admitted later was an honest mistake.

She pulled a pen, opened the book, wrote on the flyleaf, From One White Angel to Another, and the student's name -- she quick-scalloped a little cloud around the student's name, and a quick, line-looping set of angel wings.

 

Marnie slid the paperback across the table to her husband.

He frowned at the cover, read its title, then smiled, nodded, looked at Marnie.

"It looks just like her," he said, and Marnie gave him a tired look.

"White Angel, Red Mare," she said.  "She's already autographing books,"

Marnie sighed.

"She can't walk down the street -- she can't walk into her classroom! -- without being asked to sign a half-dozen of them!"

"She is a remarkable woman," Dr. John said gently. "She has done a great deal of good. Maybe she'll realize the good that she does."

Marnie gave him a little go-away finger-flutter, lowered her forehead into her other hand.

"It gets worse, John," she groaned.

Dr. John stopped, frowned.

Biscuits and gravy served for supper: it was quick to make, it was something they all enjoyed, and between the three of them, they'd finished all the sausage and gravy, and all but two of the biscuits.

Littlejohn was industriously using one of the last two biscuits, torn open, to mop the residue out of the flared serving bowl, getting the last of the crumbled sausage and sausage gravy: he chewed solemnly as his mother slid another book across the table.

John frowned as he studied the full color, cover illustration.

A woman in a McKenna gown, with a matching hat and short veil, was advancing bowlegged down a dirt street, hitch rail and horse trough on the other side of the street behind her: her mouth was open, her expression was angry, as if shouting defiance, while she carried a Winchester rifle at belt level, firing as she advanced, bright-yellow teardrop of fire from the barrel and three empty hulls in the air.

Dr. John looked up at his wife.

"Doesn't look like you," he grunted. "Doesn't even look like your hat."

"I'm going to have to answer for this one," Marnie groaned.

"You didn't write this one?"

"No.  No, John, but" -- she reached across, tapped the title with a neatly-nail-trimmed finger -- The Ambassador's Persuasion?"  She blinked, looked at the book, then up at her husband.

"The Ambassador's Persuasion?  Really?"

Dr. John Greenlees laid his hand gently over his wife's, enough to be warm and protective, not enough to be confining.

"You can be very persuasive," he said quietly, then asked," How about Michael and Victoria?"

"I haven't seen them yet, but someone told me there is at least one book -- Texas Tornado Twins -- with both of them mounted ... I don't know, they're probably both on armored Fanghorns mounted with a 105 Howitzers!" 

She looked up at her husband, her eyes troubled.

"John, most of my work is very low key," Marnie said, her voice strained: "I meet with people, I listen to people, I bring them together and hear them out and help them come to accord. I persuade ... persuasion is my best diplomatic tool. I try ..."
She sighed, shook her head.

"The Ambassador's Persuasion," she sighed. "Anyone who reads that will think I beat people over the head with a hitch rail and drag a cannon down the street behind me."

"Personally, darlin', I always imagined you driving a tank."

Marnie laughed quietly, shook her head.

"You're not helping, John."

"I think I have something that will."

When Marnie, Littlejohn and Dr. John thrust forks into fresh-baked, flaky-crusted apple pie, with ice cream and zigzag drizzles of chocolate sauce over the round mounds of cold confection, Marnie had to admit that ... yes ... her husband was right.

Pie and ice cream, she decided, actually was helpful. 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited April 27, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

AND THE SHERIFF GAVE UP

Now bein' Sheriff means there's days when I have to face up to and face down large and angry men that don't want to be faced.

There's times when I am obliged to stride boldly into situations that sane and rational folks are runnin' t'opposite direction just as hard as they can go.

There's times when I see things that would curl the hair on a bald man's head, when I have to tell folks things they really don't want to hear, like someone they cared for is dead, or I'm takin' them in for killin' someone, or come on, you've had enough likker, and there is times when such folk disagree with what I tell 'em, and I have to speak the language they understand.

That is not always good.

I recall what it was to see the look in childrens' eyes when I taken a trouble maker by the shirt front, when I SLAMMED him hard ag'in a clap board wall and grabbed me up a good twisted handful of shirt front linen and hauled said sorry soul off the ground, when I fetched his boot heels two foot off the ground and pressed him one arm overhead and held him and then I let him down so he and me was nose to nose and I allowed as he was goin' to keep his tongue behint his teeth or he was goin' to start out with a Saturday night bath, and his eyes kind of rolled over toward the horse trough for he'd seen me baptize sinners in the past and he knowed I was just short of dunkin' his sorry carcass in cold water and I recall the children lookin' at me and I never saw them look at me with honest fear before.

I don't like to put fear in a child's eyes.

Now children, I dearly love 'em, had I my way I'd taken them sweet little girls, all big eyes and curls and ribbons and frills and giggle and I'd set 'em on a high shelf with one of them glass bell jars over top of 'em and keep 'em young and pretty and innocent and keep the world from touchin' 'em so's they'd be forever pure and innocent and happy and giggly and of course that cain't be done.

Children are like puppies, they grow and they grow fast and they get into stuff and things happen and I cain't change that.

Anyway today I'd hunted down a fella wanted for some pretty bad things and I'd come up beside him in the Carbon Hill saloon and him and me had us a sociable beer, he'd not et in a while and I allowed as he could come along with me peaceable or he could come along with me otherwise, 'twas his choice, and everything was just fine until attair barkeep he fetched out a bung starter and allowed as if I started a fight in his place he'd finish it and I taken attair bung starter away from him, I pushed his bar over on top of him and I belted him a good one with his own maul and left him a-layin' there in spilt beer with men laughin' at him and me and the fellow I was after, we walked out and went over't the Chop House and had us a meal -- he didn't have any coin and hell, if I was goin' to go lock him up I couldn't starve him, and I know what it's like to ride on an empty belly, so I stood him to a meal and ever'thing was just fine until I heard a gun shot out in the street and then another one and I come out to find Law and Order Harry Macfarland reloadin' his Smith & Wesson just as ca'm as anything and him leanin' his shoulder ag'in the porch post in front of his Marshal's Office right acrost the street from attair saloon and me and this fellow I was with, we come up to Harry and he allowed as attair barkeep come out with a shotgun and allowed as he was goin to kill that G- D- Sheriff and Harry fetched up his revolvin' pistol and allowed as he'd not, and he put a .44 through the Bar Keep's wish bone before the bar keep could send a swarm of shot over t'orst the Marshal.

That fellow that was with me considered this and he scratched his chin and allowed as hell, Sheriff, was you not lookin' for me I'd ride along with you just to see what was goin' to happen next!

Anyhow once he was in my calabozo, why, I went outside and looked around and I went over to the Silver Jewel for coffee, for I'd rotted the bottom out of another coffee pot and I reckon Sears and Sawbuck must've started keepin' a stock on hand 'specially for me, as often as I run through 'em.

Anyhow oncet I come out after coffee and a meal -- Daisy, she come up to me just a-givin' me seven kinds of what-for and she slapped my belly and shoved her finger in my face jest a-soundin' like a Banty hen all irritated-like for she said my wife was a superb cook an 'twas my fault for bein' so skinny in the belly t' make it look like my wife couldn't cook a'tall, and I lifted my Stetson and said yes ma'am, as you say ma'am and that just made her madder and I count myself right fortunate I was able to back out of attair Silver Jewel without inheritin' a rollin' pin bent over my hard head.

I could see ever'one else in the Silver Jewel a-watchin' and they was tryin' hard not to laugh and so was I and ever'one in there knowed if they laughed, why, Daisy would whip around and she'd cloud up and rain all over 'em and probably beat 'em somethin' fierce with that wooden spoon of hers.

Anyway I made my escape.

WJ Garrison, bless his disagreeable old short-tempered soul, him and I got along all right now, but one time he insulted me to my face and was he not an old man and full of years I'd likely have back handed him, but I figured once a man gets that old he can be cranky and unreasonable if he's a mind to, and time and again he was, but the man carried an unholy number of people on his books, and he never objected none a'tall to my payin' cash money for someone else's purchase when I knowed they was short on scratch.

Anyway he treated me all right nowadays and he looked at me with a long face and allowed as he'd not set the checkerboard back inside the night before, the wind caught it and scattered checkers, he'd found all of 'em finally but the board was long gone and he was goin' to have to make a new one.

Had I any sense about me I'd have gone back to the Silver Jewel and got me a saddlebag full of provisions and lit out for the high country.

I didn't.

That afternoon I stopped and watched a schoolboy with a ruler, a pencil and a smoothed chunk of plank, grid off a checkerboard with wobbly lines and too many squares, but he allowed as attair was a Checker Board and he populated it with rocks and nut shells and allowed as he'd play me a game.

I don't have any notion a'tall what game 'twas, it surely was not checkers, whatever 'twas oncet he jumped a pink rock over nut hulls and thumbnail sized chunks of coal cinder harvested from between railroad rails, why, he didn't holler "King me!" he declared "Lizard!" and allowed as he'd won.

I surrendered the nickel bet we'd made and he ast me for a rematch and I raised both hands in surrender and allowed as I give up, he was too good, and that's kind of how my day went.

Some days bein' Sheriff is all polishin' your bottom not doin' a whole lot of nothin' and sometimes you get beat by a schoolboy playin' Lizard on a home made checkerboard.