SHORT STORIES!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A FATHER'S PREDAWN

Sheriff Linn Keller kissed his wife's forehead, folded the spit towel and slung it over his shoulder, then lifted the drowsy and full-bellied little boy and laid him over his shoulder.

Esther gave her husband a grateful look.

Linn did not miss the fatigue in his wife's expression.

Linn crept downstairs, silent in sock feet.

He worked one foot, then the other, into the tall, flat-heeled cavalry boots he still preferred, then he settled one of his older, sweat stained Stetsons on his head, plucked a familiar old poncho off the hook, draped it over the restless-but-growing-drowsy little boy over his shoulder, and around himself.

He stepped outside.

It was close to frost, but it wasn't there yet: he made his way through familiar darkness to the fence, through the gate.

His stallion was restless.

This was not surprising.

The herd was remarkably sensitive to goings-on in the household: when Esther was in labor, the mares were clustered against the fence, as close to the house as they could get: staring, whinnying, throwing their heads as if in sympathy to one of their own.

The stallion paced around behind and around the mares, muttering, shaking his head, as if searching for whatever threat had his mares watchful, had his mares restless.

When Linn came into the pasture with his liddle baby boie, the stallion came over, nostrils flared, snuffing loudly:  Linn pulled the blanket back, caressed the Appaloosa's velvety ears as the Herd Stallion investigated this curiosity.

Nobody watched from the house to see the Herd Stallion lower his head and press his forehead gently against the Sheriff's breastbone.

A sleepy little boy, warm and packed around like a sack of taters, squinted and fisted little pink hands as he was laid down on a saddle blanket: the Herd Stallion stood for his saddling, watched as the mares clustered around, blowing, pushing one another: Linn found he had to go among them and let them, too, greet the new foal, the youngest of the pale eyed Keller tribe over one shoulder, the stallion's muzzle over the other.

It took a little while for Linn to finally be able to mount up.

Father and son rode through the very early morning, not going anywhere particular: somehow they ended up at the front porch of a familiar house, where a big Irishman was just stepping out his front door, stretching blacksmith's arms to greet the lightening of the day along the rim of the world.

Two men conferred in quiet voices: Sean Finnegan's big hands cradled a sleepy little boy, warm and secure in a familiar-smelling, zig-zag-striped poncho, as the Irishman's teeth flashed white under his villainously-curled mustache: two big men, two old friends, shared a quiet look, the pride of two fathers at this tangible continuation of their tribe.

It is the business and the duty of a father to provide, and to protect.

It is the business and the duty of a mother to nurture and to nourish.

It is the business and the duty of little baby boys to sleep peacefully when draped over his sire's shoulder, when wrapped and warm and safe, when soothed by the gentle motion of the horse beneath them.

Linn got back to his own hacienda as the long red rays of morning's sun seared through the clear air, as Linn draped the poncho over his son's head and face, as little pink fingers worked restlessly into the poncho's weave, feeling its texture, smelling man-smell and horse-smell and saddle leather.

Linn got his stallion unsaddled and rubbed down, he picked up his wee son with a father's gentleness and draped the still-sound-asleep infant over his shoulder: he stepped into the house, smiled as the hired girl opened the door at his approach.

"She's asleep," she whispered, and Linn nodded:  "Good," he whispered back, "let her rest."

The maid smiled as she took the sleeping bundle, as she cuddled the sound-asleep baby to her bosom.

She looked up at the Sheriff.

"Will ye be havin' breakfast then, sor?" she asked quietly.

She saw Linn's eyes go up, looking through floors and timber at the tired woman asleep upstairs.

"Let her rest," he whispered. "I'll breakfast at the Silver Jewel."

 

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

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

YOU GOT A DEAL!

The sign said BEWARE OF DOG.

Captain Crane frowned as he looked at the sign.

It took up the entire lower window of the aluminum storm door.

He ran his usual scouting run before bringing the resident back into her house.

It was highly unusual for the Firelands squad to make a non-emergency transport, but today was different: a beloved old schoolteacher wasn't physically able to be transported in the family sedan, there was a need, and so the Captain and his partner marked out as "Firelands Squad One, chores and errands," which generally meant they were going after groceries for the Firehouse.

They rotated which apparatus went on Chores and Errands.

It wasn't at all uncommon for their biggest trucks to make these runs: it made sure the trucks were regularly exercised, that all hands were kept familiar with the area, and when they were out of station, they were also responsive -- potentially putting them closer to an emergency response than if they'd had to respond from within the brick structure.

Today, though, they were transporting the elderly Mrs. Murray, who'd taught almost everyone in grade school, or so it seemed: to maintain the pleasant fiction, they'd likely stop at the grocery store and get something really important, like maybe a box of cookies.

Mrs. Murray was so very happy to be released from hospital; she'd dizzied out and hit the floor, she hadn't broken anything, she was in overnight to rule out stroke, heart problems or the Galloping Crud: when everything came back clean (and after receiving an impressive string of visitors from the community, sitting upright in her bed and holding court like the Queen herself!), she'd been released, she'd been hugged by half the doctors, most of the nurses and every last one of the housekeeping staff, before being wheeled happily down the hall toward the waiting squad.

When they were enroute, the Captain held her thin, pale hand between his big, warm hands the entire journey: he looked ahead, then looked at his old second grade teacher and admitted quietly, "It's not often I get to take people back home where they belong. This feels good!"

The Captain made his scouting run, when they got to her grandson's house: he and the grandson moved what little furniture had to be shifted to admit the rolling ambulance cot, and the Captain lowered the siderail on the hospital bed in their living room, adjusted its height with practiced ease.

Beware of Dog, he thought.

Big sign on the door.

I don't see any dog.

He shrugged, went back outside.

"We can get to the hospital bed no problem," he reported, and laid his hand on Mrs. Murray's and winked.

They dollied her inside, his partner pausing to take a long look at that black-with-red-lettering BEWARE OF DOG sign on the door: they got the cot across the threshold, released the door, allowed it to hiss shut and latch.

They moved the cot up beside the hospital bed.

The Captain flipped the seat belt latches, drew them aside and let them dangle: he drew the blanket back as his partner climbed up on the opposite side of the hospital bed.

"Now if you'll bring your arms across your chest" -- the Captain's voice was gentle, his arms crossed his own breast as he illustrated his instructions -- "we'll bring you across nice and easy. You don't have to do a thing, just let us do the work, you enjoy the ride!"

Mrs. Murray laughed -- it was an easy, relaxed laugh, the laugh he remembered from his days in grade school.

His partner pulled the sheet free from under the ambulance cot's mattress, rolled it quickly to make a good handle: he looked up at the Captain, nodded.

"On three," the Captain said quietly.  "One, two, three."

Two strong men lifted the skinny little old schoolteacher, brought her across easily on the bedsheet.

Three things happened.

Mrs. Murray gave a surprised little "Ooh!" and smiled as she did.

The Captain's partner looked quickly to the right and saw something with a head the size of a bushel basket looking at him.

And the Captain felt something tugging at his trouser cuff.

The Captain leaned back, rolled the cot out of his way, looked up in surprise as his partner's eyes rolled back in his head, right before the man passed out cold and hit the floor.

Right before a big Rottweiler came pacing out of the next room.

Right before the Captain reached down, scooped up an incensed, snarling little Chihuaua who was doing its best to shred, rend, rip and absolutely murder the cuff of his uniform trousers.

The Captain straightened, looked at this fierce little black-and-tan handful of teeth and attitude, then laughed as Mrs. Murray opened her hands and exclaimed happily, "Oh, little Crickie came to see Mommy!"

The Captain handed Mrs. Murray her Chihuauha, who immediately curled up on her belly and turned, stiff-legged and fangs-bared, snarling and yapping at the Captain, inviting him to come closer so he could be ripped into bloody shreds.

The Captain looked down as the Rottweiler leaned companionably against his leg and sighed like an old, contented friend.

His partner wobbled unsteadily to his feet, looking around almost fearfully.

"Mrs. Murray," the Captain said gently, "this big fellow here looks like a lap puppy. Is he the reason for your Beware of Dog sign?"

Mrs. Murray laughed as the vibrating little Mexican Mauler happily laundered her chin.

"Oh, no, dearie," she said softly. "I wanted to keep people from stepping on little Cricket here!"

Not a word passed between the two medics on the trip to the grocery, nor on the return to station.

When they finally backed into the squad bay, when the cot was scrubbed off and a clean sheet applied and tucked in, the Captain and his partner looked at one another, the Captain grinning, his partner looking distinctly uncomfortable: they lowered the cot, hoist it into the squad and locked it in.

They picked up the two grocery sacks, looked around.

The Captain took a step closer and spoke quietly.

"I'll make you a deal," he murmured. "You don't tell anyone that Chihuahua tried to rip my leg off and we won't tell you about being ambushed by a Rottweiler."

His partner gave him a grateful look. 

"You got a deal!"

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SPOT

Chief Chuck Fitzgerald yanked open the passenger door of the first-out pumper, turned, his face darkening: he looked at the woman who'd just given him bad news and yelled "DAMMIT WOMAN WE'VE GOT A FIRE, GET IN!"

He boosted Michelle fast and less than gently into the shotgun seat of the big shiny Kenworth cab, then turned, seized the startled Dalmatian around the chest and hoist it into the cab with her: he spun the window down, slammed the door and yelled "GO!"

The driver dropped his fireboot off the air brake, hit the throttle, automatically reached for the siren switch, then remembered:

Short in the wire.

No electronic siren.

The dog -- a Dalmatian, a familiar sight at the Firelands firehouse, a favorite on parades -- twisted in Michelle's arms, saw the hand reach over for the siren box, and did as he'd always done.

The Dalmatian thrust his muzzle out the window and began to howl.

Michelle felt across the floorboard, found the button, pressed firmly, winding up the old-fashioned, obsolete, shining-chrome mechanical siren: air bearings and old tech that still works fine screamed like a damned soul, and Michelle, her arms around her Dalmatian, laughed as the dog took another breath and sang a canine counterpoint.

The Bear Killer came to his feet beside the Sheriff's desk, muttering: he looked at Linn, looked at the door, and started to dance.

Linn was on his feet and moving.

He and something curly-black, something swift and deadly, something the size of a young bear, streaked across the lobby toward the glass double doors: man and beast arrived just in time to see Firelands Pump One go sailing by, a Dalmatian's head out the window, muzzle in the air, singing war.

 

Michelle stood in front of the Chief's desk, her face a mask.

The Chief did not look at the single handwritten sheet she'd handed him.

"Is this what I think it is?" he asked quietly.

Michelle tried to nod, winced, her teeth clicking together with pain.

"Can they do anything?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"No," Michelle whispered.

Fitz blinked, felt a familiar chin on his thigh: his hand had eyes, his hand rubbed the Dalmatian behind the ears: he knew without looking that her spotty dog, a favorite in parades, when it rode the pumper and looked around with obvious delight, was closing its eyes as the Chief's experienced caresses found "Just the Right Place!"

The Chief opened his mouth to say something.

The alarm cut his words.

Fitz was on his feet and moving, the Dalmatian was backing, tail whipping happily, looking from Michelle to Fitz, then following the Chief: Spot was dancing, looking from the suiting-up whitehat to the pumper, hoping they'd put him on the pumper again.

For whatever perverse reason, Spot loved riding that pumper, and he especially loved riding when it was an actual run and not a sedate, leisurely parade detail.

Michelle moved automatically, though she did not suit up:  Fitz seized her arm, ran her to the cab, hauled open the door and grabbed a random cement block some dedicated idiot left against the wall: he slung it into place for a step and yelled "GET IN!"

Michelle responded according to her training.

When the Chief gave an order, you obeyed.

He boosted her in, probably the only time in recorded history when anyone -- anyone! -- EVER planted a hand on her backside and lived to tell the tale: she landed on the seat, she inherited a lap full of wiggling Dalmatian, the door slammed, the Chief yelled "GO!" and the Kenworth started to move.

 

Michelle leaned forward, erasable marker in hand.

She'd personally applied transparent, self stick shelf paper to the dash of every piece of apparatus, she'd bought the erasable markers out-of-pocket, she'd stocked the apparatus and checked regularly to make sure they weren't dried out: she noted down the Dispatcher's instructions as they left station, knowing she could cover the entire surface area of her slick writing surface if need be, and clean it all with a wipe of a cloth: it was handy, it worked, it got her some comments, until her method proved itself useful.

She made good use of the writing surface after their arrival at the working fire.

Fitz ran up to the passenger door, frowned up at her: "YOU ARE FIREGROUND DISPATCH!" -- then he turned and strode for the structure as men ran up with fire hoses and ladders.

Her Dalmatian barked hopefully as Captain Crane came up to the door, frowned at her.

"Does the Chief know?" he called up.

Michelle very carefully never turned her head: "I gave him the letter."

"Wha'd he say?"

"He never even looked at it."

Crane's lips pressed together.

"Can they do anything about your neck?"

"Surgery, maybe. They'll have to go in from the front. I'll be out of action for a while and even then ..."

Her words trailed off.

Crane heard the disappointment in her voice.

"He's got me on Fireground Dispatch," Michelle said, "and Spot needs to go."

The Captain opened the big shiny-red Kenworth door, reached up, lowered the happy, wiggling Dalmatian to the ground.

 

The Firelands Fire Department had a loaner pumper for just over a month.

When theirs was returned, the Chief strolled over to Shelly, his affect casual: he did not look at her as he approached, his hands were shoved in his pockets, and everyone who saw this knew it was not going to be good, or the Chief was upset -- and it was generally not good if the Chief was upset, and was trying to hide it.

"You're still in touch with Michelle."

It was not a question.

Shelly leaned a hip against the immaculate side of her rig, folded her polishing rag carefully, laid it on the patterned step bumper.

"Can she come back?"

Shelly dropped her eyes, bit her bottom lip, swallowed.

"I think so," she almost whispered.

"Have you seen her?"

Shelly nodded.

Fitz leaned closer, his voice little more than a whisper: "For God's sake, woman, what happened? Is she dead?"

Shelly looked at the Chief, her eyes wide, startled, and then he saw something in them he didn't expect.

Laughter.

Shelly cupped her hand over her mouth, then grabbed the Chief's arm, steered him out of the squad bay and down beside the first-out pumper.

Shelly opened the passenger door of their newly-returned machine.

"Radio Service fixed that shorted siren," she said, "now look at this -- just the way you wanted!"

Fitz honestly hadn't had time to look at the new rework.

Shelly pointed to the ceiling of the pumper.

"Slim-line screens," she said, "they fold down once you're at scene. Four of them, arranged so Fireground Dispatch can sit here and move nothing but the eyes and see all four screens."

Shelly stepped back, thrust a bladed hand upward.

"Cameras on both sides of the pumper, front, back, and middle. They can be driven from touch panels on the screens. If Michelle never had her surgery, she could still have full command of the fireground without moving her head at all."

"Sooooo ... does this mean ...?"

"It means she had the surgery. Same surgical team that worked on Michael."

Fitz knew Michael had extensive spinal surgery.

He didn't know the full particulars, only that it was well beyond extensive, and it was successful.

"Is she coming back?"

"I don't know," Shelly admitted.

They heard the man door beside the bay door open, saw sunlight flood the interior, heard the tik-tik-tik of claws on hand-laid brick: Fitz looked down as a Dalmatian emerged from under the Kenworth, looked hopefully up at the Chief.

Shelly smiled at Spot, laughed as a familiar voice suggested, "Maybe you can ask me yourself."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited October 14, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

HORSEDANCER!

Dr. John Greenlees held his wife.

Marnie molded herself into her husband and held him back.

The two stood, not moving, savoring the moment.

Dr. Greenlees was just back from two intensive weeks Offworld, teaching, working, consulting.

Marnie put the two weeks to good use promoting her coffee, tea, and herbs (garlic and onions were a booming business in and of themselves!) -- Earth seeds for fruit trees and garden vegetables were in high demand, and truth be told, she'd honestly dedicated more time to seed distribution than to diplomatic intervention.

Littlejohn was still on Earth.

 

Littlejohn reveled in the cold.

Most boys his age were in long pants and hoodies.

Littlejohn was still in shorts and T-shirts, apparently immune to the chill: the Sheriff watched as the laughing nine-year-old stood bow legged in front of two curious white mares, his posture that of a happy little boy, theirs, curiosity.

Littlejohn began to dance -- if you can call it that -- it was more a vigorous rocking left and right, as graceful as a stepladder.

Linn leaned his chin on his folded arms and watched over the whitewashed fence.

He felt his eyes tighten a little at the corners.

The mares' heads wagged ever so slightly left and right, then they, too, began to dance: left hoof, right hoof, moving with the laughing little boy.

Littlejohn backstepped, moving to a rhythm only he could hear, and the mares moved with him.

Littlejohn turned, and the mares separated, turned, danced with him.

Littlejohn advanced toward the mares -- one, two, three, four -- the mares backed, stepping with him:  Littlejohn backed, one, two, three, four, the mares moved with him again.

Deep in his memory, the pale eyed Granddad recalled what it was to be young, what it was to stand bow legged in front of his Mama's big red Frisian, remembered what it was to dance like a rocking stepladder.

He felt his wife's hand on his shoulder, felt her warm against his side: Shelly ducked her head a little to see under the top rail, and he felt her happy sigh.

"I remember when the girls danced," she murmured, and Linn's arm came down and ran across her back and around her waist on the far side: his gentle, one-armed embrace was his only answer.

 

Marnie sat on their broad, comfortable couch, cuddled up against her husband, her head laid over on his shoulder.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Remember when ... it was Prom and we were already graduated early ..."

John's hand tightened on her far shoulder as he remembered, as he nuzzled his face into the fragrance of her hair.

"We drove into the City and you treated me to a fine dinner, and a down-on-one-knee proposal."

She felt her husband's silent nod into her hair.

"I know you never liked City driving," Marnie murmured.

"Hate it," he mumbled, his arm tightening a little.

Marnie drew back a little, smiled at her husband, her voice light, teasing: "John, would you make a good hermit?"

Dr. John Greenlees kissed his wife, gently, delicately, the way he always did, then he rubbed noses with her and laughed silently.

"I would make a fine, curmudgeonly, isolationist, most dedicated hermit -- I could cheerfully dedicate my isolated mountain cave the Hermitage" -- he lowered his forehead until it touched hers, until those gorgeous, pale blue eyes merged into one big unblinking orb -- "but only if you were there with me!"

Husband and wife held one another, they sighed together, they savored this happy moment, uninterrupted and alone, at least until the emergency chime sounded at the same moment an Iris chimed, appeared like a black slash of unreality in the receiving chamber, dilated, and a happy little boy in shorts and a T-shirt charged his rising parents at a dead run: the happy collision landed all three on the couch:  John struggled upright, reached for the comm:  Littlejohn's eyes were wide and excited but he knew what that alarm tone meant, and so he stood, almost vibrating, but silent as his Pa frowned at the communication.

"No rest for the wicked," John muttered: he frowned, turned, strode for the door.

Marnie and Littlejohn watched him go, then Marnie turned and looked at her son, smiling at the genuine delight fairly shining from his apple-cheeked face.

Littlejohn held his Mama's hands and jumped up and down, the very image of vigorous and healthy youth:  "Mama, guess what, I'm a Horsedancer!"

Marnie laughed and hugged her nine year old son to her:  he felt her laughter, and she felt his joy.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

GAMMAW'S GHOSTIES

Sheer Energy was the Firelands Sheriff's Office's designated drug dog.

Sheer Energy had a truly phenomenal nose.

Sheer Energy was half bench-leg Beagle and half Basset, which means he was built so close to the ground, the poor fellow left three tracks in the snow.

Sheer Energy was named for his typical energy levels.

Right now he was displaying his usual vigor.

Sheriff Willamina Keller sat on a thick foam pillow, cross-legged on the floor, with her skirt modestly draped down into the hollow of her crossed, stockinged legs: Sheer Energy climbed into her skirted hollow, collapsed, his chin over her leg, suddenly, catastrophically, completely, relaxed.

Schoolchildren loved it when "Their Sheriff!" came to visit -- to the grade school children, she was smiling, charming, happy, laughing, almost grandmotherly, and without any of the saccharine pretense that characterized too many extra-instructional teachers.

These were older students, but students who'd grown up with Willamina as "Their Sheriff!" -- and the sight of this pale eyed woman dropping a pillow and going cross-legged, but maintaining that familiar, unfailing modesty as she did, struck a happy and familiar chord to every soul present.

"Mr. Hall," Willamina called, thrusting a bladed hand at a familiar young face. "When you were in second grade, you asked me to tell you a ghost story, and I got a call and had to leave. Do you remember that?"

Mike Hall frowned a little, shook his head slowly, face reddening: "No ma'am, I'm sorry, I don't," he admitted.

Willamina caressed Sheer Energy, which brought a happy, gusting sigh from the collapsed canine.

"You know I was a paramedic back East, when I was with a village marshal's office," Sheriff Willamina Keller began with a quiet smile.

 

Paramedic Willamina Keller and the State Trooper examined the car's interior.

"He's bleeding," Willamina murmured, tilting her head: she lowered her three cell flashlight, shot it at a low angle, then raised it, trying to catch the shine of fresh-dropped blood.

"There," she said. "Blood trail."

The troop nodded as Willamina conferred with her partner, then followed shining-scarlet blood drops into the standing-dead, head-high weeds.

It was night, it was a full moon: an industrial chimney's shadow loomed against the stars, shining dully in the Southeast Ohio moonlight.

Willamina marked it unconsciously -- a navigation waypoint -- she pressed deeper into the weedy thicket, listening, smelling.

"Hello!" she called. "Paramedic! Where are you?"

Silence answered her.

Willamina pressed deeper into the weeds, her own tread almost silent.

Another fifty yards of slow progress.

She stopped, listened, looked along her back trail --

There, she thought, frowning as she tilted her head.

Something dull, a muffled ... explosion? -- must be, I felt it through my boot soles --

Willamina blinked, crouched, touched delicate fingertips to the dirt --

Screams --

Horses.

Hoofbeats.

Willamina closed her eyes again, listening with more than her ears.

They're running. 

Screaming in fear.

Why?

Willamina bowed her head, then she saw it.

Mine ponies, running toward her, panicked, flat-out gallop, some unharnessed, some pulling mine cars with a desperate speed.

Behind them, Hell itself -- ugly, orange,dirty flame, boiling toward them far faster than they could possibly run --

Willamina felt thunder slam through her, felt her skin sear --

She jerked her hand away from the dirt, her eyes snapped open --

She was still crouched among dead weeds in the silver moonlight.

She could see the lights from the State Trooper's cruiser, from her squad, sitting on the road's shoulder --

She still heard the mine ponies' scream, then they were suddenly cut off.

 

The Trooper looked up as Willamina emerged from the weeds.

"Lost the blood trail," she said. "They'll either show up at ER or we'll see buzzards in a couple of days."

 

Sheriff Willamina Keller's hand caressed Sheer Energy's brown-and-white head as the half-Beagle, half-Basset drug dog snored quietly on her lap.

"That was the only year the explosion's anniversary occurred on a full moon," Willamina said quietly.

"Did you ever go back?" a young voice asked, her tone serious, her eyes wide with concern.

"No," Sheriff Willamina Keller admitted.  "No.  I never went back."

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I'D RATHER TAKE A BEATIN' 

Dr. John Greenlees was following his own advice, for once.

He went somewhere.

The good Doctor could have stayed home, he could have gone to other consulting stations, he could have immersed himself in work and work and work again, but he'd long preached the value of recreation, of play, of relaxation, of the need for the mental cleansing that comes of an entirely new surrounding, a whole new place, and so he sat under a tree and read a book.

It was an Earth tree, grown from seed: there were concerns with bringing rooted stock to another planet, to introducing such organisms as Earth-native nematodes or even non-native earthworms: no, seeds were popular, and seeds were safe, and so Dr. John Greenlees sat under a leafed-out apple tree, and read.

He'd brought his book and he'd brought a red-lacquer picnic basket, he'd set up the personal field so no native bugs or ants or whatever lived here, would intrude on him as he sat and read, or ate; he relaxed, allowed his imagination to travel under oceans, he immersed himself in the tales of a long-dead Frenchman who imagined an underwater ship, powered by electricity, might travel under polar ice.

Michael was to meet him, and sure enough, a figure appeared not far away, mounted on a truly huge, blocky, proportions-aren't-right horse ... this could only be Michael, for only he would wear a black suit while riding a semi-carnivorous assault horse that looked like lightning painted its signature down her length, top, sides and beneath.

Michael kissed at Lightning, and the big Fanghorn folded her legs: her flanking colts took full advantage of the situation and started eating windfall apples, grunting as they did, slashing their tails in happy approval.

Michael pulled a sack from behind his saddle, carried it over, untied the burlap, reached in.

"Cold tea?" he offered, holding out a dented, chipped, dull-green thermos.

Dr. Greenlees parked a bookmark between the pages, set his book aside, accepted he offering.

Michael saw the smile at the corner of the normally-solemn physician's eyes.

He'd consulted with Marnie to find what her husband would normally prefer on such an expedition, and brewed accordingly: Doc closed his eyes and smiled, just a little, after that first swallow.

Doc was comfortable with Michael: he saw his nephew as younger, yes, but he saw him as a young man, and not a child.

Michael saw Doc as a mentor and as a friend: when Doc spoke, Michael listened, and had come to the man in the past for advice on a variety of subjects.

Today, though, Michael and Doc got into that red-lacquer woven basket.

Conversation was quiet; the colts came over, of course: neither cared for cheese, but both were interested in meat sandwiches, and Doc's eyes tightened a little at the corners when Michael disassembled a sandwich and held up thick-sliced tomatoes for one, then the other, of the colts to sample -- they were surprisingly delicate, taking the offering from between Michael's fingers with a rubber-lipped delicacy that almost brought a quiet chuckle to the medicine man's throat.

When their meal was finished, when Doc and Michael each had a companionable, blond-furred and dozing Fanghorn colt laid up against their leg as each man propped up the apple tree's trunk with their backs, their conversation meandered as it often did, finally ending up with Doc admitting some personal discomforts.

"I didn't have time to think about anything before I was in surgery," Michael said quietly, and Doc nodded: he was one of the few who actually knew what-all Michael went through -- from Michael's personal shielding collapsing under the sustained assault of an over-powered energy rifle, his and Lightning's near-death, the overhaul, repair, replacement of the entire spinal column, regrowth of burned nerve tissue, the subsequent surgeries and other therapies.

Doc's eyes went to Lightning, to the lightning-paths of those hellish energies, forever burned into her, showing as a lack of color in her blond fur: he remembered hearing about his sisters, deliberately harvesting medical nanos from Michael's treatment and smuggling them to where Lightning lay healing, how Michael whispered words to his sisters that resulted in absolute, unmitigated, Diplomatic Hell being raised, until Michael was taken to Lightning.

It wasn't until the two touched, not until there was physical contact, that genuine healing started happening.

"Marnie said you're not afraid of anything," Michael continued, his voice quiet, unguarded.

"There is," Doc said, shifting a little as he spoke -- "there is something."

Michael turned his head, curious, his hat on his lap, his personal field providing a comfortable padding against the rough bark of the apple trunk.

"When I proposed to your sister," Doc said quietly, "we drove into the City."

Michael nodded again, even though he and Doc were facing different directions, and very likely Doc couldn't see his acknowledgement.

"We ... Michael, it's ..."

Doc frowned, and Michael turned his head slightly, very slightly: it was rare indeed when Doc wasn't quite sure what to say, how to reply.

"I hate driving," Doc almost blurted.

Thunder and Lightning both raised their heads, ears swiveling, then laid back down: Lightning, once bellied down, stayed there, sunning herself, relaxed, dozing in this safe place.

Michael waited.

"I .. am afraid ... no, not afraid," Doc corrected. "I'd make a fine hermit."

Michael considered that he was almost that, living underground on Mars, save for expeditions via Iris, but carefully said nothing.

"I hate city driving," Doc admitted, "and the thought of driving any distance, anymore ... I used to, Michael, but ... now that I don't have to, I am quite happy."

Michael nodded again.

"When it's thrust upon you and there's no time to think about it, you just go. That's one thing. But the thought of ... we went to a wedding a few states away, we had a couple months' notice, Marnie was delighted and she had no idea ... I didn't think she knew just how uncomfortable I was, driving all that way, strange roads, strange city."

Michael nodded again.

"I've never told her and I never intend to. I think the hardest part ... the hardest part was the time leading up to going. Once we were underway, it was a task to be performed, and I did it in fine shape."

"The anticipation," Michael murmured.

"The anticipation," Doc agreed, then said in a hollow voice, "I'd rather take a beatin' than drive all that way again!"

 

Edited October 18, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

DISAPPOINTMENT

Sheriff Jacob Keller watched patiently as his sister marched the length of his office.

Sheriff Jacob Keller watched as his sister turned -- quickly, almost viciously, her dress heels loud and punishing on the buffed board floor: she was attractively dressed -- she'd just gotten back from the City, back from dinner with a young man with whom she thought she might develop an interest.

Something told Jacob this was not going to happen now.

Angela's arms were stiff at her sides, her hands were fisted, her face red: her eyes were gone pale, her lips pressed together, and she moved like a tornado had been stuffed inside an attractive young woman's body, and was ready to rip its way out of its fleshly container and conduct mayhem and general destruction given but half a chance.

Jacob's office was a close copy of the Sheriff's office back home.

He'd gone to considerable trouble to fabricate this familiar surrounding, here on Mars: his Sheriff's office had the same overall layout, although his comm system was considerably more capable than the Earthside version.

Angela Keller stopped, closed her eyes, took a long breath, folded her arms.

Jacob knew she was thinking powerfully of something -- very likely, the young man who disappointed her -- his suspicion was confirmed when the Iris opened, when Marnie stepped through, when Marnie looked at Jacob -- who was on his feet, in his usual tailored black suit but with the Stetson on his head, which meant he was in his official capacity as either Sheriff, or big brother -- then she looked at Angela, who turned and absolutely glared at her big sister.

Marnie regarded Angela's pale eyes, her grim expression, the crossed arms, then asked quietly, "Who do I need to kill?"

"She hasn't said yet," Jacob offered quietly.

"I have four thousand planets and a backhoe," Marnie replied.

Angela did not smile.

"Sis," Jacob said quietly, "I can offer you a listening ear, a nice friendly shoulder if you'd like it, I can raise a posse and I can tie a fine noose of thirteen turns, just point me in the right direction."

Marnie waited, unblinking, studying her younger sister's face.

"Suppose we start at the beginning," Jacob suggested. "What happened?"

 

Angela gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Angela read the text message.

"Running late, meet me at restaurant."

Strike one, she thought.

A proper man would be here on time.

A proper man would come to my father's door and present himself.

A proper man would open the car door for me.

Something feels ... off.

Her Daddy's words, quiet, wise, in the back of her mind:

"When in doubt, darlin', follow your gut."

Angela consulted her wrist-unit, calculated the time: he said he'd made a reservation for a particular time, so she went back upstairs and checked her appearance.

She wore a modest dress, heels like her Gammaw wore -- Willamina had excellent fashion sense, and her Gammaw favored dresses -- this one, as a matter of fact, was made off the same pattern she and her Gammaw used when Angela was learning to sew on the same treadle Singer that Aunt Mary and her Gammaw used, when Gammaw was only just come West.

Angela wore no makeup.

Neither had her Gammaw.

Neither had any need of cosmetics: the mountains gave their complexion a healthy glow, they worked hard, ate well of mostly local crops, drank highly mineralized well water: they had the legs, the waist, of equestriennes.

And Angela also had her Gammaw's temper, which she kept carefully in check, except when she didn't.

Angela stepped out of an Iris in the City, onto the sidewalk twenty feet from the restaurant.

She pulled the heavy door open, slipped inside, hesitated -- old habit bade her sidestep to get a wall to her back, her eyes busy, marking exits, marking locations, marking people.

Her Daddy taught her that.

Angela stepped away from the wall, approached the maitre d', asked if there was a reservation.

She mentioned the name.

No, mam'zelle, there does not seem to be a reservation under that name.

She asked again, under her name? -- again the polite half-bow, the murmured mais non, mam'zelle.

Angela checked the chronometer, smiled, thanked him in a quiet voice, turned.

A hand gripped her arm -- strong, demanding -- "Now where you goin', little lady?"

Angela turned, her eyes dead pale: the maitre d' stepped back, wide-eyed, shocked: he hadn't heard anyone come up behind him, he didn't know anything was happening until there was sudden movement, a yell -- more of a scream, only from a man's throat -- and the sickening sound you get if you take a bunch of celery hard in both hands and twist it, hard.

A man fell back, bent over, gripping his forearm, his hand at an odd angle.

Two more men advanced, one seized a wineglass from an adjacent table, struck it hard against the table's edge, raised it like a beer bottle.

Angela thrust into them, seized the arm, twisted, bent: the attacker went over her bent back and hit the floor, hard, as Angela stayed bent over, her foot driving for the other's crotch.

Her impact was considerably less than gentle.

The third fell back with a sound that reminded Angela of the time Jacob tried ball batting a Jersey bull across the backside with a two-by-four and got boosted over the fence for his troubles.

Angela turned, drove into the door -- hard -- fled into the outer darkness.

She keyed in a command, stepped through an Iris, disappeared.

 

"Sis," Jacob said quietly, "Pa will have contacts there. He'll have a BOLO on that Jack Doe who was supposed to pick you up."

Marnie held her counsel: she, like Angela, had been deputies -- both still carried active commissions, both still worked as deputies often enough to maintain minimum active-commission hours -- Angela was still too worked up to think of the several possibilities her old sister considered.

"He'll have contacts in the City.  The cops were probably called. That fellow with the wrist will be seen in ER."

Angela was not listening.

She was pacing again.

Jacob was honestly expecting to see a trickle of steam hissing out her ears when she whirled, stormed up to him and put a stiff finger under his nose.

"You know what really upsets me?" she hissed, her jaw clenched, her eyes wide and fierce.

Jacob gave her a patient look and said softly, "What upsets you, sis?"

Angela took a step back and of a sudden it looked like someone pulled a cork out of her shoe sole and all the mad just plainly ran out of her.

She sat, suddenly, dropped into one of the reproduction, old-fashioned, straight-back, incredibly-comfortable wooden chairs Jacob had in his office, just like his Pa had in his.

Angela looked up at Jacob with the expression of a woebegone child.

"When I kicked that one guy?" she squeaked.

Jacob nodded.

"I kicked him, Jacob. I kicked him like I've practiced a million times."

"Annnddd he quit coming at you?" Jacob offered carefully.

Angela's face wrinkled up and she gave a little squeak, she came to her feet and rushed her brother, seized him like she was drowning and he was the only float in the ocean.

Jacob held his younger sister as she rubbed her face hard into the front of his shoulder and squeaked out, "Jacob, I missed my kick, I caught him in the thigh!"

Jacob held his sister as the post-adrenaline crash hit her.

Marnie was speaking quietly into her wrist-unit.

Jacob could hear his father's voice coming over the speaker, a fatherly voice, concerned.

"Is Angela hurt?" he asked. "Who do I need to kill? I've got forty acres and a backhoe!"

"No, Daddy, not yet," Marnie said gently. "We need you to contact the city PD and find out all you can about" -- she lifted her face a little -- "Angela, what's the name of that restaurant again, and the guy who was supposed to pick you up?"

Jacob could visualize his father, grim faced as he always was when it came to his young: the man would have the phone's receiver between jaw and shoulder, he'd be holding the yellow pad down with one hand, he'd be writing -- block print, regular characters, precisely lettered, the way he wrote when he was under stress, when it concerned family.

Jacob's imagination could see his father's hand come up from the yellow pad as he finished writing, could see the change of expression as Marnie spoke again.

"She's not hurt, Daddy, but we need to find out who grabbed her. At least one will be in ER with a dislocated wrist, from what she told us. She threw another, you know how she likes to throw attackers. The third one she kicked in the thigh, hard."

"You're sure she's not hurt," Jacob heard his father press.

"No, Daddy, she's not hurt," Marnie repeated. "Just ... very disappointed."

There was a long silence.

"I'll get back to you, Marnie. Take care of her."

"Roger that, Daddy. Tell Mama we love her!"

 

Back on Earth, a pale eyed lawman spoke with a counterpart, explained the situation as he knew it.

He got his answers in less than an hour.

Apparently it was easy to turn two of the three against each other when they were told they were collectively facing charges of assault on a law enforcement officer and assault with a deadly weapon.

Two of the three were located in the same emergency department, one with a badly fractured wrist, the other with a partial dislocation of the hip: the third was found unconscious a few hours later, apparently having banged his head hard enough to start a slow-bleeding concussion.

When Sheriff Linn Keller finally transmitted the particulars, he asked cautiously if she, Marnie, could talk.

She indicated in the affirmative.

"Marnie," he said slowly, "did I understand correctly that Angela was more upset because she missed her kick, than the fact she was grabbed and almost abducted?"

"That's the size of it," Marnie confirmed.

Linn leaned back in his armless, high back chair, stared at his Granddaddy's revolver in its glass-framed display on the wall, his voice quiet as he shook his head and murmured, "Disappointed."

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

TO KEEP A SECRET

Neither Shelly nor Linn offered any protest when they saw The Bear Killer piled in bed with little Marnie.

They knew if little Marnie slept alone, she had nightmares: if she slept on her Daddy's couch downstairs, she didn't, and if The Bear Killer was warm and reassuring in bed with her, she didn't.

Shelly, on the very rare occasion when she could not outrun the flu, derived a significant comfort from better than a hundredweight of black and furry cuddle buddy, even if he did snore.

The Bear Killer did not snore nearly as badly as the Sheriff.

When The Bear Killer snored, the windows did not rattle.

The Bear Killer walked Marnie to the school bus stop of a morning, until she was old enough to ride to school -- which meant she was old enough to clean the rented stable up behind the schoolhouse, and able to saddle and unsaddle her own horse -- and when she rode to school, The Bear Killer paced alongside her, both when she was mounted, and when she walked from the shed, downhill, to the schoolhouse: from there, he coursed, swift, silent, purposeful, ran the railroad tracks and up the alley and arrived at the Sheriff's Office, where he was met with Sharon's happy exclamations and a bite of whatever she was eating at her desk.

At the end of the school day, The Bear Killer came streaking out of the Sheriff's office and uphill, either toward the schoolhouse, or toward the Sheriff's house: he would either pace proudly alongside Marnie's mount, or he'd be waiting patiently at the bus stop for her.

The Bear Killer was a watchful presence with all the Keller young: many's the time he interposed himself between an adventurous cub and something dangerous: when Jacob was only just walking, he did his level best to walk off the edge of the porch, several times.

The Bear Killer was busy enough interposing himself between a curly-headed little boy and vertical disaster, that he finally began to address the situation with a series of uncharacteristic woofs, enough to summon Shelly, enough to bring a suddenly-unhappy Jacob to red-faced distress as she seized him by the convenient carrying handle of his crossed overall straps and picked him up like arm-waving, chubby-leg-kicking, red-faced, loud-voiced, juvenile protest.

There exists a snapshot of Jacob in mid-howl, his little hands fisted, legs bent in mid-kick: this was one of those photos which was very carefully not shown outside the immediate family, although a certain pale eyed Sheriff considered that he might show this particular photo to Jacob's young at some appropriate time in the future.

Most of The Bear Killers -- for there'd been many, over the years -- were the hereditary black.

One, and only one, was white: Snowdrift was not albino -- she had the yellow lupine eyes of her predecessors, she had the black nose of her line, but her fur was pure, unmarred, white -- most unusual for a Sheriff's K9 partner.

When Angela showed up for the Valkyries' twice-weekly training, she wore the same dress and heels she'd worn during her recent adventure in the City, and she wore this for a reason: after she and the other young ladies warmed up and stretched, Angela put her heels back on, bowed to the sensei, and addressed current, aspiring, and past cheerleaders and other ladies who maintained an interest in keeping up their hand-to-hand skills.

"I had a situation recently," she said, "where I was seized in a nice restaurant. This" -- her hand brushed across her skirt -- "is what I was wearing, which is why I am wearing it tonight."

Sensei rolled a hanging frame closer, a man-shaped dummy suspended from the high arm: he held it by loops on its sides, mostly to keep it from rotating.

"I reacted as I've been trained," she continued, her voice carrying to the furthest rank of her attentive students: "when it hits the fan, rational thought and fine coordination join hands and jump out the nearest window. This is why we train and train and train again. This is why we don't train until we get it right" -- she paused, her gaze direct, penetrating -- "we practice until we can't get it wrong!"

Angela spun and kicked.

Angela was a dancer, and a good one: she normally walked with her weight on the balls of her feet, and wearing heels was a natural extension of that: her kick was delivered swiftly, powerfully, obliging the Sensei to step back to absorb the dummy's impact.

"My intent," Angela continued, "was to kick directly below the belt buckle -- to kick the bladder. I was far enough away I could get a good extension, I want to keep an attacker at distance, and I did not want to close enough to drive my knee up into him -- that's too close -- I wanted to hit his lower abdomen, hard. 

"I missed."

She turned, pointed to the dusty shoeprint on the dummy's thigh, where it connected with the pelvis.

"I hit him here," she said, "and I hit him high enough to partially dislocate his hip. The dislocation spontaneously reduced itself, but he was walking with a limp and that helped the police to I.D. him."

"Why did they try to grab you?" one of the Valkyries asked, her hand raising tentatively to shoulder height as she did.

"That's ... part of the investigation," Angela admitted. "I can't talk about that just yet. My point is, I aimed for a particular target and I missed."

She looked around and smiled with half her mouth.

"I will be working on my kicks until I get it nailed down fast, hard and nasty."

 

Snowdrift's nails tik-tik-tikk'd down the gleaming hospital hallway, Angela's heels loud as she marched down the corridor toward the Med-Surg wing.

She knocked at a door, breezed in, Snowdrift at heel.

Angela tilted her head, regarded the young man asleep in bed: she stood there, silent, watching, nurse's eyes automatically assessing skin tone, lips-and-nailbeds, depth and quality of respirations: she saw the pulse at his neck, then turned, silent on the balls of her feet, paused at the nurse's station.

Snowdrift waited patiently as Angela spoke quietly with the assigned nurse, the two speaking in that foreign language of medicine, a frank conversation between colleagues and peers.

"Burst appendix?" Angela asked quietly.

"You know I can't --"

"He stood me up on a date," Angela interrupted. "I was ready to scratch his eyes out until I heard he'd been admitted. I take it he's responding well to the IV antibiotic that's almost run out?"

The other nurse grimaced: she didn't usually have a heads-up that the IV bag was nearly dry, it was normally the air-in-the-line alarm on the IV pump that told her the next bag needed hung.

"I'd better get that right now," she said. "Thanks, Ange."

Angela and Snowdrift came out into the main hallway as Security was coming the other way.

Angela took the man around the waist and by one hand, she turned him and he responded, and for several seconds, a surprised, grinning security officer and an attractive young woman with really good legs and a flaring skirt, cut the rug right there in front of God and everybody: Angela spun away from him, waved, giggled, and skipped down the hallway like a mischievous little girl.

The officer thrust his uniform ballcap back, scratched his thatch thoughtfully and murmured, "Some nights it really does pay to come to work!"

 

Marnie used to read aloud to The Bear Killer, when she was learning to read.

Jacob used to talk to The Bear Killer, when they were alone, as if he were discussing deep subjects with a trusted friend.

Angela talked to Snowdrift as they drove to the firehouse.

"His appendix attacked him," she said thoughtfully as she pulled out onto the main drag through town: "it's no wonder he stood me up!"

Her hand floated over, caressed Snowdrift's curly-white fur.

"I don't think I'll scratch his eyes out," she said softly.  "This time."

Snowdrift muttered something that Angela chose to interpret as agreement.

"You know why I'm telling you this," Angela said frankly as she pulled into the lot behind the firehouse. "You listen well, and you can keep a secret!"

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

AN UNDERSTANDING

There are times when Rational Thought and Fine Coordination join hands and jump out the nearest window, in response to some sudden, overwhelming stress.

There are times when Rational Thought and Reason are seized by the scruff of the neck and thrown bodily out the window, generally without benefit of opening the window first.

"You beat the stuffin' out of him," the rancher said quietly -- it was not accusation, it was memory, ten years old.

He raised his beer and took a long, cool swallow, the way a man will when he'd been working all day and wished to relax and be sociable with men of his own kind.

The Sheriff took a slow breath, then husked it out -- half cough, half laugh -- as he remembered.

"It's a wonder," he muttered, before taking a pull on his own beer.

He'd come to the ranch at a wide open gallop, his Apple-horse more than happy to run at his rider's behest.

Apple slowed when he felt the Sheriff target lock on his quarry.

A decade after, the reason for the confrontation was faded into obscurity, but the memory of the attack remained, as it always did: he'd kicked free of his stirrups, shoved down hard on the saddlehorn and got his feet under him, squatting, then he leaned and he launched and he drove into an angry man with the full velocity of a fast moving Appaloosa stallion and the power of his own lean legs.

They could not but seize one another at collision: they spun, one flesh, the Sheriff landed on his back and instantly the other man's weight slamming onto his front knocked every bit of wind out of the lawman's lungs.

He didn't care.

Two men laid into one another hammer and tongs, thrashing, kicking, punching, grabbing: the Sheriff laid into him with elbows and forearms, too close for the other fellow to get a clean punch: it was fast, it was brutal, it was instinctive.

They rolled, the Sheriff seized him and drove his scalpline into the rancher's nose, hard: elbows again, knees, he'd doubled the man over with a knee to his wind, brought his elbow down hard on the back of his head.

The fight was fast, brutal, primal, bloody: it lasted just under ten seconds.

Now, a decade later, the man's brother stood beside the Sheriff, speaking in quiet voice, drinking beer after a hard day's work.

"Think you could do that again?" the rancher asked, amusement in his voice: he and the Sheriff looked at one another, and both men saw the wrinkles tighten at the corners of the other's eyes.

Even Mr. Baxter heard the quiet smile behind the questioner's words.

The Sheriff considered this, pale eyes busy in the big mirror behind the bar.

"I don't reckon," he said finally, "I'd want to try. I'm an old man now."

"You know that beatin' is what he needed."

The Sheriff's eyes were haunted as he watched his reflection raise his beer and take a slow pull.

"I dislike gettin' all worked up," he muttered. "Spoils a man's digestion."

Linn set his beer down, turned, loafed comfortably against the bar, one boot heel hooked on the polished foot rail.

That night he had Esther wrap his ribs, had her draw the binder tight, tight: there is a price paid for violence, and his was to wear that tight binder under his shirt for about a week, and to move carefully until cracked ribs healed.

The rancher he'd jumped, hadn't come back into town for a month.

First thing the Sheriff did was buy the man a beer.

No conversation, no threats, no suggestions, just two men sharing a quiet beer, and that was the end of it: whatever hostilities may have existed before, were gone now, and neither man spoke of it, not until now, ten years later, after the original offender's death, after his brother came and sought out the Sheriff for a beer and some quiet talk after the burial.

"That beatin' is what he needed," the dead man's brother said quietly. 

"I dislike such things," the Sheriff admitted as he frowned at his half empty heavy-glass mug.

The rancher nodded.

"I'm glad you two came to an understandin'," the rancher finally said quietly.

He was all right once I showed him what his troublemakin' got him, Linn thought, but he folded the words up and stuck them in his pocket.

"Yeah," Sheriff Linn Keller said at length.  "Me too."

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

YOU KNOW WHAT YOU MARRIED

Jacob's pencil moved in quick, light strokes over the artist's eggshell paper: he smiled a little as he drew, and his imagination flowed easily out the sharpened pencil's point and onto the paper.

He drew from her memory, and from his imagination, and the cares of the Sheriff's Office and of diplomacy and of commerce receded from him as he waded through the waters and streams of his memories.

 

Joseph Keller was as patient as children of his young age usually were: in other words, he had no patience at all, or maybe slightly less: he was determined to go from wherever he was, to where he wished to be, and the fact that his young body didn't quite know how to do this was frustrating: as babies do, the uncoordinated movements of arms and legs, with their immediate feedback, brought the realization that force applied, could push him -- sideways, or rocked up to one side, or with effort and additional moving parts, he discovered he could scoot, which brought a squeal of delight from him, and an indulgent smile from his watching mother.

The Bear Killer watched, head tilted: this small noisy curious bundle of perpetual motion seemed to fascinate the big mountain Mastiff, and Ruth stopped one day and openly stared as The Bear Killer lay squarely ahead of the supine Joseph -- as he advanced a paw, scooted forward a little, advanced the other paw, scooted again.

Joseph held his head up and regarded the big furry cuddle buddy with wide and wondering eyes: a toothless grin, a happy squeal, The Bear Killer romped to his paws, danced around beside Jacob and dropped to the floor beside him -- suddenly, heavily -- he moved one foreleg ahead, scooted forward, moved the other.

Joseph looked at once delighted, and determined: he thrust a flannel-sleeved forearm forward, planted its length on the floor and scooted ahead a little.

His eyes got big, his mouth opened in surprise and he looked at The Bear Killer and said something in the language of babies.

It was not long before scooting advanced to creeping: crawling was an industrious activity, with baby Joseph laughing happily, trying to keep up with the attentive, watchful Bear Killer.

Ruth knew she was in for some interesting moments the first time Joseph pulled himself up by virtue of almost climbing the round, turned, ringed leg of their dining room table: the laughing little boy was apparently so happy with himself that he got excited and fell down on his padded backside (babies of this vintage seem to have well padded backsides, probably engineered for this very reason) -- and not much after this, Ruth came into the room to find baby Joseph standing with one arm over The Bear Killer as far as he could reach.

This wasn't far, and The Bear Killer was well too tall for Joseph to throw his arm over the canine backbone -- he had a good handful of curly-black fur, he was standing, he was kind of wobbly, and then The Bear Killer took a careful step forward, and Joseph stepped with him.

The Bear Killer took another step, and so did the baby, who turned and saw his Mama was looking at him, and he got excited and fell down, again, the way babies will do when they don't quite have this coordination thing figured out yet.

Jacob smiled as a little boy, tall enough now to lay his arm over The Bear Killer's shoulders, walked confidently across the hand-drawn page: child and canine both looked immensely pleased with themselves, and as Jacob lifted his pencil from the finished page, he leaned back, with the same expression of satisfaction.

Ruth came into the room, glided up to him: she'd been outside, she had a basket of fresh-cut flowers, she smelled of clean air and sunshine: she tilted her head, smiled as she looked at the memory her husband's hand wrought across the page of artist's grade paper.

"I remember," she murmured.

Jacob laid his hand on his wife's and he nodded, his voice soft.

"I do too."

He turned, looked up at her, ran his hand around her sun-warmed waist.

"You're married to an old softy, you know that."

Ruth laughed, untied the broad ribbon under her chin, removed the woven-straw gardening hat, swept it off: she lowered her head until their lips just met.

"I know," she whispered.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

INVESTMENT

It was not the first time Marnie was grateful for the holographic phone.

Michael and Lightning were visiting, at least their holograms were, and Marnie reflected that if the two of them Irised in, she'd have to provide feed -- Lightning was contentedly grazing -- and she'd have to handle cleanup, as Lightning was also leaving second hand Fanghorn feed behind.

Marnie really did not want to clean her living room floor as if it were her Daddy's concrete stable floor.

Marnie was a Diplomat, and Marnie was a Woman, and Marnie used many tricks and slights to accomplish her goals: she maintained informants on multiple worlds, she was good at beguiling information from men -- as a matter of fact, she could see through most men like window glass, and she could read most men like a newspaper -- and when Michael called and indicated he may have information she'd find useful, she was quick to authorize the call.

When the call was finished, when the illusion of Fanghorn and rider disappeared from her living room -- and, admittedly, after Marnie cast a critical eye over her floor to make sure that was an actual hologram and not a real live fertilizer factory -- she sipped her own brand of oolong and considered what she'd just learned.

 

Dr. John Greenlees sat in what amounted to a saddle.

It was easier on his back than standing, to perform an operation; he was -- at least to his senses -- bellied up against the operating table, looking straight down into the incision: a medical-grade quantum communication link allowed him to feel with the same sensitivity, the same acuity, as if he were working with surgical gloves and his living hands.

Several light-years away, at the other end of this medical grade quantum link, as local surgeons watched, robotic hands performed their delicate dance as the good Doctor surgically excised an encapsulated tumor.

Cancers were rare in most worlds, they were very much an anomaly, and when an actual cancer was diagnosed, Dr. John Greenlees was notified, and was asked to scrub in.

He did so -- virtually.

Initially, he was not at all comfortable performing surgery "Long Distance," as he called it, but improvements in tactile feedback gave him the sense of touch he relied on, and the "eyes" at the far end of the operation were more acute than his own: he could control the light, he could employ alternate wavelengths to better see different tissues, or infections; after he excised the walled -off tumor and its tough capsule, after he'd ensured there was no spread, he closed: when he spoke, his voice was soft, unlike the prima donna surgeons he'd learned under, those arrogant souls who considered mere mortals well beneath them, and young doctors who were there to learn, to be even further beneath him.

Dr. John referred to them as "Good Examples of Bad Examples," and did his best not to be "One of Them Kinds of Folks!" -- when he told the tale, it was with a smile and a laugh, which served to smooth over the genuine contempt he felt for those who fancied themselves Demigods, dealing out insults instead of encouraging learning.

Dr. Greenlees consulted on three patients that day, he operated on four others: though he never left the projection booth in his Martian surgery, he felt like he'd honestly worked all day: though his hands touched nothing more than force fields and focused light, he scrubbed out anyway, then changed out of surgical scrubs and showered: the surgical scrubs had probably been unnecessary, but he believed some touchstones should not be done away with.

He changed into clean clothes, carefully knotted his genuine silk tie: he regarded his reflection critically, nodded his satisfaction, picked up his suit coat.

The Sheriff was not the only man who favored the old-fashioned black suit and a necktie.

It was a short walk from his surgery to his quarters.

Later that night, after supper, he and Littlejohn would go for their usual run in the recreation deck, they'd likely avail themselves of whatever activities were available: Littlejohn favored riding horseback, and Dr. John was honestly hard pressed to tell the difference between the artificial reality of a holographic horse, and the genuine article.

Unless, of course, he cupped his hands over the holographic horse's nostrils.

Holo-horses did not blow hot moist breath.

Upon their return, Marnie rose, smiled: after Littlejohn went on to bed, she and her husband sat up and talked, as they often did.

This time, though, Marnie tilted her head and regarded her husband with a speculative eye.

"John," she said gently, "I never knew you were uncomfortable driving in city traffic."

Dr. John was still for several long moments, remembering where he'd divulged this confidence, considering whether he would ever -- ever! -- entrust Michael with anything at all!

Marnie rose and flowed across the floor to him, sat with him -- sat against him, she lowered her head and looked very seriously into his eyes as her hand claimed his.

"John," she said quietly, "I never knew. I'm sorry."

He opened his mouth to say something, stopped when her upright finger pressed against his lips.

"John," she whispered, "you drove very well that night. You got us there and you got us home and you did not show the least sign of discomfort."

She removed her finger, her eyes unblinking, serious.

"John, you did that... for me."

She lowered her head very slightly in emphasis as she continued, "Thank you. You pushed through your own discomfort so you could propose to me at a restaurant you knew I loved!"

Dr. John Greenlees remembered that conversation for the rest of their lives.

He remembered how good it felt to have his wife thank him for pushing through something with which he was personally quite uncomfortable.

It felt really good to have her acknowledge he'd faced up to, and faced down, something that honestly terrified him.

Marnie saw all this in his expression -- Marnie was a woman, and she could see through her husband like window glass, and she could read her husband like a newspaper, and she'd learned from watching her own mother's interactions with her father, how much of an investment honest praise was cherished by the male of the species.

It was not the best investment Marnie ever made, but it was probably among the top ten.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

DAISY’S KITCHEN

Daisy Finnegan ruled her kitchen.

Daisy Finnegan first came to territory-wide notoriety when she swung an eighteen inch cast iron frying pan with both hands and politely flattened Dirty Sam’s eagle beak, cold cocked the man and made her point with absolute, unmistakable certainty:

He would not put his hands on her.

Ever.

She would not work as one of the girls, upstairs.

Ever.

He would not come into HER kitchen and give HER orders.

EVER!!

Once the Sheriff had his understanding with Dirty Sam, with Slade the crooked lawyer, with the banker that swindled and conspired and stole land, stole ranches, stole lives, once the Sheriff just plainly kicked backsides and cleaned house, he ended up the new owner of the Silver Jewel Saloon and Brothel, he ended up half owner of the bank – of which he immediately divested, handing his half interest in the Bank to his new bride, along with the newly purchased, nearly bankrupt railroad, renamed the Z&W – Zanesville and Western – and profanely known as the Zig Zag and Wobble.

Just why he named this railroad for a city nowhere near the Shining Mountains was not known, and frankly no one cared: the short line had been badly managed from day one, which changed immediately under the efficient leadership of the green-eyed, red-headed Irish tornado who could glide into a group of quarreling men, charm them utterly, bend them not just to her will, but wrap them around her pretty pink finger, and make them like it.

All of this is peripheral to what was expected to detonate into either an old-fashioned knock-down, drag-out war, with its epicenter in Daisy’s kitchen, or with a presumptuous foreigner staggering out of Daisy’s kitchen with a foot-long butcher knife stuck between his ribs, or at the very least, several rolling pin marks on his punkin’ haid.

These things did not happen.

Oh, there were raised voices.

The furriner spoke French.

Loudly.

Angrily.

Daisy, when she got her dandruff up, spoke Gaelic.

Pure, flawless, native, Gaelic.

And when she was irritated, when she had her Irish up, which was rather often, she could take that native Gaelic and stroke it over a sharpening stone until it had a cutting edge – either that, or she would wrap it around a rock-maple rolling pin and swing it with all the vigor of the legendary Finn MacCool, a name she often attributed to her knuckle-scarred, street brawler of a husband, he who’d bare-knuckle battled rival fire companies back in Porkopolis where they’d met.

Today, though, today Mr. Baxter drew beer after beer, men paid and stood and looked down the hallway and listened to the young thunderstorm brewing inside Daisy’s kitchen.

I keep calling it “Daisy’s Kitchen.”

It was exactly that.

Daisy was approached by that hell rasin’ trouble makin’ Sheriff  that came into town on a wore out plow horse, that Sheriff that decked that crooked lawyer Slade just outside the frosted-glass-scrollwork-decorated doors, the Sheriff that bankrolled the newly liberated Bonnie McKenna’s House of McKenna – Daisy crossed her arms and glared at the pale eyed lawman with the formidable reputation, the man who – for all his warrior’s prowess – stood with his hat in his hand, just outside her kitchen, asking in a quiet and polite voice if he might discuss a matter of business with her.

Daisy’s glare could either freeze water, or boil it: she lifted her chin, crossed her arms and granted her permission for an audience, as if she were a reigning monarch, and this hard-fisted Sheriff were merely a noble supplicant, seeking some favor from the Crown.

Daisy absolutely did not expect what the Sheriff had to say.

Daisy’s reserve was sorely tested as the Sheriff laid down a legal paper and asked for her signature.

Not to surrender anything.

Frankly, Daisy had little more than the clothes that she wore and the attitude she wielded.

The Sheriff, it seemed, wished to give her the kitchen, and all its profits.

Give it to her.

Just … give.

He was not demanding a cut of the take.

He was not requiring a share of her profits.

Daisy could read, and Daisy did read, and she read this hand written legal document, signed by a man she knew and trusted – Judge Hostetler, one of the few honest men she’d met – she blinked as she read this plainly worded missive.

She, Daisy, would be the sole owner and operator of this, her kitchen, located in the Silver Jewel.

She, Daisy, would be responsible for all its expenses.

She, Daisy, would receive all of its profits.

All of them.

It took Daisy a few minutes to compose herself sufficiently to maintain her stern expression.

She signed, and she called in one of the girls to witness the document, and Daisy read it aloud: she and the girl shared a look, and after the Sheriff’s careful, respectful words of thanks, after his departure, Daisy and the girl seized one another and jumped up and down and squealed and chattered and expressed their feminine delight, the way that women will when they suddenly feel like excited schoolgirls again.

All this is background.

You see, Daisy’s kitchen was her kingdom, her demesne, her satrapy: Daisy’s kitchen was solely and uniquely hers, and she did not brook intrusions, and so when this foreigner followed his Gallic nose and came into her kitchen, when he lifted lids and sniffed her spices, when he asked in a demanding voice something about a pot of stew, she thrust herself hard into him, shoving him back with a less than feminine belly-bump, she raised a clean, wooden spoon like a weapon and shook it at his face and replied in pure, unadulterated Gaelic, and her reply was not at all quiet, nor was it gentle, and it was most certainly not … ladylike.

This is where we began.

This is where men bought a beer, and stood at the end of the hall, looking down its length toward Daisy’s kitchen: this is where men waited expectantly, wondering whether attair furriner was going to fall backwards out of the kitchen and collapse against the opposite wall with a bloodied face, or whether he would run up the hall toward them to escape a pursuing, screaming Irishwoman – or out the back door, running away from them, seeking to escape this warrior-woman with an upraised, deadly weapon of culinary design.

Neither happened.

There was but one witness to this interaction between a Frenchman, who apparently had some professional experience at food preparation, and Daisy, a frontier woman who’d gotten as far as she had because she was strong, contrary, and took no guff from anybody.

Anybody.

The sole witness to all this was Daisy’s chief girl, a combination waitress, cook, hauler of wood and water, confidante and occasional partner in crime, and according to this witness, Daisy and this furrin fellow went through her spices, they fixed more stew, fried more meat, diced more onions: loaded plates emerged from the kitchen to the girl’s loud “All right, which one of you drunken layabouts is hungry?” – the only time in recorded history an interloper came into Daisy’s kitchen, and ended up shoulder-to-shoulder, dicing, spicing, steaming, stewing, frying, one speaking in the flawless French that is the sole purview of a native speaker of the tongue, the other a sharp-tongued Irishwoman who spoke solely in her native Gaelic: twice she rapped his knuckles with a wooden spoon, at which point they ended up face-to-face, both of them red-faced and loud, each glaring, neither backing down, until they both cracked and they both laughed and they both turned back to the heat-radiating wood stove.

Daisy’s cooking changed, a little: she still fixed meals that stuck to a man’s ribs, but she used more spices, she added flavor to her already good dishes, and her pastry desserts became lighter, the crusts more delicate.

Daisy’s Kitchen already had a good reputation.

Now its reputation was that much better.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WALK ON THE CEILING

Reverend John Burnett leaned forward, elbows on his wife's checkered tablecloth, the warm comfort of his ceramic coffee mug in both hands.

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

Sheriff Linn Keller grinned, picked up his coffee, tasted it, closed his eyes with pleasure.

The Parson's wife added a little vanilla, which she knew the lawman loved: he looked at her, winked, then looked back at the Parson.

"It's good to sleep in my own bunk again."

"Was the wedding nice?" Mrs. Parson asked, gliding over with her own steaming mug: the Sheriff rose, pulled out her chair -- she waved  a limp-wrist hand at him, but smiled nonetheless -- she scooted in and the Sheriff sat back down.

He'd never surrendered his grip on his coffee mug.

A man has his priorities.

"Yeah, it was all right."

The Parson and his wife shared a look -- the Sheriff knew they were an old married couple, and silent communication was something he was well acquainted with, and they probably had some mutual understanding about the question he'd been asked, and the answer he gave.

"You came back yesterday?"

"We did," he confirmed. "The older I get, the less I like driving" -- he grinned a little crookedly, which meant he was going to say something self-deprecating -- "especially after dark!"

"Cataracts?" the Parson asked reflexively, then frowned at his own indiscretion.

The Sheriff nodded.

"Last eye exam," he admitted, "the doc said I had the beginnings of 'em. I asked her when I should have them removed. She laughed and said I'd know -- that I'd be beatin' on her door screamin' 'Hey Doc we gotta do somethin'!' "

Quiet laughter ripped around the Parson's kitchen table; three mugs raised, three coffees were tasted, three mugs were lowered.

"I was kind of disappointed," the Sheriff admitted.

Mrs. Parson looked alarmed:  "Oh?" she asked, setting her mug down and giving the Sheriff the full face of her attention.

The Sheriff nodded solemnly.

"The day before we came home -- Saturday, the day of the wedding -- we'd stayed at a hotel. Breakfast was at 6 am. There was a gal changing out the coffee urns in the lobby and she saw me advancing with that crazed, go-for-the-waffles look.

"She spoke up and said breakfast is at 7:30 on Saturday, but we have coffee, so I stopped and threw my palms wide and allowed as the Navy runs on coffee, and so do I!"

"You're Navy?" the Parson asked, surprised, and the Sheriff shook his head.

"No," he admitted, "but an old salt water anchor clanker whipped that one on me, so I stole it!"

The Sheriff sighed, his expression softened.

"The bride ... when she was about two years old I asked her if she'd like to walk on the ceiling, when we were visiting her Granddad at Christmas.

"She gave me those big lovely eyes and said yes, so I took her around the waist and whipped her upside down, I set her bare feet on the ceiling and I walked her across her Gamp-paw's ceiling, just scatterin' giggles all over the place!"

His smile was gentle, soft, his expression that of a grandfather looking at a favorite memory from well in the past.

"Next year ... Shelly told me she'd not remember walking on the ceiling.

"Damned if she didn't march up to me with her knuckles on her belt, she pointed up at the overhead plaster and declared 'Walk on the Ceiling!' -- so I took her around the waist and walked her on the ceiling!"

Quiet chuckles circled the table; coffee was tasted again, mugs were lowered again.

"Along about ... oh, I think she was six years old and she was long enough in the body -- and she was getting heavy enough -- I set her shoulder on mine to bear the weight."

Reverend Burnett nodded, his own expression thoughtful -- the look of a man hearing something that struck a familiar chord.

"Now she's a married woman," the Sheriff said almost sadly. 

"You didn't," Mrs. Parson breathed.

The Sheriff grinned.

"You did," the Parson murmured.

"I didn't walk her on the ceiling," the Sheriff said, his ears reddening, "but I did say an old man's memories run long, and I wouldn't tell about my earliest memory of her, but rather, my favorite."

He chuckled.

"You told them about ..."

"I told them she marched up to me and planted her little pink knuckles on her belt and pointed at the ceiling and gave me a direct order," the Sheriff grinned, "and of course when a lady gives an order ..."

His shrug spoke as eloquently as his words ever could.

"She turned all red in the face and her husband murmured to her and she slapped at him, and then everyone tinkled their forks against their glasses until the happy couple kissed, and when I danced with the bride, she looked up at me and said, 'Uncle Linn, walk on the ceiling!' "

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

DID YOU DO THAT ON PURPOSE?

Sharon bit into the still-warm-from-the-bakery doughnut and chewed happily.

The Sheriff brought her a box of a half dozen, just for her; he took another half-dozen back to the coffee table, and set a dozen out for general pickup through the day.

Sharon took a quick sip of coffee to clear her mouth, swung around, looked at the Sheriff decanting a volume into his big mug.

"It must've been good," she called, and the Sheriff could hear the light tease in her voice.

"How's that?" he asked innocently.

Sharon wagged her bitten pastry at him: "Blueberry," she replied. "You get blueberry doughnuts when something good happens."

Linn picked up his half dozen, brought it and his mug over, set them on Sharon's desk.

He pulled up a chair and sat down, and Sharon could see the laugh in the man's eyes.

She leaned toward him and said in a conspiratorial murmur, "Out with it, Blue Eyes, what has you so tickled?"

The grin Linn was trying to keep hidden, escaped its captivity and spread over his face.

"I met the new town manager today," he said.

"Oh, yeah, Susie I-forget-her-name," Sharon nodded.

"That's the one."

"So what happened?"

"I went down, just took a pasear through the sewer plant to say howdy to Grant."

Sharon nodded, took another bite of warm blueberry doughnut.

"He was using the fork lift to move drums of something. They've got a stout little bridge built across a fairly sharp ditch and he backed up wrong --"

"Uh-oh," Sharon murmured.

"Yeah," Linn agreed, taking a bite of his own pastry: he grunted, nodded, took a noisy slurp of coffee, and ignored the droplets clinging to the underside of his carefully crafted handlebar mustache.

"I got there just as he got 'er hung, so I jumped out and took a look and said 'Grant, that's not too far off good footin', I think I can hitch a chain on your truck and bring you up far enough,' and I did, and we'd just gotten him back on good ground when that new village manager came along.

"Of course when the Sheriff is behind the wheel of the village truck, when there's a chain coupled up, why, that says something went wrong, so she looked at Grant and asked 'Did you do that on purpose?'

Sharon took another sip of coffee, not wanting crumbs in her mouth to be inhaled if she laughed -- and, knowing the Sheriff as she did, she was satisfied she would indeed laugh, and rather soon.

"Grant allowed as he hadn't really, so she said if it was an accident she has to write it up, but if it was intentional she didn't need to make a report, so he spoke up real quick and said yeah, he meant to do that."

Sharon laughed quietly, nodding; the Sheriff's ears were red now, and he took another bite of warm blueberry doughnut and winked at the dispatcher.

"I think," he mumbled as he chewed, "that phrase just might come in handy!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THANK YOU, I NEEDED THAT

A teamster stood at the bar, one boot up on the polished foot rail.

It was a mark of pride and of achievement that this particular watering hole bore a resemblance to the Silver Jewel.

Ever since that famous establishment was mentioned by a certain pale eyed Ambassador, ever since copperplate engravings were disseminated on multiple worlds, this ideal of a men's establishment became rather popular -- along with other facets of style, fashion, behavior and equipment.

The teamster was big, muscled, his hands bore the signs of honest work -- calluses, scars, the tanned, weathered look of a man who labored under the over arching dome of Heaven itself.

He raised another innovation -- a glass mug, heavy, solid, round for its top two-thirds and octagonal and thick at its base, with a thick handle, big enough for him to grip easily.

The forked horns of a native grazer hung over the bar, along with some surprisingly good sketches of women in various states of undress: it was, after all, a man's establishment, and men enjoy the sight of a lovely lady, and that's where the cyclone entered.

This particular example was maybe shirt pocket tall on the teamster, and slender: she wore the scandalously-short skirt of an Offworlder, instead of the floor length hemline of a decent woman -- her dress was dark blue, with light blue trim, it caught her just at the top of the knee -- she came in with her jaw set and her pale eyes blazing, she stormed in, silent on white crepe soles, then froze as she saw the drover.

The saloon went silent when she whirled into this masculine sanctum.

The woman's jaw was set, her pale eyes blazed: she glared at a stubbled man holding a stringed something that looked kind of like a misshapen guitar and snapped, "Give me something I can dance to!" -- then she seized the teamster's hand and pulled with a surprising strength.

To his credit, he responded to the strength of her pull: she shifted her grip, one hand in his, thrust out, the other around his waist, and the fight was on.

The music was brisk, lively, deep-toned: it wasn't a double-strung Mexican bass guitar, but it was close: a voice yelled "CLEAR THE FLOOR!" -- tables, chairs and slow men were seized, hauled back, and this unlikely pair -- the dusty, sun-heated teamster and this beautiful, pastel nurse, spun in a perfect, whirling dance step.

Angela spun out, to the end of their arms' lengths, spun back in: her back came against his front, his arms came around her, and her hands atop his: she spun out again, whipped back, back in the one-hand-out, one-arm around position she'd initially taken: the moved faster, with the natural coordination of two born dancers, until finally, with one hand above her head, Angela twirled under his hand like a music box doll -- she stopped as the music ended -- she surged up to the teamster, reached up and seized his face: she pulled his head down, kissed him soundly, skipped over to the bar, drained his beer, slapped a handful of coin on the bar and yelled "GIVE THE MAN WHAT HE'S HAVING!" -- and this pale-eyed, reddish-blond-haired Colorado tornado spun out the front door in pious imitation of a minor Texas twister, leaving musicians, barkeep and teamster wondering just what in the hell just happened.

 

That night, by the light of a single beeswax candle, Angela Keller dipped her steel-nib pen into good India ink and scribed in her journal, as she usually did just before going to bed.

I know I cannot save everyone, she wrote.

Today I rebelled against that hard reality.

Instead of grieving that I could not stop the hard hand of Time, instead of pushing against the reality that Death comes to all, I celebrated the life I'd taken care of.

I danced with a complete stranger, I cast aside my distress, and I celebrated Life.

Angela looked across the room, she remembered the interesting soul she'd cared for, for the past week, remembered sitting at the bedside, holding the withered, ancient hand, listened to the breathing grow shallow and then still, despite her sincere wish to keep this interesting, delightful soul among the living.

She re-read at her shining-wet words, then added, I rebelled against Death itself, and that rebellion felt good!

 

 

Edited October 30, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE SHERIFF FOUND WHAT I ONLY HEARD

Giggling children, wrapped candy clattering onto the translucent, glowing table: panels lit up, showing the ghostly outlines of candy being scanned.

The trailer behind them said SPECIALTY X-RAY CONTRACTORS LTD. 

The laughing young woman in light blue hospital scrubs took a yardstick, scooped the candy into a row, a pile: she directed the loot into a chute built into the side of the table, and a grinning little boy held his Loot Bag under the chute to receive the cleared, free-of-needles-and-nails cargo.

Another bag got dumped onto the table: gloved hands spread the take into a single thickness -- "Back up, now," the smiling woman behind the table cautioned: the scanner head lowered, moved smoothly the length of the loot, the images appearing above it on the several screens.

Back at the Sheriff's office, Linn grinned and raised a hand at a happy trick-or-treater's "Nice costume!" -- he got that a lot on Halloween night -- the fire department's second-out pumper ground past, slowly, ensuring traffic on the Firelands streets would remain slow, a measure to prevent anxious little trick-or-treaters from running out in front of an oncoming vehicle.

This did not prevent children from making stupid decisions, but it kept vehicles from going so fast as to not be able to stop in time.

The Sheriff alternately stood, or sat, at the Deacon's bench: he had a card table set up with a big bowl of Loot, which he dispensed with a grin: grey was lightening his temples and had claimed most of his mustache, but his heart still remembered what it was to be a child, especially on the one night a year when Gathering Loot and Untold Edible Wealth was not only permitted, but encouraged.

The talkie crackled, the funny little sizzle that told him this was the private-channel's activation: "Sheriff, phone call for you."

He heard the heavy double doors open, and one of the road deputies came out to relieve him.

Sheriff Linn Keller went inside, picked up the handset:  "Sheriff Keller."

 

When Sheriff Linn Keller trotted his stallion up Cemetery Hill, it was with his Very Great Granddad's curved Cavalry saber laid back against his shoulder.

He well knew that if he genuinely had a situation, he'd have need of a sharpened blade, and if it came to a knife fight, he wanted the biggest, most effective knife in the house.

The caller was excited, the caller was honestly afraid, the caller was convinced of what he'd experienced, and the Sheriff knew that on this night -- here, at Allhallow's, when the veil was thin -- things happened, and when they happened, he'd better be ready.

His stallion paced fearlessly across the divider between Holy Ground and the outside world; his head came up a little, the Sheriff felt the stallion's gait change -- lighter, more alert, more ... 

... ready ...

The Sheriff looked around the great Garden of Stone.

He remembered the caller's description, looked around, found where the car had been, the young man with beer and a broad and an intent to be less than discreet in a place he'd hoped would be undisturbed, but ... wasn't.

The Sheriff knotted the bitless reins, dropped them over the saddlehorn, drew his hidden fighting knife with his left hand: he held it like an icepick, folded the blade back along his forearm.

Apple-horse blew, turned at his rider's knee, muttering.

Something's here, Linn thought, his hands tightening on wire-wound grips.

He turned Apple-horse slowly, surveying from near to far, listening with more than his ears.

"MY ANCESTORS SLEEP HERE!" he shouted -- his voice, a challenge -- "IN THE NAME OF THE DIVINE, I COMMAND ALL CREATURES OF DARKNESS TO LEAVE, AND TO NEVER RETURN!"

He listened, he watched, then he heard it.

A single note, sung from a woman's throat -- high, pure, beautiful.

The Siren, he thought.

Greek mythology.

Drew men to their deaths.

Don't fall for it.

He saw movement, among the tomb stones.

Apple-horse responded to his rider's shift in weight.

Linn brought the curved saber off his shoulder.

Sharpened steel cuts spirits, he remembered, and base metal is a ward and charm against Creatures of the Dark.

He remembered as a boy, seeing the words "Base Metal" on the back of a wristwatch and considering that a simple timepiece might be an effective spook repellent, but dismissed this memory as a distraction.

Apple-horse trotted the length of the cemetery, toward what he'd seen.

Nothing here.

They turned, quickly, watching, listening.

Voices, distant: children, laughing ... his eyes were busy, studying stones and shadows, he rode the cemetery to its limits, old section, new section, always returning to his family's section along the main entrance road.

He finally stopped at Old Pale Eyes' grave and raised the cavalry saber in what he hoped was a proper salute; he turned slightly, regarded Esther's grave as well, held the salute: the saber raised at every ancestral resting-place, and he looked long at what was no longer Sarah McKenna's cenotaph, not since bones were found in the remains of a long-burned, ruined German schloss, and returned.

 

Four women in shimmering, emerald-green gowns watched him leave.

One, a woman with shining-red hair, sighed happily.

"He looks just like my Linn," she said softly, and another of the women, this one with pale eyes instead of emerald-green eyes, hugged her shoulders from behind, whispered "He looks just like Papa!"

"My son," the third said simply, pride warming her maternal voice.

The fourth looked at something on her wrist, sighed patiently.

"I have to get back," she murmured, then joined the others. 

"Same time next year?"

"Of course."

Four women stood on Sarah Lynne McKenna's grave.

Four women joined their hands and closed their eyes, tilted their heads back, and sang.

Four voices harmonized flawlessly, and soared like sunlit, porcelain seagulls on the still, moonlit air of the Firelands graveyard.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller froze at the foot of Cemetery Hill.

He drew the saber, turned Apple-horse.

War sang in his veins and he felt his breathing deepen: his stallion attacked the grade like a personal enemy, steelshod hooves striking sparks as he drove hard uphill, riding to a fight.

I heard singing, part of his mind thought.

Strong and clear, multiple voices --

He crested the rise --

 

Sheriff Linn Keller knocked on the door of a man he'd known all his life.

He asked if he might speak with the man's son.

No, he's not in trouble, he told me about something he saw tonight and I'm just followin' up.

The Sheriff asked the teenager to walk with him.

They strolled casually out to the Sheriff's stallion and spoke in quiet voices.

The high school senior's father watched from the doorway as the two talked -- they appeared to talk like ... well, not like old friends, not exactly, but there was none of the official interrogation quality that often accompanies an official conversation.

Both of them, he realized, talked with their hands.

Both of them laughed, just a little.

They shook hands and both of them nodded, and when his son got back into the house, his father asked, "What was that all about?"

His son's bottom jaw thrust out suddenly -- not in rebellion, not in stubbornness, but in what the father recognized as ... 

... realization ...

His son looked at him and said in so many words, "I thought I heard a ghost tonight."

His father frowned a little, turned his head skeptically, his eyes never leaving his son's.

"The Sheriff found them."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited October 31, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A LISTENING EAR

Two strong men clasped hands, each one assessing the other with a frankness the claspmate both recognized, and appreciated.

Abbott William and Sheriff Keller were each men of authority, and of responsibility, and neither had much liking for inefficiency, and when the Abbott regarded the Sheriff with the experienced and priestly eye of a man who'd led his flock for many years, the Sheriff recognized this quick, penetrating looking-over for what it was: both the evaluation of a veteran professional, and the incisive examination of an old friend who had long since proven that he genuinely did give a good damn.

The two sat down on a bench in the sunlit common area; a small table was brought up, two big mugs of fresh-brewed, scalding-hot coffee were placed: the air was cooler now, and both the hot beverage, and the direct sun, were welcome comforts to each of the two who sat, cupping the large, heavy-ceramic mugs: both the one who ordered his thoughts into marshalled ranks, and the one who prepared to receive the matter on his old friend's shoulders.

Finally the Sheriff took a long breath, deep, silent, and he nodded, just a little.

The Abbott leaned forward, elbows on his knees, knowing this was Linn's signal that he was going to talk now.

"I saw something I can't explain," Linn said quietly.

The Abbott's eyebrows raised, then settled.

The Sheriff looked out across the dusty plaza, part of his mind wondering what it would've looked like back when Old Pale Eyes wore the hand engraved star pinned to the underside of his own back suit coat's lapel.

"Something you can't explain," the Abbott repeated slowly.

The Sheriff's bottom jaw slid out and he nodded.

Both men sat up straight again.

"Ever see a ghost?"

The Abbott was silent for a brief moment, then he looked into his mug and smiled quietly.

"I have seen many things," he said softly, "including our beloved Sister Mercurius, as she extracted the Lance and rode out to perform yet another miracle."

"What did she look like?" the Sheriff asked, his voice carefully neutral, as if he might already know the answer.

The Abbott sampled his coffee, looked toward a particular archway, lifted his chin: one of the acolytes hurried over, bullhide sandals whispering on the packed dirt.

The men's mugs were spirited away for top-off and refill, respectively; the Abbott rubbed his palms together thoughtfully, and Linn did not have to look to know his old friend was smiling, ever so slightly.

"What did she look like?" Abbott William echoed thoughtfully, then he laughed and planted his palms on his knees.

"Walk with me."

Two men rose and walked into the Rabbitville Monastery's interior.

The Abbott unlocked a door, pushed it open: he and the Sheriff stepped into this windowless room.

The Abbott opened a cupboard door to reveal another cupboard door, without knob or handle: the Sheriff heard a hidden release *click!* and the door opened, just a little.

The Abbott opened this inner door, opened it wide, reached in, pulled out a book slightly larger than an old fashioned photo album.

"This," he said, "was painted by one of the Brethren who was visiting from my old parish in New Orleans."

He opened the book, laid it out on the small table.

Linn blinked twice, quickly, then turned, bent a little, stared.

 

A priest, in the black robes of the Benedictine Order, stared, eyes bulging, jaw slack, mouth open.

He'd heard of the Lance of St. Mercurius -- he knew it to be a Relic, hidden, kept safe in the Rabbitville Monastery -- he'd heard it was attributed with miraculous healing, but he'd also heard that it was only touched by the legendary Black Rider.

He'd watched her gallop toward a waiting cluster of souls, he'd watched as the Black Rider lowered the Lance, watched as the tip flared silver-star-bright, as a child struggling just to breathe took a deep, easy breath, surprise on the infant's face: the mother and grandmother and both sisters went to their knees: this Black Rider raised the Lance, the great black horse -- taller than any horse he'd ever seen, too tall for a man to see over its back! -- stepped back, then reared against the fire-streaked sunset, the Lance blazing silver against scarlet clouds.

He'd taken this memory, the image of the rearing black mare, the Black Rider with the Lance upraised and triumphant over the slow suffocating death that tried to take a child -- he'd taken this memory, he'd painted it, he'd hurried to the Monastery and spoken in quiet and urgent voice to the Abbott, and been given what he needed.

He'd departed with the painting still in its stretching-frame, but he'd departed with the satisfaction that he'd painted exactly what he'd seen.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller stared at the painting, done by a long-dead priest: it was a rider, all in black, mounted on a truly huge, perfectly proportioned, shining-black horse, rearing against the sky-on-fire sunset behind, lance upthrust, its tip searing the sky with its silver-bright star-tip.

Sheriff Linn Keller looked up.

The Abbott looked up as well.

Each met the other's eye.

"Marnie," Linn breathed.

The Abbott nodded.

"Yes," he agreed.

Linn leaned back, sat down, rubbed his face with one hand.

The Abbott closed the book carefully, replaced it in the cupboard, secured the inner door, then closed the outer doors.

He reached up, tugged at a hand-embroidered, tassel-fringed bell-pull: as if waiting for his signal, the door opened and the same acolyte came in, silent, with a tray and two more mugs of coffee.

The Abbott waited until they were alone again before sitting, before picking up his coffee, before looking at his old friend, amusement on his face and curiosity lingering at the corners of his eyes.

"You asked," the Abbott prompted, "if I'd ever seen a ghost."

Linn took another deep breath, let it out, drizzled some Extract of Bovine into his scalding-black coffee.

"Yesterday," he said.

"Halloween."

"Firelands graveyard."

"Go on."  The Abbott's voice was gentle, encouraging: he set is mug down with both hands, released it, leaned a little toward the Sheriff, clearly "Listening With Both Ears."

Linn looked up.

"I have seen things I cannot explain," Linn said, his voice serious. "I've seen things that would curl the hair on a bald man's head. I've been shot, stabbed, cut, run into, run over --"

"And a Street Evangelist Tried to Save your Corroded Soul," William grinned. "I remember."

"So there I was mindin' my own business --"

The Abbott leaned back, crossed his arms and raised a skeptical eyebrow, which got a laugh out of the Sheriff.

"I got a call from a kid I know. He said he'd ... been in the cemetery for impure purposes when he heard a woman's voice."

The Abbott waited.

"The woman was singing."

"Singing."

"He was rattled, Abbott. I know him and he's not the kind to rattle."

"Go on."

"I saddled up -- Halloween evening, I like to be horseback. I'm more approachable on horseback, everyone wants to pet the horsie puppy -- I got Old Pale Eyes' Cavalry saber and rode up to the graveyard."

"Saber?"

The Sheriff gave a dismissive wave. "Long story. I got up there and nothing found, so I left. Once I got down to the foot of the hill and across the creek, I heard --"

The Abbott's eyebrow raised again and his head lowered a few degrees.

"Apple-horse and I went up that stone road just a-foggin' like we were ridin' to war," the Sheriff said quietly, then he looked up at the Abbott, looked very directly at him.

"I heard women's voices. Multiple women's voices. There'd been nothing there when I was just up there."

"What was there upon your return?" the Abbott asked carefully.

He saw the Sheriff's jaw slide out slowly, stubbornly.

"I saw ..."

He hesitated, licked his lips, swallowed, then looked at his old friend, his expression open and vulnerable.

"I saw Esther Keller, Old Pale Eyes' wife, in the emerald green gown she was buried in.

"I saw Sarah Lynne McKenna, in the shining blue gown she favored.

"I saw Marnie, in that same blue gown she'd hand made after the pattern she took off Sarah McKenna's portrait that hangs in the detective's tunnels in Denver, and I saw my own Mama in the same shining-blue gown."

"You saw ... all four of them."

"I did."

"Together?"

"All four, in a circle, standing on Sarah's grave, holding hands. Eyes closed, heads back a little, singing."

"Singing."

"With a look on every one of their faces --"

Linn stopped, swallowed, closed his eyes, remembering: when he continued, his voice was close to a whisper, thick with memory, thick with the emotion of the moment.

"It was probably the most beautiful ... I'd never heard ..."

He looked at his old and trusted friend, his eyes full of the memory, then he dropped his gaze and reached for his coffee, took a drink, took another.

"I have heard ... Marnie and Angela ... they sing beautifully, Abbott, but these four ... I've never ..."

His voice trailed off and he stared across the table, seeing something a couple miles on the other side of the far wall.

"Marnie's not a ghost," he said at length.

"No," the Abbott agreed, then, "Have you spoken with her since?"

Linn shook his head.

"You could ask her about it."

Silence, again.

The Abbott reached for his own coffee.

Two men sat together, in silence and in their own thoughts, until finally the Abbott said quietly, "I have seen things myself, Linn. I've never seen anything like that."

Linn nodded.

"I'll ask Marnie about it, next I see her."

He drained his mug, set it down, stood: the Abbott rose as well, and the two men shook hands.

"Appreciate your listenin' ear," Linn said quietly.

"Anytime."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

DIFFERENT, NOT BETTER

"You look as friendly as a thunderstorm."

Sheriff Linn Keller set a box of doughnuts on his dispatcher's desk -- a half dozen of her favorites -- his dispatcher's observation was not at all inaccurate, for the normally cheerful Sheriff had scowled his way through the glass double doors, he'd frowned her box of doughnuts carefully, gently onto her desk, he jaw-thrust his way over to the coffee table and glared at the stainless-steel coffee maker like it had personally offended him.

He set the big box of doughnuts down, he took a step back, he chewed on something nonexistent, as if masticating the morning's breakfast, then he turned without a word and went into his inner office and shut the door.

Carefully.

Quietly.

Sharon watched the man disappear into his sanctum.

She frowned a little, considering, then she opened her middle desk drawer and pulled out a laminated page of note paper on a string.

She walked silently across the polished quartz floor and hung this plastic coated printout of a Jolly Roger on the little brass cup hook centered under the translucent, patterned glass of the Sheriff's office door -- the skull-and-crossbones a warning that the man was not in a good mood, tread carefully.

She had no idea what the problem was, but his ill temper was a rare thing, and when it manifested, she preferred to err on the side of caution.

 

Sarah Lynne McKenna grabbed the Sheriff's lapels -- a two-hand, crushing grip -- pulled.

Hard.

"Bend over, damn you," she snarled, then she ran a hand around the back of the man's head to hold it -- she snatched the lace-edged kerchief from her sleeve, balled it in her gloved hand, pressed it firmly against his suddenly-closed right eye, then his left.

He felt her release.

He opened his eyes.

A tear was running down her cheek -- he expression was fierce, angry, her face was reddening, which struck part of his mind as odd -- normally she'd go ghost pale if she was upset -- but she normally didn't overflow her young heart over her penthouse lid, either.

She looked to the side, looked at what used to be a good saddlehorse.

She looked at the revolver in the Sheriff's hand, watched as he mechanically replaced the single fired round, as he holstered, as he drew his coat over the revolver's handle as he always did.

Sarah glared up at this pale eyed lawman, at this man she loved with all the fierceness of a becoming-a-young-woman girl, this man who ran deep as a river through a mountain canyon -- she glared at him, then she shoved herself into him, she buried her face in his belly, she gave a sorrowful little squeak, and she felt his hands -- big, strong, warm, comforting ... 

... fatherly ...

... as they spread over her back, as he held her quivering figure into him.

 

Sharon timed her casual approach to the coffee pot with the Sheriff's emergence from his office.

They drew their mugs in silence.

The Sheriff picked up the just-opened carton of cold milk, handed it to Sharon, as he always did when she was drawing coffee with him.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"Sharon, do you recall a World War II cartoon where a Jeep driver shot his vehicle when the entire driver's side wheel assembly broke off and laid over in the mud?"

Sharon stopped mid-drizzle, blinked, then added a little more trickle to her mug.

"No," she admitted.  "No, I don't."

"I'll try to find it for you," the Sheriff said. "Military cartoonist -- good at it, too! -- he drew it ... modern cavalry, I guess, like shooting your horse with a broke leg."

Sharon stopped raising her cup, gave the Sheriff a distressed look.

"You didn't!"

"No, thank God," he sighed, "for which I am profoundly grateful!"

He shook his head and chuckled, which earned him a puzzled look.

"You recall I went into hospital a couple years ago, thought my appendix attacked me?"

Sharon nodded.

"ER said it was a blocked intestine, they were talking emergency surgery?"

Sharon nodded again.  "I remember," she murmured, then took a tentative sip.

"Doc waited. He had 'em run ultrasounds, a CAT scan, an x-ray, and he finally came in and allowed as he was seeing gas moving past the obstruction, he wasn't going to perform surgery.

"I shook his hand and allowed as he'd made me a happy man, if he could fix it without unzipping me, I was pickled tink, and I winked at him and said the last case I consulted on involved both a torsion and an intussusception, and it had me kind of worried, and then he remembered I was talking about one of my horses two years before."

"So ... you didn't have to shoot a horse."

"I almost shot my Jeep."

Sharon looked at him in honest surprise.

"Battery's bad. It's original to the vehicle and I'm too tight fisted to replace it because it's paid off. Dealer wants arm, leg and firstborn child just to replace the battery, then I realized they have to attach a jumper to keep power to the system when removing the old battery, they have to make sure they don't kill the radio or other systems -- something to do with anti-theft measures, I guess -- otherwise I'd just pull the old one and drop in a new one my own self."

The Sheriff opened the lid on the box of doughnuts and frowned.

"When he hit me with the price, I debated whether to just go out in the driveway and shoot the Jeep like I would a broke leg horse, but then I figured what the hell, pay 'em their price, you'll have a new battery, a good install and warranty on the work, plus they'll be able to issue paychecks, and in this economy I reckon I have to think about that."

Sharon hesitated, then picked up a maple twist with cream filling.

"Sheriff ... did you ever have to shoot a horse?"

Linn's hand hesitated, then retreated from his doughnut selection, his face suddenly a mask.

"Yes," he said softly.  "Yes I did, and I cried like a lost child."

He turned and walked silently back to his office, went inside, closed the door.

 

 

 

  

Edited November 3, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103
MUD, not mid. Sorry ... phat phingers!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A SACK FULL OF POLITICIANS

The Sheriff considered his brand-new, black-felt Stetson.

He held it up before him at arm's length, held it with his fingertips by the very brim, looked at the crown as if he were looking vertical down: he considered the symmetry of the two holes, one on either side of the crown, the precision of silver (genuine silver!) grommets drive crimped into the holes.

He flipped it a little, looked at it front-on, at the (genuine silver!) turquoise hat band: the broad, linked ovals were either mounted turquoise, or silver, and on the silver ovals, either a hand engraved Thunder Bird, or a hand engraved and carefully paint-inlaid, rose, full in bloom and with a green stem-and-leaf curving down from the blossom.

He set the hat down on his desk and picked up the length of leather string.

The Sheriff carefully wrapped this black-leather lace around the crown, under the decorative hatband -- his only vanity -- he drew it just snug, tied a square knot in the front, ran it back and down through the (genuine silver!) grommets.

He picked up the hat, set it on his head, drew the strings down, then back, behind his head: he tied an over hand knot, got the tension he wanted, threw another, snugged it up: he removed the hat and its back band, he frowned at the knot he'd just tied, making sure it was a square knot.

He carefully pinched both the descending string, and the tag ends, he drew it tight, then tighter: he drew out a drawer, laid the excess over its edge and carefully, precisely, trimmed the string off a half inch from the knot.

He settled the Stetson back on his head, drew the back strap down, feeling the tension he wanted.

The Sheriff went to the front door of his little log fortress, opened the heavy door, looked outside.

A rough voice, a shouted oath, the sound of boot heels on the board walk: he saw a hat, blown up onto its side, rolling a few moments on its brim like a stiff-felt wheel, an aggravated rancher quick-stepping after it, snatching it up from the dirt, swatting it against his leg like he was punishing it before mashing it mercilessly onto his greasy hair.

The Sheriff stepped outside, drew the door to behind him, latched it: a gust of wind hit him, pulled at his coat-tails, tried to pick the tail of his hat off his head.

Had he not added this back strap to his Stetson, it would have joined the rancher's skypiece, skipping along the dirt, picking up filth: as it was, the Sheriff wore his brand new hat with the brand new, hand made (genuine silver!) hatband without fear of its becoming lost to the tempest.

He looked around, caressed his stallion's neck, patted the restless mount, then shoved a polished, knee-high, flat-heel Cavalry boot into the black doghouse stirrup, swung easily into the saddle, bitless reins in hand.

Apple-horse grunted, danced a little.

"Not here," the Sheriff said, his voice quiet: ears swung back at the sound of his rider's voice, and Apple-horse waited until they were in the middle of the dirt street to come unglued.

The rancher stopped and watched in honest admiration as the stallion genuinely took the measure of his rider, he watched the lawman, his face impassive, riding this Texas hurricane: those who watched, knew what it was to buck out a good horse, and more times than one, the Sheriff matched his skills with those of his mount.

Most times, the Sheriff stayed in the saddle.

Most times.

Not all.

This time, though, the Sheriff test rode the storm strap on his brand-new hat, and found that neither gusting winds nor his stallion's exertions disturbed the security of his brand-new skypiece, and he managed to stay in the saddle, though twice -- he later admitted -- it was kind of doubtful.

Apple-horse stopped, dropping stiff-legged into a spread-leg stance: he blew loudly, shivered like he was shaking off biting flies, and stepped out just as nice as you please, smooth and easy and perfectly polite.

The Sheriff's first stop was the Mercantile, where he placed an order and paid ahead on the product, then he mounted up again and rode diagonally across the street and downhill, to the Silver Jewel, with wind gusting hard against his backside, as if trying to blow the man out of his saddle.

The Sheriff came into the Silver Jewel with a big swirling gust announcing his entrance as effectively as a liveried butler, but less politely: Tillie slapped her hand down on the open guest-book and squinted as the wind hit her face.

Mr. Baxter looked at the Sheriff, nodded a greeting:  "What'll it be, Sheriff?"

"Mr. Baxter," the Sheriff said seriously, "this mornin' I had me a loaf of sour dough bread sliced up and thick buttered, I had just shy of a dozen eggs fried up, a pound of bacon fried up and two apples."

"Sounds like a good start," Mr. Baxter replied, his eyes tightening at the corners,  for he knew how full of it the Sheriff could be.

"It don't pay to eat too much on an empty stomach, so I waited until I et some before I had breakfast," the Sheriff said with a straight face.

Mr. Baxter slid a beer across the bar to the man:  "New hat?"

"Yep."

The Sheriff took a sip of the cool beverage, savoring the taste of fermented grains.

"Windy as it is," Mr. Baxter commented, "a man's lucky not to lose his hat on a day like this."

"Gale warnings out," the Sheriff said solemnly over the rim of his beer mug.  "It's windy as a sack full of politicians out there today."

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SNOWBALL

Ambassador Marnie Keller slipped her spectacles partway down her nose and lowered her head ever so slightly.

She stood in the middle of the snowy street, feminine, lovely ... patient ... and she looked at the improvised barricade, the turned-up wagon, heads and hands visible, and she brought one of her most powerful, one of her most effective, diplomatic weapons to bear.

Ambassador Marnie Keller gave them ...

The Look.

Marnie was a mother, and Marnie was a wife, and Marnie was experienced at getting disagreeing parties to common accord.

She was also not at all inexperienced in corralling a classroom of restless young.

Her pale eyed Gammaw was reputed to have The Look down to a fine art.

Marnie was told by multiple deputies and a few criminals, that Sheriff Willamina Keller could lower her head just a little, and give someone The Look, and they would immediately assume the tone and the posture of a five year old who'd been caught doing something they shouldn't.

So it was here, in the middle of the street, on one of the Confederate worlds.

Marnie was an Equal Opportunity Peacemaker: she said not a word to those she faced -- she didn't have to do more -- then she turned and gave the opposing troops the same treatment, and achieved the same result.

Ambassador Marnie Keller did not say a word.

She did not have to.

Boys and grown men alike looked away, ears reddening: one set of hands, another, gripped barricades, brought them down: shovels appeared from somewhere, and the snowy street was suddenly cleared of packed snow and piles of snowballs.

Ambassador Marnie Keller stood, a lone figure in a dark-blue, floor-length McKenna gown with a matching hat, gloved and dignified and almost sternly disapproving, until the street was cleared, until traffic resumed, until steam-broughams and horse carriages resumed their travels.

She turned and glided smoothly back toward the hotel where she was staying when a snowball smacked her behind the left ear.

Marnie stopped.

Marnie's jaw slid out a little.

Marnie turned.

Marnie Keller glared along the reverse trajectory of the offending snowball.

She saw an individual whose expression was rapidly melting from gleeful excitement to realization.

Marnie Keller glided toward him.

No.

No, glided is not the word we want to use.

It was more like she was a wartime cruiser, she'd set course and she was steaming toward a naval engagement.

Her posture, her gait, her expression, all gave the very clear impression that I AM GOING IN THIS DIRECTION AND HELL ITSELF WILL NOT STOP ME!

To his credit, the offender did not try to run, hide or make excuses.

Marnie steamed up to him, her eyes cold, hard: she regarded him as if he were an insect pinned to a cork-board, then she reached up and lifted the hat off his head.

Marnie dipped her knees, scooped the hat full of snow -- clear full -- then she rose, held the hat in her hand, hefting it a little.

The world held its breath.

Even the street sounds seemed to hush as traffic stopped, as vehicles halted, as horses were drawn up to a standstill.

Marnie reached into the man's hat, took up a broad pinch of snow, then applied it to the tip of the man's nose: her reserve cracked, she pinched his nose lightly and shouted a raucous "HONK!", she came up on tiptoes and kissed the tip of  his nose, and then she slapped the snow-filled hat atop his head, she whirled, she skipped across the snowy street, laughing like a mischievous girl.

Ambassador Marnie Keller stopped a young war, and vanquished a personal enemy, and from the laughter that followed her, she made everyone like it!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A STEP OF FAITH

Michael Keller felt the corners of his eyes tighten a little.

His hands were busy rubbing Cyclone's chest as she lay on her back, all four hooves in the air, her off hind leg kicking happily -- for all the world like The Bear Killer, when you found that Just Right Spot!

Thunder watched impatiently -- Michael looked up and murmured, "Your turn's a-comin' " -- he knew if he didn't, the two young Fanghorns would get into it again and Lightning would have to get in between them and either throw or kick them out of engagement.

She'd done both, in the past, and she was not in the least little bit gentle about it.

Cyclone gave a great, exaggerated sigh, her extended leg relaxed back against her exposed belly, and Michael stood, thrust a bladed hand at Thunder, turned his hand palm down and lowered his hand.

Thunder dropped to the ground and rolled over, pawing at the air with all four.

"You bum," Michael muttered as he proceeded to work his magic on the young Fanghorn stallion.

He knew he was doing good work when Thunder's off hind leg shot up and started kicking.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller had one arm around The Bear Killer.

The big black canine was leaned back against him like a child, leaning back into a father's chest: Linn's hand came around and was rubbing The Bear Killer's belly, which caused the off hind leg to begin a happy kicking, thumping vigorously against the passenger side door of the Sheriff's cruiser.

The Sheriff was parked in front of his office -- he'd just come in when The Bear Killer rose, turned, fell backwards against him -- Linn grunted with the impact, for the big mountain Mastiff was neither small, nor was he light.

He was, however, clearly communicating, and the Sheriff had to admire The Bear Killer's reasoning.

They'd been busy so far that day, they would likely be busy deeper into the day, and in the meantime, The Bear Killer wanted some attention, and for that reason, his hind hopper happily hammered the inside of the passenger door.

"I'd like to have seen Mama seeing you for the first time," Linn murmured, knowing full well this particular Bear Killer hadn't been born until after his Mama's demise -- somehow, though, when he addressed The Bear Killer, he fancied he was addressing the entire line, clear back to the legendary Charlie Macneil, who handed the original Bear Killer to a very young Sarah Lynne McKenna on the Z&W Railroad's depot platform.

As The Bear Killer offered no protest at being identified thusly with his honorable ancestors, this particular sinner's-heart-black, curly-black-furred K9 partner leaned his head back and gave kind of a warbling sigh of contentment.

"You bum," Linn muttered, shifting his hands a little, bringing another percussive tattoo from the passenger door. 

"Mama watched a pack of stray dogs tree Uncle Will on a concrete bridge one time," Linn murmured, his hands never ceasing their talented works: "they were baying treed and inviting him to come down and be dinner, and Uncle Will went home that evening and borrowed a single barrel shotgun from a neighbor and went dog huntin'."

The Bear Killer groaned, eyes closed in ecstasy: whether he was listening or not, was entire immaterial: Linn's voice followed the story in the memory told him by Uncle Will.

Apparently Willamina was not comfortable around dogs at all, at least not until The Bear Killer came along, and Linn was honestly not sure quite how that happened: he'd always had The Bear Killer around as a child, and as a young man, and now this Bear Killer, who looked exactly like photographs and pencil-drawings from Old Pale Eyes' era.

Linn leaned his face down against The Bear Killer's and whispered, "I reckon it was a step of faith on her part."

 

Victoria stood well back and regarded Michael's bringing such vigorous approval from a third Fanghorn.

She'd watched him just honestly put the colts to sleep with the skill of his curl-finger caresses, massaging their chests and their bellies, and now Lightning herself, nearly asleep thanks to her brother's skills.

Victoria remembered the first time she saw a Fanghorn -- it was before Lightning made Michael's acquaintance, well before they were both nearly killed -- Victoria remembered her Daddy arranged to ride, and to have them ride, the only saddle-broke Fanghorns on the planet.

Victoria was not at all comfortable, but she followed her Daddy's lead, and she rode this creature that she was sure was going to reach around and bite her foot off clear up to the hip.

Victoria stood, silent, a shadowed statue, unmoving: it wasn't until Lightning's legs relaxed and she started to sigh deeply -- she sighed on her back, she snored on her belly -- only then did Victoria meet Michael's eyes.

I'm glad Michael insisted I interact with them, Victoria thought, and shivered a little as she remembered her initial angst, the serious discomfort of meeting creatures she'd seen run down and rip apart a good sized grazer, creatures that ate with all the delicacy of utterly ravenous, self propelled meat grinders.

Since then she'd been accepted as part of this little herd.

She did not have the empathic link Michael described, but she had something, and that something actually brought her both comfort and confidence when she was with them.

All it took, she thought, was a step of faith.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

NE'ER TRUST THE WITCH

Tom Landers had been first Sheriff of Firelands.

When that pale eyed ex-soldier rode into town and decked that crooked lawyer Slade, Landers offered him a deputy's position, which almost immediately went right into being Sheriff.

Landers was immediately offered the position of peacekeeper in the Silver Jewel Saloon.

Landers accepted, mostly because Filthy Sam ordered him out and allowed as the law was not welcome there ... made all the more ironic when that new Sheriff grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, hauled him off the ground to where the toes of his townie shoes barely dragged the ground, and hauled him to the hoosegow on a multitude of charges, including, but not limited to, Mopery with Intent to Creep, and Impersonating a Human Being.

Tom Landers watched with genuine astonishment as that new pale eyed Sheriff just plainly cleaned house.

Landers was a veteran himself -- that wasn't the reason he'd offered Keller the deputy's position to start with, the man's reputation is why he made the offer -- but both men recognized each other's habits, the way they watched men, watched men's hands, the way they were constantly scanning, constantly looking, the way each seemed to be quietly ready for a battalion to suddenly appear, with hostile intent.

Landers was on in his years, but he was still lean, strong and competent: he had good eyes, he could spot a sharper or a cheat from across the room, he recognized a double deal and a shiner ring, and if a man pulled out a pair of blue spectacles, Landers pulled out his own set of blue spectacles and quietly drifted behind such folk to see if they were using lemon juice to mark the cards.

Past Sheriff Tom Landers had neither patience nor tolerance for cheats, and more times than one, a slicker was bodily thrown out the Silver Jewel's doors, followed by a cloud of hard-thrown, marked cards.

Tom Landers took pride in this new Silver Jewel.

The games were straight, the place was a damn sight cleaner than it had ever been, and that new Sheriff -- for reasons Tom honestly could not fathom --  chose to close the profitable brothel on the second floor, to go with straight games, he hired Mr. Baxter to run the Saloon portion as he saw fit, and took a pitifully small share of the profits -- and the kitchen, that was another story!

The Sheriff listened carefully when Landers, when Shorty, when a half dozen others, spoke to him about a short tempered, red headed, sharp tongued Irishwoman named Daisy, and depending on the time of day, the phase of the moon, the amount of Old Stump Blower behind the speaker's belt buckle, Daisy had either beaten Filthy Sam to his knees with a wooden spoon or a rolling pin, she'd swung her biggest cast iron frying pan and flattened the man's beak, she'd cold cocked him, she'd kicked his backside up between his shoulder blades, she'd personally marched him out the front door (Daisy doing the marching, but with each step, her foot booted the scoundrel's backside, until finally, after kicking him the length of the hall, the length of the bar, the length of the hotel desk, and then out the front door) ... well, Landers knew Daisy was a woman filled with a fierce and burning grief for someone who drowned back in Cincinnati, and she took out her anger and her loss by running her kitchen -- generally alone, with a girl or two to serve the customers -- and for reasons known only to that pale eyed Sheriff, he'd given Daisy the kitchen.

Just ... gave it to her.

Gave it to her!

He took a small profit from the bar, none from the House, though as he owned the place, he administered the take, which was not inconsiderable, as the House always wins -- but Daisy's Kitchen?

Daisy was a fine cook and men came to the Silver Jewel for the food and for the horizontal refreshment upstairs, and when the whorehouse was shut down, they kept coming for good food and a good grade of drink.

Landers had the gift of invisibility.

He could stand casually against the piano, or against the little stage, or against a wall, and appear so totally unremarkable, so utterly forgettable, that he may as well have been transparent.

Landers was also a gifted and talented observer, and when occasion prompted, he was also a remarkably good listener.

He drifted from the silent piano over to the bar, loafed casually against mahogany beside a man wearing a wool coat that spoke of sailing-ships and seawater.

Landers lifted a finger, nodded: Mr. Baxter drew him a small beer, slid it across the gleaming bar toward him.

"If you stare into that glass any harder," Landers said quietly, "it'll either boil or ketch fahr."

The seaman closed his eyes, dropped his head, and Landers heard his breath sigh out, the way a man will when he's trying to expel troubled thoughts with his exhaled breath.

"Ye're rememberin'," Landers speculated.

"Aye," came the faint answer as the man stared into his glass with a haunted expression.

"You're safe here, friend."

"Ha'e ye seen the ocean, then?" the man asked hoarsely.

"Long time ago," Landers admitted. "Never sailed on it."

"Don't, then," came the quiet answer, then the man slugged down what little was left in his glass, set the empty down.

Landers looked at the watchful Mr. Baxter, nodded: the glass was taken, replaced with a full one, the foam struck off with the foam-knife Mr. Baxter kept by the big heavy tap.

"She's a siren, she is," the seaman muttered: "I've sailed m' whole life an' I tried comin' ashore."

He looked at Landers again, looked back toward the mirror.

"Had to."

"Had to?"

"She was stealin' m' soul," he admitted. "but ...I ... was weak an' ... I lasted shy of a year as a landsman.

"I tried sailin' th' Inland Seas ... Erie, Superior, Michigan ..."

His voice tightened down to a squeaky whisper, then his eyes widened, as if at horrors of memory.

"Th' fresh watter seas are vicious, they are.  They're hungry an' they wished ... they hate men who've sailed salt watter an' they wish to eat their souls!"

His hands tightened around the heavy glass mug and he leaned his weight through his elbows into the thick mahogany.

"I lost a shipmate," he said at length.

"Sounds like more than a shipmate."

The seaman hissed out a hoarse sound, nodded.

"Aye," he agreed. "If a man can ha'e a brother from another dam, he an' I ..."

Landers nodded.

He'd known that same loss himself.

"Th' Witch wished t' claim m' soul."

"The Witch ... a ship?"

"Nay," the seaman shuddered. "Th' Witch of November. Storms kick up fast on th' fresh watter. Faster'n th' salt watter ocean, faster'n ... it's no' natural."

He shook his head.

"I ... we broke apart, God Almighty, I've ne'er seen such a storm! -- th' ship ... 'twas like a giant seized 'er an' twisted 'er an' she was gone!"

Landers waited: silence draped itself over their shoulders like a blanket, isolating them from the sound of pasteboards, of shaken and thrown dice, the clink of hard coin, men's voices.

"The Witch o' November didn't get me," he said quietly, in the same voice Landers heard men use when they stared, hollow eyed, through a wall and through time and through memory, as they saw battles they fought that they should never have survived. 

"M' shipmate an' me, we were ... th' ship started down an' a wave hit us an' ..."

Landers' hand was warm, reassuring on the man's shoulder.

"You're safe here," he repeated quietly.

"I was the only one t' survive."

Landers nodded slowly.

"I ... left th' seas an' come West."

Landers waited, listening with more than his ears.

" 'Twas a year ago t'day th' Witch o' November tried t' take us both."

"You honor his memory," Landers said quietly, "by telling his story."

The old sailor nodded slowly.

"Why'nt we set down at a table. I hate to eat alone and I'm buyin'."

Two men turned and walked slowly to a nearby table: Mr. Baxter tugged at a concealed bell-pull, summoned the girl: two men were hungry, she was needed.

The sailor had but little appetite, until he took the first bite of Daisy's cooking, then he realized he was little short of starved out, and ended up eating two plates and most of the still-warm bread, thick sliced and piled on a separate plate, with a lump of just churned butter beside.

After the meal, after pie, after each sat back with satisfaction, the sailor looked across the table at Tom Landers, regarded the retired Sheriff curiously.

"Ye're a most patient man," he said slowly, then hesitated and added, "Thank ye f'r listenin'."

Landers nodded, once, gravely.

Before he finally left the Silver Jewel, the sailor turned to Landers, touched the brim of his wool cap and said solemnly, "Ne'er trust the Witch."

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

FREE MEAL

"Sheriff, you been drinkin'?"

Sheriff Linn Keller stopped, his grin broad and bright: "Why'd you think that?"

"Well, you stopped and backed up and muttered something, and that ain't like you!"

"Oh, you mean me doin' the Shickelgruber?"

"The what?"

The Sheriff waved a hand.  "Never mind, before your time. No -- come over here, I'll show you."

The councilman regarded the long tall lawman skeptically, but came over, squarely in front of the glass double doors.

"Now look down that-a-way -- you see that good lookin' silver Dodge pickup?"

"I see it."

"Did you see that kid load that big birdhouse in that green Honda that just left?"

Gary shook his head, frowning, took a quick look up the street, the only direction a departing vehicle could have gone.

"No. Missed it."

"Kid had a big birdhouse. I gave a quick glance and all I could see" -- the Sheriff peaked two hands together, fingers stiff, imitating a roof's peak -- "well, it looked like someone wrinkled up the hood on that good lookin' Dodge yonder and I thought now darn, that's a shame, then I took another look and saw it was that kid with the birdhouse passin' behind it.  Optical delusion. The hood's fine."

"Oh."  Gary blinked and the Sheriff saw recognition in the man's eyes, as if he'd done something similar himself.

"I did get a free meal, though."

"I thought you never accepted a free meal."

"I earned this one," the Sheriff grinned.  "Let's go inside where it's warm!"

The two men hauled open the big heavy glass doors, came inside.

"Anything for me, Sharon?"

"Not unless you bought a winning lottery ticket."

The Sheriff struck a dramatic pose, one hand flat on his breast bone: "When the train comes in, everybody rides!"

"I'll hold you to that," Sharon admonished, wagging a yellow pencil at him the way she always did: it was an old joke between them.

"Coffee?" Linn said, and did not wait for an answer: he drew a big mug full, sloshed milk into it from the communal pint carton, set it back down in the dish of melting icewater, picked up a doughnut.

"Help yourself," he mumbled, taking a noisy slurp of Belly Warmer: he waited until the councilman had coffee and one of the remaining doughnuts.

"Y'see," Linn explained, "I was gettin' some good sound advice from Roger Dillon -- you remember Roger, he was a medic in the Korean War, he's got that little spread over toward Bishopville -- we were talkin' and there were several folks havin' early lunch.

"I heard someone cough and then quit and Roger and I both looked and we could see a little old gal in one of the booths -- her shoulders were working like she was trying to cough and her husband was coming out of his seat with kind of a scared expression -- I don't remember movin' but I crossed the floor and she must have been a dancer, I got her hand and she come out of that seat and spun around like Ginger Rogers.

"I got her around the waist and said "Can you cough?" and she started to sag so I hit her hard, I squeezed her just like m' wife taught us, and about the second time I Heimliched her, pop went the weasel and damned if that chunk of whatever it was didn't shoot out and hit poor old Roger right in the belly.

"He's laughin' like a damned fool and my knee is under her backside 'cause she can't no more stand than anything, her husband is standin' there with eyes the size of saucers and he's ghost white, everyone else is on their feet and watchin' and she coughs and coughs again and" -- the Sheriff stopped and chuckled and shook his head.

"Gary, y'know how sometimes you'll open your mouth and something stupid falls out?"

Gary took a careful sip of coffee, his eyes on the Sheriff.

He nodded.

"Well, that's what I did, with everybody and their uncle just a-starin' at all of us and I didn't realize until then just how dead nuts silent it was, so I raised a finger like I'm teachin' a class and allowed as 'Big Sigh of Relief All Around!'

"She got some more wind into her and I asked her if she could stand, and she did, and she took her husband's arm and they got the hell out of there, probably embarrassed 'em somethin' fierce.

"I didn't care."

He looked Gary squarely in the eye as he said it.

"She's alive to complain about it.

"Anyway -- Mr. Baxter came over and he grabbed my shoulder and allowed as the least he could do would be stake me to a meal, so Roger and I set down and had the special of the day, and that's what I was laughin' at when I took a look and thought someone wrinkled up the hood on the good lookin' Dodge, and it was only the roof of a birdhouse!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I REMEMBERED

 Blood -- bright, high-pressure, arterial blood -- sprayed in two directions, hitting the underside of the Mercantile's overhang and the boardwalk underfoot.

The Sheriff and WJ Garrison, the Mercantile's owner and proprietor, seized the kid who was staring at his arm with suddenly-sober, wide-shocked eyes.

WJ yanked savagely at the tail of his apron's knot, whipped it off from around his neck, tried to wrap the arm in a desperate bid to hold life inside the body instead of letting it spray out: WJ had been in the Confederate Navy, and he had too much firsthand experience not to know that he had to stop the bleeding.

The kid yelled, panicked, tried to twist away, at least until the Sheriff's elbow drove him hard just above the right ear: he threw the casualty savagely to the deck, seized the arm, turned it so he could drive the heel of his hand into the upper arm between the big muscle in front and the more slender muscle behind.

Mrs. Garrison came bustling out, upset at the broken window, froze as she saw how much blood -- dear God, it looked like someone stuck a slaughterhouse pig! -- her hands clapped to her mouth, and then Feminine Frontier Fortitude grabbed her quivering inner self and backhanded her hidden self: shocked, she moved, and moving, she worked with her husband and with the pale eyed lawman whose silence said more than an angry man's shouts ever could.

WJ worked in silence, wrapping the wound and wrapping it tight: he drew the strings around the folded-over, tight-wound apron, tied it savagely, brutally tight.

Jacob came running down the alley, his hand locked around the cheek strap of a fine-looking, shining-black mare: they heard the rumble of Digger's dead wagon, and right now they did not care if it was the King's Coronation Carriage or a beat-up dray.

They picked up the groaning kid, dropped him well less than gently in the wagon bed: Jacob vaulted in with him, his Pa slammed the tail gate and dropped the peg into place, and WJ backed up a step, sizing up what used to be an expensive window pane and an incredible amount of blood spray.

"Mother," he said softly, "I shall need to clean this up now."

Mrs. Garrison nodded numbly.

She did not look at her own bloodied hands, stained by a young man's life as her husband tried desperately to keep said life from escaping.

 

The Sheriff returned to the Mercantile, as did Jacob.

They returned Digger's dead wagon -- freshly scrubbed out, still dribbling well water where the kid's blood stained the already-stained boards -- the mare was back in her stable and brushed down before being baited with a good scoop of Digger's oats.

They came around front and hung up their coats, they rolled up their sleeves and pumped water, hauled water, sloshed buckets of water and plied long handled scrub brushes: three men worked in solemn silence, denying the public the signs of stupidity staining the store.

 

Dr. John Greenlees washed his hands again.

His quiet, competent wife and head nurse just finished cleaning his instruments and was now boiling them; she'd already thrown out the bloodied-pink water twice, the basin of steaming-warm water Dr. John was now using was not sullied as the physician washed his hands carefully, meticulously, as he always did, even to the point of using a small, fresh brush to clean under his nails.

He dried his hands, turned down his shirt-cuffs, walked tiredly to the waiting room door, opened it.

The Sheriff rose as he did.

Doc turned, walked back into his practice, the Sheriff following: both men came up beside the still form under the white sheet.

"He'll have some God awful scars on that arm," Doc said quietly. "He may never use that thumb again. I won't know until he's awake."

The Sheriff nodded.

"We tried to stop the bleeding," he said. "Didn't do much good until I shut it off high on his arm."

"You remembered."

The two exchanged a look that Nurse Susan almost recognized.

She knew they'd been in That Damned War together, and she knew the Sheriff and her husband were known to one another in those dark days: beyond that, neither man spoke much of it, but she got the feeling they'd shared experiences neither wished to revisit.

"Yeah," the Sheriff said finally, his voice husky.  "I remembered."

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

YOU AIN'T RIDIN' ALONE

Abbott William stopped.

Someone was behind him -- he hadn't heard a step, nor had there been a voice, but he knew.

He knew.

The Abbott turned and saw a familiar set of twins regarding him with a curious expression.

"You have a question."

His voice was soft, a statement of fact.

The twins' expressions were solemn: Michael and Victoria held hands, they regarded the Abbott with pale eyes.

With old eyes, he thought.

No child should have so many years in their eyes.

"We have to ask you something," Michael said.

"Of course."

The Abbott motioned to a nearby bench in a sunlit alcove: it was out of the wind, sun from a cloudless sky warmed the three.

"The question first," Victoria said, her face grave. 

Abbott William nodded.

"Why have we never seen Old Pale Eyes' ghost, or Old Jacob's ghost?"

The Abbot blinked, his head drew back half an inch.

"Sarah McKenna manifested. We've seen her. We've seen Esther, Old Pale Eyes' wife. I think we saw Duzy once, but she just smiled and turned and disappeared."

"We only saw them when something happened," Michael added, "like when The Bear Killer died and we buried him up on High Lonesome."

"We came out of the cave and sat on the stone bench," Victoria said, "and we saw Sarah McKenna on her big black Snowflake horse looking up at us, and the White Wolf was with her."

"Pa let it slip that when Mama died, Sarah came and got her, and her horse had wings."

"Marnie looks just like Sarah and Gammaw both, and Gammaw said when Joseph was killed back during the First War, Sarah was there when he died and she had his horse and they rode off, like the Valkyries takin' warriors' souls from the battlefield."

Michael looked at Victoria, then they both looked at the Abbott.

"We've never known Old Pale Eyes to come back. We've never seen Joseph's shade. We've never heard of either of them ... Marnie said Gammaw appeared on Mars and shotgunned the miner that tried to kill her with an explosive lance and almost did. So that's Marnie and Gammaw but never the men."

William frowned, considering, remembering the secrets he himself held, passed down from other Abbotts, from earlier years.

"Reason we're askin'," Michael pressed, "Pa's been shot and he's hurt bad."

The Abbotts' head came up, his expression shocked.

"Where is he now?"

Michael and Victoria rose.

"It just happened," Michael said. "He ain't hit the ground yet."

Michael and Victoria rose and a black ellipse that looked like the depths of a bottomless well opened behind them.

"Come with us."

 

What I thought didn't bear repeatin' in polite company.

It felt like I'd been punched.

Hard.

By a drilling spear.

Of a sudden I couldn't breathe and the strength ran out of me like I was a water skin and someone pulled the cork out of my boot heel.

I felt something recoil in my hand and part of me registered that I had the red dot right where I wanted it and the pistol slammed back in my hand again and the druggie's head sprayed and he fell boneless and I went over backwards and I hit the ground and I couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe!

I heard my own voice screaming "RELOAD!" like I was screaming at green troops on the battlefield after the first volley, but I hadn't the strength to lift my pistol to kick out the magazine and drive in a fresh one.

I felt the button under my thumb, felt it drop free.

I don't know how but I got up on my right side and pulled the fresh mag and found the bullet nose -- index, damn you! -- hand met hand and I found the mag well with my thumb and I shoved the magazine in hard as I could and I drove it hard enough to blow it out the top of the slide and then the earth fell away from me on a bright shining arc.

 

A rancher saw the Sheriff twist back, saw him raise his pistol and fire twice before he went over backwards.

The rancher yanked his truck's door open, reached into the pocket ahead of his front seat and pulled out the worn Winchester rifle: he cranked the lever, dropped the barrel level, hard eyes scanning.

For a moment he heard a Huey punishing the air as it came in fast, he smelled burnt JP-4 and elephant grass and then they were gone and he ran forward, swinging the blued-steel barrel left and right -- he stopped, went to one knee beside the Sheriff.

The man's eyes were open, vacant, he was limp and not moving.

Part of the rancher's mind saw one pistol magazine on the ground and one halfway into the pistol.

He looked up, looked around, then he seized the Sheriff's shoulder -- hard -- he SLAMMED his hand down on the man's shoulder and gripped, hard, hard! -- as if he could keep the man's life in his body by grip strength alone -- 

"DAMN YOU, PALE EYES, DON'T YOU DARE DIE ON ME!" he screamed, his voice loud, desperate, shattering against storefronts and spilling down the street:  "I AIN'T GOT THAT MANY FRIENDS LEFT!"

 

Linn stood to the side, pistol in hand, looking at an old friend screaming at a long tall fellow laying on the ground, not moving.

He's so skinny he could use a good square meal, Linn thought, then he realized -- 

suddenly, uncomfortably --

That's me --

He blinked, he looked around, automatically holstered his pistol.

His other hand went to his magazine carrier.

Both mags still there.

He drew one, then the other, saw they were both full.

He thrust them back, fast up the flaps, frowned.

I was shot.

I shot back.

He took a step away, looked toward another figure laying on the ground.

Head shot.

I aimed for the head.

He drew his pistol again, dropped the magazine, looked at the witness holes like he'd done with the spare mags on his belt.

Still full.

But ... I fired ...

He looked, frowned,

Fired brass there.

I did fire shots.

"You sure did," 

Linn looked up, surprised.

He might as well have been looking at his twin, if his twin was a little leaner, a little more weathered looking, if his twin wore a black suit instead of the tan-and-brown Sheriff's uniform.

"Do you recall the earth fallin' away from you?" this twin-figure asked quietly -- his voice deep, reassuring, almost ... fatherly.

Linn stopped, looked down at his carcass laying on the ground, turned to look down the street: he heard the sound of Diesel engines snarling defiance as the Irish Brigade's several overhead doors began to clatter open.

He looked back.

"I remember."

"You," his image-twin said good-naturedly with half a grin, "are one of the most HARD HEADED AND CON-TRARY MEN I have ever met, and here I thought I had a corner on the market!"

His pale eyed image-twin thrust out a tanned hand.  

"Hello, Linn," he said, "I'm Linn."

"Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit."

Two callused hands gripped one another.

Linn released the grip, heard hooves, saw his first saddlehorse come head-bobbing toward him.

He looked back.

"There's ... I recall the earth fell away from me ... on a long shining arc ..."

The other Linn nodded solemnly.

A slightly larger Appaloosa stallion paced up behind Old Pale Eyes, stopped, waited.

"Saddle up. There's somewhere you have to go, but you ain't ridin' alone."

Two men thrust polished boots into black doghouse stirrups.

Two Appaloosa horses reared, screamed defiantly, surged under their riders.

 

Nobody noticed that the Sheriff's twins and a robed Abbott stepped out of an Iris into the hospital's  waiting room.

Everyone was looking toward the double doors that led to the ER as the words came over the PA.

"Trauma code inbound, trauma team to ER, standby OR, protocol red, protocol red, protocol red."

Michael consulted his wrist-unit.

"Squad is enroute. They're just down the street."

"We could be there," Victoria said quietly.

"No. It must be as it is."

"What must be?" the Abbott asked, puzzled.

"Abbott, you are one of Pa's closest friends, He trusts you more than he trusts himself. We need you at his side when he wakes up."

"I think I missed something."

Another Iris opened.

Angela came out, jaw set and eyes hard: Marnie was right behind her, the contrast striking -- Angela was in her nursing whites, wearing authority like a cloak, and Marnie was in her floor-length Diplomatic gown.

Nobody tried to stop Angela as she steamed toward the heavy ER doors like a battleship under throttle: the doors, normally secure and impenetrable unless one was buzzed in, opened to admit her as if she had more authority than anyone else in the hospital, which -- truth be told -- she did.

Whether anyone else liked it or not.

 

A man with pale eyes sat his horse easily, looked around, remembered.

He'd been here before.

Now another of his line was here, experiencing what he'd known.

Old Pale Eyes held the reins of another Appaloosa, who was content to stand, sleepy-eyed and hip-shot, tail slashing lazily at nonexistent flies.

He knew what the other, younger Sheriff was experiencing.

He'd experienced it himself.

He dismounted, led the horses over to a stream.

He'd known mountain streams in his lifetime, he'd drunk from them before the dreaded Beaver Fever became endemic: he remembered how good that mountain water was, and he pulled a tin cup from his saddlebag and bent to dip out a drink as both horses watered.

He closed his eyes with pleasure as he drank.

He'd drunk from here before.

Old Pale Eyes mounted up, turned his horse, brought the other Sheriff's stallion around, as if he expected his counterpart to mount up momentarily.

 

Good Christ that hurts.

Who's screaming?

Shut up ... just shut up ...

Light, bright, stabbing ...

Something filled his mouth:  it was withdrawn, he coughed weakly, grimaced at the pain, took a breath, took another, looked around.

I don't want to be here.

Let me go.

I want to go back.

"You can't go back," a deep, reassuring, masculine voice said.

That's right.

My work's not done.

When it's done then I can go home.

He squinted, tried to focus.

A professional face under a white winged cap, but wearing a sterile surgical gown:  "Daddy?"

"Let me go," Linn wheezed.  "I've seen the Valley, and it's beautiful."

A familiar face, a familiar hand, two hands, sandwiching his, warm, strong, reassuring.

"Old friend, I have not seen the Valley," Abbott William said quietly. "You must remain, that I may know."

Another breath, another grimace: "Dry," he husked.

"Not yet," Angela said, her voice stiff, professional: beside Angela, a familiar face -- "Marnie," he whispered -- he looked at the Abbott, at the woman who looked identical to Marnie standing beside him -- he was too tired to whisper again, but he had the deep and certain knowledge that somehow, despite his wish to return -- despite a scolded child's feeling of having just been terribly punished, of having been condemned to this terrible world of the living -- in spite of what he felt, all was as it should be.

He rallied, clenched his teeth, tried to sit up and did not even get his shoulders off the mattress.

"The scene," he managed to squeak.  "Is the scene secure?"

Another voice, another hand: he heard Barrents' voice, tight with stress but strong, confident.

"The scene is secure. We have it taken care of."

 

One year later, Sheriff Linn Keller stood where he'd lain after taking a rifle round that defeated the armor he wore.

It is not to the man's credit that he finally consented to wear a Confederate field generator, molded against the small of his back, no thicker than two fingers and proof against a point blank hit from a 105 recoilless rifle -- actually considerably more than that, but Angela did not see fit to enlighten her father of the true capabilities of what he now wore.

His boot soles covered part of the exact square footage his carcass occupied when he went down.

He'd read the investigators' reports, he'd reviewed the scene's documentation, taken with hyper-accurate laser measurement instead of engineer's steel tapes and pencil sketches on paper.

He'd read his patient records, surgical reports: he had no idea if he'd been worked on there in Firelands, or on an offworld hospital, and he frankly did not care.

A tonsured man in a Cistercian-white robe stood beside him, silent.

The Sheriff refused to talk about what happened, save only to say "I got shot, I lived, move on."

Now, though ... now that he'd intentionally come to this place, this exact spot when he'd left this earth and set his boots in the Valley of the Shadow, he felt the walls he'd built, fall over.

His stallion stood beside him, patient, waiting.

He looked up at the sound of a horse coming down the street at a slow trot.

Another Sheriff drew up, looked at him with the expression of a man who'd been through much the same thing.

"Remember," he said, "you ain't ridin' alone."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I HONESTLY DON'T KNOW

"We owe you an apology."

The Abbott smiled, just a little.

Michael was getting tall -- no, there was no "getting" to it, he'd always taken after his father for height.

He wore his usual black, 1880s-pattern suit and black Stetson.

Who wears suits these days? the Abbott thought, then looked at Victoria, looking more mature than her years, as she always had.

Probably because she's always in gowns.

It was a natural exaggeration: Victoria did not wear McKenna pattern gowns exclusively, but often enough it was become her trademark: she especially preferred them when she had her gloved hand laid carefully around her twin brother's forearm.

Abbott William waited.

"When we came -- earlier -- it was with a question," Michael continued carefully. "We had no idea Pa was going to be shot."

"But you knew."

"We always know," Victoria said, her voice soft, almost ... haunted ... an impression strengthened by her eyes, swinging to the side as she said the words.

"You asked me about ghosts, I believe?"

Two sets of pale eyes met his, their silent assent plain.

"You asked why Old Pale Eyes never manifested."

Silence, again.

The Abbott gestured, carefully: "Please, sit." 

He reached up, tugged at the bell-pull: Michael's face tightened a little as the door opened, as one of the white-robed Brethren came in, silent on bullhide sandals.

"Brother Benjamin, refreshments for our guests, please."

A bow, hands hidden in sleeves: the silent Brother retreated, the door shut quietly.

"Do you remember legends of the Black Rider?"

"Sister Mercurius?" Victoria asked. "The Horseback Healer with the Lance?"

"You have heard of her, then."

The twins waited: their silence, was their reply.

Abbott William sighed, recognizing their use of an interrogation technique he'd seen the Sheriff use.

"Ghosts aren't the only manifestation of spirit," the Abbott began carefully. "There are ... assignments."

He saw Michael's eyebrow quirk -- just a little, an involuntary rise he'd seen when the Sheriff found something particularly interesting.

"Let's say ... it's necessary to convey a ... warning, a message, perhaps."

"An authenticated messenger will be trusted," Michael said softly.

"We tend to trust women," Victoria speculated.

"I do not know this for fact," the Abbott speculated, hands spread in admission, "but I can't help but think -- I can't help but believe the right messenger for the right job."

"Go on."

The Abbott hid a smile: Michael's quiet "Go on" sounded so very much like his father.

"If your father was met by, let's say ... the legendary Black Rider. He might think that's it, he's dead, she's taking his soul to Paradise, and he might give up and let go of life.

"Let's say instead Old Pale Eyes shows up. This might be seen as a warrior-figure rather than Death in the Saddle. It might be seen as a message that the war is engaged, the battle is being fought, and it's time to fight like Hell itself is tearing at his shirt tail."

"Did Old Pale Eyes show up?" Michael asked, leaning forward, clasped hands resting on the edge of the table, his head lowered a little and his eyes intense.

Victoria's chin lifted slightly and she, too, gave the Abbott her absolute undivided.

The Abbott took a long breath, sighed it out, frowned a little.

"I honestly don't know," he admitted. "You could ask him."

"He won't say."

The Abbott's expression was one of honest surprise.

"I already asked," Michael grinned, and it was the sudden, bright, boyish grin the tonsured cleric remembered so well.

"What did he say?"

" 'I got shot, I'm alive, move on,' " Michael quoted.

"I even tried," Victoria said quietly, laying a gentling, gloved hand over her twin brother's knuckles. "He told me he was seeing double in the hospital. He said there were two Marnies and he knew he was in trouble because one Marnie would kick his backside up between his shoulder blades for getting shot in the first place, and two of them would boot his backside over the church tower!"

Victoria's expression showed the innocence of long practice, but her pink cheeks betrayed her inner amusement, and the Abbott could not help but laugh.

"That," he admitted, "sounds just like him!"

Refreshments arrived, and were placed on the table: a tray, well filled with a pitcher of steaming-hot tea, cinnamon rolls, grapes, apples.

A quick blessing, and the three poured tea and began to partake.

"I won't ask if this will spoil your lunch," the Abbott murmured as he tore a cinnamon roll and dunked the torn end into his steaming-hot tea: "when I was your age, just to rebel against my Mama" -- he lowered his voice, looked left and right with a guilty expression -- "sometimes I would have chocolate cake. For breakfast!"

The three of them laughed, quietly, as if sharing a happy conspiracy: Michael bit into an apple as Victoria murmured, "I'll have to try that!"

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WITCH DOCTOR

Jacob Keller brushed his stallion with slow, regular strokes.

The stallion's expression was easily read, and might translate roughly to "I'll give you about a week to stop that."
Jacob paid attention to his horses and to his gear -- something he'd picked up from his pale eyed Pa -- and he'd learned something else from his Pa, about horses.

His brush hesitated at the same moment his stallion's ears swung rearward.

Had it been a threat, the stallion would have turned, and turned fast, to face the threat, but he only swung his ears.

Jacob felt the intrusion at the same moment his stallion's ears announced detection.

Esther Keller was leading her mare toward Jacob.

Jacob resumed his slow, methodical, careful brushing of his stallion's coat.

Esther stopped, openly admiring her son's mount: she saw the brightening of his eyes, the slight tightening of their corners -- just like his father! -- which told her he was pleased to see her.

"Jacob," she said in a gentle voice, "did you know, I once stole the flour sifter and took it out into my Papa's horse pasture?"

Jacob's brush did not hesitate.

It stopped altogether.

Jacob turned to face his green-eyed, red-headed mother, and his stallion hung his head over Jacob's shoulder, and Esther had to discipline herself sternly to keep from laughing as the pair regarded her, curiosity evident on both the long horse face, and on her son's visage, and in equal amounts.

Jacob faced her squarely.

His Appaloosa stallion, standing behind him, was side-on to her, with his neck draped over Jacob's shoulder to look at her with his head lowered a little.

"I wanted to find something out," Esther explained, caressing her mare's long jaw as she spoke.

"Jacob, I've noticed that when you or your father are troubled, you'll come out and groom the horses."

Jacob's hand tightened slightly on the brush he held and he felt for a moment as if he were caught, perhaps accused: he blinked, considered, then said gently, "Yes, ma'am."

"I did the same, when I was still a young girl."

Jacob's guarded expression was curious now.

"Ma'am?"

Esther smiled, trailed her fingers through her mare's long, shining mane.

"Jacob, have you ever noticed that ... when you walk up to your horse, and all is well, that you can ... feel it?"

"Feel, ma'am?"

Esther smiled again, perhaps a little sadly.

"I know girls are all about feelings, and men are all about facts, but Jacob" -- she turned and he was struck yet again by how utterly, unearthly green his Mother's eyes were -- "but when you approach your stallion, it's as if you are ..." -- Esther's hand rotated gracefully at the wrist as she sought to bring out some nuance of speech, or was trying to find the words -- "it's as if you cross a ... a border, and suddenly you feel his calm."

Jacob frowned a little, his hand coming up to his stallion's long nose as he considered.

"Ma'am," he said frankly, "I honestly never gave it a thought."

"Most men don't," Esther sighed. "They just know that it works and so they use it without realizing it."

"You spoke of a flour sifter, ma'am?"

Eshter laughed now, and Jacob felt his stallion shift: the Appaloosa was warm, strong, reassuring: Jacob felt his body heat where the two pressed gently into one another, and only then did Jacob realize that -- yes -- he was actually leaning into Apple a little, the way he might if he wished ... 

Reassurance?

From what?

Nothing's gone wrong, why would I need reassured?

Even as he thought, he recognized defensiveness, and shoved it to the side.

He could not afford defensiveness if he wished to assess something objectively.

"I went out to Daddy's pasture and I threw grain on the ground so the horses would come to it.

"Then I stepped back -- actually I skipped back -- and then I advanced, slowly, until I felt it."

"Felt what, ma'am?"

Esther smiled patiently, the way a mother, or a schoolteacher, will smile when they have to go over the lesson again.

"I waited until I felt the horses, and I put a little puff of flour on the ground.

"I had to pour out some more grain, because they thought the flour might be something to eat, and they came over toward it.

"I circled around them and drew away, then I came back toward them.

"I eventually had a dozen flour-spots, and I got a rough idea on how close I had to be, to feel the horses."

Jacob considered this.

Esther glided up to her stepson, caressed his cheek, then kissed him gently on the cheek she'd just touched: she hugged him, quickly, impulsively, and whispered -- almost fiercely -- "Jacob, I am proud of you!" -- then she released and drew back and caressed his stallion's long, curious nose -- "Yes, and you, too!"

 

Sheriff Linn Keller ignored his own discomfort.

Doc warned him against exertion until he was fully healed.

As usual, being a hard headed and contrary sort, the Sheriff didn't listen.

So far he'd genuinely regretted trying to move a bale of hay, and he'd cussed himself roundly for trying to pick up and pack a saddle he'd planned to swing onto his stallion's back.

He finally settled for brushing his stallion down.

This, too, was less than comfortable, but it wasn't as bad as trying to haul his saddle.

At least it felt like he was stretching things that didn't want to stretch, instead of feeling like he was tearing things loose.

He started brushing Apple-horse, slow, even strokes, smiling a little as the Appaloosa stud shivered his hide under the lawman's ministrations.

Apple's ears swung and his head came up a little, then back down, and Linn smiled.

Shelly's voice, soft, hesitant:  "I didn't want to startle you."

Linn nodded, sagged a little: he laid his arm over Apple's shoulders -- it hurt, but damned if he was going to let pain stop him! -- he turned with that crooked half-grin.

"Early Warning System told me you were coming," he replied quietly.

Shelly frowned, surged up to him, hands light under his arms.

"You're pale."

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

"You should sit down."

"I should split a cord of wood and change the tractor tire."

Shelly glared at her husband, releasing her caregiver's hands and planting her Irritated Wife Knuckles on her belt:  "Linn Keller, you are incorrigible!"

"Incorrigible," Linn replied gently, his smile dancing in his eyes:  "isn't that a brand of Spanish mushroom?"

Apple-horse hung his long jaw over the Sheriff's shoulder, and Linn leaned back into his old friend, closed his eyes, sighed.

He looked at his wife again, nodded, handed her the brush and said "Yeah" in a tired voice.

 

Angela ran the scanner firmly against her Daddy's back, vertical down just inside his shoulder blade -- left side, then right side.

Linn heard her patient sigh, looked at his wife.

She sighs just like her Mama.

"Daddy," Angela said quietly, "did you try to pick up something?"

"How bad?"

"Hold still, this might hurt."

"Hold my breath?"

"It would help. Six seconds."

Linn closed his eyes, held as still as possible, ignored the fresh pain in the mending rib bone and whatever else Angela was doing with that Confederate medical witch doctor stuff she used.

He shoved that thought to the side -- that's not fair to her, he thought, she's professional at what she does, it's not witch doctor --

He felt the scanner draw away from his back and he opened his eyes.

Angela came around in front of him with a feathered rattle, shook it and made looping gestures, all while glaring at her Daddy with bright and pale eyes.

Linn raised an eyebrow.

"Well?" Angela demanded, lowering the feathered rattle. "What's a good witch doctor to do?"

 

 

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

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A CASE OF THE DROPSY

from The Firelands Gazette --

Oh, hell, forget The Firelands Gazette, let's just go see for ourselves.

Grab that polished brass handle and haul the door open and let's step inside.

Wink at Tilly -- she's got the loveliest smile! -- and come on to the corner of the bar.

Smoke layering the air, men's laughter, loud, fueled with the aftermath of adrenaline, success, and fear, not necessarily in that order: beer, in large volumes, disappearing down men's throats: curled black mustaches, red bib front shirts with the Maltese cross embroidered on the front, knee high black boots, raucous laughter.

The Irish Brigade is celebrating, and well they might.

The German Irishman is shouting something, the Welsh Irishman is grinning like a madman as he plays something brisk on the piano, and beside him the English Irishman is singing an obscene ballad involving young ladies, bad judgement, and running from the law.

Not an hour before, their fine, gleaming steam machine was rocking a little as it pumped water -- its black-rubber proboscis thrust into a hand-dug well, steel pistons taking in volumes of water and driving them out, fast, hard, somewhere between mechanical anger and mechanical rage.

Fire hoses were turgid with pressure, coal was judiciously added to the firebox, the popoff valve opened and hissed angrily into the cold air as good men and true rammed their shoulders into the door, burst it open, charged the second floor just as the water reached them, as it weighted their fire line, as it slowed their advance.

Outside, the Welsh Irishman ran forward, sprinting ahead as the big red-headed Irish fire chief swore oaths and profaned the Gods and his men equally, as his Gaelic profanities sundered the air and added speed to running feet, as the life-ring was hauled from its place on the ladder wagon and snapped open, as the ring was run toward the structure.

A woman threw the window open, fell back: smoke fairly roared out the now-open portal, and every man who saw this -- every man on the Brigade who was not occupied with a task -- expected Hell itself to burst through that window as fresh air fed a sudden smoke-hungry conflagration.

The woman reappeared, hair braided and fallen over one shoulder, a woman who was readying for bed: she screamed something, her words lost to panic, but as she bent, halfway out the window, she held something small, something in a white flannel nightgown, something every man there recognized.

The smoke behind her did not ignite.

It detonated.

Daffyd Llewellyn felt time shatter into bright splinters.

The baby -- her baby -- fell, released a tenth of a second before ignition.

The child's nightgown caught the air, then fluttered, the child's mouth open --

Daffyd's vision shrank to this one bright spark of white flannel, coming at him like a comet riding a freight train, and yet falling through transparent molasses --

Three men with the life-ring ran straight for their fellow, not seeing him, their eyes on the sudden detonation overhead --

Llewellyn saw the child suddenly silhouetted against fire, saw the woman blown out the window --

The child dropped into his arms and he fell, ducked his chin as he curled around the infant, rolled hard up against the siding just as the life-ring's steam-bent rim rammed the siding over his head, just as a boot stopped a half inch from his shoulder, then something hit the taut canvas.

Not until impact did Llewellyn realize the thump! had been preceded by a long, despairing wail, the sound of a damned soul falling into Eternity, shocked into silence by landing on something besides hard ground and death.

The town was unusually populated that night, likely because of the dance -- a dance suddenly abandoned, for one universal constant of small town life is, if there's a fire, everybody responds.

The Irish Brigade made it back to the firehouse before they were mobbed.

The crowd did not care who they grabbed.

The Brigade managed to shed their rubber coats before being hoisted onto men's shoulders and carried in shouting triumph up the street to the Silver Jewel, and now their world was surrounded with gas-lights and laughter, with beer and with spirits and with much hand-wringing and shoulder-pounding.

The upper story and the back stairway were a loss, to be sure, but the first floor of the building suffered water damage and loss above the over heated stove pipe that caused the conflagration: it could be rebuilt, a mother and her child were saved, an industrious resident passed the hat, a relief fund for the burnt out family whose husband and father was yet laboring deep underground in one of the mines, unaware of the excitement above.

Here is where that article from The Firelands Gazette came in.

Editor, reporter, publisher and owner Bruce Jones had as perverse a sense of humor as his old friend the Sheriff.

Editor, reporter, publisher and owner Bruce Jones knew the value of an eye catching headline.

Editor, reporter, publisher and owner Bruce Jones labored well into the night, printing their weekly paper, and viewed with satisfaction a headline, calculated to pique the reader's interest:

MOTHER DROPS CHILD FROM WINDOW: under it, EXPLOSION AND FIRE, and then -- he smiled at the third title over the article itself -- A CASE OF THE DROPSY.

 

Well more than a century later, a pale eyed Sheriff with really good legs and a rotten sense of humor, carried a reprint of The Firelands Gazette under her arm as she came into the firehouse.

Sheriff Willamina Keller, in her trademark blue suit dress and heels, sashayed into the hushed interior on ball bearing joints, intentionally exaggerating her walk, smiling with deliberate seduction as she walked right up to the Fire Chief, stopped, struck a leggy pose, then reached up and touched a delicate, feminine fingertip to the Chief's nose and declared, "BEEP!"

Sheriff, Fire Chief and several modern-day Irishmen laughed, and Willamina unfolded her newspaper: she took the Chief's arm, turned, draped it over her shoulders like a shawl and leaned into him, snapping the reprinted pages open.

"Let me call your attention to report of a fire," she said, and every man there heard the smile in her voice: "this one here" -- she slipped out from under the Chief's arm, spun on her toes, flaring her skirt and laughing: she skipped for the door like a teen-ager, stopped, spun again: "Doughnuts in five minutes!" she called loudly, then turned, looked out the window: "Make that, Arriving!"

The newspaper's reprint was spread out for all to read: men ate still-warm doughnuts, slurped coffee, scanned the paper while another of their number read the article aloud.

Willamina smiled as she tapped briskly back up the street, for she could hear the laughter of strong men behind her, muffled a little by the closed bay doors, but audible nonetheless.

"Dropsy," she murmured, and then laughed.

 

 

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

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

FLOUR, DAUGHTER OF GRAIN

Angela Keller was an instructor, and a good one.

She was also a sister, and she had a fondness for children, and she offered no objection to younger siblings appearing in her classes -- she lived in the Real World, and she'd known too many classmates in nursing school who had to drop out or repeat a semester because of child-care issues.

Children add an unpredictable dynamic.

Angela was fond of bringing in vignettes, examples, quotes from obscure sources to illustrate some facet of the lessons she taught.

In covering a section on pregnancy, she cited her own sister's example of seeking out horses, as a horse's natural Kirlian field extends for a surprising distance, and has a calming effect on the human system -- she read Old Pale Eyes' account of Esther's reminisce, where she'd stolen the flour sifter and marked out the extent of her Papa's favorite racer's calming influence, resulting in a puzzled looking horse standing in a circle of flour deposited by a curious and decidedly industrious little girl.

As Angela was teaching in multiple locations that week, it came as little surprise when two of her students -- who'd brought younger siblings to class -- reported they, too, sought out a container of flour: neither had access to horses, but they'd encircled the available livestock with dusty orbits of what one innocently declared to be "Flour, Daughter of Grain!" -- which instantly became their white-dusted bovine's full and official name.

Angela smiled and nodded, reflecting silently that this was certainly no worse than naming a matched pair of greys, Butter and Jelly -- as she recalled had been done when her ancestress Sarah Lynne McKenna was yet a girl at home.

Sunday dinner at the home place was not guaranteed, but was accomplished whenever possible.

The Sunday following, Angela was able to make Sunday dinner with family, and among the cheerful conversation was her recounting of her student's sibling, actually encircling the family's big bovine with a wobbly ring of flour.

Marnie gave her sister a look, and Linn saw that look pass between them.

It was not the first time he felt outnumbered under his own roof: women, he knew, could pass a complete conversation with a look, and this very likely was.

This did not surprise him.

His own pale eyed Mama could speak volumes -- in rather unmistakable language -- by giving "The Look."

After Sunday dinner, after the dishes were ceremonially gathered, scraped, stacked, washed, dried and set away (as The Bear Killer was pulling duty on Mars, Snowdrift stepped in and assumed Prewash duties), another pot of coffee was brewed: Angela leaned back against the counter, her long, spatulate, artist's fingers wrapped around the glazed-ceramic mug, and Marnie sidled up beside her with a steaming mug of her own.

Marnie raised her mug, took a small sip: she used the mug to block any lip-reading -- a habit she'd acquired as part of her Diplomatic training -- she murmured, "Spill it, sister, what's the deal with the flour?"

Angela lowered her mug a fraction, smiled.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

Silence between the two.

Victoria saw Marnie's ears were reddening: she debated whether to try and drift closer, then decided she could pump Angela at a later time, and instead went gracefully to her knees as Snowdrift came over and laundered her vigorously behind the ears.

Linn and Michael sat down in his study and started discussing relative ballistics, as they often did: Marnie raised her mug a half-inch again and murmured, "You mentioned Esther Keller as a child."

"That was the illustration I brought out."

"It works, you know."

Angela stopped, held very still: Marnie realized with some distress she'd just scored a hit, not that she intended anything of the kind.

"I've never carried a child," Angela said after a lengthy silence, and Marnie felt the discomfort behind her words.

"When I was carrying -- my first children -- I would Iris back here and the mares knew I was with foal," Marnie explained quietly, murmuring into the side of her coffee mug.

"If I was anxious, if I was feeling overwhelmed, all I had to do was step into the pasture and find a mare."

"I don't follow."

Marnie took a sip of coffee, held it for a moment before swallowing: she had to, as her mouth was suddenly dry.

"If I was troubled, if I was upset, I ... I would walk toward a mare. She would alert to me at the same moment I felt my heart slow.

"I don't pretend to understand why, Angela, I just know ... I know when I cross that flour circle, the mare could feel me, and I could feel her."

 

Two days later, a familiar figure slipped into her class.

Angela paused, looked back, her deputy-trained eyes locking onto movement where none should have been.

Victoria Keller glared at her sister, and glare she might.

She was white from belt buckle to the hem of her long skirt.

Angela blinked: this particular interruption broke her train of thought: rather than try to re-rail her derailed train, she decided to go with the interruption.

"Victoria," she said, "what happened?"

Curious heads turned to look.

Victoria planted her knuckles on her belt, frowned.

"I believe you used Gammaw Esther's account of making a flour circle around her Daddy's racer?"

"Ye-eeessss," Angela said slowly, drawing the word out uncertainly.

Victoria gripped her skirt, held it out a little, displaying the dusty, white, full-length splash.

"You owe me a flour sifter!" she declared, sounding less like a dignified young lady and more like a petulant little sister.

"I ... what?" Angela blinked.

Victoria sighed loudly, shook her head.

"If I'm going to be authentic, I need to be authentic," Victoria said with exaggerated patience: "I took a flour sifter and it was easier to see if Michael's Fanghorn mare has the same effect as a horse, than go find an actual horse."

"Annnnnd ... what did you discover?"

Victoria maintained one set of knuckles on her belt, raised her free hand, extended her Mommy-finger and shook it accusingly at her older sister.

"Lightning decided flour was good to eat so she tore the sifter apart to get to the flour, and it's all your fault! You owe me a sifter!"

 

Edited November 17, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

EASIER THAN I THOUGHT

Sheriff Jacob Keller knocked at Sheriff Linn Keller's office door.

Sheriff Linn Keller looked up as his son drew the door open wide, as two short-skirted cheerleaders in saddle shoes and giggles brought in trays of what was very obviously a well-stocked meal: they managed to get one end of each tray on the desk, holding the other end while they carefully dispensed what promised to be -- if it tasted as good as it smelled -- a very good meal.

The picked up their pressed-hardwood trays, dipped their knees, giggled and skipped out the door.

Jacob thanked them quietly, stepped inside, shut the door.

"I see you brought your helpers today," Sheriff Linn Keller said with a straight face.

His son's expression was as carefully neutral as he replied, "Yes, sir, I have found the value of drafting from the Unorganized Militia."

The Sheriff looked at what appeared to be two sandwiches -- thick, piled with meat and something vegetable he almost recognized -- there were fried ... somethings ... stacked and steaming and his belly growled at him, as if to say "Quit fooling around and FEED ME!"

Jacob did not stand on ceremony, nor did he stand on boot leather: he grabbed one plate, dropped his backside in a chair and set the plate in the adjacent chair, hunching forward with his elbows on his knees as he devoured his sandwich.

"You'll like this," he mumbled through a mouthful: "backstrap, wild harvest, good stuff!"

Jacob ate with a good appetite, as if he'd missed breakfast; his father was just shy of halfway through his own large-diameter sandwich when Jacob finished his, belched comfortably and reached for the broad cardboard sleeve of fried whatever-it-was.

He bit the end of a paper packet, sprinkled something granular on the fried vegetable sticks.

"Buffalo need salt," he said solemnly, quoting from a half-remembered comedy from years before, and the Sheriff reached for one of his own fried stick-things.

He found it definitely to his liking.

Like his son, he found it improved with a good sprinkle of salt.

Jacob picked up a fried stick, shook it at his father.

"You were right, by the way."

His father raised an eyebrow but did not stop chewing: whatever this sandwich was, was good enough to claim his undivided.

"Sir, many's the time you told me 'Use-a the head and save-a the back,' and 'Let the machine do the work.' "

The Sheriff nodded: a tap at the door, the cheerleaders came back in with coffee and what looked like Red Delicious apples, though since Jacob had commerce with the produce of thirteen star systems, what they actually were, was not entirely certain.

Jacob nodded his thanks to the cheerleaders, who giggled, red-faced, and withdrew again.

"Friends of yours?" Linn asked mildly.

"Never saw 'em before," Jacob mumbled, then took a noisy slurp of coffee, sluiced his payload down his swaller pipe, cleared his throat.

"Sir, you recall those doomsday cyborgs that hit Mars and killed all those Colonists."

Sheriff Linn Keller stopped chewing, set down the last bite of his sandwich, looked steadily at his son.

"I remember," he said quietly, and Jacob could hear the edge to his voice.

"They weren't the only ones."

Jacob saw his father's eyes go pale, saw his jaw harden and slide out a little.

"What are we lookin' at?" Linn asked quietly, suddenly all business.

Jacob set his coffee down on the corner of his father's desk, leaned forward again.

"Sir," he said, "the Valkyries found two more Berserkers. You trained us for building clearing, and a full-house .44 will zip right through the energy stopper shields they use."

Linn nodded, slowly.

"I was all set to put together a boarding team, seize a Berserker ship, cut our way in and raise Hell all the way to their computer core, and then take what was useful.

"Turns out the Valkyries were way ahead of me."

"So it's taken care of," Linn said -- a statement, not a question.

"It's taken care of, sir."

"How?"

"Sir, you remember Gracie Daine?"

Linn nodded.  "I remember."

"Turns out she can read Chinese."

Linn frowned, turned his head a little, as if to bring a good ear to bear:  "Chinese?"

"Yes, sir," Jacob said solemnly. "You may have heard of the Chinese I Ching."

"I've heard of it."

"She rewrote it."

Linn raised an eyebrow.

"Her version is called the I Cheat."

Linn nodded slowly, reached for his coffee, relaxed a little.

"Something tells me," he said slowly, "I'm going to enjoy this one."

 

Gunfighter, invisible in a stealth cloak, slipped silently out of the Iris and approached the Berserker vessel.

Gracie extended feathery electronic probes that slipped between realities and converged around the enemy computer core.

The feathers analyzed the device, found and disabled the anti-tamper self-destruct -- no sense in being anywhere near an antimatter explosion -- the invisible electronic feathers withdrew, and with them, the enemy ship's computer core.

Gracie reversed Gunfighter through the Iris like she was backing a straight-frame truck, and reappeared ten light-years from the Berserker vessel, near a Confederate monitoring buoy that assured her there was no traffic anywhere near.

"Nancy," she thought, and her mind-linked computer triggered a quantum burst that appeared in that same moment in Nancy's computer back on Mars.

Nancy sat relaxed in her pilot's seat, her mind quantum linked with the robot ship.

The ship turned, lined the Gauss guns up with the Berserker's exhaust.

She'd been charging capacitors ever since they found the two Berserkers: Gunfighter drove a telephone pole sized meteor-iron kinetic missile lengthwise through the first one, and rather than vaporize the second one, Confederate Central wanted to interrogate its computer core, get as much intel as possible before turning the second one into dust.

Gracie felt Nancy's smile, just as she felt Nancy's confirmation that the refined-meteor-iron rods were spinning now, rotating like a bullet through a rifled barrel, spin stabilizing before launch: she calculated the trajectory, because after it went through the Berserker ship, it was going somewhere, and fortunately there was a nice friendly gravity well leading to an equally hospitable red giant that would be the perfect backstop for a refined iron telephone pole running at an unholy velocity.

Gracie felt Nancy's finger tighten on the red-plastic trigger.

She could have launched simply with a mental command, but there was something satisfying about gripping the firing control and physically squeezing the trigger.

The Berserker ship burst into a cloud of component elements under the influence of a kinetic impactor running and just under one-half lightspeed.

Problem solved.

 

"Sir," Jacob said, mopping up salt crystals with the bitten end of a deep fried vegetable stick, "I was all set to carry the fight to the enemy.

"Gracie said she could do it easier, she could be sneakier and not trigger a self destruct, and if she did, there wouldn't be friendly forces on board to suffer."

Linn nodded slowly.

"I remembered what you taught me. Let the machine do the work. So rather than cut through their hull and go hand to hand, or pull a brace of .44s and punch holes in things that wanted to kill me, why, I let Gracie do it under power."

"Berserkers," Linn said slowly.

"Yes, sir."

"Where were they headed?"

Jacob was quiet for a long moment, then he looked away, jaw set.

He looked back.

"They were headed here, sir," Jacob admitted.  "Here.  Earth.  At least they would've made it within Earth's solar orbit if they'd continued."

"How long would it have taken them?"

"Another couple hundred years, at their velocity, sir."

"Mmm."  

The Sheriff nodded thoughtfully.

"Your sister told me a .357 up close was effective medicine."

"That's why I figured a brace of .44s for boarding, sir."

"Did they get anything useful out of the computer core?"

"They're still working on it, sir."

"Will that show if there are more Berserkers headed our way?"

"I don't know, sir," Jacob admitted, then picked up what looked like an apple, shook it for emphasis.

"These are good."

He bit into it with a satisfied crunch, slurping noisily as he did, wiping at the light-green juice that dribbled down his chin: the Sheriff saw the inside of the apple was bright green in color.

"Your plan was straightforward," Linn said slowly. "Handle it like a building clearing exercise against armed hostiles."

"That was my intent, sir," Jacob admitted. "Leaving it to Gacie, though ..."

Jacob grinned.

"Frankly, sir, that was easier than I thought!"

 

 

 

 

Edited November 18, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WILDCAT KELLER

Ambassador Marnie Keller's ears turned a distinct shade of dark scarlet as the matter was discussed over the Sunday dinner table back home.

Every last one of her family -- parents, siblings, in-laws, out-laws, probably even the dogs and at least half the horses -- saw the holovid:  two little boys watching from the shed roof of a Main Street sidewalk overhang; one took a misstep, or slipped, or a shingle-nail rusted apart and failed and the shake shingle shot a boy's brogan out from under him -- they saw Marnie Keller, smiling and laughing and chatting with the Mayor in the middle of the street -- saw her turn, saw her go from affable and agreeable and sociable, to a blurred streak of skirts and a grim, pale face.

They saw Marnie move from the middle of the street, saw her half jump, half dive, saw her catch a little boy with wide eyes and wide spread arms, saw her snatch him to her like she was grabbing the last-second touchdown pass, saw her rotate --

The holovids were steadily enhanced: now they were good enough the viewer could half-feel, half-hear the sound of her hitting the side of the building, falling to the walkway below: she gave a pained grunt, her eyes screwed tight shut, a little boy's hat falling to the ground behind them.

There were follow-up reports: solemn faces spoke into the lensless holographic receivers and described the swiftness of Confederate medical transport, the Ambassador's being treated for a wrenched shoulder, a broken collarbone, and by her own admission, just before being given something for the pain that brought her the relief of unconsciousness, she admitted to a severe fracture of her dignity.

The truth, of course, was somewhat different.

Over Sunday dinner -- prepared with several sets of feminine hands, while the men folk were shooed out from underfoot -- a brisk discussion was held on the media, and its tendency to put forth agendas, or biases, or otherwise used to put forth what someone of influence wished to have seen, or believed: this was as true in back issues of period newspapers from the days of Old Pale Eyes, to the modern day.

The Sheriff sat at the head of the table, elbows on either side of his plate, as he considered his oldest daughter, and smiled.

Marnie felt her father looking at her: she looked at him, looked over at Angela: Marnie's posture was similar to her father's, and when Angela's attention was elsewhere, Marnie shot a message to her father, fingerspelling W-I-L-D-C-A-T, followed by a raised eyebrow.

The Sheriff nodded, ever so slightly, his eyes tightening at the corners, and Marnie smiled quietly into her now-clasped hands.

 

Angela Keller skipped along beside her long tall Daddy.

Angela was ten years old.

Angela liked being Daddy's Little Girl.

Angela's Daddy was big and strong and quiet and his muts-tash tickled her nose when he picked her up and looked into her eyes, close enough that all she saw was a single, big, pale blue orb, and then he'd twiddle his muts-tash on her nose and she'd giggle.

Her Mommy called it her Life Saving Muts-tash, because her Mommy was involved with a hazardous materials incident and inhaled something that nearly killed her: when she was in the hospital, she said she could not move and she heard everyone like they were way far away, but when Angela's Daddy bent over and tickled her Mommy's nose with his muts-tash, she said she felt it and decided she wanted to come back to him and she didn't die.

Angela was ten years old, she'd changed from her karate uniform into her cheerleading outfit, and her little hand was in her Daddy's big strong hand as they walked down the sidewalk toward the drugstore.

Daddy always took her to the drugstore for something good, generally a hot fudge Sundae, when she'd done particularly well in the Arts Martial, and today she'd genuinely excelled.

Angela was a pretty little girl, with apple cheeks, a flawless complexion, her hair bounced in twin braids and her expression would have lit up a dark room like a hundred watt bulb.

Until a man slapped a woman right in front of them.

The Sheriff's attention was elsewhere: he took a moment to size up the situation, and realized his daughter's hand was no longer in his own: this distraction set him back another second and a half, and by then the fight was on, and all he could do was stand there and watch.

Angela Keller, a pretty little ten year old cheerleader, snatched a broom from a storefront display.

She swung the broomhandle in a short, vicious arc, caught the man on the outside of the knee, hard: it was not heavy enough to cause actual damage, not in her hands, but she knew it would hurt like homemade hell, and she needed to break his attention to break his attack.

Angela proceeded to address the situation with speed, with focus, with efficiency, with the surprising power of an incensed, ten year old, female child who'd grown up riding horses, packing bales of hay and learning things from Practitioners of the Dark and Violent Arts that are not usually practiced by someone of her stereotypical gender.

In other words, the Sheriff was obliged to step in to salvage the situation, but not until he waved at the Firelands Police Department's cruiser and flagged it over.

The Sheriff planted his boot on the back of the man's neck and shoved the subject's face into the cement before he reached down, grabbed a good handful of blouse, twisted it up and lifted his daughter off the ground, as if he were hoisting a sizzling, clawing, striking cat.

Which, in truth, is just what she looked like.

The Sheriff's expression was mild as he held his thrashing, snarling daughter in one hand, the broom in the other, as he stood with one burnished boot casually on a man's neck and explained to the trying-hard-not-to-laugh constabulary that this fellow slapped that woman, that he, the Sheriff, witnessed this unlawful act and he, the Sheriff, was preferring charges whether or not the woman wished to, and he, the Constabulary, may wish to get the woman's statement as well, but in the meantime, let's get this fellow in irons and processed, because he, the Sheriff, had a previous engagement.

The Sheriff eased his daughter to the ground, waited until she tucked her blouse back into her waistband, waited until the suspect was cuffed and stuffed, Mirandized and transported, before squatting and looking very intently at his middle female child.

"Darlin'," he said, his voice gentle, "if I hand you back this-yere broom, will you promise not to jump on it and fly off?"

Angela's expression was somewhere in the middle of equal parts of anger, war, death, destruction, demolition, detonation, distress, disappointment and the drop-the-gut-to-your-boot-tops fear that she'd just disappointed her Daddy.

Angela nodded wordlessly, like she was a very little girl again.

The Sheriff looked at the broom, turned it, handed it to her.

"I don't think it's hurt any," he said. "Why'nt you set that back in the display."

Angela tuned and very carefully threaded the broom handle back into the slot where she'd gotten it, turned.

The Sheriff rose, took her hand in his, and they resumed their walk.

"Y'know," the Sheriff said conversationally, "work always gives me an appetite, and I hear a couple of chocolate Sundaes callin' our name."

 

Sheriff Linn Keller looked at Marnie, smiled a little as she described driving her shoulder into the building harder than she'd intended, but the Confederate field kept her from injury, and the media reports were window-dressing engineered by Confederate Central for her "image."

She sighed.

"I was not going to see that boy fall off the roof and get killed," she said softly.

Angela's expression was thoughtful, at least until the Sheriff said, "Hey, Wildcat, flown any good brooms lately?"

Angela's eyes widened, and then she laughed, and the Sheriff was hard pressed to catch the sweet roll she threw at him in retaliation.

 

Edited November 19, 2025 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SIXTEEN

Linn Keller crossed the parlor, his steps swift, sure, decisive: he took his daughter's hands, his eyes wrinkled at the corners the way he did when he allowed his happiness to be seen: Dana looked at her Daddy, laughed like the girl she'd been, and Linn couldn't help himself.

He took his darlin' daughter under the arms and hoist her off the floor, he spun her around like he used to when she was little, and Dana threw her head back and spread her arms like she was flying, and her face shone with a little girl's joy as she scattered happy giggles all over the room.

Strong, masculine hands eased her down until her shining slippers just touched the floor.

Linn bent his head, twiddled his handlebar against her nose, which brought another freshet of happy, girlish giggles, then Dana jumped a little, hugged her long tall Daddy with the spontaneous delight of a child, rather than the young woman she was becoming.

Her Daddy hugged her back and she felt his laughter -- strong, silent, echoing in that bony rib-cave, the way he did when he forbade mirth and merriment from being heard.

"Darlin'," Linn said as he slacked his embrace, leaned back until he was just fingertip length from her, "that dress does become you!"

"Bonnie made it for me!" Angela squeaked, twirling, flaring her skirt, and for a moment, for a powerful, spike-through-the-heart moment, Linn remembered his Esther, his bride, the other half of his heart, twirling in just that way, with just that expression, in just that exact spot in their parlor.

Esther died birthing Dana.

Linn made sure to celebrate Dana's birthday with laughter and with gaiety, with celebration and with happiness: it was not until Dana got some years on her that she realized at some point her Daddy disappeared, and one year she followed him, at a distance, and saw he stood at his wife's grave with his hat in his hand: she'd dismounted before the break of the hill, she'd Injun'd up on him with the field-glasses he'd given her, she took a look, and then she swallowed and slid backwards until she could safely rise, and walk back to her soft-footed horse, until she could mount up and head back to the house, her face wet with tears.

It was the first time she'd ever seen her Daddy cry.

 

Saturday nights generally saw celebration of some kind in town.

It was an era, a place, where men worked hard and they played hard: the Silver Jewel was well populated, young fortunes were slid back and forth across green-felt poker tables, men laughed and swore and told outrageous lies and dubious jokes: if there was a dance, the dance was equally well attended, and tonight, not only the end of the week was celebrated, but also a lovely young woman's birthday.

The Sheriff had multiple cakes for the occasion, for he knew what men's appetites were like, especially if they'd had beer ahead of time: beer gives a man an absolutely roaring appetite, and cake was easy to eat and pleasant on the palate.

Jacob and his young family were there -- his wife Annette was the very soul of patience and of understanding: Jacob danced with his wife, yes, but he also stood a quiet vigil over his youngest sister: silent, watchful, carefully not prominent: between the pale eyed father, and the pale eyed brother (and of course the loud, boisterous and vigorous members of their irish Brigade!), Dana would honestly have been no safer in the center of a cavalry formation.

Dana's birthday gown was of a shimmering emerald, the color her late mother favored, and she wore a cameo brooch that belonged to her mother: at the end of a set, when the music stopped and Dana whirled, laughing, toward Jacob, tripped, honestly fell into him: strong and fraternal arms caught her easily, hoisted her enough to get her feet back under her: she turned and thanked Jacob, her voice soft: her fingertips came to the cameo brooch, the one set with four emeralds, and she blinked uncertainly, then said "I shall wear this at my wedding," and Jacob nodded, once, his face solemn, but the corners of his eyes wrinkling up a little, just like his father's.

 

There were times when Linn talked to the Almighty.

When he did, he spoke in plain language: he generally held his conversations apart from people, most commonly from the saddle, for that was where he did his best thinking, or so he claimed.

That night, after the dance and after the laughter and after lamps and fiddles and cake and celebration, after he'd gotten his darlin' daughter home and safely abed, he was restless enough he'd not undressed.

He took one of his older horses, a steady, dependable old fellow, he rode for the cemetery and he'd ridden up the gravel roadway and through the cast iron arch and he'd ridden to where Esther's stone stood, shadowed and silent.

He stared at it for several minutes, then tilted his head back and considered the starry-decked firmament overhead.

He looked back at the stone, then frowned, tilted his head back, looked again at the stars.

"Lord," he finally said, "I need Your help."

He swallowed, listened to the night, to the sound of a saloon piano, faint in the distance, the sound of men's laughter, a horse's whinny, a steam donkey engine laboring in the distance.

"Lord," he continued, "let me not dwell on what was.

"Let me rejoice in what is, and thank You for what is."

He looked down to the stone.

"Dearest," he almost whispered, and he felt his throat tighten as he spoke, "my work isn't done yet. When it's finished, I'll join you."

He swallowed hard, then his eyes tightened again at the corners.

"You'd be so proud of Dana," he whispered, his voice nearly inaudible, even to his own ears.

"She is every bit the Lady you always were."

 

In a night-dark bedroom, on the stand beside a pretty young woman's bed, a single, fresh-cut, red rose appeared, fragrant and soft-petaled and damp with nighttime dew: no hand placed it there, no footstep conveyed it up the stairs and through the closed door.

One floor below, a man with pale eyes could not sleep.

He considered the cut-glass decanter of good California brandy, then decided against it: he finally went upstairs and went to bed, and as he lay down, as he'd done for years, and had done every night since his wife's death, he automatically reached for the hand that wasn't there.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

LOYAL FOLLOWING

"HERE HE COMES!"

Spectators, already standing, leaned out across the ribbon-streaming ropes that marked the course.

Other runners, stretched out through the course, each one with their own start time, jogged, breathing hard, rifles slung over a shoulder or across their backs.

Runners were spaced out, their times electronically recorded: they were the best athletes of the Three Worlds, but running a course that tested each one against himself, and against herself.

There were twenty contestants -- twenty-five started, five dropped out over the miles they'd run -- but the ones that drew the most attention were the accidental runners.

Michael was among them.

He honestly had no intent that he should have Fanghorn flankers.

Honest, he had no such notion.

When two Fanghorn saw him running, when they felt his competition level stress, when the light went green and the crowd yelled "GO!" and Michael shot forward, sprinting for the first hundred yards, rifle across is back and bladed hands cutting the air, Thunder and Cyclone naturally decided if it's good enough for him, it's good enough for us.

The first shooting position was at the quarter mile mark.

This was what Michael called a Poor Man's Biathlon: instead of skis, in winter, they were running, in the mountains -- not Earth mountains, but mountains nonetheless -- contestants were from the Three Worlds, mostly military but not all, and spectators were there from more than the Three Worlds.

Men yelled, waved hats: women fluttered kerchiefs, girls waved pennants and banners and screamed, shouting their favorites' names, waving or wearing scarves of their chosen runner's vests.

Michael came to the first shooting position: he stopped, dropped his bony backside to the padded mat, drove his boot heels into the ground and brought his rifle around, level, shouldered, ready.

Three fast, deep breaths, he let out the third: front sight on the steel plate -- his rifle fired once -- twice -- he drove five rounds of .45-70, fired brass slinging from the ejection port consistently enough he could have laid his Stetson out and dropped the fired rounds into it.

Drop the mag, drive in a new one, sling arms: Michael surged to his feet, looked to his right -- no other runners, good -- he resumed his pace, taking advantage of his height, his long legs, his native endurance, cultivated by growing up in the Colorado mountains.

He was probably the most noticeable of the runners.

His vest was dark tan, with the Sheriff's six point star in gold.

That's not what made him remarkable.

He was shooting a full-size, go-to-war rifle, the one he carried into situations where he intended to face up to, and face down, creatures bigger and meaner than him.

That's not what made him remarkable.

The other runners ran alone, or in pairs.

What made Michael was that he ran with a pair of semi-carnivorous, full-grown Fanghorns.

This, of course, made him more than noticeable.

Lightning, for her part, hadn't joined her colts in running with Michael.

She'd found soft grass and warm sun very much to her taste.

She'd laid down and found a comforrtable position on her side, and the very moment she did, the younger members of the spectating crowd near the starting line decided climbing all over a warm and fuzzy, lightning-pattern cuddle buddy was more interesting than watching bare-legged runners a few minutes apart.

Lightning found the arrangement more than agreeable: she'd shown an affinity for the young of the human species, and it didn't take long for holo-drones to send pictures of sleeping young from three worlds, happily collapsed and cuddled up with a familiar and well known saddlemount, all of them sound asleep and comfortable in the hill country sunshine.

The event itself ended up being called "The Plum," an apparent bastardization of the military's attempt to assign it an acronym for Michael's tongue in cheek term when he proposed the competition -- Poor Man's Biathlon became PMB, which became Plum, which meant actual plums, grown on only one of the Three Worlds, skyrocketed in price and became a favorite logo on banners, shirts and promotional materials.

System-wide, there were copycat competitions, each claiming they had "The Best" -- there were bicycle divisions, there were Nordic divisions, on skis in the spirit of the seminal competition Michael and Marnie quietly arranged to have broadcast on the Inter-System -- but they all achieved the same goal.

The Inter-System broadcast the competition, the statistics: Michael was in the top ten, but was not the overall winner: he was discussed for what a commentator referred to as "a full-house Hellbuster" instead of something lighter, easier to carry, easier to shoot, which immediately resulted in the formation of the "Hellbuster Division" which was run, and shot, with battle rifles and full powered ammunition.

 

Michael rode back, bareback astride Thunder, with Cyclone beside: other runners came back on team buses, provided by the organizers.

Michael slid off Thunder's back at the first quarter-mile shooting position and walked the rest of the way, flanked by an alert, ears-up, hoof-dancing pair of Fanghorns, who were quite happy to fold their legs and roll in the grass near their dam, and then to snort and paw the air like a pair of happy puppies as giggling children and a few adults came over to give them belly rubs and treats.

Victoria was waiting for Michael when he came dragging back in: his fatigue was evident, his grain was broad, especially when he looked up and saw his twin sis jumping up and down, waving a tan pennant with a gold six point star, screaming and acting like a typical teen-age girl: behind her, more family, solemn and pale-eyed, waiting gravely for their youngest member to arrive at the judge's stand and receive his official time.

Behind them, big grilles, smokers, tables and chairs waited.

The Inter-System led with a still shot, much like the front-page photo above the fold of an old-fashioned newspaper.

A grinning Michael, his hand locked into the first-place contestant's grip, their arms around one another in what was obviously a strong and masculine embrace, each with an expression of both exhaustion, and delight: the second, Michael, one arm around the first-place winner's shoulders, the other around another competitor, the cheering, waving, boisterous crowd packed in tight as they advanced on the waiting feast, with a pair of Fanghorns following close behind, either intent on keeping their herd-mate safe, or bumming as much food as possible.

Quite probably both.

The headline, over top this split image that led the Inter-System news:

"A LOYAL FOLLOWING!"

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THAT DIRTY JOHN ALLEN

 

The Sheriff turned his coffee mug slowly, thoughtfully.

Up by the bar, Mr. Baxter was laughing and polishing the bar, drawing beer and pouring spirits; the piano player was busy plying his trade as men looked hopefully at the heavy curtains drawn across the small stage where there was occasional entertainment of a female nature.

It really didn't matter if the female entertainer sang well, or not; whether she could play an instrument well, or not; whether she could dance well, or not.

All she had to do was strut across the stage and give it a try and she was well and enthusiastically received.

Women were still scarce, which means women were well appreciated.

Most of the time.

The Sheriff's eyes were busy, as they always were, even when relaxed: he'd finished a good meal, here, as his wife was in the City handling legal arrangements for some of her more distant holdings.

He rose as a familiar figure bore down on him with the certainty of a naval vessel steaming briskly into an engagement.

Daisy Finnegan, the big, broad-shouldered Irish fire chief's wife, stopped and planted her knuckles on her apron strings and frowned.

"Now why are ye standin'?" she scolded. "I'm nothin' special!"

Linn raised an eyebrow and lowered his head a few degrees: Daisy glared at him, then fetched the towel off her shoulder and swatted at him.

"A'right, then, ye're as hard-headed as m' husband, an' I though he had a corner on th' market!" she muttered as she descended into the chair opposite, but the color in her cheeks and the quietly pleased look she tried to hide, told the Sheriff he'd done the right thing.

"Some things need sayin' so I'm gon' t' say't," Daisy said firmly.

The Sheriff nodded.

"Ye are a good man."

The Sheriff's eyebrow went up again.

"Oh now stop i' wi' th' face," Daisy scolded, trying to look stern and almost succeeding. "A man needs t' be told these things an' I'm no' sure ye've been told, an' i' ye ha'e, ye've likely no' listened" -- she rose a little, reached over and knocked her knuckles gently on his scalp -- "ye are a hard headed sort, after all!"

"I've ... been told that," Linn said slowly, and Daisy could see the corners of his eyes tighten just a little.

Daisy settled back into her seat and gave him a long, appraising look.

"Ye are a guid husband an' a guid father," she said softly. "Jacob has y' s'far up on a pedestal it's a wonder ye don't get nose bleed."

The Sheriff looked at her in honest surprise.

"Jacob," Daisy pressed, "is a gentleman, don't ye know" -- she leaned forward, pressing the edges of her fists into the table -- "an' there's only one place yer son cuid ha' learned that."

She came out of her seat, swung around, kissed the top of his head, then bent and took his face between both her hands and looked him very directly in the eye, her voice a whisper, but a powerful whisper:

"Thank ye f'r bein' th' gentleman Jacob needs t' see!"

Daisy straightened and glided back the way she'd come, and the Sheriff sat there wondering what in the hell just happened.

 

Hurry up is brother to mess it up.

The words came back to him, the quiet, measured words spoken by his father, and Linn smiled a little as he considered how often he'd proven the Grand Old Man right.

He'd considered what to say, but he decided to say nothing until after sunrise the next day: this felt important enough he wanted to sleep on it, and he did, and the next morning he sent a note telling Jacob that if it would not be inconvenient, he would call that afternoon.

The Sheriff arrived that afternoon, bearing a woven basket that brought delighted looks from Jacob's young and a quiet smile from his wife: a basket meant food, and food meant a pie, and the hired girl was known for the excellence of the pies she made.

Linn timed his visit to arrive right after supper, or as near to it as he could arrange, and when he sat at the kitchen table, most of Jacob's family was there.

Linn looked at Jacob as the last slice of pie was set on the table: Linn knew nobody would lift a fork until he, the guest, took the first bite.

He looked at Jacob.

"Jacob," said he, "do you reckon the meal's blessing still covers this-yere dessert?"

Jacob considered this, nodded slowly.

"I reckon it does, sir."

"Might be we should tread on the side of caution."

"We can do that, sir."

Father and son looked at one another, and Annette saw the silent communication between father and son: before she could give a silent, patient sigh, Linn said, "I knew an old-timer who would talk to his plate before he'd eat."

Father and son looked at the wedge of baked delight before each of them and said in one voice, "Hello, Plate!"

It was after pie was finished, after the men were poured more coffee and the children excused, that Linn leaned forward, forearms against the edge of the tablecloth.

"Jacob," he said, "I do not wish to be remiss."

Jacob gave his father a serious look.

"Sir?"

Linn frowned a little, considered what he was about to say.

"Jacob," he finally continued, "I am given to understand that your conduct is ever that of a gentleman."

Linn looked to the side, where two sets of solemn little boys' eyes were regarding the pair.

Linn scooted his chair back, unwound an arm: he scooted back a little more, then hoist one, then the other, of his young grandsons onto his thighs.

"These fine fellows here," Linn said, and Jacob could see the broad grin hiding just behind his father's face, "learn by observation and by imitation."

"Yes, sir," the grandsons said, one grinning to reveal a missing tooth.

"Jacob, thank you for caring enough about being a gentleman, to be that example these two need to see."

Jacob frowned a little, turned his head as if to bring a good ear to bear.

"Sir," he said curiously, "why are you telling me this?"

Linn's arms were around his grandsons' middles: he closed his eyes, remembering when various of his own young were their size.

"Jacob," he said finally, "my own father was not one to compliment. He was quick to criticize and quick to correct and that's necessary, but it wasn't until I was a man grown and a week from meetin' my first wife that he ever said word one about anything I'd done right."

Jacob frowned, leaned forward, elbows on the tablecloth, listening closely.

"I'd replaced a cross brace under the wagon bed and I'd counter sunk a bolt head. My Pa was surprised at that and spoke of it and I told him I learned it from watching him, and that surprised the man."

Jacob considered this, nodded slowly.

"You, in like manner, are what a man should be. I can see that in your sons."

Linn looked from one little grandboy to the other and then back to Jacob.

"Thank you for being the example they are becoming."

Jacob blinked a couple of times, not really sure what to say, but his father spared him the trouble.

"Now what's this about a missin' tooth?" Linn asked, pulling down a little boy's lip and closing one eye to peer closely at the dental absence with the other: "that Dirty John Allen been here and stole your tooth!"

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

CONKER

Albert Maxwell worked steadily in the narrow confines of the mine shaft, fellow miners working beside him.

They worked steadily, shovels scraping against bone coal and trash rock.

There was no need to hurry now.

The Parsons boy was well beyond dead.

Mine spoil and roof trash was slung aside, into a mine car, wheeled outside and dumped on the slack pile: roof falls were a perpetual threat in a coal mine, and this one had -- silent, instantaneous, so fast anyone under wouldn't know they were dead until they found themselves shaking hands with Saint Peter and wondering what just happened.

Albert's jaw tightened as he remembered how the mine bosses got on them for using too many bank posts -- locust posts cost money, every post they set cost money, the bosses didn't want to spend money -- never mind those bank posts kept the roof from falling in -- and this, Albert thought grimly as he drove his shovel under more spoil and slung it into the waiting mine car behind him, this was the result!

Albert reined back on his temper as he recalled how the mine boss carried on like every cent was coming out of his personal pocket -- and now the Parsons boy was well beyond dead.

Like as not, the mine would have just left his body and opened another drift into the seam and told the family he was honorably buried at company expense, when they just didn't want to spend the money on men's wages to get the body out instead of bringing out saleable coal.

Neither Albert nor the other miners were having any part of that.

It took most of the day to shovel out the spoil, to drill the rock that fell, to shoot it and bust it and get it out of the way so they could literally shovel the crushed red ruin that used to be a grinning young man, into a long box and pack him outside to his family.
Albert was driving a sledge against the star drill, boring a hole for the stick of powder, when the mine boss came boilin' down-shaft, having heard of Albert's muttered comments.

Albert heard him a-comin' and paused from his labors.

When Novak came a-boilin' up to him, all bluster and accusation, Albert let him get in closed and then he drove the handle of his sledge hammer into Novak's gut.

Hard.

Novak staggered back, bent over and choking.

Albert shifted his grip on the smooth-worn hammer handle and drove it against Novak's throat, shoved him hard against the rough, wet wall: ground water was a constant in a mine, and Novak's coat began soaking up cold, muddy ground water and coal dust.

Albert did not care.

His voice was as cold as that ground water soaking through to Novak's shoulder blades.

Albert's eyes were shadowed from the smoking wick lamp on the brim of his cap, but shadowed or not, his eyes burned into Novak's as he spoke with a quiet voice.

The rest of the miners -- what few could fit into the cramped space -- stopped to watch, to listen, for every man there held the same burning anger as this long, tall, skinny, blue eyed Kentucky mountaineer.

"You parsimonious son of Perdition," Albert said slowly, almost formally, "you raised hell with us for usin' too many bank posts. Had we used more, the Parsons boy might still be alive."

The pressure of the hammer handle across Novak's throat discouraged any reply.

"Now we'all are goin' to get young Parsons out of here and we're goin' to give what's left of him back to his family so they can bury him right and proper, and damn you, you're goin' to help dig!"

Albert looked at the watching, listening miners.

"If he tries to leave, break both his legs. We'll drop more roof on him, no one'll want t' spend the money to dig the likes of him out!"

It was well after sunup on the second day that a long box was carried out of the mine.

Men with dust-blacked faces and callused, wrinkled hands hoist the box to shoulder height and carried it with as much dignity as tired men can muster, carried what had been a good natured, grinning kid just shy of manhood, up to where his family waited with a wagon and a preacher.

Albert Maxwell, bone tired, black, muddy and with no patience left, went to the office, tossed his mine tags on the counter and said quietly, "I'll take my pay in cash money. Mine scrip is no good in St Louis."

Albert walked home, eyes busy: he savored walking in God's green earth after laboring half a day in the Stygian underground, and he'd not taken one single solitary walk home for granted since the day he started mining coal as a nine year old.

Under law you couldn't mine until you were twelve -- like the Parsons boy -- but times were hard and money had to be made, and a skinny little nine year old boy could lay on his side and cut a coal seam too narrow for a grown man to work.

All that was done with now.

Albert had been thinking about quittin' that damned mine ever since the first day he set foot in one.

He come home and his wife looked at him and she knew something happened, she knew something was wrong, she'd heard there'd been a roof fall, she'd heard the Parsons boy got killed, and from the look on her husband's face, she knew he was quit of the hull damned outfit.

Maycel looked at Albert, her lips pressed together, then she looked at the dinner bell on the thick post out in front of the house.

The image of red paste and crushed bone shoved into his memory again, and he swatted it aside

Albert leaned his head back and looked up through the tree branches.

"Lord," he said gently, "I have set foot in a mine for the very last time, and I do not intend that any of mine should ever mine ag'in."

"You'd best ring the boys in," Maycel said, and then she turned -- "Ruth, Wilma, fetch your Pa's hot water out. Patty, fetch out m' trunk."

I reckon we will take the riflin' bench and our tools and head West, he thought, and he was honestly surprised at the contentment he felt when he allowed himself that decision.

Albert went over to the cast bell, the family's dinner bell, and its emergency signal.

He fetched down on the short, weathered pull rope.

Boys stopped their several labors, came a-runnin', looked half-fearfully, half-expectantly at their coal-filthied father.

"Boys," he called, "I am for a bath and a layin'-down, and oncet I git up, we are loadin' our goods and headin' West!"

He motioned his two oldest boys closer.

"There is bad blood betwixt me and th' mine boss now. He's coward enough to wish me harm. Load up your muskets and watch for strangers."

Two tall, lean sons of the Kentucky mountains nodded, once, then ran barefoot and silent into the company house they were about to move out of.

Their Mama pulled the stem of her cob pipe from between yellowed teeth -- she spat, tamped fresh kinnikinnick into the charred bowl -- her eyes followed her husband as he stripped off his mine-filthy coat, as he headed for the dented tin tub they'd scrounged from another company house after their family moved out of a sudden.

Maycel Maxwell turned, motioned her daughters nearer.

It was time to gather up and move.

 

Albert scrubbed dirt from his hide, tried to scrub the memory away.

He laid down and stared sightlessly at the underside of the roof him and his boys replaced once already.

He didn't remember sleeping until his appetite woke him, until he got up and got into clean clothes that smelled of lye soap and mountains where Maycel had them hung outside to dry.

Albert set down and et with a good appetite.

Maycel and her girls fixed a good substantial meal and Albert saw where she'd packed baskets the way she did: some held food for a journey, others held food for deeper into the journey.

There was little to be moved -- they had but little -- and after they ate, it did not take long to load the wagon, to harness up one mule and tie one and their milk cow on behind, and head for the train depot.

Albert's youngest boy was a-straddle of the ridin' mule, his musket across his saddle bow.

The next to youngest rode in the wagon with his sisters, behind the seat, with the double gun across his lap.

The two oldest boys flowed like water, silent as Indian ghosts, parallelling their course: they moved with the swift silence of the mountain born, they were well ahead, scouting the road for hazards they expected and hazard that might come a-surprise.

A rifle leaned against the wagon seat between husband and wife.

No word was spoken until Albert's elbow eased out and touched his wife's arm.

"Mother," he said softly, "I hear no birds."

His son's voice from behind the wagon seat -- "Ready, Pa."

The girls were watching, eyes big, but they were silent -- they did not crane their necks, nor did they rise -- but they, too, were listening.

Albert turned his head a little.

It sounded like something -- he wasn't sure what -- the sound was sudden, muffled, out of place --

A man stepped out in the roadway, a double gun across his arm.

"Mister Maxwell!" he challenged, turning a little to bring the gun's muzzle slightly toward the wagon-- "the Sheriff wants to talk to you!"

Albert drew up the mule, appeared to consider, then spat.

"Naw," he said casually.  "Don't reckon."

"You misunderstands," he began, just before a musket ball drove through his right ear and out the lower corner of his opposite jaw.

When two bodies were found, one's knife was found in the other's back, the other was still gripping a fired rifle, both were dead, and it looked from where they were found -- in the middle of the road, each one touching the other -- as if they'd had a set-to, one got knifed and then got shot, to their mutual destruction.

The family Maxwell arrived at the depot with no further difficulty.

Albert was a thrifty man, Albert was a man who saved his money, and Albert paid cash money for the steam train that was to take him and his family West.

He had no idea what-all was out there, save only they had mountains, and him and his family knowed mountains, and he reckoned a man who made guns and fixed guns and forged good steel blades, could very likely find a livin' one way or another.

Time proved him right.

 

Deputy Sheriff angela Keller smiled over her rimless spectacles as she addressed their Tea Society from behind the little portable podium set on the folding table at the end of the back room, there in the Silver Jewel Saloon.

The screen flowed to another image.

"The family came West and settled here," Angela said, her voice carrying a smile as it carried well to the furthest rows: "I always wondered how my family was related to the Clan Maxwell, and it wasn't until I received a note from back East that the mystery solved itself."

She gestured to the image on the big glowing screen.

"This is a letter, sent from here, that describes how a family changed their name from Maxwell to Daine, because there had been death back in Kentucky and they did not want the Law to try and cause them trouble out here."

"Daine?" a voice asked, and Angela smiled, recognizing the voice.

"Yes. Our Clan Daine from Daine Mountain. They have since taken their ancestral name of Maxwell again, but Gracie Daine -- you remember Gracie the fiddler, the one who went into the Navy and became a helo pilot?"

"Aunt Gracie on Mars?" a little boy asked, delight as equally in his voice as in suddenly-wide eyes.

"The same," Angela nodded. "We are blood kin. Daine Maxwell -- Albert's brother -- came West very shortly thereafter. The train derailed and everyone but a little girl with Kentucky-blue eyes was killed. 

"My very great granddad, Old Pale Eyes himself, found her lying under what used to be the sidewall of the passenger car. He thought she was dead.

"She wasn't.

"He adopted her, not knowing she had family -- this note was never mailed -- it was found in an old trunk and forwarded to the Sheriff's office in hopes it could be routed to any descendants.

"Oh, and you remember the muskets Albert had his boys load up?"

Angela gestured to the age-darkened percussion gun displayed on the table in front of her portable podium.

"This was loaned to the Firelands Museum. Extended loan, but it remains property of the clan Maxwell.  And this" -- she held up a powder horn -- "was given to Albert Maxwell's oldest son, Gabriel, when he was given his first rifle."

Angela touched a control and the powder horn's close-up appeared on the screen.

"I especially like the engraving. It appears to have been impressed with the end of a sharpened, red-hot nail."

A little boy with big eyes moved his lips soundlessly as Angela read the burnt-in engraving aloud.

"Gabe Maxwell

His Horn

I, Powder, with my brother, Ball,

Hero-like,

Do Conker All"