SHORT STORIES!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SCHOOLWORK

Anytime the squad arrived anywhere, a crowd gathered.

When the squad came flashing into the Firelands High School right before dismissal, the gathering was not just guaranteed, but  as certain as sunrise.

When the squad was accompanied by a mounted Sheriff, a mounted Deputy and the rescue truck, one might set up a popcorn machine and a merry go round and have a festival.

Shelly Keller was her husband's wife: the Sheriff was not at all bashful about Drafting from the Unorganized Militia when necessary, and his wife saw a fine opportunity to do that exact thing.

There'd been an accident in the boiler room: Shelly seized four football players, literally seized them, grabbing sleeves, shirt fronts, wrists, her voice sharp, hard: "YOU TWO, WITH ME! YOU, BRING THAT ORANGE CASE! YOU TWO, I NEED LINES! SHOULDER TO SHOULDER, LINK ARMS, I NEED A CLEAR CHANNEL FROM HERE TO THE BACK DOOR!"

Shelly knew them, and they knew her: Shelly was known personally, or at least by sight, to probably eighty percent of the student body, and at least half that number called her Mom: when she gave orders, they fell in, and a living line of arm-linked students guaranteed a clear lane of travel from the boiler room to the back door.

Shelly poked two in the chest -- "With me!" -- she hauled them into the boiler room where she and two of her Irishmen were getting a stack of crates off the janitor.

Shelly reached down, pulled a set of trauma shears from her belt pack, unzipped the man's trouser leg neatly up its seam (old habit, she taught her students to cut the seam so it could be repaired) -- she laid the bloodied, deformed leg bare.

"Mick, Franklin. Down here on one knee. See this" -- she used her shears as a pointer -- "see how that's deformed? Shin's broke. Bloodied here, that's open, we have an open fracture."

She looked over their shoulders, accepted the splint as it was passed overhead to her.

"You grip here and here" -- young hands went under the high thigh and just above the knee -- "you here and here" -- high calf and ankle -- "I want to get that boot off, so hold that position absolutely still!"

Shelly steadied the dirty boot toe with one hand, teased the laces loose, recruited another of "Her Boys" to squat at her left and hold under the boot heel: she loosed the laces further, worked the boot off, then the sock, wrapped practiced fingers over his arch, talking constantly.

"Morgan, you're going to be fine," she said to the patient -- the she looked left and right -- "Look where my fingers are. There's an artery across the arch of the foot and I can feel it, so he's got circulation past the fracture point. That saves us a lot of grief right there."

Shelly bandaged the bloodied wound, laid a nonstick pad over the open but nondisplaced fracture, wrapped it quickly, carefully.

"Now here's where all of you earn your pay," Shelly said. "Continue supporting that leg and we're going to position our hands to pick Morgan here straight up to get the board under him."

The Irish Brigade kept backboards on the rig for just such situations as this, where a patient was in an awkward location and would need moved from here to the cot -- in this case, "here" was in the cramped, now-cluttered boiler room, and "there" was the hallway outside.

Morgan was lifted -- Shelly was beside him, one hand holding his, the other under his neck, a comfort measure, not supporting an injury -- she'd run her survey twice to satisfy herself there were no other injuries -- they stood, turned, the door was hauled wide open, a student wedged between the in-house incinerator and the wall, holding the door with both hands -- students and staff saw Irish backsides, then Morgan's boots, then the Irish Brigade and the recruited Militia.

They'd slid a thin-plastic smooth mover onto the board before placing the patient; this eased Morgan's transfer onto the ambulance cot -- Shelly knew the sheeted padding would be most welcome to the older man's backside -- eager young hands held the slim transfer board, others the red-painted backboard, as Morgan was dollied out onto the dock and directly into the back of the squad.

Shelly turned and thrust back into the doorway, raised both her hands and her voice.

"Folks," she called loudly, "each and every one of you helped us today, even if all you did was stand there with your arms linked. THANK YOU!!"

She turned and almost dove into the back of the Omaha-orange-and-white, shining-waxed-and-clean squad: an Irishman thumped the back door twice with the heel of his hand, then looked at his hand, grimaced, looked at the student body crowding out onto the dock.

"Road dirt," he declared, disappointment in his voice: someone tossed him a cleaning rag and he wiped off the heel of his hand, exaggerating the move as if removing something unclean, then ceremonially blew his nose on the rag before tossing it back to his fellow Irishman.

A pale-eyed Sheriff watched silently from horseback, his mounted deputy on the other side of the squad: they turned as the rig moved out, nice and easy, concentrating on giving Morgan the best ride possible.

Sheriff and deputy turned, trotted around the building, and as usual, the Sheriff -- when he was out in public, on horseback -- found himself almost holding court, from the saddle.

He started with a general declaration to the anxious parents and dismounted bus drivers, that some crates fell and a fellow broke his leg but he'll be fine, and then dismounted himself and began a more personal conversation with however many folks wished to approach and express their concerns.

This changed too: the Sheriff found himself holding a week-old infant, wrapped, wrinkle-faced, happily closing little pink fingers around the Sheriff's tanned, thin-scarred finger, then he was seen examining a test paper and nodding his approval when an uncertain student made so bold as to share this personal achievement: he perched a little boy with a tooth missing in the saddle, which resulted in several phones being raised to capture the moment, and he listened carefully as two ranchers described fences cut and cattle missing -- which is a separate tale which we won't get into right here.

The next day, when B shift took over and Shelly came home, freshly showered at the firehouse and comfortable in jeans and a flannel shirt, she found her husband's hand written note folded into a tent and set at her place at the table:

You apparently made a good impression at school yesterday.

Doc said Morgan will be fine, simple fracture, clean.

I AM PROUD OF YOU!!

She heard a sound behind her, turned, saw her husband grinning at her from the back porch, a long stemmed rose in hand.

 

 

 

 

Edited April 5 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

BEER

Sheriff Jacob Keller tilted the heavy glass mug and took a long, savoring drink.

It wasn't exactly like the beer he'd had in the Silver Jewel -- that is, the Silver Jewel, back on Earth -- he was in a saloon, yes, he wore his tailored black suit, yes, he stood at a polished, slick-as-a-gut bar with a big mirror behind, yes.

There were even stamped-tin ceiling tiles overhead.

There was even a sign out front, painted with skill and with care -- THE SILVER JEWEL -- but this Silver Jewel was not on Earth.

Sheriff Jacob Keller was invited to inspect this new business.

He'd been told it was patterned after the original.

It was a right fair effort, he'd had to admit.

The beer tasted good -- it was cool, it had the proper carbonated tingle on his tongue -- it wasn't quite the same, offworld beer never was, but he had to admit it was good.

He looked down.

He didn't look very far down.

A big (emphasis on big!) Bear Killer looked up at him, tail swinging the way a careless giant's child will swing a fence post, and in just as powerful an arc.

Jacob accepted the tin pannikin from the barkeep -- a young man just growing into his mustache, a young fellow who grinned with honest delight at Jacob's polite "Thank you, Mr. Baxter" -- Jacob bent, set the pan on the floor and poured in a finger's worth from his mug.

The Bear Killer looked hopefully up at Jacob, as if wishing for a greater libation.

"Sorry, fella," Jacob said quietly. "That's all you get."

 

Sarah Lynne McKenna's lips were pressed firmly together.

She sat at her rolltop desk in her bedroom and wrote, her pen's revolutions on good rag paper absolutely vicious in their precise strokes.

Her moves as she dipped the steel nib were controlled, exact, but the words she entrusted to indelible record were less than circumspect, and most definitely less than kind.

Beside her, The Bear Killer lifted his great head, wobbled a little, then he lifted his broad, blunt muzzle and gave a drowsy, beer-flavored wooooo before dropping back down to his paws, then he rolled over, waving his forepaws lazily in the air.

Sarah Lynne McKenna's jaw was set -- her teeth not clenched, she did not wish to cause herself dental damage, but her face was immobile, graven, hard.

Young she was, yes, but she knew if she looked for those responsible for taking advantage of The Bear Killer's liking for beer, she would almost certainly cause ...

... misunderstandings ...

Instead of causing these misunderstandings, instead of causing scandal or making a scene, instead of embarrassing her dear Mama (and probably bloodying her knuckles), she sat and she addressed the matter on paper, the way an angry girl will.

The Bear Killer didn't so much roll over from his back to his side, as he kind of fell over.

It was a happy falling-over, though, with his great and powerful brush of a tail lifting most of the way off the floor before giving up and falling back.

 

Sheriff Jacob Keller finished his beer while The Bear Killer was finishing his.

The barkeep burnished another mug, industriously polishing its interior: he raised a questioning eyebrow, and Jacob shook his head.

"Good beer," he said, sliding two coins across the polished, mahogany-brown surface: one for the barkeep, one for the till: they were not coins of this world, though they were of a metal considered precious here.

On one side, a stamped rose, and on the opposite, the number 13: the rose, for Firelands, and the Thirteen, for the Thirteen Star Systems.

The Sheriff did not bend much to be able to caress The Bear Killer:  he looked around, knowing several sets of eyes were on him, and he nodded.

"This," he said, with evident satisfaction.

"This feels like home."

A Sheriff with pale eyes, and a Bear Killer with a taste for beer, shoved through the heavy, green-painted, polished-brass-handled, ornately-frosted doors, and were gone.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

MEANWHILE, OUT IN THE ANTEROOM

Red shuffled the deck, looked across the round table in the Masonic Lodge anteroom at the Sheriff's twins.

"Let me show you something," he said quietly as he thumped the freshly-shuffled deck onto the table: he cut, looked at Emil.

"Turn over the top card."

Emil did.

Two of diamonds.

Red nodded.

"Now put it back."
Emil did.

Red shuffled the deck again, turned the deck face-up, began stripping cards into a pile, stopped.

He slipped off the next card, held it up.

"This one?"

Emil and Gottleib both reacted with the wide eyes of impressed little boys: they both inhaled -- as if they were both going to ask how he did that -- when the stairway door opened and Marnie came in with a well-filled, cloth-covered withie basket and a smile.

"Are you keeping the secrets, Red?" she teased, and Red's scalp turned almost as red as his ears.

"Yep, yep, yep," he almost stammered.  "Guardin' them big secrets!"

Marnie set down the basket, came over, brushed gloved fingertips over the back of his hand: "What's the big secret this week?" she whispered, her cheek barely grazing his incarnadined, absolutely scalding-hot ear: Red swallowed and mumbled, "They're debatin' what t' eat afterward!"

Marnie waved a curl-fingered hand at the basket: "They're too late!" she laughed, then kissed Red on top of his shining dome, then winked at the twins: "Don't you two get into it yet!"

"Awww," two little boys chorused, all thoughts of the card trick forgotten: Sarah twirled on the balls of her feet, intentionally flaring her skirt, then she skipped out the still-open door, drew it shut, scampered noisily down the stairs.

Red blinked a few times, shook his head: "That girl could stand flat footed and set down on a farm wagon!" he muttered, which Sarah most certainly could not, but it was his way of admitting a pretty girl was coming into her womanhood.

Emil and Gottleib looked at one another, looked at the picnic basket, looked at Red and the deck of cards, and about then the door to the Lodge room opened, and men proceeded to exclaim in delight at the prospect of one of Sarah's baskets full of post-meeting refreshment.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

WITNESS

Court was in session.

It was not the Firelands courthouse, and it wasn't His Honor Donald Hostetler.

It was, however, a legitimate courtroom, it was a genuine Judge, it was a capital case, and three women were on the docket to testify against the accused.

The accused and his attorney sat behind one table: the accused was almost relaxed, he kept looking over his shoulder, toward the door.

At one point, a young man -- his attorney's colleague, a younger man in a suit that almost fit him -- came through the door, came up behind the Attorney for the Defense, and his client.

He bent, spoke quickly, quietly, urgently: the defendant raised a hand to his face, as if to hide a smile, and his legal counsel nodded, once.

A set of pale eyes watched this exchange.

Sarah McKenna was too late to prevent one murder, one beating and one witness's flight.

She was not, however, without resources.

As a matter of fact, she'd prepared for this.

Nobody noticed as she watched from the cracked-open door.

His Honor the Judge swung his gavel, bringing the court to order: he regarded the Defendant, then the Attorney for the Prosecution.

"Mr. Jennings," he said, "are you prepared to present your case?"

"I am, Your Honor," the Prosecutor said.

Defense rose: "Your Honor, I have just received word that three witnesses are no longer available."

The Judge's eyebrows raised.

"And how do you come by such information?" he asked skeptically.

The back door banged and a slattern stormed in, all painted face and feathered headpiece, stockinged legs and high button shoes: she thrust an accusing arm and shrilled, "YEW TRIED TO SCARE ME OFF! IT DIDN'T WORK! YOUR BOYS GOT CAUGHT AND AH'M STILL HERE!"

The Judge, not a man to be taken by surprise, smacked his gavel for order while looking at the defense table.

He saw surprise, he saw shock, he saw a defendant lose most of the color from his face.

"Order," he called. "There will be order."

"D'YEW NEED ME NOW OR YOU WANT ME T' WAIT?" the dance-hall girl challenged -- her lips were a screaming-scarlet red, she was missing a tooth, she stood with one leg thrust forward, shameless, the very vision of scandal -- an absolute affront against the dignity of courtroom proceedings.

"We ... the bailiff will call for you," His Honor replied.

"A'RAAT!" -- the dance-hall slattern whirled, stomped out, SLAMMED the door behind her.

The Judge looked at the defendant, who seemed to be in urgent conference with his attorney: the lawyer was speaking quickly, urgently, his hands moving the way a man's hands will when he's trying hard to reassure someone.

"Mr. Lacey?" the Judge asked evenly. "Are you ready to present your defense?"

Lacey rose, shot what he hoped was an intimidating glare at the younger prosecutor.

"We are, Your Honor," he replied confidently.

Prosecution rose, consulted the sheaf of papers in his hand, frowned studiously, then nodded and placed the sheaf on his table.

Court was often theater, and the prosecutor had apprenticed to some very astute legal counsel indeed: he paced slowly, deliberately, into the arena, the stage, the space before the Judge's bench, and began his presentation -- how the accused did, with malice aforethought, murder a young man solely for the purpose of acquiring said victim's purse.

His language was eloquent, his voice, his appearance equally persuasive: he spoke confidently, describing the attack from ambush, the knife-thrust, the kicks, the final drive of honed steel into a dying heart, the removal of the man's purse from his inside his coat-pocket.

Prosecution's voice rose and he thrust an accusing finger at the accused: "AFTER WHICH, THIS MURDERING WRETCH SOUGHT TO SILENCE THREE WITNESSES WHO BEHELD HIS MURDEROUS CRIME!"

"OB-JECTION!" Defense shouted, rising: the Judge was obliged to bang his gavel twice.

"Mr. Prosecutor," the Judge said, his voice carefully neutral, "please name your witnesses."

The prosecutor returned to his table, picked up the sheaf of hand-written papers, read from the first page.

"Mrs. Newhall," he said, "a respected matron of our fair city, a woman of dignity and of impeccable character.

"Miss Strachmann, a European performer of some skill who has sung in New York opera houses and was to sing here as well, and" -- he glanced at the door -- "one Goldie Snyder, whom the court has already met."

"Are your witnesses prepared to testify, sir?"

"Your Honor" -- the prosecutor shifted uneasily -- "I regret to inform that Miss Strachmann was set upon by murderous hands. She is under a surgeon's care and is not well enough to attend these proceedings."

"Which leaves us with ...?"

The door slammed open and the slattern leaned against the door frame, glaring:  "YEW WANT ME NOW?"

Lacey glared at his young assistant.

"I thought you said they were taken care of!" he hissed, then rose and thrust an accusing arm at the dance-hall doxy:  "Do you expect this honorable court to entertain the word of an obvious --"

"AN OBVIOUS WHAT? I GOT TWO EYES, I SEEN WHAT HE DID!"

The Judge smacked the gavel.

"Order," he called, and to his credit, he managed a bored tone to his voice: "the witness will be sworn in."

"Ain't I been swore at enough already?" the dancer snarled as she slapped her hand hard on the Bible the bailiff held: she raised her hand, glared at the man, who looked at her as if she were either unclean, or she might detonate.

"WELL?" Goldie screeched. "YA GONNA SWEAR AT ME OR WHAT?"

It wasn't the first time this witness drew chuckles from the court; even the Judge was obliged to control his face.

Goldie, being duly sworn in, turned and dropped unceremoniously into the witness stand.

She kept her eyes well more than half-lidded to conceal her pale eyes: she elaborately crossed her legs, stockinged calves visible below the shockingly-short mid-calf skirt.

 

That evening, in a private railcar being drawn by a locomotive with a spray of roses painted on the side of the cab, a respectably-dressed woman sat silently in a comfortably-upholstered chair.

A silent, pale-eyed man with an iron-grey mustache sat near her, listening to her words: she spoke, loudly enough to be heard, but no louder: she wore a hat with a heavy veil, occasionally reaching under the veil with a kerchief, dabbing at if at something uncomfortable.

"When you wired and asked me to come," he said, "I knew the situation was serious."

The woman's voice was quiet.

"He'd killed the three witnesses," the woman said. "The saloon-girl Goldie Snyder, Mrs. Newhall, and Miss Strachmann. This in addition to murdering our agent. I could not let that pass."

"Nor could I," the Sheriff said quietly, an edge to his voice: he'd known the agent, a fine young man who'd shown great promise, and was now cold and dead and being shipped home in a long box, like freight.

"I regret that I was unable to attend you testimony."

The woman nodded, her face hidden.

"It was not easy," she admitted, "I was obliged to bring into practice every quick-change trick in my repertoire."

"But it worked."

"I saved my current disguise for last."

She sat up straighter.

"I saved the ... I saved Miss Strachmann for last."

"The opera singer."

"Yes."

She took a deep breath; beneath the veil, she closed her eyes, remembered.

 

It had been easy, too easy, for the Attorney for the Defense, to attack the character of what was obviously a woman of easy virtue: nevertheless, Goldie -- or her representative, a fact not known to Prosecution, to Defense, nor to the Court -- Goldie gave the impression of having seen, of having seen details, of having described the attack clearly, and -- despite her low standing in society -- her description was believable.

The Bailiff brought His Honor the Judge a note, which was read aloud from the bench: that the respected Mrs. Newhall was dead, murdered on the street and left in her blood -- a voice in the gallery growled "Pretty damned convenient!" which earned a glare and a smack of the gavel.

That left the European performer, the opera singer who'd performed in New York and was now on tour.

A well-dressed woman, at the bailiff's summons, labored through the doorway: she appeared buxom, almost stout, she wore a brimmed ladies' hat with a heavy veil, which concealed her appearance completely.

She was sworn in, to which Defense objected: "Your Honor, we are unable to hear her sworn affirmation!"

The Judge frowned.

"I heard her," he said, then looked, not unkindly, at the witness.

"Please be seated," he said gently.

She did, but she sat carefully, haltingly, as if she were injured somehow.

"Please state your name for the record."

"I am the Contessa Katarina Ilyitch von Hartmann, nee Strachmann," she said, or rather than rasped, as if she had the quinsy and could manage no better.

"I CAN'T HEAR HER!" Defense shouted in protest.

The Contessa rose, slowly, raised her arm slowly, gloved hand shaking as she drove her finger at the defendant: she half-gargled, half-hissed, her voice terrible to hear -- "Your Honor," she strangled, "I saw him murder that young man -- a knife, his boots, a knife again, then he had us set upon to silence us, and he took --"

"LIAR!" the defendant shouted, rising to his feet, fury on his face, hands clenched into fists.

Contessa Katarina Ilyitch von Hartmann, nee Strachmann, seized her veil with both hands, ripped it from where it was tucked into the collar of her dress, tore it free.

The courtroom froze.

The Judge stared, the bailiff stared, the prosecutor stared, the attorney for the defense looked from the woman on the witness stand to his client, then back, horror on his face and defeat sinking into his belly like a lead weight.

The woman stood, a figure who'd once been beautiful: her complexion was flawless, at least part of her face -- an angry, obviously fresh wound ran across her face, diagonally -- one eye was white, obviously ruined, blind: the knife-track crossed her face, an angry, fresh, red path -- stitches, barely visible, crossing the angry red wound tracks -- the knife-slash descended from scalp to throat, then crossed the throat.

She stood, lifted her chin, looked at the Judge, at one attorney, at the other, then turned so the entire court could see what used to be her face, her throat.

The courtroom was shocked into utter, absolute, complete, utter ...

... silence.

Her words were no louder than they had been, but owing to the completeness of the enveloping silence, her words could be heard, the words that ultimately tightened a hemp noose around the defendant's neck.

Five words that guaranteed a murderer's death.

"I used to sing opera."

 

Sarah Lynne McKenna almost smiled at the look of honest shock on the Sheriff's face.

"It's not real," she said softly, then she rose: she went to the little lavatory there in the Judge's private car, she carefully, thoroughly removed the theatrical make-up, the nonflexible collodion, the sticking-plaster: the only effect, besides her glowing complexion from her brisk scrubbing with a coarse washcloth and soap, was the bloodshot right eye, from where she'd turned the lid hard down, adhesing it to her cheek with the sticking-plaster, which caused it to water constantly, to redden, and when combined with her naturally pale eyes, gave the impression of an eye, ruined and blind.

She returned to her seat near the Sheriff, tilted her head, smiled a little.

"Don't look so shocked," she said softly. 

The Sheriff took a long breath, nodded, frowned, leaned forward, very carefully took his illegitimate daughter's fingers in his own.

"Darlin'," he said softly, "I knew the Judge put you to work to find things out, and I knew... he ... you used disguise."

"You just never saw my pity-poor-me face," Sarah whispered, leaning closer and giving him the full benefit of her wide, innocent eyes.  "It's surprisingly effective.  Besides" -- she looked less like a mature contessa and more like a mischievous little girl -- "you men kill one another with fists and feet and knives and those terribly noisy guns."

Her smile widened, completely at odds with the deadly nature of her words.

"Why shouldn't I use my skills to put a noose around a murderer's neck?"

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

OL' GRAMP-PAW

Several pair of little boys' trousers hung on the clothesline.

Several T-shirts and undershorts joined them.

All were washed, all were stained -- when little boys play and get filthy in the process, the stains don't usually come completely out of the material -- and over by the barn, under a hose with a shower head radiator clamped into its end, a little boy grimaced as a pale-eyed Sheriff stood him under the warmed deluge.

His companions were already scrubbed off with a father's experienced hands -- he'd coached each individually in using a scrub brush and good strong soap to scrub dirt out from under trimmed fingernails -- each went back through the Iris with clean clothes, with their hides pink from a good scrubbing, each Martian lad went home with tired muscles, a delighted soul, and a roaring appetite, not necessarily in that order.

Sheriff Linn Keller was no stranger to vigorous boys being ... well, boys.

When he was able, he harnessed youthful energies, but he recognized boys need what experts in the field called "unstructured play" -- and he remembered what it was to be a boy, and to explore and to "get into stuff" ... the boys tired out early, about half of them were used to Mars-normal gravity, a third of Earth-normal; they might go home sore and aching, but they went home with a feeling of personal triumph at having absolutely delighted in blue sky overhead, real sunlight on their hide, and most of all ... 

... most of all, they had unmitigated, unrestricted, fun!

Sheriff Linn Keller carefully soaped the washcloth, turned Littlejohn's head, marveled yet again at how a little boy could get so absolutely filthy in such unexpected places -- he scrubbed mud from behind Littlejohn's left ear -- the boy put up with his Granddad's careful ministrations.

They finished up with Linn handing the boy the wash cloth and instructing him to wash his face.

He did.

"Now squinch your eyes shut and turn your face up into the shower."

Littlejohn squeezed his eyes shut, faced up into the warmed deluge: when he was satisfied -- or, rather, when he ran out of air, for he held his breath while piously imitating the great chieftain Rain-in-the-Face -- his Granddad carefully placed the towel against the boy's cheeks, letting his grandson take over the towel and dry himself off.

The boys all went back to Mars, scrubbed clean, in clean, new clothes, their used goods drying in Colorado sunshine: Linn found the boys considered the smell of line dried clothes superior to new garb from the Recyclo, even though the electronic wizards tried to program the Recyclo to duplicate the feel and smell of line dried.

They tried, to their credit, but it never really worked, and so those boys who went home with new clothes, looked forward to their dried duds being returned, with that delightful smell they associated with these utterly delightful visits to the Sheriff's ranch.

Littlejohn was the youngest of today's bunch, Littlejohn was the Sheriff's grandson, and Littlejohn is the only one to whom the Sheriff gave this fatherly attention: the rest of the boys went home clean, or as clean as their own efforts got them: Littlejohn went home clean -- period -- because the Sheriff was an old hand at making sure boys washed behind their ears, and along the pinky-side of the edge of their hand, which seemed to be the one area boys perpetually had trouble getting clean.

Littlejohn got into his duds and his Grampa bent and pushed his shoulder into Littlejohn's middle, then stood, one arm around him, to Littlejohn's delighted giggles: Linn stepped outside, carrying his grandboy like a sack of potatoes, stopped, turned, turned back.

Littlejohn laughed all the harder.

"Now I could have sworn he was here," Linn said to his grandson's escalating delight: "where's Littlejohn?"

He turned -- fast -- turned again -- a delighted little boy, his Grampa's arm wrapped around the back of his knees, bent over his Grampa's shoulder, laughed again at this dizzying carnival ride -- 

"Here I am!" he called, and his Grampa stopped, then turned.

"I heard him," he said, "I genuinely did!" -- he spun again -- "I'm a-gonna find him!"

Littejohn's laugh flowed across the pasture, and Shelly smiled to hear it: she walked toward the barn, remembering her husband's voice and their sons' laughter on just such sunlit afternoons.

Shelly came into the pasture as Linn flipped Littlejohn off his shoulder and into his arm:  "There you are! How'd you do that?" and Littlejohn laughed again.

They turned and looked at Shelly, looked at one another, and granddad and grandson said in one voice, "Uh-oh!" -- then each pointed at the other and said in chorus, "He did it!"

It was Shelly's turn to laugh: she hugged the two of them and Littlejohn squirmed into his Gammaw's embrace.

"If you boys are quite done," she said, and Littlejohn heard the delight in his Gammaw's voice, "supper is about ready."

She pulled her head back to look at the grinning, red-cheeked little boy happily hanging onto her: "Did you wash your hands?"

Littlejohn held up his pink-scrubbed mitts:  "Yis!" he declared, then looked at Linn, who examined his own, front and back, gave his wife an Innocent Look and nodded.

"Don't give me that innocent look," Shelly mock-snarled. "You look so innocent you gotta be guilty of something!"

Granddad, Gammaw, and Grandson went into the ancient ranch house, where supper waited fragrantly for their attention, and when Littlejohn's head hit the pillow that night, he just plainly passed out, the way a little boy will when he's had a full day in sun and dirt with horses and ol' Gramp-paw, and when his eyes shut and his body went suddenly relaxed, it was a grandfather's hands that drew the blankets up around his chin.

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SUNRISE

Michael Keller watched his pale eyed father dismount and walk among lean-waisted young men and their horses.

Sunrise incinerated the skyline behind the horizon: rain might follow, gauging by the deep, rich, rose-saturated hues painting the eastern Rim of the World, but for now the temperature was almost pleasant -- at least he wasn't seeing his breath -- he sat his Fanghorn mare and observed his father.

The Sheriff moved among the young troopers easily, his manner relaxed: his eyes were for their horses, as were his hands: he checked teeth, saddle girths, hooves, he twisted his backside to keep from getting nipped, laughed as another horse nosed him companionably in the chest, looked at an uncertain young Lieutenant as the troop gradually formed a circle around the man.

Michael heard his father address the Lieutenant in a voice intended to carry.

Michael heard his father tell the uncomfortable Lieutenant that his men are taking excellent care of their mounts, that he has not seen such excellence of horseflesh in many a day, that the excellence of these troopers reflected directly on their leadership -- and then he looked very directly at the Lieutenant and said "I understand you are their superior officer."

"I am, sir," the Lieutenant replied -- not with pride, not with fear, but with fact.

The Sheriff offered his hand and the two men shook:  "You, sir, are doing it right," the Sheriff said, then released his handclasp, took a step back, saluted: the Lieutenant could not disguise either his surprise, nor his pleasure as he returned the salute.

The Sheriff mounted up, rode back to Michael, a hundred yards distant: Michael and Lightning turned -- they were two tall, lean men in tailored black suits, one astride a gorgeous, shining-healthy, strutting, Appaloosa stallion, the other on a blocky, fanged, menacing-looking Fanghorn mare that made the stallion look small -- they rode off together, and it was not until they'd stopped at a creek crossing that Michael looked questioningly at his father.

"Were they really that good, sir?" he asked, and he saw amusement in his father's pale eyes.

Apple-horse and Lightning both drank.

"Michael," his father admitted, "they were average."

Michael's eyebrow climbed toward his Stetson's sweatband, but he made no reply.

"If I'd told them they were average, they'd be average forever," Linn said, rolling his shoulders forward and crossing his palms on the saddlehorn: he pushed up a little, took the strain off his back with three rippling *pop* sounds, followed by a sigh of satisfaction.

"By telling them they reflected excellence and so did their leadership," Linn concluded, "I put steel in their spines and determination in their hearts. Every man Jack of 'em will bust his backside now to live up to that -- the shavetail included!"

Michael grinned at his father's use of Uncle Will's terminology.

He knew his Pa was not a military man, he knew Uncle Will might have been, and he'd heard Uncle Will talk about "damned shavetails" when referring to butter bar Lieutenants that did not know straight up from go-to-hell.

"I see, sir."

"They'll remember a famous man who praised them out in front of God and everybody," Linn said softly. "Remember that when you have sons, Michael. Tell 'em you're proud of them and then tell them what particular thing you're proud of. It feels so good to be praised, they'll just bust their hump to do better so they can hear it again!"

"Yes, sir."

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

ANYTHING ELSE?

The Sheriff felt the corners of his eyes tighten.

He recognized the approaching hoofbeats.

Part of his mind considered it an anachronistic still, that he could distinguish different horses by their gait, considered that Old Pale Eyes probably had that skill and thought nothing of it.

Angela rode up beside him, her spotty mare blowing clouds of steam into morning's chill.

"Daddy," she said without preamble, "we need to talk."

Angela knew her big strong Daddy practiced a carefully neutral expression.

Angela looked at her Daddy, saw amusement in his eyes, but she still felt the wall go up between them.

"Oh, Daddy, it's not that bad," she scolded, and she felt a chill cascade off her father -- further evidence that his defenses were ramping up, and so she gave a great, dramatic sigh, the way a daughter will when the men in her family are being utterly unreasonable.

"Had breakfast?" Linn asked quietly, and Angela could glean absolutely nothing from his voice.

"I have," she said, "but I could use some coffee."

 

Linn poured coffee while Sharon and Angela hugged and squealed and both of them talked at the same time, and Linn considered this must be a great time saving device: neither waited for the other's reply, both talked constantly, and he considered yet again the complexity, the efficiency, of the female mind, to be able to both talk, and listen, to process, formulate and respond, all at the same time.

He drew a second coffee, trickled milk into both, turned -- Angela took this as her cue to come skipping over to him, her face shining, whether from some feminine information just gained, or because she was just being herself, the Sheriff honestly did not know.

They retired into the conference room and sat, the Sheriff at the end of the table, Angela beside him.

Linn looked at his daughter.

"You said we need to talk," he said bluntly. "What did I do wrong?"

"Oh, Daddy," Angela groaned. "Why do you --"

His expression stopped her.

Angela blinked, looked away, her attempt deflected by her Daddy's borderline hostility, the action of a man who knew what it was to be unjustifiably accused.

Angela thought darkly of that woman from his past who hurt him, whose memory still stained his responses: that woman from his past, the one he didn't talk about, died the May preceding, almost a full year now.

That Woman hadn't been part of his life since before he married her Mama.

Angela indulged a momentary wish to go back in time and address that woman with a singletree, or at least run her over with her Jeep.

"What's on your mind?" Linn asked, his voice gentle.

Angela set her coffee down, took a long breath, then looked very directly at her Daddy.

"Are you dying on us or what?" she asked bluntly.

Linn did not blink.

"Yes," he said quietly.

Angela did blink.

She sagged back in her seat like he'd just set a block of cut granite in her lap.

"What?" she squeaked, her eyes widening with alarm.

"I am dying," Linn said frankly. "So there."

Angela blinked several times, tried to get her mental feet under her.

"Daddy, I -- what --"

"We are all dying," Linn said bluntly. "I'm not going to die today or tomorrow and I have no terminal diagnosis but am I dying? Yes. When it's my time. Until then I intend to live. Next case."

Angela's mouth opened and she honestly stared at her Daddy, completely at a loss as to what to say.

"There's a reason you asked," Linn continued. "What made you inquire?"

"Daddy, I --" she started, then ground to a halt and shook her head.

Linn waited.

"Daddy, I ... Michael ..."

"Michael?" Linn prompted quietly, half-lidded eyes quiet -- Angela saw they were a light blue, a very pale blue, a shade that told her he felt comfortable now.

"Michael said you gave him advice on how to treat his sons."

"Go on."

"You've been grandfather to most of the boys on Mars."

"Boys need a granddad to teach 'em things."

"Daddy, I wanted to see if this was because you were dying!"

"Of course it is, darlin', but we're all going to die, we just don't know when."

"So you don't have ..."

"You've run your scanner on me already. What does it say?"

Angela blinked, realized she'd honestly forgotten about the scan: she frowned at her wrist-unit, tapped the screen, tapped it again, studied the holographic report that projected like a cone above her wrist.

She read the report, blinked, looked at her Daddy, collapsed the hologram.

"You have two kidney stones," she said. "One is microscopic and halfway down your right ureter."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Dad-deee!" Angela protested, distress in equal amounts in her voice and in her expression: she well knew how utter agonizing a renal calculus tended to be.

Linn shrugged.  "I'm not colicky, so it's not so big as to plug instead of pass. I've had so damned many of the damned things --"

"Daddy, hold still," Angela said seriously: she rose, she dug into the cross-body bag, gripped her father's shoulder:  "Lean forward."

Linn felt her press something against his back, felt her slide it left, then right, and down a little.

"There you are," she muttered: she felt her father's surprised grunt, felt Angela press something against the side of his neck, heard a quiet hiss, then another.

"There. Antibiotic, and something for pain."

Angela came back around, sat, laid a hand on her Daddy's knuckles.

"I took out both stones. You're lucky the big one didn't move."

"How big?"

"Seven millimeters. That would never pass."

"I had a seven in one side and a nine in the other," he grunted. "They dunked me in a horse tank of warm water and played Grand Funk Railroad at high volume through underwater speakers and blew 'em to gravel."

"And you passed blood for a week. I remember."  Angela's hand tightened a lilttle.  "I was ... I knew you were ... you were so sick, Daddy. You were wallowing on the floor like a worm on a fish hook."

Linn nodded, slowly.

"So why did you think I was dying?"

Angela called up the conical hologram again, studied it, turned it, looked back at her father.

"Daddy," she said quietly, "I don't want to lose you."

"It'll happen, darlin'. Five minutes from now, five days, five years, fifty years. I don't know when nor how, but it'll happen. Just because I've got a bunch of boys runnin' with the white mares and walkin' fence rail like tightropes doesn't mean I'm dyin' today."

"So you advice to Michael ...?"

"Michael is gettin' some size to him. Once his automatic pilot takes over, he'll look at girls with fire in his boiler. I'm hopin' he doesn't sire woods colts like Old Pale Eyes did."

"Did you?" Angela teased.

Linn's face never changed expression.

"No," he admitted. "Your Mama is the only woman to bear my children."

He picked up his coffee, drained it.

"Anything else you want to ask me?"

Angela recognized a door being closed when she saw it.

"Yes," she challenged, and Linn set down his empty mug, looked very directly at his daughter.

"Daddy," she said, her voice serious, then he saw her eyes change and she sang, "Who Wrote the Book Of Love?"

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

EXERCISE

Sheriff Linn Keller came through the door with a big box of doughnuts.

He set them in the middle of the conference table with an unnecessary vigor.

He looked over at the box of coffee, hot and ready to dispense, the cups beside it, the carton of half-and-half, then he looked at his several offspring, regarding him with serious and slightly uncertain eyes.

Linn threw the lid open on the box, dropped a stack of napkins on the open lid, seized a chocolate-iced with sprinkles.

"This meeting is now called to order," he said in a serious voice. "Ham on rye."

Victoria leaned over the table, placed a small box beside the stack of napkins, flipped open the lid to reveal a ham sandwich on rye.

She looked innocently at her big strong Daddy and said "You're predictable."

Ambassador Marnie Keller tilted her head, then came around the corner of the table, bumped her Daddy with her hip, snatched up a cream-filled, chocolate-iced stick doughnut: Linn raised his arms, hip bumped her back, then he took her wrist and her waist and danced a turn between the table and the wall.

He released her wrist, set his doughnut down and picked up the sandwich, took a bite.

"Made it myself," Victoria said quietly.

Michael looked at her and asked, "Onions?"

"Yep."

"Minced garlic?"

"Of course."

"Floor sweepin's?"

"Most definitely."

"Chocolate chips?" Marnie asked hopefully, and Victoria glared at her.

"I am not a barbarian," she said tartly.

"Good Barbarian Sandwich," Linn mumbled through his partly-chewed mouthful: he took a swig of coffee, chewed some more, swallowed.

"Okay. I need some exercise and it seems that jumping to conclusions is popular so it's my turn. If telling Michael how to treat his sons means I'm dying, Marnie, you told me a full-house .357 is good medicine against aliens. Are we at risk for attack?"

Marnie was not at all surprised at her father's directness.

At his question, yes, but not his directness.

Marnie plucked up a napkin, laid her stick doughnut on it, untasted: she turned, pressed a button on the podium, and a screen hummed down from the ceiling.

It was entirely unnecessary -- if she used vidual aids at all, she used holograms, which looked as if they existed in three dimensions, but the screen brought everyone's attention to the same place at the same time.

"At this time we have no credible intelligence that would indicate impending alien attack," she said.

"Good. Sounds too much like work," the Sheriff grunted before taking another bite of sandwich.

"The distances involved," Marnie continued, "are utterly unworkable. Maintaining commerce in thirteen star systems taxes our transportation to its very limits as-is. The nearest neighboring alien civilization we know of, is two star systems further than our outermost settlements."

"You still had to have the Valkyries run off those aliens that trespassed into Confederate space."

"We did," Marnie agreed. "They were using a generation ship to survive a viable crew over time and distance necessary to get that far away. We used Iris jumps to take them back into their homeworld's orbit, we told them don't come back, we left."

"And once they develop the ability to trace an Iris jump, Firelands here will be seen as a busy hub and we'll be visited, and that makes it my concern."

"Yes it does," Marnie agreed, "and yes, if they ever develop that ability, they might -- but Earth is as ... imagine the Thirteen Star Systems as shaped like a lopsided football. The pointy end -- here --"

Her gloved left hand extended at arm's length from her shoulder.

"Here is where Confederate Central is.

"The thirteen star systems are in roughly that asymmetrical footall in between, and clear out here" -- her right hand extended out at shoulder length -- "is Earth.

"The alien civilization that we did encounter" -- she looked very directly at her father -- "is an equal distance away, roughly here" -- she thrust a gloved hand overhead, came up on her toes.

"And they are vulnerable to a .357," Linn said.

"They are. They are coming into energy weapons big time and they've already abandoned projectile weapons altogether. This is reflected in their armor. Any military will put its limited defense funds into the most likely attack modalities. We scanned the alien ship, we scanned their orbital platforms, their surface."

"Hmp," Linn grunted, unconvinced. "How about anatomic diagrams, their appearance, what do they wear into battle?"

"I'll get you all that," Marnie promised, tipping a palm toward him.

"Now what about those cyborgs that hit Mars and killed my grandchildren?" the Sheriff asked.

Michael took a long, silent breath as he heard the edge in his father's voice, an edge that meant deep, hard. and mean: Michael was cut of the same cloth as his father, and he heard his father speak but once about the cyborg Berserkers that attacked the Martian colony, but he never forgot the quiet note of a strong man's rage, well contained.

"We've found only one thus far," Marnie said, and Angela saw Marnie's face held less color than it did: the grandchildren to whom the Sheriff alluded, were Marnie's first and second born, a boy and a girl, and she closed her eyes against the memory of holding her sister as she grieved and grieved hard at their deaths.

"Only the one, the one that attacked the colony?"

Marnie turned and faced her Daddy squarely.

"Yes."

"Can you find them if they show up again?"

Marnie was quiet for several long moments, then she nodded.

"We got a good scan on their ship before the Valkyries blew it to dust," she said quietly. "We have drone scouts saturated through the system, looking for that particular energy profile."

"Again," Linn said, sitting down with a fresh coffee drawn from the bladder box, "I have to ask. What are the chances they'll come here?"

"We have assets enough in orbit -- around Earth specifically -- that I'd rate any attempt at incursion at zero or slightly less."

"You're sure about that."

Marnie stopped and drove her pale eyed gaze into his.

"Quite sure," she said quietly.

"I am not responsible for the planet," Linn said, "but like I said, once they trace Iris technology and determine this is a hotspot, here's where they'll come, and Firelands County is my responsibility."

"I used Uncle Will's revolver that he gave me, to take out every drone they sent," Marnie said quietly, her hands closing into fists: "I hunted them down and I sent them to HELL!" -- her voice was little more than a whisper, but her face was pale and her eyes were polished ice -- "and then we preserved the carcasses. They appear to have taken alien soldiers and enhanced them into cyborgs."

Linn nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving his daughter's.

"Shoot for the brain, shoot for center mass. We issued .30-30 lever guns for civil defense, then switched to compact FN-FALs. If another Berserker ever shows up and gets through, we'll send it too."

"Is there anything else with which we should concern ourselves by way of alien attack?"

"No. No, that about covers it."

Linn nodded.

"Good. Jumping to conclusions is too much like exercise."

He shoved the last piece of sandwich into his mouth, chewed, looked at Victoria.

"Good barbarian," he mumbled.

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SHOVELRY IS NOT DEAD

"I don't think I'm supposed to."
"Do you think you can?"

Dana hesitated, considered, nodded.
"C'mon, then."

"Don't tell Mom?"

"Nah!"

Michael's grin was wide and wicked: he keyed in the sequence, the Iris opened, and Dana slipped through with her fellow conspirator, and immediately regretted the choice.

Dana went from feeling almost warm, in the waning sunshine of her Daddy's pasture, to a snowy, cold, winter landscape.

Michael brought one thing with him as he stepped through with her, and he set it on cold, crystalline snow.

"Jump on," he said.

"Michael, I'm cold!"

Michael grinned.

"Gotcha covered, Sis!" he declared: he reached over, snatched up his own coat, held it as she thrust her arms into the too-big sleeves: she buttoned up the tan canvas, grateful for the insulation.

Michael dropped folded burlap on the grain shovel.

"Have a set, Sis!" he declared happily, then ran a twisted-hemp line through the D-handle, wrapped it around the shaft twice, back through the D and tied it in a fast bowline.

Dana gripped the handle, her heels resting on crystal powder: she ran a hand into one pocket, then the other, pulled out a knit toque, yanked it down over her fine blond hair, and as Michael jumped a-straddle of Lightning's Amish-made roping saddle and spun good hemp around the saddle horn, Dana's bare hands tightened around the straight-grain shovel handle.

Lightning rose easily, without the awkward one-end-then-the-other Dana was used to seeing: the big Fanghorn turned, started out at a walk for exactly four steps, eased immediately into a trot.

Dana's heels were off the ground now, hooked over the vibrating line, she leaned back, a wicked grin on her face.

Mama would kill me if she knew, she thought, which made her even happier.

Girlish laughter floated across frozen snow as a grinning older brother towed his little sis on a grain shovel, as Lightning picked up her pace, as Dana leaned experimentally, just a little, then a little more, until Dana was screaming with delight, squinting into kicked-up powder and cold winter wind, until Lightning leaned out into her ponderous-looking gallop, until Dana felt like she was setting the Land Speed Record!

She leaned again, sent her shovel into an arc, leaned back, swung the other way -- her teeth were cold, her cheeks burned, she was laughing, she was barely under control, she knew any tiny upset and she'd be tumbling through the snow as Michael retreated with her ersatz sled -- but she didn't care! -- she hadn't done anything this wickedly, deliciously forbidden in far too long, and it felt good!

 

When Dana sat down for supper with family that night, she looked quietly pleased -- which gained her a long and suspicious look from her mother, who recognized the expression of someone who'd been up to something.

Her Daddy looked at her and she saw approval in his eyes, which meant he probably knew what happened, and saw nothing wrong with it.

"There is color in your cheeks," he said in a quiet and fatherly voice. "The air agrees with you."

Dana looked at her Daddy with big innocent eyes -- she was a pretty girl with a big ribbon bow in her hair, she wore a pretty frock and a guileless expression -- unlike Michael, who smiled into his meat and gravy with the expression of someone who'd just gotten away with a good one.

"Michael, how's your piano business these days?" 

"Fine, sir. The hard part is finding piano players."

"Does your sister still dress like a saloon girl and play piano in saloons when you sell a piano?"

"She does, sir, but don't let her know I ratted her out!"

Linn laughed, and Shelly shot him a dirty look as he continued, "I honestly pity the poor fool that tries anything with Angela when she's all gussied up!"

Michael looked at Dana, who looked back, looked at her Mama, saw her chance.

Michael remembered what it was to be healing and to want to heal faster, and he remembered the utter, absolute triumph! of the first time he was able to run again -- he'd been shambling toward a buddy's pickup truck, the best speed he'd been able to manage, his buddy was yelling "C'mon, Michael, we gotta go!" -- so Michael leaned forward until he was ready to fall and moved his legs fast enough to keep from it, and he was running, he was running! -- but he wasn't healed enough to be able to stop, and he drove into the side of his buddy's truck, but by God! he'd run!

Dana saw her Mama was looking away from her, saw Angela was looking at her, knew the moment was safe.

She looked at Michael and mouthed, Thank you!

Michael winked back and grinned.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I PREFER CHICKEN

"MISTER FRANCES ROGAN."

Frank Rogan's head lifted a few degrees and he laid his hand of cards down carefully, very carefully.

Silence claimed the Silver Jewel like a molasses flood filling the room.

Eyes turned toward the tall lawman in the black suit, turned toward the man standing from the poker table and turning to face Deputy Sheriff Jacob Keller.

The silence became utter and profound when the piano player lifted talented fingers from the ivories and turned on his padded, ball-legged stood.

"Frank," Jacob continued, looking very directly at the man, "I came to tell you. You were right."

Rogan's face didn't change -- a fast blink was the only betrayal of his surprise.

"I came to tell you I was wrong," Jacob continued. "I had no call to speak to you like that and I'm sorry."

Rogan's brows went from anger to puzzlement.

It was an era where men seldom smiled, for fear it made them look weak.

It was an era where honor was a touchy thing, where a hasty word meant blood on the ground, and here was one of the premier lawmen in the region.

Apologizing.

In public.

Looking a man in the eye, in front of witnesses, saying that he was wrong and the man he addressed was right.

"Can I buy you a beer, Frank?"

Jacob knew this was the deciding moment.

Either Frank would try to kill him, or they'd take a beer together and it would be over.

Jacob's coat was unbuttoned, but not pulled back out of the way; his arms hung at his sides, his hand was not flat on his belly, ready to sweep under the coat and grab a handful of checkered walnut.

Mister Frances Rogan chose beer.

Both men drank at the bar, drank in silence: Rogan's eyes were busy in the mirror, as were Jacob's, and when both men finished, Jacob set his mug down and said quietly, "I will try to do better."

Somehow this was a more powerful apology than his previous words.

Sheriff Linn Keller came to his feet as Jacob came into the Sheriff's office.

He recognized the look on his son's face.

"Death notice?" he asked quietly.

Jacob shook his head, turning his hat slowly in his hands, frowning a little as he sorted out what he wanted to say, and how he wanted to say it.

"I just ate crow, sir," he said.

Linn nodded, once:  "Have a set."

"I'll stand, thank you, sir."

Linn nodded, turned, eased himself back into his office chair, grimaced and came off the seat abruptly: he'd broken his tail bone years before, and sometimes -- even when he sat carefully -- the healed bone still protested when he sat down.

Jacob waited until his father found a comfortable arrangement.

Linn looked at his son.

"Frank?"

"Yes, sir."

"You spoke with him."

"Yes, sir."

"How'd he take it?"

"He was surprised, sir, but he took a beer with me."

Linn nodded slowly, and Jacob saw his eyes tighten a little at the corners... approval, he'd learned.

"Good thought with the beer. Shows everyone you've both finished it."

"Yes, sir."

"You spoke to him privately?"

"In public, sir. Over in the Jewel."

Linn whistled. "Now that'll spread the word fast!"

He looked at his son, considered.

"You wanted to show everyone you were a fair man and the best way was to show it in public."

"Yes, sir."

Linn's eyes tightened at the corners again, and he nodded. 

"Good thought."

"Thank you, sir."

Linn shifted uncomfortably in his seat, leaned forward -- Jacob knew this was to try and ease his lower back and maybe that damned tailbone -- "I've had to eat crow myself," Linn said softly, rubbing his palms together, the way a man will when he's feeling thoughtful.

He looked up at Jacob and grinned.

"I've et crow, but I prefer chicken!"

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I BE GRATEFUL FOR THAT!

Parson Belden bowed his head, as did all at the big table.

The Parson felt young eyes on him and looked over at Jacob's son Michael, who was regarding the sky pilot with as assessing look.

"There is a question in your eyes," the Parson said gently, and Jacob, Linn, Annette and the several young, all heard the smile in the man's voice.

"Pa says a fast blessing," Michael said -- it wasn't a request, it wasn't a hopeful utterance by a hungry little boy, it was a statement of fact.

The Parson couldn't resist.

"What kind of a blessing does your Pa say?" he asked, and adults around the table looked suddenly uncomfortable.

Michael regarded the Parson with the innocent eyes of the guileless young and said honestly, "He'll say 'Hello, plate!' and we'll eat!"

The Parson laughed quietly.

"Mine's not quite that short," he admitted: he said grace over Sunday dinner, and the meal began.

The Parson could not help but notice what he could see of Sheriff Jacob Keller's ears, were a hot, flaming, scarlet.

The Parson made a mental note to intercept the man before he spoke to his son.

 

Boocaffie closed his eyes with pleasure and lowered his head as the Parson's fingers worked their magic at the base of the Longhorn's ears.

Michael insisted on showing the Parson how much Boocaffie liked biscuits, and after the sky pilot bribed the longhorn and rubbed the big beef's ears, the longhorn decided this stranger was all right and offered no hostilities.

The Parson was cautious, he would admit if asked, he'd seen what a longhorn could do: he'd watched a bullfight arena where the contestants were not a bovine and a toreador, but rather a Texas longhorn and a California grizzly: it had been a bloody affair, both contestants came out in second place, and the Parson allowed as he'd just as soon not visit himself upon anything of the kind in future: it was with the memory of a longhorn tearing a grizzly open that he'd been somewhat tentative about offering this set of powder horns bolted onto one hell of a big beef, the biscuits Michael insisted were favored.

The Parson was able to intercept Jacob before the man could address his son.

Neither offspring nor the ladies heard what was said, but the Parson spoke with a shade of a smile, as if he remembered what it was to be a little boy, and honest to a fault, and Jacob in turn told the Parson he'd got that from the long dead Great-Granddad he never met, a man who was reputed to comment about a fellow who spoke to his plate before he'd eat, so that's where "Hello, plate!" came from.

Linn drifted out and joined them, to Boocaffie's distinct approval, for Old Pale Eyes brought several more biscuits, and the ladies looked out to see the men laughing -- they heard but little that was said, the maid suggesting they'd said something about Sunday chicken being better than crow -- which of course couldn't be right, that didn't make any sense, that was silly, and the ladies happily gossiped and leaned toward one another and exchanged confidences, the way women will.

 

Old Pale Eyes spit on the whet stone and frowned as he honed the Barlow blade on good Berea stone from back East.

He'd handed one to the Parson, a small stone that a man could carry in a pocket -- he'd given the Parson's wife a big stone so she could put an edge on her kitchen knives -- she'd exclaimed with delight at this gift, for she'd used Berea sandstone in the past and knew she could put an edge on a butcher's blade with it.

Michael watched solemnly as old and experienced fingers worked their magic: Linn slid two fingers into an inside pocket and pulled out a slip of paper -- he wiped the blade clean on the inside of his trouser cuff -- then he sliced a ribbon off the paper, a clean, effortless cut -- he thrust his left arm out, exposing his fuzzy forearm, and carefully shaved a small bare patch, lifted the blade and puffed shaved-off arm airs into the still air.

He flipped the knife around and offered it handle first to his admiring grandson, winked.

"Thank you, sir," Michael said solemnly, then boyish delight broke through in that big bright grin he'd inherited from his pale-eyed Pa.

 

Parson Belden removed his Derby hat as he came across the threshold into his wife's tidy kitchen.

Mrs. Parson looked at him, her cheeks flushed with baking; the smell of pies in the oven, filled the kitchen -- she laughed as she explained this was a fooler, she'd been given two pies still bubbling-hot from another's oven, and they were cooling on the window sill.

The Reverend Parson Belden laughed as he hugged his wife, and she laughed as she hugged him back, and she gave him a puzzled look as he said "Smells better than roast crow!"

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SMITE THE SINNER, STOP THE SIN

It was Earth, but it wasn't home.

Angela Keller was smiling, chatting pleasantly with her guide: Angela wore a tailored McKenna gown, conspicuously out of place in this scenic European tourist city: as good as her reflexes were, they were not as good as a silent, flanking clergyman in a robe of unbleached linen.

Abbott William's staff came around and down, hitting the attacker's forearm hard enough to break one of the two bones in the butt-grabber's forearm.

Angela came around, bladed hands up: her chop caught her attacker under the right ear -- hard -- she blocked a grab from the dirty-faced man beside the first attacker, drove the heel of her hand into his nose hard enough to flatten it up between his eyes.

The Abbott's staff spun, he caught the first attacker behind the knees, hauled both legs out from under him, caught a third attacker who was thrusting forward with a knife.

This ended with a single shot from a blued-steel .357, a knife falling from dead fingers, blood and brains spraying high and back.

Angela's shot, at an upward angle, absolutely stopped this more deadly attack: there were screams, some froze, others ran.

Angela and the Abbott exchanged a look: he stepped close, turned, they pressed themselves back-to-back, Angela touched her wrist-unit, and they disappeared.

 

Angela Keller reloaded her scroll-engraved, gold-inlaid, five-inch Smith & Wesson: she carefully, precisely, extracted the one fired empty, she precisely, very exactly, dropped a fresh, nickel cased round into the empty chamber.

She closed the cylinder, slowly, deliberately, holstered, fastened the thumb break without looking, drew her top discreetly over it.

The Abbott leaned on his staff, his expression quiet.

Angela looked at the man.

"A lady," she said carefully, her enunciation very precise -- unusually so -- "appreciates it when her honor is ... unhesitatingly ... defended."

The Abbott bowed a little, accepting her thanks with his usual quiet gravity.

"I suppose this is going to cause problems," Angela sighed.

"Our quick exit will help muddy the waters," the Abbott said quietly, and Angela smiled.

"You sound like you've been reading Sherlock Holmes again."

The Abbott laughed, nodded: "I have."

"I can always tell."  

She was silent for several long moments, looking steadily into the man's eyes.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"I know you could have taken care of yourself," the Abbott replied. 

"But ...?"

The Abbott's expression became uncharacteristically hard.

"I will not abide ..." he said quietly, stopped, his teeth set together as he looked aside.

"As I recall," Angela suggested, "when Christ was faced with sinners in the Temple, He threw tables over and took a flogger to the sinners."

The Abbott considered this, frowned a little, nodded.

"Smite the sinner and stop the sin?" she suggested, and the Abbott laughed quietly.

"I think," he said thoughtfully, "you may have ... changed ... my ecclesiastical worldview somewhat."

Angela consulted her wrist-unit.

"Marnie?" she called. "I may have caused problems. I'm visiting in Europe, and ... "

Angela blinked a few times and the Abbott saw her turn red.

"Yooou've ... heard about it already," Angela said, her voice subdued.

The Abbott watched, knowing Angela's communication was polarized, such that only she could see and hear what was being said.

"Okay."

She lowered her arm, looked at the cleric.

"She's on it," Angela said resignedly. "Between her persuasive skills and a poke of gold, she's satisfied she can make it go away."

She shook her head, frowned, looked around: they were alone in a mountain meadow, in a nearby nation.

"Why don't we go distribute Michael's goods?" the Abbott suggested. "There are those worlds where our True Faith survives, and is thirsting for the Word."

Angela looked at the Abbott and smiled.

"I think I'd like that better than Europe."

 

Edited Wednesday at 05:06 PM by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE EX-TOURIST

Sheriff Linn Keller's polished boot was propped up on the bottom rail.

His daughter's polished white, stitched-top cowboy boot was propped up in like wise.

The Sheriff was tall enough that he folded his arms across the top board and rested his chin on his forearms, completely ignoring the usual layer of dust.

Angela wasn't quite that tall: she rested a hand on the white-painted board, looked under the top board.

A Fanghorn colt hobby-horsed alongside Appaloosa foals of similar vintage -- they nosed one another, ran ahead, played tag like children on the playground.

"Michael wants to acclimatize them to Earth horses?" Angela asked.

"Mm-hmm."

Father and daughter watched the horses, listened to the mountains, to the four-count chant of The Lady Esther pulling out of station.

"The Abbott sends his greetings."

Angela felt her father's eyes tighten a little at the corners: she did not have to look to know the man had a quiet look about him that he got when he thought about old friends, about men he admired and trusted.

"I trust he is well."

"He is."

"Is he still the guardian of a woman's virtue that he's always been?"

Angela felt her ears start to warm.

"You ... heard about that."

"I heard that something happened. A tourist in a fancy dress someone mistook for a docent, or a noblewoman. Gypsy men who wanted to distract her and steal her purse. One got his arm broken for his trouble, one got his nose pasted up onto his forehead and the backup with a knife ended up on a slab."

"Sounds like an adventure novel."

"Couldn't have been you, of course."

"That was how long ago?"

"Six hours."

"I wouldn't have time to fly back from there to here in six hours."

"I know."  

Silence, again: the white mares came over, bumming, and the Sheriff opened the gate, stepped inside, Angela following.

They spent several minutes feeding them pepper mint candies and caresses.

"What else did Marnie have to say?"

"That European officials bribe as well as anyone."

"And ...?"

"And their surveillance seems to have suffered some malfunction. They're calling it solar flare activity, something that wiped out video in the entire area."

"I see."

"Funny thing," the Sheriff said quietly. "Even fiber cable was affected."

"Imagine that," Angela murmured.

"I don't pretend to understand all that high-tech stuff."
The Fanghorn colt ran her blunt head under the Sheriff's arm and grunted, begging attention: the Sheriff rubbed her briskly, and the blunt-headed colt closed her eyes in pleasure and leaned against him with a distinct sigh, which brought a laugh from Angela and a smile from the pale eyed lawman with the iron grey mustache.

"You have an admirer."

"Reckon so."

He looked at Angela.

"You okay, darlin'?"

Angela blinked a few times, nodded.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be? -- well, maybe I'm a little sore ... we handed out Douay bibles until my shoulders ached, and I spent quite a bit of time on my knees teaching the Rosary."

Angela reached into a pocket, pulled out a green-glass-beaded Rosary, held it up in both hands, studying it.

"I understand Esther Keller gave Daisy one of these," she said softly.

"I believe she did."

"Is that the one in the Firelands museum?"

She looked at her big strong Daddy, and saw the smile tightening the corners of his eyes.

"That's the one, darlin'."

Angela nodded, considered, pulled it back as one of the colts reached in as if to taste-test it.

"No you don't," Angela scolded, poured it back into her pocket, cupped a hand under a silky-furred jaw and shook her Mommy-finger at the curious young equine: "Not for you!" she scolded gently, which gained her a nose-punch and a happy tail-slash.

"Has the Abbott tried to recruit you for the White Sisters?" Linn asked, and Angela heard the amusement in the man's voice, for she knew good and well that her Daddy knew the answer already.

"Daddy," she sighed, "he wants me to sing with the Sisters in my nursing whites."

"Really?" Linn asked, surprised.

"They're opening a clinic and he wants me on staff."

"Your thoughts?"

He turned, slouched a casual shoulder into the fence rail, crossed his legs and hooked both thumbs in his belt, the very image of amused indolence.

"I think it'll be a good place to train my students."

Linn considered this for several moments, finally nodded.

"Reckon you'll be vacationing in Europe again soon?"

Angela's pale-eyed glare was answer enough.

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

CLEARWATER

Sheriff Jacob Keller was a man who took his work seriously.

He was quick to listen and quicker to act when the need arose; he was slow to speak, save for those occasions when he was obliged to speak in a language sinners understood.

Sheriff Jacob Keller was generally considered to be quiet, polite, good natured, quick to lend a hand, and absolutely, unfailingly, fair in his dealings with the lawful and the lawless alike.

Fortunately, in the Firelands colonies, crime was quite low -- it was not nonexistent, human nature is human nature, and there are always those who will seize an opportunity or exploit a perceived weakness -- but Jacob worked hard to keep his bailiwick both safe, and peaceful.

Jacob was quick to celebrate achievements; he was one who pointed out the positive, generally in a quiet word to someone, which gave that someone the opportunity to speak of it, publicly, as if it was their idea.

When their Parson approached Jacob and said they'd like a good old-fashioned baptism, Jacob nodded.

"Tell me what you have in mind," he said.

The two men retired to the big assembly hall, where several folk were taking a break, socializing, visiting: Jacob shook hands and listened, and laughed, moving easily through his people -- his people! their Parson thought -- they drew coffee, and as usual, Jacob got a thick slab of sourdough bread, still warm from the oven, and troweled on a generous layer of golden-yellow, fresh-churned butter.

The Parson decided to follow his fine example.

Jacob got one bite when something young, blue and fast-moving charged his position: Jacob dropped his sourdough back onto his plate, turned, went to one knee and spread his arms.

A little boy with a delighted expression miscalculated approach vector, approach velocity and proximity, which meant Jacob caught the speeding little boy at the moment of collision: the Sheriff's laugh completely hid his grunt as he hoisted an excited child off the floor, as young legs stilled, as excited eyes blinked and a bright and youthful smile lit the general area like a hundred watt bulb.

Jacob went back down to one knee and set the boy's feet on the floor: he shoved his Stetson back on his head and said in a fatherly voice, "Somethin' tells me it must be good news!"

"Shewiff, I dwew this!" the boy exclaimed, and he held a tablet up, half-covering his face.

Jacob looked at its blank screen, blinked, raised an eyebrow.

The little schoolboy's face fell as he saw the Sheriff's expression -- he turned the tablet -- dismay washed over his youthful features and his young shoulders sagged with disappointment.

Jacob took the tablet:  "Let's see if we can retrieve it," he said quietly.

The Parson watched as a little boy bounced on his toes, fairly vibrating with anticipation, disappointment and hope, in equal amounts: when the Sheriff handed it back with a quiet, "Is this it?", the Parson saw the boy's eyes widen with absolute delight.

"I dwew this!" he declared, and the Sheriff grinned and nodded, and for a moment, their world was shrunk down to one happy little boy and one quietly pleased lawman.

"And you drew it well," the Sheriff said quietly.

The boy hugged the tablet, and its recovered image, whirled, ran noisily for the exit, probably to show someone else: the Parson saw Jacob's shoulders move, just a little, and he knew the man was laughing, likely as much at a memory as at the experience that just triggered it.

Jacob looked around, his expression relaxed, and the several faces turned his way, all reflected the shared moment, where a little boy had something to show someone special.

Jacob sat, laughed quietly, picked up his coffee and took a noisy slurp.

He looked over at the Parson.

"Now are we talkin' a glory-fied bathtub," he said conversationally, "or do you want to arrange a clearwater river someplace?"