SHORT STORIES!

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

GOOD HANDS

Jacob was the firstborn son of Old Pale Eyes, that short tempered Sheriff with the iron grey mustache that favored law enforcement as a religious experience.

He was known to baptize sinners in the nearest horse trough.

Whether it was before or after he'd beat 'em against the nearest solid wall didn't really matter, just as long as he did his part to wash their sins from them before getting any more involved.

Jacob considered his black-suited father's figure as the man loafed casually against the ornately turned porch post holding the roof up over the board walk in front of the well-chinked log fortress that was the Sheriff's office.

Jacob considered, then casually strolled across the lightly rutted, well packed dirt street, stepped up on the warped, dusty boards of the board walk: he turned, set his shoulder against the opposite side of the same porch post, and considered that perhaps his father was considering the example of Law and Order Harry Macfarland, the Marshal over at Carbon Hill.

Or maybe the Grand Old Man was in a mood to watch, and consider.

Jacob wore the same tailored black suit; he wore the same black Stetson; he wore certain items under his suit coat that were useful in persuading law breakers to abandon their anti-social ways, peacefully or otherwise.

Just like his pale eyed father, Jacob didn't much care which one they chose.

The peaceful, or the otherwise.

Jacob could have been back at the home place tending work that perpetually needed doing, but his father suggested in a quiet voice that maybe Jacob ought to be available in town, and that commonly meant something might be going to happen.

Unless it meant the Old Man figured Jacob was working hard enough and deserved some time in town.

The two stood, warming themselves in what sun slanted in under the shake shingled roof.

Silence grew long between them, but it was a comfortable silence, with none of the tension of disapproval that might indicate one figured the other should be about some other activity.

The Sheriff finally spoke.

"Friend of my father's was murdered some years ago," he said without preamble.

Jacob considered the statement, compared it to other statements his father made in the past, and did not find a match.

"Yes, sir?"

"I don't recall if 'twas ... no, warn't Tennessee ..."

His voice was thoughtful, almost distant.

"I believe Missouri. Maybe far northern Arkinsaw."

Jacob waited, finding no matching activity in his memory.

"The man ran an inn. Nice fella. One night a guest allowed to rob the place and shot him with a flint pistol."

Jacob felt his bottom jaw slide out and his quick mind turned to what-all he'd need for an extended ride, was this to turn into a hunt.

"He got away with the coin but ever'one turned out and run him down and they killed him when they found him."

"Yes, sir?"

"I heard the man that killed him screamed in his face right before he gut shot him."

Jacob waited, considered: a deliberate gut shot was one way to honestly torture a man plumb to death -- a gut shot was a death sentence but it was often slow and invariably agonizing.

"Everyone there liked the old man he murdered and they all took turns with clubs, with boots, they kicked him bad enough he'd have died from that, and that was considered justified by the community."

Silence, again, and Jacob knew this wasn't the reason his Pa started talking.

It was interesting enough, but he knew his Pa, and he knew the man sometimes chased around the barn before he finally went on inside.

He felt more than heard his Pa's deep breath -- quick at first, then slow, deep, the kind that stretches a man's ribs, the way a man will inhale when he's considering hard memories.

"That damned war done it," he murmured thoughtfully.

"Sir?"

Jacob knew his Pa's mouth pulled up, half of it, in what Doc Greenlees called a "sardonic smile."

Jacob wasn't sure what "sardonic" was but he knew his Pa's half-a-mouth smile, and had he looked, he'd have seen he was right.

"Before that damned war, Jacob ... before, 'twas considered a coward's act to shoot a man."

Jacob waited.

"Fists, feet, pick up a rock, both of you grab a kindlin' stick or a singletree, but a gun was a coward's work."

Linn saw Jacob's hat-brim descend, slowly, then come back up to level as his son nodded, once.

"Then that damned War come along and ever'one found out yes, it is entirely possible to shoot a man, and ever since then ..."

Linn took in that deep breath again, shook his head.

"Women could shoot, that was fine. Women are the weaker vessel."

Jacob remembered the day before when he and his mother were fencing with her Mama's practice blades, and how fast and deadly the green-eyed Esther Keller was -- she'd "killed" Jacob no less than a half-dozen times in practice, and Jacob had been trying to survive -- he remembered his pale eyed half sister Sarah, and remembered how coldly, how efficiently she'd killed grown men, strong men, dangerous men, and rarely with a gun -- and Jacob wondered whether there'd been some mis-translation from ancient Aramaic into our common tongue, to call women, "The Weaker Vessel."

He made a mental note to discuss this with Abbott William down at the Rabitville monastery.

 

Willamina laughed and tilted her head a little at the question.

She crooked a finger:  "Step out here," she said, and a suddenly-red-faced sixth-grade student came from among his fellows.

It was one of the tours of the Sheriff's office, and one of the boys in about the middle of the restless group asked about fast-draw, and Willamina smiled and said "You're a volunteer, step out here."

She opened a cabinet, pulled out a bright-yellow-plastic, red-muzzled pistol, or what looked like a pistol.

"This," she said, holding it up for everyone to see, "is a molded block of plastic, no moving parts."

She pulled out another one, handed it to the nearest student: "Look it over, pass it around.

"We use these for training. No magazine, no striker, no barrel, just a block of injection molded plastic."

She stopped, frowned, set her yellow "pistol" down, put both hands around the student's belt.

"Mm-hmm," she nodded. "I've got a gunbelt that will just fit you."

She reached into the cabinet again, pulled out a gunbelt and holster, thrust her yellow plastic pistol into it, wrapped it around the sixth-grade boy's waist, fastened the buckle.

"Okay," she said softly, standing inside his personal space, "grab the pistol -- yes, just like that. Finger straight. We don't touch the trigger until we're ready to fire, so always draw with your finger straight."

He gripped the pistol, looking down at his hand gripping the yellow plastic, nodded.

"Okay. Release the pistol."

She turned.

"See the vent on the wall? Point at it."

He did -- with the uncomfortable expression of someone being given a remedial lesson in something he already knew about.

"Now look where your finger is pointing. You're pointing right at the vent, aren't you?"

He nodded uncertainly.

"Now grip the pistol and do the same thing."

He did.

"Holster."

He blinked, looked down at the holster as he slid the pistol back into formed gunleather.

Willamina opened her suit jacket, unbuckled her duty belt, laid it aside: she brought out another gunbelt and holster, picked up the yellow plastic practice pistol, holstered.

"Okay, back up a little, little, little, whoa, right there."

Willamina turned to the class, raised a teaching finger, slid her hand into the pocket of her skirt, the material bunching a little as she gripped whatever was in the pocket.

"The question was about fast draw."

Willamina faced the red-faced sixth-grader.

"All right, varmint," she snarled, taking a wide-legged, claw-handed, mock-gunfighter stance: "this town ain't big enough for the both of us! On the count 'a' three, we're a-gonna draw!"

The class laughed -- boys grinned, girls giggled, the teacher looked uncertain.

"One!"

Willamina's hand whipped forward, something silver spun through the air, her keyring hit the boy in the chest and he reflexively grabbed it -- with his gun hand.

Willamina brought up her thumb-and-forefinger -- "Two three bang you're dead," she declared, and the boy looked at the keys he'd just clapped to his chest, he looked at Willamina, and before he could crawl under the flooring and slink away, Willamina skipped forward, retrieved her keys, gave him a big hug and kissed him on the cheek: she ran her arm around her shoulders and declared "Big round of applause for Bryan here!"

Willamina unfast his belt and her own, replace them in the cupboard: "That, by the way," she said, "was what Deputy Sheriff Jacob Keller did right out front here. He and his father were busy propping up a porch post with their shoulders and a kid thought he was just a whiz bang fast draw, and that's what Jacob did to him.  Only" -- she turned and looked at the scarlet-eared, red-faced sixth-grader -- "I don't think Jacob's challenger was as good looking as this fine fellow here!"

 

Sheriff Linn Keller watched Jacob cross the street with his arm across the boy's shoulders.

Linn heard of misguided individuals who'd been influenced by penny dreadfuls, deluded youth full of bravado who decided they would become a famous gunfighter.

Those few who'd actually tried it, generally died of their own stupidity.

Jacob just prevented a death.

Linn watched, silent, unmoving, as at the count of "One!" -- his hand snapped out, his pocket watch spun through the air, and his challenger clapped his gun hand to his chest, catching the watch: Jacob's Colt was out, muzzle up, hammer not cocked -- his thumb was over the hammer, in case the boy stupidly decided to press the issue -- but at Jacob's brisk "Two Three!" and the realization he'd just been had, the Sheriff watched pride and shoulders both deflate.

Jacob retrieved his watch and walked his adventurous opponent over to the Silver Jewel.

Linn had done as much from time to time: give a fellow a good meal to travel on, maybe even a train ticket out of there.

"Better than killin' him," Linn said softly, then he felt his eyes tighten at the corners as a thought occurred to him.

When I finally lay down and die, he thought, I believe I'll be leaving the place in good hands!

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

IT AIN'T A STIFF BREEZE

"You remember I said things happen in the cemetery?"

The green-as-spring-grass deputy looked at the quiet-voiced Sheriff.

"What is tonight's moon phase?"

The deputy looked at the Sheriff like the man had a fish sticking out of his shirt pocket.

"Phase of the moon?" he echoed uncertainly, scouring his memory for any reference to lunar phases in either Police Basic or the information he'd been given so far at this outlying county's department.

"You've got a phone. Look it up."

The deputy lifted a hand toward his vest, to the particular pocket where he'd secured his silenced device.

As if to answer the pale eyed lawman, invisible hands parted the cloudy curtain and revealed the bright -- the silver-bright, eye-scalding, full moon just coming over the mountains.

Linn looked over at his new hire, the faintest smile lifting the ends of his iron-grey handlebar.

"Looks like we have the answer."

"Full moon," the deputy said, puzzled.

"Are you familiar with the full moon's effects?"

"I ... know ... it's been debunked."

Linn laughed quietly, took a deep breath, sighed it out, shook his head as he did.

"I commend you to the Emergency Room nursing staff," he said, "or to the Irish Brigade to get their take on the subject."

"What about your take, Sheriff?" the deputy asked. "What have you seen?"

Linn consulted the cruiser's clock, green numbers in the constellation of instrumentation and lighting in the idling cruiser.

"Right," he said slowly, "about" -- he drawled the words out, then turned and looked through the windscreen, looked over the cemetery -- "there she goes."

"There what goes?" the deputy asked.

"Walk with me," Linn said, opening his door, swinging out and setting his polished Wellington boot on the sod, then closed the door quietly, carefully: he and the deputy walked with silent tread, walked to where the Sheriff could see the memorial.

Many of the stones had bronze flag holders.

Every flag holder held a flag.

A flagpole stood at a larger memorial that listed the names of service related dead that slept in their moonlit cemetery.

"What am I looking ffooorrr --" the deputy bit off his surprise, stared.

Every flag on every grave stood straight out, as if suspended by an invisible breeze, but without ripple or twitch.

He looked at the flag twenty feet overhead.

It stood out, just as straight, just as motionless.

The Sheriff swung his gaze, slowly, from far right, to far left, taking in the row of stones that all bore his family's names -- from the mid-1880s, to the modern day.

Two lawmen came to correct military attention.

Two lawmen raised their hands in a correct, precise salute.

Two lawmen lowered their hands, and when they did, the flags relaxed, hanging in motionless air as if nothing at all happened under the bright, shining, silvery full moon.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

AND IN THE DARKNESS, A HAND

My eyes came open and I came full awake and that did not make me happy a'tall.

I was under my own roof and in my own bed and I was warm and comfortable and relaxed and I'd just as soon stay asleep but my mind taken the bit between its teeth and I remembered what I was tellin' Jacob.

Elkhorn Tavern, I thought.

Pa's good friend was murdered in the Elkhorn Tavern.

I closed my eyes against the memory and another memory, unbidden, crowded right in behind the first one.

Pea Ridge.

I'd heard of the Battle of Pea Ridge -- Vinton County, was I recalling it right -- that was a long time ago, that was during That Damned War and I'd as soon forget everything about it but that slick talkin' German talked me into signin' up.

No.

'Twas my decision.

Can't blame that swindlin' Dutchman for fillin' my feather head full of glory and duty and honor and glorious victory.

I was the one that joined up and I can't blame no one but me.

I thought of Connie and I thought of our little girl and I recalled how my stomach dropped down through my boot tops and hit my boot soles and died when I saw that black bow on the door.

No chickens, no Connie, no laughing little girl in a colorful dress chasin' after butterflies, and I was to blame.

Me.

I'd gone off to that damned War and Connie died of the small pox while I was gone and our little girl died in my arms not six hours after I come home and I was to blame.

Might be that's why I was tellin' Jacob there in front of the Sheriff's office about my Pa's good friend who was killed and then I talked about how ever'one learned how easy it was to kill.

I slid my hand over and reached for the only comfort I had there in the lonesome dark.

I closed my hand gently in Esther's warm hand and her hand tightened on mine, and I rolled over and hugged her to me and held her for the longest time.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

NEGATIVE ELEVATION

Dana Keller looked at her brother's projected hologram and crossed her arms, turned her head a little as she said "Jacooobbb," in a tone that meant "I am your baby sis and you can't fool me!"

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Jacob said. "Put on your highest heels."

The grinning hologram disappeared and Dana had the sinking feeling that she, the youngest of the Keller daughters, was about to be introduced to the Crown Prince of Lower Sunday Creek, to use one of her Daddy's phrases: she turned, almost ran into her bedroom, came out wearing a flattering dress and a pair of skyscraper, ankle-strapped stilettos Marnie told her belonged to their Gammaw, and were a perfect fit for her baby sis.

She looked at the wall clock, did a fast calculation, whispered as the red sweep second hand marched toward its zenith, "Three ... two ... one..."

At precisely the ten minute mark, an Iris opened and an obviously delighted, broadly grinning, fast moving Sheriff Jacob Keller thrust forth from the black ellipse -- he seized his baby sis in an absolutely joyful, grab-her-under-the-arms-and-hoist-her-at-arm's-length as he spun her twice around, the way her Daddy did in moments of celebration.

Dana couldn't help herself.

She cocked one leg up behind her, threw her head back and laughed.

Jacob set her down carefully, hugged her -- a big, enveloping, wrap-the-arms-around-her-and SQUEEZE bear hug, his cheek hard against her cheekbone, and he whispered, "Thank you!"

He slacked his embrace.

Dana's hands were on his forearms as she regarded him with an honestly puzzled expression.

"I was at the store today," he said, his face not having lost any of his former enthusiasm.

"O-kaaay," Dana said slowly.

"A little old silver hair sweetheart asked me if I could reach her a box of cake mix waaay in the back of a high shelf."

Dana raised an eyebrow and she lowered her head as if to look over a set of nonexistent spectacles.

"She was your height as you are now," Jacob grinned, "and I couldn't help but think if I hadn't got things off high shelves for you, I'd never have known how to help her!"

Dana's head drew back a little in honest surprise.

Dana blinked her startling-blue eyes, frowned a little.

"Is that why you wanted me in heels?"

Jacob's cheerful expression slid into the mischeviously wicked.

"Sis," he said, "you're built so close to the ground, if you weren't wearing heels, I wouldn't be able to give you a hug!"

Jacob was a good sport after the liberties he'd just taken with his youngest sister.

He took her out to the best restaurant he knew of, where the sight of a well-dressed young man and a well-dressed and genuinely lovely young woman drew a number of appreciative looks.

I say Jacob was a good sport about it, because when he made his wise crack about Dana being kind of short, she responded as her oldest sister Marnie responded to her Daddy in such teasing moments.

She hauled off and kicked him right in the shin.

Hard.

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

YOU'LL TAKE HASH

 I do like a good sharp knife.

Sheriff Linn Keller stacked a half dozen strips of thick, almost still frozen bacon, sliced thin slivers off the end with quick, practiced strokes.
He was a man of precision, he was a man of an exacting nature: the slices were all uniform, all thin, he continued until half a pound of bacon was reduced to little slices before raking them off the cutting board into the frying pan.

He closed his eyes, lowered his head a little, eyes closed, and took a few slow breaths.

He cracked in a couple eggs, frowned, then cut up the rest of the bacon, sprinkled on top and added two more eggs -- the pan was big enough, and he knew there would be appetites enough.

He dusted the top with a variety of spices -- bless you, darlin', your Mama taught you to cook with spices and you taught me -- precise guillotine cuts with the steel spatula and he turned each egg separately.

Young feet pattered down the stairs, young appetites brought children with them, the Sheriff's young came downstairs and stared at their pale eyed sire working at the stove.

The toaster coughed and Linn turned over another egg, reached over without looking, pulled two slices and dropped them on a saucer.

Young hands dunked two more thick slices of sliced sourdough into the toaster, shoved the tab down, buttered the first two.

Silence, in the kitchen: not an uncomfortable silence, just the quiet of the young stepping in and setting the table, eating toast as it was produced, taking plates of bacon and eggs and industriously fueling themselves before heading for school.

"Daddy, you look tired," Marnie said quietly -- she was serious-faced as she addressed her father -- he nodded and said, "Long night."

"Do you want me to take over?" Marnie asked quietly.

"I've got it," he replied quietly, which told Marnie her Daddy was more fatigued than he wanted to admit.

Marnie hooked the towel off the oven handle, used it to grip the skillet, hoisted it off the fire, set it on an unused burner.

"Sit," she said firmly, and Sheriff Linn Keller -- the chief law enforcement officer of his county, the pale eyed enforcer of Law, Order and Justice, allowed his fifth-grade daughter to steer him away from the stove.

"Good eggs, Daddy," Dana said, looking at him with big an innocent eyes.

Marnie skipped to the refrigerator, brought out a small plastic container and a small glass jar: she returned to the stove, returned the big cast iron skillet to the hot burner, slid the bacon grease toward her, greased the skillet and cracked in two more eggs, sprinkled in diced onions, and finely diced garlic.

The toaster chugged again and she dropped one slice on each of two small plates -- she turned the eggs, sprinkled on a generous layer of cheese, and just as the cheese melted, she turned off the fire and added one fried egg to each slice of toast, turned off the fire and removed the skillet again.

One plate went in front of her father and she took the other.

"Your Mama," Linn mumbled, "is pulling a double."

"Long night?" Marnie asked, sitting down with her own plate, looked with concern at her Daddy's good left hand as it gripped the fork.

The fork had a fine but distinct tremor.

Marnie sat very properly, she cut into her egg and toast with the side of her fork, looked over at her long tall Daddy.

Sheriff Linn Keller, chief law enforcement officer and the ultimate authority over all things in his county, sat with his eyes closed, his head hanging over his plate, sound asleep.

Young and solemn eyes turned to Marnie.

Marnie looked back and said, "Long night."

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

 PAX MONTIS

The path was barely discernible, this high up.

Careful hooves crushed vegetation that tried to pioneer back into the animal trail; there were no trees here -- Michael smiled a little as he considered his use of the term "Timber Line" would likely be a new addition to the lowland natives' lexicon -- he did not push Lightning, as he did not know how well the Fanghorn mare would tolerate exertion at this altitude.

Thus far she'd been as steady as any of his Pa's mountain born and mountain raised saddle stock.

Michael was a sociable sort, friendly and gregarious, quick to laugh and as open-handedly generous as his pale-eyed Pa, but Michael shared another facet of the Grand Old Man's soul, and that was a liking for solitude.

Lightning was a creature of the wild who'd bonded with Michael as they mutually healed from nearly being killed when a nervous sentry cut loose with an energy rifle, modified with enough discharge power to cleave a starship in two: the shot overloaded Michael's shields and both he and Lightning took damage -- reflected in the zigzag lightning patterns that showed in Lightning's fur to this day: it looked like a splash of stark white on her blond fur, at the base of the neck, with forked fingers radiating up, forward, back, under.

That was years ago.

Lightning pretty much adopted a pair of orphaned Fanghorn colts, twins by their appearance, their behavior: they took to Michael right away, and to his twin sister, and -- to the genuine astonishment of settlers on Planet Fanghorn, as it was renamed -- they took to humans in general, which was honest cause for surprise.

Fanghorns were reputed to be vicious, fast, deadly: the sight of Michael, ridding a saddled, mature Fanghorn, was still a novelty in many places; the sight of two of his sisters, dressed as proper ladies and riding with the ease of the legendary Horseborn themselves, was even more so.

All this Michael considered, and allowed to fade into the back of his mind: his thoughts were like a conference center full of restless delegates, all talking at once, many conversations going on simultaneously -- his pale eyes tightened a little at the corners as he considered the truth of his father's observation -- or maybe it was his equally factual complaint -- that "The mind is never still."

Michael was established as a businessman, a provider of goods: he'd not only imported pianos, he'd recruited piano teachers -- somehow he was able to select those talented souls who could make the mental shift to living offworld -- his piano teachers were well enough set up, well enough paid, with status enough in their communities, that they honestly had no desire to return Earthside.

Music was one of Michael's delights, though he himself played (by his own admission) a radio with a fair degree of skill, and that was about the extent of his musical ability.

Except for a harmonica which he played badly.

He and Victoria detonated onto the public eye courtesy the Inter-System when they accompanied their pale-eyed Pa to another planet, where their Pa was consulting and training: a robbery and shootout occurred, a steam-brougham was shot through the condenser, raising an absolute wall of fog across the street, and to this day, the Inter-System replayed the clip off Michael and Victoria, the pale-eyed twins on matched mountain Appaloosas, came rip-roarin' through the fog like they were bursting through a wall, rifles in hand and war in their young hearts -- how they'd taken down the shooter by virtue of shooting one, running over another, which immediately persuaded most of the population that one right and proper way of stopping a criminal, was to absolutely FLATTEN him with half a ton of fast moving equine, with preceding or subsequent holes in the bad guys' hide, a definite bonus.

Michael was well and widely known, he was in demand as a speaker -- he was instantly recognized, he was instantly welcome, he was widely popular.

This is probably the reason he and Lightning trod a particular path today, well away from everyone and every thing.

Mountains are mountains, water in a stream is universal, or so Michael liked to think: he was too wise to simply drink this crystal Adam's Ale -- he'd known too many cases of Beaver Fever and the like from bad water, none that happened to him personally -- solely thanks to his realization of this fact.
He dipped up water, dipped up a little more: sure enough, there were microbia which would have been unkind to his system, and Lightning's both: the graze scanned safe, but the water was compromised, at least until he ran it through the field purifier, and both man and beast drank gratefully of the now-safe thirst slaker.

Michael scanned the ground, established a protective field, sat on a convenient rock: it would not do for a long term perch -- like his Pa, he was kind of on the lean side, which meant his had a rather bony backside, and rock would become uncomfortable after a while.

Until then, he had bacon to fry.

 

Victoria tilted her head and looked down at her twin brother.

Lightning's head was pressed against his chest, he had his arm run under her jaw, caressing her, and feeding her bacon with the other hand.

"You're going to spoil her, you know," Victoria said gently, but there was no disapproval in her voice.

Michael grinned up at her -- he was near to a man grown, but his grin was the boy he used to be -- "What do you mean, gonna?"

Lightning lipped another two strips of warm, greasy treat, blinked slowly, the way she did when she was enjoying something.

"Sweet rolls?" Victoria offered, swinging her arm and making a gentle, underhand pitch: Michael caught the cloth poke, pulled out a lightly browned, fist sized bread, bit happily into it, then gave the rest to Lightning.

Cyclone slashed her tail, stuck her stubby neck out, begging for a bite, and Michael fed her, too, laughing: Lightning stood still, ears busy, and if it's possible for a fanged, boss-headed saddlemount to look pleased, she did.

Michael bit into another sweet roll -- they'd been split and buttered, pressed back together, the butter providing adhesion enough so most of them hadn't fallen apart in the sack -- he grunted with pleasure, and Lightning bummed the rest of it from his delicate thumb-and-forefinger grip.

"I know you came here to be alone," Victoria said quietly, "and I thought that sounded like a good idea."

Michael nodded, looked around.

"Cyclone handle the ride okay?"

Victoria leaned forward, caressed the slow-blinking Fanghorn mare's neck, and Cyclone chirped happily at the touch -- almost a comical sound, the delicate birdlike sound from a creature who could, and had, run down a mature grazer, bitten through its high spine, then torn it open and eaten its bloody and quivering flesh with all the delicacy of a great predatory cat on the African veldt.

"I had to get away," Michael admitted.  "I needed Pa's Pax Montis."

Victoria smiled as the phrase brought back the memory: they rode with their pale eyed Pa well up into the mountains, to a high place not too different from here.

They brought sweet rolls and bacon and eggs, and none spoke a word until after they'd eaten, until after their Pa stared long into the distance, until he'd turned and hugged them both into him, until he'd whispered "Pax Montis."

Michael bit into the last sweet roll, tore the remainder in two, gave half to each Fanghorn.

He kissed at Cyclone, invited her to the water: she drank, and Michael drank again, for the high altitude will dry a man out.

He dipped up a tin cup full, carried it over to his twin sister.

She drank, ignored crystal drops that ran down her chin, dribbled cold down her neck.

"Oh Gawd that's good," she whispered as she handed the cup back, her sibilants a prayer of thanksgiving.

"More?" Michael offered.
Victoria raised a gloved palm: "I don't want to water the fenceposts on the way down," she smiled.

They spent half a day, high up, away from everyone, away from everything.

 

One of Angela's nursing students came into the classroom with a popular novelty, something called a newspaper -- it was printed on recycled pulp, it was physical, something you held in your hands -- it wasn't like a tablet or a screen, it was new, it was unique, and it was immediately popular.

Angela looked up as the student in the striped student uniform almost skipped up the aisle to her desk.

She laid the paper down, placed a nail-trimmed finger beside a headline.

"Look, Miss Angela," she said, and Angela heard the smile in her student's voice.

"Your brother made the paper!"

Angela looked at the headline and smiled.

It was a guest editorial, under the picture of Michael and Victoria, high on a mountain, each with a Fanghorn nuzzling for attention.

Above the article's title, in italics, I needed some alone time, then under it, in bold print:

PAX MONTIS

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited July 3 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THANK YOU, MR. COUNCIL PRESIDENT!

Sheriff Jacob Keller shook the man's hand.

"Mr. Council President," he said quietly, "thank you."

The Council President was one of two speakers at the flag retirement ceremony: he spoke because the Mayor was previously committed -- which was a polite way of saying the Mayor's granddaughter was in labor, and the Mayor was riding herd on his cackling hen of a wife, who wanted to go into Labor and Delivery and micromanage her daughter's birth the way she micromanaged her family.

"Jacob!" the man exclaimed, honestly pleased. "I haven't seen you for years!"

"I've been on detached duty," Jacob said noncommittally. "Sir, thank you for your remarks."

The Council President's grin widened even further -- the honest expression of a man genuinely pleased, not the artificial facial stretch of a professional politician.

"I've been supervisory all my life," Jacob explained, "and when you look a man in the eye and tell him 'Thank You' and particularly tell him what he did right" -- Jacob raised an eyebrow as he emphasized the word -- "why, he'll bust his backside to do even better, because it feels good to receive those thanks!"

The Council President fairly beamed at this praise.

He'd thanked the Masonic Lodge for turning out and setting up a relief station when there was a  nearby, fairly wide spread, weather related disaster: one phone call sprouted several, the Masonic Lodge turned out with their families and not only opened their spacious finished basement meeting rooms as shelter for displaced families, they fired up their kitchen and had meals hot and ready when the first families crossed the threshold.

Jacob remembered hearing about it, too late to lend any immediate assistance: cots were set up, bedding obtained, as it turned out, nobody had to bunk over in the basement of the Masonic Lodge, but everyone could relax, and watch reports on big screens, get a good meal under their belts, return home when it was safe.

One house was lost to a mud avalanche and the family decided to stay with relatives, but they went with provisions enough to feed both their displaced family, and the hosting relatives.

They went outside and joined the annual Flag Retirement, which was conducted with a combination of solemnity and the inevitable good natured kidding that happens when everyone knows everyone else: someone mentioned in Jacob's earshot that a bucket truck was brought in the day before to lubricate the pulley inside the round blue sphere at the top of the flagpole, as it was crying when they ran the lanyard last.

Police, fire, Sheriff's Office, the veterans' organizations, were all represented, drawn up in ranks, spit polished with ironed-in military creases that looked like they could cut: boots and boondockers were polished to a high shine, but not one word was offered at the contrast between the desert brown combat boots and the mirror shine on an older generation's footwear.
The old flag, ragged from mountain winds, was brought down with due ceremony and folded, carried over to the long folding table with a year's accumulation off flags left for honorable disposition, and the burn barrel was lit off: the big flag's replacement was hoist to the apex of the tall flagpole, there beside the Masonic lodge.

Speeches, honor guard, calls to attention, calls to order-arms, present-arms: due ceremony, the Firelands High School Marching Band played the National Anthem, and Jacob's eyes tightened a little at the corners as his quick ear followed the low-brass countermelody.

Jacob stayed for the full ceremony, took his hat in his hand as the Masonic Chaplain uttered the benediction, and joined the gathered community in that same spacious (and blessedly cool!) basement for coffee and doughnuts afterward.

Angela sidled up next to him as he turned and handed her a donut on a napkin and a foam cup of steaming coffee: "Fancy meeting you here, handsome!" she teased as Joseph and his Mama accepted Jacob's delivery of a donut and a drink: Angela winked at Ruth and said, "I'm tormenting your husband again!"

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

DON'T YOU EVER TRY TO HURT MY SISTER!

Jacob Keller was twelve years old.

Jacob Keller rode with the solemn face and the easy movement of a horseman.

His sister Marnie rode beside him.

Jacob's shirt was white, pressed, with a proper string tie and a silver-and-turquoise slide that matched his white Stetson's hat band.

They rode in the annual Firelands 4th of July parade, one of many folk, distant enough from siren-equipped vehicles their horses were not troubled, close enough to the Firelands High School's marching band that part of Jacob's mind -- the part that loved music -- slipped between the weave of their Sousa marches, swimming through warp and weft of low bass and high treble, sideslipping through woodwinds and reveling in the trumpets.

This did not mean the rest of his mind was on vacation.

Jacob's pale eyes were moving, suspicious, watchful.

So were Marnie's.

Marnie wore a white blouse and a string tie to match her brother's.

Instead of pressed black jeans, she wore a red skirt and her trademark red cowboy boots, the same ones she wore nearly every day and for nearly every occasion.

Jacob's head moved a few degrees, his eyes were quicker, and he saw trouble.

His Apple-horse felt his pickup.

Jacob saw the grinning face, the long nose lighter, a suddenly sizzling fuse.

Jacob saw the cannon cracker drawn back, snapped toward them, saw it hit pavement once and bounce.

When Jacob was younger, he asked his Pa how fast the Rage seized Old Pale Eyes' soul, and his Pa told him with a straight and serious face, "It hits instantly, if not sooner."

Jacob had never felt the Rage.

He felt it now.

There is a curious unity between a well-matched horse and rider.

Apple-horse turned toward the perpetrator before the cannon cracker went off.

The schoolboy who threw it, turned to run.

Jacob and Apple were on him in three jumps.

Jacob came out of the saddle and landed on the eighth-grader's shoulders, seized him as they went face first into the pavement: the young are fast, the young are tough, Jacob came up on all fours as the boy tried to roll out and come up, and Jacob's palmstrike flattened the kid's nose all over his face.

Jacob stood, crouched a little: Apple-horse coasted to a stop, came clattering back, snorting, shaking his head, ready for a fight.

It was the first time Jacob ever saw how contagious the pale-eyed Rage could be.

He waited for the kid to get up, twisted as the kid charged him, let him pass: the kid realized he'd just passed by something that wasn't going to back down, so he kept on going.

Sister Marnie had her own problems.

She favored her Daddy's mares, and her mare wasn't as trained as Jacob's stallion: when the cannon cracker went off, it was almost directly under her, and she just plainly came unglued, right there in front of God and everybody, and Marnie honestly had her hands full trying to stay in saddle leather.

Jacob stomped back up the alley -- he wasn't but fifteen feet from the staring ranks of spectators -- he came out into the street and as Marnie's mare voiced her general displeasure, Jacob seized both cheekstraps and yelled "STOP THAT!"

His effort, of course, was not terribly successful.

Jacob felt himself being hauled off the ground, so he swung his legs up -- it wasn't terribly apparent whether he intended to lock his legs around the mare's neck, or swing up onto her neck ahead of the saddle, or just what.

Apple-horse came out and stood crossways of the street, the trumpet section ran into the woodwinds, the Mayor's convertible came to a fast stop, and Marnie and her horse came off the ground about a foot this time.

Jacob's boots landed on pavement, fists still locked around cheekstrap leather.

He released his good right hand, stroked her neck.

"Stand," he murmured, his voice pitched to soothe: "stand, girl."

He looked up at Marnie.

"You okay?"

Marnie nodded, once, a curt dip of her chin.

"Did you get him?" she asked as Jacob released the other cheek strap, as the mare walled her eyes and danced a little, until Marnie's hand and Marnie's voice soothed her down.

"I got him."

Jacob turned, thrust a mirror-polished boot into his doghouse stirrup, swung easily into the saddle.

He looked at Marnie and the pair stepped out just as nice as you please, and the crowd, thinking they might've just seen the best show a parade put on in some time, spontaneously began to applaud.

 

Jacob stepped into the aid station tent, his eyes cold.

The fourteen year old who'd skated a cannon cracker under Marnie's mare was sitting, eyes closed, as his bloodied face was wiped clean, as a nurse assessed his broken nose.

Jacob stood, silent, unmoving; he waited until after the broken beak was explored, examined, until the patient was told he'd have to be seen in ER.

He waited until the troublemaker turned and saw him, and froze.

Jacob Keller, the pale eyed son of a pale eyed Sheriff, locked eyes with the individual who'd lit a fuse on more than just a cannon cracker.

Jacob's words were quiet, they were softly spoken, and nobody in the aid tent missed the steel inside them.

"Don't," he said quietly, "you ever try to hurt my sister!"

 

Edited July 4 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

I'VE BEEN HERE BEFORE

Michael worked himself as he always did -- mercilessly, with determination, as if he was in a war with the wagon load of hay, and his personal mission was to vanquish the enemy bales he'd stacked that morning.

Michael was young and lean and Michael was bare to the waist, a sculpted, tanned, sweat-sheened god of the mountains with a determined scowl and leather gloves.

He'd taken off his shirt when he realized his salt sweat was drying so fast he had white stains on the dark blue shirt material.

He honestly did not know he had an admirer.

Usually, visitors to Firelands took in the Z&W Railroad, the Mercantile, the Silver Jewel, usually they toured the museum and the gift shop in the railroad roundhouse, and the photographic studio beside The Firelands Gazette.

Tourists did not usually come out to the Sheriff's ranch and gaze in awe and wonder at a bare chest Mountain God throwing heavy bales.

Michael continued moving hay, stacking it where he could get to it conveniently before swinging off the wagon and moving bales onto the conveyor.

He'd bent and planted his leather-gloved palm on the edge of the wagon, dropped, his boots hit the ground --

He turned --

Michael froze, surprised, then his face went from concentrating-on-work scowl to a spontaneous, genuinely delighted smile.

He blinked as he remembered the last time he saw her.

It was another planet, a park in the middle of town: a mother introduced them, probably hoping Michael would find her daughter attractive -- every mother hopes her daughter will marry a man of means -- Michael remembered taking the maiden's gloved hand on his arm, and walking with her a little away from everyone, with his Fanghorn providing a sheltering wall between them and the many eyes that followed.

"Karla," he said, and lifted her hand to his knuckles. "Forgive me, I don't usually stand half naked to receive guests!"

Karla opened her mouth to say something and Jacob saw uncertainty and shyness flood across her face: she closed her mouth, swallowed, dropped her eyes.

"How did you get here?" Michael asked, his voice gentle.

"I, um, I rented ... a carriage," she admitted, her face reddening: she bit her bottom lip, looked away, looked down.

"I, um, hope ... I don't wish .. I, um ..."

"Karla."

Michael's voice was soft, little more than a whisper: he took her fingertips on his palms -- he did not hold her hands, he slipped them under hers, the lightest touch possible -- "You took the trouble to come all this way."

Michael considered his next words carefully.

"I don't wish to be either forward, nor distant."

He blinked and looked at the conveyor, then at the wagon load of hay, at the team still hitched to the wagon.

"Let me tend a detail and I shall be right back."

Karla stood and watched Michael release the Frisians from their work-harness, watched as Michael came back and shut off the conveyor motor, watched as Michael strode back to her, peeled off his leather gloves, laid them carefully on the edge of the wagon.

He draped his shirt over his shoulder but made no effort to put it on.

He looked at this offworld maiden in a McKenna gown and a fashionable bonnet, a girl of genuine beauty and apparent determination.

"I would not be improper with you," Michael said carefully, "and I would avoid the appearance of impropriety."

"I think I can help," a familiar voice called, mischief in her tone and understanding in her expression.

Michael turned toward the voice, then turned back to Karla.

"I presume you and my sister are acquainted?"

Karla swallowed again and looked positively guilty.

Michael laughed, raised his hand to summon his twin: "Sis, could you entertain our guest while I go get a shower and get myself decent? She's taken pains to look properly modest and I'm hot and sweaty and absolutely shameful here!"

 

An hour later, Karla was laughing quietly at Michael's stories: he had a gift for putting people at ease, and after a meal in the Silver Jewel -- the Silver Jewel, the original, the one where history happened! -- after the hash slinger in her Gibson Girl outfit came sashaying back, after she offered the rather pointed opinion it was about time Michael took a girl out instead of these smelly old horses -- after they'd eaten a truly excellent meal, during which Michael had her laughing with his descriptions of his pale-eyed Gammaw lowering her spectacles and giving him that look! over top the lenses -- Michael suggested a cup of sherbet as a palate cleanser and dessert, and then he set his elbows on the table top, laid one hand over the other and rested his chin into his thumbs and considered his guest very frankly.

"Karla," he said quietly, "why did you come here?"

Karla blinked and sorted quickly between the several prepared answers she'd stacked up in anticipation of the question, decided on honesty instead.

"I wanted to see you again," she admitted.

"Is your mother well?"

Karla blinked, realized Michael was wondering if her mother put her up to this.

"No," Karla admitted, her voice flat.

Michael leaned back as the Gibson Girl took their empty sherbet cups, laid gentle fingertips on Michael's shoulder: "Whenever you're ready," she whispered, and Michael nodded.

He leaned forward, his face serious.

"What's going on, Karla? What's wrong with your mother?"

 

A lean young man with pale eyes paced slowly across the front of the Church.

His pace was steady, deliberate, as measured as the pace of his ancestral very great Granddad's had been in such moments.

Michael's Stetson was under his arm, his eyes scouring the floor, his forehead frowned into wrinkles.

Twice he stopped in the center and looked up at the ancient Cross, original to the first Church built here, and twice he continued his pacing, arranging thoughts and words and overhauling what he had to say before he said it.

Finally Michael stopped and looked at the handmade Altar and then up at the Cross.

"Lord," he said, his voice echoing a little in the silence, "I had me a good head of steam when I came through those doors.

"I was all set to shout and demand and throw a gen-you-wine purple faced stereoptical f-f-f-fit!"

He considered for several moments before continuing.

"Thank You for the wisdom to consider before I spoke."

Michael took a deep breath, sighed it out.

"I've got work ahead of me," he admitted. "I'll ... I know who to have stack the rest of Pa's hay. That'll not be a problem, they've done it before and I've well more than enough to pay 'em."

Michael looked around the interior of the silent little church, at the thousand memories it held.

"Lord, I need to go talk to some doctors. Karla's Mama needs some help and I'd be very much obliged if You could arrange us the help we need."

 

"What will they do?" Karla asked uncomfortably.

Michael turned his chair and sat facing her, his knees almost touching hers: he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, took her lace-gloved fingers very carefully in his.

"The chief surgeon explained the procedure to me," Michael said quietly, sun-freckles punctuating his nose and cheekbones: "they'll take wide ribbons woven of moonlight and stainless steel and tie your Mama down to a torturer's table. Eight witch doctors wearing carved fright masks with big teeth will dance around her with a big shield in one hand and a feathered rattle and they'll sing the Pachelbel Canon backwards, in Latin."

Karla gave Michael a distressed look.

"Why are you telling me this?" she whispered.

"Because you wouldn't believe me if I'd tell you what they've already done," Michael said flatly, and rose.

Her mother came through the door, fully dressed, and smiling -- a relaxed, genuine smile, something Karla had not seen for most of a year -- and best of all, her mother was apparently in no need of hiding any shortness of breath.

Karla rose, staring, open-mouthed, then almost ran to her mother.

Michael discreetly left the room.

 

"So what happened?" Marnie asked with her usual bluntness.

"Her Mama had something close to an hereditary Alpha-1-Atrypsyn Deficiency syndrome," Michael said, "and that almost exhausts all I know about the condition. She had digestive troubles and shortness of breath. The docs plugged into some kind of high powered quantum computer like the Valkyries use and figured out where the DNA screw-up was, then they programmed an Iris ... when she went through the Iris, it rewrote every last DNA strand in her entire body to eliminate that problem."

Marnie raised an eyebrow.

"They just ran her through an Iris," she echoed.

Michael spread his hands a little, palms forward:  "Sis, I think that's what they did. I don't know about all that scientific stuff."

Marnie smiled with half her mouth and looked away.

"I don't either," she admitted. 

Michael glanced back, turned to Marnie again.

"I'll stop in and see her in a few days," Michael said uncomfortably. "I don't want to make it look like I'm making hay with a vulnerable girl."

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

GRR, SNARL

Principal Landers was on his way upstairs to his office.

Landers was a direct descendant of the very first Firelands Sheriff, the one who hired Old Pale Eyes as a deputy, then swore him in as Sheriff very shortly afterward.

This modern day Landers stopped at an unfamiliar sound, a sound that should not be in a grade school.

The Principal was familiar with the many sounds children made, with the sounds the building made, but this -- this was something that should never, ever! be heard in his halls.

It was a sound that turned his belly cold, the sound of a large and menacing animal... something large enough to eat a child, if the sound was any indication.

Landers knew he had to find out what was there, much as his gut was telling him the climate was healthier two counties away.

Principal Landers eased forward, the folder in his now-clammy grip forgotten, and he advanced to the corner.

He hesitated, closed his eyes and shivered as the low, steady, snarling growl diminished a little, then picked back up.

He took a quick, fearful look around the corner.

A set of fighting ivory canines stared back at him, surrounded by an impressive array of canine dentistry wrapped in a curly-furred black coat.

Principal Landers sagged against the wall, his knees suddenly weak.

 

Angela Keller was in third grade.

Angela Keller was nine years old.

Angela Keller was a beautiful little girl, dressed in frills and bows and snowy petticoats and a proper schoolgirl frock by a mother who loved to dress her little girls like ... well, like proper little girls.

Angela loved being all pretty and girly.

Angela also loved her Daddy's horsies and she loved The Bear Killer, and so when she came into the schoolhouse -- two hours late, thanks to an excused dentist's appointment -- The Bear Killer slipped in with her.

Angela sat down at the top of the spotless stairs -- Tommy Charlton, the janitor, kept the school as near to spotless as could be managed -- Angela happily rubbed The Bear Killer's ribs as the big mountain Mastiff rolled over and waved big bearlike paws in the air, delighting in a belly rub, happy enough to fill the hushed hallway with the rumbling snarl of a contented canine.

A very big, bearlike, canine.

 

Principal Landers took another cautious look around the corner.

The Bear Killer was happily kicking both hind legs as Angela giggled and ran her little pink fingers through his belly fur, finding the infamous Tickle Spot and eliciting more deep, menacing snarls, causing the utterly delighted Bear Killer to sound as if he were ready to rip off heads and like it.

The Bear Killer was the size of a ... well, a bear, and sprawling in the enclosed area of a school-building hallway made him look that much bigger.

Angela came to her feet, apparently not having seen Landers peek cautiously around the corner.

"C'mon, Bear Killer," Angela called quietly, and Landers watched this ravening monster of a beast pad happily down the stairs behind the pretty little daughter of his friend, the Sheriff.

"Bear Killer," Angela called again, her little-girl voice high and innocent as she leaned against the panic bar and released the door's latches: "Bear Killer, go Daddy, good booooy!"

Landers leaned further around the corner, looked down, watched as Angela pushed open the door: he saw the Sheriff's cruiser outside, saw the passenger door swing open, heard the occupant's two-toned whistle and saw this curly-black-furred creature flow easily into the passenger front seat of the marked Sheriff's cruiser.

Tom Landers leaned back, closed his eyes, rubbed his face, then went up the next flight of stairs to his office.

He made it a hard and fast rule that alcohol had no place in a schoolhouse.

Had he not made the rule himself, he realized, he'd probably take a tilt from the bottle that wasn't in his bottom right hand desk drawer.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON

"Oratory," Jacob said, his voice carrying well in the back roof of the Silver Jewel, "is an art admired in most cultures. It was respected among our native ancestors, it's been used by preachers, politicians and persuaders of every stripe, in private and in public.

"Most of the time it uses words" -- his grin was quick and contagious -- "unless you're me and my Baby Sis complains I can't talk without my hands!"

Jacob's hands had, indeed, been quite active as he presented:  he stopped, frowned, examined the backs of his hands, then his palms, dropped them to grip the edge of the podium and leaned forward a little, as if to impart a confidence.

"Y'know," he admitted ruefully, "she's right!"

The Ladies' Tea Society -- attended not only by the ladies of Firelands, but by a surprising number of husbands, most of whom were in garb and in character as members of the late 1880s/early 1900s Firelands -- laughed and nodded: Jacob was well known to them, and his visit here was a rare treat, for he'd been on what he referred vaguely to as "Detached Duty" and had to get back.

Until then, he was here, doing what he did best, and that was blowing sunshine up skirts, stuffing boots to their rated carrying capacity, and otherwise slinging second hand bull feed in grain shovel volumes.

"Now my ancient and honored ancestor, Old Pale Eyes himself," Jacob grinned, "and by the way, if you want to see what that man looked like, just look at my Pa, the Sheriff. They look enough alike" -- he touched a button, and two holograms appeared, one on his left, one on his right -- "you can see from these two images that me dear Pappy could be Old Pale Eyes' clone!"

Both holograms turned their heads a little, favored Jacob with a curious look: both opened their unbuttoned black coats, hooked a watch from a vest pocket and consulted it, then closed the rose-engraved hunter case, thumbed their timepiece back into place, looked at one another.

"Windy, ain't he?" one said.

"Eeyep," the other agreed: Jacob touched the control again and the solid-looking images disappeared.

Jacob turned his hands  palm up, shook his head sadly.

"Now back when" -- his hands dropped to the podium again, and people shifted in their seats, for Jacob's voice changed a little and they recognized his Storyteller Mode, and that's why they were here.

Jacob was a gifted storyteller, and on the rare occasions when he presented, it was worthwhile to listen: tourists in back raised cell phones, capturing the moment.

 

A pale eyed Sheriff seized the trouble maker by his shirt front.

That sounds less impressive than it was.

That pale eyed old lawman drove his work hardened palm into the trouble maker's chest and crushed up as much material as he could, and if he got chest hair and hide with it, he honestly did not care: work-hardened, sun-browned fingers drove in with a crush and a twist and men who noticed such things, saw that Old Pale Eyes not only drove the bigmouth back against the building hard enough to be heard, he fetched said trouble maker off the ground and he fetched him up easily.

Left handed.

There were men who paid attention to such things.

It was useful for a man to know if a potential opponent was right handed, or left handed.

This brand new deputy, when faced with a drunk who allowed as he was the best shot in the territory, bet the man cash money and then slung a number two tin can in the air and drove a .44 through it.

"Right handed.

"Now that deputy was Sheriff.

"He had a fellow hauled off the ground and then pressed him up to arm's length -- left handed -- and held him with a quiet "Let me know when you get tired."

"Now Old Pale Eyes was a man who didn't put up with foolishness.

"He kept his county as peaceable as one man can, but there was only one of him.

"He knew that order was maintained through respect" -- Jacob made the thumb-and-fingertip gesture he'd copied from their Italian barber, he trilled the R in the word "Rrrespect" -- "but he also knew the value of a good laugh.

"He was near to killed right after he took office.

"Whether an enemy from the War or an enemy from his lawman days back East, or whether someone local who didn't want an effective badge packer, he was shot in the doorway of the Sheriff's office and come damn neart dyin'.

"That is its own story.

"Once the man was laid out in Doc's office, why, he took a-fevered and the Ladies were tending him.

"One of the Ladies brought her little girl with her -- the famous and legendary Sarah Lynne McKenna" -- Jacob pressed the control again, and this time the two who appeared on his left and on his right both wore electric blue McKenna gowns, matching gloves and knowing expressions: they regarded Jacob with identical, pale eyes, then looked at the audience.

"You remember my little sister Marnie," Jacob said, gesturing to his left, "and this is the legendary Sarah Lynne McKenna, known also as the Black Agent, a remarkable detective and Agent of the Firelands District Court."

"Flatterer," one said, and "Who are you calling Little Sis?" declared the other: the two well-dressed identicals leaned to the side a little, looked around Jacob, spoke with one voice -- "Do you want to hit him first?"

"I want to kick him in the shins," came the snarled answer.

Jacob hooked a thumb at the second speaker and said, "They look identical but I can tell you" -- he thumbed at the feminine fury on his left -- "that is my sister!"

The pair moved as if to move in on him and do him violence -- Jacob hastily pressed the control -- the identical images disappeared, the Tea Society laughed quietly, and Jacob raised an eyebrow with a muttered "That was close!"

A disembodied arm appeared and swatted him with a closed, electric-blue-silk fan -- "Ow!" -- then a skirted leg, a kick, a louder "Ow!"

Jacob grimaced, looked at nothing on his right, then at nothing on his left.

He gave his laughing audience a rueful look.

"Anyway, about Old Pale Eyes a-layin' on a bed now with the ladies tending him, and he's unconscious and fevered pretty badly."

Jacob shook his shoulders back and assumed his best stuffed-shirt Pontifical Professor pose.

"In his fever he was apparently reliving some distress from his past.

"In his fever he was trembling a little.

"Sarah Lynne McKenna was just a little girl" -- Jacob held out a hand, palm down -- "little girl," he repeated, lowered the hand -- little girl!"

"I wasn't that little," a feminine voice said from nowhere.

Jacob lifted his hand, looked around suspiciously -- "I feel like I'm gonna get hit again!" -- he resumed position and posture and continued.

"When in his fevered delusions he gave kind of a strangled 'Damn!', why, Little Miss Sarah's eyes got wide and she picked up a cake of hand pressed lye soap and dunked it right between the man's teeth!"

Jacob reddened a little, then laughed.

"A particular local troublemaker walked up to him and called him Soapy and asked if he'd et any good soap lately.

"Now everyone watching, and someone is always watching, probably considered this could go very badly, as Old Pale Eyes tended to lay hard hands on folks that irritated him.

"He didn't.

"He clapped a companionable hand on the man's shoulder and give him a big grin and allowed as why, he'd et some really good soap and he recommended it as it settled the stomach, it sweetened the breath, his teeth was whiter and eatin' a good grade of soap made him younger, smarter, and better lookin', even if there was not much improvin' to his good looks."

Jacob's eyes tightened a little at the corners, the way they did when he was holding back a broad grin.

"There was an outlaw here in Colorado called Soapy Smith, and the scoundrel made things too warm to stick around, so he went to Alaska and had quite the criminal enterprise until he was finally killed. I don't know if this particular fellow wanted to torment my honored ancestor with that association, and I can't help but think the man used the moment for humor instead of harshness."

 

Ruth Keller sat in a meeting room back on Mars, sitting among the members of the Tea Society, or at least appearing to: Angela leaned over, squeezed her hand, her shoulder momentarily against Ruth's, and each could feel the other's silent laughter through this momentary contact.

"He's as full of it as his father," Angela whispered, and Ruth's red cheeks lifted a little with her silent smile.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

AND THE SHERIFF LAUGHED

Jacob pressed a key on his control panel.

Dana's face filled his screen.

Jacob sat up straighter, his eyes going pale, fast.

"Dana, what's wrong?" he said, his voice serious as his fingers interrogated the keyboard for her exact location.

Shotgun and bandolier staged and ready to grab, he thought, a flying squad of Diplomatic Infantry on standby -- he hesitated, not yet hitting the yellow COMMIT button that would sound General Quarters and activate a dedicated corps of motivated, dedicated, Confederate troops.

Dana went from just distress to lip-quivering, eyes-filling distress, more like a heartbroken little sister than a young woman in trouble, and Jacob's hand lifted a few millimeters from the howler as he frowned and said "Sis?"

Dana held up a stainless pistol he recognized -- a stainless .22 Walther PPK/S, one of the pair she'd pretty well appropriated from her Daddy's gun case -- he saw water drops speckling the side of the slide, more hanging from the underside, and Dana looked absolutely heartbroken as she sniffed and blubbered, "I dropped Daddy's pistol in the toilet!"

Of all the things Sheriff Jacob Keller could have imagined -- off all the crises he could have invented -- of all the terrible things that might need a brother's intervention -- this was absolutely not on the list of things he might have thought of.

"Bring it here, Sis," he said, pitching his voice gently, as if she was a little girl again, "I can fix it."

Dana sniffed and nodded and broke the connection.

To his credit, Jacob made double sure the connection was not live before he leaned back in his chair, blinked, laughed quietly and shook his head.

Next day, Jacob took another incoming call.

It was Angela.

"Hi, Sis," Jacob grinned, "how's your pulse a-beatin'?"

Angela laughed -- That laugh of hers could cure a rainy day! Jacob thought -- and Angela tilted her head and gave Jacob a warm, approving look.

"I know that look, Sis," Jacob said, his grin widening a little.  "Whattaya need?"

"I need to say thank you."

"Well, hell, I think we've got some chocolate chip cookies that haven't been et yet."

"You know the way to my heart!" Angela declared as she reached for the cutoff control: Jacob leaned back from the now-blank screen, turned his chair, counted.

Dirty second one, dirty second two, dirty second three, dirty second --

The Iris appeared -- a slit, chest level and wide as his thumb, it grew vertically, then opened like a black ellipse, and Angela stepped through, still in her nursing whites, stethoscope around her neck.

Jacob rose as Angela looked around and pouted.

"Oh, poo," she whined, "you said there'd be cookies!"

"In the ship's mess," Jacob grinned: Angela leaned into him, hugged: Jacob pulled his arms free, ran them under hers, picked her up in a bear hug and gave her a careful shake, the way he did his Mama, and with the same salutary result -- a series of muffled pops, a startled, pained gasp, then a sigh of relief.

Jacob eased her weight back down and moved his hands to her shoulders, ducked his head a little.

"Better?"

"Oh Gawd yes," she groaned, then she patted his shirt front with her palm. "C'mon, we need to talk."

"Uh-oh," Jacob groaned dramatically, then tossed over his shoulder, "Computer, I'll be out on foot."

"Roger that," the synthesized, intentionally-mechanical voice replied.

Angela laid claim to Jacob's arm -- she knew he carried on each side and could execute a clean draw-fire-and-hit even with her hand on his forearm, elsewise she'd never have compromised his right arm.

"I came to tell you thank you," Angela said as they made their way through foot traffic in the broad, smooth-floored Martian hallway-tunnels.

"You mentioned that, Sis," Jacob said quietly, nodding to a lecherously-grinning miner: Angela saw the look, dropped her eyelids and gave the leering laborer a seductive, through-the-eyelashes look.

She could feel the man's eyes on them after they'd passed.

Jacob went directly to the dessert section.

It was entirely by sheer coincidence that Mrs. Pompey was setting out a tray of fresh-baked, still-soft-and-warm, chocolate-chip cookies.

Jacob and Angela each drew a big coffee -- Jacob was like his pale-eyed Pa, and took his coffee seriously -- each one drizzled in a little milk, then retired to a small table near the wall, each of them sitting so the wall was to their backs.

Even here, their badge packers' habits came to the fore.

Jacob bit into his and grunted with pleasure.

"Walnutsh," he slurred, his eyes crinkled at the corners: Angela rolled her eyes and mumbled "Sshoo good!" -- conversation was suspended for at least three cookies and a few more noisy slurps of genuine McKenna Coffee, fresh roasted and fresh ground.

"You realize," Jacob admitted, "Marnie's coffee business has me spoiled!"

"Mmm," Angela agreed, "but what a way to go!"

Jacob set his mug down, leaned back.

"Okay, Sis, enough waitin' around. What happened?"

"It's Dana."

Jacob's face was suddenly serious.

"Is she pregnant, does she have a boyfriend, who do I have to kill," he said quietly, and Angela heard the tension in his voice.

"No, no, no," she said, waving a dismissive hand: "Nothing like that, Jacob."

She tilted her head a little.

"She dropped Daddy's pistol in the --"

"In the toilet, yeah, so she said. She brought it in, I tore it down, gave it a water displacer bath, toothbrushed it out and lubed it up."

"You're promoted to hero status, you know."

Jacob grunted, raised a skeptical eyebrow, reached for another cookie.

"How'd she drop it in the toilet, anyhow?"

"You know she likes to carry left-and-right."  Angela waved the cookie approvingly.  "These are really good with walnuts!"

Jacob waited, his eyes sweeping the mostly empty mess hall, performance arena and meeting room.

"We have an audience," he muttered as he saw the idlers seated on the far side of the hall.

"Never mind them. Jacob, you know she's a girl."

Jacob looked at his sister like she'd just told him fish could fly.

"Last I looked," he said cautiously.

"No, no, you're missing it."

Angela fluttered her a hand again, shook her head as she swallowed her mastication.

"Sis, I don't read minds, get to the point!"

Angela dropped her head and glared at her big brother over a set of nonexistent spectacles.

"She usually wears a dress."

"The Pope is Catholic, what else is news?"

"She was wearing shorts."

"So?"

"So she had to unbuckle and drop trou --"

Jacob's mouth opened, closed.

"That's how her left hand pistol went in the toilet. It was clean but it contained water --"

Jacob opened his mouth again.

"Annnddd?" he prompted.

"She's going back to skirts and dresses so she won't risk dunking Daddy's pistol in the toilet again."

Jacob leaned back, took a long breath, sighed it out noisily.

"Okay," he said at length. "First, let's pattern those pistols and fabricate another pair for her and put his back in the gun case back home. That way, if anything happens, it won't happen to his."

"Already done. I made a set for me too."

"As usual," Jacob said quietly, "you're a step ahead of me."

"Well, Jacob," Angela said teasingly, "I am younger, smarter and better looking than you!"

"Not necessarily in that order," Jacob replied, straight-faced.

Angela swatted playfully at his shoulder: "Hey! That's my line!"

Jacob and his sister finished their cookies, drained their coffee.

"We're being watched," Angela said quietly.

"So I see."

"Shall we?"

Jacob's expression was carefully neutral.

His eyes were not.

The two rose, embraced: Jacob bent Angela over, held his Stetson modestly beside their faces as they bent together, cheek to cheek, Angela turning red and trying hard not to giggle: they straightened, Jacob took Angela's hand, twirled her like a music box figurine, raised her hand to his lips and knuckle-kissed her in a most gentlemanly manner.

The watchers saw the Iris open, saw the woman in white turn and finger-waggle at the long tall Sheriff, just before she and the black ellipse both disappeared.

Jacob settled the Stetson back on his head, placed their plates and mugs into the Recyclo: he turned, strode for the exit on the far side of the spacious hall.

He stopped as the miner he'd passed in the hallway rose.

"Hey, Sheriff," the man called, giving his companion a knowing leer, "who was that other woman you were with there?"

Jacob stopped, turned, squared off at the man.

He stood, relaxed, ready, and quiet cascaded off him like cold air off a mountain slope.

"Her?" Jacob asked neutrally, finding the prospect of keeping a straight face, more difficult than he'd anticipated.

"Yeah, that other woman, you dog!" the miner said conspiratorially.

"Oh, you mean my younger sister, Angela?" Jacob said, his voice level.

The miner's face was an open book: Jacob saw the expression of a man who'd just had the rug yanked right out from under him.

"Oh," he said in a small voice, then louder, "Ohhh!"

Jacob turned and pushed through the heavy wood doors, strode purposefully down the mostly empty hallway as far as he honestly could before his reserve crumbled entirely and he laughed.

Sheriff Jacob Keller, a grin on his face broad as two Texas townships, let loose with the good, honest laugh of a man who'd just pulled off a good one without even intending it.

 

 

Edited July 11 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE DANCING DRAGON

The heavy door swung shut with its characteristic, metallic BOOOMMM.

Law and Order Harry Macfarland shot the bolt, dropped in the heavy railroad padlock, secured the door, looked through the bars at the prisoner who was not finished sprawling.

When Harry shoved him in, he'd shoved him hard, the prisoner tripped over the riveted iron threshold and hit the ground.

Harry turned away from the small window with its two bars.

A panicked voice followed him.

"YOU CAN'T LEAVE ME IN HERE!" -- then there was a scream, "GET HIM AWAY FROM ME!"

Neither Harry nor anyone else paid any attention to the panicked wail from the iron box the bankrupted railroad left as a local lockup.

A couple hours earlier, Old Pale Eyes moved with the swiftness of a predator wolf and the stealth of a mountain cat: he seized a man by the collar, yanked hard, and when a man built like that pale eyed Sheriff hauled hard, why, 'twas enough to fetch the prisoner off his feet and onto the ground.

The Bear Killer came trotting across the street, snarling a deep, menacing rumble, looking like Death in a bear rug, and when the prisoner's partner turned, startled, and reached for his holstered Colt, a shotgun barrel chopped hard against his wrist and stung his hand numb just as a canine muzzle shoved up into his crotch and twin barrels drove up hard under his chin.

"I'd hold real still if I was you," Deputy Jacob Keller said in an almost pleasant voice.

One went into the Firelands calabozo, the other was left in Law and Order Harry Macfarland's lockup: Jacob was not at all sure why the Sheriff wanted them separated, but he saw the utility in using two facilities to guarantee this pair would remain separated and unable to communicate.

 

Sheriff Jacob Keller looked up at the Ladies' Tea Society.

He was attending via hologram, with good enough quality it genuinely looked like Jacob was standing behind the folding table and the short little podium his Gammaw Willamina used in such presentations: his grin was easy, pleasant, as he looked around the assembled -- who were as real to him, in the projection chamber back on Mars, as if he'd been standing in the back room of the Silver Jewel back home.

They saw a tall, lean young man with a rich, Clan Maxwell-red, villainously-curled handlebar mustache (it was still soft, and his wife Ruth giggled that it tickled), and he saw the members of their Society, in McKenna gowns and in period suits, with tourists among them dressed as tourists do.

"Now this report is fragmentary," he admitted, "we know there was the Lawman's Laying On of Hands, there was the persuasion" -- he picked up a double twelve-bore and stood it upright beside the podium -- "of the Sheriff's favorite hearing aid" -- his grin was bright, easy, contagious: he laid the Two Pipe Shoot Gun down crosswise again -- "and there was separated incarceration.

"I had to excavate for some time to find out what started all this.

"It seems the Sheriff was riding through his county and stopped to avail himself of a good cold drink of water. 

"He'd taken extra canteens with him, and when he stopped, he made sure his were filled with this good cold well water, for it was a warm day, and he stopped in a corn field where a friend of his was working the soil.

"The man's name was Lemuel, everyone pronounced it 'Lemmel" unless they were causing trouble, and from what little more I could find out, that's what irritated the Sheriff.

"It was Brother Wiliam's account, in his records at the Rabbitville monastery, that revealed a conversation where Old Pale Eyes heard two local troublemakers sneering the man's name -- "Lem-you-well," they'd said, and he just kneeeeewww from the tone of voice they were looking to provoke a quiet man.

"Old Pale Eyes knew Lemmel and he knew if he turned his wolf loose it would come to a killin', for Lemmel was fast and Lemmel was strong and they'd had to have shot him, and the Sheriff was not about to let that happen.

"I reckon since he took the trouble to haul one of 'em over to Carbon to lock him up there, something else was going on -- I couldn't find the court records for that point in time, I think that's part of what they lost in a fire -- but the Sheriff did nothing without a good reason.

"I know he had a fondness for Lemmel."

He looked toward one of the back rows, where his sister Angela sat in her white nurse's uniform, smiling like she knew a secret.

The Sheriff dismounted and fetched a freshly filled canteen of good cold well water over to Lemmel, who was working a good sized corn patch, and Old Pale Eyes complimented the man on his cultivation, for the rows were fiddle string straight, and ever since the man's wife passed away, why, he was genuinely obsessive about tending that big garden of his.

"The Sheriff said they stopped talking when a little boy's voice called, 'Grampa, you're lost,' in that little-boy singsong they use.

"The two men grinned at one another and waited and here it come again:

"Grampa, you're loo-oost."

The farmer winked and squeezed the Sheriff's shoulder quick and light and the man went a couple rows over and fetched his little grandson back and carried him over to the Sheriff.

"Now I see quite a few entries like this" -- Jacob's expression changed a little, just a little -- "and someone asked me once why he wrote down things like that with the little boy who allowed as 'twas his Grampa that was lost."

Jacob hesitated, looked down, chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip, then looked up.

"I've seen things that would curl the hair on a bald man's head," he admitted quietly.

"I have known grief and loss enough to last ten men their lifetimes.

"I see people in absolutely the worst day of their entire lives and I have to carry on and do my job.

"I hold onto those moments just like Old Pale Eyes did.

"I've swung children up into my stallion's saddle and seen the wonder in those young eyes when they feel life and muscle and power and purpose underneath of 'em, most for the first time in their lives.

"I've watched boys stare in fascination! as The Lady Esther comes into station with all those parts in perfect motion.

"I've squatted in a field of mountain flowers and watched little bitty girls takin' three steps to the yard, holdin' both arms out and giggling as they run through flowers tall as they are.

"I hold onto those good memories," he concluded, "because I have too many memories that are nowhere near that good."

 

Angela Keller still carried a deputy's commission for Firelands County.

Angela Keller carried other, more comprehensive credentials recognized in twelve of thirteen star systems, and she was scheduled to present her bona fides to the thirteenth, the Texas system in the Briarpatch cluster, two weeks hence.

Today, though, she'd participated in the Ladies' Tea Society meeting, she'd "pressed the flesh" and "made wit' da publick relatin's," glad handing and good willing her way through the Silver Jewel -- she'd long known the value of being utterly charming, for when it came time to kick backsides, she had the advantage of being underestimated -- and when finally she made her escape, she stopped at the Big Box because she had a sudden, unabashed appetite for some unhealthy, but equally tasty, junk food.

Angela was stopped in the cookie aisle, deciding on which variety of industrialized snack fare to set in her buggy, when something tugged at the hem of her skirt.

She looked down, then squatted, smiling.

She saw a big set of solemn blue eyes, a screaming-pink T-shirt with a dancing dragon cub in green sneakers on the front, die-straight brown hair and the expression of a little girl who was too uncertain to stop now.

"My mommy's lost," she said decisively.

"I see," Angela said in a nurse's soothing tone. "And what's your Mommy's name?"

"Her name's Mommy," the little girl said with an emphatic nod.

"And what's your name, sweetheart?"

"Bwenda."

Angela stuck out her hand: "Pleased to meet you, Brenda. I'm Angela.  I'm a nurse with the Sheriff's office."

The little girl's face brightened -- "You knowzit da Bear Killer?"

Angela laughed, pulled out her phone, swiped quickly, turned the phone so the suddenly-delighted little girl could see an image of Angela, standing flat footed, and The Bear Killer up on his hind legs, his forepaws on her shoulders, giving her a good face washing.

Little Brenda clapped her hands happily and danced a little.

Angela rose, held out her hand.

"I think we can find your Mommy," she said, "even if she is lost!"

Angela left her buggy where it was -- she had something more important to tend -- they walked to the customer service desk, Bwenda happily chattering about dwagons and The Bear Killer and several other things Angela kind of missed, between the child's excitement, her rapid and lisping speech, and Angela's scanning survey of their surroundings.

Angela picked little Brenda up and set her on the customer service desk -- the attendant knew Angela, she came over, listened, nodded, then turned the flex-neck microphone, nodded.

Angela winked at Brenda, leaned closer to the crenelated microphone.

"Now hear this," she said in a pleasant voice. "I have a dancing dragon named Brenda at the front desk. She tells me her Mommy is lost. If anyone has seen Mommy, could you bring her to the front desk please."

Somewhere in the maze of aisles, Angela heard a distressed squeak.

Very soon thereafter, Brenda, Angela and Mommy were engaged in a laughing, three-way hug: Angela and Mommy had been classmates, Bwenda was trying to get her Mommy's attention to tell her that Angela knew The Bear Killer, the Customer Service attendant was leaning against her side of the counter, laughing, and somehow, by the time it made the weekly newspaper, the picture above the fold was a happy little girl, waving a cell phone and sitting on the Customer Service counter, wearing a delighted grin and a bright pink T-shirt with a Dancing Dragon on the front.

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

HELLWALKER

Old Pale Eyes drove his hat edgewise down into the rainbarrel, brought it out, dumped it over his head and turned to look at the cabin's door.

Was anyone looking, they'd have seen a man with dead pale eyes, his face skin stretched tight over high cheekbones, teeth bared.

A singed, blister-handed woman knelt in the dirt and clutched two children tighter.

She smelled their singed clothes and her own singed hair and she heard a monster, a beast, roar as a man with pale eyes strode boldly into the flaming interior of what used to be her home.

 

"Daddy," Angela said gently, "we can fix those burn scars."

Angela saw her Daddy draw the curtains behind his eyes at mention of his legs.

"I earned 'em," he said shortly and started to turn away, until Angela took his arm, turned him back.

"Daddy," she almost whispered, "every time Mama looks at those God-awful scars, it reminds her that you almost burned alive, because of her."

She saw his breathing change as his body remembered, even if he forbade his mind to recall: finally he said, quietly, his voice muttering off the desk blotter in front of him, "It reminds me I love her enough to risk dyin'!"

Angela came over, took her father's shoulders, turned him to look at her.

"Daddy," she said quietly, "which is the more important" -- she swallowed -- "your pig headed pride at being willing to die for her, or her guilt at knowing her one careless moment almost got you killed?"

Linn turned his chair, slowly, rose: he lifted his chin, just slightly, he took his daughter's elbows in cupped hands, and he looked deep into his next to youngest daughter's eyes.

Silence claimed the man's study for several long moments.

"Darlin'," he said at length, "you have your Mama's good looks, and you have your Mama's good sense."

Linn sat heavily, shook his head, dropped his forehead into one hand.

 

Old Pale Eyes couldn't see.

He hunkered, fast, lowered, one hand on the hot floor, his coat pulled over nose and mouth.

It was an oven.

Heat came from all around him.

He duck walked ahead -- "WHERE ARE YOU?" he shouted, pulling hot cloth away enough to call out, pressed it back to take a filtered breath.

He reached forward, remembering something one of the Irish Brigade said -- about children hiding from a fire -- his hand closed around a foot he could not see, he pulled --

A little girl's whimper, an almost-scream: he pulled harder, grabbed, hauled --

The mother looked up as a smoking man staggered out of the front door, doubled over: he fell back against the chinked cabin wall, then staggered to the rain barrel, brought up something that used to be paisley and dunked it deep, brought it out, flipped it over and dunked the other end: he brought her out, turned, squinted the sting and the burn from his eyes, half-stomped, half-staggered toward a mother, rising from the dirt.

He turned back to the doorway and the flames coming out, at the smoking roof.

He coughed, he took a breath, took another.

"NOT TODAY, DAMN YOU!" he roared.  "NOT TODAY!"

 

Father and daughter responded as one creature.

Sharon's voice came over the talkie, followed by the Irish Brigade's tone-out.

Pale eyes met pale eyes.

Father and daughter ran for the front door, a great black Bear Killer flowing along with them.

When Linn muttered "We're closer," he wasn't kidding -- he was halfway between the Carbon Hill reservoir and the firehouse -- and he well knew his getting there, fast, could make the difference.

Angela was silent in the shotgun seat, The Bear Killer happily panting through the open divider door, when Sharon's voice came back over the radio: "Firelands responding units, additional, gasoline tanker involved and leaking."

Linn felt his jaw thrust out a little.

Angela felt herself pushed a little deeper in the seat.

The Bear Killer felt delight that something was happening and he was included.

No words were spoken.

None were needed.

 

Angela was out of the car before it finished screaming to a rubber-smoking stop crossways of the highway.

She ran like she ran track -- focused, hands bladed, knifing through the air, running on the balls of her feet, splitting the wind! -- Linn ran around back of the cruiser, grabbed the big dry-chem, saw the driver was out of the truck -- he turned, ran for the car, T-boned nose-under the truck, as if the driver was turning around in the middle of the two-lane and the car came over a blind rise and drove right into the valve gallery under its flank.

He pulled at the car's driver's door, drew back, hit the window with the edge of the heavy red extinguisher's base: he reached in, drove his thumb viciously into the seat belt's buckle, let it reel back before running an arm under the woman, pulled.

Angela hit the passenger window hard -- twice -- with the muzzle of her pistol -- the second blow and safety glass turned into a cascading crystal curtain.

Angela holstered and reached in, pulled the door handle, yanked twice at the door, then dove in up to her belt, ignoring the stink of gasoline --

Linn stood in a river of the stuff, running under the car, and he knew he had seconds if not less --

His legs remembered burning, his uniform trousers welding to his flesh as they burned --

He couldn't get the door open so he hauled the woman out through what used to be a window, pulled her again and got his other arm under her, dropped the extinguisher and ran, sprinted, powering away from what he knew was going to be a hellbomb in the next few tenths of a second --

Angela reached back and down, came up with her lockback, sliced quickly at the seat belt --

She dropped the knife, pulled the car seat free, turned, rocked, pulled it through the window --

Got it out, she thought --

The Irish Brigade came over the rise just in time to see it light off.

Flame followed vapor, roared out and downhill, the Devil flicked his cigarette lighter and living flame roared out and up and Angela was gone in the conflagration, consumed, walled, swallowed: Linn staggered back, one hand coming up reflexively to shade his eyes --

"AAANGELAAAAA!"

Heat seared against his face, his hand -- 

A woman in a white uniform dress walked out of the flames, carrying a grey-plastic child's car seat, and Linn could see one little arm lift and wave around, and Angela strode purposefully straight for her pale-eyed Daddy, unharmed, thanks to the Confederate field generator that lived, contoured carefully to fit the small of her back, made to be completely unobtrusive under whatever she wore.

 

The Inter-System took its viewers on a Nantucket sleigh ride: the hover-drone flew alongside the Sheriff's cruiser, conveying sonic frequencies that allowed thirteen start systems' worth of nightly news watchers to feel as much as hear a large displacement Interceptor engine under the heavy boot of a pale eyed lawman.

The visual was good enough the viewers could almost feel themselves being thrown by centrifugal and deceleration forces as the cruiser screamed to a cross-the-road stop.

They had a good close-up of a pale-eyed lawman, teeth bared, snarling as he drove the base of the extinguisher through the window glass to get a trapped woman out.

The hover-drone backed away, swung to see Angela drawing back for another strike, then a thrust-into-the-car, they heard her irritated sounds as she had to go for the knife -- they watched her draw back, look down at sparkling, flammable liquid running around her white uniform shoes, saw her turn and start for the safety of the Sheriff's cruiser --

The viewscreens detonated in bright, dirty orange immolation: the hover-drone shot out of the flame, swung back around the backside of the cruiser, where the truck's driver sagged and collapsed in shock, as a pale eyed lawman screamed his daughter's name, as he leaned forward, ready to launch into a futile, suicidal, desperate sprint --

Angel One, Sheriff's deputy and nurse, strode boldly out of a wall of twisting fire that spun itself into a living cyclone of flame behind her, a child carrier seat in her arms, and an infant waving both hands and chewing on its knuckles in childish approval.

 

A day or two later, a laminated print appeared on the Sheriff's desk, a print he took home to his wife, a print his wife took to the firehouse and hung up in her locker.

It was Angela, coming out of the fire, unharmed, untouched, not even smudged nor dirty, carrying a child in its seat and looking like she was ready to rip the horn off an anvil and use it as someone else's suppository.

Across the top, in bold letters:

HELLWALKER!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited July 12 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A ONE PIECE DOOR

Two men dried off and got dressed.

Both were products of their environment.

Both bore scars from things that tried to kill them, and didn't.

Neither looked at the other.

Neither spoke for several minutes.

It wasn't until the Sheriff walked over to his locker, balled up his soiled uniform and tossed it into the topless plastic barrel the laundry service picked up from and sang "Two points!" as wadded up cloth arced in, that much of any sound registered.

Chief Deputy Paul Barrents adjusted his personal armor, watched while the Sheriff put on what he took to be a back brace of some kind, then snugged his own concealed armor into place: both men shrugged into T-shirts, buttoned up civilian chambray, got themselves squared away and presentable.

"Go ahead," Barrents grunted. "We've got extras."

The Sheriff considered the contents of his locker, backed up and turned a little, looked at memories taped and stuck and magnet-tagged to the blue-enamel interior: he stopped at a child's drawing and stared for a very long time at something Angela drew for him, years before.

A stick figure with a broad brim hat and a crooked six point star, standing in red triangles, a child's depiction of fire, a stick figure with a car door in one hand and a half pushed over car in the other.

Linn closed the locker door quietly, fast up the lock, then threw a leg over the bolted down wooden bench and honestly sagged.

Barrents snugged his belt and regarded his old and trusted friend with concern.

He straddled the far end of the same locker room bench and studied the Sheriff.

"I would have destroyed another locker door," he said quietly.

Linn nodded, staring hollowly at the bench, then looked up.

"Hiram," he said, "can I give you something on the square?"

Linn looked up and Barrents was struck by just how tired the man looked.

He of course recognized the Masonic phrasing of Linn's question, and he well knew the confidential nature of whatever was to follow.

Barrents nodded, once, slowly.

Linn sighed, ran a hand down the outside of his denim covered calf.

"You know I got burn scars."

Barrents nodded solemnly -- once -- a slow incline of the head, face unreadable.

Linn looked up at his lifelong chum, looked at him with an expression of utter misery.

"Paul, every time Shelly looks at those burn scars, she whips herself with the memory of damn neart gettin' me killed when I got her out of that overturned car!"

Barrents blinked, considered, his bottom jaw easing forward thoughtfully.

"Angela tells me she's got connections to remove that scarring and she told me I was a damned pig head for being so damned selfish as to keep those damned scars --"

Barrents quirked an eyebrow but made no other comment.

Linn shook his head, took a long breath, blew it out.

"I know," he said softly. "I don't know what they'll do. Acid peel or skin sanding or what. Hell, I could take a belt sander to m' leg --"

Barrents' eyebrow went up again, but not quite in the same way, and Linn's voice slid a little the way it did when he used humor to deflect an uncomfortable line of discussion.

He looked away.

"I don't know what-all they'll do," he said, "nor how long it'll take, or just ... what ... but if it'll ease Shelly's ..."

His voice trailed off and his head dropped, wobbled slowly left, then right, and Barrents realized he'd not seen the man so utterly miserable in some long time.

"Find out," Barrents said finally. "Find out how long you'll be off."

"Oh hell, Paul, Shelly tells me I been off for years!"

Barrents' face had all the expression of a weathered wooden plank.

"I know, I know," Linn groaned, rubbing his forehead, "two million comedians out of work and I've got to come along!"

 

Barrents sat down and keyed in a command

"Angel One, Firelands Two-Alpha," he said formally.

Voice Recognition put it through as a priority communication.

Five seconds later, Angela's concerned face filled his screen.

"Your father said something about having his burn scars removed. Advise return-to-duty time."

"Twenty-four hours," Angela said without hesitation, "full duty, no restrictions. All I have to do is get it through that thick head of his --"

Barrents nodded, once, slowly.

 

Linn heard Barrents' truck cackle quietly up his driveway.

Barrents had a liking for big engines.

He ran a 360 in a '68 model 3/4 ton with straight pipes and twin stacks, big enough to take the sharp crack out of the exhaust while preserving that deep note of I-can-go-fast-if-I-want-to.

To his credit, and to the honest surprise of everyone who knew him, he drove on a light throttle, and for his own amusement he kept a written record of how good his mileage was when he stayed out of the four-barrel.

He preferred to save his lead for for the Sheriff's cruiser, where the county was paying for the gas, not him.

Linn was tending horses, Linn was working steadily but not excessively: had the weather been more humid, he'd have broken a sweat, but high, dry air just sucks the moisture out of a man's skin, so when he stopped and wiped his forehead with a crumpled bandanna, it was more to wipe off skin oil than perspiration.

Two men of the mountains loafed against the white painted board fence, eyes solemnly considering mares, colts and the distant stallion who was busy playing tag with what looked like a bear cub.

"Talked to Angela?" Barrents asked quietly.

"Yesterday."

"Have the work done."

Linn made no reply.

Barrents considered three of the white fire mares, trotting as precise as if the three were in harness.

Barrents finally turned and looked at his pale eyed best friend.

"I know what you think of Shelly," he said, his voice deep, quiet, the way it got when he wanted to make a point. "You'd rather take a beatin' that hurt the woman."

Linn was very still, the way he was when listening to information and not wishing to commit one way or another.

"Have the work done," Barrents repeated. "You'll look better in a dress."

Linn blinked in surprise, turned to look at the muscular, broad-shouldered Navajo: he waved a limp wrist at his segundo and lisped, "Why thaaank you, fella, I didn't think you caaared!"

Barrents snatched Linn's Stetson and swatted the man with it, mashed it back down on his head and took off running for his truck, an honestly delighted grin on his usually-solemn face.

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

NAILED DOWN GOOD AND TIGHT

"Nice roof."

"Thanks."

Two of the Daine boys worked quickly, silently: they'd taken their measurements, they'd made their calculations, they'd laid out their work.

Two pale eyed men considered the steady progress on Uncle Will's roof.

"They work like them Amish Mama told me about back East."

"Reckon so."

Battery drill-drivers whined, then snarled as threaded ring nails with thick rubber collars secured heavy metal panels.

"They asked if I wanted the old roof tore off."

Linn waited.

"I recalled Fitz tellin' me about that one house fire where they had just over six inches of old roof to contend with. Said 'twas a bear gettin' through all those layers to ventilate the fire structure."

Linn considered this.

The two stood side by side, looking enough alike to be father and son rather than uncle and nephew.

"I asked Fitz about this and told him they allowed as I'd be better off just to nail down over the existing roof. I figure they do this work for a livin' so I'd go with their recommend."

"Less mess," Linn murmured.

"Cheaper too."

Another panel slid into place, stamped-steel channels dropped into interlock, drill-drivers complained again.

"Them ring nails they're usin' ... they're threaded on a gain twist. Damned if I can figure how they made 'em."

Linn felt his eyes tighten a little at the corners to hear his Uncle's native dialect.

He was brother to Linn's late mama Willamina.

They'd come out here from southeast Ohio -- Appalachian Ohio -- and neither lost their native accent, which led to Uncle Will still being asked on occasion if he was from East Tennessee, West Texas, or Hotlanta, Joeja ... no, he'd say with a quiet laugh, and generally didn't elaborate, but at times like this, when his grammar slid back to his ancestral roots, Linn could hear history peeking out from under his Uncle's language, like a giggling child hiding under a quilt.

"Won't be as noisy as a tin roof."

"Don't reckon."

"Fitz say anythin' about them just layin' the new roof over the old?"

Will was quiet for a few moments, then finally, "Naw. Said it'd not be any trouble a'tall."

Linn nodded.

"I was in your Mama's barn when come up a hail storm."

Linn's eyes tightened at the corners with the memory.

He'd been a young boy yet, still in grade school ... first grade or so, he thought, remembering a hay bale was a tall barrier between himself and the open double doors that looked out over his Mama's pasture.

He recalled his Mama curling her lip and whistling, a long, shrill note, and how her red Cannonball-mare came strutting through the first hailstones, gaining speed as the hail thickened: Linn stood behind his hay bale barricade and reached young hands for the questing muzzle that came nostril-flaring toward him, investigating this small visitor in a flannel shirt and overalls.

He recalled a sudden rattling wave of marble-sized hail, loud on the tin roof overhead, how his Uncle Will tilted his head back and regarded the haymow, then looked down at the pale eyed little boy fearlessly caressing the spirited mare's muzzle.

Cannonball turned and regarded the open barn doors, then returned to the little boy who climbed up on the hay bale so he could pet the horsie better.

Linn blinked, the memory was gone: he considered the Daine boys' swift work and murmured, "You know you're good at what you do, when you make it look easy!"

Will chuckled quietly.

"I've done some roof work," he admitted, "and easy it ain't!"

"They guarantee that roof?" Linn asked quietly.

"Fifty year guarantee from the manufacturer, long as I don't go drillin' holes in it."

Linn nodded again. 

"Ought to do well," he offered.

"It'll last longer'n I will."

"Yeah," Linn muttered, "but you're better lookin'!"

"Did I tell you I got me a girlfriend?"

Linn raised an eyebrow, turned to look at his straight faced uncle

"Don't reckon you did," he said carefully.

"Oh, ya," Will nodded shallowly, watching as the lean young mountaineers positioned a section of ridge vent. "I got all kind of girlfriends that just admire the hell out of me."

Linn grunted skeptically but refrained from further comment, as he had the sneaking suspicion that either his Uncle was actually going to admit he genuinely had a girlfriend, or he was getting ready to pull his nephew's leg without any mercy a'tall.

With Uncle Will, sometimes, it was kind of hard to tell.

"Trouble is," Will admitted, "every one of 'em is either under eight years old, or over eighty."

Linn's eyes tightened at the corners as he realized his Uncle Will was still full of it.

"But by golly now they all think I'm just wonderful!"

Linn chuckled quietly, nodded as the last half-dozen threaded nails were twist-hammered into place.

"I got to be careful, though," Will admitted.

"How's that?"

"Your Captain Crane that runs squad?"

"Yeah?"

"He said the same thing too."

"I ... seeee," Linn drawled, then chuckled again.

"That's as may be, but it's still nice to be admired!"

 

Edited July 15 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

EXERCISE!

"ARTHUR!"

Daisy's voice was sharp as her kitchen knives, and she kept her knives sharp enough that she'd had to take a wooden spoon to the Sheriff once, who tested an edge and experimentally scraped it down his cheek to see if it was, indeed, shaving sharp.

It was.

He ignored the incensed Irishwoman bouncing and fluttering like an enraged hen, smacking him about the shoulders and arm with that wooden spoon of hers (she used a clean one, for which he thanked her later) -- he ignored her less than gentle ministrations as he carefully washed the blade, dried it and replaced it with its fellows on the folded towel where it lived while awaiting use.

He turned quickly, caught Daisy's wrist: the green-eyed, red-headed Irish owner and operator of the Silver Jewel's kitchen and dining section, froze: the Sheriff was one of only two men on this entire earth who could touch her without her let, and live to tell the tale.

He'd never touched her beyond utter necessity -- he was not a man to take undue liberties -- so when his hand closed about the slenderest part of her forearm, she froze, mid-swing.

"Daisy," he said, his eyes that light blue that meant amusement, or gentleness, or something besides a ready-and-willingness to rip someone's throat out barehand -- "you're cute when you're aggravated!"

He released her wrist, lifted his Stetson in salute, turned and walked out, leaving the open-mouthed Irishwoman to stare at his retreating backside.

He stopped at the doorway, frowned, turned.

"Just remembered," he said, looked back at the shocked, staring ladies: "Daisy, if there was another mine collapse or some disaster and we'd need to send help, would you still be willin' to run the field kitchen?"

Daisy's arm had lowered, slowly, and now was about belt level: she recovered, took an aggressive step forward, shook her culinary scepter at the man and declared loudly, "An' who else cuid run such a thing! Ye said it yersel', I'm th' only woman tha' cuid make it work!"

The Sheriff nodded slowly and she saw amusement peeking through his eyes like a grinning little boy peeking around the corner of a schoolhouse.

"Thank you, Daisy. It's not happened yet, but I wanted to check."

He rubbed his cheek thoughtfully and added, "Nice knife."

A wooden spoon whistled through the air and hit the wall behind where he'd just been.

 

Sweating men and willing boys unloaded the short freight wagons just arrived from the depot.

The wagons themselves were transported on flatcars, carefully brought down built-on-site ramps: the Sheriff had them custom made, short wagons, but broad and deep, intended to load crossways on a flatcar: the wagons were well loaded, rented teams hitched on and wagons driven to where they were needed, set in a neat, military-precise row under a pale eyed lawman's supervision.

Four cast iron stoves -- four! -- were set up with big tarps forming back wall and roof: local freighters brought in wood to feed the stoves, and Daisy took immediate and undisputed charge of firing four stoves and setting enough food ready to feed the troops.

The diminutive, sharp-tongued Irishwoman was everywhere -- she was hither and yon like a fly in a barnyard -- her voice carried well, her orders were brief, concise, clearly spoken and pitched to be heard: when the first loaves of bread came out, hot and fragrant, they were barely cooled enough to cut before they were sliced and stacked, thickly buttered and plattered.

Daisy heard water being poured and she whirled, thrust her wooden spoon out.

"ARTHUR!"

A tall boy froze, turned, set the rope-handled bucket down as a flour sack apron came across the grassy yard toward him and brought a red-headed Irishwoman with a wooden spoon upraised, with it.

Daisy seized the sides of the boy's head, kissed his forehead, gripped his shoulders and lowered her head a little to look very directly into his eyes.

"Arthur, ye're the heart o' this all," she said, her voice low and urgent.  "Watter for th' cookin' an' these men march on their stomachs. Once they bring out th' injured th' Doc will need watter too."

She laid a motherly hand along his smooth, youthful jaw and almost whispered, "It's a man's work ye're doin', Arthur, an' it's work we need!"

Daisy turned him, gave him a small shove:  "Off wi' ye now, an' get yer brothers! Keep these barrels filled!"

Daisy turned, ran her wrist across her forehead, then almost ran to one of the tables.

"Rachel, darlin', there's a side o' beef carryin' this way! Saints be praised, we've beef enough t' start!"

A tall man in a black suit packed a familiar and most welcome sack over his shoulder.

He paid no attention at all to the fact that his black suit was white-dusted from the flour sack he carried.

The Sheriff's young followed, each burdened: Jacob and a brother each had the end of a crate, which they set down with great care, as though the contents might break: Sarah McKenna and her twin sisters followed, serious-faced.

"We've fruit," Sarah said without preamble, seizing a jar of canned peaches from one of the just-delivered crates. "We've butter, eggs, lard, flour, we've honey" -- Daisy was making a fast mental inventory, looked at a table being brought up.

"Set this here an' level it," she said, then turned back to Sarah.

"Pies?"

"As many as we can!"

Sarah turned, thrust a finger at one of the cloth-tucked crates.

"I brought a dozen pie pans. We'll get that going right now!"

 

Daisy Finnegan, the green-eyed, red-headed wife of that hard-knuckled, broad-shouldered Irish fire chief, did not let herself rest for a day and a night and a day yet again.

When she finally did, it was by virtue of giving one final order, thrusting her wooden spoon at one of the ladies to emphasize her command, and then her eyes rolled up and she honestly collapsed.

Sean and the Irish Brigade were there, by that time involved in recovery efforts: he wasn't close enough to do any but stare as his fire-souled wife wobbled and then went down, but a pale eyed lawman was close enough to catch her.

Sheriff Linn Keller's arm was behind Daisy's knees, his other arm under her shoulder blades: he straightened, an honestly distressed look on his face, as he straightened and turned toward his old friend.

"Sean," he said, distress in his voice and dismay on his face, "what do I do with her now?"

A strong man laughed the way a strong man will, and when Daisy woke up, she was on a cot, in a private railcar, with another green-eyed Irishwoman sitting beside her, reading.

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

PROFIT

Marnie Keller was a six year old girl with red cowboy boots, a riding skirt and a definite attitude.

Six years old, Linn mused as he led the stallion by the cheek strap, Marnie in the saddle, the stirrups shortened up until her little bitty legs matched the black doghouses.

Marnie didn't really talk much, not unless she had a distinct opinion about something, or unless something was not right and she wasn't going to stand for it -- like the time she told her Daddy about that mean old man that put bags we weren't 'posta talk about in the New York apartment she used to live in -- Linn realized she was talking about money bags -- discreet inquiry revealed the bank robbery, the name of the bank that was robbed; more communications to and from the East Coast and the bank was genuinely surprised that a four year old girl was the cork that drained the secret from its illicit reservoir, that a preschooler gave a clear and particular enough description that every cent from the heist was recovered: the bank offered a reward and Marnie stubbornly insisted that all she wanted was a new pair of boots like her Daddy's -- but red!

Now another red pair of cowboy boots rode with the little girl, and they both rode in the saddle of a stallion Linn was interested in buying, as he figured he could resell it to another estancia he knew of, and make a profit.

Until then, he knew he had to find out how well this fine fellow tolerated a rider, and his daughter was much less weight than a grown man, and she insisted on riding.

She also insisted on climbing into the saddle herself.

She didn't want to be picked up and put in the saddle -- "Daddy, I'm not a baby," she'd protested -- the stallion offered no objection as Linn sidled him up against the fence, as Marnie climbed the other side of the fence, as Marnie threw a leg over and kind of fell sideways into the saddle, as Marnie gave her Daddy her very fiercest Your Hand Is Up To Catch Me I'm Not A Baby! glare.

Now father and daughter and a thus-far-tolerant stallion started walking longways of the field.

Until some fierce ravening monster reared with claws and fangs and horror dripping from its jaws

(read wind-blown leaf, or passing shadow)

-- reared, and the stallion shied, pulled, whipped around and ran!

Linn took three stumbling steps, turned --

Marnie stood in the shortened stirrups -- she stuck her head out over the saddle horn and her little six year old fingers seized a good double handful of coarse mane -- this wee first grader with pigtails and pale eyes bared her teeth and snarled, and as Linn looked around, assessing where his other horses were, which could he mount bareback and give effective chase, how far away are they --

Marnie yelled "GO GO GO GO GO!" --

The stallion was not used to a child's screaming encouragement that close to its best ear, and responded by punching its nose through the wind ahead of it, laying its ears back and grunting with the effort of trying to set the Land Speed Record, and by the Sheriff's estimation, doing a fine job of approaching it!

Marnie leaned with the stallion as it came about, apparently not wanting to try jumping a white board fence collar bone high on a tall man: on the other side of the fence, an equine challenge -- Linn's Apple-horse screamed its head-shaking challenge to this interloper, this rival stallion -- Apple gave chase on his side of the fence as this chestnut trespasser seared through the atmosphere, dust, dirt clods and Mach diamonds in its wake:  Marnie gave a yell of pure triumph and performed her very finest imitation of a burr in a coon dog's coat.

The pasture was long -- long enough a galloping horse at this altitude would tire fast, unless it was lifetime acclimated to the thin air -- Marnie felt more than saw or heard her Daddy charging up toward her, bareback.

He came alongside.

The fun really began.

Linn was a tall man, he was a man with long arms, he made a reach for Marnie, recovered, tried again: Marnie, with the fearlessness of a child, kicked her boots free of the shortened up doghouse stirrups, jumped a little -- Linn wasn't sure how she did it, but she was of a sudden a-squat on the saddle -- she jumped just as Apple-horse snapped and drove stiff forelegs at this intruder --

Linn's reach was suddenly filled by pigtails and strong young arms and he fell back, barely staying bareback on his Apple-stallion: Marnie laughed as her Daddy yelled "WHOA NOW, WHOA DAMN YOU, WHOA UP NOW" -- Apple-horse didn't want to whoa, he wanted to go, the chestnut turned, Apple turned, and in that one moment where the party of the second part swapped fore for aft, a combination of Serendipity, Centrifugal Force and probably a dose of luck, and the Sheriff's long legs parted company with his horse's barrel.

Marnie clung to him, legs and arms, like a limpet on a rock.

Linn curled up around her, he hit, he rolled, he came up on the points of his elbows with his teeth clenched as well as his eyes.

He rolled over on his back, breath hissing out between locked-shut teeth.

Marnie set her red cowboy boot soles on the ground on either side of her Daddy's soft ribs, she sat up and looked around, her eyes bright, and she did what only a six year old little girl could do in that moment.

While Linn lay there with about half his wind drove out of him, while he was trying hard to profane the universe in general and chestnut stallions in particular, while he pried his watering eyes open and experimentally straightened his protesting elbows, Marnie Keller, all pigtails and delight and red cowboy boots, laughed the happy, delighted laugh of an innocent little child.

 

Ambassador Marnie Keller caressed the chestnut mare and her get, a curious, restless little stallion that brought a delighted laugh from the pale eyed representative of the thirteen star system Confederacy.

Marnie rubbed the mare under the jaw, held out a swirly-red peppermint on a flat palm, then did the same for the little stallion.

"He's an active one, he is," the grinning young man said. "Comes from Earth, he does. Th' dam is a delight, she couldn't be better."

"I rode a chestnut stallion, when I was a little girl," Marnie laughed as the active little fellow galloped away, looped back, orbited his dam, squirted off again.

"What was his name, ma'am?"

"Peetie. I was just a little girl when my Daddy got him.  He didn't keep Peetie long, just long enough for him to run away with me riding him."

"Is that why he sold Peetie, ma'am?" the young man asked, rubbing the little stallion's ears.

"No," Marnie sighed. "He'd planned to make money with a turnaround sale, and he did ... but the stallion needed a name."

"How did you pick Peetie, ma'am?"

Marnie laughed, and those who heard her laugh, smiled, for her good nature and her good humor were as contagious as always.

"I told my Daddy -- now I was just a little girl, mind you" -- Marnie held out a gloved hand, palm down, indicating a child's height -- "but I stood there with my knuckles on my belt and I threw my head back and I declared with all the wise and comprehensive knowledge of six years of age, that the chestnut stallion ran like a PT boat, and so PT became Peetie!"

 

 

Edited July 18 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

BLAME THE PIANO!

The image of the Silver Jewel Saloon was a popular one among the Thirteen Star Systems.

Marnie found it convenient to meet unofficially in the back room of a Silver Jewel, on another world entirely, where conversations could run freely, some unofficially, without the formal stricture of an Official and Formal Meeting to Formally Address Official Matters.

Marnie found she got good results with such things as fish sticks, chicken sticks, fried onion rings and informal finger food: she got even better results by being a warm, listening, personable sort, rather than the formal, aloof Chief Ambassador in a formal gown.

It was not at all uncommon for the Ambassador's office to receive an invitation to the opening of a new Silver Jewel -- generally because whoever was opening it, was opening on more optimism than expertise, and in these cases, such amenities as a genuine mahogany bar, or a piano, would mysteriously appear, generally arriving by wagon drawn by the local draft animals.

In such cases, after the fine new mahogany bar arrived and was positioned and secured, a team would arrive and assess the structural integrity of the floor beneath.

In more than one case, the dense mahogany was supported by structures discreetly, surreptitiously installed beneath -- in two cases, by virtue of excavating a basement, securing and sealing Vesuvian concrete walls, with stone pillars to hold the weight of piano and bar both: only after these load bearing structures were in place and finished, were the proprietors notified of this new structure, and a stairway constructed to allow access to this underground bounty.

Michael had quite the business, selling pianos and arranging piano tuners and piano players: proper young ladies learned the piano in order to play for guests in the family parlor, and to play hymns in church: other young ladies learned piano, frankly, because they wished to be less restricted by society and their parents, and playing in a saloon seemed quite the adventure.

Michael cultivated the gift of the lawman and of the businessman, and that was a memory for faces and names, and so it was that the opening of a new Silver Jewel, under twin moons and unfamiliar constellations, was attended by Michael and his twin sister Victoria.

The crowd was considerable, as one might expect, as their attendance was noised about ahead of time, and their arrival did not disappoint: the second moon was just risen, and under twin full moons, the street was bathed in liquid silver and filled with well-dressed couples.

The piano was as yet silent, its wooden hinged cover folded down over the keys, and locked: the device was polished, and to questing fingers, new-looking and spotless and just slick as a gut.

Heads turned, conversation ceased: in the distance, and not too far a distance at that, a scream like someone goosed a steam-whistle: as voices stilled and people turned, they heard hooves -- hard hooves, on approach, punishing the roadway with an utter lack of mercy.

Three Fanghorns in an arrow formation -- Lightning in the lead, Cyclone and Thunder flanking -- came into sight, a living triangle of blond-furred death -- fighting fangs flashed in the silver light as Lightning lifted her head and screamed again, as her two young sang battle harmony with her: three riders leaned back a little, three semi-carnivorous mounts skidded to a fast stop, shaking their heads, screaming like they fully intended to eat the whole dern town and pick their teeth with the splinters.

One must forgive the crowd for drawing back.

The sight of a grown Fanghorn in full rear, stony hooves slashing at the night air, canines shocking white and by all appearances a-thirst for blood, is a sight that will shrivel the heart of a strong man.

Michael dismounted as he used to: he threw up a leg, swung it over, dropped to the ground.

His Confederate field kept him from landing wrong and hurting himself, for the drop was better than six feet.

Thunder and Cyclone bellied down and Angela and Victoria dismounted less dramatically.

Lightning lowered her head and nuzzled at Michael's chest, closing her eyes and chirping like a happy bird as he rubbed under her blunt, muscled jaw:  he fed her something, nobody was sure quite what, but the pleasure on the boss-headed Fanghorn's face was unmistakable.

Michael turned, looked around, grinned like he always did.

"I have an appointment tonight," he declared, pitching his voice to be heard to the far row: "is Marjorie here?"

Victoria and Angela smiled as a red-faced girl came through the crowd, her bonnet pulled forward as far as it would go, as if to hide her bashfulness.

Michael strode forward, took the flame-cheeked girl's hands in his.

Silence -- a surprising silence, for a crowd this size -- Michael leaned closer to her, pressing the ruffle of her concealing bonnet against her cheek as he whispered, "Can you help me out tonight?"

He drew back a little and she looked up at him, eyes bright in the silver moonlight, and nodded.

The heavy, ornately-frosted-glass-paneled door opened: a man with a handlebar mustache and a knee length white apron stepped onto the boardwalk, threw his arms wide.

"Come in," he sang, "the Silver Jewel is now open!"

Michael, with Marjorie on one arm and his twin sister on the other, climbed the three steps to the Boardwalk, and went inside.

Angela, behind him, approached a tall, slender, uncomfortable looking young man who looked like he was only just coming into his maturity.

She turned to face him squarely and he swallowed, clearly intimidated by this famous face he'd seen on the Inter-System.

Angela reached down, gripped his wrist and brought his arm up, then she turned to stand beside him, her hand on his arm.

"A lady neither enters, nor leaves, a room, unless she is on the arm of a gentleman," she said firmly: she lifted her chin and steered this uncertain young draftee through the parting crowd, up the stairs behind her siblings, and into this new Jewel.

Michael guided Marjorie over to the piano-bench, drew it out and dropped a well-stuffed, bright-scarlet, silk-covered pillow with white ruffles and gold tassels, gestured: Marjorie came around the bench, lowered herself carefully, cautiously, knowing she was seen by more people than she usually saw in one place at one time.

Marjorie reached up and pulled the ribbon tie loose under her chin, removed her deep, ruffle-edged bonnet: Michael took it and set it carefully atop the piano, accepted the mug of beer -- the ceremonial first pay for the piano player -- he dropped a folded bandana on the piano, then set the frothy-topped mug on folded cloth.

Marjorie reached up, brought questing fingers to the back of her neck: she unfast a fine necklace-chain, brought a key out of her bodice on the chain, unlocked the piano: she replaced the necklace, leaving the key visible, then carefully, delicately, almost as if she were afraid she'd break it, folded the cover back, exposing gleaming-white ivories.

The bar was crowded, their Mr. Baxter laughing as he tapped one, another, several more beers: men drank, talked, laughed, looked around approvingly.

Conversation was building as it always does in such moments, at least until a shy-looking girl who didn't look to be halfway through her teen years danced curved fingers over the keys of a newly-tuned piano, brought out a loud, chorded, half-dozen-note introduction, then began playing "Pretty Redwing" with precision and with expertise.

It had been her grandmother's favorite tune, and it seemed appropriate for the first tune on this brand new saloon piano.

Michael handed Mr. Baxter a fat buckskin bag not long after, a bag that clinked with hard coin -- "the coin of the realm," Michael referred to it later -- and to Marjorie's expertise, when she played a waltz, Michael claimed a startled matron's hand and whirled her around the little space available in the middle of the floor: tables were pushed back, chairs inverted on the tables, some tables stacked to make room -- both Victoria and Angela spun as well, their company being requested by gentlemen of the region.

The stage curtains parted as the waltz ended: three painted ladies with shocking-short skirts (why, them hem lines is halfway up their calves!) -- and feathered-mask headpieces, ornately-petticoated skirts in hand, and proceeded to high-kick shamelessly and enthusiastically to the piano player's Can-Can.

Marjorie had been one of the best students Michael ever sponsored to Mrs. Hartley's piano school, and Marjorie did not disappoint that night, nor, apparently, did she disappoint afterwards.

When Michael next visited this particular Silver Jewel, a year and a half later, Marjorie and her husband met him there, and Marjorie was quickly escorted by both her husband and by Michael, to the padded piano bench.

"The doc said she ought to be in bed," her anxious young husband said, "but she wanted to meet you here."

Marjorie laid a hand on her expansive belly -- she was full term, if Michael was any judge, though whether she'd birth twins, or a team of horses, he wasn't sure, given her gravid girth -- Marjorie swallowed and whispered, "I wanted to play you something, but I don't think there's time!"

Two hours later, in the town's hospital, when the sweat of a woman's labor beaded her forehead and the pains of a woman's labor twisted her guts, she gripped her husband's hand and grated, "It's all that piano's fault!" -- her teeth locked and her back arched as another contraction gripped her -- she relaxed a little as a nurse blotted her forehead, then laid a cool, damp washcloth across it, wiped her cheeks and her neck with another -- "if it wasn't for that piano, I'd never have met you that night!"

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

THE POWER OF SUGGESTION

Retired Chief of Police Will Keller lay staring at his bedroom ceiling.

Rain whispered on his new tin roof, as he called it.

New metal was laid on his existing shingles and screw-nailed down.

It was not as noisy as just a straight corrugated sheet metal roof like he had on his shed, like his sister had on her barns, but it was noise enough that his hand slid over a little as if seeking another hand.

He closed his eyes and took a long breath.

It was long years after he'd become a widower and he still missed his Crystal.

He smiled, just a little, there in the bedroom dark, remembering how the sound of rain on a roof would trigger her bladder and she'd have to go scampering for the little girl's room, and most likely even this whispering rush of rain on his new roof would be enough to cause her sympathetic urgency.

Will threw his covers back and sat up, allowing himself to wake at his own pace, and as usual, as soon as he came upright and then stood, he realized that his own bladder was experiencing the Power of Suggestion.

Comment has been made about the old men that have breakfast at 5:30 in the morning, all sitting hunched over the same table, cheerfully condamning this world and the handbasket it was using for transportation: we do not know if those commenting on these elderly sages, personally knew Uncle Will, but it remains fact that he joined his fellows at such an hour, and for that very meal, and it is equally factual that the State of the Onion was briskly, forcefully and enthusiastically discussed.

Had world leaders listened to the wisdom freely dispensed over the red-and-white-checked tablecloth, world hunger could be solved, wars ended, treaties signed and accords achieved.

Sadly, the only thing that came to their table that morning was the hash slinger, cheerful and youthful in a poodle skirt and saddle shoes, and rainwater running from the folded umbrella Uncle Will hung from the back of his chair.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller stood out on his front porch with a steaming mug in hand, content to smell the rain, to listen to the earth hiss as it drank from Nature's bounty: his wife saw him standing there, at once relaxed and watchful, not relaxed enough to slouch and not watchful enough to look like a bird dog on point, but giving the impression he was all the above ... without looking like it.

Shelly was only just come off shift.

She closed her car door quietly, firmly: she walked, unconcerned, for the front porch, without the running-in-the-rain squeal and sprint she'd used in years past.

Linn ran his arm around her and she molded herself into him, laid her cheek over on his shoulder and gave a long, quiet sigh.

"Rough night?" he asked quietly.

He felt her nod, and she felt his laugh.

She looked up at her pale eyed husband, waited.

His arm tightened ever so slightly, then slacked.

"I was remembering when Angela would leave for school," he said quietly. 

Shelly waited, listened to rain on the porch roof overhead.

"She'd come out here on the porch and watch for the school bus to come around the curve yonder on the highway -- she'd know if she started walking, she'd be at the end of the driveway by the time it got down-mountain and turned onto the road here and got to our place."

"She always was a planner," Shelly murmured, content to cuddle against her husband's strength, his animal warmth, welcome in the cool and damp.

"If she heard it raining," Linn continued, and Shelly heard amusement in his voice -- the quiet memory of a father, when his voice was smiling as he spoke that memory aloud -- "she'd have to stop and run back upstairs and go potty real quick!"

Now it was Shelly's turn to laugh.

"I don't know how she did it, maybe she set the Land Speed Record, but she was never late for the bus!"

"Well, y'know," Shelly said quietly, "when you're good, you're good!"

"Speaking of good, I took a personal day today."

Shelly looked up as Linn looked down.

A light gust blew fine mist in on them.

"Once I get the live stock taken care of, you want to do something exciting, just the two of us?"

Shelly turned a little, laid a hand flat on his chest, lowered her voice and her eyelashes both.

"Whattaya got in mind, handsome?" she murmured, and Linn bent his head and kissed her forehead.

"I was thinking something like a date, just the two of us ... either a hot fudge Sundae at the soda shop, or maybe a nap."

He felt his wife's silent laughter, then she looked up at him again and said, "You had me at hello!"

 

 

Edited July 21 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

AN IRISH WHIPPING

The Welsh Irishman saw it first.

No, that's not right.

One of the white mares saw it first.

The mare backed up, snorted, stamped, snorted again, clearly unhappy.

That's when the Welsh Irishman looked up, frowned.

Something was clearly wrong over in the stable bay.

Three mares were backed up, eyes walling, restless, muttering -- whatever it was, even the cat in the window was unhappy, all furred up, its calico tail looking like a stiff bottle brush.

Sean looked over to where the Irishman had been burnishing their beloved Steam Masheen and saw the man's concerned expression, saw him hang the polishing rag over the shining pressure dome, saw him take a step, take another, freeze.

Sean was big, Sean was red headed, and Sean was hard muscled: word was he could pick up their steam fire engine anytime he wanted and casually pack it off, and make it look easy.

He was a known bare knuckle brawler and had settled fights in the Saloon with one punch, and back in Cincinnati, he was said to have cleared a street of a rival fire company's entire membership during one of the not-infrequent Porkopolis riots.

Sean strode over to where Daffyd was staring -- the man was not backing up, but neither was he advancing -- he saw Sean from the edge of his vision, he saw Sean freeze, he spoke without turning his head, as if breaking eye contact with this dread intruder might give it let to kill their mares.

Rattlesnakes were not common this high up, they were actually rare, but Sean recalled the Sheriff's observation that "Everything has to eat. Snakes eat meeces, anywhere you've got meece you'll have snakes" -- Sean thought fast, considered what he'd heard about these dread and deadly serpents.

Daffyd looked around for something long -- a manure fork, a shovel --

"Sean, have ye a pistol?" he asked, his voice tight.

"Nay," Sean said, his voice edged with tension -- "no' in th' brick house, lad --"

"I can't get t' the fork from here."

The mares stamped, one threw her head, blew: Sean was afraid they might try to bolt right over top the snake, which would doubtless result in all three being bitten -- why, these devil's beasts could bite every one of a whole herd of horses, or so he'd heard!

Sean looked around, his lips peeling back -- then he saw it -- and an Irishman went to war.

Sean's lips drew a little apart, revealing shining white teeth under his Irish-red handlebar:  he thrust a burnished boot onto the step, drove his arm out, seized the blacksnake whip from the driver's box: he fell back, his weight coming solidly down the shaft of his leg as he allowed himself to fall back, off their Masheen and onto the hand-laid brick floor.

"Daffyd," Sean said, his voice serious, "do you step back now."

Sean Finnegan, Chief of the Irish Brigade, gripped the plaited handle of the blacksnake whip he used when driving his team of White Ladies, the hand-laid horse whip he used to snap a hole in the air a yard over the center mare's ears.

Daffyd looked around, backed up a step, backed another.

The rattler coiled tighter in its fighting S.

Only then did Daffyd remember hearing that dreadful tail chattering dryly at him.

Sean looked around, considered the close confines.

He usually swung his whip freely and without obstruction while standing in the driver's box like he was standing in a war-chariot, driving his Ladies with reins in one hand, leather in the other, a song on his lips and a savage joy filling his big Irish chest.

He'd practiced hours and hours and hours again with that whip, and on a bet he once snapped the cigar ash from a hand-rolled Cuban, and won drinks for him and his boyos for the doing of it.

Sean took two steps to the right, swung the whip, swung it again, hearing it whisper promises of pain and of blood as it looped through the air, a deadly serpent in its own right.

Sean's arm came down, fast, his wrist snapped --

The mares pushed back, shoving into one another --

The cat in the window stood up, back arched, yowled --

 

Sean Finnegan, the big, hard-muscled Irish fire chief, did not hesitate to rake away all the straw in the Ladies' section of their fine brick fire house.

He and Daffyd mucked the stalls and the German irishman dollied the Irish Buggy out back and dumped manure onto the pile -- it was warm enough the pile wasn't steaming like it did on cooler mornings -- they brought out all the straw, they carefully forked in fresh straw, they had the Ladies outside, harnessed, but walking, with two Irishmen walking with them, something they did regularly.

The snake's headless carcass went out on the manure pile and was buried with a fresh load of second hand horse feed.

Sean borrowed a clasp knife and sharpened a small tree branch, out behind the firehouse -- a stub two inches long and not as thick as his little finger -- he impaled the beheaded rattler's open mouthed head on the sharp stub of the little branch.

"There now," he said, satisfied: "that'll warn any snakes wha' happens when they cross an Irishman!"

 

Edited July 22 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

CHEATED!

Three doxies in scandalously-short saloon-girl skirts, seamed stockings and shamelessly spike-heeled dancing shoes smiled behind feather-plumed glitter masks: they stood hip shot, one knee out, looking like the painted ladies they portrayed: matching sequined dresses and shining-scarlet lipstick, matching low-cut outfits, shoulder-to-shoulder, ranked in echelon beside the bride in white, looking as virginal, as pure, as innocent, as the saloon girls ... didn't.

The Silver Jewel, that bastion of masculine refuge, this home of laughter and profanity, of beer and bravado and bad jokes, normally held the sound of men's voices in conversation, in discussion, in argument, in accord; the piano usually maintained a cheerful background, enough to encourage the conversation, for a talking man is often a thirsty man, and ... well, it was the Silver Jewel Saloon, and a saloon sells beer, right?

Card games were suspended: patrons at the bar stood facing the happy couple and their local preacher, grinning and taking the occasional pull on their freshly-filled mugs: a pale-eyed young woman with pale eyes played the ancient fanfare and traditonal music, the service spoke the ancient words.

Instead of marching out, down the church aisle (or a reasonable facsimile thereof -- this was the Silver Jewel, not the church!) -- after the groom bent the bride backwards and laid a good one on her, right there in front of God and everybody, to the salute of upraised mugs and the shouted approval of everyone else, the piano player struck up a lively Can-Can.

Dancing girls, white-gowned bride, two other ladies present, formed a fast, elbow-linked line and laughed with honest delight as the Ladies of the Bride all danced a brisk, enthusiastic and surprisingly good Can-Can, high-kicking and laughing, while two mountain fiddlers quietly positioned themselves on either side of the piano: when the bride and the ladies finished, laughing and breathless and in the traditional terminal "splits", the grinning groom came over, took his bride's hands, hauled her off the floor to the shouted approval of the Saloon.

The crowd parted, forming an open aisle toward the front door: to the brisk and now-traditional "Turkey in the Straw," bride and groom spun and danced and whirled their way to the front door, where the groom shamelessly scooped up his bride, threw his head back and yelled "Yahoo!" -- the bridal party poured out the door after them, waving, whistling, cheering as the party of the second part packed his blushing bounty to the passenger side of a waxed, shining car parked three vehicles from the one decorated with tin cans on fishing line and streamers duct taped to the door handles: they made their swift escape, while three painted ladies slipped down the hallway, into the stage door, and swiftly divested themselves of their performing attire, and returned to their normal selves.

The pale-eyed pianist smiled and thanked the tall boy who relieved her at the ivory 88: she glided down the hallway and into the stage door, up the few stairs: not long after, Ambassador Marnie Keller and her youngest sister slipped out the back door of the Silver Jewel, smiling quietly, two healthy-cheeked women in blue jeans and flannel shirts: they swung aboard two tethered, patient, saddled Appaloosa mares, and disappeared quickly out the back way.

 

"John?"

"Hm?"

Dr. John Greenlees Jr.'s voice was drowsy, relaxed: he rolled up on his side, smiled without opening his eyes.

Marnie's hand was warm on his arm, the way it always was.

"John, do you feel cheated?"

Dr. John opened one eye, regarded his wife's unfocused, shadowed form.

"Not since poker," he mumbled, his eye closing again.

It wasn't until the next day -- not until Marnie decided he was too near asleep to have a good conversation, and remembering how her own Mama used to insist her Daddy wake up and listen, which tore up his good rest -- that Marnie started from the beginning.

"John, I read on the news where a couple got married in the same courtroom where they met on jury duty."

Dr. John Greenlees turned off his screen, swung his chair around to face his wife squarely.

He wanted to send the message that he was actually paying attention to her, that he wasn't telling her she was not important enough for his undivided.

"Courtroom," he echoed.

"You know I just got back from being a bridesmaid."

Dr. John nodded.

"I was all gussied up like a saloon girl."

"I like it when you get all gussied up," John said, and Marnie heard the deeper quality to his voice that meant he really liked it when she got all gussied up.

"John, do you feel cheated?"

John raised one eyebrow, and Marnie was struck just how remarkably much he resembled his father.

"Cheated," he said quietly, then frowned, considered the floor at her feet, and finally looked up.

"No, I can't say so."

"You're not disappointed we didn't meet climbing the Matterhorn, or deep sea diving, or --"

Dr. John held up one finger.

It was enough to stop Marnie's words instantly.

"I remember," he said quietly, "having such a crush on you in grade school.

"I remember taking you to Prom and watching as you beat the living snot out of the Road Rager that forced us off the road and wrecked his own vehicle in the process.

"I remember feeling like your Dad described his own wedding day when he said he was Button Bustin' Proud when I put that ring on your finger and lifted your veil."

Marnie blushed, smiled, turned her head a little, remembering.

"No, Marnie, I don't feel cheated at all. Why would you ask?"

Marnie chewed on her bottom lip and, for a moment, he saw the uncertain little girl she'd been in grade school the day he asked if she wanted one of his sandwiches he'd brought for lunch.

John rolled his chair over to her, hunched over and took her hands in his, waited.

"The ... couple," Marnie said hesitantly, "when ... when I went back to be a bridesmaid ..."

She looked up at John, her eyes soft and vulnerable: he knew she was open now, unguarded, and he cautioned himself to do absolutely nothing that would cause her distress.

As hard as Marnie was, as callused and armored as her spirit was against the violence, the calumnies, the injustice that visited itself upon her so many years ago, in this moment she was without that armor, and John knew just how soft she was inside that wall she'd built around herself.

"The bride and groom met in the Silver Jewel," Marnie said softly, "so that's where they got married, and" -- he watched the color rise in her cheeks and knew it was spreading, that her ears would be positively aflame -- "she asked me to be a bridesmaid, and ..."

"And I'm glad I wasn't there," her husband whispered, "for the bridesmaid just might've been carried upstairs!"

Marnie's eyes widened, her pupils dilating, and Dr. John excused himself for a moment, turned back to his screen: when he swung his chair back to his wife, he held out both hands, and they both stood.

"Dr. Snell will be covering for me," he whispered.

Marnie stepped forward and raised her face to his, and replied without words in a language universal to such moments.

 

 

Edited July 24 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

STONECRACKER

"Sir?"

"Yes, Jacob?"

Jacob Keller eased his weight into his stirrups, lifted his backside, worked his muscles, the way he did when stopped.

"Sir, if you glare at that stone much harder, you'll bust it."

Sheriff Linn Keller continued staring at the double stone.

His Mama's portrait, on the left, with the Sheriff's six point star, laser engraved: name, birth, death, Beloved Wife and Mother, and beside this -- on the other half -- her husband's name and particulars, without anything else.

Jacob knew this was because his pale eyed Pa steadfastly refused to have anything else added.

God Almighty, he thought, never let me be either the bitter son nor the martinet father that caused the son's bitterness!

"You think I'm harsh," Sheriff Linn Keller said quietly, never looking away from the stone.

Jacob considered his answer carefully.

Linn did not wait for a reply.

"Jacob, you remember Angela shot that field lieutenant with my .32 Walther."

"Yes, sir."

"You'll recall she was keeping him from killing Marnie."

"Yes, sir."

"And you'll remember when she desperately needed something to work, it worked well."

"It did, sir."

"My father and I were at the gun shop and I saw that very pistol," Linn said, his voice tight with old anger. "I said that was a nice looking pistol and my father sniffed and said it was just a small European pistol, and he moved on down the counter.

"When a man makes a correct decision and moves on, his mind often times removes it from memory."

Jacob walked his stallion up a little closer to his pale eyed Pa, for the Sheriff was not speaking loudly, and Jacob wished to hear what the man had to say.

"In his mind he was right and he dismissed it from his mind."

Linn turned his head, looked at his son with hard eyes, the eyes of a son wounded by his father's words.

"What I heard was him dismissing me, dismissing my opinion, dismissing my taste. I heard him say my opinions and I were unimportant."

Linn turned back to the tomb stone, and Jacob saw his Pa's bottom jaw muscles tighten.

"Jacob, if I am ever as cavalier with you or with your brothers, it would be a personal favor if you would take a singletree and ball bat my head over the backfield fence!"

Linn's words were still quiet.

There was an unmistakable tension in those quiet syllables.

 

Marnie's universal translator vibrated a little, just enough to let her know it was working.

She slipped an earpiece into the injured woman's bloodied ear, held her hand.

One of the White Sisters, sent as a delegation to the Confederacy, was hanging through the window, up to her belt in the wrecked brougham.

It had been a collision, at an intersection: the at-fault vehicle was too badly damaged to be moved, the driver was still behind his wheel with a bloodied nose and a dazed expression.

Marnie's concern was for the woman, and the woman was whispering urgently in something that used to be French, a century and more ago, a language changed with time and with distance and with isolation.

Marnie blotted blood from the woman's closed eyelids: she opened her eyes, blinked.

The Sister held the woman's hand, and in her grip, a green-glass Rosary: the woman blinked again, focused on the rosary, then on the Veiled Sister, then on Marnie.

Marnie tried not to look down at the long spike of sheared steel impaling through the woman's belly.

"I'm cold," the woman whispered in a husky voice, then her hands tightened and she coughed and added, "I'm so scared!"

Marnie and the Veiled Sister looked at one another, a shared look of two people who had nothing to work with and lacking the tools and skills to do any real good.

They did the only thing they could think of to try and bring this soul a measure of comfort in her last moments on this earth.

They sang.

Two women -- a diplomat for a thirteen star system Confederacy, and a veiled Sister of a greater Kingdom -- sang softly and in flawless harmony.

They sang in French, in the pure native classroom French they'd both learned.

Not far away Marnie heard the approach of a large Diesel engine under heavy throttle, the raucous honk of air horns: a big red truck braked hard, running men swarmed the crumpled, still-steaming brougham, shouting orders, driving pry bars into the wreckage,

Hydraulics whined as steel shears bit through supports, as steel arms spread gaps into openings, as metal was disassembled from around the trapped woman's mangled legs.

Marnie backed up, biting her bottom lip, tears searing down her cheeks: she and the Veiled Sister drew off to the side, watched as this planet's Irish Brigade attacked withcontrolled, absolutely merciless violence, and absolute tenderness, as medics thrust into the sheared-edge wreckage and did their best to save what was left of a human life.

The Inter-System showed grim-faced men muscling the wreckage apart, showed the shining-red Kenworth, the squad behind, lights still spitting alarm as it waited.

The Inter-System did not show two women, standing apart, heads bowed as if in conference, the sun bright as it angled through green glass beads that spread emerald stains beside the red speckles on the Veiled Sister's habit.

 

Sheriff Jacob Keller took the mug of steaming coffee and leaned a little, kissed his wife carefully.

He was cautious in his movement.

The first time he'd tried this, as a newlywed, he was awkward and nervous and the mug was a little too full, and he spilled hot coffee down his wife's skirt.

This was the first time that Ruth ever realized that her normally-composed husband could jump back, startled, swear, look utterly crestfallen and turn and incredible shade of red, all at the same time.

Jacob's son Joseph looked up at him with bright and pale eyes.

"Whadja do, Pa?" 

Jacob took a noisy slurp, looked deep into his wife's eyes and murmured, "Dearest, thank you," then he squatted quickly and regarded his son with a serious expression.

"I," he said firmly, "did something very important."

Jacob's eyes widened, the way a little boy's eyes will widen when the Grand Old Man addressed him as more than a juvenile nuisance to be tolerated.

"Joseph, I did something very important that I may need you to do in future."

Joseph's young eyes grew very serious.

"Yes, sir?" he asked in a quiet, little-boy voice.

"Joseph, my Pa needed someone to listen to him. He had something that troubled him, and he needed someone who would listen, someone who he knew would not run with whatever he'd just said and use it for gossip."

Joseph gave a solemn and serious nod.

"Then your Aunt Marnie needed the same thing. She needed someone who would listen -- really listen -- so I did."

Jacob lifted his mug a little, turned it, offered the handle to his son.

"Haffence?" he grinned, and Joseph eagerly seized the heavy mug and happily slugged down half its contents: he handed it back, almost reluctantly, and Jacob downed the other half.

Father and son gave a loud, hissing "Aahhh!" followed by a good rippling belch, then Jacob rolled his eyes and gave a surprisingly-immature " 'Scuuuse me," in conspiratorial chorus with his grinning little boy: father and son regarded Ruth with practiced, entirely manufactured expressions of utter innocence.

 

Marnie studied the holographic display projected above her wrist-unit.

The cloaked hover-drone turned slowly, making a slow panoramic sweep of the Firelands cemetery.

Marnie keyed in the stealth field, activated the Iris, stepped through.

She squatted at her Gammaw's stone, eyes busy -- old habit -- calculating firing lanes, cover, concealment: gloved fingertips caressed her Gammaw's laser engraved portrait, and she felt that deep ache again she suspected would never go away.

Marnie looked at her Gampaw's half of the stone.

"You made your mistakes," she said quietly, "but Gammaw loved you and that's good enough for me."

Marnie looked around, seeing volumes and encyclopedic memories stacked up beside each and every stone here in the family section.

She stood.

"Jacob said Daddy was glaring fiercely," she said thoughtfully, then looked closer, squatted again.

Marnie ran gloved fingertips along a fresh crack -- one that hadn't been there a week before -- a barely visible split, cleaving what had been solid quartz, right down the middle.

Marnie thought of how her brother described their Daddy's murderous glare, how he'd warned the Grand Old Man, "Sir, if you glare at that stone much harder, you'll bust it."

"Jacob," she murmured, "how right you were!"

 

 

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

PAID IN FULL

Sarah Lynne McKenna looked up as the visitor dismounted.

Her expression was cool, almost frosty, absolutely unyielding.

"You came."

"Passin' through."

"You understand the terms of the bet."

A slow, suspicious nod.

The man was no stranger to gambling, to reading the player more than the cards, and his gambler's gut told him he might be up against more than he wanted -- but a bet was a bet -- and he admitted to himself he'd run his mouth when he told this pretty girl a .44 rifle would knock her on her pretty little backside.

He looked at the several long forms under a blanket on the wagon bed, and he looked at the plank set on two chunks of sawed stump with a child's nipple bottle standing on it.

She's gonna shoot that?

This close?

Sarah said, "The terms of the bet were that I would fire a .44 rifle at a mark, and if it did not knock me on my pretty little backside, you would admit you were wrong and you would apologize."

Sarah looked around, slowly, pointedly, almost insultingly.

"I brought no witnesses. I see you are intelligent enough to have brought none."

That stung, but his gambler's gut told him she was playing a deeper game than he wanted to challenge, so he said nothing in reply.

Sarah picked up a thin string he hadn't noticed.

The plank flipped over.

The baby bottle was upside down now, and started to drip.

Sarah ran a hand under the striped, brightly-covered blanket, pulled out a '73 rifle.

She brought it to shoulder, jacked the action -- "Water drop," she said. "You might want to stand off to the side so you can see me hit the drop as it falls."

He could not stop the soft "Naah" that whispered from between his stained teeth.

The bet was that the rifle would knock her down.

Nothing was said about hitting a falling drop of water.

He swung his eyes to the right, toward the leaking bottle --

His mouth fell open.

Sarah jacked the action -- viciously, firmly -- another drop shattered, a quick misty spray marking its collision with a fast moving .44 -- 

"Want to make it three?"

The rifle fired again and a third drop was blasted into vapor.

Sarah laid the rifle down on the blanket, pulled out another -- she half-cocked the heavy, musket-style hammer, dropped the breech block, dunked in a brass panatela.

"Buffalo rifle," she muttered as she cheek welded down onto the Sharps stock.

This time he watched the shooter, not the shot: he saw Sarah sway back with recoil, but she rode the recoil like she'd ride a horse's rear -- she moved with it and not against it -- her hands moved with the confidence of practice as she half cocked the hammer, dropped the heavy machined-steel breech block, dropped in another -- "Let's make sure it's no accident."

The Sharps boomed again: the '73 rifle was a sharper crack, the Sharps spoke with the voice of thunder.

Sarah was five for five.

She dropped the breech block, set the buffalo rifle back on the wagon bed.

"The terms of the bet," she said, "were that you would apologize if a .44 rifle didn't knock me down."

The gambler considered her thoughtfully, reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a coin he'd won that morning.

"The terms," he said carefully, "also included a double eagle."

"Keep it," Sarah said shortly. "Your word is payment enough."

She hadn't smiled once since the engagement started, and she was not smiling now.

He released the coin, withdrew thumb and forefinger from his vest pocket, nodded.

"I was wrong," he said. "I apologize."

Sarah flowed up to him, thrust out her hand, her grip surprisingly strong for what he'd dismissed as a mere girl.

"Paid in full," Sarah said, then turned back to the wagon: she slid both rifles under the top cover, closed and latched the tail gate, and the gambler watched as she climbed into the driver's seat, clucked up the mule, and drove away.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

MISTER CHARLES ROUBIDOUX

"Esther Wales?"

Esther Keller turned, regarded the well-dressed man with the tidy mustache and his flat-crowned, pearl-colored hat in hand.

"You have the advantage of me, sir," Esther said coolly, refusing to show her surprise at being addressed by her maiden name: "I do not believe we are acquainted."

The well-dressed stranger considered this, nodded once.
"We have not been properly introduced," he said quietly, then frowned.

He looked down, opened his coat, pulled a cloth wrapped object from the inside pocket.

Esther watched, her mind busy as he unfolded what appeared to be a silk kerchief from around a shockingly familiar object.

She swallowed.

She went, in the span of one heartbeat, from assessing a stranger's well-polished boots, his surprisingly well-cut suit, his tidy tonsure, to openly, obviously, staring at an artifact from her previous lifetime.

"I understand," the stranger said quietly, "that this belonged to your father."

Esther stared at the dueling pistol.

It had indeed belonged to her father.

She had its twin in a box on the mantel.

He held it thoughtfully, as if remembering.

"I was told," he said carefully, "that when the damned Yankees came through, when they burned the Wales farm and murdered your family, that you got away.

"My father told me you rode your father's racer and shot two Yankees, one with each of his pistols, in order to make your escape."

Esther's mouth was dry, but her mind was not frozen: she thought of her sleeve-knife and of the little pistol she wore in a thigh holster, available with a thrust of her hand through the concealed slit in her skirt's folds --

Is he here to arrest me for killing those Yankees? she thought, but her thought was without fear: she regarded the stranger steadily, waited.

He draped the scarf over an adjacent tabletop, placed the pistol carefully on the scarf, turned back to her.

"I was your neighbor," he said quietly. "I am Charles Roubidoux."

Esther raised an eyebrow, turned her head slightly, the way a woman will when considering something interesting, something unexpected.

"In my younger years," he pressed on, as if stumbling out words he'd wanted to say for a very long time, "I wished to find and to propose to this remarkable woman who did what I was not able."

He swallowed, looked away, cleared his throat, tried again.

"Years passed and I realized a woman of your quality would doubtless be claimed already."

"Yes," Esther agreed quietly.

Roubidoux blinked and Esther could see the disappointment in his expression.

"Yes," he pressed, "but are you happily married?"

Esther's face colored, just a little, and he saw the ghost of a smile at the corners of her eyes.

"Yes, Mr. Roubidoux," she said quietly. "I am very happily married."

He nodded, took a long breath, dropped his eyes for several moments, then looked back up, and for a moment -- just for a moment! -- she saw the shy little boy she'd played with as a child.

"Forgive me," he said uncertainly. "I have been forward."

"You were honest," Esther corrected gently. "I cannot fault honestly."

He nodded, looked at the pistol, looked back at Esther.

He opened his mouth as if to say something else, closed it, frowned: he brought his pearl-colored hat across his middle, bowed.

"Adieu, Mrs. Keller," he said gravely: Esther dropped a flawless curtsy, and her eyes followed him out her office door.

Esther stood for several more moments before going over to the closed door.

She turned the key and shot the lock, and turned back to the little round table beside the door, with the silk scarf draped over it, and her father's dueling-pistol on the scarf.

Esther picked it up, smiled, examined it closely -- she lifted the hammer, looked closely at the nipple, tilted it so she could catch the window's light into the bore.

Clean, she thought: absolutely no rust anywhere.

Esther glided over to the mantle, to the chip-carved box with the polished brass latch: she lifted the lid -- she'd had the box made by the Daine boys, up on the mountain, had them make two boxes of this kind, and another pair of dueling-pistols for the second box, with which she gifted her husband the following Christmas.

Esther placed her father's dueling pistol in the box with the one she'd managed to hang onto while fleeing for her very life.

Esther Keller, the green-eyed, red-headed wife of that long tall Sheriff, glided down the stairs and pushed silently out the door: she lifted her skirts and hurried across the dirt street and stepped up onto the board walk opposite and pushed open the door to her husband's Sheriff's office.

Sheriff Linn Keller was just coming down the hallway between the cells when he saw his wife cross in front of him, and he stared as she pulled open the bottom right hand drawer of his desk, as she pulled out his bottle of peach brandy and two glasses, as she poured two healthy libations, as she turned and handed one to him.

"To a Southern gentleman," Esther declared, eyes bright and glittering with feelings she'd hidden for long years ready to spill over and run down her cheeks: she raised her brandy and declared, "To Mr. Charles Roubidoux!"

They drank.

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

TAKE THE POWDER KEG

The silhouette wore a Stetson and carried what looked like a tray with tall cups: Sheriff Linn Keller frowned at the image on the frosted glass of his office door, stood, came around his desk and opened the door just as Michael tried swinging his foot sideways to knock with the edge of his boot sole.

Linn stepped back, his eyes tightening at the corners and his smile following across the rest of his face.

Michael came in, set the cardboard carrier on his Pa's green desk blotter.

He straightened and looked at his father and said almost uncertainly, "The girls told me they bring you coffee when they want to talk."

Linn looked at the offering and chuckled a little.

"Coffee does not come in a waxed paper sack," he speculated, raising an eyebrow, and Michael's reply was that boy-quick, contagious grin of his.

"I wasn't sure if you'd want chocolate chip cookies or a couple Dog Nuts, so I brought both."

Linn unrolled the sack, looked in, drew his head back in pleased surprise.

"That sack," he said quietly, "is plumb full."

Michael shrugged. 

"Mama said never shop when you're hungry."

"And you were."

Michael spread his hands and laughed quietly.

"It smelled so good in there, how's a body not hungry?"

Linn twisted one of the tall, sleeved, paper coffee cups free:  "Both the same?"

"Yes, sir."

Linn handed one to Michael, set his beside the cardboard carrier, looked into the sack again.

"I reckon," the Sheriff said thoughtfully, "we'd ought to eat these before they go stale."

"Yes, sir."

"I don't reckon this'll spoil our noon meal."

"No, sir."

Linn pulled out something chocolate iced and still warm, took an experimental bite.

"It don't pay to eat too much on an empty stomach anyhow," he mumbled happily, and Michael dipped a hand into the sack, pulled out one of his own, and agreed with his father.

Michael eased his young bones down into a chair and his bony backside Pa did the same, and two pale eyed Keller men took the time to commune in silence, because when a son brings his father doughnuts, the world can wait.

Michael took a sip of coffee, set his tall cup on the corner of his Pa's desk.

"I got a good dose of humility this morning, sir," he said, and Linn's ear pulled back a little to hear something in his son's voice that meant he'd ought to listen closely to what his youngest had to say.

Linn set down the half eaten doughnut and looked very directly at Michael and nodded once.

Michael blinked a few times and frowned, his eyes dropping to the baseboard and following it one way, then the other: he blinked again, frowned harder, shook his head.

"Sir," he finally said, looked up at his Pa's attentive eyes, "you recall I went through some hell when they rebuilt my burnt out spine."

"I recall," Linn said quietly, and Michael heard something behind -- or beneath -- his Pa's words that meant Michael had no idea how difficult it had been for his father.

"You'll recall they had to invent quite a bit as well as use what reverse engineered they already had."

Linn nodded, once, slowly.

"Sir, they took what they learned from me and it's gone System-wide."

Linn considered this and replied with that same slow, careful, shallow nod.

Michael's young face was serious, sober: like his Pa, he used humor to deflect tension, but there was no deflection now.

The son looked very directly at the father, as if he were looking at an equal, and Linn recognized the look -- not a challenge, but a declaration:

I am going to tell you some absolute fact.

"I went back for a good looking-over," Michael said, his voice softer, "and Dana was already there, being looked at."

Michael took a long breath, closed his eyes, shivered.

"Sir, she was hurt worse comin' off that horse and hittin' those cliff rocks than I'd realized."

Linn heard the stress-edge to the quiet voice, nodded, shallow, slow, his own eyes pale and unblinking.

"Sir, they told me if they didn't have me to learn on -- if they didn't have me to practice on and find out what worked and what didn't -- Dana would be paralyzed today."

Michael shoved half his doughnut into his mouth and chewed, swallowed, took another swig of coffee, swallowed again.

Linn waited.

"Sir, I am not the brightest bub in the chandelier," Michael said, his voice faster now -- between the mispronunciation, and the increased speed of his diction, Linn knew his son was spilling out some newly realized stress, and he was not about to stop him.

Michael looked up, uncomfortable, and blinked again.

"Sir, what I went through was pretty damned bad, but they took what they learned from me and they fixed Dana. I met two other ..."

Michael took a long breath, blew it out.

"One of their Chaplains told me they figured I should know my sufferin' ... they took that knowledge ..."

He looked up, shifted in the hard chair.

"A boy about my age went over a short falls and busted his spine for about that far" -- he extended thumb and little finger, the full span of his hand -- "about yea much, just crushed.

"They repaired and rebuilt and I watched him take his first step this morning."

Michael swallowed hard, his eyes hollow as he looked inward, not seeing the coffee cup his eyes were focused on.

"It wasn't for nothing," he whispered. "Gettin' my spine burnt out when my Field was overloaded ..."

He shook his head.

"Sir, they learned from me, they learned on me, they tried some things that didn't work and they learned from that and --"

Linn waited, silent, patient.

"How's the horse population where that latest repair job was done?"

"Sir?"

"You benefitted from the saddle," Linn said quietly. "Strengthens the core and improves the balance. Why'nt you take Powder Keg. Dana spoke highly of the mule's therapeutic nature."

Michael blinked rapidly, frowned again, nodded.

"I think," he said slowly, "that will be a good idea."

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

"I THINK SHE WAS THIRSTY"

Sarah Lynne McKenna SLAMMED open the man door to the firehouse, stormed inside, her skirts clenched in gloved fists: her jaw was set, her pale eyes blazed, and she advanced like a Yankee ironclad on an attack run, straight toward the broad-shouldered Irish fire chief.

Sarah released the death grip and raised her right hand, and with it, a stiff and admonishing finger -- she glared, her lips peeled back from even white teeth -- she stopped, finger trembling, eyes blazing with scarce-contained anger -- 

Sarah Lynne McKenna whirled, stomped away from the big Irishman, while other bib-fronted, red-shirted firemen came into the bay, staring at this apparition that should (by their estimation) have steam hissing out her ears.

Sarah turned, stormed back toward Sean, finger up and shaking, mouth open: she got to the man, snapped her jaw shut, turned and stomped away from him, lips pressed together in a thin and disapproving line.

Men stared openly, the German Irishman thoughtfully wiping grease from his hands, for he'd just finished checking the innards of their beloved Steam Masheen, and had he any occasion to touch this vision of loveliness and obvious pique, he'd not want to stain her gown with greasy handprints.

Sarah went stomping back up to Sean, reached up, seized his ears and pulled his head down: she kissed his forehead, patted his shirt front roughly and whispered, "Thank you for listening!"

Sarah slipped around him, skipped up to the kitchen deck, thrust the dipper into the water bucket: she drank deeply, ignoring water dribbling down her otherwise-immaculate bodice: she hung the dipper back on its nail, lifted her skirts and ran for the man door and SLAM she was out the door, and gone.

The silence that followed the slam of the door was as loud as the preceding echoing impact.

Finally, one of the Irishmen said "What ... was ... that?"

Every Irishman in the firehouse turned and looked at Sean, for men naturally gravitate toward their natural leader when puzzled.

Sean turned and looked at the water bucket, turned back and looked at his men.

"I think," he said carefully, "she was thirsty."

 

A feminine hand slapped hard on the bar.

Every man there heard the unmistakable sound of hard coin between palm and polished mahogany.

"Mr. Baxter," Sarah said, her voice quiet, serious, "when next the Irish Brigade comes in."

Mr. Baxter swiped the double eagle into his apron, raised an eyebrow -- it was well more than overpayment -- he added the coin to the till as Sarah turned to the startled rancher next to her.

A saloon was a men's establishment and women were a rarity, a woman of quality, even moreso.

Sarah slapped another coin down, seized the rancher's near empty mug, slid it to the far edge of the bar.

"This one's on me," she added, then turned and swept dramatically out of the Silver Jewel, skirts a-flounce as she left.

Men stared at the closing door, looked at one another; there was a wordless, collective shrug, the piano player reached up and brought his beer mug down, took long pull, set it back and began to play again.

Voices, cards, dice and poker chips filled the air once more.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller backed up until his backside found the edge of his desk.

He sat, and as he sat, he picked up Sarah Lynne McKenna and set her across his lap like she was a little girl again.

Sarah hugged him, her face buried in his shoulder, and he felt and heard her deep, indrawn breath, her sighing exhale, felt her shake her head.

He didn't say a word.

He just held her, rocked her a little, and waited.

His legs weren't asleep yet when Sarah slipped off his lap, walked tiredly across the puncheons, unhooked the dipper from its whittled peg and dunked it in the water.

Linn stood, walked slowly over to her.

She drank a second dipper full, handed it to her pale eyed sire: he drank deeply, two dippers like Sarah had: she drank a third, hung the dipper back up and said "I'll have to refill that."

She looked up at the pale eyed Sheriff and said "I tried to warn them."

He gave her a single, shallow nod: Go ahead.

"Yesterday," she frowned: "yesterday, over in the flat" -- her gloved hand thrust out, pointing at a location well on the other side of the intervening log walls, an area where the terrain was flat, thus its name -- "a grass fire was running ahead of the wind, and I rode ahead and we tried to warn them, we told them --"

Sarah shook her head.

"Lightning and I got out of there. We told them but they wouldn't -- the wouldn't --"

She shook her head, frustrated.

"I heard about that," he said softly, hands very carefully on the outside of he arms -- not gripping, just there.

"Why didn't they --"

She bit off her words, shook her head.

"I don't know, darlin'," the Sheriff said in a deep, resonant Daddy-voice, at once wise and strong and just a little sad. "I don't know. Some folks just won't."

Sarah turned and almost fell into him, the near-collapse of someone soul-deep in nervous exhaustion.

"I'm sorry," she groaned, "I suppose ... I just needed someone to listen."

 

Sheriff Linn Keller reached up and took Sarah around the waist, brought her out of the saddle, then hitched her up and carried her like she was a bone tired, exhausted little girl, carried her up onto her own front porch and smiled kind of sadly.

"Bonnie," he said.

"Sheriff."

"Sarah is wore out," he said, looked down at her.

"Think you can walk, darlin'?"

Sarah nodded.

Linn turned a little, bent, eased her down until her weight was on her legs.

He waited until the serving girl gathered Sarah and walked with her, whispering Irish secrets as she did, walked her toward the fine, wide staircase.

Bonnie looked at the Sheriff with eyes that knew more than she was saying.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Linn hesitated, as if he was about to say something, then closed his mouth, touched his hat brim.

"Bonnie," he said, and her ears heard the way he caressed her name as he spoke it.

Bonnie watched him mount up, gather Snowflake's reins, walk the big black Frisian over to their barn where Clark was waiting, watched him ride back toward town.

 

County Sheriff and Fire Chief stood shoulder to shoulder, boot and brogan propped up on the shining brass foot rail, each one taking an appreciative pull on his beer.

"Y'hear about th' fire?" Sean asked quietly as he hunched over, elbows on the bar.

"Heard," Linn grunted.

"Sarah came int' th' firehouse."

Linn waited, eyes busy in the fine, shining mirror behind the bar.

"I hear she tried t' warn a family th' fire was comin'."

Linn waited.

"She come in like she wanted t' ayther bite th' horn off an anvil 'r lecture it plumb t' death."

Linn frowned to hide a smile, for he'd known Sarah in both moods.

"She ended up drinkin' th' watter bucket dry 'r near to't."

Linn took a pull of good cool beer, lowered it, dashed the foam from his brushed handlebar.

"Reckon she was thirsty," he said thoughtfully.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Edited July 30 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

TO TEACH THE YOUNG

Sheriff Jacob Keller went to one knee and looked very seriously at one of the young Martians.

"Mikhail," he said, his voice soft and deep and Daddy-reassuring, "if you care enough to tell me, I care enough to listen!"

Mikhail blinked, then his young eyes brightened with honest delight and he grabbed Jacob's sleeve and pulled.

Jacob came easily to his feet and followed the excited child, and for the next fifteen minutes, this pale eyed Sheriff of the Combined Martian Colonies listened closely as a little boy spoke with enthusiasm and delight about the project he was working on -- a project that involved individual crystals in clamps, crystals long as a man's hand and wide as two fingers, crystals that produced current if squeezed, or tapped, or held in the hand and warmed.

Jacob listened solemnly and without interruption to the breathless, urgent exposition of a little boy who'd put honest work and considerable effort into what started out as a simple science project.

By the time Jacob left the classroom, he'd not only learned considerably more than he'd known about these particular native crystals and what they could potentially do, he'd also taught a little boy that it felt pretty damned good to be listened to -- really listened to -- without condescension, without impatience, without the adult tells that too often destroyed a child's sense of wonder and of discovery.

Young Joseph, once Jacob finished his shift and came home for the night, saw his tall Pa hold his Mama, carefully, with affection and with a gentle voice, with kind words and a look between them that said more than words could.
Joseph sat on his Pa's lap after supper, as his Pa read aloud from Scripture, as his Mama darned his Pa's socks -- she could have given them to the Recyclo and had new ones fabricated, but she preferred to darn his socks -- Joseph was too young to know she was sending a message:

You are worth it.

All he knew was, he was on his Pa's lap with his Pa's arms around him, his Pa's voice warm and reassuring behind him, his Ma sitting close by, smiling a little as she looked over at father and son and listened to a deep, masculine voice, reading from the same Book his own pale eyed Pa used to read from when he, Jacob, was Joseph's size.

Jacob's Pa told him once, "Jacob, we are all teachers, whether we know it or not, and whether we want to be or not."

Jacob was about Joseph's size when his pale eyed Pa told him this, as they rode together, halfway between town and their back field's far corner.

"Every word we say, or say not, is heard, and teaches someone, something.

"Every thing we do, or do not, is seen by someone, and teaches something."

If Jacob was to consider these words, and compare them to the moment, he might have realized he taught a young schoolboy how good it feels to be actually listened to, which taught the student how to listen.

He might have remembered how good it felt, how safe and reassuring it was to sit on his Pa's lap, with his Pa's arms around him, reading from the Book, and that he was teaching this to his own son.

History does not record whether anything of the sort went through the man's mind, for he left no comment in his Journal about anything of the sort, but we understand that -- in the fullness of time -- a Martian engineer stopped and sat cross legged before a schoolboy's project and listened closely to a breathless, uncertain, excited explanation of the project he'd assembled, and how he'd projected multiple practical uses for what he'd found, and in years yet to come, the pale eyed son of a pale eyed Sheriff pulled his own young onto his lap, an arm around each, and read to them from a Book well older than they.

It may be possible to speculate that perhaps one of these good worthies speculated on whether the seminal ancestor of the pale eyed breed might even have read to his own young in this selfsame manner, but this is speculation only, as this opportunity for speculation would not present for some years after this moment in our narrative.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SHARING

Old Pale Eyes would be described as a man of surprising depth.

Whether this was because of the belief that "Still Waters Run Deep," or because he kept his feelings generally contained in public -- unless he was busy introducing a deserving individual to the ground at a good velocity, or dunking such sorry souls in the nearest horse trough for general principles -- or whether it was because, when the mood was upon him, it got kind of deep in his general vicinity ... whichever the reason, the term would be applied to him, both by his contemporaries, and by descendants yet to be.

One such descendant sat at her Gammaw's desk in the back office of what was rapidly becoming the Firelands Museum -- Marnie Keller, the image of her pale eyed Gammaw, sitting in a very ladylike pose, looking very much mature and lovely as she studied from the voluminous materials her equally ladylike Gammaw accumulated ... ladylike, when she was not busy introducing deserving individuals to the pavement at a good velocity, or dunking such sorry souls in the only remaining horse trough on the main street of town.

(The Sheriff's baptisms, as they'd been called, were a rare event, though when they occurred, Willamina admitted, they worked quite well in taking the fight out of those who genuinely earned her sincere displeasure)

Marnie Keller smiled a little as she looked at the drawing -- pencil, on what looked like unused butcher's paper.

Marnie Keller leaned her chin down onto the heel of her hand as she studied the pencil drawing of a man with a handlebar mustache, sitting on a broad couch of a style popular in the 1800s: he had one arm laid out over the top of the back cushions, his hand lightly gripping a woman's shoulder, drawing her in to him, and the other arm around two children.

All but the woman were sound asleep.

Marnie's eyes tightened a little at the corners as she remembered what it was to be one of those children -- or, rather, a child in a similar condition -- cuddled up against a warm, strong Daddy's ribs, relaxed and safe, and she wondered if such an image existed.

 

Old Pale Eyes, by his own admission and in his own words, was "plumb wore out."

He'd come home and he'd tended his necessaries, he'd spoken with his hired man and young, watchful eyes saw a look of approval on the man's face as his hired hand discussed matters with him, both of them with a boot up on the bottom fence rail, both men casually a-slouch and leaning on the fence, the way tired men will: young eyes watched as their long tall Pa came through the door and hung his hat on the peg, as he smiled at the hired girl and addressed her in a gentle voice, as he took his wife in his arms and held her for a moment longer than usual -- not possessively, not in dominance, but the way a man will when he is genuinely pleased to see the one woman he loves more than any other on this earth.

It was later that evening that one of his pale eyed daughters slipped into his study, and saw the gathering on the thickly-upholstered sofa -- saw, and smiled, and slipped out silently, so as not to disturb any who relaxed thereon.

Careful feet ascended the broad stairs, treading carefully so as to avoid any squeak: eager hands drained the image from behind her eyes, through the whittled ends of multiple pencils, transferring memory to paper, as she loved to do.

 

Sheriff Linn Keller advanced at the librarian's behest.

She'd found something filed with his Mama's works, something she thought he'd really like to see.

Linn came over to where she had something that looked like butcher's paper, laid out on a desk, with a photo album open beside it.

He looked at the photo she wished to point out, his grin quick and genuine: it was not long before Christmas, it was taken with Jacob and Marnie, both about four years old, on one side of him and Shelly on the other, and he had his arms out, hugging them all to him, or at least ... he had been.

When the shutter tripped, it captured an entire family, together on his big overstuffed couch in his study, every one of them sound asleep.

The librarian smiled quietly as she saw that soft look in the Sheriff's eyes, then she drew aside the sheet she'd laid over the butcher's paper, and she laughed a little as softness became delight in a lean waisted lawman's eyes. 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

DOCUMENTATION!

The pale eyed bloodline runs back in time: our first glimpses mention warrior-maidens on Greek islands, defending their Sister-Maidens and their Temple, resulting in single combat and a warrior's funeral, given by the enemy, who out of respect for the ferocity of the Temple's defense, spared this island further ravage, and honorably interred the pale eyed archer who -- though wounded and bleeding -- challenged their champion to single combat.

We see this pale eyed bloodline during the American Revolution, where a pale-eyed woman in a mob cap drives a musket ball through a British officer's wish bone and almost gets away.

Almost.

We see the son of a gunsmith with his curly maple stocked, late Bedford County flint rifle across the saddlebow of his riding mule, shooting one perverse marauder and running over and trampling the second -- this fellow is familiar to us, he ended up as Sheriff in Firelands long years later -- but the bloodline branches, like streams underground, forking with hidden and unsuspected meanders, and runs through our modern day, and indeed into our future.

One such grandfatherly sort lives in our contemporary and modern age, and apparently has the pale eyes as a recessive trait.

Perhaps this is why he was able to harness his temper better than his forbears -- though the Dragon in the Belly will not be denied, under provocation -- it was a signal moment for this particular, unnamed, individual, when his own father admitted a mercurial temper of which he was genuinely afraid.

In order to tame this hereditary, volatile passion, this most recent subject of discussion planned ahead so far as possible.

He mentally rehearsed a variety of scenarios, and though it is not possible to plan for absolutely every possible outcome of every possible action, he tried.

All this is preface.

You see, this unnamed soul, back East, had occasion to return to the dentist after a six year lapse: the circumstances are not discussed here, just the result -- six years' worth of maintenance coming due all at once, with a crown replacement and removal of decay scheduled on one particular day.

The individual under discussion, as was his habit, planned ahead.

Having had dental work in the past, our good worthy reasoned that the numbing compounds with which his jaw would be injected, tended to affect speech for some time after.

Having been in law enforcement himself, our grandfatherly sort realized his appearance might be somewhat ... suspect ... especially with his first words spoken.

Should he be pulled over, his slurred speech might lead an officer to seriously consider drunkenness.

If an astute officer assessed for visible facial asymmetry, the officer might believe that "This motorist is having a stroke," an ambulance summoned, with expensive consequences.

At last count, an ambulance transport would run better than a thousand dollars; a citation for drunkenness, even more, counting up vehicle impoundment, attorney's fees and other unwanted, unneeded costs.

This shirttail relative of the Pale Eyed Bloodline, this carrier of the hereditary temper, this distant relative of our pale eyed family of effectives, therefore concluded that:

First, he'll be paying a good chunk of change up front.

Second, he'll therefore have a printed out receipt that will document not only payment, but also that dental work done today.

It'll list work done, work yet to be done, and the scheduled future appointment;

Third, if he kept this documentation at hand in the event he was addressed by the Constabulary for any purpose, he would --hopefully -- be able to explain facial asymmetry, slurred speech, and allay their suspicions, by documenting that he'd just had dental work done, and half his face still felt like it was missing.

Our greying old grandfather might be forgiven for thinking of an age where horsepower was under the saddle, and a tall boy with a flint rifle might in time become a lawman with a .44 and a green-eyed, red-headed bride.

Greying old grandfathers think like that sometimes.

Edited August 4 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

SHIRT TAIL

Angela Keller skipped into the Sheriff's office like a little girl, turned and smiled at Sharon, who was leaned back in her chair and looking at this breezy arrival first thing in the morning.

"The Sheriff went to the dentist," Sharon said as Angela opened her mouth.

Angela closed her mouth, frowned, turned, shoved out the heavy inner door.

Sharon counted, quietly, "One ... two ... three ... four ..."

Angela breezed back in, laughing and carrying a flat cardboard box, laughter in her eyes and a smile lighting her apple-cheeked face: "I didn't forget you!" she declared happily -- a box of doughnuts, fresh and still warm from the local bakery, landed on Sharon's desk -- Angela whirled, shoved back out the inner door, then leaned back -- "I took tweezers and pulled out all the calories!" -- then she was gone, leaving Sharon in possession of a fragrant box of delectables and the general feeling she'd just been visited by a minor cyclone.

 

"Howdy, Doc," Linn grinned as he shook the dentist's hand: his grip was careful, light, the respectful grip one gives a physician, a surgeon, a practitioner to whom one wishes to extend respect for their precision of touch, the delicacy of their professional work.

"This'll take about ninety seconds," Linn said, "first off nothing's gone wrong and no complaints!"

The receptionist laughed quietly: "We don't hear that very often!"

Linn winked at her and then leaned toward her desk:  "Forgive my bein' forward, but I still think you have the loveliest smile!"

The dentist regarded the Sheriff with amusement -- it always felt good to start the work day with laughter -- Linn looked at him and said, "I got a letter from a shirttail relative yesterday and it got me to thinking."

"Thinking," Dr. John murmured.  "Is this something new?"

"It depends on whether or not you've talked to my wife lately," Linn replied innocently, interlacing his fingers and spinning his thumbs innocently, which of course got another laugh from his appreciative audience. "No, y'see, he had some dental work done and he said he had the receipt on the seat beside him in case he got pulled over."

The dentist frowned with one eyebrow, looked curiously at his receptionist.

"He was afraid if he got pulled over and he was still numb, his slurred speech could be mistaken for alcohol intoxication. He said if there was any facial asymmetry -- his words, he's an EMT or something -- he didn't want the cops to pull him over and call for a squad thinking he was having a stroke."

"Ah," Dr. John nodded.

"Didn't know if that was worth anything to you or not but thought I'd make mention of it."

"I'll remember that," the receptionist said quietly. "I give everyone a written summary of their procedures with their receipt printed at the bottom."

"Good," the Sheriff nodded. "I'm passing the word through my people as well."

He looked at the dentist, his eyes wrinkled at the corners the way they did when he was in high good humor.

"Like the wise man said, for what it's worth!"

The cell phone in the Sheriff's uniform blouse pocket made a sound like a drain with indigestion: he frowned, pulled it out, took a look.

"Weather update," he murmured. "Sunny today, increasing clouds, possible thunder storms this afternoon."  

The door opened and a mother came in with two nervous looking children.

"I'd best go," Linn said, and winked at the dentist: "didn't need a thing, just thought to pass along a funny from a shirt tail relative."

 

Something with bright eyes, a broad smile and a white uniform dress launched across the room and SLAMMED into the Sheriff, staggering him back a step as strong young arms and a laughing voice seized him: "Daddeeee!" Angela laughed, the way she'd laughed when she was still a little girl at home.

Linn hugged her back, hoist her off the floor and spun her around: father and daughter both laughed, and when Linn lowered her cushioned crepe soles to the floor, she patted him on the chest and whispered, "I brought doughnuts!"

Sharon clawed her fingers around the edges of the box and snarled "Mine mine mine!" and Linn laughed again, because starting the work day with a laugh is always a good thing.

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

A MINOR AFFAIR

The Sheriff's eyes tightened a little at the corners and he eased down on the brakes, stopped on the wide shoulder and talked to his microphone the way he did when leaving the vehicle.

He stepped around the front of the cruiser and held out a bottle of water.

An older, heavy set man took the bottle, nodded his thanks, tilted it up and drank the entire half liter without taking a breath.

"Haven't seen you out lately."

"Yeah, about that," Minor said, coming around to lean against the front of the cruiser: two men slouched companionably against the front bumper, two old friends in the high mountain sun.

"My neighbor -- Paul, you might remember him, lost half a leg to diabetes."

"I recall."

"He asked me to walk his Popeye-dog for him."

"I recall your walking that Rottweiler."

Minor smiled -- that sad smile a man has when he's remembering something he used to do.

"Popeye was a senior dog ... like me," Minor said softly. "We didn't get in any kind of a hurry."

Minor slid the empty bottle into one of the two plastic grocery sacks he carried: he held them up and snorted.

"I don't know why I carry two of these," he said sadly. "Popeye's gone now, so I don't have to pick up his second hand dog feed."

"You're still picking up trash," Linn said quietly. "That's got to count for somethin'."

"Yeah."  

Minor sighed, shook his head.

"You breathin' all right?"

Minor laughed a little, raised a hand to his chest, fluttered it slowly.

"Adult onset asthma," he admitted.  "Zero stars, do not recommend."

Linn laughed quietly, nodded.

"Popeye and I were up to three miles, before he got bad and Paul and his wife went into Assisted Living. Turns out Popeye had cancer."

"Oh, damn," Linn half-whispered.

"Yeah," Minor agreed. "Since then I ... just ... been sittin'."

Linn waited.

"Went to th' doc yesterday and I'm just short of three hundred pounds, my sugar is up and so's the bad cholesterol."

Linn nodded, waited, knowing Paul was working his way toward something.

"Walkin' was more ... it was ... better with Popeye," he said sadly.

"I reckon so," Linn said softly.

"My wife doesn't want to get another dog."

"What do you want?"

Paul turned his head and gave the Sheriff a direct look.

"I want to keep my wife happy," he said frankly. "I came too close to losin' her."

"That," Linn said slowly, "is understandable."

"So I figure if I start walkin' again ... Doc says that'll ... as long as I keep it up, it oughta get my sugar and cholesterol down and he won't have to put in a pacemaker."

The Sheriff nodded, waited: he knew silence often brought more information.

This was not a criminal interrogation, this was just two men talking, and one was troubled enough to share a burden.

"I was ... I've been ridin' that easy chair too long," Minor admitted. "My feet were just startin' to show some swellin' and that's what got me off my backside."

"I'm glad you did," Linn said quietly.

Minor looked down at his trash bag, smiled a little sadly.

He was silent for almost a full minute, then he stood and said, "Thank you for the water."

"You'll be all right?" Linn asked.  "I can give you a ride."

"I'll be okay. I'll head back to the house and call it good for the day. Might jump on the rider and give the yard a haircut."

It was the Sheriff's turn to look at his companion with a very direct expression.

"You take care now, Minor," he said quietly, his voice serious. "I don't make friends that easy and too many of 'em are dead now. I don't need you addin' to the count."

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

OPINION

Jedediah Harris noted the canvas saddlebag and how it was kind of bulged, as if it were stuffed clear full of something.

He watched as a long, tall deputy dismounted, as Jacob Keller walked up to him and stood before him, eyes pale and calm and absolutely nothing on his face.

"Mr. Harris," Jacob said, "I came to tell you why."

Jedediah Harris frowned a little and turned his head just a bit, regarding this young fellow with the expression of someone who didn't have the least idea of what the other was talking about.

Jacob peeled off his vest and turned to his horse, hooked the arm hole of the vest over the saddle horn.

His linen shirt came off next.

Harris stared as the lean waisted young man unbuttoned his Union suit, down to his belt buckle, pulled his arms out of the sleeves and tucked them behind the back of his belt to keep them from dangling into the dirt.

"Mr. Harris," Jacob said, his voice quiet, "thank you is only words."

Jacob lifted the flap on the bulging canvas saddlebag and reached in, pulled out two bottles of beer.

He flipped the bail on one, let the captive cork work out, handed it to the man, opened the second beer and frowned.

"I recall you had occasion," Jacob said formally -- as formally as a man can be, given that he be naked to the waist and holding a beer -- "to speak to your son, out in public."

Harris frowned a little, suspicious.

Discussing a man's treatment of his boy was a family matter and not for outsiders' comment.

"Mr. Harris, you could have smacked him or taken your belt to him and you didn't. I said nothing then but I'll say it now."

Jacob raised his beer in salute, took a tilt, swallowed, lowered the heavy glass bottle and looked very directly at the man.

"I don't take kindly to a child being beat," he said, "and here's why."

Jacob turned around.

Jedediah Harris's mouth fell open as he looked at the horror that was Jacob's back.

Deep scarring -- overlapping whip cuts, long healed, still deep enough to lay his finger in, in some places -- a tale of torture and of agony, written in discolored keloidal tissue.

Jacob waited several seconds, then turned around, took a long guzzle from his bottle, set it down at his feet.

He pulled the sleeves of his red Union suit free, slid back into them and buttoned up: his shirt, then his vest, and he was once again dressed.

Jacob picked up his beer and looked unsmilingly at the man he came to thank.

"Your beer cold enough?" he asked quietly. "Saddlebag's lined with rubber. I packed it full of snow this morning."

"You've ... been high up," Harris said cautiously, still processing what he'd just seen.

"Mr. Harris, I know what it is to be a child that's been beat."

He frowned and looked down at the beer he held, looked back up at the rancher.

"Sir, a father that will reason with his son and who'll actually listen to his son is a thing to be encouraged. I wanted to encourage you" -- he lifted his beer, drained it -- "thus the beer" -- Harris took a long tilt from his own, emptied it, handed it back -- "but thank you is only words, and beer says it better."

Jacob frowned, considered.

"You deserve to know why I said thank you and 'twas easier to show you ruther'n talk about it."

A boy, little more than belt buckle tall, came running toward them with the speed and urgency of the very young.

"Pa I got the wood split and stacked an' the woodbox is full an' I got Mama's water bucket filled" -- he skidded to a stop, breathless, grinning, freckled, and looked up as Jacob hunkered, stuck out his hand.

"Boaz," he said quietly, "you look like a man that could use a good Barlow knife."

Jacob turned his hand over -- he held a brand-new Barlow between two fingers, extended it, dropped it into the suddenly-wide-eyed little boy's dirt-creased palm.

Jacob turned his hand over and rolled his wrist and produced a sharpening stone, looked up at Jedediah and winked:  "Boaz, can your Pa put an edge on a knife?"

Young Boaz puffed his chest out and declared, "My Pa can put a shavin' edge on a broad ax!"

Jacob laughed, stood, handed Jedediah a matching Barlow and a sharpening stone and shook the man's hand.

"Like I said," Jacob said, suddenly serious, "I came to say thank you, and you deserve to know why."

Father and son watched as the long tall deputy mounted up, touched his hat brim, and rode off on a strutting, shining-healthy-in-the-sun, spotty stallion.

 

Edited August 7 by Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

UNDERGROUND

"Mister Keller," Esther murmured, "I know that look."

Esther looked at the maid, gave the barest of nods: the hired girl's smile was quiet -- it was an understanding look between two women -- the maid glided into the kitchen in response to her Mistress's bidding.

Linn looked up, frowning a little.

"My dear," he said softly, "counsel with me."

"Of course."

Esther flowed over to her husband, rested a cool hand on his shoulder and looked at the sketches he had laid out on his desk.

"I need more room to work," he muttered.

"Would the dining room table ...?" Esther suggested.

Linn nodded, gathered the diagrams he'd laid in some kind of order on the limited space of his normally-tidy rolltop desk.

The hired girl appeared as if by magic, clearing the normal decorative clutter from the table, then quickly, efficiently, half-rolling, half-folding the tablecloth: crystal and cloth were secreted somewhere with the semi-magical efficiency of a skilled housekeeper, and Linn proceeded to lay out precisely-executed diagrams, drawings and what looked like maps.

Linn ovelapped two sheets, then two more.

"This," he said quietly, picking up a dip quill and using its tip as a pointer, "you will recognize as Firelands proper. This" -- he fitted another sheet in, high to the right of the first fitted squares -- "is our spread."

Esther nodded, picking out familiar landmarks, superposing her mental map with these precise ink drawn delineations.

Linn laid several sheets over these -- thin, not transparent, but certainly translucent -- he pressed one, then another, down on the first layer, so the ink lines beneath showed through clearly.

"This is the underground," he said. "I worked with their mining engineers to come up with these."

He thumped a nail-trimmed finger on a particular spot -- Esther saw the word MERCANTILE inside a carefully-scribed square -- "This is a weak point," Linn said. "It doesn't show it but that's where the Boarding House used to be -- you recall, the cave-in and --"

"I remember," Esther murmured, gently interrupting her husband.

The Boarding House is a memory she would as soon not revisit.

"The mine words pretty much honeycomb under town," Linn said. "The miners followed the gold and this one" -- Linn frowned, recalling the exact wording -- "their mining engineers described this as 'a fold in the strata' that caused the miners to excavate upward, until the ground was weak enough it collapsed."

Esther shivered, nodded, then walked careful fingers onto the section marked KELLER RANCH.

"And here?"

Linn picked up another translucent sheet, floated it into place, leaning well over the table to get it precisely placed.

"How deep are the shafts here?" Esther asked.

The maid was a ghost, bearing a tray: she discreetly set it on a little round table to the side, poured fragrant, steaming oolong into a delicate, bone-china teacup: she picked up the Sheriff's sizable, heavy-ceramic mug, glided around the table, placed it just off the papers, turned it so the handle was toward him.

"Thank you, Mary," Linn murmured, pale eyes busy: he reached without looking, picked up a note-book, flipped through it: he looked up, blinked into his memory the number carefully scribed on the see-through page, riffled through precisely-written notebook leaves until he found the corresponding number.

"It's actually under ..."

His voice was thoughtful, the way it was when he remembered something.

"We have a well and it's a good one," he said, "and they mined ... as near as they can tell, they must've mined off to the side and under it. I asked him about that -- you'll recall Jacob and I ran a sound down the well to get its depth."

Esther's green eyes studied the overlay, the curved lines, numbers and abbreviations she did not recognize.

"My dear," Esther said quietly, "is that the only excavation under us?"

"It is. Just along this edge. I am not confident it extends as far as the well."

"What are the chances of a collapse?"

Linn's fingertips brushed the back of her hand, causing Esther to close her eyes and shiver a little -- her husband's touch thrilled through her, it always had, and she felt a delicious, wicked pleasure in remembering the gentleness of his touch.

"They mined under solid rock," he said, "and the rock overhead is thick enough, we'd have to drill into it and set charges and even then it would be difficult to collapse it."

"What about further out?"

"Which way?"

"Out this way" -- Esther's open hand described the area beside the table -- "over toward the Macneil spread."

Linn consulted his note-book, frowned at the few mine diagrams he had left.

"I don't ... have that far out," he admitted, "but I gathered the strata ran deep enough they shouldn't collapse out there."

 

Jacob Keller bit into an apple, if apples had a bright-pink interior and had just a trace of citrus flavor.

He honestly had no idea what it was called -- locals called them apples and he was more than happy to abide by local custom -- all he knew was, they were good, and he was hungry.

"Got any bananas?" he mumbled through a flavorful, crunchy mouthful, and Marnie gave him a patient look.

She didn't have to say it, he knew what she was thinking -- "Don't talk with your mouth full" -- she saw the sibling smile at the corners of his eyes as she rattled in another keyboard sequence.

Jacob frowned, swallowed, pale eyes studying the wall-sized hologram before him.

"Here's the All-Night" -- a white square pulsed, faded -- "and the old drift opening we know about. This is the one that comes out -- here" -- she stepped around the desk, swiped at the hologram, swatting it to the side -- she tapped a knuckle, or made a knuckle-tap motion into the air, as the hologram was visual only -- "and here's the other end, which we also know about.

"What we know now," she smiled, snapped her fingers -- "is the total underground extent, thanks to mapping drones we've had busy for the past year."

"Year?" Jacob echoed. "I didn't think the mine works was that extensive."

"Weeelll ..."

Marnie wrinkled her nose like she used to as a little girl when she was trying to get away with something.

"Let's just say you can get through the mine works and you won't have to duck now."

"What about the section where they found Old Pale Eyes' desk and his guns?"

"That's close to the Boardinghouse collapse."

"What about the collapse?"

"It's filled in now. The drones converted that loose fill into rock columns. The overhead is well supported. They left utility lines in excavated fill, but it's otherwise solid. No more collapse."

Jacob nodded.

"What's under the home place?"

Marnie smiled -- he saw his sister's smile and remembered that was the look she had when she'd gotten away with something -- she swiped at the hologram again, brushed it aside, stopped it, pulled it down.

"Here ... this is Gammaw's place," she said, "you can see a shaft dead ending roughly beside the property line. There's one opening that actually forks -- into the basement of the house, and into the barn -- but those entrances are walled off."

"We can access them."

"We can access them," she agreed, "with some tools."

Jacob nodded.

"What about the other entries? Do we want explorers to just wander through?"

"They won't," Marnie said confidently. "We've deep enough entries for bats to shelter, but they dead end into what looks like native rock."

Jacob nodded.

"The drones are still in place. If things go bad, it'll be five minutes' work to bore into Daddy's basement."

"So there's mine works under the home place."

"Just one," Marnie admitted, "and it's really broad. We installed stone pillars to support the overhead."

"Water incursion?"

"None. They're all dry works."

"Any chance of drilling into them?"

Marnie laughed, shook her head.

"No, Jacob, we bought up the drilling rights, the mineral rights, and we own almost all the property outside Firelands proper. Nobody drills unless it's us."

" 'We'?" Jacob echoed, raising an eyebrow, and Marnie laughed with delight at how much he looked like his Daddy when he did that.

"Shell companies, dummy owners, ghosts on paper," Marnie admitted. "It would draw too much attention if all that was owned by one individual."

Jacob folded his arms skeptically. "Sooo ... now that we own the old dry works, what do we with them?"

"It's what we've already done," Marnie said quietly.

She snapped her fingers, the hologram changed: Jacob saw heavy conduits, ventilated, boxy steel cabinets of some kind, industrial-looking lighting.

"Energy storage," Marnie explained, "potable water, long-term rations, barracks."

"For how many people?"

"We can shelter our entire family for twenty years with what's stored right now. If things go bad and we have to hole up, we'll have Iris passage anywhere in the Confederacy, except the Briarpatch. That's still strictly ship traffic with a damned good pilot."

"What's in the Briarpatch?"

"Other than stars tearing at each other, energy fields we still don't have names for, general mayhem?"

Marnie laughed, sighed.

"Planet Texas. It's the hardest member of the Confederacy to get to or from, it has some of the best soil, it has the greatest percentage of native North American flora and fauna, and it has absolute gentlemen."

Jacob regarded his sister for several long moments, the gears behind his eyes turning steadily.

"Sis," he finally said, "are we looking at the need to hole up?"

Marnie came around the desk, turned the office chair, sat down and gave Jacob a very straightforward look.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I know things can go bad, fast, and I know Fitz told me if he planned for something, it never happened."

Marnie shrugged.

"I'm planning. God willing, it'll never happen, but if it does, I know our family will survive!"

"Our family. What about Pa's horses?"

"That," Marnie smiled, "is why we have the other twelve star systems."

 

 

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

MY SON, THE TYCOON

Littlejohn accepted the short, squat glass with its 3/4 inch payload of fragrant amber shining in the bottom.

The ancient bottle clinked quietly on other glasses.

Hands callused and hands dainty, hands mature and hands very young, accepted their respective libations.

Jacob Keller poured one final dose, held the bottle up, one hand cupped under the bottom, the other gripping its neck with thumb and forefinger, very obviously showing off something of a treasure.

"Our Gammaw," he said, "found this in the bottom right hand drawer of Old Pale Eyes' desk."

His eyes went over blood kin, their spouses, their young, and he smiled, just a little, mostly at the corners of his eyes.

They stood in what had been Willamina's living room -- the original home place, restored as near as could be done to its condition when their father Linn was a boy at home -- Linn stood back, eyes veiled but busy, very likely looking at memories flowing through like restless ghosts.

"Old Pale Eyes left this in his desk drawer," Jacob said thoughtfully. "California peach brandy. He wasn't much of a drinking man but when he did, he drank quality."

Linn looked at the framed portrait of his Mama -- it was a full length shot, she wore her trademark electric-blue suitdress and heels, she stood with one elbow casually leaning on a marble plinth, the double barrel shotgun that hung over his chair back in the Sheriff's office, in her other hand, casually a-dangle, and that quiet, knowing look on her face.

"This bottle slept in Old Pale Eyes' desk, the desk slept in a lead sheathed crate, the crate slept in the dry works underground, and here we are better than a century and a half later."

"Pa," Joseph asked, "did Great-Gammaw drink this?"

Linn looked into his glass and Marnie saw the quiet, thoughtful smile on her Daddy's face, and she knew he was thinking of his Mama.

Jacob looked at his own son and saw himself just growing into his salad days, and Marnie saw the smile on her brother's face as he did.

Linn looked at his Mama's portrait and bit his bottom lip.

Glasses raised and distilled California sunshine seared bright and fragrant across tongues and down throats.

Littlejohn blinked, held his breath for several moments, then very carefully inhaled, feeling fresh fires ignite in his young throat: he did not cough, though it was a near thing.

"Yearly?" Angela asked, savoring the taste, turning the empty glass thoughtfully in her spatulate, artist's fingers, and Jacob looked at his Pa, who nodded, once.

Jacob nodded, looked at his younger sister.

"Yes," he said, "yearly."

"That label looks pretty well shot," Michael said quietly.

Jacob turned the bottle to show the featureless white rectangle that used to be a printed label.

"I'm afraid it powdered into dust a long time ago."

Michael nodded, disappointed.

"Do they have brandy in the Confederacy?"

"It took some doing," Michael admitted, "but yes, they managed. Marnie, you remember that peach wine they served last time you made an official visit?"

"I remember," Marnie admitted cautiously, "that it was a little too good."

Angela raised an eyebrow: "Oh, do fill us in," she said in a honeyed voice: "spill the tea, Sis, how schnockered did you get?"

Marnie laughed, handed her empty glass back to Jacob.

"I drank a third of the glass," she said quietly, "and left the rest."

Angela looked at her over a nonexistent set of spectacles, folded her arms and patted her foot like a disapproving old-maid schoolteacher.

Marnie sidled over to her sister, tilted her head confidentially and murmured, "I knew if I finished the glass, it would be refilled, and it was so good if it were refilled I would ..."

She stopped, smiled, shook her head.

"The Confederate worlds have never seen me in any but complete control," she added, "and I do not wish to damage that reputation!"

Michael stepped closer to his father and studied the dusty, featureless square that used to be a paper label.

He thought to market brandy with Old Pale Eyes' label, Jacob thought, then smiled quietly as he mentally added, My son, the tycoon!

 

 

 

 

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