Jump to content
SASS Wire Forum

All Activity

This stream auto-updates     

  1. Past hour
  2. PLUS ONE to GRIFF also PLUS ONE to Kid Rich Pyrodex is a RUSTING agent that just happens to burn. The only use for the stuff I can think of is lawn fertilizer. Spread it thin. Splurge a few extra bucks and find some real BP or APP. Did I happen to mention ... Pyrodex SUCKS!!. If I didn't mention that Pyrodex SUCKS, I apologize and allow me to mention ... Pyrodex SUCKS.
  3. Linn Keller 4-21-11 Jacob straightened up, frowning, one gloved hand to the small of his back, then grinned: youth and strength are more than a match for tired muscles, especially when a beautiful bride and a laughing little boy-child waited for him within. He'd come home after a rather long day: after court, he'd served a warrant, and a summons to appear: the warrant resulted in two arrests (translation: the fellow threatened to shoot him if he didn't leave the property and Jacob promptly stepped in and drove his fist into the man's wind, kicked his son in the gut and used a convenient frying pan to raise knots on both men's skulls) and serving the summons an hour later resulted in a good woman cooked meal and the dark-eyed promise of the rancher's daughter: Jacob had been warned about the lass by his father, and kept a tight rein on his young man's passions, and somehow maintained a formally polite farewell to the black-haired beauty while remaining cordial to her father. The girl's father was in a dispute with a neighbor over water rights and while Jacob knew the man was in the right, it had become a matter of litigation, and he was obliged to serve the summons. The arrestees waited in irons, chained to convenient but separate fence posts, while Jacob finished his business (and meal), and later that day, after finalizing the paper work back at the office, getting the prisoners situated in their jail cells, after turning over the two prisoners from the bank robbery -- one Jackson Cooper had un-gently pacified, the other Jackson Cooper had brought in late the night before -- to the Deputy US Marshal, Jacob tidied up the office, made sure the prisoners were secure, still breathing, and inquired of Jackson Cooper if the man needed anything. Jackson Cooper and Jacob took turns staying at the jail when they had prisoners; the one jail served both the town marshal and the Sheriff, and they took turns keeping house, as it were. Jackson Cooper shook his head, smiling: Jacob nodded, wished the man a good evening, and stepped out the door. He knew Jackson Cooper had a meal waiting on him: the basket was covered with a tucked-in, red-and-white check cloth, and smelled really, really good, and Jacob's rumbling gut reminded him he had a meal waiting at home, and the rest of him reminded him he had a beautiful wife and a laughing son there as well. Now, having tended his mount, cleaned the stall and thrown down fresh straw for bedding, having turned his stallion into the pasture, he grinned as the stallion stuck his neck out and whinnied. "Go get 'em, boy," he murmured as the stallion paced toward the approaching mares. "Make some good colts!" A stray breeze brought him the smell of supper and he grinned. Home looked pretty darn good.
  4. Linn Keller 4-17-11 Doc wanted to take no chances with my leg a-bleedin' again. I don't know why he was being so particular. I been shot before and worse than this, but that skinny so-and-so wouldn't have anything but me layin' flat on my back or real careful up on my un-injured side. He finally allowed as Nurse Susan could crank that-there horse-pistol bed up some at the head and that was a great relief for about the first ten minutes or so, then I began to get restless. He threatened to juice me with some more of that poppy stuff and I told him I would reach down his neck, grab him by the ankles and yank him inside out if he tried it. I didn't like those nightmares a'tall and saw no need to go a-visitin' them things again! Sean fetched me in some good back strap meat -- matter of fact Daisy fixed me up with more than three men could have et -- Doc said it was okay to fill my belly so I did it full justice. I et every bite. Nurse Susan viewed the empty plates and bowls with dismay. "You wern't hungry, now, were you?" she asked, peering over a set of non-existent spectacles. The scar on her face was pretty well faded but her smile was crooked and likely would be for the rest of her life: I thought of the scoundrel that had cut her like that and wished most sincerely he was still alive so I could do some really unpleasant things to his miserable carcass. I shifted my mental locomotive to another set of tracks quick-like, for I am a transparent man and my thoughts are plain on my face: I tried to look innocent and replied, "Why it don't pay to eat too much on an empty stomach!" -- to which she replied, "I'll bet you take a nap before bedtime so you won't be too tired!" "How'd you know?" I asked, straight faced. Sean set himself down on a handy chair, which creaked alarmingly under his weight. "Y'know, Sheriff," he rumbled in that delightful Irish accent, the one that came out most strongly when he had an amused confidence to share, "ye lined me purse an' I thank ye for it." I belched comfortably, stuffing a pillow in under the small of my back. "Sean, I can get in trouble just sittin' in my chair at home. How in the cotton pickin' did I manage to line your purse just a-settin' in here?" Sean laughed quietly, his normally red face turning a little redder. "Well, it was a bit of a wager," he began, drawing a leather poke from inside his shirt and offering it to me: "Your share, by th' way, if ye'll have it." I took the poke, hefted it, raised an eyebrow. "Well don't leave me hangin', man," I exclaimed, "what happened?" Sean leaned back with a pleased expression. "Weeelll," he began, and I was glad I was hoist off the floor on that-there horse pistol bed, for it promised to get deep and I was not wearing my boots. "Me an' me b'hoys were in th' Jewel havin' us a bit of a beer after work," he began, then added "F'r medicinal purposes only, y'understand!" "Of course," I agreed solemnly. Sean nodded, winking at me, and continued. "Weeelll," he began again, "there was this stranger on th' stage, an' he came out allowin' as he'd heard of these Western towns bein' so tough, an' how he could out-draw an' out-shoot any man in th' room!" "I see." By now he had my undivided attention and I gave him both eyes and both ears. "Me brother in law said th' fella couldn't out-draw a girl, an' he got mad an' allowed as he sure as hell could an' he'd prove it, if me puir sister's husband would kindly step outside he'd show him! "Th' Jewel emptied out in short order, f'r ever'one wanted t' see what would happen, y'see." Sean nodded knowledgably. "And what did happen?" "Why, Sarah an' yer Bonnie had jus' wheeled int' the livery wi' their buggy, it seems they had a loose shoe an' Sarah steered 'em in t' see Shorty b'fore things got worse. "Me b'hoy went up t' Sarah an' spoke quiet-like t' her, an' Sarah reached int' th' box b'hind the buggy seat an' whipped out her gunbelt and' wrapped i' around 'er waist!" "Well my goodness," I said quietly, nodding. "Go on." "Ah, 'twas a sight t' see," Sean sighed. "This spalpeen realized he'd bit off more o' th' bull than he could ride an' tried t' back out, but no one'd let 'im, an' words were exchanged, an' finally he allowed as a'right, he'd try this little girl an' see who was faster, an' he put up a purse." Sean pulled a second poke from inside his shirt. "I take it she won." "Aye, that she did!" Sean's grin was broad and genuine, his Irish-blue eyes merry with the memory. "Three times, f'r he cried foult th' firs' time, claimed she'd jumped the go! When she proved faster than he, three times runnin', an' she hit the can three times an' he hit but once, he had t' pay, an' he did." I nodded, wishing I could have seen it. "Sarah was still a-wearin' tha' blue silk gown she was a'wearin' earlier in th' day, when those scoundrels held up th' bank, 'r tried t'." Sean scratched his head. "Y'know, Sheriff, yer niece is growin' into a lovely young woman." He leaned toward me, one elbow on his knee, the other hand on his opposite thigh. "Ye're gon' t' have t' hire a shotgun guard t' keep th' men awa' from such a beautiful child!" I flinched as something seared through my guts like a hot spearhead. It was gone just as quickly but it wasn't pleasant. "Sarah came out winners, eh?" I said, my voice a little strange in my ears. "Oh aye, she did that!" Sean chuckled, hefted his poke, returnd it to a hiding place behind his shirt's bib front. "An' I'm obliged t' you f'r teachin' her t' shoot!" I considered the handful of good fortune I held, then extended it to Sean. "Give that to Charlie Macneil when next you see him. He taught her." Sean blinked, nodded: "Aye, I'll do that."
  5. Go out and get sight settings for 50-75-100 yds, and make note of the sight settings. OLG
  6. Linn Keller 4-15-11 Sarah had a thick bed of straw forked out on the ground, and a saddle blanket over it: in front of her, four cans on the fence rail. Jacob watched as Sarah checked her revolver, holstered: she stepped back and not until she caught her heel and fell did he see an extra fence rail, apparently intentionally placed. Sarah went down backwards and Jacob frowned as her arms swung out and slapped the ground, hard, and she rolled to the side, drew and fired one handed. Even though it was the .22 with which his father had gifted her, it was an impressive move: even more impressive was the fact that she was training to fight back from being knocked down. Sarah fired only one shot; she got up and walked up to the fence rail, touched it, then paced back, turned and drew, fired twice. Jacob could see the can wobble, but it stayed put on the squared-off top of the rail. Sarah reloaded, holstered; this time she stepped sideways, went down on her side, slapped the ground hard with her left arm and drew and fired right handed. Jacob nodded. His father had drilled him in that exact move; it was something he practiced regularly, though he smiled a little at the thick straw padding Sarah had prepared. She's smarter than I am, Jacob thought, then called gently, "Sarah?" Sarah turned, both hands coming up in front of her: she was still keyed up from making her practice as realistic as possible, but she apparently knew she was at home and a surprise probably did not equal a threat. Jacob was grateful for that. He had no doubt that, at this distance, she could perforate his anatomy with ease. "Oh!" Sarah's hand went up to her hair, then swatted at her riding skirt to dislodge any straw that escaped the saddle blanket, and she looked distinctly embarrassed: she looked shyly up at the grinning deputy, and Jacob laughed quietly at her reddening cheeks. He walked up to her and took her hands, shaking his head. "Sarah," he said, "I have seldom seen better." Sarah's eyes dropped shyly and Jacob felt a deep affection for this tall girl: he regarded her more as cousin than anything else, and loved her like a sister, but he also needed to take her testimony about the holdup at the bank. He hadn't heard about her using her Derringer until Bonnie made mention of it. He didn't see a need to put that into the official report, as it was more than evident that Jackson Cooper was the primary cause of the first holdup's demise: no, Sarah's action, though salutary, would escape his pen later in the day. No sense in putting her in front of the Judge if we don't have to, he thought, and as the two of them set on the Deacon's bench, sunning themselves and talking quietly, he watched her hands, her eyes, seeing the change as she looked far into the horizon, seeing the holdup again in her memory. At one point Jacob stood and had her stand, facing him, and had her show him where she stood, where her Mama stood, and which way the nearest holdup was facing: he had her show him the approximate distance to the second holdup, how she moved from one to the other, where she was when Jackson Cooper came into the room. Finally he asked about his father. "He looked around the corner and asked if we were unhurt," Sarah said. "Did you notice anything ... unusual about him?" Sarah considered, looking at the event again with her mind's eye. "No," she finally said. "Other than he looked pale -- his eyes were very pale and I knew he was mad -- angry, to his very soul -- but when he saw we were okay, he pulled back and I turned back to Mama." Jacob nodded. "Jacob, is something wrong?" Sarah's eyes were troubled: Jacob looked out at the line where mountains sawtoothed their way against the blue, blue sky, and he chewed on his upper lip. He looked over at Sarah. "Pa was hurt." Sarah's eyes went wide and the color ran out of her face like red ink out of an eyedropper. "Easy there!" Jacob exclaimed and seized Sarah's shoulder as she wobbled a little. She clutched at his arm and swallowed hard. "How bad?" she whispered hoarsely. "He'll be fine," Jacob said reassuringly. Sarah's distress flared into anger. "JACOB KELLER," she shouted, standing abruptly, fists balled at her side, "DON'T YOU DARE LIE TO ME! HOW BAD IS HE?" Jacob blinked in surprise, then he made a serious mistake. He laughed. Sarah's fist caught him just under the breast bone and her riding boot drove into his shin bone, its impact only slightly diminished by his own elaborately stitched boot tops: "JACOB KELLER, YOU TELL ME THE TRUTH, WHAT HAPPENED?" "Whoa! Whoa!" Jacob choked with what little wind he had left: he seized Sarah's upper arms, turned half sideways as if to throw her over his extended leg: "He'll be fine, he's just lost some blood --" Sarah drove a knee into the back of his thigh and twisted out of his grasp: she drew back a few feet, teeth bared and her own face dead pale: Jacob opened his mouth to say something and Sarah turned, sprinting into the barn. Jacob rubbed his belly and worked some more air into his lungs and before he could get himself to rights, he heard Sarah's "HYAHH!" and the sharp crack of reins against a horse's haunches, and he saw Sarah on her racer squirt out of the open barn doors like a watermelon seed from between pinched fingers, and the race horse raised up and floated over the fence rail like he had wings before they touched down and proceeded to make the express train look like a rank amateur. Jacob grunted, took a deep breath, then another, and headed for his own mount. Fast as his stallion was, he seriously doubted he could catch his cousin.
  7. Linn Keller 4-14-11 With Jackson Cooper out of town, Jacob took over putting together what had happened, and when: he talked to nearly everyone on the street, he spoke with each member of the Irish Brigade: he took pains to thank Mr. Baxter for his kindness, for the man had come over with a double handful of Settledown, coming toward something that could have been mild as an argument or vicious as a running gunfight. He rode out to the McKenna ranch and waved at Sam: she and Clark were in the near pasture, branding and gelding and otherwise engaging in what is honestly nothing but hard, dirty work. Jacob could not help but admire how the herd had improved in the short time that Sam and Clark had been there. He knew they had two seed bulls and rented them out: he'd seen Sarah help them get the bulls to the railhead, and into a cattle car -- but never both at the same time, otherwise they would have torn the cattle car apart and killed one another in the process. Bonnie's twins met Jacob with their usual shy, giggling approach: as soon as he set foot in the house, they charged him at a dead run, one seizing him around the left thigh, one around his right, each of them chattering excitedly, and he squatted and ran an arm around each of them and picked them up, grinning. The hired girl swung into view, then stepped quickly aside as Bonnie came out of her office, smiling. Jacob lowered the girls and they scampered to their Mama: "Mama, Mama, Jacob's here!" they chorused, as if Bonnie could not see the lean young deputy. "Jacob," Bonnie greeted affectionately, extending her hands in a motherly gesture: Jacob flushed, looking suddenly awkward -- just like his father! she thought -- and he advanced and took her hands in his. The hired girl took the twins and entertained them in the next room while Bonnie and Jacob settled in Bonnie's office: tea and sandwiches were brought in, and they exchanged pleasant, small talk -- how little Joseph was growing, how he and Annette had been hoping for another child, how his own small herd had increased significantly. Finally he came to the purpose of his visit. "Can you tell me what happened in the bank?" he asked carefully. Bonnie gave him a patient look. "Jacob Keller," she said softly, "if I didn't know better I would think you were a lawman!" Jacob's smile was equally gentle. "I need to see it through your eyes."
  8. I like Redwood Kid better, much easier to spell.
  9. Hoss, when my son shot his Rossi 92 .357 at our long rang match(100 yards) he did quite well using 158gr bullets in 38 special cases moving about 900 FPS. I don't remember him changing the rear site, just aimed at the top of the targets.
  10. Linn Keller 4-14-11 "Sean?" The big Irishman was almost asleep when Daisy laid a gentle hand on his furry chest and whispered his name. Sean rolled over on his left side and threw a massive, muscled arm over his wife, rolling her into him. His eyes were still closed, he was relaxed, warm, content: he kissed her on the forehead and sighed. Daisy worked her arm up over the curve of his ribs and spoke to her husband's Adam's apple. "Sean?" Sean distantly felt the puff of her breath on his throat, and chuckled, a deep, good natured sound, a sound Daisy loved to hear. There was much about this man she absolutely loved, and very little she did not. "Sean, thank you." Sean swam up through the depths of relaxed sleep and took a shivering breath, which Daisy knew meant he was coming awake. "Hm?" he asked drowsily. Daisy tightened her arm around her husband, and he his around her, and each molded into the other, delighting in their mutual warmth. Few things are as intimate, or as comforting, as simple touch, and touch is magnified in the marriage bed. "Sean? Thank you, you bog trotting Irishman!" Sean came fully awake, went to look down and managed to shove his nose full into her hair. He drew back a little, sniffed, wiggled his nose and tried again. "Daisy me dear," he whispered, "wha' was th' question?" Daisy giggled and turned a little, laying her head in against his shoulder. She seldom ever felt as warm, as safe, as comforted, as she did when she was cuddled up against her Irish mountain of a man, and she felt so now. "Sean, the girl. Thank ye. She's a great help." Sean nodded, carefully, with a drowsy "Mm-hmm." Esther washed her face, the sound of water loud in her bedroom: she toweled carefully, hoping she hadn't wakened Angela, but as she brought the towel from her face, she saw a solemn-eyed little girl standing barefoot beside her, a rag doll dangling by its leg from one hand, the other knuckles rubbing her eye. "Mommy?" Angela asked in a drowsy little-girl voice. "Where's Daddy?" Esther squatted and took her daughter in a gentle Mommy-hug. Angela smelled of clean flannel and soap and lilac-water: like her Mommy, her fine brown hair was braided, though Angela's was in twin pig tails instead of her Mommy's single thick braid. "He'll be back soon, sweets." Angela laid her cheek over on her Mommy's shoulder and Esther picked her up -- she's getting big! she thought, I won't be able to do this for much longer! -- and, snapping back the covers, she laid Angela on their big bed, and got in beside her. Angela rolled up on her left side and gave a little sigh and Esther knew she was asleep, just that fast, and she smiled: she drew the covers over them both, marveling at innocent youth and how quickly it could drop into a deep, dreamless sleep. Angela, though, was dreaming, the vigorous, bright dreams of a little child: she dreamed her Daddy was picking her up and spinning her around, the way she loved, and the world whirled around her in streaks of broad pastels, and she shrieked and laughed, safe in Daddy's big, strong hands, as her skirts and her legs flew out behind her. Angela wiggled a little, dreaming of Daddy's mut-stash tickling her when he kissed her goodnight, or his quiet, strong Daddy-voice as he read her a story, how he felt when she sat on his lap and leaned back against his solid Daddy-chest and laid her cheek against his ribs and listened to his thumper thumping, and how his strong Daddy-arms would pick her up and carry her to bed, and she dreamed of his breath on her cheek as he kissed her goodnight. Esther leaned over to look at her little girl's face, barely visible in the thin moonlight through the wavy glass of the bedroom window, and Esther smiled, for Angela had a contented little-girl smile on her smooth, flawless face.
  11. Wait til we start talking about what goes in em!!
  12. I, also, am a huge fan. It's funny. Guy I used to work with was a fan of "serious" science fiction - Herbert, Nivan, like that. When he saw the title of the book I was reading - SPACE CADET - he was laughing at it. Until he saw it said Robert Heinlein. He told me when he first saw the title he thought it was about Tom Corbin.
  13. Linn Keller 4-13-11 Slow, echoing footsteps in a long, empty hallway. Darkness, save in the distance, a solitary torch in a wall bracket: cut sandstone walls, shoulder high, arching overhead, barely high enough for a man to walk without bending. Now what am I doing here? the Sheriff wondered, looking down at his arm and frowning. Why am I wearing this? He turned, looked behind him. The hall was dark, nothing was visible, but he felt ... something ... something in the dark, something evil, something malevolent. He remembered the Navy Colt the jailer had slipped him, reached his hand under his Yankee blue uniform coat. The walnut handle was solid, comforting in his hand. If I run, it'll chase me, he thought, and reached up with his other hand. He grasped a torch where no torch had been a moment before. "CAVERLAOCH!" he roared, charging the darkness, leading with the sizzling torch, the Navy Colt cocked in his good right hand. The floor was solid underfoot, his knee-high Cavalry boots were loud on the stone flags -- He was falling, he was falling: now he wore a fluttering white flannel night shirt and he clawed at the empty air, vainly seeking the revolver and torch that turned to dust as the floor dissolved underfoot. A hand, cool on his forehead, a voice -- He was standing in a grassy meadow and it was hot, hot: he stood in the shade of a broad chestnut, and near to the tree, a stream: now he wore a black suit and a quick check assured him of his knife, his revolvers: cautiously, studying the grassy expanse, he turned and surveyed the world round about him. The Sheriff faded back against the tree, eyes narrowing. Marching feet, invisible but near: a roadway, curving through the grass. An empty canteen at his feet. He bent, picked it up: on impulse he returned to the stream, filled the canteen, took a long drink, took another. Half a hundred voices shouted in chorus and he turned, his hand flashing inside his coat and seizing his Colt's handle, his thumb hard on its hammer: "The Road to Hell, the wise man said, "Is a wide and easy street, "It echoes with the trampling "Of marching, booted feet." The voices were young, strong, vigorous, the words were clear and understandable in spite of being shouted: his throat vibrated to shout with him, for he recognized the words, and he began to shiver with fear. He was suddenly very, very afraid. "Of all the men who travel here, "Infantry, Marines, "Only Cavalry may stop "And rest at Fiddler's Green!" Only cavalry, he thought, and here I am! Something shoved him from behind and he spun, one arm up to block, his revolver half-drawn, until he saw it was a chestnut mare, his mare, the mare he'd ridden in the War. He looked closer and her bridle had silver conchos, worked in the shape of roses. A familiar voice, and he turned at the hail: "Colonel, what ever are you doing here?" He turned and a handsome young lieutenant was smiling at him. He rubbed the mare's velvety nose and fished in his coat pocket for a plug of tobacco, shaved off a thick sliver, fed it to her. She lipped his palm delicately, nibbling up every sliver. "What am I doing here?" he asked. "Might be you could tell me!" The Lieutenant slouched pleasantly against the chestnut. "Why, Colonel, you're in Fiddler's Green." He looked around, looked back at the Lieutenant, nodded. "I kind of figured that. How'd I get here?" The Lieutenant shrugged. "I got blown up with a burst cannon, Colonel. I have no idea what happened to you." The Sheriff reached for the lieutenant, grasped his shoulder. The cloth was warm in his hand, textured; he squeezed and felt muscle beneath. "With respect, sir," the Lieutenant said, still slouched against the tree, "you're out of uniform. Mind if I have a swaller?" The Sheriff considered, handing the lieutenant the canteen. He looked at his sleeve as he extended the cloth covered container. Not a military canteen, he thought, and not a military uniform. "I don't belong here," he realized out loud. The lieutenant nodded. "I can stay here forever, sir," the lieutenant said, yawning. "Matter of fact I figure to do just that." The Sheriff felt his belly tighten and he was starting to get mad. "I don't belong here," he said, certainty tightening his voice, "and I'm not about to stay." He reached for the mare's bridle and she turned as she always did. He thrust his boot into the stirrup and seized the saddle horn and just as he swung his leg over he realized the mare was wearing his bridle and his saddle, not the military tack. "Sir?" the lieutenant said, pushing away from the tree and looking up at the Sheriff. "Yes, Lieutenant?" The Sheriff felt his strength surging back. "Sir, you were always a fair man, and I'm not the only one to appreciate that, sir. When we saw you were leading us we knew you'd take care of us, and you always did. I was proud to serve under you, sir, and please don't take this wrong, but I'd be most pleased not to see you for a good long time." The Sheriff looked up, saw a familiar figure in the distance, maybe a half mile away across the flat grassland. "Go to her, Colonel," the lieutenant said with that flashing, boyish grin the Sheriff remembered so well. "Go to her, sir!" The Sheriff leaned into his mare, gave her his knees. "Yaah!" he yelled, and the chestnut mare gathered herself and launched across the roadway, chunks of sod tossing up behind her. There were yells, whistles: "Go, Colonel!" "Kiss her for me!" "We'll see you later, Colonel!" The Sheriff heard them but dimly. The chestnut mare was finding her stride, her hooves drumming rapidly, regularly on the hard earth, surging beneath him: he leaned over her neck and whispered to her, "Run -- run -- run -- run!" Wind whipped his face, his hat fell back, held by the storm strap, stripping tears out the corners of his eyes, running them cold and wet around the back of his neck -- "He's waking," Nurse Susan said, and Esther rose, not entirely awake herself. She'd drowsed in a chair, at least until her husband began to twitch and mutter: she'd soothed him with a hand on his forehead, a cool cloth wiping his face, and he'd relaxed; she sat back down and relaxed as well, and she must have drowsed without intending to. The Sheriff's eyes snapped open, wide, and he took a great, gasping breath: looking around, left, then right, he appeared to be looking for someone. Esther laid a gentle hand on his chest and he seized her upper arm. "You're real," he whispered, half afraid, half hopeful: "You're real!" Esther's green eyes regarded him curiously. "The Lieutenant," the Sheriff said abruptly. "Where is he?" Esther and Nurse Susan looked at one another. "The ... who?" The Sheriff took a few long breaths, closed his eyes, drew Esther into his arms. "Nothing," he whispered. "Nothing, dearest." Esther was not entirely sure quite what had just happened, but she knew it was the right time to hold her husband. Nurse Susan withdrew quietly, slipping into the next room. "Dr. Greenlees?" she asked. The dozing physician woke quickly, sat up, the way he always did. He slept dressed, all but his shoes, so he might quickly respond to any emergency coming in: he and Dr. Flint took turns sleeping at the ready. "Dr. Greenlees, the Sheriff is awake." Dr. Greenlees thrust his sock feet into elastic-sided shoes. "He may have had a little too much poppy juice. He seemed to be having a nightmare."
  14. I think you got the spelling wrong, Rye. The ones that Mrs. Lose bought me are the Buck Naked underwear and they are great. She bought me six pairs when they were on sale about 2 years ago.
  15. Are we really discussing underwear on a shooting forum?
  16. Linn Keller 4-13-11 Dr. Greenlees nodded slightly, his thin, long-fingered hands restless, as they always were. "Mrs. Keller," he began, at which point Esther interrupted him by snapping her fan open: "It's always been Esther before," she said tartly. "I take it you wish to pull rank on me." She lifted her chin and regarded the physician coldly. Dr. Greenlees nodded. "Yes, ma'am. You're right, I am." Esther snapped her fan shut and slapped the closed fan in her palm. "Dr. Greenlees," she said quietly, the steel showing in her voice, "I am this man's wife. I am responsible for maintaining his reputation in this community, and I do not want it known that the Sheriff has been laid up in the hospital simply because he has been shot!" Esther took a step closer to the sallow medico and laid a gloved hand on his forearm. "On the other hand I don't want to kill my husband by going against medical advice." She gave his arm a squeeze. "Dr. Greenlees, I own the railroad and interest in two mines, I own the brick works and arguably I am one of the most influential people in this town. I can bring as much weight as I want, to achieve anything I want." She looked the man squarely in the eye. "What I want is my husband, under his own roof, but I want him there alive and healthy. "You are a good man, Dr. Greenlees, and you have done your very best for everyone in this community." She released her grip on his coatsleeve. "I am content to follow your advice. I may be one of the most powerful women in the State, but I try not to be one of the most foolish!" She snapped her fan open again, waving it slowly in front of her, peering over its edge at the good Doctor, and he could see her eyes smiling. "Mrs. Keller," Dr. Greenlees said solemnly, "you are most certainly not a foolish woman." His eyes rested momentarily on the closed door that separated them from the patient. "I'd like to keep him another full day at least. He has lost more blood than I like and that leg wound will be fragile for another day. He's lucky he's alive, as a matter of fact, another half inch and two of the shot would have severed the great artery in his groin." Esther nodded, understanding fully what the physician was telling her. She herself practiced sword-thrusts and knife-thrusts to the femoral artery, for she knew that a man with a femoral arterial transection would be unconscious in fifteen seconds at the very most, and dead inside of three minutes. "May I see him?" she said, her voice softer, and Dr. Greenlees' smile was thin, but genuine. "Of course."
  17. Linn Keller 4-12-11 The Sheriff was flat on his back and not entirely awake when he cracked the red wax seal and unfolded the paper Jacob had delivered to him. Nurse Susan could not help but me amused by the dreamy smile on the old lawman's face as he read the note: it was a struggle for him to keep his eyes open, and yet he managed, at least until the paper fell from between his fingers and spun to the floor. Jacob's response to the note he found on his father's desk wasn't quite as ... well, Jacob did not have a good dose of extract of poppy behind his belt buckle to give him such a delightfully relaxed, don't-give-a-care feeling. Matter of fact he frowned as he puzzled out the painfully formed letters and read aloud: Gone to see a man. Back tomorrow. Jackson Cooper Then under it in slightly less legible handwriting -- that is to say, nearly illegible -- Tell Emma I'll not be home for supper. Jacob scratched his head. Well, hell, he thought, I reckon Jackson Cooper is allowed to go see a friend every now and ag'in! Jackson Cooper's horse was a warmblood, mostly plow horse with something else in the mix. He wasn't sure quite what, and he didn't particularly care: his horse was big enough and strong enough to pack his sizable carcass and that suited him just fine. He also considered that as he approached, an out sized man on an out sized horse just might lead someone to figure they were closer than they actually were, and was they to shoot at him ... why, they just might hold low and miss. Or they might hit his horse, which would make Jackson Cooper unhappy. It was not wise to make Jackson Cooper unhappy. Jackson Cooper thought of Sarah McKenna, one arm outflung to shield her Mama, the other hand driving something small and nickle plated into a holdup's gut: she'd whipped her hand out and there was the diminutive spit! of a .41 rimfire, lost in the hammering roar of his own .44-caliber sledgehammer, and he knew this little kitten had claws, and that he took particular offense to those folks who would cause her to feel the need to fetch out her claws and strike. Jackson Cooper was a big man and Jackson Cooper was a strong man, and like most men who were truly big and truly strong, he had a gentle nature, a peaceable nature, and he liked it when folks around him had the same. He also had a profound admiration for the little girl who was growing up into a fine young woman, and he wished most profoundly for her to grow up. Not get killed in a bank robbery. Perhaps it was with this sense of the knight-errant that he sought out the man whose name was given him through the jail door's bars, or perhaps it was because he knew the man and felt obligated to be the one to bring him in. In either case, he reflected, the man was coming in, peacefully or otherwise ... and he didn't particularly care which way it was.
  18. Good memory. >Cargraves selected two Garand rifles, Army surplus stock at a cheap price, and added a police thirty-eight special, on a forty-five frame. His mouth watered at a fancy sporting rifle with telescopic sights, but money was getting short; a few more emergency purchases or any great delay in starting would bankrupt the firm.<
  19. Linn Keller 4-11-11 Jackson Cooper's methods were simple and direct. He had honestly beat the stuffing out of his prisoner, before the man became his prisoner, and so he knew he'd gotten the fellow's attention. Now that steel bars separated them, Jackson Cooper's voice was quiet, like it generally was; he stood relaxed, nothing but his eyes moving. "Now suppose you tell me who those other two used to be." The prisoner swallowed, flinched: his jaw hurt with the slightest movement and ached where a couple teeth used to be. He moved carefully, not wanting to aggravate cracked ribs, and his belly was stiff and he knew he'd been hit or kicked or both -- he couldn't remember which. He told the big Marshal the names of the deceased. "Now suppose you tell me who else is in on the deal." The prisoner hesitated, at least until Jackson Cooper opened his hands slowly, closed his hands slowly. The prisoner gave him a name, and it was a name Jackson Cooper knew. "Now where were you all supposed to meet up, and where will he be by now?" The prisoner closed his eyes against the pain, both of the beating he'd endured, and the psychic pain of betraying a man he'd called friend. Jackson Cooper nodded, slowly, considering. "Now there wouldn't be anythin' else you need to tell me, would there?" he rumbled, his eyes narrowing a little. The prisoner's blood turned to water -- cold water at that! -- and he allowed as no, not a single thing. Jackson Cooper extended his hand. "You might need this." The prisoner blinked, then reached carefully for the pint bottle the Marshal extended between the bars. "Thanks," he husked.
  20. Linn Keller 4-11-11 Shorty loved few things more than horses. Oh, he had a healthy affection for the stable cats, all however many of them there were: the population seemed to wax and wane, the cats seemed to turn black or grey or orange or be striped or calico, but they were always the same old cats, and he addressed them all with the same name: "Cat." The current feline was curled up on his lap, purring, a pleasantly warm companion in the high country chill: Shorty's battered billycock was shoved well back on his head and he sighed contentedly. He figured he had earned some sit-down time. His livery was -- as always -- orderly, tidy, neat: he'd finished cleaning the stalls, brushing the horses, checking their hooves -- again -- and even that mean tempered little pony that had been traded and sold and swapped and traded again seemed not to mind the stout little man's attentions. At the moment, though, his boots were on the desk, his hands caressing the drowsing feline, his work was caught up and Shorty was content. Now Shorty was a wise man, and had not voiced his contentment: like many of his day, he maintained there were Evil Demons of the Air that listened to every word that was uttered, and used those words to cast stones in a man's way: "I think we'll go on a picnic," the unwary might say, to which these incorporeal troublemakers might attend their ear and reply with "Oh yeah? ZAP! -- Thunderstorm!" No, Shorty had uttered not one syllable, not one word, and yet he couldn't help but think that evil spirits were conspiring against him. One leg of his swivel chair broke cleanly out of the caster, dropping him backwards: the falling, broken chair leg hit a knot in the flooring, the knot popped out, the chair went over farther and broke again, and Shorty and the cat abandoned ship, so to speak, with the cat's escape marked by more speed, higher trajectory and no blood loss. Shorty wasn't quite so ... graceful. While the grey puddy tat was perched majestically on top of Shorty's roll top desk, Shorty was rolling over onto his belly, gritting his teeth and running a fast inventory. He looked down at the back of one hand and saw blood, then noted the claw marks: his right thigh burned, and he realized the cat's launch was done with no regard for underlying strata -- in this case, his thigh. The imps of mischief further humiliated the man by delivering to him a witness to these proceedings. Jacob paced quietly back through the livery, leaned in Shorty's chaff-dusted office and solemnly regarded the quadrupedal hostler. "I like the view," Shorty snarled before Jacob could utter a word, and Jacob nodded: he'd heard the multiple components of a fall, complete with the screech of a cat on takeoff, and he knew something unexpected had happened. Jacob waited until the muscled fellow got to his feet, knocked a shocking amount of dust off his worse for wear hat, and jammed it on his head. "You wouldn't know where my Pa would be, by any chance?" he inquired, his words slow, almost drawled: Shorty's ear twitched, for he had a good ear for language, and he could tell Jacob had spent some little time with the Daine boys, for their verbal cadencing was slower than most, and Shorty had noticed Jacob was a linguistic sponge: he could listen to a man speaking in a particular accent, and reply with that same accent, naturally and unaffectedly. Shorty had no idea what languages the young man might command, now or in time, but he was willing to bet he'd be good at learning. Shorty sadly regarded what was left of his cigar. Jacob leaned closer, regarded the ragged remnant: "Has your see-gar drownded out, or did yer chaw ketch fahr?" Shorty sighed and shook his head. "You are yer father's son," he muttered. "Yer Pa used t' ask me that." Jacob nodded, a half-smile easing his face. "Yer Pa." Shorty straightened. "Where you bin?" "I got run all over hell and breakfast chasin' some wild geese," Jacob said unhappily, hooking his thumb over his shoulder. "Someone thought it would be funny t' make the depitty go chase his tail over half the county." Shorty dropped the shreds of cigar in a spitoon and spat on the chaff-covered floor. "Yep, they wanted ye outta the way, a'right." Shorty could feel the change more than see it: Jacob seemed to tighten up, not stiffen, just ... well, there was no slack a'tall in him now. Relaxed, yes, but relaxed like a mountain cat before it explodes into claws and teeth and fury. "They was some fellas tried t' rob th' bank." Jacob's eyes shone pale from under the shade of his Stetson's brim. "Did they?" Shorty carefully drew a cigar box off the shelf, blew the dust off its lid. "Nope." "Mm." Jacob grunted, nodding once. Shorty slid the wooden lid open, peered inside; he slapped it shut, disappointed, and held it out: "Need a good see-gar box? I got sev'ral." Jacob reached out and took it, nodding his thanks. "The bank?" he prompted. Shorty scowled. He'd never liked giving bad news but there was no way around it. "Yer Pa an' Jackson Cooper went in ag'in seven 'r eight of 'em. They was a hell of a fight an' that McKenna girl an' her Ma kilt two 'r three. I think her Ma beat one t' death with her handbag, an' that girl looked like a blue silk tornado, just a-shootin' fahr an' slicin' with them knives!" Jacob was very, very still. Shorty stopped when he saw Jacob's eyes, ice-pale and flint-hard. "Yer pa." Shorty swallowed, harrumphed, spat. "My Pa." "Yer Pa, he, um ..." Shorty scraped scarred and soiled knuckles across his stubbled chin. "He got shot." Jacob's voice was quiet, level, and as warm as his eyes. "Go on." "I heered he took both barls an' kep' a-comin' just a-spittin' fahr from attair Winchester o' his. He kilt seven 'r eight of 'em an' beat another two 'r three an' there at th' last right bafore he fell over bleedin', why, he strangled one an' beat t'other'n t' death with the first one's skull!" Jacob's jaw was thrust out and he nodded slowly, knowing he'd have to distill this one considerably to get the facts out of the rumor. He held up a folded paper with a red seal and ribbon. "I got a note for him. Where is he?" Shorty regarded Jacob's lined, impassive face and considered how lucky he was not to be on the young deputy's bad side in that moment. "I reckon he's still in attair horse pistol healin' up." "Obliged." Jacob touched his hat brim and turned to go. He stopped, considering something, and Shorty reached down to pick up his chair. "Here y'are." Jacob handed Shorty a tightly-wrapped package and Shorty's grin started in his eyes and fair to split the face right off his head. Jacob's eyes, though cold and hard, held a glint of humor as the stout-muscled hostler unwrapped a bundle of good Cuban cigars.
  21. I also have two pairs of their Firehose pants. They're comfortable and they seem to be semi-indestructible, at least for the four years that I've had them.. The only complaint that I have with them is that the zipper is a tad bit on the short side, especially compared to my Carharts...
  22. Ego bibere capulus ut alii vivere
  1. Load more activity
  • Create New...

Important Information

By using this site, you agree to our Terms of Use.