Alias Smith and Jones

Guest Post by Gina's Husband Jim

Today as Gina is temporarily out of commission with a weird back pain. We think it's Coccydynia. She's gone to see a doctor, who referred her to an ultrasound exam, but right in the middle of the ultrasound exam, the durn machine broke, so she has to go back again today to see if they can figure out what is wrong with her. On the sage advice of some good friends, she's been taking Motrin, which has releived the pain a great deal. (Thank you C!)

In the meantime, Gina hasn't been able to sit too much because the angle tends to cause pressure on her tailbone, so she's been more or less reclining on a hard futon mattress, which tends to relieve a lot of the pain. While stuck in that position, we've been watching one of our new favorite shows on Hulu, Alias Smith and Jones.

For those of you not familiar with this vintage 1973 western, I would quickly describe it as Butch Cassiday and the Sundance Kid meets The Fugitive. Wikipedia describes thusly...

Operating primarily in Wyoming Territory, Hannibal Heyes (played by Pete Duel) and Jedediah 'Kid' Curry (Ben Murphy) are the two most successful outlaws in the history of the west. However, the west is starting to catch up with the modern world: safes are becoming harder to crack, trains more difficult to stop, and posses more skilled at tracking them down.

Heyes, the leader of the Devil's Hole Gang, falls out with the other members and he and Curry decide to get one thing: "out of this business!" Since they have never killed anyone, they qualify for pardons. Through an old acquaintance, Sheriff Lom Trevors, they manage to contact the territorial governor. He agrees to grant them amnesty, but cannot do so openly without angering the public. He therefore makes a deal with them: if they can stay out of trouble for a considerable but unspecified period of time ("until the governor feels we deserve it") and not tell anyone about their arrangement, they will be cleared of all charges. Until then, they will still be wanted. The two are skeptical and ask, "That's a good deal?"

Heyes's and Curry's skepticism proves very well justified indeed; the straight and narrow path is not easily traveled. Heyes and Curry (now calling themselves Joshua Smith and Thaddeus Jones) often find themselves tangling with lawmen, bounty hunters and operatives of the Bannerman Detective Agency (a satire of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency), not to mention other outlaws. To get out of these sticky situations, they are forced to rely on Heyes's silver tongue, Curry's fast draw, and occasionally a little help from their friends from both sides of the law.

It's a fun show, but as much as she enjoys it, she would rather be here, working on her story, so hopefully she'll be back in the saddle as it were next week.

Have a great weekend!

- Jim

Cast Hellbender!

It has come to my attention that a number of you do not visualize our favorite farrier, Hellbender Hungerford, the same way I do. So I've been considering doing a new picture for him to reflect how you all see him.

Which is interesting, because out of all the characters I had to describe to artists, he was probably the hardest for me to put together. I mean, I see him in my head clear as day. Conveying him to someone else is evidently a bit more tricky.

We're wanting to do a hardcopy version of the first hundred chapters, and I'd like to perhaps consider re-creating Bender's picture a bit for that.

So if this were a movie or television show, who would you cast to play Bender? Feel free to leave comments in the comments section so I can see what's inside your heads. If enough of you like him the way he is, I'll leave him alone. Otherwise, we'll see about maybe changing him up a bit.

Thanks for the feedback!

Red Haired Boy, Part 2 (prequel)

“We got ourselves in a bit of a standoff, so we do...” The Irish thug on the stoop was surprisingly calm, considering Dorcas was still holding her blade jammed hard under his ribcage. “Would you feel better if I let you take me musketoon?”

Dorcas considered this. She was hesitant to reach for it, because she was afraid a shift in position might give him an opening to either grab her or hit her with the weapon. But on the other hand, I really do have the tiger by the tail right now. Gonna have to do something.

She put her hand on the weapon firmly, ready to pull him into her blade if he made a sudden move. He was taller than she, but judging by his lean, rangy build, and the way had the gun slung across his broad shoulders, a hard yank on it would pull him off balance. He kept his thumb in the trigger guard and his raised hands open, fingers spread to show they were otherwise empty and unready to fight.

“Take it.” He said, sliding his thumb slowly out of the metal loop.

“You try anything and I swear I’ll kill you.”She tightened her grip on both the gun and the knife handle, giving him a nudge with the latter to remind him of his precarious position. “I’ll leave your dead white ass right here on the stairs.”

“Aye, I’m getting that.”

She slowly pulled the musket from across his shoulders and backed out of his reach, leveling the barrel at his chest. “What do you want?”

“Well...It was me intent to help you with the door....well...that and if I hadn’t stayed, Connor most likely would have.”

“He seems to think your intent was to attack me. And he clearly knows you better than I do.”

The young man grimaced unhappily and shook his tousled ginger head. “Actually, lass...no he doesn’t.”

“You’re telling me you don’t know him, now?”

“He’s me brother.” The man muttered, a disgusted edge in his voice. Ignoring the weapon aimed at him, he turned towards the stuck door and put his shoulder to it. It moved another squealing inch. “Aye, got a problem here, sure. So...” He said conversationially, peering beyond the door  into the dank darkness within the tenement. “You play fiddle down at Pete’s place.”

Wha...? Startled, Dorcas’ mouth fell open. “You mean Almacks? The dance hall? Uh...yes. I play...violin.”

“You’re very good.” He was stooping, straining his arm behind the door at something she couldn’t see.  

An unpleasant realization hit her. “Did you...did you follow me home?” She stepped back in alarm and re-aimed the big barrel, which had started to droop, back up to his chest.

“No.” He planted both hands firmly on the door frame, braced one foot against the door, and shoved steadily with his leg. The door slid slowly open, scraping and squeaking the entire way.

“Then why are you really here?”   

“Because I live here. I need to pick up more balls.” He turned and gently but firmly took his firearm out of her startled hands. “Tha’s not loaded, lass.”

Her mouth dropped open and she stared at him. I'd say he has all the balls he needs and then some. She crossed her arms, cocking her head at him. There is probably close to a thousand people living in this building. I guess it’s possible I’ve never seen him here. Especially if he keeps different hours...which considering that he’s wearing gang markings, I imagine he does.

His face broke into a cocky grin. “How stupid do you think I am?” He winked and gestured to the now open doorway. “After you. Mind your step, Mr. Scarano is passed out paralytic drunk in the hallway once again. He’s layin’ against door. And I smell vomit..you know, the usual...so...stay to the left. He’s made a right holy show of it in there.”

He really does live here. She stared at him, not moving.

He gave her a comical shrug and flopped down on the seatwall, looking up at her.  “Are you goin’ in?”

She thought about this. She felt fairly certain that if the man had meant to attack her, he could have done so while she was holding his unloaded weapon on him. He hardly would have handed her a loaded weapon, so she felt inclined to believe his claim that it wasn’t. Hell, he did get rid of his pig brother...he wasn’t obligated to do that. Still, not sure I want a Roach Guard I’d held at knifepoint and then at gunpoint knowing where exactly I live...  “No.”

He gave her an exasperated look and cocked his head. In the dim amber light, she could see that his eyes were a deep blue. Normally, she didn’t like blue eyes. They were pale and untrustworthy, and belonged to people who looked at her as if she were less than human. This man’s eyes were a deeper color, like indigo dye, and twinkled with amusement.

“Fair enough, lass.” He nodded. “So if we’re gonna sit here, I don’t supposed there’s any danger of me...” He gestured at the violin case."I mean, would you possibly let me...."

Is he serious? She raised an eyebrow at him.

He raised one as well and held out the musketoon to her.

I must be out of my skull. This violin is the difference between starving and not starving. She held out her instrument case and let him take it from her, taking the gun from him once again.

“You play?” She said incredulously, watching him reverently open the case. It was more an exclamation of disbelief than a question.

“Aye...well...it’s been a while.” He said softly, his long, slightly freckled fingers running over the chalky white haze that marred the instrument’s narrow waist, plucking the strings and listening, adjusting them.  He found lump of rosin inside and deftly rubbed it over the horsehair of the bow. “I don’t know if I can even...”  He gently swung the instrument to his shoulder, and drew the bow across the strings, his eyes closing in what Dorcas thought was something akin to quiet ecstasy. He played each string, listening to the tone of each, the sweet, heartbreaking sweep of pure sound seemingly even more beautiful for the filthy squalor of the decaying tenement before them. When he reached the high E, it took her breath.

Then he bounced the bow like the Irish in the dancehall did when they were playing reels or jigs, and a jaunty tune she was pretty sure she’d heard before awoke from the strings. Hesitantly, as if his fingers had to remember what they were doing, and then more confidently. She smiled in spite of herself, intrigued. She didn’t play this style, and in fact normally didn’t care for this style. But it was interesting to hear her violin played this way.

He finished the tune, his eyelids slowly opening as he smiled at her. She was pretty sure his eyes were brighter than they had been. “Thank you, lass.” He said, his voice suddenly quiet and fragile.

Dorcas was not quite sure what to say. She cleared her throat. “That’s one I like” she said with a forced casualness, trying to place the tune in her mind. Trying to make him think she didn’t notice the emotion that transfigured his face, that twisted her soul inside her. “Beggarman, or Rigadoo...or...?”

He was carefully placing the instrument and the bow back into the case, closing the latches and holding the case out to her. He had a look of pure gratitude on his face, and he didn’t answer. She suspected he didn’t want her to hear his voice break.

“How about I call that tune Red Haired Boy?” She said charitably, abandoning her curiosity and with it, the need for him to answer. “I’ll remember that.”



Is this how the reel Red Haired Boy, otherwise known as The Jolly Beggarman or The Little Beggarman got it’s name? Well, anything’s possible I suppose, but to my knowledge, no. What I do know is that traditional and folk tunes and songs morph and change and get renamed all the time. Sometimes they’re called “So and So’s Favorite.” Traditional songs oftentimes go by many names.

I particularly love the tune Red Haired Boy, and often request we do it when I am involved in an Irish session. Once, when it was my turn to call the tune, I said “Let’s play Red Haired Boy”, and the fiddler beside me said “Ah, Danny Pearl’s Favorite.”  I gave him a questioning look, so he explained why he’d called the tune that.

You may recall hearing about Daniel Pearl, the journalist who was murdered in Pakistan by Al-Qaeda. What you probably didn’t hear was that Pearl played bluegrass fiddle, and was particularly fond of the tune, too. So his session buddies decided to honor him by renaming the tune, and passing word of the renaming to any other session musicians they played with.

The new name had trickled all the way to a hole-in-the-wall Irish pub called the Publick House way down in South Carolina.

So the next time I was in a session where someone requested Red Haired Boy...well...you all know what I said. 
 

*Special Thanks to Fred for helping me out with some historical details on firearms!

© 2010 Regina Shelley

Red Haired Boy: Part 1 (prequel)

Dorcas Smith noticed the doorknob on the front door to the tenement was, once again, ripped out of the door. He brother had repaired it the first three times it had happened, but this time, the doorknob was nowhere to be seen. She shouldered her battered violin case, got a better grip on her satchel, and gave the door a tentative shove with her open palm. 

The bent hinges groaned in rusty protest and the peeling, partially rotted door lurched only a few inches open, hanging on what was left of it’s hinges. She surveyed the new damage and sighed, shaking her head in disgust. This is gonna take two hands....

She glanced around the quiet, late-night darkness of the street, wondering if it was safe to put down her bags. Things around here had a way of growing legs with a quickness, and she couldn’t afford to lose anything, especially the violin. In fact, having it out in the open where people could see made her feel like a target. 

“Dammit.” She muttered, watching two young red-haired men saunter up the street. She bumped the door with a hip, but all that succeeded in doing was making it scrape an inch across the uneven and cracked wooden floor behind it, the hinges squealing. 

The men glanced her way, and one of them gave a derisive guffaw. “Tha's one way to keep the darkies out.” His accent was heavy, his words slurring.

Had Dorcas been with her brothers, she would have been either nonplussed or infuriated by the comment. But now, standing alone on the dark street having attracted the attention of a couple of armed ruffians, all she felt was fear. Her hand went to the shiv beneath her coat, noting with growing panic the blue stripe each of them wore on their pants legs and the rifle one of them toted against his shoulder. Roach Guard. Irish thugs. She was trapped on the stoop, unable to open the door or get out of the entryway and flee down the street. She gave the door another fruitless shove. 

“Connor, shut up.” The taller one with the rifle muttered. “Tha’s not how you were raised.”

“Oh, we’re gonna be fecking gentlemen, eh?” The man leaned against one of the seatwalls flanking the doorway, looking Dorcas over. “I'm raised right now, so I am. How 'bout it, brown girl?"

She gripped her knife, keeping it hidden, holding her case before her like a shield. She glared at him, meeting his eyes, sizing him up. He’ll be expecting a shot to the nuts...go for his eyes if he makes a move....they never count on that and spend all their effort guarding their berries...

“Lad, this isna part of the job. Leave off.” Rifle said firmly. “Look, go along with ya, I’ll catch up.”

“Oh.” the leering Irishman sneered. “I see how it sodding is. What do you wan’ me to tell Flannagan? You decided to take your wee laddie out for a little exercise so you’re runnin’ a bit late?”

“Jaysus! Will you just go?” 

“You’re a cute hoor, so you are." The shorter man spat at his companion. "Suppose I’m in the mood to get me oats as well, eh?” 

What did he just call me? Why did I not listen to Ethan? Why did I not stay in tonight? Dorcas pressed her back against the jammed door, gripping her knife so hard her hand started to sweat. Her fear warred with her outrage. Taller one might be easier to stab in the side...with any luck, that’ll bleed enough to put him down fast and keep him down, if I get him under his ribs... "I'm not a wh..." 

"He didn't say what you think, lass, and he was talkin' to me anyways." Rifle said evenly, not looking at her. “Connor. Come here to me, lad.” He put a calming hand on the shoulder of his menacing companion and firmly turned him so they were facing each other. “We both know you’re stopping at the Red Door for another drink before we meet Flannagan and the lads. Go wait for me there.” He put up a finger. “Not a sodding word more. We could fight about it here, sure, and then we show up so banjaxed and torn up the Chichesters have an easy job of just finishing it up and killing us. And you know sodding well we’ll run into them. And maybe Father Vallon's lads as well. They’ll be after the shipment, sure.”

The man called Connor stared up at his taller companion. “We’ll talk about this later, Georgie Fecking Washington,” He growled. 

“Aye, so we will, lad. Get a pint for me, I’ll be along.”

“Sodding tosser.” Connor gave Dorcas one last reproachful look over his shoulder and sauntered down the dark street, his gait self-conscious and cocky, like a dog who didn’t want anyone to know he’d been bested. “Wanker.” 

The remaining man looked up at Dorcas. “I’m sorry about that, lass.” He stepped up to the tenement stairs towards her and gestured towards the door. “If you want to go inside...”

She stepped swiftly towards him, and jammed the shiv firmly against his side, right under his ribcage, pressing  hard enough to get his undivided attention. “I will dump your filthy mick guts right here on the sidewalk, you piece of...”

“Jaysus, lass!” The man froze, gasping in pain as she dug the point into him. “I was gonna ask you to hold me rifle so I can see to the door.” 

“How stupid do you think I am?” 

“Clearly not as stupid as I am. Ouch!”  He didn’t move, holding his hands open, his thumb threaded harmlessly through the trigger guard of the weapon slung behind his neck and across his shoulders. “Lass, I might need that liver later, any danger of you easin’ off....?”

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t open you up and leave you for the rats right now. Pig!” She hated this man, hated what he represented. Violence and fighting and killing over nothing much important. The painted blue stripe on his pants told her he was on his way to yet another confrontation with gangs of others like himself. He’ll probably kill tonight and some other piece of filth might kill him. Life was cheap here, but it was because of people like him that it was so. She narrowed her eyes at him, forcing herself to calm down. He was a head taller than she was, wiry with strong shoulders. The dim light of the lamp beside the doorway reflected and highlighted a headfull of messy copper curls, gave his colorless face a haint’s ethereal pallor. Trash. Devil. Scum...Maybe I should let him just go on to the hell he's headed to...maybe they’ll all just kill themselves off and be done with it...

“Well, lass...” he said, clearly choosing his words carefully. “I think a pretty compellin’ reason is that if you do, you’ll be stuck out here in front of the aul' Brewery alone with a pricey fiddle, a pretty face, and a jammed door.”

© 2011 Regina Shelley

Chapter 100: The Story Thus Far (dictated by Saint)

 For the hundredth post, Saint is going to do this week for us. He's crabby and jonesing for a smoke, so bear with him.

It's a synopsis of the previous 99 chapters, so if you have not read up to that point, I am warning you now that it does contain spoilers up to chapter 99. If you have read from the beginning and are up to 99, there are no spoilers for chapters past 100.

I'm looking forward to writing the next round of this thing, and I hope you all are looking forward to coming along for the ride. For you folks that read, I want to tell you that if it weren't for you, I probably would have found reasons to slack off on this thing a long time ago. It's not that I don't enjoy it, I do. In fact, I'm having a blast. But you know how hard it is to motivate yourself to do thing on a schedule when it's a self imposed schedule. This was sort of an experiment I challenged myself to, and I would have never succeeded in it if not for you folks reading.

Thank you. A lot.
'gina

Fragmented sunlight shafted through the shutters on the bunkhouse windows, illuminating the acrid haze of tobacco, sweat, leather, and woodsmoke within. The embers of a low fire glowed warmly in the soot darkened stone fireplace that dominated the bunkhouse.

The swarthy young man at the table leaned his chair backwards so that it tottered precariously, crossing his long legs on the table in front of him. The wobbling chair groaned, threatening to dump him ass over teakettle onto the dirty flagstones of the floor. He drained the dregs of his coffee and stuck a peppermint stick between his lips, glaring warningly as he did so.

"Yeah, don't ask." He glanced warily around at the door, roaching back  the dark hair brushing his broad shoulders with his fingers. "Look, it upsets the Little Miss...Lily...when I smoke, alright?" He muttered sheepishly in his thick New Jersey accent. And I don't wanna hear about it, so...not a word. Va bene. For those of you just joining us, I'm Pete Bari, but everyone calls me Saint. I'm a stagecoach driver. And here's what's been going on at Green River Station. Pull up a chair."

"The new hire, Lily, came out here because her brother Jesse's working here as a Pony Express Rider. They had a position open as a cook and housekeeper to help England out...actually, England's name is really Fiona, but where's the fun in that? Anyways, she hated me. Not England, I'm talking about Lily. She's heard all kindsa stuff about me...none of it good and most of it true...and it didn't help that the first thing I did on her first day on the job was get her good and mad at me. Let's just say I ain't her favorite person and leave it at that.

"Her uncle Chet's left her some kind of deed to...well, we don't know to what. Whatever it is is important enough or valuable enough for someone to send this lawyer over here to try and buy it out from under her. Guy was a stronza and a horse's rear end. Needed a real ass kicking...unfortunately, I was away when the time came to deliver one. Fortunately, our stocktender Hungerford was here and as much as I hate to have to compliment the guy, he did a fine job of it.

"And while we're on the subject of ass kickings, these two...well, I ain't gonna say what I'm thinking...let's say two jackasses, Rob and Levi Yarl, attacked one of our express riders. We've had trouble with them before...in fact, one of them pulled a knife on me in the Silver Star Saloon before all this happened. If you're wondering which is the one that pulled a knife, he's the one with the bandage halfway up his arm.

"I'm just sayin'.

"Anyways, they ambushed Storm Peltier on a run out to Three Crossings and damn near killed him. Good thing Hungerford got transferred to our station when he did. He's a farrier, but he's also a fair medic."

Saint grimaced, as if the words tasted nasty. He bit off the end of his peppermint stick, crunching it noisily. "I can't believe I'm sitting here taking nice about that guy. Damn Aussie snake...

"Anyways, we got Storm patched up and me and my coach gunner Wash left for a supply delivery out to Salt Lake House to the west of here. Grain, ammo, hardtack and bacon, you know, stuff for the stations. Got as far as Fort Bridger before the army relieved us of our cargo. Picked us clean as vultures and then sent us back home with one little box of carbine cartridges. Nice, eh? There's big trouble going on at the stations near Pyramid Lake and Carson Sink. Big enough the army's involved. Get this: some stupid stronzas out there messed with the wrong Pah Ute girls and next thing you know, a hundred people are dead. So that's why we weren't home when Sheriff Holt had Storm arrested.

"Yeah, you heard me right. Arrested.

"Turns out that while me and Wash were on our run, our youngest rider, a kid named Luis, wasn't too happy about Storm getting beaten up. So he'd gone over to the Yarl place and filled up their outhouse with rattlesnakes. And then he...uh...fixed the seat so it would break. Look, no, I don't know how he did it without getting himself bitten, either. You'll have to ask him. But Levi Yarl fell ass first into the shitter sump and almost died. And since Storm had motive, and since right now everyone's in a panic over the Indian attacks, and since the Yarls were lying to everyone who would listen, Storm got hauled in for attempted murder. It was bad, they were building a scaffold to hang him before the thing even went to trial.

"Meanwhile, me and Wash are just tryin' to get home without being shot or scalped. We get back to the Church Buttes relay station and  Devereux the stocktender there, who happens to be part Shoshone, was there trying to fend off a pack of jackasses who had decided the answer to the 'Injun Problem' was to go out and murder anyone they could find that might be even slightly Indian. And us down to a single box of ammo I can fit into my pocket. That was a fight we ended up winning, but at the end of it all, Dev had to take a bullet out of Wash. 

"So in the midst of all this horseshit, I'm gonna havta tell you what happened when we got back. I'm driving the coach through this blinding spring downpour at night, Wash sleeping in the coach and it raining so hard I can barely see the road. I look up and see that Little Miss has lit a candle in the window to guide us home.

"I ain't gonna lie to ya, you have no idea how much that meant to me. That was just about the sweetest thing I ever seen.

"So when I walked into the kitchen, I was so glad to be back, and so happy to be alive, and she looked so  sweet and warm...well....I just kissed her. Right on the mouth.

"Yeah. She was pretty mad about that. Tore into me pretty bad. But it was so worth it. Turned me to mush, if we're being honest here. Who woulda thought a little plain, bashful girl like that...." he raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "She looked pretty surprised when I did it, but I ain't foolin' when I tell you she wasn't any more surprised than I was.

"And, of course, her brother Jesse tried to take my head off later when he found out.

"Remember how I toldja somebody tried to buy the Little Miss's land out from under her? Well, she had declined. So somebody came after her and tried to burn the kitchen down with her in it. It was me hauled her out of there. We were both damn lucky we didn't get killed that night. The smoke was... real bad. Got her out, but if it hadn't been for her hauling me out a window, I'd be dead.  And that's how everyone found out I have a touch of miner's asthma. Or more specifically, that's how Lily found out. Which is why I'm chewing on one of Jesse's peppermints right now instead of smoking a quirly. She made him quit, too, you know. If anything good came of that, it's that she doesn't hate me anymore. In fact, she hugged me, if you can believe it.

"The girl's going to be the end of me. I'm just sayin'.

"So, anyhow, va bene. The trial. Merda, what a mess that was. Storm's Métis... like Dev...only he looks way more Crow than Dev looks Shoshone. So with the current level of anti Indian sentiment running rampant, things looked real bad for us. I mean, there's no way we were gonna let Storm hang, so had things looked like they were going that way, there was gonna be shooting and probably our faces on posters.

"Our only other option was to come clean and tell the truth. And that would have put Luis in the exact same mess. Nobody here is gonna sit still while they hang a kid that young. And they'd have done it.

"In the end, it was England who came through for us. I guess there ain't no point pretending we don't know she's got feeling for Storm, so there it is. She's got feelings for Storm and has for a long time. They've both been busily pretending not to realize it while they rest of us have been rolling our eyes.

"She set Rob Yarl up so he was in jail for assault...and no lie, he really did hit her, although I still don't know how she made that happen. The girl is intelligent and sneaky. She's so damn pretty people forget that, but it ain't smart to let a girl like her get the upper hand on you, and Rob Yarl ain't smart. So Yarl dropped the charges on Storm, England dropped the charges on Yarl...and Jesse, Yarl, and me ended up two days in the lockup for fightin'.

"Yeah, it's...uh...complicated.

"I should probably point out that while I was in jail, Hungerford, that Australian son of a bitch that shovels our stables, started making moves on the Little Miss.  And I guess it shouldn't bother me. I'm not going to make any moves on her...she pretty much made it clear she wasn't interested. But it irks me. It would never work out even if I did...but I can't stop thinking about her. Of all the men here she could have gone for, why Hungerford, for crying out loud? Jesse asked me to go with them when they go out to see what sort of land Lily's inherited. And wouldn't you know it, Lily's asked Hungerford to go, too.

"That ought to be fun.

"Just when we thought we'd hit the end of trouble, we find out the mail service has been halted. Just...stopped. Hit a wall.  We're looking at maybe not having jobs. England's talking about going back to England. Storm's considerin' going back to his old job as an Army scout. Luis is panicking because he doesn't know what he's going to do.

"All because some stupid stronza out near Pyramid Lake couldn't keep it in his pants."

Saint tugged on the empty coffee cup that had quietly settled into the grunge on the tabletop. It was momentarily stuck.  He pulled it free and peered into it, scowling at the lack of coffee therein. "Merda." he breathed, clearing his throat. "Sick of the sound of my own voice. I need a smoke."



© 2010 Regina Shelley

Lynch by Diego Candia

Here is a great picture of Erastus Lynch, the Old Man his own scary self. Diego did all the art on the character, I did the graphic. I love the expression on his face and the intimidating posture. No wonder all the station hands (and Deputy Shannon) are all afraid of him.

Heck, I'm afraid of him.

I hate to have to do this, but I'm going to have to hold the next chapter for possibly up to two weeks. My family and I all had the flu, and it's put a real dent in my production rate over here. I'm behind in some of the things I have to do for other people.  Not only that, but I'm trying to finish up a couple other projects (some of which are for Five Dollar Mail)  and get ready to take my kid on a trip.


I may not have internet connection next week, so you may hear from me if I can get on. If not, I'll be back the following week.But rest assured, I have some things I think you might enjoy in the works, so watch this space.

As always, thanks for reading and commenting! You all make it worth it to me to keep doing this!

'gina

Oops

Yeah, it was pointed out to me more than once that Chapter 97, Pilgrim Soul, was unclear about when it took place. Looking at it again, I can totally see it. And I forgot to put the "Prequel" thingy in the title.

Sorry about that, everyone. It seems clear in my head because I know what's going on, I guess. Looking back on it, I can see that it's confusing.

It takes place before the Pony Express started, right at the point Fiona and Storm first laid eyes on each other. She didn't fail to recognize him and he wasn't being a smart-ass (at least not in this scene). They simply didn't know each other in that chapter.

What I was trying to get across was that she was thinking back on that meeting in Fort Bridger in the previous scene, chapter 96, and I thought you all might enjoy actually seeing what she was remembering.

Again, I apologize for being unclear on that.

'gina