Posted January 31, 2021 / Clara Redmond-Lutz
Bridget didn't say anything but obviously was willing to go along with Clara's request as she meekly followed her into the kitchen. There were actually four pies sitting on the prep shelf, each with a few slices missing from earlier customers. Clara pointed to a stack of plates in one corner right next to the sink.
"Bridget, would you take ...maybe four plates please. And that drawer right there has silverware in it," she started giving diections even as she decided she would handle the pies. Keep it simple for the poor thing.
As they had entered the kitchen, Bridget turned to see Doctor Danforth comforting the Diner’s owner with a brimming goblet of his hot and heady percolated potion. She tapped Clara on the shoulder so she could see, too. “He …” she closed her eyes and forced it out “… He likes ladies.”
Clara glanced but had no problem with the sight, "Well, quite a few men do. He is quite the gentleman and a handsome fellow besides being smart what with him being a medical man."
"But he will get no where with her, for she is marrying the town deputy. I know they are very much in love," Clara declared with confidence. She had much less confidence that such a thing would ever happen with her.
Clara was still slicing and plating the pies when Emeline already was up and had joined them in the kitchen. Well, that was a short rest?
"Ladies, thank you so much for your help." She gave Bridget a light hug, returning the young lady's earlier gesture. "You should set aside a pie to take home with you, if you'd like."
"That is what you pay me for," Clara sagely pointed out. But honestly it was more than a job to her, she was very fond of Emeline, it was almost like she had a mother again in a fashion.
Em addressed Clara. "Would you mind wrapping up a dozen or so biscuits for me? I'm going to take that and some stew and pie over to the marshal's office."
"Of course but I hope you are not thinking of feeding those malefactors, let them go hungry if you ask me," Clara responded even as she turned to get the biscuits ready.
"You know, I think you should take the rest of the day off. You have been thru a lot and - not sure you have even noticed but....you have some blood on your dress. I can finish out here and close it up then," Clara suggested.
As they entered the kitchen, Bridget turned to see Doctor Danforth comforting the Diner’s owner with a brimming goblet of his hot and heady percolated potion. She tapped Clara on the shoulder so she could see, too. “He …” she closed her eyes and forced it out “… He likes ladies.”
"The law is the law."
"Mining's not everyone's choice of hobbies, it just happens to be mine."
Posted February 1, 2021 / Henry Guyer
"Yes, I know. But there is some interest as a result of you escorting her to the affair. There are those who will want to know if there is something between the two of you, something about your ability to separate your intentions and your duty."
“What is it you’re getting at, Doc? Are you saying hat there is some sort of budding romance between Miss Steelgrave and myself?” There was a smile on his face as he sppoke.
“That is the rumor going around, and granted it is the work of busy bodies with little else to do in life, but they have managed to get that out there. How much people would be willing to believe it? I wouldn’t hazard a guess.”
The smile faded. “Are you saying this, this rumor would damage her chances, or that it would effect my position here as Marshal?” Speed wanted to know.
“That sir is the question. Second only to who started the rumor in the first place. That would, in fact, tell us the why of it.” Came the answer. “Small towns. It seems that rumor-mongering has become a real pastime. Some are given to believe such drivel, while others simply consider the source and move on. I’ve not yet figured out the who’s who in Kalispell so far.”
“Interesting, but I can see where there might be some that are opposed to me, yes, I can see that. As far as Miss Steelgrave is concerned, I’ve heard those rumors as well. So, given any thought, I’d say it’s highly possible both outcomes could well be in play here.” Speed agreed. “I heard nothing as to anyone considering running for my job, though that could be a possibility kept quiet for now. And, I can certainly see where there are those that want the little rich girl to fail. But a hospital?”
“Ah yes, you are most perceptive, Speed. There are those that would be against anything that improves the community, anything that prevents growth, and eventually the loss of control over it’s future, and a hospital, an orphanage, well, fits that criteria to a T!”
"Everybody can feather their nest, but it's not just anybody that can lay an egg!"
Posted February 1, 2021 / Arabella Mudd
All but stunned, Phinn looked at Arabella a long moment as he composed himself. “Oh yes, your note. I have and am considering it, however it needs questions to be asked by the, ah, lovelorn before we could do much of anything in the way of a column, and at present, expenses outpace income, though we are growing.
“Oh, that’s all right, I write the questions, too!” Arabella explained breezily.
He paused, looking at the young girl. “Aren’t you a bit young to be advising these people in matters of the heart?” And the moment it was out, Phinn regretted having asked.
“Uh-uh” Arabella disagreed, shaking her head “Nearly 16’s the best age … I’m still optimistic!” she announced with unshakable logic.
“Anyhow, I made a few changes. For a start, I’ve expanded it to medical problems too, they’re even funnier to read about than folks’ love-life woes. Also, I changed the name to Ask Old Sump, I’d better not use my own name in case I give someone some dangerous advice, y’know? They might come looking for me.”
The girl then felt around in her apron pocket and produced a piece of paper with writing on it in pencil, in an execrable hand.
“I wrote you up a specimen – but I’m holdin’ my best stuff back, case you try and steal it.” she warned, handing him the tatty piece of paper, which read:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Old Sump,
My friends make fun of me because I smell. What shall I do?
Yours ‘Pongy’ of Main Street.
Dear ‘Pongy’,
These people are not your friends. Find some folk who like you even though you have a bad odor. Then take a bath, your friends deserve it!
- OS
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Old Sump,
I have a painful boil on the place I sit down, I cannot afford a doctor, what shall I do?
Yours ‘Tender’.
Dear ‘Tender’,
Sit somewhere else!
- OS
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Old Sump,
I worry that I am too bow legged to attract a woman, what shall I do?
Yours ‘Cowboy’
Dear ‘Cowboy’,
Believe in yourself! Go out and find your woman – she is out there! But don’t try to stop a pig in a alley.
- OS
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Beatrice Fairfax of Kalispell beamed proudly as the veteran newspaper editor looked over her journalistic Opus. “You take that with you if you like and think it over Mr. McVey, but don’t dawdle, I think the New York Times might be interested if you ain’t.” she advised him.
"Every town needs a newspaper."
Posted February 1, 2021 / Phineas McVay
“Oh, that’s all right, I write the questions, too!” Arabella explained breezily.
He paused, looking at the young girl. “Aren’t you a bit young to be advising these people in matters of the heart?” And the moment it was out, Phinn regretted having asked.
“Uh-uh” Arabella disagreed, shaking her head “Nearly 16’s the best age … I’m still optimistic!” she announced with unshakable logic.
Shaking his head in begrudging agreement, as if at the magic age of sixteen the answers of life and love were there for the plucking. And in this case, for the publishing in the Kalispell Union for the entire county to read. He was beginning to fill slightly ill.
“Anyhow, I made a few changes. For a start, I’ve expanded it to medical problems too, they’re even funnier to read about than folks’ love-life woes. Also, I changed the name to Ask Old Sump, I’d better not use my own name in case I give someone some dangerous advice, y’know? They might come looking for me.”
“Yes, a risk of being published, to be sure. Old Sump is it?” He mistakenly asked, but it seemed she was preoccupied with something he might not want to now about, and may not have heard a word he said.
The girl then felt around in her apron pocket and produced a piece of paper with writing on it in pencil, in an execrable hand.
“I wrote you up a specimen – but I’m holdin’ my best stuff back, case you try and steal it.” she warned, handing him the tatty piece of paper, which read:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Old Sump,
My friends make fun of me because I smell. What shall I do?
Yours ‘Pongy’ of Main Street.
Dear ‘Pongy’,
These people are not your friends. Find some folk who like you even though you have a bad odor. Then take a bath, your friends deserve it!
- OS
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Old Sump,
I have a painful boil on the place I sit down, I cannot afford a doctor, what shall I do?
Yours ‘Tender’.
Dear ‘Tender’,
Sit somewhere else!
- OS
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Old Sump,
I worry that I am too bow legged to attract a woman, what shall I do?
Yours ‘Cowboy’
Dear ‘Cowboy’,
Believe in yourself! Go out and find your woman – she is out there! But don’t try to stop a pig in a alley.
- OS
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Phinias G. McVay was in shock. Never in all his years in the newspaper business had he ever read anything to match the audacity, the credulous disregard for journalistic ability, vain attempt at something print worthy. At least in his newspaper.
But, she was after all, a child, an impetuous, brash, unabashed young woman, so he attempted a smile. He had to think fast of some delaying tactic until he could let her down gently. As gently as would be possible.
The Beatrice Fairfax of Kalispell beamed proudly as the veteran newspaper editor looked over her journalistic Opus. “You take that with you if you like and think it over Mr. McVey, but don’t dawdle, I think the New York Times might be interested if you ain’t.” she advised him.
“Yes, yes, of course, unlike the Times however, I am bound to investors who would have to see your work, and then would need to have a vote as to whether or not they could, or would, approve of granting you a column. You see there is a difference between could and would . They could most certainly approve of your prose, leaving the question, would they approve the inclusion in the Union as an on going column. You understand, such is business these days.”
“They would need to know if you had obtained an agent, or manager on salary, which also brings into focus, if in fact they would be able to afford you as a paid columnist. Not having the final word on these matters I cannot say how this will proceed, nor how long it might take to receive a response."
Want... dolls!
Posted February 2, 2021 / Bridget Monahan / With Emeline, Clara / Where: Lickskillet kitchen
Clara glanced but had no problem with the sight, "Well, quite a few men do. He is quite the gentleman and a handsome fellow besides being smart what with him being a medical man."
Bridget listened open mouthed to Clara’s description of Dr. Danforth. Sounded like Clara liked him all right! Maybe he should try his charms on her.
"But he will get no where with her, for she is marrying the town deputy. I know they are very much in love," Clara declared with confidence. She had much less confidence that such a thing would ever happen with her.
That was right, she had met Mr. Pike at the dance: he had the most beautiful, shiny, star shaped badge in the whole wide world. No wonder Ms. Em Loved him. Dr. Danforth had no such badge. The flame haired idiot-savant (all right, so she wasn’t a savant, but the description was half right, at least) was working swiftly, she had already managed to lift two of the plates off the shelves and carried them carefully, one by one, over to the table. The effort was pretty exhausting, but she soldiered on. There was something about ‘silverwear’ too, but she couldn’t quite remember what.
Clara was still slicing and plating the pies when Emeline already was up and had joined them in the kitchen. Well, that was a short rest?
"Ladies, thank you so much for your help." She gave Bridget a light hug, returning the young lady's earlier gesture. "You should set aside a pie to take home with you, if you'd like."
Well, Ms Em had seen sense and dumped the doctor. Probably found out he didn’t have a badge, and all. She hugged Emeline back. Hugs were nice. Clara didn’t hug. She wondered if she wanted to. It seemed a little bit unfriendly to leave her out.
"That is what you pay me for," Clara sagely pointed out. But honestly it was more than a job to her, she was very fond of Emeline, it was almost like she had a mother again in a fashion.
Em addressed Clara. "Would you mind wrapping up a dozen or so biscuits for me? I'm going to take that and some stew and pie over to the marshal's office."
Bridget, inspired by all this bustle, sprang into action: slowly taking the third plate off the shelves. She had to be careful because the shiny porcelain of the crockery felt slippery in her lace gloves and she wasn’t used to doing this sort of thing. Mr Fa would let her nowhere near the kitchen at home.
"Of course but I hope you are not thinking of feeding those malefactors, let them go hungry if you ask me," Clara responded even as she turned to get the biscuits ready.
Bridget frowned. Ma-la-fact-ers. She didn’t know what they were, but they sounded interesting. Some kind of creatures or monkeys maybe. She’d seen a monkey once. It was funny. And you weren’t allowed to feed them, neither. She immediately resolved to go along with Miss Em. To see the monkeys in the cages.
"You know, I think you should take the rest of the day off. You have been thru a lot and - not sure you have even noticed but....you have some blood on your dress. I can finish out here and close it up then," Clara suggested.
Bridget stared wide eyed at the blood stains, which were quite big when you spotted them. Blood was notoriously hard to get off, it always left a brown, dirty-seeming stain. She knew only one person who could get rid of such a thing entirely: Charlie Fa. She would let Ms. Em know this, but first she had more selfish ends in sight.
“A come … t’see … Malfacts” she stumbled forth the words: out loud, too. She was getting pretty good at this speechifying business.
"Everybody can feather their nest, but it's not just anybody that can lay an egg!"
Posted February 2, 2021 / Arabella Mudd / With Phineas McVay
Mr. McVey had taken and read her sample and the serious look on his face was not exactly what she had hoped for: it was supposed to be entertaining and interesting: informative and funny at the same time. A delightful read for man, woman and child, old and young alike. But the Editor of the Kalispell Union looked like he was reading his own funeral notice. Then the penny dropped. He was clearly in awe of her writing style: shaken to his literary core by the finesse of her style and the light touch of her rapier-like wit. Poor feller was probably torn between jealousy and admiration.
In fact, when he spoke, it was in a garbled flow of senselessness, so overwhelmed was the poor fellow. Well, leastways, it didn’t make much sense to Arabella.
“Yes, yes, of course, unlike the Times however, I am bound to investors who would have to see your work, and then would need to have a vote as to whether or not they could, or would, approve of granting you a column. You see there is a difference between could and would . They could most certainly approve of your prose, leaving the question, would they approve the inclusion in the Union as an on going column. You understand, such is business these days.”
“Oh sure!” replied Arabella, confused as to what the heck he was actually saying. “And … that’s good is it?”
“They would need to know if you had obtained an agent, or manager on salary, which also brings into focus, if in fact they would be able to afford you as a paid columnist. Not having the final word on these matters I cannot say how this will proceed, nor how long it might take to receive a response."
Still not sure what he was rabbiting on about, Arabella decided to make the best of it and informed him: “Well, it’s a cent a word and ten percent of the royalties if they’re ever collected in book form!” (Mr. Jarman, in one of his more sober moments, had given her that line) “Let me know when you’ve decided! Address is on the back of the paper: A.S. Mudd, Miss, Room at the End of the Corridor, Stardust Saloon, Kalispell, Montana Territories, United States of America.” She helpfully informed him.
She made to go, but then, looking back at the kindly gent who had, at least, consented to look over her scribblings, she felt she owed it to him to give him a little advice, free of charge.
Facing back to him, she approached Phineas and sort of patting him on the arm, like you might pet a dog or pat a horse, she said “And listen, you know when your speakin’ or writin, it’s best to say it plain so folks can understand what all your jawin’ about. Just a little pointer from a fellow writer.” She gave him a brave smile and left him to think it over.
Old Sump himself couldn’t have given a better bit of advice.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
[N.B. There might not be any more to say, until the scrap of paper accidently finds its way to the typesetters office and gets printed in the paper, causing a flood of Dear Old Sump letters to the paper's offices ;) ]
"Every town needs a newspaper."
Posted February 2, 2021 / Phineas McVay / With Arabella Mudd
She made to go, but then, looking back at the kindly gent who flummoxed, at least, consented to look over her scribblings, she felt she owed it to him to give him a little advice, free of charge.
Facing back to him, she approached Phineas and sort of patting him on the arm, like you might pet a dog or pat a horse, she said “And listen, you know when your speakin’ or writin, it’s best to say it plain so folks can understand what all your jawin’ about. Just a little pointer from a fellow writer.” She gave him a brave smile and left him to think it over.
Old Sump himself couldn’t have given a better bit of advice.
Phinn sat, befuddled. What had just happened? Thinking he had an reliable eye-witness to the robbery attempt and all that followed, instead he was treated to a torrent of words about the event. A overly dramatic presentation of distorted facts about what actually happened. Totally un-newsworthy. He glanced at what notes he had and shook his head in disbelief at what he had just witnessed.
He paused the fractured thought process long enough to open the desk drawer and withdraw half empty pint bottle of whiskey, which was on hand for just such an occasion. He took a pull, re-corked the bottle and replaced it, closing the drawer.
It was not so much the re-enactment of the robbery attempt, but what followed, in the form of a newspaper column, that made him shutter. For fear of some bizarre accident where the type was actually set, the words actually printed, and an issue actually delivered to the public, Phinn walked to the stove, opened the door and tossed the paper into the flames.
It had been a most trying afternoon. He would close up early and retire to his rooms at the boarding house.
Posted February 3, 2021 / Emeline Pike
It wasn't until Clara mentioned it that Emeline realized that there was blood on her dress, and as she glanced down, she felt a wave of nausea...the events were catching up to her, and suddenly Clara's advice was sounding very good.
Then Bridget said something, and it wasn't the something in particular that was of note, but the fact that she had said it, although it took Emeline a moment to make out what she had said.
“A come … t’see … Malfacts”
"The malefactors? I'll leave that to Clara." Certainly, Clara knew Bridget better than she did, so she'd let her decide if she wanted to take her friend with her to the jail, although she doubted that the outlaws would be on display. "And it is up to Marshal Guyer what he does with what we send over." She give the girl a gentle smile. Charity and forgiveness were a virtue, although Emeline suspected her own motives were not so pure, but more of a way of appeasing darkness.
"And yes, I'll leave it to you to close up. I'm going to change and have some chamomile tea, then relax." She sighed and smiled. "I will see you in the morning, then." She'd make sure that Clara got a bonus for her help and that there was a reward for Bridget as well.
Posted February 4, 2021 / Quentin Cantrell
"Sometimes my mind outruns my mouth. Let's get to it then." Roberson swung out to the left, Speed swung to the right leaving Cantrell in the middle.
Quentin leaned and tugged his Winchester from its scabbard, letting rest in the crook of his left arm with his left hand holding the reins as he watched the ground intently. letting Paladin walk slow but steady in the direction he had intended. He kept an eye to each side to make sure he wasn't moving ahead of his companions.
The three men rode on for a time. Quentin slowed and leaned in the saddle, his head turning and looking left and right, then he sat up straighter and looked into the distance. He curled his lip and let out a sharp short whistle. When he saw the other two men look at him he pointed ahead and down from where he sat his horse. Both men reined around and loped over. Quentin spoke low as he kept pointing.
"Looks like he did a circle while he watched his back trail, then he went off in that direction..." Quentin pointed at some nearby hills. "...He's trying to hide."
"The law is the law."
"Mining's not everyone's choice of hobbies, it just happens to be mine."
Posted February 5, 2021 / Henry Guyer
"Looks like he did a circle while he watched his back trail, then he went off in that direction..." Quentin pointed at some nearby hills. "...He's trying to hide."
“Yep he’s headed up that slop an’ over, perty steep on ‘tuther side.” Roberson explained. “Opens into a valley of sorts. Dry crick bed this time ‘o year, but as the melt gets goin’ she’ll run til maybe mid June, then dry up again. Plenty of trees so we best be on the look out fer an ambush. Be what I’d do, was I wanted!”
Speed sat his mount looking at the tracks then at the side of the hill. To have gone around would have been a good hour, maybe two, but that would have connected to a main trail heading west, and there was nothing for miles to the west, just more mountains to climb.
“We get to the base we’ll know for sure if he went up and over.” Speed offered. “As far as an ambush, does he know we’re out here? He had a good start on us, maybe enough to have gotten up and over this slope. If so, he wouldn’t have seen us coming, and that does give us an edge, at least until we top out and sky lined up there.”