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When we were in London for Christmas, we were lucky enough (thanks to airbnb) to have our own kitchen equipped with basic spices, seasonings, appliances and utensils in order to cook Christmas dinner since everything would be closed or extremely expensive. We were also fortunate that the apartment's owner was a fan of reading and had an entire cookbook section of his bookshelf, including Jamie Oliver's "Ministry of Food," which included a host of traditional British recipes. We decided to go with a classic roast, a common Sunday and holiday meal in England. This recipe is an adaptation of Jamie Oliver's perfect roast beef; it is perfect for a simple but impressive dinner, and then almost better the next day with some horseradish as a cold roast beef sandwich. Beef Rump Roast {serves 4} ingredients beef rump, around 1.5 lbs 2 medium onions, chopped 2 stalks of celery, chopped 6 yukon gold/red bliss potatoes, chopped 2 carrots, chopped 1 whole bulb garlic 1 bunch fresh thyme 2 bay leaves 1 stalk fresh rosemary olive oil coarse salt ground black pepper red wine method Take the beef out of the fridge 30 minutes before cooking. Set oven to 475F. Spread all the chopped veggies, herbs, and garlic cloves (not peeled) in a baking dish. Drizzle beef with olive oil and season well with salt and pepper before placing it over the vegetables in the dish. Add a splash of red wine to the dish - this will keep the beef moist and add flavor. Put the beef in the oven and immediately turn down the heat to 400F. Cook for 50 minutes to an hour, depending on how rare you like it, and basting at 30 minutes. Serve over roasted vegetables - and you might as well finish off that bottle you opened too!	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Olbermann tells 71-year-old McCain to 'grow up!' David Edwards and Muriel Kane Published: Tuesday August 19, 2008 Print This Email This MSNBC's Keith Olbermann offered a scathing Special Comment on Monday, tearing into Senator John McCain's recent remarks about Senator Barack Obama, which Olbermann described as "unseemly contempt, undignified calumny, and holier-than-thou persiflage unsupported by reality." McCain had told the Veterans of Foreign Wars earlier that day, "Victory in Iraq ... could still be squandered by hasty withdrawal and arbitrary timelines. And this is one of many problems in the shifting positions of my opponent." "The shifting positions of Senator Obama?" asked Olbermann. "Senator, you declared victory in Iraq five years and nearly three months ago. Today you say 'victory in Iraq is finally in sight.' ... You are putting up a campaign based on the mirage that Iraq is winnable. ... Even if this country were to forget, Senator, the victory lap that you and President Bush took five years ago, just on their face your remarks at the VFW, Senator, are nonsensical." "Prudence and judgment demanded that Senator McCain tread lightly today," Olbermann continued. "Instead he told that convention, 'I suppose from my opponent's vantage point veterans' concerns are just one more issue to be spun or worked to advantage.'" Olbermann pointed out that last spring McCain opposed a bill expanding GI educational benefits "on the asinine premise that the rewards to our heroes in it were so good that it did not encourage them to stay in the service." This year, McCain has missed every Senate vote on Iraq, "including one to honor just the sacrifice of the fallen," and has voted over and over to deny additional spending for veterans' health care. "And yet, sir," Olbermann proclaimed, "you have the audacity to stand there in front of the very veterans you repeatedly and consistently sell out and claim it is your opponent who has put politics first and country second." Olbermann then turned to McCain's remark that "behind all of these claims and positions by Senator Obama lies the ambition to be president." "Criticizing a man for having 'the ambition to be president,'" Olbermann repeated incredulously. "Seriously -- you do realize you are currently running for president as well, right? Either you also have the ambition to be president or -- what? Somebody's blackmailing you into it?" Olbermann ended by mentioning the McCain campaign's outrage over a report by NBC's Andrea Mitchell that Obama's people believe McCain may not have actually been in a "cone of silence" before his appearance at a joint forum with Senator Obama this past weekend and may have been able to find out the questions in advance. McCain campaign manager Rick Davis angrily called Mitchell's story "irresponsible journalism and sadly indicative of the level of objectivity we have witnessed at NBC News this election cycle." He went on to threaten, "We are concerned that your news division is following MSNBC's lead in abandoning non-partisan coverage of the presidential race. We would like to request a meeting with you as soon as possible." "He wants no level of objectivity," Olbermann explained. "The only campaign he wants questioned is Obama's." "You and your campaign need a serious and immediate attitude adjustment," Olbermann concluded, addressing McCain directly. "Despite what you may think, Senator McCain, this is not a coronation. ... You have no automatic excuse to politicize anything you want. Despite how you have whined, Senator McCain, you have no entitlement to only sycophantic deceptive airbrushed coverage from the media. And despite how you have strutted, Senator McCain, you have no god-given right to the presidency." "In other words -- and I am embarrassed to have to say this to a man who turns 72 this month -- Senator, grow up!" This video is from MSNBC's Countdown, broadcast August 18, 2008. Download video	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
your financial future! Reconnect with the things you’ve always dreamed of having out of life and create a new mindset for pursuing them. Have an understanding of what investing is and is not, and the difference it can make for you and your family. Get coached in eliminating speculating and gambling with your money, instead engage in a conversation that could transform your investing experience. Welcome to Venmark Financial About us Venmark Financial specializes in providing education and coaching to the person who wants to be truly invested in the market. We have been in business since 1993 and we are dedicated to giving people a new understanding of what investing is or is not, and the difference it can make in their lives. We do this by engaging in a conversation that could transform your experience of investing and the impact it has on your life, family, community and dreams. During our 26 years in business, we have proudly served over 1000 families, making a difference in their quality of life. Call for next Event Empowering your financial future! Call us now +1 (832) 558-5755 Let’s talk! Call now or sign up and we’ll call you: our mission The purpose of the experience To empower families in discovering their true purpose for money by transforming the investing experience, leaving them with freedom, fulfillment, and love. To empower families to achieve peace of mind, abundance, and greatness. To support families in eliminating speculating and gambling with their money. Allow families to recapture, reclaim, and realize their American Dream. MEET YOUR ADVISOR Adrian Zangirolami is the Founder and President of the company. He has been helping people make sense of their money since 1993. His background is in Architecture and Economy and Commerce which has given him the Financial knowledge and the care for detail. He landed in the US in 1975, emigrating from Venice, Italy, and has been living in Houston since. Mr. Zangirolami is an Investment Advisor Representative, ready to assist with market investments in an Independent Fiduciary Responsibility approach. He is also a member of the National Ethics Bureau and holds professional insurance licenses. Mr. Zangirolami was also featured monthly on the radio program “Homework Houston” on KSEV 700 AM. An educated investor becomes a better investor. Our Services What We Offer We will educate and coach you to minimize, and perhaps avoid market downturns by owning equities all over the world and by rebalancing quarterly, while attempting to maximize market returns based on your goals and risk tolerance. In addition to that, we will also eliminate unnecessary costs and commissions. Also, we provide regular workshops through which you will be able to increase your knowledge, learn about the Modern Portfolio Theory, and the efficiency of the Free Markets Theory. Three simple (but no easy) rules: Own equities, diversify, rebalance repeat it til you can't fog a mirror Recent News Matson Money is an investment advisory firm managing $8,653,755,157.02 (12/31/2017) for investors nationwide. We provide prudent investment solutions firmly grounded in Nobel Prize-Winning academic principles, global diversification, and life-long investing. Presentations conducted online pose a number of issues that in-person presentations do not. For example, it can often be difficult	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
We propose to develop a method for direct real-time sequencing of single DNA molecules from genomic DNA at the speed and accuracy of the natural DNA polymerases using native nucleotides. We will harness the power of the true nano-machines used in DNA replication, the natural DNA polymerases. Unlike the difficult to engineer man-made nanostructures of nanopore sequencing used to distinguish the 4 base types in close proximity and constant fluctuation, DNA polymerases have precise atomic-resolution 3D structures and can synthesize very long DNA molecules with high fidelity and velocity. The error rate of a DNA polymerase with proof-reading function could be as low as one in a million bases and a processive polymerase such as phi29 DNA polymerase can synthesize up to 100,000 bases in a stretch. From the wealth of structural and kinetics studies, it is well known that the fidelity of DNA synthesis is predicated on the exquisite structural complementarity and the numerous specific interactions between the active site of the polymerase protein and the primer/template/nucleotide complex. The dynamic chemo-mechanical or conformational changes accompanying the specific interactions, induced fit, bond cleavage/formation, and template translocation ensure highly accurate and orderly base pairing and incorporation. Our strategy is to engineer sensors onto the surface (not the active site) of the polymerase by protein engineering to monitor the subtle yet distinct conformational changes accompanying the incorporation of each base type. A small distance change (one to tens of angstroms) can be measured precisely with Frster resonance energy transfer (FRET) technique. Multiple FRET pairs or networks placed in strategic residues on the polymerase will be used to monitor the conformational changes in real time (10 times faster than the rate of DNA synthesis). The sensors will provide multi-parametric information on the dynamic structures of the polymerase, which very likely will provide a unique signature for each base type incorporated. Chemical modifications such as methylation on the template DNA could also potentially be detected. Such a method could sequence very long DNA molecules and could be sequenced with high fidelity in minutes and a human genome or even epigenome could be sequenced in less than one hour. This will truly enable personalized medicine. PUBLIC HEALTH RELEVANCE: We propose to develop a breakthrough DNA sequencing technology called READS genome technology for direct real-time single molecule sequencing. We aim to develop the new sequencing method and engineer a sequencing platform for ultra-fast and low-cost human genome sequencing so that routine sequencing of individual human genomes can be performed for biomedical applications and personalized medicine.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	NIH ExPorter
Italy defender Leonardo Bonucci is set to rejoin Serie A champions Juventus from AC Milan in a reported swap involving striker Gonzalo Higuain. Bonucci, 31, will have spent just one season at the San Siro having joined from Juve for £35.1m last summer. On Thursday, Juve tweeted a short video of former skipper Bonucci with the caption "he is here in Turin". Argentina striker Higuain, 30, has been replaced at the Allianz Stadium by Real Madrid's Cristiano Ronaldo. Seven-time European champions Milan will reportedly pay an initial £16m as part of a season-long loan deal, with the option of making the move permanent for an additional £32m at the end of the season. AC Milan's Instagram account posted a video of Higuain in their club colours with the caption "Higuain, ready to start". Higuain, who was linked with a move to Premier League side Chelsea, joined Juve from Napoli for a then domestic record fee of £75.3m in 2016 and scored 40 league goals in two seasons.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Introduction ============ Background ---------- Word-use patterns in Twitter, Facebook, newsgroups, and Google queries have been used to investigate a wide array of health concerns. Twitter is perhaps the most popular online data source for such studies, due in part to its relative accessibility. It has been used to monitor health issues including influenza \[[@ref1],[@ref2]\], cholera \[[@ref3]\], H1N1 \[[@ref4]-[@ref6]\], postpartum depression \[[@ref7]\], concussion \[[@ref8]\], epilepsy \[[@ref9]\], migraine \[[@ref10]\], cancer screening \[[@ref11]\], antibiotic use \[[@ref12]\], medical practitioner errors \[[@ref13]\], dental pain \[[@ref14]\], and attitudes about vaccination \[[@ref15]\]. Such research has demonstrated the utility of mining social media for public health applications despite potential methodological challenges, including the following: (1) Twitter users form a biased sample of the population \[[@ref16]-[@ref18]\], and (2) their word usage within tweets can be highly ambiguous. For example, focusing just on the medical domain, "stroke" has many nonmedical uses ("stroke of genius" or "back stroke " ); most mentions of "heart attack" are metaphorical, not literal (just had a heart attack and died the power went out while I was in the shower); and although doctors associate "MI" with myocardial infarction, on Twitter it refers more often to the state of Michigan. Study Objectives ---------------- This paper quantifies, and provides a framework for partially correcting, the error arising when using sources such as Twitter as a proxy for measuring disease prevalence. We investigate the relationship between the frequency of disease mentions on Twitter in the United States and the prevalence of the same diseases in the US population. Understanding this relationship could be useful for a variety of applications, including health care messaging and disease surveillance. We use Twitter as the venue for measuring discussion largely because it has already received substantial attention as an inexpensive proxy for tracking disease prevalence \[[@ref19],[@ref20]\]. Our key contribution is to demonstrate that it is possible to better align Twitter disease-mention statistics with actual disease-prevalence statistics by correcting for ambiguous medical language on Twitter, and by correcting for the difference between the demographics of Twitter users and the general US population. We observe that a slight correlation exists between general population disease-prevalence statistics (sourced from existing survey data) and the number of times each disease is mentioned on Twitter (according to our own counts). We find that we can significantly increase this correlation (1) by restricting the disease-prevalence population specifically to Twitter users (ie, by correlating with existing prevalence data focused specifically on that group), and (2) by adjusting our disease-mention counts to correct for word-sense ambiguity. Methods ======= Overview -------- We first identified a list of diseases; then for each disease, we constructed a list of terms that refer to it (ie, a disease-specific lexicon). We also collected a large number of tweets and compiled them into a tweets corpus. Next, we retrieved a random sample of tweets from our corpus that contained any of our disease terms. We then determined the relative frequencies (percentage) of medical uses of the disease terms (ie, valid positives) versus nonmedical uses (ie, false positives due to ambiguity), using human annotation on the random sample. This allowed us to compute corrected counts of the number of tweets in the corpus that mention each disease (we call this a disease's "validated tweet count," whereas an uncorrected count is termed a "raw tweet count"). We correlated the corrected disease-mention frequencies with the US disease-prevalence statistics from the Simmons National Consumer Study \[[@ref21]\]. The resulting correlation serves as a measure of the relationship between the quantity of disease mentions in the corpus, and the quantity of disease cases in the US population (for either the general population or the Twitter-using population). Comparing the correlations with and without correction demonstrates the size of our corrections. Data Collection --------------- ### Selection of Diseases We used the following criteria for selecting diseases for this research: (1) diseases that could be paired with both US population prevalence data and Twitter-use data; and (2) diseases deemed by previous literature to be most impactful for the health care community. Each criterion is satisfied by a different dataset. The first dataset comes from Experian, a global information services company. Experian also conducts consumer surveys on a variety of topics, including health care. For this study, we used data from Experian's Simmons National Consumer Study and focused on survey questions pertaining to general demographics, health status, and social media use. Results from the various Experian surveys are combined into a database and released both quarterly and annually. Experian conducts poststratification on its survey data to create demographically representative estimates for its measured variables. We queried this database to obtain a dataset for the year 2012 that crosstabulates disease prevalence for all available diseases (n=52) with both general demographics and Twitter use. For the estimated English-speaking or Spanish-speaking US adult population (n=230,124,220), we were able to find the estimated number of individuals who suffer from a disease (eg, backache, n=42 million), and the subset of those disease sufferers who use Twitter (in the case of backache, n=2.6 million). This dataset, then, provides us with parallel sets of disease-prevalence statistics for the general US population and for US Twitter users. The second dataset is from a RAND study designed to broadly measure the quality of health care delivery in the United States \[[@ref22]\]. Through reviews of the literature and of national health care data, and through consultation with panels of medical experts, 46 "clinical areas" were identified in this report that represent the leading causes of illness, death, and health care utilization in the United States. The list of 24 diseases (see [Multimedia Appendix 1](#app1){ref-type="app"}) used in this study is composed of the overlap between the diseases represented in the Experian dataset (n=52) and in the RAND study (n=46). This overlap may be explicit (eg, "asthma" appears on both lists) or implicit (eg, two separate Experian entries, "stomach ulcers" and "acid reflux disease/GERD," are both suggested by the single RAND entry "peptic ulcer disease and dyspepsia"). The focus in this task was not pinpointing exact matches between the two lists, but rather finding areas of general agreement between them, to identify high-impact diseases from the Experian dataset. ### Compilation of Disease Terms For each disease on our list, we constructed a lexicon of disease terms that are used to refer to that disease. For example, the lexicon for diabetes used in this study contains three disease terms, namely, "diabetes," "diabete," "niddm." All lexica in this study are derived from terms found in Consumer Health Vocabulary (CHV) \[[@ref23]\], an online open source thesaurus that associates medical concepts (including diseases, medical procedures, drugs, anatomy, etc) with a mix of colloquial and technical terms. At the time of this study, the CHV contained 158,519 entries, covering 57,819 unique (but often closely related) concepts. Each entry collects (along with other data) at least three term elements: (1) a CHV term, (2) a descriptive phrase, and (3) a related term from a medical vocabulary called the "Unified Medical Language System (UMLS)." A CHV term can have multiple entries in the thesaurus, thereby associating the CHV term with any number of descriptive phrases or UMLS terms. Each CHV term can then be seen as a key-value pair, where the CHV term is the key and a network of associated terms (consisting of descriptive phrases and UMLS terms) is the value. For each of the 24 diseases included in the study, we processed the CHV to retrieve an entire key-value network of associated terms if any one of the terms (in the key or the value) seemed to refer to the target disease. Multiple networks could be (and often were) collected for any disease. Together, these results constituted a disease's list of candidate disease terms (these were then vetted, according to the process described in the "Vetting Disease-Term Candidates" section). A term was judged to be a potential reference to a target disease (thereby triggering the retrieval of all associated terms) primarily if it contained a search string derived from the target disease's name (including both abbreviated and spelled-out forms). For example, "attention deficit" is a search string for attention deficit disorder/attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADD/ADHD) ; "heart disease" is a search string for heart disease ; and "GERD" is a search string for acid reflux disease/GERD. Also included among the search strings were some common disease synonyms, such as "zit" for acne and "tumor" for cancer. The number of search strings varied for each disease, ranging from 1 to 7. ### Tweet Text Corpus The tweets used in our analysis were taken from a random sample of 1% of all available tweets in 2012, as collected through the Twitter "1% random public stream" application programming interface (API) \[[@ref24]\]. To align our data more closely with the American and mostly English-speaking Experian Simmons sample, we filtered our Twitter corpus to keep only English tweets originating in the United States. To filter for English, we only considered tweets with at least 50% of their words found in the Hunspell English dictionary \[[@ref25]\]. Tweets were then further restricted to the United States by finding tweets with "United States" or nonambiguous US cities in their location field (city names were taken from \[[@ref26]\]). For example, "Chicago" would match the United States, whereas "London," even though there is a London in Texas, would not. This resulted in a corpus of 80,680,449 tweets. Vetting Disease-Term Candidates ------------------------------- ### Grammatical In this research, we focused on finding tweets that specifically name our target diseases. Broadening this focus to include related concepts, such as symptoms and treatments, was desirable but was not possible for the scope of this paper. Because of our focus on terms that name diseases (as opposed to terms that describe or suggest them), we dropped all candidate disease terms that were not nouns (eg, adjectives such as "depressed" or "arthritic"). We then manually expanded the list, adding plural forms where grammatically appropriate. ### Medical We mined the CHV using a keyword search strategy inclined toward inclusiveness. For example, a search on "acne" retrieved terms for medical concepts that might be at best tenuously related to acne. One of these concepts was acne rosacea , whose network of associated terms contains the terms "acne rosacea," "disorders rosacea," "rosacea," and "rosacea acne." Because the concept acne rosacea incorporates at least one term containing the text string "acne," its entire network of terms automatically became candidates for the acne lexicon. This inclusiveness raises the question of whether "rosacea," "acne rosacea," "disorders rosacea," etc denote acne. To solve this problem, a physician on the research team vetted the candidate terms. For each disease, she dropped candidates that did not denote the disease, ensuring that only medically appropriate terms were admitted into any disease lexicon. ### Structural We produced a list of text strings for each disease that we could use to search the Twitter corpus for mentions of that disease. To achieve this goal we took into account two realities. First, many CHV term elements use constructions that are uncommon in natural language (eg, "fever hay" as in nasal allergies/hay fever ), "attack heart," "attacks hearts," or "attacking heart" as in heart attack , and "pain, back, radiating" as in back pain ). Second, during execution of searches within the Twitter corpus, only the shortest element of a search phrase is required; if a compound search phrase contains a shorter search phrase, the longer one is implied by the shorter (eg, "asthma" retrieves asthma , allergic asthma , pollen asthma , etc; "diabetes" retrieves diabetes mellitus , insulin-dependent diabetes , diabetes screening , etc). Because of these two facts, we were able to significantly shorten the candidate disease-term lists that were produced by the semiautomated CHV search procedure. All reverse-order candidates (eg, "fever hay") and compound candidates (eg, "allergic asthma") were dropped. After these three vetting procedures, the 24 disease lexica contained a combined 488 disease terms (see [Multimedia Appendix 1](#app1){ref-type="app"}). Manual Tweet Appraisal ---------------------- We determined how often each of the 488 disease terms referred to its associated disease when included in a tweet. This began with a basic count for each disease term of the number of tweets in the corpus in which the term appears (before any language ambiguity corrections were applied). This is a disease term's raw tweet count. Note that we allow a single tweet to be counted two times if it contains multiple disease terms (regardless of whether the two terms refer to the same or a different disease). Throughout this study, we consider random instances of disease terms as they appear in tweets, without consideration for other terms that co-occur with them. We then performed manual appraisal. For each disease term, we randomly selected 30 tweets containing the term from our tweet corpus for manual analysis. This number was chosen to balance research needs and time constraints. Some disease terms occurred in 30 or fewer tweets in the tweet corpus. When this occurred, all available tweets were retrieved. Two English-speaking research assistants independently read each tweet and made a simple appraisal, answering, "For each tweet, in your judgment does the disease term that flagged the tweet's retrieval refer to a medical meaning of that term?" Each tweet required a Yes or No judgment, as shown in [Table 1](#table1){ref-type="table"} . The two raters each compiled a complete collection of Yes/No judgments, held in secret from the other rater. ###### Example of rating whether each tweet does or does not refer to a medical meaning of the selected term. Here the term is "heart attacks." Rater 1 Rater 2 Tweet --------- --------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Yes Yes Visited a man who has had 2 heart attacks who feels privileged to be in circumstances that allow him to share his trust in God. \#realdeal Yes No Got room for 1 more? RT \@pjones59: Sausage balls, heart attacks on a stick, dip, chips, wings and cheese, cream cheese/pickle/ham wraps No No I still can\'t believe I saw Kris at work the other day. Talk about mini heart attacks. U_U After these tweet-level appraisals were completed, we aggregated the scores at the disease-term level (independently for each rater's collection of judgments). For each rater and each disease term (n=488), we calculated the percentage of tweets from the sample that were appraised as referring to a medical meaning. The Cohen's kappa for inter-rater reliability was .77. The disease-term percentages of the two raters were then averaged, resulting in a correction factor for each disease term. We multiplied this coefficient by the disease term's raw tweet count ( rcount ), to arrive at an estimated disease-term validated tweet count( vcount ). Once this estimate was completed for each disease term in a disease lexicon, the disease term estimates were summed, producing our ultimate metric, a validated tweet count for each disease lexicon ([Figure 1](#figure1){ref-type="fig"}). The validated tweet count for a disease lexicon is the estimated number of tweets in our corpus that are a valid reference to the disease in question, that is, correcting for the ambiguity error present in the disease lexicon's raw tweet count. As an example, manual appraisal for the diabetes disease lexicon ([Figure 2](#figure2){ref-type="fig"}) illustrates the evolution from a raw tweet count of 9202 to a validated tweet count of 8896. ![Equation for deriving a disease lexicon\'s correction factor.](publichealth_v1i2e6_fig1){#figure1} ![Disease terms from the diabetes lexicon that were subjected to manual appraisal. Each term receives appraisal on up to 30 instances. The term-level appraisals are then summed to reach the final lexicon-level diabetes-validated tweet count (8896).](publichealth_v1i2e6_fig2){#figure2} Results ======= Preliminary Findings -------------------- Of the 2824 tweets containing disease terms that we manually reviewed, the averaged judgments of our 2 human raters indicate that 2276.5 (80.61%) actually referred to diseases, with validity rates that were highly variable across different diseases. For example, stroke terms rarely referred to the medical emergency (only 22% of the time, or 55/252), whereas diabetes terms almost always referred to the medical condition (98% of the time, or 102/104). Note that the percentages we report in [Table 2](#table2){ref-type="table"} (14.89%, 3827/25,704, for stroke; 96.67%, 25,104/25,704, for diabetes) weight the manually derived percentages according to the term frequency in the Twitter corpus of the different terms that comprise a disease lexicon. The raw tweet counts and validated tweet counts for the 24 diseases are compared in [Table 2](#table2){ref-type="table"} , along with a correction factor (an adjustment according to the percentage of evaluated tweets that were judged as valid). [Table 2](#table2){ref-type="table"} also includes disease-prevalence data (for both the general US population and among US Twitter users), which come directly from Experian's Simmons National Consumer Study. We noted high levels of heterogeneity for all five measurements across diseases. This probably reflects the heterogeneity among the diseases themselves: among them are acute viral infections (eg, flu ), general maladies (eg, backache , nasal allergies/hay fever ), chronic disorders (eg, arthritis , osteoporosis ), test measures (eg, high cholesterol , hypertension/high blood pressure ), medical emergencies (eg, heart attack , stroke ), and psychological disorders (eg, depression , ADD/ADHD ). Some of the diseases are transitory (eg, urinary tract infection ) and others are long term (eg, diabetes ). Some are causes of mortality (eg, cancer , congestive heart failure ), whereas others are relatively superficial (eg, acne ). Given such variety, it is no surprise to see a wide range of values for tweet counts, correction factor, and prevalence across the list of diseases. ###### Raw and validated tweet counts, correction factor, and US and Twitter disease prevalence for each disease. Disease Raw tweet count Validated tweet count Correction factor^a^ Prev US (millions)^b,d^ Prev US Twitter (millions)^c,d^ --------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------- ----------------------- ---------------------- ------------------------- --------------------------------- Acid reflux disease/gastroesophageal reflux disease 743 631 84.98 32.4 2.40 Acne 6936 6027 86.89 11.2 2.00 Attention deficit disorder/attention deficit hyperactivity disorder 2794 2660 95.19 4.9 0.90 Arthritis 2524 2522 99.92 34.4 1.30 Asthma 3952 3754 95.00 12.4 1.00 Backache 3035 3028 99.77 42.0 2.60 Cancer 110,760 63,647 57.46 5.0 0.46 Congestive heart failure 928 313 33.76 --- --- Heart disease 2741 2410 87.91 --- --- Congestive heart failure/heart disease^e^ 3669 2723 74.21 5.9 0.46 Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease 226 188 83.37 5.5 0.86 Depression 14,294 10,459 73.17 18.7 2.20 Diabetes 9202 8896 96.67 20.8 1.20 Flu 10,139 8810 86.90 17.2 1.80 Genital herpes 76 66 86.84 1.8 0.33 Heart attack 15,027 2311 15.38 --- --- Stroke 12,852 1914 14.89 --- --- Heart attack/stroke^f^ 27,879 4225 15.15 3.0 0.11 High cholesterol 225 218 96.67 37.9 1.70 Human papilloma virus 636 545 85.73 1.5 0.12 Hypertension/high blood pressure 1630 1491 91.49 43.5 1.50 Migraine headache 5958 5615 94.24 16.4 1.80 Nasal allergies/hay fever 481 473 98.27 18.2 1.30 Osteoporosis 316 306 96.68 6.0 0.13 Stomach ulcers 80 73 91.25 3.3 0.03 Urinary tract infection 880 479 54.40 10.0 1.00 ^a^Correction factor is the percentage of tweets that were appraised as valid. ^b^Prev US (millions) represents a disease's prevalence in the US. ^c^Prev US Twitter (millions) represents a disease's prevalence among US Twitter users. ^d^The source for both Prev US (millions) and Prev US Twitter (millions) is the Experian Simmons National Consumer Study. ^e^In the Experian dataset, congestive heart failure and heart disease are collapsed into a single data point. We mined Twitter for these diseases separately, and we applied our evaluation method to tweets containing disease terms for each one separately. However, because Experian was our source for prevalence statistics, we can only report on the prevalence of these two diseases in a combined state. ^f^Note "e" is true for the diseases heart attack and stroke. ### Statistical Analysis We determined the Spearman correlation coefficients (all P \<.001) between both raw and validated tweet counts and disease prevalence among both the general US population and among US Twitter users ([Table 3](#table3){ref-type="table"}). Correcting just for Twitter use more than doubles the correlation between tweet count and prevalence (from .113 to .258). Correcting only for word ambiguity has a similar but slightly smaller effect (.208). Correcting for both more than triples the baseline correlation (.366). ###### Spearman correlation coefficients between both raw and validated tweet counts and US population and Twitter-user disease prevalence (all P \<.001). ------------------------------------------- \ Prevalence ----------------------- ------------ ------ Raw tweet count .113 .258 Validated tweet count .208 .366 ------------------------------------------- Discussion ========== Overview -------- The correlation improvements we found due to ambiguity correction may seem unsurprising. However, the improvements due to demographic correction are less straightforward, particularly because no effort was made to restrict our tweet analysis to first-person self-report mentions of diseases. It is easy to assume that there must be a causal connection between disease prevalence and disease mentions. Indeed, we interpret an increased correlation due to demographic correction as supporting this assumption: it means the signal we measure (ie, disease mentions on Twitter) demonstrates positive correspondence to a plausible source of that signal (ie, disease sufferers who use Twitter). However, we find that for certain individual diseases, disease prevalence and disease mentions are wildly out of sync. For the time being just what causes someone to tweet (or not tweet) about a disease remains an open question, particularly because many people mentioning the disease are not suffering from it. In any case, methods utilizing social media to estimate disease prevalence do not need to explain a causal connection. They only demand that social media reliably captures the variance of disease prevalence. We have shown that such measurement can be improved by adjusting for demographic differences between disease sufferers and Twitter users. Bias Correction --------------- We found that naïvely counting mentions of disease terms in tweets produces results that are biased (in terms of correlation with known disease-prevalence statistics) due to both demographic pattern of Twitter users and the ambiguity of natural language. These biases can be at least partially corrected, resulting in a threefold increase in the correlation between counts of disease terms in tweets and known prevalence statistics for the 24 diseases we studied. The observation that the Twitter population is a biased sample of the United States is relatively easily corrected using standard stratified sampling methods, given the known demographics of the Twitter population. We identified this using data from an Experian survey, but other studies of Twitter demographics could also be used. We demonstrated that the demographic corrections roughly doubled the correlation between disease mentions and disease prevalence. Types of Ambiguity ------------------ The intrinsic ambiguity of language requires more work to correct. We observed that language ambiguity varies significantly across diseases. The fraction of mentions of a disease term that actually refer to the disease ranged from highly specific terms such as arthritis (99.92%, or 5044/5048) to less specific terms such as stroke (14.89%, or 3827/25,704). This language ambiguity takes 2 major forms. The first is "lexical ambiguity." Some diseases such as arthritis, diabetes, and high cholesterol are in practice referred to by terms that almost always refer to their associated disease concepts. In our analysis, tweeters rarely used words from the arthritis lexicon to refer to anything other than the disease "arthritis." There are, however, a number of disease terms that are often used to refer to concepts that are not diseases (or not the intended diseases). Frequently occurring example words include "cancer" (the astrological sign), "depression," "stroke" (nonmedical usages and also heat stroke), and "flu" (as in stomach flu, versus "influenza"). Abbreviations are particularly ambiguous. For example, "copd" (ie, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease) is a popular variant spelling of "copped" (as in the verb "took"); "uti" ( urinary tract infection ), "hpv" ( human papillomavirus ), and "zit" ( acne ) show up in Internet addresses (particularly in short links using URL redirection); and "CHF" ( congestive heart failure ) is an abbreviation for the Swiss Franc. Or conversely, "Gerd" is a masculine first name that coincides with an abbreviation for the disease gastroesophageal reflux disease (part of the acid reflux disease/GERD lexicon). Lexical ambiguity also arises from metaphorical and slang usages of disease terms. "Heart attack" and "heart failure" are used to mean surprise and "ADHD" to mean distracted. The second type of ambiguity could be considered "disease ambiguity." Some of the 24 diseases included in this study are less clearly delineated than others. One aspect of this problem is intensity. Is it medical depression if a Twitter user reports being depressed about her favorite sports team losing a game? What if she ends a seemingly grave tweet with "LOL?" A second aspect of disease ambiguity is specificity or accuracy. Some Twitter users may use the word migraine for other types of headache or say hay fever when actually they are allergic to cats. A third aspect of disease ambiguity is complexity. A prime example is the range of cardiovascular diseases in this study (ie, congestive heart failure , heart disease , heart attack , high cholesterol , hypertension , possibly stroke ), whose inter-relations and exact boundaries are difficult or impossible to draw. Both types of ambiguity can affect a disease's validation coefficient. The first type, lexical ambiguity (eg, homographs or metaphorical word usage), is likely to affect the "back end" of the methodology, requiring corrections to the observed term counts (ie, using the method described in this paper). The second type, disease boundary ambiguity, presents problems on the "front end" and it makes tailoring the disease lexica difficult. This type of ambiguity raises the question of whether the potentially hierarchical relationship between congestive heart failure and heart disease, or the potentially causal relationship between high cholesterol and either heart attack or stroke, could or should somehow be encoded in the disease lexica. In this research, we treated each disease lexicon as a stand-alone entity, and the effects of that decision are necessarily written into the results we derived. We can expect that diseases of a more "stand-alone" quality (ie, those that are relatively self-contained like osteoporosis , rather than part of a complex like heart disease ) will naturally be better represented by their respective disease lexica than are diseases that potentially harbor a complex relationship with other diseases. It is intuitive that mismatch between a disease's representation on Twitter and its representation within its disease lexicon is essentially what causes the disease's validation coefficient to drop below 100%. Correlation of Validated Tweet Count With Prevalence ---------------------------------------------------- Just as validity rates proved highly variable across diseases, the levels of Twitter discussion relative to disease prevalence also varied. Some diseases were discussed at levels outstripping their prevalence in the population, whereas others received little relative attention. The relationship between validated tweet count and US prevalence across diseases has a correlation of .208 ([Table 3](#table3){ref-type="table"} , P \<.001). To provide a more detailed picture of this relationship, we calculated validated tweet count for each disease as a function of prevalence. The following formula is used for this purpose: for each disease d , projected prevalence = (validated tweet count of d /sum of all validated tweet counts) × sum of all disease prevalence. This can be understood as the prevalence that validated tweet count (inaccurately) projects for each disease. We compare this projected prevalence with actual prevalence in [Figure 3](#figure3){ref-type="fig"} . The sum of prevalence across all diseases (351,939,580) is identical for both the projected and the actual cases, but the distributions are quite different. We see that cancer is a major outlier, "taking up" over 50% of projected prevalence (176,605,210), whereas it accounts for less than 2% of actual prevalence (5,031,120). Clearly, cancer receives far more attention than merely prevalence warrants. Projected prevalence is more than 35 times as great as actual prevalence. Conversely, high cholesterol is on the extreme end of underrepresentation. Projected prevalence (604,898) is only 1.60% of actual prevalence (37,861,070). These figures demonstrate that other unknown factors besides prevalence influence the amount of discussion a disease receives on Twitter. One hypothesis is that Twitter demographics skew discussion levels upward for diseases that are of high concern to the population of users and downward for diseases that are of less concern. Given the generalization that Twitter users tend to be young, this could explain why arthritis seems to be drastically under-tweeted, and why acne and ADD/ADHD are over-tweeted. However, demographics alone cannot explain the extraordinary projected prevalence of cancer. Nor are they likely to explain the over-tweeting of flu and diabetes. We assume that demographics do influence these results (notice the over-projection of acne , a disease of youth, and the under-projection of hypertension/high blood pressure , a disease of aged, in [Figure 3](#figure3){ref-type="fig"}), but that multiple other factors also play roles. Likely candidates include the intensity and history of disease awareness and advocacy campaigns (see cancer , diabetes , and human papilloma virus ); and disease stigma or body-part stigma (see genital herpes and urinary tract infection ). Investigation into these and other possible factors is an area for future research. ![Projected prevalence (as a function of validated tweet count) versus actual US prevalence for 22 diseases, in millions (sorted by projected prevalence). Some diseases are "over-tweeted" (in particular, cancer), whereas others are "under-tweeted" (eg, backache and arthritis).](publichealth_v1i2e6_fig3){#figure3} Limitations ----------- It remains unclear precisely what is the nature of the relationship between disease discussion (on Twitter or even just in general) and disease prevalence. Twitter disease discussion is likely driven by many more factors than disease prevalence. People tweet about diseases for many reasons, and for the purposes of this paper, we do not attempt to disentangle such reasons. We do demonstrate, though, that Twitter disease mentions correlate with disease prevalence, and that this correlation improves after our demographic and word ambiguity corrections have been applied. This lesson can and should be incorporated into other research or tools that would seek to mine the language found on Twitter (or similar venues) for information about broader populations. Despite our best efforts, the demographics of our Twitter corpus and of the Experian dataset do not entirely match. Most significantly, the Experian dataset includes disease-prevalence estimates for both English-speaking and Spanish-speaking US residents, whereas our tweet corpus was restricted to English language tweets. This research was conducted in English; future work should extend a similar analysis to other languages. We did not account in this research for all possible variables that could influence the interplay of disease prevalence and tweets about diseases. Some of these missed variables are disease centric. For example, some diseases may actually be more "tweet-able" than others due to any number of disease factors, including intensity, duration, stigma, social salience, and so on, or possibly even due to formal considerations (is the disease easy or quick to spell?). A less tweet-able disease might be expected to have fewer associated tweets, outside of any prevalence-based influence on tweet counts. We only account for mentions of diseases that specifically name a (properly spelled) disease in a tweet. On the one hand, relying on correct noun-form disease names that are sourced from a recognized health vocabulary such as the CHV helps push this study toward semiautomation, objectivity, and reproducibility. However, on the other hand, this decision leaves an unknown, but possibly large, quantity of disease-relevant tweets unmined, and so unaccounted for in our analysis. We miss mentions that are slang terms (eg, "diabeetus") or are misspelled (eg, "ashtma," "hi cholesterol"). On a strictly formal level, our current approach is tuned to precision at the expense of recall. Furthermore, people may discuss health concerns on Twitter by mentioning symptoms, sequelae, locations (such as a hospital), drugs, or treatments, etc. Our focus on disease names is unable to capture this broader domain of health-related tweets. Improving recall is left for future work. Other missed variables are Twitter centric. It is well documented that Twitter does not reveal what sampling procedures are used in their APIs \[[@ref27],[@ref28]\]. Therefore, it is unclear how representative the tweeters (whose tweets were captured for this study) are of the US population of Twitter users. This is unavoidable, and it is a shortcoming common to all research using Twitter APIs. We also did not discriminate in this research between tweeters. A Twitter "user" may not be an individual person. Many health-related or even disease-related organizations mention diseases on Twitter. Factors related to such organizations (their quantity, their social media strategies, etc) may be relevant to counts of disease-naming tweets. Other researchers have addressed the problem of distinguishing tweets authored by health organizations \[[@ref29]\], but this study did not make that distinction. Comparison With Prior Work -------------------------- In the normal course of life or business, individuals and organizations generate vast amounts of text that can be mined. Much of it is shared or published online in one form or another, and these data are attractive to researchers, including those interested in epidemiology and public health. Several "infodemiology" studies (eg, many in the long list cited in the "Introduction" section) correlate word use in Twitter with prevalence of a disease or medical condition. Beyond Twitter, Web search activity has also been used, for example to monitor Lyme disease \[[@ref30]\] and dengue \[[@ref31]\], as well as risk behaviors associated with dietary habits \[[@ref32]\] and with suicide \[[@ref33]\]. Blog posts have been used to predict influenza outbreaks \[[@ref34]\]. Facebook has been used to predict "gross national happiness," that is, well-being across the United States \[[@ref35]\]. These studies primarily correlate word use in some medium (eg, Twitter or Google search) over some period (eg, day or week) and in some region (eg, US county or state) with a disease-prevalence level. Such correlational approaches rely on certain assumptions about the homogeneity of the populations they study, which often go unstated and so presumably untested and uncorrected. It is not clear whether demographic or word ambiguity biases are typically accounted for. We suppose that researchers implicitly assume that these factors will be handled automatically by the statistical regression methods they use. If demographic and ambiguity biases are constant over time and space, this will be true. However, if populations vary in their usage of the target medium (eg, Twitter), prediction accuracy can vary, and this variation may be significant. Google Flu Trends is perhaps the "poster child" for the correlational approach to prediction. It is a widely cited online tool that uses statistical correlations between a broad set of Google search terms and historical flu levels to predict regional changes in US flu levels \[[@ref36]\]. Google Flu Trends was initially highly accurate. However, it has also been used as a case study of how "big data" predictions can go awry when the statistical patterns upon which they are based are descriptively inaccurate (either from the start or due to drift over time) \[[@ref37],[@ref38]\], with claims that at one point predictions became exaggerated by nearly a factor of 2 \[[@ref39]\]. A limited number of studies have emphasized concerns about validity in social media analyses \[[@ref40]\]. There has also been some work on selecting "high-quality" disease-related tweets, mostly achieving high specificity at the cost of poor sensitivity. For example, \[[@ref41]\] uses regular expressions and machine-learning methods to filter out all but first-person self-report tweets. We strive for higher coverage, including all "real" mentions of a disease, and then we seek out previously established data (ie, disease prevalence) against which we validate our findings. In a previous study \[[@ref42]\], researchers identified known sick persons, then study their Twitter data to characterize a kind identifying fingerprint for Twitter users who have the flu (utilizing their tweets and their Twitter profile metadata). They then use that model to "diagnose" individual Twitter users with influenza, an approach that the authors imply could be directed toward population-level disease surveillance. In the near term, we think that the major use of social media for public health may be to understand attitudes toward health, disease, and treatment. Effective public policy depends on subjective inquiries into what people know and care about. Why do they seek or avoid treatment? How do they reveal disease status? What risk behaviors do they shrug off? Predictions about a phenomenon that one can measure, such as disease prevalence, may have limited utility, especially if the measurements are timely and accurate. Although traditional ground truth measurements have been questioned \[[@ref43]\], the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention flu estimates appear to be better than Google Flu Trends estimates \[[@ref44]\]. Nevertheless, online disease detection and prediction is a rapidly growing research area, and as work continues in this field, our collective ability to make these types of estimates will likely increase. Conclusions ----------- Several types of research using social media to study public health will benefit from corrections for demographic variation and language ambiguity of the type that are outlined in this paper. Social media datasets are biased convenience samples, and word ambiguity is endemic. Nevertheless, social media provide a relatively cheap way to monitor countless domains, including public health and attitudes toward health and health care. In this study, we began with a large, "poor-quality," nonrandom dataset (ie, Twitter), and compared it with a small, "high-quality," random (achieved via poststratification) dataset (ie, the Simmons National Consumer Study from Experian). We filtered the Twitter dataset so that its demographics would match that of the Experian dataset. We then performed both naïve and ambiguity-corrected counts of Twitter disease mentions. Finally, we compared both of these counts with prevalence data found in the Experian survey. We found that the corrected Twitter counts correlated much more strongly than the naïve Twitter counts with the "high-quality" Experian data. We think that this demonstrates both the need and the capacity for other studies using nonrandom convenience samples (eg, social media data or Google queries) to take demographic and word ambiguity factors explicitly into account, for example, using our method or other related or novel methods. Conflicts of Interest: None declared. This study focuses on a list of 24 diseases. Each of these diseases is represented by a disease lexicon composed of one or more disease terms. There are 24 lexica, comprising 488 disease terms. The first row in this appendix holds lexica names, subsequent rows hold disease terms. Each column represents a different disease. ADD/ADHD : attention deficit disorder/attention deficit hyperactivity disorder API : Application Programming Interface CHV : Consumer Health Vocabulary UMLS : Unified Medical Language System	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	PubMed Central
Whilst I obviously will vote for the sublime and cohesive Friends album over that messy filler filled affair The Beatles, I have to say that Julia is a beautiful song and easily stands up against Wilson's best works in terms of songwriting. Speaking of Friends, I was recently listening to the MiC discs, and I noticed how good the ‘Meant For You’ Alternate version sounded. Made me realize just how good a remix/remaster of this album will sound (if one comes down the pike). I think I will always prefer the original mix, but it would be great to hear this album with more clarity and atmosphere like the MiC song offers. Speaking of Friends, I was recently listening to the MiC discs, and I noticed how good the ‘Meant For You’ Alternate version sounded. Made me realize just how good a remix/remaster of this album will sound (if one comes down the pike). I think I will always prefer the original mix, but it would be great to hear this album with more clarity and atmosphere like the MiC song offers. Totally agree. The original Friends stereo mix is great by 60s standards, but all the vocals are mono in the centre channel and the instruments are mostly kinda hard panned left or right to the same degree so it loses some texture. The Friends a capella mix shows just how much cool detail is buried in there when you open up the vocal tracks and give them the proper stereo treatment. Speaking of Friends, I was recently listening to the MiC discs, and I noticed how good the ‘Meant For You’ Alternate version sounded. Made me realize just how good a remix/remaster of this album will sound (if one comes down the pike). I think I will always prefer the original mix, but it would be great to hear this album with more clarity and atmosphere like the MiC song offers. Totally agree. The original Friends stereo mix is great by 60s standards, but all the vocals are mono in the centre channel and the instruments are mostly kinda hard panned left or right to the same degree so it loses some texture. The Friends a capella mix shows just how much cool detail is buried in there when you open up the vocal tracks and give them the proper stereo treatment. Yeah, I feel like that goes for everything this band did in the 60s and 70s. I always loved ‘Don’t Worry Baby’, but when I heard that 2009 stereo remix I was blown away at just how amazing the vocals sounded in stereo. Speaking of Friends, I was recently listening to the MiC discs, and I noticed how good the ‘Meant For You’ Alternate version sounded. Made me realize just how good a remix/remaster of this album will sound (if one comes down the pike). I think I will always prefer the original mix, but it would be great to hear this album with more clarity and atmosphere like the MiC song offers. Totally agree. The original Friends stereo mix is great by 60s standards, but all the vocals are mono in the centre channel and the instruments are mostly kinda hard panned left or right to the same degree so it loses some texture. The Friends a capella mix shows just how much cool detail is buried in there when you open up the vocal tracks and give them the proper stereo treatment. Yeah, I feel like that goes for everything this band did in the 60s and 70s. I always loved ‘Don’t Worry Baby’, but when I heard that 2009 stereo remix I was blown away at just how amazing the vocals sounded in stereo. Here’s to hoping we get a Friends boxset/release this year! I'd be surprised if it doesn't happen, just hoping the original being stereo doesn't rule it out for a full on remix! So it’s my huge hope that Linett and Boyd already have a remix done waiting to be released. On MIC we were given a taste of stereo from the Wild Honey album, which was then released as a full stereo remix for us last year. I’m really hoping that since they did the same for ‘Meant For You’ on MIC we’ll also see the same thing happen with the Friends album (being released as a remix). Time will tell. One of my all time favourite Beach Boys albums...3 vinyl copies and 2 c.d.'s 'in' as I'm guilty of wearing the darned things out. The white album has some great songs on it...but there's 'Revolution 9' which ... if John had been HONEST ... would have more appropriately been entitled 'Devolution 1'. The sense of entitlement which caused him to think that he could waste our time with that out and out drivel and bull-sh!t is inescapable and unacceptable. And that he carried the idea forward placing more of this electro-waste on the 2 virgins horror show...both sides no less suggests that the white album would be better off it it hadn't happened at all. Friends was # 13 in the UK. # 126 is the U.S. Brits are far more savvy than their breakaway cousins. The weak points on Friends? Meant For You could have been stronger with a better lead vocal. Be Still and Diamond Head aren't the best tunes ever either. Whitey...the album tosses dreck like the aforementioned Rev 9, Wild Honey Pie? [I'd have sued.], Julia...which to me sounded like pure unadulterated 'filler', Honey Pie and the cringe-worthy Goodnight onto the fly pile. Then there were so-so songs like Cry Baby Cry, Long x 3, I Will and the most Miracle-Whipped version of Jamaican Ska ever...Ob La Di. Toss Do It Again and Never Learn Not to Love in and it's a wash re: Hey Jude which is just WAY TOO EFFIN' LONG...like shut-up already and I'm going with the Beach Boys...by a nostril. Lady Madonna? The Inner Light? Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. All that momentum gathered in 1967 set adrift by individualistic 'fabbie' projects. NO single Beatle can measure up to Brian Wilson. Sorry Paul. WAY TOO MANY silly love songs. [and you ran out of anything that was really all that interesting about 30 years ago.] Anyway...again...the Boys by part of a nose. Logged "Add Some...Music...To Your Day. I do. It's the only way to fly. Well...what was I gonna put here? An apple a day keeps the doctor away? Hum me a few bars." Lee Marshall [2014] One of my all time favourite Beach Boys albums...3 vinyl copies and 2 c.d.'s 'in' as I'm guilty of wearing the darned things out. The white album has some great songs on it...but there's 'Revolution 9' which ... if John had been HONEST ... would have more appropriately been entitled 'Devolution 1'. The sense of entitlement which caused him to think that he could waste our time with that out and out drivel and bull-sh!t is inescapable and unacceptable. And that he carried the idea forward placing more of this electro-waste on the 2 virgins horror show...both sides no less suggests that the white album would be better off it it hadn't happened at all. That's a good point, and one I used to almost give my vote to The Beach Boys. The White Album includes the worst track in Beatles history, and one of the biggest time wasters ever put on vinyl by a great band. Logged Any opinions posted by me regarding the music of The Beach Boys, and their members, is in no way a show of disrespect towards any member of The Beach Boys, past or present. Funny thing though, a couple years ago I would’ve equated ‘Revolution #9’ with ‘Transcendental Meditation’ in terms of how both songs kinda jolted and irritated me from the vibe of both albums. But after years of hating it, now I really dig ‘TM’, though I don’t think anything will help me appreciate ‘Revolution #9’. Funny thing though, a couple years ago I would’ve equated ‘Revolution #9’ with ‘Transcendental Meditation’ in terms of how both songs kinda jolted and irritated me from the vibe of both albums. But after years of hating it, now I really dig ‘TM’, though I don’t think anything will help me appreciate ‘Revolution #9’. TM is an actual song while R9 is pretentious garbage. When I first got into the Friends album, I didn't care for TM as it didn't seem to fit on the album, but taken on its own, I think it's a pretty good song. Logged Any opinions posted by me regarding the music of The Beach Boys, and their members, is in no way a show of disrespect towards any member of The Beach Boys, past or present. Funny thing though, a couple years ago I would’ve equated ‘Revolution #9’ with ‘Transcendental Meditation’ in terms of how both songs kinda jolted and irritated me from the vibe of both albums. But after years of hating it, now I really dig ‘TM’, though I don’t think anything will help me appreciate ‘Revolution #9’. TM is an actual song while R9 is pretentious garbage. When I first got into the Friends album, I didn't care for TM as it didn't seem to fit on the album, but taken on its own, I think it's a pretty good song. Yeah, I guess I should’ve classified R9 as a track instead of a song. I used to hate hearing TM end the album, but its kinda funny in a way how backwards the whole song is to itself and the album. The whole Friends album is quiet and peaceful, a real chill trip, likewise the act of TM is meant to be quiet and peaceful, yet that song just jolts you from that peace, and its core message is about peace yet it sounds like a trainwreck (decibel wise, that is). Instead of being annoyed I kinda chuckle when Friends comes to close with that song...it has its own little charm. Funny thing though, a couple years ago I would’ve equated ‘Revolution #9’ with ‘Transcendental Meditation’ in terms of how both songs kinda jolted and irritated me from the vibe of both albums. But after years of hating it, now I really dig ‘TM’, though I don’t think anything will help me appreciate ‘Revolution #9’. TM is an actual song while R9 is pretentious garbage. When I first got into the Friends album, I didn't care for TM as it didn't seem to fit on the album, but taken on its own, I think it's a pretty good song. Yeah, I guess I should’ve classified R9 as a track instead of a song. I used to hate hearing TM end the album, but its kinda funny in a way how backwards the whole song is to itself and the album. The whole Friends album is quiet and peaceful, a real chill trip, likewise the act of TM is meant to be quiet and peaceful, yet that song just jolts you from that peace, and its core message is about peace yet it sounds like a trainwreck (decibel wise, that is). Instead of being annoyed I kinda chuckle when Friends comes to close with that song...it has its own little charm. I was going to say the exact same thing! I've actually taken to listening to Friends lately when I'm feeling stressed. I put it on late at night, in the dark, and it calms me to sleep...until TM wakes me up like a night terror! Funny thing though, a couple years ago I would’ve equated ‘Revolution #9’ with ‘Transcendental Meditation’ in terms of how both songs kinda jolted and irritated me from the vibe of both albums. But after years of hating it, now I really dig ‘TM’, though I don’t think anything will help me appreciate ‘Revolution #9’. TM is an actual song while R9 is pretentious garbage. When I first got into the Friends album, I didn't care for TM as it didn't seem to fit on the album, but taken on its own, I think it's a pretty good song. Yeah, I guess I should’ve classified R9 as a track instead of a song. I used to hate hearing TM end the album, but its kinda funny in a way how backwards the whole song is to itself and the album. The whole Friends album is quiet and peaceful, a real chill trip, likewise the act of TM is meant to be quiet and peaceful, yet that song just jolts you from that peace, and its core message is about peace yet it sounds like a trainwreck (decibel wise, that is). Instead of being annoyed I kinda chuckle when Friends comes to close with that song...it has its own little charm. I've come to view the TM closer for the Friends album kinda the way Led Zeppelin ends their epic song Stairway to Heaven. Logged Any opinions posted by me regarding the music of The Beach Boys, and their members, is in no way a show of disrespect towards any member of The Beach Boys, past or present. What makes it hard to decide is that I've never had love for the White Album, thinking that the Boys were trying to pull a fast one on their fans. It didn't have to be a double album, there's a lot of junk that could have been tossed out.I have intense dislike for a number of songs - Happiness is a Warm Gun, Helter Skelter (explained in an earlier post why, nothing to do with Manson), Sexy Sadie, Rocky Raccoon... And yes, Revolution 9 (though I do like them saying "block that kick, block that kick" at the end lol). So I need to decide how much better the remainder of the ones I consider worthwhile stack up against the BBs. Will get back. Logged "No White Flags." - Team Gleason "(Brian) got into this really touching music with songs like 'In My Room', and 'Good Vibrations' was amazing. The melodies are so beautiful, almost perfect. I began to realize he was one of the most gifted writers of our generation." - Paul Simon What makes it hard to decide is that I've never had love for the White Album, thinking that the Boys were trying to pull a fast one on their fans. It didn't have to be a double album, there's a lot of junk that could have been tossed out.I have intense dislike for a number of songs - Happiness is a Warm Gun, Helter Skelter (explained in an earlier post why, nothing to do with Manson), Sexy Sadie, Rocky Raccoon... And yes, Revolution 9 (though I do like them saying "block that kick, block that kick" at the end lol). So I need to decide how much better the remainder of the ones I consider worthwhile stack up against the BBs. Will get back. I agree that The White Album is bloated. As a result, it's probably the Beatles album I listen to the least (other than Yellow Submarine). But, I think it might have a side of filler out of four, so that's three sides of very good to amazing music. Logged Any opinions posted by me regarding the music of The Beach Boys, and their members, is in no way a show of disrespect towards any member of The Beach Boys, past or present. Personal opinion, but I strongly disagree! Part of it stems from the fact that Friends (along with WH and 20/20) is my favorite BB album (WH may surpass it now with the stereo mix), part of it stems from the fact that I just don't "get" Revolution 9. Personal opinion, but I strongly disagree! Part of it stems from the fact that Friends (along with WH and 20/20) is my favorite BB album (WH may surpass it now with the stereo mix), part of it stems from the fact that I just don't "get" Revolution 9. I think Friends is fairly underrated. Though I know some would call it overrated haha. Billy, do you think a stereo remix of Friends would edge it past Wild Honey in your ranking?	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
1. Field of the Invention Exemplary embodiments of the invention relate to a display panel and a display apparatus having the display panel. More particularly, exemplary embodiments of the invention relate to a display panel which improves an appearance quality and a display apparatus having the display panel. 2. Description of the Related Art Generally, a liquid crystal display (“LCD”) apparatus includes an LCD panel and a driving device driving the LCD panel. The LCD panel includes a plurality of data lines, and a plurality of gate lines crossing the data lines. Thus, a plurality of pixels of the LCD panel may be defined by the data lines and the gate lines. The driving device includes a gate driving circuit outputting a gate signal to a gate line and a data driving circuit outputting a data signal to a data line. In order to decrease a total size of the LCD apparatus and a manufacturing cost, a pixel structure capable of decreasing the number of data lines and the number of data driving circuits has been used. Two pixels adjacent to each other share one data line in the pixel structure. Thus, a plurality of pixels included in two pixel columns shares one data line so that the number of data lines is decreased. However, a plurality of pixels included in one pixel row is electrically connected to two gate lines adjacent to each other, and two gate signals different from each other are applied to two gate lines. Two gate lines are necessary to drive the pixel row, so that two circuit stages generating two gate signals is formed in a peripheral area of the LCD panel corresponding to the pixel row in a display area of the LCD panel. Thus, a width of the peripheral area is increased so that a bezel width is increased. In addition, in a high resolution LCD panel, a delay difference of a gate signal occurs by a resistance of a gate line so that pixels at left and right sides of the LCD panel have a charge difference by the delay difference. In result, a defect such as a vertical line occurs.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	USPTO Backgrounds
Now in his second year leading the University of Cincinnati, Ono sometimes seems as if he’s everywhere — tossing out T-shirts at football games, surprising freshmen by helping them move into their dorms, setting up chairs for an evening student gathering. Interacting on social media around the clock furthers the perception. In recent days, he used Twitter to provide updates on everything from how UC did on an annual national ranking of U.S. colleges to the score of the Bearcat rugby team’s victory. He replied to a student on places to find the Cleveland Browns’ game on TV and to an anxious father on how his daughter could request a security escort late at night. He weighs in on food, music, sports and pop culture in general — everything from Rihanna to Pokemon. “Students love it,” said Joe Blizzard, 22, the student body president. “We’re in a day and age now when anything and everything can be on social media. “He’s really willing to interact with anyone.” As a vice provost at Emory University in Atlanta, Ga., Ono realized students were more likely to respond to a text message than voicemail. He started using Facebook and then, after joining UC as provost, he set up a Twitter account. After his predecessor resigned for personal reasons just before the 2012-13 school year began, Ono was named president of the school of nearly 44,000 students. He goes by “PrezOno” on Twitter and uses the tag “hottestcollegeinamerica.” It’s a claim that’s still more cheerleading than reality but was boosted this month when U.S. News & World Report listed UC tied for third among “up and comers,” while ranked 135th overall. “It’s a very rapid, efficient way to communicate with a lot of people simultaneously: students, parents, alumni who are all over the globe,” Ono said of the 140-character Twitter messages. He has nearly 22,000 followers of his tweets, which come between meetings, while waiting at airports, after he and his wife have put their two daughters to bed at night, or soon after he arises at 4:30 a.m. “He’s smart to take advantage of the opportunity to see the university from students’ eyes; over the long haul, it will build his personal connections,” said Molly Corbett Broad, president of the Washington-based American Council on Education. She said higher education officials are increasingly using social media, but noted that Ono, 50, is younger than the typical college president, “from a newer generation” comfortable with digital communication. Ono said his tweeting and high-visibility appearances at football games aside, he spends most of his long hours on priorities such as continuing to build the school’s record enrollment, nurturing newly expanded ties with China, coping with budget issues and working to attract money for academic and capital projects. Ono declined to move into the presidential home, which has been put up for sale, and refused a bonus and raise to his base annual salary of $525,000. He drives himself whenever he can in his red Audi he calls “the Catmobile,” saying he wants to set an example in the effort to control higher-education costs. Among Ono’s other attention-getting moves have been shaving his head for charity after the basketball team won 10 straight games and dressing up on campus as Santa Claus. But his ebullience dissolved during his formal investiture as president, tearing up as his Japanese immigrant parents watched. Cincinnati’s first Asian-American president has spoken to several Asian groups locally and nationally. “It makes you think twice about everything you do, because people are looking at you as a role model,” he said. He’s also aware that, “as a president of a state university, you are always sort of under a microscope,” underscored this year when Ohio State University President E. Gordon Gee retired after criticism for remarks jabbing Catholics and rival colleges. So, Ono said: “Before I push send, I try to wait a little bit and then look at it again.”	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
New Batch Of Rocking Dog Recycled Gift Labels Yesterday I made a batch of recycled gift labels. My magazines were piling up and in need of a cull (World Of Interiors and Country Living make good gift tag fodder). I was in need of an easy craft task after a night where sleep didn’t come easily. However, at 4.45 am the dawn chorus was truly glorious, as was the dawn with the promise of burgeoning verdant spring greenness. Back to the task in hand. Images were chosen and cut with a paper trimmer (which gives perfect straight edges). These were mounted onto recycled brown luggage labels using Pritt (don’t accept impostors!) Many were then given a stamping treatment before being given strings which complemented the style and colour of the images. As I am going to be selling these, I grouped tags of the same genre in quantities of five. These tags would look pretty on a present wrapped in vibrant crisp tissue paper, or tied onto a bottle of bubbly. Equally one of these labels could be attached to a plant or hand tied bunch of flowers. The idea could be adapted to make lovely, yet inexpensive place names for a party or wedding. The tags could be deliciously tied around a napkin or to a chair, indeed a gilded pear, apple or frosted fir cone. Go Wild!	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Drug money: now officially part of Britain's economy. AP British households are spending about $20 billion per year on drugs and prostitutes, according to figures from the Office for National Statistics (ONS) released on Tuesday. British statisticians have estimated sales of illegal drugs and sexual services before, but this is the first time it has been officially added to figures on Britain's economic spending. Household spending, or what the ONS calls total household final consumption expenditure (HHFCE) was £12.33 billion ($20 billion) higher in 2012 because of “illegal activities,” primarily “narcotic drugs and prostitution,” the new report found. The UK is not the only country adding illegal spending to its estimates. Italy's national accounts will also be changed to reflect drugs and prostitution expenditure. But they will have to spend big to beat the UK: between 1997 and 2013, illegal activities have been added about 1.4% to overall British household spending. In the second quarter, spending on drugs added £1.67bn, according to the ONS. That’s slightly more than the UK spent on wine and cider, which came in at £1.54bn for the same three-month period. Prostitution was smaller in the same quarter, with spending at about £1.42 billion. That’s closing in on hairdressing, salons, and personal grooming establishments: The US does not add spending on illegal activities to their economic figures, but it is not off the cards, according to the New York Times. The Bureau of Economic Analysis says that it needs to "look at the issue more closely."	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
Catocala fredi Catocala fredi is a moth in the family Erebidae first described by Hans Bytinsky-Salz and Wilhelm Brandt in 1937. It is found in Iran. References Category:Catocala Category:Moths described in 1937 Category:Moths of Asia	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Wikipedia (en)
Pulitzer Prize for Poetry The Pulitzer Prize for Poetry is one of the seven American Pulitzer Prizes that are annually awarded for Letters, Drama, and Music. It has been presented since 1922 for a distinguished volume of original verse by an American author, published during the preceding calendar year. Finalists have been announced since 1980, ordinarily two others beside the winner. 1918 and 1919 special prizes Prior to the establishment of the award, the 1918 and 1919 Pulitzer cycles included three Special Citations (designated contemporaneously as the Columbia University Poetry Prize) for poetry books funded by "a special grant from The Poetry Society." See Special Pulitzers for Letters. 1918: Love Songs by Sara Teasdale 1919: Cornhuskers by Carl Sandburg 1919: The Old Road to Paradise by Margaret Widdemer Winners In its first 92 years to 2013, the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry was awarded 92 times. Two were given in 2008, none in 1946. Robert Frost won the prize four times and several others won it more than once (below). 1920s 1922: Collected Poems by Edwin Arlington Robinson 1923: "The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver", A Few Figs from Thistles, and "Eight Sonnets", by Edna St. Vincent Millay 1924: New Hampshire: A Poem with Notes and Grace Notes by Robert Frost 1925: The Man Who Died Twice by Edwin Arlington Robinson 1926: What's O'Clock by Amy Lowell 1927: Fiddler's Farewell by Leonora Speyer 1928: Tristram by Edwin Arlington Robinson 1929: John Brown's Body by Stephen Vincent Benét 1930s 1930: Selected Poems by Conrad Aiken 1931: Collected Poems by Robert Frost 1932: The Flowering Stone by George Dillon 1933: Conquistador by Archibald MacLeish 1934: Collected Verse by Robert Hillyer 1935: Bright Ambush by Audrey Wurdemann 1936: Strange Holiness by Robert P. T. Coffin 1937: A Further Range by Robert Frost 1938: Cold Morning Sky by Marya Zaturenska 1939: Selected Poems by John Gould Fletcher 1940s 1940: Collected Poems by Mark Van Doren 1941: Sunderland Capture by Leonard Bacon 1942: The Dust Which Is God by William Rose Benét 1943: A Witness Tree by Robert Frost 1944: Western Star by Stephen Vincent Benét 1945: V-Letter and Other Poems by Karl Shapiro 1946: no award given 1947: Lord Weary's Castle by Robert Lowell 1948: The Age of Anxiety by W. H. Auden 1949: Terror and Decorum by Peter Viereck 1950s 1950: Annie Allen by Gwendolyn Brooks 1951: Complete Poems by Carl Sandburg 1952: Collected Poems by Marianne Moore 1953: Collected Poems 1917–1952 by Archibald MacLeish 1954: The Waking by Theodore Roethke 1955: Collected Poems by Wallace Stevens 1956: Poems: North & South - A Cold Spring by Elizabeth Bishop 1957: Things of This World by Richard Wilbur 1958: Promises: Poems 1954-1956 by Robert Penn Warren 1959: Selected Poems 1928-1958 by Stanley Kunitz 1960s 1960: Heart's Needle by W. D. Snodgrass 1961: Times Three: Selected Verse From Three Decades by Phyllis McGinley 1962: Poems by Alan Dugan 1963: Pictures from Brueghel by William Carlos Williams 1964: At The End Of The Open Road by Louis Simpson 1965: 77 Dream Songs by John Berryman 1966: Selected Poems by Richard Eberhart 1967: Live or Die by Anne Sexton 1968: The Hard Hours by Anthony Hecht 1969: Of Being Numerous by George Oppen 1970s 1970: Untitled Subjects by Richard Howard 1971: The Carrier of Ladders by W. S. Merwin 1972: Collected Poems by James Wright 1973: Up Country by Maxine Kumin 1974: The Dolphin by Robert Lowell 1975: Turtle Island by Gary Snyder 1976: Self-portrait in a Convex Mirror by John Ashbery 1977: Divine Comedies by James Merrill 1978: Collected Poems by Howard Nemerov 1979: Now and Then by Robert Penn Warren 1980s Indented entries are finalists after each year's winner. 1980: Selected Poems by Donald Justice Goshawk, Antelope by Dave Smith Selected Poems by Richard Hugo 1981: The Morning of the Poem by James Schuyler Selected Poems by Mark Strand The Right Madness on Skye by Richard Hugo 1982: The Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath Dream Flights by Dave Smith The Southern Cross by Charles Wright 1983: Selected Poems by Galway Kinnell Country Music, Selected Early Poems by Charles Wright Monolithos, Poems 1962 and 1982 by Jack Gilbert 1984: American Primitive by Mary Oliver Collected Poems, 1930-1982 by Josephine Miles Weather-Fear: New and Selected Poems by John Engels 1985: Yin by Carolyn Kizer Ground Work by Robert Duncan The Other Side of the River by Charles Wright 1986: The Flying Change by Henry S. Taylor Saints and Strangers by Andrew Hudgins Selected Poems, 1963-1983 by Charles Simic 1987: Thomas and Beulah by Rita Dove The Selected Poetry of Hayden Carruth by Hayden Carruth Unending Blues by Charles Simic 1988: Partial Accounts: New and Selected Poems by William Meredith Flesh and Blood by C.K. Williams Good Woman: Poems and a Memoir 1969-1980 and Next: New Poems by Lucille Clifton 1989: New and Collected Poems by Richard Wilbur The One Day by Donald Hall The River of Heaven by Garrett Hongo 1990s Indented entries are finalists after each year's winner. 1990: The World Doesn't End by Charles Simic Selected and Last Poems by Paul Zweig Time's Power by Adrienne Rich 1991: Near Changes by Mona Van Duyn Leaving Another Kingdom by Gerald Stern The Transparent Man by Anthony Hecht 1992: Selected Poems by James Tate An Atlas of the Difficult World by Adrienne Rich Selected Poems by Robert Creeley 1993: The Wild Iris by Louise Glück Hotel Lautreamont by John Ashbery Selected Poems 1946-1985 by James Merrill 1994: Neon Vernacular: New and Selected Poems by Yusef Komunyakaa Bright Existence by Brenda Hillman The Metamorphoses of Ovid by Allen Mandelbaum 1995: The Simple Truth by Philip Levine Cosmopolitan Greetings: Poems 1986-1992 by Allen Ginsberg On The Great Atlantic Rainway: Selected Poems 1950-1988 and One Train by Kenneth Koch 1996: The Dream of the Unified Field by Jorie Graham Chickamauga by Charles Wright New and Selected Poems by Donald Justice 1997: Alive Together: New and Selected Poems by Lisel Mueller The Figured Wheel by Robert Pinsky The Willow Grove by Laurie Sheck 1998: Black Zodiac by Charles Wright Desire by Frank Bidart The Vigil by C.K. Williams 1999: Blizzard of One by Mark Strand Going Fast by Frederick Seidel Mysteries of Small Houses by Alice Notley 2000s Indented entries are finalists after each year's winner. Two prizes were awarded in 2008. 2000: Repair by C. K. Williams Elegy for the Southern Drawl by Rodney Jones Midnight Salvage: Poems 1995-1998 by Adrienne Rich 2001: Different Hours by Stephen Dunn Pursuit of a Wound by Sydney Lea The Other Lover by Bruce Smith 2002: Practical Gods by Carl Dennis The Beforelife by Franz Wright The Seven Ages by Louise Glück 2003: Moy Sand and Gravel by Paul Muldoon Hazmat by J. D. McClatchy Music Like Dirt by Frank Bidart 2004: Walking to Martha's Vineyard by Franz Wright Eyeshot by Heather McHugh Middle Earth by Henri Cole 2005: Delights & Shadows by Ted Kooser Search Party: Collected Poems by William Matthews The Orchard by Brigit Pegeen Kelly 2006: Late Wife by Claudia Emerson American Sublime by Elizabeth Alexander Elegy on Toy Piano by Dean Young 2007: Native Guard by Natasha Trethewey Interrogation Palace: New & Selected Poems 1982-2004 by David Wojahn The Republic of Poetry by Martín Espada 2008: Time and Materials by Robert Hass and Failure by Philip Schultz Messenger: New and Selected Poems, 1976-2006 by Ellen Bryant Voigt 2009: The Shadow of Sirius by W. S. Merwin Watching the Spring Festival by Frank Bidart What Love Comes To: New & Selected Poems by Ruth Stone 2010s Indented entries are finalists after each year's winner. 2010: Versed by Rae Armantrout Inseminating the Elephant by Lucia Perillo Tryst by Angie Estes 2011: The Best of It: New and Selected Poems by Kay Ryan Break the Glass by Jean Valentine The Common Man by Maurice Manning 2012: Life on Mars by Tracy K. Smith Core Samples from the World by Forrest Gander How Long by Ron Padgett 2013: Stag's Leap by Sharon Olds Collected Poems by Jack Gilbert The Abundance of Nothing by Bruce Weigl 2014: 3 Sections by Vijay Seshadri The Big Smoke by Adrian Matejka The Sleep of Reason by Morri Creech 2015: Digest by Gregory Pardlo Compass Rose by Arthur Sze Reel to Reel by Alan Shapiro 2016: Ozone Journal by Peter Balakian Alive: New and Selected Poems by Elizabeth Willis Four-Legged Girl by Diane Seuss 2017: Olio by Tyehimba Jess Collected Poems: 1950-2012 by Adrienne Rich XX by Campbell McGrath 2018: Half-Light: Collected Poems 1965-2016 by Frank Bidart Incendiary Art, by Patricia Smith semiautomatic, by Evie Shockley 2019: Be With by Forrest Gander feeld by Jos Charles Like by A.E. Stallings Repeat winners Robert Frost won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry four times from 1924 to 1943. Edwin Arlington Robinson won three prizes during the 1920s and several people have won two. Edwin Arlington Robinson, 1922, 1925, 1928 Robert Frost, 1924, 1931, 1937, 1943 Stephen Vincent Benét, 1929, 1944 Archibald MacLeish, 1933, 1953 Robert Lowell, 1947, 1974 Richard Wilbur, 1957, 1989 Robert Penn Warren, 1958, 1979 William S. Merwin, 1971, 2009 Carl Sandburg won one of the special prizes for his poetry in 1919 and won the Poetry Pulitzer in 1951. See also American poetry List of poetry awards References External links Poetry Category:American poetry awards Category:Awards established in 1922	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Wikipedia (en)
While there is a large focus on physical health in our culture, it’s common for people to ignore signs that they’re struggling with a digressing and unhealthy mental state. Thankfully, there are many treatments and prevention centers to help those in need recognize they have an illness and get help. Regular meetings with a healthcare provider, and therapies like the best ketamine treatment available can greatly help you push through your mental illness. However, you might be skeptical whether you’re struggling with a mental health issue or not. Not all symptoms are obvious – sometimes, we need brace ourselves for a deep look within. Here are four red flags that you should be on the lookout for. Awareness of these red flags will reveal whether you might be struggling with a serious illness or not, and help you decide whether a meeting with a specialist is worth it. 1. Withdrawal from Friends & Activities If you have noticed that lately you would rather stay in bed by yourself than hang out with your friends or do other activities that you used to enjoy, you may want to think about going to see a professional in the healthcare field. While there is probably no need to worry if you skip out on one night out in the interest of self-care or to get a good night’s sleep for work, make sure that you do not completely distance yourself from the things and the people that you love. 2. Major Changes in Diet Changes in diet are also one of the most visible factors of deteriorating mental health. This could mean eating either much more than usual or eating much less. Regardless, both are equally harmful to the body and should be taken seriously. If you, or more likely your family and friends, have noticed major changes in the way that you eat—especially when coupled with any of the other signs of depression or other mental health disorders—you should seek assistance. 3. Alcohol or Drug Abuse A lot of those who are suffering with a mental illness cope only with the assistance of substance abuse. Alcohol and many popular drugs are depressants, so it is only common sense to think that they can be used to numb any hyperactive minds or lowerany depressive tendencies. Look out for unhealthy coping mechanisms like binge drinking or constant drug use – be honest with yourself. It will help you figure out if you should see a mental health professional. 4. Sleeping Pattern Changes Much like the dietary changes, you should also look out for changes in your sleeping patterns. Whether you are sleeping much more or much less than usual, this can be a tell-tale sign of depression and anxiety. What to Do Mental health conditions will rarely ever improve without help.So do not let any red flags that you have seen in yourself stand. If you have any concerns about your own health, make sure that you reach out to friends, family, and a mental health professional as soon as possible. Asking for help is one of the hardest parts of those suffering with mental illnesses, but it’s the first step towards a better life. If you or a loved one have shown one or more of these red flags, be sure to get yourself or your loved one the help that they need to overcome the illness. Mental illnesses are just as dangerous as physical illnesses like cancers and other diseases, so it is important to take the diagnosis and treatment of mental illnesses just as seriously. If you find yourself struggling with mental illness, seek out your medical health provider or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255) if you are in the United States.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Welcome! Monday, 22 August 2011 As the 2011 summer movie season draws to a smooth closure, Jon Favreau's Cowboys & Aliens has arrived with a bizarre fusion of cowboys and alien invaders (you knew that already? Oh, I wonder how...). Does it manage to blend these two premises in an ideal fashion? Well, the answer is yes. And no. In 1873 New Mexico, a man named Jake Lonergan (Daniel Craig) awakes in the desert with a strange metal band attached to his wrist and no memory of his past. He soon stumbles across the small town of Absolution; not only discovering that he is a wanted criminal, but also witnessing a large group of extra-terrestrial invaders kidnap innocent locals. With the only weapon capable of fighting back, Jake must now lead a team alongside Colonel Woodrow Dolarhyde (Harrison Ford) to rescue the locals, defeat the enemy and, most importantly, find out where exactly he came from. Seeing the Western aesthetics juxtaposed alongside soaring CGI space ships isn't as crude as it may initially sound; it's something that may not seem ideal to some, but the visual side of this film is actually very impressive. A good selection of shooting locations help to set and maintain the Western vibe the movie exudes, a factor also complimented by some nicely crafted sets. It's all wonderfully shot, too; the camerawork often seems to draw attention to the expansive environments the characters often navigate through, which again compliments the Western spirit of the film. The CGI effects used when the extra-terrestrial villains enter the fray are also nicely done, but it's ultimately pretty generic and not as impressive as the aforementioned Western scenics. As we begin in the same situation as our main character, with no knowledge of his past, the story feels a lot more interesting. And it does unfold pretty nicely; well, for part of the film. It gradually explains numerous unanswered questions, and what it does explain is exactly the problem. I won't spoil, but let's just say there's a lot of really daft plot elements in here that not only feel incredibly tacky but also extremely cliché; for instance, the true motivations of our alien villains or the actual identities of some the characters. Speaking of the aliens, they're main problem is a complete scarcity of intimidation or mystery. There's simply no interesting substance to them because they're just generic creatures who never emit any sort of fear; not only this, but their dramatic entrances which spawn some of the set pieces (which, in fairness, are pretty awesome) are rather sporadic. When it comes to the characters, they are quite likeable, especially Lonergan and the Colonel, and they share a solid chemistry together. Well, as long as you ignore the incredibly bland romance that Lonergan and Ella Swenson (Olivia Wilde) share. A strong cast featuring Daniel Craig, Harrison Ford, Olivia Wilde and Sam Rockwell helps give Cowboys & Aliens a little more momentum with it's characters and, to a small degree, it's story. The performances are universally excellent, with Craig bringing a gritty yet somewhat comedic charisma to Jake Lonergan (not to mention providing a solid Western accent) and Ford establishing the Colonel as a warrior with a heart. The only real downside is the flat nature of some of the well acted characters; some of them are killed off quickly before trying to be established as an importance, but a few who remain are exceedingly uninteresting (Olivia Wilde comes to mind, despite her being really hot), yet sometimes the movie wants to take them seriously and try to act as if the audience genuinely cares for them. I didn't expect a masterpiece when I saw this movie, and what I eventually watched was certainly not that. However, if you can bury through the flaws that Cowboys & Aliens suffers from, you'll uncover a reasonably solid and entertaining summer movie. Excellent visuals and performances help to redeem it from some of it's faults, but ultimately only those who were interested from the start should give it a watch. Saturday, 20 August 2011 The Inbetweeners is easily one of my favourite television comedies, capturing the awkward vibe of teenage life and blending it superbly with a hilarious wit. So although I'm inevitably saddened by the third series drawing the show to a closure, the big screen adaptation is here to give our hysterical quartet a satisfying write off, and believe me, you fans certainly won't feel short changed. Having left sixth form, the lads Jay (James Buckley), Simon (Joe Thomas), Neil (Blake Harrison) and Will (Simon Bird) depart for a two week clunge-tastic holiday in Malia, Crete. But things don't go according to plan as the chances of them getting laid by four generous girls they repeatedly encounter begin to deteriorate, causing them to turn on each other unsurprisingly and stir up pure madness in the process. The Inbetweeners Movie truly is a delight for those who adore the television series; yes, in some parts the gags are of extremely bad taste, and it doesn't possess the same level of wit as it's small screen counterpart, but there's going to be a plethora of moments where fans will feel right at home. The characters are their usual, socially inept selves, causing pure teenage mayhem wherever they set foot and managing to turn a basic conversation into a dramatic and equally comedic nightmare. Though the age certificate may suggest otherwise, it's a tad more crude than the show in some respects (you will see for yourself), and it never feels watered down to simply attract a wider audience. In terms of story, there isn't much depth to this movie. It's essentially just a series of funny events that set up the next. The backbone of the story is certainly here to keep the events sewn together nicely, but it's ultimately the characters and their idiocy that's being focused on, which works just fine. There's a few pacing problems here and there, and some forced emotional scenes (though in all honesty I doubt any of them were intended to be taken seriously) but these don't detract from the solid sense of humour the movie possesses. Though truly a satisfying conclusion for these great, eccentric characters, there's a distinct (albeit not unexpected) lack of emotion to the script, so if you were expecting stuff like that, it's not here I'm afraid. The acting is where the jokes are truly brought to life in a flawless manner; our main quartet steal the show easily with their awkward, snide and downright silly performances, triggering most of the laughs throughout these 95 minutes. The other series favourites like gargantuan dickhead Mister Gilbert and Jay's insane father make small yet hilarious appearances, and the four girls who debut (Laura Haddock, Tamla Kari, Jessica Knappett, Lydia Rose Bewley), while certainly not the source of all the laughs, are a pleasure to watch all the same. A hilarious if imperfect experience from start to finish, The Inbetweeners Movie succeeds in creating a big screen adventure that almost matches the brilliance of the television series (yes, almost) and will certainly please all long time fans, including you 12 year olds who will undoubtedly sneak into the cinema. Those uninterested certainly won't be won over, but this is utterly essential for those who adore the previous misadventures of the four beloved lads. Tuesday, 16 August 2011 A decade has passed since Tim Burton's critically panned remake of the 1968 hit Planet of the Apes, and now this classic series is being steered into a new direction with this 2011 reboot that starts afresh; establishing a brand new origin story for a future series and divulging the events that triggered the ape's reign over our world. Far from a lazy cash in, Rise of the Planet of the Apes succeeds in breathing new life into this somewhat familiar tale, and will surely leave audiences hungry for more. The story focuses on Caesar (Andy Serkis), a chimpanzee whose intelligence is radically boosted when his owner Will Rodman (James Franco) tests a potential cure for Alzheimer's on him. Disdained by society and soon imprisoned amongst other apes, Caesar bestows the same intellect boosting virus on his fellow captives, leading to an all out war between apes and humans which will ultimately decide the fate of mankind. Unlike past iterations, the apes present in this film are all products of computer technology; advanced CGI motion capturing was utilized to model and animate them, which is done in a very lifelike fashion. The mannerisms, movements and facial expressions are all exceedingly realistic, managing to capture the typical behaviours of a chimpanzee yet also conveying a powerful level of humanely emotion to the audience. There are times where the apes look rather synthetic, but it doesn't detract from the experience and for the most part the effects are astounding. Initially, the story's pacing seems a bit too quick, rushing into the birth of Caesar and his human like cognition without focusing a great deal on the characters. It's not a major issue, however, and it ends shortly upon Caesar's entrance when the emotional complexity is surprisingly well thought out. Caesar is a character explored strictly through mannerisms and facial expressions which, thanks to a fantastic performance by Andy Serkis, works magnificently in communicating a great deal of passion to the audience. The focus here is certainly not apes overthrowing mankind; it's the motivations behind it, which is something evident by the action sequences only being present in the final act, so that viewers can expect a satisfying story and not an endless barrage of noisy violence. James Franco stars as Will Rodman, the scientist behind Caesar's radical intelligence. The character isn't explored a great deal when compared to Caesar himself, but Franco's performance is still solid, which is more than I can say for co-star Tom Malfoy...I mean Felton. Not only is his character a complete stereotype with no sense behind his actions, but the performance was relatively weak, lacking any real interest and making the character stick out like a sore thumb alongside the rest of the performances (do I really need to bring up Caesar again?). Though not without it's problems, the first of which being an annoying title, Rise of the Planet of the Apes is still brilliant summer entertainment. The story is well told and very temperamental, the effects are truly stunning and Caesar is just downright awesome. If the level of quality demonstrated throughout this film carries over into the inevitable sequels, then Rise of the Planet of the Apes is set to pioneer something truly great. Thursday, 11 August 2011 Lens flares. Annoying scattered rays of light that dare to interfere with the lenses of innocent little cameras, often rendering what is recorded undetectable. But in the far reaches of the galaxy, there exists a man; a man unlike any other. A man who has mastered the art of lens flare-ography, in order to incorporate the most exaggerated and colourful lens flares into his motion pictures. He goes by the name J.J Abrams. And now I will review Super 8, which also has lens flares, courtesy of our aforementioned mastermind. The story, set in 1979, revolves around a group of children who witness a devastating train crash when filming their own zombie movie. What follows is a series of inexplicable disappearances, attacks and sightings as the children come to realize that the train crash was no accident; and that it has released a menacing presence into their town. Visually, Super 8 is a very dark film. A large portion of it is set during the nighttime (WITH MANY LENS FLARES), sometimes giving the viewer limited visibility which helps to draw you into the experience, upping the mystery factor so that you end up feeling just as nervous as the characters themselves. It's actually very effective; the alien is rarely shown fully (don't worry, it's not down to stupidly rickety camera movements) so the level of suspense reaches a powerful peak in some scenes, and it provides a sinister atmosphere which compliments the story and themes nicely. A fantastic musical score (composed by Michael Giacchino) also gives life to the film's scenes, escalating the chaos during some of the set pieces, yet also helping to move the temperamental moments at an ideal pace. It's not all great, though; at some points I grew tired of them trying to conceal the appearance of the alien, and felt as if the movie was just trying to annoy me. The story unfolds nicely as everything progresses. We're left in the dark initially in regards to several character motives and other plot elements, but these are all tied up as we follow the main characters' attempt to figure out the reasoning behind the strange occurrences in their town. It sort of plays out like a mystery tale which the characters must solve, and this is effective in keeping you hooked throughout the course of the story. But after all this tension, build up and eventual explanation, I was really letdown by the ending, which felt extremely anti-climactic. The alien is revealed, but downplayed significantly, misplacing all the tension and intimidation surrounding it; everything just culminates so quickly and in a very unsatisfying manner. Although I was very skeptical at the prospect of such young actors starring in this movie, I must confess they all did an excellent job. The characters each have their own distinctive personalities (though at times it felt like these were just pulled out of a stereotype hat), their own quirky lines and are all in all very likeable. The only major grudge I had were the moments where every character seemed to be yelling incomprehensible blabber at one another comedically; it's funny at first, but the movie abuses it a bit too much (LIKE LENS FLARES), so it eventually develops into something rather irritating. The alien in the film seems to take a back seat at times in exchange for some character development; this works fine for the most part, as we'll obviously want to learn more about these characters (and we do), but it sort of downplays the whole alien idea; so much so that I sometimes forgot about it. The style of this film reflects that of many of Spielberg's renowned summer blockbusters, so if you're a fan of those, then Super 8 is worth a watch. A powerful sense of the unknown lies throughout the story, keeping you gripped in regards to how various things will culminate or be revealed. It has it's fair share of stupidity, and a weak ending as previously mentioned, but if you're interested (AND LIKE LENS FLARES) then I have no problem with recommending it. Sunday, 7 August 2011 The final installment to the Marvel Cinematic Universe before 2012's The Avengers has finally hit cinemas in the form of Captain America: The First Avenger. We've seen the likes of Iron Man, Hulk and Thor on the big screen since it all started in 2008, but now it's time to take a trip to the past and see how the world's first Avenger came to be. Set in 1942 during the Second World War, the film tells the story of Steve Rogers (Chris Evans), an aspiring soldier deemed physically unfit to enlist in the US Army. However, after being chosen as a participant for Project Rebirth, he is transformed into Captain America; an advanced super soldier who must guide the United States to victory. He eventually finds himself leading an army to take down the notorious Red Skull (Hugo Weaving), the leader of the HYDRA terrorist organization, who has unleashed a god-like threat in order to achieve world domination. Visually, Captain America succeeds in capturing the essence of the 1940s through some excellently crafted sets, props, costumes and an ideal choice of shooting locations. This is what forms the World War II vibe one would expect; but then, in the spirit of a good ol' fashioned comic book film, we have the abundance of fictional, high tech weaponry and the dynamic CGI set pieces as well as some awesome fight scenes, which genuinely do look cool in 3D. Captain America's suit has also been given a solid revamp; a polished blend of the iconic colour scheme and a bulky army uniform, ensuring that we can still recognize the hero without bursting into hysterics at a ludicrously tight outfit. Not only is our titular hero a real pleasure to watch when beating down mindless henchmen, but he's a solid character in terms of depth and emotion as well. He's always likeable; and never made out to be a brutal, cheesy superhero with no purpose but to save mankind. Underneath all his muscle is a heart, and it's really easy to relate to him during some of the hurdles he encounters throughout the film. Our villain, Red Skull, is a bit flat and generic, but remains a solid antagonist; his evil insanity clearly illustrated with every scene. There's a fair few characters you won't honestly care for, though; namely Peggy Carter (Hayley Atwell) who serves as the Captain's love interest. The romance is bland, forced and rather sappy, which in fairness is the case with a lot of comic book movies, but it doesn't stop the character being anymore wooden. Chris Evans fits the role of the Captain exceedingly well, never showing him to be a brute or an arrogant patriot. We get the feeling that his superhuman strength is merely physical; he's still a human deep down, and can suffer just like one, which is all endorsed by Evans' great performance. Hugo Weaving is also a great choice for his character; the German accent he has going on is solid, and although the character is (as previously said) a bit generic, Weaving still manages to exemplify what makes an intimidating villain. Though the supporting characters aren't the most interesting, they're all performed nicely, even Hayley Atwell as Peggy Carter, and especially Tommy Lee Jones as Colonel Chester Phillips. If you're a fan of superhero movies, or have enjoyed the previous films in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, then Captain America: The First Avenger is an essential watch. Pleasantly old school with an abundance of satisfying set pieces, fight scenes and a handful of great performances, it is sure to please all fans of the genre and will leave you with a ravenous appetite for The Avengers next year.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Effect of different nitrogen sources on plant characteristics and yield of common bean (Phaseolus vulgaris L.). Wastewater sludge can be used to fertilize crops, especially after vermicomposting (composting with earthworms to reduce pathogens). How wastewater sludge or vermicompost affects bean (Phaseolus vulgaris L.) growth is still largely unknown. In this study the effect of different forms of N fertilizer on common bean plant characteristics and yield were investigated in a Typic Fragiudepts (sandy loam) soil under greenhouse conditions. Beans were fertilized with wastewater sludge, or wastewater sludge vermicompost, or urea, or grown in unamended soil, while plant characteristics and yield were monitored (the unamended soil had no fertilization). Yields of common bean plants cultivated in unamended soil or soil amended with urea were lower than those cultivated in wastewater sludge-amended soil. Application of vermicompost further improved plant development and increased yield compared with beans cultivated in wastewater amended soil. It was found that application of organic waste products improved growth and yield of bean plants compared to those amended with inorganic fertilizer.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	PubMed Abstracts
Eastern Transbaikalian Front The Eastern Transbaikalian Front () was a Soviet partisan front from April 21, 1919 to October 7, 1920. Initially it consisted of three regiments which had fought against Grigory Semyonov's troops and the Japanese Expeditionary Corps. Its headquarters was in villages Bogdat and Zilovo. By September 1919 the front had already included 6 cavalry and 2 infantry regiments and 1 Chinese platoon, all in all, there were 3,000 soldiers. Its troops took part in the Battle of Bogdat. On May 22, 1920 the front joined the 2nd Rifle Division of the Amur Front. The front together with the Amur Front was responsible for retaking Chita in October 1920. Chief-Commanders Pavel Zhuravlev from April 21, 1919 to February 23, 1920 Yakov Korotayev from March 2, 1920 to March 21, 1920 Dmitry Shilov from March 21, 1920 to July 20, 1920 Vladimir Londo from July 20, 1920 to September 9, 1920 Vladimir Popov September 9, 1920 to October 7, 1920 See also Battle of Bogdat References Sources Шли дивизии вперед: НРА и освобождение Заб. (1920 — 1921): Сб. документов. — Иркутск, 1987. Category:History of Zabaykalsky Krai Category:Russian Civil War Category:Soviet fronts Category:1919 in Russia Category:1920 in Russia	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Wikipedia (en)
Tries to scam online Crossword Clue The clue for your today's The Washington Post crossword puzzle is given below: "Tries to scam online" But, let's check out if we are able to find any clues for the The Washington Post puzzle. With the options available, we will first collect all the information needed to get the right answer to our "Tries to scam online" clue for the crossword puzzle. Only after that we will make a list of the various possible answers for the puzzle from the given Tries to scam online clue. About Us We at CrosswordAnswers911 , dearly wish that you loved our website! We have tried our best to give you all the correct solutions to the puzzles in real time. Passing knowledge freely is something we believe in from the core of our hearts! Thank you for choosing us!	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
After the recent days of highly charged commentary about “appeasement,” we thought that as Iranian-Americans, we would convey to you the feelings of most people in Iran and the Iranian diaspora at large. It is important that a decision to dialogue with the Islamic Republic of Iran not be made in haste, for the purpose of winning the election. Instead, you now have a unique opportunity to make good on your message of change. On September 24, 2004, while a Democratic candidate for U.S. Senate from Illinois, you suggested that “surgical missile strikes” on Iran may become necessary. “Launching some missile strikes into Iran is not the optimal position for us to be in” given the ongoing war in Iraq, you told the Chicago Tribune. You continued: “On the other hand, having a radical Muslim theocracy in possession of nuclear weapons is worse”. Your change in approach is now stunning for many Iranians. It is not that we want our country to be bombed, but the point is, why did you so suddenly and without explanation go from that extreme to the extreme of “unconditional dialogue”? Senator, since 1979 the Mullahs of Iran have killed upwards of one million Iranians, not to mention the nearly one million sacrificed to the 8-year-long Iran/Iraq war. And what the Iranian people have withstood in terms of outrageous human rights violations is shocking; public hangings, stoning, flogging, cutting off limbs, tongues and plucking out eyeballs are an everyday occurrence across Iran. All are meant to strike fear of the ruling Mullahs into people’s hearts. Since you began talking about unconditionally dialoguing with the Islamic regime of Iran, you too have struck absolute fear in the hearts of the Iranian people, both inside and outside Iran. The few Iranian-Americans who support you are well-intentioned individuals who have been swept up in the excitement and fervor of your campaign. But we can wholeheartedly assure you that your comments have landslide opposition within the much greater Iranian heart both inside and outside Iran. Iranians believe that the only country who has the moral authority and is able to support them is the United States of America, a country whose foundation as a melting pot mirrors the true character of the once great Persian Empire. But the fact is, as John Bolton so aptly puts it: “Negotiation is a tactic, not policy.” Your policy of direct and unconditional negotiation will give the Mullahs of Iran the legitimacy that they need for more oppression. The real losers will be the already weary people of Iran, whose dreams of freedom and democracy will be dashed for a long time to come. If you empower that regime, the mullahs will continue to harm a country that is already totally economically devastated, as well as socially and politically oppressed. And rest assured that they will have no qualms about exporting the kind of rule they have established inside Iran to the rest of the world; that is an undeniable fact that they themselves have openly admitted. One can see the proof in Syria and Lebanon. On September 18, 2001, defying the regime’s warnings and pressure, brave Iranians were the only people in the Middle East to hold a candlelight vigil in solidarity with America. The thousands who marched peacefully down one of the main Boulevards of Tehran were brutally attacked by revolutionary guards and paramilitary forces. Many paid a high price for their bravery: they were arrested and hauled off to prison. Iranians have struggled since the 1850’s for modernity, sovereignty and progress for our nation; Iran had a constitutional revolution in 1906 to separate the government from religion. Iranians are a progressive people and our cultural identity is very different from any of the other nations in the region. Cyrus the Great wrote the first declaration of human rights in Iran more than 2500 years ago. The actual Cylinder upon which the declaration was carved is housed in the British Museum in London, and its replica is in the second floor lobby of the United Nations. Senator, Europeans, through Jack Straw of the U.K., Dominique de Villepin of France and Joschka Fischer of Germany, tried negotiations for five years with the so-called moderate reformist, Mullah President Khatami. That effort ended in disaster, with the European Union admitting its failure. President Reagan tried also. He sent a cake and a Qur’an to Khomeini, but Khomeini fed the cake to dogs and willfully ignored president Reagan’s proposal of friendship. President Clinton worked diligently on negotiations for eight years. Two secretaries of State, Warren Christopher and Madeleine Albright, both failed — during the regime of the same Mullah President, Khatami. In fact, it was Warren Christopher who called the regime of Iran evil after over three years of unsuccessful negotiations. Mrs. Albright even publicly apologized to the Mullahs of Iran for America’s sins. She eliminated trade sanctions on three items as a goodwill gesture and offered incentives on Iranian frozen assets, but at every point the Mullahs ungraciously found excuses not to hail the repeated gestures of good will, and refused to take one step forward. The most important fact to remember is that while the negotiations were going on between the Clinton Administration and the Mullahs of Iran, they were continuing the development of their hidden nuclear program. Do you really think you can trust these people? We appreciate the fact that you believe this administration has not done a good job in negotiations, but they have tried. They tried directly and indirectly, behind closed doors and in public. If the Mullahs of Iran wanted to negotiate, there was the April 2006 package approved by the European Allies and Russia and offered by the U.S. with good will and many incentives. Yet typically and inexplicably, Iran remained recalcitrant and rejected it. Now here is a proposal for you: America led the world in supporting the Eastern European Solidarity Movement, by which ultimately the Eastern bloc was able to free itself from communist domination and dictatorships. The international community weakened the South African regime by supporting and empowering Mr. Mandela against South Africa’s racial apartheid regime, which was eventually forced to step aside peacefully and allow change for the better to begin. The Iranian government is, by all definitions and international laws and United Nation’s resolutions, a gender apartheid regime. What would happen if you declare Iran a Gender Apartheid country and not the representative of the oppressed women of Iran? Support the millions of laid-off and destitute Iranian workers, students, and teachers, as well as the estimated 23,000 innocent political prisoners who are being tortured in prisons for speaking out against these tyrants. Support the average Iranian and not the Islamic regime. Put America’s power behind what is right — and watch the people of Iran usher out the Mullahs and democratically elect a government that truly represents the people of Iran. This will be a bold and thoughtful way of managing the foreign policy of America. It is the picture of your message of change, at work not only for America, but the world at large, Senator. Appeasement of dictators and oppressors is just as unwise as war. A nation is made up of people, not its leaders. The only people in this case who are worth negotiating with are thepeople of Iran, who are the only friends America should want in Iran — not the tyrants who have hijacked that great nation. America is in no position to lose more friends. In closing, Senator, even if you manage to dialogue with the ruling clergy in Iran, they will never keep their word. They are masters of deception, manipulation, rhetoric and spin. They are incapable of even honoring their own signatures, and refuse to abide by the terms and conditions of treaties that they themselves have agreed upon time and time again, as we have witnessed in their reactions to U.N. resolutions. We were born and raised in Iran, and we do know Iran’s Mullahs. Respectfully, Manda Zand-Ervin & Banafsheh Zand-Bonazzi Manda Zand-Ervin & Banafsheh Zand-Bonazzi, mother and daughter, are human rights activists and president & co-founder of the Alliance of Iranian Women	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
The present invention relates generally to frequency transducers and more particularly to a frequency to voltage transducer for providing a voltage output signal proportional to the frequency of an input signal. There are many instances in which it is necessary to provide a very accurate indication of the frequency of a signal. For example, in the discipline of electrical power generation, it is necessary to have an accurate indication of the frequency of the generated power so that the generating equipment can be controlled to maintain an accurate base frequency; e.g., 60 hertz (Hz). A number of systems have been devised for providing this function. One of the more common methods of determining frequency, particularly with respect to power level signals, is to determine the times between zero crossings of the voltage signal being measured and to determine the frequency from those zero crossings. These systems can perform very well if the signal being measured is free of noise (or can be reconstructed so as to be free of noise) so that the zero crossings can be accurately determined. An example of a reconstruction technique suitable for use in the type of system just described can be found in U.S. Pat. No. 3,978,420 "Self-Tuning Filter" by L. Jubin Lane, issued Aug. 31, 1976, which patent is assigned to the assignee of the present invention and is specifically hereby incorporated hereinto by reference. This type of system is most applicable to those situations where the frequency variation is relatively large (e.g., 0 to 60 Hz) and where extreme accuracy is not required. Such systems are not, however, particularly adapted for precise measurement centered around some critical frequency (e.g., 60.+-.0.5 Hz) such as required in the power generation industry. In addition, such systems normally require some additional means such as counters and evaluation circuitry to develop a suitable frequency control signal.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	USPTO Backgrounds
Text by Justin Henry, RD Reynolds, and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here MOAMMAR GADHAFI WILL STEP DOWN IF WWE LETS HIM HAVE RICARDO RODRIGUEZ By Justin Henry Tripoli, Libya – With rebel forces having overtaken the Libyan capital, it seems to be only a matter of time before Moammar Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry, RD Reynolds, and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here MICHAEL MCGILLICUTTY TEARS SHOULDER WHILE DOING “BEHIND-THE-BACK” TOWEL TRICK By Justin Henry San Diego, CA – Michael McGillicutty has found it difficult to live up to the lofty legacy of his Hall of Fame father, “Mr. Perfect” Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry, RD Reynolds, and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here MAN ACCUSED OF STALKING TAMINA ORDERED TO GET NEW PRESCRIPTION GLASSES By Justin Henry Reading, PA – A widowed former postal clerk has been ordered in a Berks County court to not only stop stalking a particularly Continue Reading... HILARIOUS HEY DUDE EPISODE CAUSES JOSH MATHEWS TO LAUGH UNCONTROLLABLY WHILE RECORDING SMACKDOWN By Justin Henry Philadelphia, PA – Things got a little carried away at this week’s Smackdown tapings in the city of Brotherly Love. Josh Mathews, a WWE announcer long regarded for his professionalism and genuine love of his work, was unable to keep his composure during a Continue Reading... RANDY ORTON ASKS TO BORROW “HEAT MACHINE” FOR USE IN DAILY LIFE By Justin Henry St. Louis, MO – Former eight time World Champion Randy Orton hasn’t always been the most popular of champions, as WWE would prefer fans to believe, and even he admits that. “I don’t know where my career would be without Smackdown’s heat machine,” said Orton, Continue Reading... DOCTOR THAT PERFORMED ROB CONWAY’S SEX CHANGE INTO EVE TORRES HONORED By Justin Henry Malmo, Sweden – Dr. Georg Krausingaard, a pioneer in the field of gender reassignment, was honored this week at a luncheon near the Faculty of Medicine. Krausingaard, 77, has devoted his life to gender reassignment, known to the layman as “sex change operations”. Since the first Continue Reading... IRS CASHES IN MONEY IN THE BANK BRIEFCASE FROM 1991, BEATS JOHN CENA FOR WWE TITLE By Justin Henry Sydney, Australia – CM Punk, move over. Your soul-baring speech from Monday Night Raw has been dethroned as the most newsworthy wrestling story of the week. WWE Champion John Cena was scheduled to defend his gold against R-Truth, and R-Truth alone Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry, RD Reynolds, and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here JOHN CENA DECLARES POOP “NO LONGER FUNNY” AFTER COUSIN’S TYPHOID DEATH By Justin Henry For several years, WWE’s main event avatar, John Cena, has derived much mileage out of childish bathroom humor. To the consternation of veteran Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry, RD Reynolds, and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here DOLPH ZIGGLER TO TAKE NICKY’S PLACE DURING FORTHCOMING SPIRIT SQUAD REUNION By Justin Henry Las Vegas, NV – World Wrestling Entertainment is known for its use of ‘classic characters’ on their television programming, usually to help lighten Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry, RD Reynolds, and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here JEFF HARDY RETIRES FROM WRESTLING TO BECOME SANDWICH ARTIST By RD Reynolds and Justin Henry Vaas, NC – Visitors to Subway #19401 located inside the Hudson’s Food Mart were in for a shock this week as former WWE/TNA Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry, RD Reynolds, and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here JEFF JARRETT SAVED CHYNA FROM SPCA ONE HOUR BEFORE EUTHANIZATION By Justin Henry Nashua, NH – Fans were flabbergasted to discover that Joanie Lauer, professionally known as “Chyna”, had debuted at the TNA Impact tapings recently, playing Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry, RD Reynolds, and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here CM PUNK TO LEAVE WWE, MAKE LIVING BUMMING MEALS FROM AWESTRUCK SMARKS By Justin Henry Chicago, IL – It would appear that CM Punk has made the decision to end his near five-year tenure with World Wrestling Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry, RD Reynolds, and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here WWE ALL-STARS LIKENESS OF HULK HOGAN TESTS POSITIVE FOR HGH By Justin Henry San Diego, CA – THQ Headquarters has been rocked by scandal this week, as the digital likeness of Hulk Hogan, a prominent playable character Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here JOHN CENA TO MENTOR SIN CARA, TEACH HIM HOW TO WRESTLE By Justin Henry London, England – After international lucha sensation Sin Cara (the man once known as Mistico) made a couple errors in judgment during his first televised Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here EDGE HAS “NO PLANS” TO RETIRE FROM ADULTERY By Justin Henry Bridgeport, CT – With accumulated spinal injuries as the main culprit, 37 year old Adam Copeland, best known as “The Rated-R Superstar” Edge, relinquished the World Heavyweight Championship Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here VIRGIL HAPPY TO HAVE WRESTLEMANIA STREAK IN TACT By Justin Henry Pittsburgh, PA – March 24, 2011 marked the twenty year anniversary of the beginning of a WrestleMania streak that has yet to be compromised, and is still talked Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here HEIDENREICH EXCITED ABOUT JOINING ANIMAL FOR WWE HALL OF FAME INDUCTION By Justin Henry New Orleans, LA – The WWE Hall of Fame induction ceremony will take place Saturday night, April 2, at the Phillips Arena in Atlanta, GA. Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here JOEY STYLES CELEBRATES THREE “REBELLIOUSLY EXTREME” YEARS RUNNING WWE.COM By Justin Henry Stamford, CT – Since leaving the ECW broadcast booth in the spring of 2008, Joey Styles has diligently and tirelessly put much time into running WWE.com, the Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here REPO MAN TO STEAL ALBERTO DEL RIO’S CARS UNTIL PAYMENTS ARE MADE By Justin Henry San Luis Potosi, Mexico – While Alberto Del Rio may be on the “Road to WrestleMania”, the #1 contender for the World Heavyweight Championship Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here JACK TUNNEY FAKED DEATH, WILL BE REVEALED AS ANONYMOUS RAW GM By Justin Henry Toronto, ON – Despite reports that he had died in January 2004 of natural causes, Jack Tunney, once the “esteemed President” of the World Wrestling Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless and RD Reynolds Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here RANDY ORTON REVEALS HE’S ACTUALLY A ROBOT FROM THE FUTURE By Sean Carless & Catherine Perez Stamford, CT – He hears voices in his head. For pro grappler Randy Orton, 30, this is not only the familiar chorus of Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry and Sean Carless; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here US HERO WITH GOLDEN TRUNKS BECOMES HOMELESS MAN By Sean Carless, Catherine Perez Orlando, FL – Once a national icon who inspired millions to train, say their prayers, and eat their vitamins, semi-retired pro wrestler Hulk Hogan has become the Continue Reading... Text by Justin Henry; Photoshoppery by Sean Carless Follow Justin on Facebook here and on Twitter here; Check out Sean on Facebook here and his website here MATT HARDY TO HEADLINE WRESTLEMANIA 27 ON “SMACKDOWN VS. RAW 2011″ By Justin Henry Cameron, NC – Matt Hardy has finally realized his dream, and will get to headline the 27th annual grand spectacle known as Wrestlemania. The 36 year old Continue Reading...	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Q: Is this html5 structure correct? I've been using an html5 doctype for a while now but haven't really been using many more tags than header, nav and footer. I would like to understand when to implement the article and aside tags and if in my example I am implementing them correctly. The entire reason that I ask this question is because there seems to be a lot of controversy on how exactly they should be used and whether certain tags like the aside tag can be nested within the article tag. I'm just looking for clarity here. Here is my example. I have 2 questions: Is there anything about this layout that is incorrect? Can I style aside these new tags or do I have to apply styles to the elements within the new html5 tags? <header> </header> <main> <article id="article"> <div id="full"> <aside id="page-left"> <div> <h1>title</h1> <p>content</p> </div> </aside> <aside id="page-right"> <div> <h2>title</h2> <p>content</p> </div> </aside> </div> </article> </main> <footer> </footer> EDIT: What I am after is simply a wrapper div that was changed to an article tag that will contain 2 inline elements. The left element will contain the actual article and the right side will contain testimonials. What would the correct tags be in this case? A: One would normally put ads and other stuff that has nothing - or less - to do with the article, in aside tags. I can't tell you if you're using them properly since only you can decide whats necessary and what's not. But I guess you're using them fine. just make sure you don't put important stuff in them because google and other search engines won't show anything in aside tags in your websites description EDIT: this is how - I think - your example should look: </header> <main> <div id="full"> <article id="page-left"> <div> <h1>title</h1> <p>content</p> </div> </article> <aside id="page-right"> <div> <h2>title</h2> <p>content</p> </div> </aside> </div> </main> <footer> </footer>	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	StackExchange
Photo: Forensics team enters one site of the shooting rampage in Hanau, Germany By Jakob Stein On February 19, a fascist named Tobias Rathjen murdered nine people in Hanau (in the German state of Hesse), and injured another five. He deliberately targeted immigrants by attacking two different hookah bars in the area; while some victims did have German citizenship, the majority were immigrants from the Middle East and Eastern Europe. During the attacks, Rathjen’s vehicle was identified by an eyewitness. When police searched his home, they found both his corpse as well as his mother’s. They also found a far-right confession letter and video, in which the attacker advocated for genocide. According to revolutionary German news source Dem Volke Dienen (DVD), “a right-wing terrorist cell was also arrested by the police just earlier this week. They planned to create civil war-like conditions in Germany with attacks on mosques and similar targets.” While some have attempted to downplay the fascist nature of the attack by emphasizing Rathjen’s mental health issues, he made his racist beliefs clear in numerous videos posted to his website. He also displayed a tendency to indulge in conspiracy theories popular among fascists and reactionaries. In the aftermath of the attack, over 10,000 people gathered in Hanau to mourn those who were killed. German Chancellor Angela Merkel stated that “racism is a poison” in Germany, and many others have denounced the attack and attempted to shift the blame solely onto the ultra-reactionary Alternative for Germany (AfD) party due to their anti-immigrant rhetoric and politics. While the AfD does represent increasing reactionization within the state and constitutes a wide base for fascist recruitment, it is ultimately the decay of German imperialism and the reactionary culture that reproduces it which is at the root of Rathjen’s racist rampage. “Violence always has a class character,” another DVD article states. “The bourgeoisie knows that and we know it. This fascist orgy of murder is a direct expression of the intensification of the fundamental contradictions in the world and above all a sign of the deepening of the crisis of bourgeois democracy, i.e. it is a reflection of material reality.”	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
Amit Shah vs Mamata Banerjee: A Run-down of the Political Bickering Over NRC Ever since the Assam NRC final draft was released, opposition party leaders have consistently dismissed it, especially West Bengal Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee who has entered in a bitter war of words with the BJP, calling it nothing but an attempt to ‘divide and rule’. Combination photos of Mamata Banerjee and Amit Shah Loading... Kolkata: BJP chief Amit Shah is taking the 2019 battle to Mamata Banerjee with his mega rally in Kolkata on Saturday and is expected to take on the West Bengal Chief Minister over her objection to the National Registry of Citizens (NRC) in Assam. The Trinamool Congress, too, has planned a ‘Dhikkar Rally’ to blunt BJP’s rally. As Kolkata braces for the rival rallies, here’s a look at what the two leaders have said on NRC, which is snowballing into an election issue: What Amit Shah Said — “The process for NRC was started in 2005, when the UPA was in power, but the government lacked the courage to throw out illegal Bangladeshis.” He added, “the NRC will be implemented to the last full stop and comma and by the process laid down by the Supreme Court.” — “TMC sees vote bank in illegal immigrants, we were rather looking at the security of the country and rights of its citizens.” — “The list of 40 lakh people not in the NRC is not a final number. The process of claims and appeals is to commence. Every citizen of India of any State can live in Assam. There is no provision in the NRC to oust Indian citizens.” — “The NRC was the spirit of the 1985 Assam Accord that was signed by former Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi. The Accord was sought to identify illegal migrants into Assam and prepare a list of Indian citizens after the movement in the state went out of control leading to death of some protesters. This was the Congress PM's initiative. He (Rajiv Gandhi) did not have the courage. We have courage and we are doing it.” — “Congress President Rahul Gandhi never replied to him over his stand on the Assam National Register of Citizens (NRC) draft.” — "The central government made the NRC draft on lines of the Supreme Court's order. NRC is an initiative to bring out all the Bangladeshi immigrants from Assam. However, Mamata Banerjee and Congress say that NRC shouldn't be promoted. I have been asking ‘Rahul Baba' whether NRC should be in this country or not but he has not replied to me on the same yet.” — "Do SP, BSP and the Congress want the ‘infiltrators’ to stay in the country or they should be driven out. I know the answer of the people of UP. The answer is that not even a single infiltrator should be allowed to stay in our country.” — “40 lakh infiltrators have entered India illegally. Thus, they have no right to remain here. We will give all of them every opportunity to prove their citizenship, but those who fail to do so have no right to participate in the democratic processes of the country.” — "Those who are found to be living in the country illegally will not be deported.” — “the National Register of Citizens (NRC) was not an agenda of the ruling BJP, rather it is the agenda of national security. The infiltrators were moving in the country and causing threat to the security of the nation, and that could not be called agenda of the BJP.” What Mamata Banerjee Said — “Does the government have a plan to rehabilitate all those whose names are missing from the list or will they be forcefully evicted.” — "People are being isolated through a game plan. We are worried because people are being made refugees in their own country. It’s a plan to throw out Bengali speaking people and Biharis. Consequences will be felt in our state also. Names of people with Bengali surnames, both Hindus and Muslims, who have been living in Assam for 50 or even 100 years, have not been included in the NRC final draft despite the applicants having all necessary documents.” — "There could be ‘civil war and bloodbath’ as 40 lakh people are excluded from the list.” — "The BJP is finished as the opposition is united to defeat it in the 2019 general elections.” — “I am not BJP’s servant to reply to any of their statements. My concern is regarding the 40 lakh people whose names are not in the list (NRC). BJP is politically tensed because they know they won’t win the 2019 elections.” — "It's a shame that my MP's were heckled and assaulted in Assam despite the assurance of the home minister. What is the BJP afraid of?"	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Airco DH.9C The Airco DH.9C was a British passenger aircraft. Development and design After World War I there were many surplus Airco DH.9 light bombers, designed by Geoffrey de Havilland, available for the emerging air transport business. At first stripped DH.9s were used to carry one passenger behind the pilot in the gunner's position, but later versions, designated DH.9B, added a second passenger seat ahead of the pilot. A second seat behind the pilot was added by extending the rear cockpit in the early DH.9C. Later DH.9Cs had this rear position converted to hold two passengers face to face, protected by a faired dorsal canopy or cabin. Most of these later four-seat aircraft had slight sweepback to counter the rearward shift in the centre of gravity. The DH.9, DH.9B, and DH.9C were dimensionally similar, with the same wingspan and height and only small variations in length depending on the powerplant. They were two-bay tractor biplanes, with fixed two-wheel main and tail-skid undercarriage. Their structures were of spruce and ash, wire-braced and fabric-covered. The first four-seat, swept DH.9C, G-EAYT received its certificate of airworthiness on 13 January 1922. Operational history Nineteen aircraft were produced for operators, 13 in the United Kingdom, three in Australia, and three in Spain. The last in service was operated by Northern Air Lines in Barton, Greater Manchester, until 1932. Operators Information from Qantas (3 aircraft) Sneta (precursor to Sabena) (1 aircraft) Hejaz Air Force (2 aircraft) KLM (1 aircraft) Espanola del Trafico Aero (3 aircraft) The de Havilland Aeroplane Hire Service (7 aircraft) Northern Air Lines (2 aircraft) Specifications See also References Jackson, A.J. De Havilland aircraft since 1909. London: Putnam Publishing Co. Ltd, 1978 DH.009C Category:1920s British civil aircraft Category:Single-engined tractor aircraft Category:Biplanes Category:Aircraft first flown in 1921	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Wikipedia (en)
645 FILED DEC 1 3 ;~; Cl€fl<. U.S. District & Bankruptcy UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA Courts for the District of Columb\|a DEBORAH DIANE FLETCHER, ) Plaintiff, j v. j Civil Action No. OFFICE OF TRANSPORTATION, j Defendant. j MEMORANDUM OPINION Plaintiff alleges that, on November 8, 2012, while riding on a bus in Upper l\/Iarlboro, l\/laryland, an unidentified black male "was enjoy[ing] some kind of oral sex with [her]," and she asks the Court to "check the security system" on the bus "so that Plaintiff can put an end to some of the abuse with oral sex." Compl. at 2 (page number designated by the Court). Federal district courts have jurisdiction in civil actions arising under the Constitution, laws or treaties of the United States. See 28 U.S.C. § 1331. In addition, federal district courts have jurisdiction over civil actions where the matter in controversy exceeds $75,000, and the suit is between citizens of different states. See 28 U.S.C. § l332(a). This complaint sets forth no federal question. The parties appear to be citizens of Maryland and the complaint makes no demand for damages, such that diversity jurisdiction is not shown. Accordingly, the Court will dismiss this action for lack of subject matter jurisdiction. An Order consistent with this Memorandum Opinion is issued separately. l United §t_atg} District Judge DATE: cv[""(""	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	FreeLaw
Top 10 World’s Most Beautiful Women of 2015 Rundown of world’s 10 most excellent ladies of 2015: This rundown is made out of – The most grounded, savvy, alluring, well known, appealing, delightful, fruitful ladies in 2015. These women are the highest priority on the rundown in the discussion for sexiest lady of 2015 and prettiest lady on the planet. It’s difficult to list each lady who’s ever existed, this rundown clearly be confined to ladies who’ve accomplished a reasonable level of VIP. These are the most smoking ladies VIPs of 2015. Additionally observe the rundown of 10 nations for the most wonderful ladies. Did this rundown not highlight your top choice? Let us know her identity in the remarks segment! World’s 10 Most Beautiful Women of 2015. 10. Shakira The Colombian vocalist, lyricist, artist, record maker, choreographer, and model – Shakira stands tenth on the world’s most lovely ladies of 2015 rundown. She is recorded as most intense lady on the planet by Forbes, and most famous artist by wonderslist. Starting at July 2014, She has turned into the main individual to achieve 100 million devotees on Facebook.9. Priyanka Chopra The previous Miss World Priyanka Chopra stands ninth on the world’s most excellent ladies of 2015 rundown. She is an Indian film performing artist and vocalist. She is one of Bollywood’s most generously compensated performing artists and a standout amongst the most well known and prominent big names in India. She has gotten various honors, including a National Film Award for Best Actress and Filmfare Awards in four classifications. 8. Kate Upton The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue display Kate Upton stands eighth on the world’s most lovely ladies of 2015 rundown. This current mold model was at No. 2 in a year ago rundown. She likewise was named the sexiest ladies by People magazine. 7. Taylor Swift An American vocalist musician, Taylor Swift comes at No. 7 among ten most excellent ladies of 2015. She is known for account tunes about her own encounters. She has gotten many honors and respects, including seven Grammy Awards, 16 American Music Awards, eleven Country Music Association Awards, eight Academy of Country Music Awards, 34 Billboard Music Awards and one Brit Award. As a musician, she has been respected by the Nashville Songwriters Association and the Songwriters Hall of Fame. By the begin of 2015, Swift had sold more than 40 million collections, 130 million single downloads and was one of the main five music specialists with the most astounding overall advanced deals. 6. Lady Gadot The previous Miss Israel, Gal Gadot spot sixth in the rundown of 10 most delightful ladies of 2015. She is the main form demonstrate for the apparel organization Castro. Gadot is referred to for her part as Gisele Yashar in The Fast and the Furious film arrangement. 5. Emma Watson The Harry Potter star Emma Watson hold fifth position in the rundown of ten most wonderful ladies of 2015. The English performing artist, model, and dissident, Watson took the top spot on the AskMen “Beat 99 Outstanding Women 2015” rundown and at number 26 on the TIME 100 rundown of the world’s most powerful individuals. 4. Candice Swanepoel Victoria’s Secret blessed messenger Candice Swanepoel comes fourth among 10 most wonderful ladies of 2015. This South African magnificence came in tenth on the Forbes best gaining models list a year ago. She was voted No. 61 in 2010, No. 62 in 2011, and No. 75 in 2013 in FHM’s yearly “100 Sexiest Women in the World” survey and No. 1 in 2014 Maxim’s “Hot 100 List”. 3. Deepika Padukone One of the most generously compensated Bollywood on-screen characters, Deepika Padukone hold the third position in the rundown of 10 most wonderful ladies of 2015. She is viewed as a sex image and style symbol in India. Padukone positions high on different postings of the most alluring Indian ladies. She is refered to by her figure, tallness, grin, and eyes as her particular physical elements. She is a dynamic VIP endorser for a few brands and items, including Tissot, Sony Cyber-shot, Nescafe, Vogue eyewear, Maybelline and Pepsi, among others. 2. Jennifer Lopez An American performing artist, creator, form planner, artist, maker, and vocalist Jennifer Lopez hold the second place in the rundown of 10 most delightful ladies of 2015. Lopez’s own connections have pulled in overall media consideration; she has been hitched three circumstances. Next to stimulation world, J. Lo delighted in an exceptionally effective business vocation, comprising of different garments lines, embellishments, scents, a generation organization, TV programs and a beneficent establishment among different business interests. 1. Shailene Woodley The “Disparate” Star Shailene Woodley best the rundown of most delightful ladies of 2015. The youthful Hollywood star discovered leap forward achievement in The Descendants (2011). She was viewed as one of the “55 Faces of the Future” by Nylon Magazine’s Young Hollywood Issue.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
GSSA Constitution/GGSA Grondwet The Constitution of the Genealogical Society of South Africa went through an exhaustive reviewing session at the Annual General Meeting of the Society on 11/12 March 2016. It was finally approved by the General Council of the Society on 12 April 2016. The Constitution can be read at the link below.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Pikmin family This article is about the species/family. For the real world video-games, see Pikmin series. Pikmin (named after Olimar's favorite brand of carrots, Pikpik Carrots) are a semisentient plant/animal life-form indigenous to PNF-404. They are first encountered by Captain Olimar when his ship crash-lands on the planet in Pikmin. Pikmin come in a number of different colors, each indicating a unique set of attributes that better suit them to different environments. They are 2.9 cm/1.14 inches tall from foot-to-tip and are able to carry about 20 times their weight, just as ants do. The average Pikmin can be thrown at a maximum height of 7.5 centimeters. Yellow Pikmin can be thrown at a height of 11.5 centimeters. The wild Pikmin that Olimar encounters in Pikmin 2 appear to remember him when he revisits PNF-404. Captain Olimar was noted in Pikmin to wonder, a bit uneasily, why the Pikmin do not attack him, and speculated that they might see him as a "parental figure". An idea commonly held by fans is that Olimar's helmet antenna resembles the stem on a Pikmin's head, and that the Pikmin see him as one of their own or as some kind of Superior or Alpha Pikmin. Although wild Pikmin, with the exception of Bulbmin, have never been observed to follow a leader, this explanation seems to be the most probable, and is further evidenced by the fact that Pikmin will imitate Olimar, such as by blowing imaginary whistles. However this theory is easily disproven because Antenna Beetles can attract Pikmin just by emitting sound with a certain frequency using its wings. All main types of Pikmin, flower stage. Contents Biology The skeletal structure of a Pikmin seen during its electrocution. Although each species has different characteristics, all Pikmin (except Bulbmin, Rock Pikmin and Winged Pikmin) have the same general appearance, with a: humanoid body shape; large, bulb-shaped heads; two round eyes; two arms and two legs (hands and feet attached), each with three digits, and a tall stem on which a single, five-petaled flower grows. Their limbs also serve as roots when buried in the ground. In fact, Olimar refers to their entire bodies, except the stems, as ambulatory root systems. Their maximum carrying weight is at least 5 grams/0,18 ounces. This is shown by the fact that a marble of 16 mm/0,63 inches (Love sphere and Mirth Sphere) is 5 grams, and you only need one Pikmin to carry it. This would mean that Pikmin weigh 250 milligrams/.009 ounces and Purple Pikmin weigh 2,5 grams/.09 ounces who can carry 50 grams/1.8 ounces. Olimar should weigh about 20 grams/.7 ounces then, because in the first game you need 4 Pikmin to carry him. The internal structures of Pikmin are a mystery, but certain things about them can be speculated. Since Pikmin never seem to eat anything except nectar, they probably have a very simple digestive system, if any. As such, it's likely that Pikmin get a majority of their nutrients from food the Onions break down. Since the Onions are the center of Pikmin reproduction as well, it seems likely that Pikmin are incapable of sexual reproduction. As Olimar says, Onions seem to be some kind of incubator. However, in Pikmin, flowering Pikmin will sometimes drop seeds when slain in battle, suggesting that they may be able to reproduce asexually, but also that they do not have defined sexes and are hermaphrodites like many plants. Pikmin also have a skeletal system, as seen when electrocuted. Though this wouldn't make sense given their size and mostly plant-like morphology, so it's probably just for comedic effect or they have a simple notochord, a hardened stem which many simple creatures, mostly the same size as Pikmin, possess. Pikmin probably do not have any sort of lungs, but their leaves, buds, and flowers appear to serve as their main means of respiration, since poison gas or water droplets collecting around them suffocates the Pikmin. When killed, Pikmin fly into the air and disappear as a ghost, sometimes after releasing a liquid of the same color as the Pikmin, possibly the Pikmin equivalent to hemolymph or blood. In the Nintendo Land game "Pikmin Adventure," after dying, the Pikmin come back to life and continue to battle by the player Mii's side. While idle, Pikmin's leaves and flowers glow the Pikmin's respective color; that, coupled with a cinema scene at the end of Pikmin 2 would suggest that Pikmin are somehow bioluminescent, though what causes this and what function it might serve in the wild has never been explained, though it could possibly be meant for communication or (in cases of large numbers) to ward off nocturnal predators. Pikmin appear to be capable of other forms of communication. When in a group, they will sometimes sing parts of "Luigi's Mansion Theme Song" and Ai no Uta. If left idle for a long time, Pikmin will moan at each other. From what is heard, it can be assumed that Pikmin language is very simple and primitive. Judging by their behavior alone it almost seems as if Pikmin are capable of expressing emotions such as boredom, fear, happiness, pride, and sadness. Stages A Blue, Yellow, and Red Pikmin drinking nectar. The Three Stages of Pikmin: Leaf, Bud, and Flower. Pikmin can be divided into three stages: In the first of these, the Pikmin will have a leaf on their stem. Leaf Pikmin are the slowest and weakest. Although all three stages inflict exactly the same amount of damage to enemies, leaf Pikmin take longer to build bridges and take down gates. The second stage Pikmin have buds on their stems. In factors of speed and power, these are just between leaf and flower Pikmin. In Pikmin, if a flower Pikmin is shaken off, it will revert to a bud, and the bud will revert to a leaf in the same scenario. In Pikmin 2, however, flower Pikmin revert to leaf Pikmin immediately. Like flower Pikmin, buds can be received when leaf Pikmin are allowed to stay in the ground for a certain amount of time. The final stage Pikmin are flower Pikmin. These can be gained by letting Pikmin drink nectar, by letting them mature in the ground, or by letting a Mamuta plant Pikmin. In Pikmin, flower Pikmin which have fallen in battle will occasionally leave behind seeds which will sprout the next day, but this was discontinued in Pikmin 2. (Sutera cordata) or commonly known as the Bocopa. In Pikmin, if flower Pikmin are left in the ground for the entirety of the flower stage, the stalks will retreat into the ground for another cycle and then sprout again as leaf Pikmin. This process is accompanied by a low droning sound which can be heard if Olimar is near the landing site. In Pikmin 2, this last stage is bypassed, and Pikmin will go straight from flowers to leaves when left in the ground for too long. In Pikmin 3, planted Pikmin will still grow into buds then flowers, but once they are flowers, they do not become leaves anymore, like in previous games. Also, if you leave planted Pikmin behind, the next day, they will be flowers. The flower upon a mature Pikmin is called (Sutera cordata)or Bacopa Cabana.This was used to model the white, five pedaled, yellow centered flowers that rest on top of the first generation of Pikmin species, as well as the Bulbmin in the second generation of Pikmin. Sutera cordata also come in different colors as well, like white, lavender (violet), and magenta (pink). So far in the Pikmin species all three of these colors have been used. In Pikmin 3, Flower Pikmin do not lose their flowers and remain flowers for the remainder of the time they are alive. This is to compensate for the fact that Nectar is notably scarce in this game. Pikmin also become permanently-flowered as a side effect of Ultra-Spicy Spray , and Yellow Pikmin become flowered when exposed to electricity. Known species These are the species so far encountered in the Pikmin games. More species may be discovered in future games. Red Pikmin Red Pikmin were the first species of Pikmin discovered. Their unique physical feature is their thorn-like noses. These Pikmin are fireproof and have 1.5 times the attack power of an average Pikmin. They can also take down dirt walls faster than others shown in Pikmin 3. Yellow Pikmin Yellow Pikmin have large ears. They are lighter than most Pikmin, so they can be thrown further and higher, and they were recently discovered (in Pikmin 2) to be immune to electricity. In Pikmin, they have the unique trait of being able to carry and throw Bomb Rocks, but the Bomb Rocks seen in Pikmin 2 are much larger and are too heavy to be carried, and in Pikmin 3, all Pikmin can carry Bomb Rocks. Yellow Pikmin can dig faster than any other Pikmin in Pikmin 3. Blue Pikmin Blue Pikmin have what appear to be mouths but are actually gills. These Pikmin, unlike the others, are amphibious and can survive both on land and in water. They are also resistant to water-based attacks. If thrown into water or standing idle, they will save any nearby drowning Pikmin by throwing them, sometimes back on land, sometimes back into water (by accident). However, this was discontinued in Pikmin 3 because drowning Pikmin can get out on their own. In the shallow waters of Pikmin 1 and 2, Blue Pikmin will walk through the water as the captains do, but in the deeper waters of Pikmin 3, they are shown to have the ability to swim. Mushroom Pikmin (Puffmin) Mushroom Pikmin, (Puffmin) are not a separate type of Pikmin, but rather the result of exposing any type of Pikmin to a Puffstool's spore cloud. Pikmin affected by the cloud turn purple, grow mushrooms on their heads, lose species-specific details (nose, ears, etc.,) and turn against Olimar and other unaffected Pikmin. Mushroom Pikmin can be cured by shaking them off Olimar, by defeating the Puffstool, or simply waiting for the effect to wear off. Attacking a Mushroom Pikmin with an unaffected Pikmin gives a chance to revert it back to the previous Pikmin color. However, there is also a chance that it succumb to its injuries and die. Both Mushroom Pikmin and the Puffstool are found only in Pikmin. Mushroom Pikmin (Puffmin) can sometimes turn against the Puffstool due to a certain glitch, and will sometimes even continue to follow Olimar (although they cannot be thrown or interacted with), depending on exactly how the glitch is carried out. Purple Pikmin Purple Pikmin are bulkier and larger than normal Pikmin, and have several wiry hairs growing out of their head. These Pikmin are 3 times more powerful than the average Pikmin in battle, and have the carrying strength of 10 Pikmin, but move more slowly. They can also cause damage simply by being tossed on enemies (which may also stun the foes), and will actually scoot their bodies in the air to try and land on the enemy if not tossed directly above it, arguably making them the best fighters. Their extra weight prevents them from being blown away by the wind attacks of the Puffy and Withering Blowhogs. They also do not panic when in the presence of a Mitite group. Unlike the original Red, Yellow, and Blue Pikmin, Purple Pikmin have pink flowers. In Pikmin 3, all of these abilities were removed other than carrying strength. White Pikmin White Pikmin are smaller than normal Pikmin and have red eyes, allowing them to have keen sight and dig up buried treasure. These Pikmin are resistant to poison attacks, and seem to be poisonous themselves. This can be identified by their purple hands and feet. Enemies are damaged sometimes fatally when they ingest White Pikmin. These Pikmin are also the fastest and carry items much quicker than other Pikmin. Like Purple Pikmin, White Pikmin have pink flowers, rather than white like the original Pikmin colors. In Pikmin 3, White Pikmin are weaker fighters and inflict less damage on enemies when eaten. Bulbmin Bulbmin are a combination of a parasitic form of Pikmin and a juvenile Bulborb. They are immune to all Hazards (Fire, Water, Electricity, and Poison) thanks to the Bulborb's anatomy. Although they can carry objects and flower as normal Pikmin do, they are weak in battle and unable to leave the caves in which they are found. When Bulbmin die, so do the parasitic Pikmin. The actual appearance of the parasitic Pikmin alone is unknown, although judging by the white coloration of the flower, they may simply be parasitic anomalies of the original Pikmin. It is recommended to use a Candypop Bud to make Bulbmin into another color of Pikmin before you exit a cave. Other than their hazard immunity, Bulbmin do not share any secondary traits with other species of Pikmin (increased jump height, speed, attack power, etc.). Pikpik Carrot Pikmin Pikpik Carrot Pikmin are glitches created when you give yourself the seventh number of Pikmin in Challenge Mode. Rock Pikmin Rock Pikmin are a species of Pikmin that take the form of small yet sturdy stones rather than plants, though the notable leaf on its head trait remains. This Pikmin type is very sturdy, strong, and is not easily knocked around. When thrown, instead of latching on to the enemy, they bounce off (much like if you threw a rock at something). Their sturdiness allows them to be able to shatter glass and Crystal Nodules. These Pikmin are immune to blunt force, such as being crushed or stabbed. While they may seem somewhat similar to Purple Pikmin, they do not have the strength to lift an object 10 times their own weight and although a bit heavier than other types, not as heavy as Purple Pikmin. Winged Pikmin Winged Pikmin are pink in coloration and appear to have large heads, lavender flowers, large blue compound eyes, and are capable of flight via wings on their backs. Flying allows them to do things such as following the captains where most Pikmin types would not be able to, attacking airborne/tall creatures with ease, and even taking quicker, shorter routes while carrying spoils by carrying them in the air. These Pikmin are always airborne and never set foot on the ground. They are weaker fighters than most Pikmin. Undiscovered species Five pink Onions, four black, two light blue, an orange, a green, and a purple. They appear during the "happy" ending in Pikmin. If the players gather every ship part in the first Pikmin game, they will see several different colored Onions in the ending cutscene. These include five Pink Onions, four Black/Grey Onions, two Cyan Onions, one Green Onion, one Orange Onion, and one Purple Onion. Although Purple Pikmin were discovered in Pikmin 2, they were introduced without an Onion. The Rock and Winged Pikmin have an Onion in Pikmin 3, although this Onion is different from the ones seen in the cutscene. It is currently unknown whether the rest of these colors will appear in future games, or if the multi-colored Onions are just an Easter egg. "Olimin", or "Pikmar", is the result of Olimar becoming a Pikmin in the bad ending of the first game. Olimin is created after the Pikmin carry the unconscious body of Olimar back to the onion. Instead of just popping back down, the Onion absorbs the presumed dead body of Olimar into the onion and transforms him into a pikmin. In Pikmin 3, Bingo Battle, the color of the Pikmin's leaf, bud, or flower will correspond with the player. (Player 1: Blue. Player 2:Pink.) Pikmin can also attack and even kill Pikmin from the other team or even captains, similar to Mushroom Pikmin. Also, when bringing a final item back to the Onion, they seem to chant either "Kop-pai" or "Hoc-tate" depending on their team. Pikmin Extinction Pikmin Extinction occurs when every single Pikmin, including those planted in the ground and stored in the Onions, is lost. The day ends immediately and the Onions each produce a single seed at the beginning of the following day. As a result, its possible for Pikmin to be never extinct as long as their Onion survives. In Pikmin, the following is Olimar's Journal entry on the first day that extinction occurs: "The Pikmin have all perished because of my own carelessness. I am an utter disgrace as a leader... How can I continue to collect parts without them? Still the Onions join me in low orbit, as if this Pikmin extinction had never happened. I shan't sleep tonight..." In Pikmin 2, an extinction of Purple or White Pikmin will not produce seeds, as neither colors have Onions. In the Nintendo Land game "Pikmin Adventure," an extinction of Pikmin never happens, as the Pikmin will continuously regenerate themselves and fight by the player's side as if they didn't die. In Pikmin 3, rather than the day immediately ending, an extinction simply prompts a cutscene to play of the Master Onion expelling another seed of whichever type of Pikmin was lost, giving the captains the rest of the day to grow more Pikmin and continue their mission the following day, however, in the mission mode for this game, Pikmin extinction results in a cutscene where a mass amount of Pikmin ghosts surround your player, who is now looking sad, and the text "Pikmin Extinction" is shown, ending that mission. Habits An idle Red Pikmin Pikmin following leaders are prone to stumbling every now and then, and occasionally fall over completely, in all games but Pikmin 3 . This happens much more frequently in Pikmin, and, further complicated by a mass of 100 Pikmin walking together, can sometimes pose a serious problem, reducing general maneuverability. In Pikmin 2, Pikmin trip much less frequently, but still stumble often if directed to switch positions suddenly. During a retreat from a beast, a Pikmin that trips is likely to be eaten or squashed by the creature; this is especially aggravating during no death runs. Sometimes, it may be hard to notice if a Pikmin trips, leading to lone Pikmin becoming separated from the group. Pikmin can be seen interacting with each other when idle. These actions include grooming each other, communicating in high pitched whimpers, dancing, waving, crouching, and playing abstract games. In Pikmin 2, if 20 of each color Pikmin is called into one group, they will hum a portion of the song Ai no Uta.This suggests that they have a highly developed and friendly social structure. In Pikmin 3, they will occasionally hum the music that plays during the opening of the game. Pikmin will also watch captains move around when stationary, indicating that they are very curious creatures, and can be seen to mimic the idle motions of those leaders. All idle Pikmin have a natural tendency to perform nearby tasks, such as Blue Pikmin running into water to save drowning Pikmin, even if there are enemies or hazards about. Trophy Their trophy in Super Smash Bros. Melee The 'Pikmin' trophy in Super Smash Bros. Melee reads as follows: "These strange beings are part plant, part animal. They spend most of their time buried in the earth, but they will befriend whoever plucks them, as evidenced by their devotion to Captain Olimar. Each Pikmin has a leaf on its head that grows into a bud and finally a flower. Like a flower, the life of a Pikmin is both fragile and beautiful." Most members of the Pikmin family are also represented as trophies in Super Smash Bros. Brawl and can be used by Olimar as a playable character. Play Nintendo Description "When it comes to walking vegetation, there is definitely strength in numbers. Space travelers take note: Pikmin are plant-like creatures that have different colors and abilities. Want to collect spaceship parts, battle enemies, or break down walls? Just toss over some Pikmin!" Gallery Pikmin - Normal Ending When you collected all mandatory ship part [yellow-orange font], but not the ones that are not mandatory ship part [blue font] The five main Pikmin found in Pikmin 2. Pikmin and Olimar circling a small patch of daisies. The picture used for the Pikmin growth of the daily report in Pikmin 2. A patch of Pikmin sprouts. Pikmin greet you when you turn on Pikmin 2. A blue pikmin being plucked from the ground. Rock Pikmin artwork. Winged Pikmin artwork. Fighting with Pikmin in Pikmin 2 Challenge Mode. More Challenge Mode screenshots! Yellow Pikmin following the player in Challenge Mode (Pikmin 2). Sprayed Red Pikmin attacking a petrified Fiery Bulblax. Close up of some Pikmin from Pikmin 3. Artwork of a some Pikmin for Pikmin 3. "Walking" winged Pikmin. Other "walking" winged Pikmin. Walking yellow Pikmin. Other walking yellow Pikmin. Running red Pikmin. Walking red Pikmin. Walking rock Pikmin. Blue Pikmin A Red Pikmin in Super Smash Bros. Brawl A group of Puffmin with the Puffstool. a buried rock pikmin notice the inmunity of being crushed The three original pikmin in HD. A Pikmin's actual size Three stages of Pikmin In Red, Yellow, and Blue Pikmin Helping hands A clay figurine of a purple pikmin. A purple and white pikmin, as seen in Pikmin 3. A blue pikmin carrying a small fruit. A crude drawing of some Pikmin drawn by Wario when scanning the Pikmin amiibo in WarioWare Gold Trivia Winged Pikmin have dark stripes on their bodies which make them resemble bees. This color pattern makes their bodies non-monochromatic, a trait uncommon in most Pikmin types. White Pikmin also seem to have this trait to a certain extent, as they exhibit a purplish tint on their hands and feet. Originally, Red Pikmin and Blue Pikmin were able to hold Bomb-Rocks along with the Yellow Pikmin. They eventually scrapped the idea (most likely due to Yellow Pikmin not having use of their high throw ability often), however, it resurfaces in the third game, as well as in the new 3DS title Hey! Pikmin. In Pikmin, electrical hazards were supposed to be there and Yellow Pikmin were supposed to be immune to them. They scrapped the idea but brought it back in Pikmin 2. The Pikmin appear in the Nintendo Land minigame: Pikmin Adventure. The available Pikmin include Blue, Red, Yellow, and White (in this order depending on how many players there are). It is also theorised that the three seed power-ups (the Hammer seed, Knuckle seed, and Whip seed) are supposed to represent the Purple, Rock and Winged Pikmin respectively. The first five members of the Pikmin family (from Pikmin to Pikmin 2, not including Mushroom Pikmin or Bulbmin) appear in the Wii to Wii U data transfer app, in which they carry the software from the Wii SD card to the Wii U console. In a level of the attraction "Pikmin Adventure" in the game Nintendo Land, you can see some lavender flowers, like the flowers from the Winged and Rock Pikmin. Pikmin resemble a legend about the mandrake plant, a plant whose roots can sometimes resemble a human body. The legend says that if you uproot a mandrake plant, it will be your servant. However, it is also said that if picked, it will emit a scream powerful enough to kill its picker, so it was recommended to form a strategy for picking it, like digging it out slightly and tying it to a dog and walking away so the dog will follow and uproot the plant, losing the dog in the process. Unlike most Pikmin types, the Pikmin that debut in Pikmin 3 does not have names that reflect their colors. Although Winged Pikmin are always in flight, they can still be thrown by the captains. The three original types of Pikmin have one immunity and one extra quality or ability in Pikmin 2. Each of the first 5 Pikmin in Pikmin 2 represent the 5 recognized senses:	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Q: Building a New Character After talking more with the guy whom I've been building a new character for, I've come to understand that some of the information I posted in my first question was... inaccurate. What he wants is a "sneaky" character that does not cast magic (as in lightning bolts, fireballs and so on), but does not necessarily mind actual arcane type characters (or psionic for that matter). He would rather be a ranged user and his definition of "sneaky" is less regarding stealth but more towards his character's personality, which ultimately needs to be reflected on the build as well. What he is looking for is basically something that allows him to (but not necessarily limited to) dominate/charm, telepathy, invisibility/phasing (not the same thing but has the same approach character-wise), fear effects and so on. Upon first look, all of the signs pointed towards psion which has the majority of those aspects (or all of them when applying the right items/enchantments to it). But there is a catch, team-wise, putting him as a psion is a bad idea. We are a team of 4 players where the team is currently formed out of the following: Psion (main controller), Cleric/Warlord hybrid (yours truly, main leader), Ranger (the guy's current character and the main striker) and a Swordmage (main defender but generally built specifically for a striker role for some reason). Now, eliminating the only true striker out of the team and replacing it with a controller is considered a poor choice, and even if we had the whole team reformed the person who plays the swordmage now wants to be a Druid controller next, which puts me in a difficult position regarding telling the guy whom I'm building the build for to go for psion. So, is there any chance there is a class that can function as either a defender or a striker (if it's ranged, then only a striker I suppose) that does not use elemental powers, has some sort of affinity with the list of things the guy is interested in (charm, phasing, illusion, invisibility, telepathy, bluff and domination)... Personally to me it feels that the only route for him will be either a psion or a wizard, both of which are controllers and I'm extremely shaky about a wizard considering how much dislike he has towards any sort of mage type character. I remember that a warlock might be a good option in such a case but I might be mistaken, I'll need your advise on this one (since in the following several sessions there is a good chance that his character is going to die and he will need a replacement). A: A warlock would be a good option. The Warlock is an Arcane striker. This is true for both the original Player's Handbook warlock class and the Hexblade warlock from Heroes of the Forgotten Kingdoms, but not the Binder warlock from Heroes of Shadow, which is a controller. Depending on the exact warlock build, a warlock can be fairly tough or squishy, and can focus on either melee or ranged attacks. Some warlock powers use Constitution as the primary attribute. All PH warlocks get Eldritch Blast, which is an At-Will ranged attack that can be used as a ranged basic, doing 1d10 + Cha or Con damage at level 1. Alternatively, you can take Eldritch Strike, which is similar but is a melee attack that can be used as a melee basic. Warlocks use the arcane power source, but you have plenty of non-elemental choices to pick from among your powers, including psychic and necrotic damage. Warlocks can be sneaky. The PH warlock gets concealment automatically anytime they move at least 3 squares on their turn. At 1st level, you can get an At-Will attack called Eyebite that renders you invisible to the target on a hit. The Fey pact has more of these charm-based spells than the other pacts. There are shadow-based powers in Heroes of Shadow for all types of warlocks. I'm not sure what your setting is like, but warlocks are often mistrusted by common-folk, and could easily fit the idea of a shady character.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	StackExchange
ABOUT:When the Polyphonic Spree first appeared in 2000, the Dallas symphonic pop group was as much a band as a "happening," in the 1960s sense of the word. The Spree's two dozen members took the stage in flowing robes of snowy white, an appropriate backdrop for their happy and uplifting blend of pop, orchestral rock, and minimal touches of gospel. ABOUT:Dallas’ Medicine Man Revival is an elixir for our times – a sonically-pleasing blend of blues, soulful strut and cosmic connectivity. With Keite Young and Jason Burt at the helm, backed up by some of the best players in the city, it is easy to fall under their spell. I am sure you will like what you hear and pick up the album before you leave. Shakey Graves’s forthcoming album "Can’t Wake Up" is described as “an evolution” from And the War Came, and comprises 13 songs written from Rose-Garcia’s own personal life lessons and experiences from as far back as high school. In regards to what life lessons will be shared in the album. "The beautiful lesson of all this is having to trust yourself, to be willing to start something that you don’t know the outcome of. Or to lean toward something just because it feels right, even though it may not be what you originally put down on paper. Those are the kind of stories in this record. They’re not so much about specific people, or even myself per se. They’re different shades of every person’s life." - Alejandro Rose-Garcia Come into the store this Friday 4/27/18 at 8pm, listen to the new Dr. Dogrecord "Critical Equation", and enter to win tickets to the band's upcoming concert at Granada Theater (5/11). The winner will receive tour laminates that will give them and a guest GA access to the show. There will be FREE craft beer to drink while you listen in. We will be listening to the new record and giving away a Loser edition of Beach House's "7" LP. There will also be some high quality limited posters we will be giving away along with some other Sub Pop Records goodies. While you listen enjoy a cold #ZomerPils courtesy of our friends at Lakewood Brewing Company. Johnny Cupcakes, "The World's First T-Shirt Bakery," will be baking up apparel and accessories dripping with sweet pop-culture references, often replacing iconic symbols with cupcakes from 2-6pm! FREE GIFT FOR ALL AND RAFFLE! WANT TO KNOW HOW TO EARN TICKETS FOR THE JOHNNY CUPCAKES RAFFLE?-RSVP to the Facebook Event-RSVP to the Eventbrite (linked under discussions tab)-Follow @goodrecords and @danibcupcakequeen on Instagram-Buy 3 shirts at the Pop-Up Shop-Bring a friend with you to the Pop-Up Shop-Share this event (Facebook, Instagram, etc.)-Follow @danibcupcakequeen's Instagram stories for a secret whisper word! Cigarettes After Sex is an American ambient pop band from El Paso, Texas (now based in Brooklyn), formed in 2008 by Greg Gonzalez. The band's debut EP, I., was released in 2012 with the singles "Affection" and "K." following in 2015 and 2016, respectively. Their first full-length record, Cigarettes After Sex, was released on June 9, 2017. They have been gracious to treat us to an a brief afternoon set at Good Records on Sunday March 25, 2018 at 2pm. An obsession with money, an unfaithful lover, a friend’s accidental pregnancy, misogyny, loneliness, death... This is just some of the lighthearted subject matter that make up LONER ––the darkly comedic second album from songwriter/producer Caroline Rose. Armed with an arsenal of new instruments and equipment, an ever-growing sense of “ahhh fuck it,” two years of exploration, and a wicked sense of humor, Rose delivers a set of serious songs wrapped in a sprightly, angsty popburrito. Because, as Rose puts it, “Sometimes sad songs just need a cocktail.” LONER captures the cheeky satire, comical musings, and often jarring mood swings––sometimes goofy, sometimes emotional––that make up much of Rose’s personality. “I call it Schizodrift ,” she says sipping on a martini with her pinky out. “I want to make music that sounds as manic as I feel.” Filled with catchy synth hooks, Ray Manzarek-esque Farfisa, surf guitar, depth of thought and a punk attitude, LONER captures the energy of bands like Le Tigre and The Cramps, and nods to the styles of Blondie and DEVO, the pop hooks of icons like Justin Timberlake, all the while being inspired by the artistry of Kate Bush. “I’d say this album was as much inspired by Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears as it was late 70s punk.” How did she get here? According to Rose, the transition was natural. LONER began about three years ago. “I was 24, lonely, and realizing life might actually be as hard as people said it was. Gandalf had yet to raise his staff and part the seas for me,” she says with a straight face. “I felt a bit disillusioned with my music; it didn’t sound like my personality. I hadn’t dated in years, I was going to lose health care. I felt detached from the modern world.” So what did she do about it? “I joined Tinder. I turned 25 and rented my first real apartment and painted it bright colors. I started socializing more and little by little, weeded out all my clothes that weren’t red. I embraced my queerdom. I had a girlfriend, we traveled the country, we broke up. I discussed politics, capitalism and Rihanna. For better or worse, I became a member of the modern world. Turns out the modern world is terrifying,” she says attempting to pluck an olive out of her glass. When it came to writing about all of it, what followed marked the beginning of a fully formed Caroline Rose. “ I needed to get more personal, more aggressive. more humorous and more sonically diverse than my older material,” referring to 2014's slinky indie-folk-rockabilly-tinged album I Will Not Be Afraid . The record was penned over four years ago while Rose was living in a van traveling the country, and received critical acclaim from national press outlets like NPR and Rolling Stone . LONER , however, marks a significant leap forward both sonically and emotionally,unleashing a burgeoning confidence teeming with character. Asked how she’d describe the transition, Rose responds, “It just felt like a bubble inside me that had been growing and was about to pop.” In a burst of creative energy, she penned and produced a slew of songs that began circulating among labels and press, resulting in a Tiny Desk Concert for NPR Music .Over the next year and a half, Rose “got super into production and mixing––I was working 10-hour days creating new sounds, finessing EQ, blending tones, sampling basically everything. Having an apartment [rather than living in a van] gave me the space to have more instruments than just a guitar. I started collecting synths and recording equipment and tracking my material. I signed with a label that gave me a lot of creative control and resources.” After sessions and meetings with over a dozen producers, Rose chose to co-produce alongside Paul Butler (Devendra Banhart, Michael Kiwanuka, Hurray For The Riff Raff) at Panoramic Studio in Stinson Beach, California and the studios of Butler and Rose. A multi-instrumentalist and producer herself, Rose brought to the sessions pre-recorded work the two used as a foundation off which to build, having written and arranged strings, played and recorded keys, guitar and bass, sampled layers of found and recorded sounds, and programmed synths and drums. “The rest was a lot of experimentation in the studio, trying out different sounds and getting weird,” She adds. “Paul added a lot in that way. Neither of us are afraid to try things and throw a bunch of sounds at the wall.” Another thing that drove Rose to pursue production more seriously was the blatant lack of gender diversity in the music industry. “I noticed over the course of all these meetings there was not a single female or nonbinary producer. Then the more I read up on why, the more I realized there actually are a lot of us, we just aren’t taken as seriously and either don’t receive or don’t demand the credit that we deserve.” In response, Rose stepped up across the board, having a hand in mixing as well as directing creative control over all aesthetics regarding the album. “I wanted to make sure everything was as me as it could possibly be.” According to Rose, the visuals and aesthetics of LONER are an important vehicle in bringing out her personality, as well as a lot of the more sarcastic elements within the music. “I’ve gotten really interested in the visuals over the years, from producing videos and creatively crafting the images to how I express myself via what I wear.” The video for “Money,” for example, written and directed by Rose and Horatio Baltz, depicts Rose playing all of the parts––a sort of maniacal, Coen Brothers-meets-David Lynch two-minute story involving three people (perhaps the same person?) that leaves viewers asking...What just happened? Not too different a feeling after listening to LONER , in fact. And this, is precisely how Caroline Rose wants you to feel. Antiphons began in 2011 as the solo project of songwriter, Brian Dove, and has since evolved into a 4-piece rock band. After spending a year on a farm in rural Oregon, Brian returned to Richmond, Virginia with some fresh wounds and the workings of what would become their debut album, "Groan". Upon releasing Groan in January 2017, the band set out to make something more visceral, resulting in their new EP, "Fine". Where “Groan” wrestled feverishly with the bruises of lost love, “Fine”, is the cathartic release of that weight. With these 5 new tracks, Antiphons stride confidently into the realm of guitar-driven rock music which they had flirted with on their debut. My name is John Pedigo. I was born a while ago in Dallas TX – November 27 1978 to be exact. I’m a singer, songwriter, musician, and producer whose been lucky to be a part of many bands and collaborations over the years – The O’s, Slick 57, Rose County Fair, Boys Named Sue, Vandoliers, Party Police, and more. I’ve also had roles in commercials, films, videos, and other random nonsensical artistic endeavors. I went to Woodrow Wilson High School in Dallas and have a BA from Emerson College in Boston, MA. if you’re interested in that sort of trivia. Pedigo’s Magic Pilsner is an ode to my Dad, and the name has its own story: When I was a kid, he made nearly undrinkable beer and called it Pedigo’s Magic Pilsner. He’d make it in the kitchen sink which in the end was where it all ended up anyway, because no one would drink it; arguably more successful was the bowling team he named after the beer – PM Pilsners. (Which I was lucky enough to sub for on many occasions and got a sturdy learning on the sport.) While I don’t make my own beer, I do feel that the music is a brew of styles and years I’ve put into music; at some points it is straight forward singer-songmaker-upper and at others is straight-up rock and roll. From rockabilly onward I’ve played most styles and have seen a good chunk of the world doing so. It’s 2017 – a year that starts with as much trepidation as it does intrepid hope; a hope that we can forge an unfeigned path through any timorous landscape with our footprints firmly fossilized in the ground. We all create our own fate. We all have power to change and fix what we don’t like. But mostly, we are not helpless when we are hopeful. My wife told me 9 years ago, “Every year gets better.” A mantra that I’ve adopted. Each year, we learn more and more about ourselves. There’s new discovery that leads us towards the knowledge of what we hold within ourselves. Obviously, most of this is personal and self serving – things as simple as which foods or music we love to each and every one of our choices and beliefs. However, either way, we become more and more who we are each year; solidifying our person. In 2008, Taylor Young and I started the group The O’s, a challenge to get ourselves on the road as easily as possible; a two ‘One-man-band’ onslaught. If we could keep overhead low with just two dudes, there was nothing stopping us from hopping in a van or on a plane and playing a show. Which we did and still do. Nine years strong and four albums, countless touring and hazy mishaps, the band has played from 10-10000 people on every stage from trailer beds to the Hammersmith Odeon in London. We’ve ventured further than some, but shorter than many playing over 150 shows a year. Before The O’s, I spent my wayfaring nights with Slick 57, Boys Named Sue, and Rose County Fair. Slick was lucky enough to sign with an Australian label called Laughing Outlaw Records. Because of them, we did a ton of US touring, a bunch of European touring, and an Australian/New Zealand tour. It was fantastically disastrous and made us all who we are today. And I mean that emotionally and physically as my liver would attest. The Sues have had a raucous run of fun delivering dated country music and good times with the largest of winks. Rose County Fair gave me the indie deluge I needed at the time between Slick 57 and The O’s. Pedigo’s Magic Pilsner continues a personal path; a continuation of a musical journey. But mostly it’s an homage to my Dad who has always been my number one fan. He got sick recently and it brought with it a true sense of mortality. In remission now, we’ve bought more time. And during this, I plan to make him proud. As it has always been, my goal is to deliver music from the heart, art from the soul, truth from whichever medium necessary. From developing one’s craft to sacred friendships and family, not much else matters on the journey. Other than bowling." Internationally celebrated singer/songwriter John Waite , formerly of The Babys and best known for his #1 hit “Missing You”comes to Good Records for a special meet & greet on Feb 24th at 1pm-3pm! 40 years later and he’s still leaving them wanting more! Playing to standing room only crowds everywhere he goes, John Waite has just finished the Western and Midwestern swings of his “WoodenHeart” tour. Just in time to hit the South, he presents his latest album, “Wooden Heart” and a greatnew collection of his “Best” songs. This includes a stop at Good Records for a special appearance and meet & greet! Meet John, hear his latest releases, get an autograph- and it’s all ages and free admission! John Waite , England-born rock star/balladeer/storyteller, is best known for his #1 hit "Missing You" and as a member of The Babys and Bad English. The legacy of John Waite is a beautiful monster of sound and vision, the chronicle of an authentic artist, a superstar, a seeker of truth and a soother of hearts. Hewalks and rocks among us. “The new CD is more extensive and includes some major hits, alongside some songs that are popular at Wooden Heart shows” Waite remarked. “There’s a Dylan song as well as Donavan's Try and Catch The Wind. The Babys’ ‘Isn't It Time’ and ‘Missing You’ really stand out and the band and I are looking forward to an extensive tour in support of the new ‘Wooden Heart’ CD!” Hosted by DeeJay CeePee Christopher Todd Penn & Good Records come celebrate the long awaited release of MOTORCADE's debut album on Idol Records on Sat the 20th, 2018. Cheap admission $5 free drinks and DJ CeePee will be providing the jams prior and post show. Come grab our debut album on vinyl and let's toast this occasion together at the GOOD RECORDS Warehouse 1808 Lower Greenville Ave, located just behind GOOD RECORDS. Come on down to Lowest Greenville for yet another super fun event! We will be lighting up the block for the Holidays this year! From 4pm-8pm, enjoy drink samples, then the block will light up at 7pm! Meet in front of Blind Butcher to purchase your 7oz. collectible mug for $10. This will get you free samples at participating businesses. Santa will be near GAPCo with a reindeer and his sleigh from 6pm-8pm for photo opportunities! HUGE Thanks to Tim DeLaughter and The Polyphonic Spree for being our Official Honorary Tree Lighters at 7pm! The Front Bottoms will be stopping by during the afternoon at 2pm Wed 11/15 to promote their new album "Going Grey" prior to their show later that evening at the House of Blues Dallas. Take a late lunch or cal in sick and don't miss this!!! Ronnie Fauss returns with his third album Last Of The True on October 27, 2017 via New West’s imprint, Normaltown Records. The 13-track set is the strongest, widest-reaching album of Fauss’ career, with ten new original songs and three updated takes on covers that include tunes popularized by Uncle Tupelo (“New Madrid”) and Okkervil River (“The Velocity Of Saul At The Time Of His Conversion”), as well as a piano-fueled version of Bob Dylan's “Don't Think Twice (It's All Right).” For Last Of The True, the Dallas, TX-native also teamed up with indie-folk rocker Ben Kweller for the album’s single “Saginaw Paper Mill.” The Black Balloon-directed video for the track previously premiered at American Songwriter, who calls it “a crunchy, devil-may-care rocker with honky-tonk piano and some hazy, road-trip ready visuals to boot.” Following the album’s release, Fauss will perform at the annual Dallas Observer Music Awards showcase on December 2, for which he has been honored with a nomination in the “Best Country Act” category. He has also announced a Fall Texas tour that includes dates with Hayes Carll and Rhett Miller (of Old 97’s). Please see below for full tour details with more shows to be announced soon. Last Of The True includes instrumental backing from members of Jason Isbell, Justin Townes Earle, Rodney Crowell, and Emmylou Harris' touring bands and was produced by Fauss himself, who worked alongside engineer and former Centro-Matic drummer Matt Pence (Jason Isbell, Sarah Jaffe, Nikki Lane) at Pence’s Echo Lab Studio. “I didn't want to leave anything on the table when I was recording this album,” Fauss comments, “I wanted to empty my notebook.” A genuine fan of the Americana catalog, he looked to his own record collection for inspiration and nods to those influences throughout Last Of The True. The final product is something quite rare: a modern-day Americana gem, as well as a celebration of the older sounds that influenced the genre. Last Of The True follows Fauss’ 2014 LP Built To Break, which included a collaboration with Old 97’s Rhett Miller and gained praise from CMT, Country Weekly, American Songwriter, The Boot, No Depression, Texas Monthly, and more. Of the sophomore effort, Texas Monthly applauded, “Fauss’s supercharged country rock will ring a bell for any Old 97’s fan. But lines like ‘I got a lot of love inside me / And that’s where it’s gonna stay’ prove that he has smarts and attitude all his own;” and Chris Hillman (of The Byrds, Desert Rose Band, Flying Burrito Brothers) exclaimed, “This young man has the goods and then some." Built To Break was preceded by Fauss’ Normaltown Records debut I Am The Man You Know I’m Not (2012) that The New York Times deemed “memorable” and “clever,” and American Songwriter added, “...we think he hit the mark.” Elaborating on his direction behind the new material, Fauss comments, “I stretched myself in new ways. I sat down and played piano on a Bob Dylan cover. I wrote a polka song and a back-porch bluegrass number. I explored the Laurel Canyon sound, and I tried to shine a light on some of the artists who've influenced me, too. I cast a wider net this time because I wanted to capture more sounds I like." The result is an album that fires twin barrels of Texas twang and Nashville nuance. There are no borders here. No rules or restrictions. Instead, Fauss has made a cross-country Americana record for bars, listening rooms, pool halls, and car stereos. From the dobro arpeggios and bluegrass-worthy stomp of "No One To Blame But Yourself" to the guitar-based heartland rock of "Twenty Two Years," Last Of The True is everything its title promises: a blast of something real and authentic, delivered right when we need it most. Last Of The True Track Listing:1. Big Leagues2. Twenty-Two Years3. New Madrid4. Being Alone5. I Think We’re Going To Be Okay6. Saginaw Paper Mill (featuring Ben Kweller)7. There Is An Irrigation Problem In Gilroy8. Big Umbrella9. It’s A Choice10. The Velocity Of Saul At The Time Of His Conversion11. Bright Lights Of L.A.12. No One To Blame But Yourself13. Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right We will gather at GOOD RECORDS October 28th to celebrate the release of NHD's ‘And The Devil Went Up To Portland,’ the trio’s riotous debut record. Born out of a series of freewheeling and collaborative live tours between Salim Nourallah, Billy Harvey & Alex Dezen, the album showcases a band built on equal parts humor and heart, one blessed with an embarrassment of artistic riches. Come on down to our 4th Annual "Trick or Treat on Lowest Greenville". From 11AM-1PM on Saturday, October 28th, we will be handing out candy at participating locations from Belmont, south past Ross!... Don't forget Haymaker & Toasted! Look for an orange balloon & that's how you know where to find the candy... and other surprises! Kiddos can wear their Halloween costumes!! It is always SUCH a fun event for families!! Special early show on Oct. 27 to let out some copies of my new album a little early. Special treat for Dallas, Texas. I’ll have hand poured vinyl and some cds for sale and I’ll do a very special performance. Will will be doing his @bl_ank___bl_ank with his buddy Ada Babar and @the_good_dr_no_no will be doing a short set as well. Starting at 7:00 and finishing quick so you can get to all the other parties. Costumes encouraged! All ages and free admission at the Warehouse behind @goodrecords Catch Max Frost in a special pre show performance at Good Records Friday September 29th at 6:30pm. He will be signing his latest release after he plays a few songs stripped down style. We will also be giving away a pair of tickets to his show later that night at Club Dada. The Posies’ Ken Stringfellow, Mercury Rev’s Jonathan Donahue and Grasshopper, and Midlake’s Jesse Chandler will be touring together as Tears of Silver, playing selections from their different catalogs, plus a few covers and maybe a new song or two. Much like The Posies’ tour last year, Tears of Silver will be playing unconventional, intimate venues in the cities they’re visiting, and the venue locations will only be revealed the day before the show. Join us on Wednesday, September 13th for a sneak peak at Ariel Pink's new album "Dedicated to Bobby Jameson". We'll be playing the album and giving away freebies like stickers, enamel pins, and a t-shirt. Plus, one lucky person will win a Deluxe LP copy of the record featuring a bonus 12″ with 4 tracks not on the standard album! We'll also have free drinks courtesy of Austin Eastciders for those 21 & up. Be there! Vandoliers will be celebrating the release of their new album "The Native" with a special instore performance with Pueblo - Band kicking things off at 3pm on May 20th. Vandoliers will play at 4pm followed by Conor Oberst at 5:30pm. There will be a Crosley Deluxe Turntable giveaway that afternoon. Automatic entry for the drawing with purchase of the new release.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Friday, May 16, 2008 (Written a couple of years ago but I think there is still wisdom in it) "I may not be the man I want to be, but thank God I'm not the man I used to be!" – Billy Ray Cyrus from TV program "Doc". Looking at out at the world around us, there is many topics floating around different circles. People talk about the latest fashions, the achievements of athletes and the upcoming motion pictures. Nowhere in the topics is the subject of masculinity and why this is important to society. I personally believe that the subject of manhood is misunderstood and under attack in our current world today. I believe this is because our media has portrayed men in a negative and positive light, the rise of feminism, the redefinition of family and generally men don’t understand their role. Why is this topic important? I’ll agree that there are good examples of men, but with every good example there is a bad one. Each day our fallen world is redefining terms that don’t need to be redefined. It breaks my heart every moment I hear of a father abandoning his children for another woman, a man murders his friend but it also lifts my spirits to see the heroics of my fellow man. Ladies, don’t misunderstand me, I think that if it wasn’t for females, there wouldn’t be any men but here’s my main argument. Men and women are both equal in value in the sight of their Creator. They are both created in the image of God; also they are both co-heirs to the kingdom of their heavenly Father. However, their roles and responsibilities are different. So this topic is important because if the men of this world are just told to either be a raving beast or a sensitive pink shirt wearing male, then manhood will crumble. Growing up.. I can’t say that I had the best or worst example when it came finding heroes to look up to. I remember some of my earliest heroes in life were Kermit the Frog, biblical heroes like David and Moses, but my father didn’t rank high on the list. Sure our pastor ranked high on my list, along with my scout master but why not the man who named me his son? I still cannot find an answer to this question. My father did model to my young eyes a hard work ethic and someone committed to his family. Even as a young boy when my mother would ask me, what profession I wanted to be when I was older. Without missing a beat I replied that I would be a husband and father. My job to bring food to the table came secondary. I didn’t know why this notion was birthed in my mind at the time but I truly believe that it came from the Lord. I know of some people who are not feeling led in the area of marriage and raising a family, which I believe comes from a conviction of the Lord. The media… I am not fully sure why the media portrays men differently than women. Yesterday morning as I checked up on the Alito confirmation, the topic of men was all across the headlines. Starting with the announcement of the nomination of this year’s Oscars, many topics of manhood were addressed. The favorite of the critics, Brokeback Mountain was praised but I personally don’t think the topic is something worthy of much praise. Yes I realize homosexuality has taken our culture by storm but this is because men are taught to believe that they are no different from women. So if you like someone of the same gender that is not a problem. Or most come from homes where they were raised by their mothers and their father was absent. Yesterday I also read about the story behind the solider from Iraq with a cigarette that is being hailed as the modern day Marlboro Man. Since that photograph was taken, this young man who is celebrating his twenty first birthday is struggling with post traumatic stress disorder. I admire that man for his service to our country and it breaks my heart to see how the war has affected his mind. Switching gears over to the motion picture arena and it is hard for me to see a good representation of manhood. Men are portrayed as savages, or inferior to women. If you ask a man what his favorite films are, his response will either be a bloody explosive film or an offbeat comedy depending on his age and maturity. Personally my favorite film of all time I believe shows the commitment of a father to his wife and child. Life is Beautiful by Italian filmmaker Roberto Benigni. Yes I realize that the filmmaker made light of the dark period of time but the love he has for his family is commendable. I hope that when I have a family, I will have the same unchanging love for them. Other movies portray men who works 8-5, comes home to his wife and lazy-boy. I wish that there were more movies that portrayed men in the correct light. Another movie I recommend for its portrayal of manhood is Cinderella Man with Russell Crowe. I think I’ll wait until another post to give a full analysis of men in the media. NOW is today… With the rise of women’s rights organizations, it’s becoming harder to discern if it is a good idea or not. Traditionally, men have provided the bread for their families and are on the leadership teams of their communities, while their wives maintained their homes and was there for their children. I think that men shouldn’t look down upon women and automatically tell them to submit to their own wishes, but some days the husband in order to serve his wife should maybe cook a meal for her or let her take a break from her home and children. Looking at NOW (National Organization For Women)’s bio sheet, they state the following: “Since its founding in 1966, NOW's goal has been to take action to bring about equality for all women. NOW works to eliminate discrimination and harassment in the workplace, schools, the justice system, and all other sectors of society; secure abortion, birth control and reproductive rights for all women; end all forms of violence against women; eradicate racism, sexism and homophobia; and promote equality and justice in our society.” --http://www.now.org/organization/info.html (with emphasis added) It looks like they are out on mission to rid the world of men. The part that makes me confused is that they would like to bring equality to all women. Working women, nonworking women, etc. They would like achieve women to dominate the world but this man wonders, is that necessary. Yes I’ll be the first to say that we men haven’t been responsible when it comes to our roles and because of our great grandfather Adam, we along with the rest of humanity are fallen creatures. Its like a wall has gone up because of a idea that us men had and the consequences of that action. The blindness of these women continue on their faq sheet. If you wish to view it, go to http://www.now.org/organization/faq.html. Please keep the ladies in prayer, that God works on the hearts and minds of these women. Because at the moment they are happily blind. Family for sale… To say that the modern day family isn’t under attack right now would be wrong. People are trying to figure out what it means to be a family. This is a sticky topic to talk about as a single man. Here’s my spin on the whole issue, we all have skeletons in our closets because of our sin nature but even the weakest man can be strong and vice versa. Take for instances , my father. There are characteristics in him that I admire, like his perseverance and hard work ethic. But then there are qualities that I don’t enjoy, his cynic attitude and destruction of ideas. My mother always searched out men that I could surround myself with. I picked up various qualities that I admired and didn’t admire, so when it comes to putting them to practice it will be very interesting. So men, find the qualities you admire most about your fathers or uncles, and don’t admire. Because it will make you stronger if you are able to discern the good from the bad. Roles or Job? I can’t really say that I know fully what a man’s role in today’s society is. I know for myself my main responsibility is the one of protector and provider for my wife and children. Each one of us has our own spheres of influence and if someone does something to try and cause damage to those inside my sphere, dangerous consequences will occur to that individual. Recently, I was called up by the Arizona National Guard and got engaged into a discussion with the sergeant on the other line. He did his best to convince me to join our armed forces but I kindly declined his offer. Why did I give up an opportunity to serve our nation and protect the country I love? One simple word, perspective. I told the man that I have a deep respect for those who feel lead to serve our military but it wasn’t for me, because my conviction is to protect America from inside America. I respect those of you whom I know who have made the choice to join our military and my thoughts and prayers are with you and your families. So in short, what is man do? Protect and Provide for his family, no matter what the cost. Concluding Thoughts… I realize that this is a lot to take in on this topic. I am not an expert by no means, I’ve observed a lot of men and taken note of their style of leadership. That’s really my main point to my brothers out there, lead by example and don’t sit on the fence when you are given a responsibility to be a leader. Not everyone is called to go into the political arena or pastoral role, but we are told in scripture to lead our families. This will take time and the input of men who we respect and our wives. By God’s grace we will become stronger leaders and I am so grateful at a second chance of figuring out what it means to be a man. This last week I read an interview with Elie Wisel, who is a humanities professor and holocaust survivor. The interviewer asked him what he believes modern day leaders could learn from Moses. His reply was, “Humility. Everyone needs it but mainly leaders. Because they have power.” Men, our brothers and boys look up to us, if we hide behind the mask of pride and arrogance we are becoming a hypocrite. We will have a chance to leave a legacy for our family, what will yours be? My prayer is that mine will be in the words of Jesus, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this that someone lays down his life for his friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you.—John 15-12-14 (ESV) Become a Fan of ACWI on Facebook Get ACWI's Newsletter About Us Arizona Christian Worldview Institute (ACWI) is a discipleship and training ministry whose primary means of ministry is through the media, mainly radio & publishing. We also serve the body of Christ through workshops and conferences. This blog, Let the Conversation Continue, is an extension of our media ministry. It's a place for people to interact about the topics we post here. You probably noticed that our header image includes a coffee cup—not just because some of us are hard-core coffee lovers, but because it represents the contemporary coffee shop culture, focused on community and conversation. So grab a cup, sit awhile, and join the conversation!=========== =========== ============Over a century ago, Abraham Kuyper declared, "In the total expanse of human life there is not a single square inch of which the Christ, who alone is sovereign, does not declare, That is mine!" Saturday mornings at 11:00 AM, we broadcast Every Square Inch - The Arizona Christian Worldview Hour, where we discuss what it means to live all of our lives - every square inch - before the face of God. We help listeners discover a biblical worldview and integrate that view into every square inch of their lives. You can listen at KPXQ 1360 AM - or online at kpxq1360.net. We also podcast Every Square Inch at podcast.acwi-online.org Our most recent expansion is our publishing ministry, ACW Publications. We publish only a handful of carefully-selected titles, usually just one or two a year. The titles we produce are selected because they match ACWI’s mission: to enable adult believers to discover and embrace a biblical worldview and integrate that view into every area of life. We have attempted to bring worldview thinking down from the ivory tower and make it practical, asking the question, "What does it mean to live with a well-developed Biblical worldview in every area of life, and in every area of society?"	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Cameras follow Molly Cavalli around in this reality porn girl/girl series. Molly is a gorgeous blonde with big tits, a big ass and a pretty face. She always hangs around with hot friends and in this one she gets down with Dani Daniels, Shyla Jennings, Alexis Texas, Emmanuelle London, Spencer Scot and Celeste Star, among others. This movie is similar to the We All Live Together series. So if you like those, youll probably like this one. Molly is a pretty bottle blonde with a nice tan, a nice body and big fake boobs. Im not a fan of fake boobs but Mollys are nice. What is even better is that all the other girls in the cast are naturally good looking and A-List lesbian porn stars. The filming is done on a hand held camera with a female camerawoman. She talks through the scenes but she is not very intrusive. The sex scenes have only about 20 minutes of sex. The sex part of the scenes are the average length for a movie and there is six of them which is better than average. There are also two scenes with three girls. Molly is in all six scenes so how much you like Molly will probably be the main factor in how much you like the movie. However, all the other girls are pretty nice looking.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Look for These Exciting Series from WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE with J. A. Johnstone The Mountain Man Preacher: The First Mountain Man Matt Jensen, the Last Mountain Man Luke Jensen, Bounty Hunter Those Jensen Boys! The Family Jensen MacCallister Flintlock The Brothers O'Brien The Kerrigans: A Texas Dynasty Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal Hell's Half Acre Texas John Slaughter Will Tanner, U.S. Deputy Marshal Eagles The Frontiersman AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS THE TRAIL WEST HANG HIM TWICE WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE with J. A. Johnstone PINNACLE BOOKS Kensington Publishing Corp. www.kensingtonbooks.com All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected. Table of Contents Also by Title Page Copyright Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER THIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE CHAPTER FORTY CHAPTER FORTY-ONE CHAPTER FORTY-TWO CHAPTER FORTY-THREE CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE Teaser chapter PINNACLE BOOKS are published by Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018 Copyright © 2018 J. A. Johnstone All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews. To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book. PUBLISHER'S NOTE Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone's outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone's superb storytelling. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book." PINNACLE BOOKS, the Pinnacle logo, and the WWJ steer head logo, are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off. ISBN: 978-0-7860-4054-4 First electronic edition: February 2018 ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4055-1 ISBN-10: 0-7860-4055-6 CHAPTER ONE Some things, a man knows, he ought never do. Like placing your hat on a bed. Or riding a pinto horse—unless you happen to be an Indian. Or borrowing a pocketknife that has the blade open but then returning it with the blade closed. Or not sharpening a straight razor three times on each side. Or removing the ashes from a stove on a Friday. But here sat Dooley Monahan in the Elkhorn Saloon in Denver City, Colorado, about to make the worst move of his life. Which was saying a lot. "One card," Dooley told the dealer while tossing his discard onto the center of the table. The dealer, a pockmarked man with a handlebar mustache, sleeve garters, and shaded spectacles, deftly slid a paste card across the green felt cloth toward Dooley's pile of chips, which happened to be a lot smaller than when he had taken that empty seat four hours earlier. The stagecoach messenger—the one the size of a grizzly with about as much hair, not the other driver, who was bald and had no teeth—drew three cards. The merchant wearing the bowler hat and plaid sack suit took three as well. The dealer sent the stagecoach driver, the bald one, two cards. That was it. The dealer had folded on the first bet, and the other chairs had been vacated during the course of the four hours, and no one in the Elkhorn appeared willing to try to bust the stagecoach driver's—the bald one, without any teeth but a massive pile of chips—run of luck. Dooley watched as the players picked up their cards, shuffled them into the proper places among the cards they held. "Your bet." The dealer nodded at the toothless stagecoach man, who grinned, wet his lips, and studied his chips. "Check," the man said. "Check," said Dooley. That caused the stagecoach messenger—the one who looked like a grizzly, and smelled like one, too—to use his substantial neck to turn his substantial head at Dooley. "You ain't even looked at your card, mister," the big cuss said, and tapped a substantial finger on the felt, pointing at the card Dooley had drawn. Dooley sipped his beer. "I don't have to," he said. That caused the big man to straighten and study Dooley closer. Then he eyed the dealer, who merely shrugged and said, "Your bet, sir." The big one looked at his cards, then at Dooley, then at the dealer, then at that double-barreled coach gun, which he used to guard against stagecoach robberies. Dooley did not plan on robbing any stagecoach, and, at this point, he wasn't even sure he planned on sticking in the game once the betting started. The grizzly bear looked back at Dooley. "You some kind of clear voyager?" he asked. Dooley blinked. "Huh?" "You heard me." "I heard you," Dooley said. "I just don't understand what you mean." "I said either you's some kind of clear voyager or this here's 'bout as crooked a deal as I've ever had—and I've had me a passel of crooked deals." Dooley's mouth turned to sand, and he had just swallowed about a fifth of his freshly poured beer. He began running those superstitions through his head again as the big man placed his cards on the table and lowered the right hand toward the substantial scattergun that would make even Buffalo Bill Cody or Wild Bill Hickok nervous. Never place your hat on a bed . . . Always sharpen your straight razor three times on each side . . . Don't ever take ashes out of a stove on a Friday . . . And don't be a danged fool and . . . The merchant interrupted Dooley's thoughts. "Do you mean clairvoyant?" Now the leviathan turned his massive head at the merchant. "That's what I said, gol darn it." Dooley grinned, shook his head, and said—after breathing a sigh of relief: "I'm no clairvoyant." Which turned out to be the wrong thing to say. Because the stagecoach messenger rose, tipping his chair over. "Then that means this here be a crooked deal." The man's hand reached for the shotgun, a massive Parker ten-gauge that looked more like a howitzer than a scattergun. And as big as that cannon seemed, the big cuss's hand practically dwarfed it. The dealer had reached for the much slimmer Colt in a shoulder holster. The merchant simply turned about as pale as Dooley thought his own face must be looking about now. Blue, Dooley's merle hound, growled. A saloon gal bringing drinks toward the neighboring table abruptly took her ryes and bourbons and beers and one glass of champagne toward the other side of the saloon. And the folks sitting at the neighboring table stopped playing cards and quickly cleared out of the way. That's when the other stagecoach man—the jehu without any teeth—broke into laughter. "Sit down, you ignorant oaf," he said to the grizzly bear. "He ain't no clear voyager and this ain't no crooked deal." The grizzly trained his angry eyes at the skinny old man, who downed a shot of rye and smiled a toothless smile. "He ain't got to see what card he drawed on account I didn't bet," the jehu said as if explaining a math equation to a bumpkin. "He's waitin' to see how this hand plays out, you fool. So bet, check, or fold." Those words finally registered, and the giant released his grip on the shotgun. One of the neighboring poker players decided to be a gentleman and lifted the grizzly's chair off the floor, smiled at Blue, who settled back down by Dooley's chair's legs, and the man returned to his own chair at his own table. Dooley finished his beer. After the giant settled back into his seat and reexamined his cards, he snorted, gave Dooley a sideways glance, and said, "I still think you might be a clear voyager." Bet and find out, Dooley started to say, but he had already broken one of the sacred vows of cowboys and poker players and decided now was not the time to push his luck. He shrugged, and nodded at the saloon gal and called out, "Another round for my compatriots." "Thank you," everyone said except the grizzly, who spit into the sawdust and said, "I wasn't no conned patriot, mister. I wore the blue with the finest artillery regiment in Rosecrans's army." "What were you?" the slim jehu said, sniggering. "A cannon?" The grizzly frowned and slid his winnings into the pile in the center. "It'll cost you my whole pile to find out." As the dealer eyed the chips, greenbacks, and coins, the merchant tossed his cards onto the deadwood. "I am too drained after this excitement to think clearly," he said, "so I shall fold." The toothless driver of stages laughed. "On account you didn't draw what you needed." The merchant did not respond. Said the dealer: "I make that right at one hundred thirty-seven dollars and fifty-five cents." "You done all that in your noggin?" the toothless jehu said. "He's probably one of 'em clear voyagers, too," the grizzly bear growled. Dooley swallowed down his nerves and looked at the one card he had drawn, still facedown on the felt, but did not lift it . . . yet. The skinny driver grinned and said as he reached for his chips, "Why don't we make it an even five hundred dollars?" He tossed in some greenbacks and gold coins. "But you checked," the merchant pointed out. "There's no law against checking and raising," the dealer said. "But it's not gentlemanly," the merchant said. Dooley had to agree with the merchant's assessment, but that didn't matter. The only thing that mattered now was to see what the dealer had delivered him. Since Dooley was neither a clairvoyant nor a clear voyager, he stretched his left hand across the table, put his fingers on the card, and thumbed the corner up just slightly. He left the card on the table and laid the four cards he kept on top of them. "I guess that's a fold . . ." The sentence stopped in the toothless coot's throat as Dooley picked up his cards and asked the dealer: "So it's five hundred to me?" "That's right." Holding the five cards in his left hand, Dooley began counting what he had left. It amounted to a little more than $230. "Tell you what, mister," the toothless codger said. "That's a fine dog you got lyin' there by your boots. I mean, if you want to raise." Dooley grinned. "How much you think old Blue's worth?" Thin lips cut off the toothless grin. The merchant's chair legs scraped across the floor, and the man pushed back his bowler and walked around. "I know a few things of dogs." He studied Blue, who did not seem the least interested. "That's an Australian shepherd, I think. Maybe seven, eight years old. Good dog." "You some dog clear voyager?" the grizzly bear asked. The merchant smiled. "No. I just know dogs. A dog like that, in Denver, would go for six hundred dollars." Everyone at the table stared incredulously at the merchant, who sat down. "Boys," he said, "this is Denver City. You know how much a bath costs. Or an all-night woman. A dog like that is worth a lot of money." "Last dog I had," said the grizzly bear, "I et for supper." The barmaid brought over the drinks, and Dooley paid her, and asked the dealer, "Table stakes?" Once the dealer nodded, Dooley slid the rest of his money into the pot. "Are you calling, sir, or raising?" the dealer asked. "Just a call." He leaned over and scratched Blue's ears. "What I figured," said the toothless gent. The grizzly bear snorted, and reached inside his greasy buckskin jacket, withdrawing a piece of crumpled yellow paper. "This here is the deed to a mine I gots up in Leadville. You saw the poke I cashed in to sit in this game. That poke come out of my mine. If a damned blue dog is worth six hundred bucks in this town, I reckon my mine is worth five thousand. So that's my bet." "Hoss," the thin jehu said, the word hissing through his gums. "You can't be bettin' your mine." "I sure am, Chester. Because I know you's bluffin'." The dealer reached into the pot and withdrew the paper. His face registered distaste as he smoothed it out and said after a long while, "This looks to be a proper deed, duly registered. But as to the veracity of its value . . ." "It's worth five thousand," the toothless jehu said. "Ain't the best mine in Leadville, but it's plumb fine. He won't tell nobody where it is, though." "If you've got a valuable mine," the merchant said, "why are you guarding the Leadville–Denver stage?" That, Dooley thought, was a mighty intelligent question. The grizzly bear growled. "Stage runs once a week. When I ain't riding guard fer Chester, I's workin' my mine." The merchant shook his head. "It's a two-day run to Denver. A two-day run back. And if there's snow, rain, or mud, it can be three days. So you're saying that you work a mine two or three days only, and it's worth five thousand bucks?" "Yep," the grizzly said. "Ask Chester." "I tell him," the jehu said before anyone asked him, "that he ought to give up this job and concentrate on the mine. But he don't trust nobody to guard his silver, so he rides shotgun." Everyone sipped drinks and stared at the grizzly. "Boys," the jehu said, "if you don't believe it, he puts his money in the First Republican Bank of Denver." The dealer shrugged. "It's up to you players. The Elkhorn has no money in this hand." "A thousand dollars to you, Chester," the grizzly told the toothless man. The lean driver looked at his hand, then at the grizzly bear, and cursed as he tossed in his hand. "Ha!" The grizzly bear leaned back in his chair. "I knowed you was bluffin'. So I reckon . . ." He reached for the pot, but Dooley cleared his throat. "It's a thousand to me, then?" he asked. The front legs to the chair slammed against the hardwood floor, and the giant turned, surprised as Dooley said, "If my dog's worth six hundred dollars, how much would you reckon that horse I tethered to the hitching rail out front is worth?" "That fine bay gelding?" the merchant asked. The man was sure observant—and he knew a whole lot about the cost of things in Denver City. "His name's General Grant," Dooley said. "Two thousand dollars," the merchant said. "This is Denver City, so it's Denver prices. If you were playing in Dodge City, I'd allow it would be worth six hundred, seven hundred." "Well, I wouldn't sell him in Dodge City for two thousand," Dooley said. "But you're bettin' him . . . and your dog?" The grizzly bear grunted. "You got anything else worth betting?" Dooley asked. He turned to the merchant. "How much is that scattergun worth? . . . Denver City prices? Or maybe you have a mule? A horse? Some more pokes in your saddlebags?" The grizzly bear tossed his cards onto the table. "Horatio!" the toothless cur named Chester said. "Don't be a damned fool. At least call the son of a gun. I was bluffin'. So was he. You got him beat. You ain't got to fold, you ignoramus!" "No. I ain't bettin' ol' Betsy." He rubbed his palm against the shotgun's twin barrels. "And I ain't bettin' Clyde. That's my mule. She's in Leadville." Clyde, Dooley thought, is a she? "But . . ." Chester whined. Dooley let out a breath and dragged his winnings toward him, including the filthy deed to some hole in Leadville. As he was doing that, Chester reached across the felt and overturned Dooley's hand. Nine of spades. Ten of hearts. Queen of spades. King of clubs . . . Jack of diamonds. "See," Chester said, nodding at Horatio. He turned over his hand, three eights, a deuce, and another jack. "He had me beat." "Wait a minute," said Chester. "You mind telling me what you drawed?" Dooley smiled. "The jack." Chester settled into his chair. "You don't know no better than to try to draw to . . . to . . . to an inside straight?" "You checked," Dooley said, "and raised?" Horatio frowned, then grinned, and finally laughed. A good thing, Dooley thought. His luck had to be changing. He had managed to break every poker player's rule: Never draw to an inside straight. He had won. "But he could've beat you," the merchant said. "He drew two cards." "If he had anything better than three of a kind," Dooley said, "he would have bet the mine to begin with. He's no sandbagger." The grizzly bear put his elbows on the table, rested his big head in his huge hands, and nodded. "Yep," he said glumly. "But at least I didn't lose ol' Betsy . . . or Clyde." Dooley pushed his winnings to the dealer. "Cash me out, will you. And take a ten for yourself. And another round for the table." The dealer nodded. And after drinking and talking with the boys, Dooley rose at last, the money belt heavy across his waist. "Come on, Blue," he said. He looked at the grizzly bear. "How do I get to Leadville, sir?" "You can ride in my stage," Chester said. Dooley shook his head. "I'd rather ride my horse." The big head moved slightly, but the toothless man spoke: "Ride west, mister. Then climb the tallest hill you see and keep on climbing till you reach the moon." "And how do I find your mine?" Dooley asked. The grizzly shrugged. "I'll draw you a map tomorrow morn when I's sober. And iffen you still can't find it, I'll show you myself when Chester and me hit Leadville." Nodding his agreement, Dooley Monahan felt pretty good. Well, who wouldn't with a silver mine and a good dog and a great horse and a lot of money in his belt. He had drawn to an inside straight. He had won more money than he had seen in years. No one had tried to kill him. In fact, everyone here in Denver City seemed right friendly. Things were looking up. He stepped onto the boardwalk and felt a bullet rip off his hat. CHAPTER TWO The long-barreled Colt .45 leaped into Dooley's hand, but Dooley did not leap. He dived, landing against the water trough in front of the saloon as another bullet slammed into the batwing door. Blue growled, barked, and started to charge whoever it was across the street shooting at Dooley, but Dooley reached out with his left hand, gripping the makeshift collar he had affixed—the bouncer at the saloon had told Dooley in no uncertain terms that the Elkhorn did not allow dogs in the establishment unless they were well trained and had a collar. Dooley understood. He had unfastened his bandanna and tied it around the merle-colored dog's neck. Then he had tipped the bouncer a dollar. He wasn't about to leave Blue outside with General Grant—not in a town like Denver City. He hadn't been crazy about leaving his gelding tied to the hitching rail. A third shot boomed, and Dooley felt cold water splash on the brim of his hat. He sucked in a deep breath and stared at the doors to the saloon, waiting for somebody to come out, to help, to yell for the constable or marshal or sheriff or army or vigilantes or whoever was responsible for law and order in this rough town. He could see where the bullet had punched out some tiny planks in the door, which still swung on its hinges. Shouts inside the saloon slowly ceased, replaced by, Dooley thought, whispers. Nobody appeared. Nobody called for the law. Finally, once the door stopped swinging, the big door, the real door, on the left side, closed. Dooley frowned. Blue growled. A second later, the door on the right side shut. Someone twisted a key in the lock. "Great," Dooley whispered. Another bullet splintered the column post to Dooley's left. The horses, including General Grant, began pulling against their tethers, stamping their hooves, snorting, and causing quite the commotion, but Dooley had to give the gunman credit for one thing. The man didn't want to hit a horse, even by accident. He just, for some unknown reason, wanted to shoot down Dooley. Or did he? That first shot—the one that had punched two holes, entrance and exit, into Dooley's hat—easily could have taken off the top of Dooley's head. Had the gunman merely wanted to get Dooley's attention? It was an interesting theory, Dooley allowed, and he might have studied on it a little longer had he not quickly disavowed that notion altogether. He looked down the boardwalk and darkened street, at another hitching rail and watering trough that was nowhere nearly as crowded as the one he crouched behind now. He couldn't see the building that clearly for the streetlamp was not burning, but Dooley could make out the design of a star on the window. He had not noticed the lawman's office when he rode up to the saloon, but he had not been thinking much about lawmen . . . just poker . . . and a beer . . . and . . . Dooley sucked in a deep breath, held it for just a moment, and exhaled. "Stay here," he whispered to Blue, and he came up to his knees, then on the balls of his feet, and exploded through the mud toward the darkened corner and the building with the lawman's badge on the window. A bullet burned his back and shattered glass in the saloon that was no help, and Dooley dived as another bullet tore a gash across the corner of the trough. Dooley landed behind the safety of the watering spot, came up, and caught his breath. "Hey!" he shouted to the darkened building. Then he cursed. It was darker here than it was in front of the saloon, even after some jerk had closed the main doors, but Dooley had good eyesight and had learned all his letters back at the subscription school and through his mother's instructions and at church back in Iowa. STARR'S MILLINERY He had to laugh. So much for finding safety at a lawman's office. Well, he thought, my own hat's got holes in it now, but I don't know how I'd look in an Orleans turban or some fancy thing of braid, satin, and flowers with a bow tied on the top. He also wondered: What kind of town has a ladies' hat shop sitting next to a saloon and gambling parlor? He stopped thinking when another round pounded against the watering trough. This time, Dooley came up, felt the .45 buck in his hand, and ducked before he got his head blown off. His back burned from where the bullet had torn his shirt, just below where the vest has risen up on him, but he felt no blood, just heat. That also told him that either the man shooting at him had to be the best shot in Denver, Colorado, if not the entire Western frontier of these here United States, or that the man certainly meant to do Dooley Monahan harm. Blue growled, causing Dooley to panic. "Stay!" he shouted, and cringed as a bullet ripped into the door of Starr's Millinery. He looked up and down the street, but nothing came into view except the horses still dancing and snorting and scared in front of the saloon. Dooley started inching toward the corner of the trough nearest the saloon, but stopped, reconsidering, and moved the other way. When he reached the edge, he looked down the darkened street, waited, and came up again, firing the Colt, and this time waiting just long enough to see a shadow disappear. He thumbed back the hammer, aimed this time, and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flash pained his eyes, as it had done before, but Dooley saw splinters fly from the wooden façade across the street. He dropped down, shoved open the loading gate, pulled the hammer at half cock, and worked the plunger and cylinder until the hot empty casings fell beside him. His fingers pushed fresh loads from his cartridge belt. One dropped into the mud. He didn't pick it up until he had every chamber filled, the gate shut, and the hammer pulled back to full cock. One he had wiped the grit, mud, and moisture from the shell, he slipped it into his vest pocket and moved back the other way, toward Blue, closer to the saloon, and stopped at the trough's edge. Blue whined. Dooley tried to give him a smile and wink of encouragement. He wet his lips, pressed his body into the cold dampness of the mud, and inched a bit forward again. Now that he knew exactly where the assassin was hiding across the street, Dooley figured he had at least a chance of surviving this gunfight. Providing, he thought, the man hasn't moved to another position. He looked up at the outline of the building. The shooter could be on top of the roof. He looked underneath the bellies of the horses, including General Grant, and through the legs of the steeds at another alley. Or he could be down there. He felt his back burning again from the slug the man-killer had fired. Or he could be behind me. "Stop thinking!" he whispered to himself. "You've been in scrapes worse than this." The assassin might be . . . "Stop it!" he snapped. His voice startled him. He hadn't meant to yell anything. He told himself: You'll worry and think yourself into Boot Hill if you keep this up. A movement across the street caught his eye. He steadied the heavy Colt in his hand, waited. So . . . the man shooting at Dooley had not moved after all. Dooley slowed his breathing, steadied himself, refusing to blink or move. The barrel of a rifle caught the reflection of a street lamp down the street. Dooley squeezed the trigger. He came up this time, fired again. The rifle dropped into the dirt. A hand reached for it, and Dooley pulled the Colt's trigger. "Yeee-owww!" The hand disappeared back behind the corner of the building across the street. Dooley sent another round, heard the ricochet as the bullet whined off something in the darkness. Then he dropped back down into the mud and worked on reloading the pistol one more time. He had hit the gunman in the arm, maybe the hand. That much Dooley knew, and as long as he could keep that rifle out of the killer's hands, he would be all right. Maybe. For a brief moment, Dooley considered charging across that street, Colt blazing in his right hand, screaming like some wild rebel soldier—even though Dooley had Northern leanings as a farm boy from Iowa—but saving two or three rounds until he reached the corner. Reasoning did not elude him, however, and he understood that the man with the rifle could very well—indeed, in a town like Denver and in a state like Colorado—most likely had a six-shooter in addition to the rifle he had dropped. Dooley would stay put. But the man had been shooting a rifle. He might not be much of a hand with a six-shooter. Most people weren't. Dooley happened to be one of those exceptions, though he always considered himself lucky, not a real marksman. Besides, a rifle cost a lot more money than a revolver. The killer won't leave it in the mud. Not if he's as cheap as I am. All I have to do, Dooley told himself, is just keep my eyes open, wait for him to make a play to fetch that rifle back. He made himself relax, or as much as one could, lying in the cold mud on a wet street in winter in Denver, Colorado. He wet his lips. He did not blink. Blue began to growl. "Hush," Dooley told his dog without looking. The dog started barking, and then Blue charged. "Blue!" Dooley saw the dog run past him, leap onto the boardwalk, and then Dooley understood how serious a mistake he had just committed. He rolled onto his back, bringing the Colt up, firing at the shadow in the alley on the far side of Starr's Millinery. Dooley tugged again on the hammer and found it stuck. He swore. Pulled harder. But the Colt had jammed. Blue barked, and Dooley saw the gunman step onto the boardwalk. The man laughed. Dooley saw him bring up the rifle, and he wondered if these were going to be his last thoughts: How did that son of a gun get his rifle back and get around to this side of the street? The man quickly turned away from Dooley. "Don't!" Dooley yelled, fearing that the man would use his gun on Blue. He then threw the Colt in that direction, but all he heard was the gun smash through the painted star symbol on the plate glass window at Starr's Millinery. All this had happened in mere seconds. Blue remained a good ten feet from the man on the boardwalk as the glass shattered. And in the hours that followed, when Dooley had time to think things clearly, he understood that the man lifted his rifle, not at Blue, not even at Dooley, but down the boardwalk. That's when Dooley's ears began to ring after an explosion detonated behind him. And the man dropped the rifle he was holding as dust and blood jettisoned from his bib-front shirt. And more splinters flew off the planks on the wall of the millinery, and the man was flying backward, disappearing into the alley, until Dooley could see only his boots, toes upward. The sulfuric scent of gun smoke reached Dooley, and as Blue skidded to a stop on the damp boardwalk, Dooley spun around to see the man from the poker game, standing on the other corner of the saloon, holding a double-barreled coach gun in his hands. Now the horses were really pulling, and the hitching rail's post grunted and budged. Dooley saw Blue turn around and find the new assailant, but Dooley said, "It's all right, Blue." He reached across the trough, grabbing the reins to General Grant. "Easy," he said. "Easy." Two of the horses did not listen. Both broke their tethers and galloped down the street. Another pulled free, too, but seemed to understand the excitement had ended and just backed out into the center of the street. "Easy," Dooley told his horse again, and looked back at the old messenger as he opened the breech of the Parker ten-gauge, extracted the remnants of the fired shotgun shells, and replaced the loads in the barrels before the shotgun clicked shut. Dooley looked at the boots in the darkness—they still did not move—and the rifle on the boardwalk, and at Blue, and then at the grizzly bear who had been playing poker. The grizzly named Horatio yelled at the still-shut front doors. "It's all right, Chester. Ever'thin's done that needed to get did." Dooley found his voice. "How?" He couldn't hear himself. He coughed and tried again. "How . . . I mean . . . why . . . why did you help me out?" The bear of a man looked at Dooley as if he were the dumbest man in Colorado. "That cur was gonna shoot you in the back." He spit tobacco juice into the mud. "That ain't right." The door opened, and light bathed the front of the saloon. Chester, the stagecoach driver, stepped out, followed by a saloon girl, a bouncer, and a man in a silk top hat who swore and said, "Damn, you won the bet, Milton. The guy with the dog's still alive." Suddenly, Blue growled, and Horatio spun, bringing up the shotgun. Dooley spun, too, and saw the flash of a rifle from across the alley. Dooley remembered that he had thrown his revolver through the Starr's window. But the bouncer had a Remington, and he fired from the hip. Once. Twice. The rifle in the far alley roared again. The people in the saloon door screamed and dived back inside, and the horses in the middle of the street stampeded. By then, however, men came riding down the street. "It's the marshal!" a woman on her knees in the saloon doorway shouted. "Across the street!" Dooley yelled. "He's in the alley yonder." The lawman and his deputies ran that way, swallowed by the shadows, and Dooley started to thank the stagecoach guard named Horatio and the bouncer. The thanks died on his lips. CHAPTER THREE "Damnation, Horatio." Chester, the toothless old coot who drove the stagecoach, sniffled and pried the Parker ten-gauge out of Horatio's stiffening hands. Dooley moved over, stepped onto the boardwalk, and looked over Chester's shoulders. The jehu was on his knees, bending over that grizzly bear of a guard's body. Dooley saw the stagecoach guard staring at him, but not seeing a damned thing. Dooley swore softly under his breath. The saloon girl on her knees in the doorway sniffed, too, and said, "Oh, that poor, poor, sweet old man. Is he . . . ?" "He's dead." Chester's knee joints popped as he rose. "I told'm not to come out here, that this weren't none of his nor our business, but you couldn't tell that fool nothin'. Not even to call a tinhorn's bluff." "But he wasn't bluffing," said the dealer from the poker game that now seemed to have been played centuries, not minutes, ago. Dooley knelt beside the man named Horatio. He reached over and closed the dead hombre's eyes. He sighed heavily, shook his head, and looked at Chester the stagecoach driver. "He saved my life," Dooley said. "Yeah." Chester wiped his eyes. Found a rag in a dirty pocket and blew his nose. "That was Horatio. That's why he rode shotgun with me all these years. That's why he fought for the Union during the late War Between the States. That's why he carted that Parker . . ." He looked at the heavy, still-warm weapon in his hands. ". . . ever'where he went. Poor Horatio. He just always wanted to shoot somebody. Even when it weren't his fight." "I'm sorry," Dooley said. "Me, too." The wiry old driver stepped back and leaned against the warped pine planks used to wall the saloon. Dooley heard the sucking sound of boots walking through mud, and he stepped toward the first lawman. He was a robust man in a red and black mackinaw, with a high-crowned beige hat and a graying mustache that covered his upper lip and curled down past his chin. He did not look happy, but, then, it was cold, and dark, and damp, and a dead man was lying on the boardwalk, another in the alley, and a millinery shot all to pieces. Dooley wasn't happy, either. In fact, he felt a bit on the queasy side. "What the Sam Hill happened?" the mustached man said. He pushed back his jacket just so everyone could see the six-point star pinned to the lapel of his vest. The other four men, who flanked him, wore stars, too, but theirs were pinned to their coats. They did not look happy, either. Dooley cleared his throat, but before he could say anything, the big marshal spit out a litany of curses, then spit tobacco juice into the mud. He pointed a stubby finger at the dead stagecoach guard. "That's Horatio, ain't it? Who the hell shot him down like a dog? Who done it? Why, I'll string that miserable assassin up from the rafters of my brother-in-law's livery stable on Blake Street, have him drawn and quartered, and toss his guts into Cherry Creek. Son of a gun. Horatio cut down in the prime of life. The lousy cur owed me seventeen dollars, too! Who done it?" Again, Dooley tried to speak, but one of the deputies interrupted him, saying, "Marshal Cavendish." He pointed the barrel of his Sharps buffalo gun toward the millinery. When Marshal Cavendish saw the destroyed plate glass window and the splintered door and frame wall, he bellowed several more choice cuss words, including many that he had not sang out upon seeing the dead messenger. "I got a dead man that owed me money and the best ladies' hat shop between San Francisco and St. Louey shot all to pieces. Some low-down snake's gonna get himself in a heap of trouble if I don't get some answers mighty fast. Now, who done it?" "Marshal . . ." That was all Dooley got to say, because one of the deputies on the lawman's left—the one with the Sharps Big Fifty had been on Marshal Cavendish's right—said: "Marshal, there's some drunk sleeping in the alley next to Miss Starr's place." "Denver don't tolerate no vagrants and no drunks sleeping in the streets or our alleys." Marshal Cavendish stormed onto the boardwalk, followed now by his four deputies, and strode past the watering trough and into the darkness, his boots crunching on some of the shards of glass that once had displayed a finely painted star and the word's STARR'S MILLINERY, and he stepped off the boardwalk, into the mud, and stared at the boots with the toes still pointing upward. "Jason," Marshal Cavendish said. "Sir," answered the one with the big buffalo gun. "Strike me a lucifer, son. It's pitch-black here." The deputy handed his buffalo rifle to another deputy, fished a sulfur-tipped stick from his shirt pocket, and struck it against the splintered corner of the millinery. The match blazed, and the deputy knelt beside the dead man. "This ain't no drunk," Marshal Cavendish said. "It's Chucky Hart." "How can you tell, Marshal?" asked the deputy holding his own Winchester carbine and Deputy Jason's Sharps rifle. "After he done taken two loads of buckshot." Dooley moved over to get a better look at the man who had almost sent him to the sweet hereafter. He wished he hadn't. He seemed to recall seeing the man's bib-front shirt explode from Horatio's shotgun blast, but that must have been on account that Dooley had been looking at the gun the man held, aimed at Dooley Monahan, and not his face. Now there was not much of a face left. Dooley was thankful when Deputy Jason shook out the match before it burned his fingertips. "That's his rifle." Marshal Cavendish nodded at the weapon in the mud. "And those are his boots." Because Deputy Jason had fired up another match, Dooley now saw the boots, black and up to the knees, and the aces of spades that had been inlaid into the uppers. He did not look at what was left of Chucky Hart's face. "All right, Jason." Marshal Cavendish turned away. "Go fetch Mort, the undertaker." The big lawman spit again and stepped back onto the boardwalk. "I reckon I've figured it all out now. Chucky and Horatio got into a fight over cards. That's ruined many a friendship and marriage." "But," Chester, the old jehu, said, "Chucky and Horatio didn't even know one another. They wasn't no friends." "And they sure weren't married," said the saloon girl who no longer was on hands and knees in front of the doorway. A few men in the saloon laughed. Dooley didn't find it funny. Nor did Marshal Cavendish. "So why in hell did y'all send me and my boys running yonder way?" His fat finger pointed across the street at the darkened alley and the corner of a vacant building that was splintered, but not in such dire straits as Starr's Millinery. "Marshal?" Dooley said, and now the lawmen stared coldly at Dooley. So did the three deputies left as Jason had walked down the boardwalk to fetch the undertaker. "Who are you?" Cavendish asked. "Dooley Monahan," Dooley said, and steeled himself for what he knew would be coming. Dooley Monahan! The famous bounty hunter? The gunfighter who killed Dev and Alf Baylor, and their brother Jason, and all their kinfolk and even some who weren't kinfolk. That Dooley Monahan? Only, the lawman did not say that. He did not even open his mouth. He just glared. "What do you have to say, Dooley Monahan?" Dooley sighed. "I was playing poker," he said. "When I stepped out, some fellow over there . . ." He pointed at the alley, and had to catch his breath. He felt himself shaking now that everything was over, now that the adrenaline had worn off. "Some man took a shot at me." He picked up his hat and poked his fingers through the two holes. "I dived there." He pointed at the water trough with new scars from bullets. "Un-huh," the lawman grunted. "I got off a few rounds, and I'm pretty sure I winged the gunman in his left arm." He considered that, and sighed. "Maybe his right." "You can't tell your right from your left, Dooley Monahan?" the marshal said without any humor. "Well." Dooley tried to picture what he could remember, see the gunfight again, but he saw mostly darkness, a few muzzle flashes, and a dead stagecoach guard who had saved his life, and a man with fancy boots whose face had taken quite a few rounds of buckshot. "If he was left-handed, I'd say I winged him in his right hand," Dooley said. "Around here." He tapped his underarm between the wrist and elbow. "But if he shoots right-handed, I think I hit his left arm." "Did you see him?" "Just his rifle. Too dark." "Charley," Marshal Cavendish said to the deputy holding his own Winchester and Jason's Sharps. "Go back there and see if you spot any blood or maybe a left arm, or a right arm, or a Winchester, or anything that might tell me just why the hell some fools decided to shoot up Denver proper on a night when it's twenty-two degrees and damp." Deputy Charley handed his Winchester to one deputy and Jason's Sharps to another and jogged across the muddy street. "So you're shooting at this guy across the street," Marshal Cavendish said. And waited. "Yes, sir. I got a few rounds off, and then I know I hit him because I heard him yell and drop the rifle. And I thought I had him, but then Blue . . . that's my dog." He stopped, looked around, and let out a sigh of relief when he found the dog back behind the water trough, waiting patiently. "Shepherd," Marshal Cavendish said. "Good dog. Dog like that'd fetch six hundred dollars in Denver." Dooley blinked. The merchant had not been exaggerating about the prices in Denver. "What's a saddle tramp like you doing with a good dog like that?" Dooley shrugged. "Lucky. Just lucky. Anyway, I was waiting for the man across the street to try for his rifle he had dropped when Blue started growling, and charged, and I turned around and saw that man." He did not look in the direction of the late dead man with fancy boots and not much of a face anymore, but merely jutted his thumb in the general direction of what remained of Chucky Hart and Starr's Millinery. "My Colt jammed. I threw it at him, but missed. It . . . um . . . well . . . it went through the millinery window." He paused, but seeing no reaction, continued. "That's when Horatio came from around the corner there. He shot that dead man with the boots." "Chucky wasn't dead then, was he?" the marshal said. Dooley studied Cavendish, thinking the man was joking, but then realizing it was a real question. "No," Dooley said, shaking his head. "No, no, of course not." "Sixty-five-dollar fine," Cavendish said, "for shooting a corpse in this city." Dooley couldn't sink his teeth into that. He shook his head. "Well, Blue was charging, Horatio came out, and Hart, the man there, he tried to swing his rifle from me to Horatio, but Horatio shot first." He seemed to see the whole thing happening again. Dooley leaned against the column, feeling the splintered post scratch his back. "So," Marshal Cavendish said. "The old coot who owed me money up and killed the turkey trying to kill you, and then the turkey got off his last shot and killed the fellow that killed him. Is that what you're telling me, sonny boy?" Dooley shook his head. "No, no, Hart didn't kill Horatio." "Then who, by thunder, done the dirty deed?" Dooley looked across the street and saw Deputy Charley jogging back through the mud until he stopped a few paces in front of Marshal Cavendish. "No rifle, Marshal," the deputy reported, and took his Winchester from the hands of one of the remaining deputies but did not bother to relieve Jason's Sharps from the other. "And the alley's too muddy and it's too dark to see if there's any blood. But beyond the fence and the trash cans, I saw where two horses had been tethered. Some horse apples, right fresh, ground all churned up, and it stunk of horse pee. Found some boot prints. One horse was still there. The other was gone." "You see all that, but no blood?" Cavendish asked. "Well, like I said . . ." "Don't say it again, Charley." Cavendish stared at Dooley again. "Go fetch the horse that was left. I figure it'll be Chucky Hart's, but my figuring ain't been so good this night, so let's make certain of things." Deputy Charley handed his rifle to the deputy not holding another deputy's rifle and, sighing, went back through the mud and slop to the alley again. "And look for blood this time, Charley!" Cavendish shouted. "Why don't we come to my office." The marshal was not asking a question. "Have some coffee. Warm our toes by my stove. And see if I can get my head wrapped around what happened here tonight. Ben, go into Miss Starr's store and fetch this jasper's pistol. And maybe one of them fancy hats. My wife, she's partial to those pretty little things." * * * Which is how Dooley spent the rest of the night. Marshal Cavendish turned out to be quite particular when investigating two killings in his city, because, he explained, Denver had plenty of newspapers and reporters asked plenty of questions. He took statements from all the witnesses and finally came to the conclusion that an unknown assailant had fired on Dooley Monahan, no permanent residence, with deliberate and willful intention to do bodily harm and perhaps even commit murder on said Monahan. Horatio Whitman, guard employed by the Leadville-Denver Transportation Company, then killed Chucky Hart, notorious scoundrel hanging his hat since September at the McAllister Wagon Yard on Broadway, who was attempting to kill the aforementioned Dooley Monahan, and leaden shot willfully fired from two barrels of a Parker ten-gauge shotgun duly dispatched the aforementioned Chucky Hart into Boot Hill by way of Mort's Undertaking Parlor. Moments later, an unknown assailant fired a .44-40 caliber shot from a Winchester rifle or carbine and said .44-40 bullet penetrated the breast and heart of the aforementioned Horatio Whitman, killing the latter dead instantaneously. The assassin fled with the rifle used to dispatch the aforementioned Horatio Whitman and departed for parts unknown. "Sign there." Marshal Cavendish tapped the paper and handed the pen to Dooley, who signed his name and leaned back in his chair. "And you got no idea who'd want to kill you?" the marshal asked as he sipped his coffee. "No, sir." "Maybe," Chester Motz, the stagecoach driver, said, "it wasn't Dooley the cur wanted to gun down. Maybe he'd taken that shot at Dooley to lure Horatio out into the open. So he could shoot down Horatio, which he done, and get his mine." "What mine?" "The one Dooley won offen him." The marshal stared hard at Dooley, then at Chester, then at his four deputies, then at Mort the undertaker, and finally at Blue, who was gnawing on a steak bone. "You read too many dime novels," Cavendish said. He slid his coffee cup across the desk, gathered the papers, stacked them into a neat pile, and laid them on top of the city directory. "I'm fining you, Dooley Monahan, three thousand dollars." "What for?" Dooley sprang out of his chair so fast, Blue stopped devouring the bone. "Unlawful discharge of firearms in the city limits." He shook his head. "We got a lot of fixing to do on Miss Starr's store." He stared at the hat he had procured for his wife. "But I didn't start the fight. I'm a victim." "All I know is I've got two corpses that didn't have no money on them at all, and a store shot to hell that if it don't get fixed and fixed up good might run off the best lady ever come to Denver for some hellhole like Cheyenne or Deadwood. You want that on your conscience, Dooley Monahan?" Dooley sat back in the chair. "I don't think I have three thousand dollars," he said. "What about that mine up in Leadville you won off the late Horatio Whitman?" Dooley glared. He found his poke and dropped it on the desk. Marshal Cavendish began counting, and adding on other fines he decided Dooley needed to pay. After all, two horses were now missing, scared off from the hitching rail in front of the Elkhorn Saloon, and there were other buildings, including the Elkhorn, that had been damaged. The marshal returned Dooley's poke with thirty-two cents. Dooley shook his head. "Get out of town, Dooley Monahan," Marshal Cavendish said. "We got us a city ordinance that doesn't allow no vagrants here." Dooley smiled. "I still have a mine." "Yep. But I've seen plenty of mines in my day and plenty of broke miners." Dooley was ready to leave Denver. He turned and saw Chester Motz staring at Dooley. "Old-timer, how do you get to Leadville again?" Dooley asked. "You ride the stagecoach with me," the toothless jehu said. Dooley laughed. "I'm no messenger." "You are now." Dooley drew in a breath, slowly realizing that Chester Motz was not joking. "That's another law we have in Denver, boy," Marshal Cavendish said. "If you're responsible for a man's death, you got to fill his job for two or three days." "But I didn't kill Horatio," Dooley said. "I . . ." And then it struck Dooley that, indeed, he was responsible for the stagecoach guard's death. That he owed Horatio more than he could ever repay. The chair legs ground across the rough floor as Dooley slid away from the desk and rose. He shoved his not-so-heavy poke into his pocket. "Can I tie up my horse behind the stage?" Dooley asked. "Suits me," Chester said. "I'll only charge him half fare." He handed Dooley the Parker ten-gauge that had once belonged to Horatio Whitman. CHAPTER FOUR He woke up in the wagon yard, wondering how his luck had turned. One moment, he had a deed to a mine in Leadville and a small fortune in his poke. Now he was brushing hay off his bedroll and did not have enough money to buy a decent breakfast—not at Denver prices, anyway. On the other hand, Dooley thought as he rolled up his bedroll, he still had that deed to the mine the late Horatio Whitman—Dooley still found it hard to believe what had happened last night—had signed over to him. After getting most of the hay off his clothes, Dooley saddled General Grant, tied the bedroll behind the cantle, and washed his face in the water bucket outside the stall he had paid to sleep in. Once Dooley had slipped the bridle onto General Grant, he took the reins and led his horse into the early dawn. "Come on, Blue," he called out. He saw his breath in what little light the clouds and slowly rising sun allowed. The merle-colored dog lifted its head, yawned, stretched, and slowly followed Dooley and the horse out of the wagon yard. Slowly, the city began to show life, and by the time Dooley had reached the Queen City Hotel, people began opening their stores, and the aromas of coffee and hotcakes and fried bacon and eggs made Dooley realize that he had not eaten in an eternity. Then he saw the stagecoach, and lost his appetite. "That's not a Concord," he told Chester Motz, who sat atop the wagon securing a trunk with some rope. The bald-headed, toothless old man in buckskins finished his knot and gave Dooley a quick glance. "And it ain't no celerity wagon, neither." The driver spit tobacco juice that splattered and steamed on the hard, cold ground. "You ain't never seen no mud wagon before?" Dooley sighed. "I've seen them, but nothing like that." Laughing, the old man backed his way back into the driver's box and deftly climbed down, dropping from the cap of the front wheel and into the frozen street. "I call her For'," the jehu said, and patted the side of the coach. "Four?" Dooley asked. "As in . . ." "No," the old man barked. "For'. Short for Forlorn." He moved down the six-mule team and gestured toward an open door. "Let's get some coffee, Dooley. I'll tell you about the route we take to Leadville." Dooley decided he could drink some coffee, so he tethered General Grant to the hitching rail in front of the hotel's side entrance, told Blue to stay, and he entered the kitchen of the hotel. He hoped he didn't have to pay for the coffee. He didn't. Motz pointed at a map and talked about this and that, but Dooley mostly looked through the open door at the mud wagon. It was square shaped, with canvas stretched across the top over struts of some wood that Dooley prayed would be strong enough to keep the trunk from falling through and smashing any passengers seated in the backseat. Dooley wasn't sure where the old man had secured the rope, but he understood why the trunk had not been put in the rear boot. That was already packed with crates and barrels and grips and carpetbags. There must be a full load of passengers, and the three benches inside the coach had some blankets and even more luggage. Canvas side curtains—no doors, no wooden sides—had been rolled up, but Dooley expected the passengers to lower them once they rode off, to keep out the wind and cold. Dooley figured it wouldn't be much colder riding in the box with the old man. From the look of the seat atop the mud wagon, it wouldn't be any less comfortable than riding in the coach. Otherwise, the wagon looked like any other stagecoach on the frontier—with thoroughbraces that would have the passengers seasick before too long. Yeah, Dooley decided, he would be better off riding up top with Chester Motz. And the coffee wasn't disgusting. "For' ain't bad," Motz told Dooley. "Lighter than most coaches. And those mules know my touch. You just keep an eye out for bad men. We'll hit Leadville in two days, plus a few hours. Or three days. Maybe four. What time does that watch of yourn say it is?" Dooley fished out the old key-wind. "About ten past six." "Hell's hottest fires, boy, we need to light out." He pulled up his collar, tugged down his old hat, gulped down the rest of the coffee, and stepped outside, yelling in a voice that would raise the dead: "The stage to Leadville is leavin' in five minutes. Stops at Idaho Springs, Georgetown, Silverthorne, and Frisco along the way. And anywhere else we happen to lose a wheel or break an axle. Get on now or get left behind." Dooley drank the rest of his own coffee, wiped his mouth, hurriedly tied General Grant behind the mud wagon, and then picked up Blue and handed him to Chester Motz, already in the driver's box and filling his mouth with fresh tobacco. "What's that fer?" the old man asked, spraying dark, wet tobacco leaves into the wind. "The passengers won't like a dog riding with them," Dooley said. Motz frowned. Dooley smiled. "He's still got his winter coat. It'll keep your feet warm." That did it. The old man smiled, reached down, and took Blue in his rawhide hands. "Had a pet coon oncet," Motz said. "Was a good pal. But then come the hard winter and I got hungry." Dooley tried to forget that statement, and he reached up for a hold, put one foot on the cap, and quickly made his way into the box after Chester slid into his place. "Horatio's Parker's down in the boot," the old man said. Then he stood up and bellowed, "This wagon's pullin' out. If you ain't on now, you ain't gettin' on till I comes back in about a week or three or four." No one had gotten on the wagon. Dooley had just brought up the ten-gauge shotgun when Chester Motz released the brake, lashed out with a whip, and began bellowing a string of profanity as the mules bolted, the mud wagon rattled and lost a few parts, and they took off out of Denver and heading west. * * * "There's nobody on board!" Dooley had pulled up his bandanna to fight the wind and the cold. "What?" Chester Motz leaned forward, whip in one hand, lines to the six mules in the other. He slashed out again with the whip, but Dooley couldn't hear the pop because of the wind roaring past his ears and the creaking and banging of the coach. Dooley repeated his statement. "That's right!" They reached the first hill, which meant the coach slowed, and the wind did not roar so loudly as the team climbed the incline. "There's a lot of luggage for an empty stagecoach," Dooley observed. "Cheaper than paying the freightin' cost," Motz said. He spit over the side of the coach. "Do you ever haul passengers?" "Oh, sure." He leaned forward again and barked curses at the lead mules, worked the lines, and set the whip back in its holder. "But not this time of year, hardly a-tall." "Why's that?" The old man laughed and turned away from the mules and roads and stared at Dooley as if he were an idiot. "You know anything 'bout Leadville, boy?" "It's a silver town. Boomtown." "Yeah, and it happens to be about two miles above sea level. Denver's right at a mile. You feel how cold it is right now?" Dooley nodded. "That's summer in Leadville, boy." The whip came out of its holder and the profanity came out of Motz's mouth. Thirty grueling, bone-jarring, butt-aching miles later, the mud wagon slid this way and that into Clear Creek Canyon and wheeled into Idaho Falls, which, from what Dooley could see, looked like a fine little town, jammed into the canyon, with plenty of saloons and gambling halls. He had read about the town during the Pikes Peak gold rush all those years ago, but he did not get much time to appreciate the city because they were pulling out after dropping off the trunk atop the coach and a barrel inside. Georgetown looked interesting, too, from what Dooley could see of it, for it was pitch-dark by then, and the old jehu spit and nodded at some flickering lights in the distance. "That's Silver Plume," Motz shouted, "but we don't go there." Thus went Dooley's tour of Colorado's front range. He had fallen asleep after the change of mules and slept fitfully, bouncing this way and that, until he felt the wagon lurch to a stop and heard Chester Motz mutter something. "Come on, you lazy, good-fer-nothin' replacement for ol' Horatio who was just as worthless as you is!" That was not muttered. Dooley almost tumbled over the side of the coach and wondered if he would ever be able to hear out of his left ear again. "Get down!" Dooley blinked the sleep out of his eyes and slid off the mud wagon, careful not to step on the sleeping Blue. "What are we doing?" asked Dooley, who still had not awakened completely. It was dawn, cold, and here patches of ice covered the road and most of the country. "Grab that log," Chester Motz instructed, and Dooley saw the stripped piece of pine or spruce or whatever. He had to kick it a few times for it had frozen to the ground, but he managed to shove it down the embankment. Motz had moved to the other side of the wagon. "We're gonna lash this to the coach, brace it against the back wheels," the driver explained. "That way the wheels don't go too fast. Don't go a-tall iffen we's lucky." "That'll slow us down," Dooley said. "That, boy, is the gen'ral idear." He pointed. Dooley looked at the mountain they were about to descend. "C'mon, Dooley, daylight is a-burnin'." His throat turned dry, and his chest ached from the bitter, frigid air, and his own anxiety. Somehow, they managed to fasten the log to the wheels, and Dooley saw General Grant eyeing him, more like pleading with him. "Hey, Mr. Motz," Dooley said as he stepped to the off side of the mud wagon. "Call me Chester, boy, or don't call me nothin' a-tall." "Well, Chester, maybe I should ride my horse down this slope." "Maybe you should get your arse back in this seat. I've been down this hill more times than you can count, Dooley, and I ain't wrecked a stagecoach on this route but four or five times. Two of 'em don't count 'cause I was drunk." Dooley made himself climb back into the box. "Are you drunk now?" Dooley asked. "No." The old man released the brake. "But I wish to Sam Hill I was." He did not use the whip, but merely flicked the lines. The mules began tentatively stepping down the hill. The old man deftly moved his left hand to the brake, and set it. One thin hand gripped the lines to the six mules. The other held the brake, giving it more pressure, then less. By now Dooley could see the ice-coated road clearly, and he could see the twists and turns and the edges that plummeted into a sea of white and rocks and snow-covered trees. Dooley took in a deep breath. Part of him wanted to jump off the side. But he managed to summon up enough courage, although his fingers practically tore through the rotten, dried, brittle wood on his side of the driver's box. "What do we do now?" Dooley asked. Motz answered, "We pray." CHAPTER FIVE "You're the best damned jehu I've ever seen," Dooley said after they had removed the log brake at the bottom of the treacherous mountain. "Stephen Foster should write songs about you." "I ain't half-bad," Chester Motz said. "You're all right, Dooley. Old Horatio, God rest his worthless soul, he wet his britches five or six times we made the run. You done fine. Didn't even puke." Dooley wondered if his hat would still fit. That is, when he had enough money to buy a new hat. His old one, the one with two bullet holes in the crown, had blown off his head sometime between Georgetown and the Clear Creek crossing. "Maria should have us a hot meal and some good coffee waitin' at Silverthorne." Maria did, and Dooley ate with relish after that nightmarish, frigid run. The fat Mexican woman took a liking to Blue and fed him table scraps until he bloated up. There wasn't much to Silverthorne, just a stagecoach station and some fresh mules. There wasn't much to Frisco just down the road, either, though Chester Motz said both towns—if you could call them towns—had plenty of prospectors who were searching for pay dirt and had grown tired of Breckenridge and Leadville and that once one of those miners found gold, or silver, or maybe even some copper, the towns would pull hard-luck miners away from Leadville and maybe as far away as Denver. At Frisco, the damnedest thing happened. A man was waiting to get on the mud wagon and travel to Leadville. Dooley did not know quite what to make of the man. Oh, he definitely stood out, with the curly, dark hair pulled behind his ears and hanging well past his shoulders. He sported a well-groomed mustache and long goatee, had dark eyes, a bronzed face, and appeared to be a good two or maybe even four inches taller than Dooley. He wore a low-crowned hat with the brim turned in just about every which way possible, pushed up on one side, down in front, cocked almost at a right angle in the back, and just slightly askew on the other side. A multicolored, braided stampede string of horsehair hung tight against the man's throat. His shirt appeared to be made of red velvet, and the double-breasted coat, unbuttoned and hanging loose, had a fur collar and fur trim down one side, fur cuffs, and fringe along the shoulders and down at the bottom. It was a long coat, too, of buckskin, just like the man's britches, which were stuck inside black boots that gleamed. He wore a gun belt—though the long coat hit whatever holster he donned on a hip—that was held up by the biggest, dad-blasted buckle—silver with some red stones set inside—Dooley had ever seen. The man wore gauntlets, too, fancy and stitched with multiple colors that made the design of a pelican—or maybe an osprey . . . well, a bird of some kind, anyhow. The man also held a heavy Winchester rifle—not one of those carbines but the new Centennial model that chambered shells that could bring down a buffalo. "By jingo," the man said in a musical voice that matched his dazzling eyes, "had I known you would be driving the wagon to Leadville, Chester, I would not have shot my horse, but merely put a splint on the poor creature's left forefoot and made him take me into Leadville." "Willie," Chester Motz said with a nod after bringing the team to a stop and wrapping the lines around the brake. "I thought you'd be playing soldier boy or thespian or just drunk." "I might be playing thespian, old hoss," the man said, butting his Winchester on the cold ground, "and I have not soldiered in many a year, but I certainly could not play the drunk." He winked. "One cannot play what he truly is. That's real." "You got money?" Motz asked. "Waiting for me in Leadville." The man smiled. "Don't you trust me, old hoss?" "No, but as soon as these jaspers unload some of the boxes in my coach, I'll have need of you for ballast and the likes. You can pay the boss man when we ride into town. And the boss man is me." "That might not be necessary, old friend." Dooley frowned. Willie—and decked out like some dime-novel hero—was staring with quite the admiring eyes at General Grant. "If you're thinking about making an offer on that horse," Dooley informed him, "don't. He's not for sale. If you're thinking about stealing him, don't." The man laughed. "I'm no common horse thief, my dear fellow. But perchance you might be interested in wagering this fine, handsome steed against." He tapped the stock of the Winchester Centennial against the ice pack near the porch to the stagecoach station. "Even at Denver prices," Dooley said, "that rifle couldn't buy enough hairs from General Grant's tail to braid you a new stampede string." The man laughed again. "No matter. I have but one cartridge left for this cannon of a rifle." The burly men at the station got the last luggage out of the wagon. The man with the long hair brought the Centennial up and tucked it underneath his left arm while his right reached toward the driver's box. "My name's Cody, sir. William F. Cody." "Most folks call him Buffalo Bill," Chester Motz said, "but I just call'm Willie." Dooley almost dropped the Parker ten-gauge over the side of the mud wagon. He wiped his hands on his trousers and took the fancy gauntlet worn by William F. Cody into his hand. The man had a firm handshake, but not one that would crush Dooley's bones. He kept the shake brief, too. "I'm . . . um . . . Dooley," Dooley said. "Dooley Monahan." Buffalo Bill Cody backed up toward the rough-looking log cabin that served as the stagecoach station in this small little burg. "Not the Dooley Monahan," the famed scout and thespian and hero of many stories and novels and newspaper accounts said. "Well," Dooley said, uncomfortable, "I am a Dooley Monahan. It ain't that common of a name, but I reckon there's probably at least another one with that handle." He had read back in one of the Denver newspapers that the people who did all the counting expected the population of the United States and her territories to come close to fifty million or maybe even more once they got around to counting for the next census. "The Dooley Monahan I refer to," Buffalo Bill Cody said, "dispatched the nefarious scoundrels Jason Baylor and his no-account brothers Alf and Dev. He shot dead their cousin in Cheyenne, Wyoming. He ended the reign of terror brought on by the notorious Dobbs-Handley Gang. I have long waited to make this bounty hunter's hand and shake it." Dooley shuffled his feet. "Well, I reckon you done shook his hand, sir. I'm that Dooley Monahan, but I'm not a bounty hunter. I just happen to . . . get . . . ummm . . . mixed up in things." "By jingo," Buffalo Bill said, and stepped back. "A man as deadly as Jesse James with the eye of Wild Bill Hickok and the nerves of Sitting Bull. And he's modest, to boot. Well, Chester, you have no need to fear of bandits plundering your worthy conveyance . . . not with the legendary Dooley Monahan riding shotgun on . . ." He stopped suddenly and turned quickly toward the bald-headed coot who crammed his mouth full of chewing tobacco. "By thunder, where is Horatio?" "Dead," Chester said. "Kilt in Denver by the bullet fired by some unknown fiend who lacked the courage and scruples to step out of the shadows and face a body man to man." Now the jehu was sounding just like Buffalo Bill. "Sad. Old Horatio." Cody removed his hat, bowed his head, closed his eyes. "Struck down in the prime of life." "He was older that Methuselah, Willie," Motz informed the showman. "If you're comin' with us, say amen and climb aboard. I got a schedule to keep." "Amen," Buffalo Bill Cody said, and climbed into the coach. "Give him your dog," Motz ordered Dooley. "I'll do no such thing," Dooley protested. "Not for keeps, you dern idiot," Motz said, and shifted his massive bulge of tobacco from one cheek to the other. "For ballast. They've moved my loads around and if you think we've done some crazy turns and gone through some places not fit for a snake to crawl through, wait till you see the road to Leadville from here on up. And I mean up." So Dooley climbed down and let the old coot hand him Blue. He let the workers pet Blue and allowed a rawboned man with a beard to his belly give the dog some jerky. Then Dooley stuck his head through the closed curtain door and introduced Buffalo Bill Cody to Blue, the merle-colored shepherd from somewhere. "A noble beast like this fine specimen," Buffalo Bill said, and scratched Blue behind the ears, "will make this ride all the more bearable." "He'll keep your feet warm, too, Colonel Cody," Dooley said. "Be a good dog, Blue." "We shall get along splendidly," Cody said. "I will see you in Leadville, Dooley." "Yes, sir." "If we live to see Leadville," Chester Motz hollered from the box. "Now get back in this box, Dooley Monahan, or you'll be walkin' to Leadville. And that's like walkin' to heaven." Dooley came back up, and the wagon was barreling out of Frisco before Dooley got his left leg inside the box. * * * Roughly thirty miles. That's all that separated Frisco from Leadville, and fresh mules could cover that distance in no time. At least, that's what Dooley thought. But the mud wagon was not a crow. And the road was not much of a road. Up they went, following Tenmile Creek until darkness swallowed them, for night came early this high in the Rocky Mountains. And before long Dooley Monahan wished he had Blue up in the driver's box to keep his feet warm. Dooley thought he might doze again, but not with the lurching wagon, the biting cold, and the curses and popping of the whip. They turned left. They turned right. They ran over logs knocked down by wind and heavy snow. They sank into the thick mud that had not frozen. They skated over the ice when the creek crossed the road. He smelled the forest. He saw the outlines of trees, of boulders, of towering mountains that made him feel ever so small. He froze his butt off. They stopped at a rise, woke Cody up, and lashed another log to the back wheels and slid down another terrifying ride, with only the light of two lanterns and the eyes of six mules guiding their way. Dooley had half a mind to take General Grant and leave this insanity behind. But he kept telling himself that he was a man of his word, and, well, it was mighty dark in these hills. Twice, Motz pulled the mud wagon to a stop and made Dooley and Cody and even the loyal blue-haired dog step out and walk up the steep trail behind the coach. Four times, Cody and Dooley had to push, their boots slipping and sliding, trying to find traction on the ice. Once, Cody slipped and began sliding down the ridge, and Dooley grabbed hold of him and slid a few yards, too, before he managed to find a limb that stopped both of them from going all the way down to Clinton Creek or wherever it was the jehu said they were near. Another time, it was Dooley who slipped and Buffalo Bill Cody who stopped his fall. By dawn, they made the turn and crossed the East Fork of the Arkansas River. "It's a piece of cherry pie from here on in to Leadville, boys," Chester Motz exclaimed. "And there's hot coffee and marmot dumplin's waitin' fer us at Sugar's place in Leadville." "Marmot dumplings?" Dooley thought aloud, and wondered just what he had gotten himself into. A short—relatively speaking—while later, the mud wagon pulled to a stop at the confluence of Chalk Creek and the East Fork. "Wake up," Chester Motz said. Dooley opened his eyes. "Some shotgun you is. I'd been better off just proppin' Horatio's dead carcass up to be my guard." Dooley blinked, yawned, and felt his stomach jump up toward his throat. Six men blocked the road. They all wore masks. They all pointed shotguns at Dooley Monahan and Chester Motz. "This is a holdup," one of the men said. "No foolin'." Chester Motz spit tobacco juice into the frozen water. CHAPTER SIX "Shotgun," the leader demanded. At least, Dooley assumed he led the road agents, as he had announced that this was a holdup. Dooley knew what he meant, and he wet his lips, considering his options. The odds had to be worse than actually drawing to an inside straight, but he had hired on to protect the stagecoach. Chester Motz, however, showed his wisdom and common sense by whispering, "Son, there ain't nothin' on this haul worth dyin' fer." Using plenty of caution, and deliberately showing the bandits his movements, Dooley thumbed the lever just below the scattergun's hammers. The barrels tilted forward, and Dooley slowly removed the two loads of buckshot, dropped them between his boots, and then gently laid the shotgun on the top of the canvas roof. "Pistol, too," the masked man said. "But drop it over the side. We don't have all day to watch you unload that six-shooter." A few of the men chuckled. At least, Dooley thought they laughed, but it was hard to tell with their masks muffling their voices. Before Dooley could move to tug the heavy revolver out of his holster, the man with the flour sack for a face waved his pistol and spoke again. "On second thought, just leave the pistol in the holster, and carefully—and I mean real careful, mister—unbuckle the whole rig and drop it over the side." "Ain't you the careful one," said a big cuss on a piebald mare and with a yellow bandanna over the bottom of his face. "That man," the leader said, "is hell with a six-shooter. So, yeah, I aim to be real careful around him." Dooley carefully rose off the bench, wondering how the man knew his reputation as a gunman, while pushing open his coat and pulling on the belt. He slid the gun belt well over the side, just so no one thought he might try to pull the Colt, and let it fall. It cracked on the ice. About that time, the canvas door unfurled, and Buffalo Bill Cody stepped out. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, all in a huff. "The meaning of this," said the leader, "is that if you don't lift them hands, is that Chalk Creek's ice is gonna be red with your blood till the spring thaw." Dooley looked behind him, relieved to see that the legendary frontiersman had left his Winchester Centennial in the coach. What made him breathe easier was when Cody lifted both hands. He did not look happy, but at least he decided not to be the hero he truly was. For the time being. "All right," the leader said. "See what suits you." Three of the owlhoots slid out of their saddles, holstering their guns and moving delicately across the slippery ground toward the mud wagon. The others kept their guns aimed at Cody, Motz, and Dooley. Dooley focused on the leader. He wore black woolen pants, black boots, and a green plaid mackinaw. A flour sack covered his face, with holes cut out near his eyes, and he wore a tan slouch hat with a yellow bandanna tied over the crown, bringing the brim down over his ears and tied underneath his chin. Instant earmuffs, because it was mighty cold. Dooley had done that several times back during his cowpunching years on the Northern Plains. But the man did not look like a cowboy. First, he didn't have spurs. Second, he didn't carry a lariat. Third, the revolver he held was a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson, far too fancy for a thirty-dollar-a-month-and-found waddie. And his saddle scabbard was empty. Maybe he had loaned his carbine or rifle to one of his colleagues in crime. Colleagues in crime? Dooley shook his head. "I've been reading too many dime novels," he said to himself, "or listening to Buffalo Bill Cody." "What's that?" the leader said. "Nothing," Dooley told him. There was something else about the bandit chieftain. He wore black leather gloves, but the sleeve of his mackinaw and shirt had risen, and Dooley could see a white rag wrapped around his left wrist. The rag appeared to be stained brown, which could have been tobacco juice, but the man was not chewing, and Dooley figured it might be blood. He wasn't sure what it meant, but that empty scabbard and that makeshift bandage had him thinking about the assassin in the alley back in Denver City. Dooley shook his head. That was a stretch. One of the men lifted Buffalo Bill's purse from his coat pocket and the .44 caliber Remington from his holster. "His gun's almost as pretty as yourn—" The leader squeezed the trigger, and the bullet slapped into a tree on the side of the road. The mules jumped in their traces, and one of the outlaws had to dismount and quickly gather the reins to the horses without riders. "Say my name," the leader said, "and I kill you, you damned fool, and the passengers." "I wasn't gonna say your name, boss," the man said. His voice quivered with fear. "Just get their valuables." On the other side of the mud wagon, another outlaw muttered, "I can't make heads or tails out of all these boxes and stuff in here . . . Hey . . ." Dooley grimaced. The man had likely spied Buffalo Bill's rifle. "There's a dog in here." Inside, Blue growled. "Nice dog," the bandit said. Blue's growl intensified. "Nice dog." Panic filled the outlaw's voice. "Blue," Dooley called out. "Easy, boy. Easy." The canvas curtain flapped back, closing the coach, and the outlaw eased away. "What's the matter, you yeller cur!" one of the outlaws chided. "You scairt of some dog?" "Wolfhound," the man explained. "Blue. Mean critter." The men laughed. Buffalo Bill Cody took a moment to make a speech. "I assure you boys," he said, "that you think you have the upper hand, but crime never pays. I know. Not that I ever tried my hand at nefarious, evil schemes, but I have lived on the frontier long enough to have witnessed the folly of men who try to make their fortune on ill-gotten gains. Therefore, I suggest that you forgo this poor judgment. Before hell breaks loose." Hell, Dooley knew, always broke loose when he found himself in a predicament like this one. And he had been in many such predicaments. He wished Buffalo Bill would . . . "Shut your fool mouth!" The criminal nearest Cody took the words right out of Dooley's mouth. Buffalo Bill Cody pouted. The outlaws went about their business. Dooley tried to make a few mental observations that he hoped he might remember. The horses. He could not see the brands. The saddles. Mostly slick forks, double-rigs, a few with breast collars. But nothing really stood out. And the outlaws themselves seemed pretty much nondescript, with their various masks and standard clothes. The only special weapon, Dooley noticed, was the shiny Smith & Wesson the leader kept aiming at Dooley's chest. He looked down the trail, but saw only more ice, more snow, and woods lining the road. "Beans," said the man checking the luggage boot in the back. "Nails. Minin' tools. It'll take a month of Sundays to sort through this, and I ain't sure we'd find nothin' of much value. But this here's a real nice hoss that's been ridin' drag." "Take the mules," the leader said. That got Chester Motz's hackles up. He reached for the whip in the boot, but now it was Dooley's turn to offer sage advice. "Those mules aren't worth dying for, either, old man," he said. "The hell they ain't," Motz said in a deadly whisper. "You want to be the man history will blame for getting Buffalo Bill killed?" Dooley tried again. "Because you pull that whip out, and we're all dead." Motz slipped back onto the hard bench and spit tobacco as some of the boys began unhitching the team. "How much in that dandy's billfold?" another outlaw asked the one who had stolen Buffalo Bill's purse. "Two hunnert," the man answered, "maybe more." "That's more like it," the outlaw searching the boot said. The other one backed out of the coach and stuck his sawed-off shotgun at Motz. "Strongbox up there, mister?" "No," Motz said. "Ain't carryin' no mail pouch, neither." "Then I'll take your poke." Motz laughed, but lifted his butt off the bench high enough so he could squeeze his fingers into his trousers pocket and pull out a very, very thin pouch, which he tossed down between the outlaw's boots. "That's it?" the man said after picking up the pouch, pulling open the drawstrings, and staring inside. "Let that be a lesson to you, boy," Motz said. "Don't play poker." The other man aimed Cody's Remington .44 at Dooley. "How 'bout you, shotgun?" Dooley grinned and found his wallet, which he handed with a gleam in his eyes at the man with the red and white polka-dot wild rag covering the lower part of his face. "Ain't nothin' in here but some coins," the man said. "Denver prices," Dooley explained. The mules were being led away. "This ain't hardly worth our time, freezin' our arses off all night waitin' for this coach," said the man who had almost called the leader by his name. "Maybe." But now the leader kicked his horse into a walk and eased the chestnut mare toward Dooley's side of the mud wagon. The fancy pistol lifted toward Dooley's face, and the man said, "A man with a horse like that—he's got to be coming to Leadville with something more than small change." "Boss," said one of the men looping a lead rope to the mules. "That messenger can't own that horse. That's a fine, fine steed. Horse like that, he has to be owned by the dandy yonder." Dandy meaning Buffalo Bill Cody. "You're hiding out on me, mister," the man with the Smith & Wesson said. And Dooley could see the white rag just above the man's left wrist. It was not stained with tobacco juice. The man held the Smith & Wesson in his right hand. Right hand. Bullet wound in the left arm. Empty scabbard on his saddle. This, Dooley knew, was the man who had tried to waylay him in Denver. "Let's have it," the highwayman said. "It ain't," Chester Motz whispered, "worth dyin' fer, Dooley." So Dooley let out a sigh of defeat and eased his left hand inside his coat pocket. He found the deed the late grizzly bear of a shotgun guard named Horatio Whitman had signed over, and withdrew the flimsy piece of paper, and handed it, between his pointer and middle fingers, to the man in the flour sack. Although he could not see the man's face—just the hard eyes through the holes in the sack—Dooley knew the leader was smiling as he plucked the deed from Dooley's fingers and shoved it into a coat pocket. "I'll fetch that fine-lookin' hoss," said one of the outlaws. "I'm a-gonna take that dog," said another. "Always wanted me a cur dog fer a pet." "Don't be a dad-blasted fool," the leader said, turning his head quickly, away from Dooley, staring at the man who was reaching for the canvas-curtain door. Dooley braced himself. Started to yell at Blue, to yell at the damn fool outlaw, but he was too late. The curtain was pushed back, and Blue let out a vicious bark. The coach seemed to lunge this way and that, so hard Dooley thought the mud wagon might tip over. The man screamed. A gun roared. And Dooley dived onto the man with the flour mask, the fancy Smith & Wesson, and the deed to Dooley's mine in Leadville. Hell broke loose, but Dooley had figured that was bound to happen. CHAPTER SEVEN The dumb fool screamed as Blue sank his fangs into the man's arm, as he dropped his weapon between the right wheels on the mud wagon. Dooley saw the man and the blur of Dooley's blue dog. He also saw the leader with the flour sack of a face, swinging that shiny pistol toward Blue. That was just about all Dooley had a chance to see, because he was still standing, and he leaped out of the driver's box. He caught the gang's leader across the chest, heard and felt the blast from the pistol, but Dooley knew he had knocked the gun arm, spoiling the killer's aim. He felt the pain of contact, felt the leader's horse spinning in a panic, and felt the air whooshing past him as the white ground rushed out to meet him and the leader. They landed with a thud. The man grunted. Hooves crashed against the road. Another gunshot roared. Curses came here and there, grunts, and gasps for breath. Blue growled, snapped, and attacked. A man cried out. Dooley came up quickly, sent his right fist into the leader's flour sack. Then he rolled off. His eyes searched the white ground for the silvery Smith & Wesson, or his own revolver. He saw the latter and reached for it, but his boots slipped on the ice and he fell facedown. Swearing, he put his hands out in front of him and pushed himself up again. The hands slipped on the wet, slick ice, and Dooley planted his face in the hard, cold ground again. Now he came up, just as a bullet practically parted his hair. He did not know who had fired the shot, only that it had not come from the leader of the road agents. That's because Dooley saw the man, on his knees, eyes behind the flour sack, searching desperately for the revolver he had dropped. Dooley also noticed something else. The man was gripping his left wrist, and dark blood seeped between the black fingers of the leather gloves, dripping onto the snow and ice. That's when the man saw Dooley, and Dooley realized he was looking in eyes filled with pure hatred. The stare held for barely a second, because the man had also spotted the Smith & Wesson. Dooley, however, had spotted something else. His Colt, still in the holster, lay just near the front wheel. It was closer to Dooley than the Smith & Wesson, and he leaped for it. Only to see the entire gun belt and holster disappear as he dived. It happened like a blur—something shiny and black and tan—and only later could Dooley recognize what had happened. He had caught the glimpse of Buffalo Bill Cody's boots and buckskin britches. Cody kicked the holster with his polished black boot on his left foot, somehow sending the holster and belt up in the air toward the wagon tongue. Yet all the while Buffalo Bill Cody kept moving forward, reaching up with both his hands, securing the holster with his left, and slipping the Colt .45 into his own right hand. The hand holding the gun belt lowered. The hand with the Colt came up, the gloved thumb pulled the hammer to full cock, and the weapon exploded. Twice. Almost sounding like one shot, but Dooley saw two of the bandits go down. One of them somersaulted over the back of his horse. The other grunted and flew over the wagon tongue, dropping the pistol—Buffalo Bill's Remington .44—which slid next to the whip Chester Motz had dropped on the other side of the mud wagon. Dooley also glimpsed the man with the flour sack of a face, who left his Smith & Wesson on the ice and took off through the woods. That happened to be in the same direction as the outlaw leader's horse had taken off after Dooley's dive. Buffalo Bill Cody sent a shot after the fleeing man, but missed, and quickly turned to fire two more shots. By then Dooley was sliding underneath the coach. He slid across the ice and reached out, snatching the handle of the .44. Briefly, he thought about going for the whip, but Dooley had not much practice with a whip, and only a fool would bring a whip into a gunfight. His hand came up, thumbing back the hammer and finding a target. He saw two. Unfortunately, those two had found him, and Dooley stared into the barrels of a cut-down, sawed-off shotgun in one hand, and the barrel of a Henry rifle in another gunman's arms. Dooley had the Remington, though, and he pulled the trigger. The hammer gave an antagonizing click. He had no time to cock the .44 again. The outlaw with the shotgun smiled. Then the sack covering his face disappeared in an explosion of carnage, and the one working the lever on the Henry rifle groaned and spun and fell to his knees, stood up, staggered a few paces, and fell to the ground, rolled over, and lay spread-eagled on the bloody snow. Above Dooley, standing in the driver's box of the mud wagon, Chester Motz laughed. "Idiots!" Dooley thought he heard the old man singing. "Y'all ferget 'bout the shotgun on the roof or 'em loads Dooley dropped in the box?" Dooley saw the gunman that Blue had mauled as he ran for one of the horses that had not skedaddled. He thumbed back the hammer on the Remington, carefully aimed, and squeezed the trigger only to hear another click. He tried again. Click. By then, the man with the mauled left arm had caught up a buckskin mare and was trying to pull himself into the saddle as the horse took off at a good lope down the Arkansas River fork. Dooley looked at the jehu. "Shoot him!" Dooley yelled. "I'm empty." Chester Motz stared down at Dooley and spit tobacco juice into the ice. "Well, give me some shells, boy. They's in yer coat pocket. I can't shoot nothin' with no empty gun no better'n you can, you cur of a whippersnapper who thinks he knows ever'thing." Cody had stepped around the wagon, too, and slowly opened the chamber gate to Dooley's Colt and began plunging the empty cartridges onto the ice. "A bully good show," Cody said. "But that one's getting away," Dooley said. "Indeed," Buffalo Bill agreed. "And after the mauling your loyal pooch laid on him, I dare say he might well remember my advice from earlier. That crime never pays, and when men use poor judgment to try their hands at nefarious, evil schemes to make their fortune on ill-gotten gains, hell is bound to break loose." He began feeding fresh loads into the cylinder and smiled up at Chester Motz. "A jolly fine show, sir. The way you dispatched those evildoers with the shotgun." Motz grinned and shrugged in something that looked like embarrassment. "Well, 'tweren't nothin' much. They was standin' too close to each other, and I give 'em both barrels." Dooley shook his head, and moved, glanced at General Grant to make sure he was safe and still secured behind the coach, and then picked up the Henry rifle the dead man had dropped and stepped across the wagon tongue on the other side of the road. "Maybe we can catch the leader. He doesn't have pistol or carbine." "But," Cody said, "he has a horse. I heard its hooves crashing through the verdant and white forest as he rode away." Dooley swore, and butted the Henry in the ice. That's when the adrenaline left him, and he felt himself beginning to shake. He squeezed the barrel of the Henry tighter and looked at the battleground. Buffalo Bill Cody had killed two of the outlaws with pistol shots. Chester Motz had blown away two more with the Parker ten-gauge. The man whose left arm had been ripped had gotten away and ridden down the river. The leader had found his horse in the woods and fled for, as the folks liked to say, parts unknown. Dooley saw no horses, just General Grant still behind the mud wagon, acting as calm as though this kind of thing was as natural as getting a rubdown in a quality livery stable. Of course, gunfights did seem to follow Dooley Monahan on regular schedules. "Their horses took off," Dooley said. "So did my mules." Dooley spit the bitter taste out of his mouth. "Undoubtedly, the animals are well on their way to Leadville," Buffalo Bill said. "I suggest that we follow them." "Walk?" Dooley complained. No self-respecting cowboy would walk across a street if he could ride. "We do have one horse," Chester Motz said. "Riding double in this country is unwise," Buffalo Bill said. "Riding triple is insanity." "No," the old man said. "No, I'll take that fine hoss into Leadville. Tell the law what has happened. Bring back some buckboards and blankets, and maybe even the yellerbacks who calls 'emselves vigilantes will show gumption to get a posse after those bad hombres who got away." "It's my horse," Dooley said. "Yeah. But nobody knows you, youngster, in Leadville. They might just shoot you dead. I'll take your hoss, sonny, and you and Buffalo Bill rest here. If it starts a-snowin' agin, well, you can stay warm in the mud wagon. Blue there . . . he'll keep your feet warm." Dooley frowned. "Can you bring back a bottle of rye whiskey?" Buffalo Bill asked. "Sure, Colonel. Sure." Dooley watched the old man as he moved to the rear of the coach. Blue growled again, and General Grant laid his ears back in an aggressive reaction, but Dooley said, "It's all right, gents. It's all right." After the old man eased into the saddle and backed the horse away from the coach, he leaned forward and smiled. "You boys done good. It was a pleasure to have men of your ilk and backbone riding in ol' For'. Ain't but a hoot an a holler to Leadville from here. I'll be back with the law, grub, blankets and the undertaker—and a bottle or two of rye—before dark comes down again. That I promise you." He shook both hands and kicked General Grant into a trot, moving around the dead bodies, and disappeared around the bend. Blue whimpered, but Dooley picked up the dog, stroked his back, and eased him into the mud wagon, closing the canvas windows behind him but not before he fetched Buffalo Bill's Winchester rifle off the floor. "This," he said, "was covered with a blanket. Guess that's why the outlaws did not steal it." "I put it there," Buffalo Bill said, "when I realized we were being waylaid by ruffians." Dooley frowned. "Well, you could've opened fire, got the drop on them." "And gotten you and Chester shot dead in the prime of your manhood." Cody's head shook. "And remember, I have only one round chambered." Dooley handed Buffalo Bill the Remington. "And none," he said, "in your revolver." After Cody took the .44 and shoved it into the holster on his hip, he said, "Silver Plume," he said, "is an expensive town." Dooley's head bobbed in understanding. "I think the whole state of Colorado is pricey." "Ah." Cody now turned. "But methinks we might have a way to earn a few dollars." CHAPTER EIGHT Buffalo Bill reached the man who had taken most of the blast from Chester Motz's shotgun. "Well." Cody knelt and did not bother trying to remove what was left of the wheat sack. "Perhaps there will be some sort of identification on his person." Dooley understood, and he went to the second man. The bandanna covering his face had slid off, but Dooley didn't recognize him. "I don't know him," he said. "Did you expect to?" Buffalo Bill Cody asked. "No . . ." But Dooley stopped and studied on a few things. "Well . . ." Something troubled him. He decided to talk things out. "Well, Mr. Cody . . ." "Call me, Colonel, son," Buffalo Bill said. "Well, Colonel, the leader of the gang. He had to know something about me. Maybe not my name, but he . . . you might find this hard to believe . . . but, well, sir, he ambushed me in Denver City. I know that because I was certain I winged him in his arm. And that fellow he had a bandage wrapped around his arm. Here. Just above the left wrist. And he dropped his rifle in the alley. In Denver, I mean. And his saddle . . . the one he was forking today . . . well, the scabbard was empty." What Dooley couldn't figure out was . . . He figured it out. "Son of a gun. Now I know. He tried to gun me down outside of the saloon in Denver because he wants the mine I won." He looked down at the dead man again. "First he tried to shoot me down in Denver. He must have been spying on that game the whole time." He closed his eyes and tried to think, tried to remember those who had been in the saloon. No faces came to him, except that of the saloon girl who kept his drinks coming—she sure was a pretty thing—and then he saw the faces of the men playing poker with him. But those men had been inside the saloon when Dooley had walked out. He tried harder, but the saloon had been fairly crowded and mostly he remembered a bunch of black hats, brown hats, heavy coats, heavy boots, mustaches that were black and red and brown and gray and blond and salt-and-pepper, and suspenders and plaid shirts. No faces. Nothing that looked like the gent lying in front of him, deader than all get-out. Dooley closed the dead man's eyes. It's one thing to look down at a dead man. It's another altogether to have a dead man staring at you. He had not recognized anyone he'd seen in Denver. He spit and pushed himself to his feet. Buffalo Bill Cody had moved to the other man. The colonel sure had a strange way of trying to learn a dead bandit's identity. He pulled out pocket watches and crumpled dollar bills and coins, an ancient pocketknife, and a nice pocketknife . . . and these he shoved into the deep pockets of his fancy coat. Then Buffalo Bill moved to the last corpse. "You understand what I'm saying?" Dooley said as he squatted near the last dead outlaw and the famous frontiersman. "I do indeed," Cody said as he shoved a double eagle into another pocket. "The fellow in charge was after the deed to the mine." Cody looked up, his dark eyes suddenly focusing on Dooley. "A mine?" Dooley nodded. "In Leadville?" "Yes, sir. Old Horatio Whitman had it." "I see," Cody said. "And the leader of these ruffians knew I had it. That's why he picked this coach to rob." Dooley studied on that and shook his head. "But why didn't he just shoot me and Chester off the stage? Come to us and fetch the deed that way?" Cody smiled that knowing smile an older man might give his kid. "The shot could have hit the deed. You could have fallen into the coach, and the coach carried you on to Leadville. You could have fallen into a river, cracked through the frozen ice, and swept into the frigid waters of the brutal Rubicon and not been recovered till summer . . . hundreds of miles downstream. You could have . . ." "I get the general idea, Colonel," Dooley told him. "There's nothing to identify these men," Cody said as he rose, the coins and knife and odds and ends jingling inside the scout's pockets. "Perhaps the posse members or the undertaker will recognize them when they arrive." "He's right-handed," Dooley said. "Who's right-handed?" Buffalo Bill asked. "The captain of these rogues." Dooley waved his arm over the two nearest corpses. "With a bullet wound in his left arm." Dooley tapped his own forearm. "Here." Dooley tried to remember other details about the villain, but Buffalo Bill showed that he had a good memory, too. Well, it should not have come as a surprise. After all, the legendary scout had been busy these recent years acting on theater stages across the country, playing himself in action-packed melodramas with Texas Jack and Wild Bill and Captain Jack and Ned Buntline himself. "A green mackinaw, plaid as most mackinaws, with leather trim," Cody said. "Tan hat. Yellow wild rag. But he'll dispose of all his clothes. And he shall have no need of the gun rig he wore as he dropped the Smith & Wesson when he fled like the craven coward he truly is." Cody nodded at the silver weapon in the ice. "There's his horse," Dooley said. "Which he will sell to an unsuspecting miner far off in the hills, take the money, and buy or steal a new horse." Dooley frowned. "The only thing that can identify him, to you," Buffalo Bill explained, "is the bullet wound in his left arm, just above the wrist." Buffalo Bill did the tapping now. "Here." Dooley sighed. A body couldn't go around Leadville and the Rocky Mountains asking men to tug up their sleeves. "Well . . ." Cody rose. "Son, we shall split the reward three ways." Dooley sighed. He didn't care much about collecting bounties on dead men—none of which he had killed. "I don't like the idea of having a man I can't identify gunning for me," Dooley said. Buffalo Bill laughed. "Son," he said, "he has no reason to gun you down. Not anymore. He has the deed to the mine. Remember?" That didn't make Dooley feel any better. * * * They dragged the bodies underneath the coach. Then they waited. Noon came, and passed. They waited. About the time the sun seemed to be saying it was right around three o'clock, Dooley asked, "How well do you know Mr. Motz?" Buffalo Bill laughed. "Well, he's not a bosom comrade or blood kin, or a man I would trust my life with, but he is a fine individual, honest as the day is long, and I do trust him. Not with money. Not with a horse." Dooley did not like that at all. General Grant happened to be the best horse he had ever owned, and, well, he started rehearing that fellow back in Denver telling him—and within Chester Motz's earshot—just how much a horse like that would fetch in Denver. On the other hand, the old jehu had ridden off in the direction of Leadville—not back to Denver—but then a man of his years probably knew all the trails that a man could follow that would take him back to Denver. "He won't steal your horse, son," Buffalo Bill said reassuringly. Dooley did not answer. "Chester loves this wagon more than life itself. He'll be back for it. Trust me." Two hours later, Buffalo Bill Cody was not laughing anymore. He was pacing back and forth, while Dooley sat on the ground, bracing his back against the front wheel, rubbing Blue's winter coat. "Well, this breaks all bonds," Cody said, and he started walking down the trail, but stopped and came back to the coach. "No. It is too late to start the arduous journey afoot to Leadville. We might freeze to death, caught out in the open, in the elements." He lifted his head and gazed at the sky. "And this weather portends of . . ." Cody shivered. They spent the night in the coach, canvas curtains and doors closed, huddling together and relying on the warmth of Blue. It proved to be a miserable night. The wind blew, moaning through the canvas and cheap wood and nails, bolts and glue that held this contraption Chester Motz called a wagon together. The wind also kept changing directions, popping one canvas curtain and then another. Every now and then a mighty gust would lift the wagon off two wheels, and Dooley's eyes would pop open and he'd brace himself for the mud wagon to be turned over and over and over. Only the gust would die as quickly as it started and the stagecoach would light down and rock like a sickening cradle until finally settling on the ice. That's when Dooley would relax his muscles and quit grinding his teeth and learn how to breathe again. All the while the wind was blowing, the coach teetered on the precipice and Dooley prayed that he would not soil his britches, Blue snored peacefully, and Buffalo Bill Cody snored, too, only not so peacefully. The famed frontiersmen snorted like a pig, or maybe a locomotive, snorting and chugging and groaning. Even when the wind didn't blow like a sailor, Buffalo Bill Cody snored. Dooley snapped at him, kicked at him, and elbowed him in the ribs, but it made no difference. He would stop, though, and Dooley would sigh, thinking now he might be able to catch some shut-eye—unless the wind happened to be turning into a regular gale at the time—and Dooley would close his eyes and try to will himself into a deep, peaceful sleep. Only Cody would start that infernal racket once more. That was just the noise. The cold was the real killer. Now, Dooley Monahan had cowboyed across the Western frontier, and before that he had farmed in Iowa, and neither the Hawkeye State nor the woolly, wildest West, could match the cold of the Rockies just outside of Leadville, Colorado. Canvas curtains and doors did little to keep out the wind, or that biting, numbing cold. Blue kept his feet warm, and Buffalo Bill had that long, fur-trimmed heavy coat—made even heavier from all the plunder the scout had plucked off the dead outlaws—and he seemed to be oblivious to the subzero temperatures. Blue was a dog. Dogs never got cold, in Dooley's estimation. Yet Dooley was no dog and had no fancy thespian's coat. He shivered. He shook. He wondered how a body felt just before he froze to death. Eventually, after a nightmarish eternity, the winds started to die down, and the temperatures began to warm. The coach stopped rocking. Dooley felt the coming of dawn and realized he had survived the night. Somehow, his eyes managed to close, and he imagined that the canvas sack of flour to be the most luxurious pillow in the swankiest hotel in San Francisco. His clothes were a downy comforter. Blue's fur was a foot warmer. Bill Cody was two thousand miles away, playing in a Bowery dime theater in New York State. He could dream. Cody barked, spat, and stamped his boots on the coach's rickety floor to get the blood circulating again. Blue whined and began dreaming that he was running after a rabbit, his paws scratching against the floor. The colonel farted, burped, snorted again, and opened the canvas that served as the mud wagon's door. "Ah, a glorious morn," Colonel Cody said, and stepped outside. He did not pull the canvas down as he went, presumably, to answer nature's call. Dooley sighed. One eyelid lifted. He saw gray, not light, not black, somewhere between dawn and night. But he realized this might be his only chance to actually sleep, so he squeezed that eyelid shut and tried to sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Deeply. Without dreams. Maybe he did doze, but not for long. Because he happened to wake as the coach lifted off its front wheels, then dropped, then almost turned onto its side. Blue was up, barking, snarling, the hair standing up on all ends. Dooley sat up, as well, and felt himself slammed to the floor as the mud wagon lurched to one side, then another. A strange noise ran through his brain. It sounded like . . . like . . . like . . . CHAPTER NINE . . . Like meat being ripped off a carcass. Which, Dooley seemed to understand, was exactly what was happening. Blue growled and began digging furiously at the floor. A sack of rice fell off a keg of nails. Dooley caught the musky odor from underneath the mud wagon, and, though his mind felt heavy after a miserable night without sleep or warmth, he understood what was happening. "Grizzly," he said. The bear underneath the wagon, breakfasting on the dead highwaymen, growled. Blue barked. Dooley reached over and grabbed the merle-colored hound and pulled him tight against his body. No small dog, Blue scratched and growled like he had the hydrophoby, and the grizzly below did not like the racket. The mud wagon lifted, Blue stopped raising hell and whined, and Dooley felt himself sliding on the floor as the coach tipped to one side and crashed over. The sack of flour grazed his head. Two bolts of calico smashed his nose. A bag of rice left Blue yelping. Luckily, the keg of nails missed both Dooley and his dog. Dooley slung the cloth off him, saw Blue scrambling to his feet as the mud wagon rocked like a ship in a gale. Holding his breath, Dooley braced for the roaring grizzly to use its brute strength to turn the wagon over again and again. The bear roared. Blue took to barking again, and Dooley lifted the heavy Winchester Centennial. He spit, and remembered Buffalo Bill mentioning that he had only one round remaining in the rifle. Dooley turned the rifle, worked the lever slightly, and saw it was already chambered. He lowered the lever and thumbed back the hammer. He looked up at the windows and doors. The curtains hung down, and the early light of morning showed him a sky of gray clouds. "Hush!" Dooley yelled. Blue did not obey the command. Nor did the grizzly. Suddenly, a pistol popped, thudding against the floor of the wagon off toward the rear of the mud wagon. It might have punctured the floor, but so much debris of crates and boxes and barrels and sacks were piled up there, Dooley could not tell. Another gunshot roared, and Dooley flinched, but that round did not hit the wagon. Someone's shooting at me! raced through his mind, but he dismissed it immediately. "No," he said, and came to his feet, tentatively. "It's Buffalo Bill." Shooting at the grizzly. The bear yelped now and roared again. Then Dooley heard the thundering crashes as the bear must have charged. Yes, that's what the grizzly was doing. Because now Dooley heard Buffalo Bill Cody scream like a little girl. "Stay," Dooley ordered, and stood on an overturned barrel, braced between luggage and crates so that it did not roll too much. He pushed the Winchester through the opening, grunting as he climbed onto the side of the coach. The wind had died down now, but the air remained frigid, prickling Dooley's flesh. He bit his lips, looked until he saw the grizzly. The bear ran faster than many horses Dooley had bet on in match races. Buffalo Bill Cody certainly wasn't slow. It looked like the scout had dropped his revolver—but then a .44 round from a pistol was not likely to do anything more than irritate a grizzly. Cody had found a thin tree and scrambled up it. Dooley came down off the side of the coach and tripped over a mangled, partially eaten dead robber. Inside the coach, Blue barked ferociously, and Dooley could hear the shepherd jumping toward the opening. He realized he had the grizzly to thank. By overturning the coach, the bear had left the dog caged . . . safe. Dooley could focus on the bear now, and the bear had all its attention on Buffalo Bill Cody, who had climbed as high as he could safely ascend the tree. The bear stood on its hind legs and pawed for Cody, but came only a few inches below Cody's dangling boots. Dooley brought the Winchester to his shoulder, but held his fire. One shot. That's all he had. Miss, and the bear might kill Cody or might turn its attention and come charging after Dooley. He wet his lips, adjusted the sight, and saw the bear push the tree. Roots holding firm in the frozen earth, the tree seemed to crack, and did tilt some toward the mountains. That was enough to send Buffalo Bill Cody dropping to the earth. His knees bent, but he did not fall, and he shot forward, away from the bear. He staggered, trying to keep upright, trying to run away from the bear, but it was fruitless. A man cannot outrun a bear, anyway. Buffalo Bill slipped and cried out as he slid across the earth. The bear dropped down to all fours. It charged. Dooley swung the barrel. One shot. That's all he had. He held his breath, let it out, kept the rifle moving with the bear. His finger touched the trigger and felt the Centennial kick like a cannon. * * * "Shouldn't he have been hibernating?" Dooley asked. He kept rubbing his shoulder, for he had fired many a rifle and shotgun over his life, but nothing that packed the wallop of Buffalo Bill's rifle, which he handed to the great frontiersman. Buffalo Bill Cody circled the dead grizzly and shook his head. "It's spring. Close to it. Something could have disturbed his nap, or he could have just woke up. You never can tell about a griz, sir." Sir. No longer son or sonny. Buffalo Bill Cody must have finally realized that Dooley was older than the scout. Or now, after Dooley had saved Cody from an agonizingly painful death, the fabled frontiersman had grown to respect the keen eye of Deadwood Dick. Dooley smiled at the thought. Then he rubbed his shoulder again, and the jovial thoughts left him. The grizzly was dead. He had never killed an animal so magnificent, so huge, and he regretted that he had to do it—like he often regretted having to kill the men he had killed. But those men had been trying to kill Dooley, and the bear had been trying to kill Buffalo Bill Cody, who now lowered himself to his knees and began praying some Indian prayer, raising his hands skyward, singing in some guttural chant, asking the Great Spirit to take the bear to the happy hunting grounds. Still trapped inside the stagecoach, Blue barked. Buffalo Bill finished his prayer and rose, letting out another sigh of frosty breath. "That," he said, "was the finest shot I have ever seen—and I have made many outstanding shots over the years." He moved around the dead animal and extended his hand. Embarrassed at all the attention, Dooley shook the hand, and the two men walked back to the overturned mud wagon. "Do we wait for Motz?" Dooley asked. "No," Cody said. "For I am hungry. And we do not know what has become of the intrepid jehu. Besides . . ." He hooked his thumb toward the graying clouds that hit the mountaintops. "Spring might be near, even here, but you cannot tell that to Old Man Weather." Dooley handed Cody the heavy, empty rifle and reached out for the nearest wheel. He climbed to the mud wagon's side, slid over, and reached into the ruined coach. "Here, boy," he said. "Jump." After a few tries, he lifted Blue out, and slid down, somehow managing not to step onto a dead outlaw. The dog growled at the dead bear, but seemed to understand that the grizzly no longer posed any threat. "What now?" Dooley asked. Buffalo Bill sighed and nodded at the road. "As much as I detest the thought, we walk." And the frontiersman led the way. * * * "How far is it?" Dooley asked when they stopped to catch their breath. "Ten miles," Cody said, his chest heaving. "Perhaps a little less." The East Fork of the Arkansas River flowed, or froze, to their left. The ruts held ice and snow, as did the forests. Dooley's lungs burned for oxygen. "I'm usually . . ." Dooley shook his head. "This . . ." "It's the altitude," Cody explained. "Air's thin. Takes some getting used to." Dooley made himself walk. Buffalo Bill Cody followed. Dooley had no idea how far they had traveled, or how often they had stopped to rest and struggle to find more air, but when they rounded a bend and covered a few hundred more yards they came to another bridge where a creek met up with the river. Blue wagged his tail, then growled. Cody and Dooley drew their six-shooters and cautiously approached the horse, on the side of the path on the other side of the bridge. Ordinarily, Dooley would be overjoyed to find General Grant, safe and sound, but the dead man on the side of the road near his horse spoiled the reunion. As Dooley scanned the forest, looking for the sign of any threat, Buffalo Bill unhooked the dead man's foot from the stirrup and rolled the body over. Dooley, figuring that whoever had committed murder was long gone, slid the Colt into its holster and dropped to a knee beside Chester Motz. "At least," Cody said, "old Chester did not know what had become of his mud wagon. That would have broken his heart had not a bullet pierced it first." Dooley frowned. He saw the powder burns on the dead man's chest, and little blood, but the old wagon man had not died so cleanly. "Look at him," Dooley said. His chest ached, but not only because of the thin air. "Yes." The pockets had been pulled inside out and blood had dried or frozen in his busted lips, his broken nose. Another wound had bled significantly in the man's side, where he had been shot. "Robbery, no doubt," Buffalo Bill said, pointing at the pockets. "He didn't have anything to steal," Dooley said, "especially after the holdup back yonder." "The ruffian would not know that." "I think he did," Dooley said. Buffalo Bill pushed back the brim of his hat and waited for an explanation. "The leader of those owlhoots who held up the stage," Dooley said. "He shot him. There." He pointed at the bullet hole and congealed blood in Motz's side. "Came up to him as he was defenseless." Cody now nodded and pointed at the impressions in the snow and mud. "Yes, yes. Straddled him. Probably slapped him first, then punched him." "Not for torture," Dooley said. The frontiersman nodded excitedly. "But for information." They thought they were onto something now. "That's why he pulled through Chester's pockets," Cody said. Dooley said: "He needed something." "But he already had the deed," Cody said. Dooley sucked in a deep breath, exhaled. "Wait a minute." He pictured the deed the late messenger had signed over to Dooley. He closed his eyes, wishing he had that perfect memory. Oh, he could count cards well enough while playing blackjack, or remember what cards had been turned up after a few players folded during a round of stud poker. "The deed," he said. "That road agent already has the deed," Cody said. "But it doesn't say exactly where the mine is located." Cody blinked. Dooley tried to remember. He had the deed. He had not expected to lose it. Besides, he had Chester Motz, too, who seemed like a good enough fellow to have helped Dooley find the mine—for a percentage, naturally. "It said off Halfmoon Creek." "And . . . ?" Cody waited. Dooley shook his head. "Horatio Whitman was supposed to give me directions the next morning. But he got killed that night." "That's it? You accepted a deed that said a mine is 'off Halfmoon Creek.' Off? Which way? North? South? East? West? Past Elbert Creek? Or the Derry Ditch? South Halfmoon? North? By Champion Mill or just a skip and a jump from the Arkansas?" Dooley shrugged. "Confound it, sir." Buffalo Bill shook his head. "You accepted a deed like that . . . in a poker game . . . in Denver City?" "Well . . ." That's all Dooley could manage. Buffalo Bill rose. "Well, the killer did not take your horse." "That would have been hard to explain in Leadville," Dooley said. "Agreed." Dooley looked down at the dead man. He shook his head. "I guess Chester told the killer what he needed to know and then died anyway. Shot in the heart. At close range." "No," Buffalo Bill said. "Chester Motz would have taken the secret to the grave, knowing he would die anyway. And Horatio Whitman would not have told Motz where his mine was anyway. He trusted no one." Dooley tried to think about that. He thought of something else. "The killer had another gun," he said. "Remember. He dropped the Smith & Wesson during the ruckus we started." "Derringer," Cody said. "From the size of the bullet holes and the powder burns on his shirtfront." "Well," Cody said, "at least we now have a horse." Dooley was stepping away from the body and General Grant. Blue was growling again. "We also have company," Dooley said, and pointed down the road. CHAPTER TEN Well, Dooley thought, at least these men aren't wearing flour and wheat sacks and bandannas pulled up over their noses. There were about a dozen of them, wearing coats and winter hats, and carrying shotguns and rifles, which, after reining their horses to a stop, they all aimed in the general direction of Dooley, Blue, and Buffalo Bill Cody. "Road agents!" one yelled. Another shouted. "Foul murder! Foul murder!" But the third voice showed good reason. "Shut up, you dad-blamed fools. That's Buffalo Bill Cody there. Howdy, Colonel!" "Good day, old hoss," Buffalo Bill said, rather cheerfully, and tipped his hat. "A good day to you all." He lowered his gaze at Chester Motz's body and removed his hat. "But it has not been good for my fellow man of buckskin here." Most of the men eased their horses forward, and Dooley knelt and took hold of Blue's bandanna collar to keep him from lashing out at the strangers. "Nice dog," said one man, which caused another rider, a young man with a cheery face and wearing striped trousers, to stare at the dog, then at Dooley. "By thunder," said the oldest of the lot, a thin, lean man with a rawboned face and handlebar gray mustache, "that's old Chester Motz, struck down by murder most foul." "Where's the shotgun?" asked another. "Whitman?" "Dead," Dooley answered. "Killed in Denver." "This young man," Buffalo Bill explained, "took Horatio's place riding guard. But alas we were waylaid just up the road there, at the crossing near Chalk Creek. Four of the scoundrels are dead, one of which has been now half-digested by a silvertip griz. Two fled. One wounded. And the leader, alas, we suspicion has murdered Chester for ill-gotten gains. It is a long story." Someone had the foresight to bring a jug of whiskey. The cork was pulled, and the miner with a black beard nudged his horse forward, took a snootful, and lowered the jug toward Buffalo Bill. Excitedly, Cody took the offering, drank several swallows, wiped his mouth, and began to recite the story of the ambush, which led to a side story about the attack of the Mormon train in Utah Territory back in the '50s when Cody was but a mere boy, the sending of Chester Motz to bring help, which led to a side story about the time Cody had ridden 267 miles for the Pony Express to deliver Lincoln's inaugural address to the readers in Sacramento, California, the attack of the grizzly bear, which deviated into a side story about the time a griz had left Cody's dearest pard Wild Bill Hickok—God rest his soul—grievously wounded and was why he was in Rock Creek Station that time back in '61 when Dave McCanles and his brood of badmen came to the Express station and got killed for insulting a woman and drawing down on Wild Bill, which deviated into a story about an attack of Sioux Indians over in Kansas but near the Colorado line or might have actually taken place inside the territory, for Colorado was not a state then as it is now, which finally came back to the discovery of Chester Motz, shot dead in the prime of life, beaten before he expired, and dealt a mean bullet into the heart after torture and maligning. Which led to a round of applause and the passing of the jug, which finally came to Dooley. "Where's the griz?" someone asked. "Where's the wagon?" "Where's the dead outlaws?" Cody nodded up the road, and a few riders loped off in the direction indicated. Most stayed with Cody, and Dooley, and the second jug of whiskey since the first had been depleted during Cody's story about Wild Bill and Dave McCanles and had been tossed on the other side of the road. "And who's this feller agin?" asked a man in plaid britches and a green bib-front shirt and a sheepskin-lined coat. "He," Cody introduced, "is the man who saved my life. Were it not for his keen eye, resolve, and expert touch on the trigger of a Winchester Centennial in. 45-75 caliber, I would not be here to regale you with these stories, which may sound like brag but are just the true, unadorned facts. He lost the deed to a rich and wonderful mine, perhaps, to the nefarious scoundrels and cold-blooded killers who waylaid us and took the lives of a good man, noble and true, and stole two hundred dollars and change from my person." "Welcome, mister." Some men cheered. A few nudged their horses closer and leaned out of their saddles to shake Dooley's hand. Buffalo Bill Cody then asked someone, "Now, what brings you fine men, heavily armed, out on this road so early in the morn?" The leader answered. "We knew Chester was due yesterday. As road agents have been plaguing the road between here and Denver, we called our vigilance committee to investigate. Alas, we should have ridden out yesterday." "Then," Cody said, "I would not have a new fine story to tell . . . or be indebted to this fine, upstanding young American frontiersman for the rest of my life." They were staring at Dooley once again. "Don't mean to be rude, mister," said a short man with spectacles and a muffler around his throat. "But I'm editor of the Leadville Ledger. Might I have your name and permission to print this story in next week's edition?" Dooley shrugged, shook the journalist's hand, and said, "Reckon I can't stop a free press. Just tell the story factual, if you could. My name's Dooley. That's D-o-o-l-e-y. Monahan." He spelled that, too. "Hello, Dooley," said the waddie who had been staring at him all the while when most eyes had been upon Buffalo Bill Cody. Dooley looked at the youngster. He had red hair, almost as long as Buffalo Bill Cody's, practically down to his shoulder. But it was winter. And hair did keep a fellow's ears warm, Dooley figured. "Remember me?" The boy smiled. "Howdy, Blue," the redheaded waddie said. Blue wagged his tail. "Been a long time," the cowhand said. Dooley remembered. Then he grinned widely. He had first worked with the boy years back, too many to count, Dooley almost figured. That had been on the Circle D up in Utah. Dooley had barely said hello to the cowhand that time and had then stopped the boy from getting his head stoved in by the hooves of a mean bronc. They might have become saddle pals then, but that had to wait because Dooley was going up to a line shack for the winter, and come spring, the boy had moseyed off down the trail to find another job. Years later, probably three, maybe four, their paths had crossed again. That had been just after Dooley had found poor Blue, his family waylaid by Indians, and the kid had arrived with the sheriff out of Tempe . . . Yes, that's right. That had been in Arizona Territory, back when Dooley had found that clipping and was bound and determined to get to that gold camp in Alaska. After the Indian attack, the redheaded cowhand and Dooley had drifted across the territory, with Blue tagging along, and the Baylor boys—not, Jason, the one Dooley had killed, or the cousin he would kill sometime later, but Dev and Alf, as low-down curs as the West had ever seen—were hot on Dooley's trail. The boy had been with Dooley when they came to that old Indian hideout, a cave in the foothills, and had fetched that little girl, a pretty little thing, and she had joined the troop, too. "Butch Sweeney," Dooley said. That was the redheaded cowhand's name, not the girl's. She was . . . Dooley had to remember. Julia Alice Cooperman. He wondered what she had grown up to become. He could tell Butch Sweeney had not gotten cowboying out of his blood. They shook hands. "You know this man, Butch?" asked the journalist. "Indeed, I do." Butch Sweeney straightened in the saddle. "He saved my life many years ago." Dooley shook his head. "Wasn't nothing," he said, embarrassed at all the attention now on him. "That means you and I have something in common," Buffalo Bill said, "for he saved my life, as well." Somebody handed Dooley the jug of whiskey, but he shook his head. Sweeney swung out of the saddle and handed the reins to a man with a mustache and goatee and some furry, dead animal on his head as a hat. Dooley took his hand, shook it hard, then pulled the youngster—though Butch Sweeney had done a lot of growing up in the years—into a warm embrace. "What the heck happened to you?" Sweeney asked. "I mean, we were in San Francisco and you just up and disappeared. So what happened?" Dooley's head began to ache. "Gentleman," Buffalo Bill said, "I proposition that we move our reunion and reconvene our tales at the closest saloon in Leadville." That motion was unanimously approved. * * * The First Chance Saloon was not the fanciest watering hole in Leadville, but it was, as its name implied, the first chance a man had to get liquored up once he turned the corner and entered the bustling town. Dooley sat at the corner table near the fireplace—he wondered if he would ever warm up—as Butch Sweeney brought a bottle of red-eye and two glasses from the bar, his boots crunching the peanut shells that carpeted the floor. Buffalo Bill Cody stood at the corner of the long bar, one boot on the brass rail, the other on the floor, waving his hands and using all sorts of movements to enhance his story of the grizzly bear attack, again. After Sweeney filled the glasses and sat down, Dooley told him what little he could remember about that incident in San Francisco. They were supposed to be boarding a ship the next morning and taking out for Alaska—Dooley, Butch, Julia, and George Miller, another old acquaintance of Dooley's—and find their fortunes in the gold mines in that wonderful, wild north country. "Well?" Sweeney asked after toasting and downing his shot in a swift, burning gulp. "Butch," Dooley said. "I don't know what happened." Oh, he explained, he remembered some of it now. He could even still taste the chocolate mousse he had eaten for dessert after the scrumptious meal at Morgan's Fine Dining. He had gone to the livery to check on General Grant. "The lights went out," Dooley said, and touched the back of his head that still ached hard and painfully just from the memory. CHAPTER ELEVEN "When I came to," Dooley said, and refilled the empty glasses on the table, "I didn't know who I was, where I was, or anything else." "Amnesia." Buffalo Bill Cody had joined the table. He was eating peanuts he had taken from the bar. "I have heard of it, read about cases in various journals, but I don't believe I have ever met someone who ever suffered from it." "Oh." Dooley tossed a peanut into his mouth, threw the shells on the floor as appeared to be the custom at the First Chance Saloon, and sipped his whiskey. "I certainly suffered." He remembered waking up with the most miserable headache he had ever known, or thought he had known. He brushed hay off his clothes and saw General Grant in the stall staring at him. "For the craziest reason, I recognized my horse," Dooley said. "I knew him, and he knew me." "Robbery?" Cody asked. "You seem to have a knack for getting robbed." "Wasn't robbery." Dooley shook his head. "I opened my billfold, hoping I might find some clue as to who I was, but I found only one thousand dollars." He smiled. "I remember thinking that I must have been a rancher who had just sold a fortune in livestock." He ate another peanut. "And I also thought that maybe I was a gambler. Somehow, I must have let that notion take over, and I pretty much became a gambler." He hoped in retelling the story that he might remember a few things, like why somebody had tried to bash in his brains. Maybe he had seen the cur, though the way his head hurt and where it hurt, he knew he had been clubbed from behind. "I knew General Grant's name was General Grant. But I couldn't tell you my own name. Then I heard a dog barking, and here came Blue, wiggling his butt and his bobtail, and I remember asking the dog, 'You mine?' and Blue seemed excited, and licked my face, and wagged his tail more, and I recall saying something silly like here I was in a barn, awake for maybe ten minutes, and I had a lot of money, a good horse, and a good dog." "A man with a good horse and a good dog and a lot of money is a lucky man indeed," Colonel Cody said. Butch amened that. Dooley nodded his agreement. "I threw my traps onto General Grant and rode out of town. Didn't even know I was in San Francisco until I saw a few signs. I just thought . . ." He rubbed his head again. ". . . thought that, well, I needed all these cobwebs to clear till I could think straight again. So I rode east." "Did you know your dog's name?" Butch Sweeney asked. "Not till I found his food bowl," Dooley said. "His name was carved in that." "So how come," Sweeney asked, "do you reckon you knew General Grant's name?" "It was the last thing he saw before he suffered that horrendous blow to his skull," Buffalo Bill said, and explained. "As I've already mentioned, I have read about such things in medical journals and newspapers and magazines." Dooley nodded. Butch refilled the glasses. "When did you regain your faculties?" Buffalo Bill asked. Dooley studied, decided what Cody meant by faculties, or guessed at it, and said, "Bits and pieces came back over time. Out of the thin air, sometimes. Then it all come back to me in Cheyenne up in Wyoming where I sat down to play some poker." * * * Vanwy's Gaming House on Fifteenth Street happened to have room at the hitching rail for Dooley to tether General Grant, and he had walked inside, had a whiskey at the bar, and made his way to the poker tables. This cowpuncher at the table had stared at Dooley and peppered him with questions like, Did you ever work in Arizona? to which Dooley had answered: "I don't know." Around midnight, after Dooley beat the cowhand for a nice pot, the waddie asked Dooley if he would mind telling him his name. Since that was one thing Dooley could remember, he did. The rest of the scene replayed through his mind like some nightmare. "You the same Dooley Monahan who killed all the Baylor boys?" "I don't know." "They was cousins of mine. FIRST cousins." And Dooley had remembered how to survive a gunfight. * * * "Everything came back to me as I kept fanning that hammer," Dooley said, and made himself eat another peanut. Shaking his head, Butch Sweeney sighed. "My, oh, my, Dooley, and here Julia was, probably while you lay in that livery with your brains all a-twisted, saying that you was probably just out doin' Dooley stuff." Dooley swallowed the peanut. "Dooley stuff?" he asked. Sweeney grinned. "I asked Julia the same thing. She said it was doing things you figured we were too green to handle, or none of our business, or"—he shook his head—"as she put it, 'too hard on our tender eyes or ears.'" Dooley sipped another whiskey and decided this would be his last one. He could usually hold a lot more liquor than this, but he had eaten little except peanuts and the jerky one of the townsmen had given him, and being two miles above sea level also, he was learning, affected not only your breathing but how much red-eye you could hold. "Well, a fine story, Dooley," Cody said, and scraped his chair legs across the floor as he polished off his drink. "I am hanging my hat at the Hotel Tabor. You will do me a favor by dining with me in the hotel tomorrow morning. Say one thirty?" "In the morning?" Dooley asked. "Afternoon, my good man. But it's morning for me after a night on the town. Right early, at that, too." He grinned, shook hands, and left Dooley alone with the redheaded cowhand. Dooley found the pause awkward. He wanted to ask about Julia, what had become of her, and tried to imagine her all grown up now after, what, four years or so, maybe five. Yet he couldn't bring himself to ask anything. Not even about Alaska. That had been his dream. See the goldfields of Alaska. Strike it rich. Most cowboys always wanted to see the elephant, as they called it. It meant see what's over on the far side of the hill. Something new. Different. Something adventurous. Alaska. Spilt whiskey. "Where you staying, Dooley?" Butch asked, and corked the bottle, even though they had polished off all the whiskey. Dooley laughed. "Well . . ." He wondered how cold it would be to sleep in a wagon yard or livery again. Butch Sweeney had grown up in those years. He wasn't the greenhorn cowpuncher anymore. He understood Dooley's predicament. "Come on, Dooley. My digs ain't gonna be as fancy as where Colonel Cody's sleeping in over at the Tabor, but the bed ain't ticky, and it's fairly quiet—by Leadville standards. Besides, there's a café right next door. We can take our supper there. It is getting late. And you need to find a livery that ain't full up for General Grant." The fresh air—now filled with gently falling flakes of snow—seemed to do Dooley some good. Oh, the cold and the altitude would take some getting used to, but Dooley swung into the saddle and followed Butch Sweeney down Poplar Street, turned on Seventh, then down Harrison, and finally to Front Street. It struck Dooley then that he did not need to have seen Alaska. All these years he had dreamed of finally hanging his hat in some gold town, but he seldom had gotten to experience that. He had been bound for Deadwood, up in Dakota Territory, just a short while back. He hadn't made it to Deadwood, either. But here he was . . . in Leadville, two miles high and full of riches and noise and all the wonders of a wealthy gold camp. The Silver Saloon was crowded. The Silver Palace was rowdy. The Silver Café was packed. The Silver, Gold, Lead and Dead Funeral Parlor was busy, too, with the bodies of four dead outlaws and one heroic old stagecoach driver to prepare for burial and funeral at Evergreen Cemetery on the other side of town up north. The Silver Assay Office was the only place closed. Which caused Dooley to remember. He wasn't in a gold town. Silver was king in Leadville. That didn't matter. He was here. Granted, with no money, but he had been reunited with a good friend who had ridden with him across Arizona and all the way to northern California. He had his horse, his health, his dog. They were lynching two men at the Silver Carpentry Shop. Yes, this was some town. At the edge of town, they found space at the Loomis Livery for General Grant. Butch Sweeney paid the fee for a week. "I'll pay you back," Dooley promised. "Pard," Butch told him, "you don't owe me a thing after all you've done for me." "I'll pay you back," Dooley told him. This time, Butch nodded, as he led his own mount into the stall. "Stay here, Blue," Dooley told his dog, who went into the stall with General Grant. Dooley and Butch walked just across the street and found another café and grabbed a table. Dooley ate his ham and eggs and drank his milk watching out the window at all the commotion. The clock on the wall told him it was four thirty in the afternoon, but it looked like . . . well . . . Dooley had no idea. Snow kept falling, men and women bustled about on the boardwalks on both sides of Front Street. Wagons came by. Men rode horses. A whistle blew at some mine, signaling the end of a shift. He could hear banjos being clawed and the ivories and ebonies of pianos being banged at the hundreds of saloons they had passed since the First Chance on Poplar Street. All that noise, that wonderful noise, and yet Dooley had not heard one gunshot. Despite the road agents that had spoiled their entrance into this fair city, Dooley found it peaceful. The two men being lynched down the street had deserved it, Dooley knew, because even the widow woman with her gray hair in a bun had said so before she had begun leading the Maple Street Methodist Church Choir in a song to send the wrongdoers to their just reward and then to the Silver, Gold, Lead and Dead Funeral Parlor for even more business. The waitress brought dessert, even though Dooley had not ordered any dessert, and when Dooley saw what was put on a plate before him, he could not believe it. He looked up at Butch, who grinned and thanked the young waitress. "Chocolate mousse?" Dooley asked. "Remember?" Butch said. "Of course." Sweeney had wolfed down strawberry shortcake on that last night in San Francisco, and Julia had eaten some ice cream. Old George Miller had managed to finish off his lemon meringue pie. That had been after beef tenderloin and lobster. Lobster. How rich that had been. How rich Dooley had been. He sighed, and ate. Butch Sweeney just had a lemon cookie for dessert. "Full?" Butch asked. "Yeah." Dooley shook his head. "Hotel's just down the street. It's the Georgia Gulch Inn." They walked there, crossing the street in the snow, raking the mud off their boots on the first step, then stamping off the rest on the mat in front of the main door, and walked inside. Dooley looked up, expecting to find Julia Alice Cooperman standing there, looking lovely and much older, more mature, a real woman instead of just a girl. Instead, he saw a burly man with a twisted mustache and slicked-back hair. "Good evening," the man said in a most unpleasant voice. "This is Dooley Monahan," Butch Sweeney said. "He'll be bunking with me for a spell." "Then I shall adjust your bill," the man said. "And . . ." His eyes widened. His face paled. "The Dooley Monahan?" the man said. "The famed gunman and bounty hunter who has rid the West of some of the foulest killers on the frontier?" CHAPTER TWELVE "You want to what?" Dooley managed to get out of his mouth after finally swallowing the bit of bacon that had been stuck in his throat. It was good bacon, too, not burned, not raw, with a hint of maple-wood smoke and apple to it. And a thick slice, as well. He had never tasted bacon so good. "Grubstake you," Buffalo Bill Cody said. It was a bit early in the morning—well, afternoon, really—and Dooley had not known the colonel long enough for Cody to start funning him, or play some practical joke on him. Yet the more Dooley stared across the table in this fancy café the more it seemed to him that William Frederick Cody was not funning, not joking, and not playing Dooley for a fool. But Dooley had to be certain. "You're not fooling?" Cody roared with laughter, disturbing the other ladies and gentlemen who were eating their dinner, not breakfast, but no waiter came over to shush Buffalo Bill, and most of the gents merely smiled or patted the hands of their companions in petticoats. "Fooling! Hah. You make me laugh, sir, you make me laugh." Cody retrieved a silver-plated flask from the inside pocket of his frock coat, unscrewed the lid, and sweetened his coffee. He held the container toward Dooley, who, while tempted, shook his head politely. The flask soon disappeared, and Cody leaned forward after taking two or three swallows. "You saved my life, sir, and Buffalo Bill Cody is a man who always pays his debts in full." "I didn't do anything, really," Dooley protested. "There's a dead grizzly over at the Silver Queen Taxidermy Shop that is being stuffed as we speak that says otherwise, Dooley. If the bear could talk, I mean, after you place a shot—one shot—perfectly before I became a snack for a silvertip." Dooley wiped his mouth with his napkin, stared at the big slice of bacon staring at him, and looked again at Buffalo Bill. Indeed, the frontiersman was serious. "Well . . ." Dooley just couldn't digest all this. "Sir, this is not charity. I am not giving you money to go out and find your fortune in silver in these hills. There are barons aplenty who likely have all the valuable ore locked up with their claims. A grubstake is like a partner. If—and this, you must know, is a mighty big if—you find pay dirt, then you pay me back with an interest of twelve percent. That might strike you as high, but, well, this is Leadville." Thank the Lord we're not in Denver, Dooley thought. "How much money are we talking about?" Dooley asked. Cody grinned again, set the cup of coffee and rye on the table, and reached inside another pocket. Once he pulled out his wallet, he opened it and fished out several greenbacks and yellowbacks. He started counting out bills, bills that from where Dooley sat had a couple of zeros on the end. Dooley listened as the scout and showman counted. His eyes widened as the stack piled up. Dooley wet his lips. He thought: And Cody was robbed of a couple hundred bucks just two days back. Absently, he picked up the piece of bacon and stuck it in his mouth. He chewed, and stared, and washed down the bacon with the last of his coffee. Finally, as Buffalo Bill stopped counting and closed his wallet—which Dooley could tell still had plenty of currency in it—Dooley looked across the table and saw the frontiersman grinning from ear to ear. "What do you say, pardner?" Cody asked. Dooley said, "Uhhhh." Disturbing the diners again with a roaring, table-rattling belly laugh, Buffalo Bill stuck out his hand. "You're a man of my style, Dooley. I'm proud to grubstake you and know you'll do us both proud." What else could Dooley do? He shook hands with Cody and finished his breakfast. * * * He hurried back to the hotel, hoping to find Butch Sweeney, keeping his right hand in his pocket so none of the bills would come flying out. A million thoughts raced through his mind. Has Butch ever done any mining? Of course he has. Maybe. I mean, what else would he be doing in Leadville, Colorado? This certainly isn't cattle country. Maybe Butch learned a lot about mining up in Alaska. Did he actually mine in Alaska? Well, it doesn't matter. But will he want to be my partner? . . . What exactly does a miner need? Shovel? Pan? Beans and coffee for certain . . . Man, I sure wish Horatio and Chester had not gotten killed. I could use some help in this mining venture . . . Maybe Buffalo Bill would know something. No. Don't be silly. Buffalo Bill's just up here visiting before going back to fighting Indians on the Plains, and guiding rich dignitaries from foreign countries on wild hunts in the West, and starring as himself while treading the boards across the United States back East. I'll need to file a claim. I'll need to find a place that has not been claimed. Wait a minute. I won a deed in a poker game from Horatio Whitman. A deed. A deed has to be filed. A claim has to be recorded or it's up for any takers. That I know for certain. I read it in the Police Gazette. Now where . . . ? He stopped on the boardwalk and stared across the street. COUNTY CLERK That seemed like a likely place to start. Dooley let three heavy freight wagons trudge on past before he crossed the muddy street, wiped his boots, and opened the door. * * * "Lode claim, naturally," the clerk said. He was a nice-enough gent, bald headed with thick spectacles and a skinny tie and suspenders. He wore sleeve garters to keep his sleeves bunched up on his upper arms, and hung his coat and hat on hooks on the wall behind his desk. "How's that?" Dooley asked. "Placer claims give you rights to what you can find on the surface," the man said. "If you were panning for gold, that's all you'd need. But we're silver country, so I think you mean lode claim. That grants you rights to what you dig out. Unless you want to pan for gold. I'm not saying you won't find gold here. It's just we've found silver here. Tons of it. Millions of dollars' worth." "Well . . ." You would think that a clerk who handled filing silver-mining claims in a town like Leadville would get his fill of talking, but not this guy. "Once you stake your claim—you stake it by setting up a monument at least three inches in diameter and six inches out of the ground. This has to be in the northeastern corner of your land." "But . . ." "And then you have no more than twenty acres. Once you've staked your claim, you have thirty days to file your claim with me. Now . . ." Dooley took advantage of the man's pause to sing out: "I'm wondering about a claim filed by a man named Horatio Whitman." The man's eyes widened. "Did I say something wrong?" "No. You're just the third man who has asked about a claim filed by that old geezer." Dooley straightened. He sucked in a deep breath, held it a moment, and exhaled. "Do you know the other two men?" "Not personally. One said he was a newspaper man from Cheyenne. The other was Buffalo Bill Cody. He came in just yesterday." "Buffalo Bill?" "Yes. You have heard of him, no doubt." "No doubt." Dooley pulled his hand out of the pocket that held all of that money. His mind did some calculating. So Cody came here yesterday. Wanting to find the location of Horatio's mine. And when he couldn't . . . he decided to grubstake me. Or maybe he did find it and decided to grubstake me to keep me in those big-arse mountains till summer. "But as I told the honorable colonel and the newspaper scribe and as I am telling you, Horatio Whitman never filed a legal claim." "Nothing?" Dooley asked. "Nada. Zilch. Cero. The old goose egg. Oh, son, don't look so disappointed. Many miners don't file claims. Some just don't understand the law. Some might be breaking the law. I did not know the late Mr. Whitman personally, merely saw him from time to time when he was guarding the stagecoach, or drunk, or trying to sell game he killed. That said, I don't think he was dishonest. If he found silver, or gold, or lead, or copper, or, by grab, walnuts, he thought he had an honest claim. But it would not have held up in a court of law." "And if he had a deed?" Dooley asked. "A deed and a claim are not the same thing, sir. Mr. Cody, when he inquired about the claim, he said he had never seen this mysterious deed the late Mr. Whitman was purported to have on his person." "And the inkslinger from Cheyenne?" Dooley asked. "He made no mention of it one way or the other. Merely said he had heard that the late Mr. Whitman claimed to have a deed to a mining claim off Halfmoon Creek." Dooley stepped closer and put his shaking hands on the counter. "When did he come in?" Dooley asked. He felt his heart pounding against his chest. "Day before yesterday." Dooley tried to picture the man. He shot out a piecemeal description: "Black pants, green mackinaw, tan hat, yellow kerchief?" The clerk shook his head as he laughed. "No. He was dressed like a gentleman reporter." "Oh." "But I had my suspicions," the clerk said, and Dooley's heart raced again. "You see, for a reporter—and in a town like Leadville, I have been interviewed by reporters from Denver and national magazines doing feature articles on our lovely, booming town, but this man did not take one single note. Most reporters write down everything I say, but he wrote nothing. He said he had an ironclad memory. But once I told him that Mr. Whitman had filed no legal claim, he lost interest." "Did he favor his left wrist?" "Sir, I cannot remember. Many people come here every day. Even reporters. If he was one." "What makes you think he wasn't? Other than the fact he did not take any notes?" "I did not doubt him at the time, but you must understand, sir, that I had not learned of the late Mr. Whitman's untimely death. When that news swept through town yesterday, I thought back. Then Buffalo Bill Cody came by. And now you. You were the hero that saved Cody's life, aren't you?" Dooley shrugged. "Yes, Mr. Cody mentioned you, said you were a man to ride the river with." He shook his head. "But he did not say which river. Are you a riverman?" Dooley shook his head. "It's just a saying, is all." "Well, I do not understand all this Western lingo." Dooley felt a little better about Buffalo Bill. He wasn't trying to cheat him, he decided, if he mentioned him while asking about Horatio Whitman's claim that had never been filed. "Oh, Whitman came in here once and almost filed the claim," the clerk said. "He pointed to this disgustingly horrendous map he had and said he was filing it here. I looked, laughed, and said, 'Oof Halfmoon Creek? You mean Off Halfmoon Creek.' And I corrected it on his map and then asked, 'But how far off Halfmoon Creek and what direction and did you stake the claim properly?' And Whitman, he ripped the paper from my hands. Gave me a wicked paper cut on my finger. Here. Right there. Hurt like Hades. And do you know what that old man said? He said he would file no claim with an idiot like me and that I might regret my actions one day." Dooley blinked. He had tried to stop listening after the paper cut and had only half listened before that. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" Dooley started to shake his head, but then he thought of something. "Could you show me what hasn't been claimed along Halfmoon Creek?" CHAPTER THIRTEEN The clerk handled a few other claims and questions about claims while Dooley studied the map. Halfmoon Creek went a long ways, divided into separate creeks, and had several claims nearby. Dooley saw the initials and numbers marking the spots that had been filed, legally, as proper claims in the county. After a while, Dooley decided that he had been hoodwinked by an old reprobate who found some silver somewhere and filled out a bogus deed. Flimsy paper. Shoot, now that Dooley had spent a couple of hours in the county clerk's office and seen actual claim forms filled out and registered, he knew what they looked like—and they certainly did not look like that piece of trash old Whitman had signed over to him. Then again, Dooley thought, the old man had plenty of money that he could not have been earning riding shotgun on the late Chester Motz's mud wagon. He had been mining somewhere, and the late Chester Motz had said that he mined when he wasn't working. But where? "Sir?" Dooley looked up at the clerk, who had put on his coat and put on his hat and held a key in his hand. Dooley glanced out the window, only to see the curtains had been drawn. The regulator clock on the top of the cabinet behind the counter began to chime. "Closing time, eh?" Dooley gave the man a warm grin, which the clerk did not return. "I appreciate your help and your time and your wisdom," Dooley told him as he gathered his own hat and coat and stepped out the door with nothing to show for better than two hours spent in the clerk's office but eyes aching from poring over various maps and plots and lines and all sorts of things written in tiny, tiny print. At least the clerk's office had been warm, though. Outside, it was snowing again. * * * He returned to the livery to check on General Grant and make sure Blue got something to eat. Now that Dooley had a pocket full of money, he bought some jerky and a ham bone, which he gave to Blue in the stall. He ought to buy Butch Sweeney some chow, he thought, which reminded him that he needed to see if Butch wanted to partner with him in a mining venture grubstaked by Buffalo Bill Cody. Then he headed for his hotel, thinking something about justice. Sure, he did not have a claim to a mine, but nor did the man who had stolen it from Dooley. Only Dooley was a bit ahead as he had been grubstaked by Buffalo Bill Cody. He wondered what Butch Sweeney would tell him when Dooley proposed that they go into the mining business together. Or at least go into the looking-for-an-actual-mine-that-might-be-worth-something business together. He entered the hotel, removed his hat, and walked to the clerk, who recognized him and fetched his key. "Is Mr. Sweeney in?" Dooley asked. The clerk titled his jaw toward the attached dining room, and Dooley thanked him and headed toward the smell of beef and bread. He almost ran over a woman who was coming out of the dining room. Dooley did a stutter step, moved to his side, put out his arms, but the woman did the same thing, and they kind of did a dance in a circle, then she broke out laughing. Dooley did the same. "Dooley," the woman said. Dooley stopped laughing. His mouth fell open. He just stared. "Don't you recognize me, Dooley?" the woman asked. Dooley did. Well, not really. After all, a few years had passed, and Julia had just been a kid way back in Arizona Territory and San Francisco, California. "Julia," he said. "I mean . . . Miss Julia. Or . . ." He got so tongue-tied he did not know what to do. Julia smiled. "I was just going to ask the clerk to send you into the dining room when you came back. Come on." She took his elbow and guided him past the counter and weaved between patrons and waiters and waitresses, around tables, and chairs, and came to a table in a corner near a fireplace. For a hotel that wasn't fancy, this dining room seemed better than most. Well, it wasn't Morgan's Fine Dining in San Francisco, but it wasn't a chuckwagon, either. Butch Sweeney rose from his seat. So did another fellow in a plaid sack suit. Dooley stared at the other, who held out his hand, smiled, and said, "Hello, Dooley. It has been a long, long time." Dooley's hand reached out. They shook. Recognition came slowly, but it came, and Dooley nodded. "George." George Miller sat down. So did Butch Sweeney. Dooley remembered his manners and pulled out the chair for Miss Julia, who settled into it and allowed Dooley to push her closer to the table. Dooley found his chair opposite Julia. His stomach did all sorts of flopping. "Where you been?" Butch Sweeney asked. "Ain't seen hide or hair of you all day." "Oh . . ." The weight of Buffalo Bill Cody's many dollars felt like lead in his pocket. "Around. Seeing the town." "All day?" Sweeney shook his head. "You sure you just didn't go off drinking with Buffalo Bill?" Dooley shook his head. "I haven't had anything but coffee. And haven't had that in a long time." "Well," George Miller said, "let's see if we can't rectify that situation." He held up his hand and waved at a waiter. The burly man with the blond mustache and slicked-back hair came over, nodded when George Miller asked for champagne, and hurried away. "We have some catching up to do," George Miller said. Stories? Dooley wondered. Or drinking? * * * Mostly stories. Dooley never could get used to all those bubbles and how that sparkling French wine tasted. Alaska had been a bust. Any pay dirt that had been found had long been hauled out of the earth, as far as George Miller and Butch Sweeney had been concerned. Oh, people in that frozen country said they would find gold one of these years, or maybe up in the Klondike in the Canadian territories, but it wasn't for them. They had stayed two years. "It took us that long to earn enough money to pay for our way back to Seattle," Julia explained. "Oh." Dooley thought: Seattle. That's in Washington. Maybe Oregon. Two states I don't recollect ever setting foot in. Maybe one of these days . . . Dooley had to repeat his story about what had happened to him, about amnesia but that he eventually recalled everything he had forgotten. For Miss Julia's sake, he did not say how he had regained his memory while killing a no-good owlhoot who happened to be kin to some other no-good owlhoots he had sent to Boot Hill. At length, George Miller excused himself, but it was George Miller who paid for the meal, even though Dooley tried to pull out one of the big notes Buffalo Bill had grubstaked him. Then Butch Sweeney said he needed to go, and he smiled across the table at Julia and shook Dooley's hand and headed through the main doors before Dooley could even proposition him about becoming a miner somewhere down Halfmoon Creek. "What are you thinking, Dooley?" He looked up and could not stop staring into Julia's eyes. "Uhhh." She smiled, but the smile faded quickly and it looked as though tears formed in her eyes. "I never should have boarded that boat, Dooley. Butch didn't want to. We made him, George and me. No, I made him. I figured you'd just suffered from another case of wanderlust. Or maybe you just didn't want to be saddled with a bunch of kids." "Well," he said. He was just a wizard when it came to talking to a girl. He thought of something to add. "You didn't know." Say something else, he told himself, and he did, which sort of surprised him. "Besides, you and Butch and the half the population of San Francisco could have turned that city inside out and never would have found me. General Grant, Blue, and I were miles and miles from town by the time you would have formed a search party." That seemed to make her feel better. The tears disappeared anyway. "You still have that dog?" "Yes. Didn't Butch tell you?" "No." The way she said it gave Dooley pause. Butch was a tad older that Julia, Dooley had figured, but nowhere near the difference in age as that kid and Dooley himself. He started to ask about George Miller, but stopped. A man did not pry into the affairs of a woman. Affairs. He almost blushed from the thought. Woman. He leaned back. What was that Butch Sweeney had mentioned? "You figured we were too green to handle, or none of our business, or . . . too hard on our tender eyes or ears." Butch had often complained, he now remembered, that Miss Julia had a mouth that went off like a Gatling gun, and he had called her Little Miss Loudmouth. Stuff like that. She and Butch were kids. At least, they had been all those years ago in Arizona and California. He made himself drink some of the water in the glass before him. She wore a tailor-made suit of garnet cashmere—skirt with thin, knife-plaiting along the bottom, two panels on each side of the blouse with buttons and green, yellow, and black stitching, and long drapery of a rich green and gold in the front and looped at the side. The hat was elegant, and she had removed her white gloves while she ate. It was a far cry from the rags she had been wearing when Butch and Dooley had found her in that miserable cave. Her hair was tucked up underneath that hat, showing off her cute little ears, with a few strands of hair—darker now that he remembered—showing on her forehead. The collar was one of those stand-up types, black with garnet stripes, hiding most of her throat. He had to keep telling himself that Leadville might be two miles high and a grueling, numbingly cold, miserable, multiday stagecoach ride from Denver City. And that there might not be any railroad service here, but this town was mighty rich, filled with silver barons and famous folks like Buffalo Bill Cody. It was a place of wealth. And Julia Alice Cooperman sure looked to be filling that bill. Kid? Her eyes were soulful, haunting, and her face unblemished. She reminded Dooley of those dolls he saw in stores in good, proper towns like . . . well . . . Des Moines, maybe. But not Council Bluffs. Not the raw, savage towns he had seen in Denver, Julesburg, Omaha, Yankton, Tucson, Tempe. The nose turned up just enough, and her lips shone a deep red. But Dooley knew she wore no paint on her face. No rouge. No lipstick. She was a natural beauty. Little Miss Loudmouth had grown up to be someone any red-blooded man would be staring at. And Dooley realized that he certainly was staring. He looked at the open doorway, at the folks passing by the dining hall on their way to the opera house in Leadville or upstairs to their rooms. "You always thought of me as a snot-nosed kid, Dooley," Julia Alice Cooperman told him. Dooley swallowed. "You sure aren't a kid anymore, Julia," he told her, and rose. He held out his hand—didn't know why, but it seemed to be the proper thing you did when you were in the presence of a lady, and she rose, pulled those skinny little gloves onto her hands, and took Dooley's into one of hers. Her arm fitted in nicely in the crook of his elbow as he escorted her through the entrance and into the lobby. He was heading her to the staircase when George Miller came down, grinning like a fellow who had just hit blackjack on a sizable bet. "Hello, Dooley," George said, and he took Julia from Dooley. "Hello, dear," Julia told George Miller. "I trust you had a pleasant evening," George Miller told Dooley. "Yeah." "Well, good night to you. It's good to reunite. I'm sure I'll see you plenty over time in Leadville. It's a fast-growing metropolis, a wonderful boomtown, but it is not . . . say . . . San Francisco." That's when Dooley noticed the linen wrapping around George Miller's wrist. He also noticed something else. "Let's retire to our room, dearest," George Miller said, and he escorted Julia Cooperman up those stairs, leaving Dooley just standing there like an oaf. Just staring . . . CHAPTER FOURTEEN . . . just staring at that slim gold band on Julia Cooperman's finger. "Son of a gun," Dooley said. "They're married." * * * So here was Dooley Monahan, finally in a boomtown—not a ghost town—with money in his pocket and a chance to do some real mining. He had been reunited with old friends Julia and Butch and an old colleague, George Miller, whom Dooley certainly wasn't going to call a friend now that he knew he was married to Julia, no matter how many bottles of champagne he bought. Hell, Dooley didn't even like that bubbly booze. Besides, Dooley had noticed that bandage on Miller's arm. George Miller, good old George Miller, was the man who had led those road agents. George Miller was the ornery hombre who had murdered Chester Motz and had stolen Dooley's deed, not that the deed meant anything. There was some justice to that. So here Dooley sat in that fancy café with the swell-tasting doughnuts he had just discovered, and laid out his plan to Butch Sweeney. Dooley was even buying breakfast. Butch sipped his coffee, set down the cup, and ran his fingers through his hands. "Well, Dooley," the young cowboy said, "I appreciate the offer. And I surely wish you luck finding all the silver that ain't already been plucked out of the ground. But I got me an idea. It ain't as hard on the hands as a pick and shovel, though it might make my butt sore." Dooley let out a long breath. He felt so lucky, and now, not so lucky. Yet he was curious. "What do you mean?" Leaning forward, Butch began a conspiratorial whisper. "It's like this, Dooley. I'm going to get back to that stagecoach that those badmen robbed. I'm gonna buy the mules from the livery man. They're not his mules anyway, but he found them, laid claim to them, and I already checked. Motz didn't have no kin. And he was the sole proprietor of the Leadville-Denver Transportation Company. Well, Horatio Whitman was his partner, too, but he's dead, you know." "I know," Dooley said regretfully. Butch leaned back and grinned. "I figured it would sure beat riding herd on doggies. Easier on my thighs if not my hindquarters." He found his doughnut, dunked it, and shoved the rest in his mouth. As he chewed he said, sort of regretfully, as if he knew how Dooley would answer already: "I was sort of hoping that you might come in with me." "Riding shotgun?" Dooley asked. "As my pard," Butch said. Dooley frowned. "And ride shotgun, too," Butch said. "Though we could switch if you ever got bored. I mean . . ." He started speaking faster, the words running together. "You could drive some. Have you ever driven a team? Oh, knock my head off. Of course you have. I'm not asking you to ride shotgun because of your reputation. I mean, that didn't stop those badmen . . . Oh. That came out wrong. And it's not that I'm trying to step on Chester Motz's grave or nothing. You know. I just thought . . . well . . . I guess . . . you don't want to do it, do you?" Dooley stared at the doughnut, which did not look so appetizing anymore. With a sigh, he explained, "It's not that I don't want to do it, Butch. It's just that . . . well . . . for years I've wanted to try my hand at mining. I've cowboyed. I've gambled. I've led a dad-blasted wagon train, sort of. I've been trying to get to a boomtown for as long as I can remember, and now I have. Now . . ." He made himself smile. "I think you likely have the right idea. That stage line will make you a profit, or at least a decent living. And I suspect it's real pretty and a little bit warmer once summer arrives. So I wish you luck. And maybe, when I don't strike it rich, I'll look you up for a job." "Would you?" Butch perked up. "You bet." They shook hands across the table. Dooley felt better until Butch said, "I reckon I'll have to ask George Miller to ride shotgun." Dooley had been about to eat that doughnut but now his hand stopped, and he stared, feeling his ears start to burn in anger. "He'll likely tell me no, too," Butch was saying, "but he probably could get someone to do it for me." He saw Dooley's face, and his red ears, and mistook the anger as being directed toward him. "Not that I'd make George or somebody he knowed a pard, Dooley. He'd just be on for . . . wa—" "I wouldn't do it, Butch." Butch Sweeney swallowed. "You know he married Julia, don't you?" Dooley nodded. "Happened up in Alaska. I was looking for some rubber boots to buy in this store in Skagway and . . . well . . . he found a preacher. It struck me in the gut like bad whiskey, but . . . well, I heard tell that Kit Carson married this gal who weren't no older than fourteen, but that was Kit Carson. And that was in New Mexico. Or someplace like that. And . . . well . . . Julia always had a mind of her own. You know that." "I'm not jealous," Dooley lied. "Well, of course not, Dooley. I ain't jea—" Butch couldn't finish. Dooley started to talk, stopped to let the waitress refill their coffee cups and collect Butch's empty plate. She left Dooley's, though Dooley wasn't certain he could finish the doughnut now. He stared at the steaming coffee, which matched, he thought, his steaming head. He leaned forward and said, "Butch, George Miller robbed that mud wagon. George Miller murdered Chester Motz." And he told the kid everything he could remember. Afterward, he thought of something else. "I also think that George Miller was the one who clobbered me with a pistol butt from behind in that livery in San Francisco. It was George Miller who give me the amnesia." That got Dooley to thinking and steaming some more. Then Butch asked, "Can you prove any of that?" Dooley frowned. He made himself drink some coffee just to keep his hands busy. Afterward, he shook his head. "Probably not. My word against his. He wore a mask, flour sack pulled up over his face. Couldn't see him. And a hole in a man's arm doesn't mean nothing." Outside, as if to prove a point, a gunshot boomed, and moments later, a man's voice cried out, "Harley Boone has kilt Cheater Norris!" A few patrons got up. Some stared out the window, whispering to one another. Others opened the door—ringing the little bell and letting in the cold—and stepped onto the plank boardwalk to get a better look. Most, of course, kept right on eating, as murders and shootings happened quite often in Leadville. Dooley saw that Butch Sweeney was a mite skeptical, so he said. "The county clerk saw George, Butch, I'm certain of it. He told me that a fellow came in, said he was a newspaper reporter from Cheyenne, and that he asked the same questions that I did. About that claim on Halfmoon Creek. Was George gone recently?" Butch frowned, but nodded. "Said he wanted to check some things in Silver Plume." Ears getting redder with each fact, Dooley squeezed his hands into fists that trembled. "He was in Denver. Waylaid me. Killed Horatio Whitman. He must have seen me win that hand, and the deed. I'm sure he knew about the deed. He's a low-down, murdering, back-shooting coyote . . . even if he hasn't shot anyone in the back. He would." Then he got excited. "Butch," he said, "the county clerk . . . he could identify George. That would give me the proof." He felt good, slightly. The clerk would identify George Miller as the man posing as a newspaper reporter. Which might not be enough to get a man tried legally and then legally hanged in a civilized place, or semicivilized, like Denver or Cheyenne or Georgetown or Omaha, but certainly that and the hole in his arm would be enough proof for the vigilance committee to string George Miller up. "Dooley." He saw that look on Butch's face. "Did you hear that fellow outside? Cheater Norris. The one Harley Boone just killed? Cheater Norris—that wasn't his real name, don't recall his real name, just what folks called him . . . Cheater Norris is, I mean was the county clerk." Dooley swore again. And to think of all the prospects he had just a few days ago. "Dooley?" Frowning, the coffee in his stomach rocking the one doughnut he had managed to get down before his breakfast and morning soured, Dooley looked again across the table at his old pal, young Butch Sweeney, whose face, never bronzed like Dooley's, was turning paler with each falling snowflake outside. "You ain't gonna shoot down George Miller?" Butch measured each word. "Are you?" Not without a call, Dooley thought to say, and started to say, but stopped. "Because . . . well . . . you just can't do it, Dooley," Butch said. "No matter how many men he has murdered or how many claims he has jumped, or how many men he has paid Harley Boone to gun down. You just can't do it." But Dooley was thinking that, well, he would be doing the world a favor, bringing at least a wee bit of justice to this lawless city of silver and wealth and greed and cold. He had killed men in self-defense. It would be better, he wanted to make himself to believe, to kill someone for the betterment of the United States of America and her Western territories. "Dooley." Butch Sweeney had summoned his resolve. "I know George Miller's a mean, contrary, no-good person. But if you kill him, well, just think what it would do to Julia." It would make her a widow, Dooley thought angrily. It would make her a hell of a lot better off than she is now. But the anger, the hatred, left him, almost immediately. Julia Alice Cooperman had done a lot of growing up over those years since San Francisco. So had Butch Sweeney. Hell, now Dooley realized that he needed to grow up, too. He made himself smile, even though he was a million miles from happiness. He made his head bob up and down as though he agreed with Butch's assessment of the situation. "You're right," he said softly. "You're right, Butch." He made himself look out the window, mostly so that Butch wouldn't see those tears welling his eyes. The snow kept coming down harder, wet snow, heavy flakes, and people walking by breathed out frosty air like a locomotive's smokestack as it tried to climb a high grade. Folks in Leadville kept saying this was spring, but it sure still looked like winter to Dooley, and Dooley had spent some time in high country. He knew about cold. He watched two men in duck trousers and winter coats haul the late Cheater Norris down the boardwalk across the street, taking the recently departed county clerk to the Silver, Gold, Lead and Dead Funeral Parlor. "I wish you luck with that stage line, Butch," Dooley heard himself say. "You keep yourself safe, old pard. And . . . well . . . you tell Little Miss Loudmouth I said good-bye. I'll see you after the snowmelt." CHAPTER FIFTEEN The wind blew hard, rustling through the trees, dumping snow from the limbs and branches. Yet Dooley found himself comfortable in the little dugout he had managed to dig. Mining, he learned, was mighty hard work. And this time of year, cold work at that. Now he understood why most miners gave up during the winter, moved down to lower, more manageable, elevations, where March really did mean spring. But the dugout was deep and big enough for Blue, General Grant, and a toasty little fire. The pack mule, of course, could not fit in completely, but he was a tough old bird, used to the elements, the man at the livery had said, and now he did not seem to mind blocking the wind. Dooley had enough food to last till true spring arrived, and for the most part, he had Halfmoon Creek and all of the rough country around it to himself. Using the crude map he had copied from the detailed maps in the office of Cheater Harris, the late county clerk, Dooley had ridden his horse, pulling the loaded-down mule behind him, with Blue trudging along in the snow. They rode southwest out of town until they hit the Arkansas River, then rode along it till it intersected with Lake Fork. They had crossed the freezing, slow-moving river at the crossing there, and rode up Lake Fork, on the left bank, and a short while later came to Halfmoon Creek. They only made it to Derry Ditch that first day. That's how tough and rough and hard on everything this country happened to be. The next day proved a mite easier. They made it to the abandoned old cave somewhere between a mountain stream and Ebert Creek, and Dooley figured this place would make a good base camp until he got too far to come back to it. He worked six days a week, ice fishing in the pond on Sundays, or what he thought might have been Sundays, mostly to save up his strength. He did not shave. He brought no whiskey and certainly not any bottle of champagne. At the Tabor Book Shop, he spent $2.17 of Buffalo Bill Cody's grubstake on a book, and he read it on Sundays as the fish fried in his skillet, before the sun sank and it became too dark to read. The sun disappeared really early in these rugged mountains and did not rise in any hurry, either. SILVER MINING: A Primer How to make your fortune in the rugged Western Frontier! What to look for . . . What to bring . . . Stories of men JUST LIKE YOU, wanting to find their FORTUNE— ALL you need to know! BY A MAN WHO MADE IT RICH! Written by J. K. L. O'Brien. On the fifth day, he explored the mountainous ridges on the far bank of the creek. He caused a small avalanche, and, after digging himself out, he went back to the dugout to warm himself and dry his clothes. That was the night he burned J. K. L. O'Brien's book. Eventually, he realized he needed to move camp, for he had explored the mountains all around him and found a few mines with NO TRESPASSING signs posted. Some had a few friendly notes. BACK COME JUNE HELP YOURSELF TO CRACKERS IN THE LINE SHACK BUT TAKE ANY SILVER & IT'LL BE R. I. P. Others weren't so friendly. CLAIM JUMPERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT He even found a few graves. He also saw the markings some people had posted as a site of a claim, and Dooley did not want to be mistaken for a claim jumper. He was honest. Down Halfmoon Creek, he passed a few other mines, some still working but left during the winter, a few with actual miners, some boarded up and left. One of these he decided might as well serve him as his home for the next few weeks. Even the mule would fit inside it. A wet storm dumped two feet of snow on the mountains one night, and Dooley wondered if somebody had given him a bum calendar. According to his X's, it was March 29, but it sure felt like January 2. Still, he had enough kindling and enough matches and plenty of coffee and beans, plus grain for his horse and mule. A week or two later, after the snow had melted mostly, or at least turned to ice, he moved on to where Halfmoon Creek split. South Halfmoon Creek went down like a straight line, and Dooley wondered about that, but decided that "Off Halfmoon Creek" meant the real creek, not that cold, mean-looking tributary or whatever it was. On the sixth week, maybe eighth, he met a miner whose eyes were so sunk back in his head and whose beard was crawling with lice that Dooley did not want to get too close to the old man. But the fellow asked for jerky, and Dooley had plenty, so he brought some out of the saddlebag and tossed a good-sized one to the man whose mule looked as bony and decrepit as the old man did. General Grant lowered his head to drink the cold water from Halfmoon Creek, and Dooley kicked one boot out of the stirrup, lifted his leg, and hooked it over the saddle horn. "Obliged," the man said in a voice as dead as he looked. "Nice horse." "Good-looking mule," Dooley lied. "I et the other mule," the man said. "Was a hard winter." "Find anything?" Dooley asked after digesting the dirty old-timer's statement. He wondered if it was proper to ask a miner if he had found anything. Would that be like asking a man his name in this country? And what did mule meat taste like? Chicken? Marmot? "Just enough," the man said, "to get me a ticket on Chester Motz's stage and get my bones down to Georgetown where I can see my ma." Dooley lacked the heart to tell the old-timer about Chester Motz, but sure hoped Butch Sweeney would give the man a ride down to Georgetown—and that no passengers, or even Butch, would get bitten by the bugs crawling all over this guy. It had warmed up. Thirty degrees would feel like sixty these days, and Dooley felt like it was hotter. That's why the bugs had thawed out. The man worked the jerky with what few teeth remained in his mouth. "Where you camped?" he asked. Dooley hooked his thumb down the creek. "Spot abandoned about half a mile yonder." He wanted to sound like he was a friendly miner. "There's some beans. Little coffee in the pot that'll be cold by now. But you're welcome to it. Only I got a dog. And he can be touchy with strangers. But I'll go back with you if you want. I'm kind of played out. This mining . . . it's . . . well . . ." He laughed. "It sure ain't cowboying." "Course it's hard, youngster. Real hard. Unless you're one of them silver barons who just sits in his mansion countin' his dollars. But you're a smart one. Comin' up before most folks figure it's warm enough to look for silver. You might find some, but I figure most of the stuff's already claimed." Well, Dooley thought, at least he had tried mining. He thought maybe he would drift to Texas. Or even Mexico. Cowboy down there. Thaw out. It would only take him about three or four summers in that country and he might feel warm again. "I thank ya fer the jerky, an' fer the offerin' of what you gots in that mine. That'd be Ol' Ole Finkle's claim. Not that Ol' Ole ever claimed nothin'." "I thought it was abandoned," Dooley said, suddenly terrified that for all his caution he had actually jumped some honest miner's claim, even if he had not even looked for silver or even overturned a stone inside that miserable pit. "It is. Ol' Ole got hisself kilt 'bout a year ago. Or . . ." He stopped chewing. Stopped moving, except for the critters on his person. "What year is it, youngster?" Dooley told him. The chewing resumed. "Yep. 'Bout a year ago. Harley Boone shot him dead on Hemlock and Seventh. That's about as abandoned as a mine can get." Dooley paled even more. "Harley Boone doesn't think he has claim to that hole, does he?" The man snorted. "Harley Boone wouldn't work a claim for nothin'. He don't work nothin' 'cept his trigger finger. Nah. Ever'body in Colorado, Wyoming, and Utah knowed Ol' Ole Finkle never struck nothin' but a hard time. And he never filed no papers on that miserable hole, neither. No point. Ol' Ole never struck nothin'. His luck was lousier than mine. Especially once he got kilt by Harley Boone." "Oh." Dooley thought, turned his head this way, then asked, "Old Old Finkle? How old was he?" "Not Old Old, boy. Ol' Ole. He was a Swede. Or Finnish. Norwegian. Somethin' 'long those lines. Ol' as in Old. Ole as in . . . hell . . . I ain't from no frozen tundra. I've just tried to mine in one. You know." "I know," Dooley said. "I understand." "Thirty-two years," the old-timer said. "That'd be my best guess at his age. Yes, sir. He'd lived a long life in these mountains. Poor Ol' Ole. Thirty-two and struck dead by a bullet from Harley Boone's pistol. A year older than I am. Be seein' you, youngster." The old, decrepit miner—who, if he wasn't touched in his head and indeed was thirty-one years old, was a good many years younger than Dooley—went on down Halfmoon Creek. Dooley reached up and scratched his beard. Maybe he would wash tonight. Another thought hit him: Maybe I'll just head back to Leadville and quit this blame foolishness. But he trudged on, sweating now, for indeed the sun had come out. The creeks flowed faster now, more turbulent, and finally he came to another branch. One went southeast, the other northward. He pulled his makeshift map from his pocket and realized he had come to the end of his map. Halfmoon Creek flowed southeast, and as far as he knew, the other branch did not have a name. That tempted him, but he knew it was too late in the day to start up that creek. So he turned around and rode back down Halfmoon Creek toward Ol' Ole Finkle's old claim. "Well." Dooley smiled. Right before Dooley had pulled out to find his fortune in these mountains, Buffalo Bill had told him that mining was a lot like poker and that he doubted he would see anything from the grubstake he had handed Dooley, but that was how mining went. So Cody would not be surprised when Dooley returned to Leadville with no silver, nothing but stinking clothes and a beard that needed shaving off and hair that needed a good washing and trimming. It was time, he knew, to quit this folly and get back to punching cows. Or he could always go home to his farm near Des Moines. Oddly enough, he felt content, satisfied, happy. So what if he had not found any riches, even any traces of silver? He had lived his dream. Since discovering that old, old clipping from some newspaper about a gold strike in Alaska, Dooley had dreamed of finding his fortune, panning for gold or digging for silver. Doing something that did not involve branding steers with a hot iron, roping an ornery longhorn, riding line camps in the loneliest of winters, or planting taters in Iowa. And he had done it. He had lived out his dream. Sure, he had nothing to show for it but calloused hands, an itchy beard, worn-out clothes, and a belly button that was just about to rub up against his backbone. But, by thunder, he had done it. He had lived his dream. My, what stories he could tell . . . He frowned. He was about to say Julia. Well, Butch might enjoy a story or two. Like the avalanche that had almost buried Dooley. Maybe he would take that job offer, ride shotgun for Butch's wagon. Maybe . . . or he'd just do what most cowboys did. Drift. That's what he did now. Drifted. Back along Halfmoon Creek toward his temporary digs of Ol' Ole Finkle's hole in the ground. He came to the spot, saw Blue standing in the opening, wagging his tail. He saw the mule grazing on grain Dooley had spread out before he had saddled General Grant and ridden off on one last adventure, one last look for a fortune in silver. He crossed Halfmoon Creek, and Blue barked with excitement, as if he knew he would be leaving these dark woods for sunlight and Leadville and maybe something different. Apparently, the ancient thirty-one-year-old prospector had not stopped for food or water. Dooley dismounted and led General Grant to the mine. He removed the saddle and blanket, set both out to dry in what little sunlight made it through the forest, slipped off the bridle, and rubbed the horse's neck. Next, he fetched a piece of jerky and tossed it to Blue, who swallowed it without tasting or doing much chewing. Dooley found his washbasin and splashed frigid water across his face, drying off with his dingy bandanna. He told Blue, "Let's get a good night's sleep, Blue, and we'll see what civilization looks like tomorrow." He stared at Halfmoon Creek, shook his head, and turned around to look at the mine. He blinked. He turned back and looked again at the rapidly swelling stream. He wet his lips and slowly craned his neck, moved his body, and gazed at the worthless hole in the ground. Back he looked at the creek. Back he studied the mine. Creek. Mine. Creek. Mine. Creek. Mine. Creek. Mine. Then he swore. CHAPTER SIXTEEN "Oof Halfmoon Creek," Dooley said, as he lighted the lantern and turned it up. He remembered what Cheater Norris, the county clerk, had said when Horatio Whitman had come into the office and almost filed a claim. "Oof Halfmoon Creek?" the now recently deceased clerk had said he had admonished Whitman. "You mean Off Halfmoon Creek." Dooley remembered it clearly now. Norris saying that he had corrected the crude map Whitman had brought in. The old messenger had gotten angry, taken the map back—rendering Norris with one wicked paper cut—and left the office. Dooley thought things out. When Whitman had made up his own deed, he had kept Cheater Norris's spelling. OFF Halfmoon Creek. Not OOF. But OOF was right. Halfmoon Creek. OOF. O.O.F. Ol' Ole Finkle. He moved deeper into the hole, with Blue following nervously. He came past mounds of guano, but saw no sleeping bats, no flying bats, no bats at all. He remembered the grizzly that had almost done in Buffalo Bill Cody, Dooley, and Blue, and hoped nothing was hibernating now. He wondered why he had not thought about bears before. The hole went deeper than he figured, but eventually he came to a dead end. He held the lantern high and looked but saw dark, damp rocks. He studied the ground, but found not footprints left by Ol' Ole Finkle or Horatio Whitman. He moved back and, suddenly exhausted from the altitude, the stress, the excitement, the grueling weeks he had spent in these mountains, he rested on a boulder. He was warm, but a cool breeze prickled his neck. It soothed Dooley. Then he turned, lowered the lantern, and lifted his hand. He could feel the soft blowing of wind. It was coming from the wall. He rose, grabbed the lantern, and held it higher. He moved back, almost tripping over Blue, who skedaddled and moved out of the way. Once the lantern was set down opposite the wall, Dooley came back and grabbed a stone. He moved it. He looked, studying the wall closely, realizing that this was no natural rock formation, no rockslide. His heart pounded and he moved back, grabbed another stone. He moved back and forth, working up a sweat, straining his muscles. Eventually, he shed his coat. Then his vest. Then his shirt and bandanna. He moved until he could not work anymore, and curled up into a ball, and slept with Blue beside him, guarding the wall. He did not bother cooking breakfast, just drank the cold coffee, although he did make sure Blue had something to eat, and the horse and mule were grained. He also remembered something else and stepped outside, still in his long-handle underwear and woolen pants. It did not feel so cold this morning. He drank water and wished he had not burned J. K. L. O'Brien's Silver Mining: A Primer. But he could remember his meeting with the late county clerk, Cheater Norris. He found a piece of wood, sat down, carved a point, measured it against his Colt revolver, and moved off. The words of the late Cheater Norris rang through his brain: "Once you stake your claim—you stake it by setting up a monument at least three inches in diameter and six inches out of the ground. This has to be in the northeastern corner of your land." Northeast. He found the sun, just now appearing. He thought about the direction the mine went, the shaft that Dooley was convinced Horatio Whitman had sealed off by moving boulders to hide the entrance. That made sense. It had to be. Horatio Whitman was not like that old thirty-one-year-old coot Dooley had met coming out of the mountains yesterday. Whitman was like most miners. He would get out of these hills in the winter, ride shotgun for Chester Motz. And he was somewhere between the miners whose properties Dooley had passed during his mining misadventures this spring. Horatio Whitman would not invite any passersby in to help themselves to crackers whilst Horatio Whitman was maybe better than a hundred miles away in Denver. He wouldn't threaten to shoot anyone on sight, either, but Horatio Whitman was smart enough to hide what he had found. Horatio Whitman had sealed the entrance to the tunnel or trap or room he had found in the late Ol' Ole Finkle's claim that had never been claimed. The hidden entrance would go off that way, Dooley said to himself, and he took off that way. He did not pace off too much, though, but enough to cover the hole. Besides, he could always go back and move the claim marker if the tunnel appeared to stretch deeper. He used the Colt's butt to hammer the stake into the ground, and measured again, making sure it was three inches in diameter and at least six inches above the ground. The county clerk's voice whispered again in the morning wind: "Once you've staked your claim, you have thirty days to file your claim with me." Thirty days. Dooley wrote his name on a piece of paper and set it beside the marker, covering it with a good-sized stone. Then he ran back to Ol' Ole Finkle's far-from-worthless worthless mine. It took him half that day to get the top of the makeshift wall down, but that was all he needed. He climbed up, and through the hole, bringing the lantern with him. Blue barked, the noise bouncing off the walls, and then the dog sprang up the makeshift stairway of rocks and boulders and entered the room with Dooley. At first he didn't see much of anything, just more rocks. Silver, he remembered somebody once telling him, can be black. Black as coal. It might fool a person. He moved back, loving the steadiness of the temperature, how relaxing it felt. Despite being bottled up from Horatio Whitman's wall of rocks, it did not feel or smell stuffy or stagnant. He still felt the breeze, and knew there had to be shafts sending fresh air into this chamber. He also knew that this chamber went deeper and deeper than he had figured. "I might," he told Blue, "have to move that stake back a few hundred yards." Blue barked, which echoed across the dark room, and wagged his tail. They went on. In the darkness where the glow from the lantern did not reach, he saw the beams of light shining from the ceiling. Air holes. Natural or otherwise. But a good sign. A man could breathe here. He stopped and looked back, glad to see a light from the opening he had managed. He sighed with relief, knowing that the light there would provide a beacon, so he would not get lost in this chamber. He recalled all those stories he had read in the Police Gazette and Frank Leslie's Illustrated about men getting lost in mines, eating candles until they died. Just don't go too far, he told himself. Don't stay in here till the sun goes down. His boots and Blue's paws splashed through puddles of water, and now Dooley heard, above his own pounding heart and heavy breathing, water dripping. He passed the sunbeams, past a little trickle of water coming from the roof and puddling on the floor. He came to a division in the mine, one chamber going off to the northeast, the other going northwest. "That's right, isn't it?" he asked Blue. Suddenly, he wasn't sure of his directions. He moved to the left, northeast, but quickly stopped. That way was blocked by another wall of boulders. Dooley cursed Horatio Whitman for being that untrusting. He didn't have the time or energy to move another mountain of rocks. Something peppered the brim of his hat, and he stepped back. More soft pebbles fell from the ceiling onto the floor. Now Dooley was certain that he did not want to be moving any rocks. He waited until the drizzle—a far cry from a cave-in—passed, and afterward he moved back into the closet, held the lantern as high as he could, and breathed a little easier. This wasn't the act of a paranoid miner hiding his treasure. It was solid stone. Just what he had called it in his mind, a closet. So he backed up and took the other opening. It was much larger than a closet, and, thankfully, no drizzle of dirt or rocks or even water fell from the ceiling. Ahead of him, he saw other beams of light, revealing openings that would provide air, fresh air, and life. He turned to his right and held the lantern upward. Blue barked, backed up quickly, and Dooley quickly lowered his lantern and shielded his eyes from the violent reflection. His eyes burned. He blinked, sucked in another breath, and looked again. The light from the lantern, and the holes in the ceiling, reflected off the wall Dooley stared at. A wall that might not have been completely papered with gleaming silver, but had to be pretty damn close to it. Unbelievable. "My goodness," he told Blue. "We're rich." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Two weeks later, Dooley Monahan rode into Leadville, Blue trotting alongside him, the pack mule sinking in the thick mud of spring—which had slowed Dooley down considerably. His heavy winter coat was rolled up and strapped behind the cantle with his saddlebags, for it was warm . . . well, warmer than he had felt in ages after a couple of months along Halfmoon Creek. What made him grin was seeing all the miners, freshly duded up and freshly shaved, that he met heading into the mountains as he came to town. Most of them pointed at him, and plenty of them whispered, but Dooley did not mind. A few of them noticed how slowly the mule moved, but no one said anything to him other than a "Howdy" or a joking "You're heading the wrong way, mister. This is when we start mining." Oh, Dooley would think and grin underneath his untrimmed beard, you're right. I haven't even started mining just yet. The streets, a quagmire, remained packed, with wagons and horsemen going both ways, and the boardwalks were equally crowded. Leadville had always seemed a vibrant city that might have rivaled Harper's Weekly woodcut impressions of New York City or Chicago or old Charleston as she had been before the Civil War. Now it might have even outmatched those images Dooley had imagined. It was a bustling, wild city, full of people—and only two men were hanging from a telegraph pole on the edge of town. He passed the county clerk's office, but saw a line out the door, so rode on, trying to think about where he should go first. One thing he knew for certain was that he needed a bath and a shave, and the way he smelled, that might take him all day before he ever felt clean. He looked for the late Chester Motz's mud wagon, but didn't see it, or any stagecoach, or even Butch Sweeney. It just so happened that a man left the bank on the corner of Harrison and Third, mounting his horse, backing it out, and taking off toward one of the forks or tributaries of the Arkansas River, and since space in front of any building came at a premium, Dooley guided General Grant to it and dismounted. He managed to bring the mule to his horse's side, and went to the packsaddle and brought out one sack. He grunted and felt his boots sink deeper into the mud underneath the weight, but adjusted the sack over his shoulder and stepped onto the boardwalk. People gave him a mighty wide berth, allowing Dooley to move across the creaking planks of the boardwalk and to the entrance to the bank. A businessman in spectacles and a sack suit opened the door, gasped at the sight of Dooley, and almost fell back inside. Dooley thanked him for holding the door open and stood like a dumb oaf watching the commotion of bees as men and women went to cashiers, and other folks sat in desks talking to men with frowns etched permanently across their faces and eyes glazed over with boredom. People leaving the bank swung a wide arc around Dooley. People coming into the bank did the same. After the longest while, a timid soul wearing sleeve garters came up to Dooley and made himself try to grin. He didn't completely succeed, but it was enough to let Dooley know that the boy tried to be civil. "Can I . . . er . . . be of assistance?" the fellow asked. Dooley nodded. It had been two weeks since he had actually spoken to a living human being, and the last person he had spoken to had been that old miner who was younger than Dooley. He said, "Yeah." Then, louder: "Yes, sir. I want . . ." He glanced around him and made sure no one was listening. "Want to open an account. Make a deposit." "I see." The clerk sounded and looked ever so skeptical. He looked around for help, found none, and realized what kindness and generosity and civility had netted him. So he moved back and pushed open a rickety little gate and motioned toward his desk. "This way, sir." Once the fellow sat down, and Dooley laid his sack on the desktop and found himself sitting in an actual chair for the first time in ages, Dooley stared. He looked up at the ceiling, made of tin and full of all sorts of designs. He studied the chandelier that had to have come from St. Louis or maybe even down Mexico way. The roof fascinated him. He hadn't seen one since ... "How much cash do you wish to deposit with us, Mr. . . . ummmmmm . . ." "Monahan," Dooley said. "Dooley Monahan." He spelled both names and watched the clerk write the letters in a cheery cursive. "Very good, sir," the clerk said, lowered his pencil, and stared across the desk. "How much currency?" Dooley shook his head. "No currency. It's . . . umm . . ." Again he looked over his shoulder, then leaned forward and whispered, "Silver." "Silver." The clerk did not sound as though he believed him. So Dooley reached into the sack and pulled out a chunk of ore. * * * "Where on earth did you find this?" The president of the bank, Tim Lake, twisted his mustache and refilled the snifter Dooley held with French brandy. They had moved away from the clerk's little desk to the private office of Mr. Lake. Dooley had a cigar in his mouth, two more in a greasy pocket, and a snifter of brandy in his hand. The clerk and an assayer called in from a business two blocks down were busy working on the samples Dooley had brought in in his sack. "A ways from here," Dooley said. "A ways," the bank president repeated. "A ways." Dooley brought the glass to his lips but just brushed them against the liquor. It had been so long since he had taken a snoot, he wasn't sure he wanted to do this yet . . . not on an empty stomach. "A ways." Mr. Lake frowned. After a while, the clerk and the assayer came over, and the assayer, who had his sleeves rolled up and appeared to be sweating, rubbed his bald head and looked at Dooley. "You have staked your claim, haven't you, sir?" Dooley did not answer. "Listen," he said, and set the cigar in the ashtray, the liquor on the desktop, and cleared his throat. "All I want is some cash money to get myself cleaned up. And enough to pay back Buffalo Bill Cody what he grubstaked me." "Colonel Cody grubstaked you?" President Lake asked. "That's why I want to pay him back," Dooley said, speaking to the president as if he were an idiot. "Now, I appreciate the brandy and the cigars and the loan of your chair, but I'm itching as all get-out, and I can tell by how that little jasper of a clerk you have keeps holding his nose and wiping his eyes with his silk handkerchief that I don't smell too good anymore. I'd like to rectify that. But if you can't help me, just tell me and I'll find me another bank in this here town." That was probably more words than he had spoken since he had ridden down Halfmoon Creek. "We will be delighted to handle your account, Mr. Monahan," President Lake said, and he looked at the assayer. "Am I correct?" "I'd think so," the clerk said. "Is it good ore?" Dooley asked. The man stared at him, rubbed the slick top of his bald head again, and looked over at President Lake. "It's good," he said, and looked at his notes. "It's gray silver, Mr. Lake, with ruby silver, and gray copper on quartz." "And?" Now the banker was starting to sweat. "Well, by my estimation, if the rest of his claim is like what he has brought in, this would assay in silver per ton of two thousand pounds to be . . ." He checked his figures, swallowed, and looked at Dooley as he answered. "Six thousand two hundred thirteen dollars and eighty-nine cents." Denver prices didn't trouble Dooley that much anymore. But something troubled him. "I don't think I brought in a ton," he said. "Not in that sack," the assayer said. "How much is that worth? What I brought in?" It was the clerk who answered. "From the weight, I'd say three hundred ninety-five dollars and sixty-one, no, I mean sixty-two cents." Dooley frowned. "Buffalo Bill give me a sizable more money than that." "Well." But Dooley was already standing, walking out of the president's private office, and moving across the lobby to the front door. All three men chased after him, calling him Mr. Monahan, but Dooley left the bank, let a nice old lady in a bonnet pass, and moved to the side of the hitching rail. The banker, the assayer, and the clerk slid to a stop. Dooley pulled another sack and swung it over his shoulder and stepped back onto the boardwalk. He nodded at the three men. "Could y'all bring in those three other bags for me? I'll leave this one on your desk and come back to fetch the last one." * * * When Dooley left the office, the clerk—the one who had started it all with an act of kindness, or business, or guilt—opened the door for Dooley. He whispered, "Sir, if I were you, if you have not already filed on your claim, you should do so immediately." He pointed. "That's the county clerk's office. That's where . . ." "Y'all got a new clerk?" Dooley asked. "To replace Cheater Norris?" "Yes." "Fine, fine. Do you know if Miss Julia . . . I mean . . . Missus Julia . . . Miller . . . Is she in town?" "I . . . I don't . . . Miller?" "And did Butch Sweeney start up old Chester Motz's stage line to Denver and those other cities?" "Um . . . yes. Yes. The stage should be coming in sometime today, I think." "Fine. Fine. And is Buffalo Bill Cody still in town?" "Yes. But I think the Ledger reported that he was leaving when Mr. Sweeney takes off again for Denver." "Good, good." Dooley pulled up his money belt and held out his hand. He shook with the clerk and gathered the reins to General Grant and the lead rope to the mule. The clerk watched him swing into the saddle, then slowly, numbly, he returned to the bank, closing the door behind him. After two months, would Miss . . . Mrs. Julia Miller still be living in that hotel? And would Butch Sweeney have a place of his own, or be sleeping in the wagon yard or livery stable? The clerk said that Buffalo Bill was staying at the Tabor, but Dooley did not think the gentlemen in the lobby would let a man who looked like Dooley did just now inside without a ruckus. No matter how many double eagles he had in his money belt to tip those rascals. First, he thought, he ought to find that bath. Get his hair shorn and the beard and dirt removed from his face. He remembered that clothing emporium he had passed when he had first ridden into Leadville what seemed like a million years ago. He could buy clothes there. But first he needed that bath. No. No. He thought about when he had first made that claim. Two weeks. So he had about two more weeks to file, legally, his claim. Yet he did not want to wait. Silver had a way of bringing out the worst in people, especially silver that graded out as much as Dooley's had. He rode back down to Front Street and found the county clerk. The door was no longer packed with people, and the hitching rail was practically empty. Dooley swung out of his saddle, brought the pack mule in, told Blue to stay, and fetched his map out of the saddlebag on his right-hand side. Once he pushed through the door, he saw the clerk shoving some maps back into a sliding cabinet. Cheater Norris's replacement turned around and grimaced at the sight of Dooley. But it was Dooley who felt as if he had just been kicked in his belly. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN "What do you want, old man?" George Miller demanded. An eternity passed. "Well." Miller was not happy at all. "I haven't got all day." Another figure, a pockmarked boy with a pale face, slowly rose from beneath the counter, holding more bundles of paper that needed filing. The boy made a face at Dooley and cringed when Miller cut loose with another blast of profanity directed at Dooley. Only it wasn't aimed at Dooley, at least, not Dooley Monahan. It slowly dawned on Dooley that the murdering, woman-stealing, stagecoach-robbing claim-jumper did not recognize Dooley. He thought he was just some flea-bitten, miserable miner who needed a bath and a shave. Dooley started doing some mental figuring. "Well," Miller barked. "I haven't got all day. God, you stink." "Want to file a claim," Dooley said, and waited for recognition to cross the new county clerk's face. It didn't happen. Instead, he shook his head, slid some maps back into place, and told the kid who still held those papers, "See to this, Homer. I'll be in the back." Dooley watched Miller move toward the rear office, his broad back making a mighty inviting target for a .45 caliber chunk of lead Dooley could fire. But that was just a dream, a fleeting thought. A fun joke. Dooley was not a back-shooter. Besides, would Julia Cooperman—no, that's Julia Miller—wear black and mourn the loss, small that it was, of her husband? With the boy depositing his papers and fetching a pencil and a ledger, Dooley walked over and leaned against the counter. The kid's eyes watered at the stink coming off Dooley's clothes and Dooley's body. He couldn't blame the boy. Dooley could smell, too. "Ummm." The boy looked up. "Do you know the location of the claim you wish to file?" Dooley nodded, and the kid turned the ledger around. Dooley studied the map, flipped the page over to where the map continued, and found Halfmoon Creek, which he traced with his dirty finger until he found the spot. The boy nodded. The boy jotted down something on his pad and asked, "Have you marked it?" "Yes," Dooley said. "Well, good. Nobody else has filed for this, either. So it's available. Lode or placer?" "Lode," Dooley answered quickly. The boy smiled. "I figured. But I got to ask." Dooley grinned at the kid. He was all right. When Dooley was that age, he couldn't be particular about what outfits he signed on to, either. As they finished with the paperwork, George Miller came out and stared over the boy's shoulder. Dooley hunched down lower so that Miller could see only the filthy hat and his long, greasy hair. Miller put a finger on the map, looked up, did some mental thinking, and finally laughed. "Isn't that the cave old man Finkle worked?" "It's not registered, Mr. Miller," the kid said. "Course not. That old coot didn't know anything about mining. Worthless hole in the ground was all it was." He laughed. "I wish you luck, mister." Still chuckling, he walked back to his office. The kid handed Dooley a pen, which he dipped in the inkwell and signed his name, then printed it on the line above. The boy tore out a receipt and handed that to him while he waited for his signature to dry. "This gives you twenty acres . . ." Dooley only half listened as the boy explained the particulars of what he could mine. "I wish you luck," the boy said. He didn't offer to shake Dooley's hand, but Dooley understood. If he happened to be on the other side of the counter, he might not have wanted to shake hands with a greasy, buggy, filthy hombre who happened to be sitting on a fortune in silver that only he and the boys down at the bank knew about. At least he was legal. He studied the registration of his claim, paid the filing fee, and headed toward the door. "I wish you luck . . ." George Miller had returned from the rear office. "That hole in the ground at least will keep the rain off you, Mr. . . ." Dooley turned around to watch the miserable reprobate look down and read the signature and the name printed in the registration book. Dooley grinned as George Miller's face paled. The new county clerk looked up, and the cigarette topped from his lips, bounced on the counter, fell to the floor as he stared across the cramped little office. "Dooley?" Miller sounded skeptical. "George." Miller sucked in a deep breath, recognizing at last Dooley's voice. The clerk tried to smile while the boy did some sort of dance to snub out the cigarette on the floor behind the counter. Miller moved around, swung through the gate, and tried to paint a happy picture on his face. He almost even held out his hand, but stopped, either not wanting to touch a man who might have bugs crawling all over him, Dooley would bet even money on the something else, because George Miller gave the Colt .45 on Dooley's right hip a quick glance. And George Miller's arm came back, so he could make a pull for the hideaway gun in the shoulder holster if Dooley decided to start the ball. "Well, Dooley, we wondered what had happened to you, Julia and I." He spoke so syrupy; Dooley figured he could have been accidentally tapped by a maple fellow in Vermont. "You'd been gone for two months, and I was just telling Julia that maybe we should get up a search party. Of course, I didn't tell Julia that I thought we'd be searching for your body . . ." Dooley thought, If you were leading the party, George, you'd make damn sure what you brought back was my body. ". . . but it's so great to see you, Dooley." He found a cigar in his jacket pocket and slowed his movements when Dooley moved his right hand to the butt of the revolver. Pretending not to notice Dooley's actions, Miller handed the cigar to Dooley, but Dooley did not take it or reject it. He just stared, and kept the right hand where it was. George Miller could play that game of pretending not to notice things, too. He ignored Dooley's hand and ignored Dooley's ignoring the cigar, which he put into his own mouth, and said, "That mine. Well . . . that hole in the earth . . . is worthless, Dooley. Don't you know that?" A gentle shrug served as his answer. "I wish you luck, Dooley," Miller said, beaming. "But you should know something, Dooley. That's just a hole in the ground. Worthless. An old man dug that hole sometime back." "Ol' Ole Finkle," Dooley said. "Who never filed a legal claim." "That's right." George Miller's head bobbed. Dooley wanted to see how Miller would react, so he said, "Then Horatio Whitman decided to try mining it." Miller nodded, then quit, and his eyebrows knotted. He was no longer pale, as his ears started to redden. "Whitman did not file claim to that worthless hole in the ground, either," Dooley said. "But I have. Duly noted and registered." The friendliness left his face. "You look like someone just punched you in your stomach, George." Dooley's grin held little humor. "Oof." Eyes narrowing into slits, Dooley backed toward the door, taking the knob with his left hand, keeping his right on the Colt's walnut butt, and moving out into the boardwalk. He closed the door and stepped quickly away from the window of the county clerk's office. After standing against the wall for a while, he backed off the boardwalk, keeping his hand on the butt of the pistol, and eased toward his horse and mule. He could see in the window, see that the clerk was busy filing those papers and George Miller had his back to the window, face buried in the plats of mining claims along Halfmoon Creek. Dooley gathered the reins to General Grant and the lead rope to the mule and eased them from the hitching post and down the street until he felt safe enough that Miller wouldn't accidentally spot him. Dooley thought he had time to find that emporium where he could buy some new duds, and then a place for a bath and a shave, but as he rode past the Leadville Ledger, he began to think that maybe he should take some necessary precautions. It wouldn't take George Miller that long to figure out what Dooley had meant when he had said, "Oof." O.O.F. Not O-f-f. O.O.F., Halfmoon Creek. * * * "Can you get that in the next paper?" Dooley asked. The editor at the Ledger frowned. "No, I'm afraid not. I'd have to rip up . . ." He saw the gold piece appear in Dooley's palm. The editor, a thin man with a thick graying mustache and goatee, adjusted his spectacles. "Well, I supposed it's newsworthy." The editor took the coin from Dooley's palm, and dropped it in his desk drawer. "So this is merely an ad saying that you have filed and registered a claim on Halfmoon Creek, once mined by the late Old Old Finkle and the late Horatio Whitman, who never filed legal claim on said property. And that you are hiring miners with experience at top wages." "Ol' Ole," Dooley corrected. "Sir?" Dooley pointed at the yellow paper in front of the editor. "Ol' Ole, not Old-comma-Old. O-l-apostrophe. O-l-e." He smiled. "He was Scandinavian or something like that." "I see." The editor was impressed with Dooley's spelling and that he knew what an apostrophe was. "I have need of a tramp printer if you are familiar with the trade." Dooley grinned. "I'm just a cowboy, sir, turned miner." "It will be in tomorrow's paper, sir. We thank you for your business and wish you all the luck in your mine." Dooley could tell the editor figured him to be a complete idiot, but that would change. The bank down the street could not keep a secret for that long. Another printer came over with the placards Dooley had just commissioned, and paid Leadville prices for, and showed one to Dooley. "That looks just dandy," Dooley said. "And you've made copies of that claim?" "It's being done as we speak. You'll need to get it notarized, of course, but Mr. Filmore here happens to be a notary." "That's a fact," the editor said. Dooley fished out another gold piece. "Could you mail those copies for me?" "Well, sir, surely . . ." Dooley fished out a greenback from his money belt, and the editor flipped the page in his notepad, licked the point of his pencil, and asked, "Who would you like these to go to, sir?" "The state recorder's office in Denver," Dooley said. "But I don't have an address." "We can get that easy enough." "What's the biggest paper in this state?" The editor shrugged. "I'd say the Denver Telegram ... but we are not far behind." "Mail one to the editor of the Telegram." "You have three other copies," the clerk said. "Right. I'll take two, and . . ." He gave them the address of the farmer looking after his place in Iowa. The remaining copies he shoved in his pocket, paid the editor a tip, and started for the door. Then he remembered something, and turned around to ask: "Now, is there an honest lawyer hanging his shingle in this burg?" CHAPTER NINETEEN Lawyer Jonah Terrance Cohen sat across his desk nodding at what he figured to be the appropriate pauses, jotting down a few notes on the pad in front of him, and trying his best not to cough or cringe from the stink seeping through every one of Dooley's pores. His eyes watered, but Dooley didn't mind. By thunder, Dooley was hankering to get rid of these duds and soak in a hot tub filled with suds for about a month of Sundays. "Now, let me get this straight, Mr. Monahan." Once Dooley had finished explaining his needs for a lawyer, Jonah Terrance Cohen—J. T. for short, he had said, after Dooley paid the retainer in double eagles—tapped his pencil on the pad. "You want to record your will, have me keep a duly notarized deed to your mine in my office, and mail the other to the United States marshal in Denver?" "That should cover it," Dooley said. He handed him the envelope he had borrowed from the Leadville Ledger. "And you keep this with my last will and testament. It's to be opened upon my untimely demise." "Which," the lawyer said, "we hope will not come anytime soon." He grinned. Dooley didn't. "Very well," attorney J. T. Cohen said, and reached into a desk drawer to find the proper forms. "A will is a good thing to have, young man. It saves your heirs much grief. It will aid and comfort them, oddly enough, when your time comes." Dooley smiled. "Oddly enough," he said, "it might keep that time from coming anytime soon." "Beneficiaries?" the lawyer asked without catching what Dooley had just told him. "The Cahills," Dooley said. "And Missus Julia Cooperman Miller." He stressed the Cooperman part of the name. "Equal partners, or however you put it. And write in there, if you could, that they are to take real good care of Blue, my dog, and General Grant, my horse." "Your generosity knows no bounds." "I'm alive," Dooley said. But he was thinking: But I need to stay that way until that newspaper gets published and folks, George Miller in particular, know that I've protected my interest . . . and my well-being. * * * He made one other stop before heading to the emporium to buy some new duds, and that was at the miners hanging out in front of one of the buildings, hoping to land some work. He hired the two stoutest sorts, after they passed the right qualifications. They were the only two men in the group who owned shotguns, a single-shot twelve-gauge, and a double-barreled Greener. He gave them enough money to buy some buckshot, and gave them directions to his mine. "If anyone who shows up and is not me and wants to get in," Dooley ordered, "you know what to do." The burly men did not need to nod their agreement. They had that look about them. * * * The clerks at the emporium did not look like they really wanted Dooley inside their store, until he pulled out some greenbacks and silver from his money belt. Then they practically had to beat off two other employees who wanted a piece of the action. Dooley bought work duds and dress duds, shirts and long-handle underwear and socks, wool and cotton, a dress vest and a working vest, bandannas and skinny ties and ribbon ties, and paper collars of various fashions. He even bought jeans because he was a miner now and while working cowboys did not care much for those blue pants, miners knew they were solid work duds. He found a good pair of boots, and some more shirts and pants, and finally wound up in the hat department. He found a good Stetson, and tried it on his head, and saw the four clerks cringe when it did not fit, and he placed it back on the hanger. Dooley frowned, feeling the pain of those clerks. Would they be able to sell anything that had touched his filthy hair? Well, he determined that he would be more careful then, and looked for hats that seemed just about right. He bought a slouch hat to wear while working in the mine, and then he found a good Stetson that did fit and might even fit better once he got his hair washed and cut, and he did not even blink over how much a Stetson cost in a town like Leadville. He thought he had enough clothes for the time being, but then he saw a top hat, silk, black, shiny, and just like the kind Abraham Lincoln might have worn all those years ago. He started to buy it but then he stopped himself and set it back on the wooden head of the dummy on the counter. You need to remember your roots, he thought. He said it out loud then just so he might hear himself. "You're an old cowboy, Dooley," he said, and the clerks backed away to give him a moment of privacy in his conversation with himself. "Don't let all this money go to your head. Fame and wealth are like poker. They can be fleeting." That made him remember that he was Dooley Monahan, late of Iowa and parts unknown, and he was the son of hardworking farmers and not some uppity silver baron like those dandified gents who ate in Leadville's fanciest restaurants with . . . He frowned with pain. . . . with Mrs. Julia Miller. "Put those back," he told one of the clerks. "And that shirt, too. I don't need that. That's way too fancy for an old cowboy like me. No, no, keep the boots. I need those. Three pairs of socks are enough. No, I'll keep the frock coat and the winter coat. You never know when summer's here to stay at this altitude. The duck trousers are good. The blue jeans . . . well . . . yeah, I guess I can keep them." That seemed to be all he needed. "Oh," he said, and the clerks forgot their disappointment. "I need some oil to clean my guns, and a couple of boxes of .45 caliber shells for a single-action Colt. While you're at it, give me two double-barrel shotguns and four boxes of double-ought buckshot." He had to tell himself that he was a miner now, and not every guard he could hire would own a shotgun. Not that he would be like some ranchers he had been forced to work with, that the ranch would supply all horses and that cowboys riding for that brand could not own their own horses. No, he just wanted to be prepared, and if a guard did not happen to have a shotgun, he could use one of Dooley's . . . no . . . one of . . . the Monahan Mining Company's Parker twelve-gauges. While he was at it, he got a new saddle and saddle blanket and bridle for General Grant, and some jerky he figured he would feed Blue. "What's that?" he said when he reached the register with his load of plunder. "A box of chocolate from Switzerland," the mustached clerk said. Dooley reached for it, but stopped himself and slid the box back on top of the others. His heart pained him, and he had to blink his eyes, but not from the stink permeating from his rancid body. "Oh . . ." he whispered. "Oh, poor Little Miss Loudmouth." He made himself smile, thinking of better days. Then the clerk, as he kept tapping on those buttons on the register and making things ring and ring, asked, "Where do you wish to have these delivered?" That stumped Dooley. He had been living in a hole in the ground along Halfmoon Creek for the past two months. It wasn't like he was still bunking with Butch Sweeney anymore. "Well . . ." Dooley thought. He wet his lips. "I don't think you boys want to be hauling that stuff into the mountains." "Take it to my room," a voice said, and Dooley turned around to see a redheaded jasper holding the late Chester Motz's whip and smiling a huge smile that made his new mustache bob. Dooley laughed, slapped some dust off his pants, and started toward Butch Sweeney, but quickly stopped before he could hold out his hand or pull Butch into a bear hug. Butch Sweeney's wide grin showed how much he appreciated it. Sweeney gave the cashier the address of his new lodge in town, and Dooley went back to pay the bill. As the clerks hurried off with Dooley's plunder toward the southwest side of town, where Butch Sweeney must be living, Dooley and Butch stepped onto the boardwalk. "Mining must pay a lot better than stagecoaching," Butch said. Dooley grinned. "Yeah, but you get to bathe regular." "Do you ever intend to wash again?" Dooley laughed. "I mean," Butch said, "Chester Motz and Horatio Whitman, God rest their souls, weren't the most pristine of gents to drive a mud wagon, but, well . . . I mean . . . there are some boys in town who stink worse than you do." "I sure don't want to meet those boys," Dooley said. "I need to get some dust and mud off me, too," Butch said. Dooley grinned. "Shall we?" * * * Outside, Dooley marveled at the mud wagon Butch had fixed up. It was parked just a few stores down, and Dooley could tell the boy had a good hand with the lines and did not overwork the mules that pulled the stagecoach. "Who's riding shotgun for you?" Dooley asked. "Don't need one," Butch said. "For one reason, I can't afford one . . . not yet . . . anyway. For another, I haven't been hauling any passengers or anything of much value." "Chester Motz wasn't hauling anything valuable when those owlhoots robbed us," Dooley told him. Butch Sweeney grinned. "From the looks of things now, pard, I'd say they had a good reason to rob you. They just did it too early. Did you earn that money you just forked over at that place mining the past month or two? Or did you try another hand at poker?" Dooley shrugged. "We'll see how long it lasts." "A run of luck." "In a mine," Dooley said. "Not cards." "Well, I'll be damned." Dooley changed the subject. "You mentioned a bathhouse." It wasn't Leadville's fanciest bathhouse, Butch Sweeney explained to Dooley as they moved down the street, dodging traffic and horses and even a few pigs. "But it has plenty of water," Butch said as they stopped. It was also a barbershop. CHIN LU'S, the sign read, BATHS . . . SHAVES . . . HAIRCUTS . . . Underneath was another sign. Open 24 Hours "An all-night bathhouse?" Dooley was skeptical. He figured this might be a front for something else that Butch Sweeney might have in mind. "For the miners," Butch explained. "They work in shifts all day, all night, a few mines even stay open Sundays." Butch grinned. "You ain't in Kansas no more, you know." "Iowa," Dooley corrected. The proprietor, on the other hand, had to be persuaded to let Dooley into the facilities. Dooley did that persuading with a half eagle coin. He bit the coin, decided it was real, and stepped aside of the doorway to the bathhouse, barking in Chinese orders to his workers. Then Harley Boone stepped onto the boardwalk. "You're Dooley Monahan, ain't you?" The man smoked a cheroot cigar, which he pulled from his mouth with his gloved left hand. His right hand rested on the out-turned butt of a Colt revolver on his left hip. That wasn't his only gun, either, for on his right hip another gun, this one with the butt facing the back, hung in a black leather holster decorated with pewter conchos. A lean man with a pale face pitted with pockmarks and the coldest eyes Dooley had ever seen, Harley Boone wore a black hat with a flat crown, a ribbon tie of purple with yellow polka dots over a crimson shirt of silk, a vest of black leather, tan britches with thin black stripes tucked inside black boots that came up to his knees. The gloves he wore were leather, and his teeth were yellowed from tobacco, although one of the front top ones sparkled from the silver filling. Dooley could tell when a man was sick, and Harley Boone was a sick, sick man, probably from consumption, the way his lips and eyes looked, maybe something else. He was the kind of man, Dooley figured, who hoped to meet someone faster on the draw than he was. Of course, Dooley did not want to find out if he was faster. "I'm Dooley Monahan," he said. The man wheezed . . . consumption, Dooley figured. . . and flipped the cigar into the muddy street. "You insulted my mother, Dooley," the gunman lied. "So make your play. I aim to kill you." Dooley slowly raised his left hand and thumbed toward the door of the bathhouse and barbershop. "You don't mind if I get a bath and shave first, do you, Mr. Boone?" Harley Boone stared at Dooley, then at Chin Lu, then at Butch Sweeney, at the sign hanging over the door, and then back at Dooley. That's when he laughed, and nodded. "Sure, Dooley. I never want to send a man to hell till he's had a chance to clean himself up." CHAPTER TWENTY "It might take a while," Dooley told him. "But I'll be out." "I'll be here," Harley Boone said. "You might get tired," Dooley said. "Be back here by seven in the morn. I should be clean by then." Harley Boone had lost his good humor, but he did read the sign, and saw the Chinese barber nodding hopefully at the hired killer. "You try to run away from me, you gutless coward . . ." Harley Boone paused, waiting for Dooley to go for his Colt at such an insult, but Dooley just scratched his left side that itched like crazy. "You run . . . I'll track you down. A man who insults another man's mother ain't worth spit and don't deserve the fair fight I'm offering him. You got that, Dooley Monahan?" Dooley stopped scratching. "I don't believe I ever insulted your mother." The killer straightened. "So now you're calling me a liar. Make your play, clean or not." Dooley smiled, which caused the gunman to step back, bewildered. "Seven o'clock," Dooley said. "I'll be clean by then. You might not even recognize me. Have a good breakfast. They have real good doughnuts in this town. And the bacon tastes like the hog bathed in maple syrup." He slipped inside the door, followed quickly by Butch Sweeney and Chin Lu, who slammed the door closed. * * * "What are you doing, Butch?" Dooley asked as he sank into the steaming water and bubbling suds. Man, that felt like paradise. Butch Sweeney peered through the crack in the door he had opened in the back of Chin Lu's bathhouse and barbershop. "I don't think that's Boone, but someone's definitely watching the alley here to make sure you . . . we . . . don't skedaddle." "Man," Dooley said as he sank underneath the foam and water and came up quickly shaking his wet hair and grinning. "Never knew a bath could make a man feel so good." One of Chin Lu's workers came over and drenched Dooley with fresh water. Dooley motioned at the empty tub near him. "Better fill this one, boys. This one will be pitch-black in a short while, and I want to be real clean." The door slammed, and Butch Sweeney whirled. "Confound it, man, that's Harley Boone out yonder waiting to gun you down. How come you'd insult a man's mother?" Dooley grinned. "I never met Harley Boone till just now, Butch. Certainly never said anything bad about his mother, or anyone's mother—if Harley Boone ever had a mother." Butch came over to the bench in front of Dooley's tub and sat down. One of the Chinese servants offered him a flask, and he accepted, drinking heartily. "Harley Boone has killed thirty men," Butch said. "Including Cheater Norris," Dooley said. "Yeah. I think that's right." "And Ol' Ole Finkle." "Well, yeah, but I remember when that happened. Didn't see it. Ol' Ole called Harley Boone a liar, and Harley wouldn't take no insult. Ol' Ole reached for his pistol in his waistband, and Boone shot him down." "Sounds familiar," Dooley said. "I wonder if Cheater Norris insulted Boone's mother." "Don't start cracking jokes, Dooley. This is serious. I'd fetch the marshal, but we ain't got no marshal in town no more." "Did the marshal insult Boone's mother?" "No, damn it. Quit funning. Cheater Norris didn't even carry a gun." The workers busied themselves filling another tub for Dooley, as his was turning the color of crude oil by then. When they were gone to refill their buckets, Dooley moved to the other tub. "He didn't carry a gun? And no one thought to file a complaint against Boone? Last I heard, shooting an unarmed man was something like a felony." Butch drank more from the flask. "Why doesn't this town have a marshal?" Dooley asked. "I dunno. I hear folks talkin' 'bout it, but they got the vigilance committee, although that guy who writes those articles for the Ledger, he keeps writing that it's time for the law, and not hemp justice, to come to Leadville." The workers came by and dumped more water on Dooley, who nodded with satisfaction and pointed at the tub he had just vacated, now filled with filthy water. "Drain that one, boys, and refill it. I think I'll sleep in that one for a while." They nodded, and Chin Lu translated Dooley's orders. "Your bathwater's getting cold, Butch." Dooley motioned at the tub that was starting to lose its steam. Then Dooley leaned over and yelled at Chin Lu, "Hey, could you order some supper for Butch and me? Maybe some whiskey for Butch? And get some supper and drinks for yourselves, too. That sound fine?" "Fine," Chin Lu said as Dooley pointed at his money belt hanging on a hook near the new duds he had brought with him from the clothing emporium. "Get in the water, Butch," Dooley said. "It'll make you feel better. There's nothing to worry about." He paused, suddenly uncertain. "What time does the Ledger come out?" "What?" "The Ledger. The newspaper. What time can a person buy a copy?" Butch Sweeney stared at his friend as if he had gone daft. "I dunno. I see them carting bundles to the stores and places when I'm hitching up the team. That's right around daybreak. Before the six o'clock whistle sounds for the mines." The answer appeared to satisfy Dooley, who dunked his head underneath the fresh water again. When he came up, smiling again, he motioned at the tub. "Come on, Butch. I'm paying for this, and if I'm clean and smelling sweet, you should be, too, else you might spoil my appetite. Don't fret, pard. Harley Boone won't kill me." * * * "How can you be so sure?" Butch Sweeney worked the bar of soap furiously underneath his left arm. "Sure about what?" Dooley was lathering up his untrimmed beard for the fifth time. "About Boone? He gunned down that old miner. He shot the county clerk deader than a dog. And he has shot four or five others in town, and I don't know how many more before he got here shortly after we got here." "Thirty men," Dooley said. "I assume that includes Ol' Ole Finkle and Cheater Norris." "Confound it, man!" Water slopped over the sides of Butch Sweeney's tub as the young cowboy turned stagecoach operator lost his cool again. "This ain't nothin' to laugh at, pard. That's a cold-blooded killer out there. Waitin' to gun you down like a sick dog." "He won't kill me," Dooley said. "How can you be so sure of yourself, Dooley? I know you did in Jason Baylor and a bunch of other gunmen, and I know you ended the reign of that bunch of bad hombres up in Nebraska or Wyoming or wherever that was . . . but . . ." Chin Lu came in with the food. Dooley rinsed his beard. "As long as the Ledger comes out in time," Dooley said, "we don't have anything to worry about." He looked at the clock on the wall. "But we do have plenty of time to kill before morning comes. I might take a nap in some fresh water, Chin Lu, after we eat. And then . . . do you happen to have a deck of cards we can borrow to pass the time?" * * * It was a façade. Dooley had learned that word while in Abilene, Kansas. Someone had pointed at all those false-front buildings down Front Street, years ago, back when Wild Bill was still marshaling in that cow town. Dooley never considered himself a man of letters, but he did like the word. Façade. It had a nice ring to it. Of course, Dooley was showing big, like the false fronts in Abilene, Ogallala, Dodge City, Julesburg—well, maybe not Julesburg, or Julesburg as Dooley had seen it—and even Leadville. Inside, he knew a million things could go wrong and leave him dead. He did not want to face Harley Boone, but he knew he would if he had to . . . and if things did not go as planned, he would. But he also knew he did not want Butch Sweeney to get killed on his account. And Butch, loyal as Blue and General Grant, would try something if Dooley didn't act like he was as calm and relaxed and manly and heroic as Buffalo Bill Cody. A few things he had managed to figure out. Harley Boone had killed Ol' Ole Finkle, but Dooley wasn't sure what had caused that crime. Killing Cheater Norris was much easier to solve. That was to give George Miller a job to fill, to let George Miller get the appointment as county clerk and have access to mining claims and all sorts of official documents. George Miller had a worthless deed that lacked any legal standing in the state of Colorado—or so the attorney Cohen had told Dooley, and charged Dooley Leadville prices for his time and wisdom—and George Miller had turned out to be a greedy criminal. Dooley just had to live through tomorrow morning. He kept his Colt .45 close, never out of reach, just in case Boone lost his composure and came charging in, unwilling and unable to wait until morning to earn whatever George Miller had offered the cold-blooded assassin to do in Dooley Monahan. And he had to keep Butch Sweeney's mind off making some damn fool play that would get the kid killed. Six baths later, Dooley dried himself off and pulled on his new long-handle underwear and retired to the barber chair as Chin Lu prepared to cut off his beard and mustache and then give him a close shave. Dooley kept his Colt in his right hand, resting on his belly, as the barber worked his magic. That came after supper. Chinese food. Spicy noodles with bits of chicken and all sorts of vegetables and things Dooley did not know what anyone called them or where they grew, but they had a fantastic flavor. The tonic the barber slapped on Dooley's fine face tingled but smelled sweet, and then Dooley asked for another bath, a warm one. He removed his long-handle underwear and sank into the soothing waters again. "It sure is nice," Dooley said. "What?" Butch asked. "The water?" "Being rich," Dooley said, and winked. "I'll carve that on your tombstone, pard," Butch Sweeney said. He looked at the clock on the wall. "In about eight hours from now." CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Eight hours. That kind of wait would make even the best gunmen a tad jumpy, on edge. Harley Boone would be awake all night, wondering, fretting, knowing that if Dooley managed to slip away during the night, and get out of Leadville, then Harley Boone would not get paid whatever George Miller was offering to pay him for willful and premeditated murder made to look like just another gunfight on some Western boomtown's streets. Dooley, on the other hand, slept like a baby. * * * "It time. It time. You go now. You go." Dooley's heavy eyes opened and he saw Chin Lu staring at him. The barber and bather did not look happy. "Morning," the Chinese man said, and gestured angrily at the streets starting to show signs of life in the early-morning light. "Morning. You here all night. No one else come. Me need miners to pay rent. No pay you here all night." Dooley rose from the cot he had slept on, cursing himself for sleeping at all. Harley Boone could have come in during the night and shot Dooley full of holes. "I think," Dooley said as he yawned and set the Colt. 45 on the bench, "that you were paid pretty well." He adjusted his long-handle underwear and moved to the clothes still hanging on the hooks by the bathtubs. Butch Sweeney sat in one of the tubs—all of the tubs had been emptied of water during the night—with his hat for a pillow and some towels over his body for a blanket. He snored contentedly. The half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor near the tub must have served as mighty fine sleeping medicine. Dooley found his money belt and pulled out a greenback. "I want you to do me a favor, sir," he said, and handed the note with two zeros after a one at the owner of the barbershop and bathhouse. "Buy two of today's Ledgers. Take one to George Miller's office. Give it to him. Not the kid working for him. To your county clerk. Do you understand that?" Chin Lu looked skeptical. "He no be in." "He'll be in. He might not have to open his office for"—Dooley glanced at the clock—"two more hours, but I'll guarantee you he'll be inside and looking out the window." He waited. Mr. Chin Lu took the note. "Bring the other paper here. With some coffee." He thought that, should things not go the way he expected, maybe he should treat this morning as though it was his last on earth. There still were even odds that it might be. "And some doughnuts and that really good bacon that has a sweetness to it like candy." The man looked at Dooley as though his brain might have been damaged by all the bathwater and suds last night. "Or just bacon," Dooley said. The man left, closing the door behind him, and Butch Sweeny stirred in the tub, lowered his hat, and opened his eyes sleepily. Dooley busied himself getting dressed. New socks. New boots, kind of stiff, but the leather would break in after a few months in a saddle. Fine pants with nice suspenders, a real silk shirt—sort of like the one Harley Boone was wearing yesterday, only blue, not crimson—and a double-breasted vest, a silver pocket watch and chain, to stick into one of the many pockets, a good paper collar, a black string tie, and a brand-spanking-new hat that fit even better now that Dooley's hair had been cut to a manageable length. He looked mighty fine, he had to admit as he stared at the mirror behind the barber's chair in the haircutting portion of Chin Lu's business. "Mighty fine," Dooley said to himself, and added, just so he wouldn't feel so cocksure on a morning that could be his last. "For a façade." * * * "Damn it!" Dooley tightened the buckle on his gun belt and moved to the bathhouse part of Chin Lu's building, tugging on the Colt in the holster. The back door slammed, the lock was bolted, and Butch Sweeney, still in his clothes he had put back on after his one bath last night, stomped his boots on the floor. "What's the matter?" Dooley asked. "That guard. That fellow out back watching the alley." Dooley waited. "He's still out there." Butch slammed a fist into his palm. "Hoped he might have fallen asleep at least." Dooley smiled. "It's all right," he said. "You'll feel better. I sent Chin Lu to fetch us some coffee and breakfast." "I'd feel better," Butch said, "if you'd sent him to fetch the soldier boys at Fort Garland." "They wouldn't get here in time, Butch," Dooley told him. "That fort's a far piece from Leadville." Butch found his hat, pulled it on his head, and started toward Dooley, but stopped, frowning, staring out the window. "He's out there," Butch said. "On the boardwalk. Smoking a cigar. Looks real sure of himself." He did not have to tell Dooley who he was talking about, and Dooley did not want to look out that window and see Harley Boone waiting for him. That might be just enough to crumble this façade. That's when the door opened, and Dooley smelled coffee and hot doughnuts. "You must be hungry, Butch," Dooley said, and he moved into the barbershop portion of Chin Lu's business. But in that room, with his nerves starting to prick him and trouble him, and last night's Chinese supper rocking harshly in his stomach, Dooley felt his voice crack as he asked, "I don't see a newspaper, Chin Lu." The man set the bags and the pot of coffee on the table filled with tonics and potions and razors and shaving mugs. His left hand disappeared around his back and drew out a Leadville Ledger from his back pocket. Dooley couldn't hold his nerves in check. He stepped forward, practically tore the paper from the Chinese barber's hand, and folded it open. He could breathe again. He lowered the paper and watched Chin Lu fill a mug with coffee, and then another. But Dooley wasn't sure he could drink coffee and he certainly didn't trust maple-cured bacon and sweet doughnuts in his stomach just now. "The county clerk?" Dooley managed. Chin Lu lifted a second mug, and Dooley felt Butch Sweeney behind him. "Yes," Chin Lu said. "He there. I give paper." Dooley's appetite returned, but only slightly. * * * "Dooley Monahan, you low-down yeller dog. I'm calling you out!" Harley Boone must have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. "And if you don't step out on the street in five minutes, I'm coming in with revolvers in both hands, and I'm blasting you to hell, your pard with the red hair to hell, that Chinaman to wherever it is men of his skin go, and then I'm burning the building and everyone in it to the ground. Do you hear me?" Dooley was stepping out the door before Harley Boone had finished. * * * He had read about times like this, in dime novels and newspapers that printed more falsehoods than facts, but until this morning in Leadville, he had never seen anything like this except in his mind when he read those wild blood-and-thunders. Harley Boone stepped off the boardwalk and into the mud. The notorious killer had not slept last night. At least, he had not changed his clothes. Same leather gloves. Same two gun belts bulked over each other, one Colt's gun butt facing out front, the other toward the back. Same fancy holsters that advertised both a leather shop and a silversmith. Same flat-crowned hat. Same purple ribbon tie with yellow polka dots, only the tie had been unloosened, and the paper collar unbuttoned. The crimson silk shirt was ruffled and stained with sweat and beer or whiskey or something. The pants looked less pressed than they had yesterday, and the boots were caked with mud, some fresh, a lot dried. Dooley wanted to think that Harley Boone had done quite a bit of pacing over the night. Of course, his face remained pale, the eyes held no humor, and the silver filling sparkled as the sun cleared the mountaintops. He had crushed the cheroot underneath his boot heel on the boardwalk before stepping into the street and crossing about halfway before stopping and smiling at Dooley Monahan. The eyes were dead. The smile held no humor. Dooley grimaced as his brand-new boots sank into mud on his side of the street. "You called my mama a bad name, Dooley Monahan," Harley Boone called out as though anyone was listening other than Dooley Monahan in Leadville that morning. It was too early for most businesses to open. The cafés and hotels were farther down the street. Here most buildings remained shuttered. No one roamed the streets, on the boardwalks or on the muddy roads. Even Chin Lu had closed the door and drawn the shade as soon as Dooley had stepped outside. Whoever had been watching in the alley probably was there, but Dooley was not a greenhorn. He would not turn to see if that killer was there. That's the chance a man like Harley Boone would be waiting for. Besides, Dooley knew Butch Sweeney would be watching that man, if he indeed remained in the alley. If anyone had seen Leadville this day, at least on this street, they would have figured they were in a ghost town. That's what Dooley had meant. You read about things like this in showdowns in dime novels. You didn't think they actually happened this way, but Dooley's folks had always told him that you learned something new every day. And Dooley's pa had opined: "If you live long enough, you'll see it for yourself." Dooley wet his lips. "I said," Harley Boone repeated, "that you called my mama a filthy name. I won't abide that. Go for your gun." "I don't think I said anything about your mother, Mr. Boone," Dooley said. "Now you're calling me a liar. No man calls me a liar." A door slammed. Dooley thought he might be able to breathe again. For a moment, he thought it would happen just like this, on a deserted street in a deserted town, two gunfighters facing each other, both drawing their guns, two shots sounding like one, and one of the gunmen falling dead in the mud with a bullet straight through his heart. Even money that Dooley would have been the dead one. But Dooley had lived long enough to see it himself. "Wait a minute, Boone!" Dooley dared not breathe, and certainly would not look down the boardwalk, even though he heard the boots pounding on the planks, slugging through the mud on the street and thundering against the wooden planks on the next block. The voice rose into almost a panic: "I said, wait. Wait. Don't go for your guns, boys!" "What the hell . . ." Boone snarled. Dooley let out a short breath, but did not move his hand from the Colt holstered on his hip. The footsteps halted. The door to the Chinese bathhouse and barbershop opened. Dooley figured that would be Butch Sweeney stepping outside, just in case George Miller had come along to shoot Dooley in his back. "I think," Dooley heard George Miller say as he gasped for breath. "I . . . think . . ." It seemed like ten months limped past before Miller could finish. ". . . there's been . . . a . . . mistake." "Mistake?" Harley Boone looked as though he had just been poleaxed. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO The sucking sound told Dooley that George Miller had just stepped off the boardwalk into the muddy street. The noise came closer to Dooley's right, and he tensed, ready to draw the .45 and start blasting at George Miller, Harley Boone, whoever it was still hiding in that alley on the side of Chin Lu's place, and George Miller again . . . if he had enough time. Yet he breathed a little easier as Miller slogged through the mud and stopped at the gunfighter's side. This morning's copy of the Leadville Ledger, which Miller held in his left hand, came up. Speaking in whispers, the two men talked for a few minutes, the newspaper coming up a bit, Miller pointing to it with his right hand, Harley Boone grimacing and snarling and not understanding hardly anything, Dooley figured, that Miller tried to explain. The sun crept higher. A dog—not Blue, it wasn't his bark—let out a racket somewhere to the north. A rooster crowed. Yet nobody came down this street, although Dooley glanced behind him quickly to see that Chin Lu had stepped outside, staring with a face filled with bewilderment. Butch Sweeney had the same expression on his face. At length, Harley Boone shook his head, stepped back, spit in the dirt, and glared at Dooley. His mouth opened, but quickly snapped shut, and then he turned and glared at George Miller. "Do it." Dooley could read George Miller's lips. The gunman faced Dooley again, spit again, and said in a tone as icy as the previous winter's winds: "Reckon I mistook you for somebody else, pilgrim. My mistake." The last two words came out like a bitter cough, and Boone wheeled around, moving quickly back to the boardwalk, where he stuck another cheroot into his mouth and struck a match on the rough-hewn column and lit his cigar as he walked hurriedly to the nearest saloon. It wasn't open, either, but Boone smashed open the door with a solid kick and stormed inside. Dooley could hear the chairs and maybe even tables overturning as the hired killer made his way to the bar. Only then did Dooley feel the pressure in his brain begin to recede. He felt as if he could breathe again, but he stood there, waiting for his muscles to relax, to cooperate, and watched George Miller walk past him. Miller did not make eye contact, and his face showed pure rage. "You're a dead man, Dooley," he whispered as he passed. "Mark my words. You're dead." The county clerk made it to the boardwalk, wadded up the newspaper, and tossed it in the mud as he stormed back toward his office. When Dooley breathed again, he stood in the mud, staring down the street, watching George Miller move down the walk, huffing like a locomotive climbing a hard grade. A door opened on the other side of the street, and a man poked his head out. A window cracked open. He thought he could hear hushed conversations. Looking farther down the streets, he caught a glimpse of a curtain moving in the top story of the Hotel Tabor. He made himself believe that was Julia Cooperman—he decided to forget that she was married to that scoundrel Miller—and that she was relieved to see Dooley wasn't lying dead in the mud. It didn't make him feel that much better, but he moved back toward the barbershop and bathhouse, where Butch Sweeney took off his hat, scratched his head, and asked: "What the Sam Hill just happened there, pard?" * * * "I still don't understand," Butch said as he pushed his scrambled eggs around his plate with a fork. They sat in the busy restaurant that served those tasty doughnuts. Dooley was on his second dozen. It's a wonder, he thought, how hungry you can feel after feeling you might puke your guts out and then learn that you're going to live through this day, at least. Dooley washed down the last of the pastry that was filled with apples and cinnamon and set the coffee cup on the table. He pointed at the Ledger. "That's a notice of my filing claim on the mine," Dooley said, and tapped at the woodcut image. "I understand that." Butch kept pushing the eggs around. He had hardly taken a bite. "The story also says that I have sent notices to the United States marshal in Denver, the Denver Telegram, and that I have even filed a will with an attorney." Dooley sipped the last of the coffee. "I didn't say which attorney. Figured that would be wise." Harley Boone might decide that J. T. Cohen had insulted his mother and called him a liar, too. "So?" Dooley grinned. "They can't kill me to get the mine. That's what this means. Miller knows that. If I die, the Denver Telegram will start reporting on things, causing a ruckus, and the U.S. marshal will come here to investigate. Plus, I have filed a last will and testament—" The redheaded cowboy quit playing with his fork and food and pretending to eat. "Don't you think that's dangerous?" "What . . . making out a will?" Butch Sweeney nodded. "It's bad luck." "It's keeping me alive." Sweeney shook his head. "It'll jinx you. Man I knowed, old cowboy up in Utah. Pat Powell. You recollect him? No, no, I think that wasn't at the ranch where you saved my bacon. Well, anyway, he once stepped on a rusty nail. And took a fever. He had the old cookie, Jasper Gibson, make out his last will and testament." Butch snapped his fingers. "That's all it took. Come down with the lockjaw and croaked." "You're one superstitious kid, Butch." "Damn right. And I'm still alive." Dooley grinned. "So am I." "For now." Butch slid his plate to the other side of the table, leaned forward, and, setting his elbows on the tablecloth, clasped his hands with the thumbs sticking out and rested his chin on the thumbs. "It ain't just Miller and Harley Boone you got to worry about, chum," Sweeney whispered. "If that mine is as rich as you say it is, what it assays out to a ton, you'll have every silver baron in town after that hole in the ground. And that means they'll be after you." Dooley laughed and reached for the last doughnut, waiting as the waitress refilled the two coffee cups and took away Butch's plate of half-eaten breakfast. "I'm not a fool, Dooley," Butch said, and Dooley lost that smile. "I've been in this burg longer than you have. So has Julia. I've seen things. I've seen how those barons can take over a mine, one with a legal claim to it. They got lawyers, too, and they don't need no hired gun like Harley Boone. They ain't low-down cutthroats like George Miller. They don't use guns to get what they want. They use power. And they got plenty of power." Dooley did not finish that last doughnut. * * * Although Butch Sweeney offered him a place to bunk in his shack, Dooley declined. Just in case Sweeney was right about the silver barons, Dooley didn't want his old pard to wind up getting hurt, or even killed. He decided that he should not flaunt his newfound wealth by taking a room at one of the fanciest hotels, so he found that hotel where he had stayed when he first arrived in Leadville—the one with the really good bacon in the café next door. It wasn't that fancy, but a good hotel with a good reputation. The Millers had checked out, Dooley knew, after George was appointed county clerk. They now stayed in the Hotel Tabor with all the silver barons and powerful players in Colorado mining ventures. He had to hire a bookkeeper. He had to hire a foreman. He let the foreman hire the miners, but Dooley kept the two guards on the payroll. It was interesting, he decided, being a real man of capital. Blue could grow old and fat. So could General Grant, but Dooley took them to the mine every day. Sometimes, he even left the offices the carpenters had built—at Leadville prices, mind you—and went back into the mine. He had always had a curious nature, and he wanted to see how miners—real miners—did their jobs. The miners seemed to appreciate this, that an owner, a rich, rich man by their standards, would take a drill or hammer in his hand, or even tap sticks of dynamite into a hole and light the fuse. Dooley also paid them a nickel more than most of the mining companies in town. He didn't want to become an evil silver baron. Actually, what he wanted was to go back to punching cattle. That was more his nature, but, this was his dream. Not being stuck in an office, signing checks and drafts and legal things, or talking things over with his foreman or his bookkeeper, although half the time Dooley didn't have any idea what they were saying to him or what he was saying back to them. Being rich wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Owning a silver mine was even worse. Then there were the nights. He attended one ball at the opera house, and another highfalutin party at the Hotel Tabor. George Miller and Julia were at both events, and seeing them dance at the hotel soiree made Dooley nauseous. He decided not to attend any other parties, unless maybe the miners invited him to a poker game or to join them for a beer at one of the many saloons in town. Every day, at his hotel, when he was eating bacon and eggs at the dining room or taking his supper, or when he was at the office being bored and not doing actual work in the mines, the silver barons would bring him offers. Oh, not personally. Silver barons were too big to handle trifling affairs like meeting with this lucky son of a gun who had been a cowboy and bounty hunter all his life and just happened to land on one of the richest claims in the Rockies. But they would send their minions, men in plaid sack suits with carpetbags filled with paperwork and cash. They would make Dooley an offer for the mine. It was rather tempting, seeing all that cash money, but Dooley had to explain to them, at least once a day, sometimes more. Sometimes the same man in the plaid sack suit would see Dooley at breakfast, get dismissed and rejected, and return that afternoon with another bid before the six o'clock whistle sounded. "You need to understand," Dooley tried to explain. He had said this so often he had the thing memorized. "Tell Mr. So-and-So that I appreciate the offer. I truly do. It's a mighty fine offer, and generous, befitting Mr. So-and-So's reputation as a generous and wonderful man. But it's like this, you see, I just always dreamed of mining. I missed my chance in Alaska. I missed my chance in Deadwood. I'm not saying that I want to do this all my life, but, well, you see, it's just something that I want to do. See me again later, though, but let me enjoy this adventure for a spell." They would see him again later. Usually later in the week, or maybe early the next week, and sometimes even later in that very same afternoon. So here sat Dooley in his office, flexing his fingers after signing so many papers that morning. He looked down at Blue, who was curled up on the bed Dooley had bought for him—not a real bed, but a bed, more like a cushion, that the really fancy emporium sold for dogs and cats—snoring away. Dooley thought about leaving the office, once his fingers did not ache again from clutching that ink pen, maybe planting some dynamite in the hole, or even joining the workers as they took their dinner break. Being one of the boys again, and not just some silver baron. The bookkeeper tapped on the door and opened it. Blue did not stir. "Yes?" Dooley said with a heavy sigh. "Someone to see you, Mr. Monahan." Dooley sighed even heavier. "I've told you, Jarvis, that you need to call me Dooley. Not Mr. Monahan. Dooley." "Yes, sir." Jarvis looked impatient. "Show him in." Dooley sighed again. "It is not a man, Mr. Monahan, but a woman," Jarvis said. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE She took his breath away. Dooley blinked, wondering if he were dreaming, then realized he just gawked, might have even been drooling, and he shut his mouth and sat up quickly. Blue awakened from his slumbers, barked, and hurried off his plush pillow, tail wagging. Blue indeed was drooling. Yet Julia Alice Cooperman Miller laughed, and knelt, putting her knees and that fine dress on the dirty floor of Dooley's office. "Blue," Julia said, scratching the merle-colored shepherd's ears, laughing as he rolled onto his back and Julia rubbed the dog's stomach. She laughed until tears flowed down her cheeks, and Blue looked so contented that he probably wished Julia would have kept that up the rest of the day. Recovering, Dooley looked at his clerk, staring in disbelief, and Dooley pushed himself out of his desk and said, "That will be all, Jarvis. Close the door behind you." The clerk hurried, but as he pulled the door shut, Dooley called out, "And, Jarvis . . ." As the door stopped, the clerk raised his eyes over his spectacles. "Keep your damned mouth shut," Dooley said. The door closed. Dooley found the pitcher of water and filled a glass, realized that glass was filthy, and found another. He had only two glasses on the table in the corner, but, thankfully, that one was clean. He filled it and held it in his hands, watching his hands tremble so much that he thought he would spill the water before Miss Julia . . . Mrs. Julia, damn it . . . finished rubbing the dog's stomach. She did, though, and looked up at Dooley. He started to offer her the glass, then realized he ought to help her up first, so he set the glass on the edge of his desk and stepped toward her, extending both hands. When she accepted his hands, he felt the electricity shoot through his body. His heart ached as it pounded against his chest. Her gloves were white satin, and her dress a pretty cambric suit of blue and gray, the skirt knife-plaited, the top featuring a cutaway basque with a striped vest. Her hair was curled, and diamond earrings hung from her ears. He could not believe just how beautiful she was as he lifted her to her feet and reluctantly released his hold on those trembling fingers. Dooley gestured at the chair across from his desk, and Julia sat and looked for something to wipe the tears off her face. He stared for a moment, trying to believe that this was the loudmouthed wild hellion he had found in a cave in Arizona Territory. He could not believe how much she had grown up, or how beautiful she had become, over those few years. Then he quickly moved to the coatrack behind his desk and fished a handkerchief out of the pocket of his Prince Albert that he never liked to wear except when he was outside or at some formal party. He handed her the white cotton, and she reached for it, muttering an apology, and tried not to look at him. She focused on the handkerchief, which Dooley involuntarily pulled away from her fingers. He stared. She looked at him in surprise. He stared harder. It had never really been like Julia to apply rouge on her face, but she had. Only the tears of joy from playing with Blue had caused the makeup to run with streaks, and now he understood why she had applied the creamy stuff underneath her eyes. Realizing that sweet Julia was trying to hide a wicked bruise, Dooley swore under his breath. She looked down, and Dooley realized his mistake and extended his hand and the offering to her. "Here," he said. She took it and held it under her eyes, then began wiping away the makeup. He took the handkerchief when she was finished, tossed it onto his desktop, and helped her to her feet, and guided her toward the chair. Next he found the water, in the relatively clean glass, and slipped that into her hands. She sipped, thanked him in a hollow voice, and Dooley stood there like a knot on a log, before realizing he was acting the fool. He told Blue to go back to the bed, but the dog lay down at Miss . . . Mrs. . . . Julia's feet, and Dooley returned to his desk. His throat was parched, and he downed the water in his not-as-clean glass in a few gulps. His knees began to buckle, so Dooley sank into his desk. He stared. She looked at her feet and at Blue. He tried to find some papers to move from one pile to another. Refusing to look at Dooley, Julia asked, "How old is Blue now?" "I don't know." Dooley moved the pile of papers back to where the pile had been when Julia first entered his office. "Ummm . . . I don't know how old he was when I first met him." "There are gray hairs on his coat now," she observed. Dooley ran his fingers through his hair. "I've got more than he has nowadays." She laughed, not really a hard laugh, more like a sigh. A real sigh followed, and she looked up, sipped water, set the glass on the floor, and finally just looked deeply into Dooley's eyes. "Oh, Dooley," she said. He had no response. She filled her lungs with air, exhaled, and at last raised her head to look Dooley eye to eye. When she did not say anything, Dooley tried, "How did you get here?" "I rented a horse at one of the liveries." "A horse?" "Sidesaddle," she said. "Sidesaddle?" Her head tilted. "I mean . . ." It was Dooley's turn to draw in a deep breath, hold it, let it out, and try to sound like he still retained all of his faculties. "We're working on grading a road, clearing some of the forests and rocks, basically following the creek . . . but . . . well, it's rough country for anybody." "No rougher than Arizona Territory," she said. He made himself smile, to take her mind off whatever was troubling her. But he had good inclination of what her problems were, what had brought her all the way from the Hotel Tabor to Dooley's mine. He thought he might break every bone in George Miller's body for giving sweet, innocent Julia a black eye that she had to hide with rouge like some two-bit . . . He stopped the mean thoughts, and remembered that he was trying to cheer her up. "But sidesaddle?" He grinned, and felt his heart skip when she grinned back and sipped more of the water he had poured. "Have you seen Butch?" Dooley asked. "I haven't seen him in a spell." She shrugged. "Not much. I think he's in Denver now, or on his way, maybe on his way back. He stays busy with the stage line." "And you?" She shrugged. "Oh, you know. I . . ." The gentleness left her eyes. "I stay in the hotel room and stare at the paintings, the china, the silver. And when needed, I accompany George to balls and to the theater and the opera house, and a dinner or a supper and sometimes even a breakfast with some of the silver barons in Leadville." "Well," Dooley said, "I reckon I'm a silver baron." He found his sack in the bottom left-hand drawer and brought it out, cringing at the wet spot of grease on the bottom. "You can dine with me." He frowned. "It's only a roast beef sandwich and some taters, fried in bacon grease." He stared at the sack, saw Julia shaking her head, and dropped it back into the drawer, which he slammed shut. "I reckon you eat a mite better than that." That pained her, and made Dooley curse himself. "Dooley," she said. "That's not it. I came here . . ." She caught her breath. "I came here because . . ." He wanted to leap out of his chair and over the desk and sweep her into his arms and kiss the tears off her damaged cheek and swear to her that she would be all right, that he would protect her. What stopped him was when she said, "Dooley, you just have to sell this mine." He felt as if he had been kneed in the groin. She must have seen the color drain from his face, and he felt he had trouble even stopping the tears from welling in his own eyes. He hated the first thoughts that raced through his mind. So that's how George Miller is playing this game. He and his filthy-rich pals in the silver-mining business can't buy my mine, so he sends Julia to do his bidding. "Dooley," Julia cried. "They'll kill you if you don't sell this to them." "Oh." Now he despised himself for thinking that even a scoundrel like George Miller could persuade his wife, a beautiful, honest lass like Julia, to do his evil bidding. He tried to ease her fears. "Julia. They can't kill me. That's why Harley Boone and I didn't shoot it out those weeks, or maybe months, ago. They know that if they kill me, the United States marshal and the Denver Telegram and my lawyer will be visiting them and making them pay. I've got what amounts to the best life insurance out there." He wanted her to know how smart he was. "I figured that out myself. And that made Harley Boone back down. And that's why I'm still here and doing what I always wanted to be doing." That wasn't entirely true. What Dooley had dreamed of doing was panning for gold, not paying other men to blow up the insides of caves and haul out silver to be taken to the smelter and turned into greenback dollars and double eagle gold pieces to pay off miners and clerks and wagon masters and road builders and carpenters and guards armed with shotguns. When he had taken off for Alaska, and when he had lit out for Deadwood in the Dakota Territory, he had envisioned himself as a grubby old miner, not that far removed from being a bone-weary dirty-outfitted, thirty-a-month-and-found cowhand. Instead, he wore silk shirts and Prince Alberts most of the time and sat behind a desk being bored out of his mind listening to what his clerk and his assistant and his foreman and his accountant and everyone else told him what to do. It wasn't a hell of a lot of fun being rich. Or being the boss man. "Dooley," Julia pleaded. He waved his hand. "I'm safe, Julia." He wanted to add that he could take her with him when he did decide to sell—once he thought he had had enough of mining and once silver prices reached what the accountant and the foreman and his conscience told him was likely to be as good as things would ever get. Or maybe right now. If she'd just ask him to help save her from a scoundrel like George Miller and from a lousy, doomed-from-the-start marriage. "Dooley." Her voice lost its gentleness, its entreating. Julia's eyes turned as hard as they used to be back in Arizona . . . and San Francisco . . . back when she had been a corncob-rough hellion in her teens and not the genteel wife of a county clerk who aimed to control all of Leadville for himself. "You need to grow up." Now she sounded just like Little Miss Loudmouth. "Quit being a damned fool." CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Now she sounded more like Butch Sweeney, or the old Dooley Monahan when he was trying to keep him and Butch and Julia alive. "Do you know who you're up against? This isn't some twenty-dollar gunman like Jackson Taylor or whatever his name was, or his brothers, or anyone else you've gunned down on the streets in defense of your person and just happened to collect a nice bounty for staying alive." Blue whined. Dooley felt like joining him. "These are silver barons. This is George Miller, who isn't just some corrupt clerk who does the biddings of rich, filthy, evil men. Harley Boone is an ant compared to the men out to crush you, Dooley." "But I've got the U.S. marshal—" "Damn it, Dooley, listen to me. I'm not the stupid kid you always thought I was. Thought Butch was. A United States marshal can be bought. Do you understand what I'm saying? Any reporter in Denver can be bribed. So can your pettifogging lawyer. You've got to get the hell out of Leadville, Dooley, or they're going to bury you here. And that would kill me. And it would get Butch Sweeney killed, too." * * * "I'm sorry," Julia said after she finally dammed the tears. "It's all right." At least, he thought he said something, and that was what he had meant to say. It's all right. He shook his head. What a stupid thing to say. He stared at the bruise on Julia's cute little face and felt the blood rushing to his head one more time. He wanted to march out of his office, saddle up General Grant, and gallop down the road they were trying to finish grading all the way into Leadville and trash George Miller, just kick him up and down the street and finally out of town. "You'll do what you always do, Dooley," Julia said, and she pushed herself out of the chair. She meant that Dooley would dismiss her notions and do what he had planned on doing. Dooley told her: "What I do, is stay alive." She stared at him, and Dooley grinned. "I've gotten to be pretty good at it." He waited. He knew it was coming. It had to come. If it didn't, his heart would break right then and there, and he'd be worthless. Harley Boone would have no trouble gunning him down. There it came. Dooley's heart leaped and he felt ten years younger. Julia smiled at him. She shook her head, but could not shake off that look. "You are incorrigible, Dooley Monahan," she told him. The smile left, and she whispered, "You will take care of yourself, won't you?" "I will," he affirmed. "Now that you've warned me, I'll know what to look out for. Do you need an escort back to Leadville?" Her head shook. "You sure? That's barely even a road right now." "No. I still know how to ride. I still know how to look after myself. And . . ."—her head shook sadly as she frowned and sighed—". . . well . . . it just wouldn't be proper for me to be seen with you, Dooley." Her head lifted, but he saw no tears. "Do you understand?" she asked. "Of course," he said. He opened the door, and Julia knelt to pat Blue and whisper a string of pet names at the shepherd, then she held out her right hand. Dooley shook it, then thought: Was I supposed to kiss it? Would that have been proper had Jarvis saw me do that? It was too late. Julia was out of his office and made a beeline for the door. When that door closed, Dooley looked at Jarvis, who busied himself shuffling papers from one side of the desk to the other. Dooley closed the door to his office and moved to the filing cabinet behind the desk. He pulled it open and withdrew the Colt .45 and shell belt, which he usually deposited there every morning when he got to work. This time, he buckled it on, opened the chamber gate, and rotated the cylinder to check the loads. Briefly, he thought about filling the empty chamber—the one underneath the hammer, kept empty as a safety measure—but decided that would be silly. He did not holster the Colt, though, but left it on the top of his desk in plain view. Then he sat down and tried to focus on some of the papers the clerk said he needed to look at, but Dooley could not make heads or tails out of those things. So he leaned back, stared at the wall, then at Blue, and kept thinking about those days in Arizona and even California. At some point, Jarvis tapped lightly on the door, opened it, and came in with more papers for Dooley to sign. His face paled at the sight of the Colt, but he swallowed down that fear and told Dooley what he was signing and why and a few other things Dooley did not understand. Dooley answered with a nod, and the clerk left the office. Dooley read the papers, read them carefully, before he signed them. When the six o'clock whistle blew, Jarvis again opened the door. This time he brought in a tin box and not more papers with figures and legalese and stuff only an attorney-at-law could figure out. The clerk set the box in front of Dooley and stepped back. Sighing, Dooley opened the lid and stared at more gold coins than he had ever seen, not to mention greenbacks stacked to the lip of the box. "What's this for?" Dooley asked. "Payday is tomorrow, sir," the little runt said. "Oh." Dooley nodded as if he understood. "Well, see that the boys get paid." Jarvis cleared his throat. "Sir, I have already put the payroll into the safe for tomorrow. This is yours, sir." Dooley blinked. He found it hard to comprehend, especially when Jarvis kept talking. "Naturally, there is much more money from the silver we have mined over the past month, sir, but that went into the mine's account, a reinvestment, so to speak, sir. You understand, I am sure." "Well . . ." "If I were you, sir, I would take that money to the bank and deposit it quickly. Rogues have been known to . . . well . . . you know." Dooley thanked the clerk and watched him leave, shutting the door behind him. Then Dooley kept staring at the tin box. At length, he counted out thirty dollars in scrip and shoved those bills into his trousers pocket. He also took a twenty-dollar gold piece and slipped it in, as well. He waited until he heard Jarvis leave, heard the commotion as most of the miners left, waited until darkness came and the only ones left at the mine were Dooley and the two guards with the shotguns. That's when Dooley opened the door and went to the toolshed, fetched a shovel, and paced off twenty yards behind the shed and started to dig. Banks? Dooley already had what he considered a sizable sum in that bank in town. He saw no need to risk any more, because Dooley remembered a time—not that long ago—when the Dobbs-Handley Gang had robbed the bank in Omaha, Nebraska, and then at another bank in some other town in that state. He remembered hearing about the James-Younger boys robbing that bank in his own home state of Iowa, over in Corydon, and he had read about that bank robbery back in '66 down in Liberty, Missouri—and how that place went out of business a short while after the robbery. Banks got robbed. People lost their life savings because banks got robbed. Dooley remembered his father, that hardworking farmer who never trusted any bank and always put what little hard money he ever owned in ajar and stuck it back by the pigpens because nobody was going to go digging around near a pigpen if he didn't have to. There were some pigpens in Leadville, but Dooley figured somebody would see him digging there, as busy as that town was. So he dug here. Then he leaned the shovel against a tree and walked back to his office. He closed the lid and lifted the box, strained, and let the box slide safely back onto the desktop. That timid little Jarvis, a runt of the litter if Dooley had ever saw one, had managed to get that box from his desk to Dooley's, and here was Dooley straining like a weakling. Blue yipped, ready to go home. Dooley frowned. "I'm getting soft sitting behind a desk, Blue," he said, "lifting nothing but a pencil or pen all day." An idea struck him, and made him feel good. He went outside and counted the number of miners on the payroll, came back into the office and counted out that number of five-dollar coins. He thought about the guards and Jarvis, and counted out three more. And the foreman. There was another. These, he slid into the big drawer of his desk, and thought the boys would be right pleased at getting a bonus from their boss after work tomorrow. After sneaking back to the hole, he deposited the tin box. Of course, Jarvis would probably want the tin box back, so he returned to the office, found a couple of sacks, and then hurried back to the hole, careful to make sure he didn't arouse the suspicion of the shotgun-wielding guards. That appeared unlikely as the guards stayed in the mine, keeping any silver thieves out. Which reminded Dooley that maybe he ought to talk to the foreman and Jarvis about having another guard, one to patrol the perimeter of the mine. The safe, for one thing, was in the office. Equipment like shovels and picks did not come cheap at Leadville prices. Dooley loaded the paper currency into one sack and the coins into another. He started shoveling and pondered on another thought. But if I hired a guard and he walked around outside, would he see that a hole had been dug here? Mightn't he do some investigating, perhaps digging? And wouldn't two sacks filled with a fortune be more tempting than whatever we paid him, even at Leadville prices? Dooley kept shoveling, cursing himself. Oh, boy, how he wished he were just that thirty-a-month cowboy again, with no worries except the caring of the boss man's cattle and horses. * * * He arrived to town late—not that Leadville was asleep—found a café he had never been to, and took his supper there. Dooley told himself he was just seeing if this Chinese joint was worth taking any friends to, but he failed to convince himself of the lie. What Julia had told him stuck with him, and he figured he shouldn't make his moves a pattern. He did not board General Grant at the livery, but tied him up in the alley that ran behind the hotel. He even took the rear staircase to his room, and drew his Colt before unlocking the door. "You're being paranoid," he told himself. "You're being safe," he argued. He slept that night with a chair hooked under the doorknob, woke before sunbreak, and left Blue in the room. It was too early to pay a visit to his lawyer or the bank, so he rode out of town and back to the mine. The boys sure were happy at the bonus they got, and that made Dooley feel better. He mentioned the idea about an extra guard, and the foreman and Jarvis said they would put together some figures and see what it would cost and if it was worth it, the two old skinflints. Again, he worked late, not that he was actually working, and waited till everyone had left after the last shift. He checked on the hole he had dug, saw nothing to make him fear his hiding place had been discovered, and went back to his office. He slept there that night, thinking that he had left Blue enough water and some food and several copies of the Leadville Ledger on the floor so the shepherd could do his business. On Sunday, he went fishing, but took Blue with him. Of course, the water was running too fast to catch any trout, but he felt relaxed, soothed by the rushing water, being out in the woods alone. Of course, his mother had always warned his father about fishing on the Sabbath. It went against her religion. Bad things happened to those who fished on Sunday. But nothing bad happened to Dooley that Sunday. God waited till Monday to punish him. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE The office of Jonah Terrance Cohen, attorney-at-law, was upstairs of one of Leadville's banks in which Dooley had no deposits. After taking breakfast in the restaurant next to the hotel, Dooley walked down the street, turned the corner, and climbed the rickety staircase that led to the upstairs offices. Jonah Terrance Cohen, J. T. to his pals, had the corner office on the left side of the hallway. At least, he had. Oh, his name was still stenciled onto the fancy glass, but tacked to the door was a crudely written note. FOR RENT SEE John Price at Bank (downstairs) Dooley felt his breakfast teetering in his stomach, and he caught his breath and hurried back outside, down the stairs, around the corner, and into the bank. He looked around—that early in the morning, the bank had few customers—and walked to the first teller he saw. "Is John Price in?" Dooley asked. The teller shook his head. "Should be in—oh, there he is now." Dooley turned and saw a portly gent with two chins close the door and use a cane as he made his way through one of those banker's gates and toward an office that had a door to it. Hurrying toward the big man, Dooley called out his name. The man turned, smiled, and said, "Yes, sir, what may I do for you this fine morning?" "It's about the lawyer, Mr. Cohen, upstairs." "Ah. Do you wish to lease it? It is fine, a good view, and I'm sure you'll find our rates reasonable—for Leadville prices. Come in, sir, come in." He pulled open the office door, but stopped when Dooley said he wasn't here about renting space. "He was my attorney," Dooley said. "Oh." The man looked Dooley over, but found him to be a respectable-looking man in his striped britches and coat and ribbon tie and all. "Do you know where he happened to move to?" The fat man shook his head. "No. He came in last week, said he was bound for the Sandwich Islands. I guess one of his clients must have won a gigantic lawsuit for Mr. Cohen to be sailing across the Pacific. He certainly was dressed quite prosperous when he came in, and smiling as though he had found the golden goose. He closed his account and left." The fat head shook again. "But I am certain he will write you when he resettles, or perhaps he has turned his business over to another attorney here in town. I'm sure that is the case . . ." "Yeah," Dooley said, but he knew better. He thanked the banker and the teller and walked out the door. Julia had been right. The silver barons could get to an attorney after all. At least he still had his letter with the U.S. marshal in Denver, and with that inkslinger at the Denver Telegram. "Hey, Dooley." Across the street, George Miller waved him over. "I want you to meet some folks," Miller called out. Dooley saw two men, one lean and hard, the other fat and pale, standing outside the door to the county clerk's office. They did not look like gunmen, which made Dooley look across the street at the roofs of the buildings. No sunlight reflected off a rifle barrel. He did not see Harley Boone anywhere, and nothing looked out of the ordinary in the alleys. Some riders, about six, wearing dusters, were riding slowly down the street, but did not look to be keeping their horses under a strong rein and ready to give them their head and run over Dooley if he crossed the street. "You're going to worry yourself to death, Dooley Monahan," he told himself, laughed off his paranoia, only to realize that, in his excitement to check in with his lawyer, he had made a mistake. Blue was upstairs again in his hotel room. So was Dooley's gun belt and .45. After all, respectable mine owners did not go heeled when visiting lawyers. "Well," Dooley told himself, once he saw how crowded the streets were becoming. "They won't ambush me now. And it's not like those two gents with that scoundrel are the U.S. marshal and the editor at the Telegram." He let a freight wagon cross, then stepped onto the street—dry now, but rutted from all the traffic during the muddy season—and found his way to the clerk's office. Miller and the two strangers remained outside. All were smoking fine cigars. "Dooley Monahan," George Miller said after removing his cigar, "allow me to introduce you to Richard Blue, deputy U.S. marshal out of Denver. And this, I'm sure you know, is Paul Pinkerton of the Denver Telegram." The lean one was, to Dooley's surprise, the journalist. The fat one was the marshal. Yeah, Dooley thought, fat from taking bribes and living off other folks' misfortune. Neither made a move to shake Dooley's hand. Dooley unbuttoned his coat. Let them think I am heeled, Dooley figured. That might get me through this day. "Maybe we can talk again, Dooley, about a business deal." Miller gestured with his cigar in the general direction of Dooley's silver mine. "A lot of things can happen in a town like this." But, Dooley thought, they can't just gun me down on the streets. The Leadville Ledger is an honest newspaper—especially since I've paid them money for advertisements and even pay the $2.50 annual subscription. If I'm killed, murdered most foully, or come to some unfortunate accident, they will investigate. Not that that'd do me any good, being dead and all. "What do you think, Dooley?" George Miller asked. "Want to step inside and work out a deal that favors us both?" You get rich. I stay alive. Dooley shook his head. "Suit yourself," Miller said, and stepped into his office. The low-down, bribe-taking federal deputy and scribe for that horrible little rag of a newspaper in Denver followed him. The door closed behind them. The shades remained closed. Again, Dooley looked up and down the street. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—no gunmen looking to kill him, no strangers on the rooftops, no Harley Boone anywhere to be found. Dooley decided that maybe, before heading to the livery to get his horse and ride to work—if you could call being a boss work—maybe he would check with the postmaster inside the Wells Fargo station and see, on the very off chance, if lawyer J. T. Cohen had left a forwarding address. That's where he was going when, halfway across the street, someone sang out: "The bank's being robbed!" Dooley froze. He saw the six mounts, remembering those men in the linen dusters from just moments earlier. They were tethered to the hitching rail in front of the bank where J. T. Cohen leased an upstairs office. When he later found time to think, he realized that the warning about the bank robbery came from behind him. How could that person have known the bank was being robbed? Six horses tethered in front of the bank wasn't out of the ordinary. The shades remained closed inside, so nobody could see what was happening. No guards had been posted outside the bank, drawing attention to himself. And later, Mr. John Price of that very bank reported himself that the bandits did not make off with one single bank note. Dooley did not freeze long, because the doors of the bank were being pushed open, and a man in a linen duster raised a sawed-off shotgun at Dooley. He ran, ducking, feeling the whistle of buckshot over his head. One of the horses reared, pulled free of its tether, and crashed into the boardwalk. That gave Dooley a chance because the robber couldn't—at least, he didn't—fire over the horse and try to kill Dooley with his second barrel. Out of the corner of his eye, Dooley saw him dropping the scattergun and moving desperately to catch up the reins to the frightened bay gelding. Another outlaw came out of the building and fired a shot that tore off a chunk of wood as Dooley rounded that corner. His plan was to keep right on running. Hell, he didn't have a gun, couldn't put up a fight. Another man in a linen duster came around the other corner of the bank and sent a slug that burned Dooley's left ear. He shifted directions and came up the stairs. Gun smoke attacked his nostrils. Gunshots rang in his ears. He heard the wood splintering the wooden steps Dooley climbed three at a time as the man with the six-shooters blazed away. How he managed to reach the top had to be a miracle. He grabbed the knob and turned. "Oh, hell!" The door was open just a few minutes earlier when he had discovered J. T. Cohen's office was being rented out. Now some fool had locked the damned thing. More gunshots sounded. Dooley hoped one of those guns being fired came from that deputy marshal out of Denver. Another bullet smashed the door Dooley was trying to open. He ducked, saw the linen duster–wearing hombre with the six-shooter had reloaded. Then he saw another bank robber in a duster coming around the corner, carrying two pistols. Dooley ran as hard as he could and threw himself against the door, feeling the heat of a bullet tear through his frock coat, and another rip off his fancy hat. Yet the door splintered, a hinge broke off, and Dooley tumbled inside. He landed hard against the floor, rolled over, kicked the door shut, knowing: a lot of good that'll do. There was no time to catch his breath. He came up and ran, only to catch a shout from outside. "He's upstairs, Clint!" Only then did Dooley remember the staircase that led to the offices from the bank lobby. Footsteps sounded from downstairs on the bank floor. Dooley stopped. Footsteps sounded on the bullet-riddled staircase outside, too. Inside, he saw the shadow, and heard a hammer being clicked. There were only two exits, and men in linen dusters were coming up those steps. He wanted to think that surely Richard Blue, deputy United States marshal out of Denver, had some honor. That as a duly sworn officer of the law he would try to stop a bank robbery. That he was shooting at men in linen dusters right this very second. The steps sounded closer outside. Of all the times to leave my Colt in my room! Dooley thought. He was a dead man. Because he had not taken precautions. Hell, Julia had warned him. Damn it all, he thought, I really need a gun. The bad men climbing the stairs certainly wouldn't be loaning him any of theirs. That's when he saw the office to his left, next door to the vacant office of J. T. Cohen, attorney-at-law. It had a fancy glass window with stenciling on it, too, and no FOR RENT sign tacked to the door. Just as the man in the linen duster from the inside staircase jumped into the second-story hallway, and just as two men wearing dusters crashed through the already-broken door to the outside corner staircase, Dooley hurled himself against the pretty cursive stenciling on the door's window. The pretty glass and the words—O'BRIAN'S GUN SHOP—disintegrated underneath Dooley's weight. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX He ignored the blood on his cheeks and hands, but couldn't block out the pain as he pushed himself up quickly with his left hand, and a shard of glass ripped through his palm. Groaning, Dooley came up to the left side of the door and reached with his right hand for whatever he could grab to defend himself. There was no time. The man from the inside staircase rammed his Colt through the opening Dooley had made through what once had been a window of fancy glass. Dooley saw the revolver. The man saw Dooley, and tried to turn his hand. Only, an instant later, the man had no hand at all. Dooley saw the heavy bowie knife, with the D-shaped bronze guard, in his right hand. He saw the man stagger away, spraying blood against the ruined door and into the hallway outside. A knife? Someone had left a big bowie knife on the counter in a place that repaired guns? Curses came from the other two gunmen in the upstairs hallway, but could not drown out the cries of the man whose hand Dooley had just chopped off. Another shot rammed against the door's frame, and Dooley dropped below the shattered glass. The man with two pistols appeared first, his revolvers already cocked, his face masked with grim determination as he trained the two barrels on Dooley. "Take this!" the outlaw shouted. He took it instead, took that knife Dooley threw through the opening. The blade drilled him plumb center, moving through ribs and muscle and into the badman's heart. That impact was enough to force his two hands to move slightly. Both guns roared, filling O'Brian's office with smoke, but both .44-40 slugs whistled past Dooley's ears. Dooley couldn't see the man because of the thick smoke from his two pistols, but despite the ringing in his ears from the close range of the .44-40's reports, he heard the man with the bowie knife in his chest hit the floor. As a cowboy, Dooley had seen many a waddie who got a finger sliced off trying to dally his lariat around the saddle horn. A few times Dooley had come close to losing a digit himself. But he had never seen a bloody hand cut off with a bowie knife. It was enough to make a body sick. Dooley had no time to be sick. He pried the Colt from the sticky fingers of the cleaved-off hand. The gun came up—it was already cocked by Clint, or whoever it was who was still yelping out in the hallway—and he touched the trigger as the third man, the one who had cut loose with Dooley and shot up the doorsteps outside, tried to gun down Dooley. The man in the duster probably would have killed Dooley, but he must have slipped on the blood spraying out of the arm of the first bank robber. That spoiled his aim. Dooley's shot missed, too, but only because the gunman went crashing to the floor. He heard the man try to rise, but his boots went out again from under him, and he rocked the floor. By that time, Dooley had risen, thumbed back the hammer of the Colt, and quickly pushed his torso through the ruined window. There was a saying Dooley remembered that went something along the lines of: You never kick a man when he's down. Dooley did not kick the man, but he sure shot that low-down snake lying on the floor. It was not cold-blooded butchery or revenge. The killer in the now-bloodstained linen duster was bringing up his Colt, about to try to blow off Dooley's head, when Dooley shot him dead center and killed the bank robber instantly. His gun hand crashed against the door, and slid down. Kicking the bloody hand across the gun shop, Dooley pulled open the door. He glanced at the staircases, and at the man with the bloody mess of a right arm, and came outside. Quickly, he knelt, trying to keep his new boots out of the pools of blood on the floor—although his own leaking left palm did its share of bloodying his duds—and pried the Colt from the hand of the dead man on the floor. Something clicked, and Dooley spun, seeing the recently one-handed killer in a linen duster bring up a Remington over-and-under derringer in his left hand. The little pistol popped, but the man was in a lot of pain and was likely not good with both hands. Besides, even at close range, a derringer wasn't always reliable. Grimacing, the man tried to shoot the second barrel, but Dooley pulled the trigger. The man spun, dropped the derringer, and tumbled down the stairs, leaving a trail of blood on the wooden steps. Again, Dooley looked out the busted-open door that led to the outside stairs. He moved over dead bodies and more bloody ponds, braced himself against the wall, and inched his way to the edge of the opening to the stairs. Whispers sounded downstairs. No guns barked outside, although Dooley could make out the barking of dogs. He hollered, "Downstairs in the bank?" A few gasps answered. "It's me! Dooley Monahan. Owner of the Blue Grant mine." He had named the strike after his two loyal companions. More whispers. Dooley again looked at the opening outside. "Any of the robbers still downstairs?" "No." That was a woman's voice. Dooley thought about this. Three outlaws were dead at Dooley's hand. Hand. He shook off the image of the hand he had hacked off with a D-ring bowie and then kicked across the floor of a gun shop. That meant three were left. But if just one of them was downstairs, wouldn't that be enough for anyone to lie, to say no one was down there? A floorboard squeaked outside, and Dooley turned, dropped to his knees, and brought up the Colt in his right hand. Almost immediately, a figure in a linen duster kicked through the already kicked-in door, saw Dooley, and also the bloody carnage surrounding Dooley. Still, he tried to touch the trigger, but Dooley fired first. The man went backward, pulling his trigger but only puncturing the FOR RENT sign and the door itself to lawyer J. T. Cohen's office. He backed up, onto the landing outside, and tried to fire again. Dooley gut-shot him, and the man groaned, leaned against the railing, but again refused to die. He died, though, as Dooley put a third round into his chest. Then the man was gone, falling over the railing and landing in the street. Dooley grimaced at the sickening thud outside. Four men, he counted. Two left. He checked the loads to the Colts he had procured, dropped one, replaced it with another, and pried a few cartridges from the holster of one of the recently deceased duster-wearers. Once he held two fully loaded six-shooters in his hands, he moved toward the opening outside, but kept listening to the commotion downstairs. He heard what he wanted. Downstairs, the front door opened. Dooley stopped walking and now eased his way, gently, so no one could hear his movements downstairs, until he reached the edge of the doorway. He came down cautiously, seeing the main doors still open, and watched the ashen-faced tellers and the sweating, trembling John Price stare at him as he came down the stairs. The woman teller, a buxom redhead, pointed out the window. "Two men!" she said. "They just ran out!" He could tell she felt sorry for having lied to him earlier. Of course, he wished she had not yelled. Now he ran, just in case the linen duster–wearing hombres came back toward the bank, down the stairs and across the floor, stopping at the door. Six horses remained tethered out front. The two killers left had not fled. He shot a glance across the street. The shades to the county clerk's office remained closed, the door shut. Inwardly, Dooley cursed every deputy marshal in Colorado. He looked down the streets. Nobody rode down the road. No one stood on the boardwalk, behind a water trough or column or in the corner of an alley. He had read all sorts of newspaper and magazine articles about towns whose residents rose up in defense when ruffians tried to pull off a raid or robbery of some kind. But not here in Leadville. Dooley stared down the boardwalk. "Which way?" he asked the redheaded teller, figuring she would still feel guilty about having lied to him earlier. Not that Dooley blamed her any. Her head tilted toward the corner. Which made sense. They would be waiting for Dooley to step onto the landing. Instead, Dooley stepped out the door, ducked underneath the hitching rail, and began unfastening the reins to the bank robbers' horses. The one at the far end, the one that one of the outlaws had had to stop from running away when the shooting commenced, was now tied to the column. That was fine with Dooley. After releasing the last from the rail, he grabbed the reins around the column, pulled them free, and swung into the outlaw's saddle, firing a shot into the ground that sent the other horses screaming and galloping down the street from whence they had come. "The horses!" someone screamed, or maybe, most likely, Dooley just imagined it. After all, the thundering of hooves, the ringing in his ears again, and the commotion all around him practically made hearing voices impossible. The horse Dooley had mounted, reared, and wanted to follow his comrades, but Dooley pulled hard on the reins, kept his seat, and forced the gelding around the corner. He leaned low in the saddle, practically hanging over the horse's neck, and saw the two linen-duster men. One was halfway up the stairs to the office of the lawyer, the gunsmith, and whoever else rented from the bank. The other was on the corner. Dooley fired at the one on the corner, but missed. Then he lost his grip and came crashing to the ground, rolling free from any hooves that might crack bone, and coming up to his knees. It had been a foolish play, Dooley realized. And here is where he paid the price and the piper. But he told himself that he would die game. The gun in his left hand pointed at the duster-wearing owlhoot on the corner. The gun in his right hand aimed, more or less, at the duster-wearing killer halfway up the stairs. He had never been much of a hand at shooting two guns. His left hand always failed him, and—especially given that his left palm bled like the dickens from that shard of glass from the window of the gunsmith's office—failed him now. That bullet went nowhere near the killer, nowhere, in fact, even near the corner. The Colt in his right hand might have hit the wall to the bank. On the other hand, it might have missed the bank completely. Yet Dooley could not believe what he saw. The man on the corner spun around, discharging both barrels from his scattergun into the boardwalk, blowing a hole through the planks, and then crashing into the hole he had just made. He did not stir. The killer on the stairs slammed against the wall, blood suddenly drenching the front of his pale-colored muslin shirt that he wore underneath his tan-colored duster. Still, that man, grimacing, brought up the Remington he still gripped in his right hand. He aimed, but not at Dooley, at something that must have been behind Dooley. Dooley just stared at his own guns and quickly brought both up to shoot the man on the stairs. Before he could pull a trigger on either gun, though, another shot barked, more blood erupted from that muslin shirt, and this time the robber tumbled down the stairs and rolled off the corner into the dusty street. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Quickly, Dooley spun around, and somehow he managed to smile. Butch Sweeney stood on the corner of the boardwalk across the street, and quickly jacked another round into his .44-40 carbine. From that angle, Dooley knew that Butch had shot down the bank robber who had rolled down the stairs. But the one with the shotgun? He looked the other way, and the frown quickly became a grim frown. Shoving one revolver into his waistband and dropping the other from his bleeding left hand, Dooley hurried across the street to the corner of the grocery store. Butch Sweeney's boots pounded on that boardwalk as he ran, too. Dooley reached Julia Cooperman Miller first, and took the Henry rifle she held. Her face had gone stark white, and those eyes, so vacant, unfocusing, scared Dooley out of about ten years. She stepped back, and Dooley reached for her, dropping the rifle into the ground, but Butch Sweeney got to her first, taking her in his arms as she fainted dead away. Butch shouted something. He looked like he might faint, too. A few doors began to open, and the rushed talk of excited Leadville citizens reached Dooley's ears. He stepped back, stared down the alley behind the grocery. There was no time to think things through, and Dooley pointed down that alley, speaking to Butch in rapid-fire sentences, while staring at the corner to the bank building. So far, no body had poked a nosy head around the corner. "Get her out of here, Butch," Dooley said. "But . . . where . . . ummmm . . . ?" "Just get her out of here. Before someone sees her. No telling what that no-account husband of hers will do to her if he finds out she saved my bacon." It struck him later that there was no telling what George Miller would do to Butch Sweeney. Then, moments later, he realized he could tell exactly what George Miller would do to Butch. He pointed down the alley. "Now, damn it!" he barked, and the color returned to Butch's face. He scooped up Julia's legs—er, limbs—letting his Winchester bounce on the ground. Butch moved quickly now, and rounded the corner and took off at an awkward, bowlegged gait just before Mr. John Price's sweaty, pale face appeared at the corner. First, Dooley picked up the Henry that Julia had dropped, and he leaned it against the windowless wall of the grocery store. Next, he found a handkerchief in his trousers pocket and pressed it against the cut in his left palm. He loosened the string tie around his paper collar, pulled the tie free, and used it to tie the handkerchief as tight as he could make it against his palm. By that time, several other heads had dared to show their petrified faces, and even a few, including bank president John Price, had managed to force their entire bodies out onto the street. Dooley picked up Butch's Winchester with his left hand—it wasn't as heavy as the Henry, which he lifted with his right, and walked toward the gathering group of concerned citizens. He did not dare stay too close to the alley, fearing some busybody might see Butch and the sickly Julia before they had found a place to disappear. "Goodness gracious," the fat banker said, staring at the dead men—the two killed by Butch and Julia, and the third Dooley had blown off the landing. "That's four of the robbers accounted for." "Six," Dooley said. The faces stared at him with no comprehension. He tilted his head toward the upstairs. "Two more are up yonder." "Goodness," said a man in a white collarless shirt with brown stockings protecting the clean sleeves. "You killed all six." "Nah," said a miner in overalls and a slouch hat. "Nah. Some redheaded gent must've gunned down one of them." He spit tobacco juice onto the dust. "I seen him leverin' that Winchester he's a-holdin' and firin' away." The eyes searched for Butch Sweeney. Dooley cleared his throat. "That was Butch Sweeney." Dooley nodded at the dead man nearest the staircase. "Saved my hide, Butch did. Got this one before he could drill me. You all know Butch Sweeney. He runs the stage line to Denver, the one the late Chester Motz used to own. Good man, Butch. Saved my hide. Saved the bank's money." Although, by now Dooley figured those six men had not come to Leadville to rob any bank. He searched the faces as more and more appeared, but he did not see the deputy U.S. marshal, the Denver Telegram scribe, or George Miller. "But . . ." a minister asked, "where is the stagecoach driver?" "Ummmm." "Where are the vigilance committee?" the grocer said as he made his way from the other side of the street. "What good is paying for a vigilance committee when they do nothing until after a crime has been committed?" Dooley saw this as a way to give Butch Sweeney more time. "You mean to tell me you pay those boys on that vigilance committee?" "Certainly," banker John Price answered. "Well, wouldn't it make better sense to have a town marshal to enforce the law?" Dooley asked. "Marshals don't last long in this town," the grocer said. "But I have preached many a sermon that hemp is not the answer," the parson said. "If we are to have law and order in Leadville, we need a real man, a real officer of the court, a real man to combat the evil that comes to silver towns such as ours." "Jim Trader was a real man, a real officer of the court," said another merchant, "and he's buried in Evergreen Cemetery with his deputy." The miner spit again. "So where did that redheaded feller run off to?" Dooley gestured vaguely behind him. "I sent him to make sure there were no other robbers in that gang," he lied. They stared at him. "It just made sense to me that when a gang robs a bank, they have some lookouts posted in the town." They stared at one another, and a few made comments, some heads bobbed, and none shook. Dooley figured he had bought Butch Sweeney all the time he could, because the miner and the grocer were walking down the street, the miner having to step over the dead men, which meant the grocer reached the end of his building and glanced down the alley. "Which way did he go?" the grocer asked as he turned around. That gave Dooley time to breathe again. Butch and Julia had gotten somewhere. He didn't know where, but at least they were safe for now. No one would suspect Julia of having killed the fifth of the six men. He exhaled. "You're wounded," a woman cried out. Dooley started to look at his left hand, but somewhere from down the street, another voice sang out sharply: "The other bank's bein' robbed!" That got Dooley's attention. There were two banks in Leadville, and Dooley's money was in the other bank, Tim Shaw's bank, the one being robbed now. Despite his still bleeding, and really hurting, left hand, he hurried, carrying both rifles, and rounded the corner of the grocery. Two men, mounted on brown horses rearing and spinning around in the street in front of the bank, fired pistol shots in the air, yelling and cursing. "Get off the street, ya sons-a-dogs!" "Show yer face again, and I'll blow it off!" Another man stood in the street, holding three horses. Doors closed. Women screamed. Men yelled for the vigilance committee. Dooley took one quick glance at the county clerk's office, but seeing the door still shut and the curtains still closed, he cursed and offered the Henry to the miner. "Not me." The big man raised his hands. "I ain't got no money in that bank. Hell, I ain't got no money in no bank, not even more than . . ." Dooley did not listen to the rest, but scanned the crowd for someone willing to help. The preacher prayed. Mr. John Price, bank president, only started sweating more. The other people—the few who had not fled when the bank robbers started shooting in front of Leadville's other bank—either ran up the stairs and hid in the bloody, bullet-riddled floor above the bank, or hurried into the alley down which Butch Sweeney had carried Julia, or fell on their bodies and covered their ears and heads. Swearing underneath his breath, Dooley moved down the boardwalk, past the grocery store, looking inside to see the grocer pull down the shades on the plate glass window. He should have taken time to close the shutters before running inside the store, because one of the brown-horse riders noticed Dooley, got his horse under control, and started cutting loose at Dooley. One bullet buzzed past Dooley's ear before punching a hole in the glass and the green shade. Dooley dived into the little entryway, braced his back against the wood, and lowered the Winchester carbine. Another bullet from the outlaw clipped the wood above Dooley's head. He dropped to a knee, worked the lever of the Henry, and came around quickly, squeezing the trigger, not bothering to aim, working the lever. One shot. Two. Three. Four. Then he came back to his hiding place as three or four more bullets—he couldn't count the shots, could barely hear or see from all the bitter smoke the .44 caliber rifle had just belched and that infernal ringing again in his ears. Glass shattered again, and Dooley levered another round into the Henry. He stopped, trying to remember how many shots Julia had fired, how many he had just wasted at the robbers in the street, and, even more important, how many rounds did a rimfire Henry rifle hold. Sixteen, he seemed to recall. At least, that sounded right. That is, of course, providing the .44 caliber rifle had been fully loaded when the ruckus all started. He could check the tubular magazine, or he could just decide to go with the Winchester, but he didn't know how many shots were left in that weapon, either. There was no time. The ringing left his ears, and he heard the thunder of hooves. One of the robbers had spurred his brown horse. A bullet sent splinters flying from the boardwalk just inches from Dooley's feet. He raced backward to the other side, bringing the Henry up. Smoke and flame belched from the hard-charging rider's Colt. The man rode with his teeth clenching the reins, pistols in both hands, the smoke from the bucking weapons obscuring his black-bearded face. A bullet grazed the inside of Dooley's right thigh. Ignoring that, he told himself to take his time, draw a clear bead, don't panic . . . Don't panic. Like that was impossible with a man riding a horse hell-bent for leather trying to fill you with holes. The rifle roared, slamming the stock against Dooley's shoulder, and Dooley stepped out of the smoke, levering another shell—or so he hoped—into the Henry. He swung the rifle around, taking aim, as the horse thundered past him, but quickly leaped back. That was just in time. Another bullet whistled and slammed into the wood. The horse went galloping down the street, past the county clerk's office—shades still down, door still closed—and out of town. The horse carried no rider. Dooley turned, saw the man lying spread-eagled in the street, still clutching pistols in both hands. He let out a sigh and wiped sweat from his brow. But this soiree was far from finished. One rider lay dying, probably dead, maybe just seriously injured, maybe just playing possum. Dooley looked at the man again. No, he was most definitely dead. And he wasn't bearded at all. That was just powder smoke darkening his face. Five horses. That likely meant five riders. One dead. Dooley figured four were left. Unless, he thought, he had been right and that the gangs—either one or both, or maybe they were working on this together—had posted lookouts down the street, as he had suggested to the crowd earlier. Hooves sounded again, and Dooley figured he was right. Because this time the sound did not come from Leadville's other bank, but down the street from whence the dead robber's horse had taken off. A bullet roared, and Dooley knew he was about to be caught in a cross fire. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT The man coming from the road that led out of town rode a strong palomino steed, reins in his teeth, too. His right hand held a long single-shot rifle, his left a Remington .44. The handgun roared, and Dooley blinked. He wasn't shooting at Dooley at all, but aiming at the robbers. It would be an image Dooley would remember for the rest of his life, mainly because it happened to be on the cover, a few years later, of one of those dime novels. Lead and Dead in Leadville; Or, Buffalo Bill's Duel with Death My, how magnificent Buffalo Bill Cody looked that morning, long hair blowing in the wind, the front brim of his hat turned upward, determination etched in his face, murderous intent in his eyes, charging like a brave lancer in one of those novels by Sir Walter Scott, not that Dooley Monahan had ever read any of those. In fact, he never would really read Lead and Dead in Leadville, either, just skim the pages hoping to find his name somewhere in the account. Which he never did. Another pistol barked, but that one came from down the street, and the sound of another galloping horse reached Dooley's ears. He stepped around the corner, to see the bad man on the other brown horse charging, too, just like two knights charging each other in a scene from one of those medieval stories Dooley had heard about, but never read, and certainly never seen. Both the outlaw on the brown horse and Buffalo Bill on the palomino fired at the same time, Cody shooting his pistol, the bank robber one of his two six-shooters. Dooley fought back a shriek and grimaced as the splendid gelding Buffalo Bill rode fell onto its front knees, sending its rider flying off the horse, which somersaulted down the street but somehow, miraculously, avoid crushing Buffalo Bill into the dirt. While that was happening, the rider of the brown horse jerked, and fell from his saddle, bouncing in the dirt as the horse turned sharply to avoid being cannonballed by the somersaulting palomino. The brown horse never slowed, just changed its course and took off down the road out of town, just as the other brown horse had done. The palomino rose quickly, stunned, and just stood in the middle of the street. Buffalo Bill Cody sat up, his hat off his head, blood flowing from a cut across his forehead, the Remington lying in the dust far out of his reach. Somehow, the famed scout still held the Springfield rifle in his left hand. The outlaw Cody had shot off his horse sat up. He still held one of his pistols. The two men were perhaps fifteen feet from each other. "Cody!" Dooley yelled, and stepped toward him. "Look out!" Dooley had to look out himself, because the man who had been holding those three horses had abandoned that post and now took a shot at Dooley. The slug practically parted Dooley's hair. Dropping to a knee, Dooley turned his attention away from Buffalo Bill, brought the Henry up, and fired as he dived behind a water trough. The gunman also shot wildly this time, and he took cover behind the barber pole. Coming up, Dooley jacked the Henry's lever, came up, and fired again, hitting one of the pole's white stripes. Out of the corner of his eye, Dooley saw the outlaw in the street rush his shot. Dirt flew up between Buffalo Bill's outstretched legs as the scout swung the Springfield rifle and pulled the trigger. The gun roared like a cannon and the outlaw flew backward, landing on his back and practically carving a ditch as the momentum of the .45-70 bullet drove him a few feet toward a doctor's office. "Dooley!" Buffalo Bill shouted. The living legend tossed away the empty rifle and rose. "I'm empty!" He held out both hands. Ignoring the man behind the barbershop pole, forgetting about the two other cutthroats likely still inside the other Leadville bank, Dooley stood. He tossed the Henry to Buffalo Bill and tried to make it back to the grocery to snag that Winchester carbine. Out of the corner of his eye, Dooley saw Buffalo Bill catch the rifle expertly, and the killer behind the barbershop step out with his six-shooter. Dooley had no chance to make it to the entryway and the Winchester carbine, but that's when he remembered the revolver stuck in his waistband. He jerked it out, thumbed back the hammer. The killer fired. Buffalo Bill's Henry rifle spoke. The pistol bucked in Dooley's hand. The outlaw spun around like a ballet dancer, sending the pistol in his hand crashing through one window to the barbershop while he smashed into the other. Glass rained down upon him, the upper part of his body inside the building, his legs hanging out, his boots dragging on the boardwalk and glass. About that time, the two outlaws came out of the bank. "Where the hell are the horses?" one yelled. Dooley noticed that the horses the man now halfway in the barbershop had been holding had taken off, but had not followed the two brown horses out of town. One was about three blocks down the street. Another was in an alleyway, and the third one had found shelter in a livery. Seeing their dead colleagues—two in the street, the third not getting a shave or a trim—they dropped the sacks of the other bank's money. Both men took shots at Dooley, and Dooley's pistol roared, too, but they were far out of effective pistol range. Buffalo Bill's shot from the Henry took off one of the outlaw's black hats. He worked the lever, aiming as the two men ran down the street, both for the horse that could still be found. The .44 slug whined off the metal rim of a parked freight wagon. Cody jacked another load into the chamber, or at least thought he had, and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked. "Empty!" Cody yelled. Dooley reacted and tossed him the pistol in his hand, which again the frontiersman caught as though he had rehearsed this scene for one of his stage plays. Dooley took time to snag the Winchester carbine. The hatless outlaw reached the horse, first, which, somehow, despite all the roaring gunfire and bullets shooting this street to pieces, remained calm. "Bill!" cried the man still with a hat, and still carrying a sack of money. "Bill! Don't leave me, Bill!" Bill, without a hat, without any money, but with a horse and a pistol, did not listen. He spurred the horse and took off down the street, popping away with his pistol at Dooley and Buffalo Bill. Once again, Dooley and Buffalo Bill pulled triggers simultaneously, and Bill flew out of the saddle, dropping his six-shooter and crashing against a water trough on the other side of the street. He did not splash in the water, but smashed against the hard wood. His boots touched the dirt. His right arm and his neck hung over the side, near the apothecary shop. His left hand, the one still holding the pistol, pointed upward, and then it fell into the water trough. It was probably his imagination, but Dooley thought he heard the barrel of the pistol sizzle as it dropped into the water. The horse, naturally, avoided Buffalo Bill's palomino and followed the other horses out of town. That left one remaining bank robber, and he ran into the Silver Palace Saloon, kicked open the door. Dooley heard a few tables overturning from inside. The outlaw had dropped the bag of money, but he still had that pistol. Dooley gave Buffalo Bill Cody a glance. The man checked the loads in the Colt, shucking out the empty casings as he moved to the man he had shot off his horse. Dooley crossed the street and worked the lever on the .44-40 carbine. "Dooley," Buffalo Bill said grimly. "Bill," said Dooley. Cody stopped, and dropped to the dirt by the dead outlaw. He thumbed fresh loads from the outlaw's shell belt and fed those into the weapon he held. Laying the pistol he had just reloaded on the dead man's chest, Cody kept pushing more cartridges out of the belt. "That's a .44-40, ain't it, Dooley?" Cody asked, meaning the carbine Dooley held. "Yep." Cody held out a fistful of cartridges, which Dooley gathered and began feeding into the Winchester's loading gate. After collecting the pistol from the outlaw's bloody chest, Buffalo Bill rose. "I'm thirsty, Dooley," Cody said. "Want a morning bracer?" Dooley thumbed back the Colt's hammer. "I'll buy," he said. And the two men walked down the street toward the one-story Silver Palace Saloon. The shutters had been closed, and Cody and Dooley stopped at the side street, out of view from the door the lone surviving bank robber had kicked off its hinges. "Back entrance to this place?" Cody asked. "I don't know," Dooley said. There was no entrance leading to the side street, no windows, either, and the other side butted up against a dance hall. That much Dooley could see. "Probably in the back." Cody nodded. "All right. I'll take the back door. You take the front. If there ain't no back door, I'll come join you in the front. Don't shoot my head off." Dooley's mouth was quickly losing any moisture, so he nodded, worked up just enough spit, and said, "Bill?" "Yeah." "I'd like to take this fellow alive." Cody stared. "For talking," Dooley explained. Cody gave a curt nod. "I'd like to hear some squealin' myself. Like how come two gangs would try to rob two banks on the same day." "When one gang didn't even bother taking any money," Dooley said, and that was about all his mouth could muster, for the time being. Cody started down the alley. "But," he called out to Dooley in a deadly whisper, "I ain't makin' no promises." I ain't, either, Dooley thought. "Give me about two minutes," Cody said. "See you at the bar." He winked. "If you get there first, I'll have rye with a beer chaser." Once Buffalo Bill reached the corner of the saloon, he turned back, nodding that there was a door that led to the alley. Then Cody disappeared around the corner. Even though the shutters remained tight against the big window, Dooley dropped below and crawled down the boardwalk till he reached the entryway. He looked down streets, but found only dead men and Buffalo Bill's palomino gelding in the street. Up the street, he saw some curtains moving, which told him people were looking from the safety of their homes or businesses, waiting till they knew for certain that it was safe to step outside. "Some vigilance committee," Dooley whispered. Then he inched his way to the door. He stopped, listening, looking through the crack. The saloon was dark. Having the shutters closed didn't help matters. He could see an overturned table and some chairs knocked onto the floor. Other chairs remained stacked on the tables that had not been knocked over. Two minutes had to have passed by now, Dooley told himself. His throat felt parched. His left hand still bled and throbbed. He sucked in a deep breath, balanced himself on his knees, and launched himself up and forward, toward the busted door of the Silver Palace Saloon. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE His shoulder slammed into the edge of the door, knocking it completely off the hinges that the last of the bank robbers had loosened, and Dooley hit the floor and rolled over, stopping behind the overturned table. A bullet thudded against the table, but the Silver Palace wasn't any run-of-the-mill watering hole. These tables were pure mahogany, not pine, not cheaply made. The bullet the robber had fired didn't punch through the wood. It didn't even make the round table wobble. The din from the shot reverberated in the darkened saloon. Dooley managed to catch his breath, and rubbed his sweating right palm on his britches. He didn't bother with the left palm and tried not to look at how ugly his handkerchief and ribbon tie looked now. That makeshift bandage had been on his left hand for what seemed like an eternity. Light slipped through the doorway, casting a glow on the fancy floors of the saloon, but only for a few feet, and some sunlight filtered in through shutter slats in the large window. Toward the bar, however, where the last of the gunmen was hiding—Dooley could tell from where the gunshot had hit the table—the saloon remained not completely black, but plenty dark. Eventually, saliva reappeared in Dooley's mouth and throat, and he could hear now that the gunshot's echoes had faded. Acrid gun smoke assaulted his nostrils. He was inside the saloon, but had nowhere really to run to. The robber had knocked over just one table, as far as Dooley could tell. And he was fairly safe here. For now. Thump. Dooley straightened, listening intently. Thump. Thump. A muffled voice somehow reached Dooley's ears. Then: Thump. Thump. Thump. "Hell," Dooley whispered to himself as the source of the muffled voice—undoubtedly a curse—and that odd thumping noise became clear to him. Buffalo Bill Cody had found the rear entrance to the saloon, but the owners of the Silver Palace did not just splurge on quality furniture, but on rear doors, locks, and wooden bars, as well. At least for the back door. The front ones had been for decorative purposes only. The back was to keep out riffraff. Right now, it was keeping Buffalo Bill from getting into the saloon. So Dooley cursed again, a little more vilely, a little louder. The robber answered with another pistol shot, which again thudded against the thick table. Grimacing, even though the table still did not feel weakened by another slug, Dooley looked out the door. Still, no one appeared. Inwardly, Dooley cursed that good-for-nothing vigilance committee. This wasn't quite the Mexican standoff, but Dooley couldn't sit here on the floor all day. Although the wound in his palm didn't bleed as much as it had, it still had not congealed. He would need some stitches, and Dooley hated stitches. Another bullet grazed the top of the table. Of course, Dooley thought, if that owlhoot kills me, I won't need any stitches or medicine. He decided to move. Coming up to his knees, bending his head down to keep it from getting shot off, Dooley peered around the table. Then he bolted to his right, firing at the bar, seeing his reflection in the fancy mirror on the fancy back bar shatter into a million pieces. Dooley worked the lever, touched the trigger, and started to slide, pushing over another table, sending those chairs clattering against the floor, and then taking cover behind the table, which rolled this way and that. The man behind the bar did not return fire. Dooley sucked in air, blew it out, sucked in air, blew it out, and felt his heart racing faster than the speed of the bank robbers' two brown horses as they galloped out of town. When he regained control of his breathing, Dooley looked at the doorway, and the overturned table where he had first taken cover. He estimated how much of the saloon floor he had covered, and how close he was to the bar. Again, a gunshot roared in the darkened saloon. This time, Dooley moved to his left, aimed, fired, and heard whiskey bottles shatter. What a waste. His shot had come nowhere near the last robber, because Dooley saw the muzzle flash about ten feet down the bar. The light blinded him, and the shot sounded like a bee as it buzzed past his ear. Dooley had already jacked the hammer, and he touched the trigger again as he aimed from the feel. Then he quickly returned to the safety of the heavy table, hearing another shot from the gunman thud against the wood. Had the owner of this joint been a little cheaper with his tables, that bullet would have shattered Dooley's spine or pierced his heart. He waited, sweating, bleeding, and scared as a greenhorn cowboy in his first stampede. Yet he fought back the nerves, worked the lever again, and rubbed the sweat and residue of gunpowder from his eyes. Which only burned his eyes even more. Slowly, the sound of the reports faded. A moment later, his eyes stopped hurting. He blinked several times until he felt certain he could see—as clearly as anyone could see in a saloon this dark. Where the hell is Buffalo Bill? Dooley thought. Outside, a dog began to bark. Dooley listened, but the thumping and cursing from the rear of the saloon had stopped. Had Buffalo Bill managed to get inside the saloon while Dooley and the gunman hiding behind the bar had been exchanging shots? Obviously, the last of the robbers had plenty of ammunition. As far as Dooley could tell, the bandit had entered the saloon with only one weapon, a six-shooter, and he definitely had fired more than six bullets. That caused Dooley to wonder how many shots he had fired. Granted, the Winchester held more rounds than a Colt revolver, but . . . still . . . You count cards, he told himself, so why can't you count shots when you're in a game where the stakes are much higher? He almost turned to look out the door again, but this time stopped himself. The light shining through the door, dim as it was, still strained his vision when he looked back toward the bar. Those gun flashes certainly hadn't helped his vision, either. With the Winchester carbine cocked and ready, Dooley moved again, firing, levering another round, squeezing the trigger, and sliding against the front of the bar. The brass boot rail felt cold against his cheek. Now he just had to decide which way to go: To the nearest edge of the bar? Or sneak down the floor to the far side? Or just stand up, hurtle himself over the bar, and hope he fired in the right direction? Slowly, he came to his knees. He wet his lips and began inching his way toward the far side of the bar. The bank robber must have had a similar notion. Dooley happened to be looking down toward that side when the outlaw stuck his head around the corner. Dooley could have sworn, even in the darkness, that he saw the man's eyes widen in fright. But Dooley wasn't ready for the man. He started to bring the Winchester up, and came up to his knees, but the outlaw dropped onto his belly and squeezed the trigger of his revolver. Dooley felt his hands wring with pain as the bullet from the robber's .45 flattened and whined off the case-hardened receiver. The Winchester flew from Dooley's grip and crashed somewhere to his right. The gunman turned his Colt in that direction, but Dooley sprang up and dived up and over the bar—the opposite direction. Still, he barely made it, and felt the bank robber's bullet—after he had corrected his error—tear off the heel of Dooley's right boot. And those boots he had bought here in town . . . at Leadville prices. He crashed against the floor, feeling glass shards from busted whiskey bottles bite into his back, feeling the wetness of liquor burn his cuts and scrapes. Yet he knew he had no time to moan, or whine, or just lie here and try to get his lungs to work again. He was behind the bar, and his Winchester was on the other side. The bank robber must have realized this, too, for Dooley heard the miserable cur start to laugh. "Well, well, well," the bandit said. "Appears to me that you ain't got no gun no more. But I still got mine." Dooley rolled over onto his hands and knees. He looked at the bar. He swallowed. Shells began clattering against the floor as the robber still chuckled and began feeding fresh rounds into the cylinder. "I reckon," the varmint said, "I'll just have to gun you down and be on my way. Don't look like nobody in this town wants to stop me. Exceptin' you and that pard of yourn who must've realized the errors of his ways." The man laughed again. Another empty brass casing bounced across the floor. That's when Dooley sprang up. The bank robber was about to snap the loading gate to the .45 shut. The barrel pointed at the floor. The outlaw started to bring up the revolver, but froze. Dooley held the sawed-off Greener ten-gauge, the scattergun the bartenders kept behind the bar in case customers got out of control. And Dooley trained those massive barrels at the gunman's belly. Even though the man was silhouetted by the sun coming through the doorway, Dooley clearly saw the man's smile vanish. Shotguns at this range would have that effect on even a brave legend like Buffalo Bill Cody, wherever the hell he was. The outlaw backed up, dropped his weapon, raised his hands, and spun around. In blind fear, he ran for the door. Dooley brought the stock of the Greener to his shoulder, and his fingers touched the twin triggers, but he stopped, remembering his own words to Buffalo Bill: "I'd like to take this fellow alive." Holding his fire, Dooley laid the sawed-off cannon on the bar and leaped back across it. He grabbed the weapon and started to run after the shooter, cursing himself as the man pushed through the broken doorway. Then, a sickening crunch sounded, the doorway seemed to go dark, and the outlaw came stumbling back into the saloon, bouncing into another table, knocking the chairs off, although this table remained upright. The man rolled over, fell to the floor, and came up slowly to his hands and knees, bawling like a newborn calf. Another silhouette came into the bar. "How 'bout that drink, Dooley?" Buffalo Bill Cody said. Dooley just stood there as the scout holstered the Colt and walked into the darkened saloon. He jerked the groaning, bleeding outlaw to his feet and shoved him toward the bar. Dooley lowered the hammers of the Greener and leaned against the bar. It felt good, Dooley realized, mighty good. He was still alive. The last of the outlaws remained alive. Buffalo Bill Cody rounded the bar, his tall boots crunching broken glass as he found three glasses and a bottle of something that Dooley hoped would be better than anything he ever had tasted. It burned. But it did make Dooley feel a mite better. "Have a drink, pard." Buffalo Bill motioned at the shot glass in front of the last of the robbers, whose nose gushed blood. "I can't." He sounded like a croaking frog. "Very well." Cody downed that shot, too. Dooley realized he could talk again. The whiskey must have helped. "I don't think," Dooley said, "that you really came to Leadville to rob a bank." The man looked up. Blood seeped through his fingers that tried to keep his nose from sliding off his face. To Dooley, it made a lot of sense. If Dooley happened to disappear, if he happened to be found dead by knife or gunshot or an ax to the back of his skull, folks might start thinking about that. But to be killed in a bank robbery—or two bank robberies . . . well, that would just be written off as a tragic crime. Not murder. Not conspiracy. "Talk," Buffalo Bill demanded. "I can't," the man managed to croak out. "Who hired you?" Dooley asked. "I never seen him," the man managed to say. "Bill just told us 'bout it. 'Bout him, I mean." Bill was one of the dead outlaws lying in the dust outside. "My nose hurts," the man whined. Dooley said, "Then just nod or shake your head." The man lifted his bloody face. Tears of pain ran down his cheeks onto his bloody chin. "You boys were robbing the bank. That was part of your pay. The others were supposed to kill me. Because they weren't taking any money." Dooley waited. "Your head's not moving." Buffalo Bill touched the barrel of his Colt against the outlaw's head. The head nodded. "If things somehow didn't work out," Dooley said, "then you were to kill me." This time, the head bobbed without any encouragement from Buffalo Bill Cody's six-shooter. That had been a wild stab in the dark from Dooley. To see the gunman's head confirming what Dooley had suggested made his stomach queasy. "Well?" Buffalo Bill asked. "Let's get him to jail," Dooley said. He thought: This town does have a jail. Cody nodded. The last of the outlaws turned slowly and, shuffling his feet, moved toward the busted door and Front Street in Leadville. Dooley and Cody followed, Cody still holding the Colt, and Dooley the bartender's shotgun. The surviving outlaw stepped outside. Then Dooley's ears started ringing again from a pistol shot that was fired outside. The next thing Dooley knew, the last surviving outlaw was slamming against Buffalo Bill Cody and Dooley, and falling dead to the floor. CHAPTER THIRTY After digesting what had just happened, seeing the last bank robber lying on an overturned chair, sightless eyes staring up at the punched-tin ceiling, Dooley shot a glance at Buffalo Bill. The frontiersman saw Dooley out of the corner of his eye, but did not look away from the doorway. He kept his weapon trained in that general direction, but answered Dooley's stare with a shrug. Dooley kept the sawed-off scattergun trained at that busted door, too. Eventually, a voice from outside called out in an uncertain tone: "Cody? Are you in there?" As the bile rose in Dooley's throat, he fought back the urge to step through that door and give county clerk George Miller the business end of the double-barrel he held in his now-shaking hands. They shook not from fear, but anger. "Yeah," Buffalo Bill answered. "Who's out there?" "George Miller," the little weasel answered. His next words tore at Dooley's gut. "I'm out here with Richard Blue, a deputy United States marshal from Denver. And a reporter from the Telegram of Denver." Which would be Paul Pinkerton, if Dooley remembered that poor excuse for an honest journalist's name right. Still, neither Cody nor Dooley lowered their weapons. Asked Cody: "Why did you shoot this owlhoot we had captured?" "I didn't shoot him," George Miller said. "Marshal Blue did." Dooley groaned. "We thought he had killed you, Colonel Cody," George Miller lied. "He was unarmed," Cody announced. "No . . ." This came from the crooked lawman. "He had a derringer. He was turning around to gun you down when I shot him." "Liar," Dooley whispered. George Miller called out in a hopeful voice: "Is that other fellow . . . did the outlaw kill him?" "No," Dooley and Cody said at the same time. By then, Dooley could see bank executive John Price, bank president Tim Shaw of Denver's other bank, the editor of the Leadville Ledger, and a few other local citizens of prestige and power standing on the streets. Not to mention plenty of men and women whom Dooley did not know. Too many witnesses now, Dooley figured. Realizing the same thing, Buffalo Bill Cody walked through the busted doorway, and Dooley, reluctantly, followed. The lawman was kneeling behind the water trough and smiled an unfriendly grin at both Dooley and Buffalo Bill when they stepped onto the boardwalk. Slowly, Deputy Marshal Richard Blue lifted a Remington over-and-under derringer with his left hand, high above the water trough, so the spectators could see. Of course, Dooley thought. They can see you show off that pocket pistol. But they couldn't see you plant the dang thing. The blood started rushing to his head again, and he had to tell himself over and over again to calm down or he'd drop dead of a stroke right here and there. Then who would look after Julia? Which reminded him. He scanned the faces, and the boardwalk and storefronts across the street. No Butch Sweeney. No Julia. "Thanks," Buffalo Bill told Marshal Blue, but the tone told Dooley that the great scout did not mean it. "You're a hero, Mr. Cody," the Denver Telegram scribe said, laying it on thick. "You saved the honest citizens of Leadville all of their hard-earned money by shooting down these notorious scoundrels who dared to try robbing two banks at the same time. The story I write, sir, will be picked up across the nation, by the New-York Tribune, the Omaha World-Herald, every newspaper of substance, and many lesser publications." "I didn't do a damned thing," Buffalo Bill said, and finally shoved the pistol into his holster, even though that Colt wasn't really Cody's. His thumb bent toward Dooley. "It was Dooley Monahan here," Cody said. "He did all the work. Saved my bacon, if you ask me. He's the hero." Dooley shuffled his feet and stared at the shotgun he still wanted to use on Miller, Blue, and Pinkerton— but he had only two rounds in the shotgun, and those three finaglers were spread out too far to kill three with two blasts. That wasn't the way Dooley recalled things. In his mind, Buffalo Bill had saved his hide. "Well . . ." George Miller began, but the banker, Mr. Price, interrupted the no-account clerk. "Buffalo Bill Cody's right. It was this man . . . this Dooley Monahan . . . who stopped the brigands at my bank. He shot them all. Two dead upstairs. One in our lobby. Three on the side street." That was a lie, too, which the miner who had decided that he had no money to protect, pointed out. "No, no, no. No, sir. It was another fella that killed one of those hombres. Redheaded boy." "That's right," said the grocer. "Ummmmm. The gent who took over Chester and Horatio's stage line. Sweeney. Butch Sweeney." Now Dooley held his breath. "Well," the banker said, "that is right. But Dooley here sure laid the other five outlaws low." "Three cheers!" someone yelled. "Three cheers for Dooley Monahan!" They cheered. Once. Twice. Three times. Dooley at last lowered the shotgun. "Buffalo Bill," he said, "deserves those cheers, too." "Three cheers for Buffalo Bill Cody!" a woman shouted, which pleased the frontiersman immensely. "Hip hip, hurrah!" "Hip hip, hurrah!" "Hip hip, hurrah!" Cody bowed like the showman he was. Dooley managed to speak once the cheering stopped. "Are any of those robbers alive?" Heads shook. Too much to wish for, Dooley figured. Clearing his throat, George Miller stepped onto the boardwalk, to make himself look a little taller, although he was nowhere near as tall or as handsome—or as honest, loosely speaking—as William F. Cody. The crowd gave him the floor. "Let's not forget," he said, and tilted his head at that dishonest federal lawman, Richard Blue, "that the deputy from Denver gunned down the last of the badmen—just before he was about to do in both Cody and this . . . this . . . this old bounty hunter." The final two words came out the way a Lawrence, Kansas, man would call a Missouri bushwhacker or a Missouri farmer would call a Kansas Redleg. Dooley thought about pointing out the little fact that while most of the shooting was happening, Miller, Blue, and Pinkerton had been inside the clerk's office, door closed, shades pulled down. He didn't have to. Mr. John Price, banker, pointed that out. George Miller turned a bit green, but the Telegram reporter thought up a lie and thought it up quickly. "That was my fault," he said. "For while Mr. Blue and Mr. Miller were heading for the door—to bring assistance sooner—I informed them that the shots were likely nothing more than blanks, for the Telegram had reported that a circus was coming to Denver next week." He shrugged and looked like an idiot instead of a liar. "I merely assumed that this same circus had stopped in Leadville first, you see. Do not blame our gallant lawman or your valiant clerk. Do not blame the Denver Telegram, either, for it is the greatest newspaper for all of Colorado." It did its job, Pinkerton's speech. By that time, a few members of Leadville's vigilance committee had shown up and began telling people to clear the streets, to let the undertakers—too many for just one—to start gathering the dead. To let the Silver Palace owners bring in some carpenters and handymen to fix up the joint so they could open for business later that afternoon. And to let Marshal Blue send telegraph descriptions to the Denver office and see if there might be any rewards offered on the dead robbers. "That would suit you, wouldn't it, Dooley?" Miller asked, and gave Dooley a cold, evil grin. Someone offered to buy Buffalo Bill a drink. A liveryman said he would certainly look after Buffalo Bill's palomino. Buffalo Bill Cody moved off toward another saloon—one of those that never really closed in Leadville—and the Denver Telegram scoundrel and plenty of other Leadville citizens followed. The reporter for the Leadville Ledger, however, remained in front of the Silver Palace. So did one of the vigilance committee's brass, a lean man in a black broadcloth suit and green satin tie. "Is it true, sir," the reporter asked, "that you are a bounty hunter?" Dooley was about to answer that he was an honest, hardworking cowboy who happened to have recently lucked into a silver mine. But George Miller stepped in front of Dooley and answered the question. "Fletcher," he said. "Check the morgue for any papers you have from Arizona Territory from a few years back. You'll see how my good pard Dooley Monahan got rid of the last of the Baylor gang. Go back even earlier, say to autumn of '69, and you'll see how Dooley Monahan gunned down the infamous Jason Baylor up Dakota way. And just last year or so, he rid the West of the Dobbs-Handley Gang. Isn't that right, Dooley?" Dooley did not answer. He should have just gone directly to the mine this morning. "Is that true, Mr. Monahan?" the reporter named Fletcher asked. "Ask the clerk here," Dooley said. "He seems to know about my career better'n me." "And," George Miller said, "I'll be happy to tell you all you need to know, Fletcher. After all, I was with Dooley for quite a while down Arizona way back in '72." Then Miller handed the reporter a cigar, put an arm over the naïve inkslinger's shoulder, and steered him to the county clerk's office. The man in the black broadcloth suit just stared at Dooley. He didn't say anything, so Dooley walked down the street to get his belongings and maybe wash up back in the hotel before heading to the mine. Butch Sweeney stopped him in the lobby of his hotel. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE "What the hell! Where's—" Dooley stopped himself and turned rapidly on his heels. The desk clerk, who had just given Dooley his room key, stood staring, all ears. Dooley lowered his voice, but managed to get only a few incoherent words out before Butch said, "It's all right. Let's go upstairs to your room." That's what they did, and inside, after Dooley and Butch managed to get the overly excited merle-colored shepherd settled down, Dooley found a bottle of rye in the top drawer of his dresser. He did not bother looking for any glasses, but simply pulled the cork and took a short sip. He tossed the bottle to Butch and filled the basin with water from the pitcher. But he did not start washing his face . . . yet. Instead, he made his way back to the door, cracked it open, and peered up and down the hallway. It was empty, and Dooley had to figure most guests and residents would be at work by now, or out on the street to gawk at the dead bank robbers. When the door shut, Dooley found Butch holding the bottle with both hands. "She's all right," Butch said. Dooley snapped, "I told you to . . ." He fought back the panic, the anger, and tried to calm himself. "Where is she?" "At her place." That caused Dooley's face to flush with anger. "Her servants—that's right, she has servants—they're good ladies. They said they'd take care of her, Dooley, and they also said it wouldn't look good—and certainly wouldn't help Julia—if her husband came around and found me at that place with her." Butch was sitting in the creaky chair. The cowboy turned stagecoach owner and jehu scratched Blue behind the ears. Dooley took a seat on the edge of his bed. Butch held up the bottle of rye as an offering. Dooley shook his head. "Is she all right?" Dooley managed. "Yeah. Beatrice, that's her personal servant, she said she would come around . . ." Dooley cursed. "Goodness, do they know what she did?" Butch's head shook rapidly. "No, no, I told them that she just saw most of the gunplay. I wasn't even halfway to her place when more gunfire started up. I wanted to go back, help you, figured you could use another gun—but, damn it, Dooley, I'd already given you my rifle. I didn't have nothin' to fight with. And I just had to get Julia out of there. Out of harm's way." Nodding, Dooley leaned forward and held out his right hand. Butch handed him the bottle, even though Dooley was trying to shake his old saddle pard's hand. He couldn't laugh, but since the bottle was in his hand, he lifted it and took a quick shot. He coughed. How could men, even cowboys, drink whiskey at this time of day? Then he thought: What time is it? "Somebody told me another gang was trying to rob Leadville's other bank?" Butch's head shook. "That don't make no sense." Dooley set the bottle on the floor, away from his boots so he couldn't knock it over. He started to explain his theory, but held back. "Did they catch the boys?" Butch asked. Dooley's head shook. "They're all dead." Butch again shook his head. "Man, when the papers write up that Julia kilt one of those hombres, that's gonna . . ." "They're not going to write that up, Butch. They think I killed most of them. That Buffalo Bill killed some others. And a U.S. marshal murdered . . . shot, hell, the last one." He paused, and looked Butch directly in his widening eyes. "And they know you killed one of them, too." "I did. I shot that cur before he gunned you down. And Julia . . ." "Julia wasn't there," Dooley told him. "I killed the other one." "With George Miller's Henry," Butch said. Dooley nodded. "With George Miller's Hen—" He stopped. He felt sick again, but did not reach for the whiskey bottle. He asked in a hollow voice, "George Miller's Henry rifle?" Butch's head bobbed. "Aw, hell," Dooley said. "Well, I figured if you could get me that rifle, I could get it back to Julia's house. Even clean it and reload it so nobody's the wiser, Dooley." It was time for another drink. Not that Dooley wanted to, but he found the bottle and brought it to his mouth and took more than a little sip this time. The whiskey burned his throat, and he stifled a cough. He thought back to all he had seen as he left the Silver Palace Saloon for his hotel. People were picking up shell casings and anything else that looked promising for souvenirs—one kid ran onto the street and swiped the hat off a dead bank robber. The photographer in town was busy setting up his big box of a camera and yelling at people to stand still or get out of his way, that he was preserving history. Someone ran to a body with a pair of scissors and snipped off a lock of hair from one of the dead outlaws. Now, to be clear, no one tried to take any of the money from the sacks the bandits had taken from Leadville's other bank. And some even tried to stay out of the vigilance committee members' and that rascal of a deputy marshal's way—and even the newspaper reporter's way—who tried to document all that had happened this morning. And then there were all those weapons lying on the street and in the bank where Dooley had been and on the boardwalks. Men and a few boys and even a couple of saloon harlots picked up those guns. He tried to remember where he had last seen the Henry .44 caliber rifle. Then he pictured it clearly. It wasn't a saloon girl or a kid or a banker or miner or anyone like that who had been picking up that rimfire rifle. That might have been a good thing. But the person Dooley recalled lifting that rifle and studying it with serious intent . . . well, it wasn't Deputy Marshal Richard Blue or George Miller himself or even that scalawag of a Denver Telegram reporter. It was the man in the black broadcloth suit who happened to be major brass for Leadville's vigilance committee. "Oh," Dooley said, "hell." * * * He had corked the bottle and dropped it back into the drawer—out of sight, far from temptation, that sort of thing. The rye he had consumed had little effect on him, or on Butch, but Dooley stressed the story Butch would have to tell over and over again. "You shot one man. I gunned down the other. Got that? Julia was nowhere around. You didn't see her. She wasn't there. You shot one man. I shot the other. Then I sent you to find help. That's all there is to it. Got that?" "Sure," Butch said. "We have to keep her out of this. No one can ever know what happened. This is for her protection." "Damn it, Dooley, stop treating me like a greenhorn on his first cattle drive. I know what I'm doing. I'm not about to put Julia in something uncomfortable." Damn, he could use another hit of whiskey about now, but Dooley nodded. After sighing, he forced a wide grin. The smile did not last long at all. "What about Miller's rifle?" Butch asked after a moment. "How do we explain that?" "We don't," Dooley answered. "She wasn't there—Julia, I mean. All we saw were bank robbers. They must've broken into Julia's . . . no . . . George Miller's place first. Got that rifle there. I took it off a dead bank robber. That's all I know." He liked that idea. Nodding his head at his own plan, he repeated it to Butch. "I took the Henry off a man I shot. That's all we know about that big ol' .44. Got it?" Butch nodded. "Repeat it." Butch repeated it, verbatim, and went back to petting Blue, who had rolled over on his back and gave Butch a fine opportunity to rub the shepherd's belly. Dooley took that moment to head back to the door. Silently turning the knob, he then pushed the door open and looked into the hall. It remained empty, and Dooley listened but heard nothing out of the ordinary from the hotel lobby. "All right," he said, and heard Butch Sweeney rise, tell Blue to stay, and cross the room. Sweeney pulled on his hat, took a deep breath and exhaled, and stepped into the hall. "Butch," Dooley called out after the young cowboy took a few steps toward the stairs. The kid turned around, and Dooley made himself smile. He extended his hand. "Thanks for all you did for . . . her," Dooley said. They shook, and Dooley added: "And thanks for saving my hide." Butch nodded grimly, saying, "You'd have done the same for me, pard." Which made Dooley feel a hell of a lot better. * * * He wasn't certain exactly what he had accomplished, though. Helped stop two bank robberies, maybe, if those vermin actually wanted to rob two banks. Gotten sweet young Julia into a compromising situation. Had her kill a man in Dooley's defense. Had almost gotten Buffalo Bill Cody killed. The leaders of Leadville would not have enjoyed having that blight on the mining metropolis's record. When they made it downstairs, the Leadville reporter saw Dooley and snagged him, to lead him to the hotel café for a private interview. Better him than that lying reprobate from the Denver Telegram, Mr. Pinkerton. Dooley made it outside, shook a few hands with some citizens, rushing past them, trying to ignore their compliments. Hell, he had just killed or helped kill ten human beings. Granted, they were scum and would gladly have done him in, but shooting a man to death just never set well in Dooley's gut. And he had gunned down far too many humans in his time. Outside, he breathed a little easier. The dead were off the street. The town tried to fall back into its standard routine. Dooley made it to the livery without running into George Miller, the deputy marshal, the Denver Telegram scoundrel, or even Harley Boone. He told the liveryman that he would saddle General Grant himself, and that's what Dooley did, trying to keep his mind off all that had happened this morning. One of Leadville's church's bells began to ring. It was noon. Eventually, he made it to his mine, where Jarvis told him what needed to be done, what needed to be signed, what he needed to know. The foreman then came in and told him what also needed to be done, and what he might want to know, and what he probably didn't want to know but needed to know. Mostly, Dooley thought about Julia. He sure hoped she was all right, and that maybe, just maybe, she might be able to block out what had happened on the town's streets that morning. He wanted to see her. But that, he knew, was impossible. He cursed George Miller. Then Jarvis brought in more papers that he needed to sign, and when the door had closed and Dooley found himself alone in his office, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and dreamed about how great it would be if he were back riding the ranges for some half-arse cattle outfit in the Texas Panhandle, or up in Wyoming, or along those rolling plains of western Nebraska. Where a man had only to do his work, and had no worries about much of anything. He did not wait around after the last whistle blew. Instead, he pulled on his coat and hat and was out of the office before even Jarvis was ready to call it a day. Dooley resaddled General Grant and put the fine horse into a lively clip as he rode back into Leadville. He had to fight the urge to run and check on Julia. Instead, he returned General Grant to the livery, grabbed a bite to eat at the Chinese eatery, took the side streets and alleys and even the back staircase to his room in the hotel. It didn't help. A man was waiting for him in the darkened hallway. He held a rifle in his hands. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO "Mr. Monahan," the man said, "might I have a moment of your time?" Dooley's right hand had a hard grip on the butt of his revolver, but the Colt remained holstered. He recognized the rifle first, that big Henry .44 that Julia had brought to save Dooley's hide. He also recognized the green satin tie the man in the black broadcloth suit wore. The rifle's barrel pointed at the floor, and the man did not even have his hand in the lever or a finger on the trigger as he lowered the Henry. His left hand, which had been gripping the long rifle, now hung against the black trousers. As he fished the key to his room out of his vest pocket with his left hand, Dooley studied the big segundo for Leadville's vigilance committee. He wasn't about to take his eyes off him, and he backed his way to the door. "The rifle's empty, Mr. Monahan," the vigilance committee member said. It certainly was unloaded when Dooley had shucked it what seemed like a lifetime ago. But that didn't mean the man in the black had not reloaded it. "I mean you no harm," the man said. Dooley had turned the key, now held the doorknob, and he nodded at the man and said, "I'm about to open this door. I have a dog inside. And when he sees that Henry, he's likely to rip your jugular with his fangs. Were I you, mister, I'd put that weapon on the floor and keep your hands spread out far from your body." He did not wait. Dooley jerked the door open and learned how to breathe again when the Henry clattered hard on the hallway and the man's hands went not far from his body but high over his head. * * * "That's your dog?" the man asked. Blue managed to rise off his bed, but he merely stretched and wagged his tail. "Blue's a good dog," Dooley said as he turned up the kerosene lamp on the wall. "And just be glad you weren't holding this . . ." He tossed the rifle he had picked up onto the bed and closed the door behind him. The man managed to choke out a laugh as Dooley gestured at the chair Butch Sweeney had taken earlier in the day. He removed his hat, laying it atop the dresser, and Dooley took off his coat and hat and hung both on the rack in the corner. He kept his gun belt on, but he did motion at the dresser. "I can offer you a drink," Dooley said, and wondered why he had offered a stranger whiskey. "Will you have one?" the man asked, being sociable. Shaking his head, Dooley remembered how much of a dent he and Butch Sweeney had put into that bottle earlier in the day. Gunfights tended to lead to hefty consumption of rye. And, typically, a hefty consumption of rye, or bourbon, or Scotch, or gin, or moonshine, led to gunfights. The man sat down. "Then I shall decline your generous offer." Dooley struck a match on his thumb and lighted two candles and then sat on the corner of the bed, using the pillows as a backrest. Blue jumped up onto the bed and demanded to be petted, but Dooley refused, told the dog to get back to his spot, and Blue obeyed. "Good dog," the man said. In no mood for politeness, Dooley said, "Why do you want to see me?" "The name's Wolfe," the man said. "Adam Wolfe. I own several properties here in Leadville, including the livery on the north side, some lots heading toward the cemetery, and the Silver Palace Saloon." Dooley nodded. For a minute, he thought the man might demand that Dooley, as a wealthy silver baron, pay for all the damages done to his grog shop. Instead, Mr. Adam Wolfe said, "And I'm chief alderman for the vigilance committee." Dooley did not know vigilantes had aldermen. He said nothing and absently began tapping the fingers on his left hand against the stock of the Henry rifle. "I assume that is your rifle, Mr. Monahan," Wolfe said. Dooley stopped tapping. He studied the man gravely. There was a plate on the stock, nickel, maybe silver, with cursive engraving on that stock that spelled out George Miller's name on one line and Skagway, Alaska Territory, on the second line. The man knew damn well this was not Dooley's rifle, so Dooley kept his right hand close to the butt of his Colt. "No," Dooley said. "I never saw it before I took it off one of the men I'd killed in that robbery." To drive the point home, he gripped the Henry with his left hand, dragged it over the blankets, and sat the rifle on his lap. Pretending to read the engraving, he told Alderman Adam Wolfe: "This must be George Miller's gun. The robbers must have broken into their place before they tried to rob the two banks." "Indeed," said Alderman Wolfe. Dooley found an opening, and he took it. "Maybe you ought to return it to that . . . county clerk." "Perhaps you would enjoy those honors," said the alderman. Dooley felt his stomach twist and he ground some enamel off his teeth. "No," he said after getting a solid grip on his composure. "No, that's not the job for me. That's a job for the vigilance committee." "I see." The man nodded at the Henry and held out his hands. After starting to toss the rifle across the room, Dooley stopped himself and worked the lever three times. No rimfire shells were ejected, so the gun indeed wasn't loaded. Only then, after lowering the hammer, did Dooley toss the heavy rifle back at Mr. Wolfe, who caught the heavy weapon and laid it across his lap. "You, sir, are a careful man." Dooley did not reply. Now Adam Wolfe got to the point. "The vigilance committee met a few hours ago with the town council and the mayor." He shifted in his seat, recrossed his legs, and finally leaned forward. "We've decided that something must be done to combat the lawless element in Leadville." "Isn't that your job?" Dooley asked. "After the fact," the man explained. He crossed his legs again. "When we discover undesirables amongst us, we take action." Dooley had seen such results of that action: men hanging from rafters, wagon tongues, tree limbs, or balconies. "But there are no peacekeepers in Leadville. That is something we need to rectify." Dooley felt his stomach twisting and turning, so now he crossed his legs one way, then the other, and wet his lips and said, "You're not thinking about hiring that deputy marshal from Denver, are you?" The man spit into the spittoon. "Hardly. A man who thinks a raging gun battle is a circus charade wouldn't last one night in Leadville." He felt better. Then became squeamish again. "And . . . um . . . George . . . Miller?" Dooley nodded at the Henry. The man blinked. Thought. Blinked again. "Oh, no . . . Miller . . . yes . . ." He saw the name on the plate on the rifle's stock. "He wasn't at the meeting. He's a county clerk. We're talking about the city proper. Leadville, and the mining district to, say, Chalk Creek. What happens outside that jurisdiction is the county's concern or the state of Colorado's. The sheriff in Granite can take care of that . . . for now. We have high hopes that Leadville will, perhaps soon, become the seat for Lake County. But . . ." He frowned and shook his head. "Not without law and order. Having nine outlaws shot down in the streets while trying to rob two banks is not the kind of publicity we need." He made himself smile. "Not that I'm saying it would be better had we let those bandits escape with our silver and currency. But we need to establish the presence of law in our grand city. What we need is not vigilantes stringing the riffraff up in the dead of night. We need a lawman. A marshal. A man who knows how to handle a gun and shows nerve and complete resolve in the direst of circumstances. A legend. A brave marksman." Dooley found himself nodding. To his surprise, he happened to agree with everything Alderman Adam Wolfe was saying. High time somebody said this. When Wolfe stopped, Dooley said, "Buffalo Bill Cody's definitely your man." "Cody?" The alderman looked as if he had been poleaxed. "Yeah." "Well . . ." Wolfe appeared to be considering that, but quickly shook his head. "I supposed Cody would make a marvelous lawman, but he is leaving to join his theatrical troupe in San Francisco tomorrow." "What?" "Yes, he had planned on leaving earlier, but found himself winning at poker. The investment on his grubstake of you allowed him to stay longer than he anticipated. However, he says now that he definitely plans to ride out for Denver tomorrow, take a stagecoach to Cheyenne, where he shall catch the westbound train and return to treading the boards, as they say in the business." Dooley frowned. He would miss that great scout. "He is drinking now in my saloon." "I'll have to pay him a visit, shake his hand, say good-bye." "He would certainly enjoy that." "A great man, Buffalo Bill." "The best." "Yes," Dooley said, "he most certainly is. Well, then maybe Butch Sweeney could pin on that tin star." "Sweeney?" The man shook his head. "You mean the stagecoach driver?" "Absolutely. He killed one of those men this morning when he was about to do me in. I'd say Butch Sweeney is your man." "Then who would drive Butch's stagecoach?" Dooley glanced at the chest of drawers. Maybe he could tolerate another shot of rye. "Mr. Monahan," the alderman said. "The mayor, the city councilmen, and the aldermen on the vigilance committee were in complete and total agreement that you, sir, yes, you, you would be the perfect man to become the first town marshal of Leadville." Dooley went numb. Surely he had misheard. Or maybe Adam Wolfe had gone around the bend, as the saying went. Dooley worked his jaw, his tongue, and his brain, and said, "Me?" "Don't act modest, sir," Wolfe said. "You have a reputation across the frontier territories and states as a man who knows his business." But, Dooley wanted to tell him, my business is cowboying. . . or was . . . till I found all that damned silver. "Your reputation as a bounty hunter has no equal. Confound it, sir, you are the man who rid the West of Jason Baylor and his evil brothers, not to mention Hubert Dobbs, Frank Handley, and Doc Watson. I hear that you single-handedly saved a wagon train from cutthroat Sioux warriors in eastern Wyoming Territory. Aren't you that Dooley Monahan?" He exhaled a long sigh. "But . . . I'm . . . um . . ." "We all saw what you did today. Yes, yes, I know, yes, Buffalo Bill Cody came through with grand heroics, and Butch Sweeney managed to gun down one of those robbers. But you killed the rest of them, didn't you? Except for that one Marshal Price gunned down . . . a man unarmed and likely no threat and, were he not a federal lawman, would likely be getting hemped around midnight by our vigilance committee." Dooley thought sadly about Julia. "You stopped them from bankrupting this town." Dooley had a hard time believing that Leadville, as rich as it was, would ever go broke no matter how many banks would be robbed. "Well . . ." Dooley said. The man rose suddenly. He grabbed his hat and put it on. "Why don't you talk this over with Buffalo Bill Cody? Maybe he can persuade you to come to this town's rescue . . . again. Come with me, sir. The Silver Palace Saloon will buy your drinks." Well, Dooley told himself, I sure could use another drink right about now. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE "I'd bring you with me, Dooley, to San Francisco for our California tour, and wherever the hell else we're bound for this summer. But I got no part for you in the play." Buffalo Bill smiled at Blue, who sat at Dooley's side at the poker table in the corner of the Silver Palace Saloon. "Can your dog act?" "I don't think so." Dooley had to make himself smile. He knew what Buffalo Bill was doing, trying to make Dooley feel better, comfortable, and take his mind off what had happened in Leadville that morning. It wouldn't work, of course, but Dooley was glad to call Cody a friend. Cody splashed amber liquor into Dooley's glass, and his own. There were no cards on the table, and nobody sat there right now except Cody and Dooley. There had been several men there when Dooley, Blue, and Alderman Wolfe entered the place—which did not look hardly like the final scene of a bank robbery that day—but Wolfe had enticed them away from Cody's spotlight for free drinks at the bar. "Well." Cody downed his liquor. "I can't act, either. But it's quite the life. Best hotels. Comfortable beds. Sure beats sleeping on cold, hard ground. Good food. Maître d's putting you in the best seats and seeing that you get the best waiters. Sure beats hardtack and beans or nothing but jerky. Folks who love you and don't want to kill you." "It sounds a lot better than marshaling," Dooley told him. After refilling his shot glass, the great scout leaned across the table. "It's not. It's important to me, Dooley, because I'm a showman at heart. I have great ambition. Great ideas. I hope to make the Western ways something the entire world will know and remember. That's me. Not you. But you could do something almost as important." "What's that?" "I save the West, or the image of the West, for generations, to preserve this for history. You . . ." He held the shot glass toward Dooley, then downed it. "You save actual lives. You save actual towns. You are the hero, not some playactor." "You killed Tall Bull," Dooley reminded him. "You saved actual lives . . . a lot more than I have." Shrugging, Cody pushed back his chair and pulled his hat down. "Maybe. But here's the long and short of things, Dooley. I'm pulling out. Stayed here longer than I intended to in the first place. Leadville's a fine town, Dooley, but I've seen many fine towns. It doesn't hold me like North Platte, Nebraska, or even Denver. Or even New York City or San Francisco or Chicago. What I'm saying, pard, is this. I got nothing for me in Leadville, other than my grubstaking you, which you have paid in full. And our friendship, which shall endure till my dying breath. Nothing to hold me to this burg, though. Nothing that I honestly think is worth saving. It's a good town, and those miners can't play poker worth a dang, so I can make myself a bit of money and move on. But it ain't a town I truly love because there's nothing in it, or no one, that I really love. Don't get me wrong, Dooley. I like you a whole lot. You're one to ride the river with. But you ain't kin. You ain't my children. You ain't my wife. I like you fine. I just don't love you. And I don't love Leadville. Because there's no one here for me." The chair scraped on the floor as Cody stood. He grinned down at Dooley, who drew a deep breath, held it, and let it out before he looked at Cody. "I reckon," Dooley said, "I can't say I love Leadville, either." "It's just a town," Cody said. "Not much to love, except silver and whiskey. But I don't think you can tell me that there ain't nobody in this town that you can just walk away from." Dooley stared. Buffalo Bill did not blink. After a moment, the grin on the scout's face widened, and he stretched out his hand. As they shook, Buffalo Bill Cody said, "Some things are worth fighting for, Dooley. You just got to make sure you're fighting for the right things. And I know for a fact that you are." Dooley watched the tall man walk out of the Silver Palace, shaking hands with miners and vagrants and hurdy-gurdy girls, businessmen and professional gamblers. He was certainly the showman, Dooley realized, but Buffalo Bill was also a scout who lived up to his reputation. He could read the signs. He could read men. The legend of the West disappeared, and Dooley stood staring at the doorway, then through the window at bustling, booming Leadville. Across the street, Adam Wolfe, alderman, saloon owner, vigilante, sat on a cracker barrel talking to banker John Price and smoking cigars. "You want another drink, hon?" Dooley looked up at the barmaid, a tired woman with a painted face and red-rimmed eyes. "No thanks." Dooley tossed her a nickel tip as he stood, adjusted his hat, and walked out the door. The banker and the alderman stopped chatting and kept staring. Dooley waited for a farm wagon and a freight wagon to pass, then he strode across the street, stepped onto the boardwalk, tipped his hat as a lady walked past, and stared at the banker and the vigilante. "When do I start?" Dooley asked. Both men grinned at each other. "Let's go find the mayor and the judge and get you sworn in," Mr. Wolfe said. * * * The contract Dooley signed made him town marshal for six months. He would be paid $200 a month, but Dooley insisted that $170 would be put into a fund to build a schoolhouse and pay for a schoolmistress. "There ain't but ten kids in this town, son," the mayor said, "and eight of 'em is orphans." "Families will come once this town settles down," Dooley said. "I like the idea of a schoolmistress," said one of the councilmen, and the other councilmen sniggered and elbowed one another. Dooley kept telling himself that they were not the reason he was taking this stupid job that likely would get him killed. The judge said that was mighty generous of Dooley, and Dooley said that he made more money from his mine than he knew what to do with anyway. The contract also said that Dooley would collect half of every fine the judge collected. That gave the judge, naturally, reason to make those fines higher, which suited Dooley fine, too, because he knew that, yes, he did make a passel of money from silver, but now that he would not be working at the mine six days a week he would have to hire a manager and an assistant manager, and a fellow never did know when a mine might go bust. His pa had always tried to save a little bit of hard money when he got some, for those dark days when locusts ate all the money crops or droughts or floods left barely enough food for the family. Besides, Dooley figured he might need some money for poker, when he wasn't working, of course. The council would have to figure out a way to get money to build Dooley an office, but banker John Price, who was also on the town council, agreed to let Dooley have the office vacated by attorney Jonah Terrance Cohen in his rented spot upstairs. That was fine enough with Dooley, although he figured the carpenters and painters would be making quite a racket down the hall fixing the gun shop and painting over the blood on the walls and floor for about a week or so. Still, Dooley pointed out, "There's no room in Cohen's office for a jail." But that did not matter because another board member pointed out that there was a big hardwood tree on a vacant lot just two streets over, and most of the men on the council knew of that tree, especially those who served on the vigilance committee, for they had hanged about six or seven no-accounts from those limbs over the past eight or nine months. The blacksmith named Hans Schultz, also a councilman, said he would be willing to donate chains and leg irons to hold the prisoners as they awaited their fines from the judge, John R. Ottinger, to be levied. For small crimes. Bigger ones would require the circuit-riding judge's prudence when he came to town. It would be good for business, and Schultz said he would charge the town only one dollar for every culprit he had to put in leg irons. The secretary and treasurer would get together, the mayor decreed, and order some handcuffs for Dooley from Denver, which, with luck, would arrive on Butch Sweeney's next stagecoach run. Which brought up something Dooley had not considered until the mayor mentioned Butch's stagecoach. "What about deputies?" "The vigilance committee will be at your disposal should you need extra guns," Adam Wolfe said. "Perhaps at the end of the month when the mines pay off their men." "I was thinking about someone maybe part-time permanent," Dooley said, knowing that Butch would be on the stage a lot of the time, though maybe he could hire a jehu. "Do you mean Butch Sweeney?" Wolfe asked. After all, Dooley had suggested that Sweeney become Leadville's marshal. "Then who'd drive the stagecoach to Denver and back?" asked a sleepy-eyed councilman. Dooley opened his mouth to answer, but shut it. How stupid could he be, trying to pin a badge on his young pard Butch Sweeney? Badges made mighty inviting targets for drunks or outlaws packing iron. "No. No, not Butch. Butch Sweeney has a job, and he's good at it. I'm sure Mr. Wolfe is right. I'll just get some of the vigilantes . . ." "Vigilance committee," Mr. Wolfe corrected. Vigilantes had a bad connotation, it appeared. "Vigilance committee," Dooley said. "Whenever the need arises." "Harley Boone would make a good deputy, though," said the blacksmith. Dooley stared at Schultz as though he were dirt. "I don't think so," Dooley said. "I just meant he's a good man with a gun," the blacksmith said. "Too good," banker Price said, and a lot of the other men in the banker's office seemed to agree with the banker's—and Dooley's—assessment. A storeowner laughed and said, "I think, once word reaches Denver and Georgetown and Cheyenne about what Marshal Monahan did this morning, no one will be venturing into Leadville to do ill will." So the meeting was adjourned. Handshakes, cigars, and pats on the back made their rounds, and Dooley left with a silver-plated six-point star pinned onto his shirtfront. The silver came from Leadville's mines, donated by some of the big barons. Mr. Wolfe walked Dooley out of the bank. Summer nights at ten thousand feet still did not feel like summer to Dooley. "Well," the saloonkeeper and alderman said, "would you like to celebrate your new appointment as town marshal with a drink of my private stock at my very own saloon?" Dooley shook his head. "I've got some work to do, but I thank you for your offer." "And I, and everyone in Leadville, thank you for your service, sir. And let me know whenever you need deputies. We are at your disposal. And remember: It's just like our mayor said. You have a free rein to do what needs to be done to keep the peace in Leadville." Which is another reason Dooley had decided to take that job. Wolfe went one way, and Dooley walked the other toward the hotel. He wondered what he had gotten himself into, but he also knew he had made the right decision by not recommending Butch Sweeney for a deputy's job. Not that Butch would have accepted the offer anyway. He had a stagecoach to drive, a business to run, and no matter how old he was, he would always be a kid in Dooley's mind. Which seemed a bit odd, now that Dooley considered that. Butch was a kid. Would always be a kid. But Julia was now a woman. Dooley stopped and stared across the street. The shades to the county clerk's office remained closed, but yellow light from lanterns seeped through the cracks. George Miller, and likely those no-account Telegram scribe and deputy federal peace officer, were inside, burning the midnight oil and probably planning a way to get rid of Leadville's new lawman—permanently. Which is why Dooley decided not to have Butch for a deputy, and why he was so happy the alderman named Wolfe had pretty much dismissed Dooley's original idea to have Butch Sweeney become Leadville's lawman. Deputy marshals could get killed just as quickly as town marshals. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR Dooley spent little time in town on his first day as marshal, but he had warned the mayor and the councilmen and the vigilance committee aldermen that he would certainly need some policemen at least for a day or so as he settled his affairs. That meant spending the first half of the morning with Jarvis at his office at the mine, getting things squared away, but before he set out for the mine on Halfmoon Creek, riding General Grant with Blue tagging along, he stopped in at the shop of Joe McCutcheon, the sign-maker and an alderman on the vigilance committee, and told him what he wanted and when he needed it. Joe McCutcheon was a cigarette-smoking, always-coughing, grizzled old man whose face was harder than sandpaper. He wore a carpenter's apron tied around his waist, a pencil stuck atop an ear, and his fingers were splotched with paints of various colors and hues, and yellow stains from a life of smoking cigarettes. After hacking up half a lung, McCutcheon spit phlegm into an empty tin can and stared at Dooley in disbelief. "Just do it," Dooley said, and dropped a few gold coins by the tin can. "You sure?" "Yep." The sign-maker shrugged. "You get much business?" Dooley asked. "Well," he said, and spit again into the can, "there's a lot of signs needin' replacin' after yesterday's ruckus." "But you can have this done by the end of the day?" The man stared at the coins and nodded. "You're the marshal." Dooley nodded. "And if somebody happens to come in, you'll keep your mouth shut and the signs out of sight." The man plucked a cigarette on the top of his other ear, lighted it with the end of the butt he was finishing smoking, and stuck it in his mouth. He answered, the cigarette bobbing on his lower lip. "Like I said, you're the marshal." So Dooley left McCutcheon to his smoke and paint and signs, grabbed a coffee and a doughnut at the bakery, and rode out of Leadville. He had to hire a new bookkeeper, and left that to Jarvis. He had to hire a manager and an assistant, but he promoted his foreman to the main job, and the foreman-now-manager recommended a good hand at the Empire to become an assistant. Dooley figured that the foreman-now-manager knew about such things and such men a whole lot better than he did, so he gave permission for the hire. They then promoted Good Touch Tim, so called because he never blew up anyone tapping dynamite sticks into the drill holes, to a third assistant, and left the hiring of a new miner to Jarvis. That went pretty good, Dooley figured, and Jarvis said he would make sure that Dooley got his money on time. Which made Dooley wonder when he would have time to sneak back to his mine and dig up all that money he had buried. But, he resigned himself to thinking, it probably wouldn't matter because George Miller would likely figure out a way to get the new marshal of Leadville shot down in a week, if that. When he got back to town, he left his horse and the blue shepherd in the livery and strode over to the hotel where Butch Sweeney was loading passengers and getting ready to ride out of town. Butch smiled and walked up to Dooley, removed his bandanna, and pretended to wipe the dust off Dooley's silver-plated star and give it a good shining. "That's right pretty," Butch said. "Thanks." Dooley was not amused. Dooley glanced inside the coach. "You got a lot of passengers this trip," he said. "That ruckus yesterday made some folks decide to leave town." That made Dooley frown. Maybe Leadville did need a town lawman. Maybe it was time law and order came to Leadville. But why did he have to bring law and order to Leadville? "And," Butch said, "this might be my last run?" Dooley cocked his head. Shrugging, Butch said, "Word is that there's another company forming in Georgetown, and a new outfit has this omnibus that they plan on running from Breckenridge to here. And ol' Jarrod Dickinson is starting one up to make runs to Silver Plume and back." "Town's growing," Dooley said, just to say something as some carpenters worked on replacing doors and windows and patching up bullet holes in the town's many façades. He also saw Joe McCutcheon hanging a freshly painted sign on Front Street. "Yep." Butch shook Dooley's hand, reached up to grab hold of the driver's box, and climbed up the front wheel and into his seat. "Be back in a few days," Butch said, smiled, and reached for his whip. The smile faded and he said, "If you can, it wouldn't hurt to check on . . ." Julia's name went unsaid, and Dooley nodded grimly and looked across the street at the county clerk's office. The shades were open this time, and a figure—undoubtedly George Miller himself—stood staring at Dooley and Butch. "Be careful," Dooley told Butch as he looked back at his young pard. "You be careful," Butch said, and he released the brake and snapped the whip over the lead mule's left ear. He wondered how that kid had learned to handle a whip so well. The kid Dooley remembered from that ranch up in Utah was too green to have even known how to pick up a whip, let alone use one to perfection. The stage rumbled out of Leadville, and Dooley felt like a man alone. Of course, when he sat down at the little café to grab a bite to eat, he was not alone for long. The bell on the door chimed, and four men entered the restaurant that smelled of fried potatoes, burned bacon, and coffee so powerful it could float not just a horseshoe, but an entire horse. This wasn't the normal place those four men would take a late dinner or an early supper. Their wardrobe was fancy, and not Joseph and Lyman G. Bloomingdale fancy, but really, really expensive. Silk top hats; tailor-made Prince Alberts; silk cravats with diamond and silver and gold stickpins; velvet-lined, double-breasted, pearl-button vests; black leather shoes shined to a gleam that reflected the late-afternoon sun and the dim lanterns hanging in this greasy dining hall. One carried an ebony cane with a carved-ivory handle that resembled a lion's head. Another's cane was silver-plated. They did not remove their hats. They did not sit at any of the vacant tables. They walked directly to Dooley. The two cane-toters pulled up the empty chairs and deposited themselves in the rickety seats. The bald one with the monocle disgustingly retrieved a handkerchief from an inside coat pocket and pulled out the other chair. He dropped the piece of white silk on the floor on purpose because, Dooley figured, once his hanky had touched this filth it was no longer fitting for him to keep. The last one waited, turned, and demanded that the nice, skinny waitress fetch him a chair immediately. Dooley wanted to punch that sorry cur in his big, bulbous nose, but the waitress hurriedly obeyed and asked if any of the gents wanted coffee. They turned up their noses and did not answer. Dooley sipped his coffee and picked up a copy of the Leadville Ledger. He did not ask the men what they wanted. They'd get around to telling him, which they did. Quickly. The silver baron with the monocle spoke. "Marshal?" Dooley finished reading a paragraph, although he could not have told anyone what he had just read, folded the newspaper, deliberately took his time laying it on the table, took another sip of coffee and did not grimace, and stared at the one-glass man with that perfectly coiffured gray handlebar mustache and pointed beard. "Yeah?" The one with the ivory lion's–head cane spoke. "What are your plans?" Dooley shrugged. He thought about answering, Trying to stay alive. Instead, he said, "Protecting the citizens of Leadville." The silver-plated cane slammed against the table, and the silver baron with those cold gray eyes and long whiskers down his chin, bellowed, "That is not what we mean!" "Well, pardon me, but you'll have to tell me exactly what you mean, mister." Dooley's eyes made those cold gray ones staring at him widen in surprise. Silver barons weren't that used to having men speak curtly to them. "About your mine, Monahan?" said the last one, the rude one who could drop three-dollar handkerchiefs like Ol' Dude Dvorak used to drop lice back when Dooley was working at that outfit in the Texas Panhandle. That took Dooley by surprise. "What about my mine?" "Well," said the monocle wearer, "certainly a man with a silver mine as profitable as yours cannot lower himself to wear a badge." "Even," added the rude one, "if the badge is silver." "But just plated," said the ivory lion's head dude. "Not solid." "Like Jim's cane," he then added, and snickered while the silver-plated cane slammer's face reddened and he clenched his fists till his knuckles whitened. "Dooley," said the last one, finally, the one with the heavy gold-chained watch and spectacles—not just a monocle—and just a steel gray mustache. He had a pleasant voice, but Dooley figured he wasn't a pleasant man to be in business with, or sit at a table with. "It is not fitting for a man of your wealth to wear a badge." He shook his head. "To be a mere lawman. It does not look right." "Did it look right when Buffalo Bill and I shot down those vermin who were about to take your money out of those banks?" The eyes behind the spectacles blinked. He straightened and looked across the table at the one-glass man, who popped his monocle out and stared at Dooley as if he were the dumbest person at the table, which, Dooley would have conceded, he likely was. The silver-plated cane smasher stopped grimacing and trying to stop his head from exploding and actually laughed. Well, it wasn't quite a laugh, but more like an absurd snigger. The rude one's jaw hung open to draw flies, which were plentiful at this time of day in this type of eatery in Leadville. The best dressed of the finely attired silver barons recovered first. "Marshal," he said with a sly grin, "we certainly don't keep our moneys in Leadville." "Denver," said the silver-plated cane whacker. "Geneva," said the rude one. "New York," said the ivory lion's head. The pleasant-enough one kept his bank a secret. Dooley wondered what these distinguished gentlemen would say if he told them he buried his money out by his mine. "My mistake," Dooley said. "But I bet the miners who risk their lives to make you all that fortune, they're glad their life's savings wasn't taken." Although he knew those dead robbers did not come to rob a bank, at least, not really. That was just a bonus. They had been paid to kill Dooley Monahan. But Dooley did not suspect the silver barons of being a part of that scheme. That was all George Miller. "We'd like to make you an offer for your property," said the pleasant one. And he did. Immediately. Which caused Dooley's mouth to hang open like an idiot and invite the flies. The rude one topped that offer considerably. The one with the ivory lion's head cane tip whispered an insanely higher number. Silver-plated cane smasher cleared his throat, raised his hand, and started to say something, but quickly shut his trap and stared at his fancy cane. Dooley figured that a man who put his money in a Denver bank was out of his league when he was up against barons with banks in Chicago and New York and some unnamed city. The pleasant one grinned, leaned forward, and made another bid. No one topped that one. They waited for Dooley to recover. Which he did. "I'd like to keep my mine," he said, "at least for a little while." The rude one snorted and rose. "You might have only a little while to keep your mine, friend. To keep your mine and your life." CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE That next morning was his first day on the job as Leadville's town marshal. He ate at the hotel's dining room, walked to the livery to fetch Blue, and ambled down the boardwalks to the bank, took the outside staircase, and saw that new sign hanging above the entranceway. TOWM MARSHAL Dooley wondered if Joe McCutcheon misspelled Town on purpose, but it was a rushed job, and, well, he doubted if most people could notice in a town like Leadville. The five-point star would probably let the illiterate know that the local peace officer did business upstairs, even if Dooley's silver-plated badge had six points, instead of five. Besides, that sign wasn't the most important one. The door was already open, and Dooley stepped inside, catching a whiff of fresh paint and all sorts of cleaning soap, sawdust, and the usual smells when folks are in a hurry to clean up after a bloody gun battle. A few carpenters busied themselves as they tried to patch up the gun shop. Dooley greeted them with a wave and a "Good morning," and unlocked the office and let Blue go inside. He sat at the desk that had been lawyer Jonah Terrance Cohen's, and as Blue sniffed every nook and cranny of the office, Dooley got an idea. He jerked open one drawer and sighed. It was empty. He moved to one of the filing cabinets. Those drawers were empty, too. Well, when a man leaves a town, he usually takes his property, Dooley thought, files and letters and all that kind of stuff. Yet, now he stared at the items hanging on the wall, items he had not really paid much attention to until this morning. Now a man leaving for a new opportunity might have no need of a portrait of Abraham Lincoln, or one of George Washington, and since he was leaving Colorado, he probably did not need a map of the state. But wouldn't a lawyer want to take his diploma with him? Dooley looked at the desk and picked up a tintype. The woman staring back at him in the photograph was white haired and wrinkly, with a brooch pinned on a dark dress. Dooley found a bit of resemblance between her and J. T. Cohen. He couldn't prove anything, but it just struck him odd that a man leaving town for a new career in a new town wouldn't take a tintype of his mother, or grandmother, with him. Wouldn't he? He went through another desk drawer, found some coins, trash, stationery, even postage stamps. He started to close that drawer, but stopped. He pushed away the stamps and stationery and stared at the brown stain. Another brown stain had run down from the desktop into the drawer. Dooley touched it. It wasn't sticky. It was dried. And Dooley tried to remember if he had seen such a stain when he had sat on the other side of this desk and talked to the attorney-at-law. Blood, he knew, dried brown. Of course, he couldn't prove that this was blood, and certainly he could not prove that this was a lawyer's blood. He went back to the cabinets and looked through every drawer, closer this time, and then saw Blue sniffing and scratching at the floor underneath the desk . . . where a man's legs would be when he was sitting and doing his lawyering. "Blue," Dooley said impatiently, and grew impatient himself. He slammed the empty cabinet drawer shut and raced to the desk, pulled Blue away, and found himself under the desk. He plucked up some hairs that his dog had clawed away from other brown stains. "Son of a—" He didn't finish his curse because he lifted his head and hit it against the desk. Then he did finish his curse as he backed out of the cavernous hole in the desk, rubbed his head. Remembering all those articles he had read in the Police Gazette and Frank Leslie's Illustrated, Dooley rose, found the chair, and positioned himself at the desk as if he were working, maybe talking to a client. Then someone clubbed him on the head, Dooley imagined, and he planted his face carefully where the biggest brown stain on the desk happened to be. He kicked the chair out from under him and dragged his nose across the brown stain that led to the drawer that held more brown stains. Of course, the drawer would have been shut then, but the blood could have run down as the fiends who had clubbed a harmless lawyer—if any attorneys could be called harmless—as they went through the desk drawers looking for . . . ? "For what?" Dooley asked out loud, and then remembered what he was supposed to be doing. His knees came to the floor, and Dooley laid his hands on the floor, then looking at the stains underneath the desk, put his head down there. He blinked. He came up, carefully this time, and fingered another stain. This one had a hole in it, but the hole had been packed with something. Dooley pulled out his knife and removed the filler. Dried tobacco mostly. Specifically, dried chewing tobacco. Of a low grade, Dooley figured, because he had read many, many articles at line camps from old and sometimes fairly new Police Gazettes. He put the blade deeper into the hole, but felt nothing. After closing the blade, he leaned closer and looked at the hole. He struck a match. He brought the match closer and saw the marks of a blade along the rim and edges of the hole. He put his finger on the hole and remembered that the Police Gazette had explained how a good lawman, a fine detective, could determine the caliber of a bullet by the size of a hole. This one appeared to be from a .44, not a .45, but someone had dug out the bullet from the hole. Dooley sat up, and Blue came over to be petted. It made sense, Dooley thought. It made a lot of sense. He just couldn't prove it. Yet. The banker had said Cohen had given notice, looked happy, and dressed wealthy. So Cohen and Miller had reached an agreement. But . . . Cohen must have gotten greedy. George Miller had come in here. He . . . No . . . No . . . Dooley shook his head. That's not what had happened at all. George Miller and somebody else . . . Harley Boone, most likely, had come in to talk to lawyer J. T. Cohen. One of the miserable swine—it had to be Harley Boone—had come around behind the attorney. The lawyer had taken money from Miller, and planned on leaving town, but likely wanted more money now before turning over Dooley's will. So Boone had laid the barrel or the butt of his revolver on Cohen's head, which had slammed across the desktop. Cohen then kicked the desk out from under him, fell to the floor, tried to stand or rise or maybe crawl away, and then collapsed on the floor, his head and chest underneath the desk. He had rolled over. That made sense. Dooley wasn't the best tracker in the world, but those brown stains seemed to confirm Dooley's suspicions. And Harley Boone or George Miller had asked the lawyer once more to tell them what they wanted to know. When the lawyer had refused, Harley Boone had put a bullet here . . . right through Cohen's chest. At that range, a .44 slug would have gone right through the body, and the killers had dragged Cohen's body out, probably rolled it in a bedroll, and taken him to some obscure burying ground. Then they had taken all of the papers, everything they could carry, out of the drawers, tried to take everything. They had burned the papers—maybe including Dooley's letter and will, or maybe not. It was a strange feeling, Dooley thought. On one hand, he was quite pleased with himself. He was Dooley Monahan, a farm boy from Iowa who had become a thirty-dollar-a-month cowboy, a kid with not much of an education who had grown into a stove-up cowhand with a massive silver mine. And he had solved, sadly, a murder. But he had no way of proving it. The door opened, and Dooley reached for his holstered Colt .45 as he looked above the desk. Cigarette smoke reached him first, then the noise of a hacking cough. Joe McCutcheon, not bothering to take the half-smoked cigarette from his lips, said, "I got them other signs you wanted me to fix up fer you." "Good." Dooley stood up. Blue wagged his tail. Dooley tried to make it obvious that he had good reason for hiding on the floor behind his desk on his first real day as Leadville marshal. "Put them up." McCutcheon reacted. For the first time since Dooley had known the man, he reached up and removed an unfinished cigarette from his lips, and not to light the smoke he had already rolled and tucked up above his ear. "You want me to what?" "Put the signs up," Dooley said. "One at each road entering town. North. South. East. West. And the other right here, dead center of Front Street." "Like hell I will," the old man said defiantly. Dooley fished out some greenbacks. "That'll pay for my coffin," McCutcheon said. A double eagle dropped onto the paper money. The cigarette returned to McCutcheon's lips, and he moved to the desk, scooped up the money, and walked out of the office. Dooley brushed the dust off his trousers, told Blue to stay, and walked out the door into the hallway. He could hear the pleasant chitchat downstairs in the bank, and the carpenters had gone, their work finished. Dooley walked to the gun shop. The door was open. The proprietor was inside, working on the mainspring of an old Colt cap-and-ball pistol. He did not smile when Dooley entered. Of course, the man had good reason. Dooley had practically wiped out his office, which must have cost the merchant a passel of money—at Leadville prices, mind you. Still, Dooley figured he would earn the merchant's trust and maybe not friendship, but a bit of respect. "Howdy," said Dooley. "What do you want?" the man said, putting the .36 caliber Navy and a screwdriver on the counter. Dooley pointed. "That Parker twelve-gauge there, but I want you to saw down the barrel to about here." He motioned with his hands. "Ten boxes of double-ought buckshot. Do you have that many?" The man was beginning to take notice. "I think so," he said. "Ten boxes of .45s for my Colt. Ten boxes of .44-40s for my Winchester. I need another Colt, too, in .45 caliber, even though I never was much for packing two pistols. And I was thinking that maybe a couple more pistols. That double-action there. Ain't that one of those new Colts?" "A Lightning," the merchant said. "Thirty-eight caliber." "Good. Yeah. I'll take that one. But only six boxes of .38s. And that little Sharps derringer. But only two boxes of ammunition." The man suddenly grew suspicious. "I suppose, Marshal," he said, "that I'll be billing the town council for all this." Dooley was already bringing out his wallet. "Not at all, sir. I pay my own way." CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX A crowd had gathered around the sign that had just been put up on Front Street. Two businessmen nodded their heads approvingly, another shook his head and whispered something, a woman holding a basket of eggs said, "It's about time," and a gambler drew his six-shooter, thumbed back the hammer, and drew a bead on the center of the sign. "I'd like to see that star-packer take away my Smith & Wesson, that stupid little son of a—" He didn't finish. Dooley slammed the stock of the double-barrel shotgun against the man's silk hat, and he dropped without completing his curse. The woman gasped, the approvers-of and condemners-of backed away and stared now in silence as Dooley bent down and picked up the unconscious gambler's .44. "When he wakes up," Dooley told the nearest merchant, "tell him he can collect this . . ."—Dooley shoved the long-barreled thumb-busting pistol into his waistband—". . . at my office, after he pays the ten-dollar fine, and just before he leaves town." The duly appointed town marshal walked away, leaving one man sprawled in the dirt and other transients and locals leaving the boardwalks to stare at the gambler but mostly at the sign. NOTICE The Carrying of FIREARMS, Concealed or In View, and the Discharge of ANY WEAPON are PROHIBITED in the City Limits. Below that, in smaller type, read: Subject to FINES OF $10 or higher and as much as 60 DAYS' INCARCERATION chained to our Tree Jail. And in the smallest of type: By Order of Dooley Monahan, Leadville City Marshal. "Ten dollars," Dooley told the gambler, who could not wear his silk hat on account of the thickness of the white bandages wrapped around his skull. Dooley hadn't meant to hit the fellow that hard, but the tinhorn had it coming so Dooley didn't feel bad. "Or sixty days." The gambler grimaced. "Sixty days? Outside? Shackled to a tree? That ain't rightly fair." "Downright cruel and unreasonable," Dooley said, "but it's the law of the land." "How do I . . . you know . . . ?" "Slop bucket." The gambler shook his head, then regretted that move, and fished out his coin purse from the yellow brocade vest. He dropped a ten-dollar coin on Dooley's desk. "Now I get my .44 back," the gambler said. "On your way out of town," Dooley said. The man gestured toward the side street. "My horse and grip are outside. Hell of a town. I'm going to Georgetown where the law's more reasonable and tolerant of men trying to earn an honest living." Dooley rolled his eyes, but jerked open the drawer, grabbed the pearl-handled butt of the revolver, and dropped the heavy Smith & Wesson on the table. The gambler quickly picked it up and thumbed back the hammer, an evil grin stretching across his face as he aimed the giant barrel at Dooley's chest. Calmly, Dooley stood up and dropped six brass cartridges onto the desk. They rolled around, one fell back into the drawer, and the malicious grin faded, the .44 barrel lowered, and the gambler's face went suddenly pale as Dooley drew his . . . loaded . . . pistol. Dooley had a heart, so he didn't coldcock the cardsharper again, but merely took the empty Smith & Wesson from him and marched him to the Jail Tree. He noticed that there was no horse and grip on the side street, and figured that served the gambler right. That sneaky little tinhorn would also have to pay for a hotel room he wouldn't be using for the next two months. Dooley and the judge also decided it would be fitting to up the fine from $10 to $250, Leadville prices and all, and threatening a peace officer was a much more serious charge than carrying a weapon unlawfully. Especially since the judge also got a share of any fines levied and collected. Dooley still owned a silver mine, but he figured he could live off his salary and percentage of fines pretty well, even in Leadville. It took a while for the residents and visitors to grow accustomed to the new firearms law, but Dooley had explained it fairly well to the mayor, the judge, the Committee of Concerned Citizens, the vigilance committee, and an assorted ragtag group of saloon bouncers, visiting gamblers, and one or two gunfighters who might have been wanted outside of Colorado but hadn't committed anything wrong in the city. "Listen," Dooley had said, "I cowboyed a long time. I've been into quite a few cow towns and mining camps, and the thing is this: You can't carry a gun in a town like Tombstone. You can't carry a gun in Dodge City . . . at least not in the town proper. The red-light districts, the no-man's-lands, the Nauchvilles and the Hell's Half Acres, those might be different. But we don't have those in Leadville. The best way to keep the peace is to keep guns where they belong. And that's not strapped to a fellow drinking whiskey or playing poker or blackjack." So a stranger riding into Leadville wouldn't be arrested, slapped with manacles, and chained to that infernal tree just because he rode into town. He could go to the hotel, where the clerk would explain the local ordinance, and the stranger could leave his pistol in the room. He could ride straight to the Silver Palace or any of the other hundreds of watering holes, and check his pistol and/or rifle with the bartender. Most folks in Leadville were honest, and they wouldn't charge a stranger to hold a gun. This was the West, and Westerners were known for their hospitality. They could even carry their guns to Dooley's office, or drop them off at the gun shop next door upstairs and get them cleaned and oiled, have the trigger pulls tightened or loosened, get them resighted, and they'd be all ready and practically just like brand-new when they rode out of town. Everybody seemed happy. Except a few, and those were already chained to the tree with the tinhorn gambler, or they had paid their fines and left Leadville with strict instructions that they were not to return. The roar of gunfire soon faded, and Leadville nights became known for the soothing sound of the rustling of tree limbs in the evening breeze, roulette wheels spinning, dancers doing their kicks, the howling of wolves in the mountains, and the whistles blowing at the various mines. Still, Dooley had to change his ways. He slept late in the morning, because he had to patrol the streets at night. Most of the arrests he made were for drunks, and the majority of those stumbled along peacefully to the Jail Tree, where Dooley often didn't even bother chaining them. He wrote them a ticket, stuffed it in the pocket of their jeans or vest or shirt, and knew they would be good for it. Come their next payday, they would head over to the judge's chambers, a corner table in the Silver Palace Saloon or in the parlor at one of the more respectable brothels in town, and pay the fine. The judge, in turn, would give Dooley his share and the town treasurer the rest. After three weeks, Leadville had lost a lot of its roughness. A theatrical troupe came to the opera house and performed three nights of various Shakespearean plays. A troubadour came and sang some songs. Dooley felt generous and turned loose the first gambler he had coldcocked and arrested, although he did not reduce the gent's fine and he made sure the man paid his hotel bill, and then Dooley mounted General Grant and escorted the sharper out of town to see him off to Georgetown. It was on the first month's anniversary of Dooley's new job, when this fat lady was planning on performing some opera songs at the actual opera house, that Dooley walked into his office on the second floor of the bank, removed his hat, and stared at the person sitting at his desk and petting Blue. "Dooley," Julia said, and Blue barked an excited yelp. Not to greet Dooley, of course, but to plead with Julia to keep scratching his ears. Dooley glanced down the hallway, and shut the door. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. She looked wonderful, a million times better than the frightful girl Dooley remembered after she had just saved his life. That seemed like a billion years ago. She was dressed in a stunning evening gown, and Dooley figured she must have told that cad she was married to that she was bound to the opera house. Dooley figured a man like George Miller had no interest in listening to fat ladies belt out Italian or German songs that made no sense to him. They made no sense to Dooley, either, which is one reason Dooley had not paid for one of those two-dollar tickets. "Jul . . ." Dooley stopped. "Miss . . ." He stopped again. "Missus . . ." "Julia is fine, Dooley." Julia smiled. Dooley's heart melted. "Have you seen Butch?" Julia asked. Shaking his head, Dooley tried to figure out what he should do. Sit down? Stand? Pace? Be still? Ask her if she wanted some coffee? Whiskey? He decided to expand on his head-shaking. "He's on the stage, I imagine. Should be back tomorrow if the roads are all right." "Did you see him before he left?" she asked. Dooley nodded. After changing his mind about Butch's safety, he had given Butch a deputy marshal's badge, told him that the badge would mean he could tote his shotgun or even pack a revolver when in town. It wasn't that Dooley needed a deputy—yet—but he figured it might give Butch a chance. Boone and Miller, not to mention that bribe-taking deputy marshal from Denver, were still around, and likely not taking kindly to the fact that Butch Sweeney was a friend of Dooley's and had saved his life. Besides, Butch's stagecoach line had plenty of competition these days, and Dooley figured the fifty-dollar-a-month deputy marshal's salary would come in handy. The town could afford it. Twenty-two folks were chained to the Jail Tree this very minute. He said, "You look well." That caused her to stop petting and scratching Blue, who did not object, but curled up on his bed and stared at Dooley. His tail wagged a bit, then Blue closed his eyes. Smiling a sad smile, Julia said, "Better . . . I guess . . . than the last time." You damned fool, Dooley thought to himself. There you go up and reminding her of that dreadful, bloody day. "You look well," she told him. An awkward silence filled the room. The regulator clock on Dooley's wall chimed. She rose, found her purse, and wet her lips. "I need to go. I'm meeting some ladies to take in the performance tonight." Dooley nodded. "It should be a good show," he told her. He had no clue, if the fat lady were famous or some charlatan, if she could sing. Hell, he didn't even know if Julia liked opera. She certainly hadn't been one to mention operas during those days in Arizona Territory a few years ago. She held out a gloved hand. Dooley shook it, and then wondered if he was supposed to kiss it. Too late. He could smell Julia's perfume, or soap, or something. "You and Butch need to be careful, Dooley," she whispered as Dooley opened the door for her and checked the hallway to make sure nobody was around. At this time of evening, no one would be around, but he wanted to be safe. Dooley froze, and gave Julia a hard stare. "What's up?" he asked. Stepping into the hallway, she answered. "I don't know. But George is up to something. Watch yourself." She kissed his cheek, which made Dooley wish he had shaved before heading over to do his marshaling this evening. He watched her hurry out the side door and disappear in the darkness as she turned to head down the stairs. She left Dooley standing there, rubbing his cheek where she had kissed him, listening to Blue snore contentedly on his bed on the floor. What, he thought once he had settled behind his desk, would George Miller be planning? The next afternoon, at exactly 2:37 p.m., he found out. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN He had just come back to his office above the bank, after a late dinner in which he had discussed the operations at his mine (actually, he had just agreed with everything the bookkeeper, Jarvis, had said). The butcher across the street had given Dooley some bones to bring to Blue, and that's what Dooley was doing when the first shot rang out. Squatting while teasing Blue with the steak bone, Dooley looked up, letting the shepherd take the bone and run off to the corner to do some serious gnawing. The gunfire was close, and it did not stop with just one shot. He rose to his feet, drew the .45, and spun the cylinder to check the loads. Then he grabbed the shotgun and walked to the door. Blue showed no interest in the gunfire, Dooley's leaving, or the sound of footsteps on the inside and outside staircases. Closing the door behind him, Dooley stood in the hallway. The owner of the gun shop had stepped out of his door and stared wordlessly at Dooley. A grizzled miner whose eyes beamed brightly from John Barleycorn came through the staircase that led outside. A timid teller came up the inside stairs. "There's a feller shootin' up yer sign," the miner said. "It's not just any 'feller,'" the clerk managed to choke out. "It's . . ." A gunshot roared outside. "Hey, Marshal Do-Nothin'!" called a voice that even with the echoes of the pistol's reports and the thickness of the bank building's walls, Dooley recognized. He thumbed back the hammers of the shotgun and walked toward the teller. "Stay here," he told the miner, hearing the door squeak as the old drunk pulled open the door. "All of you." Dooley came down the inside stairs, and all business stopped. That is, if any business was going on since the shooting started outside. A woman in a bonnet clutched the rosary beads hanging from her neck. A merchant wiped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. Other bank employees, and the bank president himself, merely stared in silence as Dooley came to the floor and moved toward the front door. He repeated his order: "Stay here." And thought of a new one: "Stay away from the windows." People began dropping to a crouch. Dooley grabbed the knob with his free hand, opened the door, and stepped onto the boardwalk. The street, which had been crowded just a few minutes earlier when Dooley had returned from his dinner, resembled a ghost town. The shades, naturally, to the county clerk's office were pulled tight. Dooley stepped off the boardwalk and approached the sign he had erected in the center of the street. The man standing in front of the bullet-riddled sign reloaded his pistol. He had made his shots count. By Order of D*ley Mnhn, Leadville City Marshal. Once the last bullet had slipped into the empty chamber, the man holstered his revolver and grinned at Dooley. "I don't like your sign," Harley Boone said. The gunman spread his legs apart, and his smile vanished as his right hand began hovering over the butt of the heavy revolver on his right hip. So it was finally about to happen, Dooley thought, but he kept walking toward the ruined sign and the determined gunfighter. Something wasn't right. Harley Boone kept smiling, unafraid. Dooley stopped forty feet from the killer, and Boone's grin never wavered. Dooley wet his lips. He held a shotgun filled with buckshot that would blow Harley Boone apart. Gunfighters had nerves of steel, sure, but this was ridiculous. Even if Harley could draw his pistol and put a bullet in Dooley's gut, a touch on the triggers, or just one trigger, and Harley Boone's remains would be scattered across Front Street. The saying across the Western frontier went that God did not create all men equal—Colonel Samuel Colt did. But to Dooley's way of thinking, the sawed-off shotgun was the true equalizer, and Dooley had two barrels of Damascus steel trained right on Harley Boone's middle. Dooley had loaded the shotgun himself, with his own shells, and he had just cleaned the double-barrel so he knew it was loaded, and ready to fire. Harley Boone never struck Dooley as the type of guy who wanted to kill himself, and, even if he had, most folks could pick a better way of doing themselves in, and a whole lot less messy, than catching twin barrels of double-ought buckshot at forty feet. "You're under arrest, Harley," Dooley said, amazed that his voice didn't choke on fear. "For destruction of city property." That stupid little grin flattened. Boone shook his head. His eyes narrowed. His fingers above the holstered piece twitched. "I don't think so." A door squeaked open behind him. The drunk miner, Dooley figured, stepping out to watch the show. Dooley wouldn't be surprised if George Miller had raised the shades to watch this one. Still, Dooley couldn't figure out what Harley Boone was trying to prove. Then he saw it. A man stepped out behind the alley down the street, bringing a rifle's stock to his shoulder. Dooley had no chance of gunning that man down. He was too far out of range for the shotgun. Dooley started to swing the barrel in that direction anyway. The barrels went back to Boone. And Dooley dropped to a knee. Keeping the shotgun in his right hand, he reached across his body with his left and tried to jerk the .45 from the holster. That was ridiculous, too, because while he might be able to hit a man—if incredibly lucky—at that distance, Dooley knew he'd likely just hit dirt or mud or his own foot shooting with his left hand. He had the Colt out, started to thumb back the trigger, watched Harley Boone dive behind the sign. Bringing the pistol up, Dooley stopped. Something else caught his eye. A man on the roof of the store across from the bank. That man had a rifle, too. He fell backward, just as he noticed something peculiar about the first man he had spotted, the one down the street with the rifle. The rifle was swinging up, not at Dooley, and not at the man on the roof. That man seemed surprised, too, because his head jerked at the sight of the guy with the rifle, stepping onto the boardwalk. Then he swung the barrel down toward Dooley, just as Dooley touched one trigger on the shotgun. The explosion roared, leaving Dooley's ears ringing and his eyes burning with smoke. The kick of the gun also hurt. Despite the noise, Dooley heard the rifle down the street speak, and a man screamed behind Dooley. Dooley came up, picking up the shotgun he had dropped from the savage kick—most men, he had learned, did not shoot shotguns charged with buckshot with one hand for a very good reason. It was happening practically too fast for Dooley's mind to register, but it seemed to go like this. The man on the roof screamed, dropping his Winchester that fell through the new awning on the store to Dooley's right. He grabbed his face, staggered back against the chimney, then stepped forward and toppled over the façade—there was that wonderful word again—falling heels over head and making a bigger hole in the awning and slamming atop the Winchester he had just dropped. All this while, the man who had fired the rifle was running down the boardwalk, working the lever, stopping and firing again. The man, Dooley suddenly realized, was Butch Sweeney. The man Butch was shooting at was standing on the landing on the staircase that led from the outside of the bank to the second story where Dooley had his office, where Blue was likely still gnawing on the bone, and where the owner of the gun shop and the grizzled miner were likely still standing in the hallway, trying to summon up enough nerve to step outside. No. No, that wasn't right. Because the man on the landing was slamming against the door, closing it shut, blood spurting from his dingy shirt. He was dropping a revolver and trying to pull another pistol from his waistband in his back. But more blood erupted from his sternum, and he groaned and stepped forward, and then—just like the fellow Dooley had shot off the roof of the store—he cascaded over the railing and crashed hard and ugly on the ground. Dooley got a good look at the man's bearded face. He realized that it was the very same fellow who had come up the stairs to tell Dooley a man was shooting holes in this sign that proclaimed the carrying of firearms was illegal within the city limits of Leadville. Butch kept running, levering the Winchester, and shooting down the street. Dooley started to turn, and shoot, too, but thought better of it. Because he saw the barrel of Harley Boone's revolver poke around the sign he had shot up. Dooley grabbed the shotgun and touched the second trigger. The buckshot blew out the are PROHIBITED and the top of City below that. The revolver barrel disappeared, and Dooley saw Harley Boone falling onto the street. Another bullet zipped past Dooley's ear, and he jumped to the ground. He left the empty shotgun in the dirt, but brought the Colt .45 to his right hand. Butch was taking care of the men behind Dooley, leaving Harley Boone for Dooley himself. Boone came up, found his revolver, and swung it to Dooley. The smile was gone, replaced by a mask of hatred, and grim determination. The .45 kicked in Dooley's hand. The shot tore off the black hat still somehow seated atop Boone's head. That caused Boone to flinch and his bullet just punched another hole in the sign, but this time the lead struck no letters, just ruined more of the painter's job. Boone dropped to the ground, rolled over, and Dooley squeezed the trigger again. A bullet from behind him tore through his vest. That one caused Dooley to drop into the dirt, but he kept his Colt in front of him, thumbed back the hammer, and sent another round that tore a small ditch in the ground where Harley Boone had been just a moment before. Dooley saw Boone's boots as the gunman sprinted across the street. The .45 swung to his right, lifted, then stopped. "Dooley!" Butch Sweeney yelled. Dooley had to let Harley go. Hooves thundered behind him, so Dooley rolled onto his back. Two riders, bandannas pulled up over their faces, spurred a couple of paint horses down the street. Both had put reins into their mouths. One held a Henry rifle, the other a self-cocking revolver. Dooley tried to remember how many rounds he had fired in his Colt. A bullet spit up dirt right between his legs. Dooley shot the man out of the saddle. Butch worked his Winchester and sent a slug that caught the man in his face. Somehow, he just leaned back in the saddle, his boots still in the stirrups, and his arms flapping against the saddlebags as the horse carried his lifeless body down the street toward Leadville's other bank. Two more men came running down the streets, working their rifles. The firing of guns reminded Dooley of Gettysburg. At least, the stories a bunch of old veterans, those who had worn the blue and those who had fought in the Confederacy, had told Dooley over the years. Dooley went back onto the ground, rolled underneath the sign, and sprinted toward Butch, who had taken cover behind a water trough. He felt one slug clip his hair above his collar, and another sliced off the front of his hat brim. How the shot had managed to do that—clean as if a pair of scissors had done the job—Dooley could never figure out. For that matter, he couldn't figure out how he had managed to dive behind the water trough alive. A bullet sent water splashing up and back into the trough. Dooley had just enough time to catch his breath. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT And reload his Colt. Sweating, Dooley used the ejector rod to push out the hot, smoking brass casings. Beside him, Butch Sweeney kept fishing cartridges out of his pants pockets and feeding those into the Winchester. Dooley thumbed in the last fresh shell, snapped the loading gate shut, and eared back the hammer on the Colt just as Butch worked the lever and pushed a live round into the carbine's chamber. "Four men down the street," Butch said softly. "Plus that hard-rock in the store." Dooley was staring at the front door Harley Boone had kicked open. People streamed out of the store as if it were ablaze and ran down the boardwalk toward Leadville's other bank, hands over their heads, screaming out in petrified voices: "Don't shoot." "We're unarmed." "Lord have mercy!" "For God's sake, don't gun us down!" The last to leave was the owner, who glared at Dooley as he went the other way, turned the corner, and hurried down the street between the store and the bank, and the dead body near the stairs that led to Dooley's office. "You reckon Boone's still in that store?" Butch asked. Dooley shrugged. Then out of Dooley's view, but near the rear of the store, a shotgun roared. A voice followed: "That'll teach you to shoot up my sign, you illiterate, art-hatin' rogue!" Dooley didn't recognize the voice, but he knew who had fired that shotgun. Joe McCutcheon, that old sign-painter. But that was all McCutcheon planned on participating in this gunfight. A moment later, a corner of the store's new plate glass window smashed, a pistol roared, smoke and flame belched, and a bullet slammed in the hitching rain by the water trough, sending a few splinters into the air. "Yeah," Dooley said. "He's still there." "Where's the damned vigilantes when you need 'em?" Butch said. That caused Dooley to turn to look at his young friend. "How in hell did you wind up in this fracas?" he asked. Butch shrugged. He pressed his back against the trough and pulled up his legs, trying to make as small a target as possible. As far as Dooley could tell, they were all right for now. The four men down the street didn't have a clear shot. Nor did Harley Boone from inside the general store. At length, Butch sighed. "She come up to me this morning," he said. Immediately, Dooley knew who she was. Julia Cooperman, married to that conniving, cheating, miserable cur George Miller. "Said she overheard George and Boone plotting something. She didn't know what. Just asked me if I could get the vigilantes." "Did you?" Butch grinned without any humor. "Didn't try. For all I knew, the vigilantes want you dead, too. Stage isn't due to pull out till tomorrow, so I figured I had all morning to kill." He laughed. "Kill. Didn't mean it that way." "I know." Butch let out an even heavier sigh. "You should've kept your nose clean, Butch," Dooley said. "Stayed out of this. It wasn't your fight." "You give me that deputy's badge. And if I'd stayed out of this," Butch said, "you'd be lying dead on this street." Another bullet punched a hole into the water trough. That shot came from down the street, and water began gurgling and pouring out the hole. Dooley also let out a mirthless chuckle. "There's still a pretty good chance I will be." "Will be what?" Dooley shook his head and moved to the side of the trough. "Lying dead," he explained, "on this street." Butch laughed. "Yeah. With company." Dooley saw a man in a big brown hat running down the street, crouched, carrying something that Dooley couldn't quite place. Dooley rolled out, away from the trough, aimed, and let the Colt roar four times. Then he was rolling back behind the cover of the trough as bullets dug up holes where he had been just moments before. Those shots came from overhead. Butch Sweeney recognized that, and he pushed himself away from the trough, found the man atop a hotel, and the Winchester roared. The man turned sideways, slinging the rifle across the roof, and then Butch shot him again, and he crumpled over, fell to his knees, then across the roof, his legs out of view, his torso hanging down from the façade, arms dangling. The man Dooley had shot at dived behind a cracker barrel. Dooley chanced a shot at him, knew he couldn't hit him, but thought maybe it would make that fellow think long and hard before he tried to get around. Another man fired, and his slug tore off Butch's hat. Dooley came up, trying to find the gunman, but Butch, unfazed by the rifle shot, found the killer first, and put him down with a bullet plumb center. Both Dooley and Butch braced themselves against the water trough as bullets riddled the heavy wood. Shots came from the gent behind the cracker barrel, Harley Boone inside the general store, and the last man with the Winchester down the street. More water gurgled. Butch and Dooley caught their breath. "How did you learn to shoot like that?" Dooley asked as both men began reloading their weapons. "You taught me," Butch answered. "Liar," Dooley said. Butch cocked the rifle. He swallowed what little he could and wiped his brow, then brushed away his sweaty bangs. His hat lay crown down on the boardwalk, ruined by a bullet. "Well," Butch said after a bit, "I just keep telling myself that this ain't no different than shooting wolves." "Yeah." Dooley wondered if that could work for him. He bit his bottom lip, pulled back the hammer. "Only the ranches—meaning the good ones—they pay bounties for a wolf hide." "Might be some bounties on these wolves," Butch said. Dooley fought down the bile and shook his head. "Trust me, Butch. You don't want to go down that path. Bounty hunting ain't no life." "No offense." Dooley made himself smile. "None taken, pard." "Do you know where the last one with the rifle is?" Butch asked. "Ironically," Dooley told him, "he's in the doorway to the county clerk's office." "County clerk?" "Yep." Butch worked the lever again. "Wouldn't it be poetic if the county clerk caught an errant bullet?" Dooley did not answer. "Miller's probably givin' that two-bit gunman instructions." He was mistaken. Because the instructions suddenly belted out from Harley Boone inside the store. "Travis!" Boone yelled. "Get up and get 'em. Tom and me'll cover ya!" Bullets roared. A splinter nicked Dooley's cheek. Dooley tried to rise up, chance a shot, or just catch a glimpse at whatever Harley Boone and the two hired killers named Travis and Tom had planned, but the gunfire was withering. Boone must have taken time to load all the Winchester, Henry, and Spencer rifles for sale in that store. Butch made an attempt to stand, too, but a bullet grazed the upper part of his right arm. He groaned and fell, but he had seen enough. "Dooley!" He pointed. "Guy behind the cracker barrel . . . He's got . . . dynamite!" Ignoring the bleeding arm, Butch grabbed the Winchester. Dooley rose, fired a shot that shattered more of the store's plate glass window, and he saw the man, Travis, running from the corner of the bank toward Dooley, Butch, and the shot-all-to-pieces trough. He didn't know why he did it. Didn't think about it. Didn't even consider any other options. He just ran. In the open. Straight at the man carrying what appeared to be four sticks of dynamite in his right hand, the fuse hissing and humming and showering sparks that left black spots on Travis's pink shirt. Dooley shot again at the store, and fired toward the county clerk's office. The man named Travis had just reached the shot-all-to-pieces sign. His mouth dropped open. He forgot about the dynamite he was carrying in his right hand and reached for his belted six-shooter with his left. Dooley shot him in the chest. The dynamite dropped and he fell against the sign, the shards of wood ripping the back of his shirt as he landed with a thud on his hindquarters and rolled heavily onto his side. A bullet from the store window burned the back of Dooley's neck. A slug from the man with the rifle in the doorway to George Miller's office grazed his left hand. Dooley dived, breaking his fall with his arms, rolled to his side, and sent another shot at the gunman down the street. He came up, and cut loose at Harley Boone, shattering more glass. Leaving the pistol in the dirt, he extended himself toward the dynamite, the fuse's sparks drawing closer and closer to those deadly sticks. The man with the rifle stepped out and drew a bead on Dooley. That's when Butch Sweeney came up and let his Winchester roar. Two bullets caught the man in the side, and the rifle pitched from his side, as he staggered a few paces and dropped into a heap in the center of the street. Butch had turned now, bracing the Winchester's stock against his hip and firing, levering, firing, levering, firing. He appeared to be yelling something, some primordial scream, that Dooley could not hear. The plate glass shattered like diamonds, and Dooley had come to his knees. He picked up the dynamite. He stood. He ran. And Dooley's mouth had opened, and somewhere deep inside him, he answered or echoed or imitated Butch Sweeney's rage-filled scream. He kept running, the dynamite in his hand, the burning fuse sounding louder and louder and louder. He could see Harley Boone standing up now. His face whitening. His mouth open but no words coming out. The gunman recovered and brought up his revolver. Dooley saw the hammer fall, but no smoke, no flame exploded from the barrel. Dooley kept running. The fuse kept burning. Inside the store, Harley Boone dropped the empty revolver. He reached for a rifle nearby, but must have remembered that he had shot that gun dry just moments ago. All noise stopped. Dooley no longer screamed. Butch no longer screamed. His Winchester no longer fired, for it was empty, too. Even the burning fuse no longer reached Dooley's ears. Harley Boone turned to run, but tripped over something, stumbling to his knees. He tried to stand, but must have become frozen by fear. He looked through the ruined window of the general store. He stared in horror. At last Dooley's sense of hearing returned. From behind him, he heard Butch yelling at him. The words took an eternity to register. "Dooley! Throw that damned bomb!" Dooley did, just as he tripped over the shotgun he had dropped earlier in this gunfight from hell. He saw the smoking package, could make out each individual spark from the fuse, could even see the threads from the torn, ragged bandanna that had been used to tie the sticks together. He could see the frozen face of Harley Boone. The bomb sailed in slow motion, in perfect flight, at a perfect angle, through the hole in the front of the general store that once had been a new plate glass window. Dooley heard Harley Boone's scream. Then he heard the blast, as heat and chunks of wood and parts of ax handles, and brass, and nails, and burning bolts of cotton rained all around him. And, most likely, parts of Harley Boone, too. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE Leadville's fire department volunteers, turned out, proved to be a lot more reliable than the town's vigilance committee. Oh, the store was a total loss, but fires in towns like Leadville had been known to completely wipe out towns like Leadville. The bucket brigade and that fine, handsome fire engine arrived on the scene almost before Dooley had been helped to his feet by Butch Sweeney, who beat the smoldering clothes each wore and then watched the firemen in action before regaining their faculties and joining in to help combat the conflagration. Hoses and handheld buckets splashed the sides of the neighboring buildings, including the bank across the street. Miners off work came with axes and shovels, and chopped at the burning structure or shoveled dirt into the inferno. The neighboring building was lost, too, and the next two down the block were damaged, but the mayor, town council, and Dooley himself all bought the firefighters and the miners and the other volunteers whiskey and beer at the Silver Palace Saloon that night. It took three baths for Dooley to get all the soot and gunpowder off him. The next morning, however, Dooley found himself standing before the mayor, the vigilantes, and the town council. George Miller was there, too. So were the deputy U.S. marshal from Denver, Richard Blue, and the Denver Telegram lying little inkslinger, Paul Pinkerton. "'Murders on the Streets of Leadville,'" Paul Pinkerton said. "That's what my headline will say in tomorrow's Telegram." "It wasn't murder," Dooley said. "Why wasn't this man"—George Miller angrily pointed a finger at Butch Sweeney—"arrested for violating the town ordinance against carrying weapons in the city limits?" "Butch?" Dooley shook his head. "He's my deputy." Now, he was so thankful he had given Butch that deputy's badge—but warned him not to go around wearing it or showing it to most people—and had let the town council know he had hired Butch, at fifty bucks a month, which the council had reduced to twenty. The cheapskates. "Since when?" Miller demanded. "Mr. Sweeney," the mayor said, "has been drawing a salary since late spring, I believe." "Which is a waste of our taxpaying citizens' money," Miller said. "Especially when we have a deputy federal lawman residing here for the time being." Here, Miller waved his arm at the impressively dressed Richard Blue, who bowed and gave the gentlemen a slight smile. Which vanished when Mr. Adam Wolfe, chief alderman for the vigilance committee, said: "I didn't see Marshal Blue or you, sir, Mr. Miller, combating those brigands who launched an assault on our great city yesterday." It took a while for Miller to recover, but he did. "I didn't see you, Wolfe, out there in the thick of battle, either." "I, sir, was out of town at that time. And if you remember, Miller . . ."—he had dropped the Mr., which made Dooley think that maybe he had a friend in this room—". . . we hired Marshal Monahan so we would have little need of vigilantes anymore." "If Leadville is to become respectable," the mayor began, but Miller cut him off. "I am not certain that yesterday's bloodshed and destruction was an assault on our great city." He mocked Wolfe's description of the gunfight. "I think it was an assault on Dooley Monahan." Dooley started to say something like: It certainly felt that way to me, too, or maybe an indictment of the county clerk: Which you likely organized, you low-down cur. But he figured neither statement, no matter how true, would help his cause. "Mr. Miller," the mayor said, "Marshal Monahan and Deputy Sweeney deserve more than we can ever repay them. We do not know why those miscreants raided our fair city in another Northfield or St. Albans type of raid—the second such assault on this town—but they stopped the carnage." "They," Miller interrupted. "Or let me just single out our town marshal, blew up a thriving business—completely destroyed the mercantile—left many other businesses in dire straits. Witnesses—as Mr. Pinkerton will be reporting in the Telegram—say they saw our great defender of Leadville hurl a horrible bomb of dynamite sticks into the once-thriving mercantile." "Which," Wolfe said, "witnesses said a cold-blooded killer had lighted and was intent on doing ill will." "If our marshal had any shred of human decency, he would have thrown himself down on that bomb. Sacrificed himself for the good of mankind, for the survival of Leadville, and not blown a great business—and a loyal citizen of our town—to smithereens." "Are you calling Harley Boone a loyal citizen?" one of the councilmen bellowed. Miller started to defend another gunman, but Dooley could tell by the expressions on the faces of everyone in the room—except Miller, the Telegram liar, and the bribe-taking federal lawmen—that he would find no defenders of the cutthroat Boone in this room. "We have lost our best mercantile," Miller pointed out. To which the mayor rose from his desk, walked to the window, and tapped against a pane. "Have you not noticed the tent being erected? Men worked all yesterday and through the night carrying off the ruined timbers, shoveling out the ashes, hauling the ruined merchandise to the dump. Now a tent is going up and a new building—made of brick, by thunder—will be erected soon. Our great mercantile will be stronger, better, and more profitable!" "At what expense to . . . ?" Dooley stopped him. "No expense," he said. "Except to me." Miller looked as if he had taken a blow from a poleax to his noggin. He gripped the back of his chair for support. The mayor explained: "Marshal Monahan is paying to rebuild that great business, and restock the merchandise. We are certainly lucky to have as our marshal a man with charity in his heart. If only our other silver barons had such decency." Miller still looked stunned, but the lying little scribe from Denver found another attack. "So your marshal admits his guilt." He grinned as if he had unearthed fodder for ten more articles of lies to be printed in the Telegram. "Why else would Marshal Monahan spend his own riches? Or have you negotiated a deal where the mercantile won't charge you a penny for all you buy there?" "I rarely even doing my shopping there," Dooley said. "It just seemed like the right thing to do." "Right?" the journalist scoffed. "I have more money than I could spend in a lifetime," Dooley said. "Well, if you're that generous, why don't you build a church? A school? An orphanage?" "Maybe I will." Mr. Pinkerton sat down. The councilmen applauded Dooley's generosity. But George Miller had recovered, as Dooley knew would happen, and found another way to attack Leadville's marshal. "You fail to see the point," Miller said. "You don't understand how the hiring of this man"—he pointed the finger Dooley really wanted to snap off—under Dooley's nose—". . . how this man will lead to the utter destruction of Leadville, Colorado. For I—and I don't think I am alone in this belief—know that if Dooley Monahan remains our marshal, Leadville will see more violence, more destruction, and possibly—nay, I shall say with all certainty—its horrible demise as a town worth living in." He had the floor. He had the councilmen's attention. "We have seen several gangs of vermin attack Leadville, but do not believe they rode into our great city to rob a bank—or even two banks. They didn't ride here to destroy a mercantile, to blow it to smithereens. They came here for one reason." Again, he stuck his finger in Dooley's face. "This is the reason. This is why our city is doomed. As long as Dooley Monahan wears a star and owns a mine and lives in Leadville. "You hired him as a lawman, but he is no man of justice. He is an infamous bounty hunter. He kills for his own profit. He shoots men down for he feels as though he is prosecutor, jury, judge, and executioner. He answers to no one. He is as cold-blooded as the victims he brings in, strapped over a saddle, the bodies still dripping blood—and from grievous, mortal wounds likely to be found in their backs." Dooley fantasized about drawing his Colt and putting a .45 slug through George Miller's brisket. He had actually ridden with this horse's arse? He had actually maybe even thought of George Miller as a friend, or at least, as an honest acquaintance? He had somehow bollixed everything up so that a sweet kid like Julia Cooperman could have married this cad? But he did not pull the revolver from his holster. He just stood there and let George Miller, the liar, have his say. "We need law and order in Leadville, my good friends, my fellow citizens." Mr. Pinkerton was busily writing all this down in his notepad, his pencil scratching furiously, even though he would likely rearrange George Miller's words into something even more inflammatory for the Denver populace—and even beyond Denver and Colorado. The Telegram was just a paper in a far-off Western state, but the editors had access to the telegraph, and eastern and California papers had a tendency to reprint many articles from the Denver Telegram. So did, Dooley had heard, papers in England. "But when you hire as your head peace officer a man with Dooley Monahan's nefarious reputation, you bring in gunmen. Killers. The worst renegades in the West. That's why, I believe in all my heart, that we have seen murderous rogues ravaging our streets, dynamiting legitimate businesses, ruining every business in town except those of undertakers, coffin-makers, and gravediggers. If we keep Dooley Monahan as marshal, our streets will continue to run red, until our streets are flooded with blood, and we know what happens when rivers flood in these Rocky Mountains. "Foundations," George Miller continued, and if he had not prepared this one, he was sure a smart thinker and fast talker on his feet, Dooley realized, "are unearthed, washed away with walls and merchandise and floors and ceilings. Buildings collapse. Lives collapse. Nothing will be left of Leadville except the graveyard in Evergreen Cemetery. The graves, I must remind you, filled with men who have been shot full of holes by your gallant, your notorious, your cold-blooded fiend of a town marshal." He found his hat, said, "Good day, gentlemen, and thank you for your time. I hope what I have said, what I have warned, will sink in." He jerked open the door. "Before things are too late. For you. For Leadville." Leaving the door open, he thundered down the hallway toward the stairs. Marshal Blue rose, nodded, and followed. Pinkerton, the lying snob of a reporter, scribbled over two or three more pages in his notepad before he stuck his pencil over his ear, closed his notes, shot out of his chair, and hurried out the door. The editor of the Leadville Ledger switched the legs he had crossed and closed his notepad, too, but he had not written as much as Mr. Pinkerton. "The Denver Telegram will print all that," the editor said, "and it won't be good for us." Dooley waited for the mayor and even Mr. Wolfe to suggest that he, Dooley Monahan, tender his resignation and light out of town in a hurry. But the mayor said, "I stand behind Dooley Monahan." Mr. Wolfe, leader of the vigilantes, nodded his agreement. "As do I," he said. Dooley didn't exactly feel relieved, or vindicated. They said they would stand behind Dooley. Which to Dooley's way of thinking meant: So that I'll catch the first bullet. CHAPTER FORTY Dooley didn't know if Paul Pinkerton actually got his pack of lies published in the Denver Telegram. Nobody in town mentioned it, and things sort of became close to normal in Leadville over the next few weeks. At least, no gangs of ruffians charged down Front Street trying to shoot Dooley dead or blow him to bits with dynamite. The new mercantile slowly began to take shape as masons began doing their magic with bricks and mortar. Stagecoaches made their runs. Mine whistles blew. Dooley spent most of his nights merely guiding drunks to the Jail Tree and shackling them to a limb for the night, or just letting them bed down and sleep it off. Jarvis brought him some papers to sign, and every now and then he would pass Julia Cooperman on the street. She would smile, he would smile, and they would both keep walking. That proved to be the hardest part of those weeks. Until August rolled around, and the first stagecoach braked to a hard stop outside the bank and Dooley's marshal's office. Jarrod Dickinson was driving the stage, one of the new ones that had started up, making triweekly runs to Silver Plume and back. He was climbing off the old Concord, cussing up a storm, when Dooley came out onto the second-story landing. "Marshal!" Dooley saw the blood leaking from Dickinson's scalp just below his battered gray slouch hat. "Some sons-a-curs held up my stage." A plump, middle-aged woman bolted out of the Concord's door, her eyes red from crying, and holding a handkerchief drenched in tears. "The swine stole my brooch, the one my dearly departed husband gave me on our tenth anniversary." Dooley started coming down the stairs. A gambler stepped out of the open stage and closed the door. He reached inside his pants pockets and pulled them inside out. "And all my winnings, as well." Then everyone started talking at once, and Dooley raised his hands and started asking them to be quiet, to speak one at a time, that he needed a few questions answered. No one listened. Dooley saw Paul Pinkerton, that miserable scribe for the Denver Telegram, standing on the corner in front of the general store that was being built—at Dooley's expense and at Leadville prices—and frowned. The reporter was scribbling into his notepad again. "Shut up!" Dooley snapped, and the citizens obeyed. Quickly Dooley apologized to the widow who had lost her brooch but explained that he needed some information and needed it in a hurry. He looked at Dickinson. "Where did it happen?" Dooley asked. "Right at Chalk Creek." The old jehu took off his hat and allowed a prostitute—up early, Dooley thought—dab his head wound with a handkerchief that was not wet with tears. Chalk Creek. That was the boundary of Dooley's jurisdiction, according to the papers he had signed and what the city council members had told him. "Which side?" "The fer side," Dickinson answered. "Which way did they go after they held you up?" "Away from here." "On the road, though?" "Yeah." He pointed to his shoulder and told the prostitute, "I fell on my shoulder, honey. It hurts here, too." "Toward Silver Plume?" The prostitute stuffed the blood-specked piece of cotton into her bosom and began massaging Dickinson's shoulders, the one that hurt, and the one that didn't. "Yeah." Dooley guessed that the jehu was answering his question, but he might have been reacting to the woman's touch. "How many of them?" "Five," answered the gambler. Dooley turned to him. "Did you get a good look at them?" The man twisted his mustache and shook his head. "They wore flour sacks over their heads." "Horses?" The gambler shrugged. "No brands I could make out. Bays. Browns. Blacks. But I did not notice if they were geldings, stallions, or mares." "Clothing?" "Dusters. Spurs. Nothing that stood out." "What are you gonna do, Marshal?" Dickinson asked. The prostitute had stopped rubbing his shoulders, and moved on toward one of the houses as more and more respectable men and women gathered on the street corner. "How much money did they get?" Dooley asked. "Five hundred or so from me," the gambler answered, "and a nickel-plated pocketknife, my Remington over-and-under derringer, and a fine hunter's watch of solid gold that once belonged to a young miner's grandpappy before he bet on his two pair against my three fours four nights back. A Seth Thomas," the man said, meaning the watchmaker and not the unlucky miner. "The brooch, ma'am?" Dooley had turned to the woman who had stopped bawling. "Could you describe it?" She did, in detail, peppered with memories of her dearly departed husband and why she had found herself in a lawless town like Leadville. Dooley saw the pencil Paul Pinkerton held move faster. "They also," the woman said, "took my purse, which contained fifty-four dollars and thirteen cents and a carte de visite of my poor, poor Seth." Meaning, Dooley guessed, her dearly departed husband and not another pocket watch. "Jarrod?" The stagecoach driver shook his head, grimaced, and gently touched the knot on his head that no longer bled. "Nothin' from me. I had just crossed and one of them rascals fired from the woods. Grazed my noggin. I managed to keep my mules from running off. Then they was all around us." "What do you plan on doing about this heinous crime?" Paul Pinkerton, the low-down dog, had stopped writing in his notebook and had crossed the street. "Why aren't you forming a posse?" Dooley sighed. "I'm going to ride out to the site of the holdup and see what I can find," he said. "After I send a telegraph to the marshal and county sheriff in Silver Plume. But I can't go chasing bandits after they cross Chalk Creek. That's out of my jurisdiction." "Well, don't that beat all!" Paul Pinkerton had someone else to back his play, Dooley realized, and he turned to see the bribe-taking federal deputy, Richard Blue, leaning against a column in front of the bank. "A lawman with sand, I see. Sending a telegraph instead of a posse." "I don't see you volunteering to lead a posse," Dooley fired back. The man seemed unfazed. "I'm a federal lawman. I lack authority in this matter." "I lack authority once they cross Chalk Creek," Dooley said. "In fact, going out there to look for sign is outside my jurisdiction, too." "How convenient." The marshal turned on his heel and walked back down the boardwalk. Looking around, Dooley found Adam Wolfe in the crowd. "Mr. Wolfe," he said, "could you do me a favor? Butch Sweeney, as you know, is on the stage coming in from Denver." He stopped, thinking, wondering, worrying if those owlhoots might try to hold up the Denver-Leadville stage, too. Yet there was nothing Dooley could do about that now. "If you could take down statements of these witnesses, I'll saddle up General Grant and ride out to see what I can find, after I send a telegraph to Silver Plume, Georgetown, Idaho Springs." Would they go west? Perhaps, Dooley thought. "And Glenwood Springs." "Sure," the vigilante said. "What do you expect to find at the scene of the crime, sir?" Pinkerton was on his soapbox again. "Other than a cold trail?" Dooley wanted to punch that horse's hiney in his mouth, but he refrained. "They nicked Jarrod with a rifle. I might find the shell casing, see what they were firing." The reporter snickered. "A spent brass casing is sure to send those culprits to the prison at Cañon City." "Maybe it's a rare rifle," Dooley countered. "But if it—and it likely is—came from a Winchester or Henry, well, hammers strike cartridges at different points. That's a long shot, but it might become evidence in a court of law. But horses leave signs. Shod horses. Unshod. I can see what tracks the shoes left. A chip. A line. Or how a horse happens to be stepping. That's something I can telegraph lawmen across the state. And, most likely, they were waiting in the woods for a while. It was cold this morning. Cold for August, anyway. Maybe they dropped something. Likely they were smoking cigarettes. Maybe chewing tobacco. They might have even camped there overnight. And maybe I'll find nothing. But I'll definitely look for something." He thought he sounded pretty good, like he knew what he was doing, even if he didn't. Yet he did know horses. And he could read sign pretty good when it came to horses. He left Paul Pinkerton with his notebook filled with lies, the witnesses, the crowd, and the victims of a routine stagecoach holdup. He sent telegraphs out, even one to Denver, hoping that might make its way to the Telegram's next edition before Paul Pinkerton could file some outlandish piece of fiction. Then he rode out of town to Chalk Creek. Those men were pros, though. Apparently, they had put canvas or burlap wrappings over their mounts' hooves to reduce any tracks, or signs. Either the gunman who had winged Dickinson had picked up his shell or had never cocked his rifle. They certainly had not camped, at least nowhere in the woods or general area, as far as Dooley could find. And had they smoked cigarettes, they smoked them down to nothing. Had they chewed tobacco, they swallowed their quids. Even after all that, Dooley rode up and down the road for two miles, trying to figure out if the bandits had stopped to undo the bindings that hid their trail. At length, though, he gave up. Still, legally and ethically, Dooley figured he had done all he could do. He rode back to town, found the statements that Mr. Wolfe had taken and left on his desk. When the circuit-riding judge returned to Leadville, Dooley figured he could turn those over to him to get to the county solicitor at the county seat. He gave General Grant some extra oats and a good rubdown, took Blue for a walk on his evening patrol, ate some Chinese food for supper, and, seeing things were quiet this evening, he retired early. He got up, early, too, because someone was banging on the door and Blue was barking his head off. It was the editor of the Leadville Ledger, but he wasn't here to get a story. He had news himself. "Marshal. The Breckenridge omnibus has been held up!" Dooley had just enough time to pull on his britches, boots, and a shirt. Back to his office he went, where he saw Jesus Gabaldon, the wiry one-time vaquero who had started the line that ran folks from Breckenridge to Leadville, and vice versa, one run one way once a week. At least they hadn't shot Jesus. But old Gabaldon had been carrying six passengers, and none of them was happy at having their wallets and watches taken. No brooches, but no women had been on this wagon. The whiskey drummer had the biggest loss. The bandits had taken his case of samples. The good news was that it was way too early for Paul Pinkerton to be standing on the corner, scratching his pad with his pencil, and thinking of new and devious ways he could make Dooley look bad. "Did they take any mail?" Dooley asked. "No, señor." Jesus Gabaldon's head shook. "Me no carry letters." "Yeah," Dooley said, and muttered a curse under his breath. Those bandits were too smart to take any mail and have the deputy marshals on their trail. They had hit the stage before the sky had even started to lighten, and the moon was new, so the only light came from the lanterns hanging from Gabaldon's coach. As an old vaquero and experienced cowboy and frontiersman, Jesus might have been able to tell more about the horses had there been more light. Still, Dooley felt certain of one thing. It had to be the same gang, though, because they wore dusters and there were five of them, sacks pulled over their faces, and they had hit the stage just as it had pulled up to Chalk Creek—and had ridden back down the road toward Breckenridge or Georgetown or Idaho Falls or wherever. Away from Leadville, though, and out of Dooley's jurisdiction. Still, after taking statements and sending out more telegraphs, once again Dooley made his way to Chalk Creek to find no tracks, no remnants of cigarettes, no clues whatsoever. He rode back to town, did his marshaling duties, went over to a hotel café and met with Jarvis to sign more documents for the mine, and returned to his room, let Blue out, fed him, and waited till midnight before sneaking to the livery. He saddled General Grant and eased his way out of town. Payday was two weeks behind him and a little less than two weeks before him, so the town would likely be quiet. Dooley rode to Chalk Creek and found a good spot on the Leadville side of the stream that provided plenty of shelter. He would have a clear view, come morning, of the stage when it came in. And if anyone tried to shoot Butch Sweeney or rob his mud wagon, Dooley would be there to stop the robbery. CHAPTER FORTY-ONE Dawn crept up slowly in the high country, and cold. Dooley could remember waking up to temperatures like the hinges of hell when he had cowboyed in Texas and Arizona, but here he tried to warm his hands with frosty breath. Behind him, he heard General Grant unleashing about a gallon of urine. Frowning, Dooley wondered if any hidden bandit might hear the noise, for sounds traveled far in this country. That's why he had cautiously levered a round into the Winchester when he had first made camp, if you could call this a camp. He shifted his legs to make himself more comfortable and get the blood circulating again. Without moving more than he had to, Dooley scanned the road and beyond. He studied the crevasses, the forests, the shadows, and the tops of rocks. He sought out where five men would have a good view of the road and might be able to ride out from their hiding places in a hurry. Mostly, he waited. That was one attribute he was glad to have. Patience. Men in a hurry did not survive long in this country The sun rose. His breath lost its frosty accent. General Grant waited patiently, casually grazing on the shrub and mountain wildflowers nearby. No riders appeared. He felt pretty sure he was alone here, but he might be wrong. He waited some more. How much time passed he did not know, but well before the sun moved over his head, he recognized the sound of hooves pounding the hard-packed dirt that was the road to Leadville. Traces chimed out, and at length came the popping of a whip and the swearing of the driver of a stagecoach. The driver would be Butch Sweeney. Dooley made himself move now, but slowly, not giving away his position to anyone who had less than a hawk's vision. He brought the Winchester up, eased back the hammer almost silently, and stared ahead. He did not look at the road, for Butch's mud wagon would show up in good time. He focused on the places he felt most likely could hide road agents on horseback. He controlled his breathing, tried to keep his nerves at bay, somehow managed to steady his heartbeat. The wagon topped the rise. Butch was easily recognizable in the driver's box. The mules did not look tired, and that was due to the driver. Butch Sweeney wasn't that green kid fresh off a farm and trying to learn to cowboy. Not anymore. The stagecoach slowed as Butch neared Chalk Creek. Dooley sucked in a deep breath, held it, pressed his lips tightly. And watched the mud wagon ease across the creek into Dooley's jurisdiction. Still, Dooley did not move until Butch was cussing up a storm and working the whip, sending the mules back into a run. Dooley stood slowly, still looking this way and that, trying to see some sign of a gang of bandits. When none appeared, he moved quickly to General Grant, shoved the Winchester into the scabbard, tightened the cinch, and swung into the saddle. Once he put the spurs against the fine gelding's ribs, he, too, found himself back in his jurisdiction. As he galloped after Butch's stage, Dooley decided that it made sense. The bandits had hit a couple of stages just outside of Leadville, so now they had decided to move on to some other town. Georgetown or Silver Plume or maybe they'd even leave Colorado for something new. No sense in pushing one's luck. Despite that thinking, Dooley kept his eyes sharp, half expecting those five desperadoes to appear out of the dust. It didn't happen. As Dooley drew nearer, he began shouting at Butch to rein up, although he knew with the wind blowing, the mules running hard, and the wheels rattling on the wagon, his young pard wouldn't be able to hear him. Eventually, Butch Sweeney looked over his shoulder and must have recognized Dooley—or at least General Grant—because he pulled hard on the lines and the old coach eased to a stop. Dooley reined up alongside the wagon, closest to the driver's seat, and let the gelding catch his wind. "What's up, Dooley?" Butch asked. Dooley looked inside the wagon, as Butch had rolled up the canvas curtains. Empty. "You run into any trouble?" Dooley said once he had caught his breath. "Nah." "No passengers, eh?" "Not this run, Dooley. You gonna answer my question and tell me what's happening?" "Been some stage holdups." "Here?" Dooley thumbed down the road. "At the crossing. I thought they might hit you." Butch grunted. "Well, don't that beat all." "You didn't hear of any holdups between here and Denver, did you?" "Truth is, I didn't make it to Denver this time, Dooley. Axle busted at Georgetown. The Swede there fixed me up, and since I didn't have much of a load and no passengers, I come back." Dooley considered this. It didn't make sense that Butch wouldn't continue on to Denver, because passengers might be waiting to ride to Leadville, but, well, Butch Sweeney—like most cowhands—never had much of a head for business. "But no one mentioned no stage robberies in Georgetown. And I didn't see anything out of the ordinary—no strangers, nothing like that—from there to here." He grinned widely. "You bodyguarding me, Dooley?" Dooley smiled. "Let's get to town, pard. I'll buy you breakfast and fill you in on all that's happened since you left." * * * Back in town, the Leadville Ledger editor asked Dooley a few questions about the holdups and agreed with Dooley's assessment that the bandits had moved off to hit some other unsuspecting mining town. The journalist also asked Butch Sweeney about avoiding the holdups, but Butch just smiled and quipped how this time busting an axle on that miserable road near Georgetown might have done him some good. Since he had no passengers or anything worth robbing. "Do you think Marshal Monahan is right and that the robbers have moved away?" the editor asked. "Well, I wouldn't contradict nothing Dooley Monahan has to say. And it sure makes a lot of sense, if you ask me, which you did. The roads were safe for me, so I guess they're safe now. Hope so, anyhow." That's what was printed in the paper the next day, and that's why Butch told Dooley that he didn't need any supper that day on account he had been eating his words all day. Because the stagecoach from Georgetown was robbed at the exact same spot that afternoon. Five men on horseback. Wearing dusters and some sort of masks. This time, though, the messenger had been able to describe the horses: two bays, a black, a chestnut, and a piebald. They had robbed the driver, the messenger—even taken the latter's Parker shotgun—and robbed the new schoolmistress, Miss LaDene Monroe, who was coming into town all the way from Chillicothe, Ohio. Taken her Bible, her volume of Shakespeare, and, most important, her complete set of Readers for the children of Leadville. She also happened to be young, thin, blond, and very, very attractive. An ugly schoolteacher wouldn't have aroused that much sympathy. "What do you plan on doing about this wave of crime, Marshal?" Dooley frowned. So George Miller had decided to do the stumping today instead of that crooked man from the Denver Telegram. Miller offered the schoolteacher a handkerchief, but she politely declined. That helped Dooley, he figured. At least it made him like the schoolteacher a lot more, especially when she stepped away from Miller. "Same as before," Dooley answered. "You mean nothing," Miller said. "I'm sending a telegraph to the county sheriff, asking for a posse of deputies or at least one deputy sheriff, because these crimes are falling outside my jurisdiction. I can't lead a posse after those men because of that jurisdiction. The road agents haven't stolen any mail or broken any federal law so the U.S. marshal can't do anything for the time being. My hands are tied. I don't like it. But that's the way things are." Miller's smile was menacing. Dooley knew he was up to something. The county clerk had an audience, and Dooley, as he had just said, had his hands tied. He had underestimated George Miller. "I just think it's interesting . . ." Miller began, and Dooley swore underneath his breath as Paul Pinkerton stepped out of the crowd, pencil and notepad in his hands. "Yes, it's interesting that these lies happen to occur just a few feet outside of our town marshal's jurisdiction. And our marshal keeps making a note of that very fact. And what strikes me as even funnier is that only one stagecoach that makes a regular run to Leadville that has not been held up . . . happens to be . . . owned and operated and even driven by our town marshal's best friend, Butch Sweeney." Dooley felt his ears redden. If only he, Dooley Monahan, was as corrupt as George Miller. Then he could just draw his pistol and put a .45 caliber slug in the liar's gut. Alas, Dooley had this thing called a conscience, and this belief that a man was supposed to do what's right. "Mr. Odenkirk," Miller called out. The shotgun-toting guard for the most recent stagecoach holdup stepped away from the bank's front wall. "Yes, sir." "You said one of these brigands rode a chestnut?" "Yes, sir." Miller smiled. Dooley's stomach turned sour. "If my memory is correct, Butch Sweeney owns a chestnut mare." "And those first robberies happened while . . ." Dooley shut his trap, remembering too late, and George Miller sprung his trap. "Yes. Butch Sweeney was conveniently out of town. Making his run to Denver. But Mr. Pinkerton of the Telegram has news, don't you, sir?" That was not a question. The lying scribe from Denver flipped back a few pages in his notepad and told the crowd, "The Leadville stage never made it to Denver. No one in Denver saw it. A telegraph was sent from Mr. Sweeney saying that the stage would resume its run later. No explanation was given, except that a busted axle in Georgetown was to blame." The crowd began to murmur. Dooley's temper began to boil. Then Marshal Blue stepped out. He held something in his hand, and Dooley knew what it was: a warrant. "I thought," he somehow managed to say, "that no federal crime had been committed." The corrupt lawman grinned. "Miss Monroe told me that she had a letter from her fine mother as a bookmark in her volume of Shakespeare. A letter was stolen. That means this was a federal offense." He raised his voice. "I'm going after the leader of this gang of stagecoach robbers, Butch Sweeney! Who'll join me?" CHAPTER FORTY-TWO Dooley found Butch in the hotel room, unshaven, sitting on the bed, scratching Blue's ears. Quickly, Dooley closed the door. "What are you doing here?" he asked urgently. "Julia told me what was going on," Butch said. "I saw the crowd, saw Miller and Marshal Blue, figured it was time for us to skedaddle." He hooked a thumb toward the wallpaper. "Got our horses tied up in the alley out back." "Butch," Dooley pleaded, "you're innocent. Innocent men don't run." "They do when they don't want to get lynched." "They're not going to lynch you." Butch stopped petting the shepherd. He hadn't been looking at Dooley all this time until now. "Dooley, they'll hang me twice." Anger rising, Dooley fought back the urge to berate his friend with a litany of profanity, or to at least give him a firm punch in the nose. He opened his mouth, and shut it. Spurs jingled, boots pounded on the stairs, and excited voices easily sounded through the hotel's thin walls. Butch heard the racket, too, and he understood. Coming to his feet, Butch reached for his gun as Dooley jerked open the door and stepped into the hallway. A pistol barked, Dooley dropped to his knee and returned fire. He had never shot at a federal lawman before, and certainly did not want to hit the man, even though Richard Blue deserved to be at least grazed. The crooked peace officer dropped his pistol and dived toward the stairs. By then Butch had stepped outside and sent two rounds from his pistol. The door slammed, trapping the barking shepherd in Dooley's room, the dog's paws scratching like a tiger against the flimsy door. Dooley hooked his thumb down the hall, and Butch took off toward the door that led to the outside stairs. There was a pretty good chance Richard Blue had some of his posse there, but Dooley knew he and Butch couldn't stay here. He sent another round that splintered the corner. Dooley kept backing up, his gun trained at the men cowering behind the wall. He felt the breeze as Butch opened the door. No gunfire sounded outside, and Butch Sweeney was pounding down the stairs. That meant Richard Blue had not seen the horses. Maybe. Dooley stepped onto the landing, slammed the door shut, and flinched as a bullet punched a hole just inches from his head. Butch had already swung into his saddle and pulled General Grant away. Halfway down the stairs, Dooley turned, fired a round through the door, then leaped over the rail, spread his legs, and landed in the saddle. He filled his left hand with the reins, kept his Colt in his right, and raked General Grant's ribs with his spurs. Both horses thundered out of the alley, the riders leaning low, as three or four bullets flew past them from Marshal Blue on the landing. Then the riders had turned the corner. Butch Sweeney had once told Dooley that he had always wondered what it would be like to be an outlaw, riding hell-bent for leather out of a town, bullets chasing after him, seeing the frightened faces of citizens standing on the boardwalks or in the middle of the streets. Well, now he knew. * * * "Hold up!" Dooley yelled as the horses splashed across Chalk Creek. Reluctantly, Butch Sweeney brought his horse to a halt and turned angrily in the saddle. "A federal deputy's jurisdiction don't end at that creek, pard!" he snapped. "I know that," Dooley barked back. "I also know that you didn't rob those stagecoaches . . ." He stopped. "Did you?" "Of course not, Dooley. You know me better than that." He pulled on the reins to turn his chestnut around and started to spur the horse again. "Hold it!" Dooley snapped. "We're both going to be put on wanted posters now. Unless we stop it!" "Well, how the hell do you plan on doing that?" Dooley made himself smile. "I got an idea," he said. "We've been following the wrong trail to nail George Miller's hide to the barn wall." * * * At this time of night, Dooley knew his mine would be empty. Jarvis had recommended that they quit paying men to guard the place at night, as the guards had been doing nothing except drawing Dooley's pay for months now. Dooley had always listened to his bookkeeper. Dooley and Butch eased their horses to the shed, and Dooley dismounted. He found a shovel, and started digging, while Butch remained mounted, holding the reins to General Grant. "I can't believe you bury your money in a hole in the ground," Butch said. "Would you trust a bank in Leadville?" Butch said: "You got some in Shaw's bank." "Not as much as I got here." "You sure no one's here?" Dooley stopped digging. "There shouldn't be." But he heard the noise, too. He leaned the shovel against a tree and pressed his lips together, as Butch dismounted and ground-reined both horses. They drew their rifles from the saddle scabbards and moved to the side of the shed. Dooley jutted his jaw toward the office, and they crept to the side. They could hear the voices now, and a horse nickered. Freezing, Dooley felt his stomach tighten, fearing either Butch's chestnut or General Grant might answer, but the only sound was the rustling of leaves and limbs in the trees. Dooley peered past the wall and could make out the outlines of horses in the corral. "Guards?" Butch whispered. Dooley answered, "Shouldn't be." They saw the glow of a campfire out behind where the worthless rocks were dumped. Dooley moved his left arm out and made a wide wave. Understanding, Butch Sweeney crept out that way, disappearing in the dark. Then Dooley crouched and began picking his path toward the fire. He leaned against a rock slab and let his eyes adjust to the fire. Five men. Not miners. Not guards. They were drinking, laughing, and suddenly Dooley understood. He raised a hand to his mouth, covered it slightly, and gave his best impression of a hoot owl. One of the men laughed and said, "Who! Who! Who!" Which told Dooley what he needed to know. Those men were drunk. So Dooley raised his rifle, eared back the hammer, and sent a round into the center of the fire. Sparks flew. Men fell backward, and Dooley leaped over the rocks, levering another round into the Winchester and sending another bullet into the center of the camp. "Hands up, boys!" Dooley shouted. "You're surrounded!" Butch Sweeney confirmed that with two shots from his rifle that he fired into the air. "I better see hands reaching for air or we're killing everyone in this camp!" Dooley yelled. He felt relieved when he saw the men coming up to their knees, or simply staying on the ground, but all lifting hands. "If one hand drops, we shoot you down!" Dooley growled. "We ain't done nothin'," one of the men whined. "This is my mine," Dooley said. "You're trespassing!" "Son of a gun," one of the drunks whispered. "It's the marshal." "But Miller said . . ." "Shut up!" Dooley stopped. He could make out Butch Sweeney's form off to his left. He could not see the men he had captured, but he had a pretty good idea what he would find in the corral. Two bay horses, a black, a chestnut, and a piebald. They had just captured the stagecoach-robbing gang. But why would they be hiding out at Dooley's mine? * * * In the darkness of predawn, Dooley gently pulled open the front door to Mrs. Buxton's Boarding House. He had no trouble finding the room he wanted. Mr. Buxton had told him two weeks ago that "as soon as that drinkin', carousin', lyin' inkslinger left town, Dooley Monahan would be welcome to pay Leadville prices for a room with clean sheets and Mrs. Buxton's wonderful chicken and dumplings for supper every night." There were no keys to the rooms, Mr. Buxton had also told Dooley, because Mrs. Buxton believed that everyone had to be honest to live under her roof. Well, she had let this room to the wrong person. Dooley opened the door, heard the snores, made sure that the lying inkslinger had not caroused a chirpy to the room—which would have sent Mrs. Bruxton into hysterics—and he pulled the door shut. He drew the revolver, walked to the bed, sat down, and placed the .45's barrel underneath Paul Pinkerton's nose. The snoring stopped. The body tensed. "Take off your eyeshades," Dooley ordered. With trembling hands, the Denver Telegram reporter obeyed. Dooley struck a match on his thigh, saw the candle next to the bottle of bourbon on the nightstand, and lighted the wick. "Monahan!" Pinkerton whispered. Tears welled in his well-rested eyes. "Please don't kill me." Dooley eased the revolver away from the man's nose. "I didn't come here to commit foul play," Dooley said, and found himself smiling, thinking that his crazy plan might just work after all. "I want to make an honest newspaper reporter out of you." Dooley knew, of course, that he had to speak in the language of a man like Paul Pinkerton. With his left hand, he brought up the pouch, unloosened the twine with his teeth, and dumped a handful of coins onto the quilt that covered the corrupt journalist's chest. "For a price," Dooley said. "Of course." He rattled the bag and let more coins topple onto the bed. * * * He waited until early afternoon, when the streets and boardwalks were crowded with citizens heading back to work or their homes after dinner. Then Dooley and Butch kicked their horses into a walk, kept their rifles in their arms, aimed at the backs of the prisoners who led the parade on their bay, black, chestnut, and piebald horses. A driver pulled his freight wagon to a stop and stood in the box, holding the lines to his mules. Deputy U.S. Marshal Richard Blue reached for his revolver, but froze. His shoulders appeared to slump. The Leadville Ledger editor snatched the pencil from the top of his ear and ran down the street, past the freight wagon, and opened his notepad, which Dooley figured he would fill with truth, and not lies. Or at least just the lies Dooley might have to feed him. "Marshal!" the man yelled. He turned around and followed at the side of General Grant. "Are these . . . ?" "The real men responsible for robbing those stagecoaches." He yelled at the men, slouched in their saddles, their hands tied in front of them so that they could hold the reins, their heads tilted forward, and their eyes bloodshot from their hangovers. "Rein up." Dooley saw the new schoolmistress standing in front of the county clerk's office. The shades were open on this afternoon, and George Miller peered through the thick panes, his ears reddening in rage, in embarrassment. The man practically shook in his boots. Which pleased Dooley to no end. "Miss Monroe." Dooley shifted his rifle to his left hand and used his right to remove his hat. "We have those Readers for your school, ma'am." He nodded at one of the sacks strapped to the horses of the robbers, this one on the chestnut that, now that Dooley could see, looked nothing like Butch Sweeney's horse. "And your Shakespeare. And the letter from your ma. Still unopened." That's when George Miller reached up and pulled down the green shades. "How'd you find them, Marshal?" the editor asked. Dooley shrugged. "All those Police Gazettes I read in line shacks while cowboying, I reckon." "Marshal Blue says . . ." "Marshal Blue says a lot of things." Dooley met the crooked badge-toter's gaze. "He also shoots first, without cause, without identifying himself, like that fracas he started at the hotel yesterday. And he swears out writs of arrest without listening to reason, to the truth." He smiled at Miss Monroe. "But like the Bard says, 'All's well that ends well.' And I'm glad to have ended our stagecoach robbers' reign. If you'll excuse me, I need to take five outlaws to our Jail Tree." CHAPTER FORTY-THREE Dooley watched Butch Sweeney load the passengers on the stage to Denver the next morning, nodded at Denver Telegram reporter Paul Pinkerton as he climbed into the mud wagon, and smiled when Butch climbed up the coach and gave Dooley a knowing wink. "See you in a few days, Marshal," Butch said as he grabbed the lines to the mules. "Have a productive trip, Deputy," Dooley called back, and watched the old wagon rumble down the street and out of town. He hired the guards who had been hired to guard his mine to guard the Jail Tree instead. Paid them better than Leadville prices, too, because he did not want those five stagecoach robbers to escape from the Jail Tree or to accidentally have their throats cut during the dead of night. Not that they would talk, or at least implicate George Miller and possibly Richard Blue . . . at least. Not yet. Leadville turned peaceful, and Dooley enjoyed that, even though the shades to the county clerk's office remained closed. That worried Dooley a bit, because he knew that behind those green curtains, George Miller was planning something devious. Plenty could go wrong, Dooley knew. His plan could backfire. George Miller could hire more men to rob stages, more men to rob banks, more men to assassinate Dooley Monahan. Pinkerton could not fulfill his bargain, but Butch Sweeney was supposed to stay in Denver to make sure that did not happen. So Dooley just waited. He found time to chat with the pleasant schoolteacher on the streets, but kept hoping to run into young Julia on the boardwalk. Not that she could risk having a conversation in public with Dooley, but it would be nice just to see her face, see her smile, maybe catch her whisper as she said something nice as they passed each other. Jarrod Dickinson's stage from Silver Plume made it into town without incident. So did Jesus Gabaldon's omnibus from Breckenridge. Yet that just worried Dooley more. Until he came down the stairs from his office on the afternoon and saw Butch Sweeney's mud wagon wheeling around the corner and heading right down the street. Butch rose to his feet and pulled hard, setting the brake, and the wagon skidded to a stop right in front of the bank. Without a word, Butch wrapped the leather lines around the brake handle and bent forward, reaching into the boot. He came up with a stack of newspapers bound by twine. Smiling, Butch tossed those onto the boardwalk at Dooley's feet. It was better than Dooley could have prayed for. It was the Denver Telegram, and stripped across that rag's front page was a boldfaced headline in all capital letters. Corruption, Violence In Leadville–UNCOVERED! Even better was the next headline. COUNTY CLERK LINKED TO BRIBES, STAGECOACH ROBBERIES, ATTEMPTED MURDER. And below that: Deputy U. S. Marshal Also Involved in Immoral Actions. STATE SOLICITOR VOWS TO BRING CULPRITS TO JUSTICE. EXCLUSIVE DETAILS! Provided by OUR INTREPID REPORTER On the Scene and on the Trail for JUSTICE! So Paul Pinkerton could write the truth after all. For $1,740 in double eagles. The circuit-riding judge showed up on the stagecoach from Georgetown the next morning. By that time, Deputy U.S. Marshal Richard Blue had vanished for parts unknown. Dooley and Butch brought the five suspected stagecoach robbers from the Jail Tree to Dooley's office above the bank, and, as he expected, once they saw the Denver Telegram article—actually, after the two of them who could actually read told the other three what had been published—they opened their mouths. The Leadville Ledger editor was on hand to write down their confessions for his next paper, which he proclaimed would be an extra, a special edition. "News of this magnitude does not happen every day," he said. That caused Dooley to wonder why something like two alleged bank robberies on the same day or the town marshal surviving assassination by blowing up a gunman and a general store to kingdom come was not considered news of magnitude. When Dooley, Butch, the judge, and the editor went to confront George Miller, they found the shades up at the office, the door open, and Miller nowhere to be found. Mr. John Price, the banker, told them that he had seen the county clerk boarding the Georgetown stagecoach that afternoon. "Was he alone?" Butch asked. "I mean, was his wife with him?" "No," the banker answered. "I don't think he even had a carpetbag with him." Butch Sweeney excused himself, and Dooley spent the rest of the day learning about arrest warrants and taking depositions and other legal matters. He missed supper, locked up his office, checked on the guards at the Jail Tree, although by this time he figured he was paying them for nothing, just like Jarvis had told him he had been doing at the mine. Which reminded him to fire Jarvis, the crook, the next morning. He checked on General Grant and hurried up the stairs of his hotel, almost cutting his right hand on the splinters he had caused by firing a warning shot at Marshal Richard Blue and the deputies he had sworn in. Once the door to his room opened, Blue the good dog, rushed into his arms, wagging his tail, licking his face. "Sorry, Blue," Dooley told the dog. "Let's get you outside so you can . . ." His voice trailed off as he saw the note someone had shoved under the door. Reaching down, feeling that knot develop in his gut, he picked up the note and stood. Absently, he walked down the hallway, opened the door peppered with bullet holes, and let Blue run down the stairs to do his business in the alley. Then Dooley struck a match and held it up close to the paper. It was on Office of the Clerk of———County stationery. IF YOU WANT TO SEE JULIA ALIVE, YOU WILL SIGN OVER OWNERSHIP TO US. THEN YOU WILL BE PERMITTED TO LEAVE TOWN, WITH OR WITHOUT THE WOMAN. BE AT YOUR MINE BY MIDNIGHT TONIGHT. OR THE GIRL DIES. WE ARE THE SILVER KINGS OF LEADVILLE & WE MEAN BUSINESS. He didn't know what time it was, but he knew it was late. He knew the silver barons in town had not sent this threat. Whoever had done this, whoever had thought of this, was no smart silver king, but a demented fool. George Miller. Yet Dooley also knew that Miller would kill his wife—murder sweet Julia—if Dooley did not show up. He left the door to the upstairs open, the door to his room open. He left Blue outside sniffing the alley. Dooley ran down the hall, down the stairs, out the front door, and hurried to the livery. * * * At least the moon was full. Dooley followed the road to his mine, his heart pounding, palms clammy, throat dry. He prayed that he would not be late, that George Miller had not lost complete control of his faculties—that Julia was still alive. Even before General Grant had slid to a stop, Dooley had dismounted, somehow keeping his feet as he staggered, found his balance, and ran to the office. The door had been kicked open. Light flittered from a candle on Jarvis's desk. Dooley stopped at the entrance and looked inside. "Miller?" he called out in a whisper. "Then, screaming, his voice bouncing across the empty mining property. "Miller! I'm here, Miller! I'm here!" He heard only his echo. A sickness entered his stomach, a cold fear that told him midnight had come and gone, and that George Miller had murdered Julia, that Dooley would find her body somewhere. Stepping away from the office, he felt as though he might vomit. A voice brought him upright. "Over here, Monahan." It was Miller's voice. Dooley walked toward the mine entrance. "Drop your gun belt, Monahan," the voice called out when Dooley stood just ten yards from the mine. "I didn't wear a gun," Dooley said, and held his hands away from his waist. He couldn't see Miller. Couldn't see Julia. He could catch the glow of a lantern from inside the mine, but far back. He could hear, though, and felt the hard metallic click of a revolver being cocked. "Then come on in," Miller said, and laughed, "and welcome." "Where's Julia?" Dooley asked. "Why, Monahan, she's waiting for you. Come. Now." Dooley obeyed. When he stepped inside the opening—much larger, a real working mine entrance and not the hidden hole Ol' Ole Finkle had used—Dooley felt something he figured he had lost count of the number of times he had felt it. A revolver barrel pressed against the small of his back. "Keep walking, Monahan," the crazed clerk and dishonest schemer said. "Let's go see Julia. She's been waiting for you." Dooley walked. Miller picked up a lantern from a wall hanger as they passed. It felt like ages since Dooley had first entered this mine. He remembered the feeling of complete darkness, and the consistency of the temperature. He recalled how he felt as though the cave went on forever. Then he saw Julia. A torch had been lighted over her head. She was in her nightshirt, hands and feet bound together, hair disheveled—but alive. Her head raised. Her mouth whispered Dooley's name. "Touching," George Miller said, and shoved Dooley toward her. He kept walking, anticipating the bullet in his back, but nothing happened. When he reached Julia, he waited, and George Miller said, "Go on. I want y'all to be together." "I thought you wanted the mine," Dooley said. "I was supposed to deed it over to you. Remember?" "I'm not a fool, Monahan," George Miller said. "I just wanted you to think I was mad." That's when Dooley heard the hissing. He turned, just as George Miller turned around and ran, the light bouncing off the black rocks, then disappearing. He saw the burning fuse—and he remembered the dynamite that had blown up the general store, along with Harley Boone. Only this time, Dooley understood that he had no time to run and save the day. George Miller had cut that fuse short. Julia must have seen it, too, and understood everything. She screamed. Dooley threw himself atop the young woman, just as the dynamite detonated. He felt the intense heat, the massive noise that he was certain would rupture his eardrums. He thought he felt rocks pounding against his back, legs, and head. He knew that George Miller had exacted his revenge. He had brought Dooley to the mine he had wanted for all those years. And now George Miller was burying Dooley, and poor Julia, in that mine. Forever. CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR Coughing, bleeding, hurting, and madder than hell, Dooley rose from the rubble. The concussion had blown out the torch, but once the dust settled, he could make out Julia's face. So still. So lovely. Her eyelids fluttered, opened, and her mouth parted. Dooley could breathe again. Tears welled in her eyes, and Dooley worked on the knots on her wrists. He realized his fingers were raw, bleeding, and his ribs hurt, his head hurt, and he felt blood leaking from multiple wounds. But nothing seemed fatal. "Dooley," Julia said, "we're going to die here." "No," he said, "we're not." "We'll suffocate." Dooley tried to give her a reassuring smile. He wasn't sure it was reassuring, and, hell, he wasn't even certain he smiled, but now that he had her wrists untied and was working on the ropes that secured her ankles, he asked, "What do you see, Julia?" She stared at him, confused at first, and finally managed to guess. "Dust. Smoke. You." "It's after midnight," Dooley told her. "And the torch isn't burning anymore." She understood, and began searching. Julia gasped. Dooley got the last knot loosened, and she sat up and hugged him. That hurt, too, but somehow Dooley liked it. As he ran his fingers through her hair, he also looked up. A man could breathe here. Somehow, he remembered thinking that thought when he had first entered the mine, which then was more of a cave than an actual mine, but a cave filled with silver. Now he saw the moonbeams making their way through the holes in the ceiling. Back when he had first discovered this chamber, it had been daylight. He was happy the moon was full this evening. "But," Julia reminded him, "we can still starve." His head shook. "This is a working mine. It's Saturday night, early Sunday morning. They'll be here Monday at six o'clock a.m. for the first shift. They'll see what happened, and they'll start moving rock. All we need to do," he reassured her, "is wait. We can live in here for that long without any worries." Reluctantly, he let her go, and stood, stepping over the rocks, and moving to the wall. "But I'm not a patient man." He began climbing up the wall. The explosion had loosened one slab, and a few smaller stones that could have crushed Julia and Dooley had they fallen a few feet closer. He moved with a purpose now, climbing up, bracing himself against the wall and the ceiling. He stuck his head through the largest of the air pockets. Dooley Monahan began to dig. Twenty minutes later, Julia was beside him. Determination chiseled into their faces, they worked with their hands and fingers, clawing, digging, wrenching out rocks and pebbles, even bits of silver and maybe even some copper. They did not speak. They barely glanced at each other. All they did was dig, dig, dig. The moon had passed, though, so the only light filtering through the much larger hole now came from the stars. They kept digging. Dooley began to see clearly. The sky took shape. Despite the burning in his eyes from dirt, sweat, and grime, he could make out the forms of trees on the top of the hill. Dawn was approaching when they had managed to scrape out a hole big enough for Julia to be boosted through. "Go," Dooley told her. "Quickly. Get to town." "I'm not leaving you," she countered. "I'll be fine. I don't want Miller to get away." "I'm not leaving you," she belted out again, and began clawing the dirt once more. Dooley started to curse, thought better of it, and he worked from the inside as Julia dug from the outside. A circus had stopped in Iowa one year, and Dooley remembered the contortionist, or whatever she was called. That's what Dooley felt like as he squeezed his shoulder this way, craned his neck that way, moved his arm, and sucked in his belly. He felt Julia's mud-caked, bleeding, scarred fingers clawing at his shirt and tugging. Dooley grunted, cursed, groaned, and finally pushed himself through the opening. He felt as though half of the roof now resided inside his trousers, but he had no time to worry about such inconveniences. He stared at the sky, breathed in the fresh morning air of the Colorado Rockies. They were out, safe, and then he heard the maniacal laughter. Dooley rose. George Miller stood against a pine, holding a pistol in his right hand. "You thought I'd just leave you here?" He stepped away from the tree and thumbed back the hammer. "You think I'm crazy? A fool? I just wanted you to think you had a chance." Dooley came to his feet and stepped in front of Julia, shielding her body with his. "Noble," Miller said. "But pointless. I'm going to kill you both." Dooley tried to think of what he could do, looked on the dirt for some type of weapon. A rock he could throw, but all he saw were pine needles and pinecones. He'd have to charge, survive the bullets sure to strike him, give Julia a chance to run. And maybe he would have enough strength to break that criminal's neck before he died. Just as Dooley broke into a run, a voice sounded off to his left. "Miller!" Charging with desperation, Dooley saw Miller turn, shift his gunsight down the incline, and then heard the roar of a rifle. Dooley stopped running and watched, uncomprehending, as George Miller was lifted off his feet and slammed against a tree trunk, then crumpled at the base and did not move, did not breathe, just died. "Julia!" Butch Sweeney climbed the hill, pitched the rifle aside, and Dooley felt something brush past him. He saw Julia running and leaping into Butch Sweeney's arms. Dooley blinked. Sometimes, he could be a wee bit dense, especially this early in the morning, but not today. Julia, he told himself, loves Butch. Not you. He thought about that for a moment, and suddenly smiled. That was fine. Mighty fine. CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE Two weeks later, Dooley Monahan rode out of Leadville a wealthy man. Maybe not as wealthy as he could have been, or should have been. He had given the mine to the schoolmistress. Butch and Julia refused to take it, and Dooley had had enough of being a man of means. He leaned over the saddle and shook the hands of the Leadville Ledger editor, of Mr. Adam Wolfe, and of both bank presidents. He smiled at Butch, and thought that marshal's badge looked fitting on his pard's vest. He tipped his hat at Julia, who wore black. She was a widow, and she'd be respectful right now. For a while. Then she and Butch would live happily ever after. So would Dooley. "We wish you would stay, Dooley," the mayor said. "Leadville won't be the same without you, sir." Dooley smiled. "It'll be a whole lot quieter." "What you did for Miss Monroe," the editor said, "giving her the mine, that was the most generous thing I've ever heard of. She will use the funds for an orphanage, a school, a hospital. Leadville will live on, sir, as will your memory, even if the silver boom ends." Dooley looked around. "I've got all I need," he said, and he knew it to be true. He had the best horse under his saddle, and a fine dog waiting patiently, ready to ride on, ride on. All those years, Dooley had wanted to hit a mining town, strike it rich, but now he knew that he was rich. He had always been rich. He straightened in the saddle, gave Butch and Julia a final nod, and rode out of town with Blue jogging along contentedly at his side. There was no hurry in him. He rode south along the Arkansas River, climbing down out of the high country, through Buena Vista and Salida, and happened to be in Cañon City just as the prison wagon arrived with former deputy marshal Richard Blue in leg irons attached to a heavy ball that the corrupt man had to carry as he walked to the gate of the state prison. Blue had been arrested in Breckenridge, tried quickly, and sentenced to ten years. Paul Pinkerton had left the Denver Telegram for a new job at the San Francisco Daily Caller, turning down offers, according to the Telegram, from newspapers in Chicago, New York, and even London. Dooley left the river in Pueblo and followed the wagon road south through Walsenburg and into Trinidad, where he tried his hand at a few games of poker, but didn't find the paste cards satisfying anymore. So he rode west, through the mountain passes, and into the western part of Colorado. Good country, he thought, where cattle could graze in the valleys in winter and the high country in summer. When he saw smoke, he smiled and turned off the little road to follow a path to a ranch. The bunkhouse and the main house weren't fancy, just roughhewn logs, but the barn was sturdy and he liked how the horses in the corral looked. The door to the bunkhouse opened, and a man stuffed a muslin shirt inside his britches and stepped off the porch and to the ground. He was a wiry man, with a thick mustache, and a face bronzed from wind and sun. "You ridin' the grub line?" the man asked. "Or lookin' fer work?" "Food'd be welcome," Dooley said. "But a job would be better." The foreman nodded. "That's a good dog you got with you, son, and I like the look of that horse, too. We pay thirty a month and found. Happens that an ol' boy decided he wanted to try minin' and up and lit out for Leadville. So I've got a job for a good cowboy, as long as he ain't got no interest in gamblin' and minin'." "I'm a cowboy," Dooley said, and swung off General Grant and held out his hand. "The name's Monahan. Dooley Monahan." This would determine everything, he knew. If the man knew of Dooley's reputation, he would tell him to eat and ride on. Instead, the man shook Dooley's hand. "You look like a cowboy, son. My name's Dawson. Bitter Bob Dawson. Welcome to the Lazy Nine." Blue barked a contented bark, and wagged his tail. As Dooley led General Grant to the corral, he knew he had found his place in the world. For now, at least. Until he got the urge again to see something new. To drift, with Blue and his bay gelding. Riding North. East. South. But most likely . . . West. Keep reading for a special preview of . . . The First Mountain Man PREACHER'S KILL A fur trapper by trade, Preacher can smell a bad deal from any direction, no matter how well it's disguised. It wasn't always that way—he's got the scars to prove it. Now he's ready to pass on his deadly survival skills to a boy named Hawk, who just might be his son . . . Preacher and Hawk ride out of the Rockies and into St. Louis loaded with furs. It's Hawk's first trip to civilization, and the moment he lays eyes on young Chessie Dayton he's lost in more ways than one. When Chessie unwisely signs on for a gold-hungry expedition into the lawless mountains, Hawk convinces Preacher to trail the outfit, because they're all headed straight to the sacred Indian grounds known as the Black Hills—a land of no return. To come out of it alive, a lot of people will have to die. And Preacher's going to need a heap of bullets for this journey into hell . . . Available now wherever Pinnacle Books are sold! CHAPTER ONE A rifle ball hummed past Preacher's head, missing him by a foot. At the same time he heard the boom of the shot from the top of a wooded hill fifty yards away. He kicked his feet free of the stirrups and dived out of the saddle. Even before he hit the ground, he yelled to Hawk, "Get down!" His half-Absaroka son had the same sort of hair-trigger, lightning-fast reflexes Preacher did. He leaped from his pony and landed beside the trail just a split second after the mountain man did. A second shot from the hilltop kicked up dust at Hawk's side as he rolled. Preacher had already come up on one knee. His long-barreled flintlock rifle was in his hand when he launched off the rangy gray stallion's back. Now, as he spotted a spurt of powder smoke at the top of the hill where the ambushers lurked, he brought the rifle to his shoulder in one smooth motion, earing back the hammer as he did so. The weapon kicked hard against his shoulder as he fired. Instinctively, he had aimed just above the gush of dark gray smoke. Without waiting to see the result of his shot, he powered to his feet and raced toward a shallow gully ten yards away. It wouldn't offer much protection, but it was better than nothing. As he ran, he felt as much as heard another rifle ball pass close to his ear, disturbing the air. Those fellas up there on the hill weren't bad shots. But anybody who had in mind ambushing him had ought to be a damned good shot, because trying to kill Preacher but leaving him alive was a hell of a bad mistake. Before this ruckus was over, he intended to show those varmints just how bad a mistake it was. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hawk sprinting into a clump of scrubby trees. That was the closest cover to the youngster. Hawk had his rifle, too, and as Preacher dived into the gully, he wasn't surprised to hear the long gun roar. He rolled onto his side so he could get to his shot pouch and powder horn. Reloading wasn't easy without exposing himself to more gunfire from the hilltop, but this wasn't the first tight spot Preacher had been in. When he had the flintlock loaded, primed, and ready to go, he wriggled like a snake to his left. The gully ran for twenty yards in that direction before it petered out. Preacher didn't want to stick his head up in the same place where he had gone to ground. He wanted the ambushers to have to watch for him. That way, maybe they'd be looking somewhere else when he made his next move. No more shots rang out while Preacher was crawling along the shallow depression in the earth. He didn't believe for a second that the men on the hill had given up, though. They were just waiting for him to show himself. Over in the trees, Hawk fired again. A rifle blast answered him immediately. Preacher took that as a good time to make his play. He lifted himself onto his knees and spotted a flicker of movement in the trees atop the hill. More than likely, somebody up there was trying to reload. Preacher put a stop to that by drilling the son of a buck. A rifle flew in the air and a man rolled out of the trees, thrashing and kicking. That commotion lasted only a couple of seconds before he went still . . . the stillness of death. That luckless fella wasn't the only one. Preacher saw a motionless leg sticking out from some brush. That was the area where he had placed his first shot, he recalled. From the looks of that leg, he had scored with that one, too. Were there any more would-be killers up there? No one shot at Preacher as he ducked down again. The mountain man reloaded once more, then called to Hawk, "You see any more of 'em movin' around up there, boy?" "No," Hawk replied. Preacher recalled too late that he didn't much cotton to being called "boy." But he was near twenty years younger than Preacher and his son, to boot, so that was what he was going to be called from time to time. "Well, lay low for a spell longer just in case they're playin' possum." Now that Preacher had a chance to look around, he saw that his horse, the latest in a series of similar animals he called only Horse, had trotted off down the trail with Hawk's mount and the pack mule they had loaded down with beaver pelts. The big wolflike cur known as Dog was with them, standing guard, although that wasn't really necessary. If anybody other than Preacher or Hawk tried to corral him, Horse would kick them to pieces. But Horse and Dog were fast friends, and Dog wouldn't desert his trail partner unless ordered to do so. That was what Preacher did now, whistling to get Dog's attention and then motioning for the cur to hunt. Dog took off like a gray streak, circling to get around behind the hill. He knew as well as Preacher did where the threat lay. Preacher and Hawk stayed under cover for several minutes. Then Dog emerged from the trees on the hilltop and sat down with his pink tongue lolling out of his mouth. Preacher knew that meant no more danger lurked up there. He had bet his life on Dog's abilities too many times in the past to doubt them now. "It's all right," he called to Hawk. "Let's go take a look at those skunks." "Why?" Hawk asked as he stepped out of the trees. "They will not be anyone I know. I have never been in . . . what would you say? These parts? I have never been in these parts before." "Well, they might be somebody I know," Preacher said. "I've made a few enemies in my time, you know." Hawk snorted as if to say that was quite an understatement. "What about the horses?" he asked. "Horse ain't goin' anywhere without me and Dog, and that pony of yours will stay with him. So will the mule." Taking his usual long-legged strides, Preacher started toward the hill. As he walked, he looked around for any other signs of impending trouble. The grassy landscape was wide open and apparently empty. Two hundred yards to the south, the Missouri River flowed eastward, flanked by plains and stretches of low, rolling hills. Preacher didn't see any birds or small animals moving around. The earlier gunfire had spooked them, and it would be a few more minutes before they resumed their normal routine. The animals were more wary than Preacher, probably because they didn't carry guns and couldn't fight back like the mountain man could. "Since you ain't gonna recognize either of those carcasses, as you pointed out your own self, you keep an eye out while I check 'em." Hawk responded with a curt nod. Preacher left him gazing around narrow-eyed and strode up the hill. The man who had fallen down the slope and wound up in the open lay on his back. His left arm was flung straight out. His right was at his side, and the fingers of that hand were still dug into the dirt from the spasms that had shaken him as he died. He wore buckskin trousers, a rough homespun shirt, and high-topped moccasins. His hair was long and greasy, his lean cheeks and jaw covered with dark stubble. There were thousands of men on the frontier who didn't look significantly different. What set him apart was the big, bloody hole in his right side. Preacher could tell from the location of the wound that the ball had bored on into the man's lungs and torn them apart, so he had spent a few agonizing moments drowning in his own blood. Not as bad as being gut-shot, but still a rough way to go. Remembering how close a couple of those shots had come to his head, and how the ambushers had almost killed his son, too, Preacher wasn't inclined to feel much sympathy for the dead man. As far as he could recall, he had never seen the fellow before. The one lying in the brush under the trees at the top of the hill was stockier and had a short, rust-colored beard. Preacher's swiftly fired shot had caught him just below that beard, shattering his breastbone and probably severing his spine, too. He was dead as could be, like his partner. But unlike the other man, Preacher had a feeling he had seen this one before. He couldn't say where or when, nor could he put a name to the round face, but maybe it would come to him later. St. Louis was a big town, one of the biggest Preacher had ever seen, and he had been there plenty of times over the years. Chances were he had run into Redbeard there. Now that he had confirmed the two men were dead and no longer a threat, he looked around to see if they'd had any companions. His keen eyes picked up footprints left by both men, but no others. Preacher crossed the hilltop and found two horses tied to saplings on the opposite slope. He pulled the reins loose and led the animals back over the crest. Hawk stood at the bottom of the hill, peering around alertly. Preacher took a good look at his son as he approached the young man. Hawk That Soars. That was what his mother had named him. She was called Bird in a Tree, a beautiful young Absaroka woman Preacher had spent a winter with, two decades earlier. Hawk was the result of the time Preacher and Birdie had shared, and even though Preacher had been unaware of the boy's existence until recently, he felt a surge of pride when he regarded his offspring. With Preacher's own dark coloring, he hadn't passed along much to Hawk to signify that he was half-white. Most folks would take the young man for pure-blood Absaroka. He was a little taller than most warriors from that tribe, a little more leanly built. His long hair was the same raven black as his mother's had been. One thing he had inherited from Preacher was fighting ability. They made a formidable pair. Months earlier, to avenge a massacre that had left Hawk and the old man called White Buffalo the only survivors from their band, father and son had gone to war against the Blackfeet—and the killing hadn't stopped until nearly all the warriors in that particular bunch were dead. Since then, they had been trapping beaver with White Buffalo and a pair of novice frontiersmen, Charlie Todd and Aaron Buckley, they had met during the clash with the Blackfeet. During that time, Todd and Buckley had acquired the seasoning they needed to be able to survive on their own, and they had decided to stay in the mountains instead of returning to St. Louis with the load of pelts. Preacher, Hawk, and White Buffalo would take the furs back to sell. Todd and Buckley had shares coming from that sale, and Preacher would see to it that they got them when he and Hawk made it back to the Rocky Mountains. White Buffalo had surprised them by choosing to remain with a band of Crow they had befriended while they were trapping. Cousins to the Absaroka, the Crow had always gotten along well with Preacher and most white men. They had welcomed Preacher, Hawk, and White Buffalo to their village . . . and White Buffalo had felt so welcome he had married a young widow. Preacher had warned the old-timer that the difference in age between him and his wife might cause trouble in the sleeping robes, but White Buffalo had informed him haughtily, "If she dies from exhaustion, I will find another widow to marry." You couldn't argue with a fella like that. Preacher and Hawk had agreed to pick him up on their way back to the mountains, if he was still alive and kicking, and if he wanted to go. That left just the two of them to transport the pelts downriver to St. Louis. Preacher figured they were now within two days' travel of that city on the big river, and so far they hadn't had any trouble. Until today. Hawk heard Preacher coming and turned to watch him descend the rest of the way. "Two men," Hawk said as he looked at the horses Preacher led. "Both dead." "Yep." "Old enemies of yours?" Preacher shook his head. "Nope. One of them sort of looked familiar, like maybe I'd seen him in a tavern in the past year or two, but the other fella I didn't know from Adam." "Then why did they try to kill us?" Preacher pointed at the heavily laden pack mule standing with Horse and Hawk's pony and said, "Those pelts will fetch a nice price. Some men ask themselves why should they go all that way to the mountains, endure the hardships, and risk life and limb when they can wait around here and jump the fellas on their way back to St. Louis. I can't get my brain to come around to that way of thinkin'—if you want something, it's best just to go ahead and work for it, I say—but there are plenty of folks who feel different." Hawk grunted. "Thieves. Lower than carrion." "Well, that's all they're good for now." Hawk nodded toward the horses and asked, "What are you going to do with them?" "Take them with us, I reckon. We can sell them in St. Louis." "If those men have friends, they may recognize the animals and guess that we killed the men who rode them." Preacher blew out a contemptuous breath. "Anybody who'd be friends with the likes of those ambushers don't worry me overmuch." "And what about the dead men themselves?" "Buzzards got to eat, too," Preacher said, "and so do the worms." CHAPTER TWO Preacher's estimate was correct. Two more days on the trail found them approaching St. Louis. Above the point where the Missouri River flowed into the Mississippi, he and Hawk crossed the Big Muddy on a ferry run by a Frenchman named Louinet, a descendant of one of the trappers who had first come down the Father of Waters from Canada to this region a hundred years earlier. Preacher saw the wiry, balding man eyeing the two extra horses and said, "Found these animals runnin' loose a couple days ago, back upstream. You have any idea who they might belong to?" Louinet shook his head. "Non. Since you found them, I assume they are now yours." "Reckon so. I just figured I'd get 'em back to whoever rightfully owned 'em, if I could." "If those animals were running loose with saddles on them, then the men who rode them almost certainly have no further need for them." "You're probably right about that," Preacher said with a grim smile. He wasn't worried about who the two ambushers had been, but if Louinet had been able to give him some names, it might have helped him watch out for any friends or relatives of the dead men. But if they came after him and Hawk, so be it. They had only defended themselves and hadn't done anything wrong. Preacher was the sort who dealt with problems when they arose and didn't waste a second of time fretting about the future. It had a habit of taking care of itself. That attitude was entirely different from being careless, though. Nobody could accuse Preacher of that, either. Once they were on the other side of the river, Preacher and Hawk rode on, with Hawk leading the string that consisted of the pack mule and the extra mounts. They didn't reach St. Louis until dusk, and as they spotted the lights of the town, Hawk exclaimed softly in surprise and said, "They must have many campfires in this village called St. Louis." "Those ain't campfires," Preacher said. "They're lights shinin' through windows. Lamps and lanterns and candles. You'll see when we get there." "Windows, like in the trading posts where we stopped from time to time?" "Sort of, but a lot of these have glass in 'em." Hawk just shook his head in bafflement, so Preacher went on, "You'll see soon enough, when we get there." More than likely, window glass wouldn't be the only thing Preacher would have to explain to his son before this visit was over. This was Hawk's first taste of so-called civilization, which held a lot of mysteries for someone accustomed to a simpler, more elemental life. As they rode into the settlement sprawled along the west bank of the Mississippi, Hawk gazed in wonder at the buildings looming in the gathering shadows. He wrinkled his nose and said, "Ugh. It stinks." "You're smellin' the docks and the area along the river," Preacher said. "It's a mite aromatic, all right. There are a lot of warehouses along there full of pelts, and not everybody's as careful about cleanin' and dryin' 'em as we are. They start to rot. Then you've got spoiled food and spilled beer and lots of folks who ain't exactly as fresh as daisies. It all mixes together until you get the smell you're experiencin' now." Hawk shook his head. "The high country is better." "You won't get any argument from me about that, boy . . . but this is where the money is." "This thing you call money is worthless." "Oh, it has its uses, as long as you don't get too attached to it. Your people trade with each other, and it's sort of the same thing." "We trade things people can use," Hawk said. "It is not the same thing at all." "Just keep your eyes open," Preacher said. "You'll learn." And the youngster probably would learn some things he'd just as soon he hadn't, the mountain man thought. The pelts were the most important thing to deal with, so Preacher headed first for the local office of the American Fur Company. Founded by John Jacob Astor in the early part of the century, the enterprise had grown into a virtual monopoly controlling all the fur trade in the United States. In recent years, the company had declined in its influence and control, a trend not helped by Astor's departure from the company he had started. But it was still operating, led now by a man named Ramsay Crooks, and Preacher knew he wouldn't get a better price for the furs anywhere else. Despite the fact that night was falling and some businesses were closing for the day, the office of the American Fur Company, located in a sturdy building with a sprawling warehouse behind it, was still brightly lit. Preacher reined Horse to a stop in front of it and swung down from the saddle. "Tie up these animals and keep an eye on 'em," Preacher told Hawk. "I'll go inside and talk to Vernon Pritchard. He runs this office, unless somethin's happened to him since the last time I was here." He added, "Dog, you stay out here, too." Preacher wasn't sure it was a good idea to leave Hawk alone on the streets of St. Louis, but the youngster had to start getting used to the place sooner or later. Besides, Dog wouldn't let anything happen to him or any of the horses. Preacher took the steps leading up to the porch on the front of the building in a couple of bounds, then glanced back at Hawk, who was peering around wide-eyed, one more time before going into the building. A man in a dusty black coat sat on a high stool behind a desk, scratching away with a quill pen as he entered figures in a ledger book. He had a tuft of taffy-colored hair on the top of his head and matching tufts above each ear, otherwise he was bald. A pair of pince-nez clung precariously to the end of his long nose. He looked over the spectacles at Preacher and grinned as he tried to straighten up. A back permanently hunched from bending over a desk made that difficult. "Preacher!" he said. "I didn't know if we'd see you this season." "You didn't think anything would've happened to me, did you, Henry?" "Well, of course not," the clerk said. "You're indestructible, Preacher. I fully expect that forty or fifty years from now, you'll still be running around those mountains out there, getting into all sorts of trouble." Preacher laughed. "I'm gonna do my best to prove you right." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Right now, though, I've got a load of pelts out there. Vernon around to make me an offer on 'em?" Henry's smile disappeared and was replaced by a look of concern. "You just left them out there?" "Dog's guardin' 'em. And I told my boy to keep an eye on 'em, too." "You have a partner now?" "My son," Preacher said. That news made the clerk look startled again. He hemmed and hawed for a moment and then evidently decided he didn't want to press Preacher for the details. Instead he said, "Mr. Pritchard is in the warehouse. You can go on around." "Thanks." Preacher paused. "Henry, why'd you say that about me leavin' the pelts outside, like it wasn't a good idea?" "St. Louis has gotten worse in the past year, Preacher. There are thieves and cutthroats everywhere. I hate to walk back to my house at night." Henry reached down to a shelf under the desk and picked up an ancient pistol with a barrel that flared out at the muzzle. He displayed the weapon to Preacher and went on, "That's why I carry this." "Put that sawed-off blunderbuss away," Preacher said. "You're makin' me nervous." "Preacher being nervous." Henry shook his head. "I'll never live to see the day." Preacher lifted a hand in farewell and went back outside. Just as he stepped onto the porch, he heard a harsh voice say, "Damn it, Nix, Jenks, look at that. That's a redskin sittin' there with a nice big load o' pelts. Hey, Injun, where'd you steal them furs?" Preacher paused and eased sideways, out of the light that spilled through the door. He drifted into a shadow thick and dark enough to keep him from being noticed easily. He wanted to see what was going to happen. Hawk had dismounted long enough to tie the animals' reins to the hitch rail in front of the office, then swung back up onto his pony, which he rode with a saddle now rather than bareback or with only a blanket, the way he had when he was younger. He stared impassively at the three men who swaggered toward him, but didn't say anything. They were big and roughly dressed. Preacher could tell that much in the gloom. He didn't need to see the details to know what sort of men they were. The clerk had warned him about the ruffians now making St. Louis a dangerous place, and Preacher knew he was looking at three examples of that. "I'm talkin' to you, redskin," continued the man who had spoken earlier. "I want to know where you stole them furs. I know good an' well a lazy, good-for-nothin' Injun like you didn't work to trap 'em." Hawk said something in the Absaroka tongue. The three men clearly didn't understand a word of it, but Preacher did. Hawk's words were a warning: "You should go away now, before I kill you." One of the men laughed and said, "I guess he told you, Brice—although I ain't sure just what he told you." Brice, the one who had spoken first, stepped forward enough so that the light from the doorway revealed the scowl on his face. He said, "Don't you jabber at me, boy." He waved an arm. "Go on, get outta here! You don't need them furs. Leave them here for white men, and those horses, too." He sneered. "You can keep that damn Injun pony. It probably ain't fit to carry a real man." After spending months with Preacher, Charlie Todd, and Aaron Buckley, Hawk spoke English quite well. Only occasionally did he stumble over a word or have to search for the right one. So Preacher knew Hawk understood everything Brice said. He also knew that Hawk had a short temper and probably wasn't going to put up with much more of this. Brice came closer. "Are you not listenin' to me, boy? I said git! We're takin' those pelts." "They are . . . my furs," Hawk said in English, slowly and awkwardly as if he wasn't sure what he was saying. "Please . . . do not . . . steal them." In the shadows on the porch, Preacher grinned. Other than that, he was motionless. Hawk was baiting those would-be thieves, and Preacher had a pretty good idea what the outcome was going to be. He wouldn't step in unless it was necessary. "Don't you mouth off to me, redskin," Brice blustered. "Get outta here, or you're gonna get the beatin' of your life." "Please," Hawk said. "Do not hurt me." Brice grunted in contempt and reached up. "You had your chance," he said. "Now I'm gonna teach you a lesson, you red ni—" He closed his hands on Hawk's buckskin shirt to drag him off the pony. Then, a split second later, he realized he might as well have grabbed hold of a mountain lion. Hawk's leg shot out. The moccasin-shod heel cracked into Brice's head and jolted his head back. As Brice staggered a couple of steps away, Hawk swung his other leg over the pony's back and dived at the other two men. They both let out startled yells when Hawk kicked their friend, and one of them clawed at a pistol stuck behind his belt. Before he could pull the weapon free, Hawk crashed into them and drove them both off their feet. He hit the ground rolling and came upright as Brice recovered his balance from the kick and charged at Hawk with a shout of rage. The young man darted aside nimbly as Brice tried to catch him in a bear hug that would have crushed his ribs. Hawk twisted, clubbed his hands together, and slammed them into the small of Brice's back as the man's momentum carried him past. Brice cried out in pain and arched his back, then stumbled and went down hard, face-first, plowing into the hard-packed dirt of the street. Hawk whirled to face the other two men, who were struggling to get up. One of them he met with a straight, hard punch that landed squarely on the man's nose. Even from where Preacher stood on the porch, he heard bone and cartilage crunch. The man went back down a lot faster than he had gotten up and stayed down this time. The third man had a chance to spring toward Hawk and managed to get his right arm around the youngster's neck from behind. He clamped down with the grip and used his heavier weight to force Hawk forward and down. His left hand grasped his right wrist to tighten the choke hold. He brought up his right knee and planted it in Hawk's back. That move proved the man was an experienced brawler, because now with one good heave, he could snap Hawk's neck.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Books3
Q: How do you say "to have sex" in a formal way How would you say "to have sex" in a more formal way? Also, is it to intercourse or to have intercourse? A: Both to have sex and to have intercourse are fairly formal (as opposed to slang such as shag, make out, or screw.) If you really need something more formal/euphemistic, you could go with copulate: Copulate VERB [NO OBJECT] Have sexual intercourse. ‘only the dominant male copulates with the female’ ‘after about twenty minutes, they copulate again’ Or perhaps fornicate: Fornicate VERB [NO OBJECT] formal, humorous Have sexual intercourse with someone one is not married to. I think that copulate is probably your best option if have sex and have intercourse won't do. A: There is also the term Coitus ˈkōədəs,ˈkoidəs/ noun sexual intercourse The two people engaged in coitus.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	StackExchange
Nev. regulators probing Jordan son's partying MGM Resorts International was under investigation after the underage son of basketball great Michael Jordan bragged on Twitter about partying at a Las Vegas Strip nightclub, Nevada gambling regulators said Monday.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
The Melbourne International Film Festival (MIFF) will soon be upon us once again, running from 2-9 August, 2018. The 67th outing of the Festival will also mark the premiere of actor Paul Dano’s (Swiss Army Man) directorial debut Wildlife, starring Carey Mulligan (Collateral), Jake Gyllenhaal (Southpaw) and Australia’s Ed Oxenbould (The Visit). The First Glance selection, comprising of32 films demonstrating MIFF’s expansive and diverse reach have also been announced. Set in 1960’s Montana, Wildlife tells the emotional tale of a teen dealing with the falling apart of his family, as he tries to pick up the pieces along the way. MIFF Artistic Director Michelle Carrey commented on the premiere, saying “We are thrilled to announce Wildlife for this year’s Opening Night Gala. Paul Dano’s debut as a director provides an exciting glimpse into a successful shift in his career from on screen to off, and the cast including Australia’s very own Ed Oxenbould (a special name here at MIFF) is an impressive way to kick off proceedings”. Other notable first glance features include both the on and off screen contributions of Ethan Hawke (Training Day) in First Reformed, as he portrays the cinematic legend Paul Schrader, and Blaze, a biopic on an unsung musical legend, in which Hawke directs. Chloë Grace Moretz (Kickass) also features, as she gives a career-best performance in Desiree Akhavan’s (Appropriate Behaviour) feature The Miseducation of Cameron Post, winner of the Sundance Grand Jury Prize (US Dramatic). Cannes 2017 best actor winner Joaquin Phoenix (Her) features in Lynne Ramsay’s (We Need to Talk About Kevin) feature You Were Never Really Here, taking on the role of a war vet and ex-FBI agent whose new job consists of rescuing children from various paedophile rings. Bodied pairs the unlikely duo of Grammy-winning director Joseph Kahn (Detention) and rapper turned producer Eminem (8 Mile) as they present their satirical story about an accidental battle-rap star. In the tradition of filmmaking first outings, acclaimed TV director Michael Pearce makes his feature debut with Beast a British crime drama and love story infused with aspects of an intriguing psychosexual thriller. The complete list of all 32 First Glance titles are as follows: An Elephant Sitting Still (China) Angels Wear White (China) Apostasy (UK) Beast (UK) Blaze (USA) Bodied (USA) First Reformed (USA) I Used to Be Normal – A Boyband Fangirl Story (Australia/USA) In the Realm of Perfection (France) Island of the Hungry Ghosts (Australia) Let the Corpses Tan (Belgium/France) MATANG/MAYA/M.I.A. (USA/UK) McQueen (UK) Mr Inbetween (Australia) People’s Republic of Desire (China / USA) Pig (Iran) Pity (Greece/Poland) The Bill Murray Stories (USA) The Cheaters (Australia) The Deserted (Taiwan) The Guilty (Denmark) The Insult (Lebanon) The Miseducation of Cameron Post (USA) The Seen and Unseen (Indonesia) Tigers Are Not Afraid (Mexico) Transit (Germany) United Skates (USA) Wayne (Australia/NZ) West of Sunshine (Australia) Who Are You, Polly Maggoo? (France) Wildlife (USA) You Were Never Really Here (USA/France) Zama (Argentina/Brazil/Spain/France/Netherlands/Mexico/Portugal) While the full MIFF program is yet to be revealed, all tickets will go on sale Friday 13 July. For more information, you can visit http://miff.com.au/. ———- This content has recently been ported from its original home on The Iris and may have formatting errors – images may not be showing up, or duplicated, and galleries may not be working. We are slowly fixing these issue. If you spot any major malfunctions making it impossible to read the content, however, please let us know at editor AT theaureview.com. Share this: Twitter Facebook Reddit Pinterest	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
Publié le 15 avr. 2020 à 16:04 Mis à jour le 16 avr. 2020 à 7:20 « WHO can help ? Taïwan. » Le slogan s'affichait mardi dans une pleine page du « New York Times » , financée par près de 27.000 personnes désireuses de réhabiliter Taïwan après les critiques du directeur général de l'Organisation mondiale de la santé (dont l'acronyme anglais est WHO) mais aussi de réaffirmer que « Taïwan peut aider » à combattre la pandémie de Covid-19. Avec « seulement » six morts du coronavirus, l'île de 24 millions d'habitants est largement saluée comme un modèle dans la lutte contre l'épidémie mais déplore sa mise au ban de toutes les grandes instances internationales. Considérée par Pékin comme une province chinoise, Taïwan est exclue de l'ONU depuis la reconnaissance de la République populaire de Chine en 1971. Lorsque le Kouomintang était au pouvoir sur l'île, Pékin avait autorisé Taïwan à assister en tant qu'observateur aux assemblées générales de l'OMS de 2009 à 2016. Mais depuis l'élection de Tsai Ing-Wen, présidente du Parti démocrate progressiste (DPP) et bête noire de Pékin, les autorités de Taipei n'ont jamais plus reçu d'invitation de la part de l'OMS… Si les relations entre l'organisation internationale et Taïwan sont tendues depuis longtemps, elles se sont détériorées au cours des trois derniers mois . Le gouvernement taïwanais, qui s'était d'abord inquiété de ne pas avoir accès aux informations cruciales de l'OMS pour lutter contre l'épidémie, accuse aujourd'hui l'OMS d'ignorer son modèle de gestion de la crise et, surtout, de ne pas avoir tenu compte de son avertissement précoce sur la gravité de la situation à Wuhan.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
LOS ANGELES (AP) — A federal judge appeared poised Monday to toss out a defamation lawsuit against President Donald Trump by porn actress Stormy Daniels. Judge S. James Otero said in U.S. District Court that a tweet the president wrote in April appears to be "rhetorical hyperbole" and speech protected under the First Amendment. Daniels, whose real name is Stephanie Clifford, sued Trump in April after he said a composite sketch of a man she said threatened her in 2011 to keep quiet about an alleged affair with the real estate mogul was a "con job." Trump tweeted that the man was "nonexistent" and that Daniels was playing the "fake news media for fools." He retweeted a side-by-side photo comparing the sketch with a photo of Daniels' husband. Otero said he would rule later, but that Trump's statement seemed like an opinion and speech protected under the First Amendment. "To allow the complaint to go forward and to have one consider this to be defamatory in the context it was made would have a chilling effect," Otero said. Attorney Ken White who blogs about the case and talks about it on the podcast "All the President's Lawyers" said he thinks Otero wrote a tentative ruling that he would finalize and issue soon. If Daniels' defamation case if thrown out it would be similar to a ruling by a New York state judge who dismissed a lawsuit by a political strategist who claimed her reputation was trashed when Trump falsely said she had "begged" for a campaign job and called her a "dummy" on Twitter, White said. "The court basically said, 'It's Trump, it's Twitter, he known for throwing around insults and this can't be understood as anything other than exaggerated rhetoric,'" White said of the New York case. Daniels' lawyer, Michael Avenatti, said outside court that he would appeal if the defamation suit was dismissed. He said it was ironic that Trump was relied on the First Amendment to shield himself from legal trouble. "I witnessed something here today that I never thought I'd witness," Avenatti said. "That is: Donald Trump having a lawyer stand up in a federal court and espouse on his behalf the virtues and how important the First Amendment is in America. This is the same Donald Trump that has crapped all over the First Amendment and the news media for years." Story continues Otero scheduled a hearing Dec. 3 to discuss Trump's efforts to dismiss another lawsuit by Daniels over a hush-money agreement related to their alleged affair. Daniels sued Trump and his former personal lawyer, Michael Cohen, who negotiated the deal, so she could speak publicly about the sexual tryst without fear of reprisal. Cohen had threatened to sue her for $20 million. Lawyers for Trump and Cohen now say the deal that paid Daniels $130,000 to keep quiet was invalid and they won't sue her for breaking it. Daniels has said she had sex once with Trump in 2006 and carried on a friendship with him for about a year. Daniels had said the agreement should be invalidated because Cohen signed it, but Trump didn't. Trump's attorney said the president never considered himself as a party to the agreement and doesn't dispute Daniels' assertion that the contract isn't valid. While Trump and Cohen want the court to toss out the litigation as moot, Daniels' lawyer wants to keep the case alive. Avenatti, who has frequently and aggressively criticized Trump in the news and has said he's considering challenging him in the 2020 presidential race, wants to take testimony from Trump about whether the deal was inked to silence Daniels while he was running for president. Cohen has pleaded guilty to campaign finance violations for arranging payments to both Daniels and a former Playboy model to influence the election. Essential Consultants, the company Cohen set up to make the payment to Daniels, wants Daniels to return her $130,000 payment. Avenatti wants the defendants to pay his legal fees. Trump's lawyer, Charles Harder, said he would ask Daniels to pay the president's legal bills if he succeeds in killing the defamation suit.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
Six related sets of experiments are proposed to investigate factors determining choice behavior. The first set of experiments continues our exploration of the relation between choice and rate of reinforcement. In particular, they will help us to assess the effects upon choice of stimulus and response parameters characterizing the interreinforcement intervals being chosen. The second set of experiments continues our work on the transitivity of choice behavior. The proposed research will utilize a new experimental procedure which holds considerable promise for the more efficient and reliable assessment of transitivity. The third set of experiments assesses sequential choice behavior, or behavior on multiple schedules of reinforcement. We propose to study multiple fixed-ratio, fixed-interval, and variable-ratio schedules particularly as they are affected by component and session duration. We will be especially concerned with interactions obtained in the multiple schedules and in the implications of our data for formulations of behavior on concurrent and multiple schedules that have been developed primarily on the basis of similar experiments with variable-interval schedules. The fourth set of experiments extends our previous work on the hypothesis that the strength of a stimulus, as measured in a choice situation, is a function of the amount of reduction in expected time to reinforcement signified by the onset of that stimulus relative to the reduction in expected time to reinforcement signified by the onset of the other stimulus. We propose additional experiments to evaluate the generality of this theory of choice and conditioned reinforcement with procedures different from those in which it was developed. Another set of experiments utilizes concurrent schedules to test our hypothesis that second-order schedules of brief stimulus presentations (whether the brief stimuli are paired or unpaired) are effective in maintaining responding because the brief stimuli effectively block temporal control of responding on the second-order schedules. The final set of experiments assess the strength of elicited responding in a stimulus-reinforcer paradigm and examine the dynamics of interaction between concurrently maintained and topographically tagged elicited and operant responses.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	NIH ExPorter
French Algeria French Algeria ( to 1839, then afterwards; unofficially , ), also known as Colonial Algeria, was the colonial rule of France over Algeria. French rule in the region began in 1830 with the invasion of Algiers and lasted until the Algerian War of Independence concluded in 1962. While the administration of Algeria changed significantly over the 132 years of French rule, the Mediterranean coastal region of Algeria, housing the vast majority of its population, was administered as an integral part of France from 1848 until independence. One of France's longest-held overseas territories, Algeria became a destination for hundreds of thousands of European immigrants known as colons and, later, as . However, the indigenous Muslim population remained a majority of the territory's population throughout its history. Gradually, dissatisfaction among the Muslim population with its lack of political and economic status fueled calls for greater political autonomy, and eventually independence from France. Tensions between the two population groups came to a head in 1954, when the first violent events began of what was later called the Algerian War, characterized by guerrilla warfare and illegal methods used by the French in order to put down the revolt. The war concluded in 1962, when Algeria gained independence following the March 1962 Evian agreements and the July 1962 self-determination referendum. During its last years of existence, French Algeria was, as a part of France, a founding member state of the United Nations, NATO, and the European Economic Community (later the European Union). History Initial conflicts Since the 1516 capture of Algiers by the Ottoman admirals, the brothers Ours and Hayreddin Barbarossa, Algeria had been a base for conflict and piracy in the Mediterranean. In 1681, Louis XIV asked Admiral Abraham Duquesne to fight the Berber pirates and also ordered a large-scale attack on Algiers between 1682 and 1683 on the pretext of assisting Christian captives. Again, Jean II d'Estrées bombarded Tripoli and Algiers from 1685 to 1688. An ambassador from Algiers visited the Court in Versailles, and a Treaty was signed in 1690 that provided peace throughout the 18th century. During the Directory regime of the First French Republic (1795–99), the Bacri and the Busnach, Jewish negotiators of Algiers, provided important quantities of grain for Napoleon's soldiers who participated in the Italian campaign of 1796. However, Bonaparte refused to pay the bill back, claiming it was excessive. In 1820, Louis XVIII paid back half of the Directory's debts. The dey, who had loaned to the Bacri 250,000 francs, requested from France the rest of the money. The Dey of Algiers himself was weak politically, economically, and militarily. Algeria was then part of the Barbary States, along with today's Tunisia – which depended on the Ottoman Empire then led by Mahmud II — but enjoyed relative independence. The Barbary Coast was then the stronghold of the Berber pirates, which carried out raids against European and American ships. Conflicts between the Barbary States and the newly independent United States of America culminated in the First (1801–05) and Second (1815) Barbary Wars. An Anglo-Dutch force, led by Admiral Lord Exmouth, carried out a punitive expedition, the August 1816 bombardment of Algiers. The Dey was forced to sign the Barbary treaties, while the technological advance of U.S., British, and French forces overwhelmed the Algerians' expertise at naval warfare. The name of "Algeria" itself came from the French. Following the conquest under the July monarchy, the Algerian territories, disputed with the Ottoman Empire, were first named "French possessions in North Africa" before being called "Algeria" by Marshal General Jean-de-Dieu Soult, Duke of Dalmatia, in 1839. French conquest of Algeria The conquest of Algeria was initiated in the last days of the Bourbon Restoration by Charles X, as an attempt to increase his popularity amongst the French people, particularly in Paris, where many veterans of the Napoleonic Wars lived. His intention was to bolster patriotic sentiment, and distract attention from ineptly handled domestic policies by "skirmishing against the dey". Fly Whisk Incident (April 1827) In the 1790s, France had contracted to purchase wheat for the French army from two merchants in Algiers, Messrs. Bacri and Boushnak, and was in arrears paying them. These merchants, Bacri and Boushnak who had debts to the dey, claimed inability to pay those debts until France paid its debts to them. The dey had unsuccessfully negotiated with Pierre Deval, the French consul, to rectify this situation, and he suspected Deval of collaborating with the merchants against him, especially when the French government made no provisions for repaying the merchants in 1820. Deval's nephew Alexandre, the consul in Bône, further angered the dey by fortifying French storehouses in Bône and La Calle against the terms of prior agreements. After a contentious meeting in which Deval refused to provide satisfactory answers on 29 April 1827, the dey struck Deval with his fly whisk. Charles X used this slight against his diplomatic representative to first demand an apology from the dey, and then to initiate a blockade against the port of Algiers. France demanded that the dey send an ambassador to France to resolve the incident. When the dey responded with cannon fire directed toward one of the blockading ships, the French determined that more forceful action was required. Invasion of Algiers (June 1830) Pierre Deval and other French residents of Algiers left for France, while the Minister of War, Clermont-Tonnerre, proposed a military expedition. However, the Count of Villèle, an ultra-royalist, President of the Council and the monarch's heir, opposed any military action. The Restoration finally decided to blockade Algiers for three years. Meanwhile, the Berber pirates were able to exploit the geography of the coast with ease. Before the failure of the blockade, the Restoration decided on 31 January 1830 to engage a military expedition against Algiers. Admiral Duperré commandeered an armada of 600 ships that originated from Toulon, leading it to Algiers. Using Napoleon's 1808 contingency plan for the invasion of Algeria, General de Bourmont then landed west of Algiers, at Sidi Ferruch on 14 June 1830, with 34,000 soldiers. In response to the French, the Algerian dey ordered an opposition consisting of 7,000 janissaries, 19,000 troops from the beys of Constantine and Oran, and about 17,000 Kabyles. The French established a strong beachhead and pushed toward Algiers, thanks in part to superior artillery and better organization. The French troops took the advantage on 19 June during the battle of Staouéli, and entered Algiers on 5 July after a three-week campaign. The dey agreed to surrender in exchange for his freedom and the offer to retain possession of his personal wealth. Five days later, he exiled himself with his family, departing on a French ship for the Italian peninsula, then under the control of the Austrian Empire. 2,500 janissaries also quit the Algerian territories, heading for Asia, on 11 July. The dey's departure ended 313 years of Ottoman rule of the territory. The French army then recruited the first (a title given to certain light infantry regiments) in October, followed by the regiments, while France expropriated all the land properties belonging to the Turkish settlers, known as . In the western region of Oran, Sultan Abderrahmane of Morocco, the Commander of the Believers, could not remain indifferent to the massacres committed by the French Christian troops and to belligerent calls to enter jihad from the marabouts. Despite the diplomatic rupture between Morocco and the Two Sicilies in 1830, and the naval warfare engaged against the Austrian Empire as well as with Spain, then headed by Ferdinand VII, Sultan Abderrahmane lent his support to the Algerian insurgency triggered by Abd El-Kader. The latter would fight for years against the French. Directing an army of 12,000 men, Abd El-Kader first organized the blockade of Oran. Algerian refugees were welcomed by the Moroccan population, while the Sultan recommended that the authorities of Tetuan assist them, by providing jobs in the administration or the military forces. The inhabitants of Tlemcen, close to the Moroccan border, asked that they be placed under the Sultan's authority in order to escape the invaders. Abderrahmane thus named his nephew, Prince Moulay Ali, as Caliph of Tlemcen, charged with the protection of the city. In retaliation France executed two Moroccans: Mohamed Beliano and Benkirane as spies, while their goods were seized by the military governor of Oran, General Boyer. Hardly had the news of the capture of Algiers reached Paris than Charles X was deposed during the Three Glorious Days of July 1830, and his cousin Louis-Philippe, the "citizen king", was named to preside over a constitutional monarchy. The new government, composed of liberal opponents of the Algiers expedition, was reluctant to pursue the conquest begun by the old regime, but withdrawing from Algeria proved more difficult than conquering it. Characterization as genocide Some governments and scholars have called France's conquest of Algeria a genocide for example, Ben Kiernan an Australian expert on the Cambodian genocide wrote in Blood and Soil: A World History of Genocide and Extermination from Sparta to Darfur on the French conquest of Algeria: By 1875, the French conquest was complete. The war had killed approximately 825,000 indigenous Algerians since 1830. A long shadow of genocidal hatred persisted, provoking a French author to protest in 1882 that in Algeria, "we hear it repeated every day that we must expel the native and if necessary destroy him." As a French statistical journal urged five years late, "the system of extermination must give way to a policy of penetration." -Ben Kiernan, Blood and Soil In response to France's recognition of Armenian Genocide, Turkey accused France of committing genocide against 15% of Algeria's population. Popular revolts against the French occupation Conquest of the Algerian territories under the July Monarchy (1830–1848) On 1 December 1830, King Louis-Philippe named the Duc de Rovigo as head of military staff in Algeria. De Rogivo took control of Bône and initiated colonisation of the land. He was recalled in 1833 due to the overtly violent nature of the repression. Wishing to avoid a conflict with Morocco, Louis-Philippe sent an extraordinary mission to the sultan, mixed with displays of military might, sending war ships to the bay of Tangiers. An ambassador was sent to Sultan Moulay Abderrahmane in February 1832, headed by the Count of Mornay and including the painter Eugène Delacroix. The sultan, however, refused French demands to evacuate Tlemcen. In 1834, France annexed as a colony the occupied areas of Algeria, which had an estimated Muslim population of about two million. Colonial administration in the occupied areas — the so-called (government of the sword) — was placed under a governor general, a high-ranking army officer invested with civil and military jurisdiction, who was responsible to the minister of war. Marshal Bugeaud, who became the first governor-general, headed the conquest. Soon after the conquest of Algiers, the soldier-politician Bertrand Clauzel and others formed a company to acquire agricultural land and, despite official discouragement, to subsidize its settlement by European farmers, triggering a land rush. Clauzel recognized the farming potential of the Mitidja Plain and envisioned the large-scale production there of cotton. As governor-general (1835–36), he used his office to make private investments in land and encouraged army officers and bureaucrats in his administration to do the same. This development created a vested interest among government officials in greater French involvement in Algeria. Commercial interests with influence in the government also began to recognize the prospects for profitable land speculation in expanding the French zone of occupation. They created large agricultural tracts, built factories and businesses, and hired local labor. Among others testimonies, Lieutenant-colonel Lucien de Montagnac wrote on 15 March 1843, in a letter to a friend: All populations who do not accept our conditions must be despoiled. Everything must be seized, devastated, without age or sex distinction: grass must not grow any more where the French army has set foot. Who wants the end wants the means, whatever may say our philanthropists. I personally warn all good soldiers whom I have the honour to lead that if they happen to bring me a living Arab, they will receive a beating with the flat of the saber.... This is how, my dear friend, we must make war against Arabs: kill all men over the age of fifteen, take all their women and children, load them onto naval vessels, send them to the Marquesas Islands or elsewhere. In one word, annihilate all who will not crawl beneath our feet like dogs. Whatever initial misgivings Louis Philippe's government may have had about occupying Algeria, the geopolitical realities of the situation created by the 1830 intervention argued strongly for reinforcing French presence there. France had reason for concern that Britain, which was pledged to maintain the territorial integrity of the Ottoman Empire, would move to fill the vacuum left by a French withdrawal. The French devised elaborate plans for settling the hinterland left by Ottoman provincial authorities in 1830, but their efforts at state-building were unsuccessful on account of lengthy armed resistance. The most successful local opposition immediately after the fall of Algiers was led by Ahmad ibn Muhammad, of Constantine. He initiated a radical overhaul of the Ottoman administration in his by replacing Turkish officials with local leaders, making Arabic the official language, and attempting to reform finances according to the precepts of Islam. After the French failed in several attempts to gain some of the 's territories through negotiation, an ill-fated invasion force, led by Bertrand Clauzel, had to retreat from Constantine in 1836 in humiliation and defeat. However, the French captured Constantine under Sylvain Charles Valée the following year, on 13 October 1837. Historians generally set the indigenous population of Algeria at one and a half million in 1830. Although the Algerian population decreased at some point under French rule, most certainly between 1866 and 1872, the French military was not responsible for the full extent of this decrease, as a fraction of these deaths could be explained by the locust plagues of 1866 and 1868, as well as by a rigorous winter in 1867–68, which caused a famine followed by an epidemic of cholera. Resistance of Lalla Fadhma N'Soumer The French began their occupation of Algiers in 1830, starting with a landing in Algiers. As occupation turned into colonization, Kabylie remained the only region independent of the French government. Pressure on the region increased, and the will of her people to resist and defend Kabylie increased as well. A turning point in Lalla Fadma's life was the arrival in Kabylie, in about 1849, of a mysterious man who presented himself as Mohamed ben Abdallah (the name of the Prophet), but who is more commonly known as Bou Baghla. He was probably an ex-lieutenant in the army of Emir Abdelkader, defeated for the last time by the French in 1847. Bou Baghla refused to surrender at that battle, and retreated to Kabylie. From there he began a war against the French armies and their allies, often employing guerrilla tactics. Bou Baghla was a relentless fighter, and very eloquent in Arabic. He was very religious, and some legends tell about his thaumaturgic skills. Bou Baghla went often to Summer to talk with the high-ranking members of the religious community, and Lalla Fadhma was soon attracted by his strong personality. At the same time, the relentless combatant was attracted by a woman so resolutely willing to contribute, by any means possible, to the war against the French. With her inspiring speeches, she convinced many men to fight as (volunteers ready to die as martyrs) and she herself, together with other women, participated in combat by providing cooking, medicines, and comfort to the fighting forces. Traditional sources tell that a strong bond was formed between Lalla Fadhma and Bou Baghla. She saw this as a wedding of peers, rather than the traditional submission as a slave to a husband. In fact, at that time Bou Baghla left his first wife (Fatima Bent Sidi Aissa) and sent back to her owner a slave he had as a concubine (Halima Bent Messaoud). But on her side, Lalla Fadhma wasn't free: even if she was recognized as ("woman who left her husband to get back to his family", a Kabylie institution), the matrimonial tie with her husband was still in place, and only her husband's will could free her. However he did not agree to, even when offered large bribes. The love between Fadhma and Bou remained platonic, but there were public expressions of this feeling between the two. Fadhma was personally present at many fights in which Bou Baghla was involved, particularly the battle of Tachekkirt won by Bou Baghla forces (18–19 July 1854), where the French General Jacques Louis César Randon was caught but managed to escape later. On 26 December 1854, Bou Baghla was killed; some sources claim it was due to the treason of some of his allies. The resistance remained without a charismatic leader and a commander able to guide it efficiently. For this reason, during the first months of 1855, on a sanctuary built on top of the Azru Nethor peak, not far from the village where Fadhma was born, there was a great council among combatants and important figures of the tribes in Kabylie. They decided to grant Lalla Fadhma, assisted by her brothers, the command of combat. Resistance of Emir Abd al Qadir The French faced other opposition as well in the area. The superior of a religious brotherhood, Muhyi ad Din, who had spent time in Ottoman jails for opposing the bey's rule, launched attacks against the French and their makhzen allies at Oran in 1832. In the same year, jihad was declared and to lead it tribal elders chose Muhyi ad Din's son, twenty-five-year-old Abd al Qadir. Abd al Qadir, who was recognized as Amir al-Muminin (commander of the faithful), quickly gained the support of tribes throughout Algeria. A devout and austere marabout, he was also a cunning political leader and a resourceful warrior. From his capital in Tlemcen, Abd al Qadir set about building a territorial Muslim state based on the communities of the interior but drawing its strength from the tribes and religious brotherhoods. By 1839, he controlled more than two-thirds of Algeria. His government maintained an army and a bureaucracy, collected taxes, supported education, undertook public works, and established agricultural and manufacturing cooperatives to stimulate economic activity. The French in Algiers viewed with concern the success of a Muslim government and the rapid growth of a viable territorial state that barred the extension of European settlement. Abd al Qadir fought running battles across Algeria with French forces, which included units of the Foreign Legion, organized in 1831 for Algerian service. Although his forces were defeated by the French under General Thomas Bugeaud in 1836, Abd al Qadir negotiated a favorable peace treaty the next year. The treaty of Tafna gained conditional recognition for Abd al Qadir's regime by defining the territory under its control and salvaged his prestige among the tribes just as the shaykhs were about to desert him. To provoke new hostilities, the French deliberately broke the treaty in 1839 by occupying Constantine. Abd al Qadir took up the holy war again, destroyed the French settlements on the Mitidja Plain, and at one point advanced to the outskirts of Algiers itself. He struck where the French were weakest and retreated when they advanced against him in greater strength. The government moved from camp to camp with the amir and his army. Gradually, however, superior French resources and manpower and the defection of tribal chieftains took their toll. Reinforcements poured into Algeria after 1840 until Bugeaud had at his disposal 108,000 men, one-third of the French army. One by one, the amir's strongholds fell to the French, and many of his ablest commanders were killed or captured so that by 1843 the Muslim state had collapsed. Abd al Qadir took refuge in 1841 with his ally, the sultan of Morocco, Abd ar Rahman II, and launched raids into Algeria. This alliance led the French Navy to bombard and briefly occupy Essaouira (Mogador) under the Prince de Joinville on August 16, 1844. A French force was destroyed at the Battle of Sidi-Brahim in 1845. However, Abd al Qadir was obliged to surrender to the commander of Oran Province, General Louis de Lamoricière, at the end of 1847. Abd al Qadir was promised safe conduct to Egypt or Palestine if his followers laid down their arms and kept the peace. He accepted these conditions, but the minister of war — who years earlier as general in Algeria had been badly defeated by Abd al Qadir — had him consigned in France in the Château d'Amboise. French rule Demography Hegemony of the A commission of inquiry established by the French Senate in 1892 and headed by former Premier Jules Ferry, an advocate of colonial expansion, recommended that the government abandon a policy that assumed French law, without major modifications, could fit the needs of an area inhabited by close to two million Europeans and four million Muslims. Muslims had no representation in the French National Assembly before 1945 and were grossly under-represented on local councils. Because of the many restrictions imposed by the authorities, by 1915 only 50,000 Muslims were eligible to vote in elections in the civil communes. Attempts to implement even the most modest reforms were blocked or delayed by the local administration in Algeria, dominated by , and by the 27 representatives in the National Assembly (six deputies and three senators from each department). Once elected to the National Assembly, became permanent fixtures. Because of their seniority, they exercised disproportionate influence, and their support was important to any government's survival. The leader of the delegation, Auguste Warnier (1810–1875), succeeded during the 1870s in modifying or introducing legislation to facilitate the private transfer of land to settlers and continue the Algerian state's appropriation of land from the local population and distribution to settlers. Consistent proponents of reform, like Georges Clemenceau and socialist Jean Jaurès, were rare in the National Assembly. The bulk of Algeria's wealth in manufacturing, mining, agriculture, and trade was controlled by the . The modern European-owned and -managed sector of the economy centered on small industry and a highly developed export trade, designed to provide food and raw materials to France in return for capital and consumer goods. Europeans held about 30% of the total arable land, including the bulk of the most fertile land and most of the areas under irrigation. By 1900, Europeans produced more than two-thirds of the value of output in agriculture and practically all agricultural exports. The modern, or European, sector was run on a commercial basis and meshed with the French market system that it supplied with wine, citrus, olives, and vegetables. Nearly half of the value of European-owned real property was in vineyards by 1914. By contrast, subsistence cereal production—supplemented by olive, fig, and date growing and stock raising—formed the basis of the traditional sector, but the land available for cropping was submarginal even for cereals under prevailing traditional cultivation practices. The colonial regime imposed more and higher taxes on Muslims than on Europeans. The Muslims, in addition to paying traditional taxes dating from before the French conquest, also paid new taxes, from which the were normally exempted. In 1909, for instance, Muslims, who made up almost 90% of the population but produced 20% of Algeria's income, paid 70% of direct taxes and 45% of the total taxes collected. And controlled how these revenues would be spent. As a result, towns had handsome municipal buildings, paved streets lined with trees, fountains and statues, while Algerian villages and rural areas benefited little if at all from tax revenues. The colonial regime proved severely detrimental to overall education for Algerian Muslims, who had previously relied on religious schools to learn reading and writing and engage in religious studies. Not only did the state appropriate the habus lands (the religious foundations that constituted the main source of income for religious institutions, including schools) in 1843, but officials refused to allocate enough money to maintain schools and mosques properly and to provide for enough teachers and religious leaders for the growing population. In 1892, more than five times as much was spent for the education of Europeans as for Muslims, who had five times as many children of school age. Because few Muslim teachers were trained, Muslim schools were largely staffed by French teachers. Even a state-operated madrasah (school) often had French faculty members. Attempts to institute bilingual, bicultural schools, intended to bring Muslim and European children together in the classroom, were a conspicuous failure, rejected by both communities and phased out after 1870. According to one estimate, fewer than 5% of Algerian children attended any kind of school in 1870. As late as 1954 only one Muslim boy in five and one girl in sixteen was receiving formal schooling. Efforts were begun by 1890 to educate a small number of Muslims along with European students in the French school system as part of France's "civilizing mission" in Algeria. The curriculum was entirely French and allowed no place for Arabic studies, which were deliberately downgraded even in Muslim schools. Within a generation, a class of well-educated, gallicized Muslims — the (literally, the evolved ones)—had been created. Almost all of the handful of Muslims who accepted French citizenship were ; ironically, this privileged group of Muslims, strongly influenced by French culture and political attitudes, developed a new Algerian self-consciousness. Reporting to the French Senate in 1894, Governor General Jules Cambon wrote that Algeria had "only a dust of people left her." He referred to the destruction of the traditional ruling class that had left Muslims without leaders and had deprived France of (literally, valid go-betweens), through whom to reach the masses of the people. He lamented that no genuine communication was possible between the two communities. The who ran Algeria maintained a dialog only with the . Later they thwarted contact between the and Muslim traditionalists on the one hand and between and official circles in France on the other. They feared and mistrusted the Francophone , who were classified either as assimilationist, insisting on being accepted as Frenchmen but on their own terms, or as integrationists, eager to work as members of a distinct Muslim elite on equal terms with the French. Discrimination Following its conquest of Ottoman-controlled Algeria in 1830, for well over a century, France maintained what was effectively colonial rule in the territory, though the French Constitution of 1848 made Algeria part of France, and Algeria was usually understood as such by French people, even on the Left. Algeria became the prototype for a pattern of French colonial rule that has been described as "quasi-apartheid". When French rule began, France had no well-established systems for intensive colonial governance, the main existing legal provision being the 1685 Code Noir, which focused on slave-trading and owning. From 1830, Algerians were not French citizens, nor did they have a mechanism to become citizens. As French rule in Algeria expanded, particularly under Thomas-Robert Bugeaud (1841–48), discriminatory governance became increasingly formalised. In 1844, Bugeaud formalised a system of European settlements along the coast, under civil government, with Arab/Berber areas in the interior under military governance. An important feature of French rule was cantonnement, whereby tribal land that was supposedly unused was seized by the state, which enabled French colonists to expand their landholdings, pushing indigenous people onto more marginal land and making them more vulnerable to drought; this was extended under the governance of Bugeaud's successor, Jacques Louis Randon. In the 1860s, Napoleon III, influenced by Ismael Urbain, introduced what were intended as liberalising reforms in Algeria, promoting the French colonial model of assimilation, whereby colonised peoples would eventually become French. His reforms were resisted by colonists in Algeria, and his attempts to allow Muslims to be elected to a putative new assembly in Paris failed. However, he oversaw an 1865 decree that "stipulated that all the colonised indigenous were under French jurisdiction, i.e., French nationals subjected to French laws", and allowed Arab, Jewish, and Berber Algerians to request French citizenship—but only if they "renounced their Muslim religion and culture". Azzedine Haddour argues that this established "the formal structures of a political apartheid". Since few people were willing to abandon their religious values (which was seen as apostasy), rather than promoting assimilation, the legislation had the opposite effect: by 1913, only 1,557 Muslims had been granted French citizenship. In 1870, the French government granted Algerian Jews French citizenship under the Crémieux Decree, but not Muslims. This meant that most Algerians were now 'French subjects', treated as the objects of French law, but were not citizens, could not vote, and were effectively without the right to citizenship. (Jewish people's citizenship was revoked by the Vichy government in the early 1940s, but was restored in 1943.) In 1881, the Code de l'indigénat was formally introduced, enabling district officials to issue summary punishments to Muslims without due legal process, and to extract special taxes and forced labour. In 1909, 70% of all direct taxes in Algeria were paid by Muslims, despite their general poverty. Opportunities for Muslims improved slightly from the 1890s, particularly for urban elites, which helped ensure acquiescence to the introduction of military conscription for Muslims in 1911. Despite periodic attempts at partial reform, the situation of the Code de l'indigénat persisted until the French Fourth Republic, which began in 1946, but although Muslim Algerians were accorded the rights of citizenship, the system of discrimination was maintained in more informal ways. Frederick Cooper writes that Muslim Algerians "were still marginalized in their own territory, notably the separate voter roles of "French" civil status and of "Muslim" civil status, to keep their hands on power." This "internal system of apartheid" met with considerable resistance from the Muslims affected by it, and is cited as one of the causes of the 1954 insurrection. Government and administration Initial settling of Algeria (1830–48) In November 1830, French colonial officials attempted to limit the arrivals at Algerian ports by requiring the presentation of passports and residence permits. The regulations created by the French government in May 1831 required permission from the Interior Ministry to enter Algeria and other French controlled territories. This May circular allowed merchants with trading interests easy access to passports because they were not permanent settlers and wealthy persons who planned on founding agricultural enterprises in Algeria were also freely given access to move. The circular forbid the passage of indigents and needy unskilled workers. During the 1840s, the French government assisted certain emigrants to Algeria, who were mostly urban workers from the Paris basin and France's eastern frontier and were not the agricultural workers that the colonial officials wanted to be sent from France. Single men received 68 percent of the free passages and only 14 percent of the emigrants were women because of varying policies about the emigration of families that all favored unaccompanied males who were seen as more flexible and useful for laborious tasks. Initially in November 1840, families were eligible only if they had no small children and two-thirds of the family was able to work. Later, in September 1841, only unaccompanied males could travel to Algeria for free and a complicated system for families was developed that made subsidized travel almost unavailable. These emigrants were offered many different forms of government assistance including free passages (both to the ports of France and by ship to Algeria), wine rations and food, land concessions, and promised high wages. Between 1841 and 1845, about 20,000 individuals were offered this assisted emigration by the French government, though it is unknown exactly how many actually went to Algeria. These measures were funded and supported by the French government (both local officials and national) because they saw the move to Algeria as a solution to overpopulation and unemployment; those who applied for assisted emigration emphasized their work ethics, undeserved employment in France, a presumption of government obligation to the less fortunate. By 1848, Algeria was populated by 109,400 Europeans, only 42,274 of which were French. Colonisation and military control A royal ordinance in 1845 called for three types of administration in Algeria. In areas where Europeans were a substantial part of the population, elected mayors and councils for self-governing "full exercise" communes (). In the "mixed" communes, where Muslims were a large majority, government was in the hands of appointed and some elected officials, including representatives of the (great chieftains) and a French administrator. The indigenous communes (), remote areas not adequately pacified, remained under the (rule of the sword). By 1848 nearly all of northern Algeria was under French control. Important tools of the colonial administration, from this time until their elimination in the 1870s, were the (Arab offices), staffed by Arabists whose function was to collect information on the indigenous people and to carry out administrative functions, nominally in cooperation with the army. The on occasion acted with sympathy to the local population and formed a buffer between Muslims and . Under the , the had been permitted limited self-government in areas where European settlement was most intense, but there was constant friction between them and the army. The charged that the hindered the progress of colonization. They agitated against military rule, complaining that their legal rights were denied under the arbitrary controls imposed on the colony and insisting on a civil administration for Algeria fully integrated with metropolitan France. The army warned that the introduction of civilian government would invite Muslim retaliation and threaten the security of Algeria. The French government vacillated in its policy, yielding small concessions to the colon demands on the one hand while maintaining the régime du sabre to control the Muslim majority on the other. Under the French Second Republic and Second Empire (1848–70) Shortly after Louis Philippe's constitutional monarchy was overthrown in the revolution of 1848, the new government of the Second Republic ended Algeria's status as a colony and declared in the 1848 Constitution the occupied lands an integral part of France. Three civil territories — Alger, Oran, and Constantine — were organized as Departments of France (local administrative units) under a civilian government. This made them a part of France proper as opposed to a colony. For the first time, French citizens in the civil territories elected their own councils and mayors; Muslims had to be appointed, could not hold more than one-third of council seats, and could not serve as mayors or assistant mayors. The administration of territories outside the zones settled by colons remained under the French Army. Local Muslim administration was allowed to continue under the supervision of French Army commanders, charged with maintaining order in newly pacified regions, and the . Theoretically, these areas were closed to European colonization. Land and colonisers Even before the decision was made to annex Algeria, major changes had taken place. In a bargain-hunting frenzy to take over or buy at low prices all manner of property—homes, shops, farms and factories—Europeans poured into Algiers after it fell. French authorities took possession of the lands, from which Ottoman officials had derived income. Over time, as pressures increased to obtain more land for settlement by Europeans, the state seized more categories of land, particularly that used by tribes, religious foundations, and villages. Called either (settlers), Algerians, or later, especially following the 1962 independence of Algeria, (literally, black feet), the European settlers were largely of peasant farmer or working-class origin from the poor southern areas of Italy, Spain, and France. Others were criminal and political deportees from France, transported under sentence in large numbers to Algeria. In the 1840s and 1850s, to encourage settlement in rural areas, official policy was to offer grants of land for a fee and a promise that improvements would be made. A distinction soon developed between the (great settlers) at one end of the scale, often self-made men who had accumulated large estates or built successful businesses, and smallholders and workers at the other end, whose lot was often not much better than that of their Muslim counterparts. According to historian John Ruedy, although by 1848 only 15,000 of the 109,000 European settlers were in rural areas, "by systematically expropriating both pastoralists and farmers, rural colonization was the most important single factor in the destructuring of traditional society." European migration, encouraged during the Second Republic, stimulated the civilian administration to open new land for settlement against the advice of the army. With the advent of the Second Empire in 1852, Napoleon III returned Algeria to military control. In 1858 a separate Ministry of Algerian Affairs was created to supervise administration of the country through a military governor general assisted by a civil minister. Napoleon III visited Algeria twice in the early 1860s. He was profoundly impressed with the nobility and virtue of the tribal chieftains, who appealed to the emperor's romantic nature, and was shocked by the self-serving attitude of the leaders. He decided to halt the expansion of European settlement beyond the coastal zone and to restrict contact between Muslims and the , whom he considered to have a corrupting influence on the indigenous population. He envisioned a grand design for preserving most of Algeria for the Muslims by founding a (Arab kingdom) with himself as the (king of the Arabs). He instituted the so-called politics of the to deal with the Muslims directly through their traditional leaders. To further his plans for the , Napoleon III issued two decrees affecting tribal structure, land tenure, and the legal status of Muslims in French Algeria. The first, promulgated in 1863, was intended to renounce the state's claims to tribal lands and eventually provide private plots to individuals in the tribes, thus dismantling "feudal" structures and protecting the lands from the . Tribal areas were to be identified, delimited into (administrative units), and given over to councils. Arable land was to be divided among members of the over a period of one to three generations, after which it could be bought and sold by the individual owners. Unfortunately for the tribes, however, the plans of Napoleon III quickly unraveled. French officials sympathetic to the colons took much of the tribal land they surveyed into the public domain. In addition, some tribal leaders immediately sold communal lands for quick gains. The process of converting arable land to individual ownership was accelerated to only a few years when laws were enacted in the 1870s stipulating that no sale of land by an individual Muslim could be invalidated by the claim that it was collectively owned. The cudah and other tribal officials, appointed by the French on the basis of their loyalty to France rather than the allegiance owed them by the tribe, lost their credibility as they were drawn into the European orbit, becoming known derisively as . Napoleon III visualized three distinct Algerias: a French colony, an Arab country, and a military camp, each with a distinct form of local government. The second decree, issued in 1865, was designed to recognize the differences in cultural background of the French and the Muslims. As French nationals, Muslims could serve on equal terms in the French armed forces and civil service and could migrate to France proper. They were also granted the protection of French law while retaining the right to adhere to Islamic law in litigation concerning their personal status. But if Muslims wished to become full citizens, they had to accept the full jurisdiction of the French legal code, including laws affecting marriage and inheritance, and reject the authority of the religious courts. In effect, this meant that a Muslim had to renounce some of the mores of his religion in order to become a French citizen. This condition was bitterly resented by Muslims, for whom the only road to political equality was perceived to be apostasy. Over the next century, fewer than 3,000 Muslims chose to cross the barrier and become French citizens. A similar status applied to the Jewish natives. Under the Third Republic (1870–1940) When the Prussians captured Napoleon III at the Battle of Sedan (1870), ending the Second Empire, demonstrations in Algiers by the led to the departure of the just-arrived new governor general and the replacement of the military administration by settler committees. Meanwhile, in France the government of the Third Republic directed one of its ministers, Adolphe Crémieux, "to destroy the military regime ... [and] to completely assimilate Algeria into France." In October 1870, , whose concern with Algerian affairs dated from the time of the Second Republic, issued a series of decrees providing for representation of the Algerian départements in the National Assembly of France and confirming control over local administration. A civilian governor general was made responsible to the Ministry of Interior. The Crémieux Decrees also granted full French citizenship to Algerian Jews, who then numbered about 40,000. This act set them apart from Muslims, in whose eyes they were identified thereafter with the colons. The measure had to be enforced, however, over the objections of the colons, who made little distinction between Muslims and Jews. (Automatic citizenship was subsequently extended in 1889 to children of non-French Europeans born in Algeria unless they specifically rejected it.) The loss of Alsace-Lorraine to Prussia in 1871 after the Franco-Prussian War, led to pressure on the French government to make new land available in Algeria for about 5,000 Alsatian and Lorrainer refugees who were resettled there. During the 1870s, both the amount of European-owned land and the number of settlers were doubled, and tens of thousands of unskilled Muslims, who had been uprooted from their land, wandered into the cities or to colon farming areas in search of work. Comte and colonialism in the Third Republic Kabylie insurrection The most serious native insurrection since the time of Abd al Qadir broke out in 1871 in the Kabylie and spread through much of Algeria. The revolt was triggered by Crémieux's extension of civil (that is, ) authority to previously self-governing tribal reserves and the abrogation of commitments made by the military government, but it had its basis in more long-standing grievances. Since the Crimean War (1854–56), the demand for grain had pushed up the price of Algerian wheat to European levels. Storage silos were emptied when the world market's impact was felt in Algeria, and Muslim farmers sold their grain reserves — including seed grain — to speculators. But the community-owned silos were the fundamental adaptation of a subsistence economy to an unpredictable climate, and a good year's surplus was stored away against a bad year's dearth. When serious drought struck Algeria and grain crops failed in 1866 and for several years following, Muslim areas faced starvation, and with famine came pestilence. It was estimated that 20% of the Muslim population of Constantine died over a three-year period. In 1871 the civil authorities repudiated guarantees made to tribal chieftains by the previous military government for loans to replenish their seed supply. This act alienated even pro-French Muslim leaders, while it undercut their ability to control their people. It was against this background that the stricken Kabyles rose in revolt, following immediately on the mutiny in January 1871 of a squadron of Muslim spahis in the French Army who had been ordered to embark for France. The withdrawal of a large proportion of the army stationed in Algeria to serve in the Franco-Prussian War had weakened France's control of the territory, while reports of defeats undermined French prestige amongst the indigenous population. In the aftermath of the 1871 uprising, French authorities imposed stern measures to punish and control the whole Muslim population. France confiscated more than 5,000 km² of tribal land and placed the Kabylie under a (extraordinary rule), which denied the due process guaranteed French nationals. A special (native code) listed as offenses acts such as insolence and unauthorized assembly not punishable by French law, and the normal jurisdiction of the cudah was sharply restricted. The governor general was empowered to jail suspects for up to five years without trial. The argument was made in defense of these exceptional measures that the French penal code as applied to Frenchmen was too permissive to control Muslims. Some were deported to New Caledonia, see Algerians of the Pacific. Conquest of the southwestern territories In the 1890s, the French administration and military called for the annexation of the Touat, the Gourara and the Tidikelt, a complex that during the period prior to 1890, was part of what was known as blad-es-siba (land of dissidence), those regions that were nominally Moroccan but which were not submitted to the authority of the central government. An armed conflict opposed French 19th Corps Oran and Algiers divisions to the Aït Khabbash, a fraction of the Aït Ounbgui khams of the Aït Atta confederation. The conflict ended by the annexation of the Touat-Gourara-Tidikelt complex by France in 1901. In the 1930s, the Saoura valley and the region of Tindouf were in turn annexed to French Algeria at the expense of Morocco, then under French protectorate since 1912. Conquest of the Sahara The French military expedition, led by Lieutenant-Colonel Paul Flatters, was annihilated by Tuareg attack in 1881. The French took advantage of long-standing animosity between Tuareg and Chaamba Arabs. The newly raised Compagnies Méharistes were originally recruited mainly from the Chaamba nomadic tribe. The Méhariste camel corps provided an effective means of policing the desert. In 1902, Lieutenant Cottenest penetrated Hoggar Mountains and defeated Ahaggar Tuareg in the battle of Tit. During World War II (1940–45) Colonial troops of French Algeria were sent to fight in metropolitan France during the Battle of France in 1940. After the Fall of France, the Third French Republic collapsed and was replaced by the Philippe Pétain's French State, better known as Vichy France. Under the Fourth Republic (1946–58) Many Algerians had fought as French soldiers during the Second World War. Thus Algerian Muslims felt that it was even more unjust that their votes were not equal to those of the other Algerians, especially after 1947 when the Algerian Assembly was created. This assembly was composed of 120 members. Algerian Muslims, representing about 6.85 million people, could designate 50% of the Assembly members, while 1,150,000 non-Muslim Algerians could designate the other half. Moreover, a massacre occurred in Sétif May 8, 1945. It opposed Algerians who were demonstrating for their national claim to the French Army. After skirmishes with Police, Algerians killed about 100 French. The French army retaliated harshly, resulting in the deaths of approximately 6,000 Algerians. This triggered a radicalization of Algerian nationalists and could be considered the beginning of the Algerian War. In 1956, about 512,000 French soldiers were in Algeria. No resolution was imaginable in the short term. An overwhelming majority of French politicians were opposed to the idea of independence while independence was gaining ground in Muslim Algerians' minds. France was deadlocked and the Fourth Republic collapsed over this dispute. Under the Fifth Republic (1958–62) In 1958, Charles de Gaulle's return to power in response to a military coup in Algiers in May was supposed to keep Algeria's status quo as departments of France as hinted by his speeches delivered in Oran and Mostaganem on 6 June 1958, in which he exclaimed " (lit. "Long live French Algeria!"). De Gaulle's republican constitution project was approved through the September 1958 referendum and the Fifth Republic was established the following month with de Gaulle as its president. The latter consented to independence in 1962 after a referendum on Algerian self-determination in January 1961 and despite a subsequent aborted military coup in Algiers led by four French generals in April 1961. Post-colonial relations Relations between post-colonial Algeria and France have remained close throughout the years, although sometimes difficult. In 1962, the Evian Accords peace treaty provided land in the Sahara for the French Army, which it had used under de Gaulle to carry out its first nuclear tests (Gerboise bleue). Many European settlers () living in Algeria and Algerian Jews, who contrary to Algerian Muslims had been granted French citizenship by the Crémieux decrees at the end of the 19th century, were expelled to France where they formed a new community. On the other hand, the issue of the , the Muslims who had fought on the French side during the war, still remained unresolved. Large numbers of were killed in 1962, during the immediate aftermath of the Algerian War, while those who escaped with their families to France have tended to remain an unassimilated refugee community. The present Algerian government continues to refuse to allow and their descendants to return to Algeria. On February 23, 2005, the French law on colonialism was an act passed by the Union for a Popular Movement (UMP) conservative majority, which imposed on high-school (lycée) teachers to teach the "positive values" of colonialism to their students, in particular in North Africa (article 4). The law created a public uproar and opposition from the whole of the left-wing, and was finally repealed by president Jacques Chirac (UMP) at the beginning of 2006, after accusations of historical revisionism from various teachers and historians. Algerians feared that the French law on colonialism would hinder the task of the French in confronting the dark side of their colonial rule in Algeria because article four of the law decreed among other things that "School programmes are to recognise in particular the positive role of the French presence overseas, especially in North Africa." Benjamin Stora, a leading specialist on French Algerian history of colonialism and a pied-noir himself, said "France has never taken on its colonial history. It is a big difference with the Anglo-Saxon countries, where post-colonial studies are now in all the universities. We are phenomenally behind the times." In his opinion, although the historical facts were known to academics, they were not well known by the French public, and this led to a lack of honesty in France over French colonial treatment of the Algerian people. was a slogan used about 1960 by those French people who wanted to keep Algeria ruled by France. Literally “French Algeria,” it means that the three of Algeria were to be considered integral parts of France. By integral parts, it is meant that they have their deputies (representatives) in the French National Assembly, and so on. Further, the people of Algeria who were to be permitted to vote for the deputies would be those who universally accepted French law, rather than sharia (which was used in personal cases among Algerian Muslims under laws dating back to Napoleon III), and such people were predominantly of French origin or Jewish origin. Many who used this slogan were returnees. In Paris, during the perennial traffic jams, adherence to the slogan was indicated by sounding a car horn in the form of four telegraphic dots followed by a dash, as "". Whole choruses of such horn soundings were heard. This was intended to be reminiscent of the Second World War slogan, "V for Victory," which had been three dots followed by a dash. The intention was that the opponents of were to be considered as traitorous as the collaborators with Germany during the Occupation of France. See also List of colonial heads of Algeria History of Algeria History of France French space program International relations (1814–1919) Nationalism and resistance in Algeria Oran Exposition Scramble for Africa List of French possessions and colonies Catholic youth sports associations of French Algeria References Further reading Original text: Library of Congress Country Study of Algeria Aussaresses, Paul. The Battle of the Casbah: Terrorism and Counter-Terrorism in Algeria, 1955–1957. (New York: Enigma Books, 2010) . Bennoune, Mahfoud. The Making of Contemporary Algeria, 1830-1987 (Cambridge University Press, 2002) Gallois, William. A History of Violence in the Early Algerian Colony (2013), On French violence 1830–47 online review Horne, Alistair. A Savage War of Peace: Algeria 1954–1962, (Viking Adult, 1978) Roberts, Sophie B. Sophie B. Roberts. Citizenship and Antisemitism in French Colonial Algeria, 1870-1962. (Cambridge Cambridge University Press, 2017) . Roberts, Stephen A. History Of French Colonial Policy 1870-1925 (2 vol 1929) vol 2 pp 175–268 online ; Cultural History Stora, Benjamin, Jane Marie Todd, and William B. Quandt. Algeria, 1830–2000: A short history (Cornell University Press, 2004) Vandervort, Bruce. "French conquest of Algeria (1830–1847)." in The Encyclopedia of War (2012). In French Patrick Weil, , European University Institute, Florence (on the legal statuses of Muslim populations in Algeria) , 2005, ( Table of contents) Charles-Robert Ageron, , 1979 (a ground-breaking work on the historiography of French colonialism) , 2015, "L'Art & l'Essai" (vol. 15) External links 1940~1962 Newsreel archives about French Algeria (from French National Audiovisiual Institute INA) Benjamin Stora on French Colonialism and Algeria Today! (from French Communist Party's newspaper ) Category:Former colonies in Africa Algeria Algeria Category:19th century in Algeria Category:20th century in Algeria Category:Contemporary French history Algeria Category:1830 establishments in Algeria Category:1962 disestablishments in Algeria Algeria Algeria Category:States and territories established in 1830 Category:States and territories disestablished in 1962 Category:Articles with inconsistent citation formats Category:Former member states of the United Nations	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Wikipedia (en)
Introduction {#S0001} ============ Infected nonunion after open reduction and internal fixation (ORIF) is a major challenge for orthopedic surgeons. If not promptly diagnosed and managed, permanent loss of function, amputation, and even death may result.[@CIT0001] However, in the absence of any reliable method for diagnosing infection prior to nonunion surgery, surgeons cannot accurately discriminate between infected nonunion and aseptic nonunion.[@CIT0008],[@CIT0009] The Association for Osteosynthesis/Association for the Study of Internal Fixation (AO/ASIF) consensus definition of fracture-related infection includes four confirmatory criteria and six suggestive criteria.[@CIT0002] While positive culture of intraoperative specimen remains the gold standard for diagnosis, it is time-consuming and has relatively poor sensitivity.[@CIT0003] Currently, evaluation of inflammatory markers is the first step in a fracture nonunion patient with clinically suspected infection.[@CIT0004] White blood cell (WBC) count, erythrocyte sedimentation rate (ESR), and C-reactive protein (CRP) have traditionally been used as screening tests for infection because of their simplicity and cost-effectiveness.[@CIT0005],[@CIT0006] However, the sensitivity and specificity of these tests have declined in recent years because of the decrease in the number of patients with typical clinical manifestations of infection.[@CIT0004],[@CIT0007] It has therefore become essential to identify additional laboratory tests that can help in preoperative diagnosis. D-dimer---a fibrin degradation product in plasma---was widely used earlier as a diagnostic aid in suspected venous thromboembolism (VTE) and pulmonary embolism (PE), but has now largely been abandoned because of its poor specificity.[@CIT0010]--[@CIT0012] Recently, some studies have shown that systemic and local infections result in increased fibrinolytic activity and raise serum D-dimer levels.[@CIT0013]--[@CIT0016] Different groups have also demonstrated that the D-dimer level is a predictor of poor outcome in sepsis, bacteremia, and periprosthetic joint infection (PJI).[@CIT0017]--[@CIT0019] The aim of this study was to investigate whether the D-dimer level could be used for preoperative diagnosis of infected nonunion after ORIF. Materials and methods {#S0002} ===================== Patients {#S0002-S2001} -------- A total of 108 consecutive patients treated operatively for primary nonunion between March 2016 and December 2018 were screened for eligibility for inclusion in this retrospective study. The inclusion criteria were as follows: 1) patients aged ≥18 years; 2) those with nonunion that required primary operation. Patients were excluded if they 1) had received antibiotics before surgery; 2) had prosthetic heart valve implant or any type of skin ulcer, hematoma, or visible ecchymosis; 3) had history of any hypercoagulation disorder (eg, VTE, PE, or disseminated intravascular coagulation); or 4) had sepsis or infections not involving the fracture site. A total of 66 patients met these criteria and were included for analysis. The patients were separated into two groups as follows: 32 in Group A (revision for infected nonunion) and 34 in Group B (revision for aseptic nonunion). Ethical approval was obtained from the Clinical Research Ethics Committee of The Affiliated Drum Tower Hospital of Nanjing University Medical School. All participants consented to their data being used for research. Data were collected on baseline demographics (ie, sex and age); body mass index, smoking history, the involved location; results of blood tests on admission to hospital (ie, serum D-dimer, WBC count, CRP, and ESR); and blood culture results. To prevent the occurrence of PE, D-dimer is routinely evaluated to diagnose DVT in all patients at admission in our department. The definition of a long-bone nonunion was "radiographic evidence of nonprogression of healing for at least 3 months, or lack of healing by 9 months since the initial injury. Infected nonunion was defined using the AO/ASIF criteria.[@CIT0002] A positive diagnosis of infection was made if the same organism was grown in at least two cultures of the intraoperative sample. Statistical analysis {#S0002-S2002} -------------------- For demographic characteristics, continuous variables are presented as mean ± SD and categorical variables as absolute numbers and proportions. The chi-squared test was used to analyze categorical data, and Student's t-test was used to analyze continuous variables. All laboratory values were summarized as median. The Mann--Whitney U test was used to compare the results between the groups. The optimal threshold value of D-dimer for diagnosis of infected nonunion was determined by calculating the Youden J statistic (J = \[sensitivity + specificity\] -- 1). The sensitivity, specificity, positive predictive value (PPV), and negative predictive value (NPV) of WBC count, CRP, ESR, and D-dimer were calculated. The 95% CIs were calculated according to the efficient-score method.[@CIT0020] All statistical analyses were performed using STATA version 18.0 (SPSS Inc., Chicago, IL, USA). Statistical significance was at p\<0.05. Results {#S0003} ======= A total of 66 patients (9 women and 57 men; mean age, 57.0±11.8 years; age range, 18--71 years) were enrolled in this study. [Table 1](#T0001){ref-type="table"} summarizes the demographic characteristics of patients in the two groups.Table 1Demographics of the two groupsGroup A\ (n=32)Group B\ (n=34)P-valueNo. of women2/307/270.090Age (year, mean ± SD)45.5±14.743.9±12.80.654BMI (kg/m^2^, mean ± SD)23.5±3.823.3±4.10.832Current smoker (yes/no)14/1813/210.649Cancer (yes/no)2/301/330.519Vascular disease (yes/no)3/294/300.753Nonunion site (lower extremity, yes/no)26/627/70.851[^2][^3] Among those with infected nonunion, 13/32 had methicillin-sensitive Staphylococcus aureus infection, 4/32 had methicillin-resistant S aureus infection, 5/32 had Staphylococcus epidermidis infection, 2/32 had Escherichia coli infection, 1/32 had Enterobacter cloacae infection, 1/32 had Enterococcus faecalis infection, 1/32 had Streptococcus mutans infection, and 5/32 had polymicrobial infection. Median serum D-dimer level was significantly higher in the infected nonunion group than in the aseptic nonunion group. Similarly, median ESR and CRP values were also significantly higher in the infected nonunion group than in the aseptic nonunion group. However, the median WBC count was comparable between the two groups. ([Table 2](#T0002){ref-type="table"})Table 2Comparison of blood parameters between two groupsGroup A\ (n=32)Group B\ (n=34)P-valueWBC (10^9^/μL, median)6.86.30.91CRP (mg/L, median)6.63.20.03\ESR (mm/hr, median)15.56.0\<0.001\D-dimer (mg/L, median)2.60.3\<0.001\[^4][^5] [Table 3](#T0003){ref-type="table"} shows the sensitivity and specificity of each of the four tests. WBC count had high specificity (94.1%, 95% CI: 78.94--98.97) but the lowest sensitivity (12.5%, 95% CI: 4.08--29.93). Similarly, CRP and ESR had low sensitivity of 40.6% (95% CI: 24.21--59.21) and 56.3% (95% CI: 37.88--73.16%), respectively, and high specificity of 88.2% (95% CI: 71.61--91.16) and 85.3% (95% CI: 68.17--94.46), respectively. D-dimer (\>1.70 mg/mL) had the most high specificity (75.0%, 95%CI: 56.25--87.87) and better sensitivity (91.2%, 95% CI: 75.19--97.69). Both the PPV and NPV of D-dimer were better than the other three tests.Table 3Performance of laboratory tests in the diagnosis of infected nonunionWBCCRPESRD-dimerFalse positive, n2453True negative, n32302931True positive, n4131824False negative, n2819148Sensitivity (95% CI)12.5% (4.08--29.93)40.6% (24.21--59.21)56.3% (37.88--73.16)75.0% (56.25--87.87)Specificity (95% CI)94.1% (78.94--98.97)88.2% (71.61--91.16)85.3% (68.17--94.46)91.2% (75.19--97.69)PPV (95% CI)66.7% (24.11--94.00)76.5% (49.76--92.18)78.3% (55.79--91.71)88.9% (69.70--97.09)NPV (95% CI)53.3% (40.10--66.14)61.2% (46.24--74.46)67.4% (51.34--80.46)79.5% (63.06--90.13)[^6] Discussion {#S0004} ========== Recently, Gris et al[@CIT0017] reported that elevated serum D-dimer predicts poor outcome in septic shock, and Schwameis et al[@CIT0018] found that the D-dimer level was a predictor of risk of mortality in the very early stages of bacteremia. In addition, Shahi et al[@CIT0019] showed that serum D-dimer was a useful marker of PJI. However, there have been no studies so far on the utility of D-dimer in the diagnosis of infected nonunion. In this study, we demonstrated that serum D-dimer level \>1.70 mg/mL has better sensitivity than the other commonly used laboratory tests---WBC, ESR, and CRP---for diagnosis of infected nonunion. Additionally, the specificity of D-dimer was so high among them. WBC count, CRP, and ESR are the most commonly used markers of inflammation. Changes in these parameters generally indicate the onset of infection. Unfortunately, however, all three tests are affected by factors such as physiological stress, treatment, and trauma.[@CIT0004],[@CIT0021],[@CIT0022] In the present study, we found that WBC count had high specificity (94.1%, 95% CI: 78.94--98.97), but very low sensitivity (12.5%, 95% CI: 4.08--29.93); this finding is consistent with previous studies.[@CIT0007],[@CIT0022] CRP and ESR demonstrated only moderate sensitivities and specificities. D-dimer is a marker of fibrinolysis and was earlier used widely, albeit with disappointing performance, for screening patients for VTE.[@CIT0010]--[@CIT0012] Recently, a number of studies have proposed that serum D-dimer level is an effective serum inflammatory marker with distinct advantages for the detection of systemic inflammation and infection.[@CIT0014],[@CIT0017],[@CIT0018] Kinasewitz et al[@CIT0023] and Deitcher et al[@CIT0024] reported that D-dimer level was a sensitive test for identification of sepsis in intensive care unit patients. Shahi et al[@CIT0019] found that elevated D-dimer level in patients undergoing reimplantation could be an indication of persistent infection. In the present study, patients with infected nonunion had significantly higher serum D-dimer levels than others. D-dimer (\>1.70 mg/mL) had the most high specificity (75.0%, 95%CI: 56.25--87.87) and better sensitivity (91.2%, 95% CI: 75.19--97.69) than the other tests. Disseminated intravascular coagulation, characterized by circulating fibrinogen degradation products, is associated with inflammatory conditions. Coagulation activation results when endothelial damage leads to exposure of blood to extravascular tissue factors.[@CIT0018] Activation of the coagulation cascade is a common and early event in patients with infection, and many of the molecules involved in this process are also important amplifiers of the inflammatory response.[@CIT0025],[@CIT0026] Moreover, D-dimer can itself mediate and enhance the inflammatory response.[@CIT0027] According to Ribera et al,[@CIT0014] D-dimer may help in localizing infecting organisms or inflammatory cells. This present study has several limitations. First, this was a retrospective observational study and some bias is inevitable. Second, the number of patients in each group was relatively small. Prospective studies with larger samples would give more robust evidence. Finally, in contrast to PJI, these standardized protocols tailored to diagnose infected nonunion in patients after ORIF are scarce. The laboratory serum tests have no confirmatory criteria to diagnose infected nonunion, which may influence our results. Conclusion {#S0005} ========== To our knowledge, this study is the first to indicate that serum D-dimer may have value for diagnosis of infection in bone nonunion patients after ORIF. D-dimer level \>1.70 mg/mL appears to provide the optimum balance of sensitivity and specificity for the diagnosis of infected nonunion. However, it must be stressed that diagnosis of infected nonunion should always be based on the combined results of clinical, laboratory, and radiologic evaluations. This work was supported by National Natural Science Foundation of China (Grant no. 81871762). Abbreviation list {#S0006} ================= AO/ASIF, Association for Osteosynthesis/Association for the Study of Internal Fixation; CRP, C-reactive protein; ESR, erythrocyte sedimentation rate; NPV, negative predictive value; ORIF, open induction internal fixation; PE, pulmonary embolism; PPV, positive predictive value; VTE, venous thromboembolism; WBC, white blood cell. Disclosure {#S0007} ========== The authors report no conflicts of interest in this work. [^1]: These authors contributed equally to this work [^2]: Notes:* Group A = infected nonunion; Group B = aseptic nonunion. P\<0.05 indicate significance. [^3]: Abbreviation: BMI, body mass index. [^4]: Notes: Group A = infected nonunion; Group B = aseptic nonunion. \P\<0.05 indicate significance. [^5]: Abbreviations:* WBC, white blood cell; CRP, C-reactive protein; ESR, erythrocyte sedimentation rate. [^6]: Abbreviations: WBC, white blood cell; CRP, C-reactive protein; ESR, erythrocyte sedimentation rate; PPV, positive predictive value; NPV, negative predictive value.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	PubMed Central
Dear Summer Academy alumni and community, We’re writing to you with a bittersweet announcement. After 7 straight years of running our Summer Academy, we’ve decided not to run the Summer Academy in 2019. Simultaneous to the Summer Academy, we’ve spent the past few years building a new college in San Francisco, starting with a Bachelor in Applied Computer Science degree program. The degree program was built in partnership with top tech employers — many of whom successfully hired Summer Academy alumni — and is the first Bachelor’s degree where students pay no tuition until they get a job. Given our recent momentum and milestones in building our college — including strong student outcomes and increased attention from both media and higher ed leaders—we’ve decided to focus our organization on this initiative. We founded the Summer Academy to empower students to learn to build real world software and use it to create new experiences or solve problems in their lives. The program fostered a warm community of students in a collaborative and supportive learning environment. For many of our students, this was the first time they felt a deep sense of belonging. And for others, it was the first time they felt agency to build a better future. Over 1500 students from 50 countries attended the Summer Academy since 2012. Alumni have gone on to start the earliest college hackathons, work at every major tech company, publish key papers on AI research, and be hired as early employees of a billion dollar startup. Many have formed lifelong friendships and continue to support our community to this day. This same ethos drove the creation of our college— an inclusive community of makers empowered to shape the world through technology. We decided to build a college to institutionalize and create an enduring container for this ethos. This new format has even deeper impact on student lives and the potential to expand our reach far further in the long term. Impressively, we’re already seeing other higher education institutions adopting our principles. We’ve been thoughtfully building our college since 2014, but the past year proved to greatly accelerate our vision. We moved into a new building, grew our team to 30 people, and our Bachelor’s degree in Applied Computer Science has been fully accredited. We’re now fortunate to have the remarkable opportunity to reinvent higher education to better serve students as we enter an unprecedented era of technological change. As a young organization, focus is essential in enabling us to serve students in a thoughtful manner. Our recent momentum makes it harder for us to simultaneously design and run our Summer Academy. As a result, we’ve decided to pause our Summer Academy for a year or two until we’re able to dedicate more focus and resources to delivering a top quality educational experience. This decision is not one we made lightly. The Summer Academy has been dear to our hearts for the past 7 years. We owe a huge thank you to all of our students and instructors for believing in us and helping make the program such a wonderful and life changing experience for everyone involved. Finally, we’d love to hear your thoughts on our Bachelor’s degree program and vision to build a new model of college. Don’t hesitate to reach out with your ideas and feedback! Cheers, Ashu and Jeremy Founders, Make School Read this post on Medium.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
1. Introduction {#sec1-ijerph-16-00436} =============== In the United States, place of residence plays an important role in shaping population health. Mortality and morbidity vary greatly across the geographic continuum between urban and rural and for populations residing in metropolitan versus non-metropolitan areas \[[@B1-ijerph-16-00436],[@B2-ijerph-16-00436]\]. Our place of residence influences not only how we live and our health trajectories but also from what we are likely to die \[[@B3-ijerph-16-00436],[@B4-ijerph-16-00436],[@B5-ijerph-16-00436],[@B6-ijerph-16-00436],[@B7-ijerph-16-00436]\]. In particular, in the U.S., age-adjusted mortality rates and percentages of potentially excess deaths from the five leading causes of death are higher for non-metropolitan versus metropolitan areas \[[@B8-ijerph-16-00436]\]. This includes deaths from what some refer to as "diseases of despair"---suicide and drug use \[[@B9-ijerph-16-00436],[@B10-ijerph-16-00436],[@B11-ijerph-16-00436]\]. The noted differences in mortality rates and excess deaths among non-metropolitan and metropolitan communities are geographically influenced by social determinants of health. The places where populations reside differ by demographic, economic, and social characteristics \[[@B8-ijerph-16-00436]\]. Social correlates and determinants of health associated with morbidity and mortality in non-metropolitan areas and rural areas in particular, include: socioeconomic conditions (e.g., poverty levels \[[@B12-ijerph-16-00436],[@B13-ijerph-16-00436]\]; demographic characteristics (e.g., population age structure \[[@B14-ijerph-16-00436]\]); and systemic and access factors (e.g., workforce shortages and service supply inadequacies, facility and service closures \[[@B1-ijerph-16-00436],[@B13-ijerph-16-00436],[@B15-ijerph-16-00436],[@B16-ijerph-16-00436]\]). Moreover, those residing in non-metropolitan areas have poorer mental health; are more likely to smoke, and exhibit obesity; and less likely to be physically active, use seat belts, and possess adequate health insurance \[[@B2-ijerph-16-00436],[@B17-ijerph-16-00436],[@B18-ijerph-16-00436]\] as compared to those residing in metropolitan areas. Such factors and circumstances may increase risks for death. The value of disaggregating non-metropolitan and metropolitan area deaths in illustrating place-based health effects has been demonstrated \[[@B8-ijerph-16-00436]\]. However, whether and how place interacts with social characteristics such as race and ethnicity has been less firmly established, making it important to examine subpopulation differences in distributions of outcome (such as mortality from the leading causes of death). Increasing understanding of the interrelations between place and variables such as race/ethnicity is important because the health related effects of place might not operate the same for all populations. The health statuses, sociodemographic characteristics, and social position of distinct racial/ethnic populations living in the same places may differ vastly and diverge considerably from those of their counterparts living in other areas \[[@B19-ijerph-16-00436]\]. Such differences could amplify or attenuate both racial/ethnic and place-based health disparities, vary the contributions to national level disparities in mortality associated with causes of death, and call for different public health actions to enable optimal health to be accessed regardless of one's residence or race/ethnicity. This paper completes three actions to generate insights regarding patterns of place-related health disparities. We first characterize racial/ethnic variations in mortality associated with the five leading causes of death and in sociodemographic characteristics by rural designation. Next we compare age adjusted mortality rates for non-Hispanic black, American Indian/Alaska Native (AI/AN), Asian/Pacific Islander, and Hispanic populations to those of non-Hispanic white populations in each of 6 rurality designations constituting metropolitan and non-metropolitan areas by calculating absolute disparities. Lastly, we assess the contributions of absolute disparities in mortality rates between non-Hispanic black and non-Hispanic populations residing in different rurality designations to national absolute disparities in age-specific mortality rates in the United States. The methodologies and findings reported may further strengthen rationales for disaggregating geographically organized data; provide insights about variations in health and health disparities existing at intersections of place, age, and race/ethnicity; and promote refinement of methods by which health disparities in the U.S. are defined, understood, and addressed. 2. Methods {#sec2-ijerph-16-00436} ========== To study the sociodemographic characteristics and the mortality rates by rurality, we used the 2013 NCHS urban-rural classification scheme for U.S. counties \[[@B19-ijerph-16-00436]\]. This classification scheme categorizes counties as large central metropolitan (R1), large fringe metropolitan (R2), medium metropolitan (R3), small metropolitan (R4), micropolitan (R5), and noncore or rural (R6). R1 includes counties in metropolitan statistical areas (MSAs) of at least a population of one million that contain the entire population of the largest principal city of the MSA, have their entire population contained in the largest principal city of the MSA, or contain at least 250,000 inhabitants of any principal city of the MSA. R2 includes counties in MSAs of 1 million or more population that did not qualify as large central metro counties. R3 includes counties in MSAs of populations of 250,000 to 999,999. R4 includes counties in MSAs of populations less than 250,000. R5 includes counties in micropolitan statistical areas, and R6 includes non-metropolitan counties that did not qualify as micropolitan. The metro areas in the United States consist of R1, R2, R3, and R4, and non-metro areas consist of R5 and R6. Of the 3143 U.S. counties identified in 2013, a total of 68, 868, 373, 358, 641, and 1325 counties were in R1, R2, R3, R4, R5, and R6 areas respectively and 30.5%, 24.7%, 20.9%, 9.2%, 8.7%, and 6.1% of the U.S. population respectively lived in these areas \[[@B19-ijerph-16-00436]\]. To estimate the sociodemographic characteristics by race and ethnicity in R1, R2, R3, R4, R5, and R6 areas, we used the self-reported data from the combined 2012--2015 annual surveys of the Behavioral Risk Factor Surveillance System (BRFSS). BRFSS is an annual state-based, random-digit--dialed telephone (landline and cell telephone) survey of the noninstitutionalized U.S. population aged ≥18 years. The median weighted survey response rate for all states and DC in 2012--2015 ranged from 45.2% to 47.2%. Detailed information about the BRFSS survey and sample design are available elsewhere \[[@B20-ijerph-16-00436]\]. We obtained a data set that identified county FIP codes in the 2012--2015 BRFSS through a data use agreement and merged it with the BRFSS data to identify the urban-rural classification of the counties. We used the following sociodemographic measures for sociodemographic characteristics: race/ethnicity, age (18--44, 45--64, and ≥65 years), sex, educational attainment (less than high school, high school diploma or General Education Development \[GED\] certificate, some college, or college graduate), marital status (married or not married), household income (\<\$25,000, \$25,000--\$49,999, \$50,000--\$74,999, or ≥\$75,000), employment status (employed or not employed), and U.S. census region (Northeast, Midwest, South, or West) \[[@B21-ijerph-16-00436]\]. Categories for race/ethnicity included non- Hispanic white; non-Hispanic black; and a combined Asian and Native Hawaiian/other Pacific Islander ("Asian and NHOPI") category. The survey data were analyzed using the DESCRIPT procedures in SAS-callable SUDAAN, version 11.0.1 (Research Triangle Institute, Research Triangle Park, NC, USA) that takes into account the complex survey design of the BRFSS, and the sample weights were adjusted for combining four years of BRFSS data. Statistical significance of comparisons between non-Hispanic whites and other population groups was determined with t-test at α = 0.05. We analyzed mortality data using the Web based tool CDC WONDER \[[@B22-ijerph-16-00436]\]. CDC WONDER provides data based on all resident death certificates filed in the 50 states and District of Columbia. We obtained age adjusted mortality rates for non-Hispanic black, non-Hispanic white, American Indian or Alaska Native (non-Hispanic), Asian and Pacific Islander (non-Hispanic), and Hispanic populations for all-cause mortality and for the 5 leading causes of death in the United States: heart disease, malignant neoplasms, chronic lower respiratory disease, cerebrovascular disease, and unintentional injury during 2012--2015. We calculated absolute disparities in age adjusted mortality rates between non-Hispanic white and other race/ethnicity groups using non-Hispanic white as the referent group. Statistical significance of disparities was determined with Z tests at α = 0.05. Next, we developed a method to assess the contribution of deaths between two population groups in each area, R~i~, i = 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, to the absolute disparities in age-specific mortality rates in the U.S. between the two population groups. Let MR~A~ and MR~B~ be the mortality rates for two population subgroups, A and B, and MR~Ai~ and MR~Bi~ be the mortality rates for the two population groups in each area, R~i~, i = 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Then MR~A~ − MR~B~ can be expressed as: $$\left. MR_{A} - MR_{B} = \sum_{i = 1}^{6}(w_{Ai}MR_{Ai} - w_{Bi}MR_{Bi} \right)$$ where w~Ai~ and w~Bi~ are the proportions of the U.S. populations of subgroups A and B residing in R~i~ (e.g., if, hypothetically, 100,000 members of subgroup A reside in R~i~ and there are 1,000,000 members of subgroup A in the U.S., then w~A~~1~ = 0.1) The contribution of deaths between the two population groups A and B for the area R~i~, i = 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, is given by $w_{Ai}MR_{Ai} - w_{Bi}MR_{Bi}$. Note that $w_{Ai}MR_{Ai} - w_{Bi}MR_{Bi}$ could be negative if the number of deaths in R~i~ divided by the U.S. population size for group A is lower than that of group B. We used this method to assess the contribution of deaths between non-Hispanic blacks and non-Hispanic whites in each area, R~i~, for age-specific mortality rates in the U.S. for all-causes and the five leading causes of deaths for age groups 20--44, 45--64, and ≥65. 3. Results {#sec3-ijerph-16-00436} ========== The BRFSS study sample for most variables contained 1,767,768 adult respondents in the 50 states and DC. The sample included the following: 1,431,493 non-Hispanic white (80.98%), 148,560 non-Hispanic black (8.40%), 28,193 AI/AN (1.59%), 120,454 Hispanic (6.81%), and 39,068 Asian and NHOPI (2.21%). [Table 1](#ijerph-16-00436-t001){ref-type="table"}, [Table 2](#ijerph-16-00436-t002){ref-type="table"}, [Table 3](#ijerph-16-00436-t003){ref-type="table"}, [Table 4](#ijerph-16-00436-t004){ref-type="table"}, [Table 5](#ijerph-16-00436-t005){ref-type="table"} and [Table 6](#ijerph-16-00436-t006){ref-type="table"} present social demographic characteristics of adult residents in R1, R2, R3, R4, R5, and R6 areas respectively. Compared with non-Hispanic whites, members of racial/ethnic minority populations tended to be younger in all the areas considered except for AIAN in R5. The residents in metropolitan areas (R1, R2, R3, and R4) tended to be younger than the residents in non-metropolitan areas (R5 and R6). For example, the population aged 18--44 years ranged 39.7% to 43.0% in non-metropolitan areas and 45.4% to 50.7% in metropolitan areas. There were higher percentages of non-Hispanic black females in all the areas except in R3, whereas higher percentages of Hispanic males were in all the areas except in R1 compared with respective non-Hispanic white subpopulations. Higher percentages of non-Hispanic black (62.3% to 71.3%), Hispanic (51.0% to 56.8%), and AI/ANs (54.3% to 62.6 %) were not married compared to non-Hispanic whites (41.0% to 48.4%) in each area. There was considerable variation by rurality designation in the distribution of racial/ethnic minority populations across Census regions. Almost 93.9%, 88.1%, 73.9%, 68.3% and 62.6% of the non-Hispanic black population in R6, R5, R4, R3, and R2 areas respectively, but only 39.4% in R1, lived in the southern region. Around 41%, 40.6%, 42.1%, and 59.1% of Hispanics in R2, R3, R5, and R6 areas respectively lived in the south and 45.1%, 44.0%, and 46.5% of Hispanics in R1, R3, and R4 areas respectively lived in the west. Of AI/AN in R2 and R3, around 45% lived in the South and 43.1% in R4 lived in the west. Of Asians and NHOPIs in R1, R3, and R5, 59.2%, 57.0%, and 50.8% respectively lived in the west. All the racial/ethnic minority groups except for Asians and NHOPI (combined) tended to have lower levels of educational attainment in all the areas compared to respective non-Hispanic white populations. Higher percentages of Hispanics had less than a high school diploma in all the six areas with 40.4%, 33.8%, 38.4%, 38.2%, 40.8%, and 44.2% having less than high school diploma in R1, R2, R3, R4, R5, and R6 respectively compared to non-Hispanic whites with 5.9%, 7.4%, 9.1%, 11.0%, 12.9%, and 15.3%, respectively in corresponding areas. On the other hand, Asians and NHOPI had higher percentages of college graduates (52.5%, 57.4%, 41.8%, 41.2%, 33.9%, and 35.4% in R1, R2, R3, R4, R5, and R6, respectively) compared to corresponding non-Hispanic white populations (39.2%, 32.8%, 27.7%, 23.9%, 19.0%, and 16.0%, respectively). The unemployment percentages for AI/ANs were higher (ranged from 48.3% to 55%) compared to non-Hispanic whites (ranged from 41.7% to 47.7%) in all the areas. Similarly, unemployment percentages for non-Hispanic blacks (ranged from 47.4% to 53.7%) were higher compared to non-Hispanic whites in all the areas except in R2. However, Hispanics, Asians, and NHOPI had either lower or not significantly different unemployment percentages in all the areas compared to non-Hispanic whites. [Table 7](#ijerph-16-00436-t007){ref-type="table"} gives the age-adjusted mortality rates for non-Hispanic white, non-Hispanic black, AIAN, Hispanic and Asian/Pacific Islander (API) populations for all causes and for the five leading causes of death: heart disease, malignant neoplasms, chronic lower respiratory disease, cardiovascular disease, and unintentional injury during 2012--2015 in R1, R2, R3, R4, R5, and R6 areas. For non-Hispanic whites, the age adjusted mortality rates for all causes and the five leading causes of death were higher in non-metropolitan areas compared to metropolitan areas (All comparisons of individual non-metro areas to individual metro areas were significant). For example, the age adjusted mortality rate for all causes for non-Hispanic whites ranged from 705.8 to 777.8 per 100,000 population in metropolitan areas whereas the same rate for non-metropolitan areas ranged from 826.5 to 842.9 per 100,000 population. [Table 8](#ijerph-16-00436-t008){ref-type="table"} provides the absolute disparities in age-adjusted mortality rates for non-Hispanic black, AIAN, Hispanic and API populations compared to non-Hispanic white population in these areas. The age adjusted mortality rates for non-Hispanic blacks were higher compared to non-Hispanic whites for all causes, heart disease, malignant neoplasms, and cerebrovascular disease, but lower for chronic lower respiratory disease and unintentional injury in all the areas. The highest disparity in age adjusted mortality rates for all causes between non-Hispanic blacks and non-Hispanic whites was in R1 (181.7 per 100,000 population) and the lowest was in R2 (64.4 per 100,000 population). The age adjusted mortality rate for AIAN for all causes was higher compared to non-Hispanic whites (with a disparity of 190.4 per 100,000 population) in R6, but significantly lower in R2 (with a disparity of −164.3 per 100,000 population). The age adjusted mortality rates for AI/AN were either lower or had no significant difference compared to the age adjusted mortality rates for non-Hispanic whites in all the areas for heart disease, malignant neoplasms, chronic lower respiratory disease, and cerebrovascular disease, whereas they were higher for unintended injury in all areas except R2. The age-adjusted mortality rates for all causes and the five leading causes of deaths for both APIs and Hispanics were either lower or had no significant difference compared to the age adjusted mortality rates for non-Hispanic whites in all the areas. The largest disparity in age adjusted mortality rates for all causes between APIs and non-Hispanic whites was in R6 (−465.9 per 100,000 population). Similarly, the largest disparity in age adjusted mortality rates for all causes between Hispanics and non-Hispanic whites was also in R6 (−272.4 per 100,000 population). [Table 9](#ijerph-16-00436-t009){ref-type="table"} gives the mortality rates for all causes of death for the non-Hispanic black and non-Hispanic white populations in R1, R2, R3, R4, R5, R6, and in the U.S. for the age groups 20--44, 45--64, and ≥65 during 2012--2015, and the contribution of deaths in the two populations in each area to the disparity in mortality rates between the two populations in the U.S. The mortality rates for the non-Hispanic white and non-Hispanic black populations for all causes for the age group 20--44 in the U.S. were 135.63 and 188.89 per 100,000 population respectively, which resulted in an absolute disparity of 53.26 per 100,000 population between the two populations in the U.S. The contributions from R1, R2, and R3 tended to increase the disparity, whereas the contributions from R4, R5, and R6, tended to decrease the disparity between the two populations. The largest contribution to the disparity in the U.S. was in R1 (56.61). The reason for this is the large proportion of non-Hispanic black population in R1 (42%). The mortality rates for non-Hispanic blacks and non-Hispanic whites for all causes for the age group ≥65 were 4435.3 and 4353.1 per 100,000 population in the U.S. resulting in a disparity of −82.2 between the two population groups. The contribution of deaths from all the areas except from R1 tended to decrease the disparity in mortality rates in the U.S. between the two populations. The disparity in mortality rates between non-Hispanic black and non-Hispanic white populations in R1 for this age group was −58.2 (4381.7--4439.9) per 100,000 population in R1. However, the contribution of this difference in death rates between the two populations in R1 per 100,000 U.S. population was 1000.51. This higher contribution to the disparity in mortality rates from R1 resulted in a small disparity of −82.2 per 100,000 in mortality rates in the U.S. between the two population groups, despite larger disparities in some areas (e.g., R2 where the disparity was −466.4 (3835.2--4301.6). 4. Discussion {#sec4-ijerph-16-00436} ============= We identified variability in mortality for the five leading causes of death and all-cause mortality in the U.S. by rurality and race/ethnicity, when we considered their intersection. For example, looking across all rurality designations and all racial/ethnic populations, heart disease mortality ranged from 77.2 per 100,000 population among APIs in non-fringe metro areas to 247.5 per 100,000 population among non-Hispanic blacks in non-core areas. For malignant neoplasms, the range was from 86 per 100,000 population among APIs in non-core areas to 208.2 per 100,000 population for non-Hispanic blacks in micropolitan areas. However, the data were nevertheless patterned by the individual dimensions of race/ethnicity and rurality, with, for example, non-Hispanic blacks faring consistently worse (regardless of rurality) than the referent group of non-Hispanic whites for three of the five causes (heart disease, malignant neoplasms, and cerebrovascular disease) and Hispanics and APIs faring consistently better than non-Hispanic whites across all five causes. These findings align with cause specific findings reported in the limited comparable literature stratifying mortality data by both race/ethnicity and rurality \[[@B23-ijerph-16-00436],[@B24-ijerph-16-00436]\]. An example of a pattern by rurality broadly consistent with other recent studies is that non-metropolitan areas (micropolitan and non-core) tended to fare worse than metropolitan ones \[[@B1-ijerph-16-00436],[@B8-ijerph-16-00436],[@B13-ijerph-16-00436],[@B25-ijerph-16-00436],[@B26-ijerph-16-00436],[@B27-ijerph-16-00436],[@B28-ijerph-16-00436]\]. When we considered the contribution of rurality to age-specific disparities in all-cause mortality between non- Hispanic blacks and non-Hispanic whites, it was not surprising that, due to the high proportion of non-Hispanic blacks residing there in combination with the elevated black-white disparities occurring there, large central metropolitan areas were the greatest drivers of national disparities. Notably, however, the contributions of rural designation were not uniform across age categories. Our findings suggest that historical patterns of residence determine where health disparities concentrate nationally, whereas place of residence may influence the amounts and kinds of racial/ethnic health disparities observed sub-nationally by rurality. Waves of migration concentrated non-Hispanic blacks in urban areas during the late 1800s and early 1900s \[[@B29-ijerph-16-00436],[@B30-ijerph-16-00436]\]. While this concentration has decreased over time, large proportions of the non-Hispanic black population continue to live in urban areas with insufficient material, physical, and economic resources. These include low-income families unable to relocate as low-skilled, high paying jobs vanished with the shift to a service based economy and as residential segregation practices limited residential mobility \[[@B29-ijerph-16-00436],[@B31-ijerph-16-00436]\]. The latter set of influences situated non-Hispanic Blacks in locations within Metropolitan areas separated from those occupied by non-Hispanic whites. Differences in the past and present conditions of the neighborhoods in which different families were historically concentrated may partially explain our finding regarding the contribution of large central metro areas to the national disparity in all-cause mortality for non-Hispanic black and non-Hispanic white populations. Place-based variations in mortality rates, health status, and health disparities may reflect differences in opportunity structures (e.g., proportion of jobs where workers are likely to remain in poverty despite being employed; equity of access to high quality jobs with adequate benefits and pay), economic patterns (e.g., job growth; unemployment/underemployment), and access factors (e.g., health care access; availability of employer provided health insurance) \[[@B16-ijerph-16-00436],[@B32-ijerph-16-00436],[@B33-ijerph-16-00436],[@B34-ijerph-16-00436]\]. Such contextual differences create resource, capital, and institutional access inequities that have greater consequences for health for some racial/ethnic populations than others \[[@B16-ijerph-16-00436],[@B32-ijerph-16-00436],[@B33-ijerph-16-00436],[@B34-ijerph-16-00436]\]. This creates situations where mortality rates for the same racial/ethnic population and their positioning relative to those of other populations can differ vastly depending on geography. Differences in contextual factors may also explain variations in compositional factors linked to mortality and disparity differences. Contextual influences such as migration and job growth patterns influence which populations locate and remain in specific areas and their chances to satisfy their needs. Therefore, the varying proportions of persons of different race/ethnicities with household incomes below the Federal Poverty Threshold, some college education or a college degree, or a regular source of health care reported here and elsewhere may arise from place-based differences in economic, educational, or health opportunities \[[@B32-ijerph-16-00436],[@B35-ijerph-16-00436]\]. Examinations of health disparities involving different levels of rurality often occur at the national level, with rural areas often to urban areas without regard to the full continuum of rurality. One element frequently ignored is that, beyond purely geographic disparities, different areas may show different racial/ethnic disparities and provide substantially different contributions to national disparities. In the present analysis, we considered a fuller continuum of rurality and compared racial and ethnic populations. It is has been noted that urban areas should be a focus of much interest because the largest proportion of the U.S. population resides in urban areas. Yet, to our knowledge, this assumption has not considered in light of patterns of health disparities by rurality. The methodology articulated in this paper provides a means to quantify differences in the contributions of different geographic locales to overall patterns of health disparities for the nation. In this first use of this methodology, using all-cause mortality as an example, the largest contribution to national level disparities between non-Hispanic whites and non-Hispanic blacks (considered on the absolute scale) was, in fact, provided by large central metropolitan areas. Our analysis also shows that, while urban areas consistently are a location of notable divergences in mortality between non-Hispanic whites and non-Hispanic blacks, these divergences occur across all levels of geography. Our results suggest that the greatest gains in decreasing black-white disparities in health at the national level may be obtainable by addressing health determinants responsible for between group variations in the health of those residing in large central metropolitan areas. However, this does not obviate the need to address social determinants responsible for disparities in other places. The specific social factors to which disparities may be attributed are likely to differ across the continuum of rurality. 5. Limitations and Practical Implications {#sec5-ijerph-16-00436} ========================================= The findings in this report are subject to several limitations. First, although the Office of Management and Budget data standards separate categories for NHOPIs and Asians \[[@B36-ijerph-16-00436]\] these groups were combined here because of small numbers of decedents in some geographies. Collapsing categories in this manner allowed data for these decedents to be used but did not allow characterization of the unique and relative circumstances of NHOPIs and Asians individually. Second, the combined category for NHOPIs and Asians may represent something different in our BRFSS findings versus our mortality findings from CDC Wonder. Third, adjustments for possible racial and ethnic misclassifications, which have been shown to be a key consideration for some racial and ethnic populations (e.g., Hispanics and American Indians \[[@B37-ijerph-16-00436],[@B38-ijerph-16-00436]\]), were not attempted. All-cause mortality was used for demonstrative purposes---to illustrate the usefulness of our methodology for assessing the comparative contribution (by geographic area) of deaths within two population groups to absolute disparities in age-specific mortality rates observed at the national level. However, the presented methodology can be extended in several ways. For example, it could be used to examine patterns of disparity contributions for specific causes of death and, potentially, for key sources of morbidity. Analyses of other specific causes of morbidity and mortality could reveal differing contribution patterns for various combinations of age, race/ethnicity, and rurality. For the sake of simplicity, we limited our geographically structured analyses to mortality rates for all causes of death for only the non-Hispanic black and non-Hispanic white populations. However, the methodology can be extended to other racial/ethnic populations and to populations demarcated by other socially significant characteristics (e.g., socioeconomic status, gender, sexual orientation, etc.). Lastly, the methodology can be applied to other elements of relevant geographic hierarchies (e.g., counties, states, regions, etc.). While the current paper examined disparities in mortality for the U.S. as a nation, it may be particularly informative to examine disparities by rurality and race/ethnicity (considered jointly) for more granular geographic entities such as regions, divisions, or states (where feasible and appropriate). Such analyses could suggest new directions for efforts to more fruitfully and specifically address the varying role of place in the social patterning of health and health disparities. 6. Conclusions {#sec6-ijerph-16-00436} ============== This report documents and extends epidemiologic descriptions of mortality disparities existing at intersections between place and race/ethnicity. This opens the door for work to identify and address the unique and shared factors underlying these differences and disparities. Specific attention to the interplay of social and individual determinants of health over time, as health is shaped by the structures and social ecologies of different places is warranted. Such research could identify place-specific conditions influencing how race/ethnicity is experienced and operates in expanding or limiting health opportunities. Moreover, characterizing social processes creating different population health trajectories is essential to address the effects of forces for which rural and urban categories and sub-categories may be proxies (e.g., state and local political, economic, and health infrastructures, policies, and practices; neighborhood, school, and workplace conditions; risk exposure levels etc.). This in turn, could suggest interventions to alter context specific factors driving racial/ethnic disparities in the leading causes of death that are more potent and relevant than current practice. The findings and conclusions in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent the official position of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Conceptualization, J.E.H., R.M., K.B. and A.P.-A.; Formal analysis, R.M.; Methodology, R.M.; Writing---original draft, J.E.H., R.M., Karen Bouye and A.P.-A.; Writing---review & editing, J.E.H., Karen Bouye and A.P.-A. This research received no external funding. The authors declare no conflict of interest. ijerph-16-00436-t001_Table 1 ###### Sociodemographic characteristics of rural dwelling adults \* by race and ethnicity: Behavioral Risk Factor Surveillance System, United States, 2012--2015. Sociodemographic Characteristic Black, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) White, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) Hispanic % (95% CI) Asian or NHOPI, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) AIAN, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) Total --------------------------------- -------------------------------- -------------------------------- ----------------------- ----------------------------------------- ------------------------------- ------------------- Age (years) 18--44 43.7 ^†^ (42.0, 45.4) 36.9 (36.5, 37.4) 66.0 ^†^ (63.9, 68.1) 60.5 ^†^ (51.4, 68.9) 49.2 ^†^ (46.9, 51.6) 39.7 (39.2, 40.1) 45--64 38.9 (37.4, 40.4) 37.4 (37.0,37.8) 25.3 ^†^ (23.5, 27.3) 32.0 (23.5, 41.9) 37.0 (34.8, 39.3) 36.7 (36.3, 37.1) 65+ 17.4 ^†^ (16.4, 18.4) 25.7 (25.4, 25.7) 8.6 ^†^ (7.6, 9.7) 7.5 ^†^ (5.3, 10.6) 13.7 ^†^ (12.4, 15.1) 23.6 (23.3, 23.9) Sex Male 45.9 ^†^ (44.3, 47.6) 48.4 (48.0, 48.9) 54.7 ^†^ (52.4, 57.0) 50.2 (41.8, 58.5) 48.8 (46.4, 51.2) 48.6 (48.2, 49.0) Female 54.1 ^†^ (52.4, 55.7) 51.6 (51.1, 52.0) 45.3 ^†^ (43.0, 47.6) 49.8 (41.5, 58.2) 51.2 (48.8, 53.6) 51.4 (50.9, 51.8) Marital status Not married 68.1 ^†^ (66.6, 69.5) 41.0 (40.5, 41.4) 51.0 ^†^ (48.6, 53.4) 43.8 (35.9, 52.0) 61.1 ^†^ (58.9, 63.4) 44.3 (43.9, 44.7) Married 31.9 ^†^ (30.5, 33.4) 59.0 (58.6, 59.5) 49.0 ^†^ (46.6, 51.4) 56.2 (48.0, 64.0) 38.8 ^†^ (36.6, 41.1) 55.7 (55.2, 56.1) Educational attainment \<High School 28.3 ^†^ (26.8, 29.9) 15.3 (14.9, 15.7) 44.2 ^†^ (41.8, 46.6) 25.9 (23.7, 28.3) ^†^ 18.3 (18.0, 18.7) High School diploma/GED 40.1 ^†^ (38.5, 41.7) 37.7 (37.3, 38.1) 31.4 ^†^ (29.3, 33.6) 29.1 ^†^ (22.3, 37.0) 35.9 (33.7, 38.2) 37.4 (37.0, 37.8) Some college 23.1 ^†^ (21.8, 24.5) 31.0 (30.6, 31.4) 18.2 ^†^ (16.5, 20.0) 22.7 ^†^ (17.3, 29.2) 29.6 (27.5, 31.9) 29.5 (29.1, 29.8) College graduate 8.4 ^†^ (7.8, 9.1) 16.0 (15.8, 16.3) 6.2 ^†^ (5.4, 7.1) 35.4 ^†^ (28.2, 43.3) 8.5 ^†^ (7.5, 9.6) 14.8 (14.5, 15.0) Annual household income \<\$25,000 61.8 ^†^ (60.1, 63.6) 31.8 (31.3, 32.2) 53.1 ^†^ (50.5, 55.7) 28.6 (21.6, 36.7) 56.3 ^†^ (53.7, 58.9) 36.1 (35.7, 36.5) \$25,000--\$49,999 25.2 ^†^ (23.7, 26.8) 30.7 (30.2, 31.1) 27.7 ^†^ (25.5, 30.0) 25.6 (18.7, 34.0) 25.1 ^†^ (23.0, 27.4) 29.9 (29.5, 30.3) \$50,000--\$74,999 7.4 ^†^ (6.5, 8.4) 16.8 (16.5, 17.2) 10.6 ^†^ (9.0, 12.5) 9.6 ^†^ (8.0, 11.5) 15.5 (15.2, 15.8) ≥\$75,000 5.5 ^†^ (4.9, 6.3) 20.7 (20.3, 21.1) 8.6 ^†^ (7.2, 10.2) 28.5 (20.6, 38.0) 8.9 ^†^ (7.8, 10.3) 18.5 (18.2, 18.9) Employment status Not employed 53.7 ^†^ (52.1, 55.4) 47.7 (47.2, 48.1) 38.9 ^†^ (36.6, 41.2) 34.8 ^†^ (27.9, 42.3) 55.0 ^†^ (52.6, 57.4) 47.8 (47.3, 48.2) Employed 46.3 ^†^ (44.6, 47.9) 52.3 (51.9, 52.7) 61.1 ^†^ (58.8, 63.4) 65.2 ^†^ (57.7, 72.1) 45.0 ^†^ (42.6, 47.4) 52.2 (51.8, 52.6) Census Region Northeast 1.2 ^†^ (0.8, 1.8) 9.3 (9.1, 9.6) 3.1 ^†^ (2.3, 4.3) 8.8 (5.5, 13.9) 4.3 ^†^ (3.2, 5.8) 8.1 (7.9, 8.4) Midwest 4.0 ^†^ (3.3, 4.8) 36.6 (36.2, 37.0) 14.9 ^†^ (13.5, 16.4) 25.5 ^†^ (20.1, 31.8) 24.9 ^†^ (23.1, 26.9) 32.3 (31.9, 32.6) South 93.9 ^†^ (92.7, 94.8) 43.9 (43.5, 44.3) 59.1 ^†^ (56.8, 61.3) 37.0 (29.6, 45.2) 32.5 ^†^ (30.3, 34.9) 48.6 (48.2, 49.0) West 1.0 ^†^ (0.6, 1.7) 10.1 (9.9, 10.4) 22.9 ^†^ (21.2, 24.7) 28.6 ^†^ (20.3, 38.7) 38.2 ^†^ (36.0, 40.5) 11.0 (10.7, 11.2) Abbreviations: CI = Confidence Interval. NHOPI = Native Hawaiian or other Pacific Islander. AIAN = American Indian/Alaska Native. \* Adults were defined as persons aged ≥18 years. ^†^ t-test p \< 0.05 for significant difference between non-Hispanic white respondents and respondents in another racial/ethnic category. Estimates not reported due to relative standard error \>30%. ijerph-16-00436-t002_Table 2 ###### Sociodemographic characteristics of micropolitan dwelling adults \* by race and ethnicity: Behavioral Risk Factor Surveillance System, United States, 2012--2015. Sociodemographic Characteristic Black, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) White, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) Hispanic % (95% CI) Asian or NHOPI, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) AIAN, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) Total --------------------------------- -------------------------------- -------------------------------- ----------------------- ----------------------------------------- ------------------------------- -------------------- Age (years) 18--44 50.0 ^†^ (48.4, 51.5) 39.7 (39.3, 40.2) 66.5 ^†^ (64.9, 68.0) 58.7 ^†^ (54.3, 63.0) 47.1 ^†^ (44.6, 49.6) 43.0 (42.6, 43.4) 45--64 35.6 (34.2, 37.0) 36.3 (36.0, 36.7) 25.1 ^†^ (23.7, 26.4) 27.3 ^†^ (23.6, 31.4) 38.0 (35.6, 40.4) 35.3 (35.0, 35.6) 65+ 14.4 ^†^ (13.6, 15.3) 23.9 (23.7, 24.2) 8.5 ^†^ (7.7, 9.3) 13.9 ^†^ (11.1, 17.3) 14.9 ^†^ (13.4, 16.6) 21.7 (21.5, 22.0) Sex Male 46.2 ^†^ (44.6, 47.8) 48.8 (48.4, 49.2) 52.5 ^†^ (50.8, 54.2) 46.8 (42.4, 51.2) 49.1 (46.6, 51.6) 48.9 (48.5, 49.3) Female 53.8 ^†^ (52.2, 55.4) 51.2 (50.8, 51.6) 47.5 ^†^ (45.8, 49.2) 53.2 (48.8, 57.6) 50.9 (48.4, 53.4) 51.1 (50.7, 51.5) Marital status Not married 67.9 ^†^ (66.6, 69.5) 42.6 (42.2, 43.0) 51.6 ^†^ (49.8, 53.3) 48.8 ^†^ (35.9, 52.0) 60.5 ^†^ (58.9, 63.4) 45.6 (45.2, 446.0) Married 32.1 ^†^ (30.6, 33.5) 57.4 (57.0, 57.8) 48.4 ^†^ (46.7, 50.2) 51.2 ^†^ (46.8, 55.6) 39.5 ^†^ (37.1, 41.9) 54.4 (54.0, 54.8) Educational attainment \<High School 24.4 ^†^ (23.0, 25.9) 12.9 (12.6, 13.2) 40.8 ^†^ (39.0, 42.6) 8.6 ^†^ (6.2, 11.8) 24.7 ^†^ (22.4, 27.2) 16.1 (15.8, 16.5) High School diploma/GED 36.6 (35.1, 38.1) 35.6 (35.2, 36.0) 30.0 ^†^ (28.5, 31.5) 26.8 ^†^ (22.9, 31.0) 36.6 (34.2, 38.9) 35.2 (34.8, 35.5) Some college 28.6 ^†^ (27.2, 30.1) 32.5 (32.1, 32.9) 21.9 ^†^ (20.6, 23.4) 30.7 (26.9, 34.9) 29.5 ^†^ (27.3, 31.9) 31.3 (30.9, 31.6) College graduate 10.4 ^†^ (9.8, 11.2) 19.0 (18.7, 19.2) 7.3 ^†^ (6.7, 8.0) 33.9 ^†^ (29.9, 38.1) 9.1 ^†^ (8.2, 10.2) 17.4 (17.2, 17.7) Annual household income \<\$25,000 59.6 ^†^ (57.9, 61.3) 29.3 (28.9, 29.7) 51.8 ^†^ (50.0, 53.7) 31.1 (27.2, 35.3) 53.4 ^†^ (50.7, 56.0) 33.7 (33.4, 34.1) \$25,000--\$49,999 23.9 ^†^ (22.5, 25.3) 28.9 (28.5, 29.3) 28.6 (26.9, 30.3) 31.0 (26.1, 36.3) 25.6 ^†^ (23.4, 27.9) 28.5 (28.1, 28.9) \$50,000--\$74,999 8.3 ^†^ (7.3, 9.4) 17.8 (17.5, 18.1) 10.2 ^†^ (9.0, 11.5) 13.3 ^†^ (10.8, 16.2) 10.3 ^†^ (8.7, 12.1) 16.3 (16.0, 16.6) ≥\$75,000 8.2 ^†^ (7.3, 9.2) 24.0 (23.6, 24.3) 9.4 ^†^ (8.4, 10.5) 24.6 (20.7, 29.0) 10.8 ^†^ (9.2, 12.7) 21.5 (21.1, 21.8) Employment status Not employed 52.8 ^†^ (51.2, 54.4) 46.4 (46.0, 46.8) 40.8 ^†^ (39.1, 42.5) 43.7 (39.3, 48.3) 51.4 ^†^ (48.9, 53.9) 46.5 (46.1, 46.8) Employed 47.2 ^†^ (45.6, 48.8) 53.6 (53.2, 54.0) 59.2 ^†^ (57.5, 60.9) 56.3 (51.7, 60.7) 48.6 ^†^ (46.1, 51.1) 53.5 (53.2, 53.9) Census Region Northeast 2.3 ^†^ (1.8, 3.0) 14.4 (14.1, 14.7) 4.4 ^†^ (3.6, 5.5) 8.0 ^†^ (5.8, 10.9) 5.1 ^†^ (4.0, 6.5) 12.5 (12.2, 12.8) Midwest 7.5 ^†^ (6.7, 8.4) 36.5 (36.1, 36.8) 17.7 ^†^ (16.6, 18.9) 19.9 ^†^ (16.9, 23.3) 17.3 ^†^ (15.4, 19.3) 32.3 (32.0, 32.6) South 88.1 ^†^ (86.9, 89.2) 34.1 (33.7, 34.5) 42.1 ^†^ (40.3, 43.9) 21.3 ^†^ (17.9, 25.0) 39.7 ^†^ (37.3, 42.3) 38.7 (38.3, 39.0) West 2.1 ^†^ (1.6, 2.8) 15.0 (14.7, 15.2) 35.8 ^†^ (34.3, 37.3) 50.8 ^†^ (46.4, 55.2) 37.9 ^†^ (35.7, 40.2) 16.6 (16.3, 16.8) Abbreviations: CI = Confidence Interval. NHOPI = Native Hawaiian or other Pacific Islander. AIAN = American Indian/Alaska Native. \* Adults were defined as persons aged ≥18 years. ^†^ t-test p \< 0.05 for significant difference between non-Hispanic white respondents and respondents in another racial/ethnic category. Estimates not reported due to relative standard error \>30%. ijerph-16-00436-t003_Table 3 ###### Sociodemographic characteristics of small metropolitan dwelling adults \* by race and ethnicity: Behavioral Risk Factor Surveillance System, United States, 2012--2015. Sociodemographic Characteristic Black, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) White, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) Hispanic % (95% CI) Asian or NHOPI, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) AIAN, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) Total --------------------------------- -------------------------------- -------------------------------- ----------------------- ----------------------------------------- ------------------------------- ------------------- Age (years) 18-44 52.9 ^†^ (51.4, 54.5) 41.5 (41.1, 41.9) 66.6 ^†^ (65.1, 68.1) 69.5 ^†^ (66.4, 72.4) 51.5 ^†^ (48.4, 54.5) 45.6 (45.2, 46.0) 45-64 33.5 ^†^ (32.2, 34.9) 35.0 (34.6, 35.4) 25.3 ^†^ (24.0, 26.7) 21.3 ^†^ (18.8, 24.0) 35.9 (33.1, 38.9) 33.7 (33.3, 34.0) 65+ 13.5 ^†^ (12.7, 14.4) 23.5 (23.2, 23.8) 8.1 ^†^ (7.4, 9.0) 9.2 ^†^ (7.6, 11.1) 12.6 ^†^ (11.0, 14.4) 20.7 (20.5, 21.0) Sex Male 47.8 (46.2, 49.3) 48.7 (48.3, 49.1) 50.6 ^†^ (48.9, 52.3) 49.0 (45.5, 52.5) 52.3 ^†^ (49.2, 55.4) 48.9 (48.5, 49.3) Female 52.2 (50.7, 53.8) 51.3 (50.9, 51.7) 49.4^†^ (47.7, 51.1) 51.0 (47.5, 54.5) 47.7 (44.6, 50.8) 51.1 (50.7, 51.5) Marital status Not married 68.1 ^†^ (66.7, 69.5) 44.1 (43.7, 44.5) 52.3 ^†^ (50.7, 54.0) 50.0 ^†^ (46.5, 53.6) 62.6 ^†^ (59.6, 65.6) 47.3 (46.9, 47.7) Married 31.9 ^†^ (30.5, 33.3) 55.9 (55.5, 56.3) 47.7 ^†^ (46.0, 49.3) 50.0 ^†^ (46.4, 53.5) 37.4 ^†^ (34.4, 40.4) 52.7 (52.3, 53.1) Educational attainment \<High School 19.1 ^†^ (17.8, 20.4) 11.0 (10.7, 11.4) 38.2 ^†^ (36.5, 39.9) 6.5 ^†^ (4.8, 8.9) 23.8 ^†^ (20.9, 26.9) 14.4 (14.1, 14.8) High School diploma/GED 36.3 ^†^ (34.8, 37.9) 31.9 (31.5, 32.3) 28.2 ^†^ (26.8, 29.6) 20.5 ^†^ (17.8, 23.4) 35.8 ^†^ (32.9, 38.8) 31.8 (31.4, 32.2) Some college 31.4 ^†^ (29.9, 32.8) 33.2 (32.8, 33.6) 24.8 ^†^ (23.3, 26.3) 31.8 (28.3, 35.4) 30.1 ^†^ (27.4, 33.0) 32.2 (31.8, 32.5) College graduate 13.2 ^†^ (12.4, 14.1) 23.9 (23.6, 24.2) 8.8 ^†^ (8.2, 9.5) 41.2 ^†^ (37.9, 44.6) 10.3 ^†^ (9.0, 11.7) 21.6 (21.4, 21.9) Annual household income \<\$25,000 52.1 ^†^ (50.4, 53.8) 26.9 (26.5, 27.3) 51.6 ^†^ (49.8, 53.5) 29.6 (26.2, 33.3) 49.9 ^†^ (46.7, 53.2) 31.8 (31.4, 32.3) \$25,000--\$49,999 26.2 (24.7, 27.7) 27.5 (27.1, 27.9) 27.0 (25.4, 28.7) 28.1 (24.7, 31.8) 28.2 (25.2, 31.4) 27.3 (26.9, 27.7) \$50,000--\$74,999 9.9 ^†^ (8.9, 11.0) 17.8 (17.4, 18.1) 9.3 ^†^ (8.3, 10.4) 13.2 ^†^ (10.8, 16.0) 9.9 ^†^ (8.2, 11.8) 16.1 (15.8, 16.4) ≥\$75,000 11.8 ^†^ (10.7, 13.0) 27.9 (27.5, 28.3) 12.0 ^†^ (10.9, 13.2) 29.1 (25.9, 32.5) 12.0 ^†^ (10.1, 14.2) 24.7 (24.4, 25.1) Employment status Not employed 48.1 ^†^ (46.5, 49.6) 45.8 (45.4, 46.3) 41.3 ^†^ (39.7, 43.0) 45.0 (41.4, 48.5) 53.4 ^†^ (50.3, 56.5) 45.7 (45.3, 46.1) Employed 51.9 ^†^ (50.4, 53.5) 54.2 (53.7, 54.6) 58.7 ^†^ (57.0, 60.3) 55.0 (51.5, 58.6) 46.6 ^†^ (43.5, 49.7) 54.3 (53.9, 54.7) Census Region Northeast 4.7 ^†^ (4.0, 5.4) 12.8 (12.5, 13.1) 6.4 ^†^ (5.6, 7.3) 8.0 ^†^ (6.4, 10.0) 6.1 ^†^ (4.8, 7.6) 11.3 (11.0, 11.5) Midwest 18.7 ^†^ (17.4, 20.1) 31.7 (31.4, 32.1) 13.1 ^†^ (12.1, 14.2) 32.6 (29.4, 35.9) 21.3 ^†^ (19.0, 23.8) 28.7 (28.4, 29.0) South 73.9 ^†^ (72.4, 75.3) 37.0 (36.6, 37.4) 34.0 ^†^ (32.3, 35.7) 26.0 ^†^ (22.9, 29.3) 29.6 ^†^ (26.6, 32.7) 39.7 (39.3, 40.0) West 2.8 ^†^ (2.2, 3.4) 18.5 (18.2, 18.7) 46.5 ^†^ (44.8, 48.1) 33.5 ^†^ (30.2, 36.9) 43.1 ^†^ (40.1, 46.1) 20.4 (20.1, 20.7) Abbreviations: CI = Confidence Interval. NHOPI = Native Hawaiian or other Pacific Islander. AIAN = American Indian/Alaska Native. \Adults were defined as persons aged ≥18 years. ^†^ t-test p* \< 0.05 for significant difference between non-Hispanic white respondents and respondents in another racial/ethnic category. Estimates not reported due to relative standard error \>30%. ijerph-16-00436-t004_Table 4 ###### Sociodemographic characteristics of medium metropolitan dwelling adults \* by race and ethnicity: Behavioral Risk Factor Surveillance System, United States, 2012--2015. Sociodemographic Characteristic Black, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) White, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) Hispanic % (95% CI) Asian or NHOPI, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) AIAN, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) Total --------------------------------- -------------------------------- -------------------------------- ----------------------- ----------------------------------------- ------------------------------- ------------------- Age (years) 18--44 54.4 ^†^ (53.4, 55.3) 40.5 (40.2, 40.8) 65.4 ^†^ (64.5, 66.3) 58.7 ^†^ (56.6, 80.8) 50.6 ^†^ (48.1, 53.2) 46.5 (46.2, 46.8) 45--64 32.7 ^†^ (31.9, 33.6) 36.2 (35.9, 36.5) 26.3 ^†^ (25.5, 27.1) 28.5 ^†^ (26.7, 30.4) 34.5 (32.2, 36.9) 34.0 (33.7, 34.3) 65+ 12.9 ^†^ (12.4, 13.4) 23.3 (23.1, 23.5) 8.3 ^†^ (7.9, 8.7) 12.8 ^†^ (11.4, 14.3) 14.8 ^†^ (13.3, 16.5) 19.5 (19.3, 19.7) Sex Male 46.7 ^†^ (45.7, 47.7) 48.3 (48.0, 48.6) 50.7 ^†^ (49.7, 51.6) 50.4 (48.3, 52.5) 49.4 (46.8, 51.9) 48.6 (48.3, 48.9) Female 53.3 ^†^ (52.3, 54.3) 51.7 (51.4, 52.0) 49.3 ^†^ (48.4, 50.3) 49.6 (47.5, 51.7) 50.6 (48.1, 53.2) 51.4 (51.1, 51.7) Marital status Not married 69.1 ^†^ (68.2, 69.9) 43.8 (43.5, 44.1) 54.3 ^†^ (53.3, 55.3) 44.8 (42.7, 46.9) 58.2 ^†^ (55.6, 60.7) 48.2 (47.9, 48.5) Married 30.9 ^†^ (30.1, 31.8) 56.2 (55.9, 56.5) 45.7 ^†^ (44.7, 46.7) 55.2 (53.1, 57.3) 41.8 ^†^ (39.3, 44.4) 51.8 (51.5, 52.1) Educational attainment \<High School 17.9 ^†^ (17.0, 18.8) 9.1 (8.9, 9.3) 38.4 ^†^ (37.4, 39.4) 7.2 ^†^ (6.0, 8.7) 21.7 ^†^ (19.3, 24.3) 14.6 (14.3, 14.8) High School diploma/GED 33.5 ^†^ (32.6, 34.4) 29.5 (29.2, 29.8) 27.4 ^†^ (26.6, 28.3) 21.5 ^†^ (19.8, 23.3) 31.5 (29.2, 33.9) 29.3 (29.1, 29.6) Some college 32.3 ^†^ (31.4, 33.2) 33.7 (33.4, 34.0) 24.5 ^†^ (23.7, 25.4) 29.5 ^†^ (27.4, 31.6) 33.3 (30.9, 35.7) 32.0 (31.7, 32.3) College graduate 16.3 ^†^ (15.8, 16.9) 27.7 (27.4, 27.9) 9.6 ^†^ (9.2, 10.1) 41.8 ^†^ (39.8, 43.8) 13.5 ^†^ (12.1, 15.0) 24.1 (23.9, 24.3) Annual household income \<\$25,000 48.6 ^†^ (47.6, 49.7) 23.4 (23.1, 23.7) 52.7 ^†^ (51.6, 53.8) 23.1 (21.2, 25.0) 46.1 ^†^ (43.4, 48.9) 30.7 (30.4, 31.0) \$25,000--\$49,999 26.4 (25.5, 27.3) 25.7 (25.4, 26.0) 26.0 (25.1, 27.0) 22.7 ^†^ (20.9, 24.7) 27.7 (25.1, 30.3) 25.7 (25.5, 26.0) \$50,000--\$74,999 11.3 ^†^ (10.7, 12.0) 17.4 (17.2, 17.7) 9.0 ^†^ (8.4, 9.7) 16.0 (14.3, 17.8) 10.5 ^†^ (9.1, 12.1) 15.4 (15.2, 15.6) ≥\$75,000 13.7 ^†^ (13.0, 14.4) 33.5 (33.2, 33.8) 12.3 ^†^ (11.6, 13.0) 38.2 ^†^ (35.9, 40.5) 15.7 ^†^ (13.9, 17.6) 28.2 (27.9, 28.4) Employment status Not employed 47.4 ^†^ (46.4, 48.3) 45.0 (44.7, 45.3) 42.8 ^†^ (41.8, 43.8) 42.1 ^†^ (40.0, 44.3) 53.0 ^†^ (50.4, 55.5) 44.9 (44.6, 45.2) Employed 52.6 ^†^ (51.7, 53.6) 55.0 (54.7, 55.3) 57.2 ^†^ (56.2, 58.2) 57.9 ^†^ (55.7, 60.0) 47.0 ^†^ (44.5, 49.6) 55.1 (54.8, 55.4) Census Region Northeast 10.5 ^†^ (9.9, 11.1) 19.4 (19.2, 19.6) 9.8 ^†^ (9.3, 10.3) 14.3 ^†^ (13.0, 15.6) 10.5 ^†^ (8.8, 12.4) 16.7 (16.6, 16.9) Midwest 14.2 ^†^ (13.5, 14.9) 20.3 (20.1, 20.6) 5.6 ^†^ (5.2, 6.0) 10.4 ^†^ (9.4, 11.5) 12.9 ^†^ (11.3, 14.7) 17.0 (16.8, 17.2) South 68.3 ^†^ (67.3, 69.2) 39.9 (39.6, 40.2) 40.6 (39.7, 41.6) 18.4 ^†^ (16.9, 19.9) 44.6 ^†^ (42.1, 47.2) 42.3 (42.0, 42.6) West 7.0 ^†^ (6.5, 7.7) 20.3 (20.1, 20.6) 44.0 ^†^ (43.0, 45.0) 57.0 ^†^ (55.0, 59.0) 32.0 ^†^ (29.7, 34.4) 24.0 (23.7, 24.2) Abbreviations: CI = Confidence Interval. NHOPI = Native Hawaiian or other Pacific Islander. AIAN = American Indian/Alaska Native. \Adults were defined as persons aged ≥18 years. ^†^ t-test p* \< 0.05 for significant difference between non-Hispanic white respondents and respondents in another racial/ethnic category. Estimates not reported due to relative standard error \>30%. ijerph-16-00436-t005_Table 5 ###### Sociodemographic characteristics of large fringe metropolitan dwelling adults \* by race and ethnicity: Behavioral Risk Factor Surveillance System, United States, 2012--2015. Sociodemographic Characteristic Black, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) White, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) Hispanic % (95% CI) Asian or NHOPI, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) AIAN, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) Total --------------------------------- -------------------------------- -------------------------------- ----------------------- ----------------------------------------- ------------------------------- ------------------- Age (years) 18--44 52.5 ^†^ (51.5, 53.5) 39.4 (39.0, 39.7) 66.1 ^†^ (65.1, 67.1) 63.3 ^†^ (61.6, 65.0) 41.8 (38.1, 45.6) 45.4 (45.1, 45.7) 45--64 34.7 ^†^ (33.8, 35.6) 38.4 (38.1, 38.7) 26.7 ^†^ (25.7, 27.6) 28.3 ^†^ (26.7, 29.9) 42.2 ^†^ (38.7, 45.8) 36.0 (35.7, 36.3) 65+ 12.8 ^†^ (12.2, 13.4) 22.3 (22.0, 22.5) 7.2 ^†^ (6.8, 7.8) 8.4 ^†^ (7.5, 9.4) 16.0 ^†^ (13.9, 18.5) 18.6 (18.4, 18.8) Sex Male 46.5 ^†^ (45.4, 47.5) 48.1 (47.7, 48.4) 49.2 ^†^ (48.1, 50.4) 49.7 (47.9, 51.4) 50.7 (47.0, 54.4) 48.1 (47.8, 48.4) Female 53.5 ^†^ (52.5, 54.6) 51.9 (51.6, 52.3) 50.8 ^†^ (49.6, 51.9) 50.3 (48.6, 52.1) 49.3 (45.6, 53.0) 51.9 (51.6, 52.2) Marital status Not married 62.3 ^†^ (61.3, 63.3) 41.4 (41.0, 41.7) 53.8 ^†^ (52.7, 55.0) 36.4 ^†^ (34.6, 38.1) 54.3 ^†^ (50.6, 57.9) 45.1 (44.8, 45.4) Married 37.7 ^†^ (36.7, 38.7) 58.6 (58.3, 59.0) 46.2 ^†^ (45.0, 47.3) 63.6 ^†^ (61.9, 65.4) 45.7 ^†^ (42.1, 49.4) 54.9 (54.6, 55.2) Educational attainment \<High School 12.4 ^†^ (11.6, 13.2) 7.4 (7.2, 7.6) 33.8 ^†^ (32.6, 34.9) 4.9 ^†^ (3.9, 6.1) 17.9 ^†^ (15.2, 21.0) 11.1 (10.9, 11.4) High School diploma/GED 29.5 ^†^ (28.6, 30.5) 27.7 (27.4, 28.0) 27.1 (26.1, 28.1) 15.1 ^†^ (13.7, 16.7) 33.5 ^†^ (29.9, 37.3) 27.2 (26.9, 27.5) Some college 33.5 ^†^ (32.5, 34.5) 32.0 (31.7, 32.4) 24.7 ^†^ (23.7, 25.7) 22.6 ^†^ (21.0, 24.2) 32.7 (29.4, 36.2) 30.8 (30.5, 31.1) College graduate 24.6 ^†^ (23.8, 25.4) 32.8 (32.5, 33.1) 14.4 ^†^ (13.8, 15.1) 57.4 ^†^ (55.6, 59.2) 15.9 ^†^ (13.8, 18.1) 30.8 (30.6, 31.1) Annual household income \<\$25,000 32.3 ^†^ (31.3, 33.4) 17.5 (17.2, 17.7) 44.9 ^†^ (43.7, 46.2) 16.1 (14.6, 17.7) 37.2 ^†^ (33.6, 41.0) 22.6 (22.3, 22.8) \$25,000--\$49,999 26.5 ^†^ (25.5, 27.5) 21.3 (21.0, 21.5) 26.1 ^†^ (25.0, 27.2) 17.5 ^†^ (16.1, 19.1) 25.7 ^†^ (22.3, 29.4) 22.3 (22.0, 22.6) \$50,000--\$74,999 14.7 ^†^ (13.9, 15.5) 16.7 (16.5, 17.0) 10.7 ^†^ (9.9, 11.4) 14.5 ^†^ (13.1, 15.9) 12.2 ^†^ (9.9, 14.9) 15.6 (15.4, 15.9) ≥\$75,000 26.5 ^†^ (25.5, 27.5) 44.5 (44.2, 44.9) 18.3 ^†^ (17.4, 19.2) 51.9 ^†^ (50.0, 53.8) 24.9 ^†^ (21.6, 28.5) 39.5 (39.2, 39.8) Employment status Not employed 41.0 (40.0, 42.1) 41.9 (41.5, 42.2) 38.0 ^†^ (36.9, 39.2) 34.2 ^†^ (32.4, 35.9) 49.6 ^†^ (45.9, 53.2) 41.0 (40.7, 41.3) Employed 59.0 (57.9, 60.0) 58.1 (57.8, 58.5) 62.0 ^†^ (60.8, 63.1) 65.8 ^†^ (64.1, 67.6) 50.4 ^†^ (46.8, 54.1) 59.0 (58.7, 59.3) Census Region Northeast 17.3 ^†^ (16.5, 18.1) 28.3 (28.0, 28.5) 24.1 ^†^ (23.2, 25.0) 31.9 ^†^ (30.4, 33.4) 17.4 ^†^ (14.7, 20.4) 26.6 (26.4, 26.8) Midwest 14.2 ^†^ (13.6, 14.9) 25.5 (25.3, 25.7) 11.5 ^†^ (10.8, 12.2) 12.0 ^†^ (11.0, 13.1) 18.0 ^†^ (15.7, 20.6) 21.7 (21.5, 21.9) South 62.6 ^†^ (61.6, 63.6) 34.2 (33.9, 34.5) 41.1 ^†^ (39.9, 42.2) 31.8 ^†^ (30.2, 33.4) 44.6 ^†^ (40.9, 48.3) 38.3 (38.0, 38.6) West 5.9 ^†^ (5.4, 6.4) 12.0 (11.8, 12.2) 23.4 ^†^ (22.5, 24.3) 24.3 ^†^ (22.5, 26.1) 20.0 ^†^ (17.3, 23.0) 13.4 (13.2, 13.6) Abbreviations: CI = Confidence Interval. NHOPI = Native Hawaiian or other Pacific Islander. AIAN = American Indian/Alaska Native. \* Adults were defined as persons aged ≥18 years. ^†^ t-test p \< 0.05 for significant difference between non-Hispanic white respondents and respondents in another racial/ethnic category. Estimates not reported due to relative standard error \>30%. ijerph-16-00436-t006_Table 6 ###### Sociodemographic characteristics of large Central metropolitan dwelling adults \* by race and ethnicity: Behavioral Risk Factor Surveillance System, United States, 2012--2015. Sociodemographic Characteristic Black, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) White, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) Hispanic % (95% CI) Asian or NHOPI, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) AIAN, Non-Hispanic % (95% CI) Total --------------------------------- -------------------------------- -------------------------------- ----------------------- ----------------------------------------- ------------------------------- ------------------- Age (years) 18--44 50.1 ^†^ (49.3, 51.0) 42.3 (41.9, 42.8) 62.3 ^†^ (61.5, 63.0) 63.6 ^†^ (62.0, 65.1) 52.4 ^†^ (48.7, 56.1) 50.7 (50.4, 51.1) 45--64 34.5 (33.8, 35.3) 35.5 (35.1, 35.9) 28.6 ^†^ (27.9, 29.4) 26.4 ^†^ (25.0, 27.8) 34.4 ^†^ (31.0, 37.9) 32.8 (32.4, 33.1) 65+ 15.3 ^†^ (14.8, 15.9) 22.1 (21.9, 22.4) 9.1 ^†^ (8.7, 9.5) 10.0 ^†^ (9.1, 11.1) 13.2 ^†^ (11.1, 15.7) 16.5 (16.3, 16.7) Sex Male 44.8 ^†^ (43.9, 45.6) 49.1 (48.7, 49.5) 49.5 (48.7, 50.4) 49.5 (48.0, 51.0) 49.7 (45.9, 53.5) 48.5 (48.2, 48.9) Female 55.2 ^†^ (54.4, 56.1) 50.9 (50.5, 51.3) 50.5 (49.6, 51.3) 50.5 (49.0, 52.0) 50.3 (46.5, 54.1) 51.5 (51.1, 51.8) Marital status Not married 71.3 ^†^ (70.5, 72.0) 48.4 (41.0, 41.7) 56.8 ^†^ (56.0, 57.6) 46.8 ^†^ (45.2, 48.3) 64.1 ^†^ (60.4, 67.6) 54.3 (54.0, 54.7) Married 28.7 ^†^ (28.0, 29.5) 51.6 (51.2, 52.0) 43.2 ^†^ (42.4, 44.0) 53.2 ^†^ (51.7, 54.8) 35.9 ^†^ (32.4, 39.6) 45.7 (45.3, 46.0) Educational attainment \<High School 15.9 ^†^ (15.2, 16.6) 5.9 (5.7, 6.2) 40.4 ^†^ (39.6, 41.3) 4.8 ^†^ (4.1, 5.7) 18.2 ^†^ (15.2, 21.6) 16.4 (16.0, 16.7) High School diploma/GED 31.0 ^†^ (30.2, 31.7) 22.5 (22.1, 22.8) 25.4 ^†^ (24.7, 26.1) 17.0 ^†^ (15.8, 18.3) 28.7 ^†^ (25.5, 32.2) 24.2 (23.9, 24.5) Some college 34.0 ^†^ (33.2, 34.8) 32.4 (32.0, 32.8) 22.7 ^†^ (22.0, 23.4) 25.7 ^†^ (24.2, 27.2) 34.4 (30.9, 38.2) 29.6 (29.3, 29.9) College graduate 19.1 ^†^ (18.6, 19.7) 39.2 (38.9, 39.6) 11.5 ^†^ (11.1, 11.9) 52.5 ^†^ (50.9, 54.1) 18.7 ^†^ (16.3, 21.4) 29.9 (29.6, 30.2) Annual household income \<\$25,000 45.3 ^†^ (44.4, 46.2) 19.1 (18.7, 19.4) 52.8 ^†^ (51.9, 53.7) 23.4 ^†^ (22.0, 24.9) 46.7 ^†^ (42.6, 50.8) 32.6 (32.2, 32.9) \$25,000--\$49,999 26.5 ^†^ (25.7, 27.3) 21.4 (21.1, 21.8) 24.9 ^†^ (24.2, 25.7) 19.9 ^†^ (18.6, 21.3) 22.0 (19.0, 25.3) 23.0 (22.7, 23.3) \$50,000--\$74,999 11.9 ^†^ (11.3, 12.5) 16.5 (16.2, 16.8) 9.4 ^†^ (8.8, 9.9) 14.1 ^†^ (13.0, 15.2) 10.3 ^†^ (8.3, 12.8) 13.7 (13.4, 13.9) ≥\$75,000 16.3 ^†^ (15.6, 17.0) 43.0 (42.6, 43.4) 12.9 ^†^ (12.4, 13.5) 42.6 (41.0, 44.2) 21.0 ^†^ (17.8, 24.7) 30.7 (30.4, 31.1) Employment status Not employed 47.8 ^†^ (47.0, 48.7) 41.7 (41.3, 42.1) 41.7 (40.9, 42.5) 38.5 ^†^ (37.0, 40.1) 48.3 ^†^ (44.5, 52.1) 42.5 (42.1, 42.8) Employed 52.2 ^†^ (51.3, 53.0) 58.3 (57.9, 58.7) 58.3 (57.5, 59.1) 61.5 ^†^ (59.9, 63.0) 51.7 ^†^ (47.9, 55.5) 57.5 (57.2, 57.9) Census Region Northeast 23.4 ^†^ (22.8, 24.1) 17.4 (17.1, 17.6) 15.5 ^†^ (15.1, 16.0) 19.8 ^†^ (18.7, 21.0) 15.4 (13.1, 18.1) 18.1 (17.9, 18.3) Midwest 23.1 ^†^ (22.5, 23.8) 19.6 (19.4, 19.9) 7.3 ^†^ (6.9, 7.7) 7.1 ^†^ (6.6, 7.6) 17.4 (14.8, 20.3) 15.9 (15.7, 16.1) South 39.4 ^†^ (38.6, 40.2) 27.9 (27.5, 28.2) 32.1 ^†^ (31.3, 32.8) 13.8 ^†^ (12.9, 14.8) 30.5 (27.0, 34.2) 29.6 (29.3, 29.9) West 14.0 ^†^ (13.4, 14.7) 35.1 (34.7, 35.4) 45.1 ^†^ (44.4, 45.9) 59.2 ^†^ (57.8, 60.7) 36.7 (33.2, 40.4) 36.4 (36.1, 36.6) Abbreviations: CI = Confidence Interval. NHOPI = Native Hawaiian or other Pacific Islander. AIAN = American Indian/Alaska Native. \* Adults were defined as persons aged ≥18 years. ^†^ t-test p \< 0.05 for significant difference between non-Hispanic white respondents and respondents in another racial/ethnic category. Estimates not reported due to relative standard error \>30%. ijerph-16-00436-t007_Table 7 ###### Age adjusted mortality rates per 100,000 population for the five leading causes of death by race/ethnicity \* groups and Urbanization---National Vital Statistics System, United States, 2012--2015. 2013 Urbanization White Black AIAN Hispanic API ----------------------------------- ------- ------- -------- ---------- ------- All causes Large Central Metro 705.8 887.5 608.7 525.4 393.4 Large Fringe Metro 706.7 771.1 542.4 456.9 354.7 Medium Metro 753.1 917.8 747.5 578.3 464.3 Small Metro 777.8 940.6 804.7 538.2 423.1 Micropolitan (non-metro) 826.5 988.7 909.8 601.3 488.1 NonCore (non-metro) 842.9 968.5 1033.3 570.5 377 U.S. 748.1 879.1 793.8 529.1 399.4 Heart disease Large Central Metro 167.2 222 123.3 124.6 89.1 Large Fringe Metro 161.5 180.3 115.2 97.3 77.2 Medium Metro 167.6 211.6 151.2 120.2 101.1 Small Metro 175.1 223.9 147 108.9 94.4 Micropolitan (non-metro) 190.9 234 172.9 129.5 118.5 NonCore (non-metro) 198.4 247.5 193.3 126.1 82.2 U.S. 171.7 213 154.1 118.6 89.2 Malignant neoplasms Large Central Metro 162.1 196.9 114.6 115.9 104.1 Large Fringe Metro 162.6 172 104.5 101.6 88.5 Medium Metro 166.5 195.6 141.1 117 109 Small Metro 169.5 195.4 128.5 110.2 101 Micropolitan (non-metro) 178 208.2 152.3 114 108.6 NonCore (non-metro) 180.1 201 181.2 107.4 86 U.S. 167.1 191.8 140.8 113 101 Chronic lower respiratory disease Large Central Metro 40.8 30.4 30.1 18 13.7 Large Fringe Metro 41.2 24.1 35.9 15.3 10.5 Medium Metro 47.3 31.8 40.9 18.7 12.9 Small Metro 50.4 32.3 34.2 20.3 12.4 Micropolitan (non-metro) 56 34.1 41.3 20.9 12.5 NonCore (non-metro) 56.7 31.1 48.4 20.5 11.4 U.S. 46.5 29.6 39.3 18 12.8 Cerebrovascular disease Large Central Metro 32.5 48.1 25.5 29.9 29.3 Large Fringe Metro 33.5 47.3 23.6 28.7 26.4 Medium Metro 36 54.7 32.7 33.1 33.7 Small Metro 37.5 58.4 30.4 30.9 30.8 Micropolitan (non-metro) 40.9 61.3 33.8 32.8 40.2 NonCore (non-metro) 40.6 59.4 40.2 30.5 29.1 U.S. 35.7 50.9 31.8 30.5 29.7 Unintentional injury Large Central Metro 40.5 35.3 51.2 24.6 13.9 Large Fringe Metro 42 28.2 37.5 23.6 14.3 Medium Metro 47.2 37.4 61.8 30.7 20.1 Small Metro 46.9 36.3 87.4 33.7 19 Micropolitan (non-metro) 53.1 42.5 90.4 38.8 22.5 NonCore (non-metro) 60.8 45.4 107 43.9 21 U.S. 45.8 34.9 74.3 27.2 15.3 Abbreviations: AI/AN = American Indian/Alaska Native; API = Asian and Pacific Islander; \* All races are non-Hispanic. ijerph-16-00436-t008_Table 8 ###### Disparities in age adjusted mortality rates for race/ethnicity \* groups compared to non-Hispanic white population by urbanization---National Vital Statistics System, United States, 2012--2015. 2013 Urbanization Black AIAN Hispanic API ----------------------------------- ------- ---------- ---------- ---------- All causes Large Central Metro 181.7 −97.1 −180.4 −312.4 Large Fringe Metro 64.4 −164.3 −249.8 −352 Medium Metro 164.7 −5.6 ^†^ −174.8 −288.8 Small Metro 162.8 26.9 −239.6 −354.7 Micropolitan (non-metro) 162.2 83.3 −225.2 −338.4 NonCore (non-metro) 125.6 190.4 −272.4 −465.9 U.S. 131 45.7 −219 −348.7 Heart disease Large Central Metro 54.8 −43.9 −42.6 −78.1 Large Fringe Metro 18.8 −46.3 −64.2 −84.3 Medium Metro 44 −16.4 −47.4 −66.5 Small Metro 48.8 −28.1 −66.2 −80.7 Micropolitan (non-metro) 43.1 −18 −61.4 −72.4 NonCore (non-metro) 49.1 −5.1 ^†^ −72.3 −116.2 U.S. 41.3 −17.6 −53.1 −82.5 Malignant neoplasms Large Central Metro 34.8 −47.5 −46.2 −58 Large Fringe Metro 9.4 −58.1 −61 −74.1 Medium Metro 29.1 −25.4 −49.5 −57.5 Small Metro 25.9 −41 −59.3 −68.5 Micropolitan (non-metro) 30.2 −25.7 −64 −69.4 NonCore (non-metro) 20.9 1.1 ^†^ −72.7 −94.1 U.S. 24.7 −26.3 −54.1 −66.1 Chronic lower respiratory disease Large Central Metro −10.4 −10.7 −22.8 −27.1 Large Fringe Metro −17.1 −5.3 −25.9 −30.7 Medium Metro −15.5 −6.4 −28.6 −34.4 Small Metro −18.1 −16.2 −30.1 −38 Micropolitan (non-metro) −21.9 −14.7 −35.1 −43.5 NonCore (non-metro) −25.6 −8.3 −36.2 −45.3 U.S. −16.9 −7.2 −28.5 −27.1 Cerebrovascular disease Large Central Metro 15.6 −7 −2.6 −3.2 Large Fringe Metro 13.8 −9.9 −4.8 −7.1 Medium Metro 18.7 −3.3 −2.9 −2.3 Small Metro 20.9 −7.1 −6.6 −6.7 Micropolitan (non-metro) 20.4 −7.1 −8.1 −0.7 ^†^ NonCore (non-metro) 18.8 −0.4 ^†^ −10.1 −11.5 U.S. 15.2 −3.9 −5.2 −6 Unintentional injury Large Central Metro −5.2 10.7 −15.9 −26.6 Large Fringe Metro −13.8 −4.5 −18.4 −27.7 Medium Metro −9.8 14.6 −16.5 −27.1 Small Metro −10.6 40.5 −13.2 −27.9 Micropolitan (non-metro) −10.6 37.3 −14.3 −30.6 NonCore (non-metro) −15.4 46.2 −16.9 −39.8 U.S. −10.9 28.5 −18.6 −30.5 Abbreviations: AI/AN = American Indian/Alaska Native; API = Asian and Pacific Islander; \* All races are non-Hispanic; ^†^ Not significantly different from non-Hispanic white; other disparities are statistically significant (p \< 0.05, z-test). ijerph-16-00436-t009_Table 9 ###### Contribution of the six rural-urban areas to age-specific disparities in all-cause mortality rates per 100,000 population between NHB (NHB) and NHW (NHW) populations in the U.S.---National Vital Statistics System, United States, 2012--2015. NHB Mortality Rate (MR) NHW MR NHB vs. NHW Disparity (NHW MR-NHW MR) NHB Population Ratio NHW Population Ratio Contribution to National NHB vs. NHW Disparity ------------------------------- ------------------------- -------- --------------------------------------- ---------------------- ---------------------- ------------------------------------------------ Age 20--44 Large Central Metro (R1) 200.1 111.8 88.3 0.42 0.25 56.61 Large Fringe Metro (R2) 155.8 128.7 27.1 0.23 0.25 3.48 Medium Metro (R3) 196.9 140.6 56.3 0.18 0.22 5.06 Small Metro (R4) 186.9 140.3 46.6 0.07 0.11 −2.33 Micropolitan (non-metro) (R5) 203.4 161.7 41.7 0.05 0.10 −5.56 NonCore (non-metro) (R6) 210.9 186.1 24.8 0.04 0.07 −4.00 U.S. 188.89 135.63 53.26 53.26 Age 45--64 Large Central Metro (R1) 949.0 591.3 357.7 0.42 0.22 274.92 Large Fringe Metro (R2) 692.9 540.1 152.8 0.24 0.28 15.45 Medium Metro (R3) 947.8 661.3 286.5 0.17 0.22 21.39 Small Metro (R4) 1005.4 702.7 302.7 0.07 0.10 −8.44 Micropolitan (non-metro) (R5) 1073.5 748 325.5 0.05 0.11 −21.67 NonCore (non-metro) (R6) 1082.1 785.7 296.4 0.04 0.08 −13.42 U.S. 904.0 635.8 268.2 268.22 Age ≥ 65 Large Central Metro (R1) 4381.7 4439.9 −58.2 0.44 0.21 1000.51 Large Fringe Metro (R2) 3835.2 4301.6 −466.4 0.21 0.25 −267.42 Medium Metro (R3) 4472.4 4385.1 87.3 0.17 0.22 −211.73 Small Metro (R4) 4624.1 4454.9 169.2 0.07 0.11 −200.26 Micropolitan (non-metro) (R5) 4934.2 4660.8 273.4 0.06 0.11 −242.14 NonCore (non-metro) (R6) 4858.1 4618.7 239.4 0.05 0.09 −161.16 U.S. 4353.1 4435.3 −82.2 −82.2	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	PubMed Central
The Sun-Times Editorial Board sent the 26th Ward aldermanic candidates a list of questions to find out their views on a range of important issues facing the city and their ward. Roberto Maldonado submitted the following responses (the Sun-Times does not edit candidate responses): Who is Roberto Maldonado? He’s running for: 26th Ward alderman His political/civic background: Cook County Commissioner 1994 – 2009 26th Ward Alderman 2009 – Present His occupation: Alderman His education: Bachelor’s and Master’s Degrees – University of Puerto Rico Doctoral Studies in Clinical Psychology – Loyola University Chicago Campaign website: robertomaldonado.com/ Twitter: @MaldonadoR26 Facebook: facebook.com/AldermanRMaldonado Top priorities What are the top three priorities for your ward? Roberto Maldonado: Preservation of Affordable Housing (Homes and Rental Apartments) Make the Ward Safe and Secure by Investing in Community Crime Prevention Programs, Strategies, and Infrastructure Provide Quality, Affordable Education in Our Communities by Supporting an Elected School Board, Putting a Moratorium on Charter School Expansion, and Investing in Our Public School System Recent civic work Please tell us what you have done in the last two years to serve the city, your neighborhood or a civic organization. Please be specific. Roberto Maldonado: During the last two years my work as Alderman of the 26th Ward has focused on preventing the forces of destabilization in our neighborhoods, primarily high priced development and increased property taxes. I have not supported any zoning change that does not have an affordable component and I have supported every legislative initiative that prevents displacement of families including the “Preservation of Affordable Housing in the 606 Residential Area” which would slow down the rise of demolition of homes along the 606. High property taxes is another factor that is driving housing costs higher, which is why I voted No on the Mayor’s property tax increase. Pensions Chicago is on the hook for $42 billion in unfunded pension liabilities, which works out to $35,000 for every household. Those pensions, in the language of the Illinois Constitution, “shall not be diminished or impaired.” Should the state Constitution be amended to allow a reduction in pension benefits for current city employees or retirees? How about reducing pension benefits for new employees? Please explain. Roberto Maldonado: I support honoring our current obligations, but restructuring benefits and initiating reforms for new hires. I favor creating new revenue streams to meet our financial obligations, but in a responsible manner that does not place an undue burden or hardship on our residents and communities. I would need to evaluate each tax increase or fee proposal on a case-by- case basis. Revenue Of the following often proposed sources of new revenue for Chicago, which of the following do you favor, and why? A Chicago casino, legalized and taxed recreational marijuana, a LaSalle Street tax, a commuter tax, a property tax increase, a municipal sales tax increase, a real estate transfer tax increase, video gambling. Roberto Maldonado: I support a Chicago casino if the proposed plan is sensitive to the needs to the community where it is located. The Mayor’s proposal for the area around the Illinois International Port District on the Southeast Side could be the anchor of a bustling entertainment district sparking economic growth and creating jobs. However, there needs to be extensive neighborhood hearings as part of the planning process. I also support video gambling as a source of new revenue from the entertainment economy and a commuter tax for people who do not live in the city, but benefit from working in the city, and should contribute to Chicago’s tax base. I do not support a property tax increase or a municipal sales tax increase because the source of this revenue directly affects the daily budgets of working and middle class families. Finally, I do not support legalized and taxed recreational marijuana at this time because I believe that would normalize drug use and result in a lost opportunity for intervention. I voted against the Mayor’s proposal to decriminalize possessing small amounts of marijuana for the same reason. What other sources of new revenue do you favor or oppose? Roberto Maldonado: I support a new property tax surcharge on every commercial building in our city with an assessment of more than $500 million. I also support green taxies that will improve air quality and the health of city residents. Asthma is a serious health problem in the Latino community. The city needs a long-term financial plan for operations and its rising pension debt. I will continue to work with tax and budget experts such as Ralph Martire of the Center on Tax and Budget Accountability who advised that “the only responsible way to pay for [the pension] obligation is through well-designed tax policy and sound debt management.” TIFs Tax-increment financing districts are a primary economic development tool for Chicago. In a TIF district, taxes from the growth of property values are set aside for 23 years to be used to support public projects and private development. What changes do you favor, if any, in Chicago’s TIF program? Roberto Maldonado: I support the “Back to Basics” TIF ordinance which would limit the use of tax increment finance dollars to redevelopment projects in in “blighted” areas, in which the property in question is vacant and/or obsolete, and that can prove that the project would be unable to move forward without TIF support. Currently, TIF is used in financially stable and sometimes thriving neighborhoods, and is handed out to development companies that could adequately finance their projects. Hundreds of millions of property tax dollars have been siphoned away from the Chicago Public Schools, the park district, and other City agencies in need of revenue. When TIF is used as originally intended, it can be a critical economic development tool. And the SBIF program, funded through TIF, has been vital to attracting businesses to the 26th ward and creating jobs. Aldermanic power What will you do to rein in aldermanic prerogative? Roberto Maldonado: I fully support the federal civil rights complaint filed recently by lawyers for the Shriver National Center on Poverty Law that argues aldermanic prerogative has been used for decades to block affordable housing in the city’s white neighborhoods. However, I have flipped the script on aldermanic prerogative and used that very same privilege to achieve just the opposite in the 26th ward. It is because of this discriminatory treatment of minorities, veterans, disabled, LGBTQ and other marginalized groups that I have effectively used my aldermanic prerogative over zoning, land use, sale of city land, and public financing for projects to provide affordable housing for people who have been discriminated against. I have worked hard to eliminate social and economic marginalization in my ward using the tools at hand, however, the corrupt use of aldermanic prerogative is often found in wealthy, white wards who hide their racial animus behind the sentiment “sure, I’m for affordable housing, but not in my backyard.” I hope I have the opportunity under a new administration to take the lead to eliminate this marginalization city-wide and develop a comprehensive plan to develop affordable housing throughout Chicago. Police reform The City of Chicago has entered into a federally monitored consent decree to overhaul the training and practices of the Chicago Police Department. Civil libertarians say it is long overdue, but others say it is unnecessary and could make it tougher for the police to do their job. What’s your view? Roberto Maldonado: I was one of a handful of Aldermen who voted “No” on the Mayor’s police oversight watchdog group, the Civilian Office of Police Accountability (COPA). COPA is still under the thumb of Mayor Emanuel and future Mayors. COPA would not have a guaranteed, sustainable budget, ensuring future budgets to be at the whim of politics. Also, COPA as proposed would not have subpoena power, and would have to rely on the Mayor’s City Law Department for those investigatory powers, a clear and unarguable conflict of interest. COPA and the new independent monitor must collaborate to establish reforms, especially the needless violence against minorities. The only way to restore trust between our citizens and our police is to create an elected body of community members from each of Chicago’s police districts empowered to hold police accountable. I am for a police watchdog that is truly independent of City Hall influence and that’s why I co-sponsored legislation that would have civilians oversee police. Guns What should Chicago do to reduce the number of illegal guns? Roberto Maldonado: Earlier this year, I joined 49 other Alderman and Mayor Emanuel by signing a letter which urged Gov. Bruce Rauner to sign legislation requiring gun dealers in Illinois to obtain state licenses. Governor Rauner vetoed the Gun Dealer Licensing Act (SB1657). Injuries from gun violence are the leading cause of death for children in Illinois. This legislation could have reduced a major source of illegally trafficked guns from entering our communities, our cities and our state. Furthermore, as a recent Sun-Times Editorial pointed out, “It’s important that career gun criminals are hit with longer sentences, as a matter of making our neighborhoods safer and deterring others from carrying guns.” I could not agree more that the federal crackdown on gun crimes must continue and we must hit repeat offenders with stiffer federal sentences. Schools What is the appropriate role of charter schools within the Chicago Public Schools system? Roberto Maldonado: It has been my long-standing position that unless charter schools have a proven track record of producing higher quality results, I do not support replacing our public schools or expanding charter schools in the city. This is why there are no charter schools in the 26th Ward. And this is why I am a co-sponsor of a City Council resolution that demands a halt to charter expansions. I have worked hard to improve the public education system in the ward. When I first took office in 2009, there was only one high-achieving grade school (Level 1 rating) in the ward. Now, 6 out of 11 grade schools in our ward have achieved a Level 1 rating. I also worked to bring 2 top rated high schools to the ward. Should the Chicago Board of Education be solely appointed by the mayor, as is now the case? Or should Chicago switch to an elected school board or some hybrid? Roberto Maldonado: I support the IL House of Representatives version of a fully elected school board of 21 members, including a president elected at large. This is the best way to improve community trust and have the community’s active voice in the school decision making process. Chicago remains the only school board in Illinois appointed by law. And, more importantly, several non-binding referenda over the last few years prove that Chicagoans want to elect their school board. Affordable housing Is there enough affordable housing in your ward? Please explain. Roberto Maldonado: I have always and will continue to support more affordable housing in my ward. In the last two years, almost 200 new apartments have been added to the housing stock in the ward. Six new, affordable homes are also on the way. Affordable housing is key for sustainable and prosperous communities. The 26th ward is a model for investment in housing affordability by utilizing existing City programs like City Lots for City Living and TIF funding, and other tools like requiring affordable components for any new housing development. I hope this model can be replicated throughout the city so we can preserve the middle class identity of our neighborhoods. Immigration Chicago, by ordinance, is an official “welcoming city.” This means the Chicago police are generally prohibited from detaining undocumented immigrants on behalf of federal immigration authorities. What’s your position on this policy? What more — or less — should be done with respect to undocumented immigrants who live in Chicago? Roberto Maldonado: As a Cook County Commissioner, I passed the first Sanctuary County legislation in the nation in 2007. Known as the “Fair and Equal County for Immigrants” the resolution echoed the Chicago City Council resolution at the time and stated that Cook County bureaus, offices, departments and employees are prohibited from inquiring about or disclosing information about immigration status. I think this measure, along with Chicago’s “welcoming city” sends a moral message through our government to the undocumented that we are in support of their struggle to achieve social justice. And, as we await comprehensive immigration reform at the national level, we stand with them. Ethics Should the inspector general have the power to audit and review City Council programs, operations and committees? Why or why not? Roberto Maldonado: Yes, the inspector general should have the power to audit and review City Council programs, operations and committees for waste, inefficiency, and mismanagement. Would you employ, or have you employed, staff in your office who have outside jobs or contracts with entities that do business with the city? If so, please explain. Roberto Maldonado: I have not employed, and will not employ, staff in my office who have outside jobs or contracts with entities that do business with the city. This creates a conflict of interest in their duties as city employees. As the Chicago Board of Ethics states, “City personnel may not make, participate in, or try to use their City position to influence any City governmental decision or action on any matter from which they have derived any income or compensation in the previous year, or expect to derive any income or compensation in the next year, or have an ownership interest that is worth $1,000 or more, or in which have a financial interest distinguishable from that of the general public. The Board has interpreted this to mean that City personnel may not make or try to influence any City actions or decisions that directly benefit or involve their outside employer. Role model Is there a past or current alderman whom you model yourself after, or would model yourself after, or take inspiration from? Please explain. Roberto Maldonado: Former Alderman and Congressman Luis Gutierrez has always been my political mentor and inspiration and fueled my passion for politics. I served as his campaign manager when he ran for Alderman and strongly supported his work on comprehensive immigration reform as a Congressman.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
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Dear Fellow Investor, If you are in search of outstanding investment performance, you are also in search of great ideas. At our fully online events, you will not only save time, money and the hassle involved in traveling to a physical venue, but you will also benefit from more timely insights and more differentiated ideas. We have partnered with The Manual of Ideas, the acclaimed investment monthly, as well as with tech leaders Cisco, Microsoft, and Google to bring you a series of live events dedicated to your success. Our renowned instructors look forward to meeting you at a ValueConferences event soon! Sincerely, Your ValueConferences Team Conference Format Each conference is a two-day, fully online event. Attend sessions, meet the experts, and network with peers — from the comfort of your home or office. Day One: Wisdom The first day of each conference focuses on deepening your understanding of the conference topic. For example, Day One of the European Investing Congress looks at the status of the eurozone crisis, key implications for investors, and the process for finding great ideas. Day Two: Ideas The second day of each conference focuses exclusively on money-making investment ideas. Our instructors present long equity ideas that meet stringent fundamental investment criteria. Day Two will satisfy your desire to have the event you attend more than pay for itself. Enjoy and profit! Local Leaders Each of our conferences is a fully online, global, live event that utilizes the latest in Internet, video conferencing, and collaboration technology to create a truly interactive experience for all participants worldwide. You will get the full benefit of our events by attending from your home or office, no travel required. As a special bonus, we have appointed local discussion leaders in a number of major cities worldwide. Our local leaders organize informal networking and discussion gatherings at the conclusion of each online conference. You’ll receive the contact information of our local hosts upon registering for a specific conference. If you would like to meet fellow conference attendees in your area but there is no local leader yet, we invite you to contact us. We will gladly help you host a gathering of attendees in your area. New York, New York Jeffrey Hamm is a long-time value investor and expert on Berkshire Hathaway. He serves as an analyst at van Biema Value Partners, an SEC-registered investment adviser established by Michael van Biema in 2004 specializing in creating portfolios of small, deep value-oriented hedge funds for sophisticated clients around the globe. The firm offers a select group of funds as well as customized solutions for both institutional and individual investors seeking expertise in accessing what has proven to be a compelling long-term investment niche within the global markets. Josh Tarasoff is the general partner of Greenlea Lane Capital Partners, LP, a private investment partnership he founded in 2006. Josh graduated from Duke University in 2001 with a degree in philosophy. He has worked at Goldman Sachs and holds an MBA from Columbia Business School. London, United Kingdom Yusuf Samad is a professional trustee and a guest lecturer on the Topics in Asset Management course at the London Business School. Until February 2011, Yusuf was an Investment Principal at Aon Consulting advising UK pension fund clients on investment governance, strategy, implementation, manager selection and monitoring. Previously, Yusuf was a senior investment consultant at Hewitt Bacon & Woodrow and a member of the hedge fund manager research team. Formerly a trustee and investment committee member of the Citibank (UK) Pension Scheme, Yusuf is presently a trustee of the Sodexo Pension Scheme. He has over 25 years experience as a banker with Citibank. Yusuf is a Fellow of the Society of Investment Professionals, a Chartered Financial Analyst and a Chartered Alternative Investment Analyst. He was Chairman of CFA UK. Oliver Mihaljevic is a Managing Director of ValueConferences and a Managing Editor of The Manual of Ideas. Prior to assuming these roles in 2009, Oliver worked as Investment Analyst for U.S.-based hedge fund Steel Partners since 2005. Previous roles included Portfolio Manager at a Germany-based private equity investment firm as well as Equity Research Analyst for Credit Suisse First Boston in New York. Oliver holds a BA in Economics from Yale University. He resides in London, United Kingdom. Zurich, Switzerland Guy Spier is CEO of the Aquamarine Fund, an investment partnership inspired by, and styled after the original 1950’s Buffett partnerships. In June 2007 he made headlines by bidding US$650,100 with Mohnish Pabrai for a charity lunch with Warren Buffett. In 2009 he was featured in “the Checklist Manifesto”, by Atul Gawande regarding his use of checklists as part of his investment process. In addition he is a regular media commentator on economic and political affairs, and serves on the advisory board of Horasis, a Swiss based think tank and is a co-host of TEDxZurich. Guy completed his MBA at the Harvard Business School, class of 1993, and holds a First Class degree in PPE (Politics, Philosophy and Economics) from Oxford University where he studied at Brasenose College with the British Prime Minister David Cameron. Upon graduating, he was co-awarded the George Webb Medley prize for the best performance in that year in Economics. John Mihaljevic, CFA is a Managing Director of ValueConferences and a Managing Editor of The Manual of Ideas. He has also served as Managing Partner of investment firm Mihaljevic Capital Management LLC since 2005. He is a member of Value Investors Club, an exclusive community of top money managers, and has won the Club’s prize for best investment idea. John is a trained capital allocator, having studied under Yale University Chief Investment Officer David Swensen and served as Research Assistant to Nobel Laureate James Tobin. John holds a BA in Economics, summa cum laude, from Yale University and is a CFA charterholder. He resides in Zurich, Switzerland with his wife, two boys and a girl. Paris, France San Francisco, California Don Fitzgerald, CFA has worked as an investment and finance professional in Europe for the past fifteen years and spent the last eight years identifying, analyzing and managing portfolios of undervalued securities in the European equity and distressed debt markets. Prior to that he spent seven years in corporate and investment banking. He has worked in Dublin, London, Frankfurt and Paris. He graduated from Trinity College Dublin with a first class honours degree in 1996. Don co-manages the Tocqueville Value Europe fund. The fund’s multi-capitalization investment strategy is contrarian and value-oriented and stock selection is bottom-up, based upon intensive proprietary research and a disciplined investment process. Don is rated A by Citywire for risk-adjusted returns and the fund ranks among the top-performing European equity mutual funds over the past decade with five out of five ratings from Lipper in all categories. Tocqueville Finance is a Paris-based value house with ca. €1.2 billion in assets under management. The company has followed a value investing philosophy since its foundation in 1991. Kyle Doherty is a Principal at Morgenthaler. He joined the venerable venture capital firm in 2010 from Harvard Business School and is a Principal on the Information Technology team. Kyle is based in Menlo Park, CA and primarily focuses on investments in the consumer internet sector. Prior to business school, Kyle was a Research Associate at Morgan Stanley, focusing on wireline and wireless telecommunications equipment, healthcare services and information technology. Previous experiences include working as a Research Associate at Thomas Weisel Partners, covering consumer financial products, and marketing for New Relic, a cloud services company. Kyle holds an M.B.A. degree from Harvard Business School and a B.S. degree from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Toronto, Canada Tokyo, Japan Dan Sheehan is the general partner of Sheehan Associates Limited Partnership, an investment partnership created in 1999. He is also the senior partner of Credit Partners LLP which is the general partner and investment manager of Credit River Value LP, founded in 2011. Dan has a degree in economics from McMaster and an MBA from York. He lives in Toronto, Canada. Terrence Giang worked as an Investment Analyst for Steel Partners Japan. At Steel, Terrence identified and analyzed value and event-driven investment opportunities. Terrence joined Steel Partners Japan from Enso Capital Management. Before joining Enso, he worked in the M&A investment banking groups at Credit Suisse and Banc of America Securities where he executed and analyzed mergers, acquisitions, leveraged buyouts, divestitures and restructurings for corporate clients. He graduated from Yale University with a bachelor’s degree in East Asian Studies (Japan). He is proficient in Business Japanese having studied at the Kyoto Center for Japanese Studies and the Stanford Inter-University Center for Japanese Studies.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
INT: Dick Durock I vaguely remember watching at a very young age, the first SWAMP THING, directed by Wes Craven. I was very impressed with Adrienne Barbeau, as was my dad. And the character of Swamp Thing was a unique and fascinating monster vs. man idea that while not one of my favorite Craven films, was still a fun watch. Throughout the years, the character has returned every so often, including a few years as a television series on the USA Network. If you haven’t seen the series, you now have the opportunity to see the first two seasons. Uncut and in the order they were meant to be seen. I recently got to chat with the legendary Dick Durock. The man behind the monster, who portrayed him in both films and the television show. This actor turned stuntman was able to do good work as this plant beast who longs to be human again. After all, very few movie monsters have as much dialogue and screen time as this guy did, while wearing that damn plant suit. While talking to him, I felt very comfortable talking about the series and of course the features. He is an incredibly down to earth guy and a pleasure to chat with, so for that… I say go pick up SWAMP THING Season One and Two this coming January 22nd at your nearest video store. It’s an odd mix of family viewing and monsters. GRRRR! Could you tell me a little bit about your early years in Hollywood, before SWAMP THING? Your work as a stuntman? Well, you know, I always knew, don’t ask me for any reasons or why, but I always knew I was going to be in the movie business. I had no idea in what capacity. Was born in South Bend, Indiana. I just knew. No outside influences at all. One day I just jumped in my old Studebaker and drove out to California. And that was in the early Sixties. About Sixty-five I guess. And I met a guy after a few months starving to death. I met a guy, who knew a guy, who knew a stuntman. We got together and he introduced me to a guy who had a gym in Santa Monica where all the stuntmen worked out. He said, ‘Come on down, I’ll introduce you to some guys…’ and blah, blah, blah. So it kind of transitioned from there. It was just a gym where the guys worked out and a couple of them took a liking to me. And I was an unusual size, you know, six foot five, and that’s tall for a stuntman and there wasn’t a heck of a lot of competition. So I started working out, and after a year and a half of working here and there, here and there, my mentor, got me a job on “Lost In Space” at Twentieth Century Fox doubling Guy Williams who was the lead in the show. And that’s how it started. My second job was “Star Trek” believe it or not, I played some kind of alien guy, you know. My size helped and I’m pretty athletic, you know… I’ve doubled guys along the way, you know, Jack Palance, Buddy Ebsen and Max Baer in “The Beverly Hillbillys”. But eventually, directors started asking for me. I worked like a house painter, ‘why don’t we get Dick to play this heavy.’, ‘then we don’t have to double him, he could say a couple lines and throw him out the window or into a car or shoot him, or whatever.’ It was good for them and it was good for me. So you ended up, kind of through your work as a stuntman, you ended up as an actor…? I’m still a stuntman though. A stuntman might say a couple lines but still, you’re going to be down the steps and out the window. [Laughing] You don’t have to call in another stuntman. Now, you did several major television shows. One or two lines here and there. How did SWAMP THING come about for you? Well, it’s funny… it was by recommendation and I’m still not quite sure who did the recommending. But yeah, I worked like a house painter and they were like why don’t we get Durock to do this, he’s the right size. And SWAMP THING, as it turned out, a typical monster type thing. They needed a big guy. And again, there weren’t too many guys my size in the business, maybe two or three others. Anyhow, I was called in to meet Wes Craven who directed this film, a very nice man by the way. And we got along, and he gave me the script and said here, read it. And he got back to me after that and he said, ‘well, what are your thoughts?’ and I said it’s not gonna work, the way they want to shoot it. Which was, they wanted to put me in the suit and have me do all the long shots and do the fights and blah, blah, blah. And then they’d cut to the actor who was Ray Wise, who played Alec Holland, in the tight shots for all the dialogue scenes and blah, blah, blah. I ended up with the experience by then to know that it won’t work, you can’t go from a full shot, to a head shot. It’ll drive the audience crazy and it doesn’t work. So I got back together with Wes and he said what do you think, and I said, ‘Wes, I don’t think this is going to work, the way they think it’s going to be.’ and he said, ‘yep, you know it and I know it. So what you better do, is prepare to do the whole thing.’ Which was learn all the dialogue, which was a ton of and I wasn’t used to that. Just be prepared to do the whole thing. Well the producers were so cut out to use the actor for the close ups but Wes convinced them to do a make-up test. Identical make-up, side by side, same make-up people and it was a totally different look. And he finally convinced them to say, ‘well you’re right.’ Were you familiar with Wes’ earlier work at all? You know, not really. Not really. At the time, SWAMP THING was a rare thing because there weren’t that many comic book movies like there are today. Were you a little nervous about getting typecast in that role? Absolutely not. I was much too practical. I just thought, payday, payday, payday. [Laughing] I wasn’t worried about being typecast. Throughout the series and the two features, the costume had changed. That first time out, how difficult was it wearing that thing? Well, it’s difficult, I mean, it’s really hard to describe. Never in the history of Hollywood had there been a film creature required to spend ten to twelve hours a day, six days of the week, in front of the camera. Usually you’d bring on the creature whether it be Frankenstein or whatever… okay do a scene, okay take off the costume, whatever. But this was a totally different ballgame. The first costume we had problems with, you know, tearing or falling apart, because it just wasn’t meant to be worn for that long, with that much action and activity. Every time you’d throw a punch a seam would break loose. You know, water would pull it apart. It was a totally unknown thing and a learning experience. By the time we got to the second one, the costume was much better. They learned by experience, the weak spots. You know, seams or reinforcements. And the make-up was so much better. Then by the time we got to the series, we had it down pat. Now the series, that must have been kind of a dream come true because you were allowed to expand on this character more than most character like this. Well, that would seem to be the case, but you talk about being under the gun. We did two half hour episodes a week. Ten pages a day of dialogue. And we did fifty in a row without a break. They started out USA Cable and Universal and Paramount were in conjunction. It was an original cable production and there weren’t any at that time that I’m aware of. Now they’re all over the place. It was kind of an experiment. So we did thirteen, and it turned out successful. We did another thirteen… ah, thirteen, thirteen, thirteen… and then they picked it up for fifty, but that it had to be done all in a row. Well, we got it done. You really didn’t… God, you read the script and tried the best you could, but you really didn’t have a lot of time to expand and internalize… That’s intense. I mean shooting a television show is tough now, but that sounds like a nightmare. It was unbelievable. You figure the average feature does one or two pages a day. Well we had to. I mean, the average TV half hour script is thirty pages. So with two shows a week, that’s sixty pages a week and six days a week. And to be in costume that often for that long a period, were there ever any issues in regards to that? Well, you’ve got glue all over your face, it itches and drives you crazy, it’s irritating your skin. By the end of the day you are wearing eighty pounds of this rubber suit. It’s hot and all this stuff took place in the swamp by the way. The first movie was shot in Charleston, South Carolina, the second was Savannah, Georgia and we did the series at Universal in Orlando, Florida in the summertime. No, it was miserable but as a professional you accept it you go through with it. Are you surprised that there still seems to be an interest in the character? Well, I’m happy that they are. He was a good guy. People say, ‘oh, he’s a scary looking guy.’ but no, he was a good guy trapped in that silly looking, you know, situation that he was in. But he was really a good guy which I was proud of. You know, he wasn’t a runaway killing machine. I’m happy to see that people identify with a character like that more than… God, look at the video games now that I see. Well what is sort of interesting about the character is that he is a monster but he is atypical from your average, movie monster… Well, I tried to give him a soul. He knows what he is. And he can’t do anything about it. He is constantly trying to remedy the situation. You know, bring him back to human form. But he’s still human underneath all that, the same feeling that… you know, like in the first film he falls in love with Adrienne Barbeau’s character. But he’s got to run away from that because he can’t do anything to consummate that love. And I tried to give him as much of a… why is this happening to me kind of frustration. That hopefully came out. You know, the guy was frustrated. Yet he was a good guy. He didn’t kill indiscriminately. Surprisingly on the series, there are a couple of moments, I think in the first few episodes, where you turn a guy into a tree. Which was kind of cool. But for the most part it was basically a family show. What kind of audience do you think the series was designed for? From being a mostly family friendly show in the first few episodes to a somewhat more mature show later on. I think it was [for families]. You know, it’s hard to say. Hollywood is so, it’s dramatically different about the same subject. You know, the first few, we had a great kid, Jesse Zeigler who played the young kid on the show. They thought, well, we have the kid here so we’ll make this a family show. But then after the powers that be met, well, it’s so much of a family show, let’s make it less of a family show... whatever the reasoning that may be. So they changed the whole storyline. You know, I don’t know. You can’t be all things for all people I guess. POSSIBLE SPOILERS It was an odd transition, I mean the kid ends up getting sold into slavery or something like that. It’s kind of a dark end for the little boy [although we find out later that he’s a-okay] but I actually think the second season got a little better. END POSSIBLE SPOILER I don’t know, it’s hard to be objective where I was. They handed me the script and I did it. Only one time I rebelled kind of and this was when the kid was still there, they had me bring a rabbit back to life. And I said guys, we’re treading on some ground here we may not want to go. You know, were kind of getting into Jesus territory here. You know, resurrecting things from the dead. I said, you sure you want this character to be able to do that. Because I’m not sure if that was ever part of the original comic books. I don’t know but… this is life, this guy can resurrect dead animals. Why does he have to worry about fighting all the bad guys? [Laughing] It kind of defeats… it made him omnipotent and there is no challenge to him then.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Fractal properties of macrophage membrane studied by AFM. Complexity of cell membrane poses difficulties to quantify corresponding morphology changes during cell proliferation and damage. We suggest using fractal dimension of the cell membrane to quantify its complexity and track changes produced by various treatments. Glutaraldehyde fixed mouse RAW 264.7 macrophage membranes were chosen as model system and imaged in PeakForce QNM (quantitative nanomechanics) mode of AFM (atomic force microscope). The morphology of the membranes was characterized by fractal dimension. The parameter was calculated for set of AFM images by three different methods. The same calculations were done for the AFM images of macrophages treated with colchicine, an inhibitor of the microtubule polymerization, and microtubule stabilizing agent taxol. We conclude that fractal dimension can be additional and useful parameter to characterize the cell membrane complexity and track the morphology changes produced by different treatments.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	PubMed Abstracts
The New International, December 1939 Robert L. Birchman The Negro in Southern Agriculture Under modern capitalist conditions no less than under chattel slavery the Southern plantation economy constitutes the main material basis for the exploitation and oppression of the Negro masses in North America. The bulk of the Negroes in the United States live in the South. In 1930, 79% of the 11.9 million Negroes in the country dwelt there. The proportion of Negroes in the so-called Black Belt has remained constant since before the Civil War, comprising about 50% of the population. In 1860 Negroes numbered 2,461,099, or 56.4% of the total population of that area, and in 1930, 4,790,094, or 50.3% of the total population. They have maintained the rate of growth of the general population of the region and in addition, have migrated in thousands to the North. Despite the great northward migration of the Southern Negro, about three-fourths of the Negro people, rural and urban, still live in areas directly influenced by the plantation system; yet, despite the proportions of the urban migration, and the growth of industry in the South, the Negro in America is still predominantly rural. The depression has acted as a serious deterrent on further migration to the cities during the last ten years. The decrease in the number of Negro farm operators, amounting to 8.5% between 1920 and 1930 and to 7.5% between 1930 and 1935, does not negate this fact. More than half the Negroes are still rural; most of these are farm operators; and almost all of the Negro farm operators (95.3%) are in the South. To grasp the fundamentals of Negro life today we must examine the plantation system that shapes and overshadows it. From Slavery to Sharecropping The abolition of slavery closed one chapter in the development of the plantation system and opened another. But the transition from the slave plantations to the present peonage of sharecropping and tenancy was not so great a break as is commonly supposed. After having been shattered by the impact of emancipation, the plantation system was reorganized upon a new basis, formally different from the old but little better in reality. This was the tenancy and sharecropping system. After emancipation neither the state nor Federal governments made any real effort to enable the freedmen to achieve economic security on the land. The stricken bourbons, owning nothing but land, faced the masses of the ex-slaves possessing nothing but their labor power. A system was arrived at whereby labor was secured “without money wages and land without money rent.” This system, accepted at first as a temporary arrangement, developed into a permanent system. The slave owner’s place was taken by the usurer-planter, who had a direct interest in maintaining and strengthening the survivals of slavery by means of sharecropping and tenancy. Henry Grady noted in 1881 that “There is beyond question a sure but gradual rebunching of the small farms into large estates, and a tendency towards the reestablishment of a landowning oligarchy. Here and there through all the cotton states, and almost in every county, are reappearing the planter princes of the old time, still lords of acres though not of slaves.” Today, as before the Civil War, the plantation system dominates the entire economic, social, and political life of the South, above all in the cotton areas. The plantation system supports a hereditary oligarchy similar in all vital respects to the slave-holding seigneurs of the Old South. Character of Plantation Area The cotton plantation area is characterized by a high percentage of tenancy, a high degree of concentration of landownership, a large percentage of Negroes, lower incomes for the tenants than for farmers in other sections of the country, a slight proportion of urban and village inhabitants, scarcity of non-agricultural industries, large families, poor school facilities, and a highly mobile population. Whole families are frequently on the move in search of better conditions. These families are the vassals of King Cotton and the cotton nobility. Practically no other crop is grown on the plantations other than feed for livestock and a scant amount of produce for home consumption. The Negro is the principal victim of the semi-slave economy of these plantations, even though this economy, radiating from the plantations themselves, profoundly influences non-plantation farming and tenancy in the neighborhood, and encompasses increasing numbers of white workers. Thus, today, the exploitation of black labor in one form or another is basic to the plantation system. Moreover, the concentration of plantation economy determines the degree of concentration of the Negroes. In his study, Landlord and Tenant on the Cotton Plantation, T.J. Woofter, Jr., states that in 1934, 84% of the tenant households were Negro in a sample survey of 646 plantations in six Southern states. Their general status is the same as in slave days. “Nowhere are ante-bellum conditions so nearly preserved as in Yazoo delta,” says Rupert B. Vance. “The delta planters compose the Mississippi aristocracy and, conversely, here the Negro is to be found at his lowest levels in America.” The Extent of Sharecropping and Tenancy Today, more than three-quarters of a century after the abolition of chattel slavery, the area of the old slave plantations and the modern peon plantations is much the same. This is the area of the largest concentration of Negroes and the area in which the largest proportions of Negro tenancy and sharecropping prevail. The basis for the strength of the economic survivals of slavery are the plantations where the majority of the tenants and sharecroppers are Negroes. Moreover, the link between tenancy and cotton production is as close today as ever. In the South as a whole, 79% of the cotton farms were operated by tenants, as compared to 38% of non-cotton farms. In the cotton belt alone the percentage of tenancy is still higher. For example, in 1935, 68% of all farms in Mississippi, and 65.6% of all farms in Georgia, were operated by tenants. The tenant is predominantly Negro, but he is gradually being displaced by the whites. Today 77% of Negro Southern farmers are tenants, as compared with substantially the same figure, 75%, in 1900. During the same period the proportion of tenants among Southern white farmers jumped from 36% to 46%. Moreover, although sharecroppers are about equally divided between Negroes and whites, a far larger portion of Negroes is to be found in this lowest class of tenants. In 1935, 58.5% of the 629,301 colored tenants in the South were sharecroppers, whereas of the 1,202,174 white tenants only 28.9% were sharecroppers. In Mississippi in 1935, 71.8% of the 147,693 Negro tenants were sharecroppers, compared to 69,871 whites of whom 45.1% were sharecroppers. In Arkansas, 68.3% of the 59,940 Negro tenants were sharecroppers, compared to 91,819 white tenants, of whom 26.7% were sharecroppers. In these typical plantation states sixty out of every hundred cotton farms are operated by tenants. 445 out of every 1,000 Negro farmers in the South are sharecroppers, compared to 170 out of each 1,000 white farmers. There has been a steady decrease in the number of Negro tenants and a steady increase in the number of white tenants. Today the problems of the agrarian population in the South, and of cotton tenancy in particular, involve white, no less than black workers. Most white tenants are located on the non-plantation size farms. Tenancy on these is directly influenced by the semi-slave conditions on the plantations and has numerous features in common with them. This constitutes the main difference between Negro and white tenancy. Sharecropping here are three types of tenancy in the South – sharecropping, share-tenancy, and renting. The sharecropper owns nothing. The land to which he is assigned, implements and working stock he uses – all the means of production – belong to his landlord. The cropper has nothing but the labor of himself and his family. The average area cultivated by the Negro sharecropper in 1935 was 31.2 acres, compared to 52.8 by whites. But in such typical plantation states as Mississippi and Arkansas, with the largest number of Negro sharecroppers, the acreage is from 10 to 20 acres. For use of the means of production the cropper must give the landlord a portion, usually half, of the crop; out of the other half the landlord deducts for “furnish,” i.e., all food, clothes, and other necessities advanced during the season, and the cropper’s share of fertilizer. These are supplied through the landlord’s own commissary or by arrangement with some merchant. The cropper has no control over the nature of his crops, the acreage, methods of cultivation or marketing of his crop, and is at all times under direct supervision by the landlord or his agents. The “settlement” at the time the crop is sold amounts to no more than this: After having received barely enough for subsistence from the landlord in the “furnishes” to enable him to continue working, he is occasionally granted a small cash bonus at Christmas during a good year. But usually the cropper finds himself in debt to the landlord after the cotton is picked and sold and is forced to remain until the debt is worked off. This state of affairs is legalized by means of vagrancy statutes and laws penalizing agricultural workers for failure to complete cultivation of a crop after having entered into a contract with a landlord. The oppression and degradation of the masses under this form of economic bondage is little better than those experienced under chattel slavery. The cropper is a worker paid in kind with no claim on the crops upon which the landlord has first lien. The legal codes of some cotton states define a cropper as a “wage-laborer working for the share of the crop as wages” and the Georgia Supreme Court in 1872 decided that “the case of the cropper is rather a mode of paying wages than a tenancy.” The slave received a bare subsistence, the entire product of his toil on the land being appropriated by the plantation owner. The sharecropper, on the other hand, gives the landlord one-half of the crop by virtue of the landlord’s ownership of the land and implements, thus assuring the landlord from the beginning a large portion of the surplus product produced by the tiller of the soil. But the remaining half also reaches the coffers of the landlord in the form of payments on the advances, fertilizer, etc., which the landlord usually fixes to equal the total wages of the sharecropper. While the sharecropper does not appear as part of the means of production, as did the slave, the method by which surplus labor is extracted by the landlord differs but little from slavery. The only difference is that occasionally, when his labor is not essential on his patch of plantation, the cropper is paid partly in cash. But his position as a semi-slave is altered neither by this nor by the fact that he has a degree of freedom that permits him under certain circumstances to change masters. The sharecropper is bound to the soil by coercive measures, by contract enforced by the state for the period of the growing season, and then by debt slavery, made all the more coercive by the credit system of finance-capital. The price the plantation owner paid for a slave was “the anticipated and capitalized surplus value or profit to be ground out of him.” (Capital, vol.III, p.934). The cost of the slave was a deduction from the capital available for actual production, and this capital ceased to exist for the plantation owner until he sold his slave once more. Additional investment of capital in production was necessary before the slave-master began to exploit his labor. With the sharecropper, the landlord is saved the initial deduction from capital in the purchase of the slave; he invests only in his advances to the cropper and in the costs of production. Under chattel-slavery the cost to feed and maintain a slave was about twenty dollars a year. Woofter, in his study of 646 plantations, found that advances to tenants and sharecroppers amounted to an average of $12.80 per family per month for an average of seven months of the year. (Landlord and Tenant the Cotton Plantation, p.59). Considering that the sharecropper’s family usually has at least five and often as many as ten members, the actual cost of furnishing a cropper with the bare necessities of life is lower, at times, than the cost of maintaining a slave. If one considers the initial deduction in capital for the purchase of the slave, the investment is even less. The landowner is relieved of any necessity to provide for his labor in the months between picking and planting the next crop, or during periods of reduced production. The landlord, his contract protected by the state power, may force the croppers to remain cm the plantation without at the same time advancing food and other necessities. This is the prevailing state of affairs throughout the cotton area in periods of crisis or low prices for cotton. Since the sharecropper owns no means of production, he is less a tenant than a wage-laborer. However, his relations to the landlord and the land keep him in a state of peonage worse than slavery. There is no strict line of demarcation setting off tenants from sharecroppers. One often finds on a single plantation, sharecropping, share-tenancy, renting and wage-labor. On the 646 plantations in the cotton states he studied, Woofter found that sharecropping was predominant. Of these plantations 71% were mixed in tenure, with share-croppers predominant, 16% operated entirely by croppers, 6% by renters, 3% by other share-tenants and 4% operated entirely by wage-labor. Negroes and whites many times were employed on the same plantation. Of the above plantations 53% were operated entirely by Negroes, 42% by both Negroes and whites and only 5% entirely by whites. Share-Tenancy and Renting The share-tenant differs from the sharecropper by the fact that he owns part of the means of production and makes an investment in the enterprise. The tenant supplies labor, work stock, feed for the work stock, tools, seed, and three-fourths or two-thirds of the fertilizer. The landlord receives one-fourth or one-third of the crops. He must take advances from the landlord or the supply merchant and, caught in the credit net, is consequently subject to a considerable degree of supervision, including the sale of his crops. The share-tenant is often but slightly distinguished from the sharecropper. As Robert P. Brooks states, “The share tenant is in reality a day laborer. Instead of receiving weekly or monthly wages he is paid a share of the crop raised on the tract of land for which he is responsible.” (The Agrarian Revolution in Georgia, 1865-1912, pp.65-66). The renter most closely approaches the typical tenant of more developed capitalist areas. The landlord supplies the renter with house, land and fuel for which he is paid a fixed rental in either cash or its equal in crops. The renter furnishes all the means of production. When the renter is a small farmer, his work is often supervised by the landlord, who is interested in the crop for the rent and in many cases for advances of food and other necessities. Differences between North and South In the North, the rapid increase in tenancy since 1900 is an index of impoverishment, brought on by foreclosure, which deprives the farmer of his land, buildings and other capital. It is only as a much poorer capitalist that the dispossessed tenant can rent land, if at all, and continue farming. The complete expropriation of land, buildings, livestock, machinery and other capital since 1929, is reflected in the growth of an army of farm laborers rather than in the growth of tenancy itself. These laborers cannot even become small tenant farmers. In the South the general basis of tenancy was the large plantations that continued to exist after the abolition of chattel slavery, while in the North tenancy was rather the result of the expropriation of landowning farmers brought about by finance-capital on the basis of capitalist relations of production. The same type of expropriation takes place in the South as in the North, but it does not constitute the main basis for the perpetuation of tenancy. There is another important difference between the types of tenancy in the North and in the South. In the third volume of Capital, Marx points out that the progressive characteristics of the capitalist mode of production in agriculture are, on the one hand, the rationalization of agriculture which makes it capable of operation on a social scale, and, on the other hand, in the development of capitalist tenants. While capitalist tenancy has an adverse effect upon the advance of agriculture insofar as the tenants on the land hesitate to invest in improvements and many times permit the land to deteriorate, the development of capitalist tenancy does have progressive features. In contrast to pre-capitalist forms of agriculture it separates landownership from the relationship of master and slave, for the landowner or his agent is not, as under feudalism or slavery, the direct overlord of the tillers of the soil. Capitalist tenancy “separates land as an instrument of production from property in land and landowners, for whom it represents merely a certain tribute in money, which he collects by force of his monopoly from the industrial capitalist, the capitalist farmer.” Land thus assumes the character of an instrument of production and is separated from private monopoly over a parcel of land, which enables its owner to appropriate a part of the surplus value in the form of rent. Marx points out that capitalist production brought this about “by first completely pauperizing the direct producers” (Capital, vol.III, pp.723-724). Capitalist tenancy, by making the landlord merely a rent collector, an expropriator of surplus value, and by depriving the actual farmer of landownership, prepares the road for the socialist revolution, which will abolish private property in land and make possible planned operation of agriculture. Tenancy in the South does not exhibit any of the progressive characteristics of capitalist tenancy. Instead of separating on a broad scale landownership from the relationships of master and slave, it prolonged and strengthened such relationships, thus maintaining important survivals of chattel slavery in a highly developed capitalist country. Neither was there a separation of land as an instrument of production from private property in land, despite the intervention of rent in kind, which does not draw any sharp line of distinction between the relations of production and landownership. The landlord in the South maintains a direct supervision over production. The tenant system in the South, while possessing none of the progressive features of capitalist tenancy, partakes of its worst evils. Tenancy hinders the rational development of agriculture by deterring the tenant from investing in improvements on the land, since they would only add to the capital of the landowner. The failure to make improvements and the concentration of production upon a single crop, which does not permit the tenant to rest his land and rotate his crops, results in the deterioration of the land. The Soil Erosion Survey of seven Southeastern states found 10,900,000 acres practically destroyed for further cultivation and 11,000,000 more acres rapidly approaching the same condition. There are about half-a-million families living on such land. The dominance of semi-feudal types of labor relationships in the South has not excluded the penetration of capitalist relations of production. Wage-labor and machinery are the best indices of capitalist relationships in Southern agriculture. Wage Labor Along with an increasing penetration of capitalism into the agrarian economy of the Black Belt, there has been an increasing number of Negro farm wage-workers. Many plantations and some large tenant farms employ wage-labor exclusively and an even larger number employ wage-labor occasionally. A part of the plantation is set aside by the operator for cultivation by wage-labor. The labor for working the 1andlord farm is supplied in part by wage-labor and in part by the tenants under forced labor conditions. The large plantation owners employ the greatest number of wage-laborers; the plantations having fifty or more tenants retained an average of 1,375 acres to be cultivated in this manner. The typical plantation in 1934, according to Woofter, had three wage-laborer families who cultivated 45 crop acres each, eight cropper families cultivating 20 acres each, two share-tenant families cultivating 26 acres each and one renter family cultivating 24 acres. This reflects the close relationships existing on the plantations between capitalist and semi-feudal relations of production. Census data on the use of wage-labor are not complete, but these data give us some indication of the low stage of capitalist development in Southern agriculture. In Mississippi, a typical plantation state, half the population are Negroes. In 1929, 64.5% of the managers of plantations and farms, 27.5% of the owners and 10.4% of the tenants, employed wage-laborers. In North Dakota, a state with highly developed capitalist methods of operation in agriculture, in 1929, 77.9% of the managers, 75.8% of the owners, and 71.1% of the tenants hired wage-workers. Sharecropping and share-tenancy are being replaced by an even more vicious system of labor exploitation. The sharecropper of yesterday is the wage-worker of today, the man who peddles his brawn and muscle for twenty-five and thirty cents a day, lucky to get one day’s work a week during the winter months, and still luckier if he can collect his wage in cash rather than in corn meal or old clothes. According to the 1930 census, there were 523,000 Negro agricultural laborers in the South. Counting the unpaid family workers they totaled over a million. The shift from farming with sharecroppers to farming with wage-hands by many landlords, is taking place on a large scale in the Western cotton areas, in the Mississippi Delta, and in other areas. The semi-feudal conditions in the plantation area weigh heavily upon the Negro farm workers. They get the lowest wages in the country, an average of $180 a year per family of wage-laborers, or $62 per capita, 17 cents a day on the plantations studied by Woofter. They labor the longest hours and are subject to strict supervision by plantation foremen. This army of Negro agricultural workers will inevitably play a leading role in the development of a revolutionary agrarian labor movement in the South. Mechanization The technical backwardness of agriculture in the South is a result of the plantation economy and its credit system. The average value of machinery and implements per Negro-owned farm in the South in 1930 was $108. For farms operated by Negro tenants it was $57. In his study of Macon County, Georgia, a typical cotton plantation county, Charles S. Johnson found that out of 612 Negro farm families there were 289 who owned not a single farming implement and were using the same methods of cultivation as under slavery (Shadow of the Plantation, p.119). Only 23% of the owners and managers and 6.8% of the tenants in Mississippi reported expenditures for implements and machinery in 1929. In North Dakota, a typical Northern agricultural state, 54.8% of the owners and 49.5% of the tenants reported expenditures for farm machinery the same year. In the Eastern section of the cotton belt 80% of the farmers still used half-row cultivators in 1936. Fewer than 10% of the farmers in this area switched to the use of one-row or larger cultivators in the period from 1909-1936. In the Mississippi Delta, an area where nearly all land is in cotton plantations, only 9% of the farmers used half-row equipment. In the cotton area west of the Mississippi River most of the implements are two-row or larger. There is a definite tendency toward the use of tractors on the Mississippi Delta and Texas cotton plantations. The number of farmers using tractors increased from 5% in 1919 to 45% in 1936 in two Mississippi Delta counties, and from 1% to 41% for the same period in two Texas counties. This compares to an increase from 1% to 3% in seven selected counties in the Eastern areas. “There is impending a violent revolution in cotton production as a result of the development of the mechanical cotton picker” (Johnson, Embree, Alexander, The Collapse of Cotton Tenancy, p.44). This is an event that has been awaited in the Cotton Kingdom with much more eagerness than the development of the cotton gin in the last century. When it is perfected, hundreds of thousands of sharecroppers, tenants and wage-laborers in the cotton belt will be automatically eliminated from production. Already a large number of sharecroppers and tenants have been displaced, especially in the Mississippi Delta and Western cotton areas, by the increased use of machinery in the pre-picking operations in the cultivation of cotton. This tendency is spreading eastward in spite of a persistence of the old methods in the old cotton areas. The survivals of slavery have impeded the introduction of machinery. With the cheapest labor supply in the country on hand, the landlord is not likely to make investments in machinery, especially when his profits have been cut by a contracting market. Only the large plantation owners are able to purchase new machinery. By so doing, they accentuate the crisis in cotton production by piling up surpluses and thus hasten the expropriation of the small producers and displacement of the tenants and sharecroppers. New machinery under present conditions will not abolish the semi-feudal plantation system. The increased use of machinery, especially on the Western plains, can result only in a greater exploitation of the tenants, sharecroppers and wage-laborers in the older plantation areas of the East. The increase in the use of machinery will promote the maturing of the conditions and forces that will eventually abolish “ten acres, a nigger and a mule.” Machine production can only accentuate this process, not substitute for it. Negro Landownership The extent of landownership among Negro farmers is a measure of the extent that freedom has been obtained from plantation bondage. According to Booker T. Washington and other bourgeois leaders, salvation for the ex-slaves would come under the capitalist system by the growth of a large Negro landowning class, which could serve as the basis for the growth of a Negro bourgeoisie. But capitalism has proved to be just as brutal in retarding the development of the Negro landowner and in expropriating him as it has been in the case of the small Negro businessman. Such land as the Negro had been able to get has been to some extent expropriated in recent years. Landownership by Negroes reached its peak in 1910, when there were 218,972 Negro owners and part-owners with a total acreage of 12,847,348. But by 1930 the number of owners had fallen by 16.5% and the acreage by 14.5%. Most of this 10SStook place in the second decade; between 1920 and 1930 Southern Negroes lost 19.7% of their total acreage. Although there was an increase of about 2% in the number of Negro landowners from 1930 to 1935, during the same period the total acreage declined by about 5%. More and more, the tendency is to displace the Negro landowner. And while the total acreage held by Negro farmers as a group has been steadily decreasing, the acreage held by any one Negro farmer, never large, has also decreased. In 1935 the colored farm owner in the South owned an average of 56.6 acres, compared to 63.1 acres in 1930. The average acreage per white Southern owner was 144.8 in 1935, substantially the same as in 1930. Many Negroes have farms even smaller than the average; 55% have farms of less than 50 acres, and 22% of less than 20 acres. Only 5% owned between 175 and 499 acres and only 9.7% 500 acres or more; that is to say, only 14.7% can be said to hold even a small plantation. Hardly a larger percentage have middle-size holdings. Most Negroes have small farms, and many have only minute farmlets. The average value of Negro-owned farms decreased even faster than the acreage. In 1920 it was $2,459; by 1930 it fell by 17.5% and by 1935 by an additional 25%, to $1,133. In 1930 the average value of implements and machinery per Negro-owned farm in the South was only $106. The acreage per farm of the average Negro owner was less than half, his value of land and building about one-fourth, and his value of implements about one-third of that of the average white landowner in the South. Generally the size of a farm is not decisive in determining the economic status of a farmer. A truck farmer often is able to conduct a reasonably profitable enterprise on a small holding. But the fact that Southern farmers generally have a less diversified crop than the ordinary truck farm tends to make a small farm more of a disadvantage. Moreover, to be profitable a small farm has to be intensively cultivated, and this takes machinery and fertilizer, neither of which the Negro farmer can afford. In addition, the land held by Negroes is in general the marginal land. Just as in cities there are neighborhoods from which Negroes are excluded, so there are rural areas where it is practically impossible for a Negro to purchase land. The Negro farmer, in general, is to be found in outlying sections, on back roads, and on the poorest land. Ladder or Treadmill The theory held by certain bourgeois economists that sharecropping and tenancy are progressive steps by which the farmer rises to ownership rather than a status into which they fall, has been proven false by the increase of tenancy in every sphere. Although the number of young farmers has decreased, the proportion of those who are tenants has increased steadily. There has been a general increase in the number of tenants over fifty-five years of age. “Many of these people,” writes Secretary Wallace, “have struggled for years, and yet in their old age have no home and no more security than when they started.” Harold Hoffsommer in his study The AAA and the Cropper (Social Forces, May 1935) states, “In Alabama ... of those who started farming as sharecroppers, nearly one-fourth still remain such. Less than one-tenth have become owners.” The agricultural ladder for thousands has become a treadmill. The majority of Negro tenants and landowners can be classed as in the lower stratum of the rural petty-bourgeoisie. The croppers and most of the share-tenants, are petty-bourgeois only by aspiration. They hope to obtain land, a hope that has small chance of being realized under present conditions. This hope, however, is nonetheless a powerful lever for propelling the rural masses on to the path of revolutionary action. Concentration of Landownership The pre-Civil War plantations have persisted as a unit to a large extent. Some acreages have, it is true, been broken up into smaller plantations and into small farms. But large-scale operations are the general rule in the area that was characterized by plantations in 1860. The 1910 plantation census, the only one to survey plantations, covered 325 counties in eleven cotton belt states. In most of the counties, Negroes constituted at least half of the total population. On the 39,073 plantations of five or more tenant farms, there was a total of 398,905 tenants or an average of 10 tenants for each plantation. The large increase in the number of farms in the South and the decrease in the size of average holdings, do not reflect a breaking up of the plantation, but the division of the plantation tracts into tenant holdings. In the 325 counties, 37.1% of the total number of farms were in plantations, 31.5% of the total farm acreage was in plantations, and 32.8% of the total value of land and buildings was on the plantations. Plantations constitute only 3.3% of all farms in the plantation area but account for approximately one-third of the total farm acreage and value of land and buildings. Today, in the Yazoo Delta, the most fertile area of the lower Mississippi Valley, 70% of all improved land is in cotton, 85% of the farm land is in plantations and 86% of the farms are operated by Negroes. In 1910, 8.6% of the total number of plantations contained 28% of all tenant farms in plantations, 23% of all land in plantations, and accounted for 25% of the total value of all lands and buildings on plantations. Thus we see that approximately one-fourth of the plantation economy is concentrated in the hands of one-twelfth of the owners of plantations. In 1934, 55.7% of all land in 20 Georgia plantation counties was in tracts of 260 acres or more. Such tracts were 16% of the total number of farms. There was an increase in plantations in the Atlantic Coast region and almost no reduction in the number of large plantations in the Black Belt. There was a rapid increase in the number of small holdings, indicating that a number of small farms were carved from large tracts without reducing the parent tracts below plantation size. Many landlords hold non-contiguous tracts of land, another indication of concentration of ownership. Woofter found that on the plantations he surveyed, 39% of the landlords owned an average of 2.9 additional farms, ownership of more than one non-contiguous tract being a common practice among large operators. With this group of large tenant-operated plantation farming partakes of the character of big business. Absentee ownership is extensive in many sections of the South. Widows, heirs, bankers, lawyers, merchants and corporations become owners of plantations, through inheritance, foreclosure and speculative purchase. Overseers are hired to supervise these plantations. Many landlords devote only a part of their time to their plantations. A landowner, having another occupation, is most often a merchant. Many landlords further concentrated their operations by renting additional land. On the plantations investigated by Woofter the acreage was distributed as follows: owned, 86%; additional rented, 14%. Since 1929, large banks, mortgage and insurance companies have taken over large acreages through the plantation area. “It is estimated that areas amounting to 30% of the cotton lands of various states are owned by insurance companies and banks.” (Johnson, Embree and Alexander, The Collapse of Cotton Tenancy, p.33.) It is apparent that since about 1880 there has been a progressive concentration of the better land of the South into large plantations under central control. Owners of plantations of the size surveyed do not constitute a majority of landowners in the South; but through their control over large acreages of the best land and of large numbers of tenant and laborer families, they still dominate the economic, political and cultural life. Landlord-tenant relationships on the smaller units in these areas were molded after those on the large holdings. The Credit System Louis XIV of France observed with a grim irony that “credit supports agriculture, as the cord supports the hanged.” Cotton culture has been strangling for years under a precarious credit system. A favorable world market and the social and economic relations bound up with its production have permitted cotton economy to survive. But with the increasing competition of other growing areas in the world, and the resulting contraction of the world market, the cotton economy faces the fatal consequences of the credit system. Even under chattel slavery, the cotton economy of the South was dependent on the finance capitalist of the North for credit, a situation that kept the entire area subservient to Northern capital. The seasonal character of agricultural loans and bank deposits, and the speculative character of cotton loans result in unbearable credit costs for the small farmers, tenants and sharecroppers. The credit merchant is an unavoidable part of such a system under a one-crop economy. Credit costs are estimated to drain off 25 to 50% of the operating capital of the small farmers. Under this credit system there is no hope for the small farmers and tenants. “The landlord and credit merchant, instead of promoting advancement in agriculture and social development, have been financing economic stagnation and backwardness.” (Johnson, Embree and Alexander, The Collapse of Cotton Tenancy, p.27.) The credit merchant, very often a landlord, controls all credit facilities, not only for his own tenants, but of other renters and small owners. The credit merchant’s security is the entire crop, which when harvested and ginned, must be turned over to him in payment of the debt. The merchant keeps the books and sets the interest rates. The tenant rarely gets a statement of his account and usually finds himself in debt, or just breaking even after the crop is sold. The credit system forbids questioning of accounts by either Negro or white tenants. The per annum interest rates in three selected cotton counties in Mississippi and Texas in 1934, varied from 16.1% to 23.3%. In addition to this, credit prices which were in excess of interest rates, made the total cost to tenants for their supplies more than 50% per annum. This is typical of the whole cotton area. Under this system, tenants and sharecroppers rarely get out of debt and the small owner is in constant danger of losing his farm. The enormous increase in tenancy and sharecropping shows how extensively this is happening. Conclusion 1. Negroes are basic to the plantation system, even though large numbers of whites are now equally exploited by its semi-feudal methods of labor. 2. The plantation system, now fused with modern capitalist methods, dominates the entire agrarian economy of the South. This economy is the main basis for the exploitation and oppression of the Negroes in America. 3. Sharecropping and share-tenancy, the main characteristics of the plantation system, are direct survivals of chattel slavery. 4. There is a large and increasing concentration of land in the hands of plantation owners, banks, insurance companies and credit corporations. 5. Since 1910, tenancy has rapidly increased, with a decrease among Negroes in the last fifteen years and a proportional increase of white tenants, indicating that Negroes are being displaced by whites and the Negroes being driven into the ranks of wage laborers or unemployment. Since 1930, this has been the situation with white sharecroppers, as well as the Negroes. 6. Mechanization of the operations connected with the production of cotton is on the increase. Along with this there is an increase in the use of wage labor. 7. The income and living standards of the masses of tenants, sharecroppers, and wage-laborers in the South, both Negro and white, are the lowest of any section of the population in the country. Such is the present economic situation of the Negro worker on the land in the South.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Posted on Nov 20th 2015 Young ladies use hair extensions because it makes them glamourous without. Virgin hair is one that has not been processed; Double drawn is where the hair is all of the same length and weft hair is where extra strips of hair are attached to the customer.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Q: Is it possible to sue the German government because of a break with the IFG (TTIP)? The Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership is heavily debated. It's still debated behind closed doors! Citizens may not get a look at the documents; a few German politicians have - after a very long debate - been able to get a look at it; but they have had to look at it in the American Embassy, have to read it there under high security standards and may not talk about or duplicate the documents. I mean, that is just against democracy. And it's frightening that even elected politicians were unable to discuss it for a very long time, as they would have to sign on behalf of Germany. I would like to know if it's possible to sue the German government for its lack of transparency. I mean, we have the Federal Act Governing Access to Information held by the Federal Government, the German analogue to the US Freedom of Information Act: Section 1 Underlying principles (1) Everyone is entitled to official information from the authorities of the Federal Government in accordance with the provisions of this Act. This Act shall apply to other Federal bodies and institutions insofar as they discharge administrative tasks under public law. For the purposes of these provisions, a natural or legal person shall be treated as equivalent to an authority where an authority avails itself of such a person in discharging its duties under public law. (2) The authority may furnish information, grant access to files or provide information in any other manner. Where an applicant requests a certain form of access to information, the information may only be provided by other means for good cause. In particular, substantially higher administrative expenditure shall constitute good cause. (3) Provisions in other legislation on access to official information shall take precedence, with the exception of Section 29 of the Administrative Procedure Act (VwVfG) and Section 25 of Book Ten of the Social Code. Section 2 Definitions For the purposes of this Act, official information shall be defined as every record serving official purposes, irrespective of the mode of storage. This shall not include drafts and notes which are not intended to form part of a file; a third person shall be defined as anyone on whom personal data or other information are held. A: Well, of course you can bring this to a court: Generally, all decisions of the government are open to judicial review. You would have to try and request the information from the relevant authorities first; if (when) they reject your request, you can bring the matter before a Verwaltungsgericht. This is laid out in § 9 (4) (official but non-authoritative translation) of the law. It is quite unlikely that you would win, however, since the law contains a long list of exceptions in §§ 3 to 6. Of particular interest here is § 3 no. 3 a) (necessary confidentiality of international negotiations) and perhaps § 3 no. 1 a) (detrimental effect on international relations).	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	StackExchange
Vehicles are increasingly incorporating tire pressure monitoring systems. Tire pressure monitoring systems are systems configured to receive messages from sensors associated with each tire on a vehicle. The sensors are configured to detect characteristics of the associated tire such as tire pressure, temperature, wear, etc. The detected characteristics are communicated in the message to the tire pressure monitoring system for analysis and communication to a user. In most tire pressure monitoring systems, each sensor is associated with a specific identifier. The specific identifier is included in all messages transmitted from that sensor so that the tire pressure monitoring system can determine the origin of the message. Identification is necessary because messages are often transmitted wirelessly and it is difficult to detect the origin of the message without the specific identifier. The origin is important because messages may be received from sensors other than those associated with tires on the vehicle. For example, a wireless message may be received from a tire sensor on a vehicle parked next to the intended vehicle. Accordingly, it may be desirable to configure the tire pressure monitoring system to recognize the identifiers for the tires on the vehicle. Further, the tire pressure monitoring system may be configured to recognize not only the identifiers for tires on the vehicle, but also their location on the vehicle. Accordingly, it may also be desirable to configure the tire pressure monitoring system to recognize a location for each identifier. However, configuring the tire pressure monitoring system to recognize the identifiers and/or their location may be a difficult task. In training the system, a user is often required to check a display mounted inside a vehicle to find out which tire is to be trained. The user then forces the sensor for that tire to transmit its identifier by standing next to the tire and actuating the sensor to transmit. The user must then go into the vehicle and check the display to determine whether the training was successful. If not, the user must again return to the sensor to actuate transmission from the sensor again and repeat the process. Further, this process must be repeated for each tire to be trained. Accordingly, what is needed is a tire pressure monitoring system configured to provide an external indication to a user indicating which tire is to be trained. What is further needed is such a tire pressure monitoring system configured to provide an external indication whether training was successful. The teachings hereinbelow extend to those embodiments which fall within the scope of the detailed description, regardless of whether they accomplish one or more of the above-mentioned needs.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	USPTO Backgrounds
Brachytherapy is a type of radiation therapy used to treat malignant tumors such as cancer of the breast or prostate. In general, brachytherapy involves the positioning of a radiation source directly into target tissue, which may typically include the tumor and/or surrounding tissue that may contain potentially cancerous cells (such as a cavity or void created by removal of the tumor). Brachytherapy is often divided into two categories: high dose rate (HDR); and low dose rate (LDR). In HDR brachytherapy, a high activity radiation source is placed into the target tissue, often via a previously implanted catheter, for a short period of time, e.g., seconds to a few minutes. In contrast, LDR brachytherapy places a low activity radiation source into the tumor for a longer, e.g., indefinite, period of time. Both forms of brachytherapy have advantages. For instance, HDR brachytherapy provides higher radiation levels delivered over a shorter dose delivery period. LDR brachytherapy, on the other hand, utilizes lower activity radiation sources. The energy field of the LDR radiation source results in a measured and localized dose of radiation delivered to the target tissue, e.g., the tumor, gland, or other surrounding tissue. However, the energy field thereafter decays to avoid excessive exposure of nearby healthy tissue. Due in part to the lower activity of LDR radiation sources, LDR brachytherapy may provide various advantages. For example, for healthcare workers, exposure precautions for LDR brachytherapy may be less stringent than those for HDR brachytherapy. Moreover, for patients, the relatively longer implantation period associated with LDR brachytherapy may result in fewer visits to a healthcare facility over the course of radiation treatment. Common radiation sources used in LDR brachytherapy include radioactive isotopes such as Palladium (Pd)-103, Iodine (I)-125, Gold (Au)-198, and Iridium (Ir)-192. While the size and shape of the isotopes may vary, they are, in common applications (e.g., prostate brachytherapy), provided in cylindrically shaped capsules that are approximately the size of a grain of rice, e.g., about 0.8 millimeters (mm) in diameter and about 4.5 mm in length, and are often referred to as “seeds. LDR seeds are often delivered through needles using a guide template. The guide template may include a matrix of holes that guide the longitudinal advancement of the needles to insure their proper position relative to the target tissue. Once the needles are properly located in the target tissue, the seeds may be deposited along the longitudinal axis of each needle, after which the needles may be withdrawn. While effective, current brachytherapy implementations have potential drawbacks. For example, the LDR seeds are typically left indwelling and free floating within the target tissue and are, therefore, susceptible to migration. Moreover, once implanted, LDR seeds are generally not considered to be removable or repositionable. LDR brachytherapy may also require careful dose distribution calculations and seed mapping prior to, and often during, seed implantation. Such calculation and mapping allows effective radiation delivery to the target tissue volume, while minimizing radiation to surrounding healthy tissue (the urethra and rectum, for example, in prostate brachytherapy). Yet, while such dose calculation and seed mapping techniques are effective, problems—such as potentially significant variability in accuracy of seed placement among different clinicians—may exist. Yet another issue with conventional LDR brachytherapy techniques is that many of these techniques often require the radioactive seeds to be manipulated individually at the time of implantation, an often time-consuming process. Moreover, conventional LDR delivery needles are generally limited to delivering the seeds linearly (along a relatively straight line). Thus, to achieve the desired therapy profile, numerous implants (e.g., about 50-100 seeds are common with prostate brachytherapy), in conjunction with potentially complex dose distribution and mapping techniques and equipment, are often required.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	USPTO Backgrounds
Nebraska Supreme Court Online Library www.nebraska.gov/apps-courts-epub/ 11/02/2018 09:11 AM CDT - 472 - Nebraska Supreme Court A dvance Sheets 301 Nebraska R eports STATE v. THOMPSON Cite as 301 Neb. 472 State of Nebraska, appellee, v. Benjamin M. Thompson, appellant. ___ N.W.2d ___ Filed November 2, 2018. No. S-17-952. 1. Judges: Recusal. A recusal motion is initially addressed to the discre- tion of the judge to whom the motion is directed. 2. Constitutional Law: Search and Seizure: Motions to Suppress: Appeal and Error. In reviewing a trial court’s ruling on a motion to suppress based on a claimed violation of the Fourth Amendment, an appellate court applies a two-part standard of review. Regarding histori- cal facts, an appellate court reviews the trial court’s findings for clear error, but whether those facts trigger or violate Fourth Amendment pro- tection is a question of law that an appellate court reviews independently of the trial court’s determination. 3. Appeal and Error. Plain error may be found on appeal when an error unasserted or uncomplained of at trial, but plainly evident from the record, prejudicially affects a litigant’s substantial right and, if uncor- rected, would result in damage to the integrity, reputation, and fairness of the judicial process. 4. Trial: Judges: Words and Phrases. An ex parte communication occurs when a judge communicates with any person concerning a pending or impending proceeding without notice to an adverse party. 5. Trial: Judges: Recusal. A judge who initiates or invites and receives an ex parte communication concerning a pending or impending proceed- ing must recuse himself or herself from the proceedings when a litigant requests such recusal. 6. Judges: Recusal. A judge should recuse himself or herself when a liti- gant demonstrates that a reasonable person who knew the circumstances of the case would question the judge’s impartiality under an objective standard of reasonableness, even though no actual bias or prejudice was shown. - 473 - Nebraska Supreme Court A dvance Sheets 301 Nebraska R eports STATE v. THOMPSON Cite as 301 Neb. 472 7. Criminal Law: Appeal and Error. Harmless error jurisprudence rec- ognizes that not all trial errors, even those of constitutional magnitude, entitle a criminal defendant to the reversal of an adverse trial result. 8. Convictions: Appeal and Error. It is only prejudicial error, that is, error which cannot be said to be harmless beyond a reasonable doubt, which requires that a conviction be set aside. 9. Appeal and Error. When determining whether an alleged error is so prejudicial as to justify reversal, courts generally consider whether the error, in light of the totality of the record, influenced the outcome of the case. 10. Verdicts: Juries: Appeal and Error. Harmless error review looks to the basis on which the jury actually rested its verdict. The inquiry is not whether in a trial that occurred without the error, a guilty verdict would surely have been rendered, but whether the actual guilty verdict rendered was surely unattributable to the error. Appeal from the District Court for Douglas County: Gregory M. Schatz, Judge. Affirmed in part, and in part vacated and remanded for resentencing. Thomas C. Riley, Douglas County Public Defender, and Zoë R. Wade for appellant. Douglas J. Peterson, Attorney General, and Nathan A. Liss for appellee. Heavican, C.J., Miller-Lerman, Cassel, Stacy, Funke, Papik, and Freudenberg, JJ. Heavican, C.J. INTRODUCTION Benjamin M. Thompson was operating a motor vehicle in which his three children were passengers. Thompson’s vehicle was struck by another vehicle, resulting in severe injury to two of the children. Following a jury trial, Thompson was convicted of driving under the influence, fifth offense; two counts of child abuse resulting in serious bodily injury; a single count of child abuse; and leaving the scene of an injury accident. Thompson now appeals from the district court’s denial of several pretrial motions, including a motion - 474 - Nebraska Supreme Court A dvance Sheets 301 Nebraska R eports STATE v. THOMPSON Cite as 301 Neb. 472 to recuse, a motion to suppress the results of his blood alco- hol testing, and a Franks v. Delaware 1 motion to exclude the results of his blood testing. We affirm Thompson’s convic- tions, but vacate the sentences imposed and remand the cause for resentencing. BACKGROUND On October 24, 2016, at approximately 2 p.m., police and medical personnel were dispatched to an injury accident near the intersection of Sorensen Parkway and 30th Streets in Omaha, Nebraska. One of the responding officers spoke to Randall Plugge, who reported that he had been involved in the accident. Plugge further reported that another vehicle, a white Nissan, had also been involved in the accident, but had left the scene and was heading north. Based on this information, an officer drove his cruiser north on 30th Street, following a noticeable gouge mark in the pavement, to a local park. The officer noted a white Nissan automobile in the parking lot, heavily damaged, with a man, later identified as Thompson, running from the Nissan to a trash can. In making contact with Thompson, the officer noted that Thompson’s hands were wet and that he smelled of alcohol. Thompson was ordered to the ground, and was hand- cuffed and arrested. An officer who later processed the scene testified at trial that there were both full and empty hard alco- hol and beer containers in the car and in the trash can. There was also a bottle of lorazepam, prescribed to Thompson, in the car. After being arrested, Thompson reported that his children were in the Nissan. The officer observed three children in the back seat: a 1-year-old, who was conscious and crying in a car seat; a 6-year old, who was slumped over and unconscious; and an 8-year-old, who was slumped over and unconscious and bleeding from her chin, mouth, and head. 1 Franks v. Delaware, 438 U.S. 154, 98 S. Ct. 2674, 57 L. Ed. 2d 667 (1978). - 475 - Nebraska Supreme Court A dvance Sheets 301 Nebraska R eports STATE v. THOMPSON Cite as 301 Neb. 472 The three children were transported to the hospital. The 1-year-old was hospitalized for 2 days for trauma caused by the collision. The 6-year-old was in intensive care for 3 days and was diagnosed with a significant and “life-threatening” head injury. The 8-year-old’s condition was worse than those of the younger children. Her injuries were life-threatening and required a breathing tube and ventilator. A monitor was implanted in her brain to monitor swelling. One of her doctors testified that on a “Glasgow Coma Score,” which scores range from 3 to 15, with 3 being the worst, the child began as a 5, but later regressed to a 3. He testified that 7 months’ postcrash, her eyes were open, but she was unaware of her environment and only “stare[s] off into space.” The doctor testified that the child’s prognosis was poor and that she would probably never fully recover, would need to be fed through a feeding tube, and would wear diapers for the rest of her life. Law enforcement applied for and was issued a warrant to obtain a blood draw from Thompson for purposes of deter- mining his blood alcohol content. The sample tested at .115 gram of alcohol per 100 milliliters of blood. Thompson was charged by information with driving under the influence, fifth offense; child abuse; two counts of child abuse resulting in serious bodily injury; and leaving the scene of an injury acci- dent. Counsel filed three pretrial motions which are relevant on appeal. Motion to Recuse. Following his arrest, Thompson was incarcerated while awaiting trial. He sought a furlough to visit his daughter in the hospital, as her doctors testified that she was not likely to survive. The State opposed the motion, noting both the seri- ous nature of the child’s injuries—specifically, that she would not recover and that life support was the only thing keeping her alive—and the fact that those injuries were the result of Thompson’s actions. After noting in the record that “in view of the seriousness of the offense, that [Thompson] is charged - 476 - Nebraska Supreme Court A dvance Sheets 301 Nebraska R eports STATE v. THOMPSON Cite as 301 Neb. 472 with a Class IIA Felony, ‘Which may, from what the prosecutor tells me, change were this person to expire,’” the district court denied the motion. Thompson subsequently filed a motion to recuse, basing the motion on the district court’s statement that it was aware that were the child to die, the State would amend the charges against Thompson. Thompson’s counsel indicated that she, counsel, was not present for any such communication with the State and that the court could have discovered that intention only as a result of an ex parte communication with the State. At a hearing on the motion, the State offered into evidence an affidavit from the deputy county attorney on the case, averring that no communication on the matter alleged was had between the State and the district court. Following the hearing, the district court denied the motion to recuse, noting that even if the evidence was clear that such a communication had taken place (and, the court implied, such was not clear), that communication would not draw into the question the court’s impartiality because of the facts of this particular case: namely, that the accident was alleged to have been caused by Thompson and that it was presumed that had the child died, the State would amend the charges accordingly. Motion to Suppress and Franks Motion. Thompson also filed a motion to suppress on March 23, 2017, and a motion seeking a hearing under Franks v. Delaware on April 13; both seeking to suppress the blood draw. The bases of the motion to suppress was Thompson’s assertion that the affidavit accompanying the request for the warrant did not contain sufficient information to estab- lish probable cause and that it was so lacking in indicia of probable cause as to make the good faith exception inappli- cable. The basis of the Franks motion was that the affidavit accompanying the request for a search warrant included false statements made knowingly or intentionally or with reckless - 477 - Nebraska Supreme Court A dvance Sheets 301 Nebraska R eports STATE v. THOMPSON Cite as 301 Neb. 472 disregard for the truth. A hearing was held on both motions. On May 11, the district court denied both motions. Trial. A 7-day jury trial was held in May 2017. At trial, the State introduced evidence that Thompson had run a red light, causing the accident. The State also introduced evidence that Thompson admitted to drinking and offered further evidence indicating that after the accident, Thompson drove his car from the scene to a park. Following the trial, the jury found Thompson guilty on all counts. Thompson appeals. ASSIGNMENTS OF ERROR Thompson assigns that the district court erred in denying his motions to (1) recuse, (2) suppress blood test results, and (3) exclude blood test results under Franks. STANDARD OF REVIEW [1] A recusal motion is initially addressed to the discretion of the judge to whom the motion is directed.2 [2] In reviewing a trial court’s ruling on a motion to sup- press based on a claimed violation of the Fourth Amendment, an appellate court applies a two-part standard of review. Regarding historical facts, an appellate court reviews the trial court’s findings for clear error, but whether those facts trig- ger or violate Fourth Amendment protection is a question of law that an appellate court reviews independently of the trial court’s determination.3 [3] Plain error may be found on appeal when an error unas- serted or uncomplained of at trial, but plainly evident from the record, prejudicially affects a litigant’s substantial right and, if uncorrected, would result in damage to the integrity, reputa- tion, and fairness of the judicial process.4 2 State v. Thomas, 268 Neb. 570, 685 N.W.2d 69 (2004). 3 State v. Taylor, 300 Neb. 629, 915 N.W.2d 568 (2018). 4 State v. Vanness, 300 Neb. 159, 912 N.W.2d 736 (2018). - 478 - Nebraska Supreme Court A dvance Sheets 301 Nebraska R eports STATE v. THOMPSON Cite as 301 Neb. 472 ANALYSIS Motion to Recuse. In his first assignment of error, Thompson contends that the district court erred in denying his motion seeking the recusal of the district court as a result of an ex parte communication with the prosecution. In this case, the district court concluded that it need not recuse itself, because Thompson could not show prejudice even if he could show that the alleged communication occurred. We agree that this was not the correct framework to analyze Thompson’s claim. [4,5] Thompson claimed that the district court and coun- sel for the State engaged in an ex parte communication. An ex parte communication occurs when a judge communicates with any person concerning a pending or impending proceed- ing without notice to an adverse party.5 A judge who initiates or invites and receives an ex parte communication concern- ing a pending or impending proceeding must recuse him- self or herself from the proceedings when a litigant requests such recusal.6 [6] In addition to recusal based upon an ex parte commu- nication, a judge should also recuse himself or herself when a litigant demonstrates that a reasonable person who knew the circumstances of the case would question the judge’s impar- tiality under an objective standard of reasonableness, even though no actual bias or prejudice was shown.7 Because Thompson alleged an ex parte communication and not bias or prejudice, the district court erred insofar as it found Thompson could not show that the court was prejudiced. But because Thompson failed to meet his burden to show that there was an ex parte communication, there was still no error in the district court’s decision to deny the motion to recuse. 5 State v. Thomas, supra note 2. 6 Id. 7 Id. - 479 - Nebraska Supreme Court A dvance Sheets 301 Nebraska R eports STATE v. THOMPSON Cite as 301 Neb. 472 The district court’s statement that were the child to die, it “presumed that the State would amend the charges . . . accord- ingly,” was the primary basis of Thompson’s assertion of an ex parte communication. But the prosecutor offered an affida- vit stating that no ex parte communication occurred, and the district court made no such finding either. While its finding could have been more clear, implicit in the court’s order was that it only “presumed” that the child’s death would result in an amendment of the charges. There is no merit to Thompson’s first assignment of error. Suppression of Blood Test Results. In his second assignment of error, Thompson contends that the affidavit supporting the issuance of the search warrant allowing the blood draw did not establish probable cause. And in his third and final assignment of error, Thompson assigns that the district court erred in denying his motion to suppress the blood draw based upon Franks v. Delaware.8 We need not address the questions raised about the suppres- sion of the blood draw under either the Fourth Amendment or Franks, because we conclude that any admission of the blood draw results was harmless error. [7,8] Harmless error jurisprudence recognizes that not all trial errors, even those of constitutional magnitude, entitle a criminal defendant to the reversal of an adverse trial result.9 It is only prejudicial error, that is, error which cannot be said to be harmless beyond a reasonable doubt, which requires that a conviction be set aside.10 [9,10] When determining whether an alleged error is so prej- udicial as to justify reversal, courts generally consider whether the error, in light of the totality of the record, influenced the outcome of the case.11 In other words, harmless error review 8 Franks v. Delaware, supra note 1. 9 State v. Kidder, 299 Neb. 232, 908 N.W.2d 1 (2018). 10 Id. 11 Id. - 480 - Nebraska Supreme Court A dvance Sheets 301 Nebraska R eports STATE v. THOMPSON Cite as 301 Neb. 472 looks to the basis on which the jury actually rested its verdict.12 The inquiry is not whether in a trial that occurred without the error, a guilty verdict would surely have been rendered, but whether the actual guilty verdict rendered was surely unattrib- utable to the error.13 In this case, there is a significant amount of evidence that Thompson was under the influence. He fled from the scene of the collision and stopped at a park, where an officer wit- nessed him discarding both empty and full bottles of alcohol and beer as his children sat injured in the back seat of his vehicle. In addition, open beer cans and a bottle of whiskey were found in that vehicle. Thompson admitted that he had consumed a beer and two wine coolers about 2 hours before the collision. Also in Thompson’s vehicle was a bottle containing 12 lorazepam pills. The label on the bottle indicated the prescrip- tion had been filled 6 days earlier and directed Thompson to take just one pill every 8 hours as needed. If taken as pre- scribed, there should have been approximately 42 pills left in the bottle. Thompson told officers at the time he was being interviewed—several hours after the collision—that he was still feeling the effects of the medications he had taken, which included lorazepam and Lyrica. In addition, there was testimony that Thompson smelled of alcohol, had bloodshot eyes, had slurred speech, and repeat- edly said that he was not “‘fucked up’” at a time when offi- cers were trying only to obtain biographical information for him and his children. Moreover, Thompson gave inconsistent explanations about where he was going at the time of the col- lision. Thompson also gave inconsistent details about his home address, variously indicating that he lived in Nebraska City, Nebraska, and in Fort Calhoun, Nebraska, when in fact his registered address was in Omaha. 12 Id. 13 Id. - 481 - Nebraska Supreme Court A dvance Sheets 301 Nebraska R eports STATE v. THOMPSON Cite as 301 Neb. 472 Officers also testified that Thompson showed impairment during field sobriety tests. Though these tests might not have been performed correctly by the officers, there was testimony that the tests were still valid to identify signs of impairment. Finally, officers testified that based upon their observations over a 4-hour period, Thompson was intoxicated. There was an abundance of evidence offered that Thompson was intoxicated. On these facts, any error in the admission of the blood test results was harmless. There is no merit to Thompson’s second or third assignments of error. Plain Error in Sentencing. The State argued in its brief that the district court erred in sentencing Thompson to license revocations for his con- victions for counts 2, 3, and 5. At oral arguments, the State further noted that it believed the district court erred in failing to sentence Thompson to indeterminate sentences on counts 2 and 3. Thompson was sentenced for his convictions to 12 to 15 years’ imprisonment on count 1, driving under the influence, a Class IIA felony; 3 years’ imprisonment on count 2, child abuse resulting in serious bodily injury, a Class II felony; 3 years’ imprisonment on count 3, also the Class II felony of child abuse resulting in serious bodily injury; 1 year’s imprisonment on count 4, child abuse, a Class IIIA felony; and 3 years’ imprisonment on count 5, leaving the scene of a personal injury accident resulting in serious bodily injury, a Class III felony. The district court additionally revoked Thompson’s operator’s license in connection with his convic- tions on counts 1, 2, 3, and 5. We turn first to the argument made by the State in its brief, that the operator’s license revocations for the convictions on counts 2 and 3 were plain error. We agree. Neb. Rev. Stat. § 60-6,197.03(9) (Cum. Supp. 2016) autho- rizes a 15-year license revocation for driving under the influ- ence, fifth offense, and Neb. Rev. Stat. § 60-698(2) (Cum. Supp. 2016) authorizes the same for leaving the scene of a - 482 - Nebraska Supreme Court A dvance Sheets 301 Nebraska R eports STATE v. THOMPSON Cite as 301 Neb. 472 personal injury accident. But there is no authorization in state law for such a revocation for child abuse convictions.14 We therefore agree with the State that these revocations consti- tuted plain error. We turn next to the State’s assertion at oral argument that the determinate sentences imposed for counts 2 through 5 were not authorized. The basis for this contention is Neb. Rev. Stat. §§ 29-2204 (Supp. 2017) and 29-2204.02 (Reissue 2016). Section 29-2204 provides in relevant part: (1) Except when a term of life imprisonment is required by law, in imposing a sentence upon an offender for any class of felony other than a Class III, IIIA, or IV felony, the court shall fix the minimum and the maximum terms of the sentence to be served within the limits provided by law. The maximum term shall not be greater than the maximum limit provided by law, and: (a) The minimum term fixed by the court shall be any term of years less than the maximum term imposed by the court; or (b) The minimum term shall be the minimum limit provided by law. And § 29-2204.02(4) provides: For any sentence of imprisonment for a Class III, IIIA, or IV felony for an offense committed on or after August 30, 2015, imposed consecutively or concurrently with (a) a sentence for a Class III, IIIA, or IV felony for an offense committed prior to August 30, 2015, or (b) a sen- tence of imprisonment for a Class I, IA, IB, IC, ID, II, or IIA felony, the court shall impose an indeterminate sen- tence within the applicable range in section 28-105 that does not include a period of post-release supervision, in accordance with the process set forth in section 29-2204. We recently explained the distinction between determinate and indeterminate sentences: 14 See Neb. Rev. Stat. § 28-707 (Reissue 2016). - 483 - Nebraska Supreme Court A dvance Sheets 301 Nebraska R eports STATE v. THOMPSON Cite as 301 Neb. 472 A determinate sentence is imposed when the defendant is sentenced to a single term of years, such as a sentence of 2 years’ imprisonment. . . . In contrast, when impos- ing an indeterminate sentence, a sentencing court ordi- narily articulates either a minimum term and maximum term or a range of time for which a defendant is to be incarcerated. In Nebraska, the fact that the minimum term and maximum term of a sentence are the same does not affect the sentence’s status as an indeterminate sentence.15 When read together and applied to these facts, §§ 29-2204(1) and 29-2204.02(4) require Thompson to be sentenced to inde- terminate sentences on all five counts. Under § 29-2204, a defendant convicted of a Class IIA felony, as Thompson was for driving under the influence, fifth offense, must be sen- tenced to an indeterminate sentence. Thompson was sentenced to 12 to 15 years’ imprisonment for driving under the influ- ence, and thus, this sentence was correct. But the sentences imposed for Thompson’s convictions on counts 2 and 3, both counts of child abuse resulting in seri- ous bodily injury, a Class II felony, were not indeterminate as required under § 29-2204.02; rather, Thompson was sentenced to a determinate sentence of 3 years’ imprisonment for each count. These sentences were plain error. Moreover, § 29-2204.02(4) provides that for “any sen- tence of imprisonment for a Class III, IIIA, or IV felony . . . imposed consecutively or concurrently with . . . a sentence of imprisonment for a Class I, IA, IB, IC, ID, II, or IIA felony, the court shall impose an indeterminate sentence within the applicable range.” In count 4, Thompson was convicted of child abuse, a Class IIIA felony, and was sentenced to a deter- minate sentence of 1 year’s imprisonment. In count 5, he was convicted of leaving the scene of a personal injury accident, a 15 State v. Artis, 296 Neb. 172, 179, 893 N.W.2d 421, 427-28 (2017), modified on denial of rehearing 296 Neb. 606, 894 N.W.2d 349. - 484 - Nebraska Supreme Court A dvance Sheets 301 Nebraska R eports STATE v. THOMPSON Cite as 301 Neb. 472 Class III felony, and was sentenced to a determinate sentence of 3 years’ imprisonment. But because these sentences were imposed consecutively with Thompson’s Class II and Class IIA felonies, these sentences should have also been indetermi- nate. We therefore find plain error in these sentences. Given this plain error, we vacate Thompson’s sentences for his convictions on counts 2 through 5 in their entirety and remand those counts for resentencing. CONCLUSION We vacate the sentences imposed for Thompson’s convic- tions on counts 2 through 5 in their entirety. We otherwise affirm the judgments and convictions of the district court and remand this cause to the district court for resentencing on counts 2 through 5. A ffirmed in part, and in part vacated and remanded for resentencing.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	FreeLaw
Jung, psychology, postmodernity Abstract Jung, Psychology, Postmodernity explores points of confluence and, more often, contradictions between Jungian and postmodern ideas. Throughout the book Raya Jones examines how personal meaning emerges in human activity. Jung addressed this in terms of symbol formation, with particular attention to dreams, myths, art and other fantasy productions. Postmodern psychologists tend to address issues of meaning in terms of peoples self-understanding and identity construction, with a focus on self-positioning in actual conversation or on autobiographical narratives. Jones draws a line of critical comparison between postmodern psychology and Jung’s descriptions of the symbolic dimension, myth, and the structure of the psyche. The book culminates with an evaluation of Jung’s psychic energy concept, for which there is no direct counterpart in postmodern psychology. Jung, Psychology, Postmodernity is an original critique of two key moments in the history of psychology. It will be welcomed by Jungians, as well as psychotherapists, and students of psychology.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Q: Improve this jQuery? was wondering if anyone could help me improve my code. Its just some basic checkbox selections, but I know that there must be some shorter ways of doing things. The jQuery: $(document).ready(function() { $(".sendType").click(function() { var what_is = $(this).attr("name"); var p = new RegExp('.?(\\d+).?((?:[a-z][a-z]+))',["i"]); var m = p.exec(what_is); if (m != null) { check_all(m[1], m[2], (this).checked); } }); $(".controlType").click(function() { var what_is = $(this).attr("name"); check_all(0, what_is, (this).checked); }); function check_all(id, what, check) { all = $("input:checkbox"); sa = $("input:checkbox.sendType."+id); sac = $("input:checkbox:checked.sendType."+id).length; sw = $("input:checkbox.sendType."+what); if (id == 0) { if (what == 'all') { all.attr('checked', check); } else { sw.attr('checked', check); } } if (what == 'all') { sa.attr('checked', check); } else { if (sac == 2) { if (check === true) { sa.attr('checked', true); } else { $("input:checkbox.sendType.all."+id).attr('checked', false); } } } ce = $("input:checkbox.controlType.email"); ct = $("input:checkbox.controlType.text"); s2 = $("input:checkbox:not(:checked).sendType.email").length; s3 = $("input:checkbox:not(:checked).sendType.text").length; if (!s2) { ce.attr('checked', true); } else { ce.attr('checked', false); } if (!s3) { ct.attr('checked', true); } else { ct.attr('checked', false); } if (!s3 && !s2) { all.attr('checked', true); } else { $("input:checkbox.controlType.all").attr('checked', false); } } }); The markup: <ul class="form-section"> <li class="form-line"> <input type="checkbox" class="controlType all" name="all" value="1"> <input type="checkbox" class="controlType email" name="email" value="1"> <input type="checkbox" class="controlType text" name="text" value="1"> </li> <li class="form-line"> <input type="checkbox" class="sendType all 1" name="id[1][all]" value="Charlie Gery allen"> <input type="checkbox" class="sendType email 1" name="id[1][email]" value="[email protected]"> <input type="checkbox" class="sendType text 1" name="id[1][text]" value="0412345678"> <span id="id[1][name]">Charlie Gery allen</span> </li> <li class="form-line"> <input type="checkbox" class="sendType all 6" name="id[6][all]" value="ye ere ertert"> <input type="checkbox" class="sendType email 6" name="id[6][email]" value="[email protected]"> <input type="checkbox" class="sendType text 6" name="id[6][text]" value="0415698721"> <span id="id[6][name]">ye ere ertert</span> </li> <li class="form-line"> <input type="checkbox" class="sendType all 7" name="id[7][all]" value="erterert utrtuuy 67678"> <input type="checkbox" class="sendType email 7" name="id[7][email]" value="[email protected]"> <input type="checkbox" class="sendType text 7" name="id[7][text]" value="0598746248"> <span id="id[7][name]">erterert utrtuuy 67678</span> </li> <li class="form-line"> <input type="checkbox" class="sendType all 8" name="id[8][all]" value="rrrrrrtyertertrrrrrr yyyyyyyetryeyyyyyyy"> <input type="checkbox" class="sendType email 8" name="id[8][email]" value=""> <input type="checkbox" class="sendType text 8" name="id[8][text]" value=""> <span id="id[8][name]">rrrrrrtyertertrrrrrr yyyyyyyetryeyyyyyyy</span> </li> <li class="form-line" id="id_2"> <button id="input_2" type="submit" class="form-submit-button">Send Message</button> </li> </ul> If anyone can get to it, thanks heaps. Cheers Charlie A: I've taken the liberty of optimizing both your JS code and your HTML. (to some degree) Check it out here: http://jsfiddle.net/dominicbarnes/ybGbU/ HTML You'll notice that I've removed some classes (the "id" classes, controlType and sendType notably) and added some ids (contact and control-line) as well. <ul id="contact" class="form-section"> <li>All Email Text</li> <li id="control-line" class="form-line"> <input type="checkbox" class="all" name="all" value="1"> <input type="checkbox" class="email" name="email" value="1"> <input type="checkbox" class="text" name="text" value="1"> </li> <li class="form-line"> <input type="checkbox" class="all" name="id[1][all]" value="Charlie Gery allen"> <input type="checkbox" class="email" name="id[1][email]" value="[email protected]"> <input type="checkbox" class="text" name="id[1][text]" value="0412345678"> <span id="id[1][name]">Charlie Gery allen</span> </li> <li class="form-line"> <input type="checkbox" class="all" name="id[6][all]" value="ye ere ertert"> <input type="checkbox" class="email" name="id[6][email]" value="[email protected]"> <input type="checkbox" class="text" name="id[6][text]" value="0415698721"> <span id="id[6][name]">ye ere ertert</span> </li> <li class="form-line"> <input type="checkbox" class="all" name="id[7][all]" value="erterert utrtuuy 67678"> <input type="checkbox" class="email" name="id[7][email]" value="[email protected]"> <input type="checkbox" class="text" name="id[7][text]" value="0598746248"> <span id="id[7][name]">erterert utrtuuy 67678</span> </li> <li class="form-line"> <input type="checkbox" class="all" name="id[8][all]" value="rrrrrrtyertertrrrrrr yyyyyyyetryeyyyyyyy"> <input type="checkbox" class="email" name="id[8][email]" value=""> <input type="checkbox" class="text" name="id[8][text]" value=""> <span id="id[8][name]">rrrrrrtyertertrrrrrr yyyyyyyetryeyyyyyyy</span> </li> <li class="form-line" id="id_2"> <button id="input_2" type="submit" class="form-submit-button">Send Message</button> </li> </ul> JavaScript I entirely rewrote this portion here, and included comments! $(document).ready(function() { // get and store a list of all the "non-control" checkboxes // ie, look in #contact for any checkbox not within #control-line var $checkboxes = $("#contact").find("li.form-line:not(#control-line) input:checkbox"); // now we'll enable the "control" checkboxes $("#control-line input:checkbox").change(function() { // if the selected control box has the "all" class if ($(this).hasClass("all")) { // then set all the "non-control" checkboxes to the same state as this one $checkboxes.attr("checked", this.checked); // as well as the sibling checkboxes (email and text) $(this).siblings("input:checkbox").attr("checked", this.checked); } else { // otherwise, we only want to select a specific column, so we take the current className // (this will break if you add any classes here, you could use a data-* attribute instead $checkboxes.filter("." + this.className).attr("checked", this.checked); } }); // now let's attach a specific event to the "all" checkboxes // we'll start with our cached collection from above, then filter it to find only `.all` $checkboxes.filter(".all").change(function() { // set all the checkbox siblings to the state of the current checkbox $(this).siblings("input:checkbox").attr("checked", this.checked); }); });	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	StackExchange
Q: What is the effect of call to a trivial destructor? Does a call to a trivial destructor end the lifetime of an object? I read this and this but didn't find a good explanation. These threads state that a trivial destructor call has no effect and code like struct A { int x; } a; a.~A(); a.~A(); is legal. But I found that example in the standard: struct C { }; void f() { C * pc = new C; using C2 = C; pc->C::~C2(); // OK, destroys *pc C().C::~C(); // undefined behavior: temporary of type C destroyed twice using T = int; 0 .T::~T(); // OK, no effect 0.T::~T(); // error: 0.T is a user-defined-floating-point-literal (5.13.8) } Here C has trivial destructor but still double destruction of an object of type C has undefined behavior? A: Starting with C++20 trivial destructor calls end the lifetime of objects. Before that they did not and it was valid to call the destructor multiple times. In C++17 (draft N4659) trivial destructors are explicitly excluded from ending the lifetime in [basic.life]/1.3 and objects with trivial destructor would live instead until their storage duration ends or their storage is reused ([basic.life]/1.4). This was changed with the resolution of CWG issue 2256 in this draft commit. Also note that pseudo-destructor calls also end the lifetime in C++20, but did not before that. Both questions you link in your question are talking about such pseudo-destructor calls. See the compatibility note against C++17 in [diff.cpp17.basic]/1 of the draft (N4861).	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	StackExchange
Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium is a sporting complex in Sendagaya, Shibuya, Tokyo, Japan. Built in 1954 for the World Wrestling Championship, it was also used as the venue for gymnastics at the 1964 Summer Olympics, and will host the table tennis competition at the 2020 Summer Olympics. The gymnasium was rebuilt to a futuristic design created by Pritzker Prize winner Fumihiko Maki from 1986 to 1990. The gymnasium is a one-minute walk from Sendagaya Station on the Chūō-Sōbu Line and Kokuritsu Kyogijo Station on the Toei Oedo Line. Description and events The main arena includes a large indoor arena that hosts national and international sporting events. The arena holds 10,000 people (6,000 fixed, 4,000 temporary). An incomplete list of events held in the arena include: WTA Toray Pan Pacific Tennis Championships were held every February here, but from 2008 it has been held in the Ariake Coliseum; Japan Table Tennis Championships; The first two international hosted regular season NBA games between the Phoenix Suns and Utah Jazz on November 2 & 3, 1990.; V.League; Suntory Cup All Japan School Volleyball Rally; Aeon Cup World Rhythmic Gymnastics Club Championships; World Full Contact Karate Open Championships; as the Shinkyokushinkai Karate World Open Tournament -held every four years-; Miki Prune Super College Volleyball. 2007 World Figure Skating Championships Final Four of the official 2010 Women's Volleyball World Championship 2011 World Artistic Gymnastics Championships 2017 TWICE Japan Debut 2019 ITTF Team World Cup Since 2000, the arena has also been used as a concert venue. The first artist to perform there was the Japanese group Porno Graffitti. The sub-arena houses an olympic size (50mX20m, eight lanes) swimming pool with seating for 900 people. The Japan Waterpolo Championships is held here. There is also a 25m pool (25mX13m, 6 lanes), an outdoor oval running track; a weight training room, and conference rooms. Since April 1, 2006, the Tokyo Lifelong Learning and Culture Foundation (東京都生涯学習文化財団), along with Suntory (サントリー株式会社), Tipness (株式会社ティップネス) and O-ence (株式会社オーエンス), manage the gymnasium. On April 25 and 26, 2015, American singer-songwriter Katy Perry brought The Prismatic World Tour to the venue with two shows. Fees From June 1, 2006, the fees for use of the facilities will be: training gym/2 hours: 450 yen pool/2 hours 600 yen: pool (junior high school students and younger)/2 hours: 260 yen training gym and pool/2 hours: 1000 yen training gym, pool and dance studio/1 day: 2500 yen one month pass: 7800 yen See also List of tennis stadiums by capacity References External links 1964 Summer Olympics official report. Volume 1. Part 1. pp. 120–1. Official Site Satellite photo of the gymnasium from Google Maps Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium at Archiplanet Category:Sports venues in Tokyo Category:Indoor arenas in Japan Category:Tennis venues in Japan Category:Basketball venues in Japan Category:Buildings and structures in Shibuya Category:Badminton venues Category:Volleyball venues in Japan Category:Boxing venues in Japan Category:Venues of the 1964 Summer Olympics Category:Venues of the 2020 Summer Olympics Category:Olympic gymnastics venues Category:Olympic table tennis venues Category:Modernist architecture in Japan Category:Fumihiko Maki buildings Category:1952 establishments in Japan Category:Judo venues Category:Sports venues completed in 1954	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Wikipedia (en)
Lupus band test in uninvolved oral mucosa in systemic lupus erythematosus. In 42 patients with systemic lupus erythematosus, clinically normal oral mucosa was investigated with direct immunofluorescence technique for the presence of immunoglobulins G, A and M and complement factor C3 in the mucosal basement membrane zone (the lupus band test, LBT). Punch biopsies were performed in the posterior part of the hard palate (n = 39) or the lower labial mucosa (n = 3). The immunopathological observations were compared with clinical and serological data. The LBT was positive for IgM in 45% of the patients and trace amounts of IgM were found in another 19%. In 7 cases (17%) either IgG, IgA or C3 were found in addition to IgM and these patients all had a severe form of the disease, while the presence of IgM only was not correlated to clinical parameters.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	PubMed Abstracts
Yola Berrocal Yolanda del Prado Pascual Berrocal (born 15 September 1970), better known as Yola Berrocal, is a Spanish media personality who has worked as a dancer, singer, and actress. Biography The daughter of mining engineer Manuel Pascual and decorator María del Rosario Berrocal, Yola Berrocal grew up in Pozuelo de Alarcón in Madrid, and studied Dramatic Art. Her first appearance on television was in 1994 on the show ¿Cómo lo veis? presented by Joaquín Prat, where she went with her family as a contestant. In 1997 she appeared as a dancer on the program Risas y estrellas. After proclaiming herself to be the girlfriend of , who was then the center of interest of the , she appeared on the cover of Interviú magazine in March 1998. In 2001, she formed the musical group Sex Bomb along with Malena Gracia and . In 2003 she participated in the Telecinco reality show and won. She is frequently featured in gossip magazines. She has undergone several breast augmentation operations. In February 2006, Berrocal again appeared on the cover of Interviú, with the headline "I am going to put big tits in fashion in Spain." In the summer of that year she presented herself as a candidate for the mayorship of Marbella, creating the Yola Independiente Liberal (YIL) party, with the slogan "Marbella, because Yola is worth it." Santiago Segura hired her in 2007 to work as a contributor to his program on LaSexta, where once a week she gave her personal opinion about books that she had previously read. She appeared on in June 2009. In 2012 she formed a new musical group, Atrevidas, with Sonia Monroy, whose best-known song was a cover of Sabrina's "Boys (Summertime Love)". Since then she has worked as an image girl in nightclubs and announced mobile games through her Twitter account. She has worked as an assistant to Santiago Segura, contributing to several series and almost 60 television programs. On 11 April 2016, she was announced as a contestant of Supervivientes, where she reached 2nd place in the final. In 2004, Antonio Ortega used her image for one of his unusual projects, which consisted of opening an office during an exhibition at the Fundació Joan Miró to obtain funds from companies in order to reproduce his wax figure. Filmography Films Fiction TV series Other TV series Reality shows Discography With Sex Bomb Ven (2003 album) "Si llama, dile que he salido" "Armas de mujer" "Ven, ven, ven" "De mí te olvidaras" "Lloré tu ausencia" "Dance" "Cómeme" "Pegando fuerte" "If You Love Me" "Sin tu amor" With Atrevidas "Boys (Summertime Love)" Solo albums Hotel Glam Aquí hay tomate References External links Category:1970 births Category:20th-century Spanish actresses Category:21st-century Spanish actresses Category:20th-century Spanish dancers Category:20th-century Spanish singers Category:21st-century Spanish dancers Category:21st-century Spanish singers Category:Castilian-Manchegan singers Category:Living people Category:People from Ciudad Real Category:Reality show winners Category:Spanish female adult models Category:Spanish film actresses Category:Spanish television actresses Category:Survivor (franchise) contestants	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Wikipedia (en)
Daniela has this take a look at the following day, and youngster`s studying for it. However the actual take a look at is one thing else. Will youngster be capable to focus when her paramour is rubbing her stunning tiny donk? The response is not any, in fact. He caresses her tender spaces and briefly youngster`s all labored up! Pulverize that take a look at. Small fry slurps his gigantic lollipop and briefly it`s fucking the lifestyles out of her little slit. After some saucy fucking he shoots a load everywhere that culo.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
Sweet Revenge (Ryuichi Sakamoto album) Sweet Revenge is a 1994 album by Ryuichi Sakamoto. The Japanese and international releases have different track listings, with the international pressing featuring (uncredited) re-mixes of half of the songs. An animated music video for "Psychedelic Afternoon" was released in 2013 as a way to raise money and awareness for children who survived the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami. Track listing Personnel Ryuichi Sakamoto – keyboards, programming J-Me – vocals Vivien Sessoms – vocals Holly Johnson – vocals Latasha Natasha Diggs – vocals Paul Alexander – vocals Roddy Frame – vocals Miki Imai – vocals Towa Tei – programming Satoshi Tomiie – programming and arrangements Cyro Baptista – percussion Amadeo Pace – guitar David Nadien – string section leader Lawrence Feldman – bass clarinet Romero Lubambo – guitar Hiroshi Takano – guitar Jean-Baptiste Mondino – photography References Category:1994 albums Category:Ryuichi Sakamoto albums Category:Albums produced by Ryuichi Sakamoto	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Wikipedia (en)
Cam live toy wantedmonique I just love playing with my astonishing tits; I'm the best at it and I know that this makes you hard in a sec. Add the dancing moves and the spelbinding things my mouth excels at and you'll be lost in my lure. Allow yourself to be lead in this g	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Theresa May has drawn up plans for a secret charm offensive aimed at persuading dozens of Labour MPs to back her Brexit deal even if it costs Jeremy Corbyn the chance to be prime minister, the Guardian has learned. Senior Conservatives say they have already been in private contact with a number of Labour MPs over a period of several months, making the case that the national interest in avoiding a no-deal outcome is more important than forcing a general election by defeating the government on May’s Brexit deal. Now, with talks in Brussels entering their frantic final phase, the prime minister and her party whips are stepping up efforts to win backing for a compromise deal that one minister described as a “British blancmange”. They are convinced they will need Labour votes to win, after a fractious Tory conference in Birmingham, at which determined opponents of the prime minister’s approach, including Jacob Rees-Mogg, won plaudits for saying they would vote against it. One Tory source compared the challenge of striking a deal with the EU27 that would satisfy both sides of his own party to “landing a jumbo jet on the penalty spot”. Labour MPs will thus be the focus of intense lobbying, in the period between May returning from Brussels with a Brexit deal and the meaningful vote, which is expected to come about a fortnight later. Facebook Twitter Pinterest Street art depicting Prime Minister Theresa May by street artist The Pink Bear Rebel in Glasgow. Photograph: Jane Barlow/PA Conservative whips are rehearsing an argument, the outlines of which were clear in the prime minister’s conference speech, that the deal on offer is a pragmatic one. One cabinet member identified a string of Labour MPs they thought would take a “reasoned approach”, such as Chris Bryant, Rachel Reeves and Lucy Powell, politicians who have been critical of Corbyn in the past. Bryant, a remainer, said he had not had any discussions with the government and would only be able to vote for a deal if May shifted towards Labour’s position of backing a customs union. Reeves said she had no intention of backing the government. Privately, some Labour MPs believe at least 15 of their colleagues could vote with the government, rather than appear to their constituents to be trying to “block Brexit”, with up to 30, including some frontbenchers, prepared to abstain, rather than go through the voting lobbies with hardliners such as Rees-Mogg. James Cleverly, the Conservative deputy chairman, has been liaising with some in this group. May appealed directly to Labour backbenchers in her conference speech when she spoke of the “heirs of Hugh Gaitskell and Barbara Castle, Denis Healey and John Smith”, saying they were on the backbenches, not in the shadow cabinet of what she called the “Jeremy Corbyn party”. She also told the party faithful that her deal “keeps faith with the British people” and was in the national interest. And she pointed to Sajid Javid’s announcement of a tougher migration regime as evidence that her approach delivers on the referendum result by ending the free movement of people. Meanwhile, the EU is preparing to help May build a majority by offering Downing Street a written commitment to think again on “frictionless trade” if the UK changes its red lines after it leaves the bloc. Facebook Twitter Pinterest May appealed directly to Labour backbenchers in her conference speech in Birmingham. Photograph: Mark Thomas/REX/Shutterstock EU leaders want to throw the prime minister a lifeline in the long-awaited political declaration on a future deal, a first draft of which is expected to emerge next week. If she clinches a deal with her EU counterparts in the face of formidable odds, May’s team believe the national mood will shift in her favour. And they hope a positive bounce from the financial markets will help to convince some Labour MPs to hold their noses and back a deal based on Chequers – though she did not use the word Chequers itself in her speech. Senior Conservatives have also been stressing the aspects of May’s approach that Boris Johnson and other hard Brexiters object to – including signing up to EU regulations in key areas. Tory whips are also working on persuading a separate group of MPs from leave-voting constituencies, such as Caroline Flint, from Don Valley, and Gareth Snell, from Stoke-on-Trent Central. Labour’s official policy is to reject any final deal that does not meet six tests drawn up by Keir Starmer, the shadow Brexit secretary, one of which is that it must offer the “exact same benefits” as membership of the single market and customs union. Corbyn said in his conference speech that if the prime minister shifted her position on a customs union, and promised to uphold environmental regulation and workers’ rights, Labour could swing behind her. But his party is keen to secure the opportunity of pushing for a general election by voting down the deal. A Labour source said: “Labour has been clear from the outset that if Theresa May’s Brexit deal does not meet our six tests then we will vote against it in parliament.” He added: “The Tories are wrong to say it’s a choice between Theresa May’s deal or no deal. No deal is simply not a viable option. There is no majority in parliament to take the UK off a cliff in March 2019.” Millionaire refuses to take down 'Bollocks to Brexit' poster Read more The tight parliamentary arithmetic and the likelihood of a rebellion by the Tory right means that Labour votes will be vital, at least as an insurance policy, while having the additional benefit of encouraging a split within Labour. But Conservative estimates vary as to how many of their own MPs would rebel in such a high-stakes vote. Losing it could unleash a constitutional crisis. Steve Baker, the former Brexit minister, has suggested as many as 80 Tory rebels could vote against the prime minister, but Tory whips hope to “burn off” the majority, reducing them to around 10 diehards. The government is also expected to argue that, while it will be possible to amend the final motion put before parliament, there is not enough time to delay article 50 and hold a referendum before the Brexit date of 29 March, because both would require primary legislation. However, that has been disputed by second referendum campaigners who say the EU’s 27 member states would be willing to extend article 50 to give time for the UK to legislate for and hold a referendum if it were called for by parliament in the autumn.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
Dennis Hale (vocalist) Dennis Hale (, 1922, 1960), born Dennis Godfrey Hoare, was a vocalist with a number of bands and performers, including the Oscar Rabin Band, Jack Parnell, Johnny Douglas, Teddy Foster (1945 to 1946), and Eric Winstone (1946 to 1948). Dennis left the army in 1945 where he had been a Sergeant Major. At the time, he was the youngest Sergeant Major in the Royal Artillery. In 1948 Dennis set up his own orchestra and had a resident berth at the Brighton Aquarium ballroom. In 1955 Dennis changed recording label from Parlophone to Decca Records. Recordings Parlophone Anytime/Weaver of Dreams (March 1952) Devil Eyes (February 1954) Blowing Wild (April 1954) The Bandit (June 1954) The Butterscotch Mop (1955) Decca Chee Chee-Oo Chee (Sang the Little Bird) (June 1955) Sweet and Gentle (July 1955) Walk With Me Forever (July 1955) The Longest Walk (October 1955) Tina Marie (October 1955) It's Almost Tomorrow (January 1956) Stealin' (January 1956) Unknown Can't I Sway Only Fools Why Don't You Believe Me? Critical reception Gramophone in a review of Hale singing Devil's Eyes stated that it was "gorge for those who enjoy the more extravagantly passionate singers." A different reviewer for Gramophone, in a review of Hale singing The Bandit, stated that they'd "like him much better if he didn't indulge so much in tasteless exaggeration and think that everyone listened to his records about ten miles from their gramophones." A Gramophone review of Blowing Wild stated that it was "more for those 'teen age maidens who swoon every time they hear a voice that has what to them is sex appeal. To me it's just rather tasteless extravagance." In 1952, Gramophone reviewed Hale's double-sided single that featured Hale singing Anytime and Weaver of Dreams. For Anytime, the reviewer stated that it was a "bouncy number" that was "more pleasant to the ear" than other vocalists had done. However, the reviewer stated that Weaver of Dreams had a lot of "weary notes" that sounded like he was "sing[ing] through his nose." Personal life Dennis was married to Santina Motta in 1946 and had two sons, Paul Dennis Hoare and Robert Norman Hoare (Hale). And also has two grandchildren, Paul Hale jr. & Rosemarie Hale. References Category:1922 births Category:1960 deaths Category:Big band singers Category:British Army personnel of World War II Category:English singers Category:Royal Artillery soldiers Category:20th-century English singers Category:Oscar Rabin Band members	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Wikipedia (en)
Sigrid Nunez has won the top prize at the prestigious National Book Awards in New York on Wednesday night, winning the fiction category for her seventh novel, The Friend, about a woman grieving the loss of her beloved literary mentor as she inherits his mourning dog: a 180-pound Great Dane. Nunez beat Jamel Brinkley’s short story collection A Lucky Man; Florida by Lauren Groff; Where the Dead Sit Talking by Brandon Hobson; and The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai. Accepting the award, she quoted the British writer Alan Bennett, who said: “For a writer, nothing is ever quite as bad as it is for other people because, however dreadful, it may be of use.” Nunez continued: “I became a writer not because I was seeking community but rather because I thought it was something I could do alone, and hidden, in the privacy of my own room. How lucky to have discovered that writing books made the miraculous possible: to be removed from the world, and to be a part of the world at the same time.” The event was hosted by the occasionally lewd Nick Offerman, who opened with a speech in praise of literature in dark times – a theme that ran through the evening. “In an age where our first amendment rights and truth itself are very much in peril, books remain the ultimate repository of creative ideas and irreplaceable knowledge,” he said. “What can I say, they make me horny.” Jeffrey C Stewart with his award for nonfiction. Photograph: Brad Barket/Invision/AP Jeffrey C Stewart won the award for nonfiction for The New Negro: The Life of Alain Locke, a biography of Locke, who became the first black Rhodes scholar in 1907 and is often hailed as the father of the “Harlem renaissance”. “As a gay man who lived a closeted life, [Locke] had many struggles, and one of them was with tremendous, crushing aloneness,” Stewart says. “So when I stand here I think about his achievement, and what that was was to create a family among writers and artists and dancers and dramatists, and call them The New Negro. The basis for a new creative future – and not just for black people. A new negro, for new America.” The young people’s literature category winner was The Poet X by the poet and author Elizabeth Acevedo. A novel in verse, it tells the story of a young Afro-Latina girl in Harlem who turns to slam poetry to make sense of the world around her. Acevedo, who was raised in a Dominican household, said: “As the child of immigrants, as a black woman, as a Latina, as someone whose accented voice holds certain neighbourhoods … I always feel like I have to prove that I am worthy enough. “There will never be an award or accolade that will take that away, it’s how I walk through the world … but every single time I meet a reader who looks at me and says, ‘I have never seen my story until I read yours,’ I am reminded of why this matters.” The award for poetry was won by the black queer poet Justin Phillip Reed for his first full-length book of poetry, Indecency. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so shallow-breathed since having an asthma attack, which I haven’t had in a while, so it’s a very nostalgic experience to be here,” he said. “I meditated on the courage it might take to feel worthy of this, and now I’m standing here with ancestral hands on my shoulders still not knowing what to make of [it].” I refuse to live in fear – let alone to vote in fear. This is a dark time, my friends Isabel Allende This year the foundation added a fifth category, of translated literature (“Suck on that, Muslim ban,” Offerman quipped), comprising fiction and nonfiction from anywhere in the world. One hundred and forty books were read in the judging of the category, which was won by the Japanese author Yoko Tawada’s The Emissary: a dystopian novel set in Japan after a mysterious disaster, translated by Margaret Mitsutani. The National Book Awards were established in 1950 and have been run by the National Book Foundation since 1988. Ten of the 25 finalists were published by independent presses; each receives $1,000 and each winning author receives $10,000. Isabel Allende became the first Spanish-language author to receive the lifetime achievement award for distinguished contribution to American letters, which has previously been won by John Updike, Toni Morrison, Joan Didion and Tom Wolfe. Allende is the bestselling author writing in Spanish in the world today, and has sold more than 70m copies of her work. The award was presented by the Pulitzer prize finalist Luís Alberto Urrea, who praised Allende as a personal hero, without whom his own career wouldn’t have been possible. “You set a high bar for us, for those who wondered if anyone would ever read their words,” he said. “For those of us who might have grown up dreaming in Spanish. For my sisters, you showed the way. You made it possible”. Accepting the award with a rousing and political speech that inspired a standing ovation, Allende dedicated her award to “millions of people like myself who have come to this country in search of a new life”. She added: “I look Chilean, and I dream, cook, make love and write in Spanish. Make love – it would feel ridiculous panting in English,” she said, to laughter. “My lover doesn’t speak a word of Spanish. I have a lover at 76! You wouldn’t believe that. He’s a brave man.” Isabel Allende at the New York ceremony. ‘I write to preserve memory,’ she said. Photograph: Brad Barket/Invision/AP Allende was born in Chile and spent 13 years as a political refugee in Venezuela; she has been an immigrant in the US for more than 30 years. “I refuse to live in fear – let alone to vote in fear,” she said. “This is a dark time, my friends. It’s a time of war in many places, and potential war everywhere. A time of nationalism and racism; of cruelty and fanaticism. A time when the values an principles that sustain our civilisation are under siege. It’s a time of violence and poverty for many; masses of people, who are forced to leave everything that is familiar to them and undertake dangerous journeys to save their lives.” She reminded the audience of Alan Kurdi, the toddler whose body washed up on a beach after his family escaped the war in Syria. “Alan Kurdi symbolised the plight of millions of desperate people. For an instant the world was shaken by the image … But the world quickly forgot. I write to preserve memory.” She continued: “I am just part of this massive diaspora and, although I’m critical of many things about this country, I am proud to be an American citizen. This national award is an extraordinary gift for me. It means that maybe I’m not an alien after all. It means that maybe it’s time to plant my roots and relax … Maybe I have found a place where I can belong. Maybe I’m not going anywhere any more.” The author Doron Weber, the vice-president and program director of the non-profit philanthropic organisation the Alfred P Sloan Foundation – which supports research and education related to science, technology and economics – was awarded a lifetime achievement award for outstanding service to the US literary community. The award, which has previously been won by Maya Angelou and Dave Eggers, was presented by Human Computer Project founder Margot Lee Shetterly, whose book Hidden Figures, about black women mathematicians at Nasa, was the beneficiary of a Sloan foundation grant. “We need to safeguard creative freedom for writers of every stripe and all nonpartisan forms of knowledge,” Weber said in a wide-ranging speech on the urgency of protecting and communicating science as we “strive together to repair the world”. “We cannot make progress without science nor can we begin to understand modern life.” The 2018 National Book Award winners Fiction Winner: The Friend by Sigrid Nunez A Lucky Man: Stories by Jamel Brinkley Florida by Lauren Groff Where the Dead Sit Talking by Brandon Hobson The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai Nonfiction Winner: The New Negro: The Life of Alain Locke by Jeffrey C Stewart The Indian World of George Washington: The First President, the First Americans, and the Birth of the Nation by Colin G Calloway American Eden: David Hosack, Botany, and Medicine in the Garden of the Early Republic by Victoria Johnson Heartland: A Memoir of Working Hard and Being Broke in the Richest Country on Earth by Sarah Smarsh We the Corporations: How American Businesses Won Their Civil Rights by Adam Winkler Poetry Winner: Indecency by Justin Phillip Reed Wobble by Rae Armantrout American Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassin by Terrance Hayes Ghost Of by Diana Khoi Nguyen Eye Level by Jenny Xie Young people’s literature Winner: The Poet X by Elizabeth Acevedo The Assassination of Brangwain Spurge by MT Anderson and Eugene Yelchin The Truth as Told by Mason Buttle by Leslie Connor The Journey of Little Charlie by Christopher Paul Curtis Hey, Kiddo by Jarrett J Krosoczka Translated literature Winner: The Emissary by Yoko Tawada, translated by Margaret Mitsutani Disoriental by Négar Djavadi, translated by Tina Kover Love by Hanne Ørstavik, translated by Martin Aitken Trick by Domenico Starnone, translated by Jhumpa Lahiri Flights by Olga Tokarczuk, translated by Jennifer Croft	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
CONTENTS OVERVIEW THE AMERICANS AT WAR: Funneling in US divisions • Final strength and casualties • US 12th and 6th Army Groups US INFANTRY Unit organization • Newly introduced weapons • Learning new tactics ARMOR/INFANTRY OPERATIONS Training • Tactics • Communications & target-marking • Tank-riding • Tank battalion employment • Divisional organization • Antitank warfare: tank destroyers – infantry antitank River crossings – the inland navy FIELD ARTILLERY Organization • Employment and control • The "magic" fuse REPLACEMENTS& SHORTAGES Personnel • Tanks • Supplies BREACHING THE SIEGFRIED LINE The obstacle • The methods FREE FRENCH FORCES Origins and strength • Organization • Casualties • Equipment BRITISH/CANADIAN 21st ARMY GROUP: Learning the trade: Normandy, 1944 WINTER& SPRING 1944–45 Deployment • Organization • Field artillery • Newly introduced weapons Operations • Attrition • Replacements ARMOR/INFANTRY OPERATIONS Theory and practice • Wasp flamethrowers • Antitank warfare SPREADING THE LESSONS Dyke-and- _polder_ fighting • Night fighting • Forest fighting BRITISH 79th ARMOURED DIVISION: "THE FUNNIES" Swimming, flail, and flamethrower tanks • Armored personnel carriers • Amphibious carriers INFANTRY SMALL-UNIT TACTICS Battle schools • Notes from official publications ALLIED ORDER OF BATTLE, MAY 7, 1945 SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY Acronyms used in this text, in addition to standard abbreviations of unit titles: AAA \| antiaircraft artillery (British & Cdn, AA) ---\|--- AFV \| armored fighting vehicle (tanks, tank destroyers, halftracks, armored cars, scout cars, etc.) AP \| armor-piercing (antitank ammunition) APDS \| armor-piercing discarding-sabot (improved AP ammunition) AT \| antitank BAR \| Browning Automatic Rifle CCA, \| CCB \| Combat Commands A, B (within Armd Div) CO \| commanding officer Co \| company, US (British/Canadian, Coy) FFI \| Forces Françaises de l'Interieur (French Resistance) FFL \| Forces Françaises Libres (Free French Forces) FO \| forward observer (for artillery; British, FOO = FO officer) HMG \| heavy machine gun HQ \| headquarters LAA \| light antiaircraft (British & Cdn) LMG \| light machine gun MG \| machine gun NCO \| non-commissioned officer (corporals, sergeants) OR \| "other ranks" (British term for enlisted men; sometimes includes NCOs) RC \| Reserve Command (aka Combat Command Reserve – CCR) RCT \| regimental combat team recon \| reconnaissance SHAEF \| Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force SMG \| submachine gun SP \| self-propelled (artillery, TD/AT guns on tank chassis) TD \| tank destroyer WP \| white phosphorous (smoke & incendiary compound) OVERVIEW The greatest amphibious assault in history began in Normandy on D-Day, June 6, 1944. Just 11 months later Western Allied troops were on the coast of the Baltic Sea, beyond the Elbe river, and inside Czechoslovakia, and "Victory in Europe" was proclaimed at the beginning of the second week of May 1945. During those 11 months operations on a momentous and unprecedented scale were carried out successfully, though at a high cost in casualties, and hampered by unexpected delays and setbacks. The purpose of this book is to outline the changes that were experienced by the Allied armies during this campaign, seen essentially from the viewpoint of the infantry. * * * Allied planners had expected that if they could establish a secure Normandy beachhead, the Germans would make strategic withdrawals in order to exploit their expertise in maneuver warfare in the open country to the south and east. Nobody had imagined that the Wehrmacht in Normandy would choose to fight a prolonged battle of attrition that they could only lose. By the time the Allies finally broke out in late August 1944 – with the Canadians and British on the left (northern) flank of the eastward hook, and the US armies on their right – German forces in northern France had effectively been destroyed, and were unable to contest the very rapid Allied advances to the Seine river and beyond. However, the German decision to fight for nearly three months over every yard of the superb defensive terrain of the Normandy _bocage_ had inevitably cost the attacking Allies very high losses in infantry and tanks. Normandy, summer 1944: two US Rangers, from either the 2nd or 5th Bn, ask a Frenchwoman about any Germans nearby. The staff sergeant (right) carries, just visible beyond his canteen carrier, an M1928A1 Thompson SMG with the buttstock removed, and 30-rd magazines protrude from 20-rd pouches on his left side. Below these is the mess-kit pocket detached from an M1928 haversack, and slung on his back is a makeshift roll of blankets and a jacket. Some of his web gear has been camouflaged with dabs of green paint. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) The Allies suffered the first of two serious reverses in September: the failure of Operation "Market-Garden," Second British Army's attempt to reach and cross the Lower Rhine river in the Netherlands. This was immediately followed by a delay in capturing the approaches to the vital port of Antwerp, which exacerbated an existing supply crisis and hampered further advances by all Allied commands. After further hard fighting in October–November the Allies rested just astride the German frontier, to rebuild their strength for thrusts through the Siegfried Line _(Westwall)_ defenses and on across the Rhine. In December 1944 the junction of the British/Canadian 21st Army Group and US 12th Army Group was at Geilenkirchen; below this, the US Ninth, First, and Third armies held a front roughly along the Roer, Our, and Saar rivers; south again, 6th Army Group had pushed forward almost to the Rhine, though the First French Army (which had landed in August on the Mediterranean coast of southern France) was still held up around the Colmar Pocket. On December 16 the Allies suffered their second severe reverse – the Germans' surprise Ardennes offensive (the "Battle of the Bulge"). In bad weather, over a 60-mile front, three German armies pushed the US First Army back by up to 53 miles; but this was less than half the distance of the planned penetration, and in most places it was even less. Nine days later, clearing skies allowed the Allies to commence their counteroffensive; it would be another month before the German salient was finally eliminated, but the battle cost the Wehrmacht 730 almost irreplaceable Panzers. GIs of 273rd Inf Regt, US 69th Inf Div with _frontniki_ from the Red Army's 58th Guards Rifle Div after meeting on the Elbe river on April 25, 1945. The US soldiers wear the M1943 uniform, and sport their division's blue, red, and white insignia painted on their helmets. The man standing in the jeep has a wrist-compass looped through his collar buttonhole; this was issued to some NCO leaders, messengers, litter-bearers, drivers, and to all paratroopers who did not receive the more sophisticated M1938 lensatic compass. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) The Allied goal was now to reach and cross the Rhine, punching on all the way to Berlin if necessary and forcing the unconditional surrender of the German forces. When the Allies resumed their offensive from mid-January 1945 amid the floods and forests of the Rhineland, nobody could know that the war would last only another 15 weeks (though for soldiers in combat, that's an eternity). No one could predict how long Germany would hold out; there were simply too many variables – for one, the situation on the now not-so-distant Russian Front was not known with any degree of accuracy. In those final four months of the war the troops – both the minority of tired veterans left in the ranks, and the green replacements – were driven by a sense of urgency to finish off the enemy, but balanced by a weary caution. They were encountering fewer and fewer Panzers, and German artillery barrages were often less intense than before, but mortar and machine-gun fire were as relentless as ever. The defiance shown by German troops varied greatly: some units fought desperately, yielding each and every yard only at high cost to the Allies and themselves, while others crumbled. Many formations had been reduced to small ad hoc battlegroups; conscription was sweeping up teenage boys and elderly men, Luftwaffe ground crews, and Kriegsmarine sailors, and many units put up only token resistance before giving in. The Luftwaffe had virtually disappeared from the skies; fuel was desperately short, and the transportation system was falling apart. On April 25, 1945 patrols from First Army's 69th Inf Div met Soviet troops at Torgau on the Elbe river. On April 30, Adolf Hitler died by his own hand as the Red Army stormed across Berlin. On May 3, British troops reached Lübeck on the Baltic coast. The next day, 10th Mtn Div from US Fifth Army in northern Italy linked up with Seventh Army's 44th Inf Div on the Austrian-Italian border; but despite the futility of further resistance, there were still German units that fought on doggedly in Czechoslovakia, Austria, and Yugoslavia for a week after the official surrender in the West on May 8, 1945. **** * * * VE-Day is recognized as May 8 by the US, Great Britain, and many western European nations, but the USSR and many eastern European countries celebrate it on May 9. THE AMERICANS AT WAR: Funneling in US divisions On June 6, 1944 the First US Army spearheaded the assault on Europe with 3 infantry divisions (4th, 1st, 29th) and 2 airborne (82nd, 101st) – a strength almost equaled by the British/Canadian landing forces. However, the Americans' ability to reinforce their armies soon far outstripped that of allies who had already been fighting this war for more than four years. By the time of the Saint-Lô breakout (Op "Cobra") at the end of July, there were 14 US infantry and 5 armored divisions in France. One US infantry division and an armored division plus the 2nd French Armd Div arrived during August. From August 15, in southern France, 3 US and 4 Free French infantry divisions, all veterans of Italy, plus a combined US/British airborne force, landed under Seventh US Army (Op "Dragoon"). The Seventh US and First French armies were placed under 6th Army Group on September 15, four days after the Seventh had linked up near Dijon with Third Army to their north. The Allies in NW Europe were now united into a single front. During the September advance to the Moselle river, another US armored and 6 infantry divisions arrived. One armored and 2 infantry divisions followed in October, and 3 infantry and an armored division in November. In December 1944, 4 infantry, 1 airborne, and 2 armored divisions fortuitously arrived amidst the German Ardennes offensive. These were scheduled deployments, not a response to the crisis; the rushed deployments occurred in January 1945 and involved 6 more infantry and 2 armored divisions. February 1945 saw the arrival of 2 armored, 1 infantry, and 1 airborne division. (While this 13th Abn Div was never committed to combat, it provided replacements for the hard-pressed 82nd, 101st, and 17th.) In March the last US infantry divisions (86th & 97th) arrived; the last 2 armored divisions into the line (16th & 20th) saw only a few days of action, and numbered their casualties only in the dozens. Photographed in southern Germany in March 1945, MajGen Frank W. Milburn (left), commanding XXI US Corps in Seventh Army, chooses to wear a USAAF B-10 intermediate-weight flying jacket – various types were popular amongst general officers, who could indulge personal preferences. The two field officers wear the M1943 field uniform, the colonel (center) with a .45cal M1911A1 pistol in an M7 shoulder holster. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) Final strength and casualties By VE-Day the US Army ground forces had 2,404,397 personnel in the European Theater of Operations (i.e. NW Europe). Total US Army ground casualties in the ETO over the 11 months of combat included 109,820 killed or missing, and 360,666 wounded. As a representative example of a formation that fought right through the campaign, the 4th Inf Div, with an established strength of 14,253 all ranks, suffered 4,907 killed or missing, and 17,371 wounded (156 percent of establishment). But it was the infantry who always paid the highest price: for example, in 4th Div's 22nd Inf Regt, with an establishment of 3,203, the total of killed, missing, and wounded was 9,424 (294 percent of establishment). That regiment's worst months were June 1944 in Normandy (426 killed, 229 missing, and 2,285 wounded, or 92 percent casualties); and three weeks in the Hürtgen Forest in November–December (459 killed, 53 missing, and 1,909 wounded, or 75 percent casualties). From a D-Day establishment of 229 men, one representative rifle company in the 22nd Inf recorded 54 killed, 22 missing, and 192 wounded during their 11 months in combat – total casualties of 268 men, or 117 percent. February 1945, near Colmar, France: German prisoners help to load a casualty from 12th Armd Div aboard a jeep ambulance. These could carry two litters, and were sometimes rigged to take four. The casualty wears M1944 shoepacs, which saved many soldiers from the ever-present danger of frostbite and immersion foot during the punishing winter of 1944/45. Respiratory illnesses were also very common. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) US 12th and 6th Army Groups The British/Canadian 21st Army Group was the northern command on the left flank of the Allied advance. The 12th and 6th US Army Groups represented the central and southern groups of armies, respectively, controlling most US and Free French forces (though US formations were occasionally placed under 21st Army Group command for operations at the junction of the British/US fronts). The 12th Army Group (LtGen Omar Bradley) controlled the largest US forces, with the First Army (LtGen Courtney Hodges), Third (LtGen George Patton), Ninth (LtGen William Simpson), and Fifteenth (LtGen Leonard Gerow). Each of the four armies was assigned 2–4 corps, for a total of eleven. A corps typically had 3–4 infantry divisions and 1–2 armored divisions. Some corps lacked an armored division owing to terrain, mission, and future objectives. Patton's Third Army typically had 5 armored divisions, while the First and Ninth each had 2 and the Fifteenth none. Some of an army's assigned divisions might be held in army reserve, i.e. under direct army control. Each corps possessed a mechanized cavalry group for reconnaissance, 3–5 field artillery groups, 1–3 AAA groups, and 3 or more engineer groups. The smaller 6th Army Group (LtGen Jacob L. Devers) possessed only the Seventh US Army (LtGen Alexander Patch), with 3 corps totaling 9 US infantry, 3 armored, and 3 airborne divisions. Alongside the Seventh was the First French Army (Gén d'armée Jean de Lattre de Tassigny), with 2 corps and a total of 14 divisions, of which 3 were armored; 5 of the infantry divisions had fought in Italy, but the others were formed of recent recruits. The composition of all the Allied armies and corps on VE-Day is listed in the order of battle here. * * * For a table of divisional deployments and casualties, see p.60 of Warrior 56, _US Infantryman in World War II (3): European Theater of Operations 1944–45_ US INFANTRY Unit organization An infantry division had three infantry regiments of three battalions apiece. A regiment also had single HQ, cannon (6x 105mm pack howitzers), antitank (9x 57mm AT guns), and service companies, plus a company-size medical detachment. The battalion comprised an HQ company (3x 57mm AT), heavy weapons company (8x HMG, 6x 81mm mortars), and three rifle companies. The rifle company had an HQ (1x .50cal HMG), weapons platoon (2x .30cal LMG, 3x 60mm mortars), and three rifle platoons; each platoon had three squads (each 1x .30cal BAR). A regimental combat team (RCT) typically had engineer and medical companies attached from division, and often tank and tank destroyer (TD) companies. One or more artillery battalions were in direct support – while seldom under direct control of the RCT, they provided fire support to its units as necessary. Other units frequently attached to a division included one or more engineer combat battalions, ordnance ammunition and quartermaster truck companies, and varied medical units. It was common for infantry regiments from one division to be attached to another – often a fresh regiment formerly in the division reserve relieved an exhausted regiment of another division. A heavy machine-gun squad from a battalion weapons company in German woodland, late 1944. The squad leader (right) carries an M1 rifle, with a cleaning rod inserted in the barrel. The gunner carries the M1917A1 tripod mount, and his assistant the .30cal M1917A1 water-cooled MG; both are armed with .45cal pistols. One of the regulation three ammunition-carriers is visible (left), wearing a raincoat and armed with a .30cal M1 carbine. They have M1943 field packs (the former jungle pack), but have lashed up bedrolls to their own preferences – an example of the "Willy and Joe" syndrome, so-called from Bill Mauldin's famous cartoon characters. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) An M29 Weasel tracked cargo carrier of Co C, 121st Combat Engr Bn, 29th Inf Division. The Weasel was in use from Normandy onward (note the chalked "ST. LO SPECIAL"), and from November 1944 large numbers were issued to infantry regiments, engineer battalions and other units to deal with mud and snow, often replacing jeeps and towing ¼-ton or 1-ton trailers. They proved invaluable in the Hürtgen Forest, being mainly used by regimental and battalion supply platoons to deliver ammunition and supplies to forward positions and to evacuate casualties on the return trip. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) Divisions usually received "habitual" or "standard" attachments in the form of one each tank, TD, and AAA battalions. Sometimes these remained with a division for prolonged periods, allowing them to familiarize and refine their tactics. However, this was not always so; for example, on various occasions the 28th Inf Div had three different tank battalions attached, five different TD battalions (one on four separate occasions), and two different AAA battalions (one on three occasions); these repeated attachments of the same battalions indicated efforts to preserve tactical familiarity. Often a division had both a tank and a TD battalion attached, but tanks were more prevalent; a tank battalion had 60 medium and 17 light tanks, while a TD battalion had only 36 self-propelled (SP) tank destroyers. Infantry divisions were motorized except for the 27 rifle and 9 weapons companies, who walked. A division could be augmented by 6 quartermaster truck companies, each with 48x 2½ -ton cargo trucks with 1-ton trailers, but these were seldom available to carry infantry, being mostly tasked to move ammunition, fuel, and supplies. In some instances troops would be shuttled: i.e., some troops were carried forward in trucks as the remaining units marched forward, eventually to be picked up by returning trucks. However, it was found that an entire division could be moved by its organic vehicles by loading troops aboard tanks, TDs, artillery and AAA prime-movers, and the trucks of support units. This ad hoc method proved very successful. The .30cal Browning M1919A6 light machine gun (left) began to be issued to Airborne and some other units in late 1944. This modification of the tripod-mounted M1919A4 was fitted with a stamped metal shoulder stock, a bipod, and a carrying handle; early examples were not fitted with a muzzle flash-hider. It was not entirely successful, being actually heavier than the gun it was intended to replace. This crew wear the M1944 two-buckle combat boots; the right-hand man has an M3 trench knife strapped to his boot, and a slung ammunition-carrying bag, which among other loads could accommodate a 250-rd MG feed belt. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) New equipment During the war the Allied armies received a constant flow of new or improved gear of all types. This cornucopia of material was the result of a massive (and therefore uncoordinated) system for scientific research, development, manufacturing, and distribution. The creation of new equipment might be prompted by the recommendations of various committees, often without input from the combat forces; other items were developed and offered by manufacturers without a request from the military, but many were responses to such requests. Inevitably, mistakes were made: resources were squandered due to misconceptions and poor judgment, and inadequate planning and changing circumstances led to periodic shortages and late delivery. Some new items were distributed within months of standardization after rushed testing, but in most cases it was closer to a year before they reached the troops – after final enhancements, establishment or conversion of production lines, accumulation of sufficient stocks, shipment overseas, and distribution to units. _Newly introduced US weapons_ Between late 1944 and the war's end a number of new weapons were fielded. Contrary to what is sometimes assumed, some of these saw little if any action, not being issued to combat units in any quantities. _.30cal M2 carbine_ Production of this selective-fire version of the semiautomatic M1 did not begin until April 1945, and neither it nor the 30-rd magazine saw combat in the ETO. _.30cal M1C & M1D (substitute) sniper rifles_ Adopted in mid-1944, but very few saw combat, and the bolt-action M1903A4 remained in use. _.45cal M3A1 submachine-gun_ This improvement on the M3 "grease gun" was adopted in late 1944 but did not see war service. _.30cal M1919A6_ An attempt to provide a light machine gun that was more effective than the tripod-mounted M1919A4. Issued to some units late in 1944, it could be fired from the shoulder, hip, prone from a bipod, or on the tripod. _2.36in M9 & M9A1 bazookas_ These began to replace the M1A1 in late 1944; they had improved range and reliability, and each broke down into two sections for carrying. _57mm T15E9 (M18) recoilless rifle_ Issued to the 17th Abn Div for the March 1945 Rhine jump; a few 75mm T21 recoilless rifles accompanied them. Both were ineffective against tanks, but useful against buildings and fortifications. _M4A3E2 "Jumbo" assault tank_ With a 105mm howitzer and heavier armor, this was the last model of the Sherman to be fielded during wartime. Not to be confused with the 105mm-armed M4 & M4A3 with standard armor. _105mm M37 self-propelled howitzer_ Adopted in January 1945 in only small numbers, replacing some 105mm M7 SP howitzers. It mounted the 105mm M4 gun from the assault Sherman on an M24 light tank chassis. _155mm M40 SP gun_ Mounted on a much-modified M4A3 tank chassis, this gun equipped one unit – 991st Fld Arty Bn. _M19 twin 40mm SP AAA gun_ Built on an M24 light tank chassis, as a replacement for the M15A1 combination AA halftrack (1x 37mm AA gun & twin .50cal HMGs), examples of this gun began arriving at the war's end but saw no combat. _M24 Chaffee light tank_ Armed with a 75mm gun, this began replacing M5A1 Stuarts, mostly in mechanized cavalry units, in January 1945; it saw significant action. _M26 Pershing heavy tank_ Armed with a 90mm gun, a few saw limited action in March–April 1945. _M39 armored utility vehicle_ A full-tracked personnel carrier and prime-mover for 3in AT guns, built on an M18 TD chassis with a 7-man open-topped compartment. Some were issued to towed TD battalions in the last months of the war. A US ARMY WINTER UNIFORM COMBINATIONS, 1944/45 Priority issue of the new M1943/1944 field uniform (see Plate B) went to combat units, and many support and service troops had not yet received it. In the extremely harsh weather any available winter clothing augmented the wholly inadequate M1941 Parsons field jacket; this had only a thin windproof shell and wool blanket lining, and did not extend down over the hips like the M1943 field jacket. 1: Hood, overcoat, and cloth-top overshoes The herringbone-twill fatigue and the wool service uniforms were often worn layered one over the other, ideally with the more windproof fatigues over the warmth-retaining wool. The Parsons jacket would be worn under the roll-collar overcoat, made from densely woven 100 percent Melton wool weighing 32oz per square yard. This was somewhat water-and wind-resistant, and the large collar could be turned up. This carbine-armed GI, perhaps guarding a supply dump in the rear, wears a wool hood under the helmet; this was impregnated to protect against mustard gas, but was used as an expedient cold-weather hood. The antigas treatment gave the hood a slightly greasy feel, but no odor. He also wears arctic cloth-top overshoes with rubber "lasts" (the lower portion) over his leather field shoes. Raincoats were sometimes worn over the overcoats for additional layering and wind-proofing. The M1938 rubberized raincoat (see Plate D2) was the same length as the overcoat, but was single-breasted, with a four-button centerline front opening, and a smaller collar. Soldiers were issued two 100 percent wool blankets; coupled with the overcoat and raincoat, these had been considered adequate for chilly bivouacs – a judgment revealed as a serious error when troops encountered a hard winter in NW Europe. The wool "mummy" sleeping bag with a waterproof cover began to replace the standard two blankets only late in 1944, but the latter were often retained as well. 1a: The impregnated wool hood. 1b: Arctic overshoe. 2: British groundsheet, and shoepacs From early in 1944 the raincoat was replaced as bivouac gear by a lightweight rubberized shelter cape, with a head opening in the center allowing it to be worn like a poncho for rain protection. Two 64in x 81in ponchos snapped together to make a simple tent, and it was also used as a ground cloth or bedroll cover. To make up for shortages of ponchos, the Third US Army received 13,000 British Mk VIII "groundsheets" – 36in x 78in rubberized capes (perhaps also issued to other US formations). This ground cloth, too, could be buttoned to a second to make a crude tent, but was mainly used as a rain cape, as here. The M1941 wool knit cap or "jeep cap" was designed to be worn only by enlisted men and only under the helmet; the latter rule was so often ignored that many commanders, hating its slovenly look, banned its use in their units. This soldier also has the early 10in-high pattern of shoepacs: popular waterproof boots with rubber lasts and waterproofed leather uppers. Like A1, he wears leather glove shells with wool knit inserts – inadequate for very cold weather. Slung on his chest he carries a recently issued 2.36in M9 bazooka broken down into the compact travel mode. 2a: "Jeep cap." 2b: Leather glove shell & wool insert. 2c: Shoepac. Learning new tactics It was not only equipment that changed. Tactically, even fundamental doctrines were subject to wide-ranging changes – and so rapidly that manuals quickly became outdated. For instance, experience in North Africa had exposed the deficiency of the doctrine for deploying tank destroyers; it took a year to rewrite the manual, so this was yet again obsolete when issued in July 1944. New equipments with capabilities improved far beyond those of what they replaced also rendered existing tactics and procedures obsolete. Units developed their own methods based on experience and conditions. Battalions in the same division and even companies in the same battalion might use different tactics, and also modified their internal organization and allocation of weapons and equipment as they felt necessary. The US Army went to great lengths to pass on lessons learned to the troops, staffs, and commanders at all echelons. All units prepared after-action reports, not only for historical purposes but also to document tactical innovations and the use of weapons and equipment. The War Department's Military Intelligence Division distributed the _Intelligence Bulletin_ , a monthly booklet aimed at the small-unit level, from August 1942 to September 1945. Another was _Tactical and Technical Trends_ , issued twice a month to higher echelons from June 1942 to June 1945. Nine volumes of the booklet series _Combat Lessons, Rank and file in combat: What they are doing, How they do it_ were issued by the War Dept's Operations Division during 1943–45. Divisions, corps, and armies also periodically distributed "lessons learned" reports. B THE NEW US ARMY M1943/44 FIELD UNIFORM A new field uniform, developed in 1942–43 and combat-tested in Italy in March–April 1944, received high ratings. However, Gen Bradley of the European Command initially rejected it, owing to its appearance and because it provided less warmth than the wool overcoat. It was initially issued to the Airborne divisions in July 1944, and widespread distribution began in September and October, though many units did not receive it until 1945. 1: Rifleman, M1943 uniform, fall 1944 The main feature was the M1943 field jacket, an unlined, water-and windproof, thigh-length jacket with usefully large chest and skirt pockets. Baggy field trousers of the same material were provided (paratroopers often sewed on large cargo thigh-pockets, but these would not become standard until later). A pile liner was supposed to be provided with the field jacket, but seldom was. Under the uniform troops wore long underwear (50/50 cotton and wool), the olive drab (OD) flannel shirt and wool trousers, a wool sweater, and even the old Parsons jacket. (The "OD wool field jacket," based on the British battledress blouse and better known as the "Ike jacket," was originally intended to be worn under this uniform, but instead became a service jacket.) A detachable hood, pile cap with fur earflaps, and M1943 field cap were all available. Besides normal web gear for a rifleman, this soldier also has a three-pocket grenade carrier hooked to his belt on the right side and taped around his leg; this was first issued in late 1944. The M1944 combat boots, with a two-buckle flap, replaced the field shoes and inconvenient web leggings with their time-consuming laces. 1a: The detachable hood was big enough to be worn over the helmet, but in practice seldom was. 1b: The M1944 combat boot. 2: BAR gunner, snow-camouflage overwhites, winter 1944/45 Over his field uniform he wears the "overwhite" field parka and trousers made of thin cotton sheeting (some US units were alternatively issued British overwhites – see Plate E1). Leather-palm wool gloves were not as warm even as the separate leather gloves and inserts, but the new 12in-high M1944 shoepacs had improved design features and better waterproofing than the earlier version. This BAR-man is armed with his squad's .30cal M1918A2; the 2.5lb bipod was often removed to reduce weight, and the carrying handle was not available until late in the war. The M1937 BAR belt held 12x 20-rd magazines, but a limit of 8 was recommended to reduce weight. The assistant BAR-man carried two ammo-carrying bags (incorrectly called the "M1 bag"). This bag held ten BAR magazines, or four rifle bandoliers, a 250rd MG belt, numerous grenades, or many other ammunition items. 2a: The ammunition-carrying bag; this measures 12in high x 7.25in wide x 4.75in deep. 2b: The OD wool glove with leather palm-and-fingers insert. 3: Reversible ski parka The reversible fur-trimmed ski parka, pale OD on one side and white on the other, saw limited issue, but was rushed to Europe to meet the need for snow-camouflage clothing. This is the second type, with fur trim at the hood only, buttoned wrist tabs, and buttoned diagonal flaps on the chest pockets. This man has wrapped a white cloth strip around the forepart of his Garand; care had to be taken that such camouflage did not hamper operation, loading, and sighting. He holds an M9 pyrotechnic projector (M5, prior to October 1942), as issued to platoon headquarters to launch 37mm colored signal flares. 3a: The M9 projector, with 37mm red and yellow/green flare cartridges. ARMOR/ INFANTRY OPERATIONS Apart from the crucial role of the artillery, the question of how to deploy tanks and infantry in the attack was perhaps the central challenge of war-fighting in NW Europe. A consistent complaint was the lack, or insufficiency, of tank-infantry training for operating together. It was understood that this form of combat required detailed planning and coordination, especially for the separate tank battalions (i.e. those that might be attached to random infantry at short notice). Joint training was ordered in the USA in April 1943, but there were not enough tank battalions available, and when the infantry division deployed the tank unit they had trained with did not accompany them. Efforts were made to align tank battalions with divisions, but deployments and scheduling of other training and excises prevented this, both in the United States and in Great Britain. Another problem was the lack of firm doctrine or of battle experience, which led to unrealistic training scenarios. New manuals were published too late before the Normandy landings to enable new doctrine to be implemented, which would anyway prove inadequate – it was based on experience in Sicily and Italy, where the enemy had fielded fewer and older tanks and assault guns than those the troops would face in NW Europe. Within armored divisions, tank and armored infantry battalions could be paired at every level: a tank company with an armored infantry company, a tank platoon with a rifle platoon, and individual tanks with rifle squads. The armored infantry used their halftracks to keep pace with the tanks, but when actually engaged the vulnerable halftracks remained in the rear, seldom even providing machine-gun support. (There were, of course, exceptions, when some units remained mounted until confronted with AT guns and Panzerfausts.) An officer in the 752nd Tank Bn reported: "At certain times the burden of carrying the attack must, because of the terrain and situation, fall on the infantry. At other times, the tanks are best qualified to bear the brunt of the attack. Both units must ... learn to recognize the situations in which one or the other unit should lead." The 191st Tank Bn recommended: "When working with infantry at night, the tanks should follow the infantry. The tank platoon leader or sergeant should advance on foot with the infantry." In this way the infantry could guide the tanks over favorable terrain, and protect them against ambushes. The tank leader walking with the infantry would guide the tanks in and designate targets. A 76mm-gun M4A3E8 Sherman of 25th Tank Bn, 14th Armd Div early in 1945. Starting in July 1944, tank companies often had one 76mm-gun M4A1 or M4A3 in each platoon, but some companies concentrated all of them in a single platoon. The new turret was too heavy for the suspension, and the gun had no white phosphorus (WP) round; the M4A3E8 with improved suspension was not fielded until late December 1944. This "Easy 8" (possibly a postwar nickname) has been fitted by the divisional ordnance maintenance battalion with racks for sandbags; whether this gave adequate protection from the Panzerfaust and Panzerschreck was a matter of debate, but many tankers claim that it did. Such kits were approved in Seventh Army, and also fabricated in Ninth Army, but were not permitted in Patton's Third Army. Patton's reason for this was that even a dry sandbag averages 65lbs' weight, and when (as always) they became sodden with rain they added thousands of pounds extra, increasing fuel consumption and wearing out transmissions quicker. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) Communication Communication between infantry and tanks was essential, but extremely difficult in combat. Infantry and armor units used different radio frequencies, and engine noise prevented even simple voice communications between a tank commander in the turret cupola and the infantry leader on the ground. The most common method devised was to weld an empty ammunition can to the tank's rear plate to hold a field telephone, with a cable running inside the tank to another telephone. Some units tried dragging a lengthy cable behind the tank, with the infantry squad leader carrying a phone to be connected to the cable when necessary. Another method was to mount an SCR-536 "handie-talkie" inside the tank with the antenna protruding through a bolt hole, while the infantry platoon leader carried another (the AM "536" could not net with tank FM radios). From June 1944 an SCR-300 backpack "walkie-talkie" was fitted inside the turret to talk to the infantry, and late that year an AN/VRC-3 radio, a vehicle-mounted version of the "300," began to be installed in platoon leaders' tanks. Intercommunication was naturally important when target-marking enemy positions for the tank to engage. In combat the enemy's deliberate camouflage of, say, a machine-gun nest was aided by smoke and dust. Colored-smoke hand and rifle grenades often generated too much smoke, actually obscuring the intended target, so soldiers sometimes removed part of the grenade's dye powder. Tracers and flares could also be used, but tracers were often difficult to see in daylight. The SCR-300 "walkie-talkie" radio weighed 38lbs and had a range of only 3 miles; the bulky canvas case on this carbine-armed operator's left front is for antennas and accessories. In 1944–45 an infantry battalion had a "300" in each rifle company, the weapons company, and the battalion command post. It could not "net" (i.e., communicate) with the AM SCR-536 "handie-talkie" used between platoons within a company and between platoons and the command post. (For further details, see Elite 181, _World War II Battlefield Communications._ ) (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) Tank- riding It was common practice for infantrymen to ride aboard tanks. When the tank halted, two infantrymen often stayed on it to man the turret-top machine gun while the rest fanned out for security. Infantrymen accompanying tanks searched for mines, protected tanks from close-in Panzerfaust attacks, cleared ambush sites and buildings, and guided tanks around obstacles. A full squad (or even two) could pile aboard a Sherman if imminent contact was not probable, but if engagement was expected it was advisable for no more than six men to ride it, to ensure rapid dismounting if taken under fire. The riding infantry, high up and with unrestricted visibility, were invaluable for spotting threats and obstacles, but they had to stay clear of the tank's armament, being prepared for the turret to rotate without warning. The location of dismounted troops in relation to tanks depended on the situation and conditions. They might cluster close behind a tank for cover; spread out to the flanks in close terrain, to protect against enemy tank-killer teams; walk close behind in the tread marks to enable them to avoid antipersonnel mines, or at varied distances to avoid enemy fire directed at the tanks (including ricochets). Tanks following infantry had to take care to avoid hitting them with machine-gun fire. Tanks would "shoot" the infantry onto their objectives, but then often withdrew to rearm and refuel – and because tanks remaining on the seized objective drew enemy artillery fire. Tankers learned to keep a white phosphorous (WP) smoke/incendiary round loaded in their gun. When engaged by a Panzer, "SP" gun or antitank gun, they immediately fired WP to blind the enemy; German crews might then withdraw from this vulnerable situation. High-explosive (HE) rounds were essential, as tanks were often called on to engage field fortifications, enemy-defended buildings, and troops in the open. Allied armored units had mostly 75mm-gun tanks, but also a minority armed with more powerful high-velocity 76mm guns. For enhanced infantry-support capability the US Army relied on the "Jumbo" M4 and M4A3 assault Shermans with 105mm howitzers, allocated one per tank company and three in the battalion HQ company's assault-gun platoon (again, some units concentrated all of them in that platoon). The tank battalion's light company, with M5A1 Stuarts, performed multiple roles: recon and security for the battalion or attached to the divisional recon troop, providing flank security and reinforcing infantry. While more vulnerable, the Stuarts could better negotiate denser woodland and muddier fields than the Shermans, which were forced to stay on roads through such terrain. German 7.5cm and 7.62cm AT guns, as well as SP assault guns, were well dug in and camouflaged to cover roads, and the lead Sherman was almost certain to be knocked out. Infantrymen with Panzerfaust and Panzerschreck man-portable weapons would lie in wait to engage at close range, and mines also took a great toll. When a tank was set on fire the most devastating damage was not the result of exploding fuel tanks, but from the explosion of stored shells. Improvements to the Sherman were continuous, and one of the most important, fielded from September 1944, was the installation of "wet storage" for the ammunition – protective chambers with a water barrier. Some 60–80 percent of standard Shermans penetrated by AP rounds burned, but only 10–15 percent of those with wet storage. C US ARMY TANK-INFANTRY TEAM, 1945 Units developed their own techniques for tank-riding infantry; there were no standard guidelines until very late in the war, and even then most units continued their own practices. When there was little chance of engagement up to 24 men could pile on a tank, but in combat it was no more than 8–10, to ensure quick dismounting if taken under fire. Even when dismounted, many units kept two men aboard the tank, with one manning the .50cal M2 for suppression and recon-by-fire (1 & 2). A man standing on a tank deck about 10ft above the ground had a greater field of vision, and some units kept a BAR man and a rifleman on the tank for close-in protection. In some units, four antipersonnel mines were carried on each tank for the infantry to plant when going into the defense. Walking infantrymen naturally used tanks for cover, though their proximity varied greatly; some walked in the tanks' tread marks to avoid antipersonnel mines and small arms fire, and in freezing weather the heat from the exhaust close behind the tank was welcome. When the enemy tried to separate the infantry from the tanks by mortar and artillery fire the infantry might drop 50–100 yards to the rear. There were instances, especially at night, when infantry advanced ahead of tanks to knock out AT guns and Panzerfaust teams. Communication between the tank commander and the accompanying infantry was critical, but difficult. Verbal communications were impossible owing to overwhelming engine and track noise, the racket of battle, and simply because tankers wore M1938 tanker helmets with muffling radio/intercom earphones. A British infantry platoon commander, Lt Sydney Jary, recalled that in Normandy he risked climbing onto Shermans to point out targets, but he and the tank commander could barely hear one another even when the tanker handed him an intercom headset. The tank crew's restricted visibility, especially close up, made it almost impossible for them to see infantry hand signals. For marking targets for the tank, WP smoke and colored-smoke rifle grenades (red, yellow, green, or violet) were effective (3) ; rifle-launched colored signal flares (red, amber, green, or white) were used at night, but could dazzle tankers' night vision. Tracers were often difficult to detect in daylight, especially in smoke and dust. Tankers, infantrymen, and artillerymen used radios set in different frequency ranges, but during 1944 infantry-compatible radios began to be installed in platoon leaders' tanks. The backpacked SCR-300 "walkie-talkie" shown here (4) could communicate with the tank's new AN/VRC-3 or a loaned "300" inside the turret. An effective method was to weld an ammunition can on the tank's rear, holding either an EE-8 field telephone or TS-10 sound-powered telephone that was connected to a phone in the turret (5). It was wiser for the infantryman to carry the handset outside the span of the tank's tracks, in case it lurched backward when braking, or suddenly reversed. Tank battalion employment Medium tank battalions had an HQ company (3x 75mm M4, 3x 105mm M4); three medium tank companies (initially, 17x 75mm M4 – later substituting up to 6x 76mm – plus 1x 105mm M4); and a light company (17x 37mm M5A1). All battalions – whether one of the three assigned to an armored division, or a separate battalion attached to an infantry division – were organized the same. The crew of a 3in-gun M10 tank destroyer of 823rd TD Bn in Belgium, 1945. Most wear the padded, windproof, water-repellent winter combat jacket (aka "tanker's jacket") and bib-front trousers. As here, TD crews often preferred the M1 steel "pot" rather than the rubberized fiber and leather tanker's helmet. Note that they have also armed themselves with M1 rifles, more effective for close-in defense than the issued M1 carbines. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) In North Africa, detaching tank battalions from the overstretched 1st Armd Div to support infantry divisions diluted the division's ability to mass armor. This experience clarified the need for separate tank battalions to support the infantry. The US had rejected the British concept of higher-speed "cruiser tanks" in armored divisions to combat enemy tanks, and slower-moving, more heavily armored "infantry tanks" in separate tank brigades to support infantry. American tanks, however allocated, were supposed to break through enemy lines, allowing the infantry to follow through. From 1943, more specific training for this role began to be given to separate tank battalions, while it was intended that tank destroyers would combat enemy tanks. However, what was encountered in France bore little resemblance to armored warfare in North Africa, Sicily, and Italy. Armored divisions possessed three each tank, armored infantry, and armored field artillery battalions. These were organized in two so-called Combat Commands (CC) – regimental-level forces designated as CCA and CCB – plus a Reserve Command (RC). Each CC usually had one each tank, armored infantry, and armored field artillery battalions, plus recon and engineer companies, and perhaps a TD company. It was not uncommon for an infantry regiment to be detached from an adjacent or reserve infantry division to increase the infantry strength, especially when operating in forested or broken ground or urban areas. The RC was a small headquarters to which battalions were rotated to refit while acting as the division reserve. Some divisions split all their armored infantry and tank battalions between two task forces (aka "teams"). Others (the 5th, 8th, 9th, & 13th Armd Divs) strengthened the RC HQ, sometimes using an armored group's HQ, and employed it as a third combat command – "CCR" – to be committed like CCA and CCB. The described organization was for "light" armored divisions. The 2nd and 3rd Armd Divisions, in First and Ninth armies respectively, retained the previous 1942 organization as "heavy" divisions. Their tank strength was organized into two regiments, each with one light and two medium tank battalions, of three companies apiece. They too possessed an armored infantry regiment with three battalions, but showed slight differences in support-unit organization. Another mission for tanks and TDs was to augment field artillery. Such units had to undertake special training, integrate in the artillery communications system, and occupy prepared and surveyed positions. It was found that if tanks parked with their long axis sideways to the target they provided a more stable firing platform. Sometimes earth ramps were bulldozed to increase elevation for longer range. ANTITANK WARFARE Tank destroyers Tank destroyer battalions had been envisioned as offensive units rather than defensive: held in reserve, they were to rush to sectors where German armor was attacking and engage by fire and maneuver, aggressive action being strongly encouraged. However, faith in the TD concept began to diminish in late 1942 in North Africa; the 37mm and 75mm guns were found to be inadequate, and the halftrack-mounted SP units had poor cross-country mobility and ineffective armor. Of the original 220 TD battalions planned in 1941, eventually only 106 were raised, of which only 61 deployed to Europe. In November 1943 it was decreed that half the TD battalions would be self-propelled and half towed. Self-propelled TDs were to move up to a threatened sector and engage attacking Panzers from temporary firing positions, repositioning as necessary – in effect, to ambush. They were not intended to fire and maneuver continuously like tank units. Self-propelled TD battalions had three companies; each had three platoons and 12 TDs, plus a jeep and two M20 utility cars for commanders. Typically, companies were broken down into independent platoons for combat. The battalion also possessed a three-platoon recon company with two M8 armored cars and five jeeps per platoon, plus a pioneer platoon for mine-laying and obstacle construction. Towed TD battalions had three companies each of 12x 3in M5 AT guns towed by M3A1 halftracks, and two recon platoons in the HQ company. The towed battalions proved almost worthless, owing to the great size and weight of the 3in AT gun. Like its British counterpart, the 17-pdr, it was too large to manhandle from one position to another, required hours to dig in, was difficult to camouflage, and thus vulnerable to mortars. Once a unit dug in it was essentially immobile, and when engaged by Panzers they were frequently overrun. For the Normandy landings self-propelled TD battalions were equipped with the M10, equipped with a less than effective 3in gun on a modified Sherman chassis. In the United States, the M18 was in production with a somewhat improved 76mm gun mounted on a lighter, high-speed chassis, but it was rejected by the European command. The gun was only marginally better, and if it were introduced to in-theater TD units with the M10 they would have to retrain mechanics and take on separate stocks of spare parts. The heavy M36, with a 90mm gun on an M10A1 chassis, was also in production. Tank destroyer units still in the United States were equipped with the M18 and M36; these began to arrive in France in August 1944, and M10-equipped battalions in-theater received enough M36s to replace a company at a time. Passing a German house that appears to be pocked by .50cal fire, a 90mm-gun M36, the most commonly used TD in Europe, moves through a town in support of infantry. The crew's bedrolls and musette bags are slung outside the turret; the red-and-white striped poles stuck under a hull-side rack are aiming stakes, for use when the TD is employed for indirect fire support to "thicken up" field artillery. By the war's end most TD battalions in Europe were equipped with M36s, a small number with M18s, and a very few retained M10A1s. The surplus M10s had been passed on to the dismally performing towed AT battalions, so only a handful of towed units remained. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) The self-propelled TDs' major flaw was that they "looked like" tanks, giving the impression of being more formidable than they actually were. Their armor was much lighter than for tanks; they relied on speed for protection, which failed to compensate for their thinner armor when slugging it out with Panzers and assault guns. Their turrets had open tops, making them vulnerable to airbursts, mortars, and grenades. They also lacked a key weapon that made tanks valuable offensive weapons: coaxial and bow machine guns (though they did mount a turret-top .50cal MG). In practice, a self-propelled TD battalion was attached to an infantry or armored division for a variety of missions: AT defense, infantry fire support, indirect fire support, harassing and interdiction fires, and flank security. Tank destroyer battalions attached to a division would typically detail one company to each of its regiments, with platoons attached to infantry battalions, and sometimes even a section (two TDs) to rifle companies. A frequent complaint was that they sometimes withdrew quickly when Panzers appeared. Possessing light armor, they were less suited than tanks for assaulting fortifications and dug-in AT guns. It was found that when fighting without infantry support, units lost three TDs for every Panzer they knocked out. The doctrine – that tanks were to penetrate through enemy defenses, and leave the tank-fighting to TDs – was simply unworkable, and the production of TDs was a serious waste of resources that would have been better used for the production of more tanks and the fielding of more separate tank battalions. Infantry antitank In March 1943 the 57mm M1 AT gun, licensed from the British 6-pdr Mk II, began replacing the ineffectual 37mm M3A1. The 57mm was authorized in infantry battalion HQ companies (a platoon of 3 guns) and the regimental AT company (9 guns), towed by 1½ -ton cargo trucks. Each rifle company of an armored infantry battalion had a platoon of 3x 57mm AT guns towed by halftracks. The 57mm could knock out Panzers with flank and rear shots, but there were few opportunities to gain this advantage. Instead, they were sometimes used to outpost roads on the flanks, and as fire support against buildings and fortifications, using HE rounds (though these had only a small charge, and also wore out barrels quickly). Each 57mm AT gun crew also had a bazooka. The 2.36in M1 and M1A1 bazookas were the infantryman's principal AT weapon. The improved M9 and M9A1 versions began to be issued in late 1944 and were in widespread use by January 1945 (although M1A1s were still issued to service and support units). A rifle company had 5 bazookas, the weapons company 6, and the HQ company 7. Most divisional combat support, service, and HQ units had bazookas for tank self-defense. Each of an armored rifle platoon's five halftracks carried a bazooka. Infantry battalions lacked dedicated crews for their bazookas; in rifle companies they were issued to platoons as needed, to be manned by trained-up riflemen, and many companies formed three or four two-man bazooka teams. The lightweight bazooka made it possible for infantrymen to stalk Panzers so as to attack their vulnerable sides and rear, and also proved useful against pillboxes and defended buildings. River crossings The ability to keep tanks and TDs up with the infantry despite the many rivers and other water obstacles encountered during the advance into and across Germany was due not only to the Engineers' remarkable bridging resources and capabilities, but also to an "inland navy." _US field artillery battalion equipment_ _Weapon_ \| _Pieces per battalion_ \| _Total_ ---\|---\|--- 75mm M1A1 pack howitzer (parachute) \| 3x 4-howitzer batteries \| 12 75mm M1A1 or 105mm M3 howitzer (glider) \| 2x 6-howitzer batteries \| 12 105mm M2A2 towed howitzer \| 3x 4-howitzer batteries \| 12 105mm M7 or M37 SP howitzer1 \| 3x 6-howitzer batteries \| 18 4.5in M1 towed gun \| 3x 4-gun batteries \| 12 155mm M1 towed howitzer \| 3x 4-howitzer batteries \| 12 155mm M1A1 towed or M12 SP gun \| 3x 4-gun batteries \| 12 8in M1 towed howitzer \| 3x 4-howitzer batteries \| 12 8in M1 towed gun \| 3x 2-gun batteries \| 6 240mm M1 towed gun \| 3x 2-howitzer batteries \| 6 _Note:_ (1) In armored field artillery battalions, either separate, or assigned to armored divisions. No complete US amphibian tractor battalions served in Europe until they were converted from existing units after VE-Day, destined for Japan. However, the light companies of a few tank battalions were converted to amtracks for the Rhine crossing, using the Alligator LVT(4). The Army used the DUKW-353 or "Duck," a 2½ -ton , 6-wheel truck capable of carrying 2½ tons of cargo, a 105mm howitzer, 25 troops, or 12 litters. Transportation Corps amphibian truck companies had 50 Ducks, and several companies were assigned to each army; they could load up under cover, drive to and across a river, then drive on to a safe unloading point. US Navy Units Nos. One, Two, and Three were attached to the First, Third, and Ninth US armies, respectively. Each was equipped with a couple of dozen 36ft LCVPs (landing craft, vehicle & personnel) and 50ft LCM Mk IIIs (landing craft, mechanized), of which the latter could carry a tank. After crossing to France under their own power they might follow rivers and canals, or be hauled overland using (for the LCVP) a 10-ton semitrailer drawn by a 2½ -ton truck-tractor, and (for the LCM) the M26 Dragon Wagon tractor drawing a 40-ton M15 tank transporter semitrailer. These units were augmented by a small number of US Navy Construction Battalions (Seabees). An example of the capabilities and value of the US Navy units was XII Corps' Rhine crossing near Oppenheim on March 22, 1945 assisted by Navy Unit No. Two. In 72 hours the "inland sailors" lifted more than 15,000 troops and 2,000 vehicles, and also conducted security patrols to protect bridges. FIELD ARTILLERY Infantry "division artillery" consisted of one 155mm howitzer battalion and three of 105mm howitzers. Armored divisions had three armored field artillery battalions with 105mm M7 SP howitzers, and usually had a 155mm towed-howitzer battalion attached. In addition to 215 divisional artillery battalions in Europe, there were 238 separate battalions attached to groups under higher echelons of command. American artillery was extremely responsive and flexible, with rates of fire so high that the Germans referred to it as " _automatische Artillerie_." Officers of all combat arms were taught to call for artillery fires, needing only a radio or field telephone to do so, and there were instances when enlisted men were "talked through" a fire request. Only divisional 105mm battalions had forward observers (FOs), one assigned to the battalion HQ and one to each battery; there were also three liaison officers in the HQ, for attachment to infantry regiments. The 105mm M7 howitzer motor carriage (called the "Priest" by the British) equipped armored field artillery battalions assigned to US armored divisions; separate battalions under corps command were also attached, as needed, to armored and infantry divisions. Although the M7s were open-topped and had only light armor, they were also occasionally employed as "assault guns" for direct fire support. This M7 was photographed in Hagenau, France, early in 1945. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) Artillery battalions in direct support of infantry regiments and battalions would detail FOs and liaison officers to them. These were also able to request and coordinate fire by other artillery battalions supporting the division, whether divisional or corps artillery. Most fire missions were preplanned to support specific phases of operations, but the 105mm battalions were readily on call, and if reinforcing fires were necessary additional corps battalions could be brought into play. Infantry-regiment cannon companies were often incorporated into the divisional artillery system, even though they were intended for direct fire. The communications net was so effective that fire could be delivered in 5–7 minutes from the FO's fire request, to include calculations at the fire direction center, and laying the guns. When emergency fire missions were requested, such as during an enemy counterattack, batteries without current missions would monitor the fire-control net and plot a mission on their own. German commanders, expecting to have up to 20 minutes free of artillery fire when launching attacks, were surprised to be caught by barrages within minutes. The fire direction center could calculate the firing data for any number of batteries and battalions for a target that only one FO could see. US infantrymen examine an abandoned German machine-gun/observation position, complete with two MG42s and a battered Torn.Fu.d2 radio. Note the entrances to dugouts at each side, offering some protection from US artillery tree-bursts and proximity-fused shells. This position was probably detected easily, given away by the cleared field of fire down the ridge finger, and by the piled fir branches, which would be conspicuous when seen from the front. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) The "magic" fuse The development of the proximity or "variable-time" (VT) fuse was a secret guarded almost as closely as the date and location of the Normandy landings. The fuse contained, in effect, a rugged miniature radio transmitter/receiver, which transmitted radio waves that were reflected back to the receiver. When the return timing matched a preselected distance-from-target, the projectile detonated: for example, 105mm and 155mm howitzer rounds exploded about 30ft overhead. Such "airbursts" are particularly devastating, showering fragments into open-topped positions and over a much wider casualty radius than rounds impacting on the ground. (Previously, airbursts had been accomplished by setting mechanical time-fuses – a very time-consuming and relatively imprecise process.) The new fuses were available from early 1943, but such importance was given to preventing the enemy from recovering dud VT-fused rounds that initially they could only be fired at enemy aircraft flying over water; it was estimated that the enemy would need six months to reverse-engineer and produce their own VT fuses. In summer 1944 they were used to down a large percentage of the V1 "buzz bombs" approaching the English coast, and when V1s were shifted to attack Antwerp the use of VT fuses was authorized, on October 25, for 90mm AA guns on land. The fuses were finally supplied to field artillery in December 1944 – but without authority to employ them. On the first day of the Ardennes onslaught the CO of the 406th Fld Arty Grp allowed the first rounds to be fired regardless of orders; they proved highly effective, and Gen Eisenhower released them for general use three days later. For US field artillery, VT fuses would be available for 75mm howitzer, 105mm howitzer, 4.5in gun, 155mm howitzer and gun, 8in howitzer and gun, and 240mm howitzer rounds. They were also supplied for the British and Canadian 25-pdr, 4.5in, and 5.5in guns. BAR team in the Ardennes, winter 1944/45. The rifleman at left has an M7 grenade launcher fitted to his M1, as issued three per squad and one in the platoon HQ. With the launcher fitted the semiautomatic Garand rifle had to be hand-cocked after each shot. During the continuing process of reinforcement of the US armies in NW Europe, deployments did not always match pre-deployment training. An extreme example was the 71st Inf Div, which had been extensively trained in California and Panama for Pacific jungle warfare; when the "Battle of the Bulge" broke out, the division's scheduled deployment was canceled and it was rushed to fight in the harsh European winter, arriving in February 1945. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) * * * See also Elite 195, _World War II River Assault Tactics_ REPLACEMENTS & SHORTAGES Personnel The US Army developed a reasonably effective personnel replacement system, but, like any system so massive and physically widespread, it had its weaknesses. When raised, previously non-existent divisions received a cadre of experienced officers and NCOs, officers fresh out of Officer Candidate School (OCS), and trained technicians and specialists. The cadres were drawn from an existing division, which in turn had to promote and train from within to fill the several hundred vacancies thus caused, and then fill and train those new vacancies from additional recruits and OCS graduates provided as fillers. At the same time, divisions were directed to provide numbers of officers and men – usually in the hundreds – for specialist training, to fill non-divisional units such as TD or MP battalions, to provide qualified men for OCS, as paratrooper volunteers, or (latterly) as urgent replacements for overseas combat casualties. In a matter of weeks a division that had been well on its way to becoming fully manned and trained lost a few thousand trained men, and received a like number of untrained or partly trained troops – and it might suffer this process two or three times over. At the last moment before deployment the final vacancies had to be filled with men who had received, at best, 17 weeks' basic and infantry training, or only 4–6 weeks of basic, or who had been culled from AAA, TD, and other surplus units. These men were not adequately trained either individually or collectively, and were unfamiliar with their leaders. Even the infantry occasionally got a few days' rest, like this 94th Inf Div soldier warming himself in a well-appointed winter bunker. Note his black cloth-topped arctic overshoes, and "liberated" items including a Dietz kerosene railroad lantern and a couple of bottles of local beer. The best time to introduce replacements into a unit was when it was pulled back into regiment or division reserve. Holding replacements back until their unit came out of the line allowed them to acclimatize, ensured they had the necessary gear and sometimes a briefing on the unit's situation, and gave an opportunity to introduce them to the CO and NCOs in their chain of command. Their squad might even make more of an effort to integrate the newcomers whilst it was in the rear, though it was difficult to motivate exhausted units to undertake the tactical training necessary to accomplish this. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) Those "11th hour fillers" were, however, much more fortunate than individual replacements assigned to a unit while it was in combat. Most were sent overseas from replacement depots after 17 weeks of basic and infantry training, which was often rushed and occasionally cut short. There were instances of men trained for other assignments having to learn "on-the-job" after finding themselves unexpectedly posted to infantry or tank units. Surplus units which were broken up to provide replacements, usually in Great Britain, were often untrained or had undergone a thrown-together 6-week infantry course. (The number of AAA battalions was reduced from an originally planned 800 to 460 in 1944, and about 100 existing battalions were inactivated.) Shipped to France, replacements were shuffled from camp to camp to await assignment. In theory, physically disabled infantry veterans were supposed to provide additional training, but they were given little guidance and few facilities. Assigned to a division, replacements were processed and parceled out to regiments, but limited time prevented any effective unit orientation. Groups of replacements were broken down into battalion allocations and then dispersed to companies. They often arrived with the evening rations and ammunition supply, and were delivered to their platoons carrying them. They might be divided up equally between platoons and assigned to squads, but often particular platoons had suffered disproportionate losses. Replacements were disoriented, did not know anyone in the chain of command, and found themselves among veterans whom they held in awe. To the veterans, who may themselves have been replacements just weeks or even days previously, replacements were a hindrance even if the platoon was undermanned; their inexperience made them dangerous not only to themselves but to the veterans. Knowing that perhaps three out of every four of the replacements would become casualties within two weeks, many veterans did not ask their names, and even avoided them: it seemed pointless to offer them advice. This did nothing to improve morale and unit cohesion. Unless platoons were drastically understrength, some units temporarily held replacements in the regiment or battalion rear. (Standard rifle platoons theoretically had 41 men, and armored rifle platoons 56, but in practice it was common for a platoon's line strength to be around 20, organized into two squads instead of three.) As battalions were rotated into regimental reserve they were allotted their replacements (ideally this might occur when the whole regiment was placed in division reserve, but that was less frequent). The recovery of crippled tanks was critical, since most could be repaired or at least cannibalized for parts, which were often in short supply. When left in control of the field after a battle (as was usual in 1945), the Allied armies enjoyed advantages over the Germans both in their tank-recovery equipment and in the relative safety afforded by Allied air superiority. This 4th Armd Div Sherman near Bastogne, Belgium in January 1945 is being recovered by an M26 armored tractor-truck, usually accompanied by a 45-ton M15 semitrailer. The tank appears to have taken two 7.5cm hits through the forward add-on armor plate intended to protect the ammunition storage bin; the painted white star seems to have provided an aiming point. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) Junior officer replacements had an even tougher time than enlisted men. They emerged from OCS highly motivated and desirous of proving themselves, but as inexperienced as any other replacements. Because of their exposure as leaders – constantly on the move between company command posts and their squads – they did not last long; it was common for 6-officer companies to go through 10–20 officers in a month. Wounded soldiers who recovered in-theater were normally returned to their regiment and, if at all possible, to their company, but might not return to the same platoon. Many of the wounded were overly cautious or not fully healed, thus limiting their abilities and stamina. Combat exhaustion also took a heavy toll. Most such cases recovered, to a degree (and only temporarily), after 3–5 days in rest camps, where they were often heavily sedated to help them sleep, and given showers, fresh clothes, and hot meals. Tanks The allocation of replacement tanks to battalions depended more on availability than any preferred mix of models. Typically, two-thirds of a company's 18 medium tanks were 75mm-gun M4, M4A1, and M4A3 Shermans, while the rest were 76mm-gun M4A1s, M4A3s, and M4A3E8s. The allocation of 76mm-gun Shermans was uneven: 3rd Armd Div possessed fewer than 50 out of 200 tanks, while 9th Armd Div had 100 percent 76mm-gun tanks. Even units which wound up with mostly 76mm-gun tanks usually retained at least one 75mm-gun Sherman per platoon for firing WP smoke rounds, which were not available for the 76mm. A recon patrol study their route before a mission in the French Alps, 1945; they have been fortunate in being issued with full overwhite clothing (see Plate B2) and insulated pile caps. One of the most notorious failures of supply was the fact that after three years of war the US Army's winter clothing was still inadequate in the winter of 1944/45, one of the coldest and wettest on record. The snow-camouflage parkas were designed to be worn over web gear, but in practice men often wore their webbing on top: this allowed easy access to ammunition, and helped break up a soldier's outline when in snowy woodland. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) Owing to much higher than forecast losses there was a tank shortage in October 1944, and battalions were authorized 4–6 fewer tanks. This was soon rectified, but was followed by a spare-engine shortage that slowed the return of damaged tanks to units. The improved and more "survivable" M4A3E8 first appeared on New Year's Eve, 1944. Small numbers of 90mm-gun M26 heavy tanks were assigned to the 2nd, 3rd, and 5th Armd Divs in March and April 1945, but had little impact, as there were few Panzers left to shoot at. Self-propelled assault guns _(Sturmgeschützen)_ and tank hunters _(Jadgpanzer)_ without rotating turrets were now the most common AFVs encountered. Troops of 94th Inf Div at Sinz, Germany, draw ammunition and rations dumped from vehicles at a company supply point; the smaller black tubes on the crate hold rifle grenades. The nearest rifleman is inserting two K-ration meals into his empty M1943 entrenching-tool carrier; units were ordered to carry three days'-worth of C-and K-rations for emergencies. Company field kitchens were able to operate closer to the frontline than expected, but there were many difficulties in serving the troops hot breakfasts and suppers. These included getting the fresh rations to the company kitchens, preparing meals in the dark, units advancing or repositioning, enemy ground and artillery attacks, and rain – and if the temperature dropped below freezing, everything took longer. Cooked food then had to be man-carried to the positions, if they could even be found. If no chow arrived the troops consumed their emergency rations, and then, hours late, a carrying party with cold, congealed food _might_ show up. It was then simply dumped – cumulatively, a massive waste of money and effort. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) Supplies There were periodic shortages, of which the most famous occurred in September 1944. Fuel priority went to the 21st Army Group to support Op "Market-Garden," and sufficient fuel could not be brought in until the river approaches to Antwerp were secured. The result was that Patton's Third Army stalled after the late-September battle of Arracourt (his tanks did not literally run out of fuel on the road; enough was in hand for defensive maneuvering). There were also occasional ammunition shortages, especially for artillery and mortars; a major example of this occurred in December 1944 owing to the German Ardennes offensive. Most ammunition shortages were short-term and localized while priority went to other corps or armies, rather than being suffered across the board, but artillery and mortar WP rounds were frequently scarce owing to higher-than-forecast expenditure. Other shortages included medical supplies (especially plasma), motor oil, and winter clothing. BREACHING THE SIEGFRIED LINE The much-vaunted "Siegfried Line" (more correctly, the _Westwall_ ) stretched for more than 390 miles on Germany's western frontiers facing the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxemburg, and France. Built during 1938–40 from Kleve on the Dutch frontier to Lorrach near Basle on the Swiss border, most of the defenses were well west of the Rhine, but in the south that river formed the French-German border and the defenses were on the east bank. In the summer of 1940 it was effectively abandoned owing to Germany's conquest of Europe, and efforts to refurbish it did not begin until summer 1944. It comprised more than 18,000 bunkers ("pillboxes") of varied types, gun emplacements, antitank barriers ("dragon's teeth"), and underground installations. How it was defeated provides a good example of the US Army's ability to develop tactics, through combat experience, from official doctrine to pragmatism in the field. The obstacle German propaganda and soldiers' rumors had enhanced the image of the _Westwall_ , and Allied troops and leaders were often apprehensive. Both the US and Great Britain tried developing some extreme weapons to defeat the daunting defenses, including super-heavy AFVs and mortars, but these either never arrived or proved unnecessary. The Siegfried Line would be breached the old and reliable way: tank-infantry teams supported by combat engineers, and backed by mortars and artillery. Rather than super-weapons they used tank and TD guns, direct-fire artillery, bazookas, machine guns, flamethrowers, and demolitions. The XIX Corps, under Ninth Army, provided this description of the Siegfried Line when it breached the defenses in October 1944: The "Siegfried Line"... was constructed... before the development of the German doctrine of "strongpoints," as illustrated by the heavy defenses along the Atlantic and English Channel coasts. It was completed as we found it before the Russians had taught the Germans the principle of all-around "hedgehog" defense. Thus [it] contained mainly a large number of reinforced concrete pillboxes for machine guns and 37mm AT guns. There was limited preparation of fortifications for infantry... The concrete installations in general were 20–30ft by 40–50ft horizontally, and 20–30ft high, of which at least half and sometimes more was underground. The walls and roofs were 4–8ft thick. Each pillbox had living quarters for its normal complement. Fields of fire [generally did not exceed] 50 degrees of arc. Pillboxes were mutually supporting. Four years of neglect... had made the camouflage superb. Undergrowth, turf and disuse made the spotting of some of the boxes extremely difficult. Fortunately British and French intelligence had [aerially] photographed and plotted the construction... and the fruits of their labors were supplemented by recent photography. Some infantry regiments formed small patrol groups to conduct special reconnaissance missions; here a team from a Seventh Army unit reconnoiters the Siegfried Line. The pointman carries an M1 carbine, and the others .45cal M3 "grease gun" SMGs with 30-rd magazines taped in pairs for rapid reloading. They wear knit "jeep caps," which have no distinguishable silhouette, and their faces and hands are blackened. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) Though most Siegfried Line bunkers were situated in open or wooded country, many of them with only an armored cupola showing above their extensive underground accommodation, some in built-up areas were cleverly disguised to resemble nearby houses, such as this example in Steinfeld. (NARA) The Germans expertly incorporated the terrain into the defenses, utilizing rivers and streams, railroad and road cuts and embankments, dense forest, and broken ground. While pillboxes were stocked with substantial quantities of food and ammunition, the Germans had removed the 3.7cm AT guns, 5cm automatic mortars, and machine guns to send them to the Atlantic Wall or Eastern Front, and the special casemate mount would accept only the 3.7cm PaK 35/36, 4.7cm PaK 36 (Czechoslovak), MG34, and the old MG08. Fortress machine-gun battalions were raised, and manned by older or physically low-grade conscripts. Morale was usually low, though some would offer fanatical resistance. Only 30–40 percent of the troops assigned to a pillbox remained inside, the rest occupying well-camouflaged slit trenches and foxholes around it and withdrawing inside only when shelled. The approaches were mined; machine guns inside and outside the pillboxes, and Panzerfausts and Panzerschrecks, provided close-in defense, backed by mortars and some artillery. Assault guns deployed nearby proved more of a problem than the pillboxes themselves, being essentially mobile, low-profile steel pillboxes waiting in ambush. Dug-in tanks and assault guns were calculated to add 40 percent to a defended position, while a pillbox added only 15 percent; since most mounted only one or two machine guns with restricted fields of fire, they served mainly as shelters from bombardment. D FREE FRENCH TROOPS French troops were supplied with American 1941/42 uniforms from spring 1943, though not with the new 1943/44 uniforms; this was justified in a directive of October 31, 1944 as a way "to overcome difficulties and confusion resulting from US and French troops wearing identical clothing." Up to 25 percent of the uniforms issued could not be used, as French and Colonial troops were often of smaller stature than Americans. (Supplies of items were packaged with specific percentages of various sizes, so arrangements were later made to drop the clothing tariffs by one size for issues to the French.) 1: _Grenadier-voltigeur_ , First French Army; Alsace, September 1944 Some French units wore US M1 helmets, like this rifle-grenadier, but older French helmets were used by others, or even mixed with the M1 within units. Many in the French 1st Motorized Inf Div (1ere DMI) – the former 1st Free French Div (1ere DFL) – retained the British Mk II helmets they had been issued in North Africa. This young replacement, a recently trained former member of the French Interior Forces (FFI), has received the US flannel shirt and wool trousers, M1941 Parsons field jacket, capped-toe service shoes, and M1938 leggings; a wool overcoat and M1938 raincoat will be issued for the coming winter. French rank insignia were added, but unit insignia were seldom seen on field uniforms; when out of the line some units wore traditional berets, _calots_ (garrison caps), and officers' and senior NCOs' képis. Nationality was marked by various blue-white-red tricolor flashes on helmets and/or sleeves. Web equipment was mostly the older tan shade of No. 9 olive drab, although late in the war some dark green No. 7 OD gear was issued. Most units were armed with the .30cal Springfield M1903 rifle, as seen here, while about one-third had Enfield M1917 rifles; M1 carbines and M1928A1 Thompson SMGs were also supplied, though in smaller numbers. There were only limited stocks of M2 rifle grenade launchers available for the M1917, so even in Enfield-armed units the squad grenadier carried an M1903 with an M1 launcher. He carries in his free hand an M17 fragmentation grenade; other rifle grenades included the M9A1 HEAT, M19 WP smoke, and M23 colored-smoke streamer, plus other colored smoke and flares for signaling and marking. 1a: US M9A1 HEAT rifle grenade. 1b: M19 WP smoke grenade. 1c: M23 colored-smoke streamer grenade (here, red). 2: LMG gunner, _3e Division d'Infanterie Algérienne_ ; the Vosges, winter 1944 The herringbone-twill fatigue uniform was worn as field dress (with a national armband) for the August 1944 landings in Provence. This Algerian light machine-gunner of a _Tirailleur_ regiment still wears HBT in the cold and wet of winter, under an M1938 raincoat. Like many North African and other troops, this veteran of Italy wears the Mle 1926 Adrian helmet, often issued without any frontal branch-of-service badge. Some _Spahis_ (reconnaissance) and other motorized units wore the Mle 1935, a simple domed helmet with a leather-covered brow pad; most tank, TD, and armored-car crews used the US M1 helmet or the M1938 tankers' fiber helmet. At French insistence the .30cal Browning Automatic Rifle was supplied (though to a minimal scale) as the rifle squad's light machine gun, but many units had this French 7.5mm _fusil-mitrailleur_ (FM) Mle 1924/29 from stocks in North Africa and caches secreted in southern France. Six of its 25-round magazines are carried here in a Mle 1924 magazine haversack, though the US ammunition-carrying bag was also used. 3: Sergent, _2e Régiment de Chasseurs Parachutistes_ /4th SAS Regiment; Netherlands, April 1945 The only Free French units under 21st Army Group were a small Navy Commando unit (1er Bn de Fusiliers Marins), which landed on D-Day and later fought in the Netherlands as part of the British 4 Cdo, and two paratroop battalions. In December 1943 these 2e and 3e RCP were incorporated into the British 1st SAS Bde with parallel identities as the 4th and 3rd SAS Regts respectively. The 4th fought in Brittany and the Loire Valley in June–September 1944, and in the US sector during the Ardennes campaign. On April 7/8, 1945 both units were dropped into the Netherlands on Op "Amherst" to aid the advance of First Canadian Army. The British beret, pulled left in the French style, is black Royal Armoured Corps issue, with a Parachute Regt badge modified by cutting off the king's crown (the unmilitary haircut is from a group photo). Clothing, web gear, and weapons were mostly British, but this NCO has added his French midnight-blue shoulder boards, with a gold eagle badge and single rank chevron, to his Denison smock. Photos show some individual use of the US M1A1 carbine and M3 knife in place of the issue Sten SMG and Fairbairn-Sykes dagger. He also carries an M1911A1 pistol in a British holster rigged low on two brace-attachments, and a Canadian-made two-magazine pouch. The experience gained while punching through the Siegfried Line served units well when it came to dealing with concrete fortresses, field fortifications, and defended buildings as they plunged on into Germany. The 155mm M12 motor gun carriage, amongst other heavy artillery pieces, proved to be devastating when employed in the direct-fire ("open sights") role against fortified buildings and heavy concrete bunkers. The 155mm (6.1in), 95lb HE shell could penetrate 7ft of reinforced concrete at 2,000 yards' range. In the ETO, six 12-gun battalions were equipped with these "Doorknockers." (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) The methods Pillboxes were admirably sited to take advantage of the terrain's defensive potential, but their reduction was achieved through a variety of very simple but sound methods. The elaborate technique for reducing concrete strongpoints employed on the Atlantic Wall, and as taught at the Infantry and Engineer schools in the United States, was neither used nor applicable. One factor that was downplayed at those schools was the value of small-arms fire directed at the embrasures, which was more effective than earlier thought. Since pillboxes typically were able to fire in only one direction over a comparatively narrow arc, they were dependent upon adjacent pillboxes for protection. Neutralizing adjacent pillboxes with direct artillery, tank, and small-arms fire permitted assaulting infantry to work around to the unprotected rear entrance. If the defenders did not surrender, a bazooka or tank round through the door would normally convince them to do so. The first penetration of the Siegfried Line was near Roeten by Task Force X, 3rd Armd Div, on September 13, 1944. Each infantry battalion had different experiences and developed its own tactics and techniques. The 2nd Bn, 119th Infantry, 30th Inf Div, outlined its experiences as follows: The [formal] methods of assaulting a pillbox, that is with pole charges, satchel charges, and flamethrowers, followed by a final infantry assault, were left untried due to the fact that it does not provide close-in fire to cover and button-up the pillbox ["button-up" meaning to force gun crews to leave their embrasures and take cover]. Therefore, our assault companies, in conjunction with our tank support, devised an attack plan that rapidly and effectively neutralized eleven pillboxes. An assault platoon, moving with one section of tanks, advanced into or through the defended area. When fire was received from the pillbox or the entrenchments surrounding it, the tanks immediately placed machine gun fire and direct 75mm fire on the enemy positions. Also the artillery and mortar OPs placed fire on the open entrenchments [this might include VT airbursts, including WP]. The result of these fires was to make the enemy move into the pillbox. At this moment the tanks and assault platoons moved forward, directing all fires on the pillbox embrasures. The result of these fires was to button-up or neutralize the machine gun fire from the pillbox. As a final stage... the tanks continued to cover by fire while the assault platoon moved forward and took the pillbox – at times literally going in and knocking on the back door and ordering the occupants to surrender. In the few cases where surrender was refused, the use of a satchel charge against the door brought quick capitulations. One added attachment... used several times... was a platoon of self-propelled tank destroyers. When possible direct fire from [these], in addition to the other fires, speeded up the process of buttoning-up and neutralizing pillboxes. Artillery fire and airstrikes were also brought down on fortified areas; napalm was sometimes used, but evergreens and wet vegetation limited its effectiveness. White phosphorus rounds from tank guns, bazookas, and mortars quickly burned off the camouflage and effectively blinded defenders inside and outside the pillbox, allowing troops and tanks to maneuver into favorable positions. Bursting WP also showered burning particles into open-topped positions, causing terror. Flamethrowers were not as widely employed as in the Pacific, but saw some use; often, merely squirting a jet of flame in view of the embrasure caused an eager surrender. The 57mm AT gun's accuracy allowed it to put AP and HE rounds into embrasures, but as it was difficult to manhandle into position and lacked WP rounds, tanks were better. Even without VT fuses, 60mm, 81mm, and 4.2in mortar HE and WP rounds airbursting in trees over open positions were effective in driving the external defenders into the pillbox. Direct artillery fire with 105mm and 155mm howitzers was sometimes employed. The 105mm M7 SP howitzer of armored field artillery battalions was effective owing to its full-tracked mobility and protection from machine-gun and mortar fire. Although few in number, 155mm M12 SP guns were devastating to pillboxes when fired at pointblank range after 105mm barrages had blown away camouflaging vegetation. An unexpectedly demoralizing weapon was a Sherman tank fitted with an M1A1 bulldozer blade. Once the outside defenders were neutralized or driven into the pillbox and the embrasure suppressed with WP and machine gun fire, the "dozer-tank" bulldozed earth against the embrasure and exit door, and the mere threat of being sealed in often resulted in an immediate surrender. Once neutralized, many pillboxes were demolished to prevent their reoccupation. This might require 1,200lbs (544kg) of TNT, detonated in three different rooms to collapse the structure. * * * For a detailed illustrated account, see Campaign 181, _The Siegfried Line 1944–45_ FREE FRENCH FORCES Since the US was responsible from May 1943 for the re-equipment of the Free French Forces, whose organization largely followed US models, this is a logical place for the brief outline of the subject which is all that space allows (see also Plate D). The Free French Forces ( _Forces Françaises Libres_ – FFL) were redesignated Fighting French Forces ( _Forces Françaises Combattantes_ ) on July 19, 1942, but the term "Free French" was generally used through the war. The original core of Gén Charles de Gaulle's FFL had been the few French troops who rallied to him in Great Britain after the fall of France in June 1940, augmented by later escapees and by units from French West and Central Africa. The 1st Free French Bde had fought under British control in East Africa, Syria, and North Africa during 1941–43, later rising to motorized divisional strength (1ere Division Française Libre (DFL), later 1ere Division Motorisée d'Infanterie (DMI)). In 1943–45, however, the bulk of French combatants were provided by the former Vichy French garrison forces, both white and locally enlisted, in NW Africa ( _l'Armée d'Afríque_ ). After initially offering token resistance to the US-British invasion of Morocco and Algeria (Op "Torch") in November 1942, they quickly sided with the Allies. First supported by the British and then by the United States, they went on to provide the French Expeditionary Corps (CEF) that fought in Italy. By mid-1944 the FFL numbered more than 256,000 in the French Armée B _,_ redesignated on September 19 as First French Army (Gén d'armée Jean de Lattre de Tassigny). Only a small Navy Commando unit, and 2nd French Armd Div (2eme DB, Gén de div Philippe Leclerc) landed in Normandy, the 2eme DB later leading the drive into Paris. The First French Army, with eventually 5 infantry and 2 armored divisions, participated in the August 1944 landings in southern France, later advancing through Alsace and southern Germany and reaching Austria. Its original veteran divisions and units were gradually augmented by others hastily raised partly from former members of the French Resistance ( _Forces Françaises de l'Interieur_ – FFI), though some of these were allocated less challenging tasks, facing the several holdout German garrisons on the Atlantic coast. By VE Day the FFL numbered some 1,300,000 personnel of all categories, with 11 operational infantry and 3 armored divisions (see order of battle, here), plus many non-divisional units. Their casualties in NW Europe had been 13,432 killed or missing, and 49,513 wounded. Free French rifle squad advancing through the streets of Marseilles, liberated on August 28, 1944. They wear HBT uniform and Adrian helmets with cloth covers, and carry .30cal Springfield M1903 rifles. At right, a rifle-grenadier covers the advance with an M2 grenade launcher loaded with an M9A1 antitank grenade. If the squad is engaged he will fire it at once, in hopes of keeping the enemy's heads down while the squad maneuvers. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) Troops of 1st French Armd Div round up German prisoners in Belfort, November 1944. The soldier at left, probably from the division's 1st Zouave Half-Brigade motorized regiment, wears a French M1935 mechanized troops' helmet with a leather-covered brow pad, and a US overcoat. His weapon is a Thompson M1928A1 with muzzle compensator removed, fitted with a 30-rd magazine instead of the more usual 20-round. All armies relied on wool overcoats and blankets for field bedding, and comparison of the coats in this photo shows the superiority of the German type: it is longer, of a more generous double-breasted cut, with a large fold-up collar and fold-down cuffs. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) In May 1943 the US formally took over the responsibility for equipping the FFL in NW Africa. French units generally used US tables of organization and equipment, with some modifications and substitutions. Infantry divisions possessed an armored recon battalion rather than a US division's company-sized troop. Instead of Combat Commands in armored divisions, the French referred to them as numbered tank brigades, and to the Reserve Command as the support brigade _._ The 3eme DB provided personnel and vehicle replacements for the operational 1ere, 2eme, and 5eme Divisions Blindées. US-sponsored Free French units were issued Springfield M1903 and US-made Enfield M1917 bolt-action rifles. By late 1944 the ratio of M1903s increased as M1917 stocks were depleted, but some non-divisional service units were still using French rifles. US-supplied artillery, AFVs, and other vehicles were of the same main models as used by the US Army, and, once in combat, units received equipment direct from US stocks. M4A2 and M4A4 Sherman medium tanks were provided, with a mix of M3A3 and M5A1 Stuart light tanks, plus M10 tank destroyers. Instead of 75mm M8 full-tracked howitzers, the assault-gun platoons of French tank and recon regiments received 75mm T30 halftrack-mounted howitzers. The French were provided with M5 and M9 halftracks rather than the almost identical M3s and M2s employed by the US Army. Some White M3A1 scout cars were used as substitutes, and in some instances halftracks replaced M8 armored cars in recon units. There were shortages of 2½ -ton cargo trucks, and some French units received 1½ -ton trucks with 1-ton trailers. * * * For more unit-specific material, see Men-at-Arms 318, _The French Army 1939–45 (2)_. BRITISH/ CANADIAN 21st ARMY GROUP: (With additional material by Martin Windrow) The British _Army Training Memorandum No. 48_ issued in May 1944 was unflinchingly realistic: "After more than four years of war, though the army has greatly expanded, it has also lost many of its most resolute and efficient soldiers." Given the shortage of experienced manpower, British doctrine in 1944–45 was firmly based on the principle of expending shells rather than lives. Learning the trade: Normandy, 1944 The initial Normandy assault forces (built around British 3rd and 50th and Canadian 3rd Inf Divs, and British 6th Abn Div) were rapidly reinforced to create 21st Army Group (Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery), comprising Second British Army (LtGen Miles Dempsey) and the smaller First Canadian Army (Gen Henry Crerar). Montgomery's doctrine in Normandy suited the strengths and weaknesses of his largely untried troops, who were trained for set-piece operations but mostly lacked the experience to "read the battle" for themselves. Typically, after heavy artillery preparation an assault would be launched on a relatively narrow front, with the infantry following a timed rolling barrage and supported by tanks. Once they had secured an objective they would dig in at once and consolidate. The inevitable German counterattacks were seen by the generals as their best opportunity to defeat the Wehrmacht, and Allied mortar and artillery defensive fire plans were plotted before the initial assaults. To launch counterattacks the Germans had to emerge from their defensive positions, concentrate, and maneuver; then they could be slaughtered by artillery, and cut off and demoralized – though seldom destroyed – by air support. Vickers medium machine-gun crew from the Cameron Highlanders of Ottawa – the MG battalion of 3rd Cdn Inf Div – in action at Carpiquet, Normandy, on July 4, 1944. The _bocage_ countryside of small fields divided by thickly overgrown banks and treelines was perfectly suited to the Germans' stubborn defensive and reactive fighting, and the Canadians, like the British and Americans, suffered heavy losses. For example, on July 25 during Op "Spring" to capture Verrières Ridge, two 2nd Cdn Div battalions, the North Nova Scotia Highlanders and Black Watch of Canada, suffered World War I levels of casualties – 432 and 307 respectively – in a single day. The Canadians' worst week of the whole NW Europe campaign was August 24–30, when they suffered a total of 4,574 casualties: 1,098 killed & missing, 1,842 wounded, 1,191 sick, and 443 cases of battle exhaustion. This represented more than 25 percent of the total Canadian infantry strength in France. (D. Grant, Library & Archives of Canada, PA 138359) Broadly speaking, this doctrine worked, and the Germans in Normandy did indeed dash themselves to destruction against the Allies' superior firepower and logistics. But the Allied troops, too, had to expose themselves when attacking, and during this bloody three-month campaign 21st Army Group learned its job in a harsh school. Both the minority of infantry and tank veterans of previous campaigns, and the green units, found their experience and pre-invasion training of limited value. The very close terrain greatly reduced visibility, and broke the fighting down into short-range company and platoon actions dominated all too often by dug-in and concealed German weapons. The closely integrated timing planned for infantry, tank, artillery, and air cooperation often broke down; this condemned the infantry to a persistently high rate of casualties, including from "friendly fire," and often left troops stalled in terrain that was hard to defend against counterattack. Infantry found it particularly difficult to master the transition between the initial set-piece attack, when their main concern was keeping close behind the artillery barrage, and the more fluid and demanding fire-and-movement tactics needed after they lost contact with it. Where they lacked local armor or artillery support the way to limit casualties was to probe forward, identifying opportunities to infiltrate and outflank the enemy before committing whole units. Canadian battalions were quick to form selected "scout platoons" to reconnoiter ahead, but such tactics needed skilled and confident junior leaders who could spot chances to exploit the enemy's errors. For a green captain or lieutenant to master such skills might take up to six weeks in combat, and in Normandy few company or platoon commanders lasted that long. A typical example of Normandy casualties is 4th Bn Somerset Light Infantry in 43rd (Wessex) Div, which landed on June 23 at full field strength of 36 officers and nearly 700 enlisted men from its administrative establishment of 821 all ranks. On July 5, before being committed to battle, it already needed 3 officer and 62 enlisted replacements. After its first serious fighting at Hill 112 on July 10–13, it needed another 12 officers and 479 enlisted men. One of these was Lt Sydney Jary, who took over 18 Ptn, D Coy as its third commander since landing; from an initial 36 men it had now been reduced to 17, of whom 12 were recent reinforcements. December 5, 1944: portrait of a young British infantry sergeant advancing into Germany near Geilenkirchen (note the size of the green-and-brown dyed camouflage netting "veil" worn as a scarf). High officer casualty rates in 1944 meant that platoons were often led in combat by sergeants or even corporals, and many NCOs would be given Emergency Combatant Commissions. As an example of the "butcher's bill" paid in 1944, in the six months between landing on D-Day and the division's disbandment in December the nine rifle battalions of 50th (Northumbrian) Div suffered average casualties of 66 percent among officers and 50 percent among other ranks. (Imperial War Museum BU 1434) E BRITISH & POLISH INFANTRY 1: Patrol commander, 1st Battalion Glasgow Highlanders, 52nd (Lowland) Division; Gangelt, Dutch-German border, January 1945 British two-piece snow-camouflage clothing for wear over battledress was not general issue but was drawn from unit stores as needed, usually for patrols. Two types existed: one in thin cotton, lacking any pockets, and this heavier windproof type with pockets, as also produced in khaki and camouflage versions. Both types had hoods, but a separate helmet cover was issued; wearing a hood over a helmet is too restricting for safety in combat. Web gear was usually laid aside; ammunition and grenades were carried in the pockets, and weapons were sometimes camouflaged, like this soldier's cloth-wrapped Mk III Sten gun. 2: No.2 of Bren LMG team, 9th Rifle Battalion, 1st Polish Armoured Division; Gilza, Netherlands, October 1944 The only Polish division in NW Europe received complete British uniforms, equipment, and weapons, but added their own insignia. The Polish eagle is stenciled in yellow on the front of the Mk II helmet, and, unlike the British, the Poles displayed a national shoulder title and formation patches on the greatcoat as well as the battledress blouse. In addition to his .303in Lee Enfield No. 4 Mk I rifle and personal 37 Pattern web gear, this soldier is burdened with a second pair of "utility" pouches for four more Bren magazines worn on a neck strap, and the Bren "holdall" containing a quick-change barrel plus cleaning kit. 3: Flank man, 4th Battalion King's Own Scottish Borderers, 52nd (Lowland) Division; Rhineland, February 1945 To avoid "friendly fire" during forest fighting, this "Jock," who is on the flank of his section next to a track used by advancing tanks, has been ordered to rig his personal ground/air recognition panel over his back – an unwelcome order, since it will also increase his visibility to the enemy. This truncated cloth triangle, 40in x 24in x 9in and lemon-yellow on both sides, was carried in the haversack or respirator case. His Mk III "turtle" helmet identifies him as a fairly recent replacement. In winter 1944/45 the camouflaged version of the hooded windproof smock was standard issue to infantry in several formations, including 7th Armd, 52nd (Lowland), and part of 53rd (Welsh) Divs; here it is worn over the leather jerkin (see Plate F3). Each of the two "basic pouches" of the 37 Pattern web gear could hold two 30-round Bren gun magazines, four magazines for the Sten SMG, two folded-up 50-round rifle clip bandoliers, two 2in mortar bombs, or at least two grenades. 4: Rifleman, 1st Battalion Rifle Brigade, 7th Armoured Division; Nieuwstadt, December 1944 Mechanized infantrymen of the division's "motor battalion" were photographed dug in around this town between Christmas and New Year's Day. In a quiet moment, this Bren gunner has laid aside his helmet in favor of the motor battalions' prized khaki beret with his regimental cap badge on dark green backing. Unusually, all the infantrymen in this photo sequence wear the winter "oversuit, tank crews"; apparently not issued solely for static duties, they are shown worn by patrols in Universal tracked carriers (without web gear, so ammo was presumably stowed in the many pockets). He is "brewing up" using hexamine solid-fuel tablets on a folding three-vane stand; this was not universally issued, though the tablets were, and men who lacked either the stand or a personally acquired "Tommy cooker" often improvised stands from twigs. WINTER & SPRING 1944–45 By the turn of 1944/45, on the northern flank of the Allied advance, 21st Army Group had reached an L-shaped frontline in southern Holland and just inside western Germany. The Canadians held a north-facing front, from the North Sea coast at Walcheren Island inland along the Maas river, and into a salient around Nijmegen on the Waal. Here they linked up with the British, who held a mostly east-facing front running southward up the Maas, around the Roermond salient, then eastward again to just east of Geilenkirchen, where they linked up with US Ninth Army. The total strength of 21st Army Group was then approximately 700,000 personnel, of whom some 170,000 were Canadians. About 75 percent of British troops were conscripts (draftees), but all the Canadians were volunteers. Organization Apart from a mass of General Headquarters (GHQ) and army-level troops, at this time 21st Army Group had five corps commands: I, VIII, XII, and XXX British, and II Canadian. These totaled 7 British and 2 Canadian infantry divisions (each with a core of three infantry brigades, each of three battalions); 1 airborne division (one air-landing and two parachute brigades, each of three battalions); 3 British, 1 Canadian, and 1 Polish armored divisions (each with an armored brigade of three tank regiments plus one mechanized infantry "motor battalion," and an infantry brigade with three battalions); and a number of independent armored, "army tank" (infantry support), and special-forces brigades (see order of battle, here). British formations were often placed under Canadian First Army command at need. Due to casualties, two British infantry divisions had already been withdrawn and broken up for reinforcements – in September 1944, 59th (Staffordshire) Div, and in December, 50th (Northumbrian). During February–March 1945, I Cdn Corps (1st Cdn Inf Div, 5th Cdn Armd Div, and the independent 1st Cdn Armd Bde) and British 5th Inf Div would be transferred up to NW Europe from Italy. Supporting arms at infantry divisional level included a battalion-size light armored recon regiment; three battalion-size field artillery regiments, an AT regiment, and a light AA regiment; a "machine-gun battalion," with 16x 4.2in heavy mortars as well as 42x medium MGs; and a battalion-size engineer force. Medical services were provided by three field ambulance units and two field dressing stations. For operations, the MGs and heavy mortars, engineers, field ambulances, other services, and artillery tasks were parceled out between the three infantry brigades. An infantry battalion had an HQ company, a "support" company, and four rifle companies. The support company comprised a mortar platoon (6x 3in), a carrier platoon (3x Universal tracked carriers), an AT platoon (6x 6-pdr), and an assault engineer ("pioneer") platoon. Rifle companies had three platoons each of three sections (3x 2in mortar, 9x LMG). _British & Canadian field artillery: regimental equipment_ In addition to divisional and corps artillery, Army Groups Royal Artillery were allocated by GHQ to support formations as required. The 3rd, 4th, 5th, 8th, & 9th AGRA each had one field regt, four to six medium, and one heavy; 9th AGRA also had one "super-heavy" regiment. Under First Cdn Army command, 2nd Cdn AGRA had two field regiments (of which one was British), three medium, and two heavy (of which one was British). It also had 1st Cdn Rocket Bty with 12x multiple rocket-launchers; codenamed "Land Mattress," these had 16 barrels, ripple-firing 3in rockets. For operations, as in the US Army, corps assets were attached to divisions as required, and army and GHQ units might also be made available. Both armies had suffered heavy casualties and a degree of exhaustion in September–November 1944 – the British, during the failed Op "Market-Garden" and later attacks eastward to the Maas, and the Canadians in opening the Scheldt Estuary and then covering the vital port of Antwerp from the north. While rebuilding their strength both armies were spending a cold, wet winter of local operations against stubborn opposition, in terrain that was either flooded or thickly wooded – a winter made all the more alarming in December by the German breakthrough south of them in "the Bulge." These 5.5in guns of 11 Medium Regt RA, 9th AGRA, are night-firing near Xanten in support of the Rhine crossings on March 23/24, 1945. Notes in _Army Training Memorandum No. 51_ (November 1944) had reminded artillery officers that more enemy casualties were caused by firing a few rounds quickly from many guns, without warning, than by prolonged fire by fewer guns: it was surprise that caused casualties, while continued firing mostly destroyed matériel. While the infantry always had to actually capture and hold the ground, and paid by far the highest price in doing so, one infantry officer wryly described his essential task as "escorting artillery Forward Observation Officers across Europe." The artillery was the largest arm in 21st Army Group; in fall 1944 it made up about 18 percent of total manpower, compared to 12 percent infantry. It was also the most effective: notably efficient communications allowed rapid responses, and German commentators confirmed its devastating impact at every level of operations. General comments (above) on US artillery in most cases apply equally to British and Canadian artillery. (IWM BU 2143) _Newly introduced British weapons_ Many improved or replacement items were developed, though not all reached combat units in significant numbers, if at all. Major weapons were as follows: _Comet cruiser tank_ Mounting a 77mm gun, this was supposed to replace both the Cromwell and the 17-pdr Sherman Firefly (whose ammunition it shared, but with a smaller propellant charge). Saw action with 11th Armd Div from January 1945. _7.2in (183mm) Mk 6 howitzer_ New barrel mounted on the US M1 carriage for the 155mm "Long Tom"; began replacing earlier marks late in 1944. . _303in Bren Mk III LMG_ Lightened and shortened development of Mk I & II, intended for e.g. airborne and jungle use. The similar Mk IV was not issued before VE-Day. _9mm Sten Mk IIS silenced SMG_ Apart from its use by special forces, in 1945 about 2,000 were issued to selected line units for combat testing. _9mm Sten Mk V SMG_ Of higher-quality manufacture, with a wooden buttstock and two pistol grips and a fitting for the "spike" bayonet, this was available in Normandy, but first issued in quantity to 1st Abn Div for Op "Market-Garden." _.303in Lee Enfield No.5 Mk I_ Some examples of this shortened "jungle carbine" development of the No.4 Mk I rifle were issued to 6th Abn Div; it was not judged a success. Operations When their offensive recommenced from mid-January 1945 (Op "Blackcock," against the Roermond salient), the two armies attacked across the Rhineland to reach that river, fighting on flooded plains and in the Reichwald forest at the northern end of the Siegfried Line (Op "Veritable"). After the Rhine crossings in March (Op "Plunder"), First Canadian Army swung up through northern Holland (Op "Cannonshot"), and in early May reached the North Sea coast as far east as Wilhelmshaven. On their right, Second British Army drove northeast (Op "Enterprise"), reaching the North and Baltic Sea coasts from Cuxhaven to Wismar, and thus kept the Red Army out of Denmark. While progress along the learning curve was naturally uneven, the British and Canadian advances up to and beyond the Rhine in 1945 were characterized by a well-practiced and generally successful drill for combined-arms attacks. These tactics rested upon strong and responsive artillery, and the provision of specialized combat-support vehicles from 79th Armd Div (see below). With powerful artillery preparation, the advance would typically be led by mine-clearing "flail" tanks. These were followed by Armoured Vehicle Royal Engineers (AVRE) tanks, with fascines and bridge-laying gear for crossing obstacles, and heavy demolition mortars to deal with roadblocks and fortified buildings. The gun tanks of the attached armored unit would then be accompanied right into battle by the leading infantry unit in armored personnel carriers (APCs), and the infantry attack would be supported by flamethrower tanks. Infantry advancing by night would be guided by 40mm AA tracer fire overhead, under searchlights shining on the clouds ("Monty's moonlight"). During the assault, renewed and adjusted artillery concentrations could be called down quickly, and subsequent enemy counterattacks could be smashed by very responsive defensive fires. The whole effort was underpinned by engineering and logistic support that far outclassed the German equivalents. March 31, 1945: a section from 9th Bn Durham Light Infantry (131st Inf Bde, 7th Armd Div – see "Desert Rat" divisional shoulder patch) aboard a Ram Kangaroo APC of 49 RTR near Weske, Germany. In February, 7th Armd Div had reorganized into battlegroups: e.g. 9th Durhams, with the Cromwell tanks of 5th Royal Inniskilling Dragoon Guards; the towed 25-pdrs of K Bty, 3rd Royal Horse Artillery; a troop of mine-clearing tanks, and AVRE bridge-layers. During the final advance to the Baltic coast the APCs of 49 RTR worked on several occasions with 7th Armd's 131st Inf Bde, and the Kangaroos were carrying the lead battalion when they finally drove into the streets of Hamburg on May 3. (IWM BU 2956) Attrition While 21st Army Group had a much quieter winter than the Americans, losses again rose sharply during the Rhineland battles of February–March 1945, and constant attrition saw experienced men steadily replaced with nervous and ignorant reinforcements (see below, "Replacements"). Some of these replacements would last long enough to become battle-wise in their turn, but no matter how crafty a soldier became his survival was often a matter of blind luck – mortar bombs fell impartially on rookie and veteran alike. However, bad luck could be compounded by the carelessness of exhaustion, and in combat men sometimes had to go for up to 60 hours with only a couple of hours' sleep. The need to dig slit trenches each time they halted and "de-bussed," often only to abandon them and dig in again somewhere else a few hours later, added to their fatigue. As in the US armies, much of the time platoons were attacking at only about half the strength envisaged during their training; in addition to the drain of casualties, it was normal to "leave out of battle" (LOB) an NCO and a half-dozen privates from each platoon to form a nucleus for rebuilding it in case of heavy losses. Some lieutenants felt that a fighting strength of around 20–22 was in fact easier to control in the attack than a full platoon of 36 men. In defense, however, being reduced to perhaps half-strength meant that most men had to stay awake during the long winter nights without proper reliefs, thus increasing their chronic exhaustion. As an example of a typical battalion, in their ten months between landing in Normandy and VE-Day, Lt Jary's 4th Somerset Light Infantry in 43rd Div lost 47 officers and 1,266 other ranks killed or wounded (respectively, 130 percent and 160 percent of establishment). Jary's own platoon was periodically reinforced, but by the time they were approaching Bremen in late April 1945 they were again down to a typical count of 19 all ranks, of whom only one man had been with them since June 1944. The later-deployed 52nd (Lowland) Div first saw action at Walcheren on November 1, 1944. During Op "Blackcock" in January 1945, Lt Peter White's 10 Ptn, B Coy, 4th Bn King's Own Scottish Borderers suffered 50 percent casualties, most of them in a single 24-hour action when pinned down in an open snowfield (8 killed, 8 wounded, one man with frostbite, and one "bomb-happy" – i.e. psychological collapse). In early April, White's rebuilt platoon was again reduced in a matter of moments from 32 men to 11, by "friendly fire" from a misdirected 17-pdr SP gun. Brought up to 21 men, it was reduced again to 14 a few days later by an 8.8cm shell hitting one of its two trucks while on the move. In their six months at the front White's platoon suffered 20 killed, 19 wounded, and two "bomb-happy," totaling 114 percent casualties. A panoramic view of British troops near Kervenheim, Germany, on March 1, 1945. Here part of an infantry platoon are strung out among typical vehicles: the Churchill tank used by infantry-support Army Tank Bdes, the all-purpose jeep and Universal carrier, and one of the scout cars used by unit HQs and reconnaissance units. Despite Second Army's generally efficient logistics, by the war's end it was running low on a number of vehicle types (e.g. US halftracks), and also more basic items – even battledress uniforms. Officialdom fought a long but losing war to stop British units hoarding, "scrounging," or cannibalizing unserviceable vehicles and equipment rather than sending them to the rear for repair. Entirely replacing items retained by units due to this instinctive quartermaster's urge to amass spares in excess of the official G1098 scale, "just in case," cost the government huge amounts in money and shipping space. (IWM B 15076) By VE-Day, 21st Army Group counted some 835,000 personnel, of whom perhaps 175,000 were Canadians. Since D-Day, Second British Army casualties had included some 30,280 killed and 96,670 wounded; First Canadian Army lost around 11,330 killed and 30,900 wounded. The infantry bore some 70 percent of these losses, although they represented only about 15 percent of total strength. Approaching the Weser river on April 7, 1945, the weariness of nine months in the frontline shows on the face of the driver of this Vickers MMG-armed Universal carrier of 7th Bn Royal Northumberland Fusiliers. No matter the relative weakness of most German forces encountered in 1945, diehard SS and paratroop units, mines, mortars, _Nebelwerfers_ , and "88s" still inflicted a steady drain of casualties on advancing units. The infantry section who happened to be moving between cover when the first concealed MG42s opened fire were often decimated, and at ranges of 1,000 yards or less the first one or two armored vehicles probing down a road were always liable to get "brewed up" by an AT gun. This particular unit had been the integral machine-gun battalion of 59th (Staffordshire) Div, and after that formation was broken up for reinforcements in September 1944 the battalion remained in action until VE-Day. (IWM BU 3189) Despite the orthodox opinion of postwar historians that the Germans were generally superior fighting men, defeated only by weight of numbers and firepower, this was rejected by Lt Sydney Jary, MC. While acknowledging the skill and spirit of some German paratroops and other battlegroups that they encountered, he wrote this of his understrength platoon of ordinary English conscript infantry: "A family of brothers": an infantry section from 1st Bn Royal Norfolk Regt, 185th Inf Bde, 3rd Div, photographed in late November 1944. Of the fighting in January–February 1945 one such veteran, Cpl Doug Proctor from 43rd (Wessex) Div, wrote: "We had come a long way since our battle of attrition in Normandy... [We had] developed, with experience, into an accomplished professional army, which was far removed from the 'army of civilians' that had landed at Arromanches... [The platoon] lived and fought for each other as any family of brothers should... This was the type of fighting at which we excelled." (IWM B 12156) The lack of Luftwaffe opposition led not only to the retraining of thousands of antiaircraft gunners as infantry, but also to 40mm Bofors guns of Royal Artillery light antiaircraft (LAA) regiments being used in the ground role. They provided both direct supporting fire – like this crew of 319 Bty, 92nd (Loyals) LAA Regt, photographed on the Rhine on March 26, 1945 – and tracer fire to point the axis of advance for night-time infantry attacks. Heavier AA guns were also tried out in the ground role, delivering airburst support fire. (IWM BU 2748) "After 1st August 1944, 18 Platoon never failed in any attack. Sometimes we took a little longer than planned, but we always got there in the end. In defence we never lost one yard of ground, nor did the enemy ever penetrate our platoon position, and we always dominated 'no man's land' with our patrols... In many attacks the prisoners we took outnumbered our attacking force, and German units who would continue to resist at close quarters were few indeed. Unlike us, they rarely fought at night, when they were excessively nervous." One of Jary's corporals called the Germans they met in 1945 "an abject lot". Lieutenant Walter Keith, who joined D Coy, Regina Rifles in 3rd Cdn Div in early March 1945, wrote in similar terms. Only two soldiers of the 32 in his platoon were veterans of Normandy, and only three even of the fighting on the Leopold Canal in October 1944. His men were "mostly fairly small, very young, very quiet and most unwarrior-like. [Yet] I never once had to cajole or threaten or even encourage them to do the job... they automatically did it. The section commanders unhesitatingly led... where they were told to go, and the section followed them." That most Allied soldiers lacked the fanatical "killer instinct" shown by a minority of the Germans they encountered is surely not a criticism, but a tribute. Unlike the Waffen-SS, most of them were decent, unbrutalized men, who served with a stoic courage lit up by occasional flares of battle-anger. REPLACEMENTS By September 1944, Second Army casualties were running one-third higher than anticipated. Even as early as late July some infantry replacements had been "converted" coastal artillerymen, and the decision was taken to re-role even greater numbers of redundant gunners. This particularly applied to 21st Army Group's AA and searchlight units, whose total manpower in fall 1944 was about 62,000 – nearly as many as its field gunners. With the Luftwaffe now drastically weakened, this luxury could no longer be justified. A strong AA Command still had to be maintained to defend British ports and Antwerp against V-1 flying bombs, but suitable men were released for retraining, being replaced with Home Guard personnel and women of the Auxiliary Territorial Service. Each light anti-aircraft regiment in 21st Army Group was now reduced from 54 to 36 guns; surplus crews were retrained on field guns, heavy mortars, or as infantrymen (their nickname was "6-week killers," but the course officially lasted 12 weeks). Lieutenant Jary's battalion was receiving ex-AA gunner replacements by November, and by VE-Day a total of nearly 17,000 had been retrained. In addition to fit younger men employed as individual replacements, artillerymen aged 35-plus or otherwise below Category A1 were retrained "for infantry duties in back areas or ... where holding operations rather than vigorous offensive operations are required." By VE-Day eight complete infantry brigades (301st–308th) had been formed from such men; 27 former Royal Artillery (RA) regiments provided 305th, 307th, & 308th Inf Bdes plus another 18 unbrigaded battalions, which deployed to NW Europe in April–May 1945 on line-of-communication and garrison duties. Each brigade comprised three or four units numbered in the 600 range, designated, e.g. in 305th Inf Bde, 622, 624, & 629 Regts RA (Infantry). First Canadian Army was too small to break up formations to provide reinforcements for others. Although 3rd Cdn Div had taken the heaviest casualties in summer 1944, it received adequate replacements, but 2nd Cdn Div's battalions – whose shortfall averaged 200 men each at the end of August – took much longer to rebuild with men retrained from the artillery, signals, and service corps. The Canadian advance along the coast against the German Fifteenth Army had faced tough resistance, and the fighting from September 20 to November 7 had cost another 2,250 Canadian infantry killed and some 9,000 wounded or sick (out of a total infantry strength of only about 17,000). The 2nd and 3rd Inf and 4th Armd Divs were each short by 700–800 men on November 1, but the flow of reinforcements then quickened, and by February 1945 they were in better strength than British divisions. Winter 1944/45 offered opportunities for refresher training, and division HQs stressed the need to keep up platoon and section strengths for effective small-unit tactics, if necessary by battalions cutting their four rifle companies to three and redistributing men. Within the Canadian command, 1st Polish Armd Div naturally faced the greatest difficulties in replacing Normandy casualties (about 50 percent in its rifle battalions) with Polish personnel. Its solution was to enlist willing Polish-speakers among Wehrmacht prisoners of war, but this had limited the readiness of its units in fall 1944. From Normandy onward the need for infantry officers and NCOs to look as much like their men as possible, so as to avoid the attention of snipers, was stressed. Captain Harrison K. Bird, MC, of the Lake Superior Regt (the motor battalion of 4th Cdn Armd Div) was photographed at the Roosendahl Canal in late 1944, carrying only a rifle with fixed bayonet, a bandolier of ammunition clips, and apparently a haversack (or the similar officer's valise) slung behind his left hip. Canadian officer casualties were just as high as those for the British; additionally, under the "CANLOAN" scheme, 673 Canadian junior officer volunteers also joined British units between April 1944 and February 1945, of whom nearly half became casualties. (Anne S.K. Brown University Library, Providence, RI, USA) Incorporating reinforcements In orders of October–November 1944, both FM Montgomery and the Canadian II Corps GOC LtGen Guy Simonds stressed the importance of absorbing reinforcements, ideally along the same lines as described above for US practice. Inevitably arriving demoralized, they should be welcomed into their new unit while it was out of the line, checked for health and for complete kit, rebadged, and briefed. They might arrive after weeks or months in sedentary UK reinforcement units, from role-conversion training in-theater, or after recovery from wounds. Their basic training might be long in the past, so their officer should check and refresh their skills, and when they first went into action he should give them the simplest tasks. Seasoned soldiers were encouraged to take newcomers under their wing; Lt Jary recalled that a Normandy veteran whose nerves had been completely shot since Hill 112 was nevertheless a valuable member of the platoon for his fatherly care of scared youngsters. Every effort should be made to ensure that a casualty returning to the line after recovery went back to his original unit, or at least to another battalion of the same regiment. If even that was impossible, then he should be posted to a unit from the same geographical region as his old battalion, "so that he may find himself amongst men who have the same local connections and interests and the same peculiarities of speech and customs," and an impressively comprehensive list of suitable choices was circulated. Troops from 51st (Highland) Div riding on a Sherman tank near Oudenhout, Netherlands, on October 29, 1944. This overloaded tank carries 18 infantrymen – the official maximum was 15 (see Plate G). The middle soldier of the group silhouetted at top center has a No.18 wireless set, so belongs to a company HQ, and the "Jock" sitting above the final "73" of the tank's hull number has a platoon HQ's No.38 set. This suggests that the tank is probably transporting roughly half of a company HQ, plus a platoon HQ, plus a full rifle section; HQ groups were normally divided between two tanks. While riding, infantry officers usually communicated with each other via the tanks' radios. For intercommunications once dismounted, in addition to their No.19 radio set tanks were to carry a No. 38 set tuned to the infantry company net. Tank unit commanders were additionally ordered to provide the infantry battalion commander with an armored scout car with a No.19 set and operators, for command liaison. As so often, however, the ideals expressed in official orders could seldom be met under frontline conditions. By 1944–45, men from all over the UK might find themselves wearing just about any cap badge in the Army, and under the pressure of battle many British and Canadian replacements were rushed up to units as soon as they arrived. In February 1945, 21st Army Group had 2,600 tanks; British and Canadian Sherman troops comprised at least one 17-pdr Firefly with three 75mm-gun tanks, and some would soon begin to receive two Fireflies. This photo is a visual reminder that the "armored recon regiment" of a 21st Army Group armored division was simply a fourth battle-tank unit. In the Dutch-German border country, Tpr Ed Demars of 29th Armd Recon Regt (South Alberta Regt), 4th Cdn Armd Div, is photographed in the turret of a Sherman Vc Firefly; the tank is typically festooned with spare track plates, ammunition boxes, tools, and the crew's packs and helmets. (Library & Archives Canada, PA113675) F BRITISH INFANTRY 1: Corporal, 1st Battalion Welsh Guards, Guards Armoured Division; Rhineland, February 1945 Photographed during Op "Veritable," this soldier exemplifies the variations of kit and weapons sometimes seen in the line, even in a highly disciplined Guards battalion. Although his BD blouse is buttoned to the throat, and bears the white-on-black regimental shoulder title and the Guards Armd Div patch, he wears over it and his webbing gear a privately acquired sheepskin jerkin in preference to the standard-issue leather type. More remarkably, he has also "scrounged" a US M1 Garand rifle (presumably, during Op "Market Garden"?), with a US rifle clip bandolier. Preparing to dig in, he carries a couple of No.75 Hawkins grenades; a January 1944 training memorandum illustrated how to use different numbers of these, linked with Primacord, to blow starting-holes for slit trenches, 3in mortar, and 6-pdr AT gun pits. This saved much pick-and-shovel work, allowing a rifle platoon to get dug-in in about 20 minutes. 2: Private, 3rd Battalion Monmouthshire Regiment, 11th Armoured Division; Netherlands, November 1944 This soldier in his battalion's carrier platoon, out of the line after the advance to the Maas (Op "Constellation"), presents a more extreme example of how unsoldierly troops could look in bad weather. The knitted-wool "cap, comforter" could be worn as a watch-cap or unrolled into a scarf. His camouflaged oilcloth "cape, anti-gas" serves as a raincoat; this had a "hunchback" rear extension to fit over the 37 Pattern haversack when it was worn as a "small pack." He is lucky to have acquired a pair of rubber "gun boots", as he sloshes through the mud to collect his carrier crew's hot stew in dark green 2-pint insulated containers. 3: Lance-corporal, 1st Battalion Cheshire Regiment, 11th Armoured Division; Elbe river, May 1945 In the last week of the war, this "Tommy" east of the Elbe takes no chances: he is advancing through a village with his No.4 rifle in the position recommended in an August 1944 manual for snap-shooting. The butt is pulled into his shoulder, so he is ready to swing and lift the barrel at an instant's warning; his second finger is on the trigger, while thumb and forefinger grip the bolt handle ready for rapid reloading (detail 3a). His clothing and gear are standard late-war infantry Battle Order, though his small pack is personally enlarged with a "basic pouch" sewn to each side surface. At the top of his sleeves, below the regimental title in the line infantry's white-on-scarlet, he displays not the black-bull-on-yellow patch of 11th Armd Div but a "regimental flash." A couple of dozen regiments and battalions were authorized various designs in traditional unit colors, worn sometimes below, sometimes instead of formation patches. The Cheshires' flash is a diamond halved in cerise and buff; officially his rank chevron could be in buff on cerise backing, but this was kept for "best BD" worn out of the line. * * * Conscription for overseas service was controversial in Canada. The National Resources Mobilization Act allowing it was only enacted in December 1944, and only 2,643 conscripts reached combat units. An August 1943 report submitted by a battle-school instructor, LtCol Lionel Wigram, after spending three months in combat with 78th Div in Sicily, underlined this weakness of the "battle school solutions," and claimed that it was exacerbated by the fact that only perhaps half of a typical platoon actually fought back when they came under fire. Wigram suggested that to improve control and effectiveness the platoon should be reorganized from three sections into two-and-a-bit groups, which could be articulated in person by the platoon lieutenant and sergeant: the officer with a rifle-and-grenade group, the NCO with all three LMG teams, plus the 2in mortar team. Wigram's ideas did not find their way into Maj James Brind's _Infantry Training, Part VIII: Fieldcraft, Battle Drill, Section and Platoon Tactics_ issued in March 1944. However, the _Amendments No.1_ to that manual circulated in winter 1944/45 would indeed recognize the need for more flexibility at platoon/section level, e.g. to allow friends to fight together, and to use the best men where they would do the most good. ARMOR/ INFANTRY OPERATIONS In 1944, 21st Army Group's armored divisions and independent armored brigades had Sherman or Cromwell medium tanks (246 per div, plus 63 Stuarts in regimental recon troops), and the Army Tank Bdes the slower, more heavily armored Churchill (162, plus 33 Stuarts) specifically for infantry support – although, in practice, any tank unit might be deployed for this task. Infantry divisions had an integral recon regiment with mixes of scout cars, armored cars and carriers, but in Normandy each armored division had an armored recon regiment with medium tanks. They proved quite unsuited to this mission; corps-level armored-car units had to be attached for operations, and the divisional armored recon regiment was soon employed simply as a fourth battle-tank unit. When working with infantry the tanks' main purpose was to destroy enemy unarmored targets; using them in defense against Panzer counterattacks might sometimes be necessary, but only until AT guns could be brought up. When a tank brigade or regiment was placed under command of an infantry division or brigade the infantry commander would inevitably be the senior officer, but the tank unit CO's right to be closely involved in operation planning, and to "advise" his infantry counterpart, was stressed. At every level infantry and tank officers were supposed to make their plans jointly, and to reconnoiter the terrain together. It was the senior tank officer's decision when to withdraw to a "forward rally" position after an attack. While at least some of the tanks were to remain with the infantry long enough to neutralize any diehard resistance, they could often achieve this from nearby without staying actually on the objective. When the AT guns had come forward the tanks were to be released to a "rear rally" position for replenishment, maintenance, and such little rest as the crews could manage. Theory and practice Many British official publications pay lip service to the need for flexible judgment in particular circumstances, but they then usually go on to describe what are actually "best-case scenarios," with careful reconnaissance and inter-unit liaison. On paper, pre-invasion tank and infantry units ideally needed two weeks to train together; in practice, attacks often had to be put together with only a few hours' notice. Pre-invasion training had varied between formations: 11th Armd Div seems to have paid the most attention to the concept of tank/infantry battlegroups, and the desert veterans of 7th Armd Div the least. A few British senior officers were slow to unlearn the now-inappropriate tactical lessons of North Africa, failing to prioritize giving attacking tanks enough support. A notorious example was Op "Goodwood" on July 18, 1944, when flawed planning and execution resulted in about 400 tanks being lost when exposed not just without close infantry support but, more importantly, at too great a range from their supporting artillery. The traditional British organizational infrastructure sometimes hindered the "sideways" sharing, between senior officers of the different arms, of insights drawn from recent experience. Since the British Army was "horizontally" a more loosely knit institution than the US Army, it was sometimes slower to benefit from the incremental accumulation of experience. The infantryman Lt Jary recalled that in Normandy, denied scope to maneuver by the _bocage_ terrain, tanks were "reduced to blind, slow and highly vulnerable infantry-support guns." From August 1944 the British infantry were trained to ride on tanks, and during that fall much effort was put into improving armor/infantry tactics. Examples of best practice were circulated, and although the shifting of units often interrupted the familiar relationships that brought the best results the drills increasingly became automatic. The provision of APCs from October 1944 – though there would never be enough of them – also began to improve the odds for combined-arms attacks. During the Canadian advance along the Channel coast in August–October 1944, if tanks were not available to infantry battalion battlegroups these routinely included a troop of M10 SP tank destroyers, as well as attached combat engineers, mortarmen, and machine-gunners. For example, for Op "Astonia" at Boulogne in September the North Nova Scotia Highlanders battlegroup had an attached Sherman squadron from 10th Cdn Armd Regt (Fort Garry Horse), plus a whole range of specialized armor: Kangaroo APCs, mine-clearing tanks, AVRE obstacle-clearing tanks, and Crocodile flamethrower tanks (see below, "British 79th Armoured Division"). Denied such riches, the North Shore (New Brunswick) Regt battlegroup had only an M10 troop from 3rd AT Regt, RCA for armored support. The frequency with which M10s had to be deployed in this role led to crews being tactically trained for it, in two-gun maneuver sections. The independent 2nd Cdn Armd Bde earned praise from the infantry units it supported, but a report by its 10th Armd Regt after operations with 2nd Cdn Div in South Beveland in October 1944 stressed some of the characteristic difficulties of tank/infantry cooperation. Below divisional level, it was essential that tanks should be placed "in support of" infantry units, not "under their command," since tank commanders understood much better the capabilities and proper positioning of armor. The typical infantry commander wanted tanks in close proximity to boost his men's morale, but "he should consider where he wishes fire to come down, rather than where the tanks themselves should be located." Also, the infantry should always remember that "tanks cannot _hold_ the ground they capture". In November 1944, Montgomery issued notes codifying the lessons learned about tank/infantry cooperation, including the need for units to "marry up" early in an operation, and for tank officers to accompany infantry patrols to reconnoiter the ground they would fight over. He stressed that success depended upon intimate cooperation between all arms within an armored division. The most flexible arrangement for a divisional operation was probably (a) the armored brigade HQ, controlling two of its tank regiments, the motor battalion, plus one battalion from the infantry brigade; and (b) the infantry brigade HQ, controlling the armored recon regiment, the third tank regiment, and the other two infantry battalions. February 26, 1945: for Op "Blockbuster," these infantrymen from the Algonquin Regt, 10th Inf Bde, 4th Cdn Armd Div are riding Shermans of the South Alberta Regt churning through the mud of the Hochwald Gap. Training stressed that the tank-riders must practice mounting and dismounting by day and night; should not dangle their legs over the side, to avoid crush injuries; and should stay awake, so as not to fall off into the path of following tanks. On February 26 the seizure of the defended village of Keppeln was accomplished when the North Shore Regt of 2nd Cdn Inf Div mounted a whole platoon made up of PIAT teams on Shermans of C Sqn, 6th Armd Regt (1st Hussars). These charged into Keppeln on the heels of an artillery barrage, destroying two Panthers and driving out six others, which allowed the battalion to capture the village. "Blockbuster" was a phase of 21st Army Group's Op "Veritable," the purpose of which was to clear the Maas and the country west of the Rhine; the first two weeks of operations cost 8,000 British and Canadian casualties, but inflicted nearly three times that many on the Wehrmacht. (L&AC, PA113907) September 21, 1944, near the Nijmegen bridge over the Waal river: a 17-pdr gun of 24 AT Regt RA with Guards Armoured Division. This gives a good impression of the massive size of the towed 17-pdr, the high effectiveness of which (especially with APDS shells, which began arriving from September 1944) was offset by the difficulty of towing it, and the time it took to emplace and conceal. There were complaints that infantry commanders insisted on it being deployed too far forward and then withdrew in the face of counterattacks, leaving the guns to be overrun. There were also constant problems with Quad towing vehicles, which were underpowered for a gun weighing nearly 3 tons; only some lucky regiments received halftracks or turretless Crusader tanks as prime-movers. Armor-Piercing Discarding Sabot shells became available in small quantities for 6-pdr AT guns in mid-1944. They roughly doubled penetration, but shortages meant that few crews got the chance to master their peculiar trajectory before using them in combat. (IWM B 10171) Wasp flamethrowers This variant of the Universal light-armored tracked carrier, first used by the Canadians in Normandy at the end of July 1944, proved very valuable – provided the infantry gave the vulnerable carriers maximum supporting fire and smoke during their advance to within 140 yards of the target, and followed close behind to assault it as soon as the Wasp had flamed it. Their distribution scale seems unclear; a platoon of six served in each infantry division's MG battalion, but there are also references to their use by 3rd Cdn Div's 7th Recon Regiment. A platoon was also included in the independent MG company of both Canadian and British armored divisions and independent armored brigades. A November 1944 report praised their effectiveness against field defenses and pillboxes that were proof against infantry battalion weapons. At 100 yards a well-practiced team of driver and gunner could squirt flame directly into a pillbox's embrasure, with hideous results. Their psychological effect was such that a brief burst of flame was often enough to induce surrender or flight, and enemy troops never tried to shoot it out with them – Wasp losses were always to mines or long-range weapons. If a slope in the terrain allowed, flame projected at a high angle dispersed into a "golden rain" effect that was deadly against trenches and other open positions. A representative example of their use by 3rd Cdn Inf Div comes from the bitter fighting against German paratroopers in Moyland Wood on February 21, 1945 during Op "Veritable." The Royal Winnipeg Rifles judged that they owed the success of their two-company assault mainly to two successive trios of Wasps, the second three coming up when the first three ran out of flame-fuel. Antitank warfare Doctrine demanded that the infantry protect themselves against enemy armor. Each infantry battalion had a platoon with 6x 6-pdrs; each corps and infantry division had a Royal Artillery/Royal Canadian Artillery AT regiment with 16x 6-pdrs and 32x 17-pdrs; and each armored division's AT regiment had 48x 17-pdrs, two of its four 12-gun batteries being self-propelled. The characteristics and use of the 6-pdr were largely identical to those of the US 57mm AT gun (see above), apart from their sometimes having superior APDS ammunition. Repositioning guns in battle was seldom possible, and in Normandy a withdrawing unit often left its emplaced 6-pdrs in exchange for those of the relieving battalion. In the advance, towed battalion guns were supposed to get on to a captured objective within 15 minutes to meet a Panzer counterattack within a half-hour, but in the Normandy _bocage_ this was unrealistic. If infantry had no tanks or SP guns in support they often had to try to withstand the initial shock with their Projector, Infantry, Anti-Tank (PIAT) man-portable AT projectors; with their HEAT projectiles these were as destructive as bazookas, but much more difficult to handle. After the August 1944 breakout the British AT units, like their US counterparts, encountered dwindling numbers of actual Panzers, though German SP assault and AT guns would remain common. The AT platoons provided their battalions with immediate direct support against a wide range of "hard" and "soft" targets alike. The SP batteries had either the 3in-gun M10 (officially, the "Wolverine") or SPs mounting the 17-pounder. This was either mounted rearward on a Valentine tank chassis as the "Archer", introduced in October 1944, or conventionally in the M10C "Achilles" based on the Sherman. Infantry division AT regiments were typically equipped with a mix of towed 17-pdrs and Archers or Achilles. (After Op "Switchback" in the Breskens Pocket, 3rd Cdn Inf Div complained of difficulty operating what they called "M-10s" on the narrow dyke roads, because "the gun faces the rear" – evidently, Archers.) The missions, and the drawbacks, of the SPs were as described above for the US Army. They operated in dispersed batteries and troops, so junior officers were vulnerable to the misuse of their guns by more senior ranks. October 12, 1944: for lack of AFV targets, an Achilles 17-pdr SP gun of 75 AT Regt RA, 11th Armd Div, firing in the infantry-support role against enemy pillboxes on the Dutch-German border. The 17-pdr AP round could penetrate 6ft of concrete, and during the last winter of the war increased scales of HE ammo were also issued to Archer and Achilles SP units. Despite their vulnerabilities, from Normandy onward British and Canadian SPs often gave distinguished service in the infantry-support role, both in defense and attack. While Sherman tank troops each had one 17-pdr Firefly, and those of the Cromwell-equipped 7th Armd Div one 17-pdr Challenger conversion, the infantry-support Army Tank Bdes with Churchills lacked an equivalent weapon. When troops of Royal Artillery 17-pdr SP antitank guns were attached to them for particular operations, the brigade commanders were sometimes permitted to retain them afterward. (IWM B10733) * * * All combat troops suffered from a chronic lack of rest, but tank crews worst of all, due to their nightly maintenance duties. In November 1944 a British training memorandum described symptoms of tank-crew fatigue: headache, nausea, dehydration, loss of appetite, eyestrain; and remedies: meal before action; chocolate, boiled sweets (hard candy), dried fruit inside tank, to keep mouths moist; tea and snack as soon as possible after action; salt tablets to prevent excessive sweating; headband to keep sweat out of eyes, castor oil eye-drops. SPREADING THE LESSONS " Dyke-and- _polder_ " fighting In the northern Rhineland the Germans deliberately flooded large areas, thus condemning the Canadians to fight in flooded fields crisscrossed by raised dykes. The latter provided only limited and exposed routes for vehicles, and even AFVs often got bogged down if they left them. The flooded meadows or _polders_ were overlooked by islands of higher ground where the enemy might fortify farm buildings, construct pillboxes, and/or dig weapons into the flanks of dykes. Chilled to the bone, infantry might have to wade chest-deep for a half-mile while potentially exposed to enemy fire. Notes issued by HQ 3rd Cdn Inf Div after Op "Switchback" in October 1944 included the following points: Since the Germans often cut the dyke roads, engineers with bulldozers must keep close up with the infantry. Infantry must be given extra training in mine-lifting and clearing obstacles and booby traps; the size of infantry pioneer platoons should be increased to take some of the burden off the engineers, with the infantry taking responsibility for opening routes for their own rear-echelon vehicles. The LVT Buffalo's ability not only to "swim" carrying an infantry platoon but also to climb steep, muddy banks made it especially valuable in the flooded terrain on the Dutch-German border. While this photo shows a Buffalo carrying infantry of 5th Bn Dorsetshire Regt, 43rd (Wessex) Div across the Rhine on March 28, 1945, two LVT squadrons each from 5 and 6 Asslt Regts RE, 79th Armd Div had already greatly aided the Canadian advance through the flooded Rhineland during Op "Veritable" in February. The LVT-2 could carry an infantry platoon; the LVT-4, with a dropping rear ramp (as here), could alternatively take loads such as a Universal carrier or a 6-pdr AT gun. Before the Walcheren operation in November 1944, the 79th Armd Div workshops had fitted each Buffalo with a .30cal and a .50cal MG, and units often added heavier weapons such as a 20mm Polsten cannon or a 3in mortar, so they could give their passengers a useful volume of direct supporting fire during assault landings. (IWM BU 2449) M-10s could provide close support if the infantry reconnoitered positions for them in advance, but the tankers of the Fort Garry Horse discovered the danger of exposing their Shermans on the dyke roads. Initially one four-tank troop, together with an armored-car troop from 8th Recon Regt, led the way for an infantry company, but after one German 7.5cm AT gun had knocked out three armored cars and three tanks the infantry pushed ahead of the armor. Typically, an infantry company would advance with an artillery forward observer officer (FOO), who radioed fire corrections to keep the enemy's heads down; one or more tanks or M10s and at least one Wasp followed, to come up on the flanks when needed. Armor could deliver effective supporting fire from hull-down positions if the infantry first blew holes in the tops of the dykes for them to fire through, using PIATs or "grenades" (presumably, No.75 Hawkins grenades). Night fighting An after-action report by 6th Armd Regt from 2nd Cdn Armd Bde after Op "Blockbuster" in the Rhineland in February 1945 describes supporting battalions of both 2nd and 3rd Cdn Inf Divs during attacks around Keppeln in the Hochwald Gap. Dividing the regiment between two divisions overstretched it: after supporting one battalion a squadron had barely any time to refuel and rearm, and none for maintenance, rest, or a proper briefing before being ordered to assist another battalion. In the first 24 hours, 33 tanks were lost: 14 to enemy fire, 5 to mines, and 14 bogged down. By the end of the operation the regiment had only 14 serviceable tanks out of 62, but (interestingly) had suffered only 40 personnel casualties, which confirms the relatively low proportion of losses to enemy fire. Deploying tanks to support infantry before "shooting-light" in the early morning boosted the infantry's morale, but increased the strain on tank crews and their vulnerability to Panzerfaust teams. When objectives had been occupied they came under heavy fire from enemy SP guns and mortars, so medium artillery should be placed "on call" even to tank sub-units. A report after "Blockbuster" by 9th Inf Bde, 3rd Cdn Div summarized some of the difficulties of night operations. These might originally have been planned for daylight but got delayed, so the plan had to be adapted at short notice after dark; in future, it was essential to make two plans – one for daylight execution, and one for nighttime. Preliminary reconnaissance by daylight was of little use to infantry trying to find their way around a badly shelled town in the dark. Each battalion should be provided with a spare radio set tuned to the brigade net, carried on a vehicle other than that of the battalion commander, or the loss of the latter could cut battalion/brigade communications for hours. More use of runners to speed up company/battalion communications was recommended. In towns the No 18 set often functioned badly, but stringing telephone cables was sometimes feasible. At night, tank units could seldom operate effectively with a frontage of more than two tanks "up." February 1945: a Vickers MMG team from 8th Bn Middlesex Regt, the integral machine-gun battalion of 51st (Highland) Div, surrounded by evidence of prolonged firing. This weapon pit has reasonably good overhead cover to protect it from mortar fire. A training memorandum in November 1944 criticized British infantry for neglecting this, but Lt Peter White of 4th Bn King's Own Scottish Borderers, 52nd (Lowland) Div recalled his platoon carrying "liberated" crosscut saws and felling axes to cut logs for roofing-over slit trenches when they were operating in woodland astride the Siegfried Line. In the dyke-and- _polder_ fighting, dykes often gave advancing troops cover on one flank, but the other had to be protected by fire as the infantry moved in carefully controlled bounds from one dyke to another, and machine-gun units were particularly effective for this task. Another factor of fighting in flooded terrain was that the sodden ground reduced the killing-power of artillery, but at least the radio reception for artillery liaison was good. (IWM BU 1785) Forest fighting: infantry from 2nd Bn Seaforth Highlanders, 51st (Highland) Div, with support from Churchills of 34th Army Tank Bde, photographed in the Reichswald on February 10, 1945 while moving up to engage German paratroopers of 2. Fallschirmjäger Regiment. Tank crews could see adequately when among trees at least 12ft high and 3ft apart, but were blind when in plantations of shorter, more thickly spaced saplings. A Churchill tank could push over a shallow-rooted conifer with a 2ft-diameter trunk, but a broadleaved treetrunk of more than 9in diameter would stop it. (IWM B 14454) Photographed on a muddy track through the Hochwald on March 6, 1945, the carrier-borne Cameron Highlanders of Ottawa pass other Allied vehicles including jeeps, a Ram Kangaroo, and a halftrack. Incidentally, on the general subject of woodland fighting: with regard to the serious Allied fears about potential diehard Nazi guerrilla activity in the Bavarian forests following the formal surrender, 21st Army Group _Infantry Notes No. 13_ of July 1945 interestingly quotes at length from the bestselling historical novel _Northwest Passage_ by Kenneth Roberts, set during the 1750s French-Indian War, in which the character "Sgt McNott" instructs new recruits to Rogers' Rangers in forest fieldcraft. (L&AC, JHS47443) A British memorandum of 1945 stressed the need for more night training in orientation and silent movement on unfamiliar ground. It also detailed an updated plan for battalion night attacks, from approach-march navigation right through to the completion of consolidation and resupply on a captured objective before first light. It emphasized that the reserve platoon in each rifle company must "mop up" the objective at once, rather than leaving this to follow-up companies. Forest fighting A British summary of tank/infantry cooperation circulated after the fighting in the Reichswald in February 1945 made the familiar point that infantry must lead through thick woodland, to flush enemy tank-hunters, but tanks must lead through clearings and on open tracks. Given the limited vision from a closed-down tank – and equally, the danger to infantry of tanks drawing fire, or setting off mines – the infantry should not "hug" the tanks, but should screen them from at least ten yards ahead and out to both flanks. Sherman Crab mine-clearing flail tank of 1st Lothians & Border Horse (30th Armd Bde, 79th Armd Div) in the blazing streets of Arnhem, Holland. This tragically famous town was not finally liberated (by 49th Div, under Canadian First Army command) until April 15, 1945. The Crab's turret gun was retained, since flailing raised a lot of dust and drew enemy fire, and the tanks needed to be able to provide mutual support. The Crab advanced at little more than 1mph, clearing a lane about 8ft wide; the lashing chains could detonate Teller mines buried 5in deep, and a dozen or more could be cleared before new chains had to be fitted. However, flail tanks were ineffective on cobbled road surfaces, and were always vulnerable to improvised mines using such heavy ordnance as aerial bombs or naval shells. (IWM BU 3515) During daylight advances the tanks should spray MG fire ahead of them even if no targets were visible. They should only fire HE shells when in clearings, to avoid tree-burst casualties to their own infantry; among trees AP shells were still effective. At night the troops of a tank squadron might advance in parallel single files, preferably using a track as a centerline. Tanks and infantry could advance together by bounds provided movement lights were used; the infantry should have some high-visibility item on their backpacks (white enamel mugs were good), and should signal each halt in the alternating advances with red-filtered flashlights. Tanks should spray the treetops ahead of the infantry with MG fire, but without tracers. The contemporary report by 6th Cdn Armd Regt after Op "Blockbuster" agreed that coaxial and bow MG fire was the most useful in woodland, where the enemy seldom used Panzerfausts so as to avoid premature detonations against trees. October 23, 1944: an agile observer atop an Armoured Vehicle Royal Engineers (AVRE) carrying a large ditch-crossing fascine during 53rd (Welsh) Div's advance near Oss, Holland. Alternative fittings for these Churchill AVREs of 79th Armd Div's 1st Assault Bde RE included a 30ft assault bridge, a frame of demolition charges, or "Snake" hose charges, all of which could be operated from inside the tank. However, a crewman had to emerge from a hull-top hatch in order to reload the turret-mounted 290mm mortar with its 40lb bomb. (IWM B 11135) BRITISH 79th ARMOURED DIVISION: "THE FUNNIES" An asset particular to 21st Army Group from D-Day onward was the unconventional and versatile 79th Armd Div, whose range of combat-support tanks and other specialist equipment increased steadily during the campaign. The standard establishment of a British armored division was about 14,960 men and 350 AFVs of all types, in two brigades plus artillery and divisional troops; at one stage 79th Armd Div numbered 21,000 all ranks and 1,566 AFVs, in five brigades plus additional specialist "wings" to study particular tactical problems. Brigades were task-organized, with units re-roled, re-equipped, and cross-posted at short intervals, which demanded high standards of skill and leadership. They supported both British and Canadian divisions, and in some instances units were loaned to US Army formations. January 20, 1945: Churchill Mk VII Crocodile flamethrower tank of 141 Regt RAC (31st Armd Bde, 79th Armd Div) in action in support of infantry at St Joost, Holland; the range of the flame jet was up to 120 yards. An analysis concluded that this terrifying weapon was at least twice as effective as a gun tank when supporting infantry in the assault. In the action photographed here, two Crocodiles were lost to German artillery fire; this was unusual, although the towed fuel trailer was often shot off. (IWM B 13944) The "funnies" based on Shermans were Duplex Drive (DD) swimming tanks and Crab mine-clearing flails; the other equipments were all based on the Churchill. By early 1945 the DDs equipped only two regiments, the flails and flamethrower Crocodiles three units each. The three regiments of 1st Asslt Bde Royal Engineers employed AVREs, mounting a short-range but very destructive 290mm mortar and carrying a variety of obstacle-crossing and breaching gear; the turretless Ark version had ramps and runways that turned the tank itself into a mobile bridge. March 2, 1945: infantry from British 3rd Div, who wear a mix of Mk II and Mk III helmets, boarding a Ram Kangaroo APC of 49 RTR (31st Armd Bde, 79th Armd Div) for the assault on Kervenheim. The infantry had to "de-bus" the same way, clambering up and rolling out over the edge, which was dangerous when under fire. Each squadron of the carrier regiment had 16 APCs. Riding in a Kangaroo was deafeningly noisy, uncomfortable, and cramped, and in cold weather there was competition for places next to the warm rear engine-compartment bulkhead. (IWM B 14972) Armored personnel carriers Although carried in US-supplied halftracks, British Universal carriers, or Canadian armored 15-cwt 4x4 trucks, the mechanized infantry "motor battalion" within the armored brigade of each armored division was often unable to keep up with the advancing tanks. Otherwise all infantry, including those of an armored division's infantry brigade, were carried to the battle area in trucks, and marched thereafter. The need for genuinely integrated infantry/tank battlegroups was recognized in Normandy after the costly shocks of June–July 1944; infantry then began to ride on the tanks, but the need for a better armored personnel carrier was also addressed. The name "Kangaroo" was applied to surplus tracked armored chassis converted into armored personnel carriers. The first were M7 Priest 105mm SP guns from the artillery of 3rd Cdn Div; when these were due for replacement with Sexton SP 25-pdrs the GOC II Cdn Corps, LtGen Simonds, ordered their conversion. The original unit was the ad hoc 1st Cdn Armd Carrier Sqn, officially formed only on August 28, 1944 mainly from men of the Elgin Regt; 78 of the 100 planned APCs were ready in time for its actual first action in Op "Totalize" on August 7–8, when casualties among 4th Cdn Inf Bde were measurably reduced. The Priest-based APCs were replaced at the end of September with lower-profile Canadian Ram tanks with the turret removed; the unit was redesignated 1st Cdn Armd Personnel Carrier Regt in October 1944 (and again, as 1st Cdn Armd Carrier Regt, in January 1945). Also in October, the British 49th Royal Tank Regt became the second Kangaroo unit; both served under 79th Armd Div, with dispersed squadrons allocated to shuttle infantry battalions forward for particular attacks. The new APCs were employed to speed up the momentum of attacks by the British and Canadians throughout their advances across the Low Countries and northern Germany. Both APC units saw hard fighting during Op "Veritable" between the Maas and the Rhine in February 1945, successively lifting infantry of 15th, 43rd, and 3rd Inf Divs, 11th Armd Div, and 3rd Cdn Inf Division. Following the Rhine crossings in March, 49 RTR took part in Second Army's drive to the Baltic and the Elbe while 1st Cdn AC Regt accompanied the Canadian hook up into northern Holland. By now Kangaroo tactics had evolved; they no longer dropped their infantry off on the edge of the battlefield, but worked in close cooperation with tanks in the assault. The crews of 49 RTR fitted extra "scrounged" .30cal and .50cal MGs, and habitually charged into the assault behind a hail of covering fire. Amphibious carriers During summer 1944 the first British unit – 77 Asslt Sqn Royal Engineers (ASRE), again of 79th Armd Div – received about 20 US-supplied LVT-2s and LVT-4s, called "Buffaloes" in British service. During the battles to open the Scheldt Estuary for traffic upriver to Antwerp, on October 8–12 some 100 LVTs went into action for the first time, when 5 Asslt Regt RE (ARRE) landed troops of 3rd Cdn Inf Div for the assault on the Breskens Pocket. On October 25, 174 Buffaloes carried troops from 52nd (Lowland) Div across to South Beveland. By the time of the Walcheren landings (Op "Infatuate," November 1), 79th Armd Div had two operational Buffalo regiments: 5 ARRE and 11 RTR. For "Infatuate" 11 RTR loaned a squadron to 5 ARRE, and another was attached from 6 ARRE, which then had mixed equipment including Buffaloes, DUKWs, and M29 Weasels. Thus reinforced, 5 ARRE landed units from 1st and 4th Cdo Bdes in Buffaloes launched from tank landing craft. In February 1945, four Buffalo squadrons made vital contributions to the painful advances by 2nd and 3rd Cdn Inf Divs during Op "Veritable" on the flooded approaches to the Rhine. Numbers were increased, and for the Rhine crossings 150 Buffaloes of 11 RTR, East Riding Yeomanry, and 77 ASRE from 5 ARRE carried troops of 15th (Scottish) Div and 1st Cdo Bde, while 4 RTR and 1st Northamptonshire Yeomanry transported infantry of 51st (Highland) and 3rd Cdn Inf divisions. Carried on tank transporters, the Buffaloes later accompanied British VIII Corps' advance all the way to the Elbe, and at Lauenberg on May 2 infantry of 1st Cdo Bde and 15th Div crossed that final river courtesy of 11 RTR and 77 Assault Squadron Royal Engineers. March 1945: men of 1st Bn Royal Norfolk Regt, 3rd Div during street-fighting in Kervenheim; in such actions platoons often dumped their backpacks and tools and left them under guard. _ATM No. 51_ of November 1944 stressed the importance of getting within 30 yards of an enemy-held house before charging it; showers of grenades should then be followed up with SMG bursts, including up through ceilings, while the attackers moved from room to room so fast that the defenders had no time to react effectively. Note that the lance-corporal here has acquired a German MP40 in preference to a Sten, whose 9mm ammunition it would accept. Veterans recalled that worn-out Sten magazine springs would feed no more than 20 of the 32-round capacity, and that its weak return spring caused dangerous accidental discharges if it was dropped on its butt. (IWM B 15046) G BRITISH TANK-RIDERS, 1945 1: Regiment/battalion loading plan (part) By this date many Sherman troops had 2x 17-pdr Fireflies and 2x 75mm-gun tanks. An official loading plan had been devised; when published post VE-Day it assumed 10-man infantry sections, but in wartime 8 men was the maximum. How rigidly such a complex scheme was followed seems questionable. Some tanks carried only 4–5 men, since some HQ groups were divided between tanks for safety; most carried 8–10, but some 15 – the theoretical maximum – or even more. Tank regiments had three squadrons and infantry battalions four companies, so the division of companies between squadrons was inconsistent; e.g., in the listing below, see B Sqn, 4 Tp, and C Sqn, 3 Troop. This schematic is simply representative, illustrating part of the order of march of a Sherman regiment of A, B, & C Sqns carrying an infantry battalion of A, B, C, & D Coys, plus both tank and infantry units' tactical headquarters. Note that individual tank numbers are allocated here simply for identification within the schematic. A Squadron (not illustrated). Its 1 Troop carried no infantry; its 2, 3, & 4 Troops carried A Company's HQ and 1, 2, & 3 Platoons, distributed 8–10 men per tank over 14 tanks, as per B Coy (below). B Sqn, 1 Tp/ _B Coy, 4 Ptn:_ (Tank 1) _ptn HQ minus ptn sgt: ptn cdr, orderly/runner, wireless operator (w/op) with No. 38 set, 3x 2in mortar team, 2x PIAT team = 8 men._ (Tanks 2, 3, & 4) _each one rifle section, plus ptn sgt on one = 8–10 men each._ B Sqn HQ/ _B Coy HQ:_ (Tank 5, B Sqn cdr) _B Coy cdr, orderly, No. 18 set, 2x w/ops = 4 men;_ (Tank 6) _B Coy 2ic, 2x orderlies, 2x stretcher-bearers (SBs) = 5 men._ B Sqn, 2 Tp/ _B Coy, 5 Ptn:_ (Tanks 7–10) as Tanks 1–4, above. B Sqn, 3 Tp/ _B Coy, 6 Ptn:_ (Tanks 11–14) as Tanks 1–4. B Sqn, 4 Tp/ _C Coy, 7 Ptn:_ _(_ Tanks 15–18) as Tanks 1–4. Regimental/ _Battalion HQs:_ (Tank 19, tank regt CO) followed by inf bn CO's carrier & scout car; (Tank 20, tank regt 2ic) _4x snipers, 4x HQ defense riflemen, 2x SBs = 10 men_ ; (Tank 21) as Tank 20; (Tank 22) _bn intelligence section, 2x SBs = 10 men_. C Sqn, 1 Tp/ _C Coy, 8 Ptn:_ (Tanks 23–26) as Tanks 1–4. C Sqn HQ/ _C & D Coy HQs:_ (Tank 27, C Sqn cdr) _C Coy cdr, plus as Tank 5_ ; (Tank 28) _D Coy cdr, plus as Tank 5;_ (Tank 29, "2nd captain") _C & D Coy 2ics, 2x orderlies, 4x SBs = 8 men._ C Sqn, 2 Tp/ _C Coy, 9 Ptn:_ (Tanks 30–33) as Tanks 1–4. C Sqn, 3 Tp/ _D Coy, 10 & part 11 Ptns:_ (Tanks 34 & 35) _each part of 10 Ptn HQ, plus rifle section = 13 men;_ (Tank 36) _section 10 Ptn plus half-section 11 Ptn = 15 men;_ (Tank 37) _part 11 Ptn HQ plus section 11 Ptn = 13 men._ C Sqn, 4 Tp/ _D Coy, part 11 Ptn plus 12 Ptn_ (not illustrated). The last four crowded tanks might carry _remainder of 11 Ptn HQ plus one-and-a-half sections 11 Ptn, and 12 Ptn complete, with 13–15 men per tank._ Alternatively, 3 & 4 Tps might carry _10 & 11 Ptns,_ with 12 Ptn carried as a reserve in trucks in battalion column. (2) Approximate Churchill loading plan for 15 men, including one sitting astride gun. (3) Approximate Sherman loading plan for 8-man platoon HQ. (4) Approximate Sherman loading plan for 10 men. INFANTRY SMALL-UNIT TACTICS Infantry battle schools It is seldom understood that courses in infantry "battle drills" taught at divisional "battle schools" were intended to teach _methods of instruction in fire-and-movement to encourage initiative_ rather than a rigid tactical doctrine. The officers and NCOs who attended them were supposed to disseminate what they learned when they returned to their units, teaching soldiers to react imaginatively to sudden battlefield situations rather than waiting for specific orders. However, some senior officers feared that by the time the drills filtered down to the rank-and-file they would inevitably be received as rote-learned rules, leading to stereotypical behavior. Lieutenant Jary believed this to be true: before D-Day the troops "were over-trained in and bored stiff with basic infantry tactics which, as far as they went, were good. [But] much of this training had unfortunately been in the hands of... instructors who themselves lacked battle experience and imagination... Dogma had assumed the proportion of holy writ." Jary believed that instruction relied too much on the expected availability of tank and artillery support in all circumstances; it thus robbed subalterns of the initiative that they would need in more fluid combat, and caused needless casualties. Once formations reached the front the opportunities to attend divisional battle schools were fleeting, but Montgomery still stressed their importance. He ordered that instructors should be rotated often from frontline units, and the lessons apparently did become more realistic and useful. In 52nd (Lowland) Div, Lt Peter White wrote that while out of the line in December 1944 officers and NCOs attended a divisional battle school for a full ten days, covering both tactics and the latest German weapons. A representative 1945 report from one such school shows that it covered a wide range of specifics. For example, it noted weaknesses in patrol and map-reading skills, and in laying and lifting trip-flares. The instructors recorded the high proportion of "dud" 2in mortar illuminating rounds reported from the frontline; and they recommended using No. 77 and No. 80 WP grenades when house-clearing. To counter a tendency for platoons to "over-deploy" – i.e. to scatter too widely early in an attack, thus making control difficult – they recommended single-file formation in the advance-to-contact, as a compromise between this and any dangerous bunching. Notes from British official publications A comb through some of the many British government publications that were issued during 1944–45 (see Bibliography) throws up a number of specific recommendations arising from combat experience. These both identify weak points in pre-deployment training, and express frustration at the difficulty of inculcating certain lessons before troops gained real battle experience. During training in the UK they knew that nobody was actually trying to kill them, and that even the coldest, hungriest, and most exhausting 36-hour exercise would eventually end with showers, warm food, and dry beds. Once in the war zone, they were unprepared to find themselves in action for perhaps twice that long, potentially under fire all day and working most of the night, with no end in sight – to say nothing of the disorienting shock of real artillery and mortar fire and its horrible results. Only a few of the wide range of subjects covered are selected here, under general headings. The criticisms quoted certainly applied equally to conscript troops of average units in all the armies in the theater. (One example is the oft-repeated complaint that British troops were careless about aircraft recognition, and needlessly – and contagiously – trigger-happy. Given the chronic problem of Allied aircrew mistakenly attacking their own ground troops, this was probably inevitable.) Digging-in, and frontline caution Repeated warnings that careless movement around positions, when not apparently in immediate danger, made troops vulnerable to snipers. Slit trenches were too often dug for comfort rather than protection – too wide, with thin parapets, and particularly with too little overhead cover. Section positions within a platoon position were dug too widely separated for easy command/control. The attack, and consolidation Stress on importance of systematically clearing captured ground of snipers and overlooked outposts. Criticism of infantry's lack of recognition of necessarily different battle drills for fire-and-movement between (a) set-piece assaults with artillery barrage, and (b) unsupported broken fighting. Before assaults each man to carry pick or shovel plus four empty sandbags, and dig in at once. Unit AT platoon must get forward as fast as possible, as must rear-echelon carriers and jeeps with ammo, etc. One company per battalion should be held for making "counter-counterattacks." Stress on importance of speedy, relentless violence when house-clearing; reminder that German farms often had cellars under barns as well as under main houses. Munster, Germany, April 1945: paratroopers of US 17th Abn Div hitch a ride on a British Churchill Mk IV infantry-support tank of 6th Guards Armd Brigade. The tank has spare track plates hung around the turret sides for protection from Panzerfausts, and the turret crew have acquired a Bren LMG for defense against close-in attacks. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) The defense While men were once prone to opening fire at too long range, by November 1944 they were often reluctant to show themselves and fire small arms except in immediate self-defense, relying on MGs and artillery. Every rifleman must shoot, and be capable of a kill at 300 yards. Where possible, at night drivers, cooks etc. should provide carrying parties, and even sentries to hold the line, relieving riflemen to catch some sleep. Marksmanship, and sniping Each company should have two 2-man sniper teams with telescopic rifle sights (the spotter with a 20-power telescope), selected for fieldcraft skills and patience as much as marksmanship; they should be excused fatigues, and employed only where their special skills were valuable. Additionally, one proven marksman per section with a standard rifle should be selected, and deployed to a flank in the assault – most German "snipers" encountered were simply ordinary riflemen willing to fight as individuals. Complaints about low standard of reinforcements' marksmanship were usually due simply to units not giving men regular opportunities to re-zero their rifles under supervision of armorer-sergeants. Very detailed advice given on snap-shooting training. Good rifle-range marksmen often "froze" in their first combat, shocked by targets that shot back; combative attitude and speedy reactions more important than pure marksmanship. _Order of Battle, Allied Forces, ETO, 7 May 1945_ (British Home Forces in the UK are not listed: 7 British divisions, 5 British brigades, 1 US division, and 7 Allied brigades.) _Higher commands & formations_ \| Location ---\|--- Supreme HQ, Allied Expeditionary Force (SHAEF) \| France First Allied Airborne Army1 \| France 13th US Abn Div \| _I British Abn Corps_ \| UK 1st British Abn Div \| en route Norway 1st Polish Indep Prcht Bde \| _British Troops in Norway_ \| Norway 1st British SAS Bde \| 303rd, 304th British Inf Bdes \| 474th US Regt'l Combat Team (ex-1st Special Service Force) \| 6th US Army Group (Southern Group of Armies) \| Germany Seventh US Army \| Germany 12th US Armd Div \| 45th, 63rd, 100th US Inf Divs \| 101st, 106th, 115th Cav Grps (Mech) \| _VI US Corps_ \| Germany 10th US Armd Div \| 44th, 103rd US Inf Divs \| _XV US Corps_ \| Germany 20th US Armd Div \| 3rd, 42nd, 86th US Inf Divs \| _XXI US Corps_ \| Germany 2nd French Armd Div (Div Leclerc)4 \| 36th US Inf Div \| 101st US Abn Div1 \| First French Army \| Germany _I French Corps_ \| Germany 4th Moroccan Mtn, 9th Colonial Inf, \| 14th French Inf Divs \| _II French Corps_ \| Germany 1st, 5th French Armd Divs \| 2nd Moroccan, 3rd Algerian Inf Divs \| _Detachment of French Army of the Alps_2 \| France 1st French Mot Inf Div, 27th French Alpine Div \| Italy _Detachment of French Army of the Atlantic_3 \| France 10th, 19th, 23rd, 25th French Inf Divs \| 12th US Army Group (Central Group of Armies) \| Germany First US Army \| Germany 78th US Inf Div \| 4th, 6th Cav Grps (Mech) \| _VII US Corps_ \| Germany 3rd US Armd Div \| 9th, 69th, 109th US Inf Divs \| _VIII US Corps_ \| Germany 6th US Armd Div \| 76th, 87th, 89th US Inf Divs \| Third US Army \| Germany 4th, 70th US Inf Divs \| 2nd, 3rd, 14th, 102nd Cav Grps (Mech) \| _III US Corps_ \| Germany 14th US Armd Div \| 99th US Inf Div \| _V US Corps_ \| Germany 9th, 16th US Armd Divs \| Czechoslovakia 1st, 2nd, 97th US Inf Divs \| Germany _XII US Corps_ \| Germany 4th US Armd Div \| Germany 5th, 90th US Inf Divs \| Czechoslovakia 11th US Armd, 26th US Inf Divs \| Austria _XX US Corps_ \| Germany 13th US Armd Div \| Germany 65th, 71st, 80th US Inf Divs \| Austria Ninth US Army \| Germany 11th, 15th, 113rd Cav Grps (Mech) \| _XIII US Corps_ \| Germany 35th, 84th, 102nd US Inf Divs \| _XVI US Corps_ \| Germany 29th, 75th, 79th, 95th US Inf Divs \| _XIX US Corps_ \| Germany 2nd, 8th US Armd Divs \| 30th, 83rd US Inf Divs \| Fifteenth US Army \| Germany 66th, 106th US Inf Divs \| France 16th Cav Grp (Mech) \| Germany _XXII US Corps_ \| Germany 17th US Abn Div1 \| 94th US Inf Div \| _XXIII US Corps_ \| Germany 28th US Inf Div \| 21st Army Group (Northern Group of Armies) \| Germany 79th British Armd Div \| 306th, 307th Brit Inf Bdes \| Czech Indep Armd Bde Grp \| France First Canadian Army \| Germany 1st Belgian Inf Bde \| Germany 308th Brit Inf Bde \| Netherlands Royal Netherland Bde "Princess Irene" \| Netherlands _I Canadian Corps_ \| Netherlands 1st Cdn, 49th Brit (West Riding) Inf Divs \| 1st Cdn Armd Bde \| 4th Brit Cdo Bde \| _II Canadian Corps_ \| Germany 2nd, 3rd Cdn Inf Divs \| 4th, 5th Cdn Armd Divs \| 1st Polish Armd Div \| 2nd Cdn Armd Bde \| Second British Army \| Germany 116th Inf Bde (Royal Marines) \| 305th Inf Bde \| _I British Corps_ \| Germany 3rd Inf Div \| 34th Tank Bde \| 115th Inf Bde \| _VIII British Corps_ \| Germany 11th Armd Div \| 5th, 15th (Scottish) Inf Divs \| 1st Cdo Bde \| _XII British Corps_ \| Germany 7th Armd Div \| 53rd (Welsh) Inf Div \| 4th Armd Bde \| _XVIII US Abn Corps_1 \| Germany 5th US, 7th US Armd Divs \| 6th Brit Abn Div \| 8th US Inf Div \| 82nd US Abn Div1 \| 6th Brit Guards Tank Bde \| _XXX British Corps_ \| Germany 43rd (Wessex), 51st (Highland), 52nd (Lowland) Inf Divs Guards Armd Div 8th, 31st Armd Bdes 301st Inf Bde _Notes:_ (1) The 17th, 82nd & 101st Abn Divs, nominally under XVIII Abn Corps and First Allied Airborne Army, were in practice shuffled between Allied armies as needed. (2) & (3) Temporary corps-level commands formed in March 1945, to fight in the French/Italian Alps, and against German garrisons in French Atlantic ports, respectively. (4) For morale reasons, Gen Leclerc's French 2eme DB, which included some of the earliest Free French units, never served under Gen de Lattre's French First Army, but under various US commands. H CANADIAN INFANTRY The Canadian Army used British-pattern uniforms, weapons, and web equipment; much of this was Canadian-made, but British-produced items were also issued in the UK and on the Continent. The most obvious differences were the greener shade of the serge battledress uniform; and the high combat boots issued to 3rd Cdn Inf Div for D-Day, and to 2nd Inf Div during winter 1944/45. 1: Corporal, Lorne Scots, 2nd Canadian Infantry Division; Netherlands, autumn 1944 The Lorne Scots (Peel, Dufferin and Halton Regt) had a unique role. It provided Defence & Employment Platoons to every Canadian division and brigade HQ (at least 17 platoons), plus the II Cdn Corps Defence Company. These large 61-man platoons were variously organized, but commonly consisted of three rifle sections and an AA section which often converted to a fourth rifle section. They secured the unit command post, escorted the CO and staff officers, and performed other duties – as batmen, runners, sick orderlies, and undertaking endless fatigues. This corporal sports the regimental shoulder title; these large titles showed a range of similar but different designs and colors, and were almost always retained on combat uniforms. Below it is the insignia of the platoon's assignment, to 5th Bde HQ (red bar) within 2nd Inf Div (blue rectangle patch). Over Canadian battledress he wears the British blanket-lined leather jerkin; the British Mk II helmet is covered with two-color Canadian camouflage netting, with a shell dressing secured beneath it; and boots, general service ("ammunition boots") are worn with Canadian web anklets. His web gear is standard; note that the four 32-rd magazines for his 9mm Sten Mk II SMG are too long for the pouches and protrude a couple of inches – late-war pouches were taller, but few were issued before VE-Day. He also carries six Bren gun magazines in a canvas carrier in his right hand. 1a: The shell dressing, carried on the helmet. 1b: The smaller first field dressing, carried in a trouser pocket provided for that purpose at the front of the right hip. 2: Private, 3rd Canadian Infantry Division; Rhineland, early 1945 This rifleman, identified only by the division's gray-blue sleeve patch, has the Mk III helmet issued to Canada's D-Day assault division, in this case with the shell dressing tied to the back of the net by its tapes. The helmet is worn here over a wool balaclava in cold weather. This rear view shows web equipment modified for combat. The haversack/small pack has been left with company transport, and the entrenching tool has been discarded in favor of a Canadian-made D-handle general service shovel; while bulky, it proved more useful (British-made T-handle GS shovels were also issued). Below it, the rolled groundsheet/poncho tied to the shoulder braces contains extra clothes and toilet articles normally carried in the haversack. He has two British-made "strapless" water-bottle carriers—one was often used to carry the mess tins, containing a cold meal such as "bully beef" sandwiches—and a slung "respirator, anti-gas, light." He is handling one of the five-pocket cotton bandoliers which were either stowed in one of the basic pouches or slung round the body, holding 50 rounds for his No.4 Mk I rifle. Note the "3rd Div" boots, with their single-buckle gaiter flap. 2a: The balaclava had deep extensions front and back. 2b: As in the British Army, a 2in mortar was provided to each rifle platoon HQ and mainly used for smoke-screening, illumination, and signaling with colored flares. This compact Mk VII with a 19in barrel was issued late in the war to replace the 26in-barrel Mk III with a larger baseplate. This mortar, rigged for slinging over the shoulder baseplate-upward, has the range sight fitted, though aiming was often done "by eye." (The asterisk or "star" in designations indicated minor modifications.) 2c: 2in mortar WP smoke round. SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY US sources: Allen, Peter, _One More River to Cross: The Rhine Crossings of 1945_ (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1980) Bellanger, Yves J., _U.S. Army Armored Division 1943–1945: Organization, Doctrine, Equipment_ (privately published, 2010) Bellanger, Yves J., _U.S. Army Infantry Divisions 1943–1945: Organization, Doctrine, Equipment_ (Helion, 2002) Doubler, Michael D., _Closing with the Enemy: How GIs Fought the War in Europe, 1944–1945_ (University Press of Kansas, 1994) Jones, Michael, _After Hitler: The Last Days of the Second World War in Europe_ (John Murray, 2015) Laemlein, Tom, _US Small Arms in World War II: A Photographic History of the Weapons in Action_ (Osprey, 2011) Mansoor, Peter R., _The GI Offensive in Europe: The Triumph of American Infantry Divisions, 1941–1945_ (University Press of Kansas, 1999) Stanton, Shelby, _U.S. Army Uniforms of World War II_ (Stackpole, 1991) Whiting, Charles, _Siegfried: The Nazi's Last Stand_ (Stein & Day, 1982) Yeide, Harry, _The Infantry's Armor: The U.S. Army's Separate Tank Battalions in World War II_ (Stackpole, 2010) Yeide, Harry, _The Tank Killers: A History of America's World War II Tank Destroyer Force_ (Casemate, 2010) Zaloga, Steven, _Armored Thunderbolt: The U.S. Army Sherman in World War II_ (Stackpole, 2008) US government publications: _Battle Experiences: July 1944 to April 1945_ (Headquarters, European Theater of Operations) _Combat Lessons, Rank and file in Combat: What they are doing, How they do it, No. 1–9_ (Operations Division, War Dept, 1943–45) _Intelligence Bulletin_ , 36 issues (Military Intelligence Division, War Dept, August 1942–September 1945) _Tactical and Technical Trends_ , 59 issues (Military Intelligence Division, War Dept, June 1942–June 1945) British, Canadian, & French sources: Bellis, Malcolm A., _Brigades of the British Army 1939–45_ (private pub., 1986) Bellis, Malcolm A., _Divisions of the British Army 1939–45_ (private pub., 1986) Bouchery, Jean, & Jean-Marie Mongin, _The Canadian Soldier in North-West Europe, 1944–45_ (Histoire & Collections, 2003) Bouchery, Jean, _Les Alliés sous l'uniforme Anglais_ (Histoire & Collections, 2012) Buckley, John, _Monty's Men: The British Army and the Liberation of Europe_ (Yale University Press, 2013) Chartrand, René, _Canadian Forces in World War II_ , Men-at-Arms 359 (Osprey Publishing, 2001) Copp, Terry, _The Brigade: The Fifth Canadian Brigade in World War II_ (Stackpole, 1992) Copp, Terry, _Fields of Fire: The Canadians in Normandy_ (University of Toronto Press, 2003) Copp, Terry, _Cinderella Army: The Canadians in Northwest Europe 1944–1945_ (University of Toronto Press, 2006) Crow, Duncan, _British and Commonwealth Armoured Formations 1919–46_ (Profile Publications, 1971) Daglish, Ian, _Over the Battlefront: Operation Epsom_ (Pen & Swords Books, 2007) Daglish, Ian, "Armoured Reconnaissance in Normandy" (paper presented to BCMH Summer Conference, 2009) Duncan, Nigel, _79th Armoured Division_ – _Hobo's Funnies_ (Profile Publications, 1972) Ellis, John, _The Sharp End_ (Windrow & Greene, 1990) Ellis, John, _The World War II Databook_ (Aurum Press, 1993) Forty, George, _British Army Handbook 1939–45_ (Sutton Publishing, 1998) Hodges, Peter, _British Military Markings 1939–45_ (Almark Publishing, 1971) Jary, Sydney, _18 Platoon_ (Sydney Jary Ltd, 1987) Latawski, Paul, "Armoured Warfare in NW Europe – the Polish Experience" (paper presented to BCMH Summer Conference, 2009) Owen, William F., "Lionel Wigram, The Forgotten Apostle of Battle Drill", quoting Wigram, LtCol L., report to CO 36th Bde, August 16, 1943, in _British Army Review_ No. 136 (2004) Peaty, John, _"_ Ubiquitous and Unnecessary? Anti-tank and anti-aircraft artillery in the NW Europe campaign" (paper presented to BCMH Summer Conference, 2009) Proctor, Douglas, _Section Commander_ (Dept of War Studies, RMA Sandhurst; n/d) Summers, Jack L., _Tangled Web: Canadian Infantry Accoutrements 1855–1985_ (Museum Restoration Service, 1992) Tout, Ken, _An End of War: Fatal Final Days to VE Day, 1945_ (Spellmount, 2011) White, Peter, _With the Jocks_ (Sutton Publishing, 2001) Whiting, Charles, _Monty's Greatest Victory: The Drive for the Baltic, April–May 1945_ (Crowood, 1989) British War Office publications: _Army Training Memorandum No. 47_ , January 1944; _No. 48_ , May 1944; _No. 49_ , June 1944; _No. 50_ , August 1944; _No. 51_ , November 1944; _No. 52_ , May 1945 _Infantry Notes No. 13_ , 21st Army Group, July 1945 _Infantry Notes_ , British Army of the Rhine, September 1945 _Infantry Training Part VIII, Amendments No. 1_ , n/d, late 1944/early 1945? _Infantry Training Memorandum No. 4_ , July 1944; _No. 5_ , May 1945 _Military Training Pamphlet No. 63_ , May 1944 Montgomery, Field Marshal B.L., _Some Notes on the Conduct of War and the Infantry Division in Battle_ (21st Army Group; Belgium, November 1944) Montgomery, Field Marshal B.L., _The Armoured Division in Battle_ (21st Army Group; Holland, December 1944) Author Gordon L. Rottman entered the US Army in 1967, volunteered for Special Forces and completed training as a weapons specialist. He served in the 5th Special Forces Group in Vietnam in 1969-70 and subsequently in airborne infantry, long-range patrol and intelligence assignments until retiring after 26 years. He was a Special Operations Forces scenario writer at the Joint Readiness Training Center for 12 years and is now a freelance writer, living in Texas. Illustrator Peter Dennis was born in 1950. Inspired by contemporary magazines such as _Look and Learn_ he studied illustration at Liverpool Art College. Peter has since contributed to hundreds of books, predominantly on historical subjects, including many Osprey titles. A keen wargamer and modelmaker, he is based in Nottinghamshire, UK. Other titles in the series IMPERIAL WAR MUSEUM COLLECTIONS Many of the photos in this book come from the Imperial War Museum's huge collections, which cover all aspects of conflict involving Britain and the Commonwealth since the start of the 20th century. These rich resources are available online to search, browse, and buy at www.iwmcollections.org.uk. In addition to Collections Online, you can visit the Visitor Rooms where you can explore over 8 million photographs, thousands of hours of moving images, the largest sound archive of its kind in the world, thousands of diaries and letters written by people during wartime, and a huge reference library. To make an appointment, call (020) 7416 5320, or e-mail [email protected]. Imperial War Museum www.iwm.org.uk ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The author is grateful to Tom Laemlein of Armor Plate Press, and to René Chartrand, for their photographic support. Extra appreciation goes to Martin Windrow for his contributions to the text. NOTE ON UNIT DESIGNATION DIFFERENCES British and Canadian infantry "brigades" had three battalions, like US regiments. US "groups" were also multi-battalion, regiment-equivalent commands. British and Canadian armored and artillery "regiments" were battalion-size, their "squadrons" and batteries company-size, and "troops" platoon-size. However, US cavalry reconnaissance squadrons were battalion-size; their troops were company-size, and composed of platoons. The British and Canadian rifle "section" was equivalent to the American "squad." ARTIST'S NOTE Readers may care to note that the original paintings from which the color plates in this book were prepared are available for private sale. All reproduction copyright whatsoever is retained by the Publishers. All inquiries should be addressed to: Peter Dennis, Fieldhead, The Park, Mansfield, Nottinghamshire NG18 2AT, UK The Publishers regret that they can enter into no correspondence upon this matter First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Osprey Publishing PO Box 883, Oxford, OX1 9PL, UK PO Box 3985, New York, NY 10185–3985, USA E-mail: [email protected] Bloomsbury is a registered trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc This electronic edition published in 2015 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc Osprey Publishing, part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc © 2015 Osprey Publishing Ltd. All rights reserved You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the British Library Print ISBN: 978-1-4728-0947-6 PDF ebook ISBN: 978-1-4728-0948-3 ePub ebook ISBN: 978-1-4728-0949-0 Editor: Martin Windrow Osprey Publishing supports the Woodland Trust, the UK's leading woodland conservation charity. Between 2014 and 2018 our donations will be spent on their Centenary Woods project in the UK. www.ospreypublishing.com** TITLE PAGE Gemunden, Germany, April 1945: American Red Cross Canteen Corps girls, wearing their dark gray overcoats, hand out donuts to the crew of a 76mm-gun M4A3E8 Sherman of the separate 756th Tank Battalion. The _Panzerfaust_ crate at bottom right is now just firewood to heat the victors' coffee. (Tom Laemlein/Armor Plate Press) # 1. Cover 2. Title Page 3. CONTENTS 4. OVERVIEW 5. THE AMERICANS AT WAR 1. Funneling in US divisions 2. Final strength and casualties 3. US 12th and 6th Army Groups 6. US INFANTRY 1. Unit organization 2. Newly introduced weapons 3. Learning new tactics 7. ARMOR/INFANTRY OPERATIONS 1. Communications & target-marking 2. Tank-riding 3. Tank battalion employment 4. Antitank warfare: tank destroyers - infantry antitank River crossings - the inland navy 8. FIELD ARTILLERY 1. Employment and control 2. The "magic" fuse 9. REPLACEMENTS & SHORTAGES 1. Personnel 2. Tanks 3. Supplies 10. BREACHING THE SIEGFRIED LINE 1. The obstacle 2. The methods 11. FREE FRENCH FORCES 12. BRITISH/CANADIAN 21st ARMY GROUP 1. Learning the trade: Normandy, 1944 13. WINTER & SPRING 1944-45 1. Organization 2. Field artillery 3. Newly introduced weapons Operations 4. Attrition 5. Replacements 14. ARMOR/INFANTRY OPERATIONS 1. Theory and practice 2. Wasp flamethrowers 3. Antitank warfare 15. SPREADING THE LESSONS 1. Dyke-and- _polder_ fighting 2. Night fighting 3. Forest fighting 16. BRITISH 79th ARMOURED DIVISION: "THE FUNNIES" 1. Armored personnel carriers 2. Amphibious carriers 17. INFANTRY SMALL-UNIT TACTICS 1. Battle schools 2. Notes from official publications 18. ALLIED ORDER OF BATTLE, MAY 7, 1945 19. SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY 20. eCopyright	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Books3
At 5pm EST today, Tribes: Ascend will undergo six hours of downtime as its first patch since March 2013 is applied. It's a substantial overhaul of the free-to-play, physics-defying shooter that has been cooking on the public test servers since September, when Hi-Rez Studios announced it was ending Tribes' long abandonment. The full patch notes can be found here, although there's enough to form a small patch-cyclopaedia. The most susbstantial changes concern classes, maps and the premium currency, Tribes Gold. Three new capture-the-flag maps—Ice Coaster, Perdition and Terminus—join the roster, while the class system has been simplified into light, medium and heavy armour-wearers with full loadout customisation. Weapons themselves have also undergone major rebalancing. All Tribes Gold and XP used to purchase items at any point in Tribes' lifespan is being refunded. If you've purchased Gold or the Game of the Year edition at any point, you'll automatically be given the Ultimate Weapons Pack—every gun in the game. Hi Rez president Stewart Chisam told us that the team isn't expecting to make much money from the Tribes revival, and the patch does have the feel of doing right by a stonkingly good shooter as opposed to a savvy business move.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
Advertisement Advertisement Tissue engineers grow penis in the lab By Sylvia Pagán Westphal, Boston In a remarkable feat of tissue engineering, major parts of the penises of several rabbits have been replaced with segments grown in a lab from their own cells. The animals were able to use the reconstructed organs to mate. Researchers have grown lengths of the corpus cavernosum in the lab The next step is to try to recreate the entire organ from scratch. The technique could make it possible to reconstruct the penises of men who have suffered injuries or those of children born with genital abnormalities. “If you have a child born with ambiguous genitalia, it’s a life-changing event,” says Anthony Atala of Harvard Medical School, whose team carried out the work. It could also provide an alternative to the crude methods currently used to enlarge the organ, such as injecting fat cells or cutting the penis’s suspensory ligament and “pulling out” more of the internal part. Instead, a patient would have penile cells removed by a doctor and, a few weeks later, the organ or parts of it grown using the cells could be surgically implanted. Advertisement More complex While the particular nature of the research is likely to attract much attention, it is also one of the most impressive attempts at tissue and organ engineering to date. “The penis is more complex than any of the organs we have engineered so far,” says Atala, whose team has already created fully functional bladders that may soon be implanted in people. The penis is more difficult to recreate because it has more functions and, unlike the bladder, is also a solid organ. It consists of three main cylinders, encased in an outer layer of connective tissue, skin, blood vessels and nerves. The two biggest cylinders, made of spongy material that swells during an erection, are the corpora cavernosa. The third tube encases the urethra. Of those structures, the corpus cavernosum is the most challenging to replace or reconstruct. It contains specialised muscle and endothelial cells – the cells that line blood vessels – and its structure is hard to mimic. Yet this is the part that Atala has been able to grow. Half pressure His team first extracted three-dimensional scaffolds of collagen from the erectile tissue of rabbits. They also took samples of the specialised muscle and endothelial cells from penises of each of the rabbits destined to receive the implants. These cells were grown separately at first, and then added to the collagen matrix in the appropriate proportions. After a few days more growth, the result resembled real erectile tissue. Next, Atala removed the corpora cavernosa from almost the entire length of the exterior part of the penises of 18 rabbits, leaving the nerves and urethra intact. He then replaced them with the engineered erectile tissues. Because the tissues were grown from the rabbits’ own cells, there was no problem with immune rejection. Once they had recovered from the surgery, the rabbits attempted to have sex within 30 seconds of being put in a cage with a female. “They were able to copulate, penetrate and produce sperm,” Atala told New Scientist. More detailed studies revealed that the penises generated about half of the normal pressure of an erect penis. “It’s analogous to the penis of a 60-year-old man, versus that of a 30-year-old,” says Atala. Details of the work will be published in the October issue of The Journal of Urology.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
The Elections and the Left: Some Thoughts June 8, 2009 Bit early to be doing this given that all the results aren’t in yet, but it seems like it might be useful to have a dedicated post on which the issues resulting from the election can be debated all together. So, clearly this has been a good election for the left, both broadly defined and more narrowly. The Labour Party did the best of the parties on the broad left. Its share of the vote has gone up from 11% to around 14% (I’ve also seen 15 and 17% given). It has around 30% of the local election vote in Dublin, and is the biggest single party on Dublin City Council. So in terms of seats, vote share, and profile, it has done very well in the local elections. On top of that, they have done very well in the European elections. We shouldn’t forget that a couple of months ago, when Labour’s Dublin candidate was being discussed, there were some suggestions that De Rossa was running again at 69 because they were in a real battle to keep the seat either with or without him. As it turns out, he took the seat easily. Overall then, a very effective campaign. The next biggest winning party on the left is the Socialist Party. I said to regular commenter Joe in the comments on a thread some weeks ago that I thought Joe Higgins had no chance of becoming an MEP. Shows you what I know. Well done to him and to the Socialist Party. I’d be interested to hear what people think happened. It seems to me that until a couple of weeks ago, people weren’t really talking about him as a likely winner, and that the campaign was realistically about building towards the next Dáil election. Then about two weeks ago he emerged as a serious candidate and kept building momentum. Not being in Dublin, it’s hard for me to judge. But clearly, the Socialist Party does not have the type of party or electoral machine to match the parties it was competing with against for the seat, except on a localised basis. As everyone knows, Higgins is an extremely articulate and able representative, well-regarded across the political spectrum. So it looks like a party machine operating at maximum capacity added to a very capable and media-effective candidate. I’ll come back to this below. In the local elections, they have taken four seats, with three candidates topping the poll. It seems their first preference vote has almost doubled since 2004. There is another candidate involved in a recount. However, Mick Murphy lost his seat in Tallaght Central. Joe Higgins looks a shoe-in for the next Dáil election in Dublin West. WBS has noted that he thinks there might be other SP TDs too. I’m not sure that that is the case, but it certainly cannot be ruled out. In short, the Socialist Party can be well pleased. The profile, money, and organisational outcome of these elections for them is very positive. As can the People Before Profit Alliance. It also did very well, with five candidates elected. Boyd Barret has a very real chance of taking a seat at the next Dáil election, but I think it is far from certain. While equivalent alliances (or SWP electoral fronts if you prefer) in the UK have collapsed, it looks as though People Before Profit is here to stay, and it stood candidates in rural areas where the further left has little tradition. The Workers’ Party’s Davy Walsh kept his seat in Waterford, against the predictions of many. Ted Tynan also took a seat in Cork, which is significant because it means that The Workers’ Party once again has represetantion outside Waterford. In Waterford East The Workers’ Party stood for the first time since 1991, and Joe Tobin missed a seat by 8 votes in the final count. Willie Moore missed out by about 40 votes in the final count in his constituency, where former WP councillor John Halligan topped the poll by a country mile. The other candidates in Cork did relatively well, on about 5%. In Dublin and Dundalk, the percentage of the vote taken was higher than it has been in the past. The WP also stood in the Dublin Central constituency for the first time since 1991. The performance in Dublin was more about reflecting organisational growth and redevelopment, and in that respect is a fairly satisfactory result. Overall, The WP can be pleased with the performance, doing relatively well in securing transfers athough it could easily have won double the number of seats with a few more. So positive signs for the future after a long period of disappointing elections. Maureen O’Sullivan taking the seat in Dublin Central was a great thing for the left. Given WBS’ extensive and superb discussions, I’ll say nothing more. To move then to those within the broad left who can not be so pleased. Firstly there is the Green Party. It now has only three councillors, none of them in Dublin where its TDs are situated. It had the biggest disaster of election. If economic conditions do not improve, it could be facing wipe-out at the next election, and without a strong local government profile to rebuild from. I think that they will probably hold at least one Dáil seat, but they can be in no doubt that their voters are thoroughly disgusted with them. An economic upturn might save more than one of them, but we shall see. Having said that, I doubt their activist base will disappear on the back of this, given that many have been active in green politics long before it was fashionable. Gerry Adams is putting a brave face on his party’s mixed southern performance. Their performace in Dublin was, frankly, disastrous. Six seats in Dublin City Council have been lost, including Daithí Doolan’s. He has been someone in whom high hopes had been invested for the future, and he may of course come back. Overall, there was a slight slip in percentage in the locals, but an increase in seats, including in some virgin territory such as Limerick. Adams was saying that he expected a difficult time for Mary Lou, and that the loss of her seat was not a surprise. That might be true. What is a surprise is who she lost the seat to. Losing the seat to a sitting Fianna Fáil MEP would have been entirely understandable, even if a little disappointing in the present economic circumstances. Losing it to Joe Higgins will probably set alarm bells ringing. It demonstrates that there remains a huge reluctance to transfer to PSF among many in the southern electorate, and it is possible that part of Joe Higgins’ momentum was a desire to see neither Fianna Fáil nor the Provisionals in that seat. having said that, at the time of writing, Ferris remains in contention for a European seat in Ireland South. The Fine Gael candidate Burke has just been eliminated, which should benefit Kelly and Sinnott much more than Ferris. I doubt she’ll take that seat on the basis of transfers. In the north, there was success in Bairbre de Brún taking her seat on the first count, and topping the poll due to Jim Allister’s success in taking around 40% of the DUP’s vote. So a very mixed day overall, with neither major progress nor decline. But a halted momentum in current circumstances would I imagine be a big worry. Overall then, a good set of elections for the left. But we should not get carried away. In the south, there are causes for serious pause. Firstly, Fine Gael did the best in the elections, taking 32% of the vote, and in a general election this would be 70-something seats. There is no prospect of a left-led coalition government, and there are serious doubts that any FG-led coalition would behave that differently to the current government, although that would depend on how far Labour – or indeed PSF – played hard ball. Which none of us places that much expectation in. Secondly, will Fianna Fáil ever do this badly again, or at least in a Dáil election? That will depend on where the economy is two years from now. The example of Fine Gael after 2002, or the Tories after 1997, suggest that we should not expect to see Fianna Fáil stay at this level forever. There needs to be a lot of hard work put in by the successful left candidates – especially those who took the latter seats – to save them at the next local elections. I say regular comment Wednesday on Politics.ie say that there was no chance of Joe’ Higgins’ European substitute holding that seat. I am inclined to agree, and I am sure the Socialist Party will be planning to use that seat primarily for domestic advantage. If the left continues in the fragmented state it is in now, then will we be able to do so well in two years or five years? I doubt it. We are looking at maybe three or four TDs to the left of PSF as things currently stand. If a left alliance of some sort can be put in place, then that could change, and these elections could mark a significant long-term change. We should note that there was no left candidate in the north’s European elections, despite some attempts to find a way forward to get one. That should be a worry. If the left is to stop being a mere spectator in the north, it needs to find a new approach. It seems to me that the time is right for a convention of the left to meet with the aim of securing electoral alliances to secure a serious left voice in Ireland north and south. It might be now or never. ADDS: Bits I forgot to include. While the results have been good, we also need to think about what the elections tell us about the strength of the parties of the left. The reality is that the left remains very geographically concentrated, even the bigger parties in the Dáil. If you look at the parties outside the Dáil, of the further left, then you see just how small and concentrated it remains. PBPA put up the most candidates – 14 – overwhelmingly in the Dublin area, but distributed a bit more widely, with candidates in Dundalk, Tralee and Roscommon. The WP put up 12 candidates, in Dublin, Cork, Waterford, and Dundalk. The SP put up 11, in Dublin, Cork and Drogheda. The west is basically out of electoral bounds, as are rural areas. We need to work on that as well. In NI, the turnout was lower than the EU average of 49%. This represents a withdrawal from political engagement, and when you look at the Greens/Alliance vote, you see that the united community/broadly progressive vote has also suffered. This disengagement is also bad for the left. UPDATE: Thanks to No.11 in the comments for further details confirming that The SP has taken 6 seats. Share this: Like this: Related While Labour did well compared to its recent history, it is well below its recent opinion poll highs and, more importantly, its1992 peak of 19.1%. This should be rather depressing for Labour, as a complete collapse of the FF vote should have been an opportunity to move to another level. It is true that Labour did well in Dublin, but will it be able to add second seats in Dublin constituencies or will it simply retain its existing single seats in a number of constituencies with a larger share of the first preference vote? What was also striking was the continued weakness of Labour outside the cities. Remember that Labour had seats in Sligo, Clare, Laois/Offaly, Kerry (North and South) and Louth in 1992. Does anyone seriously believe they will take seats in any of those (except Kerry on a good day) in the next election? Can any Labour member on here provide an insight into what the party’s reasonable seat target is for the next election and where the gains will come? The Socialist Party will be thinking about the results over the next while and coming to a more considered conclusion but two things occur to me off the top of my head which provided a major boost during the campaign. Firstly, the MRBI opinion poll which put him level with Ryan with a week to go suddenly promoted him from also ran to dark horse in the media. Media coverage is extremely important to a candidate in a vast constituency who doesn’t have much money and before that poll, Joe wasn’t getting much despite having 7% support in an earlier poll. Secondly, even before that poll (and probably contributing to the showing in that poll), the Socialist Party received a phenomenal number of phone calls and emails from people who aren’t our members, who we largely had never met before, who wanted to help out in the campaign. On top of our members and the supporters who have helped out in previous elections, I believe that there were more than a hundred completely new (to us) people out leafletting, canvassing, postering etc. A lot of the credit has to go to those people, who made it possible for a small organisation to run a campaign out of all proportion to our membership and financial resources. Losing it to Joe Higgins will probably set alarm bells ringing. It demonstrates that there remains a huge reluctance to transfer to PSF among many in the southern electorate, and it is possible that part of Joe Higgins’ momentum was a desire to see neither Fianna Fáil nor the Provisionals in that seat. I’d suspect there more antipathy to MLM than SF in that vote. No-one likes a cocky representative who doesn’t pull their weight in the job. deRossa might well be accused of coasting in Europe too, but he’s nowhere near as grating in defending his record. ‘Maureen O’Sullivan taking the seat in Dublin Central was a great thing for the left. Given WBS’ extensive and superb discussions, I’ll say nothing more.’ You might tell us why the WP called for transfers to Ivana Bacik rather than O’Sullivan? ‘No-one likes a cocky representative who doesn’t pull their weight in the job.’ I suspect that if the going was good for SF nobody would give a shite how many meetings in Europe Mary Lou missed. Its when your in trouble people look at your record- when she and SF were spearheading the anti-Lisbon campaign nobody was talking about her going to the ploughing championships or whatever. Given that she seems to be a political animal she’ll be back looking for a Dail seat I presume, though not in Dublin Central. As for the rest- Killian Forde retained his seat easily while Seamus McGrattan (who? exactly) scraped in ahead of de brudder Ahern in Cabra. They got a couple in Tallaght, where the SP lost a seat. I believe SF poll topped a couple of seats in Cork city, got one in Limerick city, did well in Waterford but lost in Wexford and Meath. Noting JC’s comments, given the scale of the mess we’re in, and all the hype, Labour did not do as well as hoped, while FG clearly are cok of the walk- and who runs FG these days, in terms of driving theirt policy…come on Leo, Lucinida and now George of the cut, slash and burn school. Happy days ahead? This was discussed on a previous thread IIRC. I saw Malachy call for a vote for left candidates on the Browne show, rather than anyone in particular. This has been party policy, especially where there is no WP candidate. That statement on the website refers to the need for those in leadership positions in the Labour movement to become involved in discussions to form a serious left alternative to the right consensus shared by FG and FF, and so it is in that context I’d have thought. I suspect that if the going was good for SF nobody would give a shite how many meetings in Europe Mary Lou missed. Its when your in trouble people look at your record- when she and SF were spearheading the anti-Lisbon campaign nobody was talking about her going to the ploughing championships or whatever. Well – some of us were on the opposite side of the fence in regard to Lisbon, so the going was never good on account of that campaign afaic. All I can tell you is that I (once again) gave Christy Burke a preference, but wouldn’t consider it for MLM. The difference? Burke can be relied on to do something other than promote himself. Remember that Labour had seats in Sligo, Clare, Laois/Offaly, Kerry (North and South) and Louth in 1992. An absolutely crucial point – and remember, Labour (or the Spring family) had a seat in Kerry North for ever: there was always, until the ’90s a labour seat in Louth, and one and sometimes two in Tipp. North and/or South. These weren’t Spring tide gains: they were seats rooted in the larger industrial towns, and nurtured through the trades unions over decades. The withdrawal of that tide didn’t just lose the bien- pensant middle-classes who voted for Eithne Fitzgerald in Dublin South – it lost seats that had sustained Labour through lean years. Labour needs to work hard to get these seats back: urban Ireland isn’t just Dublin and the other cities: it’s towns like Dundalk, Drogheda, Sligo, Clonmel, Tuam and Tralee as well. Great point. Labour could start by seeing if they could get Bree back in the party in Sligo and the Healy people back in Clonmel. Otherwise those two constituencies are probably lost for good. Arthur Spring’s poll-topping performance, beating Toireasa Ferris, was very encouraging for the party in Kerry North. From that point of view Labour’s performance in Kildare, for example, is poor in terms of making a general election breakthrough. Regarding Mary Lou McDonald, it’s been mentioned before that her total when elected to Europe was less than the total Sinn Fein local vote of the time. She’s not a particularly charismatic figure and I imagine all those articles written about her as the new face of SF, not like the old working class one, would piss me off if I was an activist on the ground. I wonder if SF staking so much on her as the face of the party in the Republic was a disaster. Compare how well Ferris did in a much less promising situation in Munster. Jonathon O’Brien in Cork city is another impressive young candidate. Is Labour even capable of doing the work required in that area? Bertie labelled Ruairi Quinn (I think it was RQ) as ‘Mr. Angry of Sandymount’, because he knew that if he slinged that particular kind of mud, it would stick very effectively. All I’ve seen over the past few years is a Labour party that is only interested in appealing to those ‘bien-pensant middle classes’. That’s the only reason I could see for the way Pat Rabitte picked a fight with Declan Bree, for example. . . Labour not doing well in rural areas – who cares, its a Labour Party, I’m not aware of many landless Labourers contuning to ply their trade in bungalow Ireland. On another note where stands Gerry Adams dream of left unity? Let the Provos soak up the left vote in rural Ireland and the north, let Labour (“stickies”) rule the cities – finally put the ghosts of 69 to 94 away. I didn’t say ‘rural’ areas – i specified larger, somewhat industrialised towns. And there are still landless labourers plying their trade alright, all over the place. There’s plenty of casual, unskilled labouring work going on, possibly right under your nose: way below the purview of the taxman or the unions. Gari: “I said to regular commenter Joe in the comments on a thread some weeks ago that I thought Joe Higgins had no chance of becoming an MEP. Shows you what I know.” Joe knows, Gari. IIRC, you also dissed my suggestion several months back that FF might lose its MEP in Dublin. Joe knows. I also know this. Bree and Healy should stay a country mile clear of the Labour Party. It’s not of the left but of the centre – see Eamonn Cork’s well made point about why he preferred SF’s Ferris to Labour’s Kelly. And I know that the left candidates who won local election seats did work on the ground in their communities, turned up at boring community meetings and put their views across and helped communities sort out problems. And if the left is to build on the modest gains it made in these local elections, that is what it has to do more and more. Having spent my formative years in Clonmel, with family and friends still there, I can tell you that you have little understanding of “rural” Ireland. Clonmel has long had a significant industrial working class, working for multinationals like Merck and indigenous companies like Showerings (they make Bulmers cider) and Clonmel Healthcare. This is why Seamus Healy has had a significant political base there since the 1980s for a political group to the left of Labour. By the way, the Labour Party was actually founded in Clonmel. Only a small (and ever-declining) proportion of the population of rural Ireland works in agriculture. As most of the non-farm working population are not managerial or self-employed, it should be obvious that most of them are non-managerial employees and therefore a suitable target audience for any serious left party. Labour may need a change of tone to make itself viable in places like Clonmel — a little less Chardonay and a little more GAA. BTW, and this ties in weirdly with the mention of Sligo Rovers earlier on another thread, one of the best portraits of working class life outside the cities in Ireland is contained, inter alia, in Eamonn Sweeney’s great book about supporting that club, ‘Only One Red Army’ Ignorant shite from Pete. Where was that great ‘Sticky’ TD Joe Sherlock from again-Mallow. A substantial share of working people live in the country- some of them even, gasp, work in Dublin! The Sticks have not radiclaised labour in any way; Gilmore and co can not think beyond getting into bed with FG, and pissing away whatever gains they have made, and they haven’t actually even done that well. The WUAG won five seats on Clonmel Town Council and one on Carrick on Suir Town Council. It also won 2 seats on South Tipperary County Council (which I believe are also held by two of the Clonmel Town councillors). I believe that this represents only one new seat, the one in Carrick. That’s quite significant though as previously all of their representation was based in Clonmel and as far as I know this is the first time they’ve managed to break out of their stronghold. By the way, the last seat in South comes down to Alan Kelly and Kathy Sinnott. It will be decided by Ferris’s transfers. I suppose you could use it as a test case as to the nature of the SF vote as it pits a (kind of) left wing candidate against a (fairly) rght wing candidate. I kind of agree with the man who says Healy and Bree should steer clear of the Labour Party. But I’d like to see them in it, just as I’d like to see Joe Higgins in it, because then it would be a very different kind of party. A pipedream but pipedreams are what keeps a man going. As for the suggestion that everywhere outside the cities constitutes some kind of zone of reaction, to qoute Steely Dan, not incidentally a nickname for Dick Spring’s father, “the things that pass for knowledge I can’t understand.” I thought that notion went out with the Irish Industrial Revolution. The Joe Sherlock reference was apposite. Bree in particular sees himself as part of a tradition stretching back to Jimmy Gralton. Some of the descendants of the landless labourers are working in pretty unrewarding poorly paid jobs. I know this because that’s who I drink, bet and generally hang out with. The property boom was built on the backs of labourers, not all of them East European by any means, whose average wage was around 600 Euros a week. I’d submit that for the work involved that’s a pretty poor return. I wouldn’t be able to put in too many days of it. They’re also the first people to have suffered from the downturn. There are also a lot of skilled tradesmen short of work at the moment who will be eating their Breakfast Rolls in other jurisdictions before long. The “harsh decisions,” are harsher on them, and that frighteningly large number of people below the poverty line, than the pundits who advocate them. And, of course, as Alastair points out only a fool would turn down middle class votes. But there are areas which are more fruitful for Labour parties than that of the much invoked small businessman whose only feeling about trade unions, for example, is that he won’t have them in his shop because they’d drive up wages. I agree with sonofstan that Eamonn Sweeney’s book is quite good. But then that’s probably because I am Eamonn Sweeney. In Louth Lab cllrs in Drogheda topped the poll in two LE areas. The rise of SF in Louth stopped chances of regaining a seat there, and Bell the former Labour TD wasn’t what you would call left wing. I think we are missing the wood from the trees, in urban areas FF vote collapsed and that has ensured strong left gains. They have lost the benefit of incumbency and tribal voting has disappeared in our cities. Look at the numbers in any rural area and FF support held up well. Its tribal support more than anything else, people vote for who they know and have always known. There will always be exceptions to this with someone scraping past the FF/FG dominance in rural areas but to change this requires an almighty effort on the ground to attract the support. FF and FG always have the twin advantages in rural areas of incumbency and tribal support which isn’t present for left wing candidates. Its taken SF 15 years to build support up in many areas and they have been helped significantly by nationalist voters. The challenge for Labour now is to build on gains in Louth, Meath, Donegal, Sligo, Galway, Kerry, Carlow, kilkenny,Cork and Tipp. No one said it would be easy. There are seats there to be won and over time it will happen once the organisation is continued to be built on. Simply put Labour’s vote has grown in the Dublin area, in a European sense the only area along with Cork and greater Belfast that in this country constitutes a truly urban, industrialized region. I don’t see the small working classes of the small towns in Ireland giving Labour the amount of votes to see TDs elected that will have to pander to ‘rural concerns’ and act as drag upon the party’s attempts to bring a social democratic government to Ireland – re abortion etc Joe Sherlock was a drag on the WP and his tendency to parish plump poltics damged the party’s growth IMHO. I’m not saying that rural Ireland is per se reactionary, although Fianna Fail’s votes in Cavan and Longford would point to a certain support for corruption and narrow mindedness in at least parts of the our less developed areas. What I mean is it takes different approaches to crack a nut, and it would seem the Sinn Fein radical approach is paying more dividends in rural Ireland than Labour’s. So let Labour develop along its course in urban Ireland and the commuter belt Ireland, which saw Childers elected, and let the Shinnners develop their formula in rural areas and the North. If both parties are turely Social democratic and place these values above sham careerism and dead nationalism, they should work together to challenge the conservative hegemony – ITS A VERY BIG IF – but in my opinion it is the fastest track to social democratic government in this country, Socialism can follow later. On whether the former sticks have made Labour more radical, who gives a shit, as they have certainly helped create more votes for the Left – taking SF, Labour and the Hard Left Indos all together support is now standing for the Left of center at around 30% quite a leap form the Lab, WP, DSP etc under 15% of the 1980s. The short answer is that I don’t know. And believe me, no-one would claim to be Eamonn Sweeney if they weren’t. This, by the way, is a great site. I’m an old school print snob and web sceptic but there isn’t anywhere in print you’ll find anything like the Cedar Lounge Revolution, it’s the only internet forum I’ve written a word on. Being here as the results came in was more fun than being in a pub with particularly intelligent company. Fianna Fail’s votes in Cavan and Longford would point to a certain support for corruption and narrow mindedness in at least parts of the our less developed areas. Corruption and narrow-mindedness is neither equivalent to or exclusive to Fianna Fáil, either down here in “our less developed areas” or in the haven of civilisation that you are presumably fortunate enough to inhabit. A Fine Gael-controlled county council in Longford (with county councillors doubling up as property developers) presided over the smothering of half the county with poorly-built, half-finished, three-quarters-empty housing estates. Talk of Mary Lou being given the shinners senate seat to maintain her profile. May happen after by election of Gallaghers seat. The problem with that is that even if Doherty wins the by-election in Donegal SW, the senate vacancy would be filled by the Dáil, ensuring a seat for FF (or perhaps a consolation prize for the Greens). He was my English teacher, and also the man who attempted to make a footballer out of me. I’d have to say that set down in print, “I am Eamonn Sweeney,” looks considerably less stirring than, “I am Spartacus.” Every Green seat is clearly up for grabs, and in quite a few there’s a well placed left candidate in the wings: Alex White in Dublin South (Eamonn Ryan), Clare Daly in Dublin North (Trevor Sargent), RBB in Dun Laoghaire (Chemical Cuffe) – Gormley has to be vulnerable as well, though it could be taken by anyone from SF to FG. Is there a PbP hopeful in place in Mid-West to target Gogarty? since Ciaran Cuffe’s seat is gone anyway (constituency resize from 5 to 4) a Boyd Barrett win would be at the expense of FF or Labour. according to RTE the FG voteshare in the Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown locals went up 10%, with Labour only up 2%. I presume that’s the PBPA eating into the Labour vote. Dublin MW. Councillor Gino Kenny is in the middle of the constituency. But the Green vote has mainly been a Lucan vote, and has its grounding in the long-standing, organised and independent) strong opposition to bad planning (as in bad on planning grounds, not simply because of the brown envelopes; The activists wiped the county manager’s eye a year or so ago on the stated impact of the Clonburris SDZ). FF has no councillor in the Lucan half of the constituency in both the outgoing and incoming elections. Dublin MW will be interesting: Harney is not running the next time (her brother Richard told the Labour party that when it came time after the general election to take down posters — the two parties took down each other’s in different areas) And Gogarty’s “eccentricities” will have lost him votes apart from any change in sentiment about his Party. `Interesting, although that would suggest a cannibalisation of a broadly speaking left leaning vote… There are still some left-leaning people in the Greens, but as the real Eamonn Sweeney suggested, they’ve been taken over by the kind of people who think ‘politics needs people like us’ – Ciaran Cuffe, in particular, is a PD in environmental clothing. I think there are two issues here, one of which I will call “bean counting”. On that front, Labour has a lot of work to do to mend bridges. (For example, what ever the rights and wrongs of what Declan Bree is supposed to have done about Traveller accommodation, it was outrageous that the party leader should use the letters page of the Irish Times to make his case. And the overlooking of Denis Landy for Michael Ferris’s widow was another blunder. They risk another one emerging in Dublin Mid West where the Tuffy clan has antagonised foot soldiers in the south of the constituency.) The party needs to get its own people and new people into the tent. Overall, I think using a bean counting approach there isn’t anything of substance to the left’s gains in the elections. What really happened is that Fianna Fáil (and the Greens) lost, and the votes and seats went to a variety of alternatives on offer, some of which are part the left. And that leads to the second issue. If (a form of) the left is to grow to become dominant, it needs people voting for it for the sake of what it stands for rather than because it is “not the other shower”. Labour seems to me to lack that, and the other parties of the left that do have it do not seem to be able to secure engagement with it. Even Joe Higgins’s win I would see as being a recognition of and support for a man of integrity (who stood with GAMA workers, went to jail for his stance on the bin tax, etc.) than support for nationalisation of industry. Just read through this thread, took me awhile, but am enjoying it immensly.Have to say made a few bad predictions re: Christy Burke in DC but was delighted to see Maureen get it still think she is to much of a lady for leinster house though. She polled almost 7500 first preferences almost 80% more than Tony ever managed so whether these stay with her indefinitely will be a subject for future debate. SF in dublin lost 5 seats and gained 1 with Mary Lou also gone. Outside Dublin SF done rather well which has gone unnoticed by most media pundits with the exception of Bowman. They picked up seats in Cork LImerick Roscommon and a number of other areas where they had no representatives previously. In the Europeans which is a national poll they were only 3% behind labour although with no seat gain. I am still undecided whether the emergence of so many other left wing groupings is a good or bad thing. Not taking away from the efforts and the dedication of the various candidates, at the end of the day the left seems to be fragmenting while the right is still represented by the 2 main parties. Labour although having a good election are still a long way off the spring tide and it is an indication of how far they slipped that they think 14% is good. There needs to be an agreed left alternative unfortunately all i can see is gilmore in his pyjamas waiting to jump into bed with enda. Joe taking the seat in Dublin was a nice sweetener and he has made it very clear that he is waiting for the next dail elections, perphaps he should be proposed as an agreed left candidate for lord mayor. Wouldnt that throw the shit in the fan. interesting comment about CC as “PD in environmental clothing” and for the party in general. unless you’re doubting their sincerity on the environment itself, which I assume you aren’t, then there’s a couple of interesting similarities and differences to my mind: they were both socially liberal, gay rights, privacy, etc; and in fundamental economic terms environmentalism doesn’t sit will with neo-liberalism insofar as it calls for a reduction and sustainability of economic growth – which is in turn fundamental to having an equitable society. I’d welcome a broad left focus on the environment – and it’s probably fair to say that Labour has moved away from mere lip service, e.g. Tommy Broughan is/was quite good on Transport – but I fear it’s a while before they can supplant an active Green movement on the issue. (btw I’ve been lurking on this site for several months now – really enjoy the coverage!) Thanks for the kind words. I’m writing a history of Ireland between 1973 and 1985 at the moment for Gill and Macmillan, also a novel set in Dublin in the eighties. On the day of the election I was, funnily enough, reading up about the PAYE protests of 1979, perhaps an object lesson of how a great wave of radicalism can be dissipated into not very much. One of the joys about reading up on the period is the unlikely sightings, young Eamon Gilmore becoming President of the USI, beating Carol Coulter (replacing one Patrick Rabbitte), young Brendan Howlin in the anti-nuclear movement in Wexford, Frank Connolly at Carnsore as well, Kevin Myers arguing in Magill that we should never forget that colonialism and the nature of the Northern state is the cause of IRA violence (seriously), Eamonn Dunphy as Magill health columnist. And, seeing as he’s been mentioned here, Ted Tynan playing a big role in the rent strike on the North Side of Cork city in the mid seventies (along with, among others, Kathleen Lynch’s father in law) where people held out for years, went to jail, took over the council chamber, because they refused to live in houses everyone admitted were sub standard. It’s incidents like that, too little known I suspect, I’d hope to shed some light on in the book. And, I’ve asked WBS this already, if anyone has any suggestions on books, magazines, other sources from the period which they feel might be helpful, I’d be a very grateful man. Or if anyone thinks there might be some story which, though overlooked, might be telling about those years. Thanks, and thanks again for the comradeship over the election nights. [Sinn Féin South Dublin County Councillors] call for Left alliance against cuts. Tallaght Cllr Seán Crowe called for unity against cuts and for better delivery of public services. Cllr Crowe said that the local and European election results give left-wing parties the chance to offer people what he called a Left Alternative to Fianna Fáil and, he emphasised, an alternative also to Fine Gael. The Workers’ Party’s Davy Walsh kept his seat in Waterford, against the predictions of many. Ted Tynan also took a seat in Cork, which is significant because it means that The Workers’ Party once again has represetantion outside Waterford. Ted Tynan got rave reviews on RTÉ Radio 1’s Late Debate on Monday night from Fergal Keane (a Corkman) and another reporter from down that way for his hard work over the years. Ted Tynan was also, if I remember rightly, involved in the marches out to the Old Head of Kinsale where people from Cork who’d walked and picknicked over there for years protested against the fact that they’d been excluded because the amenity had become part of one of the most expensive golf courses in Europe. The manner in which they were derided by local press and politicians was a case study in modern snobbery which would have been derided as unsubtle if included in a Ken Loach movie. Thanks for that Leveller. I might try and get it on Radio 1. There was a thread on P.ie congratulating him started by a member of the SP. So he must be doing something right to get praise from such disparate viewpoints. Since Joe is drawing attention to his own predictive abilities, may I humbly point out that I predicted a few weeks ago, on the basis of the Suday Indo poll, that MOS was likely to take the Dublin Central seat rather than FG? I note from Pete’s comments that the old Eoghan Harris-WP urban chauvinism is still unfortunately alive in parts of the left. Will these people ever learn? I write as a person Dublin born and bred who was active in left and union activities in Dublin and am convinced many like me despise this urban chauvinism. Isn’t it strange how that if Ganley had won we would now be reading tons of articles about how this boded a huge seachange in Irish politics and announced the arrival of a serious new force, but that Joe Higgins’ victory is kind of getting the, “ho-hum, of course it’s all a protest vote nobody really takes his politics seriously.” One more thing before I go off and do a bit of work. Mark Hennessy in the Irish Times suggest that one way back for the Greens will come through Gormley’s imposition of water charges. You see, it will be Gormley’s idea but people will blame the local councils because their name will be on the bills. 1. If Mark Hennessy is clever enough to figure out that Gormley is behind the legislation, maybe, just maybe the voters will be too. 2. I’d like to see a government with 25% support trying to railroad through nationwide water charges. Also, I notice that my reading of the election counts was almost always wrong. The confident predictions in favour of Burke in South and Ryan in Dublin stand out. My dreams of becoming the new Richard Sinnott lie in tatters. Maybe I’ll buy a Cara computer next time. I also said that Labour had done badly in Kildare, this stems from a lifelong tendency to get Kildare and Meath mixed up. Sometimes I wonder if we can be too harsh on the left for not making big breakthroughs in Ireland. The Ryan Commission report lays bare, as I don’t think had been done previously, that class was probably a greater motivator behind the operation of these gulags than sexual repression. In a society where a large amount of the poorest children were incarcerated and many of the others were emigrating, the left was never going to have an easy time. In the McGreil report, Prejudice and Tolerance in Ireland, published in 1977 only 23% of people said they would welcome a Communist as a member of the family, 29% would have welcomed criminals and the same figure would have welcomed “itinerants.” The Reds also trailed Pakistanis (24%) but did slightly better than Africans (22%). This is where we’re coming from. Seán Ó Tuama: “Since Joe is drawing attention to his own predictive abilities,” Sad saddo that I am, I have to also claim credit for first spotting Eamonn Red Army Sweeney on another thread. SINDO columnist on CLR – be careful, man! I wonder could we get Declan Lynch on too? I’d like that. Keeping up the plámás, yes There’s Only One Red Army is a great read. And iirc the correct line was also taken on the Cork hurling “dispute”. I’d be afraid to ask for a retrospective view on Keane/McCarthy in case feet of clay might be revealed. But keep on writin and rockin. PS: I am not Joe Higgins. I wonder will Christy B. orient to Eirigi. SF are paying the price for respectability. I think their willingness to go into coalition was a factor in the steady drift of people waay from them. was not Gilmore lucky that Bertie selected the Greens for the treatment. Again it is up the the LP to show that reformism works but they will alas be happy with mercs and perks. The FFers have a point what is the opposition plan. Besidwes just replacing the useless present government. We need a program for government. There is a left plan for the crisis and a rightwing one. Again who will pay for the crisis. And lest it be forgotten who will be punished. Oh and I would like to see the orders pay for the child abuse. Like we suspect of the bankers they have moved their assets into trusts. Nationalise the education system and the hospitals for a start. What about it a mimimum plan for government. I suspect that Lemass was right the LP will wrestle with its conscience and the LP will win. Eamonn Cork, Writing a history of the country from ’73 to ’85 you lucky so and so! As you’ve asked for ideas here’s my penny’s worth-try to get your hands on the minutes books from as many unions as possible,you could try out the various trades councils to get them.I reckon they’d be a goldmine and would fit into the whole idea of history from below.History from below as opposed to the usual “important” people/events.Howard Zinn has written a great history book in this genre called “A people’s History of the United States”.Brecht puts brilliantly in his poem “Questions from a worker who Reads”Anyway,keep it up! I must check out the Zinn. By the way, an absolutely brilliant book, which is described as “a people’s history of the third world,” is The Darker Nations by Vijay Prashad, a genius young Indian academic working in the States. It’s a fantastic overview of independence struggles and the post-colonial world. Eamonn, I won’t presume to tell you how to do your job or write your book; that excellent piece you wrote on Michael O’Leary in the SINDO was one of the few articles on our beloved business leader that actually talked about class and class background and how it affects people’s world view. I’m very interested your writing on the 70s; might I humbly suggest you have a look at the files of the SF-WP paper The Irish People for the kinds of stories they were breaking in the late 70s (lots on PAYE of course) or perhaps talk to Padraig Yeates the former editor of the IP. There would be interesting stuff there. Look forward to reading the book. Fred. Thanks for that suggestion. It’s an awful pity that there isn’t a full-scale history of the WP like Michael Gallagher or Niamh Puirseil’s book on the Labour Party. Whatever anyone’s political affiliation, it is a fascinating story. By the way, if anyone had any old magazines from the period, I’d love to get hold of them and would return them in pristine condition. Have you a connection with Ferenka? One of the things that fascinated me is that although the factory closure has now become a right wing myth about the perils of union intransigence, at the time even Des O’Malley apportioned equal blame to the company and the inherent crappiness of the working conditions were widely stressed, something I don’t think would happen now. It’s striking that most industrial correspondents of the time seemed sympathetic to the unions whereas now even the ostensibly liberal ones seem to focus on the man standing at the bus station saying, “I know they’re protesting to save their jobs but I’m going to be late home from work.” By the way, whatever happened to Philip Byrnes? I’ve no connection with Ferenka except it loomed large in my childhood and in my teens was always held up as an example how the ‘greedy’ unions had destroyed Limerick (article on it in the early Magill which I’m sure youv’e seen). On the WP, theres a book out soon I believe.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Michigan state Rep. Wayne Schmidt (R) recently compared prohibiting two Democratic women legislators from speaking to punishing a child. “It’s like giving a kid a timeout for a day,” he told Lansing radio host Patrick Shiels. “You know, hey, timeout, you wanna comment too far, you spoke your piece. We’re gonna let these other people have their dissenting comments, and then we’ll get back to business.” ADVERTISEMENT The group Progress Michigan on Wednesday slammed Schmidt for the remark, saying it “only draws more attention to the inherent disrespect women serving in the legislature are unnecessarily encountering.” Democratic Michigan state Rep. Lisa Brown was silenced by her Republican colleagues after criticizing bills that would severely limit a woman’s ability to terminate her pregnancy. The legislation, contained in three separate bills, would limit abortions by restricting procedures past 20 weeks of pregnancy, imposing new insurance and licensing requirements on clinics, limiting access to abortion drugs and placing new requirements on the tissue disposal process. “I have not asked you to adopt and adhere to my religious beliefs,” Brown said. “Why are you asking me to adopt yours? And finally, Mr. Speaker, I’m flattered that you’re all so interested in my vagina, but no means no.” But Schmidt denied Brown was banned from speaking because of her use of the word “vagina.” Schmidt said it was the “no means no” comment that “went a step too far.” Watch video, uploaded to YouTube by Progress Michigan, below: ADVERTISEMENT [H/T: HuffPost Politics]	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
TS Star birdmountain Launches Site With Grooby Network “I am so very happy to work with the fantastic staff at Grooby to finally launch “The Nest” — my long-promised, official members website.” birdmountain said. “I have spent many long, sleepless nights working hard to provide you with the very best cum-dripping, hardcore transsexual fun that I can imagine.” Birdmountain made her debut on Shemale Yum in late 2013 and has since appeared on sites like Shemale XXX, Frank’s TGirl World, Tiffany Starr’s Official Website, Bob’s TGirls and Shemale Strokers. Grooby Productions owner Steven Grooby added, “I can’t think of a better performer to join the Grooby Network. Birdmountain understands her niche and executes it well. She did a fantastic job with the design and content of the site, and I think her fans will be very pleased.” Members can expect weekly HD updates with both hardcore and solo content, behind-the-scenes footage, bonus content, and more. A versatile performer, birdmountain’s content will encompass T-girl on T-girl action, guy on T-girl, T-girl on guy, and even a few orgies featuring other popular TS stars. “I love having absolutely no barriers when it comes to my sexuality,” birdmountain explained, “’The Nest’ will allow me to act out on all of my lifelong sexual fantasies. And, believe me, I have many. Thanks so much for your patience, birdies. This is for you.” The Grooby Network gives models the opportunity to create their own websites and control their content while using the branding and resources of Grooby Productions.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Q: Fill the remaining space with CSS I have the following html (JSFiddle): <div id="container"> <div> <label>Simple label <input> </label> </div> <div> <label>Other label <input> </label> </div> <div> <label>Variable label <input> </label> </div> </div> Is it possible with CSS (I don't want to use JavaScript for this), to fill the remaining space with the inputs? I have variable label length, and I want to align the right side of the input's without float: right (but not to bother also the left alignment). A: You can make the label a flex parent and set the input to flex-grow: 1 #container div { margin: 10px 0; width: 300px; } input { flex-grow: 1; } label { display: flex; } <div id="container"> <div> <label>Simple label <input> </label> </div> <div> <label>Other label <input> </label> </div> <div> <label>Variable label <input> </label> </div> </div>	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	StackExchange
House Republicans have voted to extend a bill that would ban all abortions after 20 weeks in the District of Columbia to apply in every state in the nation. The bill would limit a woman's access to abortion even if they learn the pregnancy poses a threat to their health, but it includes an exception in cases where the mother's life is at risk. The four Democrats on the constitution and civil justice subcommittee voted against the bill, arguing that it was unconstitutional. Campaigners on reproductive rights described the decision by a subcommittee on the constitution to pass such a bill as "astonishing". The bill allows no exceptions for victims of rape or incest. Trent Franks, a Republican representative from Arizona, introduced his original bill last month to ban such procedures only in the District of Columbia. HR1797, or the DC Pain Capable Unborn Protection Act, is based on the disputed claim that a foetus 20 weeks or older can feel pain. But following the notorious trial of Kermit Gosnell – a Philadelphia doctor who performed abortions well beyond the legal limit and was convicted of killing three babies after they born alive – Franks amended the bill so it would apply nationwide. In a statement released on his website on Tuesday, Franks said: "I understand the unfortunate reality that today's markup will be surrounded by some degree of controversy. But we, as a nation, find ourselves at a point at which we don't offer unborn children even the most basic protections – even protections we extend to animals and property. The trial of Kermit Gosnell exposed late abortions for what they really are: relocated infanticide." He added: "I pray we use this as a 'teachable moment,' in the words of President Obama, and can agree that, at the very least, we are better than dismembering babies who can feel every excruciating moment. I look forward to the bill's moving on the full judiciary committee and to an eventual vote on this necessary, common-sense measure." Nancy Northup, president and CEO of the Center for Reproductive Rights urged the full House judiciary committee members to reject the bill. She said: "This assault on the health, dignity, and rights of women was dangerous and unconstitutional when it was aimed at the women of Washington, DC, and has only become more reprehensible now that it has been amended to apply to all women across the US." It is, she said, "every woman's constitutional right to make her own medical decisions without interference from politicians who presume to know better." "It is astonishing that the subcommittee on the constitution would support such a clear affront to the US constitution – especially when everywhere similar laws have been challenged in the courts, they have been immediately blocked." Last month, a similar ban on abortions after 20 weeks in Arizona was struck down by the ninth circuit court of appeals. Earlier this year, a similar law in Idaho was ruled unconstitutional by a federal district judge, and a state court temporarily blocked a 20-week ban in Georgia in December 2012. Cecile Richards, president of Planned Parenthood of America, said: "This outrageous attack on women and their access to safe and legal abortion will not stand. Speaker Boehner should stand by his commitment to focusing on the issues important to the American people by refusing to bring this unconstitutional and deeply dangerous legislation to the floor. "While abortions later in pregnancy are uncommon, it is important that a woman and her doctor have every medical option available to protect her health. We must have and enforce laws that protect access to safe and legal abortion, and we must reject misguided proposals like this one that would limit women's health care options." The 1973 Roe v Wade US supreme court ruling established that the constitution protects a woman's right to terminate a pregnancy in cases where a foetus would not survive outside the mother's body, usually judged at 24 weeks.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
Pulmonary vein ostium geometry: analysis by magnetic resonance angiography. During a catheter ablation procedure for selective electrical isolation of pulmonary vein (PV) ostia, the size of these ostia is usually estimated using fluoroscopic angiography. This measurement may be misleading, however, because only the projected supero/inferior ostium diameters can be measured. In this study, we analyzed 3-dimensional magnetic resonance angiographic (MRA) images to measure the minimal and maximal cross-sectional diameter of PV ostia in relation to the diameter that would have been projected on fluoroscopic angiograms during a catheter ablation procedure. In 42 patients with idiopathic atrial fibrillation who were scheduled for selective electrical isolation of PV ostia, the minimal and maximal diameters of these ostia were measured from 3-dimensional MRA images. Thereafter, these images were oriented in a 45 degrees right or left anterior oblique direction and the projected diameter of the PV ostia were measured again. The average ratio between maximal and minimal diameter was 1.5+/-0.4 for the left and 1.2+/-0.1 for the right pulmonary vein ostia. Because of the orientation and oval shape of especially the left pulmonary vein ostia, their minimal diameters were significantly smaller than the projected diameters. Pulmonary vein ostia, especially those at the left, are oval with the short axis oriented approximately in the antero/posterior direction. Consequently, PV ostia may sometimes be very narrow despite a rather normal appearance on angiographic images obtained during a catheter ablation procedure.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	PubMed Abstracts
Saturday Papers – 9th April 2016 It came as a huge shock – not that the biological father of Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby was a former Private Secretary to Sir Winston Churchill, hugely ‘shocking’ the Archbishop, but that this is the headline in all papers this morning! Is there nothing of any importance at all happening in this country? Are the leaked reports of tax evasion by our own PM’s family, are the EU, the BREXIT campaign, so unimportant to the inhabitants of the metropolitan establishment which writes and makes the papers for the nation? At least the old saying that nothing is as important as sex and money holds true, so Cameron isn’t quite let off the hook: Daily Mail David Cameron is facing a sleaze investigation after finally being forced to admit he had a £30,000 stake in his late father’s offshore fund. The Prime Minister has been reported to the Parliamentary Standards Commissioner over allegations that he should have declared the shareholding. And on Friday, Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn demanded the Prime Minister make a statement to Parliament on the row. In a strongly-worded statement, Mr Corbyn demanded ‘decisive action’ against tax dodging which the Panama Papers leak revealed was taking place on an ‘industrial scale’. Mr Cameron has insisted it was a ‘fundamental misconception’ that Bahamas-based Blairmore was set up by his father Ian to avoid paying UK tax and stressed that his interest in it had been ‘subject to all the UK taxes in the normal ways’. Pressure has been mounting on the Prime Minister for days after Downing Street initially claimed his financial affairs were a ‘private matter’. Independent David Cameron has “misled the public” and “lost the trust of the British people”, Jeremy Corbyn has claimed amid the furore over the Prime Minister’s stake in his father’s offshore fund. In a fierce attack the Labour leader demanded that Mr Cameron make a statement to Parliament on Monday to give a “full account of all his private financial dealings”, claiming the revelations raised questions about “personal integrity”. Mr Cameron, who admitted on Thursday that he made a £19,000 profit from selling his shareholding in Bahama-based Blairmore Holdings in 2010, is also facing a parliamentary investigation into whether he should have declared the windfall in the Commons register of interests. In his first intervention since Mr Cameron’s disclosure, Mr Corbyn said: “It took five weasel-worded statements in five days for the Prime Minister to admit that he has personally profited from an undeclared Caribbean tax haven investment deal.” That ‘the British public’ has lost trust in Cameron, or that he uses ‘weasel words’ is however not exactly news to us out here in the sticks … Staying with ‘trust, the loss of’, with ‘scandal’ and money, this report on another scandal at Tata Steel is not making survival easier for the UK steel industry: Guardian Two senior Tata Steel executives are among 10 people suspended by the beleaguered company over forgery allegations that have prompted a criminal investigation by the Serious Fraud Office. The Guardian understands that Mark Broxholme, the managing director of the company’s speciality steels and bar business was suspended last November. Andrew Parker, the commercial director of the division, was also suspended and has since left the business. […] The potential scandal was discovered when an internal audit by Tata found certificates that verify the quality and composition of its steel may have been falsified. The company then informed the SFO about its findings.The SFO said in a statement on Friday: “The Serious Fraud Office confirms it opened a criminal investigation in December 2015 into activity at Speciality Steels, a business unit of Tata Steel (UK) Ltd. We can make no further comment at this time.” It is a bit worrying, to say the least, that the Minister responsible for the Steel Industry disaster seems to have taken his eyes off the ball and was more concerned with his own Ministry, or rather with ‘saving money’, according to a leaked paper on the spending review in his department: Independent Sajid Javid is considering plans to cut 4,000 jobs in his own department and its agencies, according to leaked documents. The Business Secretary, who is currently tasked with saving 15,000 jobs in the steel industry, could have the core staff at his department reduced by 40 per cent, in cuts more severe than even Chancellor George Osborne requires. Mr Javid ordered a review of staff levels at the Department of Business, Innovation and Skills (BIS) by management consultancy firm McKinsey soon after he began the job after the election.The department has repeatedly refused requests to disclose McKinsey’s findings but a leaked strategy paper seen by the Guardianshows BIS is planning to cull at least 1,526 jobs by 2020. Up to 4,103 could go if the department decides to implement the cuts at the top end of the scale recommended by McKinsey – 40 per cent of the department’s current core workforce.It is part of a plan to save £350m – which is £100m more than the £250m required by the Treasury to stay within their spending controls. BREXIT hasn’t quite sunk below the waves as of yet though, there’s one story which the ‘Remainian’ papers have busily overlooked: Express THE European Union is actively making workers across the continent POORER, a top Brussels finance chief admitted today. German Economy Minister Sigmar Gabriel dropped the stunning gaffe whilst discussing the policies of the European Central Bank (ECB). He conceded that the EU’s policies are depressing the earnings of low-paid workers and pensioners, who he patronisingly dubbed “the little people”. The jaw-dropping admission will anger eurosceptics across the continent, and comes just days after the Dutch people gave Brussels a bloody nose in an EU referendum. It will also add further to the assertion of Brexit campaigners that the EU project is having a negative impact on Europe’s economy. Although the bank’s decisions do not directly affect British people, the Remain camp has made the importance of the EU economy to our own jobs and prosperity a key point in its argument for sticking with Brussels. Mr Gabriel told reporters that the ECB’s ultra-low interest rates are making “little people” like workers and pensioners poorer. The bank – which is run by the 19 Eurozone nations – recently cut its interest rate to -0.4% in a desperate bid to encourage borrowing to kickstart the bloc’s ailing economy. But a period of prolonged negative interest rates has had a devastating effect on savers and lower earners, who have seen the value of their take-home money shrink in real terms. Pensioners have been particularly hard hit, with their accrued pots now worth less than they expected them to be. It’s not all doom and gloom, though, especially not if you’re in urgent need of a hug: Express CAMPAIGNERS have resorted to asking Europeans to “hug a Brit” in a desperate attempt to sway voters to stay in the EU. The campaign hopes to “love-bomb” those who are sitting on the fence about whether the UK should leave the European Union on June 23. Katrin Lock, a German who has lived in London for seven years, has come up with the latest social media ploy to try and convince people to vote remain. The idea is to get Europeans living to post photos of them hugging their British friends and use the hashtag #PleaseDontGoUK. She told The Local: “It’s a little bit hippy, but a little bit of hippiness is needed. People are always arguing about cucumbers and shower caps. We wanted to do something positive instead of just talking about rules and regulations. It’s a love-bomb for the UK.”	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
How to prepareYou can enjoy this revitalising wellness drink as a traditional hot tea or iced tea. Each teabag can be infused twice.Hot Tea: Infuse teabag in freshly boiled 100°C water for 3-5 minutes.Iced Tea: Infuse teabag in filtered cold water for 30 minutes, add ice and fresh strawberry slices if desired. Functional IngredientsA delicious blend to support your mood and energy levels through the afternoon. This blend of tea is designed to give you the sweet taste you are craving but curb further sugar cravings. Mood-boosting ingredients to give you the lift and mental clarity you are looking for towards the end of the day. A low caffeine choice that won’t disrupt your sleep. Pu'erh Tea - The fermentation process used to make Pu’erh tea naturally produces a neurotransmitter which promotes relaxation and reduces anxiety. Roobios - Rooibos has been shown to have a calming effect on the production of cortisol - our main stress hormone which can rise throughout the day leaving you feeling drained but unable to sleep. Storm & India's tea starts with their Mum, Dooley Crighton. In 2004 Dooley started growing and blending herbal teas. Dooley sampled teas across the world and discovered blends she’d never tasted before. She dreamed of creating bespoke teas from small organic tea plantations. She started this dream and named the tea after her daughters – Storm & India. From their Mum’s notebooks and recipes, they've created their own blends of bespoke teas. They use premium, organic teas from around the world. These are handpicked, handcrafted and deliciously artisanal. Storm & India's teas bring peace, calm and joy into life. They rejuvenate the body and mind, and promote good health and wellbeing. We like to think they’re a daily ritual, brewed for the soul. Our Service Promise As an independent store, we know and understand the importance of exceptional customer service and expect that you would receive this from either of our two stores or online. You are valued and appreciated and Scott and I genuinely thank you for shopping with us. If you for any reason feel that we have not met this service promise, please email me at [email protected] Loyalty We love that you shop with us. As a thank you, every $500 you spend with us, we email you a $50 voucher to use the next time you shop with us. We keep a track of your spending at our end and if at any time you’d like to know how close you are to your next voucher, email us. Our loyalty is available on both in store and online purchases. For more information about our loyalty... click here	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Muscle Domination Wrestling – S05E05 – Street Fights 4 Bully, Nick Cassidy wanted to face one of MDW’s best for his debut match. But being his smartass, cocky self, he doesn’t walk away when the 0-5 The Justin steps into the ring with him. Instead he decides to set an example, going blow for blow with his baby faced opposition and coming out on top. He gives The Justin a “lesson” in greatness, headbutting, punching, and submitting him while insisting he say his name, admitting inferiority. A resilient The Justin resists and even fights back, but the ripped Nick Cassidy has all the speed, moves, and mean spirit that he lacks, and after a series of serious holds, The Justin is calling out this studs name for what is sure to be the first of many times. Muscle Domination Wrestling – S05E05 – Street Fights 4 Download Related Videos Muscle Domination Wrestling – S03E01 – Tag Team Torment (Gay Extreme) What could be better than two hunks meeting up in the MDW ring and leaving all rules behind them so the real Alpha Male can enjoy brutalizing his opponent? How about Doubling the Muscle, the Torture, and the Humiliation. Master Kevin decided that the time was ripe to take the Muscle, Domination, and Wrestling to the next level. Which could mean only one thing, the inception of the tag team... Muscle Domination Wrestling – S11E03 – Hazed and Humiliated 6 (Gay Extreme) The largest wrestler on the Muscle Domination Wrestling roster, The Mountain, is causing a tidal wave of fear to wash over the entire locker room. His decimation and utter humiliation of two cocky bodybuilders Brad Barnes and Braden Charron, have left a lasting impression on all who bore witness. The message is loud and clear, stay out of The Mountain’s way or he will squash you. That rings... Muscle Domination Wrestling – S11E01 – Six Pack Bash 4 (Gay Extreme) Mr. Black Muscles, Darius is bursting through the skin with unbelievably ripped muscles. The premium muscle man strikes a few mind blowing poses, awaiting his opponent; he is strong, pumped and focused. In spite of Darius’s insanely peaked biceps and outrageously low hanging pecs, the mouthwatering, 8 pack abs of the dark Adonis are what reel the eye in. There is no doubt that this package...	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
CLC is back with their 6th EP because they are signed to CUBE and they don't believe in full length albums. But regardless one of my favorite Girl Groups is back with some new tracks.The album starts with the title track "Where Are You". The song is tuned down from their previous single "Hobgoblin" and is softer. It has an 80's R&B flavor that I love about it. The song itself is just really good. they were able to pull off a softer title track compared to the past that's a great listen and probably the best on the album. Next we have "Bae" which is easily explainable. The girls singing here was cool but the beat is a little weird to me. Its a tad bit reggae yet trap inspired yet its pop all at the same time. I love the song because the beat does a lot but its good and the singing plus the raping was point here but you can't pin down CLC's style here. I like the song but its obviously pandering to the Caribbean and Trap craze plaguing the music industry right now."I Like It" is the third track and this sounds like it should have been on "CRYSTYLE". It starts off cool but erupts into a collage of sound that just doesn't sound well. This song feels like a mash up. I don't hate the song, it may grow on me later, but as of now its an ear sore. I truly feel like the producer was working on a DJ set and just decided to hand this in because he was tired and didn't feel like making a good beat. the rest of the album is pretty cool but I would have liked it if CLC kept that same spunk they had on their last album. I fear that besides a couple of songs from this, everything else from this project will be forgotten. Its almost as if every time CLC has something good going for them, they go the opposite direction with the next release.This isn't a bad album. I like it a lot but I don't love it like some of their other albums. Maybe the album needs to grow on me but it just wasn't that amazing compared to their other works. The ending song "Hold Your Hand" is a beautiful way to end the album and maybe their best ballad yet so this album will always have that. I rate this a 3/5.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
Many-bit optical data storage using stimulated echoes. We demonstrate faithful storage and retrieval of twentyfive optical data pulses by backwards timulated echoesi n a Pr(3+):YAG crystal using an acoustooptically modulated ring laser.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	PubMed Abstracts
[The clinical economic analysis of application of immune correcting preparations to prevent respiratory infections and their complications in frequently ill children of early school age]. The article presents the results of clinical economic analysis of effect of different immune correcting preparations on rate of respiratory infections in 548 frequently ill children of early school age. It is established that preventive immune correction with lysates of bacteria or glucosaminyl muramyl dipeptide in aggregate with vitamin mineral complex results in statistically significant decreasing of rate of respiratory infections and dramatic decreasing of direct and indirect costs of treatment of infectious diseases of respiratory ways. The preventive application of juice of cone-flower herb or interferon in aggregate with vitamnin mineral complex statistically significantly decreases rate of respiratory infections and negligibly decreases direct and indirect costs of their treatment.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	PubMed Abstracts
Following President Donald Trump’s continued promises to build a wall along the border, Ducey was asked whether he thought companies bidding over the wall’s construction was good for Arizona’s economy. “I think border security is good for Arizona,” he replied. “We made a decision through this campaign that there’s going to be a wall, there’s going to be a fence, there’s going to be a physical barrier, there’s going to be man-power down on the border. “If an Arizona company’s in that business, I think they ought to bid on it.” “Two-thirds of the border (in Arizona) already has some type of wall or physical barrier,” Ducey said. “And I’ve long thought that we could use technology in a way that would help us have that deterrent, a way that prevents people who we don’t want coming in from coming in and increase the safety.” As for the visit with Sessions, the former senator and now-cabinet member will start his visit in Nogales in the morning. After that, he’ll speak in both Litchfield Park and Luke Air Force Base. “The first thing I’m going to do is listen to what policy he’s here to try to implement and see how I can be helpful,” Ducey said. “But I also want him to know … that Arizona’s been through this immigration debate. We’ve been talking border security for some time. “I think people in our state are very warm, welcoming and inviting to people, but we do have a real concern about public safety and crime. This issue of opioids and human traffic and drug smuggling is very real to all of us as parents, as citizens. And so much of it is happening on the border and that’s what the fence and the wall, the physical barrier, should focus on.”	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Q: Change the Last Logged In date I'm trying to write a custom password reset script that adds rewards points to the accounts of all those that reset their passwords. A customised link to this will only be sent to the customers that have never logged into their account before (About 900 of them). I need to know how to change the customer's last logged in date so that they can only get the rewards points once. This is the way I make sure that they haven't reset their password before. $logCustomer = Mage::getModel('log/customer')->loadByCustomer($customer); $lastVisited = $logCustomer->getLoginAtTimestamp(); if ($lastVisited == NULL) { // Reset password // Add reward points to account } A: When the customer logs in, this date will be updated automatically. However, if you need to change this manually you can do so with the following statement: $customerLog = Mage::getModel('log/customer')->loadByCustomer($customer); $customerLog->setLoginAt('2013-12-31 00:00:00'); $customerLog->save();	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	StackExchange
Anti-bullying activists argue that the database, which part of the national government’s anti-bullying campaign, will help teachers to identify potential student problems and prevent bullying. However, detractors of the new high-school database said it was tantamount to spying and inappropriately intrusive on pupils’ personal lives. The database will contain sensitive details such as their sexuality, household income, and behaviour. The move is backed by the SNP as part of the Scottish Government’s anti-bullying campaign. Wallace High has set up a pilot scheme in which notes on pupils are distilled into mini data packages that are then circulated to teachers. The Government says the new scheme will help identify trends thereby preventing bullying before it becomes a problem. Wallace High principal Scott Pennock defended the programme, stating: “At a glance, staff can get a sense of the composition of the class in front of them. The system will flag up any pastoral notes so teachers can see that this young person’s maybe got a family situation or concerns around a bullying issue. Our model is to have proactive programmes that negate bullying issues as fully as possible. It’s about holistic wellbeing and trying to put programmes in place that help to deal with those issues.” A Scottish Government spokesperson said: “We welcome the approach taken by Wallace High to develop an anti-bullying policy promoting a proactive approach to prevention and supporting pupils’ health and well-being.” Risk Data is Inaccurate and Wrongly Labels Pupils Stuart Waiton a senior lecturer at Abertay University warned that this move would encourage teachers to take on the extra role of “quasi-social workers or therapists”. He noted that the scheme bore a similarity to the Named Person framework, which was struck down by the UK Supreme Court as it was deemed to contravene article eight of the European Convention on Human Rights. Waiton added that “they would be far better off focusing on the job of educating students rather than acting as Big Brother in the classroom”. Alison Preuss of the Scottish Home Education Forum said: “Officially labelling children as victims and bullies and digitally sharing that insidious information helps nobody, particularly when it may be inaccurate or just staffroom gossip. Gathering sensitive personal data and handing it round is becoming a disturbing obsession of Scotland’s public sector. What business is it of schools how much money a child’s parent earn or who a teenager is attracted to?” Griff Ferris of Big Brother Watch said that it was unfair to profile pupils, commenting: “Children make mistakes and should be allowed to do so without being blacklisted.” Despite the highly sensitive nature of the data, there has been very little indication as to how the schools will protect the students’ information, which can be easily accessed via a teacher’s laptop. If such data was leaked it could be devastating for the pupils involved. It also raises the question as to what rights the children have to privacy since this scheme does not appear to have the choice to opt out. Like this: Like Loading...	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
The inaugural Las Vegas Lights Football Club home match will air live at 8 p.m. on Saturday, Feb. 10, on KCLV Channel 2, and will be streamed live worldwide on KCLV.TV/Live. KCLV Channel 2 is the award-winning government access station for the city of Las Vegas. Cox customers can find KCLV in high definition on channel 1002. Century Link customers can watch on cahnnel 2 and in high definition on channel 1002. The first match in club history will come against Major League Soccer's Montreal Impact - the first of three MLS clubs to visit Cashman Field in Downtown Las Vegas on consecutive Saturdays as part of the club's Soccer Spring Training schedule. Lights FC will then host Vancouver Whitecaps FC on Saturday, Feb. 17, and D.C. United on Saturday, Feb. 24. All three exhibitions are scheduled to begin at 8 p.m. Lights FC regular season play in the United Soccer League (USL) begins on Saturday, March 17, on the road at Fresno FC. The regular season home opener takes place a week later, at 8 p.m. on Saturday, March 24, vs. in-state rival Reno 1868 FC. The free Downtown Loop Shuttle will be adding a stop at Cashman Field beginning at 5 p.m. Saturday through mindnight Sunday morning. For more information about the Loop, visit www. lasvegasnevada.gov/DowntownLoop. Single-game tickets for Lights FC's three Soccer Spring Training matches and all USL regular season matches are now on sale, starting at just $15. Purchase today by visiting LightsFC.com/SingleTix or by calling 702.728.GOAL (4625) during regular business hours. Lights FC 2018 season tickets are also still on sale, starting at just $200. Each season ticket purchased includes a free team jersey (valued at $80). Tickets for groups of 10 or more are also now on sale, starting at just $18 per ticket, with each ticket purchased including a free Lights FC scarf (valued at $20). For more ticketing inquiries, visit LightsFC.com/Tickets.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
Q: How can I rotate map in OpenTTD? Is it possible to rotate the map? Sometimes things are very difficult to select because they are behind buildings or other things. The shorcut icon, key, etc. would be greatly appreciated A: No, I do not believe this is possible. However, you can use x to "shadow" objects, which is very useful to solve the problem you are experiencing.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	StackExchange
unfunded obligations The US Post Office is in deep trouble. Obviously some of the problems can be laid at the feet of the internet which has all but killed routine personal mail in favor of the faster and cheap email. Competition in the area of express delivery and package delivery have taken a ton of business away as well. Private companies like FedEx and UPS can delivery those items more cheaply and reliably than the USPS ever could. But the biggest problem the USPS faces is its lavish entitlements driven by union demands. And once again, we the tax payers are being warned that unless we toss another 5.5 billion dollars the USPS’s way, its going to go broke. Here’s why: At the same time, decades of contractual promises made to unionized workers, including no-layoff clauses, are increasing the post office’s costs. Labor represents 80 percent of the agency’s expenses, compared with 53 percent at United Parcel Service and 32 percent at FedEx, its two biggest private competitors. Postal workers also receive more generous health benefits than most other federal employees. So you have a government agency with declining revenue number … Mail volume has plummeted with the rise of e-mail, electronic bill-paying and a Web that makes everything from fashion catalogs to news instantly available. The system will handle an estimated 167 billion pieces of mail this fiscal year, down 22 percent from five years ago. It’s difficult to imagine that trend reversing, and pessimistic projections suggest that volume could plunge to 118 billion pieces by 2020. The law also prevents the post office from raising postage fees faster than inflation. And overgenerous and rising pension obligations. Sound familiar? The $5.5 billion payment due at the end of September is a payment required to help restructure that pension program. But, as expected, there’s resistance from the union as to the means taken to do so – like cutting the work force: Cutting the work force is more difficult. The agency’s labor contracts have long guaranteed no layoffs to the vast majority of its workers, and management agreed to a new no layoff-clause in a major union contract last May. But now, faced with what postal officials call “the equivalent of Chapter 11 bankruptcy,” the agency is asking Congress to enact legislation that would overturn the job protections and let it lay off 120,000 workers in addition to trimming 100,000 jobs through attrition. Got that folks … the brainacs at the USPS, fully aware of the dire financial straits in which the agency found itself, agreed to a “no lay-off clause” in their new union contract last May. Incredible. And now that it makes perfect sense to consider layoffs, as well as other measures (no Saturday delivery, closing little used post offices, etc.), that option is one that would literally take an act of Congress: The post office’s powerful unions are angry and alarmed about the planned layoffs. “We’re going to fight this and we’re going to fight it hard,” said Cliff Guffey, president of the American Postal Workers Union, which represents 207,000 mail sorters and post office clerks. “It’s illegal for them to abrogate our contract.” So reach deep fellow taxpayer. Time to bail out yet another failing agency which apparently never saw this revolution in communication coming, was never able to compete in the market without monopoly powers granted by government and has overspent and overpromised even as it watched it’s market share continually shrink. Maybe it is time to, horror of horrors, consider privatizing this service? Actually, that’s something that should have been done years ago. But watch … we’ll still have this government run anachronism around our fiscal necks when your grandchildren are adults.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Q: Why do dogs place their heads above the backs of other dogs? One behavior I often observe with my dogs is that they'll put their heads on or above the backs of other dogs. Why do they do this? A: Dogs are social animals and have a large repertoire of communicative signals and behaviors. Additionally the interactions between two dogs also involve many "learned" kind of interactions. One dog can learn that the other dog will let him do something. If that something is associated to a context that both dogs appreciate, it can become a learned habit. For example your dog could do that as a way to relax and send a "I'm calm and relaxed" signal to the other dog. Observe when your dog is doing that and then you tell us what you think are his reasons. Referring to @Chris's answer involving dominance. The outdated "dominance theory" has been debunked in every aspects, over the last ten years and by many authors (including Bradshaw, Dunbar, Eaton and many others). In short here are some key arguments: The dominance theory is based on the observation of captive wolves packs, where the individuals are constrained to stay in the pack and are, in most cases, unrelated Observations of wild wolves packs is quite different in term of social structure and hierarchy. A typical wolf pack involve a single breeding pair, along with the previous years litters and the cubs. In that sense, the alpha pair are simply the parents. Dogs do not socially behave like wolves (captive or wild). Studies and observations of feral dogs (eg. Pariah dogs in India) revealed that the "pack" are very different from wolves packs. There is no single breeding pair, the individual from different groups often interact without fighting (which is very different from the behaviour of wolves from different packs: they avoid each other but will fight in almost all cases if they do meet). The "dominance theory" took all of that a step further by claiming that dogs will keep that social structure even in their interactions with humans. No scientific data supports that assertion. Notable Sources: Dog Sense: How the New Science of Dog Behavior Can Make You A Better Friend to Your Pet (Bradshaw - book) Dominance in Dogs: Fact or Fiction? (Eaton - book) Dominance in domestic dogs-useful construct or bad habit? (Bradshaw - paper - see references inside) A: The other answer regarding dominance is one reason. However many dogs do this as a play behavior as well. While playing more dominant dogs will often switch roles and act submissive towards other dogs. We can guess that they do this to encourage the less dominant dog to play and that they won't get in "trouble" for it. If the dog is being forceful or is not correctly reading signs that the other dogs dislikes the behavior than I would step in and not allow it. Otherwise it is part of normal play. A: This is an attempt to assert dominance over other dogs. In the dog world, simple behaviors are used to display dominance over each other. For instance, have you ever seen two dogs stare at each other until one looks away? They are intimidating one another to establish a pecking-order. Other aggressive/dominant behaviors that dogs display (and you can watch out for them) Walking in front means you're the boss Standing on or pushing people/dogs eye contact or "staring" humping other dogs is a sign of dominance (even females will do this) There are many others, see this link for more details	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	StackExchange
Lecture by Suhaib Webb \| Transcribed by Fuseina Mohamad Surat Al-Fatiha Series: Part I \| Part II \| Part III \| Part IV \| Part V \| Part VI \| Part VII \| Part VIII \| Part IX\| Part X \| Part XI \| Part XII \| Part XIII \| Part XIV \| Part XV \| Part XVI \| Part XVII \| Part XVIII \| Part XIX \| Part XX \| Part XXI \| Part XXII \| Part XXIII \| Part XXIV \| Part XXV We continue with the next form of arrogance: to think about oneself what is not true. This is called al-ghurur. Shaytan tricks us with mirages. Like the song, “Mr. Big Stuff, who do you think you are? Mr. Big Stuff.” So now you have Mr. Big Stuff on your mp3, playing in your head. You start to think you’re Mr. Big Stuff and your head is getting bigger and bigger. In the Qur’an Allah (swt) gave us a story in Surat al-Hujurat. Some Arabs came to the Prophet ﷺ and said, “We believe, we are mu’minoon (believers).” Allah (swt) said, “The Bedouins say, “We have believed.” Say, “You have not [yet] believed; but say [instead], ‘We have submitted,’ for faith has not yet entered your hearts,” (Qur’an 49:14). Don’t give yourself names which you are not. Look at the Qur’an. How did Allah (swt) describe the Prophet ﷺ? This is beautiful. Allah (swt) told the Prophet ﷺ “Say, “I am only a man like you […]”(Qur’an 18:110). Can you imagine that you are the Prophet ﷺ, and you know that you are the last Prophet ﷺ. You are sinless and Allah (swt) has forgiven everything that you have ever done before and after. You are the one who was given so many karamat (mercies) and mu’juzat (miracles) from Allah (swt). Imagine that you have to go to the people and say, “I’m a man like you.” You have to go to a bedouin who cannot read or write, who doesn’t know anything, and say, “I’m like you.” Imam Qurtubi explained that Allah (swt) tells the Prophet ﷺ in so many places in the Qur’an to say “I am a man like you” to teach us not to give ourselves big labels. We should not say, “I am a Sheikh! A scholar! The sea of knowledge!” Look at the man who went and urinated in the masjid. The Prophet ﷺ has to come to him and say, “I am a man like you.” Why did Allah (swt) say in Surat al-Jumu’ah, “It is He who has sent among the unlettered a Messenger from themselves […]” (Qur’an 62:2)? Imam Qurtubi explained that in these verses Allah (swt) wants to teach us to be humble. He wants to teach the Prophet ﷺ humility and teach us also indirectly. We shouldn’t give ourselves these big labels and big titles. Just be yourself. Be simple. Be a normal person. One time a man came into Madinah and he found some people sitting on the ground. He wasn’t Muslim and he asked, “Where is Muhammed?” The Prophet Muhammed ﷺ answered, “I am Muhammed.” The man responded, “I bear witness that there is no God but Allah, and Muhammed is his Messenger.” Imagine, the Prophet ﷺ was sitting on the ground, and he could not be differentiated from others. Be careful of position. Abdullah bin Masood used to say “If you could smell my sins, you would not want to be next to me.” The next cause of arrogance is to praise people too much. In Sahih Muslim, a man who was not a sahabi (Companion of the Prophet ﷺ) came and walked in front of Uthman ibn Affan (ra). He started praising Uthman (ra). Another sahabi took a handful of dirt and threw it in the man’s face. The man was shocked and asked, “Hey! What are you doing?” The sahabi responded, “Wallahi (I swear by Allah) the Prophet ﷺ told us that if we hear someone praising another person like this we should throw dirt in their face.” It is because you are killing the person. If you were to take a dagger and stab them in the heart you are doing less damage than you would with the dagger of your words. Subhan’Allah, the righteous people do not like to be praised. One time I heard people praising Imam Zaid Shakir in his absence, and I started crying, because I am not like him. I know myself. Sheikh Abdul Hamood used to tell me that if people praise you, you have to be like a turtle. You put your shell around you and internally remind yourself, “I am not like this. I am not like this. I know myself and I know my problems.” When we praise people too much, sometimes we can push them into kibr. This is very dangerous. That’s why, if you read any book about how to seek and study knowledge, there are some rules: You shouldn’t praise your Sheikh too much, because you can kill him. You shouldn’t dress like your Sheikh. If you start dressing and looking exactly like someone, and then everyone starts mimicking them, it can create a problem for them. You should dedicate your absolute obedience to Allah (swt) and His Messenger ﷺ. Subhan’Allah, before he was ten my teacher memorized the Qur’an, and before he was fourteen he memorized the Qur’an in fourteen qira’at (styles of recitation) and seven daeef. He told me this story that really freaks me out every time I think about it. May Allah (swt) have mercy on my teacher. He told me the following story: “I memorized the Qur’an in a village in Senegal. My father was taking me to take a picture. I was ten, and I dressed in a nice outfit because I had finished memorizing the Qur’an [he showed me the picture, he was pretty fly]. I started to feel like I was really something. I had to go from Saint-Louis to Dakar, the capital of Senegal. We had to take a bus. One of the ladies on the bus had a portable toilet (this was back in the day) and her child had defecated in the toilet. The smell was really bad. I was with my dad, who was the son of the mufti (teacher) of Senegal before. A big family of sheikhs with 800 – 1000 people in their madrasa [school]. We were both dressed in nice clothes and everyone knew my father. The lady pulled the bus cable to stop the bus. She said, “Excuse me, I need to go and clean out this toilet.” My father turned to the lady and said, “My son will do it.” And he told me to go and clean it. I was in these nice clothes, a hafidh of the Qur’an (a person who has memorized the Qur’an), scrubbing a toilet of feces. When I got back on the bus my father said, “You need to humble yourself.” That’s why if you study the book of Al-Ajrumiyyah, a famous book, even the way in which the author wrote this book teaches you humility. He begins the book with bab al-kalam (the door of words). Then after bab al-kalam, he starts bab al-‘irab (grammatical analysis). The first chapter in bab al ‘irab is al-raf’u (to be raised). He does this because he wants to tell you that if you study you are going to be raised. Your level is going to be high. And then he finished the book with bab al-makhfudhat. Al-Makhfudhat means Arabic letters that have a kasrah (a mark indicating the vowel /i/). It also means to be low (the mark is written beneath the letters); for example, Allah (swt) says to the Prophet ﷺ “And lower your wing to those who follow you of the believers,”(Qur’an 26:215). Why did the author make his last chapter bab al-makhfudhat? To tell you that after all you learned in Al-Ajrumiyyah, you’d better be humble. Be low. The last part of humility is the humility of race and ethnicity. For you guys (on campus) you don’t have this problem as much as you find in the masajid (mosques). I know that in many masajid in North America they split on lines of ethnicity. Did I tell you the story of when I first became Muslim and went to the masjid? About MQM and Peoples’ Party? I went to the masjid and a guy grabbed me and said, “Hurry up and go pray!”After we prayed I heard someone else making the iqamah (call to stand for prayer). As a new Muslim, I was surprised. The man told me, “These people are bad people!” When I asked why, he replied, “Because they migrated in 1947. They’re not really Punjabi like us.” Welcome to Islam. You have to be careful that your ethnicity and race don’t make you arrogant and don’t make you feel that you’re better than people or above others. Always be low. We don’t have time to go into much detail, but we will talk now about the famous hadith of the Prophet ﷺ when he said, “The Heaven and Hellfire were arguing, and the Hellfire said, ‘What’s wrong with me? Only arrogant people go into me.’ The Heaven was saying, ‘What’s wrong with me? Only the humble people go into me.’” What is the remedy for this that is found in al-Fatiha? It is Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem – in the name of Allah, the most Gracious, the most Merciful. The Arabic letter ba is called harf al-jarr, a prepositional phrase. In Arabic, a prepositional phrase always has to be linked to a verb, and a verb implies action. Who is the actor? The one who says bismillah. So for example when you leave the house and say bismillah, you mean, “I am walking in the name of Allah.” When you study or pray and say bismillah, you mean, “I am studying or praying in the name of Allah.” When you do anything and say bismillah this means that you yourself do not have supreme power. You need the power of Allah (swt). This makes you humble. You realize that I am not the man with the master plan. I’m a man surrounded by a lot of plans and I need Allah (swt) to help me pass through these plans. That’s why Sheikh Shaarawi said that when you are walking you should say, “In the name of Allah, who made this Earth subservient to me.” Look at Sulayman (as). Even when he sent a letter he began with Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem (Qur’an 27:30) to show that there is no barakah (blessing) in this except with the name of Allah (swt). The second remedy for arrogance in Surat al-Fatiha is when you say, “iyaka nastaeen – it is You alone I need help from,” (Qur’an 1:5). Because when someone is arrogant, they feel that they don’t need help from anyone. So now you are admitting that you need Allah’s help and assistance. When you really say this sincerely you have to be humble inside yourself.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
Thursday, November 29, 2007 At least I think so...And how can you not? Look here for more http://www.nataliedee.com/. Her husband, Drew is the dude who does Toothpaste for Dinner, which, in my opinion is also totally hilarious. They live in Columbus, which also gains points, since we all know I'm obsessed with Columbus for no good reason. For some, that's just a normal statement. For you all, I would like you to pause for a moment and congratulate me. I repeat.... I've had my cell phone for two years! Okay, that said. Its sort of like not having a cell phone right now, because the battery is lasting about 5 minutes before it starts to beep at me. Meaning, I'm starting to carry my charger with me everywhere as well. The keys only work sometimes. Voicemails show up days later. It goes to vibrate on its own (or worse, comes off of silent or vibrate on its own). But, it STILL works. Kind of. Okay, I know I need a new phone. The pink razr is done. My best friend is telling me she's buying me a gift card to Verizon for Christmas (which I think is hilarious) I'm trying to make it through Christmas though and I'm still debating whether I want Verizon another two years. There's no reason not to have them, but that Iphone is so cute! Okay, I'll have Verizon another two years. I mean, it only makes sense. My cell-phone-talking-world consists of either Verizon customers or Sprint customers and I'm not going back to Sprint. Why is this so hard? Cell phone companies are the pits, I think. So, let's see if the little pink phone and I can make it to December 26. My Dad seems to think there will be sales after Christmas. In the meantime, don't take it personally if I'm not talking on the phone that much, its just been a bit of a challenge lately. And, onto knitting news. I cast on for the Yarn Harlot's unoriginal hat last night in this sweet baby alpaca from Cascade. (Colour 562) Because I'm using a smaller needle size, I think I'm going to pull the whole thing out and add a cable repeat. It's another holiday gift, surprise surprise:) It appears right now like it would fit an 8yr old and I don't know any 8yr old's that I'm knitting for! The sweater is all cast off and the pocket needs to be tacked on. I think, however that I'm going to undo the bind off at the bottom and knit a few more rounds...its the sweater, people, that will not end. The Tall Guy said the other night that my hands must be really strong now, and I hadn't really thought about it, but I wonder if knitters hands are physically stronger then your average person? Tuesday, November 27, 2007 For those who only read to see the knitting, today's your day.First up.. A mohair scarf that really is a lovely shade of HOT pink . The pattern is from Last Minute Knitted Gifts, but I made mine a bit longer. And in a different light... Now, the beginning of this guy may look familar... yes, same pattern as above, but a different color. This is one of those projects that looks much harder then it is. Therefore, its a great gift-giving item. This is a 75% complete sock. Its on pause at the moment, but will pick back up soon. I love love love this yarn. Its Socks that Rock, Silkie. And its YUMMY to knit. So yummy...sigh. And finally. Last night, I had some time to kill when I was at the Yoga studio, so I wandered into the used book store that's right next door. I picked up a copy of Knitting in Plain English for 5 bucks! Yay for Used Book Stores!!!! Monday, November 26, 2007 In case you weren't convinced...here's a video...and, for the record, while the Tall Guy doesn't necessarily agree...for a second, just a second I did consider a new hair style. I guess I'm just not that punk rock anymore... sigh. A lot of my close friends knew Sid pretty well. When we lost the last pet in Casa De Pia, My Worst Enemy (also known as MK at times) wrote a haiku in Myron Beta Fish's honor. This time he took it up a notch. I give you MK's tribute to Sid. Whew. I spent most of yesterday sitting on the couch, napping and feeling so-so. What a nice, long weekend! On Saturday night, the Tall Guy and I decided to venture out to a last minute show on the GW campus. Neither of us had actually been to a concert in forever... we thought the show was sold out, but when we got to the venue, I walked in to make sure there were no tickets left and what-do-you-know! We scored 9th row, center seats to Tegan and Sara ! So, 5 minutes before the show started, we were hooked up with face-value tickets. Now, I'm not sure if you know these girls, but I personally...LOVE THEM. I've listened to them for ages and didn't even know they were in town until the Tall Guy told me! How can you not love cute identical twins from Canada who write and sing all their own music? The fan base appeared to be predominately female of an Ani-like disposition, so it made for some excellent people watching. We did leave the show a bit early (during the encore) which I felt a bit lame about, but for whatever reason, I started to get incredibly light headed and I feared passing out right in the auditorium. What can I say, sometimes I'm a wuss.. Knitting also happened this weekend and I'll post pics quick as can be... some is still being held back for gift-giving, but I hope to have a sweater to show soon!Happy Monday! Saturday, November 24, 2007 I'm nearing completion on my very first sweater. Yes, I've been knitting for years, but have never actually knit a sweater. It was very intimidating, for some reason. So, I'm SO close, I can taste it. One sleeve, some finishing, block it, and its done! Yet, it just seems so far away with so much other knitting that should be happening right now. Sigh. Today, as a by-product of the holiday, I got to spend the day w/my step sis. We spent the majority of it sitting on the couch watching Laguna Beach and knitting. It was awesome. Of course, I should have been taking sister all over to see cool things, hang out in a city etc, but its not often we get to knit together. So, we did. And one of the sleeves got done on the sweater.Lord willing' I'll have it done in the next week or so and then I'll show you pictures. Until that time, I'll keep you in suspense, I want to show off the finished product instead of you seeing a lumpy, one armed sweater that needs to have things sewn in and a bath.Oh, and happy holidays to all, it was, as always a crazy turkey day here, with the normal family excitement and drama. I love my family. Monday, November 19, 2007 There's a question mark at the end of the title for a reason. See. We've talked about this before, but I'll say it again. I am a big fat knitting dork. I learned ages ago, but its probably been the past three or four that my crush and I have been steady. That said, I'm also an internet geek. Combine the two, and like a lot of knitters out there, I know who the knitting celebrities are, I read thier blogs, I read their books and I forget they're like the rest of us who knit and blog and have lives.So, I was reading the Harlot's blog the other day (really. folks. if you're not a knitter, she's funny as hell anyway, and you can call her The Yarn Harlot) and found an interesting point of note (our two yarns were the same colourway, but didn't look anything alike.) So, I posted a comment. The Harlot gets lots and lots of comments, so I thought nothing of it. Well. What do you know. Less then a hour later, I had an email sitting in my inbox from the Harlot herself giving me her thoughts on why our yarns were different. Okay, maybe this isn't a big deal. I realize that. Just think of your hobby. And then think of one of the coolest people you know who do that hobby (you know...like um... Lance Armstrong or JonnyMosly). Now, think about them just emailing you about something totally mundane! Crazy, huh?Well, its not that big of deal, but I was having a sad Friday with Sid's passing, so it was cool to see Stephanie takes the time to respond sometimes.That said, the yarn being discussed is called Rocktober and I got it while at Stitches earlier this fall. It can be viewed here. Basically, what I noticed was that mine is very rusty/red and Stephanie's was much more purple/plum. She said that it was most likely my monitor as her's is a red too. Totally uncool, I realize but, I thought it was neat all the same. Saturday, November 17, 2007 Yesterday, I came home from work to find my sweet little beardie was no longer with us.Sid showed no signs of illness, and he was only 4. I'll miss the little guy, he was an incredibly tame and well behaved Bearded Dragon.A few pictures for you.. Friday, November 16, 2007 I always thought that song was funny. I supose I'm not so much a man eater as I am an ipod eater. This past month I realized my pretty red ipod was only working in mono, not stereo (aka, only out of one ear bud). If you squeezed it or pushed it just right it would work, but only if it felt like it. Last night, the Tall Guy and I took a field trip to the Apple Store and what-do-you-know, because this ipod is within its first year of life, they are replacing it, no questions asked. That's what I call a pretty good deal. That said, the new Ipod coming to me today or Monday (they were out of stock of my particular model) will be my Fifth ipod in three years. (though only two were actually purchased). The Tall Guy had managed to break the Shuffle I got him last year for Christmas, so he also go his replaced last night and that makes the new shuffle his fourth in as many years. Thursday, November 15, 2007 My camera returning would mean a good picture! I wanted to show you what I cast on last night and alas, only have my camera phone to use here... Its part of Amy's Christmas gift. She already knows about it and the deal is, I'll start it, and she'll finish it. She's a knitter, not quite as obsessed as I may be, but you know, it doesn't hurt to tempt her with alpaca fiber and nice new bamboo needles which she'll get to keep. Its another chevron scarf, but I figured it looks cool and is sort of close to UNHcolors, where she is presently a freshman. Speaking of Amy (oh she's my step-sister, ps), I'm getting psyched for next week! Her and my Grandfather are flying down for Thanksgiving, which is always a great time at my Aunt and Uncle's house. I hope to have at least a foot (I'm multi tasking people!) of the scarf done before she gets here, so I can just hand off to her the whole kit and ka-boodle.We'll see. I went to a new LYS this past weekend for the grand opening. Nature's Yarn, in Fairfax was pretty nice. Its basically at the intersection of 29 and 50 (just south on the right) and for some reason I can't find the web site, which is pretty bare anyway. The exciting part, was that right next door was Tippy's Taco. The Tall Guy and I had a tasty lunch (and I don't really like Mexican, its true) before venturing into the Yarn store. The store itself was stocked with basics, had a great needle selection and had a ton of SWTC yarns in addition to a lot of Jitterbug, which I am a bit hesitant to buy now-a-days. In the meantime, I have other FO's to show, but I'm going to hold on at least one until the recipient gets it. Though I know they aren't a reader, others are, which would then get a little confusing. My stepmom's Monkey's are on the heel flap now! I hope to get that done and blocked this weekend at well! Yay for actually finishing things! I'm hoping the next week or so will lend itself to hanging out time with knitting. Let's keep our fingers crossed! Sunday, November 11, 2007 The camera has been located!Apparently, all I had to do was unpack my suitcase! Now... this is Erica's pirate. Last I checked, it didn't have a name yet, but I continue to call it Jack. Not sure why.Yes, he does have a "peg leg" and yes, I did embroider tattoos on both of his arms. There were no details left undone for this pirate, it was going to my bestest friend!The Tall Guy assisted with the finishing/stuffing and adding on hair on Jack. Our friend Tom stopped by and lended moral support (no photo of Tom) and, here's San Diego (Carlsbad, actually) where we spent last weekend at a wedding. More stuff to follow now that I have the digital image recorder back in my hot little hands! I normally try to not exploit small adorable children for the sake of my blog. Today, however I'm desperate. My camera is entering its first full week of M.I.A. status and I figure a whole lot of you will stop reading once I stop showing you funny or colourful things.That said, I sent a box over to Israel after one of my very good friends from High School had a baby. Here's Ben modeling the socks I sent, which are a modified jaywalker.People, meet Ben. Obviously, I already think he's awesome, even though we haven't met yet. I can't wait for the holidays, when Ben (oh yeah, and his parents...) come back to the states for a visit. And, fine, I know, I know I'm getting close to 30, but I'm still getting used to the idea that my friends are having babies. It's weird, okay? Thursday, November 8, 2007 Pizza and beer fix a lot of things... and that's what i had for dinner tonight. It was a long day in HR girl world... boring meetings across town in a room that was (there was a thermostat) 60 degrees. Having to do HR girl stuff that sucks and I can't talk about. And then having to give my boss a hug goodbye. Bummers. The end of the day picked up, however, as I received unexpected good work-news that I can't talk about yet, Alyssa asked me to go to the knitting store with her (oh, dear, pull my arm) and then I had a hilarious conversation with my dad on the phone.Now, I sit on my couch, quietly.I still don't know where my camera is. I checked the bags. I'm thinking its either in my desk at work OR at the Tall Guy's house.I have to go back to that cold meeting room tomorrow, but at least now I'm prepared.And, tomorrow, in case you aren't aware, is FRIDAY. And yes, my Uncle is making dinner on Saturday, which is pretty rad.One day, I'll show you pictures, I promise. Wednesday, November 7, 2007 Okay. I really try to be the one that isn't always complaining. You never want to be "that person" because people don't want to be around you and well. Well, that just stinks now, doesn't it? That said, I guess I don't have that much to complain about today, but I will do a little bit of bitching and moaning. First. My direct supervisor is leaving my Agency as of tomorrow. This means, that as of tomorrow, my little branch of people within a greater organization will have lost 3 full time employees, leaving four of us to do 7 people's jobs. Two other groups I work with daily are also down staff, so its only compounding the situation. Only one, my supervisor is slated to be back filled, meaning that we're still down two people. This sucks for a variety of obvious reasons, but the worst in my mind is how much I feel like I'm apologizing to my customers. I only have so many hours to do so much and more and more of that is becoming the minimum by which we can continue to get by. I'm sure this will pass and we're certainly keeping things moving and people are getting paid, but it still gives me an upset stomach. Second. I can't find my camera to post some photos of my newest projects and Erica's pirate. I know the camera is in one of three bags, I just haven't had the time to pull the bags apart, pull out the camera, upload etc. I'll get to it. Also, along this thread is that I haven't had the time to sit down and figure out what my new internet service should be. Anyone in the DC area reading, if you have a suggestion that isn't Suckcast (Comcast), I'm open. (On a side note, Suckcast did just send me a check for $30.00 for the days I had no internet though I had paid for it!) Third. Hmm. I can't remember what was third. Oh! Yoga. Sigh. Life has been so chaotic that I had quit the working part and was just "work-trading" one night a week at the studio. Lately, though, its been that I'm only having time to work and not trade. I'm hoping this gets better and I was considering leaving the studio so I could get back on the mat, but the studio is short staffed at the moment, and I really feel bad about that. We'll see. I've been with them for so long, I feel bad just leaving all together. Fourth. I need to book a plane ticket home. Every time I go to do it, the prices change again. I can't decide when I should suck it up and book. Also, if you're someone I may see while I'm home, can you give me a window of when you're home? I'm trying to make it the most bang for my buck, so-to-speak. And finally. Well. I'm not sure what else I have to bitch about. I think I'm done. That said, this weekend is looking like three days of chillin', knittin', going to NoVa to see my family w/the Tall Guy for dinner and umm. A whole lot of house cleaning, not stressing and the like. Let's see if that will put me in better spirits. EDIT: How could I forget? The reason why I was posting this to complain in the first place! Yesterday, while I was moving my RPM socks from one bag to another, I discovered one of the needles had snapped. I'm only using four out of five for this pattern, but will obviously need the 5th at some point. Anyway. They're size 1.5, I think ebony (maybe rosewood, but I think ebony) and I bought them in Ohio. I thought they were Latern Moon, but when I talked to the girl there (she was super super nice via email) she told me that they don't make 1.5's. So, I've emailed the store in Ohio to see if they can tell me what needles I bought (because I'm dumb and can't remember) in hopes that I can get a new one sent to me. Keep your fingers crossed, these little guys are not cheap! Monday, November 5, 2007 Good lord. What a weekend. I'm back in one piece. and SO tired. The Tall Guy and I were discussing last night while on the final leg of our adventure from Dallas to DC that normally one looks forward to Daylight Savings. An extra hour of sleep! When I was a young chick some bars actually stayed open an extra hour as the clocks changed! Yesterday, however just threw my internal clock that much further off on its schedule. So, now, I'm at work staring into space.Now. The couple got married. She looked amazing, he looked handsome in his dress blues (He's a Marine, fresh back from Iraq) and all the bridesmaids somehow ended up in the same style dress even though it was not required. We lost the music to get up the aisle and the bride was over 30 minutes late. Otherwise, well. I think it was weekend of total and complete chaos, but the job got done, there are rings on the hands, everyone got tipsy, I got to see Erica, got to meet one of the Tall Guy's good friends from home and overall, it was a success. I'll post a picture or two when I get them, as I once again, took like...one picture.Erica got her gift, so I'll post a picture of that shortly as well. It was my first venture into knit creatures and she appears to like it a lot.In the knitting world, I didn't end up doing that much while gone. The heel on one new sock is turned (for me....) and I worked on a quickie scarf as well. I need to review my holiday knitting plan, but I still think I'm okay.I'll be back with more when I'm more coherent!	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
Imagine watching the Empire State Building suddenly transform into giant spurting penis to ejaculate a figure dressed in a major King Kong look across a stage. Now, imagine this mysterious figure shedding the ape costume and emerging as the most fabulous Marlene Dietrich you’ve ever seen. No, this isn’t the fever dream of a Hell’s Kitchen gay after watching Kong: Skull Island. This flamboyant and provocative series of events almost happened. The performance, set to take place at the Paris Opera House in 1973, would’ve introduced the world to glam rock’s first openly gay rock star. Through a sea of glitter, the crowd was to feel a potent mix of astonishment and arousal before whispering his name: Jobriath. That you’re almost certainly wondering who the hell Jobriath is should betray the fact that his grand entrance never happened, but to dismiss Jobriath as yet another failed rock star would do a disservice to his legacy. The truth is, for all his failures, Jobriath paved a path for queer musicians. Without rock’s self-proclaimed “true fairy,” artists like ILoveMakonnen, Frank Ocean, PWR BTTM, Mykki Blanco and everyone in between might not be around to queer up the music industry. Decades ago, in an era punctuated by the queerbaiting antics of Lou Reed and David Bowie, Jobriath’s star power proved to shine too bright, too fast---he was the Icarus of glam rock with a gloomy ending to match. Spanning multiple identities, enough tragedy to fill a Lifetime Original Movie, and a wealth of ideas that would never come to pass, this is the story of America’s first gay rock star. The Adolescence and Abandonment of Bruce Wayne Campbell You’d be forgiven if you thought the story of Jobriath’s adolescence was written by an overeager fiction writer. After all, his name shares similarities with both Batman and the star of Evil Dead and hails from a town that sounds like a history book. Yet, Bruce Wayne Campbell of King of Prussia, Pennsylvania really did exist. And he was even something of a child prodigy on the piano. The Film Collaborative Born the son of an Army man in the dirt track town, Campbell spent his youth moving from army base to army base with his family. It was a childhood light on friends and heavy on a blooming sexual identity that infuriated his family. It was an existence that wasn’t meant to last and, after a brief stint in the Army that ended with him going AWOL, he ran away to start a new life as Jobriath Salisbury in the sun-soaked streets of Los Angeles. Detours and the Discovery of Jobriath Salisbury Like any great glam rock origin story, Jobriath’s rise began with a little bark and a lot of hair follicles. A short time after arriving in LA, he accompanied his friend to the audition for the notoriously outlandish musical Hair. Despite only going to help the friend with lines, he was cast into the role of Woof and was soon performing to sold out crowds every night. Under the bright lights, he got a taste of stardom that changed his life. Though as talented as he may have been in his role, he wasn’t immune to the vices of the 1960s. A cocktail of drugs strong enough to tranquilize a herd of buffalo mixed with his overinflated ego and he eventually left Hair in a blaze of glory---taking two of his costars with him to start a band called Pidgeon. You know, because it was 1969 and naming your band after sky rats was glam. The trio recorded a strange, baroque folk album that sounded like a chipper nightmare before the band promptly fell apart. It was from this point that Jobriath’s AWOL status caught up to him and he was detained by military police. He was thrown into a military psychiatric hospital, suffered his first big breakdown, and then broke away from the padded walls to take on California one last time. It didn’t take long for him to pick up his old habits As he recalled years later, “I was floating down in the gutter. I didn't eat. I just drank beer all the time. With no money, I hustled for booze and drugs." While he hustled, a new chapter in Jobriath’s story was being written thousands of miles away in New York. It was there that Jerry Brandt, legendary manager of Carly Simon, sat in the offices of Columbia Records’ Clive Davis listening to Jobriath’s demo tape. To his ears, he’d found the star he was waiting for. The Film Collaborative Jobriath Boone and Jerry Brandt’s Big, Gay American Disaster The year was 1972 and Jobriath had just shed his steak-themed last name and emerged as Jobriath Boone—--just in time for Brandt to change his life forever. After search through LA to find him, Brandt quickly whisked the burgeoning star back to New York, got him a record contract with Elektra Records rumored to be worth $500,000, and began one of the most ambitious advertising campaigns of the decade. “Jobriath is going to be the biggest artist in the world. He is a singer, dancer, woman, man. He has the glamour of Garbo. He is beautiful,” Brandt explained to Melody Maker before telling Music Week: “It’s Sinatra, Elvis, The Beatles, and now Jobriath.” To Brandt, Jobriath was glam rock’s gay, glittered Jesus Christ and he wanted the world to know his name. Jobriath’s face was plastered across full page ads in Vogue, Penthouse, and Rolling Stone and put on posters on hundreds New York City buses. For Brandt’s pièce de résistance, a 41’ by 43’ billboard high atop Times Square was erected featuring Jobriath naked and posed as a Roman statue broken at the base and crawling across the floor. The AV Club When it came time to record the album, Brandt convinced Elektra Records to book them at Olympic Studios, the famed recording studio favored by bands like The Rolling Stones. It was within these soundproofed walled that a 55-piece orchestra accompanied Jobriath on a glam rock journey through the eleven tracks that made up his self-titled debut album. Despite the aggressively sexual S&M ballad “Take Me I’m Yours” and the swaggering bravado of “I’m a Man,” reviews were warm and encouraging. The problem was that outside of the industry, Jobriath’s flagrant sexuality produced a product the public just wasn’t ready for. By the time the giant wave of marketing finally crashed down, Jobriath’s overhyped debut had become a disastrous joke. A debut concert at the Paris Opera House with a $200,000 price tag and the Empire State building ejaculating the star was quickly scrapped. He made his television debut in an unforgettable yet restrained performance on a prominent nightly show called The Midnight Special. It was notable for his outlandish costume that could best be described as 'spaceman by way of hamster tunnel tubing' and was restrained because, after being barred from performing his S&M jam “Take Me I’m Yours” by producers, he instead performed “Rock of Ages” and his single “I’m a Man.” Late night just couldn't handle a glitter-dipped gay rocker singing, “Any day you could buy me or tie me up.” Alongside his TV debut, he headlined two sold out shows at The Bottom Line in all his unsheathed, gay glory to modest, 400-person crowds. The positive response brought some hope to Jobriath and Brandt but that momentum crashed down at a follow-up concert at Nassau Coliseum. There, the crowds immediately bombarded him with shouts of “faggot” as trash was thrown until he fled the stage. Elektra Records quickly pushed out the second and final album, Creatures of the Street, shortly after that disastrous show with leftover material from the Jobriath recording sessions and dropped him from their label. With no future at Elektra, Jobriath embarked on one final tour and severed his partnership with Brandt. Like any good rock star though, Jobriath went out with a bang. His final show at the University of Alabama led to five encores that ended when the excited crowd pulled the fire alarm and sent the fire department rushing in. It was glorious moment that showcased the star Jobriath could’ve become had the country been ready to embrace that courageous homosexuality of rock’s first true fairy but ultimately signaled the end to his life as Jobriath. The Downfall and Death of Cole Berlin In 1975, high above the iconic Chelsea Hotel in a pyramid-topped apartment, Jobriath Boone was laid to rest alongside his brief career. From his ashes, the character of Cole Berlin emerged. When he wasn’t hustling or auditioning for the role of Al Pacino’s lover in Dog Day Afternoon, Cole spent his nights performing 1930s cabaret songs at The Covenant Gardens restaurant. His existence, perhaps for the first and only time, appeared restrained and mundane for a few years. It wasn’t until 1979 that the façade of normality was ripped away in an interview with Omega One magazine. “Jobriath committed suicide in a drug, alcohol and publicity overdose. That whole hype just drove him crazy,” Cole said of his former identity. It was the statement of a broken man and, as the interview continued, he didn’t hesitate to talk about his personas as if they were a polyamorous family he’d moved in with. “Schizophrenia is my lifestyle. I think everybody is schizophrenic but they’ll all fighting it,” he explained. “I, or should I say we, are not fighting it. Come over. I’ll ask some of us to come out and play.” Years after the interview, his lifestyle on the streets caught up with him and he soon contracted AIDs. On the Chelsea Hotel’s 100th anniversary in November 1982, he played his last public performance and, on the morning of August 4, 1983, police broke up the front door of his rooftop apartment and found his dead body. A decade after towering over Times Square, he died alone and abandoned—--his body decaying for four days before anyone found him. The Great, Rock Resurgence of Jobriath As tragic as his career and life were, time has ultimately been kinder to Jobriath. In the years following his death, the glamorous singer has become ingrained in the rock and roll folklore thanks to one of rock’s most iconic queer artists. In one of the strangest twists in Jobriath’s story, rock legend Morrissey of The Smiths has become integral in establishing the singer’s legacy. In 1992, Morrissey expressed interest in having him as the opening act for his "Your Arsenal" tour--—unaware that the singer had died nearly ten years ago. It was a tragic request but, ultimately, served as a catalyst for Jobriath’s revitalization. In the two and a half decades since Morrissey first took an interest in rock’s first true fairy, a wealth of information and music has unearthed his story. Previously unreleased music filled Lonely Planet Boy in 2004 and As the River Flows in 2014; his first two albums saw a rerelease in 2008; and, finally, a documentary by Kieran Turner called Jobriath A.D. came out in 2012. Four decades after crooning for audiences to let him be who he was on the track “I’m a Man,” the repercussions of Jobriath’s fearless embrace of his sexuality, Empire State Building ejaculation and all, are finally being celebrated. For more of our investigative pieces, take a look at the Kendrick Lamar / Lady Gaga collaboration that could have been right here.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
# A JAZ PARKS NOVEL # Jennifer Rardin www.orbitbooks.net Begin Reading Table of Contents A Preview of _TEMPEST RISING_ Copyright Page _"The Deadliest Bite is not the one you get from the nest of vipers striking at you from the top of an angry gorgon's head. It comes from the demon that's sunk its teeth into your soul, the one that refuses to let go because, oh baby, your blood is like red, red wine."_ —Jaz Parks interview with Jennifer Rardin, August 2007 # CHAPTER ONE _Wednesday, June 13, midnight_ I'll say one thing about walking around with a rubber band up your asscrack—it helps train you for torture. "They call them thongs," the girl at Victoria's Secret had told me, doing her best not to look at me like I'd experienced major brain damage sometime between high school and college. "I know what they call them," I'd said as I picked at the flimsy material and tried not to wince. "I just don't understand why..." I'd looked around the store. They were everywhere, like fluffy pink bunnies that multiply while you aren't looking and then blow your foot off the second you step on them. The girl had blinked her silver-lined eyelids and shrugged. "They're sexy." "Uh-huh. Are they comfortable too? Like, am I gonna come home from work all tired and grumpy and say to my dog, 'I'm crapped out. Time for a warm bath, flannel pj's, and my thong?'" "It could happen." She'd smiled, faintly, just one corner of her mouth rising, which had reminded me of why I was standing in the middle of lingerie paradise in the first place. Vayl. Who was, even now, counting to one hundred, giving me a chance to find a new cubbyhole to hide in before he began hunting the halls of the red brick monstrosity he called home. As I padded through neatly arranged rooms full of expensive furniture and beautifully displayed antiques, it struck me as hilarious that the vampire who owned them all chose to spend his free time playing strip hide-and-seek with his sorta-human girlfriend. I caught sight of myself in the gilt-framed mirror over the fireplace and smiled. Because I was more than that. Vayl called me his _avhar_ —a Vampere word that described better than any other the infinite number of ties that bound me to him. I also smiled because, after sixteen days of rest and relaxation from a series of missions that had nearly killed both of us, I had to admit I was looking better. Eating three meals a day had filled out the hollows. Now I couldn't count each rib just by looking. My fingernails had stopped flaking. My eyes had brightened until sometimes they reminded me eerily of my father's snapping green orbs as they cut through us the first day he got home from a tour, inspecting the troops to see how we'd grown in his absence. Even my curls seemed bouncier and redder except, of course, for the white-streaked one that curved into my right cheek like a familiar friend. I didn't let my glance linger on it. No point in reminding myself of my first trip to hell when this game, like all the others Vayl and I had played, was designed to make the most of the time we had left until I had to go back. "Fee fi fo fum! My senses are tingling with huuu-man!" Vayl called. "Crap!" Just one in Vayl's awesome bag-o-tricks was the ability to pick up on strong emotions. My little detour down Vanity Lane had given away my position. One last glance in the mirror. We'd been playing the game for a while. All he'd left me wearing was a watch, the blue lace Victoria's Secret underwire I'd bought, which gave me such incredible lift I had actual cleavage (yeah, baby!), the matching dungeons-r-us thong, and a pair of three-inch black heels that made sneaking damn near impossible but did wonders for my legs. Of course Vayl was down to a pair of red silk boxers, so our next encounter promised to be mondo fun. Especially if I made the hunt interesting. I snapped the band of my watch. My super-genius buddy Bergman had invented it for me, wiring it to use the kinetic energy it had stored from my movements to shield their sound. Sometimes being an assassin for the CIA comes in handy. Especially when you get to use cool spy gadgets to play sneak-n-peek with your lover. I was on the main floor, looking for a decent place to tuck in, listening for sounds of movement above and hearing none. Geez, the guy lived in a ninety-year-old Victorian! Shouldn't one floorboard squeak? Then I'd know which staircase he was descending, at least. The main one connected the second, third, and fourth floors to the front door. The rear stairs, darker and much narrower because snobs didn't think servants deserved elbow room back when, only went from the kitchen to the second floor, where all the bedrooms were located, and the basement, where all the creepy, clanky junk had been installed. Though I wasn't sure I had time, I paused for a second, reached out, and _sniffed_. My nostrils flared, though the scent that wafted into my brain stem had nothing to do with true odor. It was all mental, and never before had I been so pleased to have had this Sensitivity to _others_ (as in nonhumans) dumped on me. The price, dying twice and then being brought back by a mind-blowing Power with a soft spot for model trains, and me, had always seemed too high. Even though I'd gotten to know Raoul well enough to think of him as both my Spirit Guide and my friend, it still did. But if I could finally get some fun out of the deal, maybe... there! Vayl was definitely sneaking down the servants' stairs. I tiptoed toward the front of the house and slipped into a room he liked to call the conservatory. Although when I told him Miss Scarlet did it in there with the candlestick he just looked at me blankly and said, "Was the candlestick sitting on the pianoforte?" In some ways the dude is permanently stuck in the eighteenth century. Some of that showed in the choices he'd made for the room, as well. A huge window seat spanned the whole length of the front wall. Covered with lace-edged cushions, it gave the lazy lounger a spectacular view of Ohio's countryside. Because Vayl didn't live in Cleveland, but had bought a house about twenty minutes outside the city, where if you stood still long enough you could hear cows mooing across the cornfields. He hadn't bothered draping that window, although he had thrown Bergman at it, which meant it was covered by a UV shield that kept perverts (and the worst rays of the sun) from peeping inside. It was also (along with the rest of the house) protected by the most sophisticated alarm system known to man. Which was probably why when Vayl did chill out in the room, he could feel extra-relaxed in the high-backed white sofa that sat perpendicular to the fireplace. Tall gold tassel-shaded lamps stood at each end of the couch, though he could see in the dark, so they had to be more for looks than practicality. I hadn't figured out yet if he preferred the couch or the overstuffed blue chair across from it, its round, tufted footstool reminding me of a foofy dog set permanently into begging position. After all, that would give him a better view of the gleaming white instrument sitting at a diagonal in the corner opposite the widely arched entryway. It was, in a fact, a real antique pianoforte. Vayl had played it for me the night before, some classical piece that would be great to fall asleep to. I'd matured enough, in the time I'd known him, not to say what I was thinking out loud. But as soon as I got a chance I'd be taking that guy to a Killers concert. He had no idea what he was missing. I lifted up the window seat, expecting to find boxes of puzzles and old toys like the ones my Granny May had stored in hers. But either Vayl wasn't into storage or his house was big enough to display all his goodies, because the cabinet under the bench was empty. A perfect hiding place for one five-foot-five twenty-six-year-old who badly wanted to see her vamp shed his shorts. Unless she had a touch of the Claustrophobia. I stared at the dark, empty space. Three seconds later I decided it had shrunk in the three seconds I'd considered it. While my competitive streak warred with my fear, I looked around for an alternative. A round table covered with a floor-length blue satin cloth stood in the corner next to another blue chair, this one less comfy but more elegant than its fireside cousin. _Under the table?_ Less confining, since the cover was flexible. But no. It held too much glass; both an oldfashioned globe lamp embossed with blooming roses, and a figurine of a hummingbird tasting nectar from a red petunia. However, behind the chair... _yup, that'll work_. I'd shucked my shoes and swung one leg over the back of the chair when the doorbell. Fucking. Rang. Vayl skidded around the corner. "Jasmine!" _Shit, damn, shit, shit, shit, shit!_ I tried to think of a less graceful position for a woman who'd deliberately set out to look sexy to be caught in. But I couldn't imagine anything worse than straddling a wing chair with one hand on the wall for balance, one foot on the armrest, and my mostly bare ass stuck halfway between. So I yelled, "Get out!" The screen door slammed. Moments later a car peeled away. "I think I scared off your visitor," I said. "It is midnight in the middle of nowhere. Either he had no business being here in the first place. Or his business would have proved a maddening distraction from _my_ business, which is much more important." Vayl leaned against the door frame, crossing his hands behind his back so I'd be sure to get a great view of his broad, curlcovered chest. He grinned, his fangs giving him the look of a hungry lion. "But I have a feeling you were not speaking to him to begin with." "Well... no. I mean—" I motioned to myself. "This isn't how I figured you'd find me. In fact, you weren't supposed to—Oh shit, there's no way to get out of this position without looking even more ridiculous. Turn around." "I will do no such thing." "But—" "Jasmine, your body is more delectable than melted chocolate on a sea of sugar candies. And the fact that you wore that lovely confection for me—" "It's coming right off," I warned him as I reclaimed my leg from the no-girl's-land between the chair and the wall. "Stupid piece of crack-grinding—urf!" Whatever I'd meant to say got lost in the spin as Vayl swept me off the chair and twirled us around the room in a spontaneous waltz. His laugh, a deep-throated sound of such genuine mirth that I always ended up joining him, accompanied us even better than the clinking keys of the pianoforte would have. Which was where I ended up sitting, my hands on the lid beside my hips, pinned there as his arms wrapped around me and he covered my lips, my neck, my shoulders with kisses that grew more passionate with each brush of his lips as they crossed my skin, leaving trails of fire that grew with every indrawn breath. And just before my claustrophobia kicked in, he loosened his arms so he could feather his fingers up my spine and down my shoulder blades. I shivered. "Cold?" he murmured into my left breast. "Nnng." I laced my fingers through his and brought them up to my mouth, smiling triumphantly as he moaned. "We need cushions," he said. I wrapped my legs around Vayl's hips and locked my elbows around his neck, which was corded with muscle that had been packed on in the days when heavy lifting meant cutting wood for the family's fire and hammering horseshoes out of raw iron. I ran my fingers through his jet-black hair, his soft curls springing around my nails playfully like they, too, realized what little time we had left to just enjoy each other. We were halfway to the couch when I whispered, as I nuzzled his earlobe, "All _I_ need is a flat surface. Baby, it doesn't even need to be horizontal." Low growl rumbling from his chest into mine as he veered off couch-course. We slammed into the wall, knocking a gasp from me that blew into his ear, making him shiver with delight. His fangs scraped down my neck and suddenly I couldn't touch him, kiss him, love him enough. I wanted to become a part of him, dive through him and leave the finest part of me inside his heart. And the best part was knowing, by the urgency in his touch, in his moans, that he felt exactly the same way. Afterward we lay in the doorway, tangled around each other because, finally, we didn't have to let go. Vayl ran his finger across my collarbone. It stung enough that I looked down, saw the trail his teeth had left. Just scrapes; he hadn't drunk from me this time. "Jasmine, I cannot decide how to feel about these." His finger traced the marks again, a sweet irritation. I looked into his eyes and realized how much I depended on their color to clue me into his thoughts and emotions. They'd faded from passion-bright emerald to stormy blue. "What are you worried about?" I asked. His finger came under my chin, lifted it up so he could plant a gentle kiss on my lips. "The temptation to taste of you fully rises higher each time we make love," he said. "You feel it as well." It wasn't a question. He'd had a special insight to my emotions since I'd offered my neck to him the first time, during a mission to Miami when his personal blood supply had been tainted. I said, "Yeah. Resisting has been... tough." "And yet we must." I brought my hand up to his wrist and squeezed. "You never stop surprising me, you know that? Not two months ago you were suggesting you should turn me. And now—" "You know I was not myself then. Besides, I have had time to consider, and so have you. Think what happens to us each time I drink of you. We are becoming more powerful, and yet unlike any other man and woman on earth." "Well. We did start out kinda unique." His nod gave me that. After all, the guy was a Wraith, which meant he could freeze his enemies from the inside out. Even among the Vampere that talent was rare. And people who knew me hesitated to even call me human anymore. Being able to walk in Vayl's memories had made me wonder sometimes myself, although I thought I'd proven that I still had it where it counted. Vayl said, "I have mentioned couples like us to you before. You do remember the reason that _sverhamin_ and _avhar_ are so deeply respected among my people." "Yeah," I said. "I remember." His hand went to my hair. Dove into my curls and brought a bundle up to his lips, as if only they could resuscitate him. His eyes closed as he inhaled my scent. "Woman, you have no idea how close we walk to the edge of disaster." "You mean, besides the fact that we assassinate national security threats for a living? Or did until our goddamn Oversight Committee shut us down." "Never fear about that," Vayl reassured me. "The circle always turns. And I believe Martha knows exactly how to spin this particular wheel." I had to agree. After learning that our old secretary had actually been running the department all along, I was more certain than ever that nothing could stop the bullet train that was Martha Evans from getting exactly what she wanted. And since, currently, her two priorities were to reopen our department and catch the clawed killer of Pete, the man who'd believed in me when no one else had, who'd hired me into the department and paired me with Vayl, I was cheering her on with both fists in the air. I shook my head. Leave it to me and Vayl to turn a forced vacation, not to mention a beautiful relationship, into an even more potentially lethal situation than offing monsters for a living! I said, "Okay, so what's so bad about you taking a sip from me every once in a while? Why is it something that should keep me looking over my shoulder?" He buried his face against my neck, speaking so quietly that I had to strain to hear. Maybe he hoped that, if I didn't, none of it would be true. "I have told you something of the world that parallels yours, the one in which we _others_ walk without pretense but, perhaps sometimes, with even more fear. The Whence runs according to a set of rules you would find both brutal and baffling. And its Council enforces those rules always with its bottom line in mind—whatever happens, do not attract the ire of humanity." "What does that have to do with you and me?" I asked. Vayl's hold tightened, becoming almost painful as his breath caught. "I believe because we are _avhar_ and _sverhamin_ we are changing with every exchange of blood and power, but not into anything this world or the Whence has ever seen. Because I am Vampere and you are Eldhayr the eventual outcome will not be that you become a vampire, but that we both transform into new creatures. Different, powerful species who began our lives as killers. Who are, in fact, the most effective assassins on the planet. Do you think the Whence, or even our own people, will wait around to see if we decide to be friends or foes?" I couldn't answer. He'd sealed my lips at the word "species." He went on. "I believe this is why every _avhar/sverhamin_ couple has disappeared within a year of their bonding. Either they realized their own danger and melted into the night of their own volition, or they were erased out of fear of what they were becoming together." He drew his face back, showing me eyes that had gone orange around the edges. "This is why we must hold back, though every desire in us calls for the exchange. Your blood, my power. We must never taste of one another in that way again. It is too dangerous for us now." "How do you know we're not already doomed?" I whispered. He smiled then, his dimple appearing just long enough to charm me into a stress-releasing breath. "Because we have not yet been visited by a Blank." "A Blank? Who's that?" "One of our counterparts in the Whence," Vayl answered. "Except instead of eliminating the monsters who threaten to destroy humanity, they kill _others_ whom the Council fears will make humanity want to destroy them." The doorbell rang. And, yeah, I'll admit I jumped inside the circle of Vayl's arms. As he chuckled I said, "Speak of the devil." "If we ever have to deal with a Blank, believe me, he will not announce his presence at the front door." "So who the hell is it?" Vayl's eyebrow raised a tick. "I suspect it might be the visitor you frightened off before." "Who shows up at a vampire's door at"—I checked my watch—"one in the morning? "Perhaps he is an encyclopedia salesman." "Vayl." I hid a grin. Such a charming trait, this tendency to get stuck in the past. _As long as it's just little bits of him and not the whole enchilada_. The thought sent stabbing pains through my chest every time I remembered our most recent trip abroad, which had ended with his nearly losing all sense of the present in Marrakech. I said, "Nobody buys encyclopedia sets from door-to-door salesmen anymore, because they can get all the information they need from the Internet." His lips pressed together so tightly I'd almost call his expression a glower. "How can you trust an entity everyone willingly refers to as a Web? If it is as large as they say, you must know the spider that spun it is mountainous." The doorbell rang again. I said, "I'd like nothing better than to discuss what weapons people use to protect themselves against netbugs. But it sounds like your guest really wants in." He pulled me close. "Do not worry. It is probably a motorist who has lost his way. People who threaten me never ring the doorbell first. Besides, I saw him on the second-floor security cameras the first time he was here. He is an innocent." "How could you tell?" I demanded. "It is one of my gifts." "Fine." I started grabbing underwear. "But I'm not really prepared to entertain. Where's my shirt?" "I think we left it in the guest bedroom." Okay, that meant a run upstairs. But where were my pants? Oh yeah, the library. I'd probably never find my heels again. "Do you know where your clothes are?" I asked. "My pants are in the kitchen. And I believe you dropped my shirt in the billiard room," Vayl answered as he slipped back into his boxers, his eyes sparkling like newly polished gems at the memory of our latest game. "Okay, that leaves you to deal with the dude at the door." I checked the monitor beside the light switch. "He looks nervous. Also tired." "He has probably been driving in circles all night. I suggest you take the back stairs. I will get rid of him as soon as possible, and then let us go shopping for dinner supplies, shall we? Tonight I think we should try cooking spaghetti again. Perhaps this time I can teach you how to boil pasta without clumping it." "Good luck with that. Although I'm sure Jack would appreciate a decent meal. He's probably sick of Purina," I said as we walked toward the back of the house, the doorbell insisting that we both move our asses because young-and-nervous needed to find his way back home! "Wait a moment," Vayl said as he opened the kitchen entrance to the newly fenced backyard. "Jack wants to go with you." My enormous gray-and-white malamute stepped inside and brushed past him, nodding his thanks. (Yes, I'm serious. He's überpolite. Even poops in the same spot so you don't have to go "treasure hunting" every afternoon.) I hadn't yet turned toward the servants' stairs, but Jack divined my intentions and trotted up to the second floor before stopping at the top, grinning at me from white-toothed doggy chops as if to say, _See what good shape I'm in? You should never leave me home during a mission again_. I ran up after him, patting his head affectionately as I passed him on the way to the guest bedroom. "You're right. I missed you like crazy too. I'll try to keep you close from now on, okay?" The door I wanted had been thrown wide during Vayl's hunt, the puffy pink duvet still pulled up to reveal the spot where I'd hidden under the four-poster bed. I crossed to the freestanding mirror where he'd tossed my tailored white shirt over the support structure. I threw it on over my bra. Stepped across the hall to the big, elegant room I shared with him to grab a pair of cheek-covering panties to slip on. And, of course, the pet that had preceded Jack had to come with me too, so on went the shoulder holster I'd left sitting on the mahogany dresser. Inside it rested a Walther PPK that had once shot only regular ammo. Then Bergman got ahold of it. Now, with the flick of a button, it transformed into a vamp-smacking crossbow. Jack had spent the time sniffing hopefully at the sofa that sat at the foot of the bed, its soft gold leather inviting him to jump up and make himself at home. "Don't even think about it," I told him. "There's a reason your bed's downstairs. Now let's bolt before you get into real trouble. I think I hear my pants ringing." We ran up the main stairs to the third floor, where I found my jeans crumpled beside the cozy brown suede chair where I liked to curl up every afternoon with a book and a can of Diet Coke. I pulled my phone out of the back pocket and stuck it between my ear and shoulder while I shoved my legs into my Levi's. "Hello?" "Jaz? Where's Vayl?" "Hi, Cassandra. He's with me." "He's all right then?" "What?" I felt my fingers go numb. Usually I reacted faster. It was my job to make sure my emotions didn't cloud my judgment. Even for the two seconds it took me to realize my psychic friend was freaking out about my lover. "What did you See?" "There was a mix-up in Australia. I accidentally packed one of your T-shirts in my suitcase. So I was folding it back into my luggage because Dave and I are coming up to visit you and Evie. It was supposed to be a surprise—" She swallowed a sob. "Tell me now, Cassandra." I tried to keep my voice calm. No sense in shouting at the woman who'd already saved my brother's life with one of her visions. But if she'd been in the room I'd have shaken her till her teeth rattled. "When I touched your shirt I saw you, leaning over Vayl's body. He had a stake through his heart. The blood—oh, Jaz, the blood." She started to cry for real now. "Anything else? Come on, Cassandra, I need to know everything you Saw." I'd zipped into my pants. Run to the stairs. Managed to make it to the second floor without breaking my neck. Jack was way ahead of me. "I don't know. There's this explosion, but not like the kind you see in movies. It's more... ripply. And at the middle is a young man. Younger than you. Taller, even, than Vayl, with full brown hair that keeps falling onto his forehead. He's snarling, which makes two deep dimples appear on his cheeks. He's standing in front of a tall oak door above which is hanging—" "A pike with a gold tassel," I finished. "Yes!" "Shit! Cassandra, that's Vayl's front door. And you've just described the kid who was ringing the bell." "Did he answer?" "I don't—" A shot rang out, tearing my heart in two. Jack growled menacingly, already on his way down the final set of steps. I glanced into the well made by the turn of the stairs from second to first floor. Yeah, I could jump it. So I did, landing on another one of Vayl's overstuffed sofas. The impact sent me rolling into the walnut coffee table fronting it, knocking it across the hall into a case full of antique knives. I raised my arm, protecting my face from the shattering glass. Not knowing how far the glass had scattered, I protected my bare feet by jumping back onto the couch. Then I took half a second to assess the situation. Twenty feet from me, at the other end of the hall in front of the open door, Vayl lay in a spreading pool of blood, the bloody hole in his forehead a result of the .38 Special lying on the floor. There were two reasons the young man kneeling over him wasn't still holding it. He needed both hands for the hammer and stake he now held poised over Vayl's chest. And Jack's teeth had sunk deep enough into his right wrist that by now he'd have been forced to drop it anyway. Only a guy as big as this one wouldn't have been thrown completely off balance by a full-on attack via 120-pound malamute. Despite the fact that a hundred pounds of the guy was weight he didn't need, his size had kept him off his back, though it hadn't allowed him to recover his balance enough to counter with the stake in his free hand. That would change if I didn't reach the scene in time. I jumped to the outer part of the stairs, holding the rail to keep from falling as I cleared the fallout from the display case. Another jump took me to the floor. Five running steps gave me a good start for a spin kick that should've caught the intruder on the temple, breaking his glasses in at least two places and taking him down so hard he'd be dreaming before his head bounced. But unless they're drugged, people don't just sit and wait for the blow. He pulled back, catching my heel on his nose. It broke, spraying blood all over his shirt and Jack. His glasses flew off, hitting the wall, but remaining miraculously intact. And it didn't take him down. In fact, it seemed to motivate him. Desperation filled his eyes. He ripped his hammer hand out of Jack's grip, though the bloody rips in his forearm would hurt like a son of a bitch when his adrenaline rush faded. Afraid his next move would be a blow to my dog, I lunged at him. I was wrong. He threw the hammer at me, forcing me to hit the floor. I rolled when I felt his shadow loom, knowing the worst scenario was me pinned under all that weight. But it never fell on me. I jumped to my feet and began to unholster Grief, though the last thing I wanted was to kill the bastard before I found out who'd sent him. Still, I was too late. The intruder had retrieved his revolver and was aiming the barrel at my chest. He'd probably hit me too if he squinted hard enough and held his breath long enough to stop shaking. The only positive I could see was that I stood between him and Vayl. For now. Jack growled menacingly and began to approach the man, his fur standing on end so that he looked like the miniature bear he sounded most like when he vocalized. The gun wavered as the man said, "You tell that dog to stop, or I will shoot it." "No, Jack," I said. "Sit." He came to an unhappy stop beside me. Once again I stood staring at my ultimate end. Because my Spirit Guide had informed me that my body couldn't take another rise to life. If this scumbag capped me, I'd be done. And I _so_ wasn't ready. I said, "I don't know you. And I thought I'd pegged all of our enemies. You're not a werewolf. You're not Vampere. You're definitely no pro." His eyebrows went up. So. He hadn't been told about our work. Baffling. Still, whoever picked him had chosen well. Amateurs occasionally succeeded where professionals failed because they were unpredictable. And motivated. This one definitely had his reasons for being here. I could see it in the way his eyebrows kept twitching down toward his nose. He was a time bomb ready to blow everyone in the room to bloody bits. He raised the gun. Uh-oh. While I'd been thinking, so had he. And it looked like he'd made a decision. "You need to walk away from that vampire," he said. "No." He pushed the revolver toward me, to make sure I understood he could pull the trigger. "I'm not playing. I will kill you if that's what it takes to smoke him." "Doesn't matter. I'll die if you do that anyway." The remark confused him. Upset him. _This isn't a bad man, but damn, something has pushed him way past his limit_. I watched his finger tighten on the trigger. I said, "Don't. Dude, you'll be killing a federal agent. They put you in jail forever for that kind of shit." "Jail?" He laughed, his voice rising into girl-land as he said, "I'm already in hell." Which was when I knew there was nothing I could say to divert him. I looked down at Jack, touched the soft fur on the top of his head in farewell. Glanced over my shoulder at Vayl, only long enough for the pain to lance through my heart. I could pull on him, make my final moments an epic shootout. But Jack could get hurt in the crossfire, and I'd never forgive myself if that happened. "Get it over with then." "NOT SO FAST!!" I slammed my hands over my ears, though I was pretty sure the voice came from inside my head until I saw that the intruder was wincing and wiping blood from his earlobes as well. The floor started to shake. Jack yelped and tried to hide between my legs as the polished pine floorboards between me and the intruder began to splinter and the fiery outline of an arched doorway pushed itself up from the basement below. "Well," I whispered to my dog. "This is new." I was pretty sure the intruder couldn't see the plane portal rising to stand between us. Most humans never did. But he did get a load of the five-by-six-foot gap developing in the floor. And when Raoul seemed to step out of thin air, I didn't blame him for needing to sit down. Which he did. On a plush, round-cushioned chair that was currently covered with wood chips. My Spirit Guide recovered Vayl's attacker's weapon so easily I felt a little stupid that I'd ever been paralyzed by it. Maybe I was getting soft in my old age. Maybe seeing Vayl halfway dead had freaked me out more than I should've let it. Raoul reversed the gun and lightly tapped the intruder on the forehead with it. "Wrong choice, Aaron. And I thought you knew better." He lifted the back of his jungle camouflage jacket and stuck the .38 in the waistband of his matching pants as Aaron tried to get his face to stop twitching. Raoul regarded him quietly for a while and then turned to face me. "Stop trying to get yourself killed. Even the Eminent agreed with me on this one. It isn't your time yet." "I wasn't _trying_ —it's not? Cool!" Nice to think that the folks who called the shots upstairs had actually approved of Raoul's helping me for once. Especially since it had involved saving my neck again. "So what do you and the other Eldhayr think about this dude? What did you call him, Aaron?" I asked, pointing my chin toward the failed assassin. Raoul pulled me aside. "I'm not allowed to interfere there." He looked hard into my eyes, trying to communicate information I hadn't known him long enough to decipher. He said, "All I can say is that it's good, really good, that you didn't kill him. Keep doing that." "What about Vayl?" I asked. "What can you say about him?" "Do you really need to hear that he's going to be okay? You already know that, Jaz. A bullet to the head can't kill a vampire as powerful as him." I shrugged. It's one thing to understand something intellectually. It's something completely different to see your lover looking fully dead from a head wound. So I reminded myself again, _He's just been knocked out. If you lifted his head you'd see the back of his skull has probably already re-formed. You shouldn't be trying to figure out how your stomach can manage to clench itself that tight. You should be patting yourself on the back for hooking up with a guy who's that tough to kill_. "Jasmine? Jaz? Is it over? What happened?" The voice, small and tinny, could've been mistaken for one of my inner girls, the various parts of my personality that I chat with when I'm überstressed or strapped for choices. But it was real. And hysterically worried. I suddenly realized I'd dropped my phone during the fight and now Jack was trying to dial China with his nose. "Cut it out," I murmured as I picked it up. "You don't even like rice." I laid the receiver against my ear. "Cassandra? I can't believe you're still there." "He's important!" "Of course he is. But he'll be fine. Vampires are—" "No! I mean, yes, of course. But I'm talking about the young man." "WHAT? You can't be on Raoul's side in this. This guy Aaron nearly killed us both!" I glared at the would-be murderer. He stared straight at me. Raised his chin slightly. But his lower lip was sending out an SOS I figured his mom could hear from inside her local beauty shop's hair dryer. Cassandra yelled, "Jasmine Elaine Parks, you listen to your future sister-in-law, dammit! Something is making me tingle like I'm electrified. Let me talk to Aaron!" I held the phone out to him. "You have a call." He looked away. "I'm busy." "Either you talk to the nice lady or I punch your lights out." His eyes, suddenly round and uncertain, went to Raoul, so I added, "Oh, don't look to him for help. He's like the UN. He'll bitch and whine about my behavior, but he'll sit back and let me do the dirty work because, in the end, he knows I'm the one who's gonna save the world." Raoul growled, "That was a low blow." I shrugged. "I'm sorry. I know the Eminent is always tying your hands. I just tend to get pissy when people try to kill the guy I love." I looked up at him. "But I do appreciate you coming when you did. Stellar timing, as usual." I shoved the phone toward Aaron. "The threat still stands, mainly because I'm still highly ticked off and I wanna hit something. It'd be so great if you gave me an excuse." Aaron took the phone, staring at me suspiciously as he said, "Hello? Yes. No." He listened for a while before his face puckered. But he managed to master the emotion Cassandra had eked out of him before he said another word. Which was "Thanks." He handed the phone back to me. "Well?" I asked the woman on the other end, who deserved a respectful ear, both because she'd survived nearly a thousand years on this Earth and because she'd chosen to spend the next fifty or so with my brother. Cassandra took a deep breath. "I can't be sure without touching the boy, but I consulted the tarot while he and I were speaking. It points to the same signs the Enkyklios has been showing me. I have to do more research, but—" "What are you trying to tell me?" "Whatever you do, don't hurt him," she repeated, this time in such a sober tone that I looked at him with less anger and more curiosity. Which was why I didn't shove his head into the wall like I'd been planning to when she said, "I believe that, in another life, he was Vayl's son." I stared at the guy, who looked so much younger than me that it was hard not to think of him as a kid. He glared back. And then, all at once, his face crumpled. It was like he'd only brought enough adrenaline with him to get him through fifteen minutes of action. After that the bravado shattered like an old piece of glass. I said, "You're lucky to be alive." He tried to answer. I could tell he wanted to say something smartass and slightly witty. Instead his jaw dropped and he keeled over, his head hitting the floor with a satisfying _clunk_. I looked at Raoul. "Cassandra says that's Vayl's son." Raoul studied the unconscious young man. Then he said, "We should break it to him gently." # CHAPTER TWO _Wednesday, June 13, 1:30 a.m_. I sat next to Raoul on the second-to-last step of the main stairs, watching the boy who would be killer sponge up Vayl's blood and squeeze it into a bucket of bleach water between bouts of gagging that never quite turned into a pukefest. Soooo satisfying to see him gross out on an aftermath he hadn't planned for. But not quite enough to leash the urge to impale him on the lance artfully displayed in the corner next to the front-door topiary and the chair Aaron had previously sat down in before he'd fallen and given himself a goose egg right in the middle of his forehead. Frankly, I couldn't wait for him to look in the mirror. I felt it would be the big blue bow on a gift that just kept giving. So, for now, I kept one hand buried in Jack's soft fur, and when the rage rose to heights that felt a little too violent for Aaron's personal safety, I reminded myself to imagine that goose egg at about three times its current size. I also glanced at Raoul every thirty seconds or so. In life he'd been a Ranger, so at his core he was a fierce fighting man. That was why he'd chosen to battle on into the afterlife. Still, around that core existed a serenity that calmed me. So just rubbing shoulders with him helped me remember that now was the time to live up to the nickname our department's warlock, Sterling, had dumped on me, and Chill. "What's he going to do to me?" Aaron asked, trying not to look down the hall but darting his eyes in that direction anyway. He couldn't see the kitchen door from where he crouched because you had to go through the dining room to get there. Which was a good thing. Better to spook him with his own wild imagination. Let him think Vayl was sharpening up a set of butcher knives, or calling in a whole slew of slavering revenants to tear into Aaron like a Christmas turkey. Unless, of course, he spilled his employer's name, address, and current Facebook status. So Raoul and I just mustered up our most baleful expressions and kept silent on the news that Vayl had taken his massive headache back to the fridge, where he'd found some prepackaged, government-distributed blood to nuke in his favorite coffee cup. Though it would speed healing, what he needed most was a good day's sleep. Knowing him like I did, I figured that while he ate he'd probably take the servants' stairs to our room, which had a connecting bath the size of my entire first apartment, where he'd clean up before he came back down. It wasn't just that he didn't care to walk around with blood caked behind his ears. Like me, he needed some time to decompress or he would, without even thinking, tear a hole in Aaron's throat that you could drive a remote-control car through. I could feel my _avhar_ 's fury even now, burning like the flames I'd seen in the sky the night Raoul and I had traveled to hell. Then it had blazed through anyone who dared to raise their eyes from the ground. Yeah, them and their fifty closest pals. Vayl was just as capable as Raoul of dishing out that kind of damage. Luckily he'd figured out a long time ago the danger he posed to anyone in his vicinity if he let his inner predator take the reins. So as soon as he'd regained consciousness he'd put a hand to his head, taken a long look at the blood on his fingertips, and then raised his icy blue eyes to mine. For a moment they flickered over my shoulder, acknowledged Raoul standing guard over Aaron, then returned to me where I still knelt beside him, holding tight to his other hand. If I'd just met him I'd have thought he was some kind of sociopath, his face was such a hardened mask. But by now I knew the blank stare meant he was struggling to keep his feelings from erupting into violence. Cirilai, the ring his grandfather had crafted at his mother's request and that had, as she'd predicted, once again saved his soul, sent hot stabbing pains through my fingers. I jerked my hand out of his, staring at the golden knots twisting lovingly around each exquisite ruby that sparkled on my finger, wondering which one had zapped me. "What happened?" asked Vayl. "Cirilai hurt me. I think that means _you're_ about to blow," I said. He nodded, his eyes fading rapidly to black. "Deal with that," he said, his finger-flick indicating that if I didn't do something with Aaron, he'd have to. And it wouldn't be pretty. "Absolutely." He'd been gone about twenty minutes when Aaron began to show concern. Which was when I told him, "Whatever the vampire plans for you will be relatively painless compared to what _I'm_ gonna do." He paused in his scrubbing to stare me down. "You don't look that scary." The dude couldn't quite get the tremble out of his throat, but he still managed to meet my eyes. I gave him half a point for effort. Raoul laughed. "Do you want to know how her friend Cole describes her?" Aaron dropped his head to one side, which was all the encouragement my Spirit Guide needed. He said, "Cole says she may be a skinny white chick, but she'll kick your ass so fast you'll wonder why your butt cheeks are dented." I hid a smirk and reminded myself to call my buddy, and former recruit, as soon as I had a free minute. Our last mission had been a bitch to him and he wasn't adapting well to the downtime. In fact, this situation would probably cheer him up immensely. Give him something to take his mind off the fact that he'd nearly become a demon in Marrakech, and part of him had liked it. I sent a mental message to Teen Me to try to remember where I'd left my phone in all the chaos, while I went on with the task at hand. Which was to get as much information as I could out of the prisoner while Vayl was still pissed at him. Because as soon as he found out they'd once been as close as two men ever managed to get, that'd be the end of it. I said, "Raoul here says your first name is Aaron. What's your last name?" I asked. "How does he know that?" Aaron demanded. "It's his job. Now. You got a last name?" I watched him consider stubbornness. And then realize it didn't really matter. We had him cold. He said, "Sullivan." I sat forward just enough to cause Jack to readjust his head where it lay on my lap. He moved it to my knees, blinking his eyes from me to Aaron and back again like he truly understood our conversation. "They sent you in blind, didn't they? I'd almost guess someone wanted _you_ dead, except you nearly succeeded in killing Vayl, so I have to believe whoever hired you really wanted him out of the picture. Would you like to fork over any names before your lips get too puffy for me to understand you perfectly and you have to keep repeating yourself?" Raoul said, "Jaz. Do we have to threaten him with violence already? He hasn't even stopped cooperating." I glared at my Spirit Guide. "I'm itching for an excuse to punch this little creep. Would you stop being so damn nice?" I turned to Aaron, waiting for his answer. But apparently Raoul's soft heart had made his decision for him. He sealed his lips shut, shook his head, and went back to cleaning. I said, "You should know it's not just me and Vayl you have to worry about. After we're done with you I'll be calling a very select group of government agents who, after hearing you've nearly smoked one of the most valuable public servants this country has ever known, will be only too happy to make sure you disappear forever. But not before you learn how to scream like a little girl. That is, unless you cooperate. You got me?" Aaron didn't bother to look up as he said, "I have nothing to tell you besides the fact that I tried to kill a filthy vampire and I failed. Now I'm going to get my blood sucked dry. In fact, by morning I'll probably be one of those leeches with legs myself." He shook his head, spat with disgust, then wiped it up with a rag I'd be burning shortly. _Rip out his hair and feed it to him, Jaz!_ It was my Inner Bimbo, teetering on her bar stool because she was balancing a cigarette between two fingers and a rum and Coke in the same hand, and rummaging through her big, black bag with the other hand. I had to chime in, even if it was only in my mind. _Why do you care? He's so not your type I'm surprised you're actually able to see him. So far the only upside to his personality I've found is that he's discovered the single kernel of bravery inside his core and he's hanging on to it for dear life—what the hell are you doing?_ _After what just happened with Vayl, you have to ask why that piece of shit deserves battery clips and a strong current? As for what I'm doing, I thought I had a book on self-defense in here, you know, just in case one of my lovers gets a little too frisky. When I find it I'm going to read you all kinds of suggestions for how to deepen his dimples_. She paused to imitate a bellows, sucking in and blowing out enough cigarette smoke to give the entire bar the feel of a foggy Halloween night. _Remember, I'm the one who knows best how to make you lose control_. _Pull in the claws, Sheba. This one gets to live. Although if I decide to slap him around a little you can be my cheerleader_. _Stellar! I even have the outfit!_ _Why am I not surprised?_ I'd been silent enough to make Aaron-boy nervous. Still concentrating on his cleaning he asked, "What're you going to do with me?" _Fuck if I know_. So I answered his question with a question. "How many vampires have you met?" "Including yours?" "Yeah." "None. I wouldn't say we'd been properly introduced, would you?" I stood up and, surprisingly, Raoul didn't hold me back. He didn't even protest when I grabbed Aaron's .38 Special out of his waistband and shoved it against the little prick's skull. "I've had enough of your attitude. Normally I enjoy smartasses. But not when they've just tried to murder the man I love." "He's not a man. He's a parasite!" I pushed down on the barrel hard enough to leave a nice round imprint if I ever decided to back off, and Aaron figured out it was my turn to talk. "That _vampire_ has been working for the United States government for eighty years. He's saved our country from decimation more times than I care to recount. In fact, dumbass, you just nearly destroyed a national treasure." He looked up at me then, his cheeks jiggling slightly with the nerve it took to meet my eyes. I found myself respecting him slightly more as he managed a firm, "No." "In some circles he's considered to be more important than the president." Aaron scrubbed for a while in silence. When he had nothing left but clean floor to stare at he threw the rag in the bucket and sat back on his heels. "I don't believe you." Stubborn. I should have expected as much from Vayl's spawn, even this many generations removed from his direct influence. "Astral," I called. I'd left the robokitty Bergman had invented for me upstairs with orders to stay in my room until she heard from me again. Hopefully she'd function properly now that I really needed her to pull through for me. She streaked down the stairs, a sleek black missile on four legs with twitchy ears, a lashing tail, and a tendency to burst into inappropriate songs that had developed only after Jack had surprised her during a reconnaissance, causing her to blow her own head off. The repairs had been more, and less, than a complete success. Considering the latest eccentricity to appear in what had become the quirkiest personality I'd ever seen in a homemade cat, I was voting for less. Jack greeted Astral by sitting up straight at Raoul's knee. He knew better than to jump her now. In fact, most of the time he was willing to wait until she approached him or called him over to play. I watched her just as carefully, and let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding when all she did was bob her head at me and say, "Hello!" I nodded at her, though I understood that I was acknowledging a mobilized supercomputer, and said, "Show me Vayl's file. Keep the top secret parts to yourself." Astral's mouth ratcheted open and a light clicked on, movietheater style. At the same time a hologram of Vayl's papers appeared in front of my face even as I heard a velvety-voiced woman reading them. "Vasil Nicu Brâncoveanu. Born in what is now Mogosoaia, Romania, on November 18, 1713, though at the time the area was called Wallachia. Became a vampire in 1751. Current assignment: Agent for Antiterrorism Division of the Central Intelligence Agency commonly known as ATD. Division is temporarily shut down at the request of its Oversight Committee due to the murder of one of its agents, Ethan Mreck, and its director, Peter Huttin." Of course that wasn't the whole truth. Our division existed as a subsidiary of the ATD, its name so secret only a few people in government had ever even heard it. And my boss, Pete, had actually been following his "secretary" Martha's orders all along. But the rest—way more truth than I'd wanted to deal with today. Damn Aaron Sullivan. He said, "Why are you letting me see this?" The whites of his eyes had begun to show. "This really isn't a bluff, is it? It doesn't matter what I know if you've already decided to kill me." He shoved his thumb into his mouth, started to chew the nail, then quickly wrapped his arm around his back with a guilty look, like he'd been caught raiding the cookie jar. I wondered, suddenly, how many times his parents had cracked his knuckles for biting his nails as a kid. Hiding a sudden rush of sympathy, I pulled the gun away from his head. "You have pissed me off more deeply than anyone I've met in the past six months and you're still alive. That reads well for your future. The fact that I'm explaining Vayl to you at all should give you even more hope." "But why?" "Yes." Vayl had come through the dining room door. He held a bag of frozen peas to the wound on his forehead. "Why do you give this young man my secrets?" I felt Aaron do a big swallow beside me. It's one thing to attack an unsuspecting victim inside his front door. Especially when you're rushing in with your head full of preconceived notions. It's a whole other story to mop up the blood you spilled and then watch your target saunter down the hall, all cleaned up and pissed as hell that you interrupted a fabulous evening, ruined his favorite shirt, and gave him a pounding headache. I savored the moment, knowing how quickly it was about to change. Dreading the possibilities ahead of me. Vayl's two sons had been murdered when he was still human. He had made it his quest to find their re-embodied souls ever since. And now that the reality was staring me in the face, I wanted to annihilate it. So typical. I stepped back, shoving Aaron's revolver into the waistband of my jeans to make sure it was well out of the way when I told Vayl, "Cassandra called to warn me about the shooting just before it happened. Obviously I was too late to stop it, and I sure as hell wanted to follow through with the retribution after I'd seen what this dude had done. But she wouldn't let me." "Why not?" Vayl asked, his icy blue eyes tracking every stray hair, every bruise and hollow of his attacker, cataloguing what he saw for future reference. I cleared my throat. "She believes he's your son." Vayl went still. His eyes broke to mine, hope blooming in them like wild daffodils. "Is she sure?" "Not without touching him, but she spoke to him. She ran the tarot. And the Enkyklios is confirming. She says this guy Aaron is the reincarnation of your boy Badu." I glanced at Raoul. He was watching Vayl intently, his hands buried in Jack's fur. I realized he was hoping Vayl wouldn't be crushed when Aaron rejected him. That, despite his personal problems with vamps, he was quietly supporting the creature he'd tried to boot out of my life a few months ago. After a minute I realized Vayl hadn't responded. I looked back up at him and tried to decide if he'd changed in that moment, or if I'd suddenly been given leave to see him more clearly. His hair, still glistening with droplets from the shower, curled riotously all over his head. His jet-black eyebrows slanted like wings over eyes that had softened to gold with brown flecks dancing in their depths. They contrasted startlingly with the hard lines of his cheekbones and jaw, although when I saw the dimple appear in his right cheek I knew his feelings ran deep to the hopeful side of the bank. "I cannot believe it." "Okay." _And yet, you want to, so damn desperately. Oh, Vayl. I won't be able to stand it if this little fuckhead breaks your heart_. I glared at Aaron, showing him with my eyes exactly what I would do to him if he hurt my _sverhamin_ , in any way, ever again. Vayl stepped closer to the young man, the intensity of his stare making the boy look nervously for an exit. Like he'd make it that far. Vayl grasped him by the shoulders and raised him to his feet, looking so deeply into his eyes that Aaron winced as he asked shakily, "What do you want?" Then, realizing he might not like the answer, added, "I'm a really rare blood type. It's probably all bitter and tangy." "Undoubtedly," said Vayl. He glanced at me. "How sure is she?" "I'd guess about eighty percent." His eyes went back to his would-be assassin. "It is more than any other Sister of the Second Sight has given me in all these decades." He switched to a different language—Romanian, if I had my dialects right—speaking almost urgently as he pressed his hands into Aaron's shoulders. "I don't know what you're saying." Aaron looked to me desperately. "I don't _know_! But I swear, my dad is—was—Aaron Sullivan, Sr. He worked for the power company until he died. And if I don't kill this vampire"—he lifted his forearm so he could point at Vayl while he talked—"he's never going to stop haunting me and I'm never going to pass the bar and I'm going to spend the rest of my life clerking for Schmidt, Glesser, and Roflower at a desk the size of a DVD player!" "Look, kid." I checked myself. I couldn't be more than a year or two older than the guy. Even if I'd already survived more than his grandma, maybe I should avoid talking like her. I tried again: "Your ghost infestation is not our problem. Go bag yourself another vamp before we shred you like last year's bills." "Jasmine." I turned my whole body toward Vayl as warning bells clanged so loud in my head that for a second I felt like I'd been transported into a church steeple. "What?" Vayl patted Aaron on the arm and said, "Excuse us." He came over to me. "May I speak with you at the end of the hall for a moment?" "Sure." I walked up to Aaron and began to frisk him. "Jasmine," Vayl protested. "You have done a remarkable job. Now that we all know he is my son I am sure that is not necessary. Especially with Raoul right here—" I held up the vial I'd just retrieved from the inside of his calf. "Holy water, no doubt." I stood. Folded my right arm around Aaron's neck, forcing him to stoop to my level. He gasped, all the blood rushing to his face, his eyes bulging in shock as he realized a girl half his size had taken complete physical control of him and he hadn't even thought to resist. I said, "Look at us closely, Vayl. One of us just inspired you to ram into the wall so hard the chandelier dropped half of its diamondy doodads on the floor. The other shot you in the head. You'd better make sure, right now, that you're clear whose side you're on." The sides of his lips drooped. "This is not about loyalty." "It sure as shit is. Don't you dare make the same mistakes you made with Badu three hundred years ago. This little fucker—" I looked at Aaron as I spoke, noted his size, and said, "Okay, this _big_ fucker just tried to _kill_ you. He may be the walking incarnation of your murdered boy, but that doesn't change the facts. And you have to face those facts. All of them. _Now!_ " Vayl's chin dropped a centimeter. Not an agreement. Just an acknowledgment that he'd think about it as he motioned to the end of the hall. I threw the holy water to Raoul and watched resentfully as Vayl moved away, the muscles bunching and releasing in his perfect ass. An hour ago I'd had my hands wrapped around that work of art, and my brain had been so deeply steeped in ecstasy it was practically rose-colored. Now I wanted to take that same rear and pinch it until the annoyance forced him to realize he couldn't just instantly forgive the guy who'd tried to kill him, never mind who he'd been two hundred and some years ago. I took a deep breath. Vayl wasn't the only one who had to work to contain his violent tendencies. I slipped my feet into a spare pair of shoes I'd left beside the front door yesterday and followed him to the end of the hall. We crunched through the glass of the cabinet he barely glanced at and ended up facing each other in front of his grandfather clock between two doorways, one leading left to the dining room, the opposite opening to the guest bathroom. He said, "I have not lost my mind." I realized I'd crossed my arms when I dropped them in disbelief. "Oh?" "Aaron needs to think that I trust him implicitly." "Why?" "So that he will believe just as deeply that you do not." His dimple made another appearance and I clasped my hands behind my back so I wouldn't be tempted to grab him. I turned my back so Junior wouldn't be able to read my lips as I whispered, "Are you suggesting we pull a little good cop, bad cop scenario on him? And you're even letting me be the bad cop?" He bowed his head. "That, my _pretera_ , is how much I love you." "You have never been sexier than at this very moment." "It is a shame we have so much company," he agreed quietly. I cleared my throat. "Okay. So you're not buying the I'm-being-haunted story either?" "Certainly not. Those issues are easily taken care of through mediums. The boy has been weaponized. And until we discover by whom, we cannot help ourselves, or him." I lifted my chin. "So you still wanna help him?" "Jasmine, I cannot discount the fact that he may be my son. But my hopes have been lifted too many times for me to embrace him completely until I know for certain. Still, I cannot let him flounder knowing the chance exists." I nodded. "Okay." I rubbed my hands together. "Damn, I wish I had a doughnut to throw at him." Vayl smirked. "You enjoy our games, yes?" I smiled up at him. "You bet I do." "Then let us finish this one quickly, because I have just thought of another. And it is definitely limited to two players." I let him see the fire in my eyes before I pulled myself together. When I turned around I'd adopted the expression I'd seen almost every morning at the breakfast table during my childhood. Pissedoff mom is only a half step away from bad cop. As soon as I started talking, I'd be there. A little tidbit for you future operatives. Write it down. # CHAPTER THREE _Wednesday, June 13, 1:45 a.m_. Under Raoul's direction Aaron had dumped his red-tinged bucket of water outside and dried the floor, and was sweeping up wood chips by the time we returned to the front entryway. I had to work to hide my relief, and it didn't help to recall why. The last time I'd seen my lover's blood spill beneath his body, it had been because my fiancé, Matt, had taken a knife meant for me. Though he'd been gone for over a year and a half now, I missed him every day. I never wanted to feel that way about my vampire. Raoul still sat on the stairs, scratching Jack under the chin just the way he liked it while Astral oversaw all the action from the top of a fourlegged humidor that bridged the gap between the front door and the entry to the billiard room to its right. Vayl had once kept a large fern there, but after the cat had planted herself in the middle of it for the third time, he'd taken her hint and moved it. Since then she'd commandeered four other spots in the house. The fact that they gave her excellent views of the entire floor was, we decided, no accident. Bergman took his security far past the bounds of paranoia, and we had no doubt he'd programmed safety measures into Astral that had yet to be tapped. Vayl and I approached Aaron with the same purpose, but with polar-opposite attitudes. I reminded myself to keep all my fun on the inside. "We need to ask you a few questions," Vayl began. "Please join us in the conservatory." He motioned to the music room, where several glittering bits of light fixture still lay scattered on the Persian rug. As Aaron walked into the room he looked at them, glanced up at the chandelier, and back down at the mess Vayl and I had caused. I pointed to the dropped glass and said, " _This_ is what happens when we're having fun. Just think what I'm gonna break if you piss me off again." He stopped just as he reached the sofa and turned to me, his eyes shuttling nervously between me and Astral, who'd provided the perfect soundtrack for me as she came into the room. Drowning Pool's song "Bodies" pounded into Aaron's ears—"Let the bodies hit the floor/Let the bodies hit the floor"—making him shiver as the robokitty sauntered past him, blinking sleepily as she went. She jumped onto the fireplace mantel, placing herself so close to the middle she could've been confused for a figurine if she hadn't chosen that moment to do a test cycle, which made her click like the dial of a washing machine. "Can't you make her stop?" Aaron demanded. I shrugged. "She's programmed to respond to my mood," I lied. "And right now..." I let myself trail away, smiling dreamily as the song howled through the room and Aaron hunched his shoulders like he thought somebody was about to jump him. All the girls inside my head shrieked with laughter. Raoul was having no problem keeping it serious. He'd stayed at the edge of the conservatory, leaning against the archway, while Jack sat at his feet, both of them content to observe first and judge later. Aaron had noticed my attention wandering. He asked, "Is that your dog?" "Why?" "You don't seem like the type who'd like dogs. Or... anything... really." "You got that right. The mutt belongs to my boyfriend." I patted Vayl on the back and said, "He's such a softy," as he crossed to Aaron's side and motioned that they should sit on the couch beside each other. I stood behind the chair opposite them. At my height it's tough to loom, but I did my best to seem as if I were the kind of person who, having already broken a light fixture and a display cabinet today, wouldn't hesitate to toss an easy chair into his lap. Vayl settled into the corner of the sofa, making himself comfortable with his arm across the back and one ankle propped on the other knee as he asked, "This haunting you spoke of. I do not understand why my death would end it. Most ghosts simply need closure. Some require a gifted person, such as a medium, to help them fully cross over. I have never heard of one demanding a sacrifice in order to—" He stopped, grimacing at me as I pulled Aaron's .38 Special out and laid it on the top cushion of the chair. "Must you?" he asked. "Oh, yeah," I said, nodding grimly. "Because you and I both know that Junior here is lying through his teeth." I waved him off as he started to protest that Aaron was probably under a lot of pressure. I stroked the gun lovingly. "Whoever sent him should've told him he's got the lamest cover story since my brother told my parents he was going waterskiing with his buddies and not one of them owned a boat. Lucky for him our dad wasn't able to track him down until he'd already enlisted." Aaron stared, predictably thrown off by my detour into family history. He finally responded by saying, "I don't have a brother." "Yes, you do," Vayl said. "No," Aaron insisted. "My sister—" He stopped, gulping slightly when Vayl set both feet on the floor and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. I felt the familiar cold caress of his power as it swirled away from him. He could've rammed it down Aaron's throat, made him tell us every detail of his life right down to the brand of popcorn he preferred. But the possibility of Badu floated over all our heads, and he'd never mind-blast his own son. So he simply told the truth and backed it up with a press of magical assurance so that Aaron would know in his heart that Vayl's words were genuine. He said, "The fact that you are alive and here now proves that your brother's soul may also be present in this world. The fact that you, of all people, have been sent to kill me, bodes ill for whoever Hanzi is in this lifetime. Because if you fail, your handler will most certainly send him to complete your work. This puts him in terrible danger, both from the people who have trapped you, and from us." He glanced at me. "We are trained to act first and think second. We may kill him in self-defense before we have the chance to save him." "You're crazy," Aaron muttered. "Talking about me like I was actually alive hundreds of years ago. I'm a lawyer. Almost. I deal with facts. Case histories. Precedents. I could never buy some wacko theory like that." "Bullshit," I said. "You're the one who thinks he needs to kill a vampire to stop a haunting." "Nobody needs an excuse to smoke vampires!" Aaron exclaimed. "Ask around! I'd be applauded in the streets for flicking another parasite off the ass of humankind!" Then, as if realizing that he was sitting right next to one of the parasites he'd just insulted and maybe he should've just kept his big fat mouth shut, Aaron pressed his lips together so hard they looked like a single entity. But not soon enough for me. I picked up the revolver in one smooth motion and took a shot. Boom! Aaron screamed as the pillow under his arm jumped and a couple of feathers fluttered into the air. I found myself wishing he'd brought a shotgun. Now that would've made a big splash! "Jasmine! You shot my couch!" "You're looking at it all wrong, as usual, Vayl. What happened was that I didn't shoot your kid. Now, be honest, which means more to you?" Vayl motioned to Aaron. "That's what I thought. So I'll buy you a new couch, which will, I promise, be a lot more comfortable than that stiff old backbreaker. I also promise, if this little shit doesn't start talking I will start taking chunks out of him." I chambered another round. "Don't tell her, Aaron!" The demand didn't come from any voice I was familiar with. But Aaron knew it well. He spun in his seat. Aaron gasped. "Dad!" I let the .38 drop to the floor and risked a look over my shoulder. A man, or rather what was left of him, floated in the corner behind the pianoforte stool, Vayl's framed collection of Picasso pencil drawings showing clearly through his brown business suit. He held his emaciated hands out, his entire expression echoing the pleading gesture. "What's he doing here?" I asked Vayl and Raoul. "Ghosts are supposed to be rooted to their homeplaces." I put a hand to my eye, trying to shove back the pain that suddenly exploded there. "Something's wrong," I whispered, just as a gout of blood gushed from my right nostril. My knees buckled. Vayl caught me and pulled me upright before I could hit the floor. Raoul, only a step behind, had pulled a length of gauze from a first-aid kit I never even knew he carried. He pressed it under my nose and nodded for me to hold it there as I forced my eyes back up to the ghost, who was continuously scratching his forearms like he couldn't stand the feel of his own skin. I looked up at Vayl as he wrapped his arm around me. "It's Brude. I can feel him, beating his fists on the walls of my mind. We weren't supposed to know that he's done something to the Thin. He's made it so ghosts can walk. So they can travel long distances. Of course. If he's going to defeat Lucifer and crown himself king of New Hell he's gotta be able to transport his armies. He must be behind this. If he kills you, he paralyzes me—" I moaned, not so much from fear of that happening. We'd survived this long for a reason. But because my head felt like Brude had ripped it off and rolled it down Vayl's stairs. "That is not going to happen," he said. "Just because it hasn't so far—" I put my fingers to my temples and rubbed. It didn't help. Then Raoul shoved my hands away and took over. The pain began to subside. "What do you know about Brude?" Aaron had risen from the couch. He held the pillow in front of him. Aw. Now I was going to have to put it in Vayl's third-floor armory along with a little plaque with the inscription MOST PATHETIC SHIELD EVER. Vayl said, "He is the king of a realm called the Thin. It is a nightmare world where souls sometimes travel, or are trapped, on their way to their final destination." "My dad's there?" Aaron whispered. Vayl answered, "It seems so. We believe that Brude has engineered this entire scene, except for my survival, of course. Because he wants to render Jasmine helpless, at least for the length of time it would take for him to kill her from the inside out." That word "helpless" galvanized me. I stepped away from my nurses, my headache bearable now that Raoul had massaged the worst of it away, my nosebleed on temporary hiatus. _It's gonna take more than that to put me down, suckah_. In support, Teen Me did a couple of painfully lame front kicks toward the locked door in my mind behind which Brude paced. _Please stop_ , I told her. _You may think you're pulling off Jackie Chan, but the only person you're reminding me of is that skinny dude from_ Nacho Libre. Aaron's nose wrinkled as he stared at me, his lawyer's mind ticking off new facts that were making his mouth twist with disgust. "He's inside you?" "He tried to possess me," I admitted. "It didn't work, but I couldn't boot him out of my psyche either. So I've got him trapped. For now. I know how to vanquish him. I was just waiting for this guy to find me the best route into the place." I nodded to Raoul, who managed to look more anxious than he had just seconds before. As if I needed another reason to worry. Hadn't his scouts had any success at all? "If you beat Brude, what happens to my dad?" asked Aaron. He winced as Senior wailed in the background. "The Thin existed before Brude and it will continue after him," said Raoul. "But once his hold over your father ends, I can save him." "You?" Aaron looked Raoul over doubtfully. Now I was doubly insulted. First he dissed my vamp. Then he questioned my Spirit Guide. That kind of ignorance only came from years of hard work. And I had no patience for such bigotry. I kept my voice low, which should've been a warning to him, as I said, "The fact that you took Vayl down before? That was what we call a rookie run. It happens to all newbies. Once. Then most of them get cocky and die. You are in the presence of masters, you little shit. All you have to figure out is whether you want to be standing in the crossfire or watching from the roof when we get down to business." While I waited for him to decide I wondered if I'd gone too far. If, maybe, the ghost of Aaron Senior, and Junior's shocked blue eyes, would cause Vayl to launch into an "Aw, come on, be nice to my wittle boy" lecture. But when I looked up at him, he leaned down and brushed a kiss onto my cheek. "Have I told you lately what a magnificent woman you are?" he whispered, his breath tickling the lobe of my ear. I shook my head, not trusting my voice to stay steady at that precise moment. I cut my gaze to Raoul, who'd been studying the moaning ghost of Senior thoughtfully. When he realized I was watching, he said, "If you needed any more proof that you've got Brude scraping the barrel to save his sorry hide, there it is." He motioned first to the ghost and then to his son. "My scouts still haven't found a clear path to any of hell's gates for you yet. But I promise, it'll be soon." He pointed to my head. "How much does it hurt and how often?" I tried to shrug it off, but a new, piercing pain forced me to grimace instead. I felt Vayl's arm slide around my waist as I said, "It's intense when it comes, which is about every other day now." "How long does it last?" "A few hours. Usually I can sleep it off." "And the nosebleeds?" I wadded the gauze up in my fist, as if to make it disappear would prevent me from having to answer the question. But when I looked up at my Spirit Guide, he stared steadily into my eyes, waiting, demanding a reply. "Small ones every twelve hours or so. Big ones every thirty-six." We both knew it meant my time had wound down from weeks to days. If I didn't destroy Brude soon, not even Raoul could save me. I didn't like his frown. It looked a little too... sympathetic. "I'll be fine. Just find us a way in that won't get us shredded before we're even halfway there." He held up his hands. "All the citizens of hell know you have the Rocenz. When Vayl jumped through the plane portal and cut it from the demoness's grip, he made what you would call 'big news' in the netherworld." He didn't add that Vayl had been forced to literally chop Kyphas's hands off to retrieve the tool that would save my life. The grisly memory still woke me up some nights just short of a scream. Raoul went on. "Hell wants it back." "Of course it does!" I hissed. "It only turns people into fucking demons!" His eyes narrowed, reminding me to watch my mouth and my temper. Now was no time to lose it, not when actual parts of me were unraveling. I took a breath, tucking in the part of me that still raged at the memory of Cole, his eyes flashing red, fighting the change as Kyphas carved his name into her heartstone with the Rocenz. If only she hadn't clapped the hammer and chisel back into a single fused tool before Vayl set off that grenade. That was the big black raincloud neither Raoul nor Vayl nor I wanted to admit we stood under. Even if Raoul's scouts found us an unguarded path to one of the gates, we still didn't know how to separate the two parts of the Rocenz. Until we did we couldn't carve Brude's name on those gates. And it had to be stricken into that blasted metal, because with each blow of the hammer onto the chisel, the magic of the Rocenz, imbued by Torledge, the Demon Lord of Lessening, would reduce Brude to his essence. When we were done with the son of a bitch he would be taken down to the dust from which he'd come. And then, maybe... well, I hadn't said anything to Vayl yet. But we'd done some research and figured out that the Rocenz could also separate Roldan, Vayl's worst enemy, from the gorgon who kept him alive. Split those two, they die, and then you have some sweet revenge on the Were who killed our boss, Pete. But I had to survive first. I took a breath. "So how much time do you figure I have left?" He hesitated, his eyes darting to Vayl before they came back to me. "You're strong. Anyone else would have surrendered by now. As it is, I'd guess you have four, maybe five days left. Seven at the most." I nodded. Crept my hand around Vayl's arm and slid it down toward his hand until I felt his fingers wrap around mine. I felt better instantly. "Okay, then. Here's what I think." "Um, excuse me?" Aaron was holding up his hand. Geez, did he still think he was in high school? "Yes, Aaron?" said Vayl. "I don't know if this'll help your plans or not, but I wasn't just supposed to kill you." We stared at him so long that he checked to make sure his fly was zipped. Finally Vayl said, "You were given further orders?" "Yeah." "Noooo, Aaron!" wailed Senior from the corner of the room. Raoul waved at him and the sound muted so quickly you'd have thought he was holding a TV remote. "Oh, that's cool," I said. "You've gotta teach me that one." "If you survive this ordeal, I will," Raoul promised. "Deal." I gestured to Junior. "What were you supposed to do after you'd offed Vayl?" "They told me to put his, uh, remains in a bag and bring them to their boss." "How could you do that? He's a freaking ghost!" Aaron shook his head. "No. Look, you keep thinking this guy, Brude, was telling me what to do. But I only heard my dad mention him once. The same way you'd say, I don't know, Kim Jong-il. Or Bernie Madoff. But he's not the one who gave me the orders. You know, the one who said, 'Do this or your dad will never stop haunting you.' That was a different guy." "Did he tell you his name?" Vayl asked. "Yeah. In fact, he said it a few times. I got the feeling he wanted me to drop it before I killed you. But that seemed kind of melodramatic. So I didn't." He paused. And then when he realized we were waiting for it he said, "Oh! You wanna know—yeah, his name was Roldan." # CHAPTER FOUR _Wednesday, June 13, 2:15 a.m_. Once Aaron had dropped the name of the werewolf who'd become Vayl's worst enemy (I would've said nemesis, but that's so Sherlock Holmesian), Aaron Senior gave up the fight and faded away. So did my headache. Most likely a sign that Brude had just fallen back to find a better position from which to attempt a strokeinducing attack the next time I seemed even remotely vulnerable. Vayl had looked down at me. "You need food. And I could use another bite as well." He smirked at his pun. "Let us take this discussion to the kitchen, shall we?" So we'd ended up crowded around his table for two, using chairs he'd brought in from the dining room to make up the difference, staring out the window into the backyard, where Jack had decided he needed more running time. Astral had taken her customary perch on the mantel of yet another fireplace that sat between the door and the hall that led to the utility room. Between it and the kitchen sink on the opposite wall sat a wide maple butcher-block table with a built-in knife rack along the edge. The rest of the kitchen had been designed in a horseshoe shape around the table, with the refrigerator to its right as you entered the room. It had been covered to match the stained pine cabinets. The gas stove had been designed to look like something out of a pioneer kitchen with its cast-iron shell, though it had modern guts. My second-favorite item in the kitchen, it charmed me only slightly less than the brick floor, which must've cost a fortune to lay, but made me feel cozy every time I came into the room. Aaron's comment, as usual, kind of pissed me off. "This room doesn't really fit the rest of the house. You should have it redone." I pressed my lips together. If Junior really was Vayl's son, I'd have to find a way to get along with him. And snapping his head off every ten minutes probably wasn't a good place to start. So I kept quiet and let Vayl answer. "I suppose an interior decorator would find it clashes," he said. "But I am not so concerned about these matters as I am about surrounding myself with fond memories." That was all he said, so I didn't know if the kitchen he'd had such happy times in had belonged to a woman he'd loved. Or if he'd just enjoyed meals from a cook who'd had a similar setup. And right now—I didn't wanna know. So I dug into the bowl of cookie dough ice cream that Vayl had dipped for me and grooved on the grossed-out expression that passed over Aaron's face as he watched his former target sip a second helping of government blood from his favorite mug. Raoul was the one who finally spoke up. "Does knowing that Roldan ordered the young man who may be the incarnation of Badu to kill you really change anything? As far as I'm concerned, my mission remains unchanged." Vayl's chin dropped slightly. "I agree that you should continue." It seemed like he was about to say something more, but he let it go. I said, "In four days, if your people haven't met with any success, we'll take the path you think will most likely get us there successfully. If you can recruit fighters for that journey, we'd appreciate it. But be straight with them, okay? We want them to understand it'll be a battle the whole way in." I stopped there. No sense adding that we'd be lucky if any of us made it back out. "What about the Rocenz?" Raoul asked. I glanced at Vayl. Then I said, "We found out on our last mission that Roldan's people had been guarding its resting place for a while. I imagine they know the spell that separates the parts, don't you?" "How do you plan to get that information?" "Our psychic is still working her resources," Vayl said. "But tonight's event confirms that Roldan has anticipated our next move. And that he fears its success to such a degree that he is trying to kill us"—he pointed to himself—"or cripple us to the point that we can no longer act." He pointed to me. "What I am saying is that Roldan knows that we must come after him, because we believe he knows how to separate the pieces of the Rocenz. It is inevitable that we should meet one more time. And he is terrified of the outcome." "So's Brude," I murmured, rubbing my forehead even though it didn't hurt anymore. "They both have so much to gain from our failure that their partnership couldn't be tighter if it was forged at an anvil. That means we can't play them off each other. And Brude's been in my head long enough that, even though he can't hear my thoughts, he can definitely sense what's going on in the world beyond my eyeballs. Plus we know, somehow, he's able to communicate with Roldan." "Yes, but how?" wondered Vayl. "It has to be the gorgon," said Raoul. "The who? The what?" Aaron backed his chair up an entire foot as he asked, pushing hard against the table as if he wanted nothing more than to flush his life, once and for all, of a group of people who spoke so casually of werewolves and demons, and who might actually put him face-to-face with a demigod who could transform him into a pigeon perch. Vayl, kind and loving father that he was, patiently explained. "Roldan once attempted to turn a ward of mine named Helena because he felt they were destined to become lifemates. I wounded him fatally during that fight, but I did not wait to see him die. Instead I threw him into the gutter where he was rescued by a gorgon and her retinue. She offered him eternity—he accepted. Even now, I do not think he understood the price he would have to pay, because gorgons eat death. In a way, she has been consuming him since the day his natural life ended." "How can anything be that powerful?" Aaron whispered. To give him credit, he didn't sound one bit envious. "There's a Balance," Raoul said, somewhat cryptically. "However, I believe that the gorgon's power allows her to stimulate communication between Roldan and Brude. Maybe she's woven a psychic connection between them, I don't know." "She's a damn demigod. She can do pretty much what she pleases," I muttered. "So we agree that the gorgon is the mediator between Jaz's enemy and mine, bringing them into a partnership designed to destroy us both," Vayl said. Raoul grimaced. "So much for the element of surprise." Aaron had crossed his arms over his chest like he needed a big hug and sure as shit nobody else was gonna give him one. Now he said, "Well, that's just great. Your enemies have the inside scoop. Which means they probably already know I didn't kill Vayl. So when I show up at Roldan's door with a bag full of dirt and rags, he's going to kill me. Then _I'm_ going to end up in that freakshow you call the Thin for the rest of eternity! Because you know that's exactly where that Brude son of a bitch threatened to send me if I failed!" I smiled at him. "I like you better when you swear." His jaw dropped. Vayl _tch_ ed. "Jasmine. Do not encourage him." He set his empty mug on the table. Which reminded me to take a couple more spoonfuls of ice cream. Then he said, "First of all, Brude would have brought you to the Thin regardless of whether or not you succeeded in killing me. He is raising an army. He needs bodies. But, while you are alive, you really should have more confidence in our abilities. Very well-respected officials pay us to keep people just like you alive and happy every single day." "Not lately," I muttered, thinking darkly of the three senators on our Oversight Committee. Vayl's lip twitched as he went on. "So, while we understand that Roldan is expecting us, of course we are not going to appear on his doorstep with a gift basket." "I'd like to send a gift basket to—" Raoul frowned at me. "Jaz, seriously, eat your frozen cookie dough." I licked some ice cream off my spoon, which might or might not have been interpreted as sticking my tongue out at my Spirit Guide, as Vayl finished. "Roldan has no idea I am still alive and will not hear from Brude because we know a psychic who will help Jasmine block his emanations completely." He nodded to me, giving me leave to call Cassandra, who sure as hell did know the trick. I might've been surprised to learn that once, but this chick had ducked a deal she'd made with a demon for five hundred years. Of course she'd studied up on the lore. She gave me a prayer that I memorized within thirty seconds, told me exactly where to splash the holy water (behind the ears, really?), and I knew it had worked when Brude wailed like a lottery winner who's just watched his ticket go sailing overboard. When I came back to the table, grinning widely at my success, Vayl paused in his explanation to say, "I was just telling Aaron and Raoul that we will make a public production of my murder and tomorrow we will send Aaron to Roldan's lair with the remains of a vampire in hand, as he requested. That will get him, and us, through the front door, so to speak. After which point he will hide in a very sturdy closet until we are finished with my old nemesis." _Hmmm, maybe I should've used that word. It sounded pretty cool when Vayl said it just now_. He turned to Aaron. "Surely you find that plan preferable to an eternity in the Thin?" "Where are you going to get vampire remains?" Junior and I asked at almost the same time. Vayl sat back in his chair almost triumphantly. "A Rogue has entered my territory. I have given him several days to move on because, ah, I have been otherwise occupied." He didn't look at me, which was a good thing, because he'd have seen me shoveling Edy's Slow Churned into my gullet so fast that I gave myself brain freeze. "Ahh!" I smacked my hand against my forehead. "Jaz!" Raoul grabbed my shoulder. "Are you all right?" Vayl lunged forward and half-lifted me from my chair. "What is it? What do you need?" "Freaking ice cream. God _damn_ that's cold!" Then I realized what I'd just done. "Oh. Sorry, guys. No, I'm fine. I was just... yeah, eating too greedily. Won't do it again, I promise." They sank into their chairs, obviously debating whether or not to clonk me over the head with Vayl's ice cream scoop. I smiled weakly. "So, we're going to smoke a Rogue vamp? That could be fun." # CHAPTER FIVE _Wednesday, June 13, 2:30 a.m_. I've traveled all over the world. But as I stood outside Vayl's house in the wee hours of that mid-June morning, my dog sitting quietly at my side, I decided nothing felt quite as peaceful as rural Ohio by moonlight. The smell of growing corn and recent rain cleared my lungs and my head. I turned my back to the neatly trimmed lawn that separated Vayl's property from the surrounding woods and fields, and studied the three men who stood in the shadow of my _sverhamin_ 's stately old house. Vayl stood talking quietly to Aaron, their dark hair almost melding into one picture. But while Vayl held himself tall and proud, one hand resting comfortably on his jewel-topped cane while the other twirled an old-fashioned wooden stake and managed not to snag it in the pocket of his black jeans or on his longsleeved black button-down, Aaron slouched. It wasn't even a comfortable I'm-chillin'-with-the-beats kind of shoulder hump. It was an I'm-out-of-my-league-but-I'm-plowing-through-anyway kind of hunch. And it didn't ease from talking to the vampire, so whatever Vayl was saying provided no comfort. Raoul couldn't help himself, he probably had a soldier's bearing even in true Eldhayr form. As it was, the erectness of his posture could only have been copied by a straight, strong oak tree. And he sure didn't look like he'd be comfortable if we invited him to rest on the come-and-sit-a-spell front porch that marched all the way around the perimeter of the house, stopping only at its fairy-tale turret that somehow made me feel underdressed. Like Vayl, I'd changed into darker clothes. I wore a navy blue runner's pullover with long sleeves, and even darker blue cargo pants. I felt a little guilty for not using every single pocket, but I carried what I needed up top. Grief was fully loaded with vamp-killing arrows. And I'd strapped my vial of holy water to my right arm. Knowing that Vayl and Raoul were also properly armed, and that between us we'd manage to make sure Junior didn't become vamptoast, I let my gaze wander. To the right of the house sat the brick garage, which didn't seem attached when you looked at it from the outside. But when it was storming, or you just didn't want whoever was outdoors to see you access the house from the car shelter, there were underground passageways. Since we didn't trust Aaron to keep information about Vayl's secret tunnels, doors, and bookcases to himself, we'd brought him to the party the old-fashioned way. Raoul, however, had just assumed the invitation covered him as well. Which was why I said, "Look. You don't have to come. In fact, killing Rogue vamps couldn't have been on your to-do list today. Why don't you—" "You're not getting rid of me," Raoul said flatly. "My job is to keep you alive as long as possible. I'd never forgive myself if some random _other_ killed you when you were so close to freedom." "See?" said Aaron. "Even he thinks vampires are monsters!" "That's not what I said," Raoul corrected him. "Stop trying your lawyer talk on me, boy. I have no patience for half-truths and hidden lies." As I quietly admired the way Raoul had put the little bigot in his place, Vayl spoke in a quiet voice that demanded the kind of attention that even the crickets had to respect. "Aaron, when you were Rom and your name was Badu, it used to infuriate you when people called you a gypsy. They did not mean the word kindly. And you did not understand why the accident of your birth should pin such hatred upon you that you were once arrested for walking down the street in the company of a local girl." He paused, looked down at the cane that had accompanied him through much of the past two centuries. The tigers that stalked down its length kept their judgments to themselves as he said, "The boy you were would spit on the man you have become." Aaron's head reared back as if he'd been hit. But he didn't say anything as Vayl took his remote from his pocket. A small black keypad programmed to respond only to his touch, it allowed no one into the house or the garage from the outside once they'd been locked down unless he keyed the entry on the pad, or opened the doors from the inside. Now he pressed a series of buttons and the garage door began to rise. Jack, realizing a car ride had just entered his future, ran for the garage with his tail wagging wildly. I looked around for Astral. In this light she was nearly invisible, and I'd learned she liked it that way. Suddenly I saw her eyes shining from the front of one of Vayl's flower beds. I didn't know what was weirder, that a dude who slept all day surrounded his house with geraniums and marigolds, or that my robokitty's eyes were silver in the moonlight. Then I saw the sweep of double high beams cross the porch. I spun back toward the road at the same time that Vayl said, "What have we here?" The car was crawling down the gravel road that led to his drive, hesitating and then jerking forward like the driver had just learned how to shift it into first. It swerved onto the shoulder, nearly hit the ditch, corrected itself, and then trundled into the drive. By that time we were on our way. Vayl had released the sheath from his cane's handle, revealing the handcrafted sword that rode beneath. I'd pulled Grief, though I left the safety on for now. Raoul carried no weapons that I could see. But the Eldhayr had once healed my broken neck with a word and a touch. I figured he had other hidden talents. Jack and Astral came along too. Maybe someday I'd own cute, fluffy pets without the capacity to harm a butterfly. But probably not, which was why even my cat carried a couple of grenades around in her digestive tract, and my dog knew exactly how to use his teeth to greatest effect. The car, a rusty white Lumina, made a graceful right turn and came to a stop in a drive-blocking maneuver that I would've suspected was the beginning of a full-out assault on the house. Except that the driver's side door opened and a man tumbled out, falling to his hands and knees on the dew-drenched grass. Vayl was the first to reach him. Already he'd sheathed his sword. He looked up at me. The tone in his voice chilled me when he said, "Jasmine. Come quickly." I holstered Grief and ran to his side, Raoul, the animals, and Aaron right behind me. The man, practically curled up in a ball, wore a filthy gray sweatshirt and cutoff shorts. He could've been anybody. Except for the red high-tops that made my heart twist inside my chest. "Cole?" I whispered. He raised his head and blinked his blood-red eyes. "Help me, Jaz." I slapped my hand over my mouth to hold back the moan as I dropped to my knees beside him. Jack, understanding only that something had just gone terribly wrong in Happysville, pressed his nose against Cole's cheek. Cole reached out blindly, wrapped his hand in my dog's fur, and then buried his face in it. I swung to Raoul. "What happened? Kyphas only had him halfdemonized when we saved him. And Sterling purified him afterward." "Didn't the warlock tell you to keep Cole close?" "Yeah, and we did until he decided to go to Florida to visit his family." Raoul frowned down at the man who'd once loved me. "Obviously he never left. It's important after a purification for the victim to stay close to friends and family until he or she has worked through all the guilt and anger. I'm guessing Cole felt so much of both that he thought it best to isolate himself before he hurt someone else when, in fact, that was the worst thing he could've done." "But he didn't hurt anyone back in Marrakech," I protested. "I doubt he sees it that way." Vayl had knelt beside me by now. He put a hand on Cole's shoulder and pulled him back. "Talk to us, son." The gentleness in his voice brought tears to my eyes, because it meant Cole was doing even worse than I'd feared. Cole pulled away from Jack. When he ran his hands through his wild surfer-boy hair I thought I saw the nubs of two horns shoving their way through his skull. "She's pulling me back," he said, his voice hoarse and dire. "Kyphas is dead," I reminded him. "Vayl blew her to bits—" He shook his head. "No. No. No. I can feel her." He thumped his hand against his chest. "And I want it." His crimson eyes bored into mine. "Make it stop. One way or another. Jaz, I'm counting on you. Don't let me go over." I shared a doubtful look with Vayl. "You killed Kyphas. Right?" He shrugged. "I could not imagine her surviving that blast. However, Cole is telling us differently. Perhaps the sea creature that was attacking her at the time took more of the damage than I anticipated it would. Or maybe hell pieced her back together just so it could have the pleasure of torturing her." I wanted to deny the possibilities, but bizarre was pretty much Lucifer's domain. And I had Cole to worry about right now. I looked up at Raoul. "Please. There must be something you can do." I could tell he wanted to leap back through the nearest plane portal by the way he held himself, stiff with denial, reminding me with his eyes that his office stationery had NONINTERFERENCE imbedded within the weave of the paper itself. "I'm not his Spirit Guide, Jasmine—" I said, "No. Maybe you could've jumped and run back in January, when you were just a scary buzz followed by an earsplitting voice in my head. But not now. You're my friend. And he's my friend. Which makes you his friend by default. And friends save each other's souls." There was a lot I didn't say that I let him read in my eyes. That if he let Cole slip away I'd never fight for him, or the Eldhayr, again. And that there was every chance I'd come after them for letting him down—providing I survived the massive revenge I'd attempt to visit on the demon who'd broken my pal in the first place. Raoul swiped off his hat and threw it on the ground. "You owe me." "Absolutely. We both will." He glared at Vayl, like he'd had something to do with my uppity attitude. "Guard us." The request struck me as weird, until he grabbed my arm and wrapped the fingers of his free hand around the back of Cole's neck. "Oh," I whispered, dizzy with the rush of separation as he swept me out of my body. # CHAPTER SIX _Wednesday, June 13, 2:45 a.m_. I immediately relaxed. Never had I broken from my physical self so willingly, even though I knew the return trip would feel like a fall into thorn-covered bushes inhabited by army ants and killer bees. I flew up and up, the rush of flight so extreme I nearly forgot why I'd forced Raoul to yank me off this edge to begin with. He obviously hadn't, his spirit form even more forbidding than his physical one as he pulled Cole and me toward a distant star. I looked back, reassuring myself that, yes, the golden cords that signified every relationship binding me to life still stretched from the world to my spirit. Dave was safe, wherever he wandered. Albert, too, along with Evie and baby E.J. I savored every connection, but most especially Vayl's, because it meant he hadn't given up everything, or maybe that he'd earned something back, by creating a relationship with me. I couldn't see Cole's cords, which wouldn't have been alarming, except that he seemed to show no interest in them either. "Raoul? Has he lost everything?" I asked, motioning to my own lifelines. "They're fading," Raoul said shortly. When I realized he was done talking, I slipped my hand into Cole's, such as they were, and whispered, "I'm here." He didn't look at me. Only nodded and kept his eyes glued to that star, which was growing brighter as we approached it. Soon we could see it was a plane portal, similar in shape to the ones that seemed to appear near me wherever I went. But instead of being wreathed in flames and black at the center, this one shone with light so brilliant that human eyes would've been blinded by it. Raoul began to chant as we jetted toward the light. Everything in me said to turn away before my brain fried, but the light had begun to _sing_. And I'd spent enough time with Sterling, who wanted nothing more than to become a bard, to realize I was staring into the source of the old guild's power. We burst through the doorway accompanied by a chorus of voices so utterly beautiful that tears would've streamed from my eyes if I'd had them. Cole and I looked at each other. And smiled. How could we not? We stood in a meadow of wildflowers beside a stream so clear we could see the fishes' shadows. Music still echoed in our ears and now we knew the source—it was the combined orchestra of all the cords that touched our souls to those of the people we loved. Raoul said, "Cole Levon Bemont, hear me and know the truth of my words. Your futures lie before you." He picked a ripened dandelion and blew the white seeds into the air. Suddenly we saw Cole in twenty different places. But all of them shared one common denominator. A flame-swept sky covering a landscape of mutilated creatures who'd once been human. Cole staggered backward, shaking his head. "No. No. There has to be another way." Raoul came to me and whispered in my ear. I jerked my head away from his. "Are you serious?" "You asked for this," he said. I hesitated, watching the man who had taken beating after beating for me, who'd followed me into this career after his business had been burned to the ground because of me, fall to his knees as his eyes darted from one hell-scene to the next, searching, searching, and always finding the demon he would become marching among the forsaken, a blood-drenched whip clutched in his hand. And I did as Raoul asked. I strode to the newest golden cord to be added to my collection. It was only four months old, but its beauty outshone that of the others in this place like a rose among the clover. I strummed E.J.'s cord, playing the song my niece had begun to sing for me, and with me, since the moment she was born. I'd heard it before, when I battled a demon called the Magistrate. Then it had sounded out pure and fine as a fresh snowfall. Now, in this place of wonder, her song had changed. Become full of interesting harmonies interspersed with drumbeats so intense I half expected an army to take the field. Instead the cord began to vibrate against my non-hand so painfully that I backed away. "Raoul?" "Behold," Raoul said to Cole. He turned away from the nightmare spread out before him just as the cord seemed to separate and rebraid itself into a new shape, that of a woman whose dark brown hair swept in ringlets down her back. When she looked up, as if in amazement that a sky so blue could exist anywhere in the universe, the sun glinted off her red highlights. "I've never seen eyes so green," Cole whispered. His hands had dropped, palms up, into his lap, as if he were a beggar pleading for her mercy. "What's her name?" Raoul looked at me. "Her name is Ezri..." I finished it for him. "Ezri Jasmine. E.J. for short. She's my niece in, what, twenty years?" "Twenty-three," Raoul told me. Cole didn't seem to have heard. His jaw had dropped slightly, as if he'd been hit by an armored truck. He whispered, "She's an angel." "You could say that," Raoul agreed. I riveted my eyes to his. But he avoided my gaze. Suddenly random events in my life clicked together in new ways. I understood why the Magistrate had gone after E.J. during that battle back in Tehran. Why the part of her that connected to the cosmos was able to resist his attack so well for so long. And maybe even why her father did his best to avoid me during those rare times that Evie blackmailed me into attending a family event. Cole stretched out his hand as if he wanted to touch her but knew the museum guards would kick his ass if they saw him defiling the fine art. He said, "Ezri? She's—" "Your destiny, if you choose to embrace it," said Raoul. "You won't seem old to her when you finally meet, because having most of your name chiseled to the demon's heartstone has slowed your aging process by decades. But be warned. Even if you decide to wait for her, you'll have to endure tortures in the space between. As I said, the Rocenz has changed you. But its marks aren't clean and precise, like a carpenter's tool. They leave the scars of a brand. For some the dark fire becomes so alluring that they choose it despite the fact that it burns away everything that made them human." Cole touched the horns that had almost completely receded back into his skull. "She's just a baby now? How do I fight it for twenty years?" "Twenty-three," Raoul corrected. Cole's eyes drank her in. He knew he wouldn't see her again for decades, and I could see him trying to memorize every feature, right down to the beauty mark high on her right cheekbone. Finally he said, "You saw how well I made it through the first couple of weeks. How am I going to pull off years?" Raoul reached into his pocket as he said, "Soon Vayl will decide that you need to travel to Romania, which has just recently embraced its roots as the country that birthed vampirism. Perhaps you will find a use for these?" I couldn't see what he held at first. He did a little turning motion with one hand, set the object down with the other, then stepped back and watched with us. A pair of ruby-red lips smiled up at us as its blinding white wind-up vampire teeth chopped up and down so fast they looked to be stuck in the middle of the Antarctic without a hat or scarf to keep them toasty warm. The vamp mouth walked around in circles with the help of a pair of pointy-toed black dress shoes. Cole's chuckle started somewhere near his belt buckle and by the time it emerged from his throat he was doubled over and slapping his thigh. Which isn't easy when you're mostly spirit. "Excellent! I can just see Vayl looking down his nose at those, going, 'Those are not in the least bit amusing. Also, you cannot get a good anchor into your victim when you are gnawing at him like some kind of jackal.' I'll take two!" Raoul handed him the teeth. "They'll take form for you as soon as you reenter your body." "Magical!" Raoul smirked. "Just don't lose them." His eyes sent the bigger message, _or your sense of humor_. Cole nodded. "Gotcha. Thanks." Raoul clasped his hands behind his back. "Anytime," he said, his faint Spanish accent suddenly a little easier to detect. _By damn, he is getting attached to us!_ "We must leave soon," he said, nodding to the golden cords that surrounded us. They were beginning to fade. "Perhaps you'd like to say goodbye?" "Can she hear me?" Cole asked. "At some level." Cole went up to E.J. Wow, she was tall! Her eyes were nearly at the same level as his. I felt tears prick my eyelids. To see the child I'd give anything to or for standing, all grown up, beautiful and healthy, blew me away. The man who'd decided to spend the next chunk of his life hoping she'd save his soul walked to within a few inches of her. Her gaze, uplifted and thoughtful, flew far past his tired blue eyes. But he didn't seem to mind. "Ezri, it's Cole Bemont. Remember that name, okay? It's going to be a big deal to you someday." My hand flew to my mouth when his you-really-should-hug-me grin appeared. I hadn't seen it in so long I'd almost forgotten how happy it made me when it came out to play. "I'm not the man that you're going to need me to be yet. But I've got a while to get myself straight. And, I promise, by the time you're ready for me, I'll be set to sweep you off your feet." He leaned forward to murmur into her ear. Her eyes came to his face, sparkling as they found a new focus. When he pulled back she was smiling straight at him. The breath left him in a long sigh. He blew her a kiss. And then he turned to Raoul. "Okay, dude. Take me back to my so-called life. I've got work to do." # CHAPTER SEVEN _Wednesday, June 13, 3:15 a.m_. Raoul dropped us into our bodies so fast it felt like falling from a plane without a parachute. And the pain of reuniting sum and substance—well, my brother, Dave, wrestled in high school. One Saturday morning, somewhat miraculously, I didn't have to work. So I went to his tournament, where I saw one of his teammates throw a guy onto the mat. Happens all the time, but this snowy day in January the kid tried to catch himself—and failed. His arm broke so severely that I could see the bone shove the skin out of place. His shocked scream reminded me of the sounds Cole and I made now as every one of our nerve endings fused back to the source of their existence. "I wish you would stop doing that," Vayl said as he helped me to my feet. His lips pressed into a straight line as he continued, so quietly I thought only I could hear. "Every time you leave I am more certain than ever that you will not be returning." I realized I was wrong about how the sound carried into the velvety black countryside when Aaron said, "Roldan told me you were a badass." He stood on the gravel drive with his fists stuck deep in the pockets of his bleach-stained jeans, most likely so we couldn't see his hands shaking. When he realized he had Vayl's attention he went on. "He warned me to kill you quick, otherwise you'd shred me like grass clippings. But there you are, kissing up to some chick who's been impersonating a blackout drunk for the past half hour. How am I supposed to believe you're going to save my skin when you're just another whipped—" He gasped, stopped in mid-sentence by the whirlwind of movement and coiled violence that ended with Vayl dangling him in the air by the throat. My _sverhamin_ 's voice seemed to rise from a place guarded by iron bars and rusted chains as he said, "You are still the same sharptongued coward who let your brother take the blame for every foolhardy escapade you ever attempted, including the theft of the wagon that led to your deaths over two hundred and fifty years ago. But _I_ have changed. I will no longer countenance disrespect from you." He set Aaron back on his feet. Dropped his hand and watched him rub the red spots away from his neck. I couldn't find a single speck of regret on Vayl's hard-lined face. Just twin flares of rage flying out of his deep black pupils as he said, "I have had a great deal of time to think of how I might put right what went wrong during our lives together. Do not tempt me to turn you so that I might have eternity to teach you how to behave like a decent man. Because my first lesson will be to teach you that only the strongest can truly, deeply love. And if you have no woman in your life, you will understand the reason why." Vayl was at least kind enough to turn away, so the stark and sudden pain in Aaron's eyes was an emotion he didn't have to hide or, later, be ashamed of. But if the son had been stricken, the father was pained as well. I could detect a note of longing in his voice, the kind I'd heard before when he'd suggested we could be a great Vampere couple. I'd refused then, and now I saw the same terrified denial on Junior's face. But suddenly it was like I'd stepped up on a platform where I could observe Vayl from a totally new angle. And I realized how lonely he'd been all those years with no family to get him through the empty days or share the laughter with. Not that he'd found much to call humorous, much less entertaining, in his early years as a Rogue. Even less so when he'd entered into a Vampere Trust. In fact, when we'd first started working together I'd become convinced pretty quickly that the dude had completely forgotten how to have fun. I stepped up and slipped my hand into his. When his eyes dropped to mine I put all the love I felt for him in my smile. The black bled from his pupils like a healing bruise, replaced almost instantly by honey gold with flecks of the warmest amber. "I'm so proud of you," I whispered. "Way to represent," agreed Cole. He still sat at Raoul's knee, his hands flopped between his legs like he didn't even have the strength to cross them. He winked at Vayl. "We attached guys gotta stick together." Vayl's eyebrows practically shot off his forehead. "What happened up there?" He took a threatening step forward. Suddenly Cole found the energy to raise his arms in protest. "I promise you, I am over your girl forever. Although she's awesome, I've got my eye on the prize now." He nodded so definitely that Vayl instantly checked himself. Cole's eyes danced. "Hey, Jaz. I just realized. Someday, if it all works out, I'm gonna be your nephew. You know what that means, right? Magicians at my birthday parties, and trips to the zoo, and—" "Stop!" _Holy crap! He's back—and here I am without my beat-themoff umbrella!_ I thought fast and then said, "You might jinx it." "Right. You're absolutely right." He made the zippy-lippy motion. However, he pointed from me to him and back again a couple of times and then mouthed the word "relatives" before subsiding into happy-grin land. _Oh. Man. Could I deal with Cole at Thanksgiving? Giving Albert shit over the turkey and making veiled references to the "adventure" we'd shared in Scotland while Evie sat in barely concealed shock at his impudence, E.J. looking around the table in absolute confusion, while I tried desperately to think of an appropriate lie to explain how very well I knew him? Or would they all be so flipped out that I'd brought a vampire to dinner that it wouldn't matter?_ I was suddenly readier than ever to go kill the Rogue Vayl had targeted. Still under the assumption that we'd only encountered a slight detour in our original plan, I asked Cole to move his car to one side of the drive so I could back mine out. "Where are you going?" he asked as he grabbed the open door to help himself to his feet. As Raoul filled him in, I strode toward the garage, assuming Vayl would follow with the rest of the group trotting more or less cooperatively behind. That was usually how it worked. Except I'd taken half a dozen steps when I realized nobody was following me. Not even Jack. I turned around. "Jasmine," Vayl said tiredly. "She is doing it again." The four men had gathered in a circle at the front of Cole's Lumina. All of them had riveted their attention to the ground at their feet, as if they couldn't believe Kentucky bluegrass managed to thrive this far north of the state line. Jack trotted around them, occasionally sticking his nose between their legs, but he didn't like what he saw enough to stay in one place for long. He'd pull his head back, sometimes jumping like he'd been startled, and begin his rounds again. _Dammit. We do not need this right now. And the worst part is, it's all my fault. Or, more specifically, Jack's fault. Which makes it mine. Dammit!_ I joined the circle, Vayl and Raoul moving back to give me room. As expected, Astral lay in the middle, flat on her back, waving her feet in the air while she cackled like a drunken hen. "Cluck, cluck, hic-cluck." From the mini-projector in the back of her throat a startlingly realistic hologram replayed a series of images just like the ones we'd seen the last time she'd pulled this stunt. I'd come in in the middle, so I missed the skier flying off the cliff and the painter falling from the ladder. But I did make it in time for skateboard-crashing-off-the-garage-roof guy and hang-glider-dumping-into-the-ocean dude. "Cluck, cluck, hic-cluck," said Astral. "Do you think it's worse?" I asked. Vayl crouched for a closer look. "It seems about the same to me. But then, this has been going on for two days now. How did she get so much footage?" he asked as six kids went tumbling off a toboggan. "Well, she does have access to all the FBI, CIA, and Homeland Security databases. Plus she's an Enkyklios, and who knows what those Sisters of the Second Sight have recorded while they were globetrotting, trying to get all the info they could on the world of _others_. Or, now that I know, I should say the world of the Whence." "So that's what it's called," murmured Aaron as he watched a figure skater blow a triple axle. "But..." Raoul motioned to Astral, whose clucking was so convincing I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd laid an egg. "Why?" Vayl glanced up. "I think perhaps Bergman missed a wire or two the last time he reattached her head." They all looked at me. I raised my hands. "Hey, I feel terrible about that incident. But honestly, Bergman shouldn't have made her self-destruct button so sensitive." They gave me the point and went back to Astral watch. Finally Vayl said, "We cannot let this continue. What if she chose to emit some vital intelligence in her video feed instead of some fool slipping off his roof while trying to anchor his Christmas lights?" "I agree," said Cole. "You should call Bergman." All eyes came to me. Again. "Yeah, but he's..." I sighed. "Fine. But if he cries, I'm handing the phone to one of _you_." I left the circle as I dug out my cell and dialed his number. The series of clicks that preceded the ring lasted for at least thirty seconds, signaling the fact that even though he was still staying in Morocco with his new girlfriend, Bergman's paranoia hadn't slipped a notch. Our call would be encrypted as thoroughly as if the President of the United States were sharing the line. I thought Bergman had probably been born with a suspicious nature, but it had been sharpened to its current razor edge in college when a classmate had stolen his research and tried to use it to create a brand-new energy source. The fact that he'd blown himself to smithereens instead hadn't given Bergman much comfort. After that he'd put five deadbolts on the door to his room and informed the rest of us that if we entered without permission there was every chance that we'd be impaled by a jungle spear. I wasn't sure what it said about me that I continued to share an apartment with him until I graduated from college, or that he remained one of my closest friends to this day. Except that his mind unfolded before me like a work of art. And his inventions gave me happy tingles right down to my toes. Before Matt, and then again before Vayl, hardly anything else in life had done that for me. Finally Bergman answered the phone, which was when I thought to check my watch. Had I just woken him? Naw, it was already about nine-thirty in the morning over there. He said, "Jaz! It's you!" "Yes. Hello." _Oh man, how do you tell an inventor his cat is on the fritz? Is this a good news/bad news scenario? Wait, I can't think of any good news. See, this is what Evie means when she tells me I need to work on my attitude. Something good has to have happened lately. I mean, besides the mind-blowing sex with Vayl. And all the other fabulous moments in between, which you can't really explain to your old buddy. And that's not_ his _good news anyway_. "Jaz? Are you still there?" "Yeah! Hey, Miles, how are you?" "Great!" Did that sound fake, or was it just the thousands of miles standing between our cell towers? "Excellent! How's Monique?" "Great!" _Huh_. "Super. That's good news." _Hey! That's the good news! Now for the bad news_. "Uh, Miles, why I'm calling... Astral's kind of acting up." "What's she doing?" Total professionalism in his tone now, except for that thread of frantic worry he was trying hard to suppress. I described the problem. He wanted every detail. I had to go watch her some more so I could describe what era I thought the stuntman had been living in when he tried, and failed, to jump a canyon the size of Rhode Island. "What do you think?" I finally asked him. "Her self-recalibrations may have jogged something loose," he said. "I'll need to do some tinkering to be sure, but I think I can fix her." "So I should, what, shut her down? Box her up and mail her to you?" "God, no! She's a member of your team! You can't function without her!" "Well, I wouldn't—" "She needs to be repaired immediately, Jaz. I'll be on the next plane out of Marrakech!" "Bergman! Seriously, I can—" "I won't hear of it! I'm booking my ticket online right now." "Miles. What's happening?" "What do you mean?" I let a few seconds of silence stretch between us. Then I said, "When Vayl, Cole, and I left Morocco, you and Monique were so lost in Cuddleland you barely said goodbye. Now you can't wait to leave her?" "It's not her, exactly. It's her kids. They came to visit. And, well, one of them is only a year younger than me!" "So?" I could almost hear Bergman's gears turning as he considered and rejected reasons he knew I wouldn't buy in the first place. Finally he said, "I guess I knew it couldn't last. She's twenty-three years older than me and—" "Stop." This couldn't be a coincidence. I turned to Aaron. "You're twenty-three, right?" "Yeah, how did you guess?" I didn't answer him. I was too busy trying to keep up with my racing mind. Raoul had said that E.J. would be twenty-three when she and Cole finally met for the first time. And now Bergman had let slip that Monique was exactly the same number of years older than him. Somebody was trying to send me a message. And considering the sources of the numbers, I had to think that same somebody wanted me to survive this ordeal. I tucked the idea away until I could bounce it off Vayl and went back to my call. "Listen, Miles. You're my best friend. I'll back your play, no matter what you decide. But I'm just saying that's a pretty ridiculous reason to dump the only woman I've ever met who will cheerfully put up with your bullshit. If it's something else that you can't get past, fine. But if all you're worried about is the age difference, then grab on to this—Vayl is two hundred and sixty-eight years older than me." "Damn." "Yuh-huh." Long silence. "I need to come there. Just for a little while. To think." My throat closed. More than I wanted my own happiness, I wanted the people I loved to find peace and love in their own lives. Eventually maybe I'd accept my startling lack of control over their decisions and just let it be. But I knew that at some point I'd probably try to talk him into going back. The French innkeeper was too good a fit for him, dammit! For now I said, "Okay. Text me the details of your flight and I'll pick you up at the airport." "Make sure it's an unmarked car." "Holy shit, Miles! What, did you think I'd be riding up in a parade float?" "Is Cole with you?" "Yeah." "Possibly." I promised him to keep it on the down low and we hung up. At which point Astral ran out of disaster video, rolled over on her side, and farted out one of her grenades. "Take cover!" Vayl bellowed as he snatched up the explosive and hefted it as hard as he could into the field that fronted his house. He grabbed Aaron's arm, I whistled to Jack, and Raoul slapped Cole on the back of the head to snap him out of his bemused daze. We booked to the back of the garage, making it just in time for the explosion, which sounded so much like a fouled firework that Aaron checked out the sky. Then he looked at Vayl. "Does this kind of stuff happen to you all the time?" Vayl considered his question. "Only since I met Jasmine." He smiled at me. "She makes life incredibly exciting." "But you're not alive... are you?" Aaron asked. For once he just sounded curious. Was he finally learning? Vayl leaned his shoulder against the rough brick of the garage wall. In the dim light of the moon the shadows covered his entire face, so that all we could see was the glitter of his eyes when he lifted his head. "I have watched humans move through their entire existence without ever truly testing the limits imposed upon them by their families, their cultures, and their own minds. They have willingly traded love, risk, adventure, and knowledge for a safe haven from pain. If those humans can choose undeath, I can choose life." "Hello." Aaron shrieked as Astral joined us, sitting quietly beside Jack, who panted over her happily, both of them acting as if nothing potentially deadly had just happened. Animals. So charming of them to poop and forget. # CHAPTER EIGHT _Wednesday, June 13, 3:45 a.m_. We wandered around to the front of the garage, though only Vayl and I could see the devastation the grenade had caused to the cornfield. He could probably read a map in the dark, and my sight had radically improved each time he'd taken my blood, to the point where I barely needed to use Bergman's see-in-the-dark contact lenses. Which, I could tell, Cole wasn't wearing tonight. "So," he said. "You guys were already outside when I got here, and the garage door was up. Jaz sure seemed eager to take off just now, so where were you headed?" Vayl had been checking his watch. He slid it back into his pocket and said regretfully, "We did have plans. But now it is too late for us to make a round-trip to Cleveland and be assured of completing our mission successfully before dawn. We will have to wait until tomorrow to smoke the Rogue." Cole held up a hand. "Wait a second. Your Trust stretches all the way to the city?" Vayl said, "Our Trust includes the city." He stared hard into Cole's eyes. "And you, as well, if you would like to rejoin us." I held my breath as Cole considered his offer. I'd only observed the inner workings of a single Vampere Trust—the one Vayl was attached to for most of the 1800s. So it had been pretty twisted. Plus, he hadn't given me a lot of detail as to how ours should work since it was still mostly a show-car organization, put together for the sake of certain observers inside the Whence. Formed to protect those of us who were most obviously attached to Vayl from his enemies, who'd flout human law but would never risk trial in _other_ courts, our Trust didn't even have its own letterhead. I mean, if you're gonna be official, shouldn't you at least have a logo or something? So, while I wasn't sure what a nod from Cole would provide him specifically, I knew that when he'd left Vayl's protection in Marrakech he'd opened himself to attack from Kyphas. Which meant that if he accepted Vayl's offer he'd be taking a solid step away from her. Cole ran a hand through his sun-drenched hair, pulling it back from a face that could easily have taken him into the spotlight, onto the big screen along with the rest of America's pretty people. Instead he'd chosen dark shadows and cold rooftops. "I stand by the demand I made in Australia," he said, his old charm lighting up his face as he reminded Vayl. "I want to be the secretary of social events." "Of course." "Then I'm in." _Aaaahhh!_ Inside my head, Teen Me was jumping up and down, screaming at the top of her lungs, and trading high fives with Granny May, who'd taken a break from some new project she'd started at the dining room table. For once I agreed with my inner adolescent. This was worthy of major mental celebration. Especially when Cole said, "I'm gonna need a party fund." Vayl sighed. "Fine." "So tell me, how far does our territory really run? And if it includes Cleveland like you said, what happened to the three nests I heard about last time I was in town?" "I will show you a map," Vayl said. "We are responsible for the city, its suburbs, and several miles of surrounding countryside. As for the nests"—he looked at me—"Jasmine and I have been busy." Cole stared at us. But he didn't say anything as we led him, Raoul, and Aaron into the house. We'd decided Astral couldn't be trusted near people until Bergman fixed her, so I'd ordered her to secure the perimeter until further notice. As a result Jack seemed slightly bummed. So I took him to the kitchen. To my surprise, all the other guys followed as well. "What do you want?" I asked my dog as I opened the fridge. "Cottage cheese? Baking soda? Oh, I know." I pulled out a covered dish and, when I noticed him looking up at me suspiciously, said reassuringly, "Don't worry. Vayl cooked it." I pulled out a couple of brats and set them in his dog dish. "Don't get used to this," I warned him as he dove into them with the snorting noises that signaled deep satisfaction. "You're back to that hard square stuff for your next meal." The guys had settled around the tiny table, Vayl and Aaron on one side opposite Raoul and Cole. They all looked pretty wasted. But I could tell Vayl had more to lay on them. He motioned for me to join them, so I pulled the desk chair over and sat at the end of the table. Then he said, "I have a bad feeling. It is near to making me ill. Hanzi—or rather the man he is today—is in terrible trouble. The longer I think on it, the more certain I am that Roldan will have cornered him just as he did Aaron here. We cannot wait for him to make his move. We must find him first." Cole, Raoul, and I traded helpless looks. They left it for me to say, "But, Vayl. You've been searching for him for... ever. What makes you think we'll have any better luck now?" Vayl leaned his head toward Aaron. "My younger boy is with me now. I believe it is inevitable that I will be rejoined with the elder. But fate seems determined to reunite us in violence. If there is any way we can stop that from happening, we must try." "What do you suggest?" asked Raoul. "And don't look at me. This is one area where I absolutely can't step in for you." "Cassandra," said Cole. "She has read me before, and failed," Vayl said. "Yeah. But you said yourself times have changed. You have to bring her here. The sooner the better, I think. Let her touch you and Aaron. I'm betting she'll have a mega-vision that'll head you straight to Hanzi." Vayl turned to me, his eyebrows raised a notch. "She's coming this way anyhow. Family visit before Dave's leave ends," I explained. "Call her," he said. "Tell her I will charter her and David a plane if they will agree to come tomorrow." And just like that I knew my crew was going to be whole again by the time the sun set on the following day. Raoul had agreed to take the first watch over Aaron, who protested that it was ridiculous to imprison him until we reminded him that he was, according to his own law, an attempted murderer. At which point he quietly followed my Spirit Guide to the guest bedroom, his head clearly so full of new thoughts to ponder that he didn't even protest the company of Jack, who still felt like being social after his last trip to the backyard. Cole, who was just as exhausted as Vayl's attempted assassin, took the green room, which also contained a guest bed and bath in addition to an indoor sauna that made our newest Trust member fall to his knees and pretend to kiss Vayl dramatically on his nonexistent ring. "I will be your vassal forevermore, me lord," he said in a horrible Cockney accent, bucking his front teeth so far over his bottom lip as he talked that it completely disappeared. He rolled onto his back. "Do you want to rub my tummy to make it official?" "Would you get up?" "Okay, but I'm warning you, I may have slightly obscene thoughts about you while I'm sitting in your sauna. I'll try not to, but it's probably inevitable, I'm just that grateful." I grabbed him by the cheeks, reminding myself forcefully not to pinch as I pulled him forward and kissed his scar-free forehead. "Just get some sleep, you doof. We're going to need you fresh tomorrow." He brought his hands up to wrap around my wrists so he could pull my hands down and kiss the back of each one. His eyes held depths I never would've imagined the day we first met in a ladies' bathroom in the house of a terrorist sympathizer. "Thank you," he said. "For everything." A light seemed to go on from his heart, and I had no doubt whom he was talking about when he said, "You'll take good care of her for me?" "Of course." He nodded and dropped my hands. "Then I'll be in your debt forever. Anything you want, anytime, you just have to ask. Except for right now, when I suggest you run, don't walk, out the door, because I'm stripping down for my first of many sweats in that sauna in five, four, three, two—" Vayl slammed the door on Cole's laughter and together we closed ourselves into the room we'd shared since we'd gotten back from Marrakech. It reminded me of its owner. Large, masculine, with a preference for life's luxuries. The walls, papered in ivory with a hunter green stripe, each held a single memento from his past that, I hoped, someday he'd feel comfortable explaining. On one hung a glass case that displayed a British heavy cavalry saber that I dated to around 1800. On another hung a framed program and two tickets to _Don Giovanni_. The third wall held a black-and-white photograph of two men, one of whom was Vayl, standing arm in arm in front of Saint Basil's Cathedral in Moscow. The fourth I had demanded an explanation for, because preserved behind a long glass frame was a beautifully tailored wedding dress that had gone yellow with age. The moment I'd seen it, the fact that I carried my dead fiancé's engagement ring around in my pocket didn't matter a damn. Vayl was gonna fork over a reasonable explanation or I was out the door. He'd touched a finger to the frame with a tenderness that nearly broke my heart. Then he'd said, "Helena wore it when she married John Litton." And I'd wrapped my arms around his waist. I didn't care how pretty that dress was, if I'd had a long-dead adopted daughter, anything that reminded me of her would've had to be buried in a trunk and stored in the attic. But Vayl had preserved this piece of her happiness so he could always remember those few years when they were a family. I felt her now, like an old friend at my shoulder, as I walked to the dresser and looked down at the items I'd arranged there. In a strange way she was responsible for their presence. If Vayl hadn't discovered her back in 1770—an eleven-year-old orphan cowering in a deserted mansion about to be attacked by Roldan—that same Were would never have tried to give him permanent amnesia. Because Roldan had become obsessed with her, and the fact that Vayl had saved her from him made them bitter enemies. And if they hadn't been enemies, we might never have discovered that Roldan's pack was guarding the Rocenz, which sat on the dresser, a silver hammer magically glued to a chisel, looking like nothing more than an extrafancy paperweight. Next to it lay the map we'd stolen, which had led us to its hiding spot in Marrakech. We'd kept the dusty old leather because on it was written a clue related to separating the hammer from the chisel. Naturally it wasn't in English, but the translation read, "Who holds the hammer still must find the keys to the triple-locked door." I picked up the map and curled up on the couch while I watched Vayl prepare his room for the coming day. He pressed a button beside the balcony doors that activated light blockers within the window glass, turning them pitch-black. But Bergman, whose middle name was probably Redundancy Plan, had also installed a massive canopy above Vayl's bed that was made out of the same black material as the traveling tent that he slept in when we went out of town. It could descend from the ceiling and spread over the intricately turned wooden frame that towered feet above the gold silk bedspread. During the night Vayl kept the canopy raised almost to the top of the frame so it looked like a regular bed. Now he flipped a switch on the wall and the curtain lowered to the floor. I hadn't been able to bring myself to crawl under that enclosure with him yet. For a kinda-claustrophobic like me it all seemed a little too cave-like. So when I finally decided to hit the sack I'd scooch the curtain toward him until I literally tucked him in, flip the covers back, and settle in. Kinda weird, I know, but so far it had worked okay. And I loved waking up beside an emerald-eyed vampire who couldn't wait to see what I'd decided to wear to bed that morning. Vayl sat down beside me to shuck off his shoes. "Have your researchers had any luck deciphering the clues?" he asked as he nodded to the map in my hand. "Nothing new," I told him. "You know, when Cassandra called and said she'd found a reference to the triple-locked door I thought my hair was actually standing on end. But it's been a whole week and I still can't figure out what it means." "Well, at least you know that the triple-locked door is, literally, the Rocenz. That is progress," Vayl said comfortingly. He balled up his socks and threw them in the corner right next to a rattan hamper. Sometimes he was such a guy. I hid a smile and said, "Yeah, Bergman should probably get a medal for discovering that little nugget in the archives. But it's what Cassandra dug up, you know? What am I supposed to make of the phrase 'Cryrise cries bane'? Okay, I know Cryrise was a dragon. And the hammer was forged from his leg bone. But I've been running that info around in my head every waking moment and the only conclusion I come to is that Cryrise is a pussy." Vayl laughed. "I'm not kidding!" I insisted. "What kind of respectable dragon goes and gets himself killed by a demon in the first place?" "Perhaps it was not that simple," Vayl suggested as he undid his shirt, slow, the way he knew I liked it. "Jasmine?" he murmured as he leaned forward to slip his shirt off, his shoulder muscles and biceps bunching and releasing with fascinating results. "Uh?" "Are you panting?" I licked my lips. Realized my breath had started coming a lot quicker. I put my hand to his chest, sliding my fingers into the thick curls that covered it as I threw my leg over his hips and sat facing him. "I like this couch," I told him. "You do?" His fingers, free of the responsibility of his own buttons, had begun toying with mine. "Yeah." I brushed my cheek against his as I leaned forward to nibble on his earlobe and say, "It's got great handgrips." I reached past his arms and buried my fingers in the soft leather cushions of the back. And then neither of us talked anymore for a long, long time. # CHAPTER NINE _Wednesday, June 13, 8:00 p.m_. I woke up beside Vayl in his huge, comfy bed the night after Aaron's attempted assassination, amazed I'd slept the day through as I picked up the curtain to wish him a good evening. "What's up?" I asked. "You look like somebody just called off your birthday." "The Rogue has left our territory," he said. "Now we have no evidence to plant on Aaron." He held up a hand. "And before you try to comfort me, just imagine if we sent him in with faked remains. His description last night was not far off. Roldan could injure or even kill him before we were able to intervene. We must save him. You know he cannot do it himself." "He's a dead man and you know it," I said bluntly. "That Were never had any intention of leaving either boy alive once he figured out they were connected to you. Not after they'd served his purpose anyway. Now quit being so emotional—" I stopped. What a weird thing to have to say to the man whose expressions had to be read with a magnifying glass. But by now I knew that under that tightly wired exterior boiled passions that could leap out and destroy whole cities. I said, "Okay, that's not fair. Just, you know, try to back off and think. That's what's going to help the most here, and you know it." He took a deep breath. "All right. We can eliminate a Rogue vampire after we make the flight. It would have been difficult to explain a bag full of remains to airport security at any rate." I nodded. Not impossible, because we still carried our department IDs, but since our status was officially inactive it could've still been problematic. So we spent the rest of the night trying to get more information from Aaron about his contacts, shuttling Cassandra, Dave, and later on Bergman from the airport to Vayl's house and preparing for our psychic's reading. Which failed on nearly every front. All she got from Junior was more of his dad's tortured pleas. And when she touched Vayl she couldn't see the other son. Not his face. Not his location. All she sensed was audio. A revving engine and the horrifying sound of crumpling metal. Afterward she sat back in her chair, swept her long black braids from her regal face, her big brown eyes so full of sympathy I nearly cried myself as she embraced Vayl with her gaze. "I'm so sorry," she told him. "Definitely Hanzi is here, I can feel that. But the sense of violence and impending death is so strong it interferes with every other image." She smoothed the skirt of her bright orange sundress, her elegant black hands hesitating at her stomach a moment longer than was necessary, making me wonder if the reading had left her nauseous. Then Dave stepped up with his amazing admission. "I think I can find him." We were sitting in the coziest room in the house. Tucked at the back behind the billiard room within easy reach of the kitchen, it seemed to reflect more of the Vayl-who-was than the ass-kicking Vampere he'd become. I'd seen his den before we'd become a couple, but then I hadn't been in the mood to take in much more than the country-gentleman squares of gleaming brown paneling that gave the area a warmth that was backed up by the chocolaty leather couch, matching love seat, and two burgundy wing chairs with matching footstools. They huddled around a sturdy square coffee table that looked like it had been crafted from railroad ties and ceramic tile painted with the most colorful horse-drawn wagon I'd ever seen. Usually books covered the design, but since I'd come Vayl had gotten better about putting them back onto one of the three black floor-to-ceiling shelves against the walls. Most of Vayl's rugs had been imported from the Middle East. Beautiful Persian designs that seemed to reveal a new picture every time your eye fell on a different section. Underneath the rugs the floors were well-maintained, deeply stained pine. But in the den he'd chosen a hand-woven rag rug in all the colors of the rainbow that stretched nearly the length and width of the room. The colors were muted just enough that they lifted the spirit when you walked in, rather than making you want to bang your head against the wall. The rug stopped at the black marble fireplace. Covering the opening was an iron grate in the shape of a dancing woman, her skirt twirling and her hair flying as she spun in front of the flames. One night he'd confessed that she reminded him of his mother. Not that he'd ever seen her. Just the picture he'd built in his mind, gathered from watching his grandma and his aunts working through the day. But at night they always seemed to have the energy for at least one dance. That was when I'd asked him about the wagon on his table. "I painted it," he'd told me. "It was my first home." And that was all he'd say. But I spent every moment I could spare staring at it, memorizing the red mini-caboose shape of it that was highlighted by gold-painted slats, a four-square window, and a green roof, all of which rode on ridiculously spindly tires with red spokes. Every time I saw it I thought I understood a little better the motherless boy who'd traveled so far inside that tiny, beautiful rig. I'd been gazing at that wagon when my twin had said, "I think I can find him," had risen from the love seat, and left his fiancé's side to stand beside the mantel. He'd really caught my attention when he grabbed the mantel with both hands, like he needed the help to keep from falling. "Dave?" I asked. He stared at the single white earthenware pitcher Vayl had set above his fireplace, like if he eyeballed the wedding party marching across it long enough he might be able to make the flower girls dance right off the container. When he turned around everyone in the room went still. My brother is a commander. That alone causes people to sit straight and shut up. But as I looked around the room, at Vayl and Cole on the couch beside me, at Bergman and Raoul in the wing chairs and Cassandra on the love seat, at Aaron uneasy in a chair brought in from the dining room, even at the animals curled up beside the cold fireplace, I knew they shared my dread. It wasn't just the fading scar on Dave's throat, an unwelcome reminder of the fact that he'd spent time in the service of a necromancer. It wasn't only the no-bullshit gleam in his piercing green eyes, or the fact that his time in the desert had hardened him into a lean, muscular warrior worthy of the utmost respect. It was also the haunted look in his eyes, and the way his lips pulled against his teeth, like he could barely stand the taste of his thoughts. Cassandra stretched her arm over the back of the love seat, her gold bracelets clinking musically as she reached for him. He nodded to her. _I'm okay_. Then he said, "If I have to talk about this I only want to say it once. So listen up." I watched his broad chest rise with the breath he scooped into his lungs. "Ever since I was a zombie—" Cassandra jerked toward him, every one of her ten pairs of earrings shivering in alarm, but he held up his hand. "No. I'm not gonna put pretty words on it. My soul might not've been allowed to move on, and that's why Jaz and Raoul could ultimately save me"—he stopped and bored his eyes into each of us, like he could bury his gratitude so deep we'd feel it every time we woke up—"but basically I was just a slave with skills. Anyway, ever since then, some weird things have been happening." Suddenly he couldn't look at any of us. His eyes skirted the room and finally landed on the window, where Vayl had used a couple of bright red shawls in place of curtains. He went on. "I talked to Raoul about it, and he told me it's a function of my Sensitivity. How, when people agree to serve the Eldhayr, the circumstances of their deaths burn themselves into their psyches. And that they often develop special talents related to that." I thought about some of my own abilities—to sense violent emotion, to cause sudden and deadly fires—and immediately understood his point. He went on. "During my last mission we were tracking an imam who'd reemerged from hiding after fifteen years and was, yet again, recruiting suicide bombers. We had a pretty good source in the area, but when we went to him he told us the guy was dead. We said that was impossible. Our psychics insisted that he'd been active as recently as the previous month. So he showed us a picture of the body. He even said he could take us to where it was buried, because it had become a local shrine. So we went." Dave realized his hands had started to shake, so he clasped them behind his back. At that moment I realized how much he resembled our father, Colonel Albert Parks, the ultimate marine. Strong. Determined. And wounded. Why is it you never recognize the pain in your parents until it's too late? I wanted to call my dad. And, more urgently, go to my brother. Lend him a shoulder. But I knew he needed to stand on his own. Just speaking, knowing I heard without judging, would push him closer to healing than anything else I could do at this moment. So I sat without blinking as he said, "The grave had the right name, and the date of death lined up with when we'd last lost contact. But our psychics are the best in the country. So we dug for proof. Halfway to the body I started to feel sick. Because the corpse was _talking_ to me. Whispering foul suggestions from inside its rotting skull. It patted my head and kissed my cheeks like a loving father, and then told me how if I killed all the men in my unit I'd live forever in heaven with seventy virgins at my service. At the same time I felt like the sound was coming from outside the corpse. So I followed it, you know, mentally. I traveled through every dead donkey and half-eaten carcass I could find along the path it took until I saw a fifteen-year-old boy preaching in this imam's name." "Instant reintegration of the soul into a new body," Raoul murmured. "That never happens. Unless the dying imam called upon some powerfully foul magicks." "I have no doubt about it," Dave replied. "This kid _knew_ he was the reincarnation of the old imam. He was able to access this guy's wisdom and direct his evil plans without admitting it to anyone. You wouldn't think older guys would listen to him, but his charisma was already off the charts." Dave nodded. "I've convinced my superiors to let us go after him next." Cassandra's hand clenched into a fist. An instant of intense worry aged her face by twenty years. Then it passed and she smiled up at him proudly as he said, "I think I can do the same sort of thing for you, Vayl. If we visit your son's grave and I can reach down to his body, I'll be able to communicate with what's left there. It should be able to lead me to its new form." Bergman spoke up. He'd maintained a stoic silence since arriving to find Astral displaying a new symptom at the edge of the front lawn. He'd given her the ability to transform so that she looked like a little black blob. That way she could slide under doors and into air vents when the situation called for extreme secrecy. Except now she'd begun morphing randomly, sliding into molehills and snake holes, killing the inhabitants and piling up her prizes at the front door like UPS packages from Stephen King's nightmares. Now he said, "I'm not sure it'll be that easy, Dave. I mean, I'm sorry to bring up a painful subject, Vayl, but when were your sons killed?" "Seventeen fifty-one," he said shortly. "Nearly two hundred and sixty years ago," Bergman said, doing the mental calculations so quickly I'd have wondered if he'd inserted a computer chip in his brain if I hadn't heard him whine about wanting one on a regular basis since college. "Plus we aren't generally aware of our connections to our past lives. That would make Dave's search even harder." "Dude, you have a way of crushing a whole room and then promising us Disney World," said Cole. Bergman raised a finger. "But there's an unless." "Unless what?" Dave asked. Our theorist started playing with the hem of his sweater, stretching it nearly to his knees (which, I realized, might be why he was the only guy in America who wore sweaters in mid-June) as he said, "Well, I'm just throwing this out there, okay?" "Go on," said Vayl. "You said Astral had organized every scene she could access that involved a fall, or someone flying through the air, right?" "Pretty much," I said. "She's overloading, probably getting excess stimulation somewhere in her temporal lobe." "Wait a second." I realized I'd raised both hands. "You gave the robokitty a brain? With lobes?" Bergman grimaced. "It's so close there's no point in splitting hairs. Or, in this case, subatomic particles. Which would lead to a really beautiful but destructive explosion. Which is kind of what I think will happen with Dave. Too much information at such a speed that he'll never be able to process it. So what I suggest is that I program Astral to act as his filter. Her Enkyklios contains Vayl's file. What if I tinkered with that? Made it into more of a sound barrier that Dave could listen through. Hopefully it would muffle all the lives Hanzi has lived in the years since his death as Vayl's son, and Dave won't get lost in all the decades that he's lived between then and now." "That's not possible. Is it?" It was Aaron, leaning forward, looking from Bergman to Dave and back again like they'd just thrown off their disguises and revealed their superhero costumes. Bergman's face took on that pinched look that meant he didn't want to explain anything, including why he continued to wear extralarge sweaters and ripped jeans when he was easily pulling in a six-figure income. But for once, maybe because of the mix of cynicism and hope in Aaron's voice, he bent his cardinal rule. "The Enkyklios is more than a library. The Sisters of the Second Sight are born with special powers, and when they record the stories, they can't help but imbue those records with bits of their own essence. Combine those with a catastrophic event like blowing Astral's head off, and you end up with something unique. So much so that calling her a robot would be like referring to the pyramids as a collection of stone coffins. So yeah." He turned his concentration to Dave now. "I think you might be able to use her. Especially if—" He stopped now, every drop of color draining from his face as his eyes darted to Vayl and then dropped to the floor. My little buddy had built himself an actual spine over the past few months. But I'd seen psychopaths grovel at Vayl's feet, and all he'd had to do was take one menacing step forward. "What is it you want of me?" he asked. Bergman's words came out strained, like he'd just gotten over a bad case of laryngitis. "It would help if you filled in the blanks in your file where Hanzi is concerned. Just, you know, talk about what was important to him. What he enjoyed. Also what scared him and even what he hated. Strong emotions are the most likely to follow us through our lives. And..." Bergman licked his lips. "I don't know if it's in there. But you should talk about how he died. I understand it was violent, and from what I hear, those are the memories that come back to haunt us most." Vayl sat back so slowly it became obvious that he was forcing himself not to leap out of his seat and turn the coffee table on its side. I realized I must've been the only one in the room who knew that his sons had been shot by a farmer while they were returning a wagon they'd stolen from him. I watched the memories leap behind his eyes, as new and raw as if they'd happened that morning, and said, "Vayl." I put my hand on his arm. His muscles were so tightly coiled I could feel every ridge and outline. "It's over." His eyes, the black of a funeral carriage, met mine and understood that I knew his pain, because sometimes I still walked that path reliving Matt's death. I nodded to Aaron. "I know how hard it must be for you to turn the corner after spending most of your life running toward the same goal. But you're here. You made it. Now it's about him." I pointed to Astral. "And it's about Hanzi, whoever he's become. These are innocent people caught up in our disaster because a couple hundred years ago they happened to know you. We've gotta dig them out." Vayl looked at Aaron like he'd never seen him before. "I will do everything I can for you." Junior sat back, his hands falling away from each other like he wanted to beg for an explanation but knew he wouldn't understand. Still he said, "But. You're a vampire. Who I just tried to kill." Cole sat forward and slapped him on the knee. "Don't feel too bad about your big fail, dude. People try to kill Vayl all the time. It's kind of a cult project that nobody's ever been able to complete. I hear they've designed a patch for the winner and everything." He grinned at Vayl, who responded with a smile that made Aaron's eyes pop. Raoul nodded toward me as he told Vayl, "Just because we prevented Aaron from following through doesn't mean you'll head off the next assassin. Which means you'll need good people around you until this whole issue is resolved. I think I should stay until this story has spun itself out." Vayl raised his eyebrows so high that his eyes actually widened as he gazed at my Spirit Guide. "You—want to help me?" Raoul shrugged a shoulder. "You've earned it." That was all. But coming from an Eldhayr it meant more than a thousand words because it pointed so directly at one: "Redemption." Vayl reached across the table and leaned forward enough for Raoul to meet him halfway and give him a powerful handshake that was as much an affirmation of Vayl's future as it was a contract. Raoul sat back, relaxing into a smile as he added, "Besides. I'm probably in so much trouble already that by the time I get back they'll have demoted me to a desk piled with charts and raw data." "Is it that bad?" I asked. He shook his head, but he said, "There's a reason some of the Eminent call me an interfering old hen." He held up his hand when I started to apologize. After all, I was the one who kept demanding that he get his ass front and center before my world swirled back into the crapper. "I'm a big boy, Jasmine. I make my own choices, and I stand by every one of them." "Then I hope you enjoy flying." Everyone stared at Vayl. Especially Jack, who'd rather spend the day getting rabies shots than take another ride on one of those gigantic birds whose wings never ever flapped. Vayl nodded decisively. "We must go to Romania. That is where the bodies of my boys are buried. Once we are there, David will try to reach the soul of Hanzi." "What about me?" Aaron had leaped to his feet, his arms outstretched in one of those how-dare-you-forget-me gestures that always made me want to kick people in the ribs. Vayl's eyes glittered so brightly that Junior immediately dropped his hands as his former father said, "I have a plan for you as well." # CHAPTER TEN _Saturday, June 16, 8:45 p.m_. We are expert travelers. Together Vayl and I have hit so many different countries our passports look like a little girl's sticker book. We've flown over oceans, deserts, mountains, and swamps. You'd think a little trip to Romania would pull itself together in a matter of hours. Um, no. Romania is not so simple to reach from America. You've gotta fly into a much more popular destination first. Say London or Paris. Then there's the train. And, after that, even more transportation to arrange, since not everybody would fit into my shiny black 1963 Ford Galaxie. And I was damned if I was going to leave my baby home after Vayl had promised me I'd never have to drive a shit-sucking rental again. Also we had a huge group to deal with. I felt like a damn travel agent keeping track of Dave and Cassandra, who needed privacy whenever possible, and Bergman, who demanded special dispensation for his electronics. Cole and Raoul were easygoing enough, but Aaron flipped out at the idea of eating "foreign" food, which was when we learned of his _long_ list of dislikes. This seemed to include everything but peanut butter and chocolate. No wonder he looked like somebody had stuck an air pump under his skin and inflated him to double his natural size. And then there were the animals, who absolutely refused to travel in cargo. Vayl finally gave up, chartered his own plane, arranged for a tour bus to meet us in Bucharest, and shipped the Galaxie via some top secret transport the details of which none of us were privy to because that's how shit gets done in DC. Although Raoul made Jack jealous by doting on Astral, Bergman accidentally caught Dave and Cassandra in the sauna, which grossed him out so much that he threatened to go home, and Cole made Aaron scream like a little girl by slipping his clanking vamp teeth into his shower, Vayl finally herded us all onto the plane two nights later. And after traveling so long that I considered shooting every single member of my party, including those I loved the most, we finally arrived in the brightly lit city that had once sparkled like a gem among the mountains and hills that surrounded it. Bucharest had style, it just couldn't decide what kind. An eclectic mix of classic French architecture, modern skyscrapers, and decrepit old hulks ready to tumble into the street during the next big earthquake, it couldn't seem to shake the shadow of Communism that had tried to hammer it senseless for so many years. And yet I loved the place. Because it, and its people, had figured out how to survive. And more, because they'd finally stood up to their twisted government and yelled, "Bullshit!" So whenever I saw a couple holding hands or a family sauntering down the sidewalk, I waved respectfully as I drove down wide black boulevards that reminded me bizarrely of streets I'd navigated in St. Louis. That is, except for the metal fence that marched down the median. And the sad lack of shapely automobiles to keep mine company. (Note to European automakers: Square sucks. Pass it on.) Vayl sat in the front of the car with me, listening to the Galaxie's engine thrum like the bass of our favorite song. Cole and Bergman lounged in the back with Jack draped across their laps as if he'd decided they might get cold without his kind assistance. Their heads were bent over Astral, whose fur was split from neck to ears so Bergman could see better as he tinkered, using the miniature tool set he stored in his front pocket. None of us discussed the sights as we headed out of the city, north toward Peles Castle and the woods surrounding. Because we knew that somewhere inside the trees on the distant horizon, Vayl had buried his sons. And how do you make small talk about a minaret-roofed museum with that thought dangling at the front of your mind? Eventually I'd be there for Vayl. Maybe even figure a way to talk to him about it. But for now I had to concentrate on getting my old girl through traffic that didn't seem to include a single trained driver who cared if he or she survived to get to the dance club. Except, maybe, for Dave, who was piloting the monstrosity behind us. I touched the tiny plastic receiver stuck just inside my ear. I'd be able to hear anything going on in the vehicle behind us because Bergman had provided enough of the Party Line sets to go around the whole group. The microphones, which looked like beauty marks, rested on different parts of our faces. Mine was just to the right of my upper lip. Vayl said it made him want to nibble on me, so I had sworn never to wear it anywhere else. The rest of the crew wore theirs near their mouths as well, except for Cole, who insisted that his should rest on the inner curve of his nose until he could find a nymph to pierce it, and then it could become part of the nose ring. Nymphpiercings, he'd said, were lucky, but I hadn't been able to ask him why at the time. And now didn't seem quite the moment either, so I put it off again. But I suddenly realized that somebody needed to say something. The silence was diving too deep. I glanced at Vayl, wondering if he understood that, as in every other mission with potentially dire consequences, we needed this downtime to unclench if we were going to operate on all cylinders when it mattered most. He'd lived a long time. Surely he understood why people needed to banter, tease, and, yeah, laugh. Sometimes even when they were at wakes. As he had so often in the past, Vayl touched his eyes to mine, sensed the direction of my thoughts, and turned slightly so my brother could see his half-smile as he said, "David? The quiet is disturbing in that children-are-up-to-no-good sort of way. Is everything going all right back there?" "So far so good," my brother replied. "Except I think Raoul is chafing. We may have to stop for baby powder." "I don't need powder!" Raoul exclaimed. I looked in the rearview mirror at the vehicle following us and shook my head yet again. Where Vayl had scrounged the 1968 Volkswagen bus I didn't dare ask. But I did make a mental note never to let him near the Internet again. It had come equipped with a microphone because it actually had been a touring vehicle. Which worked for our cover. So we'd dressed Raoul in a party big in little paris T-shirt and stiff new blue jeans and informed him he was our guide. Then we'd had to tell him to at least try to look relaxed. For his sake I regretted the necessity of asking him to shuck his uniform, but it's kind of tough to pull off the whole tour group disguise when the guy who's supposed to be showing you around Romania is dressed like a commando. Despite the difficulty of steering the hefty vehicle through streets as busy as midtown Chicago, Dave managed the time to say, "Relax, Raoul! You look fabulous." He switched to the fashionista voice he used when he really wanted to make Albert crazy. "Those pants make your tush look like two ripe cantaloupes. Just so squeezable you're gonna make all the boys swoon." I grinned as Cole broke into peals of laughter behind me. I heard a clunk, which I imagined was Raoul dropping his head against the window as he moaned, "You people are insane. Even you, Cassandra. No, don't sit there trying to look innocent. I know sooner or later you're going to open up that giant bag of yours—what is it made of, Christmas beads?—and something alien is going to pop out that you're going to expect me to kill." Cassandra chuckled. "Well, I have noticed things seem to be moving around in there on their own." Squeaky sound as she moved in her seat. "What do you think, Aaron? Is my lovely beaded purse haunted?" "If it's not now, it probably will be before this is all over." Gah. Leave it to Junior to spread dread all over the happy moment. "That's not necessarily true," said Cassandra. Her voice, calm and smooth as a lake at sunrise, soothed me even from this distance. But Aaron said, "Don't touch me! I know you're a psychic—hey! I thought you said you were engaged. That's a wedding ring on your finger!" Silence. The kind you get after you've stood next to the speakers at a rock concert. Ear-ringing, head-shaking silence. Now, I know I'm supposed to be supah-spy. Damn near invincible because nothing gets past my eagle eyes. But I'm giving myself a pass on this one. I'd been a little distracted with Aaron's assassination attempt, Cole's big news, and the arrival of my entire crew within the following twenty-four hours. Plus, Cassandra wore jewelry like at any minute she might be asked to trade it for food. Gold studs lined her ears, followed by hoops so huge that small bunnies could use them for collars. So many chains hung from her neck that I couldn't imagine how she kept them from tangling into a huge gold coil. And each finger held at least two rings. Sometimes three. So I instantly forgave myself that I hadn't noticed before as I said, "What the hell? Cassandra? Is Aaron right? Are you wearing a wedding ring?" I wished I could look into her eyes. Her skin is so dark I can never tell if she's blushing, but by damn, if she'd ducked her head so that her braids fell across her fine, high cheekbones I'd have known the score. When she didn't instantly reply I snapped, "Daz, you tell me the truth, dammit!" Using my old nickname on Dave worked. My twin said, "We were going to tell everybody when we came north. You know, throw a little party? But every time we see you you're in the middle of some crisis." His voice dropped. "Seriously, Jaz, you need to consider reprioritizing your life. You know, before you can't outrun the fire anymore." "Hey! Don't try to deflect this on me. You got married and didn't tell me!" I paused. "Or invite me!" Cassandra said, "Oh, Jasmine, I'm so sorry." I could hear her tears even from this distance. Which was kinda weird. Usually she had better control of her emotions. I looked at Vayl, who nodded, and I suddenly realized how much my opinion of her mattered. _What the fuck? She's, like, 975 years older than me!_ _Doesn't matter_ , said Granny May, as she flipped over her project and took a step back to admire how it looked lying there all nicely framed on her dining room table. I was so shook I barely glanced at the tapestry she'd been sewing for the past several weeks. _You saved her from Kyphas. She's in love with your brother. She respects you. So quit acting like a douche before you break her heart!_ _Gran, stop talking like Teen Me. I mean it. It's just disturbing when you say words like "douche."_ I wondered if all granddaughters had to put up with this kind of shit as my granny, still cackling, hung the tapestry on the wall above her gleaming mahogany buffet. And then I forgave her everything. _Gran?_ She glanced at me over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming with the wisdom that only seems to come with age and daily doses of Geritol. _What?_ We both looked up at her needlework, a project so detailed I could pick out the shadowy form of the earthbane that the cowboy Zell Culver had vanquished reflected in his clear brown eyes. She'd added details I hadn't picked up the first time I'd seen him as a hologram playing from Astral's projector. Then he'd been part of a report detailing everything she knew about the Rocenz. Now he wore a tooled leather band around the rim of his broadbrimmed hat, a plain brown long-sleeved shirt, and worn leather chaps over dark brown work pants stained with blood. Blood spattered his worn work boots, but they looked comfortable rather than ratty. His plain silver buckle closed on a gunfighter's rig, but the holsters hanging from its belt were empty. His hands hung at his sides, each one holding half of the tool that had destroyed his monster and would, I hoped, someday kill mine. I suddenly felt like a tool myself. _Gran_ , I whispered, mentally pointing at the picture. _Zell Culver knows how to separate the pieces_. _Yes_ , she said. _I know_. _But Astral said he was taken back to hell the day after he won._ _How convenient that you have to go there to beat Brude anyway_. Silence. Not golden. But at least, finally, hopeful. Because now we didn't have to force information from Roldan that he would never, even on pain of death, reveal. We had a source. A man who would, no doubt, happily share what he knew—if we could just find him. When I tuned back into Dave and my new sister, I didn't have to fake the happiness in my voice as I said, "I'm just giving you guys a hard time because it's so easy to do. Seriously, I just wish I had a big fat present to lay on you. Because we should be celebrating right now. And it sucks that I can't do more than tell you how the rest of my life will be happier because you two are together now." Now I could really hear Cassandra sobbing, and Dave telling her to get up here so he could give her a hug, and Raoul demanding that they both take care because these old buses didn't drive themselves. Bergman leaned over to Cole. "Is she going to cry this whole trip?" "I heard that, Miles," Cassandra warned him. "Sorry. I was just wondering. Because it upsets me when you cry. In fact, I liked it better when you were yelling at me all the time." Cassandra laughed. "Then that's how I'll deal with my stress from now on." "Good." Vayl spoke up. "Now that we have that settled, we must attend to another problem. We are less than thirty minutes from our ultimate destination and we have not decided yet how the team is to be divided." Another silence, this time more thoughtful than freaked. Raoul spoke up. "I think that's because no one is perfectly clear on the details. All we know is that Dave is supposed to try to find Hanzi through contact with his remains. And you have a plan for Aaron that requires us to split up temporarily." "Yes," said Vayl. "I have thought this out carefully and discussed it at length with Jasmine. We believe one group of us can rescue Aaron Senior from the Thin while the other half accompanies David on his mission. Because we know time is of the essence now, for Hanzi's sake, we can imagine no better way to do it." I cleared my throat. "I think they want to know exactly how we mean to get it done." Vayl turned clear blue eyes on mine. "We need at least one more person to join us in the Thin." "We?" Raoul sounded slightly pissed. "What makes you think _you_ can travel beyond?" Vayl said, "I already have." His silence gave Raoul the chance to recall the time he'd allowed Vayl to enter into his realm. But even before that he'd come into the Thin with me. He'd gotten there through my dream, pulled by my will the same way I had been yanked there by Brude in the first place. I said, "Raoul? Can you send us there?" He said, "No. It's not as easy as going through a plane portal. We always need scouts in place to help us find the holes to enter where we won't be caught and instantly annihilated. It takes time and people, neither of which we have." "So we go in guns blazing," I suggested. He made a familiar sound, one that let me know he'd raised his hands to his head and shoved his walnut-tinged crew cut even more upright than usual. "I will go with you. But you have to believe it would be suicide to enter that way. We need to find another route. And, of course..." He paused so long that I realized he was trying to send me a silent message. "What?" I asked. "You shouldn't go. Brude is trapped inside your head right now. What happens when you take him back to his base? _I_ would expect him to gain strength. Maybe even enough to break free." I considered the alternative. Let this part of the plan ride until after we'd found Hanzi and figured out how to extricate Aaron without any risk to me. Which meant, I had no doubt, that he'd try to kill Vayl again. Because there was something about the way his eyes shifted from his former father's when they were together that told me he hadn't revealed his whole story. He kept trying to distance himself from Vayl, and us, because he still believed the vampire needed to die. I said, "I have to go." And not only because of that. Vayl and I knew one more detail about the Thin we hadn't shared with the rest of the crew. One truth Brude had let slip during his incarceration in my mind that I didn't even think he realized I'd latched on to, because only recently had I realized its significance. Besides his little fiefdom there were twenty-three other realms in the Thin ruled by strong-willed souls such as himself. None of them had yet made plans to build their rulings into mini-hells and eventually dethrone Lucifer. Most of them, in fact, preferred to keep their nasties to themselves. But a few had already figured out Brude's plans, those close enough to observe the growing menace that could only mean the eventual demise of their own kingdoms. And they had begun to fight him. I figured that's why somebody upstairs had kept pounding the number twenty-three into my head. Because they were my potential allies, not only in this plan, but in ways I couldn't yet fathom. Unfortunately, of those twenty-three, the ruler who was most accessible to us right now might also be the least likely to help us. Still studiously ignoring Vayl, Aaron asked, "If you rescue my dad—" "Make that a 'we,' Junior," I said sharply. "You want this to happen, you're taking the trip too." To give him credit, he didn't shy from the news. Just nodded and wiped the sweat off his brow as he finished his question. "Say we break him out of the Thin. What happens to him then?" Raoul said, "If you can rescue Aaron Senior, he'll fly free." Which should've been a relief to Aaron. So why could I sense his anxiety like it was a black and wriggling disease in his belly? Because I didn't want him to catch on that I was catching on to him, I moved my attention back to my Spirit Guide. "Okay, so you have no scouts in the Thin. And it's obvious you don't want to drop in blind. So how the hell—" Vayl said, "Do not worry, Jasmine. Raoul will know exactly what to do when the time comes. Now, I believe our friends were asking for a detailed plan. Shall we let them know what we have decided?" When I nodded reluctantly, he held up a brochure. On the front was a picture of a palace that looked like it had been influenced by a German architect. "Pelisor Castle is situated quite close to Peles." He turned the brochure over and displayed a map that Cole and Bergman managed to catch a glimpse of by leaning forward and holding on to Jack so he wouldn't flop to the floor. "One of its former residents returns, from time to time, to remind its caretakers whom it really belongs to despite the fact that she has been dead for nearly seventy years. Jasmine and I are hopeful that she will help us find Aaron Senior." "Assuming she spends time in the Thin at all," Bergman said doubtfully. "How do you know she hasn't hooked up with Brude?" Even Miles could detect Vayl's smile when he replied. "This ghost was once the queen of Romania. A politically brilliant woman, Marie will not have lost her desire to rule. We believe she will have found in Brude an opponent, not an ally. In fact, we are quite certain of it." "And you think she'll want to help us?" asked Cole. Even Vayl couldn't put one hundred percent certainty into his voice when he said, "If we can convince her it is in her best interest, yes, we believe so." Dave spoke up. "So the four of you are going to jump into the Thin. That is, if Raoul can figure out a travel plan that won't get you killed en route. Beautiful. And at the same time Bergman, Cole, Cassandra, and I are supposed to go ahead with plan B. You really want us to do that without you, Vayl?" My _sverhamin_ stared at his clasped hands. "I believe it would be for the best." Which meant, while he was all for Dave's attempt, he wasn't sure he could stand idly by while my brother defiled a sacred spot, even though his intentions were pure. Best for Vayl to make sure he never knew exactly how that scene had gone down. Dave got it too. I could tell by the way his voice had roughened when he said, "Good enough. You don't even have to give us an exact location. All you have to do is get us close and—" He paused, and I heard Cassandra whisper something in a comforting tone. "Yeah," he went on, more definitely. "I can find the grave sites. I seem to have a way of homing in on cemeteries now." I thought Dave was done then. He'd spoken words that were so hard for both Vayl and himself to hear that I wouldn't have been surprised to hear nothing but his breathing the rest of the way to Pelisor. Then he said, "You're sitting very still inside that car, Vayl. Do you trust us to do the right thing?" Vayl's hands tightened around each other. Then he turned so he could see my twin, driving remarkably well behind us despite the fact that minis kept insisting on darting between us. He said, "You are the brother of my heart." If I'd tried a line like that Cole would've slumped to the floor, passed out from laughing so hard, leaving Jack flustered and confused as Bergman rolled his eyes in disgust and Dave tried desperately not to wreck the bus from his own inability to control his hysterical response. But since it came from the vampire, everybody understood. He'd just handed over half of his life's quest to Dave because he considered him family. And that's what brothers do. Dave held his fist up and pushed it toward Vayl. "We'll find your boy," he vowed. "We'll find him," confirmed Cole as he steadily scratched Jack's head. "But where exactly are we starting?" He glanced away from Bergman's tinkering with Astral to peer down the rutted asphalt road, which was now far enough from the city for only sporadic traffic, all of which seemed to be passing us. "We will stop at Peles Castle first. Your group will begin its mission from there," said Vayl. "The castle was not yet built when my family and I traveled this area, but it works as a fine landmark. Walk into the forest directly north of the tallest spire. The pines are quite dense around the castle, so it will not be easy to find the path, but I was here a month ago and cleared it myself. So once you find it, rest assured it will lead you to the spot." "You can count on us," said Dave. Vayl inclined his head slightly as he said, "Just be careful. I would hate for this entire mission to fail because someone"—he raised his eyebrow a bit at Cole—"decided to see how the local security detail felt about chattering vampire teeth." Cole crossed his heart solemnly as he said, "I will keep my fake fangs in my pocket until the deed is done." He wiggled his eyebrows at Vayl. "Now _you_ try to do the same, okeydokey, sweetie pie?" I'd never thought I would see the day when Vayl rolled his eyes like an irate ninth grader, but then Cole manages to bring out the juvie in all of us sooner or later. Which was probably why we were all still relatively sane. Cassandra rescued the conversation by asking, "What will you be doing while we're trying to find Hanzi?" Vayl explained how he and I, plus Aaron and Raoul, would be driving my Galaxie back to Peles Castle. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he sat back and let his arm fall into his lap. "Best of luck to all of us. And please remember, I am trying to save my children. I would be eternally grateful if, this time, you helped me succeed." # CHAPTER ELEVEN _Saturday, June 16, 10:30 p.m_. After doing another Party Line sound check at Bergman's insistence, we separated at the car park of Peles Castle. Since security would come to investigate us within two to three minutes, we pulled out of the lot together, but Dave parked on the shoulder of the road just outside of Peles, turned on his emergency blinkers, and left the bus open in case somebody decided to investigate. I drove the Galaxie to Pelisor so quickly I barely had time to wonder what the rest of our crew was doing, or why Astral wasn't feeding me any video. Then I realized she was, she just happened to be looking at the grass as she walked, because every once in a while I could see one of her paws step into the picture. Then a huge pink tongue slurped across her nose. _Way to go, Jack! Keep that robokitty on her toes—not to mention all the humans who sometimes need to be reminded that the most important things in life are big, wet kisses_. I glanced at Vayl, wondering if I should lay one on him. _Definitely soon_ , I decided, as I brought my car to rest in a small park where, during the daytime, visitors might stop and have lunch before returning to the nearest city, which called itself Sinaia and catered to skiers, hikers, rock climbers, and people who'd convinced themselves the mineral springs were actually the Fountain of Youth. Tourists got a huge kick out of the castles, of course, and in the daytime Pelisor's little nook of Romania looked like it had been peeled off a painting, with bright green grass and dark green pines forming a small break in the endless roll of the Carpathian Mountains. Pelisor itself was kinda homey for a castle, which had been the intent of its first owner, King Carol I. The main reason, I decided, was the hodgepodge of materials that had been used to build the place. The foundation was formed from traditional gray castle stone. It was topped by German-cottage-style gables, with medieval church archways and turrets that looked pink in some lights and sandy brown in others pinched between. Topped by so many russet-colored roofs that it seemed as if the place had been built in sections and superglued together, it confused the hell out of my white-siding senses. And yet it worked. I almost regretted getting past the caretaker so easily. Despite Raoul's tour-guide costume, the slope-shouldered old gent hadn't fallen for our American-VIPs story at first. Then Vayl had laid a gentle arm around his shoulder, looked deep into his eyes, and spoken to him in his own tongue while shoving hypnotic suggestions down his throat. He'd instantly dropped a handful of castle maps into our hands and shuffled away, twitching like he was trying to shake a persistent mosquito. I found myself wishing he'd fought Vayl's push a little harder. Then I wouldn't have had to face the gilding so soon. "Oh. My. God." I stopped three steps into the Gold Room, where Queen Marie's ghost appeared the most, forcing Aaron to backpedal so he wouldn't slam into me. His curse drew itself out when he got a load of our new surroundings. "Shee-it!" he said, sliding past me to wander around the room's edge, slowly, like he had to get his bearings or he just might get lost amid the glitter. Raoul had stationed himself near the center by a chaise longue draped with black lace. It was in startling contrast to the rest of the space, which shone with the color of power. Not purple. Nuh-uh. I've-got-a-Golden-Ticket gold. Gilded thistles covered the walls and ceiling of the room, the center of which held a Celtic cross framed by four golden lights. I immediately looked to Vayl to see how he'd be affected by the holy sign. He'd noticed it right away too, and was checking the backs of his hands for signs of smoke. "Don't worry," Raoul told him as he nodded toward the cross. "You're under my protection here." Vayl stuck his hands in his pockets. "Thank you," he said. He went to the opposite side of the room, where a door flanked by two arched stained glass windows would let beautiful light in during the day. I tried to gauge his mood by the way his shoulders strained against his suit coat, but it was too hard to tell while his back was turned. So I let my eyes wander to the Tiffany lamp on the heavy rectangular table that sat between the chaise and the bank of windows, which gave the room an unearthly glow. Stately square chairs sat at each end of the table. At a diagonal behind one of them a double throne—I couldn't think of it in any other terms—waited for its owner's return. Behind the other a golden cabinet held some of Marie's most treasured possessions. A book of poetry written in her own hand. A pair of giant pearl earrings surrounded by diamonds. A blue velvet hat trimmed with white fur. A statue of her daughter, Elisabeth, lifting her face to a refreshing breeze, her long hair and ruffled skirts flying behind her. Vayl turned, the dimple on his right cheek appearing briefly as he asked, "Jasmine? Is this what you would call over-the-top?" I said, "Vayl? This freaking room is the reason royals should be wired with an off switch." Aaron said, "Holy shitsky, this guy's got a gold dick!" He was pointing at a statue that stood beside the flower-painted doorway we'd entered. The artist seemed to be into helmets and swords but little else in the way of armor. "Shitsky?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. "Where are you from, Aaron? Sheboygan?" "Close," he said. "My mom was from Madison and I grew up in St. Paul." I crossed my arms. "Nice boys from Wisconsin do not go around killing people. Even after they've turned into vampires." He blew his breath out his nose. "That is exactly something my mom would've said." "I know. My Granny May was from the Midwest." "Is she in the Thin?" he asked hopefully. I laughed out loud. "Hell no! She's probably in God's left ear right now, informing him that maybe he should change his gemstone polish, because the pearly gates aren't looking quite as shiny as they should." Aaron's smile suddenly made the whole room look dull by comparison. "Mom was just like that!" "How about your dad?" I asked. Instant sorrow. "Not so much. Dad knew two things. How to brew beer. And how to say yes to Mom. I was fifteen when she died, and then it became my job to tell him what to do." Now I understood how Aaron's dad had been caught. Raoul said, "Your father would have been easy prey, then. A wavering soul is a vulnerable one." The kid dropped his head. "I've thought about that. But he's a good guy." "I know." Raoul gestured down to the chaise. "According to the plaque, this is the spot where Queen Marie died in 1938. This will be where she returns when I call her." "So that's what you're going to do?" I asked. I came over to stand by him, staring down at the last cradle of a country's ruler. It did feel different to me, as if I'd sidled up to the emotional firewall of a woman's entire life. But I knew that I could reach through if I wanted to. That I could touch the sliver of soul that she'd left behind, that continued to call her back. And it would burn to be so close to such raw humanity. I clasped my hands behind my back as Raoul said, "If I invited her back to a place where she habitually walked anyway, we'd all be less likely to become ghost kebabs. You could talk, hopefully make the deal, and then take it from there. If she even—" I held my hand up to head off his doubts before he polluted the room with his negative energy. I said, "I've sensed it in Brude. She spends most of her time in the Thin. This is the only place that calls her back." Raoul stared down at the plaque mounted on a gold-painted post. "All right, I'll buy that. But only because you two are the types who make it your job to know. Did you also know that when she shows up to haunt the place, she heralds her entrance with the scent of her favorite perfume?" "Which is?" I asked. "Violets," Raoul said. "Nope, we missed that. But we're not surprised. Are we, Vayl?" I asked as my _sverhamin_ came over to join us. Vayl came over to stand by us. "Nothing the queen did would raise my eyebrows," he told us. "Good," replied Raoul. "Because I'm about to bring her here, and I suspect she'd see that as a sign of weakness." "What happened to opening a doorway?" Vayl asked, his voice deepening with frustration. "The queen will take you through if you talk fast enough," said Raoul. He eyed Vayl. "You look frightening enough to curdle milk. I suggest you let Jaz take this one." Before Vayl could reply he went on. "Marie is a queen, so she'll probably travel with a retinue. I have no idea how many she'll bring with her, but they'll be hungry." His eyes wandered to Aaron as he finished. "I suggest you stay inside the room until the meeting's over." "Why would we leave?" asked Aaron. "You could be forced out," Raoul said. "And for my protection to work at maximum strength right now it can't extend beyond these four walls." He gestured at the wallpaper as Aaron began looking for something sturdy to hang on to. Then he said, "As soon as she's accepted your deal, you'll be all right. But until then, be vigilant." "I was a Boy Scout," Aaron offered. "Is that anything like 'Be prepared'?" I crossed my arms. "That all depends. What are you preparing to do?" He shrugged. I said, "Well whatever it is, just don't touch the ghosts. Nothing enrages them more than to be touched by the living. They'll morph from gracious conversationalists into parasitic bloodsuckers right before your eyes. I've known them to slice arteries with rage alone. So, you know, if you can't figure out how to be prepared. At least be polite." # CHAPTER TWELVE _Saturday, June 16, 10:40 p.m_. While we set up for the queen's visit, the other (better?) half of our crew took the short hike to Pelisor's older and oh-baby-grander brother, Peles. Astral's video combined with the Party Line and vivid descriptions by members of what later came to be called the "Bergman Got Balls Expedition" revealed that security around a museum full of priceless artifacts just oozing stories related to Romania's colorful history is as tight as a miser at Christmas. Which was why they didn't bother knocking. They parked just off of Str. Pelesului and hit the tree line. Dave and Jack took the lead. Cassandra followed with Astral at her heels, Bergman at her shoulder, and Cole at her back, his gun drawn but hanging at his side. "Is that really going to be necessary?" hissed Bergman, his eyes darting nervously from Cole's nine-millimeter Beretta Storm to the moonlit pines surrounding them and beyond, to Peles Castle, which sat in its valley to their right, sparkling like an amulet full of diamonds. "Absolutely," Cole whispered. "Because you never know when we might be attacked by a horde of Vlad's impalers. Just imagine it, Miles. Three hundred screaming warriors on horseback, their faces painted with the blood of their enemies, their lances set to pin us against these trees here like a couple of scarecrows." "That's just... Would you stop with the ridiculousness? That's not even how it happened back then." Cole shrugged. "Like I'd know. I spent my entire History class trying to convince the teacher that my dad actually found Hitler while he was still alive and that he was the one who shot him. And that my mom was really Eva Braun. Almost had him convinced too. Then he saw the three of us together at a wrestling tournament, figured out my folks weren't even alive during World War Two and the whole game collapsed." Cole sighed. "It was fun while it lasted, though." "Shut up back there," Dave said. "We're supposed to be skirting security, and it's gonna be kind of tough to pull off stealth mode while we're all laughing." Cole grinned as Bergman gave him a dirty look, which seemed especially to be aimed at his Beretta. "It's just a precaution," Cole reassured him. "I promise if I have to, I'll shoot the guns out of their hands just like in the old Westerns." "And then will you sing to them like Roy Rogers used to do?" whispered Cassandra. "Only if you buy me a white shirt with fringe _and_ sequins." Cassandra said, "Done," just as Astral made a matter-of-fact suggestion: "Mammas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys." They all stopped and stared down at Bergman's robokitty, who had paused when she noticed Cassandra do the same. She looked up at them and said, "Ghost Riders in the Sky." "What does that even mean?" asked Cole as he peered off into the dark, cupping his shooting hand with his free one and pulling the Beretta up to shoulder height. He went still, raising his nose as if sniffing the air. Dave motioned for them to stand perfectly still. Moments later he and Jack had disappeared into the pines. "Wow," whispered Bergman. "He's good." "He'd better be back soon," Cole finally whispered. "What is it?" Cassandra asked. "Something's here." Bergman slapped his hands against his cheeks like he was trying to wake himself up from a bad dream. "How can you tell?" Cole rolled his shoulders as if he suddenly felt the need to stay loose. "It's hard to describe. It's like the back of my brain itches. Sometimes, just by the way it's irritated, I can tell what's set me off. Like a vampire. Or a fairy. But this time"—he shook his head—"I'm not quite sure." Bergman stepped to his side. "But maybe you could be sensing something innocent. Hunters do that. And you're kind of a hunter. So maybe it's a raccoon. Or a frog." He squinted into the woods. "Ribbit?" he ventured hopefully. Cassandra had also closed ranks. But she'd turned so that she could detect movement behind them. "Is your gun going to be effective against whatever you're sensing?" she asked Cole. Cole shrugged. "It's loaded with holy silver. So it'll slow down a vamp or kill a Were. It's just that this thing doesn't _smell_ like that." Dave and Jack rejoined the group so quietly that even Bergman forgot to jump. "I found the grave site," Dave said. "But it's being guarded." "By what?" Cole asked. Dave rubbed his jaw, which made Cassandra start to play nervously with her rings. Already, like a good poker player, or a loving wife, she'd begun to pick up on Dave's stress tells. He said, "It's a Rider." Cole swore under his breath, another sign of bad mojo. Only Bergman still hadn't fully caught on to their predicament. He asked, "What's a Rider?" Neither Dave nor Cole acted like he wanted to answer, so Cassandra clasped her hands together, her eyes so luminous she might have been channeling her inner oracle as she told him, "It's a big, hulking brute that latches on to its victim, digs in, and then sucks out all the thought and emotion, until there's nothing left but a staring, slobbering husk." "So it's a vampire?" asked Bergman. Cole turned to him. "Think of it as the first vampire. In the same way that scientists consider Neanderthals the first salsa dancers. Not quite, but without that link you'd never have Vayl." "So..." Bergman struggled to stay in the classroom part of his brain. "It's, what, less evolved?" Dave nodded. "It doesn't turn its victims. It tortures them. Gets into their blood and melds their minds into truth machines. Tell me something, Miles. Have you ever seen a person take a good look at himself in the mirror?" Bergman shook his head. Dave said, "I did once. Friend of mine, ended up punching the glass so hard he needed twenty stitches to put his hand back together." He leaned in closer, trying to explain a creature whose power even he had only heard whispers of. "Most of us spend our whole lives tucking our weakness under the mattress, hiding our fears inside the closet, pretending we're not miserable shits to our spouses and kids. Not because they deserve it. Because that's just who we are. Riders turn people into horses, jerking the reins so they have to face their own miserable bitchiness, prejudice, and petty crap. The more you fight, the harder those spurs dig in until you're literally bleeding all over the carpet. Feeding the monster on your back. If you don't give in, pretty soon you're dead. But if you can face the horror, walk through your own nightmare without flinching too much, you can buck that Rider and cut his fucking throat." Dave pulled a knife from a sheath he'd hidden inside the pocket of his cargo pants. "So which one of you thinks you can pull that off?" # CHAPTER THIRTEEN _Saturday, June 16, 10:45 p.m_. I'd heard all the talk in Cole's camp and it had made me half crazy. It was my job to go decimate the Rider, not hear that one of my crew was about to risk his or her life in my place. Especially since the creature couldn't have picked that particular cemetery to guard randomly. It had been sent by Roldan and Brude in another attempt to destroy us. I hated that we couldn't deal with the Rider directly, and that the pain of watching one of our dearest friends fight, and possibly die, in our place would make those two bastards crow. Plus I knew Astral's mutterings about cowboys weren't random at all, but another push to find Zell Culver. And _soon_. I wasn't sure who'd been pulling her strings, and while I appreciated the direction, I also hated the fact that I couldn't follow it right this minute. But here I was, stuck in rock-around-the-clock mode, circling the lacedraped chaise where Queen Marie had taken her last breath along with Vayl, Raoul, and Aaron like we'd started a game of musical chairs only, damn, somebody had forgotten the props. So we just kept cakewalking while Raoul tried to conjure the stubborn old monarch to the site of her last human breath. I could almost see her lying there, surrounded by her children and loyal servants. Mourned aloud even as they silently divided her loot among themselves. That alone would've given me reason enough to return. I'd have haunted those bastards to the fifth generation. And I kinda hoped she still scared the shit out of them on a daily basis. "So what are we doing?" whispered Aaron. "Is this like a séance?" He held his hands in ours delicately, as if he thought Raoul and I were still pissed enough to break a couple of fingers. I said, "I've never seen a séance yet that wasn't three parts stage show and one part bullshit. Real Raisers use an inborn power called the Lure to pull spirits from the Thin. From what I understand it makes them smell extra good to the dead, especially when they're dancing. It's like a gazelle flirting with the danger zone of a lion pride. The pride's fascinated, right? Glued to the picture. But if they've already eaten, they just watch. Raisers have a similar ability to convince the spirits they're stuffed. Since none of us were born with that power, we're going with this simpler, less entertaining technique." We finally stopped, which must have meant Raoul had coiled our energies around the spot to a satisfactory degree. Aaron's arms crossed over his chest as he watched my Spirit Guide pull a silver dagger from the sheath hanging at his side. He'd looked so relieved to be able to strap it back on when we were pulling our weapons out of the trunk of the Galaxie that I'd felt a fresh spurt of guilt for making him ditch his uniform. Sometimes you just need your familiars around you. Aaron didn't see that, maybe because the dagger was glinting like a razor as Raoul put it into motion. "What're you going to do?" he asked. "Sacrifice," I said. Vayl grimaced at me. "Must you taunt the boy?" he asked. I considered the pudgy youth who still refused to dump his country's fear of _others_ despite everything he'd seen so far. "Yup." Raoul stepped forward. "Hold your arms over the chaise," he commanded, just like he'd dropped back into the field and we were his loyal troops. We did as we were told, even Aaron, and Raoul made a small slash above each of our wrists one after another, including his own. Following his lead, we turned our arms so the blood could fall on the lace coverlet, watching the black cloth dampen as the droplets hit and soaked in. Raoul said, "Queen Marie Alexandra Victoria of Romania. We beg an audience." He waited. We all did while Aaron looked up, down, and around like he figured a gang of skeletons was going to jump out of a hidden doorway any second now. He whispered, "That's it? Ring-aroundthe-rosy, blood, and begging, and you think the ghost of a dead queen is just going to drop in on you like you're her favorite cousins? I should've _known_ you guys were a bunch of posers—" "Aaron." One word from Vayl accompanied by a look that could freeze erupting volcanoes, and our tagalong shut the hell up. Just in time for the scent of violets to waft through the room. "Do you...?" I raised my eyebrows at Vayl and Raoul. They nodded to show that they'd detected the odor too, stronger now, centering on the chaise under our noses. A rumble shook the room, or maybe it was the whole castle, because we could hear the distant shrieks of a terrified woman. A shiver ran across my shoulder blades and I turned toward the flower-painted door just in time to see two soldiers wearing uniforms I dated to World War II lead a majestic creature through the entryway as if it had been opened and the room prepared for them. She held her head high, as if the spiked platinum crown resting on her rich brown hair weighed nothing more than its gumball machine knockoff. Her blue gown looked vivid against the gold walls I could still see glowing through it, providing a surreal backdrop to the light golden cape she wore over it. Two long ropes of pearls swayed back and forth across her breasts as she walked toward us, followed closely by the rest of her party, two ladies wearing pale pink-and-white lace scarves over their dark ringlets and two more cavalrymen in knee boots over tan trousers and hip-length tunics set off with gleaming buttons and shining swords. I was impressed. And chilled. Because Queen Marie had chosen to stay in the Thin rather than move on. That meant she'd sacrificed her soul's salvation in exchange for power, manipulation, greed, and the random cannibalization of her fellow spirits. And she looked well fed. I curtsied just the way they'd taught us to in spy school and said, "Queen Marie, my name is Jasmine Parks. It's a true honor to meet you." She raised her hand up to me, palm out, which seemed to be a signal to the guards. They glanced back at their ruler expectantly. She gored me with her pitiless blue eyes and said, "Kill her." # CHAPTER FOURTEEN _Saturday, June 16, 10:50 p.m_. The woods beside Pelisor Castle seemed to fall as silent as the grave-searching half of our crew as they tried to figure out what the odds were of any one of them successfully overcoming a creature so ancient even vampires gave it a wide berth. While Cassandra, Bergman, and Cole debated the wisdom of fighting a battle that was really Vayl's, Astral and Jack stared at each other until Astral said, "Bad Moon Rising" in a low, even tone. Jack huffed. Cole told me later he suspected my malamute was in full agreement. Dave murmured a couple of lines from Creedence Clearwater Revival's hit: "Don't go 'round tonight./Well it's bound to take your life." He looked around the circle at the others. "But we have to. Vayl's depending on us." He shook his head. "No, I'm his brother. Or as close as he's ever going to get. I'm the one who has to do this." Cassandra's gasp had barely cleared her mouth before Bergman grabbed the knife out of her husband's hand. Luckily my twin had lightning reflexes or Miles might've stabbed them both in the exchange. As it was Dave backed off fast, leaving our tech guru to stand in the middle of the circle holding Dave's survival knife, looking down at its doubly lethal edges, one serrated, one sharp as a razor. "Are you sure about this?" Cole asked him. "I think that blade is thicker around the middle than you are." Bergman dropped his arm. "You can't do it. Even when you don't have horns you're a hell-raiser," he said. Cole's nod admitted that his brush with demon-kind minimized his chances of winning a battle with a beast like the Rider. Bergman went on. "Dave has to find out where Vayl's kid ended up, so he's out. And Cassandra's pregnant, so—" A chorus of shocked denials and surprised gasps from his group along with distracted confusion from mine at his announcement. "Well, crap, don't any of you have even the tiniest shred of observational skills? She keeps rubbing her stomach, which she's never done before. She's been kind of nauseous. And she married Dave without telling Jaz, when we all know she would've loved to have her and Evie there, and probably even that horrifying old colonel they grew up with. They had to do a quickie wedding so they could fake the kid into thinking he was legit. Which"—Bergman glared at the expectant parents—"if it has half a brain, you're so not getting away with." Cassandra put her hand to her mouth as Dave pulled her close. "We didn't want anyone to know until we were sure..." She took a shuddering breath. "I have lost babies early on before. I'm still not out of danger." "What did the doctor say?" asked Bergman. "That I'm fine." He waved his hand at her. "Then relax. As long as you don't let this Rider jump you, I'm thinking you'll be changing really disgusting-smelling diapers in another six months. Which, as I said, leaves me to deal with..." He trailed off, biting his lip. "I can do this," he whispered. She held out her hand, realized the last thing he probably wanted right now was for a psychic to touch him, and pulled it back. "I'll pray for you." "No offense," he replied. "But how is your new relationship to the gnome-god going to help me?" She shrugged. Among her many talents, she'd recently rediscovered her original gift just in time to pull off a last-minute save during our mission to kick some fanatical gnome ass in Australia. However, Bergman did have a point. As the oracle to Ufran, she probably didn't have a whole lotta pull in the human arena. Still, she said, "You're very thin. Maybe he'll take a liking to you." "Great. I'm about to attempt the bravest thing I've ever done in my life, and you want to make me an honorary gnome." He squared his shoulders and turned to Dave. "What do I do?" he asked. Dave looked him hard in the eyes. "Fight. Look, Miles, Cassandra's right in a way. You are thinner than my mom's chicken noodle soup, but I know you. When you sink your teeth in, you don't let go until you get what you want. Go to that place in your head, face your personal demons, and then make the Rider battle you there. You will win. At which point"—he nodded to the knife—"that should come in handy." Bergman looked down at the blade. "I have to kill it." "Hopefully we'll be able to help. But because of where it rides, you'll be the only one who can reach its heart. Stab it there and it dies," said Dave. "Okay." Bergman stared off into the forest, his face set in firm lines. They could see the man he would look like in twenty years if he survived this night. And they quietly honored him for offering himself that future. Cole wrapped Jack's leash around his wrist and Cassandra gathered Astral into her arms. "What do I do?" asked Bergman. Dave pointed. "The cemetery is about twenty yards in that direction. You won't see him, maybe won't even sense him until he's on your back." He hesitated, then said, "As soon as he's on you, we'll move past and get to work. We wouldn't do this if Vayl didn't think his kid's life was in danger. And if it wasn't pretty much the dream come true for him. You know that, right?" Bergman swallowed and nodded. He raised the knife in front of him, almost like it was a lantern that could light his way, and strode off into the trees. # CHAPTER FIFTEEN _Saturday, June 16, 10:50 p.m_. As Queen Marie's personal guards strode toward me, not even bothering to pull their swords as they came, I couldn't help but smile. Finally. Enemies I knew how to fight. And, like most men I encountered, ones that had sorely underestimated the pale, undernourished redhead they knew they could easily overcome. I pulled the bolo from my pocket. Once, in Scotland, I had watched Brude's ghost army decimate a coven of Scidairan witches. But the girls had gutted more than one of his mercenaries using forged steel anointed with a red powder I'd learned later was made mainly from the ground bones of the unjustly executed. It was astonishingly easy to find, even if a tablespoon of the stuff did cost more than a month's rent. Since I'd sprinkled my entire supply into the sheath that my seamstress had tailored into my jeans, my bolo came out thoroughly coated and ready for spectral action. The first guard spoke to me in Romanian. "What did he say?" I asked Vayl, who'd come around the end of the chaise to stand by my side. Raoul took his place at my other shoulder while Aaron hovered behind us, watching the action like a hummingbird who wants to dive in and fight, but is sorely undertrained and outmaneuvered. "He says you are unfit to sully his queen's presence with your foul stench." Vayl began to reply, the rage in his tone a flaming counterpoint to the ice of his power, rising like a glacier just birthed from the arctic circle. Raoul said, "Jasmine, wait!" but I ignored him, riding the electric line of Vayl's reaction right into the face of the soldier who'd insulted me. I slashed at his eyes before he could think of pulling a weapon and he jumped back, the shock on his gaping mouth pulling a delighted laugh from mine. Even more so as I learned that I would, once again, be able to look forward to becoming an aunt. Something else to live for. Cool, that was just what I needed. I lunged again just as the second guard finally moved his blade into a useful position. My knife sank deep into the first guard's sternum. He crumpled as the women behind him screamed in furious protest. But then the ladies-in-waiting fell to their knees. I knew what happened next. I'd seen it in Brude's dungeon, hadn't I? They'd tear his chest open at the wound, pull out his lungs, and sink their teeth into them before the rest of his body began to melt away as the powder residue my knife had left worked its magic. "Enough!" bellowed the queen. Her servants pulled back. The guard rolled his eyes up at Marie as she leaned over him. Almost kindly she said, "It is your choice, my boy, as always. You may serve your queen. Or you may be free." "You, my liege," he croaked from a throat already fading into mist. She laid her hand on him, and presto-change-o, he began to solidify. My opinion of the queen faltered. She didn't allow her subjects to gnaw on each other like a bunch of alley rats, so maybe she wasn't as cold-blooded and calculating as I'd thought. But then, she'd just ordered my execution. As if she could read my mind she turned to me and said, "Rumors run rife about you, Jasmine Parks. They say King Brude has possessed your soul." Something about the way she said his name tipped me off. They'd been close once. Cozy enough that it was easy for her to hate him now. Of the twenty-three other rulers in the Thin, had she been his _closest_ neighbor? I said, "They're wrong. He's in here." I tapped my forehead. "But _I'm_ in charge of the castle." "What do you intend to do with your tenant?" she inquired. "Kill the bastard." "Then I apologize for the misunderstanding. I assumed the Upstart was in command of your senses." "No, Your Highness. He tried. He failed." Her approving nod contained all the grace of royal training. Yet that wasn't her only skill, otherwise the ghosts under her command would never willingly fall to heel like they had. Which meant she must have legendary charisma and the ability to connive with the most twisted of politicians. Dammit, I was beginning to like her. Even more when she gestured to the second guard and said, "Perhaps you would be so kind as to call off your vampire? Toma is the only one of my retinue who can play a challenging game of chess." "Oh!" I turned to Vayl, who seemed to have forgotten that he carried ghost-powdered steel of his own. He'd grabbed the second guard by the neck, no small feat for a man whose enemy has only partly entered into his world. He'd managed it by dropping the temperature so radically that even I was shivering like I'd just spent the past hour sitting in the coroner's corpse-fridge keeping the stiffs company. The beyond-the-grave chill had brought the guard farther into the physical world, allowing Vayl to crank his head sideways and bury his fangs in the guy's neck. _There's no blood_ , whispered Teen Me from behind the gap-fingered mask she'd made of her hands. _What's going down Vayl's throat?_ I wasn't sure, but I could see him swallow, view the glow through his skin as whatever passed through his esophagus dropped into his stomach. _That can't be good. Can it?_ I said, "Vayl? It's all good now. The queen's cool with us staying alive." Usually speaking is enough to break the spell vamps seem to fall under when they feed. But this ghost must've been yummylicious, because Vayl didn't even act like he knew I was in the same room. The guard began to shriek, the sound so loud and shrill I had to cover my ears. Queen Marie stepped forward and peered over the terrified spirit's shoulder. She searched Vayl's face, taking in the sweep of his dark lashes as they closed over his ebony eyes, and the pitch-black curls cut so close to his head they could've been molded on. "You are a gypsy," she said, her voice echoing eerily in the room, like it came from unsynched speakers. She reached out to touch him, hesitated, and then let her arm fall. "A vampire gypsy. I have never seen the like." Vayl dropped the guard, who started to melt into the floorboards like furniture polish. "My queen, I serve only you!" he cried. She sighed, like she was really tired of dropping things and having to pick them up again, as she leaned over and touched her hand to his forehead. He gained color and form so quickly it was almost like he'd never been gone. Vayl watched the trick through half-interested eyes as he licked his lips. Then, as if a switch had clicked on in his brain, he remembered who she was and what we needed, and bowed so low his head nearly touched her knee. "I am Vasil Nicu Brâncoveanu," he said, straightening and nodding again with that extra-formal attitude he gets when he's about to make an important deal. "I am Rom." She blinked. Message received—she knew that "gypsy" wasn't considered a nice name by those who'd been forced to wear it. So when she said, "I have been fascinated by the Rom all my life," he knew she'd offered him an apology for the slip. She went on. "But I understand they have intense superstitions against the Vampere. How is it, then, that you fell into eternity?" His smile, almost as ghostly as the queen herself, spoke volumes to anyone who knew how to interpret it. But all he said was, "My thirst for revenge outweighed my better judgment." She sighed. "So true for so many of us. Is that why you summoned me? Are you here to beg my aid in a personal vendetta?" "No, Your Highness. Though I believe you would be a staunch ally in any cause, we have come to seek your help in leading us to the spirit of Aaron's father. We know that Brude, and a werewolf named Roldan, have trapped him in the Thin. However we cannot reach the location without you." "Which one of you is this Aaron child?" asked Marie as she looked over our tiny crew. I pointed to Junior, who was leaning over with his hands on his knees, probably so he wouldn't pass out, if the paleness of his face was any clue. Since nobody seemed willing to take the ball, I kept it going. "It's a long story, but the bottom line is that if you help us save the dad, Brude will suffer. And, ultimately, it will be easier for me to vanquish him." Her finely sculpted eyebrows jumped at that. "Vanquish?" she repeated. "I said what I meant," I replied. And then I stopped, because I wasn't sure what more I should share. But Raoul seemed to think she should know. "Jasmine has the Rocenz. She plans to carve his name on the gates of hell." New respect in those icy eyes. "I like women who travel where they are not welcome," she said. She glanced at Vayl. "And so, it seems, you will be the one who secures _my_ revenge." Her fingers went to her throat, which was bare now. But I thought that once she'd worn a torque just like the ones Brude's loyal soldiers had. Only she'd been a lot more than that to him. And he'd gone and blown it. She said, "Follow me." And then, as if she assumed we'd just trot right after her, she turned and walked back through the door. # CHAPTER SIXTEEN _Saturday, June 16, 10:55 p.m_. Cole told me later that he'd never felt as proud of Bergman as he did when the tech genius emerged from the shelter of the huge, fragrant pines and first set his eyes on the Rider. It blocked the entrance to the small, fenced cemetery, a bat-shaped shadow hovering across the entrance like a visible disease. And our Miles walked right toward it. So what if his shoulders shook a little and his hands were clenched into white-knuched fists, the one that held the knife physically swaying as if moved by a breeze? He held his head high. And we heard him say quietly, "This is for you, Jaz." Though I had Astral's recording to prove otherwise, I nearly cried when Cole told me that Bergman seemed to get thinner as the Rider stretched its wings, revealing a wasp-shaped body banded with riblike bones outside its rubbery skin that ran from upper chest to lower thigh. As Bergman approached the bones creaked, pulling away from the body as if to welcome him into their embrace. Even when razor-sharp needles shot from the end of each bone, Bergman didn't hesitate. He just said, "Hop on, you son of a bitch." It flew at him with the sound of a million bats escaping their cave for the night. He flinked and took a step, but it was the impact that drove him to his knees. Cole lunged forward as Jack strained at his leash, both of them growling incoherently as instinct overrode intellect in their need to save the man who had now totally disappeared beneath the Rider's wings. Dave's hand, steel around Cole's forearm, stopped them both. Pulled them past the writhing bodies, held them tight when they heard Bergman scream. Cassandra, clutching Astral so close that entire chunks of her memory record were simply the back of our psychic's arm and the sound of her small gulping sobs, slipped her hand around Dave's wrist. And together, linked like three scared kids with their unwilling pets in tow, they walked into the graveyard. # CHAPTER SEVENTEEN _Saturday, June 16, 11:00 p.m_. The last time I'd visited the Thin hadn't been a voluntary dropin. Even so, I'd realized the drop zone had been a pure creation of its most powerful spirit. Which meant Brude's land had been both as beautiful as he remembered his native Scotland to be, and as terrible as he'd remade it to be considering he wanted to rule a lawless and chaotic realm. So, knowing Queen Marie had been a big fan of the arts and quite the interior decorator (not to mention a girl who "got around" as evidenced by the fact that historians named at least two and sometimes three different dads for her six kids), I'd figured on transitioning into the ethereal version of a commune. However, when we followed her out the door of Pelisor, what we stepped into was an armed camp. Unlike Brude's mishmash of mercenaries from every era, Marie had recruited only Romanian soldiers from World War II and, by God, they hadn't forgotten their uniforms or their discipline. Lines of well-armed men marched past neat rows of barracks while fields made for target practice or hand-to-hand combat held groups of fierce, serious foes who seemed sure that battle was only an order away. Marie led us down the dirt paths, nodding graciously when men stopped to bow and then peer at us sideways. At the northern edge of the camp was a thatch-roofed cottage surrounded by well-tended gardens and a roughly hewn fence. The arched red door opened when we got to the arbor gate, and a wrinkled, balding gentleman wearing a butler's uniform tottered down the path to let us in. "My queen," he said, bowing deeply enough that I wondered if he'd fall on his head before he was able to right himself. Then I saw he had a firm grip on the gate and relaxed. "We have guests, Stanislov," she said as she breezed past. "Make sure the dogs don't get loose, will you? I don't want them eaten before they've fulfilled their potential." "Very good, madam." I suddenly wished I'd brought Jack. He would never let another dog eat me. I glanced over my shoulder. Nope. Nothing even close to canine. Although the soldiers did look a lot hungrier than you'd generally expect in such a well-run camp. Probably Marie didn't let them feast on each other. And then it hit me. "Your queenishness?" I asked. "What do you call your soldiers?" As she sailed toward the open door of her cottage, Marie said, "I thought you knew, darling. Those troops are none other than the Dogs of War. They are leashed tightly here. But I am training them to tear the throat from Brude's army." Under her breath she added, "Even if they have to do so without the aid of my squeamish neighbors to the south." Realizing she was thinking out loud, she finished with a flourishy sort of punch to the air, saying, "When the time comes, they will rage, my dear, they will rage." She glanced over her shoulder at me, the smile in her eyes so sly and calculating that I shivered. Vayl put his arm across my shoulders. "We have the key to destroying Brude. All we need is your cooperation and you could win this war." "I _will_ win this war," she corrected him imperiously. "And when I do this little universe will step to _my_ tune. _I_ will force order onto this bedlam." She sighed. "What a shame it was that Brude never shared my vision." Her laugh, so bitter, was clearly aimed at herself. "Leave it to me to involve myself with the most ambitious and least loyal of Satan's elite guardsmen." She shook her head. "I have such terrible taste in lovers." Her eyes rested on mine, and for a moment she looked at me as an equal. "What about you?" she asked. "Are you satisfied with him?" She nodded toward Vayl like he was a piece of sculpture that she might, at some point, consider stealing. "He's mine," I told her, keeping most, but not all, of the warning growl from my voice. "Why?" I looked at him steadily for a while before I answered, "Because it could never be any other way." "I thought that about Brude once," she said, her voice dropping into melancholy. "What changed?" I asked her. "I came face to face with the real _domytr_ one day," she said. "And I couldn't fool myself any longer." She narrowed her eyes at me. "Have you truly faced your vampire?" I glanced at Vayl. "He's a killer," I told her. "But then again, so am I. Which is why we're such a good fit. Aren't you lucky you found us?" # CHAPTER EIGHTEEN _Saturday, June 16, 11:00 p.m_. I had never visited the site where Vayl had buried his two sons. It was like he wanted to keep that part of his past completely separate. And I respected that. But I saw enough of Astral's feed, and Cassandra described the emotions of those moments so clearly, that I could always visualize it as if I'd been there myself, locked inside the weather-treated steel fence with the two black marble stones Vayl had bought to replace the broken pieces of the white, unreadable originals. They still lay at the bases of the new monuments, like offerings to the bodies that lay beneath the rich, needle-blanketed sod, so precious to their surviving family member that he had etched A FATHER'S LOVE IS FOREVER into each of the stones. It was in Romanian, but Cassandra had asked Cole to translate, and felt her throat close at the catch in his voice when he'd done as she asked. Dave said, "We can't let Vayl down now." They nodded, Cassandra and then Cole sneakily wiping away a tear as David continued. "This could get scary." They looked over their shoulders at Bergman and his Rider, whose positions hadn't changed. Then they looked back at him. "I know what you're thinking," he said. "I mean worse than that." Big swallows. Nods. "Let's get this done," said Cole, leaning over to pet Jack, who kept prancing sideways and glancing toward Bergman, as if he knew something should be done and he was falling down on the job. "The sooner the better," Cassandra agreed. She handed Astral to Dave as she said, "I want that Rider off Miles _now_." He nodded and said, "All right, cat. Let's see how good you really are." He knelt between the graves of Hanzi and Badu Brâncoveanu. He took off his backpack and from it pulled two steel rods that had been folded multiple times, the same way tent poles are broken down after a camping trip. Assembled, they were at least ten feet long, with the last section of each tipped like a spear. He carefully shoved each of them into the ground as far as he could. Tapping his shoulder, he waited until Astral had taken her place, perching beside his ear like he was just another mantelpiece to add to her collection. And then, wrapping a hand around each pole, he closed his eyes and began to chant. Cole and Cassandra took their places, each standing at one corner of Hanzi's grave. Cole whispered, "I still don't understand what we're supposed to be doing." "We're like landmarks," Cassandra explained. "Dave is traveling a long way in his head. He needs to be able to find his way back. Even with Astral acting as a filter, he could get lost. You and I, standing right here along his route, can actually be seen and latched on to when he tries to find his way back." Cole glanced back over his shoulder, wincing as Bergman groaned. "How long?" Cassandra nodded. "I know what you're thinking. We have to be here until he comes all the way back." "Both of us, though? I mean, we're standing three feet apart!" "In this world. But in that one we might be hundreds of miles away from each other, we don't know. Which is why we have to stay. But only just until Dave is done. Then"—she pointed at Bergman—"we run for him." Dave cracked open his left eye. "People? I'm trying to home in on a traveling soul while a robot tries to take root in my collarbone and you guys are gabbing like a couple of beauty shop regulars. Could we concentrate here? That would help a lot." Cole and Cassandra traded guilty looks. "Sorry," said Cole. "I talk when I'm nervous. Sometimes I have to pee. Like right now, I could whiz clear over that fence, bounce it off that tree, and sink it into that hollow stump, that's how bad I have to go." A laugh, so dry and cracked it could've been confused for a smoker's cough, interrupted them. Except it had come from Bergman, so everyone knew what it meant. _Don't stop. That was funny, and because it made me feel better, I can fight a little longer. So while you're just standing there like a couple of lumps, how about you goddamn goofballs make. Me. Laugh_. # CHAPTER NINETEEN _Saturday, June 16, 11:10 p.m_. In the end, Queen Marie had to admit we'd come up with a plan that might just work. So she called in a couple of her best Dogs and demanded that they switch their uniforms for something a little less bow-wow and a little more Brude-rocks. While they turned the camp upside down looking for a couple of outfits that didn't scream trained cavalryman, the queen took us behind her house to a fine brick patio surrounded by blooms. In the center sat a birdbath whose water looked like it hadn't been changed for at least a millennium. My nose, still physically intact thanks to Raoul's ability to transport us all in the flesh, wrinkled as I walked past it and stood next to Vayl under an arched trellis covered with yellow roses. "I didn't know water could turn that shade of brown and still stay liquid," I said. "I think you are being generous in referring to it as water," he replied. I had to agree when the center of it bubbled up, stretching the edges toward it as if the entire surface were made of rubber. When it popped I had to cover my mouth; the stench was so oily that it felt like it was trying to crawl down my throat and nest in my stomach. Aaron, who'd chosen that moment to walk past it, moaned, "Oh, God," and ran to some bushes to his right, where he spent the next few minutes gagging and spitting. Raoul, still standing at the entrance to the garden, stared first at the birdbath, and then at the queen, who sat comfortably between him and us on an intricately tooled metal bench while her ladies-in-waiting arranged the skirts of her dress as if they were flowers that had just been added to the garden. She waved the women away when Raoul said, "Well disguised," as he gestured to the infested water. "The last one I saw was in the Eminent Museum of Enlightenment." "It is a classic piece," she agreed. "However it has its advantages, even now. For instance, it can transport entire regiments of my men into areas of the Thin that are not currently guarded by Brude's hordes. We like to call them avoidance jumps. Or it can shoot a single person directly to the site he wishes to visit." She rose, reached into the birdbath, and completely grossed me out when she pulled free a gerbil-sized handful of shit-colored goo that smelled like a neglected zoo. When she threw it at Raoul he sidestepped, and I thought he was going to let it fall into the bushes behind him. But he caught it between his fingertips, his lips turning down at the corners when the impact let loose a fresh barrage of odor. He let go of the sphere with one hand, and I was pretty sure he was going to throw it down with disgust when the queen ripped into him. "Hold on to that!" she snapped, the command in her voice automatically straightening his spine. He renewed his grip on the slippery ball as I asked, "What's the idea?" afraid that whatever Raoul had touched might foul him permanently. When he tried to protest I waved him off. "I should have that. Or Vayl." "No." Her reply felt more like the passing of a law than conversation. "Raoul is the senior Eldhayr here. He has the sense that the Sniffer"—she nodded to the ball—"needs in order for it to find Brude's realm. You didn't think it stayed in one place, did you? If it had, I would have razed his castle and fed his minions to my Dogs ages ago. Speaking of which." She nodded to Aaron. "Were you planning on leaving this one as payment for your guards and the Sniffer?" "Luscious!" "Juicy!" screamed her ladies. I hadn't seen Aaron so pale since he thought he'd committed vampicide. He looked around wildly, not, I noted proudly, for help. But for something heavy to defend himself with. Unfortunately the only weapon he could find was the fountain, and he didn't dare get any closer to it. Which meant he actually looked grateful when Vayl stepped up to face the queen. He said, "In all the years I have lived, I have learned that nothing is truly required to exist. As a result, I am the best killer in the world and the Whence. Shall we try for the Thin as well?" The queen's smile never wavered at the threat on her life. Maybe she understood what a hard time Vayl would have actually snuffing it out here, on her turf. But her eyes, shifting slightly to the left and then to the right, admitted that he meant what he said, and she would probably find herself in a world of hurt before the deed was done, no matter what the outcome. Raoul stepped forward. "No, Vayl. Aaron may be your son, but this place is more my territory than yours." He looked steadfastly at the queen. "Your skill at bartering nearly equals your political finesse, Majesty. But you need, and will receive, nothing more from us than Brude's destruction, if we succeed. You should remember, as well, that if you threaten any of mine, you threaten me." He paused. "And all the Eldhayr." The queen smiled happily. "Just as I'd hoped. Barring the boy, every one of you is as fierce as a Romanian infantryman. _Now_ I am sure of your plan. _Now_ I can send my Dogs with you in confidence. They will guard you while the Sniffer jumps you into Brude's land. After that I feel sure the strategy you have outlined will gain you entrance into his castle." She pierced every one of us with a meaningful look. "Remember also that while you have your own agenda, you also fight for Queen Marie. My people follow me, and my laws, because their souls need structure in order to rest and mend and, perhaps someday, even move on. Be noble in this noble cause." Wow. All this time she'd been testing us. Suckage. And yet maybe a true leader needs to do those things if she's going to ask her people to risk their lives on a venture as dangerous as the one we'd proposed. Which made me admire Marie all the more. As if I needed another reason to decimate Brude. But if I could destroy him, at least Marie's little realm would become a place where lost souls could shelter, safe from torture and violence, until they found themselves again. What a cool concept. # CHAPTER TWENTY _Saturday, June 16, 11:05 p.m_. Dave felt like he'd spent hours kneeling between the graves of Vayl's sons, bearing Astral's weight like it wasn't trying to cave his shoulder joint while he held tight to his spiritual divining rods and kept an eye on his "landmarks," Cole and Cassandra, so that he'd be able to find his way back. He'd entered into serious chant mode now, barely pausing to breathe between lines that sounded so much alike that sometimes only the last vowel of the last word changed. _"O ma evetale râ. O ma evetale ré."_ At least that was how it sounded to Cole and Cassandra. When they had three seconds to listen. Which wasn't often because they too were busy. Doing improv. For Bergman. The one-liners had dried up fairly quickly, though they had allowed Bergman to peel back the wings that enfolded him. Which meant they could see his hand still gripping Dave's knife and his lips turned up in appreciation when he heard Cole say, "Cassandra, you know why I got into this business, right?" "To meet women?" "Nope. For the dental plan." He opened wide and stuck his finger way back into his mouth so he kinda sounded like a sinus-infected cowboy with a speech impediment when he said, "See this gold fiwwing, heyah? I got fwom a mobster I offed back in New Yowack." "You did not!" Cole pulled out his finger and wiped it on his jeans. "Okay. Maybe he was the mobster's dentist who I paid for some information and he was so grateful to get free of the guy he threw in the filling for free. But look at the dentures he gave me for when the fillings fall out!" Cole opened up his other hand and his wind-up vampire fangs began their teeth-chattering, shoe-stomping dance. Cassandra giggled as Bergman gasped, his chest heaving up and down with the effort of his fight with the Rider. But also, if his grin was any clue, with big gulps of muted laughter. Their first sign that the atmosphere had changed was Jack, whose fur stood on end as he began to bark, pointing his nose at Dave, Astral, the grave markers, and occasionally Bergman's Rider. Cole tugged on his leash, reminding him that he had no business with the Rider, just as Dave's chanting stopped. The spirit-rods, which had been thrumming in his hands like a couple of guitar strings, began to whine. He jumped to his feet and held them tight while Astral balanced on his shoulder, her ears twitching in circles as they always did when she was processing mounds of information. Cassandra and Cole weren't sure where to look. The muscles in Dave's forearms, biceps, and back bunched with the effort it took to keep the rods from whipping so wildly that they sliced off an arm or leg, or even decapitated him. At the same time Bergman had dropped his chin nearly to his chest, his face twisted in an awful grin as he launched into a series of full-body spasms. Dave looked up, as if for help from the invisible Beings who sometimes decided it might be okay to intercede in the paltry affairs of men. But his Spirit Guide had already thrown in with his twin. And nobody else seemed interested in picking up the slack. His jaw clenched, the veins in his neck cording with ultimate effort as the energy from the graves passed into his body and began to make him shiver. Cassandra reached out to Cole, a worried wife in need of support. And, understanding she might See something that would make him miserable in the future, he still took her hand, held it tight, so that she didn't have to watch her husband's struggle all alone. But it wasn't just him. When Dave's effort felt like too much to bear, they only had to turn their heads and there was Bergman, clenching the knife he'd been given and slowly turning it toward himself. Cassandra hugged her free arm around her unborn child as the knife crept closer to his heart. "No, Miles," she whispered. "It's not for you." Cole swayed, gripping Jack's leash as the malamute growled their mutual frustration. But they couldn't desert Dave, leave him lost in the spiritworld forever. "Hang on, dude," he said. "Just a little longer, and I'll be there. I promise you, I'll be right there." "Hanziiiii!" Dave yelled, his voice echoing through the forest like that of an ancient shaman summoning a spirit to purify one of his sick patients, as Astral crouched down as if preparing to leap on a mouse. "Monique, where�� I can't _see_ you!" Bergman panted, the knife inching closer and closer to his chest. "Miles!" Cole yelled. "For Chrissake, Jaz is gonna be so pissed if you screw this up!" The stick to Dave's left stopped moving. He held on to it a moment longer to be sure, and then he moved that hand to the remaining stick. Which began to wobble so hard it looked like Dave was causing the movement. Until you checked out his holding-on-fordear-life expression. Cole asked, loudly and somewhat desperately, "Yo, Cassandra? What happens when that spirit-rod of Dave's starts whipping him around in circles like an Olympic gymnast?" "It should be all right," Cassandra replied in a falsely cheerful voice. "I think he's wearing his maximum-support tights tonight." Bergman laughed fully, from the belly. The knife retreated as he climbed to his feet. Dave wasn't amused, especially when the rod finally won, jerking him off his feet and throwing him against the fence like a pissed-off stallion. Astral jumped ship just before he hit, landing gracefully beside him as if she'd practiced the trick a thousand times. She stared at him as he lay still, trying to decide whether or not he'd ever be able to put his experience in the W column. Then he did an allover body check, probing his head, ribs, and leg bones delicately to make sure nothing was broken. "Honey?" Cassandra asked as she came to lean over him. "Are you all right?" He moaned. Sat up and dusted off his jacket. "Is he back?" asked Cole. She turned to him and nodded. Which was all the signal he needed. He spun around, cocking his Beretta as he moved to face Bergman and the Rider fully. He yelled, "Anyone who's seen _Star Wars_ more than twenty times, including the digitally remastered edition, _and_ who owns an original Stormtrooper costume raise your hand!" His fingers shot toward the sky, followed closely by Bergman's as Cole said over his shoulder, "We just went to Jedi-Con together. My God, you should've seen all the Leias! Best thing about the Stormtrooper costume? Tinted eyeholes. You can let your eyes go upsy-downsy and the girls never get a clue." As Cassandra's jaw dropped and Bergman laughed louder than ever before, Cole leaped toward the Rider, yelling, "Time to dump the neandervamp, Miles! Think happy thoughts!" # CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE _Saturday, June 16, 11:15 p.m_. Two of Queen Marie's Dogs joined us in her garden soon after she'd given Raoul what I now mentally referred to as the Shit Sniffer. The soldiers had, between them, managed to find one Tshirt, one button-down shirt, a pair of riding breeches, a pair of precursors to sweatpants with leather bands instead of drawstrings, two flat red caps, and two pairs of pointy-toed shoes that made them look like they'd just come from the bowling lanes. I looked them up and down, turned to Vayl, who sat next to me on a backless bench, and whispered, "These are our guards? I wouldn't be scared of them if they came running at me with bazookas." His left eyebrow twitched, along with the entire right side of his mouth. "You and I both know the queen is only sending them so they can report back to her. She may even be able to see through their eyes." "Wow. Talk about the perfect spies." He tilted his head. "Should we go that far? As you pointed out, they did seem to misunderstand the concept of going in undercover." However, when we mentioned the Dogs' bizarre costumes to the queen she waved off our concerns with a limp hand. Taking a sip of lemonade from a crystal glass as she enjoyed the scents of her flowers ( _Damn, they get the details pretty good here in the Thin!_ ) she said, "As long as they are out of my uniform, they will not be questioned." The way she said the word "questioned" made me think of spiked clubs and flesh-packed molars. Sitting on my other side, Aaron audibly gulped. Vayl touched him with his eyes. "This ordeal is not going to get any easier," he said evenly. His raised eyebrows asked, _Can you cope?_ I compared his quiet buck-up-and-be-a-man approach to my dad's. Albert would've taken one look at Aaron's shaking hands, his twitching shoulders, and said, "Oh for shit's sake, ya pansy! Screw your balls on tight and let's tuck this brick-shitter under the pillowcase!" I never quite understood what that last part meant. And, having been born without the formerly mentioned appendages, I never thought that demand applied very well to me. But somehow it worked every time. My dad might be a gnarly son of a bitch. But he's a stellar motivator. Aaron said, "I'm fine. I'll be fine." "Oh, we believe you," I told him as my inner girls laughed somewhat hysterically. "Two things, though." "Okay." I held up my fingers so he could follow my points, because my high school speech teacher had passionately believed in visual aids, and I never forgot that. "Number one," I said, pointing to the first finger. "Walk on the edge of the group so that if you puke you can direct the spew away from the rest of us. Number two"—I pointed to my flip-off finger and enjoyed the fact that he realized I might be sending him a double message—"If you pass out?" I waited until he nodded his understanding. "We're leaving you. Here. In the Thin." Queen Marie's ladies squealed and clapped their hands. And the Dogs' laughter sounded so much like barking I was beginning to have a hard time thinking of them as ever having been human. Together they did a good job of freaking Aaron out just exactly to the extent that I wanted. Satisfied that the lawyer-to-be wouldn't be slowing us down, I looked at Raoul, who stood in his original spot, holding the Sniffer like he wished it would disappear already. "Are we set?" He shrugged. "Believe it or not, I'm always ready for battle." I smacked myself on the chest proudly. "That's why you like me, isn't it?" When he started to smile, sheepishly, like I'd caught him stealing cookies from the save-these-for-grandma's-visit plate, I snapped my fingers. "I knew it! We actually have something in common!" The rap of Vayl's cane on the bricks distracted us. "I assume we can trust your Eldhayr to control your berserker tendencies until we have at least freed Aaron's father from his current situation?" "Which is... what?" asked Aaron. "How do we even know where to go, much less how to find him?" He hadn't been allowed to overhear the negotiations because we kinda thought he'd spaz and run, which is not a good idea for a human in full body and soul surrounded by spirits whose wild hunger is tamed only by their loyalty to a tightly stretched queen. So all Vayl said was, "It is not easy to imprison something as ethereal as a spirit. Queen Marie has given us an artifact that will detect the one place in the Thin where that is possible. Her Dogs will accompany us there. After we arrive, we will free your father and return to the world." Aaron looked at Vayl doubtfully. "How?" Vayl smiled. As his fangs gleamed, for the first time I saw respect for the power of a vampire dawn in his son's wide eyes. # CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO _Saturday, June 16, 11:15 p.m_. Cassandra witnessed the entire Rider battle. So Astral combined her impressions along with the men's memories of the fight into a remarkably complete video that we reviewed closely later on through her Enkyklios. Cole charged toward the giant parasite, yelling like a Celtic warrior, his hair flying out behind him, his gun gripped so firmly in his hand it seemed like an extension of his arm. Bergman's glasses had flown off sometime during his ordeal, so he couldn't quite get the details. But, in general, he knew it might be time to panic. "Cole!" he yelled. "What are you doing?" "Dave made it back, so I'm free to save you!" He peered at Cole's hand. "With a remote control?" "Bergman! For once, could you stop thinking and just duck?" Miles bent over, the Rider nearly toppling him onto his head as his balance shifted. For a second they resembled a couple of kids playing Superman. And then the Rider looked up. Cole said later that only his inertia kept him moving forward in the face of those eyes. Deep pink pupils surrounded by lighter pink irises bored into Cole's face like a couple of ice picks. He had a few seconds to realize the grinning mask was full of flat, broad teeth, none of which could've pierced Bergman's delicate veins. And then he understood. The Rider's needle-tipped ribs were also its teeth, every one of which had pierced Bergman's sides so cleanly that barely a drop of blood had stained his old brown sweater. Now those teeth throbbed as they attempted to draw out his very essence. Bergman's chest heaved as he fought against the attack. Spit bubbled on his lips. His eyes rolled, following Cole into the mix. Our sniper, normally lethal at five hundred feet, closed in on the Rider, yelling, "Long live the Bemonts!" like some crazed Scottish Highlander as he emptied his clip into the Rider's face. It jumped and howled with each shot, making Bergman dance like a Broadway star. But after the last shot had been fired, not even a single rib had detached. Which was when Cassandra said to Dave, "This may not end well." Jack's low growl echoed her sentiment. She'd grabbed his lead when Cole dropped it, and was now rubbing his head, though which of them was more comforted by the touch she couldn't have said. Dave nodded and pulled yet another knife from a sheath he'd strapped across his back. Kissing her on the cheek, he said, "Don't watch if this is going to change your mind about me." She snorted. "I've seen gladiators shove their hands inside their enemies' rib cages. I think I can handle a little knife fight." He looked down at her admiringly. "You're such a rocket in the sack I keep forgetting you could've been the model for a Spanish doubloon." "Who says I wasn't?" "Tease." "Oh? So you've seen the new miniskirt I bought?" Dave huffed. "That's it. I'm killing this sumbitch in record time." He whirled away, calling, "Move over, Cole! I've got plans for the next hour and they don't include getting my ass kicked!" Cassandra, having already met Albert, knew that his methods of motivation might meet with occasional success. But with his son, her approach worked every time. And best of all? It gave him an excellent reason to make sure he survived. Which was why she took credit for Dave's extra burst of speed, the one that allowed him to catch up with Cole, so that the sniper's gun-butt bludgeoning coincided with her husband's slice-and-dice as if they'd practiced on a Rider-shaped dummy in Vayl's backyard. The Rider screamed in pain as Cole's improvised club and Dave's blade battered the soft skin between its tusks. But so, unfortunately, did Bergman. "No, Mom!" he shouted. "I'm not going to your goddamn protest!" Cole spoke urgently into his ear. "Miles! Come on, buddy, you know these suck-you-till-you-sag types. The sadder, the more violent, you feel, the sweeter you taste. So flood your head with good stuff. Your first peek at a _Playboy_. The invention that's going to win you the Nobel Prize. The time Jaz and I had to ride those ridiculous mopeds all around Corpus Christi. Like that." At first Bergman didn't answer. Cole, struggling to yank one of the teeth out of Miles's side, had finally decided Bergman hadn't heard when Bergman giggled, "Monique! It's the middle of the day!" The fang came free with a sucking whoosh that Cole expected to be followed by a rush of blood. But the incision-like wound was already closing, the saliva stretching from the Rider's tooth to Miles's skin quickly drying into a bio-bandage. "That's handy," said Cole. "Also kinda sick. Bergman is not gonna be happy." Dave pulled a fang out from the other side and sliced it off at the Rider's body, causing it to scream and convulse even as Bergman blushed and murmured, "Sweetheart, I'm not sure that's legal in this country!" "Who is Monique and what the hell does she see in this brain-ona-stick?" demanded Dave as he and Cole continued defanging their tech guru, covering him, the Rider, and themselves with a startlingly rancid combination of saliva, blood, and bile. "She's Bergman's girlfriend," said Cassandra, who'd come closer to lend moral support. "He met her when we were in Marrakech." "She's a little older than him," Cole said. He added, "Watch out, Cassandra. I think this Rider's about to hurl." It was shaking and heaving like Bergman's blood hadn't agreed with it after all. Cassandra stepped aside just as it puked up the contents of its stomach over Bergman's left shoulder. They hit the pine needles with a wet, splatting sound that made her nose wrinkle. "This job is so nasty. They should, at the very least, send you off with your own personal bottle of Germex." "I agree." Bergman sighed. Dave and Cole had nearly torn the Rider from his back. But the final connection, a pair of knittingneedle-sized ribs that seemed to shoot straight into Bergman's back and out his chest, would not yield. "We've done all we can," Dave told him grimly. "Like I told you before, it's still up to you." Bergman nodded, his head winding around in a circle like he was too tired to make a precise up-and-down motion anymore. He sighed again. Dave and Cole shared a look of round-eyed worry with Cassandra. She stepped forward to urge Bergman on to greatness, but before she could say her piece, Astral had hopped over to the open spot at his feet. Jumping up so her paws rested on his shins she said, "Learning to fly, but I ain't got wings." "Tom Petty was right when he wrote 'Learning to Fly,'" whispered Miles, his eyes so tightly shut his lashes had nearly disappeared. "And that was why Astral kept scrolling through all those disaster videos. To show us how to reach for the sky, even though it feels like we keep crashing." Everyone was nodding, even Jack, though he was probably only doing it to be polite. Cole said, "Exactly! Never give up, baby! Not even when your glider dives straight into the Pacific!" Bergman's eyes snapped open. He threw his knife into the air, caught it so that the blade now faced the Rider, performed a neat one-two sidestep, and stuck that sucker so hard that they both fell to the ground. The last pair of ribs withdrew from Bergman's chest. He cried out, rolling off the Rider as it freed him. But he was back in an instant, shoving his knife into the parasite's heart, once, twice, a third time until he was sure it would never twitch again. For long, quiet moments everyone just stared at the corpse. Then Bergman stood up, swayed, and sat back down. "I feel like a Chinese noodle. Seriously. If you want me to move, you're going to have to use chopsticks. And a stretcher." "You're so thin we _could_ pick you up with chopsticks," Cassandra told him. "Why won't you ever eat anything? You might be able to get through ordeals like this much easier!" He dropped his head like it was just too heavy for his neck to support at that moment, and wagged it back and forth. "Food's annoying." "Not as much as dead scientists!" she snapped. Dave found Bergman's glasses and set them back on his nose. Miles peered at Cassandra over the tops of the lenses. "You are such a nag." He looked up at Dave. "You know what you're getting into with this one, right?" Dave patted him on the shoulder. "You wouldn't believe what kind of reward your life is worth to her, buddy. Believe me, I'm golden." Bergman looked at his hands, lying limp between his knees. "So, did you get what you wanted?" Cole came to stand beside them, wiping the blood off the butt of his Beretta as he moved. "Yeah, dude. Tell us poor Miles didn't sacrifice his vamp cherry in vain." As Miles huffed in embarrassment Dave said, "I made the connection. Hanzi's in Spain." Cassandra was the first to pick up on the hesitation in his tone. "What did you see?" she asked. "He was riding a motorcycle. Wearing a helmet, so that was good. Except that I saw him racing toward a parked semi. And there was no way, going as fast as he was driving, that he could've stopped in time." Can a group of friends collectively shiver? Probably not mine, but they did share a moment of frozen silence. Then Cassandra said, "Did you feel like it was happening as you saw it? Or was it a future scene—you know, just potential that you pulled from the stratus?" Dave shrugged. "Hey, I'm new at this. Plus I was kind of in the middle of a tornado." "You're a Special Ops commander," Cassandra drawled. "Give it your best bet." He leaned forward and touched his forehead to hers. "You don't let me get away with anything, do you?" She kissed him and purred, "Only when you deserve to." Cole said, "No smoochies when the rest of us only have animals to cuddle with." Jack and Astral looked up. And if my dog looked slightly concerned, it's only because he understands every word people say. "Don't worry," Cole told him. "You're not my type. But you—" He wiggled his eyebrows at Astral, who sat down and began to lick her paws, as if she felt a bath might be in order, considering. Dave got to his feet and helped Cassandra stand while Bergman grabbed Cole's leg and climbed up far enough on his own that our sniper finally took pity and gave him a hand. "Why do you love messing with my inventions?" he asked. "Jealous, I guess," Cole replied. "Jaz is practically swimming in cool gadgets. I save your life and what do I get?" He motioned to his gore-covered khakis and hunting shirt. "I'll buy you new ones," said Bergman. "Or..." Cole began. Bergman's eyebrows lifted in sudden comprehension. Maybe he could be forgiven for not understanding right away. After all, he'd just fought a Rider and won. His wounds, while closing quickly under the strange healing qualities of the parasite's weblike saliva, still hurt like a mother. And, no matter what Dave and Cole had done to help, he never would've survived the first leg of that journey without depending on his own strength. Which, he'd finally learned, was hefty—but not unlimited. Even so, he said, "I could invent you something marvelous. Both of you," he added, catching Dave's eye. Dave waved him off. "Don't bother with me, Miles. I'm comfortable using the tools I've been trained with." Having cleaned off both his knives, he resheathed them and led the cemetery crew back toward the tour bus thinking that, considering he was about to become a dad and he'd like to be around a lot more than Albert had been, maybe soon he wouldn't even need those anymore. # CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE _Saturday, June 16, 11:20 p.m_. One of the easiest ways to infiltrate an enemy base is to let a patrol catch you and then demand that they take you to their leader. Of course, then you're depending on the patrollers to have some sense of honor and military discipline. This couldn't be the case with any member of Brude's army. Which was why, once the Shit Sniffer had led us to an enemy patrol, we'd decided to put a slight twist on that plan. The unit we targeted was made up of Brude's finest and most diverse fighters. They came to him from every age of Earth's history—their uniforms ranging from barely scraped animal skins to medalplastered dress blues. As expected, their weapons ran the gamut too. Except, since firearms didn't function in the Thin, they'd all hung on to their favorite blades. Some had remembered them long and glittering, engraved with the runes of their personal gods. Others carried daggers so dull only the violent double-fisted shove of heavily muscled biceps would prove them fatal. Counting Aaron, our numbers matched almost evenly. And considering we had Vayl, Raoul, and two Dogs fighting on our side (not to mention me, with a sword from Raoul's armory that felt like it had been forged to my hand) I figured our odds wouldn't bring huge winnings on a two-dollar bet. And then _he_ stepped out from behind the tree line that had separated us. We'd been hiding behind a long line of scrub interrupted by piles of fallen trees and mounds of ivy-strangled branches that'd all flame like a hairspray-soaked wig the second somebody thought to bring a match to the game. Still, good cover, until I got my first real look at the blemuth lumbering toward us. And then I reminded myself to write thank-you notes to every one of my trainers, who'd once again done such a good job that despite the shock of seeing a creature I had been sure never existed outside Sandy's Bar (where the stories always outsize the hangovers), I managed not to give away our position with the gasp of awe that had shot up from my quaking stomach. I didn't even break the twig sitting right next to my foot, despite the fact that my knees had begun to shake so badly that my pants would probably have ridden right down my thighs if I hadn't been wearing a decent belt. I rolled my eyes toward Vayl, who'd thoughtfully clapped his hand across Aaron's mouth and wrapped another steel-muscled arm across his chest before he could accidentally betray us. _Can't be_ , I mouthed. He nodded. Which was as close as he'd ever get to _Can too, Jasmine. Now wrap your mind around this before all your moving parts freeze permanently_. I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing, feeling the air of a rarified plane slide in and out of my nostrils as I accepted the inevitable. I'd just seen one of the most twisted creatures ever created. According to legend the first blemuth had begun life as a dragon's egg, but once the sorcerer Aliré had shoved his wand and a huge glob of ogre slime into the guts of the poor thing's DNA, it had very little chance of hatching into anything but what it became: A war machine, programmed to decimate every living thing it encountered. What surprised me was that it had enough soul left to get itself trapped in any sort of afterlife. Most creatures like the blemuth managed to incinerate themselves completely when their time came. The fact that this one had remained to rampage through the Thin worried me more than I liked to let on. I caught Vayl's attention and mimed shivering and then breaking spaghetti between my hands. He understood that I wanted to know if he could freeze the blemuth long enough for us to attempt to hamstring it. When he shrugged, I understood we'd be winging this one. Vayl might be überexperienced, but even he'd never had to face a creature with the reputation for being resistant to attack. As in every. Single. Kind. I wondered how keen the Dogs were to complete their mission now they'd seen how much tougher the blemuth was going to make it. They didn't leave me curious for long. Pointing to each other and then making huge circles with their hands, they let us know that they wanted to be the ones to tackle the creature. _Hey, the dumbasses wanna be heroes. That's so damn sexy_ , said my Inner Bimbo. She spun around on her bar stool, singing, "I think I'm in love, and my life's lookin' up." _She should let Eddie Money do his own songs. She's just butchering the hell out of that piece_ , Granny May murmured. What she really wanted to say was that Bimbetta was sick and twisted, so that was the issue I addressed. I said, _If not for you it could've been worse_. _So true_. Granny looked at me, then she pointed to the needlepoint of the cowboy, Zell Culver. _Once you've unchained Aaron Senior, don't let him go until you ask him about the cowboy_. _Wow, that was kinda out of the blue, Gran, but okay_. Sometimes it pays to listen to the voices in your head. Sometimes you end up looking like a complete loon. Soon I'd get to see which category I'd be playing for. But for now I watched the Dogs get into position to take down the blemuth. It wasn't pretty. Later I figured their lack of good judgment was caused by the fact that they'd been forced to leave their uniforms behind. Some people just don't think well in civvies. Like the Dogs. Who stood up. Barked. And charged. "Why does it always seem like our team is heavily seeded with dumbshits?" I yelled to Vayl as I followed him into the melee. He grinned over his shoulder at me. "You are only saying that because we are outnumbered, outsized, and outvicioused." I felt my lips draw back from my teeth, the pre-battle smile brought to life by my lover's excitement. "Vayl! Did you just make up a word?" "Perhaps I did at that." And then we were too surrounded to talk. Vayl and I stood back-to-back with Raoul and Aaron just to our right. Brude's mercenaries came at us randomly, their attacks as disordered and chaotic as the realm they defended. It worked to our advantage. A foe who fights out of pure emotion leaves plenty of openings for the clear-minded defender to exploit. I'm not saying it was easy. Their blades were just as sharp and deadly as ours. But raised too high, or held too far away from the body, they did nothing to protect the most vulnerable spots, the places we'd been taught to target since our rookie days in the field. The moment my sword sliced through a former Nazi's jugular, I knew we were going to clean up. Grunting. The sound of whistling blades, the scream of dying spirits, and I was right. We were winning. I could feel the tide turn before I saw it. Brude's mercenaries fell at our feet like dead leaves. They hadn't even managed to cut one of us, so that the smell of our blood would bring more spirits screaming down on our heads. And then the blemuth stepped into the center of our ring, one screaming Dog clutched in each taloned fist. It slapped them together like a couple of cymbals and spirit residue fell on our heads like bloody rain. Before the Dogs could melt into the ethos, the blemuth stuffed them into his giant, gap-fanged mouth, crunching them up like fresh celery sticks. "Shit!" I yelled, wiping sweat and Dog remains out of my eyes. My Spirit Guide skewered two of his foes like they were a couple of chickens headed to the barbecue. Nobody stepped up to take their places right away, which gave him time to yell over to me, "Save yours for later!" I said, "Okay!" My opponent, a former member of the Republican Guard, made a stupid move, raising his sword over his head with both hands. I took the advantage and split him like a ripe melon, amazed that the sound of skin tearing and blood spurting still worked here, where so many of the world's rules had been shattered. I looked over at Raoul guiltily. "That was just too easy. You saw." "Can't you do one thing without putting _your_ signature on it?" Raoul bellowed. Vayl snorted. And although he didn't say anything, I got the picture. Jaz had forgotten how to be a team player. Probably sometime during childhood, when all Evie wanted to do was play Barbies, and Dave couldn't be distracted from his G.I. Joe's imaginary missions to, of all places, Pennsylvania. Well, fine. If Raoul wanted a prisoner I could probably round one up for him. In fact... the stench of rotten flesh brought my attention to the blemuth. Who was picking pieces of Dog out of his teeth with a bloody talon and, in the brain-scrambled way of his kind, just now deciding what to do next. Something I'd heard years ago swam to the top of my head. A way to tame these huge beasts so that they were forced to obey every command. I couldn't remember which of my college professors had done the field research, but I decided now was the time to put it to the test. I ran toward the blemuth. The closer I got the more I decided the yellow gunk caked under its thick black toenails was probably old, rotten cheese. Wishing for a bandana to tie over my nose, or even a horrible cold, I charged toward the opening between the pads of the blemuth's first toe and the one right next door. Wanting badly to look away, knowing I couldn't even squeeze my eyes shut, I shoved my sword into the gap between pads, gagging as the smell of foul feet and new blood mixed with the air my body needed for survival. It got even worse when the blemuth bellowed in pain and jerked his foot back, pulling me and the sword I clutched with him. "Jasmine!" I heard Vayl call behind me. "What are you doing?" "Taking a prisoner!" I yelled back. "Just give me a—" A dry heave stopped me as a big chunk of toenail trash came loose and flew past my head. Knowing I could only dangle from my sword for so long before I was either smashed by the blemuth's descending foot or so revolted that I willingly jumped to my death, I scrambled to the top of the foot. Which was when I realized the creature was made of more than wisps of soul and cosmos dust. Somehow Brude had managed to import a real live soul-crusher into his realm. I knew I was right when the king's tinny laughter echoed off the insides of my head, leaving spikes of pain every time it bounced off one of the walls that kept it contained. I felt a wetness beneath my nose, pressed it into my shoulder, and knew without looking that blood stained my sleeve. More laughter from Satan's most dangerous adversary. _Go ahead and laugh, you fucker. You're still my prisoner. And soon you'll be staring down your own execution_. Silence, sweet and pure as a mountain stream, inside my mind. It allowed me to climb the blemuth's blue-scaled foreleg with the ease of a kid on a jungle gym. I kept moving up until I'd reached the top of its plated shoulder. I found the joint where a pathetic sort of chicken wing grew out of its upper back, a reminder of what could've been if Aliré hadn't mutilated Mother Nature. Balancing myself on that spot, I drew my knife and shoved it into the blemuth's scale-covered earlobe. It pinched just enough that he yelped. "Listen up, train wreck. You feel that pain in your foot?" He nodded. One fat tear rolled down his snout and plopped so close to Aaron that his pants were soaked from calf to ankle. He jumped and swore, looking up to find the source of the attack. When a snot bubble quickly followed, he dove for cover. I might've felt sorry for the blemuth. After all, the worst pains often seem to be the smallest. I was gored by a Kyron and shed not a single tear, but paper cuts have made me cry. And he was obviously hurting. Except that part of a Dog's disguise had gotten caught in his lower tooth and was still dangling out of his mouth. So, yeah, no sympathy for the spirit-eater. Instead I said, "I'm the thorn in your paw." Suddenly I realized. _Oh crap. I'm basing this entire idea, not on years of professorial research, but on some kid's story Granny May read to us that I thought was bogus_ then! _We are so screwed_. But it was way too late to back out now. So I talked fast, hoping this blemuth's brains were more scrambled than breakfast eggs at Denny's. "When you've done everything I ask, I'll stop the pain for good. Do you understand?" He nodded. Blinked. A few more tears plopped to the ground. Raoul and Vayl, who were far too self-respecting to run for cover, chose the next best course and ascended the blemuth like a couple of seasoned mountaineers. I kept talking while they climbed, hoping he wouldn't notice all the "fleas" he'd suddenly attracted. "What's your name?" I asked. "Daisy." I coughed. "Wh-huh?" My eyes took another roam over the blemuth's reptilian body. "You want me to call you Daisy?" He nodded. "I'm Daisy." I blew out my breath. I'd just temporarily enslaved a gigantic, Dog-eating blemuth named Daisy who, if everything went right, would help us save a trapped spirit. Even Granny May didn't dare tell me that stranger things had happened. This one broke the scale. I called down to Aaron. "Climb up here, ya quivering sack of pudding! We're taking the express to Brude's place!" Aaron peered up at us, briefly weighed his options, and then shook his head. "Another patrol will find you," Vayl told him. "They are just as capable of eating you alive as this blemuth." Raoul, who'd settled on Daisy's other wing joint, sat forward to frown at Vayl and me. I shrugged and held up my hands. "I didn't say anything." Still, Raoul told Vayl, "Your fatherly advice is about as helpful as a case of smallpox." "I was simply telling him the truth." Raoul called down to Aaron, "Why don't you want to come?" "I'm afraid of heights!" My Spirit Guide's frown deepened as he looked over at us. "I don't suppose either one of you thought to bring rope." "One of our Dogs was carrying some," I said. "Should we assume it got eaten?" "Blech," said the blemuth. "I'll take that as a no." I leaned over until I could see the acrophobe. "Yo, Aaron! Look around for the Dog's pack! It had rope in it!" While he searched I said, "Vayl, do you trust me?" "Implicitly," he replied. "Then will you let me handle this situation? I think it needs a woman's touch." He lifted my hand and kissed it, his lips lingering just long enough to remind me that we hadn't had any _us_ time in so long that my body had started to ache in all the special places only he could touch. "As you like, my love. Only be quick. I sense another patrol approaching." I licked my lips to keep them from pressing against his and climbed down as fast as I could. Yanking Aaron from cover and whispering fiercely, "Quit being a big pussy just when your dad needs you the most," I pulled the pack from the bush where it had landed when the straps had broken, and jerked the rope out of it. As I unwound it I said, "I'm going to tie this around you. Then I'm going to climb back up there and tie it around the blemuth's wing. There will be no way you can fall because Raoul and Vayl will also be holding on to the rope and together they're about as strong as a construction crane. So all you have to do is climb. Got it? Good. How the hell long is this sucker? Shit, we could probably summit Mount Rainier after we're done here. Come on, turn around." After I knotted Aaron in, I also cut myself a good length and secured it to the pommel of the sword that was still securely jammed between the blemuth's toes. Taking the ends of both ropes, I wrapped them around my wrist a few times, tucked the raw ends under, and made my climb, all the time saying, "See how easy this is? A monkey could do it. In fact monkeys do it all the time." "Monkeys have tails!" Aaron called. "They are also often being chased by bigger monkeys," Vayl told him. "In your case, that would be another group of Brude's fighters, closing in on our position more quickly than I anticipated. Is someone bleeding?" We all checked ourselves, found no cuts or bruises. Then I realized. "It's the blemuth. He's as real as we are. They've got to be smelling his injury." Raoul called down, "Aaron! You have about thirty seconds before we're surrounded again! Get your ass up here!" I glanced at Vayl and whispered, "Raoul said 'ass.'" Vayl's head descended a notch, his version of a nod. "He seems to be quite excited. I think he may be enjoying this adventure of ours." "And you're not?" "I am with the woman I love and one of my sons. My life has never been so complete." I glanced down. "So how long are we going to let him dangle there before we start pulling him up?" "Give him a few more seconds. His character could use some polishing." "You really do love him, don't you?" Vayl sighed down at Junior, who was making the ascension about fifty times more difficult than it had to be. "I love him more than life itself. However I do not like him much yet. I am hoping that will change as we spend more time together." "Aaah!" Aaron looked down, flipped out, lost his grip and slipped a total of twelve inches. Vayl nodded to Raoul, who came over to our side to help haul the kid up. "He's something next to useless," Raoul growled. "Not everyone was meant to save the world," Vayl said. He looked down at Aaron fondly. "But the fact that he is trying to rescue his father, despite the fear that hounds him, continues to draw my admiration." I wasn't sure how impressed Vayl was when Aaron finally joined us at the blemuth's shoulder, accidentally caught sight of the ground, and passed out. But, having spent some anxious moments inside elevators and, once, a very small closet, I could admit that we've all had better moments. Maybe Junior's were still ahead of him. Vayl didn't seem quite as hopeful. He leaned over his son and brushed his hair back from his forehead. When he looked up the concern made deep furrows between his eyes. "Tell me, does it look to you as if he is fading?" He did look pale. I held my hands in front of my face. No sign yet that our extended absence from the world had affected me physically. Maybe I was building up some kind of resistance from previous "vacations." But the fact was that we didn't belong here and our bodies knew it. If they failed before our mission was accomplished, we could well be stuck in Brude's horror show for eternity. I yanked on Daisy's ear and got a low, rumbling growl to let me know he was paying attention. "Take us back to the castle." Daisy began to lope, like a horse who's been working all day and suddenly catches a whiff of his trough full of oats. Surreal, the feeling of riding on a giant creature's shoulders. I told myself it was just like galloping through the fields on the back of my grandpa's old gelding. Except supersized. With a fairy-tale element that I'd thought was rarer than platinum until I'd hit high school and found a brownie hiding under my desk because he didn't want his wife to discover he'd been out drinking all night. Which was when I realized how much humans silently agreed not to see or discuss so that they could live happy, comfortable lives. And when I knew that I could no longer be one of them. So I acknowledged how weird it was to feel the wind of the Thin blow the hair back from my face as I rode toward the absent king's torture chamber, while the king himself, or at least the most important part of him, remained imprisoned inside my own skull. Beyond walking the length and width of his cell, Brude had been quiet since his last outburst. Too quiet. Which let me know that he knew the score. Maybe he could smell his castle, coming closer with every giant step of his spirit-crusher, the scent of despair coming to him through my own nostrils. I knew the stillness within my brain wouldn't last forever. He'd know when we reached his base. He'd try like hell to escape. And it was entirely possible that nothing I could do would hold him back. # CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR _Saturday, June 16, 11:45 p.m_. I'll give blemuths this much, when they want to cover ground, they can _move_. We crossed fields, forded creeks, waded through dark forests that should've taken days to negotiate. I wasn't happy about the hanging bridge that creaked and swung like something from a neglected playground, or the raft that kept threatening to capsize every time the ferryman stuck his pole into the grimy green water below it. But at least he accepted our story that we were new recruits, just come from the world to lead Brude's armies to victory. All around us I felt the soft wisps of passing spirits, most of them moving too quickly to be caught in the net of the Thin. They made the air feel hotly humid, as if the exhaust of their flight influenced the climate of the place Brude wanted to fashion into New Hell. Had that been the reason he'd chosen it? For the heat? Or because every once in a while some poor schmo did get caught, and then we found them dangling in the tops of the trees or slumped against a boulder, exhausted from the fall? Then the blemuth would set them on their feet and motion for them to follow. Like a fluteless Pied Piper, all he had to do was crook his gore-caked talon and they stepped in line behind him. By the time we reached the gray stone castle that Brude had built on a plain of salted ground we had a parade of fifteen spirits trailing us. I glanced over at Vayl. "This has got to be the most _obvious_ jailbreak attempt in the history of mankind. Ever." He grinned at me again, possibly breaking his record for most fang revealed in a single day. And reminding me, once again, that parts of him were pure predator. " _We_ know it is a jailbreak. For all _they_ know, the blemuth has captured a great many humans for the kitchen fire. Let us see how long we can make that illusion last, shall we?" He sprang to his feet and pinched the blemuth's neck. "Do you want the stinger out of your foot?" The blemuth moaned in agreement. "Then take us inside and pretend we are your prisoners. Straight to the dungeon with you." Which was when I felt Brude stir inside my head, his movements coinciding with the first pangs of a headache. "He knows we're here," I whispered. Vayl brushed his hand over mine and the pain in my head receded. "Can you handle him?" "I think so. But if it gets bad, you may need to... do something." "All right." We stared at each other. Neither of us quite knew what that would be. We were just hoping we'd be able to figure it out if the situation came to that. Vayl leaned forward so he could see Raoul and Aaron. "Soon," he told them. "Will you be ready?" Raoul nodded and dragged Aaron to his feet. I heard him tell Junior, "There's nowhere to run that won't get you into worse trouble here, understand? These spirits can sense weakness, and as soon as they do, they attack. So you need to at least pretend to be tough." "When I've never been more scared in all my life?" Aaron asked. "Do you want to see your own intestines today?" Raoul said. "No." "Then find a way." Aaron swallowed hard and pressed his hand against his stomach, like he was promising his entire digestive system he would do everything in his power to ensure it remained intact. He kept it there the entire trip through the castle, while the spirits of Brude's army howled at the blemuth, demanding news of the patrol, information about us, and above all else a taste of our delectable flesh. A couple of reminder pinches to the ear forced him to ignore them all and even smash a few of the more persistent ones against the mold-covered walls. Those walls were lit, as I'd remembered from my first visit to Brude's castle, with stacks of burning skulls set in wall brackets. It didn't seem like they should give us that clear a view as we wound our way to the lower levels. But we had no problem picking out members of the king's personal guard lounging against the walls, throwing dice, playing find-the-wench's-giggly-spots, or tearing out each other's hearts over a minor disagreement regarding the bloodline of the hound lapping up the fluids dripping from their everwidening wounds. I heard Aaron whisper, "I think I'm going to be sick," and Raoul reply, "Are you ready to die so soon?" before the blemuth reached the bottom of the winding stairs. The halls had been built wide enough to hold a Sherman tank, tall enough to make a herd of elephants feel comfortably cozy. The blemuth still had to squeeze to get through to the dungeon, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, I suspected that twinkle in his flat yellow eyes was pure glee as he viewed the havoc Brude's forces had wrought among the realms of the Thin and, occasionally, Brude's own people. In hell, spirits are forced back into physical form. This in itself is torture for a soul that has, at least for a while, experienced pure freedom. It also aids in further tortures as the various demons and devices of hell become inspired with increasingly malicious ideas. Brude had followed his master's lead to a degree. But rather than pushing his prisoners' spirits completely back into the flesh form, he'd gone in the opposite direction. So the straps of the rack on which one of Queen Marie's Dogs was currently being broken were made from the skin of another human's wrists and legs. This both held him firm, and burned him through, because it wasn't his flesh. Clever. Diabolical. Inside my mind Brude laughed and, true to pattern, the headache began. Unfortunately it wasn't blinding, so I clearly saw the spirits hanging like psychopathic artwork on the bloodstained walls, dangling from manacles made of human flesh. Elsewhere they writhed on beds of nails carved from human bone and half-drowned in repeated dousings of human excrement. Having already been to hell, I thought I was hardened to the worst that evil could shove in front of my eyes. But my stomach clenched when I saw the cage. I knew it was important by the way it hung suspended in midair by heavy chains anchored to the ceiling and the floor. But that was where my mind stuttered, begging me not to process what it was made of. The sharp pain behind my right eye, accompanied by Aaron's gasped, "No! Raoul, tell me I'm not seeing that!" confirmed the worst. The four-foot-by-five-foot rectangle was made of human skin, stitched together by dried intestines, stretched over a large collection of leg and arm bones. "Jesus." It was the closest I'd gotten to a prayer in a while. "They had to confine him," Vayl said, his voice so sad and low I only caught it because I was used to listening for it. "His spirit was too important to leave to chance." He nodded to the prisoners moaning their misery all around us. "So." I nodded at the cage. "It's a trap?" "I am sure that if we breach that cage, all of Brude's home guard will be alerted to our presence. In fact, he and his allies are counting on just that." "But it's my dad!" Aaron cried. "We can't just leave him there!" As if to underscore his point, an unearthly wail came pouring out of the cage, its anguish so acute I felt my heart break a little to hear it. Still... I said, "Aaron, we can't risk it. So far we've been able to fight Brude's forces. But I guarantee whatever trap he's laid has been heavily tipped in his favor. I'm not saying we're giving up for good. Just for now. Until we can figure out—" "I have an idea," said Raoul. At the exact same moment Vayl and Aaron asked, "What is it?" Inside my head Brude yelled in protest. I fought to keep my hands from clamping at my temples. No sense in worrying the men just yet. It was only pain, right? Raoul said, "The doors. The ones that allow us to move from plane to plane—they follow Jaz closely, almost like Jack and Astral." I looked around. "That's true, but I don't see one here." He nodded. "I think you can call them. In fact, I suspect you do subconsciously. It's part of who you are as an Eldhayr. Part of what you call your Sensitivity. You've never been able to control it because you didn't know you could. But now you have to. Call us one that would fit a plane hangar." "Sure, no problem, Raoul, like I'm gonna be able to make an interplanar doorway that burns around its rim appear just like that!" I snapped my fingers. And a door appeared. In the air. Right next to the hanging cage. "Holy shit!" Vayl frowned at me. "Your language has deteriorated remarkably quickly in the past few weeks." "I'm willing to give her a break on this one," Raoul said. He turned to me. "Can you make it bigger? And then—" But I was way ahead of him. Drawing lines in the air. Stretching the parameters of the door in my head. Feeling it widen and lengthen, and watching it cooperate in this particular reality as if it were no more than one of Astral's holographic images. Finally it seemed more than big enough to hold its cargo. But it wasn't easy. I might have snapped my fingers, but the moment the door appeared I felt like the fire lighting its frame was burning me up inside. No fever had ever worked on me the way this heat did. Sweat dripped down my face as the pain in my head built to new heights. I felt sure that if we didn't wind this up soon, the heat would melt my eyeballs from the inside out. "Everybody off the blemuth," I muttered. Raoul and Aaron began to scramble down while Vayl held my wrist, staying with me as I delivered Daisy's final instructions. The blemuth grunted that he understood. "What about the thorn?" he asked plaintively. "Just as soon as you deliver," I promised. He nodded his understanding as Vayl and I descended. My palms were so wet with sweat that I slipped and nearly fell, but Vayl caught me before I could hit the floor. "You are burning up," he whispered. "It's the door." "Your nose is bleeding as well." "Brude," I muttered. "You cannot contain it all," he said as we made our way to the filthy stones beneath the blemuth's paws. "What else am I supposed to do?" "Perhaps you should light a small fire of your own?" "No." One of the talents that had risen in me after I donated blood to a dying Were named Trayton was the ability to start fires. First they'd just appeared as an extension of my extreme emotions. Then I'd figured out how to control them just in time to save precious lives, including my own. But I'd learned that the flames I shot out from my Spirit Eye also burned a part of me. And I couldn't trudge through life hoping bits of my soul would grow back before I watched my niece walk down the aisle. So I held back, keeping the burn in check even when I was at my most furious. Then Vayl said, "Perhaps this is why you were given the power in the first place. Not to destroy those who would harm you. But to protect yourself from the fires that are sent against you." Inside my head a chorus of girls went, _Aha!_ Everyone needs a shield. Brude had his tattoos. Vayl could once call up armor made entirely of ice. I'd fought reavers who were so thoroughly protected that hitting them felt like pounding your fists into a brick wall. So why shouldn't I get some sort of defense? Especially when I kept having to fight hellspawn? "Okay," I told him. "I'll try." But for the moment I had to concentrate on the rope that I still held in my hand, the one tied to the "thorn" in Daisy's paw. I made sure it couldn't get looped around anything. I checked that Raoul and Aaron had found places to perch among the links of the skin-cell's chain. "It's going to be a bumpy ride," I warned them. "You may not be able to hold on by pure strength." Aaron unbuckled his belt and used it to strap himself around the link he'd chosen. Raoul had already done the same with his sword belt. When Vayl and I had tied ourselves in to our satisfaction we nodded to each other. "Okay!" I yelled to the blemuth. "Upsy Daisy!" Then I snorted, because I'd always wanted to say that, and damned if this wasn't the perfect time! The blemuth grabbed the ceiling-bound chain of Aaron Sr.'s cell between its teeth and yanked. Debris began to fall. The torturing crew finally looked up from their grisly business and realized the blemuth wasn't in it for the fun, like they'd assumed. They screamed as more of the ceiling fell, crushing them and a few of their victims alike. When a slab of rock the size of my Corvette landed right next to me I said to Vayl, "Maybe this wasn't such a great idea." "It was better than any of the alternatives. How are you feeling?" "Why?" "You are bleeding from both nostrils." He touched the back of his hand to my forehead. "If we were in the world, I would take you straight to an emergency room. Brude is attacking you from the inside. He knows this is his last chance to escape before we take him to hell. And that door—" He nodded up to the portal, whose flames had turned a startling shade of magenta. "Its power is immense. I can feel it pulling at you. Trying to suck you dry. Where is your fire, Jasmine? Where is the heat of your resistance?" I felt the blood drip from my nose down to my chin. The pounding in my head had gone so far past migraine I was seeing pink. The _domytr_ had begun raking at the walls of my mind with his fingernails, pounding them with his fists and feet, leaving rivulets of blood and bruises in his wake. And the portal, I could sense it, just like Vayl had said. Eager for my power. Lapping at the energy that had called it despite the fact that it could stand on its own. Suddenly I was so tired. I wanted to fall to my knees, bury my head in my hands, and cry until somebody came to save me. And Vayl would try. But he couldn't fight invisible demons. All he could do was stand beside me, hold me up, and hope I was strong enough to battle through to the end. I reached inside for the rage that never seemed to stop burning, even during my happiest moments. It leaped to my hand like a longlost pet. And I welcomed it. Knew it was the reason I was strong and, after everything, still vibrantly alive. I pulled it around me like a Kevlar cloak. And then I pushed it outward like the shell of an exploding bomb, driving Brude into a howling retreat as he beat at the flames that singed his hair, his skin, and his beard. The flames of the portal billowed and shot straight upward, burning the pieces of debris as Daisy shook them out of the ceiling. They tried to reach for me as well, but my fire was bigger, hotter, and it burned them back to where they belonged. And then I felt myself lifted into the air. Daisy had broken our anchor from the ground. The ceiling anchor had come free as well. Just in time, too, because Brude's guards had come howling into the chamber, waving their weapons over their heads as if we should be intimidated by their noise and motion alone. "Now, Daisy!" Vayl yelled. "Into the gateway with us!" The blemuth swung us into the portal, and as we flew through, I yanked on the rope, pulling my sword free of the monster's foot, gaining myself a roar of thanks as we hurtled out of the Thin. # CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE _Sunday, June 17, 12:15 a.m_. No other motion feels quite as exhilarating as flying, whether you're parachuting from a Cessna Caravan at thirteen thousand feet or hang gliding off the cliffs at Mission Beach. However, in those cases you know that you have at least a decent chance of landing softly enough to maintain the integrity of your skeletal structure. Not so much when a blemuth has tossed you high into the cosmos and you're not even sure your landing site is solid. So, while part of me grooved on defying gravity to the point that I felt like I was thumbing my nose at Mother Nature, the rest was trying desperately to figure out what I was hurtling toward. I ruled out hot lava, just because our landing site wasn't particularly glowing. I couldn't hear surf, so we probably wouldn't be swimming for it. Which left sharp, spiky rocks that could impale us in the most ghastly, gut-wrenching ways. Or some guy's roof, in which case only a couple of us would have to worry about taking a furnace chimney up the ass while the rest of us could enjoy more typical crash-related injuries. Or— "Trees!" Raoul called out. "Get ready for a beating!" Oh. Goody. They were pines. So besides the abuse we took from smashing through at least half a dozen treetops whose branches tried their hardest to whip us off our perches, we also sustained slashes, cuts, and bruises that would take days to heal. But we didn't die. I decided that was a plus. When we finally dropped to the ground we lay there for a few minutes, gasping and sore, trying to convince ourselves we'd survived. Vayl was the first to decide he should ask the rest of us just to be sure. "Jasmine." He reached out to touch my bare shoulder where a piece of my shirt had ripped away. I shivered, laughed lightly. Only he could get a rise out of me after I'd nearly been stoned to death by a falling ceiling and then thrashed soundly by a forest. "Are you all right?" he asked. "Yuh," I answered. I touched my tongue, which was so sore it hadn't wanted to make the S sound so I could reply to Vayl with a "Yes." It was bleeding and slightly swollen. I must've bitten it during the landing. Vayl sighed with relief. Then he said, "Aaron? Raoul? Did you make it?" "We're fine," said Raoul. "I need a knife!" Aaron replied. He'd already made it to his feet and was scouting for rips in his father's cell. Though some of the bones that formed its structure had broken in the fall, the membrane itself remained horribly intact. "Let us do this," Vayl said as he helped me to my feet. When Aaron started to protest I added, "We're pretty handy with weapons. It would be a shame if you sliced half of your fingers off and bled to death at your moment of triumph, now, wouldn't it?" First, however—"I've gotta talk to Aaron Senior." Vayl held out his hand. "Let us free him and see if he is in the mood to converse then, shall we?" I nodded, pulling my bolo and giving it to him as we approached the corner of the cell where Raoul and Aaron were already standing. Aaron went into a crouch and said gently, "We're gonna get you out, Dad. Just go to the other side of the cell for a second, okay?" In the moonlight that shone down through the broken treetops we saw the shadow inside the box move to its opposite end. Vayl made three quick cuts and a flap the size of a doggy door fell down inside the horror room. The smell that wafted out gagged us, backing us all off a step or two. Then Aaron Junior's dad came rocketing out of that place so fast that I could see the air flowing off his shoulders just as if he were a race car barreling down the track. "Get back here right this minute, you ungrateful bastard!" I yelled. He swooped down and hovered in front of me, his grin showing a huge gap between his front teeth. "Forgive me. You can't imagine how awful it's been being cooped up in there all this time." "Well, you're about to be free forever," Raoul told him. "Except," I added. Everyone paused to look at me. "The cowboy, Zell Culver. Did you know him? I mean, did you meet him in the Thin or anything?" Aaron Senior shook his bald head. "I didn't meet any cowboys. Not anybody at all, really, after they had the cell assembled. Except"—he nodded toward our group—"you people, the one time I was allowed out." I pulled the Rocenz from my belt. "Does this look familiar?" "No." I crossed my arms and tapped my foot. I was missing something. Senior was important, or Granny May wouldn't have made her suggestion in the first place. And then I had a thought. "Does the number twenty-three mean anything to you?" He shrugged. "That's the mystery tattoo." "What do you mean?" "Well." He jerked his head back toward his cell. "Lots of those walls came from parts of people that had been tattooed. To keep myself from going crazy I numbered them. Number twenty-three never made sense to me, so I always thought of it as the mystery tattoo." I glanced at Vayl, whose eyes reflected the same excitement I felt building in my gut. "Show us," he demanded. Senior led us into the horror chamber and obediently pointed out a stretched bit of yellowed leathery skin covered with the words the soul splits, with a ragged tear and nothing after the comma. "See?" he said. "The soul splits. Whatever follows that last S looks to have been cut off and left," he sighed, "with the rest of the body." I just stared, because when Senior had said "The soul splits," the Rocenz had warmed in my hand like cheese in a microwave. "Vayl, we—" I swallowed, grossed out by my next words before I had to say them. "We need that tattoo." He cut the piece away from its anchors, the ripping sound the knife made as it freed its second prisoner of the day making me wince. When he was done he folded the patch neatly inside his handkerchief. And then handed it to me. _Ugh_. I bolted out of the chamber, followed closely by Vayl. Senior had left the minute he knew he was no longer needed. He was hovering beside Junior, talking quietly to his namesake as Raoul watched them with a look of regret that spelled out just how long they had left together. As I moved toward my Spirit Guide I rebelted the Rocenz and tucked the tattoo inside my jacket pocket. The one that zipped, so I wouldn't lose it. Or worse, accidentally stick my hand in there and feel it. By the time I'd stowed everything safely I'd moved within earshot of Aaron Junior and his dad. "You're going to be free now," Aaron was saying. "Don't get caught in the Thin again. Go straight toward, I don't know, I've heard there's a light or something." Senior had started to shake. "Don't worry. I'll fly like a rocket ship. I won't even look back. Or down. Or to the side, because there are scary things in the dark with eyes that glow a sort of purply red—" Raoul cleared his throat. "You'll see the Path clearly as soon as the Way opens for you. Stay on it. It's that easy." Now Senior looked like he wanted to hug everyone. "Oh! Thank you all so much!" Junior brushed tears from his eyes. "Be careful, Dad." "Of course!" "And say hi to Grandpa for me." "That too." Senior gave his kid a kindly look. "Make sure you walk on the lit side of the street at night. And don't think, just because you don't have a fever, that you should skip going to the doctor when you feel sick. People die that way, you know." "Yeah, Dad. I know." "All right, then. If you can figure out a way to that won't send her screaming to her psychiatrist, tell your mom I love her." "Okay." Vayl slipped his hand around mine, his signal to stop eavesdropping on the family convo. We backed off as Raoul signaled Senior that it was time to stand, or rather hover, front and center. "Keep watch," Raoul muttered quietly. He meant for anything that might come through the opening he was about to make. Anything undirected and entirely neutral, with the ability to slither through the cracks before we could catch it. I said, "Okay." I held my bolo as Vayl lifted the tip of his cane from the ground and rested the shaft over his shoulder, casually, as if he weren't primed to spring the shaft off the sword that rested inside and skewer the first monster that crossed his path. Casting a frightened look at his son, Senior had moved to stand in front of Raoul. Raoul clasped his hands together, making a small circle with his own body, and began to chant. I always felt Vayl's powers, like a slow simmer that usually gave me the kind of comfort you get from locked doors and well-trained dogs. Raoul's were never evident until he blasted them at you like a well-aimed rocket. Now the tips of my curls wound tighter as they emerged, full and pure as a Brazilian waterfall. Falling over Aaron Senior, they began to reveal him as he truly was, a scared and wounded soul desperate for redemption. As the seconds ticked past he stopped resembling a pale echo of an overworked beer bottler, and instead took on the glittering beauty of a gem-laced spirit full of the colors his life had laid on him, most of them the sweet pastels of spring. As Senior took his true form, the words of Raoul's chant blew from his lips fully formed, wisps of silver coated in the cold fog of his breath. And I realized my _sverhamin_ 's powers had risen, as if summoned by Raoul's. Mine, also, had sharpened. How else could I be seeing so clearly? Vayl's fingers tightened on mine and suddenly, without his even opening a vein, his magic coursed through me. I jerked my head back, shouting to the skies as I pushed my Sight into Vayl's glittering green eyes, and _knew_ that he shared it completely. Aaron Senior gasped, tears running down his face as he rose into a whirlwind composed of pine needles, snowflakes, and billowing clouds so purely white I finally knew the color of peace. Another minute and he was gone. Vayl and I fell silent, though we couldn't let each other go. We just stood there, lost in one another's eyes, the rapture of entanglement so complete I knew we'd never feel alone again. Then Junior sniffed. And said, "Does anyone have a handkerchief? I hate rubbing snot on my shirtsleeves." I looked over at him. Tears were streaming down his face. And, yup, his nose was trying to add to the river. I sighed. Then I looked at Vayl. "I'll bet they don't have boogers in heaven." "No. And, most likely, your underwear never gets stuck up your crack just when you are required to meet important people like, oh, the President of the United States." I dropped his hands. "How did you know about that?" His lips twitched. "Sometimes you talk in your sleep." "Great. Just great. My most embarrassing moments are a hit parade for you the second I start snoring!" He pulled me into his arms. "You are quite adorable. And I know you have always wanted to meet Abraham Lincoln. So I am simply assuring you that when the time comes, you can calm yourself in the knowledge that your panties will remain securely in place." Raoul cleared his throat. "I'm uncomfortable now!" Vayl laid a soft kiss on my cheekbone, a caress completely innocent to witness but highly erotic to receive from lips so warm and promising, before he smiled over the top of my head at my Spirit Guide and said, "Then let us rejoin the rest of our crew, shall we? I believe I have another son to account for." # CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX _Sunday, June 17, 3:30 a.m_. Vayl's positive mood lasted until Dave's report. After which he snapped that since our trip to hell was still on hold, we might as well be driving in the direction of Hanzi's rescue as staring balefully at one another like a bunch of grave diggers. Then he dropped into the passenger seat of the Galaxie and began to brood. He spent long tracts of time staring out the window as we headed toward Spain, where Dave was sure he'd seen Hanzi in dire straits. He interrupted his thoughts only to throw a barrage of questions at my brother, who'd given his tour bus responsibilities to Cole so he could report on what Cassandra called his "Spiritwalk" directly to Vayl. Our psychic sat in the backseat beside him to help fill in the blanks, though his memory never failed, possibly because he'd reviewed Astral's holographic recording of the event three times before leaving the cat with Bergman. (Yeah, it would've helped to have her in on the review as well, but our tech guru had said he wanted to tinker with her some more to make sure she didn't have another funky falling-people episode. I thought he just wanted something to take his mind off his near-death experience. Hey, no judgments from my corner. If it worked for him I was going to try it the next chance I got.) We'd been driving for three hours when Vayl twisted in his seat. Cassandra poked Dave to wake him just before my _sverhamin_ leaned toward him. "Tell me again where you saw him." "Vayl, we've been over this," Dave said. "It was some kind of accident waiting to happen. Your kid on a collision course with a semi." "No, I do not mean the specifics of the vision. I mean the periphery." Vayl shook his head with frustration. "A Sister of the Second Sight told me that I would meet my sons in America. It was why I moved there over eighty years ago. And I did encounter Badu, pardon me, Aaron," he said, nodding toward the tour bus behind us, where Junior was snoring loud enough to be heard over Bergman's Party Line, "in Ohio. So it makes no sense to me that we should be heading toward Andalusia." "Your kid's in southern Spain," Dave insisted. "That at least I could figure out from the writing on the side of the truck." I recognized the tone in his voice. He was starting to get pissed. Which meant he'd dug in his heels. But Vayl had spent enough time with me to know how to handle Parks stubbornness. "All right, then," Vayl said, so calmly that Dave blinked and pulled in his just-try-to-change-my-mind attitude. "My firstborn is riding a motorcycle toward a semi truck in the southernmost region of Spain. Can he see the truck or is it blocked from his view?" "He's looking right at it." "Is he on a blind curve?" "No. It's a—well." Dave's pause brought Vayl up in his seat. "It's so wide it doesn't even seem like a road. More like a runway." "Can you see the edges?" asked Vayl. "Are there planes? Do you see more semi trucks?" "People," Dave finally answered after a lot of thought. "Temporary viewing stands full of people. And some of them are in uniform." His face suddenly lit up like he'd been granted his dearest wish. "I know the place! It's our air base in Morón!" "US soil," Vayl murmured. "Hanzi is on US soil. But I still do not understand what you have seen." "Me either. Maybe your kid's demonstrating some new military weapon or something. Doesn't matter. We've gotta get there before he turns himself into Hanzi-sauce." "Well said." Vayl tapped at his earpiece. "Cole, Jasmine's car will do one hundred and eighty miles an hour without even a shimmy. Surely you could get your contraption to move somewhat faster than sixty?" Our bus driver had been humming an old Alabama tune called "Dixieland Delight," belting out the lyrics when he wasn't blowing bubbles and popping them into our receivers. At the moment he was singing, "Hold her up tight, make a little lovin'/A little turtledovin' on a Mason-Dixon night." He cleared his throat and pronounced, with a Bill Cosby–esque twang in his voice, "Fathers should all be regularly tranquilized the minute their children turn thirteen. And what I mean by that is, if I go any faster, I'm pretty sure the chassis of this old bug will disintegrate, at which time Bergman will go flying out the back like a paper napkin." Cole sang another couple of bars from his chosen tune. Then he stopped to say, "So tell us, Vayl, since you're old enough to have legitimately turtledoved, and the guys in Alabama seem pretty psyched about the idea, is it everything it's cracked up to be? Also, can you turtledove just any girl? Or does she have to have a certain, shall we say, generously mounded upper quadrant?" Despite the shade Vayl's face had reddened to, Dave chuckled. "Wouldn't quadrant be referring to four boobs? That's kinda sci-fi, Cole, even for you." Cole said, "I would totally go there. For my country's sake, of course." Vayl blew an irritated breath out his nose. It was so close to the snort a pissed-off bull makes just before he charges that I was amazed Cole kept the tour bus moving in a straight line. I figured even he was smart enough to change the subject while our leader was so anxious about Hanzi's safety, but before he could do anything that smart, Vayl sat back, his entire posture relaxing as he looked at me like he'd only just seen me for the first time that day. It was like he suddenly realized that Cole wasn't trying to piss him off at all, that he just wanted to help him get through the trip so that by the end he still possessed at least a shred of sanity. He said, "I cannot imagine anyone of your temperament taking the time to turtledove a lady. However, if you ever manage to slow down long enough to enjoy the finer moments of seduction, remember that a woman's body is like fine art, to be taken in by all the senses until she is enveloped in them so completely that she is no longer separate from you." Because holding Vayl's eyes would probably lead to a fatal accident, I was that distracted, I glanced in the rearview and noticed Dave sitting in rapt attention, taking mental notes with his sharp little brain pencil because he knew the master rarely spoke, and he'd better not blow this chance to file away a few precious pointers. Given his attitude and the total lack of comment by Cole, Bergman, Raoul, and Aaron, I figured all of them felt pretty much the same about this moment. Which made me want to sit up straight, tap the back of the seat, and announce, "Gentlemen, there will be a test later. Try not to muff it." But then they'd all giggle at my terrible pun and forget everything they'd learned in the past thirty seconds. And I just couldn't do that to the women in their lives. So I kept my mouth shut and basked in the glow that was part of being Vayl's lucky girl. Cole said, "Vayl, I bow to you. Look over your shoulder. See? My forehead's touching the steering wheel. As for moving faster? At this rate we'll make our destination in, like, thirty-nine hours. Maybe more, because Jack has told me he'll have to stop to pee at some point. _I_ will just crank open a window when the urge strikes—you're welcome, by the way. Bottom line? I suggest you settle in." Vayl turned back to Dave. "That will not do." "We could fly," Dave said. "That would cut our time to about eight hours, but when you count ticket-buying time, security checkpoints, stopovers, that kind of thing, it would expand to twice that. Plus we have the animals and gear that would have to be dealt with so it's kind of a wash." Vayl spun to me. "Jasmine, we need another door." "What do I look like, some kind of genie? Holy crap, the last one practically fried my eyebrows from the inside!" When he simply looked at me, not pouting, not pleading, just waiting for me to put myself in his shoes and understand his need, I sighed. "I can take you to another plane, like Raoul's apartment, maybe. But then when you step back out of the door, it's going to drop you pretty much where you started. That's been the way they've worked ever since I could see the damned things." Vayl touched his ear again, a gesture I was beginning to find charming in a _Star Trek_ –ian kind of way. He said, "Raoul, you could do it. You could take us to your penthouse, and from there you can descend to any spot on Earth. You could drop us right into the path of Hanzi's motorcycle." Raoul had been sitting quietly beside his window in the bus, staring out at the darkened countryside of what I was pretty sure was now northern Croatia. Later Cole told me that Astral had curled up in Raoul's lap and he'd been petting her as if she were his own cat. Apparently they'd bonded during the time I'd loaned her to him as a prop to help him net a date. Now his voice seemed to come from the bottom of a lake, dark and mysterious as the creatures that swam there as he said, "I could, but I won't. This is one event I cannot interfere with." "So you know what's going to happen?" I asked. No answer. "Then I'll take that as a yes." Still nothing. Vayl and I shared narrowed eyes. What the hell kind of truth did he have access to? Bergman, who'd been so silent that I'd almost decided he was sleeping off his nightmare tangle with the Rider, spoke up. Perkily, as if he hadn't just been mentally and physically gnawed on by an evolutionary throwback. He asked, "Raoul, are you some kind of prophet? Should we be writing everything you say down?" And then, "Jaz. Astral's recording everything he says, right?" "That seems like an invasion of privacy, Bergman. Why don't you just stalk him instead?" Cole began to snicker and Astral, apparently feeling she should have some say in the matter, began to speak. "Metamorphosis in five seconds. Four, three, two..." "Bergman, now look what you've done," said Raoul. "She's turned into a pancake!" "That's not supposed to happen," said Bergman. "Don't let her jump... Raoul! I wanted to test her timing system!" I glanced back and saw Aaron rise in his seat so he could see farther forward. "What's the cat doing to the dog?" he asked curiously. "Somebody let me in on the action," I demanded. "Yeah!" Cole seconded me. "I can't see them from up here!" Aaron had moved into the aisle for a better view. "The cat's sliding over to where the dog is lying under the front seat." "The dog is Jack; the cat is Astral," I reminded him. "If you're going to be traveling with us for the next couple of days, it would be nice if you memorized a few names. You know, in case you get lost and have to ask the Walmart lady to page us over the intercom." Ignoring me, Aaron said, "Jack's twitching in his sleep. What does a dog of yours dream about, Ms. Parks?" I said, "I always figured Jack was chasing bad guys across endless fields of clover. Not sure he ever catches them, but he has a fabulous time trying." "O-kay then... well, I think he's going to be in for a surprise. Because the cat, Astral, I mean, has positioned herself between his paws. She looks like a warped Frisbee. But at least now all his twitching makes sense." Realizing how badly she was going to freak him out when she popped back into her full form, I said, "Whoever is closest to her needs to lean over, snap their fingers, and order her back to normal." Aaron said, "Okay, I can—" Loud, brash music blared from the floor of the tour bus. "What's happening?" I demanded as Dave and Cassandra both turned in the backseat to see if they could get a better view. "It's Astral!" Aaron yelled. "She's playing that AC/DC song. You know which one I mean?" "We can all hear 'Back in Black,' Aaron," Cole drawled. "In fact, I think the first three lines are now imprinted on my eardrums." Aaron laughed. "Oh my God, it was great! Jack jumped completely off the floor. He looked like a grizzly bear that's just been stung in the butt by a bumblebee! That's a smart dog of yours, Ms. Parks. It only took him, like, two seconds to figure out that Astral was screwing with him. Oh, man!" "What's he doing now?" asked Cassandra. "He's sitting down on the floor in front of her," reported Aaron. "He's looking at her kind of sideways." "Uh-oh," I said. My brother and sister-in-law turned toward me. "What does _that_ mean?" asked Dave. "He's planning something," I predicted, wishing I were on the bus so I could prevent whatever catastrophe was about to occur to what had to be a multimillion-dollar piece of technology and, even better, keep Bergman from experiencing his first heart attack. "You're right!" Aaron said. "He's leaning over, real slow. Like he's afraid he's going to spook her. And now, wow, he's really being gentle! He's clamping her head in his jaws, just enough so he can give it a quarter of a turn to the right. Now he's letting go. He's coming down the aisle, and now he's hopped into Bergman's lap." As if the sudden groan from Bergman wasn't an even better clue. "What was that all about?" Aaron asked me. "Jack was sending Astral a message she'd understand. He was telling her, _Remember that time I accidentally blew your head off? Well, I'm not above doing it again, this time on purpose_. And now he's planted himself on top of the one man who can fix her if anything goes wrong. My guess? She'll behave herself for at least the next twelve hours." Murmurs of wonder and pride from the rest of the crew as they settled into what was fast becoming the longest marathon drive of my life. And then Vayl said, "Stop the car." Such a quiet command, but it would've easily halted a battalion of tanks. I pulled over, Cole lined up behind me, and we all gathered onto the shoulder of the road, which I thought was a good thing for several reasons. I needed a break from dodging potholes the size of my hubcaps. I was tired of following oxcarts full of mystery plants that were bigger and scarier than corn, and passing when I felt like the next pothole might be deep enough to lead into an entirely new dimension. Plus Jack needed some exercise. So I was feeling pretty positive about this new turn of events until Vayl stepped into Raoul's personal space, his cane nearly impaling my Spirit Guide's foot as he stood nose-to-nose with the Eldhayr who'd saved my life. Even Jack cut his relief time to a minimum and came back to stand at my side as the atmosphere spiked into the same realm of intensity that must have been felt inside the boardroom during the last postwar peace treaty negotiations. "Your attempt to distract me from your remarkable lack of interest in a human's impending death has failed, Raoul." Vayl spoke so slowly that even my Spirit Guide could tell he was reaching hard for tact because the predator in him was swimming hard toward the surface. "Tell me. From what are you _not_ protecting my son?" Raoul's face took on that frozen look that so often preceded a barked recitation of name, rank, and serial number followed by stony silence. Then his lips pursed, and his loyalty to the Trust he'd become part of without even meaning to won out. He said, "Hanzi's fate has come to a crossroads. It's not for me to make his choices now." He nailed Vayl with a hard look. "Or you." My ears started to tingle. I said, "What the fuck does that mean? Speak plain, Raoul. We're not into riddles, especially not this late in the game." Raoul squeezed his eyes shut. The international sign for _I have paddled so far up Shit Creek I will never smell good again_. He said, "Hanzi's soul hasn't evolved a great deal in the lives he's led since he was Vayl's son." "I got that feeling during my Spiritwalk," Dave muttered to Cassandra. "But how do you tell a guy his son's been pretty much a jerkoff for the past three centuries?" A slight turn of Vayl's head acknowledged he'd heard the whisper, but he let the comment go because he was so fixated on Raoul. "Give me a bottom line, Raoul. I have time for little else today." Raoul's shoulders tightened. Vayl's were already so stiff they could've doubled as car jacks. Raoul said, "Hanzi may very well die today. A crew of demons is waiting to take him if he does. If the humans at the event where it is to happen can resuscitate him, the Eminent hope that he will make the choice to change his life. In that case he would be a fine addition to our circle. But, because of how he has lived to this point, they've ordered us not to interfere." He stared hard at Vayl. "This is one place where _I_ can't help you." Vayl nodded, understanding as clearly as I did that if we got there in time, Raoul wouldn't interfere with any plan _we_ might come up with. He rammed his cane into the road so hard I was surprised it didn't shatter. In his most controlled, and therefore dangerous, voice he grated, "We must reach Andalusia as quickly as possible." My Spirit Guide looked up, like the clouds held a map only he could see. "We'll make it in time," he said. He looked at Vayl and said cryptically, "Just be ready for a few more surprises from your firstborn. I haven't told you everything because, well, for you I think some things have to be seen to be believed." # CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN _Sunday, June 17, 3:50 a.m_. Since it was nearly four in the morning, giving us only ninety minutes until dawn, we decided to find ourselves a place to shower, grab a meal, and set Vayl up inside his sleeping tent before jumping back onto the road, where we'd take shifts sleeping on the bus. Having already left Bucharest far behind us, we gathered in the bus and broke out the maps and laptops. Bergman, Aaron, and Cassandra searched for hotels while Dave, Vayl, Raoul, Cole, and I plotted our next big move. "I can't imagine it happening," I told Cole. "Come on," he whined. "We're right on the border of Slovenia. I can practically see the guards waving leis at us from here. This is our big chance to experience true Slovenian culture." Vayl shook his head. "I am certain the lei is a Hawaiian tradition. And I do not see how dressing up in leopard-print uniforms and racing llamas around the city square while we shout 'Long live General Maister!' has anything to do with being Slovenian." "Trust me, it does. I should know, my grandma married a guy who could answer all the crossword puzzle questions that made any reference to Eastern Europe." He clapped a hand on Vayl's shoulder. "I'm telling you, buddy, you'll feel so Slavic when you're done you may just get the urge to talk out of the back of your throat for the rest of your life." "I've never ridden a llama," said Raoul. "Are they comfortable?" "They're covered in wool!" Cole said. "It's like sitting on a pile of sweaters!" Dave snorted. "Sweaters with teeth, maybe." I know, I know. We should've shut him down the minute Cole uttered the words "llama saddle." But those of us who hadn't been in the room when our wizard friend Sterling brought his soul back from the brink of Spawn City had heard the story enough times to know that these moments, above all others, were the ones that Cole needed to help him maintain his humanity. So we indulged him until Bergman hooted in triumph. "I found something! It's a place called the Flibbino Inn. Oh wait, the reviews are pretty scary. There's no indoor plumbing, and this one lady says they give you a toilet lid to take outside with you when you have to go, otherwise the neighbor kids steal them for their own outhouses." "I wonder if they're the squishy kind," Cole said. "Is that really going to make a difference in your decision?" Cassandra asked him. He thought a minute. "That depends on the reading material that goes along with the lid," he decided. "I'm beat," Dave said. "As long as nobody mentions bedbugs, I'm willing to put up with primitive conditions for one night." I glanced at Aaron expecting, at the very least, the look of lawyerly disdain he'd probably practiced in the mirror for the day he finally passed the bar. He said, "I was a Boy Scout. I can sleep on the floor if I have to." As I shared a look of dawning respect with Vayl, Bergman tapped at his keys a few times. "No bugs here," he said. "Although one reviewer felt the rooster was kind of a pest." "Am I to understand this inn is situated on a farm?" Vayl asked. "Yeah, I think so." "Pass," I said. "The last thing I need is to be squatting in an outhouse on an unattached lid when some big-and-ugly jumps down from the haymow because, guess what? it's my time to die." Among a general chorus of agreement, during which somebody mentioned that Bergman might even accidentally slip down the hole in such a situation, Cassandra came up with plan B. "How about this place?" she asked. "Its name is translated as The Stopover." She passed around the laptop so we could all study three muzzy shots of the trucker-type hotel situated between a major highway and what looked to be a well-traveled goat track lined with beech trees. The Stopover stood two stories tall, a square brown edifice that drooped at the corners, making it resemble a pile of giant poo. In front sat a line of three gas pumps, one of which was servicing a car so ancient even I couldn't tell in what year it had pulled out of the factory lot. The lobby could've doubled as a convenience store. Who knows, maybe it did. And the rooms looked like they'd been decorated by depressed nuns. Behind the hotel stood a second building whose purpose remained a mystery. Bergman pointed to it. "That's probably where they hide the bodies until it's dark enough to dispose of them." Cassandra laughed. "Miles! It's not that bad! Believe me, I've slept in dives that make this place look like the Ritz!" Bergman shook his head. "I hate to disagree with you. Well, actually, it doesn't bother me at all to disagree with you. But it seemed like a nice way to start out saying you're full of crap. This is totally a Norman Bates hotel. I'll bet the owner has a furnace in the basement just like Sweeney Todd." Dave held up his hand. "You can't mix movie slashers with musical villains. It's just wrong, Bergman. I thought you knew that." "I don't know," said Cole. "I could happily spend the next half hour discussing which of those guys is the most twisted." "Definitely Sweeney Todd," Aaron offered. "The guy ate his victims after all." "Did he eat them, or did he sell them to other people to eat?" asked Cole. "Does it matter?" asked Cassandra. "I'm not sure there's a line that fine," I said. The last word came out as a grunt, mostly because Jack had, once again, stepped on a major organ in his attempt to pass himself off as a Pomeranian. I was trying to decide if a paw could actually fit between my pancreas and liver when Vayl found that ticklish spot underneath my earlobe and began to circle it with his thumb. I blanked on everyone else in the bus as my mind centered on Vayl's touch. Such a little thing, and yet I nearly gasped out loud when his fingers, which had been folded and resting against my neck, uncurled. His fingertips, hidden by my hair, brushed toward my spine, making me shiver with anticipation. "Jasmine?" "Huh?" "What do you think?" "Uh-huh." "About the hotel," Vayl clarified, amusement threading through his voice now. "We need to stop somewhere," I said. I saw a quick glint of fang and then his hand went still. Mine rushed to cover it, a silent protest I hoped the others wouldn't notice. He murmured, "You must think for everyone, not just us. It will not be a pleasant day, Bergman's reviews have assured us of that." I dropped my hand to Jack's head and rubbed at his soft fur. Reality came flooding into my mind so fast that it felt like somewhere a water main had exploded. "We're going to hell tomorrow," I murmured. "It seems right that we should take our first step in this world." "Perhaps the hotel's owners would not appreciate such a comparison?" I shrugged. "Then they shouldn't have painted their place the color of shit." # CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT _Sunday, June 17, 4:25 a.m_. Thirty-five minutes after discovering The Stopover hotel on our laptops, we pulled into its garbage-strewn parking lot. Not a single light provided extra security, or the ability to see where to walk Jack for his pee break so he wouldn't tread on broken glass. Since Vayl could navigate the dark better than any of us, he took my dog's lead while the rest of us got shower gear and clean clothes out of our overnight bags. I hated to leave my Galaxie in a lot where there were more hubcaps than cars, but I'd made my choice, and an hour from dawn was no time to back out. So I locked the doors and hoped that the thieves were into VW buses as I looked down at the cat standing beside me. "Okay, Astral," I told the kittybot. "No talking in front of strangers." She looked up at me innocently, as if she was offended I would think she was capable of such rudeness. I pointed my finger at her. "No freaking out the dog. And definitely no home movies of people falling off mountains. You got me?" She stared down at the asphalt, paying close attention to her trotting paws as she followed me toward the front entrance. But I thought I heard her say, "Dammit" in a small metallic voice that still managed to express disappointment. Suddenly every light in the place flipped on. The ones above the gas pumps came to life too, bright neon white spotlighting us like a bunch of military targets. I knew Dave was thinking the same thing when he yelled, "Take cover!" He wrapped his arm around Cassandra's waist and pulled her into the alcove between the front door and the building's outer wall. I pulled Grief and shot out the gas pump lights, backing toward the tour bus with Astral at my heels. Vayl and Jack met us there. Bergman, Aaron, and Raoul had clambered back inside the vehicle, abandoning their bags halfway between the building and the bus. Cole had taken shelter against the only other automobile in the parking lot, a black sedan so covered with grime it couldn't have been washed since the country's last election. The door to the inn flew open. "Don't shoot! Please don't shoot!" A skinny old Indian man with a thin mustache, wearing a brown vest and blue pants, walked into the parking lot with his hands held high above his head. "She said you would come here. She is the one playing with the lights, not us. Please, those bulbs are expensive!" I lowered my gun as Vayl demanded, " _Who_ said we would come?" "The woman in black. She has taken over our entire establishment. She has been just waiting, waiting for you to arrive. Please, please talk to her now so she will leave us alone." He clasped his hands together, really begging, truly scared of whoever was waiting for us inside. As Cole left cover and Raoul opened the bus door for Bergman and Aaron, the owner of The Stopover, whose name badge said we could call him Sanji, motioned for us to join him. Dave, still holding Cassandra safe behind him, remained in the shadows. With my arms still at my sides, I lifted my palm to him, silently encouraging him to keep it that way. We held our weapons out where Sanji could see them as we approached him and the front door. "Please," he said again. "She said she would go as soon as she spoke to you." "Did she give you her name?" Vayl asked. "Bemont," he said. "When she checked in she said her name was Mrs. Bemont." Even Aaron knew better than to gape at Cole. But we all felt the shock that shot through him at hearing that whoever had anticipated a move we'd only just decided to make was posing as his wife. I reminded myself, once again, to create a whole new vocabulary for our line of work, because "creepy" just didn't cover it. When we didn't show any signs of movement, Sanji asked, "Are you ready now? Mrs. Bemont is not a patient woman. You should hear the yelling if we are late with her breakfast." Vayl held up his hand. "In a moment. Cole." Our sniper stepped forward. In his hand he held a duffel full of clean clothes and a second padded bag containing his rifle, a Heckler & Koch PSG1 that was nearly new but had already seen action (translation: Saved our asses) in Marrakech. Vayl said, "Find the back way in. Clear it if necessary. Then cover Mrs. Bemont's room. But before you go, give Raoul your pistol." Cole reached into his shoulder holster and pulled out his Beretta. Handing it to my Spirit Guide he said, "I know it's been a while. Do you need a refresher course so I don't have to worry about you shooting off your big toe?" Raoul took the gun with a well-practiced hand, making sure to keep the business end pointed away from the rest of us. "I haven't forgotten." Vayl said, "I suppose I shall need something as well. Sanji, give me your gun." "I-I have nothing of the sort!" blustered the manager. "I'm a peaceful man—" "I beg to differ," Vayl replied, his voice so mild Sanji had no idea how close he was to getting his head slammed against the wall. "You run a rotten hotel in a neighborhood infested with criminals. Where do you keep it, behind the counter? If not, I will be happy to tear this place apart until I locate it." "No! No, that won't be necessary." Sanji rushed into his office and came out carrying a sawed-off shotgun. I said, "Now I'm having weapon envy." My _sverhamin_ smirked at me. "You are just saying that because you know how much I would rather use my cane." He turned to Sanji. "Where is Mrs. Bemont staying?" "She's in the honeymoon suite." We stared up at the sagging building. "You have a honeymoon suite?" It was the first time Aaron had spoken since he left the bus. And I was sure these words had been ripped out of him by pure disbelief. Sanji shrugged. "It's the biggest room in the establishment, really two rooms put together. Up there, on the corner of the second floor." He pointed to the windows, the curtains of which were closed tight. Vayl nodded to Cole, who left so swiftly that Sanji didn't even notice. He just kept blabbing in the way of lonely innkeepers, "I think they forgot to put the wall up in between them when they raised the building, so now it's the honeymoon suite. It has a wonderful view of the river." "How does Mrs. Bemont like the view?" I asked. "I don't think she ever looks. She just complains about no running water and makes us haul buckets up to fill the tub we had to buy for her. She bathes quite often. 'Cleanliness is next to godliness,' she says, and then she cackles in that awful way she has, as if she's got razor blades stuck in her throat." We all nodded sympathetically until Vayl was finally satisfied that we were set to meet Cole's fake wife. He'd made sure that I still carried Grief and that I was armed both with the holy water I carried on my right wrist and the bolo sheathed in my pocket. He'd also checked to see that Raoul still carried his holy blade, it was just hidden beneath the back of his jacket at the moment. Bergman, as usual, hadn't thought to arm himself, and Aaron was without weaponry as well. Vayl handed Bergman his cane, saying, "I noticed you turned your ankle slightly while you were debarking the bus earlier this evening. Here, please feel free to use this to aid you for the rest of the evening." Bergman received the cane as if he were being given the care of a kingdom's crown. His reverence nearly brought me out of the intense concentration I'd thrown myself into the moment the lights came on. Aaron's whine, "What about me?" did the rest of the job. "You'd manage to kill one of us with a butter knife," I snapped. "Stay out of the way until further notice." He looked to Vayl for support, which amused me. Like some kid running to Daddy for permission after Mommy's barred him from the cookie jar. The twinkle in Vayl's eyes let me know his mind had fallen into the same track. He said, "Jasmine is right. If you would like to be trained so you know what to do in these situations in the future, I will be happy to accommodate you. But for now your life, and ours, depend on your staying safely out of the way." I smiled inwardly as Aaron bobbed his head. Finally a little respect from the would-be killer. And all it had taken was major risk to his own hide. As soon as he fell to the back of the line I allowed myself to refocus. This deal, whatever it was, smacked of foul spells and demoncraft. I'd need to be on my toes if I wanted to bring everybody back from this one. And oh God, did I ever want everybody to survive. One more second to recognize the crack in my shell, to realize nearly everyone I loved was in this place at this time. And then I shoved that sucker together, sealed it with superglue, and got on with my job. Which, at the moment, was to follow Vayl and Sanji into a building I'd never scouted before, knowing full well it could be boobytrapped, packed with enemy forces, or just plain bad for the sinuses. I whispered down to Astral, "You go ahead of us. Let me know if you see hostiles." She trotted ahead, slipping through the doorway as soon as Sanji opened it, and disappearing into the recesses of the building long before we reached its lobby. I'd taken Jack's lead from Vayl and wrapped it around my left wrist. But since I needed both hands to shoot straight, now I knotted it through my belt loop. "Be calm, boy," I told my malamute, whose ears were perky enough to say he was enjoying this outing, but whose sleepy eyes thought I was way overreacting to a few surprise neons and what quite possibly was just a bitchy ex-girlfriend. "Oh, I would be so pissed off if that was the case," I whispered down to my dog. "Do you think he would actually date somebody that crazy? Don't answer that. I already know." Followed closely by Bergman, Raoul, and Aaron, Vayl and I trailed Sanji into the lobby, which held several shelves full of snack foods as well as necessities like toothpaste and small bottles of Tylenol. Across from these shelves stood the counter where, presumably, you could either pay for your gas, buy munchables, or rent a room. We walked past this area into a short hallway that turned sharply right, giving us the choice of taking the elevator or the stairs to the second floor. I told myself that I chose stairs because Jack needed the exercise. No, it wasn't at all because I'd rather eat raw slugs than pile into an elevator with more than, say, one short, skinny, ideally under-the-age-of-three person. That is, after all, the only time there's enough room in an elevator. Strike that. Because, truthfully, there's never enough room in an elevator. If there were, they'd call it a mobile home. Jack and I were halfway to the second floor, which Astral had already shown me consisted of a typical hallway lined with faded green carpeting and diarrhea-brown doors, when I realized everyone had followed my lead. When Vayl stood beside me once more at the top he said, "I presume you feel better." I nodded. So did Jack, because he's just that supportive. "Aerobically speaking, we are now completely warmed up and ready to roll." His dimple made a brief appearance. "Then I take it you are looking forward to our next confrontation?" I took Grief's safety off and made it ready to fire. "You could say that." "Would you do me a favor, then?" His suddenly serious look caught me off guard. "Of course." He stepped into me until our thighs aligned. When his arm went around my waist and lifted, our hips locked like they'd been made in the same factory. "Make sure Raoul is not merely here to take you away from me forever." He let the words loose carelessly, but I heard the desperation behind them. _Don't die tonight, Jasmine, you're all I've got_. That's what his purple eyes told me. The message had been significant in earlier times, when that had been true. But now that he'd found Aaron, now that he was closing in on Hanzi, they stirred my heart like never before. "I'll be careful," I promised him. He nodded. "Good." A kiss, the brush of lips that sent tingles racing straight to my toes, sealed the deal. And then we were leading Raoul, Bergman, and Aaron down the hallway toward an ugly brown door onto which a scratched brown plaque had been glued. I didn't know Slovenian, but there was no mistaking the message. This was the honeymoon suite. Astral sat at the base of the door, as if she'd known right where I needed her to go. Fuh-reaky. "Cole, are you in place?" asked Vayl. "I'm in the attic above the suite's bathroom. Luckily somebody here's a big pervert, because there's a camera system all set up, with predrilled holes for the naughty boy to peep into the shower anytime he can get away from the front desk. Jaz, when you get a chance, you may want to kick old Sanji there right in the gonadiphones." "Will do," I said. Raoul tapped me on the shoulder. "It might not be him, you know." "I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. But you'd better not be holding me back if we find him drooling over sex tapes after this is all said and done." "That's a deal." We stopped outside the door. I handed Aaron Jack's lead and scooped Astral into his free arm. He nodded over what he understood was an enormous responsibility, especially after I pointed to him, then to the animals, and made my if-anything-happens-tothem-I'll-kill-you face. Bergman whispered, "Should we knock?" I glanced at him. He was pale, but not nearly as shaky as the old Miles I'd known, who would've found five perfectly logical reasons to wait for us in the bus. I said, "She knew we were coming before we did. I imagine she's got cookies and milk waiting on the table for us, don't you?" He shrugged, then nodded, then shrugged again. "I'm new at this," he finally said, in an effort to explain his indecision. Vayl said, "You will be fine, Bergman. All you have to do is open the door and get out of the way. I expect it to be unlocked. If it is not, just move out of my line of fire. Can you do that?" Bergman swallowed so hard that for a second it looked like he had a chicken bone stuck in his throat. Then he held up the cane and shook it a couple of times to express his certainty. "Excellent." Vayl looked to one side, like he could see Dave and Cassandra through the walls of the inn. To them as much as to our inside backup he said, "We are going in. Be on your toes, please. Our lives may be in your hands." "Yes sir," Cole replied. Dave maintained Party Line silence. The fact that he'd chosen to go into pure stealth mode, combined with Vayl's refusal to mention him by name, gave me an odd sense of comfort. No telling how long ago "Mrs. Bemont" had predicted this meeting. But Dave and Cassandra had been last-minute additions to our crew. So if luck was on our side, and none of us blew their cover, my brother and his lovely, magical wife could turn out to be our secret weapons. We lined up on the latch side of the door, just like we were in kindergarten and it was time for recess. Only this time we were required to keep contact, my hand on Vayl's shoulder, Raoul's on mine. Vayl and I knew our responsibilities once we were inside. I'd already told Raoul what part of the room to cover. Bergman would enter after we'd cleared the room, and Aaron had been instructed to stay in the hall unless he deemed it safer to slip into the room behind us. Which left it to Vayl to begin. On his nod, I waited for Raoul to squeeze my shoulder. When I got his I'm-ready message I squeezed Vayl's shoulder and he motioned to Bergman to open the door and step out of the way. The door wasn't heavy, like you'd expect in an American hotel. Miles could've swung it open with his pinky. Instead he jerked the latch down and shoved it wide, causing it to bang against the wall as we rushed into the room. We stayed tight so we wouldn't stray into each other's line of fire. Vayl moved directly to his right, covering that corner of the room. I took the center and Raoul, stepping in directly behind me, covered the left corner. I could feel Bergman's breath, hot against my neck, as he shadowed me, Vayl's cane tapping nervously against the dingy wooden floor. I didn't bother tracking Aaron. Some people are just born with a well-defined sense of self-preservation. He, Jack, and Astral would be fine. We all spoke at the same time. "Clear," Vayl said. "Clear," Raoul echoed. "Don't move or I'll shoot," I snapped. # CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE _Sunday, June 17, 4:45 a.m_. The creature lounging in the middle of the unmade bed looked, and smelled, like it hadn't stirred from that spot in days. Covered in black from head to toe, it seemed more like a pile of funeral laundry than a living being. Until it turned its head. "Holy shit!" I jerked back, immediately pulling my finger off the trigger because I was afraid I'd twitch again and shoot it accidentally. Sometime in the creature's recent past it must've stood in the middle of a bonfire. Nothing else could've caused the scars I tried not to see as I winced at the massive damage that had made it cease to seem human. I assumed it had survived the burning because of the otherworldly power I felt seeping out of it like pus from an infected wound. And even then I could tell that it had only barely escaped. The skin of its face had a red, puckered texture as if it had been gone over with a cheese grater. Its nose had melted to half its normal size, and its lips had been incinerated, leaving only a line of thin white skin to mark the barrier between face and teeth. No eyebrows or lashes gave evidence of masculinity or femininity. Just misery. That was what oozed from the creature. Wave after wave of pain-laced despair. It had covered itself with a chador, the black tent-dress we had seen women wear so often during our trip to Iran. Over its head it had draped a black shawl nearly as long as the dress, under which it huddled so successfully that I couldn't see a hint of any other skin. No jewelry gave us a clue as to who the creature might be, so Vayl decided to go at it with a directness that surprised me. "You cannot be Mrs. Bemont," he said. "We have seen pictures of Cole's mother, and she looks nothing like you." The creature's awful pink tongue darted out and licked a bead of sweat off what now passed for its upper lip. "Is that how you greet an old friend, Vayl?" It nodded toward me. "You've been spending too much time with Little Miss Mannerless over there." I felt my brows come together. The voice, raspy as it was, still sounded eerily familiar. Where had I heard it before? Before I could think of a legit question that would force the creature to speak again, Raoul began to shift from one foot to another as he plucked at the buttons of his shirt like they'd been heated over a stove. When he backed off to where Aaron stood beside the door, holding the handle with the hand that also prevented Jack from leaping to my side while he clutched Astral to his chest with the other, Raoul visibly relaxed. The fact that he'd drawn his sword didn't hurt his demeanor either. "What is it?" I asked him. He nodded toward the bed. "That is an abomination." My stomach fell, hard, like it had just slipped on a trail of bacon grease. Raoul had worked around unholy types before. He'd taken me on a field trip to hell, for Pete's sake! And he'd never reacted like this. I slipped my finger back onto the trigger. "Whatcha got going on under all that material, Mrs. Bemont?" I asked the creature as I stepped toward it. "Oh, I'll show you soon enough," it assured me. "But first, I made a promise to you not so long ago. Do you remember, Jasmine? Standing in the rubble you made when you blew the seal off the entrance to Satan's canal, watching me steal the Rocenz from right under your nose? I told you then that if you got it back I would meet you at the gates of hell to help you defeat Brude." The creature motioned with one black-draped arm to the gleaming silver tool at my belt. "You have it back. And I am sitting at one of the gates even as we speak." "How can that be?" whispered Bergman. He'd stayed so close to my shoulder that if someone had turned on a bright light he'd have blotted out my shadow. "I don't know," I told him. "It's not one of your physics problems you can work out with a little thought and a great calculator, Miles. Some things just don't make sense." "And yet..." Raoul cocked his head. He came forward and yanked off the black blanket that covered both the bed and the creature's lower half, and we all jumped back. It wasn't sitting on a bed at all. It was dangling. Impaled on a spike that reached down into a fog that writhed with tortured souls. The creature's smile turned ghastly as blood welled up from its throat and coated its teeth. And that was the easiest sight to handle. Because its spike didn't stand alone. In the space the bed should've taken up, standing as if in a cavern created from another universe, more posts carved to evil points at their tips rose from a surface that smelled like a slowly burning landfill. Every post was stuck through a body. And every single body twitched or moaned in its turn, assuring us that no creature who rode a roughly hewn spear had been blessed with death. Finally I found my voice. And the knowledge that had been scratching at my brain for the past few minutes. "Kyphas? Is that you? We thought..." I glanced at Vayl. "We were sure you'd died." Even without her lips, the demon whose beauty had once raised a desire in me that had made me grateful I liked guys managed a sneer. "Since when have you played pretty with your words, Jasmine?" She compounded the insult by pronouncing my name as only Vayl did, _Yaz-mee-na_ , hoping, I was sure, that the next time he whispered it in my ear, my shiver would be as far from one of ecstasy as it was possible to get. She said, "Speak it plain, or by all that's evil I will break my vow and suffer torments stacked on those I've already brought on myself just for the satisfaction of seeing you pout." I briefly considered shooting her through the head. The only reason I decided against it was that it would only cause her more pain. Instead I said, "Miles and I saw you sucked through that planar door." Bergman had hugged against my back the moment he realized we were facing the demon who'd nearly dragged him into hell with her. I could literally feel him nod in agreement. I went on. "We also saw Vayl and Astral jump through to fight you. And when they came back, all they brought with them was your severed hands." "What? You mean these?" She raised her arms and the material fell back. "Jeeezus," whispered Bergman, who'd never felt the need to call on any deities in person until this moment and who, I was pretty sure, had been raised Jewish. I would've joined him, but I was too busy watching all my inner girls fall to their knees in panicked prayer. Even now, three weeks later, Kyphas's wrists were still leaking black gouts of blood and gore. But they didn't end in stumps as we'd expected. The same villain who'd burned her face into an unrecognizable mask and shoved her on a stick like some sick puppeteer had welded a three-headed hydra to each of her wrists. Each head was taking turns sinking its fangs into her wounds, causing her to shake like a malaria victim as it drank its fill. "What happened to you?" Vayl asked, his shoulders tightening into steel plates at the sight of Kyphas's snakes. "You are the daughter of a Lord of Hell. Where is your father? Why did he allow this?" "I gave up my heartstone," she said. "Or have you forgotten? Leonard has turned his back on me." "Oh, don't act like it was some great act of charity," I snapped, using my resentment to cover my horror at her pain and my surprise at her lineage. Her father was the Lord of Black Magic and Sorcery. I couldn't believe he hadn't tried to pull some strings to give her at least some relief. "You were trying to turn Cole into a demon. If you hadn't given your heartstone to us he'd be trolling Satan's playground for cute babes to skin alive even as we speak." "I broke the Second Law," Kyphas informed me. Even though I'd never warmed to Kyphas, I was beginning to believe she really had wrapped her arms around this fate for Cole's sake. Demons took all kinds of crap for letting souls slip through their fingers, but they never experienced true punishments for the failure, because it was so hard to snag them in the first place. Only when someone like Cole was allowed to escape on purpose, breaking Satan's Second Law, did demons burn. Which meant she'd acted out of real love. Damn. I cleared my throat. "How long..." I couldn't finish, couldn't imagine the pain she must be enduring. She said, "I am to be punished for the next half-century for my crime. And yet my vow supersedes even my jailer's power. So I've come to give you the last bit of help that I'm required to." "How did you know we were coming?" I asked, knowing that as soon as she fulfilled her vow she'd disappear again. And that even this small break was helping her push back the agony. She pointed down at one of the women writhing beneath her, the snakes on her right wrist coiling up her arm at the sudden movement. "Lesia is a prophet. Ironically, the more they burn her, the clearer her visions become. Which is why I know that my beloved has crept through the attic access in the bathroom and is waiting just outside the door for your signal." She sighed. Then she said, loud enough for her voice to carry across the room, "Cole. Mercy or revenge. Either way you think of it, your bullets can't kill me." The bathroom door swung open and Cole stepped in. He regarded Kyphas for a long time, his face so still that none of us could figure out what emotions were moving behind his clear blue eyes. Finally he said, "Tell Jasmine why you came and then go back to hell where you belong, Kyphas. We'll follow you when the time's right." He glanced at my belt, where the Rocenz hung heavier than ever. When he looked back at Kyphas some silent communication passed between them, because they both nodded and, despite her immense suffering, she seemed almost... relieved. She nodded to me. "That lovely piece of artwork you carry in your pocket is obviously incomplete." I nearly put my hand against the hanky-wrapped skin, but kept it steady under the butt of my gun instead. "I noticed." "The rest is still on the cowboy, Zell Culver. He'll come if you call him. Stand by the gate, give it your blood, knock three times, and shout his full name." "Thank you, Kyphas," Vayl said. "Your promise to us is fulfilled." She barely acknowledged his words. Her eyes, the only bright and shining parts of her soul left unshattered, kept a steady watch on Cole. "You look fine," she said. "I'm glad of that." He nodded. "My friends brought me back." His stare, full of dark memories and nightmares, wouldn't give her an inch. This was the Cole that stayed hidden, the man I knew least and liked best. "I'll never forgive you for what you did. You should know that." "I'm sorry," she said. What she said made perfect sense. She should feel apologetic for what she'd done to Cole, even if she had paid in skin and blood. But the prickling between my shoulders told me she wasn't talking about Marrakech. I spun around as Aaron shrieked. Miles, still hanging at my shoulders like a badly organized backpack, hampered my movements and my line of sight. For a second all I could see were two blurs leaping through the doorway. "Vayl!" I yelled, relying on my Spirit Eye to guide me until the rest of my senses could come into play. "Hellspawn!" Bergman ducked, I thought to get out of my way until I realized he was rolling up his jeans. Hoping whatever he'd built into his boots wasn't another one of his unreliable prototypes, I triggered the holy water strapped to my wrist, filling my palm with an attack-ready syringe even as I knocked the first demon back with a barrage of gunfire that wouldn't kill it in this world. But judging by the squeal, it hurt a lot more than beanbags. That, and the flying steel from Vayl's shotgun as well as Cole's rifle, gave me a few seconds to assess our situation. As I'd thought, we only faced two opponents, but they were a couple of the baddest fighters hell had ever puked forth. Called _Ichoks_ by those who'd encountered them and survived, these creatures could throw so much nasty into one blow it felt like you were facing five well-trained enemies. Part of that was because they were ambidextrous, wielding their katanas equally well with either hand and with such speed that people were left staring at the stumps of arms and the gaping wounds from which their intestines had begun to snake out without even having felt the blows. _Ichoks_ could also deal a potentially fatal strike with what I called their spit glands. Located in a specialized pouch tucked inside the lining of their bloated, gillcovered cheeks, the glands could be emptied with force, usually into an opponent's eyes. Blindness was the first result, after which the _Ichok_ could finish you off at its leisure. But if something distracted it, you'd eventually die from the poison as it worked its way through your system, paralyzing major organs along the way. They preferred to fight in a crouch, which left a much smaller target to aim for. And, like most hellspawn, they came shielded, though their armor was easy to see, even to Unsensitized eyes like Bergman's. "What's that chest plate made of?" he whispered to me as I reloaded. "It looks like..." Knowing he'd never be able to finish the sentence, I did it for him. "Skulls, Miles, those are human skulls. The top, cap part, to be exact. Hundreds of them cut to fit into neat little rows and linked together with bits of silver chain. What a great Halloween costume that would make, huh?" He caught my bitterness and seemed about to respond, but he couldn't look away from the armor. "All those people," he whispered. "If you don't want to become one of them, you need to give me a little more room," I told him. He backed off, moving to stand next to Aaron, who'd tipped an armchair over in the corner and hustled Jack and Astral behind it. Beside me Vayl had also reloaded and gone another round, blowing his _Ichok_ back into the wall. But even before that his most effective weapon had already swung into full motion. In fact, the second the demons had entered the room I felt Vayl's power working at my hands, which were cold enough that I worried they wouldn't squeeze the trigger in time. And in my nose, which had begun to run. Even in my breath, which poofed out gray and frost-laden. I realized this might be the biggest storm Vayl had ever called. I glanced at Miles and Aaron. "You might want to bundle up." Already their teeth were beginning to chatter. Still, Bergman kept struggling with his boot. I couldn't see the hilt of a knife, so what the hell? "Did Vayl have to be a Wraith?" he complained. "I hear _lethryls_ are a lot warmer." "They also require a lot more blood to heat up the place, which usually means a couple of full-time suppliers working the entourage angle. Do you want to be some _lethryl_ 's bitch?" "Point taken." He gave up on the boot. "I'm freezing. And my VEB is stuck. Feel free to start without me." Wondering what a VEB was and if I should've taken out insurance against being disintegrated by one, I emptied my clip into Cole's _Ichok_. Its armor had kept its chest from turning to dog food, although blood trickled down its arms and legs in a steady stream, and our combined rounds had thrown it to its knees. But still it was roaring and spitting, warning us that soon we'd be wishing for more powerful weapons. I reached for the sword Raoul had lent me. As I pulled it, I realized my Spirit Guide was not waiting patiently for us to finish with the long-range fighting so he could wade in with his own weapon. He was standing just outside the door, fully engaged with a third _Ichok_ who stood at least a head taller than the two we were holding off. His blade arched and slashed so quickly it was just a blur, but so were the _Ichok_ 's weapons, and I swallowed a spurt of fear as I saw that his uniform was ripped in several places where blood had darkened it to black. Then, like the warning had been ripped from the middle of her chest, Kyphas cried, "Watch out, Cole!" and I had to turn back to our fight. He'd had to throw himself to the floor to avoid a spit-patch of poison that now dripped from the wall behind him. Worse yet, the blows from our bullets had begun to ping off the skulls of the _Ichoks_ , as if the armor had _learned_ how to deflect them in the time we'd been shooting. Cole's hellspawn had risen and begun to twirl its double katanas like saw blades, and all he had was a now-ineffective sniper rifle and a sheathed sword that he'd never be able to compete with in a fair fight. By now my blade was in hand as I stood beside him. "Draw steel," I ordered, although I didn't hold out much hope for our survival. Next to us Vayl had centered the cold of the grave he'd never entered on the hellspawn whose realm was full of the burning dead. In one massive cloud of air that looked like a perfect coil, Vayl surrounded the _Ichok_ with tiny, razor-sharp shards of sleet. And then he drove them into it. The boom of sound that accompanied the strike shook the floor, making us all stagger backward as Vayl's opponent shattered into a million pieces. Cole and I pressed our advantage, swinging our blades at our unbalanced adversary as he leaned toward the wall. Unfortunately he recovered quickly, and soon we were both on the defensive, fighting for our lives against blades that seemed to be everywhere at once. Of course, this was giving Vayl a chance to move around behind the creature, but given the speed of this attack nothing was going to save us in time. I glanced over my shoulder at Raoul. Nope, he couldn't wade in beside us, because his hands were full as well. Then I saw Dave and Cassandra running down the hall. Dave had drawn his knife. The sheen of its blade matched the edge of steel in his eyes, making me glad I was fighting on his side. Suddenly I felt sorry for the _Ichok_ who was about to die. But only a little. I turned back to my own fate. Cole, back on his feet and fighting more fiercely than I'd ever seen him, raised his sword just in time to parry a blow meant to separate my arm from my shoulder. And then Bergman yelled from behind us, "Okay, I'm ready, guys! Duck!" Cole and I traded a single look. And dropped to the floor like we'd just heard the whistle of a bomb zeroing in on our coordinates. The _Ichok_ , seeing its prey do the don't-slice-me dance, leaned over us with a leer on its butt-ugly face and roared. I saw its throat work and realized, "Cole. It's going to spit on us. Cover your eyes!" And then I forgot my own advice, because Bergman whooped like a cheerleader whose team has just won the playoffs. "It's gonna work, guys! Watch this!" We all turned to where Bergman stood, holding his boot in front of him like it was his very first twelve-gauge, the toe tucked under his arm for support, the empty leg pointed toward our foe. Only it wasn't quite empty, as we could tell from the blue spiral of smoke curling out of it. My guess? Bergman had just lit a fuse. He said, "So long, mo-fo," growly, like he was just recovering from a bout of laryngitis. And then the back blew off the boot, smashing into the wall behind him, shattering a mirror that had been hanging there. He glanced over his shoulder, frowning. "That wasn't supposed to happen. Maybe I have the power-boost too—" He never finished his sentence, because out of the opening his leg had so recently filled shot a series of cannonballs so small they looked like marbles. Except they hit like vats of acid, leaving smoking holes that ate at the skin, growing larger with each second, making the _Ichok_ scream and writhe with pain. "Bed," Cole panted. I nodded, and without another word we charged. I fended off the _Ichok_ 's weak attempts at defense as Cole drove it toward the narrowing gap between worlds, a door closing quickly behind Kyphas and the other sufferers like it was a living thing that knew we wanted to use it to our advantage. _Who knows?_ came the random thought, _maybe it is. Maybe all thedoors are_. And that's when I knew, as surely as I knew my dad would never stop bitching at me because that was the only way he could tell me he loved me. I'd stood at the threshold of such a door at each moment of my death, my soul about to shatter into thousands of diamond-like shards that would travel the universe, settling into my family, my friends, and other destinations I could only imagine. I'd communed with the creature that provided pathways into worlds beyond worlds. Felt her fire caress the gemlike skin of my being. And promised her, one day, that I'd return so she could fly me home. So now she was always near, letting me know the trail was clear, no matter which turn I chose to take. With this thought fresh in my mind I snapped, "Open up," at Kyphas's door. "Or I swear I'll put a hole in you so big cement trucks will be able to drive through it." The door hesitated. Then slowly reversed course as Cole continued harrying the _Ichok_ toward the bed, slamming it with slicing blows that left it looking like the victim of an old-time British Navy whipping. I slammed my heel into its knee, cracking it so soundly that my ears rang. It screamed and fell into the pit just as Cole swung his sword, cleanly decapitating the hellspawn just before it hurtled out of reach. We turned to help Raoul, Dave, and Cassandra just in time to see Raoul shove his sword deep into the _Ichok_ 's side while Dave's lightning knife strike left the creature's right arm limp and hanging. "He's going to spit!" Cassandra cried, but neither one of the men was in any position to prevent the strike. So she stepped in and dumped her enormous, beaded bag over its head just as it let go. We could heard it scream as its venom hit falling tubes of lipstick, a paperback book, and a bright green cosmetics bag, not to mention a smaller purse full of necessities and at least one full bottle of Febreze. Some of its spit also dripped down onto its neck, where it began to eat into its skin like a plague of carnivorous beetles. Dave caught a pair of handcuffs as they fell from the bag and locked them around the handles. "Oh, baby," murmured Cole. "I gotta know the story behind those puppies." "Shut up," I said as I cranked my elbow into his ribs. "For all you know Cassandra's a deputy sheriff." "Ha!" Cole's laugh was cut short by another elbow. This one to his gut. One guess who threw it. Now Dave and Raoul hefted the _Ichok_ between them, shuffled it to the portal, and, after a three-count that allowed them to swing the creature into a nicely rhythmic arc, threw it into the pit. I don't know if they aimed or it was just dumb luck, but the demon hit an empty stake about halfway down and impaled itself on it. The last thing I heard before the door closed was its screams. Cole leaned over the abyss and yelled to Kyphas, "Looks like your prophets were wrong, demon. In fact, you can just tell them they can kiss my ass!" Her smile, ghastly as it was, still seemed to approve. "Even they can be blind sometimes," she said. "It all depends on how they _look_ at things." She emphasized the word so clearly that I knew she was trying to send him a message. And then she threw her head back and screamed. I looked to see if one of the hydras had taken a fresh bite out of her arm, but she'd covered herself up again. What I saw instead was that the fog was rising. Or maybe she was being swallowed within it. "This door is closing," Raoul said. "We need to leave the room in case something reaches through it at the last minute and manages to trap us inside it." "Could that really happen?" Aaron asked me nervously. "Just the fact that you can ask that question shows what a rookie you are," I said. "Now, see how Bergman has hustled his butt to the hallway? There's a guy who knows how to take physical threats seriously. You should follow his lead." "Except when it comes to raiding old cemeteries, right, buddy?" said Cole, slapping Bergman on the back as he joined him outside the room. "Huh," was Bergman's pale-faced response. Thank goodness Astral had witnessed that event or we might never have known the extent of his heroics. "What about the bed?" he asked Raoul as he, Vayl, and I joined him in the hall. Raoul said, "By morning very little will be left to show that the room was once a gate to hell." We looked around at each other. Raoul seemed the worse off for injuries, having been cut deeply in a couple of places. Cole and I had each taken minor wounds to the arms that we hadn't even felt until this moment. Vayl's two chest wounds were already closing. Dave, Cassandra, and Bergman hadn't been touched. We'd been lucky, we knew that. Hell wouldn't be so kind the next time. Vayl wondered aloud, "Will we be safe here or should we move on immediately?" "I can make us safe for at least an hour," Raoul replied. "It wasn't like we were going to tackle that gate anyway. Our scouts will find us a much less well-traveled route." Cole snorted. "Which the prophets have already seen." Cassandra said, "Kyphas was trying to tell you something about that. I think there's a way to cloud their vision." "I agree," Raoul said. "Then I need to consult my Enkyklios. And Astral," she added. "If there's a way, I'll find it." Vayl nodded. "Do that. Everyone else must eat, and think. If you have any ideas of how to improve this mission, now is the time to come up with them. Because as soon as we find a way to rescue Hanzi, Jasmine, Raoul, and I must leave for hell." # CHAPTER THIRTY _Sunday, June 17, 5:00 a.m_. Raoul's idea of protecting the hotel from further invasion was simply to bless it. He took my holy water, scattered it at the four corners, and prayed as he walked around the building. It seemed like such a simple solution. And yet, as I watched the part I could see from the room Vayl and I had temporarily claimed on the ground floor, it seemed to me like if I turned my head just right I could see Raoul, transformed by the ceremony and his place in it into his true self. The shining white beacon whose slightest whisper could blast my brain to jelly if he wasn't careful. It wasn't that he shone with an inner light or that I could see his skeleton glowing through his skin. It was that I could glimpse, just for a second or two, the rare and beautiful creature he'd become moving just behind the physical form he'd taken in order to walk with us. And I had to wonder—was this what Granny May had become? When Matt had chosen paradise over me... had he known this perfect grace, this wisdom wrapped in white fire, was waiting for him? I felt Vayl before I heard him, his fingers moving gently up and around my shoulders, his chest pressing against my back as I dropped the curtain. "Does it hurt you?" I asked. "Standing inside a blessed building?" "Yes," he admitted. "But Raoul gave me this. It shields me from the worst of it." He turned me around so I could see the amulet hanging from his neck. Made of gold, the pendant looked like a reverse question mark in which the circle had nearly been closed. Inside the circle, held there by fine golden lines that reminded me of Queen Marie's favorite palace room, was a second nearly complete circle whose opening was at the exact same space as the first. Filling those spaces was a golden arrow so intricately made that I could see the fine lines of its feathers had been hammered in by some meticulous craftsman. I wanted to touch it, but settled for laying my hand against the soft shirt below it. "So." I looked into his eyes, trying to gauge his mood. They were brown. Leave it to him to be totally relaxed before the biggest mission of our lives. "Hanzi. And then hell," I said. "Yes." He caught my other hand in his and brought it to his lips. "We have had so little time together of late. And now." He pressed his lips into my skin and I closed my eyes, concentrating on the feel of him, his hips crowding closer to mine. His tongue tracing a path to my wrist. Had the air just thickened? As I took a deeper breath, I thought maybe so. I raised my eyelids and smiled as I watched his eyes brighten to hazel and then to the emerald green that always felt like a celebration to me. "What do you say we leave them in the future where they belong?" He glanced toward the window. "Dawn approaches. Already tomorrow is nearly here." "How much time do we have?" "Perhaps an hour." "Then let's make the most of it." Even now that our deadline loomed like a factory boss in our heads, yelling at us to get to work fast because every second counted, we undressed each other slowly. Savored each new bit of skin an unbuttoning revealed with lips and tongues and softly worded murmurs. The bed creaked like its box springs had been sitting at the bottom of a river for the past twenty years, so we moved the bedding to the floor and lay in each other's arms as comfortably as if we'd been testing out a Tempur-Pedic mattress. Vayl wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, my breasts flattening against his chest as he whispered in my ear, "Tomorrow may be our last day together. I try to banish the thought, and yet it keeps tearing through my mind." I shuddered, holding him tight. "Listen, I'm not letting you go. No matter what happens to us, I'll find you. Somehow, I'll come for you. Okay?" He buried his mouth in my hair, muttered something I didn't understand, and then kissed me so fiercely that I couldn't have formed a single coherent thought for fifteen minutes after that. We made love with a desperation I'd never experienced before, a love so immense I realized my cheeks were wet, and then knew that I was weeping. But it was all right, somehow. Our rhythm was the rhythm of the universe, and it sang out that we were meant to be. That we would always find one another, because music like ours was timeless... eternal. Afterward we lay in each other's arms until another rush of fear, of need, of desire pushed us forward again, to that place where only we could go together. I must've dozed off, because my eyes felt heavy and my concentration dim when Vayl finally said, "Dawn is breaking. I need..." He trailed off. I'd never seen him go into the daysleep before. But now I'd looked into his face just in time to see his eyes flutter shut, his expression relax. I slapped my hand against my heart. _He's not dead. He didn't just die. Chill, Jaz. He'll be up again at dusk. If you can make sure no light hits him in the meantime_. I went to our luggage and dug out the sleeping tent. Since there was no way I'd be able to lug him onto the bed, I set it up right next to our spot. When it was done I levered Vayl into it, using angles and his weight, more than my muscles, to get the job done. Once I'd zipped the door closed I sat down beside him and cried. Because the past hour had been one of the best we'd ever spent together. And despite what I'd said, I wasn't sure we'd ever get the chance to repeat it. Then I jumped into the shower. Because everybody should face their fate with clean hair, a full stomach, and at least an hour's worth of lovemaking behind them. # CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE _Sunday, June 17, 6:20 a.m_. What is it about the shower? Water hitting your head in just the right pattern? I don't know, but I get some of my best ideas while rubbing suds into my hair. This time it helped a lot that Jack chose that moment to poke his head in and give me that doleful look that meant he had digested every morsel in his massive gut and I had neglected him shamefully by not feeding him in the past two hours. I raised my eyebrows at him. "Seriously, dude. I have a feeling you wouldn't be my buddy like you are today if I didn't have the key to the chow cabinet." And that made me think of doorways. And my sense that the portals following me around the planet were somehow alive. I finished showering in record time despite the fact that I had to fend off another nosebleed, dressed, fed the mutt, and ran for Raoul's room. "How long?" I asked as I burst inside without even knocking. With any other guy I'd have worried about interrupting something a little bent but, as expected, I found my Spirit Guide reading the latest issue of _Model Railroader_ and chowing down on peanuts. He sat up like he wasn't that surprised to see me. "Until what?" he asked. "What's our window until it's too late for Hanzi? Do I need to try to wake Vayl up somehow, or will it hold until sundown? Can you at least tell me that?" He shook his head and looked toward the window. Whose curtains were closed. Which was when I realized he hadn't been reading the magazine or eating the peanuts when I'd burst into the room. He'd been staring at those ugly beige window treatments. "What?" I demanded. "I was about to come see you," he admitted. He stood so straight I felt like an officer about to begin inspection. "I just got word from our scout. He's discovered a route to one of the most far-flung gates in Lucifer's domain. We have a very narrow window until the fence guardians catch his scent and come to investigate. As soon as Vayl rises we're leaving." He'd muttered most of this information over my right shoulder, like a TV crew was maybe standing behind me. Now he dropped his eyes to mine. "I'm sorry, Jasmine. There's no time to help Hanzi. It's all about you now." I wrapped both my hands around the despair threatening to choke the breath out of me and said, "Look. We can do both. What if we grabbed Hanzi before the accident and took him into hell with us? What better way to show him his potential future than to sink him straight to the pit with a couple of pitiless assassins and an Eldhayr warrior who can show him the best way out?" As Raoul hesitated I rushed on. "You know his chances of survival there are slim to none anyway; it's not like we'd be vacationing in the Wine Country or something. At least this way there's a better chance he'll choose the good fight. Plus Vayl gets to save his kid. _And_ I don't have to spend the rest of my life walking under a thundercloud of guilt for denying him that chance. What do you say?" I realized I was clasping my hands in front of me like a little kid begging for a double dip of chocolate/vanilla twist before the ice cream van passes her by. Raoul nodded. "I need to check with a few people. But I believe that could work." "Yes! I would make you do cheerleader kicks with me, but I can tell you'd pull a hamstring or something." So I hugged him which, as soon as I was done, I realized he'd dealt with about as suavely as a sixth grader. As I watched the blush fade from his cheeks I made a mental note, which my inner librarian dutifully filed away: _Next time... do the kicks_. I said, "Okay, do me a favor then. Tell the crew there's been a change of plan. We're camping out here until further notice." He sat up straighter. "What are you going to do?" "I've figured out how to get me and Vayl to Hanzi without driving." His eyes gleamed. "I hoped you would. Do you want some company?" I shook my head. "Your hands are pretty tied on this one, Raoul. I don't want to take you to a place where you'll be too tempted to break the Eminent's edict. Especially when you're already in hot water over us." As his face fell I said, "You guard the troops, okay? No telling what kind of trouble they'll manage to get themselves into if left to their own devices. As soon as Vayl and I get back with Hanzi, we're jumping to hell. Then I'm gonna need you like crazy." He nodded resolutely. "This is true. I'll see you when the kid is safe, then. Be careful. And remember, some surprises are nice ones." I tilted my head at him, but when he didn't elaborate I said, "Okay," as I backed out of his room. With a whole day ahead of me and zero sleep behind, I skipped back to the room for some shut-eye. Jack had gobbled his breakfast and settled into one of the chairs for his morning nap. "Seriously?" I asked him. When he nodded I said, "Okay, but wake me up if you need to take a dump. We don't want another fiasco like we had in that Motel 6." I made a few more preparations for the night ahead. And when I was satisfied I'd done all I could I shed my clothes, curled up under the covers beside Vayl's tent, and snoozed until his whoop of indrawn breath brought me to my feet. I might've been stark naked, but I held Grief in one hand and my bolo in the other, so I _felt_ at least half dressed. I also could've kicked myself for reacting so violently to the sound of him waking to life for yet another evening. I should be used to it by now. I had been, back at his house. Which proved how much this mission had frayed my last nerve. Not a comforting way to start out what could be the most important night of your life. Especially when I looked down. Shit! Another nosebleed had left my chin, my neck, and the front third of my torso caked in half-dried flakes of blood. I supposed I should be grateful that I hadn't ruined one of my favorite T-shirts. But I just felt... tired. I touched my nostrils. Still damp from Brude's latest onslaught. _Go ahead, you fucker. Try me. I'm not going down without a fight_. I considered throwing my weapons on the bed while I cleaned up, but Jack had decided that if Vayl and I weren't going to sleep there it was fair game for him. He'd spread out across the middle of the dingy mattress and was blinking up at me sleepily while Astral stared at both of us from the perch she'd found on the ancient TV set. So I set the lethals on the dresser and, before I hit the bathroom, took one more minute to set up supper for the bottomless pit. "How hungry is the poopmeister?" I asked Jack as I dug into our luggage for his food supply. He bounced to his feet, making the bed creak so alarmingly I wondered if I was going to have to rescue him from the rubble of its collapse. But it held up at least long enough for him to leap to the floor and claim his food, which he chomped happily, pausing only to smile up at Vayl after he'd emerged from his tent and come to give me a good-evening hug. Which he delayed when he saw the state I'd risen in. He shook his head. "I hope, more than anything, that tonight sees an end to your pain," he said as he pulled me into his arms, dried blood and all. When I thought about it, that was really saying something. "That was very cool of you to say, considering," I replied. I shivered inside his arms. "You're cold." "I have not yet eaten." "Mmmm." I led him to the shower, underneath the spray, let him rub my skin to its usual pasty paleness. And all the while his lips brushed my neck, nipped at my skin. Eventually my shivers had nothing to do with temperature. I said, "What you said earlier, about eating. Maybe it's not such a bad idea for you to take from me once in a while after all. I mean, the last time we joined we didn't even trade fluids. It was just—emotional." "I know." He set the soap in the dispenser and pulled me in until it felt as if every inch of my skin was touching every bit of his. "I have a feeling our journey toward a new _otherness_ cannot be derailed, but only delayed. And even that may not continue for as long as we had hoped." "Then we might as well enjoy the ride," I murmured as I stroked his broad, muscular back. "I was just wondering, though. If this all works out, I'm definitely going to want a shower after we get back. What do you think about three in twenty-four hours? Too much?" He considered the question as his hands drew erotic circles down my sides to my hips and back up again. Finally he said, "Well, they do say that cleanliness is next to godliness. And, considering our vocations, that cannot hurt." "You're just saying that because you like to get wet with me." His grin made my heart go pit-a-pat just like in romance novels. Or so I've heard. He said, "That, also, is quite true." I turned in his arms, waiting until he'd clasped his hands across my stomach before I said, "We've got to exploit every advantage. Especially since I've got a big night planned for you. So give me that soap and let's get dirty, uh, I mean clean." We used up most of the soap. All of the hot water. And every bit of strength in our legs. By the time we left the shower our kneecaps were no firmer than spaghetti noodles. We helped each other dress in colors so dark we'd have lost each other inside a movie theater, and then collapsed on our homemade bed for five minutes of recovery time. At which point I told him about our change in plans. He leaped off the bed. "What are we doing here, then? We should have left the moment I rose!" "About that," I said. "I figured out a way for us to get to Hanzi. I even tried it out to make sure it would all work earlier today. I'll show you soon. The point is, your kid isn't going to be at that location or on that motorcycle for another"—I checked my watch—"fortyfive minutes. We don't have time, no. But we have to take it. Raoul told me that, for some reason, the only time it's okay to grab the kid is right before the accident. He's got to see something happen there before we take him to hell, or the deal is null and void. So 'patience' is the word of the day, okay?" Vayl kissed me so thoroughly I almost forgot we had important items on our to-do list. When he lifted his head he said, "You are a wonder." "I try." My lopsided smile told him to cut out the silly compliments, they were just too far over the top. He touched the spot where I'd taped a piece of gauze underneath my right breast. I checked to make sure it didn't show through the thick cotton of my front-pocket pullover as he asked, "Did I hurt you?" I brushed my palm against his cheek. "A little. It's teeth in skin, babe. You know it's got to. But the pleasure is so intense. I can still feel the tingle in my toes. And the bubbles are still popping in my brain. You get me high in a way that leaves me permanently powerful. Even after the crash. How does it feel for you?" He caressed my lips, studying them so closely I would've thought his next step was to re-create the image on canvas if he hadn't started talking again. He said, "When I taste you, when I am inside of you, and you surround me, then I am no longer alone." He stopped. Stared into my eyes. And I suddenly understood the significance behind the looks he'd been giving me since before I realized how he felt for me. He'd been trying to tell me how lonely he'd been. All those years, searching for his sons. It hadn't mattered who he'd touched, whose blood he'd swallowed. He'd never truly connected with anyone in all that time. He'd been isolated, like a TB carrier stuck in quarantine, until he'd met me. And now he was about to risk losing that forever. I wrapped myself around him until my arms and legs ached. Only then did I say, "I know a little bit about these things, Vayl. People have choices, even after death. I promise, I will always choose you." He pulled back so he could look into my face. "Not Matt? He may be waiting for you in paradise, you know. He may be standing behind the pearly gates holding a beach umbrella in one hand and a margarita in the other." I jumped to my feet. "I was really going to do this later. Afterward? But no, now really seems..." I rushed to my suitcase. It didn't take much digging. I knew right where I'd packed the box because I'd checked on it every day since to make sure it hadn't disappeared. I came back to Vayl, who looked like a male model the way he sat in front of his sleeping tent, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent at the knee so it could prop up his arm. I said, "God, you're gorgeous. Have I ever told you that? Don't let it go to your head. Egotistical vampires are the worst. Here." I shoved the box into his free hand. "This is for you." Which was such a stupid thing to say, but I was suddenly, incredibly nervous. I sat on my knees in front of him, trying not to twirl my curls nervously as he unwrapped the classy blue paper and pulled out the black velvet box. When he opened it he went all Vampere on me and I couldn't tell at all what he was thinking behind his still-as-death features. So I began to babble. "You said I could give you a ring. Remember? In Marrakech? So I asked Sterling to make me one for you, to sort of match Cirilai, which is why it's gold. I went for a semi-plain band because you don't seem the gemmy type to me. I mean, when I met you, you were wearing Cirilai around your neck, so... did I guess right?" When he didn't answer I rushed on. "The runes on both sides are, well, he wouldn't explain exactly how he did it. But my blood is in there. Not literally. That seemed a little too Angelina Jolie/Billy Bob Thornton–esque to me. But it was part of the spell that burned the runes into the band, inside and out, see? Which was how he said that some of my essence melded with the ring. When you wear it I'll be literally wrapped around you. Does that make sense to you? Are you ever going to speak, or am I just going to keep yapping like one of those annoying diva dogs? Vayl?" By now my voice had risen about three octaves, Stewie Griffin style. When he finally looked up, Vayl's eyes had gone the honey gold I associated with his deepest feelings for me. The amber flecks mixed with green sparks to steal my breath, so that for a second I felt that time had stopped, and nothing existed beyond the love showering me from those wide, wondering eyes. "I have never before held such a treasure," he said, his voice so low I had to lean forward to make sure I didn't miss a word. I sighed and felt the lurch as my world decided to keep spinning. "That was such the right thing to say." I took the ring from his square-tipped fingers and slipped it onto his left hand, watching his face as he registered the fact that I'd mimicked the same moves a bride would've made. He watched the ring slide over his knuckle and snug into the space just above his palm, made a fist to assure himself it fit well, then looked up at me again. "You have made me a gloriously happy man today, my _pretera_." I leaned forward and kissed him, tasting him fully, the way he'd taught me to, breathing in his scent, his maleness, his rising desire. I murmured, "That's my job, you know. The assassin thing is just a sideline." "But you do it so well." He ran his lips down the side of my neck and I shivered. But I'd learned a few tricks since our first encounter, and when I slid the tip of my tongue down the edge of his ear he grabbed me with both hands, pulling me forward until I was straddling his lap. "I do other things well too," I pointed out, just in case he hadn't noticed, as I feathered a dozen kisses down the line of his jaw. "Ung." Oh baby, what can be better for the ego than rendering your mega-experienced Vampere lover speechless? I felt like I'd just gained a bra size and learned how to walk in stilettos without appearing bowlegged all in one swoop! And then? Just because I wanted a little icing on the cake, I said, "We should go. I'm sure they're waiting on us. Vayl!" He'd wrapped both arms around me and swung me to the floor, managing to land on top without bruising either of us. I kinda wanted to see the instant replay, but he already had his lips buried between my breasts, who I guess he thought should hear the news first. "Our crew can wait. You just gave me the best gift I have ever received in my _extremely_ long life. I must thank you appropriately. Like this." He did something with his lips that made me giggle uncontrollably. "Vayl! What did you—okay, you can totally do that again." Which, thankfully, he did. # CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO _Sunday, June 17, 7:00 p.m_. We met the rest of our crew in Raoul's room an hour after sundown. I don't know if it was kindness to us or reluctance to start the last leg of the mission that had kept them from pounding on our door, but they'd left us alone, allowing us to join them when we finally decided we were ready to go. We were pretty crowded in there, with Bergman and Cole sitting crosslegged on one bed while Raoul took up most of the other, though Astral had sprawled out beside him with her legs stretched in either direction as if she'd suddenly gone boneless. Aaron took up the single chair by the rickety old table. Each crew member held a double-edged blade that he was buffing to a shine that would send arcs of pain through your eyeballs similar to a camera flash if you looked at it just wrong. Astral peered at us from her perch for a moment, then she said, "The devil's in the detailsssss," drawing the S out so that she sounded like a hissing snake. Bergman looked up apologetically. "She's stopped running random videos, but I can't figure out yet where the funky audio links are coming from. The wiring's pretty intricate, and my best diagnostics equipment is in my lab." I nodded. "It's okay. We should let her talk." Especially since I suspected she was trying to help. I sat down beside her and patted my lap. She took my meaning and hopped on, putting her paws on my chest so she could whisper into my ear, "Hello." "You've got the hell right," I murmured back to her. Vayl had moved over to stand by Aaron. "What is this, a cleanser?" he asked, pointing to the goop that wetted his son's rag. Aaron glanced up. "Raoul says it has powerful properties of its own. Here it just looks like albino Turtle Wax. Down there it'll make the weapon feel a little lighter so it'll move through the air—and other things—cleaner. And then there's the writing." He pointed to an ancient script that had been carved into the blade. "Raoul says it's Hebrew." Cole said, "Raoul's right. I've only been able to read a few words because I just started learning the language. But it seems to me like these swords are loaded for bear. I wouldn't be surprised if they grew legs and a tail and carried you down to the gate on their pommels like some sort of sword/horse breed known only to Disney cartoonists and Eldhayr fanatics like Raoul over here." "I am not a fanatic!" Raoul replied, pretty quickly and kinda loud for somebody who shouldn't care what a bunch of Earth-dwellers thought. "Well, you are wearing a uniform," Aaron said. Bergman piped up. "And a couple of hours ago you freely admitted to liking Kool-Aid." I grinned at my little buddy, who was not only developing some pure brass cojones, but a stellar sense of humor to match. Raoul thundered, "I am not some sort of cultist!" just as Cassandra threw open the door. "Of course you are, Raoul," she said cheerfully. "And we love you for it. Everyone should be so passionately committed to one thing that they have no other life whatsoever, at least for a while." While Raoul tried to figure out exactly what she meant, she came over to me and scratched Astral under the chin. The cat's eyes closed and she began her mechanical imitation of a purr. Geez, could Bergman pull off the robotics or what? I said, "I thought you were going to be closeted with the infomercial here all day long." I nodded to the cat on my shoulder. Cassandra cocked her head at us. Something seemed different to me. I stepped back to try to figure it out. Was she actually dancing in place? Yeah, her ruffled yellow skirt was definitely swaying back and forth in time with some rhythm that also occasionally sent her shoulders bobbing and the beads on her freshly cleaned and patched purse clicking. "Cassandra? Are you all right?" I asked. Then I saw Dave grinning in the hall behind her and knew it couldn't be all that bad. "More than that," she said. "But really it's no thanks to your cat. I think we need to upgrade her databases or something. She had no information about hell's prophets anywhere in them." "Well, of course not. I don't think anybody on Earth has ever even seen one and lived to tell about it. The Great Taker seems to keep them even more secret than Apple does their next-generation gadgets." "True," Cassandra allowed. "But they have been felt. I've even had a glimpse or two." Her mood quickly dropped off. "It's like rubbing up against a wall of slime. But once you get past the ick factor, you can manipulate them." Everybody in the room sat a little straighter as she explained. "These prophets who've been trailing Jaz and Vayl know they're coming. They even think they know by which gate. See, they're tapping the future, the same way a vintner taps a keg. Shoving their psyches into the fabric of time and forcing its juices to reveal pictures of what is to come. But they're bound by the same laws as I am." "Meaning what?" Dave asked. "Meaning they need something of Jaz's or Vayl's to drive that spigot in correctly. Preferably something they can touch. If we gave them something new, they'd be ecstatic. They'd feel like they had an even better feel for where you'll be going and when you'll get there, so they can set up an ambush and drive you right into it." She paused, grinning at Vayl. "After you snatch Hanzi, of course." He nodded at her, giving silent thanks for her optimism. Raoul was rubbing his forehead. "And how do we turn that to our favor?" "We feed the wrong story into the item. Well." She looked at the floor bashfully. "Actually I would do that. It takes pretty immense psychic power to pull that off and, since most of you know how long I've been around by now, I think I should volunteer." "Now, wait a minute," said Dave. "I may not know a lot about what you do, but I know it takes energy, sometimes so much that you're exhausted by the end of the day. How are you supposed to pull off something this big without hurting yourself and the baby?" She nodded. "I've already thought of that. I need your energy. All of you," she added, looking around the room. "I need to feed off it so this transfer doesn't kill me or..." She reached out to Dave, who grasped her hand in both of his, bowed over it, and pretended not to cry. "You are going to need a personal item of ours as well, correct?" asked Vayl. Cassandra said, "Yes, like a piece of jewelry." She looked at me hopefully and I realized almost instantly what she wanted. _Which is fine_ , I told myself. _It's not like I didn't know this day would come_. But it was hard, it hurt to pull the ring Matt had put so much thought into, the one he'd slipped on my finger the night he'd asked me to marry him and I'd said yes, it was so much tougher than I'd imagined to lay it in Cassandra's hand and say, "Here. This has been with me through the best and worst times of my life. It should work." She closed her fingers around it and smiled gently. "It's for the good of the Trust," she said. "Yes," Vayl's agreeable voice sounded booming next to my whisper. I stared around the room with its rotting bedspread, peeling wallpaper, and chipped dressers, feeling the loss, waiting for the moment when it would be okay again. Then Jack was there, shoving his nose into the backs of my calves, which was his way of saying he'd had enough snacks for one day, it was time for dinner. _And oh, by the way? I love you, Jaz_. I knelt down. _I love you too, buddy. And we both love Vayl, who's waiting as patiently as he can. But, look at him. He's terrified that Hanzi will die in that wreck just like Dave foresaw. Isn't it about time we shoved that monkey off his back?_ I looked around the room. "Thanks for making such great preparations, guys. It looks like you'll be set when we get back." Sudden silence as my friends faced the fact that we might not return. Even Aaron managed to look concerned. I took Vayl's hand. "There's no room in here," I said. Then I smiled, my eyes twinkling up into his as I said, "We have a lot of luck with showers. Let's try in there." His lips quirking, he said, "I bow to your vast experience in this area," and followed me into the room, which was covered with faded pink tile, its grout so dingy that it almost looked black. Since he hadn't been told to stay, Jack followed us, watching with interest as I slid the ivory shower curtain to one side and then leaned against the sink. Vayl buried one hand in the scruff of Jack's neck fur as I thought about summoning the door, just like I had in Brude's dungeon. Only this time I considered it more like a phone call to a dear old friend. _Come on, girl. Pick up the line_. The portal shimmered into being inside the tub like it had always been there, but I'd only now gained the visual acuity to see it. Framed by blue-and-orange flames, it stood at ceiling height and took up the entire length of the tub. It was the biggest door I'd seen, discounting the one I'd called to transport Aaron Senior's cell. I leaned over, placing one hand on the tub's edge, keeping the other firmly on the comforting reality of Jack. "I know who you are," I whispered. The flames danced merrily. "You and Raoul," I went on. "You're the only beings who've ever really seen my soul. The fact that neither of you ran screaming—I appreciate that." Another leap and twirl of flame. I began to associate it with joyous laughter. "I understand now that you were helping me before, when you chose a familiar battleground where I could fight the Magistrate with sort of a home-field advantage. And when you appeared in Brude's territory so we could escape—that couldn't have been easy or safe for you. Now I'm ready for that favor I was telling you about before." As I spoke the flames banked and rose, as if every thought and breath of the creature who appeared to us all as a plane portal was communicated through that movement. When I felt she understood, I motioned for Vayl to come forward beside me. I whispered, "She's willing to help." "She?" "Um, yeah. I think you'd call her, like, a guardian angel. Only she's more about movement than destination, so there's probably a neutral word that works better. It's just that I don't know her language so I couldn't tell you what it is. My Sensitivity is wide open since you took my blood, so I'm feeling her pretty strongly. I can tell you she was once a spectacular human being. But she hasn't had a body like we know them for thousands of years." "What is she going to do?" Vayl asked. "Jump us to Spain. Pull us back." "Why?" I shrugged. "As near as I can tell? It's who she is. All I had to do was stop limiting her, start seeing her possibilities, and now infinite travel destinations are open to us." His eyes began to glow. "We could go anywhere. Safe from your people and mine." I nodded. "But we could come back to visit. Because my family is still mine. And I won't abandon them." "Nor I." "Speaking of which." I motioned to the portal. "Let's go get that crazy kid of yours." Vayl's smile lit up my entire heart. "Indeed." He took my hand, I grabbed Jack's collar, and together we stepped into the hotel tub, through my guardian's doorway, into the loudest damn arena I'd crashed since Dave and I had sneaked into the monster truck rally during our junior year of high school and nearly gotten thrown out when we'd found one idling backstage and decided to take it for a spin. Literally. Lucky for us we're really fast runners. # CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE _Sunday, June 17, 7:15 p.m_. I'll give this to my portal, she had a sense of humor. She'd set us down at the back of a temporarily fenced-in tract of watereddown dirt that looked like it was normally used as a range for long-distance target practice. Near the horizon I could see the hulks of bombed tanks and trucks. Closer to hand, set in a semicircle around the fence, mobile spectator stands had been erected. In them GIs and their families cheered on the stuntmen who were currently putting on an engine-revving, tire-spinning show for them in the cool of the Andalusian evening. At the moment three bright yellow racing-striped cars were taking turns running up to a ramp and hitting it with their front and back wheels, which levered them up into the air. Then they competed to see how long they could run around the ring before falling back to their natural state. "Your son is a nutbag," I murmured to Vayl. "Hanzi always was the adventurous one," he replied. "Uh-huh. So how do we find him before—Oh, I see." Lined up down the middle of the track were five semi trucks with their trailers attached. A ramp led up to the first one and another led down from the last. Hanzi must have intended to jump these, probably at the end of the show, since the hoops at the tops of the ramps looked flammable and it would, no doubt, promise to be the team's most spectacular stunt. "Well, I guess we know which truck Dave saw Hanzi slamming into now," I said. "What if I drove off in the last one?" Vayl asked. "Hanzi could hardly do the stunt then." "Do you remember how to hotwire a car?" I asked. "All right, then, you do it. But I am coming with you." "Of course. Who else is going to make me invisible to all those yelling soldiers?" So Vayl raised his powers, camouflaging us both so successfully that only our footprints in the dirt showed signs of our passage. We carefully walked up to the last truck in line. I eased open the door. And then carefully shut it again. "We're outta here," I said, grabbing Vayl by the arm and pulling him backward. "What happened?" I grimaced with effort, yanking desperately and having no luck in budging my _sverhamin_ whatsoever. "The truck is rigged with explosives. I'm assuming it's supposed to blow during Hanzi's big performance. I imagine that's what he's supposed to see right before we grab him." "Who would want to kill my son?" "It's a military base, Vayl. Who wouldn't want to kill an American stunt crew on an American base in Spain?" "Point taken." The sound of a motorcycle revving turned our attention to the dirt oval at the edge of which the stands had been set. The crowd went wild as Hanzi, dressed just as Dave had described in black riding leathers and a tinted helmet, came tearing into the arena, popping such a big wheelie I was amazed he didn't flip completely over. I elbowed Vayl and pointed. At the edge of one of the spectator stands stood a group of five men dressed in private's uniforms. They wouldn't have looked so out of place to the casual observer. It was just that I'd gotten demonic vibes from them in such strong waves that I figured they'd been sent in hungry. I suddenly doubted that much of Hanzi's soul was meant to make it to the pit intact. I directed my attention back to the rider. Once he'd completed his circuit of the crowd he came back, this time balancing on the back of the bike like it was a circus pony. In the meantime, two stagehands had lit the rings at the tops of the ramps. "Vayl. We're out of time." He was staring hard at the rider whose soul had once inhabited his son's body. "Look at the bomb again," he told me. "Does it have a timer?" I bit my lip to keep the obscenities from spilling over my lips as I eased the door open and took more time to study the future Dave had foreseen for Hanzi. "No," I said finally. "Somebody in this crowd is holding the detonator." "Cassandra?" he suggested. "No, Dave would never be okay with that," I said, trying to imagine her pressing her hand to all that C4 in order to get a vision of the culprit, if we'd even had that kind of time. Besides. "Remember, Hanzi's got to see the explosion. I figure we have to grab him close to the edge of the jump." "I agree," said Vayl. "Okay then, let's grab ourselves a couple of motorcycles." Here's the thing about being willing to do anything for the love of your life. It turns out—you really will do anything. While Hanzi continued to wow the crowd with his way-cool bike tricks, I ran to the trailer parked at the side of the track, Vayl galloping smoothly at my side. We knocked out a couple of perfectly innocent guys who would wake without ever knowing a skinny redheaded chick and a brooding vampire had punched them so hard their brains shut down for a few seconds. And then we stole their precious vehicles. Sometimes we just suck. We drove back to where we'd left Jack, who jumped onto the front of my bike like he'd been riding since puppyhood. "Hold on, boy," I told him. "We're going airborne." He tilted his head up so the air could brush back his fur, then he looked straight up so he could see me over the top of his head. And he grinned. "You are truly the best dog ever," I told him fondly as we revved our engines. "Time?" Vayl yelled over our noise. "Yeah!" I shouted. He nodded and we drove, hard, to where Hanzi had now decided the only way the crowd could be happier was to see him drive on a tightrope made especially for cycles. Riding twenty feet off the ground on a modified rope with no net made Hanzi seem especially suited for one of the straitjackets I'd seen displayed recently in the Museum of Torture in Prague. Then I had no more time for thought. Hanzi had made it across. Driven down the tightrope ramp and gunned it for the final stunt. The flaming hoops had been lit. We were driving to catch up and the crowd was screaming wildly, thinking it was all set up for them, a surprise three-cycle jump over a damn long distance. "Hanzi!" Vayl bellowed. I yelled, "Vayl! That's not his name now!" Ten more seconds and we'd caught up to the stunt driver. Who looked from Vayl to me and back again with surprise so immense we could feel it, we could even see it despite the tinted visor. "Change of plan, kiddo!" I yelled. "What?" "Aim for the big door in the sky!" "What?" Vayl put every ounce of hypnotic power in his voice when he bellowed, "Aim for the big door in the sky!" Now we'd rounded the curve and I could see the soul-rippers who'd been sent to fetch Hanzi running toward us. They, at least, had figured out that all was not copacetic in Andalusia this fine evening. But, stuck in human form, they couldn't make their little legs pump any harder than was standard, and it was clear they'd never catch up to us in time to stop the bullet train we'd set in motion. We accompanied Hanzi back to the starting point of the run, gunned our engines, and nailed our throttles, pushing the motorcycles hard toward the ramp. As we rushed toward the temporary wooden structure, which had only been made to hold the weight of a single rider, I prayed that the builders had supported it a little extra for today's stunt, and then I concentrated on my newest friend, my portal to anywhere. Sitting in front of me, his fur flying back from his face and chest, his tongue hanging free like a thick pink necklace, Jack barked joyfully as the doorway appeared in the air just ahead of us. But shit! The flaming hoop wasn't big enough for all three of us! I glanced at Vayl. "One at a time!" he yelled. We quickly formed a line, with Hanzi in the lead, him in the middle, and Jack and me following. Hanzi leaped first, taking to the air like a rocket, the motorcycle falling away from his body slightly as gravity did its deed. He made it through the natural flames of his crew's hoop, and my portal's flames had just begun to reach out to him when the semi exploded. He looked down, panicking as the world beneath him vanished in a ball of flame and flying metal. An instant later he'd disappeared through the portal. Vayl, already airborne, twisted as the force of the explosion hit his cycle. He controlled it masterfully, flying through the door just before a twisted hunk of door flew past the back of his head. The concussion flipped Jack and me in a complete circle, making the crowd yell with excitement at what they assumed was our amazing trick as I struggled to keep the machine from tumbling sideways in the air and Jack scrabbled to stay on board, his nails scoring the gas tank as he pushed back into me. I wrapped my left arm around him, praying that I was strong enough to keep the handlebars straight with one arm when it came time to land the sucker, as we punched through the door. He yelped and I whispered stupid, soothing remarks into his flat-backed ears like, "When we get home I'll buy you that new Frisbee you've been eyeing. And I'll never offer you another leftover taco again. Just hang on, okay?" As we flew through my portal I realized it had led us right back to The Stopover's crossroads. Only we were shockingly close to the goat track, flying much lower than expected to the pitted road, which was more dirt than gravel, not to mention the towering trees beside it. We were so close to landing I had no time to prepare for impact. Which was nice in a way. At least I didn't have to worry about whether it would hurt more to break my neck on the road or crush my skull against a tree trunk. "Shit!" I tightened my arm around Jack. Made sure the other was strong on the handlebars but ready to bend if adjustments were necessary. I tightened my thighs around the cycle and leaned forward, pressing against Jack to give him more security when we dropped. And it came so fast. Suddenly our wheels were on the ground. We were going too fast, I knew that, but for a couple of seconds I still thought we were going to make it. As I began to brake, out of the corner of my eye I noticed that Vayl and Hanzi had pulled off to the side and leaned their cycles against a couple of beeches, like they'd decided to have a little picnic and enjoy the scenery. Something about the kid seemed off, even in that brief a glance, but by then my hands were too full to figure out what it was. I'd hit a trench, probably dug by a wagon wheel after the last big rain, and my speed, combined with the fact that I only had one arm to maneuver with, wouldn't allow me to ride through it smoothly. The wheel tracked sideways just enough to catch and throw the entire bike off balance. I tried to pull it back, but the handlebar torqued out of my palm like it had been pinched and twisted by a bulldozer. I felt the roll begin and automatically relaxed. Wishing I could advise Jack to do the same, I grabbed him around the middle with both arms. "Sorry, sweetie. This is gonna hurt." They teach you all kinds of skills in spy school. How to shoot a terrorist through the eyeball at five hundred yards. How to withstand hours of torture. Even how to wreck a motorcycle. Resistance, as they often say, is futile. Seize up and you tend to bruise and break a lot more necessary parts. This is why alcoholics can fall down so many flights of stairs and total so many cars without sustaining much more than a scratch. It's all in the muscle relaxant. Which was why all I did was make sure we were headed down the road rather than into trees before I let the momentum spin me into the ground and roll me like a doughnut in powdered sugar. My only concern was Jack, folding his legs under my body so they wouldn't break, cupping his head close to mine so it wouldn't flail during the fall. Which lasted forever. We hurtled across the scarred and granite-strewn trail like a couple of off-road racers who've lost their taste for machinery. As our course took us closer to the shoulder, I heard Jack yelp, his pain shooting through me like it was my own. I barely felt the rock that sliced such a gash in my thigh Raoul later told me it was a miracle my bone held firm. Finally we stopped. I knelt over Jack, the blood from my wound spilling down my leg as I checked him over. He lay panting, his eyes half-closed, an arm-long branch that had fallen from one of the beeches protruding from his side. "Vayl!" I yelled without looking up. "Vayl!" He was there before I could call again, crouching beside me, gently pulling back the fur beside the wound, trying to see how deep the stick had stabbed into our boy. When he looked at me with troubled eyes I began to cry. "Oh, no. Oh, no you don't!" I stumbled to my feet, pointing a shaking finger at him. "We saved your fucking son!" I shoved my finger at Hanzi, who'd taken off his helmet to reveal a mane of shoulder-length hair and the features of a beautiful young—woman? Well, at this moment I didn't give a shit if she was a Smurf! I was going to get my way, goddammit! I said, "You pick up my dog, and you take him into that hotel, and you figure out how to make him better! Or by fuck I will never, ever forgive you!" I glared at the girl for good measure. "Or you!" I roared. I didn't mean it. Vayl told me later that he knew that, and I hoped he was telling the truth. But just then my heart was breaking in two, and this heart of mine... it just doesn't have that much flexibility left in it. He said, "Jasmine. He needs your peace now, and your love. Shall we get him to a softer bed?" I nodded wordlessly and clutched my arms around my waist as Vayl lifted my 120-pound malamute like he weighed nothing, carrying him back to our room as gently as if he were his own child. "I'm sorry," I whispered the moment he put Jack on the bed. "I didn't mean... I shouldn't have said—" "Hush," Vayl told me, turning and taking me into his arms. "Raoul will know what to do. You should get him." So I ran for my Spirit Guide, who showed such concern that I forgave him every petty irritation I had ever felt or would ever experience about him again. "What happened?" asked Cole, running close behind us as we headed for the sickroom. As I explained, Bergman, David, Cassandra, and Aaron strained to hear, asking inane questions that I either ignored or snapped answers to until Cole put a hand to my shoulder and said, "Dude. Imagine sitting in a cramped hotel room wondering if your best friend, your sister, is going to die tonight. And then imagine her coming back hysterical talking about her halfdead dog and Vayl's son who's actually his daughter. Can't you cut us some slack?" As Raoul entered my room I turned in the doorway, my eyes gathering in the friends who had saved my life in so many ways. And Aaron, who at least hadn't done anything to make it worse in the past few hours. I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. Yeah, we saved Hanzi. Who isn't a boy anymore. Which is so weird, but neither of us have had any time to deal, because on the way back through the portal I wrecked my motorcycle—" "Where did you get a motorcycle?" asked Aaron in a voice so lost and confused that I started back at the beginning, speaking as slowly as I could bear considering I wanted to burst back into my room and, what? Provide miraculous medical assistance when I, in fact, knew zilch about veterinary care? In the end it was Cole who opened the door and ushered me through. Raoul was leaning over the bed. Vayl stood beside him. The girl, his beautiful new daughter, sat in the chair by the window, her feet propped up on the table... _smoking a cigar_. I stomped up to her, tore the tobacco from her hands, ignoring her angry, "Hey!" since it just made me want to slam her against the wall even harder. I handed the foul item to Cole, who proceeded to flush it down the toilet, and said, "If you ever smoke around me or mine again I will choke you to death. Do we understand each other?" She started to laugh. Then she looked around the room and realized nobody else was amused. "What the hell?" she asked. Cole answered her. "That explosion that just nearly blew you to bits? Demon-laid. Because, guess what? You're a flaming jerkoff and the world is tired of your crap. But I wouldn't feel relieved to have escaped the firestorm just yet. Because you've been rescued by two of the baddest assassins on earth. And one of them"—he pointed to me—"is highly pissed. Which means she'd feel so much better if she could kill something." He pointed to her. "If I were you, I'd spend the next few hours making sure that something wasn't me." She showed at least some of her father's brilliance by settling back into her chair. So I turned to check on my dog. "Raoul?" I asked as I moved to stand between him and Vayl. They'd covered the wound with rags torn from one of Vayl's shirts. "How is he?" Raoul said, "He feels very sick to me. I think we need to get him some help, quickly." He turned to Bergman. "You have access to all kinds of technology, right?" Bergman nodded, pulling his personal computer out of his shirt pocket expectantly. "Find us a veterinarian and get him here as quickly as possible." He glanced at me and then back at Miles. "I know this sounds strange, but this may be the most important thing you have ever done for Jasmine in your life." I felt tears begin to roll down my face as Miles said, "I'm on it," and wheeled out of the room. I leaned over Jack, rubbing my face against the fur of his cheek, listening to him pant and, every fifteen seconds or so, moan softly into my ear. "It'll be all right, buddy. I'm right here. I'll be right here." "But, Jaz," Raoul said, as he knelt beside me. "You can't stay. You have to go now. You gave me your word." I turned to look at my Spirit Guide, his face blurring in and out of focus as the tears continued to roll down my cheeks. And in that moment, I didn't hate him. Because I'd made my choice long ago. But I knew, now, that I needed to turn another corner. That I couldn't keep leaving people I loved like this. Jack was the final straw. He didn't understand, wouldn't know why his Jaz was deserting him when he needed her gentle touch and loving voice the most. But the rest of them, they'd known. When Bergman had been bleeding onto the bricks in Marrakech, telling me to go and kill werewolves, he'd understood. He hadn't complained, and yet he should've. When Evie had been nearly ready to give birth, and she needed me there because our mom and Granny were dead, she'd understood that I had a job to do. She hadn't complained about all my traveling. But she should've. Because family, friends, the people I adored who'd pulled me through the nightmare days and nights of my life... they mattered more even than the monsters I'd destroyed to protect them. And it was time to show them that. The shit of it was, I could never do that, I'd die before I had the chance, if I didn't leave my poor Jack one last time. Raoul said, "Jaz? What is it?" "This is the end," I whispered. "I'm done fighting after Brude is vanquished. Do you understand?" He nodded gravely. "Yes. I do." Cole came forward, tapping Raoul frantically on the shoulder. "Will she die, then? Like, there are no instant dropsies in the contract, are there?" "No. She's earned her right to live in peace." Vayl ran his hand down my arm and pulled me to my feet. "Then it is time. Come, Raoul. Before we change our minds. Let us gather our weapons and challenge the gates of hell." # CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR _Sunday, June 17, 7:30 p.m_. Suiting up for hell took less time than expected. Holy water on the right wrist. Gauntlet to protect against biting creatures on the left. Raoul's specially crafted sword in its sheath on my back. Bolo in the right pocket. Grief in its shoulder holster despite the fact that I only carried it for reassurance. Bullets wouldn't do harm in the netherworld. Vayl paid a visit to Miles to recover his cane and check on his progress. He'd found a good veterinarian twenty miles away and had already left to pick him up. There was no question in my mind that he would be coming back with him. Raoul returned from his room carrying his sword and a shield that covered most of his left arm. He also carried his dagger, which he offered to the girl, along with an introduction that Cole, David, and Cassandra listened to with rapt attention. "My name is Raoul," he said, almost shyly. "You are somewhat famous among my kind. Do you still call yourself Lotus?" "Yup," she answered, giving him as much of a going over as the weapon she took from his hand. "Why am I so famous?" she asked. "Are your people into stunt shows?" "You possess immense skills," he said. She snorted. "You could say that." She spun the dagger in her hand and threw it across the room. It stuck into the head of the portrait Sanji, the innkeeper, had so carefully hung on the wall. Then she licked her lips, winked at him, and leaned over so far Raoul couldn't help but notice her boobs practically springing from her dark blue T-shirt. "I have all kinds of skills." Raoul's expression never changed. "You also hate yourself more than any other woman I have ever known." She sat back so fast it was like he'd slapped her. I said, "Where we're going, you're gonna want that dagger." I nodded to the weapon and then looked at her hard, letting her know she'd better get her ass out of the chair before it came to a confrontation. Lotus tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a row of silver earrings, including one that looked like a straight pin had been shoved through the ear's top curve in two separate places. Ugh. Hey, I've got a belly ring. My best friend has more earrings than a fully stocked Claire's. But that one just looked like she'd taken a bad fall into a nest of nail guns. Which was why it was an effort not to shudder with sympathy pains as I studied her eyes. They were such a vivid blue that I hoped they didn't change the way Vayl's did. It would be a shame to see that color fade. Her heart-shaped face escaped being described as cute only because of the way her jaw jutted when she talked, like she was warning you ahead of time you'd have to be tough to deal with her. Her eyes crawled to Raoul's as she got up and rescued his dagger. On the way back to her chair Lotus said slowly, "This vampire says he's connected with me. Him and the marshmallow over there." She gestured carelessly toward Aaron, who'd backed into a corner and made us all forget he was there. Quite a trick, I suddenly realized. How many times had he done that when I wasn't looking? I didn't have time to ponder because she'd gone on. "What's that about? I've never met them before." "But you have," Vayl said, unable to hold himself back any longer. "We are your family, from the time you were born to me as a baby boy named Hanzi in a beautiful wooded area where we had camped just outside of Bucharest." He pointed to Aaron. "This man was your little brother then. We called him Badu." Aaron nodded awkwardly. His expression said, _Hello, sister who used to be my brother. You are one scary dudette. Do not approach without warning me at least five minutes in advance_. Lotus laughed. "Well, I'll be damned. Talk about the weirdest family reunion ever." She looked up at Vayl. "You do realize I don't believe a word of this shit, right? I mean, I'm a stunt driver. I spend most of my time traveling around the world doing motorcycle tricks. And when that gets boring, I find... other ways... to fill my time. Most of them illegal. Or, at least, immoral. It's how I roll." Vayl shook his head. "We were always so different, you and I. Never understanding one another, never able to come to a meeting of the minds. Now I believe I see why. And I wish it were not so." He crouched before her, his expression full of the earnest desire of a daddy trying to figure out what his little girl really wants for Christmas. "I wish to know you better. Is that all right?" She sat back, her cheeks hollowing like she'd just discovered a lemon seed stuck in her molar. Then she said, "Nope. I'm outta here." She lunged to her feet only to find Raoul's blade at her throat. "No, you aren't," he said, his voice rimmed with the thunder that had often brought me to the edge of consciousness. "Your destiny has lost patience with you, and selfish pride is now a choice with consequences you must face. You will join us. Now." Finally, something other than sarcastic prickishness crossed that lovely face. Was it bad that I enjoyed seeing real fear? I glanced at Vayl and was reassured that he felt the same. Sometimes that's the sign—that inside the actor there's still a real soul that can be saved. We had to hope it was true for Vayl's firstborn. She whispered, "Join you? Where?" Raoul said, "The demons who tried to kill you today meant to land you in hell. We do too. It's up to you to decide whether or not you stay there." He nodded to me. I leaned over Jack and whispered in his ear. "Okay buddy, if you ever understood anything I said, now's the time. I have to go. It's only so I can come back for good. So rest easy. Miles is getting a doctor to make you better and I'm coming back as soon as I can." I stroked his head just like he liked it. "Love you, poopmeister." Then I turned and strode into the bathroom, not looking back because if I did, no way would I be able to take another step away from my family and toward the potential end of my life. I was leaning on the tub, waiting for the portal to appear, listening to Raoul, Vayl, and Lotus breathe behind me. I knew the rest of my crew was huddled in the doorway, with the exception of Miles—and Astral, of course. She had decided to sit between my feet. I couldn't speak, not to any of them. The moment was too big, the potential for disaster too real. What do you say to people you will probably never see again? I had no words. Then Dave cleared his throat. "We were talking. Remember, before? About Kyphas and her prophets and how they knew you might be coming?" I nodded as Vayl said, "Yes. Cassandra thought there might be a way to set them onto a false trail." "It's too late," I muttered. Cassandra sat on the tub beside me and leaned until she could look into my eyes. "Never," she said so adamantly that I felt a little shock run through me. "I have lived forever, as far as I'm concerned. I've been married and widowed and seen my children die before they were born. I've been a slave and a priestess and everything in between. And I'll tell you this, girl. It's only too late when you're dead. You"—she circled her finger at me like I was three and she was trying to make me giggle—"are still kicking." I stood up, the flames from the portal coming to life like a frame around my body. Hell's citizens suddenly appeared in my peripheral vision as they walked their endless hike of pain, and I wondered if the gate stood that close to my original landing zone, or if the portal had only opened that pathway because it was so strong in my memory from the last time I was there. With no answers to that question readily available, I asked one that could be answered: "Cassandra, what the hell does that mean?" She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and unwrapped it enough to show me that inside sat my engagement ring. Her smile, so delighted, made my lips twitch. "We did it!" she said. "It's ready!" Dave echoed her, like he'd been the one toiling over it for the past hour. "My wife is a genius! You should all bow down to her!" "Or not," Cassandra said, though her smile hinted that she kind of missed those days. "I've imbued Jaz's ring with a spell that makes all the emotions it's absorbed over time more vivid. The prophets who are looking for her will find it first." She held it up to me. "All you need to do is get somebody in hell to put it on and wander around with it while you run the other way." "Or, more practically, force them," said Dave. "I was thinking if we shove it down their throat, we probably have a good twelve hours before the prophets clear their heads." "Too risky," said Cole, leaning against the door frame and shining his clicky vamp teeth against his shirtsleeve like they were covered in jelly stains as he spoke. "Half of you could be dead before you get within ten miles of the gate." He cocked his head to one side and grinned as he set the teeth on the floor, aiming them toward Aaron, who stood just behind him and jumped satisfactorily as they came trundling toward his feet. Cole said, "I have a better idea." Before we could stop him he lunged forward, grabbed the ring from Cassandra's hand, slipped it on his pinky, and waved happily at us as he leaped through the portal, calling, "See you on the flip side!" "Shit!" I reached for him, but Vayl grabbed me before I could step through. "Cole! You son of a bitch! Don't you dare—!" But he had. And the portal had suddenly gone black. "Open it up, Raoul," I said grimly. He spoke the words that cleared the door. Cole was not on the other side. In fact, the section of hell had changed completely. Now we were viewing the oceanic part that Kyphas had landed in during our fight in Marrakech. "This isn't helping," I said, trying to keep my voice level, sticking my hands in my pockets before they punched something. Raoul inspected the portal's frame, watching how the flames jumped and what colors they turned when. He said, "Hell does not want us to know where Cole dropped. But I can contact the Eminent. We have scouts everywhere." I looked over my shoulder at Vayl. He said, "Cole made a choice. For you. Do not let it be in vain." I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to feel as if everyone I cared about was falling away from me. That next I would have to watch Raoul bleed his last drop into hell's river, or see Vayl's spirit waft away into its fiery skies. I said, "Okay. Raoul, quickly contact your guys. And then, for God's sake, let's get this over with." I felt Raoul's hand, hard on my shoulder. "Consider it done. And remember, it's a massive domain. Plenty of room for our scouts, and Cole, to sneak around in. We've got a good chance of finding him before any hellspawn do." Vayl turned to David. "You will guard our return? We may come fast and accompanied by the worst hell has to offer." Dave nodded. "I'll make sure nothing blocks this door for you." They gripped hands as Raoul began to chant and the scenery, once again, began to change. I realized the next time it landed I would be facing what could be my final destination. I looked at Lotus. She was purely fascinated by this whole exchange. Soon she'd feel differently. "We are ready then," said Vayl. "What about me?" asked Aaron. "You..." Vayl sighed. "Make sure you do not die again before I have a chance to know you better." Vayl stared at the three people he was asking to stay behind. "Please also attempt to contact Cole via the Party Line and any other contraption Bergman has left lying around his room, remembering that he adores combustible traps. We will do the same from our location. Try to find out where he has gone. Astral may be of help in that area." The cat, hearing her name for the first time in a while, perked up her ears and said, "Hello. Hell-o Hell's o-ver your shoulder." She turned and looked at me, without blinking, and added in her purring kitty voice, "Don't look over your shoulder, Jazzy, no matter what you do." The chill that had clamped to my spine now tried to climb right up into my brain and explode out the top of my head. It left me with chattering teeth and the feeling that icicles were growing inside my eyeballs. "We have to go," I whispered. The cat responded by lifting one forepaw and delicately licking it. I took that as permission, picked up the robokitty, and boogied my ass straight into hell. # CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE _Sunday, June 17, 8:00 p.m_. Here's what happens when you walk into hell without your sword drawn, with your robokitty in ass-grenade mode, and without letting your Spirit Guide go first. You get sucker punched by a pint-sized demon with skull spikes that resemble rotten bananas. I dropped the cat and doubled over. Pain shot up my chest and down my legs as I stared straight into the hellspawn's bloodshot eyes. Then I grinned. "You little shit," I said. "How could you tell I was spoiling for a fight?" I planted my fist into his face so hard that he flipped head over heels and landed on his butt in a puddle of steaming glop that smelled like burned cow manure. When he tried to scurry off I caught him by the high collar of his green sequined jumpsuit and said, "Oh no you don't. You're coming with me." I turned around to find the rest of my party had arrived and was observing the fight from a narrow path beside the field I'd fallen in. Clear of weeds, or any greenery for that matter, its stark sunblanched furrows were planted in body parts. Arms, legs, and torsos stuck out of the nuked soil like crops grown by Jeffrey Dahmer in his FFA phase. I pushed the demon toward them. Vayl caught him, holding him at arm's length like a piece of dirty laundry, and paying about as much attention to him, because Lotus had already begun to bug out on us. "What the fuck?" she demanded. "No!" she said, slapping away Vayl's arm when he tried to keep her from prancing around in circles like she badly needed to pee and nobody would tell her where the bathroom was located. "Seriously! Who _are_ you people? I mean, I'm up for adventure and all? I figured you for mega-millionares who recognized a fellow thrill-seeker when you saw one. But this?" She was screeching now, jumping in place and shaking her fists at the mutilated bodies that would never have moved in her world, but in this one _would not keep still_. Raoul strode up to her and grabbed her by the arms. "You are a brilliant young woman. Wrap your mind around this right now, Lotus. You nearly died today. You probably will anyway, but at least now the choice is yours. This"—he gestured at the ghastly landscape—"is where you were going to end up. Satan's field was your final destination because of how you chose to live life above." She was looking around, her eyes wide and terrified. But seeing now, understanding as Raoul spoke. The greenish tinge to her face made me think he maybe shouldn't be standing right in front of her, though. He went on. "Vayl and Jasmine made a deal for your life. And this is it. You must walk through hell with us. The choices you make here will determine your future." His arm swept in a full circle, making her see every horror around her. "You can still save yourself. As Cassandra said before, it's never too late." He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. I only heard because I had the Party Line tapped into mine. Unfortunately, so did Vayl. His eyes dropped to the ground as he heard my Spirit Guide tell his daughter, "Personally, I think you're too high on adrenaline and too afraid to see what's under the stunt costume to bother. Take my word for it. You'll be planted in this field before Jasmine takes her first hit at the gate." Leaving Lotus to stew on that piece of news, he strode forward and swept Astral into one arm. "Are we moving yet?" he asked. "Not in a straight line," said Vayl. He motioned to the hellspawn, who was putting up a little fight, trying to kick Vayl in the shins when he wasn't digging in his heels. He also made an attempt to head-butt Vayl, which would've been painful had one of those spikes impaled him, because they looked to be leaking some sort of greenish acid. Vayl lifted his adversary completely off the ground. "I am sure Jasmine thought you might be helpful to us. Certainly newcomers to hell's shores need all the friends they can get. However, I find you quite rude." The demon shoved his head toward Vayl's thigh like some sort of miniature bull. But the Vampere are particular about etiquette, and they react violently to being gored. Which was partially why Vayl jerked the demon's head backward and buried his fangs in its neck. He drank deeply, spat on the ground, leaving a tiny, smoking crater as he murmured, "Agh, it is like drinking vinegar." But I understood his motives when his reddish black eyes bored into mine and he confessed, "I have missed the powers I lost, my Jasmine. Would you begrudge me this chance to regain something of what was taken from me?" I stared at him for a moment, making myself truly see him. His fangs and lips crimson with blood. His eyes bright and hungry, hands gripping his prey so tightly that the demon showed no more signs of resistance than the occasional twitch. This was the same creature who had chased me merrily through his house a few days before, shucking clothes and trading kisses until neither one of us could quite see straight. And I realized I loved them both equally. I said, "Take what you need." He drank again, deeply, like a desert hiker who's just realized he doesn't need to ration his water anymore. And then he snapped the demon's neck like a chicken bone. Raoul was already pulling a garbage bag out of one of his jacket pockets. "Here," he said, "put the body in this. We may need it later." I cleared my throat as Vayl followed his suggestion and he closed the top of the bag with a cheerful red-and-white-striped twist tie. "Do you always carry garbage bags for this reason?" I asked Raoul. "Yes," he said matter-of-factly. "Almost everything here feeds on flesh. It's nice to have extra around so your skin isn't the first target the monsters go for." "Oh." Vayl flung the sack over his back and set his cane to the path, and I tried hard not to think about horror-movie Santa Claus similarities as we headed onward, Raoul leading him while Lotus followed and I pulled rear guard. Now that I'd gotten over the first shock of brawling with a demon my training kicked in. Despite the fact that my eyes wanted to jump from horror to horror, never resting until they found a friendly face to ease the pain, I saw that the trail was built on a bed of human bones mired in salted earth and red clay. The appendage fields ran as far as I could see in either direction. And each body part imprisoned a diamond-shaped, multi-hued soul that was straining, and failing, to fly free. Without a complete physical form to make it whole again, the soul battered against the body part, flailing helplessly like a tethered eagle. And above them all, just like I'd remembered, a sky so full of fire I couldn't look at it long without imagining that the whole thing was going to drop down and incinerate us all. "If we had a map, what would this particular region be called?" I asked Raoul. "You have probably heard it referred to as Limbo," he said. "It is, in fact, right outside of hell's easternmost gate, of which there are thirteen. It is a place where souls are stored until they decide what they want out of the afterlife." "That sounds a little crazy," I said. "I mean, to hear you talk before it sounded like souls could be kidnapped into hell, and that you and the other Eldhayr regularly tried to rescue them. Or that they came here because this was where they belonged." "Yes," said Raoul. "But some are here because they want it. They've done something hideous in life that they were never punished for, and they feel they deserve to be here. Those are the ones Satan admits personally." "Oh. And uh." I hesitated. Did I really want to know? Yes. Because we'd been to hell together before. And to have shared this horror once meant we had more of a stake in getting it right the second time. "What are you seeing?" I asked. He glanced around, his face more pale under his natural tan than I'd seen it in months. At first he stared at me, like he couldn't believe I'd asked. But then I could tell he understood. And he said, "It's a great clearing in the jungle. Fires have been set everywhere around it, and on them are big boiling cauldrons." I almost asked him to stop there, but I could tell he had to finish now. So I clenched my teeth together as he said, "Inside the cauldrons are the bobbing heads of those who can't decide what to do. Their eyes are rolling, Jaz. They're still, somehow, alive. It may be the worst thing I've ever seen. And I have seen so very much." I reached my hand forward past Lotus and Vayl and squeezed Raoul's hand, tightly, for just a second. And then let go. I glanced at Lotus. She'd gotten the shakes sometime during our march. After Raoul's description I didn't want to know what she saw. But I could tell, even if she'd started out in deep denial, she'd been unable to keep it up. She was seeing her future and it scared the shit out of her. We walked on. As we traveled among the undecided dead, Raoul, Vayl, Lotus, and I watched their souls fight. Some of them, I thought, really must have wanted to be free. But they couldn't get past whatever they'd done in life. They knew time must be served. Maybe even forever. But others reminded me of moths battering themselves against a porch light. It seemed to me, after a while, that all they wanted was to cause themselves pain. And I imagined that even here, outside one of the most remote of his gates, I could hear the Great Taker laughing. Only once did Lotus turn to me. Her eyes, wide with horror, begged me to make it stop. I said, "This is hell's suburb, kid. Think of what it's like inside." She whispered, "I always knew I had to be punished. I just figured—" I said, "When you were sixteen and Vayl's son, you got your brother killed. That was over two hundred years ago. How have things been since then?" She fell silent, a single tear rolling down her cheek as she turned back to the path. Finally, after forty-five minutes of watching and walking, we came to the end of the fields and the edge of the great river that surrounded Satan's domain. It had gone by lots of names over time, the most recent of which was the Moat. Sure I'd read about it. How you get across. Ways to pay the Ferryman. How the Ferryman, who also had lots of names, was one of Satan's bosom buddies, which was why he'd landed such a swank job in the first place. Fight beside a guy long enough and, yeah, you're going to get rewarded. Even in a shithole like hell. This being sort of the back way in, we didn't see him. Which meant we'd have to find our own way across water that, in some places, was rumored to be deeper than the Mariana Trench, containing whirlpools, undertows, and creatures so terrifying even catching sight of a fin or claw had been known to drive the dead mad. I said, "Looks like it's gonna be self-serve." Raoul nodded his agreement. "Just keep in mind what happens when we get to the other side." To this point I hadn't let my eyes or my conscious thought go to that spot, looming like a haunted house on the opposite bank. A gate fashioned to resemble a mastiff's head, its snarling face daring us to enter uninvited, stood closed against us, taller at its apex than a threestory building. Blood, fountains of it, dripped from a trough that ran along the top of the fence that bordered the gate, emptying out of the dog's eyes, nose, and mouth and rolling into the Moat, where it was quickly absorbed by the current. The fence itself was built to crush the spirit, its black posts sprouting razor-sharp spikes at random intervals and angles so that any thought of trying to climb them was immediately followed by images of self-crucifixion. It ran so far to either side of the gate that I couldn't see to the end of it. And, even though this had been part of the report Astral had played for us when we wanted to know more about the Rocenz, I still felt my heart drop at seeing the entrance to hell and knowing that what lay beyond it would come for me sooner or later. The worst part was that I still didn't know how to carve Brude's name on the black metal face that growled at me like it was alive. And hungry. _Get it together, Jazzy_. Granny May's warm voice had never been so welcome in my head. I saw her standing on her front porch, hands on her hips, the way she did every time I got ready to leave. Now I understood that she'd always despised those moments the same way she hated this one. But she'd get me through it, just like she'd helped me go back to a home full of raised voices and mistrust. Because I needed her to. I turned to Raoul. "I don't suppose you've got an inflatable raft tucked into a secret compartment of your belt or anything?" "No," he said. "But I have this." He pulled out his sword, banged it against the ground, and _voila_! It became a long staff that would be the envy of every one of Robin Hood's men. "Did you learn that trick from what's-her-face?" I whispered, referring to Kyphas's old habit of transforming a regular human item like a scarf into a locally made and lethally sharp weapon. He blushed. "A good idea is a good idea," he muttered. "Okay. But I don't get yours." He sighed. "And you ran track in college!" "Wait." I held up my hands. "You want us to pole-vault over this river?" "Not this stretch," he said, waving at the wide water before us. "But my scout said that it narrows radically down there." He pointed to our left. I looked at Vayl, expecting a slew of logical and valid objections. He stared at me quietly, waiting for me to see the brilliance in my Spirit Guide's plan. At which point I grabbed the pole and stomped off in the direction Raoul had pointed, suddenly, unaccountably, furious. At some point Astral had jumped from her perch on Raoul's arm, and now she trotted beside me, flicking her ears toward me as if she wanted to catch every word. "He thinks we're just going to gracefully vault over the water, like we're Olympic gymnasts or something. Can you believe that? I'm trying to save my damn mind and I don't even get the respect of a boat ride for my final mission. Because you know what's going to happen, don't you, Astral? My pole is going to get stuck in the mud. And if it doesn't sling me straight down into the waiting jaws of a sharkogator, I'll just end up stuck there, Jaz-on-a-stick, until I finally lose my grip and slowly slide down into the muck, which is probably worse than quicksand, at which point I will drown. Dumb damn Eldhayr." And yet I still strode on, because I couldn't think of a better plan, and part of me thought it'd be great fun. Especially if none of us were eaten alive. Which led to Astral's dilemma. "Can you pole-vault?" I asked my robokitty. She shook her head. "I didn't think so. Okay, I guess you'll have to ride. But if you dig in those claws, I will have them chopped off. Just remember that. Now where the—oh. I see." The bank pinched in on itself before me as if it were trying to bite into a particularly luscious piece of pie. Made, no doubt, of four and twenty blackbirds just like in that craptacular nursery rhyme my mom insisted on chanting to us right before lunch every damn day until we finally screamed at her to stop. I halted at the narrowest spot, probed the water, and found it satisfyingly shallow while I waited for the rest of our merry band to catch up with me. Vayl came to stand beside me, brushing his shoulder against mine in the way he knew would instantly soothe me. I looked up at him. "I can't tell you how much this is sucking. Brude is tap dancing across my frontal lobe like he's wearing steel-soled work boots. I have no idea if we're going to be able to open up the Rocenz, so my stomach has shrunk to the size of a walnut. And yet my intestines have shifted into full gear, so if I don't shit myself before this is all said and done it'll be a goddamn miracle." He smiled at me. "I adore you." "Likewise." "I have no idea how this will all end." "Me neither." "But we have been through other hells and survived. I believe that raises our odds somewhat astronomically. And as long as we are together, I think we can triumph over nearly anything." _Even death?_ I wanted to ask as I gazed into his eyes. And then I decided. _Damn straight! Nothing's stopped us yet. Why should I suppose hell itself could stand in our way?_ I handed him the pole. "You first, twinkletoes." "I never told you I was considered something of an athlete in my day." I looked his broad, muscular body up and down. And then took another, slower tour. My mouth had started to water. I licked my lips so the drool wouldn't escape as I said, "I'm not surprised." Another quirk of the lips to let me know he knew what I was thinking and felt I should think it some more at a later date, out loud, when he could react in a more physically pleasing manner. Then he backed away from the bank, ran at the sucker like he meant to overpower it with his bare hands, landed the pole in the middle of the water and vaulted himself to the other side without even a grunt to show that he'd exerted himself in the process. He pulled the pole out and threw it across to me. "That was a good spot I found," he called to us. "Do you think you can set it down in the same place?" "Absolutely!" Lotus was the one who'd replied. She grabbed the pole from my hand, so happy to have discovered her niche in the netherworld that she'd leaped across the river before any of us could give her a serious lecture about how she should approach this jump. Raoul caught the pole when Vayl sailed it across the next time. He tried to hand it to me but I said, "You go next. I've got to get Astral zipped into my jacket just right. Plus, with you three over there to catch, I'm pretty sure I'll have something soft to land on." With a small grin and a nod he took the leap. Leaving me and the metal cat to consider our immediate future. "You got an appropriate song ready for this one?" I asked her. She poked her head out of the top of my jacket, pulled her lips back, and said, "Metamorphosis in five, four, three, two, one." Suddenly she went flat enough to slip down and curl around my belt. "Oh, great, thanks for the vote of confidence. Now if I squish you, you're already only an inch high. Smart move, genius." Maybe it was just my imagination, but I really thought I heard a round of tinny laughter accompany me as I walked to where Vayl had begun his run. Then I gave myself ten extra yards, which put me beside an arm whose hand gently waved in the breeze caused by its captured soul. I stared at it for a second. Then my sick sense of humor got the better of me. "I'd ask you to clap for me, but I can see that's out of your grasp. Maybe if you just snapped your fingers?" When the hand slowly lifted its middle finger I began to laugh. The feeling lifted my feet into the fastest run I'd managed since a satyr named Lillyzitch had chased me through the Mall of America. I knew my speed was perfect when I hit the bank. I had my eye on just the spot Vayl had picked and Lotus and Raoul had followed. I'd aimed the pole true. Then a monster the size of a half-ton pickup rose out of the water, blocking the pole's path. "Shit!" I yelled as Lotus, Raoul, and Vayl howled my name. I rammed the pole into the hellspawn, whose slime-covered belly had rolled toward me during its ascent from the water. It punctured skin and muscle, throwing blood so high into the air that I felt the spatter blanket my skin as I flew over the top of it. I landed in the water twenty feet from shore, still holding the pole since I knew Raoul would need it as his sword later. "Change this pole into something I can use, Eldhayr!" I cried out, and the pole immediately transformed into a, well, a scarf. Damn. Didn't that guy have any imagination? I tied it around my neck and began to swim toward shore. Vayl began yelling, "Fin to your left! Swim, Jasmine, swim!" He ran to the bank, his cane sword unsheathed, as Raoul and Lotus slapped their hands on the water twenty yards to his left, trying to convince the creature they tasted better even though they were harder to catch. I put all my energy into carving my arms through the water as if it were a solid mass I could push myself through and paddling my legs like twin boat motors. "It is gaining on you!" Vayl called. "Faster now!" But I was already pulling top speed. Every muscle in my body was burning. I could sense the creature, hungry for my flesh, zeroing in on the section of meat it would tear away first. I began to wonder how bad it would hurt. Or if, maybe, my brain would be kind and send me straight into adrenaline overload and shock. I thought not. Suddenly something splashed right next to me, startling me so much that I frog-jumped at least a foot forward. It was the body of the demon who'd sucker punched me. Vayl had hurled it into the path of the water monster. I risked a look as I moved back into escape rhythm and saw a maw full of jagged white teeth open wide and then sink into the corpse floating beside me. That sight was enough to propel me into Vayl's arms. He held me tight, lifting me out of the water and pulling me so far ashore that my feet didn't hit land until we stood right next to the fence. I felt him shudder. Heard him whisper, "You are all right. Yes. You are just fine," and realized he was comforting himself as much as me. Then Raoul and Lotus were there, and Lotus was jumping up and down, slapping me on the shoulder. Raoul was hugging me so hard I couldn't breathe anymore. And Astral spoke loudly from somewhere around my belly button, announcing, "Metamorphosis in five, four, three..." "Aaahhh! I gotta get her outta my pants before they rip to shreds!" I reached inside my belt and pulled the dripping robokitty from her pole-vaulting position just as she reinflated. It felt so bizarre to be holding her, like it might feel to hold a bag of popcorn as the kernels zapped into fluffly edible nuggets of goodness. Finally I found enough breath to say, "Thanks for saving—" _What's left of my life? Let's not go there, okay?_ "Yeah. I'm good. In fact—" I smiled up at Vayl, reclaiming Cassandra's positive attitude as I said, "When we get back we should probably get a pool and throw a shark or two in it to chase us around just to make sure we're getting a good cardio workout every day." When he chuckled I knew we were back in business. He pulled me toward the gate to our right, Astral trotting between us, Raoul, and Lotus as he said, "Come. Let us finish this before we discover that hell's swimmers have grown shore legs." I didn't quite yip, but I did nod and grab his hand tightly in mine as we hustled toward our ultimate goal. I'll say this about journeys so important that old-fashioned dudes in armor called them quests. Somehow they always end too soon. Standing at the back entrance to hell, I wanted nothing more than to be a thousand miles away from it, still trying desperately to reach it. Because now that I was here, with Brude banging against the walls of my mind like his fists had transformed into ice picks while Vayl stood tall and grim beside me, reminding me of the price of failure, I'd never been so terrified in my entire life. I squeezed his hand, feeling the ring I'd given him brush against my fingers, reminding me of the fact that I finally had a future worth fighting for. I'd even allowed myself to picture it in my mind, a dazzling piece of art built on remembered pain and new hope. As I stared at Satan's bloody gate, I decided I was damned if I was going to let some megalomaniac slash my dream to ribbons. I said, "Vayl. I keep getting nosebleeds just like the mutt on this gate." He replied, "This is true." "Brude is slamming my synapses like he's found a damn drum set that he's just learning to play. And I've had it." Vayl turned me toward him. Looked deep into my eyes. And kissed me, gently, as if we had all the time in the universe. He whispered, "I suppose, then, that is a sign that it is time?" "I'm thinking so." "I love you, Jasmine." He'd said it before. A lot. And maybe someday I'd get used to the words. But, oh, how they sang off his tongue like a soul-felt melody, wrapping around my heart and pulling it so close to his that I was sure they beat with the same rhythm. I slid my hands around his waist, up his strong back, pulling his chest to mine until my breasts heaved into his. "I love you too, Vayl." I rose to my tiptoes and touched my lips to his, savoring the everlasting dance of soft skin and wet tongues as we sealed our own bargain. When I realized I'd gone breathless I dropped my heels back to earth. "What do you say we summon that cowboy?" I asked, managing a smile despite the pain behind my eyes and the fear in my gut. "I like that plan." I nodded, recalling the directions Kyphas had given me: _Stand by the gate, give it your blood, knock three times, and shout his full name_. I looked up at my lover. Cleared the sudden blockage from my throat. I said, "Are we ready?" He glanced over his shoulder at Lotus, Raoul, and Astral, who'd turned their backs to us to guard against attack. I was beginning to think it wasn't likely, this side of the river. Then a howl, so far off we'd probably only heard the echo, made them swing in that direction. Raoul looked over his shoulder. "Hurry," he whispered, as if the creature could hear us, even from that distance. I nodded, drew my bolo, and sliced into the soft skin above my wrist. I made sure I had a generous supply of blood on my fingers before I swung around to the gate, drew a double slash across the mastiff's jaw, and then rubbed my offering into it. The metal trembled at my touch, soaking up the blood so quickly that within seconds I couldn't tell where I'd left my mark. Which I thought was weird, considering the generous portions flooding its face. But, of course, that was probably coming from hell's citizens. As an outsider's, mine probably tasted a whole lot better. I knocked three times and yelled out, "Zell Culver! This is your summons! Come out and be questioned!" On the other side of the gate a man ran out of the mist. He was sprinting across the rock-strewn ground with that look of abject fear you often see on the faces of those who are at the front of a mob of Black Friday Walmart shoppers. He wore a tattered brown shirt that he still kept tucked into the waistband of his darker brown trousers. Which were held up with an empty gun belt. Hmmm. "Zell? Zell!" I yelled. He glanced my way. I peered into the fog behind him. I couldn't see or hear anything huffing, spitting, or galloping within half a mile of him. Good. That meant I'd only called the cowboy, not whatever had been chasing him. "Dude! You've escaped! Get over here, will you? I don't have that much blood to spare!" He shot a look over his shoulder. The expressions that crossed his face—confusion, then relief, then even deeper bewilderment—would've been comical in any other situation. But the howling on our side had been joined by a joyful sort of hooting. And they'd both gotten closer. I began wondering if their makers could swim. I said, "You're Zell Culver, right? The guy who destroyed the earthbane with the Rocenz?" He jogged over to us, carefully wrapped his hands around the bars of the fence next to the gate, and said, "Only for a day." He grinned, showing a dimple on each cheek and another on his chin. "Sometimes I still think it was worth it, though." He tipped his hat to me, a wide-brimmed ancestor to the Stetson with a tall black band and battered flat top that looked like it had been used to beat off mosquitoes the size of his fists. However, perched back on his wellshaped head, setting off eyes that managed to twinkle even in these circumstances, it looked as comfortable as his scuffed old boots. "I don't believe I've had the honor to make your acquaintance." I will only admit this because if I didn't Vayl would probably take out an ad in _The New York Times_ calling me out. Zell's old-fashioned gallantry went straight to my head. My hand went all floppy like I'd suddenly been airlifted into the 1850s, where women routinely lost all muscle tension in their extremities. My limp fingertips raised to my neck, where they brushed my collarbone in an I-do-declare reaction to his chivalrous manners. And I said (yes, dammit, in a slight Southern accent), "Mah name is Jayaz." Then I heard myself. Also Raoul snickering behind my back and Lotus muttering, "What the fuck?" while Vayl literally bit his lip to keep from laughing. I dropped my hand, thumping my fist into my thigh as I added, "I called you here for a reason. You're the only one we know of, besides an unhelpful demon, who's ever managed to separate the pieces of this tool." I pulled the Rocenz out of my belt. "It's imperative that you teach us how to do that." I jerked my head around as the sounds of hunting animals grew louder. Zell shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, I can't remember." He slowly rolled up his left shirtsleeve. What I saw crawled my fingers right around my neck. The place where his captors had carved away his tattoo had never healed. His entire forearm from inner elbow to wrist was covered with oozing sores and stank of gangrene. Schooling my expression into carelessness, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the piece of skin that had been cut from him. I unfolded it and showed it to him. "We recovered this recently," I said. "If we give it back to you, do you think you'll remember how the separation spell works then?" He nodded. "There could be no other reason for them skinning me. It should work. Yes. I'm sure of it." He was still nodding when he said, "But first you have to promise to get me out." "I promise," I said quickly before anybody else in the party could think of any objections. He nodded. "Give me that knife." Without question I handed him the hilt. He sliced into his bicep, grabbed the blood, smacked it into the back of the gate. Vayl and I barely had time to trade looks of dread before he'd knocked three times and yelled a name we both knew. She appeared as he had, running for her life, her ragged white dress flying out behind her like last decade's kite. I stared as she went through the same emotions Zell had as she realized she'd been miraculously saved. It gave me time to gather my wits as well. Then I finally found the words I needed to say. "Vayl. Is there anything you want to tell me?" # CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX _Sunday, June 17, 9:00 p.m_. If people hang around me long enough, they learn that I don't appreciate surprises. Because in my case they rarely turn out to be pleasant ones. Take the time my darling sister decided to pay me a surprise visit in college. She walked in on a huge breakup scene and caught a flying vase in the middle of the forehead. I had to haul the poor kid to the emergency room and explain to the doctor why he was stitching up a wound meant for my "Sorry, Jaz, I just realized that I like guys" boyfriend. So when I turned to my lover, he knew immediately that I was prepared to hurl objects large and small, probably starting with the robokitty, if he didn't come up with a reasonable explanation as to why a woman who looked exactly like my mother had joined Zell Culver on the opposite side of Satan's fence. He cleared his throat. It was the first time I could remember seeing him sweat. And so he should. Because that wasn't the only problem I had with this amazing coincidence. The name Zell had uttered was _Helena_. The same name Bergman had labored under during our mission to Marrakech, when Vayl had been convinced we were all members of his household from 1777. Bergman had argued that he suffered the most, because Vayl had thought he was a girl—his adopted daughter. Which had all been fine and good then. When I didn't know what she looked like. But I'd seen her before. Right here in hell. At the time I'd actually believed she was my mother, Stella. Mainly because she looked and talked just like her. But _she'd_ helped save me from a bunch of howling demons, something Stella never would have done. At the time I'd convinced myself even a mother like mine would sometimes find a small store of generosity and love to act upon. Now I knew better. _You shoulda figured it out back then_ , scoffed my Inner Bimbo. She spoke to me from a tub full of steaming water and white bubbles. Stretching one long white leg out of the bathwater and idly watching her red-painted toenails point toward the showerhead she said, _Stella would never have helped you escape from hell. Shit, Jaz, she'd have clapped you in irons and arranged for some rank torture if it would've meant freeing that first husband of hers_. At my core I knew that. But I'd wanted her, just once, to be a real mom so badly that I'd bought my own fairy tale. And I'd even had evidence to make me believe Helena was my mother. Because only someone of my bloodline could've left her mark on me, the curl of white hair that proved I'd been touched by a family member in hell. Which meant— I grabbed Vayl's arm, as if he wasn't already tuning in to me so completely that the only reflection I could see in his eyes was my own. I said, "Your adopted daughter, Helena, is my ancestress." I didn't mean to sound accusing, but it sure came out that way. "You've been following my family's line since 1770!" His eyes, a distant, steely blue, gave nothing away. "Yes, I have," was all he said. Helena, smiling gently at us through the bars, said, "It's good to see you again, Jasmine, although I would choose happier circumstances." She looked up at Vayl. "And you, Father? Has Lucifer finally caught you?" Her voice broke a little, tears filling her eyes at the question, though she still kept hold of that angelic smile. His brows crunched together as he turned to the girl he'd raised from the age of eleven. "My darling. What happened? How did you end up here?" Helena had been standing in the circle of Zell's good arm. Now she slipped her slender fingers through the cracks in the fence. "Life was so good in America, just as you had promised us it would be," she began. I remembered, then, how Vayl had told me that she'd married a man named John Litton. That they'd moved to the States and that, a couple of years later, she'd died after giving birth to twins. She continued. "We thought we had escaped Roldan. But we were wrong. He came into my room after my daughters were born. He and that monstrous gorgon that rides him killed me and tossed my soul into the pit. But I remembered everything you taught me," she told him proudly. "I fight here. Zell and I have organized a little pocket of resistance. It isn't much, I suppose. But it is what we need to survive." _Zell and I_ , I thought. _What a strange coincidence that you two found each other_. I looked at Vayl, waiting for him to find it odd as well, but he'd stopped thinking straight as soon as he saw his daughter behind the bars that he was now trying to shake with white-knuckled fingers. "We are getting you out. Both of you. Now!" he said, his voice as hard as the metal that stood between us and them. "You already promised," Zell reminded him, the practical cowboy in him finding this display a little overwhelming and somewhat unnecessary. "Yes, we did." Vayl spun to face me. "Jasmine, get that infernal demon out of your head. We have innocent souls to save." I glanced at Raoul, wondering what his reaction might be, but he and Lotus were still scanning the horizon. Okay, mostly him. She was starting to jump every time the water bubbled or the wind sighed. So far she'd stepped on Astral's tail and nicked Raoul. I thought if she managed not to faint before a demon cut her to bits we'd be doing very well for ourselves. I looked back at Vayl, who certainly hadn't included my soul among the innocents. _Huh. Well, okay, it might have a few black streaks_. But I suddenly felt relegated to the bottom shelf with last season's shoes and that old pile of _National Geographic_ s that subscribers always feel too guilty to dump. Then he grabbed me by both arms and planted the most passionate kiss on my lips that either of us had experienced in at least an hour. When he was done I stood blinking at him, my mouth gaping like one of those fat goldfish at the botanical gardens that just keeps begging for food pellets despite the fact that one more will probably instantly transform it into eight boxes of McNuggets. His smile, scary enough to give kids nightmares, made me feel warm all under as he said, "My _avhar_ , we are almost home." I nodded as I worked my hand through the bars and offered the missing part of Zell's arm to him. He gave it to Helena, who unfolded it like it was no more problematic than a lace-trimmed hanky. Vayl and I traded intense looks. I could see his thoughts as clearly as he could read mine. _My darling Helena! What has she seen here? What has she been through these past 220 and more years?_ He didn't want to ask more than that, but I'd already given him the answer. _Your adopted daughter has walked through horror the same way you and I hike through your woods at night. Torture, maiming, pain, and battle are her life. She's not the girl you knew. But she's managed to survive this awful existence without losing the ability to love a cowboy or help a descendant being chased by demons. And that was because of what you taught her all those years ago. So you were a good father after all_. He reached for my hand, and I grasped his as tightly as I could manage while we peered through the bars at the two people who mattered most to us at this moment. "Look, Jasmine," he whispered. "It is as if Zell's skin was spelled to return to its former position!" And, of course, it probably was. That's what happens when you tattoo a rune onto your forearm. Zell, being an English speaker, had translated it for himself. Slowly, as the edges of his existing tattoo melded with the severed portion and the dying tissue underneath began to heal, the words revealed themselves until I could read the entire phrase. I pulled the Rocenz clear of my belt and held it in front of me as I repeated the words now glowing a vivid red on Zell Culver's arm. "The soul splits, pairs and destroys, until it is one again." The silver tool heated so quickly I was afraid I'd have to drop it. I was about to grab the hem of my shirt to use as a buffer when it reached maximum temperature and began to separate, a crack appearing right up the side of the handle of the hammer where it met the chisel. I grabbed the edges with both hands, not pulling, just holding each side firmly as a sound as loud as a rifle shot came from the tool and it tried to jump out of my hands. Again with the popping sound, four more times as the two parts of the Rocenz released one another. And, finally, I stood before the gates of hell holding Cryrise's hammer in my right hand and Frempreyn's chisel in my left. I laughed out loud as Brude screamed inside my head and blood poured out of both my nostrils. "Go ahead, you fucker," I whispered to the _domytr_. "Throw the biggest tantrum you can manage. At the end of the day I'm still gonna rip you out of my head and smash you against this gate until there's nothing left of you but a moaning pile of mud." # CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN _Sunday, June 17, 9:45 p.m_. I set the chisel that had been carved from the rail who'd failed to beat Lucifer at his own game against the bloody maw of the mastiff and hauled the hammer back for my first true blow against Brude since he'd invaded my head four weeks before. "Wait!" Raoul's warning, bellowed from three feet away, nearly put me on my knees. "Remember the warning on the map that led us to the Rocenz in the first place!" I turned to look at him, my eyes scanning the horizon for the source of the howls that still split the air intermittently as he pulled the rolled leather out of his pocket and unfolded it. Zell cleared his throat. In fact, he seemed to be on the verge of saying something a couple of times, but then he pressed his lips together and stared at the toes of his boots. As soon as Raoul held the map so we could see it, he said, "The message at the bottom. It's clear, yes? ��Who holds the hammer still must find the keys to the triple-locked door.' That has to refer to Zell. We needed him. We needed his skin. And we needed the spell on his skin." I didn't mention that the first key to Zell had been my Granny May. Or that the last key had been a demon. Neither one seemed like a comfortable subject to bring up at the moment. And since they had worked, it seemed doubly unnecessary. Zell opened his mouth, but Helena put a hand on his newly healed arm and murmured something. Since her lips were partially hidden by the fence, I could only read the last part, which was, "for themselves." What did we need for ourselves? Before I could waste time guessing Vayl said, "I will agree with that assumption." Raoul went on. "But the phrase at the top of the map must be just as important. More so, because it's mentioned first. 'Cursed and thrice cursed be ye who raise the Rocenz without offering proper dues or sacrifice. For Cryrise's hammer and Frempreyn's chisel may spell your salvation, or your doom,'" he read. He stared hard at us. "I hate to ask for theories on that meaning, because I know what kinds of ideas I'm having. I've only known demons' minds to track one way when they start talking sacrifice." His eyes went from Lotus to Astral to Vayl to me. Then he included Helena and Zell in his concern before he said, "I think this tool has to have blood before it will work properly. In fact"—he stopped, shook his head, forced himself to go on—"I think it needs death." I shook my head. "I don't know. Back in Marrakech, Kyphas only had to rub her blood on it and chant a few words before she separated the parts. She was already working her heartstone when I found her." Raoul held up his fingers as he ticked off his objections. "She's a demon. They can use the tool differently. She told you that herself." "True," I admitted. I looked at Zell. "You got anything to add?" I asked. He shrugged. "Nothing that will not make my tongue turn to ash inside my mouth the moment I say it. I can only confirm what you deduce on your own." Vayl stepped forward. "Is that why you are here, Zell? Did they capture you and bring you to hell because you know all the secrets of this tool, and it is so valuable that they cannot risk allowing your soul to fly free?" Zell nodded. "You hit that one on the head." "And this last secret?" Vayl continued. "Are we on the right track?" Zell just stared. Vayl's smile looked a lot more triumphant than I felt. "I will take your silence as a positive sign." He turned to Raoul. "Let us assume Kyphas managed the death this tool requires and we never discovered that detail—" "I say we give it what it wants." We all looked at Lotus, whose face had paled so drastically she looked like a mannequin before the makeup's gone on. The starkness of her expression, her absolute certainty amid all our doubt, made her seem more Vayl's progeny than anything else she'd done so far. "Then we can go, right? Then this whole nightmare will be over?" I said, "Not necessarily for you, snookums." I kept my voice gentle as I pointed to Helena and said, "She was a good, honorable woman. And she's trapped inside, still being righteous, still fighting on the side she chose when she was just a girl. You, on the other hand, are still trying to turn your back on the pile of bullshit you've made out of your life when you're actually buried under it." I pointed to the souls that had chosen maiming and torture. "That's you if you don't start digging." I made a fist. "And I'm not helping you make it worse by killing someone in this crew." Astral had been sitting quietly beside Raoul all this time. Now she stood up, looked over at me intently, and then stared at Lotus. "Grenade?" she offered politely, as if she knew exactly how I was feeling and had already figured out a quick way to rid myself of the unwanted company. "Not at the moment, thank you," I told her. "Maybe later, though," Raoul said. We all looked at him. "What if we invite the noisemakers"—he jerked his head toward the howls we'd been monitoring since our arrival at the gate—"a little closer?" "Are you sure you want to do that?" asked Zell. "Normally spiderhounds aren't creatures you fight. They're ones you hope you can outrun." I stared him straight in the eyes. "I have to put this name on the gate, Zell. You, of all people, should understand why." He nodded. "I have another idea. If it works, it might even get us out of here. But you have to trust me." "No problem," I said. "Anybody else have any issues with trusting the cowboy?" I asked. Then before they could answer I did it for them. "Nope, we're all for your plan. Don't even bother filling us in. Just throw it in motion and we'll learn as we go." Zell nodded and began stomping. It was hypnotically rhythmical, like the precursor to every stage show that had ever involved drums and heel taps. Helena joined him, linking her arm in his and adding a double stomp every fourth beat. Sometimes she would pause and grind her toe into the chalky soil, leaving a crescent moon–shaped indentation that, combined with all the others, began to look a lot like some of the spells I'd seen scrawled across pieces of ancient parchment. While Zell and Helena performed their bizarre dance, my comrades pulled every blade they'd brought with them. Since my job was to bloody the Rocenz with its sacrifice, I gave Vayl my bolo. He held it in his left hand while his right continued to grip his cane sword, its sheath still lying at the foot of the gate, waiting for the final outcome. Raoul held his shining weapon with both hands while Lotus gripped the dagger he'd lent her. They both stared off into the horizon thinking such different thoughts that it was a wonder to me that they could stand next to one another without small lightning bolts zapping into their brain stems until one of them finally blew a gasket. I didn't see any weapons on Zell or Helena, though I sensed they were both carrying. Maybe it didn't pay to display, especially when you were basically walking around inside a huge prison all day long. Astral, perhaps sensing the rising tension, paced restlessly among the four of us as if we'd caged her. Most often her nose pointed toward the source of the howls and a new, deeper rumbling that signaled many more than two or three creatures heading our way. It seemed like she already knew Zell's plan and her place in it. Especially when she leaped into my arms and said, "Hello!" Suddenly the ground under my feet tilted. I grabbed Vayl's arm as Astral anchored her claws into the soft meat of my shoulder. Vayl wrapped his arms around my waist as another rumble of unstable ground moved us into an awkward fighting-for-upright dance. Zell and Helena intensified their movements on the other side of the gate, barely acknowledging the dead earth beneath their feet groaning like an arthritic old man trying to get out of bed in the morning. "Guys," Astral hooted. "What?" I turned my head so my ear was next to her mouth. "What do the guys need to do?" "Geyser coming!" she shouted just as a fountain of boiling-hot water shot out of the ground on Zell's and Helena's side of the fence, its perimeter inside the perfect circle I could now see that Zell and Helena had made with their boot, toe, and heel marks. "Do you see how we did it?" Zell called. "Yes," said Vayl. "We're gonna need at least three or four on each side of the fence before the durgoyles will smell the water and come to drink." He didn't have to explain further. Durgoyles were hell's livestock, herds of four-leggers inhabited by the souls of those who had plodded through life with rings through their noses, allowing everyone from gangbangers to dictators to lead them into evil as if they were as docile and dumb as cattle. Bigger and meaner than full-grown moose, they fed on scavenged meat and spent most of their waking hours thinking up new ways to maim each other. If we could attract a herd, one of them could be sacrificed to the Rocenz. Unfortunately, where there were durgoyles, you could usually count on at least a couple of spiderhounds as well. Somewhat ironically, even death's realm had a circle of life, and the spiderhounds had managed to climb the food chain faster than the durgoyles. What a crazy flipping world. What Zell had surmised was that we'd been hearing spiderhounds following a herd somewhere south of us. Now he wanted to turn the durgoyles our way. Which was an excellent plan since we didn't want to sacrifice any humans to the Rocenz. But none of us discussed the possibility that we'd probably have to fight their natural predators if we meant to get back to our world alive. Instead we paired up and joined Zell and Helena, copying their moves until every one of us, Vayl included, had become an expert at the watering hole dance. One by one geysers shot into the air, until we had to stand on the far right side of the gate in order to avoid being burned. And still Astral continued repeating her message. "Geyser coming!" "Okay, okay," I finally told her. "I gotcha." "Do you think that is enough?" Vayl asked as we watched seven fountains stink up the atmosphere. They smelled of sulphur and unwashed ass. I couldn't imagine any living thing sticking its face in a concoction with such an obnoxious odor, especially one designed to boil your nose off the second you came within a foot of it. But within five minutes we could hear the steady clip-clop of what Zell estimated was a herd of between forty and sixty durgoyles. And Raoul said, "I see them! Horns on the horizon and closing fast!" They emerged from the water-induced fog like a fleet of sailing ships speeding into view, their gray skins resembling stained sails, their protruding ribs reminding me of rigging. The yips and howls continuing at the back of the herd explained their speed. I don't know where they thought they were headed, but the plan definitely seemed to involve escaping the spiderhounds snapping at their hooves. The doomed animals' horns grew straight out from their heads and then curled back in, so that the tips were constantly rubbing against their necks, leaving a steady trickle of blood that turned their forelegs a permanent rusty color. Flies pursued them relentlessly, buzzing in and out of their ears, forcing them to slap their hindquarters with whiplike tails that left bloody slashes, opening sores for the insects to lay eggs in, many of which had hatched and flourished, transforming the sores into oozing pits full of wriggling maggots. As if they needed yet another reason to be permanently pissed. Fights broke out at the brushing of a flank. Horns clashed almost constantly, filling the air with echoes of bone smashing against bone. At least once a day a durgoyle fell to its knees, where it was promptly trampled by the rest of the herd, which didn't moo like cows. The sound they made, and they did it with the frequency of New York car horns, squeaked through the air like dolphin calls, making me suspect my ears would also be bleeding before this episode had ended. "I think I wanna kill them all," I said. "Is that a bad thing?" "Just pick the one you want," Vayl told me. "Wait," said Zell. "We need them to crash the gate first." "And how are we supposed to do that?" I asked. "They're on the wrong side of the Moat." Zell said, "Four of the geysers are over here. Half of them will cross just to drink this water." He nodded at Astral as a series of yips made us look beyond the herd. We still couldn't see the spiderhounds at its edge, but their calls were clearer than ever. "The durgoyles will think your cat is one of their predators. Not a spiderhound, of course, but perhaps a zenqual, who hunt in herds of sometimes twenty or more. I noted she can talk. Can she make special sounds too?" "When she's in the right mood." His eyebrows quirked. "Well, the zenqual often hunt silently, but many of them squeal like a hog at feeding time too. If you can get her to make that sound while you help herd them toward the gate, panic should do the rest." I glanced over my shoulder at the huge metal edifice leering behind me. Even with the entire herd butting their heads against it at once, I doubted they could round up enough force to break open an entry that the devil himself had ordered closed until further notice. But it was worth a try. So I nodded as Raoul and Lotus went to the other side of the gate to make sure they'd be somewhat on the opposite edge of the herd once they moved into range. The yips got louder and more frequent, assuring us that the spiderhounds had stayed on the durgoyles' tails. We became even more positive when the pace of the herd increased. When their heads came up, their ears swiveled, and they began to squeak at each other more often, we knew we'd be seeing predators sooner rather than later. The first of the durgoyles hit the Moat without even hesitating, swimming strongly toward the geysers we'd danced out of the earth despite the depth of the river at this point. Luckily the current was slow enough that it didn't carry the creature far downstream at all. Within minutes half of the fifty head had joined it. I pulled the cat, who'd been perching on my shoulder, into my arms. Somehow it felt important to maintain eye contact as I said, "You need to squeal like a pig as soon as the durgoyles hit shore so they'll run toward the gate. Make it seem like you're fifty cats, not just one. Can you do that?" I asked. Her reply was a soft grunt that sounded an awful lot like contented pig. But I wasn't really sure until she headed toward the water and jumped in. As if I hadn't been impressed with Bergman's invention or the fact that he'd deigned to give it to me rather than sell it to some mega-rich country for enough dough to retire on, now I felt real affection for Astral as she emerged from beneath the water, swimming strongly against the current, and making pig squeals so authentic I could almost see the waller from here. Unbelievably, every time she made noise, the durgoyles lunged forward as if they'd been tased. It began to be entertaining. Until we got a whiff of them. "Whew!" exclaimed Lotus as she pinched her nostrils together. "They're in the frigging water! How come they still smell like rotting meat?" "Because, in a way, they are," Raoul explained. "Now herd them toward the gate. Raise your arms. Yell a little. You should know a lot about that, thrillseeker." She actually looked hurt, which amazed me. I glanced at Vayl and caught him smiling. Then the expression changed to one of intense concentration as he looked first toward Astral and then to me. "Be ready," he said. "Let us get this right the first time so you do not have to suffer any longer." Which was why I so loved the guy. I'd tried not to complain anymore, but it had begun to feel as if my head might literally explode. Also, the rest of my body was now unaccountably sore, as if the nosebleed had reversed itself and spread, and now every organ had sprung a leak. Astral cleared the water and ran to my side, where she paused long enough to shake all the water she hadn't yet shed onto my jeans. Vayl pointed to the nearest field and said, "There. Beside that torso wearing the Raiders sweatshirt. Do you see it?" I did. Spiderhounds are easy to spot, mainly because their heads are covered with eyes. Thirty-two of them to be exact. Not all of them work at the same time or in the same way, which is what makes them such a dangerous enemy. But then, they are a vulnerable area on the animal, and one it pays to target. Because the hounds are also big, fanged, clawed, and vicious. If you can even partially blind them you radically increase your odds of survival. This one, a pure white giant that made Jack look like a dachshund, was wagging its spiked tail up and down like it was about to play fetch with one of the feet that stuck out of the ground at paw level. I was about to signal the hound's location to Raoul when I realized one set of its eyes was the same shade of yellow as those I'd seen in Vayl's memories of Roldan. But in those visions his fur had also been covered with patches of black, proving this was just another coincidence. Like Zell finding Helena. I factored in the knowledge that Kyphas's eyes turned yellow when she was pissed off too, and decided that hell just preferred that color. So I shrugged it off and let Raoul know where the spiderhound was located. He quickly showed Lotus. I leaned in to Vayl. "Do you see any other spiderhounds?" I asked. He nodded. "The second is trotting at the back. I have only been able to see his eyes twice. They are glowing." Raoul signaled that he'd heard. And wasn't happy about it. Because it meant the alpha had come along for this hunt. Not unusual, but bad for us. Alpha spiderhounds, besides the obvious attribute of larger size, also carried sacs of poisonous spiders underneath their jowls. Not a threat from a distance, but if the alpha could put the bite on you, so could his little friends. By the tens of thousands. It was not a pretty way to die. I'd seen a couple of the corpses that had made it topside before succumbing. They'd all gone screaming. Well, that wasn't how I planned to face my end. But if it happened here, while I was fighting beside the man I loved, nobody would hear me bitching when they found me looking up his address in the afterlife. I tightened my hands on the Rocenz and wiped my nose on the hem of my shirt yet again. It wasn't fancy, just a black pullover, but I'd liked it once. Now the sucker was going straight to the rag pile when I got back home. "They're coming," Zell whispered. "Get your cat ready." He and Helena were crouched beside the fence, their hands clutching the bars so tightly that the spikes had begun to cut into the edges of their fingers. To be free after all this time—I couldn't even begin to imagine what it might mean to them. Or how our failure could crush them. So I didn't try. I just crouched beside Astral, pointing out the durgoyles I wanted her to chase as soon as I gave the word. I glanced up at Vayl, hoping for a little moral support. But his glance had crossed the Moat, where it was glued to the spiderhounds. They'd targeted an old cow that looked to be limping. The squeals of the spiderhounds signaling their attack galvanized Zell as well. "Now, Jaz!" he yelled. "Go get 'em, Astral!" I gave her a slight push and she took off, squealing irritably at the durgoyles as she waded into them, deftly weaving in and out of their paths, jumping clear of an irately jerked horn or kicked hoof. At first it seemed like all she was going to accomplish was to piss them off so much that they'd either find a way to stomp her into scrap or massacre each other trying. And then she sprang up and bit a big old bull in the butt. When she landed she began singing a Bloodhound Gang hit at top volume: "You and me, baby, ain't nothin' but mammals, so let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel." The bull had felt the double insult like it was a pitchfork thrown by the Great Taker himself. He jumped into the air so high that all four hooves cleared the ground at once, his eyes rolling whitely as he shrieked in panicked protest. Every durgoyle gate-side flinched as if it had been struck, and the air suddenly filled with high-pitched what-the-hell squeaks. Chaos broke out as mothers tried to protect their young, the young trotted in circles trying to figure out where the hell safety had gone to, older males each decided it lay in five different directions, and the biggest bull of them all trumpeted for the herd to get their heads out of their asses and follow him. He came charging straight for Vayl. Who stood his ground like a Neanderthal determined to skewer some fresh protein for his starving tribe. My _sverhamin_ , so fully channeling his inner Wraith that the tips of his curls had gathered frost, raised both hands over his head, his sword pointing straight at the fiery sky like it was a match he needed to light. The sudden gust of arctic wind whacked the bull on his brown nose, turning him directly toward the gate. His herd hesitated. Tried to turn. But Raoul and Lotus were on the other side, yelling, singing, and trying out their own version of pig squeals. And then Vayl opened his mouth. From it issued a stream of tiny red crystals that blew off his tongue like frozen fire. And I knew it was the hellspawn's blood that he'd taken upon entering this realm, transformed into his own personal weapon, pelting the durgoyles into action. They followed the bull at a jump, thirty squeaking, flank-bashing, panicked lemmings headed straight off the cliff. Or, in this case, into the gate. They crashed into Satan's doorway with the jaw-clenching sound of breaking bones, screaming wounded, and trampling hooves. Metal groaned. Hinges screeched. On the other side of the river the remnants of the herd milled and fought, as if they were irritated that their neighbors were making them wait to move on. The spiderhounds howled in triumph as their prey made a fatal mistake and wandered too far from her sisters. They pounced, each of them taking her at a different angle. The rest of the herd distanced themselves from her, ignoring her dying screams in the I'm-glad-it-wasn't-me way of the future victim. On our side of the river the pile of dead and broken durgoyles grew as the herd continued its mindless assault on the gate. It didn't give in the middle, where the two doors met. Instead the bottom set of hinges on our side splintered so badly that they fell to pieces at our feet. The durgoyle who'd made the break shoved the gate aside. It swung back and smashed into the bull behind it, tangling in its horns, forcing it to its knees, where it formed a living door prop for the rest of the herd. I eyed the spiderhounds feasting noisily on their kill. "Should we take them out next, while they're distracted?" I glanced at Raoul, then at Lotus, not sure which of them could come up with the most dastardly game plan for this particular creature. Raoul shook his head. "If you can finish your business before they're done eating, we should be able to slip past them. In this case I agree with Zell. It's better to avoid a fight than to force one." I glanced at Zell, momentarily forgetting that he couldn't hear our Party Line conversation. He'd been busy glancing over his shoulder. Now he had Helena by the hand and they were moving to cross over. He said, "Whatever you have to do, rush it. They'll know the gate is breached. People will come to escape. Demons will come to stop them. We're out of time now." "I'm on it." Without wasting another second I turned one of the dying durgoyles. Feeling like an old-school biblical figure I whispered over it, "Uh, so you're the sacrifice. If you promise not to gore me, I'll make this quick and painless." It fulfilled its side of the bargain, so I did too, watching the relief flit through its brown-onbrown eyes as its blood coated the Rocenz and what remained of its hellish life slipped away. The two parts of the tool shivered in my hands as indentations appeared beneath my fingers, giving me a better grip for the job ahead of me. I waited for Zell and Helena to slip through the opening in hell's gate. And then I set the chisel onto its surface. Less than three weeks before I'd watched Kyphas use this same tool to mark Cole's name onto her heartstone. Until now I'd never wondered what it had felt like for her to raise the shining silver hammer and bring it down, _clang!_ onto its brother. Now I understood the look of ecstasy I'd seen on her face. Though our motives were as different as heaven and hell, our feelings, as they often had, ran parallel. Power, baby. Fiery energy running up my arms and into my body until I felt like I could touch a dead heart with a single finger and jolt it into action again. I realized I was grinning as the B took shape on Satan's gate. The _domytr_ inside my head beat his fists against the walls of his cell so relentlessly that the pain behind my right eye finally shut it down. Half-blind, bleeding from my nose and both my ears now, I laughed aloud as I chiseled the R and then the U. I could feel Brude draw the tattoos that covered his arms and chest together into the armor that had protected him so well against Raoul's attack back in Scotland. Now I thought of it more as a shroud as I tapped the letter D into hell's doorway. Behind me I heard Lotus yell, "Something strange is—watch out! The spiderhounds are... changing! Goddammit, you should never have let them get this close! Why don't any of you people have guns? Oh my God, they're not what we thought they were at all!" Vayl said, "Lotus is right, Jasmine. The spiderhounds are slipping their skins. They may be some other form of spawn we have never seen. Whatever they are, I believe they have tricked us into taking this path in order to regain the Rocenz. Right now they are raising some sort of bridge from the bottom of the Moat." I couldn't have spoken if I wanted to. All my inner girls were running around like disaster victims, some screaming mindlessly, some weeping. Even Granny May was pacing frantically while she bit her fingernails like she hadn't eaten for a week. I felt Vayl, Zell, Raoul, and Astral arrange themselves behind me, readying themselves for the fight, protecting me from yet another attack. Lotus was just pacing, muttering, swearing at anyone who seemed easily blamed. I didn't want her to distract me. But when she fell over the cat, I was suddenly grateful, because it reminded me of what Astral had said to me before our descent. "Don't look!" I yelled as I continued the work. "They're not really spiderhounds. I was right! The one with yellow eyes _is_ Roldan! Which means the alpha is his gorgon. So whatever you do, don't meet her eyes. If you do, you'll be destroyed!" "Turn around!" Vayl called as Raoul bellowed, "Face the gate! The alpha's eyes are transforming into snakes!" Believe it or not, I was relieved to hear that I was right. Gorgons have this odd code of honor. They'll kill you, oh yeah, in about three hundred different ways, starting with the whole paralyze-you-withtheir-steely-vision trick. But they will not attack unless you're facing them. So I knew that as long as my people kept their nerve I could continue cutting the cords that had connected the _domytr_ to me. Only a few remained, and my inner girls—having received at least a short reprieve from certain death—hacked those free like a bunch of slayers out for a midnight run. When the final connection snapped they cheered as the locks fell from the cell that Teen Me and I had trapped Brude in. The door creaked open to reveal his ghostly form standing in the middle, head down in defeat, arms hanging loose at his sides as he faded into mist. The moment the final droplet disappeared from my mind, a shimmering form began to take shape just on the other side of the gate. It wasn't a clean transition, like a beam-me-up-Scotty moment in which the traveler arrives even cleaner and tidier than when he left. As I worked on the E, Brude began to convulse. Wounds appeared on his chest, arms, legs, even his face. _Funny. The more he bleeds, the better I feel_. My sight came back first. Then my headache disappeared, along with the bleeding from my ears and nostrils. As I put the final cut into the gate, I felt a satisfaction like an actual weight leaving me, though no physical burden could've been as hard or heavy to bear. On the other side of the twisted metal dog, the last image of Brude fell to his knees, so roundly defeated I wouldn't have been surprised to see him beg for mercy. But he just knelt quietly and waited the three beats it took for his fate to catch up to him. I pulled the Rocenz away from the gate. Staring proudly at me, he said, "You could have been my queen," as his skin, his hair, even his eyeballs began to leak fluid like a faulty radiator. As the thick pink liquid flowed into the ground, small beetle-like creatures with barbed tongues and pincers at the ends of their tails scuttled out of their holes to slurp it up, and then to explore the source of their unexpected snack. They swarmed up Brude's legs while his body steadily shriveled, melting into their mouths like a finely cooked pork roast. When the creatures reached his chest it got hard to watch. But I reminded myself of what this _domytr_ had put me and mine through. What he'd tried to pull on the Great Taker himself. And what that might've meant to the Balance if he'd managed to succeed. I didn't even blink when the muscles in his jaw failed, his mouth dropped open, and the skin-suckers scurried inside. He didn't scream long. I waited until nothing was left of Brude but the elements his body had been made from. Then I reached out to Vayl. "He's gone," I whispered. His hand tightened on mine nearly to the point of pain, clear communication of the depth of his relief. "You are free." "Not quite," said Raoul. "I've been watching the gorgon out of the corners of my eyes. She's raised a bridge." Lotus sounded close to hyperventilation when she said, "It's made out of scum-covered skeletons. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my—" I put my hand on her arm, squeezing hard enough to make her stand still. I said, "Skeletons with souls trapped inside, Lotus. The souls of people who'd made themselves into doormats in the world just so they could manipulate the strong into doing their dirty work for them. Now they've discovered how eternity feels about those who let others trample them just so their families and friends will be forced to shoulder the load." She drew a sobbing breath. "I don't want this." "No." "It's not too late?" "Lotus, you deserve better than this, don't you think?" "Yes." "Then act like it!" She dropped her face into her hands, and I thought she was crying until she began to report on what she was seeing from the corners of her eyes, "The bridge is wide enough for a couple of cars to pass, but the footing will be iffy. It could work to our advantage. Or not. My guess is that as soon as it's completely clear of the Moat, the gorgon and her slave will start their crossing." "Her slave is a werewolf that hasn't yet changed," Raoul told her. "He's moving so slowly you'd almost think he likes his man form better. Also, just so you won't be surprised, Jaz, the alpha's nest of spiders is now the gorgon's necklace of scorpions." Zell turned to Helena and sighed. "I've never fought a gorgon before, have you, dear?" "No, but you've told me how to kill scorpions and snakes. And surely they can't be any tougher than strangling a krait." "You got yourself a point there. We will just think of her as a nest of nasties and fight her that way." Nice to know the cowboy and his immigrant bride had a plan. As for me and my vampire? He smiled down at me. "It looks as if our training is about to pay off, my dear. Shall we make the CIA proud?" I pulled my sword, so high on my new freedom that I didn't care if it sounded obnoxious as I said, "It's a good thing Astral's here to record this. Now we can put on a show the rookies will be studying for years to come." Vayl's dimple appeared as Zell asked, "Then what are we waiting for?" He glanced at Helena as he pulled a roughly made weapon from the seam of his homespun pants. It looked less like a dagger than like an extra-long bolt with a handle on one end and a handsharpened point on the other. She smiled at him, flipped up the skirt of her dress just long enough to give her access to the bowie knife she had stowed there, then dropped it back down again. "Why Granny H," I murmured, gaining raised eyebrows from Vayl and a broad smile from her. "What a big knife you have there." She nodded once. "I took it off of the carcass of my first kill. I had to smash his head in with a rock." She grimaced. "Awful business, that. I wouldn't recommend it to the easily nauseated." I caught just a hint of her former accent. Once strongly British, it also had nearly surrendered to the onslaught of hell's eternal attack. And yet, when she smiled at Zell with that glow of love in her eyes, I couldn't help but admire her for hanging on to what really mattered. Granny May had fallen into her front porch chair and found a hand fan from church emblazoned with the words god be praised, and in smaller print, shop your hometown grocer, which she was using to give herself more air as she openly admired our forebear. _Well, that explains where we get it from. I guess you can't beat heredity after all_. She stared at the cheap paper set into a balsa wood handle, watching its almost hypnotic back-and-forth movement as she said, almost to herself, _Even when your mother spends her whole life trying. I wonder what she couldn't face. Hmm. I really should look her up sometime. After being dead all these years, maybe she'd finally feel free to tell me_. Raoul's voice interrupted my inner monologue. "I'm thinking that as soon as the gorgon and her pet are halfway across the bridge we should turn and attack. It's a fairly wide crossing so that if a couple of us can get behind them, considering that we've got them well outnumbered and most of us are skilled fighters, hopefully they'll see reason and surrender quickly. Is everyone happy with that idea?" "I'm scared of snakes," Lotus said in a wavery voice. "But I've been in my share of bar fights. In fact, I once shoved a stiletto through a guy's eye. Purely out of self-defense, I'd like you to know. Just saying—I can hold my own out there." I glanced up at Vayl, realizing instantly that he had no idea how to digest this new information about his daughter. Finally he said, "I do not care for snakes either." And when they traded small grins, he was happy that was the route he'd chosen. At a nod from him we raised our weapons and spun, steeling ourselves for the battle that lay ahead of us. Among the six of us, seven counting Astral, we must've seen it all. And yet we still froze, stunned into paralysis by the scene that lay before us. # CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT _Sunday, June 17, 11:45 p.m_. Gorgons are, first and foremost, death-eaters. They haunt battlefields and burn wards. Nursing homes—not so much. Because they love riding their victims through time, sucking up the soul's reluctance to move on, like kids at a candy counter. And young souls work so much harder to beat death than old ones. They say gorgons can survive for centuries on the backs of seven-year-olds. The fuckers. You can't see them in the world unless they're about to make a deal. But you might get hints. Maybe you'll catch them in a stray expression that doesn't quite fit your husband's face, or a disturbing personality quirk in your sister that appears suddenly after a nearly tragic accident that the doctors explain as the result of brain damage. It's not dead brain matter, it's a gorgon. Sliding up against your sweetheart's back like the strumpet she was born to be, clutching him so tight he can only breathe when she inhales for them both. But in hell? Yeah, we could've seen her clearly if we'd wanted to spend the rest of eternity as statues. But since we all enjoyed mobility, we caught her in darting glances as she advanced across the bridge, pulling her all-you-can-eat-buffet behind her on a delicate silver chain that must've been hidden in his fur when he'd been masquerading as a spiderhound. _Roldan_ , I thought as I exchanged a shocked glance with Vayl. _Oh, how the mighty have fallen_. In the world, with the gorgon riding him like a shadow, he'd held himself like the most-wanted villain he was. Gawd, how long had his gaunt, hard-eyed face stared at us from the kill-'em-ifyou-can bulletin board in Pete's office every time he called us in to assign a new mission? A king among cutthroats and thieves, the Sol of the Valencian Weres had gained so much status with his decimation of NASA's communication centers in California and Madrid that his following was threatening to become a worldwide cult. Not so shocking to see him touring the netherworld, considering his worst enemy (Vayl) and dearest love (Helena) had managed to find each other again. But as we watched him connected to his parasite by a single thin metal cord, we understood what he'd really become. "No wonder he didn't want to take human form," Lotus said in a hushed whisper. "While he was still a spiderhound the gorgon kept leaning down and hissing into his ear. Slapping him on the back of his head, even flicking at his eyeballs. Nothing. Then she found that chain, yanked it a couple of times, and suddenly he stood up and became... that." Now the man he'd been born to become, he shambled behind the gorgon aimlessly, trying to wander off the path until she jerked him back to heel, blood trickling unheeded from the spot on his neck where the collar had cut into his skin. In wolf form he was a fearsome hook-fanged creature with black claws and fur generously patched in black. That had been one scary monster. The spiderhound form had been even more fearsome. This? This was a skinny old man with sunken eyes and receding gums who kept trying to draw the number eight in the air, and then forgetting how to finish the final loop, forcing him to start all over again. Then I reminded myself. This piece of shit had been responsible for the deaths of Ethan Mreck and my old boss man, Pete. He was going. Fucking. Down. "The old man I can take. But I've never had to battle a gorgon," Lotus noted nervously. "If Zell and Helena are going for the creepycrawlies, what am I supposed to target?" We waited for Raoul's word on the subject since it had been his plan in the first place. "Gorgons are very nearly godlike," he admitted. "The best we can hope for is to harry her until she finds us too painful to deal with and decides to go play with easier prey. So, Lotus, just try to make her bleed." "I'm a lot better with the sword than I used to be," I said, "but damn, Raoul. Considering her defenses, that's kind of a thin plan." "If you can think of anything heftier, speak up," he said. We were in such desperate straits he didn't even sound irritated. Vayl said, "Why did it have to be snakes? Her hair could have been crawling with rats and I would have gladly faced her a thousand times over." I didn't have to look at him to know his jaw was tight as a vise. I reached for his hand and gripped it. "I'll make you a deal," I whispered. "I'll protect you from those snakes if you agree to get me out of the assassination business." He looked at me sharply. "You are finished?" I looked at him squarely. "I risked my soul for my country. I carried a damn demon around inside me for the good old US of A. I think I've done enough, don't you?" He squeezed my hand. "What if you find you miss it?" "I figure Bergman can keep us busy enough to make sure we're never bored. But this way I can say no to the missions that make my skin crawl. Plus I can make time for my family whenever they need me." I raised our hands like we were about to shake. "Deal?" "You know I would do nearly anything to avoid those serpents. But this I would have done in any case." He raised my fingers to his lips, kissed them, and said, "Deal." Feeling about fifty pounds and ten years lighter, I said, "I don't guess anyone brought a mirror?" Silence all around. "Didn't think so. Well, that whole reflect-the-evil-eye-back-on-the-nasty-gorgon scheme probably never worked in the first place." As the bridge continued to rise from the depths of the Moat and the gorgon led Roldan to its front edge we moved to meet them. Waiting silently at our end of the bridge, hands gripping our swords or rubbing the sweat off on our jeans and then finding a new, more comfortable position on our weapons, we watched the bridge rise to its zenith. Water poured from the jaws, femurs, and shoulder blades of flesh-picked bodies that had been interlocked so tightly that you couldn't tell where one began and another ended. What you could make out clearly were the moans and groans coming from the souls trapped inside them. And we were supposed to step on these people? Desecrate their skeletons, break their bones under our feet just so we could fight and probably die on top of them? _Hell yeah!_ yelled Teen Me. _Stop being so melodramatic! They sucked. Now they're paying. Just get on with it, okay? I have a life to live. It sounds like it's going to be übercool and I'm going to be so mad if you die before you're even thirty. Plus we have to pee_. All excellent points. So when the gorgon and her pet werewolf reached mid-bridge I was ready. I didn't even flinch when Raoul yelled, "Charge!" like some damn cavalry captain. I just hauled off right along with Vayl, Zell, Helena, Astral, and Lotus, and followed his orders to the letter. I'd never fought a gorgon on a bridge made from scum-covered skeletons. As Lotus had predicted, it's a tricky proposition. First of all, the footing sucks. Also, the footing sucks. Which is what I discovered the first, second, and third times I fell into the water. "Fuck!" became my battle cry as I fought beside some of the toughest warriors I'd ever encountered. And for once I wasn't the biggest potty mouth in the bunch. "Take that, you manky bitch!" cried Lotus as Raoul's sword found an opening, causing the gorgon to spin toward them. Lotus shoved her dagger at the monster's face with such hope in her eyes that I felt her disappointment in my own heart when she missed wide and nearly went all cementy before Vayl yelled a reminder at the last second for her to avert her eyes. "Fuckaroo!" she cried. "That was too fucking close to shitsville for me!" "Lotus!" Vayl objected as he dodged a lunging snake and spun aside to make room for Zell to move in low with a stab to the gorgon's thigh that Helena followed up with a slash at her ribs, which also connected. "What?" Lotus demanded, backing off before the gorgon's nest of hair-snakes could reach out and turn her into a quivering blob of poison-filled organs. I sighed as I pulled myself out of the water—again. "I think your language offends," I explained, having been on the receiving end of that tone many times myself. She huffed. "It's how I talk! It's how I was raised, for shit's sake!" I put my hand on Vayl's arm as he twitched, all his dreams of a wellbred daughter going up in flames when Lotus added, "Speaking of which, let's take this gorgon down quick, shall we? I'm in dire need of a crapper." "Did my child just say 'crapper'?'" he asked the world at large. "Yeah," I told him. "But you should look at the bright side of this." "There is a bright side?" he asked incredulously. "Of course. At least she's potty trained." With Roldan pretty much a no-show—he barely noticed he was surrounded and seemed to have no desire to take on his wolf form and jump into the fight—we concentrated on his mistress. While Lotus took wild pokes with her dagger that sometimes landed, the rest of us took turns making the gorgon wish she'd stayed topside chowing on the old wolf's mortality where she could digest in peace. Looking back, I have to think the battle would've gone down in history as a lot more militarily important and politically influential than it ended up being if I'd just kept my mouth shut. But, uh... I said, "Roldan, you mangy old mutt. How on Earth did you talk yourself into rolling over for some cobra-haired bitch who wouldn't give a shit if the moon became a strip mine?" His vacant gaze, which had been wandering across the landscape like a dreamy painter's, locked on to mine. "What did you say?" His lips drew back from his unbrushed teeth, and even from ten feet away I could smell the stench of decay blasting out of his throat. It was as much a psychic odor as a physical one, making my brain shrink for cover. And I realized, looking into eyes whose spark had nearly suffocated, that what I scented was the rot of a living soul. Vayl explained, "Jasmine likes to needle people into a murderous rage before she kills them. Otherwise she feels it is not a fair fight and the guilt is more difficult for her to bear afterward." _Oh. Is that what I do?_ Roldan's eyes widened. It wasn't the first time they'd crossed Vayl's face. But now I could tell he was seeing the vampire for the first time. "Vasil Brâncoveanu," he hissed. The snakes in the gorgon's hair echoed him. Only because I was watching closely did I see a fine shudder shake Vayl's hands in response to the gorgon's wriggly do. Then he forced himself into stillness as he lowered his head slightly in acknowledgment. Roldan's boss lady whispered into his ear, and his head turned until he could see Helena standing between Zell and Raoul, her bowie knife dripping with the gorgon's blood. He held out both hands. "My Helena." He walked to the end of his chain but the gorgon held him back. And I realized this little jaunt to hell must've been her idea. What was she gaining from it? More juice from a soul that had shriveled to nearly nothing? The fun of torturing her longtime partner by showing him that he really hadn't punished Helena after all? Or was she really trying to give him a gift by killing us all for him? I couldn't tell. While I tried to guess her motives, Zell put an arm around Helena's shoulders and both of them raised their weapons in response to Roldan's advance. Zell said, "Helena is mine. And I'm hers. That's how it's been for over a hundred and fifty years, and that's how it's gonna stay." _Wow, romance in hell. Who knew?_ My Inner Bimbo had made it back to the bar, where she'd settled in at her favorite table. Now she raised her hand. _Oh, waiter? Bring me a goddamn martini! Extra olives on those little sticky thingies!_ She drew a picture in the air, holding an imaginary plastic sword with one hand while she pointed to a couple of imaginary olives with the other. How strange that the image she drew in the air was exactly like the nearly-number-eight Roldan had been tracing. Before I could make sense of the similarity Roldan spun around, nearly tripping over the chain that bound him as he grabbed his gorgon by the shoulders. "Is this why you brought me here, Sthenno? So you could shred my heart into even smaller pieces than you do every single day?" Raoul made a sound, soft enough that it didn't distract our foes, but loud enough to catch my attention. "What is it?" I asked softly. "Sthenno isn't just any gorgon," he replied. "She's one of the original three. Her list of crimes is so long there's a whole bookcase reserved for her in the Hall of Monitors. But what matters most right now is that she's the mother of Lord Torledge." "Wait. What? The demon who made the Rocenz? _That_ Lord Torledge?" "Exactly. And he despised her, Jaz. I mean, we know of at least two separate occasions when he tried to kill her." My brain spun into action. Lord Torledge had crafted the tool I'd defeated Brude with for demon hands, though I'd never been convinced its original purpose was to turn humans into spawn, as Kyphas had attempted with Cole. Or that Torledge had ever imagined humans would be able to reduce demons to their most basic elements with it. As with all magically imbued items, the Rocenz had shown itself to be full of unexpected surprises. What had been predictable was the fact that the Rocenz could separate Sthenno from Roldan, and if that happened they'd both die. Especially here, where Sthenno had no other willing soul to host her. This had to have been why Torledge originally designed the tool, so that he could trap his mother and her dinner partner in hell where whoever was carrying the Rocenz at the time would be forced to vanquish her. So all Torledge had to do was let the Rocenz be "stolen" and wait for Sthenno to hook herself up with the right partner. Once she'd made the deal with Roldan, and Torledge recognized the Were's hatred for Vayl, he knew these were finally the perfect circumstances for murder. He just needed to figure out a way to lure them both into his realm. Allowing Roldan to throw Helena into the pit must've seemed a brilliant plan, especially after he managed to hook her up with Zell, the only man on the plane who knew how to operate the Rocenz. After that, all he had to do was add Vayl to the mix, but that turned out to be more difficult than it sounded. Enter Brude, who (probably also manipulated by Torledge) formed a partnership with Roldan. Together the two of them pushed Vayl and me closer and closer to the abyss, until we finally had no other choice than to jump, bringing the Rocenz to hell's gate, Zell Culver to the exact spot where he could be of the most help, Helena between Vayl and Roldan, and Sthenno into a no-win situation. Because, despite knowing all about Lord Torledge's dirty damned dealings now, there was still no way I was going to let his mother win this battle. "Fuck me." "Jasmine!" This time it was Raoul objecting to my choice of words. "Sorry, I just think, wherever I look lately, I end up deciding I'm working for the wrong damn people." "We can make good come from it." "You're Eldhayr. You're supposed to believe stuff like that." "So are you." I thought about that while I watched Roldan confront his gorgon. He'd been yelling at her for a while. Working himself into a frenzy of spittle-on-the-lip fury because she'd made him witness the love of his life with another man when all the time he'd thought she was in utter misery here. He was outraged that she'd used him so badly over the centuries, leaving his heart-sworn enemy hale and hearty while he had been reduced to little more than a bag of bones under her care. When I dared a glance at Sthenno, it was to see her staring at him calmly, a small smile pasted across her paint-me-and-be-instantlyfamous face. Finally two of her snakes sank their fangs into him, one in each shoulder. His knees buckled. She lifted the chain to keep him from falling flat on his face. Watching him shudder as his body tried to say uncle and his soul fought to stay at anchor, she finally pulled him into her embrace, pressing his head between her breasts. It would've been a loving gesture in anyone else. But for her it meant convenience, allowing her to reach down his back and claw his shirt up over his shoulders. I winced at the thousands of marks on his back, like unhealed mosquito bites, some of which had turned black and begun to leak a dark, oily fluid that looked like it should never come from a human body. Sthenno looked down, giving me a chance to scope out her face, which (if you managed to ignore the snakes) seemed to me to be the perfect combination of high cheekbones and pouty lips that every woman dreams of but only plastic surgery pulls off. Even I felt slightly envious at those perfectly sculpted brows and thick black lashes. Until something pink and worm-like emerged from the inner corners of her meet-their-gaze-and-die eyes. They stretched down both sides of her nostrils, over her lips, down her neck, and onto Roldan's hair. Still stretching, wriggling from her eyes, they moved as if they knew exactly where they were going. And when they reared up, revealing two small, three-fanged mouths, before they buried them in Roldan's back, I believed they did. So this was how Sthenno ate Roldan's death. Every day she killed him, and then she chowed down. It made sense. She wouldn't want him to die naturally. What if she wasn't ready with the utensils at just the right time? Her meal could actually cross over and then she'd be in a world of hurt. Which was just where we needed to put her. I whispered to Raoul, "Okay, so we need to use the Rocenz on her. But how? I don't figure her name on the gate is going to work the same way it did on Brude, even if we could convince Roldan to do it." "No," said Raoul. "We need her heartstone. Remember the one Kyphas had? It will be locked inside her chest." "Oh, that'll be easy to snatch." Vayl spoke up. "What is that saying? I like it quite well. Jasmine?" I wanted to stick out my bottom lip, but it seemed a little immature to pout in the middle of Satan's playground. So I just said, "There's no time like the present." "Yes," he said with such immense satisfaction that I found myself smiling instead as I watched him blast his way in, swinging his sword right at the wormlike appendages that were just now withdrawing from Roldan's pockmarked back. But Sthenno's snakes had been keeping watch while she was busy, and their reach was much longer than he'd anticipated. He jumped back just as a cobra that was bigger around than and twice as long as my arm darted toward him, its jaws open so wide I could see the pink of its throat. I lunged forward and hacked the snake's head off, which caused Sthenno to scream with pain and rage. She tucked her little soulsuckers back into her eyes and turned them on me, trying to transform me into Jaz-granite. But I avoided her glare as I leaped in for another shot. This time I missed, but hitting hadn't been my intention. I just wanted to distract her long enough to give Zell and Helena a chance to step up. Which they did. Zell danced past the snakes just long enough to slam his bolt-knife into Sthenno's side while Helena threw her knife so accurately that she decapitated another snake and still had time to rescue the blade before falling back to stand beside her cowboy. We continued to hassle the gorgon, feinting, waiting for mistakes. As a result she, and Roldan, were becoming more and more infuriated. The Were, especially, was bitching out his gorgon like they were an old married couple. He said, "Why don't you just kill them? It's only my worst enemy and the woman I confessed to you that I could never live without. Right here! In hell! Why don't you tear them to pieces already?" he demanded. I couldn't get past it. Even in dotty old man form this was the Sol of the Valencian Weres. Why was he just talking? Why hadn't he made a single attempt to wound one of us? Or better yet, why hadn't he changed? Even in hell I had to figure he could transform pretty much at will. So why was he stamping his feet like a three-year-old demanding a second piece of cake for dessert? _Because he wants you to win_ , whispered Granny May from her seat on the porch. _He's old and tired, worn to the bone from the looks of it. He's trying to distract her, throw her off her game without seeming to, so you can dig out that heartstone and chisel her name onto it_. I stared at him thoughtfully. _No, not her name_ , I told my Granny. _I don't think that would work. But the glyph that he was drawing in the air, the almost-number-eight that our Inner Bimbo was retracing when she was demanding her drink before_. I pointed to our fast-and-loose girl, who'd leaped to the stage and was now singing along with two other karaoke stars. _That, I think, will do it_. _Then what are you waiting for?_ _The snakes, there are so many of them, and it seems like for every one we decapitate two more grow in its place. We need, I don't know, a couple of eagles or something. They eat snakes, don't they?_ Granny May nodded at me, her eyes wandering over my shoulder to let me know my attention should be moving elsewhere pronto. _Eagles I can't do. But what about those two?_ I turned my head and, though I know I should've been pissed, I can admit here at least that I'd never in my life been so glad to see Dave and Cole come darting through the field, taking cover wherever they could find it. Often that meant lying prone while a fence of forearms waved in front of their eyes. Or sliding into the shadow of a row of bodiless legs, their shredded connections screaming silently of chainsaw disasters and land mines. "Geyser coming!" Astral said triumphantly. "Oh!" Finally I understood her message. Dave and Cole had probably found a way to tap into one of her databases to message me that they were on their way. Only, given the circumstances with the durgoyles, I'd completely misunderstood. I allowed myself a second to feel relieved that Cole had survived his solo stint in hell, and to be thankful that he'd given us the time we needed to get to the gate in the first place. Then I whispered the news on the Party Line, and Vayl and Raoul quickly let Lotus, Zell, and Helena in on it. Together we intensified our attacks, doubling up on Sthenno while Roldan screamed his frustration and did absolutely nothing to help. Though we managed to avoid the snakes, the gorgon began to fight desperately enough that her claws became impossible to dodge, especially once Dave and Cole left cover. Raoul took the first hit, a slash to the skull right at his hairline that brought the blood gushing so fast he had to back out of the fight to bind it before it blinded him. Surprised at how deeply an injury to Raoul pissed me off, I rolled under Sthenno, slicing up into her rib cage as she bent over to intercept me. I was still rolling back out of range when I saw one of the rattlers leap out of her hair. _Fuuuuck!_ The angles were perfect. It would land exactly where I meant to stop. I dug my heels into the ground and reversed myself just as Vayl stepped up, holding his sword up by his ear like a big-league batter. As soon as the snake hit the sweet spot Vayl swung for the bleachers, and it dropped in two pieces by my side. I scrambled for safety as Vayl said, "I thought I had forgotten how to do that." "Holy crapinator, Vayl, I never realized you knew how!" "I will have to tell you sometime." He nodded over my shoulder to where Zell and Helena were battling. Helena had just crushed a snake's head under her boot, which I found extra badass considering she'd been brought up to swoon at the sight of an earthworm, but then Zell managed to impress me even more when he punched Roldan in the face (although maybe that was just on principle because the Were was only baring his teeth), shoved his bolt-knife through the gorgon's cheek, and caught the black mamba that was preparing to strike _with his bare hand_ , snapping its neck and leaving it to dangle from Sthenno's do like a greasy curl. Cole and Dave were racing toward the gorgon and the Were at full speed, their swords held tight and low for piercing. They'd each put on a pair of reflective sunglasses for the fight, which I didn't quite see the point of until Cole whistled. "Oh, Gorgonzola! Give us a kiss, ya big, beautiful girl you!" She spun around. Dave and Cole had put their heads together and grinned, like they were posing for a picture one of them was taking at close range. That much charm packed into such a tight space? I couldn't resist looking. And neither could Sthenno. She stared straight into those mirrored shades behind which, I guessed, two pairs of eyes were tightly shut. Because Cole's skin remained its typical golden brown and Dave's kept all its freckles. Hers, on the other hand, began to get that leathery look you see on old gals who've sacrificed softness for tanning. Even her snakes looked a little gray around the edges. "You think this will kill me?" she bellowed as she dragged forward a foot that had suddenly gone sand-tinted. "After generations of men, all of them more brilliant and virile than you, have tried to freeze me with my own stare?" Second foot forward. She looked like an elephant trying to reach its water bowl after a hard night of partying. "This only slows me down!" She looked over her shoulder at us, her gaze even more venomous than the snakes waving almost drunkenly around her skull. "And makes me harder to stop." "That works for us," Dave called. He swept his sword up one side of her head. The snakes regenerated much slower than before. That gave Cole time to carve a ravine in her chest that should've laid her flat. But she was one of the original three, and still connected to Roldan to boot. Which meant she still had the strength to bat his sword away as if it were no more irritating to her than a kid's toy. Cole went flying, landing among a planting of hands that caught him and rolled him into the mud like he was a round of pizza dough. Muttering so low that I couldn't catch the words, only that Vayl sounded like he was giving himself the lecture of a lifetime, my _sverhamin_ rushed up behind Sthenno and shoved his hand around the front of her, into the gaping wound Cole had caused. She screamed, turning her head to sink her teeth into his shoulder. Her claws sank into his hips as he reached for her heartstone, but the snakes struggling to respawn couldn't join in the fray. They yawned their baby mouths and reached out to him like chicks in a nest, begging for regurge, and he laughed as he yanked his hand free, the blood and gore dripping from his fist unable to disguise the treasure he'd found. "Jasmine! Here!" He tossed me the heartstone, which I caught despite the droplets of ick flying off it and the slick layer of goo that made it slippery as an ice cube. For a second, as I turned toward shore, I did lose my grip. In that nightmare moment I could see it falling through the gaps between the ulnas and skulls on the bridge into the river, where we'd never be able to recover it again. I leaped to land, ran about ten yards, and put it safely on the ground. Not even giving myself time for a sigh of relief, I steadied Sthenno's heartstone between my boots, pulled the hammer and chisel from my belt, and began my second carving of the day while Astral sat so close it was a wonder I didn't smack her on the upswing. Visualizing the symbol that Roldan had traced repeatedly in the air and my own Inner Bimbo had copied, I tapped the pattern into the stone. Sthenno screamed again. My peripheral vision told me she was coming for me, but everyone in my crew blocked the bridge, their blades forming a barrier her claws and slow-growing asps found impossible to breach. The rock was slippery. So was the mud underneath. This made the chiseling harder and slower than it had been with Brude. And, perversely, now that Roldan could feel his death drawing near, he'd decided to fight forevery last breath. When I heard the growls of a fully changed werewolf, my heart launched into triple time. _Isn't that just like a villain?_ said Granny May. _Can't even hold on to the little bit of honor he's found for ten damn minutes_. She and the rest of my inner girls had all brought their lawn chairs onto her front porch for the final showdown. _Popcorn? You've decided to watch me battle for my life as if you were at a movie theater?_ _Not completely_ , said Teen Me, holding up her snack. _I have yogurt_. She took a bite and then, with her mouth full of strawberry-banana lusciousness, added, _Isn't it interesting how demons react differently to having their heartstones carved by humans? When Kyphas did hers with Cole's name he got all demony and she was all, "Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha." But now that you're doing Sthenno's, she's acting like it's the end of the world!_ _Hopefully it is for her_ , said Granny May. _Now, hurry up, Jazzy. Your people may be good, but the snakes are growing and Roldan is getting stronger. Finish that already!_ Luckillly I work well under pressure. I chinked in the last flourish of Sthenno's glyph just as Roldan broke free of her chain and charged our line. He ran straight for Zell. And though Vayl, Cole, Dave, and Raoul all closed on him quicker than NOLA cops on a rowdy Mardi Gras tourist, he still had the head start and the speed. Zell went down under his snapping jaws and tearing claws. Helena's scream tore at my heart as I ran to help, still holding the pieces of the Rocenz in my hands, the completed heartstone forgotten in the mud just like the slumping form of Sthenno behind us. When the men pulled back from their attack on Roldan, his white coat was stained a dark, bloody red. Vayl, alone, tore him off Zell, the sight of whom brought another jagged cry from Helena. He was also soaked in blood, his throat torn open so badly I thought I could see his spine shining at the back of it. But he'd given as good as he got, which we saw when we rolled the Were over to find his homemade dagger sticking out of Roldan's chest. Helena leaned over Zell, weeping so desperately that her entire body shook. She clutched at his clothes and demanded for him to come back, to wake up. When I looked to Vayl to see if watching this scene was breaking his heart too, I saw two bloody tears tracking down his face. Helena wrapped her arms around her love and cried even harder, which I hadn't thought possible. Vayl crouched down to lay a hand across her shoulder. The rest of us stood by, helpless. Behind us, a sigh. We turned. Sthenno had dropped to the ground, her snakes limp around her head, her entire chest such a bloody mess she looked like she'd just fallen off an autopsy table. But she wasn't too far gone to whisper, "Cole. You've hovered over the edge of the pit before. Remember all the delectable temptations Kyphas dangled in front of you? She could have given you everything you ever dreamed of. But I can give you more. Not just eternity. You have that now, I can see it in your eyes. Not just women, your skills are so renowned that even I have heard of them." Her dying eyes turned to me. "I can give you Jasmine. She considered you once. She'd be easy to turn. And then you'd have a lifetime. Redheaded daughters and towheaded sons. A house on the beach and a big-screen TV to cuddle in front of on rainy nights. What do you say, Cole? All you have to do is accept me. You'll never even see me." He looked at me, then at Vayl. "My girl is waiting for me out there. And I have a feeling she'd be überpissed if I dumped her before we even met. Plus—" He shook his head at Sthenno. "Girl, your sales pitch is just old. Kyphas tried it on me weeks ago and it worked like a salvage-yard reject." Sthenno sighed again, closed her eyes, and crumpled in on herself like a wilting flower. Which seemed kind of appropriate given her location. Helena had now begun the hiccup sobbing that let me know she was fast dropping into hysteria. I knelt beside her, opposite Vayl, suddenly acutely aware that this woman was probably my granny's greatgreat-grandmother. That she'd died giving birth to twin girls, one of whom had continued a line that Vayl had watched over until he'd finally met and fallen for me. Had I been the only one? I couldn't bear to look at him, much less ask just now. So I shook her, whispering, "Helena. Helena," until she looked up and I was staring into the clear blue eyes of my ancestress. I asked, "What are the rules here? Can he die? I mean, considering the fact that he's already dead?" She shook her head. "I don't know." Raoul spoke up. "He's being given a choice. He can stay in this body and continue to work with Helena. Or he can find peace. If he chooses the latter, we'll see his soul ascend within a few minutes. If he decides to stay, he's going to be in real danger. The pain will be immense, and the chance for some sort of wicked infection setting in on a wound like that is excellent. As soon as we know, we should move him." "Then I'd better get busy." Cole had shoved his shades back, which swept his hair away from his face as well, giving him a much more serious look than usual. He held out his hands to me. "I need that tool." Something about the way he said it made me decide that questioning his motives was so far out of order that I might lose his friendship if I went there. So I just raised the Rocenz to him. He took the hammer and chisel in his hands, holding them so comfortably I'd have thought he'd been born to work wood, except I'd never seen him craft anything more artistic than a ham-and-cheese sandwich. He took a stone from his pocket. The same one Kyphas had used to carve his name on in Marrakech. "Cole," said Vayl, his voice firm, warning. "Do you know what you are doing?" Cole stared into his eyes. "I've never been so sure of anything in my life." He glanced over at me solemnly. "I have to do this." I nodded, only barely understanding. But I didn't have to. He was my friend. He needed my support. That was all I really had to know. Steadying the rock between his feet just like I'd done with Sthenno's heartstone, Cole began to chisel letters. K. Y. P. H. A. By the time he got to the first curve of the S, the sky above us had begun to darken. We tried to ignore it, but Helena began to look worried. "We need to get out of here," she whispered to Dave, who was bending over Zell, providing the first-aid skills he'd learned in the military. He nodded. "I agree." He looked up at Raoul. "Can you take him to your place? He's dead so, you know, I can feel his state pretty clearly." Dave cleared his throat uncomfortably as we tried, and failed, not to gape at him. "The good news is that he's back." Helena clapped her hands to her mouth to hold back a whole series of sobs that insisted on pouring out around the edges of her fingers anyway. Dave stared at her grimly. "The bad news is that he's already infected with something, and he's not fighting it off because he's so badly hurt. It's less like a disease than a way of thinking. He's already considering giving up." "That's not my Zell," said Helena. Dave shook his head. "No. I think it's hell, getting into his spirit. And if we don't evacuate him soon, it'll sink into his core. I'm not saying he couldn't beat this on his own. He's got you, Helena, and that's a lot. But if what Raoul said is true about hell's atmosphere, and I'm right about this infection��" "Then we go," said Raoul. He picked Zell up and threw him over his shoulder like he weighed only slightly more than a basket of dirty clothes. "You can handle this," he told me. "Of course. I'll be in touch." He smirked. "That I know." Then his lips stretched into a smile. "I'm proud of you, Jasmine." That was all he said. And I didn't know how to answer except to blink like a damn barn owl. Then Helena distracted us both, reaching out to Vayl, who took her hand, bowed over it like they were still living in eighteenth-century London, and kissed it. When he rose again, the sorrow in his eyes was so deep it threatened to swallow them both. "My girl. Had I known you were here—" "I know. You would've rescued me in an instant. And probably died, or worse, been captured and suffered endless tortures in the attempt." She smiled up at him. "You showed me the way to survive." She glanced at Zell. "Even to be happy. And then I found out how to continue on my own. Isn't that what good parents do?" He shrugged. "I would not know." She put her arms around him. "But you do. I love you, Papa. Zell and I will come visit as soon as he's better." She glanced over at me. "We have a lot of catching up to do, don't we?" _No shit, Sherlock!_ I glared at my Inner Bimbo, but she was belting out the wrong words to "Banana Fana Shoshana" along with her newfound backup singers between long sips from her third margarita, so I looked further. To my mental librarian, who was skidding around the stacks in her sensible pumps, pencils sticking out of her bun in five different directions as she searched wildly for something to write with. She found a crayon lying on top of a slightly dented study carrel and waved it at me as she yelled, _Helena is family? And Vayl never told you? Shouldn't we feel betrayed? Plus, what does that make him, your... guardian-in-law? Should we be grossed out? Or mad? How do I categorize this???_ I looked at Vayl, who was watching his adopted daughter help Raoul balance Zell on his shoulder. The love on his face, purely paternal, changed radically when he turned to me. _You know what, Book Lady? We're just going to let this one go_. A sound, something between a scream and a cry of anguish, turned us both toward hell's fence. As it had with Brude, the air had begun to shimmer and then to take shape. Kyphas appeared, still enveloped in her billowing black dress with its extra-long sleeves and face-masking hood. It was pulled back to reveal her expression, shocked out of its misery as soon as she realized what Cole was doing. She held up an arm. "No," she croaked. "I haven't paid my dues. They'll come after you if you do this." He paused to look up at her. "In the end, you showed me a moment of true love. How could I move on without doing the same for you?" "Cole—" Her head jerked back as he finished her name. She screamed. And a million black moths shot out of her mouth, flapping into the sky with the sound I had always secretly thought Death would make as it sneaked up to an old man's bedside. When she dropped her chin, we gasped. Her face had re-formed, its beauty so breathtaking I found it hard to sit still beneath that brilliant golden gaze. The hood had completely fallen off, revealing her mane of blond hair. And when she raised her hands to stare at them wonderingly, they were complete, the skin back to the healthy tan that pale women like me had envied in her better days. Love and gratitude spilled from her eyes along with her tears as she said, "Thank you. Oh, Cole, thank you." And then she closed her eyes as she began to glow, the color brightening first to bright orange, then to red. It didn't seem to hurt. Her expression remained serene as she burst into so many pieces that she resembled the sparkling residue from a high-flying fountain whose droplets cross into the sun before they drop back into their pool. Hers had direction as well, pointing themselves directly to the rock Cole had carved: They poured themselves into it until it sparkled like a gemstone. When the light show had finished, Cole dug a hole with his fingers and gently buried Kyphas's heartstone in the field. Raoul told me later that a red rosebush grew in that spot, and that occasionally Cole asked one of the hell scouts to bring him a flower from it. I wasn't so sentimental as my old friend. But, then, I didn't have to wait nearly as long as he did for the love of my life to show. He walked beside me all the way back to the world while the rest of our crew followed at our backs. He was holding my hand as we stepped through the plane portal. And he was the one who hugged me first when Bergman rushed into the bathroom to say, "Jasmine! Jack's going to be okay!" # CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE _Monday, June 18, 3:15 a.m_. Funny how seeing your dog attempt to wag his tail as you enter the room brightens your entire outlook on life. Even Aaron, who'd had to spend the entire mission holding a gun to the portal and hoping he didn't have to shoot it, seemed cheered by the sight. After our battle-wind-down powwow, during which we all retold our stories, Bergman demanded to be repaid for the exorbitant vet fee, and Aaron apologized a thousand times for doubting us—because, damn, it's a little mind-shattering having to guard the only escape for a whole group of innocent people when the pregnant woman's husband informs you he'll kill you if you fail—everybody scattered. Cassandra and Dave wandered back to the honeymoon suite. Cole and Bergman waved good night and went their separate ways. Astral curled up on the bed beside Jack, who instantly began to snore. Which left Aaron and Lotus sitting at the table with Vayl and me. He regarded his children, first his son, then his daughter, with adoring eyes. "You have turned into quite fascinating people over time," he told them. "I cannot even begin to tell you how it fills my heart to know you are well. That your souls survived and continue their journey even into today." Lotus nodded. "I'm telling you what. This girl?" She pointed to herself with both thumbs. "Not journeying back to hell. Ever. Even if that means wearing a bra every single day." I turned my laugh into a cough as Vayl went into the absolute stillness that occasionally substituted itself for deep embarrassment. Finally he said, "I am overjoyed to hear that." After a beat, he went on. "I shall not make a pest of myself. But if you would both allow me to check in on you from time to time, I would be grateful." Lotus and Aaron exchanged looks that were, to give them credit, only slightly weirded out. Aaron said to Lotus, "My dad's dead. How about yours?" She shrugged. "He's kind of a jerk. But he's the only one I have. Had." She frowned at Vayl. "Until now." She raised her eyebrows at Aaron, who nodded for her to continue. "As long as you promise not to bite us or try to turn us, we're cool with you coming to visit. But you have to call first." "And plan on staying at a hotel," Aaron put in. Lotus added, "Also? Don't be killing anybody in the towns where we live. We don't want to have to move every time you decide to stop by for a chat." She turned to Aaron. "Do you have anything else?" He nodded. "Yeah." He pointed at me. "She's kinda scary. So she has to learn how to bake cookies. I was thinking anybody who knows how to bake cookies should be okay." He wiped a band of sweat off his forehead and resolutely avoided my glare as he turned to Lotus, who said, "Actually, that makes a lot of sense. What do you think, Vayl?" I leaned over and whispered in Vayl's ear. "How did they know I don't know how to bake cookies?" Minute shrug. "Perhaps they can see it in your eyes?" He waited. I humphed. "Okay. But they have to be chocolate chip." "I do not think they care which kind you make, as long as you promise to learn." I sat back in my chair, willing Vayl not to chuckle as he leaned forward and shook hands with his children, saying, "We have a deal," so formally he might've been sitting across from a couple of big-time CEOs. Soon afterward Lotus and Aaron found rooms for themselves, leaving us alone with our pets, our grubby clothes, and our wildly divergent thoughts. "It has been quite an adventure, my _pretera_ ," Vayl said. "Yeah." I'd sent my inner girls on a mission to knock on all the doors of my mind. If anyone who wasn't supposed to be there answered, I just might have a nervous breakdown. But so far... no demons anywhere. I was beginning to accept the fact that Brude was gone forever. "I found my children." "And they are unique." "Helena is a wonder as well." "Yeah." I cleared my throat. "About her." He took my hand and led me to the bathroom, where he slowly began to peel off my torn and bloody clothes. Whenever he found a scratch or bruise he paused to lay a kiss on it as he explained, "Yes. She is your ancestress. And yes, I have looked after your line ever since I adopted her. For the most part I have kept a respectful distance, so that the good fortune that has befallen your family members has seemed to be just that. And it seemed that the same would be true of you. I had never even seen you until after Matt died. But your circumstances demanded that I come closer. I felt you needed protection from something, though I could not pinpoint what that was." "Because it was myself," I whispered, as I began to unbutton his tattered shirt. He nodded. "The moment I saw you, everything changed for me." He wrapped his hands around mine and I looked up into his eyes. "I had never felt for a woman the way I did for you then. I loved you instantly." He raised my hands to his lips, his ring glinting in the soft glow of the single light we'd left on as he brushed them softly against each knuckle until I could feel the tingle of his touch down the backs of my thighs and into my feet. "You are part of my soul." I waited until he had thoroughly kissed each finger, then I freed my hand so I could part the front of his shirt and slowly pull it down his arms so I could enjoy each new bit of skin and muscle it revealed. His chest, as broad and curl-covered as it had been the day he was turned, rippled under my fingers as I swept them across it and down to his flat, hard stomach. I looked up into his emerald eyes as I began to undo his belt. "I never wanted to be this close to you. But you're irresistible, you know." As I freed the leather band and dropped it to the floor, I wrapped my arm around his waist and pulled him so close I could feel already that I'd excited him in the extreme. "You're like air to me now. Without you, I couldn't breathe. I wouldn't want to." I raised my lips. Instead of dropping his head he lifted me in his arms, holding me effortlessly while I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his hips, pressing my breasts into his chest. "I love you, Vayl," I said between multiple kisses along his jaw and neck. "And I love you, Jasmine." Long pause while we shared a kiss so phenomenal that when it was finished I had to think for a minute before I could remember where in the world we were standing. "Are you still cool with me spending more downtime with family? Because, you know, that would mean you'd have to hang out with them too." He took another moment to kiss my forehead. "I relish the thought. Perhaps, one day, _you_ would like to join Evie and Cassandra in motherhood?" I regarded him seriously. "I don't know. Do you think we could pull that off?" "Perhaps. We are becoming so... different. Also, I hear I am a wonderful father." I threw my arms around him. "You are. Which is a good thing, because it's entirely possible I'd suck as a mother." "I doubt it." "You know," I whispered in his ear, "it's also entirely possible we may never find out." "I do not care," he said earnestly. "We will be together. And think of the fun we will have trying!" I snorted. Then I stopped. Because I _was_ entertaining a couple of ideas, and it was suddenly taking all my concentration to stand upright. Then I got a whiff of myself. I said, "I hate to ruin the moment. But I stink. Plus, I think I might have gorgon blood on my bra." Vayl chuckled. "That is more than blood." "Eeeeewww!" "The last one in the shower has to unwrap the hotel soap." "Get outta my way!" # extras # meet the author _Cindy Pringle_ JENNIFER RARDIN began writing at the age of twelve. She penned eight Jaz Parks novels in her life. She passed away in September 2010. # introducing If you enjoyed THE DEADLIEST BITE, look out for # TEMPEST RISING Book 1 of the Jane True series _by Nicole Peeler_ _Living in small town Rockabill, Maine, Jane True always knew she didn't quite fit in with so-called normal society. During her nightly, clandestine swim in the freezing winter ocean, a grisly find leads Jane to startling revelations about her heritage: she is only half-human_. _Now Jane must enter a world filled with supernatural creatures that are terrifying, beautiful, and deadly—all of which perfectly describe her new "friend," Ryu, a gorgeous and powerful vampire_. _It is a world where nothing can be taken for granted: a dog can heal with a lick; spirits bag your groceries; and whatever you do, never—ever—rub the genie's lamp_. I eyeballed the freezer, trying to decide what to cook for dinner that night. Such a decision was no mean feat, since a visiting stranger might assume that Martha Stewart not only lived with us but was preparing for the apocalypse. Frozen lasagnas, casseroles, pot pies, and the like filled our icebox nearly to the brim. Finally deciding on fish chowder, I took out some haddock and mussels. After a brief, internal struggle, I grabbed some salmon to make extra soup to—you guessed it—freeze. Yeah, the stockpiling was more than a little OCD, but it made me feel better. It also meant that when I actually had something to do for the entire evening, I could leave my dad by himself without feeling too guilty about it. My dad wasn't an invalid—not exactly. But he had a bad heart and needed help taking care of things, especially with my mother gone. So I took up the slack, which I was happy to do. It's not like I had much else on my plate, what with being the village pariah and all. It's amazing how being a pariah gives you ample amounts of free time. After putting in the laundry and cleaning the downstairs bathroom, I went upstairs to take a shower. I would have loved to walk around all day with the sea salt on my skin, but not even in Rockabill was Eau de Brine an acceptable perfume. Like many twentysomethings, I'd woken up early that day to go exercise. Unlike most twenty-somethings, however, my morning exercise took the form of an hour or so long swim in the freezing ocean. And in one of America's deadliest whirlpools. Which is why I am so careful to keep the swimming on the DL. It might be a great cardio workout, but it probably would get me burned at the stake. This is New England, after all. As I got dressed in my work clothes—khaki chinos and a longsleeved pink polo-style shirt with _Read It and Weep_ embroidered in navy blue over the breast pocket—I heard my father emerge from his bedroom and clomp down the stairs. His job in the morning was to make the coffee, so I took a moment to apply a little mascara, blush, and some lip gloss, before brushing out my damp black hair. I kept it cut in a much longer—and admittedly more unkempt—version of Cleopatra's style because I liked to hide my dark eyes under my long bangs. Most recently, my nemesis, Stuart Gray, had referred to them as "demon eyes." They're not as Marilyn Manson as that, thank you very much, but even I had to admit to difficulty determining where my pupil ended and my iris began. I went back downstairs to join my dad in the kitchen, and I felt that pang in my heart that I get sometimes when I'm struck by how he's changed. He'd been a fisherman, but he'd had to retire about ten years ago, on disability, when his heart condition worsened. Once a handsome, confident, and brawny man whose presence filled any space he entered, his long illness and my mother's disappearance had diminished him in every possible way. He looked so small and gray in his faded old bathrobe, his hands trembling from the antiarrhythmics he takes for his screwed-up heart, that it took every ounce of self-control I had not to make him sit down and rest. Even if his body didn't agree, he still felt himself to be the man he had been, and I knew I already walked a thin line between caring for him and treading on his dignity. So I put on my widest smile and bustled into the kitchen, as if we were a father and daughter in some sitcom set in the 1950s. "Good morning, Daddy!" I beamed. "Morning, honey. Want some coffee?" He asked me that question every morning, even though the answer had been yes since I was fifteen. "Sure, thanks. Did you sleep all right?" "Oh, yes. And you? How was your morning?" My dad never asked me directly about the swimming. It's a question that lay under the auspices of the "don't ask, don't tell" policy that ruled our household. For example, he didn't ask me about my swimming, I didn't ask him about my mother. He didn't ask me about Jason, I didn't ask him about my mother. He didn't ask me whether or not I was happy in Rockabill, I didn't ask him about my mother... "Oh, I slept fine, Dad. Thanks." Of course I hadn't, really, as I only needed about four hours of sleep a night. But that's another thing we never talked about. He asked me about my plans for the day, while I made us a breakfast of scrambled eggs on whole wheat toast. I told him that I'd be working till six, then I'd go to the grocery store on the way home. So, as usual for a Monday, I'd take the car to work. We performed pretty much the exact same routine every week, but it was nice of him to act like it was possible I might have new and exciting plans. On Mondays, I didn't have to worry about him eating lunch, as Trevor McKinley picked him up to go play a few hours of cheeky lunchtime poker with George Varga, Louis Finch, and Joe Covelli. They're all natives of Rockabill and friends since childhood, except for Joe, who moved here to Maine about twenty years ago to open up our local garage. That's how things were around Rockabill. For the winter, when the tourists were mostly absent, the town was populated by natives who grew up together and were more intimately acquainted with each other's dirty laundry than their own hampers. Some people enjoyed that intimacy. But when you were more usually the object of the whispers than the subject, intimacy had a tendency to feel like persecution. We ate while we shared our local paper, _The Light House News_. But because the paper mostly functioned as a vehicle for advertising things to tourists, and the tourists were gone for the season, the pickings were scarce. Yet we went through the motions anyway. For all of our sins, no one could say that the True family wasn't good at going through the motions. After breakfast, I doled out my father's copious pills and set them next to his orange juice. He flashed me his charming smile, which was the only thing left unchanged after the ravages to his health and his heart. "Thank you, Jane," he said. And I knew he meant it, despite the fact that I'd set his pills down next to his orange juice every single morning for the past twelve years. I gulped down a knot in my throat, since I knew that no small share of his worry and grief was due to me, and kissed him on the cheek. Then I bustled around clearing away breakfast, and bustled around getting my stuff together, and bustled out the door to get to work. In my experience, bustling is always a great way to keep from crying. Tracy Gregory, the owner of Read It and Weep, was already hard at work when I walked in the front door. The Gregorys were an old fishing family from Rockabill, and Tracy was their prodigal daughter. She had left to work in Los Angeles, where she had apparently been a successful movie stylist. I say apparently because she never told us the names of any of the movies she'd worked on. She'd only moved back to Rockabill about five years ago to open Read It and Weep, which was our local bookstore, café, and all-around tourist trap. Since tourism replaced fishing as our major industry, Rockabill can just about support an all-year-round enterprise like Read It and Weep. But other things, like the nicer restaurant—rather unfortunately named The Pig Out Bar and Grill—close for the winter. "Hey, girl," she said gruffly, as I locked the door behind me. We didn't open for another half hour. "Hey, Tracy. Grizelda back?" Grizelda was Tracy's girlfriend, and they'd caused quite a stir when they first appeared in Rockabill together. Not only were they lesbians, but they were as fabulously lesbionic as the inhabitants of a tiny village in Maine could ever imagine. Tracy carried herself like a rugby player, and dressed like one, too. But she had an easygoing charisma that got her through the initial gender panic triggered by her reentry into Rockabill society. And if Tracy made heads turn, Grizelda practically made them spin _Exorcist_ style. Grizelda was not Grizelda's real name. Nor was Dusty Nethers, the name she'd used when was a porn star. As Dusty Nethers, Grizelda had been fiery haired and as boobilicious as a _Baywatch_ beauty. But in her current incarnation, as Grizelda Montague, she sported a sort of Gothic-hipster look—albeit one that was still very boobilicious. A few times a year Grizelda disappeared for weeks or a month, and upon her return home she and Tracy would complete some big project they'd been discussing, like redecorating the store or adding a sunroom onto their little house. Lord knows what she got up to on her profit-venture vacations. But whatever it was, it didn't affect her relationship with Tracy. The pair were as close as any husband and wife in Rockabill, if not closer, and seeing how much they loved each other drove home to me my own loneliness. "Yeah, Grizzie's back. She'll be here soon. She has something for you... something scandalous, knowing my lady love." I grinned. "Awesome. I love her gifts." Because of Grizzie, I had a drawer full of naughty underwear, sex toys, and dirty books. Grizzie gave such presents for _every_ occasion; it didn't matter if it was your high school graduation, your fiftieth wedding anniversary, or your baby's baptism. This particular predilection meant she was a prominent figure on wedding shower guest lists from Rockabill to Eastport, but made her dangerous for children's parties. Most parents didn't appreciate an "every day of the week" pack of thongs for their eleven-year-old daughter. Once she'd given me a gift certificate for a "Hollywood" bikini wax and I had to Google the term. What I discovered made me way too scared to use it, so it sat in my "dirty drawer," as I called it, as a talking point. Not that anyone ever went into my dirty drawer with me, but I talked to myself a lot, and it certainly provided amusing fodder for my own conversations. It was also rather handy—no pun intended—to have access to one's own personal sex shop during long periods of enforced abstinence... such as the last eight years of my life. "And," Tracy responded with a rueful shake of her head, "her gifts love you. Often quite literally." "That's all right, somebody has to," I answered back, horrified at the bitter inflection that had crept into my voice. But Tracy, bless her, just stroked a gentle hand over my hair that turned into a tiny one-armed hug, saying nothing. "Hands off my woman!" crowed a hard-edged voice from the front door. Grizelda! "Oh, sorry," I apologized, backing away from Tracy. "I meant for Tracy to get off _you_ ," Grizzie said, swooping toward me to pick me up in a bodily hug, my own well-endowed chest clashing with her enormous fake bosoms. I hated being short at times like these. Even though I loved all five feet and eleven inches of Grizzie, and had more than my fair share of affection for her ta-ta-riddled hugs, I loathed being manhandled. She set me down and grasped my hands in hers, backing away to look me over appreciatively while holding my fingers at arm's length. "Mmm, mmm," she said, shaking her head. "Girl, I could sop you up with a biscuit." I laughed, as Tracy rolled her eyes. "Quit sexually harassing the staff, Grizzly Bear," was her only comment. "I'll get back to sexually harassing you in a minute, passion flower, but right now I want to appreciate our Jane." Grizelda winked at me with her florid violet eyes—she wore colored lenses—and I couldn't help but giggle like a schoolgirl. "I've brought you a little something," she said, her voice sly. I clapped my hands in excitement and hopped up and down in a little happy dance. I really did love Grizzie's gifts, even if they challenged the tenuous grasp of human anatomy imparted to me by Mrs. Renault in her high school biology class. "Happy belated birthday!" she cried as she handed me a beautifully wrapped package she pulled from her enormous handbag. I admired the shiny black paper and the sumptuous red velvet ribbon tied up into a decadent bow—Grizzie did everything with style—before tearing into it with glee. After slitting open the tape holding the box closed with my thumbnail, I was soon holding in my hands the most beautiful red satin nightgown I'd ever seen. It was a deep, bloody, blue-based red, the perfect red for my skin tone. And it was, of course, the perfect length, with a slit up the side that would rise almost to my hip. Grizzie had this magic ability to always buy people clothes that fit. The top was generously cut for its small dress size, the bodice gathered into a sort of clamshell-like tailoring that I knew would cup my boobs like those hands in that famous Janet Jackson picture. The straps were slightly thicker, to give support, and crossed over the _very_ low-cut back. It was absolutely gorgeous—very adult and sophisticated—and I couldn't stop stroking the deliciously watery satin. "Grizzie," I breathed. "It's gorgeous... but too much! This must have cost a fortune." "You are worth a fortune, little Jane. Besides, I figured you might need something nice... since Mark's 'special deliveries' should have culminated in a date by now." Grizzie's words trailed off as my face fell and Tracy, behind her, made a noise like Xena, Warrior Princess, charging into battle. Before Tracy could launch into just how many ways she wanted to eviscerate our new letter carrier, I said, very calmly, "I won't be going on any dates with Mark." "What happened?" Grizzie asked, as Tracy made another grunting declaration of war behind us. "Well..." I started, but where should I begin? Mark was new to Rockabill, a widowed employee of the U.S. Postal Service, who had recently moved to our little corner of Maine with his two young daughters. He'd kept forgetting to deliver letters and packages, necessitating second, and sometimes third, trips to our bookstore, daily. I'd thought he was sweet, but rather dumb, until Tracy had pointed out that he only forgot stuff when I was working. So we'd flirted and flirted and flirted over the course of a month. Until, just a few days ago, he'd asked me out. I was thrilled. He was cute; he was _new_ ; he'd lost someone he was close to, as well. And he "obviously" didn't judge me on my past. You know what they say about assuming... "We had a date set up, but he cancelled. I guess he asked me out before he knew about... everything. Then someone must have told him. He's got kids, you know." "So?" Grizzie growled, her smoky voice already furious. "So, he said that he didn't think I'd be a good influence. On his girls." "That's fucking ridiculous," Grizzie snarled, just as Tracy made a series of inarticulate chittering noises behind us. She was normally the sedate, equable half of her and Grizzie's partnership, but Tracy had nearly blown a gasket when I'd called her crying after Mark bailed on me. I think she would have torn off his head, but then we wouldn't have gotten our inventory anymore. I lowered my head and shrugged. Grizzie moved forward, having realized that Tracy already had the anger market cornered. "I'm sorry, honey," she said, wrapping her long arms around me. "That's... such a shame." And it was a shame. My friends wanted me to move on, my dad wanted me to move on. Hell, except for that tiny sliver of me that was still frozen in guilt, _I_ wanted to move on. But the rest of Rockabill, it seems, didn't agree. Grizzie brushed the bangs back from my eyes, and when she saw tears glittering she intervened, Grizelda-style. Dipping me like a tango dancer, she growled sexily, "Baby, I'm gonna butter yo' bread..." before burying her face in my exposed belly and giving me a resounding zerbert. That did just the trick. I was laughing again, thanking my stars for about the zillionth time that they had brought Grizzie and Tracy back to Rockabill because I didn't know what I would have done without them. I gave Tracy her own hug for the present, and then took it to the back room with my stuff. I opened the box to give the red satin one last parting caress, and then closed it with a contented sigh. It would look absolutely gorgeous in my dirty drawer. We had only a few things to do to get the store ready for opening, which left much time for chitchat. About a half hour of intense gossip later, we had pretty much exhausted "what happened when you were gone" as a subject of conversation and had started in on plans for the coming week, when the little bell above the door tinkled. My heart sank when I saw it was Linda Allen, self-selected female delegate for my own personal persecution squad. She wasn't quite as bad as Stuart Gray, who hated me even more than Linda did, but she did her best to keep up with him. _Speaking of the rest of Rockabill_ , I thought, as Linda headed toward romance. She didn't bother to speak to me, of course. She just gave me one of her loaded looks that she could fire off like a World War II gunship. The looks always said the same things. They spoke of the fact that I was the girl whose crazy mother had shown up in the center of town out of nowhere, _naked_ , in the middle of a storm. The fact that she'd _stolen_ one of the most eligible Rockabill bachelors and _ruined him for life_. The fact that she'd given birth to a baby _without being married_. The fact that I insisted on being _that child_ and upping the ante by being _just as weird as my mother_. That was only the tip of the vituperative iceberg that Linda hauled into my presence whenever she had the chance. Unfortunately, Linda read nearly as compulsively as I did, so I saw her at least twice a month when she'd come in for a new stack of romance novels. She liked a very particular kind of plot: the sort where the pirate kidnaps some virgin damsel, rapes her into loving him, and then dispatches lots of seamen while she polishes his cutlass. Or where the Highland clan leader kidnaps some virginal English Rose, rapes her into loving him, and then kills entire armies of Sassenachs while she stuffs his haggis. Or where the Native American warrior kidnaps a virginal white settler, rapes her into loving him, and then kills a bunch of colonists while she whets his tomahawk. I hated to get Freudian on Linda, but her reading patterns suggested some interesting insights into why she was such a complete bitch. Tracy had received a phone call while Linda was picking out her books, and Grizelda was sitting on a stool far behind the counter in a way that clearly said "I'm not actually working, thanks." But Linda pointedly ignored the fact that I was free to help her, choosing, instead, to stand in front of Tracy. Tracy gave that little eye gesture where she looked at Linda, then looked at me, as if to say, "She can help you," but Linda insisted on being oblivious to my presence. Tracy sighed and cut her telephone conversation short. I knew that Tracy would love to tell Linda to stick her attitude where the sun don't shine, but Read It and Weep couldn't afford to lose a customer who was as good at buying books as she was at being a snarky snake face. So Tracy rang up Linda's purchases and bagged them for her as politely as one can without actually being friendly and handed the bag over to Linda. Who, right on cue, gave me her parting shot, the look I knew was coming but was never quite able to deflect. The look that said, _There's the freak who killed her own boyfriend_. She was wrong, of course. I hadn't actually killed Jason. I was just the reason he was dead. # Contents FRONT COVER IMAGE WELCOME EPIGRAPH EXTRAS MEET THE AUTHOR A PREVIEW OF _TEMPEST RISING_ CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER THIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE JAZ PARKS NOVELS PRAISE FOR THE JAZ PARKS SERIES COPYRIGHT # JAZ PARKS NOVELS _Once Bitten, Twice Shy_ _Another One Bites the Dust_ _Biting the Bullet_ _Bitten to Death_ _One More Bite_ _Bite Marks_ _Bitten in Two_ _The Deadliest Bite_ # Praise for the Jaz Parks series > "The humor really shines as Rardin's kick-ass heroine guides readers through her insane life." > > — _Romantic Times_ # Copyright Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Rardin Excerpt from _Tempest Rising_ copyright © 2009 by Nicole Peeler All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Orbit Hachette Book Group 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com www.twitter.com/orbitbooks First eBook Edition: June 2011 Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Orbit name and logo are trademarks of Little, Brown Book Group Limited. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher. ISBN: 978-0-316-17503-6	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Books3
Q: Railscasts196, Rails 4, simple_form, JS, haml As in Railscasts196, I have nested Attendances in Events, Events in Event_groups: = simple_form_for(@event_group) do \|f\| = f.error_notification .form-inputs = f.input :name .form-actions = f.button :submit .h2 Events (not simple form) = f.fields_for :events do \|p\| = link_to_add_fields "Add field", p, :fields .field = p.label :starts_at = p.hidden_field :_destroy = link_to "[remove]", '#', class: "remove_fields" %p = p.fields_for :attendances do \|f\| .field = f.label :guest_id = f.text_field :guest_id = f.label :attendance_rate_id = f.text_field :attendance_rate_id Event_groups.js: $(document).on 'click', 'form .remove_fields', (event) -> $(this).prev('input[type=hidden]').val('1') $(this).closest('fieldset').hide() event.preventDefault() $(document).on 'click', 'form .add_fields', (event) -> time = new Date().getTime() regexp = new RegExp($(this).data('id'), 'g') $(this).before($(this).data('fields').replace(regexp, time)) event.preventDefault() Application_helper.rb: module ApplicationHelper def link_to_add_fields(name, f, association) new_object = f.object.send(association).klass.new id = new_object.object_id fields = f.fields_for(association, new_object, child_index: id) do \|builder\| render(association.to_s.singularize + "_fields", f: builder) end link_to(name, '#', class: "add_fields", data: {id: id, fields: fields.gsub("\n", "")}) end end Now I can't make the jQuery work as in Railscasts for Delete and Add new. Something must be wrong with the link_to_add_fields & remove. Please help A: Actually, nowadays there's a better way, using the cocoon gem. It's very simple and I've had great success using it ;) hope you do too!	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	StackExchange
AASLD: HBV New Target for HIV Drug Action Points Note that this study was published as an abstract and presented at a conference. These data and conclusions should be considered to be preliminary until published in a peer-reviewed journal. Explain to interested patients that the nucleotide analogue reverse transcriptase inhibitor (NRTI) tenofovir, a drug used to treat HIV infection, was found to be safe and effective for treating hepatitis B virus infection. Note that successful treatment was especially useful among hep B patients not previously exposed to an NRTI -- with a response rate of 80% at 48 weeks. A multicenter European cohort study using the nucleotide analogue reverse transcriptase inhibitor (NRTI) tenofovir found that the drug appears to be safe and effective for treating hepatitis B, according to Pietro Lampertico, MD, of the University of Milan, and colleagues. It was especially useful among hep B patients not previously exposed to an NRTI, Lampertico told the annual meeting of the American Association for the Study of Liver Diseases. Lampertico was reporting interim results of a planned five-year analysis of 737 chronic hepatitis B patients treated with tenofovir at 17 European centers. "We think it is very important to generate data about early clinical practice" because patients in clinical trials are often not representative of all patients with the disease, Lampertico told MedPage Today. Tenofovir was approved in 2008 both in Europe and the U.S. for treating hepatitis B, but it has long been a mainstay of therapy for HIV. "It's an old friend for those in HIV, but it's a new friend for us," Lampertico said. To see how well the drug performs in the real world of clinical practice, Lampertico and colleagues studied all patients -- except those with HIV coinfection -- who were put on the drug in each of the 17 centers. The main outcomes of the analysis were undetectable hepatitis B DNA and renal and tubular function. The patients were stratified according to their previous exposure to NRTIs -- 71% were previously exposed and 29% were NTRI-naive, Lampertico reported. Median follow-up was 16 months -- but in some cases it was as long as 52 months. In the NRTI-naive patients, response rates rose over time, reaching 89% at 48 weeks, Lampertico reported. On the other hand, he said, the time to a response was significantly affected (at P<0.0001) by baseline viral load and some patients with extremely high viremia at the start of treatment did not achieve a response. Indeed, at 48 weeks, 17 patients still had only a partial response, with a median residual viral load of 2.5 log10 international units per mL of serum. In the previously treated patients, Lampertico said, those who had undetectable viremia on their previous regimen -- most on adefovir (Hepsera) -- continued to have undetectable viremia on tenofovir. Among those who had developed resistance on their previous regimen, 74% became undetectable on tenofovir. The proportion of patients with impaired renal or tubular function was relatively small, Lampertico said, but those with previous exposure to adefovir were more likely to have low blood phosphorous levels and urinary phosphate absorption. About 6% of patients had their tenofovir dose reduced because of reduced creatinine clearance, Lampertico said, but most of them were over 60, had previous exposure to adefovir, and had comorbid conditions with the potential to affect kidney function. "There's a very good safety performance in naive patients," he said, "but in the experienced patients, we may see a few problems." But he cautioned that the results -- while encouraging -- are provisional and may change as the study continues. The analysis is "confirmatory and reassuring" that tenofovir works well in clinical practice, not just in trials, according to Arun Sanyal, MD, of Virginia Commonwealth University Medical Center in Richmond, Va. Sanyal, president of the AASLD, was not part of the study. "People are very interested in knowing what the gap is between outcomes in clinical trials and in real life," he told MedPage Today. "Clearly, it's a good antiviral agent." But Sanyal added that the safety signal for tenofovir-exposed patients seen by Lampertico and colleagues needs more analysis. "We need more focused studies using state-of-the-art measures of renal injury," he said. That's an "important future direction," he concluded. Accessibility Statement At MedPage Today, we are committed to ensuring that individuals with disabilities can access all of the content offered by MedPage Today through our website and other properties. If you are having trouble accessing www.medpagetoday.com, MedPageToday's mobile apps, please email [email protected] for assistance. Please put "ADA Inquiry" in the subject line of your email.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC
If Psyonix wants to take Rocket League to the next level, the San Diego based developer should talk full advantage of their recent Epic cash acquisition. Welcome to a new weekly feature, “RealOpinions”, a place where our columnists will offer the latest takes on the world of gaming. While Rocket League has a strong community, increased the ways organizations can monetize with in game items, and has tried to keep the game fresh for both players and viewers, the esports scene has seem to hit a Psyonix created ceiling. Unlike more mature franchises like League of Legends and Counter-Strike, Rocket League lacks the size, prize pool, and ecosystem to both attracted large orgs to invest in the game and enable players to have long, successful careers. Yet, the game has all the hallmarks of a title built to last. The game still has a large, active player base, content creators on both YouTube and Twitch, and a core concept that is both addicting and fun to watch. So why hasn’t Rocket League become a “tier 1” esport? There are several reasons for that. RLCS is lacking The top flight of Rocket League is where many in the grand champ ranks wish to end up one day. Playing on a professional team, earning a salary, and eventually playing at the World Championship to become one of the greatest of all time. Who wouldn’t want that? While previously Psyonix had to go it alone with limited funds, they no longer have that excuse post Epic Games buyout. What makes the RLCS particularly “lacking” compared to other esports you may ask? Well, for starters the prize pool. While no one is expecting The International level of money, the increase in prize pool for both the top flight tournament (Worlds) and the money spread out during League Play is modest at best. In order to create a scene that both feels professional and encourages investment from larger orgs that either may have pulled out (Fnatic, Team Envy, CLG) or are hesitant to invest (Team Liquid, eUnited) you need a financial incentive. Psyonix has increased the prize pool steadily every season, but the World Championship should be a $1 million tournament in addition to at least $500,000 spread between the four regions per region for league play. Another increase should come in the Rival Series which should be increased to ensure that it does not feel like either a retirement home for washed pros or for only bubble pros and the occasional young star. That would be the first big, but relatively easy, step for Psyonix. Increasing the prize pool/earning potential would give pros more incentive to keep playing, and increasing the prize pool in RLRS would make sure the second tier of RL would increase the profile of the series so orgs would not feel embarrassed to either invest or spend a season in until they would be promoted again. Would this be simply enough to improve the top/second flight of Rocket League worldwide? Of course not! So far, Rocket League only has two “official” leagues in the major regions of North America and Europe. I would like to see Psyonix start to create official leagues for South America and Oceania (eventually Asia as well). While having affiliated leagues is fine, the next logical step would be having official RLCS leagues in all of the regions. RLCS needs to evolve You should always learn from others when they do things right. One of the biggest issues facing esports in general is monetization, and one of the ways traditional sports makes a large chunk of their revenue is through ticket sales and merchandise/sponsorships. While RLCS has done an increasingly better job of finding large venues for Worlds, that is just one weekend. The real money RLCS could be making is in having RLCS on LAN. Instead of an online season, play the games at a studio in front of an audience of 100-200 every week. You could start off slow with just NA and EU and eventually to the other regions as they develop, but this would provide a way for brands to be visible in front of fans, give opportunities for much more in ticket sales, and ensure high quality of play throughout the duration of league play. The second would be having the RLCS season “playoffs” be actual LAN events in larger venues than the proposed league play arenas, but would not be the size of Worlds for obvious reasons (target 500 – 1000 seat arenas) yet would provide a much more meaningful finale to the end of the regional seasons. Imagine NRG winning Season 7 (of NA not Worlds haha) in front of fans on LAN vs online. I’m sure it would be much more meaningful both to the players and to their fans as they would break the curse of choking on LAN and would give them a lot of quality LAN practice against the best teams in the region. Obviously, this is not free money. Putting on events is not cheap and orgs would have to house players near the League play studio, but this is no different than from the LCS or LEC which have been successful in gaining sponsorships, ticket sales, and driving up interest for their esport. With a new partner in ad sales (Turner), Psyonix would be able to improve the appeal of their product to sponsors, and improve the quality of games in the league which would more than likely drive up viewership online. These improvements would not only be necessary quality of life ones, but would also provide for much better storylines going into Worlds. RLCS needs a better Worlds While Worlds has only gotten bigger ever year, it has largely stayed static as a tournament. The biggest event of the year has fewer matches than a DreamHack, and the format even after revision is still in need of improvement. For a season’s final, fans want to see the best of the best go at each other, not go out of a tournament after playing two best of fives (last place teams). The entire Worlds tournament does not have to be played in front of an audience because that would be extremely expensive and more than likely not profitable, but having a week for Worlds with the final four days being in front of an arena would be a marked improvement. With a longer schedule you would have much more time for more games of course. I would propose four team seeded groups (drawing the extra teams out of Oceania and South America) that would feature double round robin play. The groups would feed the top two seeds into the upper bracket of the playoffs and the bottom two teams would be sent to a losers’ bracket. This is similar to a format the Call of Duty World League utilizes for their events with great success and would provide the best storylines imaginable. The point of a World’s event is to have the biggest spectacle known to your game, and to have just a three-day event is unacceptable in 2019 for an esport gunning to be in the same tier as League of Legends or DOTA2. The addition of more days would of course come with some increased cost, but would make ad buys more valuable and therefore more costly which would increase Psyonix’ earning potential. RLCS needs a better game Okay, the heading is a little too provocative. Rocket League as a base game is amazing because of how low the floor is to play the game but how high the ceiling is to compete. Much like real life soccer, Rocket League has wide mass appeal, and that has resulted in great sales across consoles/devices. Yet, the game has struggled to find a home on Twitch where outside of pro streamers like Cameron “Kronovi” Bill, viewership is nonexistent. Very few large streamers casually play Rocket League like they would casually play a game like Fortnite or League of Legends. Why? Well Rocket League has remained the same game since it launched. Sure there are some new modes, the cars are customizable, and we have been blessed with some cool limited time events, but the game doesn’t have the large casual community it should command for a tier one esport. How do you fix that? Well changing the core game would be really dumb and more than likely not bring new players. A major update would draw interest, but it would have to require a lot of work on Psyonix’ part to bring in new players or those who have given up on the game altogether. Some argue that making the game free to play would bring in new players, but we have seen several free weekends on Steam, Xbox, and of course if you own a PlayStation odds are you own Rocket League and those players are more than likely already accounted for. It is next to impossible to know exactly what consumers will jump for in a game, Psyonix could do better to support both esports organizations and players with more in game items. The Esports store is really cool, but I would love to see Psyonix have a custom limited time (tradeable) skin for the winning team after every Worlds. It could be a Dominus/Octane skin with signatures of players and feature a distinct look that would be befitting of World champs. More limited time events and fun ways to play the game would be welcome because the game unlike League of Legends does not change drastically based on what car (compared to champion in League) you play as. The experience is pretty vanilla, and there is only so much soccar one can take before either tilting or going to play something else. Epic Games has done an amazing job of evolving Fortnite as both a game and as an experience which has helped the title retain a large following and massive Twitch streaming numbers. For Psyonix that should be the goal, continually evolving the Rocket League experience and finding ways to both excite casual and hardcore players in order to grow as a game and an esport. [zombify_post]	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
California state regulators have been asked to investigate ‘deceptive’ claims made by Gwyneth Paltrow’s Goop lifestyle company that there are health benefits to dozens of products promoted on its website, including the assertion that jade vagina eggs can improve sexual energy, restore hormonal balance and prevent uterine prolapse. On Tuesday, the nonprofit Truth in Advertising called on district attorneys’ offices in Santa Clara and Santa Cruz counties, which are members of the California Food Drug and Medical Device Task Force, to investigate how the Los Angeles-based Goop promotes these products and to take appropriate action. In all, Truth in Advertising said it had catalogued more than 50 instances of Paltrow’s startup boasting that its products — along with outside products it promotes on its site — can treat, cure, prevent, alleviate, or reduce the risk of ailments such as infertility, depression, psoriasis, anxiety, and even cancer. In addition to the vagina eggs, these products include crystal harmonics for infertility, rose flower essence tincture for depression, black rose bar for psoriasis, wearable stickers for anxiety, and vitamin D3 for cancer. “The problem is that the company does not possess the competent and reliable scientific evidence required by law to make such claims,” the Connecticut-based advocacy group wrote in a blog post. Goop has long faced criticism for not being able to back up its claims, including from Dr. Jennifer Gunter, a San Francisco gynecologist and medical blogger, who has consistently dissected and lambasted a number of Goop-endorsed products, including the jade vagina eggs. With regard to the eggs, Paltrow was quizzed by Jimmy Kimmel about them on his show. At first the actress laughingly said, “I don’t know” when he asked about their purported health benefits. Then she said they “act as a weight,” and presumably therefore work to tone the pelvic floor muscles. “We sell tons of them,” she said. “Women have had incredible results.” Last month, Guntner was back in the news again when both Paltrow and her Goop team attempted to defend themselves against ongoing social media ridicule and criticism with a post “Uncensored: A Word from Our Doctors.” That post included open letters from two doctors, one of which amounted to a professional attack on Guntner Truth in Advertising said Goop’s defense boiled down to arguing that “maybe it’s not smart to trust evidence-based science.” The group also noted that not long after the post and doctors’ letters went online, one of the doctors, Dr. Aviva Romm, told the health and medicine website STAT that she didn’t see herself as one of Goop’s doctors at all. “In fact,” the website reported, “(Romm) said she’s advised Goop that if it wants to be more than a ‘caricature of everything alternative health for women,’ the editors need to do an audit of all their content, in consultation with physicians.” Goop began in 2008 as a “homespun weekly newsletter,” sharing Paltrow’s whimsical thoughts on everything from travel and cooking to health, fitness, and the psyche. Goop has since grown into a wellness empire that markets a plethora of alternative health and other specialty items aimed at a variety of physical and mental health issues, Truth in Advertising said. After reportedly raising $15-$20 million in venture capital in 2016, Goop entered the $37 billion supplement industry in March when it launched Goop Wellness, a line of supplements that sold more than $100,000 worth of product the day it debuted, Fast Company reported. The group said that it told Goop about what it saw as its problematic health claims on Aug. 11. The group warned Goop that it would alert regulators by Aug. 18 if it didn’t fix the language in its web content. The group said it also provided a list of webpages with “unsubstantiated” claims. “Despite being handed this information, Goop to date has only made limited changes to its marketing,” Truth in Advertising wrote Tuesday. A Goop spokesperson told BuzzFeed News in a statement: “Goop is dedicated to introducing unique products and offerings and encouraging constructive conversation surrounding new ideas. We are receptive to feedback and consistently seek to improve the quality of the products and information referenced on our site.” The spokesperson said Goop tried to respond promptly and “in good faith” to the group’s outreach,. “Unfortunately, they provided limited information and made threats under arbitrary deadlines which were not reasonable under the circumstances,” the spokesperson said. For the most part, Goop stands by its products and claims, saying that Truth in Advertising’s allegations are “unsubstantiated and unfounded.” Still, the company will continue to evaluate its products and content and “make those improvements that we believe are reasonable and necessary in the interests of our community of users.”	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
Emmott admitted that Berlusconi was the reason why he became passionate about Italy, saying they at The Economist declared him “unfit to lead Italy” on their cover in April 2001 for "reasons of principle," that had nothing to do with the sex scandals that made him notorious. They were against the seizure of executive powers in a western democracy "by a single, huge private interest, and against the erosion by that interest of the rule of law." Since his election, Trump has refused to set up a blind trust to run his business. Passing its control to his family hasn't eliminated concerns about potential conflicts of interest, or Trump's ability to enrich himself through the presidency. Unlike all presidents before him he has withheld his tax returns, another source of information about how he makes money. His business dealings are still largely opaque, with his empire owing large debts - at least $650, some to the Bank of China and Deutsche Bank - according to an investigation by the NY Times. Emmott recommends "six clear lessons for Americans and the world on what to expect from Trump." First - don't underestimate Trump, who "has defied expectations." There might be no "imminent downfall" or an "impeachment" as predicted. Berlusconi, a former crooner was ridiculed by critics - "too ignorant and inexperienced." Yet he became "one of the kingpins of Italian politics," won three general elections and served as prime minister for nine years. So "Trump’s critics – indeed, all US observers – should keep that in mind." The author may be right, but we shouldn't underestimate the Americans' desire for change after two consecutive presidential terms. If Trump survives the first term, he will be too old to run for re-election. Second - the "permanent political campaign," that Trump will likely continue after being sworn in, is going to make it easier for him to bypass mainstream media that he hates, and break news himself. Unlike Berlusconi, who often "used television, especially his own commercial channels, to that end," Trump can rely on Twitter, YouTube, or even on talk shows, "to speak directly to the people..... fast and loose with the facts." Third - the "victim narrative" - will be useful to Trump. Both he and Berlusconi promote personality cult and tell bald-faced lies. Despite their power and wealth, they need to rely on their followers' support to survive political attacks and purge. "Berlusconi consistently claimed that he was being attacked by the judiciary, by rival businessmen, by 'communists', by the political establishment," and Trump will tap into the same well of inspiration. Fourth - "mudslinging is bound to happen." Berlusconi used his own media outlets to "smear opponents." Trump seems to have his own "chief mud-slinger" - Stephen Bannon, the newly appointed chief strategist, who ran the ultra right-wing Breitbart News. The two men indulge in the pursuit of publicity, using their advantages to intimidate opponents and critics. Fifth - nepotism - both Berlusconi and Trump "prize loyalty above all else," and reward diehard supporters with top jobs, despite their lack of merits and qualifications. Trump's adult children has his ear ever since the beginning, and they "are supposed to run his business during his presidency." Even if they play no official roles, they will still be able to affect his decision-making, and benefit from his presidency to maximise business gains. Sixth - the Putin factor - may have an impact on Trump's relations with Russia. Trump sang Putin's praises during his campaign and urged Russia to find Hillary Clinton's emails. Berlusconi and Putin are still friends and stay in touch. His "favorite overseas visits while in office were to Putin’s dacha and former Libyan dictator Colonel Muammar el-Qaddafi’s tent, not to boring European Council meetings or G20 summits." The only difference Emmott sees is that "Berlusconi had no real agenda while in office," except to protect and "further his business and personal interests and nurture his own power by providing resources and favors to his supporters. His greatest disservice to Italians was his inaction in the face of economic stagnation, but at least he didn’t make it worse. Trump, by contrast, does have an agenda, however hard to read. Whether it will make things better or worse remains to be seen." Nevertheless there is hope that the American people and Congress will keep Trump in check, forcing him into a constitutional straitjacket that he will loathe.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	OpenWebText2
Introduction {#Sec1} ============ Humans can recognize the categories of objects in fractions of a second with remarkable accuracy^[@CR1],[@CR2]^. This ability seems more outstanding considering that an individual object can produce almost an infinite number of distinct images on the retina imposed by the variations that it undergoes (e.g. size, position, pose, etc.) as well as the variations in the surrounding environment^[@CR3]^ (e.g. background, lighting direction, etc.). This has motivated many researchers to investigate the neural underpinnings of invariant object recognition; a sensory-cognitive brain process which is continuously employed in everyday life. The general consensus is that, the main processing infrastructures of the brain which underlie object category processing are the ventral and the dorsal visual streams^[@CR4]--[@CR6]^. The ventral stream starts from V1 and ends up at anterior inferior temporal cortex (IT)^[@CR7],[@CR8]^ and the dorsal stream starts from V1 and continues to parietal and areas in middle temporal cortices^[@CR9]--[@CR11]^. In object recognition, linearly-separable representations of objects as well as other accompanying aspects of information, which are processed by the layers of the two visual streams, are then sent to the prefrontal cortex for final classification of representations into distinct categories^[@CR12]^ (e.g. categories of objects, movement directions, etc.). However, this view has been challenged by recent studies which observed category-related information in frontal brain areas, even earlier than they generally appeared in occipital and temporal brain areas after stimulus presentation^[@CR13]--[@CR15]^. These latter studies were triggered by a pioneering investigation which reported the encoding of categorical information in orbitofrontal cortex (OFC)^[@CR16]^. However, systematic investigations are still needed to provide deeper insights into the contribution of frontal brain areas in the processing of object categories and variations as well as possible interactions between anterior and posterior brain areas. Based on the model proposed by Bar et al.^[@CR14]^, the orbitofrontal cortex receives low-frequency category-related information from early visual areas (e.g. V1 and V2) through magnocellular pathways^[@CR9],[@CR17]^, and sends initial guesses about the possible category of the target object to higher visual areas in inferior temporal cortex (e.g. fusiform gyrus) for more rapid and accurate categorization^[@CR13]--[@CR15],[@CR18]^. In the study performed by Bar et al.^[@CR14]^, the phase-locking of category-related responses was measured across occipital and orbitofrontal cortices to evaluate their functional connectivity. It was suggested that the flow of information was from occipital to orbitofrontal cortex in the window roughly from 80 to 180 ms post-stimulus and from orbitofrontal to IT cortex at later time windows (after 130 ms). However, as the mentioned study considered the average responses as representatives of the amount of information, and did not explicitly measure the flow of category information between the mentioned areas, it has remained unknown whether it was actually the 'category' information which was transferred between those areas or the observed phase-locking of responses represented other aspects of the neural information. A recent study applied multivariate pattern analysis along with Granger causality analysis on magneto encephalographic (MEG) data and investigated the encoding and transfer of category information across peri-frontal and peri-occipital areas^[@CR19]^. That study reappraised the model proposed by Bar et al.^[@CR14]^, with low- and high-spatial resolution image sets presented to subjects in a recognition experiment. Nonetheless, the spatiotemporal dynamics of category encoding was drastically different from those reported in Bar et al.^[@CR14]^: the results showed the domination of feed-forward information flow from peri-occipital to peri-frontal areas in early processing time windows (from 0 to around 500 ms post-stimulus) and the domination of feedback flows in the following time windows (from 500 ms to 1200 ms post-stimulus). Authors explained that the observed discrepancy from previous results (Bar et al.^[@CR14]^) could have been explained by long stimulus presentation time (i.e. 500 ms) in their study which caused the domination of feed-forward information flow in early time windows^[@CR19]^. Therefore, new paradigms, such as the one employed in the current study, which provides a shorter presentation time, are needed to reappraise the spatiotemporal transfer of category information between peri-occipital and peri-frontal brain areas. Importantly, when investigating the processing of category information in the brain, one needs to always take into account the impact of object-oriented and ambient variations (e.g. size, position, pose and lighting) on categorical information and possible spatiotemporal interactions between category and variation information in the brain. The processing of these variations can facilitate human navigation and human-object interactions by providing information about the location of the object in the space (i.e. position), its viewpoint (i.e. pose), distance (i.e. size), etc. Previous studies have shown that, in almost every single processing stage of the ventral and dorsal visual pathways, the information about categories and variations are observable concurrently^[@CR20]--[@CR28]^. More specifically, along the ventral visual stream, the entangled V1-level categorical information becomes untangled by transformations which are implemented by the neural structures from V1 to IT^[@CR12]^. On the other hand, it has been recently shown that the same neural structures untangle different conditions of individual category-orthogonal variations (e.g. size, position, pose), hence increasing 'variation information' along the stream^[@CR23]^. In addition, the processing of some specific variations has been suggested to be one of the main reasons for the activation of feedback mechanisms in the brain^[@CR8],[@CR29]--[@CR32]^. However, it has remained to be known whether the frontal brain areas also participate in the processing of variation information (called 'variation processing' here). While a few neuroimaging studies have addressed the processing of affine variations in the brain^[@CR23],[@CR28]^, the role of frontal brain areas and their possible interaction with visual areas in variation processing have remained largely overlooked by neuroimaging investigations. In summary, this study pursues two major goals: first, to evaluate the feasibility of extracting variation information from EEG activities and to compare its temporal dynamics with that of the well-studied category-related information. Second, to investigate the spatial dynamics of variation/category processing on the brain with focus on the interaction between frontal and occipital areas in information processing. To address these questions, I developed a whole-brain electroencephalography (EEG) recording experiment in which humans were presented with a set of visual objects which underwent levels of controlled variations. The stimuli were presented very briefly and the paradigm was designed in passive format to allow the appearance of feedback signals in early time windows^[@CR19]^ and to avoid influences from higher top-down cognitive signals which usually appear during active recognition^[@CR33]--[@CR35]^, respectively. Using multivariate pattern analysis (MVPA), I analyzed the spatiotemporal dynamics of category and variation processing in the brain and found that the occipitotemporal, parietal and prefrontal areas were the major areas involved in the processing of categories and variations by entangled mechanisms. I also implemented a recently-proposed version of Granger causality^[@CR19]^ to investigate the dynamical transactions of category and variation information between the peri-occipital and peri-frontal brain areas. Interestingly, I found three distinct stages of information transactions between these areas which supported object recognition. These results provide evidence that a set of mainly sensory-driven (task-independent) parallel interactive mechanisms across peri-occipital and peri-frontal areas process a combination of category and variation information in distinct stages of processing. Methods {#Sec2} ======= The dataset {#Sec3} ----------- The EEG dataset used here was previously utilized to investigate the role of three major signal parameters in the representation of categorical information in the brain^[@CR36]^. Using a computational modelling methodology, that study showed that the average activity of EEG signals contributed most dominantly to the representation of object categories as compared to independent and dependent variability of the signals^[@CR36]^. Here, I analyzed the data for its main purpose: to study the spatiotemporal dynamics of category-orthogonal processing in the brain and the contribution of frontal brain areas in that processing. Stimulus set {#Sec4} ------------ In order to investigate the processing of object categories and variations in the brain, a four-category object image set was generated with levels of controlled variations. The 3D object mesh models, used in the generation of the image set, were freely downloaded from the internet (<http://www.cadnav.com>) and rendered using Python commands in the freely available rendering software 'Blender' (<https://www.blender.com>). The image set consisted of four ordinary categories of objects including animals, cars, faces and planes, each of which underwent levels of variations in size, position, pose (in-depth rotation) and lighting (Fig. [1A](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}). Each category consisted of four unique exemplars to enhance the generalizability of the image set. In order to cover natural variations of objects, which humans observe in everyday object recognition, I generated images in which objects underwent three levels of variation in size (i.e. 2.5, 4.5 and 13.5 degrees of visual angle), and positioned the objects on three different locations (i.e. with foveal eccentricities of about 0.8, 4.3 and 7.7 degrees of visual angle). I also applied three levels of in-depth orientations on the objects (i.e. 0, 135 and 270 degrees of orientation simultaneously around X, Y and Z Cartesian axes) and illuminated them from three different directions (i.e. top, bottom and front; Fig. [1B](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}). I used a uniform lighting source for all variations except for the lighting conditions. The lighting conditions were selected in a way to present the objects in their most hard-to-recognize everyday conditions, so as to activate all primary and secondary brain mechanisms which are considered to play role in object processing (i.e. including mechanisms of peri-occipital as well as peri-frontal cortices). The final image set consisted of 192 unique images with an area of 512 by 512 pixels. In order to avoid trivial decoding results, the image set was normalized for equal across-category and across-variation average luminance and contrast. Note that the presented images in Fig. [1](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"} are zoomed and chosen from the frontal lighting condition (i.e. 3^rd^ lighting condition) for improved visualization.Figure 1Image set and experimental paradigm. (A and B) show the object exemplars within each category (A) and conditions of each variation (B). The 3D models used to generate these images were available under a personal and commercial license (<http://www.cadnav.com/help/copyright.html>) and were freely downloaded from (<http://www.cadnav.com>). Images were processed (zoomed in and cropped) for better illustration. Extra information regarding condition are provided below it. (C) EEG recording paradigm with numbers indicating the presentation time of each event. Experimental design {#Sec5} ------------------- I recorded the brain activities using electroencephalography as this imaging modality could provide the activities with high temporal and moderate spatial resolution. The former characteristic could pave the way for studying the highly time-dependent dynamics of object representation in the brain. I designed a passive recording paradigm in which subjects were not supposed to categorize the presented objects, but rather had to attend to the color of the category-irrelevant fixation points during the experiment (Fig. [1C](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}). Specifically, at the beginning of each trial, a black fixation spot was presented on the center of the screen for 200 ms after which the first stimulus was presented for 50 ms. Upon the disappearance of the stimulus, an inter-stimulus interval was maintained for 1200 ms before the second stimulus was presented to the subject for 50 ms. The fixation spot remained on the center of the screen throughout the trial, but randomly switched color to either red or green across each stimulus presentation. A post-hoc verification step showed no relationship between the color of the fixation spots and the conditions used in the representational analysis. Therefore, the observed spatiotemporal dynamics of category and variation processing could not be attributed to the processing of colors in the brain. Subjects' task {#Sec6} -------------- Subjects' task was to decide whether the color of the fixation spot was the same or different from the first stimulus to the second (i.e. it was different in 50% of the trials), by pressing one of the two predefined keys on the keyboard after the removal of the second stimulus. Response time was not limited and subjects had to respond to proceed to the next trial. The next trial began after either the subjects responded or after 800 ms post-stimulus onset whichever happened later. Subjects seated in a dimmed room 60 cm away and against an Asus VG24QE monitor on which the visual stimuli were presented. Matlab PsychToolbox^[@CR37]^ was used for designing the task, presenting the images and recording the responses. Objects' images covered between 2.5 to 13.5 degrees of visual angle depending on their size conditions. Each unique object image (i.e. 192 images in the image set) was presented to each subject three times in random order (adding up to 576 stimuli). Specifically, each subject was presented with a randomly-ordered presentation of three repetitions of the same 192 images in the dataset (images were presented randomly as the first or second image in each trial). The repetition of presentation was aimed at increasing the signal to noise ratio in the analyses. Trials were divided into three blocks with five minutes of resting time between the blocks. Subjects participated in a short training session before the main experiment on a different image set to get acquainted with the task. Two major considerations were made when designing the paradigm to avoid interfering factors in the results: (a) the paradigm was designed in passive format (i.e. subjects performed an irrelevant task and did not actively categorize objects) to avoid the involvement of top-down cognitive processes such as attention and expectation (as they may modulate the dynamics of visual processing in the brain^[@CR34],[@CR35],[@CR38]^) and allow only the sensory object processing mechanisms to function; (b) images were presented very shortly (i.e. for only 50 ms) to avoid the domination of feed-forward information in the recorded signals to be able to dissociate between feed-forward and feedback flows of information^[@CR8],[@CR19],[@CR23]^. Participants {#Sec7} ------------ Ten human subjects (average age 22 years, three females) volunteered for this single-session EEG recording experiment which lasted for about 45 minutes. Subjects had normal or corrected to normal vision. Informed consent was obtained from every participant. All experimental protocols were approved by the ethical committee of Shahid Rajaee Teacher Training University. All experiments were carried out in accordance with the guidelines of the declaration of Helsinki and the ethical committee of Shahid Rajaee Teacher Training University. Signal recording and preprocessing {#Sec8} ---------------------------------- A 32-channel eWave32 amplifier was used for signal recording which followed the 10--20 convention of electrode placement on the scalp (see Supplementary Fig. [S1B](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"} for electrode locations). The amplifier, produced by ScienceBeam (<http://www.sciencebeam.com/>), provided a sampling rate of 1 K samples/second which allowed me to investigate the temporal dynamics of information processing in the brain very accurately. The recorded data was taken into Matlab (<http://www.mathworks.com/>) and all the following analyses were performed using custom codes in Matlab. I band-pass filtered the recorded signals in the range between 0.5 to 100 Hz to filter-out the DC component as well as the high-frequency noise. I also notch filtered the signals at 50 Hz to block the line noise. In order to remove eye-blink, body and eye movement artifacts, Independent Component Analysis was used as implemented by the EEGLAB toolbox^[@CR39]^. The filters were finite FIR filters (12 dB per octave roll-off) and the ICA artifact removal used the runica algorithm^[@CR39]^. The ADJUST plugin^[@CR40]^ was used for determining the artefactual components, which statistically evaluated ICA components and suggested the components which contained the mentioned artifacts for removal. An average of 3.8 components (min = 2 and max = 6) were removed from the analysis for each subject. A total of 154 trials (mean = 2.67%, sd = 1.4%) were also removed from the total set of trials from all subjects as they were diagnosed to be artefactual by visual inspection. Signals were then broken into epochs (i.e. analysis time windows) which were aligned to the stimulus-onset, in the range from 200 ms pre- to 800 ms post-stimulus onset. Signals were then smoothened using a 5-sample non-overlapping moving average filter to attenuate the spurious patterns in the signals. The resulted signals were used in the representational analyses. Representational analysis of patterns {#Sec9} ------------------------------------- For each subject, after the preprocessing steps, an 'X' data matrix was constructed which included activity values (i.e. voltage values in microvolts) obtained from electrodes. X was a 3-dimensional (31 × 201 × 576) matrix incorporating signals from every one of the 31 electrodes (one electrode was the reference electrode and was put on the right mastoid), at every 5 ms time point (obtained in the range from 200 ms pre- to 800 ms post-stimulus onset resulting in 201 time points) across every one of the 576 trials (assuming that the subject had no removed trials). The representational analysis was performed on the signals obtained from both the first and second stimuli in the trials. The representational analysis method of the current study has been previously explained in full details^[@CR36],[@CR41]^. Briefly, I report a decodability index referred to as d′ (i.e. which has also been used to measure sensitivity, separability, selectivity and discriminability in previous studies^[@CR42]--[@CR44]^) to show how separable the clusters of distinct conditions (either category or variation conditions) positioned relative to each other in the brain space and how their distributions changed over time (Supplementary Fig. [S1A](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}). This decodability measure is advantageous to classification-based decoding methods as it is robust when data clusters include unequal samples^[@CR44]^ (e.g. the analysis of 'variation processing' in the current study. In the remaining of this section, I will explain the procedure of representational analysis using an example for clarification. In order to calculate the decodability of conditions across car and face categories at 150 ms post-stimulus time point in the recorded EEG space, I used the data from all 31 rows of the 71^th^ column of the 'X' data matrix. The data included the matrix's trials 1 to 144 which represented the car data as well as trials 145 to 288 which contained the face data. The mentioned car and face data formed two category clusters in the electrode (representational) space (Supplementary Fig. [S1A](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}). The clusters provided a pair of 31-dimensional mean vectors which were used for dimension reduction to simplify the reporting of clusters' decodability in the representational (brain) space. In order to reduce the dimension of the representational space from 31 to one, the cluster data points were projected onto the line connecting the two clusters' means. Accordingly, a pair of 1-dimensional mean and a pair of 1-dimensional variance values were obtained from the two clusters which were used to calculate the decodability value (d′) using (1):$$\documentclass[12pt]{minimal} \usepackage{amsmath} \usepackage{wasysym} \usepackage{amsfonts} \usepackage{amssymb} \usepackage{amsbsy} \usepackage{mathrsfs} \usepackage{upgreek} \setlength{\oddsidemargin}{-69pt} \begin{document}$$d^{\prime} =\frac{{\mu }_{1}-{\mu }_{2}}{\sqrt{\frac{1}{2}({\sigma }_{1}^{2}+{\sigma }_{2}^{2})}},\,{\mu }_{1} > {\mu }_{2}$$\end{document}$$where μs and σs are the mean and variance values obtained from the two clusters (i.e. categories in the above example) and d′ represents the separability/decodability value between the face and car categories. Note that, according to eq. ([1](#Equ1){ref-type=""}), the cluster with a higher mean voltage should always be considered as cluster '\#1' to result in positive d′ values, which is actually a distance value and should always be positive. The d′ value was calculated for every time point to obtain the time-resolved results depicted throughout the paper (e.g. Fig. [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}). For the average decodability curves (Fig. [2A](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}, left and [2B](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}, left), the decodability indices were calculated for and averaged across all possible pairs of conditions (e.g. between car and animal, car and plane, etc.). The average decodability value (Figs [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"} and [3](#Fig3){ref-type="fig"}, right) for the car category was obtained by averaging all three decodability curves in which the separability of the car category was measured from other categories. The baseline decodability value (i.e. calculated as the average decodability value within the last 200 ms pre-stimulus window) was subtracted from the corresponding decodability values (within all pre- and post-stimulus time points) leading to mainly positive decodability values across the curves. The representational analysis procedure was repeated for every subject to obtain individual's decodability results, before they were averaged to provide across-subject averaged results (Figs [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}--[4](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}, shaded error areas represent standard error across subjects). Other decoding methods (i.e. SVM and LDA classifiers) were also tested on the recorded data and provided similar results.Figure 2Time-resolved decodability of categories (A) variation conditions (B) and their temporal statistics (C) for the pooled-condition case. Left columns in (A and B) show category- and variation-pooled results and right columns show the same results resolved into constituent categories (A) and variations. (B) The vertical and horizontal dashed lines indicate respectively the stimulus onset time and the zero decodability value. The circles indicate the time points at which the color-matched decodability curve was significantly above the decodability values averaged in the last 200 ms pre-stimulus (i.e. p \< 0.05, Wilcoxon's signed-rank test). (C) Latency (black) and peak (blue) time points of decoding in category and variation decoding decodability. Stars show significant (p \< 0.05, Wilcoxon's signed-rank test) difference between peak time bars. Shaded areas and error bars indicate the SEM across subjects.Figure 3Time-resolved decodability of categories (A) variation conditions (B) and their temporal statistics (C) in the per-condition case. All the details are the same as in Fig. [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}.Figure 4Comparison of time-resolved decodability of categories and variations in the pooled- and per-condition cases. (A) Left, the black decodability curve shows the results of random sub-sampling of the whole stimulus set. The vertical solid light and dark gray lines indicate the time points at which respectively the category and variation decodability curves showed significantly (p \< 0.05, Wilcoxon's signed-rank test) higher pooled- than per-condition values. The colored circles indicate the time points at which the corresponding decodability curve showed a significantly (p \< 0.05, Wilcoxon's signed-rank test) higher value compared to the randomly sub-sampled black curve. Shaded areas indicate the SEM across subjects. (A) Right, the Time-resolved correlation between per-condition cases of category and variation decodability curves. (B) Sub-sampled category decodability curves for different number of samples (left) and the correlation values between the 144 and 3-sample curves (right). The black circles indicate time points of significant correlations (p \< 0.05, Pearson linear correlation, corrected for multiple comparison across time points) and the green circles indicate time points at which correlations were significantly different from average of correlations in the last 200 ms window prior to stimulus onset (p \< 0.05, Wilcoxon's signed-rank test). Analysis of Granger causality {#Sec10} ----------------------------- In order to investigate the transactions of category and variation information between peri-occipital and peri-frontal areas, a recently proposed version of Granger causality analysis was used^[@CR19]^. The logic behind Granger causality is that time series Y might have caused time series Z if Y contains information that facilitates the prediction of future values of Z compared to when considering the information in the past of Z alone. As an example, assume the case of category information moving from posterior to anterior brain areas. In this case, it can be concluded that category information has moved from peri-occipital areas and reached peri-frontal areas if the past representations of peri-frontal alone are not as predictive of the current category representations on the peri-frontal areas as the past representations of peri-frontal plus past representations of peri-occipital are. First, I needed to have obtained object representations to be able to follow their movement on the scalp. For that purpose, I used the well-known similarity matrices^[@CR45]^, which can provide cross-correlation values between pairs of representations. These matrices contain similarity/dissimilarity indices (i.e. indices can be measured using Euclidean distance, correlation coefficient, etc.) calculated across the representations of stimulus pairs (i.e. stimuli can be from the same category in the case of within category analysis, or across variation conditions in the case of variation analysis). Here, the similarity matrices contained correlation coefficients (obtained by Pearson linear correlation) across pairs of 9-dimensional brain representations (as obtained from nine frontal/occipital electrodes) of categories and variations. The dimension of representational space was determined to include a subset of electrodes to separate the peri-frontal from peri-occipital representations. Therefore, two similarity matrices were obtained at each time point; one from the peri-frontal (including F3, F4, F7, F8, FZ, AFZ, FP1, FP2, FPZ) and one from the peri-occipital electrodes (including P3,PF4, P7, P8, PZ, POZ, O1, O2, OZ) (Supplementary Fig. [S1B](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}). For example, in order to obtain the similarity matrices of categories, on a single variation condition (e.g. first size condition) at each time point, a 48 by 48 similarity matrix was constructed which included correlation coefficients between all possible pairs of the 16 objects (Fig. [1A](#Fig1){ref-type="fig"}, each unique image was presented three times during the experiment). The symmetric sides of the similarity matrices (the top right side which contained values similar to the symmetric bottom left cells) as well as their diagonal axes were excluded from Granger analysis. According to Goddard et al.^[@CR19]^, partial correlations were used to calculate a simplified version of Granger causality. Equations ([2](#Equ2){ref-type=""}) and ([3](#Equ3){ref-type=""}) provide feed-forward as well as feedback flows of information on the brain at every time point:$$\documentclass[12pt]{minimal} \usepackage{amsmath} \usepackage{wasysym} \usepackage{amsfonts} \usepackage{amssymb} \usepackage{amsbsy} \usepackage{mathrsfs} \usepackage{upgreek} \setlength{\oddsidemargin}{-69pt} \begin{document}$$FF(t)=\rho S{M}_{(front,t)}S{M}_{(back,t \mbox{-} past)}.S{M}_{(front,t \mbox{-} past)}$$\end{document}$$$$\documentclass[12pt]{minimal} \usepackage{amsmath} \usepackage{wasysym} \usepackage{amsfonts} \usepackage{amssymb} \usepackage{amsbsy} \usepackage{mathrsfs} \usepackage{upgreek} \setlength{\oddsidemargin}{-69pt} \begin{document}$$FB(t)=\rho S{M}_{(back,t)}S{M}_{(front,t \mbox{-} past)}.S{M}_{(back,t \mbox{-} past)}$$\end{document}$$where SM~(loc,t)~ is the similarity matrix obtained from location loc at time t post-stimulus onset, and SM~(loc,t−past)~ is the similarity matrix which was obtained by averaging the similarity matrices in the window from t − 130 to t − 80 ms post-stimulus onset on the same location. The rationale behind choosing the mentioned time window was that, it was covered by the range from 72 to 141 ms which was previously shown to reflect the time span during which occipital to prefrontal flow of information was observed^[@CR46]^. Statistical testing {#Sec11} ------------------- To evaluate the significance in differences between the peaks of decodability curves across subjects (e.g. Fig. [2C](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}), Wilcoxon's signed-rank test was used. In order to evaluate the significance of decodability and information-selectivity indices (e.g. Figs [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}--[4](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}) at a post-stimulus time point, I evaluated the vector of post-stimulus decodability indices (including ten decodability values corresponding to ten subjects) against their respective values averaged in the last 200 ms pre-stimulus window prior to baseline removing, using Wilcoxon's signed-rank test. In order to evaluate the significance of the partial correlation values at each time point in the Granger causality analysis, a null distribution of correlation values was generated at each time point by shuffling the elements of the similarity matrices and then using the scrambled matrices in eqs ([2](#Equ2){ref-type=""} and [3](#Equ3){ref-type=""}). One thousand random correlation values were generated at each time point by repeating the shuffling procedure and calculating the random correlations, against which the true correlation values were assessed for significance. A correlation value was considered significant if it surpassed 95% (i.e. 950) of the randomly generated correlation values. The results of statistical tests (e.g. Wilcoxon's signed-rank test) as well as linear/partial correlation values were FDR-corrected (using Matlab mafdr function) for multiple comparisons throughout the analyses wherever multiple time points were tested simultaneously. The mafdr function received n p-values obtained from n statistical tests (n is the number of comparisons or time points) and provided as the output, the same number of p-values which have been corrected for multiple comparisons. The multiple comparison correction of the electrodes on the topographic maps (Figs [5](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"} and [6](#Fig6){ref-type="fig"}) were done in the same way as was done for the multiple time points with n representing the number of p-values obtained from individual electrodes on each of the related maps in the series (31 × 9). The significance threshold was 0.05 in all the analyses.Figure 5Scalp maps for category and variation decodability. These maps were generated by measuring the decodability indices for each electrode separately and finally using their superposition on the scalp. The decodability values between the electrodes were calculated by interpolation as implemented in EEGLAB. (A) Pooled-condition category decodability maps. (B) and (C) Per-condition category and variation decodability maps at specific time points. The reported decodability values are averaged in the span from −25 m to +25 ms relative to the indicated time points. The dots show electrodes with significantly higher decodability values compared to the last 200 ms prior to stimulus onset (as evaluated with Wilcoxon's signed rank test with correction for multiple comparisons).Figure 6Scalp decodability maps separated for each variation. From top to bottom, decodability maps are provided across conditions of lighting, pose, size and position, respectively. Other details are the same as in Fig. [5](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"}. Computational model {#Sec12} ------------------- In order to see if a hierarchically organized model of human object processing could provide an explanation for the observed representational mechanisms in the brain, the image set was also fed to a recently developed model of human object recognition. The model known as 'AlexNet' has been shown to closely replicate object representations obtained from higher visual areas of the human and non-human primates' brain^[@CR47]--[@CR49]^. I used the model's Matlab implementation^[@CR50]^ which was freely available at (<http://www.vlfeat.org/matconvnet/>). As the model has been previously explained in many studies^[@CR8],[@CR47],[@CR48]^, extra explanations are avoided here. Briefly, the model is an eight-layer convolutional neural network which has been trained on a set of 1000 object categories from the ImageNet Large Scale Visual Categorization (ILSVRC; <http://www.image-net.org/>)^[@CR51]^, including the categories used in the current study, using gradient descent algorithm. The model utilized several mathematical operations such as convolution, maximization, normalization and pooling in alternating layers. The first five layers of the model implemented convolutional operations which were followed by three layers of fully-connected units. Since the last layer worked as a 1000-class classifier in previous studies^[@CR50]^, I used layers one to seven in the current study. Each output unit at each layer was treated as a representational dimension (i.e. corresponding to EEG channels) and decodability indices were obtained from each layer's output according to eq. ([1](#Equ1){ref-type=""}). Results {#Sec13} ======= This study was designed to provide spatiotemporal insight into object category and variation processing at the whole-brain scale. For that purpose, ten human subjects participated in a passive EEG recording paradigm in which they reported if the fixation spots, which accompanied two consecutively presented objects, were the same color or different in each trial. Subjects performed the color-matching task with significantly above-chance accuracy (mean = 95.75%, std = 4.03%, p \< 0.001, Wilcoxon's signed-rank test) and in reasonable time (mean response time = 729 ms, std = 97 ms) meaning that they were alert and attentive to the task during the experiment. Temporal dynamics of category and variation processing {#Sec14} ------------------------------------------------------ To investigate the temporal dynamics of category and variation processing in the brain, I calculated decodability indices (referred to as information in the text) across categories and variation conditions (Fig. [2A and B](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}). The category information (Fig. [2A](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}, left; averaged across all possible pairs of categories) showed a highly dynamical pattern; it rose to significance at 84 ms, showed three peaks (with the highest peak at 184 ms) and remained significant until 800 ms post-stimulus onset. Interestingly, the variation information rose to significance at 71 ms post stimulus, earlier than the category information. Although indicating lower peaks compared to category information, the variation information (Fig. [2B](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}, left, averaged across all four variations) revealed a similar pattern showing three peaks with the highest peak at 214 ms post-stimulus. It remained significant until the last analysis time point at 800 ms. In order to obtain insight into the possible differences between different categories and variations, I resolved the averaged results (Fig. [2A and B](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}, left) into their constituent categories and variations (Fig. [2A and B](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}, right). Although all four categories experienced the same three peaks (Fig. [2A](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}, right), higher decodability values were observed for the car category during the first peak (which was at 105 ms post-stimulus) which was dominated by the face information during the second and third peaks (which occurred respectively at 188 ms and 271 ms post-stimulus). It should be noted that, the reported category information values were calculated between pairs of categories; therefore, a higher information value for face means, when comparing its separability from the other three categories, faces representations positioned more separately compared to how every other category representations positioned relative to the rest of categories. For detailed across-category information plots see Supplementary Fig. [S2A](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}. While rising to significance at an earlier time point compared to the other categories (at 71 ms), the face category also peaked at a significantly later time (mean = 243 ms) compared to car and plane categories (Fig. [2C](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}, left, p \< 0.05, Wilcoxon's signed rank test). Decodability curves showed undistinguishable latencies across categories which ranged from 71 to 85 ms post-stimulus (Fig. [2C](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}, right). Latency was defined as the time distance from stimulus onset to the first time point at which the decodability indices rose to significance. The appearance of face information in the late peaks of category information was explainable by the N170 component of ERP signals which have often been associated with the processing of faces in the brain^[@CR52]^. The previously suggested precedence of intermediate-level (e.g. face-plane and car-face) to subordinate-level (e.g. car-plane) and superordinate-level (e.g. animal-plane and animal-car) category information was also noticeable in the temporal dynamics of category information^[@CR53]^ (Supplementary Fig. [S2A](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}). I also evaluated the decodability of variation conditions in the signals. The first goal of this study was to see whether information about different variations could be extracted from human brain signals. The temporal dynamics of position information processing has been previously studied and showed close relationships with category-related information^[@CR28]^, however, the processing of other variations have remained overlooked which is addressed by the following analyses. Within-variation decodability results which were averaged across all pairs of conditions showed that, while conditions of all variations were decodable from brain signals, the conditions of position and size were more distinguishable than the conditions of pose and lighting (Fig. [2B](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}). It means that information about different object sizes and positions were easier to differentiate compared to the conditions of the other two variations from brain signals. This difference could not be explained by the pixel-space decodability indices calculated on the image set in the pixel space which showed information values (d′) of 2.95, 1.63, 1.44 and 2.2 for lighting, pose, size and position variations, respectively. Therefore, it seems that, not all variations were processed similarly by brain mechanisms. This can be explained by both the difference between the scale of cortical coverage across different variations' conditions (i.e. which can enhance the multi-variate decodability of variation conditions of size and position which involved larger retinotopic cortical areas compared to lighting and pose) and the difference in the processing mechanisms of the brain in the compensation of different variations^[@CR8],[@CR29],[@CR49]^. The latter reason can also be supported by the category decodability indices obtained under each of these variations (Supplementary Fig. [S2C](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}), with lighting and position respectively causing the lowest and highest degrees of degradation of category decodability. Lighting rose to significance much later than the other variations, but none of the variations showed a significantly different peak time (Fig. [2C](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}, left). It should be noted that the analysis of variation decodability, which unveils the dynamics of variation processing in the brain, is different from the decoding of categories under variations which aims at comparing the impact of variations on category-related information processing, also known as invariant object processing^[@CR8],[@CR54]^. A previous study named the non-categorical object-accompanying information (i.e. variations), the 'category-orthogonal properties', implying that these information might be processed by mechanisms which are not necessarily involved in the processing of object categories^[@CR23]^. Yet, in the above analyses, when calculating the category information, the data from all variation conditions were included in the representational analysis. Moreover, when calculating the across-condition information of different variations, the data from different category exemplars were considered in the representational analysis. I thought that, this might have influenced the above results by allowing the interaction of category and variation information in the analyses, as it might have been the case in previous studies^[@CR25],[@CR54]^. More specifically, in the case of category decodability, each of the observed peaks in the category decodability curves (Fig. [2A](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}) could have been evoked by either the dynamics of category processing or the repositioning of data points caused by the processing of variations in the representational space, which could have led to the enhancement of category information. Therefore, in order to avoid the interaction between category and variation information in representational analysis, I calculated the category decodability indices on every single variation condition (to obtain category information) and calculated the variation decodability indices on every category exemplar (to obtain variation information) before finally averaging them (Fig. [3](#Fig3){ref-type="fig"}). I will call these new analyses as 'per-condition' and the former analyses as 'pooled-condition' in the following sections. Although the decodability curves lacked the large bump of information, which happened before 300 ms post-stimulus onset and dominated the later decodability values, compared to the pooled-condition case (compare Figs [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"} and [3](#Fig3){ref-type="fig"}), the results repeated many of the observations from the pooled-condition analysis. The average category and variation information (Fig. [3A and B](#Fig3){ref-type="fig"}, left column) rose to significance respectively at 53 and 41 ms, showed three bumps in the first 300 ms and remained significantly positive until 800 ms post-stimulus. The dominance of face and size information could also be observed. Neither the category nor the variation information showed significantly different peak times across their constituent conditions (Fig. [3C](#Fig3){ref-type="fig"}, left). The ranking of pairs of category information remained almost intact (compare Supplementary Fig. [S2A and B](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}) and lighting still provided the least amount of influence on category information (compare Supplementary Fig. [S2C and D](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}). See also Supplementary Fig. [S3A](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"} for the results within each variation in the per-condition case. Therefore, it seems that little influence was imposed by the variation information when decoding category information and vice versa. This is investigated more thoroughly in the following sections. Temporal relationship between category and variation processing {#Sec15} --------------------------------------------------------------- As many previous studies have investigated the decodability of category information from brain activities^[@CR28],[@CR54],[@CR55]^, two goals were pursued in this study: to investigate the spatiotemporal dynamics of variation processing, and to assess the spatiotemporal interaction between variation and category processing in the brain. In order to address these questions, I had to first choose either the per- or pooled-condition decodability results for the following analyses. Qualitative comparison between per- and pooled-condition results (Figs [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"} and [3](#Fig3){ref-type="fig"}), done in the previous section, supported that their main differences were observed in the early time windows. In order to provide a more accurate insight into the temporal pattern of category and variation processing in per- and pooled-condition cases, I provided a summary of the above-mentioned results on a single plot (Fig. [4A](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}, left). As obvious from the curves, the three bumps of information occurred at around the same time in the per- and pooled-condition cases of category processing. This proposes that, as the per-condition decodability curve was obtained on single variation conditions (therefore not influenced by other variation conditions) and showed the same three bumps, the information on the pooled-condition category curves were majorly driven by category information rather than by variation-related processing. After investigating the per- and pooled-condition curves of variation decodability, the same conclusion could be made about the variation information, supporting minor influence of category information on variation processing. In order to highlight the main time spans during which the per- and pooled-condition cases differed, I indicated the time points at which the information values were significantly higher in the pooled- compared to the per-condition deocodability curves using light and dark gray vertical lines respectively for the category and variation information. Accordingly, the first and the last time points at which the category (and variation) information were significantly higher in the pooled- compared to per-condition were respectively 92 ms (and 112 ms) and 438 ms (and 294 ms). These results are on par with the reported window of sensory visual processing in the human brain^[@CR55],[@CR56]^ suggesting that the higher number of samples in the pooled compared to the per-condition case in decoding, affected the window of sensory visual processing rather than the later windows of processing which are generally associated with higher order cognitive processes. Despite their similarities, I used the per-condition case of decoding to obtain the results provided in the following sections (all results after Fig. [5A](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"}) of the paper to avoid unnoticed interactions between category and variation processing. Before using the per-condition decodability curves in the following analyses, I had to determine if the calculated decodability indices were significantly above chance decodability values which could be obtained from a randomly labeled dataset. This could determine the level of baseline category-unrelated information in the dataset which could have contributed to the reported decodability curves. Therefore, I assessed the four mentioned decodability curves against a decodability curve obtained from 144-sample randomly chosen stimulus sets (Fig. [4A](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}, left, the black decodability curve). It can be observed that the four curves (even the per-condition curves of categories and variations which consisted of much fewer stimuli) showed significantly above-chance decodability values (as indicated by color circles). The level of significance was very hard to achieve for the per-condition variation decodability curve as it included only three data points within each data cluster in the representational analysis compared to the random sub-sample which consisted of 144 data points within each cluster. In order to generate the mentioned random decodability curve, I randomly selected a subset of 144 stimuli from the whole set of 576 stimuli of each subject (ignoring the category and variation labels of the chosen stimuli) and repeated the random representational analysis 1000 times before averaging them on each subject. Together, these results support that the decodability curves, even in the case of per-condition analysis, contained category information which significantly surpassed the information in any randomly chosen subsample of the data which could have provided information contributing to the reported category and variation information. After ensuring that the brain signals contained significant amounts of category and variation information, I approached the first question of the study by comparing the temporal dynamics of category and variation information. Examining the temporal dynamics of category and variation processing curves (in Fig. [4A](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}, left) suggested that these curves did not follow the same temporal pattern (e.g. compare their peaks and valleys at around 200 ms post-stimulus). In order to provide a quantitative comparison, I evaluated the time-resolved correlation between category and variation information curves in their per-condition cases (i.e. no noticeable difference was observed when I analyzed pooled-condition cases). Specifically, I calculated the correlation coefficient (Pearson linear correlation) between the category and variation decodability time series within the same 50 ms sliding time windows across time (Fig. [4A](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}, right). Correlations were considered significant if their p-value was smaller than 0.05 (after multiple comparison correction) and therefore the corresponding significant time point were indicated on the time axis by black circles. Interestingly, while showing a rising correlation trend from the stimulus-onset to around 150 ms, and a falling trend after around 580 ms, the correlation coefficient curve experienced several systematically negative windows in the span from 173 to 464 ms post-stimulus. Significantly negative correlations were observed during the 192 to 212 ms post-stimulus window. These results suggested that, after the stimulus onset, three stages of visual processing in the temporal pattern of category/variation processing could be observed in the brain: a first stage which started after the stimulus onset time and ended at around 170 ms in which information about category and variation was processed in in-phase patterns; a second stage which started at around 173 ms and ended at around 450 ms in which categories and variations underwent several anti-phase processing time spans and a third stage which started at around 470 ms and was observed until the end of visual processing with in-phase processing of categories and variations. This suggestion will be supported by further analyses in the following sections. It was suspicious that the observed difference between the phases of category and variation processing might have been caused by the difference in the number of samples (i.e. number of representational points obtained by stimulus presentations) considered when comparing category with variation processing. The number of representational points were 144 (and 48) in the pooled and 12 (and 3) in the per-condition cases of category (and variation) conditions in the decodability analysis. To check if this was the case, I down-sampled the stimulus set used in the representational analysis of category data clusters from 144 to 100, 48, 12 and 3 (Fig. [4B](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}, left) and re-calculated the correlations between all possible pairs of subsets, but no negative correlation was observed at any time point (i.e. the sampling procedure was repeated 100 times and the results were averaged before being compared to the true 144-sample decodability curve). In other words, I used a subset of stimuli in this representational analysis. Results of correlations between the 144- and 3-sample subsets, as the most distant cases, are shown in Fig. [4B](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}, right. Therefore, the time-dependent phasic dynamics between category and variation processing seems to be inherent in the brain, and not an effect of the number of samples used in the analyses. Spatial dynamics of category and variation processing {#Sec16} ----------------------------------------------------- In order to compare the contribution of different brain regions to the processing of categories and variations, I calculated the decodability indices on the scalp using a univariate methodology (Fig. [5](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"}). For that purpose, as opposed to the above results which were obtained from all the 31 scalp electrodes, here I report single-channel decodability indices on time-specific scalp maps^[@CR55]^. In other words, instead of in 31-dimensional space, the representations were evaluated in a one-dimensional space. Please note that the decodability indices were interpolated to find decodability values in areas between electrodes using EEGLAB. Figure [5A](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"} shows the pooled-condition category decodability results on the scalp, which has been the most common type of category information reported previously, which includes both category and variations^[@CR55]^. The amplitudes of decodability indices are lower here compared to those reported in the 31-dimensional space (Figs [2](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}--[4](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}), as a result of dimension reduction in the representational space from 31 to one. The reported decodability values are the average of the decodability indices obtained in the time-window from 25 ms before to 25 ms after the indicated time instances. Above-baseline category information was observed in the 50 ms as well as 100 ms windows at the AFZ and FZ electrodes with significantly (p \< 0.05, Wilcoxon's signed-rank test) above-baseline information at 100 ms in the posterior brain (POZ, O1, O2 and OZ). See the statistical testing section for the details of statistical testing procedures. In the 150 ms and 200 ms windows, significant category information was observed on occipitotemporal (O1, O2, P7 and P8), parieto-central (P4, POZ and CP2) with high but non-significant frontal (F3, F4, FZ, AFZ, FPZ, FP1 and FP2) areas. At 300 ms post-stimulus onset, parietal (P3, P4, POZ (p \< 0.05) and PZ), central (C4) and frontal areas (FC2, FZ, F4, AFZ and FPZ) showed category information which declined in the following time windows (i.e. 400, 500 and 600 ms). Together, these patterns of distribution repeated many previous observations, which have reported the involvement of occipital, occipitotemporal, parietal as well as frontal areas, in category processing following similar temporal dynamics^[@CR1],[@CR25],[@CR55]^. However, as explained earlier, their reported category information may have been influenced by the information from variations. Therefore, I also provided the per-condition category (Fig. [5B](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"}) and variation (Fig. [5C](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"}) processing scalp maps. Although noisier here compared to the pooled-condition results, the three initial windows (i.e. 0, 50 and 100 ms) of both categories and variations repeated the pooled results. While the category information was more concentrated on posterior electrodes (O1, O2, OZ, P8, CP1 and POZ) plus several frontal electrodes (F3 and FP2), variation information was found mainly on frontal (FC2, FC5 and FPZ) areas in the 150 and 200 ms windows. Parietal information (i.e. information averaged across P3, PZ and POZ electrodes) was significantly (p \< 0.05, Wilcoxon's signed rank test) higher for categories compared to variations in the 200 ms window. In the following windows (300--600 ms), category information was observed in both parietal and frontal areas, while variation information was processed dominantly in occipital and frontal regions. These results which presented separated category and variation information on the scalp, showed evidence supporting both spatiotemporally shared (in the 100 ms window between category and variation processing maps) as well as distinct (in the 200 ms window) mechanisms involved in the processing of category and category-orthogonal properties (i.e. variations). It has been previously suggested that all variations are not necessarily processed by the same set of brain mechanisms in object recognition. In other words, it has been suggested that while size and position are processed by the feed-forward mechanisms of the ventral visual stream, variations such as pose and lighting may need top-down feedback signals from higher cognitive areas such as prefrontal cortex to be compensated for during recognition^[@CR8],[@CR29],[@CR32],[@CR49]^. To investigate this, I plotted the scalp maps of each variation separately (Fig. [6](#Fig6){ref-type="fig"}). In the 50 ms window, information regarding all variations could be found in the centro-frontal (FC1, FC2, F3, F4, F7, F8 and FZ) brain areas significantly (p \< 0.05, Wilcoxon's signed-rank test) easier than it could be found on occipital (O1, O2 and OZ) and parietal (PZ and POZ) areas. In the 100 ms window, information regarding all variations could be consistently found on occipital areas (O1, O2 and OZ). In the 150 ms window, while the information regarding lighting and pose could be observed mainly on centro-frontal areas (CZ, FC1, FC2, F4, F8, FZ and AFZ) and not in occipitotemporal areas (O1, O2 and OZ), size and position information were mainly concentrated in occipitotemporal areas (O1, O2 and OZ). Almost all variations showed a frontal concentration in the 200 ms window with higher values for variation in size (which is probably explained by larger stimuli which evoked higher brain responses). Pose conditions exposed the previously proposed co-activation of peri-frontal (F3, F4, FZ, AFZ, FP1, FP2 and FPZ) and occipitotemporal areas (P3, P4, P7 and P8; Serre et al.^[@CR29]^), which may suggest the feedback of pose information from PFC to IT cortex. Lighting information consistently covered the occipito-parietal areas in the subsequent windows (from 300--500 ms). During the same windows, pose information was mainly found on temporal as well as frontal areas enhancing the mentioned possibility for the interaction of those areas. Interestingly, size information lingered on occipito-parietal areas (O1, O2, OZ and POZ) as well as frontal (F8 and FP2) areas which might be explained by previously suggested frame-transformation in object processing performed in parietal areas^[@CR57]^. As previously observed by several studies^[@CR8],[@CR28],[@CR54]^, position information showed a late appearance in the 300 ms window (see also Fig. [3B](#Fig3){ref-type="fig"}, right), and appeared on specific temporal (T7) and frontal areas (F4). By showing that not all variations exposed similar brain patterns, it could be supported that some variations could have activated auxiliary mechanisms such as feedback signals from higher cognitive areas of the brain. However, a quantitative evaluation was needed to reveal whether variations and categories were processed by the same brain mechanisms and whether there was any interaction between peri-occipital and peri-frontal areas regarding these processes. In the following sections, these concerns are addressed. Selectivity for category and variation information in the brain {#Sec17} --------------------------------------------------------------- In order to quantitatively determine whether categories and variations were processed by the same neural structures, I employed a recently-proposed methodology which was developed and used to evaluate the role of single neurons in the processing of categories and several variations by measuring their selectivity for each of these processes^[@CR23]^. I replaced the selectivity indices used in that paper^[@CR23]^ by the decodability indices obtained from individual electrodes here. More specifically, to know how information-selective different brain areas were, I constructed information-selectivity matrices (which the original study called task-specificity matrices^[@CR23]^) that reflected color-coded correlation coefficients within and between information dimensions (i.e. category- and variation-related aspects of information) at several key time instances (Fig. [7A](#Fig7){ref-type="fig"}). Please note that, by 'selectivity' I mean the tendency of individual brain areas in the processing of specific types of information (i.e. category- and variation-related information). More specifically, if an electrode could differentiate between different categories (e.g. showed stronger activity for animals compared to cars) the selectivity of the area under that electrode would be for discrimination of animals from cars and if it provided discriminable activities for two lighting conditions its selectivity would be for the encoding of the two lighting conditions, or if showed both types of encoding, it was considered selective for both aspects of information. It should be noted that an area can encode unlimited aspects of information (i.e. not necessarily covered in this study). Therefore, in order to evaluate the information-selectivity on the whole-brain scale, the amount of correlation (Pearson's linear correlation) was evaluated at each time point, between the decodability indices found for the vector of 31 electrodes on one aspect of information (e.g. decodability of animal from other categories) and another (e.g. decodability of size's first condition against other conditions). Accordingly, if the set of 31 electrodes provided similar (correlated) decodability patterns in the 31-dimensional space across two aspects of information, the correlation coefficient would be close to unity meaning that the two aspects were encoded (processed) by the same set of electrodes (and possibly the same mechanisms as the correlations were measured on millisecond time scale).Figure 7Information-selectivity in different brain areas. (A) Information-selectivity matrices showing, in color codes and at specific time points relative to stimulus onset, the entangling of category and variation processing in the brain. Colors show the amount of correlation (Pearson linear correlation) between decodability indices obtained from whole-brain EEG electrodes in the decoding of specific aspects of information with higher values showing more similarity (information non-selectivity). (B) Time-resolved information-selectivity, measured as the difference between the sums of within-information correlations minus the sum of across-information correlations. Red arrows indicate the time points used in (A). The black circles indicate the time points at which the information-selectivity index was significantly (i.e. p \< 0.05, evaluated using Wilcoxon's signed-rank test) different from the same index averaged in the last 200 ms window prior to the stimulus onset (before baseline removal). Shaded areas indicate the SEM across subjects. The information-selectivity matrices showed a high-level of information-selectivity at −100 ms prior to stimulus-onset (Fig. [7A](#Fig7){ref-type="fig"}). Although instances of confusion between some aspects of information (e.g. between categorization and position processing, between size and lighting processing, etc.) could be observed, higher values of within-aspect correlations could be observed compared to between-aspect correlations. This is not surprising since the information-selectivity is not related to the amplitudes of the decodability indices, which are naturally low in the pre-stimulus span, but rather to the decodability patterns (i.e. whether high or low) across electrodes, therefore unrelated to the presentation of the stimulus. In other words, information-selectivity is another way of looking at 'background connectivity' in the brain, which is defined within/across neural populations as the involvement of different neural populations in same/different information processing aspects^[@CR58],[@CR59]^. This background connectivity, which reflects inherent in the brain, is independent of the amount of input information (i.e. stimulus presentation)^[@CR58],[@CR59]^. Therefore, it is not strange to observe a high level of information-selectivity in the pre-stimulus span as this pattern can also be observed in the very late processing time points (e.g. at 328 and 600 ms post-stimulus) during which the input stimulus has almost no effect. Here, however, I concentrated on time instances of significant drops of information-selectivity which reflected the co-processing (entangling) of information aspects in shared brain areas. The processing of different aspects of information have been totally entangled with almost no differentiation between the aspects at 50 ms post-stimulus instance as well as at 104 ms post-stimulus. This processing overlap was attenuated at 200 ms meaning that distinct brain regions have become involved in the processing of distinct aspects of information. I also defined and calculated the information-selectivity index across time (Fig. [7B](#Fig7){ref-type="fig"}). The information-selectivity index was calculated on each information-selectivity matrix as the average of within-aspect correlation coefficients (i.e. the average of all correlation values obtained within categorization, lighting, pose, size and position processing) minus the average of between-aspect correlation coefficients (e.g. the average of correlation values across categorization and lighting processing, etc.). The time instances of the information-selectivity matrices, shown in Fig. [7A](#Fig7){ref-type="fig"}, are highlighted by red arrows in Fig. [7B](#Fig7){ref-type="fig"}. The information-selectivity curve revealed its first and second significant (p \< 0.05, Wilcoxon's signed-rank test) declines respectively in the time spans from 43 to 61 ms and from 101 to 113 ms post-stimulus. These significant declines totally matched the occipital co-processing of category and variation information shown in Figs [5](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"} and [6](#Fig6){ref-type="fig"}. Interestingly, these time spans also highly concurred with the first stage of visual processing (Fig. [4A](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}, right) in which information regarding categories and variations were processed in an in-phase pattern which together support the spatiotemporal co-processing of category and variation information in early visual cortices (Fig. [5](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"}). During the second stage of visual processing (from 170 to 450 ms post-stimulus), in which category and variation information were processed in an anti-phase pattern (Fig. [4A](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}, right), distinct brain mechanisms were involved in the processing of distinct aspects of information (Figs [5](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"} and [6](#Fig6){ref-type="fig"}). Together, these quantitative results suggested that, in the earliest stages of sensory processing, information about categories and variations were processed by similar neural mechanism and in later time windows, the information-selective brain areas undertook their intrinsic tasks. Transaction of visual information between peri-occipital and peri-frontal areas {#Sec18} ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Although the above analyses provided new insights into the distinct stages of category and variation processing in the brain, they remained silent on the possible flows of information between brain areas. Recent studies have suggested that specific properties of objects (e.g. low-frequency components of the object image) were processed by mechanisms of prefrontal cortex in parallel to the ventral visual stream whose results are transferred from lower (i.e. V1) to higher visual areas such as IT^[@CR14],[@CR19]^. These studies and other theoretical and experimental investigations, which suggested that some variations may need top-down prefrontal-to-occipital feedback signals for accurate recognition^[@CR20],[@CR29],[@CR60]^, provided motivation to evaluate the possible transfer of category and variation information between the peri-frontal and peri-occipital areas in object processing. For that purpose, the information processing units of peri-frontal and peri-occipital areas were separated by electrodes (Figs [8](#Fig8){ref-type="fig"} and [S1B](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}). Results showed an earlier rise to significance (p \< 0.05) on peri-frontal electrodes about both categories and variations (respectively at 68 and 78 ms) compared to peri-occipital electrodes (respectively at 103 and 108 ms) (Fig. [8](#Fig8){ref-type="fig"}, top and middle). However, information about categories and variations in peri-occipital areas peaked earlier than those in peri-frontal areas (Fig. [8](#Fig8){ref-type="fig"}, bottom). These results suggest that, in contrast to what might be expected regarding the dominant role of posterior brain areas in the processing of category and variation information, the same number of electrodes on peri-frontal areas can provide even higher amounts of information compared to peri-occipital areas, especially at later stages of processing. The earlier rise of information at frontal brain areas can be explained by the magnocellular projections from the eyes to the frontal brain areas which provide a faster parallel pathway to those from the eyes to the occipital lobe. This is explained in more details below.Figure 8Time-resolved decodability of categories (top), variations (middle) and their temporal statistics (bottom) in the peri-occipital and peri-frontal areas. The circles indicate the time points at which the color-matched decodability curves were significantly above the decodability values averaged in the last 200 ms pre-stimulus window (i.e. p \< 0.05, FDR corrected Wilcoxon's signed-rank test). (C) Latency (black) and peak (colored) time points of decoding in corresponding category and variation decodability curves. Shaded areas and error bars indicate the SEM across subjects. Stars show significant (p \< 0.05, Wilcoxon's signed-rank test) difference between peak time bars. 'Cat' and 'Var' respectively stand for categories and variations while 'PO' and 'PF' respectively represent peri-occipital and peri-frontal. What remains unknown is whether there was any interaction of information between frontal and occipital brain areas which is the subject of following analyses. To that end, I evaluated the spatiotemporal dynamics of information transfer between peri-occipital (including occipital and parietal electrodes of O1, O2, OZ, POZ, P3, P4, P7, P8 and PZ) and peri-frontal (F3, F4, F7, F8, FZ, AFZ, FP1, FP2 and FPZ) areas using a simplified version of Granger causality as suggested previously^[@CR19]^. For that purpose, first I calculated similarity matrices at every time point using the 9-dimentional representational space (i.e. nine electrodes) for object categories and variation conditions. Then, using partial correlations between representations at time t and the average of representations in the span from t − 130 to t − 80 ms, I investigated the transfer of information between peri-frontal and peri-occipital brain areas (see Methods and Goddard et al.^[@CR19]^ for more information). I called the information directions from peri-occipital to peri-frontal "feed-forward" and from peri-frontal to peri-occipital as "feedback" anatomically and not based on the classical feed-forward and feedback flows of visual information which is dominant in the literature. In other words, rather than the role of peri-frontal areas in higher level cognitive processes such as attention, decision making, etc.^[@CR34],[@CR35]^, I am investigating the role of specific compartments within those areas such as orbitofrontal cortex in providing a parallel processing pathway to sensory object processing areas such as occipitotemporal cortices^[@CR13],[@CR14],[@CR19]^. This is discussed in more details in Discussions. Partial correlations between peri-frontal and peri-occipital information showed higher values for category than for variations (compare the red and green curves with cyan and magenta curves on the top panel of Fig. [9A](#Fig9){ref-type="fig"}). In order to measure the dominance of information flow on the scalp, I calculated the difference between feed-forward and feedback information (i.e. between partial correlations, Fig. [9A](#Fig9){ref-type="fig"}, bottom) and evaluated the significance of the calculated differences against 1000 randomly generated partial correlation values (see Methods). The difference information curves showed highly dynamical patterns switching from feed-forward to feedback at around 150 ms and reversing to feed-forward at around 420 ms for both categories and variations. Results showed that variation and category information led to significant feed-forward flows respectively at 77 and 97 ms and remained significant respectively until 88 and 128 ms post-stimulus. Then, the variation and category information turned into significant feedback flows at 147 and 158, remained significant respectively until 408 and 397 ms, turned into feed-forward flows again respectively at 469 and 448 ms and remained significant until the end of analysis time. Therefore, information regarding categories and variations moved dominantly from peri-occipital areas towards peri-frontal areas in the window from the stimulus onset to 130 ms (first stage) post-stimulus, then back to peri-occipital areas from around 150 ms to 400 ms (second stage) and then again forth to peri-frontal areas from around 450 ms (third stage). The observed stages of category and variation processing confirmed many of the results reported above, as follows. The first stage, which supported feed-forward flows of information from peri-occipital to peri-frontal areas (Fig. [9A](#Fig9){ref-type="fig"}, bottom) co-aligned with the in-phase (Fig. [4A](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}) entangled (Fig. [7B](#Fig7){ref-type="fig"}) processing of category and variation information. The second stage, which concurred with feedback flows of information from peri- frontal to peri-occipital areas (Fig. [9A](#Fig9){ref-type="fig"}, bottom), covered the anti-phase (Fig. [4A](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}) information- selective (Fig. [7B](#Fig7){ref-type="fig"}) stage of category and variation processing. The third stage, which again revealed feed-forward flow of information from peri-occipital to peri-frontal areas (Fig. [9A](#Fig9){ref-type="fig"}, bottom), covered the in-phase (Fig. [4A](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}) information-selective processing windows explained above (Fig. [7B](#Fig7){ref-type="fig"}). The observed temporal dynamics of information flows were also highly consistent with a seminal study which reported feed-forward flow of object information from subcortical/occipital (e.g. V1) areas to orbitofrontal cortex at around 80 ms (i.e. the start time of the first stage of processing in the current study) followed by the feedback of category information starting at around 130 ms (i.e. the start time of the second stage of processing of the current study) post-stimulus onset^[@CR14]^.Figure 9Time-resolved flows of category and variation information in the brain. (A) Top, partial correlation of representations between peri-occipital and peri-frontal areas. FF and FB refer to the feed-forward (correlation between time t representations in peri-occipital and representations during time t − 130 to t − 80 ms in peri-frontal areas) and feedback information flows, respectively. (A) Bottom, the difference between FF and FB flows of information for categories (black) and variations (blue). Stars indicate the time points at which the flows were significantly higher (p \< 0.05, random permutation test) than correlations obtained from a null distribution. (B) The same as (A, Bottom) but for each category (top) and each variation (bottom) with their corresponding significant time points indicated with stars. Shaded areas indicate the SEM across subjects. To be able to compare the dynamics of information flow across categories and variations, I provided category and variation information flows resolved into their constituent conditions (Fig. [9B](#Fig9){ref-type="fig"}). No significant differences were observed between categories (Fig. [9B](#Fig9){ref-type="fig"}, top). However, as previously suggested^[@CR8]^, pose seems to have employed a higher level of feedback compared to other variations (Fig. [9B](#Fig9){ref-type="fig"}, bottom). More importantly, while category information has provided a higher number of significant feed-forward time points during the first stage, variations have employed a wider span of significant information feedback. Comparing the brain's dynamical behavior with a computational model {#Sec19} ------------------------------------------------------------------- A set of computational models of human visual processing have been proposed recently which were able to provide accurate prediction of object representations at final layers of the ventral visual stream^[@CR47],[@CR48],[@CR51]^ (V4 and IT). One of these models, HMO, which had a hierarchical feed-forward structure, has recently suggested that information regarding both categories and variations were enhanced as object representations passed through layers of the model^[@CR61]^, supporting that a unified structure can process category and variation information by entangled mechanisms. However, as here I supported the existence of parallel pathways for visual object representations, it was interesting to know how one of the most brain-plausible versions of such hierarchical models, known as 'AlexNet'^[@CR51]^, would process category and variation information. To that end, I fed the model with the same image set as was used in the EEG experiment and measured the decodability indices across categories and variation conditions at the output of every model layer (Fig. [10A](#Fig10){ref-type="fig"}). Information about categories and variations increased as object images passed the first layer of the model. Except for lighting which showed a monotonically decreasing information curve, other variations generally experienced information enhancement by going from the first to the fourth layer of the model. After the fourth layer, the variation decodability indices decreased while the category information kept increasing until the last layer of the model. Therefore, two distinct stages of information processing seemed to be at work in the model: one from the first to the fourth model layer and one from the fourth to the last layer. In order to evaluate the relative phase of category and variation decodability in the model, I calculated the correlation of decodability patterns in every three consecutive model layers between category and the average of four variation decodability curves (Fig. [10B](#Fig10){ref-type="fig"}), which showed an in-phase followed by an anti-phase processing pattern. These two stages seem to repeat the first and second stages of visual processing obtained from EEG signals (Fig. [9](#Fig9){ref-type="fig"}). The third stage of processing, however, was absent from the computational model, which seems to be a result of the model lacking the decision-related mechanisms present in the brain, as it was most probably the destination of information flow during the third stage of visual processing (i.e. PFC). Therefore, the hierarchically-organized feed-forward model of visual processing which was used here seemed to be a brain-plausible model which implemented the existing parallel visual pathways (i.e. one going from V1 to orbitofrontal cortex and back to IT and the other directly from V1 to IT) that process visual information prior to the convergence of information at IT cortex. The parallel processing structures of the model were probably implemented by different convolutional spatial filters each of which extracted and processed different sub-band frequencies of the visual input which had been inspired by the brain mechanisms for filtering different spatial frequencies^[@CR14],[@CR19]^.Figure 10Correlation of the model with brain data. (A) Decodability indices obtained from pixel-space images as well as their representations at the output of every layer of the model for categories (black curve) and variations (color curves). (B) Correlation values between the average of four variation indices and the category index at three consecutive layers of the model (i.e. three data values were used in the calculation of correlations) which showed significantly (p \< 0.05, Pearson linear correlation) positive and negative values respectively in the first-half and second-half of the model layers. I also evaluated the spatiotemporal correlation between the category information in the EEG signals, whose results reflected the hierarchical structure of computational models (Supplementary Fig. [S4](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}). Results of this analysis confirmed the existence of a hierarchical structure for category processing in the brain, as previously observed for the same model^[@CR62]^. In fact, the results showed that a layer-wise structure could have underlay the observed EEG decodability indices, but does not rule out the possibility of parallel visual processing being at work in peri-frontal and peri-occipital areas. Next, using the representational vectors which were obtained from the last layer of the computational model on an extended version of the current image set^[@CR8]^, the representational dissimilarity matrices also showed the distinctiveness of face category exemplars from the other categories validating the results explained for Fig. [2A](#Fig2){ref-type="fig"}, right (Supplementary Fig. [S5A](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}, left). The variation representational dissimilarity matrix also showed the decodeability/distinctiveness of different variation levels (size and pose conditions, Supplementary Fig. [S5A](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}, right). Finally, using the same extended image set^[@CR8]^ and the representations obtained from the last model layer, I also showed that variations in pose could drastically entangle object representations, whereas lighting had little impact on object representations (Supplementary Figs [S2C](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"} and [S5B](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}). This was also reflected in the behavioral object recognition performance of my recent work (Supplementary Fig. [S5B](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}, light-colored images)^[@CR8]^. Therefore, although they may divide the visual object processing problem into several sub-problems (e.g. by using sets of convolutional filters with different shape- and frequency-based sensitivities), which may not necessarily follow those implemented by the brain (e.g. dividing the problem into low- and high-frequency components in frontal and occipital brain areas)^[@CR63]^, the recently developed computational models of human vision can be proper candidates to access primate's high-level visual representations. Discussions {#Sec20} =========== This investigation provides a broad-based survey of the spatiotemporal dynamics of category and variation processing in the human brain as well as their interactions. Findings of this study provided several insights. First, the visual processing of category and variation information was shown, for the first time, to be divided into three stages (Figs [7](#Fig7){ref-type="fig"}--[9](#Fig9){ref-type="fig"}): stage one, which covered the time window before 130 ms post-stimulus during which information about categories and variations were processed by (temporally and spatially) entangled mechanisms mainly concentrated in primary visual cortex and were simultaneously (significantly during 80 to 130 ms window) sent to the frontal brain areas^[@CR13],[@CR14]^; stage two, which covered the time window from 150 to 400 ms post-stimulus during which category and variation information, being processed by partially anti-phase distinct mechanisms, were sent back to peri-occipital areas; and stage three, which started at around 450 ms with category and variation information sent, in a temporally in-phase, to frontal areas possibly for final category-related decisions. Second, this study provided experimental support that information regarding categories as well as variations were processed also in the peri-frontal areas of the brain (Fig. [5](#Fig5){ref-type="fig"}). This added evidence to the previously suggested role of frontal brain areas in the processing of low-frequency object information^[@CR14],[@CR19]^. Third, as subjects' task was unrelated to object recognition (as a result of passive paradigm), it could be concluded that the observed spatiotemporal dynamics of category processing have been mainly driven by the stimulus presentation rather than being task-driven. Finally, the results showed that a feed-forward convolutional neural network model could predict the first two above-suggested stages of visual processing implying that rather than feedback, the second stage of visual processing could support the existence of a processing pathway operating in parallel to the known processing stages implemented by the ventral visual stream (from V1 to IT). Although a few recent studies have observed the information regarding the processing of variations in the human brain^[@CR19],[@CR23],[@CR64]^, current study is the first to investigate the whole-brain spatiotemporal dynamics of affine (i.e. size and position) and non-affine (i.e. lighting and pose) variation processing using a systematically designed image set. These results have extended previous findings which concentrated on specific variations (e.g. position^[@CR28]^), evaluated limited areas of the brain (e.g. V4 and IT^[@CR23]^), used low temporal resolution recording methods (e.g. fMRI^[@CR64],[@CR65]^) or overlooked possible flows of variation information in the brain^[@CR19]^. Through different analyses (Figs [4](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}--[9](#Fig9){ref-type="fig"}), this study provided support that significant processing of information about categories and variations was initiated (before 130 ms post-stimulus) in the primary visual cortex and the information was simultaneously sent to peri-frontal areas. This entangled processing of category and variation information was also reported by previous studies which suggested the processing of category and variations in alternating layers of the ventral visual stream^[@CR23],[@CR64]^. In the later window (from 150 to 400 ms), which overlapped with the peri-frontal to peri-occipital window of information flow (Fig. [9A](#Fig9){ref-type="fig"}) previously observed for impoverished objects^[@CR66]^ and attended object detection^[@CR67]^, variation and category information showed spans of in-phase and anti-phase processing patterns (Fig. [4A](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}, right). The relationship between the category and variation phase patterns (Fig. [4A](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"}, right) and the direction of information flow (Fig. [9A](#Fig9){ref-type="fig"}, bottom) suggested distinct mechanisms for transferring information from occipital to frontal areas and back to peri-occipital areas. Previous studies have suggested that the information from early visual cortex travels through fast dorsal magnocellular pathway to reach OFC^[@CR14],[@CR15]^. The frontal-to-occipital information, however, may use slower pathways which start from frontal cortex and end at occipitotemporal and temporal areas^[@CR17],[@CR18],[@CR38],[@CR67]--[@CR69]^. The final window (starting from 450 ms), showed simultaneous processing and transferring of category and variation information from occipital to frontal areas. During this final window, the representational information was probably transferred to peri-frontal areas for final cognitive processes such as decision-making and response preparation^[@CR70],[@CR71]^. It should be noted that the aim of current study was to compare the spatiotemporal dynamics of variation against category information processing in the brain, and not to address the invariance problem which has been previously addressed by several studies^[@CR25],[@CR54]^. In Isik et al.^[@CR54]^, the dynamics of object processing under variations of size and position were evaluated which was extended by a later study to the variations of pose and lighting^[@CR8]^. On the other hand, in the current study as well as several recent studies^[@CR23],[@CR72]^, the spatiotemporal dynamics of individual variations were evaluated separately from the information of categories. Although several studies have recently proposed the contribution of peri-frontal areas (LOC) to the encoding of low-frequency object information^[@CR14],[@CR19]^, the current study seems to be the first to show that information regarding variations was also processed by peri-frontal areas. It did not only show that peri-frontal areas contributed to variation processing, but also revealed that this area sent variation information to occipital areas. This implies that, in contrast to the consensus that the ventral and dorsal visual streams dominate the processing of category and variation information by feed-forward mechanisms^[@CR73],[@CR74]^, the representations in peri-frontal cortex can provide even larger amounts of information compared to those areas in large portions of the processing window (Fig. [8](#Fig8){ref-type="fig"}, compare the time windows after 200 ms and a related study which showed the same temporal dynamics for feedback signals^[@CR66]^). Results also showed an earlier (from 0 to 50 ms) rise of information curves in peri-frontal than in peri-occipital areas (Figs [4B,C](#Fig4){ref-type="fig"} and [8](#Fig8){ref-type="fig"}) which can be explained by a previously suggested "framing model"^[@CR18],[@CR75]^. In this model, a frame of the object, which is a vague low-frequency representation or a gist of it, is constructed in peri-frontal brain areas (through subcortical pathways from the eyes to the orbitofrontal cortex), enhanced by the peri-occipital to peri-frontal flows through magnocellular pathways and is fed back during the second stage of processing to enhance the details of object representations for accurate recognition^[@CR67]^. As I did not separate the low- and high-frequency components of the objects, it could not be determined which object features were processed by the peri-frontal areas. For variations, however, an advantage was observed in the processing of variations of lighting and pose (compared to variations in size and position) in the peri-frontal areas compared to peri-occipital areas throughout the processing time (Fig. [S3B](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"}). This is on par with previous suggestions that frontal areas may play role in the compensation of non-affine variations^[@CR8],[@CR29]^. An interesting implication of the current results was that the observed role of peri-frontal brain areas in object and variation processing seem to be an integral part of visual processing rather than being activated by top-down cognitive processes which generally become involved during active object recognition. In fact, as the current paradigm was irrelevant to object recognition, the contribution of frontal brain areas could not have been mainly driven by the subject's task. This aspect of the results, while supporting previous findings on the role of peri-frontal cortex in active object recognition^[@CR13],[@CR14],[@CR19],[@CR66],[@CR67]^, has extended those results to the general case of object processing as opposed to object recognition which can be highly affected by the task, context, etc.^[@CR63],[@CR76]--[@CR78]^. This result is on par with a recent study which has suggested that the activation of orbitofrontal cortex is independent of the task, the characteristics of the visual input and explicit recognition of the stimuli^[@CR75]^. The two-stage processing of variations observed in the computational model (Fig. [10](#Fig10){ref-type="fig"}, stage one: layers 1--4 and stage two: layers 5--7) can be explained by the dimensionality of the model's representational space at different model layers. In other words, a very high correlation (r = 0.7117, p = 0.0728, n = 7; Pearson linear correlation) was observed between the size of the representational space (i.e. which were 69987, 43264, 64896, 64896, 9216, 4096 and 4096 respectively for layers 1 to 7) and the decodability indices across model layers (Fig. [10A](#Fig10){ref-type="fig"}). The correlation was much less for lighting alone (r = 0.4876, p = 0.267) which was probably a result of lighting (as a low-level image feature) being mainly compensated for by the first layer of the model. Moreover, the category decodability curve and the model's representational dimensions showed an anti-correlated pattern (r = −0.9231, p = 0.003). It can be concluded that, as suggested by the idea of population coding of variations^[@CR79]^, large neural populations may be proper candidates to compensate for object variations, while for the encoding of categories, the brain may exploit its sparse inter-layer connections (as implemented in the two final fully-connected layers of the computational model^[@CR51]^). While some recent studies have reported correlated processing stages between the human brain and those computational models (as in Fig. [S4](#MOESM1){ref-type="media"})^[@CR23],[@CR62]^ especially at higher visual areas^[@CR47],[@CR48]^, they have overlooked possible parallel processing mechanisms that could have contributed to those correlated patterns at final layers. In other words, computational models and the brain might have implemented different sets of strategies to reach the same abstract representations of objects found in their final processing stages as previously proposed^[@CR63]^. Therefore, even a layer-wise correlation does not rule out the possible existence of parallel, interactive mechanisms for object processing in the brain. One advantage of this study to a most relevant study, which supported the role of peri-frontal areas in object recognition^[@CR19]^, is that it has used a rapid presentation paradigm in which objects were presented only for 50 ms. This was important since longer presentation times could have caused the dominance of peri-occipital to peri-frontal information (referred to as feed-forward) flow compared to the peri-frontal to peri-occipital (feedback) flow, leading to the underestimation of feedback influence. As argued by the authors^[@CR19]^, the same reason may explain the dominance of feed-forward as well as the lag of feedback information flows in that study. However, these results suggested the need for a systematic study to investigate the impact of presentation time on the amplitude and the temporal dynamics of object information flow in the brain. While the results of current study have provided new insights into the spatiotemporal dynamics of category and variation processing in the human brain, they raised several questions. Does the task affect the processing of variation information differently from category information? It has been recently shown that the task can significantly modulate category representations in high-level vision-related areas^[@CR76]^ which can result in the modulation of processing strategies^[@CR63]^. It remains to be studied for variations as well. Second, is the variation information, observed here, also observed when objects are presented on complex backgrounds (i.e. clutter)? Third, what exactly are the regions which process category and variation information in peri-frontal areas? Although there are suggestions on the role of orbitofrontal cortex in that regard, more accurate recording methods (e.g. combined EEG and fMRI) can tell if information about categories and variations are processed by the same or different brain regions. Regardless of how these questions are addressed, the current study provides new insights into the role of peri-frontal brain areas in category and variation processing. Electronic supplementary material ================================= {#Sec21} SUPPLEMENTARY INFO Publisher\'s note: Springer Nature remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Electronic supplementary material ================================= Supplementary information accompanies this paper at 10.1038/s41598-018-30601-8. H.K.-R. conceived, conducted/programmed the experiment(s), ran the simulations, analyzed the results and wrote the manuscript. The datasets generated during and/or analyzed during the current study are available from the corresponding author on reasonable request. Competing Interests {#FPar1} =================== The author declares no competing interests.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	PubMed Central
Ethylene Market 2017 Share, Trend, Segmentation and Forecast to 2020 Wise.Guy. Ethylene Market Consumption 2017 Forecast to 2022 PUNE, INDIA, February 16, 2017 /EINPresswire.com/ -- Global ethylene capacity is poised to see considerable growth over the next 10 years, potentially increasing from 171.12 million tonnes per annum (mtpa) in 2015 to 235.11 mtpa in 2025. Around 89 planned projects are slated to come online in the next 10 years, primarily in the US and China. • The US has 20 planned ethylene projects, adding capacity of about 16.94 mtpa by 2025. The US capital expenditure (capex) for these projects is US$15.87 billion by 2025. Major capacity additions will be from Exxon Mobil Corporation and Formosa Plastics Group. • China has 29 planned ethylene projects adding capacity of about 11.72 mtpa by 2025. Capex for these projects totals US$9.82 billion over the next 10 years. Major capacity additions will be from China Petroleum and Chemical Corporation and Zhejiang Rongsheng Holding Group Co., Ltd. • In the Middle East, Iran has six planned ethylene projects, adding capacity of about 5.20 mtpa in the coming years, and plans to spend US$3.25 billion over the next 10 years. Sepehr Energy Corporation is the top company accounting for the major capacity additions in Iran. • In Former Soviet Union, the majority of capacity additions are in Russia, with planned capacity additions of about 9.13 mtpa by 2025. Capex for these projects totals US$27.89 billion by 2025. Sibur Holding is the top company accounting for the major capacity additions in Russia. • In Africa, ethylene capacity additions are in Egypt, with planned capacity additions of about 1.89 mtpa by 2025. Capex for these projects totals US$1.85 billion in the coming years. In Europe, Norway plans to spend US$0.01 billion to add capacity of about 0.05 mtpa, expected onstream by 2016. • In South America, Venezuela and Bolivia together plan to spend US$0.72 billion in the coming years to add the capacity of 0.80 mtpa, expected to come onstream by 2023. The report will clarify - - Understand the key trends in the global Ethylene industry - Understand the regional Ethylene supply scenario - Identify opportunities in the global Ethylene industry with the help of upcoming projects and capital expenditure forecast - Understand the current and likely future competitive scenario Wise Guy Reports is part of the Wise Guy Research Consultants Pvt. Ltd. and offers premium progressive statistical surveying, market research reports, analysis & forecast data for industries and governments around the globe.	tomekkorbak/pile-curse-small	Pile-CC

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