"Call me a virtual Ishmael" -- the power of stories, part two

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"Call me Ishmael"-- storytelling around the fire.

Let’s continue talking about this idea that the internet is “killing storytelling.”

As I mentioned in my last post, reflection upon this topic has been inspired by a TimesOnline (UK) opinion piece by columnist Ben McIntyre. This gentleman, is “Writer at Large” for The Times, contributing a weekly column, and has been editor of the Times’ Weekend Review, parliamentary sketchwriter and bureau chief in Washington and Paris. He also has authored what his bio blurb refers to as “some historical non-fiction books” that seem to be some sort of novelized adaptions of actual biographies or historical events. One review of his book “If I should Die: A Foreign Field” (a story about British soldiers in WWI) commented that his work is “made the comment that it is “more narrative non-fiction than history per se.“

Anyhow, Mr. McIntyre did this piece about the death of storytelling at the hands of the dreaded interwebs. He argues that:

"The narrative, whether oral or written, is a staple of every culture the world over. But stories demand time and concentration; the narrative does not simply transmit information, but invites the reader or listener to witness the unfolding of events.

Stories introduce us to situations, people and dilemmas beyond our experience, in a way that is contemplative and gradual: it is the oldest and best form of virtual reality.

The internet, while it communicates so much information so very effectively, does not really “do” narrative. The blog is a soap box, not a story. Facebook is a place for tell-tales perhaps, but not for telling tales....Very few stories of more than 1,000 words achieve viral status on the internet."

I’m not sure exactly what Mr. McIntrye means by “viral status,” but he may have a point that the online stories people like us generate do not acquire the following and have as many views as , oh, say, an image of an overweight kitty cat asking “Can I plz haz cheezburger?” But then hell, I am told there are actually more cat pictures on the internet than porn images.

At any rate, other than a few weak points like that, in general, his entire argument is of course, complete and utter idiocy: nothing more than pretentious, elitist, old-media lark’s vomit.
Many people commented on the piece, mostly agreeing that Mr. McIntryie obviously is only marginally aware of what is happening online.

And of course, I had to add my own two cents worth, offering the comment:

“I would respectfully disagree--if anything the internet has provided some astonishing new opportunities for storytellers to work with each other and share their tales with broader audiences than they ever could reach before. For example, within the Second Life platform, there are a growing number of venues (generally associated with virtual libraries or museums) that host events featuring both traditional and original storytelling. The storytellers themselves--which include many individuals who perform as storytellers in meatspace venues as well--use either typed chat or voice to present their tales to audiences that are generally very engaged and appreciative.

And as Jermey D. (another person who commented on the piece) points out there is this intriguing development in virtual worlds, where role-playing has fostered new shared narratives that have in turn generated an expanding body of stories in written form on related blogs and forums. Yes, in many ways this work is a second cousin to fanfic, and much of it is of wildly-varying quality, but the important thing is that people are in fact taking the time to do creative writing and are telling stories that are important to them. And in sharing them on the net, they are having a splendid time entertaining themselves and others.

I know that for me as a writer and storyteller, thanks to the outlets available to us on the internet, I have been motivated to do a lot more work in recent years, and have been able to reach a larger audience than I had in the past.”

I would also like to direct you all to the blog of Edward Champion, an extremely bright and funny literary blogger/journalist/playwright, who has thoughtfully and thoroughly demolished McIntryre’s entire article in much more complete and articulate way than I ever possibly could. His response to McIntryre can be found here at his blog -- I enjoyed reading it even with my shriveled attention span.

While I cannot do as well as Mr. Champion in this regard, I would like to add some more thoughts from my admittedly narrow perspective. Did you know that the first international conference of Virtual Storytelling was held in 2001? You can find a book that records the proceedings here.

And If you google “virtual storytellers” you get about three-and-a-half million results.

The evidence lies even closer to home as well. If you look at groups in Second Life, you will find about forty-four separate groups associated with “storytellers” or “storytelling.” You also find that the Second Life Storytellers Guild has over four hundred members. There are eight venues in “search” that host storytelling, as do almost all of the community libraries in SL. Storytelling is clearly a going concern in SL. And it is storytelling in the very literal and traditional sense: intimate groups of people, usually seated in a circle, often around a fire, listening to a narrative unfold.

Sometimes these are traditional stories, handed down within a particular culture or people. Just as often they are completely original, sometimes even delightfully experimental.

But either way, storytelling is very very much alive in the regions of the internet that I tread. Perhaps partly, the issue for Mr. McIntrye is that his article was actually mixing up terminology. He claimed to be talking about “storytelling” but he on closer examination he actually seemed to be whining about a growing lack of patience for traditional means of delivering longer narrative stories. As he is a traditional journalist and the creator of pseudo-history novels in dead-tree form, this concern on his part is understandable. The fact that so many people can now actively create and share their own narratives, rather than simply being malleable, passive consumers of mass-produced narrative crap (whether in the form of printed works or the oozing mass of glop on both big and small screens)...well, that has got to be scaring the holy living shit out of puffed-up professional purveyors of story stuff like McIntyre. Who’s going to buy their crap out of the remainder bins if committed readers are making their own stuff?

And yes, I will be first to admit that a great deal of what we are creating for ourselves to share online is crap as well. Some of it certainly qualifies as completely hideous, unreadable crap. But then when was the last time you saw really good writing on TV or in the movies? Yeah, you probably saw something that was good at some point recently, but I’ll wager you had to wade through--or ignore--a whole shitload of foul, odoriferous dreck, the kind of stuff that makes say:

“Jeezusfuckingchristonafuckingpogostuck, they actually PAID someone to write this shit?”

But the internet has given us all chance to put something into written form and to show it to others. I was really struck by Headburro’s recent comment in talking about the Steelhead story session we just did, that he had not written or told stories until now. Or in my case, a decade a go I spent a lot of time working on two different novels of my own, doing some extensive writing over the course of a couple years. Only one or two people ever saw it. And now after many moves, divorces, and other various adventures, the discs are gone, the hard copies, recycled....but now, I am writing again, and people actually get to see my shit and comment on it.

And furthermore, without even leaving the house I am currently sharing with family, I’m periodically sitting around the fire in the Steelhead library garden, or under the arbor outside the Falling Anvil pub in Tam, telling stories like I used to talking to my pards around the campfire at a reenactment, or in the neighborhood library with a bunch of eager, squirming little kids--except now I’m telling stories and sharing narrative and traditions with people from all over the fucking world.

The Falling Anvil in Tam, still a popular venue for storytelling, though not as often as it used to be as there are so many other venues now. It is not uncommon to have story sessions at different locations overlapping and competing.

And those other people from all over the world also get to be a part of the story-creating process. JJ Drinkwater and I have been talking a good deal lately about how roleplaying in SL and other virtual worlds gives us an opportunity to generate shared narratives and to create characters and develop them, interacting with other real people in delightful and unexpected and natural ways. And that out of that is coming the inspiration--and the necessary building blocks of narrative and characters and plots and rich detail--that makes for some pretty darn good stories. In playing out these stories with each other, we foster situations, ideas, people dialogue and plots that are more complex and engaging than what we might weave ourselves.

This is why I included the story about Addison being sick into part one of this discussion. It was based on a transcript of rp that just happened--no script of course. And in the course of sitting there with this woman--who I believe was roleplaying that she had scarlet fever, if I recall correctly--I was reacting as Dio. Yeah, it was one of those "what would Dio do" moments, although I really wasn't thinking about it. I was enough into the character and who she is in order to just realize that, hell, she'd try to tell Addi a story that might distract her some from her discomfort, and might get her to laugh--and laughin' is always good fer sick folks, right?

So I pulled out what is actually an old Flip Wilson story--the tale of Roman Herman and his magnificent berry--and presented it as a story from Dio's Papaw Marcus. I figured what the hell, like many 19th century country folk he was sort of a renaissance man, who in addition to having been a trapper and fur trader, he also did things like read Shakespeare, play the fiddle, and tell stories.

And I have always loved that story of Roman Herman and the berry, and maybe now some more people will have seen it...and it will live on, even if they never heard Flip Wilson tell it. And isn't that what storytelling is about? Passing things on, maybe improving them a bit or giving them your own twist, but more than anything, keeping the tale from dying?

Well, bugger me senseless. Maybe the internet is giving life to storytelling, not killing it.

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A Deadwood conversation -- the power of stories, part one

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There was a commentator on the Times Online who posted something the other day about how the internet is killing storytelling. That encouraged to me to work up this piece which is derived from some rp in the Deadwood 1876 sim. Next post we'll talk about this and put it into some kind of context.

Things settled down into their normal routine after I got back from the hunt for Al’s killer. Well...normal for Deadwood, anyhow.

There was that whole thing about the jail gettin’ burned down...an’ this gang o’ desperate characters who took a whole mess o’ townfolk hostage....I had to patch up quite a few people after that, being as Doc Alcott warn’t around when all that transpired. Oh lord, and then there was the trial after that--holy Christ, that was like a goddam three-ring circus.

But not everythin’ goin’ on was quite that excitin’...Miss Adiniah was doin’ quite well with keepin’ the orphanage goin. Hey, ye know, her ‘n Ol’ Bill got hitched. That was nice.

An’ the mine war didn’t happen after all...that was real good.

Oh...but Daz got bushwhacked an’ died from his wounds...that was real rough on Mahaila, bein' as they were kin.

Another thing that was kinda rough on folks was that there was this fever goin’ round when the wet weather came...

Doc Alcott was makin’ the rounds out amongst the miners’ famlies, an' I was tryin to look after some o’ m’ friends in town what took sick.

One among ‘em was Miss Addison...she was workin’ fer Neil Streeter at the paper back then, before she had the boardin’ house an’ the store she runs now.

Anyhow, when the boys tol’ me she was down with the fever, I went up to her place to find her just a-mumblin’ an burnin’ up. But ye see, more often than not, when a body is in the grip of a disease like that, one o' the best things ye kin do--besides tryin to cool em off, an' take the fever down with willow bark tea an such--is to get em to smile a little. Mebbe even laugh a tad .

Now like with Addi, she was a layin there, an I askt her how she’s doin’. She could only shake her head a bit an’ mumble some more, an’ I said, “Oh I see, purty much like sunday dinner, long about Monday night, eh?”

Yeah, I know. Not exactly no brilliant flash o’wit, but damn if’n she didn’t open her eyes a bit an’ actually made a slight sort o chuckle. Not much, but I took it as a good sign.

I felt her forehead, an tol’ her “Yep...dandy fever ye got goin on Hon.”

She started to rub her eyes, said, “This room ...the light is awful bright.” Ye see, that sort o’ fever makes yer eyes real sensitive to the light.

So I dipped a washrag in some cool water an put it over her eyes, an started givin her a bath with vinegar--that helps a feverish body to cool down, ye know. Sepp tells me that some Docs also think it kills the disease, so as to keep it from spreadin’--so ye warsh down all the sick person’s things as well. Addi was all worried cuz Lola had tol’ her she oughtta have all her stuff burned, but I tol’ her, “Yep, some folks say ye gotta burn it, but I come from the school what says jus warsh it all with vinegar an let it dry in the sun....”

I mean hell, it ain’t like it’s easy to get stuff out in the middle o goddam nowhere...why waste all that gear ye worked so hard to get?

That made Addi feel a bit better. She said she’d hate to have to “start from scratch.” Now that was good. I was actually gettin’ her to talk--real words, too. Not just mumblin’ an babblin’.

So I said, “lemme see yer tongue,” an she stuck it out. An’ ye see, when ye got that kind o’ fever, yer tongue swells and looks like a huge berry o some kind.

An sure enough, that’s what it looked like.

I tol’ her, “Yep, ye got the tongue what looks like a big ol’ berry.”

“How long will this last?” she asked.

An’ I said, “Oh, I reckon ‘bout another three, four days by the looks o’ yer various parts...but after that yer outta the woods. Then ye jus’ gotta take it easy.”

She kinda tensed up an was sayin, “Oh no, I cain’t be layin around, I got too much stuff I must look after, an I have lost so much time already with this...”

Well, I’m givin’ her a bath with this white vinegar, an I could see her wrinklin’ her notstrils at it, an I decide to give her somethin’ else to busy her mind with, other than worry about her stuff, an the odor o’ bein scrubbed down with vinegar.”

So whilst I’m a warshin’ her down, I start a-chatterin’ away, “Hey Addi...the look o’ yer tongue right now--like a giant berry--makes me think of a story m' papaw used to tell.”

And she went, “Oh yea?”

Hehe, I had her hooked.

I started out in this very serious kind o’ voice, “Back in the days o’ ancient Rome, this ol’ Roman feller by the name o Herman was roamin’ the outskirts o’ Rome. An’ he was out wanderin' along that ol’ Tiber river when he found this giant berry.”

I could see her smile at that.

I went on, “Now mind ye, when I say giant, I gotta tell ye, this fucker was huge. Twas just the biggest goddam berry that Roman Herman had ever seen.”

Addi actually laughed out loud. Twas a small laugh, but a good one, an then she took to coughin’ some.

About that time, I found the rash on her, an I tried to warsh very careful and gentle around it so as to not irritate it none.

“What happened next?” she asked.

“Ah, I am glad you asked that Hon. For ye see, in them days the ancient Romans held berries in high regard as very wonderful things, so ye kin imagine how a giant berry like this was quite a treasure. Roman Herman took the berry home...an’ set it on a lil’ pillow, restin atop this short lil’ column...an’ he charged folks a silver piece each to come see it.”

She had this funny grin on her face at this point, an I could tell she was followin’ along.

I continued, “So Romans would come from miles around to view the berry and to praise it!”

Addi seemed impressed. “Really?”

“Yes, Hon, really!” I replied, still warshing her an lookin’ fer signs o’ worse complications as I yammered on. “Yep them Roman folks was mightily impressed and would give Herman a silver piece each, just to stand there lavishin’ praise on the berry an’ goin...damn! What a berry! Hey Cassius! Ain’t that the god-damdest berry you ever seen!”

By this time Addi was laughin’ an coughin’ purty serious, so I giver her a sip o' willow bark tea. I put some honey in it, cuz otherwise folks seem to be o’ the opinion it has a taste that greatly resembles boiled buff’lo turds.

Once she stopped coughin’ I went on. “Well Hon, Roman Herman did so well with this--showin’ folks his berry so they could praise it--he made a pile o’ silver an’ could afford to buy him a villa an’ git hitched. An’ he give his wife the berry fer a weddin’ present. They was very happy, settin aroun’ their villa by the Tiber, with the berry settin next to ‘em on it’s lil satiny pillow. ‘Til one night...these fellers knock on their door. So Roman Herman goes to the door and says howdy y'all, have ye come to see m' wife's berry an’ to praise it? Sadly, it turned out these boys was ancient Roman outlaws...an’ they whipped out their lil’ Roman swords an started whackin’ on poor ol’ Herman whilst shoutin'..."

I paused fer dramatic effect and then asked her, "You ready fer it?”

Addi done giggled and nodded. She could tell the big finish was a comin’.

Then I hollered out in m’ best ancient Roman stentorian voice, “NO! we come to seize her berry, not to praise it!”

Addi, was laughin’ an’ tellin me how I was turrible, an' I was gonna be the end o' her. I grinned an tol’ her I was all done with the vinegar bath and that I saw no signs o’ anythin’ worse settin’ in. This made her quite happy an’ she commented, “Well, I may smell to high heavens but I feel a bit better...I just keep getting so dizzy, and my joints ache so, feels like I’m being pulled apart, but I think the vinegar seems to help. I feel cooler....thank you Dio.”

I suggested she might want to drink some vinegar too...apple cider vinegar tho, as it don’t taste as bad as regular white vinegar. An’ lots o’ willow bark tea.”

She was makin’ faces at that, an’ when I laughed at her about it, she tol’ me, “Oh, I'm a lousy patient, I’ve never been sick like this.”

I countered, “Hon, the good thing is once yer thru this...yer gonna be less likely to get this kind o' fever again...ain't no guarantees, but usually it works that way.”

She thought that was very good news.

I inquired her if she liked m' papaw's berry story. I had figured she would get it, bein’ as she was educated an’ all. I had tol’ the same story to Roku one time, an’ she had jus’ looked at me like I had two fuckin’ heads. But Addi giggled an’ said, “oh yea, very nice...I always was fond of...of...oh that playwriter...”

“You mean Shakespeare?” I asked, an’ she nodded, sayin she was sorry she couldn’t think straight with that fever goin’. I said that was no great never mind, an’ then I tol’ her about how the only two complete books papaw had, the one was a big volume o' Shakespeare, an’ t’other was a lil’ book by his namesake, Marcus Aurelius

She was startin’ to look really befuddled then. “Marcus Aurelius??”

“Yep, he was a Roman emperor an’ philosopher...one o’ what they called the stoics...a very honorable sort o’ gent fer one o’ them Roman rascals. Mostly the book was jus’ lil sayin's he wrote about how to live a good life an not be a miserable cocksucker,” I explained.

Addison nodded an said, “That is important information, you should write a book with that as a title, How to Not be a Miserable Cocksucker...it would sell thousands o’ copies....”,

She tried to set up a little an just sorta fell back on her pillow. She stated sayin’ somethin about what a mess she was, an I said “hell, tain’t so bad..I seen much worse.

She was siad that greatly reassured her. And was startin’ to go on again about how she hated to cause a fuss...an’ I jus’ gently tol her she was bein’ a big ol’ silly, an’ that she was gonna be fine...an’ bout that time she drifted off to sleep.”

An’ sure ‘nuff, in less’n a week she was clearly gonna make it,. After a while, she was her ol’ self again. Mebbe it was the willow bark tea. Mebbe twas the vinegar baths. But I like to think a big part of it was Papaw’s story.

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A new immersion experience -- British poets of the Great War

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Big orientation signs and some pretty decent stuff--the freebie nurse uniform, and a great period motorbike made by Jenne Dibou

Being as the First World War is a subject that I am particularity interested in, I was intrigued when I followed a twitter link to the blog of a company called Brideswell Associates/Creative Technology Consultants, to find a post about a new WWI-themed build in Second Life. This post reported that Oxford University has created a literary-theme/historical immersion environment mashup to introduce visitors to the poetry of the Great War, describing the project thus:

An exciting new project in interactive education will launch on 2nd November 2009, drawing together the resources and expertise of the University of Oxford, and the possibilities for immersion and interactivity offered by the virtual world of Second Life.

The First World War Poetry Digital Archive and the Learning Technologies Group at the University of Oxford have collaborated to bring together a wealth of digitised archival material from the First World War into an environment that allows this powerful material to be explored and experienced in a radically new way.

“The aim of the initiative is to place the poetry of the Great War in context,” explains Stuart Lee, Lecturer in English at the University of Oxford, “It allows the visitors to the exhibition to visualise archival materials in an environment that fosters deeper understandings. Visitors also have the opportunity to take advantage of the social and interactive aspects that the environment offers.”

Well! And it was opening today! So I dragged myself down to the see this grand experiment without delay.

And you know what, despite there being a good number of relatively small-to-medium things that just utterly irritated the fuck out of me, I think the damn thing worked remarkably well in terms of the big-picture stuff.

Mostly.

Sort of.

In the orientation area

I might as well get right to one of the big things that bothered me. You arrive in the entry area, and there are big signs telling you what this is all about, and a nice video to get you started before you enter in the first environment which is supposed to represent the British army base at Etaples. By the way, while this build refers to Etaples as a training camp, it was actually a "transit camp" in France where units got organized and prepped (with some ongoing training as part of the process) before the final leg of their trip to the Western Front. But that's not my big issue--it's just a minor one. The really big thing that honked me off was that on one of the large intro panels, the creators of this experiment stated that "This project has imported of (sic) a range of digitized archival materials for the major poets (my bold) of the First World War."

As far as I could tell, all of these "major poets" were Brits. Seigfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, Edward Thomas, Isaac Rosenberg, Ivor Gurney, even poor old Vera Britain (whose work I always found whiny and annoying) are represented--but no Germans like Kurd Adler and August Stramm, no French poets of the war like Charles Vildrac or Guillaume Apolliniare, nor our American Great War poet, Joyce Kilmer (he did a lot more war poems than just that bloody tree thing, you know).

Now mind you, there's nothing wrong with the fact that they concentrated on the British writers--there's great stuff to draw on, especially Sassoon and Owen. But I do feel that this small selection of poets--drawn from mostly one social class from only one of the many combatant nations--provides only a rather narrow perspective on the war. The inclusion of snippets of oral history interviews from a more varied cross section of British and commonwealth soldiers helps to mitigate that somewhat. Even so, I think it would have been appropriate to make it clear that this is a very focused viewpoint and set of voices. They could have said "this project has imported a range of digitized archival materials for the major British poets of the First World War. And then they wouldn't be getting grumped at by people like me.

At the same time, anything about the Great War in a popular culture medium like SL is going to make me pretty happy. Hell, I even watched the Young Indiana Jones TV series, just because it was about WWI. And these folks obviously put a lot of work and thought into this project. There are freebie uniforms to put on (a nurse that is not too bad, and a soldier that, overall, is pretty dreadful, though the Brodie helmet with it is actually decent). Then you go into the camp environment, after which you tp into a section of a frontline trench system, complete with a dugout, a gas attack, a casualty sorting station, bursting shells, planes overhead, and tanks (one of them burning) in no man's land.

As you journey through the environments, all along the way there are media presentations, and little boxes that provide audio of either a reading of a war poem, or an oral history segment from interviews that had been done with British and Commonwealth WWI veterans back in the 1960s.

I spent a lot of time going through the sim, which also features an educational platform with a theater and additional images and interpretive materials.

Out of everything, I thought the trench environment worked the best. The trenches were laid out more or less correctly with communication trenches leading to the fire trench with its zig-zagging traverses. There was a fire step, a sand bag crown, and duckboards to help you walk over the mud. In one place, if you're not careful you sink into what must have been one hell of a shell hole.

In the trench environment--note the poppies, the
fire step and the ladders for going over the top

Rats scurry about, and ambient sounds of shells exploding and machine guns tapping away help give the trench environment a much more authentic feel than the camp segment offers. You wander, turning traverse after traverse, getting lost, finding yourself back where you started, falling in that damn big hole again, and you know, something? I've been in trenches, and this really reminded me of what's it's like being in a trench. Of course it can never really recreate the true feeling of it. The smell of death and shit, the mud and the dirt, the threat of actually getting killed--you can't really hope to convey that with pixels. But this project does do a nice job of hinting at the reality of it, and I think it achieves the project's goal of putting a portion of the literature of the war into a context.

Yes, I know I said there were things about this project that really irritated the fuck out of me. But hey, you're talking to a gal who got pissed off when she saw the film Nicholas and Alexandra long ago in a theater, and noticed that the czarist troops were armed with Soviet-era M91/30 rifles instead of the old M91 Mosin Nagants. Likewise I was disappointed by Lawrence of Arabia because the Turks had Browning air-cooled machine guns instead of water-cooled Maxims. So pay no attention to me when I'm getting cranky about details.

Malachi in the freebie soldier's uniform in no man's land. It's got web gear that looks like nothing made during the war, no spiral-wrap puttees, a generic sort of green outfit, and of all things, a mediocre rendition of an American '03 Springfield for a weapon--but hey, the helmet ain't bad. And the environment with the burning tank--suitably grim.

I think all in all it's a damn fine experiment, and for people who aren't familiar with this period of history and the literature associated with it, this build will be a real eye-opener. I also think it's a build from which a lot of the "museum in Second Life" people could learn something about playing with the technology in imaginative ways for interpretive purposes.

You can see this project for yourself at:
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Frideswide/219/199/646/

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Storytelling in Steelhead -- was it good for you too?

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The charmin' Riven Howemewood invited me to take part in a Halloween spooky storytelling marathon in the garden at the Steelhead public library. What a grand time, Thank you Riven!

I only got to stay for part of the event, but there was a real nice turnout and great readings. Some of the presentations were readings of works by authors such as Ambrose Bierce (always popular at this time of the year) or things like this piece, which was found and read by Hawc DaCosta. There were also original stories read by some of our in-world authors--for example, my friend Headburro Antfarm offered up what I understand was an enhanced version of his sewer zombie epic (sadly he took his turn at storytelling before I was able to get there), and I presented two pieces that I wrote this morning, basing them on a couple of traditional tales that I expanded and stuffed some dialogue into.

On the whole, other than a couple of stupid typos, I thought what I did turned out pretty well. So I decided to share them with you folks here (also I'm too damn tired to write anything else today, but hell, I want to give ye somethin').

The first story is based on what may be at least in part, an old plains Indian story. I tried to write in the voice of Pawnee grand mother telling the tale. The second is a fanciful expansion on common story that sort of falls into the realm of western urban legends. It is told in Dio's usual voice, so you cussin' fans won't be totally disappointed.


The Salt Witch

Long ago, in the days before the white men came to the plains to hunt and trade and draw their maps, even before the bearded men in iron clothing brought the Horse, which ran away or were stolen by the People, who would use them to make a new way of life upon the grasslands...

There was a story told among the Pawnee people, living in what the white men now call Kansas and Nebraska, the story of the Salt Witch, and the Pawnee chief who destroyed her.

The Pawnee are a brave and war-like people, taking great joy in their fights with their old enemies the Sioux, and others who would do them harm. In those days before the coming of the Horse, they moved on foot, following the game they hunted, including the sacred Buffalo. Ayah! you gotta be brave to do that! ....hunting buffalo on foot! Maybe some time I will tell you how they did it. But not now.

Now I will tell you about a journey that lies at the heart of this story of the Salt Witch. For the Pawnee also made great journeys for many purposes on foot, pulling their things behind them on the framework of sticks the Metis and voyaguers call travois.

There was one band of Pawnee down in what is now Kansas, who were led by one of the most brave and fearsome war chiefs the people had ever known. It was so long ago, that no one recalls his name, but, oh, they remember how fierce he was!

This man knew no fear, in sight of an enemy he was possessed of such rage that no one could stop him in his killing, it seemed like nothing created by the Spirits or man could turn him aside from his prey!

Only his gentle and beautiful wife could calm him...only she had the power over his heart to turn him from the path of his rage. He loved her with a force as powerful as his anger, but with her he was as kind as a grandmother, and filled with joy like a young man who has just come to know his first affection for a woman...

One day, the elders of his band came to him and said, “The people need salt, there is little left in our camp...will you lead our people north, above the wide river to the salty lakes? There they may gather the salt that is left on the banks as the sun dries out the waters.”

The war chief agreed, and he told his people to bundle their things and load the travois, and they set off across the grasslands, across the wide river, into the sand hills of what the white men now call Nebraska, where they could find the dried salt on the banks of the saline lakes and ponds.

Along the way, they met another band of Pawnee, coming south from those lands. “Greetings brothers!” they said. “Where do you journey to?”

“We go to the sand hills, to gather salt from the banks of the lakes.” said the chief.
“Ayah!” the others cried. “Beware when you get there, for there is a witch woman who dwells there now! You will see a pillar of the salt, in one place, and then when you turn, it will be in another! It is the Salt Witch, hunting you! She is evil, and feeds upon the fear that dwells deep in a man’s heart, and she will try to steal or kill the spirits of your people!”

Many of the chief’s band felt dismay and their hearts turned to ice at this news. The elders came to him, and asked, “Should we turn back?” But the chief, he talked to his warriors, and gave them new heart. They agreed with him that they all should go on, having come this far.

They went on and found a place where a great salty lake had been burned almost dry by the sun, and there was much salt...so much salt that some of it formed pillars that stood tall above the ground...

and the people...

as they worked...

felt sure some of the pillars seemed to move.

Or perhaps it was just one. It would be far behind you..and then you turned to scrape at the salt with an antelope’s shoulder bone, and when you stood up again...the pillar seemed closer....

The chief shouted to his people to work hard and fast, to be brave as the Pawnee are, and to not fear things that cannot be seen and may be only in the mind. But many of them still felt fear, especially the chief’s wife...and she could feel something gripping at her heart.

They finished, taking much salt that would last them a very long time and could also be used to trade with other bands. Oh! but they were glad to leave that place....and as they traveled back, their hearts grew lighter...except for that of the chief’s wife.

Her thoughts grew dark, her chest was pained, her breathing shallow, and her dreams at night made her cry out and wake, sitting up, washed in sweat, her eyes wide....The chief was greatly troubled, and worried for his wife...

He asked the band to stop when they got to the wide river and to camp for awhile, so she could rest, and the medicine man could try to help his wife....

They of course agreed, for the whole band was fond of the chief’s wife...but they could do nothing for her, and during the night of their second day in camp by the wide river, she died.

The people of the band were greatly saddened by this...the women cried out and the men spoke in low voices, their eyes downcast...but not the chief.

He stood looking towards the north...to the sand hills and the salty lakes...to the one lake, where the pillars of salt stood. An elder asked him, “My brother, what passes through your mind? I know you are troubled and grieving...but there is nothing else we can do...”

The chief turned his head slowly towards the elder, and the old one could see the fire beginning to burn in his eyes, the darkness in his face, how his chest heaved as his heart beat faster and faster like a war drum...

The chief stripped off his clothing and painted himself black...he took up his great war club which had a stone head made of pure white stone from the sacred Black Hills...the stone the white men call quartz, which dwells in the earth with the shining yellow rocks the People know as the blood of the Sun.

The stone head of his war club was hard and sharp, a pure glowing white, which is why the People call such rocks “stone ice”...it was fixed with stout rawhide laces to a sturdy ash haft, and this club had been washed in the blood of many enemies...

The chief stood for a moment on the edge of the camp, gripping his war club..and then he let out a cry that was as if a bear and a panther had joined voices, and his people knew he had been taken by his rage. They watched as he ran on powerful legs towards the north.

The chief ran until he came to the very lake bed where they had gathered salt, and there, he saw an apparition: an old woman standing over the figure of a young woman...her face was twisted in horrid glee, as she held the young woman by the hair, a stone knife lifted in her hand!

The chief let out another roar, twice as dreadful as before, and he charged forward, his war club raised...

The Salt Witch--for it was indeed her--laughed and let go of the young woman, turning towards the onrushing man. She reached out with her magic to feel for his fear...

and she found none.

All she could find was rage. A terrible, immense, towering rage...

Rage so pure...it was not like the anger that grows from fear or hate...it was an elemental power, like the great fires that sweep over the grasslands in dry season, or the storms that blacken with sky with clouds that crash and throw their burning lances at the earth....

And the Salt Witch herself now knew fear...for the Salt Witch was not some evil sprit that could not be killed. She was a living thing...fully evil, yes...but a being who could die.
And knowing this, she tried to turn herself into a salt pillar to hide, but the fear had caught her so completely, she forgot how...

She could only whimper “Mercy” as the war chief closed with her...

But the rage does not know mercy...he brought the club of pure white stone down on her head and split her skull from crown to chin. He wrenched his weapon from the mass of blood and brains and teeth, and then swung at the hand that still clutched the wicked stone knife, smashing bones and flesh and shattering the knife into a hundred pieces.

He swung again and sank the club into her chest, laying open what was inside...and as she fell, he thrust his hand into the gaping wound and tore her heart from its very roots. Dropping his club and the bloody organ, he took her arms and wrenched them from the sockets, pulling the wretched creature to pieces with his bare hands.

And then he heard a voice.

“Husband...she is dead. You may cease your rage...”

It was the young woman...

...it was his wife...

She was shimmering, and he could see through her, for it was just her spirit, which had been taken captive by the Salt Witch, and was now free...

...but she still had to power to calm his rage one last time...

She smiled at him...and he sank to his knees before her smiling spirit, and he wept...for the first and last time in his life, he wept...

She bent forward to kiss him, and he was calmed...the rage was gone...

...and the spirits of the winds came and took her to the Other Side Camps, where she would wait for her husband.

The chief wiped the tears from his face and stood...he piled the remains of the Salt Witch and called out to the Great Spirit to hold the evil thing in this place until the end of time...and the shattered body parts of the vile creature became, for one final time, a pillar of salt.

And he returned to his people and journeyed with them for many years, until he too passed and rejoined his beloved in the Other Side Camps.

Now when the People go to that place to gather salt, they have no fear. They beat the ground with clubs around that salt pillar to remind the Witch of how she was destroyed, and to chastise her with the knowledge that one who feeds on fear can have that fear turned upon them.


Devil Dogs of the Comstock

Chinese folk are a lot like injuns an irishmen: they got a certain understandin’ that most other folks don’t, ‘specially in matters of a spiritual nature.


An’ they kin be downright philosophical regadin’ about jus’ about nearly ever’thin’...

Like here’s a story ‘bout some fellers what went to the Comstock hopin’ to make their fortune..but they sorta tended to run about a day late an’ a dollar short, so when they got to that part o’ Nevada, the big rush was over, and the smaller sliver claims was already played out.

Well, they figgered it wouldn’t hurt to look at some of the abandoned claims to see if anyone has mebbe missed somethin, and they was in this one lil’ minin’ town when they heard tell of a nearby canyon that was jus full o’ old claims, where the work had seemed so promisin’ and tussle fer diggin’ rights had been so enthusiastic, that the miners who had been digging up there had all got guard dogs to keep off claim jumpers.

So these two fellers...brothers most likely, bein’ as when yer both as dim-witted as these boys were, ye ain’t gonna be willin’ to put up with each other less’n ye got blood ties forcin’ the issue....

...anyhow, they was fixin’ to go up to this canyon, and they gets to talking with an ol’ Celestial gent who tells ‘em, “You be wary, for that canyon has spirit dogs--you hear how miners up there have guard dogs?”

“Yep” says the two brothers, noddin’ their mostly empty heads.

“Well,” says the ol’ Chinese man, “when silver all gone up there, miners go..but most leave dogs behind...don’t need them no more...they starve and die, still guarding masters’ claims.”

The two fellers of course, don’t put much stock in this, cuz like I said, they warn’t possesed o’ much in the way o’ fetchums. The head on up the canyon and find a likely lookin’ ol’ hole cut into the hillside, an’ set up a little camp.

The old claim, was purty much just a little square hole framed up with some crude hewn timbers...an they was a chain pegged outside. Our heroes follow the chain inside the hole an’ see the bones of a very, very big dog at the other end, just within the entrance of the diggin’s, where the por critter musta crawled to an’ expired.

Beyond that, they discover purty much the usual o’ what ye’d expect in a hole dug into a hillside, which ain’t a whole lot. They keep pokin’ around, not findin’ much, but they do manage to piss away the better part o’ the day, so that they elect to settle in fer the night at their lil’ camp instead o’ headin back to town.

After dark fell an they’s a-layin under their blankets by the far, when the one says, “You hear that?”

“What?” says the other.

“Like a snufflin’ an’ growlin?” says the first.

“NO. Tis jus’ coyotes mos’ likely. The far will keep ‘em at a distance. Now shut the hell up an’ go to sleep ye feckless turd-brained puke.”

“I ain’t feckless,” the first one mutters all petulant-like, as he rolls over.

They try to go to sleep, but after a while they kin both hear the snufflin’ an growlin’...the older one takes out his six shooter, an’ fires a round into the brush to scare off whatever it was...and it got quiet again fer a while...

but then the noise starts up again, louder than before..and just as the one feller is gonna let off another shot, they hear this barkin’ an snarlin’...not like ye get with a coyote, but with a big dog.

..a big mean dog.

...a big mean dog who is utterly an unforgivably pissed off...

The hair is a-standin’ up on the back o’ their scruffy red necks, an’ they both start turnin’ toward the sound o’ the barking...

...which happens to be a-comin’ from in the minin’ hole dug in side o’ the hill not more’n a few yards away...

an’ they kin see see two red, glowin’ eyes, starin’ at em from in the darkness o’ the hole...

an’ then...the chain starts to move.

The older one who’s got a bit more of a calculatin’ side to his nature, he says...”um...Billy Jon, how long do ye recollect that chain was?

An’ Billy Jon, bein’ the more emotional o’ the two, just sorta goes,

“Arhghalagalaga!!!

They both leaps up an takes to runnin’ fer the hosses fast as they kin, no boots, no britches (no brains) an’ Billy Jim--the older and slower o’ the two--swears he felt somethin’ nippin’ at his calves.

They get to the hosses, yank the picket pins outta the ground, leap on and take off with no saddles, a-hangin’ on fer dear life, not stoppin’ til they got back to town. Whole town hears about this, an’ o’ course, some laugh about it, an’ others..well, they don’t.

Next mornin’ our two intrepid prospectors is debatin’ about goin back up for their gear, when along comes the ol’ chinese fella with his mule, carryin’ their saddles, camp gear an’ clothes an’ all...

“Here.” he says with a lil’smile. “I get your stuff for you.”

“Well, that’s right neighborly of ye, ol’ man, “ says Billy Jim. “But how in tarnation kin ye jus’ so calmly go to that place when there is somethin’ so downright goddam evil up there?”

“Oh, it not evil.” the gent replies.

“What do you mean, it ain’t evil?” says Billy Jon with a good deal o’ incredulity.

“Ah,” says the ol’ chinese man. “Dog’s master tell him, you be good dog, guard claim--never let nobody but master dig here. But master never tell dog is ok to stop guarding claim. So he keep doing it. He just being good dog. Good dog...

...forever.

~~~

I saw a Dio replicant, but copybot had nothing to do with it

~~~

Last night, the Deadwood 1876 community had its annual Halloween party in the meadow up in the hills above town. Miz Sal from the Bella did a great job putting it together. It was complete with everything you would expect at a Halloween celebration in America during the latter 19th century: bobbing for apples, some fortune telling, a bonfire, and lots of fancy odds and ends to eat. I played my fiddle, and the folks who were so inclined did some dancing. But one unexpected feature of the evening related to the costumes that folks wore. We had some of the usual sorts of things, like witches and a pirate. Rod Eun brought out a great Pumpkin-Head scarecrow outfit, and young Rachel Kungler looked suitably grim as a mini-widow in mourning. But the most unique looks were some costumes that were modeled on characters from our own narrative. Little Elisabeth Vita actually dressed up as our acting mayor, Clay Kungler (complete with droopy mustache and cigar) and Clay...well, I'd best just go ahead and show what Clay wore:



Yeah, it's a seven foot tall, 300 pound version of me. And bless his heart, Clay went whole hog: he cussed and was grumpy with people, and he even took off his regualr AO so he would stand like I do.

He won first prize in the costume contest with this. Are you surprised?

Clay, with Deac as a dead Abe Lincoln and me as a pirate captain. Yeah that's me--I think this is a useful picture for giving you a sense of scale and seeing how much bigger Clay is than the real Dio. Both images are courtesy of Neil Streeter. I actually took a whole bunch of images but they seem to have gotten lost or aufgepoofed to the land of missing socks and textures when I tried to save them to disc. So thank you, Neil! If SL had completely lost the images of this and no one else had some to share, I woulda been mighty goddam pissed.

~~~

Social ebb and flow -- reflections on the dynamics of a virtual community

~~~

Communities, even virtual ones, are organic things that ebb and flow, going through cycles where there may be population growth that is followed by a contraction, or in which "teh drama" builds and subsides, or individual friends and colleagues come and go--and then all these processes repeat themselves. In SL--which my friend Aldo Stern has long described as "a social pressure cooker in which social cycles are intensified and accelerated" (and emotions and social tensions are often likewise sharply focused and intensified)--these cyclic processes can happen very rapidly. Dear old Deadwood goes through these cycles like any place on the grid, and sometimes that is a frustrating and scary thing, and other times it is a delight.

Lately, life in Deadwood has fit both of these descriptions: there have been some of those inevitable "drama" cycles (the kind that make you wish you were a social scientist or a shrink, because you would be wallowing in fodder for some really cool articles); and more personal cycles of the sort that just make you tickled to death that you got be a part of something so unique and human and humane.

I'll skip the drama stuff. Hey, it comes, it goes and every place has it. And don't you be giving me that shit about you have somehow found a little corner of virtual heaven where it does not happen. I think it's like politics--it's just the inevitable, inherently untidy way that people sort things out in a situation where they are pretty much having to make things up as they go along. Yes, for some people drama is a form of recreation. But for most of us, I think SL drama is essentially conflict resolution executed within an anarchical context. At this point we really needn't say more about it.

But that ebb and flow of humanity in and out of our communities--that is something interesting and as I said, to me...ultimately delightful. I have met a lot of really wonderful people in SL, a great many of them in Deadwood, where just like any meatspace community, we have had our fights and fun, we build and tear apart social organizations and personal connections, and we generate shared hopes, and ideas, and stories. A lot of people who I have connected with at some point in Deadwood have come and gone from the community, and lately, quite of few of these folks have been coming back. In some cases, these are people who disappeared completely, or who went off to play in other communities. In other cases it's been people who really didn't leave, or who sort of left, but who just weren't able to be around very much. And recently, a surprising number of these people have come back into the community and become a more regular part of it again, and that's just been a high point of life on the grid for me during the last month or so.

Tonight was one of those really nice occasions. I was able to sit down in the dining room of my hotel and spend quality time with two residents who have gone through their own cycles of being very involved in the community and then having to be less involved or away from Deadwood for one reason or another. Deacon Dryke is actually one of the owners of the sim, and was very engaged in the community in its first year, playing the younger brother of Percy Dryke, the provisioner. You may recall having heard Deac's name before, in the first episode of the "Consequences" story. For much of the last year, however, Deac was unable to spend as much time with us. His in-character role-playing explanation for not being around much was that his brother had sent him off to Denver to get some serious schooling. But tonight he was "back in town" and came to visit me at the hotel.

Deac Dryke

Another player who had been around a great deal early on, then went away and just recently started spending some time with us again is Tim Hax, a resident who plays an orphan boy, just a little younger than Deac. In the past when they were both around more, Tim and Deac had built a nice friendship (both IC and OOC, I think) and had some pretty cool Deadwood adventures together. Tim was explaining his absence from Deadwood for many months with the rp scenario that he had gone off to live and work with a farm family. When he showed up in town again not too long ago (the social ebb and flow process in action), Tim explained that the arrangement with the farm family just hadn't worked out and so he had hiked back to Deadwood (the only place he felt like he had ever had a home). There, Dio had immediately given him a job at the hotel and little cubbyhole-like room under the stairs for him to live in. So, when Tim happened to sign on while I was visiting with his old friend Deac, I immediately IM'ed him and asked him to come on over to Deadwood and get together with us to rp a little reunion.

Tim did so, and I had the best time sitting and chatting with these two young men while they were catching up on what each of them had been doing (among other things, Dio's been teaching Tim to shoot), and laughing about old times and their past adventures. It was that best kind of rp: all improv, very natural, spontaneous and down-to-earth, and based on some very real feelings about friendship and shared good times. It felt very real and genuine, and left me with a big ol' smile on my face all evening.

Visiting with Deac and Tim

Sometimes, the people who come back are not always this congenial. There have also been some old troublemakers coming back (though I haven't seen them for a while). These are guys who were banned long ago for various moronic behavior, but they make alts and return, usually trying to upset people with some kind of variation on the old race-baiting gambit (presented through some really mediocre rp). This is a cycle that has its own benefits: comic relief (their tired old shtick is so very 2006); a common enemy that the town can have fun banding together against; and moving targets that everyone gets to have fun punching or shooting (they're really bad at combat), before finally they've broken enough of the rules for the new alt to be banned like their previous manifestations. Oh yeah, and they get AR'ed too, so maybe LL finally did something about them...

So anyhow, even a virtual roleplaying community has its cycles--it has good days and bad days, days that are fun and days that just kinda fucking weird. The population goes up sometimes, often very rapidly, and then it goes back down again just as quickly. And ultimately, like any organic entity, these communities have life spans. They mature, they age, and eventually they die. But after a good night like tonight, I am hoping not just yet.

A Deadwood story -- consequences, part 7

~~~

It was about the middle of the day when a rider slowly crossed the Main street bridge, mounted on a weary-looking sorrel, and leading an even more weary-looking pack horse. There were some lay-abouts who happened to be taking their ease lounging on the crates that were stacked on the boardwalk outside Miss Addison’s store, and as the little two-horse procession drew closer, they could see that the rider was dressed in buckskins and was wearing a droopy-brimmed brown slouch hat. Before long, they also could tell that the rider was a woman--a woman with a carbine of some sort cradled in front of her. Shortly after that, the more perspicacious among them realized who the person slowly riding towards them was, and one of the men arose and went over tothe door of the Saloon No. 10, which was next door to Miss Addi’s.

“Hey Roku!” he shouted into the cool darkness at the back of the bar, “Miz Dio’s back!”

Dio stopped in front of the No. 10, dismounted and stretched, and looped the horses’ reins around the trailing at the ege of the boardwalk.

“Howdy boys, “ she said quietly to the a curious bystanders. “How y’all been?”

They mumbled something about being fine, thank you Ma’am, and and the one who seemed to be possessed of the most fetchums in the group tipped his hat and offered, “Tis a fine thing to see ye back Miz Dio.”

The woman nodded and smiled in a tired sort of way, and went into her saloon. It was empty except for Auggie, the young German man who bar-tended for Dio when she was absent, and Roku, her one-woman security staff. Roku had been sitting in her usual seat--the one in the farthest corner, facing the door--and had been reading the paper. When she looked up and saw it was actually Dio, Roku stood and came out from behind the table, smiling more than was generally her custom.

“Hello Dio. Damn, it’s good to have yah back. Did yah get that sumbtich who killed Al?”

Auggie also said his hellos and offered to take care of Dio’s horses and gear. She suggested that after doing so, he could stop by China Row to get the saloon ledger from Miss Hepzibeth, the dour scottish woman who now managed the laundry and kept the books for both of Dio’s businesses, Auggie readily agreed, as he was quite anxious to show his employer how well he had managed things while she was gone.

After they watched the young man tear out the door of the No. 10, Dio replied, “Yes, Roku, I found him.”

“You kill him?”

“No. But I did get the drop on him an;’ shot him in the leg.” And I turned him over to a federal deppity marshal--if he survives transport, he’ll be taken to Yankton for trial...get hung I imagine.”

Roku was now actually grinning a malevolent fashion. “So ye took him alive?! Goddamn that’s perfect! He give evidence that Hearst and Tanner hired him to the do the job?”

Dio smiled an odd little smile and shook her head. “Nope.”

“NO?! Why the hell not? Did yah try shootin’ him in the other leg as well to make him talk? Ah’d a done it for yah if ah’d been there.”

“No Hon. He gave no evidence to that effect bein’ as apparently they hadn’t put him up to it.”

Dio went through the whole story about the young woman in Lead and how she had induced Zed to kill Al. Roku, though slightly crestfallen with the disappointing news that Al’s murder would not be pinned on someone she truly hated, she quickly became philosophical about it.

“Well, at least yah got him, made him suffer some an’ yah have turned him over to the hand o’ justice. Hopefully they won’t fuck it up. So what’s all this ah hear about Al remeberin’ yah in his will?”

Dio laughed, “Word got around about that already?!”

Roku shrugged. “Ain’t that big of a goddamn town. Whereas Pel does have a purty big mouth on him.”

Dio explained about the unexpected connection between Al’s family and her own history, and that when she was at Ft. Pierre during her pursuit of Zed and had telegraphed various people, including Mashal Rau and Mayor Silverspar, to give them an update on the search. While she was still there, the mayor--who also was one of the better lawyers in town--notified her in a return telegram that Al had left the majority of his goods and chattels to Dio out of gratitude for what she and Jack had done for his family.

“So what all did yah end up with?” asked Roku.

“Well, I ain’t sure about exact amounts, but they’s some money, a property in Denver, some shares in Gold Star mines o’ course...an’ some shares in Hearst’s company, of all things. Seems him an Al had been friends or at least worked together at some point. Oh, an’ a part ownership of some piss-ant silver mine in Montana, called the Anaconda.”

Roku looked impressed. “Goddamn Dio. Yer all set, ain’t yah?”

“Well Hon, not so much as it would seem at first blush,” Dio answered. “Ye see, Al left most o’ what he had to me cuz he thought he had no livin’ relatives to speak of. But I know fer a fact he has a half-nephew who along with Sepp, did some things on my behalf right after the war...an now he’s a corporal in 10th U.S. Cavalry. So me an’ Sepp think tis only right to give him the shares in Gold Star, along with the Denver property, an’ split the cash with him.”

Roku stared at Dio for a moment as if she were trying to decide if her friend had perhaps been out in the sun too long without a hat. Then she suddenly laughed. “Hah! That is a good one! Ah am sure those fellahs at Gold Star mining are jus’ gonna be tickled shitless to have a colored fer one o’ their stockholders. They din’t realize that Al was jus passin’ fer white did they?”

Dio shruged. “Not that I know of. But main thing is, what’s right is right. An’ besides we’re still keepin’ some o the money--put it away to save fer buyin’ some land when Sepp gets outta the army next year. Also I am keepin’ that piece o the silver mine, jus’ fer shits an’ giggles. An’ I am definitely holdin’ on to the shares in Hearst’s company.” Dio grinned. “I figger he’ll be much more polite to me from now on, bein’ as I’m a investor in his interests.”

“Either that,” Roku scowled, “or he’ll try to have yah killed.”

Dio smiled. “That’s why I got you around, Hon.”

Roku still did not look happy. “Shit. Guess ah better tell Sal ah can’t keep workin’ the side job at the Bella fer a while. Keepin’ you alive is probably gone require mah full-time attention.”

At this point, Auggie came in with Hepzibeth and the ledgers. The scottish laundry manager greeted Dio in her usual matter-of-fact business-like fashion, as if Dio had only been gone for an extended visit to the outhouse, rather than an absence of weeks and weeks to chase down a killer. They were just sitting down to look over the books when US Deputy Marshal Rau came in.

“I heard you were back!” he said with substantial enthusiasm.

“Hello Sand,” replied Dio. “News gets around town fast, don’t it? Well, I expect you want this back.” She reached into her jacket, unpinned the badge from her shirt, and held it out to the deputy marshal.

Sand looked at it for a moment. “You know, I could just let you hang on to that and keep you on the books as D.A. Kuhr, and maybe no one will notice.”

“Special deppity don’t pay anythin’ does it?” Dio asked.

“Um...no...”

Dio smiled and put the badge in Sand’s big paw of a hand. “Then I may as well pass. But I am greatly obliged to ye for allowin’ me the use o’ the tin star in this circumstance.”

“All right woman,” grunted Sand. “As you wish. But I gotta say you did a fine job of investigatin’ this...findin’ out who the killer was and what direction he was going. I am just real sorry that we didn’t get to talk to him before he got killed.”

Both Dio and Roku looked up with some surprise.

“Um...Sand, just exactly what in the name o’ Satan’s huge red testicles are you talkin’ about?” enquired Dio.

“Oh...well you see I had gotten notice that he was picked up by another Federal deputy marshal in Minnesota, but was shot in the head ‘n killed while tryin’ to escape,” Sand replied, somewhat hurt and puzzled by the tone in Dio’s voice.

Dio and Roku looked at one another for a moment. Then Dio turned back to Sand and said in voice that was now unusually calm and pleasant, “I see. Well Sand, I am gratified to know that justice has been served to some extent, and that I may have contributed in some small way to the process. I thankye fer lettin me know.”

Sand Rau excused himself, saying that he had to get on with his duties for the day, and once again thanked Dio for her service. After he had left, Roku looked questioningly at her friend and employer.

“Ah thought yah said ya’d given Quinnell a bad wound in the leg...woulda kept him from tryin’ to run for it,” she said with only a hint of curiosity in her voice.

Dio was staring out the door after the Deputy Marshal, stroking her chin in a thoughtful manner. “That lawman I turned him over to...“ she said quietly, “seems he decided to become judge, jury, and executioner once he had taken charge o’ the prisoner. The rewards was fer dead or alive, so I reckon he thought twas easier to take him in as a corpse.”

Roku shrugged. “Well, yah did say the boy was dyin’ from the wound yah gave him...maybe that deputy marshal wanted to end his sufferin’? ....Wait a minute...did you say somethin’ about rewards?”

“Yeah,” replied Dio with an ironic little smile, “I found out later there were some substantial bounties on the boy.”

Roku looked like she was about to say something vitriolic, then she paused and nodded. “Figures. Oh well. Yor still comin’ out ahead on this deal, with what Al left yah...the part yah ain’t givin’ away, anyhow.”

Dio nodded.

Hepzibeth had been very quiet during all this, mostly because she was trying to sort things out and comprehend what was going on. Finally she spoke.

“Mrs. Kuhr? Might I be askin’ if I got this straight? You say you shot and caught this lad who tried to kill ye--and then some regular federal lawman comes along and takes him away, claimin’ the credit and the rewards, an’ kills the boy in cold blood as well?”

“Yes Hon, that’s purty much the deal,” Dio replied almost cheerfully.

Hepzibeth arched an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to do something about this?” she asked in a flat tone.

Dio shook her head. “Nope. I’m done with this. I see no reason to waste any further energy or effort.”

Hepzibeth still looked unconvinced. “Money is money...”

Dio’s face flushed slightly and there was a slight edge in her voice. “Well hon, no...it ain’t . There’s money an’ then there’s blood money...an’ I got no real interest in the latter. Furthermore, the boy’s blood ain’t on my hands now, like it woulda been had he died from the wound I gave him. I think I owe the deppity marshal a heap o’ gratitude fer havin’ lifted that particular burden from m’ soul.”

Roku had sat down with her paper again, and a voice came from behind its pages. “Well, blood on yor hands shouldn’t be any big concern. Never bothered me. But...there is one advantage to this...now most likely, the unknown gal who actually put Zed up to the killin’ doesn’t know that he talked to anyone an’ told ‘em that he shot Al to win her affections. Maybe that means she might get careless and someone can discover her identity...”

“Exactly,” agreed Dio with a wicked little grin. “Now, come on y’all...let’s have a look at them books an’ see percisely how much better things run around here with me gone...”

~~~