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feonixrift, who was kind enough to do me up a bit of Silver Corporal fic in hopes of getting me to do some in return. The result was too long to fit in a comment, so here it is.
The nearest settlement was a clump of cabins huddled around a general store, a little lump of a place too small to rate a name on most maps. The people who lived there called it Forty Mile, after its distance from anything whatsoever. If your dogs were moving too fast when you passed through the area, you might well miss it. It was a place for trappers and hunters, and the occasional miner with a head full of dreams- self-sufficient folk. Where such men lived, there had to be rules- for what else could tempt a man so far out into the Territory only to stop and stay among his fellows, save the lure of the North Country's wealth? Under such conditions, men either made their own rules or held to the ones handed down from above with the fervor of a revival preacher. The folk of Forty Mile had no judges yet, no lawyers- but they knew the laws of the land, and there were enough of them to form up a jury when the need arose. Now and again there might be a hanging crime among them, but for the most part the crimes set before that hardy band called for no worse than time spent in the crudely-built but stout-walled town jail.
Where there are jails, there are jailors. The one in Forty Mile was named George Holcomb, and he had just bent to stoke the fire in his pot-bellied stove when there came a rapping at his door. "Just a moment," he called, prodding the cherry-red coals with his poker. Outside, he knew, the November winds were blowing- cruel, razor-edged winds that sliced through a man and left him chilled down to the bone. Whoever it was, they'd be glad of a good healthy fire when he let them in. He frowned at the fire a moment and added another lump or two, then closed the stove and straightened. "All right," he said, "I'm coming."
He threw open the door. For a moment he wondered if he'd been tricked, as he saw no one there- but no, there was a dogsled a little ways off, and-
"Oh," he said as he thought to look down. "I’m sorry."
The words faltered in his throat, died. Smiling up at him was a man scarcely bigger than George's nephew, a strapping lad of fifteen. If that; the little fellow was wrapped from head to foot in a parka stitched together from furs of white and pale grey. Its hood was drawn close around his face, affording only a glimpse of weathered skin and nearly silver eyes. "That's all right," said the newcomer, and the whang of the Wyoming cow country was in his quiet voice. "Your name wouldn't be Holcomb, would it?"
"Er- yes. Yes, it is. Why?"
There was a flash of teeth from the depths of the parka's hood as the newcomer grinned. "Why, I've brought you something," he said. Without so much as another word he turned and darted across the snow, seeming almost to skitter over its surface without sinking in. George shook his head, pulling on his own parka, and followed.
The wee fellow was waiting for him beside a laden dogsled so tiny as to match its master. His dogs looked all wrong, surely nearly the size of the great Arctic wolves that ghosted through the woods on full-moon nights- no. No, nothing so grandiose. They were no bigger than any other malemutes George had ever seen; it was only comparison with the diminutive figure that lent them substance. Still, they looked fine strong beasts. That was good, for the sled they pulled was laden with a far larger, man-sized burden, wrapped in hides and blankets. George glanced over at the strange little man, who nodded- go ahead, he seemed to be saying. Shrugging, George pulled the outermost blanket away.
Man-sized indeed- it was a man, an unconscious one. More than that, it was a man whose face George recognized. "Do you know who this is?" he exclaimed.
The little fellow peered at George and the unconscious man and said, diffidently, "Tom Hulme. Wanted in Alaska for fraud, and by the Northwest Mounted for arson and suspicion of manslaughter."
George nodded. "There's a mighty big reward out for him," he said. "You're going to have to claim it in Fort Munn, though. We haven't got that kind of money here."
There was an odd, almost hissing noise. It took George a moment to place- his companion was laughing. "That's all right, Mr. Holcomb," he said when he'd got his voice steady. "I just want to leave him with you for the night. We are headed for Fort Munn, but I'm not looking for any reward money."
Puzzled, George stepped away from the sled. "You're not?"
"Heck, no. Couldn't claim it even if I wanted to." He pushed the hood of his parka back, still smiling. Beneath the muskrat-fur hat he wore, his face was as worn and leathery as anything George had ever seen. Had he not been hooded mere moments before, George would've attributed the white of his eyebrows to wind-blown snow- but when the hat came off the shock of hair beneath was of equally brilliant burnished silver-
The hat. The one with RNWMP stamped inside, plain as day.
George knew enough to know when he was talking to a legend.
"Sorry, Corporal," he said. "Didn't know it was you."
feonixrift, who was kind enough to do me up a bit of Silver Corporal fic in hopes of getting me to do some in return. The result was too long to fit in a comment, so here it is.The nearest settlement was a clump of cabins huddled around a general store, a little lump of a place too small to rate a name on most maps. The people who lived there called it Forty Mile, after its distance from anything whatsoever. If your dogs were moving too fast when you passed through the area, you might well miss it. It was a place for trappers and hunters, and the occasional miner with a head full of dreams- self-sufficient folk. Where such men lived, there had to be rules- for what else could tempt a man so far out into the Territory only to stop and stay among his fellows, save the lure of the North Country's wealth? Under such conditions, men either made their own rules or held to the ones handed down from above with the fervor of a revival preacher. The folk of Forty Mile had no judges yet, no lawyers- but they knew the laws of the land, and there were enough of them to form up a jury when the need arose. Now and again there might be a hanging crime among them, but for the most part the crimes set before that hardy band called for no worse than time spent in the crudely-built but stout-walled town jail.
Where there are jails, there are jailors. The one in Forty Mile was named George Holcomb, and he had just bent to stoke the fire in his pot-bellied stove when there came a rapping at his door. "Just a moment," he called, prodding the cherry-red coals with his poker. Outside, he knew, the November winds were blowing- cruel, razor-edged winds that sliced through a man and left him chilled down to the bone. Whoever it was, they'd be glad of a good healthy fire when he let them in. He frowned at the fire a moment and added another lump or two, then closed the stove and straightened. "All right," he said, "I'm coming."
He threw open the door. For a moment he wondered if he'd been tricked, as he saw no one there- but no, there was a dogsled a little ways off, and-
"Oh," he said as he thought to look down. "I’m sorry."
The words faltered in his throat, died. Smiling up at him was a man scarcely bigger than George's nephew, a strapping lad of fifteen. If that; the little fellow was wrapped from head to foot in a parka stitched together from furs of white and pale grey. Its hood was drawn close around his face, affording only a glimpse of weathered skin and nearly silver eyes. "That's all right," said the newcomer, and the whang of the Wyoming cow country was in his quiet voice. "Your name wouldn't be Holcomb, would it?"
"Er- yes. Yes, it is. Why?"
There was a flash of teeth from the depths of the parka's hood as the newcomer grinned. "Why, I've brought you something," he said. Without so much as another word he turned and darted across the snow, seeming almost to skitter over its surface without sinking in. George shook his head, pulling on his own parka, and followed.
The wee fellow was waiting for him beside a laden dogsled so tiny as to match its master. His dogs looked all wrong, surely nearly the size of the great Arctic wolves that ghosted through the woods on full-moon nights- no. No, nothing so grandiose. They were no bigger than any other malemutes George had ever seen; it was only comparison with the diminutive figure that lent them substance. Still, they looked fine strong beasts. That was good, for the sled they pulled was laden with a far larger, man-sized burden, wrapped in hides and blankets. George glanced over at the strange little man, who nodded- go ahead, he seemed to be saying. Shrugging, George pulled the outermost blanket away.
Man-sized indeed- it was a man, an unconscious one. More than that, it was a man whose face George recognized. "Do you know who this is?" he exclaimed.
The little fellow peered at George and the unconscious man and said, diffidently, "Tom Hulme. Wanted in Alaska for fraud, and by the Northwest Mounted for arson and suspicion of manslaughter."
George nodded. "There's a mighty big reward out for him," he said. "You're going to have to claim it in Fort Munn, though. We haven't got that kind of money here."
There was an odd, almost hissing noise. It took George a moment to place- his companion was laughing. "That's all right, Mr. Holcomb," he said when he'd got his voice steady. "I just want to leave him with you for the night. We are headed for Fort Munn, but I'm not looking for any reward money."
Puzzled, George stepped away from the sled. "You're not?"
"Heck, no. Couldn't claim it even if I wanted to." He pushed the hood of his parka back, still smiling. Beneath the muskrat-fur hat he wore, his face was as worn and leathery as anything George had ever seen. Had he not been hooded mere moments before, George would've attributed the white of his eyebrows to wind-blown snow- but when the hat came off the shock of hair beneath was of equally brilliant burnished silver-
The hat. The one with RNWMP stamped inside, plain as day.
George knew enough to know when he was talking to a legend.
"Sorry, Corporal," he said. "Didn't know it was you."
no subject
Date: 2004-06-14 09:00 pm (UTC)As for the elf thing, something like every fifth sentence about him involves the words 'wee', 'tiny', 'diminutive', 'little', 'childlike', or- yes- 'elfin'. Admittedly, that last is in conjunction with 'almost', but still. He's small, he's perfectly adapted to his environment, he uses a non-standard weapon, and very big people are scared of him. If he didn't give off elf vibes I'd be surprised.