29
Mary had a little lamb.
Mary
sat at the same café, watching Baker Street. She was told to wait there for
some news from Colonel Moran. It was unusual for her to be told, but she knew
her uncle was watching for her. She saw the mother with the female child
walking near her table. The child held a small lamb and was singing the famous
lullaby.
Mary
had a little lamb.
Its
fleece was white as snow.
And
everywhere that Mary went,
The
lamb was sure to go.
(Extracted
from https://modernfarmer.com/2017/12/true-story-behind-mary-little-lamb/.)
Ironically,
Mary did not have a lamb but a little calf when she was younger in Kansas. It
followed her at the ranch where she was growing up. As there was little to do then
for a kid at five years of age, she spent her time with the calf. They went on
walks around the house and over to the nearby creek, and she will sing the
lullaby then.
“It
is not a lamb, stupid.” Jonathan Thomas London told her that one afternoon. “It
is a cow.”
She
disliked that boy who was from a neighbouring ranch but spent his time at hers.
She glared at the boy.
“He
is mine.” Mary had said. “He is called John.”
“It
is a she, and she is not a cow.” Jonas roared out in laughter. “Mary cannot
tell the difference.”
Mary
ignored the boy, and the next morning she was told that John had died. The calf
was killed by the wolves. She cried and refused to have the calf buried, but
her mother told her it was the way the dead were treated.
“Will
he come back?” Mary had asked.
“No,
when they die, they would not.” Her mother had said, but years later, Mary knew
her mother lied. The dead do come back and become vampires.
The
child approached Mary and gave her letter.
“The
doctor says to give you.” The child then caught up with her mother. Mary read
the letter and took leave of the café. She went back to her room and changed
her dress to something more appropriate for her visit. The dark shirt and pants
tucked into the high boots with the matching coat that trailed to her knees;
she had the Stetson hat by the table alongside her coat. She was dressed in
black except for the ebony gun handle of the gun on the left side of the waist
belt with the hilt out. It was called the Texas Cross Draw, and her preference
was the move.
The
Colt M1878 or the Frontier was holstered there. It held six bullets in the
chamber and held a length of seven and a half inches in the barrel. It was
rather long compared to the Webley at the fur inches barrel.
Her
calibre was the.45 Colt, but with an added change; her bullets were capped with
silver.
“Them
doggone blood suckers will be in pain if the bullet has not killed them, though
the best place to shoot them was in the head.” Mary once told some hunters of
her peers.
She
also has her own Bowie knife in the rear of her belt. It was custom fitted for
her by the blacksmith with the silver ingrained onto the blade.
When
she was ten, Mary befriended a Sioux girl from the nearby settlement. Her name
was Little Willow; she was named after her mother died giving birth to her. She
had cried for days and nights longing for her mother’s milk, but then the Sioux
were on the warpath with the US Cavalry, and they were constantly on the move.
The Sioux conflict was in 1854, but the victory of Chief Sitting Bull at Little
Horn dragged the war to the end of the 1870s. The Sioux nation was then to
return to the reservations. One of them was near the Reid’s ranch, and Mary’s
father was regarded as a blood brother to the Chief there.
Little
Willow introduced Mary to the ways of the Sioux and her first lessons in the
supernatural: the Windigo and their own demon, Two-Face. When Aunt Agatha died
from the bites, Mary was fifteen, and she vowed vengeance.
“Hokahey!
Today is a good day to die!”” Mary had called on the Sioux war cry. (extract
from https://www.artofmanliness.com/character/knowledge-of-men/battle-cries/)
The
knock came at the set time. She walked to the door and waited for the follow-on
knock. It was done, and she admitted the man who was assigned to protect her.
“Thank
you.’ Colonel Moran was not a man of many words. He stepped into the room. He
was dressed in the usual tweeds design with the bowler hat. He carried a long
leather case. He saw her looking at it.
“My
arsenal of weapons, from the revolver to the rifle with the shortened barrel.
One had to improvise for the situation.” Colonel Moran saw the revolver on the
lady’s belt. “A powerful weapon. Would you prefer a derringer for discreet
use?”
“I
have no space for it. My knife is between my butt, and I reserved my front for
more fleshy tools.”
“Oh,
I will not intrude upon you.” Colonel Moran walked to the window. He was
discreet to take the view from the side. He saw the assigned guards at both
ends of the street. He then turned to look at the lady.
“The
contract for your death had been issued at a total of twenty-five hundred
pounds. It is a hefty amount for anyone.” Colonel Moran told her. “We are to
know that the contract was issued by the Syndicate, a rival organization, but
they are secretive. More than ours, but their operations were mostly out of the
country. They may have termed you an external threat.”
“And
how did you know?” Mary asked. In her line of work and her desire to say alive,
she knew when to ask the right questions.
“I
was given the option to do the task, besides many others.” Colonel Moran did a
curtsy towards the lady.
“I
am not honoured. In the continent, my death reward was twice that amount in
dollars.” Mary smiled. The Colonel then leaned back to watch the street. He
looked worried. The call sign was seen.
“We
need to move you to some place safe. The coach will arrive shortly, and you
will be taken to a safe house. Stay there till I come.”
“Are
you sending me to a monastery among the muted and unaffectionate men? Or
ladies?” Mary asked.
“Please
move. I will stand guard here.” The Colonel opened the leather case to remove
the rifle. “I will cover your movements.”
“Do
not shoot my butts. They are my best part of my beauty.”
“Go
now. The coach is here.” Mary took her leave, grabbing the coat and hat.
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