Spring 1632, Grantville, Thuringia, Germany, early morning
Old Pete sat in his favorite spot and huffed out a breath of air that made his mouth flap comfortably. He laid his head down onto his paws and watched the streets through the white wooden pickets of the porch railings. The scents of the budding flowers made his nose tickle and he sneezed. Even though it was colder than it should be with the smells of spring in the air, Pete found the sunshine just as warm as it always had been in this, his corner of the porch. That his favorite sunny spot had moved from next to the front door to over by the swing due to the Ring of Fire didn't matter to him.
Pete scanned the street once more and snuffled to be sure there were no strange scents in the air. All was good. Duncan would be home soon and then it'd be time for some exercise or he'd get to carry wood over to the smokehouse. Then he'd get fed scraps if someone came over to use it.
That'd be just fine with him. If he was lucky, he and his master could go hunting. From birds to bigger game, it didn't matter to Old Pete. He'd work them all.
Pete rolled over onto his back and let the sun warm his belly. Soon he was dreaming of chasing squirrels and rabbits in the woods just over the hills. It was a perfect day. His legs twitched as he dreamed.
The words Duncan Cunningham uttered ensured that no one would try to catch his attention or approach him as he stalked back home.
Duncan had watched others exiting the offices as he arrived. It had been nearly a year since his last visit and there were a lot fewer older folks in the waiting room this year.
He examined the exercise pamphlets and dietary plans Doctor Shipley had given him and stuffed them into his pack. He'd lost over forty-five pounds over the last year and here she wanted him to lose even more weight or he would die sooner than later!
He'd changed his ways as best he could, but since no more medications were available, he'd had to resort to the old-fashioned ways to control his diabetes.
Diet and exercise.
If Duncan didn't start working on his plans to get insulin made, it would kill him. No way in hell was "Slam Dunk" Cunningham going down easily. He couldn't change where or who he was, but he could do something about his being a diabetic, even if he was still just type two. Sure as winter brought snow, it'd get worse with time. Now it was up to him to get an insulin project started to make the medicine he'd soon need.
To Duncan it was a matter of life and death, but the city council and emergency board last year had said no-no funds and no way to make insulin. No place or people to spare to make it, either. More important medicines that would save people, including him, from pestilence took precedence.
" God damn their DDT." He slammed a beefy fist into his large hand. A hand so large that could palm a basketball as easily as someone's face in a fight.
He had no idea how much making insulin would cost, but the numbers were bound to be high. Higher than he could afford, straight up. At least his credit was good. It didn't hurt to be related to nearly everyone in town at times like these. What he'd read so far about insulin purification seemed simple, but there were so many obstacles and sundries he'd need to get it started. He knew he wasn't the man to make the insulin, either. One more problem to overcome.
Duncan knew he'd be in competition with the high school, the new hospital they were building, and even other facilities for some materials, and he didn't even have a tenth of an idea of what all he needed to produce the insulin.
It'd be a busy morning visiting homes and trying to trade unneeded items. He'd have to start small and work his way up to getting the gear for a lab dedicated to purifying insulin.
He'd show Dr. Shipley. He'd show everyone that Duncan Cunningham wasn't a quitter. Not now, not ever.
He wasn't going to die… but first things first.
Duncan sat down on the front deck's steps to rest. It'd taken several trips from the hired wagon to move the small hoard of items he'd managed to trade for that morning. Mostly they were items his imagined lab would need. It was going to take days to sort through it all to see if the stuff could be converted to be useful in a lab. Converting a child's ancient record player into a centrifuge would be tough, but the library or someone he knew would know how to get it done.
Selfish or not, the insulin, when it was made, would be his first. It was going to cost him enough money and time. Time he was short on, even today. It was almost noon and he still needed to put meat in the smokehouse. He owed too many people too much already.
He'd felt his next door neighbor's eyes following him when he unloaded the wagon. He suppressed the urge to give her the finger. Kitty Ann Chaffin was too nosy for anyone's good.
Duncan had friends he did favors for sometimes, no questions asked, and they'd returned the favor when he asked for help this morning. Though it meant that he'd have to babysit five or six kids, mostly pre-teens, this weekend in return. He didn't mind children; it was adults that got on his nerves easily for some reason. Duncan loved children, and the birth of his grandchild, Noah, had made him ecstatic. Word that Gayla was trying to have a child, too, made him even happier.
He grunted. "Well, Pete, it looks like we're not long for this world if Grantville can't get its shit together. And here I am, out of work with an empty house." He scanned his double wide that was anything but empty. There was over thirty years of his and Linda's collected life here.
"Wish Linda had come down-time with us; she'd know what's worth what in no time." Duncan sighed. "You're gonna be one spoiled dog for a few months as I clean out the junk food I was saving, if I can't sell or trade that stuff first."
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Kitty's curtains move again. There was a woman God should have found a way to leave up-time one way or another.
Duncan scratched his faithful hunting dog's ears and grinned as Old Pete's tail thumped the wrap-around wooden deck. The sound reverberated like a Japanese demon-drum. Old Pete wasn't a small dog by any means, by luck more than intention. He might actually be a bit bigger than a St. Bernard and easily pushed two hundred pounds of muscle, tooth, drool and fur.
Somehow the loyalty of his half-breed father had been passed on to Old Pete in spades. It was too bad a coal truck had taken Pete's father out five years ago. There were only two other dogs in town he knew of that were directly related to Old Pete.
Old Pete had the instincts of a hunter. He knew when to move quietly, and how to push larger game towards the stands Duncan and his friends set up in deer season. So it had usually ended up with friends inviting Duncan and Old Pete to hunt, and leaving their own dogs at home.
"Well, we're not going to spend the rest of the day moping around, Pete. Freezer's gonna need filled again. Let's get a move on."
Pete knew what the words "freezer" and "filled" meant. It was time to go hunting again!
"Still have some bounce in you, do you? If you do, old boy, so do I." Duncan hopped to his feet to prove that point to himself. "Hah! I still got the moves!"
Old Pete's thunderous barks were punctuated by even more bouncing and shaking of the deck underfoot. "How about a big ole pig? I hear that there are some running wild in the woods near the marsh lands towards Badenburg, harassing folks. Be a long walk, boy. We'll pack for an all-nighter, just in case."
Normally no one went hunting alone, but time was short and the day wasn't getting any younger. No time to make a few calls or visit the store for a pick-up hunting partner.
Duncan pulled out his small game shotgun, an over-under. 410, and pocketed a dozen-and-some small game shells and a similar amount of heavier slugs for the gun. It wouldn't be anywhere near powerful enough to take down a hog, especially if the rumors he'd heard were close to the truth, so he reached for his favorite handgun and holster belt.
The Taurus was a very heavy handgun. The belt held three quick-loaders in a pouch with the same ammo in them and twenty rounds in leather loops on the belt.
Every hunter in Grantville had gotten a lesson in seventeenth-century hunting laws soon after the Ring of Fire. Luckily, animals didn't care about borders and moved into the areas the locals could hunt without offending or breaking a local noble's laws.
Meat was meat.
He put on his Indiana Jones fedora. That had been a Father's Day gift from Noreen after the family had gone to see Raiders of the Lost Ark so many years ago. Before she'd had to be committed for her own safety.
A tear threatened to fall, but he bit his cheek. It wasn't his fault Noreen had lost it mentally after the Ring of Fire, but at least she had good care. His other daughter, Gayla, and quite a few friends worked at the facility where she now resided.
He wore the fedora proudly and had even added a timber-rattler's skin band to it after the snake had made the mistake of announcing itself where Old Pete could hear it.
Duncan reached into a cupboard and packed two instant Gatorade mix packs from his dwindling supply. That was one purchase he'd never regretted, but he hated the grape flavoring, so it had lasted longer than anyone would have guessed. For a diabetic on a sugar crash, the instant mixes were the nectar of God.
Knowing he might be out past dinner, he made sure some homemade jerky filled other pockets. He filled his medicinal flask with some snake-bite juice, then grabbed the first-aid kit and finally moved out. One glance next door and he barred the dog doors from the inside, then locked the doors.
As much against thieves as inquisitive next door neighbors. One in particular, especially.
Old Pete had spooked quite a bit of small game on the way to the Ring by Birdie Newhouse's farm, but Duncan had only bagged three decent rabbits and two keeper squirrels so far. He'd fed Pete the squirrels, as they were too small for the pot this soon after winter.
Now Duncan sat waiting on the game trail just past the village near Birdie's farm, watching for the patrols he'd seen signs of on his way up here. If he'd read the signs right, the patrols had passed this same area twice earlier in the day, as if following a route. That meant they were trained men and not likely to be bandits.
Old Pete growled, and Duncan fought the urge to load and close the breech on the shotgun. "Stay calm, boy. We know they're there, and now they know we do, too. Sit." He snapped his fingers down toward his side next to his six-gun and took the opportunity to slip off its safety strap. Old Pete obediently sat down next to him, but never took his eyes off the bushes to their left.
Duncan could now smell the scent of someone who'd spent the day on a horse and who didn't bathe too often. Old Pete seemed to agree, as he whined softly and sneezed.
"Well, you coming out of the woods or not? I can smell you, and so can Old Pete."
Finally, a medium-sized man stepped forward, wearing a weathered leather jack over a jacket that blended well with the trees and brush of the area. He held a small spear point down in one hand, and had a musket strapped over one shoulder. A brace of pistols was shoved into his wide belt. The man's hat wasn't too different from Duncan's, excepting the large feather.
"My name is Conrad Feldmeier. I am the head game warden for Count Ludwig Guenther. These lands are his, perhaps even those your town is upon, too." He held up his hand before Duncan could protest. "You wish to hunt these lands?"
Duncan nodded, rolling the shells in his hand.
"You must pay for the privilege then." He named a fee that Duncan knew was outrageous.
"Too much."
"Perhaps if you let us know what you wished to hunt today, we could come to an arrangement?"
"I'm here for some wild hogs I heard were harassing folks in the area, digging up gardens and fields and… worse." Duncan let the last word linger and watched the man's reaction. He saw the eyes narrow. So the warden did know of the hogs, then. The spear with crossbar near the top just under the long blade indicated that he'd been prepared for them, too.
"That… rifle? I do not believe it is big enough for a hog. Maybe a small deer. Yes?"
"It's not meant for hogs. For them I got this-" Duncan slapped his holster "-and Old Pete here." The dog huffed and wagged its tail slowly. "Trust me, this revolver will do the job."
The man, the warden, snapped something in rapid fire German that Duncan couldn't quite catch, but some words needed no translation. They were words no one would use in polite company.
"I think I like you, Conrad. I like your hat, too." Duncan tipped his own. "Wide brim is good to keep the rain off your face, ain't it?" The man's face remained impassive. "God, I wish you spoke English."
"I speak some. I learn more soon. Count Ludwig has ordered it to be. That is, that we learn the language of our neighbors." The warden shrugged.
"Well, I'll be damned. No, not that way, it's a saying in… ah, hell."
"This is an American thing, yes?"
"Yeah, like cussing, don't mean nuttin', err, nothing. But sometimes it does. Like when you told those two idiots to point their weapons someplace else."
The man shrugged and smiled. "You wish to hunt boar with only one dog? Must be a very good dog. He is very ugly, but seems big enough." Old Pete sat up and wagged his tail. He was smart enough to know when folks were talking about him, no matter the language they spoke.
"May I?" The warden gestured toward the shotgun. Duncan handed him the unloaded weapon and he examined it closely.
"A fine weapon, but as you say, not for pigs. Small game?"
Duncan nodded as he watched Conrad handle the shotgun carefully and then reached for it when he handed it back. "So, can we be friends and come to an agreement about what I bag?"
"We can, but I will come with you with one other man. The rest will continue looking for poachers and bandits, though few make it past your Grantville these days."
"Right. So you, me and one other, and Old Pete here. I'm guessing you both know how to walk in the woods and marshes hereabouts?" Duncan got an amused smile in return. "I had to ask. It helps to know who you're hunting with. Helps prevent accidents."
Conrad adjusted his gear. "Hermann, take the men and go patrol. Estevan, you will come with us and translate."
"Sure, Conrad." Duncan smiled. "By the way you want to try some chew?" Duncan extended a plug of tobacco to Conrad. "Just remember not to swallow and spit the juice."
Conrad didn't even blink as he reached for the offered gift.
Duncan smiled.
The Marshes
They'd been on the tracks of a pack of very large pigs for over an hour when the screams started. Before Conrad could do anything, the American had yelled something, a curse maybe, and then waved his dog to the right and charged into the brush at a speed that surprised both of the Germans. The dog had moved parallel to the man without even making a noise, as if this was a normal everyday exercise.
"We'd better go after him," Conrad said. "The count would be most upset if we let an American get killed on his lands. Maybe we can be in time to save him from his foolishness." He spat out the wad of chew.
Then the firing, squeals and barking started. Their jog turned into a full-out run. Their spears were held defensively before them, in case they rounded a tree and found themselves face to face with one of the wild hogs.
It wasn't a pretty scene.
Conrad and Estevan approached, spears out and at the ready. Duncan leaned shaking against a nearby sapling for support.
Duncan gave a signal and Old Pete circled the area and then took off. Finally, Duncan's breathing slowed down enough for him to speak.
"Estevan, hombre, we're going to need some shovels. Hogs killed two… two people. Before I got here." Duncan wasn't about to look any closer at the bodies. He'd seen dead folks before, but not like this. The string of curses he loosed wasn't directed at them, but at himself. He really needed to lose more weight. Had he been another twenty to thirty pounds lighter he might have been able to save one of them. Maybe.
Conrad and Estevan stared at him as if surprised he was still alive.
"Don't stare at me like that. I've hunted hogs with just a pistol before!" he snapped, surprising the game warden. Duncan held up a hand. "I'm sorry, Conrad. I'm not angry at you. It's my sugar levels. They are too low."
"This is a disease of the blood?"
Duncan nodded. For a "simple game warden" Conrad seemed very educated.
"You did well, here. You did what you could for them."
Duncan tried to spit again, but found his mouth was too dry.
Conrad and Estevan scanned the soft ground and looked at each other. "This was a big pack, Herr Cunningham. Pardon me for saying this, but I still think you're crazy for having charged in here with just the dog and one gun. Even if you've hunted like this before. These aren't farm pigs gone wild."
Hell, the sow alone would stress the springs in the back of Duncan's huge pick-up truck if he'd ever figure out how to get it into the truck bed in the first place. Duncan looked at the giant boar and blinked in disbelief. He'd need a tow truck to get that thing out of here. "How we gonna get all this meat out of here, anyway? Before the other hogs come back?" His share of the meat would add up to a lot of money once he smoked it and sold it. Even after he paid off the debts of the trades he'd made earlier that morning.
"My men should come to investigate the noises shortly. We should build a fire, as well. We will have them cut a path here for some horses to drag them out of the marshes and then we'll use a wagon each to get these beasts to where they can be butchered properly. The boar's head will make a fine trophy, but I think the count will claim it as it is his right." Conrad added the last part again when Duncan didn't respond.
"Or we could send Old Pete to guide them back here," Duncan added. He looked at his hands and made fists so he could hide their shaking.
"I left Hermann in charge of the men. I think you should keep your dog here instead."
"Yeah, that's fine. Oh shit! The game bag!" It was then that he saw that Old Pete had brought up the bag of game and dropped it at his feet already. He'd forgotten he'd sent Old Pete for it minutes before. Not a good sign.
"Good boy." Duncan took off his hat and poured some of the water into it and let Old Pete drink his fill. The rest dripped down his head and neck when he put it back on. It felt wonderful.
Duncan measured out a dose of Gatorade powder, and mixed it with water in the canteen's cup. He drank it slowly at first, then pinched his nose and swigged it down as fast as he could. "Gah! Ugh!" The shakes would fade soon enough. If they didn't, he'd need a power bar or another cup of the horrid drink.
"It can't be as bad as that chew you gave me, Herr Cunningham," Conrad said.
Duncan made a face at Conrad that left the down-timer laughing until more help came to deal with the wild hogs.
Count Ludwig Guenther's Hunting Lodge, early evening
Conrad sent for Count Ludwig Guenther's hound-master to treat and care for Old Pete's torn ear. Duncan didn't understand why Conrad insisted that only the hound-master should be allowed to care for Pete. It was almost as if he was insisting that the man have a chance to see the dog.
"He is the only person the count permits to care for his hounds," Conrad insisted. "Your dog has earned the right to receive the same care. That ear looks bad. Wilhelm will know exactly how to fix it so that it doesn't hurt the dog and he doesn't lose it… although that might improve his looks."
Duncan raised an eyebrow.
"Okay, it will hurt the dog, but he is even better than the surgeon the count has for himself. I'd bet my life on that. In fact, I have… several times."
"Hermann shot Herr Conrad in the buttocks last summer when he dropped his crossbow," Estevan volunteered with a snicker. He quickly found someplace else to be when Conrad shot him a look.
"So how did that work out?"
"Wilhelm extracted the bolt and patched me up. I was back in the saddle in a few weeks."
"Okay, this hound-master can look at Old Pete, but I think you have something else in mind here."
"Who me? I am a simple game warden. What confidence or secret plan could such a man as I come up with?"
"I wonder."
Duncan entertained the men with tricks from Old Pete's repertoire while they waited for the hound-master to come from the castle. Old Pete dragged one fearful volunteer across the ground from the corral to the small chapel without hurting the man. Then the man tried in vain to get up as Duncan told Old Pete to sit on him.
The men were greatly amused.
They were more amused when Duncan snatched and then threw Conrad's hat into the corral and told Old Pete to get it. The gates were locked and the men started making bets on how long it'd take the dog to figure out it couldn't get into the corral and if Conrad's hat would be ruined by a stray hoof.
Conrad turned to Duncan. "If my hat is ruined, I will claim yours as recompense."
"Pete, climb! " was Duncan's only response.
Old Pete took a run at the fence, grabbed the top bar and scrambled over. The horses had already shied away from where the dog had circled one side of the corral and the hat was untrodden. Pete turned back with the hat in his mouth and waited.
"We know he can go over the fence. Anyone want to bet he can go through the gate?" Duncan held up two silver dollars.
"I will take that bet, sir," someone spoke up in accented English. "Even as big as that dog is, it can't go through wood that thick."
"Watch." Duncan turned to the corral. "Pete. Unlock the gate." He mimed lifting the rope off the post. Old Pete barked once and then stood on his hind legs and calmly nosed the rope off the fencepost, pushed the gate open, carried the hat through, and pushed it closed.
"Now I'm sorry to say, gentlemen, that though he made it through the gate, it's beyond even his skills to lock it up again. Would one of you see to that for him?" Duncan whistled and Old Pete ambled up and dropped Conrad's hat at his feet. It was soaked with drool.
The men laughed uproariously.
"Herr Wilhelm Kehl, I think you've been had," Conrad said to the well-dressed man who stood there with his mouth tightly pursed. "Lucky for you, what you owe Herr Duncan Cunningham comes exactly to what you'd charge to care for the dog."
"Very well. Before I attend to your mastiff, could you please muzzle him? This won't be painless, but I guarantee he won't lose the ear or get an infection after."
"That won't be necessary, Wilhelm. Old Pete knows it's a choice between you and Les Blocker, who'll give him a shot," Duncan explained. "The sight of a shot will turn him into a whimpering puppy every time."
"Like you and that purple drink?" Conrad offered with a smile as he shook his hat out.
"Something like that." Duncan whistled Old Pete over.
Duncan watched the hound-master prepare his gear and noticed how each tool in his kit was shining and clean. Wilhelm also sterilized his stitching needles and catgut in brandy.
Duncan pulled the reluctant dog into position and then released him with a light tap to his nose. "Stay! No Teeth! It's this or a shot, Pete. Want to visit Les instead?"
Old Pete became compliant right away. He endured having his ear washed and stitched. It didn't hurt that the hound-master fed Pete tidbits from a hip bag every few stitches. Wilhelm then applied a little pitch over the dog's wound and told Duncan not to let the dog scratch at it, but to let it peel off naturally.
As Wilhelm washed his hands, he had Duncan walk Old Pete around so he could study his lines. He asked about his stamina and intelligence. Twice, Wilhelm reverted to German to ask questions of Conrad, Estevan and the other men.
Wilhelm got even more insistent when Conrad told the story of the way the dog had taken down one of the hogs by itself. He'd seen the bodies when the three wagons finally arrived. He looked a bit more respectfully at Old Pete after that. Wilhelm took out a small book and began to make notes in it and had a very far off look.
"I think your dog is going to make you very rich, my new friend." Conrad nudged Duncan.
"You think so? He's only a crossbreed. Part Bloodhound, part Saint Bernard. All big and ugly, but a better friend I've never had."
"Whatever breed your dog is, he has impressed Count Guenther's hound-master. That is not an easy thing to do. That I was there to witness his actions on the hunt might have helped your case."
"I didn't realize that I, or Old Pete, were on trial here."
"You were, but not in the way you'd expect. Hounds like Old Pete are treasured by men like my count." Conrad named the figure fetched by a bitch sired by Count Ludwig Guenther's prize hound at the Hamburg fair last fall.
"That much, huh?"
"You have a good dog here, Duncan. I suspect you should find out if his mother is still alive or if anyone else has one of these breeds in Grantville. This would make breeding his line true easier. But what ever you do, don't take his first offer. There is a game to this business, and every game has rules to it." He shook out his slobber-soaked hat again and ambled off.
"Wouldn't trade you for all the insulin in the world, Pete. Especially since that can't be all that much right now."
"Herr Duncan, I have an offer that's sure to interest one as wise and worldly as yourself." Wilhelm Kehl smiled a car salesman's smile. Some things spanned generations. Car salesman, horse trader, or dog trader, Duncan bet there wasn't much difference between them. "I'm sure that even your hound would enjoy the work involved. But I must ask you a bit more about his breeding. Who in Grantville did you say owned his dam?"
"I didn't."
Wilhelm raised an eyebrow.
Duncan looked back deadpan.
Old Pete was going to save his life again.
Mid-May, Grantville
The problem now would be selecting the proper bitches for Old Pete and trying to breed him true. He was a mutt and getting a dog that smart and big would be hard enough. Reading about proper breeding had given Duncan a headache. It was easier to hire the experts in the end. At least there were people he knew in town with the knowledge he needed.
The extra cherry wood from his backyard plus the smoked hams, sausage and bacon from the hogs helped him pay for the initial research. A simple seven-point chart and tracking method for the breeding selections came from Les Blocker and his students. Les hadn't even charged him for the information, but Duncan made sure he got a chunk of smoked bacon and some sausage, anyway.
Duncan could sell the dogs that didn't fit the desired profiles and still turn a profit. His bank account right now wasn't liking his expenses one bit, but the loan rates at least were tolerable. According the initial research, the St. Bernard and Bloodhound existed in this era. But none were like Old Pete. He was the best of both breeds in one huge and ugly package.
Next to the breeding charts hung a huge dietary chart. This chart covered Duncan's snack times and all the alternative medicines he'd tried to alleviate what exercise and diet alone didn't control. His daughter, Gayla, watched him like a hawk, and made sure he didn't cheat. Like he had time or money to cheat these days.
That left his most important project-the insulin. He'd arranged to lease space and lab time at the Manning Assisted Living Center through old Dr. McDonnell. The location was undergoing expansion to handle the massive influx of needy to Grantville, and was also acting as something of a municipal hospital for the poor.
Manning's was already starting to acquire hospital gear and medicines made through a front company in-town called Manning's Medical Manufacturing or Three M. Insulin wasn't on their list of projects, so Duncan's project would have to be self-funded, and he'd have to invest heavily in Three M to make sure he could keep access to the facility.
He put down some alchemist's notes he was trying to read when Old Pete growled. This time he heard a wagon entering his driveway. "Please, God, don't let it be another brown-noser looking for a favor! I don't think I could take it." Duncan snapped his fingers, calling Old Pete back from the door. He'd heeded Conrad and Wilhelm's words of caution to not get involved in any of the games Count Ludwig's courtiers played.
Next door, the curtains fluttered and Duncan hid his smile. Kitty's last petition to close down his business had been stomped on pretty hard by the new Small Business Bureau group-which was seeded with many of Duncan's old buddies from the mines and not a few extended family members.
It was good to have friends and family.
Something about sheep or animal pancreas processing circled in his mind, something one of his researchers had mentioned, but the words were buried in the barking of over a half-dozen large dogs in cages on a wagon out front.
"Take them around back and stake each of them out separately so I can examine them, please. They are in heat, I take it?"
Dogs to Dollars, Summer 1632
"The count won't be happy that you rejected three of his best bitches, Duncan." Wilhelm took the breeding charts that Duncan waved at him and Conrad. Conrad ignored the charts and went in the house, probably to use the john, so Duncan kept talking to Wilhelm.
"It's genetics as much as it is the person who raises a dog that makes it what it is. For me to be able to breed Old Pete true, I need to get a good breeding stock base that shares the features we want to continue in his line. Les Blocker, the veterinarian, agrees with me. We need at least four generations of good stock to guarantee a good breeding pool." Duncan winced. "Unfortunately, I think ugly is the one gene that's going to breed true, no matter who we pair him off with.
"Are you sure that we can sell the pups I don't want to keep in this program? Feeding this many dogs is going to be next to impossible for me. They need to be fed a lot to grow properly." Duncan looked at Wilhelm. "I'm also looking after my daughter Noreen, you know, and even with Gayla's help…" He made no mention of the fact that his son-in-law, now a very wealthy man, had ensured that Noreen had enough money to cover all expenses at the care center. He hated Chaffin and his mother, Kitty Ann, with a passion.
"But if I can sell our rejects, it'll go a long way to covering basic expenses and spreading the gene-pool. Some of the dogs will be good at some things, but not like Old Pete, which is what we're aiming for right?"
Wilhelm simply nodded when it sounded like Duncan was on a roll. Interrupting the big man wasn't something he considered a healthy risk
So he just followed along as best he could, and watched where he stepped in the backyard. A skill a man of his duties normally could do with out a thought, but these were big dogs and the puppies ran free in the huge backyard.
"I have another surprise for you two and Count Ludwig. I acquired another fine pair of breeding dogs for him a couple of months ago. They've already pupped, too. Fast breeders." Duncan walked him around to the back of the yard well away from the house and regular kennels.
"What the hell are those?" Wilhelm asked, jumping back when two tiny wiry-haired dogs leaped at the chain-link fencing that kept them inside their small run.
"Those, Wilhelm, are a pair of Rat Terrier-Chihuahua hybrids, the fiercest yappers in the universe. They are supposed to be the bane of rats anywhere, but bred small enough to be the lap dogs of ladies and gentlemen in what was my world." Duncan kept his voice serious. Who'd want one of those things sitting in their lap?
"My God! Don't they ever stop yapping? It's so high pitched and annoying! How much did they cost?" Wilhelm started to draw his new pistols. "I'll pay you twice what they are worth if I can just shoot them! Why would the count want such annoying dogs?"
Duncan put his hand on Wilhelm stopping him mid-draw. "I didn't say they were for the count himself. They're meant for him to pass out as gifts."
"Who in their right mind would give these noisy creatures to anyone as a gift?"
"Wilhelm, my friend, for someone who spends so much time in and out of court, I'd think you'd know how to play their game better." Duncan bit off his smile before it could form. "Who said that Count Ludwig would give these dogs to people he liked?"
"You are a wicked, wicked man, Duncan." Wilhelm smiled slowly. "I am sure Count Ludwig knows more than a few people who are deserving of such a fine gift of a rare up-time dog. I don't think two will be enough, though. Could you breed more of them? I only count four puppies."
Duncan winced but nodded. "It'll cost you. Feed, care, fighting the urge not to strangle them… I'll be sure to emphasize that they're fearless, determined, energetic ratters on their papers, too. At least that's what their ancestors were bred for, or so I read." He passed Wilhelm a photocopy of the two breeds' selected histories along with a notarized statement from Les Blocker. "I'm sure you can work with these to come up with something that would impress a courtier whose nose is so brown he can't see without help of a lantern."
Wilhelm looked at the two tiny, hyperactive dogs again. "And how soon would these pups be ready to be separated from their dam?"
"Separated from their dam? My good man, you're taking them with you when you leave tomorrow. I'll keep the parents to breed, but the pups were weaned last week." The look on Wilhelm's face was almost worth as much as the coin Duncan suspected was in the man's pouch.
"Wilhelm, I'm gonna need you to come by at least three times a week to see that the boys are taking the dogs through their training paces and keeping the yard and pens clean. Conrad and I are off to Hamburg for the Summer Fair. We're taking most of the rejects and some of the true breeds with us. Conrad wants to visit his cousins while we're there, and says there's someone I just have to meet.
"I think he wants me to meet this merchant I've been arguing with about prices. We've exchanged tons of letters since the topic of the Fair came up. He says I'll be glad to meet this merchant. Someone close to his own family is all I can get out of him.
"Stubborn as hell, and demands to see the dogs before deciding on a proper price. Not even the letters and sketches or affidavits have sold him on how good Old Pete's pups are. And they are only buying two of the pure breeds to begin with! For some reason, I think Conrad's setting me up for another joke. Man's full of secrets."
"Who, me? I'm just a plain old game warden, Herr Cunningham." Conrad walked up with his eyes twinkling. "Good cider, this. Think I'll get a refill and some for you two, too." He turned to go back inside the house. "And remember I didn't say it was only the dogs you were bargaining about, Duncan. Just that the deal included two of the true breeds. Be sure to bring those clothes the count was nice enough to have made for you for when we are at the fair. You'll make a better impression wearing them."
"I'll look like a damned peacock, is what! He better be right or I'll show you a move I learned watching wrasslin'."
The rear gate slammed open and a kid from the neighborhood called for Duncan as he ran towards them. "Mr. Cunningham, Mr. Cunningham!" He tried to yell over the barking of over twenty dogs. The boy slipped through the muck in the back yard and landed at Duncan's feet with a splat.
Duncan picked him up easily. "What is it, Tommy?"
"Your alchemist. The one learning stuff up at the school? He's.. . he's…" The kid looked at the note he held. "Absconded. With everything, all your research papers and some of the Three M lab equipment, too! They're still doing an inventory!"
Duncan sat down hard, feeling like he'd been gut-punched.
Conrad turned to the boy, "The police? Have they been informed?"
"They sent me with the note, phone was busy. The high school called it in. They thought maybe he was taking a sick day or was down at the lab and sent someone to check on him and everything was gone! They are still checking what's missing from Three M's labs."
"Don't worry Duncan, we'll get him." Conrad's voice chilled the summer air. He had taken the phone off the hook so Duncan would have one day of peace at least. Now it was up to him. He owed Duncan that much. "He can't have gone far in a day."
"Conrad, we can't kill him or let him hang! He's the only one that's been able to make any insulin so far. Three M's techs were working on a better way of purification for me. He's still too important."
Conrad left his friend sitting in the mud with Old Pete and his pups licking his face. This was one thing he couldn't help his friend with directly, but he did know some people. Time to round up a posse, as Duncan called it.
He trusted his men and their new dogs more than any others to deliver the fleeing alchemist alive, no matter how long it took. He cleared Duncan's phone line and pressed the button marked "Police." The phone beeped three times and there was a click as someone picked up the phone on the other end. It was a familiar voice.
"Hullo, Mrs. Clinter? Yah, this is Conrad, I'm over at Duncan's. Yes, we've heard. I need one of your men to describe the fugitive to my men. They will be by as soon as I can call the castle. No. I won't be going along, and neither will Duncan.
"We're due in Hamburg shortly, north of Jena, so we must leave soon. Perhaps even as early as tomorrow. Send me the bill for the posters and pamphlets. This thief now has a bounty on his head which will be paid for live capture and delivery only. Yes, I'll guarantee the bounty. Even if I have to pay it myself. How much do you suggest?" Conrad listened for a few minutes, then interrupted.
"I don't know about your local prosecution, but would forced labor be a just punishment? So what's the difference between his working supervised at a lab during the day and cleaning up shit off the streets at night? Danke, Mrs. Clinter. I must make some more calls now. Expect my men soon."
Grantville U-haul and Salvage Facilities, early fall 1632
Dalton Higgins picked up a book and a calculator that had seen better days and started adding up some numbers. "No way we can make full value of this truck in two weeks, Duncan. Would a quarter now and the rest in quarterly payments be fair?"
"That will have to do. I need to buy some new equipment and Three M stock, soon. Before they vote my personal projects off the table and reassign the labs and lab time while I try to recover my insulin project.
"Conrad's men got the runaway alchemist back for me pretty quick, but not before bandits stole or broke the gear. Figure it's going to cost me either way. I rather be safe and have the cash and stock to back my requests."
"Would letting you vote my shares in proxy help you, Duncan?" Dalton asked. "My daughter suggested I invest in that company and I might have-" He coughed. "-a few shares to vote."
"You'd do that for me, Dalton?"
"For that truck and Linda's ATV, and paid back over time? Yeah, I would."
"You'd be saving my life, Dalton. Literally."
"It can't be that bad yet, Duncan. I heard you whupped Mr. Chaffin pretty good down at Tip's recently, for how he's treating Noreen."
Duncan half grinned and turned away to hide his blush. He was really too old to be stuffing men into trash cans anymore, but it sure had felt good to do it. He turned back, serious once more. "Doc McDonnell came up with a blood test for me after we started to get some insulin made. Mostly to monitor how it was affecting me. I'm sort of a living guinea pig, but I ain't got no choice, you know." Duncan unhooked the keys for his beloved four by four truck and his lost wife's ATV and handed them over. "The proxy votes and the papers saying I can vote them as I see fit, soonest. The rest when you can afford it. Richard Nelson, my lawyer, will handle things while I'm gone.
"By the way, gents… when's the last wedding you went to?"
"Why?" Harrison asked.
"I found a keeper, and I don't want to let her get away. I'll let you know 'bout that after I get back from Hamburg again. Seems I have some unfinished business there." Duncan actually smiled for the first time that day. It felt good. "Speaking of that. Think I could borrow one of your newer luxury-ride carriage prototypes?" It'd make traveling the roads bearable and he wanted to impress the lady. He was sure Conrad would know someone who knew how to drive a carriage properly.
It was good to have friends.
Late fall 1632, Grantville
"What do you mean you're getting married, Dad? Who to? What's her name?" Gayla reached for and unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk where she kept the cherry syrup she made herself. With news like this, her herbal tea was going to need a little extra sweetening.
"No, I'm not mad. I'm just surprised. You sold how many dogs? You're kidding, only four?" Gayla dropped her cup of tea when she heard how much money her father was bringing back home.
"That's a lot of money, Dad. And you sold futures on twelve more trained pups? Jesus, that's a lot of money. Are these people crazy? I guess that's why you wanted to borrow my Chihuahua for that other experiment of yours?
"What are you going to do with it all? More insulin and purification research, I hope." Gayla swallowed hard. She'd done what she could with her connections and training to keep him in good health, but she'd known all along that it wouldn't last, not unless he found a source of insulin soon. Dad was taking enough of a risk trying the stuff without sufficient testing on rabbits, rats and pigs first. It wasn't enough in her book, not by a long shot.
"Yes, Dad, more funding would be a good idea, especially if they get more trained alchemists and lab-techs out of the deal.
"Just be sure you pay off all your own bills first, before you go and spend that small fortune you just brought home with you. What do you mean you got rid of your truck? That had to hurt.
"Dad, you're doing it again. Talking about everything except what I want to know about. So tell me about this woman, Father. What? She's younger than I am! No I'm not jealous, but…"
She glared at a co-worker who was standing close enough to overhear her conversation. "Don't you have something to be doing? No, not you, Dad." Her co-worker scooted off, whistling the opening bars to the wedding march and Gayla stuck out her tongue at her.
"Yes, I'll get the family together. Where do you want the reception? Marcantonio's? Go figure, you've always had a weakness for his pizza. Dad? I'm glad you're happy. Yes, I'll help. And where are you calling from? Madgeburg by radio with a telephone patch at central? Next Tuesday? That's too soon!" Her eyes narrowed. "Dad, why do you have to get married so soon? No. I don't believe it's part of a business deal… Dad! I don't need those details!
"Can she stay with me until the wedding? Of course, she can. She's going to be family, isn't she? But, we're going to have a talk about the menu when you get here… just because it's your wedding, you're not going to stray from your diet." Gayla mopped up the tea from her dress and barely bulging stomach.
"Noah misses you, Dad. He reminds me every day about your promise to play some round-ball with him when you got back in town." She listened to his response through the static. "Yes, I think Noreen would love having flowers in her room. Just don't go nuts. I don't care if the dogs are selling for that much." Her dad was as good with children as he was with dogs. That made her life easier, since her nephew Noah had moved in with her, instead of living with his philandering father. Duncan spoiled Noah to no end, though.
No chance in hell of Kitty Ann Chaffin offering to watch the boy. His grandmother was afraid that Noah might throw one of the fits Noreen was capable of occasionally. Kitty Ann even feared Noah might infect her. It was too bad Kitty Ann was her father's neighbor, but that's how Noreen had found the boy she'd eventually fallen in love with and married.
"Okay, Dad, I think I can manage that much. I found some more medical books you'll want to borrow. Oh! Can you believe they're making me learn Latin now, so I can talk to the doctors that come through here and read their orders and talk to them?
Gayla listened through the buzz. Drat, that was annoying.
"Really? You mentioned her family's rich, but they deal in sugar, too? What do you mean she's bringing a sweet dowry with her? When? She's with you in Madgeburg already? Dad!
"I can't do it all, I'm pregnant, remember? Let me talk to my future stepmother. Don't you mind what us girls are going to talk about. You just remember to get that glassware you needed, and pick up the gears they ordered for the centrifuges at the lab. I still got the list right here. Or do you want to pay to hear it again?"
Gayla spent the next three minutes meeting her stepmother-to-be. They talked about what the bride wanted for her wedding. Gayla made sure to remind her to berate Dad about his diet. She took notes without realizing it.
She also told her about his disappearing for days at a time, sometimes, with one of his local friends named Conrad. He was a cousin? Before she hung up-at the insistence of the operator who said that there were others waiting to use the line-she finally got her name.
Sophia Walker. Half-English, half-German, and all stubborn. She wasn't Mom, but maybe she was what Dad needed to keep him focused.
It had been her eyes, Dad said. Big. Blue.
Gayla stood up slowly and arched her aching back. This was her third try at having a baby since the Ring of Fire. She hoped she was able to keep this one past the first trimester. "Ugh."
"Someone's getting too fat for her own good." A cheerful and familiar voice came from the reception office's doorway. "Oh! Fresh tea, just what the doctor ordered."
"Dad's getting married, and guess who got volunteered to set things up?" Gayla harrumphed over her shoulder at her friend and co-worker.
Gwen Higgins was due a baby of her own near Christmas and well knew what Gayla was going through. "If you can put together a rotating four-shift schedule together for this place and make it work, then putting together a wedding and everything that goes with one shouldn't be much of a challenge." Gwen smiled and eased herself into the desk's seat and adjusted the lumbar support with a sigh.
"I'm sure Duncan's done right by himself and who says it was him who picked her? Bet on the woman every time. Men are easily kept in line, too. Now scat, you got a nephew to pick up from school, don't you?" Gwen mimed a pinch and Gayla giggled.
Gayla wondered what type of woman would put up with an old bear like her father who was so set in his ways. Nearly everyone thought he was a major bully or just plain pushy. Then again, what type of woman could capture her father's heart in two week's time in person and over a summer's worth of letters that were gender neutral and argumentative as well?
Sophia must be a real looker and smart, too. Dad probably didn't stand a chance. For some reason that thought made her smile even more. Dad definitely deserved a second chance.
Late fall 1633, Duncan's house
"Count Ludwig is that pleased with the new breed of dogs you have created, Duncan. Very pleased." Conrad smiled over the bourbon on the rocks and swirled the glass slowly, letting it clink. It was snowing outside, the fireplace was roaring and some of the trained dogs were scattered about the floor, giving undisputed room to the biggest of them all, Old Pete.
"I think Old Pete's eyeing your boots again, Conrad."
"I believe you taught him that trick, Duncan. Like I said, the count is pleased. The dogs you trained not only flushed enough game to let them feast well during his last hunt, they pulled a guest out of a half frozen pond. He couldn't ride or swim. I'm glad to say both the dogs and man survived the ordeal. He was an important guest. A Swiss historian and academic philosopher, who's interested in the changes you folks call the butterfly effect. Not exactly the type who should be out hunting, but he wanted to try it at least once. It was almost his last time, except for the dogs reacting before anyone else did."
"He wants a dog of his own, right?" Duncan guessed.
"Not only for himself, he wants to gift at least a dozen breeders to the Benedictine monks near Liestal, especially those dogs who show good rescue instincts. He is willing to pay twice the going rate to introduce the breed to the area, or part of it at least. He's read about rescue dogs and the origins of the Saint Bernard and the hospice at St. Bernard Pass. And about the similarities of the bloodhound to the Swiss Jura Hound, too." Conrad grinned behind his drink, which lent him a Cheshire cat-like quality.
"I guess someone's done some research into part of Old Pete's background, or been told a tale or two… Twelve dogs would be almost half my breeding population. Though over half of the bitches are expecting again…" Duncan pulled out his breeding book and started checking some dates.
Conrad handed over a contract and Duncan whistled softly at the initial offer. His wife, Sophia, came out of the kitchen where she'd been preparing dinner. A quick peek out the curtain overlooking the backyard and the dog pens, then she finally came into the living room.
"Sophia, dearest, can you read legal Latin? I need this contract checked and to see if the buyer's willing to follow my rules and our breeding requirements to the letter." Duncan demanded those clauses of anyone who bought the dogs.
"You need to name the breed too, Duncan," Conrad interjected. "Calling them Duncan's Dogs isn't working anymore. You're just not famous enough, but stories of your dogs have reached even Vienna." With that said, Conrad made another contract appear, this one with many official looking seals and ribbons on it.
Sophia pocketed the contracts and then whispered something into Duncan's ear. At first he smiled broadly at Conrad, then he blanched white when what she told him sunk in.
Conrad was at his side in an instant, as was Old Pete. Some of the more sensitive dogs also turned and whined.
"What's wrong, my friend?"
"Well… umm… how can I put this?" Duncan looked up at his wife and his eyes teared up. He was at a loss for words. A rarity amongst these two friends.
"I'm expecting, cousin. I am due early in the spring. I just hid it well, even from myself." Sophia smiled. "Now do as you promised." She kicked Duncan's ankle and pointed at the two sleeping boys by the fire. "Wake young Noah and get him washed up before dinner."
"Oh yeah, Conrad… my friend… I think it's time for starting dinner and for your own son to wake up too. He's got pooper-scooper duty today, doesn't he?"
Conrad coughed and finished off his drink quickly, then poured another and sipped it more cautiously this time. "I think you're right, Duncan. He'll earn his meat tonight."
"Try a better way of waking him than what you did last time. Tossing him into the yard to slide until he hits something that wakes him up may not be the best method." Duncan chortled. "Messy, too."
"What can I say? The boy's lazy. How does he expect to impress a fine young woman into marriage, if he won't even clean up after the dogs and sleeps all the time? Who'd take him as an apprentice breeder?" Conrad caught Duncan's eye and gave him a significant look.
"Who me? Thought never crossed my mind. I'm too busy trying to get clean insulin that we can store at home in the freezer. The stuff we have works, but we can't control how strong it is from batch to batch yet. They're working on some new tests and refining the processes. The animal testing has gone well. Very well.
"Meanwhile I got to go to them for a shot every two or three days for a whole month. Just so they can get a baseline on my blood after I eat a special meal, which isn't much better than your own cooking, Conrad. They cut the insulin with saline and stick me over and over until they think I got a proper dose. Got to sit there for hours with them watching me and running tests. I can't wait till they perfect the process. Then I can have medicine I can count on. Then my life will be normal again."
"Oh. So that's why you can't go on long rides anymore?"
"Yep. Though I like the idea of Sophia babying me in bed for a week or so…" Duncan feigned dodging Sophia's slap and laughed.
"Wasn't our honeymoon enough for you, you old… dog!"
"Woof. What do you expect of me, darling? I'm a breeder, not a baker. Though things still do rise in the morning…" Sophia snorted a laugh and went back into the kitchen. "Wake the boys, Duncan. Time's short."
"Okay." Duncan turned his attention back to Conrad. "I'll make an appointment next week to open discussions with the visitors, but they don't see each other until after I meet with them. That way they can't compare or tag-team me on prices or work out a way to try to sneak out of contract details. I'd prefer they stay ignorant of each other too, in case I go easier on the monks. But before that we'll need a name for the dogs. Right? Sophia will help me with the Latin. It'll give me something to do over the next week or so." Duncan thought a moment, his lips quirking. "How about Bigus Muttus?"
"Never. I know that word mutt."
"I've always been particular to the Duke, that's John Wayne, and he played a Marine in many movies, maybe something with Semper Fidelis in it."
"We'll write that one down, " Conrad said. "Though I'm thinking they want a proper name in Latin, Duncan. Dog is Canis, I think. Perhaps you can blend something out of their old up-time breed names?"
Conrad stood up and moved over to where his son was snoring away near the fire.
"Conrad, I don't speak Latin. 'Cept what's on the back of some of our money, you know… 'Ye Plumber's Union.'" Duncan caught the pillow Conrad threw at him and sent it right back. Conrad deflected it and it hit his sleeping son. The boy woke abruptly, looked at the clock and, in a panic, ran outside barefooted. He was back inside in less than a few seconds.
"It's snowing outside," Conrad's son chattered. "Hard!"
The wind rattled the windows and the snow seemed to pick up. "Looks like you two are stuck here for the night again, Conrad. You get the boys to wash up. You can call the castle later.
"I guess we're having two more for dinner, Sophia." Duncan said as he walked through the now empty kitchen. He looked around, but his wife was no where to be seen. A short search found Sophia and Old Pete's favorite bitch, Helga, in the guest bathroom.
"Duncan! She's birthing! Thirteen pups so far! She might hit fifteen. Hang on Helga, you can get through this…" Old Pete came and sat down next to Duncan and wagged his tail. Soon the woman shooed Old Pete and his master out, as they only got in the way. If they all lived until spring, Duncan might be able to meet the Swiss order by summer, after all. Helga and Old Pete always bred true.
"Husband! What are you looking at? Go get dinner started, and you, too, Conrad. Both of you! Be sure to wash your hands first or I'll chop off your little fingers!"
"Don't say a word, Conrad, I think she means it. Probably use our dullest blade or a hatchet," Duncan cautioned with a smile.
"We need a name for the dogs, Duncan." Conrad aimed the boys to the other bathroom down the hall and began to wash his own hands at the kitchen sink.
"We'll come up with one. You heard the lady, dinner first. Now you peel the onions, carrots and garlic and I'll go get some rabbits from the freezer outside to defrost in the microwave." Suddenly the kitchen was filled waist high with Old Pete and five of the other indoor dogs and their already grown puppies. "I'll go get some boiled rawhide for the boys to chew on so they leave us alone while we cook. And don't you dare give any of them onions; it makes them fart."
Conrad smiled. "A name, Duncan, or else…" He waved an onion above the dogs.
August 1634, Tip's Bar
"Got a request for seven more of Old Pete's pups today."
"They're offering a lot of money, Duncan," Conrad said as he read the letter Duncan handed him.
"Yeah, they are. That's the problem. I want to be sure my wife and children are taken care of after I go. That's a lot of money, but maybe I'll sell them to the Benedictines that came into town last week, instead. I hadn't thought they'd make the trip up to pick up the dogs themselves. Should give em a discount for that at least. I figure I can afford to right now."
Of the fifteen dogs that had been born to Helga that winter, three had died and two were rejected due to hearing problems. The nearly deaf dogs had been donated to the Assisted Living facilities for pet therapy once they'd been housebroken and socialized to deal with older people.
His other project still only produced a trickle of medical grade insulin, but it was enough for now. Diet and exercise still mostly made up for the difference. But Duncan's eyesight was starting to suffer. He was now smoking a bowl or two of pot a day as a preventative for glaucoma and for the pain that occasionally wracked his legs. He'd secretly taken to wearing Linda's old pantyhose too, to help his leg's circulation. For his left eye, it was too late. All he could see from that eye was blurs.
"Pain getting that bad?" Conrad asked.
Duncan nodded. "Don't let on to it, though. The new insulin, the pot, and other elixirs I'm getting out of Manning Medical Manufacturing are keeping me going for now. But for how long, I don't know.
"They may not like it, but I own over a quarter of their shares and have built and paid for the last two labs at the facility so they can do more research and make more medicines. That research is keeping me alive. Sophia's noticed my change in focus since…" Duncan's face cracked in a wide smile. "She's expecting again, Conrad. Surprised us both, being that she's breast feeding and just had Duncan Junior four months ago."
Conrad slapped him on his back. "That's a nice surprise, my friend!"
"I've put up posters around town, seeking more alchemists who want to further their education in exchange for work at the Three M Insulin Labs. Kind of a scholarship with a work caveat. And that bastard at the rendering plant just doubled the price on pancreases again. That's the third time this month and who knows how many times since I started the insulin research.
"He was using them to make sausage before, for God's sake! I got them for cheap before, pennies a dozen, and now he wants to charge me an arm and a leg! Someone's let on that I need the stuff to live and he's taking advantage of it."
"The butcher plant you speak of is just outside this city's jurisdiction I believe." Conrad smiled. "The factory is on lands of a good friend of ours, is it not?" Conrad mimicked someone wearing a small crown. "We'll have a talk with him. You stay out of it. You definitely do not need the stress, Duncan.
"Nothing illegal of course, but I'm sure a few surprise health inspections might make him more amenable to dealing properly with you. Now. About the breed's name?" He'd been hounding Duncan for months about this subject.
"Canis Bonzo Buckaroo?"
"I'm serious, Duncan."
"Nice to meet you, Serious. Here my best friend lies to me for all these years and tells me his name was Conrad."
Conrad sighed. When Duncan, took his pain medications he got silly.
He called a coach and took Duncan home.
September 1634, Duncan's home
Duncan sat and read and re-read the letter that was heavy with seals and looked up at Count Ludwig and the three officials that arrived with him. On the table sat a small chest, unopened, but it had taken two men to bring it inside. Considering the guards outside, it probably contained a good bit of gold. Being polite, Duncan didn't open it, but his hands itched when ever he looked at it. His wife, merchant born, eyed the chest like a hawk as she fed Duncan Junior.
They'd just returned from their second honeymoon, taken before Sophia's new pregnancy made travel too difficult. They'd inspected the land and village that the count had arranged for the Cunningham family to buy at a very good price.
Duncan had immediately turned over a large chunk of the land to the training and breeding of the dogs. It was less than fifteen miles to the south of Grantville as the crow flew, but like so many towns, it had been war ravaged until it was all but deserted. The influenza breakout the previous winter had finished off most of the remaining residents.
Now renamed New Petesburg, after Old Pete-who'd made the purchase possible-it housed a larger kennel and the training facilities for the dogs and housing for the trainers and their families. A dog's temperament and intelligence would determine its training and eventual selling price, so they got the best he could afford. That only left the chest on the table and the three gentlemen who had come with the count on an unofficial-official visit.
"So, Alamo saved a boy's life and then went back into the river three more times for the rest of them and finally pulled out his mother, too? All while under fire?" Duncan bit his lips to keep from crying. He was close to all his dogs. "Did they get the bastards that threw those people into the Rhine?"
"Yes, Herr Duncan, they did. Horn's men witnessed it in time and saved the Benedictines, some refugees, travelers, merchants and the rest of the dogs, but Alamo… they couldn't do anything for him. He'd been shot twice already, and the rocks and currents… He died in the boy's arms giving him the last of his warmth. This might cause some problems later, Herr Duncan."
Duncan sniffed, "How's that?"
"Someone raised a chapel at the site and sent a petition to the Vatican to see if they could canonize the dog. Said they witnessed angels helping the dog, but in the smoke of battle panicked people see many things."
"That's silly, Catholics wouldn't…"
"The boy and woman your Alamo saved were very important and very well connected to the Church. Very. The men, not so much, but rich traders nevertheless and they back the witness reports. I don't think it will amount to anything, but be ready for some letters and questions from the parties involved. Maybe even a visit. Official or not, I can't say." The count sounded mildly annoyed at the later part of his own statement.
"Alamo was a good boy, always was. One of Pete's and Helga's best pups. Too bad we weren't able to breed him before we sold him to the monks, but I think we can finally settle on a name for the dogs."
The count sat back sipping his drink and raised an eyebrow. "So we can finally stop calling them Duncan's Dogs?"
Duncan nodded.
Conrad raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
"Are you familiar with the story of the Alamo, Sir? No? Then let's watch the movie, it's one of my favorites. Even though the Spanish-well, Mexicans-win the fight, they lose the war."
"Read the letter closer, Herr Cunningham. The monks found three dogs of similar breeding from the mountains and Alamo was one of the ones they used to breed to them before they moved south towards the Rhine. His lineage isn't lost. They are also being very diligent in keeping up the log books and maintaining your factors for breeding. They still have the rest of the dogs you sold them."
Duncan nodded, showing he was listening to the count and reached into the cabinet and found the well used tape. "Sophia, do we have any peanut brittle or popcorn for our guests?" They didn't, but trays of small sandwiches and snacks appeared as if by magic. How did his wife do it?
Not one of the dogs in the rooms begged. The ones that stayed in the house now were well trained in manners. Sophia saw to that. Old Pete still got tidbits from Duncan at meal times when she wasn't looking. Duncan suspected she knew, anyway.
As Sophia settled on Duncan's lap, she slipped him a defrosted pre-measured hypodermic from the freezer and let him inject himself. The larger glass injector and brass needles hurt like hell, but Duncan was used to it by now. Her body hid his actions and his grimace of pain from their guests.
"What's the name you've settled on, my husband?"
"Saint Alamo, the always faithful. If the Vatican won't do it, I can. His ancestors were half-saints in a way, too." Duncan tried to smile at his attempt at levity. "Can you translate that to Latin, hun?" Duncan rubbed Old Pete's ears-he wasn't going to cry.
"That's a mouthful," she said. "I've always liked Duncan's Dogs, myself."
Sophia took the hypodermic and placed it in the disinfectant the doctors had provided. She noted the time, amount injected, last meal eaten and Duncan's activity level for the day into the ledger.
She returned after putting Duncan Junior to bed, settled down next to Duncan and placed his hand on her swelling belly. He whispered something in her ear and nibbled it. Sophia stifled a giggle. They did have important company.
"What are we going to do with our new lands, husband? All old farmlands and woods, and almost no people. And how much do you think is in the box?" She continued to whisper, still the merchant.
"It doesn't matter how much is in there. I'm a rich man right now. I have everything I need. I have a growing family," Duncan put his hand on Sophia's belly again, "and more friends than I know what to do with. We'll figure something out. By the way, you should remember to thank the count later.
"As for the lands? It's wartime. There might be some who want to settle amongst the refugees passing through the area. Part of it will remain a permanent training facility for the dogs and a central area for Conrad's patrols to stop over.
"New Petesburg will rebuild itself in no time. That's not even counting what we'll make from Three M this next quarter. The reward in the chest is just icing on the cake. We'll do just fine."
Old Pete pushed his way through the crowded room and settled at Duncan's feet as was his right.
Soon everyone was entranced by the movie. Sophia's eyes still drifted often to the small heavy chest on the nearby table.
October 1634, Cunningham household's driveway
"Herr Cunningham, why do some folks call you Slam Dunk?"
Duncan had been sitting at the edge of his driveway watching some of the neighborhood kids play ball and teaching them the finer points of teamwork.
The new insulin was working wonders. The only problems were occasional infections at the site of the shot. Mostly due from his rubbing the wounds that the big needles made. He'd learned early on to vary the injection's locations to minimize the bruising and subsequent problems.
Sophia religiously followed the cleaning requirements before she let him reuse a needle. Duncan swore to invest more money in the development of smaller needles. Each day it took longer for the bruises to fade.
"It's because when I was just a bit older than you, and not much taller, I could take that ball there in one hand and stuff it into the basket anytime I wanted to.
"That move's called a slam dunk. Not many white boys in West Virginia could do it back then. I was one of the first and so I got the nickname. That, and I used to shove people I didn't like into trash baskets." Duncan chuckled as picked up the questioner and held him over a trashcan, finally releasing the boy safely when he began to kick in earnest.
"No way! You're not putting me in there!"
"We believe the trash basket part, but not the basketball part. No way you could do that. No one can jump that high!"
"Is that a challenge?" Duncan checked his watch. He still had time before his next shot and snack break, but he'd been exercising all morning here at home with the neighborhood kids after discovering three old basketballs in the garage. Duncan had brought them out to the kids hanging around to play with. Strangely enough, he wasn't thirsty, even though he'd played a few games already.
Old Pete nudged him and whined. Duncan rubbed his head. "It's okay, Old Boy. This is an easy thing." In fact, he'd done it twice in a row after Duncan Junior's birth.
"Yeah!" the boys chorused.
"Okay. I make the basket and you all not only sweep my porches and driveway after we're done playing, but you come back over to my house this weekend and clean out the dog houses."
An unexpected week's worth of an Indian summer was nothing to waste. Hence his playing ball with the kids on the street. Maybe he and Sophia would go to New Petesburg to see how things were progressing, with the dogs and other projects this weekend.
Duncan stretched out and took a few experimental shots from around the yard. More to build up anticipation than to screw up his courage.
"I get three tries, right?"
"No!" "Nein!" The kids yelled in unison. They hated cleaning the dog pens even though they weren't as full as they used to be.
"Okay, watch this." Duncan began to dribble the ball and spun around Old Pete who seemed to want to stop him for some reason. Maybe he was jealous and wanted the ball but giving Old Pete the ball would spell its doom in one bite. He spun around Old Pete one more time to show off and switched the dribble twice and began the long, loping strides to the basket.
Duncan could hear the crowds screaming as he dribbled the ball from the half court painted onto his driveway. Suddenly he was in the gym of his youth and the heat grew close and he saw the flickers of colors through his one good eye, but all he saw were the phantoms of players he hadn't faced in nearly forty-five years. The flash of the green and white pompoms. The shapely legs of the cheerleaders.
Ghosts of his past glory. A dog barked, far away. He heard the chants counting down the game clock. He spun around, the ball bouncing around behind his back and into his left hand. He took a step and then palmed the ball in his right hand and leaped.
He rose towards the rim and his hand tomahawked the ball down inside it. He felt the crowd explode somewhere just behind his eyes. He heard the iron rim clang in protest to the abuse and the sound echoed and echoed and echoed.
"Slam Dunk" Cunningham never felt himself hit the driveway.
"Told yah I could still do it," he whispered.
Then the pain hit.
One of the older kids spoke up first. "Oh shit. Someone call 911 and fast."
To their credit, the boys didn't panic and began CPR immediately.
"There's nothing I can do for him." The massive dose of aspirin and painkillers she'd administered hadn't worked, but it was all she had to work with. Duncan had been overweight far too long even though he'd hit her demanded weight earlier last year. "I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Cunningham… Sophia." Dr. Shipley put her gear back into her bag, just to keep her hands busy.
"I'm fairly sure he's had a major stroke and a heart attack at the same time. Nothing a checkup would have shown coming, either. He just went too long without proper medications, is all. I'm afraid you don't have much time. I've made him as comfortable as I can, but you should go to him now." Susannah gathered her gear and did her best to make herself part of the furniture and disappear into the kitchen as people began to move back to the room where Duncan rested. She leaned against a wall trying to think of anything she could do to save him.
He had woken up twice while she did what she could, but the next time he closed his eyes would likely be his last. Dr. Shipley wanted to say something else about the baby the woman was still carrying, but words failed her. She'd already called Doctor McDonnell.
She didn't resist when someone pressed a jar of warm hard cider into her hand and she finally sat down in the kitchen and cried. She had a few patients she'd never really liked, and Duncan had been one of them. But he'd changed her mind with his accomplishments and attitude over the past year.
Duncan Cunningham had been a major, if not silent, contributor to the research and medications being produced for the local doctors and the hospitals through Three M. Giving some of her patients normal lives again.
That included the new insulin and other drugs that filled her freezers at work. Normal lives again…
Dr. Shipley heard a patrol car pull up and its sirens die. That would be someone bringing in the rest of the family. She stood up and peeked into the bedroom. She couldn't face them all right now. One of the large pups came into the kitchen and laid its head into her lap and whined, when she finally sat down again.
She sneezed, but didn't shoo it away even though she was allergic to dogs.
"You're all loyal to your master, aren't you?" She scratched the pup's ears. Old Pete had refused to leave Duncan's bedside when she'd arrived and had only let in family and friends. It wouldn't be much longer, she knew. Did I do everything I could? she asked herself again and again.
Doctor McDonnell arrived an hour later and told her to go on home and that he'd take care of the paperwork. He knew the family better too, having dealt with them through Three M and the Manning Assisted Living Care Facility.
When young Noah's wailing started from the back of the house, she got up and began the long walk home instead of asking someone for a ride. No one objected when the puppy followed her home.
Old Pete didn't attend the funeral. He just sat guard by the crib, as if waiting for Duncan Junior to grow up so they could play. As the boy grew up, there would be plenty of new boots to chew on, too.
Grantville, October 1635
Sophia Cunningham petitioned and got their family crest approved a year later on the anniversary of Duncan's death. The motto over the new family mausoleum read translated from Latin. Short are our lives, but like St Alamo's-always will we be faithful to the end.
No matter the official name the dogs had been given for the history books and breeding papers, ever after in Grantville the dogs were always referred to as Duncan's Dogs.