From: char@chaffin.com   
      
   ROCKY MOUNTAIN INTERLUDE, Chapter Seven   
   By Char Chaffin and Tess   
   MSR, Casefile, AU   
   Rating:  Strong R   
   Spoilers:  FTF, Most of Season Seven   
   Feedback:  to Tnv099@aol.com; char@chaffin.com   
      
   Headers and summary, see Part 1   
      
      
      
   Chapter Seven   
   Millersburg Livery and Iron   
      
   Mulder resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow and tried   
   to ignore the stinging drops as they ran down into his eyes.  With   
   both hands occupied pumping the bellows to force air through the   
   forge's bank of coals, it wasn't as if he'd had a spare one to swipe   
   across his forehead, anyhow.   
      
   Jesus, it was hot.  He'd never in his life been this hot.   
      
   Angus had met him at the door of the livery with a pair of scarred   
   leather gloves and a snarling, "Git yer ass over t' that forge, boy,   
   and start pumpin'!"  The surly blacksmith obviously wasn't one for   
   morning amenities, Mulder decided.  He'd eyed the long forge and huge   
   set of bellows with an uneasy respect for the amount of fire it could   
   fan.  Made of what appeared to be some species of tanned hide, the   
   bellows sported a thick set of handles that Mulder could barely fit   
   his fingers around.  The leather gloves hampered his usual dexterity   
   but he didn't have to be a blacksmith to understand the consequences   
   of trying to pump the bellows with his bare hands.   
      
   Working the bellows proved to be one serious exercise in bicep-   
   building.  It was cold and stiff, almost impossible to open and just   
   as difficult to close.  It took ten arm-breaking minutes of working   
   it, a little at a time, until the hide warmed and softened enough to   
   maneuver with some degree of finesse.  Mulder caught Angus glaring at   
   him once or twice as he manned the opposite end of the forge; he knew   
   the grizzled smithy was impatiently waiting for hotter coals.  Mulder   
   redoubled his efforts and was rewarded by a short grunt of what could   
   have been approval, as the bellows began opening and closing easier   
   and the temperature of the coals visibly rose.   
      
   As the sun crept higher into the sky and the interior of the livery   
   lightened, Mulder could better see the day's jobs piled up on a low   
   bench near the anvil, larger pieces scattered along the floor.  There   
   seemed to be a little bit of everything.  A crude box held horseshoes   
   in varying sizes, another, smaller box held nails.  There were   
   several shovels, one Mulder knew belonging to Thomas Weston; there   
   were fireplace tools and various pickaxes from the mine.  There were   
   several hoops that looked as if they were meant to fit onto a stack   
   of wooden barrels sitting near the doorway.  Mulder counted five   
   hammers and even some pieces of wagon wheels.   
      
   It was going to be a busy day.   
      
   Under Angus McLean's growling instruction, Mulder learned not only   
   how to pump the bellows but how to turn a horseshoe to extend its   
   usefulness, how to sharpen the edges of a half-dozen deadly-looking   
   farm and mining implements, how to repair broken hammers and axes and   
   how to make nails.  To his credit, not once did Angus bring up his   
   apprentice's apparent ignorance concerning iron work in general,   
   though to him it had to be as obvious as hell that Mulder was just   
   following directions and had no real grasp of the job at hand.   
      
   Yet.   
      
   The men worked in relative silence for several hours, Mulder copying   
   Angus's moves with his tools and implements.  The veteran smithy   
   seldom slowed down as he demonstrated the fine art of pounding and   
   turning.  A ragged chunk of blackened iron became the base of a   
   candelabra, showcasing a streak of artistic talent in Angus McLean,   
   although Mulder knew he would probably get his ass kicked if he tried   
   to compliment his mean-tempered employer.  Dull axes became sharp   
   again, knives were honed to a deadly point and an old set of   
   fireplace tools belonging to the mining boss Jack Sawyer were   
   tempered, straightened and polished to a high gleam.  The pile of   
   finished jobs grew steadily, under Angus's approving, if grudging,   
   eye.  By noon, Mulder was beyond exhausted, sorer than he'd ever been   
   in his life, and proud as hell that he'd managed to more or less hold   
   his end up, making a decent dent in the livery's endless workload.   
      
   Now Mulder leaned against a wooden post, trying to ease the stabbing   
   pain in his lower back, and finally gave in to wiping off his face   
   with a handkerchief he pulled out of his back pocket.  He'd long   
   since removed his shirt in deference of the sweltering heat and his   
   upper chest shone with perspiration.  Long smudges of soot and   
   sawdust ran up both arms and across his back and his face was   
   liberally coated with it as well.  His hair was soaked to the scalp   
   with sweat and water, as he'd dunked his head several times over the   
   course of the morning in an attempt to cool off.  His suspenders were   
   almost as grimy as the ones Angus wore.   
      
   Angus still hadn't said much to him other than his half-grunting,   
   half-snarling style of instruction.  Surprisingly, the smithy had   
   dropped his hammer at least four times during the morning and had   
   dragged Mulder over to the outside water pump, making him drink a   
   large tin cup of water each time.  Grateful for the prompting, Mulder   
   had already begun to update his initial impression of Angus McLean,   
   now pegging him for a caring, if rude, gruff and foul-mouthed man.   
   Someone who was that considerate of his employees couldn't be all   
   bad...   
      
   "Hey, yew!  Asshole!  Din't I tell yew t' bring some lunch?  Where   
   th' fuck is yore food?  Yew think I'm gonna scrape yew off'n th'   
   floor after yew puke up from th' heat an' fall over, ya dumb fuck?"   
   The loud and grinding tones of Angus broke into Mulder's thoughts   
   like nails over a chalkboard, and he quickly snapped out of his new   
   summation of the beyond-grouchy smithy.  Mulder straightened and met   
   Angus's bad-tempered, mean expression as placidly and respectfully as   
   he could muster up.   
      
   "I didn't have time this morning, Mr. McLean.  I'm sure I can find   
   something to eat over at the Supper House -"   
      
   Angus strode over and got up in Mulder's face, both fists clenched   
   by his side.  "Yew think yer gonna set yerself down at th' Supper   
   House like a goddamn sissy-fied dandy, with a fuckin' hanky over yer   
   lap, an' eat lunch?  Ya stupid idjit, ya send over fer yer food an'   
   yew eat it here!  I ain't got time t' stop fer lunch an' yew don't   
   either!  Jesus bark at th' moon!  Do I hafta tell yew ever'thang?"   
      
   Mulder blinked in confusion.  "But you told me the other day that I   
   had to eat lunch -"   
      
   Once again he was rudely interrupted.  "Yeah, I did, but in here, ya   
   rube!  I ain't payin' yew t' stop 'prenticin'!  Yew eat with one hand   
   an' pound with th' other.  Goddamn sonabitch fuck, we got too much   
   work t' do!"  Angus stomped to the door and yanked an old, torn shirt   
   off a hook nailed to the wall, shrugging it on and not bothering to   
   button it.  He sent one last snarl toward Mulder as he strode out the   
   door.  "Yew eat what I getcha.  Make yerself useful an' finish that   
   fuckin' pickaxe like I showed ya, while yer waitin'."   
      
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)