The Red Book Magazine/Volume 8/Number 2/When Christmas Was held Up

by Hugh Pendexter

DRAWN BY J. W. NORTON

“Huddled over the saddle horn.”

 

When Christmas Was Held Up

BY HUGH PENDEXTER

Author of “Some Modern Gladiators,” etc.

The snow could not blow too furiously for Jem Peace on this night; and as he reined in his tired horse at the edge of the last dip, and caught an occasional twinkle of lights ahead he shivered with satisfaction, and each blast, clawing at his back, was a friendly slap, and the powdered flakes blown through his beard brought no sense of discomfiture. Nor did he welcome the storm solely because he was at the tag end of his journey and could reasonably look forward to a snug shelter, embellished with many creature comforts. Rather, the zest of the thing came with the realization that any one ploughing along his trail would be compelled to delay a bit, with scant cheer for companionship. Jem was gregarious enough to appreciate that a blizzard between friends, just as Christmas was about to radiate good will, was not at all desirable. On the other hand, however, he frankly admitted a zero, snow-laden gale whipping between Beaver Ford and the gaunt-faced men, cooped up back there in the gathering gloom, was replete only with wholesomeness, and he clucked complacently to his staggering cayuse and experienced naught save a deep sense of gratitude as the animal slipped and slid down the decline.

Had the storm been less potent and the darkness not so thick, Jem would have been revealed as a man considerably past the prime of life; one, whose ill-kempt beard required no snow to whiten it. His eyes, too, might have impressed the average student of human nature as shifting furtively beneath their shaggy thatch and holding in their cold gray depths a dying sparkle of shrewd alertness. But just now his physical presentment was concealed and he was but another black atom scuttling to shelter on the edge of Christmas, and the malevolent grin that parted his blue lips as he turned and gazed back into the face of the blizzard was lost two inches from those lips in the swirl of howling white that, he perceived, had swept across and covered all his tracks.

It was this complete obliteration of every trace of his entrance to the Ford that caused him to huddle so contentedly over the saddle horn and without complaint sink his chin into the snow lined nest of his collar as the horse, under loose rein, stumbled slowly on toward lights and warmth.

Truth was, Jem Peace seldom found time to smile at the curiosity usually evinced whenever he rode abroad. Truth was, there were too many ill-natured individuals always ready to display an unamiable interest in his trail, to watch his comings and goings; and this system of espionage had come to be a bit disquieting as the passing years saw no cessation.

Possibly rumor's malicious tongue in connecting the name of Peace with scenes not at all synchronous was largely to blame. For from youth up he had been the focal point of much ill-advised activity, until now he was openly charged with being a “rustler” and the promoter of many a wild raid. There may have been occasions, when the sport was young and his blood flowed less sluggishly, when he recked but little of the future, but as the white threads in his beard multiplied and the men behind—always the men behind—showed no signs of failing strength, the old always giving way to the young, he found himself growing tired of the chase and gladly would rest in peace and quiet for a space. Now, with the black night's biting blasts bringing their surcease, was his opportunity. Come what might, he was assured of at least a few days reprieve.

“Christmas!” he ejaculated within his collar, hungrily, “Christmas day arter termorrer, an' I'll spend it like a innercent kid.” Then, spitting out a mouthful of snow, “No; I'll git drunk,” he decided.

At the moment of this resolve the blizzard, in one last effort to conquer, blew him and his steed into the straggling and deserted street of the Ford.

Even to his wind-swept eyes, the black stretch between the houses, cut irregularly by streaks of white from the frost-etched windows, appeared lonesome and God-forsaken. It required but one hand-veiled glance to disclose that the fury-ridden snow had driven all in doors before sweeping on to bury the Union Pacific tracks many feet deep.

Now that he had arrived Peace knew not where to turn, and was glad to seek the meager shelter of the nearest house while he cleared the ice from his eyes and mouth. Somewhere there must be a place of public entertainment, but the exhausted condition of his horse prohibited a lengthy reconnoiter. It was to obviate further delay that he slid from the saddle and stiffly dragged himself around the corner to rap loudly on the door.

As the wind lulled momentarily, he caught the sound of young voices within, and as the door opened a crack he had a glimpse of childish faces. Then a woman's dejected figure jealously filled the aperture and her complaining query rubbed his benumbed faculties into life.

“I want ter find a place where me an' my hoss can put up,” he whined. “I'm a old man an' almost friz. Can't I step in an' squat long enough t' git th' ice out of my blood? Then I'll move on.”

She scanned him narrowly and on finding his beard white and his form bowed, threw open the door.

“Come in. I live here alone with my two children. Folks have to be careful. Lawd! I s'pose some day this part of Wyomin' will be as civilized as th' east, but it aint that now.”

“I reckon, ma'am, th' world is growin' better, all right,” he encouraged, as he shook off a shower of snow and eagerly drew up to the fire. “I've rid far an' am jest about friz. Hello, younkers, think I was Sankey Claws?”

The little girl shook her brown locks dubiously and studied him with questioning eyes. Despite her tender years something told her it would be impolite to remind the new comer that St. Nicholas was more portly of girth. But her brother, less reserved, gravely declared, “You 're too thin for Santy.”

Jem turned his eyes—a twinkle of amusement in them—on the mother and cackled dryly. “What might their names be?” he asked, relishing the blaze and not at all inclined to hurry his departure.

“Marv and Robert Fargel,” she replied, listlessly.

“Good names; mighty good names. Th' boy, mebbe, is named after his father?” he suggested.

The woman sighed and inclined her head.

“Named after him,” she repeated dully.

“Fargel,” mused Jem thoughtfully, facing the fire to conceal the new light of interest that had flared up in his eyes. “Seems if I remember a Bob Fargel down south of here. Seems, almost, as if I use t' know him.”

The woman's brows contracted as if with pain. She averted her gaze and remained silent; but the little girl spoke up, and said, “Daddy's dead. Mama says that's why Santy Claus won't come to us.”

Jem pursed his lips and studied his lean hands critically for a moment, and then rose, stretching. As he reached the door and the widow followed to drop the bar he wheeled and whispered, “I use' t' know a Bob Fargel. Mighty likely chap. Black eyes an' hair, an' a scar on his lip.”

“It was my Bob.” Her voice trembled. “He was my husband. Oh, why did he have to git in with such company!”

“It's too bad,” muttered Jem soberly. “Sorry I dropped in t' remind ye of it when it's so near t' Christmas. Thought a heap of Bob, I did.”

“You knew him before he went—wrong?” she asked timidly.

“Ya-as, jest about,” he faltered. “Never knew him when he wa'n't square an' white. Guess his heart never went wrong. Must 'a' been those wild cusses he got in with; mebbe somebody older 'n him, that led him on. Well, good night. Much obliged fer th' fire. I'll look ye an' th' younkers up agin 'fore I quit here; that is, if ye ain't a-mindin.'”

On the morrow Beaver Ford, for the greater part, remained indoors. The storm had abated its fury somewhat although the snow still fell. Jem's landlord declared it would be two days at the least before a train could get through on account of the drifts.

“An' anybody ketched outside 'll prob'ly be held up as long, eh?” inquired Jem, as he combed out his beard before the small, wavy, office mirror.

“Sure, yes,” growled the boniface; “it 'll be days before anything is stirring in the county outside the railroad. We 're in for a quiet Christmas, all right.” And he drummed moodily on the frost-carved window panes as visions of visiting ranchmen, spending their money lavishly, crumbled into ashes.

His discomfiture did not seem to enlist the old man's sympathies over much, however, and he chuckled inwardly, as if nothing appealed more strongly to his peace-loving mind than a quiet Yuletide. Then, as a new thought clipped his mind, he straightened and asked, “Any place 'round here where a man kin buy a few Christmas things, some kind of trinkets that 'u'd please a kid?”

“Nope,” growled his host, still scowling at the drifts as if the very intensity of his gaze might melt them. “Jackson keeps the only shebang an' he sold all out yesterday. Said he was going to order a few more things and have 'em sent over from Danville. But no train c'n git in until a day after tomorrow. I reckon it's all off.”

No one would have attributed any sentiment to the old man as he ploughed his way toward the widow's home. In fact, had his mutterings been overheard they might have created the impression that he was indulging in unlimited profanity. And yet, through all his cogitations there ran an unaccustomed strain.

“No presents, no nothin',” he snarled, this situation seeming entirely to overtop the possibility of a square-jawed sheriff being able to fight his way to town with a posse at his heels. “An' Bob Fargel's kids at that. Poor ol' Bob! Nothin' more 'n a kid himself, an' fool enough t' leave them younkers an' mix in with rustlers. Well, they told him where he could git off, all right. If his stirrup had held together we'd 'a' yanked him clear an' free. No presents! A nice, rotten sort o' Christmas!”

DRAWN BY J. W. NORTON

“I kind o' had a notion Chris'mas wa'n't due till the twenty-sixth this year”

Any further soliloquy was precluded by the opening of the door. “I'm glad you remembered to call,” said the widow. “I've been hankering to talk with somebody that knowed Bob.”

“Bob was as good a man as ever sawed a bit,” Jem declared earnestly, as he accepted the chair. “Why he didn't go wrong. Jest got too much red licker on board an' rode out with th' wrong crowd. That's all. Why, it wa'n't any more 'n I'd be likely t' do if I got lit up a mite. His heart was all right, I tell ye. Yes, sirree! Square as a brick an' never went back on a pal—Bob Fargel.”

“I reckon he was always true to his friends,” the woman's eyes lighted at the old man's words. “But it's hard on the children. They're twins, you see. I wash to support us, but folks aint as helpful as they would be if they didn't believe Bob rode with Bill Peter's gang.”

“Never rode a rod with 'em,” lied Jem energetically. “Peters didn't have no use fer a man as square as Bob. Not a bit.”

Then finding that the conversation was wearying to his old head he turned to the children, absorbed in a game in a corner of the room, and asked; “What be ye doin', younkers?”

“Playin' Christmas,” the little girl replied eagerly. “I play I can't have any Christmas, then Robbie plays he's Santy, an' comes in an' says I can, an' tells me, oh th' mostest things I can have.”

“Huh!” sniffed Jem. “S'posin' ye let me play a trifle. Now, I'm Sankey. What 'll ye have, little gal? A gun? A reg'lar self-actin', six-shootin' dandy? Or mebbe ye“d kind of lean towards a new saddle, with stirrup leathers wild hosses couldn't break.”

“I'd like a doll,” she whispered timidly, hardly able to believe it was only play when the stranger had such a white beard.

“A doll, eh? Hm! Now, young feller, what might you be a-wantin'?”

“A-a train o' cars,” gasped the boy, his fingers working nervously.

“Mebbe, you'd better quit,” the woman put in quietly. “It makes it so real for 'em they'll feel all the worse tomorrow.”

“I guess yer might,” admitted Jem glumly. Then his eyes snapped and he rose with quick decision. “I forgot somethin',” he explained. “Like's not I'll look in later. But what 'd ye say they'll feel worse termorrer fer?”

“It's Christmas Day,” she reminded him wearily.

“What! Ho! ho! Termorrer? Christmas? Say, kids, did ye hear yer ma? Why, bless all yer hearts! Termorrer aint Christmas. Sankey Claws don't come till th' day arter termorrer. No, sirree! But it's a mighty good joke on yer ma.”

“Tomorrow's the twenty-fifth,” the widow protested.

“An' the minister's goin' to have a Christmas tree at his house tomorrow night,” Mary confirmed.

“No; ye 're all mistook,” declared Jem, grimly. “This year Christmas don't come till th' twenty-sixth. Don't know why they changed it, but they did. Ye'll find th' minister won't do no celebratin' termorrer.”

The widow could only gaze after him in incredulous amazement, but his words seemed somehow to gladden the hearts of the children, and she did not gainsay them. For the little ones, while anticipating no pleasures for themselves, found some solace in believing their neighbors' joy was postponed even for a day. So long as Santa's unjust discrimination was not crystallized into a hateful fact, their small minds could bear the evil more stoutly.

 

Meanwhile, Jem was stamping the snow from his legs in Jackson's general store and gazing vindictively at the empty table in the middle of the room, over which hung a rude placard, reading,

“Xmas Presents For Everybody.”

“That sign's suthin' of a liar, I opine,” he snorted, as he turned to survey the tall, sad-visaged storekeeper.

“All sold out,” was the laconic response.

“Why didn't ye send fer more?”

“Was going to, but the snow stopped the trains. Couldn't git 'em till the day after.”

“Could ye by then?

“Could if I'd written before the storm. No trains to carry a letter now.”

“Ye could telegraph.”

“Eats up the profits.”

“Blow th' profits. Here, what kind of truck can ye git if ye telegraph? Reel offf a list an' I'll have ye send th' order fer me. Oh, don't hunch up; I'm heeled,” and a roll of money was permitted to peep from a hidden pocket.

The storekeeper's rigidity quickly relaxed and he proceeded to specify what night be secured in the Danville marts.

“All right,” cried Jem, buoyed up by a new enthusiasm; “jest ye send fer them things I've put my brand on, an' tell 'em ter rush 'em by th' first train out. They've got ter be here day arter termorrer, or somebody's goin' ter sup on sorrer. Here's the wad.”

While the storekeeper was hurrying his long legs to the little railroad station, Jem set about a more delicate task, This was interviewing the town's only cleric. He found him gravely explaining Christmas to a circle of flaxened-haired children while his wife busily strung popcorn for the tree, at the moment leaning against the house just outside the back door.

“Jest a word in private,” explained Jem, as he drew the puzzled clergymen into the front room. Then, once they were alone, “Be ye any good at tellin' a lie? There, there, don't git fussy an' huffy. I'll take yer word fer it that ye aint. Now this is th' p'int. Accordin' t' a new law an' th' statoots Christmas won't be celebrated in this here town till day arter termorrer.”

“Mercy on me!” gasped the cleric. “What new law is that?”

“This,” grinned the old man sardonically, throwing back his coat and revealing the butt of a .44 nestling under his left arm-pit. 'An' I may say it's got six decisions agin' any celebration on th' twenty-fifth.”

But the minister was no coward, and assuming at once that he had a crazy man to deal with, he promptly declared his intention of summoning a town officer and having his visitor locked up.

“Ail right,” Jem warned; “only in that case this here town 'll have a red Christmas an' Sankey won't find much but buryin's t' hold out on.”

The cleric shuddered, but protested, “What do you mean, sir, by threatening violence? Just what do you mean?”

“I mean I kinder feel like holdin' up th' day fer twenty-four hours. I mean ye mustn't celebrate till ye hear from me. As fer yer town gun-sharp, jest tell him he's stubbin' up ag'in' old Jem Peace.”

“Jem Peace! The man they want—” stuttered the cleric and edged toward the door.

“Eggsactly. I hadn't intended ter blow it, but it's jest as well. Now, listen to me, fer ye seem t' be kind of white, after all.” And Jem rapidly narrated the history of Bob Fargel and the sorry plight of his family. In conclusion he added, “He was only a boy. He had no business out with rough an' tough men like Bill Peters an' me. But it's too bad his kids got t' suffer.”

“I'll hold over a day, Mr.—er—Peace,” decided the cleric gravely. “But the others won't, I fear.”

“I hope everybody will,” grinned Jem, rising. 'I hope no house will be lighted up termorrer night. I only ask th' town ter wait a day. I only hope I sha'n't have ter spile any winders, or cause any mournin'.”

So saying he took his departure. He had by now entered into the spirit of the adventure and his activity was redoubled when the storekeeper informed him the order had gone through and that the goods would reach the Ford on the twenty-sixth, providing no more snow should fall. But as the old man passed the different homes, and in each saw evidences of the morrow's good cheer, his mouth straightened. He realized his task was no easy one. He had no desire to canvass each home and frighten women and children; it was the men with whom he would deal.

Later, as the shadows fell and he observed black forms hurrying to the only public resort in town, he took his cue and decided that a bold, open course, such, in a way, as he had taken with the minister, was the only way to save the situation. For once he rejoiced that the name of Peace was not without weight, although none appreciated better than he the dangers just now of undue publicity.

The bar-room of the Palace Hotel was filled when he arrived, and echoed continuously with the tinkling of glasses.

“Most all th' men in town here, eh?” he inquired blandly, of his host.

“Every man-jack but the parson,” was the pleased rejoiner.

“Huh! what fer?”

“Why, tomorrow is Christmas,” replied the other, and a line of heads was turned from the bar to behold the man so ignorant of civilization's custom.

“Excuse me,” said Jem impressively, as he carelessly threw back his coat and ran his right hand inside, “but I'm Jem Peace. I kind o' had a notion Christmas wa'n't due till th' twenty-sixth, this year.”

“Old Jem Peace,” muttered one, shrinking from the sharp eyes.

“Use to ride with Bill Peters,” explained another to his neighbor, setting down his drink untasted.

The landlord had fallen back at the announcement and was now watching the old man's right hand nervously.

“I thought you said your name was Harris. What's the game, Mister Peace?” he finally articulated.

“Nothin' much. Only, I'm keen t' see th' right day obsarved, that's all. Any man here that has famblies 'll remember Sankey don't come till th' day arter termorrer,” he hesitated an instant then added: “I hate t' see orphans. Single men aint got so much t' live fer an' in their case 'twon't matter.”

“G'wan!” cried the bartender, a new man in the neighborhood and unacquainted with nomenclature values. “What ye givin' us, old hoss? Come, drink up to a merry Christmas.”

“What!” roared Jem, reaching the end of the bar with one spring, while the blue steel of the .44 tickled the bartender under the chin. “What did I hear? What was them words that allers riles me if whispered 'fore th' day itself has come?”

“Drink to a pleasant day,” stuttered the bartender, his round face growing a pasty white as he leaned limply against the shelves.

“That sounds better,” growled Jem, twirling his gun by the trigger guard. “Stick t' that an' ye may rise in yer perfeshion. Funerals in winter time is hateful an' onconvenient.” Then stepping back to secure the proper perspective of the quiet, apprehensive line; “An' lemme tell ye other folks,” he went on, “don't let ol' Jem Peace's eyes be hurt t'morrer by seein' any bits of green in th' winders. Don't let his ears be rasped by hearin' any Merry Christmases shouted back an' forth. Kind o' explain t' th' younkers that there's been a mistake, some'ers, an' that Sankey won't arrive till arter a train pulls in here from Danville. That's all.”

He was old and bent and his beard was white. Yet his hands were quick and the price on his aged head bespoke him a man whom it were well to humor. And so thoroughly can a “bad man's” name radiate and pervade a whole community that although on leaving he turned his back, none made a hostile gesture, and but little was said after he had crossed the threshold. Besides, Beaver Ford was quiet and law abiding. From the surrounding ranges came tales of the rustlers and the doughty doings of the ranchmen; but here violence was seldom resorted to and there was none who cared to endanger life and limb simply to vindicate his views of the calendar. Perhaps the old man was crazy. But whether so or not, all believed he was eager to run amuck. As the crowd drank sullenly and whispered nervously one thought came to cheer and console. This was the realization that Jem's appearance in a town was usually but a few hours in advance of a posse, and the fact that he had come so far north as the Ford was evidence that something more than ordinarily pressing was the incentive.

 

What depth of juvenile disappointment was occasioned that night, when the shamefaced heads of families carried home the intelligence that the all important day was yet twenty-four hours distant, or what stinging observations were made by the housewives, may never be known. If Jem gave it a thought, as, fully dressed, he lay upon his cot, it was only in passing. For he had begun to sense the old thrill of danger. It had come to him before and never had it warned him falsely. Once, in the night, he crept to the window and gazed long and earnestly over the snow, as if expecting to discern black dots moving under the white moonlight, and he breathed more freely as it became more apparent the clump of cottonwoods, miles back on the Beaver, had been tardy in disgorging his nemesis.

DRAWN BY J. W. NORTON

The old man's fingers began nervously to festoon the scrubby pine

This mood passed, however, with the coming of the sun, and the morning found him prepared to play but one rôle—that of the sentinel. First, his eyes wandered suspiciously about the eating-room as he bolted his breakfast of ham and eggs; for he had observed the day before certain green boughs waiting to be festooned over the dining room windows. Then he passed into the bar and nodded amiably to the man polishing glasses.

“A—a fine day, sir,” stammered the latter.

Instantly alert and scenting a possible disregard of his admonition Jem wheeled and in a low voice inquired, “Not different from any other day, eh? Nothin' particular about t'day, is they?”

“Not a bit,” declared the bartender tremulously. “I jest meant it was a clear, sunny sort of a day, a good day fer—fer a drink.”

“Sure. Set 'em up,” Jem acquiesced.

Once in the narrow street he began his task of parading the village and scanning each window narrowly. The tree still stood by the cleric's back door, but in the next house a hint of green shone through the cheap lace curtains.

“I beg pardin, ma'am,” saluted politely, as a determined-faced woman confronted him in response to his knock; “but is that a Sankey Claws tree I seen in th' winder?”

“None of yer business if it is,” she sputtered angrily. “What if it is?”

“Nuthin' much; only I'll have t' ask th' man o' th' house t' step out here, jest a minnit.”

“He'll come faster 'n ye 're lookin' fer,” declared the woman, her eyes striking sparks. “Oh, I've heard o' yer carryin's on. I know all about ye. Bub told me last night, hut now we'll see if ye c'n make good, ye little old dried-up whipper-snapper, ye!”

“Jest ask him t' kiss ye good bye,” sighed Jem, running his hand inside his coat, while the left elbow jolted the gun into ready position; “an' try t' think kindly of him arter he's gone.”

“Now ye 've done it,” came a man's frightened voice from within. “Ye've got ol' Jem Peace after me. I hope ye 're satisfied—I'll be with ye in a minute, Mister Peace.” And an instant later the door opened wide enough to allow the broad form of a coatless and hatless man to appear, holding an ax in his hands.

But at this point the woman capitulated and with a shrill shriek threw herself between them. “Don't hurt him,” she screamed. “I made him do it. He did n't want to, but I shamed him into it. We'll burn th' tree but don't hurt him. Don't hurt Bub—my man!”

“I allers hate t' hurt a man what's got nerve enough t' face me,” returned Jem slowly. “Ye need n't burn th' tree, but jest pull it back inter a quiet corner an' kindly don't hang no pop-corn, or picters on it 'til t'morrer.”

The man with the ax breathed deeply his relief and the muscles of his corded arms relaxed. Moistening his lips he asked, “Won't ye come in an' have a bite with us? We's jest about t' eat our Chris—”

“What's that?” broke in Jem with stern archness.

“Jest about t' eat our breakfast,” corrected the man hurriedly.

“Please do come in, Mister Peace,” urged the woman.

“I've et, but I'll take a cup of coffee if ye wish it; this wind kind o' bites,” accepted Jem, entering.

Yet, as he seated himself and surveyed the table, he seemed to detect something of a holiday atmosphere, and his brows wrinkled as he mildly inquired; “Jest th' same kind of a feed ye have every mornin', I take it?”

“Not a bit different,” declared the woman, hurriedly.

“Ye feed well,' decided Jem, gravely. “I was fearin' ye might be kind o' celebratin' a little premachoorly. Got a kid?”

“Yes,” returned the husband, his face showing relief as the child in the crib evidenced no sign of waking. “He's asleep.”

“Git him some trinket with this.” Jem tossed a dollar on the table. “Th' store man 'll have a few things in by t'morrer. Much obliged fer th' coffee.”

Elsewhere, it pleased him to observe, no outward semblance of festivity was apparent, and after ostentatiously making several rounds he felt free to return to the Palace to follow the conversation of the loungers. This operated to lessen trade, as the men found guarding their tongues, especially when in drink, to be nervous work. As a result the barroom was sullenly deserted long before the usual hour.

 

For the first time that day Jem now had an opportunity to visit the widow Fargel. But he found her much perturbed over the various rumors, and as he figured disagreeably in each she gave him a cold welcome.

“It seems,” she complained bitterly, “that you 're a man o' violence and evil after all. If I'd know'd that I reckon you'd 'a' found no shelter here th' other night. More 'n likely it was a man o' your stripe that got Bob to go wrong.”

“Ye're mistook in th' last,” he protested humbly, not offering to advance beyond the threshold. “I tried t' be a good friend t' Bob, but he'd got locoed 'fore I met him. Howsomever, I won't bother ye much more, seein' as how I'll be quittin' here 'most any time now.” And he turned instinctively to cast a hunted look over his shoulder. “But seein' as how t'morrer is Christmas—”

“What foolishness be you up to now?” she demanded, pushing the children behind her. “Today is Christmas—”

“Ye 're mistook,” he broke in firmly; “t'morrer's th' day—th' day when peace on earth an' good will t' men's th' proper caper. An' most likely th' day when Sheriff Buck gits clear o' his camp on th' Beaver an' comes a-snoopin' along my trail t' git fussy. But never mind that; he can't show me where I git off, durn him. This is th' p'int. If t'morrer ye should hear any noise 'round this jack-pine, what's growin' here so handy-like at th' door, jest keep th' kids from th' winder, fer it 'll mean Sankey Claws has got loose an' is gunnin' around arter stray mavericks. So long. Only allers keep this under yer bonnit—Bob Fargel was a clean-cut, straight-up, square man.”

That night some of the men, emboldned by liquor, met in Dave Gruce's blacksmith shop and talked of teaching the newcomer a lasting lesson.

“How much longer, fellers,” cried Mr. Gruce passionately, “are we ter let that little sawed-off lead Beaver Ford 'round b' the' nose? Here's t' good ol' Christmas,” and the speaker paused to wipe away a few maudlin tears. “Here's t' good ol' Christmas, I say, clean held up for all th' blessed day, an' th' kids weepin' for their Kris Kringle. I say, fellers, how much longer—”

“Well,” cut in a short, sharp voice, “I bite. How much longer is it t' be?” And the dim light from the one lamp made the muzzle of the .44 glisten like a ring,

A dead silence followed the query and the men only broke it by shuffling uneasily toward any object that promised shelter. “I bite, I say. How long is it t' be?” repeated Jem.

“How'd I know,” whined Mr. Gruce. “I aint kickin'.”

 

Bright and early next morning the welcome toot of a locomotive blew in over the drifts and the whole town knew the first train from Danville was about to butt its way into the Ford. Old Jem heard it with varied emotions. It probably meant Santa Claus for the widow and her children. It might also indicate the appearance of a posse. To be ready for all contingencies he saddled his horse and rode to where he could witness the arrival. No; there was no passengers, and his heart was further lightened when he saw the storekeeper receive from the express car a huge bale.

“Hi, ye fellers!” he cried, riding down the street; “th' game's on. Make yer bets. Christmas is free t' all. Dip in, an' ante up fer th' kids. Sankey's on deck.”

A quick gallop carried him almost to the station, where he met the storekeeper and relieved him of his burden. Then back again he rode like mad, for on leaving his point of vantage his old eyes had caught several dots, moving slowly, in the east, with the sun occasionally lighting upon something that glittered ominously.

“Keep that door shet,” he snarled, as the widow made to peer out. Quickly the bale was ripped open and the old man's fingers, now a bit awkward, began nervously to festoon the scrubby pine with a bewildering wealth of toys and knick-knacks. Nor were the more substantial needs of the widow forgotten.

“Tell 'em,” he panted, as his ears caught wild shouts up the narrow white avenue, “that Sankey's made th' riffle.”

With that, his rested mount was given free rein and under spur and quirt, leaped through the drifts, making for the upper reaches of the Beaver and the friendly shelter of a patch of timber, while Sheriff Buck and his posse, galloping in hot pursuit, accentuated their début with a rattling spang! spang! of repeaters. And the widow, unheeding the frenzied shrieks of joy from the now liberated youngsters, saw with tears of thanksgiving that the old man's fresher steed was gaining rapidly.

As Jem turned for a farewell, derisive, shot, Sheriff Buck pulled up and dismounted. What had caught his wrathful gaze was only a woolly horse and a tin soldier.

“All off for this time, boys,” he announced grimly. “He's been resting while we was working.”

Then as he drew abreast of the improvised Christmas tree he observed, “I reckon these gee-gaws belong here, ma'am.”

“Did you see our Santy Claus?” gasped Robert.

“Yes, my boy,” smiled the sheriff whimsically. “An' I tried to attract his attention. Ye see, he kind o' forgot to call on me.”