pine tree, his eyes and ears watching closely the white sheet of paper
that lay on the bottom of the open box, held by a small stone which
allowed one end to flutter and flap in the wind in a way that excited
his suspicions.
When the Widow Miller wished to mail a letter she placed it, properly
stamped, in her box and the first neighbor passing that way took it out
and mailed it for her, she being some miles off the regular mail route.
"Gents to right, now swing or cheat,
On to the next gal an' repeat."
He chanted the old familiar frontier quadrille call as he tried to force
the pony close to the box to reach the paper without dismounting.
"Stand still, you fool," he spurred the animal vigorously, "that there
little piece of paper ain't going to eat you."
But the more he spurred the farther from the box went the animal. "Beats
all what a feller will do to save unloading hisself from a hoss," he
threw the reins over Mack's head, swung to the ground and strode toward
the box.
"Balance next an' don't be shy;
Swing yer pards an' swing 'em high."
He sang as he lifted the stone and picked up the paper beneath it, which
proved to be a large-sized sheet of writing paper folded three times. A
one-cent stamp evidently taken from some old letter was stuck in one
corner and beneath it was scrawled in a childish, unlettered hand the
words:
"Mister Sandy Claws
The North Pole."
Almost reverently Gibson unfolded the paper, feeling he was about to
have some youthful heart opened to his curious eyes.
"Deer Sandy Claws," it began, "please bring me a train of railroad cars,
an' a pair of spurs an' a 22 rifle to shoot rabits with, an' a big tin
horn. An' Sandy, Mary wants a big Teddy bare an' a real doll what shuts
her eyes when she lays down. An' Minnie she's the baby, Sandy, so pleas
bring her a pictur book an' a doll an' a wolly lam an' bring us all a
lot of candy an' apples an' oranges an' nuts, for since Dady went away,
we ain't had none of them things much. Mother she says you know jist
where we live so don't forgit us for I've tride to be a good boy this
year.
"James Simpson Miller, 7 years old."
Gibson felt a lump rising in his throat, and took refuge in song to hide
his embarrassment.
"Bunch the gals an' circle round;
Whack your feet upon the ground.
Form a basket break away,
Swing an' kiss, an' all git gay."
He wiped something out of the corner of his eyes with the back of his
buckskin glove, and blew his nose savagely. "Hm, Shucks, seems like I'm
a gittin' a cold in my haid," he remarked sort of confidentially to the
pony.
Once more he read the letter.
"Hm, Shucks, wants a railroad train, hey? An' a gunchester to kill
rabbits, an' a tin horn, an' Mary wants a Teddy bear, does she, an'
apples an' oranges an' candy for all of 'em. Say, Bill Gibson, it's up
to you to play Santy Claus for these kids an' if you handle the job
right maybe you can convince their Aunt Nancy that she'd ought to say
'Yes' to a man about your size an' complexion." Again he broke into
song.
"Aleman left an' balance all.
Lift yer hoofs an' let 'em fall.
Swing yer op'sites; swing agin,
Kiss the darlings--if ye kin."
"Git up, Mack, les git along to camp and let the bunch in on this Santy
Claus game. Hm, Shucks, Nancy said she wanted a watermelon-pink
sweater--whatever color that may be--to wear to the New Year's dance up
on Crow Creek. Reckin the thing won't cost more'n a month's pay. I'll
jist get her one if it takes my whole roll." Once more he dropped into
song.
"Back yer pardners, do-se-do.
Ladies break, an' gents you know.
Crow hop out, an' dove hop in,
Join yer paddies an' circle again.
"Salute yer pardner, let her go,
Balance all an' do-se-do.
Gents salute yer little sweets,
Hitch an' promenade to seats."
That night around the table in the bunk house of the Oak Creek Sheep
Company, four or five men watched the foreman write a letter to the
owner, Mr. Barrington, who was wintering on the coast. Briefly he
explained how the letter to Santa Claus fell into their hands and the
desire of the men at the ranch to furnish the children with all the
things they asked for, and more.
Miller, the foreman explained, had been accidentally killed a couple of
years before and his wife was putting up a hard fight to stay on the
piece of land he had homesteaded long enough to get title to it from the
government.
There were three kids, he continued, James, the oldest, seven years, and
two girls, Mary, five, and Minnie, the baby, two.
"The boys ain't a-limiting you in the cost, so please get anything else
you and Mrs. Barrington thinks would please the kids and let me know
the cost and I'll charge it up to the boys' pay accounts.
"Also Bill Gibson wants that Mrs. Barrington should pick out what he
says is to be a 'watermelon-pink' sweater for Mrs. Miller's kid sister,
Nancy. Bill says Nancy is just about Mrs. Barrington's size, and what'd
fit her will fit Nancy all right.
"Bill he says he reckons Mrs. B. will savvy what a watermelon-pink
sweater is, which is more than any of us do."
Three days before Christmas Bill Gibson set forth for the railroad,
twenty-five miles away, to bring back the expected Christmas stuff.
There was two feet of snow on the ground and the roads were impassable
for wheels; so Bill took with him two pack animals, a horse and a mule.
He figured he would be one day going and one coming and that on
Christmas eve, after marking and arranging all the presents, some one
would ride down to the cabin and leave the whole business on the porch
of the widow's cabin where she would be sure to find it early Christmas
morning. At the railroad Gibson found the trains all tied up with snow
to the west, and the packages had not arrived.
"Hm, shucks," was his terse comment. "Now wouldn't it jist be hell if
the plunder didn't come in time for them kids to have their Christmas
tree?" But late that night a train came through which brought the
package he had come for.
By unpacking the stuff from the box in which they were shipped Gibson
managed to get everything in the two kyacks carried by the mule while
upon the horse he packed a load of provisions for the camp.
[Illustration: "_Gibson managed to get everything in the two Kyacks
carried by the mule_"]
Barrington and his wife had added liberally to the list of toys and,
knowing well the conditions at the sheep ranch, had marked or tagged
each article with the name of the child for which it was intended. Even
Mrs. Miller had been remembered generously.
The sweater was there, packed carefully in a fancy box. Bill loosed the
ribbon that fastened it and slipped a card into the box on which he had
laboriously written, "To Miss Nancy, from her true friend, Bill."
But the storm broke out again and it was long after noon the next day
before he dared start, for the wind blew great guns and the air was
filled with icy particles that no one could face.
Leading the pack horse with the mule "tailed up" to him, Gibson started
for home, but made poor progress through the drifted snow. It was almost
two o'clock the next morning when he passed the letterbox at the trail
to the Widow Miller's place. The moon had gone down behind the trees to
the west and it was quite dark, but here the wind had swept the ground
bare of snow, and his progress with his rather jaded animals was much
better.
Sleepy and tired from his long ride Gibson reached the ranch and rode
into the warm stable to unsaddle. There to his great surprise he found
he had but one animal behind him, the rope which had been around the
mule's neck still dragging at the pack horse's tail, a mute evidence of
what had happened.
"Hm, shucks," he commented grimly, "won't them there boys in the bunk
house give me particular hell for this night's work?"
Wearily he unsaddled and unpacked the horses. Still more wearily he
dragged himself up the path to the house, stirred the fire in the
fireplace into a blaze, and when the coffee was hot drank a cup, ate
greedily of the food which the cook had left for him, crawled into his
blankets and in ten seconds was dead to the world.
In his dreams he was swinging a rosy cheeked girl through the steps of
an old-fashioned quadrille, she being attired in a most gorgeous
watermelon-pink sweater.
"Swing yer pardners, swing agin;
Kiss the darlings--if you kin."
He essayed the kiss only to be awakened on the verge of its attainment
by a heavy hand on his shoulder, followed by a voice which demanded in
no soft tones, "Where's your Christmas plunder?"
He sat up in bed half dazed by his night's experience.
"Come alive, Bill; come alive, an' tell us about the things for the
kids. We can't find them nowhere."
Gibson yawned and rubbed his eyes in a vain attempt to delay the
castastrophe which he knew would encompass him when he told of the loss
of the pack mule.
Before he dropped off to sleep he had planned to get an early start in
the morning back on his trail to try to find the lost animal. Popgun had
been bought from the widow soon after her husband's demise and he
shrewdly guessed that the tired, hungry mule would most likely strike
direct for his old and nearby home.
He sprang from bed and grabbed his clothes.
"Hm, shucks," he began. "I reckon I done lost the mule coming home. Had
him tailed up to old Paint and just about the time I passed the trail
into Widder Miller's place Paint set back on the lead rope and like to
pulled the saddle offen old Mack, me havin' the rope tied hard and fast
to the nub. He let up in a minute and come along all right and I'm a
figuring 'twere just about there that Popgun gits loose, he probably
havin' been leaning back on the pack hosse's tail a right smart causing
Paint to pull back hisself. Popgun likely stripped the rope over his
head and being about all in turned off down the trail to the widder's
and it's dollars to doughnuts he's a eating hay in her shed right now.
Me being tired and sleepy I never sensed the loss till I gits here with
the mule's rope a dragging along still tied to Paint's tail. Hm, shucks,
I'll find him or bust a shoe string."
"An' to think they have to go all the way back to Afriky to git ivory
when there's such a lot of it to be had nearer home," was the sarcastic
comment of the foreman.
* * * * *
From the windows of the Widow Miller's cabin the whole world seemed
wrapped in a mantle of white. Down along the creek in the meadow the
rose bushes and willows poked their heads above the snow. Changing their
skirts for overalls, she and Nancy soon picked a couple of quarts of the
brilliant red berries or fruit of the rose bushes. That night as soon as
the children were safely in bed they started in on their Christmas tree
preparations. Several days before Nancy had slipped out into the timber
and cut a small spruce which she dragged to the stable and hid under
some loose hay, and with an empty canned goods case and some stones
they managed to make a very satisfactory base for it. Over the coals in
the fireplace they popped a huge dish-pan full of corn and worked late
into the night stringing popcorn and the rose berries with which to
festoon the tree.
"I've seen my mother use cranberries for the same thing," she told her
sister, "but these rose berries look quite as well I think."
From the pages of a mail order catalogue they cut figures from the
brilliantly colored fashion plates which, pasted upon stiff cardboard
and hung to the tips of the branches, made famous decorations.
Festooned with the long strings of rose berries and popcorn, with these
gaily painted ladies of fashion dangling from every bough, it made a
very satisfactory Christmas tree. After placing upon it the presents for
the children which they had been able to buy or make, together with a
few apples and oranges, some stick candy, each done up separately in
paper, "just to make it seem more," Nancy said, the two women retired
for the night.
How long she had slept or what awakened her, Mrs. Miller could not tell,
but as she strained her ears for the slightest sound, she imagined she
could hear outside the footfalls of some heavy animal. She knew it could
be no bear, for whatever it was the snow was crunching under its feet,
nor was it a human, for the steps were those of a four-footed object.
The moon, that earlier in the evening had flooded the valley until it
was almost as light as day, was now just dipping behind the mountain to
the west, throwing the stable into deep shadow, from which the sounds
now seemed to come.
There was a bare possibility of its being some range cow, although they
had all long since drifted down into the lower country, but she finally
decided it must be one of the big bull elks which regularly wintered on
the wind-swept sides of the mountain above them and sometimes came down
to the ranch seeking feed during times of heavy snow.
Shivering with the cold she crept back to bed realizing that daylight
would soon come. Rudely her dreams were broken by a sound that at first
froze the very marrow in her bones, but which with immense relief she
instantly realized could come from the throat of but one animal and
that, a mule.
Fortunately the children slept through it all, and dressing as quickly
as they could, she and Nancy started for the stable, Mrs. Miller armed
with her automatic.
No sooner had they stepped from the porch than the mule that had been
hanging about the stable trying to get in spotted them and greeted their
coming with a series of brays and nickerings that showed his joy at
seeing some human being.
It was Popgun, the pack still on his back. Leading him to the cabin the
women quickly loosened the diamond hitch, took off the canvas pack cover
and piled the kyacks upon the porch after which he was placed in a
vacant stall in the stable and fed.
To the women versed in frontier ways and signs the solution of the visit
from their long-eared friend was simple, and they sized up the situation
almost exactly as it had occurred. Therefore they felt certain some one
would be on his trail before very long.
The rattle of the pack rigging on the porch aroused the children, and
when the women returned from the stable the two older ones were
investigating the pack.
Bidding them not to meddle with the things, Mrs. Miller and her sister
went inside the house to get breakfast leaving the kids on the porch.
Childish curiosity could not well be stifled, especially on such a day
as this. They had been told stories of the coming of Santa Claus and
while Jimmie had learned that a reindeer looks very much like a bull elk
he had once seen, he also knew that all sorts of things could be packed
in a pair of kyacks and knew no reason why Santa should not have availed
himself of that means of transporting his gifts under certain
conditions.
To loosen the straps that held the kyack covers was an easy matter. To
lift up the heavy canvas covers was still easier and the first thing
that met the eager eyes of both children was a long tin horn nested down
in some excelsior. As he pulled at it a fluttering tag caught his eye.
On it he read: "For James--Merry Christmas." One wild shout of delight
and he gave a blast on the toy that brought both women to the door just
in time to see Mary drag from the kyack a huge Teddy Bear. On this was
another tag marked: "To Mary--Merry Christmas."
Before his scandalized mother could collect her senses enough to stop
him Jimmie had dropped his horn and gone on a voyage of exploration into
the depths of the two kyacks. One of his first discoveries was the box
containing the sweater. The tag tied to it cleared up in a measure the
doubts which Mrs. Miller had had as to the propriety of thus making free
with other people's property, and that Santa had been sent by the men at
the sheep camp.
* * * * *
An hour later a man rode down the trail back of the house and quite out
of range of its windows. Tying his horse at the side of the stable away
from the house he crept to the corner of the building and cautiously
peeped out.
The smoke was curling briskly from the cabin chimney and in the tense
stillness he could hear noises which indicated very plainly that the
letter to "Sandy Claws" had borne fruit, for the most ear-splitting
sounds were coming from the cabin, sounds which he knew to be the
natural results of three tin horns in the mouths of three delighted
kids.
As he stood there a door slammed, and a girl stepped out on the porch
arrayed in the most gorgeous sweater he had ever imagined. On her head
was a jaunty cap of the same color and material as the sweater, while in
her hands she held a tin bucket in which most unquestionably was the
breakfast for the chickens which were making loud demands for release
from their log coop near the stable.
In his inmost heart Bill Gibson knew that if ever a man was blessed by
the Gods with the one opportunity of his life, it was facing him at this
very moment. Nancy came tripping down the snowy path a perfect picture
of girlish beauty and happiness. Gibson drew back so she could not see
him until she had turned the corner of the stable. As she did so and met
his eyes the song turned into a maidenly shriek. Her cheeks were
blazing like two peonies, she tried hard to speak, but the words died on
her lips. Mechanically she set the bucket of feed on a small shelf where
the chickens could not reach it. Bill interpreted the move as meaning
either a fight or complete surrender. He believed it was the latter and
took a step toward her.
"Christmas gift, Nancy," he said. His voice had an odd quaver in it.
"Old Santy seems to have brung you the sort of sweater you wanted." He
was gaining confidence.
"He sure did," she replied, striving in vain to keep her eyes from
meeting his.
"Nancy," he demanded, "ain't you got nothing for me this grand Christmas
morning?"
"What you wanting mostly?" her eyes fairly dancing with mischief and
telling what her lips dared not.
A look of triumph swept over the man's bronzed face.
"You--an' I'm a-going to take it right here." He took a step toward her;
she turned to run but with one bound he was at her side, caught her in
his arms and fairly smothered her with kisses.
He drew back his head and looked deep into her eyes. "How about it?" he
demanded.
"About what?" very archly.
He kissed her a dozen times before she replied. Nor did she seem to
object to the action.
"You know the Christmas present I most want, Nancy."
He drew her closer to him, her arms found their way about his neck.
"Bill," she whispered in his ear, "you're an old darling, let's go up to
the house and tell the news to sister."
[Illustration: _Apache Squaw and Baby_]
[Illustration]
"JUST REGULARS"
In the dark depths of an Arizona cañon, with no light but that which
came from the stars, a string of shadowy figures slowly worked its way
through tangles of thorny mesquite and cat claw, over rocks and past
great bunches of cactus which pierced hands and limbs wherever they
touched.
If you looked closer, you saw that the figures were those of men, also
horses and mules, most of the men leading their mounts, and here and
there the yellow chevrons on some sergeant's blouse, or the broad yellow
stripe on an officer's trousers showed them to be cavalry.
There was no talking or unnecessary noise. At times they were fairly on
their knees fighting their way up some rocky steep; again they dropped
down into the darkness, the well-trained animals following like goats.
At the head of the line, an officer, young in years but old in this kind
of work, whispered occasionally to the veteran guide at his left.
Just ahead of him an Apache scout, stripped for the fight, a band of red
flannel about his forehead, his body naked except for the white cotton
breechclout ("the G string") about his waist, the peculiar moccasins of
his tribe on his feet, led the way, like some bloodhound on the trail.
Out of the darkness ahead came the weird hoot of an owl. Three times did
it sound. The scout listened till the last echo died away, and then,
with his hands gathered about his mouth, answered the call.
Quietly he slipped away into the night, the command stopping where they
were as the whispered order flew back along the line, each man sinking
down to the ground, glad of the chance for the moment's rest.
The night was cold, although it was midsummer in a region where at noon
the earth is baked and burned with the heat.
An hour passed, and out of the darkness the Apache returned.
The quarry which they sought was not far ahead, and it was best to leave
their animals and go the rest of the way without them.
Turning to the tall Sergeant behind him, the officer gave the orders for
the movement, and back down the shivering, scattered line went the
instructions: "Number fours hold the horses, every one else take all
extra ammunition and their canteens and follow the column on foot."
Then came whispered pleadings from the unfortunate "number four men"
doomed to remain behind to guard the horses and the rear while the
others went on into the darkness to--what? Perhaps death, perhaps a
wound from a poisoned arrow; in any event plenty of hardship and
suffering.
How those cavalrymen begged for the privilege of getting a hole shot
through them. They urged the officers to cut down the rearguard and
leave but a couple of men to look after the packs and horses.
"Very well, Sergeant," the commanding officer replied, well pleased when
told of the men's desire to go with the fighting force, "leave three or
four men to guard the animals and let the rest come on; God knows we are
very likely to need them."
Then the Sergeant, knowing his men as a schoolmaster his pupils, left
behind: fat Corporal Conn whose asthmatic wheezings and puffings had
already brought forth many a muttered curse upon his head; Private Hill
who couldn't see an inch beyond his nose in the dark and who had fallen
over every bush and rock in the trail since they entered the cañon; and
two other men whose physical condition was such that he doubted their
ability to make the climb which he knew was ahead of them.
Not one of these accepted the detail without as vigorous a protest as
soldierly duty made possible. Bless you no! Each of them felt himself an
object of especial pity, fat Conn even claiming that the higher he
climbed the less the asthma troubled him.
Then the command once more drove into the blackness ahead, following the
lithe Apache up a mountain side which seemed almost perpendicular.
Each man carried two belts of cartridges about his waist with a third
swung from his shoulder. Most of them wore the Apache moccasin which
gave forth no sound as they moved along.
At last they reached the summit of the mountain breathless and tired.
Before them was a mighty cañon, the cañon of the Salt River. To their
left four granite peaks, the "Four Peaks" of the maps, pierced the
skyline like videttes on guard over the cañon.
From its bed, two thousand feet below, the dull murmur of the river, as
it dashed along its rocky way, came softly to the soldiers' ears.
It was the dawning of December 27, 1872. The soldiers were a detachment
of the Fifth United States Cavalry, Major Brown in command.
At a little spring some twenty miles away they had left their supplies
and pack train.
Their Christmas holidays had been spent in pursuit of several bands of
Apaches, and the scouts had reported that a large band of them was
located in a cave on the Salt River cañon.
A pack mule had died in camp that day, and the Indian scouts were
allowed to make a great feast upon its remains that they might set out
on the expedition with full stomachs.
For years efforts had been made to concentrate the Apaches, who had been
the scourge of Arizona and the Southwest, upon one or two reservations
where, under guard, they could be watched and kept in bounds.
In the summer of 1872 General George Crook, after having held numerous
councils with the Apaches, issued an ultimatum to the effect that, if
those who were outside of the reservation did not return by the
fifteenth of the coming November, active operations would begin against
them. After that date every Indian found outside the reservation was to
be treated as a hostile and dealt with accordingly.
The Apaches knew Crook only too well, for the "Old Grey Fox," as they
called him, had always kept his word with them in the past.
Promptly on the day set General Crook took the field against the outlaw
Apaches and hunted them down relentlessly day and night.