Somebody, who is probably a liar, has just informed us that to-morrer is
Christmas. To-morrer bein' Christmas, it follers as a sequence before
the fact that to-night is Christmas Eve. That this is likely to be a
Hell of a Christmas ain't no argyment fer not celebratin' it before we
git to it and find out how bad it is. Let us therefore humbly and
devoutly git agoin' and ketch the spirit of the occasion even if we have
to rope it and throw it on its head. All you as has blue tickets and
been in reg'lar attendance can git in on it, and _perhaps_ look fer a
prisint, and those as gits left kin fill up on good wishes of which we
have a superfluous supply. First, we will have the usual
Christmas-tree.
At this juncture Joe broke into the proceedings with a loud guffaw.
McShay eyed him severely.
"I said a Christmas-tree, and any feller caught laffin' at it will be
showed the door." And he walked away after the manner of platform
lecturers who move about to show their perfect command of the situation.
As he did so Orson stepped into his place and Silent handed him a small
article wrapped in paper which he took from the tree. Orson, trying to
imitate the Sunday-school manner of the big man, said:
"Will Mickey McShay please step forward? Mickey, here is the last
see-gar you unloaded on us, and if you kin smoke it, we'll some day give
you the proudest banquet in any of the local joints this side the
Missouri, at which banquet you kin eat your own words and damned if they
don't choke you," and he handed Mike a cigar with the added insult:
"It's a onion with a alfalfa wrapper. It ain't fit fer perlite
society." Mike joined in the laugh at his expense, but at once took
charge of the occasion, determined not again to lose control. He turned
with a kindly smile to Big Bill.
"Will Little Willie push his presence as near to us as circumstances and
his _waist line_ will permit?"
Bill ambled forward, glancing down over his ample figure with an awkward
smile, looking a bit teased and very close to blushing. Mike took a
"sinker" from the tree and handed it to the big man.
"Here is a cookie for Little Willie," he said. The disproportion
between the size of the present and the recipient was so great every one
laughed, including the victim. Then Mike looked Bill over critically
and, turning to his audience, said:
"If the prevailin' starvation prevails, and little Willie dies by
inches, how long will it take his equator to reach his poles?" During
the ensuing laugh Mike took up a small school-house of home manufacture,
with the paint scarce dry on it. "Will Wah-na-gi, little bright-eyes,
the spirit child, communicate with us?" Wah-na-gi came forward,
laughing. Every one was in high glee. It was many a day since any one
had seen her so radiant.
"Wah-na-gi," said Mike, "here's a school-house for you with the hope
that some day you may have it full of children of your own and be
beholden to nobody."
While Wah-na-gi was blushing furiously, Silent broke in with the remark:
"Gee, I'm awful dry. Ain't nobody got a drink?"
"That's the one topic of conversation," said Mike, "upon which Silent
can and will discourse. Gentlemen, git your cut-glasses."
The mob broke for the cupboard en masse and there was a wild scramble
for drinking vessels, no one stopping to discriminate, and this was
followed by a frantic rush back to Mike, who in the meantime had
possessed himself of the bottle of whiskey brought out by Big Bill from
his private stock. Mike, having with some difficulty protected himself
from their violence, called out:
"Don't crowd; don't crowd. Now stand in line. Stand in line, ye
beggars. Ain't ye ever been invited to have a drink before?"
They stood obediently in line but each with cup or glass outstretched to
the limit, while Mike rolled the scanty supply critically in the bottle
and made a rapid calculation as to its distribution. Shaking the bottle
so as to wet the cork, he removed the latter and carefully dropped a few
drops into Big Bill's cup, who eyed the result ruefully, scornfully.
"Silent," he said to that worthy, "four drops every four years for you."
To Orson, who was bald, he said: "Externally fer you, Orson; if you can
find it, use it fer a hair tonic."
To Rough-house Joe he said: "Not to be taken before meals, or at meals,
or after meals." Here the liquid gave out and he shook the cork over
the next cup.
"Lady," he said to Wah-na-gi, "I'll guarantee no one will git drunk or
disorderly. Boys," he said, turning to them, "I'll bet there's a name
in all our minds this night, and it's the absent owner of this ranch.
Here's to 'im and, wherever he is this night, let's hope his heart is
with us. I ask you to drink a merry Christmas to the boss."
The boys extended their drinking vessels and gave vent to vociferous
yaps in the approved cowboy style, and drank, or did their best to
drink, to the health of the absent boss. Then Mike, with his eyes
sparkling and with a most elaborate manner, walked up to the centre of
the room, glanced toward the closet, and said:
"And I'll ask him to respond to the toast in person."
Wah-na-gi looked as if she might faint. Bill said quickly: "Mike, be
careful. Wah-na-gi's here."
"Sure, I know she's here," replied the buoyant Irishman. "And if she
had the choosin' of her own present, I'll bet I could name it.
Wah-na-gi, here's a Christmas present for you," and he went to the
clothes-press and tried to open it. To his great surprise he found it
locked. Quickly unlocking it, he threw the doors wide and walked away
with a supreme air of triumph. When David Ladd, pale and wild-eyed,
staggered out and to the table, the sensation was complete. Not hearing
the cries of joyous tumult he had expected, Mike turned and saw the
agent. He was the most astonished man of the lot.
"Holy Mother of Moses," he ejaculated in a whisper. "Is it one of them
cabinet tricks?"
Just then a shot was heard outside. Every one turned from the central
figure and listened. Then, by common consent, every man grabbed his hat
and rushed out of doors, all except McShay, who made no movement to go
but kept his eye on David Ladd.
"What was that, Mike?" said Wah-na-gi in a scared whisper.
Ladd lifted his head. Swiftly it passed through his mind the hope that
Cadger had got his man. Just then there were cheers outside, and all the
boys came tumbling back, Hal in their midst with a gun in one hand and
Cadger in the other. The trader looked sheepish and blood was flowing
from a nasty scalp wound over one eye where Hal had clubbed him with the
barrel of his own gun.
As Hal came suddenly into the light he did not see Wah-na-gi, and she,
as she caught sight of him, drew back and whispered to herself: "He has
come! He has come back. My man has come back."
Then he saw her and, coming swiftly to her, took her in both hands and
lifted her up clear of the floor as he might have lifted a child, while
the rough men gave vent to their joy and excitement by cheers.
"Put me down, please," she begged. "Please put me down, Hal."
When her feet touched the earth, her first impulse was to go to the
wounded man. Apart from her kindly instincts she could hide her
emotions at a moment when she suffered at their exposure.
"I'm all right," said Cadger surlily. "I don't want to be fussed over."
"You let her fix you up," said Hal, in a tone that implied obedience,
and Cadger submitted with a bad grace.
"Boys," he said to his retainers, "I can't tell you how glad I am to get
home and how sorry I am to have broken up this party. Never mind,
to-morrow is Christmas and I'll have a wagon-load of supplies here in
the morning and we'll have a Christmas that you won't forget to your
dying day." At this there was a lusty cheer. "For the present there's
a little matter of business must be disposed of before we go any
further. Get chairs all of you, all except Silent. Silent, you stand by
the door, take my gun, and see that neither of the prisoners gets away
or disturbs the proceedings. All the rest of you sit down and while
Wah-na-gi is fixing up Cadger we will determine what is to be done with
these two scoundrels."
The table was cleared and the men sat about in a council of war. When
all were seated, Hal said: "Well, what shall we do with them?"
McShay said: "I'd take 'em outside, give 'm one hundred yards, and let
'em get away, _if they could_."
"Why take us outside?" said Ladd, coming down and standing before them.
He had regained his aplomb, and never had appeared to better advantage.
"No," said Hal, "I couldn't do that. If I'd wanted to do that I
wouldn't have taken 'em alive. I'll have to take 'em East and hand 'em
over to the United States authorities and send 'em to the penitentiary."
"That's a lot of trouble for two such skunks," said McShay.
"I'd rather you shot us as McShay suggests," said Ladd. Then, turning
to Hal, he said: "Calthorpe, you got us. You turned the trick. You got
the documents we were after. They're all you need for your purposes.
You don't need us except to get even with us, and you're too big a man
for that. You can send us up for God knows how many years, for life,
for all I know, but what good will it do you? Give us another chance?"
"Gee, you got your nerve," said Bill.
"We'll hit the trail for Canada, that is, if we ever see a trail."
"Say, what have we got agin Canada?" asked Orson.
"If you turn us loose now it's a hundred-to-one shot we'll never get to
the Canadian line. Give us a chance; won't you?"
"What do you say, Wah-na-gi?" said Hal, calling to the girl.
She came down to the table.
"I think perhaps John McCloud would give them another chance."
"All right, you get it," said Hal. "On your way. You can take it as a
Christmas present from John McCloud."
"I hope you won't regret it," said Ladd. "And here's a telegram I got
for you at Fort Serene. That'll help some," and he handed Hal a telegram
which had been opened. Hal took it and put it in his pocket.
The two prisoners had their own provisions! They were given their mule
and told to "beat it." They were never seen again or heard of. Perhaps
they reached the Canadian line and disappeared in the northern wilds;
perhaps they were the men whose bones were found the following spring at
the foot of one of the ravines of Dead Man's Canyon.
When they were gone, Hal turned to the others and said: "Boys, you take
your Christmas dinner here with us to-morrow." He looked at his watch.
"Gee, it's _to-day_! It's midnight! Merry Christmas, Wah-na-gi! Merry
Christmas, boys! Merry Christmas to all at Red Butte Ranch," and all
gathered round and shook him and each other by the hand, and if the
angels didn't sing on high they did in the glad hearts of these homely
folk.
Then they all went to bed. And Hal was alone. He lit his pipe and sat
down before the fire in the living-room, and was glad of the solitude,
of the quiet, of the peace, the unspeakable peace that had stolen into
his heart. Wah-na-gi was near, under the same roof. He had seen her.
She was, if possible, more beautiful than ever, the same simple child,
without pretence, without guile, unspoiled, true as truth! And he knew
she loved him, would always love him. Long he looked into the embers.
He was alone and yet not altogether alone. There was something strange,
mysterious in the room. Was it the presence of his mother? Something
seemed to whisper to him: "Make her happy." Was it little Nat-u-ritch?
or was it John McCloud? He said again as he said that night in the
London fog: "John McCloud, my heart is empty, but my hands are clean."
And John McCloud would never know, never know what it cost him to say
those words, to have the right to say them. And yet--perhaps he did
know. Hal thought he would like him to know. Then he happened to think
of the telegram that Ladd had given him, that had been purloined with
the other mail at Fort Serene. He took it out of his pocket and glanced
at it indifferently, but did not see it. It belonged to the routine,
the details of life. This moment, this quiet moment apart was his. He
had earned it. It was sacred. This was home. This was his home. These
were his people. This was his land. Here was the woman he loved. Here
were memories, influences, elusive but potent, subtle appeals stealing
out of the past, out of the grave before the door, out of the
subconscious, out of the trifles of childhood. Sky and plain and peak
had welcomed him. All these silent things had called to him, called him
back to his own. He felt that he must be alone with them. He would
have the night, and the morrow; and then he would have to turn his back
on them forever, on _her_ forever. He had no thought of sleep. He must
have a long think. These moments were few and precious. The world
without, that world which had always been so unfriendly, must not
intrude. He would not read the telegram. It might disturb this sacred
harmony. He would put it by and read it on the backward trail. It was
open in his hand. Involuntarily he glanced at it. He saw the
name--Winifred. Evidently it was from his cousin. He shuddered
apprehensively. A voice out of the cruel London fog! calling him back,
calling him away. Just ahead of the name--he could not help seeing
it--were these words: "buried at sea." He was reading it backward.
"Never regained consciousness. Over-dose sedative by mistake." Then
his eye ran quickly to the beginning and read: "On way from India Edith
took----"
The cable slipped from his hand. How still and solemn was the world!
And he sat there into the morning of another day, listening to the
voices of the silent call.