A High Chaparral Christmas Carol
By Jan Lucas, Penny
McQueen and Ginny Shook
(with apologies to Charles Dickens)
Stave 1 (The Ghost)
December fell in
“Stop whining and make your bet,” Sam griped,
eyeing his brother between swallows of whiskey.
“Eh, Wind, have you noticed,” Pedro said casually as
he rearranged his cards, “every time amigo Joe has a good hand, he starts to
cough? Mira – he is about to raise.”
“I do not cough,” Joe growled, pushing his dollars
into the growing pile in the center of the table. He attempted to stifle the
next explosion, cleared his throat loudly to mask the sound.
Wind pushed his money forward, looked at grinning
Pedro, and pulled it back. “I fold,” he sighed.
Impassive dark eyes stared across the top of fanned
cards as the half-Pawnee considered. “My people believe the spirits teach us
wisdom and truth, that seems more important that a
sack full of material possessions.”
“That’s cause you ain’t got
any,” Ira offered. “Mrs. Cannon had me helping her wrap presents this morning.
Did you know you gotta put your finger in the middle of a bow to tie it? Big
box, too.” He tossed coins onto the table. “I raise you five.”
“So Mrs. Cannon is Santy Claus?”
“Joe has a cold is all.” said Sam suddenly. “Maybe he
should drink less and sleep more.”
The younger
“Your bet, Joe.” Wind’s eyes flickered with humor.
The poker players leaned forward as one.
“I ain’t going to cough!”
“All I know is, you have been coughing all night and
you been winning all night.” Pedro said.
“He’s been coughing every night,” Ira grumbled.
“You’re all loco. I ain’t coughing. I see your raise
and here’s ten more. See? No cough. Next thing you’ll be saying I marked the
deck.” A sudden explosion of a cough spattered blood on the cards in his hand.
The only one not complaining about the weather was Big
John Cannon. There was no point wasting energy stating the obvious. When asked
for the millionth time if there had ever been such a freezing day in the
history of the world, he answered honestly that he didn’t feel the cold. If he
was a different sort of man he might have admitted, at least to himself, that
lately he didn’t really feel much of anything. But the army needed winter beef
and feelings were a luxury he couldn’t afford. Scanning the ledgers, he saw a
sound profit, but Army beef would push the ranch farther into the black. John
kept a sharp eye on doing a job better than the next man.
As for the Chaparral hands, his sharp eye saw them
doing everything but the job since
No amount of persuasion or even commands could stop
strong-willed
“Juano! Feliz Navidad!”
Manolito Montoya greeted his brother-in-law at the breakfast table on a morning
that was greyer and colder than any before.
“Christmas ain’t ‘til
tomorrow, Mano.” Buck’s face glowed like a child’s, as he stacked pancakes on
his plate and added fried eggs and soused everything with sorghum thickly over
the top. “Might save us some time if we open them present’s of
“Only if you wish to retain your
scalp, my friend.” Manolito
sampled his eggs, then sipped coffee. “My sister is worse than a priest about
keeping the rituals of the season, hombre. Violate one and,” grinning, he slid
a finger across his throat.
“Very funny, Manolo. Perhaps I will take your present to the children at
San Xavier del Bac, at least they will appreciate one more gift from us.”
Carrying an urn of coffee from the kitchen,
“Something too expensive,” John snapped. “And no one
is doing any celebrating until the herd is brought up to the south ridge. I
don’t care what day it is. "
“You certainly will care if you are late to my special
supper,”
“Now,
“We will get it done on time, my sister, I promise
you,” Manolito interrupted John.
“Sure thing,
“Can I just eat my breakfast in peace, please?” John
roared.
A heavy silence followed. Suddenly Buck slammed his
hand down on the table. He pushed his chair back hard and stomped out of the
house.
“What the devil is wrong with him?” John
grumbled.
Mano rose, considering John for a moment. “He does not
like your new rule.”
“I don’t have time for your fool jokes, Mano. What
rule?”
“That we are all to pretend that Blue does not exist.”
He placed a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “
“Fools, the pair of them,” he muttered. He stole a
look at his wife, waiting for her to defend them.
“Do not go yet, John. There is something I want you to
do.”
“
“It will only take a moment.” She reached into a
drawer in the living room table and then placed something in his hand.
“Will you put it on the top of the Christmas tree for
me?” she smiled at him.
John stared at the ornament. The large china star was
painted in delicate colors, flecked with gold.
“This was Annalee’s” he said, both surprised and
cautious as he fingered the worn edges. “We always had it on our tree in
John remembered. He had a sudden memory of hoisting
little Blue up to his shoulder so he could put the star in its place, and hated
the sour knot of grief growing in his throat. John set the star down on the
table.
“This doesn’t belong on your tree,” he said, grabbing
his jacket as he opened the door to the frigid morning. “Put it away. I don’t
want to see it again.”
Slamming the door behind him, John squinted at
Manolito. His lanky brother-in-law relaxed against a support post, back
to bracing wind, keen eyes and tight mouth belying casual posture.
“Whatever’s on your mind, spit it out and mount up. You’re burning
daylight,” John said, marching toward the bunkhouse as Mano fell in beside
him.
“I was just thinking. The sky today, gray as the
beard of my father.” Glancing at the clouds above, he smiled. “A
ruthless and often cruel man, the old lion. Yet never did he close the
door on his disappointing son. Seguro, he disinherited me, but never did he
disown me.” Tone low and compelling, he clasped John’s shoulder and stopped
walking. “What is between fathers and sons, often complicated,
eh?”
“And what’s between me and mine is just that, between
me and mine. You finished?”
“No.” Sweeping his arm from bunkhouse to ranch-house,
he said, “What affects you affects everyone, especially my sister. The
first Christmas without
“Or what, the first bullet’s for me?” John jabbed a
finger into Mano’s chest. “Your sister, who also happens to be my wife,
can pay homage to Don Sebastian any fool way she wants, but I won’t have her
interfering. Do I make myself clear? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a ranch
to run.”
Turning on his heel, heading for the bunkhouse door,
he heard Manolito mutter, “Ay-yi-yi, Big John, always the rancho. But if
you have no son, who is it for?”
In the past, Sam Butler would have been at the front
gate, mounted and waiting to start the day’s work. But since his brother Joe
had gotten sick Sam stayed in the bunkhouse until the last minute. Being forced
to fetch him tempted John to remind him how many men would kill to work on the
largest spread in
The bunkhouse was not much warmer than outside as Sam
poked wood into the small corner stove. He turned slightly reproachful
eyes on his boss. The small abode’s roof had been under repair before the cold
snap hit. Though the frigid air now flooded the room day and night, John would
not spare any of the men to patch the holes. “Fix it on your own time, we’ve
got cattle to round up,” he had roared the last time Sam hinted that a couple
of the men finish the job that was started two months before.
“We’re moving the herd today.” John said, trying to
ignore the hopeful festiveness.
“Yes, Boss.”
“I want two men on night herd tonight. With that fog,
there’s a good chance for beeves to get separated. We can’t afford to lose even
one. Give the men on watch extra supplies – there’s no sense in coming back so
far until the day after.”
“But tomorrow…” Sam hesitated, then seemed to steel
himself. “is Christmas. Mrs. Cannon invited us all to…”
he cleared his throat several times, “celebrate with….you…”
Big John made a noise that sounded like “harumpf”. He
fixed hard blue eyes on his foreman but Sam did not look away or look as
repentant as he should.
“Couldn’t Joe ride night herd?” John asked before he
could stop himself. After all, the younger
“Sure I can,” Joe said feebly from his bunk,
attempting to raise himself up.
“Don’t be stupid,” Sam snapped at his brother. To John
he said forcefully, “No.”
John had long since stopped inquiring as to Joe’s poor
health, but Sam had recently wasted an entire day fetching the doctor in
“Joe’s gotta go to that
place in
“Fine. I’ll ride night herd myself,” John snapped,
interrupting the kind of talk that sometimes ends with a request for more pay.
He stood up and glared down at Sam. “I suppose you want the whole day off
tomorrow.”
Sam glared back. “Yessir, if it’s convenient.”
“It is not.”
“It’s just once a year, Boss.”
The big man’s boot heels sounded like gunshots as he
stomped to the door. Anger boiling, without turning around he barked, “Just
because he’s your brother doesn’t mean he’s not replaceable. If Joe can’t work,
then he’d better make room for someone who can.”
Every step of John’s made his temper surge. By the
time he passed the garlands on the corral fence, red ribbons around the roof
posts and presents under the tree which drained the coffers, he was ready to
explode. He settled for flinging clothes with great vigor from his dresser
drawer in an attempt to begin packing for a job that he should not have to do.
He thought he could hear Joe coughing all the way from
the bunkhouse. Blast the man anyway, it was all his fault. Though Sam did not
have to behave like a mother hen, watching his brother’s every move. It was
probably just a winter cold and Joe would recover soon enough. Sam should be
thanking his lucky stars he worked for a man like John Cannon, with a fair wage
and a boss that never abused him. Not to mention an entire day off with pay for
the entire crew! How dare he refuse a direct order? Forcing the boss to do a
job he was paying them to do! He was John Cannon, owner of the High Chaparral,
the largest spread in
“My husband.”
There was a twinkle in her eye that irritated him.
“I’m packing.” he snapped. “I’ll be gone for two days.”
“But where?”
“To protect my herd! Tomorrow is Christmas and maybe that’s a special day
for you, Victoria, but the cows don’t know it’s supposed to be special any more
than the bandits and renegades. Do you care if the ranch falls down around our
ears while you waste money on fool presents and decorations and stars and…” He
stole a look at her face, then hurriedly began stuffing items into a
bedroll. “I told you not to get a tree; I told you nobody needed
presents. But did you listen to me? Of course not! No one listens to me. Buck
and Mano acting like six-year-olds.
“Joe is very ill,” she said, hands on her hips.
“You only have to look at him to know that.”
“Well, it isn’t my fault and there is nothing I can do
about it.” He hated the calm look on her face. Why wasn’t she yelling at
him, telling him he was being unfair and unreasonable?
“Oh, John! I only wish for you to stay home,” she
answered, blocking his way and sliding her arms around his waist. “We
will have a special supper tonight and will celebrate the most holy of days
with our family and all the men who work for you, who have become like family.
Please, John. It is important to me.”
“We’ll celebrate when we have something to celebrate.
We’ll celebrate when I say we will. Right now, I have work
to do.”
“John?”
"I have every right!” he exploded. “And don’t tell
me how I should feel!”
He was never so glad to hear
Two men in a rickety buckboard made their way slowly
through the gate. They were both wearing suits, though the suits had seen
better days. Smiling brightly as they approached the Cannons, they doffed
bowler hats as bowed to
“Is this the home of Don Sebastian Montoya?”
“It is not. If you’re looking for Rancho Montoya,
you’re in the wrong country. It’s about three days ride South. This
is the High Chaparral and I’m John Cannon.”
“Of course. I beg your pardon. I am Juan Gazzarra, and this is
William Breeson.”
“I am Mrs. Cannon. Don Sebastian was my father. He…
passed away recently. Won’t you come inside?”
“No need for that,” John spoke up louder. “I’m a busy
man. What do you want?”
Their smiles did not falter. “Mr. Cannon, as you know,
it is usual at this time of year that we provide for others that are less fortunate
than we are. Specifically there are children in this great territory and across
the border who are going without the basic necessities. We know that a
man of your standing, who has been generous in the past, will not let these
poor children suffer. At Christmas…”
There was that word again. John clenched his
fists.
“What happened to the Yuma Mission? I thought orphans
were provided for there. Is the
“No, Sir, the
“And there is also a
“Yes, the
“Then the children are well cared for.” As if that was
enough, John turned toward the corral. The visitors were at his heels.
“We understood that Don Sebastian would give most
generously.”
John snorted. “Don Sebastian wouldn’t have given you
one red cent. He was no easier a mark than you seem to think I am, and I
doubt you’ll get a better reception from his brother, but if you leave now, you
can find out yourselves. There’s nothing for you here.”
He threw the saddle on his horse, ignoring a few
more pleas.
The High Chaparral herd bunched together against the
cold. Heavy fog that night blanketed the world like a shroud, obscuring sight
and distorting sounds. John could not even hear his own horse’s hooves on the
frozen ground, but a disgruntled beeve sounded eerily like a crying
child. Determined to focus on the job at hand and not let his imagination
play any tricks, John kept to his watch.
The next thing he knew, he was falling from his horse.
In the second it took for him to hit the ground, smacking his head for good
measure, John saw an entire conversation replay before him.
“You never fall asleep on watch!” he bellowed at Blue,
who stood before him with his head hanging. “I’m depending on you. We’re all
depending on you! There is no excuse for it, so don’t even bother. It’s what I
would expect from a child. When you fall asleep on the job you are useless to
me!” And he’d pushed him away, not listening to Buck, Sam or Mano explain that
maybe he had forgotten, sitting on a slow moving horse that rocked you like a
comfy chair, in the pitch black of night so that your eyes were strained with
trying to make out which were beeves and which were rocks, was something that
made any man fall asleep in the saddle before he even knew what was what.
How they would laugh at him now. The Boss had nodded
off on the job and fell out of his saddle like the worst greenhorn. Even
worse, the grey haze immediately swallowed his horse, and he felt like a fool
child playing Blind Man’s Bluff, stumbling with his arms out in front of him to
find it. Yessir, this was something Buck would have a good cackle over.
For a second, he actually thought he heard someone laugh; a low chuckle. He
held his breath but did not hear it again. Still, he pulled his gun from the
holster just in case. Hammer back and finger on the trigger, he waited long
minutes. Not a sound except cattle huffing and the hot breath of his
horse. He was never so happy as when the bay bit his
arm.
It was hopeless to continue in such conditions. Better
to sit in front of the fire, where he would at least be able to see any
mountain lions that got too close. He made coffee and ate jerky and cold
biscuits. And he found that he grabbed Buck’s saddle bag instead of his own,
because there was a welcome bottle of whiskey in its depths. “For medicinal
purposes, Big John,” Buck would always say with a wink. With his aching head
and a belly that felt full of stone, it was just what the doctor ordered.
A stick in the fire moved, attracting his attention.
There, in the center of the flames, was the face of a bearded man. John blinked
hard. He squinted at the fire and the perfect likeness of Don Sebastian Montoya
peered back. Startled but not frightened, John grumbled, “Nothing but
Manolito’s nonsense” and threw the dregs of his coffee into the fire, followed
by another stick. The vision vanished with a sizzle as sparks danced
upward in the wind.
A sound woke him. It was so loud, he wondered in his
grogginess if the cattle were stampeding. But it was not the thud of many hooves
but single, loud steps, like huge, heavy boots on a hard stone floor. The
footfalls moved toward him. Then came a clanking
noise, as if the owner of these monstrous feet dragged a snarl of anchor chain.
A sudden wind whipped through the trees, extinguishing
the camp fire. John fumbled for his rifle and leaped to his feet. “Show
yourself,” he yelled. “Who are you?”
The unearthly clang stopped and the fire roared back
to life, larger than before.
“Ask me who I was,” said the figure that was now illuminated;
a barrel-chested phantom dressed in the elaborate brocade clothes of a
“Who were you then?” John asked tentatively, thinking
he recognized the voice.
“In life I was your father-in-law, Don Sebastian
Montoya.”
John stood still for a full minute, considering. Legs
trembling, he turned away and sat down.
The spirit glared. “You could at least do me the
courtesy of being frightened.”
John managed a smile. “You couldn’t frighten me while
you were alive, no matter how hard you tried. You can’t do it death, either.”
‘You do not believe in me.”
“Far as I know, you’re nothing but a bad case of
dyspepsia. God knows you gave me enough heartburn before the
funeral.”
“Bah! Perhaps I have not been convincing enough,
sí?” Shaking its chain, the phantom let loose a scream that bounced off
the mountains and shivered John to the bone.
“No need for more of that.” John sat ram-rod straight.
“With all due respect, what in blue blazes do you want with me?”
"Ah, blue blazes! Exactly the point I wish
to make,” answered the Ghost, pleased, as Don Sebastian always was, when his
behavior was having the desired effect. Holding his chains carefully out
of the way, he sat down.
“Why do you wear the chains?” John asked. “They look
blamed uncomfortable.”
“I wear the chain I forged in life,'' replied the
Ghost with a shrug that made the links rattle. “I made it link by link, and
yard by yard; of my own free will I did it, and of my own free will I wore it.
Does it not look familiar to you? You have been recently forging one very much
like it.”
John would have jumped up then but his legs shook even
while he sat. He settled for a scowl. “You always did enjoy bringing me
terrible news. Are you just back to torment me as you did in life?”
“Torment you? I? I know nothing of this torment of
which you speak.” The Phantom raised its eyebrows. “However, I have been sent
to help you and my time is short, so listen carefully.” It pointed a
spectral finger. “You see, John Cannon, if a spirit is not worthy of
Heaven, it is doomed to walk the earth; a special sort of Hell, watching
others enjoy fruits of honorable living.” The Ghost brightened, adjusting
his coat. “Of course, that is only for Protestant spirits.
“And what’s wrong with my present path?”
“Ay, caramba!” He exhaled loudly. “Business is
business, eh? For business, John Cannon, you ignore the wishes of your
wife, you deny your son. A terrible thing, to disown a son! A man’s
family should come before mere business, should it not?”
“It didn’t with you.”
“My point exactly!” The spirit howled in mournful rage.
“Business! Bah! I could have been a better husband to the wife I loved, a
better father to my daughter. I could have judged my son less harshly or
cheated fewer men to the poor-house.” Tapping fingers together, it raised
its chin. “The welfare of mankind should have been my business, yet I was
distinctly lacking in charity, was I not?” It held up the chain, dropped
it to the ground and grunted. “No wonder mourners were in short supply at
my funeral
“I’ve always conducted myself with honesty and honor,
Don Sebastian.”
“So? These things are not preferable to mercy.”
Leaning forward, the Ghost narrowed its eyes. “Hear me, John! I have been
watching you. You were my good friend and are the husband of my daughter;
therefore, I give you warning lest you succumb to my current fate.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m not grateful…”
“Sí, and you shall be more
grateful yet,” the Spirit continued. “Three more spirits will haunt you.
They are the only hope you have, so heed them well.” Hearing this, John’s
face sagged. “The first arrives tomorrow when the clock chimes
one.”
“For the love of… can’t we get this over with now? I’m
a busy man.”
“Without their visits you cannot hope to escape the
path I tread.” Preening, the Ghost flicked a bit of ectoplasm from his
lapel. “Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third
upon the next night at the last stroke of twelve. This will be my final adios,
amigo mio. For your own sake, remember what has passed between us.''
John watched in amazement and some horror as the
Spirit began floating upward. “Don’t leave me like this. Tell me more about
these ghosts. Can’t I….”
The spirit of Don Sebastian pulled a lacy handkerchief
from its pocket and waved it airily under its nose. “Unfortunately for you, I
must tend to an urgent matter concerning my brother Domingo. Punto! Sé
acaból!” And with that, the ghost dissolved into the night.
The fire vanished along with the spirit, but John
wasn’t bothered by that equally odd occurrence. He wasn’t sure he would ever be
bothered by anything odd again. He did know that he needed to be home and in
his own bed as soon as possible. Because if this was a dream he needed to go
back to sleep and wake up in a world he understood. And if the ghost of Don
Sebastian had indeed been real, John did not relish meeting three more of the
creature’s amigos here in the desolate desert. He stuffed his belongings
into saddle bags with a haste he always chastised his brother for. His horse
needed no urging to fly back to the ranch at the fastest speed.
Stave 2: The First of the Three Spirits
When John awoke, he saw bedposts looming like sentinel
saguaros. He blinked at the bedroom’s stucco wall, when around the corner, the
alarm sounded on Buck’s imitation solid-gold pocket watch, buzzing four
quarters. “That brilliant brother of mine probably set it so he can remember to
have a drink,” he muttered, listening for the hour.
The annoying contraption chimed from six to seven, and
from seven to eight, stopping at twelve. “Hell’s bells!” It was past two when
he went to bed. Either the clock was wrong or Buck was soaked and John didn’t
have an ounce of redeye left in the house. Twelve!
He grappled for the bedside clock and held it aloft.
Ticking, its hands stayed at
Teeth clenched, he swung his feet to the floor and
marched to the window. Not enough light to see the guard at the front gate.
Ocotillo rattled in the wind and dust swirled in the scant light. The
window-pane was cold to the touch. Had to be the same night. Relieved, Big John
made his way back to bed.
When the imitation solid-gold pocket watch shrilled
A strange figure – a boy yet also an
old man, its long hair white and face unlined. Deep dimples puckered the corners of its mouth and it
wore a tunic and tight pants of purest white. Around its waist was a lustrous
belt of sparkling silver conchos, in its hand a bottle of fresh pulque. The
figure’s mutable form turned light then dark, at times
it seemed a being with a hundred hands and many hundred fingers.
“What in Sam Hill are you supposed to be?” asked
John.
“Yo
soy el fantasma de Navidad más allá de. Como se dice, the Ghost of Christmas Past, hombre.” The spirit propped a casual foot on the bedrail. “Your past, amigo mio.”
“My past isn’t anyone’s concern but my own.”
“Wrong! What concerns you concerns
“If you’re worried about my welfare, let me sleep or I
won’t be much use tomorrow. High Chaparral won’t run itself.”
The spirit clasped his arm. “Hombre, no. I cannot do
that. Andele, vamanos!” It tugged him upright and propelled him forward
through the wall. They stood in the parlor of an elegant bordello, surrounded
by scantily-dressed women. “I am sorry. The past of someone else. You sure you
want to see yours? Ay,
“You brought me this far, no sense lollygagging around
with a bunch of doxies.”
The spirit hesitated, then
sighed. “All right. Con permiso, I will try again.”
As the words were spoken, the bordello vanished and
the snow-covered hills of
“Ay-yi-yi! Hombre, you think I do not know?” it said, as John’s
mind flooded with memories of home. “You remember the way, do you not?”
"Remember? I can describe it so even Pedro could
find it!” As they walked along the road, John recognized every field, barn,
house and fence. Crossing a bridge, he saw spirited boys rough-housing on the
river-bank. John could name every one and called them by name, hollering,
“Merry Christmas!”
“Eh, amigo mio? Do not waste your time. They are only shadows of what
was. To them, we are nada. We do not exist.” Walking on, they came to a
one-room schoolhouse. “In there, compadre. A solitary muchacho
cleaning supply cabinets while his friends play.”
John said he knew. “But if I didn’t do it, it’s plain
as the nose on your face nobody else would’ve.”
“Are you loco?
A puff of cold air swirled the schoolhouse door open
and a laughing younger boy burst into the room. Snowflakes fell from his blond
curls. “Brrrr! Hey Johnny, you gonna stay here all night?” Sturdy legs clomped
to the desk. “We’s going ice skating.”
A smile tugged at John Cannon’s lips; he turned his
face to hide it from the Spirit, but could not stop himself from speaking.
“Buck!”
“Sí. And others.”
Head swathed in a red wool scarf, golden curls like
cornsilk down her back, a small girl rushed into the schoolhouse. Buck took her
hand and together, they urged young John to abandon work. Fog from Big John’s
breath clouded his eyes, or perhaps it was something more. “Annalee? I…I’d
forgotten.” In clearing mist, he saw a snowball sail through air and clout
Johnny’s head. A tall, rosy-cheeked boy raced forward. His younger self shouted
“Jimmy!” as Big John cried, “Why that’s Jim Forrest!” The two boys wrestled,
then ran from the room, books and erasers forgotten.
The Ghost laid a hand on his arm, and they spiraled
through air, landing at a frozen pond. “Your amigos, sí?” it asked as laughing
children skated across the ice.
John cleared his throat. “They can’t see us or hear
us?” When the Ghost shook its head, he moved closer. Johnny and Jimmy raced
across the pond. Tumbling to the bank, they lay panting steamy breath and
staring at a bright moon.
Sitting up, Jimmy dug in his pocket, nudged his friend
with a toe and held out a clumsy bundle. “Merry Christmas, Johnny. It ain’t
much, but since we’re best pals and all, I figured, well...” Grinning, he
thrust it into his hand.
Untying the string, Johnny Cannon gasped. “It’s your pocket
knife! This is the best thing... Jimmy, I can’t take this.”
“Sure you can. It’s a present, that’s what it’s
for.”
John watched with growing tightness in his chest. The
Ghost tapped his shoulder and spoke. “Too expensive, eh? And Christmas is not until
tomorrow. A foolish thing, is it not?”
Moonlight magnified the crevices of John’s face, every
year tracing a sharp line. When the Ghost tugged at his arm, he shook his head,
pulling toward the children. Buck and Annalee held hands, twirling in an awkward
circle, then fell laughing to the ice. “Seems like you brought me all this way,
we could at least stay a while.” The Spirit’s dimples framed a determined
smile, and it insisted they leave. John sagged, then squared his shoulders.
“Well, let’s get on with it.”
Wind roared from darkness, covering the school and
skating-pond with heavy snow. Disoriented, rising with only the Spirit’s hand
to steady him, John flailed weightless in a murky void, hearing only the whoosh
of cold air. Vision returned slowly as he fell into the clamor of battle.
Gunshots, shouts, shadowy men in blue uniforms. With a thud, he was on his
knees atop a gentle hill.
Gasping for breath, John saw Union soldiers crouched
behind outcroppings, firing across a wide valley into a twisted maze of broken
rocks. Returning fire from Rebel soldiers pinged against Union breastworks and
ricocheted off granite, turning
Scrambling to his feet, dusting off dirt and leaves,
John tasted bitter metal as he said, “Sugar Loaf.” Glancing across the valley
at Plum Creek, he swallowed and continued, “Little Round Top they call it now.”
He pointed a finger and barked, “I lived through this once, I
don’t much want to do it again.”
The Specter’s white hair
danced in the wind, the strangely ageless angles of its face jagged as rocky
outcroppings. It jerked its chin toward a wooden breastwork. “Mira. Look.”
Lying behind sheltering logs, Captain John Cannon
pulled a Confederate soldier roughly to a half-sitting position and shouted in
his ear. Blood ran from the man’s chest and his head lolled as Cannon ripped at
the gray woolen uniform. “You hold on, Jim. I’m getting this bullet out, but
you hold on, you hear me?” When the jacket wouldn’t yield he dug in a pocket
and retrieved a knife, unfolded it and began to cut.
His friend coughed and grasped his hand. “You still
got that thing?” When John nodded and told him to get ready, his bloody hand
gripped tighter. “Promise me, John.”
“Hold still, you damned fool. Promise you what?”
Red froth bubbled on his lips as he wheezed. “I’m not
going West with you, Johnny. I’m going to rest here a while.” He was quiet so
long Cannon thought he was gone, then, “Promise you’ll find Buck after it’s
over, and you’ll go for us all.”
When the bullet was out and Jim Forrest breathed
evenly, Captain Cannon cleaned the knife and folded it, his eyes like flint.
Turning away from his friend, he shouted, “Sergeant of the Guard! Get me a prisoner
escort on the double.”
Turning from the long-ago battlefield, John Cannon
slipped a hand into his pocket and fingered the familiar metal. “I buried my
dead in this war a long time ago.”
“Perhaps” The Ghost’s hand touched his shoulder. “In
my heart is only compassion, amigo. But it takes a certain type of hombre to
save a friend, then take him prisoner. Entiendes?”
“I only did my duty to my country,” said John, voice
cracking.
“What about duty to your friend? Was that of no
importance?”
John wiped a hand across his eyes, then set his jaw
and frowned at the Spirit. “If it was, I don’t see what I’m supposed to do
about it now. But I suppose you’re going to tell me.”
“No, gracias.” He
shrugged a shoulder. “Your problem, eh? I have important business
elsewhere.”
“Then take me back where you found me and go haunt
somebody else.”
“Bueno! There is a very lovely succubus I want know better. Andele!
Vamanos!” With that, the Spirit disappeared in a blinding flash of light
and John was again in his own bed. Exhausted, he sunk into a deep sleep.
Stave 3: The Second of the Three Spirits
A thunderous rumbling shook John to consciousness.
Buck snores like a bear with a sore foot when he ties one on, should’ve made
him sleep in the bunkhouse. He lit the bedside lamp before the pocket watch
chimed
The minute hand crept past the hour, five, ten
minutes. John extinguished the lamp, only then noticing light from downstairs
seeping underneath the bedroom door. Cursing, he pulled on boots, grabbed his
Colt and rushed to the stairs.
He skidded to a stop at the landing.
“Mighty fine, ain’t it, John Boy?” A hulking spirit
sprawled on the couch with a turkey-leg in one hand and large black boots
propped on the pillows. Wearing green so dark it appeared black, its black hat
was banded with holly and an icicle dangled from the back. Blond tufts of hair
sprang from underneath the hat, free as the Phantom’s genial face. Its eyes as
young and old as the desert, the holster on its gunbelt was empty, but a
leather ammo band around its bicep held shiny silver bullets. Biting off a hunk
of turkey, it held the drumstick to John, dripping grease on the gold velvet
upholstery. “It’s good. You want some?”
“Well, I think… maybe I’d better…” Voice
stronger than his buckling knees, John slumped into a chair and clasped shaking
hands in his lap. “I think I’ll pass.”
The happy Apparition gnawed the last gristle from the
drumstick, then pulled a pie from underneath a pillow and grabbed a chunk with
gloved fingers. “You sure you don’t need a snack to take with us?”
“No, no. But don’t hold back on my account,” he rasped,
dry-mouthed.
“Naw, I wouldn’t do that, Big John. I ain’t eat all
year.” Pie finished, the Spirit crunched an apple, tossed the core on the
coffee-table and clambered to its feet. After vigorous stretching, it rounded
the couch and pushed him toward the door. “C’mon, we got more than beeves to
round up.”
John braced himself as the heavy door swung
open, expecting to fall into dark nothingness. Instead he stepped into bright
daylight and the bustle of morning on the ranch. Sailing across the porch,
Buck’s hat slipped between his shoulder blades as he
collapsed on a bench and dropped the packages in a heap. “
“That is for me to know, Buck Cannon, and for you to
not find out.” Hand on her hips,
“All right, I said I’d help you, you don’t have to be
so noisy about it.”
“Noisy!” Face flushed, she exploded into rapid Español
and continued into the dining room. Occasional words carried out to Buck.
“Noisy….head too big from whiskey….cabeza dura…surrounded by men more
like children than children….” Sighing, he observed maybe Blue was safer in
Beef sandwich in its hand, the Spirit tapped John’s
shoulder, grinding bits of meat into his leather vest. “Blue Boy ain’t home for
Christmas?” As John turned away it stuffed food into its cheeks and mumbled,
“Boy oughta be with family for holiday, why you figure he ain’t?”
“I’m not… I’m not exactly sure,” John stammered,
clearing his parched throat. Coldness clutching his heart, fingers working at
his side, he stiffened his shoulders. “But I raised him to think for himself,
to do what he believes is right. He’s a grown man, if he wanted to come home,
he would.”
“Could be. Or could be he’s got a touch of Cannon pride, same as
you. When you come here,” it continued, pulling a full whiskey bottle from a
vest pocket, “you met with Cochise and them other Aye-patch, worked out a way
to live peaceful.” The Spirit took a swig, wiped its mouth and smacked the cork
into place. “Funny how you was willing to meet them Injuns half-way, but not your
own son.” Before John could answer, the Ghost’s beefy hand propelled him across
the yard and shoved him into the bunkhouse.
Leather, wood-smoke and grease congealed in the still
air. Metal scraped against the stovetop as Sam Butler replaced the coffeepot
and carried a steaming tin cup to his brother. Propped in a lower bunk, sweat
beaded Joe’s forehead as he struggled to push upright. “Keep the coffee, Sam,
it don’t sit right.”
Sam chewed his lip, then
drank the bitter bottom dregs. “Joe, you got no business on a horse. I’ll tell
the boss, you’ve got to get to
“What’re you gonna pay him with, my good looks?”
“We’d be better off paying him with the back end of
your horse.”
“Is that right?” Joe muttered from the corner of his
mouth. “Let’s try it, see if he can tell the difference between your face and
my horse’s a…” Hacking coughs shoved him against the rough headboard.
John winced when the Spirit prodded him with a blunt
finger, saying, “Looks like Joe Boy could ride night herd, don’t it?”
“If he was half the man he claims to be, Big John
would take care of it.” Sam muttered back. “Would you just lie down, you
ornery cuss? You’re not going anywhere. I don’t care what he says.”
Joe grinned. “Well, since you asked so purty…listen,
Sam, don’t be shooting off your mouth to Big John. He’s a good man and fair
man. And you know it. We’re lucky to be here. We could be back in San Felipe,
under Ben Lynch’s thumb. Or in jail.” He leaned back against his pillow and
fixed an innocent look on his too-pale face. “He ain’t thrown me out. That’s
something. He just wants me back on the job because I get twice as much done as
you.”
“Now I know you’re getting’ worse – whatever you got
has addled your brain.” Sam managed a smile he wasn’t really feeling. Then one
of Joe’s coughing fits made his grim look return. “Can’t I – do anything for
you?” he asked, when his brother had caught his breath.
“Large whiskey. Make it a double,” Joe croaked, wiping blood from his
lip. He grinned at his own joke.
“Some Christmas this is turning out to be,” Sam
sighed. He held Joe’s head so he could drink some water.
“Just cheer up, Sam. I promise not to make you an orphan at least until
the New Year.”
Dismay dimmed the foreman’s bright blue eyes. He got
up and paced the small room like a captured mountain cat.
Quietly, Joe said, “I ain’t scared, Sam. Don’t you be,
either.”
John Cannon grabbed the spirit’s sleeve with a sudden
urgency. “Spirit, tell me that Joe Butler is going to be all right.”
"There be an empty
place," replied the Ghost, removing the black hat and rubbing unruly hair,
"at the poker table in the bunkhouse. Unless something happens to change
it, Joe’s gonna die."
"No! It isn’t true. Tell me it’s a joke."
John’s emotion had him trying to shake the shoulders of his vapor-like host.
"I’m telling you straight out, Big John, come
spring you’ll be short one ranch hand.” The Spirit slammed the hat on its head and
spoke through clenched teeth. “Just because Joe’s a
John hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the
Spirit. There was nothing he could say in reply. And then blackness surrounded
him, the Ghost’s voice echoing into oblivion, “You can always hire some other
man to take his place.”
Stave 4: The Last of the Spirits
In the darkness John twitched awake, every nerve raw
and senses stretched to breaking. For a moment he thought he’d dozed between
Apache attacks or battles to save the
Choking dread leapt in his stomach as John pushed back
covers and heaved his feet to the floor. Staring at the Wraith, honest fear
gripped John, but his determination spoke, “Let’s get on with it.” The Spirit
nodded, and pointed to the door. As John stepped forward the room darkened and
then lightened in a blur.
As the scene cleared around him, he saw a well-worn
saloon, waxy candles burned low in clay holders and sawdust on the scuffed
floor. The tall bartender stretched, pushing back long hair and re-tying his
apron across decades of beer. Fitness clung to broad shoulders and strong hands
as he filled mugs and delivered them to a table of poker players.
The three cronies played listless cards and gossiped,
draining beer in gulps. White hair hanging in greasy strings, the fat one
leaned back in his chair and offered, “Gimme two cards, Jimmy John. Now what I
hear is, he died by hisself, fell over in the middle of that big compound.”
The dealer’s one tooth shone against blackened gums as
he licked a thumb and carefully peeled off cards. “’Course he was by hisself,
ain’t got nobody but hisself do he? Run off all his kin from what I hear.” He
rubbed a liver-spotted hand across his bald head, then leaned forward and
whispered, in his deafness loud enough for crows to hear. “They’s gold in old
placer mines scattered all over the ranch. Old buzzard was too dang stubborn to
dig it out.”
The stocky player fanned his cards and snorted. “Jimmy
John, you dream gold in the middle of
The newcomer was a broad man in black. He bent
stiffly, retrieved broken pieces of chair and tossed them at the unconscious
player. After dusting his hands, he rubbed gloved fingers through unruly hair,
replaced his battered black hat and nodded at the two old-timers. “Jimmy, Len.
You got something else to say?”
Jimmy John grinned around his one tooth. “Nope. Good
to see you Buck. Staying long?”
Buck Cannon’s face was dark as he turned away. “Not
any longer than I have to.”
Elbow propped on the bar, Sam Butler poured whiskey
into shot glasses. “Well Bucko, it was a fair fight.” Buck nodded, they clinked
glasses, grimaced, and tossed off the redeye.
Frowning, John turned to the Spirit. “My brother never
needed an excuse to break up a saloon. Who were they talking about?” Quiet as a
grave, the ghostly presence floated over the batwing doors, leaving John no choice
but to follow. It pointed two ghastly, unfleshed fingers north, and John saw
two men walking towards him. He knew them both very well – Creed Hallock, who
managed the bank in
"Mr. Hallock, how are you?" said
Ebenezer, doffing his derby hat.
"Fine, thanks. You?" Creed gave a nod
of his head.
"Have you heard the news? The big man has met his
maker at last."
"So I am told. Cold, isn't it?"
"Seasonable for Christmas time. Mrs. Hallock is well, I take it?"
"Very well. I’ll tell her you asked. Well, time to get to
work."
“Good morning to you.”
Not another word. That was their meeting, their
conversation, and their parting.
John could not help wondering why such a trivial
dialogue would need to be heard. Obviously someone had died but he couldn’t
think who it would be or what bearing it had on him. Though this spirit
frightened him to the very depths of his soul, he was tempted to chide it for
wasting time. Surely there were lessons for him to learn; after what he had
been through the past few nights, of that much he was sure. Why couldn’t they
just be made apparent?
As if reading his thoughts, the ghost turned its
unseeing eyes on John. It raised a black bony hand and pointed once more. The
town of
The Phantom spread its dark robe before him for a
moment, like a wing; and withdrawing it, revealed a room at night time. John
recognized it instantly as the bunkhouse and he breathed a shuddering sigh of
relief to be back in familiar surroundings.
What was unfamiliar was the behavior of the ranch
hands. No one played poker, no one even spoke.
When Sam opened the door they all jumped up and
gathered around him. John, who knew this man as well as if he was another
brother, saw a face that had aged greatly, full of a sadness that could only
come from the heart. An odd mixture of emotions gave the foreman a remarkable
expression; as if he wanted to smile but knew that he shouldn’t.
“Compadre, tell us, por favor!” Pedro
finally broke the silence. Sam slunk down into the nearest chair.
"Is it good or bad?" Ira tried to help him.
Sam appeared embarrassed how to answer. Finally,
holding any emotion in check he blurted out, "Bad.”
"He wants the money we borrowed to get Joe to the
sanatorium and he wants it right now,”
"No, it’s not that. There’s still some
hope."
Ira fell into the chair next to Sam. "If he
forgives the debt," he said, amazed, "then it’s a blamed
miracle.”
“He actually relented?” asked Wind.
"He’s past relenting," said Sam. "He’s
dead."
To a man their expressions now rivaled Sam’s; one
second full of thankfulness and relief, and the next, sadness and guilt.
“I thought he was avoiding me all this time,” Sam continued.
“Turns out he was awful sick. Dying.”
“So who do we have to pay the dinero back to
now?” asked Pedro.
"I don't know. But before that time we’ll be
ready with the money; I’ll be ready. I never should have let you all get
involved. It was up to me to take care of my brother.”
“You tried to stop us, remember?” Ira attempted a
smile. “Didn’t work.”
“Si. Un amigo bueno.
It was a few pesos well spent.” Pedro remained serious.
“Well, it ain’t possible to owe anybody that’s
more hard-hearted than he was,”
Sam started to smile and tried to stop it at the same
time which produced something like a twitch. “Boys, I’m not gonna worry. Let’s
just get a good night’s sleep tonight for a change.”
They moved towards their bunks and prepared for sleep,
no one speaking. Only when the gas lamp had been dimmed, a low voice, lighter
in spirit murmured, “He’s really dead. Seems fitting, don’t it, Sam?”
The foreman made no reply.
Who the devil had died? John wondered. Who would the
ranch hands have gone to for money? When it had been borrowed to help a sick
man, what kind of miser would hold the debt over their heads? Sounded like
something Don Sebastian would do, though that miserly man had expired long
before this scene occurred. Still, this lack of remorse over someone’s death
was beginning to weigh heavily on him. Could a similar reaction be all his own end would meet?
“Spirit,” he murmured as politely as he could,
“Couldn’t you show me something that isn’t so… discouraging?” He had barely finished
his words when the scene once again swirled into a cold mist. When it lifted he
faced the little cemetery where Annalee was buried. Though it was not yet dawn,
Sam Butler stood among the graves, his head hanging low. After a minute he
crossed himself slowly, as if the gesture was not yet a routine. He started for
the house without raising his head.
Before John had a chance to step aside, Sam had walked
right through him; an unnerving experience that made John totter on the solid
ground. Sam knocked on the door, his back to his unseen audience. John did not
need to see the man’s face to notice the changes in his foreman. The formerly
strong shoulders were stooped now and his head hung low. An air of listlessness
hung over him as obvious as a cloud of smoke.
“Sam! Merry Christmas!”
John saw Sam’s face then and drew back in some alarm.
The man looked as if he had aged ten years; his face pale and drawn, his eyes
bleary. But
“I don’t know if we got too much reason for
celebrating,” Sam mumbled as
“That is the wrong word, perhaps. Forgive me,” she
said quietly.
John was more than surprised to see his foreman lay his hand in a particularly tender way on his wife’s arm.
“There ain’t nothing to forgive. You’ve been like an angel these past months,
helping me – helping us all to get through this. I couldn’t have handled it
without you. And I ain’t done anything to help you.”
They both sat back, drinking their coffee. “And you
stayed,”
John bristled at the way Sam’s sad blue eyes lit up, and
now it was Victoria who put her hand on his arm. The silence between the two
seemed to bring them comfort but John wished he had a voice to disrupt it. He
breathed a sigh of relief when they got up and moved into the living room,
sitting across from one another.
“I know it was late when Blue finally arrived last
night, but did he tell you what he has planned?” asked Sam.
“There was a great deal of news to share. He still
enjoys his life in
“He’s not coming back here for good?”
“He is not. It is not the life for him. He has many
plans; a great future in front of him. He will have much success, though it is
very different than his father envisioned. And I am happy for him. Though I
cannot help but feel sad for myself. We cried together last night, Blue and I.”
“I don’t want you to cry!” Sam exclaimed with as much
fervor as if she was weeping pitifully now. “If I had anything to say about it,
you’d never have a reason to cry a day in your life.” Then he cringed at
the outburst. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s got in to me lately. I should
go….”
“Please don’t.”
He stared down into her face as if seeing its beauty
for the first time. An incredible joy crept into his eyes but he shut them
suddenly and shook his head. “I’ll be the foreman here as long as you want me
to. It’s…so soon after…you can’t mean…”
“Perhaps you do not want to stay here and be reminded
of your brother,”
He reached out for her, awkwardly, and she grasped his
hands. “Where will you take me?”
“Sometimes I do think about going.” he murmured. “But
how could I? I can’t get my mind around leaving Joe out there, all alone. The
ground is so cold…I must be crazy.” He tried to laugh; a painful sound that
brought
“Sam,” she said gently, lovingly. “Joe is not in the
ground. Not the Joe we loved. He is in Heaven right now, do you not know
that?”
Now he smiled; a full, honest smile. “My brother, that
mangy cuss, in Heaven? Are you sure about that?”
They laughed together and moved closer still.
“I still think I’m crazy. “Cause I can hear Joe talking
plain as day right now.”
“And what is he saying?”
“’Grab her quick and don’t ever let go, you crazy
fool. Tell her that her dreams are your dreams. And that you’ll make all of her
dreams come true.”
“I always liked your brother…”
The scene faded to blackness in front of John’s
confused eyes. The Spirit once again waved its shrouded arm in a new
direction.
“No!” John shouted. “Give me a blessed minute to
think, won’t you!” He sunk to the ground and gripped his head in his
hands. The words and visions he had just experienced swam in a jumble. He let a
moan escape his lips.
“Spirit, I can’t take any more. Mark my words, I’ll do
everything in my power to change what I’ve seen. Let tonight be over, take me
home to my wife and by all that’s holy, I’ll be a new man.” But the Ghost
glided away, pointing ahead.
Familiar darkness swept John yet again to a different
time. He understood there was no order in these visions, except they were of
the future. He stumbled, catching himself on the familiar hitching post. Wind
blew sand against his clothes and stung his eyes, behind him the front door
hung on one hinge, banging loosely against the frame. Desolation covered the
compound and house. Crossbeam posts were broken and charred, the adobe divider
crumbled, and the side porch collapsed on itself. Loud creaking from the
windmill echoed in emptiness.
John hurried to the porch, but the Spirit stopped him,
motioning to the front gate.
“This is my house, whatever year it is,” John said,
pushing his way past. “Let me by.” Still the spirit pointed.
Stepping around weeds and trash, John wrenched open
the door to a bare room. Blown sand piled in corners, broken dining room
windows and shutters. He strode to the Spirit, demanding, “All we worked for
and built, come to nothing? The land, the ranch, abandoned?” John turned away,
overcome, then spun back. “Before I follow you, tell me one thing. Is this what
will be, or what might be?” The Ghost stood, unwavering, and John continued,
“Tell me! If a man changes his ways, can he change his future?”
As the Spirit’s finger demanded attention, John Cannon
at last looked beyond the front gate, where the once proud sign hung crooked
and broken. Sighting along the Ghost’s course, he cried out, then ran toward
the small hill covered with chaparral and a lone saguaro. When he reached
Annalee’s grave, he fell to his knees and covered his eyes. “No, no, I won’t
look. I won’t.” The Spirit stood beside him, pointing to a second grave.
Slowly, John rose to his feet and spoke through clenched teeth. “I understand.
Do you hear me? I understand. And by God, I won’t be the man I was. I didn’t
bury her here to have all this be for nothing.”
Cold as death, the Phantom ignored him. Thinking to
see its face, John reached for its shoulder. As he spun it toward him, its
flesh collapsed, the heavy robe shrinking under his fingers. A shriek echoed
through the desert, assaulting his ears. Grasping cloth with both hands, he
clutched at the Spirit, gathering the material to his chest and face. The
Spirit’s howling changed in his ears, becoming his own voice; the heavy, rough
robe softened. In the darkness of his familiar bedroom, John Cannon held
handfuls of his own bedclothes.
Stave 5: The End of It
The mist cleared once more, leaving John Cannon in his
bedroom. Unbroken furniture clean, glass whole in windows. Clapping his hands, he
laughed. “I’m alive, and it’s today! Past, Present, and Future, I’m a man who’s
seen all three, and I’m alive!” Rushing to the window, he threw aside the
curtains, tugged open the window, and stuck his head out. “Hey, what’s today?”
he called to Pedro as he crossed the yard toward the corral, carrying a saddle.
“You talking to me, Boss?” returned the lanky ranch
hand, scratching his head.
“Today, Pedro, what’s today?”
He searched the compound, then
shrugged. “Es Navidad. Christmas Day.”
John leaned against the window sill, relief pouring
through his veins. “Christmas Day. I didn’t miss it. They did it in one night.
A bunch of ghosts, I guess they can do anything they want.” Leaning out the
window again, he yelled, “You’re a fine man, you know that?”
Pedro’s expressive eyes bulged as he edged away from
the ranch-house, holding the saddle between himself and his employer. “Sí,
that’s right, whatever you say, Señor Cannon.”
“Smart man, really remarkable,” John said to himself.
“I should’ve noticed it before.” He continued louder, “Pedro, take a good
horse! Take the best horse in the corral, and get yourself to the MacLeish
place! You men need a proper dinner tonight and one bird isn’t enough. Get the
biggest turkey there and be back in an hour, there’s an extra ten dollars in it
for you.” He withdrew into the room then ducked his head out again. “Make it in
half an hour, I’ll give you fifteen.”
“¡Ay,
Wide smile on his face, John clapped his hands
together and spun toward the door, yelling, “
“What is wrong John?” Expressive eyes wide, she
hurried from the hall, arms full of linens. “You are bellowing like a mad bull.
Are you ill?”
“I’m just fine, dear.” Taking the bundle from
her and laying it on the bed, he kissed her tenderly, then wrapped her in his
arms and waltzed her around the room. Holding her tightly, he murmured, “I’m
the luckiest man alive, and you’re the best Christmas present I’ll ever have.”
“Oh John,” she answered, eyes shining, “hearing that
is all the gift I need.”
The High Chaparral ranch hands awoke to the sound of
loud banging over their heads. Reno sat up so quickly he bumped his head on the
bunk over him, Wind was on his feet in an instant, knife drawn, Ira groaned and
pulled his pillow over his ears to muffle the intrusion.
“What in blazes…”
“Santy Claus has remembered
us after all,” Joe laughed, coughed, then laughed some more. “I guess he’s
having a hard time finding our chimney and is gonna make his own.”
“Santy Claus must be a whole
lot fatter than he is in the pictures,”
“I thought that this Claus man was a storybook
character,” Wind hollered over the noise that seemed to shake the entire
structure. “Buck told me – he has a flying
buckboard for delivering presents.”
“That’s right. Only it ain’t the buckboard that flies,
it’s the twenty beeves. Can’t you hear ‘em on our roof?” Joe continued to laugh
though it made his breath come in hard, strangled rasps.
Ira flung his pillow across the room, hitting Joe in
the head. “What have you got to be so cheerful about? It’s supposed to be
our day off. It ain’t even hardly day yet.”
“It’s Christmas. And I’m still alive. Seems like
a good day to me.”
Sam said nothing but stumbled into britches and boots.
Grabbing his jacket and holster, Sam raced outside to find John Cannon on the
bunkhouse roof, pounding a thick plank over the hole that had contributed to
their frosty living conditions. The big man sat back on his haunches and took
the nails out of his mouth.
“What do you mean by sleeping until this hour of the
day?” he bellowed at his foreman. “There’s work to be done! This roof isn’t
going to fix itself, you know.”
Still woozy from sleep, Sam rubbed his eyes and tried
to think. “But Boss…it’s Christmas Day. You said…you gave us the day off.
Remember?”
“Bah!” John climbed down the ladder with menacing
steps. “Paying good wages – fair wages! – to a bunch of men who don’t
appreciate the good job they have. And your brother – laying around all day,
not pulling his weight, just because he’s a little under the weather. Well, I’m
not going to stand for it any longer, you hear?”
Sam’s mouth was open but no words came. Then he saw
John take a step toward him and raise his arm. But the large hand came down to
clap him on the shoulder.
“So I’m going to take care of him. Least I can do for
someone who’s helped me make Chaparral what it is. I would never have realized
my dream for this ranch if it wasn’t for you and Joe and all the hard work
you’ve done. First thing tomorrow we’ll go into
The man was smiling as broadly as Sam had ever seen,
his large frame practically twitching with delight. Sam wondered if he should call
the boys to help restrain the poor soul who had obviously lost his senses
during the night or perhaps just knock him out before he did an injury to
himself. He settled for taking the hammer out of his employer’s hand.
“You want to sit down a minute, Boss?”
John laughed and clapped Sam’s shoulder again. “Yes,
let’s go in the house and have some breakfast. Have all the men come in.
He turned towards the house, then wheeled around and
started towards the barn at top speed. “I need to send a telegram. Right now,
to Blue. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll tell him - no, I’ll ask him…”
Sam grabbed his arm. “The telegraph office won’t be
open yet, Mr. Cannon.”
John laughed again. But then he sighed; a deep,
pleasurable sigh, and seemed to become more himself. “Of course you’re right.
There are just so many things I want to…put right. But I have the rest of my
life to do it, don’t I? I intend to live a very, very long time.”
Later in a
Amid the medicinal smells, Ben Plant tapped out his
pipe and shook his head. “It’s no problem, John, but there’s nothing more I can
do for him. Maybe a specialist can offer some hope, but I’ll be honest, it
doesn’t look good.”
“Listen to me Doc,” John leaned forward in his chair,
one hand tugging at his glove. “I don’t care what it costs, Joe Butler built
Chaparral alongside me and my family. I want him well.”
“There’s a good man in
Standing, John shook the doctor’s hand. “You just get
the best man for the job. Tomorrow. Merry Christmas, Ben.”
Mid-morning, most streets of
At a well-to-do townhouse in
“Katheen, bring the young man to the kitchen for a
toddy.” A weed of a man, he sighed and peered over the top of his pince-nez
spectacles at her frowning face. “In the spirit of the season, Katy. At least
for tonight remember you work for me and give the poor man a decent drink.”
Grumbling, she thrust the envelope at her boss and bustled
the deliveryman away.
With long, thin fingers, Benton Arthur Carson adjusted
his glasses and eyed the envelope. Eyebrows raised, he called, “William, I
think you should attend to this.”
Dressed in patterned waistcoat, winged collar, and
Benton Carson stepped precisely to his side study and
poured two small brandy glasses. “I surmised as much. No one ill, I hope?”
“No.” Blue sat on an overstuffed wingchair and
glanced at his employer. “I’m not sure what to make of this, to tell you the
truth. Listen. ‘Merry Christmas, Blue. Never doubt you have a home if you want
it.’ Then it says LK 15:23-24. What the heck does that mean?”
“William there are times I
despair of making you a civilized man.”
“And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let
us eat, and be merry: for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was
lost, and is found. And they began to be merry.” The book fell slack in his
hand as Blue stared into space. “Well I’ll be.”
Topping off the brandy glasses, Benton Arthur Carson
raised a toast. “Merry Christmas, William. I think I shall not see you here
next holiday season.”
Blue rose from his chair and crossed to the door,
opened it and stared across the city, westward. Streetlamps rose like arms of
saguaro among the mountains of buildings. Running fingers through his hair, he
bit his lip, then turned to the study. “Mr. Carson, could you spare me for a
few weeks?”
Christmas evening, John Cannon walked to the edge of
his ranch-house porch, leaned against the divider, and stared east. He smiled
fondly at
Patting her hand, John answered, “I hope so, Victoria.
But I promise you, I’ve learned something. The people I love are more important
than anything else in this world. And I won’t rest until all of them are here
with me.”
John Cannon was a man of his word. His stubborn will
and iron purpose changed his nightmarish future to one of peace and prosperity.
Once rekindled, the softness of his heart, which
Of the Sprits, he never told a soul, nor did he ever
see them again. In
On that day, his youngest grandson Timothy Cannon,
crept into weeping
The End
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