Speaker 1: Santa Claus at Simpson's Bar by Brett Hart. It was
nearly midnight when the festivities were interrupted. Hush, said Dick Bullen,
holding up his hand. It was the querulous voice of
Johnny from his adjacent closet. Oh dad. The old man
rose hurriedly and disappeared in the closet. Presently he reappeared.
His rheumatiz is come on again, bad, he explained, and
he wants robbin. He lifted the demijohn of whisky from
the table and shook it. It was empty. Dick Bullen
put down his tin cup with an embarrassed laugh, so
did the others. The old man examined their contents and said, hopefully,
I reckon, that's enough. He don't need much. You hold on.
I'll you for a spell. An I'll be back, and
vanished in the closet with an old flannel shirt and
the whisky. The door closed imperfectly, and the following dialogue
was distinctly audible. Now, Sonny, where does she ache worst?
Sometimes over here and sometimes under ear, but it's most
powerful from year to ear. Rub your dad. A silence
seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. Then Johnny having a
good time out ere, Dad, Yes, Sonny, Tomorrow's Christmas, ain't it? Yes? Sonny?
How does she feel now? Better? Rub a little further down?
What's Christmas anyway? What's it all about? Oh? It's a day.
This exhaustive definition was apparently satisfactory, for there was a
silent interval of rubbing. Presently Johnny again, Mars says that
everywhere else but ear, everybody gives things to everybody Christmas.
And then she just waded in to you. She says,
there's a man they call Sandy Claws. Not a white man,
you know, but a kind a chinaman comes down a
chimbly night afore Christmas, an gives things to chillern boys
like me, puts em in their boots. That's what she
tried to play upon me. Easy, now, Pop, where are
you rubbin' to? That's a mile from the place. She
jest made that up, didn't she jest? Aggrawate me? And
you don't rub thar? Why? Dad? In the great quiet
that seemed to have fallen upon the house, the sigh
of the near pines and the drip of leaves without
was very distinct. Johnny's voice, too, was lowered as he
went on don't you take on now, for I'm gettin
all right fast. What's the boys doin out there? The
old man partly opened the door and peered through. His
guests were sitting there sociably enough, and there were a
few silver coins and the lean buckskin purse on the table.
Men on settin some little game or another. They're all right,
he replied to Johnny, and recommenced his rubbing. I'd like
to take a hand and win some money, said Johnny reflectively.
After a pause, the old man repeated what was evidently
a familiar formula that if Johnny would wait until he
struck it rich in the tunnel, he'd have lots of money,
et cetera, et cetera, as said Johnny, But you don't.
And whether you strack it or I win it, it's
about the same. It's all luck. But it's mighty curious
about Christmas, ain't it? Why do they call it Christmas?
Perhaps from some instinctive deference to the overhearing of his guests,
or from some vague sense of incongruity, the old man's
reply was so low as to be inaudible. Beyond the room,
as said Johnny, with some slight abatement of interest. I've
heard him before. Bar that'll do, Dad. I don't ache
near so bad as I did. Now wrap me tight
and miss your blanket. So now, he added in a
muffled whisper, sit down near by, meekle I go to sleep.
To assure himself of obedience, he disengaged one hand from
the blanket, and, grasping his father's sleeve, again, composed himself
to rest. For some moments. The old man waited patiently.
Then the unwonted stillness of the house excited his curiosity,
and without moving from the bed, he cautiously opened the
door with his disengaged hand and looked into the main room.
To his infinite surprise, it was dark and deserted, but
even then a smoldering log on the hearth broke, and
by the upspringing blaze he saw the figure of Dick
Bullen sitting by the dying embers. Hello, Dick started rose
and came somewhat unsteadily towards him. Where's the ball? A ways?
Said the old man, Gone up the canyon on a
little passier. They're coming back for me in a minute.
I'm waitin around for them. What are you starin at
old man, He added, with a forced laugh. Do you
think I'm drunk? The old man had been pardoned, the supposition,
for Dick's eyes were humid and his face flushed. He
loitered and lounged back to the chimney, yawned and shook himself,
buttoned up his coat, and laughed. Lequer ain't so plenty
as that old man. Now, don't you get up, he continued,
as the old man made a movement to release his
sleeve from Johnny's hand. Don't you mind? Manners? Sit, jist
where you are. I'm goin in a jiffy lor. That's
them now. There was a low tap at the door.
Dick Bullen opened it, quickly, nodded good night to his host,
and disappeared. The old man would have followed him, but
for the hand that still unconsciously grasped his sleeve. He
could have easily disengaged it. It was small, week and emaciated.
But perhaps because it was small, weak and emaciated, he
changed his mind, and, drawing his chair closer to the bed,
rested his head upon it. In this defenseless attitude. The
potency of his earlier potations surprised him. The room flickered
and faded before his eyes reappeared, faded again, went out
and left him asleep. Meanwhile, Dick Bullen, closing the door,
confronted his companions. You're ruddy, said Staples, Ready, said Dick.
What's the time? Plus twelve? Was the reply? Can you
make it? It's now on fifty miles the round trip?
Hither and yon I Reckon returned Dick shortly. Where's the mare?
Bill and Jack's holding her at the crossing? Let em
hold on a minute longer, said Dick. He turned and
re entered the house softly by the light of the
guttering candle and dying fire. He saw that the door
of the little room was open. He stepped toward it
on tiptoe and looked in. The old man had fallen
back in his chair, snoring, his helpless feet thrust out
in a line with his collapsed shoulders, and his hat
pulled over his eyes. Beside him, on a narrow wooden
bedstead lay Johnny, muffled tightly in a blanket that hid
all save a strip of forehead and a few curls.
Damp with perspiration. Dick Bullen made a step forward, hesitated
and glanced over his shoulder into the deserted room. Everything
was quiet. With a sudden resolution, he parted his huge
mustaches with both hands and stooped over the sleeping boy.
But even as he did so, a mischievous blast lying
in wait, swooped down the chimney, rekindled the hearth and
lit up the room with a shameless glow, from which
Dick fled in bashful terror. His companions were already waiting
for him at the crossing. Two of them were struggling
in the darkness with some strange, misshapen bulk, which, as
Dick came nearer, took the semblance of a great yellow horse.
It was the mare. She was not a pretty picture.
From her roman nose to her rising haunches, from her
arched spine hidden by the stiff machillas of a Mexican saddle,
to her thick, straight, bony legs. There was not a
line of equine grace in her half blind but holy
vicious white eyes, in her protruding underlip, in her monstrous color,
there was nothing but ugliness and vice. Now, then, said Staples,
stunned clerk of her heels, boy, and up with you.
Don't miss your first bolt of her mane, and mind
you get your off stirrup quick ready. There was a leap,
a scrambling, a bound, a wild retreat of the crowd,
a circle of flying hoofs, two springless leaps that jarred
the earth, a rapid play and jingle of spurs, a plunge,
and then the voice of Dick somewhere in the darkness.
All right, don't take the lower road back unless you're
pushed hard for time. Don't hold her in down hill.
We'll be at the ford at five klang Hoopa, mullah go,
A splash, a spark struck from the ledge in the road,
a clatter in the rocky cut beyond, and Dick was gone.
Sing O muse, the ride of Richard Bullen, sing O
muse of chivalrous men, the sacred quest, the doughty deeds,
the battery of low churls, the fearsome ride and gruesome
perils of the flower of Simpson's bar a lac. She
is dainty, this muse. She will have none of this
bucking brute and swaggering, ragged rider. And I must fain
follow him in prose afoot. It was one o'clock, and
yet he had only gained Rattlesnake Hill, For in that
time Hovita had rehearsed to him all her imperfections and
practiced all her vices thryce had she stumbled twice, had
she thrown up her roman nose in a straight line
with the reins and resum listing bit and spurs, struck
out madly across country, twice, had she reared and rearing
fallen backward. And twice had the agile Dick, unharmed, regained
his seat before she found her vicious legs again. And
a mile beyond them, at the foot of a long hill,
was Rattlesnake Creek. Dick knew that here was the crucial
test of his ability to perform his enterprise, set his
teeth grimly, put his knees well into her flanks, and
changed his defensive tactics to brisk aggression. Bullied and maddened,
Hobita began the descent of the hill. Here the artful
Richard pretended to hold her in with ostentatious objurgation and
well feigned cries of alarm. It is unnecessary to add
that Hobita instantly ran away, nor need I state the
time made in the descent. It is written in the
Chronicles of Simpson's bar Enough that in another moment, as
it seemed to Dick, she was splat rushing on the
overflowed banks of Rattlesnake Creek. As Dick expected, the momentum
she had acquired carried her beyond the point of bulking,
and holding her well together for a mighty leap. They
dashed into the middle of the swiftly flowing current. A
few moments of kicking, waiting and swimming, and Dick drew
a long breath on the opposite bank. The road from
Rattlesnake Creek to Red Mountain was tolerably level. Either the
plunge into Rattlesnake Creek had dampened her baleful fire, or
the art which led to it had shown her the
superior wickedness of her rider. For Jovita no longer wasted
her surplus energy in wanton conceits. Once she bucked, but
it was from force of habit. Once she shied, but
it was from a new, freshly painted meeting house. At
the crossing of the country road, hollows ditches, gravelly deposits,
patches of freshly springing grasses, flew from beneath her rattling hoofs.
She began to smell unpleasantly. Once or twice she coughed slightly,
but there was no abatement of her strength or speed.
By two o'clock she had passed Red Mountain and begun
the descent to the plain. Ten minutes later, the driver
of the fast Pioneer coach was overtaken and passed by
a man on a Pinto hoss, an event sufficiently notable
for remark. At half past two, Dick rose in his
stirrups with a great shout. Stars were glittering through the
rifted clouds, and beyond him, out of the plane rose
two spires, a flagstaff, and a straggling line of black objects.
Dick jingled his spurs and swung his riata. Jovita bounded forward,
and in another moment they swept into Tuttleville and drew
up before the wooden piazza of the Hotel of All Nations.
What transpired that night at Tuttleville is not strictly a
part of this record. Briefly, I may state, however, that
after Hoviita had been handed over to a sleepy ostler,
whom she at once kicked into unpleasant consciousness. Dick sallied
out with the bar keeper for a tour of the
sleeping town. Lights still gleamed from a few saloons and
gambling houses, but avoiding these, they stopped before several closed shops,
and by persistent tapping and judicious outcry roused the proprietors
from their beds, and made them unbar the doors of
their magazines and exposed their wares. Sometimes they were met
by curses, but oftener by interest and some concern in
their needs. It was three o'clock before this pleasantry was
given over, and with a small waterproof bag of India
rubbers strapped on his shoulders, Dick returned to the hotel,
and then he sprang to the saddle and dashed down
the lonely street and out into the lonelier plane, where
presently the lights, the black line of houses, the spires
and the flagstaff sank into the earth behind him again
and were lost in the distance. The storm had cleared away,
the air was brisk and cold, the outlines of adjacent
landmarks were distinct, but it was half past four before
Dick reached the meeting house and the crossing of the
country road. To avoid the rising grade, he had taken
a longer and more circuitous road, in whose viscid mud
Jovita sank fetlocked deep at every bound. It was a
poor preparation for a steady ascent of five miles more,
but Hoviita, gathering her legs under her, took it with
her usual blind, unreasoning fury, and a half hour later
reached the long level that led to Rattlesnake Creek. Another
half hour would bring him to the creek. He threw
the reins lightly upon the neck of the mare, chirruped
to her and began to sing. Suddenly, Hobita shied with
a bound that would have unseated a less practiced rider.
Hanging to her rein was a figure that had leaped
from the bank and at the same time from the road.
Before her arose a shadowy horse and rider. Pour off
your hands, commanded the second apparition with an oath. Dick
felt the mare tremble, quiver and apparently sink under him.
He knew what it meant and was prepared stand aside.
Jack Simpson, I know you, you damned thief. Let me
pass or he did not finish the sentence, Hovita rose
straight in the air and with a terrific bound, throwing
the figure from her bit with a single shake of
her vicious head, and charged with deadly malevolence down on
the impediment before her. An oath, a pistol, shot horse,
and highwaymen rolled over in the road, and the next
moment Hovita was a hundred yards away, but the good
right arm of her rider, shattered by a bullet, dropped
helplessly at his side. Without slacking his speed, he lifted
the reins to his left hand, but a few moments
later he was obliged to halt and tighten the saddle
girths that had slipped in the onset. This, in his
crippled condition, took some time. He had no fear of pursuit.
But looking up he saw that the eastern stars were
already paling, and that the distant peaks had lost their
ghostly whiteness and now stood out blackly against the lighter sky.
Day was upon him. Then, completely absorbed in a single idea,
he forgot the pain of his wound, and, mounting again,
dashed on towards Rattlesnake Creek. But now Movita's breath came
broken by gasps. Dick reeled in his saddle, and brighter
and brighter grew the sky. Ride Richard run Jovita Linger
o day. For the last few rods, there was a
roaring in his ears. Was it exhaustion from a loss
of blood or what? He was dazed and giddy as
he swept down the hill and did not recognize his surroundings.
Had he taken the wrong road? Or was this Rattlesnake Creek?
It was but the brawling creek he had swum a
few hours before had risen more than double its volume,
and now rolled the swift and resistless river between him
and Rattlesnake Hill. For the first time that night, Richard's
heart sank with the in him. The river, the mountain,
the quickening east swam before his eyes. He shut them
to recover his self control. In that brief interval, by
some fantastic mental process, the little room at Simpson's Bar,
and the figures of the sleeping father and son rose
upon him. He opened his eyes wildly, cast off his coat, pistol,
boots and saddle, bound his precious pack tightly to his shoulders,
grasped the bare flanks of Jovita with his bared knees,
and with a shout, dashed into the yellow water. A
cry arose from the opposite bank as the head of
a man and horse struggled for a few moments against
the battling current, and then were swept away amidst uprooted
trees and whirling driftwood. The old man started and woke.
The fire on the hearth was dead, the candle in
the outer room flickering in its socket, and somebody was
rapping at the door. He opened it, but fell back
with a cry before the dripping, half naked figure that
reeled against the door post. Nick, hush, is he awake yet? No?
But Dick, dry up, you old fool. Get me some
whiskey quick. The old man flew and returned with an
empty bottle. Dick would have sworn, but his strength was
not equal to the occasion. He staggered, caught at the
handle of the door, and motioned to the old man,
there's something in the pack. Care for Johnny, take it off.
I can't. The old man unstrapped the pack and laid
it before the exhausted man. Open it quick. He did
so with trembling fingers. It contained only a few poor toys,
cheap and barbaric, enough goodness nose, but bright with paint
and tinsel. One of them was broken, another, I fear
was irretrievably ruined by water, and the third, ah me,
there was a cruel spot. And don't look like much.
That's a fact, said Dick ruefully. But that's the best
we could do. Take him, old man, and put him
in his stocking and tell him. Tell him, you know,
hold me, old man, the old man caught at his
sinking figure, Tell him, said Dick, with a weak little laugh.
Tell him, Sandy Claus has come. And even so, bedraggled, ragged,
unshaven and unshorn, with one arm hanging helplessly at his side,
Santa Claus came to Simpson's bar and fell fainting on
the first threshold. The Christmas dawn came slowly after touching
the remoter peaks with the rosy warmth of ineffable love,
and it looked so tenderly on Simpson's bar that the
whole mountain, as if caught in a generous action, blushed
to the skies. And of Santa Claus at Simpson's bar
by Brett Hart,