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Speaker 1: Santa Claus at Simpson's Bar by Brett Hart. It was

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nearly midnight when the festivities were interrupted. Hush, said Dick Bullen,

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holding up his hand. It was the querulous voice of

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Johnny from his adjacent closet. Oh dad. The old man

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rose hurriedly and disappeared in the closet. Presently he reappeared.

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His rheumatiz is come on again, bad, he explained, and

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he wants robbin. He lifted the demijohn of whisky from

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the table and shook it. It was empty. Dick Bullen

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put down his tin cup with an embarrassed laugh, so

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did the others. The old man examined their contents and said, hopefully,

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I reckon, that's enough. He don't need much. You hold on.

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I'll you for a spell. An I'll be back, and

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vanished in the closet with an old flannel shirt and

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the whisky. The door closed imperfectly, and the following dialogue

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was distinctly audible. Now, Sonny, where does she ache worst?

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Sometimes over here and sometimes under ear, but it's most

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powerful from year to ear. Rub your dad. A silence

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seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. Then Johnny having a

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good time out ere, Dad, Yes, Sonny, Tomorrow's Christmas, ain't it? Yes? Sonny?

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How does she feel now? Better? Rub a little further down?

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What's Christmas anyway? What's it all about? Oh? It's a day.

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This exhaustive definition was apparently satisfactory, for there was a

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silent interval of rubbing. Presently Johnny again, Mars says that

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everywhere else but ear, everybody gives things to everybody Christmas.

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And then she just waded in to you. She says,

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there's a man they call Sandy Claws. Not a white man,

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you know, but a kind a chinaman comes down a

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chimbly night afore Christmas, an gives things to chillern boys

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like me, puts em in their boots. That's what she

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tried to play upon me. Easy, now, Pop, where are

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you rubbin' to? That's a mile from the place. She

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jest made that up, didn't she jest? Aggrawate me? And

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you don't rub thar? Why? Dad? In the great quiet

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that seemed to have fallen upon the house, the sigh

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of the near pines and the drip of leaves without

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was very distinct. Johnny's voice, too, was lowered as he

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went on don't you take on now, for I'm gettin

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all right fast. What's the boys doin out there? The

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old man partly opened the door and peered through. His

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guests were sitting there sociably enough, and there were a

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few silver coins and the lean buckskin purse on the table.

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Men on settin some little game or another. They're all right,

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he replied to Johnny, and recommenced his rubbing. I'd like

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to take a hand and win some money, said Johnny reflectively.

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After a pause, the old man repeated what was evidently

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a familiar formula that if Johnny would wait until he

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struck it rich in the tunnel, he'd have lots of money,

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et cetera, et cetera, as said Johnny, But you don't.

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And whether you strack it or I win it, it's

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about the same. It's all luck. But it's mighty curious

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about Christmas, ain't it? Why do they call it Christmas?

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Perhaps from some instinctive deference to the overhearing of his guests,

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or from some vague sense of incongruity, the old man's

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reply was so low as to be inaudible. Beyond the room,

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as said Johnny, with some slight abatement of interest. I've

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heard him before. Bar that'll do, Dad. I don't ache

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near so bad as I did. Now wrap me tight

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and miss your blanket. So now, he added in a

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muffled whisper, sit down near by, meekle I go to sleep.

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To assure himself of obedience, he disengaged one hand from

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the blanket, and, grasping his father's sleeve, again, composed himself

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to rest. For some moments. The old man waited patiently.

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Then the unwonted stillness of the house excited his curiosity,

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and without moving from the bed, he cautiously opened the

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door with his disengaged hand and looked into the main room.

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To his infinite surprise, it was dark and deserted, but

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even then a smoldering log on the hearth broke, and

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by the upspringing blaze he saw the figure of Dick

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Bullen sitting by the dying embers. Hello, Dick started rose

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and came somewhat unsteadily towards him. Where's the ball? A ways?

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Said the old man, Gone up the canyon on a

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little passier. They're coming back for me in a minute.

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I'm waitin around for them. What are you starin at

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old man, He added, with a forced laugh. Do you

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think I'm drunk? The old man had been pardoned, the supposition,

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for Dick's eyes were humid and his face flushed. He

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loitered and lounged back to the chimney, yawned and shook himself,

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buttoned up his coat, and laughed. Lequer ain't so plenty

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as that old man. Now, don't you get up, he continued,

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as the old man made a movement to release his

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sleeve from Johnny's hand. Don't you mind? Manners? Sit, jist

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where you are. I'm goin in a jiffy lor. That's

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them now. There was a low tap at the door.

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Dick Bullen opened it, quickly, nodded good night to his host,

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and disappeared. The old man would have followed him, but

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for the hand that still unconsciously grasped his sleeve. He

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could have easily disengaged it. It was small, week and emaciated.

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But perhaps because it was small, weak and emaciated, he

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changed his mind, and, drawing his chair closer to the bed,

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rested his head upon it. In this defenseless attitude. The

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potency of his earlier potations surprised him. The room flickered

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and faded before his eyes reappeared, faded again, went out

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and left him asleep. Meanwhile, Dick Bullen, closing the door,

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confronted his companions. You're ruddy, said Staples, Ready, said Dick.

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What's the time? Plus twelve? Was the reply? Can you

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make it? It's now on fifty miles the round trip?

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Hither and yon I Reckon returned Dick shortly. Where's the mare?

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Bill and Jack's holding her at the crossing? Let em

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hold on a minute longer, said Dick. He turned and

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re entered the house softly by the light of the

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guttering candle and dying fire. He saw that the door

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of the little room was open. He stepped toward it

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on tiptoe and looked in. The old man had fallen

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back in his chair, snoring, his helpless feet thrust out

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in a line with his collapsed shoulders, and his hat

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pulled over his eyes. Beside him, on a narrow wooden

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bedstead lay Johnny, muffled tightly in a blanket that hid

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all save a strip of forehead and a few curls.

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Damp with perspiration. Dick Bullen made a step forward, hesitated

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and glanced over his shoulder into the deserted room. Everything

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was quiet. With a sudden resolution, he parted his huge

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mustaches with both hands and stooped over the sleeping boy.

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But even as he did so, a mischievous blast lying

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in wait, swooped down the chimney, rekindled the hearth and

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lit up the room with a shameless glow, from which

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Dick fled in bashful terror. His companions were already waiting

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for him at the crossing. Two of them were struggling

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in the darkness with some strange, misshapen bulk, which, as

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Dick came nearer, took the semblance of a great yellow horse.

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It was the mare. She was not a pretty picture.

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From her roman nose to her rising haunches, from her

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arched spine hidden by the stiff machillas of a Mexican saddle,

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to her thick, straight, bony legs. There was not a

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line of equine grace in her half blind but holy

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vicious white eyes, in her protruding underlip, in her monstrous color,

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there was nothing but ugliness and vice. Now, then, said Staples,

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stunned clerk of her heels, boy, and up with you.

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Don't miss your first bolt of her mane, and mind

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you get your off stirrup quick ready. There was a leap,

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a scrambling, a bound, a wild retreat of the crowd,

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a circle of flying hoofs, two springless leaps that jarred

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the earth, a rapid play and jingle of spurs, a plunge,

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and then the voice of Dick somewhere in the darkness.

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All right, don't take the lower road back unless you're

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pushed hard for time. Don't hold her in down hill.

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We'll be at the ford at five klang Hoopa, mullah go,

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A splash, a spark struck from the ledge in the road,

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a clatter in the rocky cut beyond, and Dick was gone.

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Sing O muse, the ride of Richard Bullen, sing O

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muse of chivalrous men, the sacred quest, the doughty deeds,

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the battery of low churls, the fearsome ride and gruesome

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perils of the flower of Simpson's bar a lac. She

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is dainty, this muse. She will have none of this

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bucking brute and swaggering, ragged rider. And I must fain

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follow him in prose afoot. It was one o'clock, and

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yet he had only gained Rattlesnake Hill, For in that

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time Hovita had rehearsed to him all her imperfections and

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practiced all her vices thryce had she stumbled twice, had

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she thrown up her roman nose in a straight line

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with the reins and resum listing bit and spurs, struck

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out madly across country, twice, had she reared and rearing

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fallen backward. And twice had the agile Dick, unharmed, regained

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his seat before she found her vicious legs again. And

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a mile beyond them, at the foot of a long hill,

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was Rattlesnake Creek. Dick knew that here was the crucial

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test of his ability to perform his enterprise, set his

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teeth grimly, put his knees well into her flanks, and

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changed his defensive tactics to brisk aggression. Bullied and maddened,

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Hobita began the descent of the hill. Here the artful

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Richard pretended to hold her in with ostentatious objurgation and

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well feigned cries of alarm. It is unnecessary to add

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that Hobita instantly ran away, nor need I state the

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time made in the descent. It is written in the

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Chronicles of Simpson's bar Enough that in another moment, as

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it seemed to Dick, she was splat rushing on the

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overflowed banks of Rattlesnake Creek. As Dick expected, the momentum

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she had acquired carried her beyond the point of bulking,

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and holding her well together for a mighty leap. They

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dashed into the middle of the swiftly flowing current. A

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few moments of kicking, waiting and swimming, and Dick drew

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a long breath on the opposite bank. The road from

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Rattlesnake Creek to Red Mountain was tolerably level. Either the

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plunge into Rattlesnake Creek had dampened her baleful fire, or

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the art which led to it had shown her the

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superior wickedness of her rider. For Jovita no longer wasted

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her surplus energy in wanton conceits. Once she bucked, but

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it was from force of habit. Once she shied, but

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it was from a new, freshly painted meeting house. At

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the crossing of the country road, hollows ditches, gravelly deposits,

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patches of freshly springing grasses, flew from beneath her rattling hoofs.

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She began to smell unpleasantly. Once or twice she coughed slightly,

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but there was no abatement of her strength or speed.

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By two o'clock she had passed Red Mountain and begun

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the descent to the plain. Ten minutes later, the driver

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of the fast Pioneer coach was overtaken and passed by

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a man on a Pinto hoss, an event sufficiently notable

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for remark. At half past two, Dick rose in his

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stirrups with a great shout. Stars were glittering through the

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rifted clouds, and beyond him, out of the plane rose

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two spires, a flagstaff, and a straggling line of black objects.

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Dick jingled his spurs and swung his riata. Jovita bounded forward,

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and in another moment they swept into Tuttleville and drew

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up before the wooden piazza of the Hotel of All Nations.

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What transpired that night at Tuttleville is not strictly a

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part of this record. Briefly, I may state, however, that

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after Hoviita had been handed over to a sleepy ostler,

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whom she at once kicked into unpleasant consciousness. Dick sallied

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out with the bar keeper for a tour of the

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sleeping town. Lights still gleamed from a few saloons and

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gambling houses, but avoiding these, they stopped before several closed shops,

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and by persistent tapping and judicious outcry roused the proprietors

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from their beds, and made them unbar the doors of

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their magazines and exposed their wares. Sometimes they were met

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by curses, but oftener by interest and some concern in

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their needs. It was three o'clock before this pleasantry was

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given over, and with a small waterproof bag of India

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rubbers strapped on his shoulders, Dick returned to the hotel,

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and then he sprang to the saddle and dashed down

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the lonely street and out into the lonelier plane, where

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presently the lights, the black line of houses, the spires

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and the flagstaff sank into the earth behind him again

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and were lost in the distance. The storm had cleared away,

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the air was brisk and cold, the outlines of adjacent

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landmarks were distinct, but it was half past four before

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Dick reached the meeting house and the crossing of the

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country road. To avoid the rising grade, he had taken

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a longer and more circuitous road, in whose viscid mud

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Jovita sank fetlocked deep at every bound. It was a

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poor preparation for a steady ascent of five miles more,

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but Hoviita, gathering her legs under her, took it with

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her usual blind, unreasoning fury, and a half hour later

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reached the long level that led to Rattlesnake Creek. Another

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half hour would bring him to the creek. He threw

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the reins lightly upon the neck of the mare, chirruped

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to her and began to sing. Suddenly, Hobita shied with

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a bound that would have unseated a less practiced rider.

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Hanging to her rein was a figure that had leaped

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from the bank and at the same time from the road.

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Before her arose a shadowy horse and rider. Pour off

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your hands, commanded the second apparition with an oath. Dick

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felt the mare tremble, quiver and apparently sink under him.

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He knew what it meant and was prepared stand aside.

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Jack Simpson, I know you, you damned thief. Let me

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pass or he did not finish the sentence, Hovita rose

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straight in the air and with a terrific bound, throwing

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the figure from her bit with a single shake of

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her vicious head, and charged with deadly malevolence down on

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the impediment before her. An oath, a pistol, shot horse,

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and highwaymen rolled over in the road, and the next

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moment Hovita was a hundred yards away, but the good

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right arm of her rider, shattered by a bullet, dropped

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helplessly at his side. Without slacking his speed, he lifted

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the reins to his left hand, but a few moments

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later he was obliged to halt and tighten the saddle

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girths that had slipped in the onset. This, in his

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crippled condition, took some time. He had no fear of pursuit.

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But looking up he saw that the eastern stars were

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already paling, and that the distant peaks had lost their

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ghostly whiteness and now stood out blackly against the lighter sky.

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Day was upon him. Then, completely absorbed in a single idea,

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he forgot the pain of his wound, and, mounting again,

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dashed on towards Rattlesnake Creek. But now Movita's breath came

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broken by gasps. Dick reeled in his saddle, and brighter

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and brighter grew the sky. Ride Richard run Jovita Linger

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o day. For the last few rods, there was a

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roaring in his ears. Was it exhaustion from a loss

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of blood or what? He was dazed and giddy as

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he swept down the hill and did not recognize his surroundings.

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Had he taken the wrong road? Or was this Rattlesnake Creek?

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It was but the brawling creek he had swum a

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few hours before had risen more than double its volume,

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and now rolled the swift and resistless river between him

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and Rattlesnake Hill. For the first time that night, Richard's

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heart sank with the in him. The river, the mountain,

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the quickening east swam before his eyes. He shut them

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to recover his self control. In that brief interval, by

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some fantastic mental process, the little room at Simpson's Bar,

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and the figures of the sleeping father and son rose

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upon him. He opened his eyes wildly, cast off his coat, pistol,

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boots and saddle, bound his precious pack tightly to his shoulders,

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grasped the bare flanks of Jovita with his bared knees,

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and with a shout, dashed into the yellow water. A

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cry arose from the opposite bank as the head of

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a man and horse struggled for a few moments against

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the battling current, and then were swept away amidst uprooted

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trees and whirling driftwood. The old man started and woke.

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The fire on the hearth was dead, the candle in

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the outer room flickering in its socket, and somebody was

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rapping at the door. He opened it, but fell back

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with a cry before the dripping, half naked figure that

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reeled against the door post. Nick, hush, is he awake yet? No?

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But Dick, dry up, you old fool. Get me some

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whiskey quick. The old man flew and returned with an

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empty bottle. Dick would have sworn, but his strength was

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not equal to the occasion. He staggered, caught at the

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handle of the door, and motioned to the old man,

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there's something in the pack. Care for Johnny, take it off.

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I can't. The old man unstrapped the pack and laid

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it before the exhausted man. Open it quick. He did

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so with trembling fingers. It contained only a few poor toys,

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cheap and barbaric, enough goodness nose, but bright with paint

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and tinsel. One of them was broken, another, I fear

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was irretrievably ruined by water, and the third, ah me,

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there was a cruel spot. And don't look like much.

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That's a fact, said Dick ruefully. But that's the best

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we could do. Take him, old man, and put him

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in his stocking and tell him. Tell him, you know,

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hold me, old man, the old man caught at his

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sinking figure, Tell him, said Dick, with a weak little laugh.

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Tell him, Sandy Claus has come. And even so, bedraggled, ragged,

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unshaven and unshorn, with one arm hanging helplessly at his side,

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Santa Claus came to Simpson's bar and fell fainting on

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the first threshold. The Christmas dawn came slowly after touching

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the remoter peaks with the rosy warmth of ineffable love,

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and it looked so tenderly on Simpson's bar that the

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whole mountain, as if caught in a generous action, blushed

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to the skies. And of Santa Claus at Simpson's bar

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by Brett Hart,