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Speaker 1: Christmas Eve on Lonesome by John Fox Junior. It was

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Christmas Eve on Lonesome, but nobody on Lonesome knew it

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was Christmas Eve, although a child of the outer world

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could have guessed it, even out in those wilds where

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Lonesome slipped from one lone log cabin high up in

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the steeps, down through a stretch of jungle darkness, to

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another lone cabin at the mouth of the stream. There

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was the holy hush in the gray twilight that comes

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only on Christmas Eve. There were the big flakes of

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snow that fell as they never fall except on Christmas Eve.

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There was a snowy man on horseback, in a big

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coat and with saddle pockets that might have been bursting

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with toys for children in the little cabin at the

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head of the stream, But not even he knew it

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was Christmas Eve. He was thinking of Christmas Eve, but

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it was of the Christmas Eve of the year before,

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when he sat in prison with a hundred other men

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in stripes and listened to the chaplain talk of peace

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and good will to all men apt on earth, when

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he had forgotten all men upon earth but one, and

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had only hatred in his heart for him. Vengeance's mine,

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saith the Lord. That was what the chaplain had thundered

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at him. And then, as now he thought of the

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enemy who had betrayed him to the law, and had

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sworn away his liberty, and had robbed him of everything

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in life except a fierce longing for the day when

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he could strike back and strike to kill. And then

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while he looked back hard into the chaplain's eyes, and

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now while he splashed through the yellow mud, thinking of

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that Christmas eve, Buck shook his head, and then as now,

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his sullen heart answered mine. The big flakes drifted to

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crutch and twig and limb. They gathered on the brim

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of Buck's slouch hat, filled out the wrinkles of his

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big coat, whitened his hair and his long mustache, and

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sifted into the yellow, twisting path that guided his horses.

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Feet high above, he could see through the ward hirling

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snow now and then the gleam of a red star.

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He knew it was the light from his enemy's window,

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but somehow the chaplain's voice kept ringing in his ears,

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and every time he saw the light, he couldn't help

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thinking of the story of the star. That the chaplain

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had told that Christmas Eve, And he dropped his eyes

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by and by so as not to see it again,

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and rode on until the light shone in his face.

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Then he led his horse up a little ravine and

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hitched it among the snowy holly and rhododendrons, and slipped

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toward the light. There was a dog somewhere, of course,

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and like a thief, he climbed over the low rail

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fence and stole through the tall, snow wet grass until

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he leaned against an apple tree, with the sill of

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the window two feet above the level of his eyes.

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Reaching above him, he caught a stout limb and dragged

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himself up to a crotch of the tree. A mass

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of snow slipped softly to the earth. The branch creaked

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above the light wind around the corner of the house.

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A dog growled, and he sat still. He had waited

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three long years, and he had ridden two hard nights

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and lain out two cold days in the woods for this.

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And presently he reached out, very carefully and noiselessly broke

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leaf and branch and twig until a passage was cleared

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for his eye, and for the point of the pistol

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that was gripped in his right hand. A woman was

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just disappearing through the kitchen door, and he peered cautiously

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and saw nothing but darting shadows. From one corner, a

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shadow loomed suddenly out in human shape. Buck saw the

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shadow gesture of an arm, and he cocked his pistol.

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That shadow was his man, and in a moment he

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would be in a chair in the chimney corner to

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smoke his pipe, maybe his last pipe. Buck smiled. Pure

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hatred made him smile. But it was mean, a mean

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and sorry thing to shoot this man in the back,

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dog though he was. And now that the moment had come,

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a wave of sickening shame ran through Buck. No one

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of his name had ever done that before, but this

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man and his people had, and with their own lips

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they had framed polliation for him. What was fair for

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one was fair for the other. They always said a

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poor man couldn't fight money in the courts, and so

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they had shot from the brush, and that was why

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they were rich now, and Buck was poor. Why his

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enemy was safe at home and he was out here,

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homeless in the apple tree. Buck thought of all this,

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but it was no use. The shadow slapped suddenly and disappeared,

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and Buck was glad. With a gritting oath between his

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chattering teeth. He pulled his pistol in and thrust one

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leg down to swing from the tree. He would meet

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him face to face next day and kill him like

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a man. And there he hung, as rigid as though

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the cold had suddenly turned him blood, bones and marrow

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into ice. The door had opened, and full in the

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firelight stood the girl he had heard was dead. He

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knew now how and why that word was sent him,

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And now she who had been his sweetheart, stood before him,

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the wife of the man he meant to kill. Her

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lips moved, he thought he could tell what she said.

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Get up, Jim, get up. Then she went back. A

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flame flared up within him. Now that must have come

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straight from the devil's forge. Again, the shadows played over

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the ceiling. His teeth grated as he cocked his pistol

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and pointed it down the beam of light that shot

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into the heart of the apple tree and waited. The

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shadow of a hedge shot along the rafters and over

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the fireplace. It was a madman clutching the butt of

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the pistol now, and as his eye caught the glinting

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sight and his heart thumped, there stepped into the square

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light of the window a child. It was a boy

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with yellow tumbled hair, and he had a puppy in

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his arms in front of the fire. The little fellow

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dropped the dog, and they began to play Yap, Yap, yap.

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But could hear the shrill barking of the fat little

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dog and the joyous shrieks of the child as he

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made his playfellow chase his tail around and around, or

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tumbled him head over heels on the floor. It was

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the first child Buck had seen for three years. It

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was his child and hers, and in the apple tree,

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Buck watched fixedly. They were down on the floor, now,

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rolling over and over together, and he watched them until

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the child grew tired and turned his face to the

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fire and lay still looking into it. Buck could see

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his eyes close presently, and then the puppy crept closer,

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put his head on his playmate's chest, and the two

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lay thus asleep, and still Buck looked, his clasp loosening

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on his pistol, and his lips loosening under his stiff mustache.

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And kept looking until the door opened again and the

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woman crossed the floor. A flood of light flashed suddenly

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on the snow, barely touching the snow hung tips of

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the apple tree, and he saw her in the doorway,

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saw her look anxiously into the darkness, look and listen

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a long while. Buck dropped noiselessly to the snow when

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she closed the door. He wondered what they would think

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when they saw his tracks in the snow next morning,

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and then he realized they would be covered before morning.

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As he started up the ravine where his horse was,

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he heard the clink of metal down the road and

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the splash of a horse's hoofs in the soft mud,

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and he sank down behind a holly bush. Again, the

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light from the cabin flashed out on the snow that you, Jim, yep,

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And in the child's voice, Azu dat thumthandi yep. The

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cheery answer rang out almost at Buck's ear, and Jim

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passed death waiting for him behind the bush, which his

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left foot brushed, shaking the snow from the red berries

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down on the crouching figure beneath. Once only far down

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the dark jungled way with the underlying streak of yellow

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that was leading him with her. God only knew. Once

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only Buck looked back, there was the red gleaming faintly

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through the moonlit flakes of snow. Once more he thought

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of the star, and once more the chaplain's voice came

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back to him. Mine saith the Lord. Just how Buck

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could not see with himself in the snow, and him

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back there for life with her and the child. But

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some strange impulse made him bare his head yarn, said

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Buck grimly. But nobody on Lonesome, not even Buck knew

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that it was Christmas Eve. End of Christmas Eve on

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Lonesome by John Fox Junior