Speaker 1: Christmas Eve on Lonesome by John Fox Junior. It was
Christmas Eve on Lonesome, but nobody on Lonesome knew it
was Christmas Eve, although a child of the outer world
could have guessed it, even out in those wilds where
Lonesome slipped from one lone log cabin high up in
the steeps, down through a stretch of jungle darkness, to
another lone cabin at the mouth of the stream. There
was the holy hush in the gray twilight that comes
only on Christmas Eve. There were the big flakes of
snow that fell as they never fall except on Christmas Eve.
There was a snowy man on horseback, in a big
coat and with saddle pockets that might have been bursting
with toys for children in the little cabin at the
head of the stream, But not even he knew it
was Christmas Eve. He was thinking of Christmas Eve, but
it was of the Christmas Eve of the year before,
when he sat in prison with a hundred other men
in stripes and listened to the chaplain talk of peace
and good will to all men apt on earth, when
he had forgotten all men upon earth but one, and
had only hatred in his heart for him. Vengeance's mine,
saith the Lord. That was what the chaplain had thundered
at him. And then, as now he thought of the
enemy who had betrayed him to the law, and had
sworn away his liberty, and had robbed him of everything
in life except a fierce longing for the day when
he could strike back and strike to kill. And then
while he looked back hard into the chaplain's eyes, and
now while he splashed through the yellow mud, thinking of
that Christmas eve, Buck shook his head, and then as now,
his sullen heart answered mine. The big flakes drifted to
crutch and twig and limb. They gathered on the brim
of Buck's slouch hat, filled out the wrinkles of his
big coat, whitened his hair and his long mustache, and
sifted into the yellow, twisting path that guided his horses.
Feet high above, he could see through the ward hirling
snow now and then the gleam of a red star.
He knew it was the light from his enemy's window,
but somehow the chaplain's voice kept ringing in his ears,
and every time he saw the light, he couldn't help
thinking of the story of the star. That the chaplain
had told that Christmas Eve, And he dropped his eyes
by and by so as not to see it again,
and rode on until the light shone in his face.
Then he led his horse up a little ravine and
hitched it among the snowy holly and rhododendrons, and slipped
toward the light. There was a dog somewhere, of course,
and like a thief, he climbed over the low rail
fence and stole through the tall, snow wet grass until
he leaned against an apple tree, with the sill of
the window two feet above the level of his eyes.
Reaching above him, he caught a stout limb and dragged
himself up to a crotch of the tree. A mass
of snow slipped softly to the earth. The branch creaked
above the light wind around the corner of the house.
A dog growled, and he sat still. He had waited
three long years, and he had ridden two hard nights
and lain out two cold days in the woods for this.
And presently he reached out, very carefully and noiselessly broke
leaf and branch and twig until a passage was cleared
for his eye, and for the point of the pistol
that was gripped in his right hand. A woman was
just disappearing through the kitchen door, and he peered cautiously
and saw nothing but darting shadows. From one corner, a
shadow loomed suddenly out in human shape. Buck saw the
shadow gesture of an arm, and he cocked his pistol.
That shadow was his man, and in a moment he
would be in a chair in the chimney corner to
smoke his pipe, maybe his last pipe. Buck smiled. Pure
hatred made him smile. But it was mean, a mean
and sorry thing to shoot this man in the back,
dog though he was. And now that the moment had come,
a wave of sickening shame ran through Buck. No one
of his name had ever done that before, but this
man and his people had, and with their own lips
they had framed polliation for him. What was fair for
one was fair for the other. They always said a
poor man couldn't fight money in the courts, and so
they had shot from the brush, and that was why
they were rich now, and Buck was poor. Why his
enemy was safe at home and he was out here,
homeless in the apple tree. Buck thought of all this,
but it was no use. The shadow slapped suddenly and disappeared,
and Buck was glad. With a gritting oath between his
chattering teeth. He pulled his pistol in and thrust one
leg down to swing from the tree. He would meet
him face to face next day and kill him like
a man. And there he hung, as rigid as though
the cold had suddenly turned him blood, bones and marrow
into ice. The door had opened, and full in the
firelight stood the girl he had heard was dead. He
knew now how and why that word was sent him,
And now she who had been his sweetheart, stood before him,
the wife of the man he meant to kill. Her
lips moved, he thought he could tell what she said.
Get up, Jim, get up. Then she went back. A
flame flared up within him. Now that must have come
straight from the devil's forge. Again, the shadows played over
the ceiling. His teeth grated as he cocked his pistol
and pointed it down the beam of light that shot
into the heart of the apple tree and waited. The
shadow of a hedge shot along the rafters and over
the fireplace. It was a madman clutching the butt of
the pistol now, and as his eye caught the glinting
sight and his heart thumped, there stepped into the square
light of the window a child. It was a boy
with yellow tumbled hair, and he had a puppy in
his arms in front of the fire. The little fellow
dropped the dog, and they began to play Yap, Yap, yap.
But could hear the shrill barking of the fat little
dog and the joyous shrieks of the child as he
made his playfellow chase his tail around and around, or
tumbled him head over heels on the floor. It was
the first child Buck had seen for three years. It
was his child and hers, and in the apple tree,
Buck watched fixedly. They were down on the floor, now,
rolling over and over together, and he watched them until
the child grew tired and turned his face to the
fire and lay still looking into it. Buck could see
his eyes close presently, and then the puppy crept closer,
put his head on his playmate's chest, and the two
lay thus asleep, and still Buck looked, his clasp loosening
on his pistol, and his lips loosening under his stiff mustache.
And kept looking until the door opened again and the
woman crossed the floor. A flood of light flashed suddenly
on the snow, barely touching the snow hung tips of
the apple tree, and he saw her in the doorway,
saw her look anxiously into the darkness, look and listen
a long while. Buck dropped noiselessly to the snow when
she closed the door. He wondered what they would think
when they saw his tracks in the snow next morning,
and then he realized they would be covered before morning.
As he started up the ravine where his horse was,
he heard the clink of metal down the road and
the splash of a horse's hoofs in the soft mud,
and he sank down behind a holly bush. Again, the
light from the cabin flashed out on the snow that you, Jim, yep,
And in the child's voice, Azu dat thumthandi yep. The
cheery answer rang out almost at Buck's ear, and Jim
passed death waiting for him behind the bush, which his
left foot brushed, shaking the snow from the red berries
down on the crouching figure beneath. Once only far down
the dark jungled way with the underlying streak of yellow
that was leading him with her. God only knew. Once
only Buck looked back, there was the red gleaming faintly
through the moonlit flakes of snow. Once more he thought
of the star, and once more the chaplain's voice came
back to him. Mine saith the Lord. Just how Buck
could not see with himself in the snow, and him
back there for life with her and the child. But
some strange impulse made him bare his head yarn, said
Buck grimly. But nobody on Lonesome, not even Buck knew
that it was Christmas Eve. End of Christmas Eve on
Lonesome by John Fox Junior