Tales from the X-bar Horse Camp: The Blue-Roan «Outlaw» and Other Stories

"Salute yer pardners, let her go,
Balance all an' do-se-do.
Swing yer gal, then run away,
Right, an' left an' gents sashay."

"Whoa, Mack, there's a letter in the Widow Miller's box."

The pony sidled gingerly toward the mailbox nailed to the trunk of a pine tree, his eyes and ears watching closely the white sheet of paper that lay on the bottom of the open box, held by a small stone which allowed one end to flutter and flap in the wind in a way that excited his suspicions.

When the Widow Miller wished to mail a letter she placed it, properly stamped, in her box and the first neighbor passing that way took it out and mailed it for her, she being some miles off the regular mail route.

"Gents to right, now swing or cheat,
On to the next gal an' repeat."

He chanted the old familiar frontier quadrille call as he tried to force the pony close to the box to reach the paper without dismounting.

"Stand still, you fool," he spurred the animal vigorously, "that there little piece of paper ain't going to eat you."

But the more he spurred the farther from the box went the animal. "Beats all what a feller will do to save unloading hisself from a hoss," he threw the reins over Mack's head, swung to the ground and strode toward the box.

"Balance next an' don't be shy;
Swing yer pards an' swing 'em high."

He sang as he lifted the stone and picked up the paper beneath it, which proved to be a large-sized sheet of writing paper folded three times. A one-cent stamp evidently taken from some old letter was stuck in one corner and beneath it was scrawled in a childish, unlettered hand the words:

"Mister Sandy Claws

The North Pole."

Almost reverently Gibson unfolded the paper, feeling he was about to have some youthful heart opened to his curious eyes.

"Deer Sandy Claws," it began, "please bring me a train of railroad cars, an' a pair of spurs an' a 22 rifle to shoot rabits with, an' a big tin horn. An' Sandy, Mary wants a big Teddy bare an' a real doll what shuts her eyes when she lays down. An' Minnie she's the baby, Sandy, so pleas bring her a pictur book an' a doll an' a wolly lam an' bring us all a lot of candy an' apples an' oranges an' nuts, for since Dady went away, we ain't had none of them things much. Mother she says you know jist where we live so don't forgit us for I've tride to be a good boy this year.

    "James Simpson Miller, 7 years old."

Gibson felt a lump rising in his throat, and took refuge in song to hide his embarrassment.

"Bunch the gals an' circle round;
Whack your feet upon the ground.
Form a basket break away,
Swing an' kiss, an' all git gay."

He wiped something out of the corner of his eyes with the back of his buckskin glove, and blew his nose savagely. "Hm, Shucks, seems like I'm a gittin' a cold in my haid," he remarked sort of confidentially to the pony.

Once more he read the letter.

"Hm, Shucks, wants a railroad train, hey? An' a gunchester to kill rabbits, an' a tin horn, an' Mary wants a Teddy bear, does she, an' apples an' oranges an' candy for all of 'em. Say, Bill Gibson, it's up to you to play Santy Claus for these kids an' if you handle the job right maybe you can convince their Aunt Nancy that she'd ought to say 'Yes' to a man about your size an' complexion." Again he broke into song.

"Aleman left an' balance all.
Lift yer hoofs an' let 'em fall.
Swing yer op'sites; swing agin,
Kiss the darlings – if ye kin."

"Git up, Mack, les git along to camp and let the bunch in on this Santy Claus game. Hm, Shucks, Nancy said she wanted a watermelon-pink sweater – whatever color that may be – to wear to the New Year's dance up on Crow Creek. Reckin the thing won't cost more'n a month's pay. I'll jist get her one if it takes my whole roll." Once more he dropped into song.

"Back yer pardners, do-se-do.
Ladies break, an' gents you know.
Crow hop out, an' dove hop in,
Join yer paddies an' circle again.
"Salute yer pardner, let her go,
Balance all an' do-se-do.
Gents salute yer little sweets,
Hitch an' promenade to seats."

That night around the table in the bunk house of the Oak Creek Sheep Company, four or five men watched the foreman write a letter to the owner, Mr. Barrington, who was wintering on the coast. Briefly he explained how the letter to Santa Claus fell into their hands and the desire of the men at the ranch to furnish the children with all the things they asked for, and more.

Miller, the foreman explained, had been accidentally killed a couple of years before and his wife was putting up a hard fight to stay on the piece of land he had homesteaded long enough to get title to it from the government.

There were three kids, he continued, James, the oldest, seven years, and two girls, Mary, five, and Minnie, the baby, two.

"The boys ain't a-limiting you in the cost, so please get anything else you and Mrs. Barrington thinks would please the kids and let me know the cost and I'll charge it up to the boys' pay accounts.

"Also Bill Gibson wants that Mrs. Barrington should pick out what he says is to be a 'watermelon-pink' sweater for Mrs. Miller's kid sister, Nancy. Bill says Nancy is just about Mrs. Barrington's size, and what'd fit her will fit Nancy all right.

"Bill he says he reckons Mrs. B. will savvy what a watermelon-pink sweater is, which is more than any of us do."

Three days before Christmas Bill Gibson set forth for the railroad, twenty-five miles away, to bring back the expected Christmas stuff. There was two feet of snow on the ground and the roads were impassable for wheels; so Bill took with him two pack animals, a horse and a mule.

He figured he would be one day going and one coming and that on Christmas eve, after marking and arranging all the presents, some one would ride down to the cabin and leave the whole business on the porch of the widow's cabin where she would be sure to find it early Christmas morning. At the railroad Gibson found the trains all tied up with snow to the west, and the packages had not arrived.

"Hm, shucks," was his terse comment. "Now wouldn't it jist be hell if the plunder didn't come in time for them kids to have their Christmas tree?" But late that night a train came through which brought the package he had come for.

By unpacking the stuff from the box in which they were shipped Gibson managed to get everything in the two kyacks carried by the mule while upon the horse he packed a load of provisions for the camp.

Barrington and his wife had added liberally to the list of toys and, knowing well the conditions at the sheep ranch, had marked or tagged each article with the name of the child for which it was intended. Even Mrs. Miller had been remembered generously.

The sweater was there, packed carefully in a fancy box. Bill loosed the ribbon that fastened it and slipped a card into the box on which he had laboriously written, "To Miss Nancy, from her true friend, Bill."

But the storm broke out again and it was long after noon the next day before he dared start, for the wind blew great guns and the air was filled with icy particles that no one could face.

Leading the pack horse with the mule "tailed up" to him, Gibson started for home, but made poor progress through the drifted snow. It was almost two o'clock the next morning when he passed the letterbox at the trail to the Widow Miller's place. The moon had gone down behind the trees to the west and it was quite dark, but here the wind had swept the ground bare of snow, and his progress with his rather jaded animals was much better.

Sleepy and tired from his long ride Gibson reached the ranch and rode into the warm stable to unsaddle. There to his great surprise he found he had but one animal behind him, the rope which had been around the mule's neck still dragging at the pack horse's tail, a mute evidence of what had happened.

"Hm, shucks," he commented grimly, "won't them there boys in the bunk house give me particular hell for this night's work?"

Wearily he unsaddled and unpacked the horses. Still more wearily he dragged himself up the path to the house, stirred the fire in the fireplace into a blaze, and when the coffee was hot drank a cup, ate greedily of the food which the cook had left for him, crawled into his blankets and in ten seconds was dead to the world.

In his dreams he was swinging a rosy cheeked girl through the steps of an old-fashioned quadrille, she being attired in a most gorgeous watermelon-pink sweater.