The Grouch Who Stole Christmas
It was December. The house was full of spicy cooking smells and fresh evergreens. The women had decked the halls - or supervised, at least, while someone else stood at the top of the ladder - and were in a positive frenzy of fa la la.
A tall, gray-haired man detoured around the bedizened Christmas tree and settled into a big leather chair by the fire with a sigh. For the moment, his household was quiet, but it couldn't last. He cast a grumpy gaze at the room. He didn't know why Christmas had to be so damn complicated. In his father's house, a few boughs of holly and a candle in the window were more than sufficient to mark the occasion. They certainly didn't drag trees into the house, rearrange the furniture or invite half the county to make merry with his father's whiskey. His eyes went to the sideboard resentfully. The party had extended well past midnight and the guests had been thirsty. His elder son brewed bowlfuls of increasingly tasty punch, and now he knew why it was so good. There was barely a drop left in the house.
He was dozing when the outside door opened and a skirt swished in the hall.
"Murdoch, wake up," an imperious voice said. He blinked at the young woman looming over his chair. "You need to talk to your sons."
He wasn't anxious to get into the middle of a squabble between his ward and his sons. It was probably nothing. "Later, honey."
"Now," she insisted. "Are you awake?"
"Mmmmm." He was just resting for a moment. Yes, he was just resting his head, and his eyes. He hadn't had nearly enough sleep the night before and still had a dull headache. His voice was thick. "What's the problem, Teresa?"
"They're saddling up to go after the rustlers."
"Rustlers?" Murdoch sat up straight in his chair, entirely awake. "What? Where?"
"Never mind that," Teresa said. "They can't go. It's Christmas Eve and we're all going to the open house at the Wilkersons, remember, and then midnight Mass in Morro Coyo."
He was on his feet and fumbling to buckle his gunbelt. "Christmas be damned. Nobody is going to steal any of my cattle."
He grabbed his hat and coat. The big door slammed, and the wreath fell to the ground.
***
They thundered across the range, three abreast. Scott's head pounded with every hoofbeat, but he kept up. After he joined the Union cavalry, he'd quickly learned to ride through a hangover. Some of his fellow officers never entirely sobered up.
Despite his discomfort now, it had been a good party. Scott glanced sideways. Whoever would have thought that Murdoch could dance the jig? That was a lifetime memory, well worth a little misery in the morning.
Johnny was riding on their father's other side. They'd hoped to get away from the house before anyone told Murdoch about the dead steer or the missing heifer. There was a line shack near the pasture, and the brothers could have taken a nice long winter's nap before returning to report that they'd lost the trail. It wasn't as if losing two cows would cripple the place. They had plenty.
Murdoch dismounted when they reached the steer carcass. Scott did not. It was obviously dead, even from a distance. Their approach had scared away the buzzards feasting on the remains. The big, ungainly birds settled a short distance away and watched them.
"Look at this," Murdoch said. "Those bastards butchered it."
Scott was perfectly willing to take his word for it.
"See if you can pick up any tracks," Murdoch said to Johnny.
"Looks like it's been a day, at least," Johnny pointed out.
"It hasn't rained."
"Not yet," Johnny said, looking up at the overcast sky. "Looks like it will."
"Then you better stop dawdling."
Johnny's face was deadpan. He didn't answer Murdoch, just tilted his hat down farther over bleary eyes and slid down from the green young horse he was riding.
It didn't take long. "One mule, headed east," Johnny said briefly. "A couple of riders."
Murdoch frowned. "One mule and two riders? Are you sure?"
Johnny nodded. "Could be they were hungry," he said, not looking at either of them.
"There's plenty of game. And Walt said a heifer and her calf are missing too." Murdoch got back on his horse. "Come on, what are you two waiting for?"
***
The mule and its riders had made a detour, apparently to cut the heifer from the herd, and then proceeded toward the mountains that separated Lancer from the coast. The tracks were still clear. A second mule joined up with the first near the river.
The riders didn't seem to have made the slightest effort to hide their tracks. Teresa could have followed them.
Murdoch's back ached, as well as his head, before they'd traveled many miles. His grievance carried him along. No one was going to raid his herd, practically under his nose, and get away with it.
His sons were clearly less enthusiastic about the chase. Murdoch scowled at them. He hadn't raised his sons, hadn't seen either of them for close to twenty years when he offered them partnerships if they saved the ranch from land pirates.
They wouldn't manage to hold onto this place when he was gone if they didn't fight for it. The small battles counted just as much as the large ones, sometimes even more. Two cows were just a crack in the door. Murdoch intended to slam it shut, not swing it open.
The rain began when they'd been following the trail for an hour or so. They stopped to pull on oilskins.
"You know, we're about three hours from home," Scott observed. "If we start back now, we'd just make it in time to clean up and take Teresa to the party in Morro Coyo."
"This is more important," Murdoch said. "Teresa will understand."
"Will she, sir?" Scott's voice was dry. "She's been looking forward to it."
"It's just a party, Scott. Those cows are our livelihood."
Johnny made a small, derisive noise and Murdoch turned to look at him. "Did you have something to say, John?"
"Nope," he said. "No point in wasting my breath."
Murdoch's face got warm. "They're your cattle too. Are you just going to let someone waltz in and steal from you? I figured you had more guts than that."
Johnny's mouth curved. "Might be more about brains than guts, old man."
He ground his teeth. "I call the tune, and I say we keep going. Are you coming?"
Johnny looked back for a moment as if he were thinking about it. "Yeah, I guess so. You're supposed to spend Christmas with family, or so I hear."
The dig took him aback. If it was supposed to remind him that this family hadn't spent its Christmases together, it succeeded.
If it was supposed to change his mind, it didn't.
***
The rain went from a drizzle to a downpour. He adjusted his hat, trying to stop the cold drip down the back of his neck. In a torrent, the oilskin wasn't much good for anything but a target. He was wet inside and outside the coated canvas.
Murdoch and Scott were yellow blurs in the murk. Maybe the old man would finally agree to turn around and head for home. The rain might be good for something, finally washing away the damn tracks they'd been following.
By now, Johnny had a notion about where the tracks led. He hoped Murdoch hadn't guessed too. This was loco, the three of them chasing after one cow and some illicit steak.
He didn't give a damn if they missed another party, or even midnight Mass. He'd just as soon spend the night drowsing by the nice hot fire in the great room while Murdoch and Scott read or played chess or argued about something in a newspaper. The thing about the house that still amazed him wasn't its size or all the stuff inside. The real luxury was his sense of security within its walls. He didn't have to worry if he fell asleep.
Johnny peered through the rain, even though it didn't do much good. Dios, it was raining harder. They were on a narrow trail that wound up through a canyon. They'd be sitting ducks if someone waited behind a rock.
He was just about to call out and suggest they walk when Murdoch's horse put a foot down wrong on the slippery rocks, and stumbled. Shit. The old man was falling. The young chestnut shied backward, and suddenly Johnny was falling too.
The ground knocked the breath out of him when it rushed up. By the time he caught it again, Scott was bending over the old man. Johnny could hear their voices above the rain.
He couldn't see his horse anywhere, but Murdoch's horse was down. Johnny crawled over to it, murmuring to it as he stroked the big head. He didn't have to run his hands down its legs. The problem was obvious and there was only one way to fix it. He swore to himself in three languages, but drew his gun.
The shot only drowned out the damn rain for a moment.
***
"Johnny?" Scott repeated. Johnny finally raised his head. He still sat next to their father's dead gelding.
"Murdoch?"
"He'll live. I think he's broken his wrist, and maybe cracked a few ribs. What about you?" Scott studied his bedraggled brother. Johnny had lost his hat and rain plastered his hair to his head. He had a streak of mud across one cheek, but no obvious injuries.
"I'm OK. What about the chestnut?"
"He's on his way home," Scott said. "He's smarter than any of us."
"He looked all right?"
"He looked a lot better than you do." Scott offered Johnny a flask. He took a small swig and handed it back.
"Better save it."
"For what?"
"It's gonna be a long walk back."
Scott smiled a little. "For you, maybe," he teased. "I still have a horse."
Johnny's grin flashed, to his relief. There was a time when Johnny wouldn't have assumed that his brother or anybody else would do anything to help him out of a mess, but they'd passed that.
Scott looked over at Murdoch, hunched up a few yards away, and his smile disappeared. "We need to find some shelter for him. It's going to take some time to get help."
Johnny hesitated. "We're not far from Jay McKillen's old cabin. It's only a couple of miles."
Scott felt a wave of relief. He'd feel a lot better about leaving them if he knew they were under a roof. The cabin might not be the most comfortable place to spend Christmas Eve, but at least they'd be out of the rain. "I hadn't realized," he said. "That should do nicely."
Johnny got to his feet slowly. Something seemed to be bothering him. He reached down to pick up his hat from the ground and turned it in his hands. "Thing is, somebody might already be using the place."
Oh. Scott paused, remembering why they were here in the first place. "The rustlers?"
Johnny nodded.
***
Daylight was dwindling by the time they reached the cabin. It was still clear that someone was inside. Scott could smell wood smoke long before they saw it curling up from the chimney.
Murdoch was riding Scott's bay. He had to be in a lot of pain, but hadn't complained about it. Johnny walked next to Scott, who was leading the horse. He was limping, so he wasn't quite so fine as he claimed, but he'd flatly refused to ride double with Murdoch. The horse still had a long way to go, he said.
The rain had slowed, but hadn't stopped. They looked across the clearing from the shelter of some trees. The cabin's wooden shutters were open and light was visible through the oiled paper windows, but they couldn't see inside.
"How do you want to do this?" Scott asked Johnny.
Johnny was peering at the empty corral. A wagon stood outside the small barn.
"That barn has room inside for two more horses at most, besides the two mules," he said.
"So there can't be too many of them," Scott concluded.
"We know there's at least three." Johnny frowned at the wagon. "And that cabin has thick walls."
"We have to get them outside then. Any suggestions?"
Johnny's eyes rested on the chimney. Scott read his mind.
"Smoke them out? I don't think they'll assume it's Santa on the roof, brother, even if it is Christmas Eve."
"I'll be quiet."
"Oh, no. If anyone is doing any climbing tonight, it should be me. Don't think I haven't noticed that something's wrong with your foot."
He grinned. "That's why it's got to be me."
"And upon what convoluted logic do you base that conclusion?"
He rolled his eyes. "It's simple, Scott. Whoever's out here with Murdoch might have to run like hell."
***
Scott gripped his rifle, his eyes on the cabin. Murdoch fumed silently. He had his handgun in his right hand, but couldn't hold his rifle thanks to his broken left wrist. Scott had splinted it and put it in a makeshift sling. The pain made it damn near impossible to concentrate.
Johnny had circled around to the back of the cabin. He planned to climb up on the lean-to and then work his way up the roof to the chimney.
One problem with the plan was that they couldn't see him. Another was that the rustlers might come out the back door. Johnny had dismissed it when Scott raised that question. He said they were likely to go through the closest door when smoke started to fill the main room - but he'd cover the back door with his six-shooter, just in case.
He was taking his own sweet time to reach the chimney. Murdoch estimated it had been at least thirty minutes since he left. It was getting darker.
Finally, just when Murdoch was beginning to think that someone had caught his younger son out back, he saw movement and a dark head appeared over the ridgepole. Johnny waved to them casually and pulled his oilskin poncho over his head.
"Scott," Murdoch whispered.
"I see him, sir."
"Be ready," Murdoch ordered. "It won't take long for the smoke to back up."
"Yes, sir." Scott sighted the rifle at the door.
Johnny hadn't stuffed the poncho down the chimney yet when the door opened, and four people stepped out.
***
Scott lowered his rifle. Next to him, Murdoch's jaw dropped. One of the figures was a lanky adolescent boy.
The others weren't even four feet tall. A towheaded toddler tugged on the hand of a slightly older girl, while a small boy ran ahead of them.
"I'm gonna help milk the Christmas cow," an excited treble voice said. "Can't I, Jack?"
"Me too!" the girl said. "Me too, Jack!"
"Well, you can watch." The voice cracked. It had a strong twang. "You kids better stay back, though. Even a Christmas cow can kick, you know. We don't want nobody to get hurt."
The little girl stopped hopping up and down. "Is that what's wrong with Ma? Somebody hurt her?"
"No, sweetpea, nobody hurt her," he said. "She's just sick, that's all."
"Are you sure?"
"Certain sure," he said, opening the barn door. "Come on. You want to bring the baby some milk, dontcha?"
Murdoch and Scott exchanged glances. Johnny started to slide down behind the ridgepole again.
"Look, Jack!" the first treble voice said. "Someone's up on the chimney. But he don't look like Santy."
"Zeke!" the tall boy hollered. He shoved the smaller children into the barn and closed the door. Another, slighter youth appeared, carrying a shotgun.
"Freeze, Mister! Put up your hands where I can see them or I'll blow your head off."
"Howdy." Johnny's tone was easy. "I'm not looking for trouble."
"I told you to put your damn hands up!"
The taller boy had crossed the yard. "You do what my sister told you, Mister."
Sister? Scott looked at the figure again. She was wearing britches, like the boy. A brimmed hat hid her hair and her back was toward him, so he couldn't see her face.
"OK," Johnny agreed readily, lifting his hands. "Your sister, huh? How many of you are there?"
"That's none of your business," the boy said. "What are you doing up there?"
"Up here?" His voice was innocent. "Oh, um, I was just checking the roof for leaks."
"I don't believe you."
"Well, you can ask my old man if you want. Him and my brother are just behind you."
Scott rose on cue when they whirled. "How do you do?" he said politely.
***
There were eight Wilson children, counting the new baby. Molly, the girl with the shotgun, was the eldest at seventeen, followed by Jack, Zeke, and Betsy, who was thirteen. Then there was a six-year gap to Billy, the boy who wanted to help milk the cow. Becky was six and Davy, three. The baby didn't have a name yet. She was less than a week old.
Their mother, burning with fever, was on a pallet in the small bedroom, just off the main room.
"How long has she been sick?" Murdoch asked Molly.
"She's been poorly since the baby came, but she only got real sick the day before yesterday." Molly pushed her hair back nervously. Minus the hat, she had the same corn silk hair as the rest of the family, even the baby. "That's why we stopped here. The place looked like it's been empty awhile, and I didn't think anyone would care."
"I'm sure the owners won't mind if you use the cabin, Molly," Scott said smoothly. "What do you think, sir? You know them, don't you?"
Murdoch glared at him. "The owners won't object at all," he said. "But I think we better get the doctor out here, first thing in the morning."
She shook her head. "We don't have no money for a doctor and Ma wouldn't want us to take charity."
Johnny was leaning against one of the support beams near the fireplace. "You got a cow, don't you? Maybe you could sell it."
"That's a Christmas cow, Mister." Billy gave him a wide-eyed look. "Santy Claus lent it to us so the baby could have some milk, but it's not ours for keeps."
"Is that right?" Johnny squatted down and looked at the little boy. His voice was soft. "That was pretty smart of old Santa, huh?"
Billy nodded enthusiastically. "It sure was. I just wish I'd gone with Molly and the boys, so I could've seen him. Santy wasn't coming, since we don't have our own house no more and he didn't know where to find us, so it's real lucky they ran into him."
"Real lucky," Johnny agreed gravely. "He bring you anything besides the cow this year?"
"A cow is a lot," Billy said. "But he give us some beef too, so we can have a real fine Christmas dinner."
Molly blushed. "He's too little to understand," she said quietly to Murdoch and Scott. "We borrowed a heifer from somebody's herd. I know it ain't exactly right, but the baby was going to starve."
"And the beef?" Murdoch asked.
She shrugged. "That steer had busted its leg when we found it. We couldn't do nothing for it except put it out of its misery. I figured there warn't no sense in wasting the meat."
"I'd figure the same way." Like his brother, Johnny looked straight at Murdoch. "How would you figure it, Old Man?"
***
Scott rode to town at first light and returned to the cabin with the local doctor. Murdoch had overcome Molly's objections by hiring Jack and Zeke to ride their mules to Lancer, deliver a message to Teresa, and bring back horses for Johnny and him. He offered them ten dollars for the job, more than enough to pay the doctor's bill.
"It's too much," Molly said.
"Not at all," he said. "It's Christmas Day, so they're entitled to something extra."
"Scott could go," she pointed out. "You don't even need them to do it."
He smiled. "No, Scott has to go to town for the doctor to treat my wrist. It would be miles out of his way if he went to our ranch too, and he wouldn't be back in time for that Christmas dinner you invited us to share."
Scott didn't just bring Sam Jenkins. He'd also tucked a crate of groceries into the doctor's buggy, and produced candy sticks from his pockets for the children. He insisted blandly that the groceries were their contribution to the meal.
The doctor put a new splint on Murdoch's wrist. "Scott did a good job," he said. "I'll cast it after I drive you back to the ranch."
"I'm riding back with Scott and Johnny," he protested. "We're invited to Christmas dinner."
"So am I." A large roast beef was on a spit over the fire, and Sam sniffed appreciatively. "And you're riding back in my buggy afterward."
He sighed, but didn't argue. "What about Mrs. Wilson?"
A shadow crossed the doctor's face. "There isn't a lot that I can do for her. Childbed fever runs its own course. From what her daughter said, she's a strong woman. We'll just have to push fluids and hope she fights the infection off."
"And the baby?"
"She's in good shape, considering," Sam said. "That Christmas cow of theirs arrived just in the nick of time."
He smiled weakly. "You know, Sam, I was ready to shoot yesterday as soon as the cabin door opened."
"But you didn't."
"We were out of pistol range and I couldn't hold a rifle."
"Good thing."
"Two damn cows, and I was ready to shoot at children." He shook his head. "I've been a real grouch lately. But I'm a lucky man, compared to some people."
Teresa rode in with Jack and Zeke while Molly was mashing the potatoes.
"I hope it's not too much of an imposition," she told Molly. "Jack invited me."
"We've got plenty," Molly said. "We're glad to have you, Miss."
"Thank you." Teresa tied an apron over her riding clothes. "Let me help. Oh, I brought some canned peaches for dessert.
Seven Wilsons, three Lancers, an O'Brien and a Jenkins sat down to Christmas dinner at a long table concocted from some boards Scott and Johnny found behind the barn.
And the grouch carved the roast beef.
THE END
Whistle, December 2007