A brush with an old sage:

A Cowpoke's

Christmas Wish

by Hal Swift

It's Saturday afternoon, and it's just Shorty and Logan West takin' care of business.  The snow that started Thanksgiving night has continued every couple of days, until yesterday morning.  Since then, it's been coming down steadily.  Many eastbound as well as westbound travelers make it as far as Drytown, and decide to wait until it clears before going further. 

Cold wind brings in a gust of snow when a young man opens the door, but he doesn't hurry to come inside.  He stands by the door a moment to let his eyes adjust while he looks around the room.           

He sees cowpokes, townfolks, and travelers off the Overland Stage, eating, talking, waiting for the storm to end. The young man finds a table over by the kitchen door--the one Shorty likes to sit at so he can be close to the cookstove.  It's also a good place to see who's comin' in the door.  The new kid sets with his back to the wall, then nods Logan over.

You can tell he's obviously a cowpoke by his clothes: heavy double-breasted ankle length overcoat, sealskin pants and slicker, boots scuffed from slidin'  in and out of stirrups too many times to count--and a sombrero that looks as though wildcats've been fightin' over it.  He has a gentle humor in his eyes, maybe put there on purpose to make a stranger lower his guard.  And behind that, there was a great sense of weariness.

"What do y'call this place?" he says.

"Shorty's Lunchroom," Logan says, But most people just call it Shorty's place."

The kid smiles and shakes his head.  "I mean the town--what do y'call the town?"

"Sorry," Logan says.  "It's Drytown."

"Thank you.  With all the snow out there I couldn't see no signposts nowhere."  He settles back in his chair.  "Well, now that I know where I am, what've y'got to eat?"

"Beefsteak's good--best around, in fact."

"Prolly costs too much--trail boss took off with our wages--how about some chicken?"

"Chicken's good--best around, in fact."

He laughs out loud at that.  "Fried chicken, then, an' some spuds an' gravy...and if it don't cost too much, a small pitcher of sasparilla would certainly be nice ."

"Shouldn't run more than a couple dollars," Logan says.  "I'm Logan, Logan West.  I play banjo here, wait tables, help out in general around the place.  Shorty--the owner--runs the kitchen."

"Pleased to meet you," he says.  "I'm Little Willie--Little Willie Stokes."

This boy is bigger than a grizzly bear standing on 'is hind legs.  He must've seen Logan's eyebrows go up.  He grins and says, "Yeah, I know, but that's what folks call me--it's kind of like callin' a short fella Highpockets."

The kid eats like he talks, quiet and slow.  In between bites, he tells more of his story.  When Willie is nine, his  folks book passage on a ship that makes regular trips from North Carolina to California.  Then, when the ship goes down off the coast of Cape Horn, his mother and father are both drowned. 

He's taken in by an uncle and aunt north of San Francisco, who raise 'im on their cattle ranch.  He says that's how he learned cowboyin'.  He came to Carson last summer, and signed on with a rancher northeast of Drytown, to help drive his herd to the railhead at Lake's Crossing. 

He says he's on his way back to the ranch to collect what he's owed but the snowstorm says this is as far as he's goin' today.  The only money he has is a lucky twenty-dollar gold piece.  "A gift from my father,"he says. "If you'll hold it for me, I'll come back and get it when I find me another job--probably in Carson."

"Sure," Logan says.  "Be glad to." 

Wind and snow whip through the door as Charlie Walker comes in with his six-year-old grandson, Petey.  The boy orders a piece of apple pie and a glass of buttermilk, and said he wishes it was iced cream.

"Four feet of snow in the yard, and a week before Christmas, and you're thinking about iced cream?" Logan says. "I'd think you'd had enough of that at the Thanksgiving dinner."

"Usually, I don't eat that much," he says, "but I like iced cream!  I even asked Santy Claus to bring me some for Christmas!"

Drytown's two bad boys, Utah Kid and Irish Jack--fresh out of the town stockade after their Thanksgiving shenanigans--are sittin' over at the counter, and they think it's pretty hilarious that Petey still believes in Santa Claus.  In a loud voice, Utah uses for intimidating people, he says, "How old are you, boy?"

"I'm six now, Sir, but I'll be seven next month," Petey answered.

Utah giggles. "Purty big to still be askin' Santy Claus for presents, ain't you?"

Petey bristled at that, and started to say something, but Charlie hushes him.

Little Willie's chair squeaks as he leand back in it and opens up 'is slicker.  When he does, you can see he's wearing a brace of 38-caliber Navy revolvers that look as though they're well cared-for, and probably well-used.  He smiles at Utah as if he knows a secret that'd be really sweet if he was to decide to let the rest of us in on it.

He says, "Leave the boy be, y'hear?"

The room gets quiet when the others realize what's happening. 

Utah says, "What's that, Cowpoke?"

Little Willie repeats his instructions in a tone of voice that leaves no doubt in the minds of anyone in the room as to just what it is he means. 

Father Aguilar stood up to intervene, but Willie waves him off. 

Utah Kid has a draw men fear, but he no sooner clears leather than Little Willie shoots his pistol clean out of his hand--never even drew blood. 

Logan says it reminds him of how it is out on the prairie, when you see the puff of smoke from a far off rifle and then you hear the shot.  Logan swears Utah's revolver hits the floor before anyone even hears the boom of one of Little Willie's pistols.

It's almost as though he doesn't even move.  He's still sittin' in his chair, and his pistol is back in its holster, like it's never been out. 

For the first time in the memory of most everyone there, Utah looks scared.  The loud, good-natured talk and laughter of a few minutes earlier are gone now, and the lunchroom's totally silent.

Nobody says anything, and nobody moves.  Until Charlie gently takes Petey by the hand, stands, and heads for the door.  "Would y'all wait a minute," says Little Willie.  "I believe this gentleman wants to apologize to your little boy."

Charlie says, "I don't want my grandson  to have any part of this sort of thing."     

Little Willie is urgent, "Please, Mister, this is important."  To Utah he says, "Go on now, tell the boy you was just funnin' with 'im.  Tell 'im you still believe in Santy Claus, big as you are."  

Utah says nothing, trying to think of a way to weasel out of having to apologize to a six-year-old boy.  Little Willie just sets there--lookin' at him--hands resting lightly on the table.  Utah knows--as does everybody else--how fast those hands can move.  The ticking of the Seth Thomas clock over the fireplace seems to grow louder.    

Irish Jack says quietly, "Looks like your move, Utah."                 

Utah sighs.  "Awright, boy," he says. "I was just funnin' you."   

"And...?" says Little Willie.  

"And I believe in Santy Claus."     

"And...?"   

"Aw, come on!" says Utah.  

Little Willie raises his left eyebrow just the wee littlest bit. "Even as old as I am," he says.

"Awright!" says Utah. "Even old as I am! There!"    

Little Willie nods his approval.  "Good," he says.  "Now get!"    

Irish Jack stands up and has to push the befuddled Utah toward the door. "C'mon, Kid," he says. "We'll go outside an' make some snowballs--that's maybe more yer speed than six-guns, anyways." 

An hour ago Jack wouldn't have dared talk like that to Utah, but now Utah just follows him out the door, meek as a lamb.  Little Willie goes over and squats down in front of Petey.        

"I'll tell you a secret," he says.  "I asked Santy to bring me a saddle this year."       

Petey is delighted.  "Really?" he says.    

"True as I'm sittin' here."       

A couple of cowpokes giggle over in the corner, and Little Willie looks their way and frowns, as though he can't figure out what's ticklin' their funnybones. The two stop in mid-giggle, put their money on the table, and head for the door.  One of them says, "We're goin' to go help Utah make some snowballs." 

Shorty is watchin' from the kitchen's pass-through window, holdin' a double-barreled shotgun where it can't be seen.  However, it isn't needed...this time.       

Little Willie winks at the departing cowpokes and says, "Good for

you!  But don't you boys go puttin' no rocks in 'em now, you hear?"   

In unison, bass and baritone, the two cowpokes said, "Nossir, we won't!"--and they are outta there.         

After Charlie and Petey leave, Logan fetches Little Willie another pitcher of sasparilla and sets down with him. He hands Willie back his lucky twenty-dollar gold piece.  "The boss says t'tell you your money's no good here--dinner's on the house."    

Willie starts to protest.  "No, no, no," Logan says. “That was a nice thing you did.  None of the rest of us was willing to stand up for little Petey like you did--about his believing in Santa Claus."          

Little Willie lowers his mug, peers intently at Logan, and says, "Well... you believe in Santy Claus, don't you, Logan?"    

Logan says he felt intimidated, not by Willie's lightning-like draw, but by the look in his eyes--a look just like the one in little Petey's eyes when Utah challenged his belief. "Well," Logan says, "I've been known to make a request or two... now and then."  

Willie's smile is like sunshine. "Good!" He says. "I told Santy in my letter this year that I'd appreciate gittin' a saddle and, if it won't too much trouble, a new sombrero.  Mine got chewed up purty bad by a cougar a while back."    

He lowers his head and sighs. "I ain't got too many hopes he'll bring me anythin', though.  I ain't been all that good a boy this year--like just now, you know?  But, sometimes I just can't help it.  I hate it when people are mean to each other, expecially to youngsters."    

Logan doesn't really know what to say.  And neither does anyone else in the room.  Logan says he guesses Little Willie takes the silence to mean everyone agrees with his self-apprisal, and he sighs and says quietly, "Well, mebbe next year." 

Everyone nods in agreement when Logan says, "I don't think it's too much to ask for a saddle and sombrero, Willie--it's men like the Kid and Irish Jack that Santa Claus won't be bringing anything."  

Willie thinks about that for a moment.  And just sits there, looking into his mug and smiling, imagining how it could be on Christmas morning to find a new saddle and a new sombrero under his own personal tree. 

Then Logan and Shorty hear a sound--Little Willie doesn't hear it, but they do--a kind of muted clinking sound.  They look over to where Father Aguilar is, and he's passing around his hat. He puts his finger to his lips, and mouths, "Shhhhh."           

While Little Willie sets there lost in reverie, those cowpokes, townfolks, and travelers from the Overland Stage are throwing in their share to see to it that--this year, anyway--one cowpoke will get his Christmas wish. 

Y'just know Father Aguilar will see to it.

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MERRY CHRISTMAS from our outfit to yours, Pal, Hal

Note: This story comes from some time back, when Drytown and everyone in it was a lot younger than they are now.  Drytown, Utah Territory, became Wadsworth, Nevada in 1869.  That's the year the Union Pacific Railroad made it their headquarters east of the Sierra Nevadas.  The railroad named the town after Civil War Union Army general, James S. Wadsworth who, legend says, was so popular that, when he was killed in battle, both sides quit fighting until he was removed from the field of combat.   

eMail:  hal_swift@yahoo.com

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(Ed. Note:  For a closer look at Hal Swift's cowboy poetry, go to http://www.cowboypoetry.com/halswift.htm )