VSanta Claus Lin

VSanta Claus Lin

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He was faintly roused by the churchbells, and lay still, lingering with his sleep, his eyes closed and his thoughts unshaped. As he became slowly aware of the morning, the ringing and the light reached him, and he waked wholly, and, still lying quiet, considered the strange room filled with the bells and the sun of the winter’s day. “Where have I struck now?” he inquired; and as last night returned abruptly upon his mind, he raised himself on his arm.

There sat Responsibility in a chair, washed clean and dressed, watching him.

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“You’re awful late,” said Responsibility. “But I weren’t a-going without telling you good-bye.”

“Go?” exclaimed Lin. “Go where? Yu’ surely ain’t leavin’ me to eat breakfast alone?” The cow-puncher made his voice very plaintive. Set Responsibility free after all his trouble to catch him? This was more than he could do!

“I’ve got to go. If I’d thought you’d want for me to stay—why, you said you was a-going by the early train.”

“But the durned thing’s got away on me,” said Lin, smiling sweetly from the bed.

“If I hadn’t a-promised them—”

“Who?”

“Sidney Ellis and Pete Goode. Why, you know them; you grubbed with them.”

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“Shucks!”

“We’re a-going to have fun to-day.”

“Oh!”

“For it’s Christmas, an’ we’ve bought some good cigars, an’ Pete says he’ll learn me sure. O’ course I’ve smoked some, you know. But I’d just as leaves stayed with you if I’d only knowed sooner. I wish you lived here. Did you smoke whole big cigars when you was beginning?”

“Do yu’ like flapjacks and maple syrup?” inquired the artful McLean. “That’s what I’m figuring on inside twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes! If they’d wait—”

“See here, Bill. They’ve quit expectin’ yu’, don’t yu’ think? I’d ought to waked, yu’ see, but I slep’ and slep’, and kep’ yu’ from meetin’ your engagements, yu’ see—for you couldn’t go, of course. A man couldn’t treat a man that way now, could he?”

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“Course he couldn’t,” said Billy, brightening.

“And they wouldn’t wait, yu’ see. They wouldn’t fool away Christmas, that only comes onced a year, kickin’ their heels, and sayin’ ‘Where’s Billy?’ They’d say, ‘Bill has sure made other arrangements, which he’ll explain to us at his leesyure.’ And they’d skip with the cigars.”

The advocate paused, effectively, and from his bolster regarded Billy with a convincing eye.

“That’s so,” said Billy.

“And where would yu’ be then, Bill? In the street, out of friends, out of Christmas, and left both ways, no tobacker and no flapjacks. Now, Bill, what do yu’ say to us puttin’ up a Christmas deal together? Just you and me?”

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“I’d like that,” said Billy. “Is it all day?”

“I was thinkin’ of all day,’ said Lin. “I’ll not make yu’ do anything yu’d rather not.”

“Ah, they can smoke without me,” said Billy, with sudden acrimony. “I’ll see ’em to-morro’.”

“That’s yu’!” cried Mr. McLean. “Now, Bill, you hustle down and tell them to keep a table for us. I’ll get my clothes on and follow yu’.”

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The boy went, and Mr. McLean procured hot water and dressed himself, tying his scarf with great care. “Wished I’d a clean shirt,” said he. “But I don’t look very bad. Shavin’ yesterday afternoon was a good move.” He picked up the arrow-head and the kinni-kinnic, and was particular to store them in his safest pocket. “I ain’t sure whether you’re crazy or not,” said he to the man in the looking-glass. “I ’ain’t never been sure.” And he slammed the door and went down-stairs.

He found young Bill on guard over a table for four, with all the chairs tilted against it as a warning to strangers. No one sat at any other table or came into the room, for it was late, and the place quite emptied of breakfasters, and the several entertained waiters had gathered behind Billy’s important-looking back. Lin provided a thorough meal, and Billy pronounced the flannel cakes superior to flapjacks, which were not upon the bill of fare.

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“I’d like to see you often,” said he. “I’ll come and see you if you don’t live too far.”

“That’s the trouble,” said the cow-puncher. “I do. Awful far.” He stared out of the window.

“Well, I might come some time. I wish you’d write me a letter. Can you write?”

“What’s that? Can I write? Oh yes.”

“I can write, an’ I can read, too. I’ve been to school in Sidney, Nebraska, an’ Magaw, Kansas, an’ Salt Lake—that’s the finest town except Denver.”

Billy fell into that cheerful strain of comment which, unreplied to, yet goes on content and self-sustaining, while Mr. McLean gave amiable signs of assent, but chiefly looked out of the window; and when the now interested waiter said, respectfully, that he desired to close the room, they went out to the office, where the money was got out of the safe and the bill paid.

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The streets were full of the bright sun, and seemingly at Denver’s gates stood the mountains; an air crisp and pleasant wafted from their peaks; no smoke hung among the roofs, and the sky spread wide over the city without a stain; it was holiday up among the chimneys and tall buildings, and down among the quiet ground-stories below as well; and presently from their scattered pinnacles through the town the bells broke out against the jocund silence of the morning.

“Don’t you like music?” inquired Billy.

“Yes,” said Lin.

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Ladies with their husbands and children were passing and meeting, orderly yet gayer than if it were only Sunday, and the salutations of Christmas came now and again to the cow-puncher’s ears; but to-day, possessor of his own share in this, Lin looked at every one with a sort of friendly challenge, and young Billy talked along beside him.

“Don’t you think we could go in here?” Billy asked. A church door was open, and the rich organ sounded through to the pavement. “They’ve good music here, an’ they keep it up without much talking between. I’ve been in lots of times.”

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They went in and sat to hear the music. Better than the organ, it seemed to them, were the harmonious voices raised from somewhere outside, like unexpected visitants; and the pair sat in their back seat, too deep in listening to the processional hymn to think of rising in decent imitation of those around them. The crystal melody of the refrain especially reached their understandings, and when for the fourth time “Shout the glad tidings, exultingly sing,” pealed forth and ceased, both the delighted faces fell.

“Don’t you wish there was more?” Billy whispered.

“Wish there was a hundred verses,” answered Lin.

But canticles and responses followed, with so little talking between them they were held spellbound, seldom thinking to rise or kneel. Lin’s eyes roved over the church, dwelling upon the pillars in their evergreen, the flowers and leafy wreaths, the texts of white and gold. “‘Peace, good-will towards men,’” he read. “That’s so. Peace and good-will. Yes, that’s so. I expect they got that somewheres in the Bible. It’s awful good, and you’d never think of it yourself.”

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There was a touch on his arm, and a woman handed a book to him. “This is the hymn we have now,” she whispered, gently; and Lin, blushing scarlet, took it passively without a word. He and Billy stood up and held the book together, dutifully reading the words:

“It came upon the midnight clear,That glorious song of old,From angels bending near the earthTo touch their harps of gold;Peace on the earth—”

“It came upon the midnight clear,That glorious song of old,From angels bending near the earthTo touch their harps of gold;Peace on the earth—”

“It came upon the midnight clear,That glorious song of old,From angels bending near the earthTo touch their harps of gold;Peace on the earth—”

“It came upon the midnight clear,

That glorious song of old,

From angels bending near the earth

To touch their harps of gold;

Peace on the earth—”

This tune was more beautiful than all, and Lin lost himself in it, until he found Billy recalling him with a finger upon the words, the concluding ones:

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“And the whole world sent back the songWhich now the angels sing.”

“And the whole world sent back the songWhich now the angels sing.”

“And the whole world sent back the songWhich now the angels sing.”

“And the whole world sent back the song

Which now the angels sing.”

The music rose and descended to its lovely and simple end; and, for a second time in Denver, Lin brushed a hand across his eyes. He turned his face from his neighbor, frowning crossly; and since the heart has reasons which Reason does not know, he seemed to himself a fool; but when the service was over and he came out, he repeated again, “‘Peace and good-will.’ When I run on to the Bishop of Wyoming I’ll tell him if he’ll preach on them words I’ll be there.”

“Couldn’t we shoot your pistol now?” asked Billy.

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“Sure, boy. Ain’t yu’ hungry, though?”

“No. I wish we were away off up there. Don’t you?”

“The mountains? They look pretty—so white! A heap better ’n houses. Why, we’ll go there! There’s trains to Golden. We’ll shoot around among the foot-hills.”

To Golden they immediately went, and, after a meal there, wandered in the open country until the cartridges were gone, the sun was low, and Billy was walked off his young heels—a truth he learned complete in one horrid moment and battled to conceal.

“Lame!” he echoed, angrily. “I ain’t.”

“Shucks!” said Lin, after the next ten steps. “You are, and both feet.”

“Tell you, there’s stones here, an’ I’m just a-skipping them.”

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Lin, briefly, took the boy in his arms and carried him to Golden. “I’m played out myself,” he said, sitting in the hotel and looking lugubriously at Billy on a bed. “And I ain’t fit to have charge of a hog.” He came and put his hand on the boy’s head.

“I’m not sick,” said the cripple. “I tell you I’m bully. You wait an’ see me eat dinner.”

But Lin had hot water and cold water and salt, and was an hour upon his knees bathing the hot feet. And then Billy could not eat dinner.

There was a doctor in Golden; but in spite of his light prescription and most reasonable observations, Mr. McLean passed a foolish night of vigil, while Billy slept, quite well at first, and, as the hours passed, better and better. In the morning he was entirely brisk, though stiff.

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“I couldn’t work quick to-day,” he said. “But I guess one day won’t lose me my trade.”

“How d’ yu’ mean?” asked Lin.

“Why, I’ve got regulars, you know. Sidney Ellis an’ Pete Goode has theirs, an’ we don’t cut each other. I’ve got Mr. Daniels an’ Mr. Fisher an’ lots, an’ if you lived in Denver I’d shine your boots every day for nothing. I wished you lived in Denver.”

“Shine my boots? Yu’ll never! And yu’ don’t black Daniels or Fisher, or any of the outfit.”

“Why, I’m doing first-rate,” said Billy, surprised at the swearing into which Mr. McLean now burst. “An’ I ain’t big enough to get to make money at any other job.

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“I want to see that engine-man,” muttered Lin. “I don’t like your smokin’ friend.”

“Pete Goode? Why, he’s awful smart. Don’t you think he’s smart?”

“Smart’s nothin’,” observed Mr. McLean.

“Pete has learned me and Sidney a lot,” pursued Billy, engagingly.

“I’ll bet he has!” growled the cow-puncher; and again Billy was taken aback at his language.

“‘This is Mister Billy Lusk’”

“‘This is Mister Billy Lusk’”

“‘This is Mister Billy Lusk’”

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It was not so simple, this case. To the perturbed mind of Mr. McLean it grew less simple during that day at Golden, while Billy recovered, and talked, and ate his innocent meals. The cow-puncher was far too wise to think for a single moment of restoring the runaway to his debauched and shiftless parents. Possessed of some imagination, he went through a scene in which he appeared at the Lusk threshold with Billy and forgiveness, and intruded upon a conjugal assault and battery. “Shucks!” said he. “The kid would be off again inside a week. And I don’t want him there, anyway.”

Denver, upon the following day, saw the little bootblack again at his corner, with his trade not lost; but near him stood a tall, singular man, with hazel eyes and a sulky expression. And citizens during that week noticed, as a new sight in the streets, the tall man and the little boy walking together. Sometimes they would be in shops. The boy seemed as happy as possible, talking constantly, while the man seldom said a word, and his face was serious.

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Upon New Year’s Eve Governor Barker was overtaken by Mr. McLean riding a horse up Hill Street, Cheyenne.

“Hello!” said Barker, staring humorously through his glasses. “Have a good drunk?”

“Changed my mind,” said Lin, grinning. “Proves I’ve got one. Struck Christmas all right, though.”

“Who’s your friend?” inquired his Excellency.

“This is Mister Billy Lusk. Him and me have agreed that towns ain’t nice to live in. If Judge Henry’s foreman and his wife won’t board him at Sunk Creek—why, I’ll fix it somehow.”

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The cow-puncher and his Responsibility rode on together towards the open plain.

“Suffering Moses!” remarked his Excellency.

THE END

THE END

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTESSilently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

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