Pony Express Christmas

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Grady kept nibbling his lip. Snow drifted down harder as he thought about the mailbags he needed to take off the horse to make room for the boy.

  Chances were he’d lost his job anyway, because a Pony Express man never stopped. This one time, though, might be he could convince folks at Pony Express that he had just cause for stopping. He’d never keep his job, though, if they found out he’d left his mailbags with a stranger.

  On the other hand, if he didn’t take the boy home, there were the mother and three other boys all alone, worrying about these two. And if the woman did go out into the night . . .

  Jeremiah stared anxiously at the Pony Express rider and twisted his hat in his hands. He could see his sweet Grace staring out the window, wondering and waiting. He heard her last words in his mind. He had to find a way to let her know he and the boy were fine.

  “We get that fire going,” Jeremiah said, doing his best to keep desperation out of his voice, “I’ll be fine here waiting. I got blankets and a rifle and food. I don’t know what else I can do except throw myself on your mercy.”

  Grady finally nodded. He decided if the snow let up, someone might track back from the Weyburn ranch and come looking for him. But they had at least twelve or fourteen miles to reach this wagon. So if the snow let up, Grady would be back well in time to pick up his mailbags before they’d arrive. Chances were, then, no one would ever find out that he’d left them behind.

  “Consider it done,” Grady said. “I’ve got to make room for your boy on my horse. That means I need to hide the mailbags in your wagon. What with bank drafts and business letters, I can’t tell you how important it is to keep them safe.”

  What Grady didn’t add was that the mailbags were sealed with stamped lead. At least Grady didn’t have to worry about the man going through the mail during the night.

  “God bless you!” Jeremiah said, then hesitated. “Just in case it takes awhile to ride out the storm, can you deliver some presents? I promised my family something for Christmas, and a man hates breaking promises to his children.”

  Grady nodded again. Impatiently. The snow was sweeping in harder, and he wanted to be on his way.

  The man hobbled around his wagon. He leaned over the side and dug into a box and came back with four small packages, wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with cheap string.

  “One for each of my boys,” he said. He’d lowered his voice so that Noah couldn’t hear.

  Grady took them and slipped them inside his coat.

  “Thank you kindly,” Jeremiah said. “Comes the day I can help you or anyone else, I’ll return the favor.”

  Grady waited. He was expecting Jeremiah to come up with another gift, one for his wife.

  Jeremiah half frowned. “Something wrong?”

  “I’ll be happy to take along the present for your woman,” Grady told him.

  “We’re going through tough times,” he said, staring off. “Something little would put a sparkle back in her eyes, but all I could afford was a few trinkets for the boys. I’m hoping she’ll understand.”

  Grady looked off, sorry he’d shamed the man into this admission. He’d gather wood as fast as he could and let the man be.

  “Best get the fire going,” Grady said, already walking away. “Night like tonight, you’re going to need it.”

  Chapter 7

  Kentucky lay on his belly, rifle beside him, and watched the wagon activity below at the creek bed with great interest.

  He knew he’d been fortunate that neither the Pony Express rider nor the man in the floppy hat had seen him when he first rode up to the edge of the bank.

  Falling snow and fading daylight not only limited the visibility but covered the sounds of Kentucky’s horse. Kentucky’s cause had been further aided because the Pony Express man had been busy dragging wood toward the wagon, and the man in the floppy hat had been talking to the boy beside him.

  Maybe, Kentucky thought, just maybe their luck had turned. Them mailbags were sure to have bank drafts and such, maybe even paper money that folks were sending across the country. Taking them was much easier than robbing a bank.

  Even with Reb as terrible sick as he was.

  Behind Kentucky were the horses, now tethered well back from the creek bed. Kentucky had tied Reb into the saddle and covered him with a blanket, only because he didn’t know what else to do. His brother was barely conscious. Kentucky had himself convinced that all it would take for Reb to get better was the warmth of a fire, some decent food, and a good night’s rest.

  All three necessities were down below. The fire, it appeared, would be ready in minutes. Supplies were visible in the back of the open wagon. And he and Reb would rest well once Kentucky took the required action to get them the fire and food, for there’d be no one else on this trail tonight, and they’d have at least until morning before they needed to flee. Best of all, if the snow continued, it would hide their tracks.

  Yes, sir, Kentucky told himself, their luck was changing. The Pony Express horse stood at the side of the wagon, with the mailbags dangling in sight like ripe apples waiting to be plucked.

  First person he’d have to hit, Kentucky decided, was the Pony Express man. Then the man with the busted leg. Kentucky didn’t want to have to shoot the boy and wouldn’t, not unless the boy went for the gun in the Pony Express man’s holster. Although it would have been nice to have Reb at his side, at a distance of less than fifty yards Kentucky probably wouldn’t miss.

  Kentucky held off on shooting, however, because he saw no sense in hurrying down before all the work was done. One man was fixing a fire and getting wood. The other man was reaching into the supplies for food and blankets. Fact was, Kentucky told himself, he might just wait until they had a meal prepared. The fire would give him enough light to hold a bead on his target.

  So Kentucky waited longer, hardly even feeling the cold ground against his belly and legs. Come tomorrow night, he’d be in a hotel, ready to celebrate in a saloon. He’d . . .

  Kentucky blinked. It was much darker now, and he wasn’t sure if he saw correctly. The Pony Express man had just unloaded the mailbags off his horse.

  Kentucky watched with the concentration of a cougar about to pounce on a deer. He watched the scene unfold, like the best dream he could have hoped for.

  The man with the busted-up leg helped the Pony Express man hide the mailbags in the wagon. Then the Pony Express man lifted the boy and put him on the horse’s back, directly behind the saddle. The mail agent swung up into the saddle himself, and the boy clutched his arms around the rider. Finally the Pony Express rider and the boy rode off into the snow-filled dusk.

  That left a crippled greenhorn guarding the mailbags.

  Kentucky grinned.

  This was going to be a good Christmas after all.

  Chapter 8

  “You know your pa should tell you this,” Grace said, her boys gathered around. “He’s the one with the stories.”

  “Tell us evil eye,” Seth said.

  “Tell us, tell us,” Caleb echoed. “Evil eye. Evil eye.”

  Grace sighed theatrically, and her three boys clapped. They never tired of the story Grace had heard Jeremiah tell the first night they met.

  “As you know,” Grace said, “your granpa was a doctor in Virginia. So when your pa was your age, Josiah, he sometimes followed his own pa on calls.”

  “Granny Morris,” Seth said. “Granny Morris.”

  “Yes,” Grace said. “Old Granny Morris. Her face was wrinkled so bad a person couldn’t ever tell if Granny Morris was grinning or spitting mad. Except most of the time she was spitting mad. Folks were scared of her. Said she could cast spells. Now one of her neighbors, another old woman by the name of Mrs. Callison, made the mistake of crossing her, so old Granny Morris made a visit to this poor neighbor and gave her the evil eye and said she had cast a spell to grow a frog in her stomach.”

  Seth giggled. “Frogs grow down by the creek.”

  “Yes, sir,” Grace said,
warming up to her story. “Frogs do grow down by the creek. Except Mrs. Callison believed in the spell and in a day or two was certain that she could feel a frog wriggling in her stomach.”

  “Oooooh,” the boys said together, as they always did at this point in the story.

  “Now you all know there’s no such thing as spells, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” all three said.

  “All a person needs is faith in the good Lord,” Grace said. “Trouble is, sometimes when you believe something, you can make it so. Didn’t take but another week and this poor neighbor was lying on her deathbed, convinced that the frog in her stomach was getting bigger and bigger. Your own granpa, he visited every day and couldn’t do a thing to help this woman get better. Pills. Potions. Nothing worked.”

  “Pa knew what to do, didn’t he, and he was just a boy,” Josiah said. “Pa’s a smart man!”

  Grace closed her eyes, thinking of her last bitter words to her husband. Jeremiah was a smart man. A good schoolteacher. It’s just that he wasn’t very practical. And this wilderness was no place for a man who couldn’t use his hands.

  “Yes,” Grace said. “Your pa’s a smart man. Even though he was just a boy, he knew exactly what to do. When he told your granpa, why that old doctor laughed and laughed. And sure enough, next visit, Doc Sparling gave your pa’s idea a try.”

  Grace continued telling the story, able to picture it in her head from the way Jeremiah always painted stories with words. She recalled his words.

  Jeremiah’s father, old Doc Sparling, was tall and thin, almost harsh looking, but carried himself gentle and spoke slow, so folks knew he cared. Doc Sparling had first argued with his son that if it worked, the ailing woman might only believe more in the evil eye. Jeremiah argued back, as he always told in his story, that when folks hear how they did it, they’ll all know Granny Morris was nothing but an old windbag.

  Doc had finally agreed, and so it was that both of them pulled up to Mrs. Callison’s house.

  The bedroom was dark where the old woman lay dying. She’d insisted that the curtains always be drawn, and it had been like that since the day Granny Morris gave her the evil eye and told her a frog was growing in her stomach. On this day, Mrs. Callison was so far gone she could hardly raise her head as Doc Sparling walked up to her bed.

  Jeremiah said the old woman’s hair was thin and white, and it clung to her head, making her look even thinner than she was. He said she’d happened to catch a fever the day after Granny Morris gave her the evil eye and maybe that’s why she started to believe the nonsense about the frog in her stomach.

  As Grace continued to retell Jeremiah’s story, she could hear the conversation that took place.

  “Mrs. Callison,” Doc said gravely, with young Jeremiah tagging behind, “it may not be long at all.”

  She nodded and rested her head back on the pillow.

  “But I won’t give up,” Doc said.

  “It ain’t no use,” Mrs. Callison said. “Not against the evil eye.”

  “Let’s try one last potion,” Doc urged. He made a great show of taking an empty glass jar from his medicine bag and setting it on the table beside her bed. “Don’t give Granny Morris the pleasure of knowing you went without a fight.”

  The old woman’s face tightened in anger, and she spoke with more firmness. “Doc, give me what you got.”

  At this point in the retelling, Grace began to giggle. Josiah had guessed correctly in that it might cheer her up.

  The substance that old Doc Sparling gave next to Mrs. Callison was called ipecac, a vile substance that cleaned a person out. It worked well that afternoon, because, sure enough, Mrs. Callison sent Jeremiah running to get a bedpan because she didn’t have the strength to get herself out of bed and to the outhouse.

  And in the darkness of her room, it was no trouble at all doing the next part, not for Jeremiah, who had been quick enough to catch the frog in the first place. All he’d done at that point was take the frog out of his pocket and give it to Doc as he pulled away the bedpan when Mrs. Callison was finished.

  “Mrs. Callison!” Doc had shouted with glee. “The operation was a success!”

  “What?” Mrs. Callison had asked.

  “Quick, Jeremiah,” Doc had said. “Hand me the jar! Before it gets away!”

  Jeremiah had done as requested. In the dimness of the bedroom, Doc had bent over again and made some quick movements hard to distinguish in the dark.

  “Just like I figured,” Doc had explained as he straightened. He held the jar high where Mrs. Callison could admire it. “We moved that little rascal right out!”

  And there it was. A frog in the jar. Just like it had actually left her stomach.

  Grace stopped, giggling right along with her boys.

  How Grace wished Jeremiah were here to finish the story, because his imitation of an old woman was perfect.

  Mrs. Callison, as Jeremiah told it, sat up, studied that jar, and watched as the frog bumped into the glass with every hop.

  “Doc,” Mrs. Callison had said after a few seconds, “now you can see why I was feeling so poorly. A frog that big hopping around inside would kill a mule, let alone an old lady.”

  As the boys laughed and clapped, Grace carefully looked away toward the window with the burning candle.

  She wished so badly that she could hear Jeremiah tell this story again. Didn’t matter if he was a romantic fool who could barely hit a nail with a hammer.

  She loved him.

  Chapter 9

  Even with the snow falling heavily in the purple light of dusk, Grady had ridden through plenty worse. It was his job, no different than for every other Pony Express man in the country. They weren’t to let snow or hail or heat or Indian attacks stop them. It was as simple as that.

  The boy, Noah, said nothing for the first half hour as they rode.

  The snow began to fall so heavily that the west face of the rock tower was already coated white when they got there. Grady found the dry creek bed easily enough and was grateful for it. The way it was snowing, he needed the dark outline of the rocks to follow.

  Because of the terrain and the snow and the boy balanced on the haunches of the horse, he could not ride hard as snow whipped across the horse. Grady’s arms and gloves became as white as the ground.

  Soon the rocks, too, were covered, and Grady walked the horse even slower.

  In silence, the boy clutched Grady’s waist.

  “You all right?” Grady finally said.

  “Yes, sir.” That was it from the boy.

  As it became darker, Grady found it more difficult to see. He drew back on the reins to stop the horse. Grady swung down.

  “Son,” he said, “I’m going to have to lead the horse. Slide forward and sit on the saddle. You’ll find the horn. Hold on to it tight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Grady walked, the leather of his boots became dark with the snow that melted on the warmth of his feet. It didn’t take long for his toes to lose this heat and become numb. By Grady’s calculations, he still had some several miles to go. At this pace, it would be at least two more hours of walking. As he plodded forward, he thought of Lucy and a warm fire.

  Merry Christmas, he told himself. Thank you, Lord, for a merry, merry Christmas.

  Chapter 10

  Wrapped in a blanket, Jeremiah sat on a box beside a stack of wood for the fire. In front of him, flames flickered comfort, and snow sizzled as it hit the glowing logs.

  He stared at a pot of beans and stirred the contents occasionally by reaching into it with a long stick. But he wasn’t hungry. Not with so many reasons to believe he didn’t belong out here on the Frontier, reasons to doubt the good Lord’s plans for him and his family.

  The splint on his right leg was evidence enough. It had been three weeks earlier that Jeremiah tried working a horse with a split hoof. Noah had been there to watch it all. Jeremiah had failed to tie the horse securely. When he touched the horse’s hoof with a
file, the horse had bucked hard, slamming Jeremiah into the post of the pen. Noah had been the one to yank hard on the rope and pull the horse away before it stomped Jeremiah where he lay helpless on the ground. Jeremiah would have been hard-pressed to declare what was worse—the feeling of pain and helplessness on the ground as he waited for one of those thrashing hooves to crush his skull, the fact that he’d been rescued by a son who couldn’t look him in the eye anymore, or the sickening sound of his thighbone as it had snapped against the post with the same casual indifference of a wagon axle breaking against stone.

  ’Course, now the fact was that it had taken another man to rescue him and deliver Noah to Grace and the boys. Jeremiah knew whatever happened was part of God’s plan, but he wondered why it had to involve so much pain and humiliation.

  He was lost in these thoughts when a man stepped into the light of the fire.

  Jeremiah gasped.

  The man was huge, with a long coat open to show a revolver holstered on each side of his hips. Long greasy hair hung down from under the sides of the man’s hat. The front of the man’s long coat was covered with a mixture of mud and snow and some broken, dried grass.

  Jeremiah tried to scramble to his feet, but his splinted leg made the efforts futile.

  “Evening, pards,” the man said. His face was lost in shadow. “Just rest easy. I don’t mean no harm. Fact is, I was hoping my brother and I might join you. We’ve been on the trail some, and this storm has about done us in.”

  “Yes,” Jeremiah said without hesitation. “Definitely yes. No man should have to face this storm. Your brother . . .”

  “Back on his horse. Fever’s got him bad. If you don’t mind, I’ll help him set in front of the fire, then unsaddle the horses and join the both of you.” This time, the man did not wait for a reply. He disappeared into the wall of snow outside the light of the fire and returned shortly with a smaller man he supported by carrying under the shoulders with one massive arm. In his other arm, the man carried two blankets.