Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  Let us not blame Red too much. He was born and reared in an environment of evil. His father and his father’s father had been rustlers and gun-fighters. Until he was a grown man, Red knew nothing but crime as a legitimate way of making a living and by the time he learned that a man may earn a sufficient livelihood and still remain within the law he was too set in his ways to change. So it was not altogether his fault that he was a gunfighter. Rather, it was the fault of those unscrupulous politicians and mine-owners who hired him to kill their enemies. For that was the way Red lived. He was a born gun-fighter. The killer instinct burned strongly in him—the heritage of Cain. He had never seen the man who surpassed him or even equalled him in the speed of the draw or in swift, straight shooting. These qualities together with the cold nerve and reckless bravery that goes with red hair, made him much in demand with rich men who had enemies. So he did a large business.

  But the fore-van of the law began to come into Idaho and Red saw with hate the first sign of that organization which had driven him out of Texas a few years before—the vigilantes. Red’s jobs became fewer and fewer for he feared to kill unless he could make it appear self-defense.

  At last it reached a point where Red was faced with the alternative of moving on or going to work. So he rode over to miner’s cabin and announced his intention of buying the miner’s claim. The miner, after one skittish glance at Red’s guns, sold his claim for fifty dollars, signed the deed and left the country precipitately.

  Red worked the claim for a few days and then quit in disgust. He had not gotten one ounce of gold dust. This was due, partly to his distaste for work, partly to his ignorance of placer mining and mostly to the poorness of the claim.

  He was standing in the front door of the saloon of the mining town, when the stage-coach drove in and a passenger alit.

  He was a well built, frank-appearing young fellow and Red hated him instinctively. Hated him for his cleanliness, for his open, honest, pleasant face, because he was everything that Red was not.

  The newcomer was very friendly and very soon the whole town knew his antecedents. His name was Hal Sharon, a tenderfoot from the east, who had come to Idaho with the hopes of striking a bonanza and going home wealthy. Of course there was a girl in the case, though Hal said little on that point. He had a few hundred dollars and wanted to buy a good claim. At this Red took a new interest in the young man.

  Red bought drinks and lauded his claim. Sharon proved singularly trustful. He did not ask to see the claim but took Red’s word for it. A trustfulness that would have touched a less hardened man than Red.

  One or two men, angered at the deliberate swindle, tried to warn Hal but a cold glance from Red caused them to change their minds. Hal bought Red’s claim for five hundred dollars.

  He toiled unceasingly all fall and early winter, barely making enugh to keep him in food and clothes, while Red lived in the little town and sneered at his uncomplaining efforts.

  Christmas in the air. Everywhere the miners stopped work and came to town to live until the snow should have melted and the ground thawed out in the spring. Only Hal Sharon stayed at his claim, working on in the cold and snow, spurred on by the thought of riches—and a girl.

  It was a little over three weeks until Christmas when, one cold night Red Ghallinan sat by the stove in the saloon and listened to the blizzard outside. He though to Sharon, doubtless shivering in his cabin up on the slopes, and he sneered. He listened idly to the talk of the miners and cow-punchers who were discussing the coming festivals, a dance and so on.

  Christmas meant nothing to Red. Though the one bright spot I his life had been one Christmas years ago when Red was a ragged waif, shivering on the snow covered streets of Kansas City.

  He had passed a great church and, attracted by the warmth, had entered timidly. The people had sung, "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing!" and when the congregation passed out, an old, white haired woman had seen the boy and had taken him home and fed him and clothed him. Red had lived in her home as one of the family until spring, but when the wild geese began to fly north and the trees began to bud, the wanderlust got into the boy’s blood and he ran away and came back to his native Texas prairies. But that was years ago and Red never thought of it now.

  The door flew open and a furred and muffled figure strode in. It was Sharon—his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.

  Instantly Red was on his feet, hand twisting just above a gun. But Hal took no notice of him. He pushed his way to the bar.

  "Boys," he said: "I named my claim the Golden Hope, and it was a true name! Boys, I’ve struck it rich!"

  And he threw a double handful of nuggets and gold-dust on the bar.

  Christmas Eve Red stood in the door of an eating house and watched Sharon coming down the slope, whistling merrily. He had a right to be merry. He was already worth twelve thousand dollars and had not exhausted his claim by half. Red watched with hate in his eyes. Ever since the night that Sharon had thrown his first gold on the bar, his hatred of the man had grown. Hal’s fortune seemed a personal injury to Red. Had he not worked like a slave on that claim without getting a pound of gold? And here this stranger had come and gotten rich off the same claim! Thousands to him, a measly five hundred to Red. To Red’s warped mind this assumed monstrous proportions—an outrage. He hated Sharon as he had never hated a man before. And since with him to hate was to kill, he determined to kill Hal Sharon. With a curse he reached for a gun when a thought stayed his hand. The Vigilantes! They would get him sure if he killed Sharon openly. A cunning light came to his eyes and he turned and strode away toward the unpretentious boarding house where he stayed.

  Hal Sharon walked into a saloon.

  "Seen Ghallinan lately?" he asked.

  The bartender shook his head.

  Hal tossed a bulging buck-sack on the bar.

  "Give that to him when you see him. It’s got about a thousand dollars worth of gold-dust in it."

  The bartender gasped. "What! You giving Red a thousand bucks after he tried to swindle you? Yes, it is safe here. Ain’t a galoot in camp touch anything belonging to a gun-fighter. But say—"

  "Well," answered Hal, "I don’t think he got enough for his claim; he practically gave it to me. And anyway," he laughed over his shoulder, "It’s Christmas!"

  *

  Morning in the mountains. The highest peaks touched with a delicate pink. The stars paling as the darkness grew grey. Light on the peaks, shadow still in the valleys, as if the paint brush of the Master had but passed lightly over the land, coloring openly the highest places, the places nearest to Him. Now the light-legions began to invade the valleys, driving before them the darkness; the light on the peaks grew stronger, the snow beginning to cast back the light. But as yet no sun. The king had sent his courtiers before him but he himself had not appeared.

  In a certain valley, smoke curled from the chimney of a rude log cabin. High on the hillside, a man gave a grunt of satisfaction. The man lay in a hollow, from which he had scraped the drifted snow. Ever since the first hint of dawn, he had lain there, watching the cabin. A heavy rifle lay beneath his arm.

  Down in the valley, the cabin door swung wide and a man stepped out. The watcher on the hill saw that it was the man he had come to kill.

  Hal Sharon threw his arms wide and laughed aloud in the sheer joy of living. Up on the hill, Red Ghallinan watched the man over the sights of a Sharpe .50 rifle. For the first time he noticed what a magnificent figure the young man was. Tall, strong, handsome, with the glow of health on his cheek.

  For some reason Red was not getting the enjoyment he thought he would. He shook his shoulders impatiently. His finger tightened on the trigger—suddenly Hal broke into song; the words floated clearly to Red.

  "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing!"

  Where had he heard that song before? Suddenly a mist floated across Red Ghallinan’s eyes; the rifle slipped unnoticed from his hands, He drew his hand across his eyes and looked toward the eat. There, alone hung one gr
eat star and as he looked, over the shoulder of a great mountain came the great sun.

  "Gawd!" gulped Red, why—it is Christmas!"

  Simon Wood

  SLAY BELLS

  SNOW INSULATED THE city, absorbing the urban world's noise in its peculiar way. All Tom could hear was the squeak and scrunch of his footfalls compacting fresh snow.

  He smiled. The kids would love the surprise in the morning. It would be their first white Christmas. Hell, he hadn't seen one in years. Who expected snow in San Francisco? Bing Crosby would be the name of the day tomorrow.

  A new sound invaded the night. Sleigh bells tinkled on the night air. Tom grinned like his five year old.

  He loved Christmas, always had. There was something about this time of the year that made him glad to be alive. People always managed to do something special-like now. Someone was giving the illusion that Santa was on the way by ringing sleigh bells from the rooftops on Market Street.

  The sleigh bell chimes intensified. They were directly overhead. Grinning, he looked up.

  His grin slipped down his face like melting sleet. Christmas had just lost all meaning.

  * * *

  Clark couldn't believe it. Some son of a bitch was mugging some other son of a bitch on Christmas Eve. The mugger was dressed entirely in green. From Clark's vantage point, he was in a fancy dress costume and pounding the shit out of his victim on the ground.

  Clark wasn't about to let it happen. He charged across the empty street. His feet found surprising purchase on the slippery surface.

  "Leave him alone, you shit!" Clark shouted.

  The attacker continued to deliver blow after blow to his victim.

  Clark closed on the attacker and realized the attacker wasn't using his fist. He had a short bladed dagger in his hand. Two bells dangled from the butt and chimed every time he stabbed his victim. Clark tried to stop, but he slithered on the snow then on the red slush before colliding with the man in green. The attacker collapsed on his prey and Clark flew over the top of them and crashed on his back, cracking his head on the sidewalk. He flipped onto all fours, afraid that the green-clad killer would turn his attentions to him. The killer didn't. He wasn't finished with his victim. He thrust the knife down twice more into the dead man's eyes. With rapid motions, he plucked the eyes out, snaring them with the dagger's snake-like forked blade.

  Terror cold-welded Clark to the spot as he bore witness to the unbelievable. Lightning exploded from the dead man's sockets, striking the knife blade and vaporizing the eyeballs skewered to it. Electricity was conducted through the killer and he released an involuntary growl. When the lightning ceased, another bell dangled from the knife's handle.

  The killer turned to Clark and Clark saw the murderer's face for the first time. The killer's hood had hidden his face, but not anymore. He was a man...of sorts. The face was dark and gnarled, as if carved from tree roots, and twisted into a permanent sneer.

  "You're next, friend," the killer growled.

  Clark didn't doubt it.

  Sirens wailed and three police units slewed onto Market.

  The man in green snatched a glance at the approaching cruisers then turned back to Clark. "Somebody up there likes you," he said with a smirk.

  "Up where?"

  "Up here." The green man propelled himself hundreds of feet into the air, until he was lost amongst the night and the stars.

  The black and whites skidded to a halt on the snow, one car riding the curb. Headlights bathed the sidewalk in blinding light. The scene was open to wild interpretation and didn't look good for Clark. He stood with his hands raised.

  "It wasn't me," he said weakly.

  It sounded feeble and he knew it. But what else was he going to say? That some other guy dressed like the Riddler flying through the air did it?

  "Stay right there," came a voice from a cruiser's bullhorn.

  "I didn't do it."

  The cops piled out from their cars with weapons drawn. Two cops kept their guns trained on Clark. The other four had their guns aimed on the night behind and above them.

  "Turn around and face the wall," an approaching cop with sergeant stripes said. "Place your hands behind your head and interlace your fingers."

  Clark did as he was told. "I didn't do it. Honestly," he said to the wall.

  A gun barrel pressed against Clark's neck and a handcuff snared his wrist. His hands were brought down behind his back and the second bracelet clamped his other wrist. He was turned to face the victim. Heat vapor was still escaping from the wounds and the eye sockets.

  "Christ," the handcuffing cop said. "Just like the others."

  "I didn't do it."

  "We heard you the first time," the sergeant said, guiding him into the back of a cruiser. "Someone order a meat wagon and keep the press away. I'll deal with this one."

  The sergeant bundled Clark into the rear of the vehicle and roared off, lights flashing and siren wailing. The policeman drove more quickly than the conditions allowed. The car slithered on snow-covered streets, sliding from lane to lane, crossing into oncoming traffic lanes. It was lucky for everyone that the hour was late and traffic was scarce.

  "Am I under arrest?" Clark asked.

  "The lieutenant will decide that." The sergeant threw the Crown Victoria into the next bend.

  Clark expected bright lights and a foul smelling interrogation office. Instead, he was delivered to the TransAmerica pyramid. A balding, pot bellied man emerged from the building's reception area. The sergeant delivered Clark to the man.

  "This is getting serious," the man said.

  "We're running out of time, lieutenant," the sergeant said.

  "I know." The lieutenant checked his watch. "Damnit, we've got an hour."

  "This is the witness." The sergeant shoved Clark a step closer.

  "Lieutenant Harry Jakes." He offered a hand. "And you are?"

  "Under arrest?" Clark replied.

  "Foisie, get the cuffs off him."

  "Yes, lieutenant." The sergeant did as he was told.

  "Your name, sir?" Jakes asked.

  "Clark Zale."

  "Okay, Mr. Zale, you're with me." He indicated his unmarked blue, Crown Victoria. "Foisie, tie up affairs here. You'll find the Vic on the 25th floor."

  Glancing up at the building, Foisie asked, "Where abouts?"

  Jakes was already guiding Clark to his car. "Just follow the trail of blood. You can't miss it."

  Clark massaged his wrists. "Am I free to go?"

  Jakes shook his head. "You're very valuable to us. Get in the car. Let's drive around for awhile and you can tell me what you've witnessed tonight."

  Jakes' driving was far more sedate than Foisie's and Clark was glad of that. But he wished he could go home and change out of his wet clothes. The damp cold had finally overcome his adrenaline inspired fear.

  "What can you tell me, Mr. Zale?"

  Clark reeled off his account of the man in green. It sounded unbelievable but Jakes took it all in with the occasional nod of understanding and without question. Clark wondered whether the policeman was just humoring him.

  "When you say bells were on the knife, how many?"

  "Three."

  "Good. That means only three are dead."

  "Can I go home now?"

  "No, you're not safe. And from now on, you're under police protection."

  "What?"

  "You're still at risk. Sleath has never let a witness escape unharmed. He'll be back for you. I guarantee it."

  "Sleath? What the hell is this about, lieutenant?"

  "Christmas."

  "Christmas?"

  Jakes nodded.

  "This is unbelievable."

  "It isn't. Let me give you an education. Christmas, 101 style. Sleath is the killer you saw tonight. He's killed three people in the last two hours and he has another four to go before midnight."

  "Who's Sleath?"

  "He was Saint Nicholas' right hand man."

  "Saint Nicholas? S
anta Claus? What is this bullshit?"

  "Not bullshit, Mr. Zale, the truth. This is the Christmas story we don't tell anyone."

  Clark said nothing, not knowing what to say or believe.

  "Sleath was...a...a disciple of his I suppose. Saint Nick's people would call them elves these days."

  "This guy was no elf."

  "Don't believe everything Walt Disney tells you. Not all elves are dwarfs who sing songs all day. They are people blessed with the gift of long life to preserve the spirit of Christmas."

  "And Sleath is blessed, but not with the spirit of Christmas, I suppose."

  "You got it. He had a falling out with Saint Nick. I don't know all the details. There are things they don't even tell us."

  "Okay, Sleath doesn't like Christmas, but why all the killing?"

  Jakes turned onto a street sign-posted for the Bay Bridge. "Ever heard of the Christmas Bell?"

  "No."

  "The Christmas bell sends out the spirit of Christmas and keeps Christmas safe for another year. If Sleath destroys the bell, it's adios Christmas. But, he only has the night before Christmas to do it." Jakes made a left. "Because the bell is at risk, it's moved from country to country every year. This year, it's here."

  "Where?"

  "Coit Tower. I've got a couple of men posted there with orders to shoot first and ask questions later."

  "Okay, all Sleath needs to do is smash the bell, but that doesn't explain all the killings."

  "The bell can only be destroyed with a weapon forged from the same material."

  "Which is?"

  "Sleath's knife."

  "Figures."

  "But that isn't enough, it has to be hardened with the souls of seven Christmas believers."