The Christmas MEGAPACK ®. Nina Kiriki Hoffman

the frost-festooned trees of Bobcat Gulch, was already glinting upon the Jecklin cabin, when its owner, still following the tracks of old Joe McGillis, came in sight of it. Ahead of him, the tracks wallowed and wabbled up to the cabin and disappeared at its door. Smoke curled from the chimney, but there were no noses flattened against the windows, no eager eyes watching for him.

      In silent dread, Pop Jecklin stepped softly up to a window and looked in. Then a slow grin appeared under his frosted mustache, and something strangely like tears warmed the coldness of his eyeballs. For inside he saw old Joe, the frost and snow still clinging to the poor rags he wore for clothes, but with a look of joy in his sunken old eyes, emptying with trembling hands a snowy bag of Christmas toys and candies. And around him, Martha, and Ed, and little Cap, and Kitty, fairly danced in delight. Santa Claus had not failed them, after all.

      Suddenly, old Joe shivered and slumped to the floor. In a jiffy, Jecklin was inside, and he and Martha had him up on a bed. For a second, Pop Jecklin gathered his four “young uns” in his arms and hugged them tightly. Then he turned to rub life again into the starved, worn-out body of old Joe.

      It was an hour before the old man opened his eyes, but when he did, it was to smile weakly, the old snarl gone from his lips.

      “God bless you, Joe!” exclaimed Jecklin, gripping his hand. “And a merry Christmas to you, too!”

      “Aw, Jecklin!” protested the old man. “All this here crazy Christmasin’! I just figured you wouldn’t be able to make it, so I come on ahead with the stuff. Forgit it, and let’s you and me talk minin’ for a while. I’m needin’ a pardner for that mother lode claim of mine, Cuth, and—”

      But Martha, and Ed, and Cap, and Kitty, had other ideas of what to talk about on Christmas morning.

      “Lookit pop! I got a popgun!” said Cap.

      “Me gotta dolly!” smiled little Kitty, as she held up her present; and then, solemnly to old Joe: “Are you Santa Claus, really?”

      “He sure is, honey!” said Pop Jecklin. “Give him a kiss.”

      “Bunk!” grinned old Joe Santa Claus, née McGillis. But something in his eyes gave the lie to the word, as baby Kitty kissed him.

      CHRISTMAS TREE DETAIL, by Johnston McCulley

      Just before noon, Sergeant Gus Willard found the arrow. He found it off the trail when he was riding back down a hill to rejoin the detachment. It was a Cheyenne war arrow and seemed to have been dropped accidentally by some careless tribesman.

      When he had left Fort Wallace three days before on a special detail ordered by Captain Marwick, post commander, there had been no rumors of roving small bands of Indians, hostile or otherwise. And no Cheyennes were thought to be in this vicinity. Those things made Sergeant Gus Willard thoughtful as he rode back down the hill toward the ravine from which came sounds of ringing axes as two men worked to fell a tree.

      He had gone through the War Between the States, and had remained in the cavalry when his regiment had been transferred to this wild Kansas territory. He knew Indians. He had not won his chevrons through favoritism. Now he was gray-haired and ruddy-faced and wise in many ways. He could smell trouble, though he saw nothing now to indicate that it was near.

      A few days before, at Fort Wallace, Captain Marwick had sent for him.

      “Willard, you’re entitled to a little holiday,” the captain had said. “Take a heavy four-mule wagon, a teamster, and two troopers. We want a Christmas tree, a Yule log, and some miscellaneous green stuff. You know that big ravine about halfway to Sheridan City, off to the left?”

      “Yes, sir,” Willard had replied.

      “Some fine trees there, Willard. I want a real Christmas at the post this year. This detail is double-headed. One part is to get the Yule log, tree, and green stuff and lug it back to the post.”

      “I understand, sir.”

      “The other part—leave the two troopers you take with you to cut the tree and log. You go on with the wagon to Sheridan City and get Private Johnny Bight. He can ride in the wagon—can’t manage a horse yet. At Sheridan City get the Christmas stuff on this list I’ve made—tree decorations, colored candles, and all that. On the way back, stop and pick up your two men and the tree and stuff and come on in. Repeat.”

      “I am to take a wagon, four-mule team, teamster, and two troopers. Drop the troopers at the ravine to cut tree, log, and green branches. Proceed to Sheridan City and get the goods you have listed, and pick up Private Bight. On the way back, pick up the troopers and the stuff they have cut, and come to post.”

      “Correct. Nice little outing for you, Sergeant. Cold, but clear. Don’t imagine we’ll have more snow for a few days. That’s all. Dismissed.”

      * * * *

      It had been something of an outing for the hard-working sergeant so far, he admitted. He had been glad to be sent on the detail. He had been working hard around the post, overseeing the construction of a couple of new buildings and seeing to the instruction of a new batch of recruits.

      Crusted snow covered the rolling Kansas country. The wind was biting cold at times. But good weather had favored them on the trip.

      Willard had dropped the two troopers with food and a small tent and tools and gone on to Sheridan City, riding beside the heavy wagon and talking to the mule driver. At Sheridan City, the bustling boom town built on the new Kansas Pacific Railway, he had got the stuff Captain Willard had ordered, and had picked up Private Johnny Bight.

      Johnny Bight had been a strong young trooper up to a couple of months before. He had been badly injured in Sheridan City when, with a detail of troopers, he had worked at unloading railroad freight cars of army supplies. His body had mended quickly enough, but not his mind.

      A blow on the head at the time of his accident had done something dreadful to Johnny Bight’s mind. In body, he was a strong man of twenty-three again; in mind, he was an infant.

      Johnny Bight had been discharged from the temporary railroad hospital at Sheridan City, and there was nothing to do but return him to Fort Wallace for medical examination and ultimate discharge. He was easy to handle. He obeyed every order or request Sergeant Gus Willard gave him, and followed the grizzled sergeant around like a tot following his father.

      The return trip between Sheridan City and the ravine had been uneventful. But Willard had “felt” Indians. He knew they were somewhere in the vicinity, though he had not seen them except for one he spotted for an instant atop a hill in silhouette against the bright sky.

      And now—the arrow. A Cheyenne arrow, and a war arrow. If a roving band of restless young Cheyennes had put on paint and gone forth to kill and rob, there might be trouble.

      The work in the ravine was about done. Sergeant Willard had decided to get the heavy wagon loaded before nightfall, spend the night in the ravine, and start on at dawn. They would be back at the post by the end of tomorrow. And in plenty of time. It was three days until Christmas.

      Now, as he approached the men in the ravine, with his horse at a walk, Willard appraised the situation swiftly with practiced eye. The Yule log had been cut and was loaded on the wagon. The troopers and teamster were lashing the tree in the wagon, and the green boughs that had been cut were in a neat pile ready to be loaded.

      Near where the two troopers had camped was a good spring. The sides of the wide ravine were heavily wooded, which wasn’t so good. In case of a sneak attack the enemy would have an abundance of cover.

      Sergeant Gus Willard rode into camp and stopped near the wagon, bending forward in his saddle with his forearms crossed on the pommel. Ed Cooper, the Army teamster, strolled over to him. Jim Ellison and Lew Jones, both experienced cavalrymen, were lashing the tree in place.

      Johnny Bight, the mentally deficient one, was fussing around with something over beside a big rock.

      “Everything about ready, Sarg,” Ed Cooper reported. “We can start early in the mornin’.”