A Fantastic Holiday Season: The Gift of Stories (26 page)
Read A Fantastic Holiday Season: The Gift of Stories Online
Authors: Kevin J. Anderson
“Let us get back down to business,” I say. “Bet-a-Hundred McNabb owes me ten thousand dollars.”
“I don’t deny it,” says McNabb. “But even more than I don’t deny it, I don’t have it. It all resides within Loose Lips Louie’s vest pocket, unless some of it has fallen onto the floor.”
“This is the truth,” confirms Louie. “I am afraid you are too late, Harry.”
“I have a prior claim on the money that is in your pocket,” I say.
“Then file your claim with Bet-a-Hundred McNabb,” says Louie.
“I do not slake my thirst from empty glasses,” I say, which I think is a brilliant rejoinder, but I can see that neither Louie nor Irving understand it, so I point out that I could get more blood from a turnip than money from McNabb.
“What the hell,” says Louie. “This being Christmas Eve, I will give you a chance to win your money back from me.”
“I never bet,” I say. “Betting is for suckers.”
“
Losing
is for suckers,” says Louie. He flashes some of the money he has rescued from McNabb’s clutches. “Winning is for”—he searches for the
bon mot
—“winners.”
I stare at McNabb, who still doesn’t know he is a sheep, let alone that he has been fleeced. “All right,” I say at last. “What did you have in mind?”
“How about a nice friendly game of five-card stud?” suggests Louie.
“I have lost my trust in this establishment,” I answer.
“Oh?” he says. “When?”
“When we still lived in caves,” I say.
“What do you suggest then?”
“I am sure you will agree that we are the two most prodigious intellects in Harvey Wallbanger’s, if not on the face of the entire planet,” I begin.
“Yeah, that seems a reasonable premise,” says Louie.
“What if we engage in a mental contest instead of a game of chance?” I say.
“I lost a toe in the war,” he says, “so if it’s a mathematical question, the answer can’t be any higher than nineteen.”
“No, you only have to count to eight for this one,” I reply.
“I don’t want you to think I distrust you, Harry,” says Louie. “But I distrust you, Harry. First you tell me what the contest is all about, and then I’ll tell you if we have a bet.”
I stare at him and say, “I will bet you twenty large—the ten you took from McNabb, and ten more for my trouble—that I can name more of Nick the Saint’s reindeer than you can.”
“Don’t do that, Boss!” says Gently Gently. “You tried it at Joey Chicago’s and got it wrong.”
“We learn from our mistakes,” I tell him.
“Not always,” says Gently Gently. “After all, I’m still going out with Sylvia.”
“Well, it works in principle,” I say.
“I just read the poem about Nick and his reindeer to my nephew,” says Louie. “So if you get ’em all right and I get ’em all right, all we’ve done is waste a bunch of time.”
I am waiting for Big-Hearted Milton to catch on, and finally he does, and just like Sandy Koufax or Roger Clemens he hurls his high hard one into Impervious Irving’s brain, where it has a lot of breathing room, and Irving says, “I got an idea, Boss.”
“I hope it’s a small one,” says Louie. “You got to take it easy with a new discipline.”
“You gonna listen or not?” asks Irving.
Louie looks up at Impervious Irving, who is maybe eight feet tall and almost as wide, and he says, “I am always happy to hear your thoughts on any matter, if for no other reason than that they constitute a considerable rarity. Now, what is your idea?”
“Make him agree than you win on ties,” says Irving. “If you each get three right, or six, or all eight, you win.”
“It is a wonderful idea, especially for a beginner,” says Louie, “but Harry is a sophisticated man of the world. He will never go for it.”
“It is late and I want my money,” I say. “I accept your conditions.”
It is a shame that Louie is not born a hundred and fifty years ago in Tombstone, because Doc Holliday and Johnny Ringo never reach for their guns half as fast as he reaches for my hand to shake it and cement the conditions.
“You all saw that we shook on it,” he says. “Now, since I am a generous and genial host and this is my private room, I will allow Harry the Book to go first.”
“Okay,” I say, clearing my throat. “Here goes. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Donder, Blitzen, Cupid and Flyaway.”
Loose Lips Louie emits a delighted laugh. “I don’t even need to invoke Irving’s rule. The reindeer are Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Donder, Blitzen, Cupid and Comet.”
“Nosir,” I say. “They are Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Donder, Blitzen, Cupid and Flyaway.”
“You are wrong, Harry,” says Louie. “There is no reindeer called Flyaway.”
“There most certainly is,” I say, “and you owe me twenty large.”
I wait for Milton to hurl a second idea to Impervious Irving.
“Boss,” says Irving, “Nick the Saint’s in the next room. Why don’t we just pull him in here and ask him?”
“I’ll get him,” says Benny.
“I do not trust any of Harry’s toadies anywhere near him,” says Louie. “Irving, go get him and bring him back.”
“I am not a toady,” says Benny heatedly as Irving leaves the room.
“Oh?” says Louie. “And what are you, then?”
“I am one of Harry’s flunkies,” replies Benny with a note of pride.
Irving is back a minute later. He has Nick the Saint in tow, and Nick has his young lady in tow.
“What can I do for you gents, ho ho ho?” asks Nick.
“We need you to settle a disagreement,” answers Louie.
“Okay, but it’s got to be quick,” says Nick. “I’m already late getting started on my rounds.”
“It won’t take long,” says Louie. “What are the names of your reindeer?”
“Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Donder, Blitzen, Cupid and Flyaway,” says Nick. “I thought everyone knew that.”
“Morris!”
screams Louie, and Morris the Mage appears a few seconds later. “Morris, he says one of his reindeer is named Flyaway. Is he lying?”
Morris stares at Nick for a minute, mutters a spell, snaps his fingers, and nibbles a breath mint.
“He’s telling the truth,” says Morris.
“Well, if that’s all,” says Nick, “Elmer here and I have to be going.”
“Elmer?” says Gently Gently, kind of blinking and staring at the girl.
Nick nods. “She’s my newest elf,” he says. “And this way if I happen to drop her name in front of you-know-who, there won’t be one of her usual scenes. Well, Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.”
He and Elmer leave, Morris vanishes, and Loose Lips Louie glares at me.
“I don’t know how you did it, Harry, but I’m going to find out.”
“I wish you as much luck as you wish McNabb,” I say. “And now, my twenty large, please?”
He mutters such a complex curse that Morris pops into existence and Milton vanishes for a moment, and finally he shoves the money across the table to me.
“So am I off the hook, Harry?” asks McNabb.
“At least until you’re Bet-a-Thousand McNabb,” I say. “Come on back to Joey Chicago’s with us. I’m buying.”
McNabb joins us as we walk to the exit, which was the entrance on the way in, and we pick up Dead End Dugan, who still has a puzzled expression on his face, and I know he has not yet thought of any dead things to do, and a few minutes later we’re all standing at the bar at Joey Chicago’s, sharing a bottle of Comrade Terrorist vodka, and Big-Hearted Milton explains to everyone in the place how I do a favor for Nick the Saint and in exchange he changes Comet’s name to Flyaway, and everyone seems to be having a good time, until I hear Benny Fifth Street start yelling and a minute later Gently Gently Dawkins is yelling back.
“What’s the problem?” I ask, when they finally pause for breath.
“We are having an argument about the Seven Dwarfs,” says Gently Gently. “Benny says they are Bashful, Sleepy, Sneezy, Dumbo, Doc, Grumpy, and Marvin, and
I
say …”
I find myself wondering if Nick has room for one more oversized elf on his sleigh.
***
Like Halloween masks and Thanksgiving turkey, snow is one of those ubiquitous holiday things. The first snowfall is like winter’s gift to the season.
But David Boop turns this around in his wonderful Western fantasy set in a blazing hot Arizona town during December. Add a drifter, a lady, an Indian, and some magic, and … well, let’s just say this story’s really hot
and
pretty cool.
—KO
The Atmosphere
for Miracles
David Boop
1890
Arizona Territory
“Expectancy is the atmosphere for miracles”
—Edwin Louis Cole
They say Christmas never came to Drowned Horse.
It wasn’t that the town was run by heathens, or that Drowned Horse consorted with Indians, Chinese and the Irish. Well, that
could
be a factor, but it certainly wasn’t the biggest. No, the most obvious reason Christmas took the long way around Drowned Horse had to be the curse. Wasn’t no gypsy-woman-bent-out-of-shape-because-you-didn’t-like-the-fortune-she-read-you sort of curse neither.
Drowned Horse, and all that lived there, were damned on a cosmic level. No one rightly knew who did the cursing or why, that being lost in the annals of history. What they
did
know was just about every bad thing that could happen to a town happened there. From drought to zombies, Drowned Horse had gone up the flume.
That is, until Sheriff Theodore Patrick walked into town.
Now to tell the story right, he wasn’t the sheriff yet, just a drifter. Nor was it Christmas yet. That was a day or two off. But the drifter and the holiday would meet full on soon enough. Right then, Patrick needed a drink and there was only one place in town to get one; The Sagebrush.
“I need a drink,” he said to the bartender, who also happened to be the owner.
“Sure, stranger,” Owner said, as he often did when addressing someone he didn’t rightly know. Everyone had called him Owner as long as they could remember. As he uncorked a beer keg, he got to checking the drifter out. The worn man had to be in his late forties with curly brown hair unevenly fading to gray, and a mustache bushy enough to clean peanut shells off the tables. “You got business in Drowned Horse? Need a room? We don’t have much. Whores have all but run off. Gambling ain’t worth the risk—I pay the dealers to bilk strangers—and since the mine dried up, can’t say there’s much in the way of quality foods or goods been coming into this burg, but we’ll do right by you, if we can.”
Patrick’s voice was rough with disuse. “Bed would be nice. I’d be happy with a dinner I didn’t have to kill myself. Other than that, can’t say I really need much.” He tilted the mug at Owner in way of salute before taking a draw.
Owner reached under the counter and slid a key over to the man. “Looks like you’ve been riding awhile.”
“Walking, actually. Horse got shot out from under me near the border. Liked that horse, too.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Wish we had some for sale, but since the Chalker stables closed, hasn’t been a steed worth its salt in a hundred miles. Maybe Flagstaff. Prescott’s better.”
Patrick shook his head. “Don’t need another one. This has been my destination since I set out.”
Owner’s bald head wrinkled when he lifted his eyebrows. “Dear God, why’d you want to come here?”
With a heavy sigh, Patrick asked, “Isn’t this place where the devil wipes his ass?”
Owner nodded.
“Then when your life is shit, this seems like the perfect place to be.”
Ewan the Peddler made the rounds of all the smaller villages in the Arizona Territory around Christmas. Many of these places did not have stores and relied on his goods for gifts and supplies. Ewan was fortunate in that he traded to both white and red people, so most left him alone to peddle his wares. Like many who’d learned the hard way, he avoided Drowned Horse, especially mid-week. If there was trouble, it’d be a Wednesday. Problem was, he’d promised to stop there on his way home.
Ewan had stumbled across a shipment of toys for kiddos and a crate of fancy dresses from New York as fine as cream gravy. One of those dresses had been pre-paid and his reputation hung on delivery. It being too late to deliver the goods that night, Ewan unhitched his mule just outside of town and chocked the wheels of his wagon. After tending to his nag’s needs, he crawled in the back of his traveling store, which doubled as his home.
As he normally did, Ewan covered the glowing rock he’d traded for in Prescott, otherwise, he’d never sleep. The
ardent
stone had been a rare find and, as soon as he figured out how its magic worked, he’d give up the peddling business for good. Magic brought more money than being a traveling salesman. Least, that’s what the legends always said.
Legends also give a ton of warnings about magic, but Ewan thought nothing of those as he fell asleep.
The next day, a private coach made its way into town. Darn right prettiest thing you ever done seen. Lacquered black sides, gold leaf trim. The whole thing appeared flush and yet, somehow, it got through the desert unscathed. The regular stage hadn’t been through in several years, so the sound of a horse team meant the drivers had broken a wheel on the rough trail heading south. Like ants on a piece of tomato, townsfolk came out of their ramshackle buildings to see the idiot fool enough to stop there.
The lady who emerged from the coach looked less like she belonged out west than the carriage itself. Her hat exited first, one of those big frilly things with a feather half the length of your arm. She was of a sophisticated age, too old to take for granted, but still young enough to be gawked at. And that was much to gawk at with ringlets of blonde hair flowing like a waterfall from under the hat.
“Jeremiah, I think we’ve taken a wrong turn. This looks nothing like Phoenix.” She looked around in disgust. “It doesn’t even look like Earth. I think we’re on Mars. Yes, I definitely do.”
A man skinny enough to get lost behind a reed sidled up next to her. He greased his hair to the point one couldn’t tell what its nature color was anymore. “Well, the Martians haven’t attacked us yet, Hildee, so that’s a good sign.” Jeremiah’s upper-crust, New England accent could give people the impression he’d never done a day’s work in his life. He called to the staring citizens, “Hello, Citizens of Mars. We come in peace!” He guffawed, but quickly turned sour when she didn’t join in. He turned around to address the third passenger, “What do you think, Long Arrow? Arizona or Mars?”
The Indian eclipsed them in height and girth, and one could hardly imagine how all three fit in the cab.
Certainly Drowned Horse had seen its share of natives. In the past, it had been raided by the Apaches, the Yavapai, and Havasupai and even the occasional roving band of Toadmen, who’d once been Indians. The recent lack of a sheriff or marshal meant the town folk learned to become real friendly with the locals, especially the Yavapai over in Camp Verde. While the cavalry patrolled the whole Verde River area, they couldn’t be everywhere at once, and if Drowned Horse wanted to stay a town, they’d better be good to the neighbors.
But for all the natives who’d walked the streets of the town, none looked like that one. His skin color was whiter, for one thing. In his expensive tailored suit, he could almost pass for European. ’Twas the haircut that marked his race more than anything. It looked the opposite of a scalping; the top had hair that ran down his neck into a long pony tail, but the sides were shaved clean, not a piece of stubble to be seen.
And if that wasn’t strange enough, on his crooked arm sat a small, golden eagle, minding its own business. It rotated its head occasionally, checking out the sights. The bird looked as disappointed as the rest at the collection of closed businesses and ramshackle houses.
When Long Arrow talked, he didn’t speak in broken English. He spoke as clearly as the other two new arrivals, even more so.
“Oh, this is Arizona. The papers show Mars having canals,” His tone was even, but the sparkle in eyes revealed his mischievousness nature, “but Hildegard is right. We are quite a ways off from Phoenix. I believe we are due north, maybe a hundred miles. We will have to find lodgings for the night, if the smith does not have a wheel to fit our coach.”
Jeremiah addressed the people more seriously. “Excuse me, we’re told by our drivers that one of our wheels needs to be set. Is there anyone here who can help us? We can pay.”
The thought of profit got the crowd excited. Offers of repairs and supplies for the rest of their trip started flowing in. The three were directed to the Sagebrush for bed and grub. As Long Arrow predicted, nothing could be done that day. But, truth be told, the smith was in no real hurry. The longer the stay, the more money the visitors would have to spend in town. That made the citizens happy.
Six guests right before Christmas was the miracle everyone had prayed for. What they didn’t expect was that the best miracle was yet to come.
That day turned into the hottest December day in the history of the Arizona Territory, ’least those that been recorded. Even the cacti looked miserable. There was serious concern about the water supply, as Snowbowl, up in Flagstaff, had much the same type of weather. Talk was there would be no spring runoff down the Oak Creek that gave Drowned Horse its ominous name.
Hildee was in a snit. “Jerry, this just won’t do. How long are we supposed to stay here in this wretched heat? The spa in Phoenix promised a wading pool, after all.” She’d dressed as unencumbered as she could and still stay modest. It was a good thing the ladies of ill repute had moved on … they might have tried to recruit her.
Her traveling companion had no such problem, stripped down to just trousers and undershirt. He, much as her, waved a useless fan in front of his face in search of comfort. “It’s just one day. The carpenter assured our drivers that he’d be back from Prescott tonight with a replacement wheel. We could leave right afterwards, taking advantage of the coolness of night to travel.”
But Long Arrow disagreed. He sat by the window of their room, still fully dressed as if it was a nice fall day, and looked off to the distance. “That would not be wise. This is a trail unknown to our drivers. We could easily do worse damage to the coach by hitting a rut or upturned tree. If you think being stranded in this town is intolerable, imagine being stuck in the desert when the sun comes up. Here, we have shade and drink.”
“Speaking of drink, I think we should.” Jerry folded his fan and stood. “I’m told that towns like this have access to the most fascinating brews; local made whiskeys that put the bigger batch stuff out of Kentucky to shame. Hildee, grab a frock or something. No sense in getting the locals too excited.”
“That is not funny. And you are not my mother.”
“No, dearest. I am your brother, and I’m sure your husband would agree, wouldn’t you, Long Arrow?”
“Jerry, I wish you wouldn’t call him that. You know his name is John.”
Long Arrow moved and offered an arm to his wife. “It is fine. I know he means it as a term of endearment. He is right, however. While I have no problem seeing you half-undressed, I would rather other people did not.”
Finally, Hildee smiled. “You always take such good care of me. One of the two main reasons I love you.”
The Abenaki warrior raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What is the other?”
The blonde leaned in close to her husband and whispered in his ear, “The real reason Jerry calls you Long Arrow.”
Long Arrow blushed as Hildee bussed his cheek and headed into their bedroom to change.
An hour later, the trio sat at a table downstairs, sampling a selection of regional bourbons.
The same could not be said of Mr. Patrick, who sat slumped over, fast asleep. As soaked as he got the night before, he’d eventually decided the bar top every bit as comfortable as a room upstairs.
Owner knew Patrick ran from something or someone. As he looked down in pity at the man, he knew the man was running from himself.
The laughter of the three companions, as they joked and made faces at the liquor, did not stir him.
Not even the sounds of a braying mule as it pulled in front of the Sagebrush, complaining about the heat as passionately as Hildegard, stirred him.
Nor did he stir at the cries of Ewan the peddler as he proclaimed, “Goods for sale! Just in time for Christmas! Gifts for even the hardest to please. The best prices in the territory. Everything authentic! Indian magic. Cure-alls and good luck charms. Everything discounted for the holiday.”
“Oooh! Real Indian magic,” Jerry cooed to Long Arrow. “Shall we go see how authentic they are?”
“Jeremiah!” Hildee scolded, “Now you leave that merchant be. He’s just playing to the gallery. No sense belittling the man.”
Jerry, not keeping his samples of liquor as small as his sister or brother-in-law, may have allowed it to cloud his judgment more than he let on. “Oh, please! The charlatan is ‘making a living’ duping the dim-witted locals. They still believe in spirits and monsters in these parts. Think that every drought can be cured by a rain dance. Isn’t that right, brother?” Long Arrow said nothing, which annoyed Jerry even more. “I think we should call this man out. And who knows, maybe he does have something of value I can give you two as a Christmas present.”
The thin man got up from the table on his second attempt, the first nearly tipping the table and their drinks over. He begged, “Please? Come with me. I’ll look the fool if I go out alone.”
“Fine!” Hildee said, more to break the boredom than anything else. “Though us coming with you doesn’t stop you from being the fool.”
And with that, the trio headed out to see Ewan’s goods.
With all the players safely in place, it’s safe to reveal that the boiling weather wasn’t no natural occurrence. Quite the opposite. Dark forces were at work, which is somewhat to be expected around Drowned Horse. If that’s not clear by now, let’s step back a moment to an event several months ago.
So there’s this prospector, you see, and he’s so desperate to find a mother-lode, he digs where others have long given up. For story purposes, we’ll call him Hank.
Well, good ol’ Hank follows his gut and finds himself down at the bottom of a mine shaft, one long abandoned by a mining company. He thinks to himself that the company quit too soon and believes if they’d just dug a bit further, they would’ve struck silver, maybe gold.
Hank spent a year surveying a specific mine, walking its empty tunnels, smelling the stale air, hoping to catch a whiff of fortune. Finally, he finds a cavern that doesn’t appear to be overly tested. He decides that tunnel is where he’ll lay his stake and does, in fact, find a small vein of silver. Not enough to be rich, but enough for a good dinner and bed. He keeps digging and discovers that the rock he’s sunk his pick into is warm to the touch.
