December
21, 2020
Greetings
from the telling,
The
sun had already dipped beyond the foothills, and the land left behind lost the
color it wore that morning, and soon turned grey. In the low places the dark already took
hold. Hoke nosed his horse through the
sage until he found a clear spot he liked, and tugged the reins and Paco
stopped. They had been riding for most
of the day, not in any hurry, but they were both tired.
He
swung down from the saddle, grunting a little as he stepped into the
hardpack. He patted Paco’s rump and then
led him near the stand of Pinon pine trees and tied him off. He pulled the saddle and dragged it a ways
and flopped it into the dust.
“Here
we are, home again.” he said, loud enough to cause Paco to look up. Hoke went about gathering wood for his fire,
and then rolled a chunk of a deadfall a few feet to give himself something to
sit on. He crouched over the litter of
dried wood and struck a match, held it to the shavings he put under the
kindling. The knuckles of his hands were
scarred and swollen, a history of ropes and fights and hammers and horses and
steer. One finger was missing on his
left hand, a crude ending to a disagreement in Nogales.
The
fire came to life. There was a moment of
smoke but then the flame surrounded its prey, devouring it slowly. The orange and yellow fingers caressed the
wood, changed the twigs to light. The
yellow flickering glow showed Hoke’s face, creased with years of life out on
the range.
“How
are you my old friend?” Hoke asked the fire.
Sap hissed and popped on one of the logs. Hoke turned to his rig and pulled out a pan
and his coffee pot, dug around and found coffee and hardtack, and in the bottom
of his stained saddlebag, some jerky. He
filled the pot and set it on rocks at the edge of the fire and waited for his
coffee to boil and chewed on his leathery repast.
He
spoke into the flames; “Yusser, this is about as good as a man could want. Purty night like this, nothing but the world
around me, I can’t imagine a better life.
Well, no sense in it otherwise, being this is where I am.” He and the fire nodded in agreement.
Above
him the constellations formed ribbons of light against the velvet roof. A few stars launched themselves into streaks
of life, off to places none below could imagine. Hoke looked up, smiling at the show. “I’m the mayor of Twinkle Town.” he said to
the fire, laughing, cocking his head at the sky. “Sovereign over all I survey.” The fire chuckled with him.
The
night cloaked the world. Hoke soaked in
the silence and the isolation, kept company by his tin cup filled with coffee,
and the soft whispers of the fire. He
chewed his meal, washed it down with the coffee, and then stopped.
Hoke
looked at his hands, tried to sum up when the last time he knew a date, and
then came to a firm conclusion, rooted in mostly instinct. “Sumbitch, it’s Christmas eve. Or purt’near.” He slapped his knee and laughed. The fire sparked at him. The two of them delighted in the
discovery.
“We
should celebrate.” he said to his friend, and reached to the leather bag,
pulled out a metal flask. He unscrewed
the top and ran his sleeve over it, tipped it back and felt the hot taste coat
his throat, warm his innards. He
breathed in the night air, felt the heat of the corn whiskey. “Now,” he said to the fire, “this is a thing
we should mark. Only the finest cognac
fer us.” He spilled a little on the fire
and watched his friend lick it in.
Somewhere
in his saddlebag was a bible, or what was left of it. He couldn’t read any of it but liked the feel
of it so kept it with him. And glad of
it, because on a few nights he needed to tear a page out to start a fire. He always took off his hat when he did, outta
respect, and all. He knew some of the
stories in the Good Book, his Ma had told him enough times. Tonight, it seemed like he should say some
words about it. “Listen here,” speaking
to the flames, “I got a story to tell.”
He took a deep breath, and told it.
“So,
this same night, long before us, or railroads or telegraphs,” he said to the
fire, “there’s these fellas, a keepin watch over their herd. And, uh, angels come on ‘em and scairt the
tar out of ‘em.” Hoke stopped to laugh, then: “And these fellas evidently
weren’t armed.” He laughed again and slapped his own Colt on his hip. “Lest
them angels mighta ended up holier than thou.”
“Anyway,
these fellas, I tell you, were just drag riders like us’n.” The fire seemed unsure, but flickered
interest, and so Hoke continued.
“Yessir, there they was, watching their herd, biding their time, and the
angels come up, and they were shore afraid.
And the glory of the Almighty shone around ‘em, just like this here.” Hoke
waved at the whirling constellations above him.
He took another pull on the whiskey.
The fire leaned in, quavering in anticipation.
“They
said, these here angels, said to these cowpokes, ‘Fear not, we bring y’all good
tidings. Tonight a savior is born. And there’s gonna be peace on earth, and good
wills for men.’ Is what they said. And then them angels all flew off like a
flock, and went on up to heaven.”
Beyond
the ring of light the fire made the earth was dark and quiet. The rocks and the trees and and the sagebrush
waited, wondering where the story would go.
Hoke took another pull, and pushed his hat back a bit. “And these boys,
they was a whooping and hollering, on account of what the angels tole. They set out to town to see the baby Jesus.”
“And
they come a ridin, into town at a gallop and found that Jesus was born right
out in the shed behind the saloon.
‘Magine that. Savior an’ all,
right there in the shed, long side donkeys an’ what have you. Not putting on airs. And these cowpokes was just flat footed, and
they took off their hats,” Hoke pulled back his own tattered Stetson, “and they
paid respects.”
The
fire flared brighter, swept up in the story, the flames leaping up into the
cool night air. Hoke pressed his hat
back in place and took another tug at the whiskey. He leaned in toward the fire.
“And
these boys went out and told the world what they seen. Yusser, they was the first messengers, like
Pony Express riders for the Lord. These
regular cow punchers, not a silver dollar between ‘em, and them angels picked
‘em to tell the world these here good tidings.”
“See,
these boys knew that this savior was for them too, not just the bible
thumpers. They was all sorts of bad,
some outlaws, truth be told. But they
saw this little baby Jesus, come right in where they live, and tell them they
was all right. And peace on earth. Mebbe there wouldn’t be no wars, or no more
settlin’ hostiles, and maybe people would just be neighborly.”
“And
wouldn’t be no strawboss talkin’ poormouth to you, and no townfolks telling you
to move along. And if a fella found a piece a land he liked mebbe some would
let him put up a cabin, have a garden an all.
And wouldn’t no one come tell him he had to go sleep in the sagebrush.”
“Wellsir,
that’s what them fellas told. They went
around saying what they saw, and you know, people liked hearin’it, and them
what told it felt fine saying it.”
The
fire shone, smiling at its friend, lit the joy on his face for the night to
see. Hoke smiled broadly and leaned in
once more.
“And
me and you, we’s just like them fellas that told the good news. Just saddle
bums, mebbe, on our last plug of tobacco, mebbe, but we was worth telling this
great thing first. And we was plenty
good to tell the rest of the world too.
And that right there’s a dang good thing to say about a fella. Makes a fella proud to be what he is.”
Hoke
leaned back and took a sip and offered the last to the fire, and capped the
flask. He looked up from the flames and
saw the cloud of witnesses form above him, galaxies of light and life. He took off his hat, and paid respects.
Hope
this finds you sharing the news,
David
Copyright
© 2020 David Smith
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