(I wrote this very short story a couple of years ago as an exercise in writing outside my own genre, and the fun I had with it was a big part of what prompted me to write The Messenger Bag. It's a Christmas story, but a depressing one.)
A
cowboy who sold his cattle and shot his horse is nothing more than a
pedestrian, wearing the wrong kind of shoes for hiking, and looking for the
nearest town with a horse trader. And that horse trader better be honest or
Manny was going to plug him between the eyes. Three days of hoofing it in boots
meant for riding has a tendency to bleed the sweet right out of a gentleman.
And there wasn’t all that much sweet left in Manny to bleed.
He
was grieving what was sure to be the loss of a fine saddle, Mexican made, with
some fine tooling and silver, and broken in just the right amount. He’d tried
to carry it with him. Strapped everything he had onto it and dragged it like a
sled behind him with a couple of branches underneath to keep it from sanding
down to nothing. But the branches kept wearing out on the rocky soil, so he
knew he had to ditch the saddle and hope to come back and find it later. He
tied branches on it to disguise it, but figured it was just a matter of time
before some bright-eyed fellow would come along and say, how come there’s a
bunch of branches on the ground there, looking like someone picked posies and
stuck them in a vase?
Manny
sat close as he could get to the little fire he’d made under a rocky
outcropping and sipped hot coffee. He was mighty tender about the loss of his
horse. She was a nice little mare, that Essie, not too big, but a great cow
horse. She wasn’t afraid of anything. Bossed the cattle around like they didn’t
outweigh and outnumber her. Did anything he told her to. But the second night
after he’d brought the herd to the buyers up north of Placerville she’d stepped
on a damn rattler in the dusk, taken off running, and broken her leg in a ditch
she didn’t see. He had to shoot her. Had to look at those huge brown eyes gone
wild with pain and fear and pull the trigger. Nothing else he could do. Just
shoot her and start walking.
He
pulled his hat low over his face as a blast of icy wind howled and reduced his
campfire to a pile of smoldering sticks. Daring to leave his niche in the wall
of the cliff, he went in search of rocks he could bank around the fire, being
mindful of the sheer drop he knew lay in the hollow darkness somewhere in front
of him.
He
regretted taking this job. It was too late in the year to be traveling through
this pass. But he wasn’t like the big cattle companies in Stockton -- he had to
take work when he got it. Besides, when Doc Wilson wants ten head moved, and
when you owe Doc Wilson a terrible amount of money, you move his cattle.
He
got the fire going again behind its rock screen, but still the wind whipped
through his clothes leaving him as cold as he ever felt in his life. As cold as
when he fell into the river full of snowmelt, only there was no getting out for
warm clothes and a cabin. He was stuck there until morning.
Within
the orange glow of the fire he wandered a little further, hunting for more
rocks to pile around the niche to protect him from the wind. There weren’t many
more to find without getting too far from the safety of the light. Hunkering down
the best he could with everything he had piled around him, he waited for dawn,
which he estimated was a long time off with night falling so early this time of
year.
Why
did he have to be such a stubborn man, always working alone? This is what got
him into this fix. If he’d been working with partners they’d be home by now.
But no, he always had to do things his way. Always had to turn down anything
that would commit him to what someone else wanted.
Gust
after gust slammed the icy cliff face, carrying away all warmth and all light.
All except for a small campfire, a speck of warmth painting one tiny bundled
man, shaking violently.
Manny
was trying to stay alert by doing math. He’d delivered the cattle on December
19th. Then he spent the night. Which meant he left for home on
December 20th. He rode Essie on the 20th and the 21st, and that night was when she got bit and broke her leg and he shot her. Then he
walked on the 22nd, the 23rd, and that meant today was
the 24th. I’ll be damned. December 24th. Christmas Eve.
On
Christmas Eve people were supposed to be in their warm houses with their
families eating fine foods, and maybe lighting a Christmas tree. Giving each
other presents. Taking care of each other.
They
weren’t supposed to be all alone in the dark and the cold. They weren’t
supposed to be wondering if they were going to survive until morning. They
weren’t supposed to be sure that nobody would even notice they were missing for
a long time, and that there was no chance someone would come looking for them.
Those
people in the warm Christmas houses, they were willing to bend a little. They
knew they didn’t always have to do everything their own way. They wouldn’t die
alone.
Manny
watched as the wind tried to rip away the tiny flame of his fire and suck it
into the void. And he tried to think of Christmas carols he could sing.
“Silent
night, holy night. All is calm. All is bright.” The song was torn out of his
mouth. He was being erased by the darkness and the cold. He had wanted to be
alone, but now that he was getting his wish he didn’t want it anymore. He
didn’t want it!
Dying
on Christmas would be mighty ironic for a man named Emanuel. His mother had
named him that because it meant “God with us.” Manny hadn’t ever cared one way
or the other whether God was with us.
But
never before had Manny seen the horror of being all alone in the darkness and
cold of a universe without anybody else but himself. Had never seen the
importance of a source of light and warmth bigger than what he could provide
for himself.
There
was no longer any feeling in his feet, his hands, or his ears. He shook so hard
it cramped his muscles. Then the shaking stopped and he rested for a moment. It
was like heaven. But again he shook. He figured when he stopped shaking and
didn’t start again that would be it for him.
That
was when he prayed the first real prayer of his life.
©B. Gorshe 2014
