West Texas Cowboy Christmas

 

He had been riding tall and lean in the saddle throughout the day.  Now he was riding lean and leaning in the saddle.  Two more hours, and it would be dark.  Then there would be a period of brilliant golds and pinks and reds in the sky, but not for long.  The first light in the sky would be that of Jupiter, then other planets and stars would appear.  There would be no full moon.  It would just be a sliver.

If he was tired, his bay Morgan horse, called Horse, would be just as tired.  Maybe more so.  He and horse had been together three years.  Horse sensed his master’s wish by the tender nudges the cowboy gave.  The cowboy never wore spurs, though he once had a pair for his tired, worn brown boots.  It seemed wrong to the cowboy to subject his best friend to the insult of spurs. 

A light southwest wind on this West Texas prairie kicked up for just a minute.  It was enough to drive a tumbleweed across the Morgan’s path and to lift the cowboy’s dirty black hat such that it caused its owner to reach up and hold it fast to his head.  The black duster he wore wasn’t much of a shield to the cold air.  The sheepskin vest he wore helped.  The tan leather gloves helped some, but not near enough.  And his legs were so numb from riding all day that he couldn’t really tell if they were cold or not. 

He traveled home for Christmas last year and with any luck, he would be home again for Christmas this year.  He had not ridden this particular trail before.  It was a shorter ride, but the Comanche were known to claim these parts as their own.  Some folks had tried to settle in these parts, but not even Texas Rangers or the United States Cavalry had been successful in protecting them.  The cowboy thought that some day this would make good grazing land, but for now it was dangerous territory.  The cowboy hoped that he would awaken in the morning with his hair.

It was time to stop for the day.  There was grass here for Horse.  A small stream still had water in it from the last rain.  It would be enough for a pot of coffee and the Morgan could freely drink from it.  The first thing he did when he stopped was to pull the saddle and all his creature comforts from Horse.  He then took to brushing him down.  There weren’t many gifts he could give his trusted friend, but a good brushing down at the end of the day and maybe a handful of oats would satisfy him.

There was no need to build a large campfire.  He struck a lucifer to the tinder and small branches that were in the ring of rocks.  A couple of buffalo chips would provide most of the fuel.  He had built it up against a huge boulder that would reflect a little heat back to him.  The rock would block the West Texas wind and provide a little protection from the Comanche if needed.  His dinner consisted of biscuits and bacon and a cup of coffee before he called it a night.  Jupiter and the other planets and stars were already out and that sliver of a moon was low on the horizon.  He used his saddle as a pillow, pulled his bedroll up over him, and dropped his hat over his face.  His Henry rifle was by his side with a round already in the chamber.  He kept his Colt handy, still riding on his hip just in case.

He was still listening to the trickle of water in the stream when he heard the first of the coyotes singing their songs to the night.  And then the sleep.

The Comanche raiding party had seen him from the moment he entered their territory.  They watched him care for his horse, build his fire, and eat his dinner.  The cowboy had his priorities straight.  The horse would be a prize taken by the stealth of the young brave.  The cowboy would never hear the fall of moccasins on the earth.  He would not hear the pull of the knife from the brave’s belt.

As the young brave lifted his knife overhead, a bright shooting star streaked across the night sky.  Then another.  And another.  The sky seemed to light on fire.  The brave already on his hands and knees raised up and sat back on his heels.  Had it been a sign?  Had the Great Spirit whispered to him in the brilliant night to not take the life of this cowboy?

The cowboy began to stir at first light.  There would be enough bacon and biscuit makings to start the day.  He would stoke up the small campfire and begin to boil water for his coffee.  His saddle blanket had become hard and stiff from the cold of the night, but it had provided enough warmth through the night that he wasn’t sure he wanted to crawl out from under it.  He placed his hands out to his sides to help push him up.  He felt the cold metal of the barrel of the Henry on his right side, but there was something new to his left.  He peered down to see a long, straight, smooth stick.  There were holes in a line and feathers at one end.  A mouthpiece?  A flute.  He picked it up and blew into the mouthpiece.  Its sound was soft and airy.  The cowboy, confused, was at peace.

The brave, not far away, had built his own small campfire to keep him warm through the night.  He was far enough away from the cowboy that the two could not see each other, but the sound of the flute carries a fair distance in the West Texas prairie, especially when you are downwind. 

The brave’s home was on the prairie.  The cowboy rode east to his home.  He would be there by nightfall.  He had placed the flute in a saddle bag with one end with its feathers hanging out.  Sitting tall and lean once again in the saddle, the cowboy realized he had been given two gifts that night – the flute and his life.  Christmas had arrived.