READ The whole story on Amazon

Merry Merry and Happy Happy

1

Christmas on Red Dog Road

by

RD Larson

Seamus straightened up, arching his back. He yanked off the battered hat by its rounded crown and squinted up through the new pale nubs of live oaks. The creek ran red, stirred up too much by rains coursing down the banks.

"Matthew! Matthew! Bring me down a pail of water, son, and a piece of hardtack. Bring some for yourself."

Seamus's voice, though gentle and kind, it carried far up the hill. The boy heard his father clearly as he stood in front of the one-room cabin. The dappled sunshine played over his grimy home-sewn shirt. The shirt was much too small, pulling tight over the boy's shoulders. His slingshot was tucked quickly into the patch pocket of the cloth trousers.

He went to the long bench at the front of the cabin, and taking a dipper, filled a small pail with the cool, clean water. Slowly, he untied the rope that held the grub bag high in the huge oak tree. As it lowered, the boy whistled "Amazing Grace" between his two front teeth. Rummaging in the bag, he found thick bread in the burlap and took out two pieces. Matthew went to the bench to set them by the water pail; he returned to the tree to pull the grub sack up again.

Still whistling his mother's favorite hymn he took a clean handkerchief still drying on the manzanita bush and lay it down on the bench. Suddenly, he heard a great crushing sound off to the left of the cabin.

Matthew peered into the dry underbrush. The leaves had blown off during late fall. Yet in the thick brush, he made out the outline of a heavy dark animal. It’s eye’s were looking right at him.

"Pa, Pa!" The boy hollered, grabbing the handkerchief, hardtack and pail as he ran headlong down the hill. "Pa, that bear's back! She looked at me."

Seamus chuckled as he was nearly tossed in to the creek when hit by the hurtling boy. Matthew was so like his mother, with his soft fair hair and emotional nature.

"Son, these bears live here. It surely can't be old One-Ear that Grandma Beebe was telling you about down at the Henley's last summer. She was just telling stories to the newcomers; that's what folks do. They tell stories for enjoyment."

"Well, she said One-Ear would've eaten her alive if it hadn't been for her dog. Can we get a dog, Pa? I mean, may we?" The boy had bitten off half his hardtack and crumbs littered his chin and shirt. In his fast talking he sprayed his father with crumbs as well. Seamus laughed again.

"Now, son, don't worry; that bear won't bother us since we keep food tied up high and as long as we don't bother her. Not unless her cubs are about to be hurt. Right now, Matthew, we need to give thanks to the Good Lord for this food. We thank Thee, Father, for your bountiful harvest in these Sierra Foothills and for your love and forgiveness." Seamus fell silent and they both ate. After a time, he leaned back and looked at his son.

"I've been thinking we'd best hitch Pearl to the wagon and ride into town before the weather takes a turn for the worse. Back home in Indiana it would be cold and snowy. This is like summer still. It‘s bound to be winter sometime soon.. But then a man never knows the future; only God knows.”

"Why'd God let Ma die?" Matthew hung his head between his legs. It hadn't been six months since his mother had died delivering the much expected baby. They were buried together, the infant girl wrapped in her mother's arms, in a grave up on the ridge under a massive ancient pine tree. Every Sunday Seamus and Matthew walked up there. Seamus read Scripture from his tattered Bible and they prayed. Young Matthew felt the loss and no amount of prayer seemed to help. Seamus, being a minister, found his comfort in prayer. He just couldn't forgive himself, even if God did, for bringing Mary Margaret to this rough land only to die in childbirth without her family, without a doctor, even without him that grim morning.

"You can see the locket again, tonight, Matthew." Seamus knew Matthew was afraid he'd forget what she looked like, although the boy often said how he remembered her laughter and her singing. Matthew would sit with the wedding locket for hours in the beginning; now, it was a couple times a week. Seamus felt the boy would accept the will of God given time.

"Let's check our traps; maybe we caught ourselves a squirrel or a rabbit for dinner. Then we'll get us a good night's rest for tomorrow's journey. Just have to lay in some winter supplies."

Matthew enjoyed the rare trips to town. The rowdy miners, the Chinese, the Maidu Indians, the trades people, and even few women were a sight for him.. The boy always told his father that someday he would write about all the excitement over the discovery of gold so folks would know just what it was like to be a boy in the Gold Country in the year of 1852.

They had their rabbit cooked over the fire with a few gone-soft potatoes and more hardtack. A sudden chill fell with darkness and Seamus lay another oak log on the fire. Then he reached up, taking down the locket from the peg above the hand-hewn bedstead. He handed it to Matthew. The youngster nestled it in his cupped hands for long moments before he opened the heart-shaped, scroll-covered memento.

The boy sat cross-legged on the board floor just out of the dirt in front of the fire place; Pa was going to rock the hearth over during the winter he'd said. Matthew opened his mother's locket and stared into the wedding faces of his mother and father. Pa had side whiskers, not a full beard like now. But Ma looked like an angel, with her pale hair woven up around her face. Matthew looked and looked. Suddenly, he handed the locket to his Pa and stumbled to his corner pallet, asleep almost before he'd taken off his shoes.

Seamus frowned. The boy forgot his prayers again. He did understand and so rose to lay another log on the embers. Going out, he checked Pearl in the lean-to. Although she hadn't spilled her water, she did seem skittery. Seamus rubbed her bony, old nose until she calmed. Seamus sighed and went back into the cabin. After a mighty and fervent prayer on his knees at the side of his bed, Seamus slipped, cold, under the quilt his wife had sewn for them.