A Cartwright Christmas Story

by jfclover

My plan was a good one.  Hoss and Adam knew my intention and promised they’d keep the secret, but things change.  The idiot who stole my horse also stole the Christmas gift I’d bought for Pa.  There wasn’t much I could do with a bullet lodged in my leg and no horse standing under the lean-to outside the shack.  My options weren’t just limited.  My options were nil. 

Why did I guzzle all that whiskey?  To clean the wound, I needed alcohol.  I could lose my leg, maybe even my life, because of a stupid error in judgment.  I’d made a crucial mistake and had no one to blame but myself.

I thought the night would never end.  My leg throbbed, and I had no way of silencing the pain.  It drummed through my body like a Founder’s Day parade, and I could think of nothing else.  I could only concentrate on the endless pulsing of blood rushing through the wound.

Light peeked over the mountaintops, the first sign of Christmas morning.  At home, the festivities had begun.  Hop Sing would start the preparations.  The kitchen walls would take in a few vulgar Cantonese phrases when things went wrong, but the family would never be privy to our cook’s frustration.     

No one else should be stirring at such an ungodly hour except for the fact that one of us was not in his nice, warm bed.  One of Pa’s sons was missing and freezing to death.  The stove needed wood, and the wood was outside.  I needed a crutch, but nothing was available.  I stood from the cot and hobbled to the front door.  Pain shot clear through me, but it wouldn’t do to have my family ride all this way just to find a frozen corpse.  Not on such a beautiful Christmas morning.

All I could do was hope—hope and pray someone would show up at the cabin door and lend a hand.  Being this far up the mountain without a horse, I couldn’t get down alone.  Attempting something so futile would surely prove Adam right, that I didn’t have a brain in my head.  Nothing would please him more, although I’d never let him gloat over my misfortune.

I needed help, and my mind flowed with notions of how that might be achieved.  My first thought was of Miss Julia Bulette and how knowing and willing she had been to a young man who knew nothing.  She could be of no help now, but remembering her gentle touch and the way her fingertips crept down my torso, nearly made me believe she was lying beside me, soothing my fevered skin and giving me the will to live.

Good Lord, she was a beautiful woman.  I wish my thoughts hadn’t gone in her direction.  Tears stung my eyes when I thought of what might have been.  I wanted her to become my wife, to come to the Ponderosa, and live happily ever after.  But when I look back, I see how absurd the notion was.  Julia Bulette wasn’t a country girl and never would be.  She loved the action her Palace provided, and because I was young, I didn’t understand.  All I knew was how much I loved her and wanted her to be mine.  And then she was gone.

Even though the sun was rising, I forced myself to sleep.  The throbbing in my leg had slowed, and with any luck, I would dream of Julia and wake up with a smile on my face.  Being bone-tired didn’t mean I wasn’t restless or anxious about my situation.  Had it not been for Pa and my brothers, I would’ve given up earlier in the night and let my father’s god take me to that faraway place—a world without agonizing pain, but my family was my lifeline, that piece of my world that kept me from slipping away and not able to find my way back.

I never brought in the wood, and the stove had gone cold.  An icy chill filled the air.  I didn’t have enough strength to stand or walk, but I had my bedroll, and I pulled the blanket tighter over my shoulder.  When I slid my hand down my thigh, heat radiated from the wound.  The skin was beginning to rot.  The bullet was probably wedged between muscle and bone, and I couldn’t dig it out.  I needed someone … anyone.

I didn’t dream of Julia, and I didn’t wake with a smile.  My sleep had been fitful, and I barely rested at all.  I had no food, no booze, and my canteen left with my horse.  An able-bodied man would melt snow and be done with it, but that meant finding a bucket, filling it, and starting another fire.  I didn’t see that happening, and I lay back on the cot and turned my face to the wall.

A blast of cold air took the last hint of warmth from the shack.  I shivered and tried to bring my knees closer to my chest, but my left leg had a mind of its own.  It wouldn’t move at all.  I wanted to cry.  I wanted to shout that life wasn’t fair. 

Pa and Hoss and Adam would never forgive me if I died on Christmas Day.   The holiday would be ruined forever.  No more reading from the bible.  No more presents under the tree.  No more holiday feast.  No, I couldn’t do that to my family.

“Joseph!”

I must’ve fallen asleep, but the dream seemed so real.  

“Is he alive?”

Perhaps I’m delirious.  Big brother, Hoss, is asking questions.

“We need to roll him over … see if he’s hurt?”

Wow.  The dream’s getting better and better.  Adam’s deep baritone just joined the conversation.

A hand touched my shoulder.  “Time to wake up, Little Brother.”

“Son.  It’s Pa.  Are you hurt?”

I turned toward the voices that seemed so real, and I stared up at the faces of my family.  Were they real?  Was I dreaming or not? 

“Pa?  Is that you?”

“We’re all here, Son.  Me … your brothers.”

Maybe it wasn’t a dream.  Maybe I’d keep my leg.  Maybe everything would turn out right after all.  I stared at my family.  Soon, I’d tell them my story, but something else needed saying first.

“Merry Christmas, Pa … Brothers.  I’m awful glad you’re here.”

The End

2021