North

When the door had closed behind Gordon, MacShane drank with the others, and when the glasses were returned to the bar, he asked: “How many more kids is there here in camp?”

“No white ones, except Gordon’s,” informed Camillo Bill, “There’s a bunch of Siwashes, mebbe a dozen or two, countin’ the ones in the camp about four miles down river.”

“White ones or red, it’s all the same,” answered MacShane, “What’s the matter with this camp? Where’s yer Christmas tree? Yer all dead four ways from yer belt! All you’re thinkin’ about Christmas is to get a bellyful of hootch an’ raise hell! Christmas is, first and foremost, for kids!” He vaulted lightly onto the bar and roared for attention. The card players paused and the dancers stopped in the middle of a waltz. “Come up here, you all!” he called, “An’ get you an earful!” The crowd surged about the bar, for when MacShane had words to say, it was worth their while to listen. He stood looking down into the upturned faces, some laughing, others waiting in eager expectancy for what was coming. For MacShane was not given to theatricals. Had anyone else mounted the bar the act would have received no more than passing notice. But MacShane—. He walked the length of the board, his moccasins leaving tracks upon the polished mahogany. “Tomorrow’s Christmas,” he began. “There’s kids in this camp! Real, regular kids—one white one an’ a lot of Siwashes! What are we goin’ to do about it? Come on, speak up! Are you goin’ to let Christmas pass ’em by like any other day? Not by a damn sight you ain’t! This here camp’s got to start right! This is its first Christmas, an’ she’s goin’ to be a regular Christmas!” Here and there in the crowd men voiced approval.

“Now you’re talkin’, MacShane!” cried a girl, in a low cut gown of red silk. “Tell us what to do!”

“A Christmas tree!” suggested some one.

“What would we put on it?” yelled another, and a babel of voices broke out, hurling questions and answers.

MacShane held up his hand for silence: “Where’s McCarty?” he asked.

“Right here!”

“McCarty, tomorrow mornin’ this dump ain’t a saloon. It’s a town meetin’ house, an’ there’ll be a Christmas tree in the dance hall for kids! We’ll start in at ten, an’ we’ll be through by noon, an’ after that we’ll hit the high spots! How about it?”

McCarty caught the spirit: “She’s yours!” he cried. “Go to it!”

“So far, so good!” cried MacShane, “An’ now for the program: Who’ll go out an’ get a tree?”

Every man in the house volunteered with a whoop. MacShane laughed: “Too many trees! Here you, Camillo, an’ Moosehide, an’ you two over there by the door, you go get a tree, an’ make it as big an’ bushy as will set up in this room. How many stores is there? All right, you Ace-In-The-Hole, an’ Bettles, you go down an’ find out what they got in the way of toys an’ candy.”

“They’re closed up!” ventured someone.

“Unclose ’em, then! Tell ’em MacShane says to open up an’ stay open till we get this thing fixed up.”

Other arrangements were discussed, suggestions and counter-suggestions coming in an indistinguishable jumble of words.

A wave of fog rolled into the room as the door opened: “There ain’t a damn toy in town!” cried Bettles from the doorway, “An’ only a little candy,” supplemented Ace-In-The-Hole.

MacShane leaped from the bar and made his way to the door, the crowd parting to give him room.

“Come on, half a dozen of you packers,” he called after him, “We’ll look around a bit.”

Pushing into the first store where the sleepy proprietor grinned a welcome, MacShane opened up: “What kind of a dump you runnin’ here? No toys! Who in hell ever heard of a store without toys at Christmas? What have you got? There’s cranberries! Give us ten quarts. An’ all the candy you’ve got. Twenty pounds of sugar an’ some chocolate. We’ll set some of the girls makin’ candy. Got to have dolls. The girls can make ’em, give us some cloth, an’ somethin’ for waddin’—an’ they’ve got to have dresses. Give us a bolt of cloth for dresses—not no squaw cloth, some honest to God silk. Ain’t got it! What’s that hangin’ up there?”

“Them’s silk skirts. The girls buys ’em.”

“Give us a bunch, assorted colors—red an’ pink, an’ blue. Is that all you got? Ain’t you got nothin’ for boy kids? Give us some tin pails, then—they can pound on ’em for drums. What’s in them fancy bottles?”

“That’s perfumery for to sell the girls.”

“Give it here!” demanded MacShane, “Sell ’em a bath tub, an’ they won’t need this. Kids like the smell of it. Oh, yes, an’ some candles.”

“If you want ’em fer a Christmas tree, I ain’t got none of them holders.”

MacShane thought a minute. “Give us some clothes pins, we can rig ’em on with them. An’ a can of red paint, an’ yellow, an’ blue.”

“I got red, an’ black, an’ white. No yeller, an’ blue.”

“Give us them, then,” ordered MacShane “an’ when you figger up the bill send it to me.”

Back to the Golden North hurried the men, bearing their booty in their arms. Depositing it upon the bar, MacShane mounted beside it. “Now girls, it’s up to you! Those that’s handy with needles get busy an’ make up a dozen or so of dolls. An’ rip up these here silk skirts an’ make clothes for ’em. An’ then make some socks an’ bags out of what’s left to hold the candy. A couple of you cook up a batch of candy—here’s sugar an’ chocolate. That’ll keep you all busy. Here you Sourdoughs—some of you borrow needles an’ thread from the girls an’ string these here cranberries. The rest of us has got to whittle out circles, an stars, an’ horses, an’ dogs, an’ men, an’ we’ll dip ’em in paint an’ hang ’em on the tree. They won’t be fit to handle tomorrow, but they’ll shine up bright! Come on up, now—one more drink, an’ we’ll all fly at it. When we git the tree rigged, we’ll go ahead an’ dance till daylight. After that there’s nothin’ goes on here till noon, except it’s for the kids.”

Laughing and talking, they crowded the bar, and MacShane who had leaped to the floor, motioned to Horse Face. “Come here an’ open your sack,” he said. Whereupon MacShane shook some coarse gold from his own sack into the other. “You’re on shift tomorrow mornin’ to play tunes for the kids,” he commanded, “an’ make her talk, Horse Face, make her talk!”

The men returned with the Christmas tree which was soon braced and wired into place at one end of the dance hall. The dancing girls brought their sewing materials down stairs. Someone rustled a big pine packing case which was promptly knocked to pieces, and the boards distributed among the men, who got out their knives and proceeded to whittle grotesques shapes of men and fearsome beasts, of stars, and crescents, and circles, and hearts, which were fantastically painted and hung, by bits of cord, upon the tree. Cranberries were strung in long ropes that festooned the tree in loops and graceful curves of gleaming red. And the dolls! There were dolls made and dressed that night that would have done credit to an artist, and there were dolls as ugly and distorted as the lines of a heathen god. But the spirit of Christmas was there. Men and women did their best, and laughter reigned supreme. At the piano Horse Face Joe’s untiring fingers swept the keys in crashing volumes of sound that roared and reverberated through the room like volleys of mountain thunder, to sink suddenly into the softest murmurs. Little tinkles and trills of purest melody would almost imperceptibly swell into rich chords and dreamy soul-gripping strains that momentarily stilled the laughter so that men and women, with pressed lips, fixed their eyes upon their work, or lifting them, stared long at blank walls. The mood would change and a galloping, romping air would suddenly crash forth to run its course and blend into the solemn strains of some half forgotten hymn. It was Horse Face Joe’s inspired night. Never before had the like been heard, and never again would Horse Face duplicate the feat, as with closed eyes he sat and toyed with the hearts and the souls of the men and the dancing girls who were putting the best that was in them into the fashioning of playthings and gewgaws that on the morrow would delight the hearts of one little white girl and many Indian children. On and on he played the music that had never been written—music fashioned in his own warped brain even as his fingers flew nimbly over the keys.

In and out among the workers moved Burr MacShane and McCarty, praising, encouraging, good-naturedly ridiculing and bantering the workers as they collected the finished products and piled them at the foot of the tree. At length the job was done. The last doll was finished, the last grotesquely whittled totem received its splotch of color, and the last gay candy bag was filled. Horse Face broke into a wild whirling fanfare of sound, weird as the scream of a Valkyrie, wild as the wolf’s long howl. The music ended suddenly in a crash that threatened to tear the strings from their moorings, and once more laughter reigned supreme, for as MacShane and McCarty, standing upon chairs, hung the toys, and decorations, and candy bags upon the tree, each offering was greeted with loud-called words of praise accompanied by boisterous hand-clapping, or with howls of derisive laughter as some particularly grotesque or misshapen object was displayed to view.

MacShane glanced at his watch. “Four o’clock!” he cried, “Swarm to the bar, I’ll buy! From now till eight o’clock everyone’s time’s his own—except this—no one gets drunk! Anyone caught drunk between now an’ afternoon’s goin’ to settle with me! After the kids get theirs will be time enough for us. At eight o’clock we all hit out an’ begin to gather kids! Come on, now!” he raised his glass aloft: “Dawson’s first Christmas! Drink her down!” He emptied his glass at a gulp and grabbing the girl nearest him threw her onto his shoulders and made for the dance hall. “Speed her up, Horse Face!” he cried, as he set his partner upon her feet, “Come on, girl, we’ll show ’em how to dance!”

Horse Face “speeded her up,” and MacShane led off in a dizzying, whirling waltz that swung the girl from her feet before half the length of the room had been covered. Laughing and shouting, others joined the sport, and for fifteen minutes the room was a gyrating riot of color as the men outdid themselves to whirl their partners clear of the floor, the strongest among them, like MacShane, spinning them high above their heads as they rotated with incredible swiftness. Dance followed dance in a bewildering turmoil of fun. There were not girls enough to go round and men tying handkerchiefs about their sleeves, took the part of girls.

When a man paired off with one of these pseudo girls it immediately became the aim of each dancer to whirl the other down, that is, to whirl so rapidly that the other, losing all sense of balance, when suddenly released, goes staggering foolishly to a fall. Many such tilts there were, to the intense delight of the spectators, the vanquished one crashing to the floor amid cries of “Loser buys! Loser buys!” And the loser bought, albeit with one accord they drank sparingly, for most of them were light drinkers by habit, and of those who were not, none cared to be called upon to settle with MacShane. For there had been occasions when men had tried conclusions with MacShane at close quarters, and rumor of them had travelled the length of the river.

At five minutes to eight, MacShane whirled down McCarty in the last dance of the orgy. Interest centered at once upon the two, and soon they had the floor to themselves as faster and faster they spun round and round to the galloping music of the piano. Both were strong as oxen, and both were past masters at the game, and when at last MacShane suddenly released his grip and staggered backward, the crowd burst into a wild yell of acclaim, as McCarty, his arms clutching at the air like flails, reeled half across the room and sprawled his length at the feet of Horse Face Joe.

“Come on, you snow hounds!” cried MacShane, “Out with you! It’s every man out doors! Grab every kid you see—big an’ little, red, white, black, an’ yellow! Down the river an’ up the river an’ get back here by ten! Bust into the cabins an’ tepees! You’ve got a free search warrant for kids! Wrap ’em up good, an’ bring ’em along. Tell their folks to come too, if they want to—but every kid within five miles has got to be brought! Dump ’em in here when you catch ’em, an’ go an’ get more. The girls will herd ’em till time for the show to start. Vamoose, now! Hit the trail!”