DECEMBER 1953
MMt that H wa< t)M eotdrst nlcht
•vvr known In Uial part al tt» eoaDtry.
•till the eotd knlflng Uirou(h cIoUim
■kin and tondoo to u« al tb« boo*, u II
M «rT* madr ci Oamaacua «tc«l.
Th« liMvp buddlad la UlUc crou|» upoa
th* httUlda. vhtcb Uy >blv«tlnt a 0 d
elutchiog at th* thto btankcU ol •>»«■ that
rawrrd thMr booy frainM. Tb« (bcpberd*.
drrs»pd In roala madr of the (kiiu c4 their
•nImaU. buddiad dc*piy amoog th* tkxks.
tr'inc to ratrb tom* warmth from the
bi)d><-« 'jt thrlr bettrr clad frlrad*.
Im ”thr: hltbidr* and In th« valler*. th«
landrr> of thr rattJr hunched themaelvM
brlplr>il)r utrr their fman ftrra and listen
ed itnpaulvrly to the moanlnca and km-
in« which cam* (ram the herd*, upon
thin itrrama of froxen vapor and then were
auon <><1 ‘ti 'hi- iparklinc. ahimmrrUig coki
of the ftarbt nlcht.
No m*i»o ahown down.
rr would have been pale In comparlaoa
wi'h th* ahlmmering falaxy of diamooda,
which winked down In derUkxi upon the
(uHrrmo of the mortala bekm One Itar,
•eeming to carr (or theae (ufferera, veo-
tu c<l ' I'ltr to the earth and bung like a
h»cr (Iltlertng nun over the imaU adobe
■Uhle In the btti* town <>f Bethlehem
At rait. It uaad to be a ftable. How
ever. that wa* before the dayi of th* auti>-
m<Jt<lle and )e*p — and now that there
w< r' no horaea to care (or. It wva the town
>all!
Squit and lonely looking. It aat day after
day itaring with envtmia windows upoa th*
gall) paln'ed (lont of th* Uolden Pl*aaures
Saloon, which (tared back at the UttI* iall,
and »lih Its red pointed (root, seemed to
b* (ticking Ita tongue out at It* poor neigh
bor tcroas the way.
Tonight, however, even the fiery red of
the SaUxm'a (root could not keep It gay
and warm against the intense cold, and It
loukrd alm<«t as miserable as the poor
little }all acroas the way.
Inaidr, though, the cold had been forgot
ten by the mwpokes and farmhands, who
• ere busily celebrating Christmas Eve and
th* birth of th* Christ with good, strong
Ryr whiskey and a stolen kiss from the
"house" girls, who encouraged them to
•|irnd their wag«a upon the delights to be
offered over the Inog wilnut wall, from be
hind which flowed hope and courage and
peace.
As th* ltik*boa blarrd forth a fwlngey
and H)ueaJiy Western band's version of the
''Chrkstmaa Polka" they hadn't a thought
for the cold work! outside and thoae lo*t
In tiK- misery ol the night One or two, In
a moment of drunken melancholy, gav* a
rrrting thought to Jim or "R*d," left out
upm Ih* range tending the stock, but the
gay laughter and warmth flushed all such
unpleasant thoughts away In a gay, bub-
blinx awlrl of amber liquid
Tonight was Christmas Eve and th* world
wji a-wonderful place again—filled with
toy and happiness!
Arruai t^ street, no aounds of music
emergr<l from the forgotten little Jail. No
sound cam* from Its square, bare shape
and the only sign of life was the glimmer
of aa oil lamp that shone (eebly through
th* mud-spatterrd remains of a broken win
dow It was a timid light, afraid to venture
out Into the dark «vrki of cold and still.
Even within it leemed to be afraid to ven
ture too far from Its supply of life-giving
oU and the comers of the room were dark
and dreary.
The little light shoukln't have been fo
afriiMj. for It had a companion, who sat
uo the cold earthen fkior. hunched cloae
to hla friend. In mutal fear and loneliness.
For a long time nuw, the lamp and Its
friend had sat in silent companionship,
neither speaking to the other—each loat in
hi< own thoughts. The figure seemed al
most to be immotMIe, as It sat thinking
and hating, yet k>ving and worshiping the
life that he was to k>«* as soon as the
morning's sun had risen from his warm
bed and com* (onh to kill his little friencL
"l( they'd nnlv believe m* — If for once
some man on the fac* of the globe would
listen and b* my friend — no one ever
ha< — — might be atde to live to get out
of this — You stupid fool, the law says
your're guilty — you murdered a man —
you kiilrd him — But t didn't — I don't
*\on ktiow who they're talking atxMit — —
ain't never killed — never — — — Why
worry? Ain't this the United State* and
dtm't *om* book In Washington say so? —
You'll get a (air hearing and they'll listen
to you - to the truth. They dm't hang
Innocwit people — No, not If they get to
trial' - Ri;l you'll never get a trial — Why
kid youraeir* — You'v* been beat to a
pulp before, kicked, slugged — peopi* didn't
nave time those other times to wait for
the truth — and 'hey wont wait now —
they respected this cattleman — nuiybe
even lovH him — and mob* don't «'alt —
tomorrinv — Hell, they ain't gonna be no
tom»rr<'w! TWs Is It, Kid — you've had It!
— Right now behind all that music over
there, 'hey are talking about you. getting
armed with courage — picking out the tree
— planning how th*y can torture you —
Why kid yourself? —Men don't think about
other men — you never did —
Suddenly thm was a twrst of Inud laugh
ter from th* other side of the dirt street,
and the stranger, Jumping up, with a short
Intake of breath ran to th* window and
looked out through the broken pane.
"l.augh — go eo and laugh — you're
laughing at roe — planning what a nice
Um* youll give m* — Ood. bow I hale
humans — they all stink — they —"
'Hme stood itiD. hoMlng Its breath along
wlt*< tike Toung man's, as h* stood staring
•acroas th* darkened street. Por the
swinging doors, gaily Ut by the neon sign,
were opening —
"Now they'r* coming — You'd better
pra\ — you'd better — “
But. aaty oo* km flgur* emerged *i}-
bouetted by th* stream nf vivid light that
The Angels’ Harp
A Christmas Western
In Two Installments
By Cecil Willis
rushed past him into th* dark*
Slowly and drunkenly the figure started
walking acroaa the hard packed earth to-
n-ards the jail. He was a short man and
hobbled along singing a tune under his
breath as he crossed the street.
"A lousy drunk — Boy. you’re really
kialng your nerve — Wouldn't the t)oys
laugh at you now — Scared to death over
a door opening — over a knisey drunk —
The old bird looks Uk* he's coming over
here — Mrxt likely wants to get a k»k at
a murderer — the lousey — "
The figure bad reach^ the small pool
of light that showed Its way through the
dirt of the window outside. The stranger
looked at him (nr a moment as he stood
staring ttack with pale, blu* eyes, that
seem^ to kxik through you and beyond
you. He was an okj man, about seventy
he'd guess, with a (ace that was weather —
beaten and hardened by the mere IKe of
trying to scratch out an existence upon this
unloving wurM that he had been Ixirn Into.
His (ace was covered with a stubby white
beard, and his uncut hair hung in uneven
blobs like com shucks from under his tat
tered old ten-gallon hat.
^ietly he spoke, and bis voice seemed
to (loat from t>ehind him somewhere, not
to Issue from his mouth at all. It was soft —
soft like Nan's hair used to t>e — Funny, he
slx>uld think of her — It «as years ago
she had been his higluachool steady and
tliey dreamed of spending their lives to
gether serving out a serfdom to the fi
nance companies — Whih was the old booz-
er Mying «—•
"Yep. I guess this is the coldest night
around here since ‘St. Now, that was
really cold! Why, 1 rememt>er It as plain
as 1( it were only yesterday — I wss punch
ing cows then (or Mr. Tom out at tto Bar
Q _
"You got a cigarette?"
"No Sonny, 1 ain't," be replied, while he
reached into his tattered Jumper pocket.
"But I gut some pipe tobacco, and if you
got a piece of paper, you coukl roll your
self one."
The old man hekt up a small grimy
cotton sack to the Jagged hole in the win
dow.
"Naw, that's O K. Skip lt"I
"0« on. Take it. You'r* welcome to It"!
"It wouldn't do me any good — I don't
know how to roll those things," the strang
er replied, with a touch of his old arrog
ance coming back to his voice.
"Well, that's alright — Uiok, maybe I
got some paper — IPn I have, 111 roll It
(or you." He took the sack and holding it
between his teeth, by the bit o( string
that protruded from it top, be began to
search through his pockets.
"Don't go to any trouble. Pop. 1 didn't
mean to start you to any trouble. Just
thought you might have a butt hand."
Sticking his hands in his pockets, he tunv
ed from the window and started back to
his seat 00 the floor. He didn't (eel Ilk*
making any conversation about the weather
or anything else. He'd Just like to be alone
and dt and think things out. Maybe he'd
b* able to figure out some way to beat this
rap — but. be really didn't see why be
sh^d twtiier. Why beat your brains out
to try and stay alive In a world where
your couldn't even get a lousey cigarette
from a drunk bum.
"Looks like you're in luck. Sonny. I
(uund a piece — and twon't be no time
at all (ore I'll have you one made up that'll
beat them tailor-mades ail to beck."
Slowly the young man turned and saunt
ered the short distance across the cell, back
to the window. A(ter all a cigarette sure
would taste awful good right now.
He saw a grizzled hand, gnarled with
age and hard work, the skin killed by the
winds o( many winters peeling a«ay from
it in dead flakes, poke a completely round
and well-packed cigarette thn^h the bold
through the hokl in the pane.
As he reached to take It he muttered
a simple "Thanks," and then lit the long
dreamed of butt and learning against the
ice<old mud wall he blew the smoke out
in a contented putl. He kwked at the thin
piece of dirty paper and a slow smile held
(or a moment on his face. One thing you
bad to give the old rum-dum, be could
really roll a mean (ag.
"T'aln't nothin' like a little taste of to
bacco to help a body along, when the world
seems agin' ya. Is there"?
"You're right there, Pop. This sure tastes
mighty sweir"
"Me, 1 like a pipe," the old man replied,
while he filled a smoke-blackedned com
pipe with Ute goklen grains that poured
silently in a stream from the bag. He
quietly laughed, a warm laughter that seem.
id somehow to extend the short area at
light for a great distance out Into the dark.
"But, I guess we all ain't like the same
things,” he continued, "ITn we don't do it,
guess there'd be enough (or all of us. and
some (biks would have to go lackin." 'P*ars
that’s about '.ke trouble with the workl to
day. Nobody ain't satisfied with what they
got. They got to get what belongs to the
other (eUer — come Hell or high water.
Jet' am't happy with there own lot. Mo*
of the time tb^ manage one way or tother.
to get wtiat th^'re a-hankerin' (er — even
iTn It means murders and wars and un
happiness — and then when they done got
it they Jes' plain don't want it no longer,
and they're 'bout as unhappy, as they wa*
to start with."
"Say, you know you talk right good sense
(or a Wino." . , .
■ lain't drunk. Sonny - it's cnPPled
leg what makes me walk hobWey like. Don_*
drink — ain't touched a drop (or years.
Almost automatically the other man lick
ed hU cold-parched Ups, pausing (or a sec
ond over the (estered (ever sore in the corn
er o( his bottom lip.
•‘Brother, I wouldn’t five for a
drink right now! It might even make me
take a ^tter view of things, and God knows
I could use a better one."
Slowly blowing smoke out of hi* nostrils,
quickly upon the cold (rosty air. shaking
hi* head.
"Liker ain’t never (ixed nothin up (or
libbody. Son. It Jes' fools us into believin'
it does. Then the next day we wake up
and (Ind out that things ain't change a
mite. They're the same as they was be
fore — cause we ain't use the right
proach to change them. No, slree, ain't
nothin' changes tilings, 'ceptun Faith."
"You Uke your (aith. I'll settle (or a
pint," the young man replied, his mouth
twisted up towarti* the (ever blister in a
sneer. "I'U put my trust in what can make
me (orget how dirty and stinking the world
is — even if it is just (or a night I got
no use (or all that (aith manure.”
" 'Pears to me like you need a lot o(
(aith right now. Boy."
"Look, Pop, thanks (or the smoke — and
thanlu (or the kind words but I ain't in no
mood to be preaccd to about love and
faith and that kind of mess"!
The Old Man sighed as he ansvvred,
■'T'aln't nothin' to (ret about. I guess if*
Just cause you ain't never had no faith,
that you can't see what it kin do."
"How the Hell do you know so much about
what I had or ain’t bad"?
The Young Man watched as the Old Man
moved his (ace closer to the hole in the
pane, and looked at him with a look filled
with warth and kindness. "I know lots of
things about you, Boy. Things you don't
think nobody knows. I know Jes' how lost
and lonely you (cel, caged up In there,
wondering i( you'll even git to see the sun
arlsln' in the muming. 1 knew all atxnit all
the hatred you got stored up Inside of ya
for everybody else — an' all the hatred
they got stored up inside of themselves (er
you. You know how I know?"
The other man slovly shook his head,
looking Into the kind eyes, which somehow
held something In their glance that be had
never seen tiefore.
"I know about all them things, because
I been through 'em. That’s how. 1 done
su(fered all the things that you’re a suf-
(erin’ right now, and I know how it feels."
A so(t smile lit up his (ace as he tenderly
continued, "But that was all a long time
ago. That was when I was dead."
With a quick Jerk, the Young Man began
to laugh, at first in chuckles, but then the
laughter grew untU it (illed the tiny cell,
bounding away (rom the walls and fleeing
to ring k>ud and clear upon the quiet still
ness o( the night.
"Come on. Pop, come on! Tell me where
you got that bottle hidden. Don't try and
kid me no more .You don’t drink! Oh,
Boy, are you a lulu!"
"See, you can still laugh. Though Its
only at something you don’t understand
nothin' about"
"Look, you think I'm crazy? I ain't gone
buggy in this clink, so try and make me
think I have."
"I ain't tryin' to make you think noth
in', Sonny." the Old Man saM, still in his
quiet, even voice.
Well, don't try It. 'Cause you ^^T>n't get
no place doing It! I been in stir be(ore —
k)t* o( times. Even in solitary at Lorton and
Joliet, but I ain't never gone o(( my rock
er. I( there's anybody nutty here, it's you.
And i( you ask me, you're nuttier than
a (rult cake. All that about you was once
dead"!
Flipping the butt o( his cigarette thru
the window, the prisoner turned and walk
ed Into the dark shadows at the other end
ol the cell.
"I know it sounds crazy to you right
now. Son, but It won't after a while. If*
the truth, and the truth ain’t never cra-
»y;’
"Go on. Pop, and peddle your sea-stories
someplace else. I ain't bu^n' ’’
From the darkness the old cowhand’s
v^c* answered, quleUy and genUy, "I
ain t Oflllng you no lies, Boy. I'm tryln’
to help you. Help you when you need a
friend.
tbat
gln-mlU, youU find somebody over there
to believe you. 'There it won't be so hard
to get somebody to listen to your troubles
Just buy .some guy some drinks, and he’li
U^n all nl^t. I done It plenty o( times
wl»n s^e broad give me the air and i
had to have somebody to talk to "
an7“uS;i“”‘*“‘
H^-(k1^ the windmr the Young Man
yeUed tack, "Scram! 1 don't uik
• ain't
botberin you! *
He stood ^ In the middle o( the ceU
waiting (or the other man to go a^y. ^t
he could see that we was still there, itia
gently smiling.
Quickly he crossed the cell, and poking
his fist through the hole in the glass, hit
the Old Man in his (ace.
The blow knocked the Old Man back,
wai^ Into the shadows, but he stepped
back Into the pool o( light, still wearing
the patient smile upon his (ace.
Seeing him. the convict angrily said.
“Look, it you don't want another poke ca
the chin, beat it.”
"It didn't hurt me none. 1 been hurt lots
in my time. Son. And most ol the time, I
I deserved it. 'Sides, I know you ain't
yerseK, what with waitin' (or death to com*
to you and snuf( out you life."
"But, they ain't gonna kill me. They Just
put me in here (or tonight. Tomorrow
they're goin' to take me away and give
me a trial, (air and square, you see. And
you'll see — I'll beat this rap, 'cause I
didn't do it! This is one time I'm inno
cent"
"I know that. But they don't. And right
now, they gettln’ all het up thinkin’ ab^t
Mister Morris being murdered, and t'won't
be long 'fore some (eller all drunked up'll
suggest they string you up and then it'll
be too late (or that trial you're talking
about It won't matter, when you're dead."
’The word.s struck the Young Man in
the face, with a force much greater than
the blow he had given the old man. Sud
denly he knew the truth, that tomorrow
would never come (or him. It seemed as
i( all his blood was drained (rom hi.i veins,
and he raised his hands to clutch the Jag
ged glass (or support.
A long time pa.ssed before he spoke again,
all the while he stood staring into the pity,
(illed eyes ol the Old Man.
Finally, when he spoKe, his voice came
out in a soft, slow stream, so silent that
he was hardly aw-are he had uttered any
words.
"Look, Pop, help me! Help me!!"
He (eit the touch of the rough palm ol
the other's hand upon bis. But it was not
the brittle and hard touch ol a work-worn
hand, but a touch that left him with a
(eeling of having been touched by some
strange quieting power, a power combined
with love, as that of Mother comforting
her frightened child.
"I’ve already helped you. E>er since the
day I was reborn, I been helping you.
Ain’t never a prayer uttered that don’t
go clean ’round the world, and help some
body somewhere. Maybe that sounds like
it’s crazy, too. like what I said about being
dead before, but It ain’t It’s the only sure
thing in the world. It’s faith."
With a sob, the Young Man started to
Jerk his hands away from those of the Old
Man, but he couldn’t seem to pull them
away from the soft, yet vise-like strength
o( the others.
"Listen. ^ don't want preachln’. I need
help!"
"And I am helpin' your"
"Hom-? With all this religion guff? That
ain’t gettin’ me out of here.”
Tenderly the Old Man answered, “It’i
the only thing in the world that can get you
out You gotta have faith. Sonny, that It
will. Have faith!”
"I tell you, I ain't got no —
"Yes, you have, Boy. Everybody'* got
some (aith. They Jes’ don’t use it, that’*
all. ’They’d rather spend their day* awor-
ryin’ and frettin’ and trying’ to change
the world to their own way, rather than
Jest have a mite of faith.”, the Old Man
passionately replied. "It's faith that kin
unlock the door of this here Jail and set
you free. It's done it before. It's made the
blind to see, and the lame to walk. And
more than that, it's raised the dead to
life. Not jest In the Bible, but everyday.
It did it for me!"
A loud burst of laughter from the Saloon
shattered the night’s stillness, like the stead
stacatto belching of a machine gun. The
Young Man, quickly Jerking to look acros*
the street, turned to the Old Man with a
look of haunted (ear in his eyes and asked,
"How?"
"By raising me from the dead and letting
me live again. You see, I was born in thi*
town, grew up here — and like most of
the bucks around, roamed over the county-
side, working as a cowpuncher, first one
place and another. I thought life in'as created
(er me. I never had no thought fer noth
in' or nobody — took what I wanted, when
ever I wanted it. I sure won't no church
goin' man, an’ faith meant no more to me
than it does to you. But then one Christ
mas Eve, I went to a church preachin’
with my gal — guess she was the real
reason fer my goin’. She'd been a pesterin’
me (er week* to go, and (inally *aid she
won’t agpin’ to see me no more, ifn 1
didn't go with her. She sure was a pretty
little filly — and, well, you know how It
I*. I finally got myself all dolled up in
my bwt clothes and I went to that preach
ing with her. And It was there that I »'a*
bora agin’. It was a real pretty service.
The preacher, he won't no Sin-killer, but
a man what jest talked natural like, and
then after he'd talk fer a while, he’d pull
out hi* harmonica and started to play one
on them Christmas songs. It was then that
it happened. It was then that I' knew I
won't really me. Hiat I'd been bom a 1<^
ume ago in another town named Jest like
“US one, 'cept it won’t even in the United
States. 'Course, I don’t mean I was really
bom there, but the spirit what is really me
was! At first, I didn’t know quite what I
meant, but after a ^iiile thinkin’ on it »
heap, I knew sure a* I knewed I wa* »
breathin’ that I was bom there then. That
that little baby in that manger was areally
me in spirit. 'That’s why tomorrow is real
ly my birthday!”
"Your birthday?”
(To Be Continued)