How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar Page #5

"How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar" by Bret Harte is a charming short story set in a small mining town during the Christmas season. The narrative unfolds in a rough and rugged frontier community, where the arrival of Santa Claus brings warmth and joy amidst the harsh conditions of frontier life. Through Harte's engaging storytelling and vivid descriptions, the tale explores themes of generosity, the spirit of Christmas, and the unexpected magic that can flourish even in unlikely places. The story captures the essence of community, showcasing how the holiday can inspire kindness and connection among its residents.

• Short story

								

shadowy horse and rider. "Throw up your hands," commanded this second
apparition, with an oath.

Dick felt the mare tremble, quiver, and apparently sink under him. He
knew what it meant and was prepared.

"Stand aside, Jack Simpson, I know you, you d----d thief. Let me pass
or--"

He did not finish the sentence. Jovita rose straight in the air with a
terrific bound, throwing the figure from her bit with a single shake
of her vicious head, and charged with deadly malevolence down on the
impediment before her. An oath, a pistol-shot, horse and highwayman
rolled over in the road, and the next moment Jovita was a hundred
yards away. But the good right arm of her rider, shattered by a bullet,
dropped helplessly at his side.

Without slacking his speed he shifted the reins to his left hand. But a
few moments later he was obliged to halt and tighten the saddle-girths
that had slipped in the onset. This in his crippled condition took some
time. He had no fear of pursuit, but looking up he saw that the eastern
stars were already paling, and that the distant peaks had lost their
ghostly whiteness, and now stood out blackly against a lighter sky. Day
was upon him. Then completely absorbed in a single idea, he forgot
the pain of his wound, and mounting again dashed on toward Rattlesnake
Creek. But now Jovita's breath came broken by gasps, Dick reeled in his
saddle, and brighter and brighter grew the sky.

Ride, Richard; run, Jovita; linger, O day!

For the last few rods there was a roaring in his ears. Was it exhaustion
from loss of blood, or what? He was dazed and giddy as he swept down
the hill, and did not recognize his surroundings. Had he taken the wrong
road, or was this Rattlesnake Creek?

It was. But the brawling creek he had swam a few hours before had risen,
more than doubled its volume, and now rolled a swift and resistless
river between him and Rattlesnake Hill. For the first time that night
Richard's heart sank within him. The river, the mountain, the quickening
east, swam before his eyes. He shut them to recover his self-control. In
that brief interval, by some fantastic mental process, the little room
at Simpson's Bar and the figures of the sleeping father and son rose
upon him. He opened his eyes wildly, cast off his coat, pistol, boots,
and saddle, bound his precious pack tightly to his shoulders, grasped
the bare flanks of Jovita with his bared knees, and with a shout dashed
into the yellow water. A cry rose from the opposite bank as the head
of a man and horse struggled for a few moments against the battling
current, and then were swept away amidst uprooted trees and whirling
drift-wood.

*****

The Old Man started and woke. The fire on the hearth was dead, the
candle in the outer room flickering in its socket, and somebody was
rapping at the door. He opened it, but fell back with a cry before the
dripping half-naked figure that reeled against the doorpost.

"Dick?"

"Hush! Is he awake yet?"

"No,--but, Dick?--"

"Dry up, you old fool! Get me some whiskey QUICK!" The Old Man flew and
returned with--an empty bottle! Dick would have sworn, but his strength
was not equal to the occasion. He staggered, caught at the handle of the
door, and motioned to the Old Man.

"Thar's suthin' in my pack yer for Johnny. Take it off. I can't."

The Old Man unstrapped the pack and laid it before the exhausted man.

"Open it, quick!"

He did so with trembling fingers. It contained only a few poor
toys,--cheap and barbaric enough, goodness knows, but bright with paint
and tinsel. One of them was broken; another, I fear, was irretrievably
ruined by water; and on the third--ah me! there was a cruel spot.

"It don't look like much, that's a fact," said Dick, ruefully . . . .
"But it's the best we could do. . . . Take 'em, Old Man, and put 'em in
his stocking, and tell him--tell him, you know--hold me, Old Man--" The
Old Man caught at his sinking figure. "Tell him," said Dick, with a weak
little laugh,--"tell him Sandy Claus has come."

And even so, bedraggled, ragged, unshaven and unshorn, with one arm
hanging helplessly at his side, Santa Claus came to Simpson's Bar and
fell fainting on the first threshold. The Christmas dawn came slowly
after, touching the remoter peaks with the rosy warmth of ineffable
love. And it looked so tenderly on Simpson's Bar that the whole mountain
as if caught in a generous action, blushed to the skies.
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