Doc. Keaver’s Christmas Gift

Doc. Keaver's Christmas Gift

By Joseph Hickman

— Just the week before Christmas, 189 , I was sent to look after a small bunch of stock that were wintering on the Diablo river somewhere above the point at which it empties its muddy waters into the Colorado. Wonderful winter range is that for — small numbers of cattle, not more than once in ten years does snow fall thereabouts for a radius of twenty-five miles. The country is not large which has this kind of climate. Going up the river fifty miles one finds himself at the county seat with an altitude of seven thousand feet above the sea. Then, too, the range is in small patches, up this wash, down that box canyon, and along the river valley which is never more than a mile in width. All along its course, towering mesas border the river valley, now a mile apart, now closing in on the stream, giving just room enough for it to squeeze between them. I had arrived at the little settlement of Hotville, tired, yet full of satisfaction, for I had found the cattle doing nicely. Also, this was December 24, and I was astride my best saddler, which I knew was capable of carrying me that fifty miles to the county seat before nightfall, in spite of the fact that it was now high noon and the last twenty miles of the journey would be through deep snow. There I would find not only a jolly Christmas crowd but also a good roast of beef, turkey or other meat for which I was half starved. Not often had these Hotvillites a supply of fresh meat. Content seemed they to live upon the products of their corn patches, cane fields, bee hives, and orchards. A little salt pork would find its way into the settlement, from time to time, but for this they cared little. The responsibility for this condition rests, however, not upon the people, but upon the locality. So rarely did ice form upon the swift running waters of the Diablo that not once in ten years did they have sufficient on hand to keep a supply of meat. Two generations of Hotvillites had already lived and died upon this meatless fare, this third genera- — tion did not seem to mind it, but I did. Nevertheless, as I rode into the village that day, I felt that T must have some little refreshment before going farther, even though it were but "salt-risin' " bread and molasses. A little hay and rest would put ginger into "Old Kid," as well. Brother

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Jones hailed me from his little log stable and, when the horse had been properly cared for, we two started toward the house. "A sorrowful Christinas is this, my boy, for us here in Hot- ville," spoke the good man. "Brother George's oldest son buried yesterday and James not expected to live beyond the setting of the sun, while ten others of our strongest and best young folks lie sick in their beds." "What! You don't say?" was all I could answer. "Yes," he continued, "seems to be the will of the Lord that we should be brought to bear this hard test of our faith as was Job of old. Our most faithful brethren have made this a matter of prayer and the word of the Lord seems to come to them, say- ing, 'Send to Doc. Keaver, he will know how to avoid the evil.' But there is not a young fellow in the town strong enough to go on such a journey. All week, them that ain't sick are just weak, pale, staggering. .Any minute they may tumble down in a faint and then we carry them to bed and they are sick." Twenty minutes later I was again astride "Kid." Having seen several of the sick and heard of their peculiar ailment from various persons, I felt fully capable of describing the trouble to Old Doc. Keaver when I should arrive at his house several hours later. Could I have forgotten the sick for an instant I might have felt real pleasure in my mission. Fifty miles, I was, from the object of my journey but astride a good saddler that could strike a smart gallop for the first twenty-five miles. That would bring me to a friend's ranch where I would get a fresh mount which would carry me ten miles further and exchange for another that would bring me to my journey's end. The first twenty miles would be through box canyons and over rough trails, but I knew "Kid" to be sure of foot, and my young blood — would enjoy the excitement, except for those sick ones left behind. Thus I was off, and before I had a chance to become tired, I found myself knocking at the door of the fat little doctor. I — can see him now as I write, with his cane he pushes the muffler away from my face and as he recognizes me, "Mein dear boy, what is it? Come in, you are froze." He turns and, wheezing and coughing, waddles back toward the huge, open fireplace and insists upon my taking his big, warm chair. Then, while I tell him the purpose of my mission, he waddles back and forth from the only other room of the house, bringing hot coffee and a huge chunk of Christmas-cake. While I eat, I continue describing the condition of the sick and the symptoms of the disease. All the while he fills small bottles with variously colored liquids. I had been at his house on different errands before and it always seemed to me that he filled the same bottles with the same medicine no

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matter what the case at hand might be. As I finished my de- scription and the Christmas-cake the old man stopped. "I see," he said, "mein boy, they have no meat, see?" I told him that I could not only see it but that I could feel it as well. "But if that is all they need," I added, "I shall hurry back and see that they have all they can eat if it takes every critter on the river." "Mein boy, you do not understand," he trembled as he ceased, as if at a loss to know how to make me understand. He was not a striking personality, this good old man. Eighty-three he said he was; short, standing just about to the spot where I fasten my neck-tie: entirely bald, except for a small fringe that he let grow long over his coat collar. This was snow white as was his beard also long. And as I sat there and looked up at him, I could not but wonder how long he would be there to help us. Surely he was not long for this world. How much we should appreciate him, and how sorry we would be when he had gone that we had not paid him the bills we owed him and the money he needed so badly! "Boy, you do not understand," he repeated as soon as he could get breath enough to continue. "If you gave them beef, the whole town would die, quick, see!" He snapped his fingers for emphasis, and went on, "They would not know how to cook it. No one around here knows how to cook. Boy, when I was with the Confederate army hospital corps, I saw men killed off day after day with these devilish poor cooks. Then when we would get a good cook, all would begin to get better. No; nothing can save these people except meat properly cooked, unless, let me see, — yes, yes, unless we can get some fish. Any one can fry fish and make it fit to eat, but it takes an expert to cook beef. Are there no fish in the river down there?" He read my answer and continued, "Of course there are none." I knew that; nothing can live in that water after it goes through the narrows and takes up that reddish mud. He ceased talking and gazed blankly around the room then turned suddenly upon me. "Go, boy," he commanded, "go get a team and buggy ready, I will go back to Hotville with you. Those people must be saved. Nothing will do it but properly cooked meat; I must be there to see that it is done." I was a mere bov at the time, and his suggestion completely bewildered me. Yet he commanded with such force that I could not resist. "Go!" he repeated. I arose and walked from the room, bumping my head upon the low door frame as I did so. This bump and the cold zero

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weather outside brought back my senses. The idea of this eighty-year old man going out into this weather and jolting for seven or eight hours over one of the roughest roads in the coun- try was impossible. And here, inside his simple hut, I had just been cautioning myself that' we should take great care of this eld man for he belonged to us all. I dared not go back to argue with him, he had already vanquished me. Across the road dwelt good Mrs. Frank, she who had brought him the Christmas- cake, she who did him untold favors, she who had most influence over him. To her I confided my fears and begged that she influ- ence him against his rash resolve. She went to the cabin alone. I am sure I shall never again undergo the anxiety of those minutes of waiting there in Frank's house while his wife across the road argued and pleaded with the old doctor. Hope and pray I did, but it was with that blind hope and prayer one might be expected to utter in case he should be hoping and praying to be always ten or fifteen years of age. It was with the feeling that my hopes and prayers were for the impossible, and that some dreadful, some great, milestone of my own life was about to be passed. In about ten minutes Mrs. Frank returned. "It is no use," she said. "He is determined to go, you would better make him as comfortable as possible. If he does not go he will die here, if he goes, there is a chance he may withstand the hardships and still live." "Not one chance in a hundred," I broke in. "It was raining when I came up through the gorge and the chances are a thou- sand to one that it will be flooded when I go back. Personally, I have no desire to drive a rig through there with a flood on at any time, not to say anything about having an old man along and it dark besides and the river full of floating ice." Mrs. Frank shook her head. "It is the one chance to save the old man's life," she said. Though reason told me differently, I knew that she spoke the truth. "Well, get the old doctor ready," I said, and went around the house to the stable for the team. When I drove around to the doctor's I found him there waiting for me, wrapped quite snugly, but not so much as one would have expected him to be. He climbed into the rig, without any assistance, as I afterward recalled, and took his place silently beside me, and about an hour later, when we had reached the lower country and the road was becoming slushy, he spoke. "Boy, how long will it take you to get a calf ready for the pot?" "Well," I replied, "if we make it through the narrows before

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the flood, we should be able to reach Hotville by daybreak and by ten o'clock you shall have the fatted calf." He pulled the quilts over his face and we jolted on again in silence. We were nearing the badlands and fast descending into the warm belt of which I have already spoken. Soon we came to the river, and to my joy I beheld it was but slightly swollen. The rain, it seemed, had been to the north in the region of the South Desert and though there was every evidence of a flood coming from that direction, it could not hinder us before we came to the final crossing before reaching the settlement. The horses plunged into the chilly water, we crossed and recrossed the stream, we entered the gorge, we passed through the narrows and at last emerged from the canyon. A steady rain had poured down upon us for the past two hours and I could feel a chilly stream trickle down the middle of my back. Five miles on we came to Notown and there changed our horses for the last time. As I brought out dry, warm blankets and wrapped them about the old man, I noticed that he was shaking. He was chilled, and I tried to induce him to stay here and rest until he had recovered. But I might as well have argued with the wind. "There is no time to lose," he answered. "See, it is daybreak and we are sixteen miles from the town ; drive on."

We jolted on and on. The sun rose dreamily behind a thin mist of clouds. The wind was bitter for that region. I could feel the old man shake through the thick covering of blankets. I threw more over him. He threw them all off, saying that I was smothering him. Then he would reach out for them and again shake terribly. I whipped up the team in one last hope that we might reach the crossing before the flood, otherwise we might have to wait on this side of the stream for it to subside. As we came over the crest of the hill that gives one the first view of the village, I saw with great joy that the flood had passed, and to give hope to the doctor I announced our prox- imity to the place. He uncovered his head and looked about, "Thank God," he said, "I may yet be in time; but, what are all those people doing there along the river!" He pointed with his finger and looking I beheld that of which he spoke. Chagrined was I that his dim eyes should see the unusual sight before my own. All along the river, for fully half a mile, the men, women and little children of Hotville rushed here and there, striking, stooping, picking; then rushed again, struck, stooped and picked. My first glance told me what it was all about. I had seen the sight before and felt ashamed to think I had not thought of the possibility of this before. "Fish!" I answered simply. He looked bewildered and questioningly at me. "You see," I