From the Improvement Era, December 1950 –

The Gift Horse

By John Sherman Walker

Trader Lee Tabor was serious as he looked over the windswept mesa from the comfortable office of his Whiterock Trading Post with its rugs and Indian paintings, and great fireplace wafting incense from juniper and pinon wood embers.

Far down the valley he could just glimpse an igloo-like hogan outlined amid the clutter of upjutting volcanic rocks, where he knew old Chief White Wolf would be sitting on the dirt floor of his hogan, muffled in blankets against the cold, like some old mummified idol – and just as impassive and as hard to reason with.

That was Lee Tabor’s problem. How to help the proud old chief – who once had numbered his sheep and goats by the hundreds and now was poorer than the jack rabbits – without offending his dignity.

More than once the taciturn old chief had spurned the genial trader’s offers, whether of a loan of money, food, or supplies from the trading post. Nor would the independent old man deign to accept any relief from the government’s Great White Father.

Worse yet, Christmas was coming. That meant gifts. And old White Wolf had his peculiar ideas about Christmas gift-giving, dating from the time when Lee Tabor and his wife Nina had taken over the Whiterock store and that first Christmas had presented every Indian in the valley with a gift.

Trader Tabor’s first gift to Chief White Wolf had been a handsomely-fashioned hunting knife in tooled leather sheath. Greatly impressed, the chief, then more affluent, had presented Lee Tabor with a fine silver-worked belt, and his wife with a turquoise necklace. Varied gifts had been exchanged at each Christmas time thereafter between the chief and his good friend, the trader.

So it was that old Chief White Wolf, who had been converted, after a fashion, to the white man’s religion, had come to understand the white man’s ritual of gift-giving at the Christmas season. He had, in fact, come to imagine the ritual as an essential part of being a member of the Christian community. This year he would have no gift for his friend – and would certainly accept no gift himself. Some kind of disaster seemed imminent.

That was how Lee Tabor was reasoning it out in his mind, and his reasoning seemed to end in circles, no closer to a solution of the vexing problem.

The lines in Tabor’s ruddy face deepened, and thoughtfully he turned to the doorway into the adjoining big room of the trading post, piled with its colorful stock of goods and supplies. As he stood in the doorway, his wife looked up from her bookwork on accounts and regarded him for a minute before she spoke.

“Your face is darker than the weather outside, Lee. What’s on your mind?”

“Just what are we going to do, Nina,” demanded the frowning Lee, “about that obstinate old Chief White Wolf? How can anybody be thinking about a merry Christmas with that stubborn old man sitting down there in that hogan, practically freezing and starving to death? Won’t accept a thing, even from the government.”

Nina Tabor stared from the window, as a low wind whined about the eaves of the building with a swirl of powdery snow, as she answered.

“He’s proud, Lee – terribly proud. I really don’t know the answer to that one. If only he had some gift to give you this Christmas, perhaps yellow and blue cloth they so loved for dresses. They must look their best for the approaching Christmas holidays.

Two Indian men rode up, hitched their ponies to the rail in the windy street and stomped into the store, spurs a-jingle on their cowboy boots, their dark hair held with bright bands, their costumes aflash with silver and turquoise.

They also were getting ready for the big Christmas celebration. Everyone was in a gay, spending mood. And everyone seemed to have money, or goods-in-trade, to indulge the spirit – everyone, that is, except old Chief White Wolf and his daughter’s family, her husband, and their little son, Billy Blue jay – the only ones in the village whom the old chief would accept favors from, and who were doing all right just to support themselves with their we could give him something substantial in return without offending him.”

Lee gave a helpless shrug of his wide shoulders.

“Don’t think he would take a present, if he didn’t have one to offer in return. I’ve known him too long to believe that. Now – he’s got less than nothing; at most, the blankets on his back – and that bony, piebald mustang pony he gets around on. This Christmas gift business is going to break his old heart. In the meantime, he’s slowly killing himself because of his pride. And what can I do about it?”

His wife went to serve a group of Indian women in colorful calico skirts and velvet blouses who had come into the store.

They’d come with sacks of sweet pinon nuts to trade for the red and very small flock of goats and their tiny plot of maize and melons in season.

It was an exasperating, ridiculous situation; but apparently nothing could be done about it, the blunt old chief being tempered as he was.

The days went thus, the spirit of the festive season mounting as the eve before Christmas neared. Lee Tabor continued to dwell moodily upon the sorry condition of his stubborn old Indian friend. The day before Christmas, Lee made a final, definite announcement to his wife.

“I’m going to load the truck with groceries and some warm clothing and dump them right in old White Wolf’s hogan, whether he likes it or not. He’s going to take the heart right out of Christmas this year if he persists in holding out in his old fool way about a little charity.”

“If that would do any good,” enjoined Nina. “Frankly, I don’t think he’d feed any part of it even to his goats, if he thought you were pitying him. But I’ll help in any way I can.”

Big Lee went to the window of the office and held the curtain aside as he stared for the dozenth time that afternoon through the sleety mist, down at the snow-mounded hogan of old White Wolf.

He was drawing on gloves and reaching for his hat, when his keen eyes caught the slow trot of a pinto pony just turning out of the corral by old White Wolf’s hogan. Atop the stiff-gaited old horse, riding bareback, the gnomish form of Billy Bluejay, the old chief’s grandson, his uncut black hair flaring from under his red headband, looked a
dark mite in the storm.

Watching, Tabor mused aloud.

“I wonder now where that old bag of horseflesh is taking our young friend Billy, in a storm like this. He’s coming calling, looks like.”

Nina joined her husband, her brown eyes following the awkward course of old horse and young rider as they cloppity-clopped up the muddy road.

Billy Bluejay threw a hasty leg off the sway-back of the pinto, and he tied it at the hitching rail in front of the trading post, gave the old horse a fond pat, then scrambled up the steps and into the store, banging the door.

For a minute the little Indian, looking wild indeed with wind-tangled hair and wearing nondescript clothing, blinked the snow mist from his jet-bright eyes, then saw Lee and Nina smiling from the end of the room. Lee called a welcome.

“Hi, Billy – now what can we do for you today?”

The curious, half-doleful, half-defiant look which Billy cast at them was puzzling; then he was blurting out his message.

“Thees horse, outside – he is from my grandfather to you – for Creesmus. He says much Merry Creesmus, Meester Tabur – and to your Meesus.”

‘”That was all. Like the rush and go of the wind the boy was gone, with a flash of white teeth and the look of calamity in his dark, almost tearful eyes.

They could only rush to the window for a glimpse of the racing little whirlwind, who paused for a final pat on the neck of the pinto pony, then fled down the slushy street, lost in the gusty storm.

Speechless, Lee and Nina looked at each other. The incredulous exclamation of Lee finally cut the silence.

“Can you imagine that! The old chief’s Christmas present – to us; that flea-bitten old cayuse. Ha – ha – ha.”

But Nina cut him short, her eyes serious.

“Don’t laugh, Lee. It’s the grandest gesture I’ve ever heard of. Would any of your friends give you the car out of their garage as a Christmas gift? It amounts to the same thing. That old horse is absolutely the last thing on earth the old chief owned; and a horse to an Indian is wealth and prestige and an only way of travel.

“Yet, he’s given it up, rather than let us down this Christmas. And that look on Billy’s face – like he was laying his heart at our feet, when he gave up that pony. It’s the old chief’s to give, true. But the boy’s tended that pony since he was old enough to straddle it. Now we’ve got double trouble to look forward to over the holidays. Billy’s not going to get over this for a long time, I can see. To Billy that horse has every fine line of a thoroughbred racer.”

Soberly Lee replied.

“I’m not laughing, Nina, at the giver; you know that; nor at the gift. But whoever could have imagined that the old chief would give us his horse? What can I possibly do with a wheezy old bag o’ bones like that? I can’t accept it, of course. I’d better get it back to the corral at the hogan before the old plug gets snowed under out there.”

But a quick sparkle had come into Nina’s eyes.

“No – wait, Lee, I’ve an idea. Don’t you see – the chief’s gift has been given. Now we can return in kind. That old horse may solve the whole problem.”

“Well, how then?”

“How? What are we waiting for? Let’s get busy. There are gifts to be wrapped for old Chief White Wolf – lots of them. Meats and fruit and canned goods. We’ll wrap them fancy, Lee – some good substantial food, done up like Christmas gifts. Warm socks and mufflers, a big box of candies for the old chief’s family; some overalls and shirts for Billy – everything they need.”

Her husband was smiling.

“I expect,” he said, “that you’re the smartest gal in the world – and the nicest.”

Nina gave him a sly smile.

“I’d just better be, Mr. Tabor. It’s a strange thing, but, do you know, I love you, too. Otherwise, do you suppose I’d stay in this hermitage of a place with you through these years?”

Lee bantered.

“You’d miss our people here, the same as I would, if we went away, Nina – you know it.”

She nodded.

“Come to think of it, you’re right. How’d we ever get along now without obstinate old White Wolf and Billy Bluejay, and Mrs. Minnie Moonflower and her new papoose. Yes, I’d miss ’em, Lee.

“But aren’t we forgetting something? How ever are we going to make up to Billy for the loss of his pony? The way he looked when he handed over that horse almost broke my heart. What’ll we do with it, anyway? We can’t give it back to the chief, now – ”

A shrewd light was in Lee Tabor’s eyes as he answered.

“Not exactly. But your ideas are catching. I’ve got one of my own. Be wrapping the packages, while I get that fancy saddle we’ve had in the back room for so long, the bridle with the shiny rosettes, and a couple of currycombs. I’ll doll up that old nag so Billy won’t recognize it. He’s not going to lose his pony if I can help it.”

Without further explanations, Lee threw on a coat and was out untying the pinto seconds later. He led the patient pony to a sheltered shed in the rear of the trading post and set to work with a set of currycombs on its shaggy mane and blotchy hide.

That finished, he replaced the pony’s worn hackamore with the new bridle, threw a saddle blanket over the animal’s back, and topped it with the handsome saddle set with shining conchas, and tightened the cinches. He tied a red and green ribbon in the horse’s mane and stood back to view the effect. The old “broom”-tailed mustang looked good enough for the county fair. Lee chuckled, gave the horse a sugar lump, then went scooting back into the store. His voice boomed out as he entered.

“Everything ready, Nina?”

“Just about,” she called, scurrying about the place on a dozen different errands. “What have you been doing?”

“You’ll see. Get into a mackinaw — we’re going Christmas calling.”

Hooking the packed hamper under one arm and his wife under the other, laughing, Lee called over his shoulder to an Indian boy in the store.

“Take over for awhile, Jimmy. We’ve got a hurry-up call to make. Back soon.”

Outside, Nina caught her breath, at both the crisp air and the gaily-caparisoned pony. Then Lee held a stirrup for her boot, secured the gift-filled basket on the saddle horn, and swung up easily behind her.

Then they were gone, like some knight errant and his lady, on their gaily-rigged Rosinante – through the welter of storm, across the wide snow fields, to the hogan of old Chief White Wolf.

Billy Bluejay, eyes wide in recognition of the new-saddled pony, watched them ride up, and now, with his old grandfather, the chief, stared as Lee and Nina dismounted and came towards the hogan. In amazement the chief and Billy stepped back, welcoming them into the shabby, low room.

Both Lee and his wife had to stoop to enter the thatched hut; and their basket of good things seemed to fill up half the room as they set it on the cleanly-swept dirt floor.

For a moment their eyes groped, getting used to the gloom, lit only by a smoky kerosene lamp and the dull glow of coals on the primitive hearth at one side of the room.

Discreetly they eyed the incongruous array of mementos displayed above the fireplace – an ancient tomahawk, a frayed, eagle-plumed war-bonnet, the hunting knife in its case, which Tabor had given the chief many Christmases ago – and in the midst of the militant display, a tranquil, if smoke-grimed, picture of the Three Wise Men riding their rich-laden camels toward the light of a distant star.

Yet, it was the time of year for that picture to be hanging there, for Christmas had come again to the hogan of Chief White Wolf. It was an expression of the chief’s veneration of the white man’s God – a picture given to him long ago by Nina Tabor. He knew the story of the picture, and always it hung above the lowly hogan hearth at Christmas time.

Then Lee was extending his hand. There was the play of a smile in the network of wrinkles of the old chief’s face, the trace of a twinkle in his aged eyes as he took the hand of his trader friend.

“Merry Christmas, Chief White Wolf.”

The ancient chief nodded his head as he looked steadily into his friend’s eyes. His voice cracked out the old familiar greeting he had come to know through the white man – in his own words.

“Much Merry. I have been waiting you to call.”

Smiling, Lee answered, “I have come to thank you very much for the present of the pony, Chief White Wolf. I have brought this gift basket for you and your family from my wife and myself.”

Gravely Chief White Wolf nodded in acknowledgment; and both Lee and Nina saw wherein his great pride lay.

Here was an old one, bundled in a sheepskin coat held together with safety pins, an Indian blanket held around him to ward off the drafts in the mud hogan, his feet encased in worn, high moccasins, his long gray hair held with a band of shoddy; but in his eyes was the bravery of an eagle, and in the lined, intelligent face the nobleness of his race and the pride of all his ancestors.

Lee spoke on quietly. “There is a great favor I would ask of you now, my friend. It is concerning the pony. You see, I have no place to keep him, nor anyone to tend him.

“I want to ask you – will you keep the pinto here in his stall, as he used to be? And perhaps Billy here could see that he gets fed and watered – and exercised. It will be a great favor if you will agree to this. I will pay you, of course, for his care. Is this agreeable with you.”

Lee, and Nina, who sensed now the nicely-contrived plan of her husband – and Billy Bluejay, who was becoming overwhelmed with the idea of taking care of the pony with its new bridle and saddle, and getting paid for it by Mr. Tabor – all were holding their respective breaths, as they awaited the old chief’s decision.

His approval would solve all their problems and would provide the poor old chief with a modest income for his wants – and he would not lose face with his great pride. His disapproval –

But the venerable old man was nodding his head again, and his hand was held out to Lee Tabor to seal the bargain. Solemnly he included his grinning grandson in his words, though never taking his black eyes from Lee’s face.

“It is good, my friend; it will be so. Billy – you hear? You take much good care of horse for Mister Tabor.”

Billy Bluejay was about bursting with pride in the assignment, and with the thought of having his pony back, but he only shook his shaggy head in quick agreement.

Matter of factly Lee took out his wallet and counted out several bills in the wavering light of the dusky lamp, placing them in the wrinkled hand of Chief White Wolf; and silver dollars in the stub-fingered hand of the beaming Billy Bluejay. Then confidentially he looked down at the boy and asked, “Do you suppose that pony could carry three of us back up to the trading post, Billy? Nina and I have got to get home and get things ready for the Christmas party tomorrow. The road is awfully slushy for walking, and you’ll have to bring the pony back to his stall.”

Billy Bluejay nodded his head vigorously, and there was mature judgment in his affirmation.

“Oh, sure. Peento can carry three, even more maybe – easy. Come, you see.

“We’re off, then.”

Lee took his wife’s arm and they stooped out of the hogan. They turned, their farewells to the chief blending in the frosty, bell-clear air.

“Good night – Merry Christmas, Chief White Wolf.”

Standing straight and with great dignity, in the doorway of the hogan, the old chief re-echoed their words of the Eve.

“Much Merry, my friends.”

Into the saddle went Nina, behind her Lee, and clinging like a leech, the little Indian cowboy, Billy, behind them both. A flick of the rein, the touch of a heel, and the old horse, rallying to the occasion and not minding his triple load, set off, beating out the time of a tune the three on his back were caroling as they traveled toward the trading post.

At the store, Lee put the set of currycombs in the pony’s saddle bags, filled Billy Bluejay’s pockets with all-day suckers, and gravely admonished him. “Keep the pinto looking slick, Billy – and give him lots of exercise. Off with you now and get some sleep. The big Christmas party starts early in the morning – we’ll be expecting you.”

Together, Lee and Nina watched the jubilant Indian lad vault into the saddle and take his mount at a reckless pace down the road to his grandfather’s hogan – the proudest, the happiest Indian boy in all of the Whiterock Valley.

They stood for a moment, arm in arm, on the store steps, looking over the snow-mantled valley, a-twinkle with the little yellow lights from many hogans, where the valley people were preparing for the morrow’s holiday. A pale winter moon peeped reassuringly from behind storm clouds. And Eee and Nina Tabor went in to get ready for another merry Christmas at the Whiterock.