Summary: An intruder takes advantage of an innocent little boy in order to rob the Ponderosa.

Rated K+

WC=2328

Santa’s Helpers

The man carefully removed the flower pots and set them on the porch table before easing the window open.  He reached through, fingertips searching out obstacles; not finding anything on the shelf or tabletop that might crash to the floor and awaken anyone, he wormed his way inside.    As he reached back through the window for the lantern he’d left outside, a cold gust of wind stirred his long beard.  Turning up the flame within the lantern, he cast enough light to see what lurked in the shadows.

He startled at a pop from the fireplace and willed his heart to slow its frenzied beating.  The glowing embers cast a cheery warmth, but he couldn’t spare the time for the luxury of basking in the inviting heat.

Two coiled holsters with pistols lay on the credenza and a long rifle rack near the staircase held at least a dozen guns.  He made a quick calculation of the money he could pull in.  Men – white or red – weren’t choosy about where they got guns, as long as the price was right.  And they weren’t picky about who they killed; he’d learned that when he’d buried the bullet-riddled bodies of his Indian wife and children.  Easy money was all that mattered to him now.  With enough of it he could drink away memories of his family.

Getting down to business, he pulled an empty sack from inside of his coat and walked over to the credenza.  He was placing a holster inside when he swatted at a sting against the back of his neck. He spun around, pistol drawn.  “Who’s there?”

Bare feet slapped against the staircase and a little boy, slingshot held at the ready, emerged into the pool of light.  The man snorted and muttered under his breath as he holstered his gun.  He snatched the slingshot out of the boy’s hand and stuck it in his coat pocket before returning his attention to the credenza. Opening a drawer, he fished out several boxes of ammunition, dropping them into his sack.

Little Joe Cartwright looked the man over, head to toe, and his eyes widened in surprise—I shot Santa!  The man wasn’t dressed in red, but he had a fluffy white beard.  I hope Santa don’t move my name to the naughty list.

A tug on his sleeve drew the man’s attention.  “Whaddya want?”

“There’s milk and cookies on the table.  You want ‘em?”

“No.  Go back to bed.”

“Why you got on a holster?” asked Little Joe.

“In case of bears.  Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Little Joe noisily sniffed Santa’s coat.  “How come you smell like cows?”

“Leave me alone, kid.”

“Where’s your red coat and red hat?”

The man tugged down the brim of his brown hat. “The other coat got dirty.”

“Because of the cows?”

“Go away.”  He waved a hand for emphasis.

“Were you givin’ the hands presents?”

“Yeah.  Now go back upstairs and get in your bed.”

The man jiggled the drawer until it slid back into place.  Shoving the boy aside, he strode around the Christmas tree to the rifle rack.  A chain slithered along the length of the rack, securely holding the guns.  The man tested the chain with a jerk of his hand and he flinched as metal clinked against metal.  A hissed, “Sshhhh,” escaped his lips.

Noting a lock holding the chain secure, he whispered over his shoulder, “Know where the key is?”

“Nope,” came the answer from elbow height.

He scowled down at the boy and stepped around him.  Turning his attention to the tree, he plucked a gold ornament off and inspected it as he held the lantern aloft.

“This real?”

Little Joe nodded as it was obvious to him all of the ornaments were real.

The man dropped it into his sack.  Glass ornaments on the tree clinked together as he removed the gold ones.

Looking downward, he inspected the packages under the tree.  All were wrapped in colorful paper secured with ribbons and bows.

Opening the sack wide, he said, “Put those presents in here.”

Little Joe looked from Santa’s face to the presents and then back to Santa’s face.  “Did you bring us the wrong ones?” he asked in a confused voice.

“Wrong what?”

Little Joe chewed his lower lip for a brief second.  “Did you give someone else our presents?”

A sneaky expression crossed the man’s face and his eyes glittered with avarice.  “You know, that’s exactly what I did.  I confused your place with someone else’s.  Put those presents in here so I can make the swap.”

“You can give the comb Pa made me ask for to someone else,” Little Joe said as he crawled around the base of the tree on his hands and knees, plucking up the wrapped packages and dropping them into the sack.  “You sure brought a lot!”

“They’re for a family with a passel of kids.  Hurry up.”

One of the presents landed heavily at the bottom of the sack with a loud thud.  The man froze and cocked an ear, listening for the sounds of adults stirring from their beds.  Satisfied that no one had been disturbed, he looked down at his little helper.  “Keep the noise down, kid.”

With a grunt, the man lifted the sack and hoisted it over his shoulder.  “Pick up the lantern.”

Little Joe did as told and accompanied Santa over to the alcove where Pa’s desk and books were situated.  He set the lantern down where Santa pointed.

The man tried to set the heavy sack down without making any noise but the contents shifted and a couple of the heavier packages banged against the desk.  He grimaced and prepared to make a run for it.   As minutes passed without noise from upstairs, he relaxed.  Blowing out a sigh of relief, he was unprepared for the noise of the clock ringing out twelve bells.

Little Joe giggled as Santa jumped in fright.

“Hush!”

He leaned against the desk, palms supporting his weight, and he looked over the three pictures in shiny gold frames.   “Is your pa one of those polygamists?”

“Take that back!” said Little Joe as he punched Santa as hard as he could in the kidney.

The man grunted and clamped a hand over the little boy’s mouth; he then raised a finger to his own lips.  Little Joe nodded, so the man removed his hand.

“My pa ain’t a pogamiss!”  Little Joe stretched his arm forward and pointed at each picture.  “That one’s Adam’s and that one’s Hoss’s.  They died before I was borned.”  With pride, he pointed and said, “This one’s mine.”  His voice choked. “She went to Heaven to live with the angels.”  He looked up at Santa and asked, “Do angels really watch over us and sing us to sleep?  Adam says they do.”

The man’s eyebrows drew together for a moment, and then he said, “I don’t think they do much of anything.”  He looked down at the boy and noted the hangdog look.  “Well, maybe they do sing every now and then.”

Little Joe’s smile beamed brighter than the lantern.

Figuring the frames might be worth a couple of dollars, the man decided he’d collect the pictures on the way out; otherwise his little helper might alert the entire house.  He picked up the lantern and moved over to the safe.  Squatting down in a puddle of light he looked at the latch and gave it an experimental tug.  His eyes narrowed in disappointment.

“I know the numbers,” said Little Joe as he dropped to his knees beside Santa.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“I didn’t sneak.  But I know the numbers.”

Figuring this was his lucky break, he made room for his helper. “Show me.”

The tip of Little Joe’s tongue peeked out from the corner of his mouth.  He slid the tip of his finger over the numbers above the dial and began.  “One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Fi . . . .”

“I thought you knew the numbers.”

“I do.  But you didn’t let me finish.  Six, sev . . . .”

The man wiped a hand over his face and sighed. “Do you know the numbers that make it open?”

Little Joe shook his head.  “Only Pa and Adam know those.  Pa said me an’ Hoss are too babblemouth to trust with ‘em.”

“Hmph.”  He picked up ledgers and shook them, disappointed that only receipts fell out.

“Your pa keep any money around?”

“I got money!” said Little Joe.  “It’s mostly for candy.”

The man snorted. “Your piggy bank ain’t worth it.”

A cold gust of air blew through the open window and Little Joe shivered.  He looked over to the fireplace and then at the window, a confused look on his face.  “Didn’t you come down the chimney?”

Continuing to look through the contents of a drawer, the man said, “No.”

“But you always come down the chimney.”

“My lumbago is acting up something powerful.  I couldn’t climb up on the roof.”

Little Joe’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and he nervously licked his lips.  “You don’t gotta climb.  You just land your sleigh up there.”

His mood darkened with frustration. “You can’t believe all the stories.”

The man shut the drawer with more force than he’d intended, knocking over the pictures, the frames clattering against the desk.   He yelped at a sharp tug on his beard.

“It is real.”  Fear and awe mingled within Little Joe’s eyes.  “But you’re supposed to make people happy, not steal.”

“Leave me alone, brat.  You don’t know nothing.”

Dropping one of the pictures into the sack, he was reaching for another when he froze at the click of a pistol’s hammer locking into place.

Ben Cartwright stood at the corner of the settee, the gun steady in his hand, the steely look on his face promising to deliver fire and brimstone to the intruder in his house.  “Come here, Joseph,” he said in a low growl he hoped sounded steadier than his pounding heart.

Behind the boy’s father stood a larger boy brandishing the poker like a sword.  A second boy stood with hands curled into fists.

The man pulled Little Joe in front of him as he nestled the muzzle of his own gun within the soft curls.

“Santa?” Little Joe’s voice a frightened squeak.

“You drop that gun and kick it over here real gentle-like,” said the man as casual as if he were ordering flapjacks at the International House.

A blast of cold wind swirled into the room, raising pimply gooseflesh on Little Joe’s shivering body.  “Pa?”

“It’s all right, Joseph,” Ben said as he complied with the intruder’s order, nudging the gun away with the toe of his slipper.  He took a step back, hands raised in the air.  Hoss lowered the poker.

“I’ll set your boy loose a short ways from here.”  The man took a step back.  As he turned, the entire room lit up and stars danced behind his eyes as darkness settled in like a thick blanket.  He collapsed to the floor in a heap, partially atop Little Joe.

Hop Sing nodded in satisfaction and lowered the skillet.  “You not steal from honorable family.”  He turned up the lantern’s flame to illuminate the room.

Little Joe wormed his way out from under the man and ran to his father.  Ben lifted his son into a strong embrace, clasping his son tightly against his chest.

Hoss nudged the unconscious man with the poker while Adam looked over the contents within the sack.

Tears glittered in Little Joe’s eyes.  “He was stealing and I helped.”  He sniffled, running a hand underneath his nose.  “The real Santa’s just gonna bring me coal.”

“Take him out to the barn, boys,” Ben said, pointing at the intruder.  “Tie him up and we’ll haul him to the sheriff tomorrow.”  With a devilish gleam in his eyes, he said, “We’ll make a Christmas present of him, won’t we, Joseph?”

Little Joe smiled at his father and then nestled his cheek against the curve of his father’s shoulder.   Ben carried his youngest son upstairs and tucked him into bed, pausing for a moment to smooth a stray curl back from the boy’s cheek as he sleepily murmured something about singing angels.

*

In the morning, Little Joe rushed downstairs, spurred on by the excitement of opening presents.  He glanced over at the tree as he dashed for the table laden with steaming dishes.

“Where’s Adam and Hoss?” Little Joe asked around a mouthful of flapjack.

Ben, pouring himself another cup of coffee, said, “They should be on their way back from town.  Remember?”

“You think the real Santa brought him anything?” Little Joe asked as he nimbly plucked three slices of thick bacon from the platter.

“Only Santa knows if people are truly naughty or nice.  Maybe he was once a nice man who just lost his way.  Now eat your breakfast.”

Little Joe stopped in mid-chew. “You think he got coal?”

Ben shrugged one shoulder.  “You’ll have to ask your brothers.”

As Little Joe finished mopping the syrup on his plate with a large chunk of flapjack, Adam and Hoss walked in, stamping the snow off their boots.  Once unbundled, Hoss set into a second breakfast while Adam warmed his backside in front of the fireplace.

“Did Santa bring the bad man anything?” Little Joe asked.

Adam and Hoss looked to their father.  Ben raised an eyebrow in reply.

“He sure did, buddy,” said Adam.  With a wink for his youngest brother, Adam said, “Santa brought him a comb.”

Ben cleared his throat and said, “Let’s see what Santa brought us.”

As the younger boys went to the tree, Ben asked his eldest son, “You gave him Joseph’s comb?”

“Well, it’s not as if Little Joe was ever going to use it,” said Adam through an innocent smile before heading for the tree.

The End

December 2014

Tags:  Joe / Little Joe Cartwright, JPM