Caleb Smith could barely see his beloved blue mountains as the bright winter sun reflected harshly off the snow but he knew where he was going. He knew the hills surrounding the mountains like the back of his own hand and then some for he had lived in the beautiful, wild and rugged country for close on ten years. The mountains and hills were his life and his reason for living. He was free up here away from so called civilisation and the strange and abhorrent ways of the folk back east in the States. He lived his own life the way he wanted to and was answerable to no man or woman. He loved his life and wouldn't have exchanged it for all the gold in the Black Hills.

He was richer than any millionaire that had ever lived. Not in a monetary sense, of course, but in the sense that he had all and everything a soul could possible want - except for one thing…a decent rifle.

His own rifle was ancient and the wooden furniture about was held together by leather thronging and buffalo sinew. It had reached the end of its usefulness after years of good but harsh service. It had served him well over the years and had saved his neck on more than one occasion. It had put food on his table and had been a crutch and means to life but now it was finished. Parts were breaking more often, particularly the trigger spring and he was down to his last. If the spring snapped again he did not have another to hand with which to replace it. The rifle would be redundant. And a redundant rifle out in the wilds could mean death.

Caleb smiled to himself as he espied his snow-capped log cabin snuggling by the broad evergreen fir trees in the shallow valley. He was home and hungry and thirsty. His hunting trip had been reasonably fruitful considering the time of year and consisted of three, fat rabbits for the pot. Good food. Simple food. Mountain food.
Entering his cabin he was hit by a wave of warm air from the stone fireplace. He quickly closed the door behind him and hung his posibles bag, rabbits and shaggy bear skin coat and coonskin hat on the hooks on the door. He went over to the fire and put on some more logs and soon had it burning snugly and brightly. The sun was going down and the temperature was dropping rapidly but Caleb didn't mind that one little bit. He was home and cosy and ready for some coffee and a plateful of the stew he'd concocted the previous day. The stew was good and so was the coffee. Content, he sat by the fire and picked up the book he was reading. It was Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe.

Outside the wind was howling and darkness had claimed the land but Caleb was thousands of miles away on the desert island with Crusoe and his companion, Man Friday. He had just got to the part where Friday warms Crusoe about the pirates, when he could have sworn he hear bells ringing in the far distance. Putting down the book he strode over to the window but could see nothing but swirling snow. He listened hard but the sound of the bells had gone. Only the sound of the wind and the crackling of logs on the fire could now be heard. Caleb chastised himself for allowing his imagination to run wild with him. How could there be bells ringing out there in the wilderness?

He put the thought to the back of his mind as he sat back in his chair and filled his pipe. Once it was going to his satisfaction he picked up his book and commenced to read once again.

Now he had reached the part where Crusoe is checking out his muskets and powder situation when Caleb recalled the problems he was having with his own rifle.
He sighed as he reckoned that he had better give the old gun a seeing-to. He wasn't in the mood for gun repairing but he knew that his life depended on a reliable rifle and his old smoke pole was not in the least bit dependable. For the next hour he worked by the light of his oil lamp on the table. He took the gun apart and checked each and every individual piece and he didn't like what he saw. Metal fatigue was apparent in most of the parts and he knew in his heart of hearts that the rifle was done for but he had no choice but to try and keep it up and running at least until the spring.
Come the spring he would be able to take Betsy, his mule who had her own snug lean-to out back, down to the village that was situated some thirty or so miles away and trade hides for a new gun.

He prayed that it would hold up until then. If it didn't…

Tiring of his gun repairing he had another coffee and decided to retire to his crib for the night. He pulled off his moccasin boots and climbed into the bed. He wrapped his trade blanket about him along with a full bearskin and closed his eyes. He was just drifting off when he though he heard the bells again. Cursing himself for an old fool he ignored the bells and was soon sound asleep.

Everything was still within the cabin. The fire was burning brightly and the wind was blowing gently and Caleb was snoring loudly. The big man dressed all in forest green smiled as he looked down upon the prone form of Caleb Smith. The man was very tall and powerfully built and his robes were of heavy wool and fur. About his head he wore a green hat decorated with holly and ivy and his great white beard flowed over the top of his long coat. By his side he had a huge poke made from the hides of many deer and it was bulging. The green-garbed giant turned from his observation of Caleb and strode silently over to the fireplace. He warmed his huge hands and rubbed his chilly legs by the fire. Then he delved deep into his bag and pulled out a long, narrow box and placed it by the fireplace. Then he took out a quill from under his robes and a small piece of parchment. He scribbled a message upon it and left it by the box.

With a stealthy quietness that one would never of conceived possible from one so very large, he stepped over to the door and silently left the cabin behind.

Caleb Smith awoke refreshed early the next morning. He went over to the still warm pot by the fire and poured himself a cup of strong coffee. He then opened the curtains to be greeted by bright sunshine and a crisp new snowfall. It was a beautiful day. A good day for hunting, he decided. So he went over to pick up his old rifle when he glanced the long box by the fireplace out of the corner of his eye. Turning he stared at the box and silently let out a short sigh.

"What in the name of creation is that?" he said to himself as he picked up the box and was surprised by his weight. He looked around his cabin for any signs of a forced entry but there was none. How could the box of got there? Who had sneaked into his cabin in the dead of night and left the box behind? Why? A hundred questions filled his brain but no answers would come forth. With slightly shaking hands he opened the long box and got the surprise of his life. There, before his very eyes, was the finest looking brand new rifle that he had ever seen.

"Well I'll be taken fer a tater…" he said as he took out the gun and admired its beauty and workmanship. It was finely engraved and the furniture was made from the very best hardwoods. There was no makers name on the rifle. Then he noticed the piece of parchment on the floor and picked it up.

He grinned from ear to ear as he read and then reread the note. Then he laughed aloud. Laughed so loud that his ribs hurt. So loud that all the critters about the cabin ran away.

"Ha! I did hear bells…"
The message simply read:

Merry Christmas.

THE END.

Copyright Steven J.C. Forber 2004.