Part 6 (1/2)

Someone suggested that each one tell of the strangest Christmas Day he or she had ever spent. For a while none of us were in Arizona. Ranger Winess was in a state of siege in the Philippines, while the Moros worked themselves into a state of frenzy for the attack that followed; Ranger Fisk scaled Table Mountain, lying back of Capetown, and there picked a tiny white flower which he had pressed in the Bible presented to him there that day; each sailor in port had received a Bible that day with this inscription: ”Capetown, Africa, Christ's Birthday, December 25, 19--.” White Mountain snowshoed twenty miles in Yellowstone to have Christmas dinner with another ranger, but when he got there he found his friend delirious with flu. ”Did he die?” we questioned anxiously. Ranger Winess and the Chief looked at each other and grinned.

”Do I look like a dead one?” Ranger Winess demanded.

”I couldn't let him die,” White Mountain said. ”We had just lost one Government man, mysteriously, and hadn't any more to spare. So I got his dogs and sledge and hauled him into Headquarters.”

Of course we wanted to know about the ”lost” ranger. It seemed that there had broken out among the buffalo herd in the Park a strange malady that was killing them all off. An expert from Was.h.i.+ngton was en route to make a study of the ailment, and was due to arrive just before Christmas. Days pa.s.sed into weeks and still he didn't show up. Inquiries to Was.h.i.+ngton disclosed that he had started as per schedule. Tracing his journey step by step it was discovered that on the train out of Chicago he had become ill with flu and had been left in a small town hospital.

There he had died without recovering his speech, and had been buried in the potter's field!

”Well, then what happened to the buffalo?”

”Was.h.i.+ngton sent us a German scientist. We loved that nation just about that time, and on his arrival diplomatic relations were badly strained.

He was too fat and soft to use snowshoes or skis, so we loaded him on a light truck and started for the buffalo farm. We stalled time and again, and he sat in lordly indifference while we pushed and shoveled out. We seemed hopelessly anch.o.r.ed in one drift, and from his perch where he sat swaddled up like a mummy came his 'Vy don't you carry a portable telephone so ve couldt hook it over the vires and call for _them_ to come and pull us oudt?' One of the rangers replied, 'It would be nice for us to telephone ourselves to please pull us oudt. _We_ are the _them_ that does the pulling around here.'

”The old boy mumbled and sputtered but rolled out and put a husky shoulder to the wheel, and we went on our way rejoicing. He won our respect at the buffalo farm for he soon discovered the germ that was killing our charges, and he prepared a serum with which we vaccinated the entire herd.”

”Wow!” Colonel White exclaimed. ”I think I'd rather fight Moros than vaccinate buffalo.” He, too, had spent years in foreign warfare; his experiences are graphically told in _Bullets and Bolos_.

While we heard about the buffalo, one of the rangers left the room. He came back presently, and White Mountain said to me: ”Don't you want to see your Christmas present?”

I looked across at my proud new riding-boots, with their fancy st.i.tching, and funny high heels just like those the rangers wore. ”I'm crazy about them,” I said.

But the whole bunch were laughing. White Mountain led me to the door, and there I had my first glimpse of Tar Baby! He was a four-year-old horse that had spent those years running wild on the range. A few months before he had been captured and partly tamed. But he was hard-mouthed, and stiff-necked and h.e.l.l-bent on having his own way about things. I didn't know all that when I saw him this Christmas Day. To me he was perfect. He was round and fat, s.h.i.+ny black, with a white star in his forehead, and four white feet. One eye was blue, and the other one the nicest, softest, kindest brown! He was just that kind of a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde horse, too! He was fitted out with a new saddle, a gaudy Navajo saddle blanket, and a bridle with silver inlaid fittings. The spade bit was necessary. I found that out later, also.

I would have stood there speechless with admiration the rest of the day, but the others reminded me it was time to light the big tree we had planned for the children in the Park.

The rangers had brought a slender fir into the Information Room and we had it trimmed within an inch of its life. Cranberries and popcorn ropes festooned its branches, and again Montgomery Ward and Company's catalogue had been searched for treasures to load it with. Every child in the Park, regardless of race or color, was remembered. Little brown brothers, whose Filipino mothers worked in the laundry, found themselves possessors of strange toys; Navajo babies and Hopi cupids from the Hopi House were well supplied. One small Hopi la.s.s wailed loudly at the look of the flaxen-haired doll that fell to her lot. She was afraid to hold it--she wouldn't let anybody else touch it--so she stood it in a corner and squalled at it from a safe distance. When the party was over, an older sister had to carry it for her. I suspect she much preferred her native dolls.

After the tree was bare, we all went down to the Fred Harvey Recreation Room and danced the rest of the evening away.

I could hardly wait for morning to go for a ride on Tar Baby. Ranger West brought him down to the house to saddle him. While I dressed up in my new boots I overheard the conversation between the ranger and the horse. It was a rather one-sided talk, but quite interesting.

”Whoa there, Tar Baby!” very firmly and casually. ”Stand still now!”

”Hey, now, you black devil, don't you try bitin' me again! Yes, he's a nice baby horse,” this last remark quite saccharine. A slight silence fell while the cinches were being tightened, then--heels beating a tune on the side of the shed, and sultry, sulphuric remarks being fitted to the tune. About that time I was ready to go out.

”Have any trouble with Tar Baby?”

”No, oh, no. None whatever. Ready to go?”

Every morning as soon as I was in the saddle we had the same argument.

Would he go where and as fast as I desired, or would he run as fast and as far as he pleased? Sore wrists and a strained disposition were the price I paid for winning the battle. He just went wild if he could race with another horse. Of course White Mountain put his foot down on such racing, and since the rangers were such good sports their Chief never learned that racing was part of the daily program!

One day, when some of the Was.h.i.+ngton officials were there, the Chief borrowed Tar Baby to ride. He said it took him half a day to get him to stay on the ground with the other horses. He came home fully determined that I must trade my Christmas gift for a more sensible horse. Tears and coaxing availed nothing, but I did win his consent to one more ride before I gave him up.

Ranger West was going to ride the drift fence and I started out with him. Tar Baby was a handful that day, and I was having all I could do to control him. We pa.s.sed a bunch of tourists having lunch out of paper sacks, and one of the men had a wonderful idea. He said something to the others, and while they giggled he blew one of the bags full of air and exploded it right under my horse. Of course Tar Baby bolted, and even as he ran away I admired his ability to keep ahead of Ranger West, who was running full tilt after us. It was five minutes before I could get the bit out of his teeth and bring the spade device into play. I had to choke him into submission.

Ranger West and Ranger Fisk conducted those tourists out of the Park, and they had to leave without seeing the Canyon.

”Ve drove here from New York to see this Canyon,” one complained, and made wide gestures with both hands.