The Death of Christmas - By Bill Pryst

Christmas Reed drew hard on his cigar and spit a bit of tobacco juice, letting it dribble down his chin and hang there, gelatinous, before wiping it off with his sleeve.  The stubble made tearing noises as it was dragged over the rough canvas.

    "Got damned injuns," he swore, "if I could I'd kill e'ery one of em."

    "Well, you can't," Kid Krinard reminded him.  Kid was about sixty, with a bulbous stomach and a back that had to be set every time he lifted something heavier than his rifle.  But he was a sure shot with his Winchester and that was good enough for Christmas.  "We ain't here ta worry bout no damned injuns, neither, we're here to do a job.  Now let's do it."

    "Who made you king of this here operation?" Christmas asked.  He was short as an elf and named accordingly, but he was the meanest, most sadistic killer the Arizona Territory had ever seen.  And he was so fast with his peacemakers his victims were full of lead before they heard the leather on his holster move.  "I know what we came for, and I know what we're gonna do."

    "All right, Christmas, didn't mean no harm."

    Before them the town BitterBrew unfurled like a bad case of the Shivs.  Indians and freed slaves and whores and gamblers and cut throats, all vying for their piece of the vice.  It was the kinda place Christmas would love to get lost for a few days, but he knew he couldn't.  Within the hour there'd be a man dead, and he was going to kill him, and even in BitterBrew there was laws against killing a man without due cause.  Laws that said two hundred dollars wasn't good enough cause, neither.

    He looked up at the Kid, and winced.  He was gonna enjoy putting a bullet in the old bastard's head.  Enjoy it something fierce.  Specially since he knew the man was waiting for his chance to end Christmas, and keep the whole bounty.

    "Let's get this over with."  Christmas spit some more bile into the dusty, rock strewn street and started the long walk to the saloon.  A tumble weed the size of an oxen rolled slowly across the path.  Eye's watched the pair as they closed the gap, and then calmly pressed through the double-hinged doors and entered the saloon.

    The place was packed to the rafters with blacks, whites and reds, men, boys, women and more men.  A feral dog scampered about, stealing men's half-turned mule meat as they hit on big busted women who slipped their hands through their pockets looking for loose change.
    Christmas sauntered up to the bar, climbed a few feet until he reached the top of the stool, and dropped a silver on the counter.

    "Whiskey," he said.

    "Mister, that'll buy you a whole lotta whiskey."

    "Keep it, I'm lookin for someone."

    "Who's that?"

    "Man called 'the Sandman.'"

    "An who should I tell him's lookin'?"

    "Christmas."

    Silence enveloped the saloon like a weight.  The talking stopped.  The laughing stopped.  A Mexican stopped drinking half through his shot.  The dog took the opportunity to scram with a half a chicken in his jowls, ducking under the doors and leaving a rooster tail of dust as he made his escape.  The only sounds were from Krinard's Winchester as he jacked in a shell, and movement from the second story, just above the men's heads.

    "Mister Christmas..."

    "Just Christmas."

    "Christmas, sir, I don't want no trouble."

    "You ain't got no trouble, Sandman does.  If I was here for you, you'da known it when I put a bullet between your eyes.  Now," he leaned forward, "where's the Sandman?"

    "He's upstairs," the barkeep caught on his words, "upstairs with one of the ladies, but..."

    "Good," Christmas cut him off, "then I have time for that whiskey."

    "Let's get this done now," Krinard said from behind him.  "We ain't got all day."

    Christmas spun around, now able to look him in the eye.  "I may be goin to hell, Kid, but I'm not so low as to keep a man from enjoying his last taste of a woman before I plug him.  Now sit down an have a drink with me.  We'll get to killin jus' as soon as I say."

    "You're the man, Christmas," Krinard grumbled.

    "I know."

    The bartender brought over two glasses, cleaned them with his towel, and poured the whiskey.  He slid the silver back to his guest.

    "On the house, Christmas, sir."

    "Keep it," Christmas said again, "for the damages."

    The barkeep tucked the silver into his pocket and disappeared.  Christmas tossed back the shot and lit his cigar.  Behind him the patrons had either shuffled out, or gone back to drinking.  

    "How long do we give him?" Krinard fussed.  "I wanna get outta here and get my money."

    "You'll get your money.  Let's give him a minute.  Some men take longer than a few seconds, you know?"

    "Funny."

    "I hear there's somebody lookin' for me," a voice came from behind them.  

    Krinard snapped around, his rifle held ready.  Christmas calmly leaned over and took the Kid's full glass of whiskey.  Downed it.  Then turned and looked at the speaker.

    The Sandman was young, younger than Christmas imagined a man who'd killed twenty could possibly be.  He might be thirteen.  Maybe sixteen.  Maybe five.  But he was built alright, standing a good five eleven with long, thin appendages that come from growing too fast, too soon.  He was wearing his gun belt like he knew how to move.

    "Yeah," Christmas said slowly, "I'm lookin and I guess I found ya, Sandman."

    "Too bad for you," he said, "you'da lived a lot longer, you hadn't."

    "Wanna do this here?" Christmas asked.  "Or outside?"

    "Up to you," Sandman told him, "you wanna die in the shade?"

    The crack of gunfire came from Christmas's right and Krinard fell in a spray of blood, his rifle dropping to the floor with a thud.  Christmas was off the stool in a flash, his peacemaker already in hand and firing.  

    His first two shots went wide left but not by much, and the third caught the Sandman in the shoulder.  But he had his piece out, too, and put a hole in Christmas' thigh as the little man backed out of the saloon, firing.

    He tripped down the stairs and landed on his ass in the dirt.  The peacemaker went back into the holster and the left one came out.  He scuttled backward and scanned the windows of the saloon, but saw nothing.  

    He was in trouble, and he knew it.  Two against one were bad odds.  He had counted on that when he brought Krinard.  But it was obvious to him now that the Sandman had another gun with him, and Christmas was down his extra hand.  

    A bullet struck dirt beside him and he rolled and saw the Sandman standing in the middle of the street to the west.  Before he had a chance to fire, a bullet cut through his shoulder and he spun to find the Sandman standing in the middle of the street to the east.

    "What?"  Another bullet caught him in the opposite shoulder, and he spun again, and again the Sandman was to the west, but the man in the east hadn't moved.  "How?"

    "They call us the Sandman," one explained, "because we put so many people to sleep.  But they call us that, too, cuz the Sandman can be everywhere at once, and so can we."

    The Sandman walked calmly up to five paces away from Christmas and smiled.  He raised his pistol.  "But it ain't easy being the Sandman."  

    The gun bucked and spit fire and the Sandman to the east buckled under the weight of a bullet tearing into his shoulder.  

    "Sometimes," he wheezed, "it takes sacrifices."

    The western Sandman adjusted his aim, and pointed the long barrel at Christmas.  "Merry Christmas, midget," he said.  Fired.  

    The blast knocked Christmas' head back as the bullet tore through his brains and burst from the back.  He collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from his wounds and mixing with the dry soil.

    "You know," the Sandman said, "eventually word'll get out."

    "Bout Christmas?" the Sandman asked.

    "No," he told his twin, "bout the fact that there's two of us."

    He lit a smoke, and smiled, again.  "By then, we'll have killed so many they'll stop coming."

    His mirror image frowned.  "They'll never stop coming.  No matter how many we kill."  

    "Well then, we never have to worry bout gettin bored, do we?"  The Sandman turned and started towards the saloon.

    "How's the girl?" his brother asked.  "She's awful purdy."

    "You wanna have a go at her?"

    "Hell yes," he patted him on the back, "if you don't mind it."

    "Nah, she won't know the difference."

    "Oh yes she will.  When you was in San Antonio, I went and got myself circumcised..."