The bitter wind howled through the dry valley, like a voice calling out for something lost long ago. Up north there were trees to stop the cut of those icy gusts, but out here on the prairie, there was nothing but dust and grass. High on the ridge, a Choyote let out a keening wail, making the dogs in the camp howl back a warning. Stay away, they said. This is our herd of Cloverhoof, and we're prepared to protect it.

As the chill deepened, one of the cowpokes around the fire ring put on another few logs. Everyone else scooted a little closer to warm their bones. Three of the men wore matching blue flannel shirts; that was all the tailor had on hand when they ruined their other ones running away from a flood of molasses. But that’s another story.

The shorter fella with a round face strummed on a banjo. "Home, home on the range!" he warbled. "Where Lavendeer and Cantelope playeee!" He made sure to hit that high note real high. "Where seldom is heard—"

"Aw, shut it!" the fourth man around the fire cried back. He stood out from the others for not only being a sight older, white hair and thick beard, but also for his plaid woolens. "You sound like a Purrsnip in a room full’a pruning shears."

"Hey," the banjo player drew himself up. "I thought the song says there weren’t no discouraging words out on the range."

"It says seldom," said the man with the brightest eyes and the neatest mustache. An Ace of Spades stuck in his hatband, a bullet hole right through the middle of the pip. "Ed, you know what seldom means, don't you?"

Ed strummed his banjo as he thought. "I don’t think we’ve got any doms to sell, do we?"

Ace leaned back in his seat, whistling.

The old fellow wasn’t done yet. His Florabeast seemed to stir up at his agitation, a shiny Wartermelon curled up at his feet. "I’ll be discouraging when I needs to be. You’re gonna wake the dead with all that confounded yammerin’."

"That wouldn’t be no surprise," said the last fellow, the tallest one even when they were all sitting down, his voice as deep as he was long. "It’s nearly Christmas, after all." Before Ed could even ask what that meant, he kept talking. "That means, it’s a time when the ghosts of our dearly departed come back for a little visit. There’s so much celebratin’ that they can’t keep away. Everyone wants to be in on the party."

"I’ve heard as much, Boone," Ace said. "Say, speaking of Christmas, Doc Wilson is puttin’ together a collection for the orphanage, treats for the kiddos and toys for their Florabeasts. Since it was just payday, we’re in a good spot to help out." He put his hands on his knees, leaning forward. "I’m putting in fifty cents, what do you say, boys?"

Boone shook his head. "Payday was last week. You mean you just cleaned up at the card table again." Ace grinned that rakish smirk he was so well known for. Boone held out a dime anyway. "That’ll make them littles so happy, I reckon." A bright red Ferradish hopped from Ace’s lap, all rough, spiky ears and thick whiskers. It took the coin in its mouth then scurried back to its planter.

"I don’t know, Ace," Ed said. "I just had to pay for that bridle repair, you know how my Muleein loves to chew through them..."

"Don’t worry, Ed, I heard they need volunteers to help out too. You could get up like Father Christmas, giving away all the goodies, and..." he leaned in closer. "Miss Lizzie would be get up like Mother Christmas."

"Well pull me from the oven and dip me in honey, that’s the job for me!"

Ace turned to the last member of their campfire vigil, the eyes of the Ferradish glinting along with his. "What about you, Sal? Care to put in a nickel?"

Sal didn’t answer with words, instead doing something he could only do when no ladies were about, his spit sizzling into the fire. "What do they need our money for? I worked hard for my dollar, and that’s what those pups need to learn too. You cain’t just expect people to take care of your problems."

"They’re orphans," Ace said patiently. "There’s only two of the boys and one girl that are of workin’ age, the others are still learning their three R’s. They have all those mouths to feed and—"

"And what do I care?" Sal snapped again. "When I was young, everyone worked, soon as they could walk. Always somethin’, even for the smallest to do."

Boone spoke up. "You ain’t young anymore, old-timer."

"Haw!" Sal stormed away from the fire, his Wartermelon slowly coming to its hooves too, its shiny black tusks glimmering in the firelight. Its roots made popping noises as they retracted to find another spot to spend the night.

"That’s better," Boone said. "Keep on playing, Ed."

Ed didn't, holding his banjo but staring into the fire. "I just can’t believe the gall of that fella. Why does he have to be such a Gobblin about it? Not even a nickel? And at Christmas, of all times..."

Ace just sipped his coffee while Ed worked it out. Boone stared up at the stars, deep in his thoughts too.

"...He's acting like nobody ever did anything nice for him neither. I just... Why, somebody ought to teach him a lesson!"

"Hmm..." Ace looked up and rolled his neck around. "That sounds familiar."

Boone pulled himself away from the night sky. "How's that?"

"Reminds me of a book I just read, about an old British fellow. He was rich as the hills, but meaner than the dirt underneath 'em. Wouldn't even give a Christmas goose to his hired hands or sugar water to their Florabeasts. Took the work of some ghosts to get him scared straight again."

A log in the fire collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks. Ed jumped, shivering though the wind wasn't blowing that hard. "G-g-ghosts?"

Ace narrowed his eyes. "Yeah... I'm gettin' it all together now. I think this'll work. So listen, Ed, run over to the chuckwagon and ask Morris for the leftover flour from today's biscuits. Then, get the sheet off of your bed, and..."

The boys moved closer to discuss their latest caper. "Then when Sal comes back, you..." Their voices hushed under the sound of the fire crackling away, the wind rustling along, and the Beetbats whistling to each other overhead.

Sal came back to the fire from wherever he'd been. Might've been fuming over how there was no justice in the New World and how freeloaders were ruining things for everyone, or might've just been to the privy. Either way, he found the benches around the ring empty, neither the men or their Florabeasts. His Wartermelon was settled down outside the bunkhouse with the other 'beasts, stubborn enough not to move again even for its planter.

"No matter," he said aloud as he sat down alone, "it's quieter anyhow without that consarned banjo. Those boys, I swear, always up to no good..."

Just then, two of those no-good boys were peering around the side of the pay office, the nearest wooden building to the fire ring. Someone had hung a banner over the door, a traditional Christmas symbol of a Hollyhawk carrying a Mistletoad in its talons. Boone wanted to light up his pipe, but he didn't want to risk giving away the game just yet. "You think he's gonna remember everything?" he said to Ace.

"Naw," his partner replied, eyes still on the fire. His Ferradish clung to his shoulders, looking around every which way to squeal as soon as it saw someone coming who wasn't one of his planter's best friends. "I know he'll forget most of it, but it ain't all that important. Just so long as he gets the big parts right."

"If you say so. I still think I should've done it, I can be the most imposin' when I needs to be."

"Sure, but Ed's the best with voices, Sal would just know it was you as soon as you opened your trap and—hold up, somethin's happening..."

At the fire, Sal was still muttering to himself. A noise made him look up quick, peering into the dark to see if it was just one of the dogs, or something worse. It'd been quite a time since a Gast had gotten onto the ranch, but if one had, they had more to worry about than losing a few chickens. Even a slow little Jelly could make them worry about losing a few men. Sal's hand went to his revolver, checking to make sure he had enough salt bullets loaded.

There was the noise again, a scratching, scraping, something. Not much supposed to be in that direction, just the stock tank for the horses, nobody should be over there at this watch of the night. Sal gripped his iron courage, but kept it in the holster in case it was one of those darn fool boys playing some kind of trick again.

Clatter, crash, draw, pull back the hammer, stare into two glowing eyes...

Feline ones. It was just the camp cat, a scruffy old tom that was always chasing away the Pamplemouses and Ratscallions from whatever corners they were hiding in.

"You good-for-nothin' varmint!" Sal yelled, jumping to his feet. "Nearly gave me an apoplexy, get on with you! I don't care they named you General Washington, I knew the man and he would never sulk around in the dark like that!" He considered firing a shot, but didn't want to waste the bullet. Besides, it would send the whole camp running to see what news came with the report.

He turned back to the fire and nearly had that apoplexy after all: a pale, hunched figure stood opposite the ring, covered in white clothes that shimmered in the flickering firelight. Probably a man from how stocky he was, with a round face you could hardly see through all the glowing rags. Atop his head was one of those old tricorn hats, the kind only Beavirch trappers up north wore nowadays. He said nothing, just staring across the flames at Sal.

"Well I'll be," Ace whispered, "Ed did a boss of a job on that costume. See how he made the sheets glow like that? Must've run down to the creek for some Mistletoad slime."

"Huh," was all Boone had to contribute.

"Sal..." the figure wheezed. "It's been so long..."

"You..." Sal's face was as white as his visitor's clothes. "It can't be..."

"But it is. There are things you have to know, the rest of your short life depends on it."

"My what?"

"All our lives are short, but yours most of all. I was given leave from the Feast of the Departed to try and warn you. Your life will be over soon, and if you don't change your ways, this will be your ultimate fate—"

The visitor looked like he threw something in the fire, it flared up tall in bloody reds and punishing oranges. Sal took a step back, clutching at his heart.

Ace snorted. "Say, he was complainin' about money earlier, but that kind of fire powder costs a dime at the gastrologer's..."

Sal blinked, shook his head. When he looked again the visitor wasn't across the fire, he was right beside him, staring him down. "The gold, Sal. You know where it is, and what to do with it."

Both Ace and Boone were silent, their ears open.

"That... the gold that we stole from the Royal Army?" The visitor just nodded. "Well, you know where it is, why don't you go get it yourself?"

"The Feast of the Departed ends on Christmas Eve, and I lack certain..." it stared at its rag-wrapped hands, "requirements to do the job. Besides, I am not the one who has lived hoarding it these past sixty years. Your whole town could have benefited from its use."

Ace licked his lips. "Enough gold to build a whole town?" Boone rapped him on the head to keep him quiet.

"Find it, Sal, and use it. You have many sins weighed up against your soul, but this will do much to help you in... the long run..."

"I...I...alright..." was all Sal could muster.

The visitor walked back around the other side of the fire, gone back to its normal size and color. Just before he passed into that spot where you can't see something through the flames, he smiled. "Merry Christmas, and to all a good night." It stared directly at the boys, causing them to shrink back in case Sal looked that way too.

He didn't, breathing shallow and slumping down on the nearest log bench. "Mother of vinegar, I cain't take any more... up in that gully," he mumbled, "should still be there unless someone else found it first.... too long in years to dig for it myself, but I cain't trust no one else..." His hand went to his heart again, as though he could keep the rest of his time inside and not let it spill out. "I better wake up the Padre and get shriven, in case I keel over on the way." Sal got up and hobbled off away from the fire, slower than usual.

Ace was fit to be tied, about ready to keel over himself. "Gravy and biscuits, can you believe our luck? I don't know how Ed knew all that about the gold, maybe he'd heard a rumor or three and decided it was worth a shot. Anyway, Sal keeps his donkey in the west pasture, tomorrow morning let's have you send out your Min'talon to follow him, then we'll know whereabouts to search ourselves. Now just as soon as Ed gets back—"

"Here I am, Ace," Ed barely got out, breathing hard. He had his bedsheet rolled up in a clumsy pile under his arm.

"Say, how'd you get cleaned up so fast?" Ace said, ruffling his very flour-less hair. "I'd say you jumped in the stock tank to get all that flour off, but you ain't wet."

"That's just the thing," Ed took another second to calm down, his face red and flushed like he'd been running. "Old Morris was all out of flour for the day, that's why we had cornbread at supper. I got my sheet but then I thought to ride into town to Miss Lizzie's bakery for flour, but even my Muleein knows that she'd be heartbroken if I didn't stay for Christmas tea. You'd be out here all night for nothin'. So we're gonna need a different plan, since... hey, why are you two so done up?"

Ace and Boone had gone still, chills running from their hats to their boots. Boone had enough breath to speak first. "You mean, you've been running all over the ranch for flour, while—"

"Yeah, that's what I said."

"So you weren't around the fire, just now?"

"No sir, I didn't want to try to scare old Sal in just a bedsheet, he would've seen right through me. Or, I guess, right through it, at me, anyhow, what's this all about, Ace?"

Ace's eye was twitching. He was supposed to be the calm one, imperturbable. Right then he looked mighty perturbed. "So you didn't hear a rumor about Sal's gold and try to get him to tell you where it was?"

"Gold? What gold?"

Ace started shaking, then crossed himself, Boone doing the same. Just then, General Washington hissed above them at some critter or another. Ace's Ferradish squeaked in surprise, and its planter made his retreat, Boone at his heels, headed for the relative safety of the bunkhouse. "No thanks, no cursed Redcoat gold for me!" Ace called out.

Ed was left outside behind the pay office, holding his bed-sheet, an even more confused look on his face than usual. "Well I'll be dipped. Guess I'll be having tea and cakes with Miss Lizzie after all."

The bitter wind howled through the dry valley, a voice calling out for what was lost long ago. That night, some dreamed about gold, some about dessert with a fine lady, and some about the long and dusty trail toward forgiveness. Putting the shovel to the earth might be the last thing he ever did, but if it meant he could punch his ticket for the happy home, he'd give it a shot. He'd work off the debt of his soul just the same way he worked off the debt of his flesh, with sweat and grit.

Besides, he wasn't really alone; Wartermelons were real good at digging, and his donkey was still stout enough to carry that moldy chest, even as full of regrets and memories as it was. Wouldn't Doc Wilson be surprised to see a contribution like that? There was always a chance to turn your horse around back towards the sun, especially at Christmas.