Sam Bass by Bryan Woolley

man, the disgusted one.
    â€œWhy, General Robert E. Lee,” Sam said. “And this here’s President Jefferson Davis.”
    â€œThose gentlemen didn’t hide behind masks,” the man said.
    â€œWell, I apologize,” Sam said, “but me and Jeff s trying to keep our whiskers out of the rain. Please be our guests for breakfast.” He handed each man a silver dollar. “We recommend the El Paso Hotel. Please climb aboard our carriage, and our man will take you there.”
    The men returned to their seats, and I lowered the side-curtains. “All right, drive!” Henry said. The driver slapped his lines on the horses’ backs, and the wheels of the hack spattered mud on our boots and pantaloons as they turned down the road much faster than they had arrived. We stood watching until our victims disappeared into the darkness, and watched the spot where they had disappeared until we no longer heard the wheels and the harness and the cries of the driver. Henry lowered his mask. “All this for just three dollars each,” he said.
    â€œDon’t fret,” Sam said. “This was just something to do. Just a start. The big one’s coming.”
    We divided the money and mounted and headed northeast at an easy gallop. The wind dried our clothes quickly, and the prairie smelled clean and alive, and the soft, wet sound of the horses’ hooves in the long grass was soothing to the spirit. We skirted Fort Worth close enough to see its lamps, and by daybreak we were well on the way to Denton. “Hey, you know what today is?” Henry asked.
    â€œWhat day?” Sam replied.
    â€œChristmas Eve. Tomorrow’s Christmas.”
    Sam said nothing, and neither did I. Henry’s words had turned us lonely, I guess, and we rode for some distance in the private company of our thoughts. Then Henry said, “I’d like to spend it with my younguns, Sam.”
    â€œThen do. Just be careful.”
    â€œJust Christmas Day,” Henry said. “Then I’ll come back.” He reined his horse toward Denton and spurred it into a run. He waved goodbye without looking back.
    Sam said, “You got any place you want to be, Frank?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGood,” he said.

    Christmas never meant much to me. In Ben Key’s house we had a noon meal on that day that was more than we had on other days, but that was the sum of our celebration. Dr. Ross observed it by drinking a toast to the Christ Child early in the morning and then forgetting it. I don’t know what the day meant to Sam, but it couldn’t have been much, and our edginess that day wasn’t because of Christmas. It was because a face that we were accustomed to having around was missing, and Sam and I had only one face each to look at and nothing else to do but look at it. It was bitterly cold. The wind howled around the corners of the cabin and whistled through the holes like a pack of wild, insane animals. We kept the fire burning in the fireplace, and its smoke almost choked us at times, and we had to wear our coats all day. We finally gave up our attempt to play cards because our hands were so stiff we couldn’t shuffle well. So we quit and kept our hands in our pockets and sat and stared into the fire. From time to time one of us would get up and grab a stick and poke at the fire and then sit down. We fried bacon and made biscuits and coffee, and that was our Christmas meal, then I grabbed the water bucket and worked my way down the slope to the creek, just to get away for a while. The creek wasn’t frozen, but its water seemed to flow even more sluggishly than usual, and the wind whipped the bare branches of the trees in a dance as wild and insane as the animal sound at the cabin. I stood staring into the water until I couldn’t stand the cold anymore and dipped the bucket into the stream and climbed back up the slope with it. When I stepped through the door Sam said, “I