Santa r COWBIY
By IUCRECE HUDGINS
- s<
CHAPTER ONE
SANTA AND THE COWBOY
Once upon a time there lived a
little boy named George Harold
Sanders. His mother called him
Georgie and his faftier called him
son. But he called himself Kid
Buckaroo, the Terror of the West.
If you were his friend he would
let you call him Bocky.
He was a cowboy.
He lived in an apartment house
s --——-—
two six-shooters.
“I don’t know what to do with
him,” moaned his mother. “Good
ness, I only hope his 'baby sister
doesn’t grow up to be a cowgirl”
“Maybe we can get his some
| thing for Christmas to get his
mind off cowboys,” suggested his
! father.
Presently Bucky galloped in on
Fellow. “Feel my muscle, Dad,”
he said. He held up his skinny
-* ^ r/ * * i rr n mr r nr r rrrrr rrfr^f
Bucky rode Fellow over to the park where there
were a lot of Indians- • -make believe Indians.
in a big city 2000 miles away from
the wide open west. He rode the
subway to and from school. He
played in the city park. He had j
never touched a cow, never been
on a ranch, never ridden a horse, j
Ail the same he was a cowboy.
To be truthful, you’d have to say ,
he imagined he was a cowboy. I
But it’s all the same thing.
He dressed in jeans and check
ered shirt. He carried two six
shooters, one on each hip. A short
and ragged lasso hung from his'
belt. His red hat dipped over his
forehead. He usually carried a j
stick which he constantly patted.
The stick, of course, was his
trustry hourse Fellow.
Every Saturday and Sunday
Buckv rode Fellow over to the
park where there were a lot of
other cowboys—real like himself
and a lot of Indians, too—though
the Indians were wholly make
believe.
And that was the Great Sorrow
of Kid Buckaroo’s life: that there
were no more honest-to-goodness,
war-painted, whooping, fighting
Indians left in the world. 1
‘All the Indians we have now 1
are good ones,” his father told \
him.
»
“Don’t they ever fight cowboys
anymore?” asked Bucky.
“No, they are our friends. And
cowboys spend their time riding
herd, and branding cattle, and
getting beef to market.”
Well, that’s not the way Kid
Buckaroo spent his time. He
chased Indians. He tracked them
down the main avenues of* the
city, ambushed them in elevators,
captured whole tribes with his
seven-year-old arm.
“That’s great,” sai dhis father.
“You’ve very healthy.”
“I’m the strongest cowboy in
the world,” said Bucky.
“Son,” said his father, “Christ
mas is coming pretty soon. “What
would you like Santa to bring
you?”
Bucky sat down and thought for
a while. Then he said, “I’ve got
everything, I guess. Pistols, horse,
lasso—there’s really not much
else.”
“How about a baseball and
bat?” said his father.
Bucky shook his head. “I’d
never use it.”
“Well, a football? Or a set of
drums? Or some lead soldiers?”
Bucky took a bead on the living
room light with his gun. “Hon
estly, Dad,—who would a cow
boy be doing with that kind of
stuff?”
“But there must be something,
said his father. “Santa can bring
you most anything you want, you
know. You think of something
and write it down. You’d be sur
prised at what Santa could do for
you.”
Bucky went in his room and put
Fellow in his stable under the
bed. He hung his guns on the
closet door and pulled off his
boots.
He sat on the bed twirling his
lasso. All the time he was think
ing. A great big wonderful idea
was growing in his mind until
finally he was just about ready to
burst with excitement.
His father said Santa could
bring him most anything and that
was certainly true because in
other years Santa had brought |
him everything he could think to j
ask for, even including the time I
he’d asked for a baby sister.
“Golly!” he thought as he rush
ed to his desk for paper and pen
cil. “Wait’ll the kids see what I
turn up with on Christmas morn
ing!”
Then he sat down and carefully
wrote fiis letter to Santa. This is
what he said:
‘T)ear Santa, I’d be so happy
forever if you’d please bring me
some real live Indians to fight.”
.' And he signed the letter “Kid
Buckarocr, Terror of the West.”
CHAPTER TWO
BUCKY GETS AN ANSWER j
Kid Buckaroo wrote a letter to!
Santa Claus asking for some real,|
live fighting Indians for Christ
mas. He left the letter for his
father to mail and went to bed.
Now, parents have to read let-!
ters to Santa before they mail
them to be sure there are no mis
spelled words. So Bucky’s father
read his letter.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed.
“All he wants for Christmas are
some Indians to fight!’*
“Mercy!” cried Bucky’s mother.
“What ever shall we do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I better
dress up like an Indian Chief.
But one thing is certain—here’s
one letter that will never reach
Santa Claus, thank goodness!”
He tossed the letter into the
waste basket. But what strange
things happened to that letter!
The next morning the waste
basket was emptied by the trash
man and taken away in a big
truck. As the truck rumbled
through the streets, the wind I
i
loosened the paper and blew it,
onto the sidewalk.
A man walking to work kicked
the paper into an alley. There a
small boy snatched it, wadded it;
up and batted it across the street
like a ping pong ball.
This time it landed right at the
feet of Mortimer Moonface who
was sitting on the curbstone rest
ing. Few people could see Morti
mer because he was a brownie.
He was on his way home from
the bakery where he worked put
ting holes in doughnuts.
I guess you know that fairies
and elves and such are not just
creatures to be found in forests
and books. No indeed. Every city
is filled with them—tiny men and
women, not six inches tall, mak
ing a living in the city just like
everyone else.
Now Mortimer Moonface car
ried a wee loaf of bread under his
arm. When he saw the crumpled
paper at his feet he picked it up
and wrapped it around the bread
to keep it clean. When he reached
home (behind the face of the big
City Hall clock) Mrs. Moonface
unwrapped the bread. As she did
so she cried out, “Why—Santa’s
name is written here!”
“So it is,” said Mortimer, peer
ing over her shoulder. “Let’s see.
It says ‘Dear Santa, I’d be so hap
py forever it you’d please bring
me some real live Indians to fight.
Kid Buckaroo, Terror of the
West’.”
“Say!” cried Mrs. Moonface.
“Wasn’t Herbert telling us some-!
thing about Indians in Santa
Land last week?” !
(Herbert, a brownie who work-!
ed on a newspaper, knew about
everything that went on in the
whole world).
“That was Jindians,” remem
bered Mortimore. “But Indians
and Jindians are probably the
same thing. Anyway, if Santa is
having trouble. I should thinks he
needs some big strong fellow like
this Kid Buckaroo to help him.
I’m going to write Kid Buckaroo
a letter. Look, his address is right
on here.” /
When Kid Buckaroo (known as
Bucky) went to the mail box he
found a letter for himself that
said: “Dear Mr. Buckaroo, Santa
is having trouble with real live
fighting Indians in Santa Land
and he could sure use your help.
Mortimore Moonface.”
Bucky’s heart thundered with
excitement. So there were some
fighting Indian left in the world!
And in Santa Land of all places.
Why, Santa’s very life was prob
ably in danger!
A cowboy certainly knew what
he had to do. He belted on his
two six-shooters, yanked his
faithful stick horse from under
the bed and grabbed his lasso.
“Don’t worry, Santa,” he whis
( MORE NEW BOOKS
AT THE LIBRARY
i
j The K. K. Public Library an
! nounces the receipt of more new
books at the library
In mysteries there are: “Lighi
at the Mocking Widow,” Dickson;
! “Double, Double,” by Ellerj
Queen; “A Murder Announced/
by Christie; “Rim of Terror,” bj
Teilet; “Neat Little Corpse,” Mur
ray; Hunt with the Hounds/
Eberhardt; “Devils Stronghold/
Lord; “The D. A. Breaks An Egg/
Gardner; “Staircase Four,” Reilly
Biographies, “Iron Curtain,” b$
Gouzenko; “Story of Ernie Pyle/
by Miller.
Nature—“Cup of Sky,” by Peat
tie.
Science — “Fiction,” by Mar
| guiles.
Dried vegetables were used dur
1 ing the Civil War to preven
scurvy.
pered. “Kid Buckaroo is on tin
way!”
i (Next: Bucky Meets Snow Bird
4
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