Bart Clancy narrowed his eyes, which were narrow enough at the best of times. The rest of the Clancy gang did the same; they always followed their boss.

None of them had seen a stagecoach like it. For a start, it was open and on runners which seemed to hover over the ground. For another, the horses seemed kinda weird, with hat-racks on their heads. 

The gang heard it coming from a way away, on account of the little bells. They stepped out in front of it. 'Hands up,' said Bart. 'Come on down.' The old guy with the reins stepped slowly off the coach, and he too narrowed his eyes. This was getting to be catching. The rest of the gang started to unload the sacks. 

'You leave them sacks alone,' the rider said through his white beard. 'Or you'll regret it.'

'You goin' to stop us, old-timer?' sneered Bart. 'You're so fat and wheezy, the only thing you could stop is a bullet.'

'Is that so?' he chuckled. 'Perhaps you'd care to justify that pronouncement.' Bart went for his gun, but before it even left its holster, the stranger had his Colt Single Action out from the top of his black boot and had drilled Bart full of lead. The other gang members nursed their numb hands in shock, their Smith and Wessons scattered in the dust.

'Now put them sacks back, you lardy 'coons, and fast,' barked the old man. 'There's kids in Dodge City needs what's in 'em before sunrise.'

The three men hastily threw the sacks back aboard. One of them asked in wonder. 'Who are you, stranger? Rattlesnake Barker? Flatnose Curry? Killer Miller?'

'They call me Christmas. Father Christmas. So go home and tuck yourselves up safe in bed. And if you're good boys, I might have somethin' in my sack for you as well.'

Howard Bradshaw