It was late afternoon on a cold Christmas Eve
Braves appeared in the camp just like ghosts.
The lone cowboy there was darn near gave out.
Got his arm broke while mending some posts.
As he sat on the ground Warriors gathered around.
And he figured his time had now come.
In his good hand, a Bible, his Colt holstered still.
His broken arm long since gone numb.
So he bent to the book and began to recite
the Lords Prayer as he’d done in the past.
Something there in his tone as he spoke those old words
seemed to make the war party stand fast.
The leader looked down on the lone cowboy there
And saw that he was without fear.
And though not a Christian by anyone’s call
His heart held a spirit quite near.
Two men of faith though from worlds wide apart,
But both with good souls and strong wills,
As the lone cowboy prayed, the Warrior did too
As his people had done in the hills.
The rest of the braves stood still as could be,
They sensed magic at work in the cold,
The cowboy then finished and closed his Good Book
and then sat waiting, like the martyrs of old,
Stars shone down silently and time seemed to freeze.
Then the Chief softly spoke in the night.
The braves then moved quickly while the magic remained.
In the gloom they dropped out of sight.
They reappeared instantly spurred on by the task.
One with flint, steel, and wood in his hands.
A campfire was kindled, a symbol of hope
as the flames warmed cold prairie sands.
From nowhere it seemed a warm blanket came down
And covered the cowboy’s cold frame
A full bag of venison placed at his feet.
Then they turned to his horse, who was lame.
Skilled hands applied herbs to both cowboy and horse
and their suffering seemed to abate.
One warrior sat down with a drum in his lap
Sang and chanted till the hour was late.
Experienced hands did what had to be done.
No words between red man and white.
The braves became healers much to their own surprise
on the cold lonely prairie that night.
The cowboy dozed off to the sound of the drum
and awoke with a start in the morn.
Wrapped in Navajo blankets just like swaddling clothes
that had wrapped up a tiny newborn.
He arose by himself, found no tracks in fresh snow.
His horse stood tall, no longer lame.
What had happened last night when his life had been spared?
‘Twas a miracle by any name.
He mounted his horse and set off for the ranch.
A healed man, now more than ever.
And that magical, frightening, cold prairie Christmas
would live there in his healed heart forever.
©Robert De Groff 2010
Cold Prairie Christmas
