Christmas Story as Told by Preacher

By EmberRose23

Preacher’s Campfire Gospel, Devil’s Hole Gang, Christmas 1884

After a successful early-morning train robbery outside Laramie, Wyoming, the Devil’s Hole Gang had pushed hard for home. They rode all day, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the law.

By nightfall, a slender crescent moon and a few stubborn stars lit the snowy mountain trails, and Christmas Eve snow was drifting down.

Most years, Heyes made sure the gang had something—dinner, a few gifts, maybe even a bottle or two. Nothing fancy, but enough to remind them the world had not forgotten them.

This year was a bit different; they were on the trail, and besides, this was not exactly Heyes’ favorite time of year—not since his folks had been taken. So, he had not much noticed when the job fell smack dab on Christmas Eve.

Still, it was twenty thousand dollars—and you do not just say no to that kind of cash. He figured the gang could survive a delayed Christmas. After all, nothing says holiday spirit like outrunning a posse with a sack full of someone else’s money.

But Kid? He loved Christmas. Always had.

So Heyes had made sure to bring something to say, “I remembered. I’m still here. You’re still here. We’re still us.” It was only two bottles of whiskey, but he felt they would deliver the intended message.

Sides, at this altitude, and being Christmas Eve, he felt they were they were safe. Anyway, the Hole was still two days away, but everyone needed a break, pulling his reins, Heyes called, “Okay, boys, let’s stop here for the night.”

“Here?” Wheat scoffed. “Kind of middle of the road,” he looked around, “in the middle of nowhere, ain’t it?”

Kid pulled up beside him. “Kind of the idea, and you don’t like it? Go find a spot that suits your taste. We’ll be right here.” He dismounted, and so all the others did as well.

Lobo moved for the treeline. “I’ll see if I can find some meat for supper.”

“I’ll go with ya,” Monty called, following.

Already scanning the treeline like it owed him, Hank said, “I’ll rustle up some firewood.”

Wheat grudgingly, with Kyle shadowing him, led the tired horses to a line of cedar trees, unsaddling them and tethering them on a picket line.

Preacher walked over to lean against a boulder, silent as ever.

Kid gave him a questioning look, but let it pass—something in the man’s posture said now was not the time to ask why.

Heyes had pulled a bag from his saddlebags before allowing his horse to be led away.

Kid Curry’s eyes lit up.

“Not yet,” Heyes said with a smile as he held the bag away from Kid. “You gotta wait like everyone else. See if you can find us some decent seats for around the campfire.”

A few hours later, dinner was done and dishes cleaned, when Heyes called, “All right, everyone, let’s sit down with some coffee and have a chat.”   

They settled into a circle about a banked, sparking fire—Kid leaned against his saddle, Wheat and Kyle sharing a log, Hank, Lobo, and Monty on another, a lone stump left for Preacher.

Knowing Heyes always had something for them for Christmas, even when circumstances kept them away from the Hole, they were all jittering with anticipation.

“I don’t have a lot in the way of celebration tonight,” Heyes said solemnly. “But once we get back to the Hole, we’ll have a high-falutin’ Christmas party. For now…” He produced two bottles of whiskey from his mysterious bag.

Wheat accepted the bottle. “Why, thank you. Heyes, sure looks good,” he announced, accepting the bottle and pulling the cork.

Swallow after swallow, it made its way around the circle until it reached the empty stump where Preacher was supposed to be.

Everything stopped.

Standing up, Heyes looked to Preacher, who had not moved away from the boulder. “Preacher, you ready?”

The clergyman pushed from the boulder and walked slowly to the fire. He sat down, took his drink, and passed it to Heyes, who had already sat back down. 

“I’ve been talking with Preacher,” Heyes said, “and he wanted to share a Christmas message this year.”

There were mumblings from about the campfire, but everyone knew: when Preacher spoke, it was best to listen.

The former clergyman held his silence, his gaze shifting from man to man. He studied each face with solemnness before moving to the next, pausing only to clear his throat and shuffle a bit in his seat.  When his eyes finally met Heyes, the leader was mid-swallow. He lowered the bottle, wordlessly passing it to Kid.

“Well now, boys,” Preacher said with a humble smile. “I ain’t here to preach fire and brimstone—though Lord knows some of us could use it, including me. I’m here to tell you a story older than any wanted poster, truer than the stars over this mountain.”

He leaned forward, the fire twinkling in his dark eyes as he began his favorite story.

“Long before Bethlehem had citizens… before Joseph packed his mule, there was a promise. A prophecy, handed down like a sacred telegraph from the Almighty Hisself: ‘The virgin will conceive, give birth to a son, and they will call him Emmanuel.’ That means ‘God with us,’ in case you ain’t brushed up on your Hebrew.”

None of them actually knew any Hebrew, so they quietly shared looks, turning back to Preacher.

“Now want y’all to picture this: a young woman named Mary, just a slip of a girl from Nazareth, pledged to marry a man named Joseph. Good stock he was, descended from King David hisself.

One quiet evening, the angel Gabriel shows up—not with a pistol, but with a message: ‘Greetings! The Lord is with you.’

And Mary, bless her heart, she’s troubled. Wouldn’t you be?

But ol’ Gabriel just says, ‘Don’t be afraid. You’re gonna bear a son, and you’ll call him Jesus. He’ll be great. The Son of the Highest. His kingdom will never end.’”

“Wait,” Kyle yelped, holding out a hand. “Jesus? I thought it was Emmanuel.”

Wheat shushed him. “Let 'em finish the story.”

Placing his hands on top of his knees, Preacher sat taller and cleared his throat.

“Now Joseph, he had ‘em a choice. He could’ve walked away. But the Lord sends him a dream: ‘Don’t be afraid to take Mary as your wife. What’s growing in her is from the Holy Spirit. Name the boy Jesus. He’ll save His people from their sins.’

And Joseph, being a righteous man, saddles up and says yes. ‘Bout then, Augustus Caesar, he calls a census. Now, it weren’t about names on scrolls or coins in coffers. But still, that old Roman thinks he’s counting heads and stacking taxes, only the Almighty’s got a deeper plan.”

Preacher’s eyes glinted in the firelight as he paused, to again look around at the men.

“See, right there in the middle of empire business, God tucked a plan so quiet it came wrapped in swaddlin’ cloth. Not on a warhorse, but in a manger—soft as a whisper, strong enough to shake the gates of hell. That census? It was just the trailhead. The real journey started with a baby born under stars, not banners.”

Kyle tilted his head. Monty considered what he thought he knew. Lobo shrugged. Hank blinked back tears. Kid smiled, remembering Grandpa Curry. Wheat fidgeted, trying to recall what he knew of the Roman Empire, and Heyes took a long drink.

“So, Joseph and Mary, they headed to Bethlehem,” Preacher drawled. “Her riding slow and heavy with child, and then they found no room at the inn.” He raised his arms, the timber of his voice rising more with each word. “There would be no fancy cradle for the babe. Only a manger of straw. Peace and quiet, it was. And then—glory, shepherds, out in fields, who was keeping watch. Not lawmen, not scholars, mind you . . . just regular folk . . . and suddenly, the sky lights up”

Preacher tilted his face to the sky, and as he did, the others found themselves looking up, trying to see what he was seeing.

“Angels everywhere, singing ‘Glory to God in the highest!’ And one of ’em says, ‘Don’t be afraid. I bring good news. A Savior’s been born. He’s the Messiah’.”

Lowering his arms back down by his side, his voice softening, Preacher peered again into the faces of the men as he went on. “Those three Wise Men came and they don’t waste no time. They go see for themselves, bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. And when they find that babe wrapped in cloth, layin’ in a manger, they just know what the angel said was true. And they go tell everyone . . . Mary, now she, holds it all in her heart. And those shepherds return to their fields, praising God like they’d just seen the sunrise for the first time. And here’s the kicker, boys. This ain’t just a story for them. It’s for all of us.

‘For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life’.” Laying a hand on his chest, Preacher took a deep breath and nodded. “That means outlaws, too. That means even you, Wheat.”

Wheat smiled awkwardly, peeking at the others, half embarrassed, half proud.

“So next time any of you are staring down a dusty trail, wondering if redemption’s real—remember Bethlehem. Remember the manger. And remember that even the roughest riders get offered grace.” With that, the man, they only called Preacher, sighed heavily, like he had just finished the most important sermon of his life.

The group sat in comfortable silence listening to the snapping fire and wind in the pines, all so tranquil and serene in the falling snow,

Kyle had been mesmerized by Preacher’s words; it was the first time he had actually heard the story told like that.  A whole new sense of comfort and peace filled him as he gazed at the stars, fixing on what he believed was the North Star.

Heyes, a non-believer, took a swallow of whiskey, relieved it was over. Too much sin in me to believe in forgiveness, he thought. I’ve also given and taken too much punishment in this life to trust a Savior would ever forgive me.

Wheat, though intrigued, was not sure if he believed it all or not.  It makes sense, he thought, but I don’t know enough about Roman Empire history to fully buy it. Besides, what Preacher said has nothing to do with the presents I’ve been looking forward to.

Monty sat, recalling the bits and pieces of the story he already knew. But hearing it all together as one story, like this, had him contemplating whether he should pay closer attention when Preacher spoke.

Lobo had enjoyed hearing Preacher weave his tale, but that was the extent of his belief.  Beyond that he was not interested, thinking, Suppose it was a fine story to tell on Christmas Eve.

Hank bowed his head, almost in tears.  He knew that story well—his parents had made sure he had a good religious background. Even though he had turned his back on them . . . and on the church.  He knew someday he would ask the Lord for forgiveness—but not now, not when there was a twenty-thousand-dollar bank haul to split.

Kid, he believed, and he smiled as he considered the message. He had held to his faith ever since their grandfather had told them the same story when he was young Jed Curry. He glanced at his cousin, knowing Heyes did not believe—and understanding why. He had his parents taken, too. But unlike Heyes, I’ve clung to this story; it lets me believe my parents and grandparents are in Heaven. And someday, I’ll help Heyes understand that, too.

Preacher felt drained. 

He had been thinking and planning his words ever since Heyes had asked him to speak.  He knew when it came to religion, he was a walking contradiction—so much so that with his contrary nature, he even wondered which side of the Lord’s ledger he was ridin’ on. Still, it had felt right fine to recount the Christmas story to his brothers in the gang. Problem was now that it was over, his need for more whiskey was overwhelming him. When he looked at Heyes, the man was extending the unopened bottle to him.

“Excellent story! Let’s celebrate!  First drink is yours and pass it around.” 

The second bottle started making its rounds, and Heyes said, “Merry Christmas to the Devil’s Hole Gang.” 

When both whiskey bottles were empty, the men lay out for sleep, except Hank, who had lost the draw for standing watch. Under their blankets, laid back against their saddles, Heyes reached into his pocket, pulling out a small box. “Hey, Partner.”

Kid turned to see something balanced on Heyes’ hand. 

“For you.  Merry Christmas.”

Opening the present, Kid discovered a smooth, round crystal, no bigger than a silver dollar. The kind of token a man might carry close, for something solid to hold onto when the trail got long.

Heyes had found it years back, kept it to himself. This stone had traveled every dusty mile they had ridden together. Now it was Kid’s turn to carry it. Not as a handoff, but as his promise: that no matter how far they rode, they were still family. Still partners. Still home.

Kid stroked a finger across the cold surface, then looked up at Heyes. “I’ve known for years you’ve had this . . . thought it was your good luck charm.”

“Nah, just something to hold in my hand, get out the nervous energy inside me.  I want you to have it.  No matter where we go, what we do, we do it together.”

Nodding, Kid tucked the crystal in his pocket and gave his cousin a warm smile before burrowing into his bedroll. “If I had known you were gonna do this, I woulda brought what I have waitin’ for ya at the Hole. Merry Christmas, Heyes.”

“Merry Christmas, Kid,” Heyes answered, taking in the night sky.  There truly is something special about this night . . . Can feel it, he mused. The stars shining brighter, the quiet even more quiet than he ever remembered.  Maybe Preacher did have a point . . .