It was a quiet morning as Brady sat by the campfire, nursing a cup of hot coffee with a touch of whiskey in it, and cooking a thick piece of bacon. It was around the same time that he heard a curious sound from behind, so he turned to look.
Of all the sights he had witnessed over the year 1920, in and around Beowawe, never before had he seen St. Nick seated cross-legged on a old Mormon hand-cart being pulled along by four pair of jackalope. Brady was truly amazed at how well the cart moved over the sandy loam.
Nick waved to him, bidding him a good day in fine and proper German or perhaps was it in Turkish, Brady wasn’t sure. Either way, he returned his greeting in English, tipping his cowboy hat, and watching as the jolly old elf and his long-eared, antlered team disappeared into the high desert morn.
“Damn it, I burned the bacon again,” he complained.