Chapter 4: Mistletoe

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     "I sent you down there with ten grand and an empty trailer," begins George from behind his cluttered desk in the front bay of the old barn, "and you come back with two horses, a mutt, and a torn up front end?"

"That farmer took one look at those Grover Clevelands and made it a package deal," whines Buddy leaning into an H beam with the little beagle snapped into his western shirt. "I'm pretty much the same with this little thing that hopped up into the cab at a truck stop."

"Well that explains two out of three, but what about about my Mack?"

"I had to run some kind of fancy road block on a blind curve. It was either me and little buddy or crashing right through."

"Did you see them?"

"Four guys in dark coats and sunglasses when they caught up at the farm. The darnedest thing though - they took one look into the empty back end and hightailed it right back the way they came."

"You done good, son, and that big Appaloosa aught to hold the both of you for the parade. Now go shoot down some mistletoe from that old oak by the back trail."

"Thanks dad, we'll go saddle him up," Buddy smiles, pushing off the beam and starting to pull open the creaky wooden bay door when called back.

"Just don't you go blabbing to any new customers, and keep that twenty-two of yours handy."

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     The Silver Saddle Kerstfeest was a tradition carried on from the previous owners who had continued what they had inherited when the farm was purchased from an old Dutch family. It kicked off with a Black Peter parade of decked out horses and their riders from the main road and along the fence-lined pastures into the large stable. The nearby barn was decorated with wreaths and strings of lights, and strands of the parasitic aphrodisiac plant Phoradendron leucarpum were hung from the double-doored main entry into the center aisle, a Beatty addition to the otherwise Netherlands winterfest. An open bar beside a hay-strewn dance floor assured a crowd for the band that would be set up under the back gables.

     That particular year would feature a new doo-wop group called the Watchung Four from nearby Bound Brook. Hoping to make it big in the New York music scene, they had begged, borrowed, and stolen to dress to the nines for their first out-of-town gig - starched white shirts, skinny black ties and slacks, and matching canali jackets. The four high school seniors arrived with their equipment stuffed into an uncle's black Cadillac just behind Buddy with his wicker basket of mistletoe.

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     "We bagged us some big ones," laughs Buddy from the barn door, holding up the full basket in one hand and his shotgun in the other as the little dog gives two stout barks from his position tucked into Buddy's suede vest.

"Give it here and I'll string it up," calls the bartender, giving the excited beagle a pat on the head when Buddy ambles over to the bar. "The line up is in half an hour."

"Time enough for refreshment," Buddy answers, leaning the gun against a wooden plank serving as a bar leg.

    "Buon Natale!" calls a sharply coiffed guy swinging open the barn door and setting off a chain reaction.

"What the...," cries Buddy bending over for the shotgun.

Out spills the little beagle, scrambling for the barn door. Over tips the shotgun, knocking into the uneven floorboards. Blast reverberates the gun, pelleting the bay wall boards.

"Mafankulo!" shouts someone from the bay office.

Back leaps the man at the barn door, knocking into three other guys in identical outfits. 

Up bucks the white horse, spooked while passing by the front of the barn. 

Off gallops horse and rider, a black-haired woman in a striking white outfit hanging on for dear life. 

Caw-caw-caw calls a big black bird from the ridge beam of the pent roof into the soft first swirl of flakes that signal a looming snowstorm.