The Christmas Knife

Ricky Patterson was an older man, with thin, silvery-grey hair, wire spectacles, and an expression in his eyes of curiosity and wonder, like he was seeing everything for the first time, every time. He wore suspenders to hold up his jeans from slipping off his slender waist, and in every way he was articulate and thoughtful.

His skill at reassembling the leather sheath was amazing, with every bead in the exact place it had originally been, but now snugly arranged against new, thick deerskin. After they'd met at the bowling alley, Clayton had paid Ricky with an old-fashioned check, which was how Ricky preferred it, waved Ricky off as he drove away in his car, then went back into the bowling alley, which was a warm hub of pre-Christmas activity.

The only problem was, as Clayton had ordered a drink, and turned for a moment to grab his wallet, someone had taken the Bowie knife and beaded sheath from the bar. In the noise and light and holiday hubbub, Clayton imagined that the smoothness of the leather had caused the sheath to slide from the counter to the floor, so for five full minutes, he searched, hunkered down and squinting. It didn't take him much longer than that to realize that the beautiful gift intended for his nephew had been stolen. Someone had seen it and wanted it, and had taken it.

The police arrived soon after Clayton's hasty phone call, where he felt foolish, thinking all along he'd find the knife and sheath right where he'd been looking, or that some kindly waitress would, smiling, hands held out, bring it back to him. But no such thing happened, and Clayton's heart pounded as he explained the situation to the cops while the bubble lights on the top of their cop car in the gravel parking lot burbled blue and red.

They knew Ricky, he was a well-known tradesman in town, skilled with leather, and he knew about Native American art and craftsmanship, so they didn't suspect Ricky. They shook their heads when Clayton couldn't identify the person, or persons, who had taken the sheath. In his mind, the beads twinkled and the leather was soft beneath his hands, only now, that was just a brief memory.

"This is a good town," said one of the cops. "People don't steal from each other here."

"Well, someone stole that sheath," said Clayton, doing his best not to snarl at their lackadaisical attitudes. Either they didn't believe him, or they thought he was lying, both of which were based on the fact that he was not one of them.

They could certainly check with Ricky that there had been a knife and sheath to begin with, or even the bartender behind the counter, who had seen it and nodded his appreciation of it when Clayton had placed down to grab his wallet. But even their verification that Clayton wasn't lying wouldn't be enough to bring the knife and sheath back.