ffeminate and
childish tree. Cherokee put down his pack and looked wonderingly about
the room. Perhaps he fancied that a bevy of eager children were being
herded somewhere, to be loosed upon his entrance. He went up to Bobby
and extended his red-mittened hand.

"Merry Christmas, little boy," said Cherokee. "Anything on the tree
you want they'll get it down for you. Won't you shake hands with Santa
Claus?"

"There ain't any Santa Claus," whined the boy. "You've got old false
billy goat's whiskers on your face. I ain't no kid. What do I want
with dolls and tin horses? The driver said you'd have a rifle, and you
haven't. I want to go home."

Trinidad stepped into the breach. He shook Cherokee's hand in warm
greeting.

"I'm sorry, Cherokee," he explained. "There never was a kid in
Yellowhammer. We tried to rustle a bunch of 'em for your swaree, but
this sardine was all we could catch. He's a atheist, and he don't
believe in Santa Claus. It's a shame for you to be out all this truck.
But me and the Judge was sure we could round up a wagonful of
candidates for your gimcracks."

"That's all right," said Cherokee gravely. "The expense don't amount
to nothin' worth mentionin'. We can dump the stuff down a shaft or
throw it away. I don't know what I was thinkin' about; but it never
occurred to my cogitations that there wasn't any kids in
Yellowhammer."

Meanwhile the company had relaxed into a hollow but praiseworthy
imitation of a pleasure gathering.

Bobby had retreated to a distant chair, and was coldly regarding the
scene with ennui plastered thick upon him. Cherokee, lingering with
his original idea, went over and sat beside him.

"Where do you live, little boy?" he asked respectfully.

"Granite Junction," said Bobby without emphasis.

The room was warm. Cherokee took off his cap, and then removed his
beard and wig.

"Say!" exclaimed Bobby, with a show of interest, "I know your mug, all
right."

"Did you ever see me before?" asked Cherokee.

"I don't know; but I've seen your picture lots of times."

"Where?"

The boy hesitated. "On the bureau at home," he answered.

"Let's have your name, if you please, buddy."

"Robert Lumsden. The picture belongs to my mother. She puts it under
her pillow of nights. And once I saw her kiss it. I wouldn't. But
women are that way."

Cherokee rose and beckoned to Trinidad.

"Keep this boy by you till I come back," he said. "I'm goin' to shed
these Christmas duds, a