ver
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, and hitch up my sleigh. I'm goin' to take this
kid home."

"Well, infidel," said Trinidad, taking Cherokee's vacant chair, "and
so you are too superannuated and effete to yearn for such mockeries as
candy and toys, it seems."

"I don't like you," said Bobby, with acrimony. "You said there would
be a rifle. A fellow can't even smoke. I wish I was at home."

Cherokee drove his sleigh to the door, and they lifted Bobby in beside
him. The team of fine horses sprang away prancingly over the hard
snow. Cherokee had on his $500 overcoat of baby sealskin. The laprobe
that he drew about them was as warm as velvet.

Bobby slipped a cigarette from his pocket and was trying to snap a
match.

"Throw that cigarette away," said Cherokee, in a quiet but new voice.

Bobby hesitated, and then dropped the cylinder overboard.

"Throw the box, too," commanded the new voice.

More reluctantly the boy obeyed.

"Say," said Bobby, presently, "I like you. I don't know why. Nobody
never made me do anything I didn't want to do before."

"Tell me, kid," said Cherokee, not using his new voice, "are you sure
your mother kissed that picture that looks like me?"

"Dead sure. I seen her do it."

"Didn't you remark somethin' a while ago about wanting a rifle?"

"You bet I did. Will you get me on