One wild shout of delight and he gave a blast on the toy that brought both women to the door just in time to see Mary drag from the kyack a huge Teddy Bear. On this was another tag marked: "To Mary – Merry Christmas."
Before his scandalized mother could collect her senses enough to stop him Jimmie had dropped his horn and gone on a voyage of exploration into the depths of the two kyacks. One of his first discoveries was the box containing the sweater. The tag tied to it cleared up in a measure the doubts which Mrs. Miller had had as to the propriety of thus making free with other people's property, and that Santa had been sent by the men at the sheep camp.
An hour later a man rode down the trail back of the house and quite out of range of its windows. Tying his horse at the side of the stable away from the house he crept to the corner of the building and cautiously peeped out.
The smoke was curling briskly from the cabin chimney and in the tense stillness he could hear noises which indicated very plainly that the letter to "Sandy Claws" had borne fruit, for the most ear-splitting sounds were coming from the cabin, sounds which he knew to be the natural results of three tin horns in the mouths of three delighted kids.
As he stood there a door slammed, and a girl stepped out on the porch arrayed in the most gorgeous sweater he had ever imagined. On her head was a jaunty cap of the same color and material as the sweater, while in her hands she held a tin bucket in which most unquestionably was the breakfast for the chickens which were making loud demands for release from their log coop near the stable.
In his inmost heart Bill Gibson knew that if ever a man was blessed by the Gods with the one opportunity of his life, it was facing him at this very moment. Nancy came tripping down the snowy path a perfect picture of girlish beauty and happiness. Gibson drew back so she could not see him until she had turned the corner of the stable. As she did so and met his eyes the song turned into a maidenly shriek. Her cheeks were blazing like two peonies, she tried hard to speak, but the words died on her lips. Mechanically she set the bucket of feed on a small shelf where the chickens could not reach it. Bill interpreted the move as meaning either a fight or complete surrender. He believed it was the latter and took a step toward her.
"Christmas gift, Nancy," he said. His voice had an odd quaver in it. "Old Santy seems to have brung you the sort of sweater you wanted." He was gaining confidence.
"He sure did," she replied, striving in vain to keep her eyes from meeting his.
"Nancy," he demanded, "ain't you got nothing for me this grand Christmas morning?"
"What you wanting mostly?" her eyes fairly dancing with mischief and telling what her lips dared not.
A look of triumph swept over the man's bronzed face.
"You – an' I'm a-going to take it right here." He took a step toward her; she turned to run but with one bound he was at her side, caught her in his arms and fairly smothered her with kisses.
He drew back his head and looked deep into her eyes. "How about it?" he demanded.
"About what?" very archly.
He kissed her a dozen times before she replied. Nor did she seem to object to the action.
"You know the Christmas present I most want, Nancy."
He drew her closer to him, her arms found their way about his neck. "Bill," she whispered in his ear, "you're an old darling, let's go up to the house and tell the news to sister."
"JUST REGULARS"
In the dark depths of an Arizona cañon, with no light but that which came from the stars, a string of shadowy figures slowly worked its way through tangles of thorny mesquite and cat claw, over rocks and past great bunches of cactus which pierced hands and limbs wherever they touched.
If you looked closer, you saw that the figures were those of men, also horses and mules, most of the men leading their mounts, and here and there the yellow chevrons on some sergeant's blouse, or the broad yellow stripe on an officer's trousers showed them to be cavalry.
There was no talking or unnecessary noise. At times they were fairly on their knees fighting their way up some rocky steep; again they dropped down into the darkness, the well-trained animals following like goats.
At the head of the line, an officer, young in years but old in this kind of work, whispered occasionally to the veteran guide at his left.
Just ahead of him an Apache scout, stripped for the fight, a band of red flannel about his forehead, his body naked except for the white cotton breechclout ("the G string") about his waist, the peculiar moccasins of his tribe on his feet, led the way, like some bloodhound on the trail.
Out of the darkness ahead came the weird hoot of an owl. Three times did it sound. The scout listened till the last echo died away, and then, with his hands gathered about his mouth, answered the call.
Quietly he slipped away into the night, the command stopping where they were as the whispered order flew back along the line, each man sinking down to the ground, glad of the chance for the moment's rest.
The night was cold, although it was midsummer in a region where at noon the earth is baked and burned with the heat.
An hour passed, and out of the darkness the Apache returned.
The quarry which they sought was not far ahead, and it was best to leave their animals and go the rest of the way without them.
Turning to the tall Sergeant behind him, the officer gave the orders for the movement, and back down the shivering, scattered line went the instructions: "Number fours hold the horses, every one else take all extra ammunition and their canteens and follow the column on foot."
Then came whispered pleadings from the unfortunate "number four men" doomed to remain behind to guard the horses and the rear while the others went on into the darkness to – what? Perhaps death, perhaps a wound from a poisoned arrow; in any event plenty of hardship and suffering.
How those cavalrymen begged for the privilege of getting a hole shot through them. They urged the officers to cut down the rearguard and leave but a couple of men to look after the packs and horses.
"Very well, Sergeant," the commanding officer replied, well pleased when told of the men's desire to go with the fighting force, "leave three or four men to guard the animals and let the rest come on; God knows we are very likely to need them."
Then the Sergeant, knowing his men as a schoolmaster his pupils, left behind: fat Corporal Conn whose asthmatic wheezings and puffings had already brought forth many a muttered curse upon his head; Private Hill who couldn't see an inch beyond his nose in the dark and who had fallen over every bush and rock in the trail since they entered the cañon; and two other men whose physical condition was such that he doubted their ability to make the climb which he knew was ahead of them.
Not one of these accepted the detail without as vigorous a protest as soldierly duty made possible. Bless you no! Each of them felt himself an object of especial pity, fat Conn even claiming that the higher he climbed the less the asthma troubled him.
Then the command once more drove into the blackness ahead, following the lithe Apache up a mountain side which seemed almost perpendicular.
Each man carried two belts of cartridges about his waist with a third swung from his shoulder. Most of them wore the Apache moccasin which gave forth no sound as they moved along.
At last they reached the summit of the mountain breathless and tired. Before them was a mighty
