He’s learning bad habits from the men. It’ll be the only chance he’ll have to get any Christmas.’
The men went outside and conferred with Bobby. Trinidad pictured the glories of the Christmas tree and presents in lively colours.
‘And, moreover, my young friend,’ added the Judge, ‘Santa Claus himself will personally distribute the offerings that will typify the gifts conveyed by the shepherds of Bethlehem to—’
‘Aw, come off,’ said the boy, squinting his small eyes. ‘I ain’t no kid. There ain’t any Santa Claus. It’s your folks that buys toys and sneaks ’em in when you’re asleep. And they make marks in the soot in the chimney with the tongs to look like Santa’s sleigh tracks.’
‘That might be so,’ argued Trinidad, ‘but Christmas trees ain’t no fairy tale. This one’s goin’ to look like the ten-cent store in Albuquerque, all strung up in a redwood. There’s tops and drums and Noah’s arks and—’
‘Oh, rats!’ said Bobby, wearily. ‘I cut them out long ago. I’d like to have a rifle – not a target one – a real one, to shoot wildcats with; but I guess you won’t have any of them on your old tree.’
‘Well, I can’t say for sure,’ said Trinidad diplomatically; ‘it might be. You go along with us and see.’
The hope thus held out, though faint, won the boy’s hesitating consent to go. With this solitary beneficiary for Cherokee’s holiday bounty, the canvassers spun along the homeward road.
In Yellowhammer the empty storeroom had been transformed into what might have passed as the bower of an Arizona fairy. The ladies had done their work well. A tall Christmas tree, covered to the topmost branch with candles, spangles, and toys sufficient for more than a score of children, stood in the centre of the floor. Near sunset anxious eyes had begun to scan the street for the returning team of the child-providers. At noon that day Cherokee had dashed into town with his new sleigh piled high with bundles and boxes and bales of all sizes and shapes. So intent was he upon the arrangements for his altruistic plans that the dearth of children did not receive his notice. No one gave away the humiliating state of Yellowhammer, for the efforts of Trinidad and the Judge were expected to supply the deficiency.
When the sun went down Cherokee, with many wings and arch grins on his seasoned face, went into retirement with the bundle containing the Santa Claus raiment and a pack containing special and undisclosed gifts.
‘When the kids are rounded up,’ he instructed the volunteer arrangement committee, ‘light up the candles on the tree and set ’em to playin’ “Pussy Wants a Corner” and “King William.” When they get good and at it, why – old Santa’ll slide in the door. I reckon there’ll be plenty of gifts to go ’round.’
The ladies were flitting about the tree, giving it final touches that were never final. The Spangled Sisters were there in costume as Lady Violet de Vere and Marie, the maid, in their new drama, ‘The Miner’s Bride.’ The theatre did not open until nine, and they were welcome assistants of the Christmas tree committee. Every minute heads would pop out the door to look and listen for the approach of Trinidad’s team. And now this became an anxious function, for night had fallen and it would soon be necessary to light the candles on the tree, and Cherokee was apt to make an irruption at any time in his Kriss Kringle garb.
At length the wagon of the child ‘rustlers’ rattled down the street to the door. The ladies, with little screams of excitement, flew to the lighting of the candles. The men of Yellowhammer passed in and out restlessly or stood about the room in embarrassed groups.
Trinidad and the Judge, bearing the marks of protracted travel, entered, conducting between them a single impish boy, who stared with sullen, pessimistic eyes at the gaudy tree.
‘Where are the other children?’ asked the assayer’s wife, the acknowledged leader of all social functions.
‘Ma’am,’ said Trinidad with a sigh, ‘prospectin’ for kids at Christmas time is like huntin’ in a limestone for silver. This parental business is one that I haven’t no chance to comprehend. It seems that fathers and mothers are willin’ for their offsprings to be drowned, stolen, fed on poison oak, and et by catamounts 364 days in the year; but on Christmas Day they insists on enjoyin’ the exclusive mortification of their company. This here young biped, ma’am, is all that washes out of our two days’ manoeuvres.’
‘Oh, the sweet little boy!’ cooed Miss Erma, trailing her De Vere robes to centre of stage.
‘Aw, shut up,’ said Bobby, with a scowl. ‘Who’s a kid? You ain’t, you bet.’
‘Fresh brat!’ breathed Miss Erma, beneath her enamelled smile.
‘We done the best we could,’ said Trinidad. ‘It’s tough on Cherokee, but it can’t be helped.’
Then the door opened and Cherokee entered in the conventional dress of Saint Nick. A white rippling beard and flowing hair covered his face almost to his dark and shining eyes. Over his shoulder he carried a pack.
No one stirred as he came in. Even the Spangler Sisters ceased their coquettish poses and stared curiously at the tall figure. Bobby stood with his hands in his pockets gazing gloomily at the effeminate 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 an 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
