III

Drake took a fresh cigar, and threw his legs over the chair arm.

"I think you smoke too much," said Bolles, whom three days had made
familiar and friendly.

"Yep. Have to just now. That's what! as Uncle Pasco would say. They are a
half-breed lot, though," the boy continued, returning to the buccaroos
and their recent visit. "Weaken in the face of a straight bluff, you see,
unless they get whiskey-courageous. And I've called 'em down on that."

"Oh!" said Bolles, comprehending.

"Didn't you see that was their game? But he will not go after it."

"The flesh is all they seem to understand," murmured Bolles.

Half-past Full did not go to Harney City for the tabooed whiskey, nor did
any one. Drake read his buccaroos like the children that they were. After
the late encounter of grit, the atmosphere was relieved of storm. The
children, the primitive, pagan, dangerous children, forgot all about
whiskey, and lusted joyously for Christmas. Christmas was coming! No
work! A shooting-match! A big feed! Cheerfulness bubbled at the Malheur
Agency. The weather itself was in tune. Castle Rock seemed no longer to
frown, but rose into the shining air, a mass of friendly strength. Except
when a rare sledge or horseman passed, Mr. Bolles's journeys to the
school were all to show it was not some pioneer colony in a new, white,
silent world that heard only the playful shouts and songs of the
buccaroos. The sun overhead and the hard-crushing snow underfoot filled