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.