The Complete Short Stories. O. Hooper Henry

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 drownded, stole, 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 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.

      “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 one?”

      “Tomorrow — silver-mounted.”

      Cherokee took out his watch.

      “Half-past nine. We’ll hit the Junction plumb on time with Christmas Day. Are you cold? Sit closer, son.”

A Chaparral Prince

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      Nine o’clock at last, and the drudging toil of the day was ended. Lena climbed to her room in the third half-story of the Quarrymen’s Hotel. Since daylight she had slaved, doing the work of a full-grown woman, scrubbing the floors, washing the heavy ironstone plates and cups, making the beds, and supplying the insatiate demands for wood and water in that turbulent and depressing hostelry.

      The din of the day’s quarrying was over — the blasting and drilling, the creaking of the great cranes, the shouts of the foremen, the backing and shifting of the flat-cars hauling the heavy blocks of limestone. Down in the hotel office three or four of the labourers were growling and swearing over a belated game of checkers. Heavy odours of stewed meat, hot grease, and cheap coffee hung like a depressing fog about the house.

      Lena lit the stump of a candle and sat limply upon her wooden chair. She was eleven years old, thin and ill-nourished. Her back and limbs were sore and aching. But the ache in her heart made the biggest trouble. The last straw had been added to the burden upon her small shoulders. They had taken away Grimm. Always at night, however tired she might be, she had turned to Grimm for comfort and hope. Each time had Grimm whispered to her that the prince or the fairy would come and deliver her out of the wicked enchantment. Every night she had taken fresh courage and strength from Grimm.

      To whatever tale she read she found an analogy in her own condition. The woodcutter’s lost child,