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.
