“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?” “To-morrow—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.” XVIII A CHAPARRAL PRINCE 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.