“Give us another!” came the demand from a dozen throats, as the last strains trailed into silence. And Horse Face did give them another, and many others. Never was the like seen north of sixty, a hundred men and women close crowded about the piano singing at the top of their lungs, and at the far end of the room the silent, half-frightened Indians--and the dance hall floor between. While overtowering all presided the great Christmas tree, majestic in its sweep of dark green branches, resplendent in its outlandish and grotesquely painted images, its brilliant hued dolls, its long festoons of gleaming red cranberries, and its blazing candles whose yellow flames wavered and flickered in the billowing waves of sound. The last song was sung. The last crashing note was sounded upon the piano, and with one accord, laughing and jesting among themselves the men and the girls made descent upon the tree, and amid shouts and laughter began to distribute presents from its bountiful branches. With his own hands MacShane picked out the most beautiful doll with its dress of flaming red silk, and its cap of blue, and its tiny mukluks of yellow, and the biggest bag of candy and carried them to little Lou Gordon, who, with eyes round with delight, viewed the proceedings from her point of vantage on top of the piano. Not a child, even to the tiniest baby but what received its present and its box of candy, nor were the older Indians forgotten, for when MacShane and McCarty saw the influx of parents that followed in the wake of their protesting offspring, they quietly slipped out and made further purchases at the store, with the result that every man received a gift of tobacco, and every woman a small package of sugar or tea. Twelve o’clock struck and the children’s celebration was over. The Indians were herded from the room, and just as Horse Face Joe sank wearily upon his piano stool to strike up a lively dance tune, MacShane stayed him with a wave of his hand. Advancing to his side he demanded his gold sack into which from his own he shook a liberal portion of dust, then, with Horse Face’s sack in hand, he passed around among the men, and when he returned it to its owner it was bulging with dust and coarse gold. It was Horse Face Joe’s great Christmas--and his last. He mumbled awkward words of thanks, and struck into a galloping waltz as men sought their partners and hurried onto the floor. That dance was never finished. The music lagged slower and slower to the end in a low rumble of protesting chords as the body of Horse Face Joe sagged forward upon the keyboard in a deep sleep.