“We were thinking as maybe you'd let us go over to town,” said Half-past Full, the spokesman. “When?” “Oh, any day along this week.” “Can't spare you till after Christmas.” “Maybe you'll not object to one of us goin'?” “You'll each have your turn after this week.” A slight pause followed. Then Half-past Full said: “What would you do if I went, anyway?” “Can't imagine,” Drake answered, easily. “Go, and I'll be in a position to inform you.” The buccaroo dropped his stolid bull eyes, but raised them again and grinned. “Well, I'm not particular about goin' this week, boss.” “That's not my name,” said Drake, “but it's what I am.” They stood a moment. Then they shuffled out. It was an orderly retreat--almost. Drake winked over to Bolles. “That was a graze,” said he, and smoked for a while. “They'll not go this time. Question is, will they go next?” III Drake took a fresh cigar, and threw his legs over the chair arm. “I think you smoke too much,” said Bolles, whom three days had made familiar and friendly. “Yep. Have to just now. That's what! as Uncle Pasco would say. They are a half-breed lot, though,” the boy continued, returning to the buccaroos and their recent visit. “Weaken in the face of a straight bluff, you see, unless they get whiskey-courageous. And I've called 'em down on that.” “Oh!” said Bolles, comprehending. “Didn't you see that was their game? But he will not go after it.” “The flesh is all they seem to understand,” murmured Bolles. Half-past Full did not go to Harney City for the tabooed whiskey, nor did any one. Drake read his buccaroos like the children that they were. After the late encounter of grit, the atmosphere was relieved of storm. The children, the primitive, pagan, dangerous children, forgot all about whiskey, and lusted joyously for Christmas. Christmas was coming! No work! A shooting-match! A big feed! Cheerfulness bubbled at the Malheur Agency. The weather itself was in tune. Castle Rock seemed no longer to frown, but rose into the shining air, a mass of friendly strength. Except when a rare sledge or horseman passed, Mr. Bolles's journeys to the school were all to show it was not some pioneer colony in a new, white, silent world that heard only the playful shouts and songs of the buccaroos. The sun overhead and the hard-crushing snow underfoot filled every one with a crisp, tingling hilarity.