en 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.

Before the sun first touched Castle Rock on the morning of the feast
they were up and in high feather over at the bunk-house. They raced
across to see what Sam was cooking; they begged and joyfully swallowed
lumps of his raw plum-pudding. "Merry Christmas!" they wished him, and
"Melly Clismas!" said he to them. They played leap-frog over by the
stable, they