HOPELESS BILL DALE

Christmas came, by the big calendar that hung on the wall of Tommy's Place. It did not come in the heart of Bill Dale. Don Hunter, riding thoughtfully to dead Parowan, begged Bill to come and spend the holiday at the ranch. Mother Hunter, he said, had made fresh mincemeat and was fattening a turkey, and she'd feel hurt if Bill didn't show up to help celebrate.

Bill was standing by the whim, watching Tommy unhitch the burros from the sweeps. Bill's face was grimed, his shoulders drooped a bit. He had put in five long holes since noon, and the rock was hard. His eyes went down to the empty roofs of Parowan that was; wandered farther, to where the big house stood staunchly upon its knoll, solid, beautiful,—but with no smoke curling up into the nipping air.

"Tell her I'm sorry, Don. I can't—keep Christmas." He swung away and went down the trail, biting his lip, fighting the hot surge of rebellious thoughts. Christmas! Good God, did they think he was made of stone? Did they think, because he wouldn't whine like a beaten dog—did they think it meant so little to him—all this desolation?

"Dead—inside and out," he muttered fiercely. "And they think I can eat turkey and mince pie and call it—Christmas!"

Behind him, hazing the burros, Tommy was talking plaintively to Don.

"I wouldn't urrge 'im, Mr. Hunter. He worrks like tin men, he does. An' he eats hearty, an' he plays pinochle wit' me of an evenin'. He's havin' 'is joke wit' me an' the burrd an' the dorg—but I've eyes in me head, Mr. Hunter. The heart of 'im's weepin' tears of blood whilst the lips of 'em's laughin' belike. It shows in the eyes of 'im. It does that, Mr. Hunter."

There was no Christmas in Parowan, then. On that day Bill worked harder than ever, and mortared and panned some pieces of quartz that seemed "likely looking rock." He got colors in the pan and professed to be very much encouraged, he talked about formations and ore deposits and bedding planes, on Christmas night, until Tommy fell asleep in his chair and dropped his pipe, breaking the mouthpiece.

"I'll make you a bargain, Tommy," Bill said then, his eyes brighter than they should be, "We'll go over to my store, and you can pick out the best pipe there. And then, if you're human, you'll invite me into your 'Place' and set 'em up. I'd like to get drunk—stony, blind drunk. But I don't think I shall, because I want to put in a thundering big day to-morrow."

Tommy blinked and couldn't find his hat, which was on his head. And Bill laughed at him all the way to the store. He laughed, too, when he pushed Tommy behind the bar to serve the drinks; made him put on a white apron, polish the bar with a towel before and afterwards,—do the thing in style. But neither of them mentioned Christmas.

After that, Bill went away, still laughing at something funny. He said that he was going to bed. But the next morning, when Tommy went over to Bill's camp for breakfast, there were Bill's tracks in the fresh-fallen snow,—tracks coming up from across the gulch and turning in at the gate. Seeing them there, Tommy blinked again. He knew that it had not snowed until dawn was breaking.

One day, when Tommy was washing the dishes—Bill taking a turn at the blacksmithing—he came across two letters tucked behind a jar of fermenting peaches which should have gone into the discard days ago. Tommy pulled out the envelopes, goggled down at them and saw that one was addressed to Parowan, Nevada, and that the address had been covered by a red stamped notice, "NO SUCH POSTOFFICE." Below that was another address—where the Hunters got their mail. The other envelope bore a later date, and was addressed in care of D. L. Hunter. Neither envelope had been opened,—an over-sight which caused Tommy some anxiety. He thought it was darned careless of Don Hunter to put them up in the cupboard and say nothing about them.

So, "Here's a coupla letters Mr. Hunter musta brought yuh an' fergot to give yuh," he said, the moment Bill stepped inside for a drink.

Bill took the letters, glanced at them, lifted the lid of the stove and thrust them deep into the fire.