Christmas By Injunction

O Henry

Cherokee was the civic father of Yellowhammer. Yellowhammer was a new mining

town constructed mainly of canvas and undressed pine. Cherokee was a prospector. One

day while his burro was eating quartz and pine burrs Cherokee turned up with his pick a

nugget, weighing thirty ounces. He staked his claim and then, being a man of breadth

and hospitality, sent out invitations to his friends in three States to drop in and share his

luck.

Not one of the invited guests sent regrets. They rolled in from the Gila country, from

Salt River, from the Pecos, from Albuquerque and Phoenix and Santa Fe, and from the

had kissed her hand to him. Never afterward did he turn up enough dust in

Yellowhammer to pay his bar bill. But his thousand invited guests were mostly

prospering, and Cherokee smiled and congratulated them.

Yellowhammer was made up of men who took off their hats to a smiling loser; so they

invited Cherokee to say what he wanted.

"Me?" said Cherokee, "oh, grubstakes will be about the thing. I reckon I'll prospect

along up in the Mariposas. If I strike it up there I will most certainly let you all know

about the facts. I never was any hand to hold out cards on my friends."

In May Cherokee packed his burro and turned its thoughtful, mouse- coloured forehead

to the north. Many citizens escorted him to the undefined limits of Yellowhammer and

accordance with their popular system of nomenclature. It was not necessary for a citizen

to exhibit his baptismal certificate in order to acquire a cognomen. A man's name was

his personal property. For convenience in calling him up to the bar and in designating

him among other blue-shirted bipeds, a temporary appellation, title, or epithet was

conferred upon him by the public. Personal peculiarities formed the source of the

majority of such informal baptisms. Many were easily dubbed geographically from the

regions from which they confessed to have hailed. Some announced themselves to be

"Thompsons," and "Adamses," and the like, with a brazenness and loudness that cast a

cloud upon their titles. A few vaingloriously and shamelessly uncovered their proper

and indisputable names. This was held to be unduly arrogant, and did not win

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letters, was given till sundown to leave the town. Such names as "Shorty," "Bow-legs,"

"Texas," "Lazy Bill," "Thirsty Rogers," "Limping Riley," "The Judge," and "California

Ed" were in favour. Cherokee derived his title from the fact that he claimed to have

wine; and Cherokee he audits all the bills, C.O.D. His pockets looked like a pool table's

after a fifteen-ball run.

"Cherokee must have struck pay ore," remarked California Ed. "Well, he's white. I'm

much obliged to him for his success."

"Seems like Cherokee would ramble down to Yellowhammer and see his friends," said

another, slightly aggrieved. "But that's the way. Prosperity is the finest cure there is for

lost forgetfulness."

"You wait," said Baldy; "I'm comin' to that. Cherokee strikes a three- foot vein up in the

Mariposas that assays a trip to Europe to the ton, and he closes it out to a syndicate

outfit for a hundred thousand hasty dollars in cash. Then he buys himself a baby sealskin

full of drums and dolls and skates and bags of candy and jumping-jacks and toy lambs

and whistles and such infantile truck. And what do you think he's goin' to do with them

inefficacious knick- knacks? Don't surmise none--Cherokee told me. He's goin' to lead

'em up in his red sleigh and--wait a minute, don't order no drinks yet-- he's goin' to drive

down here to Yellowhammer and give the kids--the kids of this here town--the biggest

Christmas tree and the biggest cryin' doll and Little Giant Boys' Tool Chest blowout that

was ever seen west of the Cape Hatteras."

Two minutes of absolute silence ticked away in the wake of Baldy's words. It was

broken by the House, who, happily conceiving the moment to be ripe for extending

hospitality, sent a dozen whisky glasses spinning down the bar, with the slower

fizzy wine I speak of; so I never let on."

"I cannot refrain from a certain amount of surprise," said the Judge, as he hung his

gone from Yellowhammer over seven months. Lots of things could happen in that time.

"Come to think of it," remarked California Ed, "it's funny some ain't drifted in. Town

ain't settled enough yet for to bring in the rubber- ring brigade, I reckon."

"To top off this Christmas-tree splurge of Cherokee's," went on Baldy, "he's goin' to

give an imitation of Santa Claus. He's got a white wig and whiskers that disfigure him

up exactly like the pictures of this William Cullen Longfellow in the books, and a red

suit of fur-trimmed outside underwear, and eight-ounce gloves, and a stand-up, lay-

down croshayed red cap. Ain't it a shame that a outfit like that can't get a chance to

connect with a Annie and Willie's prayer layout?"

"When does Cherokee allow to come over with his truck?" inquired Trinidad.

"Mornin' before Christmas," said Baldy. "And he wants you folks to have a room fixed

enough to let it be a surprise for the kids."

The unblessed condition of Yellowhammer had been truly described. The voice of

buildings. Later they would come. But now Yellowhammer was but a mountain camp,

enchanting day; the eager, small hands to reach for Santa's bewildering hoard; the

warm-hearted Cherokee deserved.

Of women there were five in Yellowhammer. The assayer's wife, the proprietress of the

Lucky Strike Hotel, and a laundress whose washtub panned out an ounce of dust a day.

These were the permanent feminines; the remaining two were the Spangler Sisters,

Misses Fanchon and Erma, of the Transcontinental Comedy Company, then playing in

repertoire at the (improvised) Empire Theatre. But of children there were none.

Sometimes Miss Fanchon enacted with spirit and address the part of robustious

childhood; but between her delineation and the visions of adolescence that the fancy

offered as eligible recipients of Cherokee's holiday stores there seemed to be fixed a

gulf.

Christmas would come on Thursday. On Tuesday morning Trinidad, instead of going to

Christmas tree blowout. You might say that that man made this town. For one, I'm goin'

"My co-operation," said the Judge, "would be gladly forthcoming. I am indebted to

Cherokee for past favours. But, I do not see--I have heretofore regarded the absence of

children rather as a luxury--but in this instance--still, I do not see--"

word at school."

"I will accompany you," declared the Judge, waving his cane. "Perhaps such eloquence

and gift of language as I possess will be of benefit in persuading our young friends to

lend themselves to our project."

Within an hour Yellowhammer was acquainted with the scheme of Trinidad and the

Judge, and approved it. Citizens who knew of families with offspring within a forty-

mile radius of Yellowhammer came forward and contributed their information. Trinidad

The first stop scheduled was at a double log-house fifteen miles out from

Yellowhammer. A man opened the door at Trinidad's hail, and then came down and

some ragged, all full of curiosity and health.

"It's this way," explained Trinidad. "We're from Yellowhammer, and we come

red and made in Germany. The youngest kid we got in Yellowhammer packs a forty-five

we light the candles on the Christmas tree. Now, partner, if you'll loan us a few kids we

down with a good time and Swiss Family Robinsons and cornucopias and red drums

and similar testimonials. What do you say?"

"In other words," said the Judge, "we have discovered for the first time in our embryonic

but progressive little city the inconveniences of the absence of adolescence. The season

of the year having approximately arrived during which it is a custom to bestow frivolous

but often appreciated gifts upon the young and tender--"

"I understand," said the parent, packing his pipe with a forefinger. "I guess I needn't

detain you gentlemen. Me and the old woman have got seven kids, so to speak; and,

runnin' my mind over the bunch, I don't appear to hit upon none that we could spare for

dolls hid in the clothes chest, and we allow to give Christmas a little whirl of our own in

Down the slope they drove and up another foothill to the ranch-house of Wiley Wilson.

until she had seen Wiley laugh and shake his head. Again a refusal.

Trinidad and the Judge vainly exhausted more than half their list before twilight set in

somethin' like tryin' to steal butter from a man that's got hot pancakes a-comin'."

On the day before Christmas they drove thirty miles, making four fruitless halts and

appeals. Everywhere they found "kids" at a premium.

The sun was low when the wife of a section boss on a lonely railroad huddled her

unavailable progeny behind her and said:

"There's a woman that's just took charge of the railroad eatin' house down at Granite

Junction. I hear she's got a little boy. Maybe she might let him go."

Trinidad pulled up his mules at Granite Junction at five o'clock in the afternoon. The

train had just departed with its load of fed and appeased passengers.

cigarette. The dining-room had been left in chaos by the peripatetic appetites. A

had once possessed a certain style of beauty that would never wholly leave her and

"I'd count it a mercy if you'd take Bobby for a while," she said, wearily. "I'm on the go

from the men. It'll be the only chance he'll have to get any Christmas."

The men went outside and conferred with Bobby. Trinidad pictured the glories of the

Christmas tree and presents in lively colours.

"And, moreover, my young friend," added the Judge, "Santa Claus himself will

personally distribute the offerings that will typify the gifts conveyed by the shepherds of

Bethlehem to--"

"Aw, come off," said the boy, squinting his small eyes. "I ain't no kid. There ain't any

Santa Claus. It's your folks that buys toys and sneaks 'em in when you're asleep. And

they make marks in the soot in the chimney with the tongs to look like Santa's sleigh

tracks."

"That might be so," argued Trinidad, "but Christmas trees ain't no fairy tale. This one's

"Oh, rats!" said Bobby, wearily. "I cut them out long ago. I'd like to have a rifle--not a

"Well, I can't say for sure," said Trinidad diplomatically; "it might be. You go along

with us and see."

sufficient for more than a score of children, stood in the centre of the floor. Near sunset

anxious eyes had begun to scan the street for the returning team of the child-providers.

At noon that day Cherokee had dashed into town with his new sleigh piled high with

bundles and boxes and bales of all sizes and shapes. So intent was he upon the

arrangements for his altruistic plans that the dearth of children did not receive his notice.

No one gave away the humiliating state of Yellowhammer, for the efforts of Trinidad

and the Judge were expected to supply the deficiency.

When the sun went down Cherokee, with many wings and arch grins on his seasoned

pack containing special and undisclosed gifts.

"When the kids are rounded up," he instructed the volunteer arrangement committee,

William.' When they get good and at it, why--old Santa'll slide in the door. I reckon

their new drama, "The Miner's Bride." The theatre did not open until nine, and they were

the door to look and listen for the approach of Trinidad's team. And now this became an

on the tree, and Cherokee was apt to make an irruption at any time in his Kriss Kringle

garb.

At length the wagon of the child "rustlers" rattled down the street to the door. The

ladies, with little screams of excitement, flew to the lighting of the candles. The men of

Yellowhammer passed in and out restlessly or stood about the room in embarrassed

groups.

Trinidad and the Judge, bearing the marks of protracted travel, entered, conducting

between them a single impish boy, who stared with sullen, pessimistic eyes at the gaudy

tree.

"Where are the other children?" asked the assayer's wife, the acknowledged leader of all

huntin' in a limestone for silver. This parental business is one that I haven't no chance to

Christmas Day they insists on enjoyin' the exclusive mortification of their company.

This here young biped, ma'am, is all that washes out of our two days' manoeuvres."

helped."

Then the door opened and Cherokee entered in the conventional dress of Saint Nick. A

white rippling beard and flowing hair covered his face almost to his dark and shining

eyes. Over his shoulder he carried a pack.

No one stirred as he came in. Even the Spangler Sisters ceased their coquettish poses

and stared curiously at the tall figure. Bobby stood with his hands in his pockets gazing

gloomily at the effeminate and childish tree. Cherokee put down his pack and looked

being herded somewhere, to be loosed upon his entrance. He went up to Bobby and

extended his red-mittened hand.

it down for you. Won't you shake hands with Santa Claus?"

"There ain't any Santa Claus," whined the boy. "You've got old false billy goat's

to rustle a bunch of 'em for your swaree, but this sardine was all we could catch. He's a

atheist, and he don't believe in Santa Claus. It's a shame for you to be out all this truck.

But me and the Judge was sure we could round up a wagonful of candidates for your

gimcracks."

"That's all right," said Cherokee gravely. "The expense don't amount to nothin' worth

mentionin'. We can dump the stuff down a shaft or throw it away. I don't know what I

was thinkin' about; but it never occurred to my cogitations that there wasn't any kids in

Yellowhammer."

Meanwhile the company had relaxed into a hollow but praiseworthy imitation of a

"Granite Junction," said Bobby without emphasis.

The room was warm. Cherokee took off his cap, and then removed his beard and wig.

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."

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

Cherokee drove his sleigh to the door, and they lifted Bobby in beside him. The team of

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

"Dead sure. I seen her do it."