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It is Kris Kringle; I'm living out here for my health and doing a little ranching on the side." Stacy looked his amazement. "Is is he Santa Claus?" he whispered, tugging at Tad's coat sleeve. "No, young man. I am not related to the gentleman you refer to," grinned Mr. Kringle. There was a general laugh at Stacy's expense.
After donning it, he announced that he had an appetite and wanted to know when they were going to have supper. "Why, you had supper hours ago," scoffed Ned. "Want another one already?" "That wasn't supper, that was four o'clock tea. Indian fighters must have real food." "Stop teasing. We'll give the 'ittle baby his milk," returned Ned. That night, Kris Kringle remained on guard himself.
The guide, in the meantime, was experimenting with the boulder, inserting a pike pole here and there in an effort to move the big stone. It remained in place as solidly as if it had grown there. "There's some trick about the thing, I know, but what it is gets me. Better stand back, all of you, in case it comes out all of a sudden," Mr. Kringle warned them.
The Professor realized, at once, that they were in the home of a student and a collector. "This is indeed an oasis in the desert," he glowed. "I shall be loath to leave here." "Then don't," smiled Mr. Kringle. "I'm sure I am glad enough to have company. Seldom ever see anyone here, except now and then a roving band of Indians." "Indians!" exclaimed Tad. "Do you have any trouble with them?"
I heard the breathing of some one near me, also; but tried to argue myself into the belief that it was only imagination." Thus we conned over the little incident, while we arranged the children's toys. "I know who Kriss Kringle is! I know!" was the triumphant affirmation of one and another of the children, as we gathered at the breakfast table next morning.
He straightened himself; and Time, so disobliging to most of us, turned backward to accommodate Fuzzy. Forgotten Christmas ghosts whiter than the false beards of the most opulent Kris Kringle were rising in the fumes of Grogan's whisky.
And now this became an anxious function, for night had fallen and it would soon be necessary to light the candles 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.
For several rods Kringle ran along the faint trail that Tad and Stacy had left, or rather, that the fire had left after passing over it. "They beat their way out here. We may find them later. Come on!" Again Ned and the guide dashed away, both keeping their gaze on the smoking prairie about them. The smoke now was almost more than they could bear.
The guide relighted it, and, stepping outside to see what had happened, pointed to the place where Chunky had been sitting but a few minutes before. The bolt had struck in the identical spot where the previous one had landed. "Now, young man, there's an object lesson for you," Mr. Kringle said, with a grim smile. "And there's another!" replied Chunky, pointing to the outside of the tent.
The room in which they found themselves, proved to be a combination kitchen and dining room. Its neatness and orderliness impressed them at once. "And here," said Kris Kringle, "is what I call my den," throwing open a door leading into a rear room and lighting a hanging oil lamp. The Pony Rider Boys uttered an exclamation of surprised delight.
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