At first glance you would have said the man was sixty. A closer inspection, and you would have said seventy, perhaps. As a matter of fact, he was forty. Tall, lean jawed, with a deeply lined face, hair as gray as a December rabbit, a decided sag to his lean shoulders.

He wore a faded old mackinaw coat over a faded shirt, Oregon pants, old sheepskin chaps, worn high heel boots, and atop his gray head was a floppy old Stetson, smoke and weather stained to a greenish hue.

A tough-looking customer was Wanderin’ Jones, known up and down the cattle country as a salty old sinner who never smiled. Wanderin’ never stayed long in one place. He was a good cow hand, honest as the proverbial dollar, silent as a clam. The bunkhouse and camp-fire had never heard his story, because he never told it.

Just now he was sitting in a saloon, humped near the stove. There were only two other men in the place; the bartender and a young cowboy, flushed of face, drinking raw liquor, talking excitedly, vehemently. Wanderin’ could not hear what was said, but he knew the cowboy was working up a rage against somebody. He had seen the same thing done plenty of times. Sometimes it had meant a killing.

The young cowboy went out on unsteady legs; the bartender smiled grimly after him as he polished up the bar. From far away came the soft notes of a church bell. Wanderin’ lifted his head, listening intently. Even through the closed door came the musical clang-clang—clang-clang of the bell.

The bartender came over and stoked the stove, but Wanderin’ did not look at him.

“Christmas Eve,” muttered the bartender. “Ought to be some of the boys driftin’ in pretty soon. Must be zero outside.”

Wanderin’ lifted his eyes and looked at the bartender.

“Christmas Eve?” he muttered. “That’s right.”

His lips compressed tightly for a moment, and the hinges of his lean jaws bulged, as he nodded thoughtfully.

“Christmas Eve.”

“Shore is,” said the bartender. “Didja ever believe in Santa Claus?”

“I guess not.”

The bartender shrugged his shoulders, turning his back to the stove.

“Peace on earth, good will to men,” he said slowly.

“Somethin’ like that,” said Wanderin’ softly.

“That’s what they say it means, but it don’t always work out that way. You noticed that kid in here a while ago? Name’s Archie Bell. There’s two brothers, Archie and Buck. Work for different outfits, good pals. I mean they was, until a girl came to this town a month or so ago.”

Wanderin’ blinked quickly and his eyes narrowed, as he looked at the back of the bartender.

“Both want the same girl?” His voice was a little husky.

“That’s the idea,” laughed the bartender. “Archie thought he had her, but he’s scared Buck has cut him out. Dance tonight, you know. Archie says she ain’t goin’ with him—refused his bid, you see. Well—” shrugging his shoulders—“Archie’s drunk, and his trigger finger itches.”

The bartender laughed shortly and turned to look at Wanderin’.

“What’s the matter?” he asked quickly. “Sick?”

“I’m all right,” breathed Wanderin’, but his face was ashen.

“Better take a shot of likker, pardner.”

“I never drink on Christmas Eve,” he said huskily.

Wanderin’ got slowly to his feet and began buttoning up his mackinaw. It had only one button, but he fumbled at the buttonholes, as he walked out of the warm saloon. The little Northwest town lay under a twelve-inch blanket of snow, and the stars seemed fairly to crackle overhead. Several more saloon windows shed their yellow light on the snow-piled street. Sleigh bells jingled somewhere. Smoky lantern over a livery stable door, the creak of wagon wheels on the dry snow.

Wanderin’ crossed the street in front of a store, where the light barely filtered through the frosted windows. He was a stranger here. His horse was in the livery stable. A boy came from the store, carrying a bundle, and Wanderin’ accosted him.

“Pardner, I’m a stranger here,” he said, “and I’m lookin’ for a family that jist moved here a month or so ago. I reckon there’s a girl about—mebbe eighteen—in the family, and I—”

“Guess I know who you mean,” said the boy. “They’re the only ones that came here lately. I’m goin’ past their place.”

They went down the street together, turned at the corner and went out across the snow for nearly a quarter of a mile, where the lights of a home shone dimly.

“That’s their place,” said the boy.

“Thank you, pardner.”

The boy went on, whistling. Wanderin’ stopped at the sagging gate. Inside the house some one was playing an organ. Wanderin’ listened, his hands tucked inside his mackinaw. Finally he went in close to the front porch. It was warmer in there against the house. A girl was singing now, and Wanderin’s body tensed, his hands clenching tightly.

Singing “Forgetting.” He almost cried out. It flung him back twenty years; wiped out twenty years of a wandering hell, and brought him back to the beginning again. There were two voices now—two women’s voices. Wanderin’s hand went to his mouth, as though to stifle a cry. The church bell was ringing again.

A horse and rider were coming across the snow, a moving blot against the white snow. They reached the gate, and the man dismounted. Now he was coming toward the door, reeling a little. There was a male voice in the song now. A sudden laugh, the music stopped.

“I can’t carry a tune,” laughed the male voice. “Archie’s the singer in our family.”

The man had reached the porch. He didn’t see Wanderin’ until the tall man was into him, fairly swinging him off his feet. A flash of light on a far-flung six-shooter, a sudden heave, and Archie Bell went off the porch, falling headlong into the snow.

The clatter of their feet on the swept porch, a heave, perhaps a grunt, and Wanderin’ Jones was standing alone at the door, panting a little, as the door opened. A tall, sweet-faced girl was staring at him, while behind her stood a blond-headed young man. No one spoke for a few moments. Then:

“Mebbe I got the wrong house,” said Wanderin’ slowly. “You see, I’m a stranger, and—”

“Well, come in and get warm,” invited the girl. “It’s awful cold out there.”

Wanderin’ removed his battered sombrero and came slowly in. There was a Christmas tree, all glittering with ornaments and candles, a crackling fireplace. He came farther in, and the girl closed the door.

“May I take your hat?” she asked.

But Wanderin’ was staring at a woman who was framed in a doorway. Her hair was touched with gray, but she was still beautiful. Wanderin’s eyes were wide with something akin to fright.

“Who was it, Emma?” asked a voice behind her, and a man came in, carrying an armful of wood.

She moved aside and he stopped in the doorway. He limped a little. Now he stopped and stared at Wanderin’, his jaw sagging a little, and he swayed one shoulder against the side of the doorway. Twice his lips framed a name, before he spoke.

“Jim!”

Wanderin’ Jones swayed, and the back of his right hand went to his thin lips, as he whispered—

“Harry!”

The man stooped over and placed the wood on the carpet. His face was working strangely, as if he wanted to cry.

“My God!” whispered Wanderin’. “That ain’t you, Harry! You’re...”

“Jim—really?” whispered the woman.

Wanderin’ shook his head dumbly.

“Dreamin’,” he said huskily. “It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m dreamin’ again.”

“But you are not dreaming, Jim,” insisted the woman. “How in the world did you ever come here?”

Wanderin’ went slowly across the room. He seemed afraid to touch the other man. His face was twitching, his body hunched forward.

“It’s me, Jimmy,” said the man, choking a little. “We never knew where you went. We looked for you—oh, it wasn’t because of the law. You was hot-blooded. I didn’t blame you, Jimmy. I—I reckon I’d have killed you—even if you was my brother—if you tried to take her away from me. I took her away from you, but it was because we loved each other.”

“I thought I killed you, Harry.”

“Close to it, Jimmy; got my hip. But that’s forgotten. Laura—” he turned to the wondering girl—“this is your Uncle Jimmy. Jimmy, meet Buck Bell.”

They shook hands gravely.

“I met your brother, Buck,” said Wanderin’.

“Archie? Great kid. I didn’t know he was comin’ to town. I’ll have to see him. Funny he didn’t come down here, Laura. Mebbe he got sore because you wouldn’t go to the dance with him. You see—” he turned to Wanderin’—“Archie is—well, he spends quite a lot of time down here. Laura thought it wouldn’t be right to leave her folks and go to a dance tonight.”

“You—you wasn’t goin’ to take her?” faltered Wanderin’.

Buck laughed softly.

“I never danced in my life; and I’ve got a girl down the valley. You see, I came here early this evenin’, ’cause I was sure Archie would come, but I reckon he won’t be here. I’ve got a new six-shooter to give him for a Christmas present.”

“I—I reckon he needs a new one,” said Wanderin’ softly, and turned to look at the woman he had loved, and at the man, who was his brother.

“Uncle Jimmy, did you ever believe in Santy Claus?” asked Laura.

“I do,” replied Wanderin’ slowly, “and peace on earth.... Now, you folks excuse me for a minute while I ask a young frien’ of mine in, what’s waitin’ out here in the snow.”