by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Clean Crazy,” “Monkeying with Ancestors,” etc.
“And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on
the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other
our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.”
Hank Padden shifted his seat on the top pole of the corral, and marks
the place with his finger.
“Now,” says he, “shall I orate the names of the men who signed it?”
“Never mind,” replies old man Whittaker. “We don’t know none of them,
personally, so we’ll let what you’ve already read be sufficient and
plenty. After listening to all you’ve read out of that book, Hank, I’m
of the impression that she’s a fitting day to be celebrated. What do
you think, Hen?”
“She’s worth a passing memorial,” says I, and “Scenery” Sims, the
fourth member of our committee, nods his head:
“She sure is, gents. I never cared for kings, except in jack-pots, and
our glorious forefathers sure did proclaim their feelings. I’m with
yuh from the hondo to the saddle-horn.”
That makes it unanimous. The night before there’s a meeting in
Paradise, and they appoints me and Scenery, Hank Padden and old man
Whittaker as a committee to investigate the reasons and so forth of
the Fourth of July, and whether, in our own minds, she’s of sufficient
import to consider a celebration.
We finds that she is. Hank Padden reads us the reasons out of a
dictionary, while we sets there on the corral top, at the Cross J.
Old man Whittaker owns the Cross J, Hank Padden the Seven A, and
Scenery Sims is the possessor of the Circle S outfit and the
squeakiest voice ever anchored in the throat of a human being. Every
time I hears Scenery start to talk I pray for cylinder oil or
chloroform. Me? I’m Henry Clay Peck. I work for old man Whittaker. I
ain’t got nothing but a conscience, a heap of respect for the truth
and the feeling that I lowers myself when I punches cows.
We has just arrived at our conclusion when “Muley” Bowles saunters
down to the corral, climbs up beside us and bends our seat all to
pieces. We four moves to the next section for safety. Muley weighs so
much that he has to bandage his bronc’s legs with splints to keep it
from being bowlegged. The world lost a cracking good poet when Muley
essayed to punch cows. He don’t look the part, not having soulful eyes
nor emaciated ribs, but when it comes to making up poetry he’s got ’em
all lashed to the snubbing-post.
“Has the committee arrived at a satisfactory conclusion?” he asks,
puffing hard on his cigaret, and shaking out a new rope.
“When the facts is made public we’ll let yuh know with the rest,”
squeaks Scenery, who dislikes Muley a heap.
“Who’s talking to you?” demands Muley. “Scenery, you takes too much
upon yourself. I been thinking of a sweet little rhyme what sounds
like this, and I gives yuh three guesses who I mean:
“He had a squeaky little voice,
A skinny little frame.
He lived in God’s own country,
But the country wa’n’t to blame.
Comparing him with growed-up men,
Who rode the Sawtooth Hills,
He looked like a pewter nickel
In a bunch of green-back bills.”
“Yah-h-h-h!” shrills Scenery. “You’re sore ’cause you wasn’t elected
to the committee. Lard!”
Scenery puts all the venom in his system into that last word, and at
the finish his voice would have split a cigaret paper. As he makes his
greasy statement his right boot snaps up to horizontal, and Muley’s
loop gets him around the ankle.
It sure was one beautiful and speedy piece of rope work, and the next
minute Scenery is on his shoulders in the corral, with his right foot
snubbed high and handsome to the top of a corral post.
Muley lights his cigaret and climbs down the other side.
“The committee will have to turn him loose,” he states. “I won’t
pollute my hands by touching him. I reckon the acid in his measly
little carcass will ruin that metal hondo before he gets loose, but
it’s worth it.”
Muley peers through the poles of the corral and grins at Scenery.
“Next time yuh opines to speak of a byproduct of your family, Scenery,
don’t look at me,” he states.
Our nerves are rasped considerable before we gets Scenery calmed down,
but we finally pacifies him, and all sets in judgment on the Fourth of
July again.
“Now that we’ve decided to celebrate—how’ll we do it?” asks Hank. “She
ought to be did befitting the solemnity of the occasion, hadn’t it,
Whittaker?”
“She deserves it,” agrees the old man. “We’ll have a salute at
sunrise, won’t we? Then what’ll we do?”
“We got to have a pe-rade,” squeaks Scenery. “Them is necessary
adjunct to celebrations. I was down to Cottonwood last Fourth, and
they sure had a humdinger of a pe-rade. Had a feller all dressed up in
a fancy hat and a sash, riding in front, and then comes a lot of
dress-up wagons, what they designates as floats. They has a beautiful
gal all dressed up to imitate Miss Columbus, and———”
“Who’s she?” asks Hank.
“Don’t you know who Columbus was?” asked Scenery, and Hank nods.
“Well, don’t ask fool questions then,” squeaks Scenery. “They has
hoss-races, foot-races and——”
“They didn’t have nothing that we can’t have,” pronounces Hank.
“We can have all that. I’ll ride at the head of the pe-rade and——”
“That ain’t unanimous,” interrupts Scenery. “Why you any more than me,
Hank? Next thing we know you’ll want to be Miss Columbus.”
“Hang on to yourselves,” advises Whittaker. “You fellers elects
yourselves to everything—seems to me. A leading man in a pe-rade ought
to dress the part, I reckon. When I lives in Great Falls I’m elected
as a ornery member of a organization. It had something to do about
woodcraft, and we dresses up like a plush hoss, when we meets. I still
got my war-bonnet and pants left. Some son of a gun stole the coat. I
still got my ax, too.”
“You still got the ax?” squeaks Scenery. “Wonderful! Go home and cut
some wood. I think your fire’s out.”
“While you old spavs are fighting for honors, what’s the matter with
considering me?” I asks. “You’re all so danged old and stove-up that
you’d have to lead it in a lumber-wagon. Look at me, and step back in
the ranks. I’m young, handsome——”
“Pause!” yelps Scenery. “Pause, Hen. It takes brains to lead a
pe-rade.”
“Then let’s not quarrel,” says I. “We ain’t eligible. Let’s settle
these little details later and in a place what ain’t so dry. It won’t
be the Fourth of July until day after tomorrow, so let’s adjourn.”
* * * * *
They agrees. Scenery and Hank goes home, and I goes up to the
bunk-house, where “Telescope” Tolliver and Muley are playing pitch.
“Hen, what has the committee decided to do?” askes Telescope.
I tells him what our plans are, so far, and while I’m telling in comes
“Chuck” Warner, the prize liar of Yaller Rock County. Chuck punches
cows with us for a living, and carries the greatest assortment of
prevarications on earth as a side-line. I been with him so long that
at times I shades the truth a little, too.
“They can’t all lead the pe-rade, that’s a cinch,” states Chuck. “I
seen a pe-rade down to New York one time that——”
“You never was in New York,” states Telescope.
“I was born there,” declares Chuck, wiggling his ears.
“In Pima County, Arizona,” says Telescope. “I know when, too, Chuck.”
“Dates don’t count, Telescope. I said I was born in New York, and it’s
my business if I wants to stick to my statement. Now, Telescope, if
you said you was born in a teepee on a Digger reservation I wouldn’t
argue with you for a minute. I’d take it as Gospel. A feller has a
right to a birthplace, and I takes New York.”
That argument shows Chuck Warner in his native state. He’s got a face
like a bronc, shortest legs on earth, and can wiggle his ears like a
burro. The only time he can’t look yuh square in the eye is when he’s
telling the truth.
“Yuh ought to get somebody with a little style to lead that pe-rade,
Hen,” opines Muley.
“Might get ‘Pole Cat’ Perkins or ‘Harelip’ Hansen,” laughs Telescope.
“Have Harelip ride one of his goats, and have Pole Cat walk slow
behind him, leading a skunk. Have the goat wear the old man’s striped
pants, and put Scenery’s hat on the skunk.”
“You fellers ought to be on the committee,” says I, sarcastic-like.
“Yuh might get up your own pe-rade.”
“That’s a good scheme,” agrees Chuck. “We’ll form a offensive and
defensive alliance.”
“Offensive is right,” says I, and then I goes up to see the old man.
The next morning me and the old man goes to Paradise, and goes into
executive session, with Scenery and Hank, in the rear of Dug Chaffin’s
saloon. Hank pounds on the table with his boot heel, and calls the
roll. We’re all present.
“Gents,” asks Hank, “who is going to lead the pe-rade?”
We looks at each other, and then the old man clears his throat.
“I looked up them lodge raiment, and they’re dazzlers.”
“I still got that hard hat that I wore to a Dimmicrat rally down to
Silver Bend ten year ago,” orates Scenery. “She looks a heap
dignified, and it’s too small for any of you fellers. I got a sword,
too—in a holster.”
“To lead a pe-rade a man ought to look dignified—not his clothes,”
proclaims Hank.
“This here glory thing is going to cause hard feelings,” says I. “I
moves that we does like this: we’ll all be here before the pe-rade is
ready to start, and we’ll let some uninterested party pick out the
suitable person for to lead it. Dress for the part, and if yuh don’t
get picked, be a good sport and pe-rade anyway.”
“That’ll keep the mortality down to a certain extent,” agrees Hank,
and the other two nods.
“Now,” says Hank, “how about this person to be Miss Columbus?”
“I got her picked,” states Scenery. “I nominates Miss Eulalie McFee.”
“Sheriff’s daughter, eh?” laughs Hank. “She’s so danged thin that if
she stood edge-ways yuh couldn’t see her, Scenery. I nominates Miss
Maggie Smith, niece of ‘Doughgod’ Smith. Who seconds the motion?”
“Miss Columbus ought to be a danged sight better-looking than Maggie
Smith,” states the old man. “Who ever heard of Miss Columbus with
crossed eyes and freckles? I marks X at the top of my ticket for Miss
Clarice Chaffin, daughter of Dug. Do I hear an agreeable voice?”
“Haw! Haw!” roars Hank. “Clarice Chaffin! This contest ain’t for no
animated flag-pole, Whittaker. How’s your sentiments, Hen?”
“I leans toward Mrs. Genevieve Saunders, widder of the late ‘Slim’
Saunders. She’d fill the part.”
“It would be danged small if she didn’t,” Scenery. “She weighs at
least two hundred and——”
“Scenery,” says I, “some day I’m going to hang a pebble on your neck,
throw yuh into a tin cup of water and drown yuh.”
“Let’s vote on it,” suggests Hank.
“It don’t require no vote,” replies Whittaker. “If Hen wants to drown
Scenery I’m——”
“I mean vote on the lady!” snaps Hank. We did. We each cast a vote for
our choice, and it starts a argument that’s a humdinger, and before we
leaves the council-chamber we’re mentally wallering in each other’s
gore.
Paradise is busy fixing up floats and decorations, and we’re asked a
lot of questions that we don’t dare to answer.
“Who is going to lead the pe-rade?” whispers Doughgod to me, and I
whispers back—
“I am.”