“That’s going to be a well-led pe-rade. She’s already got two front
ends.”
“Henry,” says Calamity, pointing at the dust, “they just missed that
gate-post as they goes out and they didn’t get on to the road for a
hundred yards. I’d opine that they ain’t familiar with the thing.”
“Was there anything left under the seat?” I asks.
“One two-gallon jug, Henry—and what was left in ours.”
“There is much to look forward to, Calamity,” says I. “Maybe we better
take a shovel along. I hope they don’t bust up your machine.”
“Don’t let that molest your heart strings, Henry. I been thinking for
several days thay maybe she’s going to be a fatal fad. Of course it’s
going to spoil my entry into Paradise. A person of my financial
standing hadn’t ought to enter his old home town except in a fitting
equipage. Ain’t I right, Henry?”
“Well,” says I, “since the old man left with his buckskin team and
rattle wagon, and some heartless hombre has turned loose every bronc
on the place, there ain’t no mode of locomotion in sight except them
two burros up there at the cook-shack. Are yuh too proud to straddle a
jackass, Calamity?’
“It’ll soon be dark, Henry. Many a man has done things in the dark
that he wouldn’t do in the light. Let’s equip the shameful things and
be on our way.”
We puts saddles on them long-eared things and pilgrims off down the
road in the dusty dusk. When we comes opposite the Saunders place, I
pulls up.
“Whow,” says I. “I got a mission to perform. We got to have a Miss
Columbus for your pe-rade, Calamity, and I got to bear her the news.”
We goes up and knocks on her door, and informs her of the fact.
“My gosh, Henry!” says she. “I ain’t got nothing to wear!”
“Ma’am,” says Calamity, bowing low, “don’t you let that worry yuh. A
figure like yours don’t need no clothes.”
The door shuts off the conversation, and we wanders back to our trusty
steeds.
“Calamity, you been a lot of help to me this evening,” says I. “You
sure cut our cinch with the widder Saunders.”
“I’m prostrated with grief,” orates the old pelican. “Anyway I don’t
see what Columbus has to do with my homecoming, Henry.”
“I can’t explain it to yuh, Calamity. You’d have to see it for
yourself.”
We pilgrims down to Paradise, and ties our steeds on a side street.
There’s a scarcity of rolling stock in sight, and it makes me wonder a
heap. Usually yuh can see broncs tied all over town, when a
celebration is in prospect.
We pokes along up the street to Mike Pelly’s saloon and goes inside.
Mike is alone in there, setting at the end of the bar, with a shotgun
beside him.
“What’s the matter with Paradise?” I asks.
“Civilization,” says Mike.
“Are we welcome?” asks Calamity, taking in the attitude of Mike, and
sizing up the place.
“You are,” replies Mike. “This place is neutral. I’d advise you to get
out of line with that window. The town is divided against itself.”
“What causes the divisions?” I asks, taking Mike’s advice.
Mike bites off a fresh chew and settles back in his chair.
* * * * *
“Numerous and sundry things, Henry. Old man Whittaker is setting up
there in Henderson’s barbershop, with a Winchester, swearing he’s
going to perforate Harelip Hansen, who is across the street in Dug
Chaffin’s corral, nursing a peeled nose and a six-shooter. The old man
swears that Harelip stole his clothes.
“Pole Cat Perkins is behind my place here, trying to jam some lead
into Scenery Sims before Scenery can slip some to him. It seems that
their trouble grows out of a clothes controversy, too. Pole Cat avers
that he’s going to slit Scenery with a rusty sword.
“Doughgod Smith seems to be seeking Hank Padden’s gore over something
about Columbus’ daughter, and Dug Chaffin’s got the same thing against
old man Whittaker and orates his intentions of puncturing the old
man’s hide for prevarication. Bill McFee refuses to arrest anybody
except Scenery Sims, and his feelings seem some rasped over this same
Columbus thing. Who in —— is Miss Columbus, Henry?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t, eh?” laughs Mike. “The —— yuh don’t! You sure ought to,
Henry. Yuh sent notes to both of the Mudgett sisters, to Hulda
Peterson, cook at the Triangle, Annie Schmidt, at the Seven A, and to
Mrs. ‘Breezy’ Benson, asking ’em to fill the part. Every one of them
has been down here looking for you today. According to what I can find
out there can’t more than one be it, and that seems to cause a heap of
dissatisfaction, Henry. Abe Mudgett and Breezy was here today, and
they are wishful to see yuh.”
“Henry,” says Calamity, “you’ve overdone your duty.”
“It would look thataway to a innocent bystander,” I agrees. “Where’s
all the broncs, Mike? Did everybody walk in today?”
“That’s where the civilization part comes in. A autymobile invades our
fair city today, and she swept us clean of hossflesh. Out on them
racks is fifteen pieces of rope flopping in the breeze. Old man
Whittaker’s buckskin team was in the lead the last we seen of the
race. That’s why nobody is leaving. They’d rather be shot at than
walk.”
“Who had the autymobile?” asks Calamity.
“Nobody knows. It went too fast for us to see.”
“Hoo, hoo!” comes a voice from outside, and we all ducks. “Hoo, hoo!”
she comes again, and then we hears a female voice, “Is Mister Peck in
there?”
“Go out and see who it is,” I whispers to Mike, but he shakes his
head:
“Not me. She wants you, Henry.”
“She can take it out in wanting. I don’t take no chances. You go out,
Calamity. Nobody’s got a thing against you.”
Calamity thinks it over, and then goes out all humped like he was
suffering from kidney disease. Me and Mike lays low, and pretty soon
Calamity comes sneaking back.
“It was that female person we went up to see,” he states. “She wishes
to forgive me, and wants me to tell you that she’ll take up your
offer, Henry. She’ll be Miss Columbus.”
“Another victim,” grunts Mike. “You’re a bigger liar than Chuck
Warner.”
“He done it for me,” defends Calamity. “Henry wanted to make my
homecoming a complete success, and it ain’t all his fault if it don’t
exactly work out. When a man has a pe-rade given in his honor he can’t
kick if some of the details do get a little balled up.”
“In your honor?” wonders Mike, out loud. “Are you Fourth of July,
Mister?”
“Fourth of July?” Calamity looks at me and Mike, and then seems to dig
deep-like into his memory for buried information.
While he seems to check off some numbers on his fingers, I edges
toward the back door. He nods, sort of agreeable-like, chaws one side
of his mustache, and fingers his waistline, where his gun makes a
bulge.
“Fourth of July,” he mutters. “Uh-huh. That’s right. Henry Peck told
me——”