Part 2

“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——”

I opens the door, easy-like, and misses the rest of the complaint.

“Now,” says I to me, “you’re branded as a liar, Henry Peck. The best thing you can do is to get your little jackass and go home. Your forefathers never fought for glorious freedom, so there ain’t no use of you celebrating the happy event. The men who were responsible for the Pecks’ family tree was all hung for lying and stealing long before the Declaration of Independence was signed.”

With these few cheering words ringing in my windpipe I ambles around the corner, and down to where we left them burros. I gets there just in time. Scenery Sims is untying one of my trusty animiles, so I quickens my pace and shoves a gun in his ribs.

“Unhand that charger!” I roars in his ear, and Scenery wilts against the hitch-rack. “You danged burro thief!” I hisses. “If you wants to lead that pe-rade—go get your own rolling stock.”

“I—I—I dud-don’t want to le-lead nothing but the sus-simple life,” he stutters. “I want to go home, Henry. Pup-Pole Cat shot the back out of my suspenders, and stuck a bullet into the cylinder of my gun so she won’t work. I’m through, Hen. You lead it.”

Here comes somebody down the street toward us, puffing like a bronc with the heaves. He lopes up to us, sticks his heels into the ground and skids around to the opposite side of the burros. It is old man Whittaker.

“Quick!” he pants. “I’m rushed to death.”

Then he begins to fuss with a tie rope.

“Is speed essential?” I asks, and he snorts. “You know it is! I’m out of shells—got more at the ranch. Dang the man what tied this rope!”

Just then somebody fires a shot up the street and I don’t hesitate. I hops on to that Rocky Mountain canary, sets my spurs into his hide, and down the street we goes, frog-hopping, high, wide and handsome. A bullet plows under my steed, and he sails out of Paradise faster than any burro ever did before or since.

We keep up that speed for about a mile, and then slows down to a amble. I know where a pack-trail leaves the main road, a mile or so above where the road does, so I opines to take the shortest route to the Cross J. I leads my animile, while I searches for the trail in the dark, and all to once I hears voices down the road. I hears Muley’s bass and Chuck’s baritone, a cross between a greaseless wheel and pneumonia, raised in song—

“‘It was at Aunt Dinah’s quilting partee-e-e-e——’”

Then Telescope’s tenor rings in—

“‘I was see-e-e-e-e-eing Nellie-e-e-e-e home.’”

“Tha’s harmonee,” I hears Chuck opine. “Le’s all shing ‘Holy City.’ ‘Lash night as I lay sheeping’—shay, Teleschope, why don’t this machine go on, eh?”

“How do I know,” replies Telescope. “Shomebody light ’nother match so I can read the reashon in the little book.”

“Aw, who cares?” asks Muley. “Let’s have more cheer—listen:

“I love a little lager beer, I love a little wine; A little bit a alcohol Makes my heart feel fine. But when I want a reg’lar drink, To make my feelings hug, I take a little snifter From the old brown jug.”

I sets there and listens to that kind of a conversation for a while. They tries to sing another song, but she don’t finish, and after a while I wanders down and looks ’em over.

* * * * *

Chuck is in the bottom of the machine, with his boots hanging over the dashboard, while Telescope is doubled up in the seat, with his feet on Chuck’s head. Muley is on the ground, with his head through a space in a front wheel, where some spokes are missing, and he’s snoring by note.

I rolls him away from the machine. I gives Telescope a gentle shove, hangs on to his leg so he won’t hit too hard and deposits him along with Muley. Chuck is wedged in there pretty tight, and when I opines to loosen him a little he orates something about wanting his maw to wake him up, ’cause he’s going to be queen of the May. I never did like to ride alone, so I lets him stay. It pains me to see the flower of young manhood in the gutter of alcohol thataway. I finds the jug, and am glad to see that part of it is still there.

I drinks what would measure about three inches in a wash-tub, before I remembers how Calamity runs that machine, but all to once she comes back to me. I sets that brake, gives her a mighty twist, and away she goes, _whirrup, whirrup, whirrup, zuz, zuz, zuz, zuz_.

I’ve rode a lot of broncs that didn’t sabe the meaning of a bit, but that thing was less bridlewise than anything I ever seen. We grinds back toward Paradise, smelling of burnt grease, gasoline and so forth. I takes another look into that jug, and feels so elevated that I puts my feet over the dashboard. Somehow that seems to give the critter more freedom, and we goes faster.

I gets so expert right away that I can drive one-handed, and I discovers a little jigger on the handle that will make her prick up her ears at a touch. I gives her a few touches, and marvels at how fast the mesquite goes past, when all to once I hears a yelp, and we hits something or somebody, and when I stops I’m cross ways of the road.

My machine is as dead as a nail. Pretty soon I hears a rustling noise in the dark, and then old man Whittaker’s voice:

“Who run into me? Gol dingle dang yuh! Blasted mule couldn’t run faster than I could! Hey, you feller with a autymobile! Ain’t yuh got no sense? Gol dang your soul, I’ll show yuh how yuh can run me down! _Bang!_”

He cut loose with that six-gun, and I drops out the other side and sneaks behind a tree.

I hears the old man cussing some more, and pretty soon he finds the machine and strikes a match. He has to light the second one before he finds what he’s looking for. He holds the match above his head for a minute and then wails:

“Gol dang yuh, Chuck! Why didn’t yuh speak? Aw ——! Chuckie, where did I hit yuh? Can’t yuh speak to a feller? Are yuh dead? My ——!”

He’s silent for a spell, and then he starts again:

“Where’s that danged slow-footed mule? Here yuh are, yuh long-eared snail! Got to get a doctor. Self-defense—nope, accident. Whoa! Maybe his neck is broke, too. Aw, this ain’t no way to celebrate nohow.”

He pilgrims off up the road, complaining about everything and cussing that mule for taking him all over the State instead of straight to the Cross J. I’d opine that the old man was so excited that he’d taken the wrong road out of town.

I hauls the front end of that machine around again, and winds her up. If that front end hadn’t been against a rock my obituary would have been written right there in the dusty road, ’cause she’s wide open, with no brake set. She’s backing and filling when I hops aboard, and we begins our merry ride once more.

I rubs my heel on Chuck’s ear and yells:

“Chuck, you’re dead! Old man Whittaker shot yuh.”

“Tha’s good,” he replies. “Same to you and many of ’em.”

We runs slow-like to Paradise, and I bumps the front end of the machine into McFee’s corral to stop her. I gives Chuck an alcoholic anesthetic, and leaves him there. I ambles over to the town, and finds a crowd in front of Mike’s place. I moves up closer and hears the conversation.

“It was deplorable,” I hears old man Whittaker state, with tears in his voice. “I loved Chuck like he was my own son. It was a accident, Bill—just accidental. You don’t think I’d kill him with malice aforethought, do yuh, Bill?”

“We can tell better what yuh killed him with after we sees the re-mains,” replies Bill. “I can’t help jailing yuh, Whit. It’s the law. If you’re innocent, yuh ain’t got nothing to fear. I got Scenery Sims down there now, so yuh won’t get lonesome.”

“What did Scenery do?” asks the old man.

“Disturbed the peace. This place is law-abiding, if yuh asks me. Just for the looks of the thing we’ll take Doc Milliken along, while we gets your victim’s body. Where did yuh say this here dastardly deed was done?”

“It wasn’t dastardly!” whoops the old man. “It was accidental, I tell yuh! It happens near where the old pack-trail leaves the main road. You know where that is?”

“I know. Wait a minute, fellers, and I’ll be with yuh.”

He takes the old man and goes off down toward the jail, and when he comes back they all gets in that wagon and rattles off down the road. The old man must a been rattled, ’cause it happens a long ways this side of the pack-trail end. That’s where I leaves Muley and Telescope.

Mike and Calamity stands there on the porch as the wagon leaves, and I hears Mike yell at Bill:

“Hey, Bill! Be sure and get back before sunrise on account of them salutes.”

“What salutes is them?” asks Calamity.

“Bill’s got ’em down in the jail. He’s got five ten-gallon kerosene cans full of water down there, and in each can is six sticks of dynamite, wrapped in canvas and covered with axle-grease. They’re all ready to touch off. Some salute, eh? Now, if Bill’s late we won’t have our sunrise salute.”

They goes back inside. I looks at my watch, and sees that it’s danged near morning, and at the same time I gets a happy idea. I ambles back to the autymobile, and finds Chuck setting on the seat, holding his head in his hands.

“Henry,” says he, “how came I here, and why am I so dry?”

“I brought yuh here, Chuck, and I hid the jug under the wagon.”

I gives him a shock and he gets enthusiastic.

“Chuck,” says I, “would yuh like to hear a big, big noise?”

“That’s the idea, Henry—a great big noise. Can’t be too big. Where yuh going to get it?”

I tells him about them loaded cans down at the jail, and he’s for me. We enthuses over the jug a little more, and then goes down to the jail. I posts Chuck about a hundred feet from the jail, and tells him to watch for anybody coming from town.

* * * * *

The Paradise jail ain’t much. It’s one story, mostly dobe, and stands way out from any other shack, a grim reminder that there still is law and order—at times. A strong man might kick the walls loose if they wasn’t afraid the roof would fall on ’em. I takes a rock and busts the padlock. There’s only one cell in the place, and when I lights a match I sees the faces of Scenery Sims and the old man.

I busts the lock off the cell door, and lets ’em out.

“Vamoose!” I whispers. “Get a-going. We don’t want no lynching in Paradise on the Fourth of July.”

“But, Henry—” squeaks Scenery.

“No time for argument!” I snaps. “You’ll find out later. Go fast and far. Sabe?”

“I’ll make this right with you, Henry,” says the old man, earnest-like, and I nods in the dark and says to myself—

“You’ll likely try.”

They slips out together, and in about a minute I hears Chuck come up to the door, and he seems peevish over something.

“Hen!” he whispers. “Aw, Hen! Henry Peck!”

I don’t say nothing, and pretty soon he remarks, sad-like:

“Drunk. Saw two Henry Pecks go away from here. Must be drunk as a boiled owl.”

He goes out of hearing, complaining to himself about the effects of alcohol on the optic nerves.

I takes the dynamite out of them cans and puts it in one pile on the floor. Bill must a been afraid of that stuff, ’cause he’s got about ten minutes’ worth of extra fuse.

I runs the fuse out the door, puts the padlock back in place, and touches her off. I goes back up to Mike’s place but don’t go in. Mike and Calamity are playing cards, while they waits for Chuck’s body to arrive, so I goes over and climbs up on the hitch-rack. I gets up there, and gets right down. Comes a rumble and a shake, the town is lit up for a second, and then it begins to rain pieces of jail all over town. Thirty sticks of dynamite is some little dwelling-mover.

Mike and Calamity staggers out on the porch, and gazes at the world.

“What do yuh reckon it was?” gasps Calamity.

“Dynamite!” yells Mike. “There’s —— to pay and no pitch hot!”

“Bill McFee insisted on leaving that stuff in the jail until it was time to touch it off, and he done put old man Whittaker and Scenery Sims in there—and—they both smoke!”

“Gosh all hemlock!” wails Calamity. “There ain’t a thing we can do, is there, Mike?”

“Nothing. When you’re near thirty sticks of dynamite, and she goes off, there ain’t nothing that anybody can do—not even the coroner.”

They don’t much more than get inside, when I hears the rattle of wheels, and into Paradise comes the ambulance. They swings around in front of the place and stops. Out comes Mike and Calamity.

“Was he dead?” asks Mike, and we hears McFee snort:

“Old man Whittaker must be crazy! We couldn’t find Chuck nor the autymobile. All we found was Muley and Telescope, setting along the road trying to sing. They don’t know about no shooting scrape. Whittaker is a danged old liar!”

“Don’t speak disrespectable of the dead,” advises Calamity. “No matter how a man acted in this vale of tears yuh hadn’t ought to besmirch his memory with recriminations.”

“He ain’t dead, I tell yuh!” yelps Bill. “Well,” says Mike, “if he ain’t he’s made of iron. No man can stand a shock like that and ever be the same.”

“Shock? Who do yuh mean—Chuck?”

“No,” says Mike, sad-like. “I mean Whittaker.”

“And Scenery Sims,” adds Calamity, removing his hat. “They must a threw a match on to a fuse. The padlock came through the back door, and is sticking in Mike’s bar.”

There’s complete silence for a while, and then McFee gasps—

“My ——!”

He yanks the team around, and away he goes, rattlety bang, down toward the jail, while the crowd races along behind him. Muley and Telescope sets there on the steps and finishes up their song.

“Ret-ret-retribution,” pronounces Telescope. “The old man kills Chuck, and then gets hoist with his own petard.”

“Hoisted,” corrects Muley. “I never heard dynamite called petard but a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Some celebration, eh, Telescope. I wonder if anybody has yet killed Henry Peck this fair morning?”

“The day is yet young, so why worry?” says Telescope. “I fain wouldst look upon the red when it is wine. Let’s tend a little bar, Muley.”

I wanders around back of Mike’s place. I feels weary, and when I notices Mike’s little barn, I gets an inspiration. Why not sleep until celebration time? I climbs into the loft and sprawls on the hay.

“All the comforts of home,” says I out loud.

“Hey, Henry,” comes a whisper. “Was Chuck dead?”

“Uh-huh,” says I. “Is Scenery with yuh?”

“He is,” squeaks Scenery. “What was that explosion, Henry?”

“They say that Harelip and Pole Cat blew up the jail. I don’t know how much truth there is in it.”

“Henry,” quavers the old man, “you was a friend in need. I’ll—”

Just then a faint voice begins singing, somewhere in the hay. It’s a voice that nobody ever heard and forgot. Cross between a greaseless wheel and pneumonia.

“‘Rockuhvages clef’ for me-e-e, le’ me hide myself——’”

We listens for a few seconds. Old man Whittaker gathers his legs under himself like a rabbit, and shoots out a that hay-loft like a swaller. We hears him hit the ground and gallop out of range. Scenery don’t say a word. He yawns, crawls over to the window, and lets himself down, easy-like, and sneaks away.

“Henry,” says Chuck, “did I hear your voice?”

“You did.”

“Stop talking to yourself, you shepherd, and let a man sleep. I had a awful dream, Henry. Dreamed that the world blowed up. It hit me and—ho, hum-m-m!”

“Ho, hum-m-m-m!” says I, and goes to sleep, too.

* * * * *

When I woke up the birds were singing, and the sun was shining through the cracks in the loft. Chuck is still snoring, so I climbs down alone. I’m as dry as a drouth in Arizona, so I pilgrims into Mike’s place regardless of consequences.

The place is fairly filled, and sadness is the prevailing color scheme. On the bar stands Scenery’s old stove-pipe hat, with a wide band of black cloth around it, and Mike’s mirror is hung with the emblem of mourning.

McFee is standing there with bowed head, and sadness fairly drips from his lips.

“It’s a most awful situation,” he orates. “If we could only find a single piece of ’em. There ain’t nothing left—nothing!”

“There ain’t nothing left of poor Chuck either,” tolls Muley. “Poor old Chuck. He was a gentleman and a scholar. I’d love to gaze upon his face once more.

“He’s went away and left us In the prime of his young life. He’s gone from this here vale of tears With all it’s joy and strife. No more we’ll see his banty legs, Nor hear him tell a lie. He’s vanished from old Paradise, And we never said good-by.”

“That’s a mighty pretty thing, Muley,” applauds Pole Cat. “Can’t yuh think of something nice to say for old man Whittaker?”

“The rest of you fellers stand back from Pole Cat and Harelip, and old man Whittaker will say something for himself,” states a voice at the door, and there stands the old man, with a shotgun which he levels at Pole Cat and Harelip.

The crowd obeys. Bill McFee’s legs get so weak that he sets down on the bar-rail where he gasps like a fish out of water.

“You danged pair of dynamiters!” snaps the old man. “With the shadder of the gallows staring me in the eye, and Chuck Warner’s ghost haunting my dreams, I comes back to show yuh that your dastardly deed failed. When yuh blowed up that jail yuh didn’t get me and Scenery. Sabe? Shut up!” he snaps, as Harelip starts to say something. “Don’t try to deny it, Harelip. I can prove it by the heero what let us out. There he stands, gents. Henry Clay Peck. He busted the lock and liberated——”

The crowd turns to look at me, but I don’t seem to be the point of interest at that. They looks right past me. Old man Whittaker’s gun slips from his hands, and clangs on the floor. I twists my neck and looks behind me, and there stands Chuck. He yawns and leans against the pool-table.

“Well,” says Chuck, in a dry voice, “ain’t somebody going to set ’em up? Sleeping in timothy makes a feller dry.”