Part 3

Bill McFee looks at Chuck and back at Whittaker and the tears of joy runs out of his eyes. Whittaker leans against the door and tries to laugh, but he can’t.

“Haw!” says Harelip, but that’s as far as he got.

Chuck ambles up to the bar, and looks ’em over.

“Holy henhawks!” he snorts. “Have yuh all gone loco?”

“Ain’t—ain’t yuh dead, Chuck?” stutters the old man.

“Almost—from thirst.”

Bill McFee has been looking, steady-like, at me for some time, and when he gets on his feet he sort of starts edging toward me. I edges the other way, sort of unconcerned-like, and bumps into Calamity. He’s got a billiard cue in his hands.

“Henry,” he whispers, “you lied to me.”

I nods, kicks his feet out from under him, and goes out of that back door like a shot. I races around to the front, and runs into something. They’re grouped, and I’m into ’em before I has time to think.

There’s the two Mudgett sisters, Hulda Peterson, Annie Schmidt, Mrs. Benson, Maggie Smith, Clarice Chaffin and the widder Saunders. The male members of the vigilance committee is Abe Mudgett and Breezy Benson.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Henry,” states the widder, sort of belligerent-like, and the chorus sings the last four words.

* * * * *

“We’re looking for a little explanation from you,” states Breezy Benson, and Abe nods—

“We desires the same.”

“Exactly,” says I. “In the course of human e-vents——”

“Grab that dynamiter!” yells McFee, from the front door, and Breezy tried to foller instructions. Anybody that reaches out to grasp old man Peck’s loving son Henry, in times of stress, is in continuous danger. Breezy got it on the jaw, and yours truly went away from there with the enraged citizens on the trail.

Never again do I sic a pack of hounds after a coyote. What few broncs are in town are immediate and soon rode after me, and I sure have a plenty to attend to. I got a good start, but I know I can’t keep it forever. I’m hopping off down a washout, when I happens to see McFee’s corral. I gets an idea right there.

The gang is quite a ways behind me, trying to make me come out of a old shack, so I takes a chance and races for that corral. The autymobile is pointed the wrong way, and I ain’t got no time to turn it around. I yanks the front wheels around, sets the brake, grabs the crank and prays. Bingo! She took it the first turn. I yanks off the brake, and away I goes, straight for the posse.

I yanks the little jigger down and we sure hits for Paradise in a hurry. They scatters at my approach, swings in behind me, and up the main street of Paradise we goes, strung out for a quarter of a mile and stretching all the time.

That machine was a humdinger as long as I’m in danger, but when I leaves ’em far behind she lays down and quits like a yal-ler pup. I sets there and looks around, and out into the road wanders three saddled broncs. I ducks, thinking they’re some of the posse, but a second look tells me that they’re some of the broncs what left Paradise yesterday, when the autymobile first came in.

One Cross J bronc has a long rope dragging, so I catches him and then ropes the other two. I strings out across the hills toward home, puts ’em in the home corral, and goes to bed. I reckon it’s almost morning when the Cross J bunch gets home. Muley, Telescope, Chuck and the old man all comes into the bunk-house, but they don’t see me.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m!” yawns the old man. “I’m glad to be home. This has been one strenuous holiday, fellers.”

“She sure has,” agrees Telescope. “That pe-rade was a humdinger.”

I sets up in bed and looks ’em over.

“Pe-rade?” I asks. “Did they have a pe-rade?”

“Yes, little one,” replied Muley. “We had a pe-rade that we’ll date time from. We had eight Miss Columbuses and——”

“Who—who led it?” I asks.

“You did, you danged fool!” whooped Telescope.

THE END

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 18, 1918 issue of Adventure magazine.]