CHAPTER XXXIII.
BY MAC A'RONY.
What a thrice double ass Was I, to take this drunkard for a god, And worship this dull fool! --_Tempest._
Where and how to celebrate the Fourth of July greatly concerned Pye Pod. The third was spent in Julesburg, a town in Colorado, two miles west of the boundary line; as Sunday was the Fourth, we naturally expected a lively programme for Saturday.
We were disappointed. Everybody had gone off on an excursion, and Julesburg was dead. So my master, realizing the long journey before us, inquired as to the possibility of obtaining an extra donkey, and was told of one, some six miles from town. He rode in a buggy to a ranch right after lunch and brought back the prettiest damsel I ever saw. Her name was Skates; Pod said he so named her because she ran all the way and beat his pride-broken, wind-broken horse into town. I gave Skates a loving smile, but she gave me a look, which said, "Keep your distance, young feller." So I did. But I lost my heart to that girl then and there.
Pod noticed my leaning toward Skates, and asked me my intentions. I frankly told him. "But what nonsense for a youth of four years," he remarked. "Mac, be patient; wait until you are of age, at least."
Time was precious, and we could not tarry. That afternoon we set out for Sterling, sixty miles into the desert, where, it was said, there would be a big time on the fifth.
Monday dawned cloudy and threatening, as is usual with celebration days. The tent door was open, and Skates and I were looking in, I waiting for a chance to pull a bag of eatables out of the tent for her.
"What is your programme for to-day?" Pod asked his valet.
No answer. The question was repeated; still no response. Then my master turned drowsily on his pillow, and beheld Coonskin with bloodshot eyes and the only whiskey bottle clasped lovingly to his breast. The valet wanted to say something, but his lips refused to speak. It was evident that his celebration had begun the night before. Pod sat up and rubbed his eyes to make sure he was not dreaming, and then asked the fellow why he drank all the emergency whiskey.
"R-r-r-r-r-r-r-rat-schnake bite-bite-bited me--d--drank whisky t'shave life," stammered the youth. "H-h-h-hic-have shome, Prof."
Pod looked mad. He up and dressed, and mixed soda and water and lemon juice, and made Coonskin drink it. Soon the tipsy fellow tried to dress, but finally gave it up and went to sleep. Two hours later he awoke quite sober, and came out to where Pod was currying me for the celebration, and showed him his programme. I haven't space to give it in full.
One feature was an obstacle race, the prize for the winner being a quart bottle of snake-bit (whiskey). Coonskin said, as his excuse for drinking the whiskey, that he was certain of winning the race, but afraid the bottle might be broken before the event. Pod thought that reasonable enough, and forgave him; but he told me confidentially that he didn't know what he should do if he were bitten by a rattlesnake without whiskey at hand. I suggested, in such event, he should point a revolver at Coonskin's garret, where his brains ought to have been, and make him suck out the poison.
The obstacle race began at eleven in the morning. The start was made from the tent door; the course and conditions were as follows:
Run to the fifth fence-post down the trail, alongside the railroad track; crawl through the barbed-wire fence four times between different posts on the way back to the tent, without tearing clothes; creep through the legs of the little portable table (purchased in Julesburg) without rolling off an egg resting on it; run a hundred yards and unpicket one of the donkeys and ride it round the tent three times with a spoon in hand, holding an egg; ride the donk back to his picket-pin and crawl between its hind legs without disturbing the animal's equilibrium; stand in the tent door and shoot some hair off one of the donkey's tails without touching the tail proper; then lead that donkey to the tent and hitch him to the turtle, Bill. Cheating, if detected, forfeited the prize.
Well, while there were two starters, there was only one finisher. It seems that Coonskin shot a piece off Cheese's tail (improper, the donk said), and, in consequence, man and donk disappeared over the horizon, without leaving their future address or the date for their return.
Coonskin rode Cheese into camp after dark. Then he rubbed axle-grease on Cheese's sensitive part, and prepared the delayed dinner. Next came fire-works--Roman candles, firecrackers, and pin-wheels--after which both men retired, fancying they had the jolliest Fourth ever witnessed by man or donkey in the history of the Colorado desert.