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!”