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_.