“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 ——!”