He yanks the team around, and away he goes, rattlety bang, down toward the jail, while the crowd races along behind him. Muley and Telescope sets there on the steps and finishes up their song. “Ret-ret-retribution,” pronounces Telescope. “The old man kills Chuck, and then gets hoist with his own petard.” “Hoisted,” corrects Muley. “I never heard dynamite called petard but a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Some celebration, eh, Telescope. I wonder if anybody has yet killed Henry Peck this fair morning?” “The day is yet young, so why worry?” says Telescope. “I fain wouldst look upon the red when it is wine. Let’s tend a little bar, Muley.” I wanders around back of Mike’s place. I feels weary, and when I notices Mike’s little barn, I gets an inspiration. Why not sleep until celebration time? I climbs into the loft and sprawls on the hay. “All the comforts of home,” says I out loud. “Hey, Henry,” comes a whisper. “Was Chuck dead?” “Uh-huh,” says I. “Is Scenery with yuh?” “He is,” squeaks Scenery. “What was that explosion, Henry?” “They say that Harelip and Pole Cat blew up the jail. I don’t know how much truth there is in it.” “Henry,” quavers the old man, “you was a friend in need. I’ll—” Just then a faint voice begins singing, somewhere in the hay. It’s a voice that nobody ever heard and forgot. Cross between a greaseless wheel and pneumonia. “‘Rockuhvages clef’ for me-e-e, le’ me hide myself——’” We listens for a few seconds. Old man Whittaker gathers his legs under himself like a rabbit, and shoots out a that hay-loft like a swaller. We hears him hit the ground and gallop out of range. Scenery don’t say a word. He yawns, crawls over to the window, and lets himself down, easy-like, and sneaks away. “Henry,” says Chuck, “did I hear your voice?” “You did.” “Stop talking to yourself, you shepherd, and let a man sleep. I had a awful dream, Henry. Dreamed that the world blowed up. It hit me and—ho, hum-m-m!” “Ho, hum-m-m-m!” says I, and goes to sleep, too. * * * * * When I woke up the birds were singing, and the sun was shining through the cracks in the loft. Chuck is still snoring, so I climbs down alone. I’m as dry as a drouth in Arizona, so I pilgrims into Mike’s place regardless of consequences. The place is fairly filled, and sadness is the prevailing color scheme. On the bar stands Scenery’s old stove-pipe hat, with a wide band of black cloth around it, and Mike’s mirror is hung with the emblem of mourning. McFee is standing there with bowed head, and sadness fairly drips from his lips. “It’s a most awful situation,” he orates. “If we could only find a single piece of ’em. There ain’t nothing left—nothing!” “There ain’t nothing left of poor Chuck either,” tolls Muley. “Poor old Chuck. He was a gentleman and a scholar. I’d love to gaze upon his face once more.