“He had a squeaky little voice, A skinny little frame. He lived in God’s own country, But the country wa’n’t to blame. Comparing him with growed-up men, Who rode the Sawtooth Hills, He looked like a pewter nickel In a bunch of green-back bills.” “Yah-h-h-h!” shrills Scenery. “You’re sore ’cause you wasn’t elected to the committee. Lard!” Scenery puts all the venom in his system into that last word, and at the finish his voice would have split a cigaret paper. As he makes his greasy statement his right boot snaps up to horizontal, and Muley’s loop gets him around the ankle. It sure was one beautiful and speedy piece of rope work, and the next minute Scenery is on his shoulders in the corral, with his right foot snubbed high and handsome to the top of a corral post. Muley lights his cigaret and climbs down the other side. “The committee will have to turn him loose,” he states. “I won’t pollute my hands by touching him. I reckon the acid in his measly little carcass will ruin that metal hondo before he gets loose, but it’s worth it.” Muley peers through the poles of the corral and grins at Scenery. “Next time yuh opines to speak of a byproduct of your family, Scenery, don’t look at me,” he states. Our nerves are rasped considerable before we gets Scenery calmed down, but we finally pacifies him, and all sets in judgment on the Fourth of July again. “Now that we’ve decided to celebrate—how’ll we do it?” asks Hank. “She ought to be did befitting the solemnity of the occasion, hadn’t it, Whittaker?” “She deserves it,” agrees the old man. “We’ll have a salute at sunrise, won’t we? Then what’ll we do?” “We got to have a pe-rade,” squeaks Scenery. “Them is necessary adjunct to celebrations. I was down to Cottonwood last Fourth, and they sure had a humdinger of a pe-rade. Had a feller all dressed up in a fancy hat and a sash, riding in front, and then comes a lot of dress-up wagons, what they designates as floats. They has a beautiful gal all dressed up to imitate Miss Columbus, and———” “Who’s she?” asks Hank. “Don’t you know who Columbus was?” asked Scenery, and Hank nods. “Well, don’t ask fool questions then,” squeaks Scenery. “They has hoss-races, foot-races and——” “They didn’t have nothing that we can’t have,” pronounces Hank. “We can have all that. I’ll ride at the head of the pe-rade and——” “That ain’t unanimous,” interrupts Scenery. “Why you any more than me, Hank? Next thing we know you’ll want to be Miss Columbus.” “Hang on to yourselves,” advises Whittaker. “You fellers elects yourselves to everything—seems to me. A leading man in a pe-rade ought to dress the part, I reckon. When I lives in Great Falls I’m elected as a ornery member of a organization. It had something to do about woodcraft, and we dresses up like a plush hoss, when we meets. I still got my war-bonnet and pants left. Some son of a gun stole the coat. I still got my ax, too.”