“Do you know that old man Whittaker is a liar?” he asks, and I nods. “Yes, he’s a liar,” declares Dug. “He said he’d stick for Clarice ’till hell froze over.” “He got cold feet,” says I, and Dug goes back to his palace of sin, in a unhappy mood. I gets on my bronc and points toward the Cross J. I’m sick of being on a committee, and having to hurt people’s feelings. Paradise ain’t no safe place to cause discord in. There’s a sentiment in that place that leans towards shooting first and asking questions afterwards. There’s only one thing the whole place will agree on, and that is this: yuh can’t have a royal flush if your opponent has four kings. “Stuttering” Stevens thought he’d establish a precedent by holding one against kings and sevens in one hand and kings and eights in another. The coroner said that either shot would have been fatal. Stuttering must a been guilty, ’cause no man would steal kings to make up two pair. I hammers my bronc along down to where the Cross J road forks with the one from Silver Bend, when I hears a peculiar noise. Sounds to me like a threshing machine with St. Vitus dance. My bronc shows signs of nervousness, so I gets off. Pretty soon it comes in sight, and I recognizes it as being an autymobile, the same of which ain’t been in this country since the one belonging to Scenery Sims runs over some dynamite at Piperock and evaporates. * * * * * My bronc drags me off into the mesquite for a ways, until I can get my rope around a bush and stop him, and then I pilgrims back to the road. At first I don’t recognize the inhabitant of that carriage. I looks him over, careful-like, and then he grins and betrays himself. It’s old “Calamity” Carson. I ain’t seen him for five years, and I shakes his hand industrious-like. After we gets through pumping elbows I leans back and surveys his equipage. “Some vehicle, eh, Henry?” he says, with a dusty grin. “Surprised to see me?” “Well, not exactly, Calamity. We been expecting yuh.” “Expecting me?” he wonders aloud. “I suppose ‘Tellurium’ had to go and tell everybody.” “Uh-huh,” I agrees. “Tellurium Woods never could keep still.” So far as I know Tellurium ain’t been in Paradise for six months, but he’s as good as anybody to blame it on. Him and Calamity used to be pardners. “Well, well!” says Calamity, brushing the dust off his mustache, and giving his cigaret a chance to burn hair freely. “Here I been figuring on surprising the old-timers, and I been told upon by a friend. Henry Peck, I done sold out my property over in the Little Rockies, and now I’m rich.