I falls out and ambles around to the front. I grasps the crank in both hands, gives it a man-sized yank, slips with both feet, and that juggernaut runs right across my floating ribs. She sure squashes me a plenty, and I don’t more than start to get up when here she comes right back to run over me again. Calamity stops her just in time. “You forgot the e-mergency,” observes Calamity, scared-like, over the back of the seat. “Maybe,” says I. “I forgot my name and address, too, if that’s anything to snort over. What are yuh supposed to do—put her against a rock to start her?” “It’s a simple thing, Hen.” “Yes, so is a stick uh dynamite,” says I, rubbing the kinks out of my hide. “Let’s not call school right now, Calamity. We’ll go up to the Cross J, where prying eyes can see us not, and there yuh can show me all things. Anyway yuh don’t want to show up in Paradise today. Everybody is busy getting things ready, and if you was to go down there now they’d drop everything. Sabe?” “Popularity warmeth my cold heart,” says he. “Being of the committee, Henry Peck, I bows to superior wisdom. We’ll proceed to the old Cross J, and take a lesson.” We stops at the Seeping Springs and has a nice drink—out of the jug. We starts out merrily along the road, when all to once Calamity starts to tell me a story. Calamity must have French blood in his carcass, ’cause he talks with his hands. At least he might a picked out a flat place to do his gestures in, but as it was we hops off the road, down a hill, and pokes the front end of that machine into a mesquite bush. What part of it didn’t plow through the bush jumped over. I untangles myself from the brush and wanders over to the wagon. She don’t seem hurt much, but her heart has quit beating. “_Hyas cultus chuck, chick_,” states a voice, and I turns to see old Running Wolf, a Piegan, squatting on his haunches, looking at that machine. He’s got a look on his face that Columbus might a had when he first saw the shores of our fair country. “What did he say?” asks a weak voice, and Calamity appears from the other side of the car. “He said, ‘It’s a mighty bad wagon,’” I interprets, and Calamity nods his head: “That Injun ain’t no danged idiot, Henry. Wonder if he’d like to take a ride?” “_Mesika klatawa kopa chick, chick?_” I asks, but the old redskin puts his thumb up to his nose and wiggles his fingers at us. “Nah-h-h-h-h!” he gargles, and points at his moccasins. We manages to get that wagon back on the road. We drinks a toast to our good luck and to honest and cautious Injuns, and plods on up to the Cross J. I reckon our toasts covers too much territory, ’cause when Calamity opines to have me read his book of rules, all I can do is sing. * * * * * It’s almost dark when I wakes up. Beside me on the bunk is Calamity, snoring like a shepherd, so I sticks my boot into his ribs.