A Prevaricated Parade

Author of “Clean Crazy,” “Monkeying with Ancestors,” etc.

“And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.”

Hank Padden shifted his seat on the top pole of the corral, and marks the place with his finger.

“Now,” says he, “shall I orate the names of the men who signed it?”

“Never mind,” replies old man Whittaker. “We don’t know none of them, personally, so we’ll let what you’ve already read be sufficient and plenty. After listening to all you’ve read out of that book, Hank, I’m of the impression that she’s a fitting day to be celebrated. What do you think, Hen?”

“She’s worth a passing memorial,” says I, and “Scenery” Sims, the fourth member of our committee, nods his head:

“She sure is, gents. I never cared for kings, except in jack-pots, and our glorious forefathers sure did proclaim their feelings. I’m with yuh from the hondo to the saddle-horn.”

That makes it unanimous. The night before there’s a meeting in Paradise, and they appoints me and Scenery, Hank Padden and old man Whittaker as a committee to investigate the reasons and so forth of the Fourth of July, and whether, in our own minds, she’s of sufficient import to consider a celebration.

We finds that she is. Hank Padden reads us the reasons out of a dictionary, while we sets there on the corral top, at the Cross J.

Old man Whittaker owns the Cross J, Hank Padden the Seven A, and Scenery Sims is the possessor of the Circle S outfit and the squeakiest voice ever anchored in the throat of a human being. Every time I hears Scenery start to talk I pray for cylinder oil or chloroform. Me? I’m Henry Clay Peck. I work for old man Whittaker. I ain’t got nothing but a conscience, a heap of respect for the truth and the feeling that I lowers myself when I punches cows.

We has just arrived at our conclusion when “Muley” Bowles saunters down to the corral, climbs up beside us and bends our seat all to pieces. We four moves to the next section for safety. Muley weighs so much that he has to bandage his bronc’s legs with splints to keep it from being bowlegged. The world lost a cracking good poet when Muley essayed to punch cows. He don’t look the part, not having soulful eyes nor emaciated ribs, but when it comes to making up poetry he’s got ’em all lashed to the snubbing-post.

“Has the committee arrived at a satisfactory conclusion?” he asks, puffing hard on his cigaret, and shaking out a new rope.

“When the facts is made public we’ll let yuh know with the rest,” squeaks Scenery, who dislikes Muley a heap.

“Who’s talking to you?” demands Muley. “Scenery, you takes too much upon yourself. I been thinking of a sweet little rhyme what sounds like this, and I gives yuh three guesses who I mean:

“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.”

“You still got the ax?” squeaks Scenery. “Wonderful! Go home and cut some wood. I think your fire’s out.”

“While you old spavs are fighting for honors, what’s the matter with considering me?” I asks. “You’re all so danged old and stove-up that you’d have to lead it in a lumber-wagon. Look at me, and step back in the ranks. I’m young, handsome——”

“Pause!” yelps Scenery. “Pause, Hen. It takes brains to lead a pe-rade.”

“Then let’s not quarrel,” says I. “We ain’t eligible. Let’s settle these little details later and in a place what ain’t so dry. It won’t be the Fourth of July until day after tomorrow, so let’s adjourn.”