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

Hank Padden shifted his seat on the top pole of the corral, and marksthe 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 andplenty. After listening to all you’ve read out of that book, Hank, I’mof the impression that she’s a fitting day to be celebrated. What doyou think, Hen?”

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

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

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

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

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

We has just arrived at our conclusion when “Muley” Bowles sauntersdown to the corral, climbs up beside us and bends our seat all topieces. We four moves to the next section for safety. Muley weighs somuch that he has to bandage his bronc’s legs with splints to keep itfrom being bowlegged. The world lost a cracking good poet when Muleyessayed to punch cows. He don’t look the part, not having soulful eyesnor emaciated ribs, but when it comes to making up poetry he’s got ’emall 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 muchupon yourself. I been thinking of a sweet little rhyme what soundslike this, and I gives yuh three guesses who I mean: