A Prevaricated Parade
by W. C. Tuttle
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.
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