“I can’t explain it to yuh, Calamity. You’d have to see it for yourself.”
We pilgrims down to Paradise, and ties our steeds on a side street. There’s a scarcity of rolling stock in sight, and it makes me wonder a heap. Usually yuh can see broncs tied all over town, when a celebration is in prospect.
We pokes along up the street to Mike Pelly’s saloon and goes inside. Mike is alone in there, setting at the end of the bar, with a shotgun beside him.
“What’s the matter with Paradise?” I asks.
“Civilization,” says Mike.
“Are we welcome?” asks Calamity, taking in the attitude of Mike, and sizing up the place.
“You are,” replies Mike. “This place is neutral. I’d advise you to get out of line with that window. The town is divided against itself.”
“What causes the divisions?” I asks, taking Mike’s advice.
Mike bites off a fresh chew and settles back in his chair.
“Numerous and sundry things, Henry. Old man Whittaker is setting up there in Henderson’s barbershop, with a Winchester, swearing he’s going to perforate Harelip Hansen, who is across the street in Dug Chaffin’s corral, nursing a peeled nose and a six-shooter. The old man swears that Harelip stole his clothes.