I felt rather mushy inside, mixed here and there with little hard bits of gumption. I have to admit that I suspected that some of that allegedly hardened gumption was in fact congealed guilt, about a little thing I done or maybe was still doing. Long had I reckoned and resolved myself to the fact that I was a sinner, such a sinner as to deny himself forgiveness, for I'd confidently awaited the day I'd be threatened by if not in person the terrible angel of retribution, at least a little jagged yellow thunderbolt of punishment, at which time I could with relief pay for my crimes and that was that. I was a little let down and disappointed that the Awful Deity had so far refused me that small attention. Maybe, then, there was no Deity, just an Awful Babbage Calculating Machine of nature's laws.

That meant I had to be my own criminal, judge, jury, and executioner! That was a lot of work to expect of a fellow. And it was lonely work, too. But I figured I was the type of man who had to figure it out or I'd never get no peace out of myself. I had to either forgive myself or skewer myself. I had to try myself, habeasing my corpus, or I'd have to admit that all that mush inside of me was just the mushy nothingness of nothing. And that made me tired.

It wasn't easy for natural lazy folks like me to think and ponder and weigh and worry much against little hard bits. But it looked like I'd have to make myself do it, or otherwise the mush would soften and make more mush out of those little hard bits, both gumption (which I imagined looked like peanuts) and guilt (which I saw as raisons), leaving just an ugly looking oatmeal. I was too vain to accept that. I was too proud. But right then, I was too lazy to think about it. Right then and there I saw my duty was to keep my conscience shut up and the constitution of my hide safe and sound down there in the Bomb-Proof of Fort Texas.

Sam Walker's cheek twitched. We were glad to see the brass and pluck return to his dusty frame. The men left off gibbering and jabbering and perked up before his winsome grin.

[Sam Walker]
Well! Well! - That's a load of hay to chew. I can't say I envy to wrangle the merits of circles against ellipses, any more than waltz against reel, but I getcher last point, Perfessor. Boys, he says that we's all like him. Hm! What you think of that, Sarah?

[Sarah]
The Perfessor says `cause he's just a handsome engine with a busted wheel, that signifies he's just like us, half angel and half engine. That bust wheel accounts for why he can walk and squawk so much fine and fancy talk - finer and fancier than me, anyhow - You boys think there's anything busted among my wheels?

[Slow-Polks]
No, Ma'am! Three cheers for Sarah! ( - &tc)

[Sam Walker]
So he says he's got a busted wheel. Must be so. (Said with a yawn. He straightened up his long, strong, and stringy self. With a sort of sunburnt sneer he knocked out his pipe ashes on the brim of Franklin Stove's tin top hat.) Only a feller with a busted brain-bone would say aught against our man, Andy Jackson...

[Crawdads]
That's right, Sam!

[Company H Pugilists]
Give'm what-for, Sam!

[Slow-Polks]
Hoo-ray fer Jackson!

[Sam Walker]
...Well, now, Cotton Balers of the Brave 7th! I'd best heat up my big silk bag and be on me merry way, now...

[Sappers]
Come back soon, Cap'n!

[Voice]
- And bring Taylor with you!

[Sam Walker]
Major Brown's asked me to tell Ole Rough `n' Ready that this here Fort Texas is sittin' purty as a peacock - despite all the worsest smashin' them pesky Lunars can try to do `er!

[Chickenhawks]
That's right, Sam!

[Sarah]
Heck, I didn't even notice no Lunar types `round these parts at all!

[Poker Players]
Oh, didn't you?

[Slow-Polks]
(Laughter...) Hip hip hurrah fer Sarah! Rah Rah Rah!

[Sam Walker]
- But let me just add one more little thing first, before I drop my ballast, concerning Texas, and what this - this highfalutin' metal madman - this aggravatin' Yankee perfessor and snake-eyed sneaky side-windin' abolitionist had to say to try and tarnish the mighty fine silver of the Lone Star Republic - I mean, state, now - !

[Company J Pugilists]
Give'm what-for, Sam!

[Company E, Second Artillery]
Come on! Fight! Fight!

[Sam Walker]
IF this here Army of Observation is just our here observatin' the Lunar P. of T., and maybe all the Moon, just to break the Com-pro- mise and stick on more purty slave-state stars on Old Glory, jest to outnumber all the purty free-state stars - and I said, IF - well, then, I got little ole question fer y'all to think about, and think long and hard...(Now I read this is the New Orleans paper back in Archytas Crater)...How come the man who taught us that freedom's keystone is slavery, Senator Calhoun, how come he hollers so loud against makin' war with the Moon? How come he yellers, "Foul!" and "This here's nothin' but a war on the Consty-tution!" and says "I'd druther stuck a bowie knife plumb in my heart than vote your durned war- credits, Mr. Polk!" - ? How come?

[Slow-Polks]
Yeah! How come? How come, Perfessor?

[Prince-President Franklin Stove]
Tick!...Sss-sss-Tick! - Sss-sss-Tick!...Tick-ick-ick! Er-eer-ee-oo-oo! Tick! John C. Calhoun is afraid -

[Sam Walker]
John C. ain't afraid of nuthin', and you ain't too smart even if you is a perfessor, to think so! Tell me this, then, Yankee! Tell me why the so-called champion of the Consty-tution, but really champion of all `em Yankees, Daniel Webster - tell me why Mr. Webster danced his Whig war polk-a, and John C. is the one who yellers and fusses, "God help the Consty-tution!"

[Prince-President Franklin Stove]
Because - tick! Because - tick! Because each is the slave of his own error -

[Slow-Polks]
Boo! Boo! Enough! Boo!

[Voice]
Thar's an old bucket a canvas pitch beside the chuck wagon! (Exit.)

[Sam Walker]
Fer cryin' out loud! I can't listen to him any longer. (He turns away.) I'd like a word with the junior officers, if you fellers please.

[Slow-Polks]
Tar an' Feather! Tar an' Feather!

[Voice]
Put the pitch bucket on the fire!

[Lieutenants]
You men quiet down. We'll be right back. Sergeants and corporals, come along. (Exit)

[Slow-Polks]
(Rising, hundreds of hands grabbing at the metal man.) Down with the perfessor! Up with Walker!

[Voice]
I gone an' gitted some a'the girl's pillows!

[Prince-President Franklin Stove]
Tick! Rrr-ee-oo! I am not a professor. Tick! Rr-err-err-oo-oo! (Lifted high, he stiffly flails; the men carry him outside - ) Tick! Tick! I am a Prince-President! (The mob drops him down in a shell- crater a few feet deep. With shouts and laughter, the bucket of pitch is dumped on his head. The bucket covers half his head. The hot pitch slops all over him; smoke flows down from the bucket. A knife tears into one frilly pillow after another; feathers fly everywhere; they stick to the gooey tar. The Metal Man flaps his arms frantically.)

[Slow-Polks]
(Laughter) Hoorah fer the Moral Surgeon! Hoorah fer the Moral Chicken! (More laughter when a mortal shell shrieks and lands outside the fort.)

[Captain Edgar Hawkins]
What is this? What have you done? Villains and fiends!

[Voice]
Shoot, Cap'n, it's only a Tom-a-Tom. An' he spoke ill of Gin'l Jackson!

[Captain Hawkins]
Get inside your dugouts this minute! Where are your officers?

[Slow-Polks]
(Milling around the Bomb-Proof) Hoo-rah fer the Moral Chicken! Hoo-rah fer Captain Walker!

[Sam Walker]
(Ambling over with the petty officers) Ah, Captain Hawkins, may I have a word with you before I get in my balloon?

Seeing P. P. F. S. thus confounded, I had to admire the mighty Ranger as he swaggered around the Bomb-Proof, eyeing the humiliated automaton, who slowly bent forward so that the bucket slid off, and straightened up again with mechanical dignity, causing more laughter. Sam Walker gave him a mocking salute. Seeing this demonstration of the mighty Ranger's popularity reminded me that there was a FOURTH way for me to become a Napoleon. Yes, besides WAMPUM, SPOILS, and ELBOW-GREASE, there was another alternative to Young Americans like myself (only I'd already lost that option by signing up a Regular, a Dough-Boy). The fourth way to martial fame was this:ELECTION. Yes, `cause many volunteers elected their own commanders. I reckoned that if we Regulars also elected our own Gold-Braid, there might be some shaking up right and left, but in the end, Rough `n' Ready still'd be the boss. Now, if only he'd hurry up with his chuck-wagons at Fort Polk, and come rescue us Slow-Polks! But Cap Walker was already firing up his stove, and filling up his balloon with hot Texas air, just to tell him to take his time! We had less than a weeks' rations left.

Taking notice of the big hot silk ball, General Lunarista's midget howitzer thumped and thumped again, trying to find the range, but it was just too far away, on account of it had to be, to be safe from Captain Lowd's electromagnetics. The sharpshooters stood ready with their rifles loaded. Walker shook Major Brown's hand again, winked to Sarah, cranked up his stove, bowed to us all, and tugged the slip-knot of his lasso. The balloon inched upwards. The gondola jerked, and Cap Walker stood out with one hand on the rigging, waving his hat. But he was going high and fast, now. The silk bag creaked as it filled up tight and took the wind like a big fat sail. As soon as it cleared the walls, a Cold Sea gust pushed it north-east. We all crowded the eastern ramparts and cheered, watching the Flying Ranger's balloon lift. Some of the west side gunners and sentries left their posts to cheer; his visit had meant a lot to us; we didn't feel so lonely while the famous guest was among us. Sarah got misty-eyed, and held my hand real tight. (I may not be no Sam Walker, I thought, but at least I'm handy. I told Sarah, "I sure hope he don't fall and break his neck.") We gave him three cheers, not hearing whatever he was trying to tell us. He stopped waving his hat and drew his saber. He pointed it south, and shook it. What did that mean? Then, drifting faster, he jumped on the wicker saddle and began rowing his bullet-pocket paddles like the devil. The sputter of our sharpshooters' rifles made the east-side Lunar pickets jump down. A couple 6-pound balls sent hissing and rolling through the fields kept the Lunar hussars far away as the shadow of the balloon wobbled over them, long and easterly...

Kelly denied the rumors but I could tell he was lying. The rumors were that Sam Walker had pointed his saber at two fellows named Dick Parker and Patrick Maloney who were running off as Walker floated away with all our preoccupation floating away with him. At any rate the next day brought us Slow-Polks some awful bad luck.

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