Poor Calamity Anne, with her everlasting mule, strolled through the camp, very forlorn at the spectacle of every fellow with his girl and every girl with her fellow. Hence Calamity brooded at the inequality of things generally, for Calamity had an abundance of money about which she cared little. “The Stew,” swaggering down the street under a load of joy, coveted Anne’s pile and made love, much to Calamity’s disgust. And then came that Eastern woman in a gorgeous city gown and all the boys deserted their respective girls and followed the new creature in her peacock raiment about town. Calamity hated her and then Calamity found a copy of a woman’s paper, saw the picture of a stunning gown and ordered it. It came and Calamity donned it - a fine, soft shimmering thing of dainty silk, but alas, hiding beneath it and peeping out occasionally were Calamity’s muddy boots and a giant six-shooter. Calamity swaggered by the hotel and the sensation she created was never before equaled in Death Gulch. Calamity got the laugh - the big hearty laugh that pierced her finer sensibilities and wounded her deeply. Calamity wept bitterly, then hauled up that gossamer-web skirt and got that dangerous six-shooter and Calamity had a rapidly widening circle around her person. But she was melancholy, awfully sick of it all, so she got her mule and posted the following notice on her door-step: “I’m going away. Give my pile to the orfans. Taint no use. Calamity.”