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Fracas in the Foothills


Other Books by Elliot Paul
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF A SPANISH TOWN
=
THE STARS AND STRIPES FOREVER
CONCERT PITCH
THE GOVERNOR OF MASSACHUSETTS
LOW RUN TIDE
THE AMAZON
IMPERTURBE
IMPROMPTU
INDELIBLE
Homer Evans Murder Mysteries
THE MYSTERIOUS MICKEY FINN, OR
MURDER AT THE CAFÉ DU DÔME
HUGGER-MUGGER IN THE LOUVRE
MAYHEM IN B-FLAT


Fracas
Harold
by Elliot Paul
RANDOM HOUSE · NEW YORK

IN


FIRST PRINTING
Published simultaneously in Canada
by the Macmillan Co. of Canada, Ltd.
Copyright, 1940, by Random House, Inc.
Manufactured in the U. S. A. by H. Wolff, New York


THIS BOOK
is affectionately
dedicated to
Montgomery Ward & Co. and
Sears, Roebuck & Co.
in grateful recognition
of the help and comfort afforded me
by those public-spirited concerns
on the open prairie


A Glossary of terms used currently in
the American language but not yet to be
found in the more academic dictionaries
appears at the end of this book.


Dear Reader:
In Montenegro, years ago, a peasant with a large family com-
plained to the village priest that his hut was too small, and each
year, when another child was born, his life became more un-
bearable.
The wise priest ordered the peasant to move his horse into the
hut with the family, and as soon as the man got used to that, the
priest made him move in the cow. The peasant and his wife
were continually in tears, and the children had to exercise all
their wits to avoid being trampled upon. After a year of living
with the horse and cow, the peasant was told by the priest to
move the animals out again, and from that time on rejoiced
because of the roomy house he had.
Now some of the overworked reviewers set up a howl because
there was too much fun and frolic in Hugger-Mugger in the
Louvre. Had the book been shorter, they could have knocked
off work at an earlier hour. Consequently, I have made Fracas
in the Foothills twice as long as my other Homer Evans stories,
and have loaded it with practically everything.


In Fracas the reader will get for the small sum of two Ameri-
can dollars a travel book, a murder story and a Western. Instead
of feeling obliged to finish the book in one evening, he will find
ample entertainment for two, without additional cost. If he is
strictly a one-evening bookman, he can either start at the begin-
ning and stop in the middle, or start in the middle and let the
first half go hang.
Anyway, there is nothing the author could do about it, the
American Northwest being as vast as it is and the ramifications
of the sheep and cattle war being so diverse and interesting.
.
THE AUTHOR


Contents
PART ONE: The Broadening Influences of Travel
1. In Which a Redman Takes a Reasonable Precaution
2. To Part Is to Die a Little, So What the Hell
3. Of Life on the Ocean Wave, and Particularly in February
3
14
5. On Peering into Gift Horses, from Any Angle at All
6. For the Reading of Which the Reader Should Be Wrapped
Warmly
7. Of the Influence of Sex on Ways of Getting Rid of Money 80
8. In Which Whiskers Are Soundly Painted and Spots
Marked “X” Surveyed
9. Marooned in the Openest of All Possible Spaces
107
10. A Moot Point Concerning Women in Warfare
115
11. In Which Holes Are Kicked in the Wisdom of Ecclesiastes 129
12. Of Parents and Their Children
144


PART TWO: Death Haunts the Yellowstone
13. A Rapprochement of Several Races
14. Spring's Awakening, Etc..
181
195
202
215
228
241
16. Science Makes, Perhaps Not Strange Bedfellows but Un-
usual Pals
17. Of the Sinful Proclivities of Man and the Universality of
Music
18. Touching on Science, Parental Love and Pride, Also
Democracy
19. In Which the Life Impulse Gets a Close Decision
20. A Field for Missionary Work
21. Of Love and War, with Time Out for Victuals, Such as
Could Be Had
22. A Clean Sweep of a Semi-Public Establishment
23. At Death's Door
24. Of Social Life and Justice on the Last Frontier
25. Of the Quality of Mercy
26. In Which the Voice Proves Mightier Than the Gavel
27. In Which Lawyers Come and Go
28. Of the Mental Attributes of Sheepherders
29. In Which Furniture Is Moved out and in While Trench
Warfare Looms, Not to Mention John Marshall and
Sigmund Freud
30. A Case in which an Asbestos Roof Proves Ineffective
268
279
289
300
311
325
344
355
365
375
387
PART THREE: The Sheep and Cattle War
31. The War Clouds Gather
32. The Battle of the Redwater: Phase One
33. The Fierce and Memorable Battle of the Redwater: Phase
: One (continued)
34. The Bloody and Ruthless Affray on Redwater Creek and
Elsewhere: Second and Final Phase
35. Asbestos
Glossary
399
412
426
432


List of Maps
The Lower Yellowstone Valley
The Badlands
The Battle of the Redwater
End Papers
123
389





PART ONE
The Broadening Influences
of Travel


In Which a Redman Takes a
Reasonable Precaution
THE LAST DAYS of February are comparatively dreary in Mont-
parnasse. The café terrasses are still enclosed with glass and
heated by gleaming braziers. Rug peddlers are hidden in the
Arab quarter, whiling away the days by smoking, playing cards
or poring over the Koran. The plane trees are stripped of leaves,
a few of which, yellowed and damp, lie in the gutters. Only the
most faithful of the taxis linger in front of the Dôme, the
Rotonde, the Select or the Coupole in the hope of finding stray
customers. To the resident of the quarter, however, the famous
intersection of the boulevards Montparnasse and Raspail is
never without allure. The neighborhood restaurants, when
the chefs are not pressed by the rush of tourist traffic, offer
excellent fare. The wines are fragrant and wonderful in
any season. And those hardy Montparnassians who can brave
the Paris winter rains are likely to have an inner life strong
and rich enough to carry them over from one gay period to
another.
Homer Evans had just returned from his annual pilgrimage
3,


to Morocco, where he delighted in spending long semi-tropical
nights in a certain café near Xauen, listening to an Arab orches-
tra and a native singer trace endless variations on the haunting
old melodies of the African sands. He was tanned, somewhat
thinner than when he had departed from Paris, but his philo-
sophic calm, always remarkable, seemed to have been intensified
by his sojourn among the enigmatic desert folk whose language
he spoke fluently and whose manner of thought he seemed so
well to understand. At four o'clock in the afternoon, well before
twilight, he made his way softly from his apartment in the rue
Campagne Premiére to the Café du Dôme where, after weeks
of separation, he was to meet Miriam Leonard for the afternoon
apéritif. Later he planned to take her to the Hôtel des Hiron-
delles, where, unknown to the Paris police, a famous Arabian
danseuse, who had crossed from Ceuta on the boat with him,
was to perform that evening in a secret chamber the dance
known as D’la dits which not many non-Mohammedans have
been privileged to witness and which, once seen, is said to exert
a mellowing influence on the beholder which lingers until after
the sixth succeeding feast of Raspaʼzaz. That was the way Evans
liked to greet Miriam after a prolonged absence, to take her
into strange surroundings from which they could emerge but
gradually and, in the process, could renew their acquaintance
in some fundamental way.
On arriving at the Dôme, Evans noticed that his watch had
stopped. No doubt he had neglected to wind it while on the
desert, where he preferred to tell time by the stars. Consequently
he had half an hour to spare before Miriam would put in an
appearance. On the table in his hallway he had left unopened
an accumulated stack of mail and the daily newspapers he had
missed, and he had asked his bewildered landlady not to give
him the list of urgent telephone calls she had noted down. He
wanted time to adjust himself to Europe again, for he had been
oppressed, of late, with the feeling that an ominous change was
stealing over the continent, that the tranquil years which had


followed the World War were drawing to a close. Several
months had passed since he had been called upon to solve the
notorious tarantula murders * and in the course of that time he
had remained adamant to all appeals, both public and private,
designed to draw him out of his solitude and interrupt his
studies and leisurely contemplation.
His favorite waiter greeted him tactfully but cordially as he
took his place, just left of the center and far enough from the
brazier so as not to be bothered by its fumes. The waiter knew
that when Monsieur Evans entered the terrasse with that far-
away look in his eyes, and reached for the chair as if he were
in the dark, it was better not to engage him in conversation.
There were a few regular clients in their places, reading the
afternoon papers, and a few passers-by on the damp sidewalks.
After the glare of the African sunshine, the dim light of Mont-
parnasse in February seemed unreal. So did the damp pedes-
trians, grotesquely attired in dismal colors and huddling into
coats and wraps for protection against the chill air. How awk-
ward and uneasy, compared with the robed and sandaled
Arabs! In what jerky rhythms Europeans scurried along.
One man, however, arrested Evans' full attention, in spite
of the detached state of his mind. The newcomer was tall and
rangy, and was wearing a buckskin coat and colored muffler.
As he approached, before Homer could make out his features
or his straight jet-black hair, the stranger's walk, a natural easy
stride, set him far apart from his metropolitan surroundings.
He was surely alien to Paris. Furthermore, he was in no way
a peasant. His bearing was proud and aristocratic, his manner
suggestive of latent self-reliance and power.
“An American Indian, by Jove,” said Homer, his curiosity
aroused. “And unless I am mistaken, he has lost his way.”
The Indian, indeed, seemed to be doubtful about his bearings.
Not that he appeared anxious or undignified, but obviously he
was looking for somebody or something. At the famous inter-
• Mayhem in B-Flat, Random House, 1940.


section of the boulevards, he stood erect and motionless, look-
ing first to the north, then east, south and west. He saw the
glow of the brazier and noticed that several men were sitting
around it, then unhurriedly he made his way across the terrasse.
He presented a fine figure standing there by the curb at the
entrance to the Dôme, with his pantherlike poise, his swarthy
out-of-door complexion, his sharp, distinguished profile and
piercing dark eyes.
“A native of the plains," said Homer to himself. “And surely
not from one of the Southern tribes. He's too tall, and the
colors on his scarf are Algonquian. Probably of the Piegans, or
some related nation. A fine upstanding tribe.”
The reader will recall that Evans, soon after he was grad-
uated from the University, did considerable research work in
the Western States of America on behalf of the little-known
Society for the Preservation of Indian Culture, and in the course
of those studies, which resulted brilliantly although Homer
insisted on remaining anonymous, he had picked up a fair
working knowledge of several of the Indian tongues.
As the redskin came nearer, Evans noticed that his mocca-
sins were dyed a dull black.
"Ah, that settles it," Homer said. “The rare color distilled
from meadowsweet, and one of the few that is permanent on
elkskin. Our friend is of the Blackfeet, and no mistake. And
the son of a chief, to boot.”
The object of Homer's tactful scrutiny entered the terrasse,
fished out a phrase book and tried to make an inquiry of a
waiter. The latter shook his head regretfully.
“I speak only French, worse luck," the waiter said.
Evans rose courteously. "Kit kse mat taim mo!” (I greet
you), he said in the Algonquian tongue.
The Indian faced him gravely, but his dark eyes glowed with
pleased surprise. "Nit okh si tuk ki” (I am pleased), he replied.
“Will you join me for a smoke?” asked Homer. “Perhaps I
can be of service. I have hunted hereabouts many seasons.”


“Eeeeeee” (Thank you), said the Indian, and extended his
hand. “I am Rain-No-More, of the Blackfeet,” he said simply.
“And if you are acquainted in this city you can help me, indeed.
This is my first journey across the great blue water.”
"First let us smoke and collect our thoughts,” Evans said.
“You will think it strange, but I have heard much about you.
However, let us not be hurried, like fretful squaws. Be seated,
I beg of you."
As the Indian sat down and Homer followed, the waiter
arrived with Homer's drink of rum. For a moment, Evans was
nonplussed. He knew what effect firewater was likely to have
on Indians, and still he did not want to appear inhospitable. As
if Rain-No-More had read Homer's thoughts, the redman
smiled.
“Do not be afraid,” he said in perfect English. “I spent two
years in a white man's college just to learn to drink. My father,
Shot-on-Both-Sides, a wise chief, explained to me how much
our people had lost because of inability to cope with white
man's liquor. So he sent me all the way to Berkeley, California,
commanding me not to return to the tribe until I could outdrink
any student in my class. At first the task was hard. I passed
much time in jail, and my father was obliged to spend several
of his bank accounts to pay for property and domestic animals
I destroyed. However, after two years, I put to bed, single-
handed, the assistant professor of English, the college drinking
champion, after a bout that lasted about a quarter of a moon,
and then I felt justified in quitting the University and rejoin-
ing my father, who had need of me.”
Evans smiled his most winning smile and said to the waiter:
"Another large rum.” To Rain-No-More, he added: “We shall
be friends. Nit okh si tuk ki” (That's fine).
For answer, Rain-No-More reached into the pocket of his
buckskin jacket, drew forth a pipe marked with tribal decora-
tions, filled it with tobacco, lighted it and handed it to Homer.
“O tsis e" (Smoke), he said.
7


"Eeeeeee" (Many thanks), said Homer, and accepted the
token.
As they sat on the terrasse side by side, a fine rain, almost a
drizzle, began to fall, clouding the glass partitions. The two
men sipped their rum contentedly for perhaps five minutes;
then the Indian was first to speak.
"You said, friend Evans, that you had heard of me? Were
you in earnest, or in kindness trying to put me at ease in a
strange country?" asked Rain-No-More.
“A mutual friend has often mentioned good hunting with
you on the lower stretches of the Yellowstone,” Evans answered.
“But first, tell me what I can do for you here. I had the im-
pression that you were looking for someone. Perhaps I was
wrong.”
"I am, indeed,” Rain-No-More said. “I made the journey all
across America and the ocean, which proved to be much vaster
than I had imagined, in order to communicate with the daugh-
ter of an old trusted friend, a Miss Miriam Leonard. ...".
“But she is the mutual acquaintance I just mentioned. How
fortunate," Evans said. “In fact, she will be here within ten
minutes."
“Ah,” sighed the Indian, with relief. “Then we can drink
until she comes.” With that he beckoned the waiter and, in
graphic sign language which was readily understood, ordered
a couple more glasses of rum. There ensued a few more min-
utes of contented silence, during which they watched the
passers-by and puffed the 'tribal pipe in turn. Then Rain-No-
More said:
"Friend Evans, I see that your words, however surprising,
may be fully relied upon. You'll forgive me for a moment of
doubt, but I have been so bewildered at times by white men's
palaver that when you told me the girl I had traveled five
thousand miles to see would appear, in this lodge, without
delay, I could not give your assurance full credence. While I
have been passing through huge cities and traversing water


days on end, the chances have seemed so remote that I should
accomplish the errand my father entrusted to me, that your
words sounded too much like empty medicine. Now I know
better," the Indian said. For his sharp eyes had caught sight of
Miriam, far down the boulevard Montparnasse, a good two
blocks before Homer, whose eyesight was far better than the
average, had been able to recognize her.
The meeting between the childhood playmates was moving,
indeed, and somewhat startling to the clients of the Dôme. As
Miriam was about to enter the terrasse, both Homer and Rain-
No-More rose in their places. Miriam paused, she dropped her
handbag as her hands flew upward in a gesture of astonish-
ment, her dark blue eyes seemed to grow larger.
“Elk Calf.” she said, and hurried forward, upsetting two
chairs and a café crême. “Elk Calf! Can I believe my eyes?”
"Bird Cherry,” said Rain-No-More, using the nickname he
had given her when she was a wild long-legged child in the
Montana coulees. “The Chief, my father, sends greetings ..."
Suddenly Miriam turned white and clasped her hands. “But
Dad? My father? Nothing awful has happened?"
The Indian raised his hand with a comforting gesture.
"Your father is robust and well,” he said. “At the time of
the harvest festival he walked all the way from the ranch to
our lodge on the reservation, a matter of eighty-four miles, to
be present at the celebration. He is kind enough to remember,
on all occasions, that he is an adopted member of our tribe.
But he doesn't know I have made this journey. That is why I
did not bring you his greetings.”
"Homer Evans! However did you find him?" Miriam asked,
and blushed deeply, for in the excitement of seeing, unex-
pectedly, her childhood friend she had let it slip her mind that
Evans was just back from Morocco and that she had been
looking forward to their reunion many uneventful days.
“Rain-No-More found me. His instinct led him straight to


the Dôme,” said Homer, smiling. Then he added: “It's good to
see you, dear.”
The Indian was immediately aware of a slightly awkward
situation. “Perhaps I should return tomorrow," he began.
Both Miriam and Homer made haste to reassure him. “On
the contrary,” Homer said. “I know you have traveled many
days to give an important message to Miss Leonard. I'll leave
you alone until dinner time; then I shall have a suggestion to
make. I remember, when last I was on Poplar River, that some
of my acquaintances, members of the Crow Water society,
gave me an unforgettable sausage made of the loin meat of
elk and white-tailed deer. ..."
"Ep tse sin nas year,” said Rain-No-More. “How I should
like some now! The food on the boat consisted mainly of
vegetables and other frivolous provisions. I long for meat."
“Tonight you shall have it, in plenty,” Evans said, and, rising,
was about to leave the terrasse.
Rain-No-More restrained him gently. “I hope you will stay,
to hear what I have to say," he said. “Bird Cherry, who perhaps
I should learn to call ‘Miss Leonard,' will need your counsel,
and so shall I.”
“I know there's something wrong with Father,” Miriam said
anxiously. “For a long time I've sensed some kind of disaster.
His letters have been strained and unnatural. Please tell me,
Rain-No-More. Why did your father send you here?”
“The story is a long one,” Rain-No-More began.
“We'll be patient,” said Miriam. “Only do let's get started.”
“Since you left the valley,” said Rain-No-More, “the sheep-
men, headed by Larkspur Gilligan, got the Northern Pacific to
build a branch line from Glendive to Circle, just north of
Mountain Sheep Bluffs. By that means, Gilligan and his crowd
are able to ship direct to Minneapolis and Omaha from the
Piney Buttes range.”
"I'm glad they don't have to drive them up Redwater Creek
any more," said Miriam. “The sound of them, days and nights
10


on end, meeeeh ... meeeeh ... meeeeh ... was enough
to drive anybody crazy.”
Rain-No-More raised his hand for silence. “There have been
other results, not so pleasing, of the railroad's enterprise,” the
Indian said. “Gilligan now is able to get rid of all his sheep at
a good profit, and could sell many more if he had them. The
range west of Redwater has become too small for him.”
"Just let him dare to cross the deadline,” said Miriam, her eyes
flashing. “My dad would let daylight through the first sheepman
who set foot on the east bank of Redwater Creek.”
"Gilligan knows that, but he's greedy for more money. Just
what he could do with it, I can't understand. He has plenty for
himself and his friends, but avarice is the white man's plague.
But, to get on with my story, one day in early winter, when
the sheep were on the winter range, miles away in Idaho, I
rode to Circle to get some tobacco. No one knows me there, so
I hung around the store a while, and Gilligan came in with
a short dark man from back East. He called him Donniker
Louey...."
“Donniker Louey!” repeated Evans in astonishment.
Miriam and the Indian turned to him expectantly.
“Do you know him?" asked Miriam.
"I only know that he's a trigger man for one of the toughest
gang leaders in Chicago. Tom Jackson, when he was on the
Tribune, was nearly bumped off by Louey because he wrote a
story Louey's boss didn't like. ... Now what would Donniker
Louey be doing in Circle, Montana?" Evans asked.
“I am sure that was the name,” said Rain-No-More. “The
man was short and dark, like an Italian, with part of one ear
missing. He wore a bright blue suit with an orange necktie and
smoked long twisted cigars. I couldn't make out half he said,
for he spoke the dialect of the Great Lakes region, but I heard
Gilligan mention Redwater Creek, Three Buttes and the cattle
range east of the deadline. Several times he spoke your father's
II


name, and once the short Italian said: 'Don't worry, boss. I'll
take care of this Leonard guy.'”
In her agitation, Miriam had grasped Evans' hand and was
holding it tightly. “Larkspur Gilligan's the biggest crook in
Montana,” she explained to Homer. “More than once he's tried
to poison our cattle, and one year he tried to hire a bunch of
Cheyennes to run 'em off the range.”
Rain-No-More nodded acquiescence and continued: “I should
not have thought the incident in the store at Circle was impor-
tant if six weeks later I hadn't been riding along Redwater Creek
and hadn't seen the Italian named Louey bouncing along on
a tame old work horse not far from where Cottonwood Creek
flows into the Redwater. Of course, I saw him a mile before he
could see me, so I hid my pony in a coulee and watched the
man. I thought he was headed for Cottonwood Creek, so I
went to the head of the creek bed and waited. You remember
the place, Miriam? It's not ten miles from your ranch house at
Three Buttes, the Opera Lodge.
"The Italian hitched his old plug to a clump of sage and
started off on foot, keeping out of sight. I wasn't many yards
behind him. Then I saw your father riding toward us, on the
sorrel, Star. You remember the sorrel? You broke her yourself.”
“Oh, yes. But Father ..."
“Well,” Rain-No-More said, “your father rode along at a
trot, headed for Cottonwood Creek, where the Italian and I
were hiding. But you know how your father is. A meadowlark
can't hop within range of his eyes without him seeing it. This
Italian from the East stuck his head above the sagebrush, where
he was stretched out, automatic in hand. Your father saw
something move. So he halted and circled around, to find out
what it was. Then he took his rifle from behind the saddle and
took a pot shot that didn't miss Louey six inches. The Italian
hot-footed it down the coulee.
“When I got back to the lodge I told my father, the Chief,
what had happened and what I had heard in the store at Circle.
12


That was why he sent me over here to find you. He had heard
the sheepmen were looking for trouble and thought you ought
to know,” Rain-No-More said, and reached for the tribal pipe
which Evans had retained while the Indian had been speaking.
Miriam, thoroughly alarmed, was on her feet, clutching at
the shoulder of Rain-No-More's buckskin jacket. “But Rain-
No-More! How could you be so careless? That gangster will
get my father some other time. He'll be more cautious in the
future. Oh, Homer! What shall I do?”
The handsome young Indian smiled. “I think Jim Leonard
will have no more trouble with that Donniker Louey,” he said.
“I took precautions.” And with that he reached into one of his
breast pockets and drew forth a dried scalp which he laid on
the table before them.


To Part Is to Die a Little,
So What the Hell
LESS THAN AN HOUR after the encounter described in the pre-
vious chapter, Miriam was sitting on the edge of the bed in her
room in the Hotel Vavin, staring disconsolately at the wet
window pane. Outside, the single plane tree in the courtyard
swayed fretfully in the storm, for the wind had risen and was
driving the cold rain obliquely across the world capital of art
and letters and was moaning in a way designed to ruffle even
the steadiest nerves. Miriam turned her gaze from the plane
tree she had learned to love to the harpsichord in the corner, a
present from Homer. Involuntarily she began to cry.
From the moment Rain-No-More had told her of her father's
danger, there had been no doubt in her mind that she must
hasten to his side without delay. In fact, an open suitcase was
sprawled in front of her on the floor. But Paris, in the course of
the past three years, had introduced its narcotic virus into her
blood. She had reveled in its sights and breathed its odors. All
its doors, because of Evans, had been open to her, its most
intimate secrets divulged. Still, she was aware that Paris, superb
14


as it was, was not the reason for her black despondency. She
was cutting herself off from Homer Evans, after their years of
rare and intimate companionship. That she had the will power
to carry out the maneuver, which had become necessary because
of her father's predicament, Miriam did not question. But what
would remain of her spirit and her zest for life was a far graver
problem, and one she tried to face as the rain beat down. That
very evening was to have been a happy time of reunion, but as
matters stood she could not face it. She had begged to be ex-
cused, on the ground that she must pack her trunk and her
valises, and had left Homer to entertain Rain-No-More and
give the Indian a quick view of a kind of life that was strange
and incomprehensible to him. The Ile-de-France was sailing
at noon the next day, the boat train would leave the Gare St.
Lazare at eight-fifteen in the morning. Her dismay deepened
as she tried to picture herself on board, with Paris and Evans
receding in the distance, the coast of France sliding slowly away,
out of reach, a page turning relentlessly in the book of her
ments and throwing them helter-skelter into the suitcase, while
tears pattered down, unrestrained, and spotted the freshly
ironed laundry.
"Steady, my girl," she seemed to hear her father say. That
carried her thoughts across the miles of sea and land to her
home on the range. Well she remembered the mutterings and
threats of the cattlemen when, eight years before, Larkspur Gil-
ligan, by conniving with unscrupulous politicians, had caused
the country west of the Redwater to be opened as a summer
range for sheep. Gilligan had received his nickname because it
was common talk that he had planted the deadly larkspur, which
sheep are brought up to the summer range. The weed had
taken hold in the coulees of Redwater Creek, Coyote Creek and
along Big Dry Creek in the shadow of the Piney Buttes. Once
the larkspur had begun to Aourish on that watershed, Gilligan
15


had used the fact as an argument why cattle should be excluded
and the sheepmen permitted to use the range as a grazing land.
When first the news came through that Gilligan had got what
he wanted from government officials, Jim Leonard had said
there would be bloodshed. Nevertheless he had abided by the
law. His cattle had ranged from Redwater east to the Yellow-
stone and north as far as the Missouri, and no clashes had
occurred. Now, according to Rain-No-More's story, it was
evident that Gilligan intended to invade the country east of
the deadline and drive cattle from the entire valley of the
Lower Yellowstone. That meant war, no less. Miriam knew her
father, his fiery temper as well as his stern control. He had
been pushed as far by Gilligan as he would go. He had sub-
mitted, out of respect for law and order, to unjust and foolish
regulations. If Gilligan persisted, the showdown was at hand.
And, it went without saying, she must stand at her father's
side and fight.
While Miriam was pursuing her inner conflict and trying to
fit recalcitrant articles into the limited space her baggage af-
forded, the terrasse of the Café du Dôme had livened up a bit.
Rain-No-More, who had neglected to remove the scalp from
the table, had taken an interest in Homer's recital of the his-
tory of rum and the picturesque incidents attendant on the
trade in the early days of the American Colonies. In the midst
of the story, however, Evans had been interrupted by a roar
and a slap on the back, the breeze of which caused the brazier
to sputter and glow.
"Shiver my timbers," said a hearty voice. Looking up, Evans
was overjoyed to see, standing jovially behind him, Hjalmar
Jansen, the big Norwegian-American painter who, because of
the insistence of several of his female friends, had been obliged
to quit the Quarter for a long sea voyage just as the tarantula
murder case was coming to a close in the preceding spring.
"Sit down,” said Homer cordially. “But first meet my friend
16


Rain-No-More, of the Blackfeet. He has just crossed the ocean,
too."
“Glad to meet you, sir,” Hjalmar said, and collared a passing
waiter. “More rum,” he bellowed. “I see you're right, Homer,
as usual. Whiskey when the sun shines, rum when it's damp.
That's the way to keep your health and strength. By the way,
are you boys hungry?”
"I long for meat,” said Rain-No-More.
Hjalmar had picked up the scalp of Donniker Louey and was
examining it with a chuckle. He had never handled one before.
"Say, Chief,” he said. “How's chances for this to make me a
tobacco pouch?”
"I dislike refusing anything to a friend of Mr. Evans,” said
Rain-No-More, “but I think I should keep it for a while. The
man I was obliged to kill, as Evans knows, was about to shoot
from ambush an old friend of my tribe. Under the circum-
stances, if the body is found, which is possible although un-
likely, an enemy will try to pin the murder on my friend. As
long as I keep the scalp, I can, if necessary, prove that I am the
guilty party.”
“Damn sporting of you,” said Jansen, glancing at his new
acquaintance appreciatively.
Evans, meanwhile, had picked up the scalp and was looking
at it through his pocket reading glass. When he had finished
his scrutiny he turned to Rain-No-More. “How far back do the
records of your tribe go, about scalping, I mean?”.
"About three hundred years," said Rain-No-More. “To tell
you exactly, I'd have to consult my father. We learned it from
the Great Lakes Indians, after we had started riding horses."
“The practice was first introduced in Connecticut," Evans
said. “The white men there hired Indians to slaughter white
enemies for them. At first the Indians were obliged to cut off
the heads and bring them in, in order to collect. Later the scalp
was deemed sufficient, and of course was less bulky and more
convenient."


"My father will be most interested,” said Rain-No-More.
"He dotes on history.”
The conversation was just about to shift to the subject of
restaurants where meat was plentiful when an astonished
gasp behind him caused Jansen almost to choke on his rum.
"In the name of Heaven, what is that gruesome object with
human hair?" asked a familiar voice, and they all saw Chief of
Detectives Frémont, whose gaze was riveted to the scalp on the
table.
Evans, always equal to embarrassing situations, introduced
Frémont to the Indian and explained that the scalp was a
tribal relic from North America and did not mean extra work
for the Paris police department.
“I trust it did not belong to a Frenchman,” Frémont said,
sighing. "In that case ..."
“It was taken from an Italian,” said Evans, "and one who
is much better off without it, I assure you."
"Ah, America,” Frémont said, and sighed again. "It was
about America that I wished to speak with you, my friend. I
trust your companions will pardon me.”
"O ko kit e ki sok o" (I long for meat), murmured Rain-
No-More to Homer, who immediately proposed that they all
dine together, at the Brassèrie Schmitz in the avenue Mott-
Piquet, where the food is good and plentiful and the sur-
roundings conducive to comfort and relaxation. Rain-No-More
was invited to ride with the Chief of Detectives, since he liked
.the sound of the siren on the cheese-colored roadster. Evans
and Hjalmar followed in a taxi.
"I hope Frémont's got another case with lots of rough stuff,"
Hjalmar said. “This weather makes a man wish for action."
To his surprise, the big Norwegian noticed that Evans was
not listening. He was sitting well back on the cushions, his
hands resting lightly on his knees, oblivious to conversation
within or the downpour without, completely lost in thought.
Hjalmar, who was anxious not to do any heavy thinking,
18


either about the past or the future, until the weather cleared,
fidgeted in silence until the ride was over, then touched Homer
on the sleeve. “Here we are,” he said.
After selecting a quiet corner table, Homer went straight to
the kitchen, where the chef greeted him enthusiastically. Evans
explained that he had as a guest an American redskin who
cared little for vegetables, and within five minutes Rain-No-
More, Hjalmar, Frémont and Evans had before them a platter
about the size of an archery target, piled high with Strasbourg
ham, andouilletes de Vire, sausages from Lyon, Belfort, Per-
pignan and Bordeaux, paté de foie gras from Nancy with
Perigord truffles, smoked sturgeon from the Volga, sobresada
from the Balearic Isles, pepperoni from Genoa, smoked mutton
along until the roast of beef should be au point. Whenever a
seidel was empty, which was often, the waiter promptly
brought another filled with foaming beer.
The clientele of the Brasserie Schmitz is from the neighbor-
hood, with a sprinkling of non-coms and soldiers from the
Ecole Militaire near by, and several taxi drivers who know
where to get the most for their money. Tourists seldom, if ever,
find the brassèrie, but if they do they have plenty, on returning,
to tell the folks back home. The rain coursing down the spa-
In fact, it seemed to spur them on to better efforts, until all the
regular waiters and a couple of the patron's nephews were
gliding to and fro. Little was attempted in the way of conver-
sation until after the cold cuts, the roast, the turkey and the
cheese had been disposed of. Then Evans ordered filtered
coffee and a special marc de Bourgogne that caused Rain-No-
More's stiff black hair to rise and fall quite perceptibly as he
took his first swallow. Frémont, usually most abstemious, for
once was drinking with abandon.
"Oblivion,” he muttered, as he reached for the marc.


Evans, who, in spite of his preoccupation, had missed nothing
of Frémont's strange behavior, gave him an opening to un-
burden his mind.
“America,” he began.
“Ah, America,” said Frémont, rolling his eyes in despair.
“Not only is it baffling, in all its manifestations, but I, per.
sonally, have been ordered to go there."
“I'm not surprised,” Evans said.
Frémont nearly bounced out of his chair. “Not surprised!
Not surprised, did you say? Myself, I'm dumbfounded! The
prefect of police, undoubtedly the prince of all the fatheads in
France, summoned me to his office today. He was gaily dressed,
with a flower in his buttonhole. He was smiling so benignly
that I knew I was done for. 'Frémont,' he said, in that oily
department brilliantly and brought glory to all of us.' I stood
there, sweating, and waited for the worst. I did not have long
to wait. 'The minister and I have decided, the prefect went
on, 'to send you to America for a prolonged tour of study, say
six months, with a possible extension. You are to take with
you, for the good of the service, Sergeants Schlumberger and
Bonnet ...!"
“The situation is quite clear," Evans said. “Your superiors
want you out of the way for a while. Not only that, but they
want the brightest officers in your department to be absent and
distant also. I have suspected for some time that a scandal of
tremendous dimensions was afoot. The Minister of Justice has
lost eighteen pounds, and came out sixteenth in the annual
national domino tournament he almost invariably wins."
Frémont did not appear to be comforted. “I, too, have sus-
pected there was something in the wind, but, as you know, I've
never meddled in politics. I'm a police officer, painstaking and
conscientious, that's all. Now I've got to visit all your large
heard of, and learn how criminals are stalked abroad. A fine
20


kind of fool I'll make of myself, trotting from police station
to police station with my hat in my hand. And Hydrangea! I
can't leave her here. Because of her color, I can't let her travel
with me in your eccentric land.”
"Leave her in Harlem,” suggested Hjalmar. “She'll wait for
“That's what I'm most afraid of,” Frémont said. “If ever
she gets to Harlem again, she'll stay there. ... I am ruined,
because, in the past three years, I have been given credit for
solving the difficult cases Monsieur Evans has unraveled for
me.” Frémont turned to Homer, his broad honest face eloquent
with appeal. “I beg of you, Monsieur, let me go to the prefect
and confess I am a dunderhead, let me convince him that my
apparently brilliant record is a sham, and entirely due to your
talents and modesty. Let him demote me, send me back to
pounding the pavements on an ordinary beat. At least I should
be patrolling in Paris, and not scuttling from pillar to post in
foreign lands, with the woman of my heart cavorting among
millions of her dusky race and being estranged from me. My
house of cards is collapsing. Unless you will hearken to the
voices of reason and friendship, I am undone.”
Rain-No-More, who had listened attentively and tried his
tribal pipe of peace. “This squaw of whom you speak,” he said.
“Is she really so unruly in your absence? My father, Shot-on-
Both Sides, acquired two such women in a raid on the Sho-
shones, and, although he grew inordinately fond of them, both
eventually escaped and got back to their tribe. There are
squaws who take to new environments, and others who are
incurably homesick. If you have hit upon one of the latter, best
forget her, my friend."
The Chief of Detectives began to sway and moan, then to
crunch liqueur glasses. “This is the end,” he said. “Exile to be
21


followed by dismissal! The loss of all that's dear to me! Con-
tentment, farewell!”
“What the hell,” said Hjalmar. “A little trip won't hurt you,
if the government pays the bills. And as for women, you don't
know how lucky you are. It's all right when they're trying to
get away. It's when they can't live without you that they start
to get in your hair.”
“Alas, you foreigners are bereft of the finer feelings,” wailed
Frémont and signaled to the waiter to replenish his glass. In
another half hour, the Chief of Detectives fell into a troubled
sleep on the table, so Hjalmar bundled him into a taxi and
rode with him to the place de la Contrescarpe, where he put
him to bed in the Hotel Murphy et du Danube Bleu.
While the meal and the ensuing conversation were taking
place, the rain had ceased, so that the pavements outside were
gleaming with the reflections of street lamps and neon signs.
Evans, sensing that his companion was eager for a little exer-
cise, suggested to Rain-No More that they walk across the city
to settle their meal and get some fresh air in their lungs before
visiting the night spots of Montmartre. The wind howled as
they crossed the deserted Champ de Mars but when they
reached the sheltered narrow streets on the way to the Invalides,
Evans tried to draw the Indian out concerning the impending
cattle- and sheepmen's war.
“Are there other ranches besides Leonard's on the cattle
range east of Redwater?” Homer inquired. “When I was out
in the Yellowstone country I didn't get back into the foothills
in that region. I was fascinated by the badlands on the east
side of the river, so I didn't cross over.”
“There are a few dry farmers on the flats near the Dakota
border," Rain-No-More said, “but you know what farmers are.
They fence in a few acres of homestead and squat there. Our
medicine man, Trout-tail III, says it's a wager with the Great
White Father in Washington, who bets three hundred and
22


sixty acres that none of his children from the Eastern tribes
can stay in that country two years without starving to death."
"Who has Leonard got to help him, if Gilligan and his gang
try to run him out of the valley?" Evans asked.
"His cowpunchers and the Blackfeet tribe. But Gilligan is
thick with the politicians. He'll arrange to have a gang of
crooked deputies to keep us on the reservation if there's a
fight,” said Rain-No-More. They were passing the Invalides.
The Indian stopped to cut a straight stick from one of the
shrubs in the place and, almost in the shadow of Napoleon's
tomb, he scratched a map in the damp earth and pointed to it
as he explained the situation. Evans listened eagerly, weighing
every word.
The range where Miriam's father grazed his stock was almost
rectangular in form, running about one hundred and fifty
miles north and south and one hundred east and west. There
were no roads, except the stage road near the river, and no
fences except those around the claims in that same section. The
Yellowstone formed its eastern boundary, the Missouri skirted
it on the north. Mondak, on the Great Northern Railroad at
the confluence of the two great rivers, was the shipping point,
about fifty miles from Leonard's ranch. The Great Northern
officials, Rain-No-More explained, favored the cattlemen in
every way, since the profits for transporting the steers fell to
them. On the other hand, the Northern Pacific crowd, influen-
tial in the State Legislature, was anxious to help the sheepmen.
The two continued walking, after Homer had got the lay
of the battleground firmly fixed in his mind. It seemed, at first
glance, as if Leonard, with his cowboys, might be able to defend
himself, but Evans' mind kept reverting to the late Donniker
Louey. The end of the prohibition era, Homer knew, had
released a horde of gangsters from the comparatively whole-
some occupation of smuggling whiskey and beer. Dozens of
the toughest men in Chicago, or in the world, for that matter,
were footloose and on the make. Gilligan took at least two


trips east every year. What was more natural than that in Chi-
cago he should make the acquaintance of some gang leader, get
to talking in a bar, and make a deal for the invasion of the
cattle range? Long ago, Montana had lost nearly all of her
cattle. In fact, Jim Leonard's isolated corner of the State, un-
spoiled because it was inaccessible, was the last stronghold of
that noble industry.
In the place St. Michel Evans and Rain-No-More sat down
on the terrasse Au Depart, a spot that is redolent with history,
and Evans sighed as he glanced over his shoulder and saw the
towers of Notre Dame setting themselves against the flying
clouds. To the right was the grim Conciergierie, the maimed
Tour St. Jacques, from which Napoleon had removed the
church, the slender spire of the Sainte Chapelle, and, beyond,
the teeming place du Châtelet. A pained, almost agonized ex-
pression crossed Homer's face as he turned to look at the
fountain and the world-renowned Boul' Mich' at his left. Rain-
No-More, observing that his companion was undergoing some
kind of struggle, sat silently, impressed by the historic sights
because they were new and strange to him. What inscrutable
folk were the white men, he was thinking. With woods and
fields all around them, they piled up enormous cities that stood
while nations prospered and decayed. Instead of seeking their
food where it abounded, they had it brought miles in trucks.
They sold their health for money and their freedom for a false
security.
“Two more rums," the Indian said, in French, phrase book
in hand, and was pleased that the waiter understood him.
The Indian's words aroused Evans from his reverie. “Forgive
me,” he said. “I'm forgetting my privilege as a host.” And
from that moment until five in the morning he was gay and
scintillating. From the slopes of Montmartre, where Evans was
greeted everywhere with cordiality, the two new friends tra-
versed the great central markets where pyramids of cabbage,
24


carrots, parsnips and cauliflower stood twelve feet high in rows
extending hundreds of yards.
"Tais kut te," grunted Rain-No-More, for the Blackfeet called
vegetables “useless food.” Such fare would not sustain them
on the trail or the warpath.
"Po kit e ki sok o” (Plenty meat), said Evans, and led him
to the vast sheds where carcasses of beef and mutton hung in
tens of thousands. There Rain-No-More was truly impressed.
A year's meat for all his people in a single building! His face
remained impassive but his dark eyes glowed. In years to come
he would have much to tell his tribesmen around the fragrant
campfires. The question was: would they believe him? But
Evans had stranger sights in store for him.
At two o'clock in the morning in Paris, the police make the
round of the bridges, alleys and the most wretched cafés in
the quarters where tramps seek shelter and the miserable army
of the disinherited is aroused from sodden slumber and forced
to trek across the place in front of Notre Dame and go into
the central market area. The theory is that some of the dere-
licts will be able to pick up a few crushed turnips or cabbage
leaves to keep them alive and others will earn a few sous by
carrying loads on their backs from the trucks to the wholesale
stores. Rain-No-More, at Evans' side, stood facing the great
cathedral and watched hundreds of the lowest of the low
shuffle past with listless gait and defenseless faces, with occa-
sional policemen in uniform to herd them along.
"I shall leave this land tomorrow," the Indian said simply.
“I shall return to the plains where braves share their meat and
squaws sew garments for all."
Evans nodded, but in order to top off the evening on a hap-
pier plane he took Rain-No-More to the Bal Tabarin, where
they arrived in time for the Can-Can. The Indian responded to
the mood of the dance and went to his hotel singing the pro-
vocative tune at the top of his voice, with words from old
Blackfeet legends.


Three hours later a strangely assorted group assembled in
the gare St. Lazare. At seven, Homer, refreshed by nearly two
hours of sleep, called for Miriam at the Hotel Vavin and found
her sitting, pale but resolute, among her bags. Moritz, her
faithful Boxer, his forehead wrinkled into a most apprehensive
frown, was at her side.
"I've asked the proprietor to have the harpsichord moved
into your apartment, until I can send for it from America,”
said Miriam, her voice sounding thin as a wisp of disappearing
smoke.
"It will be safe there," Evans said, and rang for Stenka, the
maid, whose dismal wailing could be heard all along the hall-
way. The big Serbian girl, since Miriam had rescued her from
Godo the Whack in the course of the tarantula murder case,
had thought of nothing but serving Miriam. The thought that
her mistress was about to go across the ocean, perhaps never
to return, filled Stenka's candid heart with woe. Excusing him-
self to Miriam, Evans stepped into the corridor and spoke a
few words softly to the Serbian. Stenka's wails rose in pitch,
then suddenly took on a joyful note and she ran down the hall
and out of sight.
"I'll take down the bags,” Evans said, and reached for the
suitcases. Moritz, the dog, with a sigh and a doleful shake of
his head, fell into step behind. Once before in his life he had
seen French Line tags stuck on baggage and he knew what it
meant-a prolonged journey cooped up on a rolling strange-
smelling conveyance, with yapping Pekingese in cages near by.
He hoped at least there would be a police dog or a Doberman
aboard, but it was not his responsibility, so he trotted along and
hopped easily to his place in the taxi.
At the station a surprising number of people, considering the
season, were signaling porters and heading for the boat train.
Among them were Chief of Detectives Frémont and Sergeants
Schlumberger and Bonnet, all in civilian clothes with boiled
shirts and stiff collars. The trio, each one looking more mis-
26


erable than the other, had been grouped in front of their bag-
gage by the newsreel cameramen and were blinking and sweat-
ing as the cameras clicked. Hydrangea, most fetching in a
going-away outfit of jade green trimmed with silver fox, was
watching the procedure from a distance with sparkling eyes.
Thoughts of her beloved Harlem were buzzing around her
head like bees on a frigola bush, to such a point that she had
chucked her package of seasickness remedy into a trash recep-
tacle. When she saw that Miriam was also going to sail on the
Ile-de-France, the chic ex-Blackbird's spirits rose even higher.
“Look well on one who, after years of service, is being
hounded from the land of his birth,” Frémont said, shaking
hands limply with Evans. "I shall be set upon by urchins all
up and down your Fifth Avenue. And meanwhile, criminals
will romp. The prefect will lose track of three-quarters of them.
After dark, the citizens will quail behind barricaded doors, if
Hugo Weiss to meet me at the pier and guide me to a respect-
able hotel. But if the journalists publish my picture, in the
state I shall be in on arriving in New York, American crooks
will conclude that if such a one guards public morals in France,
Paris is a desperado's paradise. No doubt they'll come over in
droves.”
"You'll find much in America to interest you,” said Evans.
Miriam, winking hard to keep back her tears, beckoned a
his wardrobe trunk on one shoulder, arrived on foot from the
Hotel Opal in the place de la Madeleine.
"Kit kse mat taim mo,” he said, looking fresh and fit.
"Hello,” roared Hjalmar Jansen, emerging from a taxi.
The porters found the places in the train and stowed away
the baggage. Along the quai, vendors of food and drink, maga-
zines, pillows and souvenirs plied their trade while tearful
friends and relatives embraced the voyagers again and again
and shouted hysterical advice. Miriam was seated near the


gea in front. Frémont, Schlumberger and Bonnet were across
the aisle. Hjalmar was grinning as he tried to cheer the Chief
of Detectives on the subject of life at sea. Homer, after having
arranged with the conductor to have Moritz ride with the
other passengers instead of being tied up in a baggage car,
stood close to Miriam's chair. How well she behaved, this
brave American girl, he was thinking. No dramatics, no har-
rowing demonstration. She simply sat there, hands clenched
tightly, looking neither left nor right, and praying for the train
to start moving.
"All aboard,” the conductor said, and piped his little whistle.
Hjalmar got up from the arm of a chair.
“Good-bye, Homer,” said Miriam. Then she faltered, for
Evans was making no move toward the doorway. A moment
later her eyes grew wide; she caught her breath and came as
near fainting, in the good old Victorian way, as she ever did in
her life, for Homer, smiling ruefully, cast a farewell glance at
the gare St. Lazare and said:
"I made up my mind last night to toddle along, if you don't
mind. I've never met your estimable father, you know. And
this Gilligan person interests me. In fact, my luggage is aboard
class, where she'll be more at ease, but we'll pick her up at Le
Havre.”
Hjalmar Jansen let out a roar. “I'm blasted if I don't go with
you," he said and fished in his pockets for money.
The Boxer, sensing how the mood of the gathering had sud-
denly. soared, indulged in one joyful bark, then turned his eyes
toward Miriam for forgiveness, as almost imperceptibly the
train started gliding toward Le Havre.


Of Life on the Ocean Wave, and
Particularly in February
BY THE TIME the gong rang as a warning to dress for dinner,
the group of friends the reader knows were disposed, for better
the Ile-de-France. They had boarded the liner without fuss or
flurry, and had stood at the rail as the hawsers were cast off
and the ship got under weigh. The weather had cleared and the
sun shone thinly on the roofs and towers of Le Havre as they
rounded the breakwater. It was just at that point that the liner
felt the first sea swell and performed a sort of curtsey in ac-
knowledgment.
"France and other things, farewell!” groaned Frémont and
stumbled down the companionway in a direction he mistakenly
supposed would bring him to his cabin. After pointless mean-
derings, he was retrieved by a steward and guided to his bunk,
which by that time was dipping and cavorting merrily. He was
joined without delay by Sergeant Schlumberger, whose wide
experience in police work had never brought him on deep
water before and, according to his statement as he struggled to
29


pull off his enormous white shirt, it never would again. Bonnet,
on the contrary, hailing as he did from Brittany, was a sailor
from birth and walked the deck with glee, extending his legs
to keep pace with Rain-No-More, who was trying to explain,
as they put the miles behind them, why Indians ate meat for
breakfast and preferred to sleep on the ground.
Miriam spent most of the afternoon in her cabin, helping
Stenka arrange her clothes and toilet articles. The big Serbian
girl, who stood six feet one in her stockings, when she had them,
was in a sort of trance. Not having been to school and being
of an uncurious nature, she had never acquired any facts about
oceans, although she had dimly heard of them. During lulls in
unpacking, she glanced out of the portholes, saw miles of rush-
ing waves bent apparently on the vessel's destruction, and began
to murmur Serbian prayers. But when she looked at Miriam
and saw her beloved mistress smiling and tripping gaily from
corner to corner, overflowing with relief and joy, Stenka de-
cided that she had fallen in with some enchanted folk who
either didn't care what happened or enjoyed some mysterious
immunity from harm. She resolved to string along with them
as best she could. When the Ile-de-France touched Southamp-
ton, the honest maid thought the trip was over and started
throwing articles wildly into valises until forcibly restrained.
Homer Evans and Hjalmar were seated at a comfortable
table in the smoking room, and were sampling the famous
champagne cocktails which set the French Line apart from
merely commercial steamship companies. Between sips, the big
Norwegian was scribbling a hasty letter to Horsecollar Phoebe
at Rouen, explaining that his projected visit there would have
to be postponed on account of an emergency that was taking
him suddenly to the west of North America. Evans was study-
ing the passenger list. A gaily uniformed mouche, or bellboy,
passed, and Homer called to him.
“Please ask Monsieur Rain-No-More if he can come here at
his convenience,” Homer said.
30


o the luxur traveled onch he had
The boy was off so quickly that Hjalmar blinked and made
several scattered blots of ink on his letter. Although he had a
master mariner’s ticket, he had seldom traveled on board ship
as a passenger, and found the luxurious surroundings and
prompt service disconcerting.
Rain-No-More appeared so noiselessly at Homer's side that
Hjalmar was startled again and had to throw away his epistle
and start all over again. Champagne was not good for his
nerves, he concluded, and he switched to straight whiskey.
“It's a strange coincidence,” Homer said to the Indian, “but
a passenger named Gilligan got on at Southampton and, ac-
cording to the purser, his home is in Montana. Terence Gilli-
gan is his name.”
“Bad medicine," grunted Rain-No-More. “He's Larkspur
Gilligan's son.”
“Does he know you?" asked Evans.
“To him, one Indian looks just like another,” said Rain-No-
More.
Evans handed the Indian the passenger list and pointed to
another name: Umberto Santosuosso.
"An Italian,” said Rain-No-More. “I've only known one
Italian and him I didn't like."
“Sit down a moment, and have a cocktail,” Evans said.
“There may be more in this than meets the casual eye.” After
the waiter had brought a round and Hjalmar had given up
letter writing in favor of the wireless, Homer started to explain.
“Umberto Santosuosso, if I am not mistaken, is the son of
Antonio Santosuosso, known to his intimates as Baldy Santo,"
he said.
“He's the mug who tried to take Tom Jackson for a ride in
Chicago. He's boss of a beer-running mob,” Hjalmar said.
“Bum beer at that.”
"Not only leader of a gang, but the gang of which Donniker
Louey was a charter member,” Evans continued. “And further-
more, Umberto, son of Baldy, came aboard at Southampton
31


“Once, when I was six years old, I stole the priest's snuff-
box," she moaned, imploringly. “They say God remembers
everything. Is that really true?"
“Well, yes and no," said Miriam.
invitation, Evans stepped inside. Succinctly he told her about
Terence Gilligan's presence on the liner and asked her to join
him in the smoking room for a consultation as soon as she was
dressed. For the first evening aboard, she chose a silver lamé
evening gown that had all the simplicity of a Grecian robe,
with a lapis lazuli brooch and dark-blue buckles on her slip-
pers. Homer was seated with Rain-No-More and Hjalmar
Jansen as she entered the doorway near the bar, and even the
impassive Indian let out a grunt of surprised approval. The
barman dropped a shaker containing the makings for six Mar-
tinis. But the most unexpected response came from a table
several times removed from Homer's. A tall queenly woman
rose in her place, as did the distinguished Frenchman with
decorations all across the lapels of his evening clothes, who
was seated beside her.
“Miriam, my dear. Is it possible you are here?” said a finely
modulated voice, and a second later Miriam was embracing
Eugénie de Sault, formerly the Marchioness de la Rose d'Antan
and since the Louvre* murder mystery, Madame Hyacinthe
Toudoux. Her husband, the renowned doctor, shook hands
with unfeigned enthusiasm.
"The Minister of Justice did me the honor to appoint me as
delegate from France to the international conference of toxi-
cologists in Chicago," the medical examiner said, as Homer
and Hjalmar joined them. Being oblivious to political events,
the good doctor was not aware that Chief of Detectives Fré-
mont had also been railroaded from France. Toudoux was
overjoyed to hear that his colleague was on board. A sprightly
• Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre, Random House, 1940.
33


general conversation followed, enlivened no end by the famous
champagne cocktails, so that Homer had no opportunity for
his talk with Miriam before Terence Gilligan and young San-
tosuosso, the latter somewhat self-conscious because of his
London-tailored Tuxedo, came into the smoking room. The
pair glanced speculatively around the room, then went straight
to the bar. Homer gave a sigh of relief. For Gilligan had looked
straight at Miriam and had failed to recognize her. In truth,
in her silver evening gown, by Maggy Rouff, and matured by
her long association with Evans, she looked quite different from
the girl who had attended high school with Gilligan in Glen-
dive, Montana. Dr. Toudoux was deep in conversation with
Rain-No-More, discussing the medicinal properties of bog
asphodel, Dyer's greenwood, woodruff and other wild herbs of
the prairie. Hjalmar was explaining latitude and longitude to
Sergeant Bonnet and Hydrangea, who had entered alone and
was welcomed warmly by the company. Rain-No-More was
glancing covertly toward the pair at the bar and reflecting that
the night would be dark and the decks deserted later on.
Miriam, always thoughtful of others, remembered that Stenka
was alone in the cabin, and terrified. Since Madame Toudoux
was Junoesque in stature, it occurred to Miriam that the doc-
tor's wife might lend a gown to the Serbian girl, who had
come aboard with no clothes except the humble ones she had
been wearing. So when the group assembled at the Captain's
table, Stenka, impressive in a low-cut creation of Poiret, was
seated tremulously at Hjalmar Jansen's left, while Hydrangea
was paired with Rain-No-More. Evans, after consultation with
the wine steward, chose a Montrachet blanc and a red Château
Lafitte, asked the waiter to bring a triple portion of Lyonnaise
duck for Rain-No-More, and the meal progressed in a mem-
orable way to such a point that even Stenka laid aside her mis-
givings and decided to enjoy the voyage to the full. The Cap-
tain, pleased that he was to make the crossing in such varied
and agreeable company, trotted out his special brandy, known
34


as “Philosopher's Delight,” and although the Ile-de-France did
everything but turn somersaults the group of friends, beloved
of the reader, were snug and happy as fleas in an Aubusson
carpet.
Homer Evans was the life of the gathering. With each mem-
ber of the party he conversed on congenial subjects, even evok-
ing from Stenka the incident of the priest's purloined snuffbox,
but in a spirit unmistakably gay. Between times, however, he
was thinking of Terence Gilligan. It was inevitable, he con-
cluded, that the young man would see Miriam's name on the
passenger list and eventually would realize who she was. So
after dinner, and before the horse races in the salon began, he
advised her to throw Gilligan off the track by telling him that
she was going to New York to round out her study of the piano.
Hjalmar and the Indian, advised of the strategy, looked dis-
appointed but were willing to trust Homer's judgment. In
fact, before the evening was over, young Gilligan and his Italian
companion were included in the party and danced with
Miriam, Stenka and Hydrangea while Frémont and Schlum-
berger writhed and suffered below with a stoicism increasingly
hard to maintain. Eugénie and Hyacinthe Toudoux, mean-
while, enjoyed a remarkable foursome of contract bridge, with
Homer Evans and Rain-No-More, who had learned the game
in Berkeley in order to recoup some of the expenses to which
his course in imbibology had put his father, Shot-on-Both-
Sides. It was already evident that Hjalmar was hitting it off
with the Serbian girl in no uncertain way, to the discomfiture
of Santosuosso, who, although a head shorter than Stenka, was
dizzy with admiration of her Slavic charms.
“I was painting London red when the old man sent for me,”
Terence Gilligan confided to Miriam, who was all attention.
"Perhaps he needs you on the range,” she said.
“He's afraid I'll quit that God-forsaken country,” Gilligan
said. “And he thinks I ought to earn a living. I can't see the


sense of that. He's made a pile of dough, and someone has got
to spend it. Why not I?”.
Stifling an impulse to defend her homeland, so remote and
untrammeled, Miriam pretended to agree. “I haven't been out
there since the branch railroad was built to Circle," she said.
“Dad's a smooth one," said Gilligan, with a self-satisfied air.
“He's cleaning up more money every year. Too bad your gov-
ernor sticks to cattle, or he could get in on the graft.”
The ship gave a lurch, piling up the dancers on the star-
board side, and somehow Hjalmar landed square on top of the
Italian, who came out of the scrimmage much the worse for
wear. The gangster was about to protest, but just then Jansen
was obliging the orchestra by lifting the piano back into place,
single-handed, so Santosuosso decided to bide his time.
The inevitable break in the precarious relationship with the
pair of outsiders occurred with suddenness and dispatch on the
following afternoon. A few amateurs were passing the time
shooting clay pigeons on the promenade deck, but with such
shots as Miriam, Homer Evans, Rain-No-More and the son of
Baldy Santo, whose first toy had been a sawed-off shotgun, the
contest degenerated into a mild form of physical exercise, the
brunt being borne by the sailor who worked the trap. While
Santosuosso had the pump gun in his hand, a playful porpoise,
the first to make its appearance on the voyage, leaped from the
waves, surveyed the Ile-de-France with a pale blue eye, and
began playing around the bow. The Italian, with a malicious
grin, fired from the hip and peppered the porpoise with shot,
so that he lashed the water in pain and disappeared. Miriam
turned white with fury.
“What a cowardly trick!” she said. A clay pigeon was spiral-
ing in the air, against a background of swiftly moving clouds.
Whipping out her automatic from her handbag, she fired once
and shattered the whirling disc into smithereens, then stamped
her foot and went down to her cabin.
“Gee, that broad's got a temper," said the Italian. He found
urned white with
trick!” she said. *wwiftly moving cho
so


himself face to face with an Indian whose eyes were boring
into his more deeply than the shot in the porpoise's hide.
refer to that young lady as Miss Leonard, if it becomes neces-
sary for you to speak her name at all.”
"Just skip it,” said Santosuosso nervously, and walked away.
The Indian turned to Gilligan, who had flushed with resent-
ment. “Any questions?” Rain-No-More asked curtly.
Gilligan dropped his eyes and followed his disgruntled com-
panion below.


Stormy Weather on the Range
FOR THREE DAYS a fitful wind had been driving the snow, like
sharp white powder, across the bleak stretches of the Lower
Yellowstone. The tops of the foothills, blown bare, were like
islands in a sea of white, and deep drifts choked the coulees.
In disconsolate detachments, the tough short-horned cattle,
whose hair had grown shaggy to protect them from the bitter
cold, were moving slowly toward the river, their backs hunched
to the tempest. Some of the weaker ones had dropped out, lain
down resignedly and patiently had died.
In the ranch house at Three Buttes, known as Opera Lodge
and built of logs, Jim Leonard, whose silver-white hair made
his shrewd blue eyes look darker than they were, was tying
and untying knots in a length of stiff hemp rope and glancing
uneasily, now and then, at the frost-covered windows. On a
bench near by were two of his cowboys, Hank and Laramee Bob,
watching idly the skillful play of Leonard's calloused fingers.
A discarded copy of Western Story Magazine lay on the floor
at their feet, and in the broad fireplace two eight-foot cotton-
wood logs were crackling and emitting pale lemon-colored
Aames while shadows danced grotesquely on the wall.


"Should we take a ride down Cottonwood Creek, to save a
few steers?” Hank asked.
Jim Leonard shook his head. “It isn't worth the risk,” he
said. Hard pressed as he was, on account of the stormy season
and the decline of cattle-raising, generally, his first thought was
always for the safety of his men.
Wing Lee, the No. 1 boy, came silently in from the kitchen
with a steaming pitcher of grog.
"Plenty hell outside. Cold air, warm belly,” he said.
“Jake,” said Laramee Bob.
Two other cowboys, Slipnoose Pete and one with iron-
rimmed spectacles called the Professor because he could thump
out tunes on the piano and twang the jew's-harp, were shovel-
ing a path through the six-foot drifts to the bunkhouse, the
barn and stable, and another smaller building with a crescent
carved out of the door.
“Don't you ever hanker to go back teaching school?” asked
Pete. “I'm getting blind as a bat from the glare of the snow.”
“You've talked about nothing but weather since last Christ-
mas," was the Professor's rejoinder. “Why don't you try to
improve your mind?”.
Pete, straightening up in preparation for a choice bit of
repartee, saw some horsemen struggling through the snow on
the trail beside Bison Coulee, which extended from Three
Buttes to the Missouri.
“Damn my hide,” he said. “Some ornery buzzards don't
know when to stay home where it's dry and warm.”
The Professor shielded his eyes with a buckskin mitten and
spat tobacco juice into the snow pile he had made. “Now
wouldn't that rattle a man?” he said.
The two cowboys started for the lodge and entered so pre-
cipitously that Wing Lee, bearing his empty tray, was almost
overturned.
“What for no makee path to can?” he asked indignantly.
“We got company,” said Pete. “Five fella ride up coulee.”
39


“Five time fella bloody fool,” was the Chinaman's comment.
Jim Leonard, Hank and Laramee Bob rose slowly to their
feet, only half believing what their colleagues said, for the cow-
punchers did little else in winter time than play tricks on one
another. Leonard brushed off the steam from a small section
of the windowpane spared by the frost and nodded in surprise.
"That looks like Larkspur Gilligan,” he said, and narrowed
his eyes.
“That's who it is," said Hank, "and he's got that mangy
pair of sheepherders with him.”
“Shucks," said the Professor disgustedly, and spat into the
fireplace.
Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the ranch house
door. “Come in,” said Leonard. He detested Gilligan and
loathed sheepherders on principle, but the door of Opera
Lodge had never been closed to wayfarers in a storm.
With much stamping and slapping of numbed hands, Lark-
spur Gilligan, his two sheepherders and two strangers came
into the room. One of them was introduced as the new sheriff
of Dawson County, the other was the storekeeper from Circle.
Gilligan was obviously nervous. He warmed himself elabo-
rately at the fire and avoided Jim Leonard's piercing eyes. The
Chinese No. I boy came in with a broom and swept the snow
from the floor, ignoring contemptuously the sheepherders, who
had to step this way and that to get out of his way. When the
tall stranger was introduced as the sheriff, however, Wing Lee
stopped sweeping and vanished like a mirage. He relished no
contact whatever with the law.
"We may as well get down to business,” Gilligan said at last.
“Since when do we do business with sheepherders?” asked
Hank, looking him straight in the eye and setting himself to
rise. Leonard motioned for him to be silent.
“You'd better stay the night," said Leonard. “You can't get
back to Piney Buttes, that's a cinch.”
40


Gilligan disregarded the invitation. “We want to talk to
you, Jim, alone,” he said.
"We don't have any secrets on this ranch,” Leonard said.
"What you have to say, you can say in front of the boys."
"It's serious," Gilligan said, and the sheriff, as if prompted,
nodded. He had been elected in November, on the ticket backed
by the N. P. railroad, taking the place of Tumbleweed O'Fla-
herty, Leonard's old and trusted friend, and there had been
much talk among the cattlemen as to how the votes were
counted.
"Crap or get off the pot," drawled Hank, and spat within
an inch of Larkspur Gilligan's riding boot.
“See here, Leonard,” said Hockaday, the young sheriff, try-
ing to speak more gruffly than was natural to him. “We came
here all the way from Glendive ..."
“Not today, you didn't,” interrupted the rancher.
"Well, as a matter of fact, we started yesterday. Took the
stage to Mondak and caught a handcar with section hands
going as far as Muddy Creek on the Great Northern,” the
sheriff said.
Leonard scowled and glanced at Hank, who grunted and
nodded. The lanky foreman had told his boss, not six weeks
before, that Johnny Highpockets, Gilligan's lawyer from Glen-
dive, had been smelling around the division superintendent's
office in Mondak, getting acquainted with the new superin-
tendent for the Great Northern. Wherever they found traces of
Gilligan or his cronies, they had learned to expect trouble.
Already, evidently, the Gilligan crew had become friendly
enough with the super to ride on handcars, which was strictly
forbidden.
"Is a sheriff supposed to go wandering out of the State?”
asked the Professor, who read law books in the long winter
evenings. “What if the county should start running wild?”
"We couldn't get here by way of Leonard Creek, from the
41


Yellowstone side,” the sheriff said, less and less at ease. “The
drifts there are eight feet deep."
“You might have waited till next spring,” suggested Lara-
mee Bob.
Gilligan, whose anger was rising because of the interrup-
tions and the sheriff's hesitation, objected again to the presence
of the cowpunchers. All of them were armed, not with auto-
matics they considered newfangled, but with Smith & Wesson
six-shooters. Above the door at the entrance, Jim Leonard's
Winchester 40-40 was resting on two spikes. He kept it there in
case, in season, some Canadian white geese flew over low or
a marauding coyote was careless enough to let his silhouette
stand out a moment too long on the crest of one of the sur-
rounding foothills. If it came to a showdown, Gilligan's crowd,
handicapped by the presence of the sheepherders, would be
sure to get the worst of any shooting affray. The sheepman was
counting on Jim Leonard's well-known respect for law.
Suddenly Jim Leonard walked up to Gilligan and faced him
squarely. “Gilligan, your office boy," indicating the sheriff, "is
tongue-tied. Why don't you speak your little piece yourself?”
Slipnoose Pete, at that point, ambled over and placed his
back against the door. The sheepherders, itching and squirming
because of the heat from the fireplace, drew closer together on
the bench and looked at Gilligan apprehensively. One of them,
a Shoshone half-breed called Stumpbroke, had testified the year
before against a few of the Blackfeet who had wandered off
the reservation and for that reason he was especially nervous
when called upon to go into the northeastern corner of the
sheep range, across the Missouri from the Blackfeet's land.
His partner, irreverently nicknamed Jill, was a moon-faced lad
from somewhere down the Mississippi who had been run out
of Pocatello, Idaho, for reasons he never mentioned but which
were common talk among the cattlemen. Not long after 1900,
a law had been passed requiring sheepmen to send out herders
in pairs, for in nine cases out of ten one man who spent weeks


or even months alone with twenty thousand bleating woollies
began talking to himself and imagining some of the most
attractive of his charges were human. According to the cattle-
men, the new arrangement had not resulted in any noticeable
improvement in the situation, unless one was given to splitting
hairs.
Larkspur Gilligan, challenged directly by Jim Leonard, took
over the role of spokesman. “It's thisaway,” he said. “About a
month ago a friend of mine named Louey rode over to this
range from Circle, bound for Three Buttes, to talk business
with you, Leonard. He's never been heard from since. Two days
afterward his horse came back to Piney Buttes, still saddled
and with sagebrush hanging from the lines, where he'd been
tied. There were no signs that Louey had been dragged. What
have you got to say?"
"I never saw the man or heard of him," said Leonard.
"Sorry, Leonard, but that isn't what my boys tell me,” Gilli-
gan said.
“Do you or any of your boys want to call me a liar?” asked
Leonard, and all the cowboys rose.
“Now, keep your shirt on, Jim,” said Gilligan, adopting
another tone. “If you're innocent, you can sure clear this thing
up. What I was aimin' to say was that my two herders, Stump-
broke and Jill, here, were near the head of Cottonwood Creek
the day Louey started out, and they saw him ride by.”
Hank strode into the middle of the circle. “What business had
this lousy pair of sheepherders on the east side of Redwater?
That's what I'd like to know. If I'd 'a' caught 'em, they wouldn't
have seen nobody but God.”
The sheriff spoke up. “This is a free country, Hank,” he
said.
“Not since they started pinning badges on a coot like you,"
said Hank.
"There's nothing to kick up a row about. My boys crossed
the creek to look after some strays,” said Gilligan.
13


Tank.
"The head of Cottonwood Creek is close to forty miles from
the deadline. What were them strays, antelopes?” asked
Hank.
"Let me handle this,” said Leonard, and the foreman sub-
sided. “Go on, Gilligan. What else did the herders see?”
Gilligan turned to Stumpbroke. "Stand up,” he said, "and
tell 'em all what you saw."
The sheepherder stood up, avoiding Leonard's eyes. “I saw
Jim Leonard riding across the mesa near the head of the
creek. He was on a sorrel. All of a sudden he stopped short,
circled and shot at something with his rifle.”
“Where was Louey then?" asked Gilligan.
“I'd lost sight of Louey, but he was up the creek, just the
same. On foot. His horse was down the gully, tied to a clump
of sagebrush,” Stumpbroke said. His partner, Jill, confirmed
what Stumpbroke said.
"Do your duty," said Gilligan to the sheriff.
“You'll have to come along with me,” the sheriff said.
Hank and the other cowpunchers began to roar with laughter.
“Listen to the tin-horn politician,” the foreman said. “Say,
kid,” he added, walking up to the sheriff and taking a firm
hold on his shirt, "you got as much chance of getting Jim
Leonard out of this house as a cub bear has to read music. You
can bunk here tonight, on account of the storm, but at day-
light you start back where you came from, and take this crummy
bunch of fourflushers with you. Understand ?”
"He's got a warrant, signed and sworn,” said Gilligan. “The
grand jury's decided that he'll have to stand trial, that's all.”
"Let me see the warrant,” said Leonard.
The sheriff handed over an official paper, bearing the signa-
ture of Judge Patterson, who had been lawyer for Gilligan's
bank in Glendive before he was appointed to the bench. The
rancher read the document calmly. “It seems to be in order,"
he said. Then he turned to Johnny O'Brien, the storekeeper
from Circle, who up to that time had not uttered a word.


"Johnny,” Jim Leonard began, “I didn't expect much else
from the rest of this gang, but I'm surprised at you, to be
mixed up in a frame-up against one of your neighbors." He
was about to go on when he saw O'Brien wink one eye, almost
imperceptibly. Leonard, who had been standing between the
storekeeper and the others, desisted. O'Brien had had some
friendly motive for coming along, of that the rancher was cer-
tain, and it cheered Leonard to find that he had a friend in the
opposite camp.
“Will you go peaceably? It's the law, you know, Jim,” said
Gilligan.
"You'll have to find the body," the Professor spoke up. “I'll
give you chapter and verse for that in the statutes of Montana.
You got to produce the corpus delicti, and that's flat.”
"The sheriff and a posse will have a look along Cottonwood
Creek when the snow melts in the spring,” said Gilligan.
“Why didn't you wait till then to raise this hullabaloo?" de-
manded Laramee Bob. “Jim's been here forty years. He wouldn't
run away."
“Just a formality. It isn't my doing. The grand jury acted.
But don't forget that Louey was my friend,” Gilligan said.
“So much the worse for him," said Pete.
"Are you going to come peaceably?” repeated Gilligan to
Leonard.
“Do you want to start now, at this time of day?" asked the
rancher.
"We couldn't make it, even as far as the Missouri,” said
O'Brien, the storekeeper. “We'll have to stay the night.” Again
he partially closed one eye, for the benefit of Hank, who caught
on and started making arrangements for extra blankets to be
taken to the bunkhouse. He hollered for Wing Lee, and getting
no response found the kitchen was empty. A little later Slipnoose
Pete and Laramee Bob, who went down to the barn to water
the saddle horses and throw them down some hay from the
loft, found the No. 1 boy and his Chinese flunkey, Wing Sam,


hiding in the granary. Protesting, the two Chinese were dragged
back to the kitchen and, after being reassured that the sheriff
had no interest in them, they started preparing an enormous
meal. It had been a tradition at Three Buttes that the grub
was good and the help ate with the boss in the ranch house.
Before the large metal triangle that hung outside the kitchen
door was beaten with a short length of lead pipe, to announce
the evening meal, Johnny O'Brien was closeted with the fore-
man, Hank, in a secluded empty stall. Fearing that they might
be interrupted, the storekeeper cut his story short.
"You know I make my living off the sheepmen,” O'Brien
began. “They hang around the store in wintertime ..."
“How come those two herders aren't down in Idaho on the
winter range, where they belong?" asked Hank.
"That's not the only thing that smells fishy,” said O'Brien.
"First of all, you know as well as I do that Jim Leonard
wouldn't kill no Italian just for fun, and if he had to kill one
he wouldn't hide the body. Now Gilligan and this Donniker
Louey did quite a bit of drinking in my back room and they
talked a lot, too. I pretended to pay no attention, but I got an
to gun for Jim Leonard, or I'll lose my guess. I saw him when
they boosted him up on that old white horse, and he was
heeled for bear. And you can't tell me those herders were forty
miles off their range in search of stray stinkers. Of course,
Gilligan has all the politicians eating out of his hand and the
judge has built a brand-new house, which he couldn't have
a while.
“Now I'm giving you just one tip that may lead somewhere,
and again it may not. You know Rain-No-More, the son of the
Blackfeet chief,” O'Brien said.
“A good Indian,” said Hank, and the storekeeper nodded.
"Well, he heard Louey and Gilligan talking, a few days
46


before the Wop disappeared.” Very slowly, the storekeeper
lowered his left eyelid.
“I'll hit for the Blackfeet lodge tomorrow morning,” said
Hank. “And much obliged.”
“Whatever I can do for Jim, I'm glad to do,” said O'Brien.
“Only don't let on. Gilligan thinks I'm crooked, too, otherwise
he'd take my store away, or burn it down.”


On Peering into Gift Horses,
from Any Angle at All
THE FIRST FOUR DAYS at sea passed quickly and pleasantly, except
for the incident of the porpoise, after which young Gilligan
and Santosuosso kept pretty much to themselves, drinking from
morning until night and watching Rain-No-More sullenly
whenever the Indian crossed their line of vision. The latter had
become fascinated by white men's shipboard pastimes, to such
a point that he became the undisputed champion of the boat at
ping-pong, shuffle board, deck tennis and ring the cane. Hjal-
mar put on boxing bouts almost nightly with a competent
heavyweight from the forecastle and only once forgot himself
and knocked his opponent clean over the ropes and into a
dress buyer's lap, which opened the way for a pleasant clandes-
tine romance between the sailor and the talented business
woman from the Bronx. Eugénie and Hyacinthe Toudoux,
whose devotion to each other warmed the hearts of all those on
board who had them, spent the days walking arm in arm or
reading in deck chairs, side by side, hands clasped beneath
their steamer rug. After dinner, there was always a game of


was in indirect proportion to the infinitesimal stakes computed
in sous.
Two days out of New York, however, the weather reversed
its tactics. The sun shone brightly, the swell subsided as the
storm was left behind. Porpoises and sea birds disported them-
selves on all sides of the gallant white ship and Moritz, having
convinced the dog steward of his complete reliability, was
given the run of the upper deck, where he raced and wrestled
judiciously with a shaggy Newfoundland whose amiability was
never ruffled, although he was no match for the Boxer in a
free-for-all.
Not long before lunch time, when the orchestra was strug-
gling with selections from Carmen, the group of friends who
made it a practice to meet for a cocktail before meals were
astonished to see, appearing like a wraith in the smoking-
room doorway, a much-chastened Frémont. He had lost his
ruddy complexion and approximately fourteen pounds, avoir-
dupois. He shuddered apprehensively when the liner's timbers
creaked or the refreshing sea breeze caused a door to slam.
His legs were a trifle unsteady, but he was on them, at least,
and for the first time since leaving dry land could think of
food without disgust. His response to the hearty greetings he
received was somewhat reproachful, since his fellow travelers,
aside from Schlumberger, had found the voyage delightful, not-
withstanding the heavy weather. Hjalmar, to reassure the Chief
of Detectives, led him out into the corridor and showed him
the chart with the little tricolor flags which showed each day's
run and the noontide position of the Ile-de-France. Frémont
was so relieved that he actually smiled, for down below decks
he had not been able to believe that the liner was making head-
way against the wind and waves, and had feared they all were
still about as far from New York as they had been when the
boat set out from Le Havre.
“Would it be possible to return to France by way of Alaska
49


and Siberia, where most of the distance could be accomplished
by rail, or even in a cart?” he asked, after having been fortified
with his first champagne cocktail.
“Now you've got your sea legs, you'll like ships,” Hjalmar
said. “Even vessels like this one, which is fitted up more like a
hotel. Just wait till you feel yourself gliding along with all
sails spread, and a spanking breeze behind you."
“I beg of you not to joke about serious things,” Frémont
said. “More than once, in the past several days, I have been on
the point of death, so near extinction, in fact, that not even
Hydrangea could cheer me. . . . Where is she, by the way?”
The Chief was not exactly comforted when told that his
sweetheart was on deck with the Indian, and had discussed the
possibility of getting into her bathing suit for a swim, if the
the liner, Frémont knew nothing of the swimming pool and
thought his dusky sweetheart had contemplated diving over
the side, to be rescued, if at all, by the redman who scalped
Italians so highhandedly. But he thawed when the ex-Blackbird
came in and was so obviously delighted to see him safe and
comparatively sound.
At Homer's suggestion, Miriam had, the day before, dis-
patched a cablegram to her father, announcing her impending
arrival. The men on the ranch, when she was away, slackened
up perceptibly in their housekeeping. As soon as word was re-
ceived that she was en route, they would scrub Opera Lodge
from attic to cellar, shine up their boots and buckles, wash
carefully behind the ears and make up the beds and bunks
from scratch, which they seldom did without outside incen-
tive. Wing Lee and Wing Sam would start making frosted
cakes and pies. And her bedroom, from which in good weather
the hazy colors of the distant badlands across the river might
be seen, would be unlocked and thoroughly dusted. All day she
had hoped to receive a reply, in fact, had been so disappointed
50


when the morning brought no answer that her fears for her
father's safety were redoubled, and Homer had been hard put
to reassure her.
Just before the first gong rang, a red-uniformed boy ap-
proached the table with a blue envelope in his hand. Her heart
cabin in order to be alone when she opened the message. Lunch
time arrived and she failed to reappear. Stenka’s place was also
vacant in the dining room. Homer remarked also that neither
young Gilligan nor Santosuosso had showed up for the meal,
although usually they were among the first to go into the dining
salon.
The Captain had not put in an appearance, so Homer apolo-
gized to Madame Toudoux, who with her usual grace and
tact had assumed the role of hostess, and went below. He tapped
softly on the door of Miriam's cabin, then heard wild sobbing
within. Opening the door, he saw Stenka convulsed with grief
and Miriam, her face white and strained, still staring at the
cablegram. Despairingly she handed it to Homer who read:
MIRIAM LEONARD
ILE-DE-FRANCE
BOSS IN GLENDIVE CHARGED WITH MURDER FIFTY THOUSAND
CASH BAIL DIRTY FRAMEUP HURRY HOME
HANK
Although the news had stunned Miriam, it set off Evans'
active brain like a rocket.
"Pull yourself together, dear," he said brusquely. “I'll have
your father free within two hours.” And sitting down at her
writing desk he ripped off a radiogram blank and wrote a mes-
sage to Hugo Weiss, the genial multi-millionaire and philan-
thropist whom. Evans and Miriam had rescued from kidnappers
three years before.*
Thus it was that Honest Jim Leonard, staring through the
• The Mysterious Mickey Finn, Modern Age, 1939.
51


small barred window in his cell in the Glendive jail, saw his
friend, the former sheriff, Tumbleweed O'Flaherty, pushing
a wheelbarrow down the main street of the town and turning
in at the court house. The barrow contained one hundred
and twenty-three pounds of gold, in coins of various de-
nominations, and reluctantly Judge Patterson, who had fixed
the bail at what he had supposed to be a prohibitive amount,
considering the state of the cattle business, had been forced to
give way. Fifteen minutes later Jim Leonard was being cheered
by his many friends in the bar of the Hotel Jordan, across from
the railroad station, and the young sheriff, Warren Hockaday,
was saddling a horse to ride out to Circle to discuss the mys-
terious development with Larkspur Gilligan.
The bewildered rancher, whose temper had been mounting
toward the danger point while he had paced the cell for hours,
pausing only to throw a few chunks of wood into the Sibley
stove, was more surprised than the judge and the sheriff by the
miraculous appearance of $50,000 in gold for his bail. As soon
as he could get away from his well-wishers at the Hotel Jordan
for a moment, he went into conference with Tumbleweed
O'Flaherty, who could do little to clear up the mystery. Ac-
cording to Tumbleweed, he had been informed sub rosa by a
cashier at the Glendive Stockmen's Bank and Trust Company
that strict orders had come through from the East to place fifty
thousand dollars in gold to Leonard's credit. The directors, all
under Gilligan's thumb, had intended to keep the matter
quiet, not even informing the prisoner of his good fortune,
until a consultation could be had with Gilligan. O'Flaherty,
however, having been tipped off by the clerk, and possessing
an old power of attorney from Leonard, formerly used in paying
for shipments of supplies via the N.P., the deposed sheriff had
confronted the directors and demanded the cash. The bankers
had not dared refuse to turn it over. That was all O'Flaherty
could say.
Before the afternoon was over, Hank and the Professor,
52


numb with cold, came into Glendive on the stage. Having re-
ceived the radiogram from Miriam, the foreman had post-
poned his projected visit to the Blackfeet and had started out
on skis with the Professor, hitting toward the stage road along
the Yellowstone by way of Leonard Creek. They had figured
that the stage would be held up overnight, half way between
Mondak and Glendive, and their calculations had proved to be
sound. Leonard was overjoyed to hear that his daughter was on
her way home from Paris, but, after checking up with all his
friends in Dawson County and phoning all the cattlemen on the
Yellowstone range, he had been forced to the conclusion, since
Miriam was the only person outside Montana who had been
informed of his predicament, that she had been instrumental in
raising the colossal sum for his bail. That worried Jim Leonard
no end. He had always had slight misgivings about his daugh-
ter's long stay in a foreign land, and especially in the city
known to itinerant preachers as the modern Babylon.
How was it possible for her to dig up on an hour's notice
more money than he had made raising cattle in the last five
years? Once in a while, out of sheer boredom, he had read
stories in the various pulp magazines his buckaroos enjoyed,
and he remembered dimly several cases in which pure-hearted
young women had exposed themselves to worse than death in
order to get their parents out of hock. That, in practically every
instance, the heroines of the stories had escaped intact until a
preacher or J.P. had made everything according to Hoyle did not
comfort the anxious rancher to any noticeable extent.
In fact, Jim spent the remainder of the day, not in planning
revenge against Larkspur Gilligan but resolving, if necessary,
to scour the East and even Europe to catch up with any tender-
foot who might have taken advantage of his daughter's solici-
tude for her father's safety. Of course, he did not confide his
misgivings to Hank or Tumbleweed, neither of whom could
understand why a man who had just got out of the clink should
be more morose than he had been under lock and key. They
53


were further disturbed to see Leonard, who had never gone in
for reading much besides the Cattlemen's Companion, strip the
news stand at the Jordan of every magazine on display and de-
vote the evening to perusing them and throwing them, one by
one and with increasing violence, into the red-hot pot-bellied
stove.
"I haven't killed a man yet, except in self-defense and anger,
but, by God, that isn't saying that I might not do it,” he was
heard to mutter, at one stage of the game. Hank, Tumbleweed
and the Professor shook their heads sadly and headed back to
the bar.
“You don't think just one night locked up could have un-
settled the Boss's mind?” asked Hank, apprehensively, as he
tipped up the bottle of Old Crow they had decided to split.
“Shucks," said Tumbleweed, to comfort him. “Jim's just a
bit off his feed, that's all. He's slept outdoors so much that hav-
ing the door locked got on his nerves. Some kind of phobia,
the schoolteacher calls it. Says it accounts for the existence of
cowpunchers and bums.”
“I'd rather be a bum than teach school,” Hank said.
"You'd do better at it, and that's a fact,” Tumbleweed re-
joined.
Disconcerted by the talk about schools, the Professor, who
had taught a few terms in Minneapolis before he could get a
stake to buy an outfit to go west, poured himself a drink of Old
Crow right to the brim of the glass. “I'm sure anxious to hear
Miriam play some of them French tunes," he said. “She must
have gone a long way since I helped her figure out the lessons
from that correspondence school in Omaha.”
The object of the parental and friendly solicitude mentioned
above was lying wide-eyed in her stateroom on the Ile-de-
France, listening to the swish of water as the hose was played
on the deck just above, and waiting for morning to come, in the
hope that the day would bring news direct from her father.
54


She had the message from Weiss to Homer, stating that the
she knew, was not to be acquitted. And with the judge, the jury
and a countryful of Gilligan's witnesses all controlled by the
sheepmen, what chance would her father have to go free?
Only one, and that meant that her childhood chum and hunt-
ing companion, Rain-No-More, must be hanged by the neck
until dead. At Homer's insistence, not a word about Leonard's
arrest had been divulged to Rain-No-More. Both of them knew
that the Indian would give himself up the moment he landed,
producing the scalp as evidence of his guilt, if he knew the
rancher had been accused of the deed he had found it neces-
sary to commit. Trained in the simple direct ways of thinking
characteristic of the Northwestern tribes, it had never occurred
to Rain-No-More that he should leave a gangster, bent on mur-
dering his friend, in any position to carry out his intentions.
And the Indians had little faith in the white man's law.
not consent to having Rain-No More sacrificed if any other
way of clearing up the situation could be devised.
Round and round in Miriam's troubled mind, fears and ap.
prehensions pursued one another, until she threw off the bed
clothes, dressed herself without arousing Stenka, and started
for the promenade deck to wait for the dawn. As she was about
to turn a corner in the dimly lighted corridor, however, some
instinct prompted her to go cautiously. So she paused, close to
the wall, and glanced around without exposing herself to view.
What she saw caused her to draw in her breath sharply, and
reach for her automatic. For Santosuosso was emerging from a
cabin, not his own, which he locked from the outside with a
key before hastening to the foot of the deserted stairway, where
he was joined by Terence Gilligan. Miriam waited until she
thought the pair had had ample time to return to their own
deck, the one below. Then she proceeded along the corridor
55


come. It was the one occupied by Rain-No-More. Softly Miriam
tapped on the door, using a signal familiar to the Indian, one,
in fact, that in terms of revolver shots had served to help them
locate each other in the brush by the river, after a day's hunting
was over. There was no reply. She tried again, louder. Again,
no answer.
Miriam was about to return to her cabin to arouse Homer by
telephone, when she remembered that since the nights had
become clear, Rain-No-More had told her that he preferred
sleeping in a lifeboat in the open air, covered by a tribal blanket.
Softly she made her way to the boat deck and glanced into each
lifeboat and canot. Lightly as she trod, her footsteps were enough
to arouse Rain-No-More, who was fully awake and smiling
when she discovered him in No. 27, amidships.
“Wakeful, Bird Cherry?” he asked.
Quickly she explained what she had seen, and the Indian
vaulted lightly from the lifeboat to the deck. “Wait here,” he
whispered as he strode away. In five minutes he was back, his
handsome face impassive, except for his eyes that glowed with
anger.
"It has been stolen,” he said, gravely.
“What? Oh, not the scalp?" asked Miriam.
"Exactly,” said Rain-No-More. “My money, which was lying
in plain sight on the table, is intact. Nothing else is missing.
I shall go find this Italian and ..." He made a sort of paring
motion with his bowie knife, which made Miriam shudder.
"Please do nothing until we talk with Homer. There must
be some reason why the scalp and nothing else was stolen, and
why Mr. Santosuosso has a key to your room. Have you lost
your own?”
For answer, Rain-No-More took his key from a pocket of his
buckskin jacket, verified the number and handed it to Miriam
for inspection.
A moment later the telephone rang softly in Homer's cabin,
which was farther forward than Miriam's. In an astonishingly
56


short time he appeared on the boat deck, fully dressed. Miriam
told him what had happened, and at once he also urged Rain-
No-More to bide his time before accusing Santosuosso.
“When the radiogram was delivered to Miriam yesterday
noon," Evans said, “Terence Gilligan and his friend were stand-
ing at the bar. The bellboy, to whom all American names are
alike, handed the envelope to Gilligan, who had been tipping
him lavishly, and asked him who and where was the addressee.”
Suddenly Homer snapped his fingers, as if struck with an idea,
and one not too pleasant. “Have you got the radiograms from
Hank and Hugo Weiss ?” he asked. Miriam hurried below and
returned white with dismay.
“They are missing, too,” she said. “I left them in the drawer
of my bed-table. Both of them are gone.”
“Do you lock your cabin door?” asked Evans.
"Always,” said Miriam. “I had the messages in my purse
until bedtime. Then I laid them on the table, and I saw them
there when I was dressing to come out on deck this morning.
It was then I put them in the drawer.”
“If you are sure of those facts,” Evans said, "then the radio
grams must have been stolen since you have been above decks,
within the last half hour, as a matter of fact. We know that
Gilligan and his buddy have been snooping around the ship,
armed with a pass key. The question is: what has aroused their
curiosity, and how deeply is it rooted in their youthful minds?
Are they merely playing pranks? I think not, but I propose to
find out. Will you undertake to help me?”
Both agreed without reservation.
"Your first assignment will not be a pleasant one,” said
Homer. "I want you to contact Gilligan and Santosuosso, as
soon after breakfast as possible, make it appear that the incident
of the porpoise is forgotten and forgiven. That will throw them
off their guard. Particularly, I would like to have you engage
them in a deck-tennis match, which you must contrive to keep
as even in score as possible, so that it will go the full five sets.”
57


The Indian groaned. “I could easily beat them both together,
without conceding a game,” he said.
“Swallow your competitive pride, in the interest of science,
this one time,” Evans said. “I want to be sure they are away
from their staterooms.”
“Nit stoo si kooy ye" (Well, all right then), said Rain-No-
More.
"By the way,” asked Evans of Miriam. "Are you carrying
your gun?”
She reached into her handbag, then stamped her foot with
annoyance and surprise. “Why ... That's gone, too,” she
stammered.
With a smile, Evans took her automatic from his pocket and
handed it back to her. "Forgive me, dear. I had to have a little
practice, just in case I needed to pick a pocket, later on. You
will remember that Kaufman the Great, the sleight-of-hand
artist, one of the few remaining who is worthy of the name,
taught me how easy it was to snatch articles from unsuspect-
ing persons. It's been a long time since I had occasion to test
my skill.”
“I'm just another dumb girl,” said Miriam, still smarting
with discomfiture. “To think that you could take my gun
away, without my knowing it.”
"You might tie a little bell to the trigger guard,” suggested
Evans, who knew from experience that he could restore Miri-
am's good humor more easily with a sly jibe than with com-
miseration.
Until breakfast time, Rain-No More and Miriam walked the
decks and enjoyed what the Goddess Aurora was able to do
with a smooth and silent sea. Evans, on the other hand, as sensi-
tive as he was to colors, stared into space from the rail, exclud-
ing all else from his mind but the problems on the order of the
day. Only once he chuckled with satisfaction.
The reader will remember that in the course of the case of
the Mysterious Mickey Finn, Evans got himself appointed


Agent Plenipotentiary of the United States Government in
France, with powers to right wrongs, relieve distress, expedite
justice and, in the words of the imposing document he carried,
"to do any and all things necessary or expedient, as he shall
deem best, in matters pertinent to crimes, felonies or misde-
meanors, and/or attempts at crimes, felonies, misdemeanors or
breaches of confidence tending to affect the interests or prestige
of the United States of America, threaten the national defense,
etc., etc.” This all-embracing certificate, signed and sealed with
colored wax and ribbons by the American Ambassador and
stamped and countersigned by the French Minister of Justice,
the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Prefect of Police of Paris
and the Director of the Surété Génerale, was in one of Evans'
suitcases, carefully pressed between two volumes of a rare edi.
tion of Rabelais, illustrated by Gustave Doré.
Any reader familiar with French officialdom can readily
understand that merely the seals and ribbons, without the im-
posing text or the endorsement of the renowned Chief of De-
tectives Frémont and the medical examiner and distinguished
scientist, Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux, were enough to impress the
Captain of the Ile-de-France to the extent that he was willing to
give Evans the keys to the ship, access to all records and com-
plete carte blanche. First, Homer asked the Captain to call to
his cabin the purser. The latter arrived promptly, and extremely
nervous. Foreigners were always losing expensive jewelry and
complaining of theft, which meant a long secret search of the
liner from bow to stern, and particularly inconvenience and
resentment in the crew's quarters. Evans assured him at once
that the matter in question was not of that nature. He simply
asked the purser to inform him, confidentially, if and when one
of the cabin stewards reported the loss of a pass key.
From the Captain's quarters, Evans went to the sports deck,
forward, where he found in his snug cabin the radio engineer.
Showing the latter the seals and ribbons on his credentials, and
the note from the Captain urging all officers and sailors of the
59


French Line to give the bearer all possible information, regard-
less of precedents or rules, Homer asked to see the files of in-
coming and outgoing radio messages covering the entire voy-
age. Within ten minutes he had come upon the following:
TERENCE GILLIGAN
ILE-DE-FRANCE
HAVE UNO INVESTIGATE NEW YORK WHO PUT UP FIFTY GRAND
BAIL FOR JIM LEONARD STOP BELIEVE SOME FRIEND OF DAUGH-
TER INVOLVED STOP SHE IS ON ILE-DE-FRANCE STOP PICK UP WHAT
FROM MOMENT SHE LANDS STOP DICK WILL MEET YOU AT DOCK
DONT GIVE SHOW AWAY
DAD
"Ah,” said Evans to himself. “The finding of the scalp, then,
was accidental. Our unworthy Santo, referred to rather trans-
parently as Uno by Larkspur Gilligan, must have seen Rain-
and must have watched Miriam go up there later. He was
searching for possible messages and clues to the fifty grand,
which he knows now came from Hugo Weiss. Having had a
crack at Rain-No-More's cabin, and that of Miriam-of course,
he assumed correctly that Stenka would sleep like a log-our
amateur seeker after truth will rifle my cabin next. Just now,
my room steward is bustling in and out, and Santo, I observe,
is playing deck tennis in a sports shirt of a particularly obnoxious
color. The attempt will be made at lunch time, when I am safely
at table.”
Smiling with satisfaction, Homer walked to the port rail and
for a moment allowed the beauty of the sparkling Atlantic, calm
and fragrant under the warm sunshine, to renovate his con-
sciousness. Sea birds were more numerous and bolder. Sienna
and amber-colored seaweed drifted past in the counter-current
of the beneficent Gulf Stream. If Evans thought of the gaiety
60


of Montparnasse, the quiet of his deserted apartment, or the
Old World sanctuaries and relics of former civilizations, no
nostalgia was discernible on his sensitive countenance. For the
lands along the Yellowstone were as old or older than the
caves of the Neanderthal man, and if the races who had in-
habited them had not built cathedrals, at least they had kept
the country's resources intact and the mysterious and vast land-
scape unspoiled before the coming of the Europeans. Memories
of volcanic badlands—pale brick-red, hazy violet, ochre, colors
of ancient earth and ashes—were superimposed on the back-
ground of the glassy sea.
In place of dress buyers, minor diplomats, dilettantes, remit-
tance men, rich widows, professors, movie stars and his own
companions, who made up the passenger list of the Ile-de-
France, he visualized the Mound Builders at work on their
stupendous monuments, great herds of buffalos grazing on the
plains, the Indians on the warpath, or engaged in their peace-
ful pursuits. He strained his ears for the sound of coyotes wail-
ing to the moon. He remembered the smell of sage and saddle
leather; horses, cattle, deer and antelope; the neatness of the
foothills and the mesas, tier on tier; the rivers and the moun-
tains; seasons that were definitely seasons; constellations sharp
and quartz-like in the cold, near and pulsing in the heat of
summer. Regretfully he refocused his attention on the scalp of
the late Donniker Louey, who had lived by the rod and died
by the blade, as it were, but he could not feel sorry that the said
memento had been lifted and was partly instrumental in calling
him from a smoldering and decaying Europe back to the land
of his birth.
Another brief consultation with the purser made it certain
that in searching the cabins of Santosuosso and Gilligan, Evans
would not be disturbed by the room stewards, who were given
tasks in other corridors. But all Homer's thoroughness and pa-
tience netted him precisely nothing. The scalp was simply not
there. Surprised and disappointed, Homer went over both


cabins a second time, more carefully, if possible. Again he drew
a blank. He went up to the sports deck, where Rain-No-More
was stoically winning and losing points, almost alternately, in
pursuance of his instructions. Unobserved, he went through the
pockets of the coats and sweaters belonging to Santosuosso and
Gilligan as well. They were both so elated at being able to
hold their own at deck tennis against the Indian they disliked
and despised that they noticed nothing. They had already ac-
complished the errand for the elder Gilligan, they believed, and
that raised their spirits, too, and diminished their alertness.
Baffled for the moment, Evans mounted to the deck between
the smokestacks, where Moritz was playing with the New-
foundland, and a couple of Scotties were waddling, protest-
ingly, on the end of leashes. The Boxer was so glad to see Homer
and so pleased because he could at last smell land that he re-
verted to his puppy tricks just once, and put his large front
paws on Homer's trousers. Evans, to remind him that there are
such things as discipline and restraint, touched one of Moritz's
hind feet with his shoe. Then he snapped on the breast harness
and led him below, to his cabin, carefully keeping out of sight
of the tennis enthusiasts.
Hydrangea, in a leaf-green bathing suit by Lanvin, was div-
ing discreetly into the swimming pool and sunning herself on
the tile rim, with Chief Frémont in a deck chair near by, cau-
tioning her uneasily. Hjalmar was teaching Stenka to swim,
and, in truth, they made a handsome pair, six feet two and six
feet one, respectively, with light brown hair and skin as white
as marble. Had Manet been present, he would have used his
“Olympia” for a brush rag and tried again, with his principals
in bathing suits and the ocean for a background instead of a
boudoir wall. Rubens, on the other hand, would have barged
into the pool, palette, clothes and all.
Evans, with Moritz at his heel, paused for a whispered con-
sultation with Frémont, who rose reluctantly and followed
him, after exacting a promise from Hydrangea that she would
62


get dry and dressed without delay. On the way, they sought
out Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux, who said good-bye to his Eugénie
with such fervor that one might have thought he was going to
quit the Ile-de-France. The doctor joined the small procession.
In Homer's commodious cabin a strange scene unrolled it-
self, as the French would say, and Evans, noting the perplexity
sembled in color, if anything, borscht and cream stirred to-
gether. That the garment belonged to Santosuosso and had been
pinched from the Italian's cabin a little earlier that morning
was not divulged. Unsnapping the leash, Homer asked Moritz
to sit down and listen attentively, which the Boxer did. His sensi-
tive nerves had told him he was somehow on trial, and in ad-
vance he was determined not to let Homer down.
Extending the shirt, crumpled in his hand, Evans held it near
the dog's damp black nose. The latter sneezed.
"Excuse me. Too close,” said Evans, and placed the garment
on the floor. Moritz caught on, and sniffed the shirt, looking
upward and wrinkling his forehead in anticipation of further
instructions. Then Homer asked Frémont and Toudoux to
leave the cabin for a moment and return, one by one, unlock-
ing the door as stealthily as possible.
"You're sure the dog won't misunderstand?" Frémont asked,
still weak from his bout of seasickness. He had seen Moritz in
us.
please the eccentric Evans.
“I shall stay here with him," Homer said.
A moment later the Boxer's stiff short hair bristled as light
footsteps were heard in the corridor and the latch of the door
began to move, almost imperceptibly. "Quiet, old boy," whis-
pered Evans, and made the usual tranquilizing signal with his
thumb and forefinger. When the door came open, millimeter
by millimeter, however, Moritz left his place at the bedside and
started toward the doorway. “No,” said Homer, and the Boxer
63


returned, bewildered. Four times the maneuver was repeated,
until Moritz did not even blink when either of Evans' con-
federates made their entrance.
The next step nonplussed the two French officials even more
than the initial ones. They were asked to tiptoe to the door
and drop the borscht-colored and crumpled shirt at the threshold.
When Frémont did so, Evans, with his hand close to the
Boxer's muzzle, slapped the palm of his hand with his fingers.
Head down and growling savagely, Moritz charged toward the
door. After a few more rehearsals, Homer smiled.
“I think he has the idea,” he said.
"He has the advantage of me," said Frémont, somewhat re-
proachfully, and he was seconded by Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux.
“Shall we try him out with a stranger?” asked Evans.
"If you do not value the stranger," Frémont said.
They left Moritz locked in the cabin and in the next corridor
Homer found his room steward. “Would you mind going to
my cabin for the book that is on the bed-table?” he asked.
“Not at all, Monsieur," the steward said, but before he could
get started Frémont detained him.
“Are you a war veteran?” the Chief of Detectives asked.
“Naturally, Monsieur," the steward replied.
“Father of a family?" inquired Toudoux.
The face of the steward at once betrayed suspicion and alarm,
since he had established, for his convenience and to the detri-
ment of no one concerned, a small-sized family at each end of
the run. Evans reassured the man promptly and sent him on his
errand. In two minutes he was back with the book, smiling
happily.
“What a gentle dog you have there, Monsieur Evans,” the
steward said. “And with such a deceptive appearance of
ferocity."
Evans had fished out a hundred-franc note and was unfold-
ing it carefully. “Will you do me another favor?” he asked.
"Perhaps I ought to tell you that these gentlemen are the Chief
64


of Detectives and the Medical Examiner of Paris, respec-
tively."
The nearest porthole was open and Homer was obliged to
restrain the steward from diving through it like a terrier
through a hoop. When he explained that he only wanted him
to stay away from the vicinity of Cabin 614 during the noon
meal hour, the man's face was eloquent with relief.
In the smoking room, just before the apéritif hour, Evans was
in earnest conversation with Frémont and Toudoux.
“Chief,” he said, “you have been sent to America to study
methods of tracking down criminals, have you not?”.
“Unfortunately,” said Frémont, and sighed. “Where or how I
shall begin such a wild-goose chase, I have not been able to
decide.”
"You are free to go where you wish, and conduct your re-
search in any way you see fit?”
“That makes it harder,” said Frémont. “The prefect won't
even take the responsibility of indicating a suitable itinerary.”
tell you gentlemen in confidence that a situation has come to
my attention which bids fair to become one of the notorious
criminal cases of the decade. It involves, not only personal re-
lationships and various degrees of murder, but huge business
interests and one of America's last lingering frontiers. Need-
less to say, you can be of inestimable service.”
In the course of their three years' association, Evans had
never seen Frémont so deeply moved. The Chief was, in fact,
burbling with gratitude and clinging firmly to Homer's coat
sleeve, as if he were afraid to let go for fear that Evans would
change his mind and leave him on his own again.
"You have saved me so many times on land,” Frémont said,
"that nothing remained, I suppose, except for you to rescue me
from disgrace and ridicule at sea.”
In his corner, Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux was squirming im-
patiently.


“Would you, perchance, have need of a biologist, toxicolo-
gist, chemist, or even a first-aid attendant?” he asked, dusting
off the decorations on his coat lapel. "My leave of absence is of
six months' duration, the congress at Chicago will last but a
single afternoon. Besides, I promised Eugénie to show her the
points of interest cannot be far distant from the department
you call Montana.”
“The Natural Bridge, the first spot you mentioned, is not
farther from Montana than the Land of the Midnight Sun is
from the Paris prefecture," Evans said, smiling. “But I shall be
honored and relieved if you will lend a hand, and can promise
you an unforgettable tour of Yellowstone Park, once the hurly-
burly's done."
“I am a young man again. Life stretches before me," the doc-
tor said, and leaving his place at the table he began skipping
and cavorting across the smoking room, humming inexpertly a
tune the effect of which was about half way between “Sumer
Meanwhile, confined in Homer's cabin, which he had prac-
tically memorized from deck to ceiling, Moritz, the dog, was
doing a bit of creditable cerebration on his own account. He had
seized the fact that he had been placed there to work on an in-
truder, and not any John Doe intruder, but one who had re-
cently lost a shirt. Moritz reasoned thus: if he growled and
raised a scandal the moment the key touched the lock, the
party of the second part would be warned in time and would
make his getaway, while Moritz pined behind locked doors.
On the other hand, if a dog should take his place behind the
door, as it opened, and be patient until the wrongo got well
inside the cabin, the possibilities of the situation would increase
by leaps and bounds.
It was the second course of action on which Moritz decided
as the gong was given the first strokes of an unusually thor-
66


For the Reading of which the Reader
Should Be Wrapped Warmly
IT IS TO BE HOPED that the reader, in being transported suddenly
from the sunswept decks and well-heated cabins of the Ile-de-
France in the mild Gulf Stream to the lodge of Shot-on-Both-
Sides, Chief of the Blackfeet, on the frigid northern shore of
the ice-bound Missouri, will not catch pneumonia. Neverthe-
less and notwithstanding, it is on or near the last-named reser-
vation that the opening events of this chapter take place.
A steady night wind, following an afternoon thaw, had
formed a hard crust on the snow. So, with a pair of skis each,
Hank and the Professor had set out from Glendive, to follow up
the lead given them secretly by Johnny O'Brien, the store-
keeper at Circle, to the effect that the Blackfeet Chief, and par-
ticularly his son, Rain-No-More, might shed some light on the
disappearance of Donniker Louey. The strange behavior of
Jim Leonard, their boss, had abated somewhat in the early
morning and he had started for Mondak, on the stage, intend-
ing if possible to hike from the intersection of Leonard Creek
to Three Buttes and make preparations to receive his daughter


and learn the worst. Tumbleweed O'Flaherty accompanied the
rancher, and together they hoped to figure out some line of
defense against the murder charge.
Hank and the Professor got a ride in the caboose of a freight
train from Glendive to Circle, saving them nearly a hundred
miles, and from Circle, after another consultation with
O'Brien, they headed for Redwater Creek, the deadline drawn
by the cattle- and sheepmen when the government officials, at
Gilligan's instigation, had insisted on opening the Western
range to the woollies. The crust, softened slightly by the sun,
which that day shone on cowpunchers as well as passengers on
ocean liners, was ideal for skiing, and the two men glided easily
along. Once they had reached the head of the creek, the journey
to the Missouri was downhill all the way, and by nightfall they
had made Coyote Creek, where they camped in the lee of a
sheepherder's shack, refusing to risk getting lousy inside. On a
sled they had taken turns in dragging were blankets, tarpaulins,
a bottle of Old Crow, two back numbers of Snappy Stories, a
corkscrew, a can opener, bacon, flour, sugar, coffee and a cof-
fee pot, beans, Bull Durham, papers, souvenir handkerchiefs for
the Chief, a tin box filled with matches, and pages 306 to 353 of
the Montgomery Ward catalogue of the previous year. Also,
thanks to the Professor, there were a couple of pies which the
waitress at the Hotel Jordan had given him. The waitress, like
the clerk, the cook, the bartender and the rest of the staff of
the Hotel Jordan, was decidedly pro-cattle in the struggle that
had developed on the Lower Yellowstone and which involved
every man, woman and child in the country in one way or an-
other. It was impossible not to take sides, although some people,
for business or personal reasons, hid their feelings, while others
spoke them openly, prepared to back their opinions in frontier
fashion, any place or any day.
Around the campfire that night the two buckaroos discussed
the disappearance of Donniker Louey and, like the immortal


Persian poet, they “came out by the same door that in they
“Heck,” said Hank, “I can see how a tenderfoot could get
himself lost in the foothills. I can't tell them apart myself,
hardly, in broad daylight. But that Eyetalian was roosting
plumb on a creek. And a creek's bound to lead somewhere."
“Like as not he tried to hit it for home across country. A
man can't figure what those scissorbills'll do."
“And what business did he have with the boss? You noticed
Gilligan never said what the business was,” Hank continued.
“Too bad for that old white horse," said the Professor. “He
had to walk all the way across the sheep range with his head
cocked to one side, so's not to stumble over the lines.”
"Must of been a damn fool horse to go home to Gilligan,"
Hank said.
"Instinct,” the Professor said. “That's what's always got me
in wrong. Here I am out in the foothills, backed up against a
sheepherders' shanty where I could use the well-known brass
monkey for a footwarmer, when I ought to be raising kids in
Minneapolis and singing in the choir.”
“I've been in Minneapolis twice,” Hank said, “but neither
time I didn't get any farther uptown than the hotel bar across
from the N.P. depot.”
“Pass the hootch," said the Professor. “And to hell with Min-
neapolis.”
Hank handed over the Old Crow, then walked a little
farther up the gully, where he broke a couple of limbs from a
dead cottonwood tree and, returning, tossed them on the fire.
Across the creek, a coyote raised his whimpering song, ending
in a fusillade of yaps and barks so that it was hard to tell
whether there was one or a dozen. A new moon, rising, sil-
vered the vast expanses of snow and mellowed the brown of
the foothills swept bare. Of timber there was none, except in
the gulches out of sight. Only drifts and lava rock, crumbling
sandstone cliffs and low clumps of sagebrush, and the earth
69


ru
frozen two feet deep. Warmed by the whiskey and the crackling
fire, and pleased because the wind had gone down, the cow-
punchers sat on their heels in immense frigid solitude. It was
barely six o'clock, but they had planned to turn in early, in
order to get started before dawn and make the reservation by
mid-morning. The Professor unrolled his tarp, shook out the
blankets and his slicker, and began fixing up his bed. Hank
whittled off some kindling wood and placed it inside the door
of the shack where it would be ready for the morning. Al-
ready the coffee in the pot was frozen solid, as were the leav-
ings of the beans. Suddenly the foreman stepped back into the
shadow, and in the act drew his gun.
"Shhh," he cautioned softly, when the Professor was about to
ask what was loose. The foreman pointed toward the rim of
the hills across Redwater Creek. Someone was approaching, still
distant, with a peculiar gait that was neither like skating nor
running.
"Snowshoes, by God. It's an Indian,” Hank whispered.
"Now what would an Indian be doing over here at this time
of night?" asked the Professor. “If you ask me, I'd say this whole
God-blasted country has gone loco."
“Now you've scared him," said Hank, for the Indian had
disappeared from view. The cowpunchers waited a while, then
continued their preparations for bed by breaking the crust of
a drift and scooping out a hole in which to place their tarps.
Before they had got very far with their necessary chore, how-
ever, they were startled by a voice.
"Kit kse mat taim mo” (Hello), the voice said.
“We're from Leonard's ranch. Come on and get warm,"
yelled Hank in response. He knew about six words of Black-
feet lingo, and was relieved that the nightfarer was of that
friendly and reliable tribe. Both cowboys were astonished when
the Indian strode gravely into the circle of light around the
fire. He did not betray, either by his words or his demeanor,
that he found it strange to come upon a couple of buckaroos
70


camping out on the sheep range in the dead of winter, at least
eighty miles from the nearest white habitation. Chief Shot-on-
Both-Sides had fought the whites and, when overpowered but
not conquered, had tried to live in peace with them. Their ways
were strange and productive of headaches if one examined them
in the light of reason. That was his slant on the situation.
"Well, doggone my hide if it isn't the Chief, himself,” Hank
said, extending his hand.
“Stoo ye,” said the Indian, which meant "cold.”
"Good evening," the Professor said, and made signs toward
the remnants of the food.
Shot-on-Both-Sides, also by means of signs, indicated that his
belly was full. He had set out from his lodge after dinner. The
bottle of Old Crow was fortunately out of sight, so the Chief
was spared the pain of refusing a swig of its dangerous con-
tents. He knew his limit, from painful experience, and ad-
mitted to himself that it was zero. He did accept with pleasure
some Bull Durham and, after waiting politely for both Hank
and the Professor to take a few puffs, he smoked his tribal pipe,
squatting easily on his heels and watching the glowing embers
thoughtfully. A decent interval ensued, for both the cowboys
knew a little of Indian ways. Then Hank let fall the remark
that he was glad to see the Chief. Shot-on-Both-Sides nodded
solemnly. The Professor then went further along the same
line. He said, slowly and distinctly, that they were bound for
the Chief's own lodge, on a pressing errand. The Chief pointed
due south, described a circle with his finger to indicate the
name of that town, then swept his arm eastward until it was
right in line with Glendive, and made train noises the while.
He was on the way to Glendive, via Circle, and hoped to catch
the early morning train.
"Jim Leonard, the boss. Heap trouble,” the foreman said.
That thawed the reserve of the Indian, who never volun-
teered unnecessary information. He had heard, by means of
the amazing tribal grapevine that seemed to operate like the
nin
71


radio, that Leonard had been arrested, but did not understand
what for. By means of signs, some Indian words and a choice
selection of English, the foreman tried to explain the situation,
and he had not got far before Shot-on-Both-Sides got the drift.
Jim Leonard's clash with the law was connected in any way
with what Rain-No-More had disclosed weeks before about the
incident on Cottonwood Creek. The Chief had started on his
two-hundred-mile journey across country merely to verify the
report that Leonard was in jail and offer his resources to free
his friend. Having learned that Leonard was out, on bail, and
had started back to Three Buttes, Shot-on-Both-Sides decided
to wait on Coyote Creek until the cowboys had slept, then go
back with them to the reservation. The offer of blankets and
space in the snowbank, the Indian refused politely.
“I shall sit around the fire,” he said. “I wish to think, and
can sleep some other time.” He said it in his own language, but
the cowpunchers understood and turned in. The moon floated
steadily across the sky. Shooting stars described desperate arcs,
watched from the darkness, and the Chief caught occasional
glimpses of their glowing amber eyes. The sheep range to the
west was deserted; the cattle to the east had taken shelter many
miles away.
At four o'clock in the morning, Hank, the foreman, stirred,
shook the fine snow from the flap of his tarp and stuck his head
out of the snowbank.
“Come on, Professor. Signs of life,” he said. “You don't want
to stay in bed all day and wear out the bedclothes.”
“The hell I don't,” the Professor said, but he yawned and sat
up, just the same.
Just shortly after that moment, allowing for the difference
in time, the passengers on the Ile-de-France began to assemble
in the dining salon for lunch. At the Captain's table there was
72


unusual good cheer because Sergeant Schlumberger, blinking
in the sunlight, made his first appearance and was greeted with
words of encouragement. The honest Alsatian's clothes did not
seem to fit. He closed his eyes and shuddered now and then
when waiters passed too near with trays of herring or steam
ragouts. He glanced reproachfully at an American traveling
salesman who was smoking the last end of his cigar while wait-
ing for filet of sole. But Schlumberger's face had lost its green-
ish tinge and was in the old parchment stage, with little russet
and purple veins at the cheekbones and around his nose, to
indicate that he had not neglected himself before going to sea.
At the table for two, ordinarily occupied by Gilligan and San-
tosuosso, the former was sitting alone, and it seemed to Homer,
who was observing his actions carefully, that he was definitely
uneasy. He merely toyed with the hors d'æuvres, in spite of the
exercise involved in the tennis match, which should have sharp-
fried potatoes the ship's whistle let out a blast to salute a passing
liner. Involuntarily Gilligan tossed a golden sliver of pomme
frite all the way into the lap of a missionary who was browsing
Let us leave the diners to their excellent meal and peep for
an instant into the corridor leading past Cabin No. 614. It
chanced that the dog steward, a fine upstanding Norman lad,
had left his charges to their own devices in the kennels and was
on his way aft to the crew's dining quarters. When he was not
more than ten yards from Evans' stateroom, he was startled by
an assortment of animal noises not surpassed by anything he
had heard while he had previously worked in the circus. A
split second later, there emerged from No.614, the door of which
was ajar, what looked like a human pinwheel with a faun-
colored rim. Having grown accustomed in the circus to all
kinds of emergencies, the steward contrived to catch Moritz
by the scruff of the neck and shout soothing phrases into his
73


closely cropped ears, at the same time wrenching the victim
loose with his other hand.
Young Santosuosso, for it was he, was close to collapse from
fright. Like so many products of the crowded slums, he under-
The dog had bitten him, not too deeply and only in the softer
parts away from vital spots, for Moritz had felt sure that Homer
didn't want the intruder killed outright but merely was anxious
for him to be taught a lesson. So after a number of introduc-
tory bites, the Boxer had started shaking his foe, taking hold
first by the back of the collar, then later by the seat of the pants.
Once the dog steward had restored a semblance of order, he
advised the injured man to rush to the doctor for first-aid treat-
ment. That was the last thing the Italian wished to do, and the
Norman at once became suspicious, and at the same time aware
that he was overdue for his lunch. Moritz, seeing that the
steward was in a quandary, took hold lightly on Santosuosso's
trousers and tugged toward the open stateroom. The Norman
caught on, and agreed. He shoved the limp passenger back into
No. 614, closed the door, and looked over him carefully. Painful
but not dangerous, was his verdict concerning the Italian's
wounds. The steward looked at Moritz, to make sure there
would be no more rough stuff, and the Boxer, to show that he
understood, assumed that prone position known to trainers as
"platz."
"Don't leave us alone. He'll murder me,” the Italian pleaded.
"Your name isn't Evans, that's plain,” the steward said. “I'm
going to leave you here until Mr. Evans gets back from lunch.
The dog won't hurt you, unless you provoke him.” And with
that the Norman backed away and closed the door.
Gilligan, in the dining salon, grew increasingly nervous.
Once or twice he started to leave his place, but always Evans'
eyes were upon him and he didn't dare move. Homer, when the
meal was over, had a whispered consultation with Frémont,
and the two men went below. They found, to their surprise and
74


satisfaction, that Santosuosso was cowering in a corner and
Moritz was in the alert position between him and the door.
"Good afternoon," said Evans, smiling ominously. “I want
to introduce you to the Chief of Detectives of Paris, who has
authority in all parts of France and on French liners, which are
technically a part of the Third Republic.”
“I'm not talking,” Santosuosso said grimly. Jail or no jail, or
even if he was to be thrown overboard, he felt easier now that
he had human company to protect him from the dog.
"Not necessary, I assure you,” Evans said. “I'm not going to
be vindictive because you tried to search my room. My life is
an open book, more or less. There's just one thing I want from
you, my misguided young friend. You may keep the cablegrams
you filched from Miss Leonard's cabin. We both had read them,
anyway. What I shall require you to produce, if you do not wish
to be placed in irons and taken back to France for trial as a
common thief, is another object you removed without authority
from the cabin of Monsieur Rain-No-More. That has a senti-
mental value and cannot easily be replaced.”
“I haven't got it,” said Santosuosso, slightly thawed by the
prospect of getting off more easily than he had expected.
“Then tell me where it is,” Evans persisted.
"I chucked it overboard,” the Italian said.
Evans sighed. “You make things very difficult,” he said. Then
he turned to Moritz. “Moritz," he continued, “would you like
another workout, or would that be asking too much?”
For answer the dog rose to his feet and got set. His strong
muscles bulged as he lowered his head. The effect on San-
tosuosso was heartrending indeed. The young man dissolved
in terror, his eyes distended, his hands clasped as if in prayer.
In eloquent Chicago English and with a smattering of his
parental tongue he swore by all the saints that the scalp was in
the briny.
off a white man, I got superstitious, so help me Christ, I did.
75


I didn't want the thing around. I can't understand how I hap-
pened to pinch it in the first place.”
the truth, for once," the Chief of Detectives said.
Sighing again, Evans jerked his head toward the doorway,
and the Italian streaked through, and was not seen by Evans
or his friends, except at a distance, during the remainder of the
voyage.
That afternoon, which was morning on the snowswept range,
two men, widely separated in distance, race, temperament and
cultural heritage, were deep in thought on related matters. One
was Chief Shot-on-Both-Sides, who on snowshoes kept pace
easily with the cowboys on skis, as they glided northward down
the Redwater toward the Missouri and the reservation. The
other was Homer Evans.
The old Indian, whose face was impassive, was weighted
by impending tragedy. When Rain-No-More had told him what
had happened to Donniker Louey on Cottonwood Creek, before
snowfall, the Chief had nodded his approval. Certainly no self-
respecting Blackfeet brave would leave an assassin roaming the
foothills with the intention of killing from ambush an old and
trusted friend. Even more certainly, no son of a chief would let
a friend pay the penalty of death in his stead. Those two incon-
trovertible truths formed the basis for the Indian chieftain's
sorrow. Eventually, the three men came to the broad frozen
Missouri and crossed to the northern side, and within a half
hour they were seated in the Chief's tepee, being served a second
breakfast by the Chief's two daughters, Unreal Bear and Tinted
Cloud, both of whom had attended white men's school. After
stationing a trusted sentry to insure privacy, the Chief listened
to a full recital of the events leading up to Leonard's arrest, and
the miraculous appearance of a wheelbarrow load of gold. The
daughters acted as interpreters, switching skillfully from Black-
76


feet to English, with a quaint Southern accent, since their
teacher had come from South Carolina. Then, to gain time,
the Chief informed the cowpunchers that Rain-No-More was
far away, across the ocean, and would tell them what he could
when he returned.
All day, after Hank and the Professor had started for Three
Buttes, Shot-on-Both-Sides sat in his lodge without replenishing
the fire, or allowing the squaws to enter. Late that evening, he
sent for his second son, Longtime-Pipe.
“Son,” he said, “it may be necessary for you, in the future, to
guide the destinies of our tribe.”
Longtime-Pipe, an easygoing young Indian adept at white
men's golf, was filled with dismay. But of course he could not
question his father, or ask why life-long plans had been sud-
denly changed. It had always been assumed that Rain-No-More
would be elected chief, because of his aptitude for leadership
and his thorough education. However, while the squaws wept
in secret, young Longtime-Pipe set forth for Berkeley, Cali-
fornia, to master paleface's firewater as part of the special train-
ing Shot-on-Both Sides required of a possible successor.
Coincidently, Rain-No-More, aboard the Ile-de-France, was
sitting stoically in Evans' cabin, with Homer and Miriam, and
all of them were heavy-hearted. Rain-No-More had been in-
formed of Leonard's arrest, and he well knew the political
situation in Eastern Montana. His first thought had been to
produce the scalp and give himself up. But the loss of the
evidence had complicated what otherwise would have been, for
him, a simple problem. Because he had not wanted to involve
any of his innocent tribesmen in connection with the gangster's
death, Rain-No-More had disposed of the body in the Missouri,
in such a way that no trace could be found, even if the river bed
was dredged for miles, which was impossible. Larkspur Gilligan
did not want merely to convict an Indian. He wanted Jim
Leonard out of the way. How could Rain-No-More prove he
77


was guilty, if the sheriff would not take his word for it, which
was not within the realm of probability? Surely young San-
tosuosso, if produced as a witness, would be primed in advance
by Gilligan and deny having seen a scalp in Rain-No-More's
possession.
“We've got to sit tight," Evans said. “I can't believe Gilligan
thinks he can get away with convicting Mr. Leonard without
producing the body or any evidence except the flimsy story of
the two sheepherders, who did not state they had seen a crime
committed, but merely that they had seen Mr. Leonard halt,
circle and fire his rifle.”
“Let me shoot it out with Gilligan,” Miriam said, her eyes
flashing.
"Perhaps we can think of something with a bit more finesse.
Who knows?” asked Homer. “This is not a simple case of
murder. In fact, we all know it's not murder at all. In the place
of Rain-No-More I should have done exactly as he did, except
for the touch about the scalp. That was ingenious, but it would
not have occurred to me. Probably, also, I should have an-
nounced what I had done and taken my chances with the law,
which of course would be folly for Rain-No-More. What trou-
bles me most is the larger aspect of the situation. Gilligan wants
the range east of Redwater and will go to any lengths to get
it. He has been making careful preparations many months,
perhaps years. If he has enlisted in his services the lawless ele-
ment from Cicero and Chicago, with Baldy Santo at its head,
the conflict will take on heroic proportions. Now we have in
our ranks Hjalmar, Frémont, Dr. Toudoux, aside from those
present, and, of course, Sergeants Schlumberger and Bonnet.
Hugo Weiss will furnish money in any quantity, and money
forms the sinews of war, as has been so aptly said by some wise
man or other. Perhaps, also, Hugo will loan us his two excellent
subordinates and horsemen, Lvov Kvek and Grigori Lidin,
from the recent army of the late Tsar. Tom Jackson will act
forms the SS will furni, Sergeants som
78


as scribe. Besides, we have Mr. Leonard, himself, his staff of
buckaroos, and one of the noblest tribes of aborigines extant.
For good measure, we have right and justice on our side. I re-
fer of course to abstract justice, and not the kind hatched up by
Gilligan. On the whole, we're not badly off."


20
Of the Influence of Sex on Ways of
Getting Rid of Money
AS THE Ile-de-France approached the American shore, the pas-
sengers on board who had never seen that continent could not
conceal their eagerness and curiosity. Eugénie Toudoux, née
de Sault, leaned wistfully against the rail, well forward on the
starboard side, between her husband and Rain-No-More. Even
before the lookout in the crow's nest cried out “Land," the sharp
eyes of the Indian saw a hazy streak in the distance and pointed
it out to his companions. Chief of Detectives Frémont and
Sergeant Schlumberger, both well on the way toward recovery,
could not restrain themselves from gamboling and chirping with
glee as the cliffs, trees and buildings of Staten Island became
discernible.
In the forecastle, where he was hobnobbing with the crew,
Hjalmar Jansen was bellowing a ribald chanty to the accom-
paniment of a harmonica played by Sergeant Bonnet.
We anchored of Algeria,
The weather it grew drearier,
And all the whores
Along those shores
Got wearier and wearier.
80


Miriam and Homer stood side by side, saying little or noth-
ing. There is something about a return to one's native land,
after years abroad, that stirs memories and anticipations and
discourages conversation. Both of them were anxious to get
through the formalities of landing and to reach the scene of
action, which still was three thousand miles away. Also,
Miriam's reticence was due in part to a radiogram that had
been slipped beneath her door that morning before she was
dressed. “All will be forgiven" was one of the more cryptic
of the phrases, and the message was signed simply “Dad.” It
had suddenly occurred to her that certain details of her life in
Paris would be difficult to explain in terms her father would
understand.
The pilot scrambled aboard, at Quarantine the immigration
officers took possession of the salon and the smoking room, while
passengers stood uneasily in long lines and looked at their
papers again and again to make sure they were in order. Homer
accompanied the French-speaking members of the group and
acted as interpreter, but he had arranged with the Captain to
have Gilligan and Santosuosso detained until after the others
had gone ashore. Santosuosso, huddling in a corner of the salon,
was a picture of apprehension. When, after standing in line,
he reached the desk where the passenger list was being checked,
the curt officer told him to wait. The Italian was afraid he would
be arrested, and young Gilligan began to bluster, which got
him precisely nowhere.
"It's that guy Evans who has the drag," Santosuosso said.
“I only hope he gets near enough Chicago so the old man can
take him and his damn dog for a ride.” Moritz, so irreverently
referred to, had been released from the kennel and was behaving
his best, at Miriam's side.
When the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan came into view,
resplendent in the morning sunshine, Frémont's face looked
definitely reproachful.
“It's clear that Americans will stop at nothing," he sighed.
81


bicarais.
“Ah, well! Perhaps we French are wrong and old-fashioned to
cling to moderation. Five stories, six stories, yes, if they do not
obscure public monuments or architectural treasures. But build-
ing wantonly, up and up.” The Chief of Detectives shook his
head. As a matter of fact, Rain-No-More was thinking much
the same thoughts, except that his preoccupation concerned
hunting facilities and not Gothic cathedrals.
Perhaps the most excited member of the party was Hydrangea.
She was pointing out objects of interest to Stenka, the Serbian
maid, who had stopped trying to hook up New York and its
skyline with reality and was crossing herself with practically no
interruption. Once or twice when she lost sight of Miriam,
Stenka became frantic and charged from deck to deck, over-
turning passengers, stewards, trunks and even officials, who
thought a blonde tornado had passed by. That Miriam had en-
trusted her valises, filled with lovely clothes, to perfect strangers,
was considered by Stenka to be the height of folly.
Slowly and with queenly majesty, the Ile-de-France left be-
hind the Statue of Liberty, skirted the Battery and started up
the Hudson, passing pier after pier. Neatly it was swung around
and sidled up to No. 88. The gangplank had scarcely touched
the floor when Hugo Weiss, in faultless morning clothes, was
escorted aboard by an official of the French Line. He was fol-
lowed by two tall handsome Russians in equally impeccable
attire and swinging gold-headed canes. The first Russian, Lvov
Kvek, embraced Homer Evans, weeping with joy and uttering
fervent greetings in practically all the modern languages.
Grigori Lidin, in less happy days the doorman at the Plaza
Athènée, clasped Hjalmar in a bear hug and they started waltz-
ing. Hugo Weiss greeted Miriam, beaming with heartfelt
pleasure.
“Ah, Miriam," he said, when she tried to thank him for his
service to her father. “How seldom it is that one can be glad of
having wads of money! Not only my life I owe to you and
Homer Evans, but a quality of friendship that nearly always
82


is denied the ultra-rich. The adventure we had three years ago *
I would not exchange for the directorship of fifty corporations,
and now we shall have another. I feel it in my bones. No!
Don't object! I'm going west with you and see this thing
through. All arrangements have been made. The wheels of
industry and finance will continue to turn in my absence, al-
though that is in strict confidence. Ah, there's Chief Frémont
and Dr. Toudoux!”
In short, the hearts of all concerned were warmed and, arm
in arm, the gay companions trooped into the customs shed
where, because of Weiss, the little orange stickers were being
plastered on the baggage as fast as the trunks and valises reached
the bottom of the chute. The members of the group had been
so engrossed in their welcome that a modest couple standing
on the sidelines and smiling wistfully were almost overlooked.
It was Hjalmar who first spied them and announced his dis-
covery with a roar.
Side by side, so close together that her sleeve was touching
his coatsleeve gently, were Beatrice and Anton Diluvio. The
former was carrying a small but exquisite bouquet of dwarf
moss-rosebuds for Miriam. The violinist was imploring Evans
to let him lend a hand in the case before him, so eloquently
that Homer, whose heart was ever vulnerable, could not say
no. That the pair who had been brought together for eternity
in the hay-strewn hold of the Presque Sans Souci were happy
was so evident that to mention the fact is almost indelicate.
"I shall cancel the rest of my concert tour,” Diluvio said.
Beatrice looked up at him and smiled. “As you wish, dear,
but let me go, too. I can cook, you know, and ride.”
"Of course you shall go,” said Hugo Weiss gallantly. "In
fact, I am placing my special cars at Mr. Evans' disposal and
we'll all go west in style. When do we start? This evening? So
much the better." His secretary, who was always in the offing,
lit out for a booth to make the necessary telephone calls, and,
• The Mysterious Mickey Finn, Modern Age, 1939.
83


by the time the company was seated for lunch the two luxurious
Pullmans, Pelleas and Melisande, were being polished and
dusted within an inch of their lives. Telegraphs had clicked and
stuttered from coast to coast, over the intricate network of
railroads, and the cars were being routed from New York to
Glendive, Montana, with a stopover in Chicago.
The former N.P. detective, known to his intimates as Nut-
cracker Ike, was in conference with young Santosuosso and
Gilligan behind a couple of packing cases. The dick didn't
like the look of things at all. Had his array of opponents in-
cluded only one man in frock coat and striped trousers, that
would have been enough to make him nervous. That there were
three disconcerted him completely, but he edged over near
enough to Weiss to overhear the conversation.
"I have it,” said Hugo Weiss, slapping Hjalmar on the back.
“The portrait! I promised to sit for you, my boy, and I shall
do it. You can paint it on the train. I'll have a special studio
car attached to the rear of Melisande and you can paint as the
miles roll by.”
Frémont could contain himself no longer. With longing eyes
he glanced at the gangplank still leaning against the Ile-de-
France.
"Do I understand that in process of being rushed across this
vast country, at a speed of God knows how many kilometers
per hour, and at a cost that will approximate the national debt
of one of the smaller nations, you are about to indulge in oil
painting?" Seeing confirmation on the faces of his friends, the
Chief of Detectives turned to Schlumberger and sadly shook
his head. “We are lost,” he said simply.
"I had a grandfather who saw little soldiers marching in
and out beneath his doorsill ..." the Alsatian began.
"You have done the old gentleman an injustice,” said Fré-
mont. “He was born in the wrong country, that is all.”
Meanwhile Beatrice Diluvio, née Baxter and according to
Massachusetts statistics at present listed as Mrs. Andrew Flood,
84


was engaged in a friendly argument with Hugo Weiss. In the
course of the tarantula murders * she had inherited half a
billion dollars and she thought Weiss ought to loosen up and
let her share the expenses of the punitive expedition to the bad-
lands.
“I don't like to ask indulgence on account of my sex ..."
she began.
“Sweetheart,” murmured Anton Diluvio.
“But, you will admit,” Beatrice continued, “that a woman
can't dispose of millions as easily as a man can. I can't direct
corporations. Actually, I've never understood exactly what a
corporation is. And I can't pretend to be a judge of old or
modern paintings. About all I can fall back on are hospitals,
and I've fairly littered New England with those.”
"All right. I'll be a sport," said Weiss. “We'll go fifty fifty.
But it must be understood with Evans that he's to spare no
expense."
The three members of the Paris police force began to quake
and show signs of alarm. “If this excursion into the wilds of
America continues as it has begun," said Bonnet, the least
excitable of the trio, "we shall become pushovers for psychi-
atrists, if any such have the temerity to operate here."
“I shall lock up André Maurois for criminal understatement
in his published works about America, also Celine, the Abbé
Dimnet and Bernard Fäy,” Frémont said. “They must have had
fraudulent intent.”
So it happened that at six o'clock that evening a string of
special cars was attached to the Overland, Limited, in the fol-
lowing order:
THE PELLEAS
THE MELISANDE
CHEZ SCHMITZ (A special diner with Alsatian cooking)
Café du DÔME (A drinking car)
• Mayhem in B-Flat, Random House, 1940.
85


MONTPARNASSE (Hjalmar's studio)
THE CASTOR AND POLLUX (A ladies' and gents' hairdressing parlor)
The Saint Cecilia (equipped with a grand piano so Diluvio
could practice)
Hydrangea, who had listened to the plans for the trip, could
not pass it up, notwithstanding her longing for Harlem, and
when she told Frémont that she had decided to stay at his side,
the Chief of Detective's joy overcame his apprehensions, so
that as the Overland pulled out of Grand Central Station there
was not a passenger in the special section whose heart was not
blithe and gay. Only Weiss' far-reaching influence prevented
the unusual expedition from being publicized in the press.
Of course, in one of the ordinary Pullmans far up toward
the locomotive, Terry Gilligan and Santosuosso were seated in
a section, face to face. They were worried about many aspects
of the situation, but shadowing Miriam had turned out to be
about as difficult as keeping track of the calliope in a circus
parade. It was so easy, in fact, that young Santosuosso was
focusing his twisted mind on how to get even with the Indian
and Moritz, the dog. The latter had been comfortably installed
outside Miriam's sleeping compartment in the Melisande and,
having had his pound of raw beefsteak with a few dog biscuits
broken up in it, to make it last longer, the Boxer was getting
in some good sound sleep, with one eye slightly open.
The four astounded Frenchmen, headed by Frémont and
Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux, with Schlumberger and Bonnet bring-
ing up the rear, passed the first hour on the Overland inspecting
the unusual train. Each item of appointment that had been
rigged up for the passengers' comfort and convenience caused
their eyes to pop out a little farther from their sockets. When,
in the Pelleas, they found a telephone exchange more modern
and even larger than the one in the Paris prefecture, they hit for
the Dôme car and ordered stiff Pernods all around. Dr. Tou-
doux started fumbling with his notes for the address he was to
86


deliver to the assembled toxicologists on new uses for snake
oil, but the doctor found it difficult to collect his thoughts.
Miriam, at a near-by table with Eugénie, was still pondering
her father's “All will be forgiven."
In a soundproof booth in the telephone exchange, Evans
was in earnest conversation with Tom Jackson, who had worked
as reporter for several big newspapers in the United States and
even done a few stretches on the New York Herald in Paris,
as a respite from Prohibition conditions, and now was working
in Chicago.
After explaining as much of the situation as was necessary,
Homer asked Jackson how he stood with Baldy Santo, leader
of the gang of needle-beer distributors who had terrorized Chi-
cago while the dry law was in force.
“He's off me,” Jackson said. “Last year he tried to take me
for a ride."
“Can you find out where he is, and what he's doing?” Evans
asked.
“Sure,” said Jackson. “I'll call you back later this evening.
The boys down at headquarters ought to be able to tell me
right off the bat. If not, I'll try the G-men at the F.B.I., and
some of the other gangsters. Toodle-oo."
“Just a minute," Evans said. “I forgot to ask you to quit your
job and get ready to ride west with us tomorrow. We'll have
our special cars hooked on to the Golden Gate Express. Leaves
at six-ten, if I'm not mistaken.”
"And how am I going to eat?” the reporter asked.
"Weiss has decided to buy you a newspaper of your own,”
said Homer. “You're going to take over the Glendive X-Ray,
at least for the time being."
“Are you kidding?” asked Jackson.
“Perish the thought,” replied Evans, and hung up the re-
ceiver, smiling. He was not smiling, however, when just after
midnight Tom called back and made his report.
"I can't understand it,” the reporter said. “I thought I knew


* this burg, but I'm just another little Lord Fauntleroy. None
of my sources can find hide or hair of Baldy Santo, and that
isn't all. Every member of his gang, except a few palookas, who
are no good anyway, has disappeared. Not one of 'em's in
Chicago or Cicero or anywhere else. They've evaporated, dusted,
skidooed.”
“Damnation,” said Evans. “We didn't get started a moment
too soon."


In Which Whiskers Are Soundly Painted
and Spots Marked "X” Surveyed
IN OLDEN TIMES, before the Greeks got into a rut and started
devoting themselves almost exclusively to the restaurant busi-
ness, the Goddess Aurora, whose rosy fingers tint the dawn,
was usually good for a stanza or two at the beginning of a
chapter, while the poet was warming up. But in stories in which
Hjalmar Jansen, Lvov Kvek and Grigori Lidin are concerned,
and particularly when they are enjoying a reunion, Aurora, if
she figures in the picture at all, horns in near the end of the
festivities. The fleecy clouds of what is known as a “mackerel
sky” were taking on a sort of postcard pink and the sun was
casting its first beaming rays along the cindered New York
Central roadbed when the big Norwegian, with ex-Colonel
Kvek and Grigori on either side, murmuring something about
a breath of air, started from the Dôme car for the observation
platform. There they found Diluvio, stretched out full length
in blue, red and gray, of Rain-No-More. The latter, undoubtedly
the most clear-headed of the five, was squatting on his heels
89


and watching the violinist, to be sure he would not roll over
fitfully and fall off the train, which was making seventy miles
an hour.
Hugo Weiss, the genial host, had asked indulgence on account
of his age and had gone to bed an hour before, and Evans, who
had been too preoccupied all evening for conscientious drink-
ing, had excused himself at the same time.
Thus it was that early risers and light sleepers in the towns
beyond the outskirts of Chicago were treated to verse and
fireman of the Overland was hard put to make his whistle heard
above the din. The two colored waiters in the Dôme, called
respectively Washington and Cromwell, were removing broken
glass with a snow shovel and preparing fragrant breakfast
coffee in the polished silver-plated coffee machine. A boy came
in, balancing a tray on which were crisp warm croissants.
Hjalmar Jansen had drunk elbow to elbow with his cronies
hours on end, but he had not lost his sense of responsibility,
which operated only where painting was concerned. The por-
trait of Hugo Weiss, which was to make him famous and,
incidentally, bring him in enough money to buy himself a
schooner, was to be started at eight o'clock, rain or shine. The
result was a triumph of mind over matter. Hjalmar, leaning
over the aft rail and trying not to look at the blurred ribbon
of railroad ties unzipping below, suffered buckets of ice water
to be poured over his head by Rain-No-More. Grigori and
Kvek, depressed by the sight of so much water, climbed up to
the top of the car, where they strolled back and forth, averring
that aloft they got a much better slant at the scenery.
It was thus that the revelers were discovered by Frémont
and Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux, who had risen early in order not
to miss the panorama of America that seemed so strange to
them. The former, groaning, snatched a cup of coffee and a
roll, ate it with his back to the observation platform, then hur-
ried forward to his stateroom again. The medical examiner,
90


whose works on the resuscitation of drunks were standard
throughout the civilized world, began taking rapid notes, after
asking permission to record the pulse and respiration of all five
of the men and count the empty bottles, which had been placed
by the waiters in two clothes hampers, filling them to the brim.
By eight o'clock, a semblance of order had been restored.
Right on the dot, Hugo Weiss appeared in the studio car, in a
fresh black frock coat, pin-striped trousers, and wearing a
cornflower in his buttonhole. The multi-millionaire nodded
with approval when he saw that Jansen had already put on his
smock, set up his easel, arranged the posing platform and was
in the act of squeezing oil paint from tubes onto his enormous
palette.
"Good work, my boy. A creditable comeback. I always choose
my executives on the basis of their ability to resist alcohol,
and I'm seldom deceived,” Weiss said.
Had not the Saint Cecilia been soundproof, they could have
heard from the music car the preliminary drone of Diluvio's
priceless Guarnerius, known as “The Sinner Without Malice.”
The violinist, refreshed by his nap in the open and spurred on
by the example of Hjalmar, had pulled himself together and
was having a go at the difficult Mendelssohn Concerto, so near
the open window that a station agent, gaping at the Overland
as it passed at reduced speed, fell over backward ducking
Anton's flying bow.
The ladies, all except Miriam, had breakfast in bed, but soon
they were assembled on the sun porch of the Melisande in
fetching negligee or street clothes.
The dingy suburbs grew thicker and more populous. The
train entered the city limits of Chicago and soon the special
section was uncoupled in the railroad yards and shunted to a
convenient sidetrack, where armed guards kept prowlers and
urchins at a distance. Evans, who was determined to get news
of Baldy Santo, decided to shadow the son, and for that purpose
ventured out alone. Miriam, at his request, had marshalled the
91


non-working members of the company for a tour in a rubber-
neck wagon.
Reading from front to back of the commodious blue bus,
the members of the sightseeing party were seated as follows:
Dr. and Mme. Toudoux
Miriam
Rain-No-More
Grigori Lidin
Stenka
Frémont and Sgt. Schlumberger
Beatrice Diluvio
Sgt. Bonnet
Hydrangea
Up front, beside the driver's seat, stood the guide, and near
by, with an extra megaphone, was ex-Colonel Kvek, who re-
peated in French and Serbian the guide's remarks about the
points of interest they passed. The skyscrapers, like terraced
mountains, looked massive compared with the needle-like struc-
tures of New York. As soon as the guide was informed that
some of the distinguished foreign visitors were interested in
crime he directed the chauffeur to drive first to some of the
spots that had been marked “X” in the newspapers all over
the world. Among them were:
The scene of the Haymarket bomb explosion.
The site of the prison where the anarchists had been hanged in
1888.
The Holy Name Cathedral in State Street, where Little Hymie
Weiss and his pals were machine-gunned on their way to mass.
The flower shop of Dion O'Banion, where the first handshake
murder was committed, followed by a $100,000 funeral with
twenty-six truckloads of flowers.
The Negro quarter over by the Union Stockyards, the scene of the
bloody race riots of 1923.
The corner in Cicero where Assistant State's Attorney McSwiggin
was bumped off.
The garage in North Clark Street where the St. Valentine's
Massacre was accomplished by gangsters wearing police uni-
forms. Death toll, seven.
92


“Enough,” groaned Frémont, whose head was reeling. “Am
I to understand that only in the case of the unfortunate anar-
chists a conviction was secured, and that turned out to be
fraudulent?”
“What can one expect, when neither citizens nor bandits are
required to carry identity cards?” Sergeant Schlumberger said.
It was only a short distance from the notorious garage to
the Lake Shore Drive, and there the verdant parks and palatial
residences revealed another aspect of the Windy City's life. The
party was shown the world's most modern zoo, where Hydran-
gea tried to make arrangements to buy the baby giant panda.
For the benefit of the women, a brief tour was made through
the world's largest merchandising building, with its own police
In the stockyards, the men saw squealing pigs head into buzz
saws on conveyor belts, and emerge a few moments later as
pork roasts, ribs and sausages. Droves of cattle were malleted,
slit and dismantled before their eyes, in lakes of blood. On the
other hand, in the art museum the women had all the best of
it, and admired the Grecos, Tintorettos, Picassos, Van Goghs,
etc., while their escorts snatched a quick one in a neighboring
bar.
They were shown where the lantern was kicked over and
started the Chicago fire; the preparations for the Eucharistic
Congress; the World's Fair; the ball fields of the White Sox
and the Cubs, respectively; in short, the sights. The blasé chap
with the megaphone had never had a more attentive batch of
clients.
Frémont, almost numb with astonishment and awe, had a
twinge of conscience and asked to see the police headquarters,
so the bus pulled up in front of that imposing structure and
was promptly shooed away because of parking regulations.
The Chief of Detectives was just as well satisfied. He had in-
tended to force himself to enter and ask about methods, but
lost his nerve at the last moment. Whatever he learned in
93


America, he had already concluded, would be of no use to him
or posterity in France.
In the crowded La Salle Street Station, Homer Evans had had
no difficulty in picking up young Terry Gilligan and San-
tosuosso without being observed, and was more than gratified
when he saw the former being greeted, not without affection,
by a tall lanky Westerner with heavy black eyebrows and handle-
bar mustaches to match.
“Larkspur Gilligan, himself,” said Evans, as he slipped into
a taxi and handed the driver a ten-dollar bill with instructions
to follow the cab in which the trio above-mentioned were
ensconced. “Larkspur, by Jove. Ah, well. Another testimonial
to the wisdom of Lefty Gomez, the southpaw philosopher, whose
immortal lines 'I'd rather have luck than be right' (Mieux la
chance que l'adresse) will eventually be posted up in school
rooms and public libraries. Larkspur must have the wind up or
he would not have hot-footed it east to meet his son. We must
keep watch over Hugo Weiss. Don't want to lose him again,
as we did three years ago. Not by a long shot.”
Knowing that the multi-millionaire was posing for Hjalmar
at that moment, Evans dismissed from his mind the possibility
of his being kidnapped. It would take at least half the bad men
of Montana to pry a model out of the Norwegian's clutches, in
the throes of a morning's work. For Hjalmar painted as fer-
vently as he played, or very nearly.
From where he sat, Homer felt sure that Santosuosso was
peering through the back window of Gilligan's taxi to see if
they were being followed. However, the traffic was fairly heavy
was heading he had one of those flashes of intuition, or perhaps
a rapid association of ideas, that aided him so frequently in his
investigations and set him apart from unimaginative men.
Quickly he asked the chauffeur to turn into a side street and
drive at top speed to the Stockmen's Hotel, offering another ten
dollars as a bonus if they got there well in advance of the other
94


taxi. The driver, whom Homer had sized up carefully before
entering the cab, lived up to expectations. Taking hair-trigger
chances, he steered in and out of traffic, cut corners, beat the
gun on lights, and Evans was safely hidden in the lobby, behind
a copy of the Tribune, when Larkspur Gilligan, with Terry and
Santosuosso came in. The two boys did not register, but fol-
lowed Larkspur straight into the bar, which otherwise was
deserted at that hour.
A telephone booth was near by, and from it Evans called
Tom Jackson who had been instructed to hold himself in readi-
ness for action. Five minutes later the reporter entered the
lobby and took a seat near Homer, without betraying that they
were acquainted. Without moving his lips, Evans instructed
Jackson to go into the bar, pretending to be moderately drunk,
and pick up what he could in the way of information. Tom did
as he was told, but the moment he lurched within hearing dis-
tance, the trio lowered their voices until their talk was inaudi-
ble. The reporter ordered whiskey and closed his eyes, as if
dozing, with his elbows on the table. Minutes passed and Tom
was getting discouraged and was considering bailing out for
fresh advice, when a slim well-dressed Englishman pushed open
the swinging doors from the street entrance, adjusted a monocle,
surveyed the barroom with distaste, and approached the bar.
"I'll have a Scotch and soda, if the Scotch is not too foul,” he
said.
Now Tom Jackson was a rough-and-ready young man who
made no pretense of maintaining an Olympian attitude. He
had his prejudices, and one of the strongest of them was a dis-
like of Englishmen, generally, and a particular loathing for
those who affected the single-glass or spats. The chap at the
bar had both. In spite of himself, Tom began to glare through
half-closed lids at the newcomer, almost neglecting in the process
the proper objects of his attention. He was rewarded by seeing
young Santosuosso sidle over toward the Britisher and, after
glancing furtively at Jackson and concluding that the latter was
95


"Come up to No. 34: We drinks, Larkspur Chand took the
dead to the world, take from a side pocket what appeared to
be a scalp and slip it into the pocket of the Englishman's tweed
lounging jacket.
“Come up to No. 34. We can't talk here," the Italian said.
After another round of drinks, Larkspur Gilligan, his son
and Santosuosso left the bar, crossed the lobby and took the
elevator. Jackson was nonplussed. He always expected fan-
tastic things to happen whenever Evans was involved in a case,
but after all, scalp-passing by Italians to Englishmen in Chicago
barrooms was a bit over the borderline, it seemed to Tom.
Should he consult Evans, and thus lose sight of the Englishman,
who obviously was a confederate of Gilligan, or should he stick
where he was? The Englishman solved the problem for him.
After waiting a decent interval he drained his Scotch and soda,
removed four bits from a change purse and placed the coin
reluctantly on the bar. The bartender, who evidently saw eye
to eye with Jackson concerning monocles, jammed down the
keys of the cash register with unnecessary vigor and rolled the
change across the bar, so that a dime hopped off and fell into
the sawdust on the floor.
"Oh, I say," objected the Englishman, but he stopped and
fished out the coin. Then he went into the lobby and rang for
the elevator, presumably to join the others upstairs.
Tom paid for his whiskey and reported to Homer what had
happened.
“The devil,” said Homer to himself. “That young thug hood-
winked me, also Frémont, after all. He must have given the
scalp for safe-keeping to the same steward who loaned him the
pass key, no doubt for a price. The loss of a pass key was never
reported. I thought all along that was strange.”
But Evans was not the one to brood over past mistakes, at
the expense of future accomplishments. “Tom,” he said, “we've
got to get that scalp. I need it badly."
“A new fad you've taken up?" asked the reporter.
“Unfortunately," continued Homer, ignoring the question.
96


"My face and figure are well known to young Gilligan and his
anti-social pal. Don't you know a pickpocket who would under-
take an easy job for a liberal honorarium? Weiss is anxious to
have the cost of this inquiry mount up, so I pay well above the
standard rates for services.”
"I did Galilee Zach a good turn once,” said Jackson.
“Phone him. Ask him to come at once,” Evans said. “I've
got to get out of sight before Gilligan spots me. Wait here with
the dip until the Englishman comes down. Then show Galilee
Zach this bill ($100) which will be his when he gives you the
scalp. Wrap it well and bring it to me in the car named Pelleas,
in our special train. And, by the way, you're all set to go west
at six-twelve?"
“My better judgment is against it, but I'll be ready,” Jackson
said. “So long."
Meanwhile, in the studio car, Hjalmar had been making
heroic progress. His wealthy but amiable model had posed
patiently, refreshed every hour or so by what he called an old-
fashioned cocktail although it contained no fruit, only a few
grains of sugar and less than ten percent, by volume, of H,O.
He did not look at the painting, knowing that a sitter should
refrain from comment on unfinished work. If he had, the multi-
millionaire would have been astonished, or at least intrigued.
For Hjalmar's bête noire, or Jonah, had always been whiskers.
Sometimes he had turned them out to look like putty, again they
had resembled chickweed, but seldom could his finished product
be mistaken by insects or art critics for actual human hair.
Consequently, the big painter had resolved to get the hardest
part of his task over first.
Before lunch time, Tom Jackson, having secured the scalp
according to schedule, made his way past the guards into the
railroad yards and peered through his glasses at the bizarre
array of special coaches. Stumbling by accident first into the
studio car, which was deserted, the reporter saw on a large


white canvas, otherwise utterly bare, a set of disembodied whis-
kers neatly trimmed in the style known in sartorial circles as
“Vandyke.” The sight did not assuage his qualms about the
adventure on which he was embarking. Depositing his suitcase
in the Pelleas, he worked his way aft to the Dôme car, where
he found Evans and handed him gingerly a package wrapped
in Neon red cellophane. The reporter's sigh of relief was so deep
that it brought both waiters to the table in double-quick time.
"I begin to see light,” Evans said, as he gave his order to
Cromwell. “The faint glow that, let us hope, precedes the dawn
is softening the horizon."
“That Englishman must be tied up with Baldy Santo's mob,”
said Jackson, “although no one in town ever got wise to him
before. He looks more like the tail end of the Oxford Movement
than a gangster."
"Exactly,” Evans said. “We shall meet him again, if I'm not
mistaken. But this afternoon, we all can relax. I want to drop
in at the toxicologists' convention, to hear our friend Toudoux
to while away the long winter evenings on the ranch, for I
foresee a possible period of inactivity before major operations
open up in the spring. Let's see, I shall choose a few by Purcell,
Monteverde, Monteclair, William Byrd, Rameau ... and some
American bits by Pinetop Smith, Hersal Thomas, Earl Hines,
Albert Ammons, Count Basie, a rather unusual blues shouter
named Kid Lindbergh ..."
“Now you're talking,” Jackson said.
The chef of the Alsatian dining car, whose name was Corri-
gan, outdid himself at noon that day. Since there was a tang
of frost in the air and so many of his clients had been out of
doors all morning, Corrigan put out a menu a bit on the sub-
stantial side. Following black boudin against a background of
mashed potatoes and sauerkraut, washed down with Mercurey,
'21, there were pickled partridge with currant preserves, blue-
98


grained cheese from Hartmanswillerkopf, peach strudel, coffee
and liqueurs. Sergeant Schlumberger, of Strasbourg, fairly
purred and was set back a bit when, in trying to felicitate the
chef, he found they had no common language. Had the results
been posted up, however, Lvov Kvek would have been listed as
winner, Hjalmar Jansen placed, and Diluvio and Stenka were
tied for third.
The meal put Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux in such a good humor
that later, in Odd Fellows' Hall, he was the life of the toxi-
cologists' convention and received a vote of thanks for his paper
on the medicinal properties of the oil of the American prairie
rattler (Crotalus confluentis). Evans and Miriam sat with Mme.
Toudoux throughout the performance and Eugénie was filled
with modest pride. Since her unjustified incarceration in the
madhouse,* the former Marquise de la Rose d'Antan had been
in terror whenever strange doctors put in an appearance, but
at last her fear had been overcome and she shook hands with the
learned members of the society without a tremor as they lined
up to bid her husband bon voyage. Tom Jackson attended,
although he knew nothing about poisons. He simply wanted
to enjoy listening to papers and speeches without the necessity
of collaring the speakers afterward for a résumé of what they
had said, in terms the readers of the Tribune could understand.
By force of long habit, notwithstanding, the reporter grabbed
an afternoon edition from a newsboy as the group left the hall
and turned a pale shade of green. A public clock near by said
four forty-five, which left nearly an hour and a half before six
twelve, and Jackson wished fervently that he were aboard the
C. M. & St. P. express, or on some rapidly moving conveyance
headed out of Chicago. For a two-column cut on page one con-
tained a flattering picture of the Englishman Tom had caused
to be rolled that morning and the headlines read:
BRITISH SUBJECT SLAIN
• Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre, Random House, 1940.
99


A closer perusal of the sub-heads and lead paragraph set forth
that Montmorency Lewson-Phipps, nephew of the prominent
dudelsack collector, Amery Buttorford Lewson-Phipps, R.A.,
V.C., of Phipps-Wickey, Dorsetshire, had been shot to death
by unidentified gangsters as he emerged from a cut-price drug
store with a bottle of Pluto Water clutched in one hand. A soda
jerker who had sold the Pluto to the deceased told the police
that a short dark man had accosted the Englishman and asked
curtly: "Have you got it?" On receiving a negative reply, the
short dark party had retired to the sidewalk and, with another
man, still shorter and darker, evidently an acquaintance, had
riddled the deceased from sawed-off shotguns, slightly wounding
three bystanders, one of whom was a nine-year-old girl on her
way to be confirmed. Because of the insistence of the British
Consul, who had threatened to call a man-of-war into Lake
Michigan unless satisfaction was forthcoming, the Mayor had
ordered the police to investigate. The owner of a large Chicago
daily, who had ambitions to represent the United States at the
Court of St. James's, had offered a reward of $20,000 for in-
formation leading to the arrest and conviction of the gangsters
who had committed the breach of hospitality.
“Any news?” Evans asked, observing the reporter's uneasiness.
“Glub,” said Jackson, swallowing hard. Homer, sensing some-
thing grave, persuaded the Toudouxs to have a final go at
Marshall Field's before entraining, and asked Miriam to accom-
pany them. “The Union Station, West Jackson Boulevard.
Don't be late," he cautioned. Reluctantly, Miriam led the doctor
and his wife away.
It was the work of an instant for Evans to read the story of
Lewson-Phipps demise, and its possibilities of disaster did not
escape him.
“What about Galilee Zach? Will he squeal?" Homer asked.
“He'd send his mother to the chair for twenty cents, let alone
$20,000,” Tom Jackson said. “I knew we'd get in wrong if we
monkeyed with scalps. I felt it in my bones.”
100


“Does Galilee know we're pulling out tonight?” Evans asked,
“He'll describe me, and tell the cops I work for the Tribune.
The cops'll barge into the city room, and the editor will say I
quit on a moment's notice last night, for no reason I could
explain. Won't that look good? I throw up a good job, give a
dip $100 to frisk an Englishman of a dried scalp. A little later
the Englishman gets plugged, and all the tall hats in Chicago
come off their pegs and start moving around. I'm cooked, old
man. No matter where I go, I'll be extradited. I suppose by
now, the guy who lost the skin from his onion has been found
in Humboldt Park, propped up against a police box.”
"That, at least, won't happen,” Evans said. “Let's slip into a
tavern and think this over. It's Gilligan's work, of course, car-
ried out by some intimates and social equals of Santosuosso.
Luckily you have a wonderful alibi.”
"The alibi sounds fishier than any of the rest of it. What
would I be doing, passing my last afternoon in Chi with a lot
of toxicologists? I didn't take any notes; I didn't even listen.
No one knew me there except you and the Toudouxs. You
can't appear, and both of them are foreigners. What I'd better
do is hit for the Canadian border," the reporter said.
“Call Zach," said Evans, briefly.
“Have a heart,” Jackson said. "He'd turn me in right here."
"Perhaps I can dissuade him, but if you're skeptical, beat it
to the Union Station. Find Hjalmar, ask him to black you up
and get you a white coat and a porter's cap. Then keep busy,
dusting and pottering in the studio car. I'll interview Galilee
Zach and see if he won't listen to the siren song of reason.”
Sighing dolefully, Tom Jackson found a telephone booth,
nodded that he had contacted the pickpocket, then lit out with
a speed most unusual for a reporter. The last time he had given
Evans a hand, he had found himself involved in a free-for-all
in a loony bin. As he dove into a taxi, keeping in the shadow
as much as possible, Tom wished he were back in the madhouse.
Nevertheless, he carried out his instructions to the letter. Homer
101


glanced at his watch, and saw that he had only half an hour to
young man came into the tavern and glanced around. He was
very good-looking, in a girlish sort of way, with large dark
eyes and long lashes, and his fingers were carefully manicured.
shade of pink.
“I hope I'm not mistaken,” Homer said to himself as he gave
the newcomer the eye. The young man proved to be Zach, all
right, but a moment's conversation revealed to Evans that the
dainty young dip had not read the afternoon papers. He had
been too busy spending the $100 for lotions, assorted toilet
preparations and clothes. With his usual adaptability, Evans
accepted the new situation. He told Zach that he had another
little job that would net him $200.
“Not another nasty old scalp, I hope,” Zach said, with distaste.
“I hate to mention it, but the one I pinched this morning actu-
ally had dandruff.”
Homer reassured the dip, but told him it would be necessary
for him to board a train. “I'll let you off in Cicero ...
“Not Cicero, where all those rowdy gun molls are. Make it
Berwyn,” Zach said.
“All right. Come along," said Evans.
Tom Jackson, his face transformed by powdered charcoal,
was in the act of moving Hjalmar's easel, on which the canvas
now displayed a frock coat and formal tie, an appropriate
distance below the whiskers. He was dismayed to see Evans and
the pickpocket, arm in arm, approaching the Pelleas. What he
did not see was that Homer, on entering that coach, left Zach
in his stateroom and held a quick consultation with Dr. Hya-
cinthe Toudoux.
"Ah, by all means. The Mickey or Michel Finn,” the doctor
said, and took from his vest pocket a small phial.
“Won't you have a drink?” Homer asked of Zach, who was
enchanted with the atmosphere of tasteful luxury. He had noted
102


“Everything in this amazing country is on a heroic scale.
Buildings go up, not ten stories, but a hundred. Gangsters mas-
sacre not two or three, but seven or more. Hummocks are hills,
and hills are mountains. Ten million men are out of work, not
merely a thousand. Jewish bandits attempt to go to mass. Catho-
lic assassins hide in synagogues. Floral offerings are disposed of
deeply indebted to Monsieur Evans for an unforgettable chance
to see the world, to shake off the chains of our chauvinism, the
curse of modern France,” said Dr. Toudoux.
"Ach, Gott, what farming land," the Alsatian said prayer-
fully.
“And lakes, almost end to end, for navigation. Observe that
expanse of river to our left, and to think that our accursed poli-
ticians sold great chunks of it for a song. By the way, is this
Louisiana, this beauteous department?" asked Bonnet.
"Too far north. We are now in Wisconsin,” Evans said,
smiling.
When his friends were happy, he was happy, too. He wanted
everyone to feel the surge and flow of life, to taste its possibili-
ties. And he could not stifle the pride he felt in his country.
Indeed, Europe seemed remote, actually alien, even backward
to him then. Was he catching the fever that drove so many of
his countrymen to pointless activity? Miriam, at his side, and
sharing his thoughts, was trembling. Eugénie de Sault, remem-
bering only a fleeting instant the walls of the asylum that had
shut her in five interminable years, brushed a tear from her
cheek. Hydrangea, shuddering briefly, said a goose had crossed
her grave, then recovered her gay spirits with the mercurial
aptitude of her race. Stenka was breathing deeply and seemed
more statuesque than ever as she stopped thinking entirely, to
Anton Diluvio that there were other passengers on the train.
The Russians began singing, as if exile and privation were
104


merely courses in musical appreciation, as indeed, they are.
Hjalmar, elated at having passed the whisker ordeal success-
fully and having followed it up with a dark coatsleeve that
would have done credit to Derain, gave the handbrake on the
platform such a boisterous twirl that it flew off its moorings and
caromed down the track. In the Dôme car, Washington and
Cromwell were taking full advantage of an easy evening. Rain-
No-More, lost in thought, was squatting motionless on the roof
of the Pelleas, where he had climbed for meditation. His ances-
tors had roamed almost to the lake region, in pursuit of stray
Iroquois who had imperialistic notions and had tried to extend
their influence to the plains. Whether the Blackfeet tribe sur-
vived or not depended more on Rain-No-More than anyone
else. His brother, Longtime-Pipe, would never be a leader. But
no tribal or other considerations would induce Rain-No-More
to let Jim Leonard swing. How to prove his own guilt without
tangible evidence was the Indian's problem and he found no
solution as the miles streamed backward down the track.
Had a vote been taken, it would have been hard to decide
which the company found more beautiful, Wisconsin by moon-
light or Minnesota in the light of the morning sun. The Express
glided smoothly through La Crosse, East Winona and Trevino,
wormed its way through St. Paul and finally came to rest in
Minneapolis. Before the terminal was reached, however, the
handsome young dip named Zach had been revived, refreshed
and installed by Homer in a spare bed in the sleeping quarters
of the Castor and Pollux. That Zach had passed out and missed
getting off at Berwyn did not seem to trouble him at all. Homer
and Jackson had assured him that his shady profession would
not be disclosed to his traveling companions. In turn Zach had
sworn that he would go in for no free-lance work, but only
follow Evans' instructions. To sum up, the occupants of the
special cars were like one big happy family, all for one and one
In Minneapolis, nonetheless, Evans made a quick visit to a
105


dealer in firearms and ammunition, with a letter of credit from
Weiss that would have equipped the Mexican army, and before
the special coaches were shunted over to the N. P. tracks, four
dozen cases of rifles, automatic revolvers, sub-machine guns,
ammunition, night sticks, hand grenades, tear-gas guns and
bombs, and some baseball bats of straight-grained ash were
loaded into the music car and the studio, without discommoding
the violinist or the painter in the least.
“A stitch in time, you know, my boy,” said Hugo Weiss de-
lightedly, when he saw the arsenal come aboard. The multi-
millionaire smiled even more broadly and rubbed his hands
when Evans told him he had ordered a battery of six-inch can-
non to be shipped via the Great Northern to Muddy Creek, the
nearest railroad point to Three Buttes.
“The distances are enormous on the Yellowstone range,” said
Homer, in explanation.
"That's the ticket! Foresight! Prudence tempered with audac-
ity! I told you, my boy, that I seldom was mistaken in choosing
with Homer's, marched him straight to the Dôme.
106


Marooned in the Openest of
All Possi
of his foreign companions when they had entered New York
Harbor and had their first glimpse of that astonishing metropo-
lis, and later when they had devoured with their eyes the Illinois
countryside, reveled in Chicago, and followed the course of the
vast Mississippi, exclaiming with astonishment at every turn,
Homer Evans decided to stay over one night in Minneapolis in
order that they might cross the prairies and the badlands by
daylight aboard the North Coast Limited. Miriam readily
agreed, herself almost famished for the first sharp tang of the
sage and the sight of a bunch of shaggy horses, kicking up their
heels and running playfully from the train.
Evans' thoughtfulness was well rewarded. For while the.
French contingent had been somewhat prepared for American
cities by views they had seen on postal cards, and were familiar
with forests and farming land, although on a smaller scale than
in Wisconsin and Minnesota, nothing in their experience had
prepared them for the flat country, where the plains are spread
107


before the eye like a dun-colored sea, and the beholder gets his
first notion of terrestrial immensity. From Fargo on through
North Dakota, scarcely any member of the party, except Hjal-
mar and Diluvio, who painted and fiddled dutifully, could keep
their seats.
Miriam, again in her element, kept winking back the tears.
Hydrangea, who had concluded they were approaching the rim
of the world, added Baptist prayers to the Greek Orthodox
entreaties of Stenka. Eugénie de Sault stretched her arms rap-
turously to the cloudless sky, as if asylum walls were tumbling,
and Beatrice Baxter, or Mrs. Andrew Flood (Diluvio), felt
also a surge of release from the prison of her former loneliness.
For once she was glad she had half a billion dollars, and not a
mere million or two.
The North Coast Limited, with its exotic string of special
cars in tow, traversed broad tablelands, with farms the size of
Swiss cantons, mounted tiers of foothills, then set out on long
tangents at a higher level. The sage was everywhere, and at
intervals were herds of horses and cattle. Marking the course
of the creeks were clumps of cottonwood trees. Rain-No-More
again retired to the roof of the coach, perhaps in order to hide
his own emotion. Frémont, the Toudoux, Schlumberger and
Bonnet could not take time out to eat their lunch, but munched
sandwiches without tasting them, while Homer told them of
the part their countrymen had played in developing the Western
country.
They had never heard of Louis Barrette, who had led the
Cedar Creek gold rush, or of those fur-trading pioneers, the
Finleys, François and Jacques, the last of whom gave his name,
in an Americanized form, to Jocko River. Tales followed of the
exploits of Joe Mallette, who brought freight across the prairies
where wheels had never made their tracks, of René La Brie
and his arrowheads, Pierre Menard, trapper, of the Vigilante
trail. They looked almost reproachful when Homer recounted
how Pere Wibaux had, with his cowboys, terrorized Chicago
108


and turned in a record bill of costs to the court for the lawsuit
he won.
"May the devil take the English, whose chicanery robbed our
adventurers of the fruits of their toil and their daring,” Frémont
said. “Unless I am careful, when and if I get back home, I
shall be unfairly severe with such British as do wrong in my
jurisdiction.”
“My poor grandfather saw little soldiers ...” Schlumberger
began.
“Mine lugged soil in straw baskets to grow peas on his rocky
cliffs in Brittany,” Bonnet said.
“When I think of the number of prairie rattlers this colossal
department could accommodate, I grow dizzy,” said Dr. Hya-
cinthe Toudoux.
“You work far too hard,” his wife said, gazing at him with
touching solicitude. “Here, in the great outdoors, we shall
escape from the toils of science for a while.”
"As you wish, my dear,” said the doctor, and sighed.
The Russians, who, having inhabited the Caucasus, had never
seen the Siberian steppes, began to long for them just the same
and roared nostalgic songs nonetheless harmonious because of
the vodka. Then, when near Bismarck, the North Coast Limited
plowed into an area deeply blanketed with snow, they switched
to songs about wolves and bears, and moujiks dozing on top of
stoves and wondering if, after all, God couldn't forget, as well
as remember, if it pleased Him.
“To think, Grigori Hippolitovitch, that soon we shall be
astride horses again, with a chance to exercise our true pro-
fession,” said Lvov Kvek.
“I shall embrace my mount with a thousand fervent kisses,”
Grigori replied. “I shall embrace our enemies, before cleaving
them from skull to crotch. . . . By the way, Lvov Vassilievitch,
exactly who are our enemies and what is the row about? Have
you ascertained?"
“What a question for a military man!” Kvek said, reproach-
109


fully. "We follow Evans' orders, and in the past, I assure you,
that has led me into some never-to-be-forgotten mêlées. Re-
member your Tennyson, Captain. Yours not to reason why.”
“We must drink to Alfred Georgovitch and demolish the
glasses,” Grigori said.
It must not be assumed by the reader that while the characters
just described were reacting so forcibly to the call of the great
open spaces Larkspur Gilligan and his cohorts had been idle
in the smoking compartment of a Pullman far up toward the
locomotive. The unscrupulous sheepman and his companions
were without baggage, having had to abandon it and leap from
the evening train the day before when they discovered the
special section was not attached to the westbound No. 1. But
neither Larkspur nor his son Terry cared a tinker's catoot for
scenery, having lamped little else all their lives. For equally valid
reasons, Santosuosso and Nutcracker Ike didn't like it either.
If now and then they could fill two pair or a four-card flush,
the Grand Canyon or even the Taj Mahal could go to hell,
as far as they were concerned.
The elder Gilligan had prepared his offensive in Minneapolis,
where he had bribed a clerk to omit from the papers handed
Melisande or any of the special coaches. Next he had fixed the
engineer and the brakemen. So that when the train entered the
desolate volcanic country near the Montana border, where bad-
lands stretched at least a hundred miles in all directions, the
special section was uncoupled and ever so gradually, then quite
rapidly, was left behind.
This was discovered simultaneously by Tom Jackson and
Rain-No-More, the difference being that only the latter could
do much of anything about it, for the reporter, impelled by his
instinct for news, had gone forward in the train and was three
cars away when the coaches containing his friends and allies
began drifting to the rear. The Indian, however, observing
the widening gap from the roof of the Pelleas, descended the
IIO


iron ladder and gave the alarm with such a resounding whoop
that Hjalmar, in the Montparnasse, smeared one of the ears
clean off Weiss's portrait.
“Adrift, by yee,” was the Norwegian's brief comment.
“Ah, well. We'll have to fag No. 1, when she comes along
about midnight,” said Weiss. “Let's have an old-fashioned. You
mustn't overwork, my boy.”
Homer Evans did not take such a casual view of the situation.
They were in the most deserted stretch of country between
Minneapolis and the coast, or practically anywhere else in the
world. If Gilligan had left them there, it was not merely to delay
them twelve hours. Of that Evans was certain. As the ill-fated
coaches slowed down, Homer's mind speeded up. First, he
observed they were on a slight upgrade and that the momentum
of the section would carry them almost to the summit. Beckon-
ing to Rain-No More to follow him, Evans, with surprising
strength, ripped off the iron ladder from the rear of the Dôme
car and leaped to the roadbed as soon as the coaches came to
rest. The remnants of the twisted ladder he wedged quickly
behind the rear wheels of the observation car, so that no pres-
sure of wind would start the section sliding backward down the
grade.
He did not know that the North Coast Limited, out of sight
in the volcanic hills, had slowed down to let off the Gilligans,
father and son, and their two confederates, Santosuosso and
Nutcracker Ike, not half a mile from one of the amazing areas
of pasture land concealed by helter-skelter heaps of faintly col-
ored ashes, lava rock and petrified ruins of prehistoric trees.
Neither did Evans know that, without the knowledge of or per-
mission from government authorities, a gang of outlaw Sho-
shones were camped in that vicinity and that the same Indians,
led by a deposed disgruntled chief named Tall-Horse-in-Fly-
time, had done odd jobs of rustling and rebranding for Gilligan
over a period of years.
In the Dôme car, a quick consultation was called, attended
III


by the men and Miriam, but as soon as Evans had called the
meeting to order he let out an ejaculation.
"How stupid of me!” he said. “I had forgotten the telephone."
Excusing himself from the café car he went back to the
Pelleas, which had been deserted for some time before the un-
coupling incident, and what he saw there brought him up
short with dismay. The operator, a New York Central clerk
about whom nothing else was known, lay sprawled on the floor
in a widening pool of blood, his throat cut and his scalp re-
moved. Instantly Evans leaped over the corpse to test the
wireless apparatus and found it had been demolished. The lethal
instrument, a knife with the Blackfeet's tribal colors on the
handle, lay in a corner.
When Homer returned to the Dôme car, the gravity of his
expression brought the company to its feet almost in unison.
Succinctly he told them what had happened. Miriam was sent
to the Melisande, where the other women were gathered, to
deter them from witnessing the shocking spectacle. Dr. Hya-
cinthe Toudoux, followed closely by Frémont and the sergeants,
scrambled in haste to the scene of the crime.
“The cause of death is plain,” the medical examiner said.
"And the time?" asked Evans.
“Between twenty and thirty minutes,” said Dr. Toudoux.
Frémont glanced anxiously through a window, and what
he saw outside was not much more reassuring than the ghastly
sight within. Sometime in long past ages, the earth's crust in
that neighborhood had been shattered by heat and pressure
from the planet's molten core. No one since had undertaken
to clear away the debris. The Paris Chief of Detectives, who
never before had been out of sight of a friendly roof or
church spire, was at a loss as to how to proceed. The most
impressive dragnet he ever had spread in Paris would seem
futile and ridiculous in the vastness and great silence of the
badlands.
"I shall post an offer of a reward of $100,000, although I
II2


suppose Madame Diluvio will insist on furnishing half of it,"
said Hugo Weiss.
“Excuse me, sir, but where shall you place the posters?”
asked Sergeant Bonnet.
Rain-No-More took Evans aside for a whispered consulta-
tion, strapped on a cartridge belt with an automatic in the
holster, then noiselessly strode from the car and disappeared
into the hills.
“Luckily the snow is heavily crusted,” Evans said, as he
watched the Indian until he was out of sight.
"At least we have food ..." began Schlumberger.
"And liquor,” Hjalmar added. “But I'm afraid there won't
be any major-league rough stuff in this Godforsaken place."
Then clearly he saw Evans lower the lid of one eye.
“Please bring back Miriam. Then meet me in the studio,”
Hjalmar said. “And I must caution you about alarming the
women unnecessarily. We may have trouble and we may not,
but it is more than likely that we shall. I am informed by Rain-
No-More that we are near the stamping ground of a detach-
ment of treacherous Shoshones who have done dirty work for
Gilligan several times before. I shall ask Colonel Kvek to
inspect rifles, small arms and ammunition and see that each
man is properly equipped. Rain-No-More will act as scout and
intelligence officer. Frémont will take command of the French
squad, to consist of Toudoux, Schlumberger and Bonnet. Kvek
will command the international contingent, with Captain
Lidin, Hjalmar and ... Let me see ..."
Both Hugo Weiss and Galilee Zach stepped two paces for-
ward. The face of the little pickpocket was so pale that his
long fringe of dark eyelashes looked like mascara. As he stood
at attention, Evans could see that his knees were knocking, but
he spoke up just the same.
“I'll fight those awful Indians, so there now,” he said, stamp-
ing his foot, and Evans, pleased by his show of spirit, gave
Zach the vacant place on the squad.
113


"But, damn it,” objected Weiss.
“There will be plenty for all of us to do. I want you, Weiss,
to take stock of the commissary and report as soon as possible.
We may have to ration out the food and must know just where
we stand.”
“No. I will come through in twelve hours," the multi-mil-
lionaire said, almost regretfully.
“I am not clairvoyant,” Evans said, “but I am an amateur
psychologist. I do not think as bright a man as Larkspur Gilli-
gan would bribe half the staff of a transcontinental railroad,
as he must have done, and cause murder to be committed,
merely to delay us half a day in these incredible badlands. Were
there the least possibility that you would not be outstripped by
the Indians on snowshoes and hopelessly outnumbered, I would
send out a squad to patrol the tracks.”
“Do me the honor," said Frémont, adancing.
“Excuse me, sir,” interposed Lvov Kvek. “You, who have a
family and a government, should concede me the privilege."
“Gentlemen,” said Evans, indulgently, “if we are to form a
military organization, we must proceed in a military way. We
shall elect a leader in due form, if you wish.”
“Unnecessary,” said Frémont. “If anyone can get us out of
this pickle of the era, you are the man.”
This was seconded by acclamation.
“Very well,” Evans said. “I shall expect you not only to obey
my orders, but not to scramble for a share of the glory. I repeat,
there will be work and laurels enough for all. We are none too
numerous.”
“Agreed,” said Frémont, and the others nodded.
Diluvio, the only man absent, except Tom Jackson, at that
moment came to the end of the Paganini variations, which he
had never tossed off with more verve. He was mildly surprised
to discover that the train was not in motion, and entered the
Dôme car, Guarnerius in hand.
"Is something wrong?” he asked.
114


IO
A Moot Point Concerning
Women in Warfare
WHEN THE North Coast Limited pulled into Glendive, right
on time, the only passenger to get off was Tom Jackson, sans
money, baggage, overcoat or hat. There was, however, a curious
handful of natives on the platform. The long train, lights
faintly glimmering, resumed its westward journey after the
conductor had checked his orders with the station agent.
“Everything iake?” asked the agent.
“Slick as a whistle,” the conductor replied.
“Let's highball,” yelled the rear brakeman, swinging his
lantern.
It would not be accurate to say that Jackson did not attract
considerable attention. The inhabitants of Glendive, gateway
of the Lower Yellowstone country, had seen tenderfeet arrive
in all sorts of costumes and conditions, but the newcomer
seemed to be set apart from the ordinary run of Easterners.
Most of them had too many, and too colorful clothes. Tom was
without hat or overcoat in the dead of winter. The clerk of
the Hotel Jordan, who usually moseyed over to watch the
115


trains come in, was certain that no one had made a reservation
and, with the instinct hotel clerks have, he felt sure that Jack-
son had no funds. Warren Hockaday, the new sheriff, strode
up and down the platform in polished riding boots and with
clinking spurs, surprised that Larkspur Gilligan and his party
were not in evidence. He did not associate the mild-looking
bespectacled ex-reporter with the cattlemen's allies. However,
he was new in authority and responsible for the county's safety,
so he paused in front of Jackson, nodded non-committally, and
said: "Howdy, stranger. Where you from?”
Tom, seeing the star on Hockaday's shirt front, felt some-
what relieved. “You the sheriff?” he asked, ignoring the re-
quest for autobiographical details.
“That's me," the sheriff said.
"You ought to start a posse, or a locomotive, back to the
badlands," Tom said sincerely. “A party of my friends, in
special cars, got left behind. The coaches came uncoupled.
That's why I haven't got a coat or a suitcase. I was up ahead
when it happened.”
The sheriff began to understand why Gilligan had not
showed up. “You don't say?” he asked, assuming his best poker
face. “Come into the depot, and we'll have a talk with the
agent. He just checked the conductor's orders.”
Relieved, Tom Jackson followed Hockaday into the station,
not only pleased that he had got a rescue in process of organi-
That's was got left behind. party of my friends de
stoves that were going full blast in both the ladies' and gents'
waiting rooms. The N.P., Tom was gratified to note, did not
pinch pennies in the matter of fuel. The reporter was so intent
on warming himself after his few moments on the chilly plat-
form that he did not see the sheriff give the station agent the
high sign.
“This young feller from the East has got an idea that some
cars broke loose from the Limited, back in the badlands,"
Hockaday began.
116


"Nope,” the agent said, briefly, and spat into the fire.
"You're wrong,” said Jackson. “I saw them. There were
two special sleepers, a barber shop, studio, music car and French
saloon."
“Drunk," the sheriff said calmly.
“Plastered to the gills,” the station agent rejoined.
The reporter began to vibrate and stutter, then to bang his
fist on the telegraph desk so violently that an instrument,
clicking madly, hopped an inkwell and tipped its contents over
several bills of lading in quadruplicate.
"I'm as sober as a judge,” he insisted. “Those cars and all
the passengers are back there, at least one hundred and fifty
miles ..
"Too bad. A young feller, too,” the agent said, retrieving his
records and dabbing at them absent-mindedly with a rocking
blotter.
“He'd better not try any rough stuff, had he?" the sheriff
asked, his hand on his holster. “We don't hold much with
formalities out here."
"He looks like he might be a reasonable sort of duck, when
he's himself. Give him a chance," the station agent said.
The sheriff placed a firm hand on Jackson's shoulder, while
the agent, with a paperweight grasped firmly, sidled nearer on
the other side. “Look here," the sheriff said, "we don't aim to
be mean, especially on the first day a stranger gets to town.
You better come down to my place, and that's what you'd better
do. I'll make you comfortable. Later we can talk this over calm
like and maybe you'll change your mind about them floating
opera houses and Frenchified saloons.”
Before Tom could reply, the agent took down a huge bear-
skin coat from a hook and placed it over Jackson's shoulders,
at the same time jamming a fur cap well down over the report-
er's eyes.
"Go ahead with Warren, pardner,” the agent said. “And just
to make you feel good, I'll telegraph back all the way to Bis-
117


marck to make sure there are no stray specials left behind in
the hills.” To add substance to his reassurance, the agent began
ticking furiously on a telegraph instrument that was not hooked
up.
"Where is your place?" Jackson asked the sheriff suspi-
ciously.
"Down the road a piece. Come on,” the latter said.
A few minutes later Tom Jackson was pounding on the walls
and rattling the bars of the same crude jail in which, a few
days previously, Jim Leonard had spent one night and part of
a day. The building was apart from the town, on a sagebrush
flat, and was surrounded by a high board fence, several lengths
of which had been blown down in the recent storm. In the
corner of the cell, resting in a shallow box of sand, was a
stove pipe that flared out at the bottom and had a rusty door.
The reporter's teeth began chattering, in spite of his rage, for
the cheap thermometer on the outer wall registered only as far
as thirty below zero and no mercury whatever was in sight. A
coyote, emboldened by the cold and his hunger, sat down behind
a clump of sage two hundred yards away and howled its woes
to heaven.
“The wolves, by God," said Jackson. He had heard that
wolves were shy about fires, and noticing for the first time a
pile of shavings and some stove wood in a box, he studied the
Sibley stove a moment, then started a blaze. He was astonished
at how quickly the cell lost its chill and took on a rosier atmos-
phere. The sheriff had left a can of beans and some hardtack
on a shelf, in case his guest got hungry before morning. These
Jackson opened by upending his iron cot and punching a hole
through the tin with one of the legs. The water bucket, which
contained a lump of solid ice, Tom hung on the damper of
the stove pipe, which was red almost to the ceiling. When he
found, on top of the pile of rough blankets a sack of Bull
Durham and some papers, he tried to roll a cigarette. The
fourteenth time he got one together and lighted it with a pine
118


shaving. Four other coyotes, encouraged by the first one, stole
out of their hills and began to encircle the jail, pausing now
and then to mingle plaintive cries.
Back in the badlands, across the Dakota line, Hugo Weiss
was checking on materials and supplies, in accordance with
Evans' orders, and the multi-millionaire was dismayed to learn
how many of the expensive gadgets he had installed for the
comfort of his guests in his palatial private cars were not self-
sufficient but depended on electric current, steam from the
locomotive or other impetus from outside.
There was food enough for two days in the Alsatian car.
Corrigan, the chef, insisted on wearing sidearms and had been
promised active service in case the train was attacked. The
electric stove was worse than useless. Consequently Hjalmar
and Stenka had been detailed to gather firewood, which was
by no means plentiful, and to build an outdoor oven out of
chunks of lava rock. Anton Diluvio, who as a lad in Stowe,
Massachusetts, had stalked a deer on occasion, and his wife,
who had hunted in Maine, set forth beneath the sharp star-
light and had the good luck to see, against the sky on a crag,
a mountain ram. They fired simultaneously and each insisted
that the other had made the kill. Lvov Kvek and Grigori,
brought to the scene by the sound of gunfire, scrambled over
the rocks and ravines as if they were goats themselves and
returned with the ram, which was skun by Miriam and cut
into quarters and cleaned by Corrigan.
Diluvio, who in the course of his profession had learned
about the preparation of gut for viol strings, busied himself
with the intestines in the hope of turning out a pair of snow-
shoes. By that time the fire was roaring and four wash boilers
were filled with clean snow, to be melted for use in cooking
and bathing. Of course, the elaborate johns in the special cars
were not usable while the train was standing, as all travelers
know. Also, the tubs, sinks, needle baths and showers were
119


devoid of water, and the pipes and radiators, that had kept the
cars at an ideal temperature while they were still attached to
the locomotive, were stone cold. The supply of bedclothes was
adequate for heated coaches, but not for a temperature of
thirty-five below.
Miriam, who was busy teaching her companions to shift for
themselves under the unforeseen conditions, was pleased with
their response. Eugénie de Sault was as considerate and gra-
cious as if she were in a salon in the Faubourg St. Germain.
She smiled bravely when Miriam made an impromptu lining
of old newspapers for her flimsy but fashionable clothes and
wrapped her feet in flannel to protect them against the frost.
Hydrangea, who would have been a wow in the tropics, stuck
close to Mme. Toudoux and imitated the latter's sang froid
as best she could. She had read, somewhere, that freezing was
an easy death. Stenka, of course, felt quite at home, for the first
time since she had quit her Serbian village. She was a match
for most of the men in strength and hardihood. Between bouts
of hard labor, she frisked and frolicked with Hjalmar in the
snow as lustily as ever a D. H. Lawrence heroine blew her top
in a wheatfield or on a lawn.
Frémont's squad had been given the first tour of guard duty
and had been posted in pairs, above and below the train, to be
relieved every three hours by Colonel Kvek's contingent.
Homer Evans seemed to be everywhere, directing operations.
First he put away the corpse in the developing room and locked
the door. Then he rearranged the billets, inspected the com-
missary and kitchen, gave instructions to the sentries, checked
up on the ordnance. The cars were aligned as follows, and
could not be rearranged:
In the rear was the Dôme car, with observation platform.
Next was the Alsatian diner, the Saint Cecilia, the Montpar-
nasse, the Pelleas, the Melisande and, on the western flank, the
Castor and Pollux.
Evans chose for headquarters the St. Cecilia and there, just
120


after the evening meal, he called a staff meeting attended by
Miriam, Hjalmar, and the squad leaders, Frémont and Kvek.
Diluvio had been selected as liaison man between squads and
headquarters, since his memory had been developed to an
amazing degree by his musical studies and he could repeat
orders verbatim after a single swift hearing.
"When Rain-No-More comes back, we shall know what the
enemy is about,” said Evans. “But he may be late in returning
and we must be prepared for any contingency. In case the
Shoshones, prompted by Gilligan, try to rush the train, the
women-of course, I don't mean Miriam, our best sharpshooter
-should be taught to take their proper stations away from the
windows, as follows: Mrs. Diluvio will remain in the Meli-
sande, Madame Toudoux will repair with Hydrangea to the
Pelleas, Stenka will guard the entrance to the arsenal in the
Montparnasse.”
Miriam nodded. She herself was to be on duty in headquar-
ters at Evans' side.
“The men,” Homer continued, “will take emergency sta-
tions as follows: Colonel Kvek and Hjalmar will defend the
western outpost, in the Castor and Pollux, while Captain Lidin
and Private Zach will man the Melisande. On the other flank,
Frémont and Bonnet will take up positions in the Dôme, Dr.
Toudoux and Schlumberger in the Montparnasse. Miss Leonard
and I will sustain the center, in the St. Cecilia. Diluvio and
Rain-No-More will act as mobile guard."
A knock sounded sharply on the door.
“Who goes there?” asked Evans.
"Sit i ka kooin" (a Blackfeet), was the reply.
“Poke si put," said Evans, which means “Come in."
Quickly Evans dismissed the others, all except Miriam, after
asking them to hold themselves in readiness to return for
instructions when the appropriate call was sounded on the
Steinway grand, the tone of which carried magnificently in
121


the frosty air. The face of Rain-No-More was, as usual, im-
passive.
“The Shoshones are on the warpath,” Rain-No-More began.
“They have with them not only the four white men who for-
merly were on the train, but a number of others, who, if I
understood correctly their dialect, are from the populous Lake
Regions and are unaccustomed to the open trail. Four miles
east of here, they started an avalanche on a steep hill, thus
destroying fifty yards of roadbed and tracks.”
“As I thought,” said Evans. “Tonight they will attack our
train. The No. 1, if it is not wrecked, will back up to the nearest
telegraph station, seventy miles away. No doubt they had
blocked the eastbound trains as well, for No. 3, due at six
o'clock, has not put in an appearance."
"The Shoshones are led by my old enemy, Tall-Horse-in-
Flytime, whose brother I just waylaid." Rain-No-More took out
from his belt, concealed beneath his buckskin jacket, a fresh
scalp and laid it on the music rack of the Steinway.
“Oh,” gasped Miriam, "was that necessary, Elk Calf, my
childhood friend?”
"Quite," said the Indian. “The Shoshones, observing my
handiwork, may be led to believe that the Blackfeet are on
their trail. That will throw such a scare into them that, in
order to get them to advance, the whites will have to feed
them firewater. The result will be chaos. We can slaughter
them at will, as the first Great White Father did the Hes-
sians.”
“Are the whites supplied with liquor?" Evans asked.
"Inside and out,” replied Rain-No-More.
“How soon, in your judgment, will the Shoshones attack?”
“Two hours, three at the most," said the Indian.
“How many of them are there?"
"Nis it sip po” (Fifty).
“We are twenty, counting Miriam and Stenka as effectives
and the six colored porters as reserves. Fortunately the Castor
I22



2
1. CASTOR AND DOLLUX
MELISANDE
PELLE AS
MONTPARNASSE
ST CECELIA
6. ALSATIAN DINING CAR
7. CAFE DU DOME
OF GANGSTERS
OUTLAW
SHOSHONE
DLAN
RA
S
,
SD
.
.
DOUBLE TRACK OF N
Lii!!
22
4
.
:
S
SCALE OR MILES


and Pollux is well supplied with razors, if it comes to a hand-
to-hand fight.”
Homer went to the piano and with one finger sounded loudly
the call to headquarters. Without delay, the other men, except-
ing those on sentry duty, trooped in and stood at attention,
sensing that an emergency was at hand.
"Men,” said Evans, “I am reminded, in our present situation,
of the late Marshal Foch who dictated a communiqué, in the
darkest days of the war, substantially like this: ‘Our left wing
is outnumbered and is falling back, our center is hard-pressed,
the right wing is outflanked and subject to an enfilading fire.
We are attacking.”
"Vive la France," shouted Frémont, abetted spontaneously
by Bonnet, Schlumberger and Toudoux.
Evans held up his hand, as the Russians were about to give
the old Cossack yell and Rain-No-More and Hjalmar, the
latter having been instructed by the Indian, got set to let out
the Blackfeet tribal warwhoop.
“I have decided, in spite of the fact that we are outnumbered
more than two to one, to take the offensive,” Homer said. His
companions restrained themselves from cheering, but at the
cost of several buttons which gave way under the strain of
their enthusiasm and pinged against the windows of the car.
At that same moment, however, both Frémont and Galilee
Zach saw the scalp on the piano. The latter, whose distaste for
scalps had mounted until it had reached the proportions of a
minor complex, let out a shriek and would have collapsed had
not Stenka held him up by the collar. Frémont's face grew
severe.
"I trust,” he said, "that in future we shall observe the rules
of civilized warfare.”
Rain-No More shrugged his shoulders. “Our medicine man,
Trout-tail III, has wisely said that warfare is never civilized.
It is frequently necessary, occasionally diverting, usually a bore,
but, I repeat, it is never civilized. This atrocity was perpetrated
124


with a salutary purpose, namely, to terrify and disorganize the
scalping is practiced conscientiously, it is impossible for the
chiefs to fake the casualty lists, as, I understand they did fre-
quently in the great paleface war to end wars."
Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux, to whom odd fragments of human
bodies were mere bagatelles, made a pertinent suggestion. “May
we not thrash out the ethics of this maneuver at some later
date, preferably when our loved ones are in a place of safety?"
the medical examiner said.
"The rough stuff? When does it begin?” Hjalmar asked.
“I shall not delay you long,” Evans said. “The white men
from the Lake Regions, with liquor inside and out, are, I
strongly suspect, certain members of the Baldy Santo mob, led
by Baldy himself. They were not to be found in Chicago, you
the cattlemen. It is probable that the white men in the other
camp will not be involved in tonight's attack. They would
prefer to let the Shoshones do the work and take the blame."
Setting up a blackboard Corrigan had used for chalking up
his menus in the kitchen, Homer drew a map, with the help
of Rain-No-More, who communicated details to him in the
Blackfeet tongue. The enemy camp, which consisted of a new
large log cabin for the gangsters, and the tepees of the Sho-
shones, lay about five miles west-half-north and was separated
from the special section of the train by impassable volcanic
hills and ravines. A winding back trail eleven miles long led
eastward from the camp to the scene of the avalanche. Another
side trail led to the N. P. tracks four miles west of the train.
By means of that, Larkspur Gilligan and his three companions
had reached the camp of the Indians. According to Rain-No-
More, there was a very dim trail, almost imperceptible, con-
necting the back trail with the railroad, not a hundred yards
from the train. This perilous pathway cut the back trail about
half way between the outlaw camp and the avalanche.
125


“The Shoshones will take the side trail that exposes us from
the north,” Evans said. “They will try to take us by surprise,
massacre the men and kidnap the women.”
At that, both Toudoux and Frémont began to gesticulate
and growl, growing alternately white with horror and mauve
vith rage.
“We must save a last cartridge,” Frémont said. “Hjalmar,
you have no heart, where women are concerned. It is you who
must take that shocking responsibility.”
“Those who want to be bumped off will have to raise their
right hands," said the Norwegian.
Galilee Zach, still trembling, stepped two paces forward
and performed a creditable salute. "I'll shoot 'em,” he said. “It
wouldn't be so hard for me."
“What is the talk about?” asked Stenka, in French.
“They're planning to shoot us, to save us from the redskins,"
Miriam replied, "but I'll talk them out of it."
"Oh, merci, chére mademoiselle," said the Serbian girl. “Vous
êtes bonne et adorable, et bougremente intelligente, d'ailleurs."
To restore military order, Evans brought them back to atten-
tion.
"Perhaps we can avoid the sacrifice of our wives and sweet-
hearts,” Evans said. “Listen closely, for the time is short. My
plan is as follows: The Shoshones will take the back trail,
branch off just north of us and try to rush the train. They will
have three miles to go, as the crow flies, and about six, as the
trail winds. Rain-No-More says the path is so treacherous and
narrow that a coyote might fall and break his neck if he tried
to pass over it at night.”
"A coyote? C'est incroyable," objected Schlumberger.
"The natives here speak in parables, like our Blessed Saviour,
only far less restrainedly,” explained Bonnet.
"Frémont and his squad, assisted by Rain-No-More and Cor-
rigan, will start northward along the trail I have mentioned,
and meet the Shoshones half way. In fact, they must arrive at
126


a suitable ambush in time to set up a machine gun and wait
silently for the Indians to come.”
"If I have not the agility of a coyote, at least I can show
more courage,” Frémont said. “Lead on, scalper of redmen and
Italians. Only understand that if corpses are to be mutilated, it
must be done when I am not looking. As a reserve officer of
the Third French Republic, I must insist on that.”
“Quite all right,” said Rain-No-More, handing him the tribal
pipe, which, however, had gone out while the company had
been standing at attention.
Colonel Kvek and Captain Lidin were dizzy with disap-
pointment and chagrin, but Evans turned to them with an
understanding smile.
"You, Kvek,” he began, and the Russian saluted eagerly.
“You, Kvek,” repeated Evans, "will take the other side trail to
the west, the one which leads to the gangsters' hideout and the
Indian tepees. Miss Leonard and I will undertake to guide you
and give you a hand.”
“In one instant, you have wiped out the memory of years
of humiliation,” the former Colonel said gratefully.
"Skull to crotch. Zowie. Boom! Bam! Zing!” murmured
Lidin, and only his early military training prevented him from
doing a Caucasian dance on top of the Steinway piano.
"Captain Lidin,” Evans said, “you will have no saber prac-
tice this evening. I have a better idea. The gangsters and the
Gilligans will be drinking to the success of their allies. The
night is still, very fortunately for us. Our duty will be to drench
the thugs with tear gas, the effect of which, and especially on
drunken men, will last at least eight hours. The Shoshones,
having been surprised and sobered by Frémont's machine-
gun fire, will return to the camp, those who survive the clash,
with blood in their eyes. They will think Gilligan has led them
into a trap, because they know too much about his past opera-
tions. What they will do, when they find the whites not only
127


too drunk but helpless and half blind with tear gas I shall leave
to your individual imaginations."
Hugo Weiss fairly beamed and broke ranks to place his
hand on Evans' nearest shoulder. “A wonderful plan, my boy.
Napoleonic! Split their forces! Only you go Napoleon one
better. You divide a house against itself. That, my boy, was
a Hebrew plan. I can point it out in the Talmud, if our scheme
works out and I ever see that venerable book again."
128


II
In Which Holes Are Kicked in the
Wisdom of Ecclesiastes
BY MORNING, everybody in Glendive knew that something had
gone wrong on the main line of the N.P. The eastbound Lim-
table, and had headed back toward Billings, so that the pas-
sengers could be routed on another line. The morning train for
Minneapolis had not showed up at all, and nothing had come
through westbound. Snowslides in the badlands were not un-
common in that season, and it was assumed, in the absence of
accurate information, that the tracks had been blocked by
what is known technically as an act of God.
The proprietor of the local newspaper, the Glendive X-Ray,
was a short spry journeyman printer named Skinner Bruce,
who after years in the West still spoke with a Cockney accent.
Bruce had been on the platform when Tom Jackson arrived
and had seen him led away, in a huge borrowed bearskin coat
and fur cap, by the sheriff. Lacking news about the railroad
tie-up, Bruce sought out the sheriff early the next day and asked
if he could interview the prisoner. Hockaday was reluctant,
but Bruce had done him so many election favors that he did
not like to refuse.
129


“The dude's plumb loco," the sheriff said.
"He'll be good for a few sticks of copy, anyway," said the
editor.
“He thinks a string of circus cars got loose in the badlands.
for me," Hockaday said.
"Nothing serious. Just a little story about life back east, that's
all,” the editor promised.
The sheriff decided to take a chance. So the two men saddled
up a couple of bronchos and set out across the sagebrush fat.
reflection. He had a generous stack of horsehair blankets, and he
had spread the bearskin coat on top of those. Also he had worn
all his clothes to bed, and protected his ears with the fur cap.
What he had not known, never having roughed it much before,
was that intense cold comes up from under. He had placed
too many of his blankets on top of himself, and only one under-
neath. The supply of firewood was so limited that he did not
dare keep the Sibley going, for fear of freezing in the morning.
grub, had howled and yapped until dawn.
Thinking back over his brief stay in Glendive, Jackson was
convinced that the sheriff and the station agent were in cahoots
with Gilligan and had no intention of reporting the loss of the
special coaches until the information leaked in from other
sources, which might well be too late. The reporter decided to
play dumb, get out of the cooler, if possible, and telephone
Miriam's father. He remembered the name of the ranch house,
Opera Lodge, and the location, called Three Buttes. Conse-
quently, when the sheriff opened the door and introduced Skin-
ner Bruce as proprietor of the X-Ray, Jackson pretended to be
repentant and forgetful.
"I must have been stewed last night,” he said.
“There's nothing much else to do on a train,” the editor said.
130


“I'm a newspaper man myself,” said Jackson. “How are
chances for a job?"
“You don't remember what you told us last night?” asked
the sheriff.
“I don't remember a thing since I left Minneapolis," Jackson
said. “I was in a bar, and some duffer advised me to go west. I
had money enough for a ticket, and a few drinks on the way,
but I forgot my overcoat and hat.”
"You must have had a beaut,” said the editor. He needed a
man badly, to do reporting, read copy, write headlines, correct
proof and make up the X-Ray. The setting up of type, Bruce
could do as well as the next man, but the rest of the work was
arduous for him. “Have a heart, and let this man out. I'll guar-
antee he won't be a charge on the county,” Bruce said to the
sheriff. “In fact, I'll stake him fifty bucks right now, so he
can get a shave and some breakfast,” the editor added.
"You're sure none of them pipe dreams will come back to
you?” asked the sheriff, beginning to believe that his prisoner
was amenable to reasongand had a good idea of which side his
bread was buttered on.
"That's the way I am. When I draw a blank, I can't recall
a thing, not even years afterward,” said Jackson. “My old man
was like that, too. So were six of my uncles and aunts.”
"You can't get mulled on Wednesday or Thursday. That's
when we go to press,” Bruce said. “What you do outside of
working days is none of my business.”
“I'm beginning to like this town," Tom Jackson said.
The sheriff offered to let him ride behind the saddle, but
Jackson was afraid of horses, the few he had seen at close
range. They had seemed to have ideas at variance with his own,
and a fiendish way of exploiting his nervousness.
"I'll hoof it,” Jackson said, “but thanks just the same." He
had in the pocket of the borrowed fur coat two twenty-dollar
gold pieces and a smaller one he assumed was a ten, although
he had not examined it carefully. Within half an hour he was
131


in the Hotel Jordan and was eating ham and eggs, while the
waitress, glad always to see a new face, was giving him the
lowdown on practically everything in Eastern Montana. Tom
let her run on until he was sure she sided with the cattlemen
and detested Gilligan. Then he told her she resembled an old
girl of his back East, only that she was more candid and above-
board. The exchange of confidences resulted, among other
things, in a secret telephone call, on the part of the waitress, to
Jim Leonard at Three Buttes.
Outside the kitchen door of Opera Lodge the metal triangle
clanged. The saddle horses, on edge because of the cold and their
lack of recent exercise, kicked, neighed, pranced and shied.
Cowpunchers came running from all directions. Wing Lee and
Wing Sam looked at each other uneasily and began to search
their respective consciences. Was the Law about to make an-
other onslaught? Had another stranger disappeared ?
Hank, the foreman, was the first to reach the huge living
room, in which sat Shot-on-Both-Sides, staring gravely into the
fire. Sweat was running from his brow.
"Indian build small fire, stand close,” the old Chief said.
“White man build big fire, stand way back. White man damn
fool.”
Jim Leonard was still lambasting the triangle, so Hank asked
Shot-on-Both-Sides what was eating the boss.
“Eating is over until ...” the Chief pointed straight upward
and then at the sun that was shining thinly at the quarter
mark. "Talk box ring. Boss hear um. Put quick talk back in
um. Pound medicine triangle like hell."
The Professor came running in, followed by Laramee Bob
and Slipnoose Pete. Tumbleweed O'Flaherty, who had been
dozing in his bunk upstairs, came down in his shirtsleeves.
"Don't shoot till you see the whites of their eyes, pardners.
That's what Brigham said,” the old sheriff observed.
Jim Leonard, glancing in through the window, saw that all
his men were on hand and hurried inside.
132


"Gilligan's got Miriam,” he said, trying to control his emo-
tion. “She and a bunch of her friends were left behind when
the Limited went through the badlands, just across from Beef
are wise, and hushed the thing up in Glendive. Pete, you and
Bob saddle all the horses, and put a sack of feed behind each
saddle. Hank, you tell the Chink about grub and get it into
the saddlebags. Let every man take all the ammunition he can.
God knows what we can do. We'll have to ride all the way to
Glendive, then follow the N.P. tracks. It's a good hundred
and fifty miles to town, and more than that back to the place
the coaches got loose.”
"Can't we cross the Yellowstone at the mouth of Beef
Slough? It's frozen solid,” Hank said.
“We couldn't get through the badlands. If we could, it would
save two days, but we'd never make it,” Leonard said.
Chief Shot-on-Both-Sides rose solemnly. “Blackfeet make it,"
he said.
Jim Leonard, his face pathetic with eagerness, faced his old
"A faint trail,” the old Indian said. Then he added: "My
boy, Rain-No-More, on same train. He take care of Miriam.
Maybe take care of Gilligan, too.” Vividly the Chief, with two
forefingers held on top of his head like a compass, described
a circle.
and the others could get there later, by way of Glendive, if
the first bunch couldn't find the trail?”
“We make it,” said Shot-on-Both-Sides. “Powwow finished.”
The Goddess Aurora, as the reader has already surmised,
had not been in form that morning. At dawn thin meaningless
clouds had obscured the sun which penetrated them fitfully
from time to time later on. Leaving Frémont and Kvek to
defend the train, which was white with frost and snow-blown
133


got the small end of the stick from Gilligan several times be-
fore. The Shoshone outlaw began to think more kindly of the
United States Government and concluded that it would be
better to lead what was left of his band back to Idaho, where
they could live less dangerously on the reservation, and leave
Gilligan and his gangsters from Chicago to shift for them-
selves. Consequently, by dawn the only Shoshones left in the
State of Montana were a brace of squaws back in the tepees,
of both of whom Tall-Horse was growing weary.
The gas attack on the blockhouse northwest of the train had
been carried out as scheduled by Evans, Miriam and Kvek
with his international squad, and with brilliant success. They
had left the Gilligans and the gangsters gasping, choking and
digging fists into their smarting eyes, but had not stayed to
witness the slaughter they had expected would take place,
because of the off chance that some of the Shoshones might
break through Frémont's barricade and terrorize the women
in their absence. A careful reconnaisance in the morning re-
vealed that the Shoshones had fled the State, leaving their dead
on the trail. The gangsters, sick and shaken from their baptism
of tear gas, were in such a sullen mood that Gilligan and Baldy
Santo were having a hard time restraining them from shooting
the abandoned squaws, then starting on foot for Chicago.
Content to leave the enemy in a demoralized condition for
the time being, Evans and his scouts returned to headquarters.
The snowslide that cut off help from the east had been care-
fully inspected by Hjalmar, who reported that the tracks, wires
and roadbed had been swept into a deep canyon, leaving a gap
about fifty yards long. To repair the damage would require sev-
eral days' work by a large section gang, since dirt would have
to be borrowed from the solidly frozen ground to replace the
downhill side of the embankment. Work would undoubtedly
be started within a day or two, at which time the party could
get into communication with Bismarck or even Minneapolis.
Relief from the west was likely to be more prompt, Evans
135


thought, since he believed Tom Jackson had got as far as
Glendive and would think of some way to circumvent the
officers of the law and employees of the railroad who were in
Gilligan's pay. The legal aspects of the situation merited a
careful analysis. According to the railroad map, they were in
the State of Montana, Dawson County, the stronghold of the
Gilligan political machine. It would be difficult to prove that
the sheepman had been responsible for the uncoupling of the
special section, or that he had instigated the attack on the
train by the outlaw Shoshones. Neither could it be established
in a hostile court that Gilligan had imported Baldy Santo's
gang from Illinois, with felonious intent or malice afore-
thought. The murder of the telephone clerk would have to be
cleared up, another delicate task. The body, minus scalp, was
packed in snow, an unnecessary precaution considering the
temperature of the all-steel cars, with the thermometer reading
thirty below zero at noonday and descending in the night.
Five dead Shoshones were lying in the snow on the faint side
trail, and since, however wayward, they were wards of the
United States Government, some explanation would have to
be forthcoming.
In the other camp, Larkspur Gilligan was alone with his
thoughts, as the song writers say. He knew he could get away
with a great deal, since his patronage meant so much to the
railroad, and the office holders were nearly all his own crea-
tions. Nevertheless, there was a limit, and Larkspur, reckless
by nature, could also be cagey. The section boss at Glendive
would eventually be obliged to send out a wrecking crew to
inspect the tracks. So on the strength of that assumption, Gilli-
gan decided to start hiking westward along the tracks and
himself report the distress of the special section. Without the
Indians, his gangsters were outnumbered. They had proved
less tractable in the great open spaces than they had been in
Chicago's crowded precincts. Gilligan planned to say in Glen-
dive that he had met Baldy Santo in the East, and had been
136


moved by the man's sincere desire to reform himself and his
followers.
Most of all, Gilligan wanted to find out more about Hugo
Weiss, the Croesus who was backing Jim. Leonard and the
cattlemen. So without confiding his intentions to Baldy Santo,
who would have insisted on going along, Gilligan and his son,
Terry, stole out of the gangsters' hideout. On reaching the
railroad, they started hiking west as fast as their legs could carry
them. It was a long chance, but Gilligan had never been loath
to take chances. Besides, he had had one dose of tear gas and
preferred to risk freezing to death rather than to repeat the
experience.
In and around the Pelleas, the Melisande and their frost-
bound auxiliary coaches, the members of the party were fight-
ing, not Indians or gangsters, but the cold. A fine snow had
begun to fall and the sullen sky, according to Rain-No-More,
held signs of a blizzard. Not far from the train, in the side of
a sandstone cliff with thick layers of lava rock, was a natural
cave which faced away from the prevailing direction of the
wind. This cavern had an opening in the ceiling, which acted
as a chimney. So Evans asked all hands to forage for firewood,
stack it near the mouth of the cave, and a fire was built inside.
Corrigan had several large pans in his kitchen and these were
filled with live coals and served to raise the temperature of
the cars to a point where it was supportable. Both Miriam and
Diluvio shot several grouse, which roosted on the lower
branches of the scrub evergreens in the dry canyon to the east.
Stenka heated and lugged huge washboilers of water. Hydran-
gea taught Beatrice Diluvio and Eugénie Toudoux a simple
dance routine which served to keep them warm and to occupy
their minds. It was not long before the women became quite
proficient, and more than once the toiling men paused, smiling
and wiping frost from their eyebrows and whiskers, to watch
the Stomp or the Susie Q. The former Marquise de la Rose
d'Antan, whose aristocratic family and dissolute first husband
137


had never permitted her to dance, was especially enthusiastic
and made the ex-Blackbird promise to give her daily dancing
lessons.
“I begin to know what it is to be a pioneer, to feel in my
veins the blood of those magnificent Frenchmen, whose names
I failed to jot down, but who conquered this inscrutable wilder-
ness,” said Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux, who had been moved
almost to tears of joy by the sight of his Eugénie, so raptly
engaged in practicing “La derriere noire" or Black Bottom.
"For my part,” said Frémont, “I am inclining toward a theory
I once heard expounded, to the effect that places and not races
are the determining factor in human behavior. Which one of
us has not, since landing in America, felt the urge to lay aside
his native caution? Much as I hesitate to confess it, I must tell
you, Doctor, that just now, when Miss Montana was playing
that barbaric tune-er, hallelujah, kerplumb, hallelujah-and
my beloved Hydrangea was following its measures so grace-
fully, I, reserve officer of the army of France and Chief of
Detectives of Paris, felt the inclination to prance and sashay. Of
course, I restrained the mad impulse.”
“So did I,” the doctor said, “but I am not sure I shall do so
in future. Monsieur Evans, you who have encyclopedic knowl-
edge, what is, exactly, a Susie Q? I do not find the term in
my pocket Larousse."
At that point, Stenka, having lugged enough water for the
day, came in out of the driving snow and joined the dancers,
contributing a Slavic peasant dance, with a haunting melody,
to be performed and sung by women alone, arms outstretched,
hands clasped and moving slowly in a circle. Hydrangea caught
on instantly; the older women were not long in joining in.
Kvek and Lidin, roaring with approval, began pouring out
vodka by the tumblerful. Hjalmar, Diluvio, in short, the entire
party tossed care to the rising winds and drifting snow. Rain-
No-More, in a corner by himself, was rehearsing in a tentative
138


way the steps of the tribal raven dance. Galilee Zach was having
a go at Pavlova's “Dying Swan.”
It was at just that moment that Chief Shot-on-Both-Sides, of
the Blackfeet, advance scout of the rescue party from Three
Buttes, peered in through the frosty window of the St. Cecilia
and promptly ducked into the brush again to think things over.
The old sachem had seen seventy-two winters, but in the course
of none of them had he run across anything like the spectacle
he had just witnessed.
The overland journey of the rescue party had been accom-
plished without misfortune. Jim Leonard, Tumbleweed O'Fla-
herty, Hank, the Professor, Slipnoose Pete and Laramee Bob,
leading two extra horses apiece, had followed Shot-on-Both-
Sides across the bare spaces on the windward side of Leonard
Creek, crossed the stage road at dusk and reached the Yellow-
stone at midnight. The river ice, two feet in thickness, had been
swept clean by the blizzard and they were able to ride south
on it to Beef Slough before making camp. At Beef Slough, they
had chosen a sheltered location, had thrown up brush corrals
for the horses, blanketed, watered and fed the animals and
turned in for a few hours' sleep until dawn. The difficult trail,
if it could be called a trail, through the badlands, lay ahead of
them and only Shot-on-Both-Sides was confident it could be
traveled as far as the railroad, which lay forty miles to the
southeast.
In the morning, after bacon and coffee in the thinning dark-
ness, the cowpunchers had drawn lots to determine who should
stay behind with the horses. Laramee Bob was the unlucky
man. The agreement was that he should wait three days, then
turn loose all but one of the horses and ride to Glendive for
help.
Doggedly, Shot-on-Both-Sides took the lead, with Jim Leon-
ard close behind him, and as the old Indian struggled through
sagebrush and ice-coated cactus ten feet high to reach the first
139


crumbled foothill, he reflected that his grand-uncle, the Chief
of the Piegans, had blazed that self-same trail, in defiance of
tribal superstitions, had entered the unknown area of colored
ashes with hot springs that steamed and bubbled through fis-
sures, of snakes and lizards, forests turned to stone, and had
found a way to surprise the Shoshones, put them to rout and ap-
propriate their youngest and hardiest squaws. It was thus among
the tribes, his own father had taught him. Some had sturdy
braves and lazy squaws, others first-class squaws and braves
with hearts of coyotes. Only the Blackfeet, the Crows and the
Cheyennes had sons and daughters of equal prowess in their
respective spheres.
As he broke trail, the old Chief paused now and then,
glanced to one side or the other for landmarks he had almost
forgotten, sometimes sunk to his waist in drifted snow, again
moved forward at a swift dog trot over expanses of hard crust
or solid lava. Constantly the precarious hidden pathway
mounted. The men, hard as nails and inured to the biting cold,
went forward, eyes glued to the footsteps of the man in ad-
vance, saying little except when it was necessary to halt. The
cattle range across the river was bleak and wild, but nothing
compared with the badlands, where Nature seemed to have
spent herself in prehistoric rioting.
“This isn't fit country for a turkey buzzard to roost on,” the
Professor said to Hank.
“It's sure desperate,” the foreman replied.
Jim Leonard and Shot-on-Both-Sides were looking anxiously
at the sky. Wordlessly they looked into each other's eyes and
nodded. They were fine specimens of their respective races, the
one with silver hair, the other's still jet black. Both of them
knew a storm was coming and what it meant. They might reach
the railroad and find their children, but how, in a blizzard,
could they get back again?
"Boys,” said Leonard grimly, "you better go back to the
river.”
140


Hank looked hurt and dropped his eyes. “You can't fire us
unless you pay us off. That's the law,” he said.
“I can give you chapter and verse,” said the Professor.
“I ain't working for you, anyway,” said Tumbleweed O'Fla-
herty. “I'm just along for the exercise.”
“Is that the way you feel, Pete?” asked Leonard. “There's no
use in my telling you it's going to snow.”
“We're wasting time,” Pete said.
"An e tuk it" (Lead on), Leonard said, and Shot-on-Both-
Sides nodded.
For two hours more they struggled through disintegrated
granite and thorned cactus, over slippery heaps of lava made
treacherous by a thin coating of ice. There was no mid-day
thaw, and no easy going until, on an isolated mesa they
crossed one of the hidden areas of pastureland.
“Squirrel meadows,” grunted Hank, and Jim Leonard
nodded. Between drifts, the feathery grass showed brown in
spots, and was thickly matted.
The storm held off, and just before noon Shot-on-Both-Sides
pointed out a thin column of smoke, then another. The party
headed for the first one, and when they were within a few
miles of it, the Indian, by means of sign language, asked Leon-
ard and his buckaroos to approach the nearest fire cautiously.
Meanwhile the Chief set out to investigate the farther one. It
was agreed that the first to find traces of Miriam, Rain-No-
More or a cast-off train of cars was to fire a revolver three
times.
Jim Leonard, spurred on by his anxiety, redoubled his pace.
When he was within five hundred yards of the gangsters' cabin
he saw the top of the chimney. Having asked O'Flaherty and
the Professor to wait for them in a near-by cavern, the rancher
and Hank went forward on their hands and knees. It was not
long before they caught a full view of the gangsters' camp, and
were surprised to see also numerous Indian tepees, inhabited
only by two Shoshone squaws. The mysterious new log cabin
141


was big enough to house a dozen or more men. Leonard
crawled ahead, until he could peep into a window of the cabin.
There he saw a group of dishevelled strangers, evidently from
the East and more than half drunk, playing stud poker on a
long board table.
Astonished and disappointed, the rancher crept back to
where Hank was waiting in the driving snow. They were try-
ing to decide what to do when they saw a pair of the tenderfeet
leave the cabin and walk slowly down a trail leading to the
railroad tracks. Leonard pointed to his rope; the foreman
nodded and patted his own. Keeping well out of sight, the
rancher and Hank stalked the wandering pair and, at a silent
signal, let fly with their lariats. One noose dropped cleanly over
the head and shoulders of young Santosuosso; the other,
thrown by Hank, pinned the arms of Nutcracker Ike and
jerked him off his feet. Both victims choked back their protests
when they found themselves looking into the neat blue muzzles
of Smith & Wesson revolvers that looked about the size of the
Red Sea.
“Where are you fellers from?” demanded Jim Leonard
grimly.
Into the confused mind of young Santosuosso leaped one of
the first phrases he had learned at his father's knee. “I'm not
talking without a lawyer,” he said.
Hank slapped his shaggy chaps with glee. “The lawyer's
just stepped out,” he said. “He won't be back till spring."
Jim Leonard looked hard at Nutcracker Ike. “I didn't come
here to make trouble. I'm looking for my daughter, that's all,”
he said. “Speak up. Where is she?”
"I don't know her,” grunted Nutcracker Ike.
"And who is that bunch of scissorbills back in the bunk-
house?” asked Hank.
“How about them Indians?” demanded Leonard. “The near-
est reservation is more than a hundred miles north of here and
that's for Blackfeet, not Shoshones.”
142


The two captives remained silent.
"Well,” said Hank, “I can see that we'll have to make an
example of one of you, to make the survivor more sociable.”
The lanky foreman, keeping Santosuosso covered, took the
noose off his neck and slung it over a horizontal branch of a
dead tree. He tugged and nodded. "Seems solid enough,” he
said.
“We'd better hang the other one,” said Jim Leonard. "He
hasn't got as long to live, anyway.”
“I favor the runt. He's fresher than the old one, and Saint
Peter will be easier on him, on account of his youth,” Hank
said.
The youth referred to riposted by spitting in the foreman's
right eye.
“That settles it,” said Hank.
The dead limb was almost horizontal, and about eight feet
from the ground. Hank built up a pedestal of snow, and
prodded the young gangster with his revolver. Santosuosso
stood his ground and refused to move. The foreman, losing
patience, brought up a haymaker that laid him out flat in the
snow. Before he could rise, Hank bound his arms and ankles
and tied a bandanna over his eyes, then picked him up and
stood him like a tenpin on the snow pile. Swiftly he adjusted
the noose around his neck, and tossed the free end of the
rope over the limb, securing it firmly to a near-by stump.
“Are you going to answer civil questions, or shall I kick this
snow away?” Hank asked.
The answer was in the form of an invitation that Hank
showed no disposition to accept.
“How about you?” asked Leonard of the former railroad
dick.
The result might have been tragic for Santosuosso, although
beneficial to mankind, had not three shots split the frosted air,
half muffled by the whine of the storm.
143


12
Of Parents and
Their Children
HANK GREENLEAF, who, although he never talked about it,
had been born in Vermont, understood much more than he
expressed about human behavior. He knew that young men of
Santosuosso's type fear pain much more than death. So when
Jim Leonard started to double back on their trail and mo-
tioned Hank to follow with the prisoners, the lanky foreman
put up his Smith & Wesson and got out his hunting knife,
which bore the trade-mark of Montgomery Ward. By inserting
about half an inch of the blade into the young gangster, he
persuaded the latter to precede him peaceably. Already the
storm had almost obliterated the footsteps, but Leonard and
his foreman were able to find the cave and turn over their
captives to O'Flaherty. Then they set out after Chief Shot-on-
Both-Sides.
The latter, squatting motionless on his heels, with his back
to the storm, was not at his best. He had been prepared to find
his son and the latter's companions half frozen, famished, rav-
ished by Shoshones, buried in snowslides or clawed by wild-
144


cats. The fact that they were dancing in several unco-ordi-
nated styles and drinking paleface hootch, in a series of wagons
so fantastic that the Chief blinked whenever he recalled them
to mind, perplexed the wise old Indian. Rain-No-More, his
first born and most promising son, had always been a brave,
his father had thought, who could keep his eye fairly well on
the ball. He had been sent across the world to bring back
Miriam, the daughter of the Chief's old trusted friend. But
while he seemed to have brought the girl back, all right, he
had done so under circumstances Shot-on-Both-Sides did not
relish reporting to the stern father of a handsome unmarried
young squaw.
“Nit okh si tuk ki” (I am pleased), he said, however, when
Jim Leonard and Hank put in an appearance. Like so many
conventional greetings it was by no means literally true.
"Is she safe?" asked the silver-haired rancher, unable to con-
ceal his fears.
"A ki sa,” replied Shot-on-Both-Sides, which means “Yes,
and no.” Abandoning all attempts at oral explanation, the old
Chief grunted and led the way to the railroad tracks. There
the eyes of the rancher and his foreman began to pop, blink,
rotate and shuttle from side to side. For Hjalmar and Stenka
were doing a robust two-step on the floor of the Saint Cecilia;
Kvek and Grigori were dancing a kazotsky on top of the
grand piano, and Hydrangea and her two sedate pupils were
trucking toward the Dôme, in which Rain-No-More and Hugo
Weiss were shooting at electric bulbs with champagne corks,
to the huge delight of Moritz the dog.
Only one coincidence saved the day. Miriam, at the keyboard
of the sonorous Steinway, had run out of hot jazz tunes and
had been forced to fall back on a march she had learned on the
ranch from the lessons mailed by the Seek and Ye Shall Find
Correspondence School of Omaha. The march, entitled “The
Ben Hur Chariot Race,” had been her father's favorite since
first her girlish fingers had touched the keys. In fact, the old
145


rancher had doted on that particular composition to the point
where frequently, in the course of a long winter evening, he
had asked her to play it for him no fewer than a dozen times.
The measures of that descriptive piece, composed by E. T.
Paull, melted suspicion in the old man's heart and brought
tears to his eyes, so that, forgetting his former misgivings as
to the source of the fifty thousand dollars, the rancher rushed
into the Saint Cecilia, scattering dancers here and there in his
haste, and clasped Miriam in his arms.
"Daughter, look me in the eye,” he said gruffly, a moment
later, to hide his emotion. But when her clear gaze met his,
he bowed his head with mingled feelings of relief and embar-
rassment.
Meanwhile, Rain-No-More, perceiving his father standing
gravely by the tracks, hastened out to greet him respectfully
and report the success of his difficult errand. Hjalmar Jansen,
who about the same time had observed Hank, the foreman, did
not notice he had not been with the party all along and roared:
“Come in and have a drink.”
All in all, in spite of the raging blizzard and the inaccessi-
bility of the region, the ensuing moments were joyous indeed.
Hugo Weiss was the cordial and thoughtful host, Homer Evans
the tactful master of ceremonies.
"Don't mention it,” said the multi-millionaire, when Jim
Leonard tried to thank Weiss for forking up the bail. “Don't
mention it, I beg of you, sir. If you forfeit it, I shall be rid of
that much responsibility.”
The rancher's face showed strain from worry.
"I'll stand trial,” he said, “but there's no telling what those
lawyers'll do. There was a time when there wasn't a lawyer in
this country ..."
"Sorry I missed those days,” said Weiss, "but good times are
coming. The more I see of this country, the more I'm deter-
mined to save it from development. That may cost a pile of
146


money, but I've got plenty, and Mrs. Diluvio, who was a
Baxter, has at least half a billion she doesn't need."
Evans, who wished to correct the impression of frivolity his
companions had given the Western plainsmen, called his men
to attention and sent them back to their respective tasks. Then
he invited the rancher, the foreman and the Blackfeet Chief
to make an inspection tour of the coaches. They had not pro-
gressed far when all three of them began to believe that the
tenderfeet, while somewhat eccentric, were not unresourceful
in emergencies. Homer did not show them the stiff on ice in
the dark room of the Castor and Pollux, or Galilee Zach wield-
ing a powderpuff in the silver-plated washroom. But the pans
of coals glowed warmly in each of the cars, and the smell of
hot food issued from the kitchen. They found Diluvio in the
act of stringing up a creditable pair of snowshoes, saw Hjalmar
figuring out his bearings from notes he had taken the day
before while shooting the sun, observed Dr. Toudoux ban-
daging skillfully a burn on one of the waiter's hands. In fact,
Jim Leonard and Shot-on-Both-Sides concluded that their re-
spective offspring had the knack of making friends who not
only seemed to have unlimited money, but talents and fertile
brains as well. The rancher began to feel that the cards were
no longer stacked against him; the Blackfeet leader that per-
haps, after all, he could make peace with the whites.
As soon as Homer had placed his guests at ease, he focused
his mind on immediate problems. Rain-No-More was sent back
with Hank to guide Tumbleweed O'Flaherty, Slipnoose Pete
and the Professor from their shelter, and it was agreed that the
prisoners, young Santosuosso and Nutcracker Ike, should be
sent back to their cabin after being warned that any gangster
who left the clearing would be shot on sight. Evans' plan,
approved by Jim Leonard, was not to take the gang to Glen-
dive where the officials would play into Gilligan's hand but
to load them on the first east-bound freight and ship them back
to Minneapolis, unarmed and without funds.
147


As soon as possible, Homer asked for a private interview
with Shot-on-Both-Sides. For that purpose he led the Chief to
his stateroom, where, after sitting uneasily on the edge of one
of the upholstered chairs, the Indian asked permission to squat
on the floor. There were perhaps five minutes of complete
silence while the two men collected their thoughts. The pipe
was passed from hand to hand; then Homer stood up to speak.
“Heap trouble,” Evans began, in the Blackfeet tongue.
"Too much," replied the Chief.
Before continuing, Homer reached into a suitcase and pro-
duced the scalp of Donniker Louey. Not a muscle moved in the
face of the old Chief, but his eyes grew very sad. Evans pointed
north toward Cottonwood Creek, where the gangster's death
had occurred, Shot-on-Both-Sides made a series of gestures
painfully descriptive of hanging, followed by intense mourning
and tribal desolation.
“Rain-No-More did well,” Evans said.
“A good son,” agreed Shot-on-Both-Sides. “But finished.
Kyi!”
“Not finished,” said Homer. “He must not talk."
“He will not let his friend be hanged,” the Indian said.
"Jim Leonard will not be hanged,” said Evans.
"Gilligan has strong medicine,” the Chief said.
“I have more powerful medicine,” said Evans.
The old Chief rose to his full height and looked straight into
Homer's eyes, so searchingly that Evans felt as if he were
transparent and lighted from within.
"Ap is tu tuk kit” (One can trust you), said Shot-on-Both-
Sides. “Rain-No-More will not confess until we try your medi-
cine. If you save a Blackfeet, you become brother of the Black-
feet and a member of the tribe.”
“Nit okh si tuk ki” (I shall be honored), Evans said, and
bowed solemnly as he picked up the scalp and handed it to Shot-
on-Both-Sides as a token of confidence.
Around them the badlands, with their weird shapes of hills,
148


crumbled rocks and natural ruins, sank deeper beneath their
covering of snow. Brown of windswept meadows, dull red and
ochre of sandstone cliffs, black crags and fossils disappeared,
were modified and cloaked with white, as were the special cars,
the roadbed and everything within range of vision. The men
took turns at the outdoor tasks, replenishing the huge central
fire in the cave from which coals were obtained, melting snow
and ice for water, keeping watch on the tracks, east and west.
Cottonwood knots, soaked in olive oil, were lighted as darkness
settled quickly around the coaches, and the silence was broken
only by the whining of the wind. Miriam, who had been close
at her father's side all afternoon, brought him to the Dôme at
the apéritif hour and soon the rancher thawed, in good com-
pany, and held the Frenchmen spellbound with tales of the
range and the trappers' old trails, of herds of buffalo and cattle,
old round-ups and rodeos.
"Ah, America, Americans,” said Frémont, in awe once again.
“How wise you have been to discard all order and reason! Even
Nature, which is decorous in France, lures one to extravagant
words and deeds on this overwhelming continent. And to think
that when I was twenty-two my father, with the best of inten-
tions, struck at me with his cane because I had lost my um-
brella.”
"My poor grandfather saw little soldiers march in and out
beneath his doorsill,” said Sergeant Schlumberger.
“I filled a straight flush once and nobody stayed,” said Hank.
"Hey, waiter! Give me a slug of that perfumed whiskey if you
haven't got Old Crow."
Corrigan, the chef, outdid himself for dinner. He loved to
cook for hearty eaters, after years of pandering to queasy trav-
elers on trains, and Evans, having ascertained that the gangsters
had several weeks' supply of grub, including cases of spaghetti,
links of Milano and pepperoni, huge Bel Paese and Gorgonzola
cheeses, bottles of olives, cans of antipasto and sardines, had
told the cooks they could dish out a tremendous banquet. Hjal.
149


mar had sawed and whittled out wooden horses and jockeys and
colored them with quick-drying paint so the company could
champagne. Diluvio entertained with classical and popular
selections. Dancing, both old style and new, was indulged in
freely, and it was close to four o'clock in the morning (Moun-
tain Time), which after all was only 11 A.M. in Paris and 6 A.M.
in New York, when the last of the revelers slid into their
bunks, each one of which had been warmed with a pan of em-
bers by Stenka and Galilee Zach.
For three days the snowstorm tied up transcontinental traffic
all the way from Bismarck to the Great Divide, which gave
Evans time to get acquainted with Miriam's father, and with
him to shape up future plans. As soon as help should arrive
from Glendive, and in spite of Gilligan this could not be de-
layed much longer, Homer decided to leave Hjalmar, the Rus-
sians and the cowboys to guard the gangsters and herd them
into box cars eastbound when the freight came through. Rain-
No-More was to stay with that detachment to guide them over-
land to Three Buttes when their duty had been performed. The
special coaches were to be hauled back to Jamestown, North
Dakota, transferred to the branch line to Leeds and thence
westward again over the Great Northern as far as Muddy
Creek, only forty miles north of Three Buttes and Jim Leonard's
ranch. There was a commodious side track at Muddy Creek,
on the edge of the Blackfeet reservation, where those of the
party who were not needed at the ranch house could make their
headquarters in the special cars. Chief of Detectives Frémont
and Hydrangea, Dr. and Mme. Hyacinthe Toudoux, Hugo
Weiss and his secretary, Sergeants Schlumberger and Bonnet,
Anton Diluvio and Beatrice, Galilee Zach, Corrigan the chef,
Cromwell and Washington, the waiters, and the porters and
other attendants were assigned quarters in the special cars, with
Weiss as host and director of operations.
150


Evans, accompanied by Jim Leonard and Miriam, Stenka,
Tumbleweed O'Flaherty, Shot-on-Both-Sides and Moritz the
dog, made preparations to ride with the wrecking crew to Glen-
dive, where they hoped to find Tom Jackson and Laramee Bob.
The saddle horses left on the Yellowstone could not be rounded
up until good weather set in, so another bunch of bronchos
would have to be bought in Glendive for the trip to Three
Buttes.
The frozen corpse of the telephone clerk, and those of the
brother of Tall-Horse-in-Flytime and the five unidentified
Shoshones, were to be turned in to Government authorities at
Leeds, North Dakota, on the Great Northern, where the rail-
road men and local officials favored the cattlemen and were
outside the sphere of Larkspur Gilligan's influence. At Shot-on-
Both-Sides' suggestion, the two abandoned squaws were taken
away from the gangsters for transportation to the Blackfeet
reservation, where husbands would be provided for them. If,
said Shot-on-Both-Sides, the husbands were not the best men
among the Blackfeet, at least they would be an improvement
over anything the Shoshones had to offer, and when this pro-
posal was translated into the Shoshone language by Evans,
the distracted pair of women stopped wailing, which they had
kept up for nearly four days continuously. When they thought
they were unobserved, they giggled slyly at the prospect of a
change of Indians.
The fourth day after the reunion on the N.P. tracks, the sun
broke through the clouds, the thermometer soared almost to
zero, and the Glendive contingent were the first to depart, leav-
ing their cheering comrades along the track on both sides. Next
morning, an enormous wrecking crew appeared from Bismarck
to tackle the snow slide in the canyon, and before a week had
elapsed the gangsters were counted roughly, disarmed, marched
from their cabin to the tracks, and, with grub and water enough
for the journey, locked into empty box cars on the eastbound
freight. The temporary trestle over the gulch proved strong
151


enough to sustain the freight train, so the engine came back
to hook on the special train and tow it as far as Jamestown
Junction.
Then, with Rain-No-More as scout and leader, Hjalmar,
Kvek, Grigori and the cowboys hit the trail on foot through the
badlands. Both Colonel Kvek and Captain Lidin had been
offered a ride to Glendive, but the prospect of finding horses
near the Yellowstone camp site, remote as it was, lured them
from the cushions. The men they had seen riding in Central
Park, New York, they had considered merely as passengers on
really rode. On their part, the cowboys were quite as curious
to see what Cossacks would do with unbroken Western
152


PART TWO
Death Haunts the Yellowstone





A Rapprochement
of Several Races
THE REMAINDER of that remarkable winter at Opera Lodge
stands out in the memory of those who were even remotely
concerned, and is especially vivid in the minds of the members
of that smaller group from whom tragedy, vague and lurking,
was never distant. The spacious ranch house, built of logs and
clapboards, with a tight roof the shingles of which had been
shipped all the way from Minneapolis and carried by pack
horses up the winding trail along Bison Creek to Three
Buttes, had been given its name because on clear days in the
summer and fall the badlands, miles distant across the muddy
Yellowstone, could be seen from the upper windows—pale col-
ors of forgotten ages, ochre, rose, dull violet and indigo.
The early adventurers, passing that way, had believed that
the view was like the setting for an opera, a belief that was far
too kind to that incongruous institution. For nothing ever
painted on back drops could awaken the feeling of vastness and
prodigal upheaval the broad valley and the badlands evoked.
Just south of the ranch house and its scattered outbuildings
155


stood the Three Buttes, from one of which gushed two springs,
side by side, one icy cold, the other boiling hot. Leonard Creek,
a mere trickle that gained volume downstream until it became
stone. It was parched and dry in summer. Bison Creek had cut
a crooked channel in the opposite direction, due north to the
Missouri.
The logs of the lodge, the two large bunkhouses, the barn,
the stable and the various corrals had been stained by the
weather until they blended with the drab of the sage and dry
grass of the foothills and mesas until they seemed to belong to
the country as did the relics of the Paleozoic age. In the dead
of winter, all was white and brown, valleys drifted level, high
areas of sidehill were swept clean by the wind. On the range,
which extended miles and miles in all directions, as far as the
Redwater to the west and Mountain Sheep Bluffs to the south,
Jim Leonard's cattle fought the elements for their existence,
between fall and spring round-ups, drifting with the blizzards,
growing shaggy coats of hair to resist the biting cold. In sum-
mer they browsed tranquilly on the crest and in the gullies, in
bunches of hundreds, sometimes thousands, tough shorthorns
with wild appraising eyes, docile if a man was on horseback,
contemptuous of or even hostile to a man on foot.
Of the company the reader knows, men and women from
divers lands and of varied experience, who had gathered on
the Lower Yellowstone from motives of adventure and friend-
ship to help the harassed rancher make a stand, nine were
housed in the main lodge, as follows: Jim Leonard, the host,
who was under indictment; Miriam, whose hunger for the
ranch and anxiety for her father had been so intense that she
radiated relief and happiness; her faithful maid, Stenka;
Eugénie and Hyacinthe Toudoux, the first-named the former
Marquise de la Rose d’Antan, the latter medical examiner of
Paris and a famous scientist; Anton Diluvio, renowned concert
156


multi-millionaire and philanthropist, Hugo Schusschnigger
Weiss.
The wealthy financier, having safely brought the special train
from the badlands back through North Dakota to the north-
eastern corner of Jim Leonard's range, had quit the private
coaches which now stood on a sidetrack near Muddy Creek,
and had been installed in one of the big upstairs bedrooms of
Opera Lodge. Already, after a few momentous weeks on the
ranch, he had sworn he would never return to Wall Street or
the dusty museums of the East, even if his fortune piled up so
high that it wrecked the capitalist system. In fact, he expressed
the hope, in the course of the third evening in front of the
crackling fireplace, that some such cataclysm would occur and
that nobody would tell him about it.
Jim Leonard slept, as usual, in a corner room downstairs,
with a rifle loaded and handy. He had formed the habit of
sleeping on or near the ground, prepared for action, while rid-
ing the range or camping with the Blackfeet in past years, for
he had come to Montana before he was full grown and long
before Montana was a state. Miriam occupied the bedroom
that had been hers since her mother had died, while she was
still less than five years old. On an Indian rug inside her door-
way slept faithful Moritz the dog, who thought the ranch, with-
out traffic or fences or restrictions beyond the dictates of his
own good judgment, was heaven. To complete the girl's happi-
ness, Homer Evans had taken the huge attic, just above, and at
night, when she was wakeful and he was thinking of the
struggle to come, she could hear his footsteps as he paced back
and forth, always lightly yet firmly, and she was comforted.
Stenka, her maid, had already made herself indispensable around
the house and was busy from morning until night, chopping
wood for the Chinks, sweeping, shoveling, lugging water and
mending clothes. The freedom enjoyed by Anton Diluvio, re-
leased from the martyrdom of concert tours and assiduous prac-
tice, day after day, was exceeded only by that of Beatrice, his
157


wife, who, because of Anton, had shaken off the cobwebs of
Back Bay society and, in her late thirties, had begun to learn
that life is not only real and earnest but excellent fun.
But no one, unless it was his charming wife, could have rel-
ished the remoteness and almost agonizing appeal of the ancient
valley as did Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux. Already huge packing
cases had started arriving from Sears, Roebuck, Montgomery
Ward and a number of manufacturers of laboratory equipment,
dealers in chemical supplies and books in several languages. A
large shed, formerly used for storing dynamite and powder for
blasting stumps, had been assigned to him as a laboratory.
"Ah, science!” he exclaimed aloud to himself, which discon-
certed some of the cowboys until they got used to him. “Science!
Beloved mistress of my youth and riper years! At last I am alone
with you. No more does the clanging of a telephone summon
me to peer into corpses, analyze secretions, carve up organs and
fill out endless reports in triplicate and quadruplicate. Here in
the vastnesses explored by my intrepid countrymen, whose
names Monsieur Evans has promised to jot down for me, I
shall crown my life's work. I shall entreat my distinguished col-
leagues of the Academy to journey here, every five years or so,
not oftener, and here beneath the skies, as coyotes slink from
bush to bush, let them read their immortal papers, with whitened
buffalo skulls for paper weights and eroded cliffs for rostrums.
Reeking civilization, handed down from Egypt, through Greece
and Rome, to France, farewell! You must, like me, begin again,
in the clean open air, amid the howls of wild and domestic
beasts. In short, may the devil take you, as you took my wasted
years, before I met Eugénie.”
In bunkhouse No. 1 lived Hank, the foreman, and his cow-
boys, the Professor, Laramee Bob and Slipnoose Pete. Bunk-
house No. 2 housed Hjalmar Jansen, Lvov Kvek and Grigori
Lidin, the two last-named having auctioned off their tall hats,
frock coats and gold-headed canes. The lusty Russians wore
chaps and spurs, and thus far, had ridden what few horses were
158


available, facing either way and with or without a saddle. Al-
ready they thought of the East as a distant catastrophe, like the
Russian revolution, which would never occur again.
It must not be assumed by the reader that because the special
train was sidetracked forty miles to the north, on the edge of
the Blackfeet reservation, that the members of the expedition
who had elected to live on it were isolated from the group at
Three Buttes. Nothing could be further from the truth. Forty
miles in the Yellowstone country is about like half a block in
New York or Philadelphia. It is a comfortable jaunt by saddle
horse when the weather is fine, and during storms on the Yel-
lowstone, one stays comfortably at home except in cases of
emergency. Chief of Detectives Frémont was in charge of the
Muddy Creek detachment, aided faithfully by Sergeants Schlum-
berger and Bonnet. Hydrangea was making conscientious, if
rather futile, attempts to teach him English, although he insisted
that since all his neighbors were Indians it would be of more
practical value if he learned the Blackfeet tongue.
The Blackfeet had proved to be most friendly and sociable,
although at the request of Shot-on-Both-Sides and Rain-No-
More the chef kept the firewater under lock and key, with a mili-
tary guard at all times of day and night, in order to remove
temptation from the redmen and prolong the life of the whites.
princesses, Tinted Cloud and Unreal Bear, on the one hand,
and Sergeants Schlumberger and Bonnet, on the other. Long
hours each day, the couples strolled up and down Muddy Creek
or lounged in corners of the Dôme, murmuring and whispering
their lessons in English, which, since the girls both spoke with
a Southern accent, began to issue forth from the Frenchmen in
picturesque admixtures of Alsatian, Breton and South Carolina,
with a few Algonquian inflections thrown in. Unable to cope
with the Indian names of their gentle companions, Schlum-
berger and Bonnet had translated them into French as follows:
159


tween th. Ying at sadly with
Nouage si doucement couleuré and L'Esprit de petite oursine,
abbreviated as Nono and Bébé.
The Indian girls, in turn, had given nicknames to their pupils,
calling Schlumberger Mi u ko kus nat to se (Gruff moon) or
Mi ko, for short, and Bonnet Ksix in um ok kan nas we (White
lightning) or Ksix, because he was so quick to laugh and learn.
It has been said, with some justice, that in the spring a young
man's fancy takes a turn or two. With middle-aged French-
men, the urge quite often gets the jump on the season.
Thus it was that an atmosphere of harmony and mutual
understanding pervaded the Pelleas and Melisande and ex-
tended all through the auxiliary coaches, to the point that Cor-
rigan became friendly with the squaws and Galilee Zach never
tired of vying at sports with the braves. In short, relations be-
tween the natives and invaders of our great Northwest had
never reached such a level of cordiality and mutual trust. Long-
time-Pipe, recalled from the University of California, but not
until he had acquired a certain proficiency with strong waters,
made plans with Cromwell and Washington for first-class golf
links and got permission from the Great Northern to use the
railroad shanty as a club house.
On Saturdays all the forces gathered at the ranch or on the
train for a dinner and dance, to which the Blackfeet were in-
vited. Hydrangea, who was tireless in teaching the Indians the
pale- and blackface dances, was made an honorary member of
the squaws' auxiliary of the exclusive Stick Game Society. It is
noteworthy, however, that her pupils of whatever race seemed to
have a marked preference for the blackface dances, and partic-
ularly the Charleston and the Susie Q.
Beneath the cloak of gaiety, however, there was an undercur-
rent of dread at Opera Lodge. Not that Jim Leonard ever re-
laxed his genial hospitality or inflicted his worries on his guests.
On the contrary, he astonished Evans with his gruff good humor
and amazing integrity. Miriam, in her father's presence, seemed
to have shed her sophistication and to have become a young girl
160


again. She stayed close to her father's side, as if to make up for
the years of her absence, tried to cheer him with music and to
reveal in subtle ways the qualities of her friends who had volun-
teered to help him. She spoke freely of Hjalmar's exploits, the
Eugénie Toudoux.
But when it came to Homer Evans, she was tongue-tied, and
for that reason was overjoyed to see the way in which they
took to one another. Accustomed from childhood to play a lone
hand, Jim Leonard began to find that he could confide his in-
most thoughts to Homer, and even lay his doubts and fears like
cards face-up on the table. Evans, on the other hand, was at
times humble in the face of the rugged pioneer, who instead of
dabbling with intellectual pleasures had wrested a living from
the herds and plains and made himself a part of the soil of his
country. Homer would ski far into the foothills and spend
hours in self-appraisal, returning with one firm resolution in
mind. Anything he had learned in his strange hit-or-miss
fashion, in universities, jungles, salons, laboratories, or battle-
fields he would place at the disposal of the rancher he admired
and whose daughter had marked a turning point in his lonely
life. This was to be his most significant case, and Evans did not
think for a moment that the mere extinction of a marauding
gangster and the seven incidental deaths which had already
occurred gave any indication of the scope of the combat that
threatened not only Jim Leonard, but the honorable industry
On the way from the badlands to Three Buttes they had, of
course, stopped in Glendive and tried to get the lay of the land.
The hesitancy with which everyone in town spoke about the
suspected murder of Donniker Louey, the arrest, the unex-
pected posting of the bail, or the plans of Larkspur Gilligan, was
impressive, to say the least. Tom Jackson, who had become
handy man on the Glendive X-Ray, avoided public contact with
Evans or Jim Leonard, as they did with him, but it was ar-
161


ranged that Tumbleweed O'Flaherty, the former sheriff, who
knew the town from A to Z, should act as go-between. With
funds advanced by Weiss, a distant cousin of O'Flaherty's, who
lived in Spokane, had bought the X-Ray from Skinner Bruce
for a price the Cockney printer could not refuse and which he
did not disclose in full to Gilligan. Secretly, the deed had been
transferred to Tom Jackson, who now employed Bruce as lino-
type man and had convinced him that he had best string along
and obey instructions. Bruce, who had never liked Gilligan, was
willing and apt, and was able to start a bank account for the
first time in his life.
But Jackson, alert as he was, had had little to report to Three
Buttes. A convenient code had been arranged, with the help
of the waitress at the Hotel Jordan, so that telephone messages
could be exchanged at will. There was nothing Tom could say,
except that he liked the look of things less and less. Gilligan
and his son were sticking close to their sheep ranch. Several big
shots from the N.P. offices in Chicago had been in town. Neither
the sheriff nor the judge nor any of the lawyers concerned said
a word about Leonard's indictment. Jackson had been able,
however, to win a certain amount of misplaced confidence from
the sheriff, the station agent who had lent him the bearskin
coat and Judge Patterson, who had fixed the enormous bail.
The latter, who had ambitions to become State Senator and
later to try for the Governorship of the State, had sensed that
Jackson was not only the controlling factor of the local X-Ray
but that he understood in no uncertain fashion the mysteries
of publicity, which Judge Patterson loved above all else.
Tom became a fixture in the week-end poker games at Patter-
son's large new residence, was played up to by Mrs. Patterson,
a Michigan beauty of the slim, restless type, who had formerly
taught school in Billings and who wanted to be first lady of
Glendive, of the State, and later the country, if she had her
way. Mrs. Judge Patterson, whom Tom now called Myra at
her insistence, depended on Tom for instructions about cock-
162


tails, bridge, knives and forks, parlor games, and on the nights
the judge was in his study, closeted with some henchman, ap-
pealed to Tom to sit with her in the dimmest sort of lamplight
and listen to things she had never breathed a word of to a soul.
attractive or that she did not have certain just complaints about
the judge, or that Jackson's work on the four-page X-Ray and
his growing friendship with Polly, the waitress, were so en-
grossing as to leave him no time and thought for other things.
Indeed, reader, situations occur frequently in life where busi-
ness may be combined with pleasure, without detriment to
either, in spite of the popular superstitions about mixing those
necessary elements. And Judge Patterson, for various reasons,
seemed heartily pleased about the agreeable developments, such
of them as he had the leisure to observe.
Paradoxically enough, the man who was most deeply
troubled by what the law might do about the murder of Don-
niker Louey was not the man accused and held on bail on ac-
than Rain-No-More. He had inherited his father's magnificent
patience and the philosophy of his race. Nevertheless he brooded
because the whites did not act. His father, Shot-on-Both-Sides,
had been so absorbed by the tales he had heard about Paris that
the old Chief had expressed a desire, once the case was over, to
round out his life's memories with a visit to those amazing
hunting grounds on both banks of the Seine. If the trial was
postponed or dragged on too long, the end might come too
late.
In the absence of his father, Rain-No-More would have to
take up the tribal responsibilities, which, considering that the
Blackfeet were still technically at war with the Government of
the United States and had never recognized its authority, were
considerable. He would put a stop, Rain-No-More had decided,
to the practice indulged in by certain frivolous squaws, who
skipped off the reservation and passed themselves off as Spanish
163


women, and of dissolute braves who migrated to Arizona and
New Mexico to earn an easy living from gullible female tour-
ists. He would stock the waters of the land with fish and game,
scientifically, re-introduce the tribal sports, games, arts and cere-
monies. Since his Paris experience and his long journey with
Evans, Rain-No-More had entertained a hope that his tribe
would survive, perhaps become great again. The whites had
little faith in their own wasteful complicated ways; perhaps the
red man could wait, if only he could keep alive and strong and
resolute. So Rain-No-More contained big thoughts and mo-
ments of strong emotion, only to be jerked back to earth, which
just then was slushy because of an early thaw, by the trivial
incident involving Donniker Louey.
"Ai pis tsik un nat si u ke ti tse mim” (Hell), he muttered,
and decided to ride over to the Dôme, a distance of fifty miles,
for a drink.
164


Spring's Awakening, Etc.
SET FREE BY the strong spring sunshine, a jump ahead of the
almanac, the snow on the slopes of the great watersheds began.
to sag. Small streams trickled down the gullies, gathered mo-
mentum in the creeks and coulees, until volumes of icy water
poured into the Yellowstone and the Missouri. High on the
range, or huddled in the brush of the river beds, the cattle be-
gan to stir. Sharp reports, like the crackling of infantry fire or
the booming of artillery, sounded up and down the tortuous
courses of the frozen waters. Ice heaved, groaned and split into
as water spilled over it from the mouths of the Redwater, Big
Coulee and Beef Slough. Far westward, on the Great Divide,
the same immense operation was being repeated on a con-
tinental scale. Bears brushed their eyes with the backs of their
shaggy paws, growled sleepily and lumbered out of their dens.
Buzzards wheeled overhead and coyotes searched the melting
drifts for the carcasses of sheep or steers which had been among
the season's grim casualties. With so many sounds and odors
in the air, the tang of which had changed so perceptibly, it is
165


no wonder, reader, that Moritz the dog, notwithstanding his
dignity and poise, felt a surge of uneasiness.
At Opera Lodge, around the bunkhouses and corrals, the
buckaroos and their new collaborators, Hjalmar, Kvek and
Grigori, were making gleeful preparations for the spring
round-up, adjusting straps, braiding quirts, cleaning boots and
saddles and engaging in that rough good-natured banter that
keeps men in control of their tempers, no matter how long
they are cooped up together. The sight of those men, all tall
and strong, and ready for whatever the awakening season has
to offer in the way of danger or solitude, work, fight or frolic
was not lost on anyone from the ranch house who chanced to
look at them. Hugo Weiss had to hold his head between his
hands to keep within bounds the plans which shaped and re-
shaped themselves in his ever-active mind, plans of solitary
empire, of an area of the world retrieved from the ravages of
predatory schemers and the ultra-refinements of diseased
aesthetes. Not one Botticelli or Leonardo da Vinci should enter
that valley as long as he drew breath or checks, he was re-
solved, and neither should the bleat of sheep be heard where
Stenka, whose memory was as deep as her vocabulary was
shallow, paused often to glance toward the cowpunchers at
work or at play, and was spurred to such efforts on the wood-
pile that now and then she sent the sharp edge of the axe all
the way through a cottonwood chunk and buried it so deep in
the chopping block that Hjalmar had to pry it loose for her.
But the most avid worker, and the one who co-ordinated the
activities of the rest, was the rancher, Jim Leonard, himself.
Buoyed up by hope and the unusual array of friends who had
flocked to his aid, and glad as always that the long winter
was everywhere, advising as to this or that, weighing one detail
against another, planning already to recoup the losses the
severe and capricious season had inflicted on his struggling busi-
166


ness. In the evenings he listened with awe to Miriam and Di-
luvio, both of whom had set aside the formal classics for the
tunes of the country, which they embellished instinctively with
similar rugged melodies from Purcell and William Byrd, Monte-
clair and Rameau, Glinka, Granados and Schubert, all of whom
had gone straight to the soil for their inspiration. And fre-
quently the Professor got out his old fiddle, which he said had
been whittled out of the back of a Studebaker wagon, Laramee
Bob produced his harmonica and the company cleared the liv-
ing room for a quadrille or Virginia reel. .
On the evening in question, Miriam, flushed with the pleasure
of playing without restraint and sharing the enjoyment her
father was betraying in his diffident way, did not notice that
her staid and loyal Boxer was not at his place, just left of the
piano. Homer Evans, however, who missed no detail out of the
ordinary, began to wonder about the dog with increasing inter-
est and misgivings. Evans, too, had heard the roaring of the
torrents, the cracking of river ice, had seen the cattle moving
faster on the slopes, and watched the meadowlarks and curlews,
first of the birds to come back on the winds of the spring to
the awakening prairies. He was convinced, after a short period
of observation, that Moritz's perturbation was not seasonal or
physiological. Something was in the air. The enemy was about
to strike.
Rain-No-More, because of the thaw, was making slow prog-
ress in his ride toward the Dôme. He had intended to risk the
river ice, but obviously that was impossible, so he skirted the
Missouri as best he could, on his tough pinto pony whose nat-
ural camouflage of brown and white made him almost invisible
while snow was on the ground. As at last he was nearing Muddy
Creek where the special train was moored, he felt an urge to
pause and approach the coaches with care.
The pinto, responding to a light pressure of Rain-No-More's
knee, ceased moving and stood like a statue while his rider
167


peered into the darkness. Having eyes like a cat, the young In-
dian saw leaning against the Melisande a man who looked
neither like a cowboy nor a railroad hand, and surely had no
connection with the visitors from the East. Dismounting, Rain-
No-More crept nearer. The intruder was trying to look into the
women's car through a slit in the curtains. Rain-No-More, hear-
ing a slight sound behind him, sidestepped and wheeled. An-
other man was approaching from the main-line tracks. The In-
dian glided behind a pile of railroad ties and saw the second
stranger join the first. From the Melisande the furtive pair went
down the track to the Dôme, where the curtains were open a
good six inches. Inside sat Hydrangea and Frémont, Tinted
Cloud and Unreal Bear, the two French police sergeants, Galilee
Zach and Corrigan, and on the tables before them were assorted
liqueurs in small glasses.
Keeping one eye on the suspicious pair, the Indian glanced
around. There were no horses in sight, except his own, but on
the main-line tracks he saw a shape that by an intense effort he
was able to identify as a handcar. Still, the intruders were not
a small one, but intended for a number of section hands. Ergo:
the intruders had either stolen it or borrowed it, and railroad
officials were strictly forbidden to lend one. Also, no railroad
man would leave a handcar sitting on the tracks of a main line.
As long as the two men stayed together, Rain-No-More could
think of no way to capture them without raising an alarm, but
when they separated to inspect the other coaches he stole noise-
lessly behind No. 1, choked off his wind, roped and gagged him
in a jiffy, then stretched him out behind the pile of ties before
his partner missed him. To stalk and truss up No. 2, who proved
to be young Santosuosso, was the work of a few seconds more.
Both of Rain-No-More's prisoners were unable to speak, al-
though they made muffled sounds from time to time, and the
Indian, with his racial instinct for the dramatic, uttered not a
word. He was thinking quickly, however.
168


The presence of young Santosuosso and another of the Santo
mob at Muddy Creek, when they should have been plying their
trade back East, had a history. The gangsters, when loaded into
box cars in the badlands by Hank and Hjalmar, were permitted
to take with them several dozen cartons of Fatima cigarettes.
Old Baldy Santo, chagrined at having been hijacked and de-
ported from the area where he was sure of protection, got his
mind to working before the locomotive had gained headway.
He thought first of burning a hole through the side of the box
car, but since the doors were locked he was not willing to take
the chance of being trapped and roasted alive. Noticing that
the Fatimas were wrapped in heavy lead foil he set his men to
unwrapping them and collecting the lead, which he rolled into
a sizeable ball and tied up in a pair of overalls. Using the weapon
as a sort of swinging ram, he succeeded, before the train had
reached Jamestown Junction, North Dakota, in breaking sev-
eral of the boards and making an opening large enough to per-
mit escape. He had no funds, so he hid his gang in an empty
gondola on a siding until dark, then robbed the local bank, get-
ting not only twelve thousand dollars in gold but several spare
automatics and some ammunition which had been left in the
vault for safe-keeping. Armed, he held up the railroad lunch
room as soon as it was rid of its last legitimate customer, fed
his boys, took along the cook and funkey, then phoned Gilli-
gan's lawyer in Glendive and got an address, which turned out
to be the local hookshop, where he and his gang could hide.
Gilligan, as soon as he got back to Glendive from the badlands,
arranged to have the fugitives transported to Wibaux, Mon-
tana, and entertained there until further notice.
Thus it was that young Santosuosso, under strict orders but
also harboring thoughts of personal revenge, chanced to be
peeking into the Melisande when he felt firm fingers on his
windpipe and a rope that squeezed like a constrictor binding
up his limbs.
169


Coincidently, in the ranch house at Three Buttes, forty miles
distant, Homer Evans was observing the undue restlessness of
Moritz the dog. It was nearing bedtime, for the workers on the
ranch had to hit the hay early in order to roll out at dawn. As
soon as everyone had scattered to his or her respective bed or
bunk, Miriam had noticed that Moritz was not disposed to lie
down on his warm Piegan rug of gray, blue and red. The Boxer
was trying in his patient way to communicate his forebodings
to her, an unkindness she knew the dog would never commit
without reason. A tap sounded on the door and, since Moritz
showed relief instead of displeasure, she knew it must be Homer.
"Come in,” she whispered, making a cursory survey of her
pale orchid nightgown.
To her surprise, Evans was fully dressed for out of doors. He
cautioned her to be quiet, then asked her to dress warmly and
join him at the kitchen door. Moritz looked up questioningly
and Evans nodded. “Yes, old boy. You're going with us. In
fact, you're to be the brains of this expedition, if we have any,"
he whispered.
Trembling with excitement, Miriam got into her riding
clothes, and before strapping on her automatic, she examined
it almost affectionately to be sure it was in order. In France,
when she had been obliged to bump off several men* and wing
numerous others, she had done so, not with hesitation, which
would have been fatal, yet never with relish. But to get a pot-
shot at an enemy of her adored father, that was a cartridge of
another caliber. She did not want Gilligan and his toadies
merely to be punished according to the statutes. She wanted to
dish out his and their deserts in person, and was so shocked
when a fleeting thought of scalping them in the bargain tray-
ersed her mind that she sat down on the bed in dismay.
Downstairs, Jim Leonard and Evans were in deep conversa-
• The Mysterious Mickey Finn, Modern Age, 1939.
Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre, Random House, 1940.
Mayhem in B-Flat, Random House, 1940.
170


tion, the rancher somewhat more subdued than was usual with
him. For his sharp ears, trained by a lifetime in the open, had
caught the first of Homer's footsteps on the attic stairs, and
when Evans had descended, the rancher, shotgun in hand, had
been watching him from the foot of the stairs. That Homer was
smiling, in spite of the gravity of the situation, was due to the
fact that he, also alert to an incredible degree, had seen the old
man's parental gesture although he had pretended not to notice.
Quickly Evans explained that he wished to investigate the
anxiety of Moritz the dog, and wanted Miriam to go with him.
“Won't one of the men do better?” asked Jim Leonard.
"Can you find me one who can shoot as well in starlight and
"You got me there," admitted the rancher proudly. “I taught
her to hold her first rifle, but now she can give me cards and
spades.”
“I think you ought to tell Hank to keep watch around the
buildings until we get back. No telling who may prowl around.
There's no one at the moment, or Moritz would bark, but
when he's away you couldn't be sure.”
Gently the old rancher extended his hand and touched the
boxer on the scruff of the neck. "He's a damn smart dog," Jim
said, and Moritz wagged his stump of a tail, left-right, left-
right.
Rain-No-More, by the tracks at Muddy Creek, had come to
a decision. His nearest counselor was the medicine man of the
for Trout-tail's predecessors had believed there was mystic vir-
tue in the east, in fact, that good medicine blew from east to
west. So the Blackfeet medicine men had always camped near
the eastern border of the reservation. Rain-No-More's problem
was to transport the two prisoners across country. He knew that
Frémont's detachment kept a couple of saddle horses in a
lean-to near the freight shed. Quickly the Indian unhitched the
171


horses, and, with difficulty, since the animals were frisky in the
chill night air, loaded on young Santosuosso and his pal, and
roped them securely. Retrieving his pinto, he led them through
the icy creek and westward in the direction of Trout-tail's lodge.
Before departing, however, Rain-No-More, believing that
Homer Evans would soon put in an appearance, scratched an
arrow in the snow, and at its tip a medicine hat to indicate his
destination. Behind the arrow he made three marks, two in
advance, side by side and linked together, and one following.
That would mean, to the discerning eye, that there were three
in the party, all were mounted, and that two were prisoners.
From the wide board porch of Opera Lodge, Evans, with
Miriam at his side, glanced at the stars.
“Eleven o'clock,” he said, "Mountain Time.”
The night was clear and, luckily for Homer, the wird after
sunset had blown cold, so the bare slopes were comparatively
dry and a thin crust was on the snow. The thaw had done its
work with such incredible rapidity that Bison Creek, which had
been a mere ribbon, had become a careening freshet, rolling
chunks of ice and large fragments of rock along the bottom.
“Where are we going, Homer," asked Miriam, “or shouldn't
"We shall leave that to Moritz," Evans said, and at the men-
tion of his name the Boxer stiffened, let out an almost silent
bark, humped his sturdy back and with one of those surprising
bursts of speed that contrasted so vividly with his usual staid
behavior, Moritz raced like a streak down Bison Creek, a hun-
dred yards or so along the trail, then skidded, wheeled and
raced back again.
“Evidently we are going north,” said Evans. But just then
the Boxer, who was waiting for them by the far end of the
stable, forgot his exuberance and started sniffing. Cautiously,
nose to the ground, placing his huge feet deliberately, he circled
slowly, stopped, looked inquiringly at Evans, then started north-
ward, evidently following a trail of some kind.
um.
172


"Maybe he smells a coyote or a jack rabbit. He's never been
out West before,” said Miriam.
"Neither a coyote nor a rabbit rolls from side to side, like a
sailor, as he walks. The former lopes or single foots, the latter
hops," Evans said. “No, the scent our friend Moritz has hit
upon is that of a man, and one who takes long strides and stops
to rest too often. A short man in a hurry, I should say, and one
who is not in the best of condition."
"There are no short-winded runts on the ranch, or anywhere
around this country," Miriam said.
“Precisely,” agreed Evans. “Moritz, like me, is attracted by
the unusual.”
"Oh, are you, Homer?” breathed Miriam, standing close to
him. ... When they looked down the trail again, Moritz was
standing still, one paw raised quizzically. The dog did not go on.
"He must have found something he wants me to see. That's
the most remarkable feat of intelligence our dog has performed
to date. It is true that bears, after two years on this hazardous
planet, learn that men follow them by sight and not by what
seems to them the more practical way. Therefore, a young
bear will cover his scent, when pursued, and leave tracks all
over the place, while an older bear will cover his tracks and
take chances with the wind. Moritz, when it comes to cerebra-
tion, needs no handicap from Bruin, which is a compliment,
indeed.”
And true to Evans' prediction, when they caught up with
the Boxer they saw a footprint half in the snow, half in the
frozen mud.
“A leather shoe. Not even overshoes,” said Homer. “Now
what short unathletic man would be ass enough to venture into
the lower Yellowstone region at this season in stylish low Ox-
fords?"
Miriam, quivering with excitement, let slip an answer.
“Baldy Santo,” she said, and at once grasped Homer's arm.
"I don't know why I said that. The words slipped out.”
173


“By Jove,” said Evans. "How blind I have been! In the
X-Ray, weeks ago, there was the story of a bank robbery in
Jamestown. Now that I think of it, the technique was like that
of the Santo mob, before they turned comparatively honest and
started running beer. An interesting possibility, and one not
flattering to me. I should have sent a guard with the gangsters
as far as Minneapolis, but of whom could one ask the favor of
riding, days on end, in a box car with chaps like those? Ah,
well, I daresay they would have come back again, anyway.”
"But isn't it better to have something on them, something
definite, I mean?” asked Miriam. “Now you can have them
arrested in North Dakota."
"Let's find them first,” said Homer, and Moritz wagged his
tail. “I'll stay here and study exhibit ‘A’ while you go back to
the ranch and saddle a couple of horses. Pick two that are well
shod. It's slippery as the devil underfoot.”
“I should not be likely to select a pair that had roller skates,"
said Miriam, with asperity, but quickly she smiled and set out
on her errand.
Homer began talking, experimentally, to Moritz and him-
self. “Now how could Monsieur Oxford approach the ranch,
from the windward side, in daylight, and not be seen or
smelled?” Evans asked, and the answer was not long in com-
ing. “At mealtime, which here is far too early, about six. I re-
member that Moritz was having his raw elk meat and hard
bread at the same time we were eating. Of course, no guard
had been posted. He didn't get fidgety until afterward. About
five hours ago, then, Mr. Oxford was standing on this spot,
which, I regret, cannot be marked with the definitive 'X' just
yet.”
Miriam approached with the horses, one the white-faced sor-
rel mare named Star which Jim Leonard had ridden on the
fateful day when, unknown to him, the late Donniker Louey
had been lying in wait. The other horse was a rangy dark roan
174


with all four feet and from any angle or direction. Jesse had
been practically an outlaw before Homer had arrived at Three
Buttes. When, on his first visit to the stable, Evans had stepped
into Jesse's narrow stall, Jim Leonard had turned gray and
shouted a warning and Miriam had nearly fainted. To the
astonishment of everyone concerned, and particularly the cow-
punchers who had given up Jesse as a bad job, the tall roan
had behaved as if he were in Sunday school. It was not so much
that Evans had selected Jesse as his favorite mount, as that Jesse
had adopted Homer. When, four days later, the outlaw had fol-
lowed Evans all across the yard to the steps of the ranch house,
whinnying contentedly, Slipnoose Pete, who had been laid up
three weeks the spring before with a broken collar bone on
Jesse's account, got roaring drunk and had to be forcibly re-
strained from riding to Glendive to buy himself a Mother Hub-
bard and applying for a job, any job except playing the piano,
in a certain group of buildings set apart from the town, sur-
rounded by a high board fence and marked with red lanterns
on each corner.
"If we are careful of our horses and don't cause them to break
their necks on this trail, we can make Muddy Creek by dawn,"
Evans said.
“How wonderful to be riding here alone at night! I have
dreamed of this, but I never dared tell you. Be honest, Homer.
Do you regret leaving Paris for a while?" asked Miriam.
“I have never regretted leaving anywhere. I have rebuked
myself afterward, for staying in certain places too long, but not
often,” he said. “We can talk of this at leisure, if Moritz doesn't
lose the Oxford chap."
So they mounted, and side by side they rode northward, over
the crests of hills, into treacherous declivities, at times with am-
ple foot room, again, in single file, where the horses stepped like
cats and sweated and trembled with apprehension but always
obeyed.
"I should like to live like the animals,” Homer quoted.
175


“Oh, please go on,” said Miriam, and beneath the cool Mon-
tana sky, as the miles rolled beneath them, Evans recited from
memory page after page of Leaves of Grass, while Moritz, nose
to the ground and panting, kept his mind on his work and found
it not too exacting. The Oxford chap, and a companion about
whom the dog had tried to inform Evans without success, be-
cause of the spell of Whitman, might have been humdingers
at broadjumping in Chicago but a Pekingese could have trailed
Herr Oxford as he had hiked downstream. Near the ranch
house he had hidden his trail.
The eight miles between Muddy Creek and the lodge of Trout-
tail III, the medicine man, were covered by Rain-No-More and
his prisoners in about eighty minutes, according to the stars.
But on the flat top of a butte, four miles from their destination,
Rain-No-More had paused and had built a signal fire, after the
manner of his race, with slender sticks in conical form. Conse-
quently the wise old medicine man, informed by the distant
glow that scullduggery was afoot, had the stage well set when
the son of his Chief arrived. At a sign from Rain-No-More, the
medicine man said not a word. He was painted railroad red
with black stripes running longitudinally, wearing the sardonic
furred Kit-Fox headdress and carrying in his hand, like a
torch, an implement wound with snakeskin and rattles.
Approaching the captives ominously he pointed with his
medicine stick to a tepee of elkskin stained with tribal and sym-
bolic designs, none of which was comforting in character. The
lodge was illuminated dimly with an evil blue light that issued
from a weasel's ribs, and the walls were lined with whitened
buffalo skulls spotted red and black on the foreheads.
“Cripes, what a joint! We're going to get the works,” said
young Santo's pal, known as Beetlebuzzer Tony.
Both Indians, as if shocked, hissed for silence, and when
young Santo showed signs of disregarding the admonition,
Trout-tail III evoked a yell of pain from him by prodding him
176


with the medicine stick which had, concealed by the rattlesnake
hide, a sharply pointed rat-tail file* in the tip, an accessory that
the medicine man ordered by the dozen from Montgomery
Ward. In former days, the tip had been fashioned of antelope
bones, but Trout-tail was a modern medicine man who saved
The bonds of the two gangsters were loosened and they were
re-bound in a squatting position, supportable but wearing on
the nerves. Reaching into a grotesquely painted sack, Trout-
tail brought forth a number of objects, including a bouquet of
dried newts and lizards, a nettle and cactus back scratcher, and
another gadget like a primitive horse syringe which was loaded
with crab-apple butter and an irritant distilled from dog's
mercury and squirrel manure. Each one of these he examined
and discarded in turn, but beneath his skillfully camouflaged
mask he was observing the effect of his act on the parties of the
second part and already had decided that Santo, fils, was a
tough egg, while Beetlebuzzer showed signs of being the
more tractable patient.
The movements of the medicine man were disconcerting, in
that they alternated between extreme unhurriedness and sudden
frenzy. In a period of calm, however, he rummaged more deeply
in his sack and came up with two packages, one green and red,
the other brown, with an animal medicine sign. They were, as
the reader has already guessed, Lucky Strikes and Camels, re-
spectively. The packs were sealed, and as the medicine man
was opening them, Beetlebuzzer let out a nervous exclamation.
“Gee, I'd walk a mile ..." he began, and his words were
cut off by an anguished yell as he felt the point of the rat-tail
file.
However, Trout-tail III held out the two packs to each of
buzzer the alternate brand. Soon the aroma of those two pop-
ular cigarettes mingled and blended with the smoke of the
* Catalogue No. 84 C 1464.
177


blue incense and the steam from a pot in which some gophers
and hoot owls were simmering. Then very softly, in a circle
around the lodge, tribal drums began to sound, not in unison,
but sweeping in a clockwise direction round and round. Shrill
willow flutes joined in as the drummers and dancers moved
nearer. The braves, not one uttering a word, wore raven feather
headdresses, were painted red, white and black, and each one
which, the prisoners knew, were equipped with the murderous
mail-order rat-tail files.
shadows crossed like scissors on the elkskin walls, and raven
ing, the drummers and flute players sat in a circle, continuing
their maddening beat, and from a carved chest near where the
prisoners were tied, Trout-tail began passing out live rattle-
snakes. That their fangs had been extracted, the gangsters did
not know, but the information may put the reader a bit more
at his ease. Young Santosuosso conveyed his comment by spit-
ting in the eye of the nearest snake, which evoked a tribal howl
of horror. But the mother of Beetlebuzzer Tony must have been
frightened by a snake, if indeed, she had not been one, for
Beetlebuzzer began to give evidence of panic that proved more
pungent than the combination of Lucky and Camel smoke,
blue incense and hoot owl stew.
Rain-No-More rose and left the lodge to get a little air and
some sleep. The grilling would not get fairly started until dawn,
he knew, and he was sure the medicine man would call him in
time, since no one else could question the captives or note down
their replies, spoken in what they believed to be English.
Had there been anyone within hearing distance, except the
thugs and the participants in the questioning, or intelligence
ceremony, he would have heard the drum beats circling all the
rest of the night, at a nerve-racking pace about like that of the
disc of an electric meter, near the end of the month. Each painted
178


"He will spew forth words as the Redwater pours forth water
in the spring. Or should I make him talk slowly? Do you
understand their baffling lingo, when they are under stress and
fail to aspirate between syllables?”
"These men speak the dialect of the Great Lakes regions.
Nevertheless, I can grasp the meaning of what they say,” Rain-
No-More assured him. “I should also tell you,” he continued,
“that one of my friends and white brothers, a man with the
strongest medicine I have yet encountered among strangers,
may call on us without delay. In fact, I shall be surprised if he
is not already in sight, arriving from an easterly direction.”
"Okh si u sa am o pi pete pin a pots im," said Trout-tail III,
concluding his sentence with a gesture toward the west. Trans-
lated, the proverb means: "Good medicine travels from east to
west,” but since there is no word for "west” in the Blackfeet
language, the mystic destination of the sun is indicated only by
motions and signs.
"You are sure young Santo will talk?” Rain-No-More per-
sisted.
The wise old medicine man smiled and whispered a few
words in Rain-No-More's ear, causing the latter to relax and
grin.
"A kai em e eat sis na taps sin" (Many (ways) to skin a cat),
Rain-No-More said.
"A a kan o" (many, indeed), agreed the medicine man.
"Here comes my friend, the white medicine man, with Bird
Cherry, daughter of Jim Leonard, also their thinking dog,” said
Rain-No-More, and he hastened across the flat to greet his guests.
Not one of the braves who were dancing and drumming, round
and round, moved as much as an eyelash as he passed.
"All animals think,” mused Trout-tail III, “but they speak
only to those equipped to understand them.”
180


Hockaday at their head. There were twelve of them, all armed
and deputized except Stumpbroke and Jill, the sheepherders,
and Tom Jackson, the reporter, who had come ostensibly to
cover the scoop for the Glendive X-Ray. All along the line Tom
had tried to slip away from Gilligan and warn Jim Leonard
by telephone, but the sheepman, who suspected that Tom was
capable of playing both ends against the middle, had not let
him out of his sight.
Homer Evans and Miriam, having been led to Muddy Creek
by Moritz, had there abandoned the trail of the party who wore
Oxfords and his more cautious companion, in spite of the loyal
"Eut.
message scratched in the snow, had made their way to the lodge
of Trout-tail III.
However, by the time the posse with the sheriff and Gilligan
mounted the next rise and was exposed to view, Aurora had
become more reasonable, and Hank had been able to stifle his
cravings and get back on the job. He pulled out his Smith &
Wesson and fired three times, a prearranged signal, and although
he did not aim at Gilligan, the bullets whistled close enough to
give the sheepman food for thought. The posse ducked into a
gully as Jim Leonard, the cowpunchers, Hjalmar, Kvek and
Grigori tumbled out of bed and into their clothes with no lost
motions. The Lees, Wing and Sam, started running across
country in their pajamas.
Around Opera Lodge, as a precaution against prairie fires,
was a rectangular swath of plowed land, and it was there that
Jim Leonard, with his men behind him, took his stand.
“I've had enough from you, Gilligan,” the rancher said, as
the sheepman approached on horseback. “The first of your
gang who steps over that plowed land gets daylight let through
him, and that's all I've got to say."
“Now, Jim, don't be unreasonable,” Gilligan said pacifically,
"I've come to help you clear yourself.”
“Let me drag that young punk with the badge off his horse
16"
182


and rearrange his puss,” said Hjalmar. “I never liked it the way
it is."
Lvov Kvek interposed politely. “At least we might toss a
coin for the privilege,” he said, fishing out a twenty-dollar gold
piece and flipping it into the air. It came to rest tails up, and the
former colonel sighed. Since a certain evening he had spent in
Des Moines with the precocious young daughter of K. Parker
Seldon * he had had no luck at cards or dice.
The men who had ridden to the ranch with Gilligan were
lined up hesitantly on the edge of the fire swath and none seemed
disposed to advance. On the inside rim stood Leonard and his
helpers, all r'arin' to go. Hockaday, the sheriff, appealed to Tom
Jackson.
"Ride over and talk sense to them,” the sheriff said. “You
represent the press.”
"Come on, Tom,” said Hjalmar, and Jim Leonard nodded.
“They've got a warrant to search for the body on Cottonwood
Creek,” the reporter said. “Where's Homer? He could handle
this bunch of palookas.”
"Homer rode down Bison Creek in the night, God knows
what for. Didn't you see him at Muddy Creek?” asked Hjalmar.
"No," said Jackson.
“We come on a lawful errand,” the sheriff yelled.
The rancher and Hank held a whispered consultation and
motioned the posse to advance, but all the cowpunchers kept
their hands near their holsters as Gilligan and his men rode up
to them.
"If the body's not found, the charges against you will be
dropped,” said Gilligan to Jim Leonard. “That's fair enough,
isn't it?"
The rancher scowled grimly. He wished Evans was on hand
the search go on.
* Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre, Random House, 1940.
183


"It's only a matter of form,” the sheriff said.
Jim Leonard was examining the members of the posse. Most
of them were from Glendive and depended in some way on
Gilligan for their livelihood. One small swarthy specimen,
however, wore city clothes and held on to his saddle horn,
shifting his position as often as possible, as if his crotch and
his legs were rubbed raw. As a matter of fact, they were.
“Who's the tenderfoot? Has he got a badge?" asked Hank.
"He's the father of the deceased, and he's come all the way
from Chicago to identify his son, if we find him," said Gilligan.
The Italian nodded and touched his black felt hat. He had
not raised his boy to be a gangster, but had hoped that Louey
would settle down and help him run his fruit stand.
Jim Leonard, touched by the look of sorrow on the old man's
brow, went up to him and held out his hand. The Italian began
to cry, and it was not long before the rancher was brushing
tears from his own eyes, the cowboys were turning away to hide
their emotion, and the Russians were embracing and sobbing
unrestrainedly.
“Rope a horse and round up the Chinks,” Jim Leonard said
gruffly. “Even sheepmen get hungry, and I've never turned a
man from my door.”
Slipnoose Pete and Laramee Bob, relieved to escape from the
touching scene, cut out a couple of bronchos from the bunch
in the corral and started after Wing Lee and Wing Sam, who
were hiding in the sagebrush near the hot and cold springs on
the west butte five hundred yards away.
"All a boy 'e bell no catchum bleakfast,” said Pete.
“Topside cop 'e catchum China boy. Bung um one piece jail,”
said Wing Lee, his teeth chattering.
"No bung um China boy. Look see belong one piece dead
fella,” said Laramee Bob.
At the mention of the corpse, both Chinks started running
again and would have escaped had not the cowpunchers lassoed
them and led them back to the kitchen, protesting and squeal-
184


ing. Once at work, however, Wing Lee had the presence of
mind to sprinkle one pot of rolled oats with calomel, which he
also poured liberally into the pitcher of condensed milk. With
twenty thousand cattle many of which were cows on the range,
no ranch hand could ever be induced to milk a dogie. They got
their years' supply from Sears Roebuck in cans.
In the lodge of Trout-tail III, about fifty miles to the north,
an unexpected development was upsetting the medicine man's
careful plans. Evans, after greeting the wise old conjurer re-
spectfully, had taken a look at the prisoners, young Santo and
Beetlebuzzer, and, in spite of the stench in the medicine tepee
had detected an odor he had easily identified. On returning to
where Miriam was standing, Evans smiled.
“Our medicine man, I notice, uses marijuana (cannabis In-
dica) in order to soften up his clients. With Beetlebuzzer the
soothing weed has worked mercifully and admirably, but no
one informed Trout-tail that young Santo had been smoking
reefers practically from birth and is sent, but by no means
spent,” Evans said.
"I hope I won't have to listen to a lot of screaming,” said
Miriam. “Those flutes and drums fascinate me, but they set
my nerves on edge, too."
“That's what they are for,” said Homer.
Moritz the dog was seated on his haunches, following the
progress of the dancers, round and round. The Boxer had
learned to like the redmen and their ways, because wherever
they were to be found the air was redolent with strange and
interesting smells.
• The circle of dancers, smeared with red, black and white,
with raven feathers in their hair, had been withdrawn some
distance from the tepee in which Santo and Beetlebuzzer were
sitting, with no company except a few loose snakes. One of the
serpents, however, was not a tame rattler but an outside bull
snake who had crawled in to search for easy prey. For bull
185


snakes earn their place in the sun by subduing deadly rattlers
by constriction and eating them afterward. The bull snake in
question had just left his winter shelter, in response to the rays
of the blushing Aurora and had an appetite sharpened by sev-
eral weeks of fasting. Nevertheless, he was curious about
Beetlebuzzer and, winding himself around the shuddering
gangster he mounted first his leg, then his torso and curled
around his neck. At that point, young Santo had an inspira-
tion. He knew his pal was about to crack and squeal as soon as
the Indians returned, so, leaning forward painfully he took the
bull snake's tail in his teeth and bit it. The snake, outraged and
angry, hissed and tightened his coils around the helpless gang-
ster's neck, and the tighter he squeezed Beetlebuzzer's windpipe
the harder Santo bit. The victim turned mauve, then purple,
his eyes began to pop, his tongue sagged out three inches. Before
the medicine man returned from his conference with Evans,
his only promising patient was stone dead.
“I haven't lost a case before in years," said Trout-tail III shame-
facedly.
“There's no time to waste,” said Evans, eyeing young Santo
sternly. “If Miriam will retire to the guest lodge, and take
Moritz with her, I should like to try my medicine on this young
upstart. You don't mind a consultation?”
Trout-tail III bowed courteously. “My dear colleague, I am
honored,” he said.
Rain-No-More smiled. “May I watch?” he asked.
"I deserve no credit," Evans said. “I happen to know this
patient's weakness, that's all. He has a horror of scalps. So I'm
going to relieve him of his own.”
"It's always the simple home remedies that escape our atten-
tion,” said Trout-tail, graciously concealing his chagrin.
"Homer Evans,” said Miriam, her eyes blazing indignantly.
“You wouldn't ..."
braves bore Miriam, kicking and expostulating furiously, to the
186


distant guest lodge. Moritz, bewildered by the clash of interests
between his master and his mistress, considered the situation a
brief moment, then followed Miriam and touched her hand
with his damp muzzle to comfort her. Faintly on the morning
air came to her ears a piercing scream and blasphemous en-
treaty, then a tribal warwhoop by the braves in unison. At the
same instant she saw Evans beckoning and running, and Rain-
No-More and Trout-tail III catching tough young ponies and
mounting them. Forgetting her resentment, Miriam streaked
toward the horses, too, and soon was astride the spirited Star,
who, in spite of having carried her fifty miles over a treacherous
trail was willing to start home again and give the best she had.
Evans, however, could take no chances on losing time.
“We'll leave our horses here and ride back on ponies,” he
said, and the braves caught two more pintos and shifted the
saddles while Homer explained the need for haste.
“Gilligan's on the way to Three Buttes with a posse,” said
Evans. “He thinks he's going to find Louey's body on Cotton-
wood Creek.”
Rain-No-More said nothing, but inwardly he smiled.
At the head of Cottonwood Creek, ten miles west of the ranch
house, a grim group was gathered. The gully was exposed to
the morning sun so that the snow had disappeared in large
patches and the ground was moist. Gilligan and the sheriff, each
with a shovel, were walking back and forth and it did not
escape the alert eyes of Hank, the foreman, that the sheepman
was unobtrusively sighting on a peak in the distant badlands
and getting himself in line between it and another butte miles
away on the reservation.
“Ah," said the sheepman, at last. “What's this?”
Jim Leonard came up gruffly; then his face turned crimson
with rage and surprise. There was an oblong patch of ground,
six feet by three, where sod had been lifted and replaced, and
not recently but weeks or months before.
187


“A grave,” said Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux, uncovering in a
perfunctory way.
It was Hjalmar Jansen, however, who got right into action.
Grabbing the sheriff's shirt tail, the painter pulled it out and
before Hockaday could draw his gun his face was covered and
his arms securely pinned by his own flannel shirt. Diluvio, quick
to grasp an idea, gave Gilligan the leg and was sitting on him
before the most practiced orator could have said “Jack Robin-
son."
“Not one of you will touch a thing around here until Homer
Evans comes,” said Hjalmar. “And that's flat."
“Ah, Jansen, little pigeon of the woodlands, how you take
the words from my mouth,” said Colonel Kvek, collaring the
shrinking fruit dealer from Chicago, who began to ask aid of
the Virgin and a long list of saints. Tom Jackson got out his
Leica and asked the other members of the posse and the cow-
boys to step back while he took shots of the spot which gave
promise of winning its letter as soon as Evans put in an appear-
ance.
"I'm innocent,” protested Jim Leonard, and Diluvio shifted
his position to sit heavily on Gilligan's evil grin.
Meanwhile, Homer Evans, Miriam, Rain-No-More and
Trout-tail III were streaking up Bison Creek toward Three
Buttes on their tough pinto ponies. The trail was soft and dan-
gerous because of the strong spring sun and landslides which
had swept the sidehills clean and choked the raging creek.
Moritz tried to keep up for a while, then lagged behind until
the riders were lost to his sight. From the crest of a hill several
miles away they saw smoke rising in the usual way from the
chimney of the ranch house, but when they passed the stable
at a lope they learned that all the men except Wing Lee and
Wing Sam were away.
"Topside cop an' plenty luffnecks go for catchim dead fella,"
Wing Lee explained.
188


"As I thought,” said Evans, to Miriam. Then, of Wing Lee,
he asked: “Gilligan 'e go?”
The Chinks nodded. It was apparent that they were much
relieved because Evans was back again.
"Boss 'e go?”
“Boss plenty hot. Make talky talk, baim-by 'e go. You ting
luffnecks catchim one-piece dead fella?”.
"More than likely,” Evans said.
“Father belong im dead fella go with topside cop. Luffnecks,
bull-a-ma-cowboys, boss all plenty cly. Me no savvy what for
boss 'e sorry too much,” Wing Lee said.
"Ai ting ai go Glendive, maybe Minneap'lis,” Wing Sam
said. “Ai no likee see dead fella, luffnecks, cops, two fellas
plenty stink ’e herd um sheep.”
“But Homer,” said Miriam. “They won't find a dead man,
or will they?”
"If not, I shall be surprised,” Evans said. “But let's go and
see. And Wing Sam, don't go to Glendive. We shall all be
hungry presently."
No-More catch fresh bronchos in the corral, appeared in the
the red and black paint or his weird regalia, and the sight of
him proved too much for the jittery Chinese. Side by side they
dived through the open window, squealing, and ran into the
brush again.
An hour later, the sharp eyes of Hank the foreman saw four
riders approaching the head of Cottonwood Creek at breakneck
speed.
“Here they come,” he said, pointing, and everyone sighed
with relief.
“Who's that with them?” asked the Professor, squinting.
"Looks like a couple of Indians."
Hjalmar untied the knots in the sheriff's flannel shirt and
189


nodded to Diluvio to let Gilligan stand up and stretch himself.
Kvek and the old Italian from Chicago had become firm friends,
since the Russian spoke Italian perfectly and had been pleased
to have a chance to brush up on the language.
Evans, who was the first to reach the party, dismounted from
his broncho while the horse was still skidding to a standstill.
“These friends of yours have been resisting officers of the
law. I'm going to run them in,” the sheriff said.
Homer smiled. “You'll have enough to do, without wasting
your time on trivial offenses,” he said. “And understand this
right away. You, too, Gilligan! If you take anyone, dead or
alive, away from this range it will be because we want you to.
I'm going to give you plenty of rope and let you hang your-
selves, figuratively speaking. In fact, I shouldn't be surprised
if you both looked up a limb before we're through with you."
"We got a warrant,” said Gilligan.
“I see you brought shovels, too. Suppose you start digging,
since you came so well prepared. But don't imagine I haven't
noticed how conveniently this grave is situated to make work
to see you fudge in the spot where the body is to be found
between the highest butte in the badlands and the only one in
sight to the north,” Homer said. He appeared to be looking
straight at Gilligan, who flushed with mortification, but Evans
was observing the behavior of the sheepherders, Jill and Stump-
broke, and was pleased to see them wince.
Gilligan and the sheriff untied short-handled shovels from
behind their saddles and handed them to the sheepherders, who
started to dig. The sod was removed and carefully laid aside,
and as the hole deepened the pile of fresh earth grew. When
they had reached a depth of three feet, Stumpbroke grunted and
hopped nervously out of the grave. He had uncovered a human
foot in a tan leather Oxford. The old Italian, tears streaming
down his face and muttering prayers, threw himself into the
190


hole and got down on his knees, sobbing. “Louey, my only little
boy. May God be merciful,” he said.
“But you haven't seen his face," said Miriam, touched by
the old man's grief as her father had been. Dr. Toudoux was
standing by, solemnly, hat in hand, and slowly all the men
uncovered.
“Don't cry. You can't be sure just yet,” persisted Miriam.
The old Italian raised his tear-stained face, as if grateful for
her sympathy. “It his-a shoe. I bought 'em. Box’a calf Oxford,
$3.95, Italian store, North Chicago.”
Jim Leonard stepped up to the side of the grave and placed
a hand on the old man's shoulder. “I didn't kill your boy,” he
said. “I never even saw him.”
"You admit that you fired a shot,” said Gilligan.
“Not at anything in particular. I thought I saw something
moving, that's all,” the rancher said.
Evans interposed with a question. “You had a rifle. Was it
by any chance that one I saw last night within reach of your
bed? The Remington 30-40."
“There ain't no such thing as a Remington 30-40," the sheriff
said.
"Perhaps I was mistaken. Maybe it was a 40-40 Winchester,"
Evans said.
Miriam's face showed bewilderment. It was not like Evans
to blunder. The sheriff nodded. “That's more like it,” he said.
“Now let's go on with the work."
"Permit me,” said Evans, taking a shovel from Stumpbroke
and stepping into the grave.
"Is this regular?” asked Gilligan.
"Let the dude find out what it's like to swing a muck stick,"
the sheriff said.
Skillfully Evans removed the dirt from above and around
the body and when the face was uncovered the Italian threw
himself flat on the ground and lay there half-conscious, moaning
"Louey. My poor-a kid. My poor-a littla boy." Tom Jackson's
191


Leica was clicking at full speed as he aimed it into the grave,
the tell-tale shoes which had set back the old fruit dealer $3.95,
the posse, the shovels and particularly the vividly painted medi-
cine man. Now that he was the owner of a paper, he did not
stint himself when it came to illustrations. As a matter of fact,
he had pepped up the X-Ray until it was read all the way from
Butte to Fargo, had increased its size from four to eight pages,
three of which were paying ads, and had secured the services
of Myra, wife of Judge Patterson, as editor of the society columns
and the women's page.
The county coroner, Doc Lougee, began pottering around
ineffectively until Evans introduced Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux,
as the famous medical examiner of Paris, and asked the sheriff's
permission to let Toudoux handle the post mortem. Hockaday,
believing that expert testimony from a well-known doctor would
bolster up his case, nodded acquiescence.
"The deceased died instantly, without pain ...” he began.
"Ah, Dio grazia. Maria grazia," cried the Italian. The Rus-
sheepherders' heads together. Miriam rushed to her father and
buried her face on his shoulder.
"Oh, Dad,” she said. "I won't let them take you away. I
won't. I won't.”
“The law'll have to take its course,” said Hockaday.
about four months ago, between four and five, caused by a
bullet fired from a rifle at a range of less than one hundred
yards, about eighty, I should say. The projectile pierced the
heart wall, was deflected from a rib and is lodged somewhere
near the kidneys, if I am not mistaken.”
"Was the deceased lying flat on his stomach in the sagebrush
when he was shot?” asked Evans.
Gilligan again looked uncomfortable.
“He was erect when hit by the bullet,” said Dr. Toudoux.
192


“Are you sure?” asked the sheriff.
“I am not accustomed to pronouncing my opinions loosely,”
the doctor said. “The deceased was erect and the bullet was
fired by a man also standing and on the same level.”
“What caliber was the bullet?” the sheriff asked.
"I will tell you later, after I have extracted it," said Dr.
Toudoux.
"It was fired from a Winchester 40-40,” said Evans laconically.
Both Gilligan and the sheriff sneered. “Can you qualify as
an arms expert in a court of law?" the latter asked.
Homer smiled. “As a matter of fact, I can,” he said. “If you
will take the trouble to look up Commonwealth vs. Ledbetter,
Mass. Superior Court, pages 204 to 276 of the testimony, you
will find that the presiding judge was generous enough to thank
me for clearing up a number of rather tricky points. In that
case, the murderer used an artificially heated Luger, expanded
to carry an off-size bullet."
"Where is your Winchester 40-40? I'll have to take it along,"
the sheriff asked Jim Leonard.
"It's right here in my hand, but you're welcome to it,” the
rancher said. “The day I rode out here and fired it, I didn't once
get off my horse, and you heard the doctor say the shot was
fired by a man on foot.”
"Maybe the horse was kneeling down,” said Gilligan.
“I'm going to ask Judge Patterson to rescind the bail,” the
sheriff said.
“I'm not going to run away,” Jim Leonard said.
“It wouldn't be healthy to try," the sheriff retorted.
"Shall I work on his puss?” asked Hjalmar of Evans.
“I have other plans,” Homer said.
Meanwhile, Rain-No-More and Trout-tail III were deep in
consultation. Alternately they peered into the open grave, then
over toward the Missouri. Observing their preoccupation, Evans
stooped down to arouse the whimpering father.
193


“Tell me," he said in fluent Italian. "Did your son always
have such a good head of hair?”
on vaseline, bay rum, $1.75. He was mucha proud. Mucha ladies'
man. I pay $40 to get him out of woman scrape before he was
twelva years old,” said the Italian.
"Is your name Luigi, too?" Homer asked.
"No, you don't. The American language is good enough for
us out here. If you speak any more Wop, I'll run you in,” said
the sheriff, suddenly growing suspicious.
“That would be an interesting charge. Dawson county vs.
Evans et al. For speaking Italian,” Evans said, but he shifted
to English and asked the fruit man again if his name was Louis
or Luigi.
“My name'sa Mike," the Italian said.
"Maybe your father's name, or one of your brother's names
was Luigi, or was the boy born on St. Louis' day, or in St. Louis,
perhaps?” Evans persisted.
"Say, what's all this about. Is it getting us anywhere?” asked
Gilligan.
“Just idle curiosity,” said Evans.
"Sure. The boy he have an Uncle Luigi. I name-a him Louis
for him," the Italian said.
"Let's go back to the ranch," said Hank. “I want some grub.
I'm not used to finding stiffs around the coulees, and it upsets
me. Gets me to thinking about going to town to blow my
winter's wages.”
“A good bat sure soothes a man,” the Professor said.
194


Science Makes, Perhaps Not Strange Bedfellows
but Unusual Pals
THE SHERIFF left two of his deputies on guard, while others set
out for the ranch for a wagon to cart the remains to the railroad.
But when Jim Leonard and his party started for home, Evans
lingered behind and asked Miriam and Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux
to join him. Instead of heading east toward Opera Lodge,
Homer rode slowly down Cottonwood Creek, which had dou-
bled its volume that morning and by evening would be washing
rocks, stumps and the carcasses of cattle into the Redwater.
“Ingenious fellow, Gilligan," he said, as Miriam's broncho
sidled over to his and caused their knees to rub.
"It's a frame-up,” Miriam said indignantly. "But how can
we clear Father without involving Rain-No-More?”
“That is the least of my troubles,” Evans said. Then suddenly
he slid off his horse. “Exactly as I expected,” he said, pointing
to a clump of weeds with broad leaves deeply cleft and tight
buds that showed a streak of blue.
"Delphinium exaltatum,” said Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux.
“None other. The deadly larkspur,” agreed Homer.
195


“Why, I don't understand,” said Miriam, aghast. “I've never
seen larkspur on our range before. I've heard dad say that
Gilligan planted it on his side of the deadline, but there should-
n't be any growing here.”
A painted figure suddenly appeared beside them, as if it had
sprung from the ground. “Excuse me. I didn't mean to startle
you,” said Trout-tail III, “but I also was interested in the flora
of this watershed. I noticed this morning, as we rode up Bison
Creek, that there was larkspur there."
“We must go back to the ranch at once and consult with your
father and Hank,” Homer said to Miriam. “I think this explains
why the two sheepherders chanced to be so far off their range,
and maybe why young Gilligan is absent today. By the way,
when does Gilligan bring his sheep back from Idaho?”
"Not before the last of May,” Trout-tail said. “The larkspur
is not harmful in that season. Only in early spring."
“Damnation,” said Evans. “And the only antidote is potas-
sium permanganate. We haven't any, and can't get a supply for
several days. Leonard will lose hundreds of cattle, if, as I suspect,
the creeks on the Yellowstone side have been planted with
delphinium too."
"If you will pardon me for making a suggestion,” Trout-tail
III began, “I think I can be of service. Several years ago, when
tribal funds were low because of the panic of 1907, I made a
thorough study of larkspur poisoning, to save our horses. Per-
manganate was expensive, so I found that the oil of the prairie
rattler ..."
“Crotalis confluentus," gasped Dr. Toudoux.
Trout-tail nodded. "We call it sow kee kom o sit,” he said.
"A snake by any other name ..." murmured Evans.
“My dear colleague,” said Dr. Toudoux, "your discovery is
of immense scientific importance. With your permission I shall
lay your results before the Academy of Science at the Sorbonne.
Or better, as chairman of the board of directors, I shall invite
you personally to appear, with or without your paint and feath-
196


ers. Do you use the oil of this lowly but beneficent serpent
straight or diluted, may I inquire?”
Trout-tail III smiled. “For the benefit of my tribesmen, who
are keenly sensitive to the dramatic or suggestive, I sprinkle
in a few powdered hairs from the tails of white spotted horses.
But the other medicinal ingredient is a vegetable compound
invented and distributed by a paleface squaw, called Lydia, I
believe. One drop of this inexpensive and miraculous liquid
will render two gallons of snake oil efficacious not only against
larkspur poisoning but the dry heaves and spring halt as well.”
"I shall invite Mme. Lydia to appear with you at the Sor-
bonne. We shall create a sensation. The world of science will
rock and resound,” said Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux.
Evans leaped astride his broncho, which gave evidence of his
surprise in both voluntary and involuntary ways and started
bucking, backward, forward and sidewise, spine arched, front
legs stiff, eyes gleaming. Homer scarcely paid attention, but
motioned Trout-tail III to jump up behind him. Afraid he
might have to carry the whole party if he did not behave, the
broncho snorted and subsided. Miriam, who could make better
time because her horse bore the lightest load, streaked ahead
to prepare the buckaroos for action. Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux
lagged behind, reflecting that, as the only married man in the
outfit, he owed it to his family to take better care of himself
than the others were disposed to do.
Since early morning, Moritz the dog had been plodding pa-
tiently toward Three Buttes from the Indian reservation. He
kept up a steady trot, pausing now and then to sniff or to frown
regretfully at a fleeing jack rabbit that seemed to know just
tours. The Boxer, having covered the ground before, was able
to avail himself of numerous short-cuts, but in crossing a small
coulee, a tributary of Bison Creek, Moritz stopped short, one
large paw in the air, and strained his ears and nostrils. He had
caught a whiff which resembled, in a sturdier way, the faint
197


scent of the chap with Oxfords who had lured him from the
ranch house the night before.
Now it was seldom in his career that Moritz had been entirely
on his own. In former crises there had been someone to guide
him, with varying degrees of judgment and discretion. The
Boxer, warm and panting from his arduous run, sat down in the
midst of a clump of sage where he was well concealed and started
thinking. What to do? He was about half way between the
ranch house and Muddy Creek, roughly twenty miles from a
human habitation. First, he decided to have a look at Oxfords,
and for that purpose moved down the coulee stealthily, from
bush to bush, until he spotted his man, who proved to be young
Terry Gilligan. The latter seemed to be engaged in pulling up
weeds furiously and chucking them into the swift waters of the
coulee.
The dog sat down again, and the efforts he made at cerebra-
tion caused the frown on his forehead to deepen and his eyes to
grow sad. Terry Gilligan, whom he knew to be an enemy, had
strapped around his middle a cartridge belt and near his right
hip a holster which bulged. That, from Moritz's point of view,
was bad. He could not bite through the belt in time to detach
the gun and disarm the young man, and neither could he buck
hot bullets. If he went to Opera Lodge for help, and was able
to make anyone understand, the puller-up of weeds might escape
in the meantime. A dull throbbing began to pulse around
Moritz's temples and he brushed his hot forehead with the back
to him. That young Gilligan was up to some deviltry, Moritz
did not doubt for a moment, and it was also certain that, having
performed his errand, he would not be likely to go up the creek
toward the ranch house, but would make his getaway down-
stream. At Muddy Creek, across from where Bison Creek emp-
tied into the Missouri, stood the line of special cars in which were
friendly, if obtuse, fellow travelers. In a jiffy, the sleek Boxer
was off and away, but he had traveled far since midnight and
198


seen and smelled some harrowing things, so it was a thoroughly
exhausted dog who staggered up the steps of the Dôme car two
hours later and scratched insistently on the door.
“Come in,” yelled Cromwell, the waiter, thinking the visitor
was a Blackfeet brave. The scratching continued and the waiter
threw open the door. “Well, I'll be jiggered,” he said. “Come
right in. Boy, but you're tired.” And the waiter reached to a
shelf for a huge elk bone.
Moritz, however, tempted as he was by the prospect of food
and water, made straight for Chief of Detectives Frémont, who
was sitting with Hydrangea playing dominoes.
“Welcome, beast from Boston," Frémont said. “Is Monsieur
Evans with you?”
The Boxer shook his head. “He's come all alone to see us,”
said Hydrangea.
Moritz sat down, and again his head began to throb. Just how
should he begin? First he crouched in an alert position and
started off toward Bison Creek, but no one followed him,
although Cromwell, thinking he wanted to play, tossed a golf
ball after him. That, the dog ignored in a slightly exasperated
way.
"Now that's funny. He's thirsty and tired and alone, and he
doesn't want to eat, drink, rest or play,” said Cromwell.
It was at that point that the princesses Tinted Cloud and
Unreal Bear got into action. The former called to Moritz, the
other sat square in front of him, on his own level on the floor,
to observe and listen attentively. Again Moritz, more hopeful
this time, made a jump toward Bison Creek and waited.
“Gruff Moon! White Lightning! Stir yourselves at once.
Follow the dog and your devoted Nono and Bébé as fast as you
can. How unfortunate that someone has stolen our horses,” said
Unreal Bear, strapping on her hunting knife and six-shooter
with one hand as she rearranged her black braids with the other.
Sergeants Schlumberger and Bonnet, pleased at the prospect
of a frolic in the hills, got up to go. Frémont, alarmed, was about
199


to follow them, but Hydrangea detained him with a flood of
entreaties. He should not leave the train unprotected, she said,
and Tinted Cloud agreed.
"Soo ops a ke kon it sin na taps sin ni" (Squaws will locate
trouble), she said.
Moritz, given new strength and courage by his luck in finding
apt collaborators, lapped up a small dish of water, swallowed a
few chunks of elk meat, which he had grown to like better than
beef, and led the two princesses and the eager sergeants across
the creaking footbridge and over to Bison Creek. There he sat
down and confronted the princesses. Each time they tried to
follow him closely he sat down again, and the third time Unreal
Bear caught on.
"The wise dog wants to go ahead of us. He thinks someone
may be coming,” said Unreal Bear.
That proposition proved to be entirely agreeable to the
Frenchmen, who, if the truth must be told, had not grasped
the gravity of the situation and had other things on their minds
than cross-country hiking per se.
The Boxer's plan proved to be a sound one, for they had not
proceeded more than seven or eight miles before he caught the
Oxford scent on the breeze and saw Terry Gilligan at work with
some tall weeds on Bison Creek proper. Quickly he hurried
back to where Tinted Cloud and Schlumberger were examining
some stemless prairie violets and blood red snow plant which
had bloomed in profusion up and down the gully. Tinted
Cloud had placed a chain of violets in her raven hair and, laugh-
ingly, had stuck a couple of buzzard feathers behind Schlum-
berger's ears.
"Behave, Gruff Moon! See, here comes the thinking dog.
You have work to do," said Tinted Cloud, and in an adjoining
When Moritz started cautiously up the canyon again, the
Indian girls followed swiftly on their hands and knees, and the
sergeants, with a rueful glance at their pin-striped and neatly
200


Cloud turned around and motioned them to be more quiet. Un-
real Bear was the first to sight Young Gilligan, and coincident-
ally Tinted Cloud snatched a large floating weed as it was
rushing by in the waters of the creek and stifled an exclamation.
“Larkspur,” she said to herself. “Now why should an enemy
rid the Leonard range of larkspur?”
From early childhood she had been accustomed to leave com-
plicated questions like that to the tribal medicine man, Trout-
tail III, who loved the princesses as if they were his own daugh-
ters, of which he had sixteen, although no one else knew it.
They had resulted from certain ceremonies, for the relief of
childless squaws whom Trout-tail had rendered tactful by the
judicious use of loco weed, or marijuana.
Tinted Cloud made up her mind that they must capture
Gilligan and take him to the medicine lodge for grilling. A whis-
pered consultation was held by the lithe and sprightly sisters
and soon they were crawling on what would have been their
bellies had not their life in the open made them too firm and
slender. They approached the unsuspecting Terry from behind.
At a prearranged signal they dove at the young man, one pin-
ning his arms, the other his legs, while Moritz, who had slipped
up beside them, took the holster in his jaws and held on, swing-
ing like the damsel in the bell scene from "The Heart of Mary-
land.” Within five minutes, Schlumberger and Bonnet had
reached the scene of action and took young Gilligan in hand.
As the sergeants and the girls started downstream with their
captive, bound for the reservation, Moritz sighed a grateful
farewell and trotted wearily to Opera Lodge.
201


Of the Sinful Proclivities of Man
and the Universality of Music
MIRIAM'S ENTRY into the dining room of Opera Lodge was not
a conventional one, but it had the desired effect. She threw
herself from the back of her galloping bronc as he brushed past
an open window, and leaped inside, her eyes blazing and a gun
in each hand.
"Hands up, every one of you who doesn't belong here," she
said. “And don't make any false moves. That means you, espe-
cially, Gilligan.” Her guns spoke, right and left, and with
audible tinkling both Gilligan's spur wheels flew off and pinged
against the wall ... “And you, you cheap young crook,” she
said to Hockaday, “if I didn't want the pleasure of seeing you
hanged, I'd drill you right here and now."
“Steady, my girl,” cautioned Jim Leonard. "He represents
the law, you know.”
“He represents a lot of tinhorn politicians, but he isn't going
to for long," said Miriam, just as Homer Evans and Trout-tail
III, the latter still vividly painted, leaped into the room. Mean-
while, Hank and the cowpunchers had got the members of the
202


posse well covered and the latter were reaching for the ceiling
as avidly as children stretch their hands toward the top branches
of their Christmas trees. Wing Lee and Wing Sam, who had
been roped to the kitchen range for safe-keeping, nearly pulled
it out from under the stovepipe in their frantic efforts to leave
those parts.
Miriam stepped aside as Homer took over and confronted
the searching party.
“Take their guns and ammunition, all their weapons,” Evans
said to Hank.
"But, Mr. Evans ..." protested the rancher, who was hap-
piest when things were proceeding according to written rules.
“I'll explain briefly that someone, undoubtedly Gilligan, has
caused larkspur to be planted on all the creeks on this range,
and that the weeds are about to bloom. You know what that
means, with half-starved cattle in search for something green.”
“You can't pin a thing on me,” the sheepman grunted. Miriam,
of his fountain pen, which hopped from his pocket and scattered
ink on his shirt and his face.
"Save Gilligan for later, please," said Homer, and reluctantly
Miriam put up her automatics, to the intense relief of all out-
siders present.
The members of the posse, with Gilligan and the sheriff at
their head, were marched out to the corral, leaving their meal
unfinished, and, unarmed, were chased across the fire strip and
down toward the Missouri, after Evans had told them their
sentries with the corpse and evidence would be permitted to
follow them. All hands on the ranch were summoned, and
Evans, Hank and Jim Leonard, after poring over a map of the
range hastily scrawled by Homer, divided the forces into de-
tachments and assigned an area to each. Trout-tail III and Dr.
Hyacinthe Toudoux were dispatched to the hills to garner
rattlesnakes; Stenka was sent on horseback down the creek to
the train with a note asking that several bottles, in fact the
203


entire supply of Lydia Pinkham's compound in the general
store at Mondak be rushed to the ranch without delay. Rain-No
More, who was to scour the area adjacent to the reservation,
rode his best pinto hell for leather to summon the braves to
assist in rooting out the dangerous weed. Jim Leonard and
Hank were to explore the southwest quarter of the range, be-
tween the deadline and Mountain Sheep Bluffs; the Professor,
no mean amateur botanist, rode off northeast to patrol the huge
triangle between the forks of the Yellowstone and the Missouri;
Evans, Diluvio, Hjalmar and Miriam chose the watershed of
Indian Coulee, Beef Slough and Leonard Creek, on the Yellow-
stone side. Hugo Weiss, beaming with excitement, was left in
charge at Three Buttes, where the Indian remedy was to be
brewed by the doctors and rushed to all points of the watershed
by the cowpunchers, as soon as it was ready.
was being carried out at top speed within thirty minutes after
the rude breaking up of the mid-day meal. Ten minutes later,
Miriam and Homer were riding side by side. Diluvio and
Hjalmar veered off west but always kept in sight. It was the
first time Miriam and Homer had been alone since the glorious
ride in the moonlight the night before. This time they were
mounted on a pair of bay geldings, named Red and Whitefoot,
respectively, and as the horses walked rapidly on, to get warmed
up for the arduous run ahead of them, Miriam hesitated, then
spoke softly.
"Homer ... Tell me," she pleaded. “You didn't really scalp
"He thought I did, which served the purpose," Evans said,
and she sighed with relief.
“Forgive me. I should never doubt you," she said.
"By the use of adhesive and a phial of warm blood I was able
to give him the appropriate sensation, and, of course, the medi-
cine lodge contains no mirror and his hands were tied. It's amaz-
204


ing that a youth with so much stamina should have an Achilles'
heel, as it were, on top of his head."
“I think I can understand his feelings,” said Miriam, shudder-
ing.
But Evans was not listening. A groan escaped him and he
narrowed his eyes angrily as he sighted, far eastward toward the
head of Beef Slough, a bunch of cattle, about eighteen or twenty,
half of which were lying on the ground. A quick knee pressure
set the horses on the run and within a few minutes both Homer
and Miriam had dismounted. There was nothing they could do
to relieve the stricken animals. Six of the steers, eyes rolling,
sides distended, were drooling and moaning, all four legs tucked
under them, the froth on their muzzles stained green. Near by
was a patch of larkspur, from which leaves and buds had been
wrenched and eaten.
“I wish I had shot Gilligan,” said Miriam, tears stinging her
eyes.
"I'm beginning to wish you had myself,” said Evans grimly.
He was pulling up the rest of the deadly delphinium and taking
it to a near-by pile of loose lava rock, in which he buried it.
Hjalmar, two miles westward, was studying the drawing of
the plant, delphinium exaltatum, in a leaf of his sketchbook,
while Diluvio was whistling the Scherzo from Beethoven's
E-Flat concerto for violin and piano, the beauty of which was
attested by his broncho who pricked up his shaggy ears. At the
crest of a steep-cut bank, the horses squatted on their haunches
and slid downward, bringing up amidst the whitened skeletons
of forty or fifty unfortunate beasts.
“Shiver my timbers,” roared Hjalmar. “This is tough country
and no mistake.”
“Good old Liszt,” said Diluvio. “La da, la da, la dadada, la da
deedle-oo de la boom dee dee. You remember. The Dance of
Death. And the Berlioz Requiem, where the dead quit their
graves and the second fiddlers tap with the wood of their bows.
A bit corny, I'll admit, but there's something in it.”
205


“I could paint this God-forsaken country, but who'd believe
it?” said Hjalmar.
“Besides, there was Remington,” the violinist said.
"He spread the paint too thick, like cooking,” Hjalmar said.
"The guy I'd like to have met was the one who did Custer's
Last Stand on the side of a covered wagon. There's a composi-
tion for you!"
“Let me take a look at that sketch. I've forgotten what the
weed looks like that we're after."
Two shots resounded, and they saw Evans beckoning.
“Trust old Homer to score first,” said Hjalmar, and steered
his broncho to the east in a wide circle, as if it were a motor
boat. Evans showed them the disastrous weed, the places where
it had been growing and the poisoned cattle who were doomed,
and sent them to the head of Indian Coulee with instructions
to run all the cattle out on the plains before they searched for
the larkspur.
All over the huge cattle range, Leonard's riders were finding
the same situation, except on Bison Creek where young Gilligan
had got in his work. The steers and dogies, famished after the
long winter of winds and snows, when almost everything they
could subsist upon had been covered, snatched eagerly at the
first green plant they saw, and to the extra large toll of the
storms was added a long list of new casualties from delphinium.
Jim Leonard, who had been in straits before, was sick with
disappointment. His shipment to Omaha would be half its usual
size and his credit already had been strained to keep the ranch
supplied and the cowpunchers paid. That was Gilligan's game,
Leonard knew: to get him in a hole financially, then offer him
a price for his water rights, without which the whole range was
useless. Once the cattle had been driven from the lower valley,
the sheepman could pull wires to have the Blackfeet chased
from their ancestral hunting grounds and confined with the Nez
Percé on the rocky slopes near Glacier Lake. Then sheep would
munch the valley clean, swarm north over the Missouri as far
206


as the Canadian border and the hour of the shorthorns would
have struck.
Jim Leonard, like most ranchers, had little time for his ani-
mals, individually, but collectively he loved them and was proud
of them. When the herd of tough shorthorns was gathered for
counting and branding, spring and fall, the rancher would stay
awake at the campfire, listening to the cattle as they fed, the
songs of the cowpunchers whose voices kept them from stam-
peding, the whine of the coyotes on watch for wayward calves.
He knew little about the glories of Greece and Rome; the
Conciergerie and Notre Dame were simply buildings on postal
cards, as far as Jim Leonard was concerned. He preferred the
pictorial calendar sent out each year by President Suspenders
to the Adam and Eve of Titian or Ribera's John the Baptist.
The Ben Hur Chariot Race meant more to him than Handel's
Largo, which because of its discouraging tempo he frequently
mistook for My Country 'Tis of Thee. But the plains on which
he had lived combated the elements and raised his stock at a
hard-earned profit, while devoid of formal art, had felt “ragged
claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas” in the Archaean
age, when the lower Yellowstone valley had been part of the
Pacific's shifting bottom; had known the luxuriant giant shrubs
and trees of the Paleozoic period; their muck had spawned
apocalyptic reptiles of appalling bulk; the plains had felt the
upward surge of the Rockies just westward; and through them
had been thrust by smoking lava their thousands of foothills,
ovoid, rhomboid, semi-spherical, distorted pyramids and trun.
cated cones. Four great ice sheets had leveled those prairies,
filled old valleys, tossed aside rivers, scooped out lakes, but the
last of the glaciers had halted at the Missouri, not far from where
now stands the lodge of Shot-on-Both-Sides, and since then the
valley has abounded in beasts, both wild and tame.
Were the scenes of such upheavals to be desecrated by the
blatting of sheep and the furtive tread of sheepherders, while
cattle were banished from the land? Jim Leonard did not under-
207


stand all that had happened in Eastern Montana, but he had
found fossils of inkfish and horseshoe crabs in the cliffs of the
highest buttes, had noticed the difference between lava flows,
the most recent on the lower levels, the oldest on top. History,
for him, had not been made, messed up and left mankind ex-
hausted. It had roots in the present and hopes in the future, for
his country was unspoiled. Ten thousand years the Indians had
used it, without marring it or wasting its resources. Before them,
the race of Mound Builders had performed feats of engineering
and community labor and left it intact. The whites had extermi-
nated the buffaloes, but had replaced them with cattle. Now
the herds of shorthorns were threatened in their turn. Some
States had exchanged them for acres of sugar beets and psalm-
singing farmers, others for miles of wheat and blasphemous
itinerant harvest hands. The lower Yellowstone was the last
refuge of the cattle industry, and its principal rancher was Jim
Leonard, beset on all sides and now deprived of a fifth of his
herd.
Perhaps the happiest man in the Leonard camp that day was
Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux. It is true that he had been an associate
of the late Dr. Eugene Kelly in combating the plague of typhus
in Serbia in 1917; that in his bureau drawer at home reposed a
decoration from the Government of Norway for his work in
repulsing the lemmings a decade earlier; and that, but for him
and his serum against the ts'ow e'e fly's sting, scarcely a white
man would still be alive in the African colonies. But the wide-
spread epidemic of larkspur poisoning, while it meant stagger-
ing losses to his host, would give Toudoux a chance to make a
bad matter not quite so bad, which is as far as a doctor can hope
to go. His first thought, when given charge of the rattlesnake
expedition, was to go to the badlands across the Yellowstone,
but when he communicated this to Trout-tail III, through a
couple of interpreters, the old medicine man reminded him that
the Yellowstone was filled with moving slush and ice and that
the nearest bridge was at Mondak, if it had not been washed
208


away, as usually happened in the case of early thaws. So Trout-
tail had led the way to the footbridge at Muddy Creek, and
thence to Poplar River where an area had been set aside by
tribal ordinance in order that the ceremonial and medicinal
supply of snakes should not be depleted. In passing the special
train, the pair of savants, the one in morning clothes, the other
in red and black paint, were hailed by Chief of Detectives
Frémont, who had a prisoner on his hands and did not know
exactly what to do with him. Unreal Bear and Tinted Cloud
quickly explained, however, and Trout-tail ordered Young Gil-
ligan taken to the detention tepee near his lodge and thrown
into chains with Young Santosuosso, who still believed he had
been scalped.
When Dr. Toudoux told Frémont of the trouble on the range,
the latter insisted on accompanying the doctors on their snake
hunt, in spite of the tears and prayerful entreaties of Hydrangea.
Also, since Frémont had been sent all the way from France to
learn about American methods of dealing with criminals, he
was determined to be present when Young Gilligan was grilled
by Trout-tail III and to take full notes concerning the means
employed to extract information and the results, if any, that
returned to Paris empty-handed, his prefect would use that as
a pretext to get rid of him. He already had missed the scene at
the opening of the grave and did not propose to be caught nap-
ping again.
That night around the campfire on Beef Slough, while supper
was being prepared by Miriam and Diluvio, and Hjalmar was
picketing the horses in a sheltered gulch near-by, Homer Evans
was deep in thought. They had shot a large grouse apiece, which,
with bacon and sourdough biscuits, washed down with black
coffee, made a satisfying meal. And since, in the course of his
two years in the Arctic with the great but modest Stefansson,
209


bers of his detachment were to sleep well that night, although
the rest period would be brief.
Already they had run several thousand cattle from the slopes
of the creeks out of danger to the bleak table lands and Hjalmar
had volunteered to ride around the herd all night and sing them
chanties which, since the shorthorns could not understand the
words, might prove to be reassuring. Diluvio, keen on the
outdoor adventure, turned in early in order to relieve Hjalmar
when the starlight began to thin.
"Miriam, my dear,” began Evans, as they sat close to the
glowing embers, sipping brandy from the proper kind of glass,
since Homer could not relish good liquor in inferior containers.
“Miriam, darling, you have given me a new lease on life. Imagine
our friends, this moment, wasting their time and substance on
the terrasse of the Dôme while we are camped beneath the stars,
man and woman, breathing the air of the prairies in common
with wild neighbors in the atmosphere of spring. You have
made me understand that, although the contemplative side of
one's nature must not be neglected (the American disease, I
may say), full play should be given at intervals to one's zest for
action.”
“Ah, that, above all,” murmured Miriam, her eyes shining.
"Nonetheless," said Evans hastily, "we must consider, while
our memories are still fresh, the touching performance at the
graveside this morning."
"That poor honest old Italian. He's a victim of those un-
scrupulous gangsters, who have taken away his only son. Oh,
why didn't I shoot Gilligan, and argue with officials afterward?
It would have been worth the risk if it had saved the life of one
poor beast who has died today. Any snake can be ruthless, but
it takes a real man to be considerate of others. And kindness,
not violence, is the highest achievement.”
“I see you know your Sermon on the Mount,” said Homer,
but he touched her hand to show her he was by no means
joking. “I honor your sympathy for the tearful fruit vendor
210


known as Mike, but let us examine the man in the light of pure
reason, and put aside our throbbing sympathies for the nonce.
That is harder for you than for me.".
"That's not true, Homer Evans, no matter what you pretend,"
the girl said hotly.
"Ah, well. Let us both make the effort, however great the
strain,” Homer said. “As always, I am fascinated by the unusual.
Now it is not unusual for a doting father to weep at the sight
of his only begotten son in his grave. It is extraordinary, how-
ever, that a humble and illiterate fruit merchant, born in Sicily
and transplanted at an early age to Chicago, should be able to
buy ten-dollar Oxfords for $3.95 and that they should be of the
identical make and color of certain Oxfords worn by one Ter-
ence Gilligan and the unsavory Santosuossos, or should it be
Santosuossi, pére et fils."
"Oh,” said Miriam, taken aback.
“Also it is unusual for a proud Italian father named Mike
to name his first born son and heir Luigi. Furthermore, it is not
the general rule for fruit dealers to have a left thumb toughly
calloused and marked by beeswaxed threads. On top of all that,
the corpus delicti, as the Professor likes to call Donniker Louey,
turned up with a scalp intact, when Shot-on-Both-Sides has one
purporting to be his in the equivalent of the tribal safe north
of the Missouri. The grave, as I pointed out, is tied in between
two obvious landmarks, which proves ..."
“That the corpse is not Louey's," said Miriam.
“Not exactly that. But it proves that the gravediggers, Nos.
I and 2, were not very bright: ergo, that Larkspur Gilligan was
not of their number. Now who would have been obtuse enough
to commit an idiocy like that?”
“The sheepherders,” Miriam said.
“Good,” said Evans. “Now we have established that either
Rain-No-More removed some prowler other than Donniker
Louey, which is unlikely; or that some other corpse has been
planted on Cottonwood Creek.”
211


“But Mike, the father. Surely he knows his own son," per-
sisted Miriam.
“He is mistaken about his profession, why not about his
offspring? Our tearful exhibit from Chicago is a cobbler and
recently has practiced his trade. He gets marvelous bargains in
shoes and selects the same kind worn by several members of the
Baldy Santo gang, who very possibly stole them in large lots.
But our problem in connection with the late Louey is a complex
one. We must clear your father without involving Rain-No-
More, who very properly has been decorated with a notch on
his coup stick for the deed he performed. Shall we prove in
court that the corpse is not Louey, or merely that your father
did not send its soul soaring upward before its time? Not only
must we think of that, and make a wise decision, but we must
find out what is the essence of Larkspur Gilligan's plan. He has
nothing personal against your father, but has large designs not
only on the cattle range your father's shorthorns occupy but
the ancestral home of the Blackfeet as well. Tom Jackson in-
forms me that he has secured official permission from the Gov-
ernment, through a few Senators indebted deeply to the N.P.,
to graze sheep on the west side of the Redwater as far as the
confluence of the Yellowstone and Missouri. Furthermore, he
is awaiting a decision which will remove the Blackfeet from
their reservation to another farther west and throw open the
land from the Missouri north as far as Canada to the sheepmen,
all of whom are Gilligan under other names. Gilligan first
thought that by planting larkspur on all the creeks of the cattle
range, at a time when your father would be short of funds, he
might induce your father to sell out for a handsome price and
go to California to end his days."
"God forbid,” said Miriam.
"I assume that when Gilligan met Baldy Santo and found
how cheaply a citizen of this Republic could be got out of one's
way, he decided to have Donniker Louey bump off your parent
as the course of least resistance. Being resourceful, when Don-
212


niker Louey failed to return, Larkspur tried a frame-up. Then
suddenly Jim Leonard, who was known to have his back against
the wall financially, turns up with a wheel-barrow filled with
gold, deposits a staggering amount for bail and produces a train-
load of assorted friends and allies. Does that deter Gilligan?
The answer is 'No.' He strengthens his hold on the local politi-
cal machine, imports hordes of unemployed gangsters and,
armed with Government papers, intends to establish a fait
accompli. Once his sheep, due back from Idaho by rail in May,
cross your father's range, the land will be useless for cattle, as
you know, for years to come.”
“One thing troubles me more than all the rest,” said Miriam.
“The bullet from the Winchester 40-40. The only rifle of that
make and caliber I've ever seen out here is the one Dad owns
and carries. Men who can't see and shoot as far pack a lighter
gun.”
“Toudoux said the deceased, the chap found today near the
head of Cottonwood Creek, died between five and six months
ago, but he was careful not to say how. The bullet, fired by a
man on the same level while the body was erect, pierced the
heart, struck a back rib and lodged itself near the kidneys. That
much we can accept, nothing more. Knowing the corpse was
not that of Donniker Louey, I assumed (a) that it was planted
on your father's range as false evidence; (b) that as thorough
a frame-up would involve the use of a weapon easily identified
as belonging to your father, At the grave, I pretended to have
mistaken the rifle in your father's bedroom for a non-existent
Remington 30-40, and the sheriff obligingly revealed that he
knew your esteemed parent owned a Winchester 40-40. Thus I
was able to be sure that the sheriff was involved in the frame-up
and was not merely the dupe of Larkspur Gilligan. Both of them
knew in advance that they should find a body, and that the said
body would have been pierced by a bullet shot from a Winches-
ter 40-40."
"Where did they get the body?” asked Miriam.
213


“We shall have to find out,” Evans said. “But our main
problem is to protect the range from invasion."
“Not one sheep shall cross the deadline alive,” said Miriam.
“I'm inclined to agree,” Homer said, “but, first, we must
sleep. Tomorrow may prove more strenuous than today has
been."
So arm in arm, they scattered the embers, extinguished them
with hissing snow, and went to the igloo for some well-earned
repose. The stars pulsed in clusters, constellations shifting,
while a waning moon cast its dim reflection on the muddy
raging streams. A lone Blackfeet Indian, who had been dis-
patched from the Piney Butte area to suggest to Evans the
shorthorns on the mesas and keep them out of the ravines,
listened raptly to the voice of Hjalmar as he bellowed to the
restless steers a tune he had learned on the Liverpool docks,
with words, slightly altered, by Rabelais:
"Oh, Thou Whom water turnedst to wine
Into a lantern that will light :
My dogies in the darkest night.”
The song reminded the stray Indian of a tribal melody his
grandfather had crooned as his mother had borne him on her
back:
“Kyi in uk o tsi u sok ko ma pe
Kvis too ye e eat sis
Ne na sknoo nuk kit ..."
[Bye, Baby bunting
Daddy's gone a-hunting ...]
So the Blackfeet brave joined in Hjalmar's song, which gave
the painter quite a start, and soon the two men were riding
side by side around the lowing herd, swapping stories which,
while neither one understood the speech of the other, helped
pass the long watches of the night.
214


Touching on Science, Parental Love and Pride,
Also Democracy
THE NEW DEVELOPMENTS in connection with the murder of
Donniker Louey attracted national attention, because of the
Santo gang's notoriety and the picturesque details broadcast
by Tom Jackson, who had friends throughout the newspaper
world. Rotogravure supplements, from the Hearst-fuddled
carried three-column cuts of Trout-tail III, in what was called
"war paint,” making medicine signs by the open grave; of Jim
Leonard surrounded by shorthorns and buckaroos; of the
weeping immigrant father holding a tell-tale shoe aloft; of
Hockaday, the young sheriff, and his deputies, in chaps and
spurs; and a photograph made on the French Line pier in New
York, showing the famous Chief of Detectives Frémont, Dr.
Hyacinthe Toudoux and the two French criminologists,
Schlumberger and Bonnet, gazing in astonishment at a grape-
fruit and a package of Zazz, a prepared breakfast food which,
the distinguished Frenchman had just been told, had been shot
out of machine guns in airplanes.
When the posse had been run off the Leonard ranch by
215


Miriam, Tom Jackson, to keep up appearances of objectivity,
had ridden away with Gilligan and his pals. But before that
Evans had found a way to communicate with him and had
asked him not to raise any suspicion concerning the identity of
the body found on Cottonwood Creek. Therefore the story of
the discovery of the corpus delicti, without which the State
could not proceed against Leonard with hope of conviction,
appeared in a very different light in the Glendive X-Ray than
it did as reviewed by Homer around the Beef Slough camp-
fire. In the X-Ray account of the proceedings, Jackson set forth
that Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux, medical examiner of Paris,
France, was assisting Dr. S. Lougee, the local coroner, in the
post mortem and that a well-known arms expert, who preferred
to remain anonymous, had admitted that the bullet which had
pierced the dead man's heart had been fired from a rifle similar
issued a statement that he was consulting with the State Attor-
ised his constituents that the trial should be held without delay.
Myra Patterson published an interview with Mike Bevilacqua,
the bereaved father, on the difficulty of raising motherless boys
in the slums of the East and advising widowers to re-marry,
for the sake of the kiddies, however disinclined they might feel.
The adventures of the posse on the cattle range was the
lead story in the X-Ray, but on the corresponding columns of
the front page, left-hand side, was an article not less sensa-
tional as far as the local population was concerned.
LOWER YELLOWSTONE VALLEY
UNFIT FOR CATTLE
Prevalence of Deadly Larkspur
On Both Watersheds Is
Admitted by Chief
Cattlemen
216


The article went on to say that the wisdom of using the land
between the two principal rivers, west of Redwater Creek, as a
winter range for cattle, had long been questioned by local and
federal authorities. Weather conditions were arduous, so that
losses from storms and drifts had been great. Now, added to
that, was the danger of larkspur poisoning. Several statesmen
had been interviewed and were quoted as saying that the cattle-
men, if forced to evacuate, should be generously recompensed
by Congress, but pointed out the additional prosperity that
would come to Eastern Montana should the sheep industry be
permitted its normal expansion. The same statesmen showed
concern for the Blackfeet Indians, who, they said, had been
herded and confined on the arid and bleak wastes north of the
Missouri too long, while other reservations more attractive
were thinly populated.
Miriam, who rode to the stage road in the morning in time
to intercept the stage coach, could hardly contain herself for
indignation when she held out to Evans and the others on the
Slough the copy of the special murder edition. Had Evans not
restrained her, she would have ridden to Glendive, shot up the
X-Ray office and set fire to the plant.
“When an adversary is crawling out on a limb, why offer
discouragement?" Evans said. His words were interrupted by
the appearance on the summit of a horse and rider.
“Stenka, by yee,” said Jansen, highly pleased. “And she doesn't
spare the horse."
Indeed, the animal was covered with lather and nearly spent.
The big Serbian girl, without a word, dismounted and started
tugging at the thongs that bound two large skin sacks to the
saddlebags.
“The medicine,” she said in French, and Evans instantly got
into action. All morning the party had been pulling up and
burying the noxious weeds, chasing stray cattle out of the
coulees and cutting out from the herd any shorthorns which
showed symptoms of larkspur poisoning. Some of the latter
217


died, others were in desperate condition, still others were more
lightly afflicted. Miriam, now mounted on the clever and agile
Star, which seemed to understand the game as well as her
mistress did, roped and threw the cattle that showed most
promise of recovery. Hjalmar, the muscles standing out on his
brawny arms and shoulders, pried open their jaws, and Diluvio,
buckskin sack in hand, poured in a large swallow of the
Indian medicine.
“I shall send a Christmas card each year to the heirs of Lydia
Pinkham,” Evans said, when the first of his patients gave evi-
dence of definite improvement.
On the three creeks emptying into the Yellowstone and
patrolled by Evans, two hundred head had died, and two hun-
dred more cattle were beyond recovery, he had thought. But
once he had finished treating the lighter cases, he approached
one of the suffering beasts who had rolled over, groaning, on
its side.
"Hjalmar, give me a hand,” he said, and with the help of
the big Norwegian he got the steer's mouth open. Diluvio
poured a double dose of the snake and vegetable compound
down the agonized throat, and they waited. Miriam, torn by
the sight of the animal's convulsions, turned away and slashed
at tumbleweeds with her braided quirt. But when she heard a
cry from Evans she wheeled swiftly around, and Stenka began
to sing and to pray. For the steer, a moment before on the point
of death, rolled, kicked and, aided by the ready shoulder of
the roaring Hjalmar, struggled to his feet, his eyes blinking,
his tail switching spasmodically at imaginary flies.
From that moment on, there was not time for anyone to
speak or to make a wasted motion. From beast to beast the
rescue party worked, and with most happy results. Three hun-
dred doomed shorthorns were to roam the plains again.
Just as the work was coming to an end, a weary figure
trotted across the sagebrush flat and stretched himself, pant-
ing, at Miriam's side. Moritz the dog, left behind, had come
218


many miles across strange country to look at Miriam reproach-
fully and sigh.
“We have won another skirmish,” said Evans, after reassur-
ing the exhausted Boxer. “I begin to suspect why a man in
Oxfords, probably Young Gilligan, was roaming Bison Creek
last night. Gilligan the elder had planned to distract the atten-
tion of the ranch hands by finding the body at the appropriate
moment, so that the cattle might all get a good dose of larkspur
before the presence of the weed was discovered on the range.
When the stuff was planted, last fall, it was not known that
we should have a special train at Muddy Creek and that traffic
up and down the neglected Bison Creek trail would be prac-
tically continuous. Hence a Gilligan cohort was dispatched
right after the thaw to remove the larkspur from the creek on
which it would be promptly discovered.”
Leaving Hjalmar and Stenka to drive the herd slowly toward
Three Buttes, giving the animals time to graze by the way on
table lands only, Homer sent the others riding in all directions
to spread the news of the efficacy of Trout-tail's specific on the
severest cases of poisoning.
Hugo Weiss, the multi-millionaire and famous financier,
meanwhile, was in his shirt-sleeves at the kitchen range in
Opera Lodge, a huge frying pan in each hand. For hours he
had been frying out rattlesnakes and learning Pidgin English
in order more freely to communicate with his assistants, Wing
Lee and Wing Sam. The first batch of snakes had arrived in
two gunnysacks borne on a stick between the shoulders of two
Blackfeet runners, and one of the Indians had presented in-
structions scribbled by Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux. To make the
Chinese understand just what was to be done was no easy
assignment, and the renowned banker's mental qualities had
seldom, in the course of a long and successful career, been put
to such a test. According to Toudoux, each rattler should first
be pinned with a forked stick fitted close behind its head, over
which a Mason jar should then be slid. With its head in the
219


jar, the snake should be given a wad of absorbent cotton on
which to bite, until the poison in its glands had been trans-
ferred to the cotton. Then the head should be cut off clean and
the body skun and fried over a hot wood fire until the oil had
been rendered. The oil, then, was to be cleared by the use of
croutons or bits of toast, and allowed to cool and settle. When
a gallon of oil was cool, one teaspoonful of the vegetable com-
pound was to be added and the resulting prescription rushed
to the field workers on the range.
At first Hugo Weiss had to do practically all the work, since
the Chinese could not be made to take the procedure with
appropriate seriousness. They had eaten snakes in the old
country and had handled them alive, but not rattlers.
“Holdem snake with one-piece Aok, now head 'e go in
bokis,” the financier explained.
"Lattlesnake 'e catchum China boy, make um onepiece dead
fella," said Wing Sam. “Ai ting ai go Glendive, maybe Min-
neap'lis, maybe New York.”
Weiss excused himself, went to his room and returned with
two hatfuls of twenty-dollar gold pieces which he placed in
two equal piles on a kitchen shelf.
"Me, ai bet dough for go China that snake no catchum China
boy. Now China boy claiful, can do,” Weiss said, and had to
out forked sticks, Mason jars or even cotton gloves on his
hands. The Chinese, cheered by the prospects of returning to
their native land with sacks of gold, learned quickly the bizarre
routine and soon the remedy was being rushed to all points of
the compass. Fresh consignments of rattlers arrived hourly,
wood was piled into the range, pungent smoke filled the
kitchen and streamed from the windows, and through it all
the toiling millionaire sang a spirited song, which he trans-
lated into Pidgin English for the benefit of his loyal collabo-
rators. The idea of sending worthy Chinese back to China
could be expanded until it relieved him of substantial sums, he
220


believed, and the thought made him gay. His song was as
follows:
Allasame China, Flisco, evely place,
Fella'e no catchum cash, catchum plenty hell
Topside fella 'e catchum cash, can do.
Scheme 'e plenty bum.
or: It's the same the whole world over,
It's the poor who get the blame,
The rich get all the pleasure.
Now ain't it a bleedin' shame?
Across the Missouri, on the Poplar River snake preserve,
Frémont, Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux and Trout-tail III were fin-
ishing the first part of the labors. Enough snakes had been
sacked and shipped to provide medicine for the sick cattle on
all the range, venom enough for Dr. Toudoux to use in his
experiments for years to come, and snake skins enough to make
belts for all the tourists in Arizona. The old medicine man had
instructed a number of braves to make the long journey to the
badlands via Mondak and replenish at their leisure the supply
the hibernating rattlers were coming out of their holes by the
hundreds.
Before Trout-tail III conducted his guests to his lodge thirty
miles to the eastward, they were joined by Chief Shot-on-Both-
Sides who was eager for an official report on the scene at the
graveside. Rain-No-More, meanwhile, was busy with his hard-
riding shock troops, pulling up delphinium, treating poisoned
would have begun two weeks or more later. If, occasionally,
the young Blackfeet let themselves imagine that the herds were
buffaloes and the weapons on their saddles not rifles but good
ash bows and arrows tipped with fint, that did not interfere
with their efficient work, and Jim Leonard, to whom were sent
221


reports from all corners of the range, began to shake off his
despondency. The odds were still against him, but he had a
fighting chance.
“I don't mind telling you, Hank,” the rancher said to his
foreman, “there was times when I was almighty skittish about
leaving Miriam all by herself in Paris, France. But now, when
I've seen what her friends are like, and how the city life hasn't
spoiled her, I begin to be kind of glad she's seen the world a
bit and had advantages you and me never had.”
“She's run with a mighty fine bunch, no doubt about that,"
said Hank. “We'd be in one hell of a fix without 'em.”
"One thing's a-settin' on my mind,” the old rancher said.
“All this is costin' a heap of money, and I don't know how I'll
pay it back.”
“Shucks, Jim,” said Hank, “that rich guy's just like the rest
of us, likes to let himself go from time to time. Why, fifty
thousand bucks to a man like him is just like four bits to you
and me, when we toss it on the bar. Your smart little girl got
him out of a scrape in France. Now he wants to do his part,
that's all. That seems natural to me.”
“I've always held my end up somehow,” said Jim Leonard.
“You've borrowed my winter's wages from me, more than
once, and paid 'em back again. Why high-hat this Eastern
fellow, just because he's weighted down with money? That
ain't democratic, Jim, an' you know it. Maybe the pile was
wished on him in a will or something."
"Well, if you put it that way," said the rancher, and mounted
his broncho again.
In the detention tepee at the medicine lodge, young Santo-
suosso and Terry Gilligan were squatting on their heels. Their
hands were bound, their legs were numb because of the unac-
customed position, but their conversation did not indicate that
their spirits had been chastened to any great extent.
"To think that I let that wise guy Evans crack me up, and
on a stall, at that,” said young Santo. “So help me, I felt him
222


cut around the edges of my scalp, in a circle right on top of
my head, then peel off the skin, hair and all, while the blood
ran down my puss and nearly blinded me. The next time I'll
not open my trap if they skin me alive.”
"That wouldn't be beyond 'em,” said Terry. “We got to get
word some way to my old man."
“Mine must be having a fit. He doesn't know where I am,”
said Santo.
"Beats hell how much they think of us,” Terry said. “Hard
to figure out why. We haven't done nothing but touch 'em for
dough and get 'em in Dutch all our lives.”
"Now that's a fact,” said Santo, “but why not, if they're
suckers enough to stand for it? Believe me, if I had a kid and
he tried to get away with anything, I'd fan him silly."
“They say you figure it different, if a kid's your own. It
would make you feel kind of foolish, at that, to have some
broad hand you over a nipper and say it was yours.”
“Knock on wood,” said Santo, but his hands were still tied.
A long single file of Blackfeet, drums and medicine sticks in
hand, trotted toward the tepee.
“Cripes. It's going to begin. That's the way these bloody
Indians start giving a guy the works. They turn loose a flock
of skin beaters first, and when they get hot, along comes the
wood-wind section. No use kidding ourselves, it softens up a
guy. After a half hour or so, you say to yourself, now why
can't they change the tune, but they never do. I guess they're
too dumb to learn more than one number."
“I could use a cigarette,” said Terry.
"Go easy, unless you're used to smokin' tea. So help me, they
made Beetlebuzzer and me woozy with reefers. That's part of
their act. It's a good thing that snake choked Beetlebuzzer or
he'd have spilled the works. He was going to crack, and no
mistake.”
"I wish they'd get started,” said Terry. “This waiting around
gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
223


“Just wait till my old man gets to workin' on them tents with
his armored cars. He'll make Cicero look like a picnic ground.”
"If he finds out where we are,” said young Gilligan.
“There's always that,” Santosuosso said, and spat. “But I
won't fall for no blind scalpin' act again. You'll keep that
under your hat, won't you, Terry?”
"Even if I blow my top, I won't give you away,” the heir of
Gilligan said.
The two young men above mentioned, who were awaiting
with more fortitude than patience the impending examination
by the Blackfeet intelligence officer, Trout-tail III, had under-
estimated, if anything, the anxiety of their respective fathers.
Gilligan, Senior, was at the time in Judge Patterson's new and
elaborate living room in Glendive, conferring with Sheriff
Hockaday, the N.P. divisional public relations counsel named
simply Brown and a member of the Republican State Com-
mittee who had been sent down from Butte to advise the
leaders of the local political machine. They were all too agi-
tated to risk playing poker in such shrewd company; the
phonograph records Myra had purchased from Sears, Roebuck
were all on the classical or standard side and in no way sooth-
ing; and none of them dared drink too much whiskey for fear
of a burst of indiscreet frankness. At intervals Larkspur, who
was obviously the No. I conspirator, would snatch at the phone,
turn the small crank frenetically and demand the X-Ray.
“Any news from the lower valley?” he would ask.
“Not a peep,” Tom Jackson would reply.
“Do you think he's holding out on us?” the Republican
from Butte would ask.
"He'd better not,” said Gilligan.
"Let's have a look at him,” suggested the public relations
counsel.
It was agreed that Jackson should be summoned, and that if
he seemed to be trustworthy he should first be oiled up with
a good fat contract for political advertising and then sent out
224


to the Leonard ranch to pick up what he could about the con-
dition of the cattle and the plans for the spring round-up. Tom,
after a few bracers at the Jordan bar, put in an appearance and
was successful in passing muster. He told them that he had
followed Gilligan's instructions, that another extra was in
readiness, with front-page space reserved for the larkspur catas-
trophe, but that the silence from the cattle range had been
unbroken since the posse had ridden away. He did report, how-
ever, that there had been a sharp reaction in Wall Street and
in the commodities market in Chicago because of the disap-
pearance without trace of Hugo Schusschnigger Weiss. Stocks
of the numerous important concerns in which Weiss was influ-
ential had taken a nosedive and it was reported that several
brokerage firms had gone to the wall. The suicide toll already
was mounting and aspirin had doubled in price. The rumor
had spread like wildfire that Weiss had fled the country to
escape the consequence of a gigantic collapse of the financial
empire he had built up.
For the first time in weeks, in fact since the advent of Homer
Evans and his colleagues to Montana, Larkspur Gilligan
smiled.
“What a story!” said Jackson. “I could get photographs of
Weiss hale and hearty, and scoop the world. Every paper in
the country would carry it."
The assembled conspirators nearly bit their tongues and
stepped on one another's toes to dissuade him, and offer counter
propositions.
"If Weiss really goes broke, there's nothing to stop us,” said
Gilligan. “You keep mum, Jackson, and we'll make it worth
your while.”
With feigned regret, Tom said that he would string along.
The upshot was that Jackson was sent to Three Buttes to get
what evidence he could that the cattle range was unfit for its
traditional use, sound out Jim Leonard on his asking price for
water rights, ascertain if Weiss knew about the panic his ab-
225


sence from the business world was causing, and, most important
of all to Gilligan, although a matter of indifference to the
others, to trace young Terry.
The elder Gilligan's anxiety on account of his offspring was
so touching that Jackson felt a twinge of sympathy for the
man. Larkspur lived simply; his tastes were inexpensive. He
seemed not to crave culture, fame or even power for its own sake.
His driving desire was to build a huge fortune for his son and
heir, in the hope that Terry would rise to the large responsibility
entailed and become a man. What Gilligan had seen of Miriam
in action had made the sheepman green with envy, for he
loved the plains and believed they should produce a sturdy
unbeatable race. The sheepman had never been jealous of Jim
Leonard because of his cattle business, which was on the wane,
or his fortune which never had been considerable. But now
he coveted his daughter and was determined she should be the
mother of the future Gilligan clan. As he looked back on the
scenes at the ranch and the graveside, the astute old sheepman
remembered that there seemed to be some kind of understand-
ing between Miriam and the Nemesis called Evans, who was
the brains of the Leonard outfit. So getting rid of Evans had
become a principal item in Larkspur's ambitious program.
Another item scarcely less vital was to get on the good side of
Miriam. That the two projects had conflicting elements did not
deter the ruthless old man. No use leaving a commercial and
political empire to Terry without the right sort of wife to guide
him, of that the elder Gilligan had become convinced.
Another harassed father was pacing the aisle of what had
once been a passenger coach on the Great Northern System,
later had been sold and used as a lunchroom at Mondak, and
at the time this story takes place was temporary headquarters
for a contingent of the Baldy Santo gang, the members of
which were wanted in several States for such a long list of
crimes that space is lacking to enumerate them here. Let it
suffice to remind the reader that the last job had to do with
226


the robbery of a bank in Jamestown Junction. More than
twenty-four hours earlier, Baldy Santo, a small benevolent-
looking Sicilian with noncommittal black eyes and delicate
hands, had sent his son Tony and his nephew, Beetlebuzzer,
on a scouting expedition. Neither one of them had returned.
Baldy had been informed that the special train of coaches he
had seen in the badlands, and whose inhabitants he had grown
to dislike almost to the point of loathing, was on a sidetrack
near Muddy Creek. As has been mentioned before, the Chicago
gang chief had found it much more difficult to keep his mob-
sters in hand in the open spaces than it had been in Cicero or
South Chicago. The grub available in Mondak, where they had
been parked after Wibaux had grown too hot for them, was
meager and what there was of it betrayed a Scandinavian Prot-
estant influence particularly distasteful to Italians. Also the
liquor was not what the mob had been used to. Baldy had
worked out a plan to keep his men busy and at the same time
replenish the larder and get revenge on the enemies who had
railroaded him out of his hideout and locked him up in box
cars bound for Minneapolis. It was not the discomfort Baldy
had minded, but the indignity he had suffered and the loss of
prestige with his men.
Consequently, he had sent his son Tony and young Beetle-
buzzer to reconnoiter. If they reported favorably, Baldy in-
tended to hijack the Alsatian dining car and the Dôme with
its load of good liquor, to drive the occupants out into the foot-
hills without arms, food or matches, and lastly to crowbar the
special coaches out to the main line tracks just around a sharp
curve and just before the westbound express came tearing
through.
After waiting and worrying all night and all day, he decided
to carry out his design and search for Tony and his nephew at
the same time, and for this purpose broke up the stud game
and called his gangsters to order.
227


In Which the Life Impulse
Gets a Close Decision
Tom JACKSON, when he rode up the Leonard Creek trail, was
met on the western butte, where the hot and cold springs
gushed from the hillside, by Moritz the dog, who had taken
upon himself the duty of giving the once over to any way-
farer who approached the ranch house. From his point of
vantage on the crest of the divide, Tom could see busy prep-
arations for the round-up on every side. Far behind him, be-
tween Three Buttes and the badlands, two large herds of cattle
were already converging toward the main corral. The larger
had been gathered together by the Professor, with Kvek and
Grigori to help him, and came from the table lands near the
fork of the rivers, where ravines were few and the larkspur
had not taken much hold. The second was piloted by Hjalmar
and Stenka, and as they rode along, and the steers and dogies
munched, the big Norwegian was explaining to the Serbian
girl why, according to the great François, miles in the country
are so much longer than miles in the city.*
* Rabelais, Book II, "How Pantagruel Departed from Paris."
228


Around the barn and the corrals, chuck wagons were being
loaded and driven away. Cases of air-tights-canned cow, Mexi-
can strawberries, black strap, etc.—along with sowbelly, sides of
elk meat, and sacks of sugar, salt and flour, were being checked
out of the warehouse and distributed. Harness jingled, cow-
punchers rode here and there, ropes looped and swung through
the air. Branding irons, all shaped in the Lazy Jay, were being
cleaned and repaired.
The first disconcerting sight Tom saw was a pen with a low
board fence in which were basking dozens of rattlesnakes, while
the entire barn was covered with drying rattlesnake hides.
Hank, seeing the reporter's bewilderment, said that since the
cattle business was on the bum, the Leonard ranch was being
converted into a snake farm, and asked him to put the story
in the paper. In the huge living room, Hugo Weiss, whose
fate was the riddle of the financial world, was playing cribbage
with Eugénie Toudoux. Beatrice Diluvio, née Baxter, was
busily mending socks and shirts.
In his attic room, far removed from the bustle and activity,
sat Homer Evans, staring across the broad plains at the colors
and shapes of the badlands miles away. The danger from lark-
spur having been averted, with comparatively little loss of stock,
Evans had withdrawn himself for meditation on the larger
aspects of the struggle before him. As loathe as he had been in
the past to accept responsibility or to use to the full his extraor-
dinary gifts, in Opera Lodge he was vibrant with satisfaction-
not overconfident, but more determined than he had ever been
before in his eventful life. The immediate past, he knew, was
the most remote from the present, and for that reason its virtues
generations would bemoan the cattle range, if it passed the way
of the buffalo. Could it be defended against the thoughtless folk
then living?
Again and again Evans had subjected Gilligan's plans and
accomplishments to cold analysis. If justice was not on the
229


sheepman's side, contemporary trends seemed to be allied with
him. As far as brute force was concerned, Homer did not fear
a test of strength, with his friends from Montparnasse, the
rough and ready buckaroos, and the Blackfeet braves to back
Jim Leonard. Of money, the sinews of war, there was an abun-
dance, apparently, behind both camps.
Ingenuity was not lacking in Larkspur Gilligan's fertile brain.
But the real strength of the sheepman's position was its legality
on broad lines and contempt for scruples, either legal or moral,
when it came to details. Also its political roots.
Homer knew that it is absurd to assume that all men are
alike. There are those who will do anything for money, while
others draw a line. There are men insensitive to human suffer-
ing, while others feel every blow that lands on the back of a
struggling donkey, and experience nausea from a casual
glimpse of the tragic face of an unhappy child. The men and
women in the Leonard camp were not like gangsters, and in
war would be correspondingly less ruthless. He could not ask
or expect them to be ignoble or indecent, nor did he desire to
do so. Instead he must meet trickery with agility of mind, and
combat legal chicanery with legal checkmate. How should he
proceed?
First there was the trial of Jim Leonard. Evans already
thought he had enough at his fingertips to get an acquittal and
complete vindication, but the trial would be held, and at the
most inconvenient time. Gilligan had tried to disorganize the
round-up, and had very nearly succeeded, by planting larkspur
all over the range. Homer was confident that the sheepman
would arrange to have Jim tried, and his principal helpers sum-
moned as witnesses, at precisely the time when sheep were being
shipped back from the winter range in Idaho. It was likely
that Gilligan had obtained some kind of legal permission from
Washington to use the cattle range, not an authorization that
would be likely to stand, if passed upon by a high court, but
one that would hold good several years, perhaps, while the case
230


was juggled back and forth on crowded court calendars. Of
course, if sheep grazed on the Lower Yellowstone one season,
the cattle would starve before a decision could return to them
their proper feeding grounds.
“I must get the jump on Gilligan, legally,” Evans said to
himself, and paced the floor. A tap sounded on his door and
he felt a twinge of annoyance at first, for he had given instruc-
tions that he was not to be disturbed except in case of emer-
gency. But the tap was Miriam's and he concluded that an
emergency was at hand.
“Come in,” he said, and Miriam entered, followed by Tom
Jackson. Homer was listening intensely to Jackson's report of
developments in Glendive when the triangle clanged and
roared, announcing the mid-day meal.
High noon at the medicine lodge on the reservation to the
north afforded a widely different spectacle. Terry Gilligan and
Tony Santo were still squatting in the tepee, trying to shut out
from their ears the insistent drumming which swept in a circle
around the tent and making an effort not to look at the details
in the disconcerting designs that had been painted on the
walls. Silently a Blackfeet brave entered and, after rummaging
in the medicine sack, produced a pack each of Luckies and
Camels. Young Santo, inured to the effects of marijuana,
accepted a cigarette. Terry Gilligan gritted his teeth and re-
fused. He was resolved to take no chances.
Outside, Chief of Detectives Frémont of Paris was sitting on
a stump, notebook in hand.
"The disadvantage of the use of music in reducing the pris-
oners' resistance,” he was scribbling hastily, “seems to lie in
the fact that the presiding officers are affected equally with the
suspects, or, as in my case at present, much more severely. Many
times I have found myself on the point of screaming and rush-
ing the redskin native drummers and the players of the even
more hideous flageolets. The same objection applies to the odors
231


employed by the American police of the Western departments.
Myself, I am stifled, my brain will not function at its best, and,
as far as I can see, the prisoners are not noticeably discomfited,
or at least, not more than those I have seen confined in the
cells of the Paris commissariats. In short, I cannot recommend
the use of music or vile stenches by the Third Republic as means
of extracting information from recalcitrant violators of our
laws and statutes. In fact,” Frémont added aloud, “should any
such methods be introduced I should have to resign, no matter
how badly I need my monthly pay.”
On second thought, because of the off chance that the prefect
might take a tip from his researches in America in order to
make conditions unbearable in the office, Frémont tore up his
notes and went to the main lodge, which was windward, for
a brandy and soda.
Not only Frémont, but Chief Shot-on-Both-Sides had taken
a good look at the prisoners through peepholes skillfully camou-
Aaged by the painted designs. On returning to Trout-tail's
private tepee the wise Chief said:
“Kakh tum o sa a kin ik sin ni" (That pair will never crack).
"Not even after the torture of the ants and alkali, which, since
I was instrumental in reforming our criminal procedure, I
could never consent to apply.”
“What then shall we do?” asked Trout-tail, relieved. He had
never tried out the ant ordeal himself, and was not sure he
could stand it.
The old Chief got out the tribal pipe, filled and lighted it,
and handed it to Trout-tail. Ten minutes they sat without
uttering a word, while Frémont, on pins and needles, smoked
half a package of Pall Malls, lighting one from the other and
puffing furiously. He was too polite to break the silence, how-
ever. Finally Shot-on-Both-Sides gave voice to his decision.
"Detail four men to take the prisoners to the badlands and
hold them as hostages there. By day they must be concealed,
even from the buzzards, and the marches must be made at
232


night. Unless I am mistaken, the pale-face Evans will be able
in their absence to get more information from the fathers than
we could from the sons. I know a parent's heart. Kyi” (Fin-
ished), the old Chief said.
Frémont made a grab for his notebook again. “American
police methods,” he wrote hastily, “are not, in general, suitable
for use in France. Kidnapping of the offspring of criminals,
for instance, in order to put pressure on wayward parents,
would be likely to cause embarrassing questions to be raised
in the Chamber and might be used by the political opponents
of the Premier to precipitate a fall of the Government, which
seldom benefits the public at large and frequently is expensive
and wasteful. An Anglo-Saxon poet has written, 'Oh, East is
East and West is West.' With equal accuracy, one might para-
phrase those enigmatic lines. I am more and more convinced
that Europe is Europe and America is America, at least North
America is North America, and little or nothing can be done
to ameliorate the situation."
Had Frémont known at that moment what was threatening
the train of which he was in charge, his blood would have run
cold. For Baldy Santo and his gang had quit their hideout in
the railroad yards of Mondak and were pumping handcars
along the level tangents of the Great Northern tracks toward
Muddy Creek. And Baldy's motto for years had been: “Stop
at nothing."
“The big shot's jumpy. I never seen him like that before,”
said Bird's-eye Cohen, who because of his short stature was
having a hard time keeping his chin away from the pump-bar
as it described its rhythmic arc through the air.
"He was intendin' to make a mission before Easter, but he
couldn't find no church around,” said Paperhanger Stuntz, let-
ting go of the handle to straighten the kinks in his back.
It was true that Baldy, ordinarily self-possessed, was nervous.
He stood in the front handcar, peering across the flats this way
and that in the hope of finding his son. Instead he saw an
233


expanse of sagebrush and grass with occasional patches of
snow and, near the Missouri, clumps of cottonwoods on which
the buds showed faintly green. Because the westbound Limited
was due just after sundown he had elected to do the job of
hijacking and destruction by daylight, but he had seen Homer
Evans and the stern-faced cowpunchers in the badlands and
did not relish tangling with them in a country where the cover
was none too good for jack-rabbits, let alone his collection of
thugs, who were accustomed to working in armored cars or
shooting from second-story windows.
When the gang was within a mile of Muddy Creek, Baldy
ordered them to stop the handcars, lift them off the track, then
to follow him on their hands and knees, from sagebrush to
sagebrush, until they were near enough the special coaches to
observe what was happening inside. What they saw gave them
courage, of which the gangsters had plenty when things were
going their way. Hydrangea, in a gaily colored sweater and
short skirt, was working away at a dance routine, beneath
the admiring eyes of the princesses, Unreal Bear and Tinted
Cloud, in the studio car. Galilee Zach, always obliging, was
tapping out a dance tune as best he could with one well-
groomed finger.
“Isn't that banana who's kneading the ivories a gon from
Chi?” whispered the Paperhanger hoarsely. His knees were
soaked through with moisture from the damp ground and he
was by no means happy. His last recollection of a grown man
on all fours was a newspaper cut he had seen of Daddy Brown-
ing, and he did not relish the association.
"He's a bronc named Zach, who worked in Marshall Field's.
What brings him out to Bridgeport? Bullhorrors?"
“Zipper that mug," hissed Baldy Santo.
Baldy had his eyes on the Dôme car, in which Sergeants
Schlumberger and Bonnet were playing belotte with Cromwell
and Washington, the waiters. Corrigan was in the diner, next
door, engaged in grilling pieds de cerf in the Alsatian style.
234


"We got to work quick, before the other bozos come home,”
said Baldy. “Crawl as near as you can, then, when they see
you, rush the train. Never mind the broads, get that bunch of
card players first. Paperhanger, you and Bird's-eye take care of
the cook.”
“I'd rather go for the beetles and the punk,” Paperhanger
muttered to himself, and got a look from the mild-appearing
Santo that caused his teeth to chatter.
The mobsters, numbering nine, worked their way a few
yards nearer their quarry. Suddenly Hydrangea stopped to rest
and coach Zach at the piano. Unreal Bear saw a meadowlark
hopping merrily by the side of the track and went to the win-
dow to watch the bird, whose bright yellow breast looked as if
it had come freshly from the cleaners. Tinted Cloud was at her
sister's side and saw a furtive movement in the brush, one
hundred yards away. In a second she saw another, and an-
other. The princess did not lose her head, but without moving
her lips she warned her sister, and soon the girls had spotted
the nine gangsters. What to do about them was another mat-
ter. All the girls had left their guns in the Melisande when they
had changed into gym clothes, and to reach the Melisande
meant exposing themselves between cars, since the covered
passageways had been removed for better ventilation.
The gangsters had seen the girls at the window and were
lying low, in the hope that they would not be observed, which
gave the princesses a moment in which to make plans. Since
they could not warn the men in the Dôme car, or get to their
weapons, they decided to make a quick bolt, with the train
between them and the prowlers, mount their horses which
were hitched in the shed and ride hard for help from the
reservation. Baldy Santo, who had been watching the pair,
suddenly was aware that they had vanished, and a second later
his automatic spoke as he fired again and again at the fleeing
instructions. Schlumberger and Bonnet, both armed, started
235


shooting through the windows, while shattered glass tinkled all
around them. One gangster fell, then another, then a third, but
the attackers had divided their forces, so that while the French
sergeants stood off one party, another led by Baldy got behind
them and crashed in a door of the coach. Bonnet, winged in
the elbow, felt his arm tingle and his gun slip from his hand.
"Je suis foutu, mon vieux. Use me for a shield and save your-
self, for the sake of the women,” the sergeant said.
Schlumberger, turning, found himself looking into a sub-
machine gun and a sawed-off shotgun.
“Stick 'em up,” said Baldy. "I don't want to bump you off
till I've found my son.”
Two gangsters tackled the battling Alsatian from another
direction. One was sideswiped by Bonnet with his one good
arm. Then the two Frenchmen became the center of a whirling
mass of arms, legs and clubbed automatics.
"My father was right," mumbled Schlumberger, as the butt
of a gun came down on his well-thatched head and caused an
explosion like a flashlight bulb. “I should not have joined the
police. It is no career for the son of a business man.”
Corrigan, in the diner, was putting up a game fight against
Bird's-eye and Paperhanger, but the floor was slippery and he
soon went down. The Paperhanger promptly gonked him with
a rolling pin, and when the chef awoke, he still was wearing
his own shirt, socks and B.V.D.'s, while his opponents had his
cap, his pants and his apron, the strings of which they had used
to tie him up like a turkey ready for the pan.
Hydrangea, at the sound of firing, had yelled for Frémont,
then fainted away. But when the gangsters broke into the
studio car, the shuddering Zach seemed transformed into a
wildcat. Ignoring shotguns, machine guns and automatics, he
threw himself on the first comers, scratching and biting until
blood streaked their faces and one of them was missing the lobe
of an ear. In an effort to shoot the frenzied dip, one gangster
got another in the ankle.
236


“Lay off with them rods,” shouted Baldy Santo. “Can't you
orangoutangs rub out one punk without artillery?"
The answer, evidently, was no, for Zach fought his way
to the platform. Then, bewildered, but still remembering Hy-
drangea, he tore back into the car again, tears of rage in his
eyes, clawing this way and that.
“He's a game little party, for a nance. I'm going to give him
a break,” Santo said. “Go get me a horse, if there's one left.
We got to work quick since those squaws got away.”
Zach, still fighting, tripped over the piano bench. A gangster
pinned his arms. Another sat on his face and stripped off his
trousers. The pickpocket screamed and sobbed and kicked
with both legs, stirring up such a commotion that Hydrangea
regained consciousness. The Blackbird tried to faint again, but
couldn't, when she saw what was going on around her.
Bird's-eye Cohen and Stuntz came up from the shed, leading
two balky bronchos, the only ones remaining. Still trying to
resist, Galilee Zach was placed backward on the meanest-
looking horse, and his ankles were tied beneath the animal's
belly.
“How about the eight ball? Shall she keep him company?”
asked Paperhanger Stuntz. Baldy nodded. He didn't want one
woman, particularly a good-looking one, causing friction in
his mob. So the swooning Hydrangea was slung on the other
mount, and both horses were slapped soundly on the rump,
at which they kicked up their heels and started out across the
sagebrush flat, jolting and bruising their helpless riders, who
had to cling fast to their tails to keep from sliding under.
The five male prisoners who were left, Schlumberger, Bonnet,
Cromwell, Washington and Corrigan, all shaken up and
wounded, were loaded on a handcar and taken back toward
Mondak, to be relieved of pants and shoes, dumped off and
run into the foothills in the most desolate stretch of country
along the way. Meanwhile, working feverishly with crowbars,
Baldy and the rest of his crew got the special cars moving down
237


the sidetrack, one by one, over the switch and on the main line
tracks just west of the curve where an approaching engineer
could not see them until it was too late to stop the Limited.
The fortune of Hugo Weiss would soon have been reduced
by a sizeable figure had not Rain-No-More and two of his
braves, who were rounding up stray dogies and their calves
sidetrack. Rain-No-More, riding hard, got near enough to see
that all was not well, then raced for the narrow footbridge, his
braves close behind him. The pintos strained their wiry limbs
until blood tinged their nostrils, but the detour was so long
that before the Blackfeet reached the scene of the melee on
Muddy Creek the Santo gang had made a clean getaway, with
their wounded and a load of booze from the Dôme. Leaping
into the dining car, Rain-No-More found a towel stained with
blood that had flowed from the scalp of Corrigan, after it had
been bashed with his own rolling pin. From the platform, red
rag in hand, Rain-No-More sprang to the back of his pony
and streaked down the tracks, cinders flying, while more than
once the sure-footed animal tripped over ties and nearly went
down with his rider.
The Limited was approaching on the tangent just ahead, at
full speed and with its whistle blowing madly. Rain-No-More
pulled up his pony in the middle of the track and faced the on-
coming train, waving the crimson towel above his head, from
which two raven feathers hung.
"Good Christ," said the engineer, jamming back the lever,
"that Indian's gone loco."
The fireman did what he could with the brakes, then shut
his eyes. Sparks flew from the brake shoes, the spinning car-
wheels locked and skidded, passengers shrieked and held fast
to whatever they could grab, a scent like burning brimstone
filled the air. Rain-No-More's pony, bewildered and trembling,
stood flat-footed as if charmed by the onrushing engine snort-
238


ing smoke and fire, and as the young Blackfeet sat there, wav-
ing, the old tribal warwhoop issued shrilly from his throat.
Force! Violence! Momentum! Warcries, battles, deaths, in-
justices seemed rolled into one in the hurtling mass before him.
For an instant his mind flickered. Should he spur his horse
forward and dash himself against the speeding monster, sym-
bol of the white race advancing roughshod over his ancestral
plains? All men who live their life boldly have a lurking hunger
for death. They taste, in tense moments, the urge to challenge
the infinite, to cease to exist, “not with a whimper but a bang."
But just in time to feel the hot breath of the engine rush past,
Rain-No-More dug his heel into the pony's side and the beast,
from habit, sidestepped quickly
One hundred yards beyond, the Limited came to a stop, and
indignant officials and passengers began streaking down the
tracks.
“Get that damned Indian,” the conductor yelled, and some
of the passengers reached down to the roadbed for sticks and
stones. Rain-No-More scornfully held his ground.
“If you will look around the next curve, you will perhaps be
ready to apologize,” he said to the conductor in English.
One of the brakemen had had the presence of mind to run
ahead of where the Limited was standing, and before the con-
ductor could say another word he saw the man signaling madly.
The crowd forgot its murderous intent and streamed in the
other direction, and it was not long before the conductor came
back, shamefacedly, and stuck out his hand.
"Much obliged,” he said. “I spoke out of turn."
“Quite all right,” said Rain-No-More, not haughtily but wit)
dignity.
One of the passengers was going from car to car, hat in
hand, and bills were showered in, ranging mostly from five to
twenty dollars. As Rain-No-More was about to ride toward the
medicine lodge to report what had happened, the big genial
239


man in blue serge, pockets bulging with money, came up to
him.
“We've made up a little pot for you,” the passenger said.
"You sure saved us from a smash-up.”
said, "and furthermore, we of the Blackfeet have no need for
gold except for squaws' ornaments, of which we have plenty
just now. I appreciate your gesture, having lived among the
whites long enough to understand a few of their foolish ways.
But there will come a day when these long steel tracks will be
as far back in the memory of man as” (he pointed to a distant
cliff) “that last flow of lava. The plains will remain, and, let
us hope, will have reverted to their natural usage. Sir, good day.”
240


20
A Field for Missionary Work
IT HAD DAWNED on Hugo Weiss, who was by no means a self-
centered person, that his host, Jim Leonard, was embarrassed
in his presence. So with his characteristic directness, the finan-
cier resolved to get at the root of the trouble and, even if it
took his whole force of engineers and experts to do it, to find
a solution. His first step was to consult Evans, whom he found
closeted with Tom Jackson. They had done justice to a hearty
meal. Although the multi-millionaire employed thousands of
men in all sorts of capacities, he was careful to select those
who could toss off a good repast at any hour of the day or night
without squawking about their energy or their innards. To
and be willing to use it prodigally, he had always contended.
Before Weiss had a chance to submit his problem to Homer,
Tom Jackson told him about the furor his disappearance was
causing back East, and on several continents.
"Ah, boys will be boys,” the financier said, and sighed good-
naturedly. “They've beared the market, to make a clean-up
when I reappear. A transparent maneuver, it would seem, but
it always works. You know, I explain to my assistants how
241


difficult it is to struggle along with such a colossal fortune. I
make them understand that I want to spend, not save, get rid
of my surplus assets, not accumulate more. But the moment
they get excited, some baleful instinct gets the best of them
and the first thing I know they have engineered some deal that
brings in millions and are pathetically expectant of praise.
However, give me the details, in round figures if you can. No
use kicking against the pricks, as the Talmud says, or is it the
New Testament?"
Now Jackson, after working on the Paris Herald and other
cautious sheets, had spread himself when told by Weiss to
spare no expense to make the X-Ray a model paper. Tom had
subscribed to the A.P., the U.P., the I.N.S., in fact, all news
services, syndicates and picture services worthy the name, and
quite a few that were not. He dumped on the table a gunny-
sack of clippings he had collected on the Weiss disappearance
and the ensuing panic, and succinctly summarized their con-
tents.
"By Jove,” said the multi-millionaire, "I have it! Just the
thing!"
Like many busy men, with huge deals buzzing constantly in
their heads, he made the mistake of assuming, now and then,
that his thoughts were audible to all whom they might con-
cern. Evans smiled and asked him to elucidate.
"I know Jim Leonard has that fifty thousand dollars on
his mind, and is worrying for fear it will be lost and that he
won't be able to pay it back. Also the running expenses of this
adventure, which I wouldn't swap for all my bank accounts
combined, are troubling him. Now is the chance for him to
make a clean-up. I'll buy his cattle on the hoof. As a matter of
fact, I can get a huge discount in shipping them to Omaha.
Leonard can take the money—I'll give him a check today—
and buy Jar and Bottle stock, and a few other choice securities
in the open market. The brokers are breaking their necks, and
incidentally their clients, trying to sell them.
242


had finally been used to paper a privy which long since had
been blown down by the wind. Besides, Jim suspected that
Weiss had no use for the shorthorns he offered to purchase,
and was merely piling up favors.
"Are you in the meat-packing business?" the rancher asked
the magnate.
“I'm in practically every business within the law, and a few
on the borderline,” Weiss said.
“But these stocks you want me to buy are going down, ac-
cording to the paper,” said the rancher.
"Precisely. That's the time to buy, when others are selling
cheap,” Weiss said. “You can get the stocks on margin, so you
won't have to put up more than ten per cent of the cash. That
will jack up the profits about nine hundred percent.”
In the end, it took Miriam to persuade her father to place
himself in the banker's hands, and Evans added his endorse-
ment of the scheme.
"Let's see,” said Weiss, reaching for his checkbook and foun-
tain pen. “You've got about ten thousand head, and the price
will be about $35 apiece. That's $350,000. With that you can
buy $3,500,000 worth of stock. We can figure, conservatively, on
a fifteen percent rise, when I show up on the street again. With
what the Government takes for taxes and the brokerage fees
deducted you can count on a profit of $450,000, maybe half a
million. Besides, we can probably get Gilligan to sell the same
stocks short, so he'll lose about as much as you make. You see,
Jim, on Wall Street we get them coming and going."
Jim Leonard seldom drank before sundown, unless he was
in town, but at the mention of $450,000 he reached for the Old
Crow and drank a third of the bottle without coming up for air.
“Can the other boys get in on this?” he asked, his misgivings
lulled by the potent rye.
On being answered in the affirmative, he went downstairs
and clanged the triangle and soon the cowpunchers were lined
up at the kitchen table, wages in hand, buying Jar and Bottle
244


growing thorny cactus were the only vegetation; what little
water there was was alkaline and bitter; and nothing flourished
but prairie dogs, coyotes and curlews. The horses had got tired
of running and were grazing as best they could, heading toward
their home range which was several hundred miles eastward.
When the bronchos got near enough to one another, Zach tried
to think of some comforting words to say to his desolate com-
panion in misfortune, but twilight fell before any suitable
phrases came to his mind. His legs had been rubbed raw and
the sharp backbone of his mount was slowly splitting him in
two, he believed, and his flair for logic forced him to conclude,
that something similar, though not identical, was happening
to Hydrangea, although he was delicate enough not to men-
tion it.
Eventually, the broncho on which Zach was tied, facing rear-
ward, got fed up with carrying his burden and lay down on his
side, with the intention of rolling. Zach, one leg pinned, found
that his wrists, tightly bound, were near a rock with sharp
flinty edges, and by working frantically the pickpocket was able
to sever the buckskin thongs and free himself. In a moment he
untied and lifted down the ex-Blackbird, more dead than alive.
The bronchos, who had got used to their riders by that time,
approached, ears erect, and sniffing, to inspect them now that
they were afoot. Zach uprooted a sagebrush and chased them
away. The bronchos were nearing the horizon and were the
only objects worth mentioning in sight, when it occurred to
the city-bred dip that he had got himself into the class with
Snodgrass, whose famous error, the reader will remember, cost
his team the world's series.
On the other side of the distant Missouri, a disconsolate party
was stumbling through the foothills, hopelessly lost. The mem-
bers were Sergeants Schlumberger and Bonnet, Corrigan the
chef, the waiters, Cromwell and Washington, and the gangsters
known as Bird's-eye Cohen and Paperhanger Stuntz. The two
last-named had been, in a manner of speaking, hoist by their
246


own petard. Acting on instructions from Baldy Santo, the
thugs had selected a particularly vile stretch of country along
the Great Northern tracks and there had stopped the handcar
and escorted their prisoners, whose trousers had been confis-
cated, into the near-by hills. But neither Bird's-eye nor Paper-
hanger had ever been in the foothills before and had not realized
how much alike they were. After abandoning their charges in
what they believed was a safe and secluded spot, the gorillas
circles in the wrong general direction, and it was not more
than an hour before they got back to where they had left the
others, who, although bound, fell upon the exhausted gang-
sters and gave them such a going over with their knees and
elbows that they yelled for mercy and, under duress, untied the
ropes that bound the sergeants, who immediately tied up the
gangsters in turn.
While the gesture gave the Frenchmen some satisfaction, it
did not otherwise improve their situation, which was worse
than deplorable. All around them were hills, and then hills.
They were insufficiently clothed, bruised and wounded, with-
out food or water and devoid of knowledge as to how to take
care of themselves in the great outdoors. Corrigan, by instinct,
had lighted a fire. Cromwell and Washington, having dis-
armed Bird's-eye and Paperhanger, were out after game, but
the only rabbit they got within range was blown into so many
pieces by the Thompson sub-machine gun that not even the
left hind foot could be retrieved. Bonnet and Schlumberger
were engaged in an ethical argument, as to whether they would
be justified, when worst came to worst, in slaughtering and
eating the gangsters, who, having been in company with so
many Italians, could understand a little French and were deeply
shocked
But no one in Montana or North Dakota was in the state
of agitation that possessed Chief of Detectives Frémont when
the Indian princesses came riding like mad into Trout-tail's
247


at Muddy Creek. The thought of Hydrangea at the mercy of
a band of criminals for whom the Ten Commandments were
mere springboards caused Frémont to bellow and throw him-
self about like a bear in a swarm of hornets.
"Heart of my heart, my dusky queen of all that is soft and
gentle, what suicidal impulse caused me to abandon you in this
wilderness?” he said, tearing out his shirttail and great handfuls
of hair. Chief Shot-on-Both-Sides, to whom the spectacle of a
Latin in the throes of grief was an unprecedented experience,
concluded that his guest had nibbled loco weed, and sent a
brave on the hotfoot for a bottle of the white squaw Lydia's
remedy, which had proven helpful in cases involving the acci-
learned that Frémont's despair had been caused by the loss of a
squaw, Shot-on-Both-Sides held out the peace pipe and offered
Tinted Cloud and Unreal Bear who had whispered to their
father their yearning for Schlumberger and Bonnet, respect-
ively. Frémont, however, refused to be comforted, and soon
the war drums were sounding, while the make-up men were
splashing war paint on all comers, and knives, war clubs and
old-fashioned Springfield rifles were being passed out in the
ordnance tent.
Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux was conferring with Trout-tail III
about first-aid precautions and making rapid notes concerning
the salves, antiseptics and counter-irritants the medicine man
brewed from simple roots and herbs. Single file, with Shot-on-
Both Sides in the lead and Frémont a close second, the Black-
feet and their guests lit out on the warpath and had not covered
many miles before they were met by Rain-No-More, who
saluted his father in the Indian fashion and made his terse re-
port.
Shot-on-Both-Sides held up his hand, the column halted and
dismounted while the Chief held a council of war with his son,
248


the medicine man and, as a matter of courtesy, the visiting re-
serve officers of the army of France.
"The Great Lakes palefaces have their camp in Mondak, two
days' journey away, and with their handcars will reach it in
less than four hours. They are intrenched and armed and num-
ber only nine,” the Chief said.
"Excuse me, mon general, I think there are only six effec-
tives,” said Dr. Toudoux. “Your son informs me that three
were wounded by my countrymen, Schlumberger and Bonnet.”
“The difference between six and nine, having in mind the un-
sportsmanlike weapons now employed, is negligible,” said
Shot-on-Both-Sides. “I have never seen a machine gun in action,
but from what my son tells me, it is among the more dastardly
inventions of the whites, its only virtue being that it aids them
in self-destruction. We must rely on cunning, and conserve the
lives of our men, who, since they would throw themselves from
the highest cliff if I asked them to, are worthy of intelligent
direction. My opinion is that we should detail six braves to
search for the black squaw and the sok ko ma pe a ke kooin
(man-woman) who was sent away with her. The rest of us
should ride until midnight, camp in the brush by the river, and
plan to reach enemy territory at dusk tomorrow. The Great
Lakes warriors, having stolen a load of firewater, are likely to
be drunk and possibly may prove to be easy prey. Their Chief,
I have been told, does not drink, and to him shall be sent by
messenger a snakeskin stuffed with arrows and a note inform-
ing him that we have his son.”
Rain-No-More rose respectfully and asked permission to
speak.
“Eeeeee” (thank you), Rain-No-More began. “I wished to
remind the commander of the paleface taboo on blackmail,” he
said.
"As I understand it," replied the Chief, “the Great Lakes
palefaces are in no position to apply for help to officers of the
249


the braves at the suggestion that they should betray their Chief's
confidence. “These mugs are untouchables.”
"Come off it," said Terry. “The bozo doesn't walk who
hasn't got his price.”
"You don't get the drift," young Santo said. “These dopes
don't go for the spondoolix. They don't even savvy what money
is.”
“Then we'll have to teach the dumb clucks,” said young Gil-
ligan.
251


Miriam, who was roping and cutting out the most obstreper-
ous of the steers with a skill that challenged comparison with
the best of the cowboys, had led Evans to the corral to watch
the branding and was instructing him in the use of the rope
when over the hill dashed a Blackfeet brave, his pony's belly
not two feet from the ground, so furious was the pace at which
he rode. Some of the wild cattle started running and for a mo-
ment all hands were busy preventing a stampede.
The Indian tried to give his urgent message in broken Eng-
lish until informed by Evans that he might use his native
tongue.
"I am pleased,” the brave said, which was a gem of under-
statement. “The Chief, Shot-on-Both-Sides wishes me to in-
form the paleface medicine man, one Evans ..."
“I am Evans,” Homer said.
"Good. The Great Lakes palefaces have attacked the train
at Muddy Creek, chased certain of the occupants into the hills,
taken others as hostages and prisoners, attempted to destroy
the coaches, stolen a load of firewater, and generally comported
themselves in a hostile manner. The Blackfeet, with the Chief
and his son Rain-No-More in command, are on the march and
will camp tonight along the Missouri, fifty paleface miles from
Mondak. It would please the Chief if the paleface medicine
man, a white squaw known to his people as Bird Cherry, and
any braves who may be spared from the round-up, would join
the party on the warpath, as it is expedient, in view of possible
legal difficulties afterward, to have as many white men as pos-
sible involved. Otherwise the agents of the Great White Father
will pin everything on the Blackfeet and do us further injus-
tices.”
"You have spoken well,” said Evans. “Do us the honor to
rest here, and eat before returning.”
"I will accept a fresh horse, but cannot linger," said the
brave, and in a moment was astride an unbroken broncho who
was trying to rub him off against the fence of the corral. Within
253


“------ your partners,” exclaimed the precise Beatrice.
This alternative for the partners, amazed the former Miss
Baxter as much or more than it did Attorney Fish, and also the
partners when they were told, over a bottle of very decent port,
at the Union Club that evening. In fact, the partners' guffaws
brought about the resignation of six of the older members, one
of whom was startled so severely by the sound of laughter that
he had his second stroke right then and there. That the reader
may not be left entirely in the dark, it may be said that the
verb, used in the imperative form, contains six letters and was
applied by Panurge to Herr Trippa, the astrologer, when the
latter swore by all the stars that Panurge would be cuckolded in
every style.
At dusk, a fleet of handcars rolled into the railroad yards at
Mondak, with Baldy Santo and what remained of his gang
aboard. They had waited as long as possible for the return of
Bird's-eye and the Paperhanger, but the condition of their three
wounded men made it necessary to go on without the missing
pair. Of the nine who had started out that day, only four were
in commission, and the agitation of Baldy, the big shot, was
more acute than ever, since no trace had been found of his son.
Baldy knew that, however poignant his grief, the gang would
have to make a night of it, so he instructed his men to take the
liquor over to the local hookshop by the tracks, an establish-
ment run by a huge fat blonde named Mona Mason and known
from Frisco to Minneapolis as a none-too-strict disciplinarian.
Mona's motto, in fact, was “Let's go."
“Tell Mona to lock up the joint,” Baldy said, then hurried
to the depot and ducked into a telephone booth. The connection
with Cicero, Illinois, was established after a fusillade of assorted
gong noises as coins dropped in all three slots. The gang leader
got in touch with his lieutenant and ordered him to send out
to Mondak every gangster he could find.
"I can use dozens, hundreds,” Baldy said. “And tell 'em for
256


cripes' sake to bring good strong boots, the kind with nails in
the soles.”
“I know. You want to massage a lot of wrongos' pusses,"
the lieutenant said.
“They'll need 'em for walking, but don't tell 'em that or they
won't come," said Baldy. “They don't have taxis out here.”
“I know. Covered wagons," said the lieutenant, and Baldy,
disgusted, hung up the receiver.
Homer Evans, on the spirited Jesse, glanced behind him as
the ranch house was lost to sight and saw Moritz the dog, game
but desperate, trotting patiently in the wake of the party. Rein-
ing up his roan, he stroked the horse's muzzle and spoke a few
reassuring words. Then, to Miriam's astonishment, he lifted the
panting Boxer to the saddle and mounted, with Moritz slung
like a meal sack in front of him. The roan, a few short weeks
ago an outlaw, stood up on his hind legs and Moritz, his frown
deepening, glanced at Evans to see if he should jump down.
"Steady, Jesse. We've got work to do," said Homer, and the
rangy roan stopped dancing on his hind legs and trotted com-
plaisantly on.
Hjalmar was astride a huge gray named Legs, a wise old cow
horse that did much to overcome his rider's reluctance to
head right into the wind and make sweeping turns to avoid
snapping off a rudder. Diluvio had a bald-faced bay and passed
the time along the way trying to figure out how multiple hoof-
beats should properly be orchestrated, if ever they should be
orchestrated at all. He decided that he preferred the subtler
treatment of Chopin, in the E-minor Concerto, final move-
ment, which evokes the charging of cavalry, in defense of what-
ever cavalrymen hold most dear. Lvov Kvek and Grigori Lidin,
their handsome Slavic faces alight with joy, rode their bronchos
like clean-shaven centaurs and rejoiced at having been born.
For the sabers they had ordered had arrived at the ranch that
very day, in the shipment of goods that had proved disappoint-
257


deck. But when he reached the point where Zach had freed him-
self, and smelled the, for him, somewhat over-laden fragrance
Running back to join Evans and Miriam, the Boxer barked and
wagged his stump of a tail, not twice, as was his custom, but
time and time again.
runts and you Moritz to call hubo had been
brush and a severed buckskin thong, then others that had been
untied.
"Thank God they're safe,” said Homer. “It's a miracle they
didn't slip under the horses' bellies, to be kicked and dragged to
death."
Suddenly Moritz bristled and growled. When Homer started
onward, the Boxer took hold gently of his left trousers leg to
detain him.
“What the devil?" muttered Homer, but he took heed of the
warning. A second later, Moritz stiffened and hurled himself at
a clump of sagebrush from which began to issue amazing
grunts and yells. “Good God. An Indian,” said Evans, and
spoke firmly to Moritz to call him off his victim. The six Black-
feet braves, in full warpaint, who had been detailed to search
for Hydrangea and the sok ko ma pe a ke kooin (concerning
whom the Indians had a strong curiosity, never having seen
a white one) had tracked the bronchos in a more laborious
fashion and, upon hearing the approach of Evans and Miriam,
had hidden to find out what was afoot.
The brave who had been bitten by Moritz was lost in admira-
tion of the dog's tracking achievement and was most mag-
nanimous. “The thinking dog, I am afraid,” the brave said to
Homer, “has smeared himself in line of duty with some of my
paint. The red and black are both known to be harmless to
animals, but the white is bad for them.”
he scrubbed the white from Moritz's shoulder.
With Moritz in the lead, followed closely by the admiring
259


Indians, the joint expedition was able to find without delay an
old buffalo wallow. In the center of the slight depression Zach
was sitting, shivering, while Hydrangea, too tired to care what
happened, was sleeping near by. The Indians got out of sight,
a maneuver they could accomplish as swiftly as Houdini, feel-
ing instinctively that the sight of them, all red, black and white,
bedecked with feathers and carrying weapons in both hands,
might disconcert a colored girl awakening on the lone prairie.
Miriam spoke softly and Hydrangea opened her eyes.
“Oh, my God, another woman,” sighed Zach, with resigna-
tion, but soon he discerned the figure of Homer Evans and was
wild with relief and delight. “I knew you wouldn't leave us to
perish in this awful place. I just knew it,” the pickpocket said.
“And I'm seldom wrong in sizing up men.”
“We have six Indians with us,” said Homer.
“The darlings,” said Zach.
The Indians, who although invisible were watching Zach
slyly, came out of their hiding places.
"Ugh,” they said, in unison.
“I learned to 'Ugh' myself, when I was in the chorus and we
did an Indian number. But we were taught to do it twice,"
Zach said. “No doubt we were wrong.” It was his nature to be
carefree. So the moment the others had arrived to take the
responsibility from his shoulders he forgot his ordeal just past
and all fears of the future.
The reader now will be whisked across the flats and the rag-
ing Missouri to the foothills in which were wandering Sergeants
Bonnet and Schlumberger, the chef Corrigan, Waiters Crom-
well and Washington, and their prisoners, Bird's-eye Cohen and
Paperhanger Stuntz. Were the reader more familiar with the
country in question, he would be grateful to the author for af-
fording him that literary method of transportation, for to cross
that stretch of scenery by any other means than being whisked
is not an act one would care to contemplate.
260


The neighborhood coyotes were vociferous that night, having
filled the wrinkles in their bellies since the thaw, and it is a
toss-up among naturalists to decide whether the coyote sings
more lustily from hunger or satisfaction, when the moon is
bright or when there is no moon at all. The waiters, Cromwell
and Washington, were by far the most sensitive to sound of any
members of the party and were just getting used to the wailing
when they caught sight of several pairs of gleaming eyes, green
or amber in color, which flashed on and off in a circle around
the dying campfire. At last Cromwell could stand the sight no
longer and cut loose for the second time that day with the
Thompson sub-machine gun. That time he had better luck, for
he bagged seven of the astonished coyotes before the other
twenty-five could lope away.
"At least, we shall have meat in plenty," said the mercurial
Bonnet, who had earned the name “White Lightning” from
the Indian squaws. “How unlucky that we did not bring along
at least one bottle of Pinard,” said Schlumberger, who was in-
clined to take the darker view of things.
The coyotes were plump and meaty, although when stripped
of their fur did not look much larger than Belgian hares. The
meat was much stronger, however, and would have been im-
proved by a dash of salt and pepper, or practically anything
known to man. The French sergeants, by using buffalo bones
tipped with bits of flint had improvised fairly creditable medi-
cine sticks, and when their own hunger had been outraged if
not sated by a mouthful or two of roast coyote, they took par-
tial revenge on the protesting gangsters by making them swal-
low half a coyote apiece. Just before he was about to collapse
from thirst, Schlumberger remembered that in certain sheltered
spots a little snow remained and proceeded to melt some in his
mouth and swallow it, while Bonnet protested that the icy
liquid would chill his stomach and cause fatal cramps. Schlum-
berger contended that the cramps were caused by the meat, not
261


the water. The argument became general, but no one could be
sure.
Washington, who wore glasses and was the intellectual
among the attendants of the special train, had read a few West-
erns in his day, before he took up philosophy, and seemed to
remember that beds were made up, always with the loftiest of
purposes, of evergreen boughs, interlaced in a manner he could
not recall to mind. The nearest evergreen was about as far away
from the foothills of the Rockies as Buffalo is from Times
Square, excepting only a few balsams imported by Myra Pat-
terson of Glendive in an effort to beautify her expensive new
yard. Washington, not to be daunted, tried interlacing sage-
brush and found the result distinctly disappointing. Finally
he fell back on the bare damp ground.
A smooth chunk of lava rock was his pillow. The Frenchmen
elected to sleep sitting up, back to back, as they had in the
Battle of the Marne, only on the Marne they had slept much
more soundly, because in the army they had had horizon blue
Corrigan stayed awake to prevent the gangsters from doing
anything except cursing, which they did without cease until
dawn, expressing the Irish chef's sentiments so eloquently that
The out-of-doors scene just described contrasted vividly with
what was taking place in Mona Mason's joint on the outskirts
of Mondak. There the Santo gang were getting a start on what
promised to be a red-letter evening. The doors of the hookshop
the party. Beer, whiskey and champagne were cooling on huge
chunks of ice commandeered from the local ice-plant. Into the
dance hall and reception room on the ground floor had been
wheeled a huge four-poster bed from the alcove in which the
madam usually slept, and in it had been installed the three
wounded gangsters whose groans had diminished, then ceased,
262


as the stolen liquor got in its merciful work. The capacious
umbrella stand had been pressed into service as a gaboon and
stood near by.
All three of the hookers were showing their stamina, dancing
without respite with all comers, and rushing up and down
stairs, as the exigencies of the occasion seemed to demand, their
weariness, if any, concealed by vivid make-up, and their cos-
tumes, involving short skirts, corsets and old-fashioned long
black stockings adding color to the scene. Their working names
were, respectively, Rose, Violet and Lil. The madam was pour-
ing and serving what were known as snake's drinks, so named
because of their popularity with railroad switchmen. They con-
sisted of a hefty slug of whiskey with a chaser of bottled beer.
The "grape,” as the champagne was called, was to be opened
later, after all hands had laid a good foundation.
At the piano the professor, a battered but unbowed old rake
with gray hair cut long behind, had in his day been capable of
an Invitation to the Waltz that could not be beat in Omaha or
Pocatello. But just then he was playing and singing, in a voice
that gave testimony of a dissolute life, the following song, the
first stanza of which takes the interrogatory form, with a Shakes-
pearean connotation:
“What did Rome-ee-oh-oh do to Jew-lee-ett
When he climbed her balconee?"
Tastes differ tremendously, as the reader well knows. Some
men collect orange wrappers or postage stamps, others twitter
with glee at the sight of their first sweet pea breaking through
the loam; golf, tennis and even Parchesi have their amateurs;
there are wags who pinch plump neighbors in crowded sub-
ways. Proust has his readers, but then, so has Gertrude Ather-
ton. Their name is legion who dote on comic strips, strip teases
or teas for two with clothes and cocktails. Therefore, since
Baldy's gangsters are snug and comfortable, not to say relaxed
and content, let us leave them where they are for the present and
263


peep through the brush fifty miles north, on the banks of the
Missouri, where Chief Shot-on-Both-Sides and his Blackfeet
braves, reinforced by Frémont, Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux, Kvek
and Lidin, Hjalmar and Diluvio, are encamped for the night.
Since the Indians were not being followed, they were able to
do themselves rather well. While the braves were polishing up
their equipment and getting their paint and feathers in shape
for inspection, some squaws who had followed the main body
of troops found a clearing among the cottonwood trees, well
screened from above by wild grapevines, and difficult of ap-
proach by skulking enemies. There a fire had been built and
reduced to glowing embers and a meal was being prepared.
There was venison, both fresh roasted and smoked; grouse
with checkerberries; store ham from the Great Lakes region;
and the pièce de resistance, the tribal sausage made by stuffing
bear entrails, ritually cleaned and purified, with chopped loin
meat of the elk and white-tail deer. The braves not on sentry
duty ate their portions in silence, and as the night sky deepened
and the stars took their places one by one until the constellations
were at full war strength, the squaws ate what was left, or as
much as they could of it, and cleared the circle for the evening of
music and tale-telling that was to follow. Modestly the princesses
Tinted Cloud and Unreal Bear, concealing stoically their
anxiety about the French sergeants who had fallen into enemy
hands, directed the women's labors and accomplished their full
share.
“Since intrepid Frenchmen, whose names, dash it all, I must
remember to jot down, were the first Christians to explore this
noble country, I shall use all my influence to have these Pieds
Noirs, or Blackfeet, represented in our next Colonial Exposi-
tion in Paris,” said Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux.
Frémont could only keep from yammering by chewing hard
on a tree. "Merciful darkness and darker fate that cloak what
is happening to my still darker Hydrangea,” implored the
stricken officer. “Descend also on my fevered brain. The im-
264


mortal Hamlet was not clear as to 'whether 'tis nobler in the
mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune' or
to seek the final oblivion. He had to deal with Danes, not
Italians, and had lost, not my ebony jewel of Harlem, but a
pale neurotic aristocrat who could easily be replaced in any De-
partment of France.”
"Take heart,” said Dr. Toudoux. “Remember that Monsieur
Evans is looking after our interests."
At that Frémont began rocking from side to side and grind-
ing his teeth together, having swallowed a mouthful of bark.
“Spare me, countryman,” he begged. “A private detective,
admittedly the best, nine times out of ten can only uncover the
revolting details after disaster has happened. Better to be torn
by uncertainty ..."
“Peace, neats ap pe kooin an ye sit” (sorrowing Frenchman),
said Chief-Shot-on-Both-Sides. “If this squaw of squaws should
by chance return, and find out what she means to you, she
might lead you such a life that the present moment will seem
ecstatic in retrospect. Alas, I am old, I have lived and I know.”
The old Chief rose and made a sign with his medicine stick
and from their stations behind trees, the drummers and musi-
cians stepped out, squatted in a circle and the soft insistent beat
began rolling around from one to the other, in a clockwise direc-
tion, while brave after brave, in turn, performed a dance descrip-
tive of what he intended to do when he caught up with the
Great Lakes palefaces whose record had been such that they
could not lean on the Great White Father for protection. It
was an opportunity every young Blackfeet had longed for since
childhood and that his parents had desired before him. Toudoux
was fascinated and spellbound, and even Frémont was moved
to the point where he sprang into the circle himself and cut a
rigadoon until exhaustion overcame him. At last, the Chief held
up his hand, the drummers toned down to a whispering pianis-
simo, and Shot-on-Both-Sides addressed first his visitors and
then his tribesmen who hung on his words.
265


"Reserve officers of the ni oks kum neats ap pe (Third Repub-
lic) and gentlemen,” he said. “I know you are loyal. I know
you are courageous. Your dancing has testified to your enthusi-
asm for our cause, which is just and humane. What I wish to
Hear me well.
"It is true that our enemy numbers less than a dozen, with
possibly only four effectives. But warfare changes like the plains
our tribal legends tell us were once the bottom of the great blue
water, again were covered with forests two hundred feet high,
were deep in muck, with monsters whose bones, indeed, may
be viewed in our tribal museum. The palefaces, with apologies
to the fortunate exceptions who are our guests and who must
not take offense, were once a mighty race, but their power has
dwindled, so that the general run of them are puny and have
food or build their own fires. Their blankets are woven by
strangers, their medium of exchange controlled by sorcerers be-
yond the reach of tribal law. As their muscles have shrunk their
brains have distended like the livers of over-fed geese, and the
intelligence that once brought them light and happiness has
been perverted to the uses of destruction and greed. Enough of
generalities. Let us consider our immediate and specific prob-
lem.
“The Great Lakes palefaces, our enemies, do not go abroad
without new and cowardly weapons known variously as type-
writers, machine guns or Tommy guns; also exploding missiles
called pineapples, and stink bombs so potent that one whiff
brings tears to the eyes of the strongest brave. We are to face,
tomorrow, not a few evil-faced runts who, quite properly, value
their lives at nothing, but an unknown number of the pale-
face typewriters, each one of which could kill a thousand men
or mountain lions in less time than it takes a squaw to shake a
blanket. Opposed to those engines of death, we have Spring-
fields we were obliged to steal from a cinema company on loca-
266


tion, while a film was being made of those happy days when
Northern and Southern palefaces were potting one another in
droves, because of a dispute concerning rights of tribes, in the
form of federated government originated by the Massachusetts
Indians.
“I ask you, every one, to be cautious and not to be led to folly
by tribal stories of other conflicts in which your ancestors cov-
ered themselves with glory in hand-to-hand combat. First we
must find out where the typewriters, or machine guns, are, and
must capture and destroy them. I would go in sorrow to my
grave were I to see a Blackfeet resort to such a weapon. Then
let us settle the issue, man to man. My son, Rain-No-More, has
seen machine guns in action, along with fourteen other braves
who joined the paleface A.E.F. against my strict orders. Those
men will hold a private council and later will instruct each
brave what to do.
“Kyi."
267


"A party of friends,” replied Evans.
“Advance, friends, and give the countersign,” the sentry said.
"Sam it okh si u” (Good hunting), said Homer.
"Pass and hunt,” the brave said, giving the eye to Zach and
Hydrangea who were being unslung at the time.
The reunion between Frémont and his sweetheart was so
touching that the officer of the day caused the couple to be
screened off with boughs in order that the braves might not be
diverted from the business in hand. Miriam, at Homer's sug-
gestion, rolled in with Tinted Cloud and Unreal Bear for a
much-needed nap. Moritz busied himself with an elk bone and
lapped some melted snow. He had made no complaint, but the
pads of his feet were so sore that he had hard work keeping
from wincing when he walked. Knowing that the adventure
was not ended, the Boxer, after a bout of painful thinking, made
his way to the lodge of Trout-tail III, approached the medicine
man and held out a tender front paw, pads upward.
“Brother without words, I've just the thing for you,” the
medicine man said, highly pleased and flattered. And in a trice
he made a salve of powdered ragwort, a little blue clay and a
few drops from the white squaw Lydia's indispensable bottle
and bandaged each of the dog's feet with cool grape leaves
fresh from the overhanging vines. In a moment, the Boxer was
stretched on his side, legs extended, snoring happily.
Homer Evans, however, had gone straight to the tepee of
Shot-on-Both-Sides. The sentry announced him, then asked
him please to enter. Evans stepped inside, saluted and sat in
silence a full twelve minutes to collect his thoughts.
“Commander,” Homer said, “I am happy to report that we
have recovered the colored squaw and the sok ko ma pe a ke
kooin, who, I may say, has behaved extremely well. The six
braves you detailed were on the ground before me and should
be given full credit for the rescue."
“I shall notch their coup sticks twice apiece,” the Chief said.
"Concerning the attack on the Great Lakes palefaces,” Evans
269


continued, “with the Chief's permission, I have a suggestion
to make.”
“Speak freely,” said Shot-on-Both-Sides.
“The men of the tribe of Santo, having stolen much fire-
water, will gorge and swill this night,” said Homer. “The Chief
intends to fall upon them this evening, and the way is long.
Would it not be better to make a forced march before sunup
and surprise them in the early morning, when they will be
too drunk for organized resistance?"
"The leader, I understand, does not drink,” said Shot-on-
Both-Sides.
"For that reason he will be apart from the roisterers, in order
to sleep peacefully,” Evans said.
"You have spoken well,” said the Chief, and arose.
Frémont, now the gayest man in North Dakota, was lost in
admiration at the way in which the Blackfeet broke camp and
got started on the warpath again. While squaws dismantled
tents and folded blankets, braves found their ponies on the
until no trace was left of the feasting and the council. Rain-No-
More, with his A.E.F. veterans close behind him, set the pace,
and single file the Indians and their allies stole through the
brush and across the open prairie toward Mondak.
"If I could get the dragnet spread in Paris in twice the time
it takes these savages to get going, I would merit a page in
Larousse and the glorious history of France,” Frémont said, to
Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux.
"I have planned at least six volumes in praise of their medical
service and scientific acumen," said the doctor, taking a firmer
grip on his pinto's mane. "We French are too provincial, too
self-sufficient."
Kvek and Grigori Lidin, with Hjalmar and Diluvio, were
roaring “Night and Day," which so resembled one of the old
Algonquian melodies that the braves all along the line were
270


able to join in. Rain-No-More glanced at his father and smiled.
"I shall make them all members of our tribe," the old Chief
said.
Aurora, pink-fingered Goddess of the Morning, got an eyeful
that April day as she touched the peaks of the badlands and the
highest of the buttes. Across the cattle range, converging toward
Leonard's ranch house and branding corrals, parti-colored herds
were moving slowly, while the cowpunchers on the killpecker
shift were nearing the end of their vigil and thinking mostly
about chow. From the northwest corner near the reservation,
three thousand head were creeping along Cottonwood Creek;
the Professor's bunch of three thousand were nearing Three
Buttes; two thousand had been collected near Mountain Sheep
Bluffs; another two thousand from the Yellowstone side were
being sorted and branded with the Lazy J, Leonard's brand.
At Opera Lodge the Chinese cooks were frying bacon and
eggs and turning pancakes, which were served by Eugénie Tou-
doux and Beatrice Baxter, who had insisted on doing what
they could in the emergency.
The pitiful sight in the foothills northeast of Bison Creek,
when the first rays of the sun awakened the unskillful campers
there, caused Aurora to itch beneath her dew-belaundered robes.
The forlorn men began to clutch their cramped stomachs and
gag at the thought of coyote meat, brush the dirt from their
hands to their faces as they rubbed their eyes, and hustle in all
directions toward clumps of sagebrush at the command of
Nature.
"Perhaps it is fortunate that we have no pants,” said Bonnet,
one of the keenest sufferers.
"The ways of Providence are inscrutable,” grunted Schlum-
berger from a near-by bush.
“Don't be blasphemous,” said Corrigan. “You might bring
worse luck to us."
"I doubt if that is possible,” the Alsatian said.
271


tained several kinds of firewater and the malt fermentation used
for chasers,” Rain-No-More reported.
“Capital,” said Evans. “That building, as you know, is the
emergency squaw house, and it is natural that our enemies
should choose it for their celebration. With the Chief's permis-
sion I will go ahead and reconnoiter."
“Agreed,” said the Chief. “The railroad detectives might
shoot an Indian, if they saw one, in the hope of getting a raise
for vigilance. You are smartly dressed, therefore immune.”
“Don't start any rough stuff until we all get there,” said
Hjalmar.
noise.”
There were no railroad dicks in the yards that morning, in
fact, no one at all, but since the hookshop run by Mona Mason
was on a broad flat, with no cover around it except dwarf sage-
brush, it was not easy to get near enough to look in through
the windows. Hjalmar was stationed behind a box car on a
siding, while Evans got down flat on his belly and wormed his
way toward the lupanar. The shutters were tightly closed, both
doors were locked. But by means of a trellis over the back
porch, Homer was able to climb to the second story and pry
open a small window which proved to be on the stairway.
Warily he listened, but heard no sounds except snoring. Tip-
toeing down the stairs he peered into the dimness of the dance
hall and saw, amid a litter of bottles and broken glasses, a pair
of huge hefty legs in black silk stockings, spread wide in a pos-
ture of abandon. Above them he made out an expanse of white
skin that would, if converted into leather, have made a binding
large enough for the Revised Laws of Montana. The top half
of the recumbent figure was clad in a Mother Hubbard of
flesh-colored cotton on which four-leaf clovers had been printed
indiscriminately. Approaching nearer Homer saw that Mona,
for it was she, had tipped over backward into the nearly empty
woodbox and, because of her ample figure, had got wedged in
273


tightly and thus had fallen fast asleep. In the alcove near by
was the professor, on the floor, with his old-fashioned night
shirt pulled over his beer-stained working clothes of conven-
tional black. The three wounded gangsters were still in the
four-poster bed, also dead to the world.
Upstairs, in the various bedrooms, were the rest of the party,
in no better shape than their hostess or their pals. Evans, with
a smile of satisfaction, was planning to unlock the front door
and rejoin Hjalmar, when a noise behind him caused him to
leap aside and place his back to the wall.
"What day is it?" asked a husky Irish voice. It was the cook,
Mrs. Keogh, who, from force of long habit, had awakened and
was trying to pull herself together as she descended to the
kitchen for an eye-opener. She had seen so many faces in Mona's
fact that Homer was an outsider, and he quickly caught on.
Following her downstairs, he closed the kitchen door behind
them, and when she turned her back to reach for the bottle he
detached a clothesline on which were hanging several damp
chemises, and bound and gagged her with all the gentleness the
situation would permit.
In a few seconds he was across the flat at Hjalmar's side.
“They've all passed out except the cook, and I tied her up,"
Homer said to the big Norwegian. “Go back over the hill and
bring a dozen braves. If you work quickly you can capture the
entire gang and take them to the reservation. Baldy, the leader,
as I expected, is not with them. I'll go through the town and
try to locate him."
Hjalmar lit out in one direction. Homer started briskly in
he saw the gang leader in the doorway of the former lunch cart
not a block away. Baldy, after glancing at the cloudless sky and
stretching his arms, slipped on his coat and started walking
toward the station.
“The devil,” Homer said. He assumed that the gang leader
274


was headed for Mona's, which would interfere with the plans.
In order to get out of sight, Evans ducked into the depot. The
station agent was fast asleep at the telegraph desk. Cautiously
Homer slipped off the man's spectacles and eyeshade, at the
same time snatching a small phial of ether from his first-aid
kit. He dashed a few drops of the anesthetic on a handkerchief
and held it near the operator's nose, then, just as Baldy Santo's
steps resounded on the boardwalk outside, Homer rolled the
agent underneath the desk and sat in his place, clicking dots and
dashes with the key.
Instead of passing the window, as Evans had expected he
would, Baldy entered the waiting room and went straight for
the telephone booth. Evans' mind was working rapidly and he
had just about decided to take the hammer and some nails he
saw handy and nail the mob chief into the booth when Baldy
backed out and approached the office.
“Got any chicken feed?” asked Santo, tossing out a hundred
dollar bill.
Evans, an excellent mimic, assumed the voice of a railroad
employee. “I can't change the bill,” he said. “Why don't you use
the comp’ny phone, then pay me some other time?”
When he saw Santo hesitate, he added: “I'm going to the
baggage room for a minute, anyway, if you've got something
private to say."
"Keep the change,” said Santo, tossing over the bill.
“Thanks, brother," Evans said, and left the office.
The phone was on the wall, so that in order to use it Santo
had to stand with his back to the desk and did not notice the
pair of shod feet sticking out from under. Also, having been in
the beer racket so long, he did not smell the ether. He got the
operator and asked for Chicago, but once the connection was
completed he lowered his voice so that Evans, in the baggage
room adjacent, could not hear what he said. The conversation
lasted long enough, however, to give Evans time to think of an
275


take it right out of my wages. That's the way the comp'ny is,
and after all, you can't blame 'em.”
Baldy had stopped listening. He was reaching into his pockets
and pulling out hundred-dollar bills, a sheaf of which he shoved
into Evans' hand.
“Pay 'em out of that, if I don't show up,” he said. “Keep the
change. Buy some stock in the God-damned company, if you
like, then you'll be making some profit on your own labor an’
drawin' pay from yourself besides.”
“Gee, thanks, brother," Homer said, pocketing the green-
backs without counting them. “Shall I help you get the thing
going? You can catch 'em all right, but you'd better go on the
eastbound track. If they meet a freight it's all up with 'em.”
"I hope they do,” said Baldy, “and when I catch up they'll
wish they'd been run over by the Limited, instead.”
The motor handcar was on the track in a jiffy and the dapper
Sicilian rode away, while the barks of the engine rent the
morning air.
“Now for a look at the hideout,” Homer said to himself.
There remained the problem of the unconscious telegraph opera-
tor, but that was quickly solved. Evans propped him back in
his seat, took his pulse and smiled. “He'll never know, when he
wakes up, what gave him a headache,” he said, and started down
the street to the weed-covered lot on which the old converted
passenger coach occupied by Baldy was standing.
Meanwhile Hjalmar had streaked it back to the coulee in
which the Indians were waiting. He gave the Chief Homer's
message and the braves showed disappointment. So did Diluvio
and the Russian contingent, not to mention the French.
“I shall run them through the moment they wake up," said
Frémont.
"Do it neatly," said Toudoux. “If you twist the blade, or
stick it in obliquely, it will take me longer to patch them up.”
Chief-Shot-on-Both Sides told off twelve men to steal up to
the hookshop and bring back its sodden occupants. Hjalmar,
277


Diluvio, Kvek, Lidin, Toudoux and Frémont were given places
in the detachment, with six of the most deserving braves, headed
by Rain-No-More and Trout-tail III. Miriam, who was curious
to see what a hookshop was like, inside, asked permission to
accompany the expedition as sharpshooter.
"Go, if you must, but don't tell your father. I'm responsible,
in a way,” said Shot-on-Both-Sides.
Being thorough men, the members of the detachment, in the
absence of exact instructions, lugged across the flat not only the
seven gangsters, three wounded and four as effective as men
could be after what they had drunk, but the madam, the pro-
fessor, all three hookers and Mrs. Keogh, the cook, whose words,
if the gag had permitted her to utter them, would have wilted the
buds of the fragrant sage. In the case of Mona, it was agreed that
it was easier to carry her wedged into the woodbox as she was.
So two braves caught up two corners apiece and thus she was
transported across the flat, while flies buzzed merrily around
her exposed areas. It was an even bet as to who was painted
the more gaudily, Mona or the braves who acted as her porters.
The other captives, male and female, were slung like sacks
over the men's sturdy shoulders.
"How tired the women look," said Miriam. "Still, I suppose
it's better than standing on their feet all day in some factory, or
being cooped up in a bank.”
“At least, they meet more interesting people,” said Diluvio.
“You said it,” roared Hjalmar, appreciatively. He was lugging
the professor and planning to go back for the bullet-pocked
piano, since one would be handicapped without the other.
278


At last, however, tucked into a package of safety-razor blades
near the tidiest bunk, which Evans assumed must be that of
Baldy Santo, he found a list of Chicago telephone numbers, six
of them, written neatly but with no accompanying names.
“Either women, doctors or lawyers, perhaps all three,” Evans
said as he copied the numerals and letters and checked them with
the original. “Who knows? They may prove to be enlighten-
ing.”
Not wishing to be seen around town, Homer sat in a swivel
chair behind the battered cash register and indulged in a bout
of random thoughts, and his eye, wandering idly around, caught
sight of a bundle of Chicago Tribunes of recent date. He picked
up the latest one and chuckled, for on the front page was an
indignant statement by the British consul concerning the
demise of Montmorency Lewson-Phipps, the British subject
who had met his death on the day Evans and his party had left
Chicago.
“Persistent chaps, the British,” said Homer. “Now if an
American in London ... Ah, well. Advantages either way.
Official scrutiny often proves embarrassing, one must admit.”
In his formative years, Homer had developed the ability to read,
not a word at a time, but an entire line. Thus it was the work
of a moment to assimilate the contents of the article. The British
Consul had called upon his Ambassador in Washington, who,
in faultless morning clothes and with silk hat in hand, had
flown to Chicago and given the Mayor, the Chief of Police, the
District Attorney and all the newspaper owners extremely bad
half hours.
ENVOY DECLARES PHIPPS
MURDER PROBE HAS
BEEN NEGLECTED
Phones in Doubletalk to
10 Downing Street;
“Thick,” Says King
280


himself out of sight when Baldy came stamping in, his eyes
glowing angrily, his face cherry red. Outside, on the tracks,
the motor of the handcar was still running. The gang chief
made a dive for a pile of weapons in the corner, picked up a
sub-machine gun and a belt of ammunition and dashed out
to the handcar again. It dawned on Evans instantly what Baldy
was about to do. The innocent station agent, already afflicted
with an unearned headache, was about to breathe his last.
“Dash it all. I should have thought of that before,” Evans
said, and at once got into action. Baldy, showing an agility
most amazing in a man of his habits, had vaulted on to the
handcar and already the vehicle was in motion. Evans, while
at the university, had established a record for the hundred-yard
dash. He lit out in pursuit, handicapped by the spacing of the
railroad ties and proceeded to set a new mark which, unfor-
tunately, was not recorded. Slowly he gained on the unsuspect-
ing Santo, but Baldy never let too much time elapse without
looking behind him so he soon caught sight of his pursuer and
let out an oath as he recognized him. The gang leader pivoted
the machine gun and was about to let fly when Evans tripped
on a misplaced tie, described an arc through the air and crashed
head-first against a rail.
"What a break,” said Santo, as he slowed down the engine,
to the platform of the handcar. The gang chief, however, had
depot that morning. He felt of Evans' skull, took his pulse, and
hours. There was no reason, therefore, why Baldy should not
continue with the business in hand. He started up the handcar,
got the machine gun into position, and chugged slowly past
the depot, riddling the structure with bullets. The bewildered
agent, too startled to duck, received a row of wounds across
his narrow chest and died instantly. But Baldy's blood lust was
aroused. So he reversed the handcar and rode back and forth
282


three times, firing until the first belt of cartridges had been
used up. Then he took the Tommy gun under his arm and
started on foot for the hookshop, but the townspeople, startled
by the sound of gunfire, had started running, some toward and
others away from the depot, according to their temperaments.
Baldy, not wishing to be mobbed, gave up his disciplinary
project and hopped on the handcar again. It was headed east
and picked up speed before the local constable and some other
men could block the way.
“Ta ta, shorties,” yelled Santo. "If you need someone to be
the goat, pin it on those mugs in the cathouse. They've got it
coming, anyhow."
That evening after supper, which was relished by no one, a
solemn group sat in the huge living room of Opera Lodge.
Gone was the zest that had attended the fight against larkspur,
the preparations for the round-up, the ride to join the Blackfeet
on the warpath. Miriam, dry-eyed and pale, sat beside her father,
looking straight ahead and seeing nothing. Jim Leonard, torn
by his only daughter's grief and desolate on his own account,
for he had grown to love Homer Evans and to understand that
some day ... Well.
“We've got to stick it out, my girl,” he said, but it came over
him that he was old, a thought that seldom entered his mind.
The piano stood silent in the corner, lid down. From the kitchen
the Chinese glanced furtively in and spoke to each other in
whispers. Out by the stable, the wailing and sobbing of the
Russians, with Stenka's shrill treble, could be heard. Hjalmar,
without realizing it, was tearing a Sears Roebuck catalogue
into shreds. They had been informed of what had happened
in Mondak, or as much of it as the bewildered population had
understood. Every town on or off both railroads had been noti-
fied to be on the lookout for the fugitive gangster and his
injured victim, but no news, not a word, had come to them.
283


Santo had vanished, and every hour that passed gave him more
of a start.
often was hysterical over trifles was the only one who could view
the situation with equanimity.
"Me, I might worry about this voyou Santo if I loved him,
but not about Monsieur Evans,” Frémont said.
Miriam, at the sound of his words, threw her arms around
his neck and was relieved by the tears that flowed freely, for
the first time since it had become evident that Evans was in
enemy hands.
“There, Mademoiselle Montana,” the Frenchman continued
in action, that even unconscious he could take care of himself
somehow. Did he not go straight to my Hydrangea, who was
lost on the prairie? Would Monsieur Weiss be with us here
tonight? In fact, how many of us owe our lives to Evans, on
how many occasions?”
Hjalmar reached for his hat. “I'm going to the hideout in
Diluvio, Kvek and Lidin nodded and started after him. Before
they got across the porch, however, they were halted by a sharp
tearing sound high in the air, a drone that gained in volume,
then diminished.
“Sounds like a plane,” Hjalmar said. The others, inside,
came running out.
"It is a plane," said Miriam.“And close. Oh, Dad, I hope ..."
But already it was clear that the hope was futile. A low
rumbling from the darkness on the ground increased little by
little, as the aviators continued their noisy power dives, until
the concerted thud of hoofbeats and bellowing of terrified cattle
increased to a frightening roar.
"Good God, the whole herd's stampeded. And they're coming
this way,” Jim Leonard said. From the stable and the corrals
came the frantic whimpering of panic-stricken horses. Dust rose
284


in a cloud from the side of the western butte and dimmed the
stars. How long it lasted, no one present could have said. The
rumble and the dust cloud moved relentlessly toward them.
The men and women rushed indoors and cowered there, wait-
ing. On swept the herd, thousand upon thousand, packed tightly
shoulder to shoulder, blind, deaf and crazy with fear. Overhead
the plane dived, roared, stuttered and climbed again to repeat
the process. Miriam, rifle in hand, fired constantly at the tail
light, but, of course, in vain.
"No use, girl," her father said sadly. “This is Gilligan's work.”
Crash! An outbuilding, in the path of the maddened steers,
was demolished and trampled. The corral fence was down. All
around the lodge the great herd swept forward, destroying
everything that could be knocked over and breaking their stout
necks against objects immovable. The dust and clatter, the beat
of hooves, tang of animal sweat and lather was overpowering.
Then the sounds diminished and grew faint toward the north
on Bison Creek.
Before anyone regained his presence of mind, Wing Lee,
the cook, ran into the living room and threw himself flat on his
face on the floor, convulsed with grief.
"Wing Sam 'e one-piece dead fella,” he shrieked, making
motions with his hands to indicate his cousin was flat, like a
pancake. For Wing Sam had been crossing the yard when the
stampede hit the ranch and, not knowing what to do or where
to turn, had been trampled. On top of that, the Professor came
riding right up on the porch, eyes bloodshot, face streaked
with dust, voice trembling.
"Pete got it,” he said, and the men took off their hats while
the women turned away.
It was then that calm was restored by Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux.
"Ladies and gentlemen,” the doctor said, in his best pro-
fessional manner, “for the present I shall expect you all to act
on my orders. Wing Lee, makee plenty hot watta, catchum
plenty towels now you boil 'em. Miriam, Eugénie, Madame
285


Diluvio, get on suitable white clothes and sterilize your hands.
Hjalmar and Kvek, Diluvio and Lidin, improvise stretchers
from the spare cots in the bunkhouse and, under the direction
of Frémont, who knows how injured men should be handled,
bring the victims to me. I shall prepare the table. That's all just
now.”
Everyone sprang into action, imbued with a sense of disci-
pline and responsibility. The first trampled body to arrive was
that of Wing Sam. Gravely Toudoux took out his stethoscope
and listened for the beating of the Chinaman's heart. Around
him, the women waited, faces pale and strained. Wing Lee was
praying in Chinese, and, also according to the instructions of
the missionaries, with no noticeable partiality.
“Topside joss, now Wing Sam get well, I chuck plenty wages
in mission bokis. Ancestors! Can do or no can do?" wailed
Wing Lee.
“He is alive. I'll do the best I can,” said Toudoux. “Miriam,
do what you can to clean the patient and stanch the Aow of
blood. I hear the others coming with another case.”
The other case was what remained of Slipnoose Pete, and
part of his horse with which the cowpuncher had been scram-
bled.
“Well, Doc?" asked Jim Leonard, tears streaming down his
weatherbeaten face.
Toudoux sighed and felt Pete all over. He tried the pulse
and shook his head, fished for his stethoscope and listened, once,
twice, three times.
"Pulse weak, heartbeats barely audible. Mr. Jansen, prepare
yourself for a blood transfusion. Professor, light a signal fire
and start someone from Muddy Creek for Trout-tail III. I shall
have need of a consultation,” the doctor said.
No one present ever could forget the nightmare that ensued,
the gauze-covered faces, gleam and odor of blood, sight of
mangled bodies and limbs, the frail China boy looking like a
doll on the huge table, end to end with Slipnoose Pete. From
286


“There,” he said, pointing to a place where a rib had pierced
Wing Sam's left lung, “is the danger point. We must avoid, if
possible, pneumonia. For that reason, a general anesthetic is
not advisable, although the patient will suffer much pain for
a while. In such cases, we Blackfeet have found that tribal
drumming is helpful, as a counter-irritant for the nerves.”
"Chèr colleague, an excellent expedient. I shall take copious
notes, and report results to the Sorbonne. By all means, drum-
ming. Vive le son, mon frère. Le son ..." And Toudoux, from
sheer fatigue, collapsed comically into a chair, to be fairly
smothered with wifely attentions from Eugénie.
In the kitchen, Wing Lee had cleared the pastry board, set
up on it a Gideon Bible, before which joss sticks were burning
amid Chinese charms and prayers on fragments of colored
paper. From his bunk in the alcove, the cook brought out his
wad of savings and chucked them on the pile.
"I'm God blasted if I wouldn't do the same, if I wasn't stone
broke,” said Hank
"Pass the whiskey,” roared Hjalmar. “I got to get my strength
back, pronto."
288


24
on the Last Frontier
lence and tragedy pervaded Three Buttes, a hilarious meeting
was in progress at Glendive, in the spacious new home of
facing an eight-foot Maxfield Parrish “The Garden of Allah,"
sat Larkspur Gilligan, coat discarded, vest unbuttoned, store
fore-in-hand awry. A long cigar, of expensive aroma, jutted
from a corner of his mouth at a triumphant angle. The Baluchis-
tan rug * on the hardwood floor near by was getting a memo-
rable going-over as the judge, frock-coated and horn-rim
bespectacled, paced to and fro. In the white-enameled kitchen,
Sheriff Hockaday was opening a can of beans with his hunting
knife, not having been able to relish the caviar and rare duck
smothered in oranges that had been served at dinner.
The hostess, Myra, whose temperament kept her continually
on the qui vive, was not at home. In fact, she was with Tom
Jackson in his den at the Hotel Jordan, to which they had
* Montgomery Ward, Catalogue No. 72C589.
289


repaired at the children's hour in order to discuss the women's
page. The telephone rang and at first neither Tom nor Myra
heard it, but eventually it had to be answered.
"Jackson,” said Jackson peevishly.
“You know who this is,” said Gilligan. “Come over to the
judge's. We've got to get out another extra.”
“He's got a nerve," said Tom to Myra, after the sheepman
had hung up. “'We've got to get out an extra,' he said. Well,
if a guy buys a cake, he's got to eat it, I suppose. So long, sugar.”
“I think he's mean,” said Myra. She was not thinking at the
moment of Gilligan's role as debaucher of state and county
governments. The larger aspects of the activities of her male
acquaintances seemed to interest Myra less and less, as her
acquaintance with Tom ripened. Being the First Lady of
Montana or even of the United States no longer tempted her.
Indeed, the wholehearted way in which she had entered into
her new work had given Tom a few anxious moments, what
with one thing and another.
To grasp the full significance of the meeting Tom Jackson
was about to attend, the reader should know that Larkspur
Gilligan had received a call from Baldy Santo late that morning
and since that moment had been in excellent spirits. For, as
has been made clear already, Gilligan was a father first and a
conspirator afterward. The fact that Santo had Homer Evans
in his power meant to Larkspur that whoever had Terence, his
son, would refrain from knocking him off because of possible
reprisals. The elder Gilligan did not mind so much having
Terry away for a while. He found it easier to build up castles
in the air for the boy in his absence than in his company. But
a weight of woe and worry had been lifted from Larkspur's
inventive mind. Now nothing should hold him back, he re-
solved.
First of all, he was determined that Jim Leonard should be
tried and convicted without delay, while Evans, the only man
who could engineer a defense, was safe in Baldy's hands. That
290


had been instructed to stampede Leonard's herd, in order fur-
ther to demoralize the Three Buttes outfit, the reader already
knows, and also the deadly effect of the maneuver.
"Judge,” said Gilligan to Patterson, "rest your legs a minute
and sit still. I want to talk to you. We've got to put this here
trial on some high-sounding basis, something that'll look well
in the paper, if you get what I mean. You're good at that kind
of thing. That's why you're in on this. Can you think up some-
thing before Jackson gets here?”.
Patterson stood still on the rug, wove the fingers of one hand
between his vest buttons, and began speaking so sonorously
a cage of lovebirds on a windowsill near by.
"Fellow citizens,” the Judge said, “why should Arizona and
New Mexico enjoy a monopoly of the tourist trade, when
Eastern Montana possesses the natural advantages? I do not
refer to the national parks, which any American worthy the
name would visit anyway. I am speaking of the Lower Yellow-
stone, that miracle wrought and rewrought by prehistoric ages
and whose civilized history has so auspiciously begun.
“Why? I repeat. And echo answers ‘Lawlessness. The tourist
in the East, with purse strings open, eschews the wonders of
the badlands and the prairies, and supinely contents himself
or herself with the inferior Indians of the Southern States while
the manly Blackfeet, the Crows, the Sioux and the Cheyennes
doze and degenerate where once the bison and their fathers
trod. Alas, fellow citizens, we must face the facts. As long as
visitors have reason to believe that our justice walks on leaden
feet and smacks of the frontier, just so long shall the charms of
Eastern Montana, like ‘many a gem of purest ray serene,' be
born to blush unsung. And the coffers of New Mexico and
Arizona shall ring with the tintinnabulation of gold on counters
while through trains bear vapid faces at their window panes
291


"Now, Jim."
There was a click as the rancher hung up the receiver and,
after sitting wearily on the edge of his cot to master his emo-
tions, he returned to the operating room, saying nothing to
anyone about the summons he had received.
The preparation of an extra, with the announcement of the
trial and the editorial in praise of tourists and prompt justice,
meant that Jackson would have to work all night. He excused
himself and hurried to his office. The tone of the story was not
to be inflammatory, Gilligan had explained: a summing up of
the history of the case to date, with pictures of Donniker Louey,
touched up in a way to win public sympathy; the announce-
ment that the stricken father would be the State's principal
identification witness; and that the sheepherders, Stumpbroke
and Jill, would be unable to appear, since both of them were in
the Glendive hospital with severe cases of tick fever. That the
ticks, after expert microscopic examination, had been planted
on the two men by Gilligan himself was not disclosed.
"Well, the set-up seems perfect,” said Gilligan, content to
know that the presses soon would be rolling. “Jim'll bring in
his daughter. That's certain. Then I can talk turkey to her,
with the cards all in my hands. . . . You know, Judge, I feel
sorry for Jim, so help me Moses. If he'd only have sense enough
to quit, and go to Californy, things could all be nice and
peaceful here.”
"Be careful about boosting California,” the judge said, un-
easily. “That would sound bad, if it got to the voters.”
What Gilligan suggested regarding the voters was so im-
practical, considering the number of them and the diversity of
their sexes, ages and temperaments, that it is not worth record-
ing here. Suffice to say that it caused Judge Patterson to repress
a smile, he having been acting along those lines for quite some
time.
The scene changes to a dim caboose in Wibaux, Montana, a
293


small town eleven miles from the Dakota border, with an alti-
tude about four and one-tenth times higher than the number of
inhabitants. The caboose was backed up against a bumper on
a side track little frequented and its windows were screened
heavily. It was there that Baldy Santo had taken refuge with
the unconscious Evans. The latter, when he opened his eyes
after twilight, saw nothing but a kerosene lantern around which
a few moths were fluttering, a few old clothes and track tools
from a keg in the corner. The smell of cinders and garlic was
modified if not improved by Baldy's bay rum and Fatimas, and
proved to be distressing to a man who had sustained concussion
of an extraordinary brain. Homer tried to move and became
aware that he was in a strait-jacket that had been expertly
adjusted.
“You're taking no chances, Mr. Santosuosso," Homer began.
"Not likely," the gang leader said. He had not been addressed
as mister for so long that it threw him off his guard.
“How is Wibaux in the spring? Diverting?” Evans asked.
He had assumed that Baldy would have taken him somewhere
across the North Dakota line into Montana, because of the
magic influence enjoyed by Gilligan there. Wibaux was the first
town, also Santo had been there in hiding before.
"Wise guy, eh? Well, I'm going to kill you, as soon as I
get some information,” said Baldy, picking up a wrought-iron
jimmy and standing over Evans menacingly.
"How absurd, Mr. Santosuosso. You must pull yourself to-
gether. You are accustomed to dealing with the lower orders of
mentalities, and I suppose you form careless habits that way.
But in my case, although I am by no means puffed out with
false pride, I can put two and two together. And I rate you
higher, apparently, than you do me. In case you wish to know
heir, a youth who has plenty of guts, as you call them, is some-
where beyond your reach or protection, and if anything grave
294


should happen to me at your hands or in any way at all, your
offspring would be cut off long before his time. You would
never see him again. Furthermore, your friend, Mr. Gilligan,
is in a similar situation. Think it over. . . . But of course you
have. Only let's have no more nonsense about my span of life,
or information I possess and you desire.”
"Wise guy, eh?” said Santo, and bit his lips when reminded
that he had said the same thing before.
"A little variety would help in our conversations, since we
are to spend some time in each other's company. But let me
warn you that the longer that period is protracted, the worse
for you in the end."
“Say, who in hell is prisoner here, anyway?” demanded
Santo.
“ 'Each his own prison,'” quoted Homer, and asked for a
glass of water, and a bandage for his aching eyes. Santo debated
with himself, found to his annoyance that he was not enjoying
his usual self-confidence, and decided to observe the amenities
for the time. He poured the water from a jug into a tin cup,
wet a brand-new shirt that had set him back eighteen dollars,
and tied it around Evans' forehead. Homer relaxed and Baldy,
whose dislike of being alone amounted to a mania, did what
he could to keep him awake. Hurriedly he unlaced the strait-
jacket and lighted the oil stove, on which he heated a can of
soup.
“Sit up and eat a bite, if you can,” Santo said. “And bear it
in mind that I didn't gonk you. You fell of your own accord.”
"It was fate," Evans said, sitting up with difficulty and re-
moving the shirt, which already was steaming on his heated
brow. “And fate, my dear companion, has frequently been kind
to me. Who knows? Perhaps this new contact will be valuable,
if not to you, to me. There are many things I'd like to know
that you could tell me. Suppose I outline them tentatively."
"Save your breath,” Santo said. “I'll stand on my constitu-
295


Grabbing up two impromptu torches from the blaze, the
waiter lay flat on his back and waved H-E-L-P so assiduously he
succeeded in attracting the attention of Cash-and-Carry Cork-
ery, who was congratulating himself on the success of his first
stampede.
“What's loose down below?” he asked of Bat-ear.
“Looks like someone in a jackpot,” Bat-ear said.
Cash-and-Carry was struck with an idea. “We could soak
'em plenty for a rescue, in such a God-forsaken country. They
must have money, or they couldn't get so far from home.”
“It won't cost us much to land,” said Bat-ear. “You could
make an airfield anywhere around here, with a brush-hook, in
half an hour."
"Hold on tight,” said Cash-and-Carry. "I don't know how
sagebrush and wheels act together.”
“We'll soon find out,” the mechanician said.
Imagine the joy in the camp below when the plane circled
in a speculative manner, veered neatly to starboard and began
to descend. The sagebrush was scrubby and weak and the
terrain as flat as a table, so Corkery had no difficulty in landing.
"Did you mugs want something?” he asked, then burst into
raucous laughter as he neared the campfire. The two French
sergeants, their voluminous shirt-tails waving in the breeze,
were covered with soot and dirt and too excited to attempt to
speak English. The gangsters were silent, because of the prox-
imity of Corrigan with a medicine stick, but also were smeared
with black. The Negroes, on the other hand, were patched with
powdered sandstone and white alkali.
“Let's go back up," said Bat-ear disgustedly. “They haven't
got pants, let alone heavy dough.”
It did not take the French officers long to pull themselves
together and at once they decided that the airmen were not
in the service of any constituted government, but rather were
in the class with the Great Lakes palefaces they had met. The
prompt decision they arrived at independently is to their credit.
297


Bonnet grabbed the Tommy gun, while Schlumberger picked
up a pineapple bomb in each capable hand.
“Stick 'em up," the sergeants said in unison.
The outraged expression on the faces of the aviators as they
reached for the stars was comical to behold.
trussed up Bat-ear, in a manner that would have stopped
Houdini, and tossed him over with his social equals, Bird's-eye
and the Paperhanger.
“Disarm the big one,” said Schlumberger gruffly, toying with
the pin of his hand grenade.
The sergeants held a whispered consultation, then Bonnet
addressed their comrades as follows:
“One of us will replace the mechanician, while this man”
(indicating Corkery) “Aies us to Three Buttes, if he cares for
his life. He will be covered at all times and will be shot in
several vital spots at the least false move,” the sergeant said.
"Have a heart. Not Three Buttes. Let's go to Glendive,”
Corkery said.
"Three Buttes is an excellent place. You will be hospitably
received,” Bonnet continued, and was interrupted by a roar of
laughter from Bat-ear.
"That's right, Frog. He'll get a hot reception, all right. Well,
this was all your idea, you big palooka,” he added to the pilot.
you got yours.”
"You will take me to Three Buttes, and promptly,” said
Bonnet.
"Let me go," urged Schlumberger. “I don't enjoy life as much
as you do anyway.”
They compromised on tossing a coin and the Alsatian won.
Pineapples in hand, he prodded the reluctant flier into his seat
and got in beside him.
"Courage, men,” he said, as they were about to take off.
"A few short hours will bring you relief, and proper trousers.
298


As for me, do not be inquiet. My father warned me, when first
I joined the force, that there were many hazards, and although
he did not mention this one specifically, no doubt he would
have done so, if he had possessed a more imaginative mind.
Au revoir, or adieu, as the case may be.”
The propellers whirled, the plane throbbed and trembled
and taxied briskly across the flat.
299


Of the Quality of Mercy
Tom JACKSON, still vaguely disgruntled because his conference
with Myra Patterson had been interrupted, and troubled by
Gilligan's air of confidence, had barely got his eyeshade on
and his shirtsleeves rolled up before he saw a whiskered face
peering through the window pane..
“Come in, you old desert rat," he shouted, and in came
Tumbleweed O'Flaherty, the former sheriff who had been
defeated after years of service by Hockaday, in a manner best
known to Larkspur himself.
"Did you know that an airplane stampeded Leonard's herd
last night, on purpose?" the old prospector asked, aiming at an
office cockroach with a jet of tobacco juice.
“The hell you say?" asked Jackson.
"That ain't all. That gang boss from Chicago shot up the
station agent in Mondak and kidnapped Homer Evans. I got
it straight from them as knows,” continued Tumbleweed.
Jackson, regardless of curious ears in the telephone exchange,
grabbed the instrument and asked for Three Buttes. In a mo-
ment he had Miriam on the line. The tone of her voice con-
firmed Evans' misfortune before she could pronounce the
words. And she made it clear that the stampede was no acci-
300


dent. The fliers had poised the plane high over the main herd,
at the crucial stage of the round-up, and executed power dives
again and again, she told Jackson. Everything around the lodge
had been demolished except the strongest buildings; hundreds
of shorthorns had lost their lives; one cowpuncher, Slipnoose
Pete, and the China boy, Wing Sam, had been trampled and
were by no means out of danger.
"And what about your father's trial? It's set for day after
tomorrow," Tom said.
Miriam screamed and dropped the receiver, then recovered
it quickly. “Hold the line, I'll ask Dad,” she said. After a short
delay she was back. “Dad promised to show up at Glendive.
He didn't say a word to us about it,” she said. “What shall we
do?”
"Let me talk with Weiss," Tom said. When the multi-million-
aire got on the line, Tom suggested that they print the extra,
making everything public that they knew or suspected about
Gilligan, distribute the papers all over the country, then shut
up shop.
“Better wait until we hear from Evans, or know for certain
that he won't come back,” said Weiss. “I heard him say, once,
that he was giving Gilligan rope enough to hang himself. We'd
better stick to those general lines.”
"Leonard'll be convicted. The whole thing's framed,” said
Jackson. “I wish you could have seen Gilligan. He looks like
a June bridegroom.”
"Frequently the tables are turned on June bridegrooms, in
a manner of speaking,” said Hugo Weiss.
So the extra, extolling the virtues of law and order and prompt
trials promptly arrived at, was rushed through the presses. Half
the front page of the X-Ray was devoted to the life and death
of Donniker Louey, the defendant, the witness », and the spot
marked “X.” The other half, with illustrations improvised from
stills of forgotten horse operas shot in Hollywood, told of the
stampede: how a stray airplane now being traced by govern-
301


ment officials had frightened the herd, causing damage to
persons and property. An old boilerplate of the wife of Dr.
Wellington Koo was doctored up to look like Wing Sam, and
an extra cowboy in the Covered Wagon served as Slipnoose
Pete, who had sustained a total of forty-seven fractures and so
many contusions that the final figures were not available at
press time. The editorial about the tourist trade for Eastern
Montana was set off with an evergreen border filched from
an old Christmas ad of the Bon Ton Dry Goods Store.
Old Tumbleweed O'Flaherty read proof with grunts and
oaths of mingled rage and admiration. Then he hitched up his
belt and started for the door.
"I'm going to outfit myself with grub and find Evans," he
said. “And I won't come back until I do."
"Any idea of where he might be?" Tom asked.
“Well, he won't be in North Dakota, and he won't be any-
where along the Great Northern, on account of the insurance
company dicks. That Wop couldn't go back to Chicago, the
way things are just now. He must be in Montana. That's what
I calculate," the old man said.
"Montana's almost as big as France and a damn sight harder
to get around in,” Tom said.
"There ain't many ways to get into the State from Mondak,
and Gilligan has the N.P. eatin' right out of his hand. I'm going
to head for Wibaux and start prospectin' from there.”
“I'm worried about Homer," Jackson said.
“Who ain't?" said Tumbleweed, and slammed the door.
As the old sheriff and prospector hoofed it across the sage-
brush flat he had the advantage of Sergeant Schlumberger, of
the Paris police, who was fifteen hundred feet above the surface
of the ground, slightly north of Opera Lodge. Peering down
with one eye, while he kept the other on Cash-and-Carry Cork-
ery, the Alsatian saw lights blazing, not knowing what dramatic
scenes were unrolling in the living room.
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“Land right down there. There's a plowed fire strip plenty
wide enough,” Schlumberger said.
“On the level? Why stop at this farm house? You ain't a
traveling man, and ten to one the old man hasn't got no
daughter. Why not go on to Glendive? It only takes twenty
minutes. You can rustle up a rescue party there in town,” the
pilot said.
For answer the sergeant jabbed his medicine stick so smartly
in the aviator's giblets that the plane went into a tail-spin from
which Corkery barely jerked it out in time to hit the dirt right
side up. But the mercenary flier was as skillful as he was
unscrupulous, and more by instinct than in the hope that it
would improve his situation, he avoided a smashup and
brought the plane to a halt after taxi-ing almost to the barn.
“Stick up your hands and get out,” Schlumberger ordered.
Corkery got out and tried to bolt into the darkness, only to
be brought down heavily with a slug in the calf of one leg.
“I can't walk," he pleaded, when prodded again with the
medicine stick.
“Do not talk rot,” Schlumberger said, with another jab of the
stick. “I have seen men twice as badly wounded march day
and night on the Marne.”
Protesting, the aviator struggled to his feet and limped along,
with Schlumberger close behind him. They were halted sharply
by Laramee Bob and the Professor, who had been detailed to
stand guard outside the lodge while the surgical work was
proceeding inside.
It should not be overlooked by the reader that out behind
the stable, before the stampede, had stood an impromptu snake
corral which had been trampled flat by the crazed and fleeing
shorthorns along with most of the surplus rattlers the doctor
had collected. The remaining serpents were roaming at large,
and in a peevish mood, to put it mildly.
A piercing yell was heard from Cash-and-Carry Corkery.
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“There's something moving there. I can see it, on the
ground,” he shrieked.
“Be quiet, can't you?” the Professor said. “There's men at
death's portals right inside.”
But the flier could not control himself. “I see another. It's
crawling. Don't let 'em get me,” he begged.
The cowpunchers, who had on high boots, laughed aloud.
“Don't take on so. We're going to hang you, anyway, before
you suffer much,” Bob said.
“That's fine," said the Alsatian, “but it doesn't solve my
immediate problem. I not only find myself without proper
footgear, but lack trousers also, gentlemen.”
"Get back into the plane, till we can bring you some,” said
Bob, getting out his rope. Casually he slung the noose around
Corkery's shoulders and tied him in the Laramee style to the
propeller. The Professor stood guard, while Bob hustled over
to the bunkhouse for an outfit to give Schlumberger.
"What'll we do? We can't go busting in while Doc's
operating,” the Professor said.
"We'll wait right here, till we know if Pete's goin' to pull
through,” suggested Bob, and Schlumberger agreed.
After dawn, which took the sharp edge from the pilot's fear
of meandering rattlers, the door of the ranch house opened and
Miriam stepped out on the porch for a breath of air, followed
by her father, Hugo Weiss, Hjalmar and the other men. The
sight of the plane on the ground brought them all to the spot,
guns and clubs in hand.
"The Frenchman brought him in, God knows how,” ex-
plained the Professor admiringly. Schlumberger, in a burst of
eloquent French, gave Miriam the details, which she translated
breathlessly. Star, her favorite mount, having saved herself from
the onrushing herd, had come back to the stable of her own
accord, followed by the former outlaw, Jesse. Miriam was on
the mare in a moment and started rounding up what other
horses she could find. Laramee Bob, a rider whose reputation
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as a broncho buster extended over four or five States, tried to
and made a pass at Bob with both front feet. The Professor,
no mean horseman himself, vaulted on his bare back from the
wrong side and was tossed six feet into the air and landed
sitting down.
"It's no use,” said Jim Leonard sadly. “He won't let no one
but Evans ride him.”
However, Miriam succeeded in collecting a half dozen saddle
horses and quick preparations were made for the rescue of
Bonnet and the other members of the distressed contingent
in the northern foothills. Before the cowpunchers set out, a
Corkery from the hay derrick on the barn when Hugo Weiss,
always slow to act on impulse, asked permission to say a word
before the vote was taken.
“Men,” he said, “I should enjoy seeing this man swing as
keenly as any of the rest of you. The question is: can he be
of further use to us, alive? Now we may have need of an
airplane, for transportation to distant points and patrolling the
range, in view of what has occurred. May I ask if any among
you know how to fly this machine?”
The buckaroos and all the others shook their heads with
chagrin.
“Why not hold this scoundrel and his plane and press him
and it into service? Then later, after Evans has returned and
our difficulties have been resolved, we can hang him at our
leisure, although I should remind you that, technically, he is
not guilty of murder, only attempted murder, the maximum
penalty for which in Montana is ... let me see ..."
“Twenty to thirty years at hard labor," said the Professor
promptly.
it not ironic, gentlemen, that this man, who perverts a noble
new profession to unworthy uses in order to avoid heavy work,
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should be destined to crack rocks, twist hemp or perform
similar monotonous tasks throughout 7,300 consecutive days,
except Sundays, on which church attendance is obligatory?".
“Damn my soul,” said the Professor, “we'd be doin' him a
favor to string him up. By all means, the rock pile and the
meeting house."
"Is that the consensus, boys?” asked Jim Leonard, who was
presiding.
Every hand went up, including that of Corkery, who had
to strain at the ropes in order to record his vote.
The ensuing day was a sad and busy one. The rancher got
out his old black suit, white shirt, stiff collar and detachable
cuffs, black necktie, collar buttons and studs, the sight of which
always filled him with deep melancholy.
For the ride to Glendive, Miriam chose a flannel shirt that
buttoned down the front, an embossed leather belt equipped
with holster, a short corduroy skirt, split conveniently, lisle
stockings and tan riding boots. For use in the court room
she carried behind her saddle a simple frock of non-crushable
midnight blue, relieved only by a plain gold clasp at the front.
It had been agreed that only Miriam, Frémont and Dr.
Hyacinthe Toudoux were to accompany her father at the trial,
since every man was needed on the ranch to round up the
stray cattle again, to organize a search for Evans, take care of
the injured men and guard the prisoners. Bird's-eye, the Paper-
hanger and Bat-ear McCluskey were confined with Corkery in
the ruins of the snake corral, and the rest of the Muddy Creek
contingent returned to the special train, which had been shunted
back on its sidetrack.
In the lodge of Shot-on-Both-Sides across the angry Missouri
a discussion was taking place between father and son. In his
hand, the young Blackfeet leader had a copy of the Glendive
X-Ray, still wet from the press, as it had been rushed across
country by a relay of the fleetest Indian couriers.
306


of Moritz, we could follow an eel through the great blue water,
and give him two days' start.”
Moritz had eaten nothing since sadness had enveloped the
ranch and its occupants. He would watch Miriam with com-
passionate eyes for a while, then roam the yard and sniff around
the ruined outbuildings, avoiding warily the roaming rattlers
and lurking for hours near the prisoners' corral, in the hope that
one of them would merit a going-over. When Miriam explained
what was wanted, placing her hand on Rain-No-More's bare
shoulder, then pointing far away toward the badlands, the
Boxer's gratitude was touching to behold. He walked straight
over and sat beside Rain-No-More, where the Indian was stand-
ing, and when the Blackfeet moved, so did Moritz. When Jim
Leonard, Frémont, Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux and Miriam
mounted their horses and rode away, watched furtively by the
cowpunchers and the others, who knew the boss dreaded any
kind of scene, the frown deepened on the Boxer's forehead,
but he stuck with his assignment just the same. Once the party
was out of sight, he hopped up on the pinto in front of Rain-
No-More and they also were away.
On the edge of the petrified forest across the Yellowstone
from the mouth of Beef Slough, Terence Gilligan and the
younger Santo were experiencing a boredom the like of which
they never had suffered before. It is true that the grotesque
shapes around them, huge pre-historic trees heaped like jack-
straws and turned to stone, would have been of interest to
savants who cared for that sort of thing. The spectacle, how-
ever, left the two young desperadoes cold, as did their flimsy
city clothing on the sharp spring nights. The water was faintly
alkaline, and scant. The grub was easier to prepare than de-
scribe, and far easier to describe than to swallow. Aurora and
Luna, with their best efforts at heightening the colors, got no
response from the blasé young men except to be wished in hell.
One Blackfeet sat silently on guard while the other hunted or
308


slept, according to his taste or need. Conversation ran low, and
lower ran the prospect of relief.
Imagine the joy the two sons of conspirators felt when a
sizeable party, traveling with the utmost difficulty at barely
discernible speed, was sighted at a distance, where the faint trail
brought them into view for a brief half hour.
"The old man's found us,” said Gilligan. “I knew he'd come
through.”
“Then why isn't this bloody Indian on the lam?" asked
young Santo.
“Cripes. Maybe they're friends of his,” Gilligan said.
"At least, they'll be company,” was Tony's comment.
The young men's amazement when the party got nearer was
unusual, for them. For tied hand and foot in a string, in such
a way that they could walk but not make a break of any kind,
were four gangsters of the Santo mob, in a state of demoraliza-
tion that would have touched the hearts of more tender ob-
servers. These were followed, all escorted by Blackfeet braves
in full regalia, by litters on which were borne by sturdy Indians
the three wounded gangsters, Mona Mason, who was puffing
and fanning herself with a fan made of buzzard feathers; the
three hookers, Violet, Rose and Lil; the white-haired professor
in a greenish-black jib-swinger; and a battered and dismantled
piano.
The two Blackfeet entrusted with the custody of Terence
and Tony held a powwow. Their Chief had told them to keep
the prisoners out of sight. So the protesting young pair were
hustled into a dim natural cave, where stalactites and stalag-
mites vied with one another in making the place uncomfortable,
while the newcomers camped on the edge of a patch of squirrel
grass out of sight and some yards distant.
“They say men go nuts in the desert,” said Tony. "It ought
to be twice as easy in a place like this.”
Terry Gilligan, accustomed from birth to having his way,
could not repress his irritation any longer. “Aw, button up your
309


the faded colors of the prairies and the badlands. Also the air
was mild with the fragrance of cottonwood buds. Meadowlarks,
having learned that rustling was easier in town than on the
plains, hopped boldly along the sidewalks and in yards.
In order that more citizens might see or hear the proceedings,
Judge Patterson, always responsive to the voters' interests, had
directed that the windows be opened.
The general feeling among the inhabitants of the valley,
some of whom had traveled two hundred miles or more to be
present when the rancher was tried, was one of bewilderment.
There were many whose old loyalties to the cattle trade and
whose abhorrence of sheep gave them a violent prejudice in
Jim Leonard's favor, particularly those who had known him
as a square-shooter who had lived in the valley a full half cen-
tury. Others, and especially some of the younger business men,
made a living from the sheepmen and dry farmers, and sup-
ported the ministers' drive to curb the wild buckaroos and
limit their traditional forms of amusement on holidays. To each
and every man, however, there was something off-color sur-
rounding the entire affair. The victim, Donniker Louey, to
those who had seen him, had never seemed prepossessing.
Until the aged stricken father had appeared on the scene, and
been thoroughly advertised, public sentiment had not been
believed that the law should take its course.
Jim Leonard and his party had put up, as usual, at the Hotel
Jordan, where the pro-cattle sentiment amounted almost to
an avocation. He had dressed in his old black suit and was
champing at his stand-up collar, while Miriam, in the next
room, slipped off her riding togs and into the midnight blue
that had lived up to the Paris couturière's promise as to un-
crushability, and did much to counteract Miriam's outdoor
complexion with an effect of pallor. On the bed lay Miriam's
automatics, but she decided against them, at least for the
opening session, until she got the lay of the land. That no one
312


should lead her father to the gallows while she had fingers and
there still were triggers, she was determined, but she was mak-
ing a heroic effort to control her impulses and, as Evans would
have counseled, to bide her time. Being unaccustomed to legal
processes, she could not believe that right and justice would
not prevail. She had learned it in school, and done much on
her own account to uphold those abstract ideals in an amateur
way. But as she glanced at herself in the mirror, she knew that
where her heart should be was an aching emptiness and that
her courage was diluting itself to take up the extra space.
Frémont and Dr. Toudoux were getting out note paper and
sharpening pencils, intent on gleaning some first-hand data on
American procedure. And, like Miriam, they were vaguely
troubled by Jim's insistence that he needed no lawyer.
"I didn't do it. Nobody says he saw me do it. So what can
a lawyer do or say?” the rancher had repeated again and
again. He did not know that while he was waiting for the
clock to reach the hour, Larkspur Gilligan was in the Glendive
Hospital, with typed depositions in his hand which were being
marked with crosses above the dotted lines by the feeble sheep-
herders, Stumpbroke and Jill, neither of whom could read or
write their names.
The morning train came steaming in from the East, and
played to an unusually crowded platform that day. No one in
the throng, however, could identify the tall distinguished-look-
ing tenderfoot, dressed in faultless morning clothes and carry-
ing his black leather brief case with an air of authority.
“Looks like some big lawyer," was the general comment, and
it proved the perspicacity of the free and common man, for the
newcomer was none other than Fitz-Henry Fish, Sr., of Fish,
Fish, Cabot and Saltonstall. The clerk of the Jordan, liking
the look of the stranger, helped Fish with his baggage and
escorted him in person to the hotel. The moment the register
was signed, the clerk mounted the stairs two at a time and
knocked on Miriam's door.
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ew Evans ta violin Johnny, a fiddler
“There's an Eastern lawyer downstairs who just asked for
some friends of yours," the clerk said, knowing Miriam had
been worried about legal representation.
“What friends?” asked Miriam, as her heart leaped in
anticipation.
"Well, that good-looking chap named Evans, for one. Says
he knew Evans' father. Then he asked for a Beatrice Baxter,
who's married to a 'violin Johnny,' I think he said. I've heard
the boys say you got a pippin of a fiddler at Three Buttes.
Maybe he's the one, if he's married.”
A sudden resolve shook Miriam. Just the mention of Homer's
name had given her hope and assurance. “Will you ask Mr.
Fish if I may talk with him, in the upstairs reception room?"
she said.
"You bet,” said the clerk, and hustled down the stairs.
The lawyer, relieved at making an immediate contact, walked
suavely up the stairs.
“I'm Miriam Leonard, friend of Homer Evans,” the girl
said diffidently.
hand that made her own look definitely brown. “I learned from
my son in Chicago that Homer was in these parts and I couldn't
go back without seeing him.”
"He's been kidnapped, perhaps murdered in cold blood,”
gasped Miriam
"Oh, I say. Now I can't believe Homer's been murdered.
In the first place, no one would want to kill him. He's simply
topping, as I daresay you're aware. Besides, should anyone
want to murder him, he wouldn't let him, you know. He's
deucedly clever, quite abnormal, one is tempted to say. I doubt
if any criminal could get the best of him.”
"You must help me,” Miriam said. “My father's being tried
for murder, this very morning ..."
"You don't mean ... Oh, really . . . It couldn't be that
314


your father ... Dear, dear, now. Of course, I've read how
it is about fathers in this country ..."
“My father didn't kill Homer, if that's what you're getting
at. They're the best of friends, Dieu merci," interrupted Miriam.
“Then your father killed another duffer?"
"Wait. Listen,” said Miriam, tapping with her foot in
despair. “Dad wouldn't kill anybody. But they're trying him
just the same."
“A violent community, and no mistake," said Fitz-Henry.
"I'm Fish, of Fish, Fish, Cabot and Saltonstall. We handle
civil cases, questions of investments, wills, relatives who go
dotty—that sort of thing."
"You must act for my father. He's innocent, and they're
trying to get rid of him," Miriam continued. "If Homer were
here ..."
“Of course, Miss Leonard. I'd do anything for Homer, but
as likely as not I'd make a frightful hash of it. This is not in
my line.”
Nevertheless, within ten minutes Jim Leonard had been per-
suaded to change his mind and accept the services of counsel,
by the combined entreaties of his daughter, Frémont and Dr.
Hyacinthe Toudoux, who had been subpoenaed as witnesses
for the State. The story of the disappearance of Donniker Louey,
the indictment, the enormous bail, the finding of a body on
Cottonwood Creek, the bereaved father, and what could be
conveyed in the brief space of time available about the sheep
and cattle war impending, was told Fitz-Henry, Sr., whose brow
for the first time in years grew damp with perspiration, so hard
did he try to receive and assimilate facts and conjectures off the
bat, without the deliberate consideration he was accustomed
to bestow on the minutest details. When told about the stam-
pede of ten thousand shorthorns, the attempted wrecking of a
train, the Indians on the warpath, and the gangsters in the dells,
he fairly gasped for air. His clients among the Boston aristoc-
racy were outstandingly eccentric, and had told him some
315


harrowing tales, some of which had and others had not proved
to be substantial. The great West, he concluded, had also its
whacky aspects.
Obviously it was impossible for any attorney, and especially
one with a strictly civil practice, to get into the swing of a mur-
der case as complicated as Jim Leonard's was turning out to be,
between train time, 9:14, and 10 o'clock. But for generations it
had been the custom of Fish, Fish, Cabot and Saltonstall to
open any trial with a request for a postponement, in order that
the defense, or the, counsel for the plaintiff, might have time
to pull themselves together. Being an old conservative firm,
time always seemed to operate in its favor.
“I shall ask for a postponement,” he said.
“I'm ready, right here and now. I've nothing to be ashamed
of ..." Jim Leonard began.
"Be still, Father,” said Miriam. “We need a postponement in
order to find Homer.”
“Quite,” said Fish, and tried to figure out off-hand how that
could be worked into the argument.
"He's a small arms expert, qualified in Massachusetts,” went
on Miriam. “Will that help?”
"No judge would refuse us time, in that case,” Fish said, and
dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. “By the way, is
there any feeling, any sectional feeling, I mean, against East-
erners? I could put on camping or shooting togs, if I could find
any here, but do you think the jury'd resent my inflection? It's
Harvard, no use denying it. When our firm has to face a jury
composed of Jewish and Irish citizens, for instance, in Boston,
we send associates of appropriate races into court to make the
actual plea. Could I, perhaps, find a young local chap who can
be trusted ..."
“No one can be trusted in Gilligan's town," Jim Leonard
said. “At least, no lawyers.”
"Excellent,” said Fish. “On those grounds I'll ask also for a
316


cial residence and had offered Miriam the seat of honor, which
she had declined in order to be with her father.
“Judge,” said Larkspur, his weather-beaten face fushed tur-
key red and his handle-bar mustaches twitching, "you got to
hogtie that tenderfoot lawyer. I don't care how you do it. But
it's got to be done."
"But, Mr. Gilligan," objected Patterson, "he's well within his
rights, I think. And the attention of America is focused on our
humble little court room. Mr. Fish, according to Myra, is from
one of the most prominent Boston families.”
“Maybe you'd like to move to Boston, and run for Senator
back there,” said Gilligan, whose patience was worn ragged.
At the Hotel Jordan, Fitz-Henry Fish, Sr., was soothing his
vocal cords with some No. 1 Bass ale and giving them some
variety by conversing in clipped French with Miriam, Frémont
and Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux.
“Don't mind me,” Jim Leonard had said. “I don't get what
you're driving at, no matter what language you speak. Me, I
didn't kill a man, and that's all there is to it. I want to hear
what Gilligan and his gang of fourflushers have got to say for
themselves.”
"But, Father,” said Miriam, “every moment we can save will
give Rain-No-More that much time in which to catch up with
Homer.”
“I must get a copy of that Magna Charta," said Frémont,
anxiously. “Is it, perchance, like the reforms of Julius Caesar or
Code Napoléon?”
“Ah, capital. Thank you, sir,” said Fitz-Henry Fish. “I shall
touch on those epoch-making codifications this afternoon and
part of tomorrow."
The defendant groaned and gave up trying to swallow the
business men's lunch at the Jordan, which, under ordinary cir-
cumstances, he could have disposed of in double portions, with
a steak on the side.
Back in the Criterion, Larkspur Gilligan had not ceased to
320


apply the heat to the shuddering presiding justice. "Call up
Lawyer Anderson in Minneapolis. He'll tell you how to muzzle
this dude, and give you chapter and verse," said Larkspur. The
judge passed up his dessert and hung for twenty minutes on
the wall telephone, while sheepmen in the bar kept up such a
commotion that the judge could not be overheard. In fact, he
could barely hear himself and the voice of Lawyer Anderson.
When the audience was settled for the afternoon session and
the jury filed in, however, Judge Patterson rapped sharply with
his gavel and got the jump on Fish, who was fumbling with
his notes on the Code Napoléon.
"The court wishes to state," he said, "that no postponement
of this trial will be granted, on the grounds put forward by
my distinguished colleague ..."
"They're all in cahoots, as I always said,” muttered one of
the old timers, who had lost a homestead suit in the same room
eighteen years before.
"Order," the judge shouted, and this time broke the handle
of the gavel, the head of which hit the court stenographer's
fountain pen and ruined six pages of the record. “I repeat, the
request for postponement is denied. The defendant has had
ample time to secure counsel, and until today has refused to
avail himself of that privilege."
"That's right, judge,” said Leonard, who, above all, stood
for absolute fair play.
“We are asked by my distinguished colleague” (indicating
Fish) “to obstruct the wheels of justice, on the ground that he
has had no time to prepare his case ...".
Fish, who was quick on the trigger, rose in his suavest man-
"Your honor,” he said, knowing he would have to change his
tack, “in the course of the noon recess I have had the oppor-
tunity to examine the records of this case to date, and had I
realized how transparent were the pretexts on which my client
321


is being tried, I should not have asked for a simple postpone-
ment but an out-and-out dismissal of the case.”
The judge made a grab for the gavel and remembered too
late that it had been demolished, and his hesitancy gave Fitz-
Henry time to get into action in a way that better courts than
that of Dawson County had found difficulty in blocking.
“The question is, therefore: shall Jim Leonard, your law-
abiding and respected fellow citizen, my client, and the defend-
ant in this trial, be brought before the bar of justice at all,” the
attorney began. “On that point, I should like to quote Montana
vs. McGregor, 1910; Commonwealth of Massachusetts vs. Stand-
ish, 1810. In fact, I could give you a list of precedents as long
And he went on to argue that the indictment had been made
before a corpse was found, when Donniker Louey, in fact, had
merely disappeared. That disappearance was not proper grounds
for legal action, and that the indictment so drawn was irregular
and had not been superseded or corrected at the time the body
was found on Cottonwood Creek, or at any subsequent time,
was stressed by Attorney Fish, with variations. Judge Patterson,
meanwhile, glanced furtively and helplessly at Gilligan, who
merely glowered. The lawyer for the defense was still going
strong when the hour for adjournment struck, but long before
that the jurymen, who had counted on an easy three dollars for
a morning's work and had business to look after, began to
hem, haw and wriggle like pigeons in a crate.
“Does it not seem,” asked Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux of Fré-
mont, "that our friend from Boston is running the chance of
antagonizing the jurymen? Evidently they are not accustomed
to oratory, in large doses and in abstract terms."
"The American juryman,” wrote Frémont on his empty pad,
“is more restive under stress of long technical arguments than
his counterpart in France, but once wearied, gives vent to his
boredom in similar ways. It is gratifying to a French observer
322


to note, however, that frequent references are made to the Code
Napoléon, which in the first day of the process known as Daw-
son County vs. Leonard has overshadowed the British Magna
Charta by at least twenty references, although our entry got a
very bad start.”
The crowd dispersed, some spectators returning to their
homes, others repairing to bars and saloons, which did a land-
office business that evening, still others seeking shelter in the
crowded hotels, and the remainder making preparations to
camp on the flats, the weather being mild.
Tom Jackson, editor of the thriving X-Ray, had not put pencil
to paper that day, and, suspecting that Gilligan would call him
into consultation, he made himself scarce to gain time to think
over the situation.
The Patterson dining room was available to the judge that
evening, since Myra had to call on several of her friends to pick
off items for the social column. The Baluchistan rug not only
got a workout by the harassed judge who had paid for it, but
from the hobnails of Larkspur Gilligan who was laying down
the law, not that of the statute books, which after Fitz-Henry's
efforts of the day was hanging on the ropes, but the law of the
sheepmen's jungle, over which Larkspur reigned unchallenged.
“I'm here to tell you that you've got to throttle this wise guy
from Boston,” Gilligan began.
“If you don't, we won't get nowhere,” the sheriff said.
“Can't we get together a few of the boys and ride him out
“But, gentlemen,” protested the judge, “the A.P.'s asking for
the story. 'Let it run. Send pictures.' I saw the telegram myself.
What position would I be in, if there should be an abduction?
Remember, when he gets through his dismissal plea, if any of
us are still alive, he then will have the right to argue a change
of venue. Should he be ridden out on a rail, his successor would
have the best possible argument for a change of venue.”
“Talk plain American,” growled Gilligan.
323


“I mean to say, a transfer of this trial to another locality where
feeling is not so high," the judge said.
"I'm going home,” said Gilligan. “And tonight I'm going to
decide who'll be candidate for State Senator from this here
district, in case we don't get down to brass tacks in the court
room tomorrow morning. And that's flat.”
And in spite of Judge Patterson's frantic yammering and
clutching at Larkspur's coat-tails, the latter strode from the
judicial mansion and out into the night.
ss tacks in the
nd in spite of thing. And that's
324


In Which Lawyers Come and Go
WHEN RAIN-No-MORE, with Moritz at his heels, dismounted
from his pinto in front of the Fur Traders' Rest in Mondak,
he found that small community in an uproar. The murder of
the station agent in cold blood, entailing also the riddling of
the entire depot with machine gun bullets, had stirred that
frontier town to its fundamentals. Grim citizens, to the num-
ber of sixty, were patrolling the streets, fully armed and disposed
to shoot first and ask questions afterward. Posses were scouring
the surrounding flats and foothills. Furthermore, feeling was
running high because of the abduction of Madam Mason and
her hookers by Indians. Consequently, Rain-No-More was im-
mediately surrounded by an angry mob and showered with
threats. Had not Moritz taken a definite stand, and refused to
let anyone approach his partner, the result might well have
been tragic.
However, Rain-No-More was known to many Mondak busi-
ness men who had traded with the Blackfeet, and his acquaint-
ances held back the more impetuous members of the mob until
the son of the Chief could make himself understood.
"The outrage which has left your town in an unenviable
325


situation was perpetrated by outlaw Shoshones, not by the
Blackfeet, your friends and neighbors,” Rain-No-More said.
“Their leader, one Tall-Horse-in-Flytime, has taken your
emergency squaws across the line into Wyoming, according to
information I have received. In the name of my tribe, I promise
that the squaws shall be recovered and returned in the best
condition possible under the circumstances.”
A cheer went up from the crowd. “We'll get up a good purse
for whoever brings 'em back," a man shouted, and was gen-
erally acclaimed.
Rain-No-More, after promising again to look out for Mon-
dak's interests, turned his pinto loose to graze his way home
and hastened to the livery stable to buy another. From his belt
he took a sack of gold dust and, after bargaining, weighed out
the price on the drug-store scales near by. Then he hurried to
the railroad station to pick up what information he could.
The evening train was just steaming in from the east and
Rain-No-More's attention was attracted by a personable young
man in college clothes who got off and peered up and down
the platform.
"Can I help you?" Rain-No-More asked.
* “Well, rather,” said Fitz-Henry Fish, Jr., for it was he. “I'm
looking for my friend Homer Evans. A large order, what, con-
sidering the vastness of this country. Ripping sort, old Evans,
but likely to be anywhere.”
“Come with me,” said Rain-No-More simply, and, followed
closely by Moritz, the pair made their way down the street. “I,
also, am a friend of Homer Evans and his situation makes it
necessary for me to ask you some questions," the Indian con-
tinued.
“Right-0,” said young Fitz-Henry. “Pop away.”
“Will you tell me why you thought you might find Evans
here in Mondak?” asked Rain-No-More.
"Why, certainly, old chap. I talked with him day before yes-
terday, and he wanted me to bring him certain thingumabobs
326


“Fish, did you say?" repeated Rain-No-More.
“Fitz-Henry Fish. That's the bird,” said Hank.
“But, dash it all, that's the pater," said young Fish, when the
information was relayed to him. “I knew he was planning a
trip west, about some ripping old mine a client got nicked
with. I'll toddle up to Glendive and pay the filial respects,
since you've got a hard bit of cross country stuff ahead of you.”
So it was agreed that Fish, Jr., should take the morning
stage to Glendive next day and tell Miriam and Fish, Sr., about
the extradition papers and Evans' mysterious promise to the
British Consul in Chicago to run to earth the slayer of Mont-
morency Lewson-Phipps. Just after sunset, Rain-No-More put
Moritz on his new pinto, a process which required ten minutes
of strenuous effort and won the plaudits of the crowd in the
square. Then he started grimly eastward along the Great
Northern right of way.
According to all reports, Baldy Santo had not passed through
Williston with his handcar on his trip with Evans aboard. All
the railroad men were positive of that. Williston was the next
town east, situated twenty-six miles from Mondak. There was
nowhere to hide in the flat stretch of country between the two
towns except in the brush near the junction of the Missouri
and the Yellowstone. What could a Chicago tenderfoot do with
an injured man in the brush? the Blackfeet asked himself. The
answer was: Nothing at all, unless the helpless prisoner was
abandoned. That was unlikely, since Santo's son was being
held as hostage.
A few miles along, there stood a grain elevator and a side-
track had been recently built to serve it. There Rain-No-More
learned that a string of empties had been picked up by the
east-bound freight the same morning Santo had fled. All were
slat cars, and sealed, except for one gondola.
“Beast with intelligence! Our men went east in that gon-
dola,” Rain-No-More said to Moritz, who wagged his tail, left-
328


right. “Consequently," the Indian continued, “the handcar must
be hidden hereabouts.”
The country around the grain elevator was flat, and large
areas of it had been plowed. No one had been near by when
Santo had passed that way.
asked.
"It hasn't been touched this season," the switchman said.
Rain-No-More examined the hand derrick more closely and
gave a grunt of satisfaction. At his request, the switchman
pulled back a lever that released the drum and Rain-No-More
unwound a yard or two of cable.
“Strange that a foot of cable, rusty on the underside, should
have been wound on the drum, while the rest of the unexposed
have a look in the grain bin."
There, covered with wheat, was the handcar. The Indian,
after lowering the vehicle by means of the derrick, put it back
on the tracks, with a silent tribute to the strength of the diminu-
tive Santo who must also have lifted it. Rain-No-More filled up
the can with gasoline, then roped his pinto and loaded the
frantic beast, who nevertheless could not move his legs, onto
the vehicle. Moritz, catching on, found himself a place. In a
jiffy they were chugging into Williston, where Rain-No-More
explained his errand to the railroad men and found out that
the gondola in question had been bound for Oakland, Cali-
fornia, via Bismarck. That was enough for Rain-No-More. To
go back east to Jamestown Junction and then head west on
the N.P. on the handcar would take longer than the journey
overland, along the Yellowstone and through the badlands. So
it was the latter course on which Rain-No-More decided. He
released the outraged pinto, who immediately attacked him
with all fours and his teeth, and only subsided when Moritz
took a firm hold on him above the shoulder and clamped down
hard. Then the Indian mounted, the dog hopped up in front
329


and they were off again. Aurora, whose interest in the valley
had been heightened by what she had seen there lately, touched
with her rosy fingers the spotted rear of the resentful pinto
and the noble head and shoulders of Rain-No-More on the
east bank of the raging Yellowstone, just across from Leonard
Creek.
A few seconds later, when the goddess got around to the
Hotel Jordan, she saw at an upstairs window the wan face of
Jim Leonard, who, as usual, had awakened before dawn and
was looking forward to several lonely hours before his daugh-
ter, his guests and his new attorney would get up. If any
of them failed to do so, Jim was thinking, it had better be the
attorney, for Fitz-Henry, Sr., had explained to him the evening
before that the preliminary arguments on the question of dis-
missal of the case because of an illegal indictment would occupy
several days. To kill time, the rancher called Three Buttes and
got Hank on the line. The news he heard was far from reas-
suring. He was pleased, of course, to know that the round-up
was progressing in a satisfactory way, that most of the stray
rattlers had been rounded up by Wing Lee, that both patients
were as well as could be expected and that Rain-No-More, with
Moritz, was hot on Evans' trail. What caused an extra wrinkle
to furrow his brow was the information that another member
of the firm of Fish, Fish, Cabot and Saltonstall had been sighted
in the lower end of the valley and was bound for Glendive with
two or three well-laden brief cases.
"This lawyer of mine don't give the rest of 'em a show,"
said Leonard. “I don't even know yet what I'm up against,
and the jury's gettin' hot under the collar.”
“You just keep your shirt on, Jim,” said the foreman. “That
Boston man's sure to get tuckered out pretty soon. A fella can't
talk for days on end."
"You don't know Fish,” said Jim. “And if what you say is
true, he'll soon have another fella to spell him. I'm going to
330


ask the judge if I can't go back to the ranch until my lawyer
gets through. They've still got the fifty thousand bail."
The second morning of the trial was much like the first,
except that Gilligan was madder, Judge Patterson was on the
verge of hysteria and the jurymen were more obviously bored.
The court room was well filled inside, but most of the men in
the vacant lots preferred to stay in the saloons, leaving a few
young boys on guard to let them know if anything broke
loose in the trial.
"That hombre with the sideburns from back East just rung
in a new wrinkle he calls habeas corpus," one of the messengers
reported about ten minutes before the noon recess.
Judge Patterson ate no lunch that day, and neither did Lark-
spur Gilligan. The latter was just about to reconsider the sta-
tion agent's offer to ride Fitz-Henry, Sr., out of town on a
rail, well-tarred and feathered, when Patterson, who saw his
dreams of political advancement melting like mirages, had an
inspiration.
"Why can't I set a limit on the time for argument on the
question of dismissal? I'm not going to grant the request, any-
way,” the judge said.
"You better do something,” said Gilligan.
Thus it was that the judge, beating the rap of the gavel by
a split second, got away ahead of the counsel for the defense
and said:
“The court has been patient in listening to argument, but it
must be remembered that these jurymen” (he indicated the
jury with a sweep of his hand) “have laid aside important pri-
vate affairs in order to serve the county in this capacity. The
court has decided, therefore, to limit the time in which the
learned counsel may present his reasons for a dismissal. At
three o'clock, the ruling will be made, willy-nilly."
Fitz-Henry Fish, Sr., did not bat an eyelash. “It is within the
power of this honorable court to impose certain limitations on
the time consumed by counsel, but your honor will not mind
331


if I call it to his attention that the power of limitation he is
about to exercise is defined rather broadly by the statutes. In
the cases of Pennypacker vs. Brigham Young, et al.; Chute
and Leavitt vs. Simard; Pedro Montana vs. Armstrong; in fact,
I could cite at least a hundred cases; the higher court has ruled
that county courts may pass on the questions of the legality of
subpoenas, summons, writs of replevin, indictments and/or
depositions, sworn statements, written testimony, and related
matters, only after the defense has had ample time to present
its contentions, allegations and remonstrances, either orally or
in writing.
"I am willing to argue the restrictionary powers of the court
in the present instance, with the understanding, of course, that
the time thus employed will not be deducted from the two
additional hours the court has already granted, or is consider-
ing granting, for me to conclude my arguments on the question
of dismissal. Is that understood ?"
"Glub,” said Judge Patterson, who was trailing by several
paragraphs and thus was caught napping again.
“Thank you, Your Honor. I was sure you would be eminently
reasonable,” said Fish, Sr. “Now on the question of the court's
right to limit arguments concerning the legality of the indict-
ment, I should like to tell an anecdote, if I may, that involves
the late Chief Justice Marshall of the United States Supreme
Court. It seems that the justices of that august tribunal, just
after the War of 1812 ..."
“Holy cracky, he ain't got as far as the forty-niners yet,"
said one of the dry farmers in the audience. “I'm goin' back to
the homestead and get in my oats before the witnesses are
called.”
"Can't you submit a brief?” asked the judge, of Fish.
“Of course I shall do that later, and in it I will amplify my
arguments. Now, the Justices of the Supreme Court, just after
the War of 1812, formed the habit of having a pitcher of grog
on the table while court was in session ..."
332


“The grog, which now was served only on rainy days ..."
he began.
The sheriff made a dive at his legs from behind while several
deputies tackled Fitz-Henry from the front. Now the Boston
attorney, while at Harvard, had pulled a mean oar in the
'varsity scull and the strength he still had in his elbows and
shoulders was attested by the fact that he sideswiped Hockaday
in the schnozzle, flooring that young official and putting him
out of the free-for-all, while with his right toe, which had been
instrumental in beating Yale 4-0 in 1908, Fitz-Henry booted
the station agent all the way over the press table to the bench.
Had not the foreman of the jury reached over, grabbed the
judge's gavel and dealt the fighting Fish a wallop on the top
of his head, there is no telling how the melee would have
resulted. As it was, Fitz-Henry, Sr., decidedly hors de combat,
was lugged off to the hoosegow, having been charged with
contempt of court.
"Now we can get down to business,” Jim Leonard said, and
sighed.
"First witness for the state,” roared Judge Patterson, visibly
cheered. The senatorship had drifted back over the horizon-
not far back, but still it could be seen.
The first witness was Larkspur Gilligan, and Highpockets,
the prosecuting attorney, rose in his place to conduct the direct
examination.
Q. “Your name?”
A. “Patrick Gilligan.”
Q. “Profession?”
A. “Oh, what the hell's the use of all that stuff? You know
who I am, where I live, and as much as is good for you of
what I do ..."
“The counsel for the State will be as brief as possible,” Judge
Patterson said severely.
Q. “Where were you, Mr. Gilligan, on the 28th of November
last?"
334


"Oh, I brought along the old sheepskin, all right. Had a
close call getting it, but here it is,” said Fish, Jr., and spread
his diploma from Harvard Law School and his Massachusetts
certificate of admission to the bar on the counsel table.
“You wish to cross-examine the witness?" the judge asked.
"First, with Your Honor's permission, I should like to ask
for a postponement. I just got in, on the stage, and therefore
am unprepared.”
“Be Jesus, it's startin' all over again,” said a fur trader in the
balcony, and got up to leave the hall.
The judge rapped, the foreman of the jury and the sheriff
pulled their guns and the court stenographer began to twitch
and shudder again.
"The court has ruled," Judge Patterson said, “that no post-
ponement will be granted on the grounds that the counsel for
the defense is unprepared.”
"Sorry, Your Honor," said young Fish. "And don't think I
hold it against you because the pater got the bum's rush. If
anyone can get the best of the pater, Fitz-Henry, Jr., knowing
the difficulties, steps right up and says, 'More power to him.'”
"The defendant," Judge Patterson said, “refused stubbornly
to employ counsel until the eleventh hour. Now we are show-
ered with attorneys.”
"It isn't my fault, Judge,” Jim Leonard said.
"I hereby give notice,” said young Fish, “that when I have
finished with the witness who has just been examined by the
prosecuting attorney, I shall argue the question of dismissal of
the case, and after that the change of venue. This afternoon,
however, while the direct testimony, if that is not too dignified
a word for what was offered by Patrick Gilligan, is still fresh
in the minds of the jury, I shall cross-examine him."
“Mr. Gilligan, would you mind taking the stand again?"
asked Judge Patterson.
“Am I to understand that it is optional with Mr. Gilligan?"
ul.
336


asked Fish, Jr. “Is he, perhaps, entitled to some special privi-
leges or immunities not usual in a court of law?”.
“You're a fresh young punk,” said Larkspur, draping his
lanky form over the witness stand once more.
“I shall argue that question after the change of venue has
been discussed,” said Fitz-Henry, Jr., good-humoredly, and in
spite of himself, the old prospector on the jury chuckled.
Miriam, sitting tensely in her place, began to feel a certain
confidence in the irrepressible college lad who had come upon
the scene so unexpectedly.
“Begin the cross-examination, if you please,” said Judge Pat-
terson.
"Right-0. We're off,” young Fish said. “First of all, Mr.
Gilligan, I wish to ask you if you are sure that you talked with
the deceased on November 28?”.
"I've already said so,” replied Gilligan.
Q. “Was that the first time you ever saw him?"
A. “No. He'd been around the ranch quite a while.”
Q. “Purely by chance, or did you send for him?”
A. “A friend of mine in Chicago sent him out. Said Louey
needed a job.”
Q. “Did he bring references from any persons or concerns
for whom he had worked?”.
A. "No."
Q. “Who was the friend who recommended him?"
A. “Baldy Santo."
Q. "What is Mr. Santo's profession?"
Gilligan, annoyed, turned to the judge. “Is this stuff perti-
nent?” he asked.
“I must ask the counsel for the defense to state where this
questioning is leading?" the judge said.
"Well, of course, I've only been on this case five minutes or
so, but it struck me as being strange that a man of affairs like
Mr. Gilligan would employ a gangster under indictment for
several murders in Illinois, on recommendation of one of the
337


most notorious gang leaders in America, to ask a simple ques-
tion of a neighbor Mr. Gilligan had known fifty years," young
Fitz-Henry said.
“That's my business,” said Gilligan.
"Quite,” said Fish, Jr. “Now perhaps you will tell us how it
happened that the chief identification witness for the State, the
father, self-styled, of the deceased ..."
“What do you mean, self-styled? A man knows his own son,
doesn't he?" demanded Larkspur, aroused.
"We will come to that later. First I want to know if witness
Flato, we will call him (all these Chicago chaps seem to have
a variety of names), was your guest for several days before he
was asked to identify the body?”
"He was,” Gilligan said. “I felt sorry for the old man and
asked him to stay at my place, that's all.”
"You didn't prime him a bit, by any chance?”
Bang! The gavel hit the table, and the stenographer ducked.
“That question will be stricken from the record, as imperti-
nent and insinuatory,” said the judge.
to forget it,” he said, and smiled.
Larkspur Gilligan turned a shade of purple something like a
hail cloud.
"If I have to caution the counsel for the defense again, he
will be barred from the court room,” the judge said.
"By that time the pater'll be out on bail. We Fish are known
as stickers. Not brilliant, but persistent, if you get what I
mean. Now, Mr. Gilligan. You have testified that you wanted
the defendant's water rights. May I ask what for?”
“Look here, Judge. Can this young rah-rah boy ask me about
my private business? All I got to say about this case is that
Donniker Louey left my place November 28th, bound for
Three Buttes, to ask Jim Leonard if he'd sell his water rights.
Donniker Louey never came back, and just this spring we
338


found he had been shot, with a gun like Jim Leonard's, and
buried on Cottonwood Creek.”
Judge Patterson cleared his throat. “The cross-questioning
must be kept within proper bounds. The only matters before
us have to do with the death of Louis Flato, or Donniker
Louey."
"But, Your Honor," objected young Fish. “If I can show that
Mr. Gilligan was anxious to get the defendant out of the
way ..."
Another gavel was shattered. “This is my last warning,” said
the judge.
"I trust that Your Honor does not intend to apply the doc-
trine of omnia praesumuntur rite esse acta to the witness now
on the stand,” Fitz-Henry, Jr., said.
“I beg your pardon?” the judge said, obviously rattled.
"I should like to ask the Court, for the purposes of the record,
in view of the fact that this court room is the focus of all eyes
throughout the breadth of our land, whether or not the doc-
trine of omnia praesumuntur rite esse acta is to be applied to
Mr. Gilligan.”
“Anybody who starts in applying any of this high-falutin
foreign stuff to me will have to fight,” Larkspur Gilligan said.
“No offense,” continued Fish. “I did not go so far as to ask
for omnia praesumuntur contra spoliatorem, but I should have
to file an objection—it would be my plain duty to my client"
(he glanced around at Jim Leonard, who winced) “to contest
the theory of omnia praesumuntur rite esse acta. I should like
also to ask my distinguished opponent, the prosecuting attor-
ney, what his feelings are in the matter. Would he be willing,
with the consent of the bench, to compromise on something
about half way between those opposing doctrines?”
The prospector on the jury, seeing the woebegone expression
on the face of Attorney Highpockets, burst out laughing, in
which he was joined by the trouble shooter and the lightning-
rod salesman.
339


“The kid's sure boiled over and wrinkled his spine. They'll
have to rake and thumb him, sure 'nough, or he'll bust 'em in
two," the old desert rat cackled.
“His old man rung in grog dated 1812, now the kid's got 'em
dizzy with mumbo jumbo. Say, what is this here omnia prae-
something or other? I think the jury ought to know," said the
trouble shooter. Young Fish was in his element. “Perhaps I can
make myself clearer," he said. “What I am getting at is that
the weight of a witness' testimony depends on the character of
the said witness. If I can establish, for instance, that none of
Mr. Gilligan's intimates in Chicago, where he transacts the
bulk of his business, are absque fraudem ..."
“There he goes. He's a-buckin' and a-pitchin' again,” chortled
the old prospector. He was one of the few on the jury who
wanted the job, at three bucks a day, to continue indefinitely.
Judge Patterson turned shell pink, which clashed with the
Gilligan mauve. “If any demonstrations of approval or dis-
approval occur, the court room will be cleared,” he shouted.
"Can't kick out the jury, or there won't be no trial,” the
desert rat said. In leaner years, he had been forced to set prairie
fires and then get himself sworn in as deputy fire warden in
order to make both ends meet.
Young Fish, meanwhile, was grinning at Tom Jackson, who
had been aroused from his semi-stupor by the forcible ejection
of Fitz-Henry, Sr., and was dashing off a colorful item for the
A.P. BOSTON FISH NIXED BY HIX was the way he had
started it off. To the newspaperman's delight, the young Har-
vard graduate assumed his blandest smile and walked over to
the bench, beckoning the prosecuting attorney to follow him.
Soon the judge, Larkspur Gilligan and the two lawyers were
in a huddle.
"I tell you what I'll do,” said young Fish, with disarming
aplomb. "I'll soft pedal the Latin if you'll give me a bit of
leeway. Otherwise, I'll have to insist on a ruling between the
doctrines of omnia ..."
340


“The court wishes to be fair,” said Patterson, who did not
relish an A.P. story to the effect that the future candidate for
State Senator, Governor, United States Senator and even higher
offices was stumped by schoolboy's Latin.
"I want to ask Gilligan about his friends in Chicago. Do I
continue, in English, or shall we go into a brace or two of
doctrines in Latin? Not only could I ring in the omnias already
in the record, if the old gal with the Gibson coiffure really got
what I said, but a few odd items like billa non vera, coram
non judice, lex loci delictus, de minimis non curat lex ..."
"Why not let him ask the questions, then rule 'em out
afterward?” suggested Highpockets, who, while no Latin
scholar, was a trader from birth.
“Topping, my cherished old opponent,” said young Fitz-
Henry, and the questioning was resumed. To the horror of the
judge, the majority of the jury, the witnesses, the spectators
and particularly the defendant, the young man pulled from his
briefcase a telephone directory of Chicago, which he had
brought along for his own convenience in keeping in touch
with various loose young women.
“Nom de dieu. Il commence avec les 'A”,” said Frémont to
Dr. Toudoux.
“Naturellement," the doctor replied. “Ça c'est parfaitement
logique, pas?"
“Do you happen to know Miss Amelia C. M. Aaberg, of
1659 North Humbolt Street, Mr. Gilligan?” asked Fish, Jr.
“Never heard of her,” said Gilligan.
The same question was asked regarding Carl Aabye, of 12234
S. Egelston Street; Othella Aadland, of 2701 West Lunt; Lars
Aadnesen, 2529 North Kimball; and so on through the "A's.”
By quitting time, the audience had thinned out to a faithful
few, Gilligan was on the verge of a fit, and the judge's prospects
of political advancement had been reduced to nil, minus the
heavy mortgage Gilligan held on the palatial judicial residence
341


horseplay. I'll answer your fool questions until quarter of three,
and not one minute longer.”
“Sufficient unto the moment ..." paraphrased Fitz-Henry,
Harvard '30. “I wish to call the attention of the Court and the
patient members of the jury to a strange state of confusion in
the witness' mind. He has repeated twice, fully compos
mentis ... I beg your pardon, Judge. Just a slip. Uninten-
tional, I assure you. The witness has repeated that he does not
know one Michelangelo Diocanne, although Mr. Diocanne has
spent weeks at his home, and at the present time is peacefully
snoring within six feet of Witness Gilligan.”
"That's Mike Flato,” Gilligan said.
"I am aware that the gentleman is on record here as Michel
Flato, fruit dealer and bereaved father of Louis Flato, alias
Donniker Louey. It happens also that he is Michelangelo Dio-
canne, shoemaker, of 6005 South Albany Street, and that the
Chicago Grand Jury found sufficient cause to indict him, just
previous to his visit to Mr. Gilligan, for having stabbed with
intent to kill one Adolph Percolese, of the Capone faction,
against whom our Baldy Santo had waged unremitting war."
The old man, Flato or Diocanne, began to groan and roll his
eyes. "I gotta one by Jesus Christa bigga pain," he said, clutch-
ing his abdomen, and Judge Patterson, spurred by the emer-
gency into some rapid thinking, adjourned court until the fol-
lowing day.
343


be Mental Attributes
of Sheepherders
THE THIRTY-ONE tough miles from Glendive to Wibaux, across
flats and badlands, were covered by Tumbleweed O'Flaherty
in a single night, and morning found him camped on Beaver
Creek, frying sow belly and making sourdough bread, his pan,
prospector's hammer and spade beside him. He had not dis-
covered that Homer Evans was held prisoner by Baldy Santo,
or that Homer's nicely adjusted brain had suffered by collision
with an iron rail. Santo kept under cover during daylight hours
and the windows of the old caboose were skillfully shaded. The
deposed sheriff, and seeker after the legendary fleece, however,
took a turn through the town, on the pretext that he needed
to buy salt before hitting for the high hills.
In the general store the conversation, while not confined to
Yea-yea and Nay-nay, might as well have been, for all the infor-
mation it contained. But while passing the depot, Tumbleweed
heard the voice of the freight agent who shared the popular
belief that by shouting into a cracked phone he could counter-
act the instrument's deficiencies.
turn through this for the high hills; ... oot confined
344


“That's what I said, Tank water. Tank. T-a-n-c. There's a
train load, mebbe two trainloads o' stinkers comin' through
from Ideeho," was the text of the agent's communication.
“Yeah. They gotta drink. The grass ain't green enough yet
so they can travel long stretches without water,” the agent con-
tinued.
Tumbleweed O'Flaherty was all ears. The only big sheepman
for hundreds of miles around who wintered his flock in Idaho
was Larkspur Gilligan, and it was a full month before the
season when Gilligan usually moved his sheep to the summer
range on the Yellowstone. A little later, he saw a string of slat
cars, empty and sealed, marked for Oakland, California, and a
railroad man was walking along and changing the destination
of each with a piece of chalk. The one gondola was left as it
was, with the Oakland label. As soon as he could, Tumbleweed
ambled down the tracks and inspected the new marking. The
slat cars had been re-routed to Ashton, Idaho, on the Oregon
Short Line. That was Gilligan's winter range.
“Now, durn and blast it all. I've gone and hoofed it all the
way from Glendive to here, and now I've got to hoof it back
again,” Tumbleweed said. He didn't dare trust the telephone
and he had to get in touch with Jim Leonard without delay.
What did Gilligan have in mind? It was clear to the old
prospector that the unseasonable return of the sheep from
Idaho had been timed to coincide with Leonard's trial and the
stampede brought on by the airmen. So Tumbleweed picked
up his tools and, in the heat of the strong spring sun, started
walking the track back where he came from.
Of the pair who were camping in the old caboose, Homer
Evans was by far the more tranquil. The injury to his head,
he had concluded, was not a permanent one but was severe
enough to make it necessary for him to lie quietly and post-
pone arduous thinking until he was somewhat stronger. He
knew nothing of the trial in progress in Glendive but was con-
345


cerned about the badge of authority and the documents he had
ordered from Chicago. If young Fitz-Henry sent the papers by
air mail, addressed to Three Buttes, Homer assumed that
Miriam, in his absence, would open the envelopes. Just what
she would do after that, he did not try to guess, for a prelimi-
nary sally into that field of conjecture started his head throb-
bing in an admonitory way. So he devoted himself to the lighter
task of badgering the restive Santo.
On the second day of the trial, however, just about the time
Fitz-Henry, Sr., was hearing the clang of the cell door, Evans
felt a change for the better. He wondered, in an experimental
way, what steps, if any, were being taken for his rescue, and
immediately, unaccompanied by migraine or other distressing
symptoms, his convalescent brain rewarded him with the
answer: Rain-No-More. Hitherto Homer had been unable to
leave any signs along the route, but to that end he quickly
applied his extraordinary powers. Day and night, except at
meal times, he was trussed up in the duck straitjacket* and
bound in such a way that he could not leave the bed. When it
was necessary to visit the john, his bonds were loosened so
that he could shuffle to the end of the caboose. But Santo, whose
nerves were being rubbed raw by the period of enforced inac-
tion, devoted all his ingenuity to keeping Homer helpless and
to that end had removed the door of the W.C. and sat opposite
with a machine gun trained on the humble throne whenever
Evans was in occupancy. Nevertheless, Homer did not despair.
First he suggested, as a pastime, a simple gambling game
originated in the Yale Theological School. Two cockroaches,
one marked with a bit of colored string, the other with a plain
white thread around its middle, were placed on the board that
served as a tray. Baldy Santo, who loved games of chance, fell
in with the idea at once and chalked three circles on the tray,
one in the center, and one in each of diagonally opposite cor-
ners. In the central circle, covered with an inverted tin cup, the
* Brooks Appliance Co., Inc.
346


two labeled roaches were placed, one backed by Evans, the
other by Santo. The roaches were kept in the dark enough to
allow the pupils of their eyes to expand, so that when suddenly
they found themselves in bright light they were bewildered and
made a dash for safety. Several classes of bets could be made
on the outcome. The first man whose corner circle was crossed
by a fleeing cockroach won a small prize, which was doubled if
the insect remained outside three-fifths of a second. If the
roach which chose Baldy's circle was his own entry, for instance,
the gang chief got a double premium. At once, the watchful
Santo became fascinated, and was particularly enthusiastic
because at first he won consistently, to the point that Homer
was obliged to sign a stack of I.O.U.'s.
Now and then, of course, a roach would escape and had to
be replaced with another, which offered no difficulty, since the
caboose was amply supplied. Gradually Homer, whose hand
was quicker than Santo's eye, was able to catch, squeeze into
insensibility and stow beneath his blanket a number of the
insects and also several of the score sheets. At night, while he
was feigning sleep, Evans scrawled on the fragments of paper
thus acquired a number of Indian signs indicating where he
was, who was with him and by what route they had come to
Wibaux. The blood of the roaches served as ink.
Having a photographic memory, Evans was able to recon-
struct the small town and its sidetracks, having passed through
it on his way to Glendive some weeks before. The siding on
which his caboose stood faced northeast. Across the tracks, at
the junction with the main line, was a long snow fence blocked
up with tumbleweeds. Homer waited until the wind was high,
which never was much of a wait in Wibaux, and was able to
detect the direction of the strong air currents by the rattling
of the windows of the car. Thus, straitjacketed and covered
with a Tommy gun, in full sight of his captor, he was able to
drop his messages through the toilet tube at moments when the
wind from the southwest was blowing steadily. Of course, the
347


telltale pieces of paper, on which he had written with roaches'
blood what he wished to convey, brought up against the drift
barrier along the main line tracks and clung there. And once
the countryside was well strewn, Evans concentrated on de-
tecting Santo's method of nobbling his entries, double-crossing
the gang leader with his own tricks, and won back his I.O.U.'s
ready cash, he believed.
In the meantime, Tumbleweed O'Flaherty got back into
Glendive under cover of night, and by rapping softly on Tom
Jackson's door upstairs in the Hotel Jordan came very close to
causing two fond hearts to cease beating as one, or at all, for
that matter.
"It's me. Tumbleweed. Let me in," the former sheriff whis-
pered.
Jackson's reply contained several elements, including pro-
fanity, relief, social falsehood and the request to wait a minute.
However, the newspaperman and the old prospector were soon
in conference with Miriam and Jim Leonard, who received the
news that Gilligan's sheep, numbering thirty thousand, were
on the move from Idaho a month ahead of time.
“He's going to pull a fast one,” Jackson said, and Miriam,
pale and determined, strapped on her automatics.
Since Jim Leonard could not leave Glendive while the trial
was in progress, he telephoned Hank and asked him to ride
into town the next day, with all the men available, for a council
of war. Hank gave the word, the triangle clanged at Three
Buttes, there was another quick phone call to Muddy Creek, a
signal fire was lighted near the hot and cold springs to warn
the Blackfeet and summon the Chief and the medicine man,
and, by moonlight, down the Leonard Creek trail rode a grim
and determined body of men and women of assorted races and
backgrounds but with a firm single purpose, namely, to meet
348


force with force and get the best of Gilligan. They rode in a
column of twos, as, follows:
Hank, the foreman
The Professor
Colonel Lvov Ivanovich Kvek Captain Grigori Hippolitovich
Lidin
Hjalmar Jansen
Anton Diluvio (né Andrew
Flood)
Chief Shot-on-Both-Sides
Trout-tail III, I.M.D.
Sergeant Bonnet
Sergeant Schlumberger
Chef Corrigan
Sterling Cromwell
“Big George” Washington
Stenka Ivkich
Hugo Schusschnigger Weiss
(incognito) in Blackfeet
costume
Princess Tinted Cloud
Princess Unreal Bear
Back at Opera Lodge was left on guard the unlucky Lara-
mee Bob, who had lost the determining hand of poker, Eugénie
Toudoux, Beatrice Baxter Diluvio, and Wing Lee-all re-
solved to carry on with the utmost vigilance. Beatrice, a fair
shot, sat in the plane with a sawed-off shotgun across her entic-
ing silk-clad knees; Madame Toudoux, as calm and withal as
wary as if she were in a salon in the Faubourg St. Germain,
stood on guard on the western butte from which she could
survey miles of the surrounding country; the buckaroo from
Laramee kept watch over the prisoners, who had sensed trouble
was in the wind; and Wing Lee took tender care of the in-
valids.
Through the watches of the same eventful night sat in grim
conference Larkspur Gilligan, the wreck of the dapper Judge
Patterson and Sheriff Warren Hockaday, with a shiner from
Fitz-Henry, Senior's, elbow that would have won a prize among
the watercolors in the Independent Show. The irate sheepman
was laying down his final dictum, which he emphasized with
bouts of table pounding that shook the judicial mansion to its
foundations.
349


"Tomorrow the case goes to the jury, and no monkey-
shines,” said Gilligan, fixing the judge with a baleful eye. “And,
furthermore, I'll give the jury just twenty minutes to bring in a
verdict. If you can't hooley-ann that college kid, you won't rep-
resent this State in the Senate or anywhere else. You'll find
yourself one of the People you talk so much about, and I'll
foreclose the mortgage in the bargain."
“But, Gilligan. He'll ask for a ruling on that ... er ...
omnia praesumuntur business that even Lawyer Anderson in
Minneapolis never heard of," said the quivering judge.
“He won't do no such thing, because that omnia stuff, what-
ever in hell it is, he's trying to pin on me. I won't be
there. I shall have been excused, on the ground of pressing
affairs outside the State. And that Wop we got for a weeper
will be in the hospital, indisposed, and you'll accept his depo-
sition. That, with the sheepherders' story, ought to be enough
for the A.P. and the eyes of the whole bloody nation, and if it
isn't, let 'em all get glasses. I want action and I want it pronto,"
said Gilligan, in part.
Therefore, when the trial opened at ten next morning, Judge
Patterson, wan from a sleepless night, called to the bench the
defendant and the opposing counsel, one of whom was holding
the telephone directory in a meaningful way and was muttering
what he remembered of the first book of Julius Caesar, padded
out with a few Kyries and a Sanctus or two.
"Now listen, folks,” the judge whispered. “Jim here's anxious
to get through with this trial. He's said so himself, haven't you,
Jim?”
Regardless of the pressure on his right big toe from the shoe
of his vigilant attorney, the rancher said: “You bet.”
"Mr. Gilligan, who was on the stand, has been called away,”
the judge continued. “I want to open up this morning with a
few depositions, just to get 'em out of the way ..."
“I should like to examine them first," said young Fitz-
Henry. “In the absence of the pater, I'm curator ad hoc, in a
350


manner of speaking, of the defendant's interests. Should there
be anything contained in these documents touching on or
constituting damnum absque injuria, dedimus potestatum ..."
"You're wanted on the telephone in the ante-room,” said
Sheriff Hockaday, pulling his gun.
The young lawyer did some rapid thinking. With one Fish
in the jug and another drilled full of holes, and Cabot and
Saltonstall two thousand miles away, the case would go to pot,
he concluded, and reluctantly followed the direction indicated
by Hockaday's Smith & Wesson. As he had suspected, the
phone call was not for him, but when he got back the trial was
in full sway. First, Mike Flato's affidavit that he had identified
the body of the deceased as Donniker Louey, his son, was read
and explained to the jury, who drank it in avidly as an indica-
tion that the end was near.
But the trump cards produced by the prosecutor, Highpock-
ets, were the depositions of the sheepherders, Stumpbroke and
Jill. They were identical, signed untidily with an “X,” and set
forth:
“That on the 28th day of November the undersigned was in
possession of his faculties ..."
“I object,” said Fitz-Henry, Jr., waving a sheaf of papers
under Highpocket's nose. “From information I have at hand,
neither of these sheepherders has been in possession of his fac-
ulties since early childhood, if at all. On the question of non
compos mentis ..."
Six-shooters started waving in his direction like cornleaves
in a breeze.
"Objection overruled,” snapped the judge, who was more
bold when cornered.
The reading of the depositions was continued. The sheep-
herders, according to their sworn statement, had been at the
head of Cottonwood Creek on November 28th, late in the
afternoon; had seen the deceased, then living, on an old white
horse. The defendant, Jim Leonard, they stated, had ridden in
351


from the direction of Three Buttes and after an altercation with
the deceased had plugged him with a rifle, then buried him.
The witnesses, afraid of the vengeance of the disorderly ele-
ment among the cattlemen, had refrained from telling the
authorities what they had witnessed until assured of full pro-
tection of the law.
An automatic barked and deposition No. 1, that of Stump-
broke, went flying into the air.
“It's a lie,” said Miriam, the gun smoking in her hand.
Amid the tattoo of the gavel, shrieks of women and mingled
shouts of men, her arms were pinned from behind by a squad
of deputies, while two others slipped handcuffs over the wrists
of the roaring and struggling Jim Leonard. After his first fit
of rage had subsided, however, the rancher's law-abiding in-
stincts regained the upper hand.
“Sit tight, my girl,” he cautioned. “Let's hear it all before we
make another move."
“I insist on being heard. I stand on my rights as a citizen and
a member of the bar,” said young Fitz-Henry, ignoring the
muzzles of the Smith & Wessons. "Shoot if you must this jolly
old onion, but as long as it sits on the shoulders of a Fish, he
will assert and reiterate the doctrines on which American juris-
prudence has leaned, to become the envy and admiration of
the civilized world.”
He was muzzled by what seemed to him a multitude of
extraordinarily heavy hands.
Judge Patterson, trembling and sweating like a Trojan, got
into action. “The counsel for the defense has been warned re-
peatedly by the Court for infringements of legal procedure.
Already I have had sufficient grounds for excluding him from
this court room and his conduct this morning has forced me
reluctantly to come to a decision ..."
The judge paused, turned a shade of cheese green, and his
eyes protruded from their sockets. For unlike the others in the
352


room, he was facing the rear and was seeing, entering grimly
and lining up in formidable array, left to right:
Hank, the foreman; the Professor; Colonel Lvov Ivanovich
Kvek; Captain Grigori Hippolitovich Lidin, Hjalmar Jansen,
and Anton Diluvio.
That would have been plenty to give pause to more coura-
geous judges than Patterson, but in the bargain were facing
him:
Chief Shot-on-Both-Sides and Trout-tail III in full paint and
feathers; Sergeants Bonnet and Schlumberger of the Paris
police; Corrigan and Galilee Zach; the two colored waiters;
Stenka Ivkich, Hugo Weiss, in Indian disguise; and the Prin-
With frantic effort, the judge cleared his throat and faintly
at last the words came:
“On the other hand,” he resumed, “it is the wish of this Court
to give fair play to every man, however impetuous, and for
that reason the attorney for the defense may proceed.”
"That's sporting of you, Judge,” said young Fish, surprised
but not bewildered, and within two-fifths of a second he was
launching into one of his outstanding efforts which began:
"On the question of non compos mentis as applied to absent
witnesses, known respectively as Stumpbroke and Jill, I should
like to point out to the honorable court the decision of the
higher court of the Hall-Mills case involving Simple Willie
Stevens; and that gem of American jurisprudence, the opinion
of a minority of the justices of the United States Supreme Court
in their review of Peaches vs. Browning.
“The court will remember that Browning, defendant, was
addicted to certain childish games in the course of which he
romped on all fours and emitted creditable 'woofs' in imitation
of a grizzly bear.”
The stroke of noon, which marked the end of the morning
session, interrupted, but only for an hour, young Fish's list of
pertinent citations and precedents, which, he contended, clearly
353


disqualified fever-stricken sheepherders until such time as the
defense could produce capable alienists and psychiatrists to pass
on their mental condition.
In the jury box, the old prospector, who had bribed one of
the attendants to slip him a bottle of Jamaica ginger, which he
preferred to the more effete bottled liquors, was standing and
cheering the young Harvard man with undisguised admiration.
"Twist 'em! Kettle 'em to a fare-ye-well. Keep your lunch
hooks clear of that horn,” the old juryman yelled. “I got nine
dollars comin' from the county that says you can ride 'em, kid,
straight up and handsome. Whoopee!”
In which yell Hjalmar Jansen, the Russians and the Indians
joined lustily.
354


In Which Furniture Is Moved out and in
While Trench Warfare Looms, Not to
Mention John Marshall and
Sigmund Freud
IN HIS TREK through the badlands Rain-No-More, together with
his pinto and Moritz the dog, were astonished to hear, borne
faintly on the southwest wind, the strains of an out-of-tune piano
on which was being played, with some authority, a ballad en-
titled: "A Whistlin' Train Came Down the Track, She Blew,
She Blew!"
“Nit se pop pow ka,” the young Indian exclaimed, which may
be translated variously as: “Am I dreaming?”, “Od's bodkins,
or “Blast my timbers.”
Moritz, although inarticulate, expressed the same idea with
a lift of his eyebrows. What the pinto did has no real place in
the story, but it seemed to please him just the same.
Although reluctant to leave the tracks for an instant, Rain-
No-More let his curiosity persuade him to investigate and thus
came upon the hideout where his tribesmen were concealing
from the buzzards et al the son of Gilligan, ditto of Santo, the
355


train from the east and he was dismayed to see descending to
the depot platform an assortment of Great Lakes palefaces in
city attire, to the number of ninety-three.
The newcomers stood by the tracks, cursing and shouting
ribald comment as the train steamed away toward Glendive
and the west.
Rain-No-More knew that he must act quickly, but before
he could formulate a plan, he saw Baldy Santo step down from
the caboose, glance furtively around, and hit out for the main-
line tracks. Baldy never knew exactly what struck him, but
when he regained consciousness he was tied up and gagged, in
the midst of a large clump of sagebrush with Moritz standing
guard in his wistful yet determined way. Homer Evans, lying
helpless in the caboose, heard a sound at the door and was.
overjoyed to see, not the familiar face of Baldy Santo but the
imperturbable countenance of Rain-No-More. With a few
slashes of his hunting knife, the Indian cut Evans loose and ex-
plained in a whisper their situation. Two minutes later they
were crawling through the brush toward Baldy Santo, and
while the assembled gangsters were still milling around the
center of Wibaux, their leader was being hustled back into the
badlands at double quick time. The abandoned pinto, left to
his own devices, limped disconsolately behind. Around them
were crumbling sandstone, mounds of rust-colored ashes, ter-
races of lava rock, in ledges and chunks. A few lichens clung to
the firmer boulders and in mangy patches scrub sagebrush and
false dandelions continued their losing struggle. The sun beat
down, gusts of wind stirred the alkali dust.
But if the reader thinks the foregoing panorama is desolate,
what would he have thought had he been at the same moment
on Custer Avenue, Glendive, in front of the residence of Judge
and Myra Patterson where Sheriff Hockaday, in a desperate
effort to save his own skin, was carrying out Larkspur Gilli-
gan's instructions to the last Chippendale? Two squads of
357


deputies, in fact, had backed up as many huge moving vans
and were lugging through the open doorway, from which the
John Hancock grill work had been detached, carved bedsteads
and billowy Ostermoors; framed chromos and reproductions
ranging from Botticelli and the Landscape with Mill johnny to
Maxfield Parrish and Rosa Bonheur; Morris chairs, Grand
Rapids sofas; china and crockery stamped Wedgwood or Mont-
gomery Ward; a grand piano in the bench of which popular
songs of the epoch were flapping, Hallelujah, Blue Heaven and
the St. Louis Blues; highboys and lowboys; the kitchen range
and all sorts of enameled receptacles marked coffee, tea, etc.;
pots, pans, colanders, calendars, incinerators, Frigidaires, bridge
tables with attachments for holding drinks, ash trays, estab-
lished brands of playing cards, chafing dishes, night tables,
back scratchers of exotic models, signed photographs in fish
nets, college pennants, and articles of clothing and toilet neces-
sities too intimate to be catalogued here.
And in one corner of the nearly empty living room, from
which had been snatched the Baluchistan rug, sat Judge Pat-
terson, head in his hands, a crushed and sorrowing man. For
at the hour the whistle had blown, young Fitz-Henry Fish had
been reciting in court “Tom's a-cold” from King Lear, in an
effort to draw a triple parallel between Sheepherder Stump-
broke, the Shakespearean fools and Simple Willie Stevens, of
Hall-Mills fame, pausing only to serve notice that the next day
he would ring in Freud, Jung and Adler in order to prove con-
clusively that the mother and grandmothers of the fever-rid-
den sheepherders must have been as whacky as their sons. The
case had not gone to the jury, as Gilligan had ordered, and few
among the spectators or even the principals still clung to the
belief that eventually it would. Therefore, true to his word,
Larkspur had foreclosed the mortgage and seized Judge Pat-
terson's movable goods, and had sent to Butte for a couple of
accountants to find something wrong in all the corporations to
which Judge Patterson had lent his name.
358


The judge was up against it, but he had only a shade on Tom
Jackson who was comforting the impetuous Myra as best he
could. The latter, once the pride of Northern Michigan, was
taking the judge's reversal of fortune right on the chin without
weakening.
"At least we have each other," she was saying to Tom Jack-
son, and the reporter could think of no rebuttal until too late.
Moreover, the evening train had already departed and he was
under obligations to Hugo Weiss to stick with the X-Ray and
see the matter through.
"You might go back to your folks for a visit," Tom mur-
mured weakly.
"No. I shall have the courage to follow the dictates of my
heart. How wonderful, Tom, no longer to be obliged to dis-
simulate—to be able to defy those narrow-minded women who
sniffed at my alligator pears and who have never known the
frank companionship of a man of letters like you,” Myra said
intensely, as, glancing through the curtains she saw the deputies
loading an oil burner and a few spare kegs of nails on top of
the Duncan Phyfe table from the library. The Three-Foot
Shelf, with sets of O. Henry and Kipling and the Modern Li-
brary were being separated from their shelf companions in
order to fill voids between the larger articles.
Jim Leonard and his buckaroos and friends were in session
in the upstairs dining room of the Jordan when definite word
came mysteriously from Wibaux that two trainloads of sheep
were due there next morning, with more to follow at intervals
of a few hours. Also that nearly one hundred suspicious-look-
ing strangers, probably Chicago gangsters of the Santo mob,
had got off the westbound train there and bade fair to terrorize
the town, already known as an extremely tough one.
Miriam, when she was handed the telegram in code, sat down
limply and began to cry, not from anguish but because her long
suspense was over. None other than Homer Evans could have
dispatched that message, and that meant he was alive and in
359


charge of things again. Her father, always embarrassed by a
show of strong feelings, sat uncomfortable and helpless beside
her, patting her shoulder from time to time.
“Steady, my girl," he said, and brought the meeting to order
in an informal way.
The first to speak was Hank, the range boss.
“Boys,” he said. “When we come by the head of Indian Coulee
this mornin', about dawn, I took a good look across the dead-
line and the bluffs are covered with larkspur, right in its worst
season. Do you reckon Gilligan's crazy enough to put a bunch
of hungry sheep there now?”.
"I can't figure out his game,” Jim Leonard said. “Unless he
plans to run 'em across our cattle range and drive us out of the
country. What else would he have those gangsters for?"
“You hit the nail right on the head,” Hank said.
“There's going to be rough stuff,” said Hjalmar gleefully.
Kvek and Lidin drank and smashed their glasses, which was the
signal to the waitress downstairs to bring more liquor.
In the midst of the excitement calmly rose Shot-on-Both-
Sides, whose braves, in the absence of the Leonard outfit, had
kept the herd of shorthorns together and worked them grad-
ually toward Mondak, in the northeastern corner of the range,
near the shipping corral.
“Gilligan, unlike most palefaces, is a one-man powwow. He
talks little, acts promptly, thinks all the time. He has divided
our forces, with the cattle and my braves toward the rising sun
and the northern railroad, while we are here entangled with
the agents of the Great White Father. I shall tell you what Gil-
ligan hopes to do. With the aid of the Great Lakes palefaces he
will drive his sheep on the cattle range, armed also with papers
stamped with strong white man's medicine and colored seals.
The sheep will nibble the grass and everything eatable, even to
the roots in the ground and for fifty or sixty moons not even the
lizards will find nourishment where now there is good grazing.
"Where will the sheepmen cross the deadline? Not on lower
360


Shot-on-Both-Sides held up his hand for silence.
“We are pleased and some of us are drunk,” the Chief ex-
plained into the transmitter.
“I am sober," said Rain-No-More.
Knowing that the Glendive exchange was in Gilligan's
sphere of influence and that all important conversations were
reported to him, Evans took the wire and gave instructions to
Miriam in Blackfeet, through Shot-on-Both-Sides. He asked that
a line of trenches and pill-box machine gun nests be dug and
constructed immediately, covering the exposed gap between
the bluffs and the Redwater. The work should be done at
night, carefully camouflaged and, if possible, kept secret from
end could not refrain from asking: “But when shall I see
him?"
Evans, of course, had learned about the stampede and the
capture of the airplane from Rain-No-More. He asked that the
where the train had been marooned and the squirrel meadows
made landing feasible. The mercenary flier, he said, should be
accompanied by a Blackfeet brave who could take care of him-
self alone in the badland country. Evans would then replace
the brave in the mechanician's seat and carry on from there. He
asked especially that a copy of the X-Ray with full account of
the trial to date be dispatched with the plane.
It was a rollicking company, indeed, that set out from the
Jordan bar a scant half hour later, hopped on their waiting
bronchos, and rode hard to the north to prepare for the battle.
Jim Leonard watched them wistfully as they drummed across
the long bridge over the roaring muddy Yellowstone. Only
Hugo Weiss remained behind, to get the news of the market
on the morrow and to order ammunition and supplies in code.
The rancher, always troubled by possible legal complications,
was ill at ease until Miriam found out what was on his mind.
“But if Gilligan's got government papers ..." Jim objected.
362


"Oh, those," said Weiss. “No doubt Evans has already fixed
us up with some papers, too. If not, I'll have the boys in my
office get in touch with Washington. We'll both have plenty of
documents; then, if we want to, we can string the case along in
court until hardly a sheep now living is still fit for consump-
tion. Don't worry about that, Jim. That's a question for spe-
cialists. Let them fret. That's what they get their money for.”
In another room in the same hotel, a touching reunion was
taking place between the Fish, Fitz-Henry, Sr., and Fitz-
Henry, Jr. The former had finally signed the necessary papers
about the transfer of the latter from Chicago to Boston, with
a generous settlement for the waitress in the Congregationalist
Cafeteria. The bail had been forked over by Cabot and Salton-
stall, not without some broad “a” beefing, and both Fish were
planning their orations for the following day. The elder was
going to continue his anecdote concerning the grog in 1812,
while the younger was going to inject into the trial the virus
of psychoanalysis, one complex at a time.
But none of them reckoned with Judge Patterson's consum-
ing ambition, which made boot-polish and tutti-frutti ice cream
practically indistinguishable. The judge was on his way to Gil-
ligan's sheep ranch in the fastest hack of the Glendive Livery
Stable and, once admitted by the scornful sheepman, Judge Pat-
terson poured forth alternate pleas for mercy and promises
that the jury should get the case before closing time next day,
if both of the Fish had to be chucked into the Yellowstone with
millstones around their necks. The judge had millstones handy,
he assured Gilligan, since Myra had thought they would be
decorative along the driveway.
"All right. I'll give you one more chance," said Larkspur,
and barked into the phone an order to the sheriff to have the
furniture put back into the judicial mansion. So until dawn the
deputies lugged in antique and Grand Rapids numbers, includ-
ing the Steinway and the Ostermoors, the St. Louis Blues, high-
boys, lowboys, hot water bottles, douche bags, chafing dishes,
363


photos in fish nets, and the judge's and Myra's extra clothes.
Myra, advised of the change, was weeping on Tom's shoulder
and swearing she would rather die than go back, while Jackson
was arguing that going back, for appearances' sake, would be
a noble gesture and that they still could be friends, if they were
very careful.
At dawn, viewed only by Hydrangea, Wing Lee, Bat-ear
McCluskey, Bird's-eye Cohen, Paperhanger Stuntz, Eugénie
Toudoux, Beatrice Diluvio, the curlews below and the turkey
buzzards overhead, the plane known as the Honi Soit, pro-
nounced by the pilot “So what?", was filled with gasoline, the
propeller spun, then whirled; the wheels began to roll, and
gradually the plane lifted itself and its bi-racial contents from
the sagebrush flat, all but brushed the rim of the western butte
and in an hour was over the squirrel meadows in the badlands
and descending to earth again.
“Good morning,” said Homer Evans pleasantly. "You will
keep the motors running, if you please.”
“Don't be so damn polite,” said Cash-and-Carry Corkery, but
he obeyed. And without delay, the Honi Soit taxied across the
meadows, gained momentum, left the ground and was in the
air again, with Evans aboard, a copy of the X-Ray in his hand.
As they sped toward Glendive, over Wibaux, Homer read
hastily the last developments and grinned with satisfaction. If
Fitz-Henry, Jr., was on hand, he must have the Chicago cre-
dentials and the extradition papers to be served on the gang-
sters. That would give Evans the right to deputize his whole
gang and take the fugitives by force, if they wanted it that
way. Gilligan, left without cohorts, would have to fall back on
the outlaw Shoshones, led by Tall-Horse-in-Flytime and his
lieutenant Noisy Snake.
"Ah, spring!” murmured Homer aloud, to the utter disgust
of Cash-and-Carry Corkery.
"Aw, nuts," the mercenary flier said.
364


30
A Case in which an Asbestos Roof
Proves Ineffective
HOMER Evans' first act, after greeting Miriam with a warmth
that sent the blood tingling to the tips of her fingers and toes,
on which the faintly tinted nails curled gently in response, was
to shake Jim Leonard's hand.
“Now that you're here, maybe you can harness-break this
team of ornery lawyers and get me out of this,” the rancher
said hopefully.
"You are as good as free,” said Homer cheerily, "but first I
must speak with Gilligan.” He reached for the phone.
“Gilligan?” he asked, when the connection was established.
“Evans.”
“What the hell do you want?" asked the sheepman peevishly.
“I thought you'd like to know I was around,” Evans said.
“I even hoped it might influence you in your plans for the near
future. Your son, whom I saw just recently, is anxious, I am
sure, for you to behave circumspectly.”
“You wouldn't hurt the boy?" slipped out from Gilligan,
with touching solicitude.
365


"We don't want to hurt anybody,” said Evans, “but there's
a limit to what we will stand. I wanted to advise you, free of
charge, not to try to cross the deadline with any of your sheep
or sub-human companions."
“And what if I do?" demanded Larkspur, infuriated by
Homer's bantering tone.
“We won't use you easy,” said Homer. “And furthermore,
put out of your fertile mind any notions you might have about
convicting Mr. Leonard. It's not in the cards. Not by any stretch
of the imagination.”
“Look,” said Gilligan. “I wasn't born yesterday. You're one
of them humanitarians, a kind of blue-ribbon scout master, if
you get what I mean. You wouldn't kill my kid, in cold blood,
and you don't know what hot blood means. So don't try to get
around me that-a-way.”
“I offer no apologies for the control I have gained over my
temper,” said Homer, “or for any of the softer instincts you
disdain. I'm merely giving you a chance, before it's too late."
"You're giving me a chance. Say, young fella. You ain't been
out in this country long, and you're not going to stay here much
longer. Now get down to business, if you've got something to
say."
“Nothing more," said Homer, and hung up the receiver.
Gilligan, on the other end, restrained himself just in time
from place-kicking his pet cat into a patch of wild sunflowers
just outside the open window. “Dang me if I don't wish I had
a bright young man like that. He almost got my goat, and no
mistake. I wonder if he'd run for Senator," Larkspur Gilligan
said.
What Evans did next was to send a bellboy down to the
county surveyor's office to borrow a slide rule and some paper
divided in millimeter squares. While Jim Leonard watched
with some misgivings, Homer took out his reading glass and
measured carefully the lens, consulted an almanac in the chap-
ter where data concerning the sun was contained, experimented
366


with some cigarette papers and then began to jot down equa-
tions and computations that made Indian signs look like four-
square Gospel.
“Capital,” said Evans, and excused himself for a conference
with the attorneys, man and boy, retained by the defense. What
he asked of the Fish did not concern either the Supreme Court's
drinking habits in 1812, nor yet the Freudian complexes, in-
hibitions, libidos and dream interpretations with which Fitz-
Henry, Jr., was primed. Hastily he checked his mysterious
computations and said:
“Let the case go to the jury at two thirty-six, or as near that
hour as you can,” said Evans.
"But the questions of postponement, change of venue, dis-
missal of the case, billa falsa ..."
"We shall have to pass them up this time," said Homer.
“There's weightier business afoot.”
At ten o'clock, in the court room, Judge Patterson, more dead
than alive, made a feeble pass at the stack of depositions, ex-
pecting any moment to be assailed by both the Fish, and in the
bargain the chap named Evans who, it seemed, was also a mem-
ber of the bar in good standing, although he usually kept the
matter dark. Instead, the defense, which had kept all heads
reeling during four harrowing days, was ominously calm.
"Come on, kid! Ride 'em bareback, and pour in the leather!
Bulldog 'em! Scratch and squeeze 'em! Let 'em hop for papa!
Swing your partners! First couple to the wall and balance off!”
yelled the prospector juryman, who had got a fair start with the
Jamaica ginger before court was opened and wanted action be-
fore the edge wore off.
Even that encouragement did not get a rise out of the Fish.
The prosecutor, Highpockets, read the depositions in a sing-
song manner, while both Miriam and her father, the defendant,
writhed and ground their teeth in rage and alarm.
“Oh, Homer, are you sure?" asked Miriam, breathlessly.
367


had spread to the upper story, where the boards, thoroughly dry
from days of strong sun, blazed like tinder. Laterally the fire
ate its way to the bench. The heat drove the crowd back on all
sides and to and fro ran the frantic Judge Patterson, wailing and
clutching at his hair. He knew that, with the eyes of America
on the ruins of his court room, the records consumed by the
flames, and the jurymen dispersed from hell to breakfast, con-
versing with all and sundry, a mistrial was a fait accompli. With-
out even glancing at the judicial mansion, or waiting to face
Gilligan, the judge, with what money remained in his pockets,
chartered the fastest hack in town and lit out for the State bor-
der, a man without present or future, and with a past he hoped
in vain to leave behind.
Tom Jackson was in the X-Ray city room, pouring vivid word
pictures into the long-distance phone, while Myra stood by with
a palm-leaf fan and a highball, to cool his brow and his throat,
respectively. Jim Leonard, the ex-defendant, was being carried
on the shoulders of his friends to the Jordan bar. And in an
upper hallway Miriam was sobbing happily on Evans' shoulder.
“How could I have doubted you for a moment?” she said.
“The problem was a simple one,” Evans said. “The jury was
fixed. No matter what was said in court, they would have
brought in a conviction. Hence it became imperative to get rid
of the jury as mercifully as possible. Fortunately no one was
injured.”
“But, Homer. How did you know that exactly at two thirty-
six ..."
Evans smiled and held her close once more. “That, darling,
was a matter of my reading glass, placed at just the right angle
to catch the rays of the sun and focus them on some cigarette
papers, which in turn ignited oil-soaked waste, the floor boards,
and ended in destroying the building, the court records, all the
evidence, and forcing the jury to put itself out of action by
mingling with the public before a decision had been reached
371


and signed. As for me, I shall have to buy another reading glass,
but not just now. It might put a bee in Gilligan's bonnet.”
"And to think you have remembered your algebra all these
years,” gasped Miriam, admiringly.
“Of course, there were physical factors as well. The ignition
time of rice paper under a slowly increasing degree of calorifi-
cation, the prevailing wind direction, the safety of the crowd.
You will notice that while the blaze went upward, it did not
threaten any of the exits.”
The telephone rang, and through the transmitter came the
voice of Larkspur Gilligan.
“You win this time," said the sheepman to Evans. “Now why
can't you and me get together? I can promise you that you'll be
State Senator in the fall. ...".
“I'm magnanimous,” Evans said. “Your one remaining chance
is still open to you. Just stay west of the deadline, and refrain
from further gardening activities, meaning planting of
delphinium. Also call off all future stampedes, caused by air-
planes or other devices. That's all I ask, and everything else will
be forgiven."
That time it was not the sheepman's cat but a potted rubber
plant that went sailing through an unopened window. “I'll get
you, if it's the last thing I do,” shouted Gilligan and, perceiving
that he was talking into an empty phone, he pulled the instru-
ment out by the roots and started whirling it like a Balearic
sling above his head, while his feet beat out a rigadoon. From
clumps of sagebrush in which they had taken refuge, the em-
ployees of the sheep rancher looked on in awe and trembling.
"I've never seen the boss so het up,” one of them said hoarsely.
372


PART THREE
The Sheep and Cattle War





31
The War Clouds Gather
THAT NIGHT in Glendive will be remembered by everyone con-
cerned except Judge Patterson, who was not there. With the
deepening of twilight, hacks began rushing back and forth be-
tween the main square and the red-light district, which was
fenced off and lighted with colored lanterns, according to West-
ern custom. Bars were filled to overflowing, as were a majority
of the customers. Cowpunchers, elated by their victory, rode up
and down the streets and the stairs, and in and out of public
and private buildings, yelling like Indians and firing wildly into
the air. The church element, never very dangerous in Glen-
dive, kept to their homes, with doors bolted and shutters
At first Sheriff Hockaday tried to throw his weight around,
but after Hjalmar Jansen, who had ridden in from Mountain
Sheep Bluffs for a consultation with Homer, had taken the
sheriff's badge away, along with his striped blue and orange
shirt, his embossed leather belt, his firearms, bandana handker-
chief and other small articles, Hockaday subsided. Of course,
the fact that Hjalmar knocked out three of his front teeth
375


med paperhanghe North Dakonto, on who
and jammed him into an ashcan was also a factor in the of-
ficer's decision.
But all was not merriment in Dawson and the surrounding
counties. Grim work was afoot, and Larkspur Gilligan, al-
though he seemed to have surrendered the county seat to the
cattlemen that evening, was busier than the proverbial bee, the
one-armed paperhanger, and Gunga Din combined. He was, in
fact, in Wibaux, near the North Dakota line, where a search was
being made for the missing Baldy Santo, on whom the sheep-
man had relied to keep the ninety-odd gangsters in order. Santo,
of course, was nowhere to be found, but Gilligan, who could
read Indian signs, came upon one of Homer's wind-tossed mes-
sages and deduced from that how the rescue was effected.
“Ah, God blast it, what a Senator that fella would make, if
only he'd listen to reason,” muttered Gilligan, but also he felt
his blood begin to boil. He had never been in contact with a
man before who aroused simultaneously his hatred and his ad-
miration, who made him blow hot and cold, place-kick well-
meaning cats, demolish rubber plants and otherwise behave like
a two-year-old.
Between the gangsters and the sheep who were overrunning
Wibaux and the Beaver Creek canyon, an unfortunate rela-
tionship seemed to have sprung up. No, reader, I do not mean
the one that first comes to mind, but merely that the gangsters
seemed to take a delight in bullying and scattering the woollies,
while on their part the woollies had developed a pardonable
fear of the Great Lakes palefaces and lost what sense they had
when one of the same lurched into view. Several sheep had been
shot and a few had had their backs broken over boastful gang-
sters' knees. All decent women in Wibaux had fled in one of
the town hose wagons, and the others were wantonly carousing
in a manner that scared the coyotes farther into the crumbling
volcanic hills. Into this confused situation, Larkspur Gilligan
was trying to bring a semblance of order. The fact that he suc-
ceeded, without killing more than a scant half dozen of his
376


the flier's vile temper by turning on the Honi's radio whenever
there were hymns on the air. That, in the great open country,
is practically always.
Old Crow, were changing from jimswingers into golfing out-
fits, both having been promised by Evans and Hjalmar that
they could take part in the battle, if any, along the Redwater.
The elder Fish, it developed, while at Harvard had developed
some aptitude as an amateur ventriloquist and was able not only
to throw his voice, but to change its quality and scatter it in all
directions. That gift might easily prove useful in trench war-
fare, Evans believed. And he was also glad that the younger
attorney was adept with a jew's-harp, which might help keep
the troops amused if long periods of inaction occurred.
To the westward, just across the Great Divide, the lizards and
birds of the former town of Red Dog were flickering and twit-
tering in astonishment, for, after having been left tranquil years
on end, they suddenly were being disturbed by the sound of
trucks jolting over the roads, the tapping of hammers and the
singing of saws, the diapason of dynamite as blasts were set
off, and the tramping of feet as miners and Chinamen trekked
back to the hills their fathers had left in disgust, and without
even a grubstake. For gold was being found aplenty in the Old
Glory mine. That it had been brought there in trucks from
Nevada did not trouble the carefree itinerant workers to any
noticeable extent, except a brace of real oldtime prospectors,
who promptly went raving mad.
This brings the reader to the zigzag line of trenches which
had been dug all the way from the western extremity of Moun-
tain Sheep Bluffs to the head of Redwater Creek. In commodi-
ous dugouts, that had been blasted out of the sandstone of the
bluffs, were housed a valiant company, including: Hugo Weiss,
whose mysterious disappearance, the sixteenth in his brilliant
career, was shaking the financial world and causing huge for-
tunes to be lost; Unreal Bear and her sister, Tinted Cloud, of


royal Blackfeet blood; Trout-tail III, the medicine man, who
shared a two-man dugout with Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux, with
whom the Indian was making plans for first-aid and hospital
services for the combatants; Stenka, who had done a full share
of the heavy work, shoulder to shoulder with the men. Be-
sides, she had found time to scoop out a dainty little shelter for
her beloved mistress, Miriam, and to deck it with the flowers of
the prairie: the prairie artichoke, button snakeroot, bird's-foot
trefoil; the rose-colored evening primrose, sacred to Luna; the
purple prairie smoke; the symbolic poppy, easily the peer of those
on Flanders fields; the lilac-hued sabbatia, and the pink chapar-
ral pea. The warm-hearted Serbian giantess seemed to know
what resting soldiers needed most, and without thought of her-
self or possible consequences, had dished it out to them with-
out stint or complaint, to the point that the cattlemen's forces
on the eve of the hurly-burly were an exceptionally self-satisfied
and optimistic lot, and not the prey of nervous fears and
premonitions, as is the case so often with troops about to go
under fire.
Among the forces there entrenched, must be mentioned also:
Chief Shot-on-Both-Sides, with a far-away look in his eyes; the
sergeants Schlumberger and Bonnet, both of whom had been
made supremely happy by a whispered “Yes” from the lips of
their fond Nono and Bebé; Rain-No-More, who had arrived
about midnight, accompanied by Moritz the dog; the Professor;
Tom Jackson, the reporter, for whom the press dugout had
been reserved; Galilee Zach, who because of the lightness of his
fingers had been detailed in the hospital squad; Frémont, chief
of the Paris detectives, who was chief engineering officer in
charge of the trenches and refuges, machine-gun nests, pill boxes
and gopher-hole entanglements.
But in the struggle that was imminent, for once in modern
warfare, the noble ancient branch of the service known as
cavalry was about to enjoy a renaissance, and at the head of the
cattlemen's forces, despite the skill of the buckaroos, were de-
379


servedly placed in order of rank, Colonel Lvov Kvek and Cap-
tain Grigori Lidin, both of whom were wild with joy. That
did not interfere with their efficiency, however. Corrals had
been built at strategic points, a patrol established, all up and
down the deadlines; and a system of signals, using heliograph
if by day and lanterns if by night, had been instituted and was
in smooth operation.
“Should the blackest of despair descend upon us and our
unhappy land forever and a day, could it be said that we have
lived in vain?" asked Lvov Kvek, embracing his junior officer
and reaching for the vodka with his free hand.
“Ah, fate! I blow you a thousand kisses!” roared Lidin, de-
taching himself in order to swing his saber right and left, but
principally up and down. “Darling enemies, sent by God on
high to a peace-famished soldier, I shall split you from skull to
crotch, or vice versa, as the case may be, not in anger but in the
spirit known only to true fighting men. Not one of you, should
I spare you, would live forever; so in advance, forgive me for
shortening your days on earth, as I forgive you freely for the
possible stain of sin on my soul.”
Back at the sheep ranch on Big Dry Creek, where he had
quartered his gangsters in lofts and bunkhouses as best he
could, Larkspur Gilligan was poring over a Government map
of the Yellowstone-Missouri watershed. But as he pored, sip-
ping whiskey the while, the saturnine face of Homer Evans
kept coming between Larkspur and the sheet of paper on which
the creeks, coulees, buttes, mesas and foothills had been drawn
in plan, with contours to indicate elevations and depressions.
"God durn 'im,” muttered Gilligan. “Now what did he want
to come a-hornin' into Dawson County for? I'll give him one
durn good lickin' then make him Senator whether he wants
the job or not, or my name ain't Gilligan.”
The longer Larkspur looked at the map, the surer he was
that the way to get his sheep on the cattle range was through the
pass between the Redwater and Mountain Sheep Bluffs. The
380


sheepman also was certain that Homer Evans would anticipate
the maneuver and concentrate his forces in that area. Suddenly
Gilligan rose and began a sort of buck and wing, and seeing
the cat taking refuge on top of a stuffed bear, called out reas-
suringly.
“We've got 'em, puss," Larkspur cackled. “We've sure got
'em where the hair is short.”
For Gilligan, staring at the map, had had an inspiration
worthy of Napoleon. The cattle range had four corners, being
shaped something like a postage stamp two hundred miles deep
by one hundred and fifty miles wide. Evans would place his
troops in the southwest corner, near the bluffs; Glendive, filled
with prying eyes, was on the southeast corner. At the northeast
corner were camped the Blackfeet braves with ten thousand
shorthorns ready for shipment. That left the northwest corner,
across from the unguarded lodge of Shot-on-Both-Sides, wide
open to attack. And it was not impossible to get there with the
cream of his gangster mob and fifteen thousand sheep. He had
only to re-route the remainder of his woollies to the Great
Northern and transport them in the night through Mondak, past
Muddy Creek where stood the special train, and onto the
Blackfeet reservation. The sheep train could be halted across
from the mouth of the Redwater, driven a few miles to the
banks of the Missouri . . . Ah, there was the rub. The Mis-
souri, wide and raging, and no bridge within sixty miles.
Gilligan retrieved the indignant cat and poured out a full
double can of condensed milk for her. “We must think. God
durn it. That young goof, Evans, if only I had him here! I'm
goin' to fan Baldy Santo with a pick handle, for lettin' him get
away,” he said. But he settled down to a bout of cerebration,
chewing furiously on a long black cigar, twitching and filliping
his handlebar moustaches, belching, unbuttoning his vest and
otherwise giving evidence of the fierce concentration of which
he was capable. Six minutes passed, then eight.
"Holy mackinaw," he said. “Why not pinch the bridge near
381


Bison Creek, haul it up river with an eighteen-horse team, then
sling it across where we want it? Sheep can pass a given point,
single file, at the rate of 3,600 an hour. In one night we can have
our whole herd, and men to protect 'em, on the northwestern
corner of the range. By that time the Shoshones will be on
deck to fight off the Blackfeet and stampede the cattle again.
My boys from Chicago will outnumber the cattlemen more
than two to one. We can drive the herd south and strip the
range of fodder as clean as if it had been shaved. I've got papers
from Washington, to boot.”
A moment later, Gilligan was riding hard toward Glendive,
where secret orders flashed over the telegraph to Idaho and
points along the line. Not only were fifteen thousand woollies
sent bumping over the rails toward the junction of the N.P.
branch with the Great Northern, but eighteen strong draft
horses, two skinners, a crew of riggers and a supply of extra
cable and tools were loaded on the same long train. The Bison
Creek footbridge could be cut from its mooring towers, hauled
to the Great Northern tracks, loaded on flat cars, and within
two hours could be unloaded on the reservation, with only a few
squaws to protest. The eighteen horses would haul it back to
the Missouri, riggers could ford the river, carrying ropes with
which to pull over the heavier cables, and by midnight, if all
went well, sheep would be pouring on Jim Leonard's range, well
inside the deadline, at the rate of 3,600 per hour. Larkspur felt
so spry, after getting his campaign in motion, that when Sher-
iff Hockaday complained to him of the treatment the sheriff had
received at the hands of Hjalmar, Larkspur blacked both of his
eyes. The furniture in Judge Patterson's former home, however,
the sheepman left in place, intending to offer the whole shebang
to Miriam Leonard, as an inducement to marry his son and
take command of the social life of Dawson County in place of
the deposed Myra.
Unsuspectingly, the pro-cattle forces at the head of the Red-
water were making final preparations to resist an onslaught,
382


and Gilligan, his head clearing as the plan of attack took shape,
decided to send the fifteen thousand sheep he had near Circle,
and the less promising of his gangsters, to make the expected
offensive there, as a feinting maneuver. If both sallies suc-
ceeded, so much to the good for him.
At eleven o'clock that evening, Evans walked briskly from
the Hotel Jordan to the sagebrush flat where he had left the
Honi Soit and its disgruntled pilot, under guard of Tumble-
weed O'Flaherty.
“Start up the engines,” Homer ordered, and sulkily the fier
obeyed. His moment would come, of that Cash-and-Carry was
sure, or at least, hopeful. He did not notice that Homer, his
alert mind at its keenest, was observing every move he made,
every turn of a screw, each squirt of the oil can, the levers, indi-
cators and controls. For Homer, quick to sense hostility, was
aware that the airman was not fond of him and had resolved
to learn what he could of aviation before the bust-up occurred.
The flight to Mountain Sheep Bluffs was a short one and the
landing presented no difficulties. Diluvio was chosen to guard
the plane, and Evans went straight to the headquarters dugout
that had been prepared for him and got to work. First Frémont
reported the progress of trench construction and infantry organi-
zation. Colonel Kvek gave a masterful summary of the cavalry
disposition and the system of patrols. Moritz the dog took his
place just outside the doorway, to add his prestige to that of the
sentry on guard. Hjalmar had taken great pains with the
camouflage and had turned in a tiptop job, for the plentiful
sagebrush lent itself well to the purpose, and all trenches, ma-
chine-gun emplacements and entrances to dugouts were hidden
from the buzzards and coyotes, in fact, were all but invisible.
In the daylight hours, the members of the defending units had
kept carefully out of sight. So that while Evans knew nothing
of the flanking operation planned by Gilligan, the sheepman
had no idea of what was.in store for his second-string army and
383


Waaaaaah. Ho haw,” roared Dr. Toudoux, pointing toward
Trout-tail III and doubling up again.
"I trust you gentlemen will enlighten me in due time as to
what amuses you so,” said Evans.
The response was peals, gales, roars, ripples, gasps, burbles,
and gusts of laughter, until Trout-tail III and Dr. Toudoux
were sitting on the ground, face to face, pointing, each to the
other and gasping to catch their breath. The Indian turned the
color of a well-smoked Meerschaum, while the Frenchman took
on a wistaria hue.
Eventually Toudoux, still pointing to Trout-tail as if to dis-
claim all credit himself, was able to stand erect and whisper
into Evans' ear, at which the impassive Homer let out such a
volley of guffaws that Miriam, in her distant dugout, heard the
sound and came running. Never had she heard the man of her
choice give vent to such uncontrolled hilarity before. The
sentry, whose sides were splitting, was helpless and let her pass.
"Why, Homer! What is the matter?” she asked, her hands
poised in their characteristic interrogatory and expectant way.
He stepped to her side and whispered into her shell-like ear,
touching ever so lightly with his lips a wisp of fragrant hair
(Forvil's Les Yeux Noirs).
Like the daintiest of rockets paraboling skyward, the silver
of her laughter rose and fell. “Oh, Homer. Could I tell Father?
He's been so taciturn, so troubled ..."
"By all means, call him,” said Evans, and soon the rancher
and his daughter appeared in the dugout entrance, arm in arm.
Succinctly Trout-tail outlined his secret plan, and Miriam wept
with joy at the sight of her undemonstrative father, doubled up
and in convulsions, alternately roaring and gasping, “Now
ain't that a humdinger?" or "Jesus to Jesus, and eight hands
round.”
The company was sworn to secrecy and into the night, on
the fastest pintos, rode Trout-tail III and Dr. Hyacinthe Tou-
doux, the backs of their saddles bulging with empty gunny-
385


32
The Battle of the Redwater:
Phase One
ONE OF OUR minor-league poets, who was given to somewhat
rash but musical statements, has handed down the line, “He
travels the fastest who travels alone.” Perhaps that may be
granted, but the weakness of all heroes, past and present, who
played lone hands, is this: when they need faithful lieutenants,
known in underworld parlance as "airedales,” they find them-
selves behind the eight ball. Thus Larkspur Gilligan, obliged to
make the roundabout journey to the Blackfeet Reservation to
command his main body of sheep and gangsters, had to leave
Sheriff Hockaday to direct the movements of the troops and
animals who were to crash the cattle range on the Redwater
side. The sheepman cursed as he thought of Terence, his son,
far away and in captivity, and was even more blasphemous
when reminded of the absent Baldy Santo and his precocious
heir.
Nevertheless, with a force of forty gangsters, all equipped
with rods, choppers, saps, pineapples, scatter guns, brass knuck-
les, sheep skins to which the wool still clung, and other weapons
387


of his assistants, and as he passed through trenches and in-
spected the pill boxes and other emplacements he was generous
with his praise, although his men seemed to need no encourage-
ment. On the contrary, they were so anxious for contact with
the enemy that Homer had to dissuade Hjalmar, Kvek, Diluvio
and some of the more impetuous of his subordinates from
abandoning their fortifications and tearing across country to
meet the gangsters half way.
Evans, however, issued curt instructions of quite another
order.
"Withhold your fire and remain in concealment until the
sheep are within easy range. I will then give the signal. If the
enemy reaches our front-line trenches in any sort of order, in
the face of our machine guns, retire to the second line defenses
to give our gunners a chance to get in some enfilading fire. Do
not hesitate to kill plenty of sheep, since the meat will not be
wasted and the dead animals will afford us cover if the enemy
is obliged to fall back. We are outnumbered two to one, and
while we have shelter, it must be remembered that the enemy
has a moving screen behind which he may operate.
"To those of you who have had military experience, I wish
to say a word in particular. When one is fighting for one's
country, it is considered traitorous to pause in advance or
retreat to give aid to wounded comrades. With us, and Mr.
Leonard is in perfect agreement with me, the conservation of
the lives of our comrades takes first place in the order of the
day. We want no honored dead, if we can help it.
"In conclusion, I wish to announce that we are about to try
out a new weapon, hitherto unknown in warfare, and to that
end I must caution you all to obey orders strictly, on no account
to overrun your objectives and by no means, however bizarre
the situation, to depart from the letter of my commands."
"Ha ha! Ho ho! Damme! Damme! I shall bust,” roared Jim
Leonard, to the astonishment of the company, while Miriam
390


Like a long many-colored serpent the file of braves in their
war paint and feathers wound its way swiftly toward the hide-
out in which was imprisoned Baldy Santo, in solitary; Terence
Gilligan and Antonio Santo, in the bitterest of enmity; seven
gangsters, Mona Mason, the piano player and the three girls,
Violet, Rose and Lil.
It must be confessed that the Blackfeet braves who were
guarding the strange assortment of captives had got a bit care-
less, what with the inaccessibility of the badlands and the
pleasant forms of entertainment available. Also, the noise of
the piano, on which the old reprobate was thumping out
“Frankie and Johnnie" covered the approach of the attacking
party. In less time than it takes to tell it, the Blackfeet were
overpowered, bound and rolled into a steep ravine. Baldy Santo,
his son and the son of Larkspur Gilligan, all known to Noisy.
Snake, were released at once. So were the rank-and-file gangsters.
The professor at the piano continued playing furiously, believ-
ing that if he paused for breath he might be scalped.
The author, being prudish almost to a fault, will omit from
the text what happened to Mona and the girls, especially Violet
and Lil, who chanced to be blondes.
Just before dawn, a long train of stock cars filled with sheep,
some box cars carrying eighteen horses, and several flats with
rigging equipment slid through Muddy Creek, where all was
tranquil in the deserted special train. Up ahead, the passenger
coaches contained Larkspur Gilligan, his skinners, riggers,
herders and forty Class A gangsters from the Santo mob.
Machine guns, grenades, rifles and small arms of all descrip-
tions, with plenty of ammunition, were stacked in the caboose.
boundary near the lodge of Trout-tail III, the freight train came
to a halt, Gilligan and his riggers hurried riverward and it was
a short task to cut the swinging footbridge from its moorings
and drag it ashore. Deftly it was loaded on wagons and the
whips of the skinners cracked as the eighteen horses threw their
397


helpless in the ravine exposed to sun, hunger, reptiles and
insects, were left to die a lingering death, it was decided. Mona
and the girls, with the professor and the piano, it was agreed,
should be removed to another hideout, and held for ransom.
The citizens of Mondak would pay handsomely for their
return, Baldy Santo believed.
"It is true. There is not another piano nearer than Fargo,"
Noisy Snake said hopefully.
It was Terence Gilligan's idea that the ranch house at Three
Buttes, which would be left unprotected because of the short-
horns near Mondak and the attack on another corner of the
range, should be destroyed. Noisy Snake, knowing there would
be stores of liquor, asked nothing better. Baldy Santo beamed
with pleasure at the prospect of getting even, in part, with
Homer Evans. The rank-and-file Shoshones, in the best of
spirits, were ready for anything at all.
So while the sheep on the Redwater were inching forward
to their doom, and the gangsters concealed among them were
complaining in hoarse whispers about their aching backs, the
Santos, young Gilligan and the outlaw Shoshones were streak-
ing across country toward Opera Lodge. The fair Beatrice
Diluvio was on guard at the springs on the western butte;
Eugénie Toudoux, true to her wartime habits, was knitting
socks for the troops; Hydrangea was in her gym clothes
practicing a lively dance routine; while Laramee Bob watched
the prisoners glumly.
In the front observation post on the Redwater, Homer
Evans glanced at his watch again, and then turned toward
the north, scanning carefully the foothills with his powerful
field glasses.
"I don't understand. They should be here,” he said to Fré-
mont at his side.
“You mean the doctors? Ah, well. We shall not need them
402


for an hour," Frémont said, glancing proudly up and down
the trenches.
“Their errand was not a medical one," Evans said.
“Damme. Damme. Haw. Haw. Bless my gizzards,” moaned
Jim Leonard, trying hard not to let his laughter erupt and
warn the approaching enemy.
Hjalmar, in order to hold himself in check, started counting
sheep, and in the act succeeded in spotting several he thought
might be Hockaday. Miriam, from the sharpshooter's parapet,
was also looking for the sheriff, being careful, however, not
to strain her eyes.
On came the enormous herd, still compact and moving
slowly. The herders were keeping well to the rear, depending
on their dogs to preserve the formation. The rays of the rising
sun gilded areas of fleece while the morning breeze bore to
the defenders of the gap the odor that had earned the sheep
the epithet “stinkers.” The sounds they made, some sharp,
others quavering, with no rhythm or regard for pitch, began
to rasp the nerves of the waiting cattlemen and their allies.
Still no sight of Trout-tail III or Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux.
“I shall have to get on without them,” Evans said, disap-
pointed. In five minutes more, he would give the word to
fire and the battle would be on.
Fifty yards down the line, in a section of a zigzag trench
allotted to the stretcher bearers, Galilee Zach was trying to peer
through a periscope and keep his teeth from chattering. At
last, in desperation, he left his post to seek out Stenka, whose
machine gun was set up near by.
“You won't let me run. Now promise," Zach said, white
with terror.
"There, there,” said Stenka, comfortingly and smoothed his
forehead with her horny hand.
Two minutes to the zero hour.
And then the mishap occurred.
It chanced that one of the sheep dogs, in advance of the
403


herd, caught the scent of the defenders, growled, bristled and
advanced cautiously toward the very trench in which Moritz
was poised for action. The temptation was too great, since the
plan of battle had not been made clear to him. Like a faun-
colored black-tipped projectile the Boxer shot out of his trench
and was running so fast that when the shepherd dog saw what
was coming and tried to brace himself, the impact knocked
him clean off his pins.
"Front leg. Pass up the throat,” said Moritz to himself, and
crunched his powerful jaws around the ankle of the hapless
collie. Two more sheep dogs were coming, on the run. Moritz
was up and at 'em, fighting with ferocious coolness, feeling
nothing but stimulation as the sharp teeth of the sheep dogs
tore his hide and flesh. Crunch! One was out of commission,
still trying, but helpless on three legs. Crunch. The other went
down. Herders were yelling. Three more dogs, far distant, were
approaching on the run. Then Moritz, with a breathing space,
had a sickening thought. From the trenches behind him, not
a bullet had sped, although the front ranks of sheep were
dangerously near. It was he who had gummed up the battle,
by running into the line of fire.
Evans, pale and, for once, hesitant, could not utter the word
that would mean death to the dog. Miriam, in her crow's
nest, was half-blinded with tears. Kvek, awaiting the volley,
was sizzling and fuming like a peanut whistle.
Then from the line of trenches rose a gasp that in a moment
swelled into a cheer. For Moritz, front paws flying, hind legs
kicking away loose dirt, was digging in. One inch, two inches,
finally, just as three shepherd dogs whizzed over him, he was
safe in his shallow dugout. Evans gave the signal, machine
guns stuttered and rattled all along the line, the sharpshooters
picked off with rifles sheep that looked like men in disguise,
but avoided killing the innocent herders who soon got out of
range.
The carnage among the front ranks of the sheep was shock-
404


ing to behold, for the oncoming woollies, never bright and
decidedly not at their best in warfare, came stumbling on,
piling up dead bodies until they could no longer climb over.
On the left flank, Grigori Lidin, Hank, Hjalmar Jansen,
Old Tumbleweed O'Flaherty, Diluvio, Long-time Pipe and
Unreal Bear were carrying out the flanking movement at a
perfect canter, while their leader roared a Caucasian battle
song about wild grape blossoms and fate. Behind the first line
of trenches, Lvov Kvek, Rain-No-More, Shot-on-Both-Sides,
Bonnet, Tinted Cloud, Jim Leonard and the Professor galloped
wildly around the right flank.
But although young Hockaday, the sheriff, was not cover-
ing himself with glory, or anything but sheep, the ex-witness
for the State against Jim Leonard, known variously as Dio
canne, Mike Flato or Alky the Jerk, proved the man of the
hour for the sheepmen. Seeing that his fellow gangsters were
about to be outflanked on two sides, the wily Italian ordered
the Chicago contingent to turn their choppers on the sheep
behind and around them, and in no time at all had improvised
a sort of fort, or block house, the bloody walls of which could
not be pierced by enemy projectiles. And through the chinks
between dead and dying woollies, the gangsters set up a mur-
derous and accurate fire. They were cornered, fighting for
their lives, and rose to the occasion in an astonishing way.
Lvov Kvek, seeing how the situation had changed, gave the
signal to Grigori not to charge the fortress. Instead, he em-
ployed the cavalry forces in scattering and driving back west-
ward the terrified sheep, without herders or dogs to guide
them, until a full ten thousand were running in all directions,
bereft of what intelligence they had in calmer times. If any
of the woollies turned and tried to pass the deadline, Frémont's
infantry sharpshooters picked them off singly and wasted few
bullets in so doing.
So within a half hour of the opening of the first phase of
the battle of the Redwater, the sheepmen's forces were trapped
405


airplane at his disposal. He will investigate. If not, you may
call me a Ute,” the medicine man said.
"I hope you are right," said Toudoux. “When I think of all
those sheep and ruffians between me and my helpless Eu-
génie ..."
"There are moments when thinking is disturbing," Trout-
tail said, and passed the pipe. In a few seconds he was sound
asleep.
Trout-tail III, medicine man of the Blackfeet, was not des-
tined to be called a Ute, for Evans at just that moment was
strapping on his parachute and ordering Cash-and-Carry
Corkery to tune up the Honi Soit. He had recalled Kvek and
Lidin, who had left a few riders to prevent the gangsters
escaping to the westward, arranged a supplementary system
of signal fires and heliograph signals and soon was in the air,
glancing downward over the Redwater as the plane followed
the course of the creek to the Missouri. Within an hour, he
saw the sheep, the gangsters and the footbridge, to his dismay,
which changed to laughter when he caught sight of the signal
mound set up by Trout-tail's tireless squaws at the medicine
man's command.
Gilligan, who had seen the plane approaching, was not
alarmed. His sheep and his men were safely on the cattle
range; so what could a single airplane do? Even if the sheep
were stampeded, they could not cross the river or the creek,
and would devastate the grazing land more rapidly if driven
helter-skelter. Consequently, the gangsters gathered around
the chuck wagons for a victory meal of deer meat and mut-
ton, washed down with gallons of whiskey and wine, now
and then waving defiance at the Honi Soit which circled aloft,
then descended some distance across the Missouri.
Had they known what was in store for them, their blood
would have turned to water, which they despised one and all,
and their victory baked meats to ashes in their mouths. For
Evans, the moment he was on terra firma, was shown the
408


concealed pack train and began to throw back his head and
laugh, as did Trout-tail III, Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux, the
squaws and children and even Cash-and-Carry Corkery.
"I didn't make you at first, cap, but blast me if you're not
a card,” the flier roared, holding his sides and choking with
heartfelt mirth.
"Can you fly as low as fifty feet? We can't drop them too
"I can skim off tall hats,” said Cash-and-Carry, vaulting
eagerly back into the plane, into the cockpit of which were
loaded with great care a number of gunnysacks containing a
mysterious and ever-shifting load. Evans tried the draw string
that closed the top.
"O.K.,” he said. “Dr. Toudoux. You and Trout-tail, with
what squaws you have, will advance and cut the rope cables
of the footbridge. They have left it unprotected on this side.
This new admirer of mine and I will do the rest, but to you
gentlemen will go full credit.”
The propeller spun, the motor roared, the Honi Soit taxied,
took off, banked, then soared.
“The damn fools are coming over,” said a gangster to Gilli-
gan, who was munching a smoked deer's hindquarter with
relish, and opening a bottle of High Life beer.
"Let 'em come. We can take a few pot shots at 'em, even if
it doesn't do no good,” Larkspur said.
The gangsters were seated in a compact group, half drunk
and very gay, and the herd of sheep was already a half mile
distant, in charge of the herders and shepherd dogs.
“Pass over them as low as you can, then turn sharply and
fly over them again. After that, we'll chase the stragglers, one
by one. There's nowhere they can hide,” Homer said.
The Honi Soit did a series of jumps like a car on a roller
coaster, so shaken was the pilot with merriment.
"You're all right, buddy. I'm for you. Understand. I didn't
make you at first. ... Haw, haw, haw. Kek, kek. Ho, ho,"
409


was the pilot's contribution, aside from a masterful handling
of the plane.
With the greatest care, his hands protected with heavy
rattlers and calmly examined the draw strings once again.
“You may descend when ready, Corkery," he said.
What follows defies description, but here goes:
Losing altitude steadily, the Honi Soit headed straight for
the gangsters' feasting grounds, while the desperate crew on
land simply reached for rods or choppers without troubling
to rise. Evans moved the sack to the edge of the cockpit, re-
leased the draw string and as the plane passed over, he up-
ended the sack and on the gangsters rained writhing snakes,
their rattles vibrating angrily, their blunt wedge-shaped heads
The Honi Soit had ascended, wheeled and was diving again.
Another load of snakes was dumped on the fleeing gangsters.
Some of the mobsters tried to make the bridge, and found
it had been cut on the northern side. Others dived into the
water and tried to swim. Of the forty effectives, twenty were
bitten and lay screaming on the flat, begging for mercy and
for medical aid. One of the cooks carried his frying pan all
the way to Cottonwood Creek, twenty odd miles away, before
he remembered to drop it. The draft horses stampeded, riggers
and skinners swore and waved white dish rags and fragments
of underwear as the Honi Soit swept back and forth.
"Follow Gilligan. I want him,” Evans said, chalking a mes-
sage on a piece of board. In a moment they were over the
frantic Larkspur, who lay flat on the ground. Homer dropped
the message, Gilligan crawled over to where it lay, then stood
up ludicrously and stretched his arms to heaven. He was in the
same position when Homer, descending from the Honi Soit,
approached him, automatic in hand, bound him, and slung
him into the cockpit.
It was a short hop across the river, where the sheepman
410


was handed over to the Blackfeet squaws for safekeeping.
the river and do what he could for the gangsters who had been
bitten, and was accompanied by Trout-tail III. Evans, how-
ever, had other fish to fry. First he sent word to the sheep-
herders that they were to keep the herd grazing due west,
toward the deadline and not to encroach another foot on the
cattle range. Then, taking on a full load of rattlesnakes, he
ordered Corkery, who now responded willingly to his slightest
request, to get going again.
411


motionless. His eyes were protruding from their sockets, his
hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically.
"Take 'em off. Take 'em off,” he yelled.
There was one old rattler, not of the prairie breed but of
the mountain variety, crotalus atrox, and he proved to be
tougher than his fellows. Aroused by the frantic screams and
motions of the sheriff, the old snake looked himself all over,
coiled experimentally, and then set out across the hollow
square to get even with somebody, and only Hockaday was
available.
Meanwhile Miriam, still determined to settle accounts with
the unscrupulous politician who had been willing enough to
send her father to disgrace and death, risked snakes and bullets
in a dash from the front-line trenches across no man's land.
“Look out. He'll shoot,” yelled Homer and her father simul-
taneously, but the warning was too late. The girl, automatic
in hand, rushed through a breech in the stacks of inanimate
sheep just at the split second when the old vindictive rattle-
snake, with a motion quicker than the human eye can follow,
transformed himself from a tightly wound coil to a stiff pro-
jectile, straight as a ramrod, striking the gibbering Hockaday
just below his glittering badge.
For a moment Miriam hesitated and was about to turn
away, but quickly her gentler instincts got the upper hand
and, after looking the fear-crazed Hockaday straight in the
eyes and receiving what she took to be a glance of recogni-
tion, she fired from the hip and the merciful bullet went
precisely through the heart. And in after years, whenever some
association of ideas recalled the scene to mind, she was glad
she had spared him the indescribable suffering that was in
store for him. A snake bite on an arm or leg may be treated,
sometimes successfully. That is not the case when a full-grown
rattler sinks his fangs in the body and empties, by constric-
tion of his powerful muscles, the poison glands.
So the sun on its westward journey beheld that afternoon
416


one hand and a cleaver in the other and prodded the prisoners
over near the bed in which Slipnoose Pete was sitting up, a
Meanwhile Eugénie Toudoux, with a wry little moue, was
trying to set up a machine gun and somehow she succeeded,
porch, she got at least half of them and put four bronchos out
of commission. The attacking party, not knowing how few the
defenders were, and that most of them were women who had
led somewhat sheltered lives, grew cautious and wary. On the
butte two Shoshones were stamping out the signal fire, but
already it had been spied by a Blackfeet scout who was riding
full speed to summon his tribesmen thirty miles away.
Slipnoose Pete, against the doctor's orders, tried to get out
of bed, and fell flat on the floor. Wing Lee had the presence
of mind not to take his eyes off the prisoners, however, and
the convalescent cowpuncher finally dragged himself to a
chair near enough the open window so that he could shoot
whenever a gangster or an Indian rode that way. Thus he was
able to pick off two of the Chicago palefaces who had taken
part in the Muddy Creek raid, and send Baldy Santo's derby
Alying into the air.
“Let's smoke 'em out,” said Terry Gilligan, with a wisp of
dry hay in his hand. “Why wait?”
humanitarian motives, but in order to preserve the hootch
supply from possible ruin. In fact, the Shoshone lieutenant
was stealthily creeping from one outbuilding to another in
search of firewater and to his joy came on a keg of rye whiskey
in the root cellar. Oblivious to the pleading of Baldy Santo,
who blustered and threatened until Noisy Snake walked over
and pulled the mutilated derby down over Baldy's face, the
outlaw Shoshones forgot all else for the time and started drink-
ing greedily.
Within five minutes, Bunkhouse No. 1, which had been
418


Hydrangea glanced toward the hilltop, where the second
Studebaker, bright blue against the sage, was being loaded.
“We've got to do something," said the girl from Harlem.
“It will be over in a moment. Bon courage,” said Eugénie
Toudoux.
The prisoners set up a howl of protest, causing Wing Lee
to hop around them like a cricket, brandishing his knife and
cleaver.
"You ought to let us go. It's in the articles of war,” said
Bird's-eye Cohen, who had served in the A.E.F., but mostly in
the guard house.
“We'll put in a good word for you with Baldy, the big shot.
So help me, we will,” added the Paper hanger.
On the hill, Noisy Snake was igniting the time fuse.
Suddenly Hydrangea had an idea. As part of her training as
a dancer, she had played indoor baseball with a mean under-
hand delivery. In desperation she grabbed up a pineapple hand
grenade and as the death wagon rumbled down the slope,
cheered on by the gangsters and outlaw Shoshones, the ex-
Blackbird fumbled with the pin, loosed it, and counted: “One
... two ... three.” Then carefully she took aim at the mov-
ing Studebaker, and her excellent sense of timing came to her
aid as she tossed the grenade a full twenty yards. The pine-
apple described in the air a tantalizing parabola, fell square
on the load of rocks, and a deafening crash shook the lodge
to its foundations, but the explosion took place outside and the
building remained secure.
“Well tossed,” said Beatrice.
"Ingenious,” added Eugénie, kissing the fainting Hydrangea
on both cheeks.
It was just that moment that over the crest rode, neck and
neck, four reckless riders who had outstripped the others of the
rescue party. Ahead in the lead was Rain-No-More, and a
triple tie for place would have been revealed by the fastest
lens as Shot-on-Both-Sides, his blood stirred by memories of
423


days were set aside, one for the Blackfeet to pay tribute to
the sun and to perform the sacred tobacco rites, and at twi-
light on that day, Shot-on-Both-Sides called the tribe together,
which then included the entire company of white allies, and
solemnly pronounced his farewell.
“I am old,” he said, “but not too old to see Paris.”
Two skins of the sacred white buffalo were spread on the
ground, and the tribesmen filed past, bearing in one hand a
strip of bark on which had been burned the sign of their
choice for a new chief. At the request of Shot-on-Both-Sides,
the election was presided over by Hugo Weiss, who was intro-
duced as a paleface champion counter of tokens. The multi-
millionaire had never had a simpler assignment, for every
vote cast was for Rain-No-More, whose speech of acceptance
was translated on the spot into six languages.
The nuptial ceremonies of Tinted Cloud and Sergeant
Schlumberger were performed in Indian fashion, and later
were confirmed by a priest. So, to even up matters, Unreal
Bear and Sergeant Bonnet were married first by the priest,
and later by Trout-tail III, the medicine man.
Huge tables had been built out of doors, and one of these
was reserved for the prisoners, who were to be judged and
sentenced on the next to the last day. Gilligan, intact except
for his moustaches, was chained at the head, and Baldy Santo,
dented derby on his head, was tied securely in his place at
the foot.
Jim Leonard played the genial host, and years seemed to
have dropped from his shoulders as he surveyed his friends,
victorious. The charge of murder was never even mentioned
again in the new Dawson County court house, which was
built of concrete with Ionian pillars from Montgomery Ward.
Evans, however, consented to give a public elucidation of moot
points in the case and by means of amplifiers rigged up by
the friendly juryman who was also an electrician, Homer's
voice was carried to all corners of the ranch.
427


the surface. A few inches inside, of course, the second bullet
was deflected by a rib and cut a swath all its own.
· "Someone in the Gilligan entourage simply borrowed your
rifle, Mr. Leonard, from the nails above the doorway, and
substituted another of the same make and caliber. Later the
guns were transposed again. That was before we had our
faithful Moritz on the job.”
The Boxer, who had been catching up with some neglected
eating, looked up and wagged his tail, left-right, left-right.
"I have extradition papers and authority from Cook County
to take back to Chicago any or all members of the Santo
mob, but I shall not burden Illinois with an excessive number
of criminals. Antonio Santo was one of two men who shot
Montmorency Lewson-Phipps, and that young man will
be shipped East for trial.” (Laughter from young Gilligan.)
“Santo the elder, I am turning over to the North Dakota
authorities to answer for having murdered in cold blood the
station agent at Mondak.
“Already I have arranged with Tumbleweed O'Flaherty for
his campaign for the office of sheriff of Dawson County, now
vacant, and his election is assured. Those of us who know the
candidate are convinced that his regime will mark some
much-needed reforms.”
Larkspur Gilligan groaned.
"Now, as for Mr. Gilligan. He was indiscreet enough to
outline his terms on which he would accept our surrender, at
a time when he fatuously supposed he had the upper hand.
He was about to drive Mr. Leonard from the range, send him
in exile to California, and make me his candidate for State
Senator, as a part of his political machine. I shall be no more
exigent. Mr. Gilligan will clear the eastern range of larkspur
and other noxious weeds, drive what sheep he still has down
into Idaho and cede his rights to the Yellowstone Valley graz-
ing lands. He will then construct a model bungalow in Monte-
rey, California, and give his parole to remain there except at
429


in order not to spoil the party, the genial billionaire took his
immense gains in good part and sighed philosophically.
"Another coup like that, and bang goes the capitalist sys-
tem,” he said. “Perhaps I shall attempt it, who knows?"
Throughout the days of carouse and merriment, Larkspur
Gilligan sat wrapped in studied impassivity, but late in the
afternoon of the fifth day, just after a bucking contest, the
defeated sheepman asked leave of Homer to say a few words.
"Brothers and sisters," began Larkspur, “I can take my
medicine as well as the next man, without turning a hair.
Only one thing I want to say, and then I'm off for Monterey.
"I lost this fight, not because Jim Leonard's square-shootin'
is good policy, but due to under-ratin' my opponent. So I want
to warn you not to draw any foolish moral conclusions, like a
bunch of psalm singers, but to catch on to yourselves now
you've got a big stake and play fast and loose like me. You'll
thank me for this, before you get through.
“That's all, and damn your eyes.”
431


Bottomside
Bridgeport
Broad
Bronc
Buckaroo
Bullhorrors
Bump off
Butte
Button
Caboose
Can
Can-can
Canot
Canshooter
Cathouse
Catoot
Cayuse
Cecil pusher
Below, downstairs, under, lower, etc. (Pidgin
English).
Any city or town except New York or Chicago.
Girl.
Broncho, imperfectly broken horse.
Cowboy (from Spanish, vaquero).
Fear of police.
To kill.
Flat-topped hill.
Chin or solar plexus.
Car used on freight trains for the crew.
Posterior, safe, privy or toilet, receptacle for beer.
Sprightly French 19th-century music-hall dance.
Lifeboat (French).
Safe blower.
Disorderly house, lupanar.
Epithet, equivalent to “damn.”
Horse or pony, not thoroughbred.
Drug peddler.
Chicago.
Machine gun.
Jail, hoosegow, can, cooler, etc.
Water bird which behaves unpredictably and
makes weird sounds. "Crazy as a coot.” “Drunk
as a coot.”
With an obvious or vulgar appeal, old-fashioned.
The body of the crime. Sometimes used to denote
the dead body itself.
Creek, dry most of the year.
Indian wand notched to record achievements
officially acknowledged.
Honorary society among Blackfeet braves.
Chi
Chopper
Clink
Coot
Corny
Corpus delicti
Coulee
Coup stick
Crow Water
Society
Deadline
Dick
Dip
Line separating sheep and cattle ranges.
Detective.
Pick pocket.
Range cow.
Pot, chamber pot.
Dogie
Donniker
433


Dry farmer
Dudelsack
Dusted
Eight-ball
Behind the
eight-ball
Fire strip
Farmer whose land is unirrigated and who must
depend on rainfall.
German bagpipe.
Fled, left, departed.
Negro.
Out of luck.
Flat
Flok
Four bits
Fourflusher
Frame-up
Frigola
Frisk
Fudge
Gaboon
Gon
Gondola
Gonk
Hearse rap
Heebie-Jeebies
Heeled
Highball
Hooker
Hookshop
Hooley-ann
Horse Opera
Jackpot
Jim-swinger
John
Kettle 'em
Killpecker shift
Knockers
Legaler
Lemming
Loco weed
Plowed area around ranch buildings, to protect
them from fire.
Table land; freight car without sides; pancake.
Fork (Pidgin English).
Fifty cents.
Braggart or boastard, pretentious fellow, bluffer.
Conspiracy to incriminate.
Thyme.
To search.
The establishment of a mediant point.
Cuspidor.
Gonif, thief.
Freight car with no top and low sides.
To strike on the head.
Life sentence.
Nervous agitation.
Armed or Alush.
To proceed (railroad term).
Whore, prostitute, loose woman.
Whore house.
To ride a wild horse.
Western movie.
Scrape or predicament.
A frock coat.
Backhouse or toilet, Rhett and Scarlett.
Thump 'em with your heels.
From midnight to breakfast.
Testicles.
Lawyer.
Rodent.
Marijuana, or Cannabis Indica.
434


Lunch hooks
Marc de
Bourgogne
Mesa
M.F.H.
Mobster
Mollbuzzer
Monniker
Mulled
Nance
Nipper
One piece
One-piece Mary
Onion
Palooka
Hands.
Liquor distilled from apples after cider has been
pressed out.
Flat land, literally “table.”
Master of Fox Hounds.
Gangster.
Robber of women, gallant.
Name.
Drunk.
Fairy, pervert (Male).
Child, infant (Strictly, “unweaned”).
One, a, or the (Pidgin English).
A white woman (Pidgin English).
Head.
Strong and well-meaning, but inadequate party.
A failure, for lack of natural equipment.
Writer of bad checks.
Medium spiced Italian sausage.
Tribe of Northwestern American Indian.
Hand grenade with long handle and corrugated
bomb.
Parti-colored horse.
Prayers (Pidgin English).
Verb, to clean up (Army usage).
To beat with quirt.
Conference.
Paperhanger
Pepperoni
Piegan
Pineapple
Pinto
Plaires
Police
Pour in leather
Powwow
Prickly Heated
Throne
Pulling leather
Punk
Puss
Reefer
Rod
Sachem
Schnozzle
Scissorbill
Sent
Electric chair.
Grabbing the saddle horn.
Young man physically loose and mentally unpre-
possessing.
Face.
Cigarette impregnated with marijuana.
Automatic pistol.
Chief.
Nose.
Non-union-minded itinerant laborer.
Elated or inspired
435






CA NA D
BRANDS
VATION
MUDDY CREEK
ORT
from MONDAK
FRN
BISON CREEK
NGE
BLEONARDS
OPERA LODGE
RANOPET
LEONARD CRETE
BEEF SLOUG,
A
INDIAN COUL*
OUGH
non
WS
BADLA
.
.
3.
PETRIFIED FORES
GLENDIYE
NORTHERN... PACIFIC RR
NLINE
TO THE



UUD
30
HIL
ARTES
MINI
SCIENTIA
LIBRARY VERITAS OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIG,
F MICHIGAN
TEROR
PUERIS PENINSUL
CIRCUMSPIC
ANIMININNISHINI









THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
GRADUATE LIBRARY
DATE DUE
DEBU 6 1996
MAR 2 0 1018
OCT 15 1920
NOV 06 1980
NOV 16 1982
Form 9584
Foo.