Two passengers—drummers by the look of their travel-worn suits and threadbare carpetbags—got aboard. There didn’t seem to be much freight. The driver cracked his whip and yelled.
The coach rocked forward, drawn by four skittish teams. Pale dust smoked from its wheels.
It was mildly cool; there was an easy breeze. Huidekoper and Joe Ferris came across the intersection from the store to Pack’s place. With an air of urgency Joe said, “Mind if we come inside?”
Pack looked at him, not altogether in surprise. He went back into the Cow Boy office. The two men followed and Huidekoper looked out both ways along the street before he closed the door. His movements were somehow conspiratorial.
Pack said, “What is it?” although he already knew.
“Want to talk to you about what’s going on out in the hills,” said Joe.
Huidekoper said, “These are hard times for principles. Some people don’t seem able to afford them. We have got to rekindle a sense of proper morality in the populace. Your newspaper must be part of the effort. It’s a vital element.”
Pack said, “Now, I assume you’re talking about the Stranglers. Grim sort of proceedings, I know. But sometimes—”
“The hell,” Joe said. “They’re murderers, Pack. No excuses.”
Pack found it hard to keep his mind focused on what they were saying. He still felt lightheaded and a trifle nauseous. It had been two days but he hadn’t been able to rid the sight and stink of Calamity’s sudden corpse from the front page of his vision.
Huidekoper was talking. “In isolated camps and coulee cabins up and down the river, the Stranglers are going about their awful business with a relentless eagerness.”
He talks in paragraphs, Pack thought.
Huidekoper went on, his voice nearly accusing: “Do you know how many they’ve slaughtered?”
“No. Do you?”
“At least half a dozen,” Joe said. “May be more.”
“Not to mention,” Huidekoper mentioned, “that it’s becoming increasingly apparent they are not entirely averse to the lures of plunder.”
Just now Pack was having difficulty in stirring up much interest in the subject of Huidekoper’s crusade. “Some say they are cleaning up the territory.”
“And that it’s long overdue,” Huidekoper said. “I know. I’ve seen your remarks in the paper.”
“I don’t know why you’re badgering me, A.C. I thought you were all in favor of setting up a safety committee.”
“Please don’t throw that back in my face. I’m tired of it. I’ve never advocated lynch law.”
Joe was looking around the room. “Speaking of cleaning up the territory—you ought to clean this place up, Pack. How can you find anything in this mess?”
Huidekoper said, “I’m sure he knows where every tiny thing is.”
Pack knew it always took the bald-headed windbag forever to get to the point, but now Joe was beating about the bush with equal reluctance. What were they up to?
Joe said, “Don’t know if you heard. Day before yesterday they nearly hanged Dutch Reuter.”
“Nearly?”
Huidekoper said, “Fortunately he had a fast horse.”
Pack said, “Now, Dutch Reuter doesn’t salivate my sympathies. He’s a cowardly ambusher—let him look out for himself.”
Joe’s eyes showed anger for the first time. “You’re spouting the Markee’s geyser again. Dutch never ambushed anybody.”
“I was there, Joe, when the bullets came through the walls.”
“And I suppose you saw Dutch’s face out there in the middle of the night whilst you were belly-down and trying to dig a hole in the floor?”
Huidekoper said, “Joe—Arthur—please. To return to the subject at hand—Granville Stuart’s raiders. Can we not agree they are an abomination upon the land? They’re like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, tenfold. Every day I hear more about their vigilanteing after what they call horse-thieves. I’m compelled to tell you that Theodore Roosevelt foresaw it right—they seem to be attacking any small rancher in the Bad Lands.”
Huidekoper talked and talked. Pack wondered irritably if the man had ever had an unexpressed thought.
It was a moment after Huidekoper said it before the impact of his words caught up with Pack:
“They found Pierce Bolan afoot, so they assumed he intended to steal a horse, and they hanged him.”
A shock of alarm grenaded into Pack. “Pierce Bolan? They hanged Pierce Bolan?”
He was still trying to absorb it. Huidekoper’s talk ran on and on:
“Dutch Reuter saw it. Saw the whole thing. Hooded masked men. They gave Pierce no chance—hanged him from a tree, broke his neck and rode away as if they’d done a fine work of justice.”
“Did Dutch Reuter tell you this? How did you find this out?” Pack asked.
“I’d rather not say,” Huidekoper replied, but it seemed obvious the only way he’d have known so much so soon would be by having spoken personally with Dutch Reuter.
Pack said, “I wouldn’t take Dutch’s word for anything. Where is he now?”
“I’ve no idea,” Huidekoper said. “Making himself invisible, I should imagine. The point is, Pierce Bolan was an honest man. There was no evidence, beyond the slenderest thread of stupid suspicion, that he had any intention of stealing a horse, and even if there had been, the intent to steal a horse is hardly a capital crime. But such is the arrogance of mobs when you put ropes in their hands.”
“That is damned raw,” Pack said. Outrage grew in him. “Who did it?”
“Conveniently no one has seen their faces—or at least cares to admit having seen them. You know, of course, that De Morès is backing them. He may take advice from Granville Stuart, but it’s De Morès who’s the force behind the Stranglers in the Bad Lands. He hopes they’ll drive all the small ranchers out for him.”
Pack felt dizzy; it was too much, coming at him too fast. Calamity and then Pierce Bolan and now this talk about De Morès. He said, “I don’t know that at all. And I don’t think you do either. You’re just seizing at anything that’ll abet your campaign against the Marquis. I certainly don’t intend to print such allegations unless you can show me proof.”
“Why, hell, Arthur,” Huidekoper said with a mild and uncharacteristic show of humor, “I never knew that to stop you before.”
Pack wrestled with it for a day and a night. He did not sleep. He interrogated everyone he could find who might have a scrap of information. Finally at half-past ten in the morning, feeling ashamed of the cowardly way he had lingered over breakfast in the cafe, he drew himself up and reared back on his dignity and tramped resolutely to the De Morès offices.
He was kept waiting for ten minutes until Johnny Goodall came jingling out of the private office. Van Driesche, the skeletal secretary with the British accent, admitted Pack to the Marquis’s presence. The Marquis owned a desk but it was rarely his habit to sit at it; he tended to pace around the room when confined to an office and Pack was lucky to have found him here at all, for the Marquis rarely set foot in the place.
This morning he wore a black silk shirt and a white neck scarf. His pointed longhorn mustache bristled. “Ah, Arthur. You’ve come just in time to rescue me from a Purgatory of paperwork.”
“I’m not here on a happy errand, I’m afraid.”
“What is it? Has someone died?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Who?”
“Half a dozen men or more. Including Pierce Bolan.”
“Ah. The Regulators.”
“The Stranglers, they’re calling them.”
The Marquis’s left eyebrow lifted. It was a talent Pack had tried to cultivate, thus far without success—the ability to elevate one eyebrow.
The Marquis said, “The Stranglers. I rather like that. Yes, the Stranglers. It has a suitably ominous sound. Perhaps it will throw the fear of God into the outlaws. What do you think?”