Chapter 7
(The gayety of Medora — Holocaust — Influence of the cowboy — Moulding public opinion — The "Bastile" — The mass meeting — The thieves — The underground railway — Helplessness of the righteous — Granville Stuart — The three argonauts)

An oath had come between us—I was paid by Law and Order;
He was outlaw, rustler, killer—so the border whisper ran;
Left his word in Caliente that he'd cross the Rio border—
Call me coward? But I hailed him—"Riding close to daylight, Dan!"

Just a hair and he'd have got me, but my voice, and not the warning,
Caught his hand and held him steady; then he nodded, spoke my name,
Reined his pony round and fanned it in the bright and silent morning,
Back across the sunlit Rio up the trail on which he came.

Henry Herbert Knibbs

It was already plain that there were in fact two distinct groups along the valley of the Little Missouri.   There are always two groups in any community (short of heaven); and the fact that in the Bad Lands there was a law-abiding element, and another element whose main interest in law was in the contemplation of its fragments, would not be worth remarking if it had not happened that the Marquis had allowed himself to be maneuvered into a position in which he appeared, and in which in fact he was, the protector of the disciples of violence.   This was due partly to Maunders's astute manipulations, but largely also to the obsession by which apparently he was seized that he was the lord of the manor in the style of the ancien régime, not to be bothered in his beneficent despotism with the restrictions that kept the common man in his place.   As a foreigner he naturally cared little for the political development of the region; as long as his own possessions, therefore, were not tampered with, he was not greatly disturbed by any depredations which his neighbors might suffer.   He employed hands without number; he seemed to believe any "fool lie" a man felt inclined to tell him; he distributed blankets, saddles and spurs.   Naturally, Maunders clung to him like a leech with his train of lawbreakers about him.

The immunity which Maunders enjoyed and radiated over his followers was only one factor of many in perpetuating the lawlessness for which the Bad Lands had for years been famous.   Geography favored the criminal along the Little Missouri.   Montana was a step or two to the west, Wyoming was a haven of refuge to the southwest, Canada was within easy reach to the north.   A needle in a haystack, moreover, was less difficult to lay one's finger upon than a "two-gun man" tucked away in one of a thousand ravines, scarred with wash-outs and filled with buckbrush, in the broken country west of Bullion Butte.

Western Dakota was sanctuary, and from every direction of the compass knaves of varying degrees of iniquity and misguided ability came to enjoy it.   There was no law in the Bad Lands but "six-shooter law." The days were reasonably orderly, for there were "jobs" for every one; but the nights were wild.   There was not much diversion of an uplifting sort in Medora that June of 1884.   There was not even an "op'ry house." Butchers and cowboys, carpenters and laborers, adventurous young college graduates and younger sons of English noblemen, drank and gambled and shouted and "shot up the town together" with "horse-rustlers" and faro-dealers and "bad men" with notches on their guns.   "Two-gun men" appeared from God-knows-whence, generally well supplied with money, and disappeared, the Lord knew whither, appearing elsewhere, possibly, with a band of horses whose brands had melted away under the application of a red-hot frying-pan, or suffered a sea-change at the touch of a "running iron." Again they came to Medora, and again they disappeared.   The horse-market was brisk at Medora, though only the elect knew where it was or who bought and sold or from what frantic owner, two hundred miles to the north or south, the horses had been spirited away.

It was a gay life, as Packard remarked.

The "gayety" was obvious even to the most casual traveler whose train stopped for three noisy minutes at the Medora "depot." "Dutch Wannigan," when he remarked that "seeing the trains come in was all the scenery we had," plumbed the depths of Medora's hunger "for something to happen." A train (even a freight) came to stand for excitement, not because of any diversion it brought of itself out of a world of "dudes" and police-officers, but because of the deviltry it never failed to inspire in certain leading citizens of Medora.

For Medora had a regular reception committee, whose membership varied, but included always the most intoxicated cowpunchers who happened to be in town.   Its leading spirits were Bill Williams, the saloon-keeper, Van Zander, the wayward but attractive son of a Dutch patrician, and his bosom friend, Hell-Roaring Bill Jones; and if they were fertile in invention, they were no less energetic in carrying their inventions into execution.   To shoot over the roofs of the cars was a regular pastime, to shoot through the windows was not unusual, but it was a genius who thought of the notion of crawling under the dining-car and shooting through the floor.   He scattered the scrambled eggs which the negro waiter was carrying, but did no other damage.   These general salvos of greeting, Bill Jones, Bill Williams, and the millionaire's son from Rotterdam were accustomed to vary by specific attention to passengers walking up and down the platform.

It happened one day that an old man in a derby hat stepped off the train for a bit of an airing while the engine was taking water.   Bill Jones, spying the hat, gave an indignant exclamation and promptly shot it off the man's head.   The terrified owner hurried into the train, leaving the brim behind.

"Come back, come back!" shouted Bill Jones, "we don't want the blinkety-blank thing in Medora."

The old man, terrified, looked into Bill Jones's sinister face.   He found no relenting there.   Deeply humiliated, he walked over to where the battered brim lay, picked it up, and reentered the train.

Medora, meanwhile, was acquiring a reputation for iniquity with overland tourists which the cowboys felt in duty bound to live up to.   For a time the trains stopped both at Medora and Little Missouri.   On one occasion, as the engine was taking water at the wicked little hamlet on the west bank, the passengers in the sleeping-car, which was standing opposite the Pyramid Park Hotel, heard shots, evidently fired in the hotel.   They were horrified a minute later to see a man, apparently dead, being carried out of the front door and around the side of the hotel to the rear.   A minute later another volley was heard, and another "dead" man was seen being carried out.   It was a holocaust before the train finally drew out of the station, bearing away a car-full of gasping "dudes."

They did not know that it was the same man who was being carried round and round, and only the wise ones surmised that the shooting was a volley fired over the "corpse" every time the "procession" passed the bar.

All this was very diverting and did harm to nobody.   Roosevelt himself, no doubt, took huge satisfaction in it.   But there were aspects of Medora's disregard for the conventions which were rather more serious.   If you possessed anything of value, you carried it about with you if you expected to find it when you wanted it.   You studied the ways of itinerant butchers with much attention, and if you had any cattle of your own, you kept an eye on the comings and goings of everybody who sold beef or veal.   The annoying element in all this vigilance, however, was that, even if you could point your finger at the man who had robbed you, it did not profit you much unless you were ready to shoot him.   A traveling salesman, whose baggage had been looted in Medora, swore out a warrant in Morton County, a hundred and fifty miles to the east.   The Morton County sheriff came to serve the warrant, but the warrant remained in his pocket.   He was "close-herded" in the sagebrush across the track from the "depot" by the greater part of the male population, on the general principle that an officer of the law was out of place in Medora whatever his mission might be; and put on board the next train going east.

In all the turmoil, the Marquis was in his element.   He was never a participant in the hilarity and he was never known to "take a drink" except the wine he drank with his meals.   He kept his distance and his dignity.   But he regarded the lawlessness merely as part of frontier life, and took no steps to stop it.   Roosevelt was too young and untested a member of the community to exert any open influence during those first weeks of his active life in the Bad Lands.   It remained for the ex-baseball player, the putative owner of a stage-line that refused to materialize, to give the tempestuous little community its first faint notion of the benefits of order.

Packard, as editor of the Bad Lands Cowboy, had, in a manner entirely out of proportion to his personal force, or the personal force that any other man except the most notable might have brought to bear, been a civilizing influence from the beginning.   The train that brought his presses from the East brought civilization with it, a somewhat shy and wraithlike civilization, but yet a thing made in the image and containing in itself the germ of that spirit which is the antithesis of barbarism, based on force, being itself the visible expression of the potency of ideas.   The Bad Lands Cowboy brought the first tenuous foreshadowing of democratic government to the banks of the Little Missouri, inasmuch as it was an organ which could mould public opinion and through which public opinion might find articulation.   It was thus that a youngster, not a year out of college, became, in a sense, the first representative of the American idea in the Marquis de Mores's feudal appanage.

Packard was extraordinarily well fitted not only to be a frontier editor, but to be a frontier editor in Medora.   His college education gave him a point of contact with the Marquis which most of the other citizens of the Bad Lands lacked; his independence of spirit, on the other hand, kept him from becoming the Frenchman's tool.   He was altogether fearless, he was a crack shot and a good rider, and he was not without effectiveness with his fists.   But he was also tactful and tolerant; and he shared, and the cowboys knew he shared, their love of the open country and the untrammeled ways of the frontier.   Besides, he had a sense of humor, which in Medora in the spring of 1884, was better than great riches.

The Cowboy was Packard and Packard was the Cowboy.   He printed what he pleased, dictating his editorials, as it were, "to the machine," he himself being the machine translating ideas into type as they came.   His personal responsibility was absolute.   There was no one behind whom he could hide.   If any one objected to any statement in Medora's weekly newspaper, he knew whom to reproach.   "Every printed word," said Packard, a long time after, "bore my brand.   There were no mavericks in the Bad Lands Cowboy articles.   There was no libel law; no law of any kind except six-shooter rights.   And I was the only man who never carried a six-shooter."

To a courageous man, editing a frontier paper was an adventure which had thrills which editors in civilized communities never knew.   Packard spoke his mind freely.   Medora gasped a little.   Packard expressed his belief that a drunken man who kills, or commits any other crime, should be punished for the crime and also for getting drunk, and then there was trouble; for the theory of the frontier was that a man who was drunk was not responsible for what he did, and accidents which happened while he was in that condition, though unfortunate, were to be classed, not with crimes, but with tornadoes and hailstorms and thunder bolts, rather as "acts of God." The general expression of the editor's opposition to this amiable theory brought only rumblings, but the specific applications brought indignant citizens with six-shooters.   Packard had occasion to note the merits as a lethal weapon of the iron "side-stick" with which he locked his type forms.   It revealed itself as more potent than a six-shooter, and a carving-knife was not in a class with it; as he proved to the satisfaction of all concerned when a drunken butcher, who attempted to cut a Chinaman into fragments, came to the Cowboy office, "to forestall adverse comment in the next issue."

Packard was amused to note how much his ability to defend himself simplified the problem of moulding public opinion in Medora.

The law-abiding ranchmen along the Little Missouri, who found a spokesman in the editor of the Cowboy, recognized that what the Bad Lands needed was government, government with a club if possible, but in any event something from which a club could be developed.   But the elements of disorder, which had been repulsed when they had suggested the organization of Billings County a year previous, now vigorously resisted organization when the impetus came from the men who had blocked their efforts.   But the Cowboy fought valiantly, and the Dickinson Press in its own way did what it could to help.

Medora is clamoring for a county organization in Billings County (the editor reported).   We hope they will get it.   If there is any place along the line that needs a criminal court and a jail it is Medora.   Four-fifths of the business before our justice of the peace comes from Billings County.

A week later, the Press reported that the county was about to be organized and that John C.   Fisher and A.   T.   Packard were to be two out of the three county commissioners.   Then something happened.   What it was is shrouded in mystery.   Possibly the Marquis, who had never been acquitted by a jury of the killing of Riley Luffsey, decided at the last minute that, in case the indictment, which was hovering over him like an evil bird, should suddenly plunge and strike, he would stand a better chance away from Medora than in it.   A word from him to Maunders and from Maunders to his "gang" would unquestionably have served to bring about the organization of the county; a word spoken against the move would also have served effectually to block it.   There was, however, a certain opposition to the movement for organization on the part of the most sober elements of the population.   Some of the older ranchmen suggested to Packard and to Fisher that they count noses.   They did so, and the result was not encouraging.   Doubtless they might organize the county, but the control of it would pass into the hands of the crooked.   Whatever causes lay behind the sudden evaporation of the project, the fact stands that for the time being the Bad Lands remained under the easy-going despotism of the Marquis de Mores and his prime minister, Jake Maunders, unhampered and unillumined by the impertinences of democracy.

The Dickinson Press had truth on its side when it uttered its wail that Medora needed housing facilities for the unruly.   Medora had never had a jail.   Little Missouri had had an eight by ten shack which one man, who knew some history, christened "the Bastile," and which was used as a sort of convalescent hospital for men who were too drunk to distinguish between their friends and other citizens when they started shooting.   But a sudden disaster had overtaken the Bastile one day when a man called Black Jack had come into Little Missouri on a wrecking train.   He had a reputation that extended from Mandan to Miles City for his ability to carry untold quantities of whiskey without showing signs of intoxication; but Little Missouri proved his undoing.   The "jag" he developed was something phenomenal, and he was finally locked up in the Bastile by common consent.   The train crew, looking for Black Jack at three in the morning, located him after much searching.   But the Bastile had been built by the soldiers and resisted their efforts to break in.   Thereupon they threw a line about the shack and with the engine hauled it to the side of a flatcar attached to the train.   Then with a derrick they hoisted Little Missouri's only depository for the helpless inebriate on the flatcar and departed westward.   At their leisure they chopped Black Jack out of his confinement.   They dumped the Bastile over the embankment somewhere a mile west of town.

The collapse of the efforts of the champions of order to organize the county left the problem of dealing with the lawlessness that was rampant, as before, entirely to the impulse of outraged individuals.   There was no court, no officer of the law.   Each man was a law unto himself, and settled his own quarrels.   The wonder, under such circumstances, is not that there was so much bloodshed, but that there was so little.   There was, after all, virtue in the anarchy of the frontier.   Personal responsibility was a powerful curb-bit.

In the Bad Lands, in June, 1884, there was a solid minority of law-abiding citizens who could be depended on in any crisis.   There was a larger number who could be expected as a rule to stand with the angels, but who had friendly dealings with the outlaws and were open to suspicion.   Then there was the indeterminate and increasing number of men whose sources of revenue were secret, who toiled not, but were known to make sudden journeys from which they returned with fat "rolls" in their pockets.   It was to curb this sinister third group that Packard had attempted to organize the county.   Failing in that project, he issued a call for a "mass meeting."

The meeting was duly held, and, if it resembled the conference of a committee more than a popular uprising, that was due mainly to the fact that a careful census taken by the editor of the Cowboy revealed that in the whole of Billings County, which included in its limits at that time a territory the size of Massachusetts, there lived exactly one hundred and twenty-two males and twenty-seven females.   There was a certain hesitancy on the part even of the law-abiding to assert too loudly their opposition to the light-triggered elements which were "frisking" their horses and cattle.   The "mass meeting" voted, in general, that order was preferable to disorder and adjourned, after unanimously electing Packard chief of police (with no police to be chief of) and the Marquis de Mores head of the fire department (which did not exist).

"I have always felt there was something I did not know back of that meeting," said Packard afterward.   "I think Roosevelt started it, as he and I were agreed the smaller ranches were losing enough cattle and horses to make the difference between profit and loss.   It was a constant topic of conversation among the recognized law-and-order men and all of us agreed the thieves must be checked.   I don't even remember how the decision came about to hold the meeting.   It was decided to hold it, however, and I gave the notice wide publicity in the Bad Lands Cowboy.   I was never more surprised than when Merrifield nominated me for chief of police.   Merrifield was a partner with Roosevelt and the Ferris boys in the Chimney Butte Ranch and I have always thought he and Roosevelt had agreed beforehand to nominate me."

Packard took up his duties, somewhat vague in his mind concerning what was expected of him.   There was no organization behind him, no executive committee to give him instructions.   With a large liberality, characteristic of the frontier, the "mass meeting" had left to his own discretion the demarcation of his "authority" and the manner of its assertion.   His "authority," in fact, was a gigantic bluff, but he was not one to let so immaterial a detail weaken his nerve.

The fire department died stillborn; but the police force promptly asserted itself.   Packard had decided to "work on the transients" first, for he could persuade them, better than he could the residents, that he had an organization behind him, with masks and a rope.   From the start he made it a point not to mix openly in any "altercation," where he could avoid it, for the simple reason that the actual fighting was in most cases done by professional "bad men," and the death of either party to the duel, or both, was considered a source of jubilation rather than of regret.   He devoted his attention mainly to those "floaters" whom he suspected of being in league with the outlaws, or who, by their recklessness with firearms, made themselves a public nuisance.   He seldom, if ever, made an arrest.   He merely drew his man aside and told him that "it had been decided" that he should leave town at once and never again appear in the round-up district of the Bad Lands.   In no case was his warning disobeyed.   On the few occasions when it was necessary for him to interfere publicly, there were always friends of order in the neighborhood to help him seal the exile in a box car and ship him east or west on the next freight.   A number of hilarious disciples of justice varied this proceeding one evening by breaking open the car in which one of Packard's prisoners lay confined and tying him to the cowcatcher of a train which had just arrived.   Word came back from Glendive at midnight that the prisoner had reached his destination in safety, though somewhat breathless, owing to the fact that the cowcatcher "had picked up a Texas steer on the way."

Packard's activity as chief of police had value in keeping the "floaters" in something resembling order; but it scarcely touched the main problem with which the law-abiding ranchmen had to contend, which was the extinction of the horse and cattle thieves.

To an extraordinary extent these thieves possessed the Bad Lands.   They were here, there, and everywhere, sinister, intangible shadows, weaving in and out of the bright-colored fabric of frontier life.   They were in every saloon and in almost every ranch-house.   They rode on the round-ups, they sat around the camp-fire with the cowpunchers.   Some of the most capable ranchmen were in league with them, bankers east and west along the railroad were hand in glove with them.   A man scarcely dared denounce the thieves to his best friend for fear his friend might be one of them.

There were countless small bands which operated in western Dakota, eastern Montana, and northwestern Wyoming, each loosely organized as a unit, yet all bound together in the tacit fellowship of outlawry.   The most tangible bond among them was that they all bought each other's stolen horses, and were all directors of the same "underground railway." Together they constituted not a band, but a "system," that had its tentacles in every horse and cattle "outfit" in the Bad Lands.

As far as the system had a head at all, that head was a man named Axelby.   Other men stole a horse here or there, but Axelby stole whole herds of fifty and a hundred at one daring sweep.   He was in appearance a typical robber chieftain, a picturesque devil with piercing black eyes and a genius for organization and leadership.   In addition to his immediate band, scores of men whom he never saw, and who were scattered over a territory greater than New England, served him with absolute fidelity.   They were most of them saloon-keepers, gamblers, and men who by their prominence in the community would be unsuspected; and there were among them more than a few ranchmen who were not averse to buying horses under the market price.   With the aid of these men, Axelby created his smooth-running "underground railway" from the Big Horn Mountains and the Black Hills north through Wyoming, Dakota, and Montana.   His agents in the settlements performed the office of spies, keeping him in touch with opportunities to operate on a large scale; and the ranchmen kept open the "underground" route by means of which he was able to spirit his great herds of horses across the Canadian line.

By the spring of 1884, Axelby's fame had reached the East, and even the New York Sun gave him a column:

Mr. Axelby is said to be at the head of a trusty band as fearless and as lawless as himself.   The Little Missouri and Powder River districts are the theater of his operations.   An Indian is Mr. Axelby's detestation.   He kills him at sight if he can.   He considers that Indians have no right to own ponies and he takes their ponies whenever he can.   Mr. Axelby has repeatedly announced his determination not to be taken alive.   The men of the frontier say he bears a charmed life, and the hairbreadth 'scapes of which they have made him the hero are numerous and of the wildest stamp.

During the preceding February, Axelby and his band had had a clash with the Federal authorities, which had created an enormous sensation up and down the Little Missouri, but had settled nothing so far as the horse-thieves were concerned.   In the Bad Lands the thieves became daily more pestiferous.   Two brothers named Smith and two others called "Big Jack" and "Little Jack" conducted the major operations in Billings County.   They had their cabin in a coulee west of the Big Ox Bow, forty miles south of Medora, in the wildest part of the Bad Lands, and "worked the country" from there north and south.   They seldom stole from white men, recognizing the advisability of not irritating their neighbors too much, but drove off Indian ponies in herds.   Their custom was to steal Sioux horses from one of the reservations, keep them in the Scoria Hills a month or more until all danger of pursuit was over, and then drive them north over the prairie between Belfield and Medora, through the Killdeer Mountains to the northeastern part of the Territory.   There they would steal other horses from the Grosventres Indians, and drive them to their cache in the Scoria Hills whence they could emerge with them at their good pleasure and sell them at Pierre.   There had been other "underground railways," but this had a charm of its own, for it "carried freight" both ways.   Occasionally the thieves succeeded in selling horses to the identical Indians they had originally robbed.   The efficiency of it all was in its way magnificent.

Through the record of thievery up and down the river, that spring of 1884, the shadow of Jake Maunders slips in and out, making no noise and leaving no footprints.   It was rumored that when a sheriff or a United States marshal from somewhere drifted into Medora, Maunders would ride south in the dead of night to the Big Ox Bow and give the thieves the warning; and ride north again and be back in his own shack before dawn.   It was rumored, further, that when the thieves had horses to sell, Maunders had "first pick." His own nephew was said to be a confederate of Big Jack.   One day that spring, the Jacks and Maunders's nephew, driving a herd of trail-weary horses, stopped for a night at Lang's Sage Bottom camp.   They told Lincoln Lang that they had bought the horses in Wyoming.   Maunders sold the herd himself, and the news that came from the south that the herd had been stolen made no perceptible ruffle.   The ranchmen had enough difficulty preserving their own property and were not making any altruistic efforts to protect the horses of ranchmen two hundred miles away.   Maunders continued to flourish.   From Deadwood came rumors that Joe Morrill, the deputy marshal, was carrying on a business not dissimilar to that which was making Maunders rich in Medora.

When even the officers of the law were in league with the thieves or afraid of them, there was little that the individual could do except pocket his losses with as good grace as possible and keep his mouth shut.   The "system" tolerated no interference with its mechanism.

Fisher, smarting under the theft of six of the "top" horses from the Marquis de Mores's "outfit" called one of the cowboys one day into his office.   His name was Pierce Bolan, and Fisher knew him to be not only absolutely trustworthy, but unusually alert.

"You're out on the range all the time," said Fisher.   "Can't you give me a line on the fellows who are getting away with our horses?"

The cowboy hesitated and shook his head.   "If I knew," he answered, "I wouldn't dare tell you.   My toes would be turned up the first time I showed up on the range."

"What in —— are we going to do?"

"Why, treat the thieves considerate," said Bolan.   "Don't get 'em sore on you.   When one of them comes up and wants the loan of a horse, why, let him have it."

Fisher turned to the foreman of one of the largest "outfits" for advice and received a similar answer.   The reputable stockmen were very much in the minority, it seemed, and wise men treated the thieves with "consideration" and called it insurance.

There were ranchmen, however, who were too high-spirited to tolerate the payment of such tribute in their behalf, and too interested in the future of the region as a part of the American commonwealth to be willing to temporize with outlaws.   Roosevelt was one of them, in the valley of the Little Missouri.   Another, across the Montana border in the valley of the Yellowstone, was Granville Stuart.

Stuart was a "forty-niner," who had crossed the continent in a prairie-schooner as a boy and had drifted into Virginia City in the days of its hot youth.   He was a man of iron nerve, and when the time came for a law-abiding minority to rise against a horde of thieves and desperadoes, he naturally became one of the leaders.   He played an important part in the extermination of the famous Plummer band of outlaws in the early sixties, and was generally regarded as one of the most notable figures in Montana Territory.

At the meeting of the Montana Stockgrowers' Association, at Miles City in April, there had been much discussion of the depredations of the horse and cattle thieves, which were actually threatening to destroy the cattle industry.   The officers of the law had been helpless, or worse, in dealing with the situation, and the majority of the cattlemen at the convention were in favor of raising a small army of cowboys and "raiding the country."

Stuart, who was president of the Association, fought the project almost single-handed.   He pointed out that the "rustlers" were well organized and strongly fortified, each cabin, in fact, constituting a miniature fortress.   There was not one of them who was not a dead shot and all were armed with the latest model firearms and had an abundance of ammunition.   No "general clean-up" on a large scale could, Stuart contended, be successfully carried through.   The first news of such a project would put the thieves on their guard, many lives would unnecessarily be sacrificed, and the law, in the last analysis, would be on the side of the "rustlers."

The older stockmen growled and the younger stockmen protested, intimating that Stuart was a coward; but his counsel prevailed.   A number of them, who "stood in" with the thieves in the hope of thus buying immunity, carried the report of the meeting to the outlaws.   The "rustlers" were jubilant and settled down to what promised to be a year of undisturbed "operations."

Stuart himself, however, had long been convinced that drastic action against the thieves must be taken; and had quietly formulated his plan.   When the spring round-up was over, late in June, he called a half-dozen representative ranchmen from both sides of the Dakota-Montana border together at his ranch, and presented his project.   It was promptly accepted, and Stuart himself was put in charge of its execution.

Less than ten men in the whole Northwest knew of the movement that was gradually taking form under the direction of the patriarchal fighting man from Fergus County; but the Marquis de Mores was one of those men.   He told Roosevelt.   Stuart's plan, it seems, was to organize the most solid and reputable ranchmen in western Montana into a company of vigilantes similar to the company which had wiped out the Plummer band twenty years previous.   Groups of indignant citizens who called themselves vigilantes had from time to time attempted to conduct what were popularly known as "necktie parties," but they had failed in almost every case to catch their man, for the reason that the publicity attending the organization had given the outlaws ample warning of their peril.   It was Stuart's plan to organize in absolute secrecy, and fall on the horse-thieves like a bolt from the blue.

The raid was planned for late in July.   It was probably during the last days of June that Roosevelt heard of it.   With him, when the Marquis unfolded the project to him, was a young Englishman named Jameson (brother of another Jameson who was many years later to stir the world with a raid of another sort).   Roosevelt and young Jameson, who shared a hearty dislike of seeing lawbreakers triumphant, and were neither of them averse to a little danger in confounding the public enemy, announced with one accord that they intended to join Stuart's vigilantes.   The Marquis had already made up his mind that in so lurid an adventure he would not be left out.   The three of them took a west-bound train and met Granville Stuart at Glendive.

But Stuart refused pointblank to accept their services.   They were untrained for frontier conditions, he contended; they were probably reckless and doubtlessly uncontrollable; and would get themselves killed for no reason; above all, they were all three of prominent families.   If anything happened to them, or if merely the news were spread abroad that they were taking part in the raid, the attention of the whole country would be drawn to an expedition in which the element of surprise was the first essential for success.

The three young argonauts pleaded, but the old pioneer was obdurate.   He did not want to have them along, and he said so with all the courtesy that was one of his graces and all the precision of phrase that a life in the wild country had given him.   Roosevelt and the Englishman saw the justice of the veteran's contentions and accepted the situation, but the Marquis was aggrieved.   Granville Stuart, meanwhile, having successfully sidetracked the three musketeers, proceeded silently to gather his clansmen.