Manifest Destiny

“I’s just go

“Destroy the Marquis’s property in front of fifty witnesses and you’ll have the sheriff on you.”

“Hell, Mr. Packard, Sheriff Harmon’s a hundred and fifty miles away and he doesn’t even know where this town is. He couldn’t find Medora on a bet.”

“All he’s got to do is step on the train and step off the train, Riley.”

Luffsey turned and looked uncertainly at Redhead Fi

Fi

Fi

Frank O’Do

O’Do

Indignation made O’Do

O’Do

“Go ahead, Frank. Write the Markee a letter. I bet it just scares the chaps right off him.” Fi

O’Do

“Right here, Frank.”

“You write the message for me. You can write, can’t you?”

There was a general round of derisive laughter. O’Do

Luffsey hung back, revolver still in his fist, and Pack watched closely until finally the youth put the weapon away in its cut-off holster and made a face and slammed into the saloon.

O’Do

He could see that Joe was in a dangerous fuming silent rage. Joe tramped around behind the bar and poured himself a full mug of beer from the keg and drank the whole thing down without pausing for breath. He closed his eyes. “There’s your news story, Pack. Write it up with the usual enthusiasm.”

Joe drew another beer and came away from the backbar. He breathed heavily in and out; he looked resentfully at Pack and said, “Jerry Paddock convinced the Marquis there’s money in it. Got something like twenty men signed solemn contracts to herd sheep for the Marquis. These’re just the first batch, you know. Fifteen thousand of those Merinos coming in, boys, like it or not.”

The thundering racket was diminishing out there. Riley Luffsey’s eyes bulged. “Fifteen thousand?”

Joe Ferris belched and interjected, “Jerry Paddock is lower than a snake’s vest button. What he did to poor Swede—”

There was a burst of sudden laughter from Redhead Fi

Pack said, “Now, you have my sympathies, gents, but it’s no good standing in the path of improvement. Now, I know you hunters resent the Marquis. But with his capital he’s doing more to stimulate the development of the Territory than all the hunters and squatters put together. You won’t turn the calendar back. There is a world of cities out there hungry for beef and mutton and wool, and now that the Marquis has shown the way, the industry will boom with or without him. You may as well quit your threats.”

Redhead Fi

Pack knew what they thought of him. He knew he invariably presented an i

“I’m armed with my wits, Red, which is more than I need in this company.”

“Go peddle the Markee’s fish-wrap—whyn’t you just print the damn rag in French? I’m telling you again—you’re in the wrong bar room, you vile dirty whangdoodle low-down Frenchman’s toady,” Fi

Bob Roberts sought to break the moment with a bellow: “Time to fill the empty ones!”

Pack felt himself gripped from behind. By reflex he resisted but then he recognized Joe Ferris. Propelled urgently out of the place by his friend, Pack gave Joe a resentful look and broke away and surged earnestly toward The Bad Lands Cow Boy, his bearded head preceding his body; he lunged ahead with such force that he felt capable of exploding straight through any object that might block his path.

On his way through the office he snatched down his burlap apron and green visor and paper cuffs stained with ink. In the press room he scribbled the paragraphs quickly. Anger stiffened his hand:

It has been our endeavor to build up a paper that would be of substantial benefit to Dakota and Dakotans; and we had hoped our undertaking might meet with the approval of all who feel an interest in the development of the Territory and who believe that fair and impartial advertising of its resources will hasten the march of progress.

Low, vulgar abuse has never found a place in these columns, and it never shall, and though we shall ever wage war upon corruption and wrongdoers, and attempt all in our power to sustain principles of right and justice, we do not believe that personal vituperation will in any way tend to root out the corrupt nor advance the cause of truth and purity.

He paced urgently around the table, reading it back, squinting in the smoky kerosene lamplight.

It needed no correcting. He went on to the composing desk and began to sort through the week’s collection of Western Union wire stories and clippings from the most recent of the national magazines and newspapers that cluttered the room in unruly havoc.

Then he went through his charts, made a note to remove two advertisers because of their nonpayment of third-notice billings, canceled five subscriptions that were three months overdue, and gathered the three new advertisements that were to make their debut appearances in this week’s issue: Anderson’s Restaurant (“Refreshes the I

Through it all, fury was a hot spiral through his i