Today fortunately the abattoir was downwind of town and the breeze was robust enough to keep the flies off the streets, which were empty of inhabitants in any event; and so Pack’s journey with his wheelbarrow to the railroad platform was uneventful and pleasant enough until the Lunatic grenaded into his life.

The usual racketing fusillade of enthusiastic gunfire greeted the train as it entered town. The sulphurous acridity of black powder smoke stung Pack’s nostrils and eyes as he heaved the wheelbarrow up the ramp.

The onset of De Morès-style civilization had done nothing to curb the custom of greeting trains with .44-caliber barrages. Passengers were wise to duck low. Just last month the Marquis De Morès’s father-in-law, the irascible New York banker Nicholas Von Hoffman, had stepped off the train wearing a derby hat—a certain invitation to target practice. Several shots had been fired. The hat had been shot off the banker’s head by party or parties unknown in the crowd.

When found an hour later the derby hat was a shredded ruin.

The banker was humiliated, the Marquis indignant.

De Morès had posted a two-hundred-dollar reward for the identification of the marksman.

Nothing had come of that. Generally it was assumed “Bitter Creek” Redhead Finnegan or one of his friends had ventilated the derby hat but no one had sought the reward; it was taken for granted that the two hundred dollars would have to be collected by the heirs of any such claimant, for Finnegan was malevolent—as untamed as a mountain lion.

The Marquis had been furious. For a while he had taken to bursting unannounced into saloons, perhaps in the hope of catching someone in the act of boasting about the celebrated victory over the derby hat.

In turn, Finnegan and his friends had doubled their armament and made clear how they intended to defend themselves if any libelous accusations were laid against them by that son of a bitch of a Markee.

Tempers only eased after Pack, as the representative of the community, assured the Marquis that the derby hat never would have been assaulted if the culprits had known the man under the hat was related to him. A brand-new derby hat was presented with the compliments of the citizenry, and the Marquis—perhaps because his father-in-law had returned to the East—allowed himself to be mollified.

Today to Pack’s relief Finnegan was nowhere in evidence. He hadn’t been in town for several days; possibly he was on a hunting or stock-stealing trek. The sun shone bright, the breeze was good, the day was festive and the town was blessed by the absence not only of Finnegan but also of young Riley Luffsey and one or two others among Finnegan’s wild Irish friends.

So the shooting today was desultory and did no harm; it only contributed a fewscore balls to the lead mine upstream.

*    *    *

Mrs. Reuter—muscular ranch woman—was helping an injured passenger down from the train. For a moment Pack thought with alarm that one of the roisterers must have aimed too low. Mrs. Reuter was pressing a cloth to a bloody streak at the side of the passenger’s neck—a bullet blaze by the look of it. The man kept jerking his head away from the cloth and stout Mrs. Reuter said brusquely, “Stop making such a fuss. I never heard anyone go on so about a little gunshot wound.”

Struggling, the conductor with the aid of two passengers manhandled a huge youth down the steps from the vestibule of a passenger car. The conductor said, “Who’s in authority here?”

Someone pointed to Pack.

“I guess I am,” Pack admitted, inasmuch as he was the Medoran who possessed the key to the jail.

The conductor’s captive heaved and lunged in frantic determination to get free of the grasp of the three big men around him. The conductor held the back of his collar; each straining passenger gripped one of the demented prisoner’s arms.

A curious crowd gathered. “Now, what’s all this?” Pack said.

“Damn to hell Lunatic,” said the passenger with the neck wound. He took the cloth away from Mrs. Reuter and examined its bloodstains accusingly.

The Lunatic—a child six feet tall, two hundred pounds or more, shaggy, filthy, dressed in rags—made inarticulate sounds: he howled like a wolf in a trap. Yet his eyes appeared to know a profound secret: Pack thought he looked as if he had seen the inside of his dreams…. He lurched about, carrying three men with him, wearing the furious scowl of a child denied a toy.

The conductor said, “He took this gentleman’s revolver. Seemed to think it was a toy. Shot up my train.”

“Not to mention my neck,” said the passenger irritably.

Pack said, “Any other casualties?”

“No,” said the conductor. “By God’s grace and through no fault of the Lunatic here.”

“How’d he get on the train?”

“Don’t know.”

“Where’d he get aboard?”

“Don’t know.”

“No one’s claimed him?”

“No. Hell—would you?”

“Can he talk?”

“Not that I know of. Just howling and growling.”

Someone in the crowd said petulantly, “I don’t know why he should be our responsibility.”

“I can’t have him on my train, that’s all I know.”

Pack turned to the injured passenger. “Now, you’ll have to go back and see the sheriff in Mandan if you want to press charges—”

“Not if I have to stay in this Dakota place.” The passenger swatted Mrs. Reuter’s ministrations away, turned and climbed back aboard the train. His parting words were, “I wash my hands of the matter.”

Mrs. Reuter yelled up at the train, “You are welcome!” and strode away toward town.

Pack said to the conductor, “Now, look here, I don’t know if we legally can—”

That was when the Lunatic flung his head down and bit the hand of the passenger who held his right arm.

The passenger yelped and leaped back, loosing his hold.

The Lunatic, one arm freed, flailed with mighty strength—broke loose and butted his way through the surprised crowd and ran with an oafish thudding stride toward town. His cry sang as if from a coyote drunk on the moon.

The bitten passenger cried, “What if he’s got hydrophobia?”

If there was a reply Pack did not hear it. He was running full speed, giving chase. Behind him the crowd came thundering.

Ahead the Lunatic disappeared among the buildings of Medora.

Assuredly the Lunatic would not continue to elude capture for very long. And indeed it was only a few moments before he was sighted lumbering up over the railroad embankment, heading for the river flats to the south. The crowd, baying like Huidekoper’s pack of wolfhounds, gave happy chase. The race had become a game.

Pack, winded, let the others take up the baton. He stopped, hands on knees, chest heaving, trying to get breath.

From a distance he had a glimpse of the Marquis De Morès riding his horse across the tracks. For a brief instant he was reminded of the promised dinner interview. Next week perhaps? That assuredly would sell newspapers. (Masthead: “The Cow Boy is not published for fun, but for $2 per year. Arthur T. Packard, Prop.”)

Shortly thereafter the Lunatic ran back into town, arms and legs pounding with energetic desperation. He seemed to have the stamina of a locomotive. The pursuers lagged quite far behind; some had dropped out altogether.

Expressing keen displeasure under his breath Pack took up the chase once again.

Joe Ferris and Swede Nelson had not deserted their posts on the porch of Swede’s store. As Pack loped by he heard Joe Ferris’s call: “He’s around behind the store.”

“Help me turn him,” Pack gasped, and skittered around the corner. In the edge of his vision he had a glimpse of Joe Ferris vaulting the porch rail and dashing around the far side of the building.

They caught the Lunatic between them. Joe Ferris threatened him with a lofted baseball bat. The Lunatic threw himself flat on his back behind the store and commenced to suck great gasps into his cavernous chest.