The louts were amusing themselves by throwing stones and empty bottles at the door of the windowless prison cabin.

The rattling racket was loud enough out here; Pack could imagine what it must do to a man’s ears inside the echoing strongbox; he did not wonder at the bellowing screams of bewildered fury that roared pathetically from within. The door shook—not so much from the rataplan of stones and bottles as from the pounding of the prisoner’s enraged fists.

“Now boys,” Pack said, “I expect that’s enough.”

The ruffians swung to peer at him. Riley Luffsey put his brash grin on Pack. “That critter needs his exercise, don’t he? We’re just helping him out.”

Joe Ferris said, “What’s the matter—you boys run out of fences to cut?”

Full of good nature, Riley Luffsey laughed. “Sure. Come on, Joe, give the critter his exercise.”

Pack felt the ill will in “Bitter Creek” Redhead Finnegan’s scowl. With very little provocation this could become something with which he would prefer not to tangle. Uncertain, searching for a fair resolution, he said, “Might not hurt to give him an airing.”

“That’s right,” said Luffsey eagerly. “Open the door and let it run some.”

Redhead Finnegan’s eyes were crowded with a bright blue tension. After some visible thought he said, “The kid will bring him back,” and nearly smiled at Luffsey. “Won’t you, kid.”

Joe Ferris said dryly, “And if he doesn’t?”

“Can’t nothing get away from me,” Riley Luffsey boasted.

Redhead Finnegan’s skin was as sticky as overboiled rice. He said, “We’ll chip in two bits for the kid if he catches him. If the Lunatic gets away from the kid, we’ll whale hell out of the kid.” He leered at the youth.

Luffsey was full of the devil today; he let his bravado get the better of him. “For two bits I’ll run all day and all night. Turn him loose, then—let’s go.”

Frank O’Donnell’s rusty voice scraped at the youth. “How much head start you aim to give him?”

“I’ll give him fifty foot. Hell, make it a hundred foot.”

An unpleasant expression stretched Frank O’Donnell’s rough pitted cheeks. Perhaps it was intended as a smile. He said to Finnegan, “Half a dollar on the Lunatic—and if the kid don’t catch him I’ll help knock his ears down.”

“Even bet,” Finnegan said. “One to one.”

Pack said, “Now hold on …”

Riley Luffsey thrust his face eagerly toward Pack. “Come on, Mr. Packard. Turn it loose. I won’t let it get away. I can run faster than anything in Dakota. I’m aching to heat my axles. I can run faster than the wind.” To Finnegan he said, “You ought to give him ten-to-one odds.”

“One to one,” Finnegan replied. “I never seen you run a distance.” He glared around him. “Any disputation?”

Three of the ruffians dug coins from their pockets.

Joe Ferris said mildly to Pack, “Give us a chance to swamp the place out.”

Pack considered it. After a moment he warned Finnegan: “Mind he’s brought back here without harm.”

Joe Ferris said to the kid, “Chase it through the river while you’re about it—give it a bath. Getting so you can smell it a hundred yards downwind.”

Riley Luffsey pressed something into Redhead Finnegan’s hand. “I’m betting on myself.”

Pack realized they were staring at him. For a moment he couldn’t fathom why. Then Joe Ferris said, “The key.”

He approached the building and hesitated with the key poised at the big padlock. Joe was right, the odor was ripe, even through the thick door.

He turned the key and silently lifted the padlock off its hasp and stepped back out of the way and pulled the door open.

The Lunatic loomed, arms half-raised defensively before him. Plainly he was bewildered, face screwed up in a painful squint against the sudden brightness.

The stink was God-awful. Pack wanted to back away but he felt pinioned and could not move.

The Lunatic’s eyes came open and swung slowly to bear upon Pack’s face and once again there seemed to be something profound in that strange huge round smooth childlike face.

Pack said softly, “Can you talk? Can you talk to me?”

The Lunatic cocked his head to one side with the quizzicality of a dog listening to an unfamiliar sound.

For a moment their glances interlocked; then there was the thwack of a thrown stone against the Lunatic’s tattered trouser leg.

The Lunatic bolted along the embankment; the chase was on.

The ruffians got him well started, following in full cry and pelting him with stones until the Lunatic went past the end of town, fleeing at a dead run.

After a bit the crowd stopped. Pack and Joe watched from the door of the Bastille. Young Riley Luffsey waited, playing fair, giving the Lunatic his lead, and when Luffsey began to run Frank O’Donnell tripped him with an outflung foot.

Pack observed that it was typical of the fair play observed by that crowd: O’Donnell was simply protecting his bet, and it did not occur to any of the others to chastise him. The ruffians laughed aloud as Luffsey fell hard—his palms and knees must have taken a bad skinning—but he was up in an instant and giving chase without even a glance at O’Donnell, who by the agonized contortion of his face evidently was trying to smile again; and then, with Finnegan, O’Donnell led the little mob away in a lumbering effort to keep the two runners in sight. Luffsey soon distanced them all.

Pack remained where he was. Joe Ferris said, “What if it gets away?”

“Then Riley Luffsey will take a beating he won’t soon forget. And I’ll have to borrow your horse and track down the Lunatic.”

“What for? Let it go,” Joe Ferris said. “It’s a wild animal anyhow—leave it free.”

“Free to starve? Free to be eaten by bears and wolves?”

“For that critter it’d be better than being locked up in a cage.”

*    *    *

Soon the ruffians adjourned to one of their watering holes for refreshment; but ten minutes later they returned en masse, their ranks swollen with curiosity seekers. The mob lurched past the jail up onto the embankment and Pack heard someone shout, “There they are, by damn. Coming back this way—see them there?”

“Looks like Riley’s closing in.”

“No, that’s only the angle you’re looking.”

Pack watched them until it was clear no mayhem was forthcoming just at the moment. Joe Ferris said, “I’ll get it something to eat,” and went away for a bit. Smelling the slaughterhouse, listening to Finnegan and his crowd, Pack had his look around at the bluffs. Their dominant hue was a faded buckskin. If you put your weight on the dry soil it tended to crumble; everything crunched underfoot—sagebrush, grass, clay, twigs, rocks. But on the gentler slopes there was greenery for livestock to feed on; that was the secret wealth of these Bad Lands.

A beer keg passed from hand to hand through the mob of toughs. Joe Ferris returned with a covered dish. He set it aside and Pack helped him swamp out the filthy jail with soapy water. They swept it onto the clay, where it was absorbed instantaneously and left a chalky white rime. Pack said, “We’ll find a way to help you stock the store.”

“There is an investor I can put the touch on.”

“If you’re thinking of the Marquis de Morès …”

“The Markee’d give me nothing except the hard end of that heavy stick. Your French friend knows what I think of him …”

“You’re wrong about him. Why are you so stubborn on that subject?”

“I know a four-flusher when I see one,” Joe said. He walked away toward the embankment, plodding as resolutely as a man stamping out spiders. Pack caught up with him at the tracks. They stood off to one side a piece from Finnegan and the half-drunk toughs who were braying toward Luffsey as he chased the Lunatic into the river a quarter mile upstream, just below the château on the bluff.

Joe wasn’t looking at those two. His attention was directed back the other way—north, downriver. He said, “Speak of Beelzebub!”