Granville Stuart said, “I understand the Marquis owns his grazing lands. Bought them and paid for them. No man here can say as much. You’re a bold man to talk of your range, Mr. Huidekoper.”

Huidekoper said, “The Marquis may be a friend of yours, Mr. Stuart, but he’s no friend of mine. Nor of these other men here, whether they know it or not.”

Howard Eaton spoke quickly in an all too obvious effort to head off strife. “We’re here to try and organize a stockmen’s association. Let’s try to keep it to that, gents. Now Mr. Granville Stuart’s been kind enough to come clear over from Montana to give us the benefit of his advice—as some of you know, Mr. Stuart’s chairman of the Montana Stock Growers’ Association—and I for one am interested to hear what he has to say.”

“We sure can use somebody’s help,” Pierce Bolan said. “Things around here are a God-damned panorama.”

“Mind your blaspheming tongue, Pierce,” said Deacon Osterhaut.

Granville Stuart pushed his chair back. He crossed one leg over the other and tipped his head forward to light a cigar. He turned it in the match flame until he had it going to his satisfaction and then, having concluded that careful ritual and gained everyone’s expectant attention, he spoke:

“Last week my range foreman came on an old lumber camp, found more than two hundred horses penned up. Whoever put them there must have fled when they heard my men coming, for there was no one about. Every one of those two hundred animals had its brand obliterated—likely by a red-hot frying pan. Do you take my point?”

It struck Huidekoper now that despite his unpleasant voice, Granville Stuart was possessed of a gift for suasion. The Montanan went on, speaking in his deep unhurried manner. “Either we give up or we declare war on horse and cattle thieves, both on my side of the Montana-Dakota line and on yours. Apprehend them or drive them out of the country. Now I am not speaking for range war. We don’t want another Lincoln County catastrophe up here. It might cost lives on our own side—anyhow if you go openly to kill thieves, you can be held by the authorities for murder. So I’d surely recommend against open war.” He smiled, however, in such a way that it was clear he had no compunctions against the waging of a secret war against the thieves.

Roosevelt said, “Except in matters of immediate self-defense or the protection of our property from present endangerment, I don’t believe we have the right to take it upon ourselves to define or enforce the law.”

Granville Stuart watched him unblinkingly. “Mr. Roosevelt, there’s a federal marshal two hundred miles south of you, and a sheriff a hundred and fifty miles east of you, but there’s no authority that’s seen fit to look into your difficulties with thieves. If you delegate responsibility to a government that won’t accept it or exercise it, then your only choice is to take it back into your own hands.”

“The instinct may be natural,” Roosevelt replied, “but I put it to you, sir, that the mark of a civilized man jolly well is his ability to control his instincts and set aside his savage impulses. By Godfrey, it wasn’t for the benefit of lynchers that our forefathers founded this republic.”

“We’re not in the republic now,” said Stuart. “Your friends asked my advice. I’m giving it. Form a committee of safety—or live with the consequences.”

“The important matters are not stock-poaching and petty thievery,” Roosevelt argued—addressing himself not directly to Stuart but to the gathering at large—“and I don’t believe the important matters can be solved by forming ourselves into a wild band of night-riding avengers. Our serious concerns are with the proper division of range and the restriction of new immigration, so that no one is crowded out, and with such other matters as may affect our common interest. I had understood we were meeting tonight to form a ranchmen’s association, and with all due respect to our visitor from Montana I submit that any such association should restrict itself by charter and by unanimous consent to the pursuit of proper legal ends by proper legal means.”

Granville Stuart squinted complacently through his cigar’s smoke. “Appears to me you and Huidekoper make a fine pair. You both have an uncommon fondness for empty talk.”

At that moment Johnny Goodall did an astonishing thing. He said, “I move we form a Little Missouri Stockmen’s Association, and I move we elect Theodore Roosevelt chairman.”

Amid the hubbub—men waving their arms, shouting, proposing names of other candidates—Granville Stuart stalked outside in an evident huff; and Roosevelt buttonholed Johnny Goodall. Huidekoper, fascinated, pushed his way near enough to hear. Roosevelt was saying: “I pray you, don’t let this be put to a vote. I don’t care to be the cause of quarrels among my neighbors. I’m grateful for your splendid courtesy but I’d count it a favor if you’d withdraw my name.”

Huidekoper plunged in boldly. “Nonsense. Let it go forward. You’ll win hands down.” In a compartment of his mind he found himself amazed to be on the same side of things as the Marquis’s man.

“No, old man. Not here.” Roosevelt’s eyes darted everywhere—as if seeking a place to hide—and suddenly Huidekoper understood: Roosevelt had lost his political confidence.

Johnny Goodall aimed his weathered squint down at Roosevelt. “Not a man here who saw you work on round-up will vote against you.”

Huidekoper gripped Roosevelt’s coat—to the New Yorker’s evident displeasure; Huidekoper released it quickly but spoke with undiminished urgency: “Johnny’s right. You’ve got it in the palm of your hand, Theodore.”

“Great Scott, man—can’t you see I don’t want public office!” Roosevelt wheeled away in what seemed to be an effort to prevent their seeing the moisture in his eyes but he wasn’t quick enough. It astounded Huidekoper to realize the man was so afraid.

Names were being shouted across the room. “Nominate Howard Eaton!” “My vote’s for Gregor Lang!” “Move we elect A.C. Huidekoper!”

That last was Howard Eaton’s voice. What a princely gesture. Huidekoper beamed at him but couldn’t catch Eaton’s eye.

Deacon Osterhaut’s voice scratched: “Second that nomination—in favor of A.C. Huidekoper!”

The man was shameless. He’d perform any act of cajolery or flattery to make his way up the social ladder by gaining the benediction that came with the loan of Huidekoper’s pack of hounds.

Huidekoper lifted his hands in the air. “Let me have your attention. Gentlemen! Please!”

He bellowed it. The bedlam dwindled. Huidekoper said, “By the standard rules of order, before other nominations can be entertained, the motion is before the chair to form a Little Missouri Stockmen’s Association, and to elect Theodore Roosevelt chairman. The motion has been seconded.”

Roosevelt said, “Those are two distinct matters. They should be put forward as two separate motions. The chair must exist before you can put forward candidates to fill it.”

There was a rising mutter of voices. Huidekoper waved his arms again. “Mr. Roosevelt is correct in reminding us of our parliamentary duties, of course. Which is precisely why his presence is so important. A vote for the establishment of an association should not imply a vote for any particular leader. Mr. Goodall, would you care to withdraw your motion and replace it?”

“Sure.”

After a moment, when it became evident the Texan had nothing further to say, there was a ripple of laughter.

Howard Eaton said, “You’ve got to say it, Johnny. Do you move we form a Stockmen’s Association?”

“I sure do.”

“Then I second the motion.”

Huidekoper said, “All in favor? Show of hands.” Hands went up. “Opposed?” The hands went down. “Seems to have carried unanimously. Now I guess there’s nothing further to prevent us entertaining motions for the election of a chairman, is there, Theodore?”