The bill he has just signed abolishing capital punishment leaves honest citizens with no defense against skyrocketing crime.
We must find a way to get rid of this arrogant young man before he has time to do any more harm to our beloved state and our great country.
Turn the rascal out!
NOW!
“Quite a mess of words!” Jeremy grinned. “Brash, effete, devious, decadent, questionable, immature, irresponsible, frivolous, unfit, reckless, arrogant. Have I left any out?”
“Don’t just laugh, Jerry!” The faint trace of Spanish accent became more marked when Carlos was upset. “This is serious.”
“How can you expect me to take a thing like that seriously? That’s not an editorial. That’s just graffiti. They’ll be scrawling on the walls next: Jeremy Playfair, go home!”
“I can’t believe it,” said Tash. “All the people we’ve met have been so nice to us.”
“You haven’t met the people who write such editorials,” said Carlos. “Or the people who read such editorials.”
“I still can’t take it seriously,” said Jeremy. “I’ve had worse things said about me a thousand times.”
“No, you haven’t,” retorted Carlos. That they should call you bad names like ‘decadent’ is nothing. I agree. But that line at the end: We must find a way to get rid of this arrogant young man. . . . It reminds me of another line: Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest? Wilkes doesn’t like it either. He wants you to go in a closed car today.”
“Oh, Jerry, please do!” said Tash.
“Afraid they’ll start throwing rotten eggs at me? I’ve always used open cars in my campaigns, and I’m not going to stop now because of one crank editorial. Who owns this newspaper?”
“I forget the man’s name, but he’s mysteriously rich and there are stories he has underground connections with the Family back East.”
“And I thought we’d get away from that sort of thing out here.” Jeremy sighed.
“It’s monstrous!” cried Tash.
“What did you expect? Hic draconis.”
“Meaning?”
“Dragon Land. The words written in the unexplored spaces on medieval maps. No matter how far we travel today, we are still in Minotaur Country, where anything can happen.”
“There’s one other thing,” said Carlos. “A last minute change in our itinerary. You can’t speak at Catclaw Falls this afternoon, because there was a flash flood there this morning. All the roads are under water now and there’s no airport. The railway doesn’t even go there. Shall we just spend the day loafing here and go on this evening to your last meeting at the jet port?”
“Seems a pity to waste a whole day.” Jeremy frowned. “Why can’t we go to that place we had to cross off the itinerary for lack of time? The place you wrote me about where a river flows around mountain tops.”
“It’s a bit late to organize a meeting for this afternoon,” said Carlos. “But I’ll get on the telephone and see what I can do.”
He came back smiling.
“All set. They were really pleased. We’re announcing the change of venue on television now so people who want to come to the meeting will have time to change their plans.”
The road had been ascending steadily ever since they left the mountain inn. By noon they were in still higher country with mile after mile of evergreens along the road, pine and spruce, larch and fir. A carpet of dead needles made it impossible for undergrowth to flourish. This was the fairy-tale wood of a child’s dream, where you could see the woods for the trees. Slender trunks stood in serried ranks like soldiers at attention.
The sun had just set, but it was not yet dark enough to turn on the headlights when they rounded a cliffside and came upon a crowd of several hundred people gathered at a crossroads. Beyond this small open space was an impossible view: a river, plunging, powerful and turbulent around a sharp bend in its course, forcing its way between two mountain tops where it had no business to be.
“This is the place you wrote me about,” said Jeremy to Carlos. “Incredible! But that water’s noisy. Do I have to speak outdoors?”
“No, there’s a clubhouse. We’re coming to it now.”
It was a large building but primitive—simple board and batten walls with a shingled roof and a few steps leading up to the front door.
Inside it was dark. The windows were narrow and the unshaded bulbs in fixtures along the walls could not disperse the dusk. Folding chairs were arranged in rows with an aisle in the middle. There was a dais for speakers at the farther end with a table and chairs and in one corner an old, upright piano. The table was furnished with two drinking glasses and a carafe of dusty looking water.
It looked to Tash like a place used for Saturday night dances. She was not surprised when she learned later that it had been built to serve as a neighborhood boys’ clubhouse.
“No microphone?” said Jeremy to Carlos.
“Afraid not, but you’ve talked without them before.”
The crowd from outside filled all the chairs, and there was an overflow of standees at the back of the hall. They were family groups, men, women, and children, all in working clothes, and there were even a few dogs—the working sheep dogs who are so intelligent and devoted.
Carlos and Job, Hilary and Tash followed Jeremy onto the platform and found seats behind the speakers’ chairs. Most of the wire service men preferred to stay in the body of the hall, where they could listen to comments in the crowd. The press photographers climbed up to the high window sills where they could get shots of both speakers and audience.
A burly man in work boots and jeans, plaid shirt and Stetson, was introduced to Jeremy by Carlos as Malcolm MacLain, a neighboring rancher, who was to preside at the meeting.
Mr. MacLain was long-winded and repetitive. He addressed himself to the Governor rather than the audience, explaining that it was the first time a governor had ever visited this part of the
