We came into the town of Medora on the Little Missouri, after the hills had flattened out into the endless plains of North Dakota. On a cutbank dominating the river at its bend a great gloomy house frowns. Here the French Marquis de Mores once lived like a seigneur of the glorious Louis, in crude, patriarchal magnificence. Even in his lifetime he was a legend in this simple Dakotan village. But a greater legend centres in a large signboard opposite which tells that Roosevelt once ranched near by,--a matter of pride to all Medorans. Of this town in the eighties he wrote, “Medora has more than its full share of shooting and stabbing affrays, horse stealing and cattle-lifting. But the time for such things is passing away.” As we read the sign, a lanky Dakotan hovered near, and volunteered much information in a sing-song voice which seemed characteristic of the locality. “Right here at this bend,” he said, “they’re talking about putting up one of these here equesterian statutes of Teddy, mounted on horseback.” Being averse to stopping, we suggested that he ride to the village and tell us what he had to tell. “Yes’m,” he continued swinging to the running board without ceasing to talk. “In this here town interesting things has happened. But as interesting as ever happened is coming off tomorrow, and if you was a writer of books,”--a hit in the dark on his part--“I could tell you something to write down. For there’s some of the richest men in this town, prominent men with good businesses,”--his voice took on an edge of strong feeling and I sensed something personal in his excitement,--“who has been found out to be part of a gang that has been stealing cattle wholesale, and shipping them to K. C. There’s a fat, fleshy, portly man that’s said to have stole 1200 head himself. And they’ve been getting rich on it for years, and would ’a kept on years more only one of the gang, an outsider, got caught, and is turning state’s evidence. There’ll be some excitement when they begin to make arrests. You’d better stay over, and see some doings aint been seen in a long time.” But we could not stay,--the Drang nach Osten was too strong for us. And a half-finished story sometimes is more alluring than one with the edges nicely bound. Yet I should like to have heard the reason for the note of personal grievance that shook the lanky stranger’s voice when he spoke of the righteous vengeance about to fall on the cattle thieves.