Free Badlands by Peter Bowen Page A

walked away, and Du Pré followed. She came to a door in the end of one of the prefab houses and opened it. Du Pré dropped his cigarette on the ground and snuffed it with his bootheel. He went in and the woman followed him, shutting the door.
    There were two men in the room, both dressed in Host costume. One was the blond man Du Pré had seen here the night the ranch buildings burned.
    The other man had brown hair. It was hard to make out his face, because he had a wide white bandage crossing the bridge of his nose and his eyes were bruised.
    “Hello again,” said the bandaged man.
    “You haven’t met Roger,” said the blond man, “at least not to shake hands. I am Tate.”
    Du Pré nodded.
    “We were told that the wild horses were pests and we could shoot them without anyone caring,” said Roger. “Since we are fencing off their pasture and water, and they would then have to leave, where another rancher would shoot them, and, by the bye, be angry with us for sending vermin his way, we thought to kill them. You object.”
    Du Pré nodded.
    Roger looked at Tate.
    “This is our land,” said Tate, “and we will obey the laws. But we can hardly leave that end of the ranch unfenced. Buffalo aren’t cattle.”
    Du Pré looked at Roger.
    “Fence it off,” he said. “That is fair. Them horses, been there a long time. There are grullas in that bunch.”
    Tate and Roger looked at him.
    “Old horses,” said Du Pré. “Maybe close to what the wild horses were, people caught, thousands of years ago.”
    “Very well,” said Tate.
    “People hunt them for pet food,” said Roger.
    Du Pré shook his head.
    “Not here,” he said.
    Roger stood up. He put out his hand.
    “Apologies,” he said.
    “Things rightly solved?” said a rich deep voice behind Du Pré.
    Du Pré turned.
    A man stood there, in a long white robe. The rope around his waist was white. There was a crucifix and beads on the rope, all white. He had a single ring on the middle finger of his right hand, a white stone in a white setting.
    “I am the White Priest,” said the man.
    Du Pré nodded.
    “We assumed when we came here that we would offend,” said the White Priest. “We are odd, and keep to ourselves. We do that because we are all at risk, Mr. Du Pré, for all of us, myself included, had other lives which nearly killed us. Drugs, booze, whatever. So we stay close to one another. Now we have come to a remote place. We wish to live in peace and harmony with our neighbors. We will not proselytize. We will not attempt to take over the school board, or the County Commission. But however well-intentioned we may be, we will offend. Could we perhaps hire you as a consultant? We would pay any reasonable fee.”
    Du Pré looked at the three men.
    “Who said, shoot the horses?” he said.
    “I did,” said Tate. “We have the damned brumbies in Nevada, and they are a pain in the ass. I am a ranch kid, Mr. Du Pré. Different country but pretty much the same.”
    “You don’t got to pay me,” said Du Pré, “and it don’t matter, you call me, someone else. Call somebody. You are fencing your land off, no problem, you are not in a place it is wrong to do that. There are some. Fence off them badlands, OK, them horses go round the Wolfs, the Trapper Springs. They do that anyway.”
    “My apologies,” said Tate.
    “Your nose there, I am sorry,” said Du Pré, looking at Roger.
    Roger shrugged.
    “I ain’t that pretty to begin with,” he said.
    “Great,” said the White Priest. “Now, I suppose that everyone thinks we killed the seven former members who were shot, at precisely eight P.M. on the same day. We did not. The FBI is welcome to look at all of our records, interview whomever they wish.”
    Du Pré nodded.
    “Anyone may leave here any time they wish to,” said the White Priest. “It would hardly work if we had to chain people, now would it? We are a collective. But one takes no oath when they join, and suffers no consequences when