"It was nice to have somebody sympathize with the injustices inflicted on the redskins; but I'd rather he'd watched us dancing and trying to earn an honest dollar."
We left the diner and stood on the sidewalk while Catfish finished one of his stories. As he spoke, I saw two men marching in step towards us. One was the big, burly youth with long blond hair, with whom I had spoken the time I drove in to Floreando.
The other, also young, was smaller and slighter—about average in size—and clean-shaven. Instead of blue denim, he wore whipcord riding breeches and real riding boots. I wear similar breeches and boots when I ride a horse; but I am of an older generation. Among young riders today, one doesn't often see such an outfit except on formal occasions, like a horse show. Otherwise it is blue jeans, often with high-heeled cowboy boots.
As the pair approached, I saw them check their stride. While they hesitated, the Siegfried type in blue denim said something to the other. Then they walked straight towards us. The smaller, he of the peg-topped breeches, looked me in the eye and said:
"Excuse me, but aren't you Mrs. Wilder's nephew, Wilson Newbury?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm Marshall Nicholson. I'm pleased to know people of the old families." He stuck out a hand, which I shook without enthusiasm, "and—uh—" He looked a question at Catfish, who said:
"Charlie Catfish."
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Catfish. This is Truman Vogel." Nicholson looked sharply at Catfish. "Indian?"
"Yes, sir. Seneca."
"Mr. Newbury," said Nicholson, "Truman told me how you dropped in on us last week. I'm sorry I wasn't there to meet you. I also understand you've been hearing things about our little club."
"Well?"
"People will insist on misunderstanding us, you know. They tell all sorts of silly stories, just because we like to ride the hogs. I thought you might drop over to Floreando to talk it over. That's kind of an ancestral home of yours, isn't it? You, too, Mr. Catfish, If you'd like to come."
The young man had a good deal of charm, although experience had made me wary of charmers. Catfish and I exchanged looks.
"Please!" said Nicholson. "We're really harmless."
"Okay," I said. "When?"
"Right now, if you've got nothing else on."
Catfish and I formed a motorcade behind the two motorcycles. We wheeled into the driveway between the pillars and up to the porte-cochere. This time, no other motorcycles were parked beside the building.
The huge living room had changed since my boyhood. The floor was bare and much scratched. Gone were the ancestral pictures of men in wreath beards and high collars and women in poke bonnets. The bookshelves were empty save for a few sets of collected sermons, which none of Abraham's descendants had wanted. The only other reading matter in sight consisted of piles of motorcycle magazines and comic books.
One window had been broken and crudely patched with a sheet of plastic. The few pieces of furniture looked beat-up; that may have been a case of all the better pieces' being taken away by the heirs.
One thing had been added. The living room had a huge fireplace, and over it ran a long stone mantel. On this shelf stood a score of helmets, of the sort worn in the Ring operas. The one in the center had a pair of metal wings, while all the others had horns. I suppose they were made of papier-mache and covered with metal foil, but I had no chance to examine them closely.
"Sit down, gentlemen," said Nicholson. "Can we get you a beer?"
"Thanks," I said. As Vogel went out, Nicholson explained:
"You see, Willy—mind if I call you Willy?—this isn't just one more hell-raising gang of young punks, you know. They were that when I took 'em over, but now I've given them a goal, a direction in life."
"What direction?"
"Nothing less than national regeneration—the restoration of the American spirit, making this a country fit for heroes. But you can't build a sound house of rotten wood, you know. That means we've got to cull out the rotten material."
Vogel returned with three cans of beer. He served one each to Catfish and me and took the third himself. I asked Nicholson: "Aren't you having any?"
"No. I don't drink." The young man gave a nervous little laugh. "You might call me a kind of health nut. But to get back: You've got to have sound materials to build a sound structure, you know. This applies to human institutions just as much as it does to houses and bridges. You've got to cull out the unsound."
"Who are the sound and who the unsound, then?"
"Oh, come off it, Willy! As a member of an old Anglo-Saxon family, you ought to know. The sound are the old original Nordic Aryan stock, which came over from the British Isles and other parts of northern Europe and made this country what it is—or at least, what it was before we let in hordes of biologically inferior niggers and kikes and spicks."
When I sat silently, he continued: "The scientific evidence is overwhelming, only it's been smudged and covered up and lied about by the Marxists. But I won't go into all the angles yet. Most people have been so brain-washed by liberal propaganda that they think you're a nut if you tell them a few plain facts, you know. If I can continue this discussion latter, I'll prove my points." He turned to Catfish. "Charlie, I hear you've got the special powers belonging to some Indians. Is that right?"
Evidently, someone had already spread the word of my hiring an aboriginal shaman. How the news got out I do not know. Perhaps my garrulous aunt had told one of her friends over the telephone while I was out of the house. Knowing small towns, I should not have been surprised.
Catfish's round red face remained blank. He said: "I learned a few old-time prayers and ceremonies when I was young, yes."
"We can use a man like you in our movement. You people have valuable qualities."
"I'm not exactly a Nordic Aryan, Mr. Nicholson," said Catfish.
"Don't worry about that. When we take over, well make th Indians honorary Aryans."
I spoke up: "Nick, how do you expect to make friends and influence people by letting your gang terrorize my old aunt?"
"Why, we never terrorize anybody! We believe in being kind to old ladies, especially old ladies of sound Anglo- Saxon stock. But—" He hesitated. "—you know, when I took the club over, they were just like any other motorcycle gang. You've got to work with the material you have. You can't expect everybody to be a—a spotless Puritan and a perfect gentleman, just as you can't chop down a tree with a razor blade. I've brought 'em a long way, but they still get a little rowdy at times. That'll pass. If the boys knew you were among our supporters, I'm sure Mrs. Wilder wouldn't have any more trouble. Now, can we count on your help, you two?"
"I'd have to think it over," I said, and Catfish mumbled something to the same effect.
I rose without awaiting further argument and said: "It's been very interesting, Nick. Maybe we can look in on you again." When Nicholson opened his mouth as if to protest, I pointed to the mantelpiece, saying: "Those Viking helmets made me wonder. If you're so hot on the. Nordic type, why do you call yourselves Huns? According to history, the Huns were Mongolians—little square, slant-eyed men in fur caps, who came galloping out of the Gobi Desert on shaggy ponies. Not at all Nordic."
"Oh, that," said Nichcolson. "The club called themselves Huns before I became leader. 'The Goths' would have been a better name, but I haven't yet been able to sell them on it. I will eventually. I'll also make 'em switch from Japanese bikes to Harley-Davidsons and Husqvarnas. If they're going to buy imports, at least they can import them from a Nordic country like Sweden."