Brian Garfield (21 page)

Madame said, “Such drunken lawlessness can no longer be tolerated. We must send for the sheriff.” Pack helped her to her feet. She groped a bit and sat down quickly and a bit weakly on the piano bench. In the weak light she looked pale but resolute. A woman of remarkable courage, Pack thought. He endeavored to smile reassuringly but it was difficult; his pulse continued to pound, nearly deafening him.

“Sheriff Harmon is at Mandan,” De Morès muttered. “One hundred and thirty miles away.”

Pack shoved his hands in his pockets. He didn't want either of them to see how badly he was trembling. “Madame's right. Send for him. You can't have this riffraff laying siege to your house.”

“Hardly a siege,” De Morès said. “Who were they, Arthur? Roosevelt?”

Madame said sharply, “Antoine!”

Pack said, “I don't know Roosevelt, really. I couldn't say, sir.”

Madame said, “It wasn't. Teedie Roosevelt? Don't be ridiculous.”

The Marquis soothed his wife, stroking her hair. As if to mollify her he said, “Very well, Arthur. Who was it, then? Finnegan and his fools?”

“Now, if I had to guess—that would be my first thought. Maybe you'll find something by daylight. They must have left tracks.”

“Tracks all look the same in Bad Lands clay. But we'll see what we'll see. Very well—I shall send for the sheriff, if only out of propriety.” De Morès was reloading the revolver. “Where the devil are the servants?”

Madame said, “They're not soldiers, Antoine. You'll probably find them in the wine cellar—and please don't berate them.”

Pack said, “Did they put a note on the porch? May I see it?”

De Morès pulled it from his pocket and handed it to Pack without a word.

Git out Or Git killt
.

Pack said, “Vile cretins.”

De Morès's voice was low, well modulated, controlled; he was furious. “I shall post armed guards, with orders to kill. God help the soul of any craven poltroon who places my wife in danger, for he shall find no mercy from any hand here on Earth.”

Seven

W
il Dow climbed onto a fresh pony. It tried to buck him off and he ran it down into the river to cool it out.

Five minutes later on the bottomland bank he lit out in pursuit of a skittish heifer.

He rode at full gallop and his eyes fell upon a deep sinkhole immediately before him; there was nothing to do except slam both palms down onto the saddlehorn and swing himself up as high as he could on his arms. He was still kicking free of the stirrups when the horse plunged both forefeet into the chasm.

The horse went down and Wil was in flight then, an amazing sensation for a moment before he hit the clay running and couldn't keep up with his feet and toppled over, breaking the fall on one shoulder.

When he hit ground it felt as if he'd rattled the brains inside his skull.

He got up quickly, testing his joints with a reckless need to find out if any bones were broken, and was nearly caused to jump out of his boots by the earsplitting crash of a gunshot.

He wheeled to stare behind him.

Standing over the dead horse, Dutch Reuter was punching an empty cartridge case out of his revolver. “Very fast you jump—save your balls. A cool head you have got. But next time you will try not ride a hundred-dollar horse into a leg-breaker hole, yah?”

“Sweet Jesus, you scared me half to death. You have to do that to the poor horse?”

Dutch loaded a new round into the chamber. “Both legs broke.”

“How'd you know?”

“Heard them snap. Seen it.” Dutch buttoned the revolver into its holster.

“Well Jesus, you scared me.”

“Yah, yah. Go on, go to work. The horse dispose.”

Wil Dow glanced across the river. He could see through the narrow wagon-gap they had thrashed through the dense mat of thorny brush.

Up on the knoll, visible amid the cottonwoods, Roosevelt was watching them. He had been taking pictures of the site of the Elkhorn Ranch. He must have seen Dutch shoot the horse but evidently he decided it was all right because Wil Dow saw him return underneath the hood of his tripod-supported glass-plate camera. Shaded by the stately trees it stood on the site of what soon would be the verandah, which the boss insisted upon calling the piazza—a term that seemed peculiar to his class of New Yorker; the boss pronounced the word to rhyme with a minstrel-show darky's “Yassuh.”

Dutch Reuter gathered the reins in easy synchronization with his swift rise to the saddle. He loped off toward the horse corrals. Wil Dow stripped the tack off his dead horse and was trying to decide what to do with the carcass when Uncle Bill Sewall emerged on horseback from the trees, driving a little gather of beeves. “You shoot that horse?”

Wil Dow had to explain what had happened.

Sewall grunted. “Killed it and left it. What's he think you are—his servant? These Westerners have got no manners at all. That Dutchman offends me. People here go ragged and as dirty as they can be. Can you point out to me one social advantage of the Bad Lands? Half the time I don't even know when Sunday comes.” Uncle Bill wasted no opportunity to express his opinion of Dakota, which was a jaundiced one at the best of times. He allowed no one to go ignorant of the fact that he saw no future in this God-forsaken country.

“Dutch is all right.” Wil Dow was eager to learn cowboying and he was learning it from Dutch, whom Mr. Roosevelt had hired on the recommendation of the storekeeper and had brought back from town to break horses and assist in the building of the ranch.

There was a puckered two-inch scar below Dutch's left temple—souvenir of perhaps a fight or a tumble from a horse, or a woman. He had unkempt hair and a greying beard wilder and thicker than Uncle Bill Sewall's, and bloodshot little eyes that looked weak but seemed to miss nothing. He was a lumpy sack of a man with no grace whatever except in the confident economy with which he did his work.

Sewall complained continually about Dutch—they'd even had to teach the barbarian to use the outhouse. Not that he didn't know how, but he preferred open-air squatting; he said nobody should have to put up with the stink inside an outhouse—and he didn't seem to care who might be around to see him relieve his bowels on the open ground.

For all that, Dutch was a first-class plainsman and Wil Dow found him an excellent teacher.

In the afternoon a young horseman came along the river with a worried smile. Dutch watched him approach and said out of the side of his mouth, “Riley Luffsey. You heard of him?”

“No.”

“He is good boy.”

Inasmuch as that was more of a compliment than Wil Dow had heard Dutch utter about anybody, he watched the newcomer with interest.

It was customary to invite a visitor into camp; this was done, and Roosevelt came down from the knoll. “We have met.” He said it in a neutral way, leaving Luffsey the choice between friendship and bellicosity.

“Upriver,” Luffsey acknowledged. “We was cutting the Markee's fence. I cut two more today.” He watched to see how Roosevelt would take that.

Roosevelt said, “You're the chap who gave that Lunatic a race. The fastest runner in Dakota, they were saying.”

It seemed to please Luffsey. “There's not even an Indian can outrun me, sir.”

After an exchange of pleasantries about the weather, the condition of the trail from Medora and two sightings of game, Luffsey turned to Dutch Reuter. “I don't know if you heard—some boys with rifles punched some holes in the château the other night.”

There followed Roosevelt's interested “Great Scott!”

“Shot the house up?” Dutch seemed delighted.

Roosevelt said, “Anyone hurt?”

“Naw. Only the Markee's pride. And his wife busted her bustle.” Luffsey snickered.

Roosevelt said, “I'm not sure I find that amusing.”

Dutch said in a careful voice, “Who did it? They know?”

“Johnny Goodall hired some Indian and they found some tracks but they got lost in the river. Could've been anybody. Nobody knows a thing.” Wil Dow saw the private-seeming glance that the visitor traded with Dutch. There was an undercurrent here that he had trouble tracing.

Luffsey said, “The Markee's posted guards all around the place now. Forted up like you wouldn't believe. Says he's just protecting his wife and babies—but they got enough guns for a middlin' war.”

Shrewd old Uncle Bill Sewall said, “You rode thirty miles down here to tell us about that?”

Luffsey showed his palms in a gesture of candor. “They are saying Jerry Paddock told the Markee that old Dutch here was one of the shooters.” He said to Dutch, “Paddock's had it in for you. He told the Markee how you were in the Prussian army—how you fought in the Franco-Prussian War against France.”

Dutch Reuter was indignant. “Me? Me? Hell, I never in any army been. Never in no war fought. Me? Hell.”

Luffsey was astonished. “Dutch, I was in Bob Roberts's place—I
heard
you boast about your soldiering.”

Dutch blandly said, “Such a thing I not possibly could have said. Because it is not true.”

Luffsey said, “You were drunk.”

Dutch said, “Ah, well then,” and blessed them with a big beaming smile.

Uncle Bill Sewall uttered a disgusted sigh.

Young Riley Luffsey said to Dutch, “I thought you'd want to know. They think you had a hand in it and they could be waiting next time you go into town. And by the way—any man hires you ought to know it's asking for trouble with the Markee.”

That last was addressed to Dutch Reuter but it was meant for Roosevelt. Wil Dow watched his employer with close interest.

Roosevelt studied Luffsey's callow face. There was a certain gloom in his face when he said, “I'm not worried about whether or not I may place myself in Mr. De Morès's bad graces. Several days ago I had a word with him about a matter of possible contention and I believe I have made my neutrality clear to him and headed off any possible differences between us. There's plenty of room for everyone in this vast country.”

Dutch Reuter said, “About that you not can be sure. If you wish me to be on my way—”

“Nonsense. You have a job here as long as you want it. I won't be intimidated by rumors.”

Riley Luffsey flashed a quick nervous smile. “Well it's nice to see you gents.” He got on his horse and rode back the way he had come, leaving Wil Dow a bit mystified and a bit uneasy.

An hour later Roosevelt came down into the meadow where the three men were putting the last corral rails into their posts. The boss was leading a pack animal on which sizable bundles depended. His own saddle was double-scabbarded—rifle and shotgun. He rode a big blaze-faced sorrel gelding he'd bought from A.C. Huidekoper; the horse was called Manitou and seemed to have taken a liking to Roosevelt—it had learned to follow the boss around and nibble at his elbow until the boss gave up the crust of bread he kept ready.

“We need meat for the camp,” he said. “I leave you men to continue construction.”

Wil Dow said, “If you need help—”

“Thank you. I don't care for company.” Roosevelt rode away.

The log house went up quickly. Indoors it had the shine and scent of new lumber. By the time the boss returned from his solitary hunt there was a roof for his head and he expressed satisfaction.

There always seemed to be sick cattle to be nurtured and bogged cattle to be freed. Wil Dow took his lessons from Dutch Reuter and there was time enough in each day for playfulness as well: he learned to spin his riata loop and ride backwards and wrestle calves.

When the water was at all high, they found it was not possible to ford the river. Roosevelt had ordered a Mackinaw boat. It was shipped in by rail from St. Paul. They had rented a wagon from Jerry Paddock to haul the boat out to the ranch. The flat-bowed scow was no more than a skiff but it was big enough to take three or four men across the river and stout enough to withstand the severe currents.

The boss had been in the Bad Lands a couple months by now and had spent much of the time out on his own, living off the land. He seemed to be gathering strength bit by bit; he seemed to Wil Dow a little less dispirited as the weeks went by. But he still preferred his own company and he remained subdued by comparison with his old self.

Finally one day the three of them—Roosevelt and Dow and Sewall—left Dutch behind to tend the ranch while they rode up on the escarpment to bring down outlying strays and to stop by Mrs. Reuter's place so that Roosevelt could collect his new buckskin suit.

They found the woman in the vegetable garden sitting on a stool with a churn secured between her knees. It contained cream from the cow; she swung the handle sturdily, conserving strength for the long patient work of making the butter and then kneading and bricking it.

Three Indians on tangle-maned ponies were rushing away from the shack.

“Sioux,” Mrs. Reuter said. “They were hungry so I fed them. They get an average of one good meal a week. But they heard you coming.”

“Why,” Roosevelt said, “what are they afraid of?”

“Axelby tried to steal their horses. They caught him and got their horses back.”

Bill Sewall said, “Who's Axelby?”

“Neighbor of yours. Twelve, fifteen miles upriver. And I guess you could say he was a horse thief.”

Wil Dow perked up. “They scalp him?”

“No,” Mrs. Reuter said, “they just disarmed him and turned him loose. Now they're making a run for the tribe before anyone can come after them. I think they were afraid you might be Axelby with a posse. There's a big party of them camped six or seven miles north of here. I think they've been hunting in the Killdeers.”

Roosevelt said to Sewall, “Stealing horses seems to be an Indian game. One steals another's horse, the other steals it back.”

Mrs. Reuter said, “It used to be more serious than that but we have got them scared half to death. It's not fair at all. I told them I didn't see why they should have let that man go. What makes it right for Axelby to steal an Indian's horse if it's a crime to steal a white man's? I told them if they ever see Axelby again, they ought to take
his
horse—and if he objects, kill him. I'd never tell on them!” She set the churn aside and stood up. She looked heavy, as if she felt full with the weight of herself. “Come inside, then.”