Brian Garfield (33 page)

“Oh, Uncle Bill.”

“A man that could come here from New England and like it better than at home must have a depraved idear of life or hate himself or both.”

“Well I don't hate myself and I don't feel depraved.”

Mr. Roosevelt came in removing his heavy coat. Between painful coughs he said with great vehemence, “It's a wild arcadian romance, the wonderful charm of this region. In Dakota we are geographically in the exact middle of the North American continent, did you know that?”

His asthma was acting up. He sprawled wheezing in his rocking chair, tired and grimy from the long day's labors, and pulled out a volume of Swinburne from the row of books that stood fading on the south-facing windowsill. It democratically supported everything from the Bible to Ike Marvel. That ended the conversation for the moment. On the sill were Hawthorne and Lowell, Parkman and Bonner, Macon and Cooper, Keats and Tennyson, Craddock and Irving. They all were Roosevelt's old friends. Wil Dow had been endeavoring to sample them but there was never time enough; he would begin to read after supper but his lids would droop and he would sleep after only a page or two—often as Roosevelt was only getting started for the evening, writing industriously in his journals under the yellow cone of the whale-oil table lamp. He was still writing that book.

He was keeping up his correspondence too. There were frequent letters from back East, some of them in what looked like female handwriting—more hands than one, from what Wil glimpsed. Roosevelt wrote regularly to his sister but there was someone else as well. When he read those scented notes there was a quality of thoughtfulness in his concentration that led Wil's mind into varieties of interesting speculations.

Roosevelt cleaned his teeth and shaved every morning whether there was company or not. He washed his own clothes and took his turn feeding the horses, although it was true he rarely swamped the stables; that was left to Wil, as if he were the youngest—or perhaps it was just to remind them who was boss here.

Roosevelt sometimes spent part of an evening in the dark cellar developing his glass-plate photographs. Then, mildly stinking of chemicals, he would get into the rubber bathtub and soak, after which he would select a book and sit reading in his rocking chair while Dutch cooked up something to eat—often game of their own killing: grouse or ducks, deer or antelope. Roosevelt sometimes would make a remark about something he found in his book; he and Sewall would get into philosophical and intellectual arguments and Roosevelt would rock all around the room as he debated vehemently. Wil Dow, cleaning up after the meal, would listen with hungry interest. Uncle Bill was a rough man but not an ignorant one; he couldn't spell—neither could Roosevelt—but you had to admire the breadth of his keen mind: when Roosevelt said something complimentary about the diplomatic skills of Talleyrand, Sewall was quick to scoff. “Tallyrand was a hypocrite and a liar. If that's what a man requires for diplomacy then I want no part of it.” Then in the morning Wil would have to go to a book surreptitiously to look up “Tallyrand.”

Wil spent many a dull glum winter afternoon working cattle down the coulees toward fresh stands of curly buffalo grass—the staple winter feed of the Bad Lands. If there was an exceptionally weak animal he would take it, in the Mackinaw boat or across his saddle depending which side of the river he came from, into the barn and feed it hay.

All the while he was aware that Dutch Reuter was everywhere—mending fence, doctoring cattle, braiding leather, chopping wood. Dutch worked so hard that for a while he seemed to forget himself: the restless look went out of his eyes.

Then they had a visit from Pierce Bolan. The thick-chested yellow-haired Texan stood before the fire batting his hands together and said, “I have found a lot of dead sheep.”

Roosevelt said, “We've seen them too.”

Dutch Reuter said, “For Dakota, wrong kind of sheep.”

“You got that right for certain, Dutch,” said Pierce Bolan. “Merinos can't survive this climate. But forget the sheep. They're dead. It don't matter. What does matter—they keep crowding in cattle all the time. Especially the Marquis. In a short time they will eat us all out. You notice how the Marquis's cows graze one place down until food gets scarce and then they drive their cattle to where it is good without regard to whose range they're eating out.”

Bill Sewall agreed. “I've had to chouse two, three dozen De Morès cattle off our ground just lately.” He pulled at his red beard. “I'm afraid the boss was led to believe there was more money in this than he will ever see.”

Roosevelt said cheerfully, “I shall prove you dead wrong about that, old chap.” He turned to Pierce Bolan. “It's cold and it's late. You'll share our supper and spend the night, of course.”

At the break of day Pierce Bolan was first to leave the house—and first to return. “You folks got visitors. May want to arm yourselves.”

Roosevelt was finishing his breakfast. “What's this?”

Wil Dow went to the window. He heard Bolan say, “Johnny Goodall and a crew. They're turnin' out a lot of cows.
Lot
of cows.”

A thin crust of frost crunched under their boots when the five men walked upriver. Roosevelt had distributed rifles and shotguns; Wil Dow felt the ominous weight of the over-and-under three-barrel gun. He bounced it nervously in the circle of his fist as he walked.

At the foot of Blacktail Creek—nearly at Roosevelt's doorstep—half a dozen riders were dispersing cattle onto the bottoms. Pierce Bolan had not exaggerated. Wil Dow could not begin to count the animals. There was a sea of them.

He followed the boss's lead. They walked down there straight up. No hesitation. Mr. Roosevelt made up in grit what he lacked in size. Wil Dow waited to see him go off like a rocket.

Johnny Goodall reined his horse expertly through a clump of cattle and came forward with his hands wide and empty save for the reins. He had the courtesy to dismount, so as to give the five men his eyes at a level—more or less; Johnny was taller than any of them.

Roosevelt said, “You've quite a number of cattle with you, Johnny.”

“Fifteen hundred head, sir.”

“I'll ask you to keep moving them until they're off my land.”

“I've got orders to fatten them here, sir.”

That was it, then. Wil Dow felt it like a fist in his belly. The glove had been thrown down: the challenge was here. He laid the gun across his forearm and eased his body a quarter-turn away so that the muzzle was lined up on Johnny Goodall.

Johnny gave him a glance, shook his head slightly, and paid him no further attention.

Roosevelt said in a surprisingly mild voice, “I suppose I'm to take this to mean Mr. De Morès is affronted by my continuing to employ Mr. Reuter.”

Uncle Bill Sewall thrust his beard toward Johnny Goodall. “You can't climb the old man just because that French fool and his ambushers threw down on him.”

“I'm not climbing anybody, Bill. I've got no quarrel with Dutch.”

“Your boss surely thinks he does.”

“I herd cattle, Bill. That's all I'm here for.”

In a voice that failed to conceal tautness behind its pretended calm, Pierce Bolan said, “Say, Johnny—this wouldn't have anything to do with that letter to the judge, would it now?”

Johnny had nothing to say to that.

Bill Sewall said, “What letter?”

“There's talk Judge Bateman got a letter asking him to swear out a warrant on the Markee for murderin' Riley Luffsey. Talk is, the letter's signed by Mr. Theodore Roosevelt.”

“I wrote no such letter. I know of no such letter.”

Bolan muttered, “Better tell that to the Markee, then, before he—”

“If Mr. De Morès wants to ask me any questions, let him ask them to my face.” He turned to Johnny Goodall, who had listened to it all without any change of expression. “Well?”

“There's been a warrant sworn,” Johnny conceded. “The lawyers are dealing with it. That's between the Marquis and the law—it's nothing to do with these cows. I've got orders to turn them out on these bottom grasses. Fatten them for winter slaughter.”

“Not on my land, Mr. Goodall. Not today nor any other day.”

“This isn't your land, Mr. Roosevelt. I'm sorry, sir, but you never filed claim to it.”

“Neither did anyone else. It's open range—I've told you that before.”

“The Marquis owns it, sir.”

“I don't take backwater from any one. I shall put up a stout fight. You'll be gone with your cattle by daylight, Johnny, or we'll move them for you.”

“I've got my orders, sir.” And that was all Johnny had to say.

*    *    *

In the barn Roosevelt cinched his saddle on Manitou. Dutch Reuter said, “I come along.”

Bill Sewall said, “Better not. Nothing the Markee'd like better than to see you in some dark alley on your back with your eyes open wide. Better you stay here.”

“I agree. Look after the ranch,” Roosevelt said to Dutch. “Don't tangle with Johnny or his men.”

“I just let them cows the house eat down?”

“Look after our own stock. Ignore theirs. There's more than enough work here. Stay out of their sight—give them wide berth and pray don't give them any excuse to do you violence. Those cattle and their drovers will be out of here within thirty-six hours—you may count on that.”

Dutch was too angry to keep still. “They try trouble to make, I some cowboys sure shoot—”

“That's quite enough, Dutch. You'll shoot no one. Those cowboys are earning their pay—doing their jobs with honor, and in the face of great possible risk. They're to be admired. We have no quarrel with them. Are you listening, Dutch? If you work for me, you will do as I ask. This is for everyone's good—it's best for you and for us as well.”

“Yah, yah,” Dutch growled in disgust. He stomped out.

Pierce Bolan said, “If I'm not needed—”

“Pierce, thank you very much for your help. You'd better hasten forward quickly”—there was a quick flashing smile—“get home and tend your own flock.”

“Flock? That's a word we don't use much around here, sir,” Bolan said dryly. “I'll take it you meant it in the Biblical sense.” He climbed aboard and ducked his head to clear the barn door's header beam, and rode away at an insolently slow clip, watched by two or three of the De Morès cowboys. Johnny Goodall was down there, giving instructions. Roosevelt said, “I'll say again, for clarity, that our quarrel isn't with Johnny. No one's to choose a fight with him—is that understood?”

Wil Dow said, “Yes sir.” He was relieved to hear it. He liked Johnny.

Bill Sewall's squint showed his displeasure. “Johnny knows who he works for. He takes the man's pay—he ought to stand the consequences.”

“If it weren't for Johnny,” Roosevelt replied, “things might be a good deal worse. He sets an example of true American courtesy for the edification of our visiting pretender to the throne of France. Without Johnny, I fear this territory might well be in flames.”

Wil Dow was privileged to ride with Roosevelt and Uncle Bill Sewall toward town.

There had been dry weather for more than a week. As soon as they were away from the frosty river bottoms, the trail lofted a great raveling cloud-banner behind the travelers because there was nothing to hold the dust down. They passed a cliff where reddishbrown strata had bled down over the white stripes beneath them; it looked like dripping rust—or blood. Wil Dow wondered if it was an omen.

By the Lord
, he thought,
this is surely some adventure.
Keyed up with a half-shaped anticipation of battle glory, he grinned at Uncle Bill, who scowled back at him with dismal bleakness.

They made a fast ride of it and there was little talk. Not long after the early sundown they came out of the canyon where the road tilted down to reveal the scattered display of the town's lights and the well-illuminated sprawl of tin peaked roofs beneath the glow at the top of the towering slaughterhouse smokestack. Beyond, higher up across the embankment on the promontory to the left of Graveyard Butte, lamps winked a mile away; that was Château De Morès. Down on the river the Marquis's crews were still chopping ice for storage in the ice-house against next summer's refrigerator-car needs.

Bill Sewall took the right-hand fork—the one that led toward the château—but Roosevelt called him back and went the other way, toward the ford. “We must think in military terms, Bill. It would be foolish to ride up there in the dark without scouting the lay of things first.”

They splashed across the icy river into town. McKenzie was open late, forging a new iron rim for the wheel of a stagecoach; they turned their horses over to him with a request that they be dried, brushed and fed. Wil Dow felt the strike of the smith's heavy eyes as they swiveled past him, past Uncle Bill, and settled on Roosevelt; Wil remembered hearing how there'd been some sort of dust-up between them—the boss had knocked the blacksmith down, according to what he'd heard—but McKenzie's eyes shifted away now and he took the reins of the three horses while Roosevelt said, “Thank you, Mr. McKenzie,” and led them away.

The De Morès offices were in a long two-story business building that looked as if four houses had been nailed together end-to-end. There was a big shade tree at the corner, near the front door. Roosevelt knocked loudly at the door. There was no reply. The windows were dark.

Bill Sewall said, “Nobody here. Not even Van Driesche.” Van Driesche managed the offices for De Morès. Despite his name Van Driesche was very British: originally, it seemed, he had been De Morès's valet and butler. Van Driesche was an exceptionally private man and no one knew much about him, or cared to; he looked like a skeleton with white hair pasted on top, and invited no affection.