Brian Garfield (24 page)

“And I've been admiring Mrs. De Morès's paintings,” Roosevelt said.

Pack said stiffly, “I'm on my way to Eaton's. There's a hunt today.”

“I know,” said Roosevelt. “I've been invited. I'm afraid we shall be late.”

Medora gave Roosevelt the bounty of her smile. “Very nice to have seen you again.”

“The pleasure's entirely mine, madame.” Roosevelt touched his hatbrim.

Pack, besotted with suspicions, now saw it right before him. Why, they were hiding it right out in the open. He marveled at their boldness.

Of course now that they were in town tact imposed an absolute modesty on whatever it was that they had between them. Pack could not bring himself to give it a name; but it took no great leap of imagination to envision the deep flood of feeling that must be concealed behind the polite smiles with which they regarded each other on this public occasion.

He felt befuddled. No matter how contrary women might be, he had difficulty believing what the events implied. It was beyond credence that there could be anything truly unseemly in the lady Medora's disposition toward Roosevelt. Not only was her husband handsome, gallant and titled—while Roosevelt was unprepossessing at best—but it had been clear from the first moment of her arrival in the Bad Lands that she worshipped the Marquis with an adoring and unquestioning passion.

Still, it was possible that, as she was from New York, she might have acquired an inappropriate sense of Theodore Roosevelt's importance and power. Women, Pack had observed, sometimes had such propensities. And if that was the case, was it possible that Roosevelt could have been so caddish as to have played upon those strings?

Leaving no answers in her wake, Madame la Marquise rode away. Dan McKenzie came out of the livery and said sarcastically to Pack, “D'you think she can cook?”

Pack scowled at the ill-mannered oaf. Roosevelt did more than that. He dismounted behind McKenzie and gripped his shoulder. When the blacksmith turned, Roosevelt said, “Apologize for your tone, sir.”

McKenzie only grinned. Perhaps it wasn't for Roosevelt to know that McKenzie's preferred answer to everything was the hammer or the fist—two objects that were nearly interchangeable in McKenzie's lexicon—but Roosevelt was about to learn it; and Pack took a certain sly satisfaction in being witness to the dude's lesson.

McKenzie said, “What'd you say?”

“Apologize.”

McKenzie, still grinning, hauled a roundhouse left up from hip level. What happened then was odd. It appeared to Pack that Roosevelt, flinching from the blow, must have tripped over his own bootheel; in any event McKenzie's powerful swing sailed over the dude's head and before McKenzie could recover his balance, Roosevelt hit him at the hinge of the jaw.

It happened so fast Pack wasn't sure what he had seen, but McKenzie—twice the dude's size—was down and then Roosevelt was helping the man up. “Go to the trough and wash yourself. When you're in the presence of a lady, henceforth conduct yourself like a gentleman—or suffer the consequences.”

McKenzie's eyes narrowed. Roosevelt said, “I studied boxing with the master prizefighter John Long.”

“Aagh,” McKenzie said, disbelieving it. “One lucky punch—I wasn't looking.”

“If you'd care for a match I shall accommodate you at any suitable time and place. Here and now will do, if you like.”

Madame was two blocks distant, riding away; she had noticed none of it. Pack felt vaguely gratified: at least Roosevelt's brazen act of fraudulent chivalry hadn't impressed her.

McKenzie looked down upon Roosevelt. “Hell, I ain't going to pick on a man your size.”

“As you wish. The choice is yours.”

McKenzie shook his head in a display of exasperated disgust, glanced at Pack and walked back into the stable.

Roosevelt got back on his horse. “If we're both bound for the Custer Trail, I should be pleased to have your company.”

Pack could think of no suitable grounds for refusal. He rode along southward with the four-eyed dude. To cover his confusion he said, “Now, the Republicans seem in serious disarray. What do you think?”

“Don't ask me about politics. I'm out of that. I've far more interest in the coming round-up than in politics—the round-up's far more respectable.”

Theodore Roosevelt, political apostate. Pack wondered if the ridiculous man realized how pompous he appeared, all decked out in his pretense to have cornered the market on moral absolutes.

But then, to be perfectly honest, was that any worse than going along from day to day like a mere witness, devoid of the passionate commitments of involvement? Pack daily threw himself with increasing resentment against the bars of his cage of inaction. He saw everything; he participated in nothing. It seemed life had not begun for him yet. He was nothing but a spectator.
Nothing serious will ever happen to me
, he complained to himself.

Howard Eaton's front yard was decorated with chunks of petrified logs, cold to the touch.

Wolves had been taking down livestock. Some of the ranchers had organized a Dakota version of an ancient tradition: a rugged frontier interpretation of a fox hunt, with grey wolves as the prey. In place of red coats the hunters wore whatever seemed practical. A.C. Huidekoper kept a pack of wolfhounds he'd imported all the way from Imperial Russia, and on these high social occasions they were set loose to lead the spirited horsemen at breakneck pace across the Bad Lands.

This time the crowd was swelled by a dozen visiting Eastern sportsmen. Most of them seemed bemused; but the local hunters were in foul spirits because some practical joker had found out where Huidekoper planned to start his wolf hunt, and had dragged the skin of a fresh-killed wolf from that spot directly back to Eaton's well. The hounds had led the crowd directly home to the well, where Pack and Roosevelt arrived to find the hunters dismounted and crowded around. A few bloody claws had been found at the rim and a man had to be lowered into the well. Now he climbed out and shook his head; he'd found nothing amiss at the bottom.

A wrangler came out of the barn with a shamefaced countenance. “There's a wolf hide in the loft. All tore up and dusty. Better not bring it down here while those dogs around.”

Huidekoper—a squire out of Fielding—assisted his handlers in pulling the dogs away from the well; he said, “This has Jerry Paddock's stamp on it.”

Pack said, “Now, I doubt that. Jerry has no sense of humor.”

“The man who did this has no sense of humor,” Huidekoper retorted, and stamped into the Custer Trail ranch house, undoubtedly to proceed directly to the bar.

Pack watched with satisfaction and amusement when two of the boys asked Roosevelt if he'd like to help out with the acorn harvesting. The dude fell for it, fool that he was. Huidekoper came out of the house with a drink. He and Pack trailed along at a discreet distance when the boys took Roosevelt to the pigpen and handed him a long stout pole. “Now you pole the hogs with this …”

“What the devil has this got to do with harvesting acorns?”

“Well sir, everybody knows pigs just love acorn shells. Now you just take that pole and stick it up the pig's hind end and hold him up so he can reach the acorns …”

Roosevelt blinked rapidly, then after a long interval burst into a hearty peal of laughter that struck Pack as being embarrassingly false. “By George, you fellows nearly had me there!”

Huidekoper took Pack away. “Haven't we had enough cruel joking? Arthur, you might show more tolerance to the Easterner. We all were Easterners once. He's only, what, twenty-four years old?”

Pack said, “Around here that's a full-seasoned age for a man.”

“Is that so,” Huidekoper said dryly. “And how old are
you
, my friend?”

They moved toward the house. Pack glimpsed Roosevelt beyond the side of the barn—bent over, coughing ferociously, evidently retching. Feeling a snarling contempt, Pack followed Huidekoper inside.

These northern summer days were long but finally shadows invaded the tortured folds of the land. Pack made his way through the gathering in Eaton's front room, helping to light the lamps. Through one window he saw a three-quarter moon floating low on the horizon.

The door came open and Deacon W.P. Osterhaut insinuated himself. No one had invited him but he always seemed to know when gatherings were to take place; he seldom failed to impose his undesired presence. He was a short man with a plump stomach, a fat shrewish wife and a marked Southern accent, having served in the Rebel army during the war. Pack heard him talking to a rancher named Pierce Bolan. Osterhaut said, “I hear little Roosevelt there had a run-in with savages and saved the lives of his men by putting on a shooting exhibition that impressed the barbarians. He must be a crack shot.”

Pack said, “Who told you that yarn, Deacon? It wasn't Roosevelt. It was one of his hired hands. Wilmot Dow.” He'd written up the story for next week's paper. He'd heard it first from the Maine woodsman Sewall and this afternoon, riding out here, he had asked Roosevelt to confirm it.

Pack poured himself a cup of beer from the keg—the Eatons always had an endless supply—and heard Huidekoper buttonhole Roosevelt nearby. “Theodore, I want your advice.” Evidently both Huidekoper and Howard Eaton were permitted to call Roosevelt by his first name. It was a club Pack felt no urgent wish to join.

Mrs. Eaton was at the door welcoming another newcomer. “You've come just in time. Supper's on the table.”

Howard Eaton came curling past Pack with his customary big smile. Eaton clapped Huidekoper on the shoulder and said to Roosevelt, “It's too long a ride back to your place. Of course you'll stay here the night.”

“My thanks for your kindness, but you seem to have a full house of visiting sportsmen.”

“Nonsense. We enjoy company—more than anything.”

“Thank you again, but I've arranged to stay in town.”

“In the De Morès Hotel?”

“In Joe Ferris's spare room above the store.” Roosevelt smiled with a display of teeth that reminded Pack not favorably of a gopher. “I haven't the nerve to join the horde of your friends who've availed themselves of the Eaton hospitality until they're in danger of losing their self-respect.”

“You make a witticism of it,” Howard Eaton replied, “but we've got too many friends who refuse our hospitality for just that reason.”

Roosevelt said, “Then why don't you make ‘dude-ranching' a business?”

“Charge money?”

“Don't be horrified, old fellow. Your friends will jump at the chance to enjoy your hospitality without feeling they're taking unfair advantage.”

“Well I don't think—”

Roosevelt said, “Guides and hunters charge for their services. Hotelkeepers charge. No one faults them for it. Without the fair exchanges of honest commerce, few of us would survive.”

Quick interest brightened Eaton's face. “Food for thought,” he said. “You may have something. Yes, by George, you may have something there, Theodore. We'll discuss it among ourselves.”

Huidekoper ran a hand across his bald pate. “I feel a need to air a few topics myself—such as the troubles caused by the Marquis's fences and sheep. We live in an isolated village. What affects one affects all. I believe the time has arrived for consideration of the formation of a committee of vigilance.”

Pack tipped the point of his shoulder against the wall and listened without overwhelming interest. Whenever Huidekoper began talking, the promise was one of lengthy and prudent and rarely fascinating discourse.

Perhaps knowing Huidekoper well enough by now, Roosevelt nipped it quickly. “We don't need vigilantes. We need a stockmen's association, so that difficulties and disputes may be settled by a civilized vote among ranchmen, rather than by the present everyman-for-himself chaos.”

Pack saw nothing wrong with the sentiment but he found himself resenting the cocksuredness with which Roosevelt presented it and the rude speed with which he had interrupted Huidekoper, and the ill-mannered haste with which he now changed the subject: “I come to another matter now. Perhaps it's already been discussed amongst some of you. We ranchmen must organize a round-up for the fall.”

“No question of that,” Huidekoper said. Wasn't he irritated? Didn't he
mind
being pushed aside by the little upstart from New York?

Huidekoper went on, “The question is, who's to lead it? We need an experienced round-up boss.”

“Then I'll propose one,” Roosevelt said. “Johnny Goodall.”

Pack bounced away from the wall, astonished.

The others were equally amazed. Howard Eaton said, “I thought you were something less than a staunch supporter of the Marquis and his men.”

“It's nothing to do with Mr. De Morès. We need the most able man for the job. Beyond question, Goodall is that man. Does anyone doubt his ability—or his integrity?”

Eaton said, “What a singular man you are, Theodore.”

Huidekoper said, “I respect Johnny. But as to his loyalty—his employer has an unhealthy taste for empire. And for other people's property.”

Pack felt obliged to speak out. “Now, the Marquis has title to his acreage.”

“No one disputes that,” Huidekoper snapped. “The question is,
which
acreage? The Marquis's land seems to keep moving about to suit the convenience of his ambitions.” He turned back to the others. “The De Morès expedition's departure for the Yellowstone has left his many enterprises to run themselves. And it seems some of them are running themselves into the ground—”

Pack said, “The Marquis's businesses are so well set up as to need little supervision.”

“With Jerry Paddock providing the supervision,” Huidekoper retorted, “I suggest things look unpromising to say the least. But the point I was about to make is that Johnny Goodall has his hands full in De Morès's absence, and I doubt—”