Brian Garfield (16 page)

“This river of yours somewhere in all that?”

“It is indeed.”

Wil Dow grinned. “Then let's go.”

Sewall gave him a look. Within the red beard his lips were pinched together in stern disapproval.

Through the afternoon the pilgrims from Down East taunted and bullied Roosevelt's herd of one thousand shorthorns toward the river. Wil Dow's horse was surefooted and he enjoyed the work but it had an unspeakable effect on his sore knees and thighs and rump.

Toward the bottom they threaded clusters of box-elders and junipers and scrub-oaks. The cattle had taken the scent of water and were moving westward with resolute purpose; it was no longer necessary to prod them. The riders reined up onto the side-slope of the wide gully to let the beasts pass; then they followed at a leisurely pace, squinting against the risen dust.

There were clumps of deciduous trees on these sheltered slopes; their roots must have access to some sort of artesian water. Beneath outcroppings they skirted cannonball boulders two or three feet in diameter—perfect spheres that must have weighed tons. The air had a fragrance of juniper. Wil Dow inhaled deep and felt a thrill of pleasure.

There were groves of tall cotton woods on the riverbanks. Bill Sewall watched the cattle churn mud as they drank their fill; he said, “That river's the meanest apology for a frog-pond I ever saw. It's a queer country. I reckon cattle will starve on it.”

“Looks green enough to me,” Wil Dow observed.

“Sooner or later—I expect sooner—there'll be a winter storm or a summer drought, and there'll be no more cattle here.”

“I don't agree, Uncle Bill. I believe what Mr. Roosevelt said, a venture of grand promise.” He enjoyed ragging his uncle. Anyhow the old pessimist needed it to keep him from going sour.

The greyish leaves of the cottonwoods rustled in the breeze and there was a music of doves and magpies. The western sky was a slash of flame.

Roosevelt had a coughing fit. It provoked Uncle Bill into reviving his complaints. “I shall never like this country for a home. I have no ambition to become a cowboy. I expect the best a man can do is regard his time in Dakota as a sentence to be served out.”

Roosevelt scoffed. “Nonsense. I think it's perfectly bully.” He pointed across the backs of the cattle at the lush land across the river bend. This country along the river was green with vegetation and its soil was darkened by rich silt. Trees were clumped thick in the lowlands. Roosevelt said, “We shall build my Elkhorn Ranch here. We have eighty horses coming in from A.C. Huidekoper's stock, so our first task is to build corrals. Then I want you to build me a ranch house.”

God in Heaven, Wil Dow thought happily. I am in the Wild West.

There would be eight rooms, seven feet high, and a sheltered piazza along the outside of the east wall. They would build the house of cottonwood logs and they would shingle the roof with pine and Roosevelt insisted that the inside walls be finished with pine boards planed on one side. Then they had to put up outbuildings: two stables with a wagon shed between them, a cattle barn, a lean-to for blacksmith work, a chicken house. And all the while they had to look after a thousand cattle. No denying there was a great deal of work to do.

But Wil Dow didn't mind. The country was beautiful just then: at its best, Mr. Roosevelt reckoned. There were acres of blooming wild roses; there were wild morning glories, June berries, plums and pomegranates, and fields of brown-eyed yellow daisies.

Wil Dow teased his uncle: “I didn't come out here to be a carpenter. I want to learn cowboying.”

Uncle Bill said, “I've had enough cowboying in the last three days to last my lifetime. I sure don't know what you see in it.”

Wil laughed at the old boy. “You need more Romance in your soul.”

“I didn't know Romance smelled so bad,” Sewall said.

They went out in the morning to continue cutting timber for Mr. Roosevelt's new house. Near an ugly Medusa of a tree he had paced out the corners thirty by sixty, back in the shade of the cotton-woods and up a commanding slope where spring floods wouldn't take it. A handsome spot under an enormous sky.

Mr. Roosevelt picked up his axe. “What was our tally yesterday?”

Bill Sewall considered the stack of logs. “I cut down fifty, and young Wil about forty, and I believe you, sir, beavered down about twelve.”

Wil Dow tried to keep his face straight. He pictured stumps he'd seen that beavers had gnawed down.

Mr. Roosevelt didn't seem to mind. All he said was, “I shall have to do better today.”

Wheezing heavily, Roosevelt hauled his axe away. Wil Dow set out to follow.

Uncle Bill Sewall fell in step, striding easily, a long-boned man with shaggy hair that was darker than his flaming beard. He was tall enough to appear thin but in fact he had a logger's musculature. He was strong of back and strong of heart, as Mr. Roosevelt liked to put it; Wil was too familiar with Roosevelt's stout opinion of how his uncle was a fearless wayfaring warrior, full of backwoodsman's self-reliance and muscular resource, who stood for laconic courage and everything else that was to be found in true heroes. Wil Dow knew his Mennonite uncle better than that; and indeed Uncle Bill himself did not enjoy the fuss—he counted himself a man of plain common sense and he did not disagree when Wil Dow suggested Mr. Roosevelt might be able to see the simple truth better if his head weren't so filled with book-learning.

“Of which you could use a bit yourself,” was all Uncle Bill said.

To that, Wil Dow's constant answer was, “I got my learning out behind the barn, thank you sir.” He could read and write and do sums. That was enough.

Wil prepared a noon meal. While they ate, Roosevelt was reading Keats and listening—head cocked—to the hooting of mourning doves. He knew the song of every variety of bird, and had the annoying habit of identifying them for Bill Sewall's edification. Wil Dow listened to him with eager interest—“Sharp-tailed grouse … Hungarian partridge”—but Uncle Bill gave Roosevelt no more than a bilious glance each time.

It was different from the way it used to be. Back East the New Yorker had dedicated himself to these interests with avid pleasure, like an eager child. Now he was pursuing them in a transparent effort to keep his mind occupied. He snatched at anything that might prevent him from thinking about the things he didn't want to think about.

It was natural enough, Wil thought. He understood that a little patience was required of all of them.

Two horsemen appeared, threading their way through the herd. Sewall watched them approach. “Our first visitors.”

Roosevelt squinted through his eyeglasses. When the horsemen were near enough for him to make them out he said, “The tall one is Johnny Goodall. Range manager for the Marquis De Morès. The other one's called Jerry Paddock. Saloonkeeper, mainly.”

Wil watched the two men ride up from the riverbank. There was a squeaking of saddle leather when they reined in and shifted their seats. Johnny Goodall said, “How do,” and laid both hands on his saddlehorn. “Handsome herd of cattle.”

“I expect them to prosper here,” said Roosevelt.

The one called Paddock looked like an undertaker, Wil Dow thought. He had a drooping Oriental sort of mustache and evil black eyes. Paddock said, in a voice that would cut glass, “Who are these?”

“William Sewall and Wilmot Dow. My friends from Maine—self-reliant outdoorsmen whom I admire for their grit and pluck and abilities. They're here to build and manage my ranch.”

“Ain't your ranch.”

Roosevelt pushed his glasses up on his nose. “What's that you say?”

“You're squatting on my property,” said Paddock.

“Nonsense. This is open range.”

“Used to be, before I put up my cabin across the river there.”

Wil Dow said, “There's nothing over there but a few rotted old logs.”

“Well I keep meaning to rebuild it.” Paddock's sudden grin was shocking—a yellow display of crooked teeth.

Goodall said mildly, “Mind if I get down?” He dismounted and had a careful look at the stakes that marked the outline of the house that was to be. Then he studied Wil Dow and Bill Sewall in turn, and finally Roosevelt.

Wil studied him right back, with equal boldness.

This Johnny Goodall was tall and weathered; his wide shoulders were a bit stooped as if he were always ready to go through doorways that were too low for him. Despite the leathery texture of his skin and the unhurried confidence of his manner, he appeared to be young—perhaps in his middle twenties; no older. He kept his eyes on Roosevelt a long time, as if measuring him.

Wil Dow picked up his axe and swung it idly by the handle. When Jerry Paddock's hooded eyes whipped toward him, Wil gave the horseman a slow wide smile.

A rifle stood muzzle-up, propped against the log where they had been eating; it was kept at hand in case game animals should put in an appearance. Uncle Bill Sewall picked it up without any pretense at stealth; he laid the rifle across his forearm. It wasn't quite aimed at Paddock.

Paddock said, “Easy now. This don't call for guns.”

Roosevelt said to Paddock, “Anyone could have left those ruins.”

“I'm just explaining to you, Mr. Roosevelt, you are squatting on my claim.”

“There's no record of ownership in the land office. I've looked. If you've built any other improvements show them to me.”

“No need to show a thing. My word stands, in this Territory.”

Behind the glasses Roosevelt's large blue eyes were angry. “This is
open range.
” He turned to Johnny Goodall. “Your friend's trying to run a bluff on me. Does it work on other settlers?”

“I couldn't say,” Goodall replied. “Never seen him try it before.”

“Are you part of it?”

“No. And he's not exactly my friend.” Johnny Goodall's voice was mild, unhurried, a pleasant Texas twang. He kept sizing Roosevelt up as if he couldn't decide what to make of the little dude.

“Then what are you doing here together?”

“Me, sir, I am taking a look over the land and picking up a few strays. Jerry came along and asked to ride down here with me. Might as well say I'm here out of curiosity.”

“Which led to the demise of the proverbial cat,” Bill Sewall reminded him.

“What part of Maine you from?”

“Island Falls.”

“Never heard of it. But then you probably never heard of the patch of chaparral I'm from, either.”

Roosevelt said to Johnny Goodall, “If you're picking up strays, where are they? I see no cattle with you.”

“Penned upriver a mile or so. Don't take after me, Mr. Roosevelt. I'm not a liar like certain folks.”

Paddock stiffened with indignation but it was wasted; Goodall was not looking at him.

A mistral stirred; leaves shivered in the glade. Roosevelt said to Bill Sewall, “I believe Mr. Goodall is curious to see if we can prove ourselves to his satisfaction. I believe he came along to find out if we Easterners have any sand.” He swung abruptly to look up at Paddock, who had not descended from his horse. “I might care to take you seriously,” Roosevelt said, “but to do so would be to affront your intelligence.”

“What in hell's that supposed to mean?”

“You must take me for an awful fool.” Reflections glittered from Roosevelt's eyeglasses. “You're a vulgar brute. Take your black-guardly declarations away with you.”

Paddock glanced at Wil Dow's axe and Bill Sewall's rifle, and showed his yellow smile again. “It don't matter a whole lot to me personally, I guess. But I aim to be selling my claims to the Marquis De Morès. So I expect you'll hear from the Marquis.”

Roosevelt said, “You may tell Mister De Morès that I am at his disposal any time.”

Johnny Goodall seemed interested in the way Roosevelt said that. But he didn't say anything. He merely got back on his horse. “Expect I'll see you gents.” He wheeled his mount effortlessly and trotted away. Wil Dow thought,
Someday I want to be able to ride like that.

Paddock remained where he was, gazing darkly at the ranchman until Roosevelt said, “Is there something else?”

“Not just yet.” Paddock jerked his horse away and plunged toward the river, scattering cattle as he pounded away.

Bill Sewall said, “I suppose that there's a sample of your famous Western hospitality.” He put the rifle down and poked a warning finger toward Roosevelt. “The Texan kept that loon-crazy Paddock in rein. That may not be the case another time.”

Wil Dow held the axe near its head, balancing its weight in his grip; he bounced it lightly in the circle of his fist and thought this was not exactly the sort of adventuresome challenge to which he had been looking forward in the Wild West.

Roosevelt said after a moment, “I suppose I'll have to see about this.”

Six

M
onday morning Pack opened the front door wide; the heat was so powerful that despite flies and stench, ventilation was preferable to suffocation. He rolled up his sleeves and set about composing the front page of tomorrow's edition of
The Bad Lands Cow Boy.

Alerted by something he felt rather than heard, he turned to see Riley Luffsey standing in the doorway. Luffsey's stance was aggressive—fists against flanks, head thrust forward. Low on his right hip hung a revolver in an old army holster from which the overflap had been cut off so as to make for quick access to the handle. It wasn't the sort of holster you could wear on horseback, Pack observed; the revolver would bounce out.

“Morning, Riley. Change your mind about working for me?”

“No.”

“Something I can do for you, then?”

“Well I was wondering.” Some of the bellicosity went out of Luffsey's attitude. “Dutch Reuter says you know a lot about Custer and Hickok and them all.” He watched with interest as Pack set a bar of type.