Brian Garfield (18 page)

By then three point riders had entered the head of the street and Pack finally understood when he saw the dust-caked woollies behind them—a sea of bobbing sheep, funneled into a tight-woven carpet by the buildings on either side, unrolling forward at the insistence of yipping dogs and whooping riders.

The breeze, having shifted around to the east, brought with it a new odor—the stink of sheep oil. It set Frank O'Donnell to sneezing. Pack found it less obtrusive than the abattoir's smell but it had an astonishing effect on the faces of the men around him. Above the rataplan of hoofs and the baying of sheep and the yapping of dogs and the whooping of drovers there were quite a few sneezes and Pack heard a great deal of angry comment—all of it profane.

The sheep bobbed like corks. Their faces, Pack thought, were truly innocent. They crowded against one another in a suffocating jam—a single flow of tangled dust-caked wool. Curly capital on the hoof. Pack felt a swell of pride as if they were his own.
Progress!

One block short of Roberts's saloon the point riders turned the herd left, heading them toward the embankment. A single horseman posted himself at the near side of the intersection to prevent strays from wandering this way. He didn't seem to have any difficulty; the sheep trotted around the bend as obediently as children in a follow-the-leader game. They looked like four-legged flour barrels.

The Bad Landers were aghast.

Joe Ferris said, “How many? Five, seven thousand goddamn sheep? Didn't have to drive the stupid critters right through town. Take two inches of topsoil off the streets.”

Finnegan said, “Rubbing our faces in it. Son of a French whore.”

A hundred yards away Jerry Paddock stood in the doorway of the De Morès office building. Dressed all in black, he watched the sheep's progress. His face was not legible beneath the lowered hatbrim; the droop of his Oriental mustache gave him a sardonic look in the misty dust.

Young Luffsey, half full of whiskey, stepped past Pack and lifted his revolver toward the flowing sheep. Before the youth could steady his aim Pack grasped his arm and pushed it down.

Pack said mildly, “Might hit one of the riders.”

“I's just gonna shoot a couple muttons.”

“Destroy the Marquis's property in front of fifty witnesses and you'll have the sheriff on you.”

“Hell, Mr. Packard, Sheriff Harmon's a hundred and fifty miles away and he doesn't even know where this town is. He couldn't find Medora on a bet.”

“All he's got to do is step on the train and step off the train, Riley.”

Luffsey turned and looked uncertainly at Redhead Finnegan, as if for instructions.

Finnegan had other things on his mind. He was brooding in the direction of the De Morès offices. Jerry Paddock seemed to feel the strike of Finnegan's stare; with a toss of his head the villain retired into the doorway.

Finnegan said, “I heard it but I didn't believe it—I didn't believe even the Markee could be that stupid. Ain't no end to what the damn fool crazy Frenchman don't know about sheep. Nibble the grass right down to the quick, don't they. So close to the ground they kill the roots, ruin the pasture for game and cattle and they leave you nothing but dust and clay that'll wash away next rain.”

Frank O'Donnell, who was quite drunk, sneezed violently and aimed his .45 at the horseman on the corner, who steadied his mount and lifted his free hand to indicate his peacefulness. O'Donnell yelled, “Take a message to De Morès—the word's out he's to be shot on sight like a dog!”

O'Donnell was only tossing raw meat at a distance—bait. His eyes watered. He seemed too drunk to know what he was doing, but Finnegan turned on him in contempt: “Hell, Frank, you want to transmit messages, why'n't you just send the Markee a telegraph wire—give him twenty-four hours to get out of Dakota?”

Indignation made O'Donnell rear back until he nearly lost his balance. He lost his grip on the revolver; it flew away through the air and struck someone who cried out in annoyance.

O'Donnell sneezed again as he lurched toward Redhead Finnegan. “You think I won't do it? I'll send him a note, I swear I will!”

“Go ahead, Frank. Write the Markee a letter. I bet it just scares the chaps right off him.” Finnegan sniggered. “Hell, you fool, either kill the man or don't kill him—don't mess with sending
messages.
”

O'Donnell swayed, gathered himself with a determined scowl and said, “Riley? Where in hell's Riley Luffsey?”

“Right here, Frank.”

“You write the message for me. You can write, can't you?”

There was a general round of derisive laughter. O'Donnell sat down unintentionally on the edge of the board sidewalk and pitched over on his side and the crowd made way around him in a general movement back into Bob's Bug Juice Emporium.

Luffsey hung back, revolver still in his fist, and Pack watched closely until finally the youth put the weapon away in its cut-off holster and made a face and slammed into the saloon.

O'Donnell lay snoring on the edge of the walk. Pack thought about picking him up but a rebellious
To hell with him
welled up, and he put his back to the unconscious drunk and went inside with Joe Ferris.

He could see that Joe was in a dangerous fuming silent rage. Joe tramped around behind the bar and poured himself a full mug of beer from the keg and drank the whole thing down without pausing for breath. He closed his eyes. “There's your news story, Pack. Write it up with the usual enthusiasm.”

Joe drew another beer and came away from the backbar. He breathed heavily in and out; he looked resentfully at Pack and said, “Jerry Paddock convinced the Marquis there's money in it. Got something like twenty men signed solemn contracts to herd sheep for the Marquis. These're just the first batch, you know. Fifteen thousand of those Merinos coming in, boys, like it or not.”

The thundering racket was diminishing out there. Riley Luffsey's eyes bulged. “Fifteen
thousand?
”

Joe Ferris belched and interjected, “Jerry Paddock is lower than a snake's vest button. What he did to poor Swede—”

There was a burst of sudden laughter from Redhead Finnegan. “Merinos, hell—they won't stand one winter up here. What you bet these boys eat all the mutton their bellies can hold and then go complaining to the Markee about the terrible losses to coyotes and wolves and snow?”

Pack said, “Now, you have my sympathies, gents, but it's no good standing in the path of improvement. Now, I know you hunters resent the Marquis. But with his capital he's doing more to stimulate the development of the Territory than all the hunters and squatters put together. You won't turn the calendar back. There is a world of cities out there hungry for beef and mutton and wool, and now that the Marquis has shown the way, the industry will boom with or without him. You may as well quit your threats.”

Redhead Finnegan said, “You're in the wrong bar room, Pack.”

Pack knew what they thought of him. He knew he invariably presented an innocent expression of eager curiosity. But there were things you couldn't let a ruffian get away with. Pack met the stare of the Man from Bitter Creek. He expected Finnegan's faithless glance to break away but Finnegan never blinked; he only said, “You'd be dead by now except I don't pick fights with a man who ain't got the grit to go armed.”

“I'm armed with my wits, Red, which is more than I need in this company.”

“Go peddle the Markee's fish-wrap—whyn't you just print the damn rag in French? I'm telling you again—you're in the wrong bar room, you vile dirty whangdoodle low-down Frenchman's toady,” Finnegan roared; and Pack felt the prod of Joe Ferris's hand.

Bob Roberts sought to break the moment with a bellow: “Time to fill the empty ones!”

Pack felt himself gripped from behind. By reflex he resisted but then he recognized Joe Ferris. Propelled urgently out of the place by his friend, Pack gave Joe a resentful look and broke away and surged earnestly toward
The Bad Lands Cow Boy
, his bearded head preceding his body; he lunged ahead with such force that he felt capable of exploding straight through any object that might block his path.

On his way through the office he snatched down his burlap apron and green visor and paper cuffs stained with ink. In the press room he scribbled the paragraphs quickly. Anger stiffened his hand:

It has been our endeavor to build up a paper that would be of substantial benefit to Dakota and Dakotans; and we had hoped our undertaking might meet with the approval of all who feel an interest in the development of the Territory and who believe that fair and impartial advertising of its resources will hasten the march of progress.

Low, vulgar abuse has never found a place in these columns, and it never shall, and though we shall ever wage war upon corruption and wrongdoers, and attempt all in our power to sustain principles of right and justice, we do not believe that personal vituperation will in any way tend to root out the corrupt nor advance the cause of truth and purity.

He paced urgently around the table, reading it back, squinting in the smoky kerosene lamplight.

It needed no correcting. He went on to the composing desk and began to sort through the week's collection of Western Union wire stories and clippings from the most recent of the national magazines and newspapers that cluttered the room in unruly havoc.

Then he went through his charts, made a note to remove two advertisers because of their nonpayment of third-notice billings, canceled five subscriptions that were three months overdue, and gathered the three new advertisements that were to make their debut appearances in this week's issue: Anderson's Restaurant (“Refreshes the Inner Man!”), Dan McKenzie (“Blacksmith and Horse-shoeing”); and Michael Knott (“Keeps All Kinds of Wines, Liquors and Whiskies”).

Through it all, fury was a hot spiral through his innards. He rehearsed and refined what he was going to write. When he was able to steady his pulse, his pencil flew:

America's divine predestination is being achieved in Billings County. The Marquis De Morès, that brave soldier in the army of Manifest Destiny, once again emblazons history with his deeds of Vision and Progress.

The Marquis De Morès is already famed for bringing modernity to the beef industry. His score of highly trained butchers dress cattle in a spanking new abattoir on the range beside the railroad, thus eliminating the cost of shipping live animals to the East. One might have thought it should have been obvious to any fool that three fifths of the weight of a live steer is inedible, and therefore the man who ships live cattle pays more than twice as much for transportation as he need do, but evidently this brilliant stroke has never occurred to Mr Armour, Mr Swift or any other of the Eastern packers.

Blocks of ice, chopped and harvested from northern rivers throughout the winter, are stored in insulated relay ice-houses every 200 miles between Medora and New York. M De Morès's Northern Pacific Refigerator Car Company has built cold-storage facilities in Helena, Billings, Miles City, Medora, Bismarck, Fargo, Brainerd, Duluth, Minneapolis, St. Paul and Chicago.

He has half the transport cost and none of the middleman cost of the meat-packers of the Chicago Trust, and we predict with confidence that this means nothing less than a Revolution in the meat industry.

The NPRCC has recently increased its capital stock from $200,000 to $1 million. When the range is fully stocked and the abattoir operating at full capacity, it is anticipated the Medora industry will provide the fattening, slaughtering and marketing of at least 40,000 beeves yearly, thus dashing the strangle-hold of the Eastern monopolies. We anticipate the De Morès triumph will create a considerable drop in prices for the consumer and, in turn, encourage a sharp increase in the demand for beef.

And now upon this auspicious date the
Cow Boy
is pleased to report the arrival of the first domestic sheep in Medora town, thanks to the foresight and genius of the community's leading citizen.

In sum and in short, the Marquis De Morès has become a stirring symbol of the ethos of Prosperity and Progress on the Frontier.

He read it back with satisfaction. That would most certainly take the wind right out of the sails of Finnegan and the ignorant ruffians.

It remained to put
The Bad Lands Cowboy
to bed. He set his type with the speed of long practice: son and apprentice of a newspaper man. Pack—publisher, reporter, editor, make-up man, press man, printer's devil—made up the forms and slapped them on the bed of the Washington hand press and jammed the type-bars in place and thrust the first sheet of wet-down paper on the tympan points and unhooked the swinging frisket and brought it down to protect the margins of the paper and distributed ink on the composition roller and slid the bed under the platen and slid it back again, his deadline determined by the schedule of the morning train. Eyes on the clock, oblivious to the familiar rumble of the press, he heaved the lever fore and back, freeing sheets of sticky printpaper, straightening the new stack for back-side printing, needing six arms and possessing but two.

When he looked up he saw Riley Luffsey's face pressed to the window. Pack reared back in alarm. But the kid only smiled, in an odd shy way. Pack beckoned, inviting him in. Luffsey came hesitantly to the door and nearly stepped inside. But then he looked behind him, saw something that changed his mind, and hurried away with swagger restored.

Pack was returning from the train with empty wheelbarrow and type iron when he saw two horsemen converging toward the abattoir. Recognizing them, Pack dropped the iron into the wheelbarrow, left them at the edge of the street and hurried toward the abattoir. For the two riders were De Morès and Theodore Roosevelt.

The smell grew worse as Pack ran toward the smashing racket of boilers, vats, crashing mechanical pumps.