Brian Garfield (27 page)

As for Dutch Reuter, Wil had developed a keen respect and liking for his cowboy mentor. Dutch had earned that rare encomium from Roosevelt “a capital fellow.” Roosevelt seemed much taken by the fact that Dutch, who could not read or write, could retain in his memory long complicated lists of instructions. Uncle Bill Sewall, with characteristic dour wit, described Dutch's English as “unspeakable” and in truth the accent sometimes made him nearly impossible to understand; but they'd learned on the ranch that you could recite a lengthy order to him and he would ride away in the morning with his pack animals and return next day to the Elkhorn after sixty miles' round-trip ride with packsaddles filled with precisely every item on the list, even though he may have had to visit every establishment in town to fulfill them all.

But Dutch was by no means admired by everyone. Once he had been a hunting-guide partner of the surly Frank O'Donnell; Dutch was taken to be a friend, or at least an ally, of O'Donnell and his friends—Redhead Finnegan and Riley Luffsey and the other wild ruffians who had made clear their opposition to the Marquis de Morès.

The matter surfaced one noon when a large number of rifle shots was heard in the distance. It was a great fusillade but it only lasted a minute or two. A while later Dutch Reuter and Bill Sewall came separately into camp driving small pick-up herds of strays. The two men were riding parallel on converging courses but they had not been working together. Dutch turned his cattle in, unsaddled and went to the chuck wagon for dinner; he had nothing to report. Sewall said to Johnny Goodall, who happened to be eating here today, “I don't know if it means anything but I saw Redhead Finnegan and his friends hanging around the edges of the roundup.”

“When?”

“Two hours ago.”

Johnny glanced at Dutch. “You see them too?”

Dutch looked at him, looked at Sewall, then returned his attention to his meal. He made no answer of any kind.

Sewall said, “And there was a pretty big flock of sheep. Buzzards picking at more than two dozen of them. They'd been rifle-shot.”

“By Finnegan?”

“I wouldn't know that for certain. I heard shooting but I didn't see it done, and when I saw Finnegan and the others they were a mile or more away from the sheep.”

Dutch continued to eat. Johnny Goodall walked to Dutch's saddle and touched the stock of the scabbarded rifle. He looked at Dutch, as if for permission. Dutch watched him without a word or a sign. Johnny said, “Mind if I look at it?”

Dutch only stared at him. After a while Johnny slid the rifle out of leather, watching Dutch every moment, and jacked it open. He put his thumb in the breech and peered down the muzzle, sniffed at the weapon, snapped it shut and returned it to the scabbard. “Fresh cleaned.”

Pierce Bolan said, “It does get dusty on the trail, Johnny. I clean my rifle at least a couple times a week.”

“While you're on horseback?” Johnny Goodall saddled a fresh horse. When he rose to the saddle he said, “Dutch—you got anything to say to me?”

“About what?”

“Sheep.”

“Don't like 'em.”

“Redhead Finnegan.”

“I mind my own business, yah?”

“Destroying another man's livestock—that's a serious thing, Dutch.”

“You see me destroy?”

“You're on thin ice, you old bastard.”

Johnny rode out in the direction Uncle Bill pointed him.

That evening Wil heard it said around camp that Johnny had engaged in some very plain talk with Finnegan, threatening to lynch the whole crowd if any cattle were stolen or any more sheep massacred; but no one knew very much for sure and Johnny said nothing about it. Nevertheless Wil kept hearing louder and more frequent expressions of concern among the ranchmen about the profusion of rustlers in the Bad Lands, and the need to do something about them.

The round-up worked its way downriver to the outskirts of Medora town. Quite a few citizens came out to observe the activities. Among them was the lady Medora, Madame la Marquise—sidesaddle on a pretty mare, her delicate face shaded beneath a Mexican sugarloaf hat that was wider than her shoulders. Mr. Roosevelt walked through the crowd to greet her.

Johnny Goodall turned his head alertly to watch them. The ligaments of his neck stood out tight against the weather-bronzed flesh.

Wil Dow wasn't close enough to hear the words Roosevelt exchanged with the lady; he did see Roosevelt's flashing smile.

Just then Wil happened to notice Johnny Goodall with a wicked sort of grin stride to the wagon, hold brief colloquy with one of the De Morès top hands, and run across the camp like a man with bright mischief on his mind. Johnny, in his round-topped flatbrimmed hat, went prowling into the remuda as if heedless of the danger of being kicked or stomped or crushed by any of the wild-eyed horses, and came out a minute later leading a skittish vicious-looking beast. He and the top hand wrapped a blindfold around the horse's head and fought hard to get it saddled.

Wil watched with increasing suspicion until Johnny led the monster to Mr. Roosevelt and handed him the reins. Johnny lifted his voice so that everyone could hear him. “Here you go, Mr. Roosevelt. A plumb gentle horse.”

Wil jumped off the fence and hurried forward while Roosevelt met the round-up manager's gaze. Johnny put on a guileless smile. Roosevelt did not smile back. Wil stopped then, because it was clear they both knew what this was about: yet another in the exhausting sequence of tests the Texan had contrived for the dude—and this one in front of Madame Medora, which could not help but increase Mr. Roosevelt's humiliation, whether he should decline the challenge or accept it and be made a fool by the savage horse.

There was nothing Wil could do about it. He backed away slowly with a scowl.

Johnny Goodall said, “You just ease yourself—the horse will do the same. You trust him, he'll trust you. You give respect, he'll return it.”

Cowboys gathered. Wil Dow found Pierce Bolan beside him. “Watch this,” Bolan confided. “Johnny will tell you any horse that's been roped is a broke horse. But that's a bucker if I ever seen one.”

Roosevelt spoke another half-dozen quiet words to the lady and then turned to accept the bucking horse.

Wil Dow stated agape at Madame Medora. It was the first time he'd seen her close up. Her riding habit was black. She wore hobnail boots with soft leather leggins; of course it was not done for a woman to show the least bit of ankle. Lady Medora's skirts would have dragged the ground if she had been standing upon it. Even so, Wil Dow knew that if a gentleman should give her a hand up into the sidesaddle, he was required by custom to look away, lest he catch a glimpse of limb.

He'd heard it said that Madame la Marquise was considered quite risqué because—rumor had it—she now and then sunned herself in a full-length outfit that had half-sleeves and actually revealed her forearms.

Two men boosted Roosevelt into the saddle. They stepped back, grinning.

The horse exploded under the boss and Wil Dow winced; he could feel the hard shocks that must have run up Roosevelt's bones.

The horse leaped high in the air, all four hoofs far from the ground, spine bowed—and came down with a crash that swung the rider far over. The horse pivoted; the rider was clutching at things but there was sky visible beneath the crotch of his trousers and it was just a matter of instants now. His hat and glasses were gone into the dust. Wil Dow saw the revolver bounce out of Roosevelt's holster. There were shouts from the men: “Go to him, cowboy!”

“Stay by! Stay by!”

There was a great deal of laughter: nobody expected Roosevelt to stay on board. But he was making a good fight of it. Wil worried: Roosevelt had more than his share of stubbornness and it seemed all too clear that this horse was going to be ridden—or Roosevelt was going to get hurt.

Oddly, it was Johnny Goodall who ran out and rescued the eyeglasses.

The horse reared, kicked, came down hard two legs at a time—that second shock nearly twisted the rider in half. It brought a cry from Madame la Marquise. The horse planted its front feet and kicked its hind hoofs high in the air. Roosevelt would have come off if the horse hadn't slammed forward under him, as if catching him. Then it ran forward, stopped dead in its tracks and dropped its head between its splayed front legs. It arched its back and swirled, gone mad.

Somehow the rider was still up. But then the horse went straight up in the air as if it had been hit from underneath by a cannonball. When it came down it rolled sideways and the rider pitched off—and a good thing too, Wil thought, because it might have crushed him otherwise.

The cowboys cheered, their humor being as cruel as it was rough, but when the horse clambered to its feet Roosevelt was right there, reins gathered, both fists gripping the horn.

He hauled himself back into the saddle as the horse sunfished end-for-end. He hadn't secured his seat; his feet were half out of the stirrups; and the horse was swapping ends fast enough to make a wooden cigar-store Indian dizzy. It was no wonder Roosevelt flew off.

The lady Medora gasped; the cowboys cheered the horse; Johnny Goodall squinted with a calm smile, trying to see through Roosevelt's eyeglasses; Pierce Bolan said to no one in particular, “That horse is pure outlaw.” And Roosevelt got back on the horse.

The outlaw's teeth snapped together; it uttered a loud malevolent grunt; it surged and lashed; and at last—just when it seemed inevitable the rider must soar away yet again to wheel shoulder-first against the dusty earth—the horse gave up and ran.

Tamed for the moment, it galloped full out while the rider resettled his seat and his composure.

Madame Medora clapped her hands energetically. Sewall and Dow followed suit. Dutch Reuter and several of the punchers joined in the applause. But several others did not; and Johnny Goodall only watched, not moving, until Roosevelt turned the running horse and brought it back toward the fire, dropping it to a canter and a trot and finally a walk. Then Johnny Goodall stepped forward and handed the rescued pair of glasses up to Roosevelt.

Wil Dow saw that Roosevelt's ferocious grin was aimed at the lady. “What a rattling good time.”

Madame Medora smiled back demurely under her hatbrim.

Roosevelt looked down. “I rode him for you, Mr. Goodall. All the way from the tip of his ear to the end of his tail.”

Johnny Goodall made a deliberate pivot and strode away.

Pierce Bolan said dryly to Roosevelt, “Next time Johnny tells you he's got a plumb gentle horse for you, you want to look out.”

Roosevelt's blue eyes flashed behind the dusty lenses. “Nonsense. It's all good fun. I think it's perfectly bully!”

The lady returned to her château; the round-up went on into the evening, at which point there was a great turmoil of men trying to find teetotalers willing to take their places on night-guard. Roosevelt and Uncle Bill immediately volunteered, as they did not drink. A considerable amount of pressure was brought to bear upon Deacon Osterhaut, who finally agreed to stand a watch but not without berating the boys about the Wages of Sin. “It is not God's will that
any
of you patronize the fleshpots of this evil Gomorrah.”

Wil Dow thought of going into town to See The Elephant with the rest of the boys. It was tempting. But he decided to save his money and his health. He enjoyed a drink now and then but it would give him a dread headache and that was something he did not care to endure on the back of a bucking horse. He took Pierce Bolan's place on night duty and earned the rancher's undying gratitude.

By the next morning it was Wil who was grateful. For the others there followed two days of painful sobering up as the round-up moved its memorable hangover downriver. Uncle Bill and Deacon Osterhaut regarded the suffering cowboys with smug satisfaction. The boys joked with Uncle Bill while they returned Osterhaut's surliness in kind. Some men simply had a sweeter flavor than others, Wil observed.

Mr. Roosevelt wisely held his own counsel. One afternoon he was out with his glass-plate camera making pictures of the roundup. Johnny Goodall came by. “I'm giving out assignment orders. Mr. Roosevelt, you'll ride circle twice tomorrow, the outer swing. Next day find the wagon and take your turn cutting out and branding, and you'll have a turn on night-herd guard.”

“Fair enough,” Roosevelt replied. Perhaps he didn't realize he'd just been ordered to ride more than a hundred miles without rest and to perform nearly forty hours' work in the next forty-eight. Wil Dow was on the point of speaking a protest but Uncle Bill shushed him.

Then Johnny Goodall did a strange thing. He said to Roosevelt, “A word of advice. Pick out the gentlest horse you can find, picket it near the wagon every night, and use it for night duty. Hard enough to have to get out of the blankets in the middle of the night—you don't want to have to fight a mean horse to get it saddled. Besides, sometimes you have to move sudden at night.”

Johnny moved away without leaving time for a response. Roosevelt called after him: “Thank you. You're a capital gentleman.”

If he heard, Johnny made no sign of it.

Wil Dow said to his uncle, “Looks like Johnny's relenting.”

“I doubt it. He's not sorry for anything he said or did. He's just being practical. Wants to keep things calm and head off any mutinies.”

“You think he's that calculating?”

Wil Dow knew he invariably presented an innocent expression of eager curiosity. He went after Johnny Goodall, found him dismounted, and asked him straight out, “Why do you work for a man like De Morès?”

“For one hundred dollars a month,” Johnny replied.

Reason enough, perhaps. It was three times the wage of a top hand.

Johnny walked away with the slightly bowlegged ungainly rolling gait of a horseman, the rowels of his big Mexican spurs chinking with each hard confident stride: he planted each boot hard enough to jab a distinct heel-print into the tough clay. He never seemed to hurry. All his movements were measured and laconic. Yet he managed to be everywhere at once; nothing escaped his keen attention.