By the time they reached the siding, the Marquis was riding up and down shouting instructions from under his white sombrero and pointing vigorously with his silver-headed bamboo walking stick.

The stick seemed a part of De Morès’s personality. He carried it at all times and often held it out at arm’s length. Stained dark and lacquered, it looked slender, even fragile—but Pack had told Joe how he had handled it on two or three occasions at De Morès’s invitation; it was monstrously heavy, Pack assured him. De Morès had filled it with lead. It weighed ten or twelve pounds.

The Marquis claimed it was not a weapon. Its purpose, he said, was to exercise his duelling arm. It was said he’d killed several men in France in affaires d’honneur.

In fairness you had to admit a few things in his favor. De Morès was a handsome rapscallion, lean and sleek, so tall as to be commanding whether on foot or horseback; curly black-haired and golden-skinned with a supple beauty of physique that put Joe in mind of something feline. He seemed to have a good quick brain and no shortage of ambitious zeal. But Joe was not as impressed by the Frenchman as some of his friends were. There was a wickedness in the way the man used his power.

Today De Morès wore a loud yellow neck scarf and a blue yachting shirt laced with yellow silk cord; he wore black trousers and big-roweled California spurs on his polished black boots. Beneath half-lidded dark eyes his waxed-to-points mustache turned up rakishly at the ends.

With a casual savage sawing that made Joe wince, De Morès neck-reined the white horse deftly over the track embankment around the end of the private car and loomed above them, high against the bright azure Dakota sky.

“Joe.” The greeting was without pleasure. Then the oily smile: “Arthur my friend. How good to see you.”

The French accent was not pronounced; the Marquis was at ease with English and proud of his fluency.

Joe didn’t mind having the Marquis’s cold shoulder turned to him. The Marquis’s friendship was not a thing he sought, or would have valued.

Men grunted and heaved, transferring cases to a wagon. There was no profanity. That meant Madame la Marquise was still about.

Pack said to De Morès, “Now, I’d like to speak with you and Madame, for the newspaper. My readers are avidly interested in what you both have to say.”

“How flattering. I’m very busy today as you see.”

Madame herself appeared in the open platform door. “Perhaps Arthur could dine with us later in the week, darling.”

She smiled; and from the look of him, it was evident to Joe that Pack nearly fainted.

Joe kept his amusement to himself. He remembered the song that had leaped into Pack’s lips the moment they’d first seen her, months ago:

Oh, my heart is gone and I’m forlorn,

A darling face has won me …

Joe suspected his friend had carried her image in his heart ever since.

She said in her gaily tuneful voice, “Joe, how good to see you. Arthur, dear, you look positively gaunt. We really must feed you.”

“I’m fitter than I look, madame.” Tongue-tied, Pack said no more.

Joe had to concede there was a fine beauty in the graceful carriage with which Madame moved, the composure with which she’d greeted him. There was a lively rhythm in her; it seemed impossible to be near her without picking up its tempo.

She returned his gaze with open candor; a demure smile saved it from impropriety. She was at ease anywhere and with anyone. She had a way of making a man feel like a goat. She treated all the young men of the town like truant children. It distressed Joe to feel she was laughing at him but he always suspected it.

Pack seemed to feel the same way but suffered the indignity gladly. May be he felt it was a small price to pay for the privilege of being near her.

De Morès, confident—unworried by the way his wife inspired the dreams of calf-eyed young men—turned in his saddle to watch the train lurch forward. The engine had come to a second halt in the center of the hundred-yard span of the river bridge. It meant the inconvenience of a double stop; the train would have to move a quarter mile and stop again to take on water at the old Little Missouri depot.

All this provoked Madame la Marquise’s question: “Who on earth could be on that train?”

Joe said, “Assemblyman Roosevelt, ma’am.”

“Teedie Roosevelt? Why on earth—”

“For the hunting, I imagine,” her husband said. “I should like to meet him.”

“So would I,” said Pack. Then to Madame: “You know him, then?”

“Of course, poor thing. Fancy I didn’t know he was on this train! Haven’t you met him, Arthur?”

“Not yet,” said Pack. “I’m looking forward to the pleasure.”

For a moment she was clearly troubled. Then abruptly she gave De Morès her quick blazing smile.

Joe recalled vaguely from last year’s hunt that Roosevelt had said something about being acquainted with De Morès’s wife. It wasn’t surprising, as they were about the same age and came from the same wealthy New York City Society. Seemed odd, though, that De Morès himself should be unacquainted with the rich dude. One naturally assumed they’d have known each other; such was the transcendent freemasonry of wealth.

Medora said to her husband, “I’m sure someone will introduce you to Teedie, dear.” She smiled again at Joe and then at Pack, disarming him completely, as she always did. The way Joe saw it, Pack was more than just a little bit in love with the lady. So were most of the men in Billings County, if it came to that.

Joe indicated the vestibule of the train. “Here he comes now.”

*    *    *

Quite some time later it was Mrs. Reuter, on one of her rare visits to town, who remarked to Joe on the irony of how Roosevelt had stepped down from the train lugging his own valises, while Madame De Morès had arrived in her private car with trunks, servants & c. The irony, Mrs. Reuter said, was in the fact that—from what she read—Roosevelt must have inherited considerably more personal wealth than De Morès.

“I mentioned it to Arthur Packard,” she was to say to Joe, “but it was lost on him. I’m afraid he’s a bit young yet for irony, isn’t he.”

With a grimace Theodore Roosevelt heaved his goods forward, coming down the step.

The sandy mustache was more weighty. Under it was that huge mouthful of tombstone teeth with which he rapidly chopped words into pieces.

“Here, here! Make way! Gentlemen, gentlemen, kindly be so good as to make way!”

The clipped talk in the thin strident voice was accompanied by those same facial squints and contortions of shoulders and elbows; had his arms been unencumbered with belongings he’d have been flailing like a drowning man.

Showing a certain deference the crowd made room. Roosevelt set down his valises. “Joe Ferris. Is Joe Ferris about? Joe?”

Joe made his reluctant way forward. He hadn’t forgotten the adversities of last year’s misadventure. “Right here, Mr. Roosevelt.”

Roosevelt clapped him on the arm. “By Godfrey, it’s good to see you again, Joe.” He endeavored to grin. But it was strained. It came to Joe that he was acting out a performance. It didn’t have the old enthusiasm inside.

The dude coughed. He was having trouble breathing but that wasn’t it; that was his usual state. Joe sensed a melancholia in him: a new deep agony of pain.

Joe said, “Sir, some people here want to meet you …”

Pack stepped forward. “Mr. Roosevelt—”

There was a moment’s pinched displeasure on the dude’s face; then Roosevelt turned as Joe made the introduction: “Mr. Roosevelt—Arthur Packard. Publishes the newspaper here.”

When Roosevelt heard the word “newspaper” a remnant of his politician’s grin appeared; his hand wandered forward. Accompanying the emphatic but somehow unexcited “Dee-lighted to meet you” was his solid double-grip handshake—Joe had been the victim of it and knew it was quite firm, in contradiction to his apparent fragility.