Now Pack looked around the town and it seemed the only things missing were the people, the animals, the noise of uncivil civilization—and the stink of slaughter.

Remarkable.

In an abasing dusk on the porch of the general store he propped himself beneath the false-fronted sign that was still more or less legible: JOE FERRIS GENERAL MERCHANDISE. In a moment he would go inside to take shelter from the Western night. Just now he leaned against the wall to rest his legs and contemplate the scorched plot across the way where his own establishment had stood.

He was like that, picking a tooth with a fingernail, when the sudden loud scrape of a door made him wheel in heart-suspended fear.

A walrus of a man came through the doorway; one arm, brawny as a side of beef, held the door away. His squint of irritation became a peculiar scowl of surprise followed by dubious delight. “—Look what we got here, then.”

Uncertain at first in the poor light, Arthur Packard squinted at him. It was the voice, finally, that gave it away. “Joe Ferris.” He laughed. “Must be prosperity. You have sure as hell filled out.”

“You haven’t. Still too damn skinny to live.” The unexpectedly stout Joe Ferris beamed and pumped his hand. “Be that as it may. Pack, Pack. Now this is fine. Oh, Pack, I’ve missed you. Letters every three, four Christmases just don’t cut the mustard.”

Pack’s glance tipped up toward the signboard with Joe’s name on it. “You don’t still own this …?”

There was a grunt of aspersion. “See anybody around here to sell goods to? I’ve got my big store over in Montana. One’s enough.”

“Then I assume we’re both here for the same reason. But the President’s not due till tomorrow—you’re a day early.”

“May be. So are you.”

Pack said, “I wanted to get here before the crowd.”

“Me too. Came in on the eastbound this morning. Tramped the whole town today. Nothing to see—unless you count recollections.”

In the flowing shadows color died out of the world. Joe Ferris continued to hold the door. “Come upstairs. We’ll light a fire. You can tell me things. You’re newspapering in Chicago—that’s all I know, and it ain’t enough.”

Pack followed his old friend inside. Joe struck a match and put it to the stub of a candle from his pocket. The big room was empty—shelves, counters and hardware being too valuable to leave behind—but implausibly there lingered a faint familiar redolence of leather, kerosene, linseed oil, licorice.

“Remember when I had to fort up in here with a shotgun to keep Jerry Paddock from robbing all my stocks?”

“Now in fact I remember before that. I remember when Swede owned this place.”

“And Jerry Paddock ran him off. Wonder what ever came of Swede?”

“How old are you, Joe?”

“Forty-eight.”

“I’m forty-three,” said Pack. “Listen to us. Like old men—chewing over the past so long ago it’s history.”

Joe started up the stairs. “Does seem a hell of a long time ago, doesn’t it. I wasn’t a Republican then. Hell, I wasn’t even a citizen.”

“Another age—another century. You realize Roosevelt’s only forty-four?”

“Tell the truth I never could enumerate whether he’s too young or too old,” Joe Ferris said. “Either he was born an old man or he’s a bright little kid that never grew up at all.”

“I thought you were his man, Joe, body and soul.”

“And I thought you were against him. What are you doing here?”

“I’m a newspaperman,” Pack said evasively. “He’s news.”

On the upstairs hearth a fire had been laid; Joe ignited it with his candle. A blanket-roll lay against the wall. Joe began to unpack it—a bottle of whiskey, fold-handle frypan, airtights of peaches and pork-and-beans.

Most of the windows had been papered over. One still had its glass. Pack went to it and looked out. That definitely was lamplight in a downstairs window of the chateau up on the bluff. “Somebody’s up there. Squatter? Pilgrim taking shelter for the night?”

Joe Ferris took a look. “More likely caretaker. Madame De Morès still owns it, I hear. Had somebody looking after it, case she ever comes back.”

“Not much chance of that after all these years.” Pack set his valise down. “Now I remember how your great man took one look at that woman and all of a sudden it was as if a locomotive had hit him in the face. Which is not surprising, I suppose, when a man finds himself face to face with a woman who ought to be against the law.”

“That was all in your head, Pack. Don’t you know that yet? She never had an eye for anybody but her husband. That was her big mistake, you ask me.”

Pack had learned years ago there was no point arguing that particular matter with Joe Ferris, no matter how obvious the real facts might have been. He changed the subject. “Now it’s odd—I was going to camp up here tonight. Right here.” He turned a full circle on his heels. “He stayed up here that day, on his way out to face De Morès.”

Joe said shrewdly, “You remember that, do you?”

“It was a ridiculous thing to do. You’ve got to admit that.”

“No,” Joe said. “I sure as hell don’t have to admit that.” He was working the cork out of the whiskey bottle. “He did the right thing that day. He usually does.”

“Hell it was ridiculous. He pictured himself in some Wild West dime novel. But then he’s always been ridiculous. That act he puts on—big words and bravado. The bully big stick and the pompous moralizing. You know what he is, Joe? He’s a character.”

“Aeah,” Joe Ferris agreed. “Pretty good one, too. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here today—and he wouldn’t be President.” He offered the bottle. “Let’s drink to the pretty good character.”

Pack hesitated. Then he reached for the bottle. “Well all right.”

In the morning three men came riding in, each leading three or four saddled horses.

Pack watched from the porch as they emerged from their own dust cloud. He couldn’t quite make them out yet. “Look like first-class horses. Who’s that?”

“A.C. Huidekoper,” Joe Ferris said. “Say he’s still got a horse ranch on the river here. Looks like he’s brought visitors.”

“Why that’s Howard Eaton—and Johnny Goodall.”

The horseman dismounted in a swirl. There were shouts of delight and bone-crushing handshakes. Pack hadn’t seen any of them in years. He hadn’t known Huidekoper was still hereabouts. He knew the other two came from far ranges—Howard Eaton from his famous ranch in Wyoming, Johnny Goodall all the way from his native Texas.

Howard Eaton, who was something of a celebrity—he and his brothers were known all over the world for having founded the dude-ranch industry—said to Joe Ferris, “You weighed in at a lot less, last time I saw you.” He turned to Pack. “Well I have come home to Medora to see the great Rough Rider—the first citizen of the world.” Eaton aimed his friendly crinkled outdoor eyes east toward the gap where the rails descended from the plateau. “When’s the train due, then?”

“Nine o’clock if it’s on time,” Joe Ferris replied.

Pack said, “It wouldn’t dare be late.”

Joe Ferris said, “Who’re the horses for?”

“Yourselves,” said A.C. Huidekoper in his precise Pennsylvania voice, “which is to say the President and whoever he wants to bring with him. We’ll have to get out there and back in twenty-four hours.”

Pack said, “He’s a little on the beefy side for a sixty-five-mile round-trip ride, isn’t he?” The thought made him glance at his friend Joe Ferris. “Not to mention certain present company I wouldn’t care to name out loud.”

Joe said, “I can still ride rings around you on a horse, Pack, any time I’m a mind to.”

“I seem to recall you never were a mind to. Never could stand riding a horse if sitting in a chair would get the job done.”

Joe flashed a grin that brought back all his old boyishness. “I don’t mind going outdoors nowadays. Just so long as I don’t have to make my living at it. As for Mr. Roosevelt, I remember when he rode a hundred miles without a break and I haven’t heard anybody say he’s slowed down any. They say he runs around the White House grounds every day. That beef you’re talking about is muscle.”