Howard Eaton said in a mild voice, “Don’t be such a hothead, Arthur. Try not to judge people too quickly.”

Pack turned away, feeling red in his cheeks, and went back to the bar to replenish his beer. Deacon Osterhaut was there, a smear of cigar ash greying the lapel of his worn black suit; the Deacon was telling someone that same inaccurate story about how Roosevelt bluffed a war party of Indians with his fancy shooting. Pack didn’t bother to correct the Deacon again; all too obviously it would do no good. Osterhaut was the sort of person who preferred rumor to truth.

Pack carried his beer back the way he had come; he felt an irascible need to get back into the fray. He pushed his way through the boisterous crowd and found the same group clustered around Roosevelt. Pierce Bolan, who ran a small outfit downriver, had joined them. Huidekoper was complaining: “Before De Morès came—”

“Before De Morès came,” Pack said in a voice strong enough to override Huidekoper’s, “there were wild Indians and coal fires, and badmen and thieves in the old Little Misery Cantonment. I am not much of a believer in the good old days.”

“At least we had opportunity to run our little outfits without fear of this mob of human vultures who’ve flocked to peck at us now.” Huidekoper wouldn’t give up an inch. “Dive-keepers and tinhorn card mechanics and diseased shanty queens. You can smell the brimstone from twenty miles downwind.”

“That’s the Markee’s slaughterhouse you’re smelling,” Pierce Bolan interjected. Everyone laughed a little—everyone but Pack.

Roosevelt said, “Shall we return to the idea of forming a stock-growers’ association?”

Pack said, “To exclude whom?”

They all looked at him.

He took a step backward. Then he narrowed his eyes and stroked his beard. He managed a wise smile. “I don’t see a need to create an association if there’s nobody to be kept out of it.”

Huidekoper said, “No one’s suggested any exclusions.”

“Isn’t that the whole reason to form an association—to keep somebody out? Who is it? The Marquis De Morès?”

Howard Eaton said, “Now you know we live in a country that’s almighty attractive to the criminal element. Just try and find a man who’s hiding in the buckbrush out there in the ravines, with the Montana line just west and, if he needs it, the Canada line only a few hours’ ride north.”

By then Huidekoper and Bolan were looking toward the door with new interest. Pack turned to find out what had alerted them.

It was Johnny Goodall, entering late. He paused inquisitively, trying to get the hang of the conversation.

Eaton called, “Johnny. Glad you could make it. Come over here.”

When Goodall came forward, Eaton said, “Mr. Roosevelt here has put your name forward as round-up boss.”

“That’s mighty kind.” Johnny Goodall had fine manners. His voice was soft with a careful courtesy in it. But the look he gave Roosevelt was one of puzzlement. Johnny was no fool. He knew Roosevelt stood against the Marquis.

Howard Eaton said, “What do you say to it, then?”

At a time like this a man had to test his enemies, not his friends. Johnny turned to Huidekoper. “What do you say to it, sir?”

“It’s been put before us that you’re the most experienced and able man for the position. Can you think of any reason why you might not be able to fill the job with good conscience and complete impartiality?” There was dubious challenge in Huidekoper’s gaze.

Johnny Goodall said, “I can do the job—if every man agrees to let me do it.”

“I admire your confidence,” Huidekoper said—too dryly, Pack thought.

Howard Eaton said, “While we’re at it let me propose as chairman of the Little Missouri Stockmen’s Association a gentleman among us who has a political record well known—Theodore Roosevelt. We’ll meet to draw up rules and resolutions. What do you say?”

Johnny Goodall, looking straight at Roosevelt, said, “I say there ain’t time now for that much jawing and writing. I say we wait till after the round-up, and then we can see what we need and who’s fit to say so.”

Pack watched Roosevelt meet the Texan’s gaze.

Roosevelt said, “That certainly seems fair to me.”

Now, it was doubtful, Pack thought, that Roosevelt would ever become chairman of anything in Dakota; by the time round-up was over, the little dude would be the laughingstock of the West.

Nine

Round-up camp was enormous; it looked to Wil Dow like a town. There must have been two thousand horses, two hundred men, a dozen chuck wagons each pulled by four drays and driven by a testy teamster-chef whose job seemed to incorporate the imperative of a ferocious temper.

By agreement the Roosevelt outfit was attached to the Huidekoper wagon, as were two other small ranchers—Deacon W.P. Osterhaut and Pierce Bolan.

It was clear from the outset that Theodore Roosevelt had his enemies. Men walked out of their way to avoid him. When Wil saw it happen he gave them his best snarl but no one paid much attention.

Horseflies were numerous and ripe smells were pungenthorses, leather, dung, not to mention the dreadful stink of steaming vats of coffee that had been defined for Wil Dow by Dutch Reuter: “You drop horseshoe in. If horseshoe don’t float, strong enough it ain’t.”

Horsetails swished and unshod hoofs pounded earth as the animals fought an endless war with the flies. There were creakings of saddle leather and tinnient chimings of spurs. Horses grunted, whickered, whinnied, urinated and dropped patties with soft thumpings.

Johnny Goodall stood on the open tailgate of a Conestoga. He sounded a bit as if his mind were somewhere else; he’d probably delivered the same sermon five times today. His voice carried across the crowd:

“Listen up. This round-up will work its way one hundred miles down the river from here to the Killdeer Mountains. I expect the wagons to move eight miles a day, zigzag. Each man’s responsibility to keep up. Expecting a seven-week round-up to cover ten thousand square miles. Rough estimate calls for forty thousand head of cattle. Tame the kinks out of your horses today because we start tomorrow before sunup. Breakfast at three in the morning. Good luck, boys.”

It was still dark when the bellowing cook roused Wil Dow from his blankets. By firelight he tugged on boots, buckled chaps and gunbelt, lodged his hat hard down over his ears and was ready for whatever the day might mete out.

Following Dutch’s example Wil rolled his blankets, tied the roll with whipcord and turned it in at the chuck wagon so that the cook could carry it on to the next night’s campsite. Otherwise, Dutch reminded him, it would be left behind and he’d have to sleep cold on open ground for the remainder of the round-up.

At the fire they helped themselves to a stark breakfast and a hot metal cup of coffee that lived up to Dutch’s description: it had the consistency of molasses and the impact of a horse’s hoofs against the ribs.

Most of the hands ate squatting on their toes; Wil preferred to stand—there’d be enough sitting during the day on horseback.

Pierce Bolan was having the devil’s own time trying to saddle up. In a rage he cursed the horse at length. At the end of it Deacon Osterhaut—late arriving for breakfast—said loudly, “You’ll answer to the good Lord one day for that cussing, Pierce.”

Pierce Bolan swung aboard the horse and it bucked like the wrath of God. Bolan gasped, “Answering for it right now, Deacon.”

Watching the bronco buster, Mr. Roosevelt applauded. “A fine ride—a fine rider. I admire dogged staying power.”

Wil Dow heard someone’s Arkansas twang—no effort to lower the voice: “Who’s the little squirt to be admirin’ anything in a cow camp?” But it wasn’t possible to identify the speaker; it hadn’t been said to Roosevelt’s face. He might be a figure of ridicule but he was an owner.