Pack said, “Now, Mr. Roosevelt appears to be dressed for a wedding.”

Wil Dow said, “He got an invite card to dine at the château.”

Sewall said, “And if you are aiming to ask why Mr. Roosevelt tolerates the French son of a bitch, don’t ask me.”

Wil Dow said, “Mr. Roosevelt says you have to recognize that people from different parts of the world have different ways of doing things.”

Sewall growled, “He said he’d never do business with the Markee again.”

Wil Dow said, “Well, Uncle Bill, this isn’t a business matter.”

Pack said with some astonishment, “I take it then that he’s posted an acceptance of the invitation?”

Sewall said, “He is suffering great pain from that broken shoulder bone and has been taking laudanum and I’m afraid it’s diminished his judgment.”

If he ever had any, Pack thought, which I doubt very much.

But the promise of confrontation between Roosevelt and De Morès, after what he’d heard about their contretemps at the railroad corrals, put an excitement into him that drove him immediately back outside.

He saw Roosevelt and Joe Ferris in front of the store in the same patch of shade that had been occupied a few minutes earlier by Luffsey and the whore. Roosevelt, despite his leather sling and buckskin outfit, did not seem to mind the stifling heat. Half-drunk on laudanum, no doubt. Joe Ferris was gesturing and talking, probably trying to impress the dude with the zeal with which he had been guarding Roosevelt’s investment. Someone had tried to break into the store the other night and Joe had fired several shots, one of which had hit the wall of Pack’s office, and he’d had words with Joe about that. But afterward they had shared a meal and laughed about it.

Pack walked to the store. He arrived in time to hear Roosevelt say to Joe Ferris, “Your friend Dutch has been doing fine work with us. I’m grateful for the recommendation…. Now this horse Manitou is a magnificent creature of great endurance. Take good care of him. I shall see you later if you’re still awake, and I shall appreciate it if you don’t shoot me for a prowler.”

Joe said, “I may just make that mistake if you keep letting that mustache grow. It’s starting to droop as bad as Jerry Paddock’s.”

“They’re saying you have a score to settle with Mr. Paddock.”

“He stole every scrap from this store. Drove Swede Nelson out of town. Keeps trying to rob me blind.”

Pack interjected, “Now, you’ve never proved a word of that, Joe.”

“Hell, everybody in town knows it. Let him sue me for slander—may be the truth will come out then!”

Roosevelt looked Pack up and down. “A fine coat you’re wearing. May I take it you’re bound for Mr. De Morès’s house?”

“I was about to ask you the same question,” Pack said reluctantly.

*    *    *

There hadn’t been any appreciable rain since last spring. The river was shallow beneath the railroad bridge. Pack accompanied Roosevelt along the ties and up the hill. “I heard about your disputation with the Marquis. I’m surprised you’d accept an invitation to dine at the chateau.”

Roosevelt said, “It’s better all around if a cordial relation be maintained, as befitting two civilized gentlemen.”

Perhaps, Pack thought. But there might be another side to it—perhaps Roosevelt did not wish to be cut off from contact with Mme. Medora …

In a way he nearly felt compassion for the silly dude, for Pack knew something of such things. When he’d been at the University of Michigan he had fallen disastrously in love with an ethereal girl whose pale delicacy and enormous shy brown eyes had entranced him. Unwilling to risk her diamond-engraved engagement to a world-traveling timber-and-railroad heir, she had dallied harmlessly with the helplessly smitten Pack; in the entire collegiate year he had obtained not so much as a kiss on the cheek, and in the end she had gone off gaily to marry the wretched heritor without so much as a word of regret.

After an exchange of a few more desultory politenesses with Roosevelt, he found himself at the château. Several guests were already there, outdoors on the verandah trying to pick up what little breeze came across the butte. There were half a dozen wealthy Easterners and seven Europeans, including two of the Belgians from Luffsey’s hunt and a titled couple from Denmark. Madame la Marquise wore a henna-colored gown that set off her red hair. Eaton was there, and the famous Montana cattle king Granville Stuart, and a barrel-bodied rancher named Pierre Wibaux, proprietor and manager of the W-Bar Ranch on Beaver Creek. Wibaux was from France and, although he was not from the Marquis’s social class, the Marquis generously extended frequent invitations to him because he was a fellow countryman.

From the outset things went badly. The French flag waved on its staff before the château and Roosevelt made an issue of the impropriety of this. The Marquis evidently had decided to humor the New Yorker, regardless of provocations. Perhaps it had to do with Roosevelt’s injury. A servant was summoned and in short order the American flag was hoisted, with the French flag beneath it; then Roosevelt pointed out that the sun had gone down and therefore it was not proper to fly any flag.

Pack thought he wouldn’t blame the Marquis if he threw the insufferable dude off the premises and told him never to return.

But of course the Marquis was too civilized for that. Roosevelt went inside with the others and soon was the animated center of a cluster that included Eaton, Wibaux and several others. Passing by, Pack overheard Roosevelt say to Howard Eaton jocularly, “By Godfrey, sometimes I think the Devil put women on this earth to make fools out of men.”

Madame la Marquise was not in earshot but all the same Pack gave Roosevelt an outraged look. Roosevelt didn’t seem to notice. Pack moved on, his back stiff in disapproval. Suddenly the Marquis was by his side, taking his elbow, steering him to the trophy porch at the rear of the house. “Arthur, I’d like you to put a few articles in the paper. I’m going ahead with the Deadwood stagecoach line. We’re acquiring four Concord coaches from Gilmer and Salisbury. It’s been recommended we maintain at least one hundred and fifty stage horses. What do you think?”

Pack was flattered. “I’d like to know more.”

“It is two hundred and fifteen miles to Deadwood and we are building a station every ten to fifteen miles, the precise interval depending on terrain. We’ve finished five. Soon there will be thirteen stations along the route.”

“You’re putting them up now? That’s quick work.”

“A coach will leave three days a week and will make its midday dinner stop on the south fork of the Cannonball. That coach will continue south while its driver doubles back on the afternoon stage coming into Medora. In that manner each driver will need to memorize only the details of his own section of the route. He will use four fresh teams a day, and he will cover about a hundred miles round-trip. The coach, having left Medora in the morning, will arrive in Deadwood on the evening of the following day.”

“A thirty-six-hour trip?”

“Just so. Passenger fare will be ten cents a mile.”

“And freight?”

“Express charges ten cents a pound. A coach can carry a ton of cargo—”

Pierre Wibaux, coming through to examine the trophies, interrupted: “In that country? Muddy roads and steep hills?”

“I’m assured it can be done, Pierre. Twenty-five hundred pounds, in fact, and four passengers as well.”

“Whose estimate is that? Jerry Paddock’s?”

Annoyed, Pack turned on Wibaux. “Now, Jerry Paddock knows horses and wagons.”

“He’s probably stolen enough of both,” Wibaux agreed.

Madame Medora swept forward; some intuition had brought her. Her beauty immediately erased the growing tension. “Come along, Antoine, it’s time to feed our guests.”