Pack noted disapprovingly that Joe Ferris wore his Remington revolver blatantly on his hip—a rudeness, God knew, at a funeral; but there it was.

Did Joe expect Jerry Paddock to blaze away from ambush at the funeral party?

As the new white wood cross went up there was a great deal of muttering, much of it old-sod accented. “Why, darlin’ Riley Luffsey had so soft a heart, he could hardly kill a fly.”

Frank O’Donnell was not there; he was confined to his bed by his bullet wound. But Dutch Reuter had the gall to put in an appearance, and was surrounded with immediate loyalty by Redhead Finnegan and a crowd that seemed to include every Irishman in the district. Finnegan kept running his hand down his face—pretending to wipe away his crocodile tears, Pack thought savagely. They are such brazen hypocrites in their bleeding sentimentality.

Tempers ran very high. Dutch Reuter was not bashful in honking out his story. He had just happened to encounter O’Donnell and Luffsey on the trail, and accompanied them on their quiet ride toward town. They were peaceful folks. They nobody no harm meant.

If this were indeed the case, Pack thought angrily, how was it that the Marquis was able to show such a large number of bullet holes through his clothing and a soft lead bullet smashed against the buttstrap of his revolver?

Deacon Osterhaut, reading over the corpse, said self-righteously, “Perhaps it is true young Luffsey may have been headed for certain eventual arrest. Yet we cannot know anything but his Innocence in the eyes of the Almighty. In any event he now is in the Highest Custody.”

As the Deacon intoned the prayer, Pack saw Little Casino try to hide a tear in her eye. He felt moisture in his own eyes; and it occurred to him that there was hope for us all in the knowledge that even so low a creature as Luffsey had friends and loved ones to cry for him.

Sotto voce, Joe Ferris said in Pack’s ear, “You know damn well it was Jerry Paddock killed the kid from ambush.”

“Nonsense. Paddock wasn’t even there.”

Joe’s suspicions obviously had to be chalked up to his foolish prejudice against the Marquis and his virulent dislike of Jerry Paddock.

I don’t like the villain any better than you do, Pack thought, but that’s no proof he murdered Luffsey.

It must continue to be Pack’s mission to set his misinformed friend on the path of Right and Truth.

Eleven

Joe Ferris climbed up on the seat and ran the wagon out of town, happy to get away from slaughter smell and treacherous tempers—these latter still running high after several weeks of a strange suspension during which none of the principals had been on the scene. The Marquis and Marquise were away, allegedly on business, for nearly a month. Redhead Finnegan hadn’t shown his face in town during that time. Frank O’Donnell was recovering slowly from his wound after a bout with blood poisoning; he drank profusely but kept to himself. Dutch Reuter had stayed away from town. A.C. Huidekoper seemed to have been spending all his free time traveling from ranch to ranch trying to organize the owners and managers against De Morès, with no success Joe could see. Even Roosevelt had been away in the East for three weeks, taking care of family business matters.

But now he was back. And so was the Marquis.

It seemed inevitable there was going to be a dust-up between those two gents. Somehow you could feel it coming.

The trail north to the Elkhorn crossed and recrossed the Little Missouri River more than twenty times. At intervals Joe went bouncing in the ruts past holding pens where hired hands were gathering cattle for the ravenous De Morès abattoir. He passed the turnoffs to Wibaux’s ranch and Pierce Bolan’s. As he came onto the Elkhorn the colors of the Bad Lands changed subtly—the horizontal stripes seemed to become more pale and there was more greenery on the slopes. The trees in the bottoms were lush, even this late in the year. Easy to understand why Roosevelt had chosen this location.

Joe tied the team in front of the log ranch house. Dutch Reuter evidently had watched his approach; now he set aside a rifle, came up from the barn and lifted a dipperful of water from the basin by the door. Dusty and shaggy, Dutch gulped a refreshing drink and then poured cold water over his head so that it ran down his face. It dripped from his beard. He wiped at it clumsily. “That French bastard still going me to shoot?”

“I expect he knows better, Dutch. He wouldn’t try it a second time. Most likely you’re safe, specially long as you’re under Mr. Roosevelt’s protection.”

“Don’t need nobody’s protection.” Dutch took out his tobacco, rolled up a paper-collar stiff and ignited it. Then he said, “Before, he Mr. Roosevelt did not like. Hate, now.”

Sometimes it was hard to decide what Dutch meant; his fractured English made for poor understanding. Joe said, “You mean the Markee hates Mr. Roosevelt—more than he did before?”

“Just so. And worse if I stay. He Mr. Roosevelt try to kill, maybe.”

“I don’t think even the Markee’s that big of a fool.”

“I hear cowboys talk about Roosenfelder the Jew bastard. This from the Markee they got. He Jews don’t like.”

“I met a couple Jew folks,” Joe said. “I buy from them all the time, stocking the store. They ain’t nearly as crazy as some. They don’t shake, they don’t refuse to ride the railroad, they don’t mind if you take a drink or a smoke. Practical folks. What’s the Markee got against them?”

“Don’t know. Ask him. Hey, Joe—Mr. Roosevelt, he Jewish?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Sure be funny if he was not.” Then Dutch said, “Maybe I favor for boss make—kill Markee and go away.” He suddenly grinned, as if to take the edge off it; but Joe wasn’t entirely sure he was joking.

At one side of the barn Wil Dow was milking a cow, squeezing loud jets one-two, one-two into an echoing tin pail. This probably was the only childless ranch in the territory where they took milk. Mr. Roosevelt’s fondness for drinking the stuff was one of his suspect foreign traits. Like his eyeglasses and his accent, it set him apart and made him the object of saloon jokes that were more insulting than fond.

Joe said to Dutch, “I expect the Markee isn’t happy about Mr. Roosevelt keeping you on. But let Mr. Roosevelt worry about that, Dutch.” He helped himself to water and tried to keep his tone casual. “What really did happen out there?”

“Heap of shooting.”

“I know that.” Exasperation nudged Joe’s patience. “Who did it?”

“Didn’t see ’em.”

“How many, then?”

“Don’t know.”

“Tell me this. There’s talk you boys were riding on the château to set fire to it. That a fact?”

“Hell no.”

“Well then. Was De Morès the only one?”

“Paddock—on the rise of the hill, us he saw. He horse turns, back out of sight rides—back to the Marquis, I guess. That mile we go. Over hill we go, and everyplace guns was. Three, four, five, don’t know. Too busy we was, from horses jumping.”

“Hidden guns? You never saw who was shooting?”

“Yah. Never saw.” Dutch stepped to the edge of the piazza to drop ash on the ground. The breeze carried it away. “What happen, you want to know? I you tell, Joe—too scared, we was. Too scared to remember. Too scared to see.”

“I guess I can understand that. Who started the shooting, then?”

“Don’t know. Wasn’t us.”

“Was it De Morès?”

“No. Was from the bushes.”

“Ambush. Jerry Paddock. That bastard Markee.”

Roosevelt came riding in past the house. Joe turned toward him in indignation. “You hear that, Mr. Roosevelt?”

“Hear what?”

“Dutch and his friends were ambushed. They were fired on from the bushes. I always knew the Markee was a shifty son of a bitch, but this—”