Johnny had nothing to say to that.

Bill Sewall said, “What letter?”

“There’s talk Judge Bateman got a letter asking him to swear out a warrant on the Markee for murderin’ Riley Luffsey. Talk is, the letter’s signed by Mr. Theodore Roosevelt.”

“I wrote no such letter. I know of no such letter.”

Bolan muttered, “Better tell that to the Markee, then, before he—”

“If Mr. De Morès wants to ask me any questions, let him ask them to my face.” He turned to Johnny Goodall, who had listened to it all without any change of expression. “Well?”

“There’s been a warrant sworn,” Johnny conceded. “The lawyers are dealing with it. That’s between the Marquis and the law—it’s nothing to do with these cows. I’ve got orders to turn them out on these bottom grasses. Fatten them for winter slaughter.”

“Not on my land, Mr. Goodall. Not today nor any other day.”

“This isn’t your land, Mr. Roosevelt. I’m sorry, sir, but you never filed claim to it.”

“Neither did anyone else. It’s open range—I’ve told you that before.”

“The Marquis owns it, sir.”

“I don’t take backwater from any one. I shall put up a stout fight. You’ll be gone with your cattle by daylight, Johnny, or we’ll move them for you.”

“I’ve got my orders, sir.” And that was all Johnny had to say.

*    *    *

In the barn Roosevelt cinched his saddle on Manitou. Dutch Reuter said, “I come along.”

Bill Sewall said, “Better not. Nothing the Markee’d like better than to see you in some dark alley on your back with your eyes open wide. Better you stay here.”

“I agree. Look after the ranch,” Roosevelt said to Dutch. “Don’t tangle with Johnny or his men.”

“I just let them cows the house eat down?”

“Look after our own stock. Ignore theirs. There’s more than enough work here. Stay out of their sight—give them wide berth and pray don’t give them any excuse to do you violence. Those cattle and their drovers will be out of here within thirty-six hours—you may count on that.”

Dutch was too angry to keep still. “They try trouble to make, I some cowboys sure shoot—”

“That’s quite enough, Dutch. You’ll shoot no one. Those cowboys are earning their pay—doing their jobs with honor, and in the face of great possible risk. They’re to be admired. We have no quarrel with them. Are you listening, Dutch? If you work for me, you will do as I ask. This is for everyone’s good—it’s best for you and for us as well.”

“Yah, yah,” Dutch growled in disgust. He stomped out.

Pierce Bolan said, “If I’m not needed—”

“Pierce, thank you very much for your help. You’d better hasten forward quickly”—there was a quick flashing smile—“get home and tend your own flock.”

“Flock? That’s a word we don’t use much around here, sir,” Bolan said dryly. “I’ll take it you meant it in the Biblical sense.” He climbed aboard and ducked his head to clear the barn door’s header beam, and rode away at an insolently slow clip, watched by two or three of the De Morès cowboys. Johnny Goodall was down there, giving instructions. Roosevelt said, “I’ll say again, for clarity, that our quarrel isn’t with Johnny. No one’s to choose a fight with him—is that understood?”

Wil Dow said, “Yes sir.” He was relieved to hear it. He liked Johnny.

Bill Sewall’s squint showed his displeasure. “Johnny knows who he works for. He takes the man’s pay—he ought to stand the consequences.”

“If it weren’t for Johnny,” Roosevelt replied, “things might be a good deal worse. He sets an example of true American courtesy for the edification of our visiting pretender to the throne of France. Without Johnny, I fear this territory might well be in flames.”

Wil Dow was privileged to ride with Roosevelt and Uncle Bill Sewall toward town.

There had been dry weather for more than a week. As soon as they were away from the frosty river bottoms, the trail lofted a great raveling cloud-banner behind the travelers because there was nothing to hold the dust down. They passed a cliff where reddishbrown strata had bled down over the white stripes beneath them; it looked like dripping rust—or blood. Wil Dow wondered if it was an omen.

By the Lord, he thought, this is surely some adventure. Keyed up with a half-shaped anticipation of battle glory, he grinned at Uncle Bill, who scowled back at him with dismal bleakness.

They made a fast ride of it and there was little talk. Not long after the early sundown they came out of the canyon where the road tilted down to reveal the scattered display of the town’s lights and the well-illuminated sprawl of tin peaked roofs beneath the glow at the top of the towering slaughterhouse smokestack. Beyond, higher up across the embankment on the promontory to the left of Graveyard Butte, lamps winked a mile away; that was Château De Morès. Down on the river the Marquis’s crews were still chopping ice for storage in the ice-house against next summer’s refrigerator-car needs.

Bill Sewall took the right-hand fork—the one that led toward the château—but Roosevelt called him back and went the other way, toward the ford. “We must think in military terms, Bill. It would be foolish to ride up there in the dark without scouting the lay of things first.”

They splashed across the icy river into town. McKenzie was open late, forging a new iron rim for the wheel of a stagecoach; they turned their horses over to him with a request that they be dried, brushed and fed. Wil Dow felt the strike of the smith’s heavy eyes as they swiveled past him, past Uncle Bill, and settled on Roosevelt; Wil remembered hearing how there’d been some sort of dust-up between them—the boss had knocked the blacksmith down, according to what he’d heard—but McKenzie’s eyes shifted away now and he took the reins of the three horses while Roosevelt said, “Thank you, Mr. McKenzie,” and led them away.

The De Morès offices were in a long two-story business building that looked as if four houses had been nailed together end-to-end. There was a big shade tree at the corner, near the front door. Roosevelt knocked loudly at the door. There was no reply. The windows were dark.

Bill Sewall said, “Nobody here. Not even Van Driesche.” Van Driesche managed the offices for De Morès. Despite his name Van Driesche was very British: originally, it seemed, he had been De Morès’s valet and butler. Van Driesche was an exceptionally private man and no one knew much about him, or cared to; he looked like a skeleton with white hair pasted on top, and invited no affection.

At any rate neither Van Driesche nor his employer was about. They went on toward Joe Ferris’s store. Wil Dow ducked his face against the frigid wind; the temperature was dropping sharply.

Joe let them in. Roosevelt said, “I hope we’re not intruding?”

“No sir. Always happy to see you.” Joe took them through to the rear of the store and added lumps of lignite to the fire. The isinglass window of the cannon stove glowed furiously but it wasn’t enough to keep out the blasts of winter that came in through chinks in the boards.

Then again, Wil Dow thought, winter was at worst a mixed curse, for at least it held at bay the smell of the abattoir.

Uncle Bill Sewall was examining the stock of boots on the shelf. He complained, “You know I can’t get any boots here that will wear at all. Ten- or twelve-dollar boots don’t last much more than two months. Sometimes not more than one.”

“It’s rough country on footwear,” Joe Ferris agreed. “I buy the best quality I can obtain. I’m trying to find a better supplier.”

Roosevelt said, “Is Mr. De Morès in town, do you know?”

“Afraid I don’t keep tabs on him. We’re not exactly made of the same leather.”

“I ask because no one ever seems to know when he may be at home. He has a mighty restlessness, that fellow—it seems at any moment he may be off impatiently rushing to Helena or Miles City or Chicago—”