“Allow me to point out that not only has the Marquis De Morès stimulated the region’s economic growth with his capital, but he has a great sense of civic duty. He’s built the brick church and the school. Why, he and Lady Medora even pay the schoolteacher’s salary. He’s organized the fire brigade and donated a park and seen generously to the welfare of everyone who needs help. And he—”

“I’ve never been invited to dine at the château,” Joe Ferris retorted, “nor any other ordinary mortals. He only invites you because you keep writing him up as the Messiah come to Dakota. Only the elite aristocracy are welcomed at that house up there, from which the mighty king of the mountain can look down on his village and his employees.” Then Joe looked down at his feet. “I am mortally tired of that man. But he’s not going to stop. You know his father-in-law? Baron Von Hoffman’s bank in New York—second in importance only to Drexel Morgan. If the Markee makes a mess of one venture he can afford to just buy into another.”

“Then Baron Von Hoffman ought to be aware of the nature of his son-in-law’s folly,” Roosevelt replied. “Now I shouldn’t wish to keep you up. We’ve business to do and then if it’s not too much imposition on your hospitality we’d like to stay the night in your room upstairs. I refuse to put up at De Morès’s hotel.”

Bill Sewall said to Wil, “Anyway who’d want to pay the Markee’s prices? You know he charges two dollars a night? Highway robbery.”

Joe Ferris said, “Welcome to the upstairs. You know how to find it. The ticks are new. Shouldn’t be too much livestock in them. Pump’s out back if you want to wash. You going up to the château now?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“I’m grateful. But it isn’t your affair, old fellow.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Wil Dow was impatient with himself, for the flesh of his belly trembled as they approached the château’s verandah.

Someone had seen them coming: they had seen a man’s shadow run toward the house when they were but half way up the bluff. Now post lamps exposed them; anything might be hidden in the darkness beyond; he was damp with sweat even in the deep chill.

They were five; the editor Packard had insisted on accompanying them—“for my newspaper, and who knows, perhaps for history”—and Wil Dow made a point of placing himself on the opposite flank of the five-man line from the miserable toady. Roosevelt plunged forward resolutely between Ferris and Sewall. Wil Dow and his uncle carried rifles; Roosevelt had no weapon in his hand but the engraved Colt revolver was in his holster and it had not escaped Wil Dow’s notice that the boss had stripped off his glove.

Four abreast, with the editor off to one side now, they approached the house. Breath steamed from their open mouths; they all were a little winded after the climb.

They were still several yards from the step when the door slammed open. Wil Dow stopped in his tracks. His fists tightened on the rifle. The others to his right had stopped as well.

Up on the porch the Marquis De Morès moved forward into the light—a bamboo stick in his hand and two revolvers thrust through his sash. He was hatless; lamplight gleamed on his wet-down hair.

Roosevelt said, “Mr. De Morès, I want your cattle off my land.”

“Are they on your land, Mr. Roosevelt? I was unaware you owned any land.”

“If the cattle are on my ranch twenty-four hours from now. I shall take appropriate measures.”

“That would not be wise. I hold title to that land.”

“By Valentine Scrip? Show me the document that gives you title to that precise portion of land.”

“It is not necessary. I hold prior right to the land in any case, because my stock were there first.”

Roosevelt smiled: he actually smiled. “All I can see out there that belongs to you is a littering of dead sheep.”

Joe Ferris was looking down toward the far end of the verandah. It was deep in shadow, but something had alerted Joe; he said, “All right. Come on out here where we can all see you,” and after a moment there was a stirring—Jerry Paddock moved forward into a pool of light that fell out through the window. He carried a rifle under his arm.

Wil tried to watch everything at once. There was a thudding in his ears. The Marquis’s arctic gaze was fixed on Roosevelt—enough to chill a block of ice.

Let’s get this done—let’s make a fight of it, by damnation!

De Morès played with his lead-filled bamboo stick. Without taking his eyes off Roosevelt he said, “Arthur, what are you doing with these gentlemen?”

Packard had to clear his throat before he could reply. “Reporting the facts.”

Joe Ferris said, “Then may be you want to absent yourself from the line of fire.” He kept his eyes on Jerry Paddock, who stood on the porch like a vulture.

Paddock’s lip curled. He said to the newspaper man, “And take the crazy half-pint dude with you, while you’re at it. Ain’t nobody here got any use for him or his stupid big words.”

Roosevelt did not grant Paddock so much as a glance. He said, “Mr. De Morès, in this democracy you have not been authorized by divine right to make your own laws or to change ours. Listen to me, sir—if we have to move your herd, there’s bound to be shooting.”

Arthur Packard eased away, off to one side. Wil Dow took note of the movement without turning his eyes or his head.

The Marquis said in a chilly voice, “Perhaps there is room to compromise.”

“I will not compromise with a man when he is plainly in the wrong.”

The Marquis smiled, sleepy-eyed, silken. “If I remove the cattle, then you shall remove Mr. Reuter from the land.”

“No.” Roosevelt chopped the word off; it seemed to reverberate afterward.

The Marquis’s smile hardened. “Then I’ll slaughter him where he stands.”

“Try that, sir, and I’ll see you hang for certain,” Roosevelt said in a controlled voice that gave each word its full due.

Wil Dow thought there was nothing left to do now but wait for it to explode: the fuse was lit.

Jerry Paddock stirred: the rifle barrel glinted. His abrupt movement made Will realize how still Paddock had remained until now. It was a measure of the apprehension in Paddock.

The Marquis De Morès looked away toward the lights of town. After a moment he spoke in a different voice:

“A compromise then, as I said before. Shall we put it at one thousand dollars—no, make that a thousand five hundred dollars, or one dollar per head, to let them graze on the bottoms for a few weeks until they get up to proper weight? Then I shall bring them to the abattoir and they’ll be out of your way.”

Wil Dow was astounded by the Marquis’s retreat. He looked at Roosevelt. It was a lot of money.

Roosevelt said, “I appreciate your willingness to discuss the matter. But how am I to know when ‘a few weeks’ is to end? No, Mr. De Morès. I can’t back down from you, not for any sum of money. I want your cattle off my land by sunset tomorrow or I’ll slaughter them where they stand.”

Wil Dow heard Arthur Packard’s abrupt intake of breath.

Surely it was bluff, Wil thought; Roosevelt wasn’t a wanton slaughterer of steers. All it needed was a banging of tin pans and gunshots; the herd would remove itself soon enough. It wasn’t the cattle that posed a threat; it was Johnny Goodall and the De Morès crew.

Just then Madame la Marquise appeared in the doorway. The Marquis heard her step; he glanced around at her. She did not speak. Her husband held her glance a moment and then turned to face the five men below him. With a strange conciliation the Marquis said, “I’m sorry you cannot accommodate me in this favor. Very well. We shall remove the cattle from the land, as you ask.”

In a gesture to Jerry Paddock, the Marquis flapped a slack hand as if throwing something away. Paddock strolled to the steps, tucked the rifle under his arm, dropped off the verandah and walked away into the night, stroking his beard.