“Not at that distance in the dark. But I know who they were.”

Roosevelt said, “The Stranglers.”

“Well of course.”

Mrs. Reuter tasted the coffee and approved it. “They’ve been using one of the game trails near my soddy as a regular route these past months. I’ve seen them go by at least a dozen times but usually there’s talk and crude laughing—you know the way a mob of men will get.”

Roosevelt said, “You didn’t inform anyone of this?”

“I keep my own counsel, Mr. Roosevelt, and I have good reason for doing so.”

Wil Dow felt a keen stab of realization. “It’s Dutch. You’ve been hiding him out.”

Mrs. Reuter’s head whipped around. Her eyes were wide. “How on earth did you know that?”

“A guess, that’s all. Sorry, ma’am.”

Roosevelt said, “Evidently an astute one. Is Dutch well?”

“Well as can be expected of a restless man who must confine himself to the root cellar whenever there’s a hint of movement on the horizon.” Mrs. Reuter looked over her shoulder as if in fear of eavesdroppers. “I beg you—don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

Uncle Bill said, “Nobody will find out from us. We’re Dutch’s friends.”

“I know that. I’d have told you long ago, but Dutch is so scared he made me promise not to tell a soul in the world except Joe Ferris. Joe’s been kind enough to falsify his sales records so nobody can see I’ve been buying twice as many provisions as I used to.”

Roosevelt said, “I’m tickled pink to know Dutch is in good hands. You were saying—you saw the Stranglers in the night, and you backtracked them …”

“I did, until I found they had covered their trace deliberately in some of the Malpais creeks north of here. But I had my suspicions by then. I knew the Indians had their hunting camp up beyond the Killdeers. That’s where they’d been raiding from—stealing meat and setting those grass fires.”

“Ah yes. The Indians. We’re back to them.”

“They’d been moving camp a few miles each night but holding to the same district—close to the Canada line where they could get across if anybody spotted them.”

“You knew where they were,” Roosevelt said, “and you told no one?”

“She didn’t want to bring attention on herself,” Wil said. “For Dutch’s sake.”

“Is that right, madame?”

“I’m obliged, Mr. Wil, but I don’t need defending. I’ve been friends with the Indians since before most whites came into this country. It’s their grass, what’s left of it after the sheep and cattle and horses you all poured in—I reckon they can set fire to their own land if they see fit.”

“It isn’t ‘their’ land, it is everyone’s land.”

“I make no apology, Mr. Roosevelt. It would have pleased me if they had wiped out every last head of the rotten Markee’s stock.”

“Were their depredations directed against the Marquis? If so, they seem to have gone about it rather indiscriminately, for we all suffered from it.”

“To an Indian we’re all the same,” Mrs. Reuter said. “They can’t see any difference between the Markee and you.”

“For the moment let it pass,” said Roosevelt. “You rode to their camp, I presume, and what did they say that makes you believe they’ll set no more grass fires?”

“They didn’t say anything. They’re dead.”

It took Wil Dow a moment to hear what she had said. He felt his forehead wrinkle and he was about to speak when Roosevelt broke the silence:

“Dead? How?”

“By murder, I should imagine.”

Uncle Bill said, “How many?”

“I counted forty-three mounds of fresh-dug earth. There probably are more that I didn’t find. Those men did their best to hide the evidence of their grisly work. I did not have the stomach to dig them up, but there were two dozen lodgepoles scattered around and I saw groups of ponies running loose. And coyotes pawing at the mounds.”

Uncle Bill said, “What about their tent skins?”

“Possibly the murderers buried the tepees with the bodies—to hide the evidence of their crime. There’s nothing but travois poles and of course those don’t prove a thing. I was caught there by a hard rain that lasted two days—”

“We had the same storm,” Wil said.

“—and it stirred the topsoil together so completely there’s no sign of those graves now.”

Uncle Bill said, “So the murderers have that massacre on their consciences as well.”

“What consciences?” snapped Mrs. Reuter. She finished her coffee. “It soon will be over, I pray. The Markee’s lawyers have exhausted their delays. Next week he is traveling to Bismarck to stand trial. The Markee and Jerry Paddock.”

“Not a moment too soon,” growled Uncle Bill.

In the morning, like some omen, came the early onset of winter—a bitter dry cold that froze the water in the bucket on the piazza and chilled everything to the marrow.

Mrs. Reuter said, “I know no one has a shred of proof to tie the Markee to the Stranglers. But when he and Paddock go to prison—you can bank on it, that will put an end to the night-riding, then and there.”

Uncle Bill said, “I would surely like to be there to see the Markee get his comeuppance.”

Wil Dow looked out at snowflakes drifting through the dawn. “You go, then, Uncle. Not me. I’d sooner be out here in the wild country than in some city courtroom having to smell cigar smoke.”

Roosevelt said, “Then we’ll hire a good man to keep you company in looking after the home ranch and keeping an eye peeled for vigilantes, while your uncle and I escort Mrs. Reuter and her good husband to the capital. For by Godfrey I wouldn’t miss this trial for the world.”

Eighteen

Pack looked out his hotel window. On lantern-lit Rosser Street barkers shouted the praises of crib girls while the big-voiced macs showed off the salient attractions of their painted powdered sporting women who gave gents the benedictions of their professional smiles and awaited escort to their cubicles on the Row behind the saloons.

There were a good many armed men abroad in the night who had never previously graced the streets of Bismarck with their presence. Tempers were short; cool reason was scarce; danger quivered in the town.

Pack returned his attention to the notebook on the desk. He turned up the lamp’s wick and resumed writing:

He is a gentleman of capital whose works are of incalculable benefit to Dakota, and it should be a travesty were Bad Lands desperadoes to have their way in the forthcoming Trial. Outlaws must not be permitted to swagger through the Territory insulting and terrorizing good citizens. It is criminal to persecute a man simply because he happens to be a Marquis. We find it an utter outrage and disgrace that he is being held in a jail cell like a common criminal during the period of the Trial.

When he realized he was hungry he put on his suit coat and went downstairs. It was late and a good many people must have finished supping long ago but the big ornate dining room was crowded to its capacity. He was not surprised to see so many familiar faces. Both factions were represented by strong turnouts. There were, he thought, no neutral parties; you were for the Marquis or you were against him, and in some ways the outcome of this Trial was bound to seal the fates of those on both sides, for it would determine whether the Marquis was to be allowed control over his own empire and a voice in the guidance of its inhabitants.

If there was any justice, he kept telling his friends, the Trial would give the Marquis the benediction of a resounding vindication, and once and for all would silence the disorderly drunken tongues of the Irish louts and the thieving Bad Lands “ranchers” who were so precious to the foolish sentimentalities of Roosevelt, Huidekoper and their soft-hearted ilk.

Still, he was startled to see both sides so strongly represented in this very room. Around an oversized table in the near corner Madame la Marquise sat in conference with the heavy-set Allen brothers and their four co-counsel. They had their heads together and Pack did not wish to disturb what might be a conference of strategic importance so he made his way toward a small table at the side.