And yet—and yet Madame Medora only gave Roosevelt the benefaction of a tiny curtsy. “Will you walk with us?”

“Dee-lighted.”

During the remainder of the evening’s walk she said not a single further word to either of them.

La belle dame sans merci.

But then at the door of the sumptuous house in which she was staying as a guest of one of the city’s leading families she turned to face the New Yorker. Seemingly ignoring Pack’s presence altogether, she stood with her head cocked a bit to the side and slowly smiled at Roosevelt. Pack felt shocked clear down to his boots: it was nothing if not a suggestive smile. She said in a soft and silky voice, “I do hope to see much more of you in future, Theodore.”

“A sentiment I share in abundance, madame.” Roosevelt touched his hatbrim, gave Pack his brisk nod and big grin, and strode away with his choppy stride.

Medora said, “Despite my husband’s opinion, I must say Theodore is truly a remarkable man, don’t you think, Arthur?”

Pack felt incapable of suppressing his anger. Turning away, he thought savagely, Go inside, madame—or I’ll take you for another kind of woman.

Lurking in the shadows outside the hotel Pack saw a familiar figure. It was Jerry Paddock’s wife, Little Casino, having made her way to Mandan to ply her occupation in the dark. She stepped forward into the lamplight but then she recognized Pack and the false smile dropped away from her face. Pack said, “Don’t worry. I know things look bad but the Defense hasn’t started its case yet. Tomorrow you’ll see a different play altogether.”

Laughing like an angry crow, Little Casino said, “Sweetie, I ain’t worried at all.”

“Well good night to you, then.”

Somewhere not far away a baby wailed; Pack heard a woman’s weary plea: “Please don’t cry. Please don’t.” He approached the hotel. Dan McKenzie was coming out. The blacksmith looked around, spied Little Casino and strode straight toward her. Pack made as if to go inside, but lurked at the corner of the doorway, interested in McKenzie’s movements because something about the man had always puzzled him and, during the past several days in Bismarck, he had observed McKenzie gambling, spending a lot of money, living very well. So when he saw McKenzie approach Little Casino he listened in on the conversation.

“I want to borrow five hundred dollars.”

Paddock’s wife gave the smith a filthy look.

McKenzie grinned fearlessly. “I feel my memory getting poor. On the other hand I’m remembering some other things that could maybe cost you a thousand or ten thousand.”

Little Casino scribbled a note, folded it in half and slipped it to McKenzie. “Five hundred ought to do for now. Take that to the paymaster.” She added in a dry voice, “Don’t be surprised if you’re the first witness they call—before you bleed them to death.”

Well it was, after all, only the sort of thing you would suspect of a man of Jerry Paddock’s caliber.

He entered the hotel and considered going up to his room to revise his notes but weariness drove him into the saloon bar. There was a crowd. Men were bellied up and more men stood three-deep behind them, eating prairie oysters and drinking grain whiskey. Pack heard Huidekoper say, “The judge is plainly on the wrong side. It’s an uproarious exercise in corruption and double-dealing on all sides. It’s a fiasco.”

When Dan McKenzie came in behind him Pack glanced that way, then managed to get a bartender’s eye and order a drink; but all the time he had Redhead Finnegan placed in the corner of his vision. Finnegan was amply present—the primitive untamed atavist from Bitter Creek, his red hair long and snarled, his skin greasy and filthy. He stood at the end of the bar defiantly hoisting drinks with Frank O’Donnell, whose stubborn dead-on stare challenged any and every man in the room to call him a liar.

Finnegan snarled, “He ain’t no more titled than I am. Markee hell. He made it up. Who’s to dispute him? He made it up, so he could spit on the equality of men here.”

Pack heard Dan McKenzie say, “Hobble your lip, Red. You’ve got a leaky mouth. No telling who might be in here.” McKenzie never looked at Pack but he knew McKenzie felt his presence. It disgusted Pack to hear the smith’s talk; McKenzie now was pretending to be a friend of Finnegan’s. Clearly the man had no conscience whatever. He was playing both sides for advantage.

Fury shook A.C. Huidekoper. He plunged past Pack without recognition, then belatedly turned and acknowledged him. “Somebody ought to tell Finnegan to quit drinking.”

“Everybody’s got to kill his own snakes,” said Pack.

“The city’s a box of tinder just waiting for a matchstick. A loudmouth in a packed bar room—it doesn’t take any more than this.”

“Yes—I see—you’re right, I suppose.” Pack gave the man a distracted nod and gulped down the remainder of his drink and hurried out, suddenly unnerved by the close pressure of the crowd and a curious confusion that ran rampant through his mind.

There was still a light under Joe Ferris’s door. Pack knocked and was admitted. Joe was in shirtsleeves; he had been reading—it was Roosevelt’s book about his adventures in the Wild West, mostly a pack of exaggerations and outright lies as far as Pack was concerned. He said, “I thought you didn’t care for hunting. Why read about it?”

“Because I am mentioned in the book,” Joe said proudly. “How are you enjoying the proceedings? Appears to me the Prosecution’s leading the De Morès gang by thirty or forty to nothing, and only a couple innings left.”

“Don’t count the Marquis out,” Pack said. “He’s going to win this, you know.”

“I doubt it. Not after Dutch Reuter takes the stand. Still, I grant you anything’s possible, the way the Marquis’s boys have been spreading money around.” Joe added in a wry tone, “But of course it’s only to encourage witnesses to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

Pack said, “They’re only fighting fire with fire. Do you think the Prosecution’s lily-white in all this? They’re the ones who started buying witnesses.”

Joe gave him a moment’s grave look. “Be that as it may. What are we to you, Pack? No more than actors on a stage that’s lit by the presence of the Marquis De Morès?”

It was unclear what excuse Ted Long had used in persuading the court to allow the Prosecution to withhold two witnesses until after the Defense presented its case. Reuter and O’Donnell were scheduled to appear no earlier than Friday. It didn’t make sense to Pack but he was unable to learn anything useful; the decision had been made in chambers.

On the fourth day of the trial Ted Long made every effort to press Jerry Paddock to admit that the Marquis had plotted with him the night before the fact to murder the three hunters. But Paddock refused to be shaken; he never admitted a thing.

Then the Marquis himself faced the jury, head up, unblinking. The very picture, Pack thought, of gallantry under fire.

“Luffsey and O’Donnell fired their rifles until they were empty,” said the Marquis in a tone of studied equanimity, “and then commenced to discharge their revolvers.”

District Attorney Long leaped to his feet. “I object to this perjury on the part of the witness! Previous witness, Sheriff Harmon, has testified that the weapons of Luffsey were oiled and fully loaded, and O’Donnell’s rifle had been fired only once, with the empty cartridge case still in the chamber!”

Judge Francis gaveled him down. “The District Attorney, having been present throughout the discourse of the past four days in this courtroom, must know full well by this time that testimony has been contradictory as to a great many matters, beginning indeed with who actually started the shooting. Former witnesses have been allowed to testify to the full, and this witness will be accorded the same courtesy. I rule in favor of the Defense. Objection overruled.”