The Marquis himself was not generally believed to have fired the lethal shot, because the bullet that had killed Luffsey had not been of the exploding kind. The reasoning was specious, of course. The boys were far too quick to assume the Marquis carried only exploding bullets.
Pack found a certain savage satisfaction in being able to report in the Cow Boy, to what he hoped would be the chagrin of the loudmouths and cynics and especially his misguided friend Joe Ferris, that the Marquis had manfully agreed to submit to arrest any time by Sheriff Harmon, and meanwhile was endeavoring honestly and earnestly to calm things down by guaranteeing to remain available within the jurisdiction at any time for hearings and/or trial in custody of the territorial courts.
Nevertheless, to Pack’s profound disgust, by the time the story of the gun battle on the Little Missouri had made the rounds it had grown into a full-scale massacre.
And not two days after the gunfight, Joe Ferris remarked softly, “You notice who hooked up his private car to the train this morning and headed out east? None other than the great Innocent—your friend De Morès. So much for his promise to stay put in the jurisdiction.”
“Roosevelt’s gone east too,” Pack sputtered.
“What the hell’s that got to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” Pack admitted. It had been something to say, to fill the empty moment that seemed to require a response. He felt foolish. He said, “You may call the Marquis quite a few things but hardly a coward. He will be back.”
In that, as it turned out, he was quite right.
At the boneyard on the butte Luffsey was planted with his boots on. Huidekoper, the Langs, Joe Ferris and others were in attendance—most of the mourners being people who had had little or no use for him during his lifetime, but this was a show of force and a choosing-up of sides; thus the incongruous adjacence of Ferris and Finnegan, and the notable absence of the Marquis and all his men.
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.