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west to shoot buffalo while there are still buffalo left to shoot.” He announced it loudly.
    The boys laughed.
    Evidently it was not the response the Easterner had desired. He glared at them.
    Joe greeted the newcomer’s boast with a dour grunt. He didn’t tell the whole truth in reply; it might have cost him a badly needed commission. You are about five months too late. They exterminated the last buffalo herd last spring.
    What he said was, “Bad Lands are a hunter’s paradise. Plenty big game downriver just now, sir. Blacktail and whitetail, antelope, mountain sheep, beaver if you’re so inclined, maybe a bear now and then, and I believe we’ll find elk as well.”
    â€œCapital. And buffalo. Most important.”
    â€œWe’ll scare up plenty of game, sir.”
    This was going to be a glorious hunt, Joe thought. Glorious. He put his gloomy regard on the dude. This Mr. Roosevelt was a head shorter than most of the men in the pack. He could not weigh more than 120 pounds, Joe thought. The large blue-grey eyes seemed mournful and painfully sickly. They peered rapidly about from behind big gold-rimmed spectacles that kept slipping down his nose.
    The boys had already sized up the new ground and found it wanting in just about every respect. One of them said, “Looks like his deck’s shy a joker. Likely don’t know near side from off side.”
    Roosevelt ignored the insults; perhaps he didn’t understand them, or didn’t realize he was the butt. He settled a disapproving glance on the buckboard. “What’s this?”
    Joe said, “Supplies for a fortnight.”
    The face twisted and clenched. He had a tic or something; he kept grimacing. “And how far might it be to the hunting ground?”
    â€œThis time of year, generally find your luck around the Killdeers. Fifty miles, give or take.”
    â€œI have not come a thousand miles to ride a wooden wagon seat, Mr. Ferris. Where’s my horse?”
    â€œI don’t own any extra saddle horse, Mr. Roosevelt.”
    Wheezing, the dude turned to the onlookers. “Might any of you gentlemen have a spare horse?”
    Jerry Paddock swept off his hat and bowed with a flourish. “E.G. Paddock at your service. I happen to have a little herd in my stable.”
    â€œThen I’ll rent one from you. And of course saddle, bridle …”
    â€œWell hold on,” Jerry Paddock said. “We don’t know you, do we.” This morning Jerry’s gaunt face looked exceptionally evil, like an illustration of a Mongol Tatar villain in a lurid dime novel.
    â€œMy name is Theodore Roosevelt,” said the dude in his very strange Eastern accent.
    â€œI hear you saying it.”
    â€œI’ll be happy to pay in advance. Two weeks at, shall we say, seventy-five cents a day? Ten dollars and fifty cents, shall we make it?” He drew out his purse.
    Jerry Paddock’s eyes fell upon the purse as if it were a roast suckling pig and he hadn’t eaten in a week. He said coquettishly, “We’ve had visitors ride away with our horses before. Anyways, how do I know you wouldn’t mistreat my animal? Why, we had one here just last spring, rode my best horse to death and cooked it and ate the poor thing.”
    Jerry Paddock had what passed for a humorous glint in his eye. He was stringing the stranger; in a minute he’d be shooting holes in the dust around Mr. Roosevelt’s polished boots. All in fun of course—but the dude’s purse was likely to end up in Jerry’s pocket before it was over.
    With a reluctant sense of responsibility toward his client Joe tried to turn trouble aside: “Mr. Roosevelt, it’s a long way to the Killdeers. You might be more comfortable on the wagon with me, sir.”
    â€œNonsense.” Roosevelt strutted toward the stable, talking sternly to Jerry Paddock: “Come along, my good fellow. If you won’t rent me a