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horse I’m sure you’ll sell me one. For cash.”
    That brought an end to the trouble then and there. Jerry brought out his sorriest mare—ugly wart of a bay, an old-timer named Nell—and Mr. Roosevelt cheerfully parted with half again what the horse and rig were worth, as if it didn’t matter.
    The boys trailed toward the saloon because the unexpected profit put Jerry in such a good mood he offered to stand them all a round of drinks.
    The only man to refuse the offer was Roosevelt. “Thank you very much indeed, sir, but I do not partake of strong drink.”
    With hoots of derision the crowd tramped inside. In two shakes Joe was alone with the puny dude in the Cantonment corral.
    Roosevelt overcame a coughing fit long enough to say, “Now then, old fellow, if you wouldn’t mind showing me how to put the saddle on this animal …”
    That was how the great hunt started. Its auspices were poor at best. It was with dismal foreboding that Joe made ready to put the wagon onto the trail.
    Roosevelt was peering at the brick construction works across the river. “What’s all that?”
    â€œAbattoir,” Joe said, “whatever that means.”
    â€œSlaughterhouse. It’s French.”
    â€œYes sir. So’s the gentleman who’s building it. The Marquis De Morès.”
    There was a glint, probably accidental, off Roosevelt’s eyeglasses. “De Morès? Is he here?”
    â€œNot now. Back East someplace. Big financial affairs. You know him?”
    â€œWe haven’t met. I’m acquainted with his wife.”
    Joe considered the great heaps of fresh brick on the flats below the bluff. “The Marquis says he’s going to build a whole town right there on the right bank. Abattoir and all. They say he’s got ten thousand cattle coming north from Texas.”
    â€œA sizable enterprise.” There was displeasure in the dude’s piping voice. “The money comes from his father-in-law. The Marquis has no fortune of his own.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know about such things.”
    Roosevelt seemed unwilling to let it drop. “I can’t abide aristocrats. The stench of their blue blood despoils the clean air of America.”
    â€œWouldn’t know about that either, sir. I’m Canadian.”
    â€œAnd proud of it, are you?”
    Joe felt the rise of suspicion. “I am.”
    Roosevelt smiled. “Good for you.” His attention returned to the brick pile. “An abattoir? Credit the man at least with large aspirations.”
    Joe said, “All I know is, it takes plenty of game meat to feed his carpenters and masons, so these rough boys you see here will get plenty of work.”
    â€œWhat about you, then, Mr. Ferris?”
    â€œI used to hunt meat. For the railroad. I don’t any more.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Joe wasn’t ready to tell the exact truth. These weren’t the circumstances. He said, “One time I was shooting buffalo the barrel of my rifle got so hot it near melted my hand. Decided to let some other fellow have a turn.”
    â€œHow many buffalo did you kill?”
    â€œThat day? I don’t know. May be four hundred.”
    â€œGreat Scott! Those must have been glorious days!”
    Heedless youth. Joe tasted the bile of recollection; but he knew better than to dispute the client. He kicked the brake off and the wagon rolled north.
    Roosevelt came trotting cheerfully alongside on the old mare, unaware or uncaring of the fact that his Eastern-style posting up and down during the trot would be enough to get him laughed out of Dakota Territory if he didn’t leave soon of his own free will.
    Taking his time, Joe Ferris was ready to decide that he didn’t like the little dude at all. Then Roosevelt unsaddled his own horse that night.
    And when Joe began to unfold the canvas tent Roosevelt would have none of it: he bedded down on the earth, wrapped in the