Brian Garfield by Manifest Destiny

spurs on his polished black boots. Beneath half-lidded dark eyes his waxed-to-points mustache turned up rakishly at the ends.
    With a casual savage sawing that made Joe wince, De Morès neck-reined the white horse deftly over the track embankment around the end of the private car and loomed above them, high against the bright azure Dakota sky.
    â€œJoe.” The greeting was without pleasure. Then the oily smile: “Arthur my friend. How good to see you.”
    The French accent was not pronounced; the Marquis was at ease with English and proud of his fluency.
    Joe didn’t mind having the Marquis’s cold shoulder turned to him. The Marquis’s friendship was not a thing he sought, or would have valued.
    Men grunted and heaved, transferring cases to a wagon. There was no profanity. That meant Madame la Marquise was still about.
    Pack said to De Morès, “Now, I’d like to speak with you and Madame, for the newspaper. My readers are avidly interested in what you both have to say.”
    â€œHow flattering. I’m very busy today as you see.”
    Madame herself appeared in the open platform door. “Perhaps Arthur could dine with us later in the week, darling.”
    She smiled; and from the look of him, it was evident to Joe that Pack nearly fainted.
    Joe kept his amusement to himself. He remembered the song that had leaped into Pack’s lips the moment they’d first seen her, months ago:
    Oh, my heart is gone and I’m forlorn,
    A darling face has won me …
    Joe suspected his friend had carried her image in his heart ever since.
    She said in her gaily tuneful voice, “Joe, how good to see you. Arthur, dear, you look positively gaunt. We really must feed you.”
    â€œI’m fitter than I look, madame.” Tongue-tied, Pack said no more.
    Joe had to concede there was a fine beauty in the graceful carriage with which Madame moved, the composure with which she’d greeted him. There was a lively rhythm in her; it seemed impossible to be near her without picking up its tempo.
    She returned his gaze with open candor; a demure smile saved it from impropriety. She was at ease anywhere and with anyone. She had a way of making a man feel like a goat. She treated all the young men of the town like truant children. It distressed Joe to feel she was laughing at him but he always suspected it.
    Pack seemed to feel the same way but suffered the indignity gladly. May be he felt it was a small price to pay for the privilege of being near her.
    De Morès, confident—unworried by the way his wife inspired the dreams of calf-eyed young men—turned in his saddle to watch the train lurch forward. The engine had come to a second halt in the center of the hundred-yard span of the river bridge. It meant the inconvenience of a double stop; the train would have to move a quarter mile and stop again to take on water at the old Little Missouri depot.
    All this provoked Madame la Marquise’s question: “Who on earth could be on that train?”
    Joe said, “Assemblyman Roosevelt, ma’am.”
    â€œTeedie Roosevelt? Why on earth—”
    â€œFor the hunting, I imagine,” her husband said. “I should like to meet him.”
    â€œSo would I,” said Pack. Then to Madame: “You know him, then?”
    â€œOf course, poor thing. Fancy I didn’t know he was on this train! Haven’t you met him, Arthur?”
    â€œNot yet,” said Pack. “I’m looking forward to the pleasure.”
    For a moment she was clearly troubled. Then abruptly she gave De Morès her quick blazing smile.
    Joe recalled vaguely from last year’s hunt that Roosevelt had said something about being acquainted with De Morès’s wife. It wasn’t surprising, as they were about the same age and came from the same wealthy New York City Society. Seemed odd, though, that De Morès himself should be unacquainted with the rich dude. One naturally