Nevertheless, whether true or contrived, the physical evidence that had been mustered by the District Attorney was more imposing than Pack had been led to expect. Throughout the first three days Long cleverly amassed his facts and lies, pounding home again and again evidence contrived to support the Prosecution’s contention that the Marquis and Paddock had conspired to ambush the three “innocent hunters.”
At the end of the third day’s proceedings Pack was granted a brief audience with the Marquis in his cell. Madame Medora was there of course. She said, “Antoine and I want you to know how deeply we appreciate your support in these difficult times.”
The Marquis said, “Roosevelt has been in the same seat every day.”
“Yes, I’ve seen him.”
“You know, don’t you, Arthur, that he has financed the opposition.”
“I’ve tried to find evidence of that.”
“Roosevelt and the other Jews. I have heard some spectators behind me express their wonder at what one of them called ‘the strange courtship between the New York dude and his aristocratic enemy.’ There is of course no mystery in it at all. Roosevelt is there hoping to see me fall. But he is the one who is doomed.”
“Doomed to disappointment, you mean.”
The Marquis smiled. Even here, Pack thought—even in this dismal cell, with nothing before him but the prospect of a long solitary night and tomorrow’s continuing discomfort in court—even now the Marquis’s composure was uncracked, his smile cheerful. What an extraordinary man!
Pack said, “These have been dark hours for you both, I know. But you have the support of a great many good people, and the Defense will begin soon. I’ve every confidence you’ll make a shambles of the Prosecution’s trumped-up case.”
“Don’t give it another thought, Arthur. Just continue to honor us with your good wishes.”
His heart pounding, Pack offered to escort Madame la Marquise back to her lodgings. To his amazement she accepted. He gave her his arm and she came along with determined stride, skirt billowing and one hand holding the wide sombrero on to her head.
Theodore Roosevelt came around the corner and nearly blundered into the lady. He stopped, lifted his hat, showed his big square teeth and gave Pack barely a glance before he said to the Madame, “At least it’s a mild evening.”
“The weather has been very kind.” Her voice gave away not a thing. Pack thought sometimes that Medora would die as she had lived—with well-mannered seemliness and unfailing etiquette. But her eyes—they were another thing entirely. When she regarded Roosevelt the look of unrequited longing in her eyes was so intense it frightened Pack.
His suspicions were inflamed to the point of absolute conviction. He saw the way they looked at each other. Feelings were bright in the burning of their eyes: he saw the hot instincts rising in both of them.
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.