“God help him. It was a brave thing he did, testifying in court.”
Mr. Roosevelt said, “It was his duty.”
Wil coaxed higher flames from the fireplace logs and went to peer through the frost-grimed windowpane. A dozen scrawny cattle stood huddled against the windbreak of the cotton woods, pawing and gnawing at the earth. A steer lurched into the yard, lame on swollen frozen feet. Several bulls had lain down to die. There was nothing to be done about it.
They hadn’t been to town for mail or supplies in more than two weeks. One morning the thermometer showed 25 degrees below zero. It was the coldest winter Wil Dow had experienced. After tossing feed to the stock in the barns he hurried inside, beating his gloved numbed hands together, in time to hear Sewall say, “Not likely any of us be suffering from the heat for a while.”
There were two deer hanging from the piazza roof. It was Uncle Bill’s idea to keep two or three carcasses ahead, so as to be provisioned for blizzards. As it turned out, not much hunting was required, as the deer had come down off the slopes into the shelter of the bottomland trees—it was a simple matter for two men to beat the bushes while the third waited for the animals to come out.
In the evening a current of frigid air rolled down the coulees. Treetops were tossing in the wind. Sewall said, “A real snorter tonight.” Breath steamed from his mouth. He hung his saddle on its rail in the barn and batted his gloved hands together and glared at Wil Dow. “Look at me—a cow puncher! What’s dignified in that? I am about ready to go home. I always said I should never live here longer than I was obliged. Right from the start I saw a good many drawbacks to this country. Just as soon as I get enough money you will see me go back to Island Falls, the quicker the better.”
“Well, Uncle Bill, it costs like fury to get a train ticket.”
They walked up to the house. Wil bent to peer at the Fahrenheit thermometer on the piazza. It was 32 degrees below zero.
Mr. Roosevelt came up from the stable. He tore the gold-rimmed spectacles from his face. They brought bits of skin with them. Bundled in skins you could get along all right with your back to the wind but there was no comfort if you had to face it. Still, the boss seemed to delight in the hardships and dangers and even the pain of it.
The water bucket was frozen solid, top to bottom. A hard wind shook the house and howled through the bare trees. Roosevelt was suffering from asthma and cholera morbus, and writing in his biography of Thomas Hart Benton.
Wil said, “At least it can’t get any worse. It can only get easier after this.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” said Uncle Bill.
He was right. It became the most ferocious winter in Dakota history. In the snow-clad iron desolation the white river stood solid and motionless as granite. A rubble of shattered icebergs heaped itself nearly to the piazza of the house. They endured blizzard upon blizzard. Footing became ever more treacherous. The coulees filled almost level. The snow melted, froze, melted and froze again, higher and higher until the slick hard drifts were impassable.
Cattle weren’t able to get through to the grass beneath; and in any case there was precious little grass at all, after the preceding season’s overgrazing and fires. Even now there was a growing number of dead cattle to be found everywhere. It was certain there would be heavy losses. When spring came they’d find out the extent.
In the meantime it was necessary to tie a rope to the corner of the house and to wade blindly, bucking the drifts, to find the barn; once this was done Wil tied the riata to the barn and they had a lifeline between the buildings. But there were three consecutive days when they couldn’t use it, for the temperature dropped to 60 degrees below zero.
“Everything comes to an end,” said Mr. Roosevelt with satisfaction. He stood on the piazza in shirtsleeves. There were chunks of ice on the river; the chinook was blowing and there must have been a very warm thaw upstream to the south, for a flood kept pressing upon the high dams of thick ice until they burst. These explosions heaped great crags of ice in piles along the river; there was a tremendous crashing and roaring.
It couldn’t help remind Wil of the advancing date for the duel. He couldn’t fathom the way Roosevelt seemed to regard it. He was neither in a dither nor in a blithe pretense; he neither worried it nor ignored it. He spoke of De Morès without particular rancor and he mentioned the duel occasionally and lightly, as if it were nothing more than another occasion in his calendar—a dinner to attend, a speech to deliver.
The threat of it may not have bothered the boss but it hung over Bill Sewall like a huge black cloud and there were whole days when it dampened Wil’s spirits as well; he couldn’t get the spectral anticipation out of his mind.
One morning Wil exploded. “Doesn’t it ever get you down?”
“You can’t allow those things to get you down, old fellow. When the time comes, I shall confront Mr. De Morès, and hope I can talk him out of this foolishness. That failing, I suppose I shall have to shoot him, or be shot by him. I shall endeavor to wound him as lightly as possible, and still dissuade him from continuing. What more can I do? In the meantime it’s no use brooding, is it. Now you may have forgotten, but I have not, the four deer that we shot weeks ago and hung from a tree to keep the coyotes from them. With this thaw we shall have to rescue that meat right now or it will spoil. Are you with me?”
“Best we all go together,” said Uncle Bill. “And keep both eyes open for Stranglers. They could easy have it in mind to save the Marquis some trouble. He wouldn’t have too rough a time duelling with you after you got hung.”
The three men used their Mackinaw skiff to get across; Wil bent his back to the oars. It was harrowing to go into the rough current just ahead of the ice dam but they kept dry and pulled the boat high up the bank and walked inland on Indian-style snowshoes.
They set out on foot, traveled two hours, arrived at the tree and found a few bones, nothing more.
Mr. Roosevelt examined the tracks. “Mountain lion,” he judged. “Not long ago. Bully! Let’s go after it.”
They spent the rest of the day hunting lion, with no success, and returned in a rising gale to make their perilous way back across the river. They took the boat out of the water and hitched it securely to a tree high on the bank before they hurried inside.
Mr. Roosevelt was determined that in the morning they should continue the cougar hunt. Uncle Bill was not cheered by the prospect.
In the morning the boat was gone.
Wil said in a hushed voice, “Indians!”
Uncle Bill had a look at the rope. It had been cut. “You may be right. But I didn’t know they used any kind of boat except canoes.”
Then Wil espied a dark object on the bank below. He scrambled for it and picked it up. A man’s glove. “Look here!”
Mr. Roosevelt said, “I don’t recognize it. Do you, Bill?”
“No. But I expect it’s a white man’s glove. Indians don’t use them, do they?”
Mr. Roosevelt made fists. “Scoundrels!”
“Scoundrels with nerve,” Uncle Bill observed, “to go out into those ice packs in an open boat.”
“By Godfrey, let’s saddle up, Bill. We can overtake them.”
“Think again. Half the ground’s frozen stiff and the other half overflowed. Anyway all they need to do’s keep on the opposite side of the river. We try to reach them, they can pick us off. The river’s so high it’ll probably kill them anyway. Howard Eaton told me only two parties ever tried to go down this stream in boats, and they neither of them ever made it. One boat got swamped in the rapids and the other party was on a portage, got killed by a grizzly.”
“We will pursue the thieves, Bill.”
“No sir. Anyhow by now the boat’s probably kindling and they’re probably drowned or froze to death.”
“We will pursue them, by thunder! It’s a matter of defending principle. To submit tamely and meekly to theft is to reward evil and encourage repetition of the offense. Great Scott, man!”