turned to Masterson. “You're Bat Masterson, ain't you?”
Masterson nodded.
“I heard you gave up being a lawman and went to New York to be a writer,” said the man. “What brings you to Medora?”
“I'm looking for a local resident.”
“Got to be the Marquis de Mores or young Roosevelt,” said the man. “Can't imagine there's anyone else out here that anyone would want to see.”
“It's Roosevelt,” Masterson confirmed.
“Figgers.”
“Because he's American?”
“'Cause he's a lawman too, like you used to be.”
Masterson frowned. “A lawman? I hadn't heard.”
“The best,” said the man. “Makes your pal Wyatt Earp look like a beginner.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I would,” said the bearded man. “But my throat's gone dry, and I probably can't get all the words out.”
Masterson smiled and turned to the bartender. “A pitcher of beer for the table,” he said, walking over and sitting down.
“Well, that's damned generous of you, Mr. Masterson.”
“Bat,” said Masterson.
“Bat,” repeated the man. “And I'm Jacob Finnegan.” He extended a gnarled hand, and Masterson shook it. “Can't say I blame you for hightailing it back to New York. I been reading all about you in those dime novels.”
“Most of it never happened,” said Masterson as the bartender deposited the pitcher on the table.
“Go ahead,” said Finnegan. “Ruin an old man's dreams.”
“I'll do my best to,” replied Masterson with a smile.
Finnegan laughed. “I like you, Bat Masterson! You're good with a gun, you ain't afraid to face a desperado or two, and even though you're a writer I can pretty much understand you. Your pal Roosevelt uses some of the biggest damned words anyone ever heard.”
“He'll lose that habit fast enough,” said Masterson. “He needed it for his last job.”
“And what was that?”
“He was the youngest Minority Leader in the history of the New York legislature.”
Finnegan took a swallow of his beer. “That don't sound right. He's still a young man, I'd say no more than twenty-five or twenty-six.”
“That's about right.”
Finnegan frowned, and stopped to pet a dog that had wandered in beneath the swinging doors. “Must have taken a terrible whooping at the polls to wind up out here.”
Masterson shook his head. “He didn't lose. He quit.”
“Hah! They're as corrupt as we always thought, right?”
“Probably,” replied Masterson with a smile. “But that had nothing to do with it. His wife and his mother died something like ten hours apart, both in his house, one of disease, one in childbirth. He dearly loved both of them, and didn't want to stay there with all his memories.”
“So he brung his memories out to the Badlands?” said Finnegan. “That don't make no sense.”
“He's a complex man.”
“He's a determined one, anyway,” said Finnegan. “You heard about the three killers he brung back?”
Masterson shook his head. “No. Tell me about them.”
“He just don't do nothing in a small way,” began Finnegan. “It wasn't enough that he bought two ranches…” His voice trailed off as he searched his pockets, found a small piece of jerky, and tossed it to the dog.
“Two?” said Masterson, surprised.
“Your pal thinks big. Anyway, he volunteered to be the local deputy. Refused to take any money for it. Wore that damned star everywhere. We figured he just wanted it the way a woman wants a pin or a necklace, but then a trio of killers done their evil deeds and Roosevelt went after them. I don't know where he was when he heard about it, but he didn't have no gun with him, and he decided not to waste time getting one, so he just started riding in the worst blizzard you ever saw. We get bad winters up here, really terrible ones, but we never had nothing like this. ‘The Winter of the Blue Snow,’ the local paper called it.”
“Evocative name,” commented Masterson.
“Whatever ‘evocative’ means,” replied Finnegan, reaching down to gently push the dog away. “Go on, pooch. I ain't got no more.” The dog ducked around his hand and remained where he was. “Anyway,” continued Finnegan, “he eventually caught up with 'em, beat the crap out of them, took away their guns, and marched 'em all the way to Dickenson. Must have been fifty miles through that blizzard. They took turns sleeping, but he didn't dare nod off. Says he read this huge novel by this Russian guy, and when that was done he read some dime novels about you and the Earps and that Holliday guy, and somehow he stayed awake for three days and nights, until he finally delivered his prisoners.”
Masterson nodded his head. “Yeah, that sounds like Theodore.”
“Okay, you know