him,” said Finnegan. Masterson looked at him curiously. “He hates to be called Teddy.”
“That he does,” agreed Masterson. “You got any idea where I can find him?”
“He'll either be at Elkhorn or the Maltese Cross, probably Elkhorn.”
“Those are his ranches?”
“Yeah. Though if you wait long enough, he'll show up here. The Marquis de Mores has challenged him to a fight.” Finnegan chuckled. “He offered to let Roosevelt choose the weapons.” A pause and a grin. “I figure he'll choose words.”
“It'd be best for the Marquis if he did,” replied Masterson. “Theodore was a boxing champion at Harvard.”
“You don't say?” said Finnegan. “Is there anything he can't do?”
“Not much,” answered Masterson. “Before he was twenty he was already considered one of America's three or four leading ornithologists and taxidermists.”
“Orni—?” said Finnegan, frowning and trying to pronounce the word. “Orni—?”
“Ornithologist,” repeated Masterson. “Bird expert.”
“He sure as hell shoots enough of 'em,” remarked Finnegan.
“Can't stuff and mount them while they're still alive,” responded Masterson with a smile.
“How'd you two meet?” asked Finnegan.
“He wrote me, asking some questions about a series of books he's writing about the West.”
“He's a writer too?”
Masterson nodded. “And a damned good one. Anyway, I wrote back, we started corresponding, and we finally met at one of John L. Sullivan's prizefights.” Masterson finished his beer and got to his feet. “And now, if you don't mind, please tell me how to get to Elkhorn and maybe I can make it before dark and not get totally lost.”
Finnegan got up, gestured for Masterson to follow him, and walked out onto the raised wooden sidewalk. “Just head in that direction, and you'll be there in two, maybe three hours, depending on how lazy your horse is.”
“Thanks,” said Masterson.
“And when you see him, tell him Jacob Finnegan would be proud to hold his coat while he beats the shit out of that Frenchman.”
“I'll do that,” promised Masterson, shaking the old man's hand.
Then he was atop his horse, heading through the hilly, thickly forested country in the direction Finnegan had indicated. At first he was on the lookout for wolves or perhaps even a bear. Then it occurred to him that Roosevelt had been in the Medora area long enough to make it safe for travelers, and he stopped staring apprehensively at every bush and shadow.
He rode for ninety minutes, dismounted when he came to a stream and filled his canteen while his horse drank, then continued the rest of the way. He saw an expansive wooden house in the distance, and as he approached it he heard a sound that he couldn't identify. It occurred every few seconds, and finally he saw a well-built young man wearing what were clearly stylish, store-bought buckskins splitting logs with an axe.
“Greetings, Theodore!” he cried as he drew closer.
Roosevelt lay his axe down and squinted through his glasses until he finally identified his visitor.
“Bat Masterson!” he said. “What in the world are you doing out here in the Badlands?”
“Looking for you,” said Masterson, climbing down off his horse and leading it the last few yards.
“It's good to see you!” said Roosevelt. “Let me just finish this last log, and we'll go inside and visit.”
“Why are you even splitting logs?” asked Masterson. “Winter's over.”
“Got to keep fit,” answered Roosevelt as he brought the axe down on the log. “I run a few miles every morning, but it rained last night and it was a little too muddy today, so I'm doing this instead.”
“Don't overdo it,” said Masterson. “You're already the fittest man I know.”
“The Marquis de Mores is pretty fit himself,” said Roosevelt.
“Yeah, I heard about that.”
“You couldn't have come all the way out from Manhattan just to watch us fight.”
“No, I never even heard of the Marquis until a few hours ago. Which reminds me: Jacob Finnegan wants to be your second.”
Roosevelt offered a toothy smile. “Good old Jacob! In his youth he could probably have beaten both of us.”
“I doubt it,” said Masterson.
“Well, if you're not here for the fight, and indeed we haven't set a date for it, what has brought you all this way?”
“Therein lies a story,” said Masterson.
“So tell me,” said Roosevelt.
“You know that the Indian medicine men have let some miners and settlers and farmers past the Mississippi, but that the United States, as a nation, has been stopped there.”
“Of course I know,” said Roosevelt. “Hell, every schoolboy knows it.” He paused. “And I also know it can't last forever. It's our destiny to expand from one coast to the other.”
Masterson stared