Free Brian Garfield by Manifest Destiny

drunk.
    Story was, some of these Irish fugitives had slit the throats of their rich landlords and fled to the New World. Riley Luffsey was too young for that—only eighteen now, and he’d been in America long enough to lose his brogue—but the rumors might be true enough where O’Donnell was concerned.
    Joe Ferris said, “We’ll see you boys, then,” and put his horse in motion. But Finnegan seemed unwilling to let the matter drop: he sidestepped in front of the horse, blocked Joe’s way, locked his fist on the bridle strap. The horse jerked its head; Finnegan kept his grip. “Listen—every time we ride through here we hack down that fence, and every time we come back it’s been put up again.”
    â€œWhy talk on me about it?”
    â€œBecause you hang your hat around town and you have got the ear of Jerry Paddock and them,” said the man from Bitter Creek. Joe’s horse tried to bite him and he took his hand away without even glancing at it. “And now we hear Paddock and the Marquis are fixing to bring legal papers and that Valentine Scrip and jump claim on Frank’s shack downriver.”
    â€œAny rascal jumps me,” O’Donnell said, “jumps right into his grave.”
    From the edge of the river Riley Luffsey shouted, “I’m the best and fastest shot in Dakota with long gun or short. They want to try something, I’m ready to stand with Frank.”
    â€œAnd so am I. And others too. You tell that to Jerry Paddock, Joe,” said Finnegan.
    â€œTell him yourself. He’s no friend of mine.”
    Finnegan glared at Roosevelt. “What about you, little man? Whose side you on?”
    â€œMy own. I’ve no quarrels here.”
    â€œKeep it that way,” Finnegan adjured.
    Joe said, “Be that as it may, Red, I’ll give you good advice. Take it or not as you please. You stir it up with Jerry Paddock and the Marquis, I’ll venture folks may walk wide around you so they don’t have to look too close at the destruction.” Then Joe smiled. “I hear the Marquis loads his ammunition with exploding bullets.”
    Riding away at a brisk trot with spine braced against a halfexpected bullet, Joe glanced at Roosevelt beside him and wondered at his silence.
    He’d worried himself near sick back there that the boisterous New Yorker might be moved to utter a harangue about right and wrong, law and principle, good and evil. A year ago it would have been impossible to shut him up. Finnegan probably would have shot him out of the saddle for a loudmouthed fool.
    But this time there had been next to no moralizings. Roosevelt hadn’t said much of anything beyond his approval of their fence-cutting and his cool statement of neutrality. That was a surprise worth remarking. The man surely did seem distracted. Either that or his whole personality had been squashed—and you’d have thought it would have taken a granite avalanche to do that.
    They trotted around a loop in the river. There was lowland meadow here, grass standing three feet high. Joe looked back, and caught Roosevelt doing the same.
    Finnegan and his partners were out of sight. Joe’s shoulders loosened.
    Roosevelt merely said, “I take it those three are not ranchmen.”
    â€œThey hunt, do some trapping. Guide visitors when they can.”
    â€œRough riders, are they? I admire any man who lives on the rough side of things—so long as he keeps his conscience intact.”
    â€œMore than rough, those three. And I have not seen much conscience on them. You don’t mind my advice, might keep your distance from them. It is said Redhead and his friends don’t mind spending money from a stranger’s purse.”
    Roosevelt made no answer. They forded the river’s several channels and rode into a grove of ash. Chilly in here.
    Joe thought the subject had died but after an interval Roosevelt revived it: “From