by Lou Cameron
When they got to the cabin, Fran attempted a curtsy, and to his credit, the president didn’t laugh. He dismounted, tipped his pith helmet to her, and said, “Your servant, ma’am.”
“Gee, I thought you were the president,” Fran replied, and this time even Stringer had to laugh.
He told the bewildered girl they all needed coffee, and she said she’d do her best. As she dashed inside, the president and his companions dismounted. T.R. wanted a tour of the property, so Stringer asked the nearest ladies to hang back as he led T.R., Jack London, the officer, and other men around to the back. The four women in the party came along anyway. As he showed them the results of his markmanship through the loophole, one of the Secret Service men bent for a closer look at a fly-covered face staring up from behind the water trough, and declared, “I know who this one was.”
“Was he an anarchist?” asked Stringer.
“No,” the secret service agent replied. “Bank robber and hired killer named Swann. You sure stopped his clock for him, MacKail.”
Stringer shot a thoughtful look at Jack London, who replied, simply, “I had to tell him. He asked.”
The president didn’t react for a moment. But like most politicians, he’d trained himself to remember names. He stared soberly at Stringer for a time, then nodded. “Right. The reporter who filed that story on me and San Juan Hill.”
Stringer smiled sheepishly. “I have to call ’em as I see ’em, Mr. President. It wasn’t meant as a personal insult.”
T.R. grinned boyishly. “Bully. I’ve never taken the truth as an insult. You told it the way it happened. I never posed for that painting by Remington, and as for the way Richard Harding Davis reported the events of that day, well, I can only assume that he wasn’t there either.”
The mannish woman who liked to jump her horse trilled, “Oh, I know you’re modest, sir. But surely you were there?”
T.R. smiled like a kid who’d just thrown a rock at a greenhouse. “I was at G.H.Q. tending to other business when I got word my Rough Riders had relieved some colored troopers on a hill that had some strategic importance. So when I’d finished my more important business at G.H.Q., I rode over to see what was going on, and this young man here was the only reporter who saw fit to report it that way.”
He held out his hand to Stringer. “I like a man who tells the truth, sir.”
As they shook, Stringer said, “So do I, and I feel sure you would have charged up San Juan Hill had charging been required, for I just saw you charge another hill, and I sure wish you wouldn’t do that again, Mr. President.”
T.R. patted the Army holster attached to his Sam Browne belt. “Nonsense. We have to round those rascals up, as soon as our ponies are rested. Meanwhile, let’s see about that coffee and make some plans.”
The Secret Service man said he’d do something about the bodies out front and back. Stringer didn’t want them messing about where those furs were stored, so he tried to excuse himself, and headed for the outbuilding to let the ponies out himself.
But old T.R. tagged along, like a kid, saying, “To tell the truth, this inspection tour hasn’t really been as exciting as I anticipated. But it seems to be turning out bully after all.”
“I wish you’d stay here and let your Secret Service and War Department deal with that gang, sir,” Stringer said.
“Bosh,” T.R. replied. “This won’t be the first time I’ve hunted down outlaws. Back in the ’80s, when I was ranching out west as a private citizen, I once tracked down and arrested some thieves. I don’t suppose you’ve heard about that, eh?”
“No sir,” Stringer said. “But I sure believe you.”
Even Fran got to tag along when, less than an hour later, the restless Teddy Roosevelt ordered everyone in the saddle to go hunting outlaws with him. He naturally took the lead. Stringer couldn’t see where that Army major might be in the crowd at the moment. So he reined in next to the head Secret Service agent.
“No doubt this is none of my business,” he murmured, “but don’t you think it’s sort of dangerous to let the president of these United States ride point?”
The somewhat older federal lawman sighed wearily. “Tell him that, but don’t tell him we have Major Cagney and some of my boys scouting well out front. He likes to feel he’s in the lead. I don’t mind saying it can make our job complicated at times. What was that about anarchists back there, MacKail?”
“I must have been wrong,” Stringer said. Then he brought the Secret Service up to date on his vain attempts to reach them before his mysterious plotters.
When he’d finished, the Secret Service man decided, “Well, it seems obvious they were out to stop you, or maybe just get you. They seem more intent on getting away from T.R. than assassinating him. But the day is young. Haven’t you any idea what they thought you knew that they didn’t want you to tell us?”
Stringer shook his head. “I’ve noticed a few petty offenses in my travels. Nothing worth making a federal case out of.”
“What’s the story about that unauthorized cabin back there?”
“Like I said, petty. Just an old squatter, who even liked the park buffalo. Some meaner gents have poached at least three from the park herd, recent, and I think they’re all one gang—the gang we seem to be chasing. But skinning illegal game, like the president says, is the least of their crimes. They shoot at us human beings a lot too. I wish I knew why.”
The Secret Service man seemed more interested in the president up ahead than dead buffalo, or even dead MacKails. So Stringer dropped back to ride with Jack London a spell.
He said, “I see you caught the presidential special after you gunned that rascal for me in Granger, Jack. Thanks. I owe you.”
London looked blank. “I never gunned anyone. Couldn’t you see what was going on, Stringer?”
“Not hardly. I was too busy ducking. What kind of a view did you get of the proceedings?”
“A confusing one. But before everyone started screaming and milling about, I saw a man right next to me throw down on you. I yelled a warning and tried to grab his arm. I see I threw his aim off, but he managed to fire at you once before I lost him in the crowd. What happened after that? Why didn’t you grab the train, like me?”
“I haven’t had as much experience as a hobo, I reckon. But now I see what must have happened. There were two after me, one behind and one in front. Thanks to you, and my fast duck, one got his sidekick instead of me. I was chagrined, too, when they arrested me for it for a spell.”
He filled in the rest, or as much as he wanted a fellow writer and known news thief to know. London couldn’t make any sense out of it either.
“They were out to get you,” he said, “not T.R. All this time you’ve been trying to beat them to us, they’ve just been trying to catch you. The direction you were going made no difference to ’em. They probably thought you were just trying to get away from them, see?”
“To a point. How come they were assassinating buffalo up this way before even I knew I was due to arrive?”
London thought before he answered. “Try it this way. The big chief who wants you dead has connections with other crooks all over this part of the country. He just contacted ’em all and told ’em to keep an eye out for you. He knew you had to be headed some damned way, so he covered ’em all. Add it up.”
Stringer did, and said, “It adds up to one mighty powerful crook as the mastermind. I don’t know beans about anyone that big in these parts. I don’t think even Butch Cassidy could command that much power, and hell, I don’t know as much about the Wild Bunch as the Pinkertons must, and they can’t catch ’em.”
London agreed it was a poser, and got out a cigar to smoke.
Stringer began to roll his own. “You’ve been sort of busy since last we met,” he said. “Would you like to fill me in on all these dudes?”
London shrugged. “What you see is about what you get. I managed to get in with ’em coming up on the train. Aside from his personal bodyguards and st
aff, they’re mostly bloated Washington plutocrats trying to get in good with old T.R. by sucking around him. He seems to think they’re his Rough Riders, for when he yells froggy, they all jump.”
“Speaking of jumpers,” Stringer said, “what’s the story on that tall gal in the navy riding habit?”
London scowled. “She’s some senator’s wife. He’s not out here with T.R. Stay away from her.”
“Oh? Is she the, ah… First Mistress?”
“I don’t doubt she’d like to be, but he only seems to want to kiss bears when he’s away from home. The reason I’d like you to stay away from her is that I’ve been screwing her since I joined the party.”
Stringer laughed. “That sounds fair,” he said, and would have dropped it there.
But London asked, “What’s going on between you and that pretty little blonde in the thin calico?”
So Stringer had to deny the freedom of the press by telling a fellow reporter what an innocent child Fran was. He added, “If he doesn’t get us all shot, I mean to ask T.R. if she could have a job riding greenhorns in and out of the park. She had a remuda, and knows where Lake Yellowstone is, at least.”
London opined that a gal that pretty could no doubt make a lot of money-offering rides, whether she owned any ponies or not. Stringer managed to change the subject, and later, after London finished a tall tale about other outlaws in Alaska, he was able to slip back and ride with Fran a spell.
She asked where they were going, or even if he knew where they were now. He glanced around at the pines they were forging through. “Beats me. If this keeps up much longer, we’ll be clear out of the park. I can’t tell if we’re tracking anyone or just tear-assing south. One hoof mark or horse apple looks much the same as another, and most of the others are riding ahead of us.”
“I know,” she said. “Why don’t we drop back to sort of look for blackberries or something, lover?”
He smiled fondly at her. “I’d like that a lot better than I like this. But there’s safety in numbers, and if we’re not chasing them, they could be searching for blackberries as well.”
“Pooh, I want to have some more fun.”
“You’ve a long life ahead of you,” he said, “if we can just come up with a way for you to live it. How do you feel about setting up shop as a park guide in Yellowstone Station, after you sell those furs, I mean? I might be able to swing it.”
“I haven’t been thinking that far ahead,” she replied. “Honestly, honey, I’m just dying to make love some more, and I don’t think we’ll be missed if we just rein in.”
He sighed. “Never mind. I can see I don’t have to worry about your future. I reckon you’re fixing to make a lot of men happy, whether they want to see the park or not.”
She pouted so much after that, he decided to move up to the head of the column and see where all the horse apples he kept seeing between the trees could be coming from. As he rode to the top of the rise ahead, he saw the president in mounted consultation with the Army man and Secret Service agents who’d been scouting ahead.
As he joined them, he heard T.R. saying, “Oh, botheration. But at least the fox gave us a good chase, didn’t he?”
Major Cagney replied, “We’re over a mile outside the park, and as I said, they’ve scattered, Mr. President. I make it seven riders, thanks to MacKail, here. There’s simply no way we can chase after more than one of them at a time now, and do you really think it’s worth it?”
“We have an I.D. on that one MacKail dropped behind the cabin, sir,” the top Secret Service man chimed in. “It makes more sense to mount a dragnet for Swann’s known associates than to chase just one of them to Lord knows where, and you did say you were planning to see those troops off to the Philippines Monday morning, didn’t you?”
T.R. shot Stringer a weary smile. “Don’t ever run for this office if you enjoy outdoor life, son. I can’t wait until I put the country back on its feet so I can go hunt elephants. I’ve never shot an elephant. Have you?”
Stringer shook he head. “No sir. But while we’re riding back, could I talk to you about buffalo?”
He thought T.R. was ignoring him as the president stood in the stirrups to wave his pith helmet and shout, “Hounds and hunters in, the chase is over for the day, blast it.”
But as his party gathered around, T.R. nodded at Stringer. “Ride at my left and tell me what I don’t know about the American bison, son. I guess you know Buffalo Bill Cody is a personal friend of mine.”
As they started back through the pines, Stringer said, “Colonel Cody’s marksmanship may have made a lot of sense, back when he was feeding the railroad crews buffalo beef and General Sheridan felt the Indians had too much in their larder to begin with. But as we all know, the old buffalo herds didn’t turn out to be an endless supply of meat on the hoof after all.”
T.R. snorted impatiently. “Past history. Winning of the west and all that. Had to be done.”
Stringer nodded. “Nobody’s saying anything about letting wheat fields and cattle spreads revert back to buffalo range, Mr. President. But do you really think we have to kill ’em all? I know they’re sort of big and ugly. But once a species is wiped out entire, it’s gone forever.”
“I know that,” T.R. said. “I told you I was a nature lover. But I fail to see what you’re worried about. I just made them stop hunting buffalo in this national park, didn’t I?”
“Yes sir. But there’s nothing to stop them from coming back, and as you said, there’s only a few hundred of the poor brutes left—I mean, on this earth. Even if you add in the half-tame critters in private hands—and I doubt they feel like buffalo, no matter what they look like—there can’t be a thousand of the species still alive.”
The older man nodded. “You mean they need special protection. I agree. How would you like to be a charter member of the American Bison Association, Mr. MacKail?”
“I didn’t know there was such an outfit, sir.”
“There wasn’t, until just now. I just made it up. But once I get back to Washington, I’ll have one going in no time. You’ve no idea how easy it is to get society swells to join associations I make up. We’ll have to work up some sort of lapel pin and—”
“It won’t be enough,” Stringer cut in. “I’ve no doubt lots of ladies and gents who’ve never seen a wild buffalo would be all too willing to join a club dedicated to their salvation. But then what will they do, feed them peanuts?”
T.R. scowled. “I’m not sure I like your attitude. I think an American Bison Association would make a fine start at preserving the species.”
“I’m not saying nobody should start, Mr. President. Enrolling folk back east, or better yet, out here, in a society dedicated to saving the last buffalo, sure beats shooting and skinning ’em out. But if you really aim to save ’em, you have to start by discouraging anyone from hunting ’em, not just gents sporting a bronze buffalo on their lapels.”
“It’s already against the law to hunt the herd here in the park,” T.R. said, “and you just said there are hardly any other buffalo left to worry about.”
“I know,” Stringer replied, “and meanwhile, just down the line in Granger, I saw a whole warehouse filled with green buffalo hides, and you can hardly buy a drink at a bar in these parts without having a buffalo head stare down at you accusingly. To keep folk from hunting buffalo, you got to make it less fashionable to buy buffalo robes, fat, hoof medicine and— Suffering sons of hot succotash, that could be it!”
T.R. regarded him sternly. “What could succotash, hot or cold, have to do with the demise of the American bison?”
“I’m sort of well-known as an investigative reporter,” Stringer said. “That’s what they thought I was up to when they caught Jack London and me snooping around that warehouse in Granger. They didn’t get Jack’s real name. That’s why they never went after him. But when a lesser light of the operation told the big boss a stranger called MacKail had explained his suspicious interest in all those green hides
, he leaped to a hasty conclusion and told his boys to hunt me instead of buffalo. So that’s what’s been going on ever since, and I sure feel foolish!”
“You talk sort of foolish as well,” the president said. “Granger is a long way south of this park, isn’t it?”
“I made the distance fast enough,” Stringer replied, “and hardly met anyone a poacher would worry about meeting in the unsettled country between. I was wondering where on earth they could have come by all those buffalo hides down there. Now I see they never did. They’ve been poaching the one herd left, here in the national park, and shipping them from Granger on the main line east. I’ll bet I even know who the mastermind is—the rascal who’s been dealing in buffalo products all this time down in Granger. His name is Ashton. He has it painted right over his warehouse door!”
The president called a Secret Service man over and snapped, “I want a hide merchant in Granger arrested. His name is Ashton. If it’s not, find out what is might be. You’d better ride on ahead to the railroad and get that on the wire. I expect to hear he’s been picked up by the time the rest of us get to Yellowstone Station. Why are you still here? Don’t you know how to ride?”
The agent called to one of his companions, and they were gone in no time. T.R. chuckled. “That’s one of the few things about this job I enjoy. Now if only I could get J. P. Morgan to obey me half as well. We don’t have to round up all those poachers, once they have no place to dispose of their ill-gotten gains.”
Stringer smiled. “Putting old Ashton out of business ought to slow ’em down a heap, but as long as there’s a market for buffalo products, Mr. President—”
“Who do you think is running this country, you or me?” T.R. cut in. “I run the Interstate Commerce Commission as well. Getting some of the western congressmen to go along with me may be a bother. But, bully, I’ll make them charter members of the American Bison Society, and they won’t have to pay for their nice pins if they vote for the legislation I just decided we need. My daughter Alice is going to be very vexed with me when I make her get rid of that coach robe she’s so fond of, but she’ll just have to, and no buts about it. My Alice seems to set the style for young ladies of fashion these days. Did you know that?”
