Read Online Brian Garfield by Manifest Destiny - Free Book Online Page B

road?”
    â€œMay be they don’t bother with gates back in France where he comes from.”
    Ahead three men hunkered in cottonwood shade, their horses tied to trees; one of the men trailed a fishing line in the river.
    â€œSay, Mr. Roosevelt, be careful with these men now.”
    â€œWho are they?”
    â€œâ€˜Bitter Creek’ Redhead Finnegan and his friends.”
    â€œI don’t believe I know them.”
    â€œDon’t believe you’ll want to,” Joe said.
    â€œBy George, it appears I don’t have a large choice in the matter.”
    Finnegan and Frank O’Donnell had stood up; O’Donnell had moved to his horse and now laid his hand on the buttstock of a scabbarded rifle. Finnegan had a revolver in his fist—not pointed at anyone, but the implied threat was obvious.
    Joe drew rein facing them at the edge of the grove. Beside him he was relieved to see, out of the corner of his eye, that Roosevelt followed suit. The mood the dude was in, it didn’t seem safe to trust his prudence; and if Roosevelt should suffer an attack of one of his unpredictable moments, God alone knew what effect it might have on the three trigger-happy hunters.
    The third man remained below on the riverbank, squatting on his heels with the fishing pole in his hand; that was young Riley Luffsey. He had a rifle across his lap and looked at them over his shoulder with his customary cocky dare.
    Joe said, “You can put up the firearms.”
    Pugnacious and surly, “Bitter Creek” Redhead Finnegan pointed the revolver vaguely at the dude. “What’s this you got here, Joe?”
    â€œMr. Roosevelt from New York. Gentle down—we don’t work for the Marquis. It was you boys cut the fence, I guess?”
    â€œThey Strang it, we cut it,” Frank O’Donnell snarled, as if it were an invitation to dispute.
    Finnegan said, “That’s a public road up and down the river. Man’s got no right fencing it.”
    Joe said, “He claims to own all this land. Valentine Scrip.”
    Redhead Finnegan said, “He don’t own nothing.” As always he was in search of a fight. He had an evil reputation throughout the Bad Lands.
    Joe pointed them out for Roosevelt’s benefit. “Michael Finnegan—Frank O’Donnell. The lad down there with the pole is Riley Luffsey.”
    â€œDelighted to meet you,” Roosevelt said without any evidence of delight. “And I agree with you that public roads ought to remain open.” At least he had the sense not to dismount.
    Finnegan surveyed Roosevelt, open condemnation in his glance. “Picked yourself a poor guide. If it’s good hunting you care for, we’ll take you to more game than a man can shoot with a Gatling.”
    â€œSorry, gentlemen. No offense intended, but I have a contract with Joe Ferris.”
    â€œYour bad luck then. You’ll go out two, three weeks and come in empty-handed. Count on it.” Finnegan leered up at Joe.
    Finnegan’s curly red hair was thick and matted. He wore it shoulder-length like the late Wild Bill Hickok. His skin was as oily as Esquimeaux grease. Finnegan had a broad florid face and a taut stocky body that always seemed ready to spring like a trap: all his moves were sudden. His clothes were filthy.
    More than one time Joe had heard Redhead Finnegan boast that he was from Bitter Creek, wherever that might be; and that the farther up Bitter Creek you went, the tougher and meaner the people got; and that he himself hailed from the fountain head of Bitter Creek.
    Finnegan’s sometime partner Frank O’Donnell was a big ruffian from Ireland whose cheeks bore the rough pits of smallpox. The stoic stillness of the Bad Lands had immobilized O’Donnell’s features; he had built a wall around himself and inside it he must have dehydrated. Joe could not remember ever having seen him smile. Nor did O’Donnell talk much, except when