to the bottomlands, then lowered it as Shaw called out, 'Yo, Maestro?'
'All clear, Lieutenant.' The use of Shaw's title was a signal. Had somebody been holding a gun to his head, January would have called out, All clear, Captain, and Shaw would have taken whatever steps he deemed necessary from there. He held out the vest and the locket as Shaw dropped from the saddle.
'Well, Lordy Lordy . . .'
'It's funny,' mused Frye. 'My granny always said, if you went around stealing things from the dead, they'd find a way to make sure you got caught for it. Hell, I've took heaps of plunder from Injuns, and if God's keeping count of the horses and saddle tack I took off dead Comanche and Mexicans, well, I can only hope Granny'11 be praying for me when my account gets tallied. But you know, I sure did feel queer, pullin' the weskit off that old man.'
But you did it anyway. January reflected that if you'd happened to have been soaked by the rain, a silk under-layer between your new red calico shirt and your new blue wool coat would have been extraordinarily welcome. Even if you did have to rinse blood out of it before you put it on.
'When did you find him?'
'Just before sunup. You could see colors.'
'How was he layin'?' asked Shaw.
'On his back.'
'On the ground?'
'Well, yeah. His feet was pointing toward that deadfall tree, maybe two-three feet between his toes and the fire pit.'
'Barefoot?'
Frye nodded. 'He had splints on his left leg, like as if he'd broke it. Somebody'd tore the hem of his shirt to tie 'em on with. Black gloves - a real gentleman, I thought, which is why I thought he mighta been one of Stewart's friends. The fire'd burned out, but somebody'd put wood by it for him. I thought he'd broke his leg fallin' off a horse, and they'd put up a little shelter for him and gone back to the camp for a litter. I sure wouldn't want to try to pack a wounded man down out of these mountains and back to the settlements.'
January thought about the steep trails beyond Fort Laramie, the gullies - climb down, climb up - and the crossing of the Platte, the Sandy, the Popo Agie and a thousand swollen creeks in-between.
'It wasn't Indians, though, was it?'
January shook his head. 'I don't think so, no.'
'Poor old buzzard. I'm sorry I robbed him, now.'
'If'fn you hadn't,' remarked Shaw, 'Indians might've, an' this locket'd be halfway to the Columbia.' He turned it over in his long fingers. "Sides, we know the Beauty got to him 'fore you did - we been trackin' him by his boots - which means the odds is good that he got his coat an' his hat as well.'
'Do you know?' said January suddenly. 'I think our friend was in mourning.'
'If you're goin' by the color,' returned Shaw, 'it'd mean Edwin Titus an' half the traders in the camp just lost their whole families.'
'Titus's coat-buttons are steel.' January held up the weskit again. 'Look at these. They're covered in the same silk, so they'll be black like the rest of the garment. It's bombazine silk, too, that doesn't catch light. Mourning is mostly what it's worn for. And expensive as it is, it's an old vest. Nobody does this kind of lacing on the back anymore, or has lapels cut in a triple notch this way—'
'Oh dearie dear,' squeaked Frye, with upflung hands, 'don't tell me I must get rid of all my old weskits before I go back to the States! Don't grieve a body so!'
January grinned and made a move as if to push the young trapper out of the shelter of the cottonwoods and into the river. 'Don't you tell me your ma never cut out a gentleman's vest. And look at how the silk's worn along the edge of the collar. He's got to have bought this ten years ago. Now look at the way his young lady is dressed. Those sleeves are just about ten years out of date - so's her hair. My sister would throw herself in the river before she'd wear a wired topknot like that. Doesn't it look to you,' he went on, 'like our young lady died about ten years ago, which is when her - father, shall we say? - outfitted himself all in black - rather expensively - and has remained so ever since?'
'Hair's what folks mostly take, goin' into mournin'.' Shaw rubbed