The Shirt On His Back - By Barbara Hambly Page 0,24
seen, in the past three days, what the camp considered not much worth bothering about - including Blezy Picard accidentally murdering Ty Farrell, Jed and Blezy attempting to rape an Indian girl, and three of the Mexican trader Byron de la Vega's engages driving a grizzly bear from the woods through the Hudson's Bay camp for a joke - January guessed that whatever it was, it involved more than just shooting someone from behind a tree.
And in fact, no man in the camp would be discomposed by being shot at from behind a tree, anyway. Earlier that afternoon, one of Robbie Prideaux's friends had shot his hat off just to see him jump, which he hadn't.
'I'm guessin',' went on Shaw after a time, 'that Boden's either passin' as a trader hisself, or clerkin' for the Company or for McLeod of Hudson's Bay - dependin' on what him an' this Hepplewhite between 'em had planned. Hepplewhite sounds good an' British anyhow . . . but so does Shaw. An' for all what Tom says about shootin' him dead first chance I get, I can't turn my back on it, that he's got at least one partner in this an' maybe more. Maybe lots more.' He spoke softly, though behind them, Wallach and Hannibal were joking in French with Morning Star and her sisters, Sioux girls tall and slim as willow trees with feathers braided in their straight, midnight hair.
'Tom give me a page of Boden's handwritin'. Beyond that, if'fn you come up with any good way of tellin' for sure who it is, Maestro, I surely hope you'll share it. Last thing anybody needs around here is somebody killin' an innocent man they think is the one they's after, only it turns out later he ain't. I had that up to my hairline in Kentucky.'
Five or six of the AFC's spare shelters had been set up on the bare space of the contest ground opposite the liquor tent, far enough back that the AFC camp-setters could turn aside any uninvited drinkers who might mix up one tent for another in their befuddlement. Cressets of burning wood blazed around it, and three campfires formed an island of brightness just outside. January could see as they neared that candle lanterns hung from the tent frames within.
And if I had a Gilbert Stuart portrait of Frank Boden rolled up in my pocket, he reflected dourly, I wouldn't be able to make out his face in there, no matter what he currently looks like.
Voices hailed Gil Wallach: John McLeod - the jovial chief of the Hudson's Bay camp, who was, unusually for a trader, bearded like a holly bush - crossed the path, resplendent in a long-tailed violet coat the like of which hadn't been seen in public since Jefferson was President. There was a deal of rough good-natured pushing, jokes about what they'd been up to, exclamations of 'Waugh!' and 'Waugh yourself, Yank!' in McLeod's rich Scots voice. Like Sir William, McLeod had seen service in His Majesty's forces, and his presence in the camp was a reminder that Britain's king still claimed ownership of these lands.
Other men emerged from the dimly-glowing golden box that was Seaholly's tent: Flatheads who had been trading partners of the HBC for generations, wearing blue British sailors' jackets with brass buttons that winked in the firelight, and the handful of Mexican traders in black-laced coats of yellow and red. Independent trappers, too, including Goshen 'Beauty' Clarke - goldenly handsome as his nickname attested - and his partner Clem Groot, the squat Dutchman, chuckling over last night's ruse and the dumb coons who'd spent the night out in the rain on their account.
To newcomer Charro Morales's admonition that the dumb coons in question were damn lucky they hadn't encountered the Blackfeet, rose a dozen protestations of how many Blackfeet each of the various independents could take on single-handedly: Waugh!
Ribs and haunches of elk and mountain sheep dripped over the coals of the three fires, along with skewers of appolos, that delicacy of fat meat spitted alternately with lean. Since coming to the frontier, January had been almost constantly hungry, the result - he had noted for Rose's sake - of a diet that consisted almost entirely of lean meat. In addition to these viands, the AFC cooks had turned out pots of stew, rice, and cornbread, enlivened with the more exotic fare Sir William Stewart had packed along: pickles, sugar, strawberry jam and Stilton cheese, brandied peaches and potted