The Shirt On His Back - By Barbara Hambly Page 0,25

French pate, as well as port and cognac. Someone had clearly paid Charro Morales's prices for liquor also, because the whiskey that was going around among the commonality - while barely up to the worst New Orleans standards - was still better than anything on offer at Seaholly's, and when Hannibal entered the orange-lit murk of the tent with his fiddle, there was a general shout of joy. 'We gonna see some prancin'!'

Around the entrance, the Crows who worked for the AFC were already gorging themselves on the meat and passing around tin cups of Company liquor. Wallach muttered, 'Titus better watch how much of that stuff's goin' out, if he don't want there to be trouble.' Red Arm, the chief of the Crows, sat inside, between Titus and Sir William at the back of the tent, and glared derisively at McLeod's companion, the Flathead chief Kills At Night.

Among the independent trappers the talk was all of beaver and trade and the damn settlers comin' over the passes like damn idiots, and whether Montreal traps were or were not superior to the St Louis design, and how soon do you think the government's going to kick the damn British out of the

Columbia country and let us take what it's our right to take? In between this, January would occasionally whisper to Gil Wallach to identify this man or that. ('That's Byron de La Vega, that was at Pierre's Hole in '32 when they had that fight with the Blackfoot . . . That feller? Wiegand - been clerkin' for the Company forever. You know that shirt I got, with the quill embroidery on the front? His squaw quilled that for me . . . No, I never seen that coon before but I hear tell his name's Wynne an' he can't shoot for sour owl shit . . .') The noise outside the tent, where the Indian allies of the two fur-trade companies had begun to howl and dance, was even worse.

Speeches were made about the election of the new President (toasts to Van Buren and to Old Hickory); challenges issued - Americans against British - to wrestling matches, horse races, competitions in shooting and knife throwing and swallowing elk guts: Waugh! The guest of honor, Company trapper Jim 'Gabe' Bridger, was ceremoniously presented with a suit of medieval armor that Stewart had hauled up the mountain for him, to whoops of approval from all present; Chief Red Arm was given several Company medals and a very handsome beaver hat worth ten dollars in St Louis.

Sir William made his way over to the Ivy and Wallach party, carrying a guitar and followed by a young man in a buckskin coat bearing what looked like a sketchbook. January creased his brow in an expression of vexation: 'What, nobody in the camp had a piano?'

'Not a one,' grieved His Lordship, stroking his black mustaches. 'What this world is coming to I can't think. This belongs to Mick Seaholly, of all people - you'd scarcely think the man would be a practitioner of the musical arts. And speaking of the arts,' he added as January bent an ear to test the sound of the guitar's strings behind the ever-increasing clamor in the tent, 'might I introduce my friend Mr Miller? Mr Miller is a painter I asked to accompany me this year, since this may well be my last visit. In New Orleans I had word that my brother is ill, and I - I regret to say - am the heir of Grandtully Castle.’.

'I wish him a full recovery, then,' said January, 'and long life.'

'Not as heartily as I do.' Stewart sighed and looked around him at the candlelit gloom. 'I fear that when I'm finally able to come back, it'll all be gone. Settlers—' He shook his head. 'Not to speak of missionaries like that repellent chap Grey . . . I'm sure Parliament will give your government an argument about it, and I'm equally sure that argument will come to exactly nothing. I've been in this country long enough to know that when Americans start to move into land, it's going to be theirs, no matter who has prior claim on it.'

Across the firelit Breughelesque confusion, men's voices rose in anger. Stewart turned his head sharply: John McLeod was shaking his fists almost in Edwin Titus's face. 'Lord, they'll be at it in a minute, look how red old Mac's turning. Could I get you and Sefton to give me