Free The Shirt On His Back by Barbara Hambly Page A

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 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