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his
favorites," Paul said with affection in his voice. "And he
liked to leave the idea the fort they built is the one that's there
now. Which is... well, shading the truth, let's say. After the Army
bought 'em out, a lot was added. I remember Joe and Dad even talked
the Army into adding a couple of rooms to the post trader's store for
them."
    She looked up at him. "Your
father died not long after the solders came."
    "Not long after. A
drunk Indian stole a cow, and a greenhorn soldier decided to make an
example of him. Ten men ended up dead, including my dad." He was
silent a moment, then continued, "The day we buried my father,
Joe came and said he wanted me to take his place. I was hardly more'n
a boy, and he took me right on, made me his partner just like my
dad'd been." Paul was quiet again; then he walked to the door.
"I'll leave now. If he wakes up... well, you know he can't talk.
Some sounds now and then, but nothing you can understand."
    As Paul left, she looked at
Joe again. It was so hard to reconcile the way he was now with the
way he'd been. So small, he seemed so small, this man who'd loomed so
large when she was a child. Her mind went back to when she was nine
or ten, and she saw Joe standing over her as she tore open a parcel
he'd brought her from St. Louis. It had been wrapped in tissue and
bright ribbon, and inside was a pale-green frock with a checkerwork
trim of black velvet. She had gasped with delight at the sight of it.
It was prettier than anything she'd ever owned, lovelier than
anything she'd ever seen, and the next morning she put it on to wear
to school.
    "I'm gonna save mine,"
Helen announced. For Joe had brought her a package too. "I'm
gonna put it away for something special."
    But Sophie had worn hers,
running and playing in it on the way to school, loving the way the
delicate fabric swirled and billowed. She had been looking behind her
as she ran, watching the dress float behind her, when she tripped and
fell. The delicate material tore with a long and sickening sound.
    She started to cry and
wouldn't get up, didn't want to see what she had done.
    "Sophie, come on.
We'll be late. Sophie, you gotta get up."
    But she wouldn't move. She
lay in the dust crying, the tears less mourning for the dress than
anger at herself. How could she have let such a thing happen? How
could she have been so careless?
    Helen fetched Miss Travers,
and the schoolteacher lifted Sophie to her feet. "So that's the
fuss. It's ruined, isn't it."
    It's not the dress, Sophie
wanted to protest. Not the dress at all. It's what I did to it, don't
you see? But she couldn't get the feelings into words; tears were all
she could manage.
    "You stop that crying
right now, Sophie Talbot!" Miss Travers brushed angrily at the
torn skirt. "It's a sin, you caring so much for material
things."
    But Miss Travers' orders
had little effect, and Sophie was still crying that night when Joe
came home. He saw the tears, heard about the dress, and understood
immediately. "Mad at yourself, are ya?" he said, picking
her up as though she weighed nothing at all. "You're not the
first person ever do somethin' like this, ya know. Why, I remember a
time at Rendezvous I lost nearly half my pelts, ten packs of 'em."
He went on to tell her how he'd been duped by an Arapaho; and there'd
been something about a wolf the Indian claimed was tame. Sophie
couldn't remember all the details, but she recalled the story had
ended with a midnight chase with Joe after the Indian, and the wolf--
    A noise behind her broke
into her thoughts. Startled, she twisted around and saw that the door
to the bedroom had opened a crack. It was only the latch, she
thought. The latch must not have caught when Paul went out.
    She turned back to the bed
and picked up Joe's hand. Scarred and gnarled as it was, she could
see in it the square and capable hands she remembered. He could do
anything: build a fort, fix a broken prairie schooner--he'd even
taught himself to read during one winter