After Bonin liberated the Scots’ pelts, we rode the lower trail until we come to a ford in the river where the Frenchman run his ferry. But the barge was tied the other side and we saw no sign of that old trapper Plante.

No dust rose behind us on the Mullan trail. Maybe we had not been followed.

Liberate is a poorly word for what you done, I said to Bonin.

We’d struck camp that morning for the north when Bonin rode up with that thick pelt pack tied to the cantle of his saddle. He said the…