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After returning to his horse for a shovel, Josiah dug a hole beside the wagon. He laid the unfortunate man in his grave and then covered him with rocks and dirt.

"Guess I should say something," Josiah awkwardly stood over the man's grave. "I don't know any Christian words to say over you, but seeing how you raised your daughter, I figure you were a good, decent man. I reckon Emma was right about that. If there's a Heaven, you're probably there, looking down on what's happening to your daughter." Josiah sighed and shook his head soberly. "I bet when you sent me after Emma, you never figured I'd take her for my wife. You probably never counted on that and probably didn't want that for Emma. I can't say I blame you, but I ain't giving her back to the white folks! Emma said she had no kin, so I reckon I'm the only family she has left. Well, that's all I got to say, 'cept rest in peace."

Josiah strode back to his horse. If good people could die so easily, then he reckoned God didn't care what happened to Emma. Even with all her religion, she was no better off than him.


It was noon of the following day, when Emma heard a rider approaching their camp. Her ears were better than her eyes, and she strained to see the blurry horizon. When the horse rode into camp, Emma finally recognized Josiah and lowered her shotgun.

"Did you find my pa?" she asked hopefully.

"I did," replied Josiah. "I buried him beside the wagon."

"Thank you, Mr. Brown. I appreciate it."

Josiah grunted, and went to the fire to warm his hands.

Timidly, Emma bit her lip. "Did you stop to bury the two Blackfoot?" she wondered. She expected Josiah to snap at her, but to her surprise, he didn't.

"What was left of them," he replied. "I figured you'd ask."

"Thank you," mumbled Emma. She opened her mouth to say something nice about him for doing such a thing but closed it again with a sigh.

Sensing her futility, Josiah laughed grimly. "Emma, I know you don't think much of me, but I'm still yer husband."

"I know," she numbly replied. Emma went back to the buffalo robe to sit for awhile. She was weary and the hard strain of the last few days showed plainly on her lovely face.

Josiah gazed at her for a moment before returning to his horse. "I'm going beaver trapping," he told her. "I'll be back tomorrow."

Sadly, Emma lay down on the robe, clutching her father's rifle as though she were hugging him with all her might. She said nothing, but watched as Josiah rode off with his packhorse and traps.


That night, the fire crackled as Josiah tossed another dry branch on the flames to cook his supper. The wind was coming in even stronger now, so he pulled his buffalo robe up around his neck to keep warm.

A modest collection of skinned beaver pelts lay drying at his feet, and Josiah was pleased by his success. The beaver were far from plentiful, but it was still more than the slim pickings he had been getting near Jackson Hole.

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