Clouds had gathered through the night, blotting out the last shimmer of starshine as they stirred in the cold gloom, kicked life back into the fire, and went about seeing off one of their own. No longer were there ten. Joseph Little lay in a shallow grave scraped from the forest floor high in the Wind River Mountains. Matthew Kinkead had stayed behind, vowing he’d had him enough of the wandering and the womanlessness, choosing instead a life among his Rosa’s people in Taos. And now Rowland—turning back himself, unable to salve his grief among these good friends in these mountains. His final hope might be to find a healing to those deep wounds of his heart among Maria’s people. That was just what Bass wished for him when it was Scratch’s turn to step up and fling his arms around another old friend in farewell. Quickly he whispered, “Johnny, I pray your feet’ll take you back where you can be happy once more.” Rowland inched back in their embrace and looked into Bass’s eyes.
