“The Eighty-seventh’s First Battalion had some casualties on the western slope of Mount Belvedere,” Uncle Johan was saying.

“The Eighty-fifth’s First Battalion attacked Mount Belvedere’s sister peak, Mount Gorgolesco,” Uncle Martin reminded his brother.

“There was action in the Po Valley and the Po River crossing,” Uncle Johan said, as if he’d been there—he hadn’t. But he’d trained young men who had died there—my mom told me.

“Some KIAs and DOWs, all right,” Uncle Martin said.

“What?” I asked them, from the driver’s seat.

“Killed in action,” Uncle Martin explained.

“Died of wounds,” Uncle Johan told me.

“I was just wondering if you knew Paulino’s last name,” I said.

“Johan thought he was Italian!” Uncle Martin exclaimed.

“He wasn’t Mexican, Martin,” Uncle Johan insisted.

In exasperation, I turned on the car radio, where Marty Robbins was singing “El Paso.” My uncles instantly started singing along. They were a couple of old Tenth Mountain Division men, all right. Many of the ski troops they trained went to Italy, but my uncles had gone home—not to war. They were already married men, with children; they’d had the time of their lives at Camp Hale, playing hooky from their families, drinking beer with the boys. It was a wonder my uncles could remember anything from their Tenth Mountain Division days. Paulino’s last name was too much to expect.

In exasperation, I turned off the car radio. Uncle Martin and Uncle Johan instantly stopped singing; they couldn’t remember the words to the Marty Robbins song, although they’d just been singing it. That was when the snowshoer started to sing. I’d known him for four years, and I never knew he could sing, or what a pretty voice he had. My uncles and I were so impressed by Mr. Barlow, we didn’t sing along—we just listened to him sing “El Paso.”

I can’t hear that song and not hear the snowshoer’s voice, and not remember that night in the car, when I was driving and I’d just seen Paul Goode as the getaway driver.

A couple of old Tenth Mountain Division men thought Paul Goode looked like an Aspen local they’d encountered as a ski guide—“just some kid,” as my mom remembered him, when he’d been three years younger than the mountaineer my uncles identified as Paulino. No, naturally, Uncle Martin and Uncle Johan didn’t know—or they couldn’t remember—Paulino’s last name. I doubted that my mother knew or remembered the boy’s first name. Little Ray only knew, or she thought she knew, there were no strings attached. You don’t need to have the writer gene to imagine there are always strings attached.