NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 4

The following material is an extract from NOT JUST ANY MAN, A Novel of Old New Mexico, Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson. Published by Palo Flechado Press, Santa Fe, NM

A Note about Spanish Terms: This novel is set in northern New Mexico and reflects as much as possible the local dialect at that time. Even today, Northern New Mexico Spanish is a unique combination of late 1500s Spanish, indigenous words from the First Peoples of the region and of Mexico, and terms that filtered in with the French and American trappers and traders. I’ve tried to represent the resulting mixture as faithfully as possible. My primary source of information was Rubén Cobos’ excellent work, A Dictionary of New Mexico and Southern Colorado Spanish (University of New Mexico Press, 2003). Any errors in spelling, usage, or definition are solely my responsibility.

CHAPTER 4

Ewing Young appears at the Taos campsite three days later and pays off his men. It’s heading toward late October now, the cottonwoods gold along the stream banks, the temperatures cold at night but still warm during the daylight hours. Most of the teamsters leave the next morning. They hope to sign on with a Santa Fe train that will head east to Missouri before winter sets in. A small group remains behind in the pasture. Most of them plan to either winter in Taos or join a beaver trapping group and overwinter in the mountains.

Gerald isn’t sure how he wants to proceed. He’d like to see his father again and have a real conversation with him, but he can’t figure out how to do this without rousing suspicion. Jones is still in the Don Fernando de Taos area, though Gerald isn’t sure where. The matted-haired man sloped off with a lewd reference to Mexican señoritas as soon as he’d collected his pay. His going certainly makes Ewing Young’s meadow more comfortable and, since Young has told the men to stay as long as they need to, Gerald sees no reason to leave just yet, despite the chill nights.

Young comes by late one evening and sits talking with the remaining men, his big frame bending toward the fire as he warms his hands. When the last of Gerald’s companions has slipped off to their bedrolls, Young turns to him. “You lookin’ to trap?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Gerald says. “I’d hoped to find work clerking, but I haven’t really started searching yet.”

“Still gettin’ your bearings?”

Gerald smiles slightly. “I suppose you could call it that.”

Young rises from the dead log he’s been sitting on. “I’m puttin’ together a band and headin’ out late next month. If you want to learn, you’re welcome to tag along. It might be a good way to earn the money for that farm of yours.” He grins. “If that’s what you’re still thinkin’ of doing. New Mexico has a way of turning a man’s mind in new directions.”

Gerald looks at him noncommittally and Young studies him. “I’m assuming you’ve got the wherewithal for the gear,” he says. “Traps are runnin’ ten dollars apiece and you’d need at least six, plus food and sundries. You’d be free trappin’, which means everything you bring in would be yours, but everything you put into it will be at risk, as well.”

“The investment resources aren’t a problem,” Gerald says, looking up at the big man. “And I appreciate the offer.” He shrugs and smiles. “I just may take you up on it.”

“I can sweeten the offer by assurin’ you that Enoch Jones won’t be comin’ with me,” Young says. “He made noises, but I’ve had just about all of him I can take for one year.” He stretches his hands over the flames. “Well, you know where t’ find me. We’ve got another week or so before headin’ out. I’m either at the store, my house, or Peabody’s place.” He turns away from the fire. “I’ll see you around.”

Gerald nods to the empty night and turns thoughtfully back to the flames. He picks up a stick and pokes at the fire, separating the pieces of burning wood so the flames will die out faster. He knows where Young’s mercantile is, and his house is on the other end of the pasture. But in the little time Gerald’s spent wandering the village, he’s seen no sign that identifies Peabody’s store.

He chuckles. But then, signs aren’t a major part of Don Fernando de Taos’ streetscapes. It’s an interesting place: half American, half Mexican, with a good dose of Taos Pueblo added in. The buildings are all brown one-story adobe mud that glint with flecks of mica in certain lights. In fact, in certain lights, the hamlet’s downright pretty.

And the people are pretty much live and let live, from what he can see. Best of all, he blends among them in a way he never has before, his skin simply another shade of the prevalent brown. In fact, he feels so comfortable here, he hates to leave.

But his money won’t last forever. He has only a few more weeks in which to decide what to do with himself. He hasn’t seen any need in the shops for another clerk. And Ewing Young is right. He doesn’t have the resources to set himself up as a farmer. Although if he did, he knows where he’d want to do so. If that’s possible so high in the mountains. On land surely already owned by someone. He pushes the thought of the long and fertile mountain valley out of his mind and douses the fire. Trapping seems like the best option so far.

~ ~ ~ ~

Gerald heads to the Taos plaza the next day for supplies, thinking again about how to approach his father in Ranchos. He’d truly like to get some advice about the idea of free trapping, not to mention passing as white.

He’s still accustomed to walking with a prairie-eating stride and he passes several groups of blanket-swathed Taos Indians who are also heading toward the plaza. He nods politely each time, but notices that their eyes tend to veer away from him. Even as they nod back at him, they don’t look directly into his face.

He frowns irritably, then remembers the slaves in Missouri. They did the same thing, carefully avoiding eye contact. Is it the sign of an oppressed people? Or simply politeness, not wanting to challenge or be challenged? It must be difficult to continue here in this land, with first the Spanish and now the Americans crowding in, encroaching on what was once only theirs.

Gerald reaches the plaza and slows to saunter past the cloths laid out on the ground and the produce and other goods carefully arranged on them. He finds he isn’t as interested in any of it as he probably ought to be, and veers off the plaza onto a street lined with adobe walls and the houses behind them.

All this vast land, yet the houses are so close together. There’s safety in that, of course. Although there are also plenty of shadowed corners for activity that might be suspicious in the full light of day. For example, this man facing the corner made by those two walls, his arms up and blocking the young woman who’s crowded into the niche, her back to the light brown adobe.

Gerald frowns. The man’s back is to him, but the matted white-blond hair under the dirty hat looks familiar. Jones? Then the man speaks, low and threatening, and there’s no doubt. Gerald stops in his tracks.

The girl speaks, in surprisingly good English, her voice sharp and clear. “I apologize if you have misunderstood me, Mr. Jones,” she says firmly. “I have no interest in keeping company with you.”

Jones reaches for her arm. “You think yer somethin’,” he growls. “But yer just another Mexican slut.”

“How dare you!” She twists, trying to get away, but Jones reaches for her shoulder and forces her back, against the adobe.

Then Gerald is behind him, fingers clamping Jones’ upper arm. “Let her go!”

Jones, startled, turns his head. “You!” His grip on the girl loosens involuntarily. She slips out of his grasp and darts down the dirt street. She looks back as she reaches the corner, dark eyes wide, and nods her thanks to Gerald, then is gone before he’s had time to do more than glimpse a light brown face and black hair neatly pulled up in an old-fashioned American hairstyle, soft tendrils framing her cheeks.

Gerald turns back to Jones and tightens his grip. “She clearly doesn’t want your attentions.”

Jones jerks his arm away and Gerald lets him go. “It’s none o’ yer business,” Jones growls. “’Sides, she’s just a Mexican. Just like yer just a nigger.”

Gerald’s eyes narrow. “She’s still a woman,” he says. “To be treated with respect.”

“Respect ain’t what they want.” Jones grins lasciviously. “They want tamin’.”

“It certainly didn’t sound that way to me.”

Jones shoves past Gerald into the narrow street. “You just stay out of my way.”

Gerald watches him go, then looks again toward the corner where the girl disappeared. She’s taller than the other women he’s seen in Taos. Her clothes are different, too. More American style, with an old-fashioned high waist and straight skirt that reminds him of the dresses his mother used to wear. Her skirts are longer than those of the other Mexican girls. He’d caught only a glimpse of ankle, instead of the half calf so common here. And her hair was tucked up. Off her neck, not down her back. A long, narrow back. A truly beautiful tawny-brown neck.

Impulsively, he moves down the street after her. But rounding the corner only reveals more adobe walls and a little boy playing in the dirt. The girl spoke perfect English too, although with a slight Spanish lift. A very pleasant lilt. Who is she?

Perhaps his father will know. It’s yet another question to ask him, apart from whether it’s wise for Gerald to continue to try to pass as white and what he would advise Gerald to do for a living, now that he’s here.

But when Gerald arrives at the Ranchos de Taos smithy early the next day, he finds that both the smithy and the casita beside it are empty. A middle-aged Mexican woman is pulling water from a well in the center of the compound. She looks at him inquiringly. He gestures toward the smithy and raises his eyebrows in a questioning look.

She smiles in amusement, shakes her head, and carries her water bucket through a doorway at the end of the compound.

A minute later, an American man comes out. He scratches at his scraggly blond beard and scowls at Gerald. “You wantin’ the smith?” he asks. “He took off. Said he was goin’ trappin’. Paid me my month’s due an’ hightailed it.” He peers into Gerald’s face. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about blacksmithin’, would you?”

Gerald shakes his head. “Did he say where he was going?”

The man waves a hand toward the mountains to the north. “Rockies, I guess. I dunno. He’s left me in a helluva bind.” His face brightens a little. “You needin’ traps? I’ve still got a half dozen he made before he took off.”

Gerald shakes his head again, then pauses. Maybe trapping would be the best way. “I’m not sure,” he says. “But if I do, I’ll come back for them.”

“Don’t know if they’ll be here by then.” The man scratches at his beard again. “They’re likely to go fast, once word gets out that Smith’s gone. He’s the best damn blacksmith we’ve seen in these parts for a while now.”

Gerald grins. “Then you should get a good price,” he says, turning away. “I apologize for waking you so early.”

“You come on back now, if you need anything,” the man says.

Gerald lifts a hand in farewell. “I’ll do that.”

He heads back to Don Fernando de Taos. His father has answered at least one of his questions. He’s left the area, leaving Gerald free to continue to pass as white. Gerald isn’t sure how he feels about this. Although most people don’t seem to care about his ancestry, clearly those who do care, care deeply. At least, Enoch Jones seems to.

And is it the right thing to do? Is it fair to others to not tell them up front? His jaw tightens. Why should it matter what color his skin is? He’s just a man, like any other man. The same hopes and desires, the same needs.

He stops in the middle of the path back to Taos and gazes up at the golden cottonwoods, the intense blue of the sky above them. It’s not like he set out to pass. In fact, he hasn’t actually told anyone he’s white. He’s just let them assume it. For that matter, he hasn’t denied his race to Jones. Although he hasn’t confirmed it, either.

But living on an equal footing with other men these past weeks has felt good. Gerald chuckles. ‘Good’ is such an inadequate word to describe the expansion he’s felt, the way he seems taller, somehow. He’s always known that he’s equal to any other man. Certainly, his parents made that clear enough to him.

Gerald grins, thinking of his Irish mother’s blazing blue eyes as she snapped, “You just be who you are inside and that’ll be good enough for anybody who has any sense, whether your mother’s a mere bondservant or your father a free negro.” He lifts two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. Yes ma’am. Then he sobers. But to be treated as equal is another thing entirely. It makes a man’s shoulders a little straighter, somehow.

He continues walking, his hands in his pockets. Maybe he’ll just continue on as he is and see what comes of it. Why cause trouble when it isn’t asking to be caused? Why not enjoy the experience and see where it takes him?

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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