NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 5

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 5

But there’s still the matter of how he’ll spend his winter, whether he’ll plunge into the world of fur trapping or try to find some other way to earn his keep. He’s thinking about Ewing Young’s offer as he wanders Taos plaza two days later, with one eye out for the tall girl in American clothing. He idly contemplates a blanket covered with fat pumpkins, then glances up and sees Ewing Young striding diagonally across the plaza. A tall thin buckskin-clad man with long red hair in disheveled braids stalks beside him. The man gestures wildly and his nasal high-pitched voice echoes off the adobe buildings.

When Young sees Gerald, a relieved look crosses his long face. He slows as he reaches Gerald, although his companion is still talking.

“And he’s workin’ on a new-fangled trap that might hold some promise, if—” the man is saying.

Young puts his hand on the red-haired man’s arm. “Here’s someone you’ll be interested in knowing,” he says. “Gerald Locke Jr., meet Old Bill Williams. He came in yesterday with that bunch that’s surveying the Santa Fe Trail.”

There’d been talk around the campfire the night before about the Santa Fe Trail Survey team the U.S. Congress has sent out under Major Sibley, but Gerald had assumed they’d all be in uniform. He looks at the buckskin-clad man in surprise.

Williams snorts. “Expecting a little more dudin’ up?”

“I thought the survey was an army project,” Gerald says.

Williams shrugs. “They had to have an expert in the country to guide ’em.”

“You’ll find that Old Bill here isn’t shy about his talents,” Young says drily. “Fortunately, he usually manages to keep to subjects he’s got some knowledge of.”

Williams snorts. “Know more’n you about trapping!” he says. “And Injuns!”

“So you say.” Young’s eyes crinkle with amusement. He turns to Gerald. “Williams here has lived a lot of years in Indian country and thinks he knows all about it. Fact is, he’s so damn confident that he goes out trapping on his own in places where the rest of us hunt in groups in case of Indian attacks.”

Williams grunts. “I don’t plan on gettin’ sent to the other side any time soon, not ’til I feel like takin’ a few with me.”

Young grins and shakes his head. Then he glances toward the mercantile behind Gerald. “I need to go in and talk to Baillio.” He nods to Old Bill, then Gerald. “I expect we’ll be meetin’ again.”

Gerald and Williams watch Young duck through the store’s heavy wooden door frame, then stand in the dusty plaza and consider the vendors and the goods spread in front of them. Williams glances up at the turquoise sky, but Gerald’s eyes stray across the plaza, still watching for the tall girl with the American hairstyle.

“So,” Williams says abruptly. “You new to nuevo mexico?”

“I came in with Young’s most recent trade caravan.” Gerald brings his eyes back to the older man’s face. He’s probably about forty. Older than most of the Americans Gerald’s met here so far.

“You lookin’ to trap?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Gerald looks around the plaza. Still no sign of the girl. He looks at the red-haired man. “I’m still trying to sort out my options.”

“Well, that sounds like a mighty tall order.” Old Bill jabs a thumb in the direction of the nearest taberna. “Like Ewing says, I know about trappin’ and a few other things besides. If you’re lookin’ for advice about the lay of the land, I can share some pearls of wisdom for the price of a tangle foot.”

“Tangle foot?”

“A drink. Taos Lightnin’. Whisky.”

Gerald chuckles. “It’s a deal.”

They’re a long while in the bar and Gerald buys more than one drink, but he does learn a good deal: which of the Americans has the most experience trapping, who buys the resulting furs and at what prices, which groups are forming for the coming season. What Williams says accords with and expands on what Gerald’s already picked up from the campfire talk, so he’s inclined to believe this scrawny man with the long red braids.

Williams holds his liquor well, too. Three whiskeys in short succession have no impact on his speech or the brightness of his brown eyes. The only change Gerald can detect is that the mountain man’s sentences become longer and more complex, his diction more precise.

“And now that I’ve told you the sum and total of all my most profound knowledge about the art and technique of beaver trapping, let us proceed to more essential information,” Williams says. “Where is it you hail from, young man?”

“Missouri,” Gerald says. “I—”

“Ah, Missouri,” Old Bill says. He leans back. “I also consider myself to be of Missouri, though my natal state is North Carolina, of all the benighted places to be born. But when I was seven years old, my paterfamilias hightailed it for greener pastures and I’ve always been grateful for his sense of adventure. We landed far enough away from St. Louie to keep the stench of its sinful ways from my mother’s nostrils but close enough to take advantage of the fur market when we needed cash money.” He takes another sip of whiskey. “I was just a young whippersnapper when my daddy showed me how to set my first trap line and it sure did give me a taste of what it is to be independent. Then when I was sixteen I took me a notion to go live with the Osages and Christianize them.” He shrugs and grins. “That was most righteously green of me. In the end, they taught me more than I ever taught them, that’s for damn certain.”

Abruptly, the mountain man pushes away from the table. “Well, that was a mighty fine respite, that was, and we’ve had ourselves a healthy palaver, but I think maybe we could do with a feed and I know where to get it. Have you had the pleasure of meeting Jeremiah Peabody yet?”

Gerald shakes his head.

“Come along with me and I’ll introduce you. He’s always got a feed going. The man’s got a good cook and has the righteous sense to keep her busy.”

Gerald nods. He’ll finally learn where Peabody’s is. A restaurant of some kind, apparently. But by the time they’re halfway across the village, the loquacious trapper has set him straight on that, too.

According to Williams, Peabody is a New England man who came into the country around ’09 and set himself up as a teacher and scribe so the Spaniards would let him stay in the country legally. He holds open house for the trappers when they’re in town, as long as they aren’t liquored up when they arrive.

Gerald smiles slightly at this, thinking of the amount of whisky Williams consumed at the taberna, but holds his tongue. The man doesn’t appear to be drunk. Perhaps that will suffice.

And it does. The house is built in a U-shape. A gated adobe wall blocks the open end, but the wooden gate stands invitingly open. As Gerald follows Williams into the plant-filled courtyard beyond, a tall thin man with a black chin beard comes out of a short wooden door set into the adobe wall to their left. A Mexican man chops wood in the far corner.

“Well, Mr. Williams!” the man with the beard says. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir!” He gives Gerald a questioning glance.

“Jeremiah Peabody, you old scholar, you!” Williams says. “How are you?” He jerks a thumb at Gerald. “This here’s a young man I think you might wanta know, name of Gerald Locke the younger. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, according to Ewing. More importantly, he’s got the good sense to listen to my pearls of wisdom.”

Jeremiah Peabody chuckles and gives Gerald an amused glance. “That would imply that he has excellent manners and the patience of Job.”

“He might even have the patience to listen to you!” Old Bill laughs.

“And if I know you, William, you have neglected to eat since you rose this morning, although you have probably imbibed at least a drink or two.” Peabody turns back toward the house, waving them after him. “Come in, come in!”

Williams and Gerald follow him past a well, two small garden beds, and the man chopping wood. They duck through the door and move past a kitchen area, then down a short hall.

Jeremiah Peabody waves them into a fire-lit room crowded with tall bookcases and men sitting on carved wooden benches and cushion-topped chests. A narrow-shouldered blonde man and a slim dark-haired girl face each other in the center of the room.

The girl’s back is to the door. As Gerald enters, she says “Oh! Thank you, monsieur!” and the young man glances at the door and sees Jeremiah Peabody. His face flushes guiltily. There’s a general chuckle from the other men in the room as the girl turns, smiling, toward the door, a cloth covered package in her hands.

“Well, Mr. Bill Williams!” she says. “Hello!” Then her eyes touch Gerald’s face and her black eyes widen. Her smile deepens. “Hello,” she says.

Jeremiah Peabody looks puzzled. “Have you met Mr. Locke already, my dear?”

She shakes her head, eyes glinting with amusement. “Not formally, no.”

Peabody turns to Gerald. “My daughter, Suzanna.” Then, to Suzanna. “Mr. Gerald Locke Jr., newly arrived.” He glances at Gerald. “With Ewing Young’s train, I believe?”

Gerald nods, but his eyes are on the girl. “It’s my pleasure,” Gerald says.

She bobs a curtsey, her hands still full, eyes on his.

“And what is it you have there, my dear?” her father asks.

Suzanna lifts a corner of the cloth. “Look what Monsieur Beaubien brought me!”

Jeremiah Peabody frowns at the thin young man with the sharp nose who stands facing him, looking doubtful.

Peabody’s black eyes narrow and his gaze sweeps the room. “I know girls here marry at an early age,” he says, his tone clipped. “But my daughter is too young for gifts from eligible men.”

Beaubien shakes his head, spreading his hands. “They are merely the potatoes of Ireland,” he says in a polished French accent. “And most inedible, I assure you. I meant nothing by them.”

Jeremiah turns to Suzanna, his eyebrows raised. “Potatoes?”

Suzanna nods, eyes shining. “Mr. Young’s cook was going to throw them out, but Monsieur Beaubien thought I might be able to get them to grow here.” She unties one corner of the cloth. “Look, they already have eyes starting to form.” She lifts her chin at her father, her eyes just slightly defiant. “It’s a fair trade. I’ll give him some of my first crop.”

“Though she’s promised not to cook them herself,” Beaubien says mischievously. “I’ll let someone else have that honor.”

Jeremiah shakes his head and permits himself a small smile. “Very well. We’ll consider it a commercial transaction and leave it at that.”

Suzanna smiles triumphantly and carries her treasure out of the room. Old Bill crosses to the fireplace and turns, warming his long buckskin-clad legs. “Like you got a choice, Jeremiah,” he chuckles. “Who’s gonna tell that girl she can’t do what she’s already decided on doin’?”

“Must take after her daddy or somethin’,” a big broad-faced young man observes from the adobe seat that forms the sill of the multi-paned window overlooking the street. The panes are made of milk-white sheets of mica and the resulting muted light gives the room a sleepy, church-like glow that’s balanced by the color of the cushions on the chests and the light of the fire.

Jeremiah grins ruefully and crosses to the tea table in the right-hand corner. “Did you all get enough to eat?” he asks. “I’m sure you will be wanting something, William.” He lifts a small china plate. “What’s the news from Sibley’s survey expedition?” Then he turns. “I apologize, Mr. Locke. Have you met Carlos Beaubien and Ceran St. Vrain? And of course you know Ewing Young here in the corner, guarding the table for us.”

Young lifts a hand in acknowledgement, and Gerald nods to him and then the other men. They nod politely, then go on with their talk. Gerald drops into a chair near the door and tries not to watch it for the girl’s return. The way her eyes widened in apparent delight at the sight of him, the way she looked directly into his face. She’s unlike any girl he’s ever encountered.

When she returns, she has a book in her hand. The conversation stops when she enters and the men all watch her cross the room to Ceran St. Vrain in the window seat. She hands him the small brown volume. He takes it, looks at the spine, and shakes his head. Suzanna laughs as he hands it back to her. “You can face Apaches and Mouache Utes, but Samuel Johnson is too much for you?” she teases.

“You can face Samuel Johnson, but a skillet and oven are too much for you?” he answers.

Williams barks with laughter as Charles Beaubien chortles, “He caught you out that time!” But the girl only chuckles, crosses to a bookcase, and inserts the book in a row of similarly-bound volumes.

“We all have our strengths and weaknesses,” Jeremiah Peabody says, smiling. “While she serves the food we eat, her training is in literature and horticulture, not cookery.”

Suzanna tilts her head, gives him a small smile, and crosses to the table. “Shall I ask Encarnación for more tea and rolls?” she asks. She swings around, looking at the men in the room. “I suspect Mr. Williams and Mr. Locke have not partaken as much as they might like to.” She smiles mischievously at Old Bill. “You, of course, are always hungry for more of Encarnación’s rolls.” She turns to Gerald. “And you? Are you still hungry?”

Then she looks at his hands, empty in his lap. “Why, you haven’t eaten at all, have you?” She picks up a small plate, places two rolls, a piece of soft white cheese, and a napkin on it, and crosses the room to him. “That tea water is cold. I’ll bring more in a minute, along with some fresh bread.”

As Gerald takes the plate, he looks up into her eyes. Again, the straightforward quality of her gaze strikes him. There is nothing flirtatious in this girl. Yet he can barely move his lips to acknowledge her attention. “Thank you,” is all he can manage to say.

~ ~ ~ ~

Gerald sits beside the campfire that night long after the others have gone to their bedrolls, and gazes thoughtfully into the flames. Other than Enoch Jones, everyone he’s met in the West has made no reference to the color of his skin. It’s almost as if they can’t see that he’s a shade darker than the most sun-burnt of any of the Americans or Frenchmen here. He chews thoughtfully on his lower lip. That might not be true. A few of the French trappers, exposed for decades to the elements, are darker than he is. And, of course, the natives. Although some of them have both Spanish and Indian parents, so they’re also of mixed race.

For example, the girl Suzanna appears to be the daughter of Peabody and an Indian woman. Or perhaps half-Indian? There’s something about her, a creaminess to her coloring, that sets her apart. His mind strays, thinking about her height, the way she bears herself so confidently in her strangely old-fashioned American clothes. The way her eyes look straight into his—

Then he shakes himself and goes back to the original question. The question of his own parentage, whether he should be more upfront about his race. Even though he’s already settled the issue for the time being, he finds it rising again. Perhaps because of the girl? He pushes the thought away and considers. No one seems at all interested in his background. Although Jeremiah Peabody might be, if Suzanna takes a liking to him.

Gerald catches himself. The girl clearly has many admirers. It isn’t just her father’s table that brings the trappers and merchants to his parlor, men of standing and resources like Ewing Young. Even if Gerald’s parentage isn’t an issue, what chance does a poor man have against men of substance like Young or someone with the experience and way with words of Old Bill? He’d need a good deal more money than he currently has to even begin thinking of speaking to a young woman like that. A girl who reads Johnson but can’t cook. It would require a house with room for books. And a cook.

Gerald shakes his head. It will doubtless be a long while before he’s in a position to offer such a thing. She’ll have found someone else by then. Someone who can give her all she’s worthy of, long before he can even think of approaching her. Besides, he’d have to tell her about his father, about his race.

He stands, stretches, and heads to his bedroll. He knows it’s foolish to think of her, but the last image across his mind as he drifts into sleep is Suzanna Peabody’s face, her eyes widening with surprise and something akin to delight. It hasn’t even occurred to him that he knows virtually nothing about her.

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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