NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 9

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 9

Williams and Gerald move down the Cimarron over the course of the next week, trapping as they go, a day or two in each location, setting traps, pulling in beaver, skinning carcasses, and stretching plews. They eat what they trap until the aroma of fatty flesh drifting from the fire begins to turn Gerald’s stomach.

Occasionally, they see wild turkey. The sleek birds slip through the forest without any apparent awareness of the humans, but keep well out of reach. Old Bill claims he doesn’t want to shoot them for fear of bringing larger, two-footed varmints into range, but Gerald suspects the red-haired man has an affinity with the birds that precludes killing them unless absolutely necessary.

Gerald himself finds the turkeys unaccountably beautiful. There’s a wild wariness to them unlike anything he’s ever encountered in barnyard fowl. Although he has to admit that an alternative to beaver flesh would be nice. When the men and their mules break into the small snow-drifted valley Williams calls Ute Park, it’s more than the scenic value that lifts Gerald’s heart. A herd of perhaps thirty elk browses at the base of a small rocky cliff to his left.

Williams halts, studying the herd. Although the elk seem unaware of the trappers, they also seem restless. Suddenly, a large cow bolts toward the river on the other side of the valley. As the other elk follow, three wolves—two small grays and a big black—circle into sight, tagging the stragglers.

The elk barrel across the snow and grass, surge into the icy stream, then scramble up the far bank into the trees. A young bull, its left hind leg dragging, balks at the river’s edge, perhaps wishing for a more shallow ford. The wolves move in swiftly. As they cut the elk away from the stream, a raven caws overhead.

Williams chuckles, drops his mule’s lead rope, and lifts his rifle. As its muzzle roars, an identical blast erupts from the base of the stone outcropping, and the bull stumbles and goes down. The wolves dart in, then pull slightly back. The big black looks over his shoulder, toward the cliff.

Williams’ head swivels, following the wolf’s gaze. “Well, I’ll be hornswoggled,” he says.

An Indian man, his hair in the long braids and tall pompadour characteristic of Ute men, moves from the cliff. He waves an arm at the wolves and they slink, tails between their legs, toward the leafless willow brush that crowds the riverbank a half-dozen yards downstream. Then they turn and crouch in the grass, eyes flicking between the approaching man and the elk.

“Waagh!” Old Bill groans. “That Ute’s gonna claim that bull, and now him and those wolves have that whole herd most righteously spooked. We don’t have a chance in hell of gettin’ another one, and all we’ve got for supper is that quarter beaver that’s on the edge of sour, and that little bit of tail.”

“It may have been your shot that brought that bull down,” Gerald points out.

“Don’t matter,” Williams says. His eyes rake the valley. “He appears to be alone,” he adds thoughtfully. Then he shrugs. “Well, it’s worth a try anyhow. We’re two against one.”

He grabs his mule’s lead rope and moves forward, Gerald and his mule slightly behind.

The Indian looks up as they move toward him. Then he raises his knife and slices deep into the elk’s belly. He yanks out a long handful of glistening entrails and turns to toss it toward the wolves. The black darts in, mouths the food, and drags it off, his companions following obsequiously.

“That’s us,” Williams says over his shoulder. “Those grays.”

Gerald grins and nods, his eyes on the Ute, who’s pulled off his buckskin shirt and gone back to work on the elk carcass, pointedly ignoring the two trappers. Gerald and Williams are within ten feet before he looks up again.

Old Bill signs “Hello” and the other man nods noncommittally as his knife continues to slice into the elk.

“That there was a good shot,” Williams says, then repeats himself with a few fluent hand signs.

A smile flashes across the Indian’s face. “You shot wide,” he says in English.

Williams chuckles. He looks down at the carcass and gestures toward its front quarters. “Mind if I just turn him a mite?”

The Indian, who’s now crouched at the elk’s tail, incising careful circles around its hooves, nods and pauses in his work. Williams moves forward, grasps the bull’s neck in both hands, and lifts, twisting the body first one way, then the other.

“There’s a bullet in each shoulder,” he says.

The Indian grins. “I arrived first. Made first cut.”

“You did at that,” Williams agrees. “But that’s a whole lot of elk for one man to feed on.”

The man’s eyes flash and the knife in his hand lifts slightly. Gerald shifts his rifle, but the Ute’s eyes remain on Old Bill’s face. He gestures toward the rocky outcropping and the mouth of the narrow valley that stretches further north. “My family waits.”

“I don’t suppose we could trade you a bit of beaver for a haunch?” Gerald asks.

Williams nods at Gerald. “Beaver fat would be just the thing to flavor that elk,” he says. He turns to the Ute. “You know how dry and tough elk can be. Especially this time of year, when the little grass they’ve had is all dried out and worthless.”

The Indian’s gaze moves across the valley’s patches of still-thick brown grass, then to Williams’ face.

“Though, I have to tell you we’ve got a righteous hunger for beaver,” the trapper says. “My partner here likes it so well he just truly can’t get enough of it. So you could say he’s makin’ a sacrifice, offering you some. We can spare you some tail, too, for that matter.” He looks at Gerald. “If that’s all right with you.”

Gerald nods and Williams looks at the Ute. “We just thought we’d do you a favor, is all. Give you somethin’ to sweeten the pot and put some taste in that rangy old winter elk.”

“Show it me.”

Gerald fumbles with the leather thongs that secure the wrapped portion of beaver to his mule’s packsaddle and lifts the meat down. “It was fresh yesterday morning,” he says.

The Indian leans forward slightly, his nostrils flaring. Then he pulls back, nods, and gestures toward the elk carcass. “I trade front left shank,” he says. He grins at Williams. “Your piece.”

Gerald grins. The front pieces are smaller than the hindquarters.

Old Bill nods. “That’ll do right well.” He sticks out a hand. “My name’s Old Bill Williams and this here’s Gerald Locke.”

The Ute frowns at Gerald. “I know older man this name.”

Gerald smiles. “My father and I are both named Gerald Locke,” he says. “I am called Gerald Locke Junior.” The man looks puzzled. “Gerald the younger,” Gerald explains.

The Ute nods, studying Gerald’s face. “I can see it is so.” He lifts a bloodied hand toward his chest. “I am Stands Alone.” His gesture takes in the valley, then the peaks upstream. “This my place.”

Gerald nods. How far does the Ute’s place extend? But he merely says, “We’ve been trapping beaver on the river here. Is that all right with you?”

Williams swings his head, glaring, but neither Gerald nor Stands Alone respond. They stand, looking into each other’s faces, then the Ute says, “For beaver to flavor the pot,” and Gerald grins and nods.

Williams shakes his head in disgust. He jerks his thumb downstream. “We’re trappin’ that direction.” His tone makes it clear that he’s not asking permission.

Stands Alone nods. “No beaver there beyond a half-day journey,” he says. “The water is swift.” He jerks his head southwest, toward the other side of the river. “That way, toward the black valley, there may be beaver.”

Williams frowns. “Not in the Moreno Valley,” he says. “We was just there and there ain’t any there. Never has been, far’s I know.”

Stands Alone gestures toward the peaks that rise above the opposite bank. “That way is a smaller valley with many seeps. I have seen beaver.” He shrugs. “Too far for too little meat.” He spreads his hands and a ghost of a smile glimmers in his eyes. “I give them to you.”

Old Bill throws back his head and barks a laugh. “We can have all we want, huh? As long as we leave the elk here for you?”

Stands Alone smiles noncommittally.

Gerald chuckles and gazes toward the pine-covered slopes. “I suppose the quickest way there is back the way we came.”

Stands Alone nods. “There is a way when grass is green,” he says. “But when snow comes, following water is best.” He bends and goes back to his work, deftly cuts a section of meat from the elk’s shoulder, then proffers it to Old Bill.

Williams shrugs, wraps the meat in a piece of buckskin, and attaches the bundle to his mule’s packsaddle. Stands Alone returns to his labors and doesn’t look up as the trappers turn and move up the valley.

As the canyon narrows around them, Gerald glances back. The Ute man has been joined by two female figures and a horse-drawn travois. The women bend over the elk while he washes his hands in the river.

~ ~ ~ ~

Intermittent snow slides in over the canyon brim as the trappers move west. The flakes become steadily smaller and more intense, and the cold increases proportionately. Gerald and Williams camp again at the foot of the eagle nesting cliff. When they wake, the snow has stopped and the valley beyond is blindingly white. As Gerald squints, trying to see the peaks on the other side, Old Bill grabs charcoal from the coolest edge of the fire and begins smudging it onto his face below his eyes.

“You best be doin’ this, too,” he tells Gerald. “It keeps the glare from gettin’ your eyes. Your skin’s darker’n mine but even the Injuns do it this time of year.”

Gerald swings his head, waiting for Williams to speculate on the difference in their skin tone, but Old Bill has turned away and is smearing charcoal on his mule’s cheeks, as well. The animal pulls back, resisting, and Gerald chuckles and reaches for his own piece of burnt wood.

They move out, into a sweep of icy, concentrated sunlight. The glare bounces from the snow and forces the men’s eyes into mere slits. Gerald’s head feels like it’s being split in two, first by the dry sharpness of the cold, then by the piercing light. Even with the charcoal smudged on his cheeks, he has to work to see Williams, a mere ten feet ahead.

Old Bill hugs the valley’s eastern edge, skirting the base of the snow-covered hills as they move south. On the west, the mountaintops are buried behind a mass of gray clouds that seem to only intensify the blaze of the sun above them.

Then a breeze springs up. It lifts the top layer of snow and spins an icy spray around the men and mules. “Might as well be snowin’ again!” Williams yells. His voice drops, still muttering, then rises. “That Ute can have it!”

Gerald’s lips are too stiff with cold for him to even smile in response, but when they stop to noon in the lee of a snow-covered ridge and he’s recovered a little, he grins at Williams. “You think Stands Alone spends much time up here in winter?”

“Not in a teepee!” Old Bill says. “These winds’d blow his lodge poles to smithereens.” He grunts disparagingly and uses a finger to work a piece of jerky from behind a molar. He pulls the half-chewed meat out, looks at it, puts it back in his mouth, and tilts his canteen. Nothing comes out. “Frozen solid.” He looks at Gerald. “You got any?”

Gerald reaches for his own water container and jiggles it. “It sounds like something’s still liquid,” he says. He hands Williams the canteen.

“See, that’s the difference between an Injun and a white man,” Williams says. “You just hand it to me, knowing I’m wantin’ a drink. An Injun’ll bargain with you, daylight to dark, to see what he can get out of you. Make you beg for what he’s planning to give you.”

Gerald tilts his head. A white man, huh? Well, that answers that question. But he can’t, in all fairness, let the mischaracterization slide. “I wish my experience bore that out,” he says. “I’ve known white men who wouldn’t so much as let you step on their land without making conditions.”

Williams shrugs. “I reckon there’s bad apples in every lot,” he concedes. He turns and looks up the valley. “But that Ute saying this valley is his? Well, that just ain’t so. For one thing, the Apaches come through here regular-like. They might have a difference of opinion about who all it belongs to.” He nods toward the cloud-covered peaks on the other side of the valley. “And, sure as shootin’, the Taos Injuns on the other side of those mountains would have a righteous something to say about his claim. It’s their hunting grounds, too.”

He shakes his head as he returns Gerald’s canteen. “But see, most Injuns don’t see the land the same way we whites do, with clear boundaries marked out and a man’s right to work it. To them, the country’s just something to hunt on and gather from, not to plant and work and turn it into more than it was at the start. Except for the Pueblos, it takes a righteous amount of palaver to get them so’s they’re willing to divide it up between them and actually plow it. Not like us.”

Gerald looks at the other man, thinking of his preference for blazing trail over living in a cabin. Yet here he is, asserting the value of making the land more than a place to hunt and gather. Gerald’s own propensities are toward plowing and planting, so he tends to agree with Old Bill, but the Utes and Apaches have been hunting and gathering on this land for generations. Which gives them some rights. It’s a different way of looking at it, is all. They just don’t feel the need to sink their fingers in the soil, the way he does. A need which is very strong.

Old Bill rises and Gerald grimaces at the quandary, wraps his mule’s lead rope around his gloved hand, and prepares to follow Williams back into the wind-driven snow.

The cold intensifies as the setting sun silhouettes the western clouds. When Gerald lifts his hand to his face, his glove bumps numb cheeks as stiff as boards. He turns stiffly, scanning for another sheltering abutment. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Williams move abruptly left. Numbly, Gerald follows.

A trickle of half-frozen water flows from the tree line, forming a slushy black line in the snow. The men and mules move along the rivulet and into the trees. The wind drops sharply in the lee of the hill and Gerald releases breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding.

The next morning they discover that Stands Alone spoke truly. Beaver ponds dot the small valley that parallels the larger one. And they’re not completely frozen over. It takes a good two weeks to trap them out.

When the men return to the larger valley, the snow has abated and the grass is visible again. Gerald pauses beside the small, still slushy stream, and gazes at the western peaks, especially the massive middle one. He looks south, then north, and nods. Yes, he has seen this before. From this angle, it’s recognizable as the valley he crossed with Ewing Young’s mule train. The one with the long grasses, the winding streams, the soil so black his fingers itched to to touch it, to tuck seed into its fertile protection.

As he follows Williams’ mule down the valley, he studies the pine trees on its slopes. They’re black against a now-turquoise sky. And to think that same sky was thick with grey snow-bearing clouds just a week ago! What a changeable place it is! He has a sudden urge to laugh out loud.

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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