NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 14

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 14

But Jeremiah Peabody’s last sentence has registered on some level. By mid-October, after a month in the pine-covered southern mountains, Gerald has begun to seriously wonder what ‘doing well’ really means when it comes to trapping beaver.

A few days before the trappers left Taos, Ewing Young took ill and remained behind, so William Wolfskill is in charge. Wolfskill is a dark-haired, solidly built man with a broad forehead and determined eyes and mouth, and he sets a hard pace.

He has to, with twenty men along. As they move through the Gila wilderness, anywhere from eighty to one hundred traps are in action at any one time, and the beaver seem to evaporate from the landscape. Wolfskill’s band is rarely in the same place more than a night. Each morning they lift traps, skin the night’s catch, then push on to the next location, stopping in the early evening to fan out and set yet another round in the streams that thread the headwaters of the Gila River.

The pace is rough and there’s little time to enjoy a quiet smoke or conversation. When there is talk, it doesn’t focus on trapping. These men aren’t about to share what they know. Free trappers don’t talk about where and how they set their traps, and they don’t share tips for getting better results, either.

Instead, big-bodied Milton Sublette and short, round Thomas Smith brag about sharp trades they’ve made and Indian battles they’ve fought. Their impetuosity always comes out triumphant, of course. Trapping partners Alexander Branch and Solomon Stone swap travel stories with Richard Campbell, as well as tales of encounters with animals of various types and size, some of them more exaggerated than others. The trappers don’t always win these conflicts, but even when they’re worsted, the resulting scar is worth showing off, and there’s usually another story about the size of the wound and how quickly it healed.

Not everyone is loquacious: Smith’s partner Maurice LeDuc and the big Pennsylvania Dutchman George Yount say as little as possible. They simply listen and smoke.

The half-dozen Mexican camp keepers have little leisure time. While the trappers chat, the Mexicans go about the business of cooking, keeping the campsite organized, and preparing the beaver plews the trappers have collected.

Most of the workers seem content with their routine, but twenty-year-old Ignacio Sandoval apparently expected to actually learn how to trap on this trip. Wolfskill ignores the younger man’s dark looks, but Gerald is curious.

He can also see that, when the traps are full each morning, the Mexicans have more work than they can easily handle. Gerald begins skinning his catch himself and trying to re-teach himself the art of stretching the beaver pelts tight on their willow hoop frames. He’s surprised at how much he’s forgotten.

He’s hung his second attempt for the day from the lower branch of a pine tree and is standing back to admire the way the late-morning light glows red through the stretched skin, when Ignacio Sandoval approaches him.

“El señor, he say I stretch pelt for you,” the boy says.

Gerald turns. “Hmm? Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I only have two more to do.” He gestures toward the tree and smiles ruefully. “I’m still remembering how to go about it, so these are a bit rough, but I’m sure I’ll improve with some practice.”

Ignacio moves toward the pine. A grin flashes across his face as he examines the furs, which sag badly to one side. He starts to shake his head, then stops himself. “Si, señor,” he says politely.

Gerald chuckles. “They’re that bad, are they?” He moves toward the pine. “Perhaps you can help me tighten them up a bit.”

The boy gives him a swift, anxious look, but Gerald’s face shows only a desire for help.

Ignacio smiles. “Four hands son necessario a veces,” he says as he lifts the hoop from the tree.

Gerald chuckles. “Sometimes four hands truly are necessary to make it work,” he agrees. “Especially when two of them are mine and don’t know what they’re doing.”

The boy gives him a swift grin, then bends his head over the knots that hold the beaver pelt in place.

~ ~ ~ ~

By the time the trappers follow the Gila west out of the pine-covered mountains and into the juniper and piñon that scatter the foothills, Gerald has mastered the art of stretching beaver pelts. This is partly because there are fewer streams here and therefore fewer pelts and more time to string them.

Wolfskill doesn’t seem concerned about the reduced number of beaver. There’ll be more when the trappers reach the Colorado. What worries him is the increased sense of an Apache presence.

It starts while they’re still in the mountains. Although no one in the party actually sights an Indian, items disappear from camp: a sugar loaf from the mess, a beaver pelt hung on an outlying tree, a knife left on a rock, meat from a plate unattended while its owner takes care of private business.

If a horse or two had been stolen, it wouldn’t be so nerve-racking. They’d at least know for sure that Indians are around. But the disappearance of these smaller items makes their owners question their own perception. Did they actually leave the knife on the rock? Perhaps it slipped into a crevice or was picked up by one of the other men.

Yet the knife doesn’t reappear and the very pines themselves seem to wait for someone to turn his back. It’s a relief to get into more open country, where the landscape gives less cover to whoever is trailing them. But small items continue to evaporate in the December sun. Even when there’s no cover to speak of.

 “I’ll warrant it’s that same band Sylvester Pattie was yammering on about when I saw him and his son James last summer, before Sylvester headed to the Santa Rita copper mines,” Thomas Smith says. “He and his boy were up in these parts last season and a group of Apaches harassed them all winter. Stole Sylvester’s Kentucky ridin’ horse and generally made their lives hell.”

“But here we are,” Maurice LeDuc observes philosophically. “Because here is the beaver.”

“We just need to stay out in the open as much as we can,” William Wolfskill says. “And keep a sharp lookout.”

~ ~ ~ ~

But a camp needs cover of some kind, if only to keep personal business personal. And the trappers are forced to stay along the river, among its cottonwood and willow, if they want to collect pelts. As the men move down the Gila toward the mouth of the Salt, small things continue to disappear and the tension continues to rise. It’s almost a relief when a small band of Apaches finally materializes.

The trappers are in the process of breaking camp. Thomas Smith, roping a half-pack of pelts onto his mule’s off-side, is the first to glance up and see the line of six warriors standing motionless beneath the rugged cottonwoods on the opposite side of the clearing.

“Holy shit!” Smith exclaims. Around him, men turn swiftly, following his gaze. Their hands move swiftly to rifle, knife, or hatchet—whatever is closest to hand—and William Wolfskill barks, “Settle and steady now!”

The Apaches are solidly built and menacing in their silent impassiveness. The very length of their black hair exudes a dangerous strength. Only one wears a shirt and something resembling trousers. There’s a broad palmetto-leaf hat on his head and red sleeves and leggings on his limbs, clearly the marks of a chief. The others wear strands of shell on their bare chests. Their legs are covered with thigh-high moccasins that reach almost to their breech clouts.

The Chief’s hands are empty, but two of his men carry battered rifles. Two others hold empty bows at their side. A younger man stands slightly behind, a notched reed arrow in the curved wooden bow he holds casually at his waist.

The man in the palmetto hat moves forward. His eyes sweep the trappers and land on William Wolfskill, who moves toward him. Wolfskill raises his eyebrows questioningly and lifts his hands. He closes his fists, points both index fingers toward the sky, then sweeps his hands swiftly down and across each other and up again, making the sign for trade.

The Apache chuckles and shakes his head, then stretches a hand toward Wolfskill, palm up, and gestures toward himself in a scooping motion.

Wolfskill scowls. “Give you?” he asks. “Why should I give anything to you?”

Thomas Smith moves forward with a hatchet in his hand. He snaps a few words in Apache. The Indian gives him a contemptuous look, then turns and speaks to Wolfskill.

“He says we ain’t goin’ any farther if we don’t give him gifts,” Smith says, his eyes on the Chief’s face.

The man glances at Smith, then speaks to Wolfskill again, rather impatiently. There’s a low chuckle from the men behind him.

“He says he’s the Chief of all o’ this land and we gotta pay to be here,” Smith translates.

“And you can just tell him to go to hell,” Wolfskill says pleasantly, his eyes scanning the men behind the Chief calmly. “They’ve been pilfering and we don’t have anything left to give, even if we wanted to. They don’t even hunt beaver, far as I know. We’ve got just as much right here as anyone else.”

Smith grins malevolently and nods at the Indians behind the Chief, then says something in Apache. The warriors’ postures shift slightly, then an arrow flies over Smith’s head and hits his mule’s left flank with a dull thud.

As the animal screams in terror, Smith’s hatchet flies across the clearing. In the same instant, rifles roar from both sides and more Apaches appear from the trees.

“To me!” Wolfskill bellows and Gerald finds himself beside the man, Ignacio Sandoval behind him, loading a rifle. Gerald takes a deep breath, aims carefully, and fires into the gunpowder haze that rises from the trees.

As he begins to reload, a hand touches his shoulder blade. Gerald turns his head and Ignacio offers him a newly-loaded rifle. Gerald nods, trades weapons, and turns back to the fight. Another mule screams.

A few yards to Gerald’s right, Milton Sublette howls with anger and charges across the clearing toward the trees. Then his legs crumple beneath him and he sits down abruptly and clutches his right thigh. An arrow protrudes from his buckskin leggings.

Gerald pulls his eyes away from Sublette and fires into the cottonwoods, then trades weapons with Ignacio again, the acrid gunpowder bitter on his tongue. The flurry of arrows from the cottonwoods has slowed. Gerald pauses, considering whether it’s worthwhile to fire again.

 William Wolfskill raises a hand. “They’re gone, boys!” he says.

Gerald lowers his rifle and takes a deep breath. He and the others keep an eye on the trees as William Wolfskill moves around the campsite, assessing the damage, then heads toward the hobbled animals in the clearing beyond.

“Shit!” Milton Sublette says as he tries to sit up.

Thomas Smith goes to Sublette’s possibles sack and rummages through it. When he pulls out a whisky bottle, Sublette smiles grimly.

“Well, at least I’ve got a reason to get soused,” he says.

“Save some for sousin’ that wound,” Smith says. He pulls a clean shirt from Sublette’s pack and begins tearing it into strips. “Hey Locke, you game for helpin’ me with this?”

Gerald nods and moves forward. Then he pauses and reaches for his canteen. “Give me a minute to wash.”

“Naw, use the whisky,” Smith says, holding it out.

Gerald washes a swig of water through his mouth, swallows the bitterness that still clings there, then takes the whisky bottle from Smith and splashes liquor on his hands as Smith slices into Sublette’s buckskin trousers. He peels the leather back to reveal the Apache arrow and the bloody gash it’s made in Sublette’s leg. He carefully cuts off a strip of the buckskin, folds it into a narrow band, and hands it to Sublette, who grimaces and slips it between his teeth.

“Ready?” Smith asks.

Sublette nods, his eyes slitted with pain.

The arrow’s shaft is made of some kind of thick reed. Smith grabs it with both hands, one fist above the other, and snaps the shaft off six inches above the wound.

Smith raises an eyebrow at Sublette and the big man nods grimly.

Smith gently moves the shaft back and forth, working it away from the edge of the wound. “It’s a good thing Apache arrow heads ain’t barbed,” he says. “I ken pull it straight out.” He looks at Sublette, who nods again. A little impatiently, Gerald thinks. Sweat drops stand out on Sublette’s broad forehead.

“You’re gonna hafta hold his hands,” Smith tells Gerald. “Or he’ll grab at me in spite of himself.”

Sublette’s eyes are clenched shut. Gerald takes his right hand and reaches across for his left. “Go!” the wounded man grunts around the leather in his mouth.

“Got him?” Smith asks Gerald.

Gerald nods and Smith turns to the arrow. He moves the shaft gingerly, as if testing it, then tightens his grip and gives a little grunt as the blood-smeared head lifts free of Sublette’s leg.

Sublette gasps, shudders, and lies still, his chest heaving. As Smith begins binding the wound, Gerald releases Sublette’s hands. The wounded man takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Coulda done that quicker,” he grumbles. He turns his head. “Where’s the whisky?”

As Gerald hands Sublette the whisky bottle, William Wolfskill walks up, his hands on his hips. “Well, we got at least a couple of the bastards,” he says. “But we lost three of the mules and yours is wounded, Smith. It looks pretty bad.”

“The hell she is!” Smith exclaims belligerently. He scrambles to his feet, the piece of arrow still in his hand. “Those damn red skinned mother suckers! That’s the best mule in the whole damn outfit!” He scowls at Wolfskill. “I ain’t puttin’ her down, William.”

“I didn’t say she had to be put down, now did I?” Wolfskill asks reasonably. He looks around at the silent trappers, then turns back to Smith. “The more important issue at hand is how much we have remaining in the way of supplies. And it’s not much. We’re going to have to pull out.”

“Retreat?” Smith spits. “After they attacked us and wounded my mule and put a arrow in Milt’s leg? You wanta retreat?”

Wolfskill lifts a hand. “We need to regroup,” he says. “I say we go back to where we can get word to Taos for reinforcements and more supplies, then we come back and teach these bastards a lesson they won’t forget.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other trappers, but Smith only says, “We’re takin’ that mule with us.”

Wolfskill gives him a skeptical look. “You’ll need to practice your doctoring skills on her,” he says. “But if she can keep up, we’ll take her with us.”

Smith crosses to the mule, who’s standing at the edge of the clearing, blood seeping steadily from the arrow in her left flank. He runs a hand over her rump and she jerks away from him, her ears back. “Hurts, don’t it?” he asks. “Thata girl. We’ll fix you up so you’ll be in high beaver.”

“She’s going to have to keep up,” Wolfskill says again. “And we can’t be waiting around for her, either.” He studies the other trappers, then turns to Sublette. “Milt, do you think you can ride?”

Sublette moves his leg slightly and winces. “Give me a day and I’ll be ready to go,” he says.

Wolfskill nods. “Day after tomorrow then.” He turns to Smith, who’s pulling a jar of ointment from his possibles sack. “Day after tomorrow early,” he says, raising his voice slightly, but Smith doesn’t respond.

The doctored mule is limping and irritable, but she’s in the train that turns back up the Gila River within an hour of sunrise two days later. Unlike the other animals, she carries no packsaddle and there’s an oily smear on her left flank. But she’s moving. Smith is in good spirits.

While Milton Sublette’s leg heals more slowly than he would have liked, it is healing. By the fourth day, he’s able to walk for short distances. But the mule isn’t so fortunate. She’s weaker than when they began the trek and her wound is giving off a rotting-meat smell. The other animals, and then the men, give her a wide berth.

“That’s going to start attracting mountain lion,” Wolfskill tells Thomas Smith that night. “She’s not going to make it, Tom.”

Smith scowls at Wolfskill’s back as the group’s leader walks away. He strokes the animal’s neck, trying to coax her to eat, but she only rolls her pain-ridden eyes and gingerly lifts her hind leg, as if this will ease the discomfort.

“Godforsaken mothersuckin’ Apache!” Smith growls.

Gerald watches sympathetically but knows there’s nothing he can do to help. When Smith leads the limping animal out of camp the next morning, no one accompanies them and they all pretend not to hear the gunshot that reverberates across the mountainside half an hour later.

Everyone avoids Smith’s eyes when he returns. “Damn Apaches!” he mutters as he drops the mule’s halter and rope onto a log near the fire. “Coyote bastards! She was the best damn mule I ever had!”

Sublette, perched on a big piece of sandstone at the end of the log, shifts his leg into a more comfortable position. “Damn Apaches, is right,” he says. “We’ll come back and take that mule outta their skin, Tom. That and some payment for this leg.”

Smith drops down to sit beside him and leans forward to lift a stick from the ground. He pulls out his knife and begins whittling ferociously. “I’ll cut off more’n their scalps,” he vows. “That there was my best mule. Best one I ever had.”

Gerald looks at the two men thoughtfully. Is this what trapping in Apache territory does to a man? Winds them up so tightly that they value a mule’s life over that of another man’s? At least two Apaches died in that fight. But then, not everyone thinks an Indian’s life is equivalent to a white man’s. Or a Mexican’s. Gerald watches Ignacio Sandoval move to the fire with an armful of wood. Would Smith have been so upset if Sandoval or one of the other camp keepers had died?

Gerald stirs uneasily. If an Apache or Mexican life isn’t worth much to these men, how would they value a black man who’s also part Indian? Especially one who’s passing as white? His stomach clenches. It seemed so simple at the time. On the prairie. On the road between Ranchos and Taos. And surely some of them have guessed. But no one has confronted him, and they certainly seem to treat him as an equal.

His tension eases a little and his back straightens. He’ll just have to play it out and see where it takes him. But the fact remains that he’s not like these other men. He’s not just any man.

Smith is still muttering about losing his mule when the trappers break out of the mountains a week later and see the Rio del Norte winding like a silver ribbon through the dry land below, the bosque’s gnarled gray cottonwoods running beside it. The hamlet of Socorro, surrounded by fields and sheepfolds, lies between them and the water.

“Well, it ain’t much, but it’s bound to have food,” Milton Sublette says as they gaze down at the dusty clutch of adobe casitas.

Suddenly, Ignacio Sandoval is at William Wolfskill’s elbow, looking at him pleadingly, his voice low and urgent. Wolfskill gives the young man a quizzical look, then throws back his head and laughs aloud. He turns to the others. “I guess we’re gonna have to take the long way to the river,” he announces. “Sandoval here says his Daddy lives down there and he don’t know Ignacio’s with us. He’ll likely cause quite a ruckus if we show up with the boy in tow.”

“Thought you was from Taos!” Thomas Smith says to Ignacio.

 “He believes me there,” the younger man says reluctantly. “He sent me to study.”

“You’re supposed to be goin’ to school?” Sublette asks incredulously. “You’re a Mexican! What the hell do you need schoolin’ for?”

Ignacio gives him a sheepish grin and shrugs.

“I know his daddy and he’s got a sharp streak to him,” Wolfskill says. “We’ll just ease on around this little mud town and head on up to Los Chavez. Señor Chavez is likely to be more welcoming and he has a bunch of pretty daughters, besides.”

“Well, for a pretty girl I guess I can go a little farther on this bum leg,” Sublette says. There’s a general chuckle of agreement and the trappers move out, heading north across the dead grasses of the llano, keeping the gnarled gray cottonwoods that line the Rio del Norte well in sight.

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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