NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 17

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 17

Gerald tells himself that his restlessness is triggered by the Chavez fields and acequia system. The wide pastures and black soil make him wish for land of his own to cultivate. His yearnings have nothing to do with an American/French/Navajo girl who grows Irish potatoes beside a Spanish acequia. He feels a surge of relief when word comes that the men are on their way back from Taos.

But he’s surprised to see that William Wolfskill is not with them. Ewing Young has apparently recovered enough from his illness to head up the dozen and a half men who ride into camp a good two weeks after Wolfskill had headed north.

Yount and Stone are with him. Ignacio Sandoval trails behind with another young mexicano. Gerald’s heart jumps when the rider lifts his head. It’s Gregorio Garcia. He’ll have news of the Peabody household.

Then Gerald’s surge of anticipation is replaced by something else. Enoch Jones rides with the men clustered around Ewing Young.

But there’s no time to do more than greet Gregorio and avoid Jones’ half-drunk scowl before Young gets down to business.

“Wolfskill’s mindin’ the store,” he says brusquely in response to Thomas Smith’s question. He releases his mount to a camp keeper and reaches for the coffee pot, on a rock by the fire. “He told me what happened, but I want t’ hear it again from you all.”

Smith hunkers down on the other side of the fire and launches into a detailed narrative that begins with the first pilfering and ends only when his mule has suffered a lingering death. His ire rises as the story progresses. “Damn Apaches!” he finishes with a growl.

Young is silent for a long while, staring into the flames, then looks around at the other men. “So that’s what happened, is it?” he asks.

Gerald suppresses a smile. Young’s eyes rest on his face and Gerald looks away. Who is he to contradict Thomas Smith: merchant, veteran trapper, and seasoned Indian fighter?

 “Close enough,” Solomon Stone answers as his big hands snap small cottonwood branches into kindling for the fire.

“Jest like he says,” Maurice Leduc asserts rather belligerently.

Young’s eyes swivel back to Gerald’s and Gerald gives him a small shrug and a nod.

“I’m not too sure it’s worth the time and trouble to go back in,” Young says. He looks at Milton Sublette, who’s perched on a chunk of cottonwood log with his legs straight out in front of him. “We’ve already had one man wounded. How’s the leg, Milt?”

“It’s doin’, Captain,” Sublette says. “Long as I can keep the witch woman away from it.”

“La curandera try to help, he no want,” the oldest of the camp keepers explains as he hands Young a bowl of mutton stew.

Young shakes his head and stirs the stew with his spoon. “Those woman healers generally know what they’re about,” he tells Sublette. “You ought to have taken her up on that.”

“She wanted to put some stuff on it that she’d been chawin’ on!” Sublette moves his leg impatiently, then grimaces. “I’ll cut it off before I pack it with stuff some old Mexican woman’s been chawin’ on for who knows how long!”

Young chuckles. “Well, as long as you can walk or ride, it’s no business of mine.” He spoons a bite of stew into his mouth as he scans the faces of the men around the fire. He swallows, takes another bite, then says, “I’m thinkin’ we should call it a loss and get out while the gettin’s good.”

Thomas Smith jumps to his feet. “You ain’t lost nearly what I have! And I’m goin’ back!”

“We all run risks every day of our lives,” the captain says mildly. “I’m just not sure there’s enough beaver there to make it worth our while. Maybe we should try headin’ in a different direction entirely.”

“If we don’t go back, I’m out!” Smith snaps. “I’ll head in there on my own! Those bastards need t’ pay for what they done!”

“And I’ll go with him,” LeDuc says from the shadows.

“And we’ll take anyone else who wants t’ come,” Smith adds.

“You’ll be breakin’ our agreement,” Young says. “I footed the bill for some of your gear. You’ll be owin’ me.”

“And you’ll be owin’ me for a mule!” Smith blusters. “We made an agreement to hunt the Gila and the Salt and beyond. As far as I can see, if you don’t go back, you’re the one breakin’ that contract, not me! Those Apaches need a lesson, or no white man’ll ever be safe to trap that way again! They’re gettin’ way too cocky for my taste!”

Ewing Young gives Smith a long look. “I’ll think on it,” he says.

Smith stomps away from the fire, still muttering, but he gets what he wants. The next morning, Young announces that they’ll head back into the Gila that very afternoon. “We’re gonna have to make good time if we want to get any furs worth mentioning,” he observes. Surprisingly, Smith reacts only with a curt nod.

The mid-day meal includes a last treat of wheat flour tortillas from the Chavez hacienda and a visit from the courtly old man himself. “Vaya con diós,” he tells the assembled trappers. “May He bless all your ventures.” There’s a hush as he turns to leave. Even Enoch Jones is suppressed by the man’s white-haired self-possession.

Then Smith gets to his feet, breaking the spell, and they break camp. The band of thirty trappers moves west across the llano in clusters of threes and fours, the camp keepers trailing behind with the pack mules, Gregorio and Ignacio among them.

Gerald has still not found an opportunity to speak more than two words to either of them. But to lag behind would attract attention and he can feel Enoch Jones’ eyes on him, as the big dirty-blond man stalks silently beside George Yount and Milton Sublette, the only trapper on horseback. Gerald stays where he is, alongside Smith and LeDuc.

It’s an hour past full dark and they’re still on the llano when Young calls a halt for the day. In the interest of time, the evening meal is served cold. Gregorio lays a piece of buckskin on the sand and rock ground and crouches over it to slice mutton off the haunch Señor Chavez has sent with them. He layers the pieces between cold tortillas and hands them to the men as they meander over to him in the moonlight.

 When Gerald presents himself for his portion, Gregorio looks up with a smile. “Hola, Señor Locke,” he says. “Señor Peabody and his daughter send greetings.” His eyes twinkle. “Mi mamá también.”

Gerald smiles. “She allowed you to come, after all.”

The boy’s smile widens. “Señorita Peabody, she persuaded her.”

Gerald chuckles and is about to reply when a rough voice demands. “What’s takin’ so long? The resta us gotta eat too!”

Gerald turns. Enoch Jones scowls back at him.

“You wanta talk, do it later!” Jones growls. Then he leers into Gerald’s face, his breath foul on Gerald’s skin. “It’s plenty dark. The boy’ll be waitin’ for you, if you ask him nice like.”

Gerald looks at the man in disgust and brushes past him without speaking.

“Gotta get it anyway you can, don’t ya, ya black—”

“Your food, señor,” Gregorio interrupts, thrusting the tortilla-wrapped meat into the man’s hands.

Jones jerks back and the meat and tortilla fall to the ground. His closed fist strikes out, hitting the boy in the arm. Gregorio jerks away and half-falls onto the buckskin, knocking the remaining meat into the dirt.

“You greasy mex bastard!” Jones howls. “Look what ya done!” He grabs Gregorio by the arm and yanks him to his feet. “That’s good food yer throwin’ around!”

As Jones pulls back to slug the boy again, Young appears. He grabs Jones’ arm. “That’s enough! Let the boy go.” He nods at Gregorio. “Use your canteen water to wash off that meat and see that everyone’s fed.” He turns brusquely away. “Sandoval, help him clean it up. We don’t have all night.”

As Ignacio moves toward Gregorio, Young swings around, his eyes taking in Gerald and the other men. “We’re moving out at first light, so the sooner we eat and bed down, the better. And don’t guzzle your water. There won’t be any more until late tomorrow.”

As he says this, Ignacio and Gregorio pull out their canteens and begin pouring water over the dirt-covered mutton. The haunch is still a good-sized portion, in spite of feeding half the men, and the grit is well embedded. By the time they’re done, neither will have enough water to get them through the next day.

When everyone’s eaten, Ignacio and Gregorio begin repacking the food in the dark and the trappers roll themselves into their blankets. Even with no fire to center them, they stay close to one another, an instinctive reaction against the darkness and the empty grassland. Gerald is a little behind the others in his preparations. He lays out his blankets, then moves to the two camp keepers. He holds out his canteen. “Let me top off your water,” he says.

Ignacio extends his canteen and Gerald begins to carefully pour water into its small opening, but Gregorio turns to look at the sleeping men and shakes his head anxiously. “Gracias, señor,” he mutters. “But no. They will not like it.”

Ignacio glances at his friend and then at Gerald, then gestures for Gerald to stop pouring. “Gracias, señor,” he mutters. “It is enough.”

Gerald nods and holds the canteen out to Gregorio. The boy looks again at the sleeping men, then reluctantly hands over his own container. Gerald dribbles the precious liquid carefully, not wanting to drip any down the side. It’s hard to see in the dark. When the container feels perhaps a third full, Gerald hands it back. “I’m sorry I brought Jones down on you like that,” he says quietly.

The boy shakes his head. “He’s been that way since we left Taos.” His mouth twists. “It is difficult to avoid him.”

Gerald nods grimly. No wonder Gregorio’s mother didn’t want him to join the trappers. There’s a frail look to him that incites negative attention from men like Jones. He looks at Ignacio.

“Nothing is ever what it seems,” Ignacio says bitterly. Gerald raises an eyebrow, inviting an explanation, but Ignacio turns away and Gregorio follows him.

Gerald shakes his head and heads for his own bedding, careful not to trip over any of the sleeping men. It isn’t his problem, yet he feels somehow responsible for both these Spanish boys. Though they aren’t truly boys. They’re young men. He was barely their age when his father left him behind in Missouri, essentially alone.

Yet still he feels responsible, especially for Gregorio. If nothing else, he’s a link to Suzanna Peabody. Who seems very far away at the moment.

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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