NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 26

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 26

And they do. Within a week, they’re taking beaver pelts still thick with winter fur, and plenty of them. Three weeks later, there are too many for the mules to comfortably carry and Young sets Ignacio and Gregorio to constructing a fur press. They drag half a dozen ten-inch-thick aspen poles into camp, set them into post holes dug in a rough three-by-four-foot rectangle, then lash shorter lengths to the top of the frame and down its sides, with more-or-less twelve-inch spaces between them.

In the meantime, the trappers open the packs of pelts, shake out the furs, and refold them to fit the dimensions of the press. When the press form is ready, they lay long strips of rawhide on the ground crosswise inside the frame and flip the ends beyond the side pieces. Young brings out a tanned deerskin and James Pattie positions it inside the press and up its sides.

Gerald, Gregorio, Pattie, and Ignacio station themselves around the outside of the press and hold the ends of the deerskin in place while Michel Robidoux carefully stacks beaver plews inside the frame. When it’s full, he nods in satisfaction and lays a stiff piece of rawhide on top of the plews.

Young paces around the press, checks the alignment and positioning of the furs, then produces a length of chain that his mule has packed all the way from Taos. Under his direction, Gregorio and Ignacio lay one end of the chain on the ground about five feet away and pile large rocks on it to hold it down.

While they’re doing this, Gerald chips a notch in the end of a six-foot long pole about six inches thick. Ignacio carries the free end of the chain to the press, jingling the links straight as he goes.

Gerald glances at Young, who gestures to the end of the press opposite the chain and says, “Just maneuver that stick up into the press and toward Sandoval.”

Gerald nods, feeds the pole between the top of the pelts and the nearest sidepiece, and pushes it toward the other end of the press. It’s tilted at an angle across space, and he raises an eyebrow at Young questioningly.

“Just leave it there,” the Captain says. “Garcia, you and Sandoval go ahead and take out the side pieces there on the other end.

The two camp keepers move forward as if they understand exactly what Young has in mind, and work the two end pieces directly above the furs on the other end of the press free of the side posts. Ignacio grabs the end of the angled pole and pulls it toward himself.

Gregorio hands him the end of the chain and Ignacio wedges the chain firmly into the notch. Then they move around the press to where Gerald is standing. They grasp opposite sides of the pole and press steadily downward, forcing it against the rawhide and the pelts under it until the plews are compressed to a third of their original thickness and well below the edge of the tanned deerskin.

“That’ll do it,” Young says. The camp keepers hold the pole in place as Robidoux and Yount grab the rawhide strips, pull them up and over the pack, and knot them tight before the pelts can spring back into shape. Young steps forward with a small branding iron heated over the fire, and sears his mark into the top and sides of the pack. Then he motions to Gerald to remove enough poles from the press so the pack can be lifted out, and the process begins all over again: furs laid carefully in, buckskin on top, pole inserted and used to wedge the plews into a compressed block.

By the end of the day, the original twelve mule loads of pelts are seven tightly-bound bundles, each about 90 pounds and half as bulky as the original loads. Four of them are Ewing Young’s, while James Pattie, Michel Robidoux, and Milton Sublette each put their marks on one of the other three.

“Room for more!” Young tells Milton Sublette with a rare smile.

“Not enough,” Sublette grunts as he turns away.

But Young leads the band further into the mountains and within a month even Sublette is satisfied with the catch. The Rockies have been kind to them. So kind that Sublette begins to mutter about the difficulty of traveling with thirteen packs of compressed furs. There’s little room on the mules for anything but beaver plews, and the trappers are forced to carry their supplies on their backs instead of looping their possibles sacks and traps onto the pack saddles each morning.

With the mules at carrying capacity, Young decides it’s time to head south. In late April, the trappers begin winding out of the mountains, moving slowly back toward the Mexican settlements. Young swings clear of the occasional band of Utes, even though the Indians would gladly trade their own plews for any small thing about the camp.

Young’s attitude seems odd, since the Utes are generally friendly toward American trappers and Mexicans. But now that the trapping’s done and they have a good take, all the men are eager to get back. No one questions the Captain’s actions until they top a sparsely-junipered hill and look unexpectedly down on a tree-shaded adobe village that straggles alongside a burbling creek.

Young moves back and clucks his mount to the back side of the hill, out of sight from the houses. Gerald turns his head, puzzled. “Come on!” Young says from the bottom of the hill. “Get on down here!”

“What the devil?” Milton Sublette mutters, staying where he is. “I’ve got me a powerful thirst that’s in dire need of a quenching!”

“Ach, there’s most likely a señorita or two in that village just pining for the likes of us,” Richard Campbell says mournfully. He maneuvers his mule down the hill as Gerald steers his own animal around a fat juniper and begins the descent.

“He’s got his reasons, I guess,” James Pattie says as he and his father’s sorrel lag behind Campbell. “But I’d sure like to know what they are.”

“Just be quiet and get on down here,” Young growls. Sublette turns, gives him a long look, then grudgingly moves down the slope.

Young insists on a single fire that night. “What the hell are we doin’, anyhow?” Sublette demands. “You tryin’ to avoid taxes or somethin’?”

Young allows himself the flash of a smile. “Somethin’,” he says.

Robidoux clicks his tongue disapprovingly and Sublette says, “Those Mexicans are gonna find out sooner or later. It ain’t like we just snuck out of here last spring. You got a permit and all.”

“I’ll pay what I need to,” Young says.

“Just not on all of it,” Sublette says.

Young shrugs as Ignacio slips past him with an armful of firewood.

“Don’t go putting all that on there at once,” Young tells him.

“We can pretty much cache our plews anywhere,” James Pattie observes.

“We won’t need to cache them,” Young says. “I’ve got storage lined up.”

At the fire, Ignacio looks up sharply, his face dark with anger. The fire flares and Young scowls. “I said to keep that down.”

Ignacio nods and picks up a small branch to poke at the logs, but Gerald, on the opposite side of the fire from Young, can see that his jaw is clenched.

“And does it happen that we know where this storage place is?” Richard Campbell asks.

“You’ll know in another few days,” Young says.

“The way we’re headin’, we’re gonna be in Taos in another few days,” Sublette observes.

Young shakes his head. “We swing south tomorrow. Have you ever seen the white tent rocks?”

“Those ones by Cochiti Pueblo?” Sublette grimaces. “You hiding furs at Cochiti?”

“Or south of there at Santo Domingo?” Michel Robidoux suggests.

Young shakes his head. “Wait and see,” he says. “We’ll get them stored and then we’ll head to Taos and you all can get back to your women.”

Sublette chuckles. “I’m pinning my hopes on Peabody’s cook. I don’t care if I get a kiss. I just want some real food.”

Michel Robidoux laughs. “Is it your plan to steal her from Jeremiah, or simply to visit?”

“I hear she carries a stiletto,” Young says. He grins. “That gal’s got a bit of a temper.”

“Don’t blame her, what with Jones prowling around last spring,” Sublette says.

“And a good riddance to him,” Campbell says.

Gerald braces himself, expecting a glance in his direction, but the talk passes on to other households, other women, and other entertainments, past and future, especially those involving alcohol and cards.

 Gerald looks into the fire, his thoughts on Suzanna Peabody. How will she greet him when he returns? He has no right to expect anything but politeness. Yet a man can’t help but wonder. But that’s foolishness. Especially since she knows nothing about who he really is. What will she say when she discovers that he’s killed a man?

Gerald’s hands twitch, feeling again the way Jones’ chest gave under his blade. He forces himself not to shudder and his mind to move on to other topics. Will his earnings from Young be enough for land and an outfit? Can he dare hope that Suzanna Peabody— But he moves his thoughts away from that, too.

The white tent rocks come into sight two days later, after a long trek through a narrow canyon studded with piñon pine. When the trappers emerge from it, they’re directly above the drooping conical tips of a veritable city of vaguely tent-shaped white rock formations three times the height of the average man.

Gerald shakes his head, not sure why these are worth seeing. They just look like clumps of rock. But as the trail descends and winds through the towering cone-shaped mounds, their complex colors become apparent. The rock is swirled with pink, gray, and white streaks that twist this way and that in the sunlight.

There’s something eerie about the way stacks loom overhead, their tops twisting down as if to peer at the men below. Gerald tells himself he’s simply reacting to the path’s narrowness and the rocks’ proximity. This would an excellent place for an ambush. The mule he’s leading tosses its head anxiously and Gerald grins. She thinks so too. He pats the animal’s neck. “I don’t think it’ll be long now,” he says.

Ahead of him, LeCompte bends to pick up a small rock. Gerald glances at his own feet. Shiny pieces of black obsidian reflect the light. Arrowheads? But they aren’t all shaped in the same way. A source of arrowheads, perhaps.

The path widens as the trappers reach the far edge of the final cluster of rocks and Gerald’s breath comes more easily. Ignacio Sandoval eases up beside him on the trail and Gerald turns to welcome him.

“The mule, she is restless?” Ignacio asks.

Gerald nods. “She doesn’t think much of Ewing Young’s rock tents,” he says wryly. “Nor do I.”

“They leave a bad feeling.” Ignacio gestures toward the men and animals ahead of them. “As does this.”

“Going home?”

“This is what my father believes all Americans do,” he says. “This hiding of the furs. What El Joven is intending.”

“To find a way not to pay all the duties he owes?”

“My father is an upright man and he hates men who cheat. He also worries that he and his family will be caught up in the cheating of others.”

Gerald looks at him. So this is what Ignacio had been trying to say that day in the Gila. “And you?” Gerald asks.

“When I went to Taos for my studies, he warned me of men like Young.” The younger man’s face is bleak. “He bade me report to the authorities any fraudulent activities I might see.”

This is the young man who pretended to be in Taos at his studies and went trapping instead. But Gerald only says, “And will you do so?”

Ignacio makes a helpless gesture. “It is a commandment to obey one’s father.” His jaw tightens. “And what Young is doing is wrong.”

So it’s not obedience to his father so much as Ignacio’s own convictions that propel him. Gerald feels a surge of admiration mixed with pity for the younger man.

They walk on, the mules’ creaking packsaddles filling the silence.

“I was wrong to lie to mi papá in that way,” Ignacio says somberly. “About the trapping.” He glances at Gerald. “Though I did not directly tell him an untruth, it was still a lie. I will not do so again.” He shakes his head. “I have learned much on this adventure,” he says. “Both good and bad.”

Gerald nods. “As have I.”

Ignacio glances at him, then keeps his eyes carefully forward. “That Jones. Gregorio told me what happened.”

Gerald’s stomach clenches, but he only says, “That was certainly bad.”

“I must thank you. On Gregorio’s behalf.”

Gerald turns his head, checking on his mule. “I would have preferred a different ending,” he says. “But I couldn’t stand by and watch him do that to Gregorio.”

“I hope that man is truly dead,” Ignacio says bitterly.

Gerald pauses, not quite knowing what to say, not wanting to prolong the discussion. Although flashes of memory still occur to him, Jones has finally stopped appearing in Gerald’s dreams, burnt out by the blinding sun and heat of the long trek beside the great canyon, and Gerald has no wish to relive the incident. He forces himself to smile. “Isn’t there also a commandment about that?” he asks lightly.

“It says thou shall not kill. It does not say anything of wishing or gladness.”

Gerald inclines his head, acknowledging the distinction. “That would be an interesting point to discuss with Señor Peabody,” he says. His heart sinks at the thought of telling the tall black-coated man what he’s done. But it’s bound to come out. And he owes Peabody a debt of honesty, if only for the man’s kindness. Better to tell him before someone else does.

And if Suzanna’s father knows, she will almost certainly learn of it. His stomach clenches. How will she feel about what he’s done? Will she look at him differently? In disgust, repelled by his violent solution to the problem of Jones? Or will she be delighted, happy that the man is no longer a threat to her or to the cook?

Gerald finds it hard to believe that Suzanna Peabody would react in that way to any man’s death, but he has to admit that he doesn’t really know her thinking on such matters. And he isn’t sure just what he hopes she will say or feel when she learns of the events by the Salt. He only knows that his mind shrinks from both the idea of telling her and of her hearing the tale from somebody else. Even her father.

Ignacio seems to have read his thoughts. “And then there is la señorita,” he says. “I understand that she is likely to have an opinion on the matter.”

Gerald chuckles. “From what I’ve seen, she generally has an opinion about most things.”

Ignacio grins. “Gregorio says she is more opinionated than my mother or my mother’s cousin, Encarnación.”

“You’re related to the Peabody’s cook?” Gerald shakes his head. The relationships here are endless. But it’s a safer subject than Enoch Jones, Suzanna Peabody, or the hiding of beaver furs. “Are strong opinions a characteristic of all Spanish women?” he asks lightly.

But the hiding of beaver furs can’t be so easily dismissed, since Ewing Young is leading them to the place where the plews are to be stored. The trappers skirt Cochiti pueblo, its two story adobe walls bulking in the distance, and move south along the Rio del Norte.

The spring runoff has swollen the water levels to three times their normal size. Young studies the currents carefully before he decides on a location where the previous-years’ sand bars have divided the channel into four apparently-shallow strands. The trappers gingerly make their way across, Richard Campbell in front with a long cottonwood pole to monitor the silt-laden bottom for sinkholes.

It’s getting on toward evening before the last of the pack mules stands safely on the eastern bank and noses at the greening grass under the big gray cottonwoods. Gerald looks back across the river. The setting sun silhouettes the Jemez mountains, black against a salmon sky. To the north, its’ rays brighten the outcropping of red rock that is La Bajada, the bench of land between Cochiti and Santa Fe.

But there’s little time for appreciating the sunset. Young moves downstream, the trappers strung behind him.

“We stoppin’ tonight?” Milton Sublette calls.

“Soon enough,” Young’s muffled voice answers.

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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