NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 33

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 33

Gerald finds to his surprise that, in the company of Ramón Chavez, some of the pleasure of trapping returns. The man is quiet, but certainly not taciturn or sullen. He is simply who he is, with no axe to grind, nothing to prove. Unlike the querulous and opinionated Old Bill Williams, Chavez rarely speaks. But when he does, what he says is sensible and without rancor, even when he talks of the Indians.

After William’s loquacity and the casual violence and deceptiveness of the men in Ewing Young’s trapping party, Ramón’s temperament and attitudes are a welcome change. His deep affection for the Peabody’s, which is apparent in any reference to them, also goes a long way toward fueling Gerald’s respect for the older man.

They take the same route into the mountains that Gerald and Williams had used. Ramón has trapped the Red River before and can give advice on side streams that might be of value, especially in the upper forks. While Gerald’s instinct that there will once again be beaver where he and Old Bill trapped proves valid, Ramón’s knowledge adds even further to their take. They work their way steadily to the river’s headwaters.

Two days after they reach the mountain lakes, the first snow hits. There isn’t much, perhaps two inches. But Ramón looks at their icy blankets and the lead-gray sky and shakes his head. “There will be more today and then tomorrow,” he predicts. “It is time to head downward.” He turns to Gerald. “We can move back down the river, or we can work south through the mountains toward Mora, or move east to the dark valley.”

“The dark valley?”

“The one they call the Moreno.” Ramón shrugs. “The pines, they are very dark on the mountainsides there.”

“I have seen that valley twice now,” Gerald says noncommittally. “There are streams from it that hold beaver. But there are no beaver in the valley itself.”

“But the valley itself is a thing to be seen,” Ramón says. “I have not been there in many years and would view it again.”

Gerald gives him a surprised look. Is this man drawn to those slopes the way he is?

“I have been told there is gold in the streams that flow through the valley,” Ramón continues. “Not much, but a little.” He looks up at the gloomy clouds overhead. “Though this is not the season for searching for such things.”

“Perhaps in the summer,” Gerald agrees. “The valley grass is long and green in the summer. The water there seems to run year round.”

“It is very cold in the winter though,” Ramón says.

Gerald looks up at the snow-heavy clouds moving steadily down the mountain toward them. “It’s still a thing worth seeing.”

Ramón grins. “Then let us see it,” he says.

Moving directly east requires them to flounder up a rocky bank that seems almost vertical in places. The mules snort disapprovingly as the men lead them over the slippery rocks. Finally, the slope levels out and they stand at one end of a rock-covered saddle between two boulder-strewn slopes. The mountain peaks behind them are shrouded in clouds.

The storm has begun in earnest now and the ground is slick underfoot. A cold wetness swirls into their faces and seeps into their clothing. They move forward slowly, glad for the saddle’s relatively flat terrain but wary of its broken slabs of sandstone and shale. The mules twitch their ears and snort irritably but keep moving, picking their way across the field of rock.

Ramón and Gerald pause at the point where the saddle widens and begins to slope downward. They exchange grim looks through the haze of white flakes. The spaces between the rocks underfoot are filling rapidly with snow, making the surface look deceptively smooth. One false step will twist a man’s ankle for him. With this downward slant, the resulting fall would be nasty and long.

“I think perhaps the mules should lead us,” Ramón says. “They will feel a footing where we cannot see.”

Gerald nods, too cold to argue. Ramón pats his mule’s shoulder, speaks a few words into its ear, then moves backward, playing out the lead rope as he goes. When he reaches the animal’s rump, he snaps it with the rope. The mule turns its head and gives him a reproachful look. Ramón snaps the rope again. The animal snorts in annoyance and starts down the slope, the man well behind, letting the mule take the lead, careful to hang onto the rope but not to put any pressure on it. Gerald follows numbly beside his own animal, keeping to the track Ramón and his mule are creating, fighting for traction on the slick snow.

It’s two frozen hours before they drop into a narrow ravine, out of the worst of the storm. Because the walls of the gulch block the wind, the snow is thinner here. Gerald’s very knees are numb with cold. He hears Ramón speaking to his mule and realizes the other man is once again level with his animal’s head. Gerald moves forward stiffly.

Ramón grins. “He did well, did he not?”

“He did.” Gerald looks around. “Do you think we’re far enough down to safely shelter for the night?”

Ramón shakes his head. “It is hard to say.” He looks around. Two massive sandstone slabs twice a man’s height jut from the slope to their right. The big rocks are perhaps eight feet apart, but lean into each other and form a sheltered space between them. Ramón moves toward it and peers in, then turns, his eyes amused. “There is strong evidence this will provide the shelter we seek,” he says. “Someone has been here before us.”

Gerald moves up beside him and peers into the space. There’s a circle of stones on one side and a small collection of broken deadfall tucked under a cleft in the far rock. With a little crowding, there’s enough space for two men and their mules. The surface of the boulders are marked with figures and symbols scratched deep into the sandstone surface, some of them partly obscured with lichen. “Indians?” he asks.

“So it would seem.”

He frowns. “Is it wise for us to use it?”

“No one else is here,” Ramón points out. “And we need shelter.”

Gerald nods and clucks at his mule.

There’s something about an enclosed space and a warm fire that brings out reminiscences and confidences in the most reserved of men. Ramón speaks of his childhood, the simple poverty that seemed a kind of wealth, and an uncle who killed a man but didn’t suffer any consequences, because his vecinos considered the death justified.

Gerald stares into the fire. “I also have killed,” he says. He grimaces. “Or I believe that I have.” He glances up. Ramón watches him impassively. Gerald turns his head away. “Last season. With Ewing Young’s expedition.”

“Enoch Jones did not return,” Ramón says.

Gerald looks up in surprise, but now the other man’s head is turned away. It’s somehow easier to say the words to the back of his head. “I stabbed him,” Gerald says. “He was threatening harm and I stabbed him.” His hand twitches, feeling the blade sinking inexorably between Jones’ ribs. His breath catches, but he forces himself to finally say it. “I stabbed him in the chest. Hard. Not enough to simply stop him, but also to cut open the flesh between his ribs.” He swallows. “He ran into the woods and there was no sign of him after that.” He shakes his head. “But no man could live with that kind of wound and no doctoring.”

“Jones is the man who followed la señorita,” Ramón says. “And also Chonita.”

Gerald looks up. “He was bothering her also? Even after that time in the plaza? What a bastard!”

“A good man to be killed.”

There’s a long silence as both men stare into the darkness. Then Gerald says, “I haven’t told the Peabody’s.”

“And will you?”

“I should. I must, if I am to—”

“Ask for her hand?” Ramón sounds a little amused.

Gerald studies the fire. “I have no right,” he says. “And certainly no resources. And she’s given me no encouragement.”

“Hmm.”

“And there’s the matter of Jones’ death.”

“Por que?”

“Because a man should tell a woman everything about himself.”

There’s a long silence. “Por que?” Ramón asks again.

Gerald glances at him in surprise. “Because— Well, because it’s right, I suppose. It’s a matter of conscience, of being honest and truthful.”

Ramón stirs and stands, stretching his legs. “I have learned much since you americanos have come to my country,” he says. “One of the things I have learned is that truth is not always what it seems and to be honest is sometimes to lose more than the honesty is worth.”

Gerald raises an eyebrow.

Ramón shrugs and lifts his hands, palms up. “But to each of us a different thing is important,” he says. “To Suzanna Peabody the death of Jones may come as a welcome piece of news. She may find what you have done a cause for rejoicing.” He frowns and tilts his head. “That is perhaps too strong a word. I cannot imagine that she would rejoice at the death of any man. But surely it is for her to decide what secrets must be told and which truths are necessary.” He shrugs and moves away to lay out his blankets and prepare for bed.

Gerald stares into the flames for a long while before he follows the other man’s example and composes himself to sleep as the mules send their breath into the space over his head.

Copyright © 2018 Loretta Miles Tollefson

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